Eventually Gwanwyn made a pretense of having to see to the servants and fled the table. The warband had broken out singing, leaning together and laughing their way through a song about a mythical wench who liked her men five at a time. Gwanwyn circled round the edge and went to the doorway, where two of the boys were rolling a barrel of ale into the hall. Seren, the cook, was hovering round and snapping out orders.
“The ale’s running low, my lady, and we don’t dare stint this lot with the mood they’re in tonight”
“True spoken, but let that barrel settle before you dip from it. They’re too drunk to know dregs from drink, so just finish the other up.”
“I will, then, my lady. And the bread’s gone, too, I—” Seren paused, looking doubtfully over Gwanwyn’s shoulder.
“It’s hot in here,” Vortin said, and he was smiling, as sly as a stoat. “Come walk with me outside, my lady. We’ll catch a breath of air.”
“I won’t. My place is beside my betrothed.”
“Oh, is it now?”
Seren was staring down at the floor, her mouth slack, her eyes unfocused, as if she slept where she stood. All at once Gwanwyn felt Vortin’s mind circle hers like a physical rope, catching her, pulling her, dragging her to do his will. When he laid his hand along her cheek, she wrenched away in blind panic.
“Stop it! Don’t you dare touch me!”
Vortin swore under his breath and stepped back just as Seren woke from the spell and screamed, a reflexive echo of terror. Men rose, men turned, the hall burst out with shouting. Gwanwyn raced down its length and threw herself at Cadvaennan’s feet. “Father! He would have dishonored me.”
With an oath Owain sprang up and ran for Vortin, but the warband got there ahead of him. They swirled around the sorcerer, grabbed him, shoved him back and forth between them and cursed him with hatred too long hidden as they hauled him down to face the lord. Vortin was perfectly calm, even smiling as he ignored the shoves and oaths.
“You black dog!” Owain snarled. “I’ve seen you sniffing around my lass for too long now. So it’s come to this, has it?”
Owain gave him one last shove that sent him face-to-face with Cadvaennan.
Vortin shook himself, dusted off his tunic with fastidious fingers, then shot the men a look that made them fall back.
“My lord,” Vortin said. “I swear by every god that I had no intention of dishonoring your daughter. I only wished to talk with her.” He shot Owain the blackest look of all. “I most humbly submit, Lord Cadvaennan, that I’d make her a better husband than this bull-faced lout with the brains of a wallowing hog.”
His sword half out of the scabbard, Owain started for him, but three men caught him and held him back.
“Wait! here! Let’s have a fair fight of it, lad.”
Although Owain shook their hands off, he stepped back.
“Vortin’s served me well,” Cadvaennan said. “But the lass has been sworn to Owain, who’s also served me well. So. Vortin, will you face him in single combat?”
All the men snickered, grinning Vortin’s way and elbowing each other. As Gwanwyn got to her feet, she felt her pounding heart begin to calm.
“I will,” Vortin said. “Whoever lives shall have her.”
“Done, then,” Cadvaennan said. “Lad! You! Leave that ale alone and go round up some torches.” Even the serving maids trailed along to watch when everyone trooped out to the ward. Four boys with torches took their places to mark out the corners of a rough square while the warband lined up round the sides. In the torch-thrown shadows up above, Irish heads seemed to be grinning. Owain and Vortin strode into the middle of the square. They drew their swords and held them straight up in front of them for the pledge.
“May the gods favor the stronger and the better,” Cadvaennan said. “Now!”
Owain stepped forward and flung up his blade for a feint, but Vortin refused to move, merely stared him full in the face. Owain hesitated, started to step forward, then caught himself with a drunken shake of his head. Their jeers dying away, the warband pressed closer until the torches flared up with a sudden smoky burst, driving them back. Owain began to lurch and stagger as if he had a fever while Vortin, watched with a thin smile. All at once, Gwanwyn remembered her vision at the wellspring. She wanted to scream a warning, but no words would come. Owain turned his sword point his own way and took another step, stood swaying, the point of the sword glinting as it bobbed just below his ribs. He lurched forward and fell, the sword biting deep into his chest, to lie in a crumpled heap. Blood oozed round him and sank into the dirt. A servant boy dropped his torch and screamed.
