by Karen Myers
“What’s it like, in her domain?”
“No one knows. Gwyn sent craftsmen to help her build it, and she recruited some farmers, but they don’t travel. She doesn’t invite her family. In the early days, the families of those who left with her petitioned Gwyn to visit their relatives, but he bowed to her wish for privacy and supported her refusal.”
George straightened up and leaned forward in his chair. “But they were his people. How could he let them vanish, possibly to death or disaster, and not check on their well-being?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice.
“Over the years, especially at the beginning, many of us said the same thing. It was too near the disastrous slaughter of the abduction, and Gwyn’s guilt over his own actions left him open to her manipulation. So it was done. Now we know little of her domain, except what I can gather with each seasonal visit, from her or her entourage.”
“What do you think it’s like, then?”
“I think she’s a little tyrant, in her way, but she’s not clever and, like many such, doesn’t understand her own limitations. Her bodyguards, like Mederei, do her bidding honestly, and so do many of her staff, but there are some whom I think have their own agenda. I can’t believe that Owen the Leash and his men are truly hers—they don’t pay her that sort of respect, and why would she have had such men in her pay so handily? For what use of her own? I believe she fears them, a little, for all that she pushed them on Gwyn as an aid for the hunt.”
“So, where would they have come from?” George asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What does this Madog fellow do?”
“Officially he is to her what Idris is to Gwyn, a trusted second. I’ve often wondered if he’s really in charge; he says very little but he’s ferociously intelligent, however he tries to hide it with lowered glances and pleasing manners.”
“Where did he come from?”
“He won’t say, and Creiddylad answers no questions about him. Whenever she first took up with him, she first brought him here on her visits, oh, about fifty years ago. Gwyn hasn’t been rational on this topic, perhaps because he suspects Creiddylad has taken Madog as a secret consort.”
George steepled his hands together. “Let’s look at this analytically. Creiddylad’s original farmers and crafts-folk may have thrived behind her closed walls, but how do they trade? Where does she recruit people of her own class or any other outsider?”
“She had one way at Edgewood which Gwyn restricted her from but she closed it against all but Gwyn, who had higher authority over it, and he respected her privacy. This satisfied the terms of her exile. That doesn’t mean she hasn’t found other means of travel. She could have her own trading arrangements, though I’ve never heard anyone speak about them, and it’s the sort of thing one hears in gossip—who’s buying or selling what, what’s the latest fashion, and so forth.”
“Still,” she continued, “it seems clear that she must be communicating with complete outsiders, or even traveling herself. Else it’s very difficult to explain Madog or Owen.”
“So much for exile, then.” George tried to bring the problem back to its fundamentals. “What does Creiddylad want, really?”
“Not to be under her father’s control nor her brother’s,” Ceridwen said. “To let the past be bygone.”
“How could she get that?”
“Earn it by a demonstrably changed character.” She raised an eyebrow at George’s skeptical glance. “Yes, I know. Not likely.”
“How else?”
“Make it worse to hold her than to release her,” Ceridwen said slowly. “Embarrass Gwyn, or her father. Appeal to Beli Mawr, her grandfather, perhaps.”
“And the best way to embarrass Gwyn would be for the great hunt to fail, for the first time. That would put her on the same side as Gwythyr,” he pointed out.
Ceridwen waved her hand. “There’s no love lost between them any more. But she’s not above attacking Gwyn for her own private purposes, even if it furthers Gwythyr’s cause. I don’t think she would want her brother to come to actual harm, but she wouldn’t balk at humiliating him if it won her her freedom. It might even please her better that way.”
“So she might have been behind the attack on Islwyn, instead of Gwythyr.”
Ceridwen shook her head. “She has no more facility with the ways than Gwythyr does. If it was way-based, and the later attacks certainly were, then we’re still missing an important player.”
They both paused to consider that.
“What was the next event?” George asked. “The disappearance of Rhys and Rhian’s parents?”
