The Legend of Lady Ilena

by Patricia Malone

  I nod in what I hope is a ladylike greeting. Under his protection, indeed! And yet it saves a lot of trouble. There will be no advances, no questions I don’t want to deal with.

  The gates creak open, and we ride into Dun Dreug. I have heard stories of fortresses. The descriptions filled stanzas of the bards’ songs, and Grenna and Moren often told of holdings they had known. Still, I am unprepared for the sheer size of the compound or for the commotion before me.

  There are structures everywhere I look. A round building like the houses at home but much larger stands farthest from the gate. It must be the Great Hall. People swarm in and out of doors like ants going about their business on a hot summer day. Hounds and children chase each other around buildings and across the grounds.

  We head directly to the Great Hall. The man who stands before its door wears wide gold armbands, and his sword hilt shines above an ornate scabbard.

  “Elban, Chief Perr’s good friend and doorkeeper,” Durant says as we approach.

  Elban steps forward to greet us. “Welcome, Durant of Hadel. Chief Perr has been told of your arrival.”

  He has hardly finished speaking when a man hurries through the wide door behind him. “Durant! Blessings on the feet that brought you. We’ve been expecting you for days.”

  Durant slides down from Bork’s back. I can see the effort he makes to stay upright. His face is pale around the ugly swelling, and his knuckles are white where he clutches a saddle strap. He smiles, however, and speaks in a hearty voice. “Blessing on this house, Perr. And a welcome sight you are.”

  Perr of Dun Dreug is short and nearly as broad as he is high. His beard and hair are brown streaked with gray. Bright blue eyes are alert under heavy brown eyebrows. His hair is held in a curious circlet of gold wire that ends in flat gold animal heads pressed against his temples. He wears leather trousers and a loose vest over a finely woven tunic. A gold pendant inlaid with red and blue enamel hangs tangled in brown chest hair at the tunic’s opening.

  He turns to me with a nod. “And welcome to your companion.”

  “The lady Ilena.” Durant makes no further explanation for me.

  “A blessing on this house and all who live here, Chief Perr.” I move to dismount, and Elban springs to Rol’s side.

  “My arm, lady.”

  “Thank you.” I hardly need help getting off my horse, but I lay my hand on the thick brown forearm he offers.

  “I need rest, Perr, and perhaps a poultice for this eye,” Durant says. “Then we can talk.”

  “My wife, Faren, is skilled with wounds; she’ll treat it for you. I’ll show you to your sleeping space.” Perr looks toward me.

  I flush at the unspoken question that hangs in the air.

  “The lady Ilena would like the women’s quarters.” Durant smiles at me.

  Boys have appeared to take the horses. I reach to lift down my pack, but Elban moves in front of me. “I’ll get that, lady.” He slings my pack on his shoulder and takes my sword and shield from the harness.

  I nod to Chief Perr and Durant and follow my guide toward a building off to the side of the Great Hall. He carries my shield and pack together on his shoulder with one hand and holds my sword in the other so he can study the hilt.

  “Gola, Gola! Hurry up!” When a woman a little older than I appears, Elban continues. “This is the lady Ilena. She rode in with Arthur’s envoy. Find her fitting quarters.”

  He hands my pack over to her and offers sword and shield to me. “A fine sword this, lady. Made by Master Trelawn, I’d wager.”

  “I don’t know. It was a gift, and I treasure it highly.”

  “That you should. Gola will tell you when it is time to gather in the Great Hall for dinner.” His nod to me is almost a bow.

  Gola wears her full auburn hair loose, and it falls from a simple silver circlet. She has a bronze-and-silver brooch at the shoulder of her brown dress. She leads me across a dim room with a low fire in the center hearth and into a fine sleeping room with walls taller than I. There is a deerskin to drop over the entrance for privacy and a window onto the courtyard.

  She closes the shutters. “It blows cold from the north, lady. We fear snow early this year.”

