The Endless Knot (9 page)
“Penderwydd!” she called and came running when she saw him.
“What is it, Sioned?” Tegid turned to meet her, gray eyes quick with concern.
“He is dead,” she said hastily. “King Cynfarch has died, Penderwydd. Eleri is with him. He just stopped breathing andâthat was all.”
Tegid made to hurry away; he took two quick steps, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder toward the departing boats. He opened his mouth to speak, but I spoke first. “Go,” I told him. “I will tell Cynan.”
While the Chief Bard hastened toward the gate, I called the boats back. “Cynan,” I said when he was close enough to hear, “it is your father.”
He saw the figures of Tegid and the woman hurrying away, and he guessed the worst. “Is my father dead?”
“Yes, brother. I am sorry.”
At my words, Cynan stood upright in the boat, rising so suddenly that he almost tipped it over. As soon as the oarsmen brought the vessel near the landing, Cynan leapt from the boat and started toward the gate.
I caught him as he passed. “Cynan, I am sending the Raven Flight without you.”
His face darkened and he started to protest, but I held firm. “I know how you feel, brother, but you will be needed here. Your people are without a king now. Your place is with them.”
He glanced away, the conflict hot within. “Let them go, Cynan,” I urged. “It is for Bran to serve me in this. It is for us to stay.”
Cynan's eyes flicked from mine to the boat and back again. Without a word he turned and hurried away.
From the boat Bran called, “Would you have us wait for him, lord?”
“No, Bran,” I replied, sending the Raven Chief away. “Cynan will not accompany you now.”
I watched as the boats landed on the opposite shore and the pack animals were quickly loaded. The Ravens mounted; Bran lofted a spear and the warriors moved off along the lakeshore. I raised my silver hand in salute to them, and held the salute until they were well away. Then I turned and began walking back to the hall. In truth, I was secretly glad not to be riding with them. Weary to the bone, I longed for nothing more than sleep.
Instead, I returned to Tegid's hut where Cynan had taken up vigil beside his father's body. “There is nothing to be done here,” Tegid told me. “You need rest, Llew. Go now while you may; I will summon you if you are needed.”
Unwilling to leave, I hesitated, but the bard placed his hand firmly on my shoulder, turned me, and sent me away. I started across the small yard to my hut, and then remembered I had a different home now. I turned aside and went instead to the hut prepared for Goewyn and me. It seemed an age since our wedding night.
Goewyn was waiting for me inside. She had bathed and put on a new white robe. Her hair was hanging down, still wet from washing. She was sitting on the bed, combing out the tangles with a wide-toothed wooden comb. She smiled as I came in, rose, and welcomed me with a kiss. Then, taking my silver hand in both of hers, she led me to the bed, removed my cloak, and pushed me gently down onto the deep-piled fleece. She stretched herself beside me. I put my arms around her, and promptly fell asleep.
I came awake with a start. The hut was dark, and the caer was quiet. Pale moonlight showed beneath the oxhide at the door. My movement woke Goewyn, and she put her warm hand on the back of my neck.
“It is night,” she whispered. “Lie down and go back to sleep.”
“But I am not tired anymore,” I told her, lowering myself onto my elbow.
“Neither am I,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous.”
“There is a little wedding bread. And we have mead.”
“Wonderful.”
She rose and went to the small hearth in the center of the room. I watched her, graceful as a ghost in the pale moonlight, kneeling to her work. In a few moments, a yellow petal of flame licked out and a fire blossomed on the hearth. Instantly, the interior of our bower was bathed in shimmering golden light. Goewyn retrieved the meadskin and cup and two small loaves of
banys bara.
She settled herself beside me on the bed once more, broke the bread, and fed me the first bite. Whereupon, I broke off a piece and fed her. We finished the first loaf, and the second, then pulled the stopper from the meadskin and lay back to savor its sweetness and warmth, sharing the golden nectar between us in a string of kisses, each more ardent than the last.
I could wait no longer. Laying aside the meadskin, I reached up and gathered her to me. She came into my arms, all softness and warmth, and we abandoned ourselves to the heady delight of our bodies.
