by Sarah Zettel
Soon the folk of Gododdin came running, men and women, children hurrying up on round, sturdy legs, or hoisted in their parents’ arms. Whatever else they wore, they were all wrapped in lengths of sturdy woven wool against the perpetual cold and damp, the women swathed head and shoulders, the men swaddled around their waists and across chest and back.
They came down the slopes and out of the valley’s little green hollows to stand beside the route the procession travelled and lift their hands.
‘Lord Agravain!’ they cried. ‘Prince Agravain! God bless your coming! Thank God! Thank God!’
Agravain lifted his hand, acknowledging the tribute, and the folk who dropped to their knees. This outpouring startled him, but did nothing to lighten his demeanour. His attention drifted between the gathering, cheering crowd and the square, black fortress above. His jaw worked itself, tightening and loosening.
Wondering just how bad things have been that so many are so glad to see you, thought Laurel.
What troubled her was that none of the folk who cheered their progress and called out blessings followed them. She would have expected a joyful parade to the fortress that was the high house of this place. But not one of these people fell into their wake. They only watched, crying out their hopes and their prayers, and let the armed men and their returning prince go on ahead.
Soon, their climb began in earnest. Din Eityn stood on a mighty stone prominence that thrust up from the centre of the valley bowl. More hills, larger and rounder, loomed in the distance, but it was plain why this place had been chosen for the fortress of Gododdin. There was only one easy way up for a man on a horse, and that was a narrow, painful pass that snaked crookedly up the uneven side of the hill. There was, Agravain told her, a footbridge over a gap at the back of the rock, but no horse could travel that steep path.
Even on this easier way, no speed was possible. Laurel knew herself to be no great horsewoman, but, fortunately, strained as she was, her light mare remained steady of foot. Even so, the sturdy animal was blowing and sweating before they were half-way, and she had to pat the animal’s neck constantly for encouragement.
At last, the gates of Din Eityn loomed before them. The stout, black timbers banded with iron stood wide open to welcome their returning heir. Beyond them waited a courtyard so neatly squared it had to be of Roman making. But its lines were the only thing about it that was neat. The ground was pot-holed and puddled, with wisps of ancient straw sticking out of the thick layer of mud. The long hall made of unadorned, grey stone dominated a loose flock of smaller anonymous buildings that might have been dwellings, or storehouses or stables for all Laurel could tell. The only one bearing any markings at all was the chapel with its deeply incised cross.
No cheers greeted them here. An untidy gaggle of men lurked in the shadows, uncertain what to do as these snorting, panting horses clopped into their yard. A few faces peered out from the open doors of the hall. No one looked down off the walls, though, and it was clear that despite the fact an enemy approached, no watch had been set.
The only woman Laurel could see was an ancient dame in a corner of the hall, throwing out crumbs to a scattering of chickens. She hunched low in on herself, in the manner of one who hopes not to be noticed.
Agravain’s skin drew so tightly over the bones of his face, Laurel thought for a moment it would tear like cloth. He looked on each of the staring, straggling men, and his flat, black eyes promised silently to remember them, all of them.
‘Anden! Donal! Come take your lord’s horse!’ barked Pedair. ‘Iain! Spread the word that Lord Agravain has come home! Find Lord Ruadh and bring him here!’
Sluggishly, reluctantly, the men began to move in response to the orders. Their calculating eyes looked Agravain up and down, wary, wondering if this was real. They looked at Laurel too, measuring her probably for position and worth. She returned their gaze coolly, showing her own strength for any who cared to see. One seemed inclined to smile at this lofty response to so rude an inspection, but he wavered.
Yes, it is a true lord come again to this ruined place. You’d do well to think on that.
One of these slouchers took the reins of Agravain’s horse. Her husband’s whole face bent into a deep scowl as he dismounted.
‘Pedair, you see to the horses yourself, and wait for the men. I can still find my way, I think.’ Agravain came to Laurel’s side, his glower turning away the sly-eyed man who was first to approach, and helped her down from the horse. ‘You there!’ he called out towards the woman feeding the chickens.
