posted 15 December 2009 08:41 EDT (US)
~ Edorix Wirocu ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When the World was less gray and drear
But a land of forests, fields and streams
Lived Branwen, daughter of Llyr.
The fairest maiden ever to live
In all the length and breadth of Prydain
Unjust that her life should be streaked with torment;
Tragedy, bloodshed and pain.
Let me tell you a tale of old
The same story, but in my own phrase
That of Branwen, and those who she knew
And of long-gone-by lands and days…
A VISITOR FROM IERNE
She was like a siren; lying on the rocks in the sun, her golden hair strewn about her, her wet tunic clinging to her body. Her eyes were closed, and she was relaxed; perfectly at peace with everything. The crashing waves, the spray-soaked rocks, the sand, the nearby trees marking the border of the forest, the caer on the cliff at Arelicon away to the North where dwelt the king.
“Branwen!”
A voice, low, quiet and familiar, diffused neatly into her swirling collage of sounds. She opened her eyes. The unusually clear blue sky mirrored their color. She sometimes wondered if life could ever be more perfect.
“Branwen!”
The voice was a little raised now, but it was no less sweet to her. The sweetest voice in the World, as far as she was concerned. She was tempted to remain silent, to make it call her again, but there were better ways of making it say her name. Besides, she didn’t want him to worry.
“I’m here, Taliesin!”
She heard his light footfalls on the rocks as he ran to the source of her voice, surefooted as a mountain goat. She closed her eyes again.
Taliesin was going to say, “I thought I would find you here,” but the sight of her took his breath away. To Taliesin, aged seventeen, her wet clothes clinging to her sleek body was like a spell. For some time he could not drag his gaze away from her.
“Taliesin?”
Branwen couldn’t hear his footsteps any more, and so had no way of judging where he was. Taliesin jumped.
“Yes?”
Branwen laughed – her laughter was like a shaft of sunlight piercing the clouds – and opened her eyes. “How long have you been standing there?”
Taliesin thought for a moment. “Not long,” he said. But it could have been some time. “Actually I’m not sure. This place is timeless.”
“I know,” replied Branwen. “I could just lie here all afternoon.”
“Maybe, on a day like this. But not in Winter.”
“No. I guess not.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing?” Taliesin sat down beside her.
“What?”
“Lying here all afternoon?”
“How can I have? I haven’t been here very long.”
“Branwen, the sun is westering. This place must really be timeless, for a whole afternoon to slip by without your noticing.”
Branwen opened her eyes and looked ahead, across the sea, raising her head just a fraction. She hadn’t noticed, but the sun was certainly on its way down.
“Oh. So it is. Anyway I haven’t been lying here all afternoon. I went into the water not long ago.”
Taliesin flushed. “I can see.” Then he remembered his job.
“Branwen, your brother’s looking for you. He’s worried about you. You shouldn’t just disappear like that by yourself. You’re the princess of Albion, and not everyone is good. Some people see only beauty or a potential ransom; not a person.”
Branwen was still dwelling in a dream-world. She was not fully conscious of asking, “And you? What do you see?”
Taliesin hesitated.
“I see so much more.”
Branwen’s eyes snapped open, she sat up straight and drew her legs under her. Taliesin had moved around her; now he was framed against the Iernian Sea behind him, facing her. His courage failed, and he averted his gaze and changed the subject.
“Anyway, the king wants you back at the caer.”
Taliesin stood up and offered his hand, but Branwen was looking past him.
“Look, ships on the horizon!”
Taliesin turned. Sure enough, a number of little dots had appeared on the horizon. Taliesin frowned. The ships were evenly spaced out, and glinted in the sun. That could only mean one thing, as far as he was concerned.
“Those are warships.”
“What makes you say that? Coming from the West? Ierne would never dream of attacking us.”
“Pirates, then? I don’t know, but merchant ships don’t catch the glint of the sun on their weaponry, or sail in formation!” Taliesin quickly counted the dots.
“Thirteen. We need to get back to the caer and warn the king at once.”
“Did you come on foot?”
“No, but I only brought one horse. We’ll have to ride together.”
That had been a deliberate decision on the part of Taliesin; he was exceedingly lucky to be able to ride with the most beautiful girl in the Isles clinging on to him, he reflected, as they raced away from the beach towards the caer on the cliff-top.
********************
Bendigeidvran was a big man; broad shouldered and muscular, and at over seven feet tall, it was no surprise to see him wearing the tall crown of Albion, and the great golden torq of the kingship of his own tribe, the Catuvellauni, around his neck. His features were typically Celtic; white-blond moustache and hair slicked back into spikes, high cheekbones, twisting tattoos, a scar, just darker than pale skin-tone, and bright, pale blue eyes.
Taliesin and Branwen met him coming out of his Longhall. The door was low; all doors were, and everyone had to stoop to get through. Vran had to crouch right down or bend double. Outside, he straightened up and stretched as his eyes adjusted from the smoky darkness.
“What I would do for a doorway I could pass through without bending down!” he remarked to no-one in particular.
Taliesin leapt smartly from the saddle and handed Branwen down after him. Vran didn’t even raise an eyebrow; Taliesin had once saved his life. He was about the only man in the world Vran permitted to go anywhere near his sister. There was a bond of trust between the two men that comes no other way but from a life-debt.
Taliesin stepped up to Vran with Branwen at his shoulder and inclined his head, acknowledging his king. Before Vran could speak however, Taliesin delivered his intelligence.
“Your highness, thirteen warships from the Southwest are heading here as we speak.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What else do you know?”
“Nothing, my lord. Branwen saw them from the rocks just South of here.”
“Our guard has grown lax in these days of peace, or the watchmen would have given me better warning of this. Sound the alarm. We shall prepare a little greeting for these uninvited guests.”
********************
Always more dramatic in word than in deed, Bendigeidvran took an escort of forty-eight of the very best horseborne warriors down to the beach. Carefully navigating their way around the rocks by a little-used rocky pathway to facilitate the passage of their horses, they rode down the beach in a column, on the sand between the rocks and the sea.
Among the horsemen was Taliesin, proudly bearing aloft the banner of the Kingdom of Albion; a pattern of white swirls representing the head of a stag on a navy blue background. On the king’s right was his brother Manawyddan, and not far behind were his two half-brothers on his mother’s side: Evnisien the Wrathful and Nisien the Negotiator. Not only were their characters almost polar opposites, but this was even reflected in their physical appearance: Evnisien was redheaded while Nisien was blond; Evnisien’s eyes were green while Nisien’s were blue; Evnisien was stocky and Nisien was thin. They did not always get along very well, as you could well imagine, but they were brothers, and relatives of the king, so for the most part they remained at peace.
The thirteen ships were rocking quietly at anchor not a hundred paces from the shore. And what ships they were! Flags of satin – orange flags with white spear patterns upon them, emblem of the Kingdom of Ierne – floated from the masts, which were themselves decorated with carved spirals and twists, inlaid with silver. The hull of each ship was painted over with gold, and both sides were lined with decorative, intricate shields in many colors and designs, their steel and bronze bosses and gold and silver inlay glinting in the late afternoon sun. But there was one ship, larger, shinier and grander than the rest, at the front of which stood a figure bearing an upwards-facing shield over his head in token of peace.
“Warships, eh Taliesin?” murmured Vran to his flag-bearer. “I should think not, my friend; an embassy from the King of Ierne himself unless I am much mistaken!”
Taliesin was pretty tall, but he was still a good eight inches shorter than the king, and he did not like to be looked down on.
“I am sorry, your majesty, but how was I to know? Better to be thought of as the fool who thought there was an invasion when there was not, than as the fool who let his king’s fortress be taken by surprise for fear of being thought of as one.”
“Very true; but nonetheless, why should they have been warships?”
Why indeed? Come to think of it he had acted very rashly to imagine that that was what they were with only as much to go on as he had had. The reason was that Taliesin almost wanted them to have been. He was thirteen the last time he had taken part in a battle, and then only as his father’s shield-bearer. That was when he had saved Vran’s life, down in the South of Camru, among the Silures, when they and the Catuvellauni were fighting against the rebel Demetae. And that was four years ago! These days, peace reigned; there was no place for a man to swing a sword, no place for a warrior to win fame and renown or die in glory. Taliesin was itching for a real fight; the biennial Hero’s Games, held in an arena near the hillfort of Radde in Brigantian territory to decide who was the greatest warrior in the kingdom, was not the same, especially as there could only be one winner, and that, inevitably, was Bendigeidvran. But Taliesin was a man now, a proud warrior of a proud tribe of a proud race; he needed to prove himself. It was wishful thinking that had made the Iernian embassy into an invasion.
A smaller boat was rowed out from behind the flagship and towards the shore where the king and his horseborne companions stood. It stopped within earshot of the land. Vran called out to them.
“May the gods show you their favor;” he called, “you are most welcome.” That was the polite way to address foreigners in those days in those parts; he said it in Iernian, known in Albion as the Old Tongue and generally reserved for religious purposes, but in Ierne used as the common tongue for everyone.
“Our thanks to you, Bendigeidvran, King of Albion,” replied a man from the boat after a pause in Prydanic.
“To whom do these ships belong, and who is your leader?” continued Vran, following the other’s lead.
“Matholwch, King of Ierne, is our leader here, and these ships belong to him.”
“For what purpose does he send this delegation?”
“I may not tell it; he wishes to ask you a favor in private.”
“Let him come ashore.”
********************
A short while later, Matholwch could be seen at the prow of another small boat rowing steadily towards the shore where Vran and his company stood. Dusk was approaching rapidly now, and the light was fading. The scene was idyllic, but for some reason Taliesin felt uneasy; this feeling grew as the boat bearing the King of Ierne came closer, until at last, when Matholwch stepped onto the shores of the Island of the Mighty, Taliesin would not have been surprised if he were Arawn himself, Lord of the Underworld, and all the rowers and guards in the boat with him the Hounds of Hell.
Matholwch was not Arawn, however; he was young, not much older than Taliesin, and had the face of one who has never known hardship. He had light red hair – rare enough, even among the People of the Islands – which was straight and reached down to his shoulders, in style if not in color very similar to Taliesin’s. His eyes were dark green and sharp like pine needles, and as always when Taliesin saw a foreigner, he was once again surprised to see that he had no tattoos, of which the absence he could not help but associate with effeminacy. The King of Ierne could not have been more different to the King of Albion – Bendigeidvran, a seasoned, battle-hardened warrior – but it was clear nonetheless that he was king. From his expensive purple cape to his golden crown, from the composure of his body to his arrogant gaze as his eyes swept the lines of the horsemen on the shore, he was king and he knew it.
Taliesin was surprised once again when Matholwch did not keep striding forwards, draw his sword and strike Bendigeidvran down, but instead knelt before him with bowed head.
“My lord Bendigeidvran Map Llyr, King of Albion; Matholwch Mac Liathan, King of Ierne, I place myself under your protection.”
Unwilling to accept such a powerful man as his protégé, and knowing it spelt trouble, Vran told Matholwch to rise, for there was no reason for one of them to be in the power of the other when both their kingdoms were of equal worth, and asked him whether he would not now disclose the purpose of his visit?
To this the King of Ierne replied, “My Lord, I trust all who are present, because they are trusted companions of yourself whom I also trust, but nonetheless I would speak with you of it alone.”
“There is nothing of which we may speak that at least my brother and my flagbearer should now know.”
Flagbearer; nothing my flagbearer shouldn’t know; Taliesin’s chest swelled with pride as Matholwch said, “Very well, my lord; then I also shall have two witnesses who may hear it.”
In his boat had come with him the man with the upturned shield of peace from the prow of his flagship and a Druid; in fact he was a priest, but Druidism had spread wide and far since its creation by a small group of mages and later overthrow by a much larger order of priests, long ago in the mists of time when history and legend were one. These two men, Matholwch’s Charioteer and Chief Advisor, were chosen by him to accompany him. Then the six men wandered a little way up the beach until they were just out of earshot of Matholwch’s rowers and Vran’s horsemen. Then Matholwch turned to Vran and expressed the most extravagant desire in the World.
“Your majesty, I wish to ally my kingdom to yours; I seek the hand of your fair sister, Branwen. Let there nevermore come strife between our Islands!”
Had Vran’s half-brother Evnisien been there, the gods alone know what might have transpired, but something similar to Taliesin’s reaction to these words is probably a good guess. Almost without realizing what he was doing, Taliesin released his grip on the planted flag and punched the King of Ierne in the face. Caught off-guard, Matholwch did not quite dodge in time and caught the blow on his chin. He fell backwards onto the sand with an “umph!”
WHAM.
Bendigeidvran’s iron fist connected with the side of his flagbearer’s head. Almost lifted off his feet by the force of the blow, Taliesin plowed five feet through the sand. His head spun. The sky wouldn’t come into focus. He hazily remembered that he was mad about something, but he couldn’t work out how he came to be lying in the sand or why his skull was on fire.
Vran advanced on him. “Did I fail to make something quite clear, Son of Callawc? The King of Ierne is our guest! Lug, you’re worse than Evnisien! Get out of my sight! You can thank the gods if I don’t relieve you of your position!”
Bendigeidvran’s wrath was truly terrifying, and it didn’t take much to set it alight. Taliesin scrambled away from him and scampered away back to the rest of the men like a wounded animal. Ignoring the men’s questions about what had transpired, he clambered onto his horse and galloped away back to Arelicon.
Bendigeidvran turned away from him and offered his hand to Matholwch. After a moment’s hesitation, the King of Ierne took it.
“Forgive my flagbearer; he is young and impulsive,” said Vran, helping him up. “I will willingly bestow upon him any punishment you choose.”
“Your words are generous, but I see well that he would not hold his current position if he was not a brave warrior and a loyal subject of yours, so I will not press my case. And of my suit, my lord?”
“We will talk further.”
Branwen paced anxiously back and forth behind the closed gates of the caer. What was happening down at the beach? She couldn’t hear the sounds of a battle, but Vran and his company had not yet returned and she was worried beyond reason; Bendigeidvran had not lost a duel or a battle since the age of fourteen, when he was only six feet tall.
“Open the gates!”
Branwen’s heart leapt. Tidings from the battle! She stood still as the great oak and iron gates of the caer opened outwards. A single horseman was approaching at a trot up the stone causeway. As he got closer she could see it was Taliesin, slumped in the saddle, with a bloody mark on his right temple. Fearing the worst and forgetting her brother’s orders to stay in the caer, she ran out of the gates to meet him.
“Taliesin! What happened?”
He looked up, surprised. Evidently he had not heard her coming, pre-occupied with his own thoughts. Relieved, she saw that he was not badly hurt.
“Nothing; no battle. It turned out those weren’t warships at all; an embassy from Ierne including the King Matholwch.” He ground the name between his teeth. Branwen helped him slip clumsily from the saddle. They walked together through the gates, him leading his horse.
“Then how did you get hurt?"
“Your brother hit me.”
“Why!?”
“Because I hit Matholwch.”
“Why!!??”
“Because he said something – something I could not accept.”
Branwen looked at him with a mixture of affection and annoyance, like one might give a younger sibling. They walked on in silence, and she steered them towards the King’s enclosure; the cluster of huts that included his Longhall, but also his private dwelling-space and those of his relatives and friends.
“Fine, keep your secrets. Come, let’s get your head cleaned up.”
Taliesin, frowning, put his hand to his temple, and his expression turned to alarm when it encountered stickiness and came away red.
“Don’t worry, scalp wounds bleed a lot. Come!”
Patting his horse and trusting it to make its own way back to the stables alone, Taliesin took the hand of the most beautiful maiden in Prydain and let her lead him into the royal complex.
********************
Before Taliesin had arrived back at Arelicon, Bendigeidvran had dispatched messengers of his own back to the caer and the nearby villages saying that there was no danger; the King of Ierne was to be treated as a guest. Indeed, he insisted that Matholwch return with him to Arelicon for that night at least, for by that time the sun was setting.
“I will not have the King of Ierne shiver on his boat mere paces from my own court where I feast and sleep in comfort this night,” he said. More messengers were sent off ahead; a feast was to be prepared. Then Bendigeidvran and his horsemen helped beach the thirteen ships from Ierne, the men who had come in them drew lots to choose guards, and then the rest marched back to Arelicon with Bendigeidvran and his company and Matholwch on a borrowed horse leading the way.
When they arrived back at Arelicon, a great table had been set out in the marketplace and the fires were lit. The smell of roasting meat wafted over from the cooking-fires lining the edges of the marketplace, and everywhere locals were dashing about making ready for the feast at such short notice. An orange banner bearing a pretty crude Iernian emblem, dyed and designed in a matter of minutes, fluttered in the breeze on the West side of the square, and the flag of Albion on the East.
Vran turned to Matholwch.
“The feast shall begin when the first stars come out.”
Matholwch nodded. “We too have this custom.”
Vran nodded. “Until then, I suggest we sit and discuss. We must have much to talk about. The Lady Branwen will be absent from the feast; it would be an ill omen for her to see you for the first time when you were drunk.”
“Indeed, my lord. Under such circumstances, my charms do not work.”
*******************
Branwen led Taliesin into her own dwelling space; just a thatched wattle and daub hut like everyone else’s. It was sparsely furnished, but contained a few more comforts than most roundhouses; a bed, for one thing, not just a cloak or makeshift mattress on the floor. At its foot was a chest, and a bench opposite served as a shelf for a few belongings she kept on display. A sword stood in its scabbard in a corner, not just for ease of access if necessary, but to remind guests that she was as much a warrior as any man in defense of her own. A shield bearing the ensign of Albion stood beside it.
She made him sit on her bed and hold still. Then she opened her chest, and dug up a roll of linen cloth, a length of which she cut off with a knife. This she carefully wrapped round his head for a bandage. He let her do it; he was too sullen to resist, and he liked her near him anyway. The moonlight shafted in through the smoke-hole in the roof, and by this she worked. Gently, she tied the bandage, then sat back to evaluate her job.
“How does it feel?”
“Like a tiny white-hot hammer inside my skull… but better.”
He looked up at her, and smiled. Something inside her awoke abruptly at his gaze. It was a feeling she didn’t recognize. For a moment, inexplicably, she felt scared. She felt a rush of blood to her head.
Something of her fear must have shown in her face, because Taliesin asked, “What is it?” Looking up, she realized it was him. But it was not fear she felt; it was a strange thrill, something she had not felt before. Her heart was racing. She tried to control her breathing. What was wrong with her?
He came closer to her, concerned, and put a hand on her arm. “Branwen? What’s wrong?” His touch was like lightning, shooting through her body, setting every nerve aflame. Nothing was wrong, she realized, because it felt so right.
“Nothing,” she said. She looked him in the eye again. It felt better to be doing something that involved him, because it stopped this strange new sensation from feeling like a fever.
That was it: fever. She was feverish with excitement, but why she could not tell.
Taliesin read it in her eyes; the eyes of a maiden aroused. There was a fire burning behind the clear blue of the sky, a bright flame of desire long-dormant. What could he do?
In his brain, what he took to be right and sensible, to leave now while he could, locked against the instinctive attraction he felt to and love he felt for Branwen; the mind wrestled with the heart. A thousand arguments whirled around his head in a single moment.
The heart won over. Pushing her down onto the bed and slipping one hand under her dress, Taliesin kissed the princess of Albion.
He registered her surprise, and then her warm response. Her legs braced his thighs, her arms wrapped around his shoulders.
********************
The feast had begun; the marketplace was full of happy, rowdy, drunken caersfolk. Vran and Matholwch still had some wits about him, but Matholwch had lost enough of his to ask a question that should normally have been worded in better terms.
“My Lord Bendigeidvran, I have something to ask of you concerning your sister.”
“Ask away, my friend, ask away.”
“I mean to say – it is a custom of my people, you see – I must know – to the best of your knowledge… is she chaste?”
********************
Branwen’s back arched. She moaned again. The pain was stronger this time, the joy of it pulsing through her, filling her with warmth like a drug. Her fingernails dug into his back. He sought her mouth. She tried to kiss him. Failing, she moaned again as his love swarmed through her and buried her face in his shoulder.
********************
“To the best of my knowledge,” replied Vran, “yes she is.”
********************
Branwen unhooked herself from Taliesin and fell back onto her bed. He withdrew. She heard the clink of a belt-buckle. Then he was down beside her again. The bed creaked menacingly.
“You okay?”
She opened her eyes. “By all the stars under watch at Caer Siddi – Tal, I have no idea.”
“Huh.” A slight pause. “Gods, what have we done?”
She rolled over to him. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. Now go quickly before someone comes.”
********************
The rest of the night passed without incident. The feast continued until nearly dawn. Taliesin could hear it as he left Branwen’s hut, but he did not go that way. He knew that Matholwch would be there. Instead, he went to check on his horse, and then he went home. He had waited with Branwen until she fell asleep in his arms before leaving. If she were to marry Matholwch, at least she would remember him that night. And nothing could change who had been the first to lie with the most beautiful maiden in the World, even if nobody would ever know.
********************
The next morning, most everyone lay in until nearly midday due to mass excessive intake of alcohol. The dawn sun streaming through the hide curtain in the doorway woke Branwen though, but she lay for some time basking in its glow, feeling even better than she had the afternoon before. Little did she know that Taliesin had just fled the caer, and that mere paces away from her, in the Longhall, her brother had just agreed to give her away to a man she had never met before and whom she would never love.
That morning, Evnisien, in a characteristically foul mood, left early on business among the Brigantes without waiting to inform the king. A messenger was sent after him, but he was not to be found, and Vran gave him up as a bad job.
“It’s his own fault if he misses his own sister’s wedding because he was too busy to tell me where he was going,” he explained to Matholwch, who nodded. Matholwch knew that he was probably the most eligible suitor for Branwen in the whole world; he was of no less rank than her, the right age, and ruler of a kingdom neighboring her own but with a tradition of ill-will. Nonetheless, he wanted to remain on Vran’s good side, at least until he got back to his own kingdom. Vran was an able politician, but, as was characteristic of his race, he could be extremely hotheaded.
********************
Taliesin raced away from the king’s court as the first rays of the sun began to appear over the horizon. He could not stay at Arelicon; Branwen’s tongue had been known to run away with her, and also he was no longer sure that what he had done had been such a good idea after all. The risks were too great.
