Such palaver with the high and mighty was hard on this simple forester, I can tell you. Ol’ Will has had his fill of Ffreinc enough to last him all his allotted days thrice over. If every last one of those horse-faced foreigners were to hop ship back to Normandie, this son of Britain would sing like a lark for joy till the crack o’ doom. Nevertheless, here we were up to our neck bones in Normans of every kind, and most of them with sharp steel close to hand.
It fair made me wish for the solace of the greenwood, it did.
And I wasn’t the only one with my teeth on edge. Poor Siarles was about as rattled as a tadpole in a barrel of eels. The fella could neither sit nor stand, but that he had to be jumping up every other breath to run to the door to see if any Ffreinc were lurking about ready to pounce on us. Still, though we could hear men moving about the palace, both inside and out, as more of the nobles arrived for their council, they left us to ourselves. The morning passed into midday, and the waiting began to wear on us.
For myself, the pain in my throbbing hand and the toils of the past few days rolled over me like a millstone, and I curled up in a corner and closed my eyes.
“We should go find out what is happening,” I heard Mérian say, and Iwan agreed.
“Aye,” replied the big man. “Bran might need our help.”
The two had just about worked themselves up to go and see what they could discover, Siarles was fussing and fretting, and Cinnia—too frightened to know what to do—had come to sit beside me, when the door opened and Bran and Jago strolled into the room.
You’d be forgiven for thinkin’ they’d been twice around the moon and back the way we ran to greet them. Before either one of them could speak, Iwan swooped in. “Well?” he demanded.
“What did the king say?” asked Mérian. “Will he help us?”
“Will he give back our lands?” said Siarles, joining the tight clus-ter around Bran. “When can we go?”
I roused myself, and Cinnia helped me to my feet and we joined the others.
“Come, tell us, Bran,” said Iwan. “What did the king say?”
“He said a great many things,” Bran replied, his voice a sigh of resignation. “Not all of them seemly, or even sensible.”
To my weary eye, our Bran and Brother Jago seemed a little frazzled and frayed from their encounter with the English monarch. “King William keeps a close counsel,” Jago added. “He gives away little and demands much. Yet I believe he has a mind to help us insofar as it helps him to do so. Beyond that, who can say?”
Who could say, indeed!
We had risked all to bring word of high treason to the king—and now that he had it, we were to be swept aside like the crumbs of yes-terday’s supper.
“He didn’t give us back our lands?” whined Siarles.
“No, he did not,” Bran confirmed. “At least, not yet. We are to wait here for his answer.”
Siarles blew air through his nostrils. “To think that after all this we are beholden to that fat toad of a king!” he grumbled. “We should have supported Duke Robert instead!”
“No, we made the right choice.” Bran was firm on that point. “Listen to me, all of you, and do not forget: we made the right choice. William is king, and only William has the power to give us back our lands. The king is justice for the people who must live beneath his rule. Our only hope is Red William.”
“Duke Robert would have been king and returned our lands to us,” Siarles insisted. “If we had supported him, he would have sup-ported us in turn, and we’d have what is ours by rights.”
Mérian gave Siarles a glance that could have cut timber. The rough forester glared back at her, but mumbled, “If I have spoken above myself, I am sorry, my lord, and I do beg your pardon. It just seems that for all our trouble we are no better off than before.”
Bran clapped his hand to the back of Siarles’ neck, drew him close, and said, “Siarles, my friend, if you truly think supporting Robert would avail us anything, you might as well join those traitors who are even now gathering to work their wiles.” Bran spoke softly, but there was no mistaking his resolve. “But while you are thinking on it, remember that Baron de Braose is one of the chief rebels. It is his hand squeezing our throats and his arm supporting Robert. If Duke Robert were to become king of England, bloody de Braose would become more powerful still, and he would never surrender his grip on our lands.”
“Bran is right,” Iwan declared. “The only way to get rid of de Braose is to expose him to the king.”