“About twelve years ago.”
“Rhodri told me. That happened in the British domain, right? Does that rule out Creiddylad?”
“Not if we assume she has her own travel ways by now. But again, this was a strange and unexplained use of the ways.”
“If Creiddylad doesn’t want to harm Gwyn, would she kill Edern’s son? It’s just an accident that the children weren’t included.”
“It doesn’t ring true,” Ceridwen admitted. “It’s not related to the great hunt. It’s a direct attack on the family.”
“So, maybe we’re back to Gwythyr?”
“Edern’s not sure. He sees their sister clearly, where Gwyn does not. Ever since the disappearance of his son he’s been scarce at Nos Galan Gaeaf, preferring to spend his time away from her.”
A servant stuck his head in the room to see if anything was needed, and Ceridwen requested more tea.
“Then something happened to Merfyn. Can you tell me the details?”
“Two years ago, just after Rhys had started his service as whipper-in, Merfyn’s father Ithel was attacked and killed. The murderers were never caught. Merfyn was called home to take charge and that ended his time here with the hunt.”
“Is it known who killed him?”
“No, but there’s no particular necessity to invoke the use of travel ways to do it.”
The fresh tea arrived and they sat and sipped it for a few minutes staring into the fire.
George stood up and paced in front of the fire. “So, let me see if I have this right. Islwyn’s killed, cause unknown, use of travel ways possible. Owen’s put into place by Creiddylad. Hunt limps along, Iolo holds it together. Eight years pass. Rhys the elder is presumably killed, way technology is definitely involved. Ten years pass. Rhys the younger begins as a whipper-in, and Merfyn’s removed. Coincidence? Two years pass. Iolo’s murdered. Ways are not involved directly, but two secret ones are found.”
Ceridwen nodded at his summation.
“What a mess,” he said. “It’s possible that not all of it’s a part of the same plot, for example, Ithel’s death, but this all reeks of intent. What surprises me is the long passages of time between events.”
“I disagree. You must understand we take the long view. To my mind, this supposes a patient enemy or enemies, but not unusually so. This is a long strategy of undermining the effectiveness of the great hunt. In that context, what’s twenty years out of close to fifteen hundred?”
“What would’ve happened if I hadn’t shown up?”
“We might have tried to hunt with Rhys as huntsman. It might have worked, but not indefinitely. Or Owen the Leash might have been in a position to sabotage it directly.”
“So my presence wrecks this long slow setup. Why haven’t they attacked again?”
“Too soon, perhaps. We’ve disrupted the plot and they haven’t responded yet. I think they will. It would be too frustrating to get this close and walk away.”
“Alright, then,” George said. “What can we do? I don’t want to just wait for it.”
“I’ve set in motion some serious investigations about Madog. You plan to summarily dismiss Owen and publicly humiliate him, which should dismantle a long term stratagem. Iolo’s not been dead a week—give them a little time.”
George waved her counsel away. “That reminds me. What about that servant of Creid
dylad’s, the fellow who looked so pleased to see Iolo’s hands?”
“Rhian spoke to me about him, too. His name’s Meuric. He keeps out of everyone’s notice, more than seems normal. I haven’t yet determined a way to find out more without making it obvious.”
“Does he have any friends among the other staff?”
“Not that I can see. I think he avoids it. I think they’re also a bit unnerved by him, as you and Rhian seem to be.”
“I wonder if Alun could find out more about him,” George said. “Maybe I’ll give that a try, if he’s willing.”
CHAPTER 23
On Thursday morning Ives had a large pack prepared. By Saturday, George wanted to have worked with every hound at least once, and that meant a large pack today: twenty-two and a half couple, including all the young ones. He looked over the mounted staff in the yard and sighed that only Rhys was yet in livery, but that would change and soon they’d look a lot less motley.
