The Old Gods Endure

By G. R. Grove

In this fifth book of the "Storyteller" series, Gwernin Storyteller and his bardic student Llacheu travel through sixth century southwestern Britain with the famous bard Taliesin Ben Beirdd, visiting ancient sacred sites and learning their lore, before participating in three bardic competitions which may finally allow Gwernin to reach the coveted status of a Master Bard.

Along the way they both meet threats from their past, Gwernin discovers that some of the Old Gods of Britain are still present, and Taliesin shares some of his memories of his time as King Arthur's youngest bard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. R. Grove
• Release date: Oct 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201292331

Book preview

The Old Gods Endure

G. R. GROVE

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright ©2023 by G. R. Grove. All rights reserved.

Cover image copyright ©2023 by G. R. Grove. All rights reserved.

First Edition—November 1, 2023

Published by Smashwords.com

ISBN 9798201292331

OTHER TITLES BY G R GROVE:

The Storyteller Series:

Storyteller

Flight of the Hawk

The Ash Spear

The Fallen Stones

Storyteller Series Spin-off:

The King’s Druid

The Druid’s Son Series

The Druid’s Son

Mac Criomthann Tales

More Mac Criomthann Tales

Poetry:

10 Years A Bard: Poetry from the Current Middle Ages

Druid Songs: Poetry of Praise and Prayer for the Druid Kind

Songs of Wales: A Poetry Collection

Prologue

Blood and fire, gold and steel and poetry, a river’s voice in the silence of the night, and the shining strings of a harp—all these and more I have known in my time. Steep mountains, dark forests, and the endless song of the rain; music and laughter and feasting in the fire-bright halls of kings; a dusty road, and a fast horse, and a good friend beside me; and the sweet taste of the mead of Dun Eidyn, with its bitter aftermath: a dragon’s hoard of memories I have gathered, bright-colored as a long summer’s day. Now they are all gone, the men and women I knew when I was young, gone like words on the wind, and I am left here in the twilight to tell you their tale. Sit, then, and listen if you will to the words of Gwernin Kyuarwyd, called Storyteller…

So I began these tales, many seasons ago, and with them the story of my youth: how I as a lad, wishing to become a bard, traveled as a storyteller throughout the land of the Cymry, and there met the great bard Taliesin himself, who had served King Arthur before ever I was born; how he sent me to study with his own old Master Talhaearn in the green hills of western Powys, and how I won a wife there; how I later traveled with my friend Neirin through much of northern Britain, enduring many hardships and gaining much knowledge along the way; how I first went to war, and fell for a time into the brutal hands of the Saxons, from whom I barely escaped with my life; and lastly how I traveled through Ireland with Taliesin, and there learned much lore. Come with me now to those same green hills of Powys, in the land which the Saxons call Wales. Twelve years have passed since these tales began, during which time I had built a settled life for myself. Yet however quiet we bide, however rooted we may feel ourselves to be, time brings its changes to us all; and my peaceful life was about to come to an end once more…

Chapter 1—Llys-Tyn-Wynnan

I stood on the ridge above Llys-Tyn-Wynnan on a cold spring morning and waited for the sunrise. Beside me were my student Llacheu and my elder son Ieuan, called Ianto. Before me burned the small wood fire which we had lit earlier, and behind me at the foot of a tall gray standing stone lay the mound which covered my teacher Talhaearn’s grave.

Talhaearn had loved to sit here, perched high above the world like an eagle, with his face turned to the wind. It was three years now since he died, and his last words to me still rang clear in my memory. Remember me, Gwernin, he had whispered, at Trum Bach. At the time, I had no notion of what, or where, Trum Bach might be; now I can never forget it. Its Irish name is Drom Beg—Drom Beg stone circle, where I was initiated a few months later that year into the lowest level of Druid practices by Fráechán mac Tenusán, the Archdruid of Ireland, who was then also High King Díarmait mac Cerbaill’s King’s Druid. That was why we three were standing on the ridge that morning, awaiting the sunrise, in order to make an offering to the God Lugh.

