“Never vain, never arrogant, never puffed up with pride, love behaves in a seemly manner, never rude or unbecoming. Love seeks not its own reward, nor makes demands, but gives itself withal.
“Love does not persevere to its own benefit; it is not fretful, or resentful. It takes no account of evil done to it, and pays no heed to the wrongs it suffers. Yet, it does not rejoice at injustice, but rejoices when right and truth prevail.
“Love bears all things, hopes all things, believes the best in all things. Love never fails, and its strength never fades. Every gift of the Giving God will come to an end, but love will never end.
“And so three things abide forever: faith, hope, and love. And the greatest of these is love.”
So saying, he invited us to the Table of Christ to receive the cup and bread, which was Body and Blood to us. We sang a Psalm, and Dafyd offered a Benediction, saying, “My lords and ladies, it is written: Wherever two or more are gathered in his name, Jesu is there also. He is here among us tonight, friends. Do you feel his presence? Do you feel the love and joy he brings?”
We did feel it; there was not a single soul in that glowing, glittering company gathered in the hall that did not feel the Holy One’s presence. And because it was so, many who heard the mass believed in the Savior God from that night.
This, I thought to myself, is the foundation the Kingdom of Summer is built upon. This is the mortar that binds it together.
* * *
The next day Dafyd took me to see his new chapel; we talked along the way, riding out on one of those brilliant winter days when the world gleams like a thing new-made. The sky was high and clean and bright, shining pale blue like fragile bird’s eggs. Eagles wheeled through cloudless sweeps of heaven, and quail strutted through elder thickets. A black-tipped fox slipped across the trail with a pheasant in its mouth, stopping to give us a wary glance before disappearing into a copse of young birches.
We talked as we rode, our breath puffing in great silver clouds in the cold air, and I told him about my life among the Prytani. Dafyd was fascinated, shaking his head slowly from time to time, trying to take it all in.
In good time we arrived at the chapel, a square timber structure set on a raised foundation of stone atop a wooded rise. The steep roof was thatched, and the eaves reached almost to the ground. Behind the chapel a spring-fed well spilled over to form a small pool. Two deer at the pool bounded into the brake at our approach.
“Here is my first chapel,” Dafyd declared proudly. “The first of many. Ah, Myrddin, there is a rich harvest hereabouts; the people are eager to hear. Our Lord the Christ is claiming this land for his own, I know he is.”
“So be it,” I said. “May Light increase.”
We dismounted and went inside. The interior had the new-building smell: wood shavings and straw, stone and mortar. It was bare of furniture, but there was a wooden altar with a slab of black slate for a top, and affixed to the wall above it, a cross carved from the wood of a walnut tree. A single beeswax candle stood upon the slate in a golden holder that surely came from Maelwys’ house. Before the altar lay a thick woollen pad on which Dafyd knelt for his prayers. Light entered the room from narrow windows along the side walls, now covered with oiled skins for winter. It was similar to the shrine at Ynys Avallach, but larger, for Dafyd fully expected his small flock to increase, and had built to accommodate them.
“It is a good place, Dafyd,” I told him.
“There are far grander chapels in the east,” he said. “Some with pillars of ivory and roofs of gold, I hear.”
“Perhaps,” I allowed. “But do they also have priests who can fill a king’s hall with words of peace and joy that win men’s hearts?”
He beamed happily. “I do not envy the gold, Myrddin, never fear.” Spreading his arms and turning slowly about the room, he said, “This is where we begin and it is a good beginning. I see a time when there is a chapel on every hill and a church in every town and city in this land.”
“Maelwys tells me you are building a monastery as well.”
“Yes, a little distance from here—close enough to be a presence, but far enough away to be set apart. We will begin with six brothers; they are coming from Gaul in the spring. More hands will make the work lighter, true enough, but what is most important is the school. If we are to establish the Truth in this land, there must be a place of learning. There must be books and there must be teachers.”
“A glorious dream, Dafyd,” I told him.
“Not a dream, a vision. I can see it, Myrddin. It will be.”