He walked Llamrei over to Brynach who was mounted on a handsome buckskin gelding and trying to stick close to Benitoe while staying out of the way. “It’s a long story, but there may be a confrontation at the gates with Owen the Leash, and I may call on you to demonstrate how friendly the hounds are. You alright with that?”
“As you wish, sir.” He straightened with pride, keeping any apprehension off his face, and George nodded approvingly.
“I’m putting you with Benitoe for a while because his methods of sensing and handling hounds are different from Rhys’s and Rhian’s, and mine, too. I think you can learn from him. Drop by the huntsman’s office this evening after dinner, and we can have a private chat about everything.”
“I look forward to that, sir.” Brynach touched his hat.
Looking round at Benitoe, George noted with approval that a small-sword was mounted on his saddle on the left, with two small axes on the right. “For throwing?” he asked, as he rode up to him.
“Yes. I may add a bow,” Benitoe said.
“Good. Be sure Rhian and Brynach get a look at what you’ve arranged. For the next few outings, I want you to show Brynach what you can of how you monitor the hounds, and keep him close.”
Rhys, too, was armed, carrying a saber. He was keeping an eye on Brynach and Rhian, clearly taking George’s words about protection to heart.
“Everyone ready?” George called. They turned to face him. “This morning we expect to be followed by Gwyn and Edern, both. Be prepared for some excitement before we move off.”
He turned Llamrei to Ives at the kennel gates. “Hold them for a moment, Master Ives.”
He walked his horse through the gates, alone. To his left were Gwyn and Edern, sitting their horses and waiting for him. Around them an unusual number of spectators for this early in the morning were loitering including, George saw with interest, Creiddylad and her entourage. An open space had been left in front of the gates for the pack.
Owen the Leash and his men were lined up on the right, somewhat wary and silent, remembering yesterday’s treatment.
No time like the present, George thought. Before greeting Gwyn and Edern with the pack, I will set my own house in order. He rode over to Owen and spoke to him directly. “Owen, thank you for your service. I dismiss you and your men from this duty.”
Owen purpled, but reined in his wrath under Gwyn’s eyes. He appealed directly to Gwyn. “My lord, this cannot be. We are needed to protect the people from the hounds.”
George responded before Gwyn could speak. “No protection’s required.”
He turned to the gates. “Brynach, please come out.” The kennel gates cracked open and Brynach rode over to George.
“Dismount, please, and stand before the gates.” Brynach handed his reins to George, and walked to the middle of the open space, facing the gates, looking young and very much alone.
“Master Ives, please release the pack,” George called. He could hear a few indrawn breaths from the audience and ignored them.
The gates opened wide and the pack with the hunt staff walked out in an orderly group, surrounding Brynach and stopping there. The hounds crowded around, fawning on him for attention. The staff kept them packed up.
“Brother, you can’t permit this,” Creiddylad said, urgently, looking up at Gwyn on his horse. “It’s not safe.” There were a few chuckles in the crowd as they watched the hounds dancing around Brynach. She cried out more loudly, “Owen, show him.”
Owen walked his horse to the hounds, and the nearest began a threatening growl. The muted laughter stopped. “There, you see?” she said, triumphantly.
George used his horse to crowd Owen back from the pack and the hounds quietened. He spotted Alun on the edge of the crowd and waved him forward. “Trust me?” he said. Alun nodded. “Then go say hello to a hound.”
Alun steeled himself and walked over to the pack, extending a hand carefully. A couple of hounds trotted over to sniff him, wagging as they came.
With a snort, weapons-master Hadyn made his way through the crowd and strode right into the pack, remarking loudly, “Always fancied a well-mannered hound.” At that, several others came to the edge of the pack and made a fuss over any hound that approached.
George said, across the rising noise, “What I see, sir, is that the only ones threatened by these hounds seem to be Owen and his men. Why is that, do you suppose?” The crowd quieted to listen.
Creiddylad was silent.
“I can’t do my job with them about,” he continued.
