To the men in the watchtower Taran called out that here were wayfarers journeying to Caer Cadarn and known to King Smoit. He was relieved when the portal creaked open and the guards beckoned the pair to enter. The Chief Steward was summoned, and he led Taran and Gurgi to the Great Hall.
“Beg hospitality of my Lord Gast,” the Steward told them, “and he will grant what he deems fitting.”
As he followed the Steward, Taran’s spirits rose at the thought of a warm meal and a comfortable couch. Loud voices, laughter, and the merry notes of a harp came from the Hall. Stepping through the doorway Taran saw crowded tables on either side of a low-ceilinged room. At the far end, flanked by his henchmen and their ladies, sat a richly garbed war lord, a drinking horn in one fist and most of a joint of meat in the other.
Taran and Gurgi bowed deeply. Before they could draw closer, the harper standing in the middle of the Hall turned, cried out in surprise, and ran to them. Taran, whose hand was being shaken half off his arm, found himself blinking with happy astonishment at the long pointed nose and spiky yellow hair of his old companion, Fflewddur Fflam.
“Well met, the two of you,” cried the bard, pulling them to the high table. “I’ve missed you ever since we parted. Did you not stay at Caer Dallben? When we sailed from Mona,” Fflewddur hurriedly explained, “I really meant to leave off wandering and settle down in my own realm. Then I said to myself, Fflewddur old fellow, spring’s only once a year. And here it is. And here am I. But what of yourselves? First, food and drink, and your tidings later.”
Fflewddur had brought the companions to stand before Lord Gast, and Taran saw a heavy-featured warrior with a beard the color of muddy flax. A handsome collarpiece dangled from his neck; rings glittered on fingers stout enough to crack walnuts; and bands of beaten silver circled his arms. The cantrev lord’s raiment was costly and well-cut, but Taran saw it bore the spots and spatters not only of this feast but of many others long past.
The bard, with a sweep of his harp, named the companions to Lord Gast. “These are two who sought the Black Cauldron from Arawn of Annuvin and fought at the side of Gwydion Prince of Don. Let your hospitality match their boldness.”
“And so it shall!” Gast loudly cried. “No wayfarer can fault the hospitality of Gast the Generous!” He made place for the companions at his table and, sweeping aside the empty bowls and dishes before him, clapped his hands and bawled for the Steward. When the servitor arrived, Lord Gast commanded him to bring such an array of food and drink that Taran could hardly imagine himself eating half of it. Gurgi, hungry as always, smacked his lips in gleeful anticipation.
As the Steward left, Lord Gast took up a tale, whose matter Taran found difficult to follow, concerning the costliness of his food and his openhandedness toward travelers. Taran listened courteously through it all, surprised and delighted at his good luck in finding Gast’s stronghold. Feeling more at ease, thanks to the presence of Fflewddur, Taran at last ventured to speak of his meeting with Lord Goryon.
“Goryon!” snorted Gast. “Arrogant boor! Crude lout! Braggart and boaster! To boast of what?” He snatched up a drinking horn. “See this?” he cried. “The name of Gast carved upon it and the letters worked in gold! See this cup! This bowl! These ornament my common table. My storehouse holds even finer, as you shall see. Goryon! Horseflesh is all he knows, and little enough of that!”
Fflewddur, meanwhile, had raised the harp to his shoulder and began to strike up a tune. “It’s a small thing I composed myself,” he explained. “Though I must say it’s been cheered and praised by thousands …”
No sooner were the words past his lips than the harp bent like an overdrawn bow and a string broke with a loud twang. “Drat the thing!” muttered the bard. “Will it give me no peace? I swear it’s getting worse. The slightest bit of color added to the facts and it costs me a string. Yes, as I meant to say, I know full half-a-dozen who deemed the song—ah—rather well done.” With deftness born of long, sad practice, Fflewddur knotted up the broken string.
Taran, glancing around the Hall this while, was surprised to realize the plates and drinking horns of the guests were more than half-empty and, in fact, showed no sign of ever having been full. His perplexity grew when the Steward returned to set the food-laden tray before Lord Gast, who planted his elbows on either side of it.
“Eat your fill,” cried Gast to Taran and Gurgi, pushing a small hunch of gravy-spotted bread toward them and keeping the rest for himself. “Gast the Generous is ever openhanded! A sad fault that may turn me into a pauper, but it’s my nature to be free with all my goods; I can’t fight against it!”
