A Cup of Blood

by Troy A Hill

  "We came for a wedding feast," Fadog said. He attempted to stand straighter. "There is a feast for your guests, is there not?"

  "You are welcome to stay for the meal, Fadog." Bleddyn said. Evidently, rules of hospitality in these lands meant you couldn't even turn your family enemy away on a wedding day.

  “Leave your weapons with the gate guards,” Bleddyn said. “And, you’ll need to camp outside. We’re out of room in the caer,” Bleddyn added.

  “The hospitality of Penllyn is renowned throughout Powys, or what’s left of the kingdom,” Fadog said with a huge smirk. He shifted his gaze to Cadoc. “You could have wed my Lowri and be celebrating a renewed Powys today.”

  “Sometimes, Fadog,” Bleddyn said, his voice firm, “ambition and border disputes don’t dictate who weds whom. You need to take the crown of Powys on your own.”

  "Perhaps, Penllyn, perhaps." He said. "Since I doubt you'll be offering us water to wash our boots clean, I suggest we move to your best mead and toast the happy couple before my men and I have to find a place to camp."

  38

  The Abbot

  Bleddyn dispatched a runner to bring several jugs of ale back to Fadog and his men. He requested a mug of mead only for Fadog.

  “His best mead,” Fadog called after the young stable lad who jogged away to get the drink. Bleddyn only gave a thin, tight smile at that. Fadog grabbed his mug and took a sip.

  “You call this your best, Penllyn?” Fadog grimaced as he took another sip. “I’ve had better horse piss than this.”

  “I didn’t say it was my best, Ffransys,” Bleddyn said and turned away.

  Lord Emlyn watched as Penllyn guards came to collect the larger weapons from Fadog's retinue. They left only belt knives. Standard practice for guests in a lord's home. Stable hands followed along and took charge of both the returned Penllyn horses, and Fadog's.

  Gwen and I drifted back toward the keep as Fadog, and his entourage mingled with the guests. There were now more Penllyn guards with bows or crossbows around the edges of the keep's main yard.

  “What was that about washing boots and water?” I asked Gwen when we away from the Lords. I remembered that Cadoc had a girl clean our boots, but I wasn’t sure of the meaning behind Bleddyn’s statement.

  “It’s a Cymry custom.” She laughed. “I forget you are not used to our ways. To offer someone water to clean their boots is a sign that you honour them as a guest, and they are welcome in your home.”

  “Ah…” I said. “I wouldn’t offer to spit on Fadog’s boots, let alone give him water after that exchange.” Gwen laughed at my comment. “Is he always that slimy?” I asked.

  “Today was one of his good days.” Her expression darkened. “Let’s just say that the animosity between the two cantrefi, Fadog and Penllyn, are several generations old. Fadog lords never care for their people, only for expansion and conquest.”

  “Come, let us find a place to sit” she added. “I could use a drink of something strong after that exchange.”

  I laughed. I had yet to see Gwen drink anything but water.

  Gwen had grabbed two mugs from the serving tables and poured wine into both. We found a spot on a bench near the cottages that kept me in the shade. "Bleddyn has a fondness for apples," she said. "The wine in Britain is far from desirable, so he has his vintners mix other fruit in with the grapes in the fermentation."

  “I smelled such last night,” I said. A large shadow drifted closer to us.

  "I just be on the way to watch for the abbot," Ruadh said as he pulled a stool over to join us. He had donned a clean, grey tunic. His ornately carved, dark wooden cross caught my eye. It was exquisite work. Whoever had carved it was a master craftsman. It made the simple carved ivory one I wore seem simple.

  “What be in your cup, Mair?” he asked with a wink.

  “Wine,” I said and held it out toward him. “Would you like a sip?”

  “Only a sip?” he said as he took the mug. He drank it in three large swallows. “You need to be drinkin’ mead, me girl,” he added, then shifted to a whisper. “Especially if I have to be drainin’ your mug for ya.”

  “How fares the abbot and the monastery?” Gwen asked. “I spent the last month with Mair and haven’t been in Penllyn to check in.”

