Grunts of protest greeted this last barb, and Vortigern raised his voice to silence them. “Men of Britain, how do we show gratitude to our host, the good Tregeagle?”
All of them shouted, stomped their feet, or banged their bowls so loudly that Natalenya closed her throbbing eyes and covered her ears.
“And, good Tregeagle, I request of you a boon. We would like to hear your renowned daughter play her harp for us.”
The men shouted, “A song … Let’s have a song!”
Natalenya felt dizzy and grabbed a nearby timber to steady herself.
Her mother stared at her.
Natalenya bit her lip and shook her head slightly. Trevenna turned to her smiling father, put a hand on his arm, and whispered in his ear, but the men shouted louder.
“A song … a song!”
“A ballad. A tale of a battle!”
“A harp!”
“And she’s better lookin’ than that old bard Colvarth.” The men laughed.
Her father brushed his wife away and stood next to Vortigern. In one hand he held his bowl of honey mead and in the other a leg of lamb. “I grant you this boon, and may you and your battle chieftain glory over the enemies of Britain!”
Her father nodded curtly to Natalenya and pointed with the leg of lamb to the sleeping quarters where Natalenya kept her harp.
She retreated to her chamber and picked up her instrument. She knew her father would sell it if she ignored him. He was a man of little mercy, and if he could put a few more coins in his bag — while ensuring future obedience at the same time — he was sure to do it. Hot tears blinded her eyes as she remembered the day he’d sold her box fiddle because she was too embarrassed to play for an official from Armorica.
Yet even as a few tears fell, a plan lit up the gloom of her situation. A song. One she had learned last year from a minstrel traveling from Kembry to Gaul. These guzzlers would be drunk before long, and this song would be most fitting.
But she paused. How would her father react? Flinging her serving smock aside, she wiped her tears and knew no other song would suffice.
Her headache felt better already.
After tuning the harp, she practiced the melody and then strode boldly into the hall. The rush lamps had dimmed, and the hearth fire had begun its slow descent into embers as the servants clanked most of the trenchers away. Taking a low stool, she set her harp on her lap with its sound box against her shoulder. The bronze strings glistened in the flickering light, and its beech wood warmed in her hands.
She struck the strings, smiled at the hushing men, and closed her eyes. A small portion of the power of the bards claimed her, and she sang.
They arose — skillful warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
The young chieftain, Red Brychaid’s son,
With his steel blade, ready and bold.
They conferred — practiced warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Young Chaliwyr, Red Brychaid’s son,
With deeds to smite their foes untold.
They darted — expert warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old,
To battle their foes from the sea,
With gashing blades, their banners unfold.
All the High King’s warriors sat enraptured, perhaps with prideful remembrance of their own battles. Here and there they raised bowls of mead to their lips. The strings hummed beneath the touch of her nails as the melody echoed and filled the room.
They routed — clever warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Amongst the host of Chaliwyr
The men charged, their red spears to hold.
They feasted — eager warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
With meat, and banquet’s meady drink,
They drank deep bowls of fiery gold.
They awoke — drowsy warriors
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Chaliwyr shouts, Red Brychaid’s son,
Their foes’ bright lances to behold.
Seeing her father’s pleased face, she paused and then, with a silent prayer, sang out again, this time with a feel of sadness to her voice.
They sallied — drunken warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Short were their lives, long is our grief,
Though seven times more foes lay cold.
They scattered — ashen warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
I know no tale of slaughter which
Records such ruin and yet is told.
They perished — beloved warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Their wives and mothers voiced a scream,
Eight-score men died, one slave was sold.
The warriors were silent and sober. With loud lament, she finished the song.
They rotted—plundered warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Ravens hover, ascend the sky,
As heaped on mound, their bodies mould.
I fain to sing — I wail, lament,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
I mourn the loss of Rhyvawn’s son,
His gallant deeds the grave enfolds.
I tell the tale — I tell it true,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Would that they had not shed their lives,
For never will I be consoled.
Natalenya let her hands fall away from her harp, and the strings resonated their last dying notes through the room. The men looked at each other somberly, their bowls of mead forgotten. Some even pushed the sop away.
Vortigern, however, appeared to have ignored the words of the song, and joking with Vortipor, he doused his throat with a long draught.
Her mother’s face was radiant, but her father’s lips lay stiff upon his face. Natalenya stood, placed her harp on the stool, and announced, “Such is ‘The Lament of Arllechweth.’ ”
At that point her brother, Dyslan, chose to finish returning a stack of empty trenchers to the culina. His fast steps sped him behind a warrior who stood and pushed his bench backward. Dyslan tripped and crashed to the mosaic floor, sending dishes flying through the air.
Guffaws spilled out, and men slapped each other as Dyslan stood with chicken bones sticking out of his hair. In the confusion and enjoyment of the moment, her father and Vortigern walked down the hall to her father’s private quarters.
Her mother stepped over to Natalenya. “Your father requested I bring him and Vortigern a sample of his best wine … but I need to help Dyslan. Would you serve your father?”
