King of the May

by Myers, Karen

  So, why hadn’t Gwyn formally taken a wife? He had a hard time picturing himself asking directly. Maybe Eurig could shed some light on it.

  The thought of Eurig and the others back in Greenway Court brought on an intense feeling of homesickness. He wanted to be home and, more than that, he wanted Angharad back. The constant anxiety about her safety wore him down. Whatever the outcome of tomorrow’s contest, he was determined she would spend no more time in Lludd’s hands. Vain boast, he knew, until he could see the real situation, but he vowed it nonetheless. He fingered his beard, still growing until she was freed.

  His letters from her had been cheerful, full of amusing detail about some of the members of the court and about the mural she was using to taunt Lludd, but he felt the familiar clench in his stomach at the latest one. She’s going to push him too far, he thought. The idea of someone laying hands on her, to imprison her, or worse… He had to stop, he could do nothing about it from here. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be back in Britain. Surely Lludd would bring her.

  And never mind Lludd, what was she doing climbing around on scaffolding when she was five months pregnant? He’d sent alarmed replies about that which she clearly ignored. What was Gwyn thinking, letting that happen? And Edern?

  He wished he knew what was happening with Maelgwn and Rhodri and all the others. Were any of them hurt in the kennel fire, trying to save the hounds?

  And what were the hunt staff doing, without the pack? He still shied away from the thought of the hounds. Cernunnos felt the void of their absence directly, and so did he, through him. It hadn’t bothered him before when he was out of range, since he had no reason to think them in danger. Now the knowledge that they were gone made all the difference.

  He paused to wipe at his eyes, in the privacy of his room. He was still easily overcome by the loss.

  Were they rebuilding the kennels, he wondered. The records would be gone, he realized—almost two thousand years’ worth of hunt logs and breeding. The oliphant, too, the ivory horn. Could the great hunt happen without the oliphant, even if the hounds had been spared?

  He felt the weight of the disaster, and then he slowly straightened up like Atlas and braced himself to bear it. He would salvage what he could. They would rebuild. Maybe there were drafts from the hounds in other packs that continued the bloodline with enough outsider blood left to hunt in the great hunt. Combined with the new whelps Cernunnos would grant if Gwyn won… maybe it could be done.

  He would not go down without a fight.

  It all depended on Gwyn. Gwyn had to win. If he lost… well, it didn’t bear thinking about. At least he would be there, where the contest was. Could he seize Angharad somehow and escape through some way? He’d worry about the rest once she was safe.

  Angharad had completed the grand figure of Cernunnos as mounted huntsman the day before. The man’s body was recognizably broader than most fae, a clear portrait of her human husband, despite the god’s head that he bore. Mounted on his heavy smoky gray Mosby, he drew all eyes, the focal point of the scene. It had been comforting to paint him, almost as if she could conjure him into existence in front of her in the flesh, each brush-stroke a summoning gesture.

  She ached for him about the hounds, how it must tear at him. These hounds here were the only tribute she could offer, on his behalf, and she had done her best to commemorate them as individuals, the ones she knew well from hunting behind them.

  Yesterday and today she had worked on the small figure of the pursued quarry, his size in perspective insignificant compared to the huntsman in the foreground. The scaffolding above her was no longer needed and she’d had her workmen remove it. The painting would require additional layers to be truly completed, but she was making a point and it had a deadline. After tomorrow things might be very different for all of them.

  By the afternoon she had finished her work, for now anyway, and directed the removal of the remaining scaffolding and the cleaning up of the work area.

  She surveyed the mural from a variety of vantage points, most importantly from Lludd’s throne and his dining seat, and nodded to herself in satisfaction.

  Throughout all of her work on the mural Bedo had stayed by her side, helping where he could, and painting wherever she directed, despite his protestations of ignorance. She’s given him one hound to himself to fill in, in the background, and was pleased with the results. She’d made plans with Bleddyn to get him away from Lludd and she wanted him to remember, later in his career, that a part of this mural on Lludd’s wall was his own.

