Bertrice Small: A Moment in Time

© 1991

Angharad, Queen of the Fair Folk, appeared suddenly in the Great Hall of Dyfed in an ominous cloud of violet mist. Her entry was preceded by a rather portentous thunderclap that shook the carved rafters of the building so hard, those within the hall looked fearfully up to be certain that the roof was not collapsing upon them. The clearing haze revealed to them a woman of uncommon beauty, although Angharad was not as lovely as her sister, Rhiannon, who was wife to Dyfed's prince. The queen's gown shimmered with the mysterious iridescence of mother-of-pearl. Her long golden hair was plaited into seven braids, each one of which was interwoven with pearls and multicolored gemstones that glistened with the subtle movement of her head as she looked slowly about her, her silver-blue gaze observing all within her view.

Teirnyon, the lord of Gwent, and his sweet-faced wife, Elaine, stood with the child, Anwyl. Angharad's eyes softened briefly as they passed over the little boy. They hardened once more as they rested upon Bronwyn of the White Breast who sat boldly next to Pwyll, Dyfed's prince. There was no shame in Bronwyn. She graced her half of the ruler's bench as if she actually belonged there, glaring defiantly at the queen of the Fair Folk for being the unwelcome intruder that she was. Pwyll, to give him credit, looked the shamed and broken man he now was.

"Sister," The voice was gentle, yet insistent.

Angharad turned and embraced her elder sibling. A small smile of triumph touched her lips as she looked at Rhiannon. The Cymri had not destroyed her, although God knows they had tried. If anything, Rhiannon's beauty had but increased despite the unjust treatment meted out to her over the past four years. The time had come for retribution.

"Be merciful, sister. " Rhiannon had not spoken aloud, and yet Angharad heard her.

"I might have had they shown you any mercy," the queen of the Fair Folk responded in kind.

"There were some who were thoughtful of me in my distress," Rhiannon replied.

"I know them, and they shall not feel my wrath, " Angharad said, and turning away from her elder sister, she spoke aloud. Her words were deliberate and carefully chosen. Upon those who had aided Rhiannon she disbursed blessings and un-equaled good fortune that would descend down through their families for a thousand generations to come. To those who had calculatingly and purposefully planned deleterious and ruinous hurt to Rhiannon, the queen of the Fair Folk laid upon them a curse of terrible proportions. The silence in the Great Hall of Dyfed as she spoke was so thick it was almost visible.

Then Angharad glared at her brother-in-law, who sat upon his seat of office, his head within his hands. Fiercely she willed him to look up at her, and when he did, she spoke again. The anger was gone from her voice now. Only a deep sadness remained.

"Pwyll of Dyfed," she began. "When you came to wed with my sister, Rhiannon asked but two things of you. That you give her your complete love and your complete trust. This was all she demanded of you in exchange for the great sacrifices she made in order to become your wife. You have betrayed Rhiannon on both accounts. You could not trust her in the face of your people's condemnation of her because she was not of the Cymri, and therefore her credence was to be doubted; but even that the Fair Folk might forgive you had you remained true in your heart to her. You have not, Pwyll of Dyfed. Your love for Rhiannon has wavered as surely as your faith in her has wavered. Even knowing the great concessions my sister made for you, you left her helpless, unable to defend herself and caught between two worlds. For this, Pwyll of Dyfed, you will be punished."

Then Angharad, Queen of the Fair Folk, pronounced Pwyll's fate; a fate so severe it left all within the hall breathless and in awe of its subtlety. It was a harsh judgment. As the full meaning of it penetrated Pwyll's brain, his eyes widened with horror, even knowing as he resisted his punishment that he fully deserved it.

Then, before the astonished eyes of the assembled court of Dyfed, the hall began to fill with a silvery smoke. There was another monstrous thunderclap which immediately cleared the haze, revealing to all that Angharad and Rhiannon were no longer amongst them. Bronwyn of the White Breast whimpered, finally fearful, and piteously clutched at Pwyll's arm. Furiously he shook her off, and opening his mouth, he cried after his wife.

"Rhiannon! Rhiannon! Rhi-an-non!"

There was no answer, and as Pwyll's voice echoed and died within the Great Hall of Dyfed, a deep, sad silence descended upon all there.

Wynne of Gwernach stared down at her father's grave. A month had passed since Owain ap Llywelyn had met his death in a freak accident. The grass was already beginning to grow and thicken upon the burial mound which would soon look like her mother's grave. As if it had been there for a hundred centuries. As if there was nothing beneath the mound at all but the earth itself. She felt a tear begin to slide down her cheek and impatiently brushed it away. She had not cried at her father's demise. Tears were for weaklings, and she could not be weak like other women. Other women did not have the responsibility of a large, productive estate that must be kept safe for its boy heir. Other women did not have the liability for the safety of that little brother or three sisters.

"Father," Wynne said aloud. " 'Tis a hard task you have left me," and then she sighed deeply.

Owain ap Llywelyn had been a tall, handsome man in the prime of his life. Although he held one of the richest estates in all of Morgannwg, there was none who begrudged him it, even the king, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, his distant cousin. In warlike Wales he was regarded as a man of peace, although Owain ap Llywelyn had been known to pick up his sword when the occasion merited it. Still, he preferred his lands and his cattle; his wife and his family, above all else; and he would do nought to jeopardize those things.

For his entire life Owain ap Llywelyn had been considered fortunate in all things. At the age of twenty-two he had taken to wife a girl considered the greatest beauty in all of Wales; Margiad, called the Pearl. She had given him four daughters and a son before dying in childbirth; but even so, Owain ap Llywelyn was still thought to be a lucky man. His children were all healthy, and he could certainly marry again. He was considered a prime catch; but Owain did not remarry. He had loved his wife greatly, and mourned her loss deeply. Those who knew Owain ap Llywelyn best noticed that he did not laugh quite as easily, or as frequently after Margiad's death. He named the daughter she had died birthing Mair, which meant sorrow in the ancient Cymri language. He loved the baby no less than he had loved her siblings, for he was not a cruel man, but he was never again the same man; the man that he had been before Margiad the Pearl 's death. Now he drove himself relentlessly, as if seeking to escape the reality of his widowhood.