“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Arthur clasped Goronwy’s forearm while one of the stable boys led his grey stallion away.
“I’m here on behalf of King Cadwaladr of Gwynedd,” Goronwy said.
Arthur’s eyes lit. “Ho! King Cadwaladr of Gwynedd, is it? Doesn’t that sound fine?”
Goronwy laughed. “That’s the way the dice have fallen.”
“That boy has rolled a deuce more times than I can count,” Arthur said. “Come inside and tell me more.”
Goronwy followed King Arthur into the great hall. On every side, tapestries adorned the walls, and fresh rush mats covered the floor. They sat at a small table to the rear of the hall, lit by a bank of windows, the shutters open to let in the spring air. And then Arthur confessed the truth.
“The market is doing well, but it’s like spitting into the wind to hold it. I hope it will last, but I fear we are nearing the end. We soon will be dust like those who left the Roman marker stones you passed on your way in.”
“I assume you are referring to the threat of the encroaching Saxons?” Goronwy said.
“I have lost nearly all of my eastern lands, and it isn’t just me. The Saxons cross the Wye River as if it were a creek. Every lord between here and Brecon is at risk.”
“That’s why I have come,” Goronwy said. “The Saxons under Cerdic of Wessex and Penda of Mercia mass troops at Shrewsbury. I know that’s far to the north of here, but if we lose in the north, all of Wales could fall to them.”
“And Cadwaladr wants the High Kingship,” Arthur said.
Goronwy shrugged noncommittally. “He wants Wales united. He doesn’t much care under whom.”
“He’s not his father’s son, then,” Arthur said. “No man lusted after power more than Cadwallon.”
Goronwy pursed his lips and didn’t answer immediately. This wasn’t the version of events he’d heard, but he’d been only a young boy when Cadwallon had died. Cadfael had wanted the High Kingship, thinking it his right as King of Gwynedd, and all talk had been of him more than of the man he usurped. “I wouldn’t know.”
“I would,” Arthur said. “Cadwallon was an arrogant bastard with a pole stuck so far up his arse it kept his chin raised and his nose pointed at the sky. His transparent allusions to his Saxon allies and what they would do to us if we didn’t declare him High King were all that kept him on the throne. No one should have been surprised—least of all Cadwallon—when he died so far away from home, leading good Welshmen against Saxons in Saxon lands. About which we cared nothing.”
“He felt that they were our birthright. The Saxons took those eastern lands from Vortigern—”
Arthur guffawed his disagreement. “Vortigern let them in, and when they turned on him, paid for his stupidity with his life. Don’t talk to me about what the Welsh used to have. That was two hundred years ago. The world is a different place now. I just want to keep what I have. Cadwallon was a fool.”
Goronwy studied Arthur. “Don’t tell Cade that. He worships him—or at least the memory of him.”
“How could he not? The man is dead. Besides, I’ll grant that he knew how to fight. But he was a fool to trail all over Britain fighting Saxons for Penda who was a Saxon himself. Cadwallon gained nothing for Wales but his own glory. The man was a prick, as I said. He and I would be the same age, if he’d lived.”
“You could have been High King,” Goronwy said.
“Ach,” Arthur said. “I would have had to talk to all those other idiots. Better to hold my own lands and let my nephew worry about unity.”
“But now …” Goronwy allowed his voice to trail off, his sentence unfinished.
“Yes, you have the right of it.” Arthur scoffed at his predicament. “Now I can’t even do that because we don’t have a High King, and none of those other pretenders to the throne care about anyone but themselves. You’re telling me this Cadwaladr is different?”
“Yes,” Goronwy said.
Arthur gazed at Goronwy, rubbing his chin with one hand. “Just like that? No equivocation? Just ‘yes’?”
Goronwy nodded.
“Things have been quiet for the last month,” Arthur said. “It might be worth coming with you to see what a real High King looks like.”
“We need your men too.”
“Ah. Now we come to the reason for your visit. My teulu will put their swords where I tell them. I can leave these lands in the hands of my son until we return.”