  More to the point than his initial painting skills, she was content that he understood the methods she used for upsizing and transferring her sketch to this mural. That was an important skill to learn and there were never many opportunities to do so.

  “All done, my lady?” he asked her now.

  “You understand,” she said, “that more layers of the tempera will give greater depth and finish to all of the figures, but that will take time we don’t have. It must be completed for tonight, and so it will have to do.”

  He nodded. “It is a wonderful thing, this,” he said, as he surveyed the larger-than-life scene. “I would not wish to be thought the quarry.”

  Angharad smiled, wolfishly. “Poets are sometimes feared, and rightly, for the power of their satires. No one wishes to be the subject of such a flyting. But never forget that it’s not only poets who should be feared. And respected. At the heart of it is the embedding of an insult into the imagination of the people so that it cannot be removed. Any artist can reach the imagination.”

  She looked at the empty throne and wished for an instant that she could sink so low as to spit at it. Then she contemplated her mural. This was better. Once seen, it would not be forgotten, whitewash it how he may.

  She turned to the remaining craftsmen, her colleagues from the town who were directing their apprentices to pack up their supplies as they prepared to depart. It was a shame they wouldn’t be welcome at this evening’s meal, to see Lludd’s reaction.

  “Don’t forget to send the bill to the king,” she told them.

  They grinned at her, knowing as well as she did that they might never be paid for their time, but she’d made sure the materials, at least, were paid for from the king’s purse. They thanked her for allowing them to participate, waving off her concerns about compensation.

  “It was a pleasure working with you, my lady,” said the last as he left, “and I hope we have the chance to meet your lord husband someday, him and the great lord Cernunnos.”

  She and Bedo watched them go, leaving them alone in the great hall in the afternoon light, except for her constant pair of guards standing off to the side out of the way.

  “Well,” she said, dusting off her hands. “I think that was a good bit of work, don’t you?” She swept past her guards with Bedo and headed back to her rooms, to prepare for the evening meal. She glanced back as she reached the doors, pleased with the way the mural gleamed in the westering light.

  Angharad entered the great hall for the meal dressed demurely in her best clothing, her pregnancy subtle but apparent. She was formally escorted on either side by Gwyn and Edern, her guards trailing behind.

  Without visible reaction, she watched the court gathered where they could see the mural clearly, now that it was no longer blocked by the scaffolding. They clustered in front of it and pointed out the details to each other. She overheard more than one sardonic remark about the fleeing quarry.

  She smiled to herself. The more who saw it, especially if it amused them, the wider the story would spread.

  In the king’s absence, no one had yet taken his seat, and so Angharad found herself and her escorts in the center of a casual circulation of courtiers who, without committing themselves verbally, nodded at her in respect and spoke of other things.

  The noise of conversation dropped as Lludd entered abruptly. Each person he passed bowed or curtsied, but his eyes were fixed on the mural. His courtiers made way for him as he approa
ched the mural and stood at a convenient distance from it, and stared.

  He’s masking his feelings well today, she thought. Clearly he’s emboldened by the nearness of tomorrow’s resolution. And why not, he thinks he holds all the advantage, she realized—the hounds, George’s exile, the Travelers’ Way. He can afford to be magnanimous.

  As if listening to her thoughts, Lludd turned to Angharad where she stood with Gwyn and Edern several yards away, and said to her, over the hush of his courtiers, “We’re pleased to see that you have finished making a mess of our hall.”

  Angharad curtsied. “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, my lord king. I’ll put the finishing touches on it later, but I wanted you to have something to celebrate for the great night tomorrow.”

  Lludd returned her taunt. “Truly, we will celebrate.”

  Confident, he stepped closer and the court listened.

  “It must be lonely for you, my lady,” he said. “Have you heard from your consort lately?”

