Leaving our prisoner in the care of a score of warriors, Tegid, Calbha, and the Ravens returned with me to the hall, where I pointed to the firepit in the center of the great room. “Raise the hearthstone,” I said, “and bury the Singing Stones beneath it. No one will be able to take them without alerting the whole crannog.”
“Well said, lord,” Bran agreed. Tools were brought and, after a great deal of effort, the massive hearthstone in the center of the hall was raised and held in place while a small hole was dug beneath it. The oak chest was put in the hold and the hearthstone lowered into place once more.
“All men bear witness!” declared Tegid, raising his hands in declamation. “Now is Dinas Dwr established on an unshakable foundation.”
I dismissed the Ravens to their well-earned rest, and then summoned Scatha and Goewyn to the hall where I informed them that the thief responsible for killing Cynfarch, stealing the stones, and setting fire to the caer had been captured. “It is Paladyr,” I said.
Goewyn allowed a small gasp to escape her lips; Scatha’s face hardened, and her manner grew brittle. “Where is he?”
“He had the Singing Stones with him. There is no doubt he is guilty.”
“Where is he?” she asked again, each word a shard of frozen hate.
“We have locked him in a storehouse on the shore,” I answered. “He will be guarded day and night until we have decided what is to be done with him.”
She turned at once. “Scatha, wait!” I called after her, but she would not be deterred.
When I caught up with her again, Scatha was standing outside the storehouse, railing at the guards to open the door and let her go in. They were relieved to see me approach.
“Come away, Pen-y-Cat,” I said. “You can do nothing here.”
She turned on me. “He killed my daughters! The blood debt must be paid!” She meant to collect that debt then and there.
“He will not escape again,” I soothed. “Let it be this way for now, Pen-y-Cat. I have sent word to Cynan, and we will hold court as soon as he returns.”
“I want to see the animal who killed my daughters,” she insisted. “I want to see his face.”
“You shall see him,” I promised. “Soon—wait but a little. Please, Scatha, listen to me. We can do nothing until Cynan returns.”
“I will see him.” The pleading in her voice was more forceful than my own misgivings.
“Very well.” I gestured to the guards to open the door. “Bring him out.”
Paladyr shambled into the light. His hands were bound, and chains had been placed on his feet. He appeared slightly less insolent than before and gazed at us warily.
Quick as the flick of a cat’s tail, Scatha’s knife was out and at Paladyr’s throat. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to gut you like a pig,” she said, drawing the knife across the skin of his throat. A tiny red line appeared behind the moving knife point.
Paladyr stiffened, but uttered no sound.
“Scatha! No!” I said, pulling her away. “You have seen him; now let it be.”
Paladyr’s mouth twitched into a faintly mocking smile. Scatha saw the smirk on his face, drew herself up, and spat full in his face. Anger flared instantly, and I thought he would strike her, but the one-time champion caught himself. Trembling with rage, he swallowed hard and glared murderously at her.
“Take him away,” I ordered the guards and, turning back to Scatha, I watched her walk away, head high, eyes brimming with unshed tears.
Upon Cynan’s return a few days later, I convened the first llys of my reign: to judge the murderer. Meting out judgment was the main work of a king’s llys, and if anyone stood in need of judgment it was Paladyr. The verdict was a foregone conclusion: death.
My chair was established at the head, or west end, of the hall. Wearing Meldryn Mawr’s torc and the Great King’s oak-leaf crown, I stepped to the chair and sat down: Goewyn and Tegid took their places—my queen standing beside me, her hand resting on my left shoulder, and my Chief Bard at my right hand.
When everyone had assembled, the carynx sounded and the Penderwydd of Albion stepped forward. Placing a fold of his cloak over his head, he raised his staff and held it lengthwise above him. “People of Dinas Dwr,” he said boldly, “heed the voice of wisdom! This day your king sits in judgment. His word is law, and his law is justice. Hear me now: there is no other justice but the word of the king.”
With three resounding cracks of his staff on the stone at my feet, Tegid returned to my side. “Bring the prisoner!” he called.
