The Paradise War (24 page)

“He does? Really?”

“You’re high on the agenda, chum.”

“I didn’t know he knew I was even here.”

“Oh, he knows,” Simon confirmed flatly. “If Meldron hadn’t told him, Ruadh would have. You killed the Cruin champion—remember?”

“Oh, that.”

Simon fixed me with a stern and serious stare. “Look, let us have no misunderstandings, right?
You
killed the champion. You have to go along with that, do you understand? You will only embarrass yourself and the other warriors if you deny it now. And it could get you into a lot of trouble.”

“All right, Simon. If that’s the way you want it. But what’s the big deal?”

“I’m not going to argue with you. You don’t know the first thing about what goes on here. Just do as I say. This is for your own good, believe me.”

“Fine. Wonderful. I’ll do as you say.”

I must have looked anxious, because Simon grinned suddenly and gave me a punch on the arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right beside you the whole time. Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, and then added, “There is just one thing.”

“What now?”

“I know this probably isn’t the time,” I muttered hesitantly, “but we’ve got to talk about going back—back to the real world. You said to wait till we got to Sycharth, and—well, we’re here. Maybe we should say something to the king.”

“You’re right,” Simon replied. For an instant, I thought he was going to be reasonable. “This isn’t the time. We’ll talk to the king after the feast. Come on, enjoy yourself a little, Lewis. Relax, will you? We’ll get this all sorted out.”

“All right,” I agreed reluctantly. “After the feast.”

“Let’s go, then.” Simon turned and led me from the lodge. We made our way to the king’s hall, retracing our steps of the night before, and I noticed that the nearer we came, the busier the bustle. In the yard before the king’s hall, long boards had been set up on trestles, with benches flanking either side. A troop of men and boys was constructing a small pyramid of oaken casks in the center of the yard. Several dozen warriors lingered near the entrance to the hall. And there were a score or more horses tethered at the far end of the grassy expanse.

Simon saw me eyeing the horses and said, “Some of Meldryn Mawr’s chieftains have come to the llys.”

Llys
is an old Briton word for court—designating either the place of meeting or the meeting itself. It was, I knew, often something of an occasion. Legal business was conducted, commerce and trade transacted, and personal squabbles and misfortunes set to rights. Anyone with a gripe or grievance could approach the seat of judgment and speak his piece before the king, who would mete out the required justice. A king’s word was the law of the realm, the only law his people knew. Fortunes could be made or lost, lives forever changed, depending on the disposition of the king.

That I should be included in this high drama sent alternating waves of dread and excitement coursing through me: What did the king want with me? What would he say? What would
I
say? I found it difficult to abide by Simon’s dictum to relax; enjoying myself was right out of the question. We paused at the entrance to the hall, and Simon cast a quick look at the sun. “They will begin soon,” he said. “We’d better go inside and take our places.” He checked my appearance one last time. “Too bad we didn’t have time for you to shave.”

“Oh, sure, now you tell me,” I mumbled, rubbing my bristly chin, suddenly self-conscious and peeved at Simon for not taking better care of me.

We passed between the stone pillars, acknowledging the warriors loitering near the entrance—some called out to us, and Simon answered them. There was laughter all around. I guessed the joke was at my expense, but I smiled nervously and nodded. And we proceeded.

A huge, fierce-looking warrior stood in the entrance, imposing the proper reverence upon those who entered. At a word from Simon, the muscled giant moved aside to let us pass. There was no mistaking the glance of disdain he paid me as I passed beneath his sight; clearly he considered me no champion-killer. “That is Paladyr,” Simon explained. “Meldryn’s champion. Great chap.”

The hall was cool and dark. When my eyes adjusted to the dim light which slipped fitfully through the slit windows, I saw what appeared to be a grove of trees—these were the great timber columns supporting the roof beams. Each column was carved with the endless knotwork of Celtic design. A gigantic hearth yawned cold and dark, like an open pit, taking up one end of the vast room. Opposite the hearth, a wooden partition enclosed the far end of the hall; this I took to be the royal quarters.

