by Mary Lide
And my little lady, leaning back against the prince, tried to pull her tunic down (for women’s skirts we had none left, her own past repair, and I was sewn into a spare shirt). With her long fingers she plaited flowers into her short hair and tidied straight the prince’s curls. “Let be,” he told her lazily, his eyes closed against the sun, “no need to worry how we look. They must take us as we are.” And that, too, I think was what he meant.
The news of the prince’s arrival had been spread abroad; these last miles we could not ride unseen, and everywhere, from field and cottage, men and women came running to point and cheer, their prince returned. “Hail, Prince of Afron,” the children piped, and he smiled at them, taking these signs of favoritism with as much grace as he had those of the French queen. And so it was at nightfall, when the wood fires were sending up their pale blue haze and the sheep came down in flocks from the pasturing, that he led us to his father’s fort.
Not a Norman fort, not stone-built, but of huge earth ramparts, bristling with wooden pallisades. As we rode up the steep causeway, members of the household lined the sides to stare, and the watch saluted smartly as to a royal progress. We came within the massive timber gates, as once the Lady Ann had described, where the women of the court were gathered. Dressed in their Welsh robes, their Welsh headdresses, they certainly were comely folk, and one, a tall and slender lady, with eyes like the prince’s own, dark-haired, wrapped in a cloak, her face beautiful, if some secret care had not eaten hope away, surely she must be his kin. But she did not move from her place beside the gate, merely looked at him with his own grave look. And he and his men raised their shields and spears in salute, honoring her, lady wife to the High Lord of Afron.
A strange group I suppose we must have made: Hue and I creeping along (for these days he supported me), strangely fitted as companions in truth we were, and yet the gods had willed it so; the prince’s two companions, sole survivors of his father’s guard, their grins breaking out despite themselves; and the lady, almost defiant in her boyish clothes, sitting on the gray horse, where the prince had set her. But once we had dismounted within the inner yard, the guards of the royal household did not hold back. Although none acknowledged the prince openly by name, many clasped him wordlessly in their arms, as they did the returning veterans. And a little maid, not more than a child, darted out between the ranks, weeping for happiness, so like the prince you knew she must be one of those sisters he had talked about. He put her gently to one side, lifted down his lady, drew us on. And so we came into the hall of his forefathers.
Wide and long was that hall, dim with smoke, smelling of sweet fruitwood; the floor littered with straw and herbs; hounds trailing underfoot. Along the walls were tattered flags from old campaigns, and old weapons, battle-axes, hunting spears. At one end, on a wooden platform, in his carved oak throne, seated like a king, Taliesin’s father awaited him. He was a tall man with iron-gray hair, hawk-nosed, showing, if truth be told, signs of age in the way his hands were hooked about the chair edge, as if to hide a nervousness, a trembling. Yet not one smile lighted his somber looks, not one word of welcome came from that imperious mouth, and his dark blue eyes, piercing against the wind-browned skin, looked out as proudly as ever the prince’s did. He did not speak or acknowledge his son, but waited for his son to begin.
“Greetings, my lord father.’’ Taliesin spoke easily; he did not kneel to kiss his father’s hand, although I think the older man expected it, and his voice rang out in its young and jubilant way. “I hope I see you well. It has been a long while since I rode into my father’s house. I hope I am received.’’
The older man said never a word, leaned forward in his oaken chair, waiting for the news he wanted to hear. What news does revenge want, what does death wait for, but news of other deaths?
“My lord,’’ said Taliesin, and now you saw what pride was; now he bore himself as does a prince, heir to a long and royal line. Before his father he neither blinked nor looked aside, he neither boasted nor explained. They shall accept me as I am. “I am returned, if it pleases you, to stay. And if not, then I claim a just part of my inheritance and will seek my fortune elsewhere in the world. But first I present to you my dear and loyal friends, Hue, Lord of Cambray, the page, Urien, also of that house, and most dear of all to me—’’
Before he could finish, his father had snapped his fingers for silence. “Normans,’’ he grated out. “What use to us are loyal ones? What of our request to the man who calls himself England’s king?’’
