"The princess has been delivered of a fair son!"

Chapter 8

Rhiannon opened her eyes to find herself lying upon her bed, feeling both tired and happy. Turning her head slightly, she saw sleeping in the cradle next to her bed a fair-haired infant. She felt a kiss upon her opposite cheek and, turning, looked into the eyes of her husband. Pwyll's demeanor was one of pride, and he smiled happily at her.

"He is to be called Anwyl," she told Pwyll.

"Anwyl ap Pwyll," he gently corrected. "Anywl, the son of Pwyll."

"Anwyl, meaning the beloved one," she answered softly. "Anwyl, our beloved son."

"He has your coloring," Pwyll remarked, "but he is sturdily built, as are all the Cymri, dearling. Our people are ecstatic with this next prince of Dyfed. Anwyl was worth the wait."

"I am cold," Rhiannon said. "Come into our bed, Pwyll, and keep me warm."

"I cannot, my love. It is a custom of the Cymri that for the next few months we be kept from one another. It is a good custom, for it will allow you to regain your strength, Rhiannon. I will sleep in the hall with my men while you remain here. You will have Bronwyn and the other women to wait upon your every need. They will also keep watch during the night that no harm comes to either you or to Anwyl," he told her.

"Not Bronwyn, Pwyll!" Rhiannon cried. " I do not want Bronwyn about me!"

"I cannot offend her father, my love. I know Bronwyn is difficult, but be patient with her," he said.

Rhiannon shook her head stubbornly. "I do, not care if the lord Cynbel is offended or not, Pwyll! Bronwyn should have long ago departed our court for a marriage of her own, but she has not. She remains and continues to usurp my authority daily over the women of this court. There is not one amongst them that would obey me over her, my lord husband. Are you aware of that? I have given you your firstborn son, and in return I ask nought but that you do not inflict this embittered creature upon me. Will you deny me this little thing?"

Pwyll looked troubled. "I do not want to deny you, Rhiannon, but I also do not wish to offend Cynbel. What am I to do?"

"Tell Cynbel that I have requested that his daughter Bronwyn sit in my place for me, acting as your hostess in my stead while I recover from Anwyl's birth," Rhiannon told her husband cleverly. "Cynbel will feel his family honored, and I will be free of Bronwyn's company."

"My lady wife," he told her admiringly, " 'tis the most perfect solution! I thank you for it! Rest now, my love, that you may grow strong again and conceive another son for me."

"I shall not conceive a son again, my lord, until we share the same bed," Rhiannon pouted.

"Custom must be served," he told her, and then he grinned. "I will not keep from you one day longer than custom requires, Rhiannon. Had I known what a delicious armful you are, I should not have been so noble on our wedding day when I promised your father to keep from you for that very long year." His blue eyes twinkled. "You conceived Anwyl so quickly, there was scarce time for us to learn of each other. We have so much to look forward to, my sweet wife. Rest well!" He kissed her brow and departed their chamber.

Alone for a brief moment, Rhiannon reached for her son and, sitting up, lay him in her lap. Gently she undid the swaddling clothes in which they had wrapped the newborn and smiled, pleased, for he was perfect. As Pwyll had so proudly boasted, he was beautifully made. There was none of her delicacy about him, but she was pleased to note he bore upon the front of his left shoulder a small birthmark in the shape of a star. It was a symbol indicating that he was of her line as well as his father's. All members of her family bore that hallmark somewhere upon their bodies. Rhiannon felt a tiny burst of pleasure at the sight of that tiny star. Carefully she rewrapped her son, who had remained silent and watchful of her throughout the proceedings. Now the infant pierced her with a look so like his father that Rhiannon laughed and, kissing the downy head of her baby, set him back in his cradle.

A waiting woman whom she did not know entered her chamber bearing a goblet. "Your pardon, lady, but you must drink this healing draught now," she said, offering it to Rhiannon, who wrinkled her nose in distaste at the unpleasant smell. Nonetheless, she quaffed the beverage down and then, extremely exhausted with the ordeal of childbirth, fell back upon her pillows.

"Where are the women to look after my son?" she demanded sleepily.

The serving woman opened the door and half-a-dozen ladies streamed into the room, chattering and settling themselves.