Gwyn looked down at his sister. “What can I do? We need his help for the great hunt. We’ll find some other task for your men.”
She muttered, “No, this isn’t right. We have to have them.” She turned and walked off, Madog supporting her.
Owen drew aside, stiff and glowering, and took his men around the crowd to join her.
George let the crowd enjoy the hounds for a few more minutes, surveying the scene from his horse, while Brynach waded out from among the eager noses and remounted. Edern looked at George with a considering expression on his face. Eurig, on the other hand, had no such restraints and tossed him a broad smile and an appreciative wink.
“Alright, pack up,” George said to the hounds and staff, waving the crowd back. He rode over to stand in front of Gwyn and Edern and doffed his hunt cap. “My lords, please pardon the delay. We’re ready to begin.”
Gwyn cleared his throat and waved him toward the gate in the curtain wall. “Please proceed, huntsman.”
George took the pack south of the village, staying west of the river, then crossed at the ford. Just below the crossing and across the main road was a series of fields, in particular a hay meadow and its surrounding woods, with no visible dwelling. This was the Riverwind fixture, and it looked like good deer habitat to George.
He brought the pack to a halt on the edge of the field, near the woods on the left. The younger hounds were restless and kept the whippers-in busy pushing them back into the pack.
Leaving the pack in Rhian’s charge, he rode over to Gwyn and touched his cap. “We’re ready, sir.”
Gwyn looked over at the lively pack. “Brought a few of the young entry, did you, huntsman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many?”
“All of them.” George broke into a grin and shrugged. “They have to get experience somehow.”
“Indeed.”
“Any instructions?”
“As you will, huntsman.”
George touched his cap again to Gwyn, and nodded at Edern, who nodded back, then cantered back to the pack.
The plan they had discussed last night was modeled on the hunt of two days ago. Rhian and George agreed there were deer in the woods on the left, and George sent Benitoe with Brynach around on the outside ahead of the pack.
This time George cast the hounds into the covert instead of Rhian, giving them the target of a heavy musky buck. They streamed in and almost immediately struck a line. George both heard and felt the first hound to voice his find.
“That’s Goronwy, isn’t it?” he asked Rhian, and she agreed. One of the outsider hounds from Iolo’s journal, George thought. We’ve got the other one of his year, Elain, out today, too.
The hounds boiled all over Goronwy’s find, honoring it with their own voices and following in his wake until the pack was in full cry, and George and Rhian were fending off branches trying to keep with them. At a sudden check in a clearing, the pack milled around one corner trying to unravel how the buck had exited. George saw another group at the other end, which included most of the youngsters.
Uh-oh, he thought, and sure enough that group tore off on its own following a line out into the meadow. George could feel that it didn’t really smell the same to them but they were too excited to care. They had shifted to another buck and the pack was split. He couldn’t be in two places at once and had to trust to his whippers-in to comprehend the situation and fix it. He used his voice to help the rest of the pack settle back to their work and soon Elain struck the trace of the original buck as he left the clearing. The main pack headed east deeper into the woods, and George followed, with Rhian.
He could hear, through the trees, the pounding of hooves as Rhys sped to get in front of the hounds in the meadow and turn them off the wrong line, but he had to dismiss it from his concerns and concentrate on the main part of the pack, still on the track of the original quarry. The scent quickened for his hounds and they burst out into the open of the main meadow at its far end, still headed east.
They checked at a small stream that ran through the field headed for the river, and George took a moment to look back. Guilty hounds were headed his way at speed, with Rhys in the distance rating them loudly and cracking his whip in the air to give point to his displeasure at their mistake. He turned further in his saddle and spotted Gwyn and Edern on a little rise between them, watching the show and talking together.
He had no more time to spare as Goronwy picked up the scent again and the pack was off, most of them giving tongue. George blew them on with his horn, and the youngsters from the split ran up from behind to join them, giving George a wide berth as he told them sternly exactly what he thought of them.