The Endless Knot (14 page)

“She is a wonder, Cynan,” I agreed. “But who is she, and where did you find her?”

“She is no stranger to a king's hall,” Goewyn observed. “I am thinking Tángwen has served the welcome bowl before.”

“You cut straight to the heart of it,” Cynan replied proudly. “She is the daughter of King Ercoll, who was killed in a battle with Meldron. Her people have been wandering Caledon in search of a steading and came to us here. I saw at once that she was of noble bearing. She will make a fine queen.”

Gradually, the hall had filled with people. Food had been prepared in anticipation of our arrival, and when it appeared, Cynan led us to our places at his table. We ate and talked long into the night, enjoying the first of many pleasant meals around the winter hearth.

Thus we passed the winter at Dun Cruach amiably. When the sun shone, we rode over the misty hills or walked the soggy moors, slipping over wet rocks and scaring up grouse and partridges. When the sleet rattled on the thatch, or snow whirled down in the north wind's frigid wake, we stayed in the hall and played games—
brandub
and
gwyddbwyll
and others—as we had done when wintering on Ynys Sci.

Each night Tegid filled the hall with the enchanting music of his harp. It was joy itself to sit in that company, listening to the stories Albion's kings had heard from time out of mind. I counted every moment blessed.

As the day of Cynan and Tángwen's wedding drew near, Tegid let it be known that he was preparing a special song for the occasion. Though many asked what the tale would be, he would say no more than that it was an ancient and powerful story, and one which would bring great blessing to all who heard it.

Meanwhile, Goewyn and Tángwen attended to the preparations for the celebration. They were often together and appeared to enjoy one another's company. I thought them a strikingly beautiful pair, and thought Cynan and myself the two most fortunate men in all Albion to boast such women as wives.

Cynan was well pleased with his choice and remarked often on the happy circumstance that brought her to his door. “She might have wandered anywhere,” he said, “but she happened to come here, to me.”

I saw little more than simple chance in it, but what did that matter? If Cynan wanted to believe that some extraordinary destiny had brought them together, who was I to disagree?

In any event, Tángwen had firmly established herself at the center of Cynan's household. Neither timidity nor humility found much of a patron in her; she was intelligent and capable and saw no reason to affect a meekness or modesty she did not naturally possess. Still, there was something about her—something driven, yet strangely constrained. She often stood apart when Tegid sang, watching from the shadows, her expression almost derisive, scornful—as if she disdained joining us, or spurned the pleasure of the gathering. Other times, she seemed to forget herself and joined in with a will. I felt somehow she was following the dictates of a scheme, rather than the promptings of her heart. And I was not the only one to notice.

“There is a hidden place in her soul,” Goewyn said one night when we had retired to our sleeping quarters. “She is confused and unhappy.”

“Unhappy? Do you think so? Maybe it is just that she is afraid of being hurt again,” I suggested.

Goewyn shook her head slightly. “No, she wants to befriend me, I think, but there is something cold and hard in her that will not let her. Sometimes I wish I could just reach into her heart and pluck it out, and then all would be well with her.”

“Perhaps that is her way of covering the pain.”

Goewyn looked at me oddly. “Why do you say she has been hurt?”

“Well,” I said slowly, thinking aloud, “Cynan said that her father had been killed in a battle against Meldron. I suppose I simply assumed Tángwen, like so many we have met along the way, still carried that grief.”

“Perhaps,” Goewyn allowed, frowning in thought.

“But you think otherwise?”

“No,” she said after a moment. “That must be it. I am certain you are right.”

The days dwindled, shrinking down toward Alban Ardduan and Cynan's wedding. The Galanae war band and the Raven Flight had stocked the cookhouse with wild game of all kinds, and the cooks kept the ovens glowing hot, preparing food for the feast. The brewer and his helpers, foreseeing strong demand for the fruit of their labor, worked tirelessly to fill the vats with mead and ale. On the day before the wedding, the fattened pigs were slaughtered, and the next morning we awoke in the dark to the aroma of roast pork.