The crowd parted and six warriors led Paladyr forward. But if his captivity had cowed him even in the slightest, he did not show it. Prydain’s one-time champion appeared as haughty as ever, smiling smugly to himself, his head high and his eye unflinching. Clearly, he had lost none of his insolence in captivity. He stalked to the foot of my throne and stood there with his feet apart and a smirk on his face.
When Bran saw how brazenly his prisoner regarded me, the Raven Chief forced Paladyr to kneel, dealing him several sharp blows behind the knees with the butt of his spear. Not that this altered the prisoner’s demeanor appreciably; he still regarded me with a strange disdainful expression—the condemned man’s way of displaying courage, I thought.
The hall was deathly silent. Every man and woman present knew what Paladyr had done, and more than a few burned to see the blood-debt settled. Tegid regarded the prisoner coolly, gripping his staff as a warrior would a spear. “This is the court of Llew Silver Hand, Aird Righ of Albion,” he said, his voice a lash of authority. “This day you will receive the justice you have long eluded.”
At Tegid’s mention of the High Kingship, Paladyr’s eyes flicked from Tegid to me. He seemed somewhat taken aback by that, and it produced the first hint of anything approaching fear I had ever seen in Prydain’s former champion. Or was it something else?
The Chief Bard, acting as my voice, continued, grave and stern. “Who brings grievance against this man?”
Several women—the mothers of suffocated infants—cried out at once, and others—the wives of the dead warriors—added their voices to the chorus. “Murderer!” they screamed. “I accuse him! He killed my child!” some said, and others, “He killed my husband!”
Tegid allowed the outcry to continue for a time, and then called for silence. “We have heard your accusations,” he said. “Who else brings grievance against this man?”
Scatha, cold and sharp as the blade at her side, stepped forward. “For the murder of my daughter, Gwenllian, Banfáith of Ynys Sci, I do accuse him. And for his part in the murder of my daughter, Govan, Gwyddon of Ynys Sci, I do accuse him.” These words were spoken with icy clarity and great dignity; I realized she had rehearsed them countless times in anticipation of this day.
Bran Bresal spoke next, taking his place beside Scatha. “For stealing the Treasure of Albion, and killing the men who guarded that treasure, I do accuse him.”
Stepping forward, Cynan shouted, “For starting the fire that took my father’s life and the lives of innocent men, women, and children, I do accuse him.”
His voice cut like a sword stroke through an atmosphere grown dense with pent-up rage, and his words brought another outburst, which Tegid patiently allowed to play itself out. Then he asked for silence again. “We have heard your accusations. For the third and last time, who brings grievance against this man?”
When no one else made bold to answer, I stood. I did not know if it was proper for me to speak in this way, nor did I care. I had a grievance that went back further than any of the others, and I wanted it heard. “I also bring grievance against this man,” I said, pointing my finger in Paladyr’s face. “It is my belief that you, with the help of others now dead, sought out and murdered the Phantarch, thereby bringing about the destruction of Prydain.”
This revelation sent a dark murmur coursing through the tight-pressed crowd. “However,” I continued, “as I possess no proof of your part in this unthinkable c
rime, I cannot bring accusation against you.” Raising my silver hand, I pointed my finger directly at him. “But with my own eyes I saw you murder Meldryn Mawr, who held the kingship before me. While pretending repentance you took the Great King’s life. For this act of treachery and murder, I do accuse you.”
I sat down. Tegid raised and lowered his staff three times slowly. “We have heard grievous accusations against you, Paladyr. We have heard how by your hand you murdered your king, Meldryn Mawr. We have heard how by your hand you murdered Gwenllian, Banfáith of Ynys Sci, and violated the ancient geas of protection which was the right of all who sheltered in that realm.
“You contrived to steal the Treasure of Albion, using flames to conceal your crime—flames which took the lives of a score of men, women, and infant children. In order to obtain the treasure, you did strike down the warriors pledged to guard it, and by stealth did you remove the treasure from Dinas Dwr.”
