by J. M. Hofer
It was in that moment of quiet that Bran heard the bells ringing faintly in the direction from whence he had come.
In his bones, he knew for whom they tolled.
***
Bran and Gethen were engulfed by the storm as they made their way back to Garanhir’s castle. By the time they returned, they found the shipyard camp and the entire village deserted, except for two fearless men perched precariously atop the slippery stone towers of the wall, ringing the bells to honor their beloved lord.
The angry sea crashed and churned wildly against the cliffs that held up the castle. Bran thought they looked disturbingly delicate against the wrath of the storm. The rain poured incessantly into the sea, which looked as if it might swell up and flood all of Maes Gwythno.
Bran returned Gethen to the stable, which, thankfully, was safe within the stone walls of the castle. He made his way to the great hall, where many had gathered to wait out the storm.
He entered to find his clansmen sitting among the people of Caer Gwythno, faces wet with rain and tears. Blankets and furs had been brought in and laid upon the floor, and everyone was passing around loaves of bread and flasks of ale. The men were smoking their pipes, all of them soaked and looking exhausted. The women were comforting the children, serving hot wine and dishing out bowls of stew from the large cauldrons that hung over the fires in the three large fireplaces of the hall.
“Thank the gods!” Maur’s familiar baritone said when he noticed Bran.
“Maur,” Bran acknowledged, nodding in his direction. He unpinned his sopping cloak from his shoulder, and it fell to the stone floor with a heavy slap. He began working on the rest of his clothes.
A woman was quick to bring him some hot wine and insisted on helping him. “Please, my lord.”
He did not refuse. He was chilled to the very marrow of his bones, scarcely able to work his fingers. She soon had him undressed down to his tunic and gave him a wool blanket. He wrapped it around his shoulders. “Thank you.”
He spotted Elffin and Ula on the far side of the hall. Taliesin lay asleep in Ula’s arms. He and Maur made their way over to them.
“Bran!” Ula exclaimed in relief.
“You see?” Elffin stood up to greet him. “I told you not to worry, my love.”
Ula cast her eyes down, looking as if she might cry. He felt terrible, as if he had let her down after all. “Please pardon me, Ula.” Bran knelt down so she could not avoid looking at him. “Forgive me.”
Ula returned his gaze. Bran hoped he had succeeded in delivering the message he truly wished to give her—that he was honored by her love for him, and that he would always be there for her, even though he loved another.
“I told her you’d return,” Elffin said, oblivious to their silent exchange.
Bran laid his hand gently on Ula’s knee for a brief moment, and then turned to Elffin. “Lord Elffin, you have my deepest sympathy. I’m grieved your father is no longer among us.”
Elffin nodded but did not answer. As Bran looked at him, he realized there was more than one storm being weathered tonight. He felt for him—even more so after having learned that Ula did not love him as much as Bran had thought she did. If only I could give Elffin the love Ula confessed to me. But, of course he could not. In this way, the gods could be mercilessly cruel.
***
The next morning, the storm had cleared, and the sea rippled as peacefully as silk in a light breeze.
The villagers returned to their homes and focused their efforts on repairing the extensive damage the storm had done.
Instead of wedding plans, Elffin made preparations for the burial of his father. Mererid was a week’s journey away, so would be unable to attend. This, too, weighed on Bran, for in a way, he felt responsible for her absence.
Bran and his men stayed for the funeral, of course. He sat next to Elffin at the feast that night and told him of his plans. “Some of my men will stay to build the village by the shipyard, as your father agreed they could, and the others, who’ve been visiting their families, will soon join them. I trust they’re still welcome to do so?”
Elffin’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Of course, they must come—we have many ships to build together, your men and mine, and hopefully many voyages to take in them.”
Elffin then looked over at Irwyn, and said, loud enough for the Saxon to hear, “and though Master Irwyn says he is going to leave us, I’m going to do all I can to convince him to stay. Wine, women, gold…who knows what I might give him?”
