I saw Simon standing nearby, so, as unobtrusively as possible, I sidled closer. “What’s going on?” I whispered.
“Ruadh is reciting the battle for the king,” Simon answered.
“What does he know about it? He wasn’t there,” I said. “Neither of them showed up until it was over.”
“Of course they were there. They watched the whole thing from the hilltop.”
“What’s he saying?”
“He’s telling the king and the people that we are brave and invincible, that courage flows in our veins, that we are bears in battle—that sort of thing.” He paused and the bard chanted some more. “Now he’s describing the battle itself—what kind of day it was, the glen where it took place, how many enemy there were, all that.”
I nodded. “I see.” The bard chanted a good while longer and then stopped. The king spoke again, holding up his hands in a proclamatory way. “Now what’s happening?”
“The king is declaring his honor restored, thanks to the admirable deeds of his warriors. He is calling for a feast to be held in our honor.”
I liked the sound of that. I was hungry from walking all day. “Outstanding!” I whispered. “Lead me to it.”
“The feast is tomorrow,” Simon informed me sourly. “Tonight we rest.”
Accordingly, after little more than a bit of bread and a swig of warm beer taken where we stood, we all shuffled off to bed. Those warriors who had wives and families went to their homes; the remainder of us found other places. Simon and I made our way to one of three long, low-roofed buildings—the Warriors’ Houses, he called them—to wrap ourselves in woolen cloaks and lie upon pallets of fresh straw.
In the soft darkness, which ebbed and flowed with the sea swell of the warriors’ breathing, I have seldom felt so sheltered and secure as I did that night, nor known so rich and deep a rest. Within the walls of the Great King’s stronghold, among men who would give blood and life for one another without hesitation, I slept. And I woke before dawn, thinking: What would I give to wake among such men always?
16
LLYS MELDRYN
With daylight the caer leaped to life. The soft night faded in a fiery dawn, and Sycharth’s inhabitants shook off their languor and hastened to prepare the feast which their king had proclaimed. Simon had disappeared, and I didn’t feel like sitting alone in the Warriors’ House. So, wrapped in my borrowed cloak, I wandered where I would, making myself familiar with the lay of the land.
Wherever I looked I saw someone—man, woman, or child— bustling about some task. There was not an idle hand anywhere, except mine. No one gave me anything to do, or even seemed to take notice of me—although I caught some of the children gawking at me.
Sycharth was even larger than I first thought, sheltering perhaps a thousand people. There were three main sections: one of storehouses and granaries, one of livestock pens, one of artisans’ and craftsmen’s quarters. And, scattered throughout, the dwelling places of the inhabitants, huddled together in random clusters, usually three or more around a central cookhouse or kitchen. Threads of silvery smoke wafted up through the reed thatch of the cookhouses; the smells seeping into the air made my empty stomach grumble.
Every corner of the caer pulsed with sound and activity: from the dull chunk of wood being chopped to the sharp squeal of pigs being slaughtered, and always, everywhere, the voices of the laborers lifted in song—the fortress itself seemed to sing with a cheerful tumult. I meandered here and there, sampling the happy sounds, my fondness for the uncluttered simplicity of life in the caer growing with every step.
There were no streets as such, just a tangle of narrow lanes lacing several wider pathways together. All of the wider pathways were lined with a triple track of dressed stone, which at first puzzled me, until I tumbled to the fact that in seasons of rain the hooves of horses and the wheels of wagons would sink into the mud without this simple paving.
The various structures appeared to be in excellent repair; the livestock pens were full of fat pigs, sheep, and cattle; the artisans’ huts were well stocked with goods—all indicating an industrious and prosperous tribe. Even after the most casual perusal, I could well believe Simon’s boast that the Llwyddi were the preeminent clan in the land.
This informal survey of the caer occupied me until well past midmorning. Then my growling stomach got the better of me, and I returned to the Warriors’ House to find Simon waiting for me— somewhat nervously. “Where have you been?” he demanded.
