by Carol Browne
Angwen raised her eyebrows. “It is said that the Druids believed such things, and I would not deny their wisdom, but God protects us now.”
Elgiva acknowledged this with a smile. “God has many names.”
Angwen regarded her thoughtfully and then nodded.
“You doubt your fitness to lead this tribe—you who are the most worthy to do so. There’s power in you and strength,” said Elgiva. “Surely you’ve always known it?”
Angwen was taken aback, and Godwin changed the subject to save her from further embarrassment. “There’s a lot I don’t know about my people. Perhaps I ought to meet your chief. Pay my respects. If there’s no objection.”
“You may indeed, if you so wish. I am sure she would be honoured. But I doubt you will learn much from her, for she is old and wanders in her mind, more so since Gwion died. I think her heart is broken.” Sighing, she got to her feet. “Now I will leave you to get some rest. I will sleep at Morvyth’s.”
With a weary smile, she walked to the door, but she stopped and turned to Elgiva. “Tell me, my friend. Are elvish folk mortal?”
Elgiva didn’t seem surprised by the strangeness of this question. “Indeed we are,” she said, “but we are a long-lived race, Lady Angwen. An elf who has seen a hundred summers can expect to see many more. Yet in the end, all things must die.”
“One hundred summers? That is cruel. One hundred winters, too,” said Angwen. “Surely there are times when elves must weary of life, like the rest of us. A shame they must wait much longer for their heavenly rewards.”
For a moment, she stood in the doorway, a pensive expression on her pretty face, and Godwin’s heart went out to her. She was too young to be so sad. He noticed also, with a pang of shame, the grace of her movements, the sheen of her skin, and the soft, round curves of her body beneath the plain homespun of her gown. He thought of Rowena and the joy to be found in the arms of a woman, and he drew a deep breath and turned away. A wave of loneliness made him sigh.
He shouldn’t let her leave like this without a word of comfort. But it was too late; Angwen had gone.
Elgiva was watching him, and he felt himself flush with embarrassment, believing she had read his thoughts.
“Angwen is special,” Elgiva said. “Someone should try to convince her of her suitability for leadership when Morvyth dies.”
Godwin stared at her questioningly.
“She will be good for these people. She has inner strength, Godwin. Didn’t you notice?”
“Notice what?”
She smiled. “I didn’t enchant her.”
***
The security and drowsy warmth of Angwen’s dwelling granted the three travellers their first untroubled sleep in many nights, and they slumbered longer than they had intended. By the time Godwin ventured outside, the morning was already old. Elgiva emerged shortly afterwards, Trystin at her heels.
A promise of rain weighted the clouds, and they hung in the pale sky like clumps of grey wool. The air was warm and clammy. Godwin looked round, hoping to speak to someone who would know where Angwen was, but Grimalkin was the only other living thing in his line of vision. She snorted at him.
“All nice and cosy, tucked up indoors, eh?” she said. “Don’t worry about me, left outside all night, will you?”
“Good morning to you, too,” said Godwin. “And you weren’t left outside, as you well know. I put you in an animal shelter, and you were fenced in. What are you doing here?”
“No one fences me in,” whickered Grimalkin, “not while my back legs still work.”
“We’re not welcome here as it is,” said Elgiva. “Destroying their property isn’t helpful, Grimalkin.”
A woman in a homespun gown walked towards them with a basket in her hand. She kept her eyes on the ground, stopped, and placed her basket beside Elgiva.
“Angwen sent this,” she said and then scurried away before Godwin could speak to her.
Elgiva peered into the basket. “Food.”
Grimalkin’s ears pricked up.
“For us,” said Godwin.
They ate their stale bread in silence, and even Grimalkin had nothing to say. Was it the gloom of the overcast sky, or perhaps the draining effects of the enchantment that stifled cheerful conversation? Whatever the cause, Godwin had an odd conviction that something unpleasant was going to happen. The atmosphere was charged with tension. It turned the food into hard chunks in his belly and made him restless and fidgety. He even fancied that he and his companions were drawing together mentally against an unknown menace. To his sensible, practical brain, this idea seemed very strange indeed.