Then Taliesin did hesitate, not from fear but from respect. He wanted to express clearly, I think, the ideas that had been growing in his own mind, to give them form the older man could accept; he wanted chance to show his father honor without dishonor to himself. He wanted most of all for his father to honor us.
His hesitation told the older man all that he needed to hear. The Lord of Afron drew himself to his feet; tall and active he must have been before old grief had burdened him, as handsome as his son now was. I wondered suddenly, with pity’s pang, what his other sons must have been, to destroy him with their deaths. And my heart contracted with pity for this youngest son, who in no thing ever would or could please a man whose revenge was fathomless.
“Three sons I had,” the father intoned; his voice keened on one note low, vibrant; so sing the Welsh bards when the gods inspire; so speak the Welsh wise men when they prophesy. “And only one son left to pay respect to their memory and revenge our house. Must I ride forth myself to achieve what justice demands? Shall I have no son to my name?”
Taliesin would not answer him; what should his pride say except those bleak words that would end all reply: “If my father wishes it.” But his father must accept him as he was or not at all. This was Taliesin’s true answer, as a son to a father who had long commanded him. But he would not explain, even if silence cost him his patrimony.
Silent were we all in that hall, in the presence of that old and stubborn man, only one person able to break the impasse and say what Taliesin would not. And so my lady did.
She let go of Taliesin’s hand, which she had been clutching, almost childlike in her intensity, and advanced boldly, as is her way when she senses an unfairness. “My lord,” she cried in her high, sweet voice, impetuous, too, forgetting the way she looked, “you do your son grave injury. A soldier he has been, and bravely fought in all the wars against your enemies. Two kings has he challenged in their courts, and the greatest king of all of Christendom defeated in open fight with his own hand. Three things you asked for; three things he brings. King Henry was forced to beg for life; my father will restore you your lands; and here we be, three hostages to do with as you wish.”
If his hound had leapt and bitten him, or a cat had been given tongue to speak, the Lord of Afron could not have been more taken aback. He did not answer for a while, not now because of pride but because he did not know what to say. ‘‘By Saint David,” he finally brought out, “what is that . . . that . . . that changeling, wench or knave, to challenge us?”
His description was not flattering, but my lady had looked for no better, and she began to laugh. “Why,” she cried, “my lord of Afron, you are at fault. I am no changeling, nor wench, nor knave. Olwen am I, granddaughter to Efa of the Celts.”
The older man sank back into his chair as if arrow-shot. “Efa of the Celts,” he almost whispered, “beloved by all men, whom Falk of Cambray stole from us. Then you must be daughter to Ann of Cambray and Raoul of Sedgemont and Sieux, sister, then, to this young lord.” And he looked from Hue to me and back as if gradually taking in what he saw. “By Christ,” he swore, “whoever you are, or what you claim, who are you to dispute with me? My vow was made long ago. No son I have unless my sons are revenged. Thus have I sworn, and thus my oath stands.”
“Well,” she said, in her way as proud as any man, “here we are. We have come of our free will. Without your son would our lives be lost, and without us so would his. We are bound by vows of our own. But
if you would stand by an oath that was so long made—” She suddenly smiled at him. “Remember my grandmother,” she cried. “Falk thought she was a boy at first. ‘Give me that lad as hostage,’ Falk said, not knowing who she was. So now you have mistaken me. Would not your son’s wife be the best hostage for peace, as Falk’s wife was?”