There were other reasons too: he no longer felt welcome at the king’s court. He felt that he had broken faith with Bendigeidvran. And Matholwch would certainly not forgive him for the punch. No, it was best to be gone. He would go back to his parents, and his home further South; the farm on the banks of the Wisca river, under the proud walls of the hillfort where he had had his first crush. Maybe she would still be unmarried. He would forget about Branwen.
As he rode into a wood, a certain turquoise ivy growing up a tree caught his eye. It was quite rare even in those days – later it was harvested to extinction during the Roman period – but it was famed and prized as a ninety-nine percent efficient contraceptive. Taliesin reminded himself that he was never going back to the court of the king to see Branwen; but he reined in his horse anyway and cut a few leaves with his knife, stowing them away carefully in the bag that carried everything he valued. Then he rode on through the woodlands he had hunted in so many times during his time at the king’s court, lands he knew so well he could scratch a map of them with his eyes closed, and tried to convince himself that he was not running away from a fight.
********************
The place for the wedding was fixed upon as a grassy plain on the Isle of Mona that the king used for breaking horses, not far from the coast, that in future years would become the site of the fortress of Aberffraw. In the past, the nearby village had been an important base for watching against invasions from Ierne; fitting that it should now be the place where the two islands were united. All this was decided between Vran and Matholwch, before Branwen was even out of bed.
When she eventually did get up, some time after one normally did but no later than mid-morning, it was because she was roused by a visit from her brother.
“Branwen? Are you decent?”
There was something she found inexplicably funny about that.
“Yes. Is that you, Vran?”
He came in, never much a man of words. He stood in the doorway, looking a little uncomfortable, not just because of the too-low roof.
“Slept well?”
Again Branwen felt that irrational urge to giggle. What was wrong with her this morning?
“Yes, thank you. What’s the matter?”
Vran turned and took a couple of paces, avoiding her gaze. “Have you heard that we are entertaining a man of some nobility? He arrived yesterday.”
“Oh, you mean the king of Ierne? Mathalwy or whatever his name is…”
“Matholwch.”
“That was it. The one who insulted Taliesin?”
“Er – not exactly. Rather, Taliesin insulted him. I take it Taliesin has spoken with you since yesterday, then?”
“No, no, I haven’t seen him,” Branwen said a little too quickly. Vran’s eyes bored into her. “It was the men!” she invented wildly. “They were talking about it and I overheard.”
“I see.” Something didn’t quite make sense about that, but Vran was preoccupied. He ploughed on, trying to get to the point.
“No, Matholwch did nothing to provoke Taliesin. He did not even strike back or seek justice on him. A proper gentleman, the king of Ierne. He has asked for your hand in marriage.”
Vran’s tone was level all the time he was speaking, and it took a moment for the last sentence to sink in.
“He what?”
“He has asked for your hand in marriage. And I have given you to him.”
Anger, fear and confusion welled up inside Branwen.
“No – you can’t! I’m too young, I’m not ready!”
Vran sighed. “You are fifteen years old, Branwen. For three years I have held this off; now the perfect opportunity has come. You cannot wait forever; life is like a candle, fragile, delicate. One gust of wind can snuff it out forever. You must live for the moment. And that means you must seize every chance.”
“I don’t want to marry him!”
“Who do you want to marry then?”
He had hit the nail on the head. “I -” She felt the salty sting of tears. Angrily she brushed them away. It was too much, too soon.
Vran realized his error.
“Branwen, don’t cry. Matholwch is a great guy, really. Very friendly, very clever – very handsome, too. He’s the right age – and he’s a king, Branwen. Not just any king; High King of Ierne. Leader of the Red Branch Warriors of the Ultones. If you were to marry him, there would be peace between our kingdoms at last.”
She stood up. Framed in the doorway, she turned to him again.
“You don’t understand. I don’t
“Branwen, it is your duty as –”
“I don’t want to marry a king, or a nobleman.
With that, she left. Vran’s first thought was
Taliesin.
Lug, when I get my hands on that boy he will wish he had never been born.
********************
“Taliesin?”
His hut was quite clearly empty. In fact, not just empty of its owner. Empty of anything. His chest had only a few belongings left in it, oddments. His weapons were gone; so was his cloak, and the two severed heads that normally hung from the rafters (he didn’t like them too near him). The ashes of his fire were cold, but still a little warm in the center. He had left around dawn – but why? What would he have had to do, that he wouldn’t have told her where he was going but would take him more than half the morning?
Puzzled, Branwen came outside again and went down to the king’s stables. Taliesin’s horse, Cingetos, was not in its stall. After distractedly checking over her own mare Luned, she came back out into the sunlight.
So, Taliesin had taken most all of his belongings and gone riding. He hadn’t told her where he was going; and a quick visit to his best friend and distant elder cousin in the barracks was enough to convince her that he hadn’t told anyone. She was no longer able to deny the obvious solution.
Taliesin was gone.
********************
Taliesin was gone. Just when she had begun to realize how she felt for him, how the two of them were the stuff of Old Tales. Again Branwen felt the prick of tears. She started to run – at first she didn’t know where, but quickly her paces gained a purpose. She began to retrace her steps, back to the stables.
A few minutes later, a rider out of the Old Tales where it belonged burst out of the stables at full gallop. Luned Gwyn shook her proud, silver mane and leapt forward, down the hill to the gates of the caer in response to the wild cries of her rider. Branwen’s flaxen hair streamed out behind her as she passed; people leapt out of her reckless way as she thundered by. Horse and rider, in white coat and dress respectively, seemed to give off a faint glow, and it was clear to anyone they were bound for the Otherworld.
“Agor ‘r byrth! Agor ‘r byrth!”
The watchmen at the gates didn’t need telling twice. They hastened to open the gates, and Branwen bolted through the gap, bent low over Luned’s neck, whispering in her ear.
“On, Luned! He can only have headed South, and there is still time to catch him up!”
********************
There were many tracks through the woods at the mountain-foot near Arelicon. The oldest among them are the most secret; prey-trails made by the animals who have lived between the mountains and the sea since the dawn of time. Other trails are the work of the Dark People, the Little People of the Barrows and Stone Circles, who would later mate with the Children of Danu to produce the Race of Elves, the Sidhe; their trails are few and well-hidden, but easy to follow once found. Then there were the well-trodden, beaten-earth pathways of the People of Forms, the Pretani, the first of the Race of Man to come to Albion, and the Hidden Ones, the Celtae, who came later. Their trails are many and clear, but leading all over the place and are crisscrossed with the older trails. To the unfamiliar, it is not always easy to know if you are on the right path. And Branwen was nothing if not unfamiliar.
Men and women held roughly equal rights in Celtic and many other barbarian societies, but that is not to say they had the same roles. There was some overlap, and many exceptions; the laws dividing men and women are for the most part unwritten. But hunting was predominantly a male thing. Branwen had only a couple of times been out of sight of the caer before on her own, and never as far into the woods to the South as this. She liked to go about in places she knew, but in this world whe knew nothing. She could tell by the sun that she was still heading South, but before long nonetheless she was completely and hopelessly lost.
She did not give up the chase as day wore on, breaking from a walk into a canter wherever possible to try and make up for Taliesin’s headstart, but as afternoon drew on, she began to lose hope. She would never find Taliesin; he didn’t want to be found, and she didn’t even know where to look. She couldn’t stay out all night – there is tough, and then there is stupid; sleeping out in the open without shelter or even cloak goes into the latter category – and her brother would be worrying about her. So, she realized would Matholwch, who seemed so entwined around her life at the moment but about whom she yet knew nothing at all.
Luned slowed to a stop, sensing Branwen’s mood. Taliesin was gone; she had to accept that all over again. She would have to get over it and follow her brother’s advice.
Though her heart was almost breaking, she wheeled to put the sinking sun on her left and began to plod back home.
Not half a mile South, Taliesin was thinking of her.
********************
“We must go after her,” Bendigeidvran announced. “It isn’t safe for her to roam around alone, least of all as rashly as she is now. I want a search party.”
Word had reached the king at last that his sister, under the influence, the watchmen had insisted, of Otherworldly demons, had fled the caer alone on horseback. Vran cursed himself.
“By your leave, lord,” said Matholwch, “I shall go after her and lead the search.” He had gathered, not so much from what Vran had said as from what he had avoided saying, that Branwen had not taken too kindly to the idea that she was to marry him, and he wanted to charm her. There’s nothing like a rescue from half-imagined dangers in the Wilderness to make someone warm to you. Plus, he wanted to see for himself whether she was really as beautiful as people said.
“You do not know the country yet, my friend. I would prefer it if you remained here.”
“This country is not so different from my own, and I shall take with me men who do. Besides, it does not greatly matter; I am following a trail already left for me by her.”
So it came about that Matholwch led ten riders out of the caer not much more than an hour after Branwen’s departure. They rode steadily but quickly South in a loose convoy, scanning the ground for tracks as they went. They entered the woods, and each went a separate way. Matholwch found himself slowly gaining altitude. The trees were thicker and the pathway less distinct on the slopes of the mountains. He picked up a likely trail and followed it all afternoon, hoping it was the right one. As evening approached the rain came on. First a gentle dripping; then a steady shower; and by the time night fell, brought on early by the looming dark storm-clouds, the wind was tearing through the trees and the rain was coming down in great torrents.
********************
If she had been lost before, by now she must have been in limbo. She thought she was still heading North, but the sun was hidden or set and thick clouds obscured the stars, so really she had no idea. She was pretty sure she had come too far into the mountains as well, and she was panicking with no hope of relief, which is not good for finding your way. She was soaked to the skin, and her eyes were beginning to play tricks on her. Every rock began to take the form of a wolf or a bear on the corner of her vision. She had long ago given up hope of making it back to Arelicon before the night-creatures came out. Her horse was all but spent, and nearly as scared as her.
It was astonishing how abruptly and completely the mere sight of another human being reassured her. A single rider came out from behind an outcrop of rock, and brought her back from the brink of despair. Without caring who he was, Branwen hailed him and began to trot towards him. As she got closer, she could see red hair beneath his hood and green eyes peering at her from an alert, untattooed face.
Matholwch dismounted and approached her on foot, patting her frightened mare’s neck.
“Are you Branwen Wer Llyr?”
Her eyes were imploring. In that moment he felt he would do anything for her.
“Yes.”
“I am Matholwch Mac Liathan. King Bendigeidvran sent me after you. Come,” he said, helping her to dismount. “Let us get back into the shelter of the trees. We must pitch camp for tonight; and tomorrow morning we must return to Arelicon.”
********************
The horses were picketed beneath a dense roof of leaves. Branwen huddled in Matholwch's cloak – she had offered to help but he had declined – while its owner set up the little hide tent he had brought with him. It did not take him long, and he beckoned to her to come in as he spread out his fur mat. He went out as soon as she came in, and returned with a spare cloak and a tinderbox from his saddlebags – all borrowed from Vran. Quickly, he got a fire going just inside the entrance – he had angled the tent so the wind would blow neither the smoke nor the slanting rain inside – and only then did he speak again.
“Try to get warm; wring out your hair and take off those wet things, and then wrap up in the cloak. I shall keep watch until dawn. Don’t worry; no harm will come to you.”
Despite the incident with Taliesin, Branwen found herself trusting Matholwch, even liking him.
“You’ll freeze – at least take one of the cloaks.”
“Give me the one you have on; the other is warmer.”
She passed it to him, and reached for the other. They spoke their thanks in the same moment. A moment’s pause. Then Matholwch took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead.
“I’m so glad I found you,” he said. Then he was gone.
Matholwch resisted the temptation to spy on her while she undressed, and kept watch quietly all night at the mouth of the tent. He moved the fire deeper inside – Branwen had fallen asleep a good pace away, wrapped in his warmest fur cloak with one shoulder and one ankle protruding. Watching her, he realized he could take her, now – rape her, kill her and hide the body, return to Arelicon and claim he had been unable to find her. He drove the thought away. In a few days, at Adberfraw, she would become his forever. He would have her beauty for his own every single night. He convinced himself to wait.
There was a rendezvous by the coast at midnight he had arranged for the search party, but he didn’t go. No need to worry Branwen if she awoke and found him gone, or rouse her to put her on her guard. The rain was dying. Matholwch prowled around the tent, yawning, to shake off sleep, and tended to the horses. The pale approach of dawn found the rain to have stopped, and the clouds steadily drifting away inland, and Matholwch sitting hunched by the glowing embers of the fire, whittling a piece of wood in the growing light. Branwen stirred, and one leg stretched out from under Matholwch’s cloak. Matholwch saw out of the corner of his eye, but pretended he hadn’t. Branwen opened her eyes, saw the hunched figure at the entrance, and quickly drew her leg back in.
“Good morning,” Matholwch greeted her. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Your dress is dry, and it’s stopped raining. We should try to leave as soon as possible. Here,” he added, passing her the piece of wood he had been whittling. “I made this for you.” He vanished again, just as he had the evening before, leaving her alone with the little wooden horse. It could have been the brother of the little sea-otter Taliesin had carved for her nearly two years ago, which still stood on the bench at home. For two years he had been shyly courting her, and she had never seen the signs.
In a short while they were packed up. They shared some slips of dried meat and a few apples Matholwch had brought with him while he told her a tale of his own people about a warrior named Cieran who went to Celyddon to learn what fear was. Then they mounted their horses and rode back North towards Arelicon.
“So… your brother told you of my suit?”
It was the first he had spoken of it since finding her. Branwen had been feeling comfortable in his presence until he said that – happy, almost even able to stop worrying about Taliesin. But now her mood darkened.
“Yes…”
“And have you come to a decision?”
“I- ” She looked around wildly. First her brother, and now Matholwch, in the space of two days, were putting her in a position where she had to answer a question which she knew she could not.
“I am sorry. It was not fair of me to ask you that. I shall wait upon your leisure for my answer.”
The remainder of the journey they passed in silence, until they left the cover of the trees and Arelicon Caer came into view ahead of them.
For the last stretch of the ride back to the caer along the beach in Autumn sunshine, Branwen was deep in thought.
Matholwch was a nice enough man; a proper gentleman, as Vran had said. Handsome too, in a boyish sort of way, and the right age for her, and a king! He was clever, witty, sensitive, kind, and really everything any girl could ever hope for in a husband. Not to mention he had come to get her back on his own in the wilderness. So why did she keep holding back?
It was Tal; she knew it. It was the pact they had made two nights ago in flames under the shafts of moonlight streaming through the doorway and the roof. That kind of pact is not easily broken – especially between Branwen and Taliesin.
But he was gone. And he clearly didn’t plan on coming back. She had to forget about him.
Oh, she liked Matholwch; who couldn’t? He was just such a nice guy. He charmed her, even with his half-glances, his silence, his covered-up awkwardness. It was sweet. It wasn’t Tal – headstrong, quick-tempered and never missing from a fight – but she could certainly put up with it.
Could she live with it?
Then there was Vran. As far as he was concerned, the decision was made. He could at least have asked her. She felt the stirrings of anger.
Poor Vran. He’d been so good to her since their father passed away. However much she’d cried, however much trouble she’d been about everything, he’d always taken care of her – more of a father than a brother. He wanted her to do this. She owed that much to him – probably. And it would do no harm to her homeland and her people, either.
But Tal… wherever he was, her heart was with him.
********************
“Vran?”
Vran was sitting alone, slumped in his stone-hewn throne in his longhall. He looked up when she entered, and his face lit up.
“Branwen! It’s so good to see you safe!”
He was on his feet at once and in an instant had her locked in a heartfelt bearhug that threatened to crack her ribs, but she was stiff and cold. He stepped back and held her at arm’s length.
“Branwen?”
“I came to tell you I accept your choice of husband for me. I will marry Matholwch.”
Vran was speechless for a moment. Then he lowered his voice.
“And Taliesin?”
“Taliesin is gone.” Tears threatened to break her composure so she turned away. “Besides, he is nothing but childhood fancies. He is
“Branwen…” Vran pulled her back into a comforting embrace. This time she hugged him back as the tears flowed freely.
“I’m sorry,” she said eventually. “I’m hungry, that’s all. I haven’t eaten since the morning of the day before yesterday. And everything’s just happened so fast.” She brushed away the tears.
“I will have someone bring you something here. Then, in a few days, when you have recovered, we will head to Adberfraw. And Branwen…”
He took her head in his hands and looked earnestly into her eyes.
“You have done the right thing.”
********************
Over the next few days messengers were racing back and forth between Arelicon and Adberfraw in preparation for the celebration. Vran once again sent out a rider to look for Evnisien, but he had just left Radde for Mancwni and the rider missed him in both places and lost the trail. Evnisien still hadn’t been found when everyone was due to set out. Over the course of those four days Branwen and Matholwch’s paths rarely crossed, but whenever they did he did not fail to smile, greet her and charm her. She found herself thinking – hoping – that she could live with this man.
On the fifth day they were ready, and before noon they set out. Matholwch and his men went by sea in their richly decorated flotilla, while Branwen and Vran and a great host of relatives, friends, nobles, servants, vassals, warriors and wagons all about them by land. With a gentle wind behind him, Matholwch reached Adberfraw in a day. But for the land-borne host, the thirty mile journey to Seiont on the coast took a good four days, and then the crossing and final stretch another two. In all that time, Branwen had little to do but ponder her fate and ask older women what getting married involved, and what married life was like. The old women had tried to portray their bondage in the most glowing terms, and Branwen had tried to believe them; but somehow she couldn’t. And with nothing to do, her thoughts kept wandering back to Taliesin. It was days till her wedding with another man.
On the second day of their journey, as they were making camp just before sundown, a visitor arrived with a gift for her which did not help.
“My lady?”
Branwen was in her tent. She looked up from the little wooden sea-otter she was turning over in her hands. The horse lay discarded on the floor.
“Come in. What is it?”
A man with a spear, a watchman, entered, escorting a brown-haired, bearded man – a forester by his garb, although he must have left his bow and quiver and hunting knife outside – with a little bundle.
“Cadwaladr map Rianorix, my lady. This man says he bears a gift for you which he insisted upon delivering in person.”
“Lady Branwen.” The forester bowed low. “I bring you a gift from –“ he hesitated, glancing sideways at the guard, then continued “- the son of Callawc of Avon Isca away South.”
Branwen rose abruptly. “Thank you, Cadwaladr. Please wait outside.” The guard bowed, and left. When he was gone, Branwen said quietly: “Taliesin?”
The forester nodded, and began his tale.
“Aye, my lady. Taliesin map Callawc. My name is Erbin Sharpshooter, son of Aneirin Vraechvras. I am of the Demetae; I was traveling North along the coast, following prey as the wind took me, when I met a rider coming the other way. He hailed me and came over to me. He asked me if I was going North, to which I replied I could if he wanted me to as I was not going anywhere in particular. I did not know him, my lady, but he rode a horse and had the heads of two fallen foes hung from his saddle so I took him for a nobleman. I soon found out he was far too polite to be a nobleman however – forgive the expression, my lady. He asked me, then, if I would be so kind as to deliver this parcel to a certain Lady Branwen the Fair, daughter of Llyr, up North at Arelicon, for he was heading home to Avon Isca of the Silures. He told me I could not miss her, so great was her beauty – pardon me, my lady, but these were his words and not mine. I told him I would most certainly do that for him, upon which he thanked me and gave me his name. Then he stressed most vehemently that I should hand it over tO you in person – it would not do if it fell into the wrong hands, he said, and especially keep it away from the men of Ierne. Then he thanked me again, and gave me his word that if ever our paths crossed again he would return the favor. It was my turn to thank him, and then he rode off.
“This was four days ago, my lady, on the Demeta border. That three-day storm had just blown itself out. I made all haste to bring you the parcel, although I was sidetracked by business of my own, and arrived at Arelicon this morning to find you gone. So I followed the trail of this host North and caught up with you not long ago. The parcel is here; I have not opened it. I know nothing of what may have gone on between you and Taliesin except what he told me and what I may have guessed. And now I shall take my leave.
“No, wait! If you wish to go you may, but after carrying this parcel all those miles from Demetana surely you want to know what is within it?”
Erbin hesitated.
“I do not deny the temptation is strong. But you may be safer if no-one else knows its content.”
“I do not see any danger in you knowing it, whatever it is. Besides, it is the least that we owe you, Taliesin and I.”
Inside were leaves. Pretty leaves, but nothing more.
“Oh.” Branwen made a noise somewhere between surprise and disappointment. Erbin cleared his throat. He looked not a little uncomfortable.
“Do these leaves mean something to you, Erbin? They do not to me.”
Erbin’s embarrassment grew. He thought he knew a little more now about Branwen and Taliesin, and he could not deny Taliesin had struck a good bargain. Why, if
“I’m not sure I’m entirely the right person to tell you, my lady.”
“But you clearly know and I do not, and I could not risk asking anyone else or it might get out - whatever it is.”
“As you wish, my lady. These leaves are from a rare ivy known as Maiden’s Cloak.”
Judging by her expression, Branwen apparently hadn’t heard of that either.
“It is a very powerful contraceptive.”
She frowned. Erbin realized he was going to have to spell it out to her – princesses, it seemed, received a very selective education. In as few words as possible, Erbin carefully explained.
********************
When Erbin had finished explaining, Branwen felt a great deal wiser and more mature. Also, she felt oddly pleased. Taliesin had her maidenhood; Matholwch couldn’t take that. After a silence, Erbin cleared his throat.
“I think it best if we forget this conversation ever happened.”
Branwen brought herself sharply back to the present.
“Yes. But I still owe you thanks for bringing me Taliesin’s gift. How can I repay you?”
Erbin was proud of his reputation as a helpful man. He was often asked that same question, and his reply was almost always the same.
“Helping others is repayment enough in its own right; besides, all I need is my bow and quiver to get by, and that is enough for me. Although my quiver is empty so if you could find me a good fletcher I’d be most grateful,” he added lamely.
A couple of hours later, just after dark had properly fallen, Erbin Sharpshooter bade farewell to Branwen at the edge of the sprawling camp. His quiver was full of steel-tipped arrows paid for by the princess, but he had politely refused lodging for the night, insisting that he had to be on his way. In fact, he just couldn’t face sleeping under thick canvas amidst hundreds of people. He liked to sleep in the open.
“There was one other thing Taliesin asked me to tell you,” said Erbin. “He said to say: “Afternoons in summer. Rocks by the sea. Sunset over water. Never again.” Those were his words.”
