The Summer of the Danes (10 page)

“His
son?” he said in an awed whisper.

“But
not hers,” said Cadfael. “Another like Hywel.”

“There
cannot be many such in this world,” said Mark, staring. Beauty in others he
observed with a particular, ungrudging delight, having always felt himself to
be the plainest and most insignificant of mortals.

“There
is but one such, lad, as you know full well, for there is but one of any man
that ever lived, black or fair, And yet,” owned Cadfael, reconsidering the
uniqueness of the physical envelope if not of the inhabiting soul, “we go close
to duplicating this one, there at home in Shrewsbury. The boy’s name is Rhun.
You might look at our Brother Rhun, since Saint Winifred perfected him, and
think one or the other a miraculous echo.”

Even
to the name! And surely, thought Mark, recalling with pleasure the youngest of
those who had been his brothers in Shrewsbury, this is how the pattern of a
prince, the son of a prince, should look—and no less, a saint, the protege of a
saint. All radiance and clarity, all openness and serenity in the face. No
wonder his father, recognising a prodigy, loves him better than all others. “I
wonder,” said Cadfael half to himself, unwittingly casting a shadow athwart
Mark’s contemplation of light, “how her two will look upon him, when they’re
all grown.”

“It
is impossible,” Mark said firmly, “that they should ever wish him harm, even if
land-greed and power-greed have sometimes turned brothers into enemies. This
youth no one could hate.”

Close
at his shoulder a cool, dry voice observed ruefully: “Brother, I envy your
certainty, but I would not for the world share it, the fall is too mortal.
There is no one who cannot be hated, against whatever odds. Nor anyone who
cannot be loved, against all reason.”

Cuhelyn
had approached them unnoticed, threading a way through the stir of men and
horses, hounds and servants and children. For all his black intensity, he was a
very quiet man, unobtrusive in all his comings and goings. Cadfael turned in
response to the unexpected observation, just in time to see the intent glance
of the young man’s shrewd eyes, presently fastened with a wry, indulgent warmth
upon the boy Rhun, sharpen and chill as another figure passed between, and
follow the transit with a fixity that suggested to Cadfael, at first, nothing
more than detached interest, and in a matter of seconds froze into composed but
indubitable hostility. Perhaps even more than hostility, a measure of
restrained but implacable suspicion.

A
young man of about Cuhelyn’s years, and by no means unlike him in build and
colouring, though thinner in feature and somewhat longer in the reach, had been
standing a little apart, watching the bustle all round him, his arms folded and
his shoulders leaned against the wall of the undercroft, as though this
tumultuous arrival concerned him rather less than the rest of the household.
From this detached stance he had moved suddenly, crossing between Cuhelyn and
the linked pair, father and son, and cutting off the view of Rhun’s radiant
face. Something to be seen here certainly mattered to this young man, after
all, someone had been sighted who meant more to him than clerics from Saint
Asaph or the young noblemen of Owain’s guard. Cadfael followed his vehement
passage through the press, and saw him take one dismounting horseman by the
sleeve. The very touch, the very encounter, that had drawn taut all the lines
of Cuhelyn’s countenance. Bledri ap Rhys swung about, face to face with the
youth who accosted him, visibly recognised an acquaintance, and guardedly
acknowledged him. No very exuberant welcome, but on both parts there was one
momentary flash of warmth and awareness, before Bledri made his visage formally
blank, and the boy accepted the suggestion, and began what seemed to be the
most current of court civilities. No need, apparently, to pretend they did not
know each other well enough, but every need to keep the acquaintance on merely
courteous terms. Cadfael looked along his shoulder, and briefly, at Cuhelyn’s
face, and asked simply: “Gwion?”

“Gwion!”

“They
were close? These two?”

“No.
No closer than two must be who hold by the same lord.”

“That
might be close enough for mischief,” said Cadfael bluntly. “As you told me,
your man has given his word not to attempt escape. He has not pledged himself
to give up his allegiance beyond that.”

