Cry of Sorrow (13 page)

“Tangwen, Catha is talking to you,” her father said sharply, nudging her.

Jolted out of her reverie, she looked up, startled, her blue eyes wide. “I’m sorry, General. What did you say?”

The smile on Catha’s handsome face had an edge to it. And there was no smile in his frosty, light blue eyes. “I said, Tangwen, where is the necklace I sent to you?”

“Oh. I, uh, I forgot it.” The lie was so obvious that she blushed. In truth, she had left it lying deliberately in her room. The touch of it made her skin crawl. For she knew the reason for the gift. Not content with taking Madoc’s mistress whenever the mood struck him, Catha was angling for Madoc’s daughter, as well. The fact that she was eighteen and pretty had not escaped him, nor the fact that, as daughter to the King, she was another avenue to power.

“You displease me, Tangwen,” Catha said coldly. “You displease me greatly.”

“I––

“General,” Arday broke in, “I simply must have a new emerald. I have just received the most heavenly forest-green gown. I ordered it months and months ago, but you know how the people are. They work so slowly these days.” Arday, the former steward to King Uthyr, sister of the traitorous Lord of Archellwedd, mistress of Madoc and now Catha—much to Madoc’s unvoiced displeasure—smiled as she spoke, laying her slender hand on Catha’s arm. Her long black hair flowed down her back, held back from her face by a band of rubies. Her red dress was cut so low that Tangwen wondered why she bothered to wear anything at all. Arday’s dark, heavy-lidded eyes glittered hotly at Catha.

Distracted, as Arday had intended (but why, Tangwen wondered), Catha bent toward Arday, lazily tracing her cheekbone with his finger, then lightly running his hand over her breasts. “And what, dear Arday, would you be willing to pay for that emerald?”

“Ah, great Lord, whatever you wish, of course.”

“Yet I wish for so many things,” he said, taking her hand and slowly kissing her fingers.

“And you shall have them all,” she purred. “And more.”

Madoc abruptly stood and turned to leave the table. Tangwen scrambled to her feet to follow.

“Madoc,” Catha called. Madoc stopped and turned around, his face flushed. “I have not given you leave to go,” Catha said, smiling lazily. “Do you not recall that we have business still to take care of?”

Slowly Madoc again took his seat.

“And your charming daughter,” Catha went on, “she, too, must stay. For a little while longer.”

“I have told you, Catha,” Madoc said sullenly, “that I will do everything I can to assist in finding Susanna.”

Tangwen’s ears pricked up. Susanna was Morrigan’s Bard, now in hiding with the rest of the Cerddorian. The enemy had been hunting them for two years now—all of them, not just Susanna. Why was the Bard so important now?

“You know what she looks like, Madoc. Whereas I do not,” Catha went on. “I believe that it would be a good idea for you to think about taking a journey.”

“I cannot leave Tegeingl,” Madoc protested. “And, besides, how do we know that she will begin the Plentyn Prawf this year? Maybe they will think it far too dangerous.”

Oh, Tangwen thought. Surely her father knew better than that. Her people—once his people, too—would never pass by the season for testing the children. To do so would be to give up, to admit defeat. And that was something they would never do.

“You have two weeks to prepare yourself to leave, my King.” The contempt that Catha gave the epithet was profound. “In the meantime, there is one more piece of business that you have forgotten. Ah, here it is.”

The doors to the hall opened, and four warriors escorted a man through the drunken throng. Though the man was loaded down with chains, he held his grizzled head high. His powerful shoulders strained against his plain brown tunic. As he drew nearer, Tangwen recognized him. With horror she stared at Greid, the Master Smith of Gwynedd. Why, in the name of the gods, had they arrested him?

Madoc, after a glance at Catha, reluctantly stood as the Smith and his Guard came to a halt before the high table. “Greid ap Gorwys,” Madoc intoned, “you will leave Tegeingl tonight, in the company of these warriors. Your family awaits you now, to share your journey.”

“And to ensure your cooperation,” Catha put in.

“Yes,” Greid boomed, “I have been able to figure that part out myself. Thanks just the same for pointing that out, boyo.”

For the first time, Tangewen saw Catha disconcerted. She almost smiled, but caught herself in time.

“Just a few questions, assuming your wine-soaked wits will enable you to answer,” Greid went on. “Where are you sending me? And just what do you think I will do when I get there?”

