A Moment in Time

Chapter 7

In introducing Wynne to lovemaking, Madoc had opened a whole new world for her. It was a world in which she was completely comfortable. It was a world that she enjoyed more fully than he would have thought possible. She was an apt pupil in the arts of Eros. Indeed, she wanted to give him as much pleasure as he was giving her. As each day passed he could see her genuine love for him growing, along with her passion for him. That knowledge tore at Madoc, for despite all Wynne strove to give him, it would not be enough unless she could remember that fatal moment in time that had set the course of their mutual destinies.

January passed. Then February. In mid-March the springtime burst upon them and the hills were bright with colorful blooms. Wynne sensed his rising despair. "I did not come to Raven's Rock to make you unhappy, Madoc," she told him one evening as they lay together. "I came to be your cherished wife. Yet my very presence, for all our passion, breaks your heart. I can bear no more of it, my love!" She pushed back an errant lock of her raven's black hair. Her face was even paler than usual. "I have tried to remember, but I cannot! It is as if something is preventing me and I know not why. You cannot tell me what it is that binds us together you say; but I must still know if we are to be happy. Help me, Madoc! Help me to remember that other time since I seem so unable to do so myself.

Madoc sighed deeply and then he looked up into her beautiful face. "I will blend a special packet of herbs for you, dearling. When you are ready to make your journey in time, Wynne, mix them in a goblet of wine and drink it down. You will fall into a deep sleep. The herbs in the wine will free your mind to remember that past which you and I shared. The wine will relax you so that you have no fear."

"Have we not shared more than one past together, Madoc?" she gently pressed him. Now that her decision was made, some deeper instinct was stirring within her.

He nodded in the affirmative. "We have."

"Why now and not before?" she wondered aloud.

"God has a great sense of both justice and humor, Wynne. The timing was never quite right. This is the first time we have been lovers since then."

She nodded and then asked him, "How can I be certain that I will remember that particular life which seems to trouble you so greatly?"

"Because that is the life that you wish to remember, dearling," he told her. "That is the door which will open for you. It is as simple as that."

"How long will I sleep, my lord?" She pushed nervously at her hair again.

"A few hours. A few days," he told her quietly. "It depends upon how much you choose to remember."

"I would know everything, Madoc," she told him resolutely. "Though I believe the past is best left behind, I can see that the pain of that past will not leave you until I have relived it, though I do not understand why. Still, I will do it for you because I love you! I want us to get on with the lives we now live. There is so much ahead for us to share, my love!"

"Pray God you are right, Wynne!" he cried wholeheartedly and, reaching up, he drew her down into his gentle embrace.

She snuggled against him for a moment and then said, "I will not get lost in time, Madoc, will I?" It seemed to be her one great fear.

"Nay, darling," he promised her. "You will only sleep. Your lovely body will remain precisely where you lay it down. You will awaken when you choose to awaken. You need have no terrors over it."

"Is there anything else that I need to know?" she fretted.

"Nothing." He paused and finally said, "When do you wish to do this thing?"

"Not for a few days' time, but blend your herbs, Madoc, for there will come one moment in which I shall be braver than in any other moment. It is then I will depart on this adventure, so be prepared."

He seemed relieved by her answer, a fact that Wynne found intriguing. Her curiosity was now more aroused than it had been before. He loved her. Of that Wynne had no doubt. Yet despite his love for her, despite that undeniable fact, Madoc was suddenly showing signs of fear; he obviously wanted her to go upon this journey in time. What was it that she would learn? It was a puzzle that was beginning to fascinate her more now than it had before.

During the next few days Wynne rested and studied with Madoc in his high tower chamber. His knowledge of ancient Celtic medicine simply astounded her, and he willingly passed on to her a great deal of this valuable knowledge. It was unfortunate that some of that lore would be useless to her because many of the ingredients, once so easily available for the taking, could no longer be found growing. They had simply disappeared. They were irreplaceable, of course, because no one knew with what to replace them in the formulae.

Once there had been a special parasitic mistletoe that grew only upon the sacred oaks so beloved of the Celts. It had been used for healing serious cancers, but the mistletoe now available was not the same plant that had been used in those long gone days. That particular growth, Madoc told her, had been lost along with their sacred hosts when the Romans, and those other conquerors of the island of Britain who followed after them, viciously destroyed the oaks in an effort to wipe out the Celtic culture.

Madoc would have taught Wynne certain forms of spells and bindings, but she would not let him. His special knowledge was a great temptation that she feared she might be unable to control. Wynne knew that if she had Madoc's knowledge of sorcery, no matter her good intentions, she might one day lose her temper and do a harm she might later regret and be unable to undo. She remembered a fairy tale her grandmother used to tell about an unhappy queen, stepmother to four beautiful children, the three sons and the daughter of a king called Lir. Jealous, the queen had used her knowledge of magic to turn the children into swans. Quickly regretting her hasty actions, the queen found she could not undo her spell, and her husband died brokenhearted.

There were other dangers in Madoc's knowledge. It made his neighbors and those who did not know him well fearful of him. If her own learning extended too far past mere medicine, and word of it got out, which it always did, she might attract the attention of those who would seek to use and control her for their own wicked purposes. As it was, there were some, particularly in the Church, who would feel her knowledge was too great for a woman. Women like that were always a danger. She had the children she would bear Madoc to consider. She must walk a fine line.

The weather had turned warm, perhaps too warm for late March. Wynne fretted that there would be no flowering branches with which to decorate the Great Hall of Raven's Rock when their wedding day arrived. She grumbled about this to Madoc as they rode out over the hills one afternoon, and he laughed.

"The warmth is but a brief thing, dearling. It will storm by nightfall and turn cool, I promise. There will be more than enough flowers and flowering branches when May first arrives," he assured her.

"If it gets too cold the buds will be frosted and ruined," she grumbled.

"There will be no frost," he replied.

"You are certain?" she demanded.

"I am," he chuckled. "Like Nesta, I am sensitive to the weather. It will rain for the next few days, I promise you."

"Then perhaps tonight," Wynne told him, "I will begin my journey in time."

"So soon, my dearling?" His blue eyes bespoke his distress.

"Madoc," Wynne said in the severe tone of a mother reasoning with an unruly child, "You want me to go, and then you do not want me to go! I no longer care! I do this for you. Tell me yea or nay, now! Then we will have no more of it!"

"You must go," he finally agreed, "though I fear your return even more than your going."

Wynne reached out and took his hand in hers. "I love you, Madoc of Powys. What has been done is done for me. It is the present and the future that I love and reach out for; not a past that seems to haunt you so."

"I pray it be so, dearling," he said squeezing her hand.

"Though I must do this alone, Madoc, I ask of one thing of you," Wynne said softly.

"Anything!" he vowed.

"Be there when I awaken, my lord. Let your dear face be the first thing that I see when my eyes open once again upon this time and this place," she replied.

"I will be there, my love! I swear it!" he told her, and she was startled to see tears in his beautiful blue eyes.

Wynne reached out and touched his face with her hand, comforting him as best she could. Though the past meant nothing to her now, she had to learn the truth of what had once been between them for both their sakes. The sadness his face had taken on unnerved her. What was so awful that he feared for her to know it, and yet insisted that she did? "Let us hurry home, my lord, for I feel my nerve beginning to waver, yet go on this journey in time I must!"

When they returned to Raven's Rock, Wynne kissed Madoc in such a way that he knew she was saying her farewell to him. He could not remain within their apartments, and fled to his tower for comfort. Megan had prepared her mistress's bath, and Wynne bathed quickly, donning a soft silk chamber robe in her favorite grass-green, which was lined in an equally soft rabbit's fur. Megan was instructed to pour her lady a goblet of sweet wine. Wynne mixed Madoc's herbs into it.

"Go to my lord, Megan," Wynne told the girl, "and say that I have taken his sleeping mixture. When I awaken I shall know all. Remind him also of his promise to me." Then lifting the goblet, Wynne immediately drained it. She handed the vessel to Megan and lay back upon her pillows.

Almost at once her eyes felt abnormally heavy. Her entire being seemed to be sinking, but before she could even consider being fearful, Wynne fell into a deep slumber. She felt as if she were falling, falling, falling; and yet there was now a weightlessness to her body. She wanted to open her eyes, but she could not. There was no sound. It was as if she floated within a great nothingness. I want to know! she thought desperately. I must know what it is that binds me to, yet separates me from Madoc! I must know!

Then suddenly above her a raven cried. Remember! Remember! About her a faint mauve mist blew like pieces of shredded silk gauze, obscuring her vision. Then all at once the mists were gone. Wynne found herself in a thick woods. A voice was calling to her, and yet it was not she who answered-or was it? She could feel her own life force ebbing, even as another life force surged forward; but she was not afraid.

"Rhiannon! Rhiannon, where are you?!"

"Over here, Angharad. Oh, come and look! Do come!"

Angharad, catching sight of her elder sister at last, prodded her mount through the trees to the edge of the dark green and gold forest where Rhiannon sat upon her own horse, peering intently through the trees. "What is so interesting that you would not answer me?" she demanded. Though younger than her sister, Angharad had always felt older, wiser, and protective of her beauteous elder sibling.

Rhiannon pointed with a slender finger.

Sapphire-blue eyes followed her sister's delicate direction. Angharad stared for a moment, and then she said in a disappointed tone, "It is only a party of Cymri huntsmen, Rhiannon. There is nothing particularly fascinating about them."

"Not all of them, silly," Rhiannon admonished her sister. "Him! Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed. Is he not the most beautiful creature that you have ever seen in all of your existence?"

Angharad looked again and, seeing nothing she thought unusual, she wrinkled her pretty nose. "He is Cymri," she repeated, as if that explanation should be enough for her sister's understanding.

"Ohhh, look!" the besotted Rhiannon cried out. "He is dancing upon the mound! Is he not amusing, sister?"

"He's drunk with mead," replied Angharad pointedly, "or else he would not dare to do it. The Cymri believe that those mounds are entries into the worlds below the earth. What foolish beings they are. I've heard it said that they think if they tread even accidentally upon those grassy hillocks that they will invite enchantment. What silliness!"

"Pwyll," called one of the huntsmen to the dancer. "Come down off that damned mound! Are ye courting trouble then, man? Ye'll bring a curse upon us all!"

“ 'Tis naught but superstitious nonsense," laughed Pwyll bravely. "Come and join me, Taran! Or is the victorious warrior of a hundred battles afraid of the fairies?"

"I am not afraid of the fairies," laughed Taran good-naturedly, "but I'm also not drunk enough to be foolish."

From her hiding place Rhiannon's eyes twinkled mischievously and she giggled. Turning to her younger sister, she said, "I think that the beautiful Prince of Dyfed lacks a proper respect, Angharad. Perhaps I can instill it in him."

"What are you going to do, Rhiannon?" demanded Angharad. "The Cymri are best avoided."

"Stay right where you are, little one. As your elder, I am responsible for you. You may watch me, however," came the gay reply as Rhiannon moved her horse forward out of the shelter of the trees. She spurred her mount gently forward into the clearing where the men were gathered, but the creature's dainty hooves made no sound as they touched the ground.

Taran saw her first as she appeared from amid the tangle of woods that surrounded the little area where he and his companions had stopped to eat and drink. His mouth fell open with surprise. Speechless, he could do nothing more than raise a hand and point. Amazed that their usually voluble companion had been rendered silent, Pwyll and the others followed the direction of that shaking finger to find themselves equally stunned.

At first they were not even certain what it was they saw glittering and shimmering as it came toward them. Was it some trick of the light amid the delicate leaves of the golden beech trees and the sturdier quivering branches of the deep green pines? Was it their half-drunken state that made them imagine that they were seeing something? Was it magic of some sort that they were witnessing? Then gradually their confused eyes perceived a young girl upon her horse.

There wasn't a man in that clearing who did not think that the girl was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. A tall, slender maiden with a serene face, mounted upon a dainty black mare with an elegant high step, whose bejeweled red leather bridle tinkled with the sound of tiny silver bells. The girl's heart-shaped face was framed by a mass of thick hair which seemed to be spun of gold and silver mixed together. It poured down her back in a rippling wave, spreading itself out over the shining dark flanks of the horse. Her gown was a pearlescent garment that appeared to have been spun from cobwebs and moonbeams. It floated about her. Her beautiful, delicate hands with their slender, bejeweled fingers rested quietly upon the reins. She seemed to be almost one with her mare. Eyes focused ahead of her on some unseen path, she did not once look toward the huntsmen as she trotted by and vanished on the opposite side of the clearing into the forest as silently and as mysteriously as she had come forth from it.

Open-mouthed, they stared after her. Then Pwyll managed to recover and called to a young huntsman, "Gwyr! Follow her! Quickly! I would know who that lady is, and where she goes."

Galvanized into action by the sound of Pwyll's voice, the young huntsman raced to his horse and dashed off after the beautiful girl.

As they watched him go, Taran said, "I think we may have seen some magical creature from another realm, my lord. Perhaps you should not have danced upon the mound."

"Aye, 'tis magic we have seen this afternoon, my lord," spoke up another of the prince's friends, Evan ap Rhys. "I hope you have not offended one of the Fair Folk."

"The Fair Folk are not to be feared," Pwyll tried to reassure his men. "They are our friends."

"They are different from us, Pwyll," replied Taran. "Oh, I know you have had dealings with them before and all has been well; but none of us knows where they live, or even how they live. They simply appear and disappear at will. They are prosperous, and yet do any of us know how they come by their wealth? Such lack of knowledge makes me uncomfortable with the Fair Folk."

"Have you ever known the Fair Folk to do anyone a serious harm?" Pwyll countered.

Taran shook his head. "Nay," he admitted, "I have not."

" 'Tis more than we can say for our more familiar neighbors," Evan ap Rhys muttered.

The huntsmen returned home, and later that evening, as they feasted in Pwyll's hall, Gwyr arrived tired, dirty, and soaked through with the rain which was now falling outside. The young man was given a juicy piece of venison on a trencher of bread and a goblet of wine. His companions waited politely for him to finish his meal, that they might learn of his adventure.

Finally restored, Gwyr put down his goblet and said to Pwyll, "I regret, my lord prince, that I could not catch up with the lady."

"Was her horse so swift then?" demanded Pwyll.

Gwyr shook his head, and his glance was a troubled one. "I kept the lady in my sight for some time, but no matter how fast I drove my own horse onward, I could not catch up with her. She, however, appeared to neither slow nor hurry her beast. Then suddenly she was simply no longer there, yet I cannot recall seeing her disappear. I do not understand it, my lord," he finished with a helpless shrug.

" 'Tis magic he has witnessed," Taran said quietly.

"What magic?" The query came from the girl who was seated next to Pwyll. "What are you talking about? You have all been so mysterious since your return from the hunt this afternoon. You must tell all!" She smiled winningly up at Pwyll, her eyes soft and alluring.

"There is little to tell, Bronwyn," Pwyll replied. "We saw an extraordinary lovely girl in the forest today, and I sent Gwyr after her to find out who she was, as none of us had ever seen her before. She seems, however, to have eluded young Gwyr."

"Oh," laughed Bronwyn gaily. "Is that all?" Then she reached out and, bringing her goblet to her lips, sipped her wine thoughtfully as the men in the hall went back to their conversation. Bronwyn of the White Breast was the only daughter of Cynbel, lord of Teifi. Next to Pwyll's family, the family of Cynbel of Teifi was the most powerful in Dyfed. It had been assumed by all at court that he would one day make Bronwyn of the White Breast his wife. No formal betrothal had ever been arranged, however, and the ladies of the court all enjoyed flirting with Pwyll at one time or another, although none would have dared to aspire to becoming his wife. That place would belong to Bronwyn of the White Breast, or so it was believed by all at Dyfed's court.

Bronwyn was a pretty girl whose best feature was her milky white skin. Her eyes were dark brown, but perhaps they were a trifle too harsh in her pale face. Her hair was a golden brown. She wore it in two long, neat braids along either side of her head. Still, her features were attractive and in good proportion, if not outstanding or unique. Her teeth were small, white, and even. As she was expected to be Pwyll's wife one day, none would criticize her. Though Bronwyn presented a sweet and pleasant picture, there were those who had felt the sting of her temper, which bordered on the vicious when she was, or felt she had been, crossed. No one complained. She was Cynbel of Teifi's only daughter. She would be Pwyll's wife.

Now as she sat at Pwyll's high board, her goblet clasped within her two hands, she carefully considered the events of today. Why had Pwyll sent after this mysterious woman? Why should he be so intrigued? Instinct warned Bronwyn of the White Breast that such a thing did not bode well for her. She had never considered the possibility that Pwyll might ever marry outside of his court, might ever wed someone other than her. And he would not, if she had anything to say about it. He was hers! Then she laughed softly at herself for being such a fool. The lady had disappeared. They should never see her again, but perhaps this was a warning she should heed. She would speak most firmly to her father about arranging her marriage to Pwyll as soon as possible. It was past time she became his wife. Possessively her hand reached out to touch his arm, and she smiled the contented smile of a well-fed cat.

Pwyll did not feel her touch. The Prince of Dyfed was genuinely troubled. He was neither faint-hearted nor superstitious, but like all about him, he acknowledged the existence of the Fair Folk. They were of a far more ancient race than his own. They rarely associated with the Cymri, for they held them somewhat in contempt, Pwyll knew; but when they did deign to associate with his people, it was very much at their own convenience. Even the proud Cymri acknowledged the superiority of the Fair Folk whose magic was legend.

Pwyll knew it was better to have the Fair Folk for friends rather than to have them for enemies. He had had previous associations with some of their powerful clans. It had been very much to his own good and those of his people. His drunken capering in the forest this afternoon may have offended them, Pwyll now realized. Although no one understood the mysterious mounds, perhaps the beautiful maiden was their guardian. Whoever she was, he knew that he wanted to see her again. Unaware of Bronwyn's clinging hand, Pwyll stood up and the hand fell away.

"I have dealt with the Fair Folk before," he began slowly. "The maid this afternoon was unknown to me, but from Gwyr's tale I believe her to be one of them. They are just people, but as I do not wish to offend the Fair Folk, I will return to the forest alone tomorrow to that same grassy mound to wait. Mayhap the same maiden will appear again. I will apologize to her for my foolish behavior and beg her most gracious pardon."

There were murmurs of approval throughout the hall, and Taran said, "Aye! It is a good thing, my lord, that you do so. The Fair Folk are known for their kindness of heart, and surely their men have, on occasion, been in their cups. I doubt you have committed any grave sin against them, but it cannot hurt to apologize."

"No!" The word was said loudly and sharply. All eyes swung about from Pwyll to Bronwyn. "You must not go, my dear lord," she cried, and her brown eyes brimmed with tears. "The Fair Folk are not to be trusted!" She clung to his arm as if his departure were dangerously imminent.

"Nonsense!" laughed Pwyll. "My dealings with the Fair Folk have resulted in nothing but good."

"They are not like us," Bronwyn said firmly. "They have lulled you into a false sense of security. They have built up your trust. Now suddenly this magical maiden appears beneath your very nose! Why? I think she has been sent to lure you to your doom, my lord Pwyll. What will happen to Dyfed if anything should happen to you?"

"Why, another should be chosen to be its prince, dear child. Probably your own father, Cynbel." He chuckled. "Dyfed's survival does not depend merely upon me, but you are sweet to believe it so, Bronwyn," Pwyll finished.

Now there were murmurs of dissent within the hall as some considered Bronwyn of the White Breast's words, and others supported their prince's decision to seek out the magical maiden again to apologize. Pwyll let them chatter for a time. Then he raised his hand for silence.

"I am still Dyfed's prince," he said quietly, closing the matter to any further discussion.

The following afternoon Pwyll eagerly spurred his beautiful white stallion into the deep forest that surrounded his small castle. Finding his way back to the grassy mound, he dismounted to await the return of the maiden. He could not even be certain that she would come, and yet in his heart he felt she would. She did not, however, nor for eight days after that, when he kept watch. On the ninth afternoon, just as he was about to give up in despair, the maiden rode forth from the tangle of forest into the clearing and past Pwyll. He stared after her open-mouthed, but then as his initial surprise subsided, Pwyll leapt upon his horse and galloped after her.

Rhiannon's heart was beating wildly. She had done a most brazen thing that first afternoon, as Angharad had later scolded her; but it had been worth it! It had not been the first time she had seen the Prince of Dyfed, although she had not known at first that he was a prince. Twice before, alone, she had spied upon him. Each time was like the first time when she had come upon him quite unexpectedly, schooling a horse in a meadow on the edge of the wood. Her heart had contracted most painfully in her chest that first time, and each time thereafter when she laid eyes upon him. This afternoon was no different.

Pwyll of Dyfed was even more handsome up close than he had been at a distance. His hair was as black as a raven's wing. He wore it clubbed back as the Cymri were wont to do. About his head was a band of gold which only served to accentuate the darkness of the hair. He was as fair-skinned, however, as she herself, but the color of his eyes she could not ascertain. She had never gotten that close to him. Besides, upon that fateful afternoon when she had first shown herself to him, she dared not stare. His features were strong but for his mouth, which had a softness about it. Still, she longed to kiss that mouth.

Pwyll hurried his horse after Rhiannon, keeping the same gait at first, and then spurring his horse into a gallop. There was no horse in Dyfed who could outrun Pwyll's, yet to his amazement, his straining animal could not lessen the distance between them, though the maiden's mount never appeared to increase its speed. Pwyll burst out laughing. This was powerful magic indeed. He slowed his panting beast almost to a halt and called out to the girl ahead of him, "Maiden, I beg you to stop that we may speak. I must know who you are!"

It was a mad thing to do, and she knew it. To play hide and seek with this Cymri was one thing. To become involved with him was not wise, but nonetheless, Rhiannon drew her own mount to a stop. When she turned about, it seemed to Pwyll that there had been no distance between their horses at all.

She smiled at the prince and cast a look of sympathy at the panting charger with its sweating, heaving sides. "Poor beast-ie," she crooned to the horse and, reaching out, stroked his neck. Then she looked at Pwyll, saying, "You did not have to chase me over half the forest if you wanted to speak with me, my lord. I would have stopped before if you had asked, Pwyll of Dyfed."

He was enchanted by the incredible sweetness of her smile, the lilting tone of her voice. Then it dawned upon him that she knew his name. Of course she knew his name! "Who are you?" he asked her, feeling both elation and despair even as he asked.

"My name is Rhiannon. I am the daughter of Dylan and Cornelia, rulers of the Fair Folk of this forest." Her voice was melodious; clear yet soft. "Why did you pursue me, Pwyll of Dyfed? I am told that you have returned to this place for many days now."

"I wanted to apologize for offending you," he began, wondering who had told her he had returned here.

"Offending me? How?" she asked him, amused.

"Are you not the guardian of this grassy mound upon which I danced?"

For a moment Rhiannon stared at him in surprise. Then, unable to help herself, she burst into laughter. The merry sound was that of water tumbling over stones in a stream bed, and he was not in the least offended that she found him funny. "My lord of Dyfed," she finally managed to say as she struggled to regain control of herself, "those grassy mounds have been here since time began. Even we of the Fair Folk do not know their true origins. It is really I who must apologize to you, for, knowing the superstitions held by the Cymri, I decided to play a jest upon you when I saw you dancing upon the mound the other day. I knew that should I appear before you without speaking and go silently about my way, you and your Cymri huntsmen would think it some great magic connected with the mound. My sister, who was with me, scolded me quite roundly for it, I might add."

"Then you are not angry with me?" Pwyll said, relieved.

"Nay, my lord, and I hope you are not angered with me," Rhiannon replied sweetly.

