Gwydion stared out from the side of the merchant ship, the wind whipping his long wolf-colored locks in and out of his eyes, nipping at the tips of his ears, and howling like the hounds of Gwyn the Hunter. On this moonless night, the stars filled the skies, the great Bealach na Bó Finne stretching up like a glorious pathway to the heavens. To the north his sharp eyes could faintly see the veil of the Mirrie Dancers, capering and pirouetting just at the edge of his vision, like a lively frolic orchestrated by the Fair Folk. On a night such as this, sometimes he longed to forget the responsibilities prerequisite to his position, and go and try to climb that great crystalline way, or seek out the hand of a she-Mirrie and dance with her on a wave of aqua light. As always though, his dreams were pushed to the back of a well-disciplined, if not always well-ordered mind, and his current responsibilities elbowed their way forward.
He felt now, rather than saw, the great black mass to the east, the island of Mona. Still, the tingling sense of exhilaration in the air, and within his soul, lingered. On a night such as this, the wheels of the heavens were turning with clear portent, for good or for ill…and Gwydion could almost recall, through generations of inborn memory, what it felt like to be one with the gods.
Over the past few days, the large and ungainly ship had made its ponderous way south in low winds that had finally picked up today, while the Prince of Don considered his next steps carefully. Although it was sometimes difficult unraveling his circular and confusing speech, Sharp-beak the crow—whom he gathered was a close cousin of Kaw's—had told him enough. He knew that the Princess Eilonwy was on her way to Mona, accompanied by Taran and Gurgi, on a ship commanded by the son of King Rhuddlum, Prince Rhun of Mona. Dallben had sent word as soon as they had set out, far enough in advance that the prince felt confident he should arrive at Mona a few days before them.
It was the rest of the message that concerned him more…through the addled crow-speech, it was clear that Dallben shared his suspicions, and his sense of urgency. Achren's plans were in motion…through his own experience on the island of Lluned, and now confirmed from Dallben's foresight, this much was clear. The plans involved Eilonwy, as they had always feared, and Dallben had confirmed that the danger was grave.
As always though, part of the old enchanter's message was almost a riddle. Dallben had sensed the presence of a different kind of sorcery…almost a mix of the ancient powers of Achren, a spirit of the land, and of the enchantresses of Llyr, spirits of the sea. He had only sensed it once before, years ago when Llyr had fallen in a mysterious cataclysm. Now, he felt it again.
Gwydion thought of what he had felt at the old altar of Llyr in Caer Dyfi, where he had experienced a very similar premonition. The powers of Achren and of Llyr, mixed and almost indistinguishable from each other.
Was that it, then? Did Achren seek to add the powers of Llyr to her own? If she could do so then surely, she would be the greatest power in Prydain. The Sons of Don could not rival such power. Neither could Arawn, he surmised, although most of Arawn's own enchantments had been wrested from Achren many long years ago.
Also though, at the blasphemed altar, he had sensed desperation…incompleteness…weakness. Key parts of the riddle were still missing for Achren as well. Eilonwy was part of the riddle…but still there was more.
The last part of Dallben's message had been an urgent warning; to take action without delay. They had known since the fall of Spiral Castle that Achren valued Eilonwy. She had kidnapped her from her parents, and kept her hidden for years. She had sought to regain her, through use of Arawn's servants on the road to Caer Dallben after the fall of the Horned King. After Eilonwy's arrival at Caer Dallben, the greatest safehouse in Prydain, Achren could do nothing but wait. Now, her chance had come once again.
Gwydion had often wondered why Dallben felt so strongly that Eilonwy must return to her closest relatives on the island of Mona, at least for a time, to be "educated" as a young lady and a princess. It seemed foolhardy, with Achren still not apprehended, and her intent so clear. Gwydion knew though, that by his powers and through the Book of Three, Dallben swam like a dolphin through the currents of history and time. Eilonwy had to return at this time, it was part of what must be, and there was no gainsaying him on the matter. They must deal with the consequences as best they could.
