by J. M. Hofer
Bran felt sorry for him. “Lord Garanhir,” he interrupted, “I wish to provide all of the gold Elffin needs for the building of the ship—as a wedding present.”
Garanhir merely glanced at Bran in response, and looked back at his son. “And who is to oversee the building of this ship? I’m certain you cannot mean Master Irwyn, who I’m counting on to have my trading ships finished by next summer?”
At the mention of his name, Irwyn looked up over the top of his tankard, but kept quiet.
“Father, please,” Elffin tried again. “I must have Ula for my wife. I will have no other. Have I not suffered enough? What would you have me do? Without the ship, there will be no wedding.”
Garanhir softened somewhat. “So you do mean to use Irwyn, and my ships must wait, is that what you’re proposing?”
“Only one of them,” Elffin countered. “Bran has agreed to send us some of his men, along with the coin to house and feed them, as he said. Irwyn assures me we can complete one of your ships, as well as the ship for Tegid Voel, by midsummer next.”
“Provided you and I enter into our agreement as planned, Lord Garanhir,” Bran interjected, “and that we share equally in the trade voyages next summer.”
Garanhir leaned back in his chair and groaned. He regarded the ceiling a long while, contemplating the proposal put before him.
“Lord Bran, I am an old man. I have but one wish for my last years, and that is to see both my children married and to hold my grandchildren before I die. If I agree to the building of this ship, can you assure me my son will have Ula for his bride next summer?
Bran did not know whether his plan would work or not—but he was certainly not going to tell Garanhir that. “I believe it’s our best chance, yes. I give you my word, if for any reason it doesn’t work out, I’ll find another way to free Ula. No matter the cost. And besides—if Tegid refuses the ship, we can use it for the trade voyages.”
“Very well,” Garanhir finally consented, but the tone of his voice warned Bran he was about to push a final piece across the board.
“I also have a daughter who is not yet betrothed—my beloved Mererid, whom you haven’t met.”
Bran had no choice but to swallow the bait. “No, I regret I’ve not yet had the pleasure.”
“Go and fetch your sister, Elffin.”
Elffin rose and did as his father asked. The hall fell uncomfortably silent until he returned with her.
“Ah!” Garanhir beamed when they arrived. “Lord Bran, this is my youngest daughter, the Lady Mererid.”
Youngest indeed! She was a very pretty maid, to be certain, but she could not have been more than thirteen. Her honey-colored hair hung unbound, and she wore the simple robe of a child, for her breasts had not yet ripened. “I am pleased to meet you, my lord,” the young lady addressed him, her voice clear and musical. She laughed and pointed to the mountains of empty shells on the banquet table. “Goodness! Did the gulls get into the hall?”
“It is a man’s hall, tonight, darling,” Garanhir explained, motioning for more ale.
She smiled and nodded.
Bran observed all the proper courtesies, engaging her in appropriate small talk. He was surprised to find she was quite mature, without the shyness or awkwardness typical of girls her age. Her comments were insightful, and her expressions animated, making the encounter far less painful than Bran had anticipated.
Garanhir assured his daughter’s visit was short, saying she had studies to attend to. Mererid did not protest, and rose gracefully from the table. “Good night, my lords,” she bid in farewell.
Once she left the hall, Garanhir gave Bran a knowing smile. “She likes you.”
Bran gave a nod. “She’s a lovely young woman.”
Garanhir shifted into a more comfortable position. “I’ll get straight to the point. I’d feel far more assured of my position and investment in this trade venture if I knew our houses were joined in blood. I will agree to all that we’ve discussed tonight, if you will agree to marry my daughter.”
Bran paused as he considered what Garanhir had asked of him. He glanced over at Islwyn, who seemed equally unsurprised by the request, but his expression gave no indication of what he thought Bran should do.
He smiled, summoning his most-gracious manner. “I’m honored that you would trust me with as precious a pearl as your youngest daughter, Lord Garanhir. She’s a true beauty, with a sweet temper to match.”