He shook his head. "I am not angry, princess. It is only just, however, that I claim a forfeit of you for your most mischievous behavior," he told her boldly. " 'Twas not fair to tease a mortal so."

A faint rose colored Rhiannon's pale cheeks. She looked directly at him and said, nodding, "You have the right, prince."

Staring into the most incredible pair of eyes that he had ever seen, Pwyll could not speak for a long moment. Surely it was enchantment. Never before had he beheld eyes the deep, rich color of woodland violets, but her eyes were precisely that color. He was quite happy to drown in their bottomless depths.

Rhiannon's thoughts were strangely similar. As he gazed into her eyes, she saw his for the first time. They were the same wonderful deep blue shade as the sea off the island where her maternal grandfather ruled. To Rhiannon they were the most beautiful eyes she had ever beheld. At that precise moment in time she knew why it was that she had sought him out. She loved him. She did not know why she loved him. Indeed, she did not even know him, but she loved him. Of that she was certain. She loved him and she would love him forever.

The silence between them seemed long, but finally regaining her senses, she gently encouraged him. "What would you have of me in forfeit, my lord of Dyfed?"

"Your company, princess," he said simply. Then dismounting from his own beast, he lifted her down from her horse.

The touch of his fingers about her slender waist seemed to burn through her delicate clothing to her sensitive skin. She shivered. His boldness was exciting, for boldness was not a trait amongst her own people, who were more controlled. Rhiannon watched in silence as he slipped the reins from both their animals over the branches of a rowan bush to keep the horses from wandering. At last she said softly, "Would you like to walk? There is a pretty pond nearby that I could show you."

"Aye, lady," he replied simply, and, taking her dainty hand in his large one, he let her lead him.

They walked through the forest. The sun slipping down through the trees crowned the tops of their heads with golden light and warmed their shoulders. At first they said little. Then at last they reached the pond. It seemed to Pwyll that there was no source for the pond's water, and yet it was filled full with liquid so crystal clear, he could see its sandy bottom and the little fishes swimming in it. He could not remember ever having been in this particular part of the forest before. Or had he? Nothing seemed quite familiar to him. A frightening thought suddenly bloomed in his brain.

"Are we in my world or yours, lady?" he asked her half fearfully. He knew, as did any sane man, that the portals separating different worlds were ofttimes invisible. Had this magical creature led him astray? Had Bronwyn been right?

"My lord," Rhiannon said quietly, "it is all one world in which we live. It is merely a matter of seeing not simply with one's eyes, but with one's heart as well. Often we do not see the most obvious things because we are either too busy or think we are. Or, and this I think a great sin, we do not want to acknowledge that which is before us, for it may be a more complex solution than we can willingly admit. How much easier to accept the obvious."

He did not fully understand her, but he felt somehow reassured. "Where do you live?" he asked. "Is it a near place, or in some distant spot?"

"My father's castle is here in this forest," Rhiannon replied.

"That cannot be!" Pwyll cried. "I know this forest! I have hunted in it since I was old enough to sit on a horse. It is mostly a wild and impenetrable place."

"Have you ever seen this pond before?" she asked him.

"Nay, I have not," he answered her.

"And yet this pond has been here all along," she told him with calm logic. "You do not know this forest at all, my lord. You have never before seen this pond because you have not looked carefully enough. So it is with my father's castle. You have not seen it because you have not looked for it. I will show it to you one day, Pwyll."

"When?" Suddenly he was eager to explore these new worlds that Rhiannon was opening up to him.

"On the day you come to claim me for your bride, Pwyll of Dyfed," came the startling reply.

"What?" The word sounded foolish to his own ears, but Pwyll could not remember ever having been so surprised in his life as he was now. Among the people of Britain he was a well-known and highly respected ruler. He was no backward fool. He ruled over a land of seven distinct and separate regions, each with a minimum of a hundred farms and villages. While his father had still ruled Dyfed, Pwyll had gained a reputation as a mighty and valiant warrior, fighting for justice in other lands. He thought he was long past the point where someone could surprise him so completely. Yet this beautiful maiden, whose name meant "Great Queen," had startled him totally.

"Do you not wish me for your wife?" Rhiannon asked him in all innocence. "I have watched you for some time now, and as I have, my love for you has grown," she continued. "We of the Fair Folk do not believe in being coy. That is a trait of Cymri women. We are open, and time is precious to us. To waste time is to us the greatest sin. I love you, Pwyll of Dyfed. I would be with you forever. I would be your wife."

His head reeled. This was a king's daughter. And not just any king. Dylan of the Fair Folk's daughter! She wanted him for a husband! The most beautiful maiden he had ever seen wanted him for a husband! Bronwyn. Her name slipped unbidden into his head. Everyone had always assumed that he would wed Bronwyn of the White Breast. Even he had assumed it, and yet he did not love her. Of that he was absolutely certain. It had simply seemed politic to marry Cynbel of Teifi's daughter. Particularly as there was no one else who seriously took his fancy. Until now. Yet he had made no promises to Bronwyn publicly or privately. There was no betrothal between them.

It was an incredible honor being offered him, but he found himself a little afraid. There had been stories of men and women of the Cymri beloved of the Fair Folk. Few of those tales had ended happily, he recalled nervously. Rhiannon was so very beautiful. Far more beautiful than any maiden of the Cymri, and with that beauty came a sweetness that would surely disarm his own people, easing any fears they might have of this exquisite magical maiden. Pwyll suddenly realized that he had loved her at first sight. He did indeed want Rhiannon for his wife. No other would do, and yet…

Rhiannon sensed his concern. "You think of the others from our two different races who have loved. None were husband and wife as we will be," she told him.

"Why were they not wed?" he asked.

"Because those of my race would never give up their ways for the Cymri that they loved. I will. I shall become one of you on the day that you wed me, Pwyll of Dyfed. We will live happily forever. In exchange for my hand in marriage, you must give me but two things. I would have your complete love, and I would have your complete trust. Do you think that you can give me those two gifts, my lord? Think most carefully on it before you answer."

"Nay, Rhiannon, there is nought to think about!" he cried passionately. "For love of you, my dearling, I could conquer the world!"

"If I have your love and your trust, Pwyll, I have the only world I desire," Rhiannon told him seriously, and then she laughed happily. "If we are agreed, my handsome Cymri prince, then I must go. In one year's time you will come for me at the same grassy mound where we first met. On that day I will take you to my father's court and we will be wed. Then I will return home with you to Dyfed forevermore."

He caught her hands in his, touching her for the first time, and was surprised at how vibrantly she pulsed with life. "If time is so precious to you, Rhiannon," he begged her earnestly, "why must we wait a year to wed?" She was so fragile and delicate a creature that he could feel the life force pumping through her very fingertips.

She drew him near and, looking into his eyes, said, "Time among the Cymri is different than it is for the Fair Folk, my love. Alas, there are other considerations to our marriage. It is the custom of my people that a woman has the absolute right to choose her own mate. So I have chosen you, but I will have to overcome the objections of my family and my people. You see, Pwyll, I am not merely a king's daughter. I was chosen by my people to be my father's successor one day, for we Fair Folk fade from the earth eventually, even as do the Cymri. When I wed with you, I must give up my rights as a member of my kind.

"There will be much distress and unhappiness at my decision. My people will need time to decide upon another heir to my father's place. I believe my younger sister, Angharad, is far better qualified to be the next reigning queen of the Fair Folk than even I. I must work to convince my people of it. They in turn, as is their right, will seek to prevent my going. That is why you must be certain, Pwyll of Dyfed, that you are capable of giving me your complete love and your complete trust no matter what happens in our lives. To wed you, oh prince, I must give up my heritage. I do it gladly for my love of you! Is your heart as brave and can it be true?"

He was stunned by her revelation, and humbled too. This incredibly beautiful maiden, chosen by destiny to be a queen, was willing, nay she was eager, to give up everything she knew and held dear simply to be his wife. "Ahh, dearling," he sighed sadly, "I fear I am not worthy of you."

"Do you love me, Pwyll of Dyfed?" she asked him quietly.

"Aye, Rhiannon," he answered without hesitation, and knew in his heart that he spoke the truth.

"Then surely," she told him, "there is nothing that can prevent our marriage or destroy our happiness."

And at that moment a little breeze blew through the clearing, ruffling the golden leaves of the beech trees even as Pwyll drew her into the deep comfort of his arms. He bent only slightly, for she was practically his own height, for all her delicacy. He touched her lips with his in a gentle, reverent kiss; but Rhiannon's soft mouth kissed him back with a fierce passion that both startled and pleasured him, and bespoke other delights to come.

He held her against him, an arm about her supple waist, his other hand caressing her silvery-gold hair which felt like thistledown beneath his roughened fingers. Her kisses tasted like strawberries to him, and he could not remember a time in his life when he had felt so happy, so fulfilled, so at peace with himself and the world about him. And everything he felt and sensed, Rhiannon felt and sensed too.

"Dearling," he murmured against her ear. "I will never cease to love you. Ever!"

The mauve mists swirled suddenly about them. A raven cried in the sky above. Remember! The sensation of his arms was gone, and she heard a voice calling her once more.

"Rhiannon!" It was Angharad's voice.

"Rhiannon, my daughter." It was her father who now spoke to her.

The mists cleared and she found herself in her father's hall, her family about her, looking unhappy and disturbed.

"Oh, Rhiannon! How could you do this to me! I do not want to be queen of the Fair Folk! Really, I do not!" Angharad protested. She rubbed the pale pink silk of her gown between her thumb and her forefinger as she was wont to do whenever she was distressed.

"You are the perfect choice, Angharad, though you be young," Rhiannon soothed her sibling. "You will be a great queen one day. I know it, and I will be so proud of you."

In an uncustomary burst of emotion, Angharad threw herself into her sister's arms and sniffled. "Don't leave us, Rhiannon! I beg you do not leave us! I fear for your safety amongst the Cymri. Though some like Pwyll accept us, most do not. No matter how hard you try, you will always be a stranger among them. An object of curiosity and suspicion."

"Nothing matters to me," Rhiannon replied, "but that I be Pwyll's wife and the mother of his children, dearest little sister. I know that this all came as a shock to you, but you are simply not used to the idea yet. It has been assumed our whole lives that I should one day follow our father as ruler of the Fair Folk of this forest, but it is not to be. I always believed that my fate lay elsewhere."

"I do not want to be queen because I do not want all the responsibility that goes with it," Angharad said petulantly and with perfect logic. "To be Trystan's wife and the mother of our children is the only fate I desire."

Rhiannon laughed merrily. "It would never be enough for you, Angharad, and in your heart you know I speak the truth. You are one of those creatures who was born to mother the world. Our people will one day thrive under your rule. As for your Trystan," and Rhiannon chuckled, "he is so proud of you that if he does not dissolve in a burst of pure happiness, I shall be quite surprised."

Angharad could not resist a smile at her sister's words. It was true. Trystan was more than proud of her. He was adoring, and he had begun to fret that perhaps he was not a fit husband for a future queen of the Fair Folk. It would take all her powers of persuasion to soothe his fears, but soothe him she would, for she loved him, which surprised many. Like all races, the Fair Folk had their share of those who were wise and those who were not so wise. Trystan fit into this latter category, but Angharad knew what others did not. She knew that her beloved was kind and loyal and true. And he had a most marvelous sense of humor. Nonetheless, it seemed disloyal to her entire family, she thought, to take Rhiannon's place. "For all your words, sister," she finally said, "I am not happy with this decision you have made. To be queen of the Fair Folk will not be an easy thing."

"It is your duty now, my sibling," replied Rhiannon in that quiet voice of hers which all knew meant the discussion was ended. "The council has agreed, and so have all our people. Oh, Angharad! You are really far better suited to this office than I ever was. You are strong and sure in your ways. I am a risk taker who would follow her heart. No queen of the Fair Folk should be that way."

Now it was the sisters' mother, Cornelia, who spoke up. "Why can you simply not take the Cymri as a lover?" she asked her daughter. "That is what our people have done in the past. Why must you wed him and give up everything?" Her beautiful face showed great concern.

"Nay," Rhiannon said. "That is not what either of us wants. I would be Pwyll's wife, and, for our marriage to succeed, we must be as one. There is no way in which Pwyll can be a part of our world, but I can become a part of his world. Dearest Mother! You must be happy for me, for this is what I want most in all the world."

Cornelia's lovely violet eyes filled with quick tears. Rhiannon was her eldest child. Although she would not have admitted it aloud lest it be considered a betrayal of her darling Angharad, she did love Rhiannon best. She could not help it. The girl was so as she had once been. A romantic who believed the best of everyone. In the world in which the Fair Folk lived, that was not such a dangerous belief; but in the world of the Cymri…

Cornelia sighed deeply. Why, she wondered, had her elder daughter fallen in love with Pwyll of Dyfed? There was not an eligible man in their world who would not have given all he possessed and more for Rhiannon's hand in marriage. She might have been the daughter of the humblest of them, and she would have still been prized above all others. There was Gavin, Prince of the Fair Folk of the River Wye; the twin warrior princes, Cadawg and Cad-el, who came from her own island home in the West; and most distinguished of all, young King Meredydd, who ruled over the Fair Folk in the Southeast, whose kingdom might have been joined with theirs. He would be the most disappointed of all. Why could Rhiannon not have chosen amongst her own kind; but alas, she had not. Helplessly Cornelia turned to her husband for support.

Dylan shook his head. "We have argued over this problem like an old dog that continues to gnaw upon a bone for marrow long gone," he told her sadly. "Rhiannon has made it quite clear that she will have Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed, a Cymri, for her husband, and no other. She has convinced both the council and our people of her intent. They have chosen Angharad to take her place as my successor. So be it."

He smiled at his younger daughter. "Though you protest this decision, Angharad, you already show a wisdom that will lead our people one day by your choice of your husband. Tell, Trystan that we will celebrate your marriage to one another at the next full moon. I fully approve. I grow weary of my royal burden. I would pass my authority on to you within the next few years, that I may enjoy the remainder of my years in freedom and peace as my own father did. It is settled," he concluded, patting his wife's hand.

A tear slipped down Cornelia's cheek, which Rhiannon kissed away, even as Angharad's eyes met those of her father in agreement and acceptance.

At the next full moon the marriage of Angharad and Trystan was celebrated with much happiness by both their families. Trystan was a younger son of a powerful family from the Northeast. And at the wedding feast Rhiannon's four rejected suitors each attempted to claim her and override her decision, but she stood firm in her intent, to their great disappointment. Meredydd of the Southeast was particularly angry. Bitterly he took his leave of Rhiannon, saying, "The Cymri lord will certainly prove himself unworthy of you. They are a cruel face." Then he departed.

Dylan arose and said, "At the next full waxing of our sister, the moon, the Cymri year that Rhiannon gave her beloved is concluded. She will go to meet him and bring him to us, that we may celebrate their marriage. There is one condition to my acceptance of this match which they must both fulfill else I withdraw my permission. If either of them should refuse, there will be no marriage between them. Though it is your right, Rhiannon, to choose your own mate, it is my right as your king to forbid this match should my conditions not be met. That is also a part of our ancient law, and you must abide by it."

"What would you have of us, Father?" Rhiannon asked.

"I will not discuss it with you until Pwyll stands before me by your side, my daughter," King Dylan said with finality.

On the first morning of the next full moon, even as the sun was tinting the horizon with its arrival, Pwyll, prince of Dyfed, in his scarlet and gold wedding finery, arrived at the grassy green mound where he had first beheld Rhiannon. She was awaiting him with a warm smile of welcome, and happiness radiated from her very being at the sight of him. "Welcome, my beloved!" she greeted him, and then she smiled at the party of gaily clad gentlemen who accompanied the prince. "I bid you welcome also, my lords."

Those who had seen her before were again struck by her rare and flawless beauty, and those who had not seen her before were rendered dumb with their amazement, for they would not have believed so fair a creature actually existed. She seemed to be garbed in spun moonlight. When Pwyll had returned from his private meeting with Rhiannon a year ago to announce his marriage plans, there had been a terrible uproar in the council chamber of Dyfed. Some thought the prince bewitched by the maiden of the Fair Folk. They cried their outrage over the matter; but Pwyll calmed them. He was not bewitched. He was simply in love. Those who knew him best understood this and kept their peace, although it fretted them that their prince would wed with an outsider.

Cynbel of Teifi, however, was enraged by Pwyll's news and had to be restrained by those around him. Though he had never formally approached Pwyll; though there was no betrothal between his daughter, Bronwyn of the White Breast, and the prince of Dyfed; like everyone else he had assumed that one day his daughter would marry Pwyll. He had even planned to broach the matter with Pwyll shortly, as Bronwyn had strongly indicated that it was past time for a marriage to take place between herself and Pwyll. She was tired of waiting for Pwyll to come to her. Now there would be no marriage, and it would take a miracle to find a man whom Bronwyn would accept after wanting Dyfed's ruler all these years. Cynbel of Teifi was insulted, and his fury was difficult to calm.

Pwyll, unaware of all of this, filled with his enthusiasm and his passion for Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, spoke glowingly to his council of the girl he would make his bride. They loved him, and though it fretted some that he would take a foreigner to wife, in the end they were happy for him and agreed to it. All but Cynbel of Teifi, who considered how he might best take his revenge on Pwyll of Dyfed for this terrible offense to his daughter and to his family.

Now seeing Rhiannon before him, Pwyll's groomsmen were charmed by her beauty and her good manners. They followed her willingly into the dark forest, and only some were aware that the path that they followed through the deep bracken seemed to disappear behind them as they passed; or that the dense undergrowth before them opened mysteriously at the sight of Rhiannon's horse. Finally the forest began to thin and they entered a clearing upon the shores of a crystal-blue lake that none had ever known existed within the wood. They stared open-mouthed.

"We will leave our horses here," Rhiannon told them. "They will be fed and watered and well cared for by my father's people. The boats will take us the rest of our way."

"To where, princess?" asked Taran in a somewhat awed voice.

"Why, to my father's castle," Rhiannon laughed gaily, pointing.

They followed the direction of her finger and gasped with their surprise. As the rosy morning mists lifted from the surface of the lake, they saw a castle in its center. It was, however, a castle such as they had never imagined, built of pale grey stones with graceful towers that soared into the blue morning skies. It seemed to spring from the very depths of the water itself. There was a magical quality about it that brought renewed fear into their hearts. As their terror threatened to overwhelm them, the air about them was filled with bright blue and gold butterflies whose very appearance seemed to calm Pwyll's men, as their hearts were filled with a wonderful sense of peace and well-being.

Upon the sandy shores of the lake, six silver boats, each with a high dragon's-head prow of green, gold, and red enamel, sat neatly. Rhiannon gestured Pwyll and his party into the boats, placing herself alone with her chosen husband in the first boat, dispersing the others in the remaining five small vessels. Once afloat, the boats glided effortlessly, seeming to pilot themselves over the calm crystal surface of the lake. As they drew near to the castle, they discovered that it did not rise from the water at all, but was actually built upon a small island. As the dragon-powered boats slid upon the shore of the island, a group of gaily gowned and smiling young women came forth to greet them. They were all quite fair and carried garlands and wreaths of fresh multicolored flowers which they slipped around the necks and upon the heads of their Cymri guests.

"Come," said Rhiannon, taking Pwyll by the hand. "You must meet my family. Then we shall be wed in my father's hall. Your men will be happy with the ladies of the court. They are gentle and gracious hostesses. There is nothing for any of you to fear in my father's house."

Pwyll followed Rhiannon to a small, beautifully furnished chamber where her family awaited him. What amazed him most about the Fair Folk was that even those he knew to be the eldest among them looked young. There were two men and two women within the room. One was a tall, blue-eyed gentleman with wavy golden hair, wearing a jeweled diadem upon his head. This would be Dylan, Pwyll reasoned as he bowed low and was greeted politely in return. A lovely woman with silvery hair fashioned in a coronet of braids was introduced to him as his bride's mother. Again Pwyll bowed, sensing reserve, although she was most cordial to him. He could scarcely blame her, he thought.

"And this is my sister Angharad, and her husband Trystan, who are newly wed," Rhiannon said, bringing forward a young woman who very much resembled their father. Trystan, however, had a hint of fire within his rich blond locks.

They sat, and delicate little serving girls who seemed to dance across the floor brought a light golden wine which glittered in their crystal goblets. When the servants had left, the king of the Fair Folk did not mince his words. He looked directly at Pwyll and said, "Prince of Dyfed, are you certain that deep in your Cymri heart you love my daughter? Are you positive that you would have her to wife above all others of your own kind? Speak frankly and openly to me. No harm will come to you if you speak with candor and truth. If your heart is not true, however, I shall know it. I seek only happiness for my beloved daughter."

"I love Rhiannon more than I love life itself, sire," Pwyll replied. "I will have no other to wife but her. Ask those who accompany me. I did not know love until the day I first saw your daughter."

"And you will give her your complete love, and your complete trust, Prince of Dyfed? Again I beg you to think carefully before you answer!" Dylan said. "A marriage between a Cymri lord and a princess of the Fair Folk is serious business."

"I will give Rhiannon my complete love and trust," Pwyll answered in a strong and sure voice.

Rhiannon smiled happily at him. He was so very handsome and manly.

"You do understand, Pwyll of Dyfed, that when Rhiannon is your wife, the powers she possesses as one of the Fair Folk will be gone from her. To us she will become as you are. A Cymri. There are those among your race who would have a woman of the Fair Folk in their clutches merely for the powers we possess and not for love of them. Are you one of those?"

"Nay, sire. I love Rhiannon only for herself and for no other reason. I realize her powers will be gone, but it matters not to me, for it is the woman I want. Not her magic."

Dylan nodded and then turned to Rhiannon. "I ask you a final time, my daughter. Are you determined to wed with this man, even knowing that by this marriage you will forfeit your heritage?"

"I am, Father," Rhiannon said with determination. "I would be Pwyll's wife and nought else matters to me."

"Very well then," said King Dylan. "I will permit this union, but only upon one condition. If you find you cannot agree to it, then I shall not allow the wedding to proceed. Rhiannon, my daughter, and Pwyll, my son. I must insist that this marriage between you not be physically consummated for one full year."

"Father!"

"Sire!"

Both had spoken in unison, but Dylan gestured to them to be silent. "Hear me out, my children," he said in kindly tones. "I have but your interests at heart. You must understand that in all of our joined histories there has never been a marriage recorded between the Fair Folk of this forest and the Cymri of Dyfed. There have been lovers amongst our peoples, it is true, but those lovers have always been parted in the end. Alas, the differences that separate us seem great, although in truth they are not. Still, it is something we have not been able to overcome.

"My elder daughter, however, insists that she be your wife, and you have agreed. As her father I am fearful that Rhiannon's heart leads her into a world of darkness rather than one of light. But I must accept her wishes whatever I may feel, for that is our way. Nonetheless, I would protect my child as would any good father. If you consummate your marriage immediately, there is certain to be a child. We of the Fair Folk are noted for our fertility. Once there are children, Rhiannon is bound to you.

"If you are both wise and willing to wait for your pleasure, what do you lose? Even in the Cymri world, a year is not a great deal of time. It will give my daughter a chance to learn your ways. It will give her the opportunity to know for certain if she can really be happy among the Cymri, if the love you have for one another is strong enough to sustain you in the face of opposition; for I know, Pwyll, that there are those within your court who are not happy with this decision you have made to marry my child. A year will give Rhiannon time to win the Cymri of Dyfed over, to learn if your people will really accept her as one of you.