Before the partition stood a circular dais made of stone, around which stood seven iron poles from which seven torches flared. And upon the dais was a huge chair, which appeared to have been carved of a single massive piece of black wood. The wood was ornamented with innumerable gold disks bearing a spiral pattern. In the flickering light of the torches, the disks appeared to be revolving slowly. The illusion of movement made the chair seem a living thing—an animate object with its own power and will.

There were at least a hundred people gathered near the dais, standing together in small clusters, speaking softly. Some held objects in their hands—here a folded length of cloth, there an ornate weapon, elsewhere a fine bowl or dish—gifts for the king, I supposed. I wished I had brought something too.

I didn’t have long to dither over this, for, as we took our places to one side of the assembly, a loud, blaring note—like the blat of a ram’s horn—sounded in the hall. From behind the partition stepped the king’s bard, who ascended the dais and came to stand before us. He took a fold of his cloak and placed it over his head, then raised his hands. I saw that he held a long staff, or rod, the head of which gleamed darkly in the torchlight. Holding the rod lengthwise above his covered head, he began to speak in firm, somewhat threatening tones.

I tossed a questioning glance to Simon, who answered, “The Chief Bard is reminding us that the word of the king is law and that his judgments are absolute.”

When the bard finished, he took his place at the right hand and a little behind the king’s chair. The horn sounded again, and Meldryn Mawr himself appeared, a very Sun King: his clothing was immaculate, and his countenance brilliant. He was dressed all in crimson— shirt, trousers, and buskins. His golden fish-scale belt flashed in every facet; the rings on his hands glinted with gems. In addition to his torc, the king wore a crown, which appeared to have been made of oak leaves and twigs dipped in gold. His dark eyes scanned the throng before him, confident and wise. The force of his presence filled the entire hall, drawing all attention to him; I could not look away.

When the king had been seated, Prince Meldron ascended the dais and draped a black bearskin cloak over his father’s shoulders. The prince then bent to touch the instep of his father’s foot, and withdrew to take his place with the other chieftains. I saw Ruadh step forward to stand beside Prince Meldron.

At a nod from the king, Ollathir raised his wooden staff and struck it against the stone three times. Then he pointed to the first of the petitioners—a tall, heavily built man of imposing mien, who stalked to the dais and stretched out his hands to offer his gift: a fine new bow and a quiver of silver-pointed arrows.

The king inclined his regal head in acceptance of the gift, and the man began stating his business. After listening a moment, Simon whispered, “This is Rhiogan of Caer Dyffryn, one of Meldryn Mawr’s chieftains on the eastern border. He is asking for the king’s permission to raid the Vedeii—that’s a Cruin tribe—across the river.” Simon paused and listened some more. “It seems the Vedeii raided last autumn and stole some cattle. He wants the cattle back, and an equal number in punishment.”

The king heard this request, lacing his fingers from time to time. When Rhiogan finished speaking, Meldryn replied, asking a few questions which his chieftain answered simply, without elaboration. Then he turned to Ollathir, whispered something into his ear, and sat back.

Ollathir then spoke out the king’s message to the chieftain. “What’s he saying?” I asked, fascinated.

“He is relaying the king’s judgment—permission to raid is granted, provided that the king receives a share of the spoils.”

“Is that fair?” I wondered aloud.

“It is not a matter of fairness,” Simon explained. “This way, if the king shares the plunder, he also takes responsibility for the raid—the blame falls on him. Then, if the Vedeii make trouble over this, they have Meldryn Mawr to answer to, not just Rhiogan.”

“So the king is authorizing retaliation in his name.”

“Essentially.”

The lord seemed pleased with this decision and mounted to the dais. He moved to the king, knelt, and, leaning close, placed his head against the king’s chest—like a child seeking comfort from its mother. It was, despite the curious posture, a most poignant gesture.

