CHAPTER 17
SHACKLED SECRETS
Stop pulling me, Mônda!” Owain swore as he used a poker to unbury the red coals from the ashes of the forge and layered some grass, twigs, and bark upon them. “Why did you follow me here?”
“Come back to the Stone.” Her eyes pleaded with him, and his heart longed for her love. But what she wanted for him would destroy him. Didn’t she know that? She took hold of his hand the way she had done the day they’d first met, and her tender touch sent shivers up his arm. He had fallen in love with her that day, hadn’t he? She was still beautiful, wasn’t she? But now she was asking him to gaze at the Stone.
To worship it.
To touch it.
To give himself completely to it.
To bind himself to her forever.
But Merlin’s warning rang in his ears, and Kifferow’s dead body floated before his eyes. A fear and revulsion awoke in him, and Owain shook her off.
He needed to work on something — anything — to force the image of the Stone from his mind. “I choose the Carpenter! Away.”
Her expression changed, and she came at him again, this time with frantic clawing.
“By the holy name of Jesu, let me alone.”
She let go and fell to her knees, her tears spattering the dirt and ashes.
Owain’s voice turned gentler, and he set his poker down. “I relent. Stay here and choose Christ with me.” He sat beside her. “Don’t go back to your father and his curse of a Stone. You’re my wife and I love you. Stay!”
In one swift shrieking motion, Mônda ripped the covenant band off her arm and hurled it into the now-burning forge.
Owain’s eyes, heart, and hands went to where she threw it, and before he could turn back, she was gone, the door banging shut behind her.
Dust hung and swirled in the air like a phantom.
Owain staggered toward the ground.
Merlin was anxious by the time Dybris and the other monks prayerfully entered to take Prontwon’s body and build a cairn over it on top of the mountain.
A mournful lament rose as Merlin stepped outside and began tapping his way to find his father. He’d normally take the downhill path to the main road, but he hesitated. That would take him past the druidow and the Stone. Was his father there? Even if he was, Merlin feared facing the druidow without anyone to help him. Instead, he directed his urgent footsteps across the high road of the village and hoped, beyond mercy, he’d find his father at home.
Using his staff to find the large stones set at the corner of each intersection, he eventually chose a downhill path to the main road, turned west, and left behind the village green and the distant chanting of the druidow. After he passed the miller’s crennig, he sharpened his ears for any sound from his father’s smithy, but he heard none. He did, however, smell the whiff of the forge. His father must have lit it at some point in the last hour, and in that he found hope.
Finding the large stone that lay outside the blacksmith shop, he stopped to listen but again heard nothing. And the smell of the forge had faded, which made no sense. Why would his father light the forge, let it die, and not work?
He pushed the door open and entered. The blacksmith shop was cold, and nothing glowed within. He shivered. All was silent except for a slight scraping of the wind on the boarded, iron-grated window.
“Tas?”
A gasp escaped from near the coal box.
Working his way to the sound, Merlin discovered his father curled on the floor.
He took one of his father’s hands. The palm was hot, with wet pus oozing from some burns. His father moaned and fumbled with something in his other hand, a curved object, his covenant armband.
But no. Merlin grabbed his father’s arm to pull him up, and his fingers touched the thick metal band still coiled around the arm. Two bands? Puzzled, Merlin reached for the other mysterious object. This one was smaller, which meant it must be his stepmother’s matching armband.
A shuddering cry escaped his father’s lips as Merlin hefted him into a sitting position.
Merlin unclasped his father’s hand and took the object from him. What was it about these armbands?
Owain scratched at the dirt as if trying to find the band, moaning even louder.
Despite the coldness of the room, the bracelet was unusually warm. Merlin explored its shape, details, and gems. As his fingertips traced the hammered edge, the metal began to burn, singeing him. He dropped the bracelet. What bewitchment resides here?
Finding a thick leather rag on the tool table, he used it to pick up the bracelet and fling it in the quench barrel near the anvil.
A loud hissing escaped, and steam split the air. But the hissing didn’t stop as it should have. The water boiled and churned, and a sickly sweet smell filled the room.
Merlin’s limbs suddenly felt like slack ropes. He fumbled for the tongs to retrieve the bracelet, but they were nowhere to be found. Feeling lightheaded, he kicked over the barrel, sloshing water across the floor.
