Darting along the timber wall, I hurried to join Tegid and Professor Nettleton in the boat. I gave the boat a push and jumped in; Tegid manned the oars and rowed out across the lake. The water was smooth as glass in the gathering twilight, reflecting the last light of the deep blue sky above.
We made our landing below Druim Vran and quickly put our feet to the path leading to Tegid’s sacred grove. With every step, I invented a new argument or excuse to justify my decision to stay. In truth, I had never wanted to leave anyway; it felt wrong to me. Goewyn’s urging was only the last in a long list of reasons I had to dismiss Professor Nettleton’s better judgment. He would just have to accept my decision.
The grove was silent, the light dim, as we stepped within the leafy sanctuary. Tegid wasted not a moment, but began marking out a circle on the ground with the end of his staff. He walked backwards in a sunwise circle, chanting in a voice solemn and low. I did not hear what he said—it was in the Dark Tongue of the Derwyddi, the Taran Tafod.
Standing next to Nettles, my mind teemed with accusation, guilt, and self-righteous indignation—I was the king! I had built this place! Who had the right to stay here if not me?—I could not make myself say the words. I stood in seething silence and watched Tegid prepare our departure.
Upon completing the simple ceremony, the bard stepped from the circle he had inscribed and turned to us. “All is ready.” He looked at me as he spoke. I saw sorrow in his gaze, but he spoke no word of farewell. The parting was too painful for him.
The professor took a step toward the circle, but I remained rooted to my place. When he sensed me lagging behind, Nettleton looked back over his shoulder. Seeing that I had made not the slightest move to join him, he said, “Come, Lewis.”
“I am not going with you,” I said dully. It was not what I had planned to say, but the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
“Lewis!” he challenged, turning on me. “Think what you are doing.”
“I cannot leave like this, Nettles. It is too soon.”
He took my arm, gripping it tightly. “Lewis, listen to me. Listen very carefully. If you love Albion, then you must leave. If you stay, you can only bring about the destruction of all you have saved. You must see that. I have told you: It is permitted no man—”
I cut him off. “I will take that risk, Nettles.”
“The risk is not yours to take!” he charged, his voice explosive in the silence of the grove. Exasperated, he blinked his eyes behind his round glasses. “Think what you are doing, Lewis. You have achieved the impossible. Your work here is finished. Do not negate all the good you have done. I beg you, Lewis, to reconsider.”
“It is the time-between-times,” Tegid said softly.
“I am staying,” I muttered bluntly. “If you are going, you had better leave now.”
Seeing that he could not move me, he turned away in frustration and stepped quickly into the circle. At once, his body seemed to fade and grow smaller, as if he were entering a long tunnel. “Say your farewells, Lewis,” he urged desperately, “and come as soon as you can. I will wait for you.”
“Farewell, my friend!” called Tegid.
“Please, for the sake of all you hold dear, do not put it off too long!” Nettleton called, his voice already dwindling away. His image rippled as if he were standing behind a sheet of water. The rims of his glasses glinted as he turned away, and then he vanished, his words hanging in the still air as a quickly fading warning.
Tegid came to stand beside me. “Well, brother,” I said, “it would seem you must endure my presence a little longer.”
The bard gazed into the now-empty circle. He seemed to be peering into the emptiness of the nether realm, his features dark and his eyes remote. I thought he would not speak, but then he lifted his staff. “Before Albion is One,” he said, his voice hard with certainty, “the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign.”
The words were from Banfáith’s prophecy, and, as he reminded me from time to time, they had yet to prove false. Having delivered himself of this pronouncement, he turned to me. “The choice is made.”
“What if I made the wrong choice?”
“I can always send you back,” he replied, and I could sense his relief. Tegid had not wanted to see me leave any more than I had wanted to go.
“True,” I said, my heart lightening a little. Of course, I could return any time I chose to, and I would go—when the work I had begun was completed. I would go one day. But not now; not yet.
