Crown of Passion

by Jocelyn Carew

  Dewi questioned the priest. “Do you really believe that King Arthur sleeps, ready to spring to the defense of our land?”

  Aidua said simply, “I have seen him.”

  Dewi was not satisfied. “Where is the cave then? Lead us to it, and we will see whether or not there is hope for Wales.”

  Aidua said, “I have seen this in my soul traveling. The golden arrow of the ancients flies far and wide, and those who know the secret can ride it.” He poked the fire with a long stick and watched the sparks fly upward. Then he went on. “Arthur Pendragon sleeps in a cave to the northeast, at the foot of the magic mountain Snowdon. With him are all the Knights of the Round Table, in full armor. There is a great treasure in the cave, too, but I would not touch it for my life. It belongs to King Arthur, and he will use it when he rises again and rides out to the east.”

  When they finally reached the estuary that Aidua called Tremadoc Bay, they paused on the flank of Rhinog Fawr. From the elevation where she stood, she could see across the water to the tiny little cluster of houses that was Port Madoc, her mother’s home. Gwyn felt relief, excitement, overwhelming happiness at being this close to her people. A poignant longing for Rhys threatened to overcome her then. Rhys ought to be standing beside her at this moment. Grandfather would approve of Rhys, she was sure.

  Suddenly possessed, Gwyn struck her heels into her pony’s flanks and urged him forward. She would be at home this night. She tore headlong down the track, vaguely aware that the priest and the two men of her train were following her, shouting.

  They had reached the floor of the valley, where the river flowed to the bay, when they were stopped. Not even Aidua’s prestige could convince the sentries to allow Gwyn to cross the bridge. “But I am Gwynllion Ramsey,” she cried, “daughter of Ellin Madoc!” The sentries were visibly moved, but nonetheless, they would not let anyone pass.

  As if by magic, as though he had sprung directly from the earth, the prince himself arrived. Without fanfare, he was suddenly among the sentries at the bridge. Even though he was dressed plainly, his bearing betrayed his rank.

  Gwyn took a step toward him, and his deep-set eyes fastened on her. He stood tall and straight as a hoary oak. She was aware of grayness — grizzled brows, gray touching the black beard, frosty hair, springing up thick and coarse as broom on the hills.

  “What is this?” he demanded. His voice was a poet’s tuned to the sea as loud as breakers. Then, as his old eyes peered across the bridge to where Gwyn stood on tiptoe with excitement, his voice dropped. He whispered hoarsely, “Ellin? Is it Ellin?”

  “No, grandfather,” cried Gwyn. “I’m Gwynllion — your granddaughter!”

  With a glad cry, Prince Madoc brushed the sentries aside and rushed across the bridge. With one arm he clasped Gwyn to his chest, nearly strangling her with the strength of his embrace. With the other hand, he reached out to her companions and cried, “Welcome! I see you, Aidua, did you bring back my girl? You there, and you — I do not know your names, but you are thrice welcome! Now, granddaughter —” He set her apart from him and beamed, heart full, into her face. “Granddaughter, let us go home!”

  The march to the village was long, and yet to Gwyn, trembling with joy and her heart so full she thought it might burst, it took only moments. Men and women sprang up on all sides — seemingly from the rocks of the hills, from the marshes full of yellow flowers — and cried welcome. Here the sea reached an arm into the land, and Prince Madoc’s town lay along the shore.

  Her first view of the sea was disappointing. “Like a mill pond — only larger,” she cried. “I had thought there would be great waves!”

  “Sometimes there are,” her grandfather told her. “More often than not. You will learn to know the sea’s moods. But first you must meet your kin. Here is Mechel.”

  Gwyn tried to learn all their names, and their faces. Mechel — perhaps the same age as Gwyn’s mother. Mechel had married Prince Madoc’s younger brother, a man much older than she was, and was a widow too soon. She had a daughter — Efa — standing beside her when Gwyn reached out a hand, shyly, to them. Efa was blonde and pretty, with a sullen look to her full mouth. She was clearly accustomed to having her own way, Gwyn decided, and resolved to walk gently with her.

  But the Prince’s pride was his grandson, Prince Cledog. His parents were dead, and he looked to his aunt Mechel to take their place. His father, then, reasoned Gwyn, must have been brother to her own mother.