“You will do as you are told,” Catha said sharply. “As for where you are going—that, too, is something you must wait to find out. Know this, old man, you will do your job well, or your family will answer for it. And that would be a pity. For your sons and daughters have such delightful, beautiful children. And the soldiers who guard them are quite inventive. Just imagine how one of those precious grandchildren might call out to you to end their torment, should you refuse to obey.”

Tangwen, her face twisted in horror, leapt to her feet. She knew that it was more than foolish, that she might pay for this with her life, but she could not listen to this without doing something. “Da, please. Don’t let them do this. Don’t.”

“Quiet, girl,” Madoc hissed.

“General,” she began urgently, “I beg you—”

“How delightful,” Catha smiled. “Please, do. Offer me what I want, Tangwen, and we shall see.”

Tangwen froze where she stood. The hall fell silent as the enemy warriors turned from their drunken games to watch. Tangwen looked to her father, her eyes pleading, but Madoc slowly sat down, his shoulders slumped.

She glanced at Arday, expecting to see hatred or triumph in those dark eyes. But Arday was not looking at her at all. Instead, she was staring at Greid, her lips pressed tightly together. There was a message for the Smith in those eyes, but what the message was, only Greid seemed to know. At Arday’s almost imperceptible nod, Greid spoke.

“Never mind, lass,” Greid told Tangwen gently. “There is nothing you can do for me and mine. One day the High King will return to us. And then the enemy will be driven out. And, one day, Queen Morrigan herself will come, and kill this upstart General. Leave it be, for now, lass. Leave it be.”

Llundydd, Lleihau Wythnos—late afternoon
M
YRRDIN WATCHED AS
the Coranian warriors led their prisoners through the mountains. The group would reach the tiny village of Dinas Emrys in a matter of moments. He scanned the village one last time to be sure everything was in place. Then he returned his attention to the warrior band, watching their every move.

Not that anyone—unless they were of the Y Dawnus—would know that Myrrdin was watching the warriors. For Myrrdin’s body sat by the fire in the tiny hut he and Arthur had shared for so many years. The door of the hut was closed, and he sat calmly in his chair by the hearth. For Myrrdin was Dewin—had once, indeed, been the Ardewin of Kymru—and he was adept at Wind-Riding, at sending his awareness many leagues away from his body. So adept was he that he did not even need to close his eyes, did not need to sit still. Every so often, he would reach over and stir the gently boiling pot hanging on the spit over the fire. Only a stew, and a poor one at that. The harvest had, once again, been meager. But it was better than nothing, and he would at least have something hot to give the two prisoners when they were freed.

He knew them both. The man was Edwy, Bard to the Gwarda of Aberffraw. The Gwarda, Cynwas, had escaped to Mynydd Tawel, as had Edwy, and they were now both members of the Cerddorian, assisting Queen Morrigan in her struggle to regain the rule of Gwynedd. Edwy looked worn, but not too ill-used—not yet, at any rate.

The woman with hair of shining gold who walked with her hands bound behind her and her head held high was Neuad ur Hetwin. Years ago she had followed him around Y Ty Dewin, hoping he would notice her—which he had, of course. Who wouldn’t notice a girl as beautiful as Neuad? The others had always teased him about it. But he had not even so much as hinted to her how very aware of her he was. For even then he had been an old man. He had not seen her for thirteen years, since he had left Y Ty Dewin in the dead of the night to come here to this village to raise Arthur in secret.

Once again he scanned the village. Yes, all was as it should be. The men were slowly driving the sheep down from the hills in all different directions. And there, at the village well, the women were gathering to draw water. Already they had several buckets full. Most important of all, a boy with brown hair and a white scar on his face sat casually on the limb of a tall oak tree at the north end of the village. The branches of the huge tree shaded the road. Whistling, the boy was cleaning his nails with a small knife.

The contingent had reached the outskirts of the village now. The late-afternoon sun shone brightly on their iron byrnies and shining helmets. They carried axes and shields depicting boars’ heads in the red and gold colors of the Warleader.

Myrrdin continued to content himself with sitting by the fire in his tiny hut. If Neuad or Edwy saw him and recognized him, they might involuntarily betray who he was. And that must be avoided at all costs. He was, after all, supposed to be dead these many years. Still humming under his breath, he waited and watched as the warriors and their prisoners entered the village.