I forced that prospect from my mind, soothing my squirming conscience with sweet self-justification: after all I had endured, I well deserved my small portion of happiness. Who could deny it? Besides, there was still a great deal to be done. I would stay to see Albion restored.
Yes, and I would marry Goewyn.
Word of our betrothal spread through Dinas Dwr swifter than a shout. Tegid and I arrived at the hall and walked into the ongoing celebration which, with the coming of darkness, had taken on a fresh, almost giddy euphoria. The great room seemed filled with light and sound: the hearthfire roared, and the timber walls were lined with torches; men and women lined the benches and thronged in noisy clusters around the pillar-posts.
Only the head of the hall, the west end, remained quiet and empty, for here the Chief Bard had established the Singing Stones in their wooden chest supported by a massive iron stand—safe under perpetual guard: three warriors to watch over Albion’s chief treasure at all times. The guards were replaced at intervals by other warriors so that the duty was shared out among the entire war band. But at no time, day or night, were the miraculous stones unprotected.
The din increased as we entered the hall, and I quickly discovered the reason.
“The king! The king is here!” shouted Bran, rallying the Ravens with his call. He held a cup high and cried, “I drink to the king’s wedding!”
“To the king’s wedding!” Cynan shouted, and the next thing I knew I was surrounded, seized, and lifted bodily from the ground. I was swept back across the threshold and hoisted onto the shoulders of warriors, to be borne along the paths of Dinas Dwr, the crowd increasing as we went. They marched along a circuitous route so that the whole caer would see what was happening and join us.
In a blaze of torchlight and clamor of laughter, we arrived finally at the hut that Goewyn and her mother had made their home. There the company halted, and Cynan, taking the matter in hand, called out that the king had come to claim his bride.
Scatha emerged to address the crowd. “My daughter is here,” she said, indicating Goewyn, who stepped from the hut behind her. “Where is the man who claims her?” Scatha made a pretense of scanning the crowd, as if searching for the fool who dared to claim her daughter.
“He is here!” everyone shouted at once. And it suddenly occurred to me, in my place high above the pressing crowds, that this was the preamble to a form of Celtic wedding I had never witnessed before. This in itself was not surprising; the people of Albion know no fewer than nine different types of marriage, and I had seen but few.
“Let the man who would take my daughter to wife declare himself,” she said, folding her arms over her breast.
“I am here, Scatha,” I answered. At this the warriors lowered me to the ground, and the crowd opened a way before me. I saw Goewyn waiting, as if at the end of a guarded path. “It is Llew Silver Hand who stands before you. I have come to claim your daughter for my wife.”
Goewyn smiled, but made no move to join me; and as I drew near, Scatha stepped forward and planted herself between us. She presented a fierce, forbidding aspect and examined me head to heel—as if inspecting a length of moth-eaten cloth. The palm of my flesh hand grew damp as I stood under her scrutiny. The surrounding crowd joined in, calling Scatha’s attention to various desirable qualities—real or imagined—which I might possess.
In the end, she declared herself satisfied with the suitor and raised her hand. “I find no fault in you, Llew Silver Hand. But you can hardly expect me to give up such a daughter as Goewyn without a bride price worthy of her.”
I knew the correct response. “You must think me a low person indeed to deprive you of so fine a daughter without the offer of suitable compensation. Ask what you will, I will give whatever you deem acceptable.”
“And you must think me slow of wit to imagine that I can assess such value on the instant. This is a matter which will require long and careful deliberation,” Scatha replied haughtily. And even though I accepted her reply as part of the ritual game we were playing, I found myself growing irritated with her for standing in my way.
“Far be it from me to deny you the thought you require. Take what time you will,” I offered. “I will return tomorrow at dawn to hear your demands.”
This was considered a proper reply and all acclaimed my answer. Scatha inclined her head and, as if allowing herself to be swayed by the response of the people, nodded slowly. “So be it. Come to this place at dawn, and we will determine what kind of man you are.”
“Let it be so,” I replied.
