She hardened her heart. She could not breathe for the struggle in her. She loved him, and ever would. But to stay, to watch him with Nesta, to know the agony of imagining his hands on her, his body melting with the princess’s … she dared not. She could not stay.
“I dare not,” she whispered. Before he could stop her, she had gathered up her flowing cloak and slipped past him. She reached the stairs before he called to her. She hesitated, and then raced down the stairs away from his voice.
She avoided Rhys for two days. Instead, she was often in the company of Aidua, Griffith’s chaplain. She had hoped to find a priest here, to solemnize her union with Rhys, but no more. Instead, she sought solace from the chaplain, and comfort for her bruised spirit.
He was a strange figure, looking nothing like the priests she had known at the Norman court. He wore a white flowing robe, held at the waist, loosely, by a cordelier. His long white hair and beard were untrimmed, and his feet were bare.
But his voice was deep, musical, like the strings of a harp when the wind blows across them, and the soul that looked out from his deep-set eyes was prodigiously kind. He saw her most private thoughts, her instinct told her, understood their darkness, and reached to her to bring her into the light. She trusted him even in her misery, and clung to him like the father she had lost.
Aidua was the custodian of the great pennant of Cadwalla, and he guarded it jealously.
Even Prince Griffith did not know the secret place of safekeeping that held the Red Dragon. “I suspect,” he said, only half-amused, to Rhys, “that the priest keeps it in the cave of King Arthur, guarded by knights in full armor.” He turned to Aidua. “Is it not so?”
“As you will,” said Aidua. “The great pennant will lead the Cymry — at the proper time. Until then, men’s eyes shall not feast upon it.”
“But the time is now,” argued Rhys. “Were the Dragon to fly, all Wales would follow wherever it leads.”
“The time is not yet fulfilled,” said Aidua.
Griffith raised a goblet and proposed a toast. “To the right time!”
When the toast was drained, Rhys turned to speak again to the priest. But he had vanished as silently as a puff of wood smoke.
*
Nesta’s disposition was sunny as the shallows in a stream, reflecting light and chattering incessantly. Gwyn believed that no cloudy thought had ever touched that unwrinkled brow, for there was not time — in Nesta’s constant conversation — for the outside world to penetrate.
Nesta had now made a little song, which she played often for her ladies on the Welsh harp, on the theme of getting her bride clothes ready for her wedding. Gwyn clutched her white-knuckled hands in her lap, trying to restrain her emotions.
Finally, as Nesta dwelt lovingly on her new clothing, Gwyn asked her, “Are you planning to ride to war with Rhys?”
Nesta turned horrified eyes upon her. “Of course not. Women do not go to war. I should certainly not approve of any of my ladies going with the troops. That reminds me, Gwynllion, I have been meaning to speak to you for some time. I would like to see you dressed more fittingly. That gown you wear belonged to a maid and is unsuitable.”
Gwyn was ready to retort, hot words on the tip of her tongue. How would anyone expect her, a fugitive from Winchester, and again from Ludlow, to arrive at the court of South Wales arrayed like a Norman lady? But she bit the words back and hoped that her indignation did not show on her face.
She need not have worried, for Nesta would not notice anyway. She waited for Nesta to offer some solution, such as ordering new clothes for her, but the offer never came. Nesta turned back to her maids, and Gwyn was left to see that she had no place here. There was no hope for it. Gwyn would have to look to Rhys for help, once again. At length she found him in the outer courtyard with Caerleon. They were going over lists of supplies needed for the army’s offensive.
“Rhys,” she said, “I want to go home. Right now, before winter comes.”
Rhys stared, amazed. “Why?”
Caerleon moved back, but stayed as a spectator, his eyes, bright with mischief, moving from one to the other as they talked.
“Because that’s my home, and this is not.”
Rhys objected. “But you are comfortable here, safe. You do not even know whether your grandfather still lives.”
“I have made inquiries,” she said. “Aidua the priest says he lives. I wish to go to him.”
Rhys shook his head. “I can’t spare the men to take you.”
“I have no place here,” she repeated. “I am going home.”
“Alone?” His jaw was set in anger.
