Ch. 3: Wit's End

He was at his wit's end.

Gifted with the self-deprecating humor which Cerys had attributed to him, Taliesin found it quite funny that someone reputed to have more than the average share of wits was in danger of losing them all.

His sanity too, for that matter.

He glanced down the table at Cerys, who was placidly working on a knotty rune translation. Her hair, while still short, was beginning to grow out again, and fine tendrils lay along the back of her neck as she bent over the parchment.

He hastily looked away.

It was becoming unbearable, having her near him like this. He could never express his feelings for her in this context. If he'd been uncomfortable noting Cerys's attractions following her bardic exams, how much more unthinkable was it for him to make advances to someone under his tutelage. His conviction sprang not so much from a gallant concern for women as from something rarer in Taliesin's culture, a respect for their minds. For Taliesin, the idea of reducing a prodigy like Cerys to a body ripe for seduction was intolerable. Sooner than betray the trust she had placed in him as her instructor, he would leap out the window and roll in the snow to cool his ardor.

Now what would Cerys make of that?

Presumably she had no idea what was going through his head.

It had not always been thus. Before she had turned up that day at his study door, humbly requesting extra lessons, he had dreamed of presenting his suit to her like any other wooer.

So how, exactly, had he gotten himself into this mess?

He thought back to the evening several months ago when he first became aware of Cerys's return to Caer Dathyl. Sitting at dinner in the Great Hall next to Hywel—the crotchety bard who had complained when Cerys performed her own song during her exams—Taliesin heard the older man snort indignantly.

"Outrageous!" Hywel muttered.

"What is outrageous?" Taliesin asked, stopping himself from adding "this time." Hywel was a fine scholar and, when you got beneath the prickly surface, not a bad fellow. But he did have the unfortunate tendency to complain constantly how morals were going to the dogs—and to explain in excruciating detail precisely how.

"She's outrageous," Hywel explained in shocked tones.

"Who?" asked Taliesin, refraining from rolling his eyes.

"Her." Hywel jerked his chin in the direction of the entrance to the Great Hall. Looking that way, Taliesin felt his stomach flop unnervingly. Cerys had just entered, speaking animatedly to a young woman at her side. She took a seat at the far end of the table next to her friend. Glancing up and meeting Taliesin's eye, she smiled.

"Look at her hair," Hywel sniffed.

"Hywel, my friend," Taliesin said, tearing his eyes from Cerys with difficulty, "what quarrel could you possibly have with her hair?"

"She's cut it all off, for one thing," Hywel muttered. Sure enough, Cerys's hair, which Taliesin had first assumed was in a braid, was cropped short, coming just past her ears.

"I had no idea," Taliesin smiled, "that you found long hair in women so attractive."

"Don't you know, man," Hywel grouched, "she chopped it off so she could roam the countryside dressed as a male bard?"

"Enterprising," murmured Taliesin.

"Enterprising!" snorted Hywel. "If you ask me, she's no better than she should be. What decent woman pretends to be a man so she can wander off on her own?"

"What would you have her do?" Taliesin asked. "Wear a skirt and subject herself to outrage?"

"And why," replied Hywel, "does she have to be a wandering bard to begin with? She's a woman, for goodness' sake."

"And also a bard," pointed out Taliesin mildly, though his temper was rising. "It does not seem unreasonable for her to do what other bards do."

"You take her part," said Hywel accusingly. "You, the Chief Bard, take the part of a woman who acts like a slut!"

Normally an equable type, Taliesin flushed with anger. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, though unmistakably authoritative.

"Hywel," he said, "You know well that those who sling mud end up with dirty hands themselves."

Muttering to himself, Hywel left the table. Taliesin sighed, but could not be much bothered by his hidebound colleague. His eyes strayed back to Cerys. While a staid matron several seats down glared, purse-lipped, at her hair, she was laughing at something her friend had said. Cerys did not seem aware of the woman's gaze, but Taliesin would be much surprised if she were ignorant of the gossip about her. More than ever he admired her spirit.

And, indeed, he did more than admire her. When she had left the castle following her exams, he had frequently found himself thinking about her. He recalled the way her hands moved when she spoke of something that excited her, and he yearned to hear again the breathtaking beauty of her songs. Was it possible, he asked himself as fall approached, that he had finally found the intellectual equal for whom he'd longed so many years? Yet he still could not acknowledge the depth of his feelings. He always ended up telling himself she was a reminder of what might have been had he met her in his youth.

And yet now, watching her radiate a joyous energy that charged the air around her, he realized two momentous things.

First: he loved her. She was a reminder not of what might have been but of what was still possible.

Second: there was no earthly reason he should not tell her so. The difference in their ages meant nothing if they were as well-matched as he suspected.

So he left the Great Hall considerably cheered. The next day he was glad he did not suddenly become obsessed with his appearance, trying on smart new clothes in an attempt to look younger. No, he stuck to his usual plain garb, and forbore looking in a mirror. He did not want to play the old fool.