The men broke, shouting, milling forward to mob Vortin. Swinging the flat of his blade and galling them off, Cadvaennan pushed his way through to the sorcerer’s side.
“A pledge is a pledge. The lass is yours.”
The warband howled in rage, and Gwanwyn howled with them. “How could you, Father? He didn’t even fight with a true man’s weapons!”
When the men shouted their agreement, Cadvaennan swung round and slapped her across the face. “You do as I say!”
Yelling and demanding answers, the warband surged forward, hands on sword-hilts, and surrounded Cadvaennan and Vortin. In the cover of the confusion Gwanwyn slipped away from her father’s side, worked her way round the edge of the mob, then ran for the gates. She had no idea of where she was going, no hope of a real escape, but she kept running, stumbling down the dark hillside. From behind her, she heard the angry shouts of the men, and her father’s booming voice, demanding silence and order. At the bottom of the hill she paused, weeping blindly, gasping for breath.
Rosmarta’s voice hissed in her mind. Gwanwyn, go to the wellspring.
Gwanwyn threw up her head like a startled horse: there was no one in sight.
Yet she hesitated only the briefest of moments before she took out running, racing across the meadows in the moonless night. The tall grass caught at her ankles, and dress; once she fell, but she picked herself up and ran, her chest aching for breath. Far, far ahead of her in the dark she saw a dim shape that promised trees—but too many trees. She’d taken a wrong turning. She paused, looking wildly around her, the tears coming again, hot, unbidden, blinding.
Through the clear still air came the sound of horses, the jingling of bridles and the shouting of the warband. They were on her trail, hunting her down like a doe.
Something was moving through the grass. Gwanwyn choked back a scream just as Rosmarta’s wolf trotted up to her, its tail wagging like a dog’s. It whined, an importunate chirp, then turned to trot off again. When she followed, it whined in satisfaction and led her off at an angle. In a few minutes she saw the familiar silhouette of the aspen thicket just ahead, but too far—she glanced back to see the distant shapes of men on horseback coming fast after her with torches held high. The wolf howled once, then darted past her straight toward the warband.
Gwanwyn summoned up the last of her strength and raced across the meadow. Behind her she could hear neighs and curses as the wolf ran among the mounted men and sent he horses into a frenzy of fear. She dodged into the trees, tripped over a thick root, and fell headlong, her outflung hands splashing into the cool water of the spring. Sobbing, choking for breath, she hauled herself up to her knees. She could run no farther, but Rosmarta was standing on the far side of the pool and smiling at her.
“Well and good. No man can touch you where the Goddess gives me power.”
Gwanwyn’s tears stopped in sheer surprise as she realized why she could see the old woman. The thicket was glowing with strands and shreds of pale blue light as thick and palpable as sheep’s wool, caught all tufted on twig and branch. Rosmarta held out her hand.
“Get up, child. Come round and stand next to me.”
When Gwanwyn scrambled up, she looked back to see the warband riding this way and that across the meadow. No one headed toward the thicket, as if the tight hanging there blinded men’s eyes.
“I’ve been tracking
this Vortin down,” Rosmarta said, as calmly as if she were remarking on the weather. “Tonight, he’ll come to me. I’ve hung my bait out on the trees.”
“My lady, does he truly know grammarie?”
“How could you doubt it, after what you’ve seen? Think, lass! Oh, here, you don’t need me biting your head off, do you now? Forgive me. I wanted so badly to save your betrothed’s life, but I got to the dun far too late. But he’ll be avenged.”
“You were there? I didn’t see you.”
“Of course not! It wasn’t magic; I was standing in the gate, and you had other things to watch. I—” She stopped, pointing to the meadow where a single torch bobbed and dipped as its bearer rode steadily toward them.