  “My successor,” boomed Prince Madoc, “when I am through with my life.” He gave the boy — perhaps ten years old — an affectionate cuff, and Cledog grinned back. Clearly there was great devotion between the two. From the corner of her eye, Gwyn noted that Efa turned away, the corners of her lips turning down. Princess Mechel spoke in an undertone, and with obvious reluctance Efa turned back to look, without fondness, at Gwyn.

  That night Gwyn’s arrival was celebrated with a great feast. The campfire was lit upon the shore, and the villagers and the neighboring farmers, all calling Prince Madoc their lord, gathered to partake of roast sheep, freshly baked fish, and tuns of strong drink.

  During the feast her eyes roved over the faces, trying to fit names to them. All had been presented to her, but there were so many …

  Taran, whose name meant wise counselor. That, he was. She saw how her grandfather turned often to him — not as though seeking approval, but in a manner that suggested they were such old friends that they enjoyed sharing even their smallest thoughts.

  Taran’s son, Owain, a serious, thoughtful man with red hair — nearly the color of Rhys’s. His wife, Elin, brightly talkative, turned adoring eyes to him when he spoke, which was seldom.

  Cadi, a pert young girl, one of Princess Mechel’s maids — and Maeve, old enough to be Mechel’s mother, and devoted to her mistress.

  Dai, with a booming laugh, the chief shepherd.

  Hargan, the Christian priest — timid, seeming to belong in a cloister rather than in the rough-and-tumble fishing town of Port Madoc.

  She fixed them in her mind, for they were the people she would live with. Just now, the heat of the fire on her face, stinging her eyes, she was suddenly overwhelmingly sleepy. This night, she thought gratefully, she would sleep in safety and comfort.

  The feast had reached the end, and goblets of fiery liquid that beaded along the rim, catching the light of many torches, were lifted in toasts and then uptilted to pour the contents down the throat in one steady stream. Gwyn roused to wakefulness.

  Then Prince Madoc turned to his new-found granddaughter, sitting in serene contentment at his right hand. “I have saved the best until the last,” he said, his green eyes — clearly kin to Gwyn’s own — twinkling, “I give you my dear Ellin’s only child — the Lady Gwynllion!”

  With a roar the assembled company sprang up, spraying the sand with their scrambling feet. “The Lady Gwynllion!” echoed from uncounted throats.

  “You have to give a speech now,” Cledog pointed out. “Tell us how you got here. What is it like in the Normans’ country? How far away?”

  Smiling at the boy, whose eagerness and sweet nature had already begun to weave a snare for her love, she rose and thanked them. “I had never dreamed of such warmth, such kindness as I have had in the few hours since I crossed the bridge into my grandfather’s land. I have much to tell you all, but my heart is too full now. I can answer one question my cousin has put to me. How did I get here? he wonders. I shall tell you.”

  She told them nearly all. She mentioned the terrible ways of King William with his ward, the long journey to Ludlow — all of it. Except the feel of Rhys’s arms around her in the night, his burning lips on hers, the trembling that began inside her when he laid tender hands upon her body — the trembling that began softly, gently, and grew to a bursting roar like a waterfall — these things she kept in her heart.

  But the perfidy of the Normans smoked like a hot brand in Prince Madoc’s head.

  Upon the last words of her story,
dying away as the flames were dying, Prince Madoc swore a mighty oath. He struck his huge fist upon his thigh and shouted, “I will kill the Normans. My men and I will cross the mountains and slaughter this foolish king, like the swine he is. He has insulted us, and we will take our revenge.”

  “But Grandfather …”

  Prince Madoc’s eyes fell lovingly upon her. He did not smile.

  “You have done well, my child, to come to me. Even the women of my race are fearsome warriors. We shall fight — drive the Normans into the sea —”

  “Under the Red Dragon?” murmured Gwyn.

  “Red Dragon? Ho, so you know about that! No, child, under a far more sacred symbol — the Flame Sword! The Sword from the great days of the Cymry, in a land now vanished under the waves.”