“Natural
enough he should welcome the sight of another liegeman,” said Cuhelyn steadily.
“His word he will keep. As for Bledri ap Rhys, the terms of his sojourn with us
, I will see kept.” He shook himself briefly, and took each of them by an arm.
The prince and his wife and sons were climbing the steps into the hall, the
closest of their household following without haste. “Come, Brothers, and let me
be your herald here. I’ll bring you to your lodging, and show you the chapel.
Use it as you find occasion, and the prince’s chaplain will make himself known
to you.”

In
the privacy of the lodging allotted to them, backed into the shelter of the
maenol wall, Brother Mark sat refreshed and thoughtful, looking back with wide
grey eyes at all that had passed during this arrival in Aber. And at length he
said: “What most caused me to watch and wonder, was how like they were, those
two—the young liegemen of Anarawd and of Cadwaladr. It is no mere matter of the
same years, the same manner of body, the same make of face, it is the same
passion within them. In Wales, Cadfael, this is another fashion of loyalty even
than the bond the Normans hold by, or so it seems to me. They are on opposing
sides, your Cuhelyn and this Gwion, and they could be brothers.”

“And
as brothers should, and by times do not, they respect and like each other.
Which would not prevent them from killing each other,” Cadfael admitted, “if
ever it came to a clash between their lords in the field.”

“That
is what I feel to be so wrong,” said Mark earnestly. “How could either young
man look at the other, and not see himself? All the more now that they have
lived together in the same court, and admitted affection?”

“They
are like twins, the one born left-handed, the other right-handed, at once
doubles and opposites. They could kill without malice, and die without malice.
God forbid,” said Cadfael, “it should ever come to that. But one thing is
certain. Cuhelyn will be watching every moment his mirror image brushes sleeves
with Bledri ap Rhys, and marking every word that passes between them, and every
glance. For I think he knows somewhat more of Cadwaladr’s chosen envoy than he
has yet told us.”

At
supper in Owain’s hall there was good food and plenteous mead and ale, and harp
music of the best. Hywel ab Owain sang, improvising upon the beauty of Gwynedd
and the splendour of her history, and Cadfael’s recalcitrant heart shed its
habit for a half-hour, and followed the verses far into the mountains inland of
Aber, and across the pale mirror of Lavan Sands to the royal burial-place of
Llanfaes on Anglesey. In youth his adventurings had all looked eastward, now in
his elder years eyes and heart turned westward. All heavens, all sanctuaries of
the blessed lie to westward, in every legend and every imagination, at least
for men of Celtic stock; a suitable meditation for old men. Yet here in the
royal llys of Gwynedd Cadfael did not feel old.

Nor
did it seem that his senses were in the least dulled or blunted, even as he
rejoiced in his dreams, for he was sharp enough to detect the moment when
Bledri ap Rhys slid an arm about Heledd’s waist as she served him with mead.
Nor did he miss the icy rigidity of Canon Meirion’s face at the sight, or the
deliberation with which Heledd, well aware of the same maledictory stare, forbore
from freeing herself immediately, and said a smiling word in Bledri’s ear,
which might as well have been a curse as a compliment, though there was no
doubt how her father interpreted it. Well, if the girl was playing with fire,
whose fault was that? She had lived with her sire many loyal, loving years, he
should have known her better, well enough to trust her. For Bledri ap Rhys she
had no use at all but to take out her grievance on the father who was in such
haste to get rid of her.

Nor
did it appear, on reflection, that Bledri ap Rhys was seriously interested in
Heledd. He made the gesture of admiration and courtship almost absentmindedly,
as though by custom it was expected of him, and though he accompanied it with a
smiling compliment, he let her go the moment she drew away, and his gaze went
back to a certain young man sitting among the noblemen of the guard at a lower
table. Gwion, the last obstinate hostage, who would not forswear his absolute
fealty to Cadwaladr, sat silent among his peers, and enemies, some of whom,
like Cuhelyn, had become his friends. Throughout the feast he kept his own
counsel, and guarded his thoughts, and even his eyes. But whenever he looked up
at the high table, it was upon Bledri ap Rhys that his glance rested, and twice
at least Cadfael saw them exchange a brief and brilliant stare, such as allies
might venture to convey worlds of meaning where open speech was impossible.