So it began. With impeccable timing, the sheep began to swarm over the road from all directions, breaking into the six warriors and their two prisoners just as they came to a halt beneath the spreading branches of the oak tree. The Coranians began pushing at the sheep with their shields, trying to fend them off. One or two warriors wobbled on their feet, almost thrown off balance by the press. Seeing their moment, Neuad and Edwy began to edge away from their captors.

At that moment, two men of the village began to shout, each accusing the other of trying to hog the road.

“You there. Onnen!” one of the men shouted. “Your sheep are blocking my way! And not for the first time, you weasel!”

“Stow it, Cryn,” Onnen bellowed. “I know what you’re trying to do—steal my sheep. I’ll have you before the law for this!”

A few of the women ran up from where they stood by the well, still carrying buckets of water. One of the women, tall and raw boned, began to shout. “Leave my man be, Onnen, or I’ll drench you! That will cool you down somewhat!”

“You wouldn’t dare, Marwen!”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Marwen picked up her bucket and threw. Some of the water did, indeed, splash on Onnen. But most of it inexplicably drenched the Coranian warriors.

Two dogs now entered the fray, snarling and barking. One woman reached Marwen and grabbed her by the hair, flinging her to the ground. “You leave Onnen alone or I’ll cut your heart out!” the woman shrieked.

Onnen and Cryn ran to the women and tried to break up the fight. But somehow the two men fell to wrangling instead and, in their struggle, hurled themselves straight at the Captain, bowling him off his feet.

At that moment, with the warriors completely distracted from their prisoners, Arthur dropped from the tree branches and cut Neuad’s bonds. Neuad, quick as lightning, grabbed Arthur’s knife and plunged it into Edwy’s heart. The Bard fell to the ground, his dying moan of agony drowned out by the shouting.

After a moment of shock, Arthur recovered his wits and grabbed Neuad’s hand, then the two were off and running, ducking behind the huts, disappearing into the mountains.

M
ANY HOURS LATER
, Myrrdin finally heard footsteps coming up the back path. About time, he grumbled to himself. He had not tracked them with his Wind-Riding for he had been concerned that the fracas in the village not end in bloodshed for the villagers. After Arthur and Neuad had escaped, Myrrdin had gone charging out of the hut, shouting imprecations at the villagers, breaking up the fight, soothing the Coranian Captain, and mourning, with as much sincerity as possible, the death of Edwy. He had no idea why Neuad had killed the Bard, but he was sure Neuad had her reasons.

The Captain had, at last, left the village with his men, taking the body of Edwy with them. At first the Captain had been enraged, calling on his men to take the heads of everyone in the village. But the number of men and women who had stolidly faced the Captain and his five men had dissuaded him. Myrrdin had offered the Captain food in compensation for the trouble they had caused, explaining all the while what a sorry accident it was. And so the Captain had allowed himself to be mollified, and the warriors had left some hours ago. As near as Myrrdin could tell from the Captain’s comments, the man had no idea that he had captured a Dewin and a Bard. Just who he thought they were, why he had taken them prisoner, was not clear.

Well, Myrrdin thought with a sigh, he was about to find out. He had told Arthur not to bring Neuad back here. But the boy had quite obviously ignored that request.

The door leading into the hut from the sheep byre opened, and Arthur entered, followed by Neuad. Her tunic and trousers of brown leather were torn and stained, and her golden hair was tangled. There were lines of care on her face now, and her cheekbones stood out starkly. She was thin, far too thin. But her blue eyes lit up with the same glow he remembered from long ago when she saw him.

“Myrrdin,” she said, wonder in her soft voice. “You’re alive!” She ran to him, and before he could stop her (and he didn’t think he even wanted to), she had her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. Without conscious volition, his arms came up and encircled her slim body. After a moment he realized that though he might be sixty-two years old, his body had forgotten that important fact, and he pulled her arms from his neck and set her away from him.

“Neuad, child,” he said, deliberately reminding them both that he was old enough to be her father, “how glad I am to see you.”

“And I to see you, Ardewin,” she breathed, her heart in her eyes.

“But you have not, Neuad,” he said sharply. “I am not the Ardewin, and have not been for many years. Nor have you seen this boy. You saw an old man and his grandnephew. And that is all you saw. Do you understand?”