By the way, did anyone spot the Virginia Woolf reference in the last chapter? Being an English professor, I couldn’t help making it—and, being a feminist academic, I thought it particularly appropriate to Cerys’s situation. Hint: the phrase I quote is the title of a well-known work by Woolf on women writers.

Chapter Four: A Green Leaf

Mulling over her puzzling dream, on the morning after her performance Cerys went, as Gwennan had requested, to see the queen. Her guide up the tower stairs to Gwennan’s sewing room was the gray-haired woman who had sat next to the queen the night before. Since the woman looked like she could be fiercely protective of her mistress, Cerys braced herself to be frowned at for making the queen weep. Yet the attendant—who gave her name as Gwynora—smiled kindly at Cerys, even though she seemed preoccupied by some concern or worry. Remembering what she had learned about the queen the evening before, Cerys thought she could guess what the worry was.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Gwynora ushered Cerys in and descended herself. Cerys was surprised to be left alone with the queen. She would have expected some other attendant in the room, but Gwennan sat by herself in the sunny chamber. Clad this morning in a green dress, the queen worked on the canvas of a small embroidery frame. The larger frame that held the tapestry of autumn leaves which she worked on with her ladies had, for the time being, been pushed against a wall near the window.

Seeing Gwennan bathed in morning light, Cerys, now alert for such signs, noted the slight pallor and pinched skin. Gwennan also held herself stiffly, as if she were in pain. Yet when she spotted Cerys her face broke into a smile. After Cerys swept her a deep bow, Gwennan, laying aside her embroidery, patted the cushion of the chair next to hers.

“Have a seat, dear.”

Cerys froze.

The queen laughed. “You need not look as if I were about to seduce you,” she chided gently. “Let me be more precise: have a seat, dear girl.” She laid a slight emphasis on the last word.

Cerys froze again. Then she whispered, “How did you know?”

“Don’t worry,” said the queen. “It wasn’t anything you did. It’s remarkable, really—however do you manage the voice? Quite convincing. But somehow I knew last night, when we looked at each other before that song. I know your secret, and”—she smiled sadly—“you know mine.”

In answer Cerys knelt in front of Gwennan and took the woman’s hands in her own. “I am so sorry,” she murmured, tears coming into her eyes.

Gwennan squeezed Cerys’s hands. “It’s a relief, frankly, to know that someone else knows. Gwynora has her suspicions, mind you—has had for some time—but I’ve done my best to hide the worst from her for a while, at least. It will be hard on her, having been my nurse and all—not to mention hard on the others.”

Her voice shook slightly.

“How long have you known?” Cerys asked.

Gwennan sighed. “For the last few months. There have been symptoms, but not, as yet, so obvious most people would notice. I did consult a healer, an old woman who lives near the castle. She’s the only one, beside yourself, who knows for sure.”

“My mother had something like it,” Gwennan continued. “She became ill when I was a young girl of around fourteen. It was as if a canker consumed one of her breasts, and then invaded her body. She died slowly, painfully. With myself—it’s not my breast, but I think the ailment has attacked my womb. I can only hope I die easier than my mother, not just for my own sake, but for Fflewddur’s and Godo’s. They’ll find out soon—the pain is getting worse, more frequent, harder to hide. I’ve been taking herbs, but soon I’ll have to take such quantities I’ll be asleep most of the time. When I’m not in pain.”

Cerys found herself unable to speak. She could only press Gwennan’s hands, bowing her head. The queen smiled at her.

“There, there,” she said. “I can’t say I’m happy about such a destiny, but I have had a good life. I’ve been blessed, really. Not all women are so fortunate to love, and be loved, as I have been. But I worry about Godo and Fflewddur. Especially Fflewddur. It’s hard for a boy to lose his mother.”

Her voice shook again.

Steadying it, Gwennan looked down at Cerys. “You’ve met Fflewddur, haven’t you? Last night he told me you gave him a harp lesson.”

“Yes,” Cerys admitted. “I’ve met him. He’s a lovely lad, very sweet, and I believe he has real musical talent. I urged him to continue the lessons.”

“I’ll make sure his father knows,” said Gwennan. “I’ve often thought Fflewddur was musical myself.” She sighed a small sigh. “Did our prince treat you to any of his tall tales? He is, alas, rather fond of them. A bit too fond, for my taste. It’s one of the things I worry about.”

