Lady of the Moon

by Mary Gillgannon

  Chapter 9

  Bryn drew his oiled leather cape more tightly around himself and glanced up at the sky. His face was immediately pelted with cold raindrops. He grimaced in frustration. In this weather, it was impossible to tell what time of day it was, let alone what direction he was headed. He must follow his instincts and hope he didn’t end up walking in circles. The only other alternative was to find a place to wait out the rain.

  But a rain like this could last for several days, and he had to keep moving. His father would certainly send someone after him. Tarbelinus would assume he was following Sirona, but that didn’t mean he was safe from pursuit. Sirona and her escort would also have headed east for the first few days of their journey.

  At least he had a day’s head start. That had been a stroke of luck. Another Ordovice tribe had come visiting, seeking news about the gathering on the sacred isle. Tarbelinus had taken their guests hunting, and while all the warriors were gone from Mordarach, Bryn had set out. Of course, that meant he hadn’t been able take his favorite hound, Cadarn, since the dog was with the hunters. But that might be better anyway. Having the dog with him would make him easier to track.

  He tried to decide who his father would send after him and whether those men were be sympathetic to his plight. Some of the warriors had told Bryn they thought Tarbelinus was a fool for insisting he train to be a Learned One. If those men were the ones sent in pursuit, Bryn didn’t think they would follow too aggressively. As he walked along, trying to travel in a straight pathway, he felt excited and pleased with himself, although occasional thoughts of Sirona dampened his mood. Almost a sennight had passed since she’d left Mordarach. By now, she should have reached the territory of the northern peoples. He hoped they would appreciate her and care for her. Perhaps she could even locate Dysri’s tribe. The Drui woman seemed to have a fondness for Sirona.

  But it wasn’t enough to know she was safe. He wanted to be with her. With effort, he struggled to suppress the yearning. It wasn’t time for them to be together. Before he made Sirona his wife, he must prove himself as a man and a warrior.

  A twinge of anxiety prodded his stomach. It wasn’t going to be easy to walk into the fortress of another tribe and gain acceptance. He might be tall and strong, but he was also young and inexperienced. He’d never fought a man in real combat. Never wielded a spear except against hunting prey. Other young men his age were so much farther ahead in their training.

  At the thought, he cursed. So much time wasted. And what had he learned? The names of the gods and how to honor them. The way the sky changed over the seasons. Lists of ancestors. Laws and legends. Useless things. He cursed again. It galled him to be so far behind. Irritation made him quicken his pace. The sooner he came upon another tribe, the sooner he could begin to make up for all the years he’d lost, learning endless nonsense in the grove.

  * * *

  Bryn felt a rush of excitement as he heard the bellow of hunting horns in the distance. If he could meet up with members of another tribe soon after they’d made a kill, they would be in fine moods and more likely to welcome him to their dun. He listened until he heard the baying of hounds, then took off.

  He circled around the area where he thought the prey must be, stopping every little while to gauge the location of the dogs by the sound of their frenzied bellowing. Although he was breathless and sweating from sprinting with his heavy pack, he relished the exertion. It was almost like he was one of the hunters, experiencing the excitement of the chase, the expectation of the kill. This why he had left Mordarach, so he could be one of the men who tested their endurance and cunning against the beasts of the forest...or against other men.

  Hearing the sound of something moving through the woods, he pushed his way through the thick underbrush. He reached a game path and a few seconds later, jerked to a halt as he saw a man coming towards him. Their eyes met for a heartbeat. Then Bryn whirled and ran as fast as he could.

  Even as his legs pumped and his lungs frantically sucked in air, his mind registered what had sent him on this desperate flight. One look at the man’s dark, cropped hair and his strange garments told Bryn he was face-to-face with a Roman... a Roman carrying a wicked looking hunting spear. Running away seemed like his only option.