Caerleon slipped away, unobtrusively.
Rhys and Gwyn were left alone. Rhys put his hands on Gwyn’s shoulders. She shook them off.
“Please be patient,” he begged. “For our people, if not for you and me.”
Gwyn looked up at him beseechingly and said, “You have used me shamefully.”
Rhys said, “But you were willing. You told me you loved me.”
Gwyn said, sorrowfully, “I did and I do. And I cannot believe that this alliance requires our sacrifice. You need not marry that woman.”
He might have said more, but Nesta called down from the stairs, “Lord Rhys! I have need of you. At once.” The golden head withdrew.
Rhys hesitated. Stretching out a placating hand to Gwyn, he said, “We have much to talk about. Wait for me here. I will return in a moment.”
Gwyn stood alone after Rhys had left to obey Nesta’s summons. Her reflections were gloomy. Prince Henry had suggested the same kind, of arrangement, with much more comfort, and she had turned him down. Now, so it seemed, Rhys was offering her the same kind of left-handed love.
So what was there for her to do? She knew she would not accept the role of mistress, and Rhys was determined that his marriage to Princess Nesta would unite the Welsh. Clearly, there was no place for Gwyn here at Brecknock.
*
Weeks went by, and still Griffith did not fall in with Rhys’s plans. He hemmed and hawed about gathering his soldiers, he showed no sign of readiness for battle, and he would not even help gather supplies for a spring offensive. Rhys was furious. What did Prince Griffith plan to do for Wales?
While they fought, Gwyn laid her own plans for returning to her mother’s people. Dewi, surprisingly, agreed to join her. “I can’t abide these southerners,” he said drily. Kan, too, was willing, because Morwyth seized the opportunity to leave Brecknock. “If I could only get to the seashore,” she said, “my cough will be better, I know it will.”
“Are you strong enough?” protested Gwyn. The girl was achingly thin, and coughing convulsed her body as though she were on the rack.
“I’ll make it,” promised Morwyth, reaching for Ifan’s hand and smiling tenderly at him. “I have to.”
At length they were ready. Dewi, Ifan, Morwyth, with four ponies, and saddlebags full of grain and cheese. Before the sun rose the next day, the little party went through the gates and took the road upstream along the Honddu River. By noon they had reached a ford and crossed the river. They veered to the north. The three Brecon Beacons receded into the distance behind them. Their way lay across a heather-covered moor, but ahead of them they could see the great mountain ridges, cloudy blue against the sky.
The next day, traveling hard, they were in the heart of the mountains. They topped the ridge, keeping a sharp lookout now, and started down into the valley beyond.
Ominous leaden clouds hovered. As the light waned, the wind came up and sent the heavy gray clouds down upon them.
The first gusts to strike were sharp with slivers of ice, and the travelers pulled up their cloaks to cover their faces. A sudden burst of wind brought stinging hail pelting down at them. Morwyth’s pony stumbled, and she fell. Gwyn dismounted quickly and ran back to her. Ifan was frantically trying to lift her up. Morwyth moaned. It took a few minutes for Gwyn to realize that Morwyth was seriously injured.
They would ha
ve to stay on a mountain ledge, as Morwyth must be sheltered from the storm. There was an overhanging ledge just ahead, and Dewi and a sobbing Ifan carried Morwyth to where an outcropping provided a little protection.
Gwyn wrapped her own cloak around the girl. Blood oozed from a deep gash on Morwyth’s head, where she had hit a stone when she fell. Gwyn pressed the gash together, to stop the blood, and felt a sickening softness under her fingertips, softness where there should have been hard bone.
Mortally wounded, Morwyth slipped into a deep sleep. The others sat on their heels around her, trying futilely with their bodies to protect Morwyth as she slipped away from them.
Perhaps an hour passed. The sleet pounded their backs, iced their hair, froze their feet. Morwyth roused. Struggling to her elbow, she stared without knowing them. “I see the fairy folk — the Tylwyth Teg — they’re all around me. They’re taking me away! Ifan! Help me!”
Gwyn looked around, so convincing was Morwyth’s wild cry, but there was nothing except the smothering clouds and the sleet. Then suddenly, conscious of the deepening silence, Gwyn realized that Morwyth had died.