At this, the people cheered, and I was swept away once more on a tideflood of acclaim. We returned to the hall where, amidst much laughter and ribald advice, Tegid instructed me on what to expect in the morning. “Scatha will make her demands, and you must fulfill them with all skill and cunning. Do not think it will be easy,” Tegid warned. “Rare treasure is worth great difficulty in the getting.”
“But you will be there to help me,” I suggested.
He shook his head. “No, Llew; as Chief Bard I cannot take one part over against the other. This is between you and Scatha alone. But, as she has Goewyn to assist her, you may choose one from among your men to aid you.”
I looked around me. Bran stood grinning nearby—no doubt he would be a good choice to see me through this ordeal. “Bran?” I asked. “Would you serve me in this?”
But the Raven Chief shook his head. “Lord, if it is a strong hand on the hilt of a sword that you require, I am your man. But this is a matter beyond me. I think Alun Tringad would serve you better than I.”
“Drustwn!” cried Alun when he heard this. “He is the man for you, lord.” He pointed across the ring of faces gathered around me, and I saw Drustwn ducking out of sight. “Ah, now where has Drustwn gone?”
“Choose Lord Calbha!” someone shouted.
Before I could ask him, someone else replied, “It is a wife for Silver Hand, not a horse!”
Calbha answered, “It is true! I know nothing of brides; but if it is a horse you require, Llew, call on me.”
I turned next to Cynan, who stood beside his father, Lord Cynfarch. “Cynan! Will you stand with me, brother?”
Cynan, assuming a grave and important air, inclined his head in assent. “Though all men desert you, Silver Hand, I will yet stand with you. Through all things—fire and sword and the wiles of bards and women—I am your man.”
Everyone laughed at this, and even Cynan smiled as he said it. But his blue eyes were earnest, and his voice was firm. He was giving me a pledge greater than I had asked, and every word was from the heart.
I spent a restless, sleepless night in my hut and rose well before dawn, before anyone else was stirring. I took myself to the lakeside for a swim and a bath; I shaved and washed my moustache, even. It was growing light in the east by the time I returned to the hut, where I spent a long time laying out my clothing. I wanted to look my best for Goewyn.
In the end, I chose a bright red siarc and a pair of yellow-and-green-checked breecs. Also, I wore Meldryn Mawr’s magnificent belt of gold discs and his gold torc, and carried his gold knife—all of which had been retrieved for me from among Meldron’s belongings. “As the rightful successor, they are yours,” Tegid had told me. “Meldron has no right to them. Wear them with pride, Llew. For by wearing them you will reclaim their honor.”
So I wore them and tried to forget that the Great Hound Meldron had so recently strutted and preened in them.
Cynan came to me as I was pulling on my buskins. He had also bathed and changed, and his red curls were combed and oiled. “You look a king attired for his wedding day,” he said in approval.
“And you make a fine second,” I replied. “Goewyn might well choose you instead.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “But I do not think I could eat a bite. How do I look?”
He grinned. “I have already told you. And it is not seemly for a king to strain after praise. Come”—he put his large hand on my shoulder—“it is dawn.”
“Tegid should be close by,” I said. “Let us go and find him.” We left my hut and moved toward the hall. The sun was rising and the sky was clear—not a cloud to be seen. My wedding day would be bright and sunny, as all good wedding days should be. My wedding day! The words seemed so strange: wedding . . . marriage . . . wife.
Tegid was awake and waiting. “I was coming to rouse you,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”
“No,” I replied. “I could not seem to keep my eyes closed.”
He nodded. “No doubt you will sleep better tonight.”
“What happens now?”
“Eat something if you like,” the bard replied. “For although it is a feast day, I doubt you will have much time for eating.”
Passing between the pillar-posts, we found a place at an empty table and sat down. Bran and the Ravens roused themselves and joined us at the board. Although it was still too early for anything fresh from the ovens, there was some barley bread left over from last night’s meal, so the others tucked in. The Ravens broke their loaves hungrily, stuffing their mouths and, between bites, urging me to eat to keep up my strength. “It is a long day that stretches before you,” Bran remarked.