Previously, Dallben had seemed relatively secure in his decision. Now though, it was clear that something had disturbed him, and he was no longer as confident as he had been about the wisdom of this course, although apparently, he did not see a way to change it. Some piece of the riddle that had lain dormant was now back in play— the old enchanter had sensed it almost as the companions departed. He could not say precisely what it was, but it seemed to multiply both the danger to Eilonwy, and to all of Prydain. The rest, he had left for Gwydion to discover.
"I have confidence in you," the old man had said, by way of Sharp-beak. Now, the prince wished he shared that confidence.
"Captain Leuan! It is time."
At the helm, the captain nodded and turned the ship closer toward shore. Soon, the surf could be heard pounding just ahead. Captain Leuan gave the command to drop anchor, and the ship gave a shudder as it pulled taught against the stout rope, the outgoing tide trying to push it away from the rocky coast.
Commander Gwaednerth hurried over to Gwydion, who was dressed in even shabbier raiment than normal, and dropped a great sack over the prince's shoulder. "Everything you requested is here, my Lord. The ship's leather worker very kindly agreed to donate his tools—with the help of some gentle persuasion, and a small offering of gold."
The two men clasped hands. "I will see you soon in Caer Dathyl," Gwydion said. "Give the High King my regards, and also the letters I have written."
Gwaednerth nodded. "May your mission be successful, and you return safely. Send word if I can aid you in any way."
After a last check to the security of the long dark sword sheathed at his side, Gwydion slung a knotted rope from the side of the ship. He gritted his teeth to prevent them from chattering, as he lowered himself into the frigid black water. Soon, he was swimming strongly toward shore, as the seamen hauled the ship's anchor and turned its bow toward the sea.
Gwydion was soon in the surf, tossed to and fro between jutting rocks. He worked his way through them carefully, and not long after, was able to place his sandaled feet on the rocky bottom.
The shore was a mix of sand and gravel, and he looked up at the high cliffs lining the shore just to his south. There, he could see the lights from the northern side of Rhuddlum's castle. He knew it looked down on a fine deep harbor, lined with piers and ships.
Gwydion pushed his streaming hair back and out of his eyes. He had washed away the last of the dark dye on the voyage from the island of Lluned, and now his grey locks, grown long, fell almost to his shoulders. He reached inside the sack and pulled out a dirty sash, borrowed from one of the seamen, and wrapped it about his head. He would rely on a disguise of a different kind now. He flung his sack again over his shoulder, and made his way up the tall cliffs that led to a path toward the village of Dinas Rhydnant, which had grown up on the landward side of the castle.
As he made his way up the steep and treacherous trail, he supposed it was about the second hour after midnight. As he glanced toward the rocks that protected the north side of the harbor, suddenly a torch flared. He could see it was carried by the tall, slender figure of a man. As he stared, suddenly another light flared, out to sea. An answering signal. The light at sea moved in a pattern, which was answered with a different pattern from the man with the torch. This continued for another few minutes, before the light at sea was extinguished, followed by the torch.
The man, carrying the extinguished torch, moved quickly back toward the rocks, clambered up and over, and was soon out of sight.
Gwydion froze and stared out to sea, but could see nothing. Standing in the darkness, his mind raced. Many possibilities crossed his mind, but his own recent experiences, and the terse warning from Dallben, coalesced his thoughts along one path in particular.
He continued his way toward the lights under the stars, passing through hills where the wind swept through standing stones and long island grasses. Soon, he passed into the outskirts of the village. Before long, he found a quiet shed with dry, warm hay, where he made himself comfortable. Soon a restless sleep found him, full of visions and riddles— but it was sleep, nonetheless.
The next morning, he awoke an hour after sunrise, his neck and legs a bit stiff from the damp cool air. He rose and stretched to remove the kinks, but then thought better of it. A perfect start, he thought, for the character he must now play.
Several years ago in Caer Dathyl, one afternoon he had stood at a discreet window within the fortress, from which could observe the merchants and common folk moving through the street below, plying their trades, and conducting their business. He had realized, of all types of people, how easy it was to dismiss elderly folk. They moved slowly, often bent and limping, with the aid of a staff. They stopped often for no apparent reason, regarding one thing or the other as if in deep thought, before moving on their way to their eventual destination. Perhaps because of impatience—or for some deeper reason within the mind—they could become almost invisible to a younger person, who naturally found his or her attention drawn to other younger folk, stepping with more surety and authority, speaking and laughing more loudly and forcefully.