The next petitioner was not one of Meldryn’s lords, but a bard from a holding in the north, who sought permission to attend a gathering of bards in a neighboring realm. The request was, I learned, a formality observed not so much out of deference to the king, but out of respect for Ollathir—who would be attending the gathering in any case.

The third supplicant was a farmer from Meldryn’s own holding who sought the king’s aid in clearing a patch of bottom land, a process which included draining a bit of marsh. This was clearly beyond the farmer’s capacity as he would need a great deal of help to get the land ready by planting time, which was rapidly approaching.

The king, through his bard, blessed the enterprise—for a modest return in kind—and offered the labor of fifty warriors under the direction of a
Gwyddon
to accomplish the task.

“What’s a Gwyddon?” I asked Simon, when he had explained the situation to me.

“It’s a type of bard. There are several different kinds, degrees actually. From
Penderwydd
—that is the Head Druid, or Chief Bard—on down to
Mabinog
, which is a pupil or apprentice. The Gwyddon is an expert on anything to do with land or cattle; he’s also the nearest thing to a physician around here.”

Wheels within wheels, I thought. Even simple societies had bureaucracies.

The next claimant stepped forward and an audible hush fell upon the throng. Those in the foreranks moved aside from the man; from the way everyone behaved, he appeared to be a criminal. Simon whispered, “This should be good.”

“Who is it?”

“It is Balorgain,” Simon replied with wicked glee. “He is a nobleman of Meldryn Mawr’s lineage. He killed one of Meldryn’s kinsmen in a fight, so he’s been exiled for the last few years.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Watch and see.” Simon’s eyes glinted with keen, almost malevolent interest.

The king regarded the noble with obvious contempt, although for his part I thought Balorgain seemed genuinely contrite. He stood before the king with his hands at his sides. The Chief Bard said something, a question. The man responded in a low voice. I saw the king’s face freeze; the line of mouth flattened; his eyes went hard.

“Balorgain’s got guts, I’ll give him that,” Simon said. “He might have been killed on sight.”

“What’s going on?”

“He has claimed
naud
of the king,” he explained. “It is—”

“I know what it is,” I whispered back. I had encountered the word before: a legal term for asylum, or refuge. Among the ancient Celts, a nobleman had the right to claim naud, or sanctuary, excusing him from a punishment. Interestingly, the claim of naud carried with it a moral obligation on the part of the king to grant it. By some obscure logic, for a monarch to refuse naud when it had been asked would transfer the guilt for the crime to the king.

Apparently, Balorgain had returned and slipped unseen into the court of exile, seeking naud. If granted, the crime would be forgiven and plucky Balorgain would be free to return to life among his people. Of course, Meldryn Mawr, who had decreed the exile in the first place, was not happy about this. But, great king that he was, he simply whispered the words to Ollathir, who pronounced Balorgain’s claim of naud granted. And Balorgain strolled from the hall a free man.

The next few cases were minor disputes between neighboring tribes—the most interesting of which involved an adulterous affair between a married woman from one holding and a single man from another. The complaint was resolved by requiring the single man to reimburse the cuckolded husband to the tune of three cows, or ten sheep, whichever the husband preferred. The wayward wife, however, did not escape punishment. For the husband was granted permission to take a concubine should he ever choose to do so.

Meldryn Mawr seemed to lose interest in the proceedings then and scanned the room for some diversion. His eyes turned to where Simon and I stood waiting. He inclined his head in our direction, and Ollathir beckoned us to the dais.

“That’s us,” breathed Simon. “Here we go.”

Simon led me to the front of the dais. We had no gift, so we did not offer any. The king appeared not to mind. He gazed at me with, I thought, lively curiosity. At least, his bored expression disappeared as he looked me over from head to toe.

As the others had done, Simon introduced us with a brief description of events. At least, I assume that is what he did. The king replied and asked questions. Simon answered briefly. The king nodded, and I thought the matter would end there, for he turned to his Chief Bard and whispered to him. Ollathir listened, surveying me all the while. I expected the king’s pronouncement to follow.