“Nowhere,” I told him. “Just out walking around.”
He turned and retrieved a bundle from a nearby pallet. This he placed in my hands, saying, “Put these on and be quick about it.”
I untied the bundle and unfolded a pale blue shirt, a pair of dark green trousers with thin red stripes, a brown woven cloth belt, and a pair of the short, soft leather boots, or buskins, which the Llywddi wore. Every item was new and finely made. Glad to be free of my own filthy trousers, I shucked them off and prepared to pull on the new ones.
“The underpants too,” Simon intoned. “Get rid of them.”
“But—” I hesitated.
“They’ll only make you miserable. Anyway, you don’t need them.”
Dubiously, I discarded my boxer shorts. True, I hadn’t had a change of underpants for days, so it was no great loss; but I doubted Simon’s assertion that I wouldn’t need them. I was also a little sorry to see my good hiking shoes go. The soft boots, or buskins, looked comfortable enough, but I knew I’d miss a stout arch and good, hard sole.
Neither the shirt nor the trousers had buttons or laces of any kind, so Simon showed me how to wrap the long shirtwaist and cinch the trousers with the wide belt, which he wound around my middle twice and tied in front. The shirt and trousers—siarc and breecs, according to Simon—were on the billowy side, but the buskins fit as if they had been made to order for me.
When I’d finished, Simon stepped back and gave me a critical once-over. He pronounced the effect acceptable, if not exactly sartorially stunning. “That’s better. You’ll do.”
Then he took up another bundle and shook out a bright orange cloak, which he proceeded to arrange about my shoulders. “You fold it like this,” he said, showing me how it was done. “Then you pin it to hold it in place . . . like so.” He passed a crude bronze pin through the folds at my left shoulder. “Sorry about the brooch.”
“That’s all right. I don’t mind.”
“Thing is, if you want a better one you have to earn it. Brooches are a sign of rank around here—the same with torcs and most other baubles.”
“Gold for kings, silver for princes, copper for chieftains, and so on,” I replied, reciting a bit of Celtic lore.
“That’s right,” he said with a satisfied nod, “but there are many subtle degrees having to do with size, design, workmanship, and so on. It isn’t difficult; you’ll catch on.”
“Simon,” I said seriously, “how do you know so much?” This question had been simmering at the back of my brain ever since I had clapped eyes on Simon on the battlefield. I had not been able to put words to it until just now. “How have you managed it in such a short time?”
He raised one quizzical eyebrow. “What are you babbling about?”
“Well, look at you—you’re a warrior, you’ve fought in battles, you know everything about life here, you speak the language like a native. How is that possible? You’ve only been here a couple months.”
“I have been with Clan Llwydd four years,” Simon responded solemnly.
“Four years! You can’t—” I began, and stopped short. Time in the Otherworld was not the same as time in the real world. Each world marked time differently, and there was no correspondence between them at all. Minutes might be years, years might be hours, might be decades, might be seconds, might be centuries. Who could tell?
This was a fact well documented in the literature of folklore, but I had not fully credited it until now. I felt a pang of dread at the thought that time w
as passing independently on the other side. What would await us when we returned?
Simon puckered his lips irritably. “Now what’s wrong?”
Thrusting my anxiety aside, I grinned back at him. “Nothing. I feel like a real Celt now,” I said. “This is great.”
“Glad you think so.”
I caught a slight undercurrent of waspishness to his words. “Why? What’s up?”
“The king is holding court today, and he wants to see you.”
“He does? Really?”
“You’re high on the agenda, chum.”
“I didn’t know he knew I was even here.”
“Oh, he knows,” Simon confirmed flatly. “If Meldron hadn’t told him, Ruadh would have. You killed the Cruin champion—remember?”
“Oh, that.”