“I can’t promise that you will return,” Goronwy said.
Arthur’s eyes brightened at that. “One can always hope.”
* * * * *
In Arthur, these words weren’t mere bravado. That evening, he stood in front of his men and passed his crown to his son, Caradoc. “To you, I entrust the well-being of my people and these lands.”
“Thank you, Father,” Caradoc said.
Goronwy detected a hint of relief and ambition in Caradoc’s eyes—and Goronwy couldn’t blame Caradoc for feeling either. What son didn’t want to test himself in his father’s shoes before he was too old to wear them? Caradoc was a few years older than Goronwy himself. It was hard when fathers lived too long, and perhaps that was what was giving Arthur the impetus to come with Goronwy now.
They left the next morning, a host of men jostling along the road. Arthur’s men had fought more battles than they liked of late, and some of them hadn’t been happy to ride north with Arthur.
Arthur, however, was in high spirits. “We’ll have to take the western roads to Caersws, rather than those to the east. They’d be faster, seeing how the lands are flat.”
“But full of Saxons,” Goronwy said.
Though Goronwy had been deadly serious, Arthur laughed. “You’ve the right of it.” His good mood was contagious, and some of his men laughed with him. Goronwy had ridden in a company such as this more times than he could count, and still he was glad to feel the camaraderie and participate in their jests.
Boom!
A concussion split the air, and Goronwy’s horse reared. Men shouted and spun their horses, looking for the threat. Goronwy’s horse danced full circle. When he got him under control and came back around, the real danger became clear.
“Well, well, isn’t this pleasant.”
“Mabon!” Goronwy reined in, a black pit forming in his stomach. This was the last thing he wanted or needed. But, in truth, hadn’t he expected it? Mabon’s men had gone away from Deganwy unsatisfied. His companions were fools if any one of them—Cade included—had thought they could evade him forever.
“This is the famous Mabon?” King Arthur said. “He doesn’t look like much.”
This was patently untrue but Goronwy admired Arthur’s brave stance.
“What do you want?” Goronwy said.
“Such disrespect.” Mabon’s tone was casual and amused, but his eyes glinted and narrowed. “I simply want to speak with King Arthur.”
“So speak,” Goronwy said.
“Look what surrounds you.” Mabon gestured to the dozens of men who hemmed Arthur’s company in. Somehow—out of nowhere—Mabon had conjured a company of men, who were dressed in black as he was. “I would rethink your tone if I were you.”
Goronwy glanced right and left, calculating what it would take to free himself and Arthur.
Arthur put a hand on Goronwy’s arm to stay him. “What can we do for you, my lord?”
Mabon puffed out his chest. “Give it to me.”
“Daughter of Christ,” Goronwy said, though this time under his breath so Mabon couldn’t hear. “Not it again.” And then out loud, he said: “We don’t have Dyrnwyn, Mabon.”
Mabon sniffed. “That’s not at issue.” He pointed his chin at Arthur. “He knows what I want.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched. “No.”
Mabon laughed. “I will take it over the dead bodies of your men.”
Arthur pulled his sword from his sheath and held it above his head. “I dare you to try!”
Both sides took that a
s the signal Arthur intended: to fight. The men behind Goronwy roared, and he barely had time to register that they’d gone from peace to war in half a heartbeat. He cleared his sword from his sheath in time to meet an oncoming warrior in black. The man wasn’t demon, however, and died just as all men did when a sword sliced through him. Spurring his horse forward, Goronwy launched himself towards Mabon, who hadn’t moved, perhaps not expecting one of Arthur’s men to challenge him directly.
Mabon flailed at Goronwy with his sword, but held his ground, and they hacked at each other several more times before three men charged through the ranks, heading for Arthur, who already was fighting two men at once. Goronwy disengaged from Mabon and spun, urging his horse after them. He managed to unseat one and then threw himself from the saddle into the torso of a second, who had an open path towards Arthur’s exposed neck.
They went down together, landing with a terrific crunch. Although Goronwy was on top of his opponent and wore his helmet, his head connected with a rock on the edge of the road, and everything went black.
