The Endless Knot (3 page)

“Then you see why I cannot let it happen again.”

“I see,” she stated firmly, “that you must stay to prevent it from happening again.”

She saw me hesitate and pressed her argument further. “Yes, stay. As king it is your right and duty.” She paused and smiled. “Stay here and reign over Albion's healing.”

She knew the words I wanted to hear most in all the world, and she said them.
Yes, I could stay in Albion
, I thought. I
could
be king and reign with Goewyn as my queen. Professor Nettleton was wrong, surely; and Goewyn was right: as king it was my duty to make certain that the healing of Albion continued as it had begun. I could stay!

Goewyn tilted her head to one side. “What say you, my love?”

“Goewyn, I will stay. If there is a way, I will stay forever. Be my queen. Reign with me.”

She came into my arms then in a rush, and her lips were on mine, warm and soft. The fragrance of her hair filled my lungs and made me light-headed. I held her tight and kissed her; I kissed her ivory throat, her silken eyelids, her warm, moist lips that tasted of honey and wildflowers. And she kissed me.

I had dreamed of this moment countless times, yearned for it, longed for it. Truly, I wanted nothing more than to make love to Goewyn. I held the yielding warmth of her flesh against me and knew that I would stay—as if there had ever been any doubt.

“Wait for me,” I said, breaking off the embrace and stepping quickly away.

“Where are you going?” she called after me.

“Nettles is leaving. He is waiting for me,” I answered. “I must bid him farewell.”

2
T
HREE
D
EMANDS

D
arting along the timber wall, I hurried to join Tegid and Professor Nettleton in the boat. I gave the boat a push and jumped in; Tegid manned the oars and rowed out across the lake. The water was smooth as glass in the gathering twilight, reflecting the last light of the deep blue sky above.

We made our landing below Druim Vran and quickly put our feet to the path leading to Tegid's sacred grove. With every step, I invented a new argument or excuse to justify my decision to stay. In truth, I had never wanted to leave anyway; it felt wrong to me. Goewyn's urging was only the last in a long list of reasons I had to dismiss Professor Nettleton's better judgment. He would just have to accept my decision.

The grove was silent, the light dim, as we stepped within the leafy sanctuary. Tegid wasted not a moment, but began marking out a circle on the ground with the end of his staff. He walked backwards in a sunwise circle, chanting in a voice solemn and low. I did not hear what he said—it was in the Dark Tongue of the
Derwyddi,
the
Taran Tafod.

Standing next to Nettles, my mind teemed with accusation, guilt, and self-righteous indignation—I was the king! I had built this place! Who had the right to stay here if not me?—I could not make myself say the words. I stood in seething silence and watched Tegid prepare our departure.

Upon completing the simple ceremony, the bard stepped from the circle he had inscribed and turned to us. “All is ready.” He looked at me as he spoke. I saw sorrow in his gaze, but he spoke no word of farewell. The parting was too painful for him.

The professor took a step toward the circle, but I remained rooted to my place. When he sensed me lagging behind, Nettleton looked back over his shoulder. Seeing that I had made not the slightest move to join him, he said, “Come, Lewis.”

“I am not going with you,” I said dully. It was not what I had planned to say, but the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

“Lewis!” he challenged, turning on me. “Think what you are doing.”

“I cannot leave like this, Nettles. It is too soon.”

He took my arm, gripping it tightly. “Lewis, listen to me. Listen very carefully. If you love Albion, then you
must
leave. If you stay, you can only bring about the destruction of all you have saved. You must see that. I have told you: It is permitted no man—”

I cut him off. “I will take that risk, Nettles.”

“The risk is not yours to take!” he charged, his voice explosive in the silence of the grove. Exasperated, he blinked his eyes behind his round glasses. “Think what you are doing, Lewis. You have achieved the impossible. Your work here is finished. Do not negate all the good you have done. I beg you, Lewis, to reconsider.”

“It is the time-between-times,” Tegid said softly.

“I am staying,” I muttered bluntly. “If you are going, you had better leave now.”

