Risa, page 42
Adara was not dissuaded, or softened. “Again I ask, Urien, what threat has Arthur made against you or I?”
“He himself is the threat. His dominion increases every year. Such power feeds on itself, lusting to grow ever greater. You know that. We have both seen it.”
For the first time, mother’s gaze wavered. “Yes.”
“Even the men of the North have been forced to bend their knees and call Arthur king. To the south of us, Mark has sworn his allegiance. Arthur knows our land breeds kings. Why should he leave us alone till one of ours rises to challenge him?”
“Those who know of Arthur do not speak of corruption in him.” Mother spoke steadily, but the certainty of her words was not absolute. Elen remembered her own fears of the strangers and the power that rose behind them. Urien took note of all, and he went down on one knee, leaning close and whispering urgently.
“You know as well as I the tales of how Arthur came to his power. The bones of innocents lie beneath the foundations of Camelot.” Adara looked away. “Yes, I will speak of it. Can you depend on the wolf in his soul remaining leashed and muzzled?”
“Too much power will blight the soul of any man,” said Adara, but without looking at him.
Urien nodded soberly. “This is truth.”
The hall door opened again. Elen recognized her brother’s silhouette against the bright morning light. Behind him followed three men, each tall and well shaped. Arthur’s men. Elen could make no move to warn him, but Yestin had quick eyes, and stopped in his tracks before their guests could approach Adara, turning swiftly. Elen watched him gesturing them toward the trestle tables being set up by the fire, inviting them to break their fast out of earshot of Urien.
Mother’s mouth formed a thin, tight line as she reached her decision. “Very well, Urien. Join us at board tonight. Speak with the men of Camelot and let us see what they have to say to you.”
What! It was all Elen could do to keep the word from bursting out of her. Mother was going to let Urien confront Arthur’s men? What was she thinking? There’d be blood on the stones. She thought again of the crow cawing in the woods. Was it death it foretold?
Urien rose to his feet and bowed, his face calm and serious, completely without the smirk Elen expected to be there. “Thank you, Chwaer.” Sister. The old title of respect between equals. “That is all that I want.”
“Is it?” murmured Mother, although at the same time she nodded her head to Urien.
She said nothing more as Urien walked past the table where Yestin was ensuring that the men from Camelot were served warm food and small beer in the good crockery mugs.
“Wait here, Elen,” said Mother as she got to her own feet. Elen opened her mouth, but Mother waved her to silence. “I know, but I would speak with you and your brother.”
Adara walked down the hall to where her son and guests waited. Elen seethed in frustration at having to keep her place. Arthur’s men had arrived the previous day on their tall, beautiful horses, their bright pennants snapping in the breeze, with Arthur’s scarlet dragon flying over all. That last was brave of them, for in the border cantrevs, there were as many who would lop off their heads for the showing of that pennant as there were who would bow before it.
They’d been given the hospitality of the hall, but Elen still had not gotten a close look at them. They’d kept themselves and their men out of the way all the previous evening. Some thought that was haughtiness. Others thought it was because they were determined not to be too much of a burden to the house. Elen could not tell which was truth, yet. She wanted to see these men. She wanted to hear whether their voices rang true or false, to watch the way they watched the world around them. As it was, all she could see was that as her mother approached, the men rose, and the guests bowed to their hostess. She stood before them, probably making some inquiry about their comfort and whether all was as they would have it. Adara touched her son’s arm, and said something that made the others laugh. Mother beckoned women over with more bread and pitchers of beer, then she returned to her chair, Yestin following behind her.
Adara did not elect to stay in the great hall. Instead, she walked through the small rear door and down the narrow, dark corridor with the stores and extra sleeping quarters that opened on either side. Mother wore a single iron key on her girdle. She used it now to open the lock of an oaken door. The other side was the treasury.