Branwen nodded, yet again finding herself forced to blink away tears. “Thank you, Erbin. And farewell! I shan’t forget.” She turned away.
Erbin recognized that all was clearly not well between Branwen and her lover. But there was nothing he could do. He bowed his head and left her. She had never felt so alone.
********************
The next day and the next they traveled on, and then they came to Seiont, where the great host was ferried across the strait over the course of half a day to the island of Mona, stronghold of the Druidic Order. That was why it had been chosen as the place for the union between the two kingdoms; the pact would be made under the very eyes of the Druids, and thus, in the sight of the gods. In the afternoon two days after that, the host arrived at the village of Adberfraw. The alliance would be sworn at twilight along with the wedding vows, and then the feasting would begin. Around midway through, once the moon was up and it was fully dark, the bride and groom would disappear to consummate the marriage.
Branwen was bathing in the Fraw at the nearest point where it was not tidal. She had barely spoken in days, but she was not sulking. She was reflecting. She was sacrificing everything she had known, people, places, to live with a man she did not love. She reminded herself that she was buying an alliance for her people, but it seemed strange. The alliance would hang by the thread of her life until she bore an heir, and then by his. Her life was precious; if she were selling it for peace only as long as she lived, it would not be worth it. Her mind didn’t want to work on that thought; everything seemed so confused and chewed up.
After she decided she was clean, a couple of handmaidens redressed her in the white dress she would wear for the rest of the evening. Then they led her back to the field where the camp of Bendigeidvran’s host was laid out – the village couldn’t hold them all, so they had set up tents and a large pavilion to substitute a longhall. The rest of the afternoon the bride was supposed to stay at her father’s side, bidding old friends farewell, and then they would go together to the feast where her father would sit in the high place with the bride and groom to his right and a Druid or priest to his left. However, as the bride’s father was departed, Bendigeidvran had to take his place, and brother and sister spent the rest of the day together. She found comfort in his presence, despite what he had forced her into. There were actually very few people she knew well enough to think she was really going to miss them, she realized. She wished Taliesin were there.
The afternoon seemed to pass all too soon; Branwen’s last hours of freedom, and she was too deep in anticipation to really even notice them slip by. Before long, evening was upon them, and she was seated between Matholwch and an Ordovice nobleman she did not know. On Matholwch’s other side was Vran, and next to him his brother Manawyddan, and next to him the chief druid – all people she knew. She wished she were sitting beside them instead. Matholwch smiled at her, and she smiled back quickly. She was scared and he could see it. He felt a little guilty for what he was doing, and tried to reassure her.
“What is it?”
“What’s what?”
“We have not seen each other in days, yet you have nothing to say to me. You’re afraid.”
“Well – I may be a little.”
“Don’t be. You have nothing to fear. Once we are married, I swear you will never have to do anything you don’t want to ever again. I swear it, Branwen.”
The way he pronounced her name startled her. He laid that slight extra stress on the first syllable just like Taliesin used to do, making it a broad vowel. For a moment she could not find her tongue.
“If you don’t want to go through with this, maybe we can –“
“No no, Matholwch, you do me wrong. Of course I want to go through with this. Everything just seems to have happened so fast.”
He squeezed her hand and smiled again. It was a nice smile.
“Forgive me. I always jump to conclusions.”
She smiled back, but her eyes were not in it.
********************
The great table was full. Twilight had darkened to dusk outside – these things always started late. The Druid stood and spread his arms for silence. It took a while, but at length everyone was quiet.
“Warriors and women of the king’s court, we are here to celebrate a dual union: for tonight shall Lady Bronwyn the Fair of the House of Llyr wed Matholwch mac Liathan, Iernirix, of the Royal House of Ultonia, while also shall an alliance be sworn between the Kingdom of Albion and the Kingdom of Ierne. If his majesty the King of Ierne and the Lady Bronwyn would rise?”
Matholwch stood up. Branwen’s heart was fluttering. She stood up too. Matholwch looked her in the eye. She tried to smile. It wasn’t his fault. He was a nice guy. Wasn’t he?
“Bronwyn wer Llyr, princess of Albion, will you take me, in front of all those assembled here, to be your husband, and watch over you, come what may?”
In the archaic official form of her name there was no
“I will nev –“
Her voice failed her. She couldn’t do it, she couldn’t say it, she didn’t have the heart, she wasn’t strong enough. Taliesin was gone. Every head was turned her way. All the pressure was on her. She caught Vran’s eye. His were wide, but he inclined his head slightly and closed them briefly. His body language told her that whatever she said, he would go along with it. She knew then that after all, she had no choice.
“I will take you, Matholwch mac Liathan, and be yours in my turn if you will have me.”
He kissed her without warning. It wasn’t so bad; she just didn’t feel the passion he expressed. She didn’t know that that only made her more desirable to him – her delicacy, her fragility, her gentleness, to be dominated by the beast within every man. He would force his love upon her.
After a long moment, Matholwch released her mouth.
“I will have you, Branwen. Mighty Arawn, I will have you!”
********************
The alliance was sworn without a hitch, and for the rest of the evening Matholwch was careful not to get drunk. It went against the tradition, but he was essentially still courting Branwen – for now. He had to try and win her. He knew there was more to her than she let him see. Still, she was his now, and Matholwch was not under such pressure he could not enjoy himself. He let his mask of boyish inexperience and nervousness slip for a little while he played the friendly warrior with his neighbors. He had fun; good food, good drink, and the best company in Albion. The atmosphere was infectious; he even managed to coax a little merriness and a smile out of the quiet Branwen; that he took as his cue. He got up, and took her hand.
“Come,” he said.
Her heart went cold. This was the moment she had been dreading.
“Come!” he repeated.
She went. She had no choice. They left quietly. Everybody saw them go, but nobody said a word. That was the custom.
********************
The tent was lit by candlelight. Matholwch and Branwen sat next to each other on the bed. He was watching her; she was looking straight ahead, shivering. She wanted to do what she knew she must, but she couldn’t make herself.
“Don’t be scared, Branwen.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You are. Don’t be. You have nothing to fear. It’s just me; it’s just us. It’s what we’re for.”
She forced herself to look up at him. It was a mistake. He kissed her. Again her response was nothing. He kissed her harder. She gave ground. He pounced, pushing her down and pinning her. She struggled, but he had her now. Her movements were of no avail. Her resistance only served to heighten his desire. She was his; this perfect body was his to dominate. In his haste, he never even noticed her maidenhood was polluted already. She whimpered under him. He took her body by storm.
A couple of nights earlier at Cambodunom in the territory of the Brigantes, Evnisien stayed awake.
He had been tipped off at Arelicon that a certain man he knew had been seen at Radde, and had ridden there as fast as possible, but he arrived too late; his quarry had already left for Mancwni, although he spent several days there searching. He had set off after him, still riding hard, but once again just missed him. He did manage to catch one of the man’s friends and threatened him until he revealed that Evnisien’s quarry was then heading for Cambodunom, and if Evnisien rode fast he might beat him to it. That same day Evnisien set out again. Now, three days later, he was waiting in the dark of the man’s empty hut for him to come home.
Evnisien did not have to wait long. The door-flap was pushed aside and a well-built, dark-haired man let himself in. Seeing that it was dark, he called:
“Enaiawg, are you there?”
When no-one replied in the next few moments, he set about lighting a fire in the dark. Soon he had a small but cheerful blaze going, and was dusting the soot off his hands. Then Evnisien spoke.
“Good evening, Dwrawt.”
The man jumped in fright and looked up, seeing Evnisien for the first time.
“Evnisien! What in Cesawn’s name are you doing here? Where’s Enaiawg? What have you done with her?”
“One thing at a time! Enaiawg is quite safe; scared for you, but safe. She is in the care of my charioteer at a tavern not far away. As for what I am doing here… by Taranis, you know exactly why I am here! Now draw your sword. We have an old score to settle.”
Dwrawt had no choice. He knew Evnisien would kill him whether he fought back or not, so he snatched his sword from its corner and discarded the scabbard.
“Evnisien, you are making a mistake. Wouldn’t it be better just to let the thing rest?”
“No, Dwrawt. It is your mistake!”
Evnisien lunged. Dwrawt blocked him and retreated around the fire.
“Hiding?” laughed Evnisien. “Enaiawg would be so proud!”
Dwrawt snarled and launched himself at him, scattering sparks from the fire and slashing downwards with his sword. Evnisien parried easily. Dwrawt spun round, channeling his momentum, but Evnisien dodged and it was wasted.
“That’s better!” he taunted. “Maybe you will die a good death after all!”
Dwrawt took a step back, then turned and pushed through the hide flap to get outside. Evnisien followed, growling, waving his sword even before he was fully out, and the fight continued beyond. A small crowd gathered to watch as the two warriors struck and parried, but it didn’t last long. Dwrawt swung too hard, missed, and lost his balance. Evnisien kicked him in the back and tripped him up, then rolled him over onto his back. Dwrawt was breathing hard, but his eyes betrayed no fear – only hate. Evnisien bent down to him and spoke quietly, although everyone could hear.
“This is for Enaiawg – for taking what was mine!”
He raised his sword in both hands, then stabbed downwards, pinning Dwrawt to the ground through the chest. Dwrawt’s eyes widened briefly and he made a strange noise, but he made no further show of pain. He began to feel dizzy. His sight began to darken. A woman screamed.
“Dwrawt!”
Was it just him or was someone cradling his head? And whose was this face looking down at him through bright blue eyes full of tears, her face framed by a tumbling cascade of dark hair. She seemed familiar… so familiar…
“Dwrawt… ‘m cariad…”
That voice… so sweet, so achingly familiar… his vision was blurring, but he could still feel her hot tears on his cold face. Of course!
“Enaiawg!” he whispered. He coughed up some blood, but managed to continue. “Rwyf wrth… fy mo…”
He didn’t live long enough to tell her he loved her. His eyes glazed over, his head fell limp. Enaiawg bowed her head and wept. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up sharply. It was Evnisien.
“I’m sorry. I had to.”
She did not reply at once. He retrieved his sword and moved on. Only then did she speak.
“Why? Why did you have to?”
Evnisien turned to face her. She went on hysterically.
“Why did he have to die? You could have left him alone! Is this all because of a teenage crush? Ten years ago? It is, isn’t it? That was your only quarrel. You two used to be great friends. But he won my heart, Evnisien! You never did that! He loved me as you never did!”
“Silence!”
“No! No, I will not be silent! The gods will punish you for this, Evnisien map Airoswydd! Not a day will pass between now and eternity that I will not wish you dead! You are cursed in life, Evnisien, with an anger you cannot control; so shall you be in death!”
“Enough!”
Evnisien hit her across the face. She made a little noise of surprise and pain, but did not move from Dwrawt’s side. Evnisien bent low to whisper to her.
“That is no way to speak to the brother of your king.”
He left her. Adminu, his charioteer, came up to him.
“And now, blood-brother?”
“Tonight we stay here, at the tavern, and tomorrow we ride home.”
“We don’t set off immediately?”
“No. I need a night’s rest. See if you can’t get that pretty blonde we were talking to earlier to join us in the roof. I need to calm my nerves.”
********************
A few days later, Branwen lay awake with her eyes closed, immobile, as dawn crept over Camru. She dared not stir, for she knew that as soon as she did she would wake into the first day of a life she did not want and would have to endure for as long as she lived. Eventually though, boredom got the better of her fear. She opened her eyes.
It was long after dawn, but Matholwch was apparently still sleeping. He lay facing her, one arm flung out over her shoulder. She didn’t want it there, but it was strangely pleasing. Besides, this was her husband now. Touching was going to be a fact of life.
Maybe sensing her consciousness, Matholwch stirred and opened his eyes. Seeing her, he smiled. Her face was bathed in gold light seeping through the fabric of the tent and reflecting off her hair. Branwen couldn’t help smiling back; Matholwch had a nice smile. At least he appreciated her. She would grow to like him.
The next few days weren’t anywhere near as bad as she had feared; Branwen just had very little to do. She spent much time talking with Matholwch and his friends or kissing him. On the third day after they were wed, the two of them went riding alone together. That was the last time Branwen ever rode Luned.
********************
Two days later, Evnisien arrived on Mona. He had gone first to Arelicon, but finding the caer almost deserted, he had simply asked where the king and his retinue had gone off to and then followed them to Adberfraw. He rode fast, and by noon he was within a couple of miles of the village. That was when he began to get the feeling that all was not normal.
“Adminu, since when did Vran’s retinue contain all these horses?”
Adminu frowned, noticing for the first time. As they rode along the dirt road, they passed on either side fields fenced off as enclosures for horses – some few hundred, they guessed. Evnisien dismounted, and Adminu followed suit. Leaving their mounts, they split up to inspect the horses on both sides of the road. A few minutes later they both returned to compare observations.
“It seems to me that all the horses are of the court. All their undersaddles are in the colors of the Kingdom of Albion. But in both enclosures combined, I guess there are twice as many as usual,” said Adminu.
“If they are all horses of the court, then why on my side of the road did I see only horses in the orange and white of Ierne?” replied Evnisien. “It seems strange that that Matholwch has not yet returned to his own land. What is he up to?”
********************
They rode on, and eventually came to the outskirts of Bendigeidvran’s host’s great camp. Evnisien was more puzzled than ever. A guard was standing nearby with a spear; Adminu hailed him. He came over to them.
“Evnisien map Airoswydd; Adminu map Lugotorix; greetings to you.”
Evnisien cut straight to the point.
“What’s going on here?”
“You have not heard? Forgive me. A few days ago on this spot, the Kingdoms of Albion and Ierne entered into alliance and King Matholwch was wed to Lady Branwen the Fair.”
Evnisien was rigid. His jaw was set. Adminu knew him too well not to know what was coming. He gestured to the guard to back off.
“Evnisien? Brother?”
“Leave me, Adminu. I shall return soon.”
“Evnisien –“
“Go!”
Evnisien’s wrath was justly renowned. He was even more terrifying than Bendigeidvran when his ire was aroused. His eyes flamed; Evnisien’s rage was the brink of insanity. Adminu fled. Evnisien turned his horse sharply about, facing back the way he had come.
“So, they marry off the highest maiden in this land, and my sister no less, to a foreign despot?” murmured Evnisien to himself. “Those two bastards could not have insulted me more. Now I shall take my vengeance on both of them, and woe betide any man who tries to stop me!”
********************
Evnisien galloped all the way back to the fields where the horses roamed, and leapt the fence into the northern enclosure, oblivious of how close his mount came to breaking its legs, where the Iernian horses were kept. There was a boy there now, brushing down a beautiful sleek chestnut as it grazed. Evnisien went straight up to him and dismounted.
“You, boy! Which is the king’s favorite steed?”
The boy narrowed his eyes at Evnisien. “Who are you?”
Evnisien drew his sword and pointed it at the boy, forcing him to the ground. His eyes flashed dangerously.
“Which is Matholwch’s favorite horse?”
With frightened eyes, the boy indicated the beautiful chestnut he had just been grooming. Evnisien followed his gaze, then nodded.
“Thank you,” he said, and ran him through.
********************
At midnight, Matholwch got the news.
“My Lord, except for one, every single horse we brought with us from Ierne is dead. So is that of the Lady Branwen, and the stable boy is also slain. Three eyewitness reports lay the blame on Evnisien map Airoswydd, half-brother of King Bendigeidvran. Your own horse is the one still living, but it is near death, and when that comes it will come as a mercy. Its ears, eyelids, lips and tail have been cut off.”
Matholwch had been asleep until the messenger had roused him just now. Branwen had been woken too.
“No! Evnisien would never do anything like that!”
Matholwch was stony-faced. At length he spoke.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Then there is nothing to be gained from our staying here. Why our new allies have acted this way I cannot guess, but we have been insulted and treated like vermin. Prepare the whole host to depart, quietly. I want us away from this place by dawn. Later, maybe, we will find out why our two islands are incapable of living in peace.”
********************
STARCROSSED
“My lord Bendigeidvran, awake!”
“What is it, Bodwoc?”
“Matholwch and all his men are gone, my lord. All their tents are empty of both people and belongings. A rider reported a large company heading south.”
“Well, he is entitled to go and come as he pleases, but it is a little ill-mannered of him to leave suddenly like that without telling me. And with my sister, no less, I take it?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Very well. Rouse Iddig map Anarawg and Hifaid the Old and send them here to me as quickly as possible.”
“Very good, my lord.”
********************
Matholwch's ships had been beached some ten miles south of Adberfraw; for such a large host, that distance was slow going. The messengers Bendigeidvran sent after him, Iddig map Anarawg and Hifaid the Old, both high-ranking nobles of the Ordovices, had little trouble catching up, but on the way they passed between the two horse enclosures. One was devoid of all movement, although dark humps showed where its former occupants had died; in the other still roamed the horses of Albion. Evnisien had not slain them, nor had Matholwch stolen them as compensation, but they smelt the blood of their kin and were nervous.
“What has happened here?” gasped Iddig, younger than his companion by some fifty years, as the two men trotted past the carnage in the dark. The old man rode on in grim silence. After a while Iddig spoke again – he felt the stillness of the air to be oppressive.
“Matholwch must have had a hard time keeping his men from stealing our horses to replace their own.”
“Doubtless, Matholwch knows his kingdom is no match for ours if it comes to war, and so seeks not to provoke us in any way. I think now I see already the reason for his departure; I hope I am wrong. Let us ride on.”
********************
Matholwch had managed to round up four horses that had escaped Evnisien’s vengeance. He and Branwen shared one, his standard-bearer had another, and a couple of scouts had the other two. So when he heard the noise of galloping hooves approaching, he knew that could only mean news.
The scout drew up beside the king.
“My lord, two riders wearing the colors of Albion have caught up with us. They wish to be granted an audience as soon as your majesty sees fit.”
Matholwch snorted. “So, now they want to talk? Very well, I shall see them. Branwen dearest, would it displease you to dismount for a time? Messenger, take me to these men.”
Branwen dismounted, but kept her hand on the bridle.
“Matholwch, I pray you, do not act in anger. I am certain this is all just a misunderstanding, please don’t make it any worse.”
Matholwch’s heart softened as he looked down at her; so innocent, so kind, so fair. It would have been hard for any man to refuse her a favor.
“Of course, Branwen. Of course.”
She took away her hand, and he rode to the rear of the column with the scout. Iddig and Hifaid saw him coming and came to meet him.
“Hail, Matholwch, King of Ierne! We come in peace.”
Forgetting his promise to Branwen, Matholwch replied sarcastically, “Is that so?”
“I am Hifaid the Old of the Ordovices, and this is Iddig map Anarawg. We are messengers from king Bendigeidvran. We have come to ask what are your intentions in departing in such haste?”
“Ha! Arawn knows,” snorted Matholwch, “if I had known what were going to happen I would never have come here! I don’t think anyone in history can ever have been on a worse trip than this one! I have been wronged and insulted; the brother of your king has slain all my horses and those of my men but for a few that escaped! - There is just one thing I do not understand.”
“And what is that?” asked Iddig.
“I was given the Lady Branwen to wife, and my kingdom was allied with yours, and after that you decided to slay all my horses. That is the only strange thing, in my mind; that first you give me the most beautiful maiden between the Ocean and the Maeotian Marshes, and then you slaughter my horses! Clearly I do not know the customs of this land. Still, I have learnt two things: in this country, it is perfectly acceptable behavior to destroy the property of one’s guest, and maidens are valued at about as much as an arrowhead.”
Iddig was about to make a violent retort and things could have got nasty if Hifaid had not quickly stepped in.
“We understand your anger, Matholwch, and we see well that your actions are most justified. But in all honesty, this insult was done to you without the approval or knowledge of Bendigeidvran or any one of his advisors. And although you consider it a disgrace, it reflects worse upon him than upon yourself.”
“Very true; but just because of that Bendigeidvran cannot undo what was done. And now, if you have nothing left to say, I consider this interview over.”
********************
Matholwch and his men had nearly reached the bay where their ships were beached and the sun had risen, when the messenger rode up to the head of the column to tell the king that the emissaries were back and that this time there were three of them. Again Matholwch rode back to meet them after dropping Branwen, this time accompanied by his standard-bearer. It came as a surprise when he saw that the little embassy was led by none other than Manawyddan, Vran’s own brother; clearly, Vran was trying to show Matholwch just how earnest he was.
Manawyddan spoke first.
“My lord Matholwch, allow me to introduce Ynig Braveshoulder, prince of the Garganii, who accompanies Hifaid and myself this time. We have a proposition to make, your majesty.”
“And what is that?”
“The king says that you shall have two healthy horses for every one that was harmed, a plate of gold as broad as your face, and a staff of silver as tall as yourself and as thick as your little finger. He also offers you his sincerest and humblest apologies, and says he will make peace on whatever terms you wish. However, he begs you to be reasonable, and also to have mercy on Evnisien whose deed it was: it would be hard for the king to put his mother’s son to death.”
Manawyddan’s frankness and abruptness were surprisingly good tools of persuasion. Matholwch sat in thought for a while, weighing up the odds of getting a better deal, and at length looked up, decided.
“I accept your proposal. It is fair, and there is no need for us to be at odds with one another over one man’s crime. We shall return at once to Adberfraw.”
Manawyddan smiled.
“You are wise, King Matholwch. I have no doubts that you are a great ruler of your people. There are those who value battle-prowess and valor more, but in my experience they have only ever brought sadness. But true wisdom, and the power to forgive… these qualities bring both joy and justice. I think we shall be better friends than ever, you and I, my lord.”
********************
Bendigeidvran was fond of feasts. He had another one set out for that evening, in the same place as before. The Celts never tired of feasting – although Branwen felt that it was beginning to get a little repetitive. Matholwch was pleased, but he tried not to show it; he had a part to play. Evnisien was conspicuously absent.
Night had set in; the feast was well underway. A few people were tipsy, but not many were drunk yet. Matholwch’s cup was untouched; he was sulking. Vran, ever anxious to console people who were upset, dropped his voice and spoke to him familiarly.
“What is it, Matholwch? Are you still pissed about the loss of your horses? If you still feel wronged, then I will add to your compensation anything you might claim.”
Matholwch looked up, his surprise at the generosity of the last statement genuine. For a moment he didn’t know what to say.