“We have warned Red William in good time, and now he can move to disarm the traitors,” Bran explained, releasing Siarles. “I have put our case before the king, and we must hope he succeeds in pun-ishing those who have conspired against him.”
“Well,” said Siarles, rubbing his neck. He was still not completely convinced. “It seems we have no other hope.”
“It has been this way from the start,” Bran said. “We have done all we can. It is in God’s hands.”
See now, Bran was right. Never doubt it. We had no other hope for redress in this world, save William and William alone. But Siarles, bless his thick head, was not wrong to raise the question. Truth to tell, it was something I wondered at first myself—and it was not until Odo told me about the two popes that I began to see my way through that tangled wood. Why would Baron de Braose write a letter like that? Who was it for? Then I remembered who had signed that letter, and although I could not recall all the names, I remembered Duke Robert right enough, and wondered why the king’s brother and one of Red William’s dearest barons should be makin’ up a letter like that.
Oh, it was a right riddle to be sure. But the answer was there starin’ us in the face all along. We just didn’t see it.
Yet sitting there in that rank pit of a gaol, a fella begins to see lots of things in a different way, if you know what I mean. Ol’ Will had time to think and little else.
Even so, when my monkish scribe let out there were two popes, God knows I didn’t believe him. Odo was so convinced, his conviction carried me along in the end. I considered it a mite curious that Baron de Braose should take up with Clement when the whole of England, so far as I knew, answered to a pope named Urban. What could it mean?
Two popes. One throne.What else could it mean but that the men who signed the letter had bartered their support for Pope Clement in order to gain the throne of England for their favourite, Duke Robert? Outright rebellion had been tried and had failed; Robert could not be trusted to enter the fray even in his own interest, as many an upright Englishman discovered to his hurt—my old master Aelred included, God rest him. So this time, they meant to use the church somehow. Although I could not rightly say how they meant to force the abdication, the more I thought about it, the more certain I became that the men who had put their names to that letter had formed a conspiracy with the aim of plucking the crown from William’s round grizzled head and placing it on luckless brother Robert’s. This is why de Braose was so murderously desperate to get that letter back. More valuable by far than the big gold ring or fine leather gloves—mere fancies, after all—that sealed square of parchment exposed the traitors and, if I guessed aright, was well worth a throne.
“God’s hands or no,” Mérian was saying, “I could wish we knew what was happening now. To have come this far only to be shut out sits ill, so it does.”
“Never fear,” Brother Jago replied. “God’s ways may be mystery past finding out, but he hears all who call upon his name. Therefore, be of good cheer! God alone is our rock and our fortress, our friend and very present help in times of trouble.”
“That was a sermon entire, Brother,” observed Iwan. He turned to Bran and asked, “How much longer are we to loiter here?”
Some little time, I reckoned. As the day wore on, though we heard men moving in the corridors and rooms ’round about the palace, no one darkened our doorway. One by one, we settled back to wait. I sat propped against the wall in one corner, and after a time, Bran joined me. “How are the fingers,Will?” he asked, sliding down into his place beside me.
“Not so bad,” I told him. “The pain comes and goes, but not so much as before.” I did not like dwelling on that, so I asked, “What do you think Red William will do?”
Bran was quick to reply. “I expect he’ll give back our lands,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Brother Jago was eloquent on our behalf, and I think we made him understand in the end. He promised justice, and we will hold him to it.”
That, of course, was deeply to be hoped. “We owe you a debt,Will Scarlet,” he said. “Your quick thinking gave us the chance we needed to save Elfael.”
“Well, it took me long enough,” I allowed, “but we got here in time. That is all that matters.”
“There’s still one thing I wonder,” Bran said. “How did you work out the nature of the conspiracy?”
“Well, now,” I said, running back over the events of the last days in my mind. “It was all those days talking to Odo and getting an idea how those Normans think—that’s what started it. Then, when I learned about the two popes, it seemed to me that the letter was intended as a treaty of sorts—why else write it all down?”
“A treaty,” mused Bran. “I never thought of that. You mean Duke Robert and Baron de Braose agreed to support Clement’s claim to the throne of Peter, if the pope would support Robert’s claim to the throne of England.”