It was a place of sacks and chests, bolts of good cloth, wooden casks, and graceful clay jars and plates that came from as far away as Rome. In the center was a long table of age-darkened oak with only several balances and their weights to clutter its surface. This room sheltered the wealth of the cantrev, and was one of the few places they could speak without being interrupted or overheard.
Yestin closed the door without being told. He was not tall, her brother, but he was broadening to become stocky and strong as their father had been. His beard was dark to match his hair. He dressed simply, in a plain tunic, breeches and sandals, but his wrists were clasped with silver rings to show his rank and honor, and his bearing, if Elen was honest with herself, was becoming such that he did not need such outward show for one to mark that.
Mother sat down on a folding stool. Elen could not help but see how tired she looked. Her swollen hands lay in her lap, useless.
“You may speak now, Elen.” Mother’s tone held no anger, only acknowledgment.
“Why did you do it?” The words burst out of her like water from a broken barrel. “Why invite Urien to the feast?”
“What!” cried Yestin, looking from Elen to Adara.
Adara met her children’s disbelieving gazes calmly. “Because I want to see how Arthur’s men react to him, and he to them. We are in the middle of this game, my children. It is best to see how those to either side will play.”
Yestin swallowed, nervousness showing plain on his face. “You are not truly thinking you’ll side with Urien?”
Mother rubbed her temple, trying to stave off a coming ache, Elen was sure. “I do not want to, but it may be that we have to. We are small here, and we are weak. We cannot ever forget that. If Arthur will not lend us protection, then we must not stand in Urien’s way.”
Elen moved closer to her brother. They’d present a united front in this much. “It’s like we’re choosing which knife to have pointed at our throats. Why does this come to us?”
But she knew why. They all did. The wealth of Pont Cymryd lay not in the number of its kine or the extent of its fields, but in the placement of their land. If one came from the east, they were the last gentle land before the mountains, and the best crossing of the river from the Roman road for miles in either direction. If one came out of the mountains from the west, they were the best way to the enemy, and the river and its bridge would give guard to any retreat.
Mother looked into the distance. Did she see the past, or the future? Adara’s eyes had looked on both before. “Since the Romans left us, we have had no overlord. It was to the benefit of all that the bridge was a neutral passage, and we were careful to deny use of it to no one. But now overlords are rising from among our own, and that time is gone. We must choose a side, or sword and fire will choose it for us.”
Cold settled in Elen’s heart, but it was Yestin who spoke first this time, leaning across the table, planting both hands firmly on its surface. “Mother, what have you seen?”
Adara shook her head. “Nothing beyond what some understanding of the world’s ways have shown me, Yestin, I promise. Should I resort to other means, you will know.
“This is the truth, my children. Arthur is four days’ ride in good weather and does not care to pick a fight. Urien is over the next hill and chafes to break the peace of the countryside. We need to care very deeply what he thinks of us.” She sighed again. “Come next spring, Yestin, you will be married and my place will be yours. That will make some things easier, but I do not know that we can hold off making an alliance until that time comes.”
Yestin straightened up, pulling himself back, ordering his thoughts. A memory struck Elen, of her brother toddling behind her when she was a tiny girl herself, holding on to her skirts to keep upright. It was still startling to her sometimes to see him as the grown man he was, especially since he had come to look so much like their father.
“Winter puts a halt to all matters,” Yestin said. “There are ways to delay while we take good measure of our choices. When the men from Camelot are gone, let us send Seith and Teilo to Urien with gifts and soft words. Let them see what can be learned from him and his men. Some in that house have loose tongues. While they are gone that way, let me go to Caerleon and see this Arthur Pendragon. Let him make his offers in his own house with his own words. By the time we all return, it will be too late in the fall for any matter of treaty or arms to begin. We will know better which way to turn when the spring comes again.”
