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Page 271
wondered whether her doubts had been just. Rhiannon struck her harp and sang to them a fantastic tale of grief and love and power. Alinor thought that, in the past, when men feared magic more than they did in this age, gifts of great value might have been given to propitiate one who could raise such images.
There was no praise when Rhiannon stopped singing. All were struck muteeven Simon, who was accustomed to her art. In Roselynde, where the practical and possible was a fine art, the magical and impossible had more power to shock, to stir deep-buried memories both ugly and beautiful, than in Llewelyn's court or at Dinas Emrys. But Rhiannon did not mistake the silence for indifference. She lowered her head and folded her hands in her lap over her harp, and waited.
Little by little, movement came back to the tense figures. Alinor's breath sighed out, Joanna's drew in deeply, Gilliane lifted a hand to wipe away the tears that had run unheeded down her cheeks. Ian smiled. He was the least affected; he had heard Gwydyon himself sing in Llewelyn's court, although the bard was very old then. Adam moved restlessly. If she had not been Simon's betrothed, he would have called Rhiannon a witch. Geoffrey was still transfixed; he was no mean performer himself, but Rhiannon's singing was far beyond his experience.
Simon turned to him as the most knowledgeable in the art. "She is a fine singer, is she not?"
Geoffrey started, as if he had been asleep, and cleared his throat. "She is beyond fine. Her singing is an ensorcelment." He smiled. "You do not need to worry about fixing Henry's attention or winning his heart. The king loves such things greatly. I only hope that Winchester does not decide to strike back by crying 'Witch.'"

 
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