Simon fixed me with a stern and serious stare. “Look, let us have no misunderstandings, right? You killed the champion. You have to go along with that, do you understand? You will only embarrass yourself and the other warriors if you deny it now. And it could get you into a lot of trouble.”
“All right, Simon. If that’s the way you want it. But what’s the big deal?”
“I’m not going to argue with you. You don’t know the first thing about what goes on here. Just do as I say. This is for your own good, believe me.”
“Fine. Wonderful. I’ll do as you say.”
I must have looked anxious, because Simon grinned suddenly and gave me a punch on the arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right beside you the whole time. Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, and then added, “There is just one thing.”
“What now?”
“I know this probably isn’t the time,” I muttered hesitantly, “but we’ve got to talk about going back—back to the real world. You said to wait till we got to Sycharth, and—well, we’re here. Maybe we should say something to the king.”
“You’re right,” Simon replied. For an instant, I thought he was going to be reasonable. “This isn’t the time. We’ll talk to the king after the feast. Come on, enjoy yourself a little, Lewis. Relax, will you? We’ll get this all sorted out.”
“All right,” I agreed reluctantly. “After the feast.”
“Let’s go, then.” Simon turned and led me from the lodge. We made our way to the king’s hall, retracing our steps of the night before, and I noticed that the nearer we came, the busier the bustle. In the yard before the king’s hall, long boards had been set up on trestles, with benches flanking either side. A troop of men and boys was constructing a small pyramid of oaken casks in the center of the yard. Several dozen warriors lingered near the entrance to the hall. And there were a score or more horses tethered at the far end of the grassy expanse.
Simon saw me eyeing the horses and said, “Some of Meldryn Mawr’s chieftains have come to the llys.”
Llys is an old Briton word for court—designating either the place of meeting or the meeting itself. It was, I knew, often something of an occasion. Legal business was conducted, commerce and trade transacted, and personal squabbles and misfortunes set to rights. Anyone with a gripe or grievance could approach the seat of judgment and speak his piece before the king, who would mete out the required justice. A king’s word was the law of the realm, the only law his people knew. Fortunes could be made or lost, lives forever changed, depending on the disposition of the king.
That I should be included in this high drama sent alternating waves of dread and excitement coursing through me: What did the king want with me? What would he say? What would I say? I found it difficult to abide by Simon’s dictum to relax; enjoying myself was right out of the question. We paused at the entrance to the hall, and Simon cast a quick look at the sun. “They will begin soon,” he said. “We’d better go inside and take our places.” He checked my appearance one last time. “Too bad we didn’t have time for you to shave.”
“Oh, sure, now you tell me,” I mumbled, rubbing my bristly chin, suddenly self-conscious and peeved at Simon for not taking better care of me.
We passed between the stone pillars, acknowledging the warriors loitering near the entrance—some called out to us, and Simon answered them. There was laughter all around. I guessed the joke was at my expense, but I smiled nervously and nodded. And we proceeded.
A huge, fierce-looking warrior stood in the entrance, imposing the proper reverence upon those who entered. At a word from Simon, the muscled giant moved aside to let us pass. There was no mistaking the glance of disdain he paid me as I passed beneath his sight; clearly he considered me no champion-killer. “That is Paladyr,” Simon explained. “Meldryn’s champion. Great chap.”
The hall was cool and dark. When my eyes adjusted to the dim light which slipped fitfully through the slit windows, I saw what appeared to be a grove of trees—these were the great timber columns supporting the roof beams. Each column was carved with the endless knotwork of Celtic design. A gigantic hearth yawned cold and dark, like an open pit, taking up one end of the vast room. Opposite the hearth, a wooden partition enclosed the far end of the hall; this I took to be the royal quarters.
Before the partition stood a circular dais made of stone, around which stood seven iron poles from which seven torches flared. And upon the dais was a huge chair, which appeared to have been carved of a single massive piece of black wood. The wood was ornamented with innumerable gold disks bearing a spiral pattern. In the flickering light of the torches, the disks appeared to be revolving slowly. The illusion of movement made the chair seem a living thing—an animate object with its own power and will.