  He ran and ran. Only as the muscles in his legs started to cramp with exertion and his breath come in great heaving gasps did he slow. At last he paused, doubled over, too spent to continue. He listened for pursuit, but the blood was pounding in his head so loudly, he couldn’t hear anything else. Gradually that subsided, and he glanced around. The only noise was the trill of birdsong. All at once, a sense of shame came over him. Why hadn’t he pulled out his short sword and confronted the man? Why had he immediately assumed the Roman would best him? A hunting spear was dangerous, but difficult to wield in the cramped space of a forest pathway. If he’d had time to get out his weapon, he could have defeated and killed the other man.

  The next moment he told himself he’d done the sensible thing. Where there was one Roman, there would be others. He might have run into a whole troop of the enemy, and found himself facing impossible odds. Flight was his only hope. It would be foolish to throw his life away in a confrontation. He was hardly ready for combat against experienced warriors. That was why he was making this journey, so he could find a place to train, so that someday, he would be ready.

  He let a breath out like a sob, suddenly overwhelmed with frustration and fatigue. Three days he’d been traveling east. Now, he’d have to turn back, or change direction. What if he went south? As far as he knew, the tribes there hadn’t been overrun by the Romans.

  He cursed aloud, then started forward. The first thing he must do was find a stream where he could drink his fill and replenish his waterskin. And from now on he would have to proceed with more caution.

  He glanced up at the sky, trying to gauge direction. Aye, he would go south. It seemed the wisest thing to do. For a brief moment, he considered that the sighting of the Roman might have been a sign from the gods. Maybe they were trying to tell him that his destiny lay elsewhere. Or, he might be imagining things because he was so drained by his panicked run. “I wish you were here, Sirona,” he said aloud. “I could sorely use your insight and wisdom.”

  The only response was the sweet, bright cry of a lark.

  * * *

  Someone was following him.

  Bryn halted and glanced back into the gold green blur of the thick elm and oak forest. Or, maybe it was some thing, he thought uneasily. Whatever it was, man or beast, it had been pursuing him since he set out that morning. When he’d first heard the tell-tale crack of branches and rustle of dried leaves, he’d assumed it was some sort of game. Getting out his bow and an arrow, he’d slipped behind a large tree trunk to wait. When no deer or boar appeared, he’d decided the animal had caught his scent and left the area. He’d started walking once again, but soon experienced the unmistakable feeling he was being stalked. Remembering his encounter with the Roman, he decided to put away the bow and arrow and get out his short sword.

  Now he paused, listening, gripping the wire-wrapped wooden hilt of the weapon tightly in his sweaty palm. His heart raced. Why would a wolf pursue him when there was so much other prey around? If it were a man, then why didn’t he confront Bryn and be done with it? Why stealthily follow after him?

  He took a deep breath and tried to decide what his father or one of his warriors would do. They wouldn’t wait for their pursuer to strike, but would boldly seek out whoever or whatever was following them. The only trouble was, it seemed as soon as he halted, the being tracking him also halted, so he had no clear sense of exactly where his pursuer was. How could he confront an enemy he couldn’t see? Somehow, he must set a trap for his pursuer.

  He increased his pace until he was going as fast as he could without tripping. Then, all at once, he whirled and started back the other direction, his eyes scanning the forest, searching for a blur of movement. He thought he saw
something and headed straight towards it. As he passed a large tree, something flashed to his left. He jerked to a halt and stared hard in that direction. Although he saw nothing he could identify as anything other than a natural feature of the woods, he started toward the place where the hint of movement had been. He held his sword at the ready, his whole body thrumming with tension. As he passed several hawthorn bushes large enough to conceal a man, his breathless dread increased. Now he was certain his pursuer was human. No animal would behave like this.

  He searched the bushes but found nothing. Frustrated, he halted his quest and looked around. He knew, simply knew, there was someone out there. Why didn’t he show himself? He began to slash at the bushes around him, swearing oaths, “Coward! Dog! Come out and show yourself!”

  As he raised his arm for another go at the hapless vegetation, he felt something sharp dig into his back. “Here I am,” a male voice said from behind him.