What came after that was a nightmare. Ifan swore he saw wolves following the ponies. He would not leave Morwyth to be eaten by wolves! he raved. He lifted his wife’s lifeless body and laid it across the saddle of the pony she had been riding. The pony shied and then would have bolted in fear, but Dewi held the reins tight.
The little cavalcade moved along the mountain path, on a road that was as wide as a man’s outstretched arms, with sheer cliff on one side and an endless drop on the other. Gwyn looked down into the valley below, but it was shrouded in clouds, and she could see nothing but the tops of a couple of trees in the mist. She did not look again.
Dewi led the way, Gwyn right behind, followed by Ifan leading Morwyth’s pony. The sleet turned to snow. Behind her rose a weird chant — Ifan was mourning his wife. He had turned now from the ancient Welsh mourning dirge to broken syllables, and Gwyn realized that he was half mad with sorrow. She stopped to talk to him, to tell him she shared his grief, but he did not heed her.
He shouted, “If it had not been for you, and your insane desire to travel in this weather, my Morwyth would have been alive now!”
“But she wanted to go —” Gwyn began. Then Ifan sprang at her.
There, on the narrow ledge, he raised his dagger to strike her to the heart. She fought him off, reached for the dirk at her belt, but he was much the stronger, and was made irresistible by the force of his lunatic anger.
The snow had turned to slush on the path, and she lost her footing. She slid toward the edge of the track. She fell to one knee. Ifan fell over her, and she was safe — for a moment.
Ifan was intent upon killing her. His loud cry of frustration that she had escaped him thus far echoed along the mountain.
She knew Dewi was coming, must be coming. But he might not get to her in time. She must resist Ifan’s next lunge or she would be dead. But Ifan slipped on the wet snow. A panicky pony behind him nudged his arm, and Ifan fell against the cliff wall.
The respite was short. Gwyn turned to run to her pony, when she saw a figure coming out of the mist. It was a fairy figure, a figure from the Tylwyth Teg, it might even be Merlin!
It seemed to Gwyn, in her fear, that the figure moved like a disembodied spirit through the ponies and stopped Ifan before he could lunge again. She saw Ifan fall to his knees, sobbing noisily. She knew, then that he was no longer a danger to her.
Whether it was Merlin, or one of the fairy folk, Gwyn had been rescued, she thought dimly. Her last thought, as the world turned dark and she sank in a swoon on the narrow track, was, “I had not thought I wished so much to live!”
4
Gwyn slipped in and out of awareness. When she was awake, for moments at a time, she could not make sense of her surroundings.
Vague bits of recollection served only to bewilder her. There was Ifan — wasn’t it Ifan? But what was he doing with the knife? He was lifting it, ready to plunge it —
She recalled painful jolting, face down, with a strong smell of horse torturing her stomach. There had been snow — or was it tears on her face? But the reason for tears escaped her.
But at last she did rouse enough to see, sitting nearby on the floor, the same figure she had seen in the mist. Whether her rescuer were a fairy person or a magician, nonetheless she was grateful beyond words. “Who are you?” The need to know came from a level deep within her.
“So you’re awake at last.”
The man looked at her, and then she knew him. He was Aidua, the priest. “Now you know who I am,” he said. “Best sleep again.”
“Ifan?” And then, with returning memory, she sat up. “And Morwyth? Was she truly dead?”
“Truly. The fall, of course, killed her. But she would have been dead in a sennight, no longer, for she carried within her own crossing into the next world.”
“The cough,” agreed Gwyn. “But Ifan blames me.”
“Perhaps he will come to his senses,” comforted Aidua. “Does your head throb? Yes? I have a remedy here — drink this.”
He put a cup to her lips and made her drink the concoction quickly, without pause. It was nasty, and she made a grimace and in a moment was fast asleep.
When she awoke, she was marvelously refreshed. The cave was warm and dry, and surprisingly spacious. The room where she slept adjoined another larger room, where the three men — Aidua, Dewi, and Ifan — sat at leisure around a blazing fire. She was given a bowl of rabbit stew, and asked for another before her ravenous hunger abated.
