The Golden Cage

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘Teryll’s a stable hand, not a valet, and certainly not a lady-in-waiting.’ Iolwen laughed as she abandoned all hope of succeeding in her task. ‘Listen to me. I sound like one of those vacuous courtiers who follow Tordu around the palace, treating servants like animals. Worse, even. Teryll volunteered to come with you and he’s your friend. I just wish …’

  ‘That some of your ladies had come with you?’

  ‘No. Really, no. None of them would have lasted a day on the road. And besides, I hardly know any of them; they come and go so quickly. It’s just that you’ve got Jarius and Teryll both to share all this with.’ She held her hands up, taking in the room, the inn, the city and beyond. ‘I’m alone. I’ve always been alone.’

  Dafydd remembered the sad little girl he had first met in the palace at Tynhelyg so many years ago he couldn’t begin to count them. She had been so different, with her skin so pale it was almost translucent, her fair hair and sharply angular eyes. He had been fascinated by her but at the same time just as cruel as any young boy can be, reflecting the prejudices of his parents and teachers. He had followed her around, studied her in the same way he had studied the wildlife in the shallow reed-filled water at the edge of the royal lakes. But when she had tried to befriend him, he had called her names and run away. She had been lonely then and had grown up lonely while he had made easy friends and travelled all over his grandfather’s kingdom. She had been confined to the palace, served by the unwilling daughters of out-of-favour nobles, only very occasionally seeing emissaries from her own country, the people who had abandoned her when she was only six.

  And then he had come back to Tynhelyg, his studies finished, his travels for the moment complete, his mind more open than ever before, to find this strangely alluring, beautiful and different creature. Everyone had thought him mad to court her; his father had even threatened to disown him. Only Ballah had understood, and agreed. And in the end that was all that mattered.

  But in all her years as a hostage to peace between their two countries Iolwen had only ever made one true friend in Tynhelyg, and she’d married him too.

  ‘Come on, Iol. Let’s see if we can’t find a bit of space somewhere. We don’t want to miss the boat.’ Dafydd got his own travel bags from the end of the bed and unbuckled them. As was always the way when he travelled, he had brought the minimum he could get away with, but it had a habit of growing whenever he tried to pack. In theory he should have been able to get everything into one of his two leather saddlebags, but for some reason it wanted to fill both. Normally he would have had servants to sort it out for him, but even then he preferred to pick his own clothes; he wasn’t so old and infirm he couldn’t dress himself.

  He tipped everything out on to the bed and began folding crumpled shirts. Someone had once tried to explain to him that they took up less space that way.

  ‘Here. Let me.’ Iolwen took the garment from him, smoothing it out and performing some strange magic on it that made it look like it was freshly laundered. She worked her way through the rest of his things, placing them all back into one of the saddlebags. As predicted, the second one lay empty by the time she had finished.

  Talarddeg was famed for its seamstresses and tailors, as well as its ginger. Iolwen had made the most of the opportunity to buy loose-fitting gowns, the better to hide her growing belly. Dafydd thought she looked better in them anyway, rather than the tight-laced bodices and frills that were fashionable in Tynhelyg. But he still wasn’t sure why she needed so many. She folded the last one, placing it in the top of the saddlebag, as a discreet knock came at the door. Dafydd opened it to see Usel standing outside, the first time he had seen the man since entering the city.

  ‘Are you ready?’ the medic asked.

  ‘As we’ll ever be.’ Dafydd hauled the saddlebags over his shoulder. Usel shook his head.

  ‘Leave those here; I’ll see to it that they’re put on the boat.’

  Jarius and Teryll were waiting for them downstairs, also without any luggage. Dafydd wondered if this was another part of the subterfuge. If it looked like they were leaving their bags, no one would suspect they had any other plan than to sail across the Sea of Tegid to Fo Afron and spend a few days exploring the ruins there. But given the vast wagon-loads of luggage most young nobles took on their travels, he couldn’t help thinking he would stick out more with nothing at all.

