Cry of Sorrow (39 page)

“And you have become very well spoken. I am pleased.”

Before Owein could reply, Gwydion said, “This is Gwenhwyfar ur Rhoram.”

“The Princess and I have met before,” Owein said, his smile forced.

“Yes,” Gwen replied. “When you and Enid came to visit us on Ogaf Greu—” Gwen stopped abruptly, her face red. Everyone present knew the time she meant—when Owein had offered his hand to Gwen’s half sister, Princess Sanon, and had been refused. And when Geriant, Gwen’s half brother, had offered his hand to Enid and been accepted. But that marriage had not taken place, and a new marriage loomed for Enid.

“This is the son of an old friend,” Gwydion said quietly, gesturing to Arthur.

Owein looked at Arthur curiously, but merely said, “You are welcome here.” Arthur bowed his head to Owein but did not speak.

“We have fulfilled the first task given to us by the Shining Ones,” Gwydion said formally. “The first Treasure has been found.” He nodded to Rhiannon. She opened her pack and brought forth the Stone. The pearls gleamed and the silver veins shimmered in the dim light.

Inside the tent they all gasped. “A mighty task, indeed, Dreamer,” Owein breathed. “And it is for the further completion of this task that you are here, is it not?”

“It is,” Gwydion nodded. “For I have come to claim the ring of the House of PenMarch, as foretold by Bran the Dreamer.”

“But, to my sorrow, I do not have the ring.”

“We know. We have come for help to retrieve it from Princess Enid.”

“This is great news!” Owein exclaimed. “For if the Dreamer is to help us rescue Enid, how can we lose?”

But Gwydion shook his head. “We do not go to Llwynarth to rescue Enid, but to rescue the ring. I can do nothing about Enid’s fate.”

“You must!”

“I tell you, I cannot,” Gwydion said harshly. “The ring is to be used to find the Spear, and I do not know where it lies. Do you think it can be easily found in a country seething with the enemy over Enid’s escape? That will endanger everything, and I cannot allow it.”

He expected them to attack him, and they did. Owein protested angrily, and his brother, Rhiwallon, backed him up. Trystan was enraged. Sabrina demanded that he help rescue the Princess, saying that, if he did not, she herself would burn Llwynarth to the ground. Gwen and Arthur added their protests, for it seemed monstrous that they not help Enid. Even Cariadas and gentle Sinend argued for the rescue.

Of them all, only Rhiannon said nothing, until the argument reached a fever pitch. At this she rose, and there was something in her stance, something in her face, that made everyone fall silent.

“The Dreamer is right,” she said quietly, to Gwydion’s astonishment.

“King Owein,” she continued in the shocked silence, “Prince Rhiwallon, truly do we understand your feelings and your love for your sister. But understand this. There is nothing we can do. We have all sacrificed for our country, haven’t we? Sinend, you ran away from your home to throw in your lot with those who had been outlawed. Cariadas, you have not seen your father for years at a time, and have lost the Master Bard, whom you loved, to the enemy. Sabrina, you have endured shame for being a Druid, and for being powerless to save Enid from her folly. Trystan, you, too, have endured shame—the shame of surviving your King and Queen. Owein and Rhiwallon, you have lost your mother and father. And your eldest brother, too, has died at the hands of the Coranians.

“All this—these heartaches, these tragedies—are lamented by the Kymri. But there is more at stake here than Enid’s future. Kymru is at stake. What Enid did, she did of her own free will, hard as that is to accept. And though you love her, you must leave her to the consequences of her actions.”

Rhiannon’s cool, smooth voice rippled through the tent. At her words the Stone beneath her hand seemed to glow brighter. Her pearl ring gleamed. “I do not speak for myself in this,” she went on wryly. “Left to myself, I would, as we all know, oppose the Dreamer’s wishes to my last breath.”

She glanced at Gwydion, and he abruptly shut his mouth, which had been hanging open in shock. “But remember,” she went on, “that the Shining Ones knew that this would happen. For listen now to the line of a song that was left to guide us in our darkest hour: ‘Fast was the trap of the woman in Caer Erias.’ And Caer Erias, the fortress in Llwynarth, is where Enid now waits the day of her marriage. Her trap is unbreakable. We cannot help her. We can only pity her. And, if we can, get from her the ring of PenMarch, to make our last hope come to fruition.”