I did not make formal offerings like this every morning, as I had done with Fráechán in Ireland, but only on the High Days—the Quarters and Cross-Quarters of the year. Most of the people in Prince Cyndrwyn mab Ermid’s llys below me were Christians, and although some eccentricities were permitted me as their Prince’s bard, I did not feel that regular Druid worship in their sight would have been approved. However, on the morning of the Spring Equinox, and at a suitably remote location, it seemed safe enough. Llacheu had been with me in Ireland as my servant, and was glad to join me in my offerings, although he had not been initiated there; but I had only recently begun to teach nine-year-old Ieuan the lore and language of the rite.

My concentration on the brightening sky to the east was broken when Llacheu said, There he is again. Startled, I looked up where he pointed, to see the broad wings of a big bird circling overhead. Not a hawk, I thought, not a red kite, but an eagle—the great sea eagle whose wings span more than the reach of a tall man’s arms. I had seen those birds before, but only near the coast; they did not often come this far inland.

I looked again to the east, where the first bright rim of the sun was just emerging from the dark hills. Pouring my offering of mead into the edge of our small fire, I began the dawn hymn—a song in the Old Speech, neither British nor Irish, but bridging the two tongues, as Fráechán had told me and taught me—and as the sweet steam rose from the fire, and the other two joined their voices with mine, I felt the light of the rising sun warm on my face as a blessing from the God.

Then the brief moment was over. Looking up again, I saw the eagle still circling above us, the early sunlight bright on his dark outstretched wings, his white tail and head. This was the third time he had visited our morning rituals, and watching him, I frowned. It was over nine years now since I had last seen Gwydion mab Dôn, the shape-shifting magician and demigod of North Wales, whose favorite form it was for travel; twelve years, since I had first met him, and by doing him a favor, had released him from his magical imprisonment, to sometimes do me favors in return. It was long since I had even thought of him—but it might not have seemed long to him.

Abruptly I said to Llacheu, Go on down now, and take Ieuan with you. I will stay here a little longer, and perhaps meditate on something Fráechán once told me.

As you wish, Master, said Llacheu with a smile, his dark red hair bright in the early sunlight, and to Ieuan, Come along, Ianto—I want my breakfast, and I am sure you do as well. Ieuan looked at me, and I nodded.

Go along, bantling, I said to him. I should not be long.

"I will, Tad," he said smiling, and followed Llacheu down through the wind-twisted oaks which clothed the sides of the ridge.

Once they were gone, I stood thinking for a bit. I remembered now telling Fráechán about my meetings with Gwydion during my Druidical instruction. I cannot see myself pouring a dawn offering to him, I had said, as we have been doing to Lugh.

Fráechán had grinned, his dark eyes amused under their graying brows. You might try it sometime, he had said. The results might surprise you both. I was not sure now what possibilities he had foreseen, whether for good or ill. But the eagle was still circling overhead, the fire was still burning before me, and the leather sack of mead from which I had poured my dawn offering was not entirely empty…

May Lugh protect me, I said softly. Gwydion, if you hear me, I offer to you now. And stepping forward to the fire, I poured the last of the mead into its flames, quenching them. Above me, the eagle tilted its wings as if in acknowledgement, and started to descend.

He came toward me this time, not in a hunting dive as he had once done on Ynys Môn, but still his approach was frightening in its speed and power. At the last moment, his wings went up in the braking movement which comes at the end of the dive, dark feathers splayed by the wind of his passage, fierce talons stretched forward to seize and rend, and sharp yellow beak parted a little in anticipation. Then, as he seemed about to reach the ground, the whole shape of the bird wavered and changed and became a man, standing in front of me on the far side of my fire, arms outstretched in a dark cloak, knees a little flexed as if he had just dropped from the heavens. His hair was as black as the raven’s wing, his eyes as green as springtime, and his smile was the eagle’s smile on a human face, cruel and pitiless and full of hunger.

Good morning to you, Lord, I said, with more assurance than I felt. It is a while and a while since I saw you last.