"Rhiannon gives up everything to be your wife. She has willingly forfeited her inheritance as our next queen. She has accepted the loss of her powers. Once she is completely yours, she cannot return to us. I think her sacrifice for the love of you is much too great, Prince of Dyfed. What can you offer her in return that is of equal value? Nothing that I can see. The risk is all hers.

"Therefore I ask that you both agree to these, my terms. Today we will celebrate a marriage between you, but there must be no consummation of that marriage for one year. If in a year you have decided that you cannot be happy together as man and wife, the marriage can be easily dissolved. Rhiannon can return to us, and although she has given up her rights to be my successor, it is within my ability to restore her powers to her. She may wed among our people and be happy, even as you may wed among your people and be happy.

"This pact will be between those of us within this chamber. No others need know, lest they use this knowledge to cause trouble between Pwyll and Rhiannon. Think carefully, my children, before you answer me; but for both your sakes, I beg you agree," Dylan concluded.

"It is ridiculous!" Rhiannon burst out. "Of course we will not agree! How can you even ask such a thing of us, Father?"

"Wait, my love," Pwyll said. "Do not be hasty in your anger, but consider what your father has said. You are very wise, my lord king, and I believe you correct when you say there is little risk for me in this marriage, but risk aplenty for Rhiannon. I would never willingly harm her."

"Do you not think I know that, Pwyll?" Rhiannon cried. "Still, it is not fair what my father asks of us! Nay, he does not even ask, he demands it as the price of his blessing upon our union! Let us leave this place and be wed in your castle this very day. I will give you a son before another year passes!"

Dylan and Cornelia looked to the prince, whose handsome face was serious and his tone grave as he spoke again.

"Rhiannon, I once told you that I did not feel worthy of one such as you. What your father asks of us is not so hard. It is the only way in which I may prove myself fit within my own mind to be your husband. Give me this opportunity, dearling, I beg of you! Let me show your father, your family… nay! Let me show all the Fair Folk that a Cymri prince is indeed a worthy husband for Rhiannon, the most perfect and beautiful princess of the Fair Folk of this forest." He knelt before her and, taking her hand in his, he kissed it tenderly.

Cornelia looked to her husband, and Dylan nodded his approval. They did not need to speak aloud to communicate their thoughts with one another. Pwyll's behavior was more than promising and boded well for the success of this marriage, they thought.

Tears, however, sprang into Rhiannon's violet eyes. They were tears of both distress and frustration. How could she deny this man whom she loved so dearly a chance to prove himself, not just to her own people, but in his own mind as well? She could not. "Stand up, Pwyll," she said, resigned. When he stood by her side she sighed deeply, and then looking at her father, told him, "I will agree to your terms, sire. I think it unfair of you to impose such a stricture upon us, but as my beloved lord has no objections, then I too must concur with your wishes."

Suddenly the mauve mists swirled about them and time dissolved around her, even as it raced by in its eager pursuit of the future.

"One year," she heard Pwyll say, and his breath was warm against her ear. "We have been wed one year this day. The time has flown by so quickly, Rhiannon."

She was in his arms and, looking up at him, she smiled, the year behind them now all quite clear in her mind. "We have met my father's foolish terms," she told him, "and tonight we may, at last, consummate our union. Our people grow quite anxious for an heir. Perhaps when I have given you one they will be less suspicious of me."

He kissed her pale brow. "You fret needlessly, my love. Our people both accept and love you," Pwyll assured his wife.

Rhiannon did not bother to reply, for she knew the truth of the matter, even if Pwyll refused to see it. The Cymri had been nervous and suspicious of her from the moment she arrived at Pwyll's castle. The women of the court were particularly unkind, though never before the prince. Led by Bronwyn of the White Breast, they ignored her when they were alone. They made disparaging remarks about her pale gold hair and very fair skin. They were jealous of her talent at weaving, which far surpassed their own.

"I could weave every bit as well as you," Bronwyn told her one day, "if I had magic in my fingertips as you do."

"There is no magic in what I do," Rhiannon exclaimed to her disbelieving audience. "I left my magic behind when I came to Pwyll as his wife."

"What lies she tells," mocked Bronwyn boldly. "As for Pwyll, he would have done better to wed with me as was intended. At least I should have given him a son by now."

Rhiannon held her peace as the women about her tittered meanly and, then rising, followed Bronwyn from the hall in a show of open rudeness.

"Why do you not tell Pwyll of their disrespect, my princess?" Taran of the Hundred Battles was by her side. His rough features were troubled. From the beginning he had set himself up as her champion.

"What could he do, Taran? Order them to like me? That is something that they must do on their own," Rhiannon told him serenely. "I will not distress Pwyll with this foolish pettiness. Do you think I do not recognize Bronwyn's bitterness for what it really is? I know that she would sit in my place. All her life she has assumed that she would be Pwyll's wife. Her family has encouraged her in this ambition, none of them considering for a mere moment whether that might be what Pwyll wanted also. Well, he did not, and Bronwyn, in love with my husband, or at least as much in love as she can love anyone other than herself, must blame someone for her disappointment. I am the logical choice. The other women, used to following her lead, continue to do so, though none of them dare to show me discourtesy before Pwyll."

"Bronwyn is right about one thing," Taran answered, and Rhiannon knew instantly to what he referred.

"Soon, Taran," she promised him. "Soon I will give our people the news they desire."

And soon, Rhiannon thought from the comfort of her husband's arms, was at last here. In the year she had been Pwyll's wife, she had not been entirely without allies. There were Taran and his friend, Evan ap Rhys, who, unlike the bluff warrior Taran, were a man of learning. It was he who had taught her all he knew of Cymri history, and Rhiannon in return had shared with him a chronicle of her own people. The simple people of Dyfed held Rhiannon in a great respect, for from the moment of her coming, she had gone gently amongst them as any good chatelaine would. She listened willingly to their problems and concerns, dispensing her own brand of common sense, which was considered magical wisdom by them all. She eased burdens grown too heavy when she could by her personal intervention. She healed through her knowledge of herbs and other medicinal poultices. She was generous with her purse.

All of this had kept her busy, but it had not been enough to make up for the lack of one woman friend with whom to share her secrets and her days. She missed Angharad, for her sister had always been her best friend. She wondered how her family got on, but heard nothing of them. On the day she had ridden from the forest with Pwyll as his wife, she had known that that was how it would always be. She was no longer Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, but neither was she considered a Cymri, because they would not accept her as such. A child. A son and heir for Pwyll, she thought. Perhaps then some of the women would begin to accept her, and the cruel influence wielded by Bronwyn of the White Breast would begin to lessen at last.

Slipping her arms about Pwyll's neck, she said huskily, "Why, my dearest husband, should we wait any longer to culminate our union? The year is over and the terms we agreed upon have been fulfilled. Among my people passion is not a thing confined to the dark hours only."

He laughed happily. "Dearest Rhiannon, my desire for you has only grown over this year, but alas, I am expected at a council meeting this morning. The matter of a trading agreement with the land of Gwynnd. I should, I assure you, far rather linger here. It has not been easy sharing a chamber with you these months past while denying what is natural and should have been between us. This afternoon, however, I shall be free."

"Do you remember the little pond that I showed you in the wood the first day that we spoke?" she asked him.

He nodded slowly.

"Do you think that you could find your way back there this afternoon, Pwyll? I will await you with a picnic feast, and we will allow nature to take its course between us at long last." Rhiannon smiled into his eyes meaningfully.

"I will be there," he told her softly, smiling back into those wonderful violet eyes of hers.

Rhiannon hurried to the kitchens of her castle, and the cook, with a smile, packed the picnic basket himself. He liked his master's wife, who had only recently cured his son of a horrible rash the boy had most of his life. It had left the child withdrawn and afraid. Now his son played happily with other children, and even spent part of his day in the kitchens willingly helping his father.

"There's a newly roasted capon, my lady," the cook told Rhiannon, beaming at her. "And fresh bread, and a good, hard, sharp cheese. Apples too! Crisp and sweet. And a flacon of wine to warm your blood should the afternoon grow cool."

She thanked him, asked after his son, and, satisfied with the answer she received, left the kitchen. The day was so fair that Rhiannon could not bear to remain within Pwyll's castle. Her ladies were in the Great Hall, clustered about Bronwyn like hens, and gossiping as usual. Few would miss her. Taking her basket of food, she hurried out into the sunshine and made her way on foot through the forest to her pond, where she found, to her great surprise, that Angharad was awaiting her.

The two sisters embraced and Angharad said, "I knew that you would come here today. You are ever the romantic, dearest Rhiannon!"

Rhiannon laughed. "How Cymri of me to be so predictable," she said.

"You will never be one of them!" Angharad replied, not without some bitterness. "They do not accept you, sister, nor do they treat you well. I know."

"It has only been a year, Angharad, and I have no child with which to win them over. Before the next year is past that will all change, and so will their attitude toward me," Rhiannon answered. "But tell me of yourself and of the Fair Folk. Are Mother and Father well?"

"I have a son now," Angharad told Rhiannon proudly. "We call him Ren. He will rule our people one day when I decide to put my mantle of office aside. I will be crowned Queen of the Fair Folk on Samhein. Father is well, but he no longer wishes to rule. He and Mother desire to visit the island kingdom from which she came and spend some time with our grandparents."

"Aye, Mother spoke often about returning once we were grown. Our parents are very old now," Rhiannon noted.

"Return with me to our people, Rhiannon!" Angharad said suddenly. "Do not stay amongst the Cymri any longer, I beg you!"

Rhiannon put a comforting arm about her sister, saying as she did so, "No, Angharad, I cannot return with you, but I thank you for the asking. I love Pwyll more, if that is possible, than I did a year ago, despite the fact our marriage has yet to be consummated. And he loves me. Nothing else matters. Not the scorn of Bronwyn of the White Breast, nor the other women of the court. Nothing matters but our love for one another. I have some friends among the court, and the simple people know that I am good. It is enough for now. When I have given Pwyll half-a-dozen children, fine Cymri sons and daughters of which he may boast with pride in the hall among his friends, do you think Bronwyn's bitterness will still have any influence? I do not. If she is foolish enough to wait about for Pwyll to cease loving me, she will grow withered, and old and alone."

Tears of frustration sprang into Angharad's eyes. "I do not care for that Cymri woman, Rhiannon. 'Tis you for whom I fear!"

Rhiannon comforted her sister as best she could, but she knew that Angharad could never really understand how deep her love for Pwyll went. It was unusual for the Fair Folk to love so strongly. Even Rhiannon knew how rare and unique a love it was she felt for Pwyll. "1 will be all right, little sister," she soothed her sibling.

"At least let me help you," begged Angharad. "I will put a spell upon that creature, Bronwyn of the White Breast, that she fall madly in love with the next eligible man to visit Pwyll's court! A foreigner who will take her far away!"

Rhiannon laughed. "Poor man!" she said. "What a dreadful thing to do to some poor unsuspecting soul, Angharad."

"You have lost your ability to see clearly, my sister," Angharad fretted. "Are you really unaware of how wicked a woman this Bronwyn is? She would not hesitate to destroy you if she believed that she might have Pwyll as reward for her deed."

"You will not interfere in my life, Angharad, no matter how righteous you believe your cause," Rhiannon warned her sister. "Promise me that!"

Angharad but her lip with vexation. "I cannot promise you, sister, for I love you too much," she admitted honestly.

"Then at least swear you will let me attempt to remedy my own ills before you interfere. Remember, I am trying very hard to become the perfect Cymri wife in the eyes of all of my husband's people. It does my efforts little good to have you about, weaving spells on my behalf, Angharad, no matter how well-meaning you want to be! Were our positions reversed, I should respect your wishes, even as I expect you to respect mine. You cannot mother the entire world, my sister!"

Angharad sighed. "We will never come to an agreement on this point, Rhiannon," she said sadly, and kissed her sister on the cheek. "I can only hope the Creator will watch over you that you be kept safe from all harm. I must go. Your husband even now is making his way eagerly out of his council chamber that he may join you."

The sisters kissed once more, and then Angharad moved toward the forest, mingling with the afternoon sunlight and melting away even as Rhiannon watched her. When at last she was gone, the princess slipped from her tunic gown and chemisette, leaving them where they fell. Pinning her long golden hair up, she entered the pond, slipping gracefully into the sun-warmed waters of the forest pool just a moment before Pwyll entered the small clearing.

He stood for a long minute, entranced by the sight of her fair, rounded limbs, which until today he had never seen. She smiled and beckoned him to join her. He needed little encouragement and quickly shed his clothing. They met in midpond, feet upon its sandy bottom, the crystal water caressing their naked bodies. Rhiannon slid her arms about her husband's neck and, bringing her mouth to his, kissed Pwyll with a deep and burning kiss. Her round, full breasts pressed hungrily against his well-furred chest, and so desperate was his long suppressed desire for her that he became instantly aroused. His hands slipped beneath her buttocks and, lifting her up, he impaled her upon his raging manhood. She received him gladly, welcoming him as he plunged deep within her equally eager body.

"Ahhh, Rhi-an-non!" he moaned against her mouth, and again she found herself enveloped by the swirling mists of time and place, and she protested against the intrusion, even as she heard a voice saying,

"The princess has been delivered of a fair son!"

Chapter 8

Rhiannon opened her eyes to find herself lying upon her bed, feeling both tired and happy. Turning her head slightly, she saw sleeping in the cradle next to her bed a fair-haired infant. She felt a kiss upon her opposite cheek and, turning, looked into the eyes of her husband. Pwyll's demeanor was one of pride, and he smiled happily at her.

"He is to be called Anwyl," she told Pwyll.

"Anwyl ap Pwyll," he gently corrected. "Anywl, the son of Pwyll."

"Anwyl, meaning the beloved one," she answered softly. "Anwyl, our beloved son."

"He has your coloring," Pwyll remarked, "but he is sturdily built, as are all the Cymri, dearling. Our people are ecstatic with this next prince of Dyfed. Anwyl was worth the wait."

"I am cold," Rhiannon said. "Come into our bed, Pwyll, and keep me warm."

"I cannot, my love. It is a custom of the Cymri that for the next few months we be kept from one another. It is a good custom, for it will allow you to regain your strength, Rhiannon. I will sleep in the hall with my men while you remain here. You will have Bronwyn and the other women to wait upon your every need. They will also keep watch during the night that no harm comes to either you or to Anwyl," he told her.

"Not Bronwyn, Pwyll!" Rhiannon cried. " I do not want Bronwyn about me!"

"I cannot offend her father, my love. I know Bronwyn is difficult, but be patient with her," he said.

Rhiannon shook her head stubbornly. "I do, not care if the lord Cynbel is offended or not, Pwyll! Bronwyn should have long ago departed our court for a marriage of her own, but she has not. She remains and continues to usurp my authority daily over the women of this court. There is not one amongst them that would obey me over her, my lord husband. Are you aware of that? I have given you your firstborn son, and in return I ask nought but that you do not inflict this embittered creature upon me. Will you deny me this little thing?"

Pwyll looked troubled. "I do not want to deny you, Rhiannon, but I also do not wish to offend Cynbel. What am I to do?"

"Tell Cynbel that I have requested that his daughter Bronwyn sit in my place for me, acting as your hostess in my stead while I recover from Anwyl's birth," Rhiannon told her husband cleverly. "Cynbel will feel his family honored, and I will be free of Bronwyn's company."

"My lady wife," he told her admiringly, " 'tis the most perfect solution! I thank you for it! Rest now, my love, that you may grow strong again and conceive another son for me."

"I shall not conceive a son again, my lord, until we share the same bed," Rhiannon pouted.

"Custom must be served," he told her, and then he grinned. "I will not keep from you one day longer than custom requires, Rhiannon. Had I known what a delicious armful you are, I should not have been so noble on our wedding day when I promised your father to keep from you for that very long year." His blue eyes twinkled. "You conceived Anwyl so quickly, there was scarce time for us to learn of each other. We have so much to look forward to, my sweet wife. Rest well!" He kissed her brow and departed their chamber.

Alone for a brief moment, Rhiannon reached for her son and, sitting up, lay him in her lap. Gently she undid the swaddling clothes in which they had wrapped the newborn and smiled, pleased, for he was perfect. As Pwyll had so proudly boasted, he was beautifully made. There was none of her delicacy about him, but she was pleased to note he bore upon the front of his left shoulder a small birthmark in the shape of a star. It was a symbol indicating that he was of her line as well as his father's. All members of her family bore that hallmark somewhere upon their bodies. Rhiannon felt a tiny burst of pleasure at the sight of that tiny star. Carefully she rewrapped her son, who had remained silent and watchful of her throughout the proceedings. Now the infant pierced her with a look so like his father that Rhiannon laughed and, kissing the downy head of her baby, set him back in his cradle.

A waiting woman whom she did not know entered her chamber bearing a goblet. "Your pardon, lady, but you must drink this healing draught now," she said, offering it to Rhiannon, who wrinkled her nose in distaste at the unpleasant smell. Nonetheless, she quaffed the beverage down and then, extremely exhausted with the ordeal of childbirth, fell back upon her pillows.

"Where are the women to look after my son?" she demanded sleepily.

The serving woman opened the door and half-a-dozen ladies streamed into the room, chattering and settling themselves.

"Guard my son well, " mocked one of the ladies as Rhiannon slept. "Prideful bitch! It should be Bronwyn's son we watch over, not this foreigner's spawn."

"He is our lord's son too," another lady ventured hesitantly.

"Is he, I wonder?" the first woman said venomously. She peered into Anwyl's cradle. "Look at the brat! As pale as his wretched mother! What kind of a Cymri prince is that, I ask you?"

The others murmured in agreement, and the lone dissenting voice amongst them grew meekly silent, for she was no fool, no matter her good heart. She was but newly come to Pwyll's court, and though she found the princess a sweet, gentle lady, she was quickly coming to realize the lay of the land.

Rhiannon slept deeply throughout the entire night, never once awakening; but as the dawn began to peek through the windows of her chamber, she roused and, turning toward the cradle, reached for her son. To her great shock the cradle was empty! And worse! Her hands, those delicate hands that reached out for Anwyl, were covered in bright red blood. With a terrified shriek Rhiannon sat up, demanding of the unfriendly faces staring so avidly at her, "Where is my son! What have you done with my baby?"

"What have we done? We have done nothing, but you, woman of the Fair Folk, have killed the child! 'Tis his blood that even now covers your guilty hands!" said the chief of the ladies-in-waiting.

"Liar!" Rhiannon screamed at her. "You are a foul liar! Where is my little Anwyl? It is not a custom of the Fair Folk to murder their young! Whatever has happened in these hours that I slept is not my fault, but yours, because you were derelict in your duties. Did you fall asleep? Be truthful with me, I beg of you! I will protect you, but be honest with me. Do not, I pray you, accuse me of some foul deed because you, yourselves, fear punishment!" Rhiannon was weeping now, not even aware of the tears that poured down her pale cheeks in her fright for herself and her son.

"Aye, we slept," admitted the woman. "You cast an enchantment over us all that we slumbered, and while we did, you murdered your child, Rhiannon of the Fair Folk! You wantonly destroyed a prince of Dyfed!"

Rhiannon staggered to her feet and slapped the woman with every ounce of her returning strength. Then taking up her chamber robe, she put it on and hurried from her chamber to find Pwyll. Her heart was hammering in her fear for Anwyl. Had Bronwyn's partisans killed her baby? If not, where was he? Hair flying in disarray, her chamber robe billowing about her, Rhiannon ran barefooted into the Great Hall to find her husband. Behind her came the waiting women, cackling with outrage to any who would listen.

"She has killed her child! She has killed her child!"

And those gathered in the Great Hall, seeing Rhiannon, her beautiful hands red with blood, drew back in horror as she fled by them.

"Pwyll!" Her anguished voice rang through the hall. "Anwyl is gone! Help me!" She flung herself at her husband's feet weeping. "I slept, and when I awoke our son was gone from his cradle. These women you set to watch over us did not." Her grief-stricken face gazed up at him helplessly.

"She lies!" cried the chief lady-in-waiting. "This woman of the Fair Folk bewitched us so that we slept, and while we did, she killed the infant! Look at her! Guilt is written all over her face, and her hands run with the blood of the innocent child she has murdered!"

"I have not killed my child!" Rhiannon cried, rising to her feet to face her accusers.

"Liar! Liar!" the lady-in-waiting repeated and turned from Pwyll to face the others. "What do we really know of this woman?" she asked. "She comes of a magical race whose customs are different than ours. Now she has proved herself a wicked witch of a woman! An evil sorceress! Our prince should never have wed with this black-hearted creature who has wantonly destroyed his son. Rhiannon must be tried and condemned for the murder of her son, Anwyl! Our prince must put this woman aside and wed with one of our own!"

There were murmurs of assent at her words, but Rhiannon declared vehemently once again, " I have not harmed my son! Whatever has happened to him is the fault of these lying women who slept instead of watching over us! I am innocent of this terrible thing of which you charge me!"

"Then why is there blood on your hands, woman of the Fair Folk?" a voice from the back of the hall demanded loudly.

There came an answering chorus of "Ayes!" and a great murmuring rose up against Rhiannon. Pwyll was in deep shock. He could not seem to find his voice in the midst of the dispute. His son was dead, and his wife was charged with the terrible crime. It was almost more than he could bear. Seeing his state, Taran of the Hundred Battles spoke up before someone less sympathetic took charge of the situation.

"There must be an investigation of these charges," he said sternly. "Evan ap Rhys and I will go to the princess's chamber immediately." Then he and his friend hurried from the hall.

Pwyll finally found his voice. "Bring my wife a basin of scented water that she may cleanse her hands free of blood," he commanded. He was reluctantly obeyed.

Rhiannon stood shivering in the early morning chill of the hall. She was yet weak with her labor of the previous day and terrified as to the fate of her infant son. The very air of the hall was ripe with evil. Looking up, Rhiannon's violet eyes met the triumphant ones of Bronwyn of the White Breast. In that moment in time the princess of the Fair Folk knew that Bronwyn was involved in Anywl's disappearance; but unless she could prove her suspicions, she dared not accuse the jealous girl. For the first time in her entire life Rhiannon felt that most human of all emotions, despair.

Taran and Evan returned to the hall. Taking Pwyll aside, they spoke to him in low, urgent voices, gesturing passionately as they did. They appeared to be showing the prince something. Finally, when they had finished, Pwyll held up his hand for silence and the hall quieted.

"Taran and Evan have thorougly investigated my wife's chamber. Both the cradle that contained my son and the linens upon the bed are free of blood. The only evidence of blood seems to be upon my wife's hands. Beneath the bed the bones and bloodied skin of a deer hound puppy were found. Taran has checked the kennels, and one of the pups born three weeks ago is missing. It would appear that someone has deliberately forged evidence in an effort to harm my wife's reputation." He turned angrily upon the chief lady-in-waiting. " You! I want the truth! What nonsense do you mouth about enchantment? Did you see my wife kill our child? Did any of you?"

The woman fell to the floor at his feet babbling hysterically. "Oh forgive us, my lord! There was no enchantment. To our shame we slept instead of watching as we were bid. When we awoke, the child was gone and the princess bloodied. We feared your wrath, and in our fear we assumed the worst! Forgive us, my lord! Forgive us!"

"Get from my sight, all of you! You are banished from Dyfed from this day onward!" Pwyll shouted angrily and the women fled.

"There is still the small matter of the infant prince's very mysterious disappearance," said Cynbel of Teifi. "Though the waiting women admit to being derelict in their duties, the child is still gone. Who can say for certain that Rhiannon of the Fair Folk is not involved? I, for one, think the child is dead. The evidence that Taran and Evan claim to have found may have been concocted by them to deceive us. Everyone knows that they have been under this creature's spell since her arrival to Dyfed. This woman is not one of us. How can we be certain she speaks the truth? How can we be certain Taran and Evan are not possessed by enchantment? If she is indeed innocent, let her produce the child!"