“My lord, may the gods bless you for your generosity!”
Bendigeidvran was pleased with this reaction.
“What is more, I shall give you the Crochan o Ailenedigaeth! Perhaps you have heard of it? It is a cauldron, the property of which is that if you throw into it one of your warriors who was killed in battle then he will return to life, only struck dumb.”
Matholwch frowned.
“That is extremely generous of you, my lord; but whence came you this cauldron?”
"I got it from a dwarf who had been in your country; as far as I know that is where he came by it, which is why it seems fitting that I should now return it to you. His name was Llasar Llaes Gavnewid. He came here with his wife, Camidai Camainfoll, after escaping from the Iron House in Ierne. He never told me more, and I always wondered how he came to be there, perhaps you can shed some light on the matter?”
“Indeed I can, my lord. A few years ago, when I had just become king, I was hunting near Emana on top of a hill overlooking the Lake of the Cauldron, when I saw a man coming out of the lake with a cauldron on his back. I have since wondered why it is called the Lake of the Cauldron, and why the man was carrying a cauldron out of it. I only hope he did not take it from the lake; such things are best left alone.
“Anyhow, as this man came nearer I could see that he was very small, but bulky. His hair and beard were long, and a dark ginger color. He was followed by a woman, much taller than him and exceptionally beautiful. I think maybe she was of the Sidhe. Of course, they were Llasar and Camidai. They came up to me and greeted me. I asked them how things were going, and the dwarf told me that in six weeks from then his wife would conceive, and six weeks again after that the child born of that conception would be a fully-armed warrior. I could see there was some sort of magic about them, so I took them in to maintain them.
“For the first year they were with me, everything went well, and after three months Camidai gave birth to a fully-armed warrior. But after that year was up people began to resent them. Before another winter had passed (I had found them the previous autumn), Llasar, who had gathered about himself quite a warband of dwarves and fair but fell men, was roaming the kingdom, insulting, harassing, and tormenting thanes and chieftains and their families across the kingdom. The people hated them. So, they gave me a choice: I could either drive Llasar and his wife and their warband away, or I would lose my kingdom. That was how deep their hatred had become for the dwarf and his band, that they would challenge their king to get rid of him.
“I had little choice; Llasar had to be disposed of. He would not go of his own free will, and we could not force him into exile because of his magic. That was when we settled on the Iron House. We prepared a banquet for them, and at the right moment when they were all drunk I and my guards slipped out and locked them in. Then all the smiths began to light the charcoal and pump the bellows, and pretty soon all the walls were white-hot. What it must have been like inside I don’t like to think; but Llasar kept his wits about him, for he waited till the walls were white-hot, and then he rammed into one with his shoulder, and because it was so hot he broke through and escaped with Camidai across his shoulders. We tried to catch the dwarf, but he had vanished. He was the only one who escaped. After that I suppose he came over here.”
“He did indeed. He gave me the cauldron in exchange for safe conduct, and I gave him some land among the Setantii. Apparently he learnt his lesson while in your country; he has caused me no trouble, and furnishes me with the finest weaponry when I want it. At any rate, I now return the cauldron to you, that it may go back to its land of origin; do with it as you will. But mind you do not break it! Llasar told me that whosoever breaks it shall die instantly, his heart frozen; but in death he shall have not go to the Otherworld. He would say no more. Take care, king Matholwch!”
********************
The next day dawned bright and clear; the wind was coming round to the west, and Matholwch resolved to sail back to Ierne the next day. While his men made ready for the return journey, Matholwch, his Druid, and Bendigeidvran with his escort, traveled about the vicinity seeking the horses Vran had promised. First he gave Matholwch all the steeds he could spare from his own stables; then he bought some more off the locals; then the company rode as far as the north coast of the island, to a region where horse-breeding was the dominant activity, and Vran bought up every healthy mare he could lay his hands on, aged everywhere between six months and twelve years. At last the debt was paid.
That night, they feasted one last time, and in the morning Matholwch made ready to depart. Branwen hugged her brother one last time.
“I shall visit you often,” she told him.
“Of course,” he replied, “but you must also grow new roots in your new home.”
His words remained with her as she stood alone at the stern of Matholch’s flagship, watching the cliffs of Camru drift slowly out of sight. Her thoughts wandered, as so often still, to Taliesin. Now she was being drawn even further away from him, and from her home, and from everything she had ever known, into the unknown, her only friend a husband she didn’t love – and he didn’t really count anyway.
A single tear of sorrow trickled down one cheek. She remained standing at the stern until Camru vanished off the edge of sight. Then she stood there a lot longer.
In his time away, Taliesin had forgotten how much he loved his home. Then he had had Branwen to distract him; but on the journey back, he had nothing. His route from Arelicon led almost due southeast, almost into the sunrise every morning, straight through the mountains: a hundred and thirty miles of stunning landscape, much of which remains so even today. But Taliesin’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead, except when he turned in his saddle to scan the trees behind him. He didn’t hurry; his heart yearned for Branwen to appear galloping out of the woodland behind, begging to come with him. But she never came. He had no heart to admire the landscape.
On the first night after leaving the caer a great storm set in. There seemed to be no dwellings nearby, so Taliesin simply rode on until he found one. There he stayed the night. At dawn, the storm seeming to have abated, Taliesin rode off again, but all morning he was seeing signs of a recitation of the storm of the previous night. In the afternoon it struck again. A thunderstorm in the mountains is quite something, but it does not do to underestimate its danger. When a lightning-bolt struck a tree not four paces away from Taliesin, he decided it was time to find shelter. Just before what would have been sundown if the sun had been visible, he was lucky enough to come upon a small village. The next day and the next night the storm showed no signs of waning, and the rain poured down in a constant torrent from sunrise one day to sunrise the next. That night everyone in the village gathered in the village hall, and they told stories all night long while the storm howled across the roof and hammered at the door.
The next day Taliesin would wait no longer, bade farewell to his hosts and rode on again. The storm had stopped but it was still raining hard. Towards midday however the clouds at last began to move off further inland and by nightfall it had stopped raining. Taliesin stayed the night at an isolated dwelling far from any village as on the first night and in the morning pressed on again. A little after sundown he camped under the stars in a grove next to a stream. Around midnight he had a near encounter with a bad-tempered bear, but it let him be. The next day he rode harder to try and make up for the time he had lost due to the storm. By now he was coming down from the mountains. Dwellings were more frequent, and the broken grasslands and outcrops of rock began to give way to more extended fields and woodland. That night he stayed in a village he remembered from his childhood, although with his tattoos and four more years behind him nobody recognized him. The next day, around mid-morning, he dropped from the saddle and walked Cingetos up to his parents’ roundhouse, still there after all these years, and knocked on the door-frame.
A woman pushed aside the hide door-flap. She seemed smaller than Taliesin remembered; but if her hair was grayer and her face more lined, her eyes were still the same blue Taliesin’s own shared. As soon as she saw him they opened wide in recognition.
“Hello, mom.”
“Taliesin! Oh, my boy!”
She threw her arms around him and hugged him close. Taliesin felt awkward, but he was pleased nonetheless. Eventually she released him and held him at arm’s length. Then, in the manner of women, she began talking non-stop.
“My, how you’ve grown! When you left with the High King I was still as tall as you, but now look! Little Taliesin who was always tripping over himself! Who’d have though it! After all these years – come inside, my boy, come inside! Just you wait till your father gets back from the fields!”
This was home.
********************
That night, they all sat around a fire outside: Taliesin, his mother, his father, his brother, Anonawg, Anonawg’s wife, whom he had married while Taliesin was away, their two year old daughter – Taliesin had some trouble getting used to identifying himself as an uncle – and his one surviving grandparent, his mother’s father. His mother’s mother had died while Taliesin was Bendigeidvran’s standard-bearer. That had been sad news for him; now, happily, it was almost forgotten.
Good food, strong drink and friendly company make for an evening that is hard not to enjoy. They talked and laughed and drank and ate, but Taliesin felt somehow distant from them all. His thoughts, certainly, were miles away. It was Anonawg and his wife who had brought this mood about; they were shameless lovers, despite the presence of his parents and their child. Taliesin thoughts, of course, were with Branwen. Had she only been there with him, it would have been the perfect evening. As she was only in his mind however, it ruined it for him.
Since he had left this place four years ago, much had happened. Too much. Events here had left him behind, and meeting Branwen had turned his world upside down. This was no home for him any more; home was wherever she was.
********************
The next few days saw Taliesin settling back down with his family. On the third night he went to the tavern in the fort and regaled friends old and new with a mostly true account of his adventures in the last four years. He left out how he truly felt for Branwen – although he did not fail to desribe his last night with her – and made it sound like he had simply seduced her. It didn’t matter what he said; nobody really believed the stories people told them about themselves, that was just the way of it. The truth wasn’t really an issue; all that was wanted was a story. Anyway, even if they did, Bendigeidvran was far away.
The tale was told; Taliesin had just finished a heroic and dramatic retelling of his encounter with the bear, and concluded his narrative nicely with his arrival home. His listeners were beginning to disperse. He was just considering getting another dink and then going home when a girl squeezed through the dissipating crowd and greeted him.
“
“Tangwen!”
She had been twelve when he had left four years ago, and he had thought her pretty then. Now though, she was strikingly attractive. From her dark red hair to her slender waist and perfect proportions, from her close-fitting dress with its decidedly immodestly low neckline to her bright dark eyes, from her light copper skin to her contrasting navy blue cloak, she was hot and she knew it. And Taliesin was not so madly in love he didn’t notice.
“Carnyn… I barely recognized you. You’ve grown up.”
She smiled seductively. “That’s generally what happens over four years.”
Taliesin’s reaction to her friendliness was automatic. There was nothing more to it than common decency when he asked her if he could get her a drink.
She pulled a face. “No, I’m still recovering from the last time I “had a drink”. I can’t understand the appeal, the stuff tastes vile!”
Taliesin remembered that Branwen had had exactly the same views on the subject and smiled. “Shall we walk, then? We used to be good friends. I’m sure we have a lot to catch up on.”
Again that smile. Anyone else would have realized by now she was into him.
“Why not?”
********************
After that, she wanted to see him every night. They would meet up anywhere between his parents’ farm and her house within the fortress walls of Isca. Then they would walk and talk, visit friends, listen to a story if there happened to be a bard around, eat out, or do any of the other things that unmarried couples used to do in those days. And so Taliesin found himself pulled almost by accident into a relationship. He was so busy, what with work on the farm, vague searching for a property of his own, and every evening out with Tangwen, he sometimes forgot about Branwen for hours at a time. Isca was beginning to feel like home again. Away to the northwest, across the sea, Branwen was trying hard to settle down into living at her new home with the king of Ierne. For three weeks Tangwen and Taliesin’s relationship went on in this way.
One night, as Taliesin was lying beside Tangwen in a clearing in the forest, she asked him something he did not expect.
“Did you ever think of getting married?”
“I… well… there was a time when I gave it some thought. But I knew it could never be.”
“What?”
His thoughts were far away again. He was not trying to make her jealous when he replied, “Lady Branwen.” So he was not at all prepared for her reaction.
“I – Taliesin, that is so tactless!”
She was pretty when she was angry. He tried hastily to cover himself.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! I’ve never given it any thought!”
It worked. His smile calmed her down. She carried on, pacified.
“Seriously though… I mean… come on, don’t pretend you haven’t dreamed about me.”
“Well, actually…”
Her eyes; dark and bright. The eyes of a sex-goddess. She was talking from experience: other guys, clearly, found her irresistible. He didn’t want to anger her again by telling the truth, so he told her what she wanted to hear.
“… I can’t deny it.”
She began to smile. How could she know her charms were not the reason for his answer? She knew about lovemaking: strategy for getting there, attitudes, techniques and positions, different herbs that could be used as contraceptives; but of love, agape, she had no idea.
“I knew it! I knew it, Tal!”
She flung herself on him and grinned down at him, her eyes glinting mischievously.
“We were made for each other.”
She kissed him before he could say anything. His body responded automatically, but his heart cried out in protest. She sat back on him and pulled her tunic over her head before kissing him again. Somehow he lost his shirt, and then she was underneath him, and he was poised over her. His heart was pounding, but it was not just adrenaline. It was pounding so hard that it ached.
Taliesin stood up. Tangwen, who had been anticipating his move, opened her eyes and sat up, confused.
“I’m sorry. I don’t belong here.”
Taliesin grabbed his shirt and began to run. Where, he didn’t know. He couldn’t hear Tangwen’s cries and supplications behind him. His thoughts were of Branwen and how close he had come to betraying her. He ran on. Gradually, Tangwen’s cries turned to shouted curses and insults, and then her voice died away. Taliesin pulled on his shirt. The twigs lashed his face. Blindly, he ran on.
Somehow, his subconscious guided him back to his parents’ roundhouse. Home? Sanctuary, at least. At the edge of the trees, he stopped and bent double to catch his breath. He was safe on the fringes of his parents’ land.
Before long, he was gently shaking his mother awake.
“Mom? Mom. No, don’t get up, it’s nothing. I’m going away again. At once. And I don’t think I’m coming back this time. I’m going to Ierne. It is people, not places that make a home; and although where you and pa are I know I can always find shelter, I love someone even more who is far away from here. Thank you for all you’ve done for me; I owe you more than I can ever repay. But I don’t belong here any more. Tell pa to take care of you. I will probably never see you again, so…
Without waiting for a reply, Taliesin left her side and exited the hut. His bag was packed and Cingetos was saddled. He mounted, and with a cry he urged Cingetos forward, heading southwest, to the port, and thence, true love.
It was evening. Queen Branwen of Arelicon stood at the railing of the walkway that linked the royal palace to her own tower, separated from the main complex by about ten paces. Matholwch had given it to her upon request; he always gave her whatever she wanted without fail. Anyone else would have been more than content; a handsome, kind-hearted king for a husband, and anything she wanted upon command. But Branwen, of course, was still in love with Taliesin. As she stood at the railing, gazing west, imagining she could still see far in the distance the cliff at Arelicon, leagues and leagues away, she was thinking of him.
It was a couple of weeks now since she had arrived in this country. Matholwch had done his utmost to make her feel at home; and the similarity of the landscape to parts of Camru had helped too; but it did not change the fact that Matholwch was the only person in the country she actually knew. Her last handmaidens had not wanted to leave Albion, even to be with her, so she had not pressed them. Her new Iernian handmaidens were friendly, but Branwen could not bond with them. She had used to be very good at making friends; everyone had wanted to be her friend, so it had been easy. But now she was queen, and a melancholy queen at that, and finding friends was harder. She felt alone, even in the midst of a crowd, somehow separated from everyone else. Maybe it was partly her fault, for being unable to let go of her old life. But it still hurt.
Aside from the new, unfamiliar faces, the main difference between this and her old life was where she spent her time. Matholwch did not live in a longhall at the center of a fortress; he had a great stone palace with towers and walkways and guards everywhere, three stories tall – not so inconceivable to you or I, but in those days it was alone of its kind. It had been calculated to impose itself upon the landscape and intimidate foreigners and locals alike – it was a great statement of power. It had certainly intimidated Branwen, although by now she was beginning to get used to living in it. But it was still strange. Everything was strange. And lying with Matholwch every night when she just wanted to be with Taliesin was the worst of it. It was all so wrong. She wished she could see Taliesin again – just once, maybe?
********************
“My lady? There is a man from Albion here who wishes to be granted a private audience.”
Although she had been thinking of him mere moments before, it never occurred to Branwen that it might be Taliesin. After all, she had no reason to suppose it might be. But, as she had nothing better to do… she sighed, and closed her eyes for a long moment. It was so hard to find the willpower to do anything when she had lost the meaning of her life.
“I will see him.”
She followed the messenger from the open walkway back into the main palace complex. He led her along a corridor, round a corner and down a flight of stairs to one of Matholwch’s impressive audience halls. A guard and a handmaiden, who followed her everywhere, were, as usual, not far behind. Branwen never thought to make them wait outside when she entered the hall.
The doors closed quietly. At the other end of the torch-lit room was a tall figure in a traveling cloak with the hood up. His back was to Branwen, but he began to turn slowly when he heard her enter.
She recognized him before he had even lowered his hood. In a heartbeat she breathed his name, and in another she had covered the distance between them and her mouth was pressed against his. It was like a spell had been broken. The sudden rush of emotions she felt as she kissed him overwhelmed her completely. It was Taliesin of course. He swept her off her feet and swung her round and round. It had been so long… The rest of the world was forgotten. The two of them were completely oblivious to everything else.
“Ugh!”
Branwen and Taliesin’s kiss broke as he turned around. Much as he would have been happy to stand there kissing her as the world fell down, a direct potential threat to her had to be dealt with.
The messenger who had told Branwen of Taliesin’s arrival and then led her to him lay dead on the ground, an arrow in his back, one hand stretched up to the door-handle. Branwen’s guard still held in his hand the bow which had killed him. Her handmaiden clung to his arm. No one said anything for a long moment.
At length the guard spoke. As he did so, he pulled off his limed wig and shook his long wiry brown hair loose.
“These steel-tipped arrows certainly do their job better than most. Hello, Lady Branwen. Perhaps now you recognize me?”
She did indeed. So, suddenly, did Taliesin.
“Erbin Sharpshooter! We meet again where I never expected to find either one of us!”
“Aye, Taliesin map Callawc. After taking your – parcel – to the Lady Branwen, I could not fail to notice that all did not seem right with her. So instead of returning south, I hung around, learning as much as I could. And glad I am that I did – look what I picked up!” He nudged the handmaiden who was still clinging to his arm, and she blushed. He went on. “I was genuinely concerned about you, my lady, and although I could do little, I did what I could. I found my way into Matholwch’s guard corps before ever he returned to Ierne, and established myself in his eyes as reliable and trustworthy. Since then, my lady, I have followed you about to ensure that no harm comes to you. It seemed at the time the right thing to do. And just think, had I not done so, that little worm“ - here he jerked a finger at the body of the messenger, slumped against the door - “would have betrayed us all. I am surprised you did not recognize me before, Lady, although I suppose given your sadness of late that is to be understood.”
“Once again, then, I find myself in your debt, Erbin map Aneirin,” stated Taliesin. “I warn you, I may find it hard to repay what I owe you.”
“What
“Yes,” he agreed. “What we owe you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” chuckled Erbin. “This lady here” - he indicated the handmaiden - “is, according to the custom, supposed to remain single and chaste – so if you cover for us as we cover for you, we may consider ourselves more or less even. But, in the meantime, we have some clearing up to do. We have already spent overlong talking. The body of the worm must be disposed of. Also, I think it best Taliesin is not found by the king to be here. That might raise awkward questions.”
********************
That evening, Taliesin was waiting for Branwen. He was standing under a tree, with the shadows and the moonlight playing across the ground. A few paces away was a circle of white standing stones. She had said she would meet him here.
“Taliesin!”
A hiss over the breeze in the tree-branches, but it could only be her. He ran towards the sound. They met at the very center of the stone circle. She was in his arms. He kissed her.
At long last, they broke apart, and she looked up at the stars. He followed her gaze.
“The gods know we should be together,” murmured Taliesin. He kissed her again. She felt his hands gently push her dress off her shoulders.
Painted warrior and Celtic princess made love all night in the ancient stone circle, in the midst of the moonlit forest.
********************
So the days went by. Every night Branwen had to sleep with Matholwch; but whenever she could she or Erbin found some excuse for her to be away for the night with Taliesin. Matholwch noticed a steady change in her, which he was pleased to attribute to her settling down. She became more friendly and talkative with everyone, stopped crying all the time, and no longer resisted when he lay with her, instead remaining quite passive and letting him have his way. He didn’t know she was lodging Taliesin in the cellar of the tower
Branwen was happy for the first time in weeks. She now had two good friends and her true love back, and although she still had to put up with being married to Matholwch, it became bearable. Whenever anything was in doubt, Erbin and his girlfriend Bronna covered for her. Once, though, she too had to swing her regal weight when Erbin and Bronna were caught red-handed in order to have it hushed up. Taliesin cut his hair and began to grow a moustache, much to Branwen’s amusement, and he had a blue band painted across his face over the eyes, in the manner of Caledonian tattooing, to mask his real characteristic tattoos: twin stripes on each cheekbone. He also put on an outrageous Caledonian accent and invented a new identity for himself as a chieftain of the Taexali. Once, when he was at the market in Emana, the town not far from Matholwch’s palace, he actually bumped into Matholwch himself, with Branwen at his side and a whole royal escort. There was a moment of tension when they first glimpsed each other – the same fear that Matholwch would recognize Taliesin flashed through both Branwen and Taliesin’s heads – but Matholwch did not recognize him, and Taliesin actually staged a long conversation with him about the Highlands of Caledonia which he in fact knew nothing about in his atrocious Caledonian accent. Branwen was almost falling off her horse for laughing by the time he rode off, and even Matholwch with all his practiced royal dignity was fighting to keep a straight face.
One day, Taliesin surprised her by appearing in the royal bedchamber with a gift for her.
“Taliesin! What are you doing here?! If Matholwch comes up here and –“
“Ssh! Look, I brought you something.”
He opened his hands, which had been cupped one over the other in front of him, and a tiny little feathered head and beak peeked out.
“Oh, that is so sweet!”
“Careful, he’s only small. He’s a starling. I bought him off a Camric trader who said he came from Arelicon. The trader swore that if you release him, he’ll fly straight home. So if anything happens to you, and... for whatever reason... I can’t help... he can take a message to Vran for you. The gods know, it’s a dangerous game we’re playing.”
********************
All in all, those were good days for Branwen and Taliesin. Tiring for her and life-threatening for him, but they were together, and they were happy.
“Taliesin?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s leave this place.”
It was night, six weeks after Taliesin’s arrival in Ierne. He and Branwen were sitting next to each other on the ground, leaning against a standing stone, counting stars after a long session of lovemaking. Taliesin looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Taliesin, we can’t live like this! The risks are too great! I know running away is betraying my brother, and I know that it may even lead to war – but I cannot go on living like this. We have to go.”
Taliesin tilted her head and looked straight into her eyes.
“If we run away, everything changes. Life will not be easy. You will not be a queen or a princess; we will have to work for a living, tilling the earth or crafting with our hands. Whereas as things stand now, life is easy.”
“I know, but I just can’t take it!”