  Bad news, that, for me. I’ve heard enough of Moren’s trips to know that there are mountain passes yet to cross before I reach Dun Alyn. If there is a chance of snow, I must move on quickly.

  “The servants are busy in the kitchen,” Gola says. “I’ll bring you a basin of water.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “That will be welcome.” I open my pack and shake out the blue gown and the girdle. I spread them over one end of the long bedplace and lay my circlet and bracelets with them.

  Gola returns with a basin of steaming water and a towel. “I’ll return for this when you’ve finished. Most of the ladies are at chariot races beyond the northern wall. You have time to rest before they return.”

  The hot water feels good. I wash away the grime and horse smell and pull on a clean undershift. There is still no one in the building but me, and the bed is inviting. It feels good to stretch out.

  When I awaken I hear voices, but they seem to be fading. Someone has removed the basin and towel. I push the doorskin aside and peer out into the rest of the house; two women are moving toward the front entrance. They are too engrossed in their conversation to notice me, but I get a good view of a gold pendant, bracelets, and gleaming circlets.

  There’s a harp playing in the distance, and I smell roasted meat. I find Grenna’s comb and attack the tangles in my hair.

  “Lady Ilena.” Gola bustles in. “You’ve had a long rest. Can I help you get ready?” She takes the comb from my hand and points to the bed. “Sit.”

  I obey and let her work. She picks up the gold circlet. “Lovely,” she says when it’s adjusted to her satisfaction.

  I stand to pull on the blue gown and find her holding it ready. I can barely remember Grenna helping me dress when I was a child, and I’ve certainly had no one combing and holding and smoothing for me since. Being taken for a lady is an interesting experience. Gola exclaims over the fine needlework on the girdle and hands me my bracelets.

  “Is the mirror there in my pack?” I ask.

  She rummages around for a moment and pulls it out with one hand. With the other she draws forth the gold torc. “Oh, lady. This is priceless!” She reaches out and clasps it around my neck, then hands me the mirror.

  The torc is heavy against my neck, but the feeling is not unpleasant. I can see the metal gleaming in the smooth bronze mirror. It calls attention to my face and to the thin circlet that holds my hair. I have no idea whether I should wear it or not, but Gola thinks I am appropriately adorned for the Great Hall.

  “Oh, Lady Ilena, you’ll be the envy of every woman there.”

  I’m not sure if that is my goal, but they think I’m a noblewoman of some sort, so I should try to play the part. I take my light slippers from the pack and pull them on.

  “I’ll walk with you to the Great Hall,” Gola offers.

  The sentries greet me when we arrive. They have taken Elban’s place at the entrance. The position of doorkeeper is important and a great honor. If no strangers are anticipated, Elban will eat at Perr’s table. The sentries will call him if they need help deciding whether someone should enter the hall.

  “Lady Ilena. Chief Perr and his wife wait for you at the head table.”

  Inside the hall I stand for several minutes adjusting my eyes to the dim, smoky room. In truth it is more than the change in light that makes me pause. The noise of dozens of people talking, calling between tables, laughing, and, at one table near the front, clapping their hands overwhelms me. Harp music fills any spaces in the din.

  I’ve never dreamed of so many people in one place. Most sit on benches at long tables that fill the room. Servants run about with baskets of bread and fruits. Women hurry to a huge cauldron at one side to refill flagons for those at their tables. Torches sputter above it all, adding light t
o fading twilight from the windows and smoke to the scent of meats and human bodies.

  I realize I’ve been standing there for too long when the hall grows quiet and people turn to stare at me. Gola touches my arm and points across the room to a long table raised on a platform. Chief Perr sits in the center; a tall blond-haired woman stands at his side. She is beckoning to me and pointing to an empty seat beside her.

  “I’ll find you after dinner,” Gola says. She moves off into the crowd.