Chapter Six
Goronwy
Goronwy didn’t know how long he’d been out—whether a few heartbeats only or hours—but the silence around him when he awoke didn’t bode well for Arthur and his men. Groaning at the effort, Goronwy pushed onto his knees, his head hanging. Everything ached—muscle, bone and sinew—but his head hurt the worst. He pulled off his helmet and dropped it. It landed with a clunk and rolled away, into the ditch that lined the road.
“Goronwy—”
Goronwy peered in the direction from which Arthur’s voice had come. It wasn’t evening yet, but a fog had rolled in. At least it wasn’t raining. A figure crouched over another in the center of the road. At first Goronwy was afraid it was Mabon, sending Arthur to his death, but then his vision cleared, and he realized it was a young woman of perhaps five and twenty in hood and cloak.
“Hurry,” she said. “He wants you. He hasn’t much time.”
Goronwy crawled the fifteen feet that separated them. When he reached Arthur, Goronwy grasped his hand. The woman had opened Arthur’s coat, revealing a gaping wound in his right abdomen. Goronwy glanced at her, and she shook her head. He nodded back, understanding that Arthur had gotten his wish and would not return to Caerleon.
Arthur had his own concerns and didn’t notice their muted looks. “Take it.”
“What—what do you want me to take?” Goronwy said.
“The stone,” Arthur said.
Goronwy didn’t mean to be dim, but he didn’t understand. He would have asked again, but Arthur moaned and turned his head. His sword and shield lay on the ground beside him, the shield split just under the leather-wrapped haft. Arthur flopped out an arm towards them. Goronwy thought he wanted him to bring his sword to him, but when he reached for it, Arthur shook his head.
“Not the sword, the shield.”
Goronwy picked it up and brought it to Arthur. “It should go to your son.”
“No. Take it to Cadwaladr.”
“To Cadwal—”
Again the moan and the shake of the head.
Goronwy tried again. “I’m not deliberately trying to misunderstand, Arthur. You’re telling me to take this to Cadwaladr? Is it this shield that Mabon wanted?”
“Not the shield, the handle.”
Goronwy turned the ruined shield in his hands. He couldn’t see what Arthur meant, but the woman reached for it.
“Here. Let me.” She picked at the end of the leather wrap that bound the handle and unwound it, revealing a black, rectangular stone that couldn’t have been comfortable to hold, even within its leather casing.
“It’s a whetstone.” Goronwy glanced from the stone to Arthur. “Why do you have it as the handle to your shield?”
“To keep it safe.” Arthur closed his eyes. “I’ve used it twice, both in times of great need.”
The woman gazed at Arthur, awe in her face. “It’s the Stone of Tewdrig. I can’t believ—”
“It has been my family’s honor to keep it for many years. But that time is over.” Arthur turned his head to the side.
“Arthur!” Goronwy slipped his arm under Arthur’s shoulders and lifted him, but the great king had passed away. Goronwy closed Arthur’s eyes and then turned to the woman. “What is the Stone of Tewdrig?”
“The most treasured artifact in Gwent,” she said. “Our mothers tell stories to us of it from the cradle, but I thought it was legend only. Everyone did.”
“Many legends have arisen to walk the earth of late,” Goronwy said. “What’s special about this one?”
“The story goes that if a worthy man sharpens his blade on this stone, it will kill his opponents with one slice, but if he is an unworthy man—”
“—it fails utterly.” Goronwy finished the sentence for her. “Typical.”
“Obviously King Arthur believes it to be true.”
Which made Goronwy finally focus on her instead of the circumstances in which he found himself. “Who are you?”
“I was out gathering herbs when I came upon the wreckage.” She gestured around at the dead men and horses. “I am Catrin. My hut is a few yards distant. The magic drew me.” She said this matter-of-factly.
Goronwy narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you telling me you’re a witch?” He touched her sleeve. “Is this a glamour you project?” She wasn’t beautiful necessarily, but rather striking with her soot-black hair, lithe body, and gray eyes that seemed to penetrate his thoughts with a single glance. She made him more than a little uncomfortable.