“I bet that’s shit, isn’t it,” said Grimalkin.
“The food, you mean? Yes, it’s pretty bad.”
“Don’t I know it,” snorted the pony. “Their hay is older than I am. Celery stalks! I wish you’d seen what I saw earlier on. They even eat rats, you know. Filthy mixen-dwellers. Don’t know what they’re cooking for later. Smells just like stewed puke.”
Godwin threw his bread at her. “Sometimes you go too far.”
“I’d go a lot farther, given the choice. Far away from here.”
“Grimalkin, that’s enough,” said Elgiva. “These people have to eat something. If all they can find to eat are rats, that’s Vieldrin’s fault, not theirs.”
“I never thought it would be like this,” said Godwin, shaking his head. “I had some idea that my people . . . ” Disillusionment filled his mind. The Saxons had sneered at his people, laughed at their weak and desultory ways, but in the privacy of his heart, he had cherished a different picture; one of nobility, courage, and strength. But perhaps the Saxons had been right.
He glanced at Elgiva and she smiled with understanding, but this didn’t hide the grip of fatigue, the pallor of her skin. “You’re ill yet, my dear. Too little food and too much travel. You haven’t recovered your strength.”
She twisted a curl of hair round her finger. “My mind fares worse than my body,” she sighed. “These Nine Wise Men . . . I wish I knew just who or what they are. Our quest has become an aimless trudge.” Her hand slipped down to the amulet. “And there’s something else that puzzles me.”
Trystin bolted upright and pointed towards the hills. “The wise man is at home!”
They followed the direction of his arm and saw on the top of the highest hill, a ribbon of dark-grey smoke.
“So that’s where he lives?” said Elgiva.
“So he told me, lady.”
Elgiva toyed with the amulet. “I think I should meet him.”
“Do you think he’d know where the Nine Wise Men are?” Godwin asked.
Elgiva looked at Godwin, but she seemed to be focused elsewhere. “What? Oh, yes, the Nine Wise Men.”
“He’s bound to know,” Trystin said. “He knows everything, Lady Elgiva!”
Elgiva grinned. “You may be right,” she said and got to her feet, her pale skin suddenly flushed with excitement.
“We’re going now?” asked Godwin.
“I go alone,” she said.
Godwin was unprepared for this. “Alone? But why? Be reasonable. Those hills are practically mountains.”
“Yes, lady,” said Trystin. “They’re very steep and covered with scree. You’ll have a difficult climb.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll get there.” She touched them both on the shoulder and then her gaze returned to the hills. “It looks so quiet and cool up there, and the solitude will do me good. Stay here and rest and wait for me. I must be alone. I need to think.”
Godwin took her hands in his. “You will be careful, won’t you?”
She smiled. “Guard the Lorestone while I’m gone, and please don’t worry about me.” She squeezed his fingers.
Reluctantly, he let her go.
Godwin looked at Trystin. He saw no reason to put into words the feelings they shared. “I’m going for a walk,” he said.
Trystin merely nodded and withdrew inside the hut.
>
“And you,” Godwin said to the pony. “Stay here and don’t wander off.”
Grimalkin snorted. “Everyone’s going their separate ways. What kind of a quest is that?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Godwin walked parallel with the river. The air was growing warmer, more humid, and the water beckoned.
Without warning, the image of his wife and daughters emerged from the recesses of his mind, like a guilty secret. A sensation like panic churned in his guts and forced him to walk more quickly, as though he meant to outrun his thoughts.
But they scuttled behind him and caught up.
What kind of man would abandon his family and go off seeking adventure?
His throat constricted, and he feared he would choke on his shame. If Godwin had learnt anything from the Saxons, it was the importance of kin and the duty one had to one’s family. His daughters were his responsibility. They depended upon him. And they were so far away.
What on Earth was he doing here?
If he persisted with these thoughts, his heart would surely break, so he trudged on through the tall, coarse grass, leaving the huts behind, and lost himself in motion.