After that, he had recruited some exceptionally sharp-witted elderly folk to be his eyes and ears within cantrevs where he had needed intelligence, and found them to be not only tremendously useful in gathering information, but also quite loyal and reliable, succumbing less often to the vices and temptations that frequently plagued younger men and women.
Further, he had soon realized that he could make use of those advantages himself. He was well acquainted with Sionyn, a well-known bard and play-actor, who was often at Caer Dathyl. Although a man of some thirty years, he was able to convincingly present himself as a man both younger and much older. Part of this was through cleverly painting his face and using devices such as false beards and hair coloring—such as the dye that Gwydion had used recently, to make his grey locks darker, before his voyage.
More than this however, a larger part was his ability to take on the mannerisms of a different person, be they the same age, younger, or older. He could make himself appear bent, gnarled and aged, for example, just through how he held his body and moved, and the expressions he made on his face.
Through their friendship, Gwydion persuaded Sionyn to teach him this art of play-acting—especially the ability to appear older. Since that time, Gwydion had honed his skills, and had used them more than once to move almost unseen and unnoticed through his own stronghold, and those of both friends and foes, with great success.
Now, from a small, sealed packet that he kept in his pouch, he took some dark powder, and with a well-practiced touch, used the powder to emphasize the darkness under his eyes, and make the lines on his face darker and more pronounced. He ran a hand across his beard – he had grown a 5-day stubble, and now from another packet he took a grey powder. He ran some through his hair, and rubbed some into his beard. The effect was to make his hair and beard appear very dull and aged, much more so than normal.
He had learned on those earlier missions, that appearing older was not always enough – one must normally have a reason to gain entrance into courts, and other places frequented by nobility. He had found that skilled craftsmen were honored almost everywhere, and could move easily where others could not.
He had always had an affinity for working with his hands, be it at weaving, or with weapons or tools. He had many times enjoyed watching Arnallt, the old Caer Dathyl master cobbler, at his craft, appreciating his skill and great attention to detail.
One day, to Arnallt's great surprise, he found himself invited to meet with Prince Gwydion, who politely asked him if he could spare a few hours a week to teach the prince his art. And so he did, for many months, and he found the Prince of Don to be both an adept and appreciative apprentice.
After a few months, at the appointed time for their lesson the cobbler arrived at Gwydion's chamber. Instead of laying out his tools and leather on the table, as he normally did, he smiled, and handed his tool belt to the Prince, followed by his bag of leather pieces and thongs, and various other implements.
"No more can I teach you," he said. "You are now as good a shoemaker as any in Prydain…for all the good that does you. The leather seems to flow to your will like a living thing; I have never seen a man with more skill in shaping it."
Gwydion smiled. "Any talent I now possess I owe to a fine tutor. Thank you, my friend. Never fear, I plan to put the skills you taught me to good use."
The prince took the great black sword Dyrnwyn and buried it deeply in the straw at the back of the shed. Judging from its musty smell, he reasoned it must have been undisturbed for quite a long period of time, and it was a safe wager that situation would continue for a few more days.
He took from his sack the ship leather worker's wide belt, festooned with all manner of sharp, wooden-handled tools, and fastened it about his waist. He re-tied the dirty sash about his lank hair. He fixed his eyes a few feet ahead of his feet, and bent his back as he had been taught by Sionyn. He shuffled forward.
From the shed emerged not a valiant prince and warrior, but a harmless old man, mumbling a bit to himself as he made his way further into the village.
After spending a few pieces of copper to buy some food and drink, and a stop at a vendor's stall where he purchased various bits of tanned leather and bundles of thongs, the cobbler made his slow way down the village street. He found an old crate, set it in a conspicuous spot, and pulled from his sack the pieces of leather and thongs. No one watched as he began, but after he had quickly crafted a small pair of shoes and gave them to a passing urchin, soon he was approached by interested onlookers, who admired his deft fingers as he picked up one tool after the other, and from the pile of leather, a smart pair of sandals emerged. One man he beckoned over with a crooked finger, and in a croaking voice, asked him to put his foot on the crate, as he fitted the sandals to him.
