Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Adventure, #Historical, #fantasy
He turned away quickly and hurried to join the festive crowd trooping up to the caer. I followed reluctantly, all at once a little uncertain of my reception. Simon’s words reminded me how much a stranger I was after all. I bluffed away my uneasiness by scrutinizing the premises.
Two higher timber walls extended out from the towering palisade. The track passed between these walls before reaching the gate, forming a perilous bottleneck for any attacking force. Though black with age, the timbers were stout and in excellent repair—a secure haven for a powerful monarch.
We passed through the tall timber gate and emerged onto a flat, grass-covered yard, large enough to hold an army. All along the perimeter of the yard stood low round stone houses with steep thatched roofs. Some of these houses were larger than others, but most were small, little more than sleeping quarters, I surmised. I also saw among the houses two large oblong structures, and, from the smoke rising through the central smoke hole, I guessed that these were cookhouses containing the kitchens and ovens and firepits.
Across this yard rose the high-peaked golden thatch of the king’s hall: a massive barn of a building, easily dwarfing all surrounding it, made of oak beams and stone infill. The chinks were stuffed with green and orange moss, giving the walls a peculiar velvety appearance. Two doors large enough for horsemen to ride through two abreast stood open; and, before the doors, two great stone pillars from the top of which flamed two fires in huge iron baskets. The surface of the pillars were graven top to bottom with the most fantastically intricate designs—the heads and bodies of birds and beasts interlaced in endlessly elaborate knots and whorls.
We assembled in the yard before the fire pillars, where we were greeted by a happy throng of the king’s subjects and by the king himself, no less, in a handsome chariot. He appeared at the far end of the yard and drove toward the throng, the spokes of the chariot wheels glinting and the plumed heads of the matched team of black horses tossing proudly as he came. From the moment he stepped down from the chariot platform, I could not take my eyes off him. Authority and dominance streamed from him; he moved with supreme confidence and self-possession—a mountain anchored to the center of the earth could not be more secure. His mere physical presence was a command: honor me; obey me.
Meldryn Mawr—his name meant Golden Warrior, as near as I could work out in my rudimentary Celt, and the epithet “Mawr” designated him “Great”—a great golden warrior king, much revered and honored among his people. And golden he was: the flashing torc on his neck was made from three thick strands of braided gold; his belt was a glimmering sash of golden disks woven in a cunning fish-scale pattern; his well-muscled arms sported wide rings of red gold in the shape of entwined serpents with glowing eyes of ruby; his cloak was yellow, with white emblems and edgework, shot through with threads of gold; the sword at his hip was gold-hilted. Behind the king stood a youth, bearing a round white shield, with a rim and center boss of white gold, and a long spear with a blade of burnished gold.
To observe this great king was to gaze upon the sun. His radiance dazzled and his magnificence burned. He was exquisite and awesome in his splendor: fair-haired, his long locks gathered in a manly queue, his mustache full and flowing, his dark eyes calm and grave. Meldryn Mawr’s features displayed his noble bloodline: high handsome forehead, straight nose, firm jaw and chin, straight dark brows, and bold cheekbones.
And when he opened his mouth to speak, the voice that issued forth was the voice of a very god—deep and mellifluous, tinged with warmth and humor, and bold in the strength of its authority. I had no doubt that such a voice, when raised in anger, could command the very elements themselves. But then, I had not yet heard his Chief Bard, Ollathir, speak.
The king’s bard stood close at his right hand, but a half step behind. Like Ruadh, the Chief Bard wore a simple garb of dun brown, although his cloak was rich purple and his brooch was gold, and he wore a slender torc of gold also. He was a tall, dour-looking man, who, alone among the citizens of the caer, seemed to have any age at all: not old, certainly not elderly, but possessing that air of immense gravity and dignity which sometimes comes to men of august age. Proud and solemn and wise, Ollathir stood serene beside the king, every inch as regal and imposing as any monarch. I had no doubt that here, truly, stood a champion among bards.