  The heat of the fire, the abundant meat and drink, and the long journey came together to throb in Gwyn’s head. The faces around the beach fire fused into a series of identical noses, mouths, lips — she could not tell one from another. Mechel saw her weariness. “Lord,” she said to Madoc, “see the child, how worn she is. I shall take her to my house.”

  Prince Madoc’s voice softened. “In a moment. I wish to thank all our friends first.”

  Aidua was moved to speech. “Great Prince,” he said, “you speak of the Flame Sword — have you ever seen it?”

  Prince Madoc said, “No, I have not, but my ancestors have. The Flame Sword is too holy to speak of. We will keep the story to ourselves.”

  5

  The Flame Sword!

  Too holy to speak of, so Prince Madoc said, and yet Aidua was burning to talk of it. Only Hargan frowned forbiddingly at the words.

  Hargan was Prince Madoc’s chaplain. Of a retiring manner, more at home in a monastery than in the court of a headstrong prince, yet he did his best to hold high the Christian faith. The Welsh had been Christian for six hundred years, but in many ways, as Aidua could bear witness, the old ways died hard.

  Hargan said, smothering a hiccup, “Your Superior Ancestors! They do not exist, never did. There is only our gentle Lord Christ, and his power is suff — suff — enough to vanquish the devil himself.”

  Aidua flared. “How can any symbol of high courage, of the great nobleness of our race, be work of the devil, as you say? Be you from South Wales?”

  Prince Madoc frowned. “The Sword does not exist anymore. It is only a tale and it is too late for stories tonight.”

  But Prince Cledog was sorely disappointed. “Please, Grandfather. I should like to hear the story. Hargan never tells me stories.”

  He turned an apologetic smile to the chaplain, but the light shining in his eyes told where his true interest lay. Turning again to Aidua, he said, “Please, sir, my grandfather will listen too.”

  “Once, and long ago,” began Aidua. But Prince Madoc frowned at Aidua and, glancing sideways at Hargan, put a stop to the story.

  Madoc grumbled, “I only know what my father and his father have said. It may be that the Flame Sword is the work of the devil, but then what of the Red Dragon? There is more, Hargan, that you can know of the people of the past. I myself am an unworthy descendant of the great ones, and you see —” He shrugged his shoulders. “No wonder the holy Sword has been hidden. It will take a better man than I to wield it in a righteous cause.”

  The chaplain allowed a victorious smile to cross his face, and Prince Madoc said, “Now, young Cledog, it is time for bed. Perhaps another time —”

  Cledog cried out, “But that other time will never come!”

  Prince Madoc gave instructions. “Do you, Hargan, see that the boy gets to bed.”

  After Hargan and the boy had gone, Prince Madoc turned to Aidua, “It does not do to ruffle the man’s feathers. The story will be better told another time.” Then with a sudden boyish grin, he challenged, “Priest, do not claim to me that you have seen the Flame Sword, for it has long disappeared!”

  But Aidua said, “I know what I know, and these very eyes have seen that sword.”

  Prince Madoc was skeptical, but Gwyn was not. She had had sufficient experience of Aidua to believe anything of him. But she could not blame her grandfather for expressing skepticism.

  Mechel tugged at Gwyn’s sleeve. “Enough,” she said, “of swords and wars and the devil. You will frighten us so that we do not sleep. Gwynllion has traveled far and shall rest safely this night.”

  Gwyn rose to follow her aunt, but Aidua put up a hand to stop her.

  “You believe me, lady, I can see it in your eyes. But it is not time for the Flame Sword either. For the prince is too old to lead a rebellion, and young Prince Cledog is too young. The Flame Sword is, in fact, as pagan as yon priest says, and yet we cannot forget our past. The Sword is a part of our people’s legacy from our ancestors, and it is wrong to pretend that it did not exist.”

  The old priest straggled away from the fire to find his own refuge for the night. Gwyn followed Mechel.

  The clash between Aidua and Hargan was minor, and yet Gwyn could see that it could lead to something far more sharp and decisive, and she hoped that her presence had not started a train of events that would be out of control. She had already seen what her arrival had done to the Welsh, to South Wales, and now she would never forgive herself if she brought disaster to her own people. There was no reason that she could think of, at least now, for the strange mood of darkness that fell over her. The Welsh were reported to be intuitive, and some could even foresee the future. She hoped she could not, for the present was all she could live with.