“Doesn’t Father drink that before meals?”
“Too many guests.” And then her mother raised an eyebrow and whispered, “Vortipor.”
Over her mother’s shoulder, Natalenya saw him stalking toward them. He’d taken off his cloak for the first time, and his gold-threaded tunic contrasted sharply with his unpleasant face.
“I’ll delay him,” her mother said. “Quickly now.”
Natalenya cradled her harp and fled through the stone arch that led to their sleeping area. As she turned the corner, she spied her wise mother step into Vortipor’s path and greet him.
Having set the harp in her room, Natalenya entered through the culina’s side door to find her father’s wines. Squeezing past the bustling servants, she went to the rear and pulled two baskets of grain from a stone slab. She brushed away loose kernels and slid the stone cover to the side, revealing her father’s cache of imported wine. From them she selected her father’s favorite, the deep red Mulsum, took the small terra-cotta amphora out of the reserve along with a small crock of honey, and slid the cover back.
Although her father had forbidden her from tasting it, on more than one occasion she had sniffed its rich cinnamon, thyme, and peppery bouquet.
She walked down the hall to her father’s quarters with
the amphora and honey. She was about to knock on the door when she heard a voice say, “… so your daughter is uncovenanted. What would make you consider a match with my son? He’ll soon be battle chief. Maybe more.”
Natalenya halted before the door, with the round wine jar cold against her frozen hand.
“Does Uther esteem him?” her father asked.
“Uther pays no mind. His attention is to his wife, his daughters” — Vortigern’s voice turned scornful — “his son.”
“You do not like this new son? Is he unruly and spoiled?”
Vortigern cursed. “Just a whelp, he is, but he’ll be like his father.”
“You speak against the High King?” Her father’s voice had a hint of shrillness.
“I do not, no. But the blood of a High King flows in my veins as well. Why rejoice when Uther’s line continues?”
Her father clicked his tongue. “But he is married to your sister. Your line and his have come together.”
“It is not as my grandfather would have wished.”
Natalenya could almost taste his bile.
“Surely Vitalinus would have been proud to have his granddaughter’s son wear the High King’s torc?”
“You know nothing of what Vitalinus wished,” Vortigern said, his words hissing as if through his teeth. “I sat in his feasting hall at Glevum. I saw his glory and the gold piled high. Your pottage from the Stone today was nothing compared to my grandfather’s treasures!”
A fist clunked onto the table. “You think the Druid Stone a joke, do you?”
“Not a joke, no. It gave me better than coins.”
“I saw your face. I tried to show you the gold, yet you stared at the Stone forever, it seemed, and ignored me.” Her father’s voice lowered to a whisper. “What did you see?”
Natalenya heard a chair creak and groan.
“Nothing! Nothing, I —”
“You smiled as if you could touch your grandfather’s treasures again. I saw it on your face the whole time the Stone enchanted you. What would you do if his gold found you again?”
Vortigern hooted. “I? Reward my followers richly! Not like that tight-bagged Uther. Tell me, how much has he taxed out of you?”
“What does it matter how much I am taxed?”
“Seen any of it again? How much?”
“Two priceless gold coins for each year of his reign,” her father said. “Thirty-two have I paid him, but not all from this dirty village.”
“And has he ever sent you even a rusty coynall to keep up the fortress?”
“I’d keep the gold if I were Uther.”
“Tregeagle, you have expressed it properly.” Vortigern said, and his voice dropped to a whisper so that Natalenya barely made out what followed. “If I were Uther … reward those who helped me. No taxes … share my great wealth. We’d … rich together. I’d even promote my supporters … away from outposts … this place … forsaken by the gods.”
“If you were Uther,” her father whispered back, “then I would … you. And … son.”
“If is the key word. If I were Uther. The men are loyal. If anyone, mind you, if … even snorted about the … like this, they’d … an arrow in their chest faster than …”
Silence.
Back around the bend of the hall — where the feast was finishing up — Natalenya heard voices. And footsteps.
CHAPTER 18
HIDDEN PLANS
The footsteps grew louder, and Natalenya almost dropped the amphora. Either she had to enter now or she’d be caught listening in on her father and Vortigern.
Putting on her cheeriest face, she knocked on the door with the hand holding the crock of honey.
A pause. “Come in,” her father called.
She opened the door and found the two men staring at her.
“Well … Natalenya,” her father said. “I expected your mother.”
“She had to help Dyslan with his mishap.”
“I see you have brought the Mulsum. Here, let me get my celebratory goblets.”
Her father went to a cabinet at the back of the room, unlocked it with a small key, and opened the left door. Reaching to the back, he pulled out two very small goblets of cast gold, each with intricate scenes of Roman battles. Her father always brought out this pair when serving company. Only when drinking alone would he take one of the larger goblets from the other side of the cabinet.
He locked the doors again and made sure they were secure. Satisfied, he turned and walked back, carrying the goblets. He smiled at her. “Did you know we were just talking about you?”
