VIII – What Was and Never Should Have Been

' A

llow me to assist thee,  milady .'

These were the first words Celtión heard from a man after spending a long time shut away in her chamber.

Her father was the only one allowed to visit her whilst her maids taught her how to be a lady.

She had reached the age of marriage, yet she preferred to run through the meadows with a sword in her hand and a bow and quiver on her back.

It would have been best for her to be educated in another kingdom, but Narg preferred to kiss her goodnight when war did not send him away.

Ever since he had been widowed at the age of twenty-seven, the fear of losing her had haunted him.

But instead of becoming an overprotective father who smothered her, he had managed to forge a close, trusting relationship with her.

Just as Windar had done with him, he taught her the art of war and of governing; he had even included her as an observer at council meetings so that she might learn.

Celtión was his pride and joy, and he beheld in her the very image of his beloved wife.

Her straight, copper-coloured hair fell to her waist, adorned with white wildflowers.

Her prominent brows graced the delicate features of her face and drew the eye to her full cheeks, dotted with reddish freckles in perfect harmony—like stars in the sky.

Narg had promised her hand to Prince Cloet Munork, son of Lerg, and thus a descendant of Alfredo and heir of the raven.

'It will stay in the family,' Narg decreed, so that the kingdoms might be at peace. She did not find it amusing; she had grown up alongside her father’s warriors and found it hard to imagine herself in ostentatious gowns and jewels beside someone she barely knew.

On one occasion only had she managed to express her opposition to the marriage.

She respected Narg; she knew that uniting the families was for the best, but she was not sure whether her love and loyalty to Old Minister were enough to sacrifice her freedom, especially when her heart already belonged to another.

'Tell me that the sun is setting over the meadow and embracing it tenderly,' said Celtión as she descended the stairs towards the main hall, her eyes brimming with enthusiasm.

'Aye, milady . All is green and alive,' Cheas affirmed as he accompanied her down the steps. 'The winter hath been long, but the offerings to the gods bear fruit. Old Minister hath seldom been so fertile.'

'Has Halfdan accepted the agreement?' she asked anxiously, wondering if it was she who had convinced Narg that the treaty with Ubberia was better than staining the fields crimson, for war pained her.

'I am afraid not. He is delaying what must be done, whether by pen or by sword.'

As she left the staircase, Celtión paused beneath the archway by the entrance hall and raised her head to behold the hourglass, which had less than a day left to run.

By that very hour the following day, she would be dressed in her finest to receive the guests at the feast celebrating her father’s thirty-fifth birthday.

'Tomorrow I shall play at being a princess, but today they have permitted me to do as I please, and you, my faithful friend, know exactly what that means.'

The sparkle in her voice wrapped every sentence in innocent mischief.

'It could not be any other way, though I admit that for a moment I feared that so much time under Marzota’s command, and her peremptory voice, might have robbed her of her taste for the simple things.'

Celtión was very close to Cheas. They were almost the same age and had spent their childhood amidst mischief and adventures.

Princess Hugnork hastened her pace. She was not permitted to run within the castle, save in true emergencies, yet she was so eager to cross the hall and at last behold those who awaited her that her heart took the rhythm of her feet.

The day promised to be all she had imagined each night until she fell asleep.

The doors swung open and the sun, streaming in overwhelmingly, forced her to squint.

A hand reached out to help her down the steps separating the main entrance from the rough red tiles of the courtyard.

She recognised Maed’s unmistakable smile and accepted his help, whilst with her other hand she rolled up the hem of her long skirt.

As she descended, she made a titanic effort to avoid the gaze she felt from the warrior who awaited her. Upon stepping into the courtyard, she raised her head slowly and scanned him from his boots to the tip of his nose, giving her heart time to settle back into her chest.

'Gwion,' quoth Celtión, and she gently observed the astonished expression with which he was looking upon her.

Motionless, they gazed at one another, time suspended for them. Lost in each other, nothing else mattered.

'I see you have not forgotten the name of my foolish brother who, if he does not wake up and mount his horse, shall lose his head.'

Maed’s voice snapped them out of the emotional trance that had enveloped them. Gwion crouched down and made an exaggerated bow, the crown of his head almost touching his own knee, whilst Celtión laughed mischievously.