The air soon cleared, and Merlin felt his strength return. There was only one solution for these fetters that had chained his father’s soul to Mônda for so long. He picked up the muddy jewlery with the leather rag and set it on the anvil. Then he slid the larger band from his father’s arm using the same rag.
A withering howl escaped from Owain’s lips.
Merlin felt the skin where it had rested and found thick scars from many burns. Why hadn’t he known of his father’s suffering before? Dear God, help me destroy them!
He set the second fetter on the anvil. After locating the hammer, he hit each piece with four merciless blows. The gems shattered, and the bracelets bent nearly flat.
Owain cried out, “No, no!” Lunging forward, he tried to snatch them, but Merlin pushed his father’s hands back. The wind outside whistled, and evil voices floated on the air as Merlin felt along the table for one of the chisels. Grasping the largest, he placed it over the flattened armbands, and lifting high the hammer, he let forth blow after blow until the armbands spewed forth sparks of light and finally split.
Merlin heard a hissing and frying, and harsh smoke made him back away. The wind ceased, and the bedeviled voices faded.
His father whispered, “Jesu holds me up.”
Working his way around the forge, Merlin knelt and planted his hand underneath his father’s damp and chilled neck. He laid his ear against Owain’s tunic and heard the steady rhythm of his father’s heart.
“Tas, I’m here.”
His father shook and said loudly, “I choose the Christ!”
Time passed while they held each other in a tight embrace, each warming and drawing strength from the other.
“Put some coals on the forge,” his father finally said. “We need to finish the new sword.”
“You have the strength?”
Owain tried to stand but fell back shakily. “It doesn’t matter. I need to give it to the High King.”
“But what of the man who asked for it?”
“He wagered away his money. I want to give it to Uther.”
Merlin stood. “We only have until tomorrow.”
“We. I like that word. Help me stand, son.”
Never in her life had Natalenya seen men act so crudely in her family’s hall. If her father stooped to host any of the locals, they dined in fear of his short temper.
But these brutes! As the High King’s men, they thought themselves due every privilege, yet they declined every grace. And why did her father insist on serving a meal of this size in the Roman style? To make her, Dyslan, and the hired help dish it up was preposterous. Pile high the meats in the center, she thought, and eat like proper Britons!
She wanted to get away, walk out under the bright stars, sing her songs, and most importantly, pray. How could her father ignore the tragedy happening to the village and make her wait on tables? But no, the men’s fat-smeared pewter trenchers emptied faster than she could load them, and the bones piled so high in the culina that their hounds could chew for a year and a day and not finish them off.
And she could barely stand to think about the drinking bowls.
Vortigern would burp louder than her disgusting brothers combined and bang his bowl on the table until she refilled it. And then he would sit there with such a saintly smile, she hardly noticed her father’s watered-down mead dripping from his beard onto his jerkin.
Such a beast! And her father not only suffered Vortigern and his boorish son, Vortipor, he even seemed to enjoy their company.
Men never had any sense.
To be fair, though, Natalenya realized that Vortipor was the real source of her loathing. Most of the others treated her with aloofness befitting the daughter of the magister, but not him. The rest just wanted their trenchers filled, while he seemed to want to fill his eyes with her every chance he could get. He’d even grabbed her twice by the sleeve and wouldn’t let go until she listened to his fermented utterances.
Her mother, the lonely female at the feast, sat at the head table next to Natalenya’s father, with Vortigern and Vortipor on his other side. Once, after Vortipor had accosted Natalenya, her mother’s eyes warned her to stay away. But her glory-fogged father would call her over to fill a bowl, clean a spill, or show off by answering a complicated question in Latin.
She found herself clenching her teeth so that a headache soon crept up her neck and settled behind her eyes. When would this night be over?
Then it got worse.
Vortigern rose unsteadily before the assembly. “Hear me! Warriors of Kembry, Kernow, Difnonia, and Gloui, warriors of Rheged, Elmekow, and Powys, and yes, even you softies of Lundnisow and Dubrae Cantii —”
Grunts of protest greeted this last barb, and Vortigern raised his voice to silence them. “Men of Britain, how do we show gratitude to our host, the good Tregeagle?”
All of them shouted, stomped their feet, or banged their bowls so loudly that Natalenya closed her throbbing eyes and covered her ears.
“And, good Tregeagle, I request of you a boon. We would like to hear your renowned daughter play her harp for us.”