Irwyn looked over with a hint of a smile and raised his drinking horn, but that was all. He and Creirwy would sail away with Tegid. Most of the young crew had decided to go as well, lured by the promise of adventure alongside the notorious Tegid Voel and their beloved Master Irwyn—it was something very few of them could resist.
“I look forward to our ventures, then,” Bran said to Elffin, “which I very much hope Master Irwyn will be a part of,” he added more loudly in Irwyn’s direction.
Irwyn pretended not to hear, but Bran knew he had.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Taliesin
The summer passed quickly, and the harvest was nearly over. Bran enjoyed the hard, repetitive labor that it required. The long days left his body completely exhausted, kept restlessness at bay, and ensured a heavy, dreamless sleep.
Whether he was working in the fields, out with the horses, or at the forge, he always made time to share the midday meal with Lucia and the children. He never missed it.
Today was the last day of the harvest, and he went home with a deep feeling of satisfaction in his chest. The Great Mother had been generous with them once more, and the work was nearly done.
No sooner had he walked into the house and sat down with Lucia to eat, when Arhianna began to cry for her own lunch.
Lucia raised her eyebrows. “Do you think she does it on purpose?”
Bran chuckled. “I hope not.”
Lucia sighed and picked her up, sat down by the hearth and put her to her swollen breast.
Bran looked over at his daughter and smiled. Gods, she’s getting big! While he finished his meal, he chatted with Lucia about who was doing what around the village, the state of the harvest, and any news he thought she would find interesting. “I’m sorry I can’t stay long today—a messenger from Gwythno is waiting for me in the motherhouse.” He went over to her, kissed the top of her head, and then turned to leave. She pulled on his arm and offered her lips to him instead. He smiled, took her face in his hands, and gave her the more passionate kiss she had asked for.
Maur warned him that after the babes were born, he could expect to lose his wife’s affections for awhile. He had been prepared for this, but it had not happened. Lucia still grasped for him in bed, just as eagerly as she had before—perhaps more so. He did not boast of this to Maur, of course.
Just as he was about to leave, Gareth began to whimper. Bran gave her a compassionate smile. “He doesn’t want to be left out.” He went over to the crib he had built for his son and lifted him out, cooing to him as he took him to his mother. “Here you go,” he lowered him into her waiting arms.
“Go on, then. I’ll see you tonight.” She smiled, putting Gareth to her other breast. Arhianna was already asleep beneath the one she had just drained, drunk on her mother’s milk.
“I love you.” Bran kissed her again, took Arhianna and laid her in her brother’s place in the crib, and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
***
Due to their shared shipbuilding venture, messengers from Gwythno arrived regularly. He walked into the motherhouse to find several of his men there, chatting with the messenger.
“Here he is,” Maur announced, glancing Bran’s way.
“Lord Bran.” The young messenger stood up to address him.
Bran nodded toward him. “Yes, what news from Gwythno?”
“Lord Elffin invites you and your clan to celebrate Calan Awst under his roof, two weeks hence. He has a week of gam
es and feasts planned. There will be a great number of farmers and merchants attending from all over his kingdom—all with goods to trade.”
“Tell him we wouldn’t miss it,” Bran answered. “No news of his wedding to Lady Ula?”
The messenger shook his head. “No, my lord.”
Bran found that strange—not that he found attending weddings particularly rapturous, except in drinking the good ale that was brought out, but it was peculiar. He hoped Ula had not changed her mind—Elffin would be deeply heartbroken. He shuddered at the thought and changed the subject. “And the ship?”
“They’re ahead of schedule.”
Bran smiled. “Good. I’m eager to see what progress they’ve made. Tell Lord Elffin we’ll be there with much to trade.”
***
The Oaks completed their preparations in the next two weeks, as planned. Bran appointed Einon the task of deciding how much grain and goods to put up for the winter, and how much to take with them to trade. He made quick work of it, as he usually did. Bran was glad to have him back at Mynyth Aur. He had missed his counsel and his company.
