bowls so loudly that Natalenya closed her throbbing eyes and covered her ears.
“And, good Tregeagle, I request of you a boon. We would like to hear your renowned daughter play her harp for us.”
The men shouted, “A song … Let’s have a song!”
Natalenya felt dizzy and grabbed a nearby timber to steady herself.
Her mother stared at her.
Natalenya bit her lip and shook her head slightly. Trevenna turned to her smiling father, put a hand on his arm, and whispered in his ear, but the men shouted louder.
“A song … a song!”
“A ballad. A tale of a battle!”
“A harp!”
“And she’s better lookin’ than that old bard Colvarth.” The men laughed.
Her father brushed his wife away and stood next to Vortigern. In one hand he held his bowl of honey mead and in the other a leg of lamb. “I grant you this boon, and may you and your battle chieftain glory over the enemies of Britain!”
Her father nodded curtly to Natalenya and pointed with the leg of lamb to the sleeping quarters where Natalenya kept her harp.
She retreated to her chamber and picked up her instrument. She knew her father would sell it if she ignored him. He was a man of little mercy, and if he could put a few more coins in his bag — while ensuring future obedience at the same time — he was sure to do it. Hot tears blinded her eyes as she remembered the day he’d sold her box fiddle because she was too embarrassed to play for an official from Armorica.
Yet even as a few tears fell, a plan lit up the gloom of her situation. A song. One she had learned last year from a minstrel traveling from Kembry to Gaul. These guzzlers would be drunk before long, and this song would be most fitting.
But she paused. How would her father react? Flinging her serving smock aside, she wiped her tears and knew no other song would suffice.
Her headache felt better already.
After tuning the harp, she practiced the melody and then strode boldly into the hall. The rush lamps had dimmed, and the hearth fire had begun its slow descent into embers as the servants clanked most of the trenchers away. Taking a low stool, she set her harp on her lap with its sound box against her shoulder. The bronze strings glistened in the flickering light, and its beech wood warmed in her hands.
She struck the strings, smiled at the hushing men, and closed her eyes. A small portion of the power of the bards claimed her, and she sang.
They arose — skillful warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
The young chieftain, Red Brychaid’s son,
With his steel blade, ready and bold.
They conferred — practiced warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Young Chaliwyr, Red Brychaid’s son,
With deeds to smite their foes untold.
They darted — expert warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old,
To battle their foes from the sea,
With gashing blades, their banners unfold.
All the High King’s warriors sat enraptured, perhaps with prideful remembrance of their own battles. Here and there they raised bowls of mead to their lips. The strings hummed beneath the touch of her nails as the melody echoed and filled the room.
They routed — clever warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Amongst the host of Chaliwyr
The men charged, their red spears to hold.
They feasted — eager warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
With meat, and banquet’s meady drink,
They drank deep bowls of fiery gold.
They awoke — drowsy warriors
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Chaliwyr shouts, Red Brychaid’s son,
Their foes’ bright lances to behold.
Seeing her father’s pleased face, she paused and then, with a silent prayer, sang out again, this time with a feel of sadness to her voice.
They sallied — drunken warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Short were their lives, long is our grief,
Though seven times more foes lay cold.
They scattered — ashen warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
I know no tale of slaughter which
Records such ruin and yet is told.
They perished — beloved warriors,
From Kembry — Gwyneth Dyn of old.
Their wives and mothers voiced a scream,
Eight-score men died, one slave was sold.
The warriors were silent and sober. With loud lament, she finished the song.