Head down, he almost blundered into the willows that formed a clump at the river’s edge. Their delicate limbs, adorned with new leaves, drooped over the shimmering water. He slid in among them, cast off his cloak, and stood a moment on the sloping bank.
He laid his sword, sheath, and knife beside him and then rose to his feet and unclasped his belt, dropping it on the grass. He threw off his stained and ragged clothes, ran to the river, and plunged in.
Swimming was a popular pastime with the Saxons during the summer months, and Godwin had learned to swim at an early age. The shock of the cold water was soon replaced by the pleasure of weightlessness and the warming effects of exercise; for some time, he lost himself completely in the experience.
When he returned to the world of air, he was gasping, his skin glowing from his exertions. He shook the water from his hair and eyes, and cleansed of all his emotions, he clambered up the riverbank and flopped onto his cloak.
He had to await Elgiva’s return. Better to wait in this sanctum of trees than to spend the day listening to Trystin’s bleating or Grimalkin’s continual grousing.
As always when he felt at a loss, the sword seemed to call to him; once dressed, he drew it out and examined the edge. As usual, the sword appeared sharp and ready for use, yet when he touched the blade, it felt dull. To test it, he took a strand of his hair, pulled it taut, and ran the edge of the sword across it. The blade made no impression on the lock of hair. It was completely blunt, and he had nothing with which to sharpen it. He would need to find a whetstone when he returned to the village.
Then a thought occurred to him. This was a magic sword, and perhaps it needed to be awakened first.
“Taranuil,” he said.
The sword hummed at the sound of its name, and its edge took on a trenchant gleam. He nodded to himself, seized another hank of wet hair, and sliced the blade across it, being careful to avoid his fingers.
The sword still refused to cut his hair. He frowned, made another attempt, and another, but still, the blade made no impression.
He stared at the weapon in puzzlement. Surely he wasn’t mistaken? The edge of the sword was keen, thin as a sliver of sea-shell. Gingerly, he ran his finger down the length of the blade. His finger told him it was dull, as blunt as a rusted ploughshare. Was there something wrong with his vision?
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Damn it, I’ve awakened you. Why are you so dull?”
He stood and walked to the nearest tree, drew back his arm, and brought the weapon down upon a slanting branch. Taranuil cut through the bough and those beneath it, as though wood and air were the same, lacking any substance. So easily was this act performed, Godwin had to grab the trunk to stop his own momentum.
The severed branches fell away, and half of the willow flopped with a splash into the river below. Godwin watched the amputated limbs drift downstream. His mind refused to grasp the sight, and he scowled at the shining blade.
“By Frigg, don’t toy with me!”
He gripped the blade and squeezed, but felt no sharpness. He clenched his fingers tighter, until the pressure hurt him, but when he uncurled his hand again, his skin was unmarked.
He sat on his cloak and stared at the silent river. He needed an explanation, but there was none to be had. He looked at the sword, at its razor-sharp edge, and confusion gave way to fear. He flung the weapon aside, as though it were something loathsome.
The sword hummed in the grass, but he refused to listen.
There was rustling among the trees behind him. He got to his knees, snatched up his knife, and twisted around to confront the unknown threat. Angwen emerged from the willows, her long hair braided with pale-blue ribbons. She glowed like a flower in early spring, despite her shapeless linen robe with its belt of plaited rope.
She was clearly embarrassed by his startled reaction and clasped her hands together at her throat. “Forgive me,” she said. “One should know better than to creep up on a warrior.”
Godwin dropped his knife on the grass and pulled himself together. “Good morning, Lady Angwen.”
She smiled and sat down beside him. “The sky is full of rain.”
“Yes, indeed,” he said.
She gazed across the river. “I spoke with Morvyth earlier. She would like to meet you today.”
Godwin tried to sound casual, and the effort it took surprised him. “How is she, Lady Angwen?”