"How much do I owe you, my good man?" the pleased villager asked.
"No charge for you," Gwydion replied in a raspy, shaking voice. "A happy customer is better than a public sign, eh? If you like them, please tell your friends that a traveling cobbler is in the village, and he would be honored for the opportunity to make them a new pair of sandals for a reasonable charge."
"I certainly will! You will have plenty of business within the hour."
By mid-morning, there was a fair number of village folk around the humble crate, and it seemed that every patron that left with a pair of sandals returned with two more villagers.
"Come with me, Master Cobbler, and get out of the wind and the sun," his latest customer said, a fine and fair lady of perhaps twoscore years, with wavy blonde hair just starting to go grey bound up in a thick braid that fell down her back. I have an instrument shop nearby, and work-space you may use for free. From the looks of things, I may get a new patron or two as well!"
"Many thanks to you, my dear lady," Gwydion croaked out, and the woman led the way to her shop not far away on the same street, followed by Gwydion and a line of the old cobbler's new customers. The neat little shop's shelves were lined with harps, flutes, pipes, drums and few other more exotic musical instruments. The lady beckoned Gwydion over to a corner with a table, and plenty of room for his tools.
Soon the line of customers for shoes and sandals was almost out the door, and the shop owner winked to Gwydion— as many of the patrons, while waiting or after they had been served, eyed the musical instruments and discussed them with the owner. It seemed she already had sold a used harp and a new flute, so it was shaping into a good day for her as well.
"What shall I call you, friend?" the shop owner asked. I am Cadi Daughter of Catren, of Dinas Rhydnant. I have lived right here in this village most of my life, sad to say…oh I shouldn't say that, it is really a fine place—with mostly lovely people."
"Indeed it is, young lady. All the beauty of Prydain wrapped up in a small package, eh? I am Gruffydd son of Gruffudd, of Cantrev Cadiffor," Gwydion creakily replied, without stopping his work on the next pair of sandals. "I had never been to Mona, and decided I wanted to see it while there is enough life left in me to enjoy it…just passing through, although by the look of it, I will have enough work to occupy me for a bit of time," he added with a rasping laugh that sounded more like a cough.
Suddenly, a tall shadow blocked the light at the shop door. The man was dressed in a fine embroidered cloak and jacket, worked with gold and silver threads, and he carried a wooden staff that was longer than most men were tall. A thick silver chain was about his neck, and a collection of intricately wrought keys hung from a ring at his belt. All heads swiveled to observe him—with many an eye roll, Gwydion quickly noted—as he made his way imperiously across the room to speak with the lady of the shop. Gwydion glanced over quickly, and immediately turned his attention back to his latest pair of sandals. The newcomer's movements were creeping and spider-like—and oddly familiar.
"Lady Cadi, since your husband's death, you are the official keeper of the roll of Bards, are you not?" he asked in an almost accusatory tone.
"Indeed, Chief Steward. King Rhuddlum conferred that honor on me two years ago."
"So you have the complete record of all Bards of the Harp in Prydain, correct?"
"I believe so. The last roll was sent just a few months ago, and the next initiation at Caer Dathyl will not be until next summer."
"Can you tell me then, if the record contains the name of a …Fflewddur Fflam?" the Chief Steward spat out the name with obvious distaste.
Gwydion gave no outward sign, but accidently stuck his thumb with the awl, biting his lip to keep from crying out. His latest customer looked at him with some alarm, but fortunately the wound was minor.
Lady Cadi quickly pulled out the scroll, with the recorded names of all the official bards of Prydain, signed by Chief Bard Taliesin himself. She quickly scanned the names, the tip of her tongue held delicately between her teeth in her concentration. Finally she looked up. "No, my Lord. No such name exists in the record."
