Night Bird's Reign (23 page)

Dudod cradled Llawen in his arms, his body shaking with sobs, rocking her back and forth. And then Hefeydd looked at Rhiannon, his wide, brown eyes shocked and dull. “Where were you?” he asked, his voice cold and flat.

“I was sleeping,” Rhiannon wept. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

And then Hefeydd’s brown eyes came alive, glittering with hatred as he stared at his tiny daughter. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. “You killed her. You killed her, too,” he screamed. “Is there anyone I love you will not murder? What have you done? What have you done?”

R
HIANNON, TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS
later, kneeling by a pool on a cold winter night, gasped, snatching her hand out of the cold, silent water. “It wasn’t my fault,” she whispered, her breath coming harsh and fast. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she wept, curled into a tight ball, rocking back and forth in misery next to the gleaming water. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry.”

Chapter Nine

Dinas Emrys Kingdom of Gwynedd, Kymru Bedwen Mis, 494

Llundydd, Lleihau Wythnos—late afternoon

T
he peddler and his guard toiled up the last incline on the road to the mountain village of Dinas Emrys. One look at the peddler was enough to make anyone wonder if it was really necessary for him to have a guard, as it was questionable that the man had anything worth stealing.

The peddler’s gray, threadbare cloak was patched here and there with incongruously colored cloth—blue, yellow, red, and a small pink patch at the hem. The threads used to sew the patches were mismatched and sewn with long crooked stitches. Most of the peddler’s face was hidden within the large hood of his cloak, allowing only a glimpse of a short gray beard and a pointed nose. The man’s dry gray hair hung lank and lifeless around his shoulders beneath the hood. His doeskin boots had a hole in the toe.

The scruffy man-at-arms wasn’t in any better shape. His leather tunic and trousers were worn and they too were patched where the leather had eroded. His tunic was spotted and stained but the long, wicked dagger he carried looked both clean and sharp. His face was stubbled with the beginnings of a garnet-tinged beard, and his eyes were dark. He walked with a slouch and his leather boots were scruffy and worn. Perhaps his chief occupation was to guard the horse—a fine-looking animal, no doubt stolen. The horse was loaded down with packs containing the peddler’s cheap wares.

It was late afternoon and the air was turning chilly, as it always did in early spring in the high mountains. The shadows had gathered, darkening the surrounding mountains as the sun began its slow descent. Flocks of sheep dotted the hillsides here and there. Urged on by their masters, they began moving slowly down the mountains to rest the night in the village byres. Occasionally dogs barked commands to their woolly charges. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the tiny huts, and a few women were gathered by the well, snatching a chance for a quick gossip before returning to their labors.

As the peddler and his guard neared the village, they could be heard arguing and snipping at each other. “I told you it was a ridiculous idea to come here,” the guard said.

“And I told you, this is on the way to Caer Dathyl,” the peddler replied, irritably.

“Oh, that’s right. You think the great Gwydion ap Awst himself will buy a few pots and pans from you.”

“Very funny. You know perfectly well that I have some nice cloth for sale.”

“Oh, yes. Maybe he’ll buy a length of that red stuff to make a new gown.”

“He’s got those two women living there, doesn’t he? Dinaswyn, the old Dreamer, and that Arianrod. He’d buy presents for them, just to shut them up, I’d bet.”

“Ha! You just want to get a look at that Arianrod. I hear she’s worth looking at, but I doubt she’ll think the same of you.”

“This is business,” the peddler said, airily. “I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

“Only because you never get the chance. And how do you know that Gwydion’s even going to be there to buy anything from you?”

“He’s almost always there, you moron.”

The guard scowled, his dark eyes darting to and fro over the interested women at the well, the small huts, and a few scrawny chickens. “Good thing you brought me along to guard all the money you’ll make in this place.”

“You’re always complaining. You get enough to eat, don’t you?”

“Only when I’m doing the cooking.”

By this time quite a crowd had gathered to hear the two men argue, the crowd growing as the men returned with the sheep. Fascinated, they started at the peddler and the guard, turning their eyes from one to the other to follow the argument.

“Look,” the peddler said, exasperated, “the deal was you guard my horse and I feed you. I’ve kept my end of the bargain.”