Those
two will somehow get together in private, Cadfael thought, before this night is
out. And for what purpose? It is not Bledri who so passionately seeks a
meeting, though he has been at liberty and is suspect of having some secret
matter to impart. No, it is Gwion who wants, demands, relies upon reaching
Bledri’s ear. It is Gwion who has some deep and urgent purpose that needs an
ally to reach fulfilment. Gwion who has given his word not to leave Owain’s
easy captivity. As Bledri ap Rhys has not done.

Well,
Cuhelyn had vouched for Gwion’s good faith, and pledged a constant watch upon
Bledri. But it seemed to Cadfael that the llys was large enough and complex
enough to provide him with a difficult watch, if those two were resolved to
elude him.

The
lady had remained with her children in private, and had not dined in hall, and
the prince also withdrew to his own apartments early, having been some days
absent from his family. He took his most beloved son with him, and left Hywel
to preside until his guests chose to retire. With every man now free to change
his place, or go out to walk in the fresh air of the late evening, there was
considerable movement in the hall, and in the noise of many conversations and
the music of the harpers, in the smoke of the torches and the obscurity of the
shadowy corners, who was to keep a steady eye upon one man among so many?
Cadfael marked the departure of Gwion from among the young men of the
household, but still Bledri ap Rhys sat in his modest place towards the foot of
the high table, serenely enjoying his mead—but in moderation, Cadfael noted—and
narrowly observing everything that passed about him. He appeared to be
cautiously impressed by the strength and strict order of the royal household,
and the numbers, discipline and confidence of the young men of the guard. “I
think,” said Brother Mark softly into Cadfael’s ear, “we might have the chapel
to ourselves if we go now.”

It
was about the hour of Compline. Brother Mark would not rest if he neglected the
office. Cadfael rose and went with him, out from the doorway of the great hall
into the cool and freshness of the night, and across the inner ward to the
timber chapel against the outer wall. It was not yet fully dark nor very late,
the determined drinkers still in hall would not end their gathering yet, but in
the shadowy passages between the buildings of the maenol those who had duties
about the place moved without haste, and quietly, going about their usual tasks
in the easy languor of the end of a long and satisfactory day.

They
were still some yards from the door of the chapel when a man emerged from it, and
turned along the row of lodgings that lined the wall of the ward, to disappear
into one of the narrow passages behind the great hall. He did not pass them
close, and he might have been any one of the taller and elder of the
frequenters of Owain’s court. He was in no haste, but going tranquilly and a
little wearily to his night’s rest, yet Cadfael’s mind was so persistently
running upon Bledri ap Rhys that he was virtually certain of the man’s
identity, even in the deepening dusk.

He
was quite certain when they entered the chapel, dimly lit by the rosy eye of
the constant lamp on the altar, and beheld the shadowy outline of a man
kneeling a little aside from the small pool of light. He was not immediately
aware of them, or at least seemed not to be, though they had entered without
any great care to preserve silence; and when they checked and hung back in
stillness to avoid interrupting his prayers he gave no sign, but continued
bowed and preoccupied, his face in shadow. At length he stirred, sighed and rose
to his feet, and passing them by on his way out, without surprise, he gave
them: “Goodnight, Brothers!” in a low voice. The small red eye of the altar
lamp drew his profile on the air clearly, but only for a moment; long enough,
however, to show plainly the young, intense, brooding features of Gwion.

Compline
was long over, and midnight past, and they were peacefully asleep in their
small, shared lodging, when the alarm came. The first signs, sudden clamour at
the main gate of the maenol, the muted thudding of hooves entering, the
agitated exchange of voices between rider and guard, passed dreamlike and
distant through Cadfael’s senses without breaking his sleep, but Mark’s younger
ear, and mind hypersensitive to the excitement of the day, started him awake
even before the murmur of voices rose into loud orders, and the men of the
household began to gather in the ward, prompt but drowsy from the rushes of the
hall and the many lodgings of the maenol. Then what was left of the night’s
repose was shattered brazenly by the blasting of a horn, and Cadfael rolled
from his brychan on to his feet, wide-awake and braced for action. “What’s
afoot?”