“Generous?” Taran murmured under his breath to Fflewddur, while Gurgi, swallowing the skimpy fare, looked hopelessly around for more. “I think he’d make a miser seem a prodigal in comparison.”
So passed the meal, with Gast loudly urging the companions to stuff themselves, yet all the while grudgingly offering them no more than a few morsels of stringy meat from the heaped platter. Only at the end, when Gast had swallowed all he could and his head nodded sleepily and his beard straggled into his drinking horn, were the companions able to down the meager leavings. At last, disheartened and with bellies still hollow, the three groped their way to a meanly furnished chamber, where they nevertheless dropped into sleep like stones.
In the morning Taran was impatient to start once more for Caer Cadarn, and Fflewddur agreed to ride with him. But Lord Gast would hear none of it until the companions marveled at his storerooms. The cantrev lord flung open chests of goblets, ornaments, weapons, horse trappings, and many things Taran judged of high value, but in such a muddled heap that he could scarcely tell one from another. Among all these goods Taran’s eyes lingered on a gracefully fashioned wine bowl, the most beautiful Taran had ever seen. He had, however, little chance to admire it, for the cantrev lord quickly thrust a garishly ornamented horse bridle into Taran’s hands and as quickly replaced it with a pair of stirrups which he praised equally.
“That wine bowl is worth all the rest put together,” Fflewddur whispered to Taran, as Lord Gast now led the three companions from the storehouse to a large cow pen just outside the barricade. “I recognize the work from the hand of Annlaw Clay-Shaper, a master craftsman, the most skilled potter in Prydain. I swear his wheel is enchanted! Poor Gast!” Fflewddur added. “To count himself rich and know so little of what he owns!”
“But how has he gained such treasure?” Taran said.
“On that score, I should hesitate to ask,” Fflewddur murmured with a grin. “Very likely the same way Goryon gained your horse.”
“And this,” cried the cantrev lord, halting beside a black cow who stood peacefully grazing amid the rest of the herd, “and this is Cornillo, the finest cow in all the land!”
Taran could not gainsay the words of the cantrev lord, for Cornillo shone as if she had been polished and her short, curving horns sparkled in the sun.
Lord Gast proudly stroked the animal’s sleek flanks. “Gentle as a lamb! Strong as an ox! Swift as a horse and wise as an owl!” Gast went on, while Cornillo, calmly munching her cud, turned patient eyes to Taran, as though hoping not to be mistaken for anything other than a cow.
“She leads my cattle,” declared Lord Gast, “better than any herdsman can. She’ll pull a plow or turn a grist mill, if need be. Her calves are always twins! As for milk, she gives the sweetest! Cream, every drop! So rich the dairy maids can scarcely chum it!”
Cornillo blew out her breath almost in a sigh, switched her tail, and went back to grazing. From the pasture Lord Gast pressed the companions to the hen roost, and from there to the hawk mews, and the morning was half-spent and Taran had begun to despair of ever leaving the stronghold, when Gast finally ordered their mounts readied.
Fflewddur, Taran saw, still rode Llyan, the huge, golden-tawny cat who had saved the companions’ lives on the Isle of Mona. “Yes, I decided to keep her—rather, she’s decided to keep me,” said the bard, as Llyan, recognizing Ta
ran, padded forward and began happily rubbing her head against his shoulder. “She loves the harp more than ever,” Fflewddur went on. “Can’t hear enough of it.” No sooner did he say this than Llyan flicked her long whiskers and turned to give the bard a forceful nudge; so that Fflewddur then and there had to unsling his instrument and strike a few chords, while Llyan, purring loudly, blinked fondly at him with great yellow eyes.
“Farewell,” called the cantrev lord as the companions mounted. “At the stronghold of Gast the Generous you’ll ever find an openhanded welcome!”
“It’s a generosity that could starve us to death,” Taran, laughing, remarked to the bard as they rode eastward again. “Gast thinks himself openhanded, as Goryon thinks himself valorous; and as far as I can judge, neither one has the truth of it. Yet,” he added, “they both seem pleased with themselves. Indeed, is a man truly what he sees himself to be?”
“Only if what he sees is true,” answered Fflewddur. “If there’s too great a difference between his own opinion and the facts—ah—then, my friend, I should say that such a man had no more substance to him than Goryon’s giants!