“Sure, if you call that oatmeal you make food.”

“What do you call it, then?”

“Slop. Not even fit for the horse.” A few men snickered.

“Fine,” the peddler retorted. “Tonight we’ll stay in someone’s house. Happy?”

“Only when I’m done traveling with you.”

“Oh yes,” the peddler sneered. “You had something better to do. You could have taken that offer from the King you told me about. You know, when he wanted you to lead his warband, but you said that he didn’t pay well enough.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Ha! The closest you ever got to King Uthyr was when you were hauled up for drunkenness.”

The peddler glanced around and seemed to notice for the first time that the entire village watched them. Suddenly his manner changed and he began to address the crowd, his gestures florid and his voice smooth. “Ahem. Ladies and gentleman. A good day to you all.”

“I was never hauled up for—” the guard started.

The peddler punched him in the arm, hard. “Shut up, you idiot. Can’t you see I’m working?” The guard rubbed his arm and gave the peddler a dark look, but subsided.

“Ahem,” the peddler went on. “As I was saying, my fine lord and ladies, a good evening to you all. How pleased I am to be guesting here in such a fine village.” He gestured expansively at the huts as the crowd looked at him blankly. “Indeed. Nestled here in these beautiful mountains like a pearl nestles within its oyster.” Still, there was no response as the crowd stared back at the peddler as though he had lost his mind.

“Ahem,” he went on, clearing his throat. “Yes. A jewel of a place this is. For within such surroundings beautiful women do reside, hidden away like treasures, gleaming like gold and precious gems.” He gestured to the stout, plain women by the well, who stared back in astonishment. “And what do such pearls, such treasures, deserve from the men who love them? Why, ribbons, of course, to vie with the brightness of their hair.” He drew tangled lengths of ribbons from his pack, holding them up with a flourish. “Any man with a sweetheart would buy a ribbon for her hair. And, truly, a man who cared for his wife would buy her pots and pans to cook his dinner in. Fair receptacles for the fruits of her labor.” He opened another pack, spreading the pots on a hastily set length of cloth.

The women began to eye the goods speculatively. The older ones eyed the tins, the younger ones eyed the ribbons. And the men eyed the women, warily.

The peddler’s eyes picked out a young, fresh-faced girl. He picked up a length of blue ribbon and held it up to her fair hair. “Oh, indeed. Blue to match your eyes, my dear. A man would be mad not to have his eye on you—and mad not to purchase such a pretty trifle for such a pretty girl.” The girl blushed, peering up at the peddler shyly.

A young man pushed his way through the crowd, holding a short length of undyed wool cloth. “This for the blue ribbon,” he said, turning bright red, but standing his ground. The young girl blushed even more and looked fixedly at the ground.

The peddler deftly took the cloth and squinted at the close weave. He smiled. “Indeed, young sir. So be it. A ribbon for your lady fair,” as he gravely presented the ribbon to the young man.

“You’re overcharging,” the guard said very quietly into the peddler’s ear.

The peddler replied through his fixed smile, his lips barely moving, “You’re taking all the fun out of this.”

“Be fair with these people—or I’ll pull all your teeth out,” the guard replied, also smiling and giving the peddler a slap on the back that nearly sent him sprawling.

The peddler laughed as though the guard had said something witty then picked up a red ribbon. “Ah, young sir,” he called to the young man, “your fine cloth has brought you two ribbons.” The young man came back to retrieve the second ribbon then went to the girl, shyly handing her the ribbons. The girl drew them through her work roughened hands wonderingly and, finally daring to look up at the young man, smiled softly.

Then the village women began to seriously inspect the pots and pans and slowly the stock began to disappear, replaced by lengths of undyed wool, wheels of cheese, a wooden comb or two. The peddler smiled in satisfaction as the loot mounted up when an old man made his way through the crowd. His beard was long and gray and his robe was of plain, gray cloth. Sheepskin boots were wrapped around his feet and he carried a stout walking stick. His dark eyes flashed for a moment then subsided.

“What’s going on here?” the old man asked.

The peddler bowed. “I am a merchant, good sir, on my way to Caer Dathyl when I stopped in this lovely village, nestled in these mountains like a pearl in an oyster—”

“Selling shoddy wares,” the old man broke in. “Down on your luck, eh?”

