The Foundling by Lloyd Alexander

Author:Lloyd Alexander
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co. (BYR)
Published: 2011-07-25T16:00:00+00:00

THE SWORD

When Rhitta was crowned King of Prydain, the great sword Dyrnwyn, fairest ever wrought, was given him in token of his kingship. Its hilt was gem-studded, its blade forged in a secret way of which the knowledge had been long lost. On its scabbard were graven these words: Draw Dyrnwyn, only thou of noble worth, to rule with justice, to strike down evil. Who wields it in good cause shall slay even the Lord of Death. Of Dyrnwyn’s lore and lineage little was known. King Rhydderch Hael, sire of King Rhych, and grandsire of Rhitta, had been the first to bear it, and it was said a deep enchantment had been laid upon it. So Rhitta, in his turn, bore Dyrnwyn as a weapon of power and protection over the land.

One day Rhitta and his nobles rode to the hunt. In the heat of the chase, Rhitta galloped across the field of the old shepherd, Amrys, and by mishap broke the gate of his sheepfold.

In dismay, Amrys called out to Rhitta:

“King, I pray you, mend my gate. My arms are too weak, my hands tremble, and I have no strength to set new posts and raise it again.”

In his eagerness to follow the chase, Rhitta hastily answered:

“Shepherd, this is a small matter. You have my word it will be made right.”

With that, seeing his nobles had gone on ahead, Rhitta spurred his horse after them. All day he hunted and at nightfall rode back weary to his castle. There his councilors awaited him with such pressing business and so many urgent questions that he forgot his promise to the shepherd.

Next morning, however, as Rhitta rode out hawking, at the portal stood the shepherd holding a young lamb in his arms.

“King, mend my gate,” cried Amrys, clutching Rhitta’s stirrup. “Already my sheep have strayed, all but this one lamb.”

“Have I not given you my word?” answered Rhitta sharply, angry with himself at forgetting, but angrier still that the shepherd dared reproach him before his nobles. “Yours are small cares and will be set right in good time. Trouble me no longer with them.”

The hawk on the King’s wrist beat her wings impatiently. Rhitta kicked his stirrup free of the shepherd’s hand, shouted for his hunting band to follow, and galloped on his way.

That night, with plates filled and wine flowing, Rhitta feasted in his Great Hall. Amid the laughter and boasting of his warriors and the music of his harpers, Rhitta had no thoughts for his promise to the shepherd.

Next day, Rhitta held court with all his councilors and his war-leader to consider matters of policy and high state. In the midst of the council, pulling free of the guards who tried to hold him back, Amrys hobbled into the throne room and fell on his knees before the King.

“King, mend my gate,” he cried, holding out the body of the lamb. “I have honored you as a worthy king and upright man, but now my sheep are lost and, for want of its mother, my lamb is dead.

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