The morning of the clan’s departure, they donned new robes, saddled the horses and loaded the wagons. They piled them as high as they dared with generous bushels of peas and beans, sacks of onions and barley, and gifts for their host.
“We’re ready to go,” Einon announced. “We should leave soon if we’re to make the best of the day.”
“Spread the word, then,” Bran commanded. “Let’s be off.”
Within the hour, the Oaks set out, a merry group, eager for celebration after so much labor. Bran rode out in front with Islwyn and Maur. He had Idris and Neirin ride in key positions around the wagons to discourage any thieves that might be watching the road. Lucia, the twins, and Maur’s ever-growing family rode in a wagon behind them, at the head of the long caravan laden with goods and other Oak families. Maur and Buddug now had six children.
Songs broke out regularly, as well as laughter, and Maur chuckled. “Different journey with the women and pups along, eh?”
Bran smiled, glancing back at his radiant wife giggling at something Buddug had said, her copper hair flashing in the sun.
“Yes, it is.” So different. A light and joyful feeling filled the air, one that had certainly not accompanied most journeys Bran had taken. It took him back to his youth, reminding him of the journeys to the Crossroads he and his clan had taken together to celebrate the feast days. Now, he rode at the head of his own clan, his own wife and children behind him. He took a deep breath and smiled.
***
The Oaks reached Caer Gwythno and found her gates open.
Children swarmed around their wagons as they rode into the village, throwing flowers and shrieking, many of them clutching sticky pieces of honeycomb and sucking the liquid gold off their little fingers. The village was decked with lush garlands made from summer flowers, and the air was filled with the smell of roasting fish and fowl.
Maur growled, “Mmm! You smell that?”
Bran nodded. “Can’t wait to get some of it in my belly.”
“And some ale.” Maur winked.
“That too.”
A large grassy area in the center of the village had been cleared away for dancing. Teirtu, the bard, was sitting on the edge of a raised platform nearby that had been built for the musicians. He was singing funny rhymes to a flock of children seated at his feet, driving them into squealing fits of laughter every time he finished a verse. Bran noticed Taliesin sitting by his side, enraptured by Teirtu’s fingers upon the dulcimer in his lap.
Bran expected Ula to be close by, but did not see her anywhere. His stomach sank. Where is she?
After the horses were seen to, Bran’s men unloaded the wagons and settled in. Some had brought tents to pitch within the village walls. Others would stay with their clansmen in the newly-built Oak Village near the shipyard. Honored guests, including Bran and his family, would stay within the castle itself. Everyone would celebrate together, however, outside, under the stars.
“That’s Taliesin, isn’t it?” Lucia asked, pointing her finger in his direction.
Bran nodded. “Yes, that’s him.”
Before he could say another word, Lucia made her way toward the child, lumbering along with both her babes strapped to her. How does she manage it? he wondered. She was a slight woman, but somehow she did. She sat down beside the boy on the platform, adjusting her skirt and cradling one baby with her arms, and nestled the other in her lap. Taliesin took his eyes off Teirtu’s dulcimer for the first time and turned toward her, interested in the bundles she was cradling. He said something to her, and then reached over with his tiny hand. He peeked beneath the swaddling blankets of both babes in turn to look at their faces, just as curious about them as he had been about the dulcimer moments before.
“Get a look at that!” Maur’s voice bellowed, diverting his attention.
“What?”
Maur pointed to several casks of ale stacked up against a stone wall across the yard. “Whoopeee!” he cried with glee. “I’ve a sore rump and a dry throat, and Elffin’s just about to open the first cask! Come and have a drink with me, Pennaeth!”
Bran could not deny he was suffering from similar afflictions. He happily followed Maur toward where the ale was being served. Several women were milling through the crowd, pouring ale from pitchers filled from the first cask of summer ale.
Elffin held up his drinking horn and addressed the crowd. “Friends!” He had to yell to be heard above the revelry. “Welcome you to Caer Gwythno!” Cheers erupted. “Let’s give thanks and drink to Llew, who has blessed us with a bountiful harvest!”
