Beyond these doors, Luna pooled into a circular feature inset in the white marble floor of a giant-sized corridor, where Gwion slid to a stop. This hallway was lined with more transparent cases containing huge artefacts! There was a dagger twice his size in the case to one side of him, and to the other a case holding enormous battle armour and a shield that would serve nicely as a roundhouse roof!
Gwion was turning circles and gave a heavy moan of regret that he could simply not stay a moment longer. He closed his eyes to all the curiosities and envisioned the cauldron he must tend.
In the sanctum, Gwion was surprised to find the fire still fuelled and cooking nicely. ‘You covered for me, Morda?’
Gwion startled the wee man who was preoccupied stirring the pot and grumbling to himself. ‘Damn you to the Otherworld and back!’ Morda held his chest as he recovered.
‘Sorry . . . and thank you.’ Gwion was of the mind to head straight back whence he’d come.
‘Don’t thank me, it was the Mistress,’ Morda grouched, placing his stirring implement aside to retrieve his horn of ale from its stand.
This horn had been a gift from Keridwen for his service, and it never ran out of ale, or any drink the person holding the horn cared to name.
‘The Mistress is wishing to see you in her audience chamber.’
‘Am I in trouble?’ Gwion gulped, adding more fuel to the fire just for good measure.
‘Probably.’ Morda grinned, and drank to that.
VIROCO
As Gwion came to stand outside Keridwen’s chamber doors, feeling deflated because his exploring had been curtailed and he was mostly likely about to be reprimanded for neglect of duty, he noted Castell Tegid was wearing its mundane disguise at present.
His mood took an upswing as his mistress would never reprimand him in front of company. Thus, as the door parted to grant him entry, he straightened his attire and proceeded within.
Not surprisingly, Keridwen was wearing her hag persona and was seated upon her throne reading a scrolled missive.
Gwion was delighted to see Gilmore and young Tiernan in attendance. ‘You asked to see me, Goddess?’
‘Gwion!’ Tiernan would have run to greet him had Gilmore not grabbed his shoulder and turned him back to face their esteemed hostess.
The mistress of the house grinned at a look of utter horror on Tiernan’s face – clearly, he feared he had offended the witch of legend. ‘Sorry,’ he peeped.
‘There is great joy in being reunited with good friends . . . feel free to greet each other, and then I must speak with my legate in private. Sound fair?’ she proffered cheerfully – Gwion knew the Goddess was picking up on the lad’s excitement and was adoring every moment of his youthful exuberance.
‘Very fair.’ The warrior apprentice was smiling once more.
‘You will find food and drink in the hall.’ She looked to Gilmore, who nodded, knowing the drill, whereupon her eyes drifted back to Tiernan. ‘There might even be some cake there.’
‘Really—’ Tiernan was about to burst into an excited rant, until Gilmore gripped his shoulder tighter and the kid shut up.
‘Gratitude, Goddess.’ Gilmore bowed, and Tiernan followed suit.
‘You shall have our answer presently.’
Gilmore and his squire backed up several paces and turned to greet Gwion. ‘It seems an age, my friend.’ Gilmore gripped Gwion’s shoulder in one hand, and shook his hand with the other.
‘What brings you here?’ Gwion was curious.
‘You are about to find out.’ Gilmore obviously felt it was not his place to say.
‘Wait until you see Viroco!’ Tiernan blurted, but was silenced when Gilmore clamped a hand over his mouth.
Why did the lad expect that Gwion had plans to visit the restored capital of Powys? ‘We shall catch up before you depart.’ Gwion ruffled the boy’s hair as Gilmore directed him to the exit.
The doors closed behind their visitors, whereupon Keridwen transformed in magnificence. ‘That lad is going to be a champion.’
‘He is very determined to see it so.’ Gwion agreed with her summation. ‘What news of the King, Mistress?’
‘King Owain of Powys and Rhos has sent an invitation to his wedding with Lady Ganhumara of Oswestry, daughter of Gogyrfran, ruler of the Cornovii.’
