Gwynn's star is crossed

At last the hour had come. In augur of this historic event, the Divine Hand of Destiny had aligned all the earthly bodies in the room just as carefully as it arranged the heavenly. Cynan was with Gwynn’s father. Dunstan was occupying Kraaia. Britamund had taken Condal aside. Nothing stood between Cearball and Gwynn but Hetty.

Dear Hetty! In her quiet, gentle way she had stepped away from Gwynn, parted Cat and Flann on either side of her, and gone straight to Cearball like a mindful little moon sailing between two stars.

Hetty would not have forgotten for a moment that she had not yet spoken a word with him. Hetty would not have wanted to make a fuss before supper, but she would not let the foreign gentlemen get away without paying respect to all the sacred duties of hospitality, even if she could not respect their customary order.

Nor would Hetty forget Gwynn. That calamitous supper would serve only as a funny footnote in the romance of her life. The romance was beginning now.

Before the Divine Hand had quite lifted its quill from the inkpot, however, Gwynn’s father interrupted everything by saying loudly to Cynan, “I am sorry we stayed at supper so long. I did not mean to keep you gentlemen so late.” Already he was drifting towards the door as he spoke.

“It is our fault for keeping you all waiting,” Dunstan said, “but it isn’t so late, Father. Surely we have time for a song or two. Gwynn has a remarkably pretty voice,” he said to Cynan, “and does honor to the Welsh songs she knows.”

Dear Dunstan!

“But these gentlemen have ridden rather far today, from what I have gathered,” her father said. “And we must get them to bed early tonight if we want them to stay up late tomorrow night!” he added slyly. “Don’t forget the party!”

“You shall come to the party,” Flann commanded Cearball. “We shall prop you up with pillows if we must! Shan’t we, Connie?”

But Condal had already disappeared.

“You are welcome to stay here,” Hetty said. “Instead of riding back to Maire’s in the cold, you shall spend this time with your feet up on the hearth and a cup of wine in your hands, and the girls will sing for us. We shall send a man for your affairs.”

Dear Hetty!

Cearball grinned and was clearly about to thank her gratefully, but Cynan interrupted him with a rough, “No, thank you.”

Even gentle Hetty could make no reply to that. Cearball’s arms dropped, and his mouth twisted briefly into a scowl.

“But do not forget the party!” Gwynn’s father reminded Cynan as he began inching towards the door again. “I assure you, it is the only party you will find for twenty miles around tomorrow evening, and even had there been twenty for one mile around, I humbly assert it would still have been the most amusing…”

“Oh, Alred?” Cat purred.

Gwynn’s father stopped short. “Oh, Catan?” he called seductively.

“Before you’re kicking us all out into the cold, there’s one thing you’re forgetting.”

“And what is that, O Catan?”

Cat pointed up at the ceiling above his head… at a single hanging cluster of mistletoe.

Dear Catan!

Cat patted her belly and winked down at Cynewulf.

“That’s where you went!” Cynewulf squealed. “Cat! You’re brilliant! You beat my father at his own game!”

“And as the closest lady to the door,” Cat said as she sauntered towards it, “I’m hereby claiming my right to kiss you as you go.”

“Ach du Himmel!” Hetty laughed and turned a pretty shade of pink. “It is a Norse custom,” she explained timidly to Cearball. “It is a kissing custom…”

“My lady,” he said with a slight but handsome bow, “I am a Dubliner when I am not at home, and there are more Norsemen there than Irishmen. I’m knowing the custom well,” he winked.

“Ach du Himmel!” Hetty giggled again and stepped shyly aside, no doubt flustered by so much sly violet.

Gwynn thought Cearball’s gaze did not quite follow Hetty’s face as she moved, however. Was he… oh was he looking at her?

“Who’s next?” Cat demanded after she had giggled and kicked her way out of the Duke’s arms.

“Oh no!” Cynewulf shouted. “You only get one! That’s the rule!”

“Is it a law or merely a rule?” Cat asked him. “I can stand to have my knuckles rapped.”

“You may have more than one kiss from the same man, however…” Gwynn’s father said slyly as he tried to slip his arm back around Cat’s waist. “If you gentlemen are in a hurry you might want to take the other door…”

“Oh no!” Cynewulf shouted again. “One boy, one girl, one kiss! That’s the rule! Who’s next?” He spun himself around drunkenly a few times as in some unblindfolded game of blind man’s bluff. “Every boy has to kiss the closest girl as he leaves!” he declared as he turned.

Gwynn’s limbs went rigid with ladylike horror at even the suspicion of shuffling closer to a man. She knew Kraaia would be watching.

Only her eyes moved as she surveyed the room. Bodies were moving all around her with an astronomical predictability: Dunstan hustling over to Britamund, Leila falling lazily back into Godefroy’s arms, Kraaia scuttling off into the shadows for lack of Cedric…

The only extraordinary phenomena were Cynewulf spinning madly like a planet knocked off its course, and Gwynn and Cearball themselves, standing fixed like a pair of pole stars. Surely, she thought, the only way to resolve this astronomical impossibility was to bring the two of them together.

And now that Hetty had sailed off and eclipsed herself… could it be? Aside from Cynewulf, who probably considered himself an impartial observer and ineligible to be kissed, Gwynn was certain that she was closer to Cearball than to any other man. He was the one she would kiss tonight, as surely as if it had been written by the Divine Hand.

But this, it seemed, was not the rule.

“Who’s next?” Cynewulf laughed as he came to a teetering stop. “Cynan! You’re next!” he announced – for Cynan was indeed the man standing nearest the mistletoe and the door. “Who’s the closet girl?”

Cynewulf flung out his arms and spun once more around.

Gwynn’s limbs twitched in panic. Would it be too unladylike to run?

“Gwynn!”