  She held her face in a pleasant, unchanging expression. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

  “My daughter,” he continued, “tells me he was most attentive while in her company.”

  There were audible intakes of breath in the crowd at the insult.

  Angharad didn’t believe it for a moment, and tried to compose a suitable reply. As he waited, she was startled to feel the baby within her kick, for the first time.

  She put her hand to her belly, delighted at the quickening. A faint sound of a little bell rang in her ears. What was that? Oh, of course, the little bell that Seething Magma had given her when she told her she was pregnant, back in Edgewood. She smiled fondly at the memory.

  Gwyn prodded her, discretely. What? Oh, Lludd had said something.

  Angharad replied, her hand still laid protectively over her stomach, “I’m sorry, my lord king, I was distracted. What were you saying?”

  That was disingenuous, she remembered the insult. But she did enjoy seeing the dull red flush that spread across his features.

  CHAPTER 32

  Even in the open air, George found the noise of the encampment at mid-day deafening.

  Llefelys had brought nearly a hundred people with him, staff and servants as well as his immediate circle. Most had come from the court with him, but a few were picked up at the second way they traversed, still within Llefelys’s domain, before they crossed from Gaul. These last brought the tents and pavilions that this annual event required.

  The wagons had only a few miles to cover once the last way brought them to Britain, and George was glad of it. They’d been up since dawn, and he watched with interest how the group was organized, with outriders for the baggage carts and a royal guard for the king and queen of Gaul.

  He stuck close to Rhian, for whom all of this was also new, and they exclaimed together over each event, like children going to the fair. The efficient bustle of their encampment being set up was educational. It took only an hour or two for the neat rows of tents and pavilions to be erected. It reminded him of the Romans on campaign and their formalized positions when camping on a long march.

  They had both been warned not to stray outside this area, where they could be guarded by Llefelys’s men, and George took the precaution seriously. He had no wish to get this far and then be abducted again, or just killed, and he thought Rhian was at some risk, too. He was armed openly, with saber and knife. Rhian was dressed in one of her new gowns, all green and gold, but he was sure she was armed as well. For all of their new clothes and his visible weapons, they had an air of comedy about them, since George’s kitten had accompanied him all the way, refusing to relinquish his perch on George’s left shoulder, despite his increasing size.

  Now he stood on the inner edge of the encampment with Rhian and looked longingly across two hundred yards or more of open ground at the other groups setting up their tents, each in its own wedge, forming a wheel with a large open hub. One of these would be Lludd’s court, and Angharad would be there. As he watched, the wagons of a late arrival were guided into place by one of Lludd’s heralds, ropes laid out to mark the spaces. If he could judge from the gaps remaining, about two thirds of the spectators had already arrived. He could sense at least half a dozen ways in all directions, and all of them seemed to be in use.

  He turned away reluctantly and they walked across the encampment to the outer edge of Llefelys’s site, trying to stay out of the way. Behind the wedges, in an outer ring, a market fair with food, goods, and entertainment was doing brisk business, and the tantalizing smells of cooking wafted their way. George could hear the occasional sounds of song and laughter, and he could see that Rhian was dying to explore.

  “Never mind,” he said, “There will be other days.”

  She nodded. “A day at the fair, and then taken for a life with Gwythyr—yes, huntsman, it’s too high a price.”

  She said it smiling, but George was sorry she couldn’t simply enjoy it, like any other young woman. He wondered if the korrigans he’d met, who traded widely, had booths in the festival market.

  He stroked his beard. Where was Angharad, in all this crowd? When could he see her?

  One of Llefelys’s servants summoned George and Rhian to the cleared space before the king’s pavilion to meet with visitors. Rhian spotted the familiar figure of her grandfather from a distance and dropped her new adult dignity to run ahead and into his arms. Edern bowed his head over her, and George’s heart went out to him for all his worry since they were last together.

  Ceridwen was with him, and Llefelys, and George hoped for news of Angharad. Edern released his granddaughter and clasped his hand.