At length Gwanwyn could make out Vortin riding in the pool of light.
About thirty feet away he dismounted, awkwardly holding the torch up away from his horse’s head.
“Who are you?” he called out. “Meddling old woman!”
Rosmarta merely laughed. When Vortin strode into the thicket, the torchlight sparkled on the water of the spring.
“Give me that lass! She’s my betrothed.”
“Oh, is she now? Your master Emrys might have a thing or two to say about that.”
Vortin froze. The color drained from his face.
“So,” Rosmarta went on. “His name means somewhat to you still, does it? Here, did you truly think an oath-breaker like you could ride away and do whatever he liked? Didn’t you realize that someone would be coming after you?”
With an animal howl, Vortin hurled his torch straight for her head, but it fell short into the pool with a great gush and roil of hissing steam. Gwanwyn felt the Presence rise up, furious at his defilement.
“You dolt, Vortin,” Rosmarta said.
Vortin lunged forward, staring at her in a way that Gwanwyn could recognize now; he was trying to bend her will to his own. When Rosmarta laughed, as merry as a lass at a market-fair, Vortin’s face darkened and the veins began to throb at his temples. He drew his sword and strode round the edge of the spring. From across the clearing the wolf broke cover and flew for him like a thrown spear. With a yell Vortin twisted round to meet the attack, his sword half-raised. And stood, merely stood, caught, frozen as stone-still as Owain had been forced to stand in front of him. The wolf struck with a growl.
Gwanwyn spun round and clapped her hands over her eyes. There was one bubbling scream, then silence.
“It’s over. You can look now, child. Come now, it’s not like you haven’t seen dead men before.”
Gwanwyn turned to see the wolf drinking from the spring and Vortin lying facedown in the grass. The Presence was dancing beside him, so corporeal that Gwanwyn could see her, like a beam of moonlight through mist. Gwanwyn raised her hands in worship, but she found she couldn’t speak. When Rosmarta laid a comforting baud on her shoulder, Gwanwyn suddenly felt like a sleeper, awakening from a nightmare only to realize that all those terrors she dismissed as dream still have truth in the day.
“But, my lady,” she stammered. “Who are you?”
“One who follows the dweomer road, but I pick my way a bit more carefully than this fool ever did. Here, if someone wants to study grammarie, they join what you might call a guild, much like someone who wants to be a weaver or a potter would prentice themselves out—except this guild must keep itself secret and hide from meddling priests. Vortin once served the master who taught me, but he broke his oaths. Off he went to use the secrets for his own gain, like a stupid magpie, gathering shiny stones and thinking them treasures. Well, you see what kind of reward he had.”
All at once Gwanwyn had to sit down; her legs simply refused to stay straight. As gracefully as she could manage, she sank down on the grass while Rosmarta hunkered down nearby. With a long whine of a sigh, Giff flopped next to her, by all appearances just an ordinary animal again.
“Can you walk?” Rosmarta said. “Your father will be bound to stumble across us eventually if we stay here.”
“Oh, ye gods! But I’ve got to rest, just for a little bit if naught else.”
“Very well, then. And, truly, you need to think. What will you do now, child? If you go back to your father in the morning, when his rage has had a chance to cool, he probably won’t even beat you.”
“Probably not, but if I had anywhere else to go, I’d never set foot in his hall again.”
“Why?”
“He would have handed me over to a dishonorable man, that’s why! I’d rather beg along the roads and starve than eat at his table again.”
“Would you come with me and join my guild?”
Gwanwyn shoved the back of her hand against her mouth to keep from squealing like a child.
“I marked you the moment I saw you, child. If you can scry in this spring, then you can follow the paths of grammarie. But you have to choose and quickly. Your father will forgive you, but I don’t want him asking me awkward questions. If you ride with me, you ride tonight. We’ll take Vortin’s horse as part of your betrothed’s blood price.”
“Owain’s dead.” She said it softly, with wonder, because until that moment she hadn’t believed the truth of it. “Why don’t I weep?”