“But don’t judge them too harshly,” the bard went on. “These cantrev nobles are much alike, prickly as porcupines one moment and friendly as puppies the next. They all hoard their possessions, yet they can be generous to a fault if the mood strikes them. As for valor, they’re no cowards. Death rides in the saddle with them and they count it nothing, and in battle I’ve seen them gladly lay down their lives for a comrade. At the same time,” he added, “it’s also been my experience, in all my wanderings, that the further from the deed, the greater it grows, and the most glorious battle is the one longest past. So it’s hardly surprising how many heroes you run into.
“Had they harps like mine,” said Fflewddur, warily glancing at his instrument, “what a din you’d hear from every stronghold in Prydain!”
CHAPTER FOUR
A Matter of Cows
Late that afternoon the companions sighted the crimson banner of the House of Smoit, its black bear emblem flying bravely above the towers of Caer Cadarn. Unlike the palisaded strongholds of the cantrev lords, Smoit’s castle was a fortress with walls of hewn stone and iron-studded gates thick enough to withstand all attack; the chips in the stones and the dents in the portal told Taran the castle had indeed thrown back not a few assaults. For the three travelers, however, the gates were flung open willingly and an honor guard of spearmen hastened to escort the companions.
The red-bearded King sat at the dining table in his Great Hall, and from the array of dishes, platters, and drinking horns both full and empty Taran judged Smoit could scarcely have left off eating since morning. Seeing the companions, the King leaped from his throne of oakwood, fashioned in the shape of a gigantic bear looking much like Smoit himself.
“My body and bones!” Smoit roared so loudly the dishes rattled on the table. “It’s better than a feast to see all of you!” His battle-scarred face beamed with delight and he flung his burly arms around the companions in a joint-cracking hug. “Scrape out a tune from that old pot of yours,” he cried to Fflewddur. “A merry tune for a merry meeting! And you, my lad,” he went on, seizing Taran’s shoulders with his heavy, red-furred hands, “when last we met you looked scrawny as a plucked chicken. And your shaggy friend—what, has he rolled in the bushes all the way from Caer Dallben?”
Smoit clapped his hands, shouted for more food and drink, and would hear nothing of Taran’s news until the companions had eaten and the King had downed another full meal.
“The Mirror of Llunet?” said Smoit, when Taran at last was able to tell of his quest. “I’ve heard of no such thing. As well seek a needle in a haystack as a looking glass in the Llawgadarn Mountains.” The King’s heavy brow furrowed and he shook his head. “The Llawgadarns rise in the land of the Free Commots, and whether the folk there will be of a mind to help you …”
“The Free Commots?” Taran asked. “I’ve heard them named, but know little else about them.”
“They’re hamlets and small villages,” Fflewddur put in. “They start to the east of the Hill Cantrevs and spread as far as Great Avren. I’ve never journeyed there myself; the Free Commots are a bit far even for my ramblings. But the land itself is the pleasantest in Prydain—fair hills and dales, rich soil to farm, and sweet grass for grazing. There’s iron for good blades, gold and silver for fine ornaments. Annlaw Clay-Shaper is said to dwell among the Commot folk, as do many other craftsmen: master weavers, metalsmiths—from time out of mind their skills have been the Commots’ pride.”
“A proud folk they are,” said Smoit. “And a stiff-necked breed. They bow to no cantrev lords, but only to the High King Math himself.”
“No cantrev lords?” asked Taran, puzzled. “Who, then, rules them?”
“Why, they rule themselves,” answered Smoit. “Strong and steadfast they are, too. And, by my beard, I’m sure there’s more peace and neighborliness in the Free Commots than anywhere else in Prydain. And so what need have they for kings or lords? When you come to the meat of it,” he added, “a king’s strength lies in the will of those he rules.”
Taran, who had been listening closely to these words of Smoit, nodded his head. “I had not thought of it thus,” he said, half to himself. “Indeed, true allegiance is only given willingly.”
“Enough talk!” cried Smoit. “It hurts my head and dries my gullet. Let’s have more meat and drink. Forget the Mirror. Tarry with me in my cantrev, lad. We’ll ride to the hunt, feast, and make merry. You’ll put more flesh on your bones here than scrambling about on a fool’s errand. And that, my boy, is good counsel to you.”