  The sun hung high in the southern sky as they walked among the throngs of sightseers, merchants, hawkers and loungers who made up the lifeblood of the city. Cut off from the rest of the country by the Caldy range, Talarddeg was more of a state in its own right even if technically part of Llanwennog. It was ruled by King Ballah’s second son, Vern, and Dafydd was heartily grateful he had managed to avoid visiting his uncle. Wherever you were in the city, from the busy docks to the industrial quarter and out beyond the walls to the ginger fields, you could always see the castle, perched on its high rock, looking down over everything like a buzzard eyeing up its next meal. Every day since his arrival Dafydd had been expecting a summons, and each day it didn’t come was a little more weight off his shoulders.

  He had expected a small boat for the trip. It was a narrow crossing which shouldn’t take more than half a day with a favourable wind, but the vessel creaking against its moorings on the lightly undulating sea was magnificent. Twin-masted, she was built for speed over cargo capacity, narrow in the beam and shining with new paint.

  Usel guided them swiftly through the throng of stevedores and sailors preparing the ship for departure. Dafydd saw a wagon parked by the gangplank, travel chests and the usual paraphernalia of exploration being carried up and into the hold. His earlier worries evaporated as he realized just how much attention to detail Master Holgrum must have been paying. Every angle had been covered, every eventuality anticipated. So why did the medic keep looking over his shoulder nervously?

  ‘Lady Anwyn is aboard already. If you’d like to join her, then we can depart … Ah, Gog’s balls, what do they want?’ Dafydd was so surprised by Usel’s strange expletive he almost didn’t notice that something had upset the medic. Following his gaze, he saw a troop of ten men marching towards them. By their polished armour and the way the people darted out of their way, Dafydd knew they could only be his uncle’s men.

  ‘Take my hand.’ Dafydd felt his hand being grasped, and looked down to see Usel reaching for Iolwen too. ‘Captain, Master Teryll, quickly, join with us. Form a circle.’

  There must have been something in Usel’s tone, for no one asked what he was doing. Instead, they just stood there like some primitive rural prayer meeting, watching as the troop of soldiers came ever closer.

  And then marched straight past.

  ‘Wha—’ Dafydd began to say.

  Usel silenced him with a hissed ‘Quiet.’

  The lieutenant of the troop, identified by his elaborately decorated armour, ordered two of his men to take up positions at the end of the gangplank, then marched the rest of them on to the ship.

  ‘Search every cabin. We know they left the tavern, so they must be on board by now.’ Looking up, Dafydd could just see the lieutenant standing on the deck as his soldiers disappeared below. After a moment a tall man with a fierce face marched down the length of the boat. He towered over the lieutenant by a head, and was probably twice his width too.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he bellowed in a voice that carried across the entire dock. ‘How dare you board my ship?’

  ‘I have orders direct from Duke Vern. This boat has been chartered to carry Prince Dafydd of the House of Ballah on an expedition to the ruins. His Grace has had word from Tynhelyg requiring the prince to return immediately.’

  ‘Well he ain’t on board. An’ I’m not waiting fer ’im either. I’ve important cargo bound for Kais. Can’t waste time and tide waitin’ fer no prince.’

  The lieutenant flushed and seemed to be building up the courage to remonstrate with the ship’s captain when his troop reappeared.

  �
��No one on board, sir, and none of the cabins have been used. Could they have taken a different ship?’

  The lieutenant said nothing, merely indicating for his men to fall in behind him. He marched them off the boat, collecting the two who had been at the bottom of the gangplank, and headed back towards the city and castle. As he walked past Dafydd noted his brow and cheeks were slick with sweat. It could have been the heat and that ornate armour, but he suspected the lieutenant feared the wrath of Duke Vern more.

  ‘Right, you lot. Get that equipment off my boat and back in the wagon.’ Dafydd looked up to see the captain striding back towards the boat’s bow, handing out orders to his sailors as he went.

