I gaped at the glittering array. “Where did you get all this?”
“It is yours, lord,” he replied hastily. “But do not worry, I have chosen only the finest for such a celebration as this.”
“I thank you, Calbha,” I replied, eyeing the treasure trove. “You have served me well. Indeed, I did not know I was so wealthy.”
There was so much, and all so lavish, that I wondered aloud to Tegid, “Can I afford this?”
The bard only laughed and indicated the shimmering mound with a sweep of his hand. “The greater the generosity, the greater the king.”
“If that is the way of it, then give it all away—and more! Let men say that never in Albion was such a wedding celebration as this. And let all who hear of it in later days sicken with envy that they were not here!”
Cynan, arriving with some of his men just then, looked upon the treasure and declared himself well ready to win his share. Bran and the Ravens came behind him, calling loudly for the games to begin. Alun challenged Cynan then and there to choose whatever game of skill or chance he preferred—and he should be bested at it.
“You are a wonder, Alun Tringad,” Cynan crowed. “Can it be you have forgotten the defeat I gave you when last you tried your skill against me?”
“Defeat?” Alun cried. “Am I to believe what I am hearing? The victory was mine, as you well know.”
“Man, Alun—I am surprised your teeth keep company with your tongue, such lies you tell. Still, for the sake of this festive day,” Cynan declared, “I will not hold your impudence against you.”
“It was your voice, Cynan Machae, cried mercy, as I recall,” Alun replied amiably. “Yet, like you, I am willing to forget what is past for the sake of the day.”
They fell to arguing then about the size of the wager—pledging prizes not yet won—and quickly drew a crowd of onlookers eager to back one or the other of the champions and so reap a share of the rewards.
They were still settling the terms when Goewyn leaned close. “If you do not begin the games soon, husband, we will be forced to listen to their boasting all day.”
“Very well,” I agreed and rose from my chair to address the crowd. Tegid called for silence and, when the people saw that I would speak, they quieted themselves to listen. “Let us enjoy the day given to us!” I said. “Let us strive with skill and accept with good grace all that chances our way, that when the games are done, we may retire to the feasting hall better friends than when the day began.”
“Well said, lord,” Tegid declared. “So be it!”
Wrestling was first, followed by various races, including a spectacular horse race, which had everyone exhausted by the time the winner— a young man from Calbha’s clan—crossed the finish line. I awarded him a horse and, much to the crowd’s amusement, he promptly retired from the games lest he lose his prize in a foolish wager.
I tried at first to match each award to its winner, but I soon gave up and lost track and took whatever came to hand. Indeed, as the games proceeded, I called on Goewyn to help, so that sometimes I awarded the prizes and sometimes the winners received their trophies from Goewyn—which I suspected most preferred. I noticed that many who came to the mound to marvel at the prizes stayed to feast their eyes on Goewyn. Time and again I found myself stealing glances at her—like a beggar who has found a jewel of immense value and must continually reassure himself that it is not a dream, that it does exist and, yes, that it belongs to him.
One young boy came to the mound and found a copper cup, which once he had picked up the thing, he could not bring himself to put down. “You like that cup,” I said, and he blushed, for he did not know he was observed. “Tell me, how would you win it?”
He thought for a moment. “I would wrestle Bran Bresal himself,” he answered boldly.
“Bran might be reluctant to risk his great renown by engaging one so young,” I answered. “Perhaps you would be persuaded to pit your strength against someone more your own size?”
The boy accepted my suggestion and a match was agreed. It ended well, and I was pleased to award him his prize. Thus began a succession of children’s games and races, no less hotly contested than the trials of their elders.
The contests progressed and, little by little, the treasure mound was reduced. Tegid disappeared at some point in the proceedings and I was so caught up in my role as gift giver that some long time passed before I missed him. Turning to Goewyn, I said, “I wonder where Tegid has gone. Do you see him anywhere?”
Before she could reply, there came a rush at the mound behind us. I heard the swift approach and saw a confused motion out of the corner of my eye. Even as my head swiveled toward the sound and movement, I saw hands reaching for Goewyn. In the same instant that I leapt to my feet, she was pulled from her chair. “Llew!” she cried and was borne roughly away.
I hurled myself after her, but there were too many people, too much confusion. I could hardly move. Head down, I drove forward into the mass of bodies. Hands seized me. I was pressed back into my chair. Goewyn cried out again, but her voice was farther away, and the cry was cut off.
I kicked free of the chair and made to leap from the mound. Even as I gained my feet, I was hauled down from behind, thrown to the ground, and pinned there. Voices strange and loud gabbled in my ears. I fought against those holding me down. “Let me go!” I shouted. “Release me!” But the hands held firm, and the chaos of voices resolved itself into laughter. They were laughing at me!
Angry now, I struggled all the more. “Tegid!” I bellowed. “Tegid!”
“I am here, Llew,” Tegid’s voice replied calmly.
I looked around furiously, and saw Tegid’s face appear above me. “Release him,” the bard instructed.