The Chief Bard continued, slashing like a whip, his voice ringing in the rooftrees. “Ever and again you have betrayed your people and repaid loyalty with treachery; you have practiced treason against the one you were sworn to protect with your life. You sought gain through deception in the service of a false king; you sold your honor for promises of wealth and rank, and squandered your strength in evil. By reason of these acts your name has become a curse in the mouths of men.”
No one moved; not a sound was heard when he had finished. The people stood as if stunned into silence by the enormity of Paladyr’s crimes. For his part, however, the prisoner seemed vaguely contrite but not overly concerned by his predicament. He merely stared with downcast eyes—as if contemplating the patch of floor between him and my throne. I imagine he had long ago come to terms with the risks of his wrongdoing.
“For these crimes, no less than for the crimes you pursued in the service of the Great Hound Meldron, you are condemned,” Tegid declared. “Do you have anything to say before you hear the judgment of your king?”
Paladyr remained unmoved, and I thought he would not speak. But he slowly raised his head and looked Tegid square in the eye. Arrogant to the end, he said, “I have heard your words, bard. You condemn me, and that is your right. I do not deny it.”
His eyes flicked to me then, and I felt my stomach tighten in apprehension. Looking directly at me, Paladyr said, “But now you tell me that I am in the presence of the High King of Albion. If that is so, let us prove the kingship he boasts. Hear me now: I make the claim of naud.”
The words hung in the silence of the hall for a moment. Tegid’s face went white. Everyone else stared at the kneeling Paladyr in mute and somewhat dazed astonishment. Unwilling to believe what we had all heard quite plainly, Tegid said, “You claim naud?”
Emboldened by the effect of his claim, Paladyr rose to his feet. “I stand condemned before the king. Therefore, I do make the claim of naud for my crimes. Grant it if you will.”
“No!” someone shouted. I looked and saw Scatha, swaying on her feet as one wounded by the thrust of a spear. She shouted again, and Bran, beside her, put his arms around her—whether to comfort or to keep her from attacking Paladyr, I could not say. “No! It will not be!” she screamed, her face contorted with rage.
“No . . .” moaned Goewyn softly. Lips trembling, eyes blinking back tears, she turned her face away.
Cynan, fists clenched, fought forward, straining like a bull; Drustwn, Niall, and Garanaw threw their arms around him and kept him from the prisoner’s neck. Behind them, the crowd surged forward dangerously, calling for Paladyr’s death.
Stern and forbidding, Tegid shouted them down. “Silence!” he cried. “There will be silence before the throne!” The Ravens held back the crowd, and the crisis passed. Having restored a semblance of order, the Chief Bard turned to me, visibly upset. He bent low in consultation.
“I will refuse him,” I said.
“You cannot,” he said; though stunned and heartsick, he was thinking more clearly than I.
“I do not care. I will not allow him to walk away from this.”
“You must,” he said simply. “You have no choice.”
“But why?” I blurted in frustration. “I do not understand, Tegid. There must be something we can do.”
He shook his head gravely. “There is nothing to be done. Paladyr has made the claim of naud, and you must grant it,” he explained, “or the Sovereignty of Albion will belong to a treasonous murderer.”
What Tegid said was true, practically speaking. The claim of naud was partly an appeal for clemency—like throwing oneself on the mercy of the court. But there was more to it than that, for it went beyond justice; it transcended right and wrong and went straight to the heart of sovereignty itself.
In making the claim, the guilty man not only invoked the king’s mercy, he effectively shifted responsibility for the crime to the king himself. The king had a choice, of course—he could grant it, or he could refuse. If he granted the claim, the crime was expunged: the punishment that justice demanded, justice itself would fulfill. Naturally, only the king could reconcile himself to himself.
If the king refused the claim, however, the guilty man would have to face the punishment justice decreed. A simple enough choice, one would think, but in refusing to grant naud, the king effectively declared himself inferior to the criminal. No king worthy of the name would lower himself in that way, nor allow his kingship to be so disgraced.
Viewed from the proper angle, this backwards logic become curiously lucid. In Albion, justice is not an abstract concept dealing with the punishment of a crime. To the people of Albion, justice wears a human face. If the king’s word is law to all who shelter beneath his protection, then the king himself becomes justice for his people. The king is justice incarnate.