"Ah Ha!" cried out the Chief Steward. "I knew that something was amiss with that scarecrow of a harp-scraper. He arrived at Dinas Rhydnant a few days ago, claiming to be a bard, and he wormed his way into His Majesty's and the Queen's favor with a few simple ditties. They will be very grateful when I tell them I have discovered he is a fraud…and I will then have the caterwauling beggar thrown out of the door!"
With that, he turned away from Lady Cadi without even a word of thanks, and his eye fell on Gwydion, with his waiting customers. He rudely pushed his way over to Gwydion's table, glowering at some of the village folk until they moved out of the way.
"Excellent craftsmanship, Old Man," he said. "I will have a pair myself—they will go perfectly with my new cloak. I am Magg, Chief Steward of Dinas Rhydnant," he announced with an air of deep self-satisfaction, obviously expecting Gwydion to be impressed.
"Oh, it is a deep honor, my Lord," Gwydion rasped. "Just as soon as I have served these fine folks, I will make you a pair of sandals befitting that rich cloak," as he nodded in the direction of the line.
"Forget about them," Magg said with an impatient wave of his hand. "You must go with me at once to the castle, as soon as you have finished this pair. After they have seen my sandals, the King and Queen themselves will doubtless be impressed, and will thank me for bringing such a skilled shoemaker to serve them."
"Again I thank you, Chief Steward," Gwydion replied hoarsely, "but we cobblers are a superstitious lot…bad luck not to finish a pair, once you start them…or to stop work while you have waiting customers. I will finish up here, and find my way to the castle just as quickly as I can. I give you my word, I won't leave such an august personage as yourself waiting for long! Nor the King and Queen, if they are interested in my humble work."
Magg scowled. "I should have you thrashed for such insolence…but as you clearly new here, I will forgive your impertinence this once…you are lucky that I have some other business to attend to. Finish here promptly, and ask guidance to my chamber when you reach the rear gate." I will expect you not too late, if you expect good payment and dinner in return."
With that, he whirled about, snapping his fine cloak, and scuttled out of the door with his long gliding gait.
The line of patrons hissed and muttered under their breath at the departing steward, and then turned to beam at Gwydion. The Lady Cadi flashed him a lovely smile as well. "By the Lady Don, you told that puffed-up praying mantis!" she said, to the laughter of everyone in the shop. "Ever since Rhuddlum brought him into the court a few years ago, you would think he was the king himself, the way he takes on. Apparently, he thinks he owns the castle, and all of us here in the village, as well."
Gwydion worked quickly, and the line of patrons finally diminished. The Lady Cadi told him it was time to close the shop for the evening, and he wrapped up his pack as the last of the day's customers left, and Cadi began to tidy up and return the shop instruments to their shelves.
The lady stood on a tall stool, stowing a heavy drum on the top shelf, when she suddenly lost her balance and toppled backward. She did not scream but only gave a little yelp, as the stool tumbled to the floor with a clatter. Before she could come to harm however; she found herself cradled by strong arms and hands that seemed to have miraculously appeared from nowhere.
For a brief second Gwydion met her eyes, and saw that hers were a lovely slate blue. She seemed to study his face, before he gently lowered her feet to the floor, and with suddenly warm cheeks, resumed the stooped posture of the cobbler. "Ah, this floor is a bit slippery, my Lady, he managed to rasp out. "Perhaps a step-ladder would be safer for you, eh?
"Indeed, I will consider that," she said with another radiant smile, accompanied by a clear-eyed look. "I remember my late husband once said the same, when we were visiting Caer Dathyl and he saw one in a carpenter's shop…he was a bard, you know—and the official bard of the court here, before his death two years ago."
"Ah, I am so sorry," Gwydion returned. "How was your visit to Caer Dathyl? I have heard so much about it, but never quite made it there myself."
"It was lovely. And indeed," she said with little laugh. "I would have thought you were quite familiar with it—given your skills, and your love of travel, that is…But be that as it may, I thank you again. The arms of a cobbler are sure and strong, it seems…and quick, when there is trouble afoot."