The weight of hands fell away; the circle of faces drew back. I jumped to my feet. “They’ve taken Goewyn,” I told him. “We were sitting here, and they—”
There were smiles and a spattering of laughter. I halted. Tegid, his fingers laced around his staff, appeared unconcerned. “What is happening?” I demanded. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard you, Llew,” the bard replied simply.
His lack of concern appalled me. I opened my mouth to protest, and again heard the laughter. Gazing at those gathered around us, I saw their faces alight with mischief and mirth. It was only then I realized that I was the object of a prank. “Well, Tegid, what is it? What have you done?”
“It is not for me to say, lord,” he answered.
It came to me then that this was another of those peculiar Celtic marriage customs. The trick required me to work the thing out for myself. Well, prank or custom, I was not amused. Turning away, I called, “Bran! Cynan! Follow me!”
I strode down from the mound, a path opening before me as I hastened away. “Bran! Cynan!” I called again, and when they did not join me, I turned to see them standing motionless. “Follow me!” I shouted. “I need you.”
Cynan, grinning, moved a step forward, then stopped, shaking his head slightly.
“I go alone,” I remarked.
“That is the way of it,” Bran said.
“So be it!” Exasperation turning to anger, I whirled away across the field in the direction I had last seen Goewyn. It was a stupid jest, and I resented it.
The trail led to the lakeside where I lost it on the stony shore. They might have gone in either direction—one way led along the lake toward the Dinas Dwr; the other rose to the heights and the ridge of Druim Vran above. Looking toward the crannog, I saw no sign of flight, so I pivoted the opposite way and strode toward the heights and Tegid’s grove.
I reached the path and began the climb. The crowd followed behind, streaming along the lake in a happy hubbub. The trees gradually closed around me, muffling the sound of the following throng. It was cool among the silent trees, and the sun-dappled shadows seemed undisturbed. But I heard the creak of a bough ahead and knew my instincts were true. I quickened my pace, pushing recklessly ahead: ducking low-hanging branches, do
dging trunks and shrubs.
Tegid’s sacred grove lay directly ahead, and I made straight for it. Putting on a final burst of speed, I ascended the final leg of the trail and gained the grove. I entered with a rush to find a bower of birch branches had been erected in the center of the grove. And before the bower stood seven warriors, armed and ready.
“Put down your weapons,” I commanded, but they did not move. I knew these men; they had followed me into battle and stood with me against Meldron. Now they stood against me. Though I knew it to be part of the ritual, the ache of betrayal that knifed momentarily through me was real enough. There was no help for me. I stood alone against them.
Steeling myself, I moved closer. The warriors advanced menacingly toward me. I stopped and they stopped, staring grimly at me. The smiles and laughter were gone. What, I wondered as I stood staring at them, was I supposed to do now?
The first of the onlookers reached the grove. I turned to see Bran, Cynan, and Tegid entering behind me and, rank upon rank, my people surrounding the sacred circle. No one spoke, but the eagerness in their eyes urged me on.
If this was a mock abduction, it seemed I would have to undertake a mock battle to win my queen. I had no weapon, but, turning to the task before me, I stepped boldly forth and met the first warrior as he swung the head of the spear level. Moving quickly under the swinging shaft, I caught it with my silver hand and pulled hard.
To my surprise, the warrior released the spear and fell at my feet as if dead. Taking the shaft, I turned to meet the next warrior, who raised his spear to throw. I struck the man’s shield with the tip of the spearblade: he dropped his weapon and fell. The third warrior crumpled at the touch of my spear against his shoulder—the fourth and fifth, likewise. The two remaining warriors attacked me together.
The first one struck at me, drawing a wide, lazy arc with his sword. I crouched as the blade passed over my head, and then drove into them, holding my spear sideways. At the lightest contact, the two warriors toppled, fell, and lay still.
Suddenly, the grove shook to a tremendous shout of triumph as I stepped to the bower’s entrance. “Come out, Goewyn,” I called. “All is well.”
There was a movement from within the bower, and Goewyn stepped forward. She was as I had seen her only a few moments before, and yet she was not. She had changed. For, as she stepped from the deep green shadow of the birch-leaf bower, the sunlight struck her hair and gown and she became a creature of light, a bright spirit formed of air and fire: her hair golden flame, her gown shimmering sea-foam white.
The crowd, so noisily jubilant before, gasped and fell silent.
Dazzling, radiant, glowing with beauty, she appeared before me, and I could but stand and stare. I heard a movement beside me. “Truly, she is a goddess,” Cynan whispered. “Go to her, man! Claim your bride—or I will.”
I stepped forward and extended my silver hand to her. As she took my hand, the sunlight caught the metal and flared. And it seemed that a blaze sprang up between us at the union of our hands. Though it was only a game, it was with genuine relief that I clasped her to my heart. “Never leave me, Goewyn,” I breathed.
“I never will,” she promised.
The sun had begun its westward plunge by the time we returned to the crannog. Tables had been set up outside the hall to accommodate the increased numbers the king would entertain this night. I would have preferred to remain outside—after the brilliant day, the night would be warm and bright—but the interior of the hall had been festooned with rushlights and birch branches to resemble the leafy bower in the grove. With all this preparation specially for us, it would have been unkind not to acknowledge the honor and enjoy it.
