The Summer of the Danes

by Ellis Peters

  “As well,” said Cadfael seriously, “for it was not entirely a peaceful departure. And where are you going now?”

  She turned and looked at them full, and her eyes were wide and innocent and the deep purple of irises. “I left something of mine up there in the Danish camp,” she said. “I am going to find it.”

  “And Ieuan lets you go?”

  “I have leave,” she said. “They are all gone now.”

  They were all gone, and it was safe now to let his hard-won bride return to the deserted dunes where she had been a prisoner for a while, but never felt herself in bondage. They watched her resume her purposeful passage along the edge of the fields. There was barely a mile to go.

  “You did not offer to go with her,” said Mark with a solemn face.

  “I would not be so crass. But give her a fair start,” said Cadfael reflectively, “and I think you and I might very well go after her.”

  “You think,” said Mark, “we might be more welcome company on the way back?”

  “I doubt,” Cadfael admitted, “whether she is coming back.”

  Mark nodded his head by way of acknowledgement, unsurprised. “I had been wondering myself,” he said.

  *

  The tide was on the ebb, but not yet so low as to expose the long, slender tongue of sand that stretched out like a reaching hand and wrist towards the coast of Anglesey. It showed pale gold beneath the shallows, here and there a tuft of tenacious grass and soil breaking the surface. At the end of it, where the knuckles of the hand jutted in an outcrop of rock, the stunted salt bushes stood up like rough, crisp hair, their roots fringed with the yellow of sand. Cadfael and Mark stood on the ridge above, and looked down as they had looked once before, and upon the same revelation. Repeated, it made clear all the times, all the evenings, when it had been repeated without witnesses. They even drew back a little, so that the shape of them might be less obtrusive on the skyline, if she should look up. But she did not look up. She looked down into the clear water, palest green in the evening light, that reached almost to her knees, as she trod the narrow golden path towards the seagirt throne of rock. She had her skirts, still frayed and soiled from travel and from living wild, gathered up in her hands, and she leaned to watch the cold, sweet water quivering about her legs, and breaking their lissome outlines into a disembodied tremor, as though she floated rather than waded. She had pulled all the pins from her hair; it hung in a black, undulating cloud about her shoulders, hiding the oval face stooped to watch her steps. She moved like a dancer, slowly, with languorous grace. For whatever tryst she had here she came early, and she knew it. But because there was no uncertainty, time was a grace, even waiting would be pleasure anticipated.

  Here and there she halted, to be still, to let the water settle and be still around her feet, and then she would lean to watch the tremulous ardour of her face shimmering as each wave ebbed back into the sea. A very gentle tide, with hardly any wind now. But Otir’s ships under sail were more than halfway to Dublin by this hour.

  On the throne of rock she sat down, wringing the water from the hem of her gown, and looked across the sea, and waited, without impatience, without doubts. Once, in this place, she had looked immeasurably lonely and forsaken, but that had been illusion, even then. Now she looked like one in serene possession of all that lay about her, dear companion to the sea and the sky. The orb of the sun was declining before her, due west, gilding her face and body.

  The little ship, lean and dark and sudden, came darting down from the north, surging out of the concealment of the rising shoreline beyond the sandy warrens across the strait. Somewhere up-coast it had lain waiting off Anglesey until the sunset hour. There had been, thought Cadfael, watching intently, no compact, no spoken tryst at all. They had had no time to exchange so much as a word when she was snatched away. There had been only the inward assurance to keep them constant, that the ship would come, and that she would be there waiting. Body and blood, they had been superbly sure, each of the other. No sooner had Heledd recovered her breath and accepted the fact of her innocent abduction than she had come to terms with events, knowing how they must and would end. Why else had she gone so serenely about passing the waiting time, disarming suspicion, even putting herself out, who knows how ruefully, to give Ieuan ab Ifor some brief pleasure before he was to pay for it with perpetual loss. In the end Canon Meirion’s daughter knew what she wanted, and was ruthless in pursuing it, since no one among her menfolk and masters showed any sign of helping her to her desire.

