The Endless Knot (11 page)

I sat down. Tegid raised and lowered his staff three times slowly. “We have heard grievous accusations against you, Paladyr. We have heard how by your hand you murdered your king, Meldryn Mawr. We have heard how by your hand you murdered Gwenllian, Banfáith of Ynys Sci, and violated the ancient
geas
of protection which was the right of all who sheltered in that realm.

“You contrived to steal the Treasure of Albion, using flames to conceal your crime—flames which took the lives of a score of men, women, and infant children. In order to obtain the treasure, you did strike down the warriors pledged to guard it, and by stealth did you remove the treasure from Dinas Dwr.”

The Chief Bard continued, slashing like a whip, his voice ringing in the rooftrees. “Ever and again you have betrayed your people and repaid loyalty with treachery; you have practiced treason against the one you were sworn to protect with your life. You sought gain through deception in the service of a false king; you sold your honor for promises of wealth and rank, and squandered your strength in evil. By reason of these acts your name has become a curse in the mouths of men.”

No one moved; not a sound was heard when he had finished. The people stood as if stunned into silence by the enormity of Paladyr's crimes. For his part, however, the prisoner seemed vaguely contrite but not overly concerned by his predicament. He merely stared with downcast eyes—as if contemplating the patch of floor between him and my throne. I imagine he had long ago come to terms with the risks of his wrongdoing.

“For these crimes, no less than for the crimes you pursued in the service of the Great Hound Meldron, you are condemned,” Tegid declared. “Do you have anything to say before you hear the judgment of your king?”

Paladyr remained unmoved, and I thought he would not speak. But he slowly raised his head and looked Tegid square in the eye. Arrogant to the end, he said, “I have heard your words, bard. You condemn me, and that is your right. I do not deny it.”

His eyes flicked to me then, and I felt my stomach tighten in apprehension. Looking directly at me, Paladyr said, “But now you tell me that I am in the presence of the High King of Albion. If that is so, let us prove the kingship he boasts. Hear me now: I make the claim of
naud.
”

The words hung in the silence of the hall for a moment. Tegid's face went white. Everyone else stared at the kneeling Paladyr in mute and somewhat dazed astonishment. Unwilling to believe what we had all heard quite plainly, Tegid said, “You claim naud?”

Emboldened by the effect of his claim, Paladyr rose to his feet. “I stand condemned before the king. Therefore, I do make the claim of naud for my crimes. Grant it if you will.”

“No!” someone shouted. I looked and saw Scatha, swaying on her feet as one wounded by the thrust of a spear. She shouted again, and Bran, beside her, put his arms around her—whether to comfort or to keep her from attacking Paladyr, I could not say. “No! It will not be!” she screamed, her face contorted with rage.

“No . . .” moaned Goewyn softly. Lips trembling, eyes blinking back tears, she turned her face away.

Cynan, fists clenched, fought forward, straining like a bull; Drustwn, Niall, and Garanaw threw their arms around him and kept him from the prisoner's neck. Behind them, the crowd surged forward dangerously, calling for Paladyr's death.

Stern and forbidding, Tegid shouted them down. “Silence!” he cried. “There will be silence before the throne!” The Ravens held back the crowd, and the crisis passed. Having restored a semblance of order, the Chief Bard turned to me, visibly upset. He bent low in consultation.

“I will refuse him,” I said.

“You cannot,” he said; though stunned and heartsick, he was thinking more clearly than I.

“I do not care. I will not allow him to walk away from this.”

“You must,” he said simply. “You have no choice.”

“But why?” I blurted in frustration. “I do not understand, Tegid. There must be something we can do.”

He shook his head gravely. “There is nothing to be done. Paladyr has made the claim of naud, and you must grant it,” he explained, “or the Sovereignty of Albion will belong to a treasonous murderer.”

What Tegid said was true, practically speaking. The claim of naud was partly an appeal for clemency—like throwing oneself on the mercy of the court. But there was more to it than that, for it went beyond justice; it transcended right and wrong and went straight to the heart of sovereignty itself.