‘Thus returning the land to the Cornovii people, while securing his claim on his expanding kingdom.’ Gwion saw the logic in the union as this would circumvent Rhos and Powys going to war over who owned the reclaimed land.
‘It does settle any short-term problems Owain may have had in claiming and rebuilding his new capital.’ Keridwen forced a smile. ‘But I am afraid I cannot possibly attend his celebration as I must preside over our brew daily. Morvran will terrify everyone, and clearly my husband is out of the question. That leaves you and Creirwy, for whom I believe this invite was truly intended.’
‘I cannot leave!’ Gwion much preferred the intrigues at Castell Tegid than socialising with nobility he didn’t know. ‘And I doubt very much Creirwy will be thrilled to witness King Owain wed to another, nor to leave her charge for several days.’
Keridwen raised both brows, appearing to disagree with his summation. ‘I think Creirwy would secretly love to shed her responsibility for a few days, even if it did mean socialising with Owain. Her heart is not his any longer.’
Gwion looked his mistress in the eye, wondering if she was implying more than she was stating, but her expression revealed nothing.
‘Creirwy is putting on a brave face, determined to defy the Night Hunter, and I support her decision, but she needs a reprieve, Gwion, and this invitation is the perfect excuse for me to insist.’
‘But Chiglas—’
‘I will put to sleep. He will never even notice his mother’s absence. Or I can take him into the Otherworld for a spell, where he is as sweet as a wee lamb.’ She forced a smile that was confident. ‘By the time you return, my beloved will have completed our daughter’s new dwelling, and maybe then life as a mother will be a little easier on her. Good job planting that notion in Tacitus’s head; he doesn’t get out enough, so it shall be of benefit all round.’
‘Always pleased to serve, Mistress.’ Gwion had just wished for this very thing – a chance to get Creirwy some respite. Still, he wasn’t sure that taking her to her ex-lover’s wedding was the perfect scenario.
‘Some time alone with you will do her the world of good,’ Keridwen allayed his unspoken doubts. ‘And you did promise the King to attempt to patch up the bad feeling between them.’
Gwion had never discussed this with his mistress, but of course she’d dug the information from his memory. ‘Thank you for the reminder.’ He felt suddenly awkward and a little violated.
‘So it is settled.’ Keridwen was pleased. ‘I shall leave informing Creirwy to you, and then you can advise the King’s messenger of your attendance.’
Gwion’s mouth was gaping open. ‘You want me to persuade Creirwy?’
‘You will make the journey sound like an escape, instead of an obligation.’ She stared at him expectantly. ‘Hop to it, while Chiglas is sleeping and Creirwy is at leisure.’
‘Yes, Mistress.’ Gwion bowed, uncomfortable with his mission, yet the excuse to speak with Creirwy on her own was admittedly irresistible.
With thought to join his lady, Gwion found himself surrounded by steam, through which he perceived Creirwy’s naked form, floating among rose petals and the swirling strands of her long silvery hair on the surface of her large bath. But his enchantment faded as he noticed bruises, scratch marks, and bites on her porcelain skin.
His heart broke and welled with admiration at once – she had been massively downplaying her torment, probably for fear that her family would compel her to the Night Hunter’s will.
Unlike her brother, Creirwy had been born in the physical realm and was not a fully-fledged immortal. So although his lady would have greater longevity than most humans and could heal herself quickly, she su
ffered as mortals did. All her family would outlive her, as she would age and die eventually. In a way Morvran’s curse was kinder than Creirwy’s, as at least he suffered very little physical pain.
Upon gliding her hands down over her wounds, they began to fade from view, and Gwion turned away to calm his surging emotions. Back to the sanctum, he considered, still upset.
‘Gwion?’
Too late. He’d been spotted. ‘Sorry, Lady, your mother sent me to see you . . .’
‘Dear Mother.’ Creirwy was mildly amused. ‘Always trying to bring a little cheer to the dismal day.’
Of course Keridwen must have known Creirwy was bathing – and it stood to reason to suppose that she intended him to discover the true extent of her daughter’s suffering. He listened to the rippling of the water, his heart thumping in his chest. ‘I can come back at a more suitable time.’