"Rhiannon, my lady wife," pleaded Pwyll, addressing her for the first time since the ugly incident began, "tell us what has happened to Anwyl, I beg of you!" Suddenly he could not quite look at her; all the warnings given him about marrying a foreigner surfaced in his brain. Had they been right?

"My lord," came the reply, "I know not where our son is, for I was sleeping that I might recover my strength after his birth. I have never lied to you, Pwyll. Why do you now allow me to be accused of such a heinous crime? Why have you not mounted a search for our child? Every moment that passes is a moment lost us. Send criers out through all the lands of Cymri telling of our son's mysterious disappearance that we may find him. Hurry, I beg of you!" Catching his hands in hers, Rhiannon looked into her husband's face and was devastated by what she saw. There was total confusion in Pwyll's look. He did not know whether to believe her or not. Her own heart plummeted.

The prince of Dyfed was caught helplessly between his council and his wife. He loved her, but that love could not override the fact that his son was missing under strange circumstances. The Cymri were a people of regular habits; but, a voice whispered in his head, the Fair Folk are an elusive people whose ways are obscure and secret. Perhaps Rhiannon had not been directly involved in Anwyl's disappearance, but the Fair Folk could be. Perhaps this was but another of King Dylan's conditions of their marriage. One that Rhiannon had feared to tell him. A firstborn son was a valuable commodity.

Then Bronwyn of the White Breast spoke up, and all turned to hear her words. "This is obviously some enchantment of the Fair Folk," she said, amazingly voicing Pwyll's concerns. "It has come upon not just you, my lord, but upon us all, for the baby, Anwyl, was the hope of Dyfed's future. It has come upon Dyfed because you insisted in wedding with this woman of the Fair Folk. A woman not of our own people. She has brought you, brought us all, bad luck.

"For two years we waited for her to produce an heir for Dyfed. Now, the very day after the child's birth, it is dead. This kingdom is without an heir. Who is to say that this horrible thing will not happen over and over again until it is too late for Pwyll to sire a child? What will then become of our fair land?

"The council has advised you well, my lord. They have said you should put this creature of the Fair Folk aside. Divorce her! You must choose a wife from amongst our kind and remarry as soon as possible." Bronwyn turned back to Pwyll and knelt before him. "I know, my dear lord, that there is no hope for me, for you do not love me; but please, I beg of you, choose one of our women for your wife, lest Dyfed wither beneath the curse this woman of the Fair Folk has brought upon us!"

"I will not divorce Rhiannon," Pwyll said, but his voice was uncertain and it trembled slightly.

"Nonetheless, my lord, she must be punished," said Cynbel of Teifi.

"For what?" demanded Taran of the Hundred Battles.

"The child is dead," was the answer.

"The boy is missing," snapped Evan ap Rhys. "There is no logical proof of his demise."

"The child is gone, my lord," Cynbel amended, "but he is as good as dead to us. This woman is obviously responsible. If she were not, she should produce her son that she might save herself. She has not, and therefore condemns herself by her inaction. She must be punished for this terrible crime!"

The other members of Dyfed's council nodded solemnly, in total agreement with Cynbel's words, and the lord of Teifi smiled, pleased. If Rhiannon were punished for the baby's loss, he thought, it would give them all time to convince Pwyll to divorce her and choose another wife. For all his daughter's self-effacing words, Cynbel knew her ambitions to be Pwyll's wife had not abated in the least. Pwyll must have a Cymri wife, and who better than Bronwyn of the White Breast; but it would take time. With Rhiannon in complete disgrace, they would have the time. Cynbel did not know what had happened to Anwyl ap Pwyll, but then he really did not care. It was very unlikely the child would ever be found.

"You must take command of this situation, my lord," he told Pwyll sternly.

Pwyll looked again to Rhiannon. He, who had always been so decisive, suddenly felt confused and afraid. Everything had been so perfect. Why was this happening to them? "Rhiannon, my love, I beg of you to end this bewitchment and to restore our child to us," he said desperately. He knew now that he was powerless to save her, and he had never felt more helpless in his entire life.

"Pwyll, my love," she gently reminded him. "When I left my father's castle to become your wife, I left magic behind. You know that to be the truth. Why have you lost your faith in me, my lord? Did you not promise me when I agreed to be your mate that you would always love and trust me without question? Why do you speak of punishment when I tell you and your council that you should be sending forth to all the kingdoms of the Cymri, and aye, to the Fair Folk as well, the word of this tragedy that has befallen us. Our child has been stolen away, Pwyll, but I am not responsible for his disappearance. Have I ever played you false? It is not within the nature of the Fair Folk to lie. What has made you doubt me? Why will you not defend me against these charges and slanders?)"

Helplessly Pwyll looked from his wife and back to his council. His sea-blue eyes had filled with sudden tears as she pleaded with him. "I cannot put her aside," he half whispered to his council. "Whatever has happened, I love her!"

The council gathered together at one end of the hall, conferring in dark whispers. The courtiers clustered on another side of the hall, murmuring to one another and casting unfriendly looks in Rhiannon's direction. Taran and Evan spoke fiercely and urgently to the prince while Rhiannon stood proud and alone, silent tears slipping down her beautiful face. At last the council came before Pwyll once again.

Cynbel spoke the words of Rhiannon's punishment. "Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, it is my duty to sentence you now for whatever part you may have played in the disappearance of our prince Anwyl. For seven years, beginning on the morrow, you are condemned to sit before this castle, a horse collar about your neck. You must admit your crime to each passerby and carry upon your back into this hall any and all who wish to enter therein. Winter and summer, in weather fair and foul, you will sit before the gates. You will not be excused from this punishment for any reason short of death or an end to its term.

"At night you will be freed of your horse collar and allowed shelter in the farthest corner of this hall away from the warmth of the fire. Your sustenance will be whatever falls from the tables that you can retrieve before the dogs get it. It is forbidden that any speak with you lest your wickedness befoul the innocent, for you are evil incarnate. This punishment is a traditional one amongst our people, and should you survive it, Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, you will be banished from Dyfed afterward to go wherever you would choose; but as your crime will be broadcast amongst the lands of the Cymri, it is unlikely you will ever find shelter or kindness amongst our peoples again. This is as it should be, and is the final decision of the council," Cynbel of Teifi concluded, unable to keep a faintly spiteful tone from his voice.

Pwyll of Dyfed heard the sentence passed upon his wife with a breaking heart. He turned away from Rhiannon, unable to face her. He loved her in spite of it all, but he no longer knew what to believe. Anwyl was gone and Rhiannon refused to do anything about it. He simply could not believe that she did not still possess some powers of enchantment. She had to! No one would really throw away such gifts just for love of another! He could understand a woman claiming to give up her most precious possession for him, but not really doing it. She must surely have retained her powers, so why did she refuse to use them to find her son? Unless, of course, she was indeed lying to him. Unless she was truly involved in this wickedness. Was it possible?

In the face of an armed enemy, Pwyll of Dyfed had known no fear, but now, suddenly he was very afraid. His hand visibly shaking, he reached out for a goblet of wine. Yesterday he had possessed all a man could want or desire. A beautiful wife, a healthy son, a happy kingdom. Now he had nothing. Ashes! It had all turned to ashes, and he did not understand why. Was his council right? Was he being punished for having wed a princess of the Fair Folk? Rhiannon had had powerful suitors among her own kind. Had one of them taken his revenge on Pwyll of Dyfed? It should not have happened had he married a woman of his own kind. He gulped his wine and groaned aloud.

When they attempted to lay hands upon Rhiannon, she took their hands off and walked proudly from the hall, never once looking back at her husband. She heard them lock the door to her chamber behind her as she entered her room, but she cared not. She could not believe the events of the past hour, and yet her son's cradle stood an empty testimony to the destruction of her marriage and her life. What a fool she had been to believe that love alone could conquer all obstacles to happiness! Had her family not tried to warn her? But she would not listen. She had deliberately and selfishly pursued her own desires.

Rhiannon had realized from the start that the Cymri did not accept her. At least Pwyll's court, with whom she must live, did not accept her. She had believed, however, that in time she would allay their fears of her origins, but alas there had always remained that suspicion of anything or anyone different from the Cymri. Bronwyn of the White Breast had seen to that, although on the whole the men had been kinder than the women.

The men had been fascinated by her fair beauty, so different from Cymri women. With them all, men and women alike, she had been modest, serene, nonthreatening. Never thrusting herself forward lest she irritate them. Never voicing unfavorable comparisons between her people and the Cymri. She had been kind to all, and yet they still would not accept her. How many times had she pretended not to see them staring at her? Whispering behind their hands and pointing slyly at her? She had borne it, all for the love of Pwyll. For love of a man who, in the face of mystery, had abandoned her.

He had never seen any of it, for she would not allow him to see their unkindness. Instead she had worked harder in an effort to bridge the gap between herself and the Cymri. She was skilled at weaving, but the exquisite cloth that spilled from her loom, finer in texture and more unique in its design than any they had seen before, only roused deeper jealousy amid the Cymri women. They seemed to delight in the differences between her work and theirs, criticizing sharply at every turn.

Among her own people Rhiannon was considered gifted musically, but because the Cymri loved their music, not once did she pick up her harp to play, lest she arouse their animosity further. Occasionally, for she could not refrain from it, she sang; but her sweet voice had an "other" worldly quality to it. It seemed eerily strange to her critics, and so she sang only to Pwyll in the privacy of their chambers when they were alone.

And without Pwyll she usually was alone. Because of Bronwyn, no woman of the court would dare to be her friend. Still, Taran and Evan ap Rhys had included her as much as they dared; but even they were careful in her company lest ugly rumors be started by Bronwyn and her adherents. Nothing had mattered to her because she was so certain of her husband's love. Now she wondered if she even had his love, having obviously lost his trust.

What had happened to Pwyll? He had always seemed so strong. His reputation as a warrior was more than well known. It was the stuff of which legends were made. Yet today, before the judgment of his council, he had crumbled before her very surprised eyes. Knowing full well there was no magic left in her, he had nonetheless pleaded helplessly with her to work enchantments she no longer possessed. Surely he did not think her like the Cymri who said a thing while not meaning it at all. He had judged her as he would have judged his own people. Knowing-surely he had known!-that it must be he who must save her, and in that moment in time Rhiannon's unbelieving heart had been quite broken.

She wept now as she sat by the window of her chamber and stared out into a new night. No matter what they did to her, she intended surviving. She had to survive in order to find her child. Anwyl was not dead. Her maternal instinct assured her of that certainty. She wept again, for she promised herself that she would not weep further after this night was over, until the day her son was returned to her. The Cymri would not rejoice over her tears.

In the hour before the dawn, she heard the sound of the key turning in her lock, and the door opened to reveal two tall and muffled dark figures. Rhiannon opened her mouth to scream, believing them to be assassins, but then Taran's voice whispered urgently to her.

"Princess, do not cry out! Evan ap Rhys and I come as friends."

"What is it you want of me?" she asked them.

"Princess, we believe you when you say that your son has been stolen but you know not by whom. We want to find the child, but we do not know how or where to start. Once your punishment begins it will be dangerous to attempt to speak with you. So when we must communicate with you, we will stand near you, apparently speaking to each other. Be most careful when you answer us, and do not give Cynbel of Teifi or his daughter any cause to punish you further."

"I know Cynbel would set his daughter in my place," Rhiannon told them.

Taran nodded. "He would, but she is not all that she appears to be, though some be fooled by her docile ways. But tell us how we may help you, my gracious lady?"

"You must speak with the women who were set to watch over my son and me before they depart the castle," Rhiannon said. "Surely one of them saw something but was too afraid to speak it for fear of retribution by Bronwyn. Do not speak with them together, but rather interview them alone. There is one, a new maid just come to court, who would have been kind to me had she not been afraid of the chief lady-in-waiting. Only after you have spoken with these ladies can I direct you further."

Taran nodded with understanding. "We will begin immediately, my lady, for these women will flee Pwyll's anger into banishment this very day, lest their deeds bring further disfavor upon their families."

"Princess," Evan ap Rhys said quietly. "We would spare you this punishment if we could, but we are helpless to do so despite the inequity of it. Do not fear, however, for we will allow no harm to come to you. This much I vow to you!"

Surprised by the deep passion in his voice, Rhiannon looked into Evan ap Rhys's eyes and saw something she had never suspected. She saw that he loved her, and the knowledge saddened her, for Evan, like herself, would love an unrequited love. Flushing, she touched his hand gently, thanking him and asking, "How is my husband?"

"He mourns," Taran said bluntly, "but for whom he mourns-you, himself, or the child-I do not know, my princess."

They left her then, and despite the bitterness facing her, Rhiannon felt stronger than she had in the past hours. To know that she was unquestioningly believed by these two stalwart men, and that she was not totally alone among the Cymri of Dyfed, was comforting in a time when there was little comfort to be had.

She washed her face and hands and bound up her long golden hair into a single braid. She chose from amongst her many garments a simple gown the color of lavender, which was girded about her waist with a rope belt of violet silk. The only jewelry she wore was her wedding band, and her dainty feet were bare.

As the first light of dawn touched the distant horizon they came for her. About her slender neck they placed a heavy leather horse collar which rested with brutal weight upon her slim shoulders and caused her to stagger as she was led outside to a stone mounting block before the castle's main gate. Those about her were all members of the council. Pwyll was nowhere in evidence.

"You will sit here, woman of the Fair Folk," said Cynbel of Teifi. He spoke her race as if it were a curse. "To each person who comes past you will say, standing, 'As I murdered my child, I am condemned to remain here for a term of seven years. Should you wish to enter the court of Pwyll of Dyfed it is my duty to bear you upon my back into the prince's hall. This is my punishment.' Do you understand, woman of the Fair Folk?"

"I did not murder my son," Rhiannon said quietly.

"The child is gone. You will not produce him. It is the same thing. The council has judged you guilty of infanticide. If you do not speak the words assigned you, you will be punished further. You may expect no help or intervention from the prince. He has left you entirely in our charge," Cynbel said coldly. "Now let me hear you speak your part as I have told you, that I may be satisfied you know them."

"I will speak them," Rhiannon told him, "but your words cannot make so that which is not, Cynbel of Teifi."

Word of the cruel punishment placed on Rhiannon of the Fair Folk spread throughout all the lands of Cymri. Those who passed by or into Pwyll's castle would not suffer the beautiful, obviously grieving woman to bear them on her frail back. If anything, they were shamed by the treatment meted out by the council of Dyfed and astounded that Pwyll did nothing to clear his wife of the charges against her.

The common people murmured among themselves, suspicious of the quick judgment visited upon Rhiannon. They knew nothing but good of this princess of the Fair Folk. How, they asked themselves, could a woman not even recovered from the birth of an eagerly awaited child be party to a plot to harm him? And why? And once again the question of why no one sought to locate the lost infant. They were poor and powerless in the main, but they did not lack good sense.

When the third full day of her punishment had passed, and Rhiannon sat quiet and alone in the farthermost corner of the Great Hall of Dyfed, she heard Taran's voice near her.

"We have news, princess. On the night your child disappeared, wine was brought to the women watching over you and the babe. It came with the compliments of Bronwyn of the White Breast. After they had drunk it, your women fell into a deep sleep. All but one. The lady newly come to court did not drink the wine, for wine she told us, disagrees with her. She remained awake and saw what happened. She has been afraid to speak for fear she would not be believed. Then, too, she allowed herself to be involved in the chief waiting woman's lie. She is riddled with shame over her cowardice, and filled with remorse for her part in this affair. I discovered we are related, and so she is willing to speak to me, but she will say nothing to anyone else."

Rhiannon put her hands over her mouth, pretending to cough, and said, "Who stole my son?"

"The woman does not know exactly," Taran said, "but this is what she told me. In the middle of the night she began to doze off, only to be aroused by the sound of the casement rattling violently. The window flew open and a great, huge arm ending in a large, clawed hand reached through and lifted the sleeping baby most gently from his cradle. The lady was terrified and did not know what to do. She fainted from her fear, she tells me, and when she regained consciousness, the child was quite gone. She closed the window and locked it tightly, telling no one of the incident until she spoke with me. She knows nothing more. Does any of this make any sense to you, my lady?"

"Twas no mortal creature who did this thing," Rhiannon replied with certainty, "but as for what it was or who it was that has stolen my son, I do not know. The Fair Folk might be able to help us. I am unable to leave here Taran, but you must not go alone. It is too dangerous a trip for a lone Cymri, for by now my own people will have learned of Dyfed's judgment upon me. They will be angered, though we are a gentle people by nature."

Taran gazed down the hall to see if they were being observed and, relieved they were not, said, "Evan and I will go together."

"Aye, gracious lady," Evan ap Rhys replied, "but you must tell us how to get back to your father's castle, for well I recall your wedding day when the thicket opened before you as you came and closed behind us when we had passed."

"You must politely ask the forest to allow you to pass through," Rhiannon told them in low tones. "Say, 'For the sake of our lady Rhiannon who is sore pressed, let us pass, oh fair woodlands,' and you will find you are able to pass." Then she went on to quickly give them the directions they would need to find her sister's palace in the lake.

They left her then, and the following day she watched as Taran of the Hundred Battles and Evan ap Rhys set forth upon a quest that would keep them from Dyfed for many months to come. As they rode off she was overwhelmed with sadness, for they were her only friends within the court, but then a visitor approached the gates to Pwyll's castle. Rhiannon arose dutifully and said her pitiful little piece, not even bothering to look at the women before her until a sneering voice commanded,

"Come then, witch of the Fair Folk! Come nearer the block that I may mount you!"

Rhiannon's violet eyes met the belligerent gaze of Bronwyn of the White Breast. Dutifully she bent her body, and Bronwyn clambered upon Rhiannon's back, wrapping her arms in a choke hold about her victim's neck while her legs curled tightly about Rhiannon's slender waist.

"Go quickly then, witch!" Bronwyn said, cruelly digging her heels into the princess's sides. "Take me directly into the hall, witch! Others may feel sorry for you, but I do not. You have only gotten what you so richly deserve for stealing Pwyll from me by means of your vile enhancements, but magic cannot help you now! You are powerless, woman of the Fair Folk, but I am not!"

"What have you done with my son?" Rhiannon gasped.

Bronwyn laughed nastily. "You can prove nothing against me, else you would have already acted to save yourself; but I am not finished with you yet, woman of the Fair Folk. Long before your term of punishment is finished, Pwyll will be cajoled into divorcing you and putting you aside. He will marry me, and I shall reign by his side as Dyfed's princess. Our son, my son, a child whose blood will remain pure Cymri and free from any taint of foreign contamination that would defile it, shall rule Dyfed after us! Not your son with his mixed blood and odd ways. My son! And on our wedding night, mine and Pwyll's, you will be brought to our nuptial chamber bound and gagged to watch as Pwyll makes love to me, and I pleasure him as only I know how! You will know, for women, even women of the Fair Folk, are instinctive in that way, the very moment in which Pwyll plants his seed in me and it takes root!" And Bronwyn laughed all the harder, plying Rhiannon with her riding crop as the princess made her way into the Great Hall with the unpleasant burden upon Ijjer back.

Rhiannon said nothing, but she fought back her tears. What could she possibly say? She was, as Bronwyn had pointed out, defenseless. She could only bear her burden in patient silence. Each day for several weeks Bronwyn came and insisted upon being carried into the hall by Rhiannon. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, this particular form of torture ceased. Rhiannon overheard the servants in her husband's hall saying that Cynbel had forbidden his daughter her displays of open cruelty toward Rhiannon. It did not do her cause with Pwyll any good, and only made the gentle Rhiannon appear a martyr in the eyes of all.

Bronwyn found other, more subtle ways to torment Rhiannon. She sat next to Pwyll at the high board regularly, fussing over the still-dazed prince, personally selecting choice bits from the serving platters to set upon his plate. She gave him wine to drink from her own cup, laughing up into his face in an effort to please him. At first her obvious little ploys seemed to have little effect upon Pwyll's state, but then a change, slow at first, seemed to come over him. If he was no longer merry, he at least responded to those about him, particularly Bronwyn. Rhiannon's heart ached, seeing their two dark heads together.

Pwyll was a somber, tragic man now. His laughter was no longer heard to echo through the hall, nor did he ever smile. Sometimes his eyes would stray to that dark, far corner where his wife sat upon a small wooden stool, shunned and alone with her thoughts; but more often than not as time passed, Rhiannon seemed to blend into the shadows and smoke of the hall until he could not even see her. It was as if she was not there, his golden princess of the Fair Folk, and Pwyll's heart seemed to shrivel within his breast.

In that far corner of the Great Hall of Dyfed was a little recessed alcove where Rhiannon slept at night. At first she did not even have a pallet, but one evening a small featherbed appeared upon her sleeping shelf. Forced to compete with the dogs in the hall for her food, she was near to starving, for the cruel among Pwyll's courtiers found it amusing to set the dogs afighting over choice morsels thrown upon the rushes, particularly when they saw the poor princess attempting to gather up a few crusts for her meal. Then one morning Rhiannon awoke to find a fresh trencher of bread filled with steaming barley cereal set within a small hollow in the stone walls by her sleeping shelf. She gobbled it eagerly, relieved to know she would not be nipped by the dogs that day. And in the evening there was more bread and an apple! Each day the food appeared; simple food; sometimes a piece of fowl, or game, or cheese; and always bread. She never knew who brought it, but she was grateful for the kindness, for lack of food, Rhiannon discovered, seemed to make her woes appear even greater.

Then the winter came and the days grew shorter. The air was bitter cold and the winds cut through the soft fabric of her gown, which had now grown quite faded and thin. One day a red-cheeked peasant woman approached Rhiannon, and she arose to say the words taught her. The woman, however, said in no-nonsense tones, "Now, my princess, ye'll not say such a lie to me, for I know it not to be true, whatever those wicked men may claim!" Then she removed her own long cloak, a thickly woven wool garment in a natural color and dropped it over Rhiannon's shoulders. "Ye'll not get through the winter without it, dearie," she said, and walked away in the same direction from which she'd come.

For the first time since she had been forced to sit before the gates of Pwyll's castle in punishment, Rhiannon wept. And it was not the only kindness that would be shown her. On another winter's day a young boy pushed a crudely carved comb of pearwood into her hand and, with a bob of his head, ran off. Rhiannon could not have been more delighted, for she had been forced to comb her hair with her fingers these many months.

But there was cruelty as well as kindness. One night Rhiannon watched, puzzled, as Bronwyn deliberately plied both her father and Pwyll with goblet after goblet of wine until Pwyll slid unconscious beneath the high board. Bronwyn then led the drunken Cynbel to that secluded place in the hall where Rhiannon now made her home and encouraged her inebriated parent, who had secretly lusted after Rhiannon since his first sight of her, to forcibly violate Pwyll's beautiful wife. Cynbel would not remember his bestial act come the dawn, but Bronwyn, her own hand silencing Rhiannon's cries for help, knew this final act of treachery would assure her her victory over Rhiannon.

In her pain the mauve mists swirled about her once again.

Rhi-an-non!

How long had she sat here before Pwyll's gates, the heavy collar pressing its brutal weight upon her delicate frame? Four summers had passed since the birth and mysterious disappearance of her infant son. Four long summers when the dust from the road had almost choked her each time a party of merchants or other travelers passed by. Three long, cold winters when the icy rains, and finally the snows, had put chilblains upon her delicate hands and feet that would not heal completely until the warm weather had returned. She still wore the same gown she had worn from the first day, but it was now ragged beyond repair, and its soft lavender color had long ago faded to a dingy, pale ash-grey. Without the cloak she had been given, she would have never survived the winters, but she could not wear the wool garment throughout the summer, and wondered how she could obtain a new gown to cover her painfully thin form.