“Because you’re drained half-dead and exhausted. The tears will come later. Answer me somewhat. Would you have been happy as Lord Owain’s wife?”
“Happy? My lady, I never allowed myself such a thought. He was the man my father chose, and he was the best warrior in Rheged. Everyone said so, and I was proud to marry him.” Her voice broke. “Now he’s dead, and I have naught.”
“Naught? Only your own road? That looks like somewhat to me.”
The light in the trees glowed like lace before a candle flame. The Presence of the Spring hovered close, slender and pale, more solid than Gwanwyn had ever seen her. She smiled and held out both hands as if she was urging her to go take this unexpected boon. Gwanwyn remembered all the times that she’d come to the spring and the hours she’d spent with the Presence, her one true friend. And as she remembered, her life came clear, just as if she’d stepped out of a smoky and airless room to see the sun for the first time.
“True spoken. I have the road.”
Rosmarta clapped her hands together three times. The light vanished from the trees.
With Giff coursing ahead, keeping watch and leading the way, they left Vortin’s body for Lord Cadvaennan’s men to find and hurried across the night-dark meadow. When they reached Old Mab’s hut, they found her awake, feeding a few sticks into her tiny fire.
“There you are!” Mab burst out. “My lady, your father rode in and woke up every man in the village to go hunt for you. He was yelling and blustering, but I think me he’s frightened half out of his wits, thinking some harm’s come to you.”
“Well, he won’t find me, will he, now? I’m riding with Rosmarta.”
“And we’re riding tonight,” Rosmarta said.
“Ah. He was the right one, then, was he?” Mab nodded in a wobble of chins.
“Is he dead?”
“He was and he is,” Rosmarta said. “A thousand thanks for your message.”
Suddenly Gwanwyn realized why Mab called Rosmarta cousin, as if they came from the same clan—no! the same guild. Mab grinned as if she’d read her mind.
“I always thought you were one of us, my lady.”
“Did you, Mab? Did you truly?”
“I did. Your mother had the sight, may the Goddess rest her soul, but all your father ever did was beat her for it, and so I held my tongue when I saw your eyes seeing things beyond what most may see.”
“And now she’ll learn to use the gifts the Goddess gave her,” Rosmarta said, smiling. “And those from the new god as well. Priests! They’re like men who find a chest of Rhivannon gold and use the coins to stop chinks in a wall!”
“No doubt,” Mab said. “But you can preach against them later. What counts now is getting the lady away.”
“True enough. Can you spare us some food and a cloak for
the lady?”
“Food I have, but a second cloak, no.”
“I’ll be warm enough,” Gwanwyn said. “And I’ll pray to our Lady to keep us safe.”
And whether it was the Lady that hid them or not, I cannot say, but they rode safely through the hills all that day, and on the day after that, until safe they were in Ty Gwin, the city that once the Rhivannon called Candida Casa, and the Saison dogs, Whithorne. And never, so they say, did any woman learn grammarie as easily as the Lady Gwanwyn of Dun Pennog, but as to the truth of that, I cannot tell you, either.
The Fourth Concealment of the Island of Britain
They are standing around a long table made of polished wood. In the dream he cannot count them, cannot see their faces; they are stiff figures wrapped in gray like corpsecloth. he table he can see.
On the table lies a flat sheet of Roman papyrus. He has only seen ancient scrolls and never realized a sheet could be so large, covering half the table, nor so white. Upon it there are lines, marks—a map.
Myrddin wakes with cold sweat soaking into the blanket that covers his straw-stuffed mattress. His other blanket lies upon the stone floor next to his bed. He sits up, stretching his arms out in front of him, surprised as always by the wrinkles bitten deep into his hands and the brown mottles of old age. In his dreams he sees himself as a young man still. From his troubled night his back hurts, and when he stands up, his knees complain aloud. He puts on a pair of sandals and a linen tunic, then crosses to the window of his round tower room and pulls aside the leather curtain.