The crone looked up, eyes wide, as if she just now saw her yard had been invaded. With a speed that showed she was still spry under her shapeless, undyed dress, she scrambled to her feet and scurried forward, scattering chickens as she did.
‘My lord, my lord,’ she bowed. Her voice was high and rusty. Laurel guessed she did not speak much. ‘Welcome home, my lord Agravain.’
Agravain’s face shifted, uncertain what to make of this first acknowledgement of his arrival in his father’s house. ‘My lady Laurel needs a woman to guide her about here. You will take that role until her own maids arrive.’
‘My honour, Your Highness,’ the woman said with wonder in her voice. She dipped a stiff-legged curtsey.
Agravain did not waste another word, but strode into the dark hall.
‘Will my lady …’ began the old woman.
‘No,’ said Laurel curtly. She strode after Agravain, leaving her new waiting woman no choice but to follow.
It was like walking into a cavern. The air was damp, stinking of mould, and fouler things. Stone walls pressed close. No tapestry or rug softened them. No light alleviated the darkness.
Ahead, someone screamed, a hoarse, horrible sound. Agravain broke into a run, and Laurel, hiking up her hems, followed fast behind, her heart filling her throat.
Within a few paces the dank entranceway opened into the great hall. It could have been a regal chamber, had there been any dressing, any banner or flag to confer stature on it. Instead it was an empty, echoing cavern. The three fires that blazed along its length did nothing to lighten the chill. Slovenly men in dirty leathers, and a few slatternly women in stained wool dresses lounged here and there. They looked up dully at this interruption of a man and woman clattering into their private cave.
In the centre of it all, the king lay in a richly carved bed beside the central fire. The sight of him stopped Agravain dead.
Laurel had seen illness many times, but nothing like this. Lot’s skin was so yellow he might have been dyed with saffron. Fever slicked his skin with sweat. His legs were swollen to the size of tree limbs. He writhed in a nest of soiled blankets. A draught crossed the hall, bringing the sicksweet stench of illness.
Lot screamed, his whole face twisting until his eyes screwed shut. His scabrous hands clawed at the blankets. The slovenly and slatternly around him looked up, but did nothing.
Agravain took a step forward and stopped. He took another step, and stopped again. In this halting way, he slowly reached his father’s bedside. A man ran in from a side entrance. Bald, save for a fringe of white hair around his mottled pate, he was square-built and still strong of arm. He was also the only person in clean clothing they’d seen in this place. Surely this was Ruadh, the chieftain Pedair had been ordered to find.
Lord Ruadh hurried up to Agravain’s side, bowing deeply. Agravain did not seem to see him. He stood at Lot’s bedside, seeming to alternately shrink and swell as he gazed on his father in the noisome bed. His face shook and spasmed as he tried to keep any emotion from showing itself.
This moment was necessary. Knowing how thorough he was, Laurel imagined Agravain had schooled himself in every possible way for it. Now it had come, and it was worse than any imaginings could have been, but he would not let it defeat him.
King Lot moaned, feebly kicking his swollen legs. The man slouched nearest the fire took a pull from his leather jack and spat into the flames.
‘Clear the hall,’ whis
pered Agravain.
The chieftain, Ruadh, opened his mouth, but had no chance to speak.
‘Clear the hall!’ bellowed Agravain.
The slatterns and vagabonds looked up, vaguely startled at this.
‘So help me God,’ said Agravain, with an icy steadiness that was more terrible than a shout of rage could ever be. ‘The one who lingers here an instant longer will have my sword in their belly.’
He means it. He’d do it. That understanding touched Laurel like winter’s breath. Not even in the depths of his fury would Agravain make a vow he did not mean to keep.
‘You heard your prince, you sluggards!’ shouted Ruadh. ‘Move your drunken arses!’
Like the men in the yard, it took these a moment to realize a real order had been given. Clearly, they all considered that while staying might make for some sport, the sport might quickly become unpleasant to them. So, they rose or straightened, catching up what they cared to take, and dispersed themselves into the corridors. Not out of obedience, or even fear, but out of the pure selfish interests of those who were not quite ready to make trouble.