“And an even longer night!” quipped Alun.
“It grows no shorter for lingering here,” I said, rising at once.
“Are you ready?” asked Tegid.
“Ready? I feel I have waited for this day all my life. Lead on, Wise Bard!”
With a wild, exuberant whoop, warriors tumbled from the hall in a rowdy crush. There was no way to keep any sort of order or decorum, nor any quiet. The high spirits of the troop alerted the whole crannog and signaled the beginning of the festivities. We reached Scatha’s hut with the entire population of Dinas Dwr crowding in our wake.
“Summon her,” Tegid directed, as we came near the door.
“Scatha, Pen-y-Cat of Ynys Sci,” I called, “it is Llew Silver Hand. I have come to hear and answer your demands.”
A moment later, Scatha emerged from her hut, beautiful to behold in a scarlet mantle with a cream robe over it. Behind her stepped Goewyn, and my heart missed a beat: she was radiant in white and gold. Her long hair had been brushed until it gleamed, then plaited with threads of gold and bound in a long, thick braid. Gold armbands glimmered on her slender arms. Her mantle was white; she wore a white cloak of thin material, gathered loosely at her bare shoulders and held by two large gold brooches. Two wide bands of golden thread-work— elegant swans with long necks and wings fantastically intertwined— graced the borders of her cloak and the hem of her robe. Her girdle was narrow and white with gold laces tied and braided in a shimmering fall from her slim waist. She wore earrings of gold and rings of red gold on her slender, tapering fingers.
The sight of her stole my breath away. It was like gazing into the brightness of the sun—though my eyes were burned and blinded, I could not look away. I had never seen her so beautiful, never seen any woman so beautiful. Indeed, I had forgotten such beauty could exist.
Scatha greeted me with frank disapproval, however, and said, “Are you ready to hear my demands?”
“I am ready,” I said, sobered by her brusqueness.
“Three things I require,” she declared curtly. “When I have received all that I ask, you shall have my daughter for your wife.”
“Ask what you will, and you shall receive it.”
She nodded slowly—was that a smile lurking behind her studied severity? “The first demand is this: Give me the sea in full foam with a strand of silver.”
The people were silent, waiting for my answer. I put a brave face on it and replied, “That is easily accomplished, though you may think otherwise.”
I turned to Cynan. “Well, brother? We are days away from the sea, and—”
Cynan shook his head. “No. She does not want the sea. It is something else. This is the impossible task. It is meant to demonstrate your ability to overcome the most formidable obstacle.”
“Oh, you mean we have to think symbolically. I see.”
“The sea is in full foam—” Cynan said, and paused. “What could it be?”
“Scatha laid particular stress on the foam. That may be important. ‘The sea in full foam—’” I paused, my brain spinning. “‘A strand of silver’ . . . Wait! I have it!”
“Yes?” Cynan leaned over eagerly.
“It is beer in a silver bowl!” I replied. “Beer foams like the sea, and the bowl encircles it like a strand.”
“Hah!” Cynan struck his fist into his palm. “That will answer!”
I turned to the crowd behind me. “Bran!” I called aloud. The Raven Chief stepped forward quickly. “Bran, fetch me some fresh beer in a silver bowl. And hurry!”
He darted away at once, and I turned to face Scatha and wait for Bran to return with the bowl of beer. “What if we guessed wrong?” I whispered to Cynan.
He shook his head gravely. “What if he can find no beer? I fear we have drunk it all.”
I had not thought of that. But Bran was resourceful; he would not let me down.
We waited. The crowd buzzed happily, talking among themselves. Goewyn stood cool and quiet as a statue; she would not look at me, so I could get no idea of what she was thinking.
Bran returned on the run, and the beer sloshing over the silver rim did look like sea waves foaming on the shore. He delivered the bowl into my hands, saying, “The last of the beer. All I could find—and it is mostly water.”