They had not broken her brave spirit, however. The common people had continued to be kind, and but for occasional cruelties from Bronwyn, the court ignored her entirely. As the featherbed had appeared so magically one day, and the food each morning and evening, so also did Rhiannon's silver hairbrush come into her possession after a time. She kept it with her wherever she went. Once each day she would sit before the gates of the castle, unbind her long golden hair and slowly brush it until it came alive with light. The Cymri people would come to watch her, enjoying the simple entertainment she offered. Seeing Rhiannon one day as she slowly stroked her golden hair with her silver brush, Bronwyn was enraged.

"Take the brush away from her!" she screamed at her father. "The bitch but draws attention to herself in an effort to gain the peasant's sympathy! Next, Pwyll will learn of it and take her back! All my work of the last few years will be for nought!"

"That, my dear Bronwyn, is your problem, not mine," Cynbel of Teifi told his furious daughter coldly. "If you cannot win Pwyll over, it is not my fault. He loves the woman of the Fair Folk yet, though not enough to overcome a suspicion of her which I have so carefully instilled in him. Be patient, and you will be Pwyll's wife, I promise you. Take Rhiannon's brush from her, and you will cause a spectacle. The peasants will turn against Pwyll, and against you. Be warned, my daughter! If Rhiannon's hairbrush should disappear, I will personally replace it."

They argued in the Great Hall and, though she could not overhear their words, Rhiannon saw the discord between them, and she was glad of this division among her enemies. As the shock of the injustice visited upon her had worn off, Rhiannon realized that though she would never return to Pwyll, neither could she allow Bronwyn to become his wife. Bronwyn was not fit to be poor Pwyll's wife. Besides, wherever Anwyl was, it was he who was the true heir to Dyfed.

The autumn came once more, and one afternoon as she sat upon the horse block before the castle gates, she saw three figures upon horseback coming toward her. As they drew nearer Rhiannon could see a man, a woman, and a small boy. She arose slowly and began her now familiar litany in a dull monotone. It was the only way she could manage to say the awful words without shrieking her frustration.

"As I murdered my child, I am condemned to remain here for a term of seven years. Should you wish to enter the court of Pwyll of Dyfed, it is my duty to bear you upon my back into the prince's hall. This is my punishment."

The man, who was obviously a wealthy lord, as the gold torque about his neck indicated, said quietly, "Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, I greet you. I am Teirnyon, lord of Gwent. This lady is my wife, Elaine, and the child is called Cant. We will take no part in a shameful injustice visited upon an innocent woman." The lord of Gwent was a tall man with a kind face. He reached out and carefully lifted the heavy horse collar from Rhiannon's slender shoulders. "Come with us into your husband's hall, princess."

"My lord, I am forbidden to leave my place until after the sun has set," Rhiannon said softly. The lord of Gwent's kindness was almost more than she could bear. It had been months since anyone had spoken to her, let alone spoken to her with kindness.

"You will never sit before these gates again, princess," Teirnyon told her firmly. "We are here to right the wrong done you four years ago by those who have only their own interests and not Dyfed's in their evil hearts. Only trust us and come." Then taking her hand, he led her into Pwyll's hall. Behind him Elaine and Cant followed.

It was the dinner hour. There were gasps of surprise and many a shocked face as the quartet entered the Great Hall of Dyfed and made their way to stand before Pwyll. Because of his great size, however, none attempted to stop the lord of Gwent or his little group, the crowd giving way before him as he strode through the hall, directly up to the high board.

"How dare you escort this felon into the center of the prince's hall?" demanded Bronwyn of the White Breast boldly from her place next to Pwyll on the prince's bench. "Has she not told you how she murdered her own newborn son? She is a witch of the Fair Folk, though her power has been rendered useless before honest folk as ourselves. Where is her collar? Whoever you are, you will answer for this outrage!"

The look Teirnyon cast in Bronwyn's direction was scathing in both its content and its brevity. "Greetings, Pwyll of Dyfed," Teirnyon began, addressing the prince directly and ignoring Bronwyn. "I am Teirnyon, the lord of Gwent, and this is my lady wife, Elaine of Powys."

Pwyll sighed deeply, but he focused his sad eyes upon his visitor. Gracious hospitality was the first law among the Cymri peoples. "You are welcome to my castle, Teirnyon of Gwent, and your family also," Pwyll responded. He deliberately ignored Rhiannon. Seeing her now was far too hard for him. She was so painfully thin, and yet her beauty seemed to glow as brightly as it ever had.

"Hear me, prince of Dyfed, for I have come to right a terrible wrong done your family. You have allowed your faithful wife, Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, to be unjustly condemned. Such behavior is unworthy of the prince of Dyfed."

Pwyll looked startled by this rebuke and more alert than he had in the past several years. "Can you prove my wife's innocence, my lord?" he asked Teirnyon hesitantly. "If you can, you will do what no other, even she, has been able to do."

Teirnyon nodded slowly and began his tale. "Several months ago there came to my court at Gwent, Taran of the Hundred Battles, and his companion, Evan ap Rhys. Although we had heard some murmurings of your misfortune, we had never heard the full tale which they told us the first night they were with us. They had gone from Dyfed with your wife's blessing to her own people. There they had learned that one of the lady Rhiannon's former suitors had, in his bitterness over losing her, sought his revenge against her, aided by one of your own people. Who this Cymri was, however, they could not learn, for the rejected suitor refused to tell them. He has been punished though by the high council of all the Fair Folk and will harm no one ever again," the lord of Gwent reassured his listeners, and then he continued.

"Taran of the Hundred Battles and his friend, Evan ap Rhys, had believed in the lady Rhiannon's innocence in the matter of your son's disappearance. On the morning after you allowed her to be so unfairly condemned, they spoke with the women who had been charged with watching over your wife and child. They learned that wine had been brought to the women by Bronwyn of the White Breast, and all but one drank it, only to fall promptly into a deep sleep. The single lady who remained faithful in her duty dozed lightly in the middle of the night, to be awakened by the sound of the casement being forced open. Terrified, she watched as a great clawed hand reached into the room and lifted your son from his cradle. The poor woman fainted, and when she regained her senses, the boy was gone. It was then the others awoke, saw the baby was missing, and fearing punishment for their dereliction of duty, attempted to make it appear that your gentle wife had murdered the child. That one woman who knew the truth was fearful of speaking out. She was new to your court and saw the others' animosity toward Rhiannon of the Fair Folk. She was afraid that no one would believe her tale, and thus allowed your poor wife to be accused unjustly. When Taran spoke with her and they learned they were related by blood, the lady admitted to what she had seen."

Pwyll's eyes widened in surprise at Teirnyon's words. "I have not heard this tale before," he said, but there was confusion in his voice. "Why have I not heard this tale?"

"Because it is undoubtedly a false tale!" snapped Bronwyn angrily, disregarding her father's warning look.

Teirnyon once again ignored the shrewish woman and said to Pwyll, "How many words have you spoken to your wife since you allowed her to be condemned, oh prince of Dyfed? She knew her babe was stolen away, but you, I am told, influenced by the prejudice of others, cut yourself off from her immediately. You did not grieve with her, or comfort her, or defend her innocence in any way."

A deep flush of shame stained Pwyll's face at the lord of Gwent's sharp words. "Ahhh, Rhiannon!" he said, speaking her name aloud for the first time in four years.

Rhiannon raised her violet eyes to him, piercing him with a look of such aching sadness that the prince cried out aloud as if in pain; but she spoke no word to him.

Teirnyon picked up his tale once more. "I knew of this creature that Taran and Evan sought, but I did not know what it was or where to find it. You see, my lord, I have a particularly fine mare among my herds that I love right well. For many years she foaled regularly, but there was a period of several years in which her newborn foals always disappeared under mysterious circumstances almost immediately after their births. Four years ago I determined that I should not lose the colt that my mare was about to drop, and so when she went into her labor, I brought her into my castle at Gwent for safety's sake.

"The foal was born and he was a beautiful one. As I stood admiring it, the windows in the room flew open and a huge clawed hand reached through and sought to take the newborn colt from its mother. I took my broadsword and hacked at that damned arm with its greedy, clawed hand! From outside, a terrible howl like a rushing, mighty wind arose. I dashed out into the darkened courtyard to do battle with whatever it was that was stealing my horses. I could see nothing in all the blackness, for there was no moon that night. Then suddenly I felt something being dropped at my feet and all was silent.

"I reached down and lifted the bundle up. Imagine my surprise when I found that the swaddling contained a healthy, newborn infant boy. I brought the child to my dear wife, Elaine, who is childless. We decided to call him Cant, meaning bright, for the hair on his head was shining and golden. We did not question our good fortune in obtaining a son to love and raise after all our years of childlessness. We even considered the possibility the creature left us the infant in exchange for the colt. We had absolutely no idea where the baby came from until Taran of the Hundred Battles and Evan ap Rhys arrived in Gwent some weeks ago with their tragic tale of Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, and Pwyll of Dyfed and the baby lost to them."

Teirnyon then looked down at the small boy by his side. "Show the lady Rhiannon the cloth you came wrapped in, Cant."

All eyes turned to the sturdy child with the hair of golden hue as he stepped forward and handed Rhiannon a length of green and silver brocade. Her tear-filled eyes devoured him eagerly, and the boy looked back at her with identical eyes. Her hands shaking, she took the fabric, though she did not really need to examine it. She had recognized it immediately. It was her own fine work, created upon her high loom during the months in which she carried her child. Her infant son had been wrapped in it the night he had been born. The night he had been stolen away from her.

Rhiannon fell slowly to her knees, sobbing. "I called you Anwyl," she said. "Anwyl, my beloved son!" And Rhiannon hugged the little boy who slipped so easily into her embrace and kissed her lovingly upon her wet cheeks.

Teirnyon bent and took the fallen brocade up once more. Handing it to Pwyll, he asked, "Do you recognize it, my lord? Is this indeed the cloth in which your son was wrapped on the night he disappeared?"

Pwyll took the cloth, fingering it with wonder. He nodded mutely, unable to believe his sudden good fortune. By some marvelous miracle his only son and heir had just been restored to him. "How can I thank you?" he asked the lord of Gwent thickly, his voice sticking in his throat.

"You cannot," Teirnyon told him bluntly. "By returning your son to you, I lose mine and I break my dear wife's heart. She has loved Cant and raised him with tenderness since the night he came to us. How can I compensate her for such a loss? There is no way, my lord. Elaine and I, however, learning the truth of our son's birth and seeing the stamp of both Dyfed and the Fair Folk upon his brow, could not in honor keep him from you, nor allow his sweet mother's name to be further besmirched."

"I indeed owe you a great debt of gratitude, Teirnyon, and my friends Taran of the Hundred Battles and Evan ap Rhys as well. Where are they?"

"We are here, my lord," came Taran's voice as he and Evan stepped forward from among the clustering crowd of courtiers.

"Whatever you want," Pwyll told them. "It is yours for what you have done for me and for Dyfed!"

"We did not do it for you, or for Dyfed, my lord," Evan ap Rhys said harshly. "We did it for the lady Rhiannon whom we love and honor."

Rhiannon now stood, lifting her son up into her arms as she did so. Seeing them together thusly left no doubt among those in the hall that they were mother and son. "Thank you, my friends," she told them quietly, and then she said, "Will you go with my son back to Gwent, Taran of the Hundred Battles and Evan ap Rhys? Will you teach him of his heritage and guard him until he comes of his manhood?"

"We will, lady, and right gladly," the two warriors chorused in unison.

Rhiannon then looked to Teirnyon and Elaine. "There is no need for you to lose your son, our son, Anwyl whom you call Cant. It is the custom among the Cymri, is it not, to foster out a prince's children? It is also a mother's right among the Cymri to choose the place for her child's fostering. My son now knows the truth of his birth. Taran and Evan will teach him all he needs to know of Dyfed. I return him to Gwent with you both until he is a man. You, Teirnyon, teach my son all he needs to know about ruling that he may one day rule in Dyfed with honor, having learned honor from an honorable man." Her meaning was brutally clear.

Both Teirnyon and Elaine were overjoyed, but they were curious as well. The lady of Gwent spoke softly to Rhiannon. "Having found your son, you would let him go again, oh princess?"

Rhiannon nodded. "Anwyl has never known any other parents but you two. I want my child to be happy, and I tell you that having lived six years among the suspicion and intolerance of this court, I know for certain that Anywl's happiness, and indeed his very safety, are not to be found here in Dyfed. Here I will have no control over my son's fate. They would take him from me and seek to erase from his memory that half-heritage which comes to him through me. You surely knew by the very look of him that he was not entirely of the Cymri race, and yet you have both loved him without reservation."

It was then the child spoke. His little voice was high and piping. "I have but only found you, my other mother. I do not wish to lose you again."

"You will not lose me, Anwyl, my fair son. I will come to see you often in Gwent. Perhaps your father will come too one day."

"Then I will return to Gwent as you wish," the little boy said sweetly, and kissed her cheek again.

Outside Pwyll's castle thunder rumbled with an approaching storm. Lightning flashed beyond the windows of the Great Hall.

Pwyll arose from his place at the high board and looked directly at Rhiannon. "Rhiannon," he said, "will you return to me?"

Before she might answer, however, Bronwyn of the White Breast leapt to her feet as if she had been stung. Grasping at Pwyll's arm with talonlike fingers, she cried out, "No! You cannot do this to me, my lord! Send her away! She has only caused you misery, this woman of the Fair Folk. How can you really be certain that this boy is your son? This is some sort of enchantment of the Fair Folk against us! Surely you must see that!"

Pwyll shook Bronwyn's hand off. "Leave me be!" he told her angrily. "Your shrewish babbling confuses me."

"Leave you be?" she shrieked, her face pinched in her anger. "Leave you be? What is this you say to me, Pwyll? What of last night? What of the many nights before that when we lay together, two lovers? What of the promise you made to me this very day that you would at last divorce this creature and put her aside that you might finally wed with me? Dyfed needs an heir! A legitimate Cymri heir!" Bronwyn was flushed and almost ugly in her fury at being thwarted.

For a brief moment the old Pwyll reappeared from the shell of the man that now existed. "Dyfed has an heir, lady," he said strongly. "He is before us now!" His hand shot out and, grasping Bronwyn of the White Breast by her thick brown braids, he forcibly directed her head in the direction of Rhiannon and the child she still held within the shelter of her arms. "Look upon my son, Bronwyn! He may have his mother's fair coloring, but his face is mine. His face is Dyfed's! I have no doubts!" Pwyll's gaze swung toward his council and his court. "Are there any among you who have doubts as to the paternity of this boy?" he demanded fiercely.

"What of you, Cynbel?" Pwyll growled threateningly.

"The child is Prince Anwyl without question, my good lord," Cynbel of Teifi said silkily. "Dyfed's heir has most assuredly been restored to us, but I question the wisdom of allowing him to return to Gwent."

"Why is that, my lord Cynbel?" Rhiannon asked coldly. "Do you feel perhaps that my son would be safest in your gentle daughter's tender care, as opposed to the care given him by Elaine and Teirnyon?" There were snickers from those gathered, and sly looks were directed at Bronwyn as Rhiannon continued. "Your daughter may have Pwyll of Dyfed to husband if that is what they both choose, but she will never have care of my child. He returns to Gwent!"

"Where," Teirnyon told them all, "he will be zealously guarded and kept safe from all harm until the day comes that he inherits Dyfed from his father." The lord of Gwent smiled toothily at Cynbel and his daughter.

"It is the custom of my people," Rhiannon now said, "that a man or a woman unhappy in their marriage union may dissolve that union by merely releasing their partner from his or her vows. So I release you of the vows we made together in my father's court those six long years ago, Pwyll of Dyfed. I am no longer your wife. You are no longer my husband."

Pwyll nodded wordlessly, his shoulders slumping in a final defeat. "Our son, Anwyl, will have his inheritance of me nonetheless, Rhiannon," he promised her.

"What of my children?" hissed Bronwyn furiously. "Are they to have nothing so this half-breed may have everything?"

A monstrous clap of thunder shook the hall menacingly. A cloud of violet-blue mist sprang up directly in the center of the room and, with gasps of sheer fright, most of the court stepped back. The cloud dispersed as magically as it had appeared and a regal young woman whose golden hair was plaited into seven braids, each of which was woven with glittering jewels, and whose gown shimmered with light, stood before them.

Rhiannon could not help the faint smile that touched her own lips as her younger sister, now Queen of the Fair Folk, made a most dramatic entrance. Her heart swelled with joy to see her sibling once again, for she had never believed that she would.

"I am Angharad, Queen of the Fair Folk of the Forest and the Lake," Angharad announced in stentorian tones. Her cool gaze swept the room, softening as they passed over her nephew and his guardians; hardening as they encountered Bronwyn of the White Breast, who had the temerity to have attempted to take her sister's place. "You speak of your children, Bronwyn of the White Breast, but you will have none by any man, Pwyll of Dyfed or another. Your womb shrivels even now within you. You will be barren in this life, for to allow such evil blood to be passed on would be a crime against nature. This is the judgment the Fair Folk place upon you for your part in this matter of my nephew.”

Bronwyn glared defiantly at Angharad, but the queen of the Fair Folk was through with her and looked to Cynbel of Teifi.

"For your secret crime, lord of Teifi, you are cursed, and all those of your blood who follow you for a thousand generations to come."

Cynbel of Teifi seemed to wither before their very eyes, and Rhiannon felt it incumbent to communicate with her sister. It was not necessary for her to speak aloud for Angharad to hear her. Be merciful, sister.

I might have had they showed you any mercy.

There are some who were thoughtful of me in my distress.

I know them, and they shall not feel my wrath, Angharad promised her sister as she fixed her gaze once more upon the court of Dyfed. "To those of you known or unknown who aided my sister by thought or deed, I disburse unequaled good fortune for you, and for your descendants for a thousand generations to come. We of the Fair Folk are not really so different from you of the Cymri. We live and we die. We love, and sometimes, though we try hard to control such negativity, we yet hate."

Angharad now turned to take in Pwyll. Poor Pwyll, she thought for a brief moment, and then she remembered the misery that this man had caused her sister.

You can take no more from him, Rhiannon silently told her sister.

But I can, came the hard reply.

Did you not promise me you would not interfere? Rhiannon gently scolded Angharad.

No, I did not, Angharad told her disbelieving sister. Think back, sister. You asked me to make that promise, but I did not. Still, I stayed free of this controversy until Anwyl was found and your innocence proven beyond a doubt. I allowed you to endure terrible suffering that the name of our people not be further besmirched.

Pwyll sat slumped in his seat of office, his head within his hands. He knew whatever fate Angharad of the Fair Folk pronounced upon him, he was more than deserving of it. Feeling her demand, he looked up at her.

All anger was gone from Angharad's voice now, and only a deep sadness remained as she sternly said, "Pwyll of Dyfed, when you came on your marriage day to wed with my sister, Rhiannon, she asked but two things of you. She asked that you give her your complete love and your complete trust. It was so little in the face of the sacrifices she made in order to become your wife. But you were unable to keep faith with my sister, Pwyll. You betrayed her on both accounts. You ceased to trust her in the face of your people's false condemnations of her, simply because she was not of the Cymri race. Therefore, her credence was to be instantly doubted; but even that the Fair Folk might have forgiven you had you remained true in your heart to her, but you have not. You lay with Bronwyn of the White Breast, and your love for Rhiannon wavered as surely as your faith in her wavered. Did you ever once in all these years remember the great concessions my sister made for you, Pwyll of Dyfed? You left her helpless. You left her unable to defend herself. You left her caught between two worlds, and for that, Pwyll of Dyfed, you will be punished!

"Our people have watched agonized as Rhiannon was made to suffer because of you and your people. Even you, O foolish Cymri, cannot know the depths of her suffering! You were too busy wallowing in your own self-pity. It has been agreed by the high council of all the Fair Folk that Rhiannon be restored to her own kind. Though she has tried hard, she can never be one of you. To leave her caught between two worlds as you did was cruel. We are not by nature a cruel people. This, however, could not be done until the natural balance of things was corrected. With the restoration of my nephew, Anwyl, to his rightful place, it is. Rhiannon is once again one of us, and I have come to take her home."

"My powers…?" Rhiannon whispered softly.

"Restored, dearest sister," replied Angharad. "It is as it was once before. You will never again be helpless before anyone!"

Her heart hammering joyously, Rhiannon smiled the first smile of genuine happiness that anyone had seen her smile in years. Kissing her son, she told him, "Go now with Teirnyon and Elaine. I will see you soon."

Anwyl put his arms about his mother's neck and hugged her hard as he placed another kiss upon her cheek. He did not protest as Rhiannon placed him back into Elaine's welcoming arms.

"I will keep him safe," Elaine promised Rhiannon, her warm and loving gaze meeting the violet eyes of her foster son's mother.

"Let us go home, Angharad," Rhiannon said simply.

"Rhiannon!" Pwyll's anguished voice tore through the hall. "Rhiannon, you must forgive me! I love you! 1 do!"

Angharad reached out and placed warning fingers over her elder sibling's lips. "That, Pwyll," she said stonily and with great satisfaction, "is your punishment! For incarnations to come, though the paths your two souls may take will meet and cross, you will remember this moment in time, although Rhi-annon's soul will not. You will know no deliverance from the guilt you now bear for your faithlessness against Rhiannon. You will remain frozen in time spiritually life after life after lifetime until another moment in time, somewhere in the future, when, if the soul now inhabiting my sister's body remembers this time and this place, and if she can find it in her heart to truly forgive you; then Pwyll, and only then, will you be given deliverance and fully exonerated of your crimes against Rhiannon. She must remember on her own, Pwyll. You cannot tell her. Until then, Pwyll of Dyfed, your own sad soul will suffer in unrequited anguish, even as you have allowed my sweet sister to suffer these past four years. And now, farewell!"

And before the astonished eyes of the assembled court of Dyfed, Angharad, queen of the Fair Folk, and her elder sister Rhiannon disappeared in another puff of silvery smoke and a thunderclap. Bronwyn whimpered, frightened, and clutched at Pwyll's arm once more, but he angrily shook her off.

"Rhiannon!" he cried after his wife. "Rhi-an-non! Rhi-an-non!"

The mauve mists. She was once again surrounded by the mauve mists, swirling about her furiously, even as the weightlessness overcame her once more, and she felt as if she were floating. Floating. Floating. No! Not floating. She was falling. Falling through time and through space at such a rapid rate that she feared she would be smashed down and totally destroyed. With a surprised gasp, Wynne of Gwernach opened her eyes and sat bolt upright in her bed, her heart hammering wildly in her chest, Madoc's handsome face before her.

Chapter 9

"YOU KNOW NOW," he said, his voice tinged with sadness.

She nodded slowly. "How long have I slept, my lord?"

"Two full days and three nights, dearling. This is the third morning."

"How long have you been here, Madoc?" she gently asked him.

"Since Megan brought me your message. You dreamed?"

"I have known the legend of Pwyll and Rhiannon since I was a child at Gwernach; but the story always ended with Rhiannon forgiving Pwyll, and their living happily ever after," Wynne replied thoughtfully.

"A Christian ending to a Celtic tale," he said bitterly. "Our people were less forgiving in those far distant times, Wynne, than they have been since the coming of the priests."

"What happened to Anwyl?" she wondered aloud. "I cannot remember."