  Small, serpentine and unbelievably swift, oars driving as one, Turcaill’s dragon-ship swooped inshore, but held clear of beaching. It hung for a moment still, oars trailed, like a bird hovering, and Turcaill leaped over the side and came wading waist-deep towards the tiny island of rock. His flaxen hair shone almost red in the crimson descent of the sun, a match for Owain Gwynedd’s, as dominant and as fair. And Heledd, when they turned their eyes again on her, had risen and walked into the sea. The tension of the ebbing tide drew her with it, skirts floating. Turcaill came up glistening out of the deeper water. They met midway, and she walked into his arms, and was swung aloft against his heart. There was no great show, only a distant, brief peal of mingled laughter rising on the air to the two who stood watching. No need for more, there had never been any doubt in either of these sea creatures as to the inevitable ending.

  Turcaill had turned his back, and was striding through the surf back to his ship, with Heledd in his arms, and the tide, receding more rapidly as the sun declined, gave back before him in iridescent fountains of spray, minor rainbows wreathing his naked feet. Lightly he hoisted the girl over the low side of his dragon, and swung himself after. And she, as soon as she had her footing, turned to him and embraced him. They heard her laughter, high and wild and sweet, thinner than a bird’s song at this distance, but piercing and clear as a carillon of bells.

  All the long, sinuous bank of oars, suspended in air, dipped together. The little serpent heeled and sped, creaming spray, round into the clear passage between the sandy shoals, already showing golden levels beneath the blue, but more than deep enough yet for this speedy voyager. She sped away end-on, small and ever smaller, a leaf carried on an impetuous current, borne away to Ireland, to Dublin of the Danish kings and the restless seafarers. And a fitting mate Turcaill had carried away with him, and formidable progeny they would breed between them to master these uneasy oceans in generations to come.

  Canon Meirion need not fret that his daughter would ever reappear to imperil his status with his bishop, his reputation or his advancement. Love her as he might, and wish her well as he probably did, he had desired heartily that she should enjoy her good fortune elsewhere, out of sight if not out of mind. He had his wish. Nor need he agonise, thought Cadfael, watching that resplendent departure, over her happiness. She had what she wanted, a man of her own choosing. By that she would abide, wise or unwise by her father’s measure. She measured by other means, and was not likely to suffer any regrets.

  The small black speck, racing home, was barely visible as a dot of darkness upon a bright and glittering sea.

  “They are gone,” said Brother Mark, and turned and smiled. “And we may go, too.”

  *

  They had overstayed their time. Ten days at the most, Mark had said, and Brother Cadfael would be returned safe and sound to his herb garden and his proper work among the sick. But perhaps Abbot Radulfus and Bishop de Clinton would regard the truant days as well spent, considering the outcome. Even Bishop Gilbert might be highly content to keep his able and energetic canon, and have Meirion’s inconvenient daughter safely oversea, and his scandalous marriage forgotten. Everyone else appeared well content to have so satisfactory a settlement of what might well have been a bloody business. What mattered now was to return to the level sanity of daily living, and allow old grudges and animosities to fade gradually into the obscurity of the past. Yes, Cadwaladr would be restored, on probation, Owain could not totally discard him.
But not wholly restored, and not yet. Gwion, who by any measure had been the loser, would be decently buried, with no very great acknowledgement of his loyalty from the lord who had bitterly disappointed him. Cuhelyn would remain here in Gwynedd, and in time surely be glad that he had not had to do murder with his own hands to see Anarawd avenged, at least upon Bledri ap Rhys. Princes, who can depute other hands to do their less savoury work for them, commonly escape all temporary judgements, but not the last.

  And Ieuan ab Ifor would simply have to resign himself to losing a delusory image of a submissive wife, a creature Heledd could never become. He had barely seen or spoken with her, his heart could scarcely be broken at losing her, however his dignity might be bruised. There were pleasant women in Anglesey who could console him, if he did but look about him here at home.

  And she… she had what she wanted, and she was where she wanted to be, and not where others had found it convenient to place her. Owain had laughed when he heard of it, though considerately he had kept a grave face in Ieuan’s presence. And there was one more waiting in Aber who would have the last word in the story of Heledd.

