The Endless Knot (23 page)

“I promised to go with Tángwen,” she said.

“Oh,” I yawned. “Where are you going?”

“Riding.”

“Would you abandon your husband in his cold, lonely bed? Come back and wait until the sun rises at least.”

She laughed and kissed me again. “It will be light soon enough. Sleep now, my love, and let me go.”

“No.” I raised my hand and stroked the side of her neck. “I will never let you go.”

She nuzzled the hand and then took it and kissed the palm. “Tángwen is waiting.”

“Take care, my love,” I said as she left. I lay in our bed for a while, then rose, dressed quickly, and went out. The night-black sky was fading to blue-gray and the stars were dim; away over the encircling hills to the east the sky blushed with blood-red streaks like slashes in pale flesh. There was no one in the yard; smoke from the cookhouses rose in a straight white column. I shivered with the cold and hurried across the yard to the hall.

The hall was quiet, but a few people were awake and stirring. The hearth fire had been stoked and I walked to it to warm myself. Neither Goewyn nor Tángwen was to be seen, no doubt intending to break fast when they returned from their ride.

Garanaw wakened and greeted me, and we talked until the oatcakes came out of the oven and were brought steaming into the hall. Seating ourselves at the board, we were quickly joined by Bran and a few of the early-rising Ravens, and some of Cynan's retinue. Cynan himself arrived a short time later, noisily greeting everyone and settling himself on a bench. The oatcakes were hot and tasty; we washed them down with rich brown ale.

Talk turned to hunting, and it was quickly agreed that a day spent in pursuit of deer or boar would be a day well spent. “We will savor our supper all the more for the chase,” Cynan declared; to which Alun quickly added, “And we will relish the chase all the more for a wager.”

“Do my ears deceive me?” wondered Cynan loudly. “Is that Alun Tringad offering his gold?”

“If you can bring back a bigger stag than the one I shall find, then you are welcome to the champion's portion of my gold.”

“I would be ashamed to take your treasure so easily,” quipped Cynan. “And I never would, were it not advisable to teach you a valuable lesson in humility.”

“Then put your hand to it,” Alun told him, “and let us choose the men to ride with us. The sooner we ride, the sooner I will claim my treasure. Indeed, I can already feel the weight of your gold bracelets on my arm.”

“Unless you hope to lull me to sleep with your empty boasting,” Cynan said, “you will soon see a hunter worthy of his renown. Therefore, I advise you to look your last upon your treasure.”

Alun stood and called to his brother Ravens, “Brothers, I have heard enough of this haughty fellow's idle talk. Let us show him what true hunters can do, and let us decide now how to divide his treasure among us.”

Cynan also stood. “Llew, ride with me, brother,” he said, and he called others of his retinue by name. “Come, my friends, the chase is before us, and much good gold for our efforts.”

They fixed the time for their return: “At sunset we will assemble in the yard,” Alun suggested.

Cynan agreed. “And the Penderwydd of Albion will judge between us who has fared the better—although this will not be necessary, for it will be readily apparent to one and all which of us is the best hunter.”

“True, true,” Alun affirmed casually. “That they will easily discern.”

I glanced quickly around, but Tegid had not entered the hall. It did not matter, there would be time to talk to him later, when we returned from the hunt. The hall buzzed with eager voices as side wagers were laid, odds fixed, and amounts agreed. Snatching up the last of the oatcakes, we burst from the hall and hastened across the ice-bound lake to the cattle pens to fetch the horses. We saddled our mounts and, with much friendly banter, rode out along the frozen lakeside.

Cynan and I led the way, following the hoof tracks Tángwen and Goewyn had left in the new snow. Halfway to the wood, the track left the lakeside, leading away to the ridge. We continued around the lake, however, to the game runs on the long slopes. As soon as we entered the wood, we divided our number—those who rode with Alun went one way, and those of Cynan's party the other.

The sun rose above the rim of the hills and the day was good. There was snow on the game runs, but because of the trees it was not deep. We saw the tracks of scores of animals, but as it had not snowed for several days, it was impossible to tell which were fresh and which were older.

