Taliesin accepted this without argument and rose to leave. “And another thing,” she said, “you have not sung in the hall since I took to my bed. I want you to begin singing again-it will do us both more good than sitting here.”
“ ‘What will you do with yourself, my soul?”
“I have my thoughts to keep me company,” Charis answered. “And I have been thinking of writing some things to keep if I…to keep for later.”
“Yes,” Taliesin agreed. “I will send Henwas to see if there is writing material hereabouts so that you can begin at once.”
A few days later the steward burst into Charis’ chamber with a thick roll of parchment under one arm and a pot of ink in his hand. “Lady,” he ducked his head as he came in, “forgive my intrusion. I have just this moment come from the market. Look what I have brought you!”
Charis took the parchment and unrolled a length in her hands. “Oh, Henwas, it is very fine. Where did you find it?”
“I sent to Caer Legionis thinking that the tribune there might have some in his stores. I was not wrong and as he owes my lord much for past service, he was happy to let me have it.”
“But it is so costly! I cannot accept it, Henwas.” She made to hand it back.
“It is yours, lady.” He placed the pot of ink on the table which had been set up beside the bed.
“What will your lord say?”
“Lord Pendaran,” Henwas sniffed, “defers to me in all matters concerning his house. He would want you to have it anyway. In fact, he is no doubt castigating himself at this moment for not anticipating this simple need.”
Charis laughed. “Thank you, Henwas. I am certain Lord Pendaran need never castigate himself as long as you look after his affairs.”
“It is ever my pleasure to serve you, lady.”
When Taliesin joined her later, she showed him the parchment and told him what she intended. “It is a story worth telling,” he said. “Will you tell me as you go?”
“No,” she said. “I have not the bard’s art. But tell me your life so that I can write it in my book as well.”
Taliesin distrusted the idea of writing that which had previously only been spoken; nevertheless, Charis prevailed and he began telling her of his life, including much he had been told by Rhonwyn and Hafgan. She set to work the next day with a pen Taliesin made for her, finding release from the bone-aching boredom of her captivity in committing words to the prepared skin.
So began a routine that was to continue through the long months of Charis’ confinement: upon rising she would break fast and write through the entire morning; Heilyn would bring her dinner and she and Taliesin ate and talked-sometimes about his life, sometimes about his vision of the Kingdom of Summer-describing the intimate details of his thoughts to her so that she began to know him almost as well as she knew herself. Charis rested through the warm afternoon, sometimes allowing her bed to be moved into the sun, with the merlin on its perch nearby. Supper found her once more inside, and when the rushlights and candles were kindled for the night the doors would be opened so Taliesin’s voice could come to her from the hall Below as he sang. Taliesin joined her for their night’s rest when he had finished in the hall and they would end the day as they had begun it-asleep in each other’s arms.
The days passed, and each one saw the parchment record grow-through autumn’s cool harvest and into the chill deeps of winter. Sometimes in the snail hours of the night Charis wakened to take up her pen again, writing to hold back the fear always clawing at the back of her mind. Taliesin rose with the first faint threads of daylight to find her wrapped in a soft white fleece, hunched over the parchment roll, her fingers stained with ink, scratching away furiously.
“You should sleep,” he told her.
She smiled sadly and said, “Sleep is no comfort to me, my love.”
She wrote through the too-short hours of thin daylight but more often by glowing candlelight, surrounded by coal-filled braziers. She wrote through the long empty winter nights, taking up her pen even as Taliesin took up his harp in the hall below. She wrote with his song drifting up to her like music from another world as time crawled slowly by.
One day near to the coming thaw of spring Charis felt the first pang of birth. Taliesin, sitting in the chair next to the bed, saw the wing of fear pass across her features. “What is it, my soul?”
She lay her head back against the wooden post of the bed, spreading her hands across her round Belly. “I think Heilyn should come now.”
The old midwife took one look at Charis and, pressing a hand to her stomach, said, “Pray to your god, girl-the birthing time has come.”
Charis took Taliesin’s hand and squeezed it hard. “I am afraid, Taliesin.”
He knelt beside her and stroked her hair. “Shhh, remember your vision-who was the woman carrying the child if it was not you?”
“There will be no men under my feet,” interrupted Heilyn. “Take yourself away from here-the farther away the better. And fetch Rhuna on your way. That will be more help to your lady wife than anything else you can contrive.”
Taliesin made no move, but Charis said, “Do as she says- only stay near so that you can hear your child’s first cry.”
“Go you now and bring Rhuna,” said Heilyn, pushing him toward the door.
The painful spasms established a regular rhythm, the muscles of her distended stomach contracting and subsiding for a time, only to begin contracting again. This continued through the morning, with Taliesin hovering in the doorway until at last Rhuna called for Eiddon to come and take the bard away.
“These things take time,” Eiddon told him. “Let us go hunting. It will do us both good to feel the cold wind on our faces.” Taliesin stared uncertainly at the chamber door, which had been closed against him. “Come on-we will return before anything happens.”
Taliesin agreed reluctantly and they left the birthing to the women. Bundling furs against the cold, they departed into the hills. The hunting was a dismal sham; Taliesin could not give himself to it and rode recklessly, scaring the game before they could come upon it. Eiddon cautioned him but did not greatly mind whether they caught anything or not, as long as it kept Taliesin occupied. Although they rode long, Eiddon made certain they were never out of sight of the villa’s hill.
At last, however, Taliesin reined up, saying, “I think it is time to go back.”
Eiddon put a hand on the bard’s shoulder. “You, my friend, never left.”
“I have been disagreeable?”
“Not disagreeable, but I have ridden with more companionable hounds.”
Taliesin turned his eyes toward the hill once more. “We will ride together another time, Maelwys Vawr. But my child is being born today and I must be there-although Heilyn holds out little enough hope.”
“If so, it is only because she has seen much, Taliesin,” Eiddon replied. “But we will go back now if you like.”
They rode back to the villa and Taliesin went directly to the chamber above the hall. Lord Pendaran and Henwas stood outside talking quietly to one another. Taliesin came and clasped the king by the hands. “There is no word yet,” Pendaran told him, answering the unasked question in Taliesin’s eyes. “But such is the nature of these things.”
“I have made everything ready that can be made ready,” said Henwas. “There is nothing to be done but wait.”
Evening came on, and the hearthfires were banked and can-dletrees brought to the chamber. When the door was open, Taliesin glimpsed his wife lying in the bed, Heilyn beside her holding her hands. He thought to go in, but as he watched, her face convulsed in agony. Charis cried out, thrashing her head from side to side. Rhuna stepped from the room with an armload of blood-soaked bedclothes, and the door was quickly closed again.
“Drink some wine,” offered Pendaran. “It will calm you.”