Later that day, he saw Cerys walking across the courtyard near the Hall of Lore. Before he could hail her, however, she was stopped by a young bard, one of the rising stars of the moment. He appeared to introduce himself and chatted with her a bit.

It was not jealousy that entered Taliesin's heart as he watched them together. He was too generous a man to succumb easily to envy. No, it was compunction that seized him as he saw Cerys smiling and laughing at her companion's words. Next to the handsome young man she looked more beautiful than ever. Were not these two well-matched? If not this bard, surely some other young man would woo Cerys, and why should she not prefer someone her own age to Taliesin, for all that he was Chief Bard?

And so he had been both depressed and stricken by indecision. On the one hand, he was now most uncomfortably aware of his age. On the other hand, he wondered if he should not at least get to know Cerys better before he gave up his plan of courtship.

Get to know her better—well, he had at least been doing that since she'd requested the lessons, showing no signs she wished for anything other than language instruction. Still, when he wasn't about to jump out of his skin with frustrated desire, he rejoiced at the intellectual companionship that quickly developed between them. She had an extraordinarily subtle and flexible mind, and increasingly they strayed onto topics other than translation—poetry, philosophy, musical composition. Not that grammar and vocabulary were by any means boring. Both Taliesin and Cerys particularly enjoyed working with the more arcane runes, although the subject was becoming ever hotter to handle. Taliesin didn't know what it was about runes, but after an hour or two translating them with her he felt more than ever in need of rolling around in the snow to keep from revealing his passion.

"Sir?"

Returning to the present with a start, he realized belatedly that Cerys was speaking to him. "I beg your pardon," he said hastily. "I have been wool-gathering."

"Should I leave now, sir?" she asked quietly. "I have taken up much of your time."

"No," he smiled. "I have a question for you first." Best drag himself back to the present. And, while he should have been glad of an opportunity to let her go and spare himself the strain of this increasingly unbearable situation, there was indeed something he wanted to ask her, something that had more to do with their shared interests than his inconvenient feelings. "Have you written any songs since your bardic exams?"

"Yes," she told him, startled by this change in topic. "I wrote a good many while I . . . " Here she paused, hesitating. He had never before seen her embarrassed.

"While you wandered the countryside?" he asked gently. She seemed relieved he already knew.

"You'd heard, then," she said.

"Yes," he admitted. "News does get around."

She shook her head ruefully. "I'm sure you also heard a great deal about how shameless I was, dressing like a man. In fact," she added, an uncharacteristic note of bitterness creeping into her voice, "I daresay some people think me quite the slut."

The word hung raw and ugly on the air. He opened his mouth, but she spoke first.

"I know, you see," she told him simply. "One of my friends heard that bard—what's his name? Hywel?—complaining loudly to all who would listen about my lack of womanly modesty, not to mention maidenly virtue. I'm sure it's not an isolated reaction."

"I am sorry," he told her. She looked vaguely amused.

"What have you to be sorry about?" she asked. "You are not responsible for what people say around here."

"Well, I can't help thinking that in some sense I am," he explained gravely. "I have tried to create a community among our bards based on respect and trust. It not only grieves me when some resort to backstabbing, it makes me feel, too, that I have failed."

The expression on her face was hard to read. She paused, then asked quietly, "Do you approve of my actions?"

He regarded her closely. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I respect your judgment," she said. "Because it is easy to dismiss what others say as evidence of their silly prejudices about women with brains. With you, it's different. If you had any criticisms of my choices, I should take them more seriously."

He nodded, then spoke gently. "Were I your father or brother" (Belin! Why remind himself he could be the former?) "I should worry dreadfully about you traveling alone and unprotected like that. I should rejoice, though," he added, smiling, "that you had the good sense to dress as a man and so forestall the worst kinds of insult to which your sex, alas, is vulnerable. And," he said firmly, "Worry is not the same as disapproval. Parents worry when their children are about to leave the nest." (Oh, why could he not get away from these familial metaphors?) "Yet it is natural and appropriate that the young find their own way. You have become a bard; you have as much right as a man to live like a bard, especially if that life nourishes your remarkable talents."

He stopped, alarmed. Her eyes brimming, she sniffed loudly, then turned away to compose herself. He waited, not sure what to do.

"Forgive me," she said finally, turning back and dabbing furiously at her eyes. "I've been hearing all this ugliness, having matrons glare at me and girls snicker at my short hair. It's not that everyone disapproves, but I've not yet heard anyone really approve of my actions either. It just—well, it just struck me, that's all. And it does mean a great deal coming from you," she concluded.

"You do mind, then," he said. When she looked at him, he explained. "It's easy to think that those ahead of their time ignore the petty insults others sling at them. Yet even the bravest"—he nodded in her direction—"cannot help minding what others say. It is a sign not of weakness but of being human."

She looked down at the table, evidently trying hard not to cry again. He stood up decisively.

"Let us break for today," he announced. "Another day, perhaps, I shall hear those new songs."