There were at least a hundred people gathered near the dais, standing together in small clusters, speaking softly. Some held objects in their hands—here a folded length of cloth, there an ornate weapon, elsewhere a fine bowl or dish—gifts for the king, I supposed. I wished I had brought something too.
I didn’t have long to dither over this, for, as we took our places to one side of the assembly, a loud, blaring note—like the blat of a ram’s horn—sounded in the hall. From behind the partition stepped the king’s bard, who ascended the dais and came to stand before us. He took a fold of his cloak and placed it over his head, then raised his hands. I saw that he held a long staff, or rod, the head of which gleamed darkly in the torchlight. Holding the rod lengthwise above his covered head, he began to speak in firm, somewhat threatening tones.
I tossed a questioning glance to Simon, who answered, “The Chief Bard is reminding us that the word of the king is law and that his judgments are absolute.”
When the bard finished, he took his place at the right hand and a little behind the king’s chair. The horn sounded again, and Meldryn Mawr himself appeared, a very Sun King: his clothing was immaculate, and his countenance brilliant. He was dressed all in crimson— shirt, trousers, and buskins. His golden fish-scale belt flashed in every facet; the rings on his hands glinted with gems. In addition to his torc, the king wore a crown, which appeared to have been made of oak leaves and twigs dipped in gold. His dark eyes scanned the throng before him, confident and wise. The force of his presence filled the entire hall, drawing all attention to him; I could not look away.
When the king had been seated, Prince Meldron ascended the dais and draped a black bearskin cloak over his father’s shoulders. The prince then bent to touch the instep of his father’s foot, and withdrew to take his place with the other chieftains. I saw Ruadh step forward to stand beside Prince Meldron.
At a nod from the king, Ollathir raised his wooden staff and struck it against the stone three times. Then he pointed to the first of the petitioners—a tall, heavily built man of imposing mien, who stalked to the dais and stretched out his hands to offer his gift: a fine new bow and a quiver of silver-pointed arrows.
The king inclined his regal head in acceptance of the gift, and the man began stating his business. After listening a moment, Simon whispered, “This is Rhiogan of Caer Dyffryn, one of Meldryn Mawr’s chieftains on the eastern border. He is askin
g for the king’s permission to raid the Vedeii—that’s a Cruin tribe—across the river.” Simon paused and listened some more. “It seems the Vedeii raided last autumn and stole some cattle. He wants the cattle back, and an equal number in punishment.”
The king heard this request, lacing his fingers from time to time. When Rhiogan finished speaking, Meldryn replied, asking a few questions which his chieftain answered simply, without elaboration. Then he turned to Ollathir, whispered something into his ear, and sat back.
Ollathir then spoke out the king’s message to the chieftain. “What’s he saying?” I asked, fascinated.
“He is relaying the king’s judgment—permission to raid is granted, provided that the king receives a share of the spoils.”
“Is that fair?” I wondered aloud.
“It is not a matter of fairness,” Simon explained. “This way, if the king shares the plunder, he also takes responsibility for the raid—the blame falls on him. Then, if the Vedeii make trouble over this, they have Meldryn Mawr to answer to, not just Rhiogan.”
“So the king is authorizing retaliation in his name.”
“Essentially.”
The lord seemed pleased with this decision and mounted to the dais. He moved to the king, knelt, and, leaning close, placed his head against the king’s chest—like a child seeking comfort from its mother. It was, despite the curious posture, a most poignant gesture.
The next petitioner was not one of Meldryn’s lords, but a bard from a holding in the north, who sought permission to attend a gathering of bards in a neighboring realm. The request was, I learned, a formality observed not so much out of deference to the king, but out of respect for Ollathir—who would be attending the gathering in any case.
The Paradise War Page 17