“Lord Derfel is,” Galahad said. lorweth rubbed his eyes tiredly. He was old, with a friendly, mild face and a bald head on which a ghost of a tonsure showed just above each ear. “I cannot help thinking,” he said, ‘that my brother Merlin expects too much of the Gods. He believes the world can be made anew and that history can be rubbed out like a line drawn in the mud. Yet it isn’t so.” He scratched at a louse in his beard, then looked at Galahad, who wore a cross about his neck. He shook his head. “I envy your Christian God. He is three and He is one, He is dead and He is alive, He is everywhere and He is nowhere, and He demands that you worship Him, but claims nothing else is worthy of worship. There’s room in those contradictions for a man to believe in anything or nothing, but not with our Gods. They are like kings, fickle and powerful, and if they want to forget us, they do. It doesn’t matter what we believe, only what they want. Our spells only work when the Gods permit. Merlin disagrees, of course. He thinks that if we shout loud enough we’ll get their attention, but what do you do to a child who shouts?”
“Give it attention?” I suggested.
“You hit it, Lord Derfel,” lorweth said. “You hit it until it is quiet. I fear Lord Merlin may shout too loud for too long.” He stood and picked up his staff. “I apologize that you cannot eat with the warriors tonight, but the Princess Helledd says you are very welcome to dine with her household.”
Helledd of Elmet was the wife of Cuneglas and her invitation was not necessarily a compliment. Indeed, the invitation could have been a measured insult devised by Gorfyddyd to imply that we were only fit to dine with women and children, but Galahad said we would be honoured to accept.
And there, in Helledd’s small hall, was Ceinwyn. I had wanted to see her again, I had wanted it ever since Galahad had first ventured the suggestion that he make an embassy to Powys, and that was why I had made such strenuous efforts to accompany him. I had not come to Caer Sws to make peace, but to see Ceinwyn’s face again, and now, in the flickering rushlight of Helledd’s hall, I saw her.
The years had not changed her. Her face was as sweet, her manner as demure, her hair as bright and her smile as lovely. When we entered the room she was fussing with a small child, trying to feed him scraps of apple. The child was Cuneglas’s son, Perddel. “I’ve told him if he won’t eat his apple then the horrid Dumnonians will take him away,” she said with a smile. “I think he must want to go with you, for he won’t eat a thing.”
Helledd of Elmet, Perddel’s mother, was a tall woman with a heavy jaw and pale eyes. She made us welcome, ordering a maidservant to pour us mead, then introduced us to two of her aunts, Tonwyn and Elsel, who looked at us resentfully. We had evidently interrupted a conversation they were relishing and the aunts’ sour glances suggested we should leave, but Helledd was more gracious. “Do you know the Princess Ceinwyn?” she asked us.
Galahad bowed to her, then squatted beside Perddel. He always liked children who, in turn, trusted him on sight. Before a moment had passed the two Princes were playing with the apple scraps as though they were foxes, with Perddel’s mouth the foxes’ den and Galahad’s fingers the hounds chasing the fox. The pieces of apple disappeared. “Why didn’t I think of that?” Ceinwyn asked.
“Because you weren’t raised by Galahad’s mother, Lady,” I said, ‘who doubtless fed him in the same way. To this day he can’t eat unless someone sounds a hunting horn.”
She laughed, then caught sight of the brooch I wore. She caught her breath, coloured, and for an instant I thought I had made a huge mistake. Then she smiled. “I should remember you, Lord Derfel?”
“No, Lady. I was very young.”