That evening, he finally realized that things had to change. His conversation with Cerys had brought home to him as never before the similarities between them. They were both bold, unorthodox, and wily in steering a deft path around other people's prejudices. But he was a man, and hence protected far more than she from ostracism and scandal. Her determination in the face of such conditions made her all the more admirable. And lovable.

He did love her devotedly, distractedly. And he could not continue in a situation where he was unable to speak without betraying a trust. Maybe he was too old for her. But the only way he could find out would be to end the lessons—and then see what happened.

He slept better that night than he had for some time. The next morning he entered his study resolutely, waiting for her to appear. When she did, he was about to speak, then realized she was already talking.

Words like "infinitely grateful" and "cannot possibly take up more of your time" floated in his direction. She was breaking off the lessons, then! At first he felt a tremendous sense of relief—followed by a crashing, irrational disappointment that they would no longer work together on rune translations in this book-lined room.

He had no idea what to say.

Cerys, for her part, remembered the day before. She had glanced up to find him looking at her, and before he could hide the expression on his face she had seen its naked desire, a yearning so intense she could scarce conceal the joy that shot through her being. He cared, then. She had spotted other signs, other symptoms—signs always covered up at once by a mask of careful detachment. Of course he would not exploit his role as teacher in order to exploit her. Would she love him as she did if she thought he would? But she had to acknowledge she was placing him in an intolerable situation, and herself as well. Neither could speak their hearts freely as things were. No, it was time to move on. And now, affectionately viewing the comically confused expression on his face, she realized that the moment had come for her to make the first move.

Smiling, she stepped forward.

A happy half hour later, Cerys and Taliesin were sitting side by side on a bench in the study, holding hands. Both looked dazed. Cerys, it was true, seemed the most firmly moored to earth. She kept shooting Taliesin amused, fondly exasperated glances. In contrast, he looked like a man who had been hit on the head by a heavy object, then discovered it was a pot of gold.

"I would ask why you waited to speak," she said, "except I know. You were, of course, too honorable to do otherwise."

"I feared you would think me an old lecher," he murmured. "And besides, it wasn't—"

"Right, I know," she finished for him. "You do realize that's one reason I love you? You are so careful of other people's feelings, so scrupulous Most men would have thought nothing of fondling me while I pored over the dictionary."

"I should hope," he replied, mildly testy, "that I am not like most men."

"Oh, you're not," she assured him happily. "Quite one of a kind, really."

"What do we do now?" he asked her.

"We get married, of course," she declared. "After all, you need to make an honest woman of me."

They were nearly weeping with laughter when a knock sounded at the door. Before Taliesin could reply, Enlli, the round-faced old bard who had been so kind to Cerys after her exams, entered, looking distracted.

"Taliesin," he said, "Do you remember that book I lent you a month ago . . . "

He suddenly realized what he was seeing, Cerys and the Chief Bard holding hands, beaming. A glow of glad comprehension lit his face.

"Lady Cerys!" he cried, delighted. "May I assume that you will be staying on here at Caer Dathyl?"

"Oh yes," replied Cerys, smiling at Taliesin. "Yes, you most certainly may."

I hope to return with several more of these tales when possible. I have two more in the hopper—one about Taliesin and Cerys, the other moving ahead to the second generation of Adaon and Arianllyn (though Taliesin will appear in that one too, as I apparently can't get away from him). As I have started to teach again, I can't tell you when exactly these stories will appear. I shall, however, work on them as much as possible—if "work" is the word for something that gives me so much joy.

Speaking of teaching, you can tell I'm an academic, can't you? Who else would fantasize about people being turned on to each other while translating ancient runes? And yet—since as an academic I've seen my fair share of sexual harrassment cases—I would be most remiss not to warn the young women who read this that, while we all have had our crushes on our teachers, if he comes on to you while he's teaching you, dear, he is—unlike Taliesin—no gentleman. Probably, in fact, he deserves a kick of the sort Cerys mentions in ch. 2, though it's more prudent to report any unethical dealings to your principal or Dean. Just wanted to make sure that message was out there. End of lesson.

A bit more on the name "Cerys," since CompanionWanderer pointed out in her review of ch. 2 that there's a fantasy series in which Taliesin is married to a woman named "Charis," which would be pronounced much like the name of my character. And here I thought I was being original! (Wait—I'm writing fanfiction and I'm talking about being original?) I hadn't heard of that series, though it does sound worth a look. I found the name Cerys online, in a list of Welsh names for women, and chose it because it means "love," which struck me as the right symbolism for my character (and underscores a major theme in the whole Prydain series as well). As the Welsh initial "c" is pronounced like a "k" in English, "Cerys" sounds like "KERR-iss."

By the way, if you're writing Prydain fanfiction and want names for original characters, do have a look at Welsh Names for Children, by Heini Gruffudd, a book I happed upon while I was writing my first fic. It's enormous fun, and a real treasure-trove.