The Silver Hand by Stephen Lawhead Page A

warriors hastened ahead to alert his lord. King Calbha received us outside the hall. Broad-shouldered and bullnecked, he wore his dark hair and beard short, and his mustache long. He strode toward us, a hand on the hilt of his sword, and a mild frown creasing his wide brow. Those with him watched with interest to see how the king would deal with us. “Greetings, Llwyddi,” the Cruin lord said, but he did not extend his hands to us. “It is long since we have welcomed your tribe within these walls. I cannot say it is a pleasure I have missed.”
    â€œGreetings, Lord Calbha,” I replied, inclining my head respectfully. “It is long since the Llwyddi have ventured across the Modornn. But no doubt you will soon acquire the pleasure of welcoming us with greater frequency.”
    The Cruin king’s eyes narrowed. He had heard the implied warning in my words. “Let them come,” he replied. “Whether in peace or in war, they will find us ready to receive them.”
    He eyed us head to heel, and what he saw did not impress him, for his scowl deepened. “Why have you come here like this?”
    â€œIn Prydain,” I answered, “a bard is shown the comfort of the hearth before he is asked to sing.”
    Calbha rubbed his jaw. “In Llogres,” he said slowly, “a bard does not wander through the land like a fugitive of the hostage pit.”
    â€œYour words are better than you know, lord. And if my throat were not so parched from thirst and my belly so slack from hunger, I would tell you a tale worth hearing.”
    Calbha tilted back his head and laughed. “Well said, bard. Come into my hall. Eat with me and drink; take your ease and sleep. Want for nothing; you are my guests—you and the mud-loving champion with you.”
    I raised my hands and gave him a blessing. “Let peace attend you while we shelter beneath your roof, and may all men call you Calbha the Generous from this day forth.”
    This pleased the lord of Blár Cadlys. He went before us into the hall and called for the welcome cup to be brought to him. The brew-master hastened forward, bearing a goodly-sized silver bowl. He offered the bowl to his lord, who took it and drank a deep draught.
    â€œDrink! Drink, my friends, and refresh yourselves,” Calbha said, wiping his mustache on the sleeve of his siarc. He passed the bowl to me and I drank, thinking I had never tasted ale so rich and good.
    I then passed the bowl to Llew, who should have drunk before me—he was Lord of Prydain, after all. But I thought it best not to reveal his rank at this time. He paid no heed to the slight, being only too happy to clutch the bowl between his hands.
    Chairs were produced, and we sat with Calbha, passing the welcome cup between us until it was empty. The king would have filled it again but I prevented him, saying, “Your ale is the best I have had in many, many days. But if I drink more now, I will not be able to sing.”
    The king made to protest. Llew spoke up just then: “Lord, as you see, we are not fit guests to sit with you.” He spread his hands to his torn and mud-spattered clothes. “Allow us to bathe, and you will find us more agreeable companions.”
    â€œI see that you have traveled hard,” Calbha conceded. “Wash yourselves and come to me when you are ready. I will await you here.”
    We were conducted to the yard behind the nearer of the two warriors’ houses where there stood a great stone trough full of water which the warriors used to bathe when they had finished their practice in the yard. A basin was brought to us, and tallow soap and cloths to dry ourselves. We stripped off our dirty clothing and stepped into the trough. The water was cold, but we sank into it gratefully and felt ourselves revived. We lathered hair and limbs, taking it in turns to ladle water over ourselves with the basin.
    While we were washing, a woman came and removed