Lucia’s face flashed in his mind, taking him back to the morning after Beltane. He saw her clearly, lying next to him in the field, looking up at him with her wide green eyes, her cheeks flushed and her mouth slightly open, waiting for his kiss. He glanced down at the topaz ring he had made for her. It’s still on your finger, fool. His heart rebelled against what he was about to do, but he ignored its supplications. I’m a chieftain, now, and this is a good alliance—one that would guarantee the prosperity of the clan. He swallowed hard. “I recently attempted to marry, but it was not to be.” The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Therefore, Lord Garanhir, I give you my word that I’ll marry your daughter and unite our houses in good faith. May we prosper greatly by one another.”
***
Over the next few weeks, agreements between Bran and Garanhir were specified to the finest of details with witnesses on both sides.
Bran insisted that he and Mererid live as brother and sister until she reached the age of fifteen. She was to be given the choice whether to remain under her father’s roof until that time, or live among Bran’s clan with an entourage of her choosing. To Bran’s surprise, she decided on the latter.
“I’ll make the journey in a week,” she told him herself. “I’m very much looking forward to it, Lord Bran.”
With time, you may grow to love her, Bran counseled himself. It was clear she would blossom into a beautiful and charming young woman.
Irwyn made it clear he wished to accompany Bran to Mynyth Aur and personally select his apprentices. Bran agreed. He needed him to be happy. Everything hinged on him.
Once everything was decided, Bran was eager to get home. He and Irwyn left the following morning.
He turned back to look at the sea one last time as the road turned east, and thought he saw Lucia’s eyes flashing in the waves.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
An Undelivered Message
Lucia and Aveta made slow but steady progress over the next few days, stopping frequently, until Aveta found the right herbs to ease her nausea. She boiled them and made a tea which became the solution to Lucia’s misery.
As they got closer to Mynyth Aur, they were often in a position where they could look down upon the main road from a safe vantage point. They occasionally saw farmers or tradesmen pulling wagons filled with lambs wool or other goods to trade, but rarely anyone else, so when they spied a large litter surrounded by riders on horseback in matching regalia, flying a red and gold standard, they were very curious indeed.
“Who might that be?” Lucia wondered aloud.
“I’ve no idea,” Aveta answered, trying to get a glimpse of the standard being held aloft. “Someone traveling from a house of some means.”
“Let’s get a closer look,” Lucia suggested, excited by the drama. She ventured down the hillside with Aveta following close behind, and they quickly found a place hidden by tall grasses where they could safely watch the procession.
“Do you think they’re going to Mynyth Aur?” Lucia asked.
“I suspect so. We’re quite close now. There’s no other village anywhere near here.”
“So there’s no danger after all.” The Great Mother was right. All would have been well. She felt sick again.
“Well, not for the moment, at least,” Aveta said. “Lucia, have you not considered the possibility that the tragedy the boy Taliesin came to warn of has not yet happened? That’s been the case with all of your visions, has it not?”
“Yes.” Lucia was shocked she had not considered that possibility herself. Perhap
s it was because Taliesin’s visit had not felt like a vision—it had seemed so real.
“Then why would it be any different this time? Now, you have a chance to speak to Bran. Tell him about your vision, and let him do with it what he will. Your part in it will be done, and you’ll have kept your promise to the boy.”
“You’re right.”
“I say we take the main road now that we know it’s safe. We can be there by nightfall. Follow me.”
Aveta led the way carefully down the steep and rocky hillside, constantly pointing out perils to make certain Lucia avoided them. Now that there was no longer any apparent urgency to her message, however, Lucia grew increasingly anxious at the prospect of seeing Bran again so soon after their unpleasant parting. Her stomach churned relentlessly, and heat prickled her neck and chest. By the time they reached the village, she was filled with dread.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t think I can do this—I can’t face him.”
“Yes, you can,” Aveta insisted with a stern look. “Unless you feel that vision of yours was nothing more than your imagination? That it was unimportant? Are you are telling me you broke your oath to the Great Mother and abandoned the Path of the Moon, on the mere wisp of a maybe?”