The king made a level, sweeping motion with his arm and the assembly fell silent. He spoke briefly; every now and then a word or two sounded familiar to me, and I guessed that he was issuing words of welcome. And then Prince Meldron approached; the two clasped one another’s arms and embraced. The prince said something and turned to indicate the warrior band, whereupon the prince’s bard stepped up before the king and, placing a fold of his cloak over his head, began singing loudly in a strange, jerky chant.
I saw Simon standing nearby, so, as unobtrusively as possible, I sidled closer. “What’s going on?” I whispered.
“Ruadh is reciting the battle for the king,” Simon answered.
“What does he know about it? He wasn’t there,” I said. “Neither of them showed up until it was over.”
“Of course they were there. They watched the whole thing from the hilltop.”
“What’s he saying?”
“He’s telling the king and the people that we are brave and invincible, that courage flows in our veins, that we are bears in battle—that sort of thing.” He paused and the bard chanted some more. “Now he’s describing the battle itself—what kind of day it was, the glen where it took place, how many enemy there were, all that.”
I nodded. “I see.” The bard chanted a good while longer and then stopped. The king spoke again, holding up his hands in a proclamatory way. “Now what’s happening?”
“The king is declaring his honor restored, thanks to the admirable deeds of his warriors. He is calling for a feast to be held in our honor.”
I liked the sound of that. I was hungry from walking all day. “Outstanding!” I whispered. “Lead me to it.”
“The feast is tomorrow,” Simon informed me sourly. “Tonight we rest.”
Accordingly, after little more than a bit of bread and a swig of warm beer taken where we stood, we all shuffled off to bed. Those warriors who had wives and families went to their homes; the remainder of us found other places. Simon and I made our way to one of three long, low-roofed buildings—the Warriors’ Houses, he called them—to wrap ourselves in woolen cloaks and lie upon pallets of fresh straw.
In the soft darkness, which ebbed and flowed with the sea swell of the warriors’ breathing, I have seldom felt so sheltered and secure as I did that night, nor known so rich and deep a rest. Within the walls of the Great King’s stronghold, among men who would give blood and life for one another without hesitation, I slept. And I woke before dawn, thinking:
What would I give to wake among such men always?
W
ith daylight the caer leaped to life. The soft night faded in a fiery dawn, and Sycharth’s inhabitants shook off their languor and hastened to prepare the feast which their king had proclaimed. Simon had disappeared, and I didn’t feel like sitting alone in the Warriors’ House. So, wrapped in my borrowed cloak, I wandered where I would, making myself familiar with the lay of the land.
Wherever I looked I saw someone—man, woman, or child— bustling about some task. There was not an idle hand anywhere, except mine. No one gave me anything to do, or even seemed to take notice of me—although I caught some of the children gawking at me.
Sycharth was even larger than I first thought, sheltering perhaps a thousand people. There were three main sections: one of storehouses and granaries, one of livestock pens, one of artisans’ and craftsmen’s quarters. And, scattered throughout, the dwelling places of the inhabitants, huddled together in random clusters, usually three or more around a central cookhouse or kitchen. Threads of silvery smoke wafted up through the reed thatch of the cookhouses; the smells seeping into the air made my empty stomach grumble.
Every corner of the caer pulsed with sound and activity: from the dull chunk of wood being chopped to the sharp squeal of pigs being slaughtered, and always, everywhere, the voices of the laborers lifted in song—the fortress itself seemed to sing with a cheerful tumult. I meandered here and there, sampling the happy sounds, my fondness for the uncluttered simplicity of life in the caer growing with every step.
There were no streets as such, just a tangle of narrow lanes lacing several wider pathways together. All of the wider pathways were lined with a triple track of dressed stone, which at first puzzled me, until I tumbled to the fact that in seasons of rain the hooves of horses and the wheels of wagons would sink into the mud without this simple paving.