After she was done, the silence in the tent lengthened. At last, Owein looked up, his blue eyes lined with tears. “I have sent Dudod to Llwynarth as the Dreamer wished. I will leave my sister in captivity, if this is what I must do. But you must take Trystan with you. And Trystan will be guided by this wish—that if there is any way to rescue my sister, he will do it. And if there is not, he will give her my love and my hope for a better life to come the next turn of the Wheel.”

   
Suldydd, Lleihau Wythnos—early morning

T
HE DAY OF
Princess Enid’s wedding to Morcant the Pretender dawned bright and clear. The morning was cool, but there was a hint of afternoon heat to come. The capital city of Llwynarth was crowded, for today was both market day and the day when the people of Rheged would see their Princess given to the enemy.

Gwydion, Rhiannon, Trystan, Gwen, and Arthur, all plainly dressed as became a farmer’s family, made their way through the crowded streets to the marketplace. They did not falter when they passed what had been Nemed Draenenwen, the sacred grove of hawthorn trees, now destroyed to make way for a temple to the Coranian god.

Gwydion led the way confidently, armed with the information that Dudod had given him via Wind-Speech the night before. Without halting he led them to the stall of Menestyr, one of the most important cloth merchants in Rheged. It had been this man, Gwydion had been told, who had first tried to warn Enid when she had come to Llwynarth many months ago.

Gwydion halted at the back of the stall, motioning for the rest to precede him. The interior was dim, and bales of cloth teetered precariously, stacked one on top of the other. They could hear good-natured bickering from the merchant and his customers up in front of the stall, but little light penetrated to the back, due to a curtain placed between the front counter and the back of the stall.

“Care to buy something?” a man’s voice inquired at Gwydion’s elbow.

Before Gwydion could answer, Rhiannon launched herself at the man and hugged him tight. Keeping her voice down, she began to scold him. “Uncle Dudod! How dare you leave for Llwynarth without telling me? After all I have done for you, how could you treat me so shabbily?” She smiled as she said it and kissed him soundly.

“Well, my dear,” Dudod replied airily, “you know the life of a traveling man. Here one day, gone the next. You are not the first woman to be displeased by such habits.”

“And I won’t be the last, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Dudod, for your efforts,” Gwydion said. “We have had a slight change of plans, as you can see by Trystan’s presence.”

“Owein wasn’t happy with your plans, I see,” Dudod replied, grasping Trystan’s arm in greeting.

“Not quite. But you will be happy to know that your niece stood up for me. If it hadn’t been for that, we’d still be with Owein, arguing.”

“Did you now?” Dudod asked, turning back to Rhiannon. “That must have hurt.”

“Ha, ha,” Rhiannon said flatly.

“I wasn’t joking. And the rest of your party?”

“This is Gwenhwyfar. You saw her last some time ago when we found Rhiannon in Coed Aderyn.”

“You’ve changed a great deal, dearest Princess,” Dudod said, kissing her hand.

“Remember her age, uncle, and yours,” Rhiannon said dryly.

“And this is the son of an old friend,” Gwydion went on. He knew that Dudod was fully aware of Arthur’s identity. But he was not yet ready for Trystan to know it.

Dudod understood instantly. “Greetings, son of an old friend. Now, we have fine clothes to make you all very important people, indeed—important enough to get into the temple for the ceremony. Our good merchant, Menestyr, has already gotten places for you—some in the back and some in the middle, as requested. Gwydion and Rhiannon, General Baldred will surely recognize you if you are too much in his eye. And Gwydion, Trystan and I have the same problem with Bledri and Morcant. Whatever contact must be done with Enid, it will be done by Gwen and this young man.”

“It would be better, I think, if only those two went to the temple,” Trystan said.

“But not as safe. They will need your protection if anything goes wrong,” Gwydion replied. “Between you, I, Rhiannon, and Dudod, we can get them out in case their task does not come off as easily as I expect. We will be sure to sit well away from them as Dudod has arranged.”

“Then on with the clothes and off to the wedding,” Dudod said, “on this, one of the saddest days in the history of Kymru.”

“Poor Enid,” Gwen said, to no one in particular.