We spread ourselves across the run and proceeded deeper into the silent sanctuary of the forest, our spears along our thighs as we pushed through the underbrush. The shadows of the trees formed a blue latticework on the crusted snow. The cold air tingled on the skin of my cheeks, nose, and chin. I had spread my cloak around me to capture the heat of the horse and help me keep warm. With a bright, white sun, a clear blue sky, and the company of valiant men, it was a fine day to hunt.

I let those most eager take the lead and settled back to enjoy the ride. We followed the long run as it lifted toward the ridge; crossing a small stream, we scared a red deer sheltering in a blackthorn thicket. The hounds would have given chase, but Cynan was after bigger game, and forced them back onto the trail. His patience was rewarded a short time later when we came upon the fresh spoor of a small herd of deer.

“It is still warm,” announced Cynan's man as I joined them.

“Good,” Cynan said. “Be alert, everyone. The prize is near.”

We continued at a swifter pace and soon sighted the deer: three hinds and a big stag. The hounds did not wait to be called back a second time, but sounded the hunting cry and sped to the chase. The stag regarded the dogs with a large, inscrutable, dark eye, then lifted his regal head and belled a warning call to his little clan.

The hinds lifted their tails and bounded as one into the thicket. Only when they were away did the stag follow. Rather than try to force a way through the tangle, we let the dogs run and gave ourselves to the chase.

A glorious chase! The old stag proved a cunning opponent and led us on a long and elaborate hunt—through deep woods and up along the high ridge and down again into piney forest. We caught him, in the end, with his back to a stony outcrop at the foot of the ridge wall. His clan had escaped, and he was near dead from exhaustion. Still, he turned and fought to the last.

The sun was little more than a day moon, pale and wan on the horizon, when we finished securing the stag to a litter and turned our horses for home. We had traveled far afield in our fevered pursuit. We were tired, and cold where the sweat had soaked our clothes, but well content with our sport and hopeful of winning the wager. A fine and regal spectacle of a sky washed pale lavender and gold in a brilliant Sollen sunset greeted us as we emerged from the woods and began making our way along the lake.

Alun Tringad's party had returned ahead of us, and they were waiting for us at the cattle pen when we arrived. Their kill—two fine bristle-backed boars—lay on the snow outside the pen. At the sight of our stag, they began exclaiming over our lack of success.

“One lonely deer, is it?” cried Alun, foremost in the gathering. “With all you hardy men on horseback shaking your spears at it, why, I do not doubt this poor sickly thing expired in fright.”

“As sickly as it is,” Cynan replied, swinging down from the saddle, “our stag will yet serve to separate you from your treasure.” He regarded the wild pigs with a sad, disappointed air. “Oh, it is a shameful thing you have done, Alun, my man—taking these two piglets from their mother. Tch! Tch!” He shook his head sadly. “Why not just give the gold to me now and save yourself the disgrace of having your skill revealed in such a pitiful light?”

“Not so fast, Cynan Machae,” replied one of Alun's supporters. “It is for the Chief Bard to tell us who has won the wager. We will await his decision.”

“Hoo!” said Cynan, puffing out his cheeks. “Bring Tegid, by all means. I was only trying to save you the fearful humiliation I see coming your way.”

At first sight of our party on the lakeside track, Alun had sent a man to fetch Tegid. A call from one of Cynan's men directed our attention to the crannog. “Here he comes now!” shouted Gweir. “The Penderwydd is coming!”

I turned to see a crowd from the crannog hurrying across the ice toward us. I looked for Goewyn, expecting to see her among them, but neither Goewyn nor Tángwen was there. No doubt they had decided to stay in the warm. Nor did I fault them; I had long been wishing myself out of my sodden clothes and holding a warming jar beside the fire.

A genial hubbub arose as the throng arrived. Everyone exclaimed at the sight of the game, extolling the prowess of the hunters and the success of the hunt—as well they might, for we would eat heartily on the proceeds of our efforts for many days.

“Penderwydd!” Alun shouted. “The hunt is finished. Here is the result of our labors. As you can see, we have done well. Indeed, we have bested Cynan and his band, which is clear for all to see. It only remains for you to agree and confirm the inevitable decision.”