Mother nodded, and Elen thought she saw relief in Adara’s eyes. What had Urien said to her that Elen had not heard? What else was happening that remained unseen? “There is much sense in what you say, Yestin. What do you say, Elen? You know in any such agreement …”
“I know, Mother. My betrothal will likely be made with this treaty.” The words left her throat dry, but it was as it must be. “Better the future of our house be made by marriage than by the spear.” Her marriage day had been long delayed, and now she thought she knew why. Mother had known the stakes in that game would rise, and she was waiting to see how high they would go before she made the bargain. “Against all expectation, my brother is proving to be a man of sense.” Yestin scowled at her, an expression Elen had known for years, and she smiled back at him. “Let us see them together tonight and then separately over the summer.” She bit her lip. She would marry for the good of her land and her people. She knew that. She was prepared. But still …” W-would it be Urien himself?”
“No,” said her mother firmly. “It need not come to that, thankfully. Urien has another lady.”
“I have never seen any.”
“No. Urien has secrets, and he keeps them close. The name of his lady love is but one.” She got to her feet. “So, let us learn what we can of them, as my son so wisely suggests, and then we will see.” She pulled on her public face, all distance and dignity. “Now to your work, my children. We must not disgrace ourselves this night.”
Elen and Yestin stood aside, letting their mother pass through the door before them. Elen glanced at her brother.
Are Arthur’s men steady? she tried to ask him. Are they true men?
Yestin gave the barest hint of a nod. Elen hoped to find relief, but instead her worry deepened. Honest offers from the high king might only tempt Urien to desperate measures. She thought of his men, the wolf and the toad, and wondered if Urien’s honor could be counted on to hold them and their fellows back.
Fortunately, preparations for that evening’s formal welcome of their guests left Elen little time to dwell on her fears. The good cloths had to be brought from the treasury, shaken, brushed, and sunned. Fresh rushlights had to be prepared and placed. The stock of precious tallow candles had to be assessed and those lights set behind the high table. Their hall had no dais. The high table was wherever the great chair stood. Mother’s old chair was brought out for the first among the guests to sit in.
This was only the beginning. There were the mountains of food to be gathered, cleaned and prepared. Those who tended the outdoor ovens watched the sky anxiously as the clouds gathered, and prayed to the ones who watched the making of bread that the rain would hold off until the feast was safely laid. Barrels of beer had to be brought up from storage and tapped. What wine there was had to be tasted and watered. Cider jugs put in the river to cool had to be retrieved. All the good dishes had to be brought out from the treasury. The boys and girls who would be serving with those dishes had to be washed, combed and dressed, then inspected and, finally, fed so they would not grow faint during what would be a long, slow meal.
After all this, Elen barely had time to dress herself, but it was not something she could neglect. Her appearance was also part of the honor of house and cantrev. She had the unmarried-women’s quarters to herself as she put on her good dress of white wool trimmed with deep blue ribbons embroidered with a complex pattern of waves and knots. She belted the dress with a girdle that was similarly embroidered and tipped with two hollow silver balls that rang pleasantly when she moved. She took her black hair from its customary braids and combed it down until it flowed freely across her shoulders, and settled a bronze circlet chased with images of birds on her brow.
Last, she clasped her cuffs about her wrists. These were part of the wealth of the family, loan had brought them into the house when he married Adara, and Elen would take them with her when she went to her husband’s house. They were cunningly worked into a chain of silver dancing women holding a knotted ribbon of gold. Garnets flashed in the women’s flowing hair and topaz made their eyes.
They were beautiful things and Elen always enjoyed the chance to wear them, but today she felt as if she were a warrior girding herself for battle. She hoped she looked well. She felt that she did. They would show these strangers a rich and honorable house. They would show Urien they were not to be intimidated or overwhelmed.
The door flew open and slender Dicra, also in her best woolen dress, hurried in.
“My lady Adara bids you come. It is time.”
Elen drew her shoulders back and picked up her hems so they would not drag in the dirt of the floor. It was time to welcome the guests, welcome the future and all it held.
