Song Hereafter

by Jean Gill

  ‘We always win, you and I!’ Rhys replied, seemingly unaware of the hurt he’d caused. ‘I need a new challenge! I think you underestimate Long Shadow!’

  ‘You are the best of us,’ acknowledged Maredudd, ‘and with me you will always win! With this...’ words failed him. ‘I do not want to race against you, knowing I must win. There is no sport in that!’

  ‘My Lords, if I can make a suggestion?’ Dragonetz was all humility. ‘Clearly, I am a beginner and a liability but there is a man even worse than I... if Lord Rhys is the best coracle fisherman, then he should pair with the worst, and I with Lord Maredudd.’

  He gave a guileless smile at his proposed partner, who glared back.

  ‘Who?’ asked Rhys.

  ‘John Halfpenny.’

  They all stared at the moneyer, who turned white and stammered, ‘My Lords, I... I...’ He caught Dragonetz’ eye. He gulped. ‘It would be an honour,’ he said.

  They tossed a coin for which pair should start first downriver, established the rules, allowed time for wagers to be placed and a welcome committee to set off along the river to the point where the competitors would land. The pairs would then run home with their catch and coracles. Whichever pair reached Caerfyrddin Castle safely, with the bigger catch by weight, would be declared winner.

  ‘YOU’RE GOING NIGHT fishing?’

  Estela was looking at him wide-eyed as if he were talking in a foreign language.

  Patiently, he repeated, ‘It’s a contest. We are going out in coracles – the Welsh use them for fishing. We’ll be in pairs, to see who can catch the most fish – they say salmon or sewin will jump into the nets, and maybe eels too.’

  ‘At night,’ repeated Estela stupidly.

  ‘It’s a seven-stars night,’ explained Dragonetz. ‘The fishing is best after the first floods of autumn and when it’s dark enough to only see seven stars.’

  ‘It’s night, it’s November and you’ve never even seen a coracle, never mind rowed one. I take it that the two of you row the boat?’

  ‘I have seen one!’ Dragonetz was aggrieved. ‘They keep them beside the stables. And it’s a paddle, not an oar. And just one man to a boat. Though they say there are two-men boats in Ceredigion.’ He deeply regretted not bringing one back. Two-men boats would have been fun. He could have invited Estela to be his partner.

  ‘You and Rhys, partners?’ she asked, disapproving.

  That would have been the perfect partnership but he knew Estela had seen what he had. ‘No,’ he reassured her. ‘Me and Maredudd.’

  ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing like being out at night in the pitch-black on the sort of river men drown in by daylight, with a man so jealous of you he’d let a tree accidentally knock you unconscious.’

  That was exactly what Dragonetz was looking forward to – a challenge that could win hearts without sacking a castle, where the only risk was to himself. That, and the sheer enjoyment of learning something new in the company of young men as desperate for action as he was.

  ‘They’re placing high bets on the outcome. We’re the longest odds,’ he told her with satisfaction. Trying to sound responsible, he added, ‘The men need an outlet for their high spirits, after campaigning hard.’

  She wasn’t fooled. ‘As do you,’ she said. ‘Well, if the odds are stacked against you, then you’d better win.’

  He felt the rush of excitement coursing through him. ‘I intend to,’ he said.

  Her lips tightened in a way that suggested the wise traveller’s disapproval but she said nothing more.

  ‘I’ll take care,’ he promised her and kissed her. ‘Sleep well.’

  WITHIN THE HOUR, MAREDUDD and Dragonetz were at work, trailing a net between the two coracles, with Rhys and Halfpenny somewhere behind them. Going first should be an advantage thought Dragonetz. We’ll have first pickings and if the fish are disturbed by us, they’ll be wary. But then, perhaps disturbed fish would jump more readily into the net? He had no idea whatsoever, and no intention of asking Maredudd, who would probably bite his head off for making a noise.

  Pitch-black overestimated the light provided by the obligatory seven stars but Dragonetz’ elation was only slightly dampened by the chill mist hanging over the water, which rolled endlessly before his fragile craft. His paddle dipped and rose, caught an awkward angle and made a scudding series of splashes. His partner hissed disapproval.