“Our William is not well loved,” I added. “And, as I know from my old master Aelred, his barons almost succeeded in unseating the king last time they rebelled. I reckoned things have only got worse for them since then. I know William is no lover of the church.”
“He uses it as his own treasure store,” Bran said. “Helps himself whenever he can.”
“Aye, he does—and that’s the nub. Our William milks it like a cow, keeping all the cream for himself. But if that was to stop, his throne would begin to totter, if you see what I mean.”
“With both the barons and the church against him, the king could not stand,” observed Bran. “I got that much from your message.”
“A bit o’ blind luck, that,” I told him, shaking my head at the remarkable string of events that small patch of parchment had set off. “I wasn’t sure what you’d make of it, or what you’d be able to do about it. I didn’t even dare hope that scrap would reach you. I had only Odo to depend on, mind. He’s a Norman, but he gave good service in the end. I’d like to do something for him one day.” I paused and looked around the bare room and at our unlikely company. “God’s own truth, my lord, I never dreamed it would come to this—squattin’ in the palace of the archbishop of Rouen and waitin’ for the king of England to decide our fate.”
“My lord!” said Siarles, speaking up from his place across the room. “Are we to be expected to sit here all day like moss on a log?”
As if to answer his question, there was a bustle in the corridor and the door to our chamber opened. Canon Laurent strode into the room with two clerics dressed in robes similar to his own; with them were three knights from King William’s force. All wore solemn expressions. The knights carried swords at their belts, and two gripped lances. The canon held a scrap of parchment and carried it flat between his hands as if the ink was still wet on the surface of the page. “Peace and grace,” said the canon, which I understood. “I have come directly from private council with King William, who expresses his highest regards, and sends this message to you.”
Mérian stepped beside Bran and slid her hand into his. They stood side by side, an unlikely pair in their disguises. The rest of us drew near, too, taking our places beside our lord and his lady to receive the judgement of the king. Whatever the king’s decision might be, whether for good or ill, we would take it standing together as one.
“Hear the king’s words,” said Laurent, raising the parchment. “Be it known that in gratitude for his good service to our crown and throne, William, by the grace of God, king of England, does hereby bestow the sum of thirty pounds in silver to be used to aid and assist Lord Bran ap Brychan and his company to return home by the way he has come . . .”
“What?” complained Iwan, when this much had been translated for us. “He’s sending us home? What about the return of our lands?”
“Peace, Iwan.” Bran held up his hand for silence. He nodded to Jago.
“Pray, continue,” Jago said to the canon.
“Further,” resumed Laurent, “His Majesty, King William, serves notice that you are commanded to attend him at the royal residence at Winchester on the third day after the Feast of the Archangels, known as Michaelmas. At that appointed place and time you will receive the king’s judgement in the matters laid before him this day.”
Here Laurent broke off. Looking up from the proclamation, he said, “Do you understand what I have read to you?”
When Jago had finished translating these words, Bran said, “With all respect to the king, we will stay here and await his judgement. It may be that we can help bear witness against the rebels.”
“No,” answered the cleric, “after today it will be too dangerous for you to remain here, and the king cannot ensure your safety. The king has commanded that you are to be escorted to your ship at once and you are to make your way home by the swiftest means possible. His Majesty the king wishes you a pleasant journey and may God speed you in all safety to your destination.”
Steal breath from a baby, we were stunned.
We had come all this way prepared to bargain, plead, fight tooth and nail for the return of our lands only to be tossed lightly onto the midden heap like so much dung. It beggared belief, I can tell you. Though Bran tried to get the canon to see the thing as we did, and though the cleric sympathised in his way, Laurent could do nothing. The king had allowed him no room to wiggle; there was nothing for it but to take the money and go.