In making the claim, the guilty man not only invoked the king's mercy, he effectively shifted responsibility for the crime to the king himself. The king had a choice, of course—he could grant it, or he could refuse. If he granted the claim, the crime was expunged: the punishment that justice demanded, justice itself would fulfill. Naturally, only the king could reconcile himself to himself.

If the king refused the claim, however, the guilty man would have to face the punishment justice decreed. A simple enough choice, one would think, but in refusing to grant naud, the king effectively declared himself inferior to the criminal. No king worthy of the name would lower himself in that way, nor allow his kingship to be so disgraced.

Viewed from the proper angle, this backwards logic become curiously lucid. In Albion, justice is not an abstract concept dealing with the punishment of a crime. To the people of Albion, justice wears a human face. If the king's word is law to all who shelter beneath his protection, then the king himself becomes justice for his people. The king is justice incarnate.

This personal feature of justice means that the guilty man can make a claim on the king which he has no right to make: naud. And once having made the claim, it is up to the king, in his role as justice, to demonstrate his integrity. Justice, then, is limited only by the king's character—that is, justice is limited only by the king's personal conception of himself as king.

Thus, the claim of naud swings on this question: How great is the king?

Paladyr had rightly divined the question and had determined to put it to the test. If I refused his claim, it would be tantamount to admitting that my sovereignty was restricted in its breadth and power. What is more, all men would know the precise limits of my authority.

If, on the other hand, I granted Paladyr his claim of naud, I would show myself greater than his crimes. For if my sovereignty could extend beyond even Paladyr's offences, then I must be a very great king indeed. As Aird Righ, my kingly power and authority would be deemed well-nigh infinite.

Oh, but it was a very hard thing. In essence, I had been asked to absorb the crime into myself. If I did that, a guilty man would walk free.

Tegid was frowning, glaring into my face as if I were the cause of his irritation. “Well, Silver Hand? What is your answer?”

I looked at Paladyr. His crimes screamed for punishment. Certainly, no man deserved death more.

“I will grant him naud,” I said, feeling as if I had been kicked in the gut. “But,” I added quickly, “am I allowed to set conditions?”

“You may establish provisions for the protection of your people,” my bard cautioned. “Nothing more.”

“Very well, let us send him to some place where he cannot harm anyone again. Is there such a place?”

Tegid's gray eyes narrowed in sly approval. “Tir Aflan,” he said.

“The Foul Land? Where is that?” In all my time in Albion, I had rarely heard mention of the place.

“In the east, across the sea,” he explained. “To one born in Albion it is a joyless, desolate place.” Tegid allowed himself a grim smile. “It may be that Paladyr will wish himself dead.”

“So be it. That is my judgment: Banish him to Tir Aflan, and may he rot there in misery.”

Tegid straightened and turned to address Paladyr. He raised his staff and brought it down with a crack. “Hear the judgment of the king,” he intoned. “You have made the claim of naud, and your claim is granted.”

This declaration caused an instant sensation. Shouts filled the hall; some cried aloud at the decision, others wept silently. Tegid raised his staff and demanded silence before continuing. “It is the king's judgment that, for the protection of Albion's people, you are banished from all lands under his authority.”

Paladyr's expression hardened. Likely, he had not foreseen this development. I could see him working through the implications in his mind. He drew himself up and demanded, “If all lands lie under your authority, Great King”—the words were mockery in his mouth— “where am I to go?”

A good question, which showed Paladyr was paying attention. If I was the High King, all of Albion was under my authority. Clearly, there was no place on the Island of the Mighty, or any of its sister isles, where he could go. But Tegid was ready with the answer.

“To Tir Aflan you will go,” he replied bluntly. “And wherever you find men to receive you, there you will abide. Know you this: From the day you set foot in Tir Aflan, it is death to you to return to Albion.”

Paladyr accepted his fate with icy dignity. He said nothing more, and was escorted from the hall by Bran and the Ravens. Tegid declared the llys concluded. And the people began filing grimly from the hall, shattered, their hearts broken.

8
T
HE
C
YLCHEDD

A
t dawn the next morning, the Ravens and some of the war band left Dinas Dwr to escort Paladyr to the eastern coast where he would be shipped across Môr Glas and set free on the blasted shore of Tir Aflan. Cynan, bitter and angry, left a short while later to return to Dun Cruach. In all, it was a miserable parting.