Grim purpose settled over Laurel. She made herself walk up to Agravain with a measured pace. They were watched, she was sure of it. She felt the inquisitive gazes glancing backwards from of the dark mouths of the corridors, waiting to see what happened to her.
‘By your leave, my lord,’ she said clearly and calmly. ‘I will go see what can be made of the kitchens and workrooms.’
Agravain’s gaze darted to hers, understanding in a moment what she was doing. It would not do for the one who would be mistress of this place to be shooed out with the ruffians.
‘With my thanks, my lady,’ he replied curtly. ‘Show her the way, Ruadh.’
Now she could withdraw, dignity and authority intact, behind Lord Ruadh into the belly of Din Eityn. The old woman could follow her, head erect. She heard whispers, and the patter of sandalled feet as whoever had come down this way ahead of them rushed to get themselves gone.
After a dozen paces, Ruadh stopped, and turned. He bowed deeply to her. ‘Forgive me, my lady, I was not given the honour of your name.’
‘There is nothing to forgive my lord. All will be strange for a few days yet.’ And far more than that. She could barely see him in the corridor’s gloom, but her impression was a presence of strength long worn down. ‘I am Laurel of Cambryn, now wife to the prince Agravain.’
‘I am most honoured.’ Ruadh bowed again. ‘What service can I be to you, my lady?’
Laurel cast about, her mind racing through all that she had seen. ‘None at present, my lord, though I do thank you. I must establish who I am in this place. If I cannot do so alone and at once, I cannot do it.’ Somewhat to her surprise, she felt a tight smile form. ‘Make a good count of who is here among the men, and what kind they be. Your prince will need that. Also, make note of any who quit the place now. Make sure it’s known where they go.’
Gravely, Lord Ruadh bowed once more. Despite the shadows. Laurel thought she saw new respect dawning in his eyes, and counted that a victory. Here was a loyal man who could clearly give good service. They would need him badly.
Ruadh took his leave, the sound of his boot heels echoing against stone. Laurel stayed where she was, her hands on her hips. She suddenly missed her house keys, which she had worn so long as the lady of Cambryn’s halls. Her small, light ring with its few chest keys was next to nothing. Those heavy keys had been the symbol of her authority. They had also been her way into the stores and treasury she knew so well. Whatever she needed she could lay her hands on at home. Here, God alone knew what she would have and not have.
Someone coughed. Laurel turned and saw the ancient dame she had for a moment forgotten had been assigned to her.
‘And what is your name?’ asked Laurel
The woman bobbed a curtsey. ‘I’m called Byrd, my lady.’
‘And how long have you served here, Byrd?’
‘All my life, my lady.’
‘So you remember this place as it used to be?’
‘Oh yes, my lady,’ Byrd answered, her high voice gone soft with private sorrow. ‘I remember well.’
Laurel nodded, obscurely satisfied.
‘Find a light, Byrd,’ she said. ‘We go to do our own battle.’
The little woman looked up at her keenly, and a smile spread over her wrinkled face.
‘At once, my lady.’ She scurried off.
Another hoarse scream drifted down the corridor. Echoing against the stone it had the sound of a wounded animal. For a moment Laurel thought to return to the great hall. Agravain should not be alone there. But she stayed where she was. She must do credit to his strength and decision now. It was her duty to begin to make this cavern fit for human habitation. To do that, she must first discover how deep the rot and neglect ran. She did not doubt Pedair or Ruadh were as loyal as they seemed, but neither had been seneschal, and there were matters that they clearly had been powerless to track or turn about.
Byrd returned shortly, holding a smoking rushlight that reeked of old tallow. But the sputtering orange flames did give out some light. It would do for now.
‘The kitchens first.’ Laurel gestured for Byrd to precede her. The old woman stepped up nimbly enough, whether pleased simply at this new notice taken of her or pleased that there was someone here to take charge of the place. Laurel could not yet tell. Gathering up her hems, Laurel followed the ancient dame to the kitchens.
The great keep of Din Eityn was a series of buildings and cellars connected by the ubiquitous sunken walkways. These ways were stone-lined and stone-flagged, and roofed over with indifferent skill. More than once, Laurel had to dodge puddles as Byrd led her down the uneven steps and across to the smaller stone building that held the kitchen.