“Really? Whatever about?” She feigned a smile.
“Oh, your harp playing. You’ve become skillful in the past few years. Your selection of ballads could be improved, however.”
Natalenya set down the honey and then bit her lip while she worked loose the stopper sealed with pine resin. Her hands trembled so much as she poured the wine that her father quickly steadied her.
“Let’s not spill what I have paid good coinage for.”
“I’m sorry, Father.”
She finished, replaced the stopper, and then stepped back.
Her father stirred some of the thick honey into each glass and then held up one of the goblets. “My friend, you won’t find anything even remotely like it casked here in Britain. One sip and you will feel ten years younger.”
“Will there be anything else, Father?” Natalenya asked.
“All is well. Just make sure you return my costly cargo to its place of safety.”
Natalenya nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her. She walked a few paces from the door, shuffling her feet a bit to create a ruse of steps; then, turning, she tiptoed back. For a while she heard nothing but silence. Then the two spoke again.
“Fantastic,” Vortigern said, then belched. “Haven’t tasted the like since campaigning on the continent seven years ago. Not so good as a Falernian, mind, but still excellent.”
“Very astute. I had it shipped from southern Gaul. No one else in the house is allowed any. Not even my wife.”
“You don’t think your daughter sipped it on the way?”
“Natalenya wouldn’t dare. She saw what I did to a servant who tasted it once. Caught him with the smell on his breath. He paid dearly for that drop.”
“Then why was she nervous? Do you think she overheard us?”
“Oh, no. She’s always like that when handling expensive things.”
“Are you sure that’s it?” Vortigern asked.
“It is just a sign that she knows the value of true luxuries and will manage her future household with care.”
Silence followed, then Vortigern said, “About that household. Vortipor is smitten with her. In no time they will be in love.”
Natalenya stiffened.
“I have thought long and hard about whom to promise her to, and when,” her father said. “Certainly none of the oafs around here are proper suitors. Not that they haven’t tried. I have to keep myself from laughing each time one makes an offer for her hand. They all smell like billy goats and have as much money to their names.”
A chair creaked. “Vortipor will hold great power one day.”
“You are sure he will succeed you?”
“He’s already one of the war chieftains, and I will arrange things. I’m near forty winters, and the road is hard. Soon I will … I will rest, yes. And if I rest, then my sister, Queen Igerna, will agree to Vortipor’s advancement.”
“Does Vortipor have an annulus pronubus?”
Vortigern coughed. “A troth ring? You want to do this Romanlike, eh? Why not a handfast? We could bind their hands — and lives — together tomorrow if we wished.”
“It is my way. If you don’t like Roman customs, we can call it off —”
“No, no. Your method just takes so long.”
Her father’s voice became demanding. “So … you are saying he does not have a ring?”
“Ahh, he could come up with one.”
“Do you require a dowry?”
Vortigern snorted. “From you? In exchange for your timely support, I require only the things to make a home proper for a woman. Of gold, nothing. Vortipor has won much spoil. He already owns a large house on the coast near Regnum.”
“It is agreed, then,” her father said, sending a shiver down Natalenya’s spine. “A sponsio before you leave. How long will you stay?”
“A day, maybe two. But why have a formal betrothal ceremony? Just let him ride away with her!” He laughed.
Natalenya fumed at this. What a swine!
“That is not our way,” Tregeagle said. “An agreement now and a proper ceremony later. The most propitious would be after Vestalia. Maybe the second half of Junius?”
“Come, Tregeagle … it would save you the cost of a wedding.”
“Her mother would not agree —”
“Who says she has to agree?”
Both men laughed.
Natalenya chose that moment to leave, her heart racing three times faster than her quiet feet could take her. Back down the hall she flew, past the bend, and to the culina, where she put the wine back and slid the stone slab over the enclosure.
Turning around, she nearly collided with Vortipor, who towered over her, his face in deep shadow. He raised his arm threateningly above her.
She flinched and tripped back, knocking over a basket of grain.
Dybris sighed as he placed his last rock on Abbot Prontwon’s cairn, which stood on the very top of the mountain. If he’d thought that losing Garth’s allegiance to the druidow had been hard, this was worse. How could Prontwon have died like this?
This worship of the Stone had to be stopped — changed. Somehow.
The sun set as Brother Crogen’s soft voice chanted over the new mound, calling out for God to guard the dead abbot’s body, soul, and spirit. The other monks echoed his words. At the base of the cairn, Brothers Nivet and Migal placed a stone marker carved with the cross of Christ.
Dybris gazed at the cross a long time, remembering how he’d met Prontwon when the old man had visited their abbey on the coast. Brushing a tear from his cheek, Dybris recalled the abbot’s firm hand grasp and friendly smile. His call for Dybris to join them at the mission up on the woodland moor. His counsel. Laughter. Sternness. Teachings. Hard work. Care. Someone coughed, and his memories fled. The cairn stone with the carved cross came into focus again.
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