  Bryn could feel the weapon piercing his crys. As several heartbeats passed, he considered that at least the man had spoken in the Pretani tongue. He wasn’t facing a Roman this time, but one of his own people.

  “Who are you?” the man finally asked. “And what are you doing slinking around in the territory of the Dobunni?”

  “I wasn’t slinking around,” Bryn said. “I was merely traveling through. If I’d encountered a settlement or farmstead, I would have stopped and announced myself.”

  “Oh, really?” the man sneered. “I saw you pass right by a cattle bothy, creeping through the trees so you wouldn’t be seen.”

  Bryn experienced a twinge of shame at being caught in a lie. The fact was, he’d decided not to approach any settlement or dwelling until he’d had a chance to observe the inhabitants. He’d fixed upon this plan after encountering a dead man among the trees. The body showed several sword wounds, now covered with maggots. The discovery had sent a chill of horror down Bryn’s spine. Bad enough to think he might be set upon and killed while he was alone and far away from his family, but the idea of having his body left to rot truly sickened him.

  “You can’t blame me for being cautious,” he said. “I’m a stranger here and don’t know how I might be greeted by your tribe. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t approach me.”

  Bryn felt the point of the sword or knife point dig more deeply into his flesh. “I’m approaching you now,” the man said. “So, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m seeking a place in the warband of some chieftain. I’ve left my own tribe, for reasons I don’t wish to reveal. I would serve another man, if he be valiant and honorable. And, most of all, I wish to fight the Romans.”

  All at once, the pricking pain in Bryn’s back eased, and his captor let out a guffaw. “You want to serve a chieftain who is honorable and valiant, and you’ve come to the territory of the Dobunni? That’s a fine jest. My father knows nothing of honor, although he is brave enough.” He gave another hearty laugh.

  Bryn turned to stare at the man, who was now red-faced with mirth. He was young, perhaps a year or two older than Bryn, short and stocky, with wild, wavy black hair and dazzling blue eyes. He wore leather bracco beneath a crys of plain, undyed wool, with a strip of crimson-dyed leather for a belt.

  While Bryn gazed at him, puzzling over his words, the man’s expression turned wary. He looked Bryn up and down, sizing him up. “Are you skilled with weapons?”

  “Some,” Bryn hedged.

  The man held up his sword. “We’ll fight. If you win, I’ll take you to my father and you can swear yourself to him, if you wish.”

  “And if I lose?” Bryn asked, his stomach sinking.

  The young man grinned wolfishly. “Perhaps I’ll spare your life. Perhaps not.”

  “Please,” Bryn said. “Before we fight. Let us introduce ourselves. If I’m going to die, then I want to know the name of the man who kills me. I am Bryn ap Tarbelinus of the Tarisllwyth branch of the Ordovice.”

  “And I am Cadwalon ap Cadwyl of the Dobunni,” the man said. Then he lunged.

  Bryn only narrowly avoided the blade. He backed up, trying to recall all the advice he’d heard about swordplay. Watch the man’s eyes. Rest your weight on the balls of your feet. Keep your sword up.

  As they engaged in earnest, Bryn found he could barely keep out of harm’s way. His opponent moved with lightning quickness, and it was only Bryn’s desperate panic that enabled him to avoid being stabbed. As he was steadily driven backwards, Bryn realized he’d soon get pinned against a tree and be unable to maneuver. Then he would die.

  He tried to feint, to throw the other man off balance. It was no use. His opponent was too experienced, too wily and quick. Llew, save me, Bryn thought desperately. Cernunnos, lord of the forest, come to my aid! He didn’t want to die here, alone, unmourned. Sirona’s face flashed into his mind. He wondered if he’d ever see her again.