Creirwy laughed at this. ‘Unfortunately, this is about the only free time I get these days.’
‘As it happens, that is why I am here. To take you away from all of this for a few days. The Mistress will take care of your charge and—’
‘Does this escape you have planned have anything to do with your king?’ Creirwy no doubt could sense there was a catch.
‘He is to be wed,’ Gwion confessed, and there was silence. He desperately wanted to turn around so he could read her expression, but dared not.
‘That pig actually had the insolence to invite me to his wedding?’ By the sound, his lady felt it in bad taste.
‘Actually, Owain sent an invitation to this household, and so far it seems I am the only one who can be spared.’ He paused, but there was silence. ‘The Mistress cannot attend, and you would be a far more esteemed representative of this house than I. But if you would rather not, I understand—’
‘Just the two of us?’ she asked, and his heart fluttered, just a little.
‘Just us. And we don’t have to socialise very much, just deliver blessings from your kin upon the union—’
‘Ha! May as well sprinkle grain on the beach – it won’t take root.’
This sparked Gwion’s memory of the Night Hunter’s claim that Chiglas would be the only child Owain would ever father, but diplomacy denoted this was not the time to probe Creirwy about it. What was puzzling to him was that the Night Hunter had allowed him to remember this curious claim. ‘If you still carry feelings for the King, I can perform this errand alone.’
‘That is not the reason I mock him. Truth be known, I don’t really bear the King any ill-will. It is just easier to blame and hate him than it is to blame and despise myself for the predicament in which I now find myself.’
‘Your family are devising means to ease your burden,’ Gwion assured her. ‘You shall have all the support you need for the years ahead. The King is young and no doubt just as fearful of what lies ahead of him. I truly believe he has the best interests of the Cymry at heart and will make a good and fair king, but a show of support from your family will make all the difference to—’
‘Yes, I will come,’ Creirwy cut in, ‘just stop blowing sunshine up his legend before my heart starts bleeding.’
Gwion was actually feeling a little offended by her mocking tone. ‘On second thought, perhaps it would be better if I went alone. I know life has been torture for you these last months, but I’ve seen Owain through ordeals equally tormenting—’
‘He beheaded a company of men already dead . . . a hero to be sure.’ She belittled the King’s trials.
Gwion shook his head slowly, trying to lose his sudden angst, but he was compelled to let it out. ‘Owain made the ultimate sacrifice that day to secure peace for all!’ He turned about to confront her, forgetting his predicament, but thankfully the Lady was tying on her robe.
‘To what ultimate sacrifice do you refer?’ She raised both her brows, seeming most interested to learn.
Gwion clammed up, realising he was breaching very dangerous territory here. ‘I cannot speak of it.’
‘A secret?’ she deduced, sounding very intrigued.
‘Clearly, you still resent the King, so perhaps it is best I go alone.’ Gwion needed to wind up this conversation as the thin weave wrap clinging to his lady’s wet body was driving him to distraction.
‘If I stay close to you I’m bound to be in more hospitable spirits by the time we arrive at the festivities.’ She approached and sidled up to him, taking hold of his left hand with both her own. ‘I’m just tired and resentful at present.’ She raised his fingers to her lips and kissed them. ‘But if you take me with you, I promise I’ll be most amiable during our stay.’
With her soft, grey-mauve eyes gazing at him, and her lips caressing his hand, he was not about to deny her anything. ‘It will be my greatest honour to be accompanied by you.’
She burst into a beaming smile and hugged him to her sleek, wet, form. Her post pregnancy breasts had dried of milk as she’d abandoned breastfeeding Chiglas within days of his birth, as the boy was a frenzied feeder. Creirwy had opted for feeding him goats milk from a skin pouch instead. Yet her breasts, minimal prior to motherhood, were now a more than ample cushion for his head. ‘When do we leave?’ she released him to ask.
‘In the next few days, I expect.’
She gasped, clearly overwhelmed with delight by the prospect. ‘I shall pack.’
