To Carry the Horn

by Karen Myers

  His thoughts were bitter and his stomach churned.

  He understood why he needed to be the bait, and he agreed with the reasoning, but this, this foul accusation, discussed all around the great hall as if he weren’t even there, this was too much.

  He had come back from his meal with Angharad to deliver the news about Maonirn’s murder, and noticed cold, evasive looks wherever he turned.

  Even at Gwyn’s table, there was an outcry, with Madog and Creiddylad maliciously slandering him and beseeching Gwyn to “do something about it.” And with Gwyn so little defending him, the cries rose against him like a pack of wolves. He could see the hunt staff, indignant on his behalf.

  He took it stone-faced as long as he could, then rose from his meal and faced the crowd in the main hall. When they quieted, he told them, in an expressionless voice that carried to the back of the hall, that it was a slander, and that he had nothing whatsoever to do with Iolo’s death. He picked up his cane and limped heavily off the dais and out of the hall.

  He thought he had detected sympathy on Edern’s face, and Idris patted his arm as he turned to leave. This reassurance was welcome, but it was bitter to have his name blackened like this without defense, after all the work he’d put in, making the pack his own. To return after a successful hunt in the morning to an evening of strangers asking if he could be trusted to hunt the hounds in two days, this was a blow.

  Sitting in the dark, he considered. Well, could he hunt the hounds on Saturday? After two more sleepless nights, dreading the dreams of the horned man emerging, out of control?

  CHAPTER 33

  Friday morning, Angharad sat out on the huntsman’s porch, sketching a detail of the holly branches, and waited for George to return from the hound walk. He opened the gate eventually and took a few steps in, looking down at the ground with his head bowed.

  Still limping hard when no one’s looking, she thought, and then they pile all this, this dirt on top of him. Isolda’s description of last night’s dinner in the great hall must have been accurate, for all that she hadn’t been there herself.

  He looked up, and she smoothed her expression. His face lit up at the sight of her. Having that effect on someone never lost its charm, even now, and she was warmed by his regard.

  The day was soft and balmy for late October, not too cold to sit outside with coats on. George joined her on the porch, and Alun brought out some tea for them.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you, but I didn’t expect it,” George said.

  “I’ve come for the next two nights,” she said. “I hoped you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Not at all, though I fear I might not be great company.”

  “I’ll have to see if I can change that, then.” She smiled at him, and he responded in kind.

  She continued her sketching while they talked. “I had a nice long chat with Isolda this morning.” Sliding her eyes to watch carefully, she saw his face fall and his body tense.

  “Then you’ve no doubt heard about the change in my reputation,” he said.

  “What I heard was a great deal of indignation on your behalf by everyone who knows you. No one believes this slander.”

  He relaxed a little. “That’s not how it seems, here.”

  “Well, never mind. You’ll find plenty of support tonight at dinner, I promise you.”

  She could see him take a hold of himself and straighten up. “It was just too much for me, last night. I’ll do better tonight.”

  She didn’t like the circles under his eyes. Wasn’t he sleeping?

  “I didn’t tell you what else I heard from Isolda,” she said, with a conspiratorial air of gossip.

  “Yes?” he said, willing to be entertained.

  “All about Benitoe. Did you know this has been going on for a while?”

  “I suspected something, but no one’s told me.”

  “She’s the one who recommended him to her father, as a whipper-in for you,” she said.

  “So Ives approves of this?”

  “Oh, I think so. If Benitoe proves himself to you, he would make a fine son-in-law, don’t you think? And well suited to Isolda, each with their own ambition to succeed.”

  “He’s turning out very well,” George said. “I’ll make sure to mention it to Ives, casually, in case it isn’t obvious.”

  Good, she thought. Get him thinking about someone else, and something cheerful.

  She closed her sketchbook and stood up. “Come inside. I’ve brought you a present.”

  One of the chairs in the study had been moved to catch the natural light from the window. Propped on its arms, in a simple frame, the painting Angharad had been working on in her workshop several days ago gleamed richly.

  Seen from behind, George on Mosby raised his right arm dragging the front of the midnight blue robe up with it. The arrow fired by the archer visible at a distance to the left was just bursting through the heavy satin, its yellow fletching drawing the eye like a flash of light. The background portrayed the river meadow landscape visible through the way as a discontinuity against the local landscape. The chaos of the startled people in the original scene had been largely cleared away so that the eye could focus on the main compositional elements, the muscled rear of the dappled gray horse and the glimpse of his head, the dark blue robe with its decorative borders, and the red menace of the archer’s clothing, as he reached for another arrow. A jagged rhythm to the major color forms drew the eye round and round, accentuating the action and menace of the arrow, aimed into near perspective in the direction of the viewer. The point of the arrow gleamed, picking up the metallic glints of the horse’s tack and mounted weapons.

  George froze in surprise, then limped over and stood in front of it, keeping out of the light. It was awkward to bend down, and he pulled over a side chair to sit on while he bent forward, elbows and forearms on his knees, to give it a thorough scrutiny.

  Part way through he broke his concentration with a chuckle and sat up. “I didn’t mean to be rude, examining a gift like this, as if I were looking for a flaw.”

