In the months that followed, Cricket felt like he lived two distinct lives. One he lived in the country side, riding Mannath’s horse as he went around trying to clear away all the corruption left from Arawn’s curse. The other he lived in Caer Arberth, where he conducted his campaign to win Essa’s heart.
He didn’t know which he preferred. He missed Essa when he left, but being at the caer was not easy either; everyone had an opinion to give, most of them scathing, and the old women in particular professed to be helping him even as they criticized his every move.
He wrote her songs and sung them in the hall, and he plaited garlands of wild flowers and hung them on her door. He talked to her every chance he could, and saw the interest in her eyes, but she always had someone near to hand so that he could never get too close. The times when he had the most hope came after being away for two or three weeks; Essa would greet him coolly, but he knew enough to see the relief in her eyes, and the growing affection.
Throughout the summer and into the fall, he never stayed at the caer for more than a few days at a time. He didn’t want the people of Dyfed to have to spend another winter with the effects of the curse; he knew the evil, had stared into the heart of it, and had felt its craving for the deadly cold.
At Mannath’s encouragement, he began visiting the duns and outlying caers, talking with the people and playing for them. He discovered a lively people who only acted reserved for the sake of strangers. As soon as they felt comfortable, old battered harps and fiddles would appear, with old men and women who tried to deflect some of the attention by saying, “This is just a little something I learned from my Da.” Cricket listened to their songs, memorizing them quickly, and then playing along.
If the people that lived inside of walls proved to be open and friendly after a while, the shepherds were something else entirely. He saw them wherever he went, leading their sheep with the help of manic border collies or nipping corgis, but usually from a distance.
The first time one approached him, he was sitting under the shade of a hazel tree at the edge of a large meadow, eating oat bread and goat cheese that Essa had packed for him in a fit of kindness. He heard the sharp barking of the sheep dog first, then saw the top of the shepherd’s crook bobbing just behind the crest of the hill. The shepherd appeared next, a lanky young man with spiky blonde hair crowning his long, ruddy face. Behind him the sheep skittered nervously about, kept in order by a small brown mutt who chased about the edge of the flock.
It was a familiar scene, and Cricket expected it to continue as always, with the shepherd either turning his flock to feed or keep them moving. So when he marched right up and sat cross legged across from Cricket, the bard almost choked on his food.
“You the bard?” the young man asked.
“I am,” Cricket replied.
The shepherd nodded and took some dried mutton and a battered apple from his wallet. Cricket passed him his water skin, and after taking a long swallow, he handed it back. The sheepdog scurried up, sniffing CuChulainn all over while the wolfhound accepted the attention stoically. Satisfied, the little dog settled next to his master, panting like a bellows.
Nothing more was said while the two men ate, and then the shepherd unfolded himself to his feet. “Heard you might be making things better,” he said, leaning on his staff.
“I’m certainly trying to.”
“Well, there’s a bad place not far from here. Doesn’t feel right.”
“Where is it?”
“Go over that hill there,” he said, pointing with his chin. “You’ll see a valley. Follow it, and look for a cairn about the height of a man. You’ll know it.”
“Thank you very much. That will help me a lot.”
The shepherd just nodded and turned to go.
“Wait!” Cricket said. “What’s your name?”
“Wil.”
“It’s good to meet you, Wil. My name is Cricket.”
The shepherd said, “Aye, I know. Come on, Mott!” The sheep dog scrambled after the man, and Cricket watched them cross to the other side of the field where they settled in the grass, watching the flock.
Brushing the crumbs off his hands, Cricket said, “Well, boy, I guess we know where to go next.”
Mounting the horse, Cricket and CuChulainn went and found the place the shepherd had spoken of, spending the rest of the afternoon getting rid of the evil that surrounded the stone mound. Cricket wanted to thank the shepherd again, but he knew that Wil and Mott had disappeared with their sheep into the recesses of the land after delivering their message.
Several other times, shepherds searched him out to tell him of some place that didn’t feel right, or as one shepherdess put it, “Makes you feel all cold and pale inside.” They never stayed for long, and never shared much more conversation than they absolutely had to. Cricket liked them anyway.
By Samhain, Dyfed felt whole again. Cricket returned to Caer Arberth for the last time just as the weather started turning cold, probing the land with his inward eye one last time, and generally not paying attention to where he was going. When his horse stopped suddenly, it took him a moment to return to the real world, blinking in the gray light of the afternoon.
Essa held his horse’s head, talking to it softly, slipping it an apple. “Where are we?” he asked.
“A few miles from the caer,” she answered, not looking at him.
“But you’re alone.”
“Do you mind?”
Cricket’s pulse began to race as the implications hit him. “Did you come out here just to see me?”
“Maybe. But I’m not going to say anything while you’re up on that horse.”
He slid down and stood there, twisting the reins around in his hands while he tried to think of something to say. CuChulainn scented something on the wind, and left to investigate, leaving him feeling vulnerable.
“Are you coming back for a while?” she asked, still not looking at him.
