The Sword of Wayland

by Gavin Chappell

  * * * * *

  King Caradawg looked down from his throne at the motley-clad figure that had capered into his hall.

  ‘And you say that you are a jester?’ he said suspiciously. ‘Still treading the roads two days before Yule? Have you not found any lord to live off, parasite?’

  ‘No, great king,’ said the jester, grinning broadly, and playing with the horn that hung from his neck. He reached forward and produced an earwig from behind the king’s ear. ‘It was in my mind to join your court this year, you being the greatest lord in the land.’

  Caradawg nodded, ignoring the proffered insect manfully.

  ‘Of course, I see your point,’ he replied. ‘But who says that a vulgar comedian like yourself is adequate for my hall?’

  ‘I have travelled in distant lands, kingdoms as far away as Pictland or East Anglia,’ replied the jester with a caper. ‘I have performed before kings as mighty as Offa, or as minor as Aldfrid of Lindsey.’

  ‘Your accent is odd for a fellow-countryman,’ remarked Caradawg. ‘Did you pick that up in the Saxon kingdoms?’

  ‘My lord king, my accent is strange in all lands, just as my actions are,’ replied the jester. Nonchalantly, he seized three greasy mutton bones from the dogs at Caradawg’s feet and juggled them so that their owners leapt to their feet and barked loudly, until one of the king’s companions kicked them back down again.

  ‘I am Digyfraith, jester to princes and abbots, kings and chieftains, anchorites and archbishops,’ the jester went on. ‘My riddles have confounded the cleverest of sages, my capering has captivated the hearts of thousands’ - he sketched a jig or two, still juggling. ‘Answer me this, answer me this,’ Digyfraith added.

  A being came shambling to where there sat

  Many elders in the meeting place.

  Two ears had he and a single eye,

  Two feet had he and twelve hundred heads,

  A back, two hands, and a belly,

  Two sides and shoulders, a neck,

  And two arms. Now tell me his name.

  Caradawg frowned, distracted by the man’s patter. He laughed.

  ‘I have no idea, little man,’ he replied. ‘What is his name?’

  ‘It’s easy, this one,’ replied Digyfraith, with a grin. ‘Anyone?’

  ‘Is it a monster?’ asked one of Caradawg’s warriors.

  ‘No, man, it’s a forest, isn’t it?’ another broke in.

  ‘Both wrong,’ replied Digyfraith, triumphantly. ‘Anyone else?’

  A shrill voice came from the foot of the throne.

  ‘A one-eyed garlic pedlar?’

  Everyone turned to stare at King Caradawg’s foot-warmer. The king himself looked down at her.

  ‘Nonsense, Ceindrych!’ he barked. ‘Really, I don’t know where the girl gets these ideas.’ He looked up at Digyfraith. ‘She’s wrong, isn’t she?’

  ‘No,’ cried Digyfraith. ‘You’re wrong - she’s right!’

  ‘Outsmarted by my foot-warmer!’ the king said. ‘Another!’ he cried. ‘I’ll get this one!’

  For once, the dank hall of King Caradawg roared with merriment. The noise bubbled out into the yard, reaching the ears of the four huddled figures lying in their prison bed, even drifting across the valley and through the trees.

  From the cold hillside above the hall, it was a remote hubbub. But the silent watchers on the slope recognised it for what it truly meant.

  The next morning, the jester awoke with a splitting headache. His unexpected entrance had lifted the mood of tension that had hung over Caradawg’s hall, and the courtiers had been grateful, flinging him silver and even gold, and proffering drink after drink. Briefly, he considered taking up this profession on a serious basis.

  Getting up, he peered around. The hall was empty. The hearth companions had departed. He sat on the edge of the dais and pondered his next move.

  A noise from the entrance lifted his drooping head. A young woman stood there, looking at him. He recognised her; she was the king’s foot-warmer. She stared at him, her eyes wide.

  ‘Morning,’ he said cheerily. ‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’ He rose. ‘I’m...’

  ‘Digyfraith,’ she said slowly, dreamily. ‘You said your name last night.’ She rushed forward, and took his hand. ‘I thought you were wonderful!’ she declared. ‘You’re so funny!’

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he replied. ‘But where is everyone? What is your name, by the way?’

  ‘Ceindrych,’ she replied. ‘I’m King Caradawg’s foot-warmer!’

  ‘A unique position at court,’ the jester replied. ‘But you don’t seem to be warming his feet just now.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Ceindrych replied. ‘He and his warriors have ridden down to Bangor to speak with the bishop.’

  ‘Really?’ said Digyfraith lazily. ‘Then we’re alone.’

  ‘Not really,’ Ceindrych told him. ‘A few off-duty guards are around, sentries, servants... But no one I could talk to.’

  ‘Well, talk to me,’ he invited, sitting down, and patting the dais beside him. ‘You must get so bored here.’

  Ceindrych seated herself beside him.

  ‘Oh, it’s more interesting than my father’s farm, up in the hills,’ she said. ‘But when the king is away, nothing happens.’