  ‘We’d best get on board quick,’ Usel said, letting go of his hand. For an instant Dafydd felt his whole body shudder, as if someone had poured iced water over his head. The air darkened like a cloud had passed over the sun, but the sky was clear, blue and fresh with the sea air. He couldn’t see Jarius, Teryll and Iolwen, a moment’s panic hitting him. Then the sky brightened and they were there in front of him.

  ‘I’ve got to learn that spell,’ he said to no one in particular as they clambered up the gangplank and into the cool dark confines of the ship.

  Beulah wasn’t at all sad to see the back of Corris. Everything about the place depressed her, from its air of run-down poverty and dirt to its dark and gloomy castle and the nasty secrets it held. Her last act before leaving the town – still mourning the death of its elderly lord – had been to officially recognize Captain Herren as Queln’s grandson and heir. She wasn’t sure whether that was a blessing for the man or a curse. Certainly her requirement that he field a troop of soldiers for her army was likely to prove a strain on the newly ennobled Lord Herren’s meagre resources, both financial and of men. It wouldn’t surprise her if Corris ceased to exist in a few years’ time, and Beulah couldn’t find it in her to be sad about the death of such an insignificant corner of her kingdom.

  The party rode the short distance to Wright’s Ferry, downstream from the crumbling town and the boundary between the lands of Corris and the fiefdom of Lord Beylin. The contrast couldn’t have been more marked, with gangs of workmen busy carving out a deep pool and loading dock at the upper reaches of the river, just below the old ferry crossing. What had been no more than a small village where boats had been dragged out on to the shallow sandy banks for repairs was now growing into a sizeable town. Beulah couldn’t help but notice the number of young men hard at work increasing Lord Beylin’s wealth. So much for the noble houses contributing to the war effort. She made a note to contact Seneschal Padraig at the earliest opportunity to see about raising taxes in the west.

  They commandeered a couple of flat-bottomed barges, the royal party and those few noble courtiers who hadn’t returned to Candlehall in the first boat, the guard of warrior priests in the second, and made swift progress downstream to Beylinstown. The rain that had dogged them from Beteltown finally gave way to sunshine, and Beulah was able to relax on deck to concentrate on healing the crossbow wound in her arm and the burn on her palm. From the steep wooded hills, bleak moors and narrow valleys of the north-west corner of the Hafod, the land flowed into the more gentle contours of the Hendry. Fertile grasslands provided grazing for thousands of cattle, and occasionally she saw, silhouetted on the brow of some low rise, small herds of the wild horses for which the area was famed. Beulah missed her horse and determined to seek out a suitable replacement when they reached Castell Glas.

  But first they had to endure Beylinstown. Beulah knew Lord Beylin as an odious man, constantly trying to charm his way into favour but ruthless in his exploitation of any who fell for his winning smile. In his late thirties and still unmarried, he had pressed his suit with her father, hoping to marry himself on to the throne. He had not attended her wedding, and it would be interesting to see how he dealt with the new Duke of Abervenn.

  The small convoy of barges pulled into the riverbank at a set of docks some distance upstream of the town walls. Beulah didn’t wait for the rest of the party; she, Clun and a small troop of warrior priests rode on to the main gates, leaving the rest to sort themselves out in their own time. As they passed the cattle yards and auction rings, row upon row of cows looked up from whatever it was they were doing, innumerable eyes following them as they went by, none of them human. Glancing up at the sky, Beulah gauged the time at somewhere close to evening prayers, but that didn’t account for the complete lack of people.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked Clun, who was scanning the area with an intent scowl on his face.

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve seen a couple of young lads scampering around at the back of the herd. I think they might be preparing some kind of reception for you, my lady.’

  Beulah looked up at the town walls and the spreading mass of Beylinstown behind them. The coming war had been good for Lord Beylin and his merchants; almost all the cattle raised in the north of the Hendry came through his fiefdom. Perhaps she should have married the man after all. She could have arranged for him to die shortly afterwards and would have inherited a great deal of wealth. But then Abervenn wasn’t exactly poor.

  ‘You think they’re all in there waiting for us?’ she asked.