  Although unseen, Maredudd was but a net’s length away in his identical one-man boat. The coracle reminded Dragonetz of half a walnut shell, magicked to giant size for some children’s tale of adventure. So light it bobbed and swung with each whim of the current, the coracle was more highly-strung than any horse Dragonetz had ever ridden. Through trial and error, he was learning to place and pace the paddle-stroke or the boat danced in a dizzy circle and tangled the net, earning more tsks through gritted teeth.

  Dragonetz could see his end of the net but not where it reached the other coracle and his invisible partner. Maredudd’s skilled paddle made barely a splash above the gush of rills entering the main flow, or splitting round drowned trees.

  Boulders near the bank broke the verses and the water music sang its journey in Dragonetz’ imagination until he could read the darkness. The east bank was more hazardous, whirls and stops, like a trumpet call then a flute, jarring; the west bank smoother, a consistent shake of tambour, an underlying rhythm. The coracles held to the middle and, now, Dragonetz could hear where the middle was, by listening to the banks either side. He could hear where Maredudd was by the noises the water made round the other coracle, the soft parting as men, boats and all creatures on and in the river, ran with the current.

  All but the fish they sought. This was the season the salmon and sewin ran upriver, driven by an instinct stronger than any current, stronger even than waterfalls, the Welsh Lords had told Dragonetz. Hold your net until they come and they will rush into it like a man to a woman’s arms, for the same urge drives them and they can’t hold back or escape.

  Could it really be so easy? Only if the fish came. An owl hooted and a small furry beast screamed. Night noises. And in the swirl of waters, Dragonetz heard something else, something he had only heard in his opium dreams. The river songs took different parts, played each its own melody and yet all harmonised in a beauty that brought tears.

  Mists gathered, parted, streaked dragon’s breath across the waters, whispered legends. Caerfyrddin, Myrddin’s place, full of magic. On such a night, anything was possible. Dragonetz’ paddle dipped and rose. He was more alone than he’d ever been in his life yet he felt no fear. The mists thickened, confused the music of the banks but the angle of the net told him he was still heading true, if Maredudd knew his way.

  The mist breathed in and out, a living being, and in it shapes formed and murmured to him in the language of another world. Beyond the dragon’s breath, he saw another vessel loom, a barque, one he’d seen before, the heart of the siren-song. He could even distinguish words, ‘Dragon, Dragonetz...’ then the vision wavered into white flames, shivered to wisps and disappeared, taking the ethereal music, leaving the slap of water.

  ‘You know I could kill you here,’ the voice whispered, disembodied. Dragonetz had been so lost in the night world, he took a minute to adjust, to realise the voice was all too human. ‘Coracles tip so easily and the water is deep and cold. You would not get back into the boat without help.’

  ‘I know,’ Dragonetz whispered back, still unafraid. Even a whisper carried too far as if ancient demons might arise from the river-bed. The wise traveller could have told him the names of such demons and how many limbs and teeth they possessed. Maybe it was better not to know. There were demons enough abroad this night.

  ‘What would you do if you fell in the water?’ he asked Maredudd, as if they were discussing dinner. Which perhaps they were; fishes’ dinner.

  ‘Turn the coracle upside down, hold to it, bang on it like a drum and call for help. Hope that somebody heard.’ Maredudd’s wor
ds were visible to Dragonetz as wraiths of mist, dank and deadly, presaging his doom. ‘Nobody will come for you, Long Shadow.’

  The net shifted slightly and Dragonetz crossed himself, prepared for the jerk and capsize that would end his life but thinking of ways to live on.

  The jerk when it came was a slippery, silver tidal wave accompanied by Welsh curses and then, impossibly, laughter. Instinctively, Dragonetz held the net for dear life, half-thinking he could cling to Maredudd’s boat if he lost his own in a struggle. The net was nearly wrenched from his hands as fish after fish jumped into, over and around the net.

  ‘Hold fast! They are running! Bring the net to me!’ Maredudd hurled instructions as the net bulged, fighting like one trapped beast. Dragonetz used his paddle to bring his coracle nearer the other. He reached across with his end of the net, helped Maredudd lift the catch, close and tie the net into a trap. This would have been the ideal moment to catch Dragonetz off-balance.

