Page 302 of The Daughters of Avalon
“I suppose the poor lady meant to commiserate with the widow through song? It makes sense she would give it to his bard.”
“Perhaps.” Marcella nodded. “Else… it could be that she simply wished to have the bard publish her song. He was verywell regarded. In fact, after Urien’s death, his daughter made a far more prodigious match.”
“Aye?” said Rhiannon, only half listening now. It was a little difficult to concentrate because Marcella kept looking back over her shoulder, as though someone might be following. “Who did she marry?”
Marcella’s brows lifted. “Well… of all people, she married Orkney’s King Lot, who… by the by… also happened to be a vassal and half-brother to Uther Pendragon.”
Rhiannon’s eyes shifted to meet Marcella’s. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again, realizing that this wasn’t idle chatter.
Clearly pleased by Rhiannon’s response, Marcella continued. “You see… all of Urien’s brothers were quite ambitious. Another one, Angus, ruled Moray and Scotland. Twelve brothers in all, every one of them granted swords that were forged by theDynion Mwyn, each imbued with properties meant to ensure their victory against foes. Together, they formed a Fellowship of Twelve, whose sole intent it was to rule Britain altogether, including Alba and Wales.”
“Blood brothers?” asked Rhiannon.
Marcella turned a palm. “So ’tis said. But there, as they say, rests the fly in the ointment. Each of the brothers claimed to be sons of Ambrosius, the old Roman Emperor, and meanwhile, the High King of Gwynedd was not a son of Ambrosius. Rather, Cadwallon was a grandson of Cunedda’s, and his claim to the throne was stronger than any of Ambrosius’s sons, even despite that Ambrosius led and won so many battles against the Saxons.
“Only then, to make matters worse, Cadwallon urged his son to slay his uncle so that Cadwallon could seize his brother’s lands. It was a fair share of Wales, mind you. Afterward, Maelgwn was so aggrieved by his part in the scheme that he put himself into a monastery, and the Fellowship presumedhe’d forfeited his father’s lands. Later, when the old man died, Maelgwn was called to return, and, naturally, this set the Fellowship’s teeth to grinding. They formed a plan to murder Maelgwn. But Urien and Maelgwn were close allies, and Urien objected. Later, when Urien, too, was found murdered, it was believed to have been perpetrated by none other than the bard in his court—coincidentally the same bard who’d plotted with Uther to kill Maelgwn.”
Rhiannon experienced a chill as Marcella slid her another meaningful glance.
“That bard… was Taliesin,” Marcella said, and then cast another long look over her shoulder.
“My—”
“Aye,” said Marcella quickly, though she frowned, and rushed to say, “Apparently, King Urien had the misfortune of allying himself to the Dragon Lord, and Uther coveted not only Maelgwn’s territories, but Maelgwn’s daughter, as well.”
“So, then, if Urien’s wife was Taliesin’s daughter?—”
Marcella nodded again, and said, “Precisely. But she was Morgan le Fae, not Yissachar. As it so happened, Yissachar was wed to Uther, and, later, after Maelgwn was murdered, Uther took the Dragon Lord’s daughter as his concubine. She, as you know, gave him Arthur.”
“Igraine,” said Rhiannon, leaning forward to pat her mare’s withers. “But these areallmy forebears,” she said. “Why have I not heard these tales before now?”
“In truth lies power,” suggested Marcella.
And then she snorted inelegantly. “Really, in a sense, what happened in those days is not so different from what has happened between Stephen and Henry. History is ever destined to repeat itself, and so, it seems, man is not content to abide; he must always rule.”
Rhiannon liked the way Marcella thought; they were very well-aligned. “Goddess forbid that any man should ever bow to a woman! Matilda never had a chance.”
In fact, her half-sister had spent most of her adult life trying in vain to win her father’s barons. Even with the help of their cousin, Robert of Gloucester, few of them had ever championed her. She’d gone to battle beside them, and it didn’t matter. After her last stand at Devizes some years ago, Rhiannon heard she’d departed England. And, so much as Rhiannon had never had too much love for the half-sister Ellie liked to champion so much, she did feel sorry for Matilda. She also suffered righteous anger over the fact that anyone would be denied their birthright simply because she was a woman.
“How utterly painful it is to sit and listen to women speak of men,” complained Jack. “You must realize it is not only men who aren’t content to abide. The Empress fought tooth and nail for twenty long years to regain her father’s throne. Now, do you believe she’ll be content to abide, as you say?”
“Aye,” said Marcella, casting a sharp glance over her shoulder. “Prithee, Jacques, where is she now? I’ll tell you where she is: Home, tending to her house, supporting her son from afar. That is what women do when they lose.”
The younger paladin lifted a brow, and said, “I warrant ambition is not only a man’s vice,mon patron.”
Marcella curled her lip at the youth, and offered him her back, and Rhiannon gloated over the endless, but amusing, contention between them.
She could easily see that the two were oddly enamored of each other—only like children vying for supremacy. Indeed, it seemed to Rhiannon that Marcella considered herself well beyond Jack’s years, and therefore, beyond his reach as well. But Jack wasn’t content to let it lie, even after Marcella had confessed her true age.
No doubt he’d been brooding ever since, but Rhiannon noted the way he looked at her whenever Marcella wasn’t looking. He loved her, in truth, and age didn’t matter to him at all.
Dismissing Jack, Marcella returned to her tale, and this time Rhiannon was far more attentive…
“So, now you have both Taliesin’s daughters wed to brothers—Yissachar to Uther and Morgan to Lot.
“One day,” she continued, “the sisters learned their husbands were brawling over Igraine. Yissachar became convinced that it was all Igraine’s fault, and in a fit of rage, she took Uther’s sword and slew his concubine… spilling Igraine’s blood with the very same sword that once slew her father.”
“Caledfwlch,”Rhiannon surmised.