Famished with hunger and aflame with thirst, the warriors called loudly for food and drink as soon as they crossed the threshold. The tables inside the hall had been arranged to form a large hollow square so that we could all see one another. As the first were finding their places at the board, the platters appeared—borne on the shoulders of the servers—huge trenchers piled high with choice cuts of roast beef, pork, and mutton; these were followed by enormous platters of cooked cabbages, turnips, leeks, and fennel. A fair-sized vat had been set up at the end of each table so that no one would have to go far to refill cup or bowl. Alas, there was no ale left, so tonight the vats had been filled with water flavored with honey and bullace. Along the center of each table were piled small loaves of honey-glazed banys bara, or wedding bread—fresh-baked and warm from the ovens.
As the platters were passed, each diner, man or woman, was offered the most succulent portions. Within moments the clamor sank to a muffled din as hungry mouths were filled with good food. The privilege of eating first carried with it the obligation of serving; those who served now would be guests later. Thus, order and right were admirably maintained. The guards watching over the Singing Stones were the only exceptions. They neither served nor ate, but stood aloof from the celebration, as watchful and wary as if they were alone in a hostile land.
Looking out across the crowded hall, my heart swelled with joy to see my people so happy and content. It came to me why it was that the mark of a king was linked to his benevolence: his people lived on it, looking to the king for their sustenance and support; through him they lived, or died. I filled my bowl with the savory morsels served me and began to eat with a ready appetite.
When everyone had been served, a loud thumping drum resounded through the hall, and into the hollow square advanced eight maidens at a slow and solemn pace. Each maiden gathered her loose-hanging hair and wound it into a knot at the nape of her neck. They then drew up the hems of their mantle so that their legs were bare, and loosened the strings of their bodices. Each maiden then approached a warrior at the table and begged the use of his sword.
The warriors—eager accomplices—gave up their swords willingly, and the maidens returned to the center of the square where they formed a circle, each placing her sword on the ground at her feet so that the sword points touched. Tegid, harp at his shoulder, appeared and began to play. The harpstrings sang, each note plucked with definite accent; and the maidens began to dance, each step deliberate and slow.
Around the sunburst of swords they danced, treading their way slowly over the hilts and blades, eyes level, fixed on a point in the distance. Around and around, they went, adding an extra step with each pass. By the sixth pass the harpsong began to quicken and the footwork grew more complicated. By the twelfth pass, the harp was humming and the dance had become fantastic. Yet, the maidens danced with the same solemn attitude, eyes fixed, expressions grave.
The music reached a crescendo and the maidens, spinning swiftly, performed an intricate maneuver with their arms. Then, quick as a blink, they stopped, spun around, stooped, and each seized her sword by the hilt and lofted its point to the rooftrees above, shedding the tops of their mantles in the same motion.
The music began again, slowly. Lowering the swords, the maidens began to dance once more, their steps measured and precise. The swords flashed and gleamed, creating dazzling arcs around the twirling, lissome shapes. The tempo increased, and those looking on began beating time with their hands on the tables, shouting encouragement to the dancers. The young women’s skill at handling the swords was dazzling; handwork and footwork elaborate, cunning, and deft: hands weaving enigmatic patterns, feet tracing complex figures as the keen-edged swords shimmered and shone.
Torchlight and rushlight glimmered on the sweat-glistening flesh of slender arms, rounded shoulders, and breasts. The harpsong swelled; the sword dance whirled to its climax. With a shriek and a shout, the maidens leapt, striking their blades together in simulated battleclash. Once, twice, three times, the weapons sang. They froze for an instant, and then fell back, each maiden clutching the naked blade to her breast. They knelt and lay back until their heads touched the ground and the swords lay flat along their taut chests and stomachs.
Slowly raising the swords by the hilts, they rose to their knees once more, brandishi
ng the blades high. Suddenly, the harp struck a resounding chord. The swords plunged. The maidens collapsed with a cry.
There was a moment’s silence as we all sat gazing raptly at the swaying blades standing in the packed earth floor. And then cheers filled the hall, loudly lauding the dancers’ feat. The maidens gathered their clothes and retreated from the square.
I looked at Goewyn and then at the bowl in my hands. All thought of food vanished from my mind—instantly replaced by a hunger of an entirely different, though no less urgent, variety. She sensed me looking at her and smiled. “Is something wrong with the food?” she asked, indicating my half-filled bowl.
I shook my head. “It is just that I think I have discovered something more to my liking.”
Goewyn leaned close, put her hand to my face, and kissed me. “If you find that to your liking,” she whispered, “then join me when you have finished.” Rising from her chair, she let her fingers drift along my jaw. Her touch sent a delicious shiver along my ribs.
I watched her go. She paused at the door and cast a backward glance at me before disappearing. It seemed to me that the close-crowded hall, so festive only moments before, grew suddenly loud and the crush of people oppressive.
Cynan noticed that I was not eating. “Eat!” he urged. “This night above all others you will need what little strength you possess.”
The Endless Knot Page 4