Even Gwion was feeling more disposed about getting away from the routine for a few days. His lady’s keenness to attend the royal wedding also meant that he could report back to his mistress that his task had resulted in the desired outcome – and there was nothing Keridwen found more pleasing than her will being met.
Gilmore had offered to stay and escort Gwion and the Lady Tegid to the capital, but Keridwen had insisted that would not be necessary.
Gwion was no warrior and used to travelling on foot with stealth overland – not fully exposed on an open road, with a carriage and four horses just begging to be pilfered. Perhaps Creirwy planned to cut them a quick route through the Otherworld once again? On the morn of their departure, Gwion discovered this was not the case.
His lady explained that it was only due to the castell’s semi-Otherworldly situation that she could reach it via an Otherworldly passage. But as the city of Viroco was very much in the physical realm she could not reach it thus. On the upside, their passage back home would be swift.
For the journey, Morvran rigged a team of horses to the carriage, Caston being one of them. Luggage was loaded inside, most of which belonged to Creirwy. They would be travelling east through Oswestry – the hometown of Owain’s new bride – to meet and follow the old Roman road that led south, then south-east to the newly fortified city of Viroco.
Keridwen was present to see them depart. ‘This is for you.’ She gave her daughter a ring, which featured a half dome of clear glass in its setting.
‘Thank you, Mother.’ Creirwy slid the item on her finger, and kissed her mother’s cheek.
‘And this is for you.’ The Mistress opened a little leather pouch and turned it upside down so that another golden ring fell into her palm. It had long green jewels inset in a twisted knot design. Keridwen placed the ring on her finger and Gwion gasped as she vanished. She appeared once again, having removed the item and returned it to the pouch, which she handed to him.
‘This is a very great treasure, Mistress. What am I to do with it?’ Gwion wondered.
‘You will know when the time comes. Be safe. If trouble threatens, Creirwy knows what to do.’
To be entrusted with such a treasure was quite overwhelming to Gwion.
‘Just remember that my daughter is my greatest treasure.’
He nodded to affirm this.
‘In this chest . . .’ she motioned to the item Morvran carried past her, ‘is my gift to the King, which I want you to present to him in absolute privacy.’
‘Should I make myself absent when he opens it, Mistress?’
She smiled. ‘You are my legate on this errand, so that shan’t be neces
sary.’
‘I shall see this done.’ Gwion bowed in parting, and bid farewell to Morvran on his way to take up the reins at the front of the carriage.
He was surprised to find Creirwy in the driver’s seat, with the reins in hand. ‘Are you sitting out in the weather with me?’ he asked.
‘You have driven a full team of horses?’ she posed, eyebrow raised.
‘Never,’ he confessed.
Thus Creirwy motioned to the seat alongside her, and with a whistle and a tug on the right rein, she steered the team towards the open portcullis that led to the outer bailey, and the bridge.
The going was slow as the high road that wound out of Llyn Tegid towards the north-east was less travelled. Thankfully, due to a dry spell, the ground was firm and gave safe passage without incident.
Gwion had suggested they stay in Oswestry, or just outside of the Cornovii stronghold in the wee village of Morda – from which Morda, Keridwen’s servant, had hailed and derived his name.
Creirwy declined, preferring to remain out of sight. ‘I attract attention.’ This was not a vain statement. ‘Better that we avoid crowds of people until we are under the King’s roof. We have a comfortable place to sleep, and I have brought everything we need to sustain ourselves.’
‘A camp-out it is.’ Gwion yielded to her will gladly.
Once they reached the old Roman road, the pace of their journey would increase considerably and they’d arrive at the capital of Viroco before nightfall tomorrow.
So prior to reaching any of the main roads or towns, they pulled the carriage off the road into a clearing amid oak-woods.
The trees here were ancient, evidenced by the rich gardens of mosses, ferns and large, leafy lungwort that grew up the trunks. Grey-green lichen strings draped themselves over the tree branches overhead in massive garlands that gently swayed in the evening breeze. The woodland floor, devoid of the blanket of colour the flowers of spring would provide, was now only mosses and woodrush – bar a concentration of ferns in the centre of the clearing, where the sunlight was strongest through the canopy.
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