We talked a while longer, and then he led me out to walk through the unbroken snow to the pool behind the chapel. I had some presentiment of what was about to happen, for I suddenly had a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach and a lightness in my head. I followed the priest to a little bower beside the pool with its thin skin of ice which the deer had broken to get at the water.
In the bower, formed by three small hazel trees, stood an oaken stake with a cross-piece lashed into place with rawhide. I stood for a long moment looking down at the hump of earth beneath the snow. Finally I found my voice. “Hafgan?”
Dafyd nodded. “He died last winter. The foundation here had just been laid. He chose this spot himself.”
I sank to my knees in the snow and stretched myself full-length upon the grave mound. The earth was cold, cold and hard; Hafgan’s body lay deep in the frozen ground. Not for him entombment in cromlech and barrow; his bones would rest in ground sacred to a different god.
The snow melted where my tears fell.
Farewell, Hafgan, my friend, may it go well with you on your journey. Great Light, shower mercy upon this noble soul and robe him in your lovingkindness. He served you well with what light he had.
I got to my feet and brushed snow from my clothes. “He never told me,” Dafyd remarked, “but I gather something happened on your journey to Gwynedd, something unpleasant or distressing to him.”
Yes, it would have distressed him. “He had hoped to bring the Learned Brotherhood into the Truth, but they refused. As Archdruid, I suppose he saw their refusal as a defiance of his authority, as rebellion. There was a confrontation, and he disbanded the brotherhood.”
“I thought it must have been something like that. When he returned, we had many long talks about—” Dafyd chuckled gently, “—about the most obscure points of theology. He wanted to know all about divine grace.”
“Seeing that he is buried on holy ground, it would appear he found his answer.”
“He said he wanted his burial here not because he thought his bones might rest better in hallowed earth, but that he wanted it to be a sign, an expression of his allegiance to Lord Jesu. I had thought he should be buried at Caer Cam with his people, but he was adamant. ‘Look you, brother priest,’ he said, ‘it is not the ground, not the soil—earth is earth and rock is rock. But if anyone comes looking for me, I want them to find me here.’ So, here he is.”
It was very like Hafgan; I could hear him saying that. So he had not died in Gwynedd as he had planned. Perhaps, after the confrontation with the druids, he had simply changed his mind. That would be like him as well. “How did he die?”
Dafyd spread his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “His death is a mystery to me—as to anyone else. He was hale and whole one day—I saw him at Maelwys’ house; we talked and drank together. The next day but one he was dead. In his sleep, they said. He sang for Maelwys after supper, and then remarked that he was very tired and went to his room. They found him cold in his bed the next morning.”
“He went out with a song,” I murmured.
“Which reminds me!” replied Dafyd suddenly. “He left something for you. In my joy at seeing you, I had nearly forgotten all about it. Come with me.”
We returned to the rear of the chapel where Dafyd had a little room for when he stayed there. A rush pallet piled with fleeces and skins, a small table and simple stool beside a fireplace, and utensils for eating and cooki
ng were all Dafyd’s possessions. In the corner beside the pallet stood an object wrapped in a cloth cover. I knew what it was.
“Hafgan’s harp,” Dafyd said, retrieving it and holding it out to me. “He asked me to save it for your return.”
I took the beloved instrument and reverently uncovered it. The wood gleamed in the dim light, and the strings hummed faintly. Hafgan’s harp…a treasure. How many times had I seen him play it? How many times had I played it myself in learning? It was almost the first thing I remember about him—the long, robed frame sitting beside the fire, hunched over the harp, spinning music into a night suddenly alive with magic. Or I see him standing upright in a king’s hall, strumming boldly as he sings of the deeds and desires, faults and fame, hopes and harrowings of the heroes of our people.
“He knew I would come back?”
“Oh, he never doubted it. ‘Give this to Myrddin when he returns,’ he told me. ‘He will need a harp, and I always meant him to have this one.’ “
Thank you, Hafgan. If you could see where and when your harp has been used, you would be astonished.