Over the next few days, work on the fire-damaged caer progressed. New timber was cut and hauled from the ridge forest to the lakeshore where it was trimmed and shaped to use for rooftrees and walls. Reeds for thatch were cut in quantity and spread on the rocks to dry. The burnt timber was removed and the ground prepared for new dwellings and storehouses; quantities of ash were transported across the lake and spread on the fields. I would have been happy to see this work to its completion—the sight of the fire-blackened rubble ached in me like a wound, and the sooner Dinas Dwr was restored, the sooner the pain would cease. But Tegid had other ideas.

At supper one night after the Ravens had returned from disposing of Paladyr, Tegid rose and stood before the hearth. Those looking on assumed he meant to sing, and so began calling out the names of songs they would hear. “The Children of Llyr!” clamored some. “Rhydderch's Red Stallion!” shouted someone else, to general acclaim. “Gruagach's Revenge!” another suggested, but was shouted down.

Tegid simply shook his head and announced that he could not sing tonight or any other night.

“Why?” everyone wanted to know. “How is it that you cannot sing?”

The wily bard answered, “How can I think of singing when the Three Fair Realms of Albion stand apart from another, with no king to establish harmony between their separate tribes?”

Leaning close to Goewyn, I said, “I smell a ruse.”

Turning to me, Tegid declared that as Aird Righ, it must certainly be foremost among my thoughts to ride the circuit of my lands and establish my rule in the kingdom.

“To be sure,” I replied lightly, “my thoughts would have arrived there sooner or later.” To Goewyn, I whispered, “Here it comes.”

“And since you are the High King,” he announced, brandishing his staff with a flourish, “you will extend the glory of your reign to all who shelter beneath your Silver Hand. Therefore, the
Cylchedd
you contemplate will include all lands in the Three Fair Realms so that Caledon, Prydain, and Llogres will be brought under your sovereign authority. For all must own you king, and you must receive the honor and tribute of the Island of the Mighty.”

This speech was delivered to a largely unsuspecting throng and so took them by surprise. It took me somewhat unawares as well, but as he spoke I began to see the logic behind Tegid's high flown formality. Such an important undertaking demanded a certain ceremony. And the people of Dinas Dwr promptly understood the significance of Tegid's address.

It was not the first time the Chief Bard had used the title Aird Righ, of course. However, it was one thing to speak the words here in Dinas Dwr among my own people, but quite another actively to proclaim this assertion in the world beyond the protecting ridge of Druim Vran.

Whispers hissed through the crowd: “Aird Righ! Llew Silver Hand is the High King!” they said. “Did you hear? The Chief Bard has proclaimed him Aird Righ!”

There was a solid reason behind Tegid's proclamation: he was anxious to establish the Sovereignty of Albion beyond all doubt. A worthy venture, it seemed to me. All the same, I wished he had warned me. Strictly speaking, I did not share Tegid's enthusiasm for the High Kingship—which is, no doubt, why he chose to announce the Cylchedd the way he did.

Whatever my misgivings, Bran and the Raven Flight, and the rest of the war band, supported Tegid and fairly thundered their endorsement. They banged their cups and slapped the board with their hands; they raised such an uproar that it was some time before Tegid could continue.

The Penderwydd stood there smiling a supremely self-satisfied smile, watching the commotion he had caused. I felt the touch of a cool hand on my neck and glanced up. Goewyn had come to stand beside me. “It is no less than your right,” she said, her breath warm in my ear.

When the furor had subsided somewhat, Tegid continued, explaining that the circuit would begin in Dinas Dwr as I held court among my own people. And then, when all the proper preparations had been made, I would ride forth on a lengthy tour of Albion.

Tegid had a lot more to say, and said it well. I listened with half an ear, wondering if, as he claimed, the circuit would actually take a year and a day—an estimate I took to be more a poetic approximation than an actual calculation. Be that as it may, I knew it would not be accomplished quickly or easily, and I found myself working out the details even as Tegid spoke.