Conscious that my metal hand would be cold, I did my best to keep it from touching herâno easy task, for I desired nothing more than to stroke her hair and caress her skin. But Goewyn put me at my ease.
Kneeling beside me, she took my silver hand in both of hers. “It is part of you now,” she said, her voice soft and low, “so it shall be no less part of me.” Raising my metal hand, she pressed it to her lips and then cradled it in the hollow of her throat until the cold silver began to warm to her flesh.
The tenderness of this act filled me with awe. I lost myself then in passion; Goewyn was all my universe, and she was enough.
Later, we poured mead into a golden cup and drank it in bed. Our wedding night, although untimely interrupted, was all we could have hoped it would be.
“It seems as if I have never lived until now,” I told her.
Lips curling deliciously, Goewyn raised the cup to her lips. “Do not think this night is finished yet,” she said.
And so we made love again, with passion, to be sure, but without haste. We were a world entire, the two of us, a universe to ourselves. There was no need to rush. Some time toward dawn we fell asleep in each other's arms. But I do not recall the closing of my eyes. I remember only Goewyn, her breath sweet on my skin, and the warmth of her body next to mine.
That night was but a moment's respite from the cares and concerns of the days that followed. Yet, I rose the next morning invincible, more than a match for whatever the future held in store. There was work to be done, and I was eager to begin.
I found Tegid and a somber Cynan in the hall, sitting at bread, discussing Cynfarch's funeral. It had been decided that Cynan would return with his people to Dun Cruach for the burial. They must leave at once.
“I would it were otherwise,” Cynan told me. His eyes were red and his voice a rasp. “I had wished to stay and help rebuild the caer.”
“I know, brother; I know,” I answered. “But we have hands enough to serve. I wish I could go with you.”
Our talk turned to provisioning his people for the journey. Because of the fire and the long drought before it, our supplies were not what they might have been. Still, I wanted to send him back with enough not only for the journey but for a fair time beyond it.
Lord Calbha, who would be returning to his own lands one day soon, oversaw the loading of the Galanae wagons. After a while, Calbha entered the hall to announce that all was ready; we rose reluctantly and followed him out. “I will send word when we have caught the thieves,” I promised as we stepped out into the yard.
“Until that day,” Cynan replied gravely, “I will drink neither ale nor mead, and no fire shall burn in the hearth in the king's hall. Dun Cruach will remain in darkness.”
Some of the Galanae warriors standing near heard Cynan's vow and approached. “We would have a king to lead us home,” they said. “It is not right that we should enter our realm without a king to go before us.”
Tegid, hearing their request, placed a fold of his cloak over his head and said, “Your request is honorable. Have you a man of nobility worthy to be king?”
The Galanae answered, “We have, Penderwydd.”
“Name this man, and bring him before me.”
“He is standing beside you now, Penderwydd,” they said. “It is Cynan Machae and no other.”
Tegid turned and placed his hand on Cynan's shoulder. “Is there anything to prevent you from assuming your father's throne?” Tegid asked him.
Cynan ran his hand through his wiry red hair and thought for a moment. “Nothing that I know,” he replied at last.
“Your people have chosen you,” Tegid said, “and I do not think a better choice could be made. As Chief Bard of Albion, I will confer the kingship at once if you will accept it.”
“I will accept it gladly,” he replied.
“It would be well to establish your reign with the proper ceremony,” Tegid explained. “But the journey will not wait, therefore we will hold the kingmaking now.”
Cynan's kingmaking was accomplished with the least possible ceremony. Scatha and Goewyn stood with me, Calbha watching, and the Galanae gathered close about as Tegid said the words. It was simply done and quickly overâthe only interruption in the swift affair came when Tegid made to remove Cynan's torc and replace it with the one Cynfarch had worn.
“The gold torc is the symbol of your sovereignty,” Tegid told him. “By it all men will know that you are king and deserving of respect and honor.”
Cynan agreed, but would not surrender his silver torc. “Give me the gold torc if you will, but I am not giving up the torc my father gave me.”