After breaking fast with a little bread and water, we all dressed ourselves in feast-day clothes and assembled in the hall, eager for the festivities to begin. Torches fluttered from scores of holders, banishing shadows from every dark corner. On this day the torches would burn brightly from dawn to dawn in observance of Alban Ardduan.

Cynan appeared first, resplendent in red-and-orange-checked breecs and yellow siarc. He wore a blue-and-white striped cloak and his father's great gold brooch. He had brushed his long red beard and fanned it out across his broad chest, and he had allowed his wiry red hair to be gathered and tied at the back of his head. His gold and burnished silver torcs gleamed like mirrors. He fretted and preened, patting his belt and adjusting his cloak.

“A more regal groom has never been seen in Caledon,” I told him. “Stand still, now. Do you want her to think she is marrying a twitch?”

“What can be keeping them?” he asked, glancing nervously around the hall for the third time in as many moments.

“Be at ease,” I told him. “You have endured your solitary ways a long time; you can endure yet a little longer.”

“What if she has changed her mind?”

“Goewyn is with her,” I reassured him. “She will not change her mind.”

“What can be keeping them?” He craned his neck around, inspecting the hall yet once more. “Here they come!” he said, darting forward.

“Relax—it is Tegid.”

“Oh, it is only Tegid.” He began patting himself again, as if he were searching for something he had lost somewhere about his person. “How do I look?”

“Handsome enough for any two men. Now stand still, you are wearing a hole in the floor.”

“Only Tegid?” wondered the bard.

“Ignore him,” I told Tegid. “Cynan is not himself today.”

“My throat is on fire,” Cynan complained. “I need a drink.”

“Later—after the wedding.”

“Just one cup.”

“Not a drop. We do not want the king of the Galanae falling down during his own wedding ceremony.”

“I tell you I am dying!”

“Then do it quietly.”

Tegid broke in, saying, “Here they are.” At that instant, a ripple of voices sounded from the far end of the hall. Cynan and I turned to see Goewyn and Tángwen approaching.

Cynan's bride was a vision—a blaze of fiery beauty: two long braids bound in bands of gold swept back from her temples and lost themselves in the luxurious fall of flaming curls that spilled over her shoulders. She wore a crimson cloak and a robe of apricot yellow over a salmon-colored shift. Her feet were bare, and on each ankle was a bracelet of thick gold so that each step glittered. On her breast was a splendid silver brooch set with glowing red gems around the ring; the pin was joined to the ring by a tiny silver chain, and the head shone with a blazing blue jewel. No doubt the eye-catching object was her father's chief treasure.

Cynan could restrain himself no longer. He strode to meet her, gathered her in his arms, and all but carried her to where we stood by the wide, central hearth. “To be surrounded by battle-tried friends in a shining hall,” he crowed, “with his arms around a beautiful woman— this is the greatest joy a man can know!” He turned to Tángwen, kissed her, and declared, “This is the happiest day of my life!”

At this, Tángwen put a hand to his ruddy face and turned his lips to hers, kissing him ardently and long. “Come, Tegid,” Cynan said, “the bride is here, the hall is filled, and the feast is waiting. Perform the rite and let us begin the celebration!”

With raised staff and a loud voice, Tegid called the assembly to witness the marriage of Cynan and Tángwen. Everyone crowded close and the ceremony began. Cynan's wedding was very like my own. Gifts and tokens were exchanged and, as the bowl was shared, I felt Goewyn's hand slip into mine. She put her lips to my ear and whispered her love to me, nipping my earlobe as she withdrew.

Three sharp raps of the Chief Bard's staff and the wedding was over. Cynan whooped loudly and lifted his bride from her feet. He carried her to the table and set her upon it. “Kinsmen and friends!” he called. “Here is my wife, Tángwen. Hail her everyone, Queen of the Galanae!”

The room resounded with the chorused cries as the Galanae welcomed their queen. Tángwen, her face flushed with happiness, smiling, radiant, stood on the board, receiving the adulation of the people. The expression on her face, at first charmed, took on an aspect of triumph— as if she had won a close-fought campaign.