  I remember to raise my chin and square my shoulders before I start across the hall. It is important to look confident whether I feel so or not. Moren reminded me often that people keep their first impressions for a long time. As I move along an aisle that stretches between tables to the platform, I hear whispers.

  “Rode in with Durant.”

  “His woman?”

  “… somewhere in the West.”

  “See that torc?”

  “… staying in the women’s quarters.”

  By the time I reach the head table and take the seat beside Chief Perr’s wife, conversation has resumed at full volume. I can hardly hear her words. “Welcome to Dun Dreug. I am Faren. Durant tells me you are from the West?”

  It is rude to ask direct questions of a guest, but I can tell that she hopes for information. I smile and try to speak without admitting that I have no noble lineage to report. “From the Vale of Enfert, lady. It is near the western sea.”

  “And your father is chief of Enfert?”

  “My father is dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” She touches the sleeve of my dress. “This is lovely weaving. The color suits you.”

  I start to acknowledge the compliment, but we are interrupted by a serving boy with a plank of meats from the carving table. After two days of dried venison and stale bread, the hot food is welcome. I pull my dirk from its holder in my girdle and spear a large piece of beef. There are also pork and several small birds still on a spit. I pull one of the birds onto my trencher.

  Gola appears at my shoulder with a flagon of ale.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I didn’t see where you went when we came in.”

  “I am sitting there.” She points back into shadows near the door. “My husband and I ride with Perr’s war band.”

  Conversation stops at table after table as servants progress through the hall with the food. I wish Fiona and Jon could be here. We used to play at heroes’ banquets when we were small. Occasionally a bard would venture into the Vale of Enfert looking for dinner and a bed in exchange for his stories and fresh news. For days afterward we would act out the stories we had heard of heroes and banquets.

  My old friends would be surprised to see me at the head table in this great hall wearing a gold torc and talking with a chief and his wife.

  As the music strengthens, Faren whispers, “A new bard. He arrived today.”

  Chief Perr leans past his wife and speaks to me. “He brings news of fortresses in the East. Durant will want to know what he tells us.”

  The bard brings his music to a close and stands to speak. First he thanks Perr and his wife for their hospitality. He talks for a while of Arthur and of new Saxon invasions in the South, then strikes several strong chords and announces a title:

  “The Story of Cara and Miquain.”

  Some in the hall turn on their benches to see better. Others hurry to get fresh ale before the music starts again. The bard moves his stool toward the center of the platform and waits for silence. I can see him well now; his sharp-nosed profile is directly in front of me. His rusty brown hair hangs in unruly locks around his face as he bends over his instrument.

  When the hall is quiet, he begins speaking over soft chords from the harp. “I have just come from my first visit to Dun Alyn. All there are still in mourning for the ladies of the fortress.”

  Perr drops his dirk on the table and stands to lean toward the bard. “By the gods, man, what do you mean?”

  “They were killed in battle some thirty days ago.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Aye,” the bard answers.

  “And Belert?” Perr asks.

  “He lives. Listen, and I will sing the story as I learned it at Dun Alyn.”

  I stop eating. The meat that seemed so welcome a few minutes ago sits like a stone in my belly. I had hoped for news of Dun Alyn, but I didn’t expect anything this dreadful. I lean forward to be sure I can hear it all. The rest of the hall is quiet and every eye is fixed on the bard. Perr sits down and pushes his trencher away.

  The bard strums one loud chord, then holds the harp silent while he speaks. “In the days before Vortigern, before Saxons menaced our southern shore, the mighty Chief Fergus with his lady, Gwlech, led Dun Alyn. This is the story of their daughter, Cara, and her daughter, Miquain.”

  He plays a few notes of a melody and then begins to sing in a clear, strong voice:

  Fairer than snow on the slopes of Red Mountain

  Cara, the daughter of Gwlech and Fergus.

  Lighter than breezes her steps in the hall

  When the company gathered at twilight.

  Bright was her face, brighter than starlight

  Shining in blackness at midnight.