Nevertheless, when he finally saw that Taran would not be dissuaded, Smoit goodnaturedly agreed to give the companions all they needed for the journey. Next morning, after a huge breakfast, which Smoit declared would serve to whet their appetites for dinner, the King threw open his storehouse to them and went with them to be sure they chose the best of gear.
Taran had only begun sorting through coils of rope, saddlebags, and harness leather when one of the castle guards burst into the storeroom, calling, “Sire! A horseman of Lord Gast is come. Raiders from Lord Goryon’s stronghold have stolen Gast’s prize cow and the rest of the herd with her!”
“My pulse!” roared Smoit. “My breath and blood!” The King’s tangled bush of eyebrows knotted and his face turned as red as his beard. “How does he dare stir trouble in my cantrev!”
“The men of Gast have armed. They ride against Goryon,” the guard hastened on. “Gast craves your help. Will you speak to his messenger?”
“Speak to him?” bellowed Smoit. “I’ll clap his master in irons for breaking the peace. And worse! For breaking it without my leave!”
“Put Gast in irons?” Taran asked with some perplexity. “But Goryon stole his cow …”
“His cow?” cried Smoit. “His cow, indeed! Gast stole her from Goryon himself last year. And before that, the other way around. Neither of them knows whose beast it rightly is. Those two brawlers have ever been at loggerheads. Now the warm weather heats their blood again. But I’ll cool their tempers. In my dungeon! Gast and Goryon both!”
Smoit snatched up a mighty double-edged battle axe. “I’ll fetch them back by the ears!” he roared. “They know my dungeons; they’ve been there often enough. Who rides with me?”
“I will!” cried Fflewddur, his eyes lighting up. “Great Belin, a Fflam never shuns a fight!”
“If you ask our help, Sire,” Taran began, “we give it willingly. But …”
“Mount up, then, my lad!” shouted Smoit. “You’ll see justice done. And I’ll have peace between Gast and Goryon if I have to break their heads to gain it!”
Swinging his battle axe, Smoit bolted from the storeroom bellowing orders right and left. A dozen warriors sprang to horse. Smoit leaped astride a tall, barrel-chested steed, whistled through his teeth almost loudly enough to break them, and waved his men onward; amid the sh
outing and confusion Taran, bewildered, found himself atop Melynlas galloping across the courtyard and out the castle gate.
The red-bearded King set such a pace through the valleys that it put even Llyan on her mettle to keep up; while Gurgi, with most of the wind pounded out of him, clung to the neck of his frantically galloping pony. Smoit’s war horse was in a lather, and so was Melynlas before the cantrev King signaled a halt.
“To meat!” Smoit cried, swinging out of the saddle and looking as unwearied as if he had just begun a morning’s trot. The companions, still catching their breath, had by no means found their appetites, but Smoit clapped his hands to the heavy bronze belt around his middle. “Hunger makes a man gloomy and saps all the spirit from a battle.”
“Sire, must we battle with Lord Gast?” Taran asked with some concern, for Smoit’s war band numbered only the dozen who had ridden from Caer Cadarn. “And if Lord Goryon’s men have armed, we may be too few to stand against all of them.”
“Battle?” Smoit retorted. “No, more’s the pity. I’ll have those troublemakers by the nose and into my dungeons before nightfall. They’ll do as I command. I’m their king, by my beard! There’s brawn enough here,” he added, shaking a mighty fist, “to make them remember it.”
“And yet,” Taran ventured to say. “You yourself told me a king’s true strength lay in the will of those he ruled.”
“How’s that?” cried Smoit, who had settled his bulk against a tree trunk and was about to attack the joint of meat he had pulled from his saddlebag. “Don’t puzzle me with my own words! My body and bones, a king is a king!”
“I meant only that you’ve locked Gast and Goryon in your dungeon many times before,” Taran answered. “And still they quarrel. Is there no way to keep peace between them? Or make them understand …”
“I’ll reason them reasons!” bellowed Smoit, clutching his battle axe. He knitted his jutting brows. “But true enough it is,” he admitted, frowning and seeming to chew at the thought as if it were gristle in his meat, “they go surly to the dungeon and surly leave it. You’ve struck on something, my lad. The dungeon’s useless against that pair. And, my pulse, I know why! It needs more dampness, more draught. So be it! I’ll have the place well watered down tonight.”