Lowering her gaze, Angwen stared at her hands, folded in her lap. “Her time diminishes swiftly. She wanders in strange realms. Yet, sometimes she speaks and sees so clearly . . . but it is often thus with the dying. For now, thank God, she sleeps.”
Godwin wanted to sympathise, but could think of nothing to say. Whatever he did say was sure to sound trite. Angwen was clearly a person well acquainted with death and the loss of her kin. Embarrassed by his own awkwardness, he waited for her to continue.
Angwen raised her hands and pulled the ribbons from her hair, and the gleaming, dark red tresses flowed like a river of polished bronze. She sighed, as though she had been freed from some unbearable constraint.
Godwin swallowed hard.
“My aunt is so good, so full of wisdom,” Angwen said. “How shall I cope when she dies? We have lost too many elders and have no one to guide us. How shall I lead these unhappy people? I have no husband to help me.” She raised her beautiful, lucid eyes and turned their gaze upon him.
Unsettled by her scrutiny, he looked away, drew up his knees, and hugged them to his chest.
“There is no one eligible for my hand, and even if the elf-king permitted us to leave, I do not know where I would search for others of our race. Aled is not fit to lead. It pains me to admit it, but he is too impetuous and has no common sense. And I am the tanist. As eldest child of Gwion, this burden must be mine.” A worried frown disturbed her brow. “Our village cannot last much longer. We are diminishing, dying . . . like our chief.” She looked up with regret and placed her hand on his arm. “But I am thoughtless, Godwin. At least I have a tribe. I know where I belong, but you . . . ”
“My people must still live somewhere, lady, but where they are, I’ll never know. And perhaps it’s better I don’t. I’ve been taught the Saxon ways, and I think I’m too old to learn new ones.”
“Was life hard for you with the Saxons?” she asked. “Being apart from your own people must have made you sad at times.”
“Only when I thought about it,” he said.
“I should like to hear about it.”
Angwen waited for his answer, but Godwin shrugged. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Of course. Forgive my curiosity, but we are isolated here. News from the outside world is all the more valued for its rarity. I did not intend to pry.” She paused and lowered her eyes. “Sometimes, I find myself wondering if there really is an ou
tside world.”
“There is,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean it’s something worth talking about.”
“What will you do, my friend?” she asked.
“Do?”
“When you have helped your elvish friend. If you succeed . . . what then? Elves and men cannot live together, and surely you would not return to the Saxons?”
But he had to. Rowena . . . the children . . .
He opened his mouth, determined to tell her the reason why he must go back, but somehow, the words wouldn’t come. Gazing into her eyes, eyes so like his own, he knew he needed his own kind, knew he needed her . . .
But the image of Rowena refused to be suppressed, and he got to his feet. All he wanted to do was escape. To escape from Angwen, from everyone, from all of their demands and needs.
Angwen was also on her feet. “Dear God, I have offended you.”
“No.” No. He had offended himself. He had been false to himself.
There were too many vows to be kept. He had a duty to his family. He had pledged to protect Elgiva. He had promised himself freedom. Why were there so many choices now, when once, he had none at all?
He drew a deep breath to steady himself. No, he mustn’t be false to Angwen. Perhaps he had used Rowena to mitigate his loneliness, to make himself feel secure and accepted. Perhaps he had used Elgiva to escape from the very security Rowena had provided and to satisfy his need for excitement. Yet, he loved them both . . . didn’t he?
No, he mustn’t use Angwen. He mustn’t betray his own people. And she alone had defended him against the tribe. He decided to tell her about Rowena, but Angwen grasped his arm and looked into his eyes.
“In you, I see loss and loneliness,” she said.
Please don’t. You sound just like Elgiva.
“I, too, am lost and lonely,” she went on. “Forgive me if I seem over-bold, but it is the custom of our race to speak what is in our hearts.”
I have no heart.
“I feel there is a bond between us,” she said.
The touch of her hand on his skin and the glow of affection in her soft eyes were altogether too much. He grabbed her waist and pulled her towards him, kissing her on the mouth. She threw her arms about his neck and returned the kiss with hungry lips.