“We will have to travel far away. We cannot return to the mighty mountains of Arelicon, or the rolling plains of the Catuvellauni, or my home beside the sparkling river Isca. If we were found in any of those places, we would be undone for sure. Obviously we cannot stay in Ierne; Matholwch would find us, and anyway I still barely speak the language. We will have to start again, far from here. Even Dumnonia is too close. Belgana. Aremorica. Gallaecia. We could be together – but that’s all we’d have.”
“I know. I have given this much thought, Tal.”
“Life will be hard; but it will be honest. There is no more honest way of making a living than working with one’s hands. We shall go to Caledonia, up in the mountains, in the lands of the Taexali, who are furthest from Ierne. Even if Caledonia one day joins the Kingdom of Albion, they will never find us there. We shall seek patronage from a chieftain, and I shall sell Cingetos, for horses fetch a good pice in Caledonia or so I have heard, and then we shall buy some land. And then we shall have a farm, and grow barley and keep sheep, like at my parents’ farm away in the lands of Silures. And one day we shall have a son, and when he grows up he can help with the farm. And I shall teach him everything I know so that he may be a great warrior. And whenever war comes to the land I shall fight as well as any man there, so that we shall be accepted into the community. And I shall have my face properly tattooed the Caledonian way, and we will be happy there. We will make new friends and drink with them and tell stories with them, and maybe just once you can send a message to Bendigeidvran with your starling, explaining what we’ve done. I hear there is more snow than rain in the winter up there, and for one night every year dark never falls, but it remains dusk all night long. But the sky and the stars are the same; and a mountain hasn’t changed since yesteryear; and their customs and language are very close to ours. It will be a new life for us, and we will have to leave everything else behind; but it will be a life we can understand. The true difficulty, I think, will be in getting you safely away from here.”
“I know. I have been trying to think of something.”
“What would be perfect would be to stage a hold-up when you and Matholwch are traveling through the country. But we do not have the resources.”
“That would be too dishonest, Taliesin.”
Taliesin smiled. “My honesty was compromised when I made love to a virgin princess of Albion, kissed a queen of Ierne, and then had an affair with a girl as beautiful as a Sidhe behind her husband’s back.”
Branwen couldn’t help smiling. Taliesin kissed her, but she was still thoughtful.
“I considered just sneaking off at night –“
“- but we wouldn’t get far. Your beauty, if nothing else, makes you far too recognizable.” He buried his face in the curve of her neck and her hair draped about it, breathing her scent.
“We need to find an excuse for me to go off by myself somewhere. Then my retinue will simply return without me and it will be too late. That is less dishonest, because Matholwch will know I ran away out of choice."
“I think we have to forget dishonesty while we’re dealing with this particular issue, it’s too limiting. You could go visiting your brother…”
“No, Matholwch would have to come too to show respect.”
“Of course.”
They were silent for a few moments, thinking. It was Taliesin who came up with the solution.
“A ritual healing. You will be “taken ill”, and Bronna will tell Matholwch of the place to go to be healed – I don’t know, a river in a forest or something, near the coast. The ritual you must perform yourself, and no men are allowed to be within three miles or something like that. Meanwhile, I will be waiting nearby to pick you up once you are alone. We will then ride straight to the coast and pray that a ship is set to sail for Albion soon.”
“A ritual healing, at which only women can be present… this sounds suspiciously like you have some sort of ritual bathing in mind,” teased Branwen. “What about my clothes?”
Taliesin kissed her again.
“I think you’re fine without them.”
********************
A week later, the deed was done.
Branwen pretended to sicken the next day, and she appeared to worsen over the following two. Matholwch was soon at his wits’ end. Branwen couldn’t help feeling guilty that she was exploiting his love for her, but she told herself there was nothing else for it. When Bronna mentioned the secret grove and the magic river sacred to Brigida to him, he pounced on the opportunity at once. He and his escort camped five miles from the place, but a hundred handmaidens came as far as about eighty paces from it. Branwen couldn’t see several of them peeking through the bracken when she glanced furtively around before stripping and stepping into the river. It had been agreed that her royal apparel would be much too conspicuous.
On the other bank of the stream, the willows and the ferns came right down to the water’s edge. And out of the shadows beneath the trees came Taliesin, the very part of a barbarian nobleman, on his white horse. He had brought with him from her tower all the things she valued, as well as his own. They were ready to go.
For the handmaidens who were secretly spying on their mistress, a scene from a fairy-tale met their eyes that left them torn between rage and understanding.
********************
Despite a degree of hospitality and friendliness towards strangers not seen since in Western Europe, and the fact that whoever’s house you went up to in the evening to ask for shelter you would always be let in, there were inns in the Celtic world as well. People – especially couples – have always valued privacy. Another advantage of the inn was that they usually had a secure stable if you needed a place for your horse. The only downside was of course that you had to pay.
Taliesin and Branwen had taken a very roundabout route in coming to Port Imarich, in order to throw Matholwch off the scent, and they had arrived just as dusk was falling. They had been lucky enough to bump into a Novanta trader, who was going to set sail for Aeira the next morning, and he had agreed to allow them passage along with Cingetos. Then they had found an inn and rented a room for the night for three finger-length iron ingots (also simply called “fingers”. They were used as currency in those days).
Celtic architecture could be pretty dodgy, and almost all buildings were only a single story tall. There were a handful with two stories, but none with more than that. The exception was this inn, at three stories. Taliesin and Branwen were taken to a room on the top floor.
“I trust you will find this room comfortable,” said the innkeeper. “Good night.” He left, leaving the mysterious woman – a Druidess, he guessed – and the Caledonian chieftain to themselves.
As soon as he had left and the hide curtain had once more fallen across the doorway, Branwen threw back Taliesin’s hood and shook her hair loose. In the sputtering light of the torch the innkeeper had left behind, it shone gold.
“Ugh! I am never riding with you for an entire day ever again. Your cloak stinks, by the way.”
“Fair enough, your majesty. When we reach Caledonia, you can walk the rest of the way naked.”
She dropped his cloak and stretched, trying to get some of the discomfort of riding all day out of her back. Taliesin was instantly turned on and quickly set down the saddlebags he had brought up with them.
“Seriously, Taliesin, I need to find some clothes. I still can’t believe that you managed to forget the only plain tunic I own.”
A short while later, she was asleep under his arm. That was the last time they would ever lie together.
********************
Matholwch gave chase as soon as the handmaidens had related their story. Erbin did his best to lead him the wrong way, but the trail was clear, even for a novice hunter; Taliesin had been quite rushed when he was trying to cover the tracks, and the choice of direction was logical when they reached the fork where he had laid the false trail. In the end, Erbin made his escape from Matholwch’s entourage and headed straight for Port Imarich to warn them, leaving Bronna in the company of the other handmaidens. But horse travels faster than hunter. Matholwch was not an idiot, and when Erbin deserted him, he guessed that he was in league with whoever had taken Branwen, realized he had been following a false trail, and changed course. There was only one way they could have gone. He and thirty of his best horsemen rode on ahead of the rest, overtook Erbin without seeing him, and reached Port Imarich before midnight. They questioned everyone they met. The Novanta trader, who had agreed to give the two passage, had his throat slit by the rampaging horsemen. The innkeeper was slain at the foot of the stairs to the upper floors. Some men scowered the ground floor, others the first, and the rest the top. Two guarded the entrance. There was no way out.
Four men burst in on the sleeping couple. They shouted upon seeing them. Rudely awakened from blissful oblivion, they never stood a chance. The two of them were seized and their hands bound.
Matholwch and the rest of the men came running when they heard the shout. In moments the king of Ierne was standing in the doorway. One of the men saluted immediately and reported.
“My lord, when we first came in, the two of them were asleep together quite peacefully. This was no kidnapping.”
Matholwch ignored and turned straight to Branwen.
“Is this true?”
She said nothing, struggling to master her emotions. A single tear ran down her cheek.
Matholwch felt lost. His reason was beginning to crack. He turned away from Branwen to hide his feelings, and his eyes fell on Taliesin. It took him a moment to recognize his rival.
“YOU!”
He drew his sword and strode right up to him until his face was inches from Taliesin’s own.
“I ought to cut your offensive manhood off right now.”
Taliesin remained silent: gaunt, defiant. Matholwch punched him in the jaw, and he fell.
“Vengeance is sweet, Taliesin. I am going to make sure I extract it from you in the most satisfying way possible. Until I have decided upon the most slow and painful death imaginable for you, you will remain imprisoned beneath my fortress. And as for you –“ He turned to face Branwen again, his expression betraying none of the love he had once felt for her, only reckless rage. “ – you shall be remembered as the common prostitute you are!” He turned to his men again.
“Get everyone outside. Then set fire to this inn. That will bring people out of their houses. When they come into the street, they will all be able to see my wife’s immodesty. Then they will all remember what a complete prostitute is Branwen of the House of Llyr.”
********************
Men did indeed some out of their houses to see the burning as Matholwch, leading the naked Branwen by a rope, with his horsemen behind him, clopped slowly down the street. Her hands were bound in front of her with the rope the other end of which Matholwch led her by, so she could not even try to hide her nakedness; it would have been a vain gesture anyway. Some men averted their eyes as she went past; others gawped; one started the booing. It is amazing what some people will do to get the favor of their king. Soon, others joined him, and men lined the streets to watch their naked queen go by. Matholwch was merciless, dragging her on. Taliesin was brought along in a sack at the rear of the perverse procession, which they bashed against a tree when he struggled. His ordeal was nothing compared to Branwen’s humiliation. In the background, the flames that had consumed the inn leapt high, unchallenged.
Not long after leaving Port Imarich, five horsemen set off ahead with Taliesin, while the rest stayed with Matholwch, who still led Branwen by the rope. Taliesin was taken with all speed to Matholwch’s castle and cast into the deepest darkest dungeon; Branwen was led slowly along all the main roads and through all the major settlements in the area, so that everyone could see her nakedness. In every town the reception was the same; shameless staring and wolf-whistling and loud catcalls. Matholwch issued a proclamation that not a single ship was to set sail for Albion on pain of death; and all the visitors who had come over from Prydain were put in chains to prevent them from returning. If word of what Matholwch was doing to Branwen got out, there would be war.
When the main host at last arrived back at Matholwch’s castle, Branwen was officially stripped of all her titles and her property was confiscated. She was put to work in the kitchens; Matholwch did not trust her not to try and poison him – and every night, he had her sent to his quarters where he would beat her personally and rape her.
Erbin returned to the neighborhood, but there was a price on his head so he kept a low profile. He kept himself informed of goings-on inside the castle through Bronna, and the two of them met regularly in the very place where Taliesin and Branwen had used to. It seemed that all Matholwch ever talked about now was preparations for the war with the Kingdom of Albion and how best to punish Taliesin. All trade with Albion had now been completely stopped, except for what Matholwch controlled personally. Those ships which he allowed to get through all told the same story of vast swarms of pirates, but that Albion was not to worry about them, Matholwch was building a great armada with which to destroy them. The unsuspecting Bendigeidvran had no reason not to trust them, and simply waited for Matholwch to sort it out.
Bronna was now the only correspondent between the four of them. She ensured that Taliesin got enough to eat and drink, and she looked after Branwen’s starling for her. When Erbin had the idea to try and slip past the blockade to take a message to Bendigeidvran, she was the one who got the advice of the other two. And it was her who brought back their advice to Erbin that they both agreed it was the only way. Three months had passed by then since their capture, and Branwen was pregnant, with whose child she knew not.
It was a bright afternoon in late summer. The stone circle in the secret grove looked very different in daylight, when Erbin and Bronna made their farewells.
“If I get through the blockade, I will head straight for wherever Bendigeidvran is,” Erbin told her. “You will know if I made it if an army of Albion lands here. If that happens, get as far away from here as possible. I don’t want you to be nearby when there is a war going on. Head south, to the lands of the Ivernii. I will meet you at their stronghold. When all this is over, wait for me at Ivernis.”
Bronna nodded, her eyes moist. Erbin handed her a long parcel.
“Take my bow and my quiver. Look after them for me in case - until I return. And by Rhiannon, someday we shall be together again. Farewell, Bronna of Emana.”
He kissed her for a long moment. Then he turned and headed north; somewhere ahead lay the Giants’ Causeway, waiting for him. Behind him, Bronna was mouthing the words she longed to say:
********************
JOURNEYS BETWEEN
Erbin traveled north. Going at his speed, it was only about a day and half’s trek from Emana to the coast. His plan was then to follow the coastline east until he reached the Giants’ Causeway, and with luck commandeer a coracle or rowing boat. If not, he would make a raft. Then he would cross the sea, heading east, until he reached land. In the lands of the Epidii, he would find help.
A day and a half was ample time for thought, however. As soon as he turned his back on her, he was missing Bronna. But he could not take her with him; and this deed had to be done. His honor was at stake if he did not help his friends; and he would not allow himself to bring shame to Bronna like that. Assuming she would even want to be with him if he abandoned his friends. Furthermore, Taliesin and Branwen must have been feeling quite as bad at being separated from each other as he did from Bronna – if not a hundred times worse. He would not wish that longing on anyone.
Thinking of his friends made Erbin sad, so he tried to think of something else: the road ahead, and the risks he faced. He felt vulnerable without the familiar weight of his quiver at his shoulder. The journey ahead held no appeal for him; there was no thrill in this hunt, upon which so much depended. He just wanted to go home.
********************
“
“Hmph.”
Maglocunos stood aside to allow Bronna through the doorway. He was Matholwch’s biggest, strongest, most loyal guard; this was why he had been chosen for the morning shift of Taliesin’s cell. Taliesin was in there alone; this was Matholwch’s highest security dungeon.
“Taliesin!”
No light entered this part of the castle save a flicker of torchlight through the doorway from Maglocunos’s post. It was nigh impossible to see anything. Bronna had to fight her secret fear of the dark and of Maglocunos every time she came down here. Pressing her face against the bars which divided the gaol into cell and visiting area, she strained her eyes into the blackness.
“Taliesin!”
She heard a stirring in the obscurity, and began to make out a pale shape shifting position in the shadows.
“Bronna?”
“Yes, Tal, it’s me. I brought you something to eat.”
A brief silence.
“… Thank you.”
Bronna slid the platter she had brought under the bars. There was pitifully little on it, even with what she could spare from her own meals and the scraps she scavenged in the kitchens when she went to talk to Branwen. But Taliesin barely ate any more anyway. The platter she had left him last night was barely touched, except by the rats. She felt achingly sorry for him.
He crawled towards her. His skin was stretched across his bones like leather over a drum. His gaunt features were thrown into sharp relief. He was wasting away down here. He spoke.
“Is it… dawn? Outside?”
“Just past.”
Another silence.
“It’s been so long, Bronna. So long since I watched the sun rise over the mountains and the sea. So long since I felt its warmth on my skin. I barely remember what that means any more. Down here, there is only dark.”
His words sent shivers down her spine. Her voice came out as a whisper.
“I’m so sorry, Tal.”
He made no reply for a long time. She collected herself as if to leave.
“Bronna?”
“Yes?”
“I wanted… to thank you. For… everything. Keeping me fed. Keeping me clothed against the cold. Keeping me company. It means a lot… to me.”
“It’s really the least I can do.”
“Well… thank you.”
She made as if to leave again.
“Bronna…”
“Yes?”
“Has Erbin set off?”
“Yes. He left yesterday afternoon.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. I hope he’s okay.”
“Me too.”
“…Bronna?”
“Yes?”
There was another long silence.
“It’s so lonely down here.”
She bit her lip.
“It could make a man go mad.”
She screwed her eyes shut.
“I’m frightened. It’s like time has no meaning down here. Day and night are just one long dark. The guard won’t talk to me. I was having a dream – a hideous dream. It was about Branwen. I haven’t seen her in so long. It can’t have been more than a moon I guess, but it feels like ages of the World. I wish –“
He broke off. Bronna waited with baited breath. When Taliesin spoke it was in a whisper.
“I wish I hadn’t woken up.”
********************
“Bronna? What’s the matter?”
The kitchens were a dreary affair, but the earthy walls were less dark and the many doors and opening let much more light in than the stone of the dungeon. This particular chamber was a storeroom, a larder if you like, warm and well-lit compared to the gaol, but compared to the outside cold and dark. Still, it was more airy than your average peasant’s roundhouse, and Branwen was not constantly alone. She was sitting on a bench in the corner when Bronna came in, but she got up when she saw her enter. Branwen could tell immediately from the expression on her face that she was shaken.
"What's happened?"
“Nothing. It’s just… Taliesin, he… he-“
“Is he alright?”
“Well, yes, I think so, more or less. He scares me sometimes. That’s all.”
Branwen sat back down on the bench, and beckoned for Bronna to sit next to her. Bronna was some eighteen months younger than her, and Branwen always took the role of the big sister in their relationship. She put her arm around her.
“We’re going to get out of here,” she told her ex-handmaiden. “You’ll see. Erbin will come at the head of Bendigeidvran’s army, and there will be a great war, and at the end of it Matholwch shall be dead, his castle in ruins, and we will go far away and never return to this place. You shall marry Erbin and return with him to his beautiful homeland of apple-trees and streams between the mountains and the sea, and I shall marry Taliesin and return to Camru also. You’ll see.”
Bronna looked at Branwen. She was exhausted and thin and dirty, in nearly as bad a state as Taliesin, there was no way she could know that Erbin would ever return, and she could not possibly think that it would all fall out so nicely. But there was something in Branwen’s clear blue eyes that saw right through to the heart of Bronna’s worry and comforted her.
********************
Erbin was a hunter, so he knew how to hide; to scramble up a tree like a pine marten, or to shelter in an empty burrow like a fox; but Matholwch’s patrols had found his trail sooner than expected and had been following him all day. Erbin was running out of tricks. He must have been careless when wiping his tracks, distracted by his thoughts, for things were close. He had nearly reached the Giants’ Causeway – but the patrol that had found his trail almost had him cornered.
Or at least, that’s what they thought. Suddenly, they emerged from the trees and nearly ran over the edge of a cliff straight into the sea. As they were standing there all in a row, looking round, their leader heard a peal of laughter and a merry splash of oars. Far below, a figure in a coracle with a painted face was pulling out to sea.
“A bow! A bow! Does anyone have a bow?!”
“Not I, chief.”
“If only, chief.”
The patrol leader ground his teeth in frustration, grabbed a spear off one of the men behind him, and hurled it as hard as he could in the general direction of the man in the coracle. It fell some dozen paces wide of its target. As the patrol leader practically jumped up and down in fury, Erbin just laughed, and pulled on ever further out to sea, heading east, past the Giants’ Causeway, towards Albion.
********************
“Well, are we just going to stand here looking like idiots all day? Let’s get back into the trees.”
“Good idea, chief.”
“We must look like right fools, chief.”
“I swear, if you don’t stop doing that, I will have you both sacrificed to Brigantia!”
The little group of nine men tramped back into the trees and stopped in a small clearing.
“So, whadda we do now, chief?”
“Yeah, chief, whadda we do now?”
The patrol leader ground his teeth. “I – don’t – know.”
A brief pause. Suddenly the leader glanced up, and his eyes narrowed.
“Say, you look kinda like the guy…”
Before the patroller in question could react, the leader stabbed him through the chest.
“Chief! You’ve gone and killed Fergus!”
“Little Fergus, who was always so eager to please, chief!”
“Shuddup! Give him some tattoos, three stripes on each cheek like the runaway had. Then chop off his head and give him loads of cuts on his face so he’s almost unrecognizable. Looks like we found our treacherous deserter after all.”
********************
Three days later, Branwen was taking a five-minute break in one of the cookeries when Matholwch burst in, followed by a pair of guards. The madness that had been growing in him ever since he had caught her with Taliesin was more pronounced than ever. His nails were bitten to the quick, he walked around quickly and agitatedly, and his eyes were always roving. But today his behavior was feverish.
“Good afternoon, my wife! Did you enjoy our little union last night? Your feeble attempts at resistance were most arousing, and they made my evening most enjoyable. I have some news for you.”
Matholwch dropped a human head at her feet. Branwen’s heart went cold. Fearing the worst, she picked it up and turned it over.
Cuts and gashes made the face almost unrecognizable, and it was clean-shaven and the hair gelled to make a handle. But the chiseled features and twin triple-stripe tattoos were unmistakable. It was clearly Erbin.
The head of her friend slipped out of her hands. She pushed past Matholwch and started to run.
********************
Outside, it had begun to rain. She ran down dozens of corridors and up several flights of stairs, barely realizing where she was going, until she found herself at a dead end. There she sank down into a corner and cried.
Her first feelings were of pain and grief for Erbin, then anger and hatred at Matholwch. Then apprehension of when she told Bronna what had happened. Then despair that she and Taliesin would be stuck here forever – until they died.
No. They still had one last chance.
Branwen looked up. She must have been sitting there for a while, because already the sun was westering. It was still raining; in fact, the sky was dark with a coming storm. She took a deep breath to steady herself a little, and then set off to find bark, charcoal, and the little starling Taliesin had given her centuries ago, when the consequences of their actions were just a nagging fear at the back of their minds and love still meant more than a dream.
********************
Footsteps. Branwen shoved the piece of bark down the front of her dress just as Matholwch came round the corner. He stopped when he saw her, swaying slightly. He was drunk. Erbin’s head still dangled from his hand by the hair. Thunder rolled.
“What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Nothing.”
“Branwen…” He lurched towards her, extending his free hand. She recoiled. “I don’t understand. Where did we go wrong?”
“You’re drunk.”
He grinned. “I know.” He pulled her towards him and tried to kiss her, but she tore herself free.
“Get off me!”
“What’s that in your hand?”
“A piece of coal.”
“Why, you’ll make your pretty hands all dirty.”
“I’m your servant.”
“I know. And that means you are bound to do as I tell you.” He grabbed her arms and pulled her towards him.
“And I desire to have sex with you tonight.”
Tearing one hand free, she punched him in the face and wrenched her other arm free. Her hand left a black mark where the charcoal scratched his cheek.
“
She turned and fled, feeling confused and unjustly wronged. She had to get out of here. Her starling would take a message to Arelicon, since Erbin could not.
********************
It took Erbin two days of rowing before he reached the mainland. He beached his coracle at a rivermouth of Novantana and then dragged it a little further inland on shaky legs. He was exhausted, and he had never been so long at sea in his life. He collapsed on the sand, and just had the presence of mind to curl up and pull the coracle over on top of him before he lost consciousness.