As the sun set over the sea, the disguised prince hobbled alone up the short stone path to the rear gate of the castle of Dinas Rhydnant. The gate guards looked at him in some surprise when he inquired the way to the Chief Steward's chamber, but were friendly and helpful, nonetheless. He made his way through the courtyard, turned at an alcove, and knocked at the correct door. The Chief Steward was in a relatively good mood, and appeared pleased with himself.
"You were none too prompt, I see—fortunately the hour is not too late, but your dinner may still be forfeit." He nodded toward the grandly appointed room. "Here, you may take my measure now, he said, as he pulled off a boot and set his large foot on a stool, pointed in Gwydion's direction.
"Apologies, my Lord," Gwydion rasped, and bent to the task of measuring the hairy and knotty appendage. As he put the tape measure back in his bag, there was a knock at the door. Magg pulled back on his boot and answered the door.
"The King needs to see you right away, Chief Steward."
Clearly annoyed, Magg glanced toward Gwydion, who appeared completely absorbed in his task.
"I will allow you to continue work here; I have business to attend to elsewhere, but I will be back in a few moments. Tend to your task; I am not a patient man."
"As you command, Chief Steward. I'm sure you will be very pleased…and will reward a poor cobbler generously for his efforts," he added. A flash of irritation crossed Magg's face, but he nodded curtly before slamming shut the chamber door.
Gwydion quickly searched the chamber for any sign that his suspicions were correct. Under a pillow, he found a long dagger, sharp as a razor, but nothing else particularly unusual—until he moved aside a tunic in a bottom drawer, and found a great sum of gold, in the form of nuggets and rough hammered bars. It was a small king's ransom, and certainly more than one would expect even a man of Magg's high station to have.
To his sharp eye, it had a familiar look that he had seen recently. He quickly realized that is was in the markets on the island of Lluned that he had seen gold in this form.
His search revealed nothing else of interest, and he returned to work on the sandals without further delay.
Less than a half hour later, Magg returned, scowling and muttering to himself as he entered the chamber. "I will teach that butter-headed charlatan," Gwydion heard him mumbling under his breath "Ah, cobbler. Have you finished your work?"
"Indeed, my Lord," Gwydion croaked, holding up the shoes. "Sandals fit for a king…if you will pardon the expression."
Magg looked at him sharply, but snatched the sandals from his hand and sat on a stool to try them on. "Perfect!" he said, admiring his feet in the sandals from every angle, using a small looking-glass that lay on the table.
"I am so pleased you are happy, Chief Steward." Gwydion packed up his tools and supplies, and waited expectantly.
"You may go," Magg said with a wave of his hand. "I will introduce you to the King and Queen tomorrow, and I'm sure you will receive their patronage. For tonight, you may sleep in the stables…and you might try the back door of the kitchen, to see if there are any scraps from tonight's repast to be had. That is all the payment you will receive from me…and be thankful I don't have you flogged for your earlier impertinence."
"My Lord is most generous," Gwydion said, with only a slight trace of sarcasm, as he backed out of the chamber door. He turned, and made his way toward the back door of the kitchen that Magg had vaguely indicated.
A few minutes later, he returned toward the stables, carrying a hunk of bread, another of baked fish, a sound apple, and a flagon of water. Unlike Magg, most of the servants of Dinas Rhydnant seemed to reflect more of what he remembered of their king – jovially tempered; kind and generous.
The stables were at the end of the courtyard, and after a long day of hard work, his fatigue almost overcame his hunger. Soon he found an empty stall that was not too drafty, and contained fresh hay. He settled down to eat his meal.
He had scarcely taken a bite however, when he heard a stream of expletives from a nearby stall, uttered by a familiar voice.
"That sneaking, conniving, overdressed spider! How dare he! Why I have half a mind to call him out and run him through…" a stream of invective then ensued, with words that Gwydion had never thought to hear from a bard…but then he reminded himself, that Fflewddur was also a king.
He thought for a moment to reveal himself to his old friend…but given the bard's well-known indiscreet tendencies, decided against it. Perhaps later, he told himself.