Cynan reached up to her, and Tángwen tumbled into his arms. They embraced to the loud acclaim of everyone. And then Cynan ordered ale to be brought so that we could all drink to the health of the happy couple. The brewer and his men brought forth the first vat and placed it beside the hearth. Cups and bowls were plunged deep and brought out frothing. We raised our bowls and our voices. “
Sláinte!
Sláinte môr!
” We drank to life and health and happiness. We drank to the prosperity of Cynan's reign.

Outside it began snowing. Cold wind streamed over the hills, lashing the snow that fell from a blanched sky. Inside the hall, the feast began: steaming joints of venison and pork were carried in on their spits; huge rounds of pale yellow cheese, and mounds of crisp apples. We ate and drank and talked, and ate and drank some more, passing the dark day in the light-filled hall surrounded by fellowship and plenty. And when at last we sat back, stuffed and satisfied, a call went up for a story. Taking up his harp, Tegid came before us, standing at the hearth in the center of the hall, the fire bright around him.

He strummed the harp, waiting for everyone to find a place and for quiet to claim the crowd. Gradually, the hall fell hushed. Lifting his voice, the bard declared, “It is right to celebrate the union of man and woman with weddings and feasts and songs—more so than the victories of warriors and the conquests of kings. It is right to pay heed to the stories of our people, for that is how we learn who we are and what is required of us in this life and the life beyond.

“On this day above all others, when the light of Alban Ardduan burns in the high places, it is right to give ourselves to revelry, it is right to draw near the hearthfire to hear the songs of our race. Gather then and listen, all who would hear a true tale—listen with your ears, Children of Albion, and listen with your hearts.”

So saying, he bowed his head and fell silent. Then, fingers stirring on the strings of the harp, he conjured a melody from the air, drew breath, and began to sing.

10
T
HE
G
REAT
K
ING'S
S
ON

T
he sweet-sounding notes of the harp spilled like glittering coins from Tegid's fingers; or like bright sparks sprung from the lusty fire, swirling up on rising draughts to the dark-shadowed rooftrees. The Chief Bard's voice rose to join the melody of the harp, and the two twined about one another in matchless harmony as he began to sing the tale he had prepared for Alban Ardduan. And this is what he sang:

In the first days of men, when the dew of creation still glimmered upon the earth, there arose a great king who ruled many realms and held authority over diverse clans. The great king's name was Cadwallon, and he ruled long and wisely, ever increasing the fortunes of those who sheltered beneath his shield. It was his custom in the evening to climb the council-mound beside his stronghold and gaze out upon his lands, to see for himself how matters stood with his people. And this is the way of it . . .

One twilight, as Cadwallon sat on his high mound, gazing out upon his lands, it came to him that his holdings had grown vast beyond reckoning. “I can no longer see from one end of my dominion to the other, nor can I count the number of my people—just to tell out the names of their tribes would take my bard three whole days.

“What shame,” thought he, “if trouble were to threaten and I did not hear of it in time to prevent harm from befalling my people. This could easily happen, for the kingdom has grown too great for one king to rule. Therefore, I must find someone to help me rule my realm and keep my people safe.”

As it happened, there was no lack of would-be kings eager to help him rule. Sadly, not all of them cared as much for the welfare of the clans as Cadwallon, and it distressed the great king to think that a self-serving man should gain power at his command. So he took himself to his
gorsedd
mound to think the thing through, saying, “I will not come down until I have discovered a way out of this predicament.”

Through three sunrises and three sunsets, Cadwallon did not stir; and through three more, and yet three more, until at dusk on the ninth day he hit upon a way to determine which of his noblemen was most worthy to aid him. He rose and walked down to his stronghold in confidence.

The next day messengers rode to the four quarters of the kingdom bearing the message, and it was this: Noblemen all, the great king invites you to attend him for a season and take your ease in his hall where there will be feasting and gaming and where the circling of mead cups will not cease.

When the chieftains received this summons, they hastened to their lord. And when they saw the wealth of food and drink that had been prepared for them, they were well pleased and exclaimed that of all lords, Cadwallon must certainly be the most generous and benevolent ever known.