The next morning he was discovered by a group of fishermen, and asked to be taken to the chief. When he explained the severity of the situation – he knew nobody was too friendly with Ierne in these parts – the chief gave him a horse, arranged an escort, and sent him south. The tribes of this part of Albion, while independent from the Kingdom of Albion, were not at war with Bendigeidvran, and many tried hard to curry favor with him.
So Erbin found himself riding south with six Novanta nobles, towards Iswri, capital of the Brigantes, where the King of Prydain now dwelt. Little did he expect the reception he would receive when he got there. The storm-clouds gathering overhead on the first day of travel should have warned him that something was amiss.
********************
Branwen ran up the tower steps two at a time, her little starling cradled in her arms. Even as she ran, the tears continued to flow. What had she done to Matholwch to make him so angry with her? What had she done wrong? Or was it all just about those poor horses her half-brother Evnisien had mutilated? Was the greatest treasure of all the Isles not recompense enough for the King of Ierne? What Branwen failed to appreciate right then was that her love for Taliesin could ever have been a bad thing.
She reached the top of the winding stairway, opened the trapdoor with one hand, and emerged into the wind and rain of the night. It didn’t matter now. Soon, her brother would come and deliver her, and she would put all the harm Matholwch had done behind her. And perhaps, some day, she would find it in her heart to forgive him.
The howling wind hurled the rain against her like a thousand tiny knives. She fought her way to the parapet; a thin, pale figure against the darkness. The starling twisted in her arms, eager to be free, and eager to go home, storm or no storm.
“I hope you know how to get to Albion,” Branwen told it. “The Sea is wide, and there are many long miles between here and the king's court at Arelicon.” She tied the scrap of bark to the root of the little bird’s wing, where it would be shielded from the weather, and then cast it into the tumultuous sky above.
“Fly, my little starling, fly! Go seek my brother, take him my message! With every passing day my treatment gets worse, and my heart tells me I shall not outlive the Fall! So fly, fly to Albion, and bring me my deliverer!”
Battling the elements, the starling wheeled to put the wind and the rain behind it, and flew off East, towards the Island. Branwen watched it, leaning out over the rampart, the rain lashing her skin through her thin dress and soaking her long golden hair, until the darkness swallowed her tiny winged messenger from sight.
“You lie.”
Erbin was completely taken aback by this reaction. Bendigeidvran was famed throughout the Isles as a wise and just king. He ventured, tentatively: “my lord?”
“You lie, Erbin Sharpshooter, son of Aneirin Strongarm. Why should I believe you? Your tale is far-fetched, and you shower dishonor on my sister, my brother by marriage and m flagbearer – or ex-flagbearer, anyway. All these people are wise and honorable in judgment. Therefore, you lie.”
Erbin started to protest, but Vran cut him off.
“Furthermore, for this insult, you shall be my prisoner, until I decide what to do with you. Guards!”
The six Novantae nobles standing in a row behind Erbin each placed their right hand on their sword-hilt in a single movement. Erbin was the client of their king; they would not suffer the dishonor of letting Vran take him captive. The guards, who had begun to move towards Erbin, halted, waiting for further orders from Vran. They outnumbered the Novantae and Erbin three to one, but if it came to a fight, it could precipitate a war with the entire Maeatae Confederacy: the Selgovae, Votadini, Novantae, Carvetii, Corionototae and Damnonii.
Vran took it all in, and changed his mind. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed them.
“I revoke that arrest. Erbin of the Demetae and the delegation from the Novantae have my leave to depart.”
The Novantae bowed, and made as if to leave, but Erbin hesitated.
“My lord –“
“Don’t push your luck, Demeta.”
“But my lord, you must listen!”
“Get out!”
Vran was on his feet, eyes blazing, hand on his sword-hilt. Erbin fled.
Vran sat down again and tried to calm himself. Erbin’s tale had upset him, but he mustn’t allow himself to become emotionally compromised like that during an audience. Llyr would have given him no end of scolding for that. He took a deep breath, then nodded and signaled for the next group to come in.
An old peasant – Camrian, by the looks of him – came in and knelt before his king. He was trembling: clearly, he lived a normal life, and had never expected to come face to face with his liegelord. Vran adjusted his style accordingly.
“Lug’s blessing upon you! Welcome to my court.”
“My humblest thanks, m-my lord.”
“What is your name?”
“Ambigatos of Arelicon, my lord, son of Dewinos son of Bodwoc.”
“And what brings you so far from the fair caer to see me?”
“A message, sir. One day I was out tilling my field, just before that big storm came in from the West, and this little bird – a starling, I think it was – dropped out of the sky onto my shoulder. It was carrying this –“ Ambigatos held out a little scrap of bark to Bendigeidvran; a guard took it from him and handed it to the king “- which I believe is a piece of writing. I took it to the Druid, and he looked at it for a short while, then handed it back to me, telling me it was of utmost importance that I take it immediately to Iswri to show the king. So I made all speed I could, my lord, and here I am.
Bendigeidvran nodded, and held up a hand for silence, then looked down at the piece of bark. Letters had been scratched into it, and then gone over again in charcoal, but it was quite weather-beaten and faded. Also, the writing was tiny. It took Vran a while to work it out. This is what he read:
Μ
Γ
Β
Χ
Bendigeidvran sat staring at the message for a long time. Ο
After a long while he spoke.
“Thank you, Ambigatos of Arelicon. Owain; take five men and go and bring back that Demeta and the Novantae who just left. They were telling the truth.”
Vran took a deep breath, steadying himself.
“To all those assembled here: tell Matholwch Iernirix to beware of Morddwyd Tyllion.”
********************
So it came to pass that before the end of a month, the hosts of Albion had crossed the Iernian Sea and landed near Manapia, in the territory of the Cauci, just south of the mouth of the River Liffey, which in those days was called Oboca by the Britons, or Lyfaion by the Iernians. A full levy had been mustered; the Briton host numbered some two hundred thousand, levied from among the Brigantes, Carvetii, Setantii, Deceangli, Ordovices, Cornovii, Silures, Demetae and Dobunni; all the major tribes near the rally point of Mancwni. Ships had been commandeered from all around, more had been hired off the Maeatae, and still more had been constructed specially for the occasion to transport the great host. Speed was of the essence, in Vran’s mind: he would brook no delay, and the troops who could not come to the muster in time – from the Corieltauvi, Catuvellauni, Cantiaci, Bibroci, Ancalites, Segontiaces, Vectiaci, Durotriges and Cenomani – were told to follow with all possible haste.
While this had been going on, Matholwch had not been idle, and mustered a warhost of his own. But Vran’s agents had been hard at work in Ierne, sowing discontent among the tribes, and Matholwch had so far been able to raise no more than some hundred and fifty thousand troops to match Vran’s massive army. There had not been a war on this scale in the entire memory of the Druids; if there was a battle, the rivers would run with blood for a decade.
Bendigeidvran and his host marched north, laying waste to the countryside, unopposed. Matholwch decided his best bet was to try and hold the Lyfaion river and give battle there; he would lay ambushes all around and exploit his knowledge of the terrain to give himself the greatest possible advantage; he would need it. His embassies to Bendigeidvran were turned away unanswered. Matholwch had no choice but to fight. After all, this war was about more than just Branwen: the two islands had been rivals for centuries. A great war had been bound to come eventually. Its like had not been recorded before, nor seen since.
It was late august; an unusual time to launch a campaign. Vran and his vast warhost had been marching northwest for a couple of days, and were now encamped on the south bank of the Lyfaion. Little did they know that Matholwch was lying in wait just on the other side.
********************
As soon as Bronna had seen the head Matholwch was carting around, she had known it was not Erbin, and she had told Branwen so at once. That had been a source of hope for them over the last month and a bit, and there had been still greater hope a week ago when news of the invasion of the Painted People spread. Now Matholwch had left his castle and taken most of the guards with him. It was a small matter for Bronna to drug Maglocunos, cut his throat and still the keys to Taliesin’s cell. Se beckoned for Branwen to follow her. Hesitantly, she did.
“Taliesin!” called Bronna. He was at the door almost instantly. They had hatched their desperate plan yesterday evening when she had come to see him. She hastily unlocked the cell door. As soon as it was open, Taliesin darted out, like a fox that has hidden too long in one chamber of a badger’s sett.
“Bronna, I owe you everything. You cannot know how –“ he broke off abruptly, his eyes fixed on the entrance. He staggered forwards a few paces, and Branwen hurled herself into his arms.
There are no words left to express their feelings since the Saxons killed the language taught to the Celtic peoples by the Sìdhe. An overpowering sense of relief took over Taliesin and threatened to make him collapse while Branwen cried into his shoulder. He held her fragile frame as close to him as he dared, and Bronna’s urgent looks did not even reach him for some time. Branwen’s feelings ran along the same vein. She was at the mercy of Taliesin’s love, and her world was reduced to him. The infant child no doubt crying upstairs was forgotten.
“We have to go.”
Bronna’s words broke through to them at last. Taliesin disentwined Branwen from himself, and the three of them fled. Taliesin did not neglect to steal Maglocunos’s sword as they passed his body.
********************
“Well, ships cannot navigate it as there are loadstones in the riverbed. It would be unwise to swim it as we don’t know whether the enemy holds the far bank. We need to ford it, or rebuild the bridge which the scouts say Matholwch destroyed.”
“Thank you, Hefaid. Drustan, what else did the scouts report?”
“They scoured the whole length of the river as far as the coast to the east and sixty miles to the west. At no point is it fordable, my lord.”
Bendigeidvran and the two chieftains, Hefaid the Old and Drustan of the Setantii, were standing together with a handful of guards a few paces off on the south bank of the Oboca, looking north. They were trying to plan how to proceed. Vran, pensive, detached himself from the company of the other two and wandered a few paces up and down the very edge of the riverbank. Drustan spoke again.
“If I may, my lord? I think building a bridge would take too long. For a start, we would need a few men on the far bank in the first place, which would be risky, and then of course there is the little problem that there are few bridges in the world built to withstand the crossing of two hundred thousand men in a single day. I suggest we turn west and march into the very heart of the island to devastate the lands of some of Matholwch’s most important allies.”
Hefaid turned to him incredulously.
“And if we stop following the coastline, how exactly do you intend to feed two hundred thousand warriors? Off the land? I think not. The simple fact of the matter is that we have to remain close to the sea in order to remain adequately supplied until we know where Matholwch’s forces are. After defeating Matholwch’s fleet, the sea is relatively safe. But as we have not even seen his warhost, the land is not.”
“Well said, Hefaid,” said Vran.
“But my lord, no man could easily bridge this river!” Drustan insisted.
Vran turned to him with a fiery humor in his eyes.
“The House of Llyr is not a house of mortals, Drustan son of Owain son of Nithos. I am no man. Tell the hosts of Albion to assemble here –“ he planted his swordpoint in the ground at his feet “– and we shall begin the crossing.”
Drustan and Hefaid, cowed by these words and unsure of their meaning, quickly fled to carry out his bidding, and before very long – relatively speaking, given the size of the host – they were all assembled and lined up. Vran had remained at the riverbank. Nervously, Drustan and Hefaid approached him again.
“And now, my lord?”
“Well, you know what they say,” said Vran without looking at them; his eyes were fixed on the far bank. “Let him who would lead first make a way.”
So saying, he dived – or he seemed to dive, but his feet never left the ground. Furthermore he dived straight forwards and up, not into the river. His body stretched out in the direction of his jump, and in a heartbeat, before the men of Albion could even be sure if it was real or not, his hands had grasped the far bank. Then his body began to change. His skin turned dark gray and rough, and his limbs flattened out and merged with one another, making of Bendigeidvran a flat surface: a stone bridge by which to cross.
For a long moment, two hundred thousand men stood speechless.
A voice from the bridge broke the silence.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Cross while you have the chance! I smell men of Eriu on the far bank; a challenge, men of Prydain! Show them how we treat oathbreakers and rapists in Albion!”
Incited by these words from nowhere – not that the words themselves were particularly inspiring, but the fantastical delivery certainly was – the men of Albion began to cross the river, Hefaid the Old leading the way, keeping order. He was the first to set foot on the bridge. It is strange how it is often not the young but the old who are willing to try out the strangest newest things.
Over the course of the morning the entire host crossed over. Matholwch’s spies, awed by this spectacle, ran to warn him. Pretty soon, word of the “miracle” spread, despite Matholwch’s best efforts, and large groups of men broke cover and fled the field. Seeing this, Matholwch ordered a full retreat. Vran’s voice from the bridge at once ordered the pursuit.
Many of the men of Ierne were cut down as they fled by the chariots of the Deceangli, Dobunni and Brigantes and the Camrian horsemen. To buy his infantry some time, Matholwch rallied his own cavalry and withdrew into ambush positions in a line of trees. His trap worked; he distracted the enemy horse from pursuing his own foot, but in so doing called down upon his five thousand horsemen some twenty thousand foemen. Matholwch managed to extricate himself from the brawl, and he and the greater part of his infantry got away; but he left eight thousand dead and the Britons took nearly twenty thousand prisoners. Thus fell out the Battle of the Lyfaion Crossing, as the Iernians came to call it; to the Britons it was remembered as the Incident of the Bridge and the Flight at the Oboca.
The fight was over by the time the last of the hosts of Prydain had crossed the bridge. Bendigeidvran demetamorphosed and hauled himself across to the north bank. Leaders, captains, prisoners, infantry and cavalry alike looked at him in wonder.
“We march north,” Morddwyd Tyllion – Bendigeidvran – declared.
********************
A few days after the Battle of the Lyfaion Crossing, Erbin Sharpshooter, who was compensation for Vran’s dismissing him, had been given overall command of the reinforcements coming from Albion after the main force, reached Ierne at the head of fifty thousand men from the tribes of eastern and southern Prydain. That was all they had been required to muster; the tribes of the south also had to maintain wars on the home front, against the Iceni, Trinovantes, Durotriges, Dumnonii and Belgae. This detachment began to march north as instructed to catch up with the main force while securing the rear. They had landed further south than Bendigeidvran, on the other side of Manapia. Thus, they marched through the lands of tribes not yet subdued by Bendigeidvran.
On the second day, the Briton scouts encountered a combined warband of the Coriondi, Manapii and Usidiae, some thirty thousand strong. Erbin silently attempted to encircle them, but some of his men were spotted and the alarm was raised. The engagement was brief; the Britons were numerically superior, prepared, and they had already almost surrounded the Iernians. The Iernians at first attempted to break the ring, but the Briton line held and Erbin charged his Catuvellauni cavalry into their rear. The Iernians promptly threw down their weapons. Erbin accepted the surrender of the three tribes on behalf of Bendigeidvran and sent them all under the yoke. Then he continued his march north. Vran was waiting for him, and when the two armies met up they left the coast and marched straight into Matholwch’s heartlands, the very center of Ierne, forcing him to give battle.
Capitalizing on the defeat at the Oboca and passing off Vran’s “miracle” as a cheap trick, Matholwch had rallied the survivors from the engagement at the Oboca and turned out the full fighting capacity of north Ierne. The result was that when he met Vran’s army in the field, the two opposing forces were about the same size. The battle took place not far from the Lake of the Cauldron, the same place that Matholwch had met Llasar Llaes Gavnewid the dwarf and Camidai Camainfoll the Sìdhe carrying the magical Crochan o Ailenedigaeth, the Cauldron of Rebirth, years ago. But the poor fool was much too nervous to remember it now; anyway, he didn’t believe in its magical properties.
The two forces lined up facing each other in one of the largest confrontations in history. Since neither general could actually see his whole army, it was clear that the battle would be decided without tactical subtlety; a bloody clash of brute force.
The carnyxes sounded the charge.
“Many will die this day,” reflected Bendigeidvran as the vast hordes swept towards each other. “And for what?” The din – war cries and screams and the clash of weapons and the cries of the carrion birds and the thunder of the chariots and the neighing of the horses and the harsh blowing of the horns – was enough to split the skull, but Bendigeidvran bore it all.
The battle raged for the course of the entire day, but the outcome was never really in doubt. The warriors of Albion were victorious on all fronts, and pursued the Iernians as far as they could run. Thirty-four thousand six hundred forty-two Britons were slain that day, and roughly seventy-eight and a half thousand wounded significantly. Of the Iernians, some forty thousand prisoners were taken, but the corpses of the dead were innumerable: between a hundred and a hundred fifty thousand by most estimates.
“It is finished, then,” said Bendigeidvran, surveying the carnage at dusk. He began to descend the hill.
The bodies were piled in separate heaps as large as hills, but there was not enough fuel to burn them. A hundred thousand Britons were employed to strip the fallen Iernians of their valuables and pile earth over them, and to lay out the fallen Britons and raise barrows over them, grouped by tribe. The Iernian army – what was left of it – had disappeared. Bendigeidvran took Erbin and his high-ranking chieftains and fifty thousand warriors and made for Emana, capital of Eriu.
By nightfall, Branwen, Taliesin and Bronna felt they were sufficiently far from Matholwch’s castle to rest. In a hidden clearing, many miles distant from, but reminiscent of, the clearing with the white stone circle near the castle, they laid down what they had brought with them and camped under the stars.
“No fire, I’m afraid,” said Taliesin to Branwen when she asked him. “Matholwch’s men will be out looking for us. No need to make their job any easier, don’t you think? We’ll have to do without.”
Before long, night had fallen properly. The moon was a waxing crescent, and the stars were out. Far away, a vixen screamed. A short while later, an owl hooted. A field mouse rustled some leaves. But apart from that and the wind in the dark trees, all was quiet. Bronna had fallen asleep. Branwen and Taliesin stayed up, listening to the silence of the night, their backs against a tree, her head on his shoulder. Obviously there was no question of lovemaking; Branwen had already explained to Tal that she needed a few nights of peace: she had had no respite from Matholwch’s lust for weeks, and besides, it would be pretty poor thanks to Bronna if she woke up.
“Taliesin?”
“Hm?”
“I have something important to tell you.”
“What?”
Silence. Then:
“I have a son.”
“WHAT?!”
“Sh! You heard me.”
Pause.
“Whose is it?”
“I think it’s yours.”
Taliesin breathed a sigh of relief.
“That plant – it never worked. That is the only explanation I can think of. Matholwch thinks the boy is his. He is mad these days, he does not realize we have not been together long enough for that to be and no one dares tell him. I think he must have been conceived that first time we lay together – do you remember? In my roundhouse at Arelicon, that night Matholwch first arrived, all those months ago?”
“How could I forget.”
“The boy’s name is Gwern.”
Somewhere in the forest, a twig snapped. Branwen jumped, instinctively grabbing Taliesin’s arm.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know. Stay very quiet.”
Silently, Taliesin stood up and picked up Maglocunos sword, every nerve on the alert, every sense straining into the darkness. He could hear nothing over the wind in the trees – but out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a shadow away to his right. He darted behind a tree. Branwen looked scared. He was glad he was between the two girls and the threat.
For a long time – or at least it felt like that to Branwen – they waited. Suddenly with a roar Talieisn leapt out from behind the tree swinging his sword. There was a shout and the ring of steel on steel, followed by exclamations of surprise.
“But – you’re Briton, by Cesawn!”
“As are you, by Carnyn’s antlers!”
“What are you doing here?”
The noise had woken Bronna, who was now sitting bolt upright.
“It’s kind of a long story. These two maidens are my companions – not like that, friend,” he added quickly as the other man raised his eyebrows. “We have just contrived to escape from the castle of Matholwch the Mad. This is maid Bronna of Emana, partner of Erbin Sharpshooter of the Demetae whom I can only assume you have heard of; and this is the Lady Branwen of Arelicon.”
The Briton scout’s eyes opened wide at that, and he knelt before Branwen who was still sitting at the foot of the tree and kissed her hand.
“By your highness’s leave, if you deem if fitting, I think we should leave at once. There is a forward camp of Bendigeidvran’s army not a league distant; your highness will be safer there. And tomorrow your highness can see her brother again.”
********************
Had they but known it, they fled the castle just in time. That same night Matholwch returned to find them gone, and at once flew into a rage. Search parties were sent out; at one point Taliesin and the scout had to fight one off, and the little group hurried on, fearing the noise would draw more Iernians to the spot. In the end though, they made it to the camp without being captured, and were welcomed most warmly by the camp commander, Glifiai, king of the Brigantes. He did tress however that their arrival should be kept a secret until Bendigeidvran and the main army could catch up the next day. The remainder of the night was spent in safety and comfort.
The following day Glifiai did not break camp as per his orders, but instead dispatched messengers to Bendigeidvran and the main host telling him that the Lady Branwen had been found and was now safely in his camp. The three travelers were not woken that morning and, exhausted, they each slept in until nearly noon. It was not long after that that Bendigeidvran, Erbin and a detachment of about a thousand horsemen arrived in the camp.
Bronna was in Erbin’s arms as soon as he had dismounted, and Bendigeidvran seized Branwen and hugged her tightly. After some time he released her, and turned to Taliesin. Without a word, Taliesin bowed his head and dropped to one knee before him. Awaiting judgment. He heard the ring of a sword being drawn.
Vran watched the light playing on his great sword for some time before looking back down at Taliesin. Suddenly he laughed.
“Nay, lad, you have nothing to fear. The past is behind us now, and all wrongs are forgiven. Between you and me, when all is done, my sister is yours if it so pleases her. Rise, Taliesin, flagbearer of the king of Albion!”
A feast was thrown in the camp that night to celebrate the triple reunion, with the main force having caught up camped just out of earshot so they would not become jealous. And at the height of the festivities, Taliesin map Callawc, in front of six thousand witnesses, stood up and kissed Branwen daughter of Llyr full on the mouth. But Vran reminded everyone not to get too drunk, for the next day it was back to business. In the morning, the great host continued north.
Around midday, they were met by emissaries from Matholwch, and for the first time, Bendigeidvran listened to what they had to say. They offered no less than total surrender; Matholwch was to be turned over to the Britons, and Vran would rule Ierne as regent until Gwern son of Branwen came of age. Vran, at the advice of Branwen and his brother Nisien, accepted. Leaving the main body of his force behind once again but telling them to follow, he took five thousand horsemen and reached Matholwch’s castle just after midday.
