“Avallach is still against us then?”

Charis nodded. “He remains adamant. In time he may change, but I cannot wait that long. I have made my decision, Taliesin. I am yours if you still want me.”

Taliesin held her close for a long moment, then took her hand and walked back to the camp. “We must not stay here,” he said. “When they discover you gone, they will come looking for you. And we must not return to my people-that will be the first place they come.”

“Where will we go?”

Dafyd, who had climbed down from the saddle and stood looking on, spoke. “If you like, perhaps I can help.”

“Please, Dafyd, do you know a safe refuge for us?” asked Charis.

“Indeed,” said the priest. “As you know, my people come from Dyfed, across Mor Hafren.”

“We passed through Dyfed on our way here,” remarked Taliesin. “I remember the place.”

“Yes, of course. Well, to the north and west of the old fortress at Isca is a small settlement-formerly a garrison built to serve Caer Legionis.”

“And the settlement?”

“Maridunum,” replied Dafyd. “It is many years since the garrison was manned, but the walls still stand. And though the settlement is much diminished from former times, because of the road there is a lively market and the people are friendly and open-minded. I have kinsmen there.”

“I know the place,” said Taliesin. He turned to Charis. “I will not take you anywhere you do not wish to go. But if you are willing we will go to Maridunum and stay until Avallach is reconciled to our marriage.”

Charis said, “I have already said I will go with you. Henceforth, wherever you are is my home.”

“Then we will go.” Taliesin turned to Dafyd. “Will you perform the rites of marriage for us now? We would be wed before this day is through.”

“Why not? I will give you the rites now and do all I may to reconcile Avallach after.”

“Thank you, brother,” said Taliesin, grinning happily. “We are exiled now, my soul, but when we return it will be to feasts and celebration! That is my wedding promise to you.”

“There will be feasts and celebrations enough for us, Taliesin. I am content.”

So they were married in the shrine of the Savior God by the priest Dafyd, according to the Christian rites of marriage. And that same day they left Ynys Witrin, taking with them only Taliesin’s horse, Charis’ hawk, and a hastily-composed letter from Dafyd to deliver to one of the priest’s kinsmen who was the lord of Maridunum.

“Where will you spend the night?” asked Dafyd as they prepared to leave the shrine.

“In a splendid palace without walls or roof,” answered Taliesin, “in a bed as wide and deep as our love.”

“Go in peace, my friends,” said the priest, making the sign of the cross over them. “Know that I will not rest until harmony is restored between you and Avallach; I will go to him as soon as you are well away. I will also take word to Lord Elphin so your kinsmen will not worry after you.”

Charis leaned close and kissed the priest on the cheek. “Thank you, good friend. I hope to see you again soon.”

Taliesin climbed into the saddle and reached down to pull Charis up behind him. “Farewell, brother,” he called, and they turned the horse to the trail. Collen came running and presented the couple with a carefully-tied bundle which he handed up to Charis.

“A gift,” he explained as she accepted the bundle, “You will be hungry on your journey, but you may forget to think about food.”

Charis laughed. “Thank you, Collen. We are certain to be well fed now.”

“Farewell,” called the priests. “Jesu care for you, until we meet again.”

They ambled down the hill and across the stream and then turned to follow a track north through the wooded lowland along the river Briw to the shores of Mor Hafren. They rode happily, filled with the joy of life and love for each other. Sundown found them in a hidden hollow by the river, soft with deep turf and surrounded by a fortress of ancient oaks, whose great, gnarled trunks formed stout walls against the world beyond.

Taliesin unsaddled the horse and tethered it, and then set about finding firewood for the night. Charis spread their cloaks on the ground and brought water from the river in the waterskin, and then sat on a moss-grown rock to watch her husband make the fire. When the fire was burning brightly, Taliesin fetched his harp and began to sing, his voice filling the hollow and soaring heavenward.

He sang and twilight seeped into the sky, spreading over the land like a deepening stain. And it seemed to Charis that his music was born of nothing on earth but derived from a source much purer than the world yet knew. When Taliesin sang it was as if the living song, like some rare caged creature, was freed at last to return to its rightful place, a realm beyond the world of men, higher, finer, and more beautiful than men could know. She thought of the subtle sadness in his music, the merest hint of longing, a note of pain so delicate that it blended and deepened the joy without coloring or mating it-as if the act of freeing the song from its earthly prison brought sorrow as well as joy. This heightened rather than diminished the beauty of the music.

The first stars shone brightly as Taliesin’s song faded on the evening breeze; a nightingale took up the melody with its own liquid voice. Taliesin stilled the gently-humming strings and lay aside the harp, saying, “For you, my Lady of the Lake.”

“I could ask no finer gift,” replied Charis dreamily, “than to be allowed to listen to you forever.”

“Then I will sing for you always,” he said and leaned forward and kissed her. “Your kiss will ever be my awen. “ He gathered her into his arms and pulled her close.

Laying a finger to his lips, Charis said, “Stay, my love; I will return in a moment.” She rose and walked to the river just beyond the ring of oaks. Taliesin built up the fire and stretched himself on his cloak to watch the moon rise and the stars appear in the deep folds of the night. After a while he heard Charis humming softly and raised his head.

She came to him then, her simple tunic transformed in the twilight into a fine gown, and her hair, falling loosely about her shoulders, shining in the silver moonglow. She came silently across the soft grass to stand before him. “The only gift I have to give you, my love, is the gift of myself,” she said.

Taliesin reached for her hand and smiled. “Charis, my soul, in you my joy is made complete. I need nothing else.” And then he took her in his arms and they lay together on their cloaks beside the fire under a heaven alight with stars and a new-risen moon shining with a clear, pure light.

They loved each other then, giving themselves fully to the act of loving, consummating their marriage in the joy of shared pleasure: he, giving his warmth and tenderness; she, her strength and intensity; together, igniting a passion that blazed with a high and holy fire.

When nightingales in the trees above voiced their own unearthly songs to a night-dark world, husband and wife wrapped themselves in their cloaks and let sleep overtake them as they lay entwined in one another’s arms.