Seeing that he could not move me, he turned away in frustration and stepped quickly into the circle. At once, his body seemed to fade and grow smaller, as if he were entering a long tunnel. “Say your farewells, Lewis,” he urged desperately, “and come as soon as you can. I will wait for you.”

“Farewell, my friend!” called Tegid.

“Please, for the sake of all you hold dear, do not put it off too long!” Nettleton called, his voice already dwindling away. His image rippled as if he were standing behind a sheet of water. The rims of his glasses glinted as he turned away, and then he vanished, his words hanging in the still air as a quickly fading warning.

Tegid came to stand beside me. “Well, brother,” I said, “it would seem you must endure my presence a little longer.”

The bard gazed into the now-empty circle. He seemed to be peering into the emptiness of the nether realm, his features dark and his eyes remote. I thought he would not speak, but then he lifted his staff. “Before Albion is One,” he said, his voice hard with certainty, “the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign.”

The words were from
Banfáith's
prophecy, and, as he reminded me from time to time, they had yet to prove false. Having delivered himself of this pronouncement, he turned to me. “The choice is made.”

“What if I made the wrong choice?”

“I can always send you back,” he replied, and I could sense his relief. Tegid had not wanted to see me leave any more than I had wanted to go.

“True,” I said, my heart lightening a little. Of course, I could return any time I chose to, and I would go—when the work I had begun was completed. I
would
go one day. But not now; not yet.

I forced that prospect from my mind, soothing my squirming conscience with sweet self-justification: after all I had endured, I well deserved my small portion of happiness. Who could deny it? Besides, there was still a great deal to be done. I would stay to see Albion restored.

Yes, and I would marry Goewyn.

Word of our betrothal spread through Dinas Dwr swifter than a shout. Tegid and I arrived at the hall and walked into the ongoing celebration which, with the coming of darkness, had taken on a fresh, almost giddy euphoria. The great room seemed filled with light and sound: the hearthfire roared, and the timber walls were lined with torches; men and women lined the benches and thronged in noisy clusters around the pillar-posts.

Only the head of the hall, the west end, remained quiet and empty, for here the Chief Bard had established the Singing Stones in their wooden chest supported by a massive iron stand—safe under perpetual guard: three warriors to watch over Albion's chief treasure at all times. The guards were replaced at intervals by other warriors so that the duty was shared out among the entire war band. But at no time, day or night, were the miraculous stones unprotected.

The din increased as we entered the hall, and I quickly discovered the reason.

“The king! The king is here!” shouted Bran, rallying the Ravens with his call. He held a cup high and cried, “I drink to the king's wedding!”

“To the king's wedding!” Cynan shouted, and the next thing I knew I was surrounded, seized, and lifted bodily from the ground. I was swept back across the threshold and hoisted onto the shoulders of warriors, to be borne along the paths of Dinas Dwr, the crowd increasing as we went. They marched along a circuitous route so that the whole
caer
would see what was happening and join us.

In a blaze of torchlight and clamor of laughter, we arrived finally at the hut that Goewyn and her mother had made their home. There the company halted, and Cynan, taking the matter in hand, called out that the king had come to claim his bride.

Scatha emerged to address the crowd. “My daughter is here,” she said, indicating Goewyn, who stepped from the hut behind her. “Where is the man who claims her?” Scatha made a pretense of scanning the crowd, as if searching for the fool who dared to claim her daughter.

“He is here!” everyone shouted at once. And it suddenly occurred to me, in my place high above the pressing crowds, that this was the preamble to a form of Celtic wedding I had never witnessed before. This in itself was not surprising; the people of Albion know no fewer than nine different types of marriage, and I had seen but few.

“Let the man who would take my daughter to wife declare himself,” she said, folding her arms over her breast.

“I am here, Scatha,” I answered. At this the warriors lowered me to the ground, and the crowd opened a way before me. I saw Goewyn waiting, as if at the end of a guarded path. “It is Llew Silver Hand who stands before you. I have come to claim your daughter for my wife.”