  She laughed at his absorption. “Do go on. I’m very pleased by your interest. An artist has to work for herself, but it’s a great joy when her work speaks to someone else.”

  George wasn’t sure he completely believed her, but he was drawn back to the painting again. The viewer couldn’t help but see the arrow aimed, not directly at him, but close, about to jump out of the frame. No matter how the color masses drew the eye, you kept worrying about that arrow, trying to keep an eye on it.

  It was remarkably alive as well as compositionally brilliant.

  He straightened up solemnly and this time turned all his focus on Angharad.

  “I don’t know what to say. This is wonderful.” He groped for words. “It makes my heart stop. Makes it sing, too.”

  She laughed at his incoherence, clearly pleased.

  “Alun will be hanging this over the mantle, as soon as I’m done looking at it up close,” he said.

  How many hours did this take her, he wondered. To think of her spending that time, and gifting me with the result. He walked over to her, trying not to limp, and grasped her right hand in both of his. “I haven’t the words to thank you,” he said, embarrassed.

  George welcomed Rhodri into the huntsman’s office at the kennels. The hounds were quiet, snoozing in the afternoon sun.

  “Thanks for coming. Glad to see you’re still speaking to me,” he said, sardonically.

  Rhodri laughed. “You shouldn’t take it personally. No one thinks you had anything to do with Iolo’s murder. That’s all for the politicians and the spies. And the fools, there are always some of those.”

  “You’re right. I overreacted last night. Nerves.”

  “I can understand why you’d feel nervous, but honestly, you’ve done a good job getting the hounds this far,” Rhodri said. “If you care for my opinion.”

  “I do care, thanks.”

  Rhodri looked gratified.

  �
��In fact,” George said, “you’re the first person I thought of. I need to pick your brains for a detailed description of what to expect tomorrow night. You’ve hunted it, with Iolo.”

  “Ask away,” Rhodri said, leaning back in his chair, “and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Alright, how does it start?”

  “The hunt assembles at the kennels two hours before midnight and heads in procession to the village, picking up more riders as it goes along. Gwyn opens a way in the middle of the bridge and it remains open while the hunt’s away, so the people who stay behind have to choose ahead of time which side of the village they want to be on, for the end of year celebrations. There are always at least two parties, one based around the inn.

  “When you get to the foot of the bridge, Gwyn will make a pretty little speech for Cernunnos and open the way. You’ll enter with the hounds and the field will follow.”

  George asked, “Where will the way open to?”

  “It’s impossible to tell in advance. It’s different every time. The hunt is sent to the quarry, and the hounds are cast at him.”

  “So it’s quick, then?” George said.

  “Not at all. The quarry runs, and ways are opened for him. Those ways stay open while the hunt continues. A rider who falls off or is otherwise lost must either seek the ways by himself, or wait for the hunt to return at the end to rejoin it, so you can see there’s some risk involved. Anyone can ride in the great hunt, but it’s not for children.”

  “What happens if they can’t find the ways and also miss the hunt coming back?”

  “Then they have to get back the hard way, round by the land. Since they might not be in our domain any longer, or even in the new world, you can see how that could be a bit… awkward.” He smiled. “We have stories about getting lost during the great hunt.”

  George said, “Can the huntsman get lost?”

  “Not if he keeps in contact with his quarry. The hounds will follow through the ways, and the huntsman can always find his way back. Iolo once told me it’s the only time he could see the ways.”

  “How many ways will there be?”

  “That’s impossible to predict. I’ve seen a hunt that took a dozen, and I’ve heard of a quarry dispatched after three. One thing, though: the first way can open anywhere, but the rest seem to stay in the same rough vicinity, judging by the stars. It’s always around midnight here at the mort, wherever you come out, though it may be anytime at night at the first way. I’ve seen the dawn rise, if we’ve gone very far east, before returning and sleeping through the same dawn again.”

  “What happens if the quarry escapes?”

  Rhodri sat up in his chair. “The hunt pursues until the quarry’s killed. If he escapes, justice has failed.” He looked at George seriously. “It hasn’t failed in Gwyn’s reign.”

  What a change in the great hall from a couple of weeks ago, George thought. Every table and bench was pressed into use for dinner.

  George was calmer than yesterday, determined to tough it out now that he was over the surprise. He expected it to be easier with Angharad at his side, and was grateful for it. He smiled at his friends as he joined them, and this time he was able to see the welcome in their faces. He avoided looking at the rest.

  He was struck by the brotherly resemblance of Gwyn and Edern sitting sternly together. “They look like that painting of yours, of the fostering of Rhys and Rhian,” he said quietly to Angharad. “They’ve mastered the imperious glare.”

  Angharad choked at his irreverent tone.

  I can handle this, he thought cheerfully.

  Then the malice started again.

  Creiddylad said to Gwyn, in a carrying voice, “How can you expect us to eat at the same table as Iolo’s murderer?”

  George cared little for what Creiddylad thought of him, but he felt the horned man stir, here in public, and that alarmed him. He pulled it back down.

  Madog chimed in, “I really think it would be wiser to make other arrangements for tomorrow night, my lord.”