The men shouted, “A song … Let’s have a song!”
Natalenya felt dizzy and grabbed a nearby timber to steady herself.
Her mother stared at her.
Natalenya bit her lip and shook her head slightly. Trevenna turned to her smiling father, put a hand on his arm, and whispered in his ear, but the men shouted louder.
“A song … a song!”
“A ballad. A tale of a battle!”
“A harp!”
“And she’s better lookin’ than that old bard Colvarth.” The men laughed.
Her father brushed his wife away and stood next to Vortigern. In one hand he held his bowl of honey mead and in the other a leg of lamb. “I grant you this boon, and may you and your battle chieftain glory over the enemies of Britain!”
Her father nodded curtly to Natalenya and pointed with the leg of lamb to the sleeping quarters where Natalenya kept her harp.
She retreated to her chamber and picked up her instrument. She knew her father would sell it if she ignored him. He was a man of little mercy, and if he could put a few more coins in his bag — while ensuring future obedience at the same time — he was sure to do it. Hot tears blinded her eyes as she remembered the day he’d sold her box fiddle because she was too embarrassed to play for an official from Armorica.
Yet even as a few tears fell, a plan lit up the gloom of her situation. A song. One she had learned last year from a minstrel traveling from Kembry to Gaul. These guzzlers would be drunk before long, and this song would be most fitting.
But she paused. How would her father react? Flinging her serving smock aside, she wiped her tears and knew no other song would suffice.
Her headache felt better already.
After tuning the harp, she practiced the melody and then strode boldly into the hall. The rush lamps had dimmed, and the hearth fire had begun its slow descent into embers as the servants clanked most of the trenchers away. Taking a low stool, she set her harp on her lap with its sound box against her shoulder. The bronze strings glistened in the flickering light, and its beech wood warmed in her hands.
She struck the strings, smiled at the hushing men, and closed her eyes. A small portion of the power of the bards claimed her, and she sang.
They arose — skillful warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
The young chieftain, Red Brychaid’s son,
With his steel blade, ready and bold.
They conferred — practiced warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Young Chaliwyr, Red Brychaid’s son,
With deeds to smite their foes untold.
They darted — expert warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old,
To battle their foes from the sea,
With gashing blades, their banners unfold.
All the High King’s warriors sat enraptured, perhaps with prideful remembrance of their own battles. Here and there they raised bowls of mead to their lips. The strings hummed beneath the touch of her nails as the melody echoed and filled the room.
They routed — clever warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Amongst the host of Chaliwyr
The men charged, their red spears to hold.
They feasted — eager warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
With meat, and banquet’s meady drink,
They drank deep bowls of fiery gold.
They awoke — drowsy warriors
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Chaliwyr shouts, Red Brychaid’s son,
Their foes’ bright lances to behold.
Seeing her father’s pleased face, she paused and then, with a silent prayer, sang out again, this time with a feel of sadness to her voice.
They sallied — drunken warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Short were their lives, long is our grief,
Though seven times more foes lay cold.
They scattered — ashen warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
I know no tale of slaughter which
Records such ruin and yet is told.
They perished — beloved warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Their wives and mothers voiced a scream,
Eight-score men died, one slave was sold.
The warriors were silent and sober. With loud lament, she finished the song.
They rotted—plundered warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Ravens hover, ascend the sky,
As heaped on mound, their bodies mould.
I fain to sing — I wail, lament,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
I mourn the loss of Rhyvawn’s son,
His gallant deeds the grave enfolds.
I tell the tale — I tell it true,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Would that they had not shed their lives,
For never will I be consoled.
Natalenya let her hands fall away from her harp, and the strings resonated their last dying notes through the room. The men looked at each other somberly, their bowls of mead forgotten. Some even pushed the sop away.
Vortigern, however, appeared to have ignored the words of the song, and joking with Vortipor, he doused his throat with a long draught.
Her mother’s face was radiant, but her father’s lips lay stiff upon his face. Natalenya stood, placed her harp on the stool, and announced, “Such is ‘The Lament of Arllechweth.’ ”
At that point her brother, Dyslan, chose to finish returning a stack of empty trenchers to the culina. His fast steps sped him behind a warrior who stood and pushed his bench backward. Dyslan tripped and crashed to the mosaic floor, sending dishes flying through the air.
