The tale is a long one – I would have chosen differently had I known I would be the one to sing it – but when I finished, the gathering seemed to sit an equally long time in silence. I could hear the soft flaring of the torches and the crackle of flames in the great firepit, and I was aware of all those dark Demetae and Siluri eyes on me.
I turned to my mother and saw a strange, rapt look on her face, her eyes glistening in the light… tears?
Slowly, the hall came back to life, as if from a sleep of enchantment. I did not dare sing again and no one asked me. Maelwys got to his feet and approached me. In full hearing of all present he said, 'No bard has ever sung so well and truly in my hearing, save one only. Once that bard came to this house and after hearing him sing I offered him my tore of gold. He did not take it, but gave me something instead – the name I wear today.' He smiled, remembering. 'That bard was your father, Taliesin.'
He raised his hands to his neck and removed his tore. 'Now I offer the tore to you. Take it, if you will, for your song and for the memory of the one whose place you have taken this night.'
I did not know what to think. 'As my father did not accept your generous gift, it is not right that I should do so.'
'Then tell me what you will accept and I will give you that.' The lords of Dyfed watched me with interest.
I looked to my mother for help, thinking to see some expression or gesture to tell me what to do. But she only gazed at me with the same wonder as the others. 'Your kindness,' I began, 'to my people is worth more to me than lands or gold. As it is, I remain in your debt, Lord Maelwys.'
He smiled with great satisfaction, embraced me and returned to his place at the board. I gave the harp to Hafgan then and walked quickly from the hall, full to bursting with thoughts and emotions and straining to contain them and make sense of them.
Hafgan found me a little while later as I stood in the darkened courtyard, shivering, for the night was cold and I had forgotten my cloak. He gathered me under his robe and we stood together for a long time without speaking.
'What does it mean, Hafgan?' I said at last. 'Tell me, if you can.'
I thought he would not answer. Without turning his face from his contemplation of the star-strewn sky, Hafgan said, 'Once, when I was a young man, I stood in a circle of stones and saw a great and terrible sign in the heavens: a fall of stars like a mighty fire poured out from on high.
'Those stars were lighting your way to us, Myrddin Emrys.' He smiled at my reaction: Emrys is the divine epithet. 'Do not wonder that I call you Emrys, for from now on men will begin to recognize you.'
'You have done this, Hafgan,' I replied, my voice tight with accusation, for because of his words I felt the happiness of my childhood slipping away from me and tasted ashes in my mouth.
'No,' he said gently, 'I have done only what has been required of me, only what has been given me to do.'
I shivered, but not with cold now. 'I understand none of this,' I said miserably.
'Perhaps not, but soon you will. It is enough for now that you accept what I tell you.'
'What will happen, Hafgan? Do you know?'
'Only in part. But do not worry. All will become clear to you in time. Wisdom will be given when wisdom is required, courage when courage is required. All things are given in their season.' He lapsed into silence again and I studied the heavens with him, hoping to see something that would answer the storm in my soul. I saw only the cold-orbed stars swinging through their distant courses, and I heard the night wind singing around the tiled eaves of the villa and felt the emptiness of one cut off and alone.
Then we went inside and I slept in the bed where 1 was born.
Nothing more was said about what had taken place in Maelwys' hall – at least, not in my presence. I have no doubi others talked of it, if they talked of nothing else. It was a mercy to me not to have to answer for it.
We left Maridunum three days later. Maelwys would have accompanied us, but affairs of court prevented him. He, like some others, had once again adopted the custom of the kings of old: ringing his lands with hillforts and moving through his realm with his retinue, holding court in one hillfort after another in circuit.
He bade us farewell and would hear nothing from us but our promise to visit Maridunum on our return. Thus, we set out once more, riding north, following the old Roman track through the rising, heathered hills.
We saw eagles and red deer, wild pigs and foxes in abundance, a few wolves in the high places, and once a black bear. Several of the warband had brought hunting hounds and these were given the chase so that we did not lack for fresh meat at night. The days were getting warmer; but though the sun shone bright and there was little rain, the high country remained cool. A crackling fire kept away the night chill and a day in the saddle assured a sound sleep.
How can I describe coming into Caer Dyvi? It was not my home – certainly, I had never set eyes on those rugged hills and tree-lined valleys. But the sense of homecoming was so strong in me that I sang for joy and rode fit to break my neck up the seacliff track to the ruined settlement.
We approached from the south on the sea side. Blaise had described the place to me in detail on the way, and I had heard my grandfather talk about it so often that I felt I knew the place as well as anyone born there. That was part of it; the other part may have been Hafgan's pleasure at seeing his home, though for him, as for Blaise, this was tempered with sadness.
I could feel nothing sorrowful about the place. High on the promontory overlooking the estuary and the sea to the west, and surrounded by dense woods to the east and high, rocky hills to the north, it seemed too peaceful a haven – like Ynys Avallach in its own way – to hold any sorrow, despite the unhappy events that had taken place there. Indeed, the jawless skull I saw half-buried in the long grass testified to the grim desperation of Caer Dyvi's final hours. Our warrior escort was subdued, respecting the spirits of the fallen and, after a brief inspection, returned to the horses.
The caer was uninhabited, of course, but the ribbed remains of Elphin's great hall and sections of the timber palisade above the ditch were still standing, along with the walls and foundations of some of the stone granaries. I was surprised at how small it seemed; I suppose I was used to Caer Cam and Ynys Avallach. But that it would have been a secure and comfortable settlement, I had no doubt.
Charis strolled among the grass-grown ruins, musing deeply on her private thoughts. I did not have the heart to intrude, even to ask what she was thinking. I knew that it had to do with my father. No doubt she was remembering something he had told her of his youth there, picturing him in it, feeling his presence.
Hafgan, too, wished to be alone, which was plain enough to see. So I tramped around after Blaise, inspecting this place and that, listening as he rediscovered his former home. He told me stories I had never heard before, little things concerning incidents that had happened at one place or another in the caer.
'Why did no one ever return?' I asked. The country appeared perfectly peaceful and secure.
Blaise sighed and shook his head. 'Ah, there was not a man among us who did not yearn to come back – no one more than Lord Elphin.'
'Then why not?'
'That is not easy to explain.' He paused. 'You have to understand that this whole region was overrun by the enemy. Not Caer Dyvi alone – the Wall, the garrisons at Caer Seiont, Luguvalium, Eboracum, everything. Never did men fight better or with more courage, but there were too many. It was death to stay.