Desultory voices drifted out to them, along with some sniggering laughter. Though Laurel could not understand the words, the mocking, insolent tone was plain enough. Laurel’s shoulders stiffened and her jaw set.
The odours that greeted Laurel and Byrd as they entered the kitchen had little to do with food, and everything to do with filth. The place was cold as a tomb. Only one of the three hearths had any fire in it at all, and that was a pitiful pile of flickering coals, all but blocked by the bulk of a man with a leathern apron stretched tight across his middle and a blue cap slumping over his unkempt hair. His beard was crusted with grease and the remains of several recent meals. He looked up at her sharply, and Laurel knew here was the one who believed he was master of this place.
His underlings were little better. Laurel counted seven of them. Dressed in rags and greasy wools, there were four lounging men, and two cowering girls, with one square, horse-faced dame who did not bother to hide her contempt as she glanced Laurel up and down.
Assessing the danger I represent, no doubt.
All that waited on the worktables was some peelings, scraps and bones, and what quantity of flies could be bothered to disturb themselves in this cold.
Laurel took all this in with a single sweep of her eyes.
So.
‘Master Kitchener,’ Laurel barked. ‘Why have the fires been permitted to go out?’
The corpulent man (how did he grow fat on such scanty fare as was surely found here?) narrowed his eyes at her.
‘You’d best speak up, Fergas,’ said Byrd with perhaps more relish than was seemly. ‘This is Her Highness Laurel Carnbrea, come as wife to Prince Agravain.’
This revelation caused Fergas to sit up on his stool a little straighter, and to lose some of his colour.
‘I ask you again, Master Kitchener,’ said Laurel, aware that all ears had pricked up now, and that the furtive glances cast between the dishevelled kitchen inhabitants were evidence of close and careful attention. ‘Why have the fires been permitted to go out?’
Fergas shrugged. ‘Naught to light ‘em wi’, my lady.’ Then he remembered to shift his bulk enough to hide the coals sputtering behind him.
‘There is no
w.’ Laurel nodded to Byrd, who scurried forward to hold out the rushlight. ‘Light the fire.’
Fergas’s little eyes darted from the rushlight to Laurel, and he shifted uneasily. The stool creaked under his weight. ‘Naught to burn, my lady,’ he tried. ‘Mist’s got into the wood and it’s all gone to rot.’
‘All gone to rot,’ repeated Laurel evenly. ‘Aptly spoken, Master Kitchener. It seems the whole of this place has gone to rot.’
The kitchener’s eyes glittered angrily and he ran his fingers through his beard, muttering something.
‘What was that, Master Kitchener?’ demanded Laurel at once.
His underlings were all grinning now, save for the palest of the girls, and the square dame, who looked only angered at the whole scene.
‘Your lady asked you a question, Fergas,’ snapped Byrd. ‘I’d answer if I was you.’
‘Aye you would, ye old crackbrain,’ Fergas spat. Then, tucking his thumbs under the band of his leather apron he said, ‘All right, m’lady, you want to hear what I said. I said how I run my kitchen is no business of yours, nor of any southerner who comes back for a few days just so he can desert us as soon as he likes.’
That there was some justice to the charge was no excuse. ‘You seem to think nothing has changed, sirrah,’ she said, pitching every word to carry. ‘You think this is some southern whim. You are wrong. Your prince is here now. Din Eityn will become a true hall again. It will show the pride of Gododdin to the Pict and Dal Riata, and whosoever else dares to come calling. You can either do your work as befits this place and your master, or you can go to squat in a fen and spit in the wind for your drink. It matters not to me.’
Fergas’s lips twitched. He was attempting a grin, but some portion of whatever passed in him for thought was beginning to understand her words. ‘So you say.’
‘Yes, sirrah. So I say, and I am giving you your final chance. You may do with it exactly as you will.’
The kitchener was able to meet her gaze for a handful of heartbeats, but no more. All at once, he heaved himself to his feet. ‘Toradan, shift yourself. Find some kindlin’ ya gawper, or I’ll know why!’