“Unless some kind of emergency comes up. I already missed Samhain, and I don’t want to have to fight the weather. Not to mention the fact that it’s the bard teulu’s job to entertain the caer during the winter.”
She stroked the horse’s neck absently. “It’s going to be a better winter because of you.”
“Of me? I don’t control the weather.”
“No, but you made it easier to fill our larders.” She finally faced him, looking at him with haunted eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like, hearing the children cry because their stomachs hurt, and to see their parents try and hush them even though they haven’t eaten in days either.”
“I had no idea.”
She shrugged. “It’s not something that we normally mention, and it’s not something you’re likely to see in Caer Arberth.”
“Why can’t you get help from the prince? Or the Ard Righanna?”
“Perhaps because we’re too proud to ask.” Her eyes darkened. “Or perhaps because we’ve asked in the past, and have always been denied.”
“Why? Why is Dyfed so shunned?”
Essa sighed. “I could blame the curse, but our own nature is just as much of it. We don’t like foreigners, and that means anyone from outside of Dyfed. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“It’s not?”
She shook her head. “Come with me.”
He followed her to a secluded glen, where a stream burbled over smooth rocks and a huge old willow dangled its fingers in the water. She didn’t seem like herself: her smile came faintly and without the twinkle in her eye that usually accompanied it. Cricket began to be afraid of what she might have to say.
Essa told him to hobble the horse while she climbed into the wide crook of the willow’s trunk, curling her feet under her. “I like to come out here to think,” she said.
Cricket leaned against the trunk, not too far away from her, but not too close. “It’s a good place.”
She nodded, staring off into space. “I’ve been coming out here a lot
recently, especially when you leave.” She picked up a dead leaf and began shredding it. “I guess what I want to know is, where are we going with this?”
“With what?” Cricket said, finding himself fascinated by the fine hair on her arms.
“Look at me, please.”
He raised his eyes to hers, seeing them dark with concern. “We’ve played this game all summer,” she said. “But you’ve been gone most of that time. Now we’re going to be in the same building for an entire season, and I want to know if you can handle that.”
“Essa, I love you.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “All the old women in the world couldn’t change that, no matter how hard they try.”
“I feel... I don’t know. I don’t feel like I’m worth it.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Look at you,” she said. “You wear six colors in your cloak, and I only wear two. You have single handedly done more for Dyfed in the last eight months then has been done by anyone in the last eight hundred years. You have earned a place here, the only foreigner who has ever done so that I’m aware of. I just feel... a little overwhelmed by it all.”
He took her hand, trying to think of something to say. “I—” he started, but didn’t have anything to follow it with. “You—this whole—” He took a deep breath and said, “Look at that, you’ve made a bard speechless.”
She smiled just a little, but it was a start.
“I hope that you’ll understand that all the challenges that the caer has put me through have only made me more sure of my love for you. That it’s not a game for me. That I hate leaving Caer Arberth because it means that I will be away from you. That your face is what I see when I am alone, staring into a fire in the wilds of Dyfed. That I can’t relax when I return until I see you. That I treasure every glance, every smile, and every word that you grant me. That you are the person who I want to be with more than any one else in the world.”
“You almost give me hope,” she said, her eyes shining with tears.
“I would give you all that I have, and all that I am, if only to see you smile.”
She sniffed loudly and wiped at her eyes. “This doesn’t mean that I’m going to make it any easier on you.”
“That’s okay.”
“And it doesn’t mean that I’m even thinking about you that way.”
“You’ll come around.”
She laughed. “You’re terrible.”
“It must be the native attitude rubbing off on me.”
“It must. Help me down.”
He stepped close and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He lifted her out of the tree, but did not let her go when her feet touched the ground, and she did not try to move away. “You have no chaperone out here,” he said, holding her close.
“True,” she said, looking up at him.
Feeling brave but hesitant, he leaned closer, smelling the warm fragrance of her skin. He kept expecting her to pull away, but she didn’t. Their lips met, softly at first, then with more urgency. It lasted for what seemed like a deliciously long time to Cricket, but then Essa broke it and slithered out of his arms, leaving him a bit light headed.
She smoothed her skirt and said, “I’d better get back before someone misses me.”
“I suppose.”
“Would you wait for a few hours, so that they don’t suspect anything?”
“I think they’ll know somehow.”
“Yes, but there are appearances to maintain.”
“Will it be that way forever?”
She looked at him sideways. “Maybe not forever. But for a little while longer.”
“If you wait too long, I might be too old to be any fun.”
“You? You’ll always look young.”
“I might look that way, but I’ll be gumming my food and hobbling with a cane. Will you take care of me then?”
“Only if you ask nice.” She left before he could think of anything else to say, running lightly across the grass towards the caer.
CuChulainn trotted up just then, and Cricket swore that he was grinning. “You planned this all with her, didn’t you?” he said. The wolfhound just sat on his haunches and looked at the bard with innocent eyes. Cricket sighed and settled down at the base of the willow tree. “Well, whether you’re helping her or not, it’s going to be an interesting winter.”