“It will have to do,” I said and, with a last hopeful look at Tegid— whose expression gave nothing away—I offered the gift to Scatha.
“You have asked for a boon and I give it: the sea in full foam surrounded by a strand of silver.” So saying, I placed the bowl in her outstretched hands.
Scatha took the bowl and raised it for all to see. Then she said, “I accept your gift. But though you have succeeded in the first task, do not think you will easily obtain my second demand. Better men than you have tried and failed.”
Knowing this to be part of the rote response, I still began vaguely to resent these other, better men. I swallowed my pride and answered, “Nevertheless, I will hear your demand. It may be that I will succeed where others have failed.”
Scatha nodded regally. “My second demand is this: Give me the one thing which will replace that which you seek to take from me.”
I turned at once to Cynan. “This one is going to be tough,” I said. “Goewyn means the world to her mother—how do we symbolize that?”
He rubbed his chin and frowned, but I could tell he was relishing his role. “This is most difficult—to replace that which you take from her.”
“Maybe,” I suggested, “we have only to identify one feature which Scatha will accept as representing her daughter. Like honey for sweetness— something like that.”
Cynan cupped an elbow in his hand and rested his chin in his palm. “Sweet as honey . . . sweet as mead . . .” he murmured, thinking.
“Sweet and savory . . .” I suggested, “sweetness and light . . . sweet as a nut—”
“What did you say?”
“Sweet as a nut. But I did not think—”
“No, before the nut. What did you say before that?”
“Um . . . sweetness and light, I think.”
“Light—yes!” Cynan nodded enthusiastically. “You see it? Goewyn is the light of her life. You are taking the light from her, and you must replace it.”
“How?” I wondered. “With a lamp?”
“Or a candle,” Cynan prompted.
“A candle—a fragrant beeswax candle!”
Cynan grinned happily. “Sweetness and light! That would answer.”
“Alun!” I called, turning to the Ravens once more. “Find me a beeswax candle, and bring it at once.”
Alun Tringad disappeared, pushing through the close-packed crowd. He must have raided the nearest house, for he returned only a moment later, holding out a new candle, which I took from him and offered to Scatha, saying, “You have asked for a boon, and I give it: This candle will replace the light that I remove when I take your daughter from you. It will banish the shadows and fill the darkness with fragrance and warmth.”
Scatha took the candle. “I accept your gift,” she said, raising the candle so that all might see it. “But though you have succeeded in the second task, do not think you will easily obtain my third demand. Better men than you have tried and failed.”
I smiled confidently and repeated the expected response. “Nevertheless, I will hear your demand. It may be that I will succeed where others have failed.”
“Hear then, if you will, my last demand: Give me the thing this house lacks, the gift beyond price.”
I turned to Cynan. “What is it this time? The impossible task again?” I wondered. “It sounds impossible to me.”
“It could be,” he allowed, “but I think not. We have done that one. It is something else.”
“But what does her house lack? It could be anything.”
“Not anything,” Cynan replied slowly. “The one thing: the gift beyond price.”
“She seemed to stress that,” I agreed lamely. “The gift beyond price . . . what is the gift beyond price? Love? Happiness?”
“A child,” suggested Cynan thoughtfully.
“Scatha wants me to give her a child? That cannot be right.”
Cynan frowned. “Maybe it is you she wants.”
I pounced on the idea at once. “That is it! That is the answer!”
“What?”
“Me!” I cried. “Think about it. The thing this house lacks is a man, a son-in-law. The gift beyond price is life.”
Cynan’s grin was wide, and his blue eyes danced. “Yes, and by joining your life to Goewyn’s, you create a wealth of life.” He winked and added, “Especially if you make a few babies into the bargain. It is you she is asking for, Llew.”
“Let us hope we are right,” I said. I took a deep breath and turned to Scatha, who stood watching me, enjoying the way she was making me squirm.