There was an inrush of breath from where, in the distant corners of the hall, all the world of Afron was listening, not daring to reveal itself, not daring in any way to give approval or deny. No one spoke thus to this old man, certainly no woman had. And hearing her, with less amaze than his father had shown but still surprised, Prince Taliesin suddenly laughed himself. I think it was the first time for laughter in that hall in many years. “There, father,” he cried, as a young son might, “have not I brought you home a prize?” He took the lady’s hand as if to lead her forward. “A little the worse for wear, I admit,” he jested in his open way, “a little worn. Nothing that clean water and fresh clothes will not mend. Then even as Norman she might grace your hall and fill my bed.” He smiled down at her his sensuous smile, was as suddenly serious himself. “Of all women else,” he said, “I cleave to her. If I have her not, then no man shall. If she have not me, then wifeless shall I remain. So has our own oath been sworn.”
“Without consent.” There still was stubbornness in those fine old eyes, still strength. “I sent you forth to wage a war against the Normans, not to pleasure them. Keep her as harlot in your own hall, not mine.”
Again there was an inrush of breath; dismay and anger were in it, and despair. Hue’s face grew hot. But I held him tightly to hold him still. This was not our quarrel. And the Lady Olwen was not yet done.
She had paled, then flushed, but she did not flinch. “You put no shame on me,” she cried. “Harlot I am not nor never will be. Yet willingly I admit that I am lover of your son and he lover of me. Willingly I came of my own accord, to ask for shelter in your house. But if you will not accept me, or a son who has achieved more than any man, then in that, too, are you forsworn. For you will lose not only him but your son’s sons. Your line ends here. You forgo the son I shall give him.” A second time the Lord of Afron was silenced by her. But Taliesin had turned to her and swept her up into his arms. “Is that so, dear heart,” he cried, “is that true?” And he held her as if we were not there, as if they were alone. She looked at him proudly again and nodded. “It is so, my lord,” she said.
He gave a great shout to make the rafters ring, and from those distant corners, one by one, then altogether, those men and women of the royal court took up his cry, and the soldiers beat upon their shields. “Father,” Taliesin said when there was time to speak. “Then am I returned with honor’s gage. My dear brothers are at rest at last. Life for them we give you, my lord, new life. In my son shall your dead sons be restored to you.” And he held out his arms to his father to be embraced and to embrace him, the first sign of affection ever to be exchanged. And slowly the Lord of Afron came down to greet his son and honor his wife.
And they say, that night, when all the household slept, after feasting such as had never before been known, such rejoicing after so many barren years, the Lady Olwen rose from her place beside the other ladies of the royal house. In her long Celtic gown she went up the high wooden steps, past the guards outside the door, without a word, but they saluted her with all respect and let her by. The chamber where the prince lay was old, ill-lit, a faint fire burning on the neglected hearth, the walls and floors hastily swept, the great bed strewn with linen, fresh-laundered and dried in the sun, smelling faintly of clover and mint.
Taliesin sat before the fire, in a high carved chair such as his father used. His face was in shadow; only the crest of hair showed its copper gleam in the firelight. He leaned back when she came in, never turning around, stretching his feet upon the worn hearth, never speaking until she came up close to him. Her head scarcely reached the top of the carved oak frame, and the flickering flames etched a pattern on her white gown, curling, twisting, like dragon’s breath.
Nor did he touch her, nor hold her hand as was his wont, staring in front of him as if searching in the fire for some sign. “This was my oldest brother’s room,’’ he said, “he who was heir. When I was a child, he slept here. I used to hear his footsteps after dark, when he and his companions had been drinking below. And in the morning, when he and his brothers went forth to hunt, they used to bound down those stairs three at a time, their hounds barking, their huntsmen laughing. Once my brother dropped his spear. It slid down the steps in a great clatter, making the girls in the hall scream. He followed it, laughing, too, crying that he wished his reach so long. This is the room of the heir of my house. When my oldest brother died, it should have passed to the second, then the third. I, the fourth, came scant behind.” He paused, a long, hard pause in the semi-dark. “I never looked for it to be mine,” he whispered, “God knows, I wish it never had been so.”