Guffaws spilled out, and men slapped each other as Dyslan stood with chicken bones sticking out of his hair. In the confusion and enjoyment of the moment, her father and Vortigern walked down the hall to her father’s private quarters.
Her mother stepped over to Natalenya. “Your father requested I bring him and Vortigern a sample of his best wine … but I need to help Dyslan. Would you serve your father?”
“Doesn’t Father drink that before meals?”
“Too many guests.” And then her mother raised an eyebrow and whispered, “Vortipor.”
Over her mother’s shoulder, Natalenya saw him stalking toward them. He’d taken off his cloak for the first time, and his gold-threaded tunic contrasted sharply with his unpleasant face.
“I’ll delay him,” her mother said. “Quickly now.”
Natalenya cradled her harp and fled through the stone arch that led to their sleeping area. As she turned the corner, she spied her wise mother step into Vortipor’s path and greet him.
Having set the harp in her room, Natalenya entered through the culina’s side door to find her father’s wines. Squeezing past the bustling servants, she went to the rear and pulled two baskets of grain from a stone slab. She brushed away loose kernels and slid the stone cover to the side, revealing her father’s cache of imported wine. From them she selected her father’s favorite, the deep red Mulsum, took the small terra-cotta amphora out of the reserve along with a small crock of honey, and slid the cover back.
Although her father had forbidden her from tasting it, on more than one occasion she had sniffed its rich cinnamon, thyme, and peppery bouquet.
She walked down the hall to her father’s quarters with the amphora and honey. She was about to knock on the door when she heard a voice say, “… so your daughter is uncovenanted. What would make you consider a match with my son? He’ll soon be battle chief. Maybe more.”
Natalenya halted before the door, with the round wine jar cold against her frozen hand.
“Does Uther esteem him?” her father asked.
“Uther pays no mind. His attention is to his wife, his daughters” — Vortigern’s voice turned scornful — “his son.”
“You do not like this new son? Is he unruly and spoiled?”
Vortigern cursed. “Just a whelp, he is, but he’ll be like his father.”
“You speak against the High King?” Her father’s voice had a hint of shrillness.
“I do not, no. But the blood of a High King flows in my veins as well. Why rejoice when Uther’s line continues?”
Her father clicked his tongue. “But he is married to your sister. Your line and his have come together.”
“It is not as my grandfather would have wished.”
Natalenya could almost taste his bile.
“Surely Vitalinus would have been proud to have his granddaughter’s son wear the High King’s torc?”
“You know nothing of what Vitalinus wished,” Vortigern said, his words hissing as if through his teeth. “I sat in his feasting hall at Glevum. I saw his glory and the gold piled high. Your pottage from the Stone today was nothing compared to my grandfather’s treasures!”
A fist clunked onto the table. “You think the Druid Stone a joke, do you?”
“Not a joke, no. It gave me better than coins.”
“I saw your face. I tried to show you the gold, yet you stared at the Stone forever, it seemed, and ignored me.” Her father’s voice lowered to a whisper. “What did you see?”
Natalenya heard a chair creak and groan.
“Nothing! Nothing, I —”
“You smiled as if you could touch your grandfather’s treasures again. I saw it on your face the whole time the Stone enchanted you. What would you do if his gold found you again?”
Vortigern hooted. “I? Reward my followers richly! Not like that tight-bagged Uther. Tell me, how much has he taxed out of you?”
“What does it matter how much I am taxed?”
“Seen any of it again? How much?”
“Two priceless gold coins for each year of his reign,” her father said. “Thirty-two have I paid him, but not all from this dirty village.”
“And has he ever sent you even a rusty coynall to keep up the fortress?”
“I’d keep the gold if I were Uther.”
“Tregeagle, you have expressed it properly.” Vortigern said, and his voice dropped to a whisper so that Natalenya barely made out what followed. “If I were Uther … reward those who helped me. No taxes … share my great wealth. We’d … rich together. I’d even promote my supporters … away from outposts … this place … forsaken by the gods.”
“If you were Uther,” her father whispered back, “then I would … you. And … son.”
“If is the key word. If I were Uther. The men are loyal. If anyone, mind you, if … even snorted about the … like this, they’d … an arrow in their chest faster than …”
Silence.
Back around the bend of the hall — where the feast was finishing up — Natalenya heard voices. And footsteps.