  ‘It’s too heavy,’ Maredudd complained, shaking some fish out until he was happy the net would hold. The mist cleared enough for Dragonetz to see the glittering catch landed in Maredudd’s boat, flipping tails.

  ‘Would you like to beat your little brother?’ Dragonetz asked.

  ‘He might do just as well,’ Maredudd pointed out.

  ‘But not twice as well.’ Dragonetz produced a second net from the bottom of his boat, and threw the end to Maredudd.

  ‘We never use two nets!’ Maredudd spoke, then thought, and grinned. ‘But there’s no rule against it.’

  There was no time to waste while the shoal was running and as soon as the net was placed, the coracles parted to allow another shining mass to hit the mesh. This time Dragonetz was prepared for the body blow and the judgement of how big a haul they could keep and carry. With Maredudd’s advice, he took the catch aboard, knotted the net safely and they paddled onwards, more slowly.

  ‘That was fine sport, my Lord,’ whispered Dragonetz.

  ‘The best, Long Shadow. Save your strength to carry the catch back to the castle,’ was the reply. They understood one another.

  Behind the mists on the west bank was the red eye of fire. Dragon’s breath and dragon flame changed to men’s figures and beacons as they neared the landing stage, where the welcome party was waiting. Murmurs became shouts as the men named Maredudd, saw the catch that Dragonetz held up with pride.

  When Maredudd held up the second haul, men dropped to their knees before him and talked of miracles, signs from God. With a more important goal in mind, Maredudd barely took time to enjoy the adulation. He threw Dragonetz’ catch into a sack, tied it like a knapsack to the knight’s back, strapped him into the coracle and told him to get going.

  As he set off, Dragonetz was aware of Maredudd stealing a man’s cloak to enclose his own catch, for nobody had thought of a second net and Maredudd would not have Rhys cry foul for taking the other team’s sack. Then, strapped into his own coracle, Maredudd caught up with Dragonetz and they jogged the path back to the castle. The supporters who accompanied them were already arguing about how much money they would make, as they lit the way with torches.

  They must look ridiculous thought Dragonetz, like giant tortoises stumbling along in a race to beat the hare. Only the hare in this instance was another pair of tortoises. His heart pounding and his sense of smell deadened from brackish water and fishiness, Dragonetz followed in Maredudd’s footsteps, at his pace, and knew they would win. He could feel that Maredudd knew it too. There were many ways to be brothers-in-arms.

  Arrival at Caerfyrddin castle was an anti-climax but it was good to drop the weight of coracle and catch. The fish were weighed in the pan-balance installed specially for the occasion in the courtyard, and the noise suggested appropriate respect for their achievement.

  Dragonetz barely noticed the weighing and comments. Sweat ran down his back, probably augmented by river-water and fishy fluids but he was oblivious to his appearance. He saw only the woman who had not gone to sleep but who was waiting there for his return, wearing blue ribbons, his colours. In a few strides, she was in his arms and he whirled her around, ignoring the instinctive recoil as she inhaled his perfume.

  ‘We did it!’ he told her.

  ‘Of course you did.’ She smiled. And somehow Maredudd was not included in either her words or her smile. That made Dragonetz feel even better.

  There was even more cheering as Rhys and Halfpenny appeared, equally repellent in smell and appearance; equally exuberant. Rhys unloaded a catch bigger than Maredudd would have considered safe or portable. It should have been a winner. Maredudd and Dragonetz exchanged a glance of pure triumph as Rhys saw the two nets and his face fell. No weighing was needed to declare the winning team and matters quickly proceeded to the settlement of wagers accompanied by the necessary jugs of wine.

  Even though he’d carried only his coracle, John Halfpenny was in the worst condition and he dropped to the ground, lying on his back, panting.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dragonetz told him quietly.

  ‘I have spent so long with fishes I am quite floundering.’ Halfpenny opened one eye. ‘Battles,’ he said. ‘I prefer battles. And campaigns. Bloody ones.’ He shut his eyes again. ‘A bath. I be needing a bath.’

  That was a sentiment with which all contestants could agree and despite the late hour, they found water. As much ducking and splashing as was possible for four men in a horse trough provided enough spectator sport to finish a match that was declared ‘legendary’ by all who were there.