The long hall was full to the brim by the time Elen arrived. All three fires were lit, as well as the rushlights and stout candles. The head men and women of the cantrev stood before the tables and benches along the walls. Their ornaments of bronze and silver glistened in the bright light. They all contrived to look stern and dignified, even ancient Daere, who was bent almost double over her walking stick. Mother sat at the high table clad in a dress of brilliant green embroidered with yellow knot work. Its sleeves nearly covered her ravaged hands. Golden rings flashed on her fingers where they showed beneath the cloth. A cloak of beaver fur hung from her shoulders and a band of woven silver studded with garnets the size of Elen’s thumbnail circled her throat. Another silver band held back the braid of her gray hair. She looked entirely the mistress of house and land and ready to turn back the spring flood with the merest glance.
Urien waited at the foot of the table, combed, washed, cloaked and looking stern, but not overly so. He appeared ready to allow the welcome to proceed without interference. Still, his presence unnerved Elen, and she was torn between the desire to look away, and the desire to watch him closely for any sign of mischief.
Elen took her place to her mother’s left, and glanced to Carys. Her sister-to-be looked fine in her gown of rich blue. She stepped up at once and passed Elen the carved tray that held three of the silver wine cups. The fourth waited before Mother. Adara watched Elen with a keen but cheerful eye. Over her head, Yestin gave Elen a quick and sardonic smile, and Elen found herself returning a smile of her own. Yestin, his young man’s beard combed and clean, was all in blue for this ceremony, with a cloak of black bear’s skin covering his shoulders pinned with a gold brooch in the shape of a running mare. A belt of bronze and silver circled his waist, but it supported no sword. The only sword in the hall for such a feast was now hanging beside her father’s shield, and it was a great, gilded weapon sufficient to carry in sacred ceremonies, for treaties and weddings. Should a formal agreement come between their people and Arthur, Yestin would carry that sword to the table where the bargain would be struck. Now it was just one more reminder of their history and honor. Elen felt the strength of her pride supporting her. Her family was with her, their people surrounded them. Together they could face anything that might come.
Mother inclined her head. At the far end of the hall, square-built Rob pulled open the great door, and the three messengers from Camelot entered, followed by their train of men and boys. These stayed at the rear of the hall while the messengers approached the high table with long, martial strides. They all of them dressed in leather jerkins covered over with silver rings. Madder-red cloaks hung from their shoulders and were clasped with gold at their throats. In perfect time with one another, they knelt before Adara, bowing their heads in formal greeting. Mother nodded again, and Elen, moving carefully so as not to spill the wine, circled the table to bring them the guest cups.
“Let me bid you welcome, my lords,” said her mother as Elen reached them. “Please, do you rise and accept the hospitality of this house.”
Finally, Elen was able to satisfy her burning curiosity and look closely on these men.
The senior among them was called Bedivere. Some adventure or accident had taken his right hand above the wrist, but he accepted the cup neatly with the one that remained to him. While his hair and beard had gone winter-gray, his brown eyes were still keen, taking in every detail of their hall. His back and shoulders were both broad and straight. He was said to be one of Arthur’s ten champions, who were his high council. Their cantrev might be small, it might even be weak, but the High King was not treating it so. That alone made Elen incline toward hearing well what these men had to say.
She offered the next cup to the man on Bedivere’s right. He was Kynon, and was brown-skinned, hawk-nosed and brown-haired, and had come, gossip said, from Dinas Pwyl. She had heard him in the yard as she’d rushed to and fro, swapping jokes with the men, speaking flawlessly with no trace of eastern accent to his words.
“Many thanks, my lady,” he said now as he took the cup.
The man to Bedivere’s left was the youngest. He was Geraint, one of Arthur’s four nephews. He was a lean, tall man, with a knight’s strong hands and arms. His black hair waved back from a high brow and deep blue eyes. His skin was fair beneath the tanning wind and sun had laid on. He said nothing as he took the remaining cup, but he bowed his head to show his thanks.