"Guard my son well, " mocked one of the ladies as Rhiannon slept. "Prideful bitch! It should be Bronwyn's son we watch over, not this foreigner's spawn."

"He is our lord's son too," another lady ventured hesitantly.

"Is he, I wonder?" the first woman said venomously. She peered into Anwyl's cradle. "Look at the brat! As pale as his wretched mother! What kind of a Cymri prince is that, I ask you?"

The others murmured in agreement, and the lone dissenting voice amongst them grew meekly silent, for she was no fool, no matter her good heart. She was but newly come to Pwyll's court, and though she found the princess a sweet, gentle lady, she was quickly coming to realize the lay of the land.

Rhiannon slept deeply throughout the entire night, never once awakening; but as the dawn began to peek through the windows of her chamber, she roused and, turning toward the cradle, reached for her son. To her great shock the cradle was empty! And worse! Her hands, those delicate hands that reached out for Anwyl, were covered in bright red blood. With a terrified shriek Rhiannon sat up, demanding of the unfriendly faces staring so avidly at her, "Where is my son! What have you done with my baby?"

"What have we done? We have done nothing, but you, woman of the Fair Folk, have killed the child! 'Tis his blood that even now covers your guilty hands!" said the chief of the ladies-in-waiting.

"Liar!" Rhiannon screamed at her. "You are a foul liar! Where is my little Anwyl? It is not a custom of the Fair Folk to murder their young! Whatever has happened in these hours that I slept is not my fault, but yours, because you were derelict in your duties. Did you fall asleep? Be truthful with me, I beg of you! I will protect you, but be honest with me. Do not, I pray you, accuse me of some foul deed because you, yourselves, fear punishment!" Rhiannon was weeping now, not even aware of the tears that poured down her pale cheeks in her fright for herself and her son.

"Aye, we slept," admitted the woman. "You cast an enchantment over us all that we slumbered, and while we did, you murdered your child, Rhiannon of the Fair Folk! You wantonly destroyed a prince of Dyfed!"

Rhiannon staggered to her feet and slapped the woman with every ounce of her returning strength. Then taking up her chamber robe, she put it on and hurried from her chamber to find Pwyll. Her heart was hammering in her fear for Anwyl. Had Bronwyn's partisans killed her baby? If not, where was he? Hair flying in disarray, her chamber robe billowing about her, Rhiannon ran barefooted into the Great Hall to find her husband. Behind her came the waiting women, cackling with outrage to any who would listen.

"She has killed her child! She has killed her child!"

And those gathered in the Great Hall, seeing Rhiannon, her beautiful hands red with blood, drew back in horror as she fled by them.

"Pwyll!" Her anguished voice rang through the hall. "Anwyl is gone! Help me!" She flung herself at her husband's feet weeping. "I slept, and when I awoke our son was gone from his cradle. These women you set to watch over us did not." Her grief-stricken face gazed up at him helplessly.

"She lies!" cried the chief lady-in-waiting. "This woman of the Fair Folk bewitched us so that we slept, and while we did, she killed the infant! Look at her! Guilt is written all over her face, and her hands run with the blood of the innocent child she has murdered!"

"I have not killed my child!" Rhiannon cried, rising to her feet to face her accusers.

"Liar! Liar!" the lady-in-waiting repeated and turned from Pwyll to face the others. "What do we really know of this woman?" she asked. "She comes of a magical race whose customs are different than ours. Now she has proved herself a wicked witch of a woman! An evil sorceress! Our prince should never have wed with this black-hearted creature who has wantonly destroyed his son. Rhiannon must be tried and condemned for the murder of her son, Anwyl! Our prince must put this woman aside and wed with one of our own!"

There were murmurs of assent at her words, but Rhiannon declared vehemently once again, " I have not harmed my son! Whatever has happened to him is the fault of these lying women who slept instead of watching over us! I am innocent of this terrible thing of which you charge me!"

"Then why is there blood on your hands, woman of the Fair Folk?" a voice from the back of the hall demanded loudly.

There came an answering chorus of "Ayes!" and a great murmuring rose up against Rhiannon. Pwyll was in deep shock. He could not seem to find his voice in the midst of the dispute. His son was dead, and his wife was charged with the terrible crime. It was almost more than he could bear. Seeing his state, Taran of the Hundred Battles spoke up before someone less sympathetic took charge of the situation.