  “You’re looking well, George.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you for your care of Rhian.”

  “She saved me more than the reverse,” he said, looking at her fondly. He indicated Llefelys. “You owe your uncle thanks for his care of us.”

  “And so I have thanked him, most deeply.”

  George was amused to see Edern’s puzzled eyes straying to the kitten on his shoulder.

  “It’s a long story, this,” he said, gesturing at Imp. “Ceridwen can fill you in.”

  Impatiently, he continued. “Where’s Angharad? How is she? Can I see her?”

  “She’s fine, and missing you,” Edern said. “Lludd brought her but he’s not letting her out of his sight. Gwyn has stayed with her, partly to make sure of her safety.”

  “What do you think?” George said. “Can Gwyn win?”

  Ceridwen offered her analysis in a cool tone. “Lludd tried for Gwyn’s master-tokens and failed, and Gwyn has that which you gave him, in Beli Mawr’s presence.”

  George thought, but can he use it? He’s lost the pack—what good if he wins, come Nos Galan Gaeaf in six months?

  Out loud, he asked, “Who has come to watch?”

  Llefelys laughed at that. “Everyone, kinsman. My nephew has been telling me. There’s never been such a well-attended contest, not since they began.”

  “Watch out for Madog’s brothers,” Edern said. “Lludd has promised them an opportunity for revenge.”

  George nodded. He had done nothing to feel guilty for. Let them do what they must.

  “Where is Lludd, where on the ring?”

  Llefelys said, “We have customary positions. To our left we have kept a space for Gwyn, between his father and me. Normally he would have his own pavilions, as I do, but he didn’t expect to be trapped here and so his space is bare. Beyond that, to the left, is Lludd’s encampment.”

  George looked to his left as if he could see through the tents in between. So close, he thought.

  Something of this must have shown on his face, for Ceridwen said, “I’ve seen Angharad myself, George. Lludd has her on a very short leash and well guarded. He gave me a message for you. He says, in these words, ‘Stand aside, huntsman. I will not have you interfere. Don’t act the fool. Gwyn has already lost.’”

  She looked at him. “He meant, by losing the
hounds.”

  “I understood him,” George bit off angrily. “I can’t do that.” Cernunnos churned within him and he closed his eyes and clenched his fists in an effort to contain him.

  Don’t let her be harmed, he implored whatever would listen. I’ll take Lludd apart myself if I have to, however many guards he has.

  As the sun began to approach the western horizon, George moved to the front of Llefelys’s wedge and found that an inner rope circle had been laid, reducing the open interior to about a hundred yards across. There was room between the front of the encampments and the inner circle to accommodate a standing audience of all the viewers.

  He paused with Rhian to admire the colors and pageantry of it all. Each group had its own pennants and standards, and colored liveries to match in most cases. He thought he recognized a couple of the lords he had visited hunting, well across the circle from him. There were two or three groups without consistent colors, and he wondered whom they represented. All the banners were bright in the westering sunlight.

  Looking left, he saw an empty wedge, and then what must be Lludd’s people beyond it. He searched for Angharad but couldn’t see her. Gwyn, Edern, and Ceridwen, with all the staff they’d brought with them stepped out of Lludd’s ranks and walked into the empty space to take their positions.

  George looked down at Rhian. “Shall we join them?”

  She nodded, and George took a moment to admire her ceremonial gown, this one dignified and muted but still rich, in greens to match Gwyn’s colors. They strode out, her arm on his, to rejoin their family, united after weeks apart.

  Gwyn took Rhian’s hands and stepped back to look at her, with a smile. “I am very happy to see you well, foster-daughter. We were all so very worried. I have heard how you acquitted yourself, like a warrior-maid out of legend.”

  She blushed under the gentle teasing, but George was sure that Gwyn was sincere enough beneath it all. He watched his face relax fractionally and his shoulders rise, as if a small part of his burden had been lifted.