Well met, Gwernin, said Gwydion, dropping his arms to his sides and standing erect, the heavy folds of his cloak swinging closed around him. It is good to see you thinking of me again. You have traveled far since we last met, and learned new ways—or rather, old ones. And he looked at the smoldering embers between us, his eyes narrowing in an amusement which wiped the eagle’s smile from his face.

As you say, Lord, I said, and ventured to smile back at him. I have been in Ériu, and learned them there from a Druid. But I think that something brought you here before I poured my offering to you.

The scent of magic, said Gwydion, grinning. Even in Gwynedd it reached me. There are few offerings made here anymore to the Old Gods of the land, of whose stock I come.

Are you, then, not one of them? I asked, and remembered too late Gwydion’s reaction to questions, but he only grinned again.

I see you have not lost your curiosity, Gwernin, he said. What would you be giving me for an answer?

Another offering, perhaps? I said, greatly daring. In addition to the one I poured already? Gwydion laughed.

I will take that one, he said, as a payment for your question. Where did you get that idea anyway, to pour offerings to me as if I were a God?

From that same Druid, I said, smiling at the memory. I started to say Fráechán’s name, and then paused, remembering that names also are magical. Reading my thoughts, Gwydion nodded.

Yes, he said. Do not name him to me unless you need to. Sit down, and let us talk. And he sank down lightly himself, cross-legged on the stony ground, and I followed his example. That is good, he said approvingly, pushing back the dark hair from his lean brown face with sinewy, long-fingered hands. Now, about your question… He was silent for a moment, frowning, his green eyes bent on the cooling embers between us from which a little steam still rose. Then he looked up at me and sighed. I am not one of the Oldest, he said. I have not the powers they had, to make or to destroy a world. The One to Whom you first offered this morning is one of them, but it is long now since He was so honored in this land. Some of my magic you have seen, Gwernin. It is greater, perhaps, than that which your Druid owns, but nothing compared with Lugh’s, in the days when He walked among us. I tell you this in thanks for your offering—and, I think, as a warning: be careful what you attempt as you travel this year. Some of the Old Gods still remain in this land, and they are not all as friendly as I am! And standing up, he stretched out his arms, spreading out his dark cloak, and was an eagle again, leaping with powerful wing-beats into the morning air, and then gone.

I stood up more slowly, and started back down the ridge toward the llys, thinking about Gwydion’s last words. It was true I had had thoughts of summer travels, although I had shared them with no one yet—least of all my wife, who as usual would not be pleased.

When I had returned, two years and more ago, from my travels in Ireland with Taliesin Ben Beirdd—the most famous bard in Britain, whose student I had once been for a few splendid months—he had suggested to me that I might think of competing in the bardic competitions which would be held the following summer, in an attempt to gain the status of a Master Bard. It is only by winning such a contest that one becomes a Master, able to wear a silver circlet like his, and to expect rich rewards for one’s songs of praise from kings and princes. I had not found the time for the travel which would be required either in that following summer or the next, between the demands of my Prince Cyndrwyn and the needs of my wife; but the old restlessness was on me again, and I wondered if Taliesin could help me in that endeavor, as he had said he might. At this season, he should still be at Pengwern, a day’s ride to the east, where he wintered with his patron Cynan Garwyn, the Prince of Eastern Powys. Cyndrwyn would probably spare me for a few days if I left Llacheu to entertain in my place, which he could well do by now. My wife Rhiannedd, however, might be more difficult to persuade.

I found her in her mother Gwawr’s hut as usual, although she had not yet started her day’s work on any of the herbal preparations she mixed there. Instead she was seated on a bench with our second son, two-year-old Brân, whom she was still nursing sometimes. They made a pretty picture, I thought, with her head bent over the child, whose hair was as straight and as dark as hers. I had paused in the doorway, but the draft from my opening of the leather door curtain made her look up, and seeing me, she smiled. The lamplight threw shadows on her thin face, marking out the laughter lines around her blue eyes and sweet mouth, but hiding the few silver hairs I had noticed lately at her temples. Bearing three children—one of them little Gwenllian, who had died of fever three years ago—had left their mark.

I saw Llacheu in the hall, she said, and he said you had stayed behind to meditate on—something Druidic, I think?

