Stephen Lawhead - Taliesin

“Nor will you ever, my lord,” she replied, her eyes shining. “There will be only one wife for you, Elphin ap Gwyddno. I mean to hold my place.”

They walked up the long ramp to the gates and passed through to find the first of Elphin’s men standing with their horses in the center of the caer near the council oak-six sturdy youths from Talybont with the quick, tireless ponies of the region. The youths saw Elphin and quickly went down on one knee.

“They are just boys,” remarked Rhonwyn.

“Yes, but they will be men by Samhain.” With that Elphin strode toward them, holding out his hands. “Rise, com-brogi!” he said, reaching out to pull the nearest to his feet. “We are not soldiers yet, nor am I your king. We are fellow -countrymen and do not kneel to one another as the Romans do.”

The young men appeared confused but smiled at their unofficial lord and mumbled greetings to him and his wife, whom they regarded with more than passing admiration. “You are the first of my warband,” Elphin told them, “and your eagerness does you credit. Tonight you will eat at my table and tomorrow we will prepare for the arrival of the rest. Come, friends, let us drink and raise our voices in a song or two. There will be little enough singing in the weeks to come.”

Over the next two days Caer Dyvi began to resemble a war camp with men and horses arriving in numbers from all over Gwynedd. When all those pledged to his service had assembled, Elphin ordered a feast and a firepit was dug in the center of the caer to roast two beef carcassas. That evening they feasted and sang, their youthful voices ringing through the night with the soul-stirring songs of the Cymry.

Elphin and Rhonwyn left the feast and retired to sleep together for the first time in their new house-the last tone before their long separation. After their lovemaking, they lay in one another’s arms listening to the songs still drifting on the night breeze. “I will sacrifice to Lieu and Epona each day for your safety, husband.”

“Mmmm,” signed Elphin sleepily. “Sleep well, lady wife.”

Rhonwyn snuggled closer. “Sleep well, my lord.” She lay a long time listening to the easy rhythm of his breathing as sleep overtook him. The soft silence of the night closed around them like a dark wing, and Rhonwyn allowed herself to drift into a peaceful slumber.

One hundred and twenty-five men rode out early the next morning with Elphin at their head. Gwyddno and Rhonwyn, little Taliesin cradled in her arms, stood at the gate, surrounded by the people of the caer, watching the warband away. The long ranks of riders disappeared from view; the watchers turned back to their daily chores.

Rhonwyn stood a moment longer by herself. “See how they ride, Taliesin?” she whispered to the infant, holding his head next to her cheek. The child blew bubbles and held out his hand. “They will be gone a long time and will be much changed when they return.’

At last she turned away and saw Medhir and Eithne with several other women watching. “Now begins a woman’s work,” said Medhir. “The hardest work of all: waiting.” There were nods and clucks of agreement all around.

“I will bear the waiting lightly,” said Rhonwyn, “knowing those brave men bear as much and more for us.”

“You say that now,” replied Medhir, a little ruffled by Rhonwyn’s words, “because you do not know how it is. But give it some time and you’ll soon know the misery of the wife left behind.” More nods and mutters.

“Listen to her, Rhonwyn,” declared Eithne, “she knows.”

Rhonwyn turned to them with fire in her eyes. “And you listen to me, all of you! When Elphin returns he will find his house in order, his affairs well-managed, and his wife with a glad welcome on her lips. Never will my lord hear a word of hardship from me.”

She turned quickly away and strode back through the caer, head high. Some of the younger women whose husbands had ridden off with Elphin heard Rhonwyn’s words and followed her. Together they began busily occupying themselves until their men should return.

The high king’s body was taken to an inner chamber in the Temple of the Sun where it was prepared by the Magi for burial in an elaborate and ancient rite lasting six days and nights. The funeral of the High King took place three days later: a cautiously splendid affair, attended by the remaining kings who wore appropriately somber expressions and spoke the required eulogies in words carefully measured and precise. Though undoubtedly some other than the High Queen were genuinely sorry at the death of Ceremon, the secret was well kept.

Seithenin, anxious to return to pressing business at home, left Poseidonis the morning following the funeral. Avallach and the other kings lingered a few more days for appearance’ sake. The matter of succession had been settled and there was little to be done, either in the way of comforting the grieving widow or in seeing to official details.

For Charis, however, the extra days were special ones. Since there was nothing else for her to do, she was allowed to roam the city at will with her brothers, visiting one famous site after another: the Royal Temple of the Sun with its subterranean bull pits and astronomical towers; the magnificent harbor, with the monstrous bronze statue of Poseidon rising from the waves, golden trident in hand, surrounded by a company of boisterous blue dolphins; the royal library, boasting hundreds of thousands of volumes in every known language of the world; the enormous, teeming market square with its sphinx fountains; the hot-spring grotto shrines in the hills… and more.

When the day of their departure finally arrived, Charis climbed reluctantly into the carriage beside her mother. She stared sullenly as the carriage wheels rolled out upon the Processional Way and over the ordered succession of bridges, passing through the three concentric zones of the city. As they reached the Avenue of Porticoes, Queen Briseis turned to her daughter and said, “Cheer up, Charis, you will come back again one day.”

Yes, I will come back, she thought. I will make this city mine. Thereafter Charis ceased looking over her shoulder and set her face to the road ahead-the road which would one day bring her back.

The next days were as much the same as if they had been drawn by the same hand from the same well: Bel’s disk rose and set, they slept under cloudless, star-splashed skies, and the white road passed slowly beneath their wheels.

One morning early in the second week of the journey, the long train of coaches entered the dark fastness of forest at the far border of King Seithenin’s lands. Glad for a respite from the hot noonday sun, Avallach allowed them to linger in the shade-bound coolness after their midday meal. He and the queen napped, as did the rest of the retinue, all stretching out under leafy bowers to sleep oif the thick, noonday torpor.

Charis could not bear the thought of a nap, however, and instead wandered the nearby forest pathways plucking late-blooming wildflowers and gathering a small bouquet of delicate acacia roses and camellias, humming the song she had begun singing the night of the bull sacrifice, her voice falling like small silver rain into the silence of the forest.

She did not realize exactly how far she had strayed from camp until she heard a distant shout and knew that someone had been sent to fetch her. She turned at once and began running back, dodging along the winding path, hoping to recover the distance before she was found.

Closer, she heard more shouts. Men’s voices, taut and fearful. She dropped the bouquet and ran faster. Horses screamed. She heard the solid ring of weapons as they clashed in the shattered stillness. “What is happening?” she wondered, suddenly terrified. What could it be? Moments later, out of breath, heart lumping terribly in her chest, she reached the place where the traveling party waited.