It didn’t take as long as Cricket feared; the people of the caer evidently tired of the game with him around all the time, and the hints about proposing marriage came with increasing frequency and decreasing subtlety. Cricket and Essa were given more time alone, “To encourage things along,” as one of the old women put it.
A week before Midwinter, Cricket asked her officially, feeling his heart swell when she said yes. “I still have to ask Mannath,” he warned.
“I don’t think it will be a problem,” she replied.
The next night, before Mannath had a chance to make his nightly request, Cricket said, “Lord, I would have a boon of thee.”
“Oh?” Mannath said with a cocked eyebrow.
Feeling the sweat on his brow and the heat in his face, Cricket said, “I would ask for thy servant, Essa, to become my wife.”
Mannath leaned back and rested his chin in his hand. “It’s an awfully big request,” he said. “Why should I honor it?”
All around the hall, people whispered and snickered at Cricket’s discomfort. “For all that I have done for thy cantref, my lord.”
“All that I’ve seen you do is steal my horse for weeks at a time. And I should reward you for that?”
Cricket knew they were teasing him, but he still felt his frustration rising. “I have rid your land of an eight hundred year old curse.”
“So you say. But the land looks the same as always, so how do we know you’re not making it all up?”
Cricket licked his lips while the hall laughed at him. Smiling grimly, he said, “I could satirize you so that all your hair fell out and your feet always felt cold.”
“You would do that to your sworn lord?”
“I would.”
“Alright, I concede!” Mannath said, finally allowing himself to laugh. “You may marry Essa, and with my blessings. Besides, you couldn’t really do all of that, could you?”
“Do you really want to find out?”
“No, I don’t think I do. Is Midwinter soon enough for the marriage?”
Cricket allowed himself to grin and glance at his beloved. “You’d better ask Essa. You know that the two of us making all the plans is not going to go over well with her.”
“Ah, the infamous wisdom of the bards. Very well, Essa, will you let us know what we need to do?”
“Certainly, my lord,” she said with a curtsy. “Just give me run of the storerooms and I will tell you where to stand when the time comes.”
Although Mannath was a cantref lord, the midwinter feast was on the same scale as what Cricket had grown up with in Dun Aillel. He didn’t mind, though, as he could barely think straight anyway. Dressed all in white, he paced around a small room, waiting for Mannath to come and get him. He couldn’t believe how calm his stomach felt when his hands were trembling. He heard the music first, and then Mannath was there, beckoning to him.
Feeling almost naked without Linnaia, he entered the hall and proceeded up the aisle slowly, slicing through the ribbons with a dagger that Mannath had handed to him. Essa, also dressed in white, did not look at him, but he could not stop staring at her.
She turned to him when he stepped up next to her on the dais. Brother Aled, the gray headed priest, began the ceremony, but Cricket barely heard him, trusting in his bardic training to see him through the words. Essa smiled at him with her whole being; she was the most beautiful woman Cricket had ever seen. The priest joined their hands, binding them together with a scarlet cord, and Cricket kissed his wife while the caer cheered.
As the weather began to turn and the snow melted, representatives from the caers came to Caer Arberth to meet with Mannath.
The cantref lord called Cricket into the council and said, “I think this is going to concern you rather intimately.”
“What do you mean?” the bard asked, looking around at the men and women seated around the table.
A hefty man with a sun brown face stood up. “I don’t know if you remember me, bard.”
“Of course I do. Rhys ap Gwilym from Caer Droia, right?”
The man beamed. “Yes, yes that’s me.” His smile faded and he twisted his cap in his hands. “I—I mean we—we would like you to do something for us, if you could.”
“If it’s in my power, I will,” Cricket said.
Rhys took a deep breath and said, “There are stories that our grand da’s told us, who learned them from their grand da’s, about how bards blessed the flocks at Beltain and generally helping them all through the year, playing for them they told us, if that’s not impertinent to suggest, and we were wondering if maybe you could do the same for us?” He looked abashed at the torrent of words, and sat down quickly.
Cricket looked around at the hopeful faces, having some idea of what it cost them to ask for help. “I can’t promise anything,” he said slowly, “but let me talk to Brother Aled, and we’ll see if it’s possible. I’ll need something from you, though.”
The smiles were replaced by guarded looks, and Rhys spoke reluctantly. “What is it?”
“I need to hear these stories myself. Every detail, every nuance. If that means going to see your grand da’s, then I will, but I need something more to go on than what you’ve told me so far.”
“Fair enough,” Rhys said, looking around at his peers for approval. They nodded, and Cricket heard something that he never expected: fifteen Dyfedians all talking at once.
In the chill before dawn on Beltain morning, Cricket stood with Brother Aled on a broad plain not far from Caer Arberth, looking over the two huge piles of wood they had set up. All around them, the smell of sheep and the soft murmur of their calling filled the air.
“Do you think this will work?” the priest asked.
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