Now she did reach for his hand and took it without answering, running her fingers along the back, finger by finger, as if assuring herself it was real, and like him she looked into the fire. Old fears, old thoughts burned there; sadness burned there, and prophecy. She said in a voice that seemed not hers, timeless it was as the matriarch’s, and yet was hers, with the same ripple of intensity, “Dear my lord, your grief becomes you well, better than any feat of arms, since you hold it in your heart. But in your heart your brothers ever remain, and in your memories, as for all men. Long ago it was foreordained. Who knows what God has in mind for us; from the day of our birth is our death written there. But the dead look to us to give them life, and so it was foretold for us, long ago, by Efa of the Celts, that one day all would be joined in us and made most fair. We, as little as they, can avoid the fate that God ordains.”
She stirred after a while, shivering slightly, for the fire was small and the room large. “My lord,” she told him now, simple as a child, “they wish us well. They loved you, the little one, as you loved them, the elder and strong. I know. I, too, have brothers whom I love. I, too, have honored them and they me.” Then he did turn to her, and touched her face with wondering fingers along the luminous skin, wrapping his arms about her to keep her warm. Their heads were close together, bent with sudden intent, as he loosened her gown and she his, both of them moving now with the same accord. He undid slowly, lace by lace, the white linen gown of Celtic weave, fine as a cobweb, and she unbuckled his sword belt, her hands deft with the heavy leather and ornate fastening. She laid her hand upon his heart, hearing its beat against her palm as the sound of her own blood. His fingers traced a path between the budding breasts, across the delicate skin, until she brought them lower down, surging to him as a wave upon a shore.
“Hold me,” she cried, “fill me, love me, until I die of love.”
And “Hold me,” he cried.
He caught her up, in one stride came to the bridal bed, laid her down, and covered her. So was the heir of Afron made welcome, so did his lady comfort him.
Well, thus it was that the prophecy was fulfilled which had been made many years ago within that circle of stones at Cambray, that in God’s time peace should be made between Norman and Celt, that they should come safely home. And so was the marriage arranged between the Lady Olwen and Prince Taliesin of Afron; so was she a hostage to accord as had her grandmother been. And their child, their firstborn son, grew to resemble both his Norman and his Celt grandsires.
Hue lived with his Celtic kin, happier, I think, where he was born, and married among them in time, although the old wildness was not completely lost; and there were days still when he would leap upon his horse as if riding away from or toward something that he could not even give a name. I stayed with him for a while, and learned what I could of Celtic ways and Celtic songs. I told you bards were considered here in high repute, more honored among them than any lord, and words as highly valued as deeds. The Lady Olwen, the Fair, ever held me a beloved friend. And when, as happened in due course, I, too, le
ft, I never was far from her thoughts, nor she from mine, my love whom God both gave and took away.
Ora pro nobis.
Note From the Author
Like the first two books of this chronicle (Ann of Cambray and Gifts of the Queen), A Royal Quest is based upon history, as far as possible. Where there is a doubt, or where “the chronicles are silent,” I have tried to give reasonable explanation within the historical setting. However, since a novel is not a factual account, it can at best serve only to illuminate or give the impression of past times. The castle at Falaise may not have been besieged by the Bretons and Welsh in 1173, nor is there any proof that the castle was chosen as a prison for Queen Eleanor when she was captured for her part in the Great War of Henry’s reign. As the greatest of Norman castles, it well may have been; and in the end, King Henry certainly used Welsh mercenaries. The fictional characters in this book act according to their own dictates, but their actions are based upon those of real people, who often did what they do and suffered similar fates. As Ann of Cambray says in her first chronicle, “Write swiftly, scribe, before this year draws to a close and these last days of sun are gone. Soon all about us will be dark and cold, and no one will be left to speak for us, or care if we speak at all.” It is to give voice to those long-past times, those long-gone people, that this book is written.
I should like to thank my family and friends, old and new, who have given me encouragement and help, especially the many who have written to me. To my editor at Warner Books, Fredda Isaacson, and to Elise and Arnold Goodman, my agents, my thanks and appreciation again for their help. And to all of you who have not minded my retreat to the twelfth century, my gratitude.