  “All is well,” Ruadh rumbled. “The abbot sent Iolo off to Penda. It’s time he was to visit his mother, and that trip be not too far out of his way.” Our bearish monk glanced at me. “Penda be king of Mercia, the Saxon kingdom to Penllyn’s east.”

  “The abbot,” Gwen asked, “wants to expand churches into the pagan lands?”

  “More like the council of Bishops,” Ruadh said. “The Anglo bishops from Canterbury are reaching out to Lords and Kings, with the blessings of the Roman Church. They’re good at converting a lord, and when enough of the lords convert, the kings feel the pressure.” He glanced at me and winked. “And when they get a king to convert, the peasants are forced to convert along with him.”

  “That never goes well,” I said. “I’ve been in a few areas when that happened. Funny, the clergy doing the converting never seem to stick around and educate the common folks on the new religion.”

  “Aye,” Ruadh grinned. “All the villagers know is the baptism and the communion supper. We heard of a bunch of villagers down in Wessex that kept pouring water on each other at every meal. The Cymry bishop nearby had to send monks around to each village to help them learn right.”

  “Such a pity to force the old faiths away,” Gwen said. She shook her head and stared off toward the distance.

  Ruadh nodded in agreement.

  "That be why the bishops be trying to grow churches in Mercia," he continued. "If Brother Iolo gets permission to assist the Thanes of Penda who have converted, our monks and friars can head over to help build a church in that part of the land. The friars can stay long enough to train new clergy, or we can send a monk every week for mass, around as we do in Penllyn."

  Ruadh’s eyes wandered the courtyard. “Ah, they be bringing out the mead. I best check to be sure it’s good enough for our abbot,” He said with a wink as he rose. “Lord Penllyn takes pride in his mead.”

  I glanced around after Ruadh headed off. One of the serving lads at the table filled my former mug for him. The golden rays of the late afternoon sun washed the main yard of the fort. A small table, suitable for two, stood in a place of honour in front of a long table. That would be the table for the bridal couple. Linen cloths in bright green and blue decorated those two tables.

  Men and women from the small town atop the hill brought out stools and chairs from the Keep's great hall. Lord and Lady Penllyn moved about them and helped where they could.

  Like many other cultures, the act of the wedding itself wasn't the notable event. The feast in honour of it was the real celebration.

  The guards were careful to make sure that no one who came in for the festivities carried any weapon other than a belt knife. Few of the folks from the villages around the hill had such weapons, so the guards usually just smiled and waved the yeomen and their families through.

  A portly man in a long grey tunic entered the grounds. He carried a staff topped with a cross and led a small band of men dressed in simple grey tunics. Each wore an odd haircut that I'd learned was the Celtic version of a monk's tonsure. Their heads had been shaved to the mid-point of the crown, but the hair behind that was kept shoulder length. Each wore an intricate wooden cross on a simple cord.

  “The abbot,” Gwen said. She must have sensed my angst at men of the church in our midst. She snuck an arm around me for a quick hug.

  Still, the sight of their holy symbols and monks tonsures gave my stomach a flutter. After my time with the Witch Hunters, I was still leery of the church. Ruadh hurried toward them, wearing a broad grin. The abbot held his arms out and embraced my new bearish friend.

  “He is a fine man, and understanding of the old ways,” Gwen sent. "Remember, that the Cymry church regards well the old traditions
. This abbot and the bishops of the Cymry church are unlike the Roman clergy. They revere our goddess, The Lady, as the holiest of all saints."

  I toyed with the ivory cross that hung down on my chest. “A few weeks ago, I believed in no gods,” I whispered. “Now, an ancient goddess has noticed me. The local abbot believes that this goddess of yours to be the Virgin Mother?”

  "Goddess of ours. She seems to have a special interest in you," Gwen reminded me. "To adopt our goddess as a saint, the Church created a legend which says the Holy Mother visited Britain when she and her young son fled from Rome."