Lucia recoiled. “No, no…I didn’t. I am certain lives depend—or will depend—on it.”
Aveta sighed, put her hands on Lucia’s shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “Then what’s the problem?”
Lucia nodded. “I just feel like a fool delivering such a message when there’s clearly no danger to his clan, nor even any hint of it—he’ll think I’ve fashioned this all to some other end!”
“Lucia, you must make a decision,” Aveta said, softening. “What do you want to do? Do you want to turn back and send this news by messenger instead of delivering it yourself? I’d offer to deliver it on your behalf, but there’s no way I’ll leave you here by yourself.”
Lucia sighed, disappointed with herself. “I’m acting like a child. Let’s go.”
She walked toward the village walls, and Aveta stayed by her side.
There were spearmen guarding the gates as they arrived. “Ladies, have you come from Caer Gwythno as well?”
“No,” Lucia answered, wondering where Caer Gwythno was. “We’re here to see Lady Seren. She’s not expecting us, but please tell her Lady Lucia and Lady Aveta are here about an important matter and wish to speak to her.”
Just then, a young man Lucia knew well approached the gates. Idris. His eyes lit up as he recognized her. “Lady Lucia! Welcome back. Lady Seren’s up in the Fortress for the feast, along with the rest of them. She’ll be glad to see you. How fares Lady Creirwy?”
“She’s well,” Lucia smiled. She almost asked him if she should send her his regards, and then realized with a pang that she did not know when she would see Creirwy again.
“Well, please tell her I think of her often.”
She nodded, feeling nauseous. Once within the walls, they spied the splendid wagons they had seen earlier, camped in a circle not far from where the village motherhouse stood.
“Tell me, Idris, who has come to visit the Lord Bran with such finery?”
“Have you not heard?” Idris raised his eyebrows. “Well, no, I suppose you wouldn’t have. Forgive me, I forget that news does not reach the Isle easily. The Lord Bran is to marry the Lady Mererid, daughter of Lord Gwythno Garanhir. She’s just arrived. The feast is in her honor.”
His words hit Lucia like stones. She clutched herself tightly under her cloak, feeling as though all of her organs would spill out onto the ground. Aveta gripped her firmly from behind.
“Lord Bran is to marry?” Aveta confirmed.
“Yes! Go and join the feast, sisters! I wish I could. Drink a few for me, would you?”
“Of course,” Aveta said to him, faking a smile. She steered Lucia to a quiet place where she crumpled down in a heap and began to sob. When she could speak once more, she sat up. “I’m being punished for my pride. I asked the Great Mother what I should do, and she told me.” She told me twice, and I didn’t listen. “I didn’t trust her. Now, I’m truly on my own.”
***
Lucia and Aveta left without speaking to anyone but Idris. They decided to return to the villa, for they had nowhere else to go.
Lucia tried her best to be as strong as possible. She knew she had no one to blame but herself. By the time they made it back to the villa, she had forged herself a mask to wear.
Colwyn was overjoyed to have them back so soon.
“We’ve come to ask if we might stay with you,” Lucia said as they entered the house. “Live with you, that is.”
“Of course! I would deny you no request, my lady!” Colwyn exclaimed with a smile. “Decided not to live with your relations, then?”
“That’s right. It would have been cramped,” Lucia lied. “After our visit, Aveta and I realized how much we miss living here by the lake. We thought you might be glad of the company and the help.”
“I would indeed,” he smiled kindly, “but I’ve not rebuilt your villa to the beauty it once was, I’m afraid. There are only a few rooms, and one small bed for a lonely man with no wife.”
“Aveta’s little house still stands,” Lucia pointed out. “We’ll live there and be quite comfortable.”
Colwyn furrowed his brow and shook his head. “My lady, it grieves me to think of you livin’ in that little place together. Stay there for now if you must, but I’ll see to it your house becomes fit for two ladies, and then you two will trade me places. ‘Twas your gold that saved this place, not mine.”