  Higher than clouds was her beauty

  Above the daughters of chiefs around her.

  Hair that glistened like the raven’s wing,

  Skin of white like wave tops in a winter storm,

  Cheeks blushed red as any scarlet berry in the sun.

  Her eyes gray as trout pools on a cloudy day.

  Long the suitors clamored

  At the gates of Dun Alyn.

  Cara, maiden of the North,

  Sung for her beauty

  From the day that she could walk,

  Took sword and lance into battle,

  Led Dun Alyn’s warriors.

  Stood beside her father

  When war bands from the islands

  Landed ships beneath the cliff

  Where Dun Alyn towers high above the strand.

  Fierce she battled

  Till her foes were slain around her.

  Their bodies on the ground

  Piled like apples in the harvest,

  Their heads upon the ramparts

  Pierced like meats above the fire

  Spoke to all who saw

  Of the mighty battle wrought by Cara,

  Daughter of Gwlech and of Fergus.

  She stood beside her father on the shore.

  She stood beside her father at the gates.

  And stood beside her father on his deathbed.

  Wounded hard by a raider’s lance,

  The mighty Fergus was no more.

  Cara, treasure of her mother’s line,

  Sought among her suitors

  For a man to rule beside her

  Until Belert came to woo her.

  Long the feasts and sweet the songs,

  For a month the banquet lasted.

  Cara rode with Belert,

  Side by side they urged

  Their chariots against the foe.

  Dun Alyn prospered,

  Held its walls secure

  Against raiders from the sea

  And painted ones around them.

  Cara brought to childbed

  With the fair Miquain.

  Raised her daughter as a warrior

  Like to herself she raised her

  Till the two rode forth together,

  Black hair streaming in the wind.

  Brave as her father, skilled as her mother,

  Miquain stood fair among the women

  Who graced the northern halls.

  The bard stills the harp strings and reaches for his drink. People shift around on the benches and make quiet comments to one another. When the hall falls silent, the musician strums a few chords and speaks above them. “It was a dark night soon after Lughnasa when raiders sailed down the coast and beached their boats below Dun Alyn. They waited unseen, silent, while th
e gates opened for the day, and they watched as Belert and his men rode out to hunt.”

  He plays a strain of melody and then begins to sing again:

  War bands from afar,

  Painted ones and foreigners

  From across the eastern water

  Struck when Dun Alyn was at its weakest,

  Belert with his war band,

  Heroes bound to die before surrender,

  Hunting in the forest.

  Women and youth left behind

  To guard the fortress.

  Loud the horn that signaled danger.

  Swift, Miquain’s response.

  With her mother close behind

  Sent her chariot out the gate

  To engage the foe in battle.

  Red the stream that runs beside Dun Alyn,

  Red with blood of the attackers,

  Red with blood of Dun Alyn’s pride.

  Belert far beyond the fortress

  Heard the noise of battle horns,

  Spurred his horse toward home.

  Heard the noise of clashing weapons.

  Led his men till horses stumbled

  From the effort of the charge.

  Came at last to see invaders at the gate.

  Cara and Miquain, treasures of his life,

  Dead beside the others

  At the stream below the gate.

  He worked a terrible vengeance,

  Left no raider alive to reach

  The boats upturned along the beach.

  Loud the wails, long the mourning

  For Dun Alyn’s ladies, flowers of the North.

  Belert lost in grief haunts Dun Alyn’s walls.

  Looking seaward now and landward then.

  Looking far beyond the land of mortals,

  Wishing only that he’d joined them

  In their journey to the Sidth.

  Gloom hangs heavy on Dun Alyn’s hill.

  Sing the death of Cara.

  Sing the death of Miquain.

  Lament with Belert, chief of Dun Alyn.

  The bard’s head lowers closer and closer to his harp until his forehead rests against the frame on the last words. The final chord hangs for a time in the silent room, then dies away as hushed talking resumes.