Mogneid came up the hill, smiling to himself. He knew the lie of the country of Gwrtheyrnion well by now, and the disposition of its people. He entered the castle hall. To his surprise, early in the day though it was, Gwrtheyrn sat propping himself nicely in his chair of state: a gold cup, relic of the sack of some Romano-British villa, lay at his feet, and there were splashes of metheglin on the floor. The King's mood was benign and expansive.
"Want thee—tell me," he greeted him. "Old preaching devil! Alleluia! and they all ran away! Whatshisname?"
"Garmon, perhaps," answered Mogneid. Affecting indifference, he watched his kinsman narrowly.
"Garmon—yes—yes—that's he. Father of the king of devils! Well, Garmon—he's here. He's sent me a message." … Gwrtheyrn seized his cousin's arm. "I'll tell thee a secret. Knowest thou my first wife's niece? Knowest her? A most sweet lass! She came to me, two years ago, being widowed and very young, and having no protector. I have her now, in the little summer dwelling of Rhaiadr Gwy. None know—the Queen knows not. Well…. It has leaked out somehow…. Holy Garmon sends to tell me that we are a scandal far and wide, and bids me mend my way of life. The old fool! Calls her my daughter! Understand, she's not my daughter. Not my daughter! Wife's niece!"
"Thou must send her away!" cried Mogneid.
"Don't want to send her away. 'Tis a pretty chuck—she pleases me…. Besides"—he beamed—"we have a son."
"All this is nought!" Mogneid insisted harshly. "Will you risk all we have schemed for, my lord, for one girl? Put her from you, I say!"
He had used too rough a tone. A look of distress crept across the stupor of the King's countenance.
"This priesthood! 'tis a cursed powerful thing," he said, with the stirrings of cunning apparent. "Old Garmon—he has the ear of Ambrosius. And these Christians show forth miracles in plenty."
"My lord, they are not the only wonder-workers. Can it be that the wise men of old, who raised the giant stones for the temples, and forged the swords and shields that none now can fashion, were weaker than these unlettered saints? And their lore abides in me, and in some few instructed ones in the west country. Now, Gwrtheyrn, my king, what can a man's will do not, if he foster and train it by supernatural discipline? And what is the first work of the will but to sink our enemies?"