  Chapter 23

  Homecoming was a triumph. The Deheubarth men entered the stronghold in Dinefwr to impromptu fanfares and a growing crowd, as those who’d been left behind dropped what they’d been doing, to welcome their warriors.

  Riding together at the rear of the party, Estela and Dragonetz benefited from the increased volume of roars as word of victory spread, and ever more people joined the throng.

  ‘You must be proud,’ Estela murmured.

  ‘I am. That was the tastiest fish I have ever eaten! We should introduce sewin to the Ebro.’

  ‘Parsley sauce,’ observed Estela, ‘and I don’t think sewin would swim up to Zaragoza. You’d lose them at sea.’

  ‘Wave,’ he told her. ‘They think we’re heroes.’

  Estela waved and smiled graciously. If Aliénor could only see how they’d carried out her commands. They were here in the heart of Deheubarth, honoured guests.

  As the crowd parted, she saw the Welsh nobles, waiting at the foot of the main tower, across the courtyard. Although their clothes would seem rustic in Aliénor’s court and the colours common, they were at least tailored and in blue, red and green rather than the dull browns to which Estela had become accustomed. Which she herself was wearing.

  Although she had been schooling herself to return to society, Estela was shocked by how far she had grown used to living with camp followers and soldiers, living a spartan and communal existence. She flushed at how she must look and glanced at Dragonetz.

  He had never looked finer, his hauberk and Damascene sword marking him out, long black locks escaping from the mail coif. He had flatly refused to let any man cut his hair, to the point where his comrades threatened to do so in his sleep, but he had conceded over facial hair. Estela thought his Welsh moustache rather attractive but maybe her judgement had been as corrupted as her behaviour by months in Llansteffan.

  She glanced down at her grease-stained gown. If only women wore armour! ‘Wave,’ she told Dragonetz. ‘They think we’re heroes.’

  The men they’d travelled with, lived with, and slept with, were dismounting, clasping loved ones. Every stone in the castle rang with love and laughter as old men welcomed their sons home; wives sent their children, giggling, to pull on their fathers’ cloaks and fight for attention; grandmothers clucked and the warriors who’d been left behind demanded battle tales.

  Estela watched a toddler trip as he reached cautiously for this strange man, his father, home from the wars
. The man scooped him up, soothed him, called him ‘bachgennyn’, ‘sweet little boy,’ and Estela’s heart broke into a million pieces. She kept the smile fixed on her face, dismounted, ignored Dragonetz calling to her and used the crowd to disappear, fight her way through to an arch and into darkness. Where she sobbed until she could control herself, pat her face dry, fix the smile back in place and then return to the mass of people.

  When she had worked her way back to Dragonetz, she answered his anxious look. ‘Just relieving myself before everyone here has the same need.’

  He nodded acceptance of her excuse but the anxiety stayed in his eyes. He knew her too well.

  ‘There is news,’ he told her. ‘While we reclaimed Deheubarth, Henri has won England. He is Stephen’s heir. The summer agreement is formal now, enshrined in a treaty and signed by all parties.’

  ‘And Stephen’s health?’

  ‘Fading.’

  So, time would bring Henri – and Aliénor – to the throne of England, God willing. Meanwhile, their loyal subjects must endeavor to win over their less-than-loyal subjects in Deheubarth.

  In the familiar routine of castle life, horses were stabled, men billeted and guests allocated beds. Dragonetz and Estela were now guests. Treated as a lady, Estela remembered how a lady should behave, and her reward came in the form of two clean gowns, one red and one blue. Not all the finery of Aliénor’s court seemed as beautiful to her as these simple garments. The addition of a pair of new boots was the cherry on the cake.

  Peace and security were their new bedfellows, along with John Halfpenny and Wyn, who ensured a curtain was in place before Estela’s head touched the pillow. When she woke in the night, she could take comfort in privacy; tracing the familiar outline of shoulder-blades, of the muscles in a man’s sword-arm.

  ‘When can we go home?’ she whispered.

  Dragonetz was not asleep either. He turned to hold her. ‘Rhys says we must stay until Twelfth Night. It was not an invitation.’

  ‘Another six weeks.’ Her heart sank. ‘And we spend Christmas here.’