We rode back to the villa then, arriving in time to eat our midday meal. My mother and Gwendolau were deep in conversation, oblivious to the activity around them. Dafyd and I ate with Maelwys and Baram, who were sitting with two of Maelwys’ chiefs from the northern part of his lands. “Sit down with us,” Maelwys invited. “There is news from Gwynedd.”
One of the chieftains, a swarthy dark man named Tegwr, with short black hair and a heavy bronze torc around his neck, spoke up: “I have kinsmen in the north who sent word that a king called Cunedda has been established in Diganhwy.”
Baram leaned closer, but said nothing.
“Has been established?” I asked. “What does that mean?”
“The Emperor Maximus has put him there,” Tegwr answered bluntly. “To hold the land, they say. Gave it to him outright, him and his tribe, if they would live there and hold the land.”
“Very generous of our emperor,” replied Maelwys.
“Generous, aye, and crack-brained.” Tegwr shook his head violently, showing what he thought of the idea.
“The land is empty, and that is not good. Someone has to hold it—to keep the Irish out, if for no other reason,” I pointed out.
“Cunedda is Irish!” Tegwr exploded. The other chief spat and cursed under his breath. “And he is there!”
“That cannot be,” said Baram. “If it is, it cannot be good.”
There was something of familiarity in Baram’s spare tone. “You know him?” asked Maelwys.
“We know of him.”
“And what you know is not good?”
Baram nodded darkly, but said nothing.
“Speak man,” said Tegwr. “This is no time to clamp jaws and bite tongue.”
“We hear he has three wives and a brood of sons.”
“Brood is right!” laughed Baram mirthlessly. “Viper’s brood, more like. Cunedda came to the north many years ago and seized land there. Since then, there has been nothing but trouble. Yes, we know him and have no love for him, or his grasping sons.”
“Why would Maximus wish to establish him among us? Why not one of our own?” wondered Maelwys. “Elphin ap Gwyddno, perhaps.” He gestured toward me. “It was their land first.”
“My grandfather would thank you for the thought,” I replied, “but he would not go back. There is too much pain in the place for my people; they would never be happy there again. Once, when I was quite small, Maximus asked Elphin to go back and received his answer then.”
“That is no reason to bring in a hound like Cunedda,” sneered Tegwr.
“Take the Irish to keep the other Irish out,” mused Maelwys.
“You will have to watch him,” warned Baram. “He is an old man now—some of his sons have sons. But he is cunning as an old boar, and as mean. His sons are little better, there are eight of them, and tight-fisted to a man, whether with sword or purse. But I will say this, they look out for their own. If holding the land is what they are to do, hold it they will.”
“Small comfort that is,” muttered Tegwr.
Baram shrugged. He had, after his fashion, spoken a whole month’s worth and would say no more.
In my own estimation, no matter what Tegwr and those like him might think, Cunedda’s coming was no bad thing in itself. The land had to be held and worked and protected. In the time since Elphin had been driven out, no one else had claimed Gwynedd. Even those who had overrun it had no lasting interest in it; they cared only for the wealth it promised.
There could be, as Elphin realized, no return to the past. Better to have a known rascal like Cunedda—who could be relied upon to look out for his own interests, if nothing else— than an unknown rascal. Granting land to Cunedda could be a masterstroke of diplomacy and defense. Maximus might then more easily gut the garrison for his move to Gaul, having done what he could for the region by bringing in a strong clan to protect it. For Cunedda’s part, the old boar would be flattered and gratified to be so recognized by the emperor; he might even mend his ruthless ways in an effort to win the respect of his neighbors.
Time would tell.
The others drifted into talk of other concerns, so I excused myself and took the harp to my room where I set about tuning it and trying my hand. So long had it been since I had last held a harp—in fact, the last time had been on the night I sang in Maelwys’ hall.
A beautiful instrument, the harp is crafted by bardic artisans using tools and skills guarded, honed, and improved over a thousand years. The finest wood: heart of oak or walnut, carefully, gracefully cut, shaped, and smoothed by hand. Polished with a preserving lacquer and strung with brass or gut, a well-made harp sings of itself; in the wandering wind it hums. But let the hand of a bard touch those bright strings and it leaps into song.