Goewyn smiled, but made no move to join me; and as I drew near, Scatha stepped forward and planted herself between us. She presented a fierce, forbidding aspect and examined me head to heel—as if inspecting a length of moth-eaten cloth. The palm of my flesh hand grew damp as I stood under her scrutiny. The surrounding crowd joined in, calling Scatha's attention to various desirable qualities—real or imagined—which I might possess.

In the end, she declared herself satisfied with the suitor and raised her hand. “I find no fault in you, Llew Silver Hand. But you can hardly expect me to give up such a daughter as Goewyn without a bride price worthy of her.”

I knew the correct response. “You must think me a low person indeed to deprive you of so fine a daughter without the offer of suitable compensation. Ask what you will, I will give whatever you deem acceptable.”

“And you must think me slow of wit to imagine that I can assess such value on the instant. This is a matter which will require long and careful deliberation,” Scatha replied haughtily. And even though I accepted her reply as part of the ritual game we were playing, I found myself growing irritated with her for standing in my way.

“Far be it from me to deny you the thought you require. Take what time you will,” I offered. “I will return tomorrow at dawn to hear your demands.”

This was considered a proper reply and all acclaimed my answer. Scatha inclined her head and, as if allowing herself to be swayed by the response of the people, nodded slowly. “So be it. Come to this place at dawn, and we will determine what kind of man you are.”

“Let it be so,” I replied.

At this, the people cheered, and I was swept away once more on a tideflood of acclaim. We returned to the hall where, amidst much laughter and ribald advice, Tegid instructed me on what to expect in the morning. “Scatha will make her demands, and you must fulfill them with all skill and cunning. Do not think it will be easy,” Tegid warned. “Rare treasure is worth great difficulty in the getting.”

“But you will be there to help me,” I suggested.

He shook his head. “No, Llew; as Chief Bard I cannot take one part over against the other. This is between you and Scatha alone. But, as she has Goewyn to assist her, you may choose one from among your men to aid you.”

I looked around me. Bran stood grinning nearby—no doubt he would be a good choice to see me through this ordeal. “Bran?” I asked. “Would you serve me in this?”

But the Raven Chief shook his head. “Lord, if it is a strong hand on the hilt of a sword that you require, I am your man. But this is a matter beyond me. I think Alun Tringad would serve you better than I.”

“Drustwn!” cried Alun when he heard this. “He is the man for you, lord.” He pointed across the ring of faces gathered around me, and I saw Drustwn ducking out of sight. “Ah, now where has Drustwn gone?”

“Choose Lord Calbha!” someone shouted.

Before I could ask him, someone else replied, “It is a wife for Silver Hand, not a horse!”

Calbha answered, “It is true! I know nothing of brides; but if it is a horse you require, Llew, call on me.”

I turned next to Cynan, who stood beside his father, Lord Cynfarch. “Cynan! Will you stand with me, brother?”

Cynan, assuming a grave and important air, inclined his head in assent. “Though all men desert you, Silver Hand, I will yet stand with you. Through all things—fire and sword and the wiles of bards and women—I am your man.”

Everyone laughed at this, and even Cynan smiled as he said it. But his blue eyes were earnest, and his voice was firm. He was giving me a pledge greater than I had asked, and every word was from the heart.

I spent a restless, sleepless night in my hut and rose well before dawn, before anyone else was stirring. I took myself to the lakeside for a swim and a bath; I shaved and washed my moustache, even. It was growing light in the east by the time I returned to the hut, where I spent a long time laying out my clothing. I wanted to look my best for Goewyn.

In the end, I chose a bright red siarc and a pair of yellow-and-green-checked breecs. Also, I wore Meldryn Mawr's magnificent belt of gold discs and his gold torc, and carried his gold knife—all of which had been retrieved for me from among Meldron's belongings. “As the rightful successor, they are yours,” Tegid had told me. “Meldron has no right to them. Wear them with pride, Llew. For by wearing them you will reclaim their honor.”

So I wore them and tried to forget that the Great Hound Meldron had so recently strutted and preened in them.

Cynan came to me as I was pulling on my buskins. He had also bathed and changed, and his red curls were combed and oiled. “You look a king attired for his wedding day,” he said in approval.