Still uttering his stream of curses, the bard began pacing up and down the center passageway of the stables, and caught sight of the prince as he passed his stall. "Ah! Hello friend…sorry for you to hear all of that," he began sheepishly, "but I advise you to steer clear of the Chief Steward…or Chief Scoundrel."
"Indeed, I am here at his erm…invitation I'm afraid," Gwydion spoke, voice shaking and hiding most of his face—which he had willed into wrinkles—beneath his hood. "I am Gruffydd son of Gruffudd; a traveling shoemaker….and yourself?"
"My name is Fflewddur," spoke the bard, "son of Godo…a bard of the harp…ahem…although not on the official rolls—which is why the scoundrel had me moved from a nice chamber in the castle to the stables. How he found that out, I have no idea…but if there is an official roll of shoemakers, you had better be on it. At any rate, The King and Queen enjoyed my music and were very kind…but not Magg." Fflewddur put his hand to his chin. "Interesting, come to think of it, how often villains are not music lovers…this is not the first time something like this has happened to me…"
"Oh, my only credential is my work," Gwydion said with a coughing laugh. "I see your own sandals are in need of repair…here, let me re-lace them for you."
Fflewddur glanced down at his feet, as if he had not even noticed the sorry state of his own footwear. "Oh? Yes…thank you for your kind offer, but clearly, you've had a long day. Perhaps tomorrow, if you are willing. Talking with you has calmed me a bit—and I could do with a nice long nap myself."
"Until the morning, then," Gwydion said with a wink. "Sleep well, Master Bard."
As he drifted off in the comfortable hay, an image of a ship at sea entered his exhausted but restless mind. It carried a golden-haired princess and an assistant pig-keeper, among others. The princess was wearing the familiar crown of Llyr, and the ship was pursued by another: a fast ship with a strange symbol on its sail.
The next morning, Gwydion slept a bit late and woke to the unpleasant sound of Magg's voice.
"Ah, Harper—I had hoped you would have relieved us of your company by now. Still here I see…but not for long; I will see to that! I would have had you beaten and turned out last night, if you had not told the King and Queen of your friendship with the Princess Eilonwy, like a frightened child making up lies to avoid punishment. I am more than certain that was as false a story as your presumed pedigree as a bard…and we shall discover that soon; the ship carrying Princess Eilonwy and Prince Rhun is due to arrive this very day. Once he sees what-is-what, I'm sure Rhuddlum will allow me the honor of carrying out your punishment personally…and I relish the opportunity, you off-key, flea-bitten scarecrow."
Fflewddur then returned, "I'm afraid you will be quite disappointed on the Princess's arrival, you…you web-crawling dandy of a buffoon! We are good friends, as I am with others in her party. Perhaps it is you that will be driven away; that's probably more than you deserve. I have no doubt you are pilfering the King and Queen behind their backs, given your propensity for dressing far above the station of a glorified chamber-boy."
Gwydion pricked up his ears at the sound of an unsheathing sword.
…"and if you believe yourself man enough to best me in personal combat, I will be more than happy to oblige you the opportunity—right here and right now."
"Ah, coward that you are, you would draw a sword on an unarmed man. We will see, harper…we will see. I look forward to the coming days…and to watching you crawl away from this castle with the skin flayed from your back, if you insist on overstaying your welcome."
Gwydion felt the tension in the air, and finally the sound of Fflewddur's laugh, and his sword returned to its sheath. "You are a lucky man today—a Fflam is a courteous guest—and I have too much respect for your king and queen to be running through one of their servants, as much as he richly deserves it. No, you will live another day…but watch your words, Steward. Even a Fflam has limits to his patience."
Gwydion heard the pop of Magg's cloak, and he appeared at the stall door with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
"Shoemaker, the King and Queen will see you now. Accompany me to the great hall."
Gwydion had been to Dinas Rhydnant once before many years ago, under very different circumstances. Then, he had been greeted by King Rhuddlum's War Leader and the Palace Guard, and was the guest of honor at a royal feast given in his—and Princess Angharad's—honor. The Princess of Llyr herself had accompanied him, before Llyr's fall, when the princeling Rhun was as yet unborn. The talk at the feast that evening had all been of the impending heir's arrival, and of the plans for the young Queen Teleria to travel to Llyr when the baby was due…the skills—let alone the enchantments—of Llyr were the best in Prydain to ensure a healthy childbirth.