  ‘Either that or everyone’s dead,’ Clun replied. ‘Look, the gates aren’t even guarded.’

  And it was true. They were approaching the gatehouse, two huge towers with an impressive battlement linking them above a great vaulted arch. The gates stood open, the road ahead obscured by a defensive kink in the way, and there was no one around the entrance, not even a beggar crying out for spare coin. As she rode into the shadow of the walls Beulah felt a shiver of unease ripple down her spine. It reminded her too much of the dead village, Pwllpeiran, where she had met the dragon.

  ‘Your Majesty, may I welcome you to my humble home.’ Lord Beylin stepped into the road from a doorway behind the huge gates. He bowed extravagantly, then straightened, staring intently at her, ignoring the man who rode at her side. If Beulah had disliked him before, she hated him now. But she knew better than to run him through. It would be difficult to placate the other nobles, and she did need his help with the war.

  ‘Lord Beylin. I was beginning to think you ruled a fiefdom of ghosts.’

  ‘My people – your loyal subjects – await your entrance.’ Lord Beylin motioned for them to enter the city, and at the same time a page emerged from behind the gates, leading a horse. ‘If I might introduce you to them?’

  Beulah sighed at the theatricality of it all. She knew well enough that it was all about show. Lord Beylin would ride at her side, and the people would know he was important. His position would be strengthened and they would feel that their queen favoured them. Everyone would win, but she hated it all the same.

  ‘You’ve not met his grace the Duke of Abervenn.’ Beulah waited until Beylin was half-mounted before speaking. She knew it was petty, but she couldn’t help herself trying to make the man uncomfortable.

  ‘Your Grace.’ Beylin bowed from his saddle as his horse skittered around, then fought with the reins to bring it under control. ‘So you’re the … young man who so caught our beloved queen’s eye.’

  Clun merely nodded, his embarrassment evident in the spreading redness around his ears and the back of his neck.

  ‘Shall we get this over with, Petrus.’ Beulah used Beylin’s first name as a weapon. He might think her friendly at first, but the fact that she knew that much about him would play on his mind later. ‘We’ve had a long journey down from Corris.’

  ‘Ah yes, Corris.’ Beylin nudged his horse so that he was riding alongside Beulah on the opposite side to Clun. ‘I heard you’d stopped there, and about the trouble you encountered.’

  ‘I would hope so. I sent a messenger directly to you.’

  ‘Of course, ma’am. And I acted on his message as soon as I received it. I have a surprise waiting for you in my dungeons. A certain predicant of the Order of the Candle you might want to interrogate.’<
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  Beulah would have answered with some suitable reply, might even have congratulated the man, but at that same moment they rounded the kink in the roadway and entered the town proper. A throng of people filled a square: some had climbed on to the roofs of buildings, others squeezed out of windows and doorways. It looked as if the whole of Beylinstown had come to greet her, and all of them were waving tiny flags bearing the royal coat of arms. As soon as they saw her, they all shouted and cheered. She stiffened in her saddle, hating the attention and adulation, despising simple-minded peasants who could get so excited about seeing a person riding a horse. But beside her Lord Beylin was in his element, waving at his people with an annoying circular flutter of his hand, as if he were an effete farmer sowing oats on rocky ground.

  ‘My lady, I think we should dismount and walk among your people.’ Beulah looked around at Clun, who had spoken loudly enough for her to hear but not enough to carry to Beylin.

  ‘Are you mad?’ she asked, but he looked straight at her, then flicked his eyes past hers. She understood then. This whole show had been manufactured by Beylin, but he wasn’t the kind of man to mix with his own workers and peasantry. This was the perfect way to bring him down to earth.

  ‘Of course, my love.’ Beulah pulled her borrowed horse to a halt as Clun did the same. He slid swiftly from his saddle, handing his reins to Captain Celtin behind him. She couldn’t help but notice the captain had a broad smile on his face too.

  Clun helped her down and it was only then that Beylin noticed what was happening. He pulled his own horse up short, wheeling it round.