I did, I said, smiling back at her. But it did not take long. Where is Ianto?

He was with Llacheu, but by now, who knows? Have you eaten yet?

Not yet, I said. Have you?

Yes, earlier, she said. And to the child, There, there, baby, you have had enough. Putting him down, she pulled up her dress to cover her breast. I will stay here with him this morning—I have work to do. Do you go now and eat—I will see you later.

As she stood up, I gave her a brief hug and kissed her. You should stop nursing him soon, I said.

I will, she said. But there is no hurry.

No, I said, there is not. I knew what she meant; as long as she nursed Brân, she was less likely to become pregnant again. And she was no longer eager to bear more children; Brân’s birth had been hard on her.

I found Ianto in the feast hall as I had expected, listening to one of Llacheu’s stories. There were only a few people there, still lingering over their food, but a young woman brought me bread and cold meat from the kitchen, along with a cup of small beer. Sitting down near my student and my son, I found myself listening to one of Llacheu’s Irish tales of Cúchulainn, told now in our British tongue. Yes, I thought, he could very well keep the household entertained for a few days in my absence. And I had my excuse ready—a visit to my elderly aunt and uncle, who lived near Pengwern…

Cyndrwyn mab Ermid, Prince of western Powys, was a tall, well-built man in his early prime, easy-going and good to look upon, with bright chestnut highlights in his short brown hair and beard. I found him that morning outside the stables, looking over a young horse which had just been brought in from the hill pastures. The colt was a two-year-old gelding, very shaggy in his dark winter coat, but with a bright eye. One of the stablemen was leading him back and forth to show his action under the Prince’s critical eye. After a bit, Cyndrwyn nodded. Yes, he said, he is coming along well. You can take him back out to the paddock now. We will discuss his training later.

For packing or riding? I asked, coming forward. Cyndrwyn turned to me smiling.

As a pack pony, at first, he said. "Perhaps we will break him to the saddle later. I could stand to have a few more remounts for my teulu."

I nodded. Do you have much travel planned for this summer?

Only the usual circuit, said Cyndrwyn. Why? I hope you are not planning to be off to Ireland again!

Not I, I said, and laughed. I was thinking, though, of leaving for a few days soon to visit my aunt and uncle. I can leave Llacheu here to take my place in hall.

Hmm, said Cyndrwyn, a glint of humor in his blue eyes. I think I have heard that tale before. Where do they live?

Near Pengwern, I said blandly, close beside the Severn. Cyndrwyn chuckled.

Would that be your only visit? he asked. I grinned.

Not quite, I said. The Prince nodded.

You have my permission to be absent for a few days, he said. Then, as I turned away, he added, Greet Taliesin for me when you see him, and remind him that he is always welcome here—as long as he does not try to steal you again!

I will, I said, and laughed.

No more than Prince Cyndrwyn, did Rhiannedd believe my story. This is a new thing, she said. How long is it since you have seen them?

Three or four years, I think, I said. Although I have had news of them now and then from travelers, as they will have had of me. All the more reason that I should go to see them now, before the Prince sets off on his yearly circuit and wants me along.

And how long will you be gone? she asked, looking down at the pot she was stirring on the brazier, which filled the room with its aromatic steam.

A day there, a day back, and three days, perhaps, to visit, I said. You will hardly have time to miss me. Rhiannedd sighed.

I have heard that story before, love, she said. Well, take them my blessings. And do not stay away too long.

I will not, I said, and kissed her, avoiding her stirring spoon with practiced care.

When will you be for going? she asked. I will need to pack your gear.

Is tomorrow too soon? I asked, smiling.

Rhiannedd sighed. I will have it ready for you in the morning. Now go on, love, before you make me spill this decoction. I grinned, and went.

The next morning was cloudy, with the threat of rain, which was not uncommon at this season; but having got my permissions, I set off regardless. I took no pack pony with me, merely two changes of clothes and a few odds and ends in my saddlebags, and my harp in her waxed leather case on my shoulder under my leather rain cape. It gave me a rather hunchbacked appearance, but her protection was more important than my looks.