This personal feature of justice means that the guilty man can make a claim on the king which he has no right to make: naud. And once having made the claim, it is up to the king, in his role as justice, to demonstrate his integrity. Justice, then, is limited only by the king’s character—that is, justice is limited only by the king’s personal conception of himself as king.
Thus, the claim of naud swings on this question: How great is the king?
Paladyr had rightly divined the question and had determined to put it to the test. If I refused his claim, it would be tantamount to admitting that my sovereignty was restricted in its breadth and power. What is more, all men would know the precise limits of my authority.
If, on the other hand, I granted Paladyr his claim of naud, I would show myself greater than his crimes. For if my sovereignty could extend beyond even Paladyr’s offences, then I must be a very great king indeed. As Aird Righ, my kingly power and authority would be deemed well-nigh infinite.
Oh, but it was a very hard thing. In essence, I had been asked to absorb the crime into myself. If I did that, a guilty man would walk free.
Tegid was frowning, glaring into my face as if I were the cause of his irritation. “Well, Silver Hand? What is your answer?”
I looked at Paladyr. His crimes screamed for punishment. Certainly, no man deserved death more.
“I will grant him naud,” I said, feeling as if I had been kicked in the gut. “But,” I added quickly, “am I allowed to set conditions?”
“You may establish provisions for the protection of your people,” my bard cautioned. “Nothing more.”
“Very well, let us send him to some place where he cannot harm anyone again. Is there such a place?”
Tegid’s gray eyes narrowed in sly approval. “Tir Aflan,” he said.
“The Foul Land? Where is that?” In all my time in Albion, I had rarely heard mention of the place.
“In the east, across the sea,” he explained. “To one born in Albion it is a joyless, desolate place.” Tegid allowed himself a grim smile. “It may be that Paladyr will wish himself dead.”
“So be it. That is my judgment: Banish him to Tir Aflan, and may he rot there in misery.”
Tegid straigh
tened and turned to address Paladyr. He raised his staff and brought it down with a crack. “Hear the judgment of the king,” he intoned. “You have made the claim of naud, and your claim is granted.”
This declaration caused an instant sensation. Shouts filled the hall; some cried aloud at the decision, others wept silently. Tegid raised his staff and demanded silence before continuing. “It is the king’s judgment that, for the protection of Albion’s people, you are banished from all lands under his authority.”
Paladyr’s expression hardened. Likely, he had not foreseen this development. I could see him working through the implications in his mind. He drew himself up and demanded, “If all lands lie under your authority, Great King”—the words were mockery in his mouth— “where am I to go?”
A good question, which showed Paladyr was paying attention. If I was the High King, all of Albion was under my authority. Clearly, there was no place on the Island of the Mighty, or any of its sister isles, where he could go. But Tegid was ready with the answer.
“To Tir Aflan you will go,” he replied bluntly. “And wherever you find men to receive you, there you will abide. Know you this: From the day you set foot in Tir Aflan, it is death to you to return to Albion.”
Paladyr accepted his fate with icy dignity. He said nothing more, and was escorted from the hall by Bran and the Ravens. Tegid declared the llys concluded. And the people began filing grimly from the hall, shattered, their hearts broken.
8
THE CYLCHEDD
At dawn the next morning, the Ravens and some of the war band left Dinas Dwr to escort Paladyr to the eastern coast where he would be shipped across Môr Glas and set free on the blasted shore of Tir Aflan. Cynan, bitter and angry, left a short while later to return to Dun Cruach. In all, it was a miserable parting.
Over the next few days, work on the fire-damaged caer progressed. New timber was cut and hauled from the ridge forest to the lakeshore where it was trimmed and shaped to use for rooftrees and walls. Reeds for thatch were cut in quantity and spread on the rocks to dry. The burnt timber was removed and the ground prepared for new dwellings and storehouses; quantities of ash were transported across the lake and spread on the fields. I would have been happy to see this work to its completion—the sight of the fire-blackened rubble ached in me like a wound, and the sooner Dinas Dwr was restored, the sooner the pain would cease. But Tegid had other ideas.
The Endless Knot Page 8