“But it was your hard work,” she countered, feeling guilty, “and you have every right to think of this place as your own, now.”
“No, no. I am nearing fifty years within these bones. I’m tired, and ready to join my family in the Summerlands. Any hard work I do is only with the hope that it might cause my heart to fail. This is still your land. I’ve only borrowed it—to busy myself and forget my troubles.”
So it was that Aveta and Lucia returned to the lives they had known before, marveling at how familiar and yet new it was.
***
Over the next month, Lucia sat down every night to an early supper with Colwyn and Aveta to discuss their plans for the fields and the villa. As the days wore on, she found she had a few smiles within her that she did not have to force. Together, the three of them kept an eye on the crops and relished the longer, warmer days that summer brought.
Colwyn worked the length of those days rebuilding the villa around the small courtyard where the well sat. When the harvest was over, he called upon the neighboring farmers to help get the job done. By the time winter arrived, the villa was again the home that she once knew. Much improved, in fact. It seemed Colwyn now had the energy of a man half his age, and she knew Aveta was the cause of it. There had been a marked change in Aveta as well. Her eyes had brightened and her full lips were ever-curved in a smile. At first, Lucia thought it was the joy of having her hands back in the soil, or the beautifully mild summer weather. As the days passed, however, it became clear that Colwyn was the source of her happiness. They were meant to be together, not only to help heal one another from the loss of their loved ones, but to grow beyond their pain and find joy in life again.
She felt happy for them, but sometimes the way they looked at each other would trigger a wave of self-pity in her heart. She was not proud of it, but she was wise enough to know that her feelings, like the weather, were beyond her control. All she could control were her actions.
She found it much easier to avoid thinking of Bran during the day, when she could busy herself with tasks. At night, it was much harder, and getting more difficult with each passing moon. Her belly had grown hard over the summer and was starting to swell. What had been simply the possibility of a child became an undeniable reality for her.
She began swimming in the lake again, like she used to. Every morning, she swam away from the sounds of the s
hore until she heard nothing but the water of the lake. Sometimes, she floated in the water on her back for long stretches of time, looking up at the sky, watching the clouds. A peaceful feeling would wash over her.
It was on such a morning that she realized the Great Mother did not want to punish her. She was still there, ever-loving, patient, and kind. She was still listening. Not only was she still listening, she was still speaking.
We will find a new path together, Lucia. All is well. Trust me.
***
”Lucia,” Aveta said, eyeing her belly one day as they were working in the garden. “It’s time to tell Bran. Please send a messenger.”
Lucia pushed her hair out of her face to look over at Aveta. “He’s to marry another. Do you think he wants a bastard for a wedding present?”
Aveta let out an exasperated sigh. “Damn the gods, Lucia! You don’t know what he will do. Why do you insist on assuming the worst? He knows the Old Ways, and how precious a Beltane baby is!”
Lucia shrugged.
“It’s your pride that will be your undoing,” Aveta warned. “Consider that it may be causing you to throw away the best chance at happiness that may ever be offered to you. Stop assuming what he will do, and instead just let him do it!”
Lucia was not sure anymore if she loved him or hated him. It changed by the hour, so she did not answer. Her silence pushed Aveta over the edge.
“Stop playing the victim and do the right thing!” Aveta finally yelled in frustration. “This isn’t just about you! Think of the child!” She threw her basket down and walked off.
Lucia was shocked. She had never heard Aveta curse or raise her voice before. She groaned and sat down cross-legged in the dirt, picking up the beans that had spilled out of her basket. Aveta was right, but who could she trust with such a message? She had considered writing Bran a letter, but she was unsure if he had the means to read it, and it would have to be hand-carried regardless.
There were only two people she trusted enough to deliver such a message—Aveta or Colwyn. Aveta she could not ask, for it was too risky for a woman to travel alone, even a Sister, but Colwyn might agree to do it. It was time he knew about her condition anyway, if he had not already figured it out.