There had been some talk too—with pointed glances at the Prince of Don and the Princess of Llyr from Rhuddlum, Teleria and others—of what a handsome couple they made. It had embarrassed the both of them—he had already known at that time that Angharad would never agree to such a match, much to his sorrow and disappointment.
She had worn a dress the color of almonds and the sea, and was adorned with all manner of maritime ornaments, in addition to her crescent silver pendant. She was as close to a vision of a goddess as one was likely to see in life.
Such a faraway time, the prince thought now to himself—it seemed like another world entirely. For a brief moment, he wondered if what had happened to Llyr would have come to pass, if Angharad had agreed to marry him. Every time he had attempted raise the subject, Angharad had quickly deflected and spoke of other things—hoping to spare him pain, he had realized later.
He quickly pushed such thoughts from his head. For one thing, Eilonwy would not be who she was…and he was not the only one, he knew, that would not want her any other way.
Today, he shuffled next to the Chief Steward as he made his long creeping strides through the Great Hall, and they were soon at the throne room, where the King and Queen were seated, surrounded by members of the court that he did not recognize.
"Ah! Chief Steward Magg! Here with the shoemaker, are you?" the king began. "Welcome to Mona and to Dinas Rhydnant, Master Shoemaker. So efficient, Magg—he never lets us miss out on anything of interest. Does he, my dear?" he nodded toward Queen Teleria.
"Indeed not!" spoke the exuberant queen. "Why, especially in the area of stylish and well-made clothing—my, it is difficult to make out your face, for the shadows of your hood—our steward Magg absolutely excels at bringing us the latest news, and the finest merchants."
Gwydion pulled back his hood a bit, and smiled at the matronly queen. "Apologies, my Lady, but my old eyes are a bit sensitive to such bright light," he said with a shaking voice. "I can see well enough to work, but still I must be careful with them."
"Oh, quite understandable—can we get you a staff? You seem a bit uncomfortable—and please do let us know how we can help you in any way. The King and I would both like a pair of your finest sandals, and Magg—Magg, where did you get to now? — has brought some quality leather, dyed in the colors of our house, that we would be pleased for you to use. How long do you plan to be on Mona, Master Shoemaker? We would be more than happy if you would stay on Mona permanently—especially given what we have already heard of your skills at your craft, both from Magg and others that saw you at work yesterday."
"You honor me, my Queen," Gwydion began, "but in all honesty, I am just passing through. I have much more of Prydain that I would like to see, before I am too old to amble about as I do now."
"Well, I can understand your desire to see the world, but do let us know if you change your mind—Magg? Oh there he is, the magician."
Magg had disappeared for a moment, and now reappeared next to him, carrying a bag of leather pieces. "All is ready, your majesties. Shoemaker, you may proceed."
Gwydion set to work, beginning with the queen. He cackled and told her old humorous tales, and made outlandish compliments to her beauty, as he measured her. She giggled girlishly, while the king looked on and laughed. After a taking a great deal of the morning making her a pair of new shoes as fine as any he had ever made, he turned his attention to Rhuddlum, and made him just as fine a pair of new sandals.
As he worked, the king and queen talked between themselves about the impending arrival of the young princess. They spoke of the sad circumstances that had made her an orphan, although they clearly knew very little of the details. They discussed her education, and how they could make it worthy of one with her unique heritage.
The royal couple then began to discuss their hopes that their son Prince Rhun and Princess Eilonwy should wed, when she came of age. From their point of view, it certainly did seem a logical match. Gwydion continued his work without outward undue notice of their conversation—but inwardly, the idea churned uncomfortably. From what he knew of possible futures, this was not one that he expected—or desired—to come to pass.
Just as Gwydion was finishing with the final outfitting of King Rhuddlum's sandals, there was a great deal of commotion coming from the direction of the courtyard, and a page burst into the throne room.
"Your majesties! The Prince has returned, with the Princess Eilonwy and her companions!"