Llacheu was, I think, rather pleased to be left to entertain the court in my place, freed from my critical eye. He was by no means a poet yet, although he was working hard at the bardic measures; but he had a good fund of stories, and a good voice with which to tell them. He would be eighteen in the summer, I thought, and had lost much of the Pictish accent he had had when I first met him. He would be hearing Ieuan’s daily lessons while I was gone as well, and often treated my elder son as a younger brother.

Pengwern sits on a knob of rock in a broad plain, encircled on three sides by a loop of the Severn River, and has been a strong place time out of mind. The dark, cold day was drawing to a close before I reached it, and the on-and-off drizzle was growing heavier. Glad I was to see the lights of Prince Cynan’s llys ahead of me, and know that I was reaching the end of that day’s journey. The gate guards let me through without trouble, and I made my remembered way to the stables, where I left my gray pony. One of the stable lads followed me to the guesthouse with my gear, where I changed into drier clothes and left my harp. Then I set out, not toward the feast hall as I usually would have, but toward Taliesin’s own small house, which stood against the wall of the compound close by the Prince’s quarters.

Taliesin’s house had a red-painted door and two actual glazed windows—a rare and precious luxury. Cynan Garwyn had caused it to be built for him some years ago when Taliesin first took up residence at his court, and had the precious glass brought all the way from Gaul. It was worth, if not a king’s ransom, at least a high-born warrior’s honor price, and showed most clearly the value which the Prince placed on his bard, on whom he had showered many other gifts as well. Taliesin had repaid him well with praise songs; and if he often set off on his own travels during the summer, Cynan did not dare to object, knowing that any king or prince in Britain would be glad to offer his bard an alternate home.

Although the heavy clouds had stolen much of the light from the evening sky, it was not yet full dark. I saw yellow lamplight spilling out of the unshuttered windows of the house and shining on the wet ground outside before I reached it, suggesting that Taliesin and his student Mael had not yet gone to the hall. I could not see anyone through the cloudy glass of the windows, but I tapped on the door. There was no answer at first, but hearing the sound of a harp being tuned, I tapped again. I heard Taliesin’s voice and the sound of footsteps; then the door opened, letting out warmth and sweet-smelling smoke from a brazier, and I was invited inside by Mael, Taliesin’s seventeen-year-old apprentice.

Taliesin himself was seated on a padded stool, the harp he had been tuning still in his hands, but seeing me he smiled and stood up, laying it down on the polished wooden table beside him. Welcome, Gwernin, he said, his dark blue eyes smiling. Did you have a wet ride?

It was not too bad, I said, noticing the new streaks of silver in his short-clipped beard and dark hair. In the two years and more since I had seen him last, little else about him seemed to have changed. Mael, however, had shot up a hand’s breadth at least, and now was taller than either of us.

Without being told, the lad had filled a silver cup with wine, and offered it to me. Drink and be welcome, Gwernin, in our house, he said.

A blessing on the house, and those who dwell herein, I said, and drank. The wine was dark and rich and sweet, summer-memories’ savor from some distant southern land. I finished the cup and handed it back to Mael.

A good vintage, said Taliesin, smiling, which Cynan shares with me. I am afraid that you will get nothing so good in the feast hall tonight! But tell me now, to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit? Is all well at Llys-Tyn-Wynnan?

All is well there, Master, I said. But…

Give him your stool, Mael, said Taliesin. There is no hurry, Gwernin. We will not be going to the hall for a little while yet. Sit down, and unwrap your tale—for I know you have one.

Smiling, I sat down, looking around the familiar room as I did so. In the years since I had last been there, little seemed to have changed. The brazier with its small fire sat in one corner as before, a basket of split wood beside it, and the two bright loom-worked woolen curtains at each end of the room hid the sleeping rooms behind them. The hanging lamp, I thought, was new, and also the shelf on the wall beside it, full of tightly-rolled scrolls and stacked wax tablets. The stone-flagged floor was freshly swept, and all the room was neat and clean and comfortable, with the indefinable stamp of its owner’s personality.