The crowd exploded again with more cheers, and all drained their horns. In typical House of Garanhir fashion, the women were close at hand to fill them up again.
In the brief silent moment that the crowd was drinking, rather than cheering, Bran heard the sound of Teirtu’s dulcimer. A drum and harp joined in soon after. They played a welcoming dancing tune. Gods, I must have Teirtu back in my hall again! Mererid is gone, now—there’s no reason for him to remain here anymore, unless he wishes to, of course. He could not help but clap his hands. He moved toward the dancing field, scanning the crowd for his wife. He wanted to dance with her.
As he reached the musicians platform, he gasped. It was no longer Teirtu playing the dulcimer, for he was now playing his harp.
It was the babe, Taliesin.
***
“You must allow me to take him to the Crossroads,” Islwyn insisted.
Elffin shook his head. “I can’t do that. He’s just a child.” The thought of losing Taliesin was simply too much. Again, he had lost nearly everything that was important to him—his father, his sister, and Ula—all gone within a season. “He’s all I have,” he added. “If you wish to teach him, you may teach him here.”
Islwyn shook his head. “I cannot stay here. I have taken an oath to protect the Sacred Grove.”
“Teirtu can teach him,” Elffin suggested.
“Teirtu is not a druid!” Islwyn said impatiently, “and though he plays well enough, he is not the bard that I am! I say that not to boast. It is simply the truth. Taliesin was born of the gods, Lord Elffin. He is meant for more than performing for your court—I know you must see that—yet you insist on keeping him here, away from the knowledge that would enable him to cast out darkness from the world of men!”
Moved, Elffin relented somewhat. “For now, yes.”
Islwyn sighed. “Time is a luxury only the young enjoy, my lord. I know of no one, save myself, who can impart the teachings of the Old Ways to that child, and I fear I will not see many more harvests. Please think on this.”
Elffin felt torn. “I will.”
Islwyn shot him a look of defeat and left the room.
***
“When did Ula leave?” Bran asked Elffin.
“A few moons ago. Not long after my father passed.” Elffin put his head in his hands and r
ubbed his eyes. He constantly felt tired. “Once Taliesin was weaned, she told me she couldn’t marry me—that she wanted to return to the sea.”
Bran wrinkled his brow in astonishment. “That’s it?”
“More or less.” Elffin looked out the window to the sea, picturing Ula beneath its waves. “She told me she’d return to see Taliesin, but didn’t say when. She just took her skin, walked down to the beach, and left.”
Bran let out a long sigh and put his hand on Elffin’s shoulder, wondering if perhaps he was born under a bad sign. The poor man had endured more than his share of misfortune. “I’m so sorry, my friend.”
Elffin nodded. “What do you think? Am I making a mistake keeping Taliesin here?”
“Time will tell,” Bran replied after a moment. “I only know two things for certain.”
“What?”
“Ula said you were chosen by the Guardians to father that child, just as she was chosen to mother him. I believe this.”
“She said that?” Elffin felt somewhat better.
“Yes.”
“And the other thing?”
Bran put his hand on Elffin’s shoulder again. “Anytime I have not taken Islwyn’s advice, I’ve regretted it.” He gave Elffin a half-smile, squeezed his shoulder and left him alone with his thoughts.
***
Lucia chose to ride alongside Islwyn on the journey home. She left the babes under Buddug’s watchful eye in the wagon that rambled along at the head of the procession.
The ride home was more leisurely than the ride out. Everyone was in better spirits, satisfied with a week’s worth of good meals, good ale, and trades well-struck.
“It’s clear Taliesin is destined for greatness,” Lucia remarked to Islwyn, curious to know what he thought of the boy.
“He is, but I fear if he is raised in Caer Gwythno, he will learn to do nothing but build ships, drink wine and play music,” Islwyn scoffed in an irritated tone. “I tried to convince Elffin to let me apprentice the boy, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”