Matholwch was waiting for him, alone before the main entrance, resplendent in iron breastplate and crested helm, longsword in hand, the colors of his kingdom on his cloak, crest and tunic. Bendigeidvran came to a halt at the head of his horsemen. Matholwch strode towards the vanquishing commander throned on his white horse with his head held high with the pride of the warrior. Matholwch cast his sword at Vran’s feet.
Bendigeidvran dismounted and faced his enemy. Matholwch could not withstand his gaze for long, and his eyes dropped. Vran nodded slowly.
“Matholwch mac Liathan, I think I will never forgive you for what you have done to my sister. But I think I see now to the heart of the matter, and she is not without blame. Neither is Taliesin. Still, I pray that we can put this all behind us.
“For what you have done, your wife Branwen returns to her father’s family. I give her to Taliesin map Callawc, since nothing will keep them apart. You must also pay her a hundred pounds of gold for every time you lay with her without her consent. Princesses of Albion are not cheap prostitutes. You must also pay over to me fifty thousand pounds of silver as a war indemnity. Finally, although you may keep your kingdom, when he comes of age to rule you must give it to Gwern, son of Branwen and Taliesin.”
Matholwch looked up in surprise.
“Then he is not my son?”
Vran’s face was of stone. “No. And be warned, Matholwch: if between now and then, for whatever reason, he dies… your life will be forfeit.”
********************
It did not take Matholwch long to work out that he had got off extremely lightly. There had been nothing standing between Bendigeidvran and taking his entire kingdom. The harsh reality of war had seemed to have given Matholwch back his sanity for a time; now it was over, his irrational mad rage began to return. He invited Bendigeidvran and fifty guests of his choosing to feast with him that very night: the rest would have to feast outside. But he his two hundred of his own warriors in flour-bags hung from pillars all round the room. At a given signal, they would all jump out and slay the very cream of the Albion nobility.
Evnisien the Wrathful, half-brother of Bendigeidvran, was one of those he chose to invite. He, as you may well expect, had always been slightly paranoid; and he came with two of Bendigeidvran’s guards to check that Matholwch hadn’t done anything really stupid and desperate like have hidden assassins all round the room. It did not take him long to spot the oddly shaped sacks hanging from the pillars.
“You! Iernian!” he demanded of a guard standing in a corner. “What’s in these sacks?”
“Flour, so please you, my lord,” lied the guard as ordered. Evnisien was not fooled. He went up to the nearest one and examined it. There was quite clearly the shape of a man inside it. He turned to the guard again.
“Flour, you say? Let me just check it’s okay.”
From his belt he took his infamous spiked gauntlets and put them on. He flexed his fingers. Then he carefully punched the man in the sack on either side of his head.
The spikes on his knuckles slid effortlessly through the man’s skull and into his brain. The man was dead before he could even register pain. A red stain began to spread across that part of the sack.
The two Britons who had accompanied Evnisien, upon seeing this, let out cries of alarm and began to make for the Iernian guard in the corner, but Evnisien stopped them. He moved on to the next sack.
“What’s in this one, then?”
“F- flour, so please you, my lord.”
Evnisien stabbed the second hidden assassin in the head as well. He died as instantly as the first. Evnisien called out to the other two Britons who were with him.
“This is a funny kind of flour! You two, can you help me check it?”
The poor Iernian guard was forced to watch this sick game as Evnisien and the two Britons steadily killed every single one of the two hundred assassins. And each time they asked him what was in the sacks, he was forced to reply that it was flour. In this way there was soon only one sack left.
Evnisien approached it.
“What’s in this one, Iernian?”
“…Flour.” Evnisien punched the last bag as he had the others. It let out a clang and a yell, and his claws barely went in. The man was wearing a helmet.
“There is in this bag a different kind of flour,” observed Evnisien. He punched the man in the groin, and then drew his spiked fist up to the base of his ribcage, cutting deep into the unfortunate warrior’s belly cavity. A hideous scream emanated from the bag. Evnisien punched the hidden assassin in the face. There was a horrible gurgle, quickly silenced. The bag twitched for a while, and then hung immobile once more.
Evnisien and the two Britons turned to face the Iernian guard. Evnisien flexed his fingers. The long claws dripped blood.
Right on cue, the doors flew open and Bendigeidvran strode in. Bt he had barely taken a pace when he reeled, seeing the bloody sacks.
“Lug! Evnisien, what’s all this.”
Evnisien coolly took off his gauntlets and replied:
“Flour, my good lord.”
“Er – what?”
“Sacrifices to Andrasta!” interrupted Matholwch. “To celebrate your victory, your majesty!”
There were several things wrong with that. Vran was confused.
“We do not make sacrifices to Andrasta in this way where I come from…”
“Forgive me, my lord, she is not widely worshipped in this part of Ierne, but I did my best. Pray, sit here at the head of the table. The feast will begin momentarily.”
********************
Upstairs, Branwen and Taliesin were standing over a cradle. Branwen slowly reached in, and took out something small and wriggly and wrapped in blankets.
“Taliesin, I’d like you to meet Gwern.”
Taliesin was speechless. He put his face in close to Gwern’s.
“He’s so small! Is he really – ours? Our child?”
Branwen nodded happily. Gwern made a funny gurgle and patted Taliesin’s nose. Taliesin pulled away, surprised. Gwern’s lip trembled. Taliesin gave him his finger. Gwern grabbed it in a chubby paw and smiled, squealing happily.
After some time, Branwen said they should go down to the feast, as the others were probably waiting for them. Taliesin looked up, his expression utterly mystified. It took him a few seconds to work out what she had said.
“Yes.”
He straightened up. Their eyes met. He kissed her. Then the two of them carried the precious bundle downstairs.
********************
The eating was over. Everyone was fussing over Gwern.
At last, Evnisien stood up. His shadow fell across Branwen. Everyone went quiet.
“Congratulatons, sister,” he said.
“Thank you, Evnisien,” she said, inexplicably relieved.
“May I see him?”
Branwen shrank from the prospect of letting this mad dark man anywhere near her son – but Evnisien was her brother after all.
“Sure. Here he is.”
Branwe carefully passed the precious bundle to Evnisien. Her fingers lingered for a moment – then she swallowed and withdrew them. Everyone waited with baited breath.
Evnisien’s face broke into a smile. It was a long time since he had smiled. The effect was truly startling.
“By Taranis, he’s so delicate, so small!”
Gwern gurgled happily at him. Then Evnisien noticed the silence. All the pressure was on him. He stiffened. The smile left his eyes.
Gwern mumbled uncertainly. “Mma...”
Branwen stood up.
“Evnisien, I think maybe you should –“
Evnisien lets out an insane roar, and hurls the tiny creature at the fireplace. Branwen screams. Taliesin leaps up, shouting “NO!” Bendigeidvran seizes Barnwen. Gwern hits the back of the fireplace with a crack. The tiny bundle falls silent, hidden behind the fire. Taliesin runs forward with a tearing cry. Manawydan brother of Vran grabs him around the waist, holding him back. The hall is in uproar.
“It’s too late, Taliesin! He’s
“NO!”
Branwen is still screaming. Taliesin struggles to free himself from Manawydan. Taking advantage of the chaos, Matholwch shouts to the guard in the corner.
“Guard! The doors! Now!”
The guard pushes a lever. Two hidden doors open, and the Iernian warriors begin pouring in.
Bendigeidvran looks around.
“Manawydan! Take Branwen to safety! Glifiai! Get everyone out!”
Bendigeidvran releases Branwen and leaps onto the table, drawing his great sword and releasing a mighty roar.
“
Manawydan, distracted, loses his grip on Taliesin who runs to the fireplace and begins tearing apart the fire. Manawydan shouts his name, sees Branwen running past and grabs her instead. Taliesin is not his charge. Glifiai has drawn his sword too, and is battling two Iernians while directing the evacuation of the castle. Manawydan draws his sword too, and with a struggling weeping Branwen over his shoulder he forces his way through to the exit. Meanwhile, Bendigeidvran battles alone, laying all about him with mighty strokes, still roaring like a boar, felling an Iernian at every stroke. Taliesin, battling tears, painstakingly removes the ruined body of his baby son from the fireplace and lets out a howl of grief.
Nearly everyone is out by now. Vran, distracted by the noise, turns to him.
“TALIESIN! MOVE!”
Too late. A Iernian warrior swings his sword at Taliesin, who dodges much too late. The blow lands deep in his side. He cries out in pain. Bendigeidvran strides towards him, roaring, spinning his sword in one hand, bashing foes out of the way with his sheer bulk. He feels a sharp pain in his foot, but keeps going. The last thing Taliesin remembers is being picked up and thrown over his shoulder, the body of his son still held tightly in his arms. Then he passes out.
Fifty ships had been made ready; they were all that was needed now to carry home the survivors and what loot they could carry. Of two hundred and fifty thousand men who had set out less than a fortnight ago, only twenty thousand now remained to return home. Some had been captured, and some had disappeared into the wilds of Ierne; but the vast majority of the missing were dead. Over the last few days, at the Battle of Matholwch’s Castle, they had almost all been killed. Of the literally tons of gold, silver, bronze and weaponry now scattered across the battlefields of Ierne, only a small fraction could be brought back. Bendigeidvran, standing at the prow of his flagship, bowed his head. He had done this. He had decimated his kingdom and destroyed a neighboring one. He was to blame. But he was in the process of paying the price.
Sadly, he reached for his crutches, and returned to the main deck. As he lurched away from the prow, his cloak blew aside, revealing the place where his right foot should have been.
At the stern stood Taliesin and Branwen. Miraculously, Taliesin’s wound had missed all his vital organs and not gone too deep. For a while, his life had hung in the balance, but under the constant supervision of a Druid, he had made a rapid recovery. Already he could stand without aid for some time. He had only come round the morning before, the morning after the battle, when everything was over and the surviving Britons were already making for the coast. He figured it was about time to find out what had happened since he had fallen unconscious.
“So… we won?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are we leaving so soon?”
“My brother has some business in Albion to put in order. Before –“ she broke off abruptly.
“Before what?”
She would not reply.
“Branwen… I need to know what happened.”
“She nodded briefly, and helped him sit down in the shadow of the rear figurehead.
“I was not involved in the battle, but I heard what happened from the mouths of my brothers. After we had all got out of Matholwch’s castle, Vran sent out eight riders from the horsemen that were with him; one to the main camp not far away, and the other seven to the Lake of the Cauldron, where the main host was still assembled, just in case, telling them to come with all possible speed. He used the rest of our horsemen to buy time for the rest of the warhost to arrive.
“When it did, the real battle began. Matholwch had many guards hidden in his castle, and all his survivors from the Battle of the Lake of the Cauldron – some twenty thousand, I think Vran said - hidden in a camp in the woods a couple of miles away. But Vran had some of his men fell trees and use them to batter at the walls of the castle. It had not been built to withstand that, so Matholwch quickly evacuated and the battle elsewhere. We learnt from our spies later that as he was gathering his most precious possessions during the evacuation, his eyes fell on the Crochan o Ailenedigaeth which Vran gave him so long ago. On the advice of a Druid, he took it with him.
“The fighting lasted for three days, for every time one of Matholwch’s men fell he was carried to the Cauldron of Rebirth, and within minutes he could return to the battle. They were a terrifying sight after they were brought back; they fought in deathly silence, and their faces were ashen-gray. I saw several of these undead warriors break through at one point, but by Evnisien’s valor they were driven back. They were not invincible, nor unkillable, thank all the gods. Early on the third day of the battle, when we had already been fighting for three nights and two days straight and the men were exhausted and deeply demoralized, news arrived that the army left behind at the Lake of the Cauldron had been wiped out. The seven messengers had returned. Traces of a battle had been left, so they guessed that the Iernians had at last mustered, come on our men at unawares and surrounded them. A hundred and fifty thousand Briton warriors – vanished leaving barely a trace. This news was kept secret from the warriors.
“Later that same morning, my brother Nisien, he – he went to try and parley with Matholwch.” Branwen swallowed. When she continued, her voice was a whisper. “He never came back. Matholwch murdered him.”
Manawydan, who had come up on them while they were talking, picked up the story where Branwen had left off in a sad voice.
“Evnisien, overcome with emotion at this treachery but in a strangely different way than usual, infiltrated Matholwch’s camp and threw himself face-down on the pile of dead who were being thrown into the Cauldron of Rebirth when the guards weren’t looking. The Iernians never saw his tattoos as he lay face-down; when the previous warrior came out, they picked him up and threw him in. As soon as he was in the Cauldron, Evnisien stretched out all his limbs and pushed as hard as he could, all the while remember being scalded to death in boiling water.
“The Cauldron broke. All the attendants fled, fearing Matholwch’s wrath when he found out, and so our spies were able to get in and rescue Evnisien’s body – of course, he had been killed. Even were it not for the curse, he had been thrown into a cauldron of boiling water. But when the spies looked at his body, they saw he had no burns, and when they accidentally touched him – after all you should not touch the bodies of the dead with your bare hands – he was cold as stone. Such was the curse; that whosoever broke the Cauldron’s heart would be frozen instantly. But when the spies tried to pick him up, his body crumbled into dust, and for their pains they received third degree burns on their hands. Terrified, they fled back to our camp and told the whole story.
“Thus passed Evnisien the Wrathful of the House of Airoswydd. And remember, if he did kill poor little Gwern, the responsibility is not his own. He was forced to live all his life with madness.”
“Before he left,” added Branwen to Taliesin, “he apologized to me over and over. He offered to cut off his hands which had done the deed. I had never heard him say sorry before. I told him I forgave him. He asked me if I would speak kindly of him to you. It was only after that that he went to avenge Nisien.”
Manawydan continued his tale. His voice was compelling.
“With their secret weapon the Cauldron destroyed, Matholwch’s men began to lose their nerve. At the last hour, Erbin fired an arrow over the heads of both warhosts at Matholwch. It pierced right to his heart. When the word spread that their leader was dead, the Iernians began to flee. Our men, exhausted, pursued them not far. Matholwch’s body was thrown off a cliff, and Erbin carries his head. Such was our victory.
“With the news of the eradication of our host at the Lake of the Cauldron, we realized we were deep in enemy territory and badly outnumbered. It was decided that we would retreat. We had lost many men in that battle; some twenty thousand were dead, and another ten thousand too injured to be moved when we left. We left them with a band of volunteers to look after them. Our retreat was further justified; after all, our goal, which had been to deliver Branwen and bring Matholwch to justice, was fulfilled. Bendigeidvran also said that enough had died already over this dynastic struggle, and that he wanted to put his affairs in order. We left that same night and marched through the morning, when you woke up. Stopped for a brief rest around midday, and then continued for the rest of the afternoon and into the night until we reached the coast. In that way we covered some thirty-five miles in a day. Today we sail for the lands of the Novantae to make the journey as short as possible. The main part of the journey will be overland until we reach Verlamion.”
“What happened to Vran’s foot? And why has he such pressing business that he cannot stay for the wounded?”
Manawydan and Branwen exchanged glances. She looked away dejectedly.
“You do not know?” said Manawydan gently. “The king was shot in the foot with a poisoned arrow when he was rescuing you from Matholwch’s castle. That night we found out. The Druid said there was no way to stop the poison short of cutting it off. It would take a while for Vran was a strong man – and he had certain other powers as well, after all – but eventually he would die. He did not hesitate, and ordered the Druid to cut it off at once. The deed was done, and the wound was cauterized. In the morning he arose, and continued to lead the battle from his tent. The word was spread that he was too badly wounded to fight himself, and I took his place in the front line. It is long since I led a warhost in a charge; I owe Vran much that he allowed me to do so.”
“But there is one other thing that few know,” said Bendigeidvran, coming up in his turn behind Manawydan on his crutches. Taliesin rose to greet him, but Vran awkwardly gestured him back down. “I have not told the men, and those who know are at present sworn to secrecy. But cutting off my foot did not stop the poison. The Druid told me at the time. As soon as a little poison was in, it would spread rapidly throughout the body – in tiny quantities, but immediately, and over time, those quantities would increase. Cutting off my foot would slow it down, but not prevent it. I am dying, Taliesin.”
Taliesin looked up at his king. There was no sorrow on his face, no regret – but nor was there any twinkle in his eye.
********************
It was late in the sailing season for a large convoy of ships to travel, but not so late that any serious risk was preidcted. That day, they sailed on, but a fierce storm picked up in the afternoon and blew the fleet off-course to the Southwest. At first they managed to stay together, but as the fury of the storm increased the ships were dashed against each other. Many sank, and the rest were separated. Vran went below deck to avoid injury to his bad foot, as did Branwen as it would be a pretty sorry thing if they had sacrificed well over two hundred thousand Briton lives to save her from Matholwch only to lose her to a storm. But Manawydan, Taliesin and everyone who could stayed up on deck to help. Despite the rocking of the storm-tossed ship, and all the trials of the last few days, Vran, exhausted, eventually managed to fall asleep. It was not long before he was woken by a muffled roar from the deck.
“TALIESIN!”
It was Manawydan’s voice. Vran sat up quickly. Branwen, at the other end of the cabin, looked terrified. He was about to tell her to stay put, but in an instant she was running up the steps onto the deck.
“Branwen! NO!”
With a groan, Vran heaved himself up and grabbed his crutches.
********************
The sea was so cold it punched him in the chest like an icy fist. Half-winded, Taliesin went under. He struggled to the surface. It made no sense. One minute he had been up on the deck, tugging on a rope with Manawydan, and then the ship had bucked violently and he was in the sea. He fought to stay afloat. He heard Manawydan shout his name, and then saw his face appear over the side of the ship.
“Man overboard!”
Taliesin went under again. When he fought his way back to the surface, shaking wet salty hair out of his eyes, the ship seemed to have got much further away. He could make out Branwen leaning out over the side. Faintly he heard her call his name. Someone had thrown him a rope. He swam towards it as powerfully as he could, but it sent a blinding flash of pain through his side. He fainted. The water roused him almost at once. He battled back to the surface, coughing. The ship was a hundred paces away. He knew he would never reach it, he couldn’t swim properly and his strength was already failing. With one last prodigious effort, he began to swim towards it.
********************
Branwen screamed, leaning out far over the gunwale. “Taliesin!”
But he had vanished. The waves had borne him away. Distinctly, she heard Vran yelling.
“Turn the ship about to starboard! I’m not leaving him!”
“My lord, please –“
Another great wave hit the ship, making it buck violently. Branwen felt herself thrown over the side. She screamed. She was falling – then she felt a strong hand seize her arm. Manawydan hauled her back onto the deck. The foremast cracked, then fell, crushing the gunwale and falling into the sea.
Growling in pain, Vran fought his way to his feet. One of his crutches had vanished.
“I don’t care, you bastard! I’m the High of Albion, and I order you to turn the ship around!”
The little ship fought with the storm for half the night; but at long last, Vran was forced to admit defeat. Taliesin was gone. Utterly exhausted, aching all over, and humiliated and depressed that he had been unable to save his friend, he gave in to the captain’s insistencies, and limped back to the cabin. Bendigeidvran never wept. He sat down on his furs and hung his head. Branwen stayed up all night, screaming Taliesin’s name out over the waves. In the morning, the storm had died. Thoroughly broken, she collapsed on the deck.
Manawydan was the only one who managed to keep his head despite everything. All night he stayed up, fighting the storm as hard as any of the sailors. In the morning, once they had got their bearings from the Sun, they realized they had been brought over a hundred miles South. Only after giving the captain new orders to make for Adber Alaw in the North of the Isle of Mona did he at last allow himself to get some rest.
********************
The ship was beached that afternoon on the beach at the mouth of the River Alaw. The gangplank was dropped, and Vran on his crutches, followed by Manawydan and a broken Branwen, led the way down onto the sand. Kneeling, Vran scooped up a fistful and breathed in. Despite everything that had happened – the deaths of two hundred thousand proud warriors, the loss of his foot and the impending loss of his life, and the fall of Taliesin – Vran smiled. Bitterly. But he smiled.
“So…we return at last. This is home.”
“Branwen!”
Manawydan’s voice. Vran looked up. Branwen was running away from them across the sand.
She ignored them both. Her two brothers. So good, so wise, so strong. They had looked after her all her life. But not any more. They could not protect her from what had already come to pass.
She ran on. They did not pursue. Presently she stumbled. She got up to run on, but then she checked herself.
“Here then I fall. So here let me lie.”
From a pouch at her belt, she took the little wooden carving of an otter that Taliesin had given her so long ago – so, so very long ago, when there was light, and happiness, and they were together.
“My fault,” she whispered to the otter. With her other hand, from the front of her dress she drew a dagger.
“Oh, mighty gods, woe to me that I was ever born! Two mighty islands have been laid waste because of me, and thousands of good men lie dead!”
Taking the dagger in both hands, she laid the point on her breast. One quick thrust, and she would be dead. How fragile a thread life hung by. How completely insignificant she was. When she was gone, the Sun would still rise and set, the waves would still crash against the shore. But for her there would be nothing. Maybe in the next life – if there was a next life – she would find peace. And Taliesin. If not, she didn’t really care.
She looked up one last time, at the unbearable brightness in the center of the clear blue. It was as if the storm of last night had never been. As she looked her last upon the Sun, making ready to make an end, she whispered her final thoughts to the wind.
“And so everything fades… good and evil passes… and in the end… the only thing that is certain…
She breathed in and out one last time. Her heart was hammering against her ribs at a thousand beats per minute, as if it was trying to make up for a lifetime of beats that it would never make. At the last moment she cleared her mind and plunged the dagger into her heart.
“
********************
Vran made to run after Branwen, but Manwydan grabbed him and held him back.
“No, brother! You cannot save her.”
Vran turned to him in shock, but met only the firm wisdom that he had always associated with Manawydan.
“Do not stop her. What she does now is her choice and her choice alone. No-one can make it for her. All her life she has been driven one way or another – now she must make the final decision.”
The words made no sense – but Bendigeidvran found himself understanding, weakening. He and Manawydan watched her run, fall, and then kneel against the skyline. Watched as her dagger flashed in the Sun – Vran made as if to run forwards, but Manawydan held him firm. Watched as her white dress turned red under the Sun.
Vran turned to Manawydan. He was the older of the two by about a year, but it was Manawydan who had always provided the wisdom. Vran looked up at him, seeking not comfort, but something – he knew not what.
