Chapter 10: Declamation

“Rise now all you who have sworn your lives to the Great Goddess who gave birth to us all! Take up your shining swords and gleaming lances, mount your rearing steeds, and follow me!”

Herrwn nodded his approval as Madheran struck a noble pose, raising his empty hand above his head with his fingers so convincingly curled around the handle of his imaginary sword that Herrwn could almost see the flash of sunlight reflecting off its blade.

“I will lead you to victory or to a death so valiant that no one will say of Pwendorwn, King of Llanamaeddwndod, that he or his warriors flinched from the threats of giants and ogres—”

“King of?” Herrwn wouldn’t have interrupted the flow of an oration so well delivered except this was the third time that Madheran had misnamed Pwendorwn’s kingdom—and the last time, Ossiam had overheard and hissed “Llanamaeddwndod?” in derision. Caught up in his passionate declamation, Madheran had not noticed, but Herrwn had, and he’d felt his cousin’s mockery deeply—both for himself and for his disciple.

“King of …” Madheran furrowed his brow—either trying to remember the correct kingdom or to keep from asking again why it mattered when all the names of the seven kingdoms in that particular saga sounded alike.

Stifling his own frustration that only the day before he had explained at length how each of those seven kingdoms represented an achievement of humankind and its name contained a clue to which of those endowments was threatened by the onslaught of the army of the ogres led by a terrible triad of one-eyed giants, Herrwn turned to Labhruinn. “Come to Madheran’s aid and name the kingdom that the hero, Pwendorwn, is calling on his warriors to defend.”

“It … it is, er, um, the name of the kingdom that Pwendordden— I mean, Pwendorwn—”

Startled out of whatever daydream had been preoccupying him, Labhruinn looked down at his nervously clenched fists and with a dint of effort out of proportion with the simple task he’d been given, uncurled his fingers, one after another, and counted off the seven kingdoms in the order that he’d memorized them, “Llanamaeddwndod, Llancerddysul, Llanddissigllen, Llandefodaerddin, Llangwehudd”—and instead of stopping here, as he should have, he plowed on—“Llanlendrwdd, Llanmeddelyderth.”

Silently, Herrwn asked himself why he allowed as incompetent a pupil as Labhruinn to remain in his classroom, and equally silently he answered the question—besides the fact that Labhruinn was Rhedwyn’s younger brother and so, by extension, was kin to the shrine’s chief priestess, he simply didn’t have the heart to dismiss a student who was so sweet-natured and sincere.

Suppressing a sigh, he turned back to Madheran. “Now, then, you may resume the recitation, beginning with, ‘I will lead you to victory’—this time correctly naming the kingdom of Llangwehudd.”

“I will lead you to victory or to a death …” Madheran had just resumed his heroic pose when a distant hunting horn sounded, signaling Rhedwyn’s return from the hills. Keeping his arm raised with his fingers clutching at the empty air, he sped on, “so valiant that no one will say of Pwendorwn, King of Llangwehudd, that he or his warriors flinched from the threats of giants and ogres!” without pausing for breath, much less emphasis, in his eagerness to be done with the lesson and released to join the throng of priests, priestesses, servants, and laborers who were rushing from their chores to be in attendance when Feywn welcomed Rhedwyn back from his latest adventure.

It may have been that the intoxicating scent of the sun-warmed earth with her burgeoning new growth wafting in through the classroom’s open window was affecting Herrwn as much as his pupils, because he was unable to summon the strength of will to hold his pupils captive when their minds had so clearly departed. He dismissed them both, calling, “I will expect you to return tomorrow able to state why it is the attack on Llangwehudd that finally brings together the greatest warriors of all the human tribes to rally under a single leader, rising up in defiance and charging into what seems certain death against the battlements of those apparently invincible giants,” after them as they dashed for the door.

Madheran seemed not to hear, but Labhruinn skidded to a halt and turned back long enough to bow and gasp, “I thank you, Master, for the wisdom you have imparted,” before racing off.

Left to wonder just what, if any, wisdom he had imparted that day, Herrwn walked over to the window, leaned out, and stared over the shrine’s outer wall at the distant band of riders sweeping down the hillside toward the shrine, their pennants fluttering above them like a flock of gold-and-crimson birds.

Springtime was always the most difficult season for keeping his pupils’ minds focused on their recitations, and having Rhedwyn galloping around and blowing his hunting horn was of no help whatsoever.

