CHAPTER 33
Coed Cadw
The damage was done. In a single ill-advised, ignorant stroke, Bran had dashed Angharad's carefully considered design for defeating the Ffreinc invaders and driving them from Elfael. In a mad, impulsive rush he had destroyed months of subtle labour and, she could well imagine, stirred the ire of the enemy to white-hot vengeance. For this and much else, the hudolion blamed Bran-but, more, she blamed herself. Angharad had allowed herself to believe that she had weaned Bran away from that unreasoning rage that he had possessed when she first met him, that she had at long last extinguished the all-consuming fire of an anger that, like the awen of the legendary champions of old, caused the lord of Elfael to forget himself, plunging him into the bloodred flames of battle madness-a worthy attribute for a warrior, perhaps, but unhelpful in a king. No mistake, it was a king she wanted for Elfael, not merely another warrior.
Alas, there was nothing for it now but to pick up the pieces and see if anything could be salvaged from the wreckage of that disastrous attempt to capture the sheriff.
What she had seen in the cave while testing the onrushing stream of time and events had caused her to return to Cel Craidd with as much haste as she could command. Her old bones could not move with anything near their former speed, and she had arrived too late to prevent Bran from acting on his ludicrous scheme. The small warband had already departed for Saint Martin's, and the die was cast.
The wise hudolion was waiting when the raiders returned. Dressed in her Bird Spirit cloak, she stood beneath the Council Oak and greeted them when they returned. "All hail, Great King," she crowed, "the people of Elfael can enjoy their peace this night because you have gained for them a mighty victory over the Ffreinc." As the rest of the forest tribe gathered, she said, "I see a riderless horse. Where is Will Scarlet?"
"Captured," Bran muttered. There was a stifled cry from the crowd, and Noin rushed away from the gathering.
"Captured, is he?" the hudolion cooed. "Oh, that is a fine thing indeed. Was that in your plan, Wise King?"
Heartsick over his failure, he knew full well that he had made a grave and terrible mistake and was not of a mood to endure her mockery-deserved as it might be. "Silence, woman! I will not hear it. We will speak of this tomorrow."
"Yes," she croaked, "the rising sun will make all things new, and the deeds done in darkness will vanish like the shadows."
"You go too far!" Bran growled. Weary, and grieving the loss of Will, he wanted nothing more than to slink away to his hut and, like the beaten hound he was, lick his wounds. "See here," he said, pointing to Gwion Bach as Siarles eased the lad down from his mount. "We rescued the boy from the Ffreinc. They would have killed him."
"Oh? Indeed?" she queried, her eyes alight with anger. "Has it not yet occurred to you that the boy was caught only because he was following you?"
Bran drew breath to reply but, realizing she was right, closed his mouth again and turned away from her scorn.
When Bran did not answer, the old woman said, "Too late you show wisdom, O King. Too late for Will Scarlet. Go now to your rest, and before you sleep, pray for the man whose trust you have betrayed this night. Pray God to keep him and uphold him in the midst of his enemies."
That is exactly what Bran did. Miserable in his failure, he prayed the comfort of Christ for Will Scarlet, that the All-sustaining Spirit would keep his friend safe until he could be rescued or redeemed.
The next morning, Lord Bran gathered the Grellon and formally confessed his failure: they had not succeeded in taking the sheriff, and Will Scarlet had been captured instead. Noin, who already knew the worst, did not join the others, but remained in her hut taking consolation with Merian. Bran went to her to beg forgiveness and offer reassurance. "We will not rest until we have secured Will's release," he promised.
Angharad soon learned of the vow and cautioned, "The sentiment is noble, but word and deed are not one. It will be long ere this vow is fulfilled."
"Why?" he asked. "What do you know?"
"Only that wishing does not make doing easier, my impetuous lord. If our Will is to be rescued, then you must become wiser than the wisest serpent."
"What does that mean?"
By way of reply, Angharad simply said, "I will tell you tonight. When the sun begins to set, summon the Grellon to council."
So as twilight claimed the forest stronghold, the men stoked the fire in the fire ring, and the people of Cel Craidd gathered once more to hear what their wise banfaith had to say.
As Angharad took up her harp, the children crowded close around her feet, but their elders, apprehensive and fearful now, did not join them in their youthful eagerness. Will's fate cast a pall over everyone old enough to understand the likely outcome of his capture, and every thought was on the captive this night.
Looking out upon her audience, Angharad saw the faces grim in the reflected fire glow; and they seemed to her in this moment not faces at all, but empty vessels into which she would pour the elixir of the song which was more than a song. They would hear and, God willing, the story would work in their hearts and minds to produce its rare healing fruit.
As silence descended over the beleaguered group, she began to strum the harp strings, letting the notes linger and shimmer in the air, casting lines of sound into the gathering darkness-lines by which she would ensnare the souls of her listeners and draw them into the story realm where they could be shaped and changed. When at last she judged the fortuitous moment had arrived, she began.
"After the Battle of the Cauldron, when the men of Britain conquered the men of Ireland," she began, her voice quavering slightly, but gathering strength as she sang, "the head of Bran the Blessed was carried back to the Island of the Mighty and safely buried on the White Hill, facing east, to protect forever his beloved Albion."
Recognition flickered among some of the older forest dwellers as the familiar names of long ago tugged at the chords of memory. Angharad smiled and, closing her eyes, began the tale known as "Manawyddan's Revenge." As the warriors made their farewells and departed for their homes, Manawyddan, chief of battle, gazed down from the hill upon the muddy village of Lundein, and at his companions, and gave a sigh of deepest regret. "Woe is me," said he. "Woe upon woe."
"My lord," said Pryderi, a youth who was his closest companion, "why do you sigh so?"
"Since you ask, I will tell you," replied Manawyddan. "The reason is this: every man has a place of his own tonight except one only-and that one happens to be me."
"Pray do not be unhappy," answered Pryderi. "Remember, your cousin is king of the Island of the Mighty, and although he may do you wrong, you have never asked him for anything, though well you might."
"Aye," agreed the chieftain, "though that man is my kinsman, I find it somewhat sad to see anyone in the place of our dead comrade, and I could never be happy sharing so much as a pigsty with him."
"Then will you allow me to suggest another plan?" asked Pryderi.
"If you have another plan," answered Manawyddan, "I will gladly hear it."
"As it happens, the seven cantrefs of Dyfed have been left to me," said young Pryderi. "It may please you to know that Dyfed is the most pleasant corner of our many-coloured realm. My mother, Rhiannon, lives there and is awaiting my return."
"Then why do we linger here, feeling sorry for ourselves, when we could be in Dyfed?"
"Wait but a little and hear the rest. My mother has been a widow for seven years now, and grows lonely," explained the youth. "I will commend you to her if you would only woo her; and wooing, win her; and winning her, wed her. For the day you wed my mother, the sovereignty of Dyfed will be yours. And though you may never possess more domains than those seven cantrefs, there are no cantrefs in all of Britain any better. Indeed, if you had the choice of any realm in all the world, you would surely have chosen those same seven cantrefs for your own."