“I am a bard, Taliesin ap Elphin by name. This is my wife, Charis. We have journeyed from our people in the south with greetings to the lord of this place from one of his kinsmen.”
The man’s narrow eyes calculated the veracity of Taliesin’s tale; then he shrugged and said, “You are free to enter and to wait. Our lord is not here now. He is inspecting his fields and will not return until sunset.”
“Then show us to a water trough, friend,” said Taliesin, “where we may water our horse and wash the dust of the road from our skins.”
“There is a trough down there…” He pointed to the river. And then, taking Charis into account, he added, “Also, we have a bath. You may use it.” He turned at once and walked back into the hall.
After watering the horse and removing its saddle, Taliesin and Charis entered the house. They saw no one about but easily found their way to the bath. The air in the rectangular room was warm and moist and the colored tiles wet.
The bath was square with tall columns around its perimeter. On the floor was a large mosaic of red and white tesserae representing the four seasons as vestal virgins, one at each corner of the bath. Taliesin stripped off his clothes at once and stepped into the warm water. “Ahh!” he sighed. “When I am king, the first thing I will have in my palace is a bath.”
“You said that about the bed!” Charis replied. She removed her tunic but retained her shorter undershift, and slipped into the water at the opposite end of the bath from Taliesin, then swam to him. He met her in the center of the heated pool and embraced her; they swam languidly, allowing the warm water to dissolve the weariness of the road, talking quietly, their voices ringing in the vaulted room.
When they finished, they went out into the adjoining courtyard and lay down on the wide stone benches there to doze while the sun dried them. Taliesin awakened to Charis’ touch on his skin. He turned over and gazed up at her.
“My beautiful bard,” she said, stroking his chest with her fingertips. “These last days have been a dream-a dream of such happiness that I fear waking. Never leave me, Taliesin.”
“Lady of the Lake, I never will,” he said, cupping a hand to her face above him. They sat for a long time in the silent courtyard, talking low and laughing quietly.
That evening, at sundown, the lord of Maridunum returned with four of his chiefs. They came into the hall from the stables just as Taliesin and Charis entered from the courtyard, and without any announcement the entire house instantly came alive. People appeared as if conjured in full stride, scurrying from room to room, intent on sudden errands; a fire was lit in the great hearth and horns of wine produced. Girls in long, black braids hurried with basins of water to wash the hands and feet of the king and his chieftains, two of whom were his sons.
In the midst of this bustle the steward who had earlier met Taliesin and Charis appeared, followed by two other servants bearing a huge chair, carven and enameled red. The two placed the chair in the center of the hall, and the lord lowered himself regally into it. Other chairs, of meaner craft, were placed nearby for the others and the girls began their task of foot washing.
A dour man with a Belly like a four sack made his way across the floor, accompanied by a sallow-faced young man with a long iron-tipped rod. He walked with such puffed-up dignity that, save for his greasy brown robe, he might have been mistaken for the lord of the house. “The pagan priest from the temple mound and his catamite,” whispered Talie-sin. Charis noted the frankly disapproving look the priest gave them as he passed.
Then the gray-haired steward approached and, bending low, spoke quickly to the lord, who turned his eyes this way and that until he fixed on the two newcomers. The lord replied to the steward, who then came to where Tahesin and Charis were standing and said, “Lord Pendaran wishes to hear you sing. If he likes what he hears, you may stay. If not, you will go.”
“Fair enough,” replied Taliesin. “May I speak to him now?”
“As you choose.” The steward turned to withdraw.
“If you please, friend,” said Taliesin, reaching out to take hold of his sleeve, “do me the kindness of announcing me to your lord.”
Taking Charis by the arm, Taliesin followed the steward to where the lord sat, his bare feet in the lap of a maid laving water over them. “The bard Taliesin wishes to be announced,” said the steward.
Pendaran Gleddyvrudd, king of the Demetae, was a hump-shouldered man who sat on his carven chair with his sword across his knees and a scowl on his long, wrinkled face. He glared unhappily at Taliesin, and only slightly less unhappily at Charis, accepted wine from one of the boys bearing a jar, and grunted.
Taliesin inclined his head toward Pendaran and said, “I am Taliesin, Chief Bard to Elphin ap Gwyddno of Gwynedd.” The boy with the jar poured a cup for Taliesin and handed it to him. Taliesin thanked the boy and raised the wine to his lips, but at that moment Pendaran Gleddyvrudd raised up and knocked the cup from Taliesin’s hand. The cup clattered across the floor and the wine splattered onto the tiles at his feet, wetting his boots and trousers.
“Sing first,” growled Pendaran, and the four behind him convulsed in laughter, slapping their knees and pointing rudely at the singer. A chill of fear tingled in the pit of Charis’ stomach.
“Perhaps,” said Taliesin softly, his voice hard and even, “the name of Elphin means nothing here among the Deme-tae, but I have seen many a stranger made welcome under his roof and given the best place at his table out of simple respect. “
Pendaran scowled even more fiercely. “If our hospitality is not to your liking, beggar, take your trade elsewhere.”
Reaching into his jerkin, Taliesin brought out the letter Dafyd had given him. “I will go elsewhere,” he said offering the scrap of parchment, “but I promised to deliver this to you.”
The king looked at the letter as if it might turn into a snake and bite him if he reached for it. He nodded to his steward, who stepped forward and took the letter from Taliesin, opened it, and began reading aloud in Latin.
“Dafyd is a fool,” announced Lord Pendaran when his steward had finished.
“He spoke highly of you,” replied Taliesin.
Pendaran of the Red Sword snarled, “If you are not going to sing, then you might as well leave now. You are beginning to tax my generosity.”
“A most grievous hardship indeed for one who obviously has so little to spare,” replied Taliesin calmly.
The four chieftains behind the king gasped and fell silent. One of them rose from his seat. Pendaran raised his hand and the man sat down. “Sing, beggar,” he said. “Make it your best or it will surely be your last.”
Taliesin turned to Charis and held out his hands for the harp. “Let us leave,” she whispered tensely. “Please, there are others who will welcome us.”
“I have been asked to sing,” he said. “I feel like making gates swing open and gold shower down upon us.”
Taking the harp, he stepped to the center of the room and began strumming. The first clear notes of his harp were lost amidst the bustle of the hall, but he kept playing. Pendaran kept the scowl firmly affixed to his face and those behind him drank noisily.
When Taliesin opened his mouth to sing, the priest made a movement, stepping forward and striking the rod against the floor. “Lord Pendaran,” he called out, “this man calls himself a bard. I know something of these so-called derwydd holy men. Anyone can play a harp and call himself a bard. Allow me to prove him before he sings.”
The pagan priest came forward, wearing an oily smile. Pendaran Gleddyvrudd grinned maliciously and cocked a gleaming eye at Taliesin. “A point to ponder, Calpurnius,” the lord said, chuckling. “Very well, let him prove himself if he is able. Who knows? Perhaps he will earn a flogging for his impertinence. Either way we will be entertained.”