G
WYDION
, T
RYSTAN, AND
Rhiannon sat in the very back of the temple, close to the doors. Inside it did not look much different from the temples Gwydion had seen during his time in Corania. A drinking horn rested on the left of the stone altar. The bowl to hold the bull’s blood was on the right, and the ritual knife gleamed wickedly in the light of four white candles placed in the corners of the altar. Above the altar was the banner with the symbol of Lytir worked in gold on white cloth. The pit where the bull was usually housed was covered over, for there would be no sacrifice today—not of a bull, at any rate, Gwydion thought.

Gwydion glanced at Rhiannon to his right and at Trystan, on Rhiannon’s other side. The three of them were dressed richly. Rhiannon’s dark hair was covered with a veil of misty blue, secured to her head with a circlet of silver. She wore a kirtle of dark blue over a white smock. Trystan’s hair was secured at the nape of his neck with a band of gold and emeralds, and his tunic and trousers were green. Gwydion was dressed in a black tunic and breeches, and his hair was secured at his neck with a band of rubies.

Gwen and Arthur were halfway down the aisle, toward the middle of the temple. Gwen was in a gown of white (which she had protested against, saying she preferred her breeches and boots). Arthur’s tunic and trousers of saffron drew Gwydion’s eyes like a lodestone. Of them all, Arthur was the most important, and Gwydion watched him like a hawk.

Once again, though surely no one would believe it, Gwydion tried to think of some way to rescue Enid. Though he had said it was impossible, he tried again to think of a way. Much as he despised her for her foolishness, that was all it had been—foolishness. She had not thought to betray her brother, had not thought to put herself into this slavery. She had not really thought of anything at all except for her infatuation with Bledri. And she would soon pay full price for that. But even as his thoughts went round and round, he knew it could not be done. They would be more than lucky to leave Llwynarth with the ring. They would surely have no chance of getting Enid out, too.

The noise outside the temple alerted him that the ceremony was about to begin, and he wrenched his thoughts away from rescuing Enid, knowing it to be useless.

The doors of the temple opened, and as the procession entered, the crowd rose to its feet. The first two men to enter, Gwydion knew by reputation. They were Oswy, the Coranian Byshop of Rheged, dressed in a robe of green, and Saebald, the Master-wyrce-jaga, his black robe relieved by a stole of green. Behind them walked General Baldred, resplendent in a golden tunic trimmed with rubies. Next to him came Bledri, the renegade Dewin who had thrown in his lot with the enemy—and Princess Enid to the wolves. Bledri wore the traditional silvery robe of the Dewin with his pearl torque around his neck. At the sight of him in those garments, which he had no right to wear, Rhiannon gave an angry hiss—lost, of course, in the noise.

Behind them came Morcant, he who had once been a Lord of the murdered King Urien and was now the self-styled King of Rheged. His dark eyes were gleeful as he looked down at the woman whose thin hand rested on his arm. It was Morcant’s lecherous look at the Princess that almost made Gwydion throw everything to the winds and kill the traitorous King.

Princess Enid did not look to the left or the right but straight ahead as she walked down the aisle on Morcant’s arm. The opal ring of the House of PenMarch glittered on her hand. Little was to be seen of Enid’s face beneath her veil, but her stiff shoulders, her rigid bearing, told its own tale.

At the sight of their Princess dressed in the Coranian manner, in a gown of red with a golden veil cast over her head and shoulders, the crowd murmured sharply in dismay. But the whispers were quickly halted at the sight of the Coranian guards that poured in behind the couple.

As Morcant and Enid reached the altar, four guards grasped the poles of a square canopy and held the red cloth over the couple. Byshop Oswy lifted his hands for silence.

This was no traditional Kymric wedding. This couple would not stand before a Druid in a green grove surrounded by joyous friends and family. The groom would not carry an alder branch and the bride would not carry ivy, those symbols of Cerrunnos and Cerridwen, the Protectors of Kymru. There would be no talk of the Great Wheel, of rebirth and beginnings, of finding the heart’s love for this turn of the Wheel. There would be none of that, for this was a Coranian wedding, built on treachery and greed.

At the Byshop’s signal, Morcant, his voice gloating, pulled a simple band of gold from his little finger, which he put on Enid’s trembling hand. “With this ring, I thee wed, and this gold and silver I give thee; and with my body, I thee worship; and with all my worldly chattels, I thee honor.”

Then Enid replied, her voice low and hopeless. “I take thee to be my wedded husband; to have and to hold; for fairer, for fouler; for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; to be bonny and buxom in bed and at board; till death us depart.”