In the five years since Feywn had taken Caelendra’s place as chief priestess, word of Ossiam’s prophesy had spread, and, for the first time in Herrwn’s memory, the valley’s population had begun to grow as converted Britons were drawn back by the oracle’s promise of victory over their oppressors and the return of their former glory.

No one believed that promise more than Rhedwyn.

At first it had seemed if not desirable then at least understandable that he was spending more time at Feywn’s side than Ossiam’s—but as time went on, it became clear that even when he wasn’t closeted in Feywn’s private chambers or entertaining her publicly with his songs and harp, Rhedwyn was spending less and less of his time in the oracle’s tower. Apparently thinking that being the consort to the chief priestess in Llwddawanden was equivalent to being a king in ancient days, he all but abandoned his lessons of augury and animal sacrifices to go riding and hunting in the woods above the shrine.

Then—and looking back, Herrwn could not say with any certainty exactly when this began—Rhedwyn started to make perilous forays outside the valley, returning from each escapade with new recruits, captured horses and cattle, and enthralling tales of his exploits.

By the day Herrwn stood at his classroom window watching Feywn’s consort and his band of boisterous companions careening down the hillside, Rhedwyn had ceased making even a token show of interest in his studies. If they weren’t off raiding or hunting wild boar, he and his newfound followers were whipping their horses in frenzied races that thundered from one end of the valley to the other or fighting each other in mock battles that grew more like the real thing from one day to the next.

While the older generation of priestesses tut-tutted and shook their heads in disapproval, the younger ones were impressed, even enamored, with Rhedwyn and his band, informally dubbed “Rhedwyn’s Riders.” As their fawning admiration fed his swelling conceit, he took to making grandiose speeches at dinner or in High Council meetings as though he had wisdom to pass on to his elders, “as if,” Olyrrwd muttered on more than one occasion, “he was chosen by Feywn for his brains.”

Whatever Rhedwyn may have believed himself, there was no question among the shrine’s senior priests and priestesses why he had been chosen over older and wiser men. Their impatience to see some result of all the time Rhedwyn was spending in Feywn’s bedchambers grew as Feywn’s two cousins, Gwennefor and Caldora, took two of Rhedwyn’s favored companions as their consorts and each in turn became pregnant—not in a matter of years but months!

Herrwn, whose duties included overseeing the shrine’s formal gatherings, disapproved of how often the eyes of his fellow priests (and many of the elder priestesses, as well) slipped furtively from Feywn’s belly to Rhedwyn’s crotch and back again—but understood why those flickering glances were accompanied by stifled sighs.

Either unaware of, or unbothered by, his elders’ mounting concerns, Rhedwyn kept up his raiding and his war games. Over time, the crowding and jostling for position began to take a toll. The distinction between jokes and insults among the contestants blurred as their mock battles caused real injuries and wreaked genuine havoc. Olyrrwd was kept busy patching cuts and setting bones for the young would-be heroes, who hurried from the healing chamber determined to settle the score, leaving Olyrrwd shaking his head in frustration and muttering, “Why bother me with your broken bones, if you only mean to go out and break them again?”

Just how much Rhedwyn’s undisciplined behavior was infecting the youth both outside and inside the shrine only came home to Herrwn the day Madheran abruptly announced that he was leaving his studies “to take up arms with Rhedwyn.”

When he’d recovered sufficiently from the shock that his own disciple would think of such a thing, much less say it, Herrwn urged Madheran to reconsider, reminding him that “long after the warrior’s sword has rusted, the words of the bard will shine anew each time his stories are told again.”

Madheran’s answer—“I would rather have adventures than talk about them”—was cocky, verging on disrespectful.

His cheeks burning as if he’d been slapped in the face, Herrwn kept his voice even as he responded, “Well then, you are dismissed to do as you think best.”

He was, of course, deeply offended, but as he watched Madheran leaving the classroom for the last time, he heard his father’s voice gently whispering in his ear, reminding him, “There is some good to be found in the worst of circumstances, if only one has the wisdom and courage to seek it out.”

Madheran’s departure left Herrwn with no disciple, and it was only too obvious that, however kindhearted and well-meaning he was, Rhedwyn’s bumbling younger brother was not going to advance beyond the lowest level of sub-priest. Since both Ossiam and Olyrrwd had had their pick of disciples, he had every right to claim the next boy to enter training—and that would be none other than Caelendra’s son, now ensconced in the shrine’s nursery but due to be brought from there to the classroom on his sixth birthday, which was less than a year away.

Without consciously deciding to, Herrwn turned, walked over to the open window, placed both hands on the sill, and drew in a deep and satisfying breath.