  The maids Cadi and Maeve hurried up from the beach to do their mistress’s bidding, but with a wave of her hand Mechel said, “Do you seek your own rest.”

  The house where Gwyn was to stay belonged to her aunt Mechel and Efa, her daughter. Cledog lived and studied in his grandfather’s house, as was fitting for the heir to the ruler.

  Gwyn swayed on her feet. As in a dream she took off her long tunic and brushed out her black hair. For a moment she envied Efa’s blonde tresses. Princess Nesta had said, “Too bad you’re so dark!” Blast Princess Nesta!

  She lay down on the pallet and pulled up the fine wool coverlet, made from the wool of Madoc sheep, and was instantly asleep.

  Sometime in the night she woke with a start, with the taste of Rhys’s kisses on her lips. She reached for him, but the pallet was empty. She cried, then, until sleep came to comfort her.

  Before many days had passed Gwyn felt at home in Port Madoc, as though she had always lived there. The village itself consisted of about a hundred people — men, women, and children, shepherds, and fishermen. It was too late in the season for the fishermen to go out into the bay to net their catch, but young Prince Cledog, who had developed an enormous liking for Gwyn, took her out in one of the little boats. They stood on the shore where the boats were drawn up, and Gwyn said dubiously, “Is that a boat? You’re fooling me!”

  Cledog was delighted at her reaction. But, in fact, the boat did not look like a boat. It was called a coracle, and she learned that the frame was fashioned of wicker, like a large basket, and then covered with leather. With great difficulty Cledog persuaded her to get into the coracle.

  “Not into that — that bowl!” she protested. But she gave in.

  Cledog helped her in, steadying the skittish vessel with both hands. Then he climbed in and tucked his feet under him. There was barely room for two people.

  “Is this as big as it grows?” she demanded.

  “A coracle is a man’s boat,” Cledog said proudly. “It takes much skill to fish with it.”

  “No room for fish,” protested Gwyn, laughing. “You cannot persuade me these are fishing boats!”

  “Two of us go together,” he explained earnestly, “and drag the net between us. It works fine.”

  Doubtfully she watched him take the single paddle and send the round basket out into the bay. She could feel the water rushing past the leather beneath her. It was almost unpleasant, and she had rarely felt so unsafe. But soon the b
eauty of the shore, as they left it behind them, and the sunlight dappling the waves ahead of them enthralled her, and she forgot her precarious seat.

  “A coracle sailing a milk-white sea …” she said.

  Cledog nodded approvingly. “Did you make that up?”

  “No, a poet in the Norman court composed that song.” Brian du Pré, the singer — and the king’s spiteful favorite. She fell silent, and only after some time could Cledog rouse her from her dark mood.

  Back on shore again, Gwyn splashed her way out of the boat with difficulty and stood on the golden sands. Behind the crescent of the shore, rising gently up into the mountains, were great grassy slopes, already turning brown with approaching winter. She felt an odd sense of time, of the ceaseless progression of the seasons from crisp autumn to winter, and the resurrection of all life in the spring. The colors were rich and deep, bronze and gold on the mountains, brown and russet along the shore. The harp notes of the wind were somber in her ear, touching her heart to sadness. A beautiful country here, but without Rhys, his warm hand engulfing hers, his vigorous strength delighting her nights, she was as nothing.

  But, as though her longings counted for nothing in the great rhythm of life, she knew the spring would inexorably return, the first green showing on the mountainside. The sheep and the new lambs would be taken up the mountain to graze. The work of the summer, the fishing and the sheep, would divide the village for most of the summer months. Then, inevitably, the slow turning of the year from summer toward the muted days of the fall would come again.

  She was happy here, as much as she could be in a world that did not contain Rhys. Was Rhys still in Brecknock? He was probably married by now, and that foolish Nesta would never know what a prize she had won. But maybe his lovemaking could bring her to life, awaken her as it had awakened Gwyn, so that she could never forget his touch.

  She began to walk into the hills, sometimes with Cledog, more often alone, simply to wear herself out so that she might sleep without dreams. But more nights than not, the longing for him, for his body next to hers on the narrow pallet, his warm breath on her cheek, ached in her until the faint morning light outlined the window against the night.