Rhiannon

Table of Contents

 

 

 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.
Published by The Penguin Group.
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Copyright © 2007 by Vicki Grove.

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, G. P. Putnam's Sons, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

 
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data tk

eISBN : 978-0-399-23633-4

First Impression

“The Prince went aboard the
White Ship
with one hundred and forty youthful nobles and ladies of the highest rank. All this gay company with their servants and the sailors made three hundred souls aboard the fair
White Ship.
‘Give three casks of wine, Fitz-Stephen,' said the Prince, ‘to the fifty sailors of renown. My father the King has sailed. What time is there to make merry here and yet reach England with the rest?' ‘Prince,' said Fitz-Stephen, ‘if we sail at midnight, my fifty and the
White Ship
shall overtake the swiftest vessel in your father's fleet by morning.'

“The Prince commanded them to make merry; and the sailors drank the three casks of wine; and the Prince and all the noble company danced in the moonlight on the deck of the
White Ship.
When at last she left the harbour there was not a sober seaman on board. But the sails were set, Fitz-Stephen at the helm. The gay young nobles and the beautiful ladies, wrapped in mantles of bright colours, laughed and sang. The Prince encouraged the fifty sailors to row harder, for the honour of the
White Ship.
Crash! A cry broke from three hundred hearts. It was the cry the people in the vessels of the King heard faintly on the water. The
White Ship
had struck a rock. Fitz-Stephen hurried the Prince into a boat. ‘Push off,' he whispered, ‘and row to the land. The rest of us must die.'

“But as they rowed away from the sinking ship the Prince heard the voice of his half-sister calling to him. He cried, ‘Row back, I cannot leave her!' As the Prince held out his arms to catch her, such numbers leaped in that the boat was overset. In that same instant the
White Ship
went down.

“Only one man survived to tell the tale—a butcher from Rouen. For three days no one dared to carry the news to the King; at length they sent into his presence a little boy who, weeping bitterly and kneeling at his feet, told him that the
White Ship
was lost with all on board. The King fell to the ground like a dead man, and never afterwards was seen to smile.”

Charles Dickens,
A Child's History of England
from William of Malmesbury (1085-1143)

Everyone knows that even the sunniest forest on the mildest of afternoons is filled with poison-toothed wild pig and ferocious packs of wolf. And some say that when one nears Wales there are other things lurking in the shadows as well, enchantments and the like left from faery days. Yet naturally some folk will venture the forest paths anyhow.

The young wayfarer was such a one. He was on a noble quest, and though after many days he'd found no trace of what he sought, neither had he come upon especial mischance. Until, that is, one nightfall found him fogged completely, adrift upon his steed as a sailor in a tossed boat, caught in that swirling brew that oft sneaks from the Welsh Sea and crawls up over the beachy land, right into the northern Wessex forests.

He soon enough lost the woodland track and could discern no stars for direction.

The last to talk to him, at least in
this
world, was a stout woman gathering firewood in that part of the forest. His horse reared at the sight of her rump as it suddenly loomed from the foggy swirl like some broad and not easily skirted boulder. She was bent over picking up branches, and for her part, she noted not the wayfarer's approach and was some startled herself, as fog tends to mute sound, especially coming from behind.

“Sirrah!” the woman scolded when she'd heaved herself upright and turned to face him with her knuckles upon her substantial hips. “Have a care, if ye please! I'm some lame these days and would not be toppled to the ground by your stampeding mount!”

Well, his steed was picking the way, never stampeding, but the wayfarer was too relieved to see a human face to quibble with the rude manners of this common woman.

He dismounted and addressed her quite courteously in her own Saxon tongue.

“I beg you pardon me, madame, as I'm some lost.” He smiled sheepishly as he took a coin from his pouch. “Pray, can you direct me to the nearest settlement?”

The dame's eyes widened and she reached for the coin, bit it, found it solid, and pocketed it. “You're in luck, young sir, as Woethersly's just some short distance,” she said coyly, holding forth her palm and leaving the direction open unless he'd buy it with a second coin. Her eyes then hit upon a small sparkle there upon his bosom. “I'd take that charm of yours for the information,” she suggested, reaching toward it.

He stepped quickly back, covering with two fingers the tiny silver pin that held his cloak together at the throat. “Good lady, I could never part with this shell, as it is a sacred token of my pilgrimage to the crypt where Saint James himself sleeps eternal.”

She raised her eyebrows, pulled in her lip, and crossed herself, some impressed.

“Go some twenty paces back the way ye've come and you'll find the trail,” the stout dame instructed, jerking a thumb in that direction. “Go left on it. There's only one fork from here to town. Go
left
at that fork to reach Woethersly, see? The
right
fork ye never want, as it crosses the common barley field outside the town, then goes through the river, then takes ye to the beach and straight up the invalid trail of Clodaghcombe Bluff!”

She knit her brow and clucked her tongue, but the wayfarer's heart had taken a quick leap at that word
invalid.

“Clodaghcombe Bluff, you say? And pray, what might be this . . .
invalid
trail?”

And now she looked at him as though he were a true dunce, as this is how some provincial folk view the stranger to their realm. “Surely ye know that just beyond Woethersly a great bluff rises straight up from the sea, nigh piercing the ivory floor of heaven itself? Oh, sir, surely everyone's heard of high and steep Clodaghcombe Bluff!”

“I've never,” he said softly. “Tell me more.”

“Well, see, there's a small stone church up there in those clouds,” she began. “ 'Twas built by some ancient hermit, hundreds of years past. And there's some few cottages built in a circle close around that hermitage. And there's three women what lives up there atop the bluff in one of those cottages. In fact, the eldest up there is a friend of mine from girlhood, Moira's her name. The others are her daughter and granddaughter. They three are Welsh by descent, see. Moira tells it that she and her family's first great-granddames were seabirds flown across the bay from Wales!”

“If you please,” he prodded softly, “I'd hear now of why you called the path up the bluff an
invalid
trail. Why that word,
invalid
?”

The dame threw up her hands. “Ha! And who else would take that blasted trail, I ask ye? None would for
pleasure
climb up the bluff.” She took time for a large sigh, then added, “Of course, if you've a helpless
invalid
or
idiot
on your hands, someone born witless or become crippled by injury or otherwise smitten by mischance or dire brainpox, well then, it alters the situation. In such conditions it's well worth the risk of the hike to lug that poor soul up to them three women atop the bluff. The red-haired daughter's the one what nurses, with the others to help. Moira, Aigneis, and dark-eyed Rhia. They three nest atop that crag and care for all hard cases handed off to them. The place is for dying, see, not for healing. What can be healed sweats it out here below. Why, I myself am gouty in the leg, with many blisters upon me as well, and when the heat comes, I—”

The wayfarer quickly remounted. “Good dame, I thank you again for your trouble, and now I must ride. But first I'd escort you safely home, if you'd like.”

With a pleased smile for the flattering offer, she waved that away. “Ach, and my own son is right here, working alongside me! He would not hear of me coming into such weathers alone, would ye, Arnold?” As she'd got no answer, she turned to peer into the fog behind her. “Arnold, show yourself!” she right out bellowed.

Some moments later a young man with muddy britches and a feathered hat came into view, scratching his stomach and dragging his heels.

Nodding coolly to the son, then more deeply and courteously to the mother, the wayfarer took his leave.

“Mind you stay left at the fork!” the dame called after him. Then she stooped to pick up the pile of sticks she'd gathered and thrust them roughly into her son's limp arms.

“Would that
you
had such a care for your mother's aches and miseries as that well-speaking stranger had,” she grumbled as she began the trudge back to their cottage.