Manawydan did not look at him. His eyes were on the little red and white form that lay immobile against the skyline. Suddenly a tear appeared on his cheek. He swallowed, and nodded.
“She has her peace now.”
********************
Taliesin hurt all over. His side was on fire, and his mouth felt like it was full of sand.
It was full of sand.
He opened his eyes.
He was lying on a beach – where he did not know. The water lapped around his feet. Mustering his strength, he forced himself up off his face and into a sitting position. He spat out the worst of the sand, and looked around. Everything looked slightly fuzzy and painfully bright. Where was he? Piece by piece his memory began to come back – and with it, pain. He remembered everything that had happened: with Branwen, with Matholwch, with Erbin, with Vran, with Gwern. Poor little Gwern. He remembered the thousands of Briton dead scattered across the battlefields of Ierne. He remembered falling into the sea, drifting further and further away from the ship, and eventually grabbing on to a large piece of driftwood like a mast and passing out. He must have drifted here.
By a single chance in a million, here, had he known it, was Adber Alaw.
Eventually, he managed to get up, and wander inland, in the direction where he guessed the nearest settlement must be, beside the river. Before long, although it felt like an age to him, he reached the village of Adber Alaw. He made quite an entrance; half-naked, in torn bracco, with seaweed in his hair, sand on his face and a nasty wound in his side. The villagers quickly took him in, and before long he learnt that the king had arrived in the village the previous day. At once, Taliesin asked if he could speak with him. A boy was sent off, and soon returned with the answer that Bendigeidvran and Manawydan were coming to see him immediately. He felt a twinge of unease. Where was Branwen?
The two mighty brothers, the one in fortitude, the other in wisdom, arrived not long afterwards. They requested that they might talk with Taliesin in private for a short while. Once they were left alone, they related everything that had happened, and everything they had learnt since their return to Albion. First they told him how they had struggled to find him in the sea for many hours, and then how the storm had driven them so far south they had Bren forced to run aground on a beach of Mona instead. Then they told him what had been happening on Albion in the fortnight they had all been on Ierne. They carefully avoided mentioning Branwen; they had agreed to leave that piece of news to the end.
“You remember we left Caratawc son of Brennos of Dubris in charge?” said Manawydan. “As it turns out he wasn’t up to the task. I dare say few would have been. Apparently, the Dobunni and Catuvellauni have been planning an uprising for years, feeling neglected as Vran here has been busy in the outer regions. Cassiwellaunos Belenomapos of Verlamion, that young noble who was always against the idea of a united Albion, challenged his authority almost as soon as we were gone. He had a pretty sizeable warband on his side; we guess that is why we received so few men from the Catuvellauni and Dobunni when we invaded Ierne. Anyway, he ambushed Caratawc as he was traveling back from the lands of the Deceangli, and slew his entire company and the man himself. The news spread like wildfire, and pretty soon, the whole island was in uproar. Many opposed Cassiwellaunos, who didn’t want to rule them anyway, but seeing the power vacuum they tried to put their own kings to the fore. The Catuvellauno-Dobunni alliance splintered when Bodwoc of the Dobunni botched an assassination attempt of Cassiwellaunos in trying to make himself king of Albion, and the two are now at war. In short, it’s an utter fiasco. We have learnt for certain that at least four chiefs who went with us – Glifiai King of the Brigantes, Tachimaglos King of the Carvetii, Lugotorix King of the Demetae and Mordred prince of the allied Novantae have returned safely, their ships wrecked up and down the west coast of the island. We have already sent a rider to Glifiai to find out how things are in his kingdom and where his loyalties lie - but really, the situation is hopeless. From what we have gleaned from the people here, most of Camru minus factions among the Deceangli and Ordovices remain loyal to Vran, and we think we can count on the Brigantes, but the core of the realm, the Southeast, is embroiled in all-out civil war. And as you know… Bendigeidvran doesn’t have time to deal with a revolt, let alone on that scale. I think it is time to say goodbye to a united Kingdom of Albion.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
This time it was Vran who replied.
“I am going to go through with my original plan and return to the land of my birth. It is no good worrying about the past, or power, or war, or anything any longer for me. Albion was fine before I tried to unite it – and I think we sowed enough destruction in Ierne to prevent significant danger threatening from there again for a long while. No, I am going to Verlamion, and then to Dubris. Manawydan has agreed to accompany me, and I think many of the sailors will too. If I can bring about peace in the lands of the Catuvellauni and Cantiaci I shall. But there will be no more power-politics for me.”
“What about Branwen?”
Vran looked away. Manawydan sighed, and picked up the tale again.
“She blamed herself for the destruction brought down on Albion and Ierne. She missed Gwern, and she thought you were dead. Thinking that – that she had nothing to live for… she took her own life.”
Taliesin felt as if he were falling from a great height. An irrational terror and a queer coldness was beginning to fill him up from the inside, spreading outwards from his heart. He choked out –
“You – you’re lying!”
“Would I lie about this? She was my sister.”
Taliesin jumped up. Every muscle ached, but he barely noticed.
“No… no, she can’t – couldn’t – no, Vran, tell me it’s not true.”
Vran said nothing, but hung his head.
“It was my fault. I should never have gone to Ierne in the first place. I brought about the deaths of four hundred thousand proud warriors all told, and that of my own sister. And myself.”
This time he began to weep. Manawydan punched his arm.
“It was nobody’s fault. What transpired was unforeseeable, brought about by the mistakes of many and the evil of Matholwch.”
“I must take much of the blame,” whispered Taliesin. “It was when Matholwch found out that Branwen and I were in a relationship behind his back that he went mad. We tried to run away before – but he caught us. If I had never gone to Ierne –“
“Oh, stop this, both of you!” snapped Manawydan, standing up. “You are neither of you to blame! You made mistakes, that is all. Do not be so arrogant as to suppose that you are the reasons for the deaths of four hundred thousand! And kicking yourselves about it will not bring her back.”
Taliesin turned to him.
“Show me to her.”
Manawydan sighed. “Of course.”
********************
She lay, fair in death as she had been in life, on a table in the center of the roundhouse. She might have been sleeping, but for the deathly pallor of her skin and the slightly bloodstained bandages wrapped around her upper chest to cover the wound she had inflicted upon herself. All because she believed the man who was standing over her now was dead.
As Taliesin looked down upon her lifeless face, wave after wave of sorrow shook him. But there were no tears; no tears for the princess of Albion, fairest maiden in the world. Taliesin dropped to his knees, and rested his head on her chest. He did not move for a long time.
At long last, he rose, and laid one last kiss on her brow. Her skin was cold and stiff to the touch of his lips; as unnatural a feeling as could be expected from a brow so perfectly colored, so soft.
“Goodbye, Branwen, princess of Albion. You were the fairest maiden ever to walk this earth, and I defy any elf-maid who may challenge that you are the fairest in the Otherworld too.”
His voice dropped so Manawydan and Vran, waiting outside, couldn’t hear.
“Soon, Vran shall join you and Gwern and Nisien and Evnisien and all the proud fallen sons of Albion. And when that is done, I too shall follow into the mist. I regret that Manawydan must be left alone in this world for a time, but I cannot be without you, Branwen. And he is wise and strong, the wisest man I know. He will cope. Maybe he will bring justice and understanding back to Albion. So see you soon, my beautiful lady: Branwen, daughter of Llyr.”
********************
The next day, the three men – Vran, Taliesin and Manawydan – left Adber Alaw, after leaving instructions for the people of the village to build her tomb, and set off South, along with a dozen sailors who wished to accompany their king on his journey home. The Camrians, it seemed, still recognized Vran as their king, but just in case, he promised that Manawydan would repay them in whatever way he could. The rest of the sailors were released from service, given what loot there was still left on the ship that was not given to the people of Adber Alaw, and sent home. The little royal delegation traveled at a good speed, making forty miles a day on horses purchased from the people of Adber Alaw, and it did not take them long to reach Verlamion. Every district they passed through though outside Camru showed the signs of civil war.
When they reached Verlamion, Vran dismounted, and breathed in the air of his hometown. For the capital of the Kingdom of Albion, it was still very small. He hobbled through the gates himself on his crutches, Manawydan leading his horse, and made his way by himself all the way to the town square where the Great Longhall stood over the marketplace, his small following not far behind. When he reached the marketplace, he went straight on, and walked right through the front doors of the Great longhall. Leaving the sailors outside with instructions to guard the horses, Taliesin and Manawydan followed him in.
On the throne at the top of the hall sat Cassiwellaunos Belenomapos. He started when he saw Vran, and then laughed when he saw him on crutches.
“Bendigeidvran map Llyr!”
His guards started forwards at the name, but Cassiwellaunos waved them back down. He stood up and drew his sword.
“I trust you had a productive
His guards laughed uneasily. Taliesin and Manawydan stepped forwards on either side of their king, hands on their sword-hilts. Vran didn’t have to take this if he didn’t want to; they would have easily slain every man in the room for him. But Vran simply smiled, dropped his crutches and threw off his traveling cloak. His foot had been replaced with a wooden peg-leg by now; on this he limped towards Cassiwellaunos, drawing his mighty sword as he went.
It was a nightmarish sight. Sinister with his one leg, still taller than any man had any right to be and strong as a bull, Vran cut quite a figure. The fear showed on Cassiwellaunos’s face. But he could not withdraw now; he had drawn his sword first.
“Cassiwellaunos son of Nith – forgive me,
Cassiwellaunos, terrified, had no answer. Vran mounted the steps and loomed over him.
“By what right do you also claim the title of son of Belenos? Surely even your arrogance does not extend so far as to claim you are the son of the Sun?”
Cassiwellaunos could not reply. Half-heartedly, he lashed out with his sword. There was a clang, Cassiwellaunos screamed, and his sword lay ten feet away in two parts. The whole hall was silent, watching, waiting. Vran pressed his swordpoint into Cassiwellaunos’s neck, and continued in a harsh whisper.
“Oathbreaker! Traitor to your king and your homeland! You deserve to die! By what right can you even claim your own life?”
Cassiwellaunos remained silent, terrified out of his wits. At heart, he was nothing but a coward. Everyone saw it now, and he had never exactly been popular. Vran roared, and swung his sword – away from Cassiwellaunos.
“Be gone, you scum! I have seen enough blood now to last me a hundred lifetimes, and yours is not worthy to stain my sword! My life is close to its end, but my last deed shall be to ensure that if you ever return to the lands of the Catuvellauni – you will meet a sad and sorry end. If you ever come back, I swear a curse upon my soul that I will haunt you until you and all of your line are dead. Get out, coward! See, I spare your life! Do with it as you please, but you are banished henceforth from the realm of the Battle-Chieftains!”
Cassiwellaunos fled. He never returned.
The throne stood empty. Vran surveyed it quietly, but shook his head.
“Nay, my life is close to its end, and power no longer holds any appeal for me. My experience as ruler has brought nothing but death to my people. Taliesin! Go out into the marketplace, and bring me the first boy you see.”
Taliesin stepped outside. Almost at once he was able to grab a young boy of maybe nine by the shoulder who was walking by with his mother.
“Hi, young one there! And your mother too, come with me. The king wishes to speak with you. Have no fear; Bendigeidvran has returned victorious from Ierne, and the tyranny is over.”
The mother and child were so baffled they obeyed. Taliesin gently nudged the boy towards Bendigeidvran. The boy took a few paces, and then knelt before the king.
“You wished to see me, my lord?”
Vran nodded, and smiled. Humility, discipline. “Yes, I did. What is your name?”
“Bran, son of Windiorix, after yourself, so please you your majesty.”
Vran laughed, scooped the boy up and seated him on the throne.
“This is no joke, boy: you shall be king. My life is almost over, but I want to make sure I leave a wise ruler behind me. You shall be he. Here –“
Vran took off the great torq around his neck, and placed it on the boy’s. It was much too big for him, but he looked up in awe.
“There. I pronounce you King of the great tribe of the Catuvellauni! Remember, young Bran. Being a king is not just an easy life, where everyone must obey you or die. It is a real job, and working hard for the good of the people at all times. It is a great responsibility – but I feel in my heart you can do it. Do not fail me, young Bran. I go now to the Otherworld, but I leave the care of my people to you.”
Vran turned to the crowd that had gathered in the hall while all this had been going on.
“People, you may think I am crazy, putting a boy on the throne. But I am not. This is the best thing I have ever done in my life. See what a mess grown men and women have made of the world! I pray that an innocent child, raised well and guided by my wise brother Manawydan will do better. Thank you. Farewell. I shall see you in the Otherworld.”
Vran smiled one last time at the surprised boy-king and ruffled his hair. Then he and his two companions left the Great Longhall, remounted their horses, and rode away.
********************
Taliesin challenged Vran’s decision to appoint a boy as ruler as they rode on, but Manawydan countered him.
“A boy brought up as a responsible ruler will remain so. He will not forget Bendigeidvran, and he will not forget his words. That little Bran will make a just ruler, I would stake my life on it. Furthermore, I will guide him, and steer him in the right direction until he is wise enough to rule alone. For now, his mother will guide him, and father I suppose; I do not think they will try to rule through him. Peasants are generally honest folk, especially in the fair Dun of Verlamion. But in a few days I shall return to Verlamion and he will remember me. You should trust Vran’s judgment, Taliesin, while we have it to trust.”
Vran rode on, seeming not to notice the conversation going on behind him. It did not really concern him any more whether he lived or died. He would go and see his father, and Branwen, and apologize to all the warriors whose deaths he had caused. And maybe get himself an elfin wife. And if, for whatever reason, he did not reach the Otherworld – well, being dead, he wouldn’t care. He had come to accept his fate, and he was more jovial than ever he had been before. But ever since his wound, he had been growing progressively weaker. It was nearly a fortnight now since it had happened. He never felt too well, and at times he was suddenly overcome with a black exhaustion. But he bore it like a king; and in a couple of days, they reached Dubris on the south coast, and the white horse, and the white cliffs, and the peaceful sea stretching out as far as the eye could see. The little company rode right up to the cliff-edge. Vran dismounted, and looked out over the great expanse of water. It was a beautiful pure dark blue, with barely a hint of green, matching the clear sky. Although it was now early Fall, the Summer persisted, as if it wanted to be there to bid farewell to the king of Albion.
“Here, then I rest,” said Vran.
That night they made camp right on the edge of the cliff. In the morning Vran was dead.
In accordance with his wishes, Manawydan cut off his head and he and Taliesin dug him a deep grave for it at the top of the cliffs facing Gaul. They raised a mound over it, and planted a standing stone on top; this they carved with a representation of the greatest man they had ever met. In later years, the Romans would topple the statue into the sea, and the mound of stones would be overgrown with grass; but for many hundreds of years Vran would guard the shores of his home from foreign invasion. It was said that until his head was found and removed, no force from the continent could ever take Albion by surprise.
The headless body of the king was burnt that night on a pyre. Neither of the two nobles shed any tears, although many of the sailors wept openly; Taliesin because he knew he would soon be joining him, and Manawydan because he knew that Vran had done the only thing that made sense.
“Farewell, brother,” he said. The two of them turned away
********************
The sailors were rewarded with what gold they had left, and released. Manawydan and Taliesin rode back to Verlamion together: the last of the great men of those elder days. They traveled for the most part in companionable silence; but both knew that soon their ways would part. Taliesin could not now stay, when so many had departed.
When they reached Verlamion, and Taliesin was making ready to set out on the very last journey, Manawydan could not refrain himself from asking the question that had been tormenting him since they had buried Vran.
“You know what you’re doing, then, Taliesin?”
“Yes. I know. Nothing can now refrain me.”
“There are still those on the world who love you whom you leave behind. You will be missed by your parents, Taliesin. And I will miss you. Maybe you would consider abiding here for a time? Perhaps over the years your pain will fade, and you can live out a long and happy life. You are still very young, Taliesin. Do not cast your life away in vain.”
Taliesin shook his head, sadly. For once, he was certain he knew better than Manawydan.
“I am sorry, Manawydan. Truly I am. But I cannot stay. Some scars run too deep for the healing. Who am I to remain here when so many have gone on? I can almost hear the spirits of the Otherworld calling me to join them. I yearn to see Branwen again. And if I do not reach the next life – being dead, I will not care. I am sorry to leave you alone, Manawydan. But you are a great and wise man. You have something to offer this world. I have nothing left to live for. Farewell; the gods will grant that we meet again some day, where time has no meaning and life goes on.”
So saying, Taliesin turned his horse around and rode away North, leaving Manawydan standing all alone.
********************
Taliesin rode north hard, sparing himself no hardship. All he wanted to do now was get back to Adber Alaw and go at last to rest. Before the end of a week, he had reached his destination. He did not go to the village; he went straight to the place by the sea-shore where they had built Branwen’s cairn. The stones were white with newness and the mound was fresh; the villagers, when they found him, would know why he had come here to die. Dismounting his horse, he sent her away in the general direction of the village. Then he drew his sword.
Much as Branwen had done, he looked up one last time at the Sun and reflected on everything he was leaving behind. Then he thought of Branwen, and sadness filled him. At the last moment, when he plunged his sword into his chest, it was not so much to go and see her as to end his grief at losing her that he slew himself.
********************
********************
Afterword -
The bearded man sat back on his bench and lowered his gaze. The tale was done; the fire was almost dead; night had long set in outside. He had told this tale he knew not how many times; every time it had the same effect on his listeners: they all remained quiet and sad, cross-legged on the floor of the roundhouse before him. Such was the nature of the tale.
“What became of Manawydan after that?” asked one man in a low voice.
The bard sat up. “Manawydan? Well, that belongs to another tale, but I will tell you. He stayed at Verlamion, guiding young King Bran, for several years, until the boy turned seventeen and Manawydan judged that he could rule well alone; and the young king did, bringing a new era of peace and prosperity to the kingdom, keeping the peace with the neighboring realms and always preferring to resolve disputes by negotiation rather than by steel - although he was a mighty warrior. In this way he gained a reputation for great wisdom, and people flocked from far and wide to him to have his judgment in their arguments. He was the founder of a dynasty which would rule over Prydain for over a thousand years.
“After that Manawydan roamed the lands for a time; he always felt very alone because of what he had experienced, and nobody else quite understood him. They came to call him the Mysterious One, for he had a great reputation for wisdom but he never really talked to people when he could help it, preferring by and large the company of the wild. He never sought the kingship of any tribe, though he helped make many kings. He had many adventures of the most strange kind, involving magicians and monsters the like of which are not to be found in the world today; but he was always a man apart. He was never driven to take his own life, although at times he was tempted, because he always believed he could always do more good in the world. He lived until he was ninety-nine years old, and then died peacefully in his bed. A great man was Manawydan son of Llyr; and the island of Manavia, which lies north of Mona and between Albion and Ierne, was named after him, because of a mighty contest that was held there between himself and a great serpent – but that is another night’s tale.”
“And what of Evnisien? Was he not cursed by Enaiawg wife of Dwrawt and the powers of the Cauldron never to have peace in death?” asked a boy.
The storyteller chuckled. “By the gods, young Cingetorix, you have the memory of a bard!” He suddenly became solemn again. “But you are right. Evnisien never reached the Otherworld; his spirit was bound to the earth by the curses of those whose lives he destroyed and that of the Cauldron of Rebirth. It is said that when horses shy for no reason, it is because they feel his presense near; all horses fear Evnisien, ever since he mutilated all those of Matholwch at Adber Fraw. You should beware of Evnisien; he is never far from the greatest arguments, which always delighted him, and he often tries to flare them up into a fight. But show him pity also; a man who is mad is not in control of his actions. That is an important thing to remember.”
“And Glifiai King of the Brigantes?” asked a woman.
“He returned to his kingdom, brought peace, and reigned long and happily until his death.”
"And Erbin and Bronna?"
"They never quite recovered from their experiences and their losses, but when all was over, they traveled to Caledonia, to the lands of the Taexali, got married and lived happily ever after. They were the only ones who did really."
“But what of Branwen and Taliesin? Did they meet again in the Otherworld?”
The bard turned to the small girl who had asked the question, a twinkle in his eye.
“Who knows? The Vale of Andumnos is great, memories can be altered, and there are many beautiful elfin maidens there who Taliesin might have met. But I think, young Innaca,” said the old man, leaning towards her and murmuring in her ear so that she thought she was the only one who could hear, “that no power in this world or the Realm of Cernunnos could ever stand in the way of their love. Love like that… it lasts forever.”
There was silence again for a time. Presently, Cingetorix, the boy who had asked the question about Evnisien, stood up.
“Our gracious thanks for your tale of the past fortnight, Togodumnos bardowellaunos. Perhaps if my father is willing, you will dine at my house tonight?”
The bard shook his head and laughed. “Nay, Cingetorix mapoGeranidos. Do you not know the time? It is well past midnight, and the time for feasting is long gone. In fact, I think it is time for you all to leave. A kind good night to all! And do not forget what I have told you.”
When everyone had left, Togodumnos stood up and turned to the girl who had stayed behind. This was not the first time; but it had been a while since the last. He had barely seen her since, and it was only now that he realized he had missed her.
“How now, Cata Star-eyes? The tale is done, and the night is already old.”
She approached him with a smile. She was really very beautiful – she reminded him a little of his description of Tangwen, seductress of Taliesin at Isca, but he gently pushed that thought aside.
“Nay, Togodumnos Silver-tongue. The night is yet young. And I would be honored if I could spend mine with you.”
This girl was really asking for it. He couldn’t refrain from smiling. It was long since he had lain with a woman.
“Do you think there is really such a love as that of Taliesin’s and Branwen’s? A love which lasts forever?” she asked as he took her hands.
Togodumnos smiled at her. “I have no doubts, Cata Stilnastera.” He kissed her, and gently pushed her towards his sleeping-furs. She responded warmly.
[This message has been edited by Lord Edxie (edited 09-15-2013 @ 04:44 AM).]
), but I left Lug as Lug. With an "h" on the end, it becomes pronounced differently in Irish. Plus, Lugdunum Aeduorum, Lugudunum Batavorum, Luguvallium up on Hadrian's Wall... in all those names, it is quite clearly a hard "g" in Lug. Anyway, since when do lugs get a capital L? I think confusion will be minimal. Lug is Vran's special god, so I will use other exclamations for other characters - Lug probably won't pop up in too many places.