Red William is every inch as much a rogue as any of his bloody barons, no mistake. The king’s knights escorted us to our horses and accompanied us back down the hill and through the town to the river wharf and our waiting ship. We rode in silence all the way, and my own heart was heavy until we came in sight of the Dame Havik at her mooring—and then I remembered Nóin. Suddenly, I cared no longer about the doings of the high and mighty. My sole aim and desire was to see my love and hold her in my arms—and each moment I was pre-vented from doing that was a moment that chafed and chapped me raw. From the instant I set foot on the deck of that ship to the day I stepped off it and onto solid English earth once more, I was a man with an itch I could not scratch.
When on that fine, sunny day we bade our friend Ruprecht farewell and took our leave a little lighter in the pocket, to be sure—for we paid that Flemish sailor well for his excellent and praiseworthy care—it was all I could do to keep from lashing my poor mount all the way back to Elfael. I counted the quarters of the days until I at last saw the greenwood rising in the distance on the slopes of the ridge beyond the Vale of Wye, and then I counted the steps as I watched that great shaggy pelt bristling beneath a sky of shining blue and my heart beat faster for the sight. S’truth, only the man who has journeyed to far distant lands and returned to his native earth after braving dangers, toil, and hardships aplenty can know how I felt just then. I was seized by joy and flown to dizzy heights of elation only to be dashed to the rocks again with the very next thought. For as glad as I was to be going home, I was that afraid something might yet prevent me reaching the one I loved. All saints bear witness, our little company could not move fast enough for me. I fair wore out the goodwill of my companions long before we reached the blasted oak at the entrance to Cél Craidd.
When I came in sight of that black stump, I threw myself from the saddle and was halfway to the lightning-riven oak as through heaven’s own gate before I noticed someone standing there.
“Nóin?” I could scarce believe my eyes. She was there waiting for me!
“Is that you, Will Scarlet?” Her voice held a quiver. Surprise? Uncertainty? But she made no move toward me.
I stepped nearer, my heart beating high up in my throat, and put out a hand to her. “It is . . . ,” I replied, unable to speak above a whisper just then. “It is Will come home.”
She regarded me with an almost stern expression, her eyes dry. “Have you, Will? Have you come home at last?”
“That I have, my love.” I stepped nearer. “Now that I see you, I know I am home at last.”
As many times as I saw this glad reunion in my mind, I did not see it this way. She nodded. I saw her swallow then, and guessed some-thing of what this confrontation—for such it was—cost her. But she did not back down. She held me with her uncompromising gaze. “I have to know, Will,” she said, “if you’ve come back to stay. I cannot wait for you any longer. I have to know.”
“Nóin, my love, with God as my witness, I will nevermore part from you.”
“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t you say that. You don’t know.”
“What do you want me to say?” I asked. “If it is a pledge you seek, tell me what pledge you will accept and I will give it gladly.” As she considered this, I added, “I love you, Nóin. I loved you every blesséd day I lay in that dark hole, and if I could have come to you even a heartbeat sooner, I would have been back at your side long ere you knew I’d gone.”
She bent her head then, and her long hair fell down around her face. I could see her lips trembling.
“Nóin,” I said, moving closer. “If you no longer want me, you have only to say the word and I will leave you be. Is that what you want?”
She shook her head, but did not look at me.
I raised my arms and held them out to her. “Then come to me, my love. Let us return to the happiness we once knew. Or, if that be not possible anymore, let us begin a new and better joy.”
When she raised her head this time, I saw the tears streaking her fair cheeks. “Oh, Will . . . ,” she sobbed. “I’ve missed you so much . . . so much . . . I did not dare to hope . . .”
She came into my arms, and I crushed her to my chest with all the strength I did possess. I held her and felt the hardness in her melt away as she clung to me, her tears soaking into my shirt.
“Will dear, sweet Will, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I had to be sure. I couldn’t live thinking . . . forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I am here now, and I love you more than ever I did the day I left.”
“And will you yet wed me?” she asked, looking tearfully into my face.
The sight of those tears glistening on her cheeks melted any shreds of dignity I might have had left. I sank to my knees before her and clasped her around the waist. “Marry me, Nóin. I want you so bad it hurts my heart.”