The Chief Bard withdrew a hand from his cloak and raised it. “That I will do, Alun Tringad. What is clear to you may not be so clear to those who lack your zeal for Cynan's gold. Therefore, step aside and allow someone with an eye unclouded by avarice to view the evidence.”

Tegid examined first Alun's kill and then Cynan's. He prodded the carcasses with a toe, inspected the pelts, teeth, tusks, eyes, hoofs, tails, and antlers. All the while, the two parties baited one another with quips and catcalls, awaiting the bard's decision. The bard took his time, pausing now and then to muse over this or that point which he pretended to have discovered, or which had been pointed out to him by the extremely partisan crowd.

Then, taking his place midway between the stag and the two boars and frowning mightily, he rested chin upon fist in earnest contemplation. All of this served to heighten the anticipation; wagers were doubled and then tripled as—from the slant of an eyebrow or the lift of a lip—one side or the other imagined opinion swaying in their favor.

At last, the Chief Bard drew himself up and, raising his staff for silence, prepared to deliver his decision. “It is rightly the domain of a king to act as judge for his people,” he reminded everyone. “But as the king took part in the hunt, I beg his permission to deliver judgment.” He looked at me.

“I grant it gladly,” I replied. “Please, continue.”

The crowd shouted for the Chief Bard to proclaim the winner, but Tegid would not be hurried. Placing a fold of his cloak over his head, he said, “I have weighed the matter carefully. From the time of Dylwyn Short-Knife”—here the spectators groaned with frustration, but Tegid plowed ahead slowly—“and the time of Tryffin the Tall, it has been in the nature of things to hold the life of a stag equal to that of a bear, and that of a bear equal to two boars.” The groan turned from impatience to frustration as the crowd guessed what was coming. “It would appear then,” Tegid calmly continued, “that a stag is equal to two boars. Thus, the matter cannot be settled according to the quantity of meat, and we must look elsewhere for a resolution.”

He paused to allow his gaze to linger around the ring of faces. There were murmurs of approval and mutters of protest from many. He waited until they were silent once more. “For this reason I have examined the beasts most carefully,” Tegid said. “This is my decision.” The throng held its breath. Which would it be? “The stag is a worthy rival and a lord of his kind . . .”

At this, Cynan's party raised a tremendous shout of triumph.

“But,” Tegid quickly cautioned, “the boars are no less lordly. And what is more, there are two of them. Were this not so, I would hold for the stag. Yet since the difficulty of finding and bringing down
two
such noble and magnificent beasts must necessarily try the skills of the hunter the more, I declare that those who hunted the boars have won today's sport. I, Tegid Tathal, Penderwydd, have spoken.”

It took a moment to unravel what the Chief Bard had said, but then all began wrangling over the decision. Cynan appealed to the beauty of his prize and to various other merits, but Tegid would not be moved: Alun Tringad had won the day. There was nothing for it, the losers must pay the winners. Tegid thumped his staff three times on the ground and the matter was ended.

We returned to the warmth and light of the hall, eager for meat and drink to refresh us and tales of the hunt to cheer us. Upon entering the hall, I quickly scanned the gathering. Goewyn was nowhere to be seen. I turned on my heel and hastened to our hut.

It was dark and empty, the ashes in the fire ring cold. She had not been there for some time, perhaps not since early morning. I ran back to the hall and made my way to Tegid; he was standing on one end of the hearth, waiting for the ale jar to come his way.

“Where is Goewyn?” I asked him bluntly.

“Greetings, Llew. Goewyn? I have not seen her,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

“I cannot find her. She went riding with Tángwen this morning.”

“Perhaps she is—”

“She is not in the hut.” My eyes searched the noisy hall. “I do not see Tángwen, either.”

Without another word, Tegid turned and beckoned Cynan to join us. “Where is Tángwen?” the bard said.

I looked at Cynan anxiously. “Have you seen her since this morning?”

“Seen her?” he wondered, raising his cup. He drank and then offered the cup to me. “I have been on the trail since daybreak, as you well know.”

“Goewyn and Tángwen went riding this morning,” I explained, holding my voice level, “and it appears they have not returned.”

“Not returned?” Cynan looked toward the door, as if expecting the two women to enter at that moment. “But it is dark now.”