There is a saying among bards that all songs ever to be made lie sleeping in the heart of the harp and only await the harper’s touch to awaken them. I have felt this to be true, for often the songs themselves seem to teach the fingers to play.
After a time, the feel of my fingers on the strings began to come back to me. I tried playing one of the songs I liked best and managed to get through it with only a few hesitations.
For some reason, cradling the harp, Ganieda came to mind. I had thought about her often since leaving Custennin’s forest stronghold. Even though it had been in her father’s mind to send Gwendolau with me, that did not lessen her concern for me. Did she, like her father, also guess I shared ancestry with the Fair Folk? Was that what attracted her to me, and I to her?
Oh yes, I was attracted to her: smitten with that dark beauty, some might say, from the moment I saw her plunging recklessly through the wood in pursuit of that monstrous boar. First, the sound of their chase and the sight of the beast thrashing through the stream, and then…Ganieda, suddenly appearing in the light, spear in hand, eyes bright, intense, fevered determination shaping her lovely features.
Ganieda of the Fair Folk, was it coincidence? Had chance alone brought us together? Or something beyond chance?
However it was, our lives could not go on as before. Soon or late, there would be a decision. In my heart of hearts I knew the answer already, and hoped I knew it aright.
The harp brought these things to my mind. Music, I suppose, was part of the beauty I associated, even then, with Ganieda. Already, though we scarcely knew each other, she was part of me and had a place in my thoughts and in my heart.
Did you know that, Ganieda? Did you feel it, too?
11
Pendaran Gleddyvrudd, King of the Demetae and Silures in Dyfed, had grown weedy with the years, his muscles like rawhide cords beneath a skin of bleached vellum. His eyes were keen and bright, serving a mind that was, in its way, still alert and quick. But in his last years he had become simple. This he had in common with many whom age strips of guile and pretense.
A day or two after visiting Dafyd’s chapel, I came in from walking w
ith my mother and found him sitting in his customary place by the hearth. He had an iron poker in his hand and was jabbing at the spent logs, cracking them into embers.
“Ah, Myrddin, lad! The others have had you to themselves long enough. It is my turn now. Come here.”
Mother excused herself, and I settled myself into the chair opposite him on the hearth. “Events are galloping, eh, Myrddin? But then they always are.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “You have seen a great many things come to pass in your lifetime.” Gleddyvrudd—the word meant Red Sword, and I wondered what kind of king he had been to win himself that name.
“More than most men, true.” He winked, and stirred the embers with the poker in his hand.
“What do you think about Maximus becoming emperor?” I asked, curious to hear what he would say.
“Bah!” He wrinkled his face with distaste. “Upstart, you mean. What does he want to be emperor for?”
“Perhaps he thinks he can win peace for us, look out for our interests.”
Pendaran shook his bald head. “Peace! So he takes the legions and marches off to Gaul first thing—why does he want to do that, I ask you?” He sighed. “I will tell you, shall I? Vanity, lad. Our Emperor Maximus is a vain man, too easily led by men’s good opinion of him.”
“He is a great soldier.”
“Never believe it! A real soldier would stay home and protect his own, and not go looking for a fight on foreign shores. Who will he fight over there? Saecsens? Ha! He will go for Gratian’s throat.” He gave a derisive laugh. “Oh, that is what we need—two strutting peacocks pecking each other’s eyes out while the Sea Wolves run through us as if we were sheep in a pen.”
“If he achieves peace in Gaul, he will certainly come back with more troops for us and put a stop to it.”
“Hoo!” Pendaran hooted with glee. “Do not believe it! He will carve up that runt Gratian and then he will fix his eyes on Rome. Mark me, Myrddin, we have seen the last of Maximus. Have you ever known a man to return from Rome? Once across the water, he is gone. A pity he took all our best fighting men with him.” He shook his head sadly, as a father might for a wayward son.