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.”
The priest Calpurnius planted himself before Taliesin. Those in the hall stopped what they were doing to watch this confrontation, and others crowded in to see what would happen. Charis, her hands pressed together, lips drawn tight against teeth, scanned the hall quickly for a clear exit if they should have to make a retreat. She saw that the doorways were now filled with men bearing swords and Loar lances. “Be careful, Taliesin,” she whispered. “Please be careful.”
He gave her a little smile and said, “These men suffer from lack of common courtesy. Worry not-though the cure is painful, it is rarely fatal.” With that he turned and met the priest before Lord Pendaran’s chair.
With a careless smirk the priest said, “Tell us, if you can, the qualities of the nine bodily humors.”
“You take unfair advantage, friend,” replied Taliesin. “Druid wisdom does not embrace such hollow falsehood.”
The pagan priest cackled. “A man deems false what he does not know. I see you are uninformed. But no matter-tell us the proper sacrifice to restore virility in the male and fecundity in the female, and to which god it is made.”
“There is but one true God, and a true bard makes no sacrifice for that which can be cured by simple herbs.”
“Herbs!” the pagan hooted; his sallow-faced companion giggled hysterically. “Oh, come now. You can do better than that. No doubt a true bard would find it easier to sing the malady away.”
“And perhaps,” replied Taliesin coolly, “you would do well to refrain from uttering nonsense in the presence of one at whose feet you should bow in all humility.”
Calpurnius grabbed his Belly and shook with laughter. “Call yourself a bard, call yourself whatever you like, you are a liar all the same.” He turned to his master. “Lord Pendaran,” he said, the forced mirth going out of his voice, “this man is a liar and that is bad enough. Worse, he is a blasphemer!” He pointed an accusing finger at Taliesin, who stood calmly unconcerned. “Send him away!”
Pendaran Gleddyvrudd gripped the sword in his lap and his eyes gleamed wickedly. “So you are discovered. You will be flogged and driven out.” He glanced at Charis and licked his lips. “But your lady will stay.”
“If a man can be flogged from your court for speaking the truth,” said Taliesin, “then I think you have listened long enough to this false priest.”
Calpurnius drew himself up and slammed the rod against the stones. “You dare insult me?” He motioned to one of the men behind Pendaran, who rose, drawing his dagger from a sheath at his side. “I will have your tongue, beggar!”
“Not before I have yours, son of lies.” So saying Taliesin looked the priest square in the eye and placed his finger against his lips and made a silly, childish noise: “Blewrm, blewrm, blewrm.” Many of those looking on laughed.
“Silence!” shouted Pendaran.
Calpurnius, his face livid, held out his hand. Pendaran’s man, grinning viciously at Taliesin, placed the dagger in the priest’s upraised palm. He took a step toward Taliesin and opened his mouth to command the bard to be seized. “Hleed ramo felsk!”
Those looking on exchanged puzzled glances. “Hleed ramo felsk!” shouted the pagan priest again. “Mlur, rekka no-rimst. Enob felsk! Enob felsk!”
Pendaran stared in wonder. The priest’s catamite giggled out loud and others laughed behind their hands. “What has happened?” said Lord Pendaran. “Your speech is changed.”
“Norl? Blet dhurmb, emas veamn oglo moop,” replied the priest, beginning to sweat. He looked at Taliesin and his eyes went wide. “Hleed, enob. Felsk enob.”
Those looking on roared with laughter. The priest dropped the dagger and clamped his hand to his mouth in terror. “You may have to learn to speak like a man again,” Taliesin told him. “But at least you still have a tongue to do it, which is more than you would have left me.”
Calpurnius gave a shriek and scurried away, dragging his boy with him. Pendaran watched them go and then faced Taliesin, eyeing him with new respect. “That fool of a priest may have forgotten what he was about, but I have not. Sing, beggar, if you value that tongue of yours.”
Taliesin strummed his harp again and every eye was on him. At first it seemed as if his voice would be swallowed in the cold emptiness of the hall. But Taliesin’s voice grew to fill the hall with living sound.