"The Fair Folk blessed Elaine and Teirnyon with a single child, a daughter. Anwyl grew into a fine man who ruled for many years after Pwyll's death in Dyfed, and also in Gwent by his wife's side. He took Morgana, the daughter of his foster parents, for a wife."

She nodded slowly. "It is good," she said.

"Wynne?" She heard the desperate question in his voice.

"Oh, Madoc," she said, looking up at him, her mind and her heart perfectly clear and suddenly filled with understanding, "of course I forgive you! With every ounce of my being I forgive you! What happened between Pwyll and Rhiannon was a series of wrongs on both sides. Don't you understand that? The Fair Folk were obviously of a higher order than the Cymri. It was most unfair of Rhiannon to ask poor Pwyll to give her his complete love and his total trust in exchange for her promise to wed him. It was equally foolish of the besotted Pwyll to give her that promise, for he could not keep it. But how often do we recognize our own weaknesses? But most of all, Madoc, my love, it was wrong of Angharad to place such a punishment upon Pwyll. Only the Creator has such a right, but once a curse is spoken, the Creator will not gainsay it. Rather, he turns his eyes upon the one who uttered the curse. Angharad was removed as Queen of the Fair Folk, for although she loved her sister well and had shown some restraint in the end, she proved herself too immature in her judgments."

"Who took her place?" he asked, relief pouring through every fiber of his being.

"Rhiannon did. It was her fate, though she had tried to avoid it. She did not remarry, however, and her nephew Ren ruled after her." Wynne smiled at him. "Do not ask me how I know these things because I cannot tell you, my lord. I simply know now." She sat up and stretched her limbs. "I am ravenous, Madoc!"

He laughed. "Then we must feed you, dearling. I cannot have it said that I starved my bride." Suddenly his face grew serious. "You are still my betrothed wife, my sweet Wynne, aren't you?"

"Aye, my lord, I am your wife now and forever. The past is finished for us, Madoc. Only today exists, and all the wonderful tomorrows to come," Wynne told him. "I have let go of the past. I would that you release it too, that we may, upon this bright and shining spring morning, begin our life together anew."

He took her hands in his and, raising them to his lips, he kissed them softly. "As Pwyll feared his worthiness with regard to his Rhiannon, so I fear my worthiness in regard to you, dearling. How can an innocent little country girl be so wise?"

Wynne pulled him close and kissed his lips. "I am hardly an innocent any longer, my love," she murmured, and then she chuckled. "As for the wisdom you attribute to me, Madoc, I think it is no more than common sense." She swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Send Megan to me, my lord. I must wash and dress. April is upon us, and we have a wedding to prepare for and scarce a month's time in which to do it!"

Madoc was astounded by her vigor and enthusiasm during the weeks that followed Wynne's return from her sleep journey. He had not been entirely certain of her ability to forgive him, and waited for a storm that never came. Finally he realized that she had indeed meant it when she told him that the past was finished and done for her. It was then he understood that having borne the knowledge of Pwyll's crimes throughout the ensuing centuries, he had become obsessed by them. His new awareness allowed him the final release he sought.

Wynne's excitement was contagious. Raven's Rock throbbed with activity as preparations for the wedding progressed. Wynne's family arrived from Gwernach, and she greeted them joyously. Dewi appeared to have grown much taller in the several months since she had last seen him, and Mair was more confident than Wynne had ever seen her shy little sister.

"Dear child!" Enid embraced her eldest granddaughter and, stepping back, her hands upon Wynne's shoulders, searched her face a moment and smiled, very pleased. "You are happy!" It was a statement of fact, and Enid said it in a most satisfied tone.

"Aye," Wynne told her. "I am happy."

"You are content to make this match, my child? There are no doubts lingering in the recesses of your mind?" Enid questioned her.

"There are no doubts, Grandmother. I love Madoc and he loves me. We will have a long and happy life together and, God willing, many children."

Enid nodded. "It is good then. I am happy for you both."

"Tell me of my sisters," Wynne asked Enid. "Are they well?"

Enid snorted with laughter. "They are living proof that the Devil takes care of his own kind," she replied. "Both bloom and are huge with child. They are very disappointed they cannot come to Raven's Rock for your wedding, but even they acknowledge 'twould be dangerous for them to travel now. Caitlin told me to tell you that she expects you will invite them to visit you this summer."

Now it was Wynne who laughed. "Oh no!" she said. "Even my patience has limits, Grandmother. However, both Madoc and I would be pleased if you and Mair would come to live at Raven's Rock."

Enid 's face grew soft with her emotion and, blinking back her tears, she said, "My dear child, 'tis most kind of you to want us, but I think it better I remain at Gwernach a few more years. Dewi is not as grown as he believes himself, and still needs the guidance of an older woman in his life. I hope, though, that you will ask us again."

"I will," Wynne said, disappointed, but she smiled, that her grandmother not be made to feel uncomfortable.

Nesta arrived from St. Bride's, her adoring husband in her wake. "Ahh," she said, her eyes bright with pleasure, "you and Madoc have made your peace. I am so glad!" She hugged her brother and kissed Wynne's cheek.

"And you, dear sister," Wynne said gently to Nesta, "will in future think before you speak harsh words that may not be taken back."

"Then you know," Nesta said, not in the least nonplused.

"That the soul inhabiting your body once inhabited that of Angharad? Aye! Once I remembered, 'twas easy to recognize you, but tell me, Nesta. How is it that you knew and I did not?"

"It was only several years ago that I began having these dreams," Nesta began. "At first they frightened me, and I tried to ignore them. When I finally realized that I could not, I told Madoc. No sooner had I spoken to him than it all became quite clear to me in my mind. You can but imagine how awful I felt, knowing what I had done and being unable to help my brother, whom I loved best among all men. He reassured me that he held no ill will toward me, and that when he wed with you, all would be well, and it is!"

"Aye, it is, and now the past is done for us all," Wynne said.

"Thank God it is over," Nesta replied, relieved, and then she said happily, "I am to have a baby, dearest Wynne! Just before the feast of Christ's Mass. "

"Should you be traveling?" Wynne fretted. "My sisters could not come to Raven's Rock because both are expecting their children soon."

"I have only just confirmed my suspicions myself," Nesta said, "but both Rhys and 1 agreed that we would not miss this wedding! I am no weakling to sit by the fire plying my needle for the next several months."

The princes of Wenwynwyn were an ancient family, and so Raven's Rock Castle filled with guests as the wedding day approached. Wynne had never seen most of the guests before. Madoc assured her she would in all likelihood never see them again. Still, they must be invited lest anyone important be offended. Wynne's distant kinsman, the king, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, sent his regrets along with a pair of great silver candlesticks. The night before the wedding ceremony the Great Hall bulged with revelers who ate and drank and thoroughly enjoyed the Irish minstrels who had been brought to the castle for entertainment.

Wynne sat beside Madoc in the place of honor at the high board. Her scarlet and gold tunic dress flattered her fair skin and her dark hair. It was obvious to all gathered, from the looks that she and Madoc kept exchanging, that a love match had developed between them.

"My lords and my ladies," the majordomo's voice rang through the hall, "his lordship, the bishop of Cai."

"My God!" Nesta's hand flew to her mouth. " 'Tis Brys."

"He is not welcome here," growled Madoc, "and well he knows it, the devil!"

"My lord," Wynne put a restraining hand upon his arm, "you cannot send him away, else you create a scandal. Whatever has passed between you must be put aside, if only for a brief time."

"He has done this deliberately," moaned Nesta. "He has come publicly, and at a time when he knows we dare not send him away! Madoc, my beloved brother, you must beware!"

"Nesta," Wynne said, concerned by her friend's obvious distress, "is he really that bad?" She glanced down the hall to watch as Brys of Cai made his way toward them. He was an extraordinarily handsome young man. No, handsome was not the correct word. He was beautiful. "Surely he has reformed from the days of his youth."

"He is evil incarnate," Madoc said quietly. "Do not be fooled by his beauty, which is that of the angels, dearling. He will be charm itself to you, but he is wicked beyond mortal men. He is the youngest bishop in Christendom, it is said. He bought the office from a corrupt clergy. He has neither earned it nor does he deserve it." Madoc stood now and waited as his half brother approached the high board.

"Greetings, my brother, and God be with you," Brys of Cai said. He was the fairest man she had ever seen. Indeed, he might have been one of the Fair Folk of ancient times, Wynne thought. His hair glistened like pure gold, and his pale blue eyes were like a summer sky. Embroidered upon his white silk tunic was a gold and bejeweled Celtic cross.

"Why have you intruded here?" Madoc said quietly.

"What, brother? No polite speech of welcome for me?" The young man chuckled. "I had believed the omission of my name from your guest list an accident. Am I to assume 'twas not?"

"You know it to be so, Brys," Madoc replied coldly. "You are not welcome here. You will never be welcome here again."

"But here I am, dear brother, and here I intend to stay. I have come to personally perform the marriage ceremony for you and your lovely bride." His eyes turned benignly on Wynne and he smiled. "You do not dare send me away, Madoc. I have checkmated you quite nicely this time."

"Do not be cruel, Brys! Madoc has never harmed you," Nesta said.

Brys of Cai turned his eyes to his younger sister. "I came to see you wed last winter, but he would not let me in, Nesta. Did you know that Madoc kept me from your wedding?"

"I knew!" she said furiously. "I thanked him for it! You bring evil with you, Brys. It clings to your robes like the stink of a cow byre. You did not come to do Madoc and Wynne honor. You came to make trouble. If you are as honest as you claim, then wish them well and go back to Cai! You are not wanted here!"

"Such passion," Brys of Cai said softly. "I always knew you had passion, sister mine. I will not return to Cai, however, until after the wedding. If it displeases you so, I will not perform the ceremony, Madoc. But I will remain."

Madoc's look was a black one, but Wynne gently pressed warning fingers into his arm, and he threw her a despairing look of agreement.

"How politic the blushing bride is," Brys noted. "Are you a peacemaker then, lady?"

"Nay, my lord bishop I am a realist, however, and I can see you have come to sow discord as Nesta accuses you. Whatever difficulties you three siblings have encountered over the years, I am not a part of it. I will not allow you to spoil my wedding. Swear to me upon that cross you show so ostentatiously upon your chest that you will not ruin this happy time for us."

"And if I do not swear?" he mocked her. "What will you do, Wynne of Gwernach?"

"I will give orders to have you escorted from Raven's Rock no matter the scandal," Wynne told him firmly.

Brys of Cai laughed. "I believe you would, lady," he said. "Very well, I swear upon the Holy Cross upon which our Lord died that I will keep the peace during these festivities, but not a moment thereafter." He chuckled. "My brother, Madoc's marriage is something I never thought to witness. I should not like to miss it."

"Come join us at the high board then, my lord bishop, and tell me why," Wynne replied, and then turned to Dewi. "Will you give up your place to the bishop of Cai, brother?" The boy nodded, and Wynne instructed a servant, "Bring another chair for the lord of Gwernach."

Brys of Cai took his place next to Wynne and, having accepted a goblet of wine from another servant, said, "Do you not know of the reputation enjoyed by the princes of Wenwyn-wyn, lady? I would think a virtuous Christian maiden fearful of marrying into such a house."

"I do not believe in the nonsense mouthed by ignorant fools about Madoc and his family. I have known nothing but kindness from him. Besides, I am considered a healer among the people of Gwernach, and healers are frequently the subject of gossip."

"Do you speak sorcery, lady?" Brys of Cai purred in dulcet tones. His blue eyes glittered.

"I speak of herbs and healing, my lord bishop. I speak of medicine."

"Women should not be healers, lady," was the blunt answer.

"Why not?" Wynne demanded, the anger in her voice barely restrained.

"It is not a Christian thing, lady," he said. "Women have been given the task of bearing new life. That and the care of their families should be their sole interest."

"Does the family of a great lord not include all within his care?" Wynne said sweetly. "Does not care of one's family include ministering to their ills and healing them of sickness?"

"You are clever for a woman, Wynne of Gwernach," Brys told her. "Perhaps you are too clever. It is never wise to be too clever."

"Do not threaten me, my lord bishop," Wynne replied in low, even tones. "I do not fear you. I know all about you. Far more than you know about me, I will wager."

"Knowledge can be a dangerous thing, lady, particularly if you do not possess the power to use it skillfully, and you do not."

"Not yet," she retorted, and was pleased to see a startled look spring up on his face.

Quickly recovering his equilibrium, he laughed. "You are a most worthy opponent, Wynne of Gwernach."

"But how sad that we must be at odds, my lord bishop," she answered.

"We do not have to be at odds, lady," he told her.

"As long as you are Madoc's enemy, Brys of Cai, then you are mine as well. I am bound to Madoc by many ties, some of which you cannot even imagine. He is my lord, my life, and my love. I shall never betray him," Wynne said with certitude.

For the briefest moment a look of unbridled hatred sprang into Brys of Cai's soft blue eyes, and then it was as quickly gone. What startled Wynne most of all was the fact that the hatred had been directed toward her. How could Madoc's brother hate her so? He did not even know her.

"I am pleased," the young bishop said, and she knew it a lie, "that your loyalty is so firm, Wynne of Gwernach. It shows Christian virtue, and perhaps such virtue will reform my brother of his evil ways."

"I shall indeed be a good wife in all ways, my lord bishop," Wynne murmured piously in similar tones. "Will you have some roast pig?" she asked, suddenly the good hostess.

A servant hovered by Brys of Cai's side, a platter offered. With a grin the bishop snatched a well-crisped piece off the dish and sank his teeth into it. Those teeth, Wynne noticed, were his one facial fault. They were slightly yellowed, and the incisors had a feral look about them. He had turned away from her and was speaking with another guest, to her relief. It had been an effort to repel his evil. Nesta was right. Brys of Cai had an evil way about him that was not just a little frightening, although she would not have admitted such a thing to anyone.

The marriage of Madoc of Powys and Wynne of Gwernach was celebrated the following morning at the early mass. The ceremony was conducted by Father Drew, who had traveled from Gwernach with Wynne's family. The only witnesses were the immediate family, for the chapel at Raven's Rock was small. The sun streamed through the small windows of the chamber, making bright puddles of light upon the stone floor. The candles twinkled golden upon the altar.

The bride was garbed in a cream-colored satin tunic dress decorated with small pearls that had been sewn in abstract patterns all over the gown. Beneath it she wore an under tunic of the same color, which was embroidered with little golden stars. About her neck were the pearls her mother had left her. Upon her feet were dainty kid slippers. Her single dark braid was woven with pearled ribbons, and her head crowned with a wreath of roses from a bush Madoc had potted the previous autumn and brought to the castle, that he might have roses for Wynne on their wedding day.

The bridegroom's full-skirted kirtle was of indigo blue silk brocaded in gold and belted in gilded leather. His scarlet braies were cross-gartered in gold, and he wore pointed red leather shoes upon his feet. His dark hair was clubbed back and secured with a jeweled riband. About his neck was a heavy chain of red Irish gold which matched the jeweled gold diadem he wore about his forehead.

Nesta and Enid wept happily as the pair were united. Mair, staring at her beautiful sister, dreamed of her own marriage one day. Dewi was frankly bored. Weddings were always dull, and he should have far rather been out hunting. Rhys clapped a comforting arm about his sniffling wife and decided that Madoc could never possibly be as happy with Wynne as he was with his adorable Nesta. Einion wiped a tear from his eye and then glanced surreptitiously about to see if anyone had noticed his lapse into sentiment. Brys of Cai glowered at his half brother and his bride through narrowed eyes and decided that he had never hated Madoc quite so much as he did this minute. Why was it that Madoc got everything that he had ever wanted? Raven's Rock Castle; a beautiful, loving bride. Why was Madoc the favored one and not he? It would not end until one of them was dead, Brys decided. Dead and buried deep.

The wedding celebration lasted the entire day long and into the night. The wedding party entered the hall that morning after the ceremony to be greeted by the friendly cheers of all their guests. The hearths in the Great Hall burned bright and high, taking the chill of the May morning away. The hall itself was decorated in flowering branches of hawthorn and Maybud. There were flowers everywhere, and the servants raced to and fro carrying platters of food to the diners before it chilled.

Eggs, poached and served in a sauce of cream and sweet wines. Eggs, hard-boiled and sliced into a mixture of cheese and new peas. Eggs, hard-boiled and served cold with sea salt. There was ham, and roe deer, and salmon. Trenchers of hot barley cereal. Cottage loaves newly baked and fresh from the oven. Honeycombs and sweet butter. Wheels of Gwernach's Gold from the bride's own home. Everyone ate heartily, for the first entertainment of the day was to be a hunt in the forests surrounding Raven's Rock.

Wynne ate swiftly and then hurried to her apartments, where Megan waited to help her exchange her wedding gown for more suitable clothing for the hunt. In her garments of green and gold, the bride was selected to be the May queen that day. They spent the morning hunting amid the forested hills surrounding Raven's Rock, although their luck was not particularly good. At the noon hour the wedding party and their guests entered a clearing where a picnic had been laid out by the castle's servants. It was simple fare. Capon and small meat pies. Bread and several varieties of cheese. Tartlets of dried fruits. Bowls of tiny new strawberries and fresh, thick cream. There was ale and wine to slack the guests' thirst. After their picnic they returned to Raven's Rock, where archery butts had been set up in the gardens for their sport. A maypole had been erected as well, and Wynne led a number of ladies in the traditional May dance, moving with sprightly steps to the piper's tune as they danced about the pole, weaving their brightly colored ribbons of red, green, blue, and yellow until the pole was completely decorated. Some of the men stripped down and held a contest of wrestling skills.

There was an hour that followed when everyone returned to their chambers to rest and dress for the evening's banquet. As the sun sank with an orange-gold glow that stained the huge room with a barbaric light, the Great Hall at Raven's Rock began to fill once more with the wedding guests, refreshed by their brief hour and hungry again.

"How long has it been since these people have eaten, Madoc?" Wynne grumbled. "It is a good thing that they are going back to their own homes tomorrow, else they deplete our stores entirely." She had removed her hunting garb and was once again attired in her wedding gown.

Madoc, who had also changed back into his wedding finery, chuckled. "It is a testimony to your prowess as a hostess, my beautiful wife," and he kissed her on the cheek.

"It is a testimony to their appetites," she replied, but she smiled as she took her place at the high board with her husband.

Wynne had planned a wonderful final banquet for the wedding guests, and judging by the enthusiasm of her guests as each dish was offered, she had done very well indeed. A dozen barrels of oysters packed in ice and seawater had been transported from the coast for the meal. They were quickly set upon and devoured. Four sides of beef packed in rock salt had been roasted to a turn and were now being carved and placed upon platters. There was a whole ox and two roe deer, as well as several hams, geese, larks, capons stuffed with dried fruit, fat ducks dripping their juices; an enormous roast boar, several large partridge pies with flaky golden crusts, the steam rising from the pastry vents rich with the scent of red wine and herbs; and a cauldron of rabbit stew flavored with carrots and shallots. There were a dozen legs of baby lamb rubbed with garlic and rosemary.

There was trout broiled in butter, lemon, and dill; salmon steamed in seawater and sprinkled with parsley; flaked cod prepared in a sauce of cream and sweet wines; prawns and mussels boiled with fennel. New lettuce had been steamed with white wine. There were bowls of tiny green peas and little boiled beets. There was fine white bread in abundance, sweet butter, soft Brie from Normandy, and several wheels of Gwer-nach's Gold. There were beer and ale, and wines both red and white.

A cake had been baked and decorated with little figures and fruits of marzipan. There were several large tarts made of dried fruits and precious spices. Both violets and rosebuds had been candied and were served with tiny sugared wafers. There were bowls of small strawberries, although Wynne could not imagine where they had been found after the generous serving of the little fruits offered earlier in the day at their picnic.

The Irish minstrels entertained them with wonderful ballads of love and songs of manly feats. There were morris dancers, and a funny little bit of a wizened man with a troupe of dogs that danced and jumped through hoops on their master's command. The guests ate until there was no more food, and drank until they could hold no more. Madoc and Wynne quietly excused themselves, for no one could leave until they did, and Wynne could see that both her grandmother and Nesta were weary. As for little Mair, she had fallen asleep in her chair, and Dewi, for all his bluster, was nodding off as well. Einion gathered up both children and took them from the hall.

Megan undressed her mistress and was dismissed. Wynne sat upon her bed brushing her long hair with slow even strokes as Madoc entered the chamber. Turning, she looked up and smiled at him. " 'Twas a fine day, my lord, but I am happy to have it over and done with."

He took her brush from her and, kneeling down, began to stroke her hair with it. "My wife," he said softly. "My beautiful wife. God, dearling! I cannot believe you are really mine!" He buried his face in dark scented hair and inhaled its subtle fragrance.

A lovely shiver ran up her spine, and Wynne twisted about to face her husband. Taking his face in her hands, she touched his lips with hers. "Aye," she murmured against his mouth. "I am yours, Madoc, but then so too are you mine, and I love you." Her lips softened and she kissed him passionately, her tongue swirling about his mouth, teasing and taunting his own tongue to do battle. Her hands left his face and tangled themselves in his own thick, dark hair. The hairbrush dropped from his hand, clattering to the floor.

Madoc pushed his face into the hollow between her sweet young breasts. He felt the steady beat of her heart beneath his lips as he pressed kisses on her soft skin. His hands, sliding beneath the mantle of her hair, moved down until they were encircling her small waist. Wynne arched her body, and Madoc's mouth found the sentient little nipple of a breast. Slowly he suckled on the tender flesh, drawing forth the sweetness first from one nipple and then the other until she began to moan softly in his embrace.

His tongue tormented her sensitive nipples, flicking swiftly back and forth as she threaded her fingers through his hair with growing urgency. His lips moved away from her now-swollen breasts and down her taut torso. Wynne shivered again, and her smooth skin was instantly embellished with a tapestry of tiny prickles. She squirmed and a small giggle escaped her.

"That tickles, Madoc!" she protested. She was beginning to feel hot with her desire for him.

"And we both know how ticklish you are," he responded, looking at her with a deceptively bland stare.

He reached for her, but Wynne was quicker and scrambled across their great bed. "Hah, my lord!" she mocked him. "You must be faster than that to catch me!"

He dove at her, and she squealed in sham terror as he grabbed out to imprison her. Together they rolled about their marriage bed like two young puppies, his fingers tickling her and her fingers tickling him. Finally weak with laughter, Madoc and Wynne collapsed side by side, wheezing and gasping for breath. When at last she felt the strength returning into her limbs, Wynne took the initiative, surprising Madoc by straddling him. Giving him a seductive smile, she tightened her thighs about his torso. Reaching up, she began to fondle her breasts, her tongue running swiftly over her lips. She looked down, sloe-eyed, into his face.

"Do you want me as much as I want you?" she demanded.

"Aye," he drawled softly and slowly, a single finger reaching up to trail down the valley between her breasts, down her belly, to worm its way between her nether lips. For a moment his finger rested atop her little love jewel, which he had found with unerring aim. Then he began to rub it with gentle insistence. "I want you very, very much, my beautiful bride."

A shudder ran through Wynne as he brought her to her first pleasure, and weakness coursed through her veins like hot wine. She wanted so to control the situation, she thought, but she had not yet learned how. All she desired right now was to have him take her, and she sighed gustily.

He smiled up at her and then, with deliberately languid movements, he began to smooth the palms of his hands up her body from her belly to her breasts. His hands moved in gentle little circles, caressing her lightly, stroking the fires of her desire. "You are so fair," he told her, and he fondled her breasts, squeezing them delicately, as with half-closed eyes she began to make whimpering noises in the back of her throat; her hips moving against him in jerking little motions.