The words were still fresh on my lips when I felt her arms encircle my neck; she raised me to my feet, and her warm lips bathed my scruffy face in kisses. “Nóin . . . ,” I gasped when I could breathe again. “Oh, Nóin, I will never leave you. I swear . . .”
“Shh,” she hushed. “Don’t speak, Will. Just hold me.”
I was happy to do that, no mistake.We stood there in the heart of the greenwood clutching one another so tight we could hardly draw a breath between us. And we were clinging still when the others reached the riven oak where we stood. They dismounted, and Bran let out a wild, withering screech. Instantly, the Grellon began pouring up out of the bowl of Cél Craidd to greet the return of their king and kinsmen.
The next thing I knew, I was half pulled, half pushed through the oak and tumbled down the hillside into the bowl of our hidden settlement. At first glance, everything appeared just as I remembered it—only it was early summer now, and I had left in the dead of winter. Still, all was as it should be, I reckoned, until I began to tell the little differences. The forest folk were right glad to see us, but there was a hollow sound to their laughter, and their smiles, though genuine and heartfelt, held more pain than pleasure. The faces gathered ’round us were greyer than I remembered, the bodies thinner.Winter had been hard for them, yes, and spring no better, I reckoned. Many were gaunt, with skin pinched around their deep-set eyes; their clothes were that much more tattered and frayed; the dirt on their hands and faces was there for good and always.
My heart went out to them. I had endured captivity in the sheriff’s odious hellhole, but they were no less captive here. The wildwood of Coed Cadw had become as much a prison as any that the vile de Glanville held key to. It was clear to me then, if never before: this sorry state could not be endured much longer. God willing, our bold King William would soon give us redress, and Bran and all us forest folk could move out into the light once more.
In amongst the young ’uns I saw little Nia’s face poking out. I turned and scooped her up. She did not cry out, but twisted in my arms to see who held her. “Weo!” she squealed, grabbing my beard with both hands. “Wee-o!”
Bless her, she was trying to say my name. “It’s me, dear heart. Ol’ Will is here.”
From among the flock gathering to greet our return, I glimpsed Angharad, hobbling forward on her long staff, her wrinkled face alight with pleasure. “I bid thee glad homecoming, William Scatlocke,” she crowed, her old voice quavering slightly. “The Lord of Hosts is smiling on this day.”
“Greetings,Wise Banfáith,” I said, offering her a bow and touching the back of my hand to my forehead. “It is that good to see you again.”
“And you,Will.” She drew close and stood for a moment, smiling up at me. Then, closing her eyes, she raised her hand and touched two fingers lightly to my forehead. “All Wise and Loving Father, we thank you for redeeming the life of our friend, delivering him from his enemies, and bringing him back to us in answer to our prayers. Bless him and prosper him for your name’s sake, and bless all who think well of him this day and all days henceforth.”
As she prayed, I felt Nóin’s hand squeeze my arm. I thanked our bard and then turned to the others who were crowding in to make good my welcome. “Here now! Here now!” came a shout, and I was enwrapped and lifted off my feet in a rib-cracking embrace.
“Tuck!” I said. “Are you here, too?”
“Where else should I be, but among my own dear flock on the day of your miraculous return? We’ve been waiting for this day with a greedy impatience, my friend,” he said, his round face beaming. God bless him, there were tears in his eyes.
“Brother,” I said, pulling Nóin close, “if you are not too busy, this lady and I are that keen to be married. If you have no objection, I want you to perform the ceremony today.”
“Today!” replied Tuck. “Today, says he! Well!” To Nóin, he said, “Is this also your desire?”
“It is my deepest desire,” she replied, her arm around my waist.
“Well, then,” concluded Tuck, “I do not see any reason to delay.” He glanced around. “What have you done with Bran and the others?”
Casting a glance behind me, I saw my travelling companions standing on the top of the low natural rampart that surrounded Cél Craidd. I called to them. “Why were you standing there?” I asked when they had joined us.