  He tried to go on the offensive, driving forward. By the time he reached the place where the other man had stood, Cadwalon was gone, and Bryn’s weapon slashed thin air. He let out a yell of rage and began to flail wildly with his blade. Cadwalon repeatedly moved out of reach at the last moment. Then, when Bryn grew winded, his opponent began to press him once more. Bryn tried to meet each blow and deflect it. Finally, a second too late, he lost his grip on his sword and it went spinning off into the bushes.

  “Aha!” Cadwalon cried in triumph. He backed Bryn into a tree, his sword blade digging into Bryn’s throat. Bryn waited, breathless and terrified. He wanted to beg for his life. Digging his nails into his palms, he fought the cowardly urge. He would die a man. Perhaps his spirit would someday return to the living and he would have another chance to prove himself as a warrior.

  He saw his opponent’s mouth quirk and one of his dark brows went up, reflecting surprise and, it seemed, amusement. All at once, Cadwalon drew back. He nodded, looking pleased. “I like you, Bryn ap Tarbelinus. I would offer you a place in my warband.” Bryn opened his mouth to answer that he would be delighted to fight beside someone so skilled. But before he could speak, Cadwalon continued, “But the fact is, I have no warband. I’m still forced to fight for my father. It won’t always be this way, I promise you. Someday I’ll be chieftain.”

  Bryn let out his breath in a sigh of relief. He wasn’t going to die after all. Had his prayers to the gods been answered, or was it simply his destiny to live a while longer? He remembered Cruthin saying after the wolf almost killed him that it clearly wasn’t his time to die yet. At this moment, Bryn felt the same. Yet his future was far from settled. Remembering Cadwalon’s words, he said, “You told me your father is not an honorable man. What does that mean?”

  Cadwalon shrugged. “I could give you many instances of my father’s defiance of the law. Which tale would you like to hear?” When Bryn shook his head, not knowing how to answer, Cadwalon continued, “After my father had his face slashed in battle and his eye put out, the Drui said he could no longer be king because he was flawed and therefore, unacceptable to the gods. So he killed all the Drui and left their bodies to rot.” Cadwalon smiled broadly. “Or, perhaps you would like to hear of how when he couldn’t get Oswael and his warband to stop raiding our cattle, he invited the chieftain to come to our hall for one of the festivals. After the meal was over and Oswael and his men were very drunk, my father had his warriors fall upon the visitors and kill them.”

  Bryn gaped. The things that this man, Cadwyl, had done were terrible, horrifying violations of the sacred laws of their people. He shook his head in disbelief and said, “Doesn’t Cadwyl fear the gods will punish him?”

  Cadwalon threw back his head and laughed. “My father fear the gods? Nay! Cadwyl fears nothing. Not in this realm or the next. Ask him, he will tell you it is so!”

  Bryn experienced an abrupt letdown. He’d finally found a tribe that might accept him. But how could he serve a man who flaunted the sacred laws and dared the gods to punish him for his defiance?

  Cadwyl saw his expression and sa
id, “What’s wrong? Has our little skirmish changed your mind about being a warrior? I wasn’t going to kill you. Truly. It wouldn’t be right.” He raised his chin proudly. “Unlike my father, I do have some honor. Without honor, you can gain men’s fear, but not their respect. When I am chieftain, men will serve me and fight for me because they recognize me as a strong and brave leader, not because they fear I will kill them if they don’t do my will.”

  “But, as you said, you’re not chieftain yet,” Bryn pointed out. “If I’m to be accepted by your tribe, I must serve your father. And I don’t know if I could give my loyalty to such a man.”

  Cadwyl cocked his head. “You’re an odd fellow, Bryn ap Tarbelinus. You look big and brawny, but you have little experience with weapons. You say you wish to find a place in some chieftain’s warband, yet you don’t wish to serve a man such as my father. What makes you so arrogant that you would refuse the offer of a place in his hall?”

  “I’m not arrogant,” Bryn said. “It’s only that...” He’d hoped to leave that part of his life completely behind. But it seemed he could not. “I trained in the grove for a time. I was supposed to become a Drui. I have no desire for that life, but... I can’t say those years didn’t influence me.”