Taliesin was watching me patiently, seated again on his stool with his lean hands resting on his knees, his eyes a little narrowed in amusement. Here in his home, relaxed and private, he seemed a quiet and harmless man, and yet I knew that he was not; I had seen him set a hall of weary men ablaze with his song, or stop a charging war-host in full flight with a shouted word. I had known him on and off for almost half my life; it was he who had first sent me to study with my old teacher Talhaearn, who had been like a father to me. But if Talhaearn had taught me, it was Taliesin who had shaped me, and Taliesin who had made me a bard.

What are your plans for this summer, Master? I asked, my thoughts coming back to the present. Taliesin smiled.

I thought of traveling through Dyfed and Gwent with Mael, he said. Also, perhaps, going as far south as the Summer Country, and even to Dumnonia beyond it. I need to see how the people in that area are holding out against the Saxon advance. Why? Are you hoping to escape from your position with your Prince—and your family—for a while?

I had thought of it, I said frankly, if I can find a way to reconcile both of them to my absence. I hoped that perhaps you could help me.

Taliesin grinned. I did make that suggestion, did I not, when we returned from Ireland? Well, let me think on it for a day or two. Do I take it that you at last feel ready to stand in bardic contentions, in hopes of winning a crown?

Yes, I said. I do.

Sing in the hall here tomorrow night, said Taliesin. Then I will decide.

Decide? I asked. Taliesin’s gaze went to Mael, who was leaning against the wall behind me.

I will tell you tomorrow, after you sing, he said. But now, I think perhaps it is time that we all went to the hall.

Chapter 2—Pengwern

I had intended to ride out and visit my aunt and uncle the next morning, but Taliesin’s challenge kept me busy at composition instead. Over the last few years, I had made many praise songs, most of them for my Prince. Now I had to sing for Cynan Garwyn, of whom I knew fewer details, either of his nature or of his achievements, and I had little time in which to research the matter. I had seen him the previous night in hall—a tall, sturdy, tough-looking man now entering his middle years. His black hair and beard were generously laced with gray, and his dark eyes looked out suspiciously from a lined brown face which bore an old scar on its left cheek. I remembered that Taliesin had once described him as a generous patron to his friends, and a deadly threat to his neighbors. I decided to concentrate on the first characteristic, with a few words about his prowess in battle as well.

As the guest house was comfortable enough, and I was its only tenant, I settled there after breakfast. Stretched out on my bed, I considered the structure of my song. It should not be too long, but not too short either; six or perhaps seven stanzas seemed right. There was also the question of accompaniment. I was by now fairly adept at harping along with my singing, although it would be easier if someone else played—especially with a new piece! Perhaps I could ask Mael to do so? No, I decided reluctantly; if this was a test, it would be better to do both things myself—as I might have to, when I stood in contest. But my friend Neirin had won his crown with his voice alone… I took my mind from this question and set it to composition. I could decide about accompaniment once I had a song.

By midafternoon I had one with which I was reasonably satisfied. Then it was time to try it with harp chords. I had skipped the midday meal, not wanting to lose my fragile collection of words before they were settled, but as suppertime approached my empty belly began to remind me of this omission. Well, it would have to wait. My bardic success was more important.

First tying back my shoulder length brown hair with a thong at my neck, I dressed carefully in the better tunic I had brought with me—a dark red woolen one that Rhiannedd had made for me the previous year, enriched at neck and cuffs and hem with narrow-worked bands of yellow and blue—and pulled on my soft leather boots, which a servant had cleaned for me during the afternoon. The bronze fittings on my belt and knife sheath and pouch had been thoroughly polished by Llacheu before I left home, and gleamed like red gold against the dark leather. I wished for rings or necklaces to complete my dress, but had none. Perhaps, if I could win my Master’s status, that would change.

I had sung for Cynan Garwyn once or twice when I passed through Pengwern as Taliesin’s student ten years ago, but not since then. The night before in the hall, I had sat and watched Mael sing, and later harp for his Master. He was coming on very well with his bardic measures, and as his father was a harper, he would have got a much earlier start as an instrumentalist than I had. Certainly he was already a better player now than I, ten years his senior.

