The Second Betrayal
Author's Note: With this tale, it is my intention to provide one idea of what occurred on that stormy night when Guinevere arrived on Owen Davies' doorstep, and the days that followed. Naturally, I will use all of Susan Cooper's accounts of the story, but some artistic liberties will be employed. All characters portrayed below are the creation of Susan Cooper, as well as any other characters referenced unless otherwise noted. King Arthur and Guinevere are the focus of many folkloric studies and appear in several different accounts. Therefore, they belong to no one; however, I will be using Susan Cooper's descriptions, especially those of Guinevere, in this tale.
The summary, with the exception of the last line, is quoted directly from The Grey King, page 581 in the complete The Dark is Rising work, published by Guild America Books. The Grey King was originally published as single book by Simon & Schuster, and is copyright Susan Cooper, 1975.
Chapter One
Owen Davies sat down before the fire, a newly-made cup of tea clutched firmly in his hand. The fire sizzled and spat as raindrops found their errant way down the chimney. A faint clap of thunder had him inspecting the sky through water-waters streaked windows. What if Prichard's sheep had not been properly housed for the night? What if lightning spooked them? What if...Well, there would be hell and a half to pay tomorrow morning, that much was sure.
Owen took another sip of the bitter tea, stealing himself for a trip out into the store. It was not a long journey to the barn, and he'd rest easier if he knew the sheep were secured for the night. In Cymru, a sheep farmer's animals were the most important part of their life, and if any harm came to them, the retribution was swift and harsh. Especially from Caradog Prichard, who already seemed more than half mad.
There came another clap of thunder, faint as ever, then another and another. Owen stared wide-eyed at the sky. Thunder did not resound in such quick succession, and not a flash of lightning to be seen. Rain pounded incessantly at the slate roof and the wind mercilessly battered tree limbs against the windows, howling like a babe...
Owen sat up, stiff as a poker. The wind could not wail like that, so convincingly, surely. Which meant that there was someone, or something, out there in the storm, crying. With a shudder, the farmhand recalled the legends of the milgwn, big grey foxes that came out of the hills. Owen shook his head; old wives' tales to scare the youngsters, that was all it was. The milgwn did not exist, except in legend. Shivering slightly, unable to completely disregard the tales, he stood, grabbed his coat, and opened the door.
And now the lightning did come, starkly illuminating the outline of a figure standing on his doorstep, arm raised to knock once more. In the fire's half light, Owen saw that it was a fair maiden, her dark hair plastered to her face and neck. Near collapse she looked. Without pausing for thought, Owen ushered her inside and shut the door firmly against the storm.
He led the shivering girl to his seat by the fire. Nodding in silent thanks, she pulled a sling from her back and sat down. Her pale fingers shook slightly as she parted the folded sodden cloth to reveal a baby.
And a very strange baby it was, too. He (for Owen assumed the child was a he) seemed completely bereft of colour, like a picture in a child's colouring book that has been skipped over. Or rather, begun and then forgotten, for the boy awoke, revealing eyes that were a startling blend of golds, as if a lion's mane had been melted and poured into these eyes; cat's eyes, they were, or a bird's.
The baby cried out, protesting the wet, his fatigue, and his hunger. The girl clutched the baby to her breast, but she was still trembling as if the she was a leaf stuck out in the gale.
Hastily, Owen gathered an armful of garments for her to change into. They were men's clothing, but at least she'd be dry.
"Here," he said gruffly, shoving the pile at her. She stared for a moment, then seemed to understand and accepted the garments.
"Thank you," she said quietly, and Owen wished that she would say more, for the lilting accent of her voice was both enchanting and perplexing.
"You can change in there," Owen managed, indicating a small room he used as a lavatory. "I'll watch the child," he added, sensing a hesitance in the girl. She nodded once more and disappeared into the back, leaving Owen with his thoughts and the strange child.
The infant was still fussing, not at all happy to be wet. Owen found an old shirt, lifted the boy gently, and went over to his bed. He managed, with no more than a little difficulty, to remove the baby's swaddling cloth, but was completely baffled by the undergarments the child was wearing. He stared for a moment longer, but was spared the humiliation of a mistake by the girl's return.
The clothing was much too big for her slight frame, but she had managed to hold everything together with a broad belt of his. Somehow, she looked more beautiful than before. There was a twinkle in her blue eyes now, and a light in her face that reminded Owen of a music so sweet his heart was left aching for more.
The girl removed a cloth from her sling that was, miraculously, dryer than what the baby was wearing. Quickly and deftly, she changed the baby's undergarments and swaddled him in the plaid shirt. Under her competent fingers, the child relaxed and quieted, soon falling asleep.
A question burned Owen's tongue. "Who are you?" he burst out.
And so she told him.
To Be Continued...