The peddler drew himself up haughtily. Although his face was still hooded, his eyes could be seen to gleam deep within the hood. “I assure you, good sir—”

“And who is this? Leader of your illustrious warband?” the old man continued, jerking his stick at the now scowling guard.

“Are you insulting me?” the guard demanded, his hand on his knife.

“I? Insult you? No indeed. It must be insult enough to be forced to endure this peddler’s company.”

“I don’t have to take that from you, old man,” the peddler said angrily. The guard came to stand by the peddler, his hand still firmly on his dagger.

There was a commotion in the back of the crowd as a boy burst through to stand protectively in front of the old man. The boy’s hair was sandy, darkening to auburn. He had large, dark eyes set in a thin, tanned face. He was lanky and awkward as though he did not yet know what to do yet with his hands and feet. “Are you threatening my uncle?” the boy asked belligerently.

The guard turned ashen. He swallowed convulsively, looking at the boy as though seeing a ghost. Quickly, the peddler turned to the guard. “Stop staring,” he hissed. The guard blinked at the force in the peddler’s voice then set his face in stern lines. The peddler, reassured, stepped back.

“Your uncle, young sir, has questioned the value of my wares. We were merely discussing matters.”

The boy looked uncertainly at his uncle, at the peddler, at the guard. “Well,” he said in a passable imitation of a growl, “you’d better not threaten him that’s all.”

“I am well guarded, as you see,” the old man said, smiling.

“You are indeed,” the guard said, his voice somewhat hoarse. He cleared his throat. “And so, I might add, is this fine peddler. There is an accusation to be settled.”

“Indeed,” said the peddler smoothly. “And I have a way to settle it. You, my fine elderly fellow, shall put us up for the night. I hereby invoke the law of hospitality.”

The old man’s dark eyes flashed in outrage. “What? You dare—”

“In return,” the peddler went on, “you may cook my dinner in one of these shining, new pots. And, if you agree that my wares are sound, as I am sure you will, we can discuss price in the morning.”

The peddler waited, his head cocked arrogantly. The guard said nothing, keeping his eyes stubbornly off the boy.

“Outrageous.” the boy said flatly. “We refuse.”

The old man put a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m afraid we can’t. The law of hospitality forbids it. Very well,” he said turning to the peddler, “but you will do the cooking.”

The guard groaned. “Please don’t make me eat his cooking again.” The peddler shot the guard a poisonous look.

Involuntarily, the old man smiled then hastily put on a frown. “We’ll discuss this further, in private,” he said shortly. “Come.”

The peddler hastily packed up his goods while the guard held the horse’s reins. They followed the old man and the boy to the last hut at the edge of the village.

The old man jerked open the wooden door and motioned everyone inside with a curt gesture. “We’ll take care of your horse in a minute,” the old man said irritably. “Get inside.” The peddler tied the horse’s reins to the post beside the door then entered the little house. When they were all inside the old man slammed the door and bolted it. The boy stood suspiciously by the door, as though ready to run off for help at the slightest sign of trouble from their unwanted guests.

The peddler’s eyes traveled over the cozy room, over the low-beamed ceiling hung with drying herbs, over the fire burning cheerily in the hearth, over the boy standing anxiously by the door. Then his eyes came to rest on the old man who was grinning. “Nice place you have here, Myrrdin,” the peddler said.

“Thank you, Gwydion,” the old man replied casually. “Arthur and I like it.”

“Gwydion?” Arthur cried in astonishment. “Uncle Gwydion?”

“None other,” the peddler replied, as he pulled off his hood and his gray wig.

“But your beard’s gray!” Arthur exclaimed.

“Oh, that’s just flour, it will wash off.”

“What are you doing here?” Arthur demanded.

“Visiting.” Gwydion glanced at the guard, who stood motionless by the hearth. The guard hadn’t left off staring at Arthur, drinking in the sight like a man who is dying of thirst drinks in cool, clear water.

“Do you remember, Arthur, eight years ago when I brought you here? I made a promise then,” Gwydion said gently.

Arthur nodded slowly, his eyes going to the guard who stood so silently.

“And the promise was?” Gwydion prompted.