“We wanted you to have a proper greeting all to yourself,” Iwan explained.
“And would you leave me standing here alone on my wedding day?” I said.
“Oh,Will! Nóin!” cried Mérian. She pressed Nóin’s hands in hers, then kissed me lightly on the cheek. “This is such good news.”
We then endured the good wishes of Bran, Iwan, and the others in turn, and I was pummelled good-naturedly by one and all. When the festive drubbing was finished, I turned to Tuck and said, “Friar, I’d be much obliged if you could perform the rites without delay.” I glanced at Nóin and saw the desire in her dark eyes. “As soon as may be.”
Tuck nodded and adopted a solemn air. “Is it your wish to be married to this man?” he asked.
“It is, Friar,” she replied. “I would have done it long since, and there is no better day that I know than this, and I would mark it always in my heart as the day my man was given back to me.”
“Then so be it!”
Turning to the Grellon crowding around, the little friar called, “Hear now! Will and Nóin have declared their desire to be married. Let us give them a wedding they will never forget!”
If I had any notion of simply saying a few words before the priest and carrying off my bride to a little greenwood bower in the manner of my English father, that idea was dashed to pieces quicker than it takes a fella to spit and say “I do!” The forest folk fell to with a will. I suppose the safe and successful return of the rescue party was the best excuse any of them had had to celebrate anything in many a month, and the people were that eager to make a fair run at it. Nóin and I were immediately caught up in the preparations for this sudden celebration.
The cooking fire was built up; partridges and quail were pulled from the snares, then plucked and spitted along with half a young wild pig, and six coneys and a score of barley loaves set to bake. The children were sent into the thickets to gather raspberries and red currants, which were mixed with honey and made into a deep red compote; asparagus and wild mushrooms were likewise picked, chopped, and boiled into a stew with borage and herbs; the last of the walnuts which had been dried over the winter were shelled into a broth of milk and honey; and many another dish to make the heart glad.What-ever stores had been set aside against even leaner days were brought out for our wedding feast, and it did rightly make a humble man of me, I can tell you.
While the men constructed a bower of birch branches for us to enjoy our first night together, some of the women gathered flowers to strew our path and for Nóin to carry, and one or two of the younger ones helped dress the bride and make her even more lovely in my eyes.
As for myself, with little else to do, I set about trying to drag a razor through the tough tangle of my beard. I succeeded in cutting myself in such extravagant fashion that our good friar took the blade from my hand, sat me down and, expert barber that he was, shaved me clean as a newborn. He also combed and cut my hair so that I appeared almost a nobleman when my clothes were brushed and my shoes washed. He found a new belt for me and a clean cloak of handsome green. “There now!” he declared, like God regarding Adam with a critical eye. “I have made me a man.”
I thanked him kindly for his attentions, and observed that my only regret was that I had no ring to give my bride. “A ring is a fine thing, is it not?” he agreed. “But it is by no means necessary. A coin will do; and some, I have heard, have a smith bend the coin to make a ring. You might easily do this.”
This cheered me no end. “You are a wonder, no mistake,” I told him. “I can get a coin.” And, leaving the friar to his own preparations, I set off to do just that.
The first person I went to was Bran. “My lord,” I said, “I do not think I have asked a boon of you since swearing the oath of fealty.”
Lord Bran allowed that, as he could not think of any occasions, either.
“Then, if it please you, my lord,” I continued, “I will make bold to request the small favour of a coin to give my bride.” I quickly went on to explain that I had no ring, but that Tuck had said a coin would serve as a suitable token.
“Indeed?” wondered Bran. “Then leave it to me.”
Well, we were soon caught up in countless small activities and the mood was high. Before I knew it, the sun had already begun its descent when our good friar declared that all was finally ready and we gathered beneath the Council Oak to speak our vows before our friends. Tuck, scrubbed until he gleamed, and beaming like a cherub fresh from the Radiant Presence, took his place before us and called all to solemn purpose. “This is a holy time,” he said, “and a joyous celebration. Our Heavenly Father delights in love in all its wondrous forms. Especially dear to him is the love between a husband and wife. May such love increase!”