  “And so when I tell you that my father killed the Drui, you’re shocked? You think he must be some sort of monster?”

  Bryn nodded.

  “Well, he is a monster,” Cadwalon said. “But he’s also the most powerful, ruthless man you’ll ever meet. The thing is with Cadwyl, you either give in to him, or you die. Or, in your case, you could turn around and go back home.” Cadwalon gazed at him questioningly.

  Bryn considered this, then shook his head. “I can’t go home. That would be worse than anything.”

  “Well, then, you must learn to think as I do. Cadwyl can’t live forever. And he’s made many enemies, including both of my brothers. Perhaps one of them will finally kill him.”

  “Then, what will you do? Serve them?”

  “Nay, of course not. Then I will fight my brothers for the kingship. They are no more honorable than Cadwyl, and weaker and less canny besides. Cadwyl used to favor them, but when they rose up against him, he declared them outlaw and made me his heir. Of course, who knows if he truly means to see me be king after him. Cadwyl is a canny old wolf, playing all of his sons against each other.”

  “What does your mother think of all this? Whom does she favor?” Bryn asked, curious about this family that sounded so different from his own.

  “My mother?” Cadwalon cocked his head in surprise. “What does she have to do with it?”

  “Well, does she take your side, or that of your brothers?”

  “My side, of course.” He smirked. “You must consider that each of us was birthed by a different woman. My father has no loyalty when it comes to his consorts either.”

  Bryn was shocked. He’d heard of chieftains who had more than one wife, but, thinking of his mother Rhyell and her temper, it didn’t sound like a good idea.

  Cadwalon cocked his head. “I’ve told you something of my people. What of yours? Why are you here, so far from your home dun? Did you do something to disgrace yourself?”

  “Nay, of course not. My father and I simply didn’t see eye-to-eye about my future. He wanted me to continue to train the grove. I was determined to become a warrior.”

  “And so you left and traveled all the way here?” Cadwalon gave him an incredulous look. “Surely you could have found another tribe closer to your homeland. What about the Silures or the Cornovii?”

  Bryn didn’t really want to explain about how he’d turned south when he’d encountered the Roman. Now that he was far away from the potential danger, his decision seemed cowardly. “I decided to travel this direction so I might see more of the countryside.”

  “Huh,” Cadwalon responded. “Well, I think your father is a fool to want you to be a Drui. You’ll need a lot of training, but you’re certainly big enough and quick enough to make a fine warrior.” He smiled. “Perhaps by the time I’m chieftain, you might serve in my warband.”

  Cadwalon’s words thrilled Bryn. At last someone saw his potential. But then he remembered that for the immediate future, he would be serving Cadwalon’s father. Could he overlook the terrible things this Dobunni chieftain had done? He reminded himself that he’d had no other offers. And however cursed and wicked Cadwyl might be, the chieftain was successful and powerful and had undoubtedly surrounded himself with skilled warriors. By spending time among them, Bryn would be able to learn a great deal. When he was finally ready to go off and fight the Romans, the fact that he need feel no loyalty to a man like Cadwyl might make leaving easier.

  He nodded. “Take me to your father and I will swear to him. If he will have me, that is.”

  “No need for that. Cadwyl doesn’t take oaths from his men. He simply offers them the choicest war booty and a life of ease and idleness when they aren’t engaged in combat. That is why his dun is crammed with skilled fighting men.”

  Bryn wondered what Cadwalon meant. Everyone knew that warriors were served first and given the choicest portions. They enjoyed a life of ease and comfort when there was no threat against their people. But even those things wouldn’t be enough for the warriors of Bryn’s tribe to give their loyalty to a man like Cadwyl. He found he was very curious to meet this strange southern chieftain—this man who defied the will of the gods and the rules of men.