  Ruadh led the abbot our way. He was, perhaps a finger's width or two taller than I. The abbot's girth appeared to be food and age. His smile, however, was wide and sunny. He passed his staff to Ruadh and bowed toward us. The cross on his chest swung out as he bent. It was at least as well crafted as Ruadh's. Whoever had made these was a master carver.

  Gwen curtseyed, and I jerked my eyes off the holy symbol and curtsied.

  "Lady Gwenhwyfar," the abbot said in a deep baritone. His grey hair, cut in the same tonsure as his monks, was almost pure white. "Your presence here today blesses us all."

  "Abbott Heilyn, you are most kind," Gwen said. "May I present the Lady Mair, my sister in service to The Holy Lady?"

  Before I could get in another curtsey, he grasped my hands in his. Thick callouses told me he worked just as hard at whatever task was before him as those he supervised. I liked that in a man with a title.

  "Brother Ruadh informed me of your presence," he said smiling. "Blessings upon you, sister. You are welcome in this land, and among our people. Blessings to you." He released my hands, and I dropped into a curtsey.

  “We should find time to talk this evening,” the abbot said to Gwen. His gaze included me. “Or perhaps tomorrow. I try to keep up with Ruadh on cups of mead, but I fear my better drinking days are behind me.”

  “Aye, and in front of you,” Ruadh chuckled and poked the abbot’s belly. We all laughed, the abbot was the loudest of all. He retrieved his staff from Ruadh.

  “Any word from Iolo?” Gwen asked.

  "Not yet, my dear," Abbot Heilyn said. "And you should see the mess our monastery is in now. With my dear cousin and Prior of the abbey gone for more than a month, then when Bleddyn pulled Ruadh away, I had to press Brother Hew into service as assistant Prior. He was in quite the tizzy, he was." The abbot smiled and winked at me. "T'was all he could do to keep the monk's schedule on track while I asked him to fire his ovens and bake his special pastries for the celebration tonight."

  He gave us a grin, then bowed.

  “Your pardon, dear sisters,” he said. “I must present myself to the Lords and Ladies. I must check with my sister and make sure Brother Hew delivered pastries of his normal quality. He was most stressed that she wouldn’t appreciate his efforts, with him trying to fill in as Prior while he baked.”

  “Sister?” I asked Gwen as he left.

  “Rhian is his sister,” she sent. “He is the youngest son of the former Lord Rhos and found the church a more fitting life.”

  No wonder Lady Seren cautioned me against involving the church. If the local Abbot were her uncle, both the church and Rhian’s family, and the might of their men at arms could come down hard on Mechain. That could be a nasty war.

  “And the bishops couldn’t pass up the opportunity,” Gwen continued, “to have someone with family ties to two different cantrefi head an Abbey.”

  “He’s a likeable enough fellow,” I sent. "But I'm not sure how well I'll adapt to being a part of the church when their witch hunters keep trying to kill me."

  “I trust the abbot,” she sent. “Even though he has known of Ruadh’s nature for a decade, he’s never once let it slip. He has always accepted my charade as a member of his religion although he knows otherwise.”

  She shifted her hand to my other shoulder and pulled me in for another hug. “Oh, Mair. I would love to make these Witch Hunters go away and never bother us. But the Church is everywhere. Here in our little corner of Britain, we’ve kept Rome at arm’s length. The authority the Bishop of Rome claims is not recognised by the Cymry bishops here.”

  I hugged her back. I wasn’t confident that she could keep me safe if the religious leaders in this part of their land found out about my nature. But, I was willing to believe she’d try. Maybe this abbot, the brother of Lady Penllyn would not be a thorn in my side the way the guilders were.

  “Perhaps, someday religions will accept everyone,” I said, my voice just above a whisper. “But, until then, I don’t want to indirectly deliver my friends over to those who hate and kill in the name of the gods.”

  Gwen sighed. A short little sigh, but one that spoke volumes.

  “I would say that you have The Lady’s protection, but I’m not sure even she knows what we face,” she sent. “I am glad that you are the one here to face this challenge with me, Mair. The Lady chose my companion well.”