“Where is this place?” she asked.
He told her a many-syllabled name, but she was no wiser after she heard it. But Aidua had a question of his own. “What happened at the court after I left? Did they miss me?”
She said, “They all missed you. Princess Nesta does not know how she can marry without you.”
Aidua snorted. “I could not preside at that marriage, for I totally disapprove of it. It is no use yoking a great stallion with a young rabbit.” The comparison was earthy, but bore much truth in it. Dewi said, glancing at Gwyn, “I believe that Lord Rhys does not wish to marry the princess, but the alliance is of great importance. He needs the army of South Wales and the Red Dragon banner.”
Aidua frowned and shook his head. “It is not yet time,” he said, “for Wales to unite and send the Normans where they came from.”
Gwyn said, “Not time? What are you saying? Does that mean that the union will go down to defeat?”
And Rhys killed? she thought, but did not say.
Aidua said, “Don’t worry about Prince Rhys, for he is not to die untimely, but the union will fail.”
The old man was inclined to talk. “The sacred banner is safe from profane eyes,” he said. “The last time it marched at the head of the Welsh was when Cadwallon, son of the great King Cadfan, the most cultured and renowned of all kings, rode side by side with Penda of Mercia to do battle with the Northumbrians.”
“King Cadwallon was killed, wasn’t he?” Dewi interposed.
“By the wicked Oswald,” agreed Aidua solemnly. “Had Cadwallon not died, and with him Urien of Rheged, the whole island would now be Celtic.”
Ifan sneered. “And you would be archbishop, I doubt not.”
Aidua fixed his great luminous eyes on the sullen Ifan. “Better had I been,” he intoned seriously, “than the spawn of the devil that rules now.”
Gwyn realized she did not need to dissimulate before Aidua, for he could read her mind better than she could. And yet Gwyn felt a lowness of mind that she could not shake off. If Rhys were to wed Nesta, it would all be in vain, for the alliance between the tribes of Wales would not in the long run win out.
It seemed a high price to pay, at least for Gwyn. She shrugged off the thought, but yet it lingered, lurking at the fringes of her mind, ready to pounce. When she struggled to her feet and managed to get to the mouth of the cave, she looked out upon a world
of white. The snow had stopped while she was asleep. The storm appeared over, but Aidua shook his head. “A pause only, but it will be enough.”
Telling her to stay where she was, he left the cave, taking Ifan and Dewi with him. When at length they came back, she realized where they had been. Aidua had buried Morwyth, with the ceremony that Ifan needed to ease his grief. And yet, she felt that Ifan had only forgotten his grief because of numbness. It would come back to him, sometime in the future, and Gwyn could only hope that he would bear it better then than he could now.
The storm resumed, as soon as the burial was over. It was not until the third day that the sun cleared away the last lingering storm clouds, carrying them out of the valley like sheep running before the shepherds. From here, looking to the northwest, she could see the snowcapped peak of Plynlymon Fawr. Thus far they had gotten on their journey to Port Madoc. She looked questioningly at Aidua, who said, “More than halfway. The rest is easier now. We will go along the sea.”
“We?” Gwyn echoed.
“I will go with you, for I have no wish to linger near South Wales.”
Aidua led them into the valley and took a lower track, leading toward the sea. It was better traveling along the valleys, inland from the sea, but near enough so that, when the wind set right, the breath of salt was sometimes carried to them. The hills were gentler here, the fords easier to make across the rivers. They left Plynlymon Fawr far behind them, and appearing on their right hand as they traveled to the north, lay the great snowcapped peak of Snowdon. It was the same mountain she had seen from the Norman side of the border.
As they camped that night, Aidua explained that to the east of Snowdon lay the mountains of Clwyd. He himself came from there, as did Rhys. Caerleon, on the other hand, came from the seaward province of old Wales, the one called Dyfed. And Dyfed in the south was very close to Pembroke, which had been settled by the English under William the Conqueror, and was now called Little England. “The southerners,” Aidua explained, “are a notoriously unstable race.” It was clear to Gwyn that Aidua did not trust Caerleon.
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