“You have asked for a gift beyond price and a thing which you lack,” I said. “It seems to me that your house lacks a man, and no one can place a value on life.” So saying, I dropped down on one knee before her. “Therefore, Pen-y-Cat, I give you the gift of myself.”
Scatha beamed her good pleasure, placing her hands on my shoulders, then bent and kissed my cheek. Raising me to my feet, she said, “I accept your gift, Llew Silver Hand.” She lifted her voice for the benefit of those looking on. “Let it be known that there is no better man than you for my daughter, for you indeed have succeeded where other men have failed.”
She turned, summoned Goewyn to her and, taking her daughter’s left hand, put it in mine, and then clasped both of ours in her own. “I am satisfied,” she declared to Tegid. “Let the marriage take place.”
The bard stepped forward at once. He thumped the earth three times with his ashwood staff. “The Chief Bard of Albion speaks,” he called loudly. “Hear me! From times past remembering the Derwyddi have joined life to life for the continuance of our race.” Regarding us, he said, “Is it your desire to join your lives in marriage?”
“That is our desire,” we answered together.
At this, Scatha produced the bowl I had given her and passed it to Tegid. He raised it and said, “I hold between my hands the sea encircled by a silver strand. The sea is life; the silver is the all-encircling boundary of this worlds-realm. If you would be wed, then you must seize this worlds-realm and share its life between you.”
So saying, he placed the silver bowl in our hands. Holding it between us, I offered the bowl to Goewyn and she drank, then offered the bowl to me. I also took a few swallows of very watery beer and raised my head.
“Drink!” Tegid urged. “It is life you are holding between you, my friends. Life! Drink deep and drain it to the last.”
It was a very large bowl Bran had brought. I took a deep breath and raised the bowl once more. When I could not hold another drop, I passed the silver bowl to Goewyn, who took it, raised it, and drank— so long and deep and greedily that I thought she would never come up for air. When she lowered the vessel once more, her eyes were shining bright. She licked her lips and, handing the bowl to Tegid, cast a sidelong glance at me.
Putting the bowl aside, Tegid said, “Goewyn, do you bring a gift?”
Goewyn said, “Neither gold nor silver do I bring, nor anything which can be bought or sold, lost or stolen. But I bring this day my love and my life, and these I do give you freely.”
“Will you accept the gifts that have been offered?” Tegid asked.
“With all my heart, I do accept them. And I will cherish them always as my highest treasure, and I will protect this treasure to the last breath in my body.”
Tegid inclined his head slightly. “What token do you offer for your acceptance?”
Token? No one had told me about that; I had no token to offer. Cynan’s voice sounded in my ear. “Give her your belt,” he suggested helpfully.
I had no better idea, so I removed the belt and draped the heavy gold across Tegid’s outspread hands. “I offer this belt of fine gold,” I said and, on a sudden inspiration, added, “Let its excellence and value be but a small token of the high esteem in which I hold my beloved, and let it encircle her fair form in shining splendor like my love which does encompass her forever—true, without end, and incorruptible.”
Tegid nodded sagely and, turning, offered the belt to Goewyn, who lowered her head as it was placed in her hands. She gathered the belt and clutched it to her breast. Were those tears in her eyes?
To Goewyn, Tegid said, “By this token your gift has been accepted. If you will receive the gift you have been given will you also offer a token of acceptance?”
Without a word, Goewyn slipped her arm around my neck and pressed her lips to mine. She kissed me full and free and with such fervor that it brought cheers from the onlookers gathered close about. She released me, breathless, almost gasping. The ardor in her clear brown eyes made me blush.
Tegid, smiling broadly, thumped the earth once more with his staff, three times, sharply. Then he raised the staff and held it horizontally over our heads. “The gifts of love and life have been exchanged and accepted. By this let all men know that Llew Silver Hand and Goewyn are wed.”
And that was that. The people acclaimed the wedding loudly and with great enthusiasm. We were instantly caught up in a whirlwind of well-wishing. The wedding was over; let the celebration commence!