  Again, the horned man started to rise. He clenched his teeth and kept his face expressionless, pulling it back.

  Creiddylad continued her chorus. “Cernunnos would surely find disfavor with him, brother. You mustn’t jeopardize the hunt.”

  Angharad felt him going rigid this time, and placed her left hand over his right where it clenched into a fist on the table. She squeezed it lightly in sympathy, with a look of concern on her face.

  George was disturbed. He himself wasn’t much moved by these insults, but something inside him, separate from him, seemed to be. It wasn’t himself he was trying to control, but something or someone else, angered by Creiddylad’s lies. As he choked it down he remembered old tales about the imprudence of insulting the gods. Settle down, he told whatever it was. This is aimed at me, not you. It subsided reluctantly.

  Seeking a distraction, he scanned the hall, and spotted Creiddylad’s odd servant, Meuric. He was out of step with his comrades, grinning when he thought no one was watching.

  He pointed him out to Angharad. “That’s the fellow I told you about, the one who watches Gwyn and Rhian.”

  She observed him for a few minutes. She shuddered with a sudden foreboding. “I hate the way he watches Rhian. There’s something very wrong about him.”

  Eurig and Tegwen came up with George to wish him luck tomorrow, and all thoughts of Meuric were driven out of their heads.

  In the huntsman’s study after dinner, George and Angharad enjoyed a quiet drink. The painting still had pride of place on its chair, now turned so that George could admire it in the lamplight.

  “I’m very glad you’re in the house this evening,” George said. “It’s hard to believe this will all be over in a day or so.”

  “Will you be staying on, after?” she asked.

  “I confess I’ve avoided thinking about it.” He took a sip of his brandy. “It started as a favor done for a relative and an adventure in a foreign land.”

  She nodded sympathetically.

  “I always assumed I would be returning. I put my life on hold, briefly, treating this like an exotic vacation.” He put his glass down. “But now that life seems faded and dull. I can’t picture what it would be like, returning. I have grandparents, and friends…”

  “And dogs,” she said, with a smile.

  “Yes, and dogs to go back to. But then how much of this world’s excitement would fade when it becomes a routine job? How many of these relatives think of me with family affection?”

  Angharad said, quietly, “I think the affections of your friends and family here are very real, more real than you know.”

  He glanced at her quickly, to see if she meant anything more by that. “I’ve been slow to act, with some of them,” he said deliberately, “not knowing how long I would be here.”

  She gave him an understanding look. Ah, message received. Good. If I’m still here in a few days, things will change, he promised himself.

  Angharad said, “Have you thought about your heritage? These things are part of you, in either world, but how will you deal with them somewhere else?”

  “You mean the horned man? I keep hoping that’ll be gone after tomorrow.”

  She shook her head, “I doubt that. Remember your father—it’s in your blood.”

  She was probably right. He desperately wanted to know what had happened to his parents.

  “More than that,” she said. “What if you’re long-lived, like Rhodri, and this is just the beginning? You have other gifts, with glamoury and the ways, and the speaking to beasts. It’s likely you have the years, as well.”

  “What would you do? How is it for you?”

  She sat back in her chair and steepled her hands together. “The first hundred years are a burst of youth for all of us. We’re invulnerable, in our own estimation, and the world’s a fine and fascinating place. Most of us just live, building families, learning, enjoying ourselves. Then we collide with the nature of life. Most mar
riages cannot last for many decades of unchanging existence. We lose track of our children and theirs, eventually, many of us. And the dreadful sameness of ‘just living’ takes its toll.

  “I was lucky, I had something to interest me, a striving that would never achieve perfection, that would never be satisfied. It’s kept me young. Those without resources become monsters eventually. Look at Creiddylad.

  “But I pay a price for it. My art keeps me sane, but I live solitary to do it. My arrangement here with Gwyn is an ideal compromise—I only hope it can last.”

  George asked, “Why must you live alone for your art?”

  “Because my art is part of me and takes most of my time, it’s what I’m passionate about. There’s not enough left over to satisfy most husbands, however much I may care for them.”

  George looked at her consideringly. “They sound selfish, to me. Have they no passions of their own, with their long lives?”

  She laughed. “Well, artists rarely marry artists—too much conflict of vision. Maybe a scholar or a poet would work. But you know how people are fascinated by opposites. I haven’t found an answer yet.”

  CHAPTER 34

  It was a quiet morning in the kennels, with no hunting or hound walking today. The break in routine felt strange to George.

  Angharad had been a welcome presence at breakfast, calm and well-rested. Couldn’t fool her about my sleeping, though. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to sleep through a night. Maybe I can rest tonight, after it’s all over.

  Ives knocked on his office door. George tried to read his face, now that they had a few minutes. Ives noticed the scrutiny and spoke up stoutly, “You’re not thinking we believed any of that garbage they’re trying to sell in the hall?”

  George said, some of the tension easing, “I hoped not, but you weren’t there for Iolo’s death and would have every reason to be suspicious.”

  “I know you well enough to know an evil lie when I hear it. And you forget, Orry told me all about tracking the killer with his hounds.”