"I want-" she began, and he placed warning fingers over her lips.

"Not yet, dearling," he said low.

"I want you!" she insisted and, leaning forward, kissed him passionately.

"I want you," he responded, and rolled her over onto her back, "but it is too soon, Wynne. Let us enjoy loving one another before the final culmination."

Wynne turned onto her side and, reaching out, she stroked him, reveling in the sensation of his body beneath her hand. He was a tall man, but unlike Rhys, Madoc was not as large-boned. Neither could he be called delicate, she thought. There was strength in him that belied his medium-boned frame. And his skin. It was so soft for a man. Especially a man whose appearance was that of an ancient Celtic warrior. She could feel the muscles in his shoulder and his arm, and, unable to help herself, she leaned over and began to lick his skin, pushing him onto his back. He groaned with pleasure as her little pointed tongue moved up his torso from his belly and encircled the nipples on his chest. There was a faintly salty taste to his skin that was not unpleasing.

Her long dark hair spread out over her shoulders and back and buttocks like a black silk mantle. He stroked her head, his whole body aquiver with her lovemaking. She nipped playfully at his shoulder and his throat; her little love bites followed almost immediately by a quick kiss and then the warm sweep of her tongue. Wynne's head began to move lower again on his torso, her tongue swirling over his sensitive skin, and he groaned again.

His manhood loomed ahead of her, stiff and straight. Wynne's fingers closed about it, feeling the life pulsing and coursing through the throbbing flesh. He had loved her with his tongue. Dare she do the same to him? Boldly she leaned forward and touched the tip of his manhood with the point of her tongue. Madoc gasped sharply. Her tongue encircled the ruby head of it with a warm and enticing motion. Losing her grip on him, she barely supported his lance within her hand as, moving closer to him, she licked the length of him with slow even strokes. He shuddered and then his body jerked violently with surprise as Wynne took him in her mouth and began to draw upon him until he feared his juices would burst forth.

Reaching down with his hand, he locked his fingers in her hair and gently pulled her away. "Dearling," he managed to gasp, "you will unman me and waste my seed."

Pulling away from him, she drew herself level with him and said softly, "When you taste of me, it pleasures me greatly. Do you not feel the same pleasure when I taste of you?" Her face was above his, and her hair fell like a waterfall to one side of her.

He reached up and caressed her cheek. "Wynne, my sweet wife, when your mouth and your tongue love in so intimate a manner, I die a sweet death; but my love, I also long to possess you more fully than you could ever imagine." He kissed her mouth swiftly and began to play with one of her pretty breasts which hung temptingly near.

"Do you think that only men feel such passion, my lord?" she demanded. "Women feel it too." A tiny dart of raw longing raced through her as he pinched her nipple, and then, raising his head just a bit, tongued the pain away.

In answer, he gently rolled her onto her back once more and swung over her. His fingers trailed teasingly over the tender inner flesh of her thighs. His deep blue eyes never left her mysterious green ones as he slowly pushed himself into her and then stopped. "I have never before desired a woman as I desire you," he said.

"Do not tell me of your other women," she teased him. "Tell me how much you love me, Madoc, my husband," and she wrapped her arms about his neck. He was so big inside her, she thought. He filled her full, and she almost rejoiced aloud as she felt him throbbing with life and love. Her head began to swim as pleasure engulfed her.

"Through all time and space have I loved you," he declared. "From a time that neither of us can remember until this moment in time, have I loved you, Wynne. I will never cease to love you, though we live, and die, and are born again in other times and places. You are my other half, dearling. There can be no real life for me without you."

"Oh, Madoc," she whispered, and her eyes were wet with her tears, "am I worthy of such a love?"

"Always, dearling!" he told her passionately, and then he began to move upon her.

"I will always love you," she promised him softly as she gave herself up to the sweetness of the moment, letting it wash over her like water washing over a rock. Letting the moment take her until she soared like a lark, and the pleasure captured her in its grasp and kept coming, and coming, and coming until she died a sweet death, only to be reborn again new and eager.

And afterward they lay together in a loving embrace, stroking each other comfortingly and sharing tender kisses until they fell into a period of blissful slumber; awakening several hours later refreshed and renewed and ready to share their passion once more. Yet when the dawn broke, Madoc and Wynne arose happily to dress themselves and, like any good host and hostess, to see their guests off. If they shared secret looks and smiles in the completion of their duties, the departing wedding guests only found it charming. All but Brys, the bishop of Cai, who hid his hatred behind his charming facade and gaily departed for his own home as if he had been the most welcome of all the wedding guests.

"We will not have to see him again," Madoc said grimly as he watched his half brother and his small cortege make their way down the steep path from Raven's Rock Castle.

"It is not good that brothers are such enemies," Wynne answered. "His father molded him, but could we not change him, my love? I realize his attempted crime against Nesta was vicious, but he was but a boy. You saved Nesta. There was no serious harm done. Could we not at least try to mend this breach between you?"

"You are so innocent and so good," Madoc said. "You do not understand, Wynne. There can be no friendship between myself and Brys in this life."

"He is beyond redemption, Wynne," Nesta, who with her husband would be remaining at Raven's Rock for several days, said. "We have tried, both Madoc and I, to make our peace with Brys, to bring him back into the family fold. He wallows in his wickedness and cannot be weaned from it now, I fear."

"Perhaps you are both too close to the matter," Wynne said. "There is such bad blood between you, I think, that only someone like me, someone uninvolved in the past, can help to bring you all together once more. It is not good for families to grow apart. Even though I find my sisters, Caitlin and Dilys, aggravating beyond all, I do not cut them off from the family."

"I can deny you nothing, dearling," Madoc told her, "but we have just been wed and I am of a mind for feasting, and revelry, and frolic, not for discussing my brother. In time, however, I promise you that we will resolve the situation."

Wynne smiled up happily at her husband and, taking his hand, turned to go back into the castle, innocent of the meaningful look that passed between Madoc and Nesta, who were both of one mind in the matter of Brys of Cai. He was beyond the pale and would ever be.

Chapter 10

Although Dewi returned to Gwernach with Father Drew several days following the wedding, Enid and Mair had consented to remain for the summer months. Nesta and Rhys would also remain for a few weeks. Word came from Coed and Llyn that Caitlin and Dilys had been delivered of sons in the same hour of the same day. Both were filled to overflowing with maternal pride.

Enid laughed. "Though Caitlin was not due to have her child until next month, she would not suffer Dilys to gain a march on her. How typical of my granddaughter, but at least the children are healthy."

To celebrate her wedding, Wynne had released Einion from his slavery. "You are free to remain in my service or return to your own homeland," she told him.

"I'll stay," he said shortly.

Wynne smiled mischievously. "I think you should have a wife, my old friend. A wife settles a man."

"Perhaps," Einion agreed, smiling slightly.

"Would my maidservant, Megan, suit you?" Wynne asked sweetly.

"If she's willing, I'm willing," Einion replied shortly.

"Marry you?" Megan exclaimed when brought into her mistress's presence. She glared balefully at Einion. "So you are willing if I'm willing, are you? What makes you think I want to marry a great, ungainly, gimp-legged oaf like you?"

"Because you love me," Einion said blandly.

"Love you?" Megan's voice was slightly higher than it had been a moment ago, and her cheeks were flushed scarlet.

"Aye, you love me," Einion repeated, "and besides, who else would have a freckled-nosed termagant like you to wife? You've frightened all the lads for five miles hereabouts, Meggie, my lass. I'm all that's left to you. It's me or spinsterhood," he finished, grinning wickedly.

"And?" she demanded, glaring at him furiously, her hands on her hips.

"And what?" He pretended to be puzzled.

"And?" she answered, equally firm and insistent.

"And I love you," he said finally, with a shrug.

"Well," Megan allowed, "I suppose I could get used to carrot-topped children."

Wynne burst out laughing. "You are the oddest pair of lovers I have ever known," she said, "but may I assume 'tis settled between you? You may wed whenever you please."

"Tomorrow," Einion replied.

"I can't be ready by tomorrow," Megan raged at him.

"You can," he countered. "Lasses are always ready to wed at a moment's notice, or so I am told."

"Tomorrow will be perfect," Wynne said, stemming the tide of protest she saw rising to Megan's lips. "I have a lovely tunic dress that I seem to have outgrown, and 'twill fit you with just the tiniest bit of alteration."

So Megan was wed the following day to Einion, with their lord and lady looking on happily.

"He's so perfect for her," Nesta said afterward. "He's every bit as strong-willed as she is, and her equal in all ways."

"I am so happy!" Wynne said, twirling about the hall dreamily. "I want everyone about me to be happy too. Einion deserved his freedom and would not have asked Megan to marry had he not been given it. She was absolutely beginning to pine for him. I had to do something." She pulled up her skirts and danced a few steps. "Is not love grand, sister?"

Nesta and Rhys took their leave and returned home to St. Bride's the following week.

"You will come to us in December, won't you?" Nesta begged. "I want you there when I have my baby."

"I will try," Wynne promised her, "but I may not be fit to travel myself at that point."

Nesta's eyes widened. "Are you…?" she began.

"Not yet," Wynne said, "but I pray daily for a child. I would give Madoc a son as quickly as possible."

Nesta smiled at her sister-in-law. "I know just how you feel," she admitted, "but I shall still hope that you can come."

"If I cannot, send for my grandmother. She is good at birthings and will be glad to come to be with you," Wynne replied.

"Would you, my lady Enid?" Nesta asked shyly.

"Of course, my child," Enid answered. "I shall enjoy a nice visit to St. Bride's, especially at the Christ's Mass feast, and I shall bring Dewi and Mair with me."

The summer passed. With the coming of the autumn, Enid and Mair returned home to Gwernach. They went happy in the knowledge that Wynne was to bear a child to her husband in the spring. While they had been with her, her grandmother and her sister had kept Wynne's mind from the breach between Madoc and Brys of Cai. Now, with nothing more than her household to oversee, Wynne began to think about how she might reunite the brothers in friendship. It would not be an easy task, for Madoc refused to even discuss the matter with her, although she had attempted to broach it with him several times.

"My brother chose to distance himself from his sister and me years ago," Madoc tried to explain to Wynne. "His actions toward us since the day he left Raven's Rock, nay, since even before that, have been consistently hostile."

"He attempted a dreadful act as a boy, I will agree with you and Nesta on that matter, but surely after all these years you can forgive him," Wynne said. "I cannot believe anyone is quite as wicked as you both insist Brys is. Surely there is some good in him."

"Wynne, my dearest wife," Madoc said patiently to her, "I know it is hard for you to believe that my brother is beyond decency. You have been so sheltered all your life, but even the spiritual maturity you possess cannot have possibly prepared you for someone like Brys. He is simply evil incarnate, and he revels in wickedness. There is absolutely no remorse in him, dearling. This is no sibling rivalry, Wynne. This is a battle between good and evil. Between the darkness and the light. You are not yet prepared to fight such a battle. I am."

For Madoc the matter was settled, but Wynne was not satisfied. The very early months of her pregnancy past, she was feeling full of new vigor. She wanted to believe everything that her husband said. After all, was not Madoc the wisest of men? Yet she could not quite believe Madoc in the matter of his brother. The thought niggled at the corners of her brain that Brys must surely have some redeeming qualities to him. If she could talk with him, understand his feelings about the estrangement between himself and his family. Of course, she would not be able to do it at Raven's Rock. She would have to go to Cai.

It would not be a long journey. The matter of a few hours only. She was able to ride still, and she would take Megan with her. No. Megan could not come. If she told Megan, Megan would tell Einion, and he would tell Madoc. They would stop her. The more Wynne thought about it, the surer she became that Madoc was wrong in this one particular matter. Brys could not be as bad as her husband and Nesta painted him. He had done a terrible thing as a boy, but he should not be shunned by his family for the rest of his life for a single sin. She smiled to herself. She would reunite the siblings, and her children would grow up surrounded by warm and loving relatives.

But when? When could she depart Raven's Rock undetected? She did not want anyone guessing her intent and chasing after her; spoiling her chances to make peace between the brothers. Wynne frowned. When? It had to be soon. Before the winter set in and she was unable to ride her horse. She almost shouted with delight when Madoc told her several days later that he must go to the valley pasturelands below to check on their herds.

"The shepherds report that some of the sheep are disappearing," he told Wynne.

"Is it a wolf?" she asked him nervously.

"Nay, I think not, for no remains or blood have been found. My neighbors to the north are not the most honest people. I think it possible they have been stealing my sheep. If this is so, I must put a stop to it immediately. Weakness is a character flaw too easily taken advantage of, and I would not like to be thought weak."

"How long will you be gone, my love?" Wynne said sweetly.

"Three days, four at the most, dearling," he answered, and kissed her brow tenderly. "I dislike being away from you, Wynne, but there is no help for it, and you will be quite safe at Raven's Rock." He reached out and placed a hand over her belly. "Have you felt a quickening yet?"

"Not yet," she told him, smiling. "Perhaps in a few weeks."

"A child," he said. "Our child. What would you call him?"

"Anwyl," Wynne said softly, "and Angharad if he is a she."

Madoc chuckled. "I am not so pompous a fool to believe that my son could not be my daughter. It matters not. A healthy child is all I desire. A healthy child and a beautiful wife." Then his lips touched hers, and Wynne wound her arms about his neck, sighing with pure and perfect contentment.

On the following morning she bid her husband a fond farewell, but as the day was wet and overcast, Wynne decided to wait until the morrow before setting out for Castle Cai. When the following day dawned sunny, she knew she had been wise in postponing her trip. She had dismissed Megan the prior evening, telling her maidservant, who was also pregnant with Einion's child and extremely sick in the mornings, not to come to her until the noon hour. Megan gratefully thanked her mistress.

Wynne dressed carefully, sorry that her journey would necessitate a plainer garb than she would have otherwise chosen to wear. She did so want to make a good impression on Brys, that she might gain his sympathetic ear. She had sensed from their earlier meeting that he was as stubborn as Madoc. Still, Brys would certainly be far more interested in what she had to say than what she was wearing. Their brief bout of verbal sparring at her wedding had shown her that he was a very intelligent man. The dark green tunic dress she chose would blend in nicely with the woodlands she must traverse. She chose a sheer white veil to cover her head, affixing it with a simple gold band which was studded with dark green agate.

She chose the time of her departure well, going to the stable quite early, when the sun was just barely up. The grooms were still sleepy and, although one, older than the others, thought to remark that the master would not want her to ride alone, Wynne easily overcame their concern.

"I will not go far," she said with a smile. "Just to the bottom of the castle hill and perhaps across the bridge. It's far too lovely a day to be penned inside, and winter will be upon us before we know it. Besides," and she patted her belly with another smile at them, "soon I shall not be able to ride."

The stablemen chuckled, and then one of them helped her to mount her little mare. "Remember, my lady Wynne, no farther than the bridge," he cautioned with agap-toothed grin.

Wynne turned her horse's head and rode serenely out of the courtyard, moving slowly down the castle hill. She knew the way to Cai, for the route was deceptively simple, although she had never before traveled that path. Nesta had told her about it during one of their conversations those long weeks back when she and Rhys were visiting at Raven's Rock. At the bottom of the castle hill the river ran swift, and, glancing up, Wynne looked to see if she was being observed, but to her relief she was not.

She trotted her mare across the stone bridge spanning the river. On the far side she turned right onto a narrow trail that moved around the base of the mountain and in the opposite direction from whence she had come to Raven's Rock from Gwernach over a year ago. Castle Cai was located around the other side of the mountain, Nesta had told her. It sat upon a promontory at the base of that mountain that jutted out over another valley. At least she would not have to climb her horse up another steep incline, Wynne thought, relieved.

The forest was thick with trees, and in some places the sun had a difficult time penetrating through the greenery. There were times that the trail she followed seemed to disappear, and yet Wynne felt no fear of her surroundings. High in the branches of a beech tree a bird sang, trilling notes of such clarity that it seemed almost unreal. When she came to a small stream that dashed over a bed of dark rocks, Wynne stopped her horse to rest and, dismounting, allowed her beast to drink. Tying the animal to a tree, she sat upon a bed of thick, soft moss and, taking a small flacon of wine from her saddlebag along with some bread and cheese, Wynne sat down to eat. She had been clever enough to obtain her picnic the previous evening after her supper. The servants thought she desired additional food to nibble on in her own quarters because of her condition.

She smiled to herself. Everyone at Raven's Rock was so good to her. Although she had always considered herself happy and content at Gwernach, she had never envisioned how absolutely blissful her life with Madoc would be. And it would all be better once she solved the estrangement between Madoc and Brys. She chewed her bread, noting that the cheese was her family's own. In the trees around her the birds sang, and several of them, curious, hovered on nearby branches. With a small chuckle Wynne crumbled the remainder of her bread and cheese and scattered it over the mossy ground for them. Arising, she relieved herself behind a thick stand of bushes. Then finding a nearby rock to use as a mounting block, she remounted her horse and, crossing the stream, continued on her way.

Another hour of gentle travel brought her around the other side of the mountain. The sun was now high in the late morning sky. The forest began to thin out and, ahead of her, Wynne saw Castle Cai. As Nesta had told her, it was perched on a rather narrow, high promontory that overlooked a misty blue valley. It was nothing like Raven's Rock. Rather it was a structure of greyish stone that seemed to cling precariously to the cliff upon which it stood. It was not large, yet it seemed very forbidding. A shiver took her, but Wynne brushed away her premonition and rode directly toward the castle. Reaching the lowered drawbridge, she hesitated a moment then moved across it. On the far side of the drawbridge she encountered a rather surly man-at-arms.

"Well?" he demanded. "State your business! His grace ain't in the market for a new woman today."

"I am the bishop's sister-in-law, the lady. Wynne of Raven's Rock," she said in tart tones. "Have someone escort me to his grace immediately!"

The command in her voice impressed the man-at-arms, and he called to a companion beyond his post. "Here you, Will! This be his grace's sister-in-law come to see him. Help her off her horse and take her to him."

"Have someone give my mare a measure of oats," Wynne said. "She has brought me a goodly distance this day. And have her ready for me when I depart in an hour or so."

"Aye, lady," came the grudging reply.

The man-at-arms called Will lifted Wynne from her horse and, without a word, turned and headed through the portcullis into the courtyard, which appeared quiet and empty. There was an unnatural silence about the place. She followed Will up a broad flight of stairs into the castle and down a dark corridor into the Great Hall.

"You can find his grace there," Will said, pointing, and then he quickly disappeared.

The hall was not particularly large. It was smoky with poor ventilation, and dim from lack of windows. As Wynne focused her eyes, they grew wide with shock. In the middle of the room was a whipping post, and hanging from that post was some pour soul. Brys of Cai, informally attired in a pair of dark braies, his open-necked shirt hanging loose, began to ply a rather nasty-looking whip upon the bared back of his victim as Wynne stood horrified. A shriek tore through the hall, followed by another and another. Wynne, her heart pounding wildly, realized the offender was a woman.

"Brys!" she cried out. "I beg you to stop!" Then Wynne advanced into the hall, that her brother-in-law might see her clearly. "Whatever this poor woman has done, surely she does not deserve to be beaten so cruelly." Reaching his side, Wynne put a restraining hand upon his arm.

"Wynne?" His eyes were slightly glazed, but then they cleared quickly. Tossing his whip aside, he demanded, "Wynne of Powys, what are you doing here? Castle Cai is certainly the last place I ever expected to see you." He took her arm and walked away from the whipping post, leading her up to the high board. "Bring wine for the lady Wynne," he called, and when she was settled he asked again, "Why are you here?"

"I have come to ask you to cease this quarrel that has existed for far too long between you and your brother, Madoc. I am with child, Brys, and I want peace in our family."

"Where is my brother? He certainly does not know you are here," Brys of Cai said with certainty. A crafty look came and went in his sky-blue eyes.

"No," Wynne admitted, "he does not. Our neighbors to the north were stealing sheep in the pasturelands below Raven's Rock. Madoc went to deal with them. I thought it a good time to come to Castle Cai and speak with you."

"I am surprised that you got here," Brys said. "Surely Madoc gave orders that you were to be carefully guarded. Yet somehow you have given your keepers the slip. I am quite impressed, belle soeur, by your cleverness."

"Oh, Brys, do not spar with me," Wynne told him irritably. "What you attempted with Nesta as a child was horrendous, but you are grown now. I cannot believe that you are as terrible as Madoc and Nesta insist. You are a man of the Church, Brys. Can you not help me to end this breach between you, your sister and brother? Is that not the Christian way?"

"I am no man of God, Wynne," Brys told her, amused. "I bought this bishopric for the power it could give me. Oh, 'tis true, I had to take holy orders, but I did not study, nor am I a priest. It was simply a formality insisted upon by those who wanted my gold." He chuckled. "There is much you do not know about me, for I know that my brother would not have distressed you with the whole truth."

"Do you not want to be reconciled with your family?" Wynne asked him.

He laughed bitterly. "Why should I want to be, belle soeur? Madoc, the great sorcerer-prince of Wenwynwyn, and Nesta, my sweet little sister, who perhaps loves Madoc more than she ought. What can they offer me that I do not have? I have power, and I have wealth. What more is there, Wynne of Powys?"

"There is love, Brys," Wynne said gently.

"Love?" He laughed again. "I can buy love!"

"To merely couple with a woman is not love, Brys," Wynne told him, shocked, ignoring his crude innuendo about Nesta.

"What else is a woman good for, belle soeur?" was the startling reply. "A woman is for a man's pleasure, and if he so desires, for bearing his children, and cooking his food, and sewing his clothing. There is no more. That illusory emotion you call love does not exist, for I have never experienced it, and God knows I have certainly allowed myself to run the gamut of every emotion available to man."

"Love most certainly exists!" Wynne cried. "It exists between a mother and her children. Between a man and his wife. Between siblings, Brys! Surely you have some feelings of love for Nesta and Madoc. For too long have you been estranged, and it is wrong! Nesta is to bear her husband a child sometime near the feast of Christ's Mass. My babe will be born in the early spring. I cannot feel content in my heart if you will not rejoin with your family, that the children Nesta and I bear may know their uncle."

"My God, you are so good!" he groaned. "I am surprised that Madoc has not already died of a surfeit of your sweetness!" He flung his wine cup across the room. "I have heard all I wish to hear, belle soeur. Allow me to return to the business at hand." He stood and glanced toward the woman at the whipping post. "The wench displeased me and will now suffer for it."

"Brys! I count at least five stripes upon the girl's back. Have mercy on her in the name of God! What can she possibly have done to merit such cruelty on your part?" Wynne pleaded with him.

Brys of Cai turned slowly and pierced Wynne with an intent look. His eyes, she noted, once again had a glazed, almost mad look to them. There was something familiar in the look, and yet she could not place it.

"Do you think I am cruel?" he asked her softly.

"I think you can be," she answered him honestly.

"Aye," he replied slowly. "I can be very cruel." He smiled at her, and she was once more struck by how handsome he was. As Nesta had said, he had the face of an angel. Nesta had also said his heart was black, and, as much as Wynne hated to admit that she was wrong, she was now beginning to believe Nesta had been correct in her evaluation.

"Let the girl go, my lord," Wynne said quietly. "If she truly displeased you, I will take her with me now and you will never have to lay eyes on her again. Serf or slave, I will pay her price."

Brys burst out laughing. "Wynne the Sweet, the Virtuous, the Good! You sicken me with your kindness! Barris! Where are you?"

"Here, my lord." A man-at-arms appeared from the shadows by the high board.

"Restrain the princess of Raven's Rock while I finish what I began earlier. If the bitch attempts to cry out, stifle her!"