“Wear it alwaysâand this as well.” So saying, the bard slipped the gold torc around Cynan's neck and, raising his hands over him, shouted, “King of the Galanae in Caledon, I do proclaim you. Hail, Cynan TwoTorcs!”
Everyone laughed at thisâincluding Cynan, who from that moment wore his new name as proudly as he wore his two torcs.
I embraced himâScatha and Goewyn likewiseâand in the next breath we were bidding him farewell. Cynan was anxious to return to the south to bury his father and begin his reign. We crossed to the plain and accompanied him on horseback as far as Druim Vran, where we waited on the ridgetop as the Galanae passed. When the last wagon had crested the ridge and begun its long, slow way down the other side, Cynan turned to me and said, “Here I am, sorry to be gone and I have not yet left. The burden of a king is weighty indeed.” He sighed heavily.
“Yet I think you will survive.”
“It is well for you,” he replied, “but I have no beautiful woman to marry me, and I must shoulder the weight alone.”
“I would marry you, Cynan,” Goewyn offered amiably, “but I have already wed Llew. Still, I think you will not long suffer the lack of a beautiful bride. Certainly a king with two torcs will be a most desirable husband.”
Cynan rolled his eyes and smiled. “Och! I am not king so much as a single day and already wily females are scheming to separate me from my treasure.”
“Brother,” I said, “think yourself fortunate if you find a woman willing to marry you at any price. Ten torcs would not be too many to give for a wife.”
“No doubt you are right,” Cynan admitted. “But until I find a woman as worthy as the one you have found, I will keep my treasure.”
Goewyn leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. We then waved him on his way, watching until he reached the valley below and took his place at the head of his people. Goewyn was quiet beside me as we rode back to the lake.
I turned to her and said, “Marry me. Goewyn.”
She laughed. “But I have already married you, best beloved.”
“I wanted to hear you say it again.”
“Then hear me, Llew Silver Hand,” she said. She straightened in the saddle, holding her head erect and proud. “I marry you this day, and tomorrow, and each tomorrow until tomorrows cease.”
W
ork on the restoration of Dinas Dwr proceeded at once with brisk efficiency. The people seemed especially eager to eliminate all traces of the fire. The people, my peopleâmy patchwork cloak of a clan, made up of various tribes and kin, warriors, farmers, artisans, families, widows, orphans, refugees each and every oneâlabored tirelessly to repair the damage to the crannog and put everything right once more. As I toiled beside them, I came to understand that Dinas Dwr was more to them than a refuge; it had become home. Former bonds and attachments were either broken or breaking down, and a new kinship was being forged; in the sweat of our striving together, we were becoming a singular people, a clan as distinct as any tribe in Albion.
Life in the crannog, so cruelly assaulted by fire and the Great Hound's desolations, soon began to assume its former rhythm. Tegid summoned his Mabinogi and reinstated their daily lessons in bardic lore. Scatha likewise mustered her pupils, and the practice yard rang to the shouts of the young warriors and the clatter of wooden swords on leather shields once more. The farmers returned to their sun-ravaged crops, hopeful of saving some part of the harvest now that the drought had broken. The cowherds and shepherds devoted themselves to replenishing their stocks as the meadows began greening once more.
As I surveyed the work of restoration, it seemed to me that everyone had determined to put the recent horror behind them as quickly as possible and sought release from the hateful memories by striving to make of Dinas Dwr a paradise in the north. But the wounds went deep and, despite the ardent industry of the people, it would be a very long time before Albion was healed. This, I told myself, was why I must stay: to see the land revived and the people redeemed. Yes, the healing had begun; for the first time in years men and women could face the future with something other than deepest dread and despair.
Thus, when the Raven Flight reappeared with their prisoner a scant few days after riding out, we all deemed it a favorable sign. “You see!” men said to one another. “No one can stand against Silver Hand! All his enemies are conquered at last.”
We greeted the Ravens' return warmly and acclaimed the obvious success of their undertaking: riding with them was a sullen, doleful, solitary prisonerâmade to sit backwards in the saddle, with his hands bound tightly behind his back and his cloak wound over his head and shoulders.