  39

  The Feast

  The sun was in the golden hours right before sunset. In addition to the small town contained within the walls of Caer Penllyn, people from the villages around the base of the hill came for the festival and feast. The jovial mood of the day seemed contagious. I watched the villagers pass through the guard station at the gate. I smiled again as I watched them.

  Bleddyn and Rhian had dipped into their storerooms and brought out much of their larder. Large pots and cauldrons of various stews bubbled and simmered over the numerous outdoor hearths. Several boar carcasses dripped their juices into the fires laid below them, their meat crusted with glaze. Caerwyn and Nesta had brought several wagonloads of their own foodstuff to help. I guessed that the two lords would feed close to three or four hundred today.

  Many of the women carried baskets of bread into the fort with them. Their children walked with more baskets filled with fragrant petals. One small girl of five or six winters ran to where Gwen and I sat out of the way. Her basket was full of purple and red petals. She wore a broad smile as her hand grabbed a fistful and sprinkled them on the ground around us. Sweet aroma of flowers filled the air.

  Gwen reached out and touched the girl on the cheek. The girl rewarded her with a grin then ran back to her parents. She and the other children giggled as they spread the flowers all about the central courtyard. The fragrance of the petals mixed into the air and helped brighten the evening even more.

  “Are all British Lords and Ladies as eager to serve their guests?” I asked as I watched the parents of both the bride and groom work alongside the men and women of Caer Penllyn to set out the feast for tonight.

  “Most of the Cymry lords are excellent hosts,” Gwen said. She shot a glance at where Lord Fadog and his men gathered off to the side of the courtyard. “Not all care about their people, but most Rhian and Bleddyn care more about their guests than about maintaining airs about rank.”

  I liked that. Nobles that worked with their people, instead of taking from them were refreshing. Few cultures I had found in my travels seemed care about their under-classes as these Cymry.

  Gwen and I found extra aprons and helped carry the baskets of bread around to the various tables in the courtyard. There was plenty of work, and I was glad for the opportunity to get lost in the routine chores.

  Cadoc and his new bride stood by the gate to welcome the townsfolk. Enid seemed to enjoy her day as the centre of attention. She dropped curtsey after curtsey, with her arm linked through her husband's. Gwen saw me watch her and chuckled.

  “Most women would be sore and stiff from all of that bobbing up and down.” She said. “The joys of youth.”

  “She may be young,” I replied with a grin, “but, with the newly married, the gate isn’t where the bobbing up and down will tire her out, and make her not want to leave her bed in the morning.”

  The new arrivals slowed to a trickle. The sun was nearing the horizon by then. Rhian asked us to bring Ednid and Cadoc to the courtyard to begin the feast. Men carried th
e roasted boars to the serving line. The abbot found time to lead a short blessing of the meal in between mugs of mead. Gwen seemed to have a good read on him. He looked much more interested in eating the feast than in beseeching the powers above for spiritual matters about the lives of the animals and plants they were about to consume.

  I even spied Lord and Lady Mechain, the family that Rhian's daughter Seren had married into, in the line to help serve the food. Seren was nearby, helping with the food. She had a smile for everyone that stopped, no matter their station. I glanced around and spotted Dewi.

  He and another man stood talking with Fadog. The other man was taller and thinner than Dewi, with straight black hair cropped in a rounded cut, just off the shoulders.

  Gwen and I found room near the nobles and helped bring new platters of meat, or pots of stew to the line as needed. I nudged Gwen and nodded toward Lord Dewi.

  “Who’s the man with the sword next to him?”

  “Ah…” she paused for a moment. “Lord Mechain’s first sword, Pedr.”

  “That would explain the blade on his hip,” I said. Other than Emlyn and Penllyn’s guards, only a single man from each revenue was allowed to keep a long blade. Fadog kept his own. But Lord Mechain had deferred to his top warrior. “What’s the difference between First Sword and Lord Emlyn?”

  “A first sword is the next man under a Penteulu. Emlyn is Penteulu of Penllyn,” she said. We set the platter of roasted meat on the table, then each took an empty tray back to the kitchens. “The Penteulu for Mechain remained behind. Emlyn and Bleddyn rarely leave Caer Penllyn together.”