  ‘You must be privy to a lot of his... intimate affairs,’ Digyfraith suggested slyly. ‘That’s a lot of responsibility.’

  Ceindrych giggled. ‘No one pays any attention to me,’ she said. ‘I don’t think they even notice I’m listening. All I have to do is keep the king’s feet warm with my thighs, and the rest of my time is my own.’

  ‘They don’t notice a beautiful lass like you?’ Digyfraith said wonderingly. He reached forward almost involuntarily to stroke her cheek, and she giggled again, and pulled away. Then she looked up, and her eyes met his. ‘You must feel unappreciated.’

  ‘You think I’m pretty?’ Ceindrych whispered, her eyes starry.

  ‘In all my journeys across the kingdoms of Britain,’ Digyfraith replied, ‘I’ve seldom seen so beautiful a girl.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Ceindrych. She blushed. ‘I think you’re very handsome - and so funny.’ She wriggled closer. ‘And you’ve got such a silly beard.’ She ran her fingers along his jowls.

  He seized her hand and kissed it. ‘Oh, and you are very bold,’ she added. ‘Surely you are not a jester, but a mighty warrior!’

  ‘I’ve sheathed my weapon in this body and that,’ he replied, drawing closer. ‘And you? You, who have a man between your legs every day?’

  ‘Well, really!’ she flounced. ‘Don’t you know a foot-warmer must be a virgin?’

  ‘So you don’t know what it’s like to have a real man part your thighs?’ Digyfraith whispered, running his fingers through her long dark locks.

  ‘But that would be treason,’ murmured Ceindrych. ‘Could a bold warrior like you force me to commit treason?’

  ‘When you’ve sounded out my plot, you’ll wish to betray your king thrice daily,’ Digyfraith replied.

  ‘And your treasonous plot,’ Ceindrych murmured. ‘Is it long and complicated?’

  ‘A sizeable treachery,’ he replied. ‘Not short, but direct and to the point.’

  ‘And will I witness an uprising?’ asked Ceindrych.

  ‘The plotters have already risen,’ Digyfraith replied. ‘And now they clamour eagerly to break down the gates of the palace.’

  Ceindrych laughed loudly.

  ‘And how strong do you reckon the defence?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘A token resistance,’ Digyfraith told her confidently, ‘when they see my siege engine.’ He ran his fingers down the back of her neck, and she gasped.

  ‘I foresee a brief siege,’ she replied. ‘And will the looting be thorough?’

  ‘We aim to take no prisoners.’

  ‘But you will find at least one slave aching to do your bidding.’

  ‘Where?’ demanded Digyfraith, panting.

&nb
sp; Ceindrych’s eyes flashed. ‘Follow me,’ she whispered, smiling wickedly. She seized his hand and pulled him to his feet. Together, they crept from the hall, fled across the silent yard, and into the warm, comforting darkness of the stables.

  An hour later, they were lying in each other’s arms. The straw around them was churned and disarrayed, and the horses nearby were moving nervously in their stalls. Ceindrych’s head lay pillowed on Digyfraith’s broad chest. He stroked her sweat-slick hair.

  ‘When will your lord return?’ he whispered.

  ‘Tonight,’ she said with a sigh. ‘We’d best get dressed.’

  He held her back. ‘Not yet,’ he murmured. ‘Tell me, does he hold anyone prisoner?’

  She raised her head, and looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Four people, in the hut by the gate. They’ve been there for over a week,’ she replied. ‘They’re enemies of the wizard.’

  ‘Grimbert, he’s called?’ She nodded in reply. ‘And what does her do here?’

  Ceindrych frowned.

  ‘What I’ve heard, I haven’t understood,’ she admitted. ‘But they’re planning something together, an attack on the Saxons, I think. For some reason, they keep talking about the king’s standard.’

  ‘The king’s standard? What is on the king’s standard?’

  ‘A red dragon,’ she replied. ‘They keep talking about Yule Eve, when the dragon will fly, and the hordes pour forth. And King Caradawg slaps his sword, and says that they are undefeatable.’

  ‘Yule Eve is tomorrow night,’ Digyfraith said. ‘All those setbacks! It seems I was just in time.’

  Ceindrych stared at him.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked slowly.

  The jester was silent. Then he rose. ‘Put your clothes back on,’ he said brusquely, slapping her rump. ‘We don’t want anyone finding us here.’ He pulled on his breeches, grabbed his tunic, then reached out and took her by the chin.

  ‘Till later, eh?’ he whispered. He kissed her, ignoring her sulky expression, and slipped through the stable door.

  Hurriedly, Ceindrych slipped her kirtle over her head, pulled it down with a wriggle, and padded silently after him.

  She looked out of the door to see Digyfraith heading straight for the prison-hut. It was unguarded - the prisoners were in chains, after all.

  Ceindrych’s eyes narrowed. Digyfraith glanced surreptitiously from left to right, then slipped inside.