“Yes,” Cerys said, “he did tell me an extravagant story about meeting the Chief Bard.” Gwennan groaned, even while smiling ruefully. “Don’t worry,” Cerys added quickly, “we had a bit of a talk about the proper uses of imagination. Prince Fflewddur wants to impress people rather desperately, but he has a sound heart, and conscience too.” She told Gwennan about the boy’s reaction after his lack of truthfulness was exposed. “I think he could put that story-telling gift to better use. There have, after all, been bard-kings before in Prydain.”

“Yes,” murmured Gwennan, “surely the business of governing this kingdom would not take up so much time one couldn’t have a bit left over for some more creative occupation.” Her expression brightened. “And now,” she went on, “it’s time for me to hear your story, dear. Sit by me, and tell me how a young woman like yourself should be having such an adventurous time.”

And so Cerys sat next to Gwennan and told her all about how she became a bard, and how she determined to live a bard’s life as fully as she could. Gwennan was amused at some of the details. “Horse hair! Well, now that I look closer I suppose so it is. But I never would have guessed.”

The queen insisted that Cerys play for her—“cheerful songs today”—and sing in her true voice. “Never fear, no one will hear you up here.”

They passed a most companionable morning. Gwennan’s pain seemed to have eased, or been eased by the music and friendship. She managed to extract from Cerys the reason the young woman was returning to Caer Dathyl—not that Cerys tried to conceal it from a sympathetic soul.

“Of course you have to see if you can win his heart,” the queen proclaimed when Cerys told her about Taliesin. “I’d be surprised if he could withstand you, frankly. Don’t scruple to tell him your true feelings when the moment is right.”

Finally, reluctantly, Cerys rose to go. She started to bow to Gwennan—realizing almost immediately she should probably curtsey instead. But the queen, typically waving ceremony aside, enfolded Cerys in a hug, which the young woman gladly returned.

As Cerys prepared to depart she and Gwennan heard a familiar voice on the greensward below. The women went to the window, and smiled to see Fflewddur engaged, as he had been the day before, in loudly vanquishing imaginary opponents of the House of Fflam.

Turning from the window, Cerys caught sight of the tapestry frame Gwennan had been working on the previous day. The young woman gasped.

There, as in her dream, a green leaf stubbornly clung to the branch of a tree whose other leaves had fallen.

“What is it?” asked the queen curiously, noting Cerys’s surprise.

Cerys told her about the dream. Gazing down at the tapestry, the queen looked thoughtful.

“I was going to stitch an autumn leaf,” she said, “but somehow I ended up creating that one instead. I guess I am trying to believe that, somehow, life can face down death. But you dreamed of it,” she said wonderingly to Cerys. “Just as you perceived my secret last night, you also saw this.” She gazed at the leaf again.

“Probably the enchantress blood in my background,” Cerys murmured.

“Perhaps,” said Gwennan. “Perhaps, though, you see what others do not because you are a true bard. You can see to the heart of things ordinary mortals miss.” She looked again at Cerys, her expression anxious. “What do you make of it?” she asked urgently. “The part of your dream where the frame of the harp turns into green leaves? The song the harp played before your dream ended? I need to understand,” she begged, “I need to know, before my own end, what it all means. As much as I can, anyway.”

“I think,” said Cerys slowly, “that it is as you said: life, finally, is stronger than death. Or, at least, if we have the courage to believe this”—she remembered the leaf clinging bravely to the branch—“that, in itself, is comfort enough.” She considered another moment. “And I think the transformation of the harp frame reminds us that art helps life triumph over death. Art keeps memory, and love, alive forever. Maybe,” she mused, “If he chooses the artist’s life, Fflewddur will find that out one day.”

Perched on a branch of his favorite tree, Prince Fflewddur watched the bard walking past the castle gates and off, off, off until he seemed to disappear into the horizon itself. Like his mother and Cerys, Fflewddur saw the bard’s harp frame as something significant, although he did not yet perceive how it could be a green gateway of hope. For the prince, at this moment, the instrument’s frame was a door, and he looked through it into all the worlds he could ever wish to explore.