After two days and most of one night in the saddle Elphin reached Diganhwy, a fair-sized settlement on the hills above the Aberconwy. The tide was out, and as he approached he saw a score of people working the mud flats. Some of them hailed him as he rode by, others watched him pass in silence.

An old woman was sitting before a stone hut splitting and gutting a catch of fish. Two cats hissed at her feet and snapped up the offal as it fell. Elphin stopped and greeted her. “I have come to inquire after the woman Rhonwyn, who is kin to my mother,” he told her. “Can you tell me where she can be found?”

The crone raised her head from her work and peered at the rider and the empty saddle next to him. “I might,” she answered, “if I knew who was asking.”

“I am Elphin ap Gwyddeo Garanhir, who is lord and king of Gwynedd. Your chief will know me if you do not,” he told her. “I have come for the help of a kinswoman and mean no harm to anyone here.”

The woman put down her fish and stood creakily. She lifted a gnarled hand and pointed up the hill, whose sides were dotted with black-faced sheep. “The one you seek lives with her mother beyond. Ask for the house of Eithne; you will find it there below the din.”

Elphin continued on his way, tired from his journey but hopeful that his task would soon be accomplished. He gained the crest of the hill just as the sun slipped below the rim of the sea, leaving an orange glow where it sank beneath the waves. There were twelve or more dwellings on top of the hill, which was crowned by a fortress consisting of a rough stone tower atop a mound ringed by a ditch and surrounded by a timber palisade. Several of the stone houses already showed a ruddy glow in their narrow windows.

Two ill-fed black dogs stood before the nearer huts and barked at him. A boy appeared from behind a low sheep wall with a stick in his hand and ran to beat one of the dogs. Elphin called to him and asked which was the house he sought.

The boy made no answer but pointed with the stick to a white rock hut at the end of a narrow street formed by a double row of round houses and paved with crashed oyster shells. Elphin rode to the hut, dismounted, and stretched his aching muscles. A woman who vaguely resembled Medhir emerged from the house and stared at him.

“Do you know me?” he asked.

“How should I know you, sir? I have never seen you.”

“Perhaps you do not know me,” he said, “but you know my mother.”

Eithne came nearer and looked more closely at him. “Of course,” she said at last, smiling and clapping her hands on his shoulders, “Medhir’s son, Elphin! Little Elphin! Look at you now. A man you are! How is my cousin?”

“She is well and sends her greetings.”

Eithne cast a glance at the twilight sky. “Whatever brings you here can wait until tomorrow. You will stay with us tonight. There is only my daughter and myself, with my husband drowned these two years past. We have room by the fire.”

“Then I will stay with you-but one night only, for tomorrow I must return home.” Elphin tethered the horses on the hillside so they could crop the new spring grass there, and then followed Eithne into the house.

Elphin entered to see a woman kneeling at the hearth, stirring up the embers to make the fire on which to cook the evening meal. She held a handful of dry grass to the glowing bed and the flame caught, banishing the shadows from her face.

Rhonwyn turned to him, and he saw a young woman of surpassing beauty with long auburn hair and large dark eyes set in a face as fair as any he had ever seen. She rose gracefully and turned toward him. Eithne introduced her daughter to him, saying, “My kinswoman’s son, Elphin ap Gwyddno, is staying with us tonight. We must prepare a meal worthy of a lord’s son, for such he is.”

Rhonwyn bowed her head and went to work, bringing out meat and cheese and bread, which she set on a narrow board at one end of the room. Eithne brought out a skin of mead and poured a cup for herself and Elphin.

Elphin accepted the earthenware cup and spilled a drop out of respect for the household god, then sipped his drink. “Ah, there is none better in my father’s house,” he remarked, which pleased his hostess immensely.

“Did you hear, Rhonwyn? Do not allow his cup to become empty.” She smiled as she gazed at him. “It is good to have a man beneath this roof. We will celebrate your coming, for perhaps it bodes well for us.”

“That is my hope, too. And we will talk more of it later.”

“Yes, later. But first tell me how my cousin fares in Caer Dyvi. It is many months since I last heard from her.”

Elphin began telling her of Medhir’s doings and all that had happened in Caer Dyvi during the long winter months-who had been sick, who had died or given birth, the health of the livestock, the prospects for the year’s crops. She listened intently and would have gone on listening if Rhonwyn had not approached to say that the meal was ready.

Eithne and Rhonwyn lifted the full-laden table and moved it to the center of the room, offering Elphin the seat closest to the fire. He sat down on the household’s only chair, while the women sat on three-legged work stools. Rhonwyn served him, filling his wooden plate with roast meat, slabs of yellow cheese, and small loaves of brown bread. Eithne refilled his cup and they began to eat.

“This meat is tender and roasted to perfection,” remarked Elphin, licking his greasy fingers. He popped a tidbit of cheese into his mouth and said, “The cheese is smooth as cream, and tasty.”

Eithne smiled. “Rhonwyn made it-she had Brighid’s own way about her, as everyone knows hereabouts. You should hear what they say of her.”

Rhonwyn lowered her head. “Mother!” she whispered tersely. “He has not come to hear you prattle about me.”

Elphin, who had been watching her every move since he had entered the tiny house, exclaimed, “Prattle, is it? That I heartily doubt. I say it myself: the goddess herself could not bake bread as soft, nor make cheese half so smooth!”

“You flatter me, Elphin ap Gwyddno,” answered Rhonwyn, looking at him directly for the first time. “The son of a lord must be used to better fare.” In the glowing firelight, her fine features were even more lovely and Elphin’s heart swelled within him to see her. Why was this beautiful woman still unmarried?

“It is not flattery to speak the truth.”

Eithne smiled broadly and handed Elphin the platter of roast meat, saying, “Eat! You have ridden far on your errand and must be hungry. We have plenty. Please, eat your fill.”

Elphin helped himself to a bit more, but after a few bites he pushed his plate away. In truth, he had lost his appetite. All he wanted to do was sit and gaze at Rhonwyn, whose beauty filled him with joy and longing at the same time.

Supper over, the table was removed and they placed the chair and stools beside the hearth. “Perhaps our guest will sleep better with a song in his ears,” suggested Eithne.

Rhonwyn gave her mother a cross look, but Elphin encouraged, “Please, I would enjoy a song. Do you play?”

“Does she play?” answered her mother. “Her music is as sweet as Rhiannon’s birds, to hear people talk. Fetch your harp, girl, and play for young Elphin here.”

Rhonwyn did as she was told and went to the back of the house to a nook where she brought forth a small harp in a leather wrap. She took her place by the fire and tuned the harp, then began to play. Elphin settled back in his chair.

Her voice was pure and melodious, like clear spring water ringing in a sun-filled glade, her fingers deft on the strings of the harp. Elphin closed his eyes and let the music fill his heart with gladness. “Such a woman,” he thought; “a rare treasure to be sure…”

He awoke some time later to find himself still sitting in his chair, but wrapped in a woolen blanket, the fire burning low on the hearth. Rhonwyn and her mother lay asleep on a thick bed of rushes in a corner of the house. He stirred, and Rhonwyn awoke and came to him.