I found myself early in the hall. Neither Taliesin and Mael nor the Prince were yet there, although a few people had gathered already. The big room was warm and smoky from its central fires, and smelled as well of spilt ale, the scent rising stalely from the winter’s old rushes; but as yet there were no fresh food odors, since the kitchens, as usual, were in a separate building to keep the hall safe from fire. Despite my long experience in performance, I found myself a little nervous—more because of Taliesin’s impending judgement than because of the Prince.

Opening my harp case, I took out my harp to check the tuning yet again. This was not the small harp which Taliesin had given me after he first sent me to Talhaearn, but Talhaearn’s own many-stringed beauty which had come to me on his death. She had gone with me to Ireland, where I had played her sometimes to accompany Taliesin’s singing, and on one memorable evening to accompany Fráechán’s as well. A wise man, a brave man, and a kind man, he was, who had set his own mark on me in the short time we were together as firmly as either of my earlier teachers. I wondered how things were for him now, with King Díarmait’s hand perhaps against him since he resigned his post as the King’s Druid, as he had told us that he intended to do; but the Irish Sea was wide, and I was not likely to hear anything of his fate. Sighing, I turned my attention firmly back to my present task—my readiness to perform tonight.

Soon Taliesin and Mael came in and joined me. They were both well dressed, if not excessively so; Taliesin in his usual dark blue hall robe, and Mael in a bright blue tunic which almost matched his eyes. They greeted me cheerfully, and Taliesin asked with a smile if I was ready.

I am, I said firmly, and his smile widened.

That is good hearing, he said. I will tell the steward that it is you who will perform tonight. What have you planned?

A song, as you requested, I said. Followed later by a story, if the Prince wishes it. Taliesin nodded.

Good enough, he said; and the steward coming up to speak to him then, he explained the program.

Kitchen girls were coming in now with wooden cups and pitchers of foaming brown ale. I let one fill my cup, but drank only enough to wet my mouth; I needed to be sober tonight. So focused was I on what was about to happen, that I did not even notice whether she was pretty or plain—an unusual state of affairs for me in those days!

The hall was filling up now, and in a little while the Prince came in. I saw the steward go and speak with him, and he nodded. Then servants began to bring in bowls and platters of food, and I stood up. The steward beckoned me, and carrying my harp, I walked toward the front of the hall and stopped before the Prince, who was dressed that evening in a fine-combed robe of red and gold checkers, with bands of gold silk at his wrists and throat.

He looked me over thoughtfully. So, he said after a moment, you are one of Taliesin’s former students, and wish to perform for me? Tell me your name.

My name is Gwernin mab Ynyr mab Hywel, called Gwernin Storyteller, I said. "I serve now as household bard to your cousin Cyndrwyn mab Ermid, but I got my birthing at Viroconium in your country, and my raising not far outside this llys, on the farm of my uncle Belen mab Rhys."

Cynan’s dark eyebrows rose. A local boy, then, but one who has traveled! And what are you for performing tonight?

A song of praise, Lord, if it pleases you, I said. Cynan nodded.

Sing, then, he said, lifting his silver cup of mead to drink. I took my performer’s stance before the hall, where conversation had dropped with the arrival of the food, and first strumming a chord on my harp, I began my song in the half-speaking, half-chanting style of the bards.

"A fountain of gold,

A flowing stream

Of wealth and good gifts

Is Cynan!

He gives to his folk

Sweet peace in their land—

Protector of all

Is Cynan!

Famous through Britain,

His strength battle-wise—

Frightener of foes

Is Cynan!

His warband bold

Leaves a spoor blood-red,

Taking gold and goods

For Cynan!

Here in his hall

He feasts his true friends—

Cry out, O warriors,

For Cynan!

All lands know his fame—

As I stand in his hall

I gladly sing praise

For Cynan!

A fountain of gold,

A flowing stream

Of wealth and good gifts

Is Cynan!"

I ended with a crashing chord on my harp, followed by yells and beating of cups on tabletops from my audience.