'This ride shall be legendary. Come, my faithful warriors,' quoth he, winking at them.

The three riders passed through the walls, bearing northward.

The reddish-coated mare ridden by Celtión led the way, and the Gerinson brothers kept close behind her.

At a leisurely trot they reached a fork in the road where, upon the right, a grove of trees could be espied, and upon the left, more road with naught upon the horizon.

The damsel pulled upon the reins to halt precisely at the crossroads and sought out Gwion’s eyes.

'I wager thou canst not overtake me, thou little oaf— YEAH !'

Between a mischievous laugh and the shout from her throat, the future queen of Old Minister struck her heels against the flanks of the steed, which reared up on its hind legs and galloped off to the right.

'Thou shalt not prevail this time,' cried Gwion, tightening Valcon’s reins.

Maed slackened his pace to grant them privacy; he knew their destination—the rock-hewn grotto north of Old Minister, the Cave of Whispers.

Celtión reached the bank of the gentle river, amidst the trees that rose as far as the eye could see, almost completely obscuring the sky.

She dismounted, her face contorted with eagerness.

Gwion, now on foot and still holding Valcon’s lead rope, approached with his chin tucked close to his chest. The hair falling across his face hid his eyes, which sparkled alongside a broad smile.

He approached with long strides and, without a word, drew her close within his strong arms. She laid her head upon his breast and hearkened to his fervent heartbeat.

'I have missed you so much. Separated yet so close. I missed the splendour of your gaze,' whispered Gwion, and a tear fell from his right eye onto Celtión’s cheek.

'Be not sad, knight, I am free. Would you like me to teach you the royal dance? They have forced me to practise it until my toes bled.'

'Another time, milady .'

Gwion moved away, turning his back upon her. Under the pretence of fastening Valcon’s strap, he prevented Celtión from seeing him weep.

'We have not beheld each other in so long, and yet thou dost turn thy back upon me, knight.'

He wiped his visage with the sleeve of his tunic and said as he turned:

'Thou art not free, nor am I. We belong to Narg. We have spoken of this before and nothing has changed. What do you think he will say when he finds out?'

'Have faith; our love is stronger than anything imposed upon us. My father loves me; he will want to see me happy.'

Celtión’s smile did not fade. In two weeks she would turn nineteen, and naught could silence the melody that stirred her heart when she was with Gwion. Their lips had never touched, but they kissed with their eyes, and that moment was their safe haven.

He clasped her hands in his. They were warm, as always.

He studied the wrinkles on her long, slender fingers, the crease that separated them, the roundness of her nails.

'Even the smallest detail is perfect,' he thought.

He summoned the courage to look at her with tenderness and pain, which he was unable to hide.

'They have not told you, have they? Thy wedding to Cloet is to be held on thy birthday. The preparations are already underway.'

'Aye, Marzota told me this morning. But I have contrived the whole matter; I shall speak to the king this day. During my confinement, I gathered the fortitude our love requireth to tell him the truth.'

'He will have me hanged for treason, and he will send you far away.'

Celtión drew her hands away with a sharp movement. She was as passionate in her love as she was in her hatred and reproach. She turned and departed, her eyes burning with fury as she shook her head from side to side.

'So, you will not fight for our love? I am willing to give my life if necessary to be with you.

Is this how you defend the magic that was given to us?

He who doth not tremble before death in battle, he who snatches life from his opponents without his pulse quickening, fears Narg.

You are a coward!' she spake, continuing to back away and shaking her hands to prevent Gwion from stopping her.

'He is more than my king; he is more than the one who giveth orders and payeth my wages. Dost thou know how my brother and I came to Old Minister? With naught but the clothes upon our backs. He took us in, raised us, and helped me become the man I am. He is as a father unto me.'

'And he loves you like a son; he will agree to give you my hand, for he knows the sort of man you are. After all, he hath made you in his own image. Though a bit more of a coward.'

Tears plastered his thin hair to his cheeks.

'I am no royal; the blood of a gardener runs through my veins. I am a warrior, and that will not change. I cannot allow my happiness to affect the peace decisions of the entire kingdom.'