  * * *

  As soon as Bryn saw Cadwyl’s dun, he was struck by the fact that the Dobunni settlement had clearly been attacked on more than one occasion. The earthworks showed evidence of being rebuilt several times and the palisade walls were badly scarred by fire on two sides. But it appeared the inhabitants of the fortress had not only withstood the assault but eventually gotten the better of their attackers. Arranged on poles around the entrance to the palisade were nearly a dozen rotting human heads. “That’s where my father will put the heads of my brothers, Awmlaad and Hueil, after he kills them,” Cadwalon said, his face split wide with a grin.

  Bryn had heard of trophy heads, but never seen one. From his Drui training, he understood the significance of the practice. The spirit resided within the skull, which meant that if a man’s head was detached from his body, he couldn’t return as a whole being from the Otherworld to seek revenge. Still, as he passed by the empty-eyed, gruesome visages, Bryn felt a little sick. He wouldn’t like to think of his own head being stuck on a pole and left out for the birds and insects to feast on. As they entered the dun, he once again wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

  The inside of the hillfort reeked of charcoal fires, rotting meat, dung and animals. Bryn thought of Mordarach and the way the workshops, stables and midden were located away from the dwelling places and hall. But here, everything seemed to be mingled together. The smith was near the entrance, which wasn’t far from where the butchering was apparently done, which was only a little way from what appeared to be the kitchen. The smells of all those activities blended together to form a thick, odiferous haze over the whole fortress. By the time they reached the chieftain’s hall, Bryn was almost gagging.

  The inside of the hall was no better. It was dark and smoky, and a foul stench seemed to waft up from the rushes covering the floor. The place was crowded with fighting men. Most were dark like Cadwalon, although a few had red hair. Their necks and arms glinted with gold and enamelwork jewelry, but their hair and beards were long and matted and their crys and mantles torn and dirty. Looking at them, Bryn could almost see why the Romans were said to consider his people savages.

  And yet these coarse warriors looked utterly formidable. They were brawny and thickly-muscled, although many of them weren’t as tall as Bryn was. He told himself that if he trained with these men, he would learn the skills he needed to defeat the hated enemy.

  Cadwalon continued to push his way through the mass of warriors. Bryn followed behind him, trying to quell the nervousness in his belly
and appear assured and confident.

  All at once, Cadwalon leaned close and said, “That’s him. That’s Cadwyl.”

  Bryn squinted in the dim light and saw what looked like a bear seated on a stool near the hearth. A tangled mass of head hair and great, bushy beard obscured the man’s face and spilled over his shoulders, mingling with the thick black pelt he wore as a mantle. As Bryn drew near, he decided part of the reason Cadwyl had such an unkempt appearance was to make himself appear more formidable. He wasn’t a large man. He was wider than his son, but no taller. And much, much uglier. Cadwyl’s features were blunt and thick, his skin weathered and leathery. And then there was the hideous wound that cut through the place where his left eye should be. It was a face to give anyone nightmares.

  As Bryn approached, he felt Cadwyl’s good eye upon him, shrewd and calculating. Although he strove to appear calm, he was drenched with sweat, and his heart raced. He didn’t doubt that if Cadwyl disliked anything about him, the chieftain was capable of ordering him put to death and adding his head to the gory trophies guarding the gate of the dun. To make things worse, Bryn could sense that Cadwalon wasn’t altogether at ease either. They stopped a few paces away from Cadwyl. “This is Bryn ap Tarbelinus,” Cadwalon announced. “A man in search of a chieftain to fight for.”

  Cadwyl grinned. Then he jerked a great knife from his belt, the hilt decorated with gold wire and red and purple enamel and the blade fouled with dried blood. He held the knife as if he meant to lunge at Bryn and stab him in the chest. Then, abruptly, he turned to the carcass of a pig sitting on the table beside him and chopped off a hunk of meat. Skewering the meat on the tip of the knife blade, he held it out to Bryn.

  Bryn reached out and took the greasy chunk and put it in his mouth. As he chewed the rich, succulent meat, he realized that for better or worse, he was now Cadwyl’s man.