Wynne leapt up. "Brys, how dare you!"

"Lady," Barris was by her side, "sit down. I will obey orders, but it would distress me to harm a woman."

Wynne reluctantly returned to her seat. She could see from the firm resolve in Barris's eyes that he would indeed obey his master's orders. She could but pray that her interference did not bode the worse for the poor girl who, seeing Brys approach once more, began to whimper fearfully. He added to his victim's terror by bending slowly and retrieving his whip, a nasty-looking instrument composed of half-a-dozen thin leather ribbons, each one of which was neatly knotted with tightly knit barbs intended to give additional pain.

With a slow smile of pleasure, Brys swished the whip in the air several times and then, with a grin, lashed out viciously at his helpless victim. Her shriek of agony echoed about the little hall, to be followed by cry after cry after cry as blow after blow after blow fell upon the girl's tender flesh until her back was bleeding, a raw mass of oozing welts. Still Brys's arm rose and fell unremittingly. He began to laugh as the girl tried desperately to turn, begging him to cease his torture.

Unable to stand a moment longer, and heedless of her own safety, Wynne leapt up. Eluding Barris's clumsy efforts to stop her, she ran around the high board, across the hall, and put a restraining hand upon Brys of Cai's arm. "In the name of God, stop!" she begged him. "The girl is near dead!"

His whip arm fell a moment, and he stared unseeing at her. Then a look of pure hatred poured into his gaze and, raising his arm, he hit Wynne a blow that sent her crumbling to the floor. As the darkness reached up to claim her, one thought leapt into her mind. Bronwyn! Then unconsciousness overcame her, and for a time she remembered no more.

When she finally came to herself again, she found she was in a dank and dark place. Wynne lay quietly, allowing her thoughts to carefully reassemble themselves. She was in a dungeon cell, placed rather carefully upon a pile of moldering straw. Although there was no light in the cell itself, the flickering of a torch was visible beyond the barred grate in the door. It allowed her a dim but distinct view of her surroundings. Her hands flew to her belly, and instinctively she knew the child was safe. A faint moan caught her ear. Scrambling to her feet, she reeled dizzily for a moment. Then as her head cleared she sought for the source of the sound.

She found the poor wench that Brys had beaten so brutally, face down upon another clump of straw. There was absolutely no doubt that the girl was dying. To increase her agony, salt had been rubbed into her many wounds. Wynne knew there was nothing she could do but render what small comfort her presence would offer. Kneeling, she took the girl's icy hand in her own and began to pray softly.

With great effort the dying woman turned her head that she might face Wynne. Her grey eyes were mirrors of her intense pain. "Thank ye," she managed to whisper. Then with supreme effort she grated out, "Yer in… more… danger… than me… lady!" and shuddering once, she died.

Wynne could feel the tears slipping down her cheeks. Poor creature, she thought, as the import of the woman's words hit her. What was she doing in this place? How did Brys dare to treat her in such a terrible manner? Then her memory began to stir. He had hit her! Without any care for her rank or her condition, he had hit her! Outraged, she rose to her feet and stamped across the cell to the door.

"Ho! The watch!" she shouted angrily, and she kept on shouting until Barris hurried around the corner into her line of vision.

"Lady, be silent," he begged her.

"Let me out of here this instant!" Wynne said furiously.

"I cannot," he said nervously, looking over his shoulder as if he expected to see something unpleasant.

"Why not?" demanded Wynne.

"His grace's orders, lady," came the reply.

"Do you know who I am?" Wynne asked the man. "I am Prince Madoc's wife."

"Lady, I cannot help you," said Barris desperately. Then he lowered his voice and stepped closer that she might hear him better. "I would if I could, but I cannot. Why did you come here in the first place? 'Twas a mad thing to do!"

Wynne laughed ruefully. "I came to try to make peace between my husband and his brother," she answered Barris.

The man-at-arms shook his head. "You should not have come, lady. Only God and His blessed Mother Mary can help you now; but God does not frequent Castle Cai." He turned to leave her.

"Wait!" Wynne cried after him. "The girl in here with me is dead, poor soul."

Barris stopped in his tracks and then turned back to her. "Are you certain, lady?" he asked, unable to hold back the tears that ran down his weathered face.

"Aye," she said softly. "I held her hand and prayed with her as she died."

"Poor Gwladys," Barris said sadly. "She were only fifteen."

"You knew her," Wynne said quietly. "Who was she and why did Brys beat her to death?"

"She was my youngest sister, lady," Barris answered. "She caught his grace's eye. He ordered her brought to him, and he forced her. Gwladys fought him, foolish lass, for she was to be married soon. It made no difference. His grace had his way with her. She told me he made her do terrible, unnatural things, and finally she couldn't stand it no more. She tried to run away, but she was caught. His grace said he was going to make an example of her so no one else would think they could disobey him. God assoil her sweet soul." He turned away again, saying almost to himself, "I must get permission to bury her, but not right away. His grace is still angry. He'd hang her from the battlements for the crows to pick at." Barris disappeared around the corner and was gone from her sight.

Wynne stood by the door grate for several long minutes and then she sank back down upon her pile of straw. She looked about, but other than Gwladys's body, there was nothing else in the cell. Not a bucket for a necessary, not a pitcher of water. She was below ground and so there was not even a scrap of window. She had absolutely no idea how long she had lain unconscious or what time it was. It certainly could not have been long. What was she going to do? Brys was obviously mad to believe he could keep her a prisoner. Aye. Brys was indeed mad.

Bronwyn. Once again the name burst into her consciousness. Wynne began to think. The look in Brys's eyes at one point had been familiar, but she had been unable to place it. Now she could. It was the same look Bronwyn of the White Breast had angrily cast upon Rhiannon of the Fair Folk on any number of occasions. It couldn't be! Yet why could it not be? If the soul inhabiting her body now had once belonged to Rhiannon; and Madoc's soul to Pwyll; and Nesta's soul to Angharad; why could not Brys's soul have once belonged to Bronwyn? It would certainly explain a number of things, including Brys's unreasonable hatred of them all, and his seemingly passionate desire to destroy their happiness. She had thought that the past didn't matter anymore, but oh, how wrong she had been! And what was she to do? In her own foolishness and pride she had put both herself and her unborn child in dangerous jeopardy. She struggled to keep from weeping, but could not. Finally exhausted, she fell into a troubled sleep.

Wynne awoke at the sound of a key turning in the rusty lock of the cell door. She struggled quickly to her feet, not wishing to be at any more of a disadvantage than she already was. The door swung open and a rough-looking woman entered.

"I'll take yer tunic dress and chemise," she said. "You can keep the under tunic, his grace says, and gimme yer shoes too."

"Why?" Wynne demanded haughtily.

"Because his grace says so, wench! I don't ask no questions. I do what I'm told, and if you knows what's good for you, you will too," came the harsh reply. "Now hurry it up!"

Wynne pulled her soft leather shoes off her narrow feet and threw them at the woman, diverting her long enough so that she could thrust her gold chain beneath her under tunic neckline. Then she quickly divested herself of her tunic dress and flung it in the same direction, turning her back angrily on the woman as she removed her under tunic and chemise and kicked the chemise across the floor. She heard the door creak shut as she drew her under tunic back on, the key turning in the old lock once more. Only then did it dawn on her that she still had no water, but she was too proud to call after the hag. Brys wouldn't let her starve… but perhaps he would.

She sat down. What on earth did they want with her tunic dress? She heard footsteps in the corridor again and scrambled to her feet once more. The door opened. Barris and another man entered the cell. For a minute the two looked down on the dead Gwladys, and Barris said, "This be Gwladys's intended, Tam, lady. We both thank you for trying to help our lass."

Wynne nodded and, as they began to remove the unfortunate girl's body from the cell, Wynne said, "I have no water, Barris, nor a necessary."

He nodded, but said nothing. The cell door was closed and locked. Wynne wondered if she would remain forgotten, but shortly Barris returned. He had with him a small wooden bucket, a flacon of water, and a wooden bowl which he wordlessly pushed at her. "Thank you, Barris," she said softly, but he was as quickly gone as he had come. Wynne put the bucket in a far corner, realizing she needed to use it very soon. She set the flacon in another corner so it could not be kicked over accidentally. She stared down into the bowl, which was filled with a hot potage of some kind that didn't smell particularly appetizing, and a heel of brown bread. With a wry grimace she ate the mess. She didn't know when she would see food again, and she had the babe to consider. The bread was stale, but she stuffed it in the pocket of her under tunic. She didn't need it now, but she might later. As an afterthought she removed the gold chain about her neck and her wedding band, stuffing them in her pocket as well. Then taking a drink from the flacon, she used the bucket to relieve herself and lay down to sleep.

"Lady! Lady!"

Wynne awoke, confused at first as to where she was. Reality quickly set in, and Barris was gently shaking her. "How long have I been sleeping?" she asked him.

"The night through, lady. His grace wants you in the hall now. You must come with me."

"Give me a moment's privacy, Barris, and I will be with you," Wynne said.

He nodded and drew the door shut behind him, but did not lock it. She could see the back of his head through the grating in the door. Quickly Wynne relieved herself once more in the bucket in the corner. Then taking a drink and rinsing her mouth, she used the rest of the water to clean her face and hands. Smoothing back her hair with her damp hands, she was able to bring some order to it.

"I am ready, Barris," she said, and he pushed open the door for her to exit. She followed him through a dimly lit corridor, up a flight of stairs and into the Great Hall of Castle Cai.

"Did you sleep well, belle soeur?" Brys inquired pleasantly as she made her way up to the foot of the high board.

"As well as I might, considering the poor accommodations, my lord," she replied sweetly. "If you would have my mare brought, I think it is past time for me to return to Raven's Rock." It was a bold bluff.

"Your mare, I imagine, has long been back at Raven's Rock, belle soeur," came the reply. He smiled charmingly at her. "You, however, will not be returning to Raven's Rock, I fear. You see, my dear Wynne, in your innocence you have given me the perfect weapon for destroying my brother Madoc. I have waited all my life long for such an opportunity. An opportunity I frankly never dared dream that I would get, and yet I have! You, Madoc's treasured wife, have unwittingly given me the knife which I shall plunge deep into his chest!"

"I do not understand you, Brys," she told him, but his very enthusiasm had already set her pulse pounding throughout her entire body. Dear God, he was evil! Madoc! She cried in her heart. Madoc!

"Madoc has always been too strong for me," Brys explained in reasonable tones. "He was invincible, for he had no weaknesses through which I might strike out at him. Now he does. You, Wynne. You and the child you carry are Madoc's weaknesses. I shall destroy him through you! Your horse was taken back last evening to a point where it could not fail to find its way home, and it did, I am told. Already a search party combs the forest for any sign of you. Soon they will have it. Your torn and bloodied tunic dress will be found. Perhaps your shoes and chemise. It will be obvious to all that you have been eaten by wolves. Your loss, and that of your child, will destroy my brother. The knowledge that he did not protect you well enough, that you undoubtedly died in terror and fear, will break him! He will never recover. I shall be revenged on you both!"

"Why, Brys? Why do you hate us so?" Wynne probed.

"Why?" For a long moment Brys looked confused, and then he said, "Because I do! What difference does it make why? I simply do."

He did not know, Wynne thought. Instinct alone drove him. "You cannot get away with this, Brys," she told him. "What will you do with me? Kill me?" She felt far less brave than her strong words indicated.

"Kill you? Of course I will not kill you," he told her. "If I killed you, then your suffering would be over, belle soeur. No, no! I do not intend killing you. I want you to feel despair even as Madoc feels it. A broken man, he will grieve for you and the child that was to be, even as you live out your life in slavery somewhere with that child. A child who will be born into slavery and know no other life." Brys then began to laugh wildly as Wynne stared at him, transfixed.

"You cannot!" she cried. "I ask not for myself or for Madoc, Brys, but spare my child! I will do whatever you want me to do, but let my child be exonerated from whatever sin you believe Madoc and I have committed against you!" She fell to her knees pleading.

The laughter ceased abruptly, and Brys said, "It is useless to ask me for mercy. There is no mercy in me, Wynne. None! Now hear me well, for I will only say this once. If you want your child to live, you will keep your mouth shut while I do business with my friend, Ruari Ban. You see, belle soeur, there is always the slightest chance that if you are clever-and I believe you are-that one day you might escape the fate I have so carefully planned for you. If you attempt to interfere in my plans right now, however, I will personally rip the brat from your womb! Do you understand me?" His sky-blue eyes were cold, his voice uncharacteristically harsh.

Wynne rose to her feet and, looking defiantly at him, nodded. "I understand, Brys, and I damn you to Hell for what you are doing this day! Nesta once told me you were the Devil's own. I wish I had believed her when she said it, but to my discredit, I could not."

"Be silent now," he told her dispassionately, and turning to Barris, said, "Fetch in Ruari Ban."

Wynne watched as a tiny, wizened man entered the Great Hall. The top of his head was covered in a bristling thatch of bright red hair. His short legs almost danced their way up to the foot of the high board. His clothing was simple and dull, but there was an air of authority about him. His eyes were inquiring. They flicked quickly over Wynne and then turned themselves on Brys.

"Well, yer grace, and 'tis good to see ye again. I was just about to go over the hills into Mercia when yer message reached me. I hope 'tis worth my while, for I'd not intended to stop here." He gave Brys a brief little bow.

"When has it not been worth your while to visit me, Ruari Ban?" Brys demanded, laughing genially. "Come and join me. Wine for my guest!"

Ruari Ban clambered into a chair next to Brys and greedily quaffed down a goblet of wine. It was quickly refilled. "The roads are terrible dusty," he said, and then, "Well, yer grace? How may I be of service?"

"This wench," Brys said, his voice suddenly irritable, "I want to sell her to you, Ruari Ban. She was born right here at Cai, but she's been troublesome her whole life. There isn't a man-at-arms that takes her fancy she hasn't lain with, and now the wench has gone and gotten herself with child. And the lewd bitch doesn't even know who the father is! Unfortunately she is a beauty, as you can see, and the men persist in fighting over her. The few women slaves in the house dislike her for her proud ways. She's become more trouble to me than she's worth."

"Why not just marry her off to one of her men?" demanded Ruari Ban.

"And have her causing more trouble and cuckolding the poor fellow before she even gives birth? Nay! I want her gone from Cai. Make me a fair offer and she's yours. Surely you've some wealthy customer in Mercia or Brittany who'd have her."

"Well," the slaver considered, "let's see her wares, yer grace, and then I'll decide."

"Wynne! Remove your tunic!" Brys snapped.

She pierced him with a furious look, but the look Brys sent her back was ferocious. The child, she thought. I must put my own anger aside and remember my child. Wynne reached up, and loosening the neckline of the long under tunic, let it fall to the floor. Ruari Ban stared long at her naked form.

Finally he said, "I can sell her. What do ye want for her?"

"One copper," Brys said.

"Yer mad!" the slaver laughed. "Sold! Put yer gown back on, wench. Yer fate is sealed for this day." Then he turned to Brys. "Why so cheap, yer grace?"

"Because I want her gone from Cai immediately, my old friend, and because it pleases me to do you a great favor. You'll make a pretty penny on this piece of goods. One day I may want a favor from you. When that day comes, Ruari Ban, remember this day," Brys told the slaver.

"I will, yer grace, I will," Ruari Ban assured his host. Then he drank down his wine and, standing up, said, "We'd best be on our way. Though the day is new, it will grow old fast enough." He reached into the purse that hung from his belt and extracted a single copper which he handed to Brys. "Yer grace, payment in full." Then reaching into another bag hanging from his waist, he drew out a thin length of chain and, coming down from the high board, affixed it loosely about Wynne's waist: "We'll not be harming yer bairn," he told her. "Ye wear no slave collar, wench?"

"I didn't want to spoil her pretty neck," Brys cut in, "but you may have no choice, Ruari Ban."

"We'll see," the slaver said, and then, wrapping the length of chain about his hand, he nodded to Brys, saying, "Well then, we're off to Mercia, yer grace!"

"God be with you," Brys returned piously.

Ruari Ban cast him an amused look and then, yanking lightly at the chain, drew Wynne with him. "God wouldn't come near this place," he murmured softly. "I suspect yer not unhappy to be going, eh lass? What's yer name? I heard him say it, but I don't remember."

"Wynne," she said.

"Wynne," he repeated. "It means fair in the Welsh tongue, doesn't it? Aye, it does. It suits ye, lass."

They had exited the castle and were now in the courtyard. She debated whether to tell him the truth now or to wait a bit, deciding that to wait was better. Best to be away from Castle Cai.

"Ye'll ride behind me, wench," she heard Ruari Ban say as a fat brown horse was brought. "Once we reach my caravan, ye'll walk with the rest of them, but until later today ye'll ride. Up with ye now!"

Her arms about Ruari Ban's ample waist, Wynne turned to look back at Castle Cai as they rode out from it and down into the misty blue valley below. For a time she had considered the possibility that she wouldn't escape Brys alive, but she had. It wouldn't take long to straighten out the situation she found herself in, particularly considering the fact that Brys had only sold her for a mere copper. Why, the gold chain in her pocket should buy her freedom easily.

"Sir," she said politely, "I would speak with you."

"What is it lass?" he answered her.

"It is not as Brys of Cai has told you," she began.

"I suspected as much," came the reply. " 'Tis his bairn yer carrying, I've not a doubt, and the devil didn't want you or it. He's a strange, cruel man, he is. Well, yer better off without him, and I'll find ye a good home, wench."

"I do not want you to find me a good home, sir. I have a good home. At Raven's Rock Castle," Wynne said. "I am Prince Madoc's wife, Wynne of Powys. My brother-in-law imprisoned me yesterday afternoon when I came to speak with him. If you will simply return me to my husband, you will be well rewarded."

"Now why would yer brother-in-law do such a thing, wench?" Ruari Ban did not sound particularly convinced by her brief explanation.

Wynne struggled to make him believe her. "Brys of Cai and his elder half-brother, my husband, Madoc of Powys, are bitter enemies. Because I am expecting our first child, I wanted the two brothers to be reunited in friendship. I waited until my husband was away and then I slipped away from Raven's Rock yesterday morning. When I arrived at Cai, it was to find Brys torturing some poor girl. When I tried to intervene, my brother-in-law struck me. I awoke to find myself in his dungeon, the dying girl with me. This morning Brys told me he was going to sell me into slavery. He said he had brought my mare back to Raven's Rock so that our people would find it riderless. He took most of my clothing from me, ripped and bloodied it, and left it in the forest for my husband to find. He feels by making Madoc believe I am dead, he will have his revenge on him. He threatened to harm my unborn child if I protested, and so I waited until we were away from Cai. If you will return me to Raven's Rock, my husband will reward you, Ruari Ban. Madoc loves me dearly, and this is his first child I am to bear," Wynne finished.

Ruari Ban sighed deeply and replied, "Now, lass, it may very well be that you are telling me the truth, but I cannot be certain. I have heard many tales far less plausible than yours over the years that turned out to be truth; and tales more plausible that were nought but lies. Of one thing, however, I am certain. The bishop of Cai is an evil man and an enemy who does not forgive a fault. I know little of Madoc of Powys, but what I know tells me he is as different from his brother as day is different from night.

"Brys of Cai sold you to me for one copper. It is obvious, whoever you are, that he desires to be rid of you. He has entrusted me with the business of carrying out his wishes. If I betray him, he will not rest until he has gotten his revenge on me. I have known some who tried to deal with his grace in a less than straightforward manner. All died, and it was a terrible death they suffered. Brys of Cai is a man who enjoys giving pain. The countryside hereabouts lives in fear of catching his eye or gaining his wrath. If I betray him, there is no place in this world where I shall be safe from his assassins."

"My husband will protect you, Ruari Ban. Madoc is the prince of Wenwynwyn, and that family is well-known for its sorcerers. Madoc will not allow Brys to harm you!"

"Your husband, if indeed he is your husband, sorcerer or no, could not protect you from Brys of Cai, wench," was the answer.

Wynne thrust a hand beneath the slaver's face. "Look at that hand," she demanded angrily. "Is that the hand of a slave woman? It is the hand of a lady! Do you not hear my speech? Is it rough or crude in either tone or its manner? I am not a slave born at Cai. I am the wife of Madoc of Powys. I insist that you take me home now!"

"Ye'd best curb that temper of yers, wench," Ruari Ban advised Wynne mildly. "There be some who won't take kindly to such a tone."

"I can pay you!" Wynne said desperately. "Gold! If you'll just take me home. What harm is there in it? If I'm not who I claim to be, you continue onward. But I am, and there'll be a reward in it for you."

He stopped his horse and turned about to look cannily at her. "What gold?" he demanded.

In that instant Wynne realized that to reveal to Ruari Ban that she possessed her gold chain and her wedding band would be foolish. This creature was a man who willingly associated and did business with Brys of Cai. He could not be trusted. He'd steal her jewelry and she'd be worse off than she was now. "I've gold at Raven's Rock," she told him simply, and then she smiled. "If you will but return me home, my husband will give you much gold."

The slaver grumbled, exasperated, "Shut yer mouth, wench! I've heard all I want to hear. Whatever the truth of the matter is, I don't want to incur the enmity of his grace, the bishop of Cai, who expects me to sell you off for a disobedient slave. If I don't, he will know and he will kill me. Now Madoc of Powys don't know old Ruari Ban at all. I've no quarrel with him. If yer indeed his wife and he don't know I've got ye, then I've still no quarrel with him, now do I? I'm not a bad fellow, but I'll listen to no more from ye. One more word and ye'll walk behind the horse."

Wynne wanted to shriek with outrage, but she restrained herself. Ruari Ban might be stubborn, but he was no fool. She understood his position, as difficult as that position was for her. Damn Brys of Cai for the dreadful villain he was! And knowing what a terrible person Madoc's brother was, why was she still questioning his motives? It was Madoc she should be concerned about. Madoc who would believe her dead. She felt a dull ache suffuse her heart at the thought that her actions should cause the man she loved to suffer in any manner. Madoc! She cried out to him with every fiber of her being. Madoc! The child and I yet live!

She felt the tears slipping down her cheeks and, angry at herself for such an open display of weakness, she brushed them away. Her stomach growled noisily, and Wynne remembered the bread stuffed in her pocket. She drew it out, careful not to disturb her gold chain and ring, which were hidden there too. The bread was hard and dry, but she began to gnaw upon it hungrily, moistening the crust with her saliva.

Ruari Ban turned his head about to look at her, saying, "Have ye not eaten this morning, wench?"

Wynne shook her head, swallowing a mouthful of the dry bread. "I was brought from my dungeon cell directly to the Great Hall," she told him. "I saved the bread from last night's meal, if indeed that disgusting mess I was served could be called a meal."

"Be patient, wench," he counseled her. "Another hour and we should catch up to my caravan. They're camped for the day, and the cook fires will be going. I'll see yer well fed. 'Tis not my policy to starve the merchandise. Any slaver who does that won't make a fat profit. Besides, yer eating for two, ain't ye? Ohh, ye'll bring me a fine profit, ye will, wench! Two for the price of one, and yer not yet deformed with the bairn that ye've lost yer looks either. I've got just the man in mind for yer master too. A wealthly thegn with large moneybags who'll pay well for a fertile lass like yerself for his childless son. Be clever, m'dear, and 'twill be yer new master who ends up the slave," he cackled, well pleased with himself.

When he had turned about again and was facing forward-once more, Wynne allowed herself the luxury of a few more tears before finally growing calm. She had her gold chain and her gold ring, and she did indeed intend being clever. Clever enough to escape the fate Brys had planned for her. He would not defeat her this time either!