Catrin canted her head. “I don’t do magic, only feel it. That was enough to make men wary of me. Although people come to me for healing, they don’t want me in their village.” She paused and studied Goronwy. “But I see that you are not afraid of me. Why?”
“My lord is sidhe. I have seen things in the time I have served him that are too strange to speak of, even to a witch,” Goronwy said. “I have few fears left, at least not for myself.”
“Who did this, then?” Catrin said. “Surely he is one to fear. The aura of magic remains, though it was stronger when I first arrived and was more than that which comes from the Stone.”
“Mabon, son of Arawn and Arianrhod, was here. He wanted Arthur to give him the Stone.”
Catrin took in a sharp breath. “It is a wonder you survived!”
“Mabon is a coward and a bully,” Goronwy said. “Unfortunately, he is also a god with a long reach. I wonder where he found his men and where he’s got to now?”
“That I don’t know, but you need food and rest if we are to travel north to find King Cadwaladr.”
Goronwy blinked at her as he processed all that she’d said. “Did you really say if we are to travel north?”
“Of course,” Catrin said.
Goronwy laughed. “There’s no of course about it. You don’t know me. I don’t know you, and I’m not sure I want to. Why would I let you accompany me?”
“Even I, in my isolation, have heard of the great Goronwy ap Cynin. And besides, you need my help.”
“I don’t—”
“If Mabon searched Arthur and his men—including you—for this stone, he didn’t find it. He might accost you again if he realizes you have it. It wouldn’t be safe for you alone. At the very least, how would you sleep with nobody to keep watch?” Her gaze was steady as she looked into Goronwy’s eyes.
“It occurs to me that you could be working for Mabon.” Goronwy kept his eyes on her face. She didn’t drop his gaze. “It seems that other men and even gods do his bidding now.”
“That’s Mabon’s style, is it?” she said. “To ask a woman for help?”
“Not in the least, but nobody said he couldn’t learn.”
“He hasn’t once in all the years of his existence,” Catrin said.
Goronwy’s skin turned cold. Catrin seemed so sure. The more he looked at her, the less likely he thought she was evil. At the same time, the less sure he became of what or who she reall
y was.
Then a new thought struck him. Could this be Arianrhod? He’d touched her, and she’d felt real to him, not the ethereal goddess that Rhun had described. But she could have become the creature who came to Cade in that cave in the guise of a beautiful woman. Catrin wasn’t beautiful like that, but still … could he refuse a goddess? Cade didn’t think it wise.
Goronwy bowed his head. “I must give way.” His head ached. The task Cade had set him had suddenly grown far more difficult and serious. He was going to have to trust Catrin. For now.
* * * * *
“If you really intend to come all the way to Caer Fawr with me, I have a friend you should meet when we get there.” Goronwy lay reclined on a pallet near the fire, sipping a cup of soup Catrin had made. He’d watched her carefully from the first, trying to discern any waver in the humanness she projected. If she really was Arianrhod, she was doing a good job at pretending not to be. She even spilled some soup on her hand and sucked at the burn. He couldn’t imagine a goddess being clumsy.
“Really?” Catrin said. “And who might that be?”
“Taliesin,” Goronwy said.
Catrin looked up. “The bard? He’s still alive?”
Goronwy laughed. “Last time I looked. You’ll like him. He talks only in riddles and obscure references to past events you’ve never heard of or future ones you probably don’t want to know about.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“Is that what you think?”
Catrin sat back on her heels. “You don’t like me, do you?”
“As I said before, I don’t know you. In this world, I trust few people and none on first acquaintance.”
“Except for your lord,” she said. “Except for King Cadwaladr.”
Goronwy thought about that. “I trusted him to do what he thought was right from the first. His good intentions were transparent. Whether or not he was a good leader, however—whether or not he could lead men in battle—that I didn’t trust until later.”
The Pendragon's Champions (The Last Pendragon Saga Book 5) Page 6