The various structures appeared to be in excellent repair; the livestock pens were full of fat pigs, sheep, and cattle; the artisans’ huts were well stocked with goods—all indicating an industrious and prosperous tribe. Even after the most casual perusal, I could well believe Simon’s boast that the Llwyddi were the preeminent clan in the land.
This informal survey of the caer occupied me until well past midmorning. Then my growling stomach got the better of me, and I returned to the Warriors’ House to find Simon waiting for me— somewhat nervously. “Where have you been?” he demanded.
“Nowhere,” I told him. “Just out walking around.”
He turned and retrieved a bundle from a nearby pallet. This he placed in my hands, saying, “Put these on and be quick about it.”
I untied the bundle and unfolded a pale blue shirt, a pair of dark green trousers with thin red stripes, a brown woven cloth belt, and a pair of the short, soft leather boots, or buskins, which the Llywddi wore. Every item was new and finely made. Glad to be free of my own filthy trousers, I shucked them off and prepared to pull on the new ones.
“The underpants too,” Simon intoned. “Get rid of them.”
“But—” I hesitated.
“They’ll only make you miserable. Anyway, you don’t need them.”
Dubiously, I discarded my boxer shorts. True, I hadn’t had a change of underpants for days, so it was no great loss; but I doubted Simon’s assertion that I wouldn’t need them. I was also a little sorry to see my good hiking shoes go. The soft boots, or buskins, looked comfortable enough, but I knew I’d miss a stout arch and good, hard sole.
Neither the shirt nor the trousers had buttons or laces of any kind, so Simon showed me how to wrap the long shirtwaist and cinch the trousers with the wide belt, which he wound around my middle twice and tied in front. The shirt and trousers—
siarc
and
breecs
, according to Simon—were on the billowy side, but the buskins fit as if they had been made to order for me.
When I’d finished, Simon stepped back and gave me a critical once-over. He pronounced the effect acceptable, if not exactly sartorially stunning. “That’s better. You’ll do.”
Then he took up another bundle and shook out a bright orange cloak, which he proceeded to arrange about my shoulders. “You fold it like this,” he said, showing me how it was done. “Then you pin it to hold it in place . . . like so.” He passed a crude bronze pin through the folds at my left shoulder. “Sorry about the brooch.”
“That’s all right. I don’t mind.”
“Thing is, if you want a better one you have to earn it. Brooches are a sign of rank around here—the same with torcs and most other baubles.”
“Gold for kings, silver for princes, copper for chieftains, and so on,” I replied, reciting a bit of Celtic lore.
“That’s right,” he said with a satisfied nod, “but there are many subtle degrees having to do with size, design, workmanship, and so on. It isn’t difficult; you’ll catch on.”
“Simon,” I said seriously, “how do you know so much?” This question had been simmering at the back of my brain ever since I had clapped eyes on Simon on the battlefield. I had not been able to put words to it until just now. “How have you managed it in such a short time?”
He raised one quizzical eyebrow. “What
are
you babbling about?”
“Well, look at you—you’re a warrior, you’ve fought in battles, you know everything about life here, you speak the language like a native. How is that possible? You’ve only been here a couple months.”
“I have been with Clan Llwydd four years,” Simon responded solemnly.
“Four years! You can’t—” I began, and stopped short. Time in the Otherworld was not the same as time in the real world. Each world marked time differently, and there was no correspondence between them at all. Minutes might be years, years might be hours, might be decades, might be seconds, might be centuries. Who could tell?
This was a fact well documented in the literature of folklore, but I had not fully credited it until now. I felt a pang of dread at the thought that time was passing independently on the other side. What would await us when we returned?
Simon puckered his lips irritably. “Now what’s wrong?”
Thrusting my anxiety aside, I grinned back at him. “Nothing. I feel like a real Celt now,” I said. “This is great.”
“Glad you think so.”
I caught a slight undercurrent of waspishness to his words. “Why? What’s up?”
“The king is holding court today, and he wants to see you.”