This brought a rousing chorus of agreement from the onlookers, and Tuck waited for silence before continuing. “Therefore,” he said, “let us ask the Author and Sustainer of our love and life to bless the union of these two dear people who have pledged life and love to one another.”
With that he began to pray and prayed so long I feared we would not finish the ceremony until the sun had gone down, or possibly the next morning. Eventually, he ran out of words to say to bless and beseech, and moved on to the vows, which we spoke out as Tuck instructed. There in the greenwood, beneath that venerable oak, we pledged life to life, come what may, and I took Nóin to be my wife. When the time came to give my bride a token of honour, I turned to Bran and, taking my one good hand in both of his, he pressed a coin into my palm. “With greatest esteem and pleasure,” he said.
I looked down and saw that he had given me a solid gold byzant, gleaming dull and heavy in my hand. I gazed at that rare coin as at a fortune entire. Truly, I had never had anything worth so much in all my life. That he should think so much of me made the tears come to my eyes. The long months of my captivity were somehow redeemed in that moment as I placed that matchless coin in the hand of my beloved, pledging to honour and keep her through all things forever more.
Then it was another prayer—this one for children aplenty to bless us and keep us in our old age—and we knelt together as Tuck placed a hand on each of our heads and proclaimed, “I present to you Master William Scatlocke and his wife, Nóinina. All praise to our Lord and Kind Creator for his wise provision!”
Of the feast, I remember little. I am told it was very good, and I must have tasted some of it. But my appetite was elsewhere by then, and I could not wait until Nóin and I could be together. We sat on the bench at the head of the board and received the good wishes of our friends. Mérian, with Lord Bran in tow, came by twice to say how much she had longed for this day on our behalf. Iwan and Siarles came to give us an old poem that they knew, full of words with double meanings which soon had everyone screaming with laughter. The celebration was so light and full of joy that I clean forgot about my mangled fingers, and I cannot recall giving them a solitary thought all that fine and happy day.
When the moon rose and the fire was banked high, Angharad brought out her harp and began to sing. She sang a song unknown to me, as to most of us, I suppose, about a beautiful maiden who con-ceived a love for a man she had seen passing by her window one day. The young woman decided to follow the stranger, braving great hard-ship crossing mountain and moor in her quest to find him once more and declare her love for him. She persevered through many terrors and misfortunes and at last came into the valley where her love lived. He saw her approaching—her beautiful gown begrimed and bedraggled, her fine leather shoes worn through and wrapped in rags, her beautiful hair dull with dust from the road, her once-fair cheeks sunken with hunger, her slender fingers worn, her full lips chapped and bleeding—and ran to meet her. As she came near, however, she chanced to see her own reflection in a puddle in the road, and horrified at what she saw, she turned and ran away. The man pursued her and caught her, and knowing what she had endured to find him, his heart swelled with love for her. And in that moment, he saw her as she was, and the power of his love transformed her broken form into one even more beautiful than that which had been.
I confess, there might have been more, but I was only listening with half an ear, for I was gazing at my own lovely bride and wishing we could steal away to the birch bower in the wood. Bran must have guessed what was in my mind, for as the song concluded and the people called for another, he came up behind me and said, “Go now, both of you. Mérian and I will take your places.”
We did not need urging. That quick I was up and out of my seat and taking Nóin by the hand. We flitted off into the wood, leaving Bran and Mérian at the board. By the light of a summer moon, we made our way along the path to the bower, where candles were already lit and the mead in a jar warming by a small fire. Fleeces had been spread on a bed of fresh rushes. There was food beneath a cloth for us to break our fast in the morning. “Oh, Will!” said Nóin, when she saw it, “It is lovely—just as I always hoped it would be.”
“And so, my lady, are you,” I told her, and, pulling her close, kissed her with the first of countless kisses we would share that night.
As for the rest, I need not say more. If you have ever loved any-one, then you will know full well. If not, then nothing I can say will enlighten you.