  The last word, when Canon Meirion had heard and digested the tale of his daughter’s choice, came after a deep-drawn breath of relief for her safety at least—or was it for his own deliverance?

  “Well, well!” said Meirion, knotting and unknotting his long hands. “There is a sea between.” True, and there was relief for both of them in that. But then he continued: “I shall never see her again!” and there was as much of grief in it as of satisfaction. Cadfael was always to be in two minds about Canon Meirion.

  *

  They came to the border of the shire in the early evening of the second day, and on the principle that it was as well to be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, turned aside to pass the night with Hugh at Maesbury. The horses would be grateful for the rest, and Hugh would be glad to hear at first hand what had passed in Gwynedd, and how the Norman bishop was rubbing along with his Welsh flock. There was also the pleasure of spending a few placid hours with Aline and Giles, in a domesticity all the more delightful to contemplate because they had forsworn it for themselves, along with the world outside the Order.

  Some such unguarded remark Cadfael made, sitting contentedly by Hugh’s hearth with Giles on his knees. And Hugh laughed at him.

  “You, forswear the world? And you just back from gallivanting to the farthest western edge of Wales? If they manage to keep you within the pale for more than a month or two, even after this jaunt, it will be a marvel. I’ve known you restless after a week of strict observance. Now and again I’ve wondered if some day you wouldn’t set out for Saint Giles, and end up in Jerusalem.”

  “Oh, no, not that!” said Cadfael, with serene certainty. “It’s true, now and again my feet itch for the road.” He was looking deep into himself, where old memories survived, and remained, after their fashion, warming and satisfying, but of the past, never to be repeated, no longer desirable. “But when it comes down to it,” said Cadfael, with profound content, “as roads go, the road home is as good as any.”

  Glossary of Terms

  Alltud

  A foreigner living in Wales

  Arbalest

  A crossbow that enables the bow to be drawn with a winding handle

  Baldric

  A sword-belt crossing the chest from shoulder to hip.

  Bannerole

  A thin ribbon attached to a lance tip

  Bodice

  The supportive upper area of a woman’s dress, sometimes a separate item of clothing worn over a blouse

  Brychan

  A woollen blanket

  Caltrop

  A small iron weapon consisting four spikes. Set on the ground and used against horses and infantry

  Capuchon

  A cowl-like hood

  Cariad

  Welsh for ‘beloved’

  Cassock

  A long garment of the clergy

  Castellan

  The ruler of a castle

  Chatelaine

  The lady of a manor house

  Chausses

  Male hose

  Coif

  The cap worn under a nun’s veil

  Conversus

  A man who joins the monkhood after living in the outside world

  Cottar

  A Villein who is leased a cottage in exchange for their work

  Cotte

  A full- or knee-length coat. Length is determined by the class of the wearer

  Croft

  Land used as pasture that abuts a house

  Currier

  A horse comb used for grooming

  Demesne

  The land retained by a lord for his own use

  Diocese

  The district attached to a cathedral

  Dortoir

  Dormitory (monastic)

  Electuary

  Medicinal powder mixed with honey. Taken by mouth

  Eremite

  A religious hermit

  Espringale

  Armament akin to a large crossbow

  Frater

  Dining room (monastic)

  Garderobe

  A shaft cut into a building wall used as a lavatory

  Garth

  A grass quadrangle within the cloisters (monastic)

  Geneth

  Welsh for ‘girl’

  Gentle

  A person of honourable family

  Glebe

  An area of land attached to a clerical office

  Grange

  The lands and buildings of a monastery farm

  Groat

  A small coin

  Gruel

  Thin porridge

  Guild

  A trade association

  Gyve

  An iron shackle

  Hauberk

  A chainmail coat to defend the neck and shoulders

  Helm

  A helmet

  Horarium

  The monastic timetable, divided into canonical hours, or offices, of Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline

  Husbandman

  A tenant farmer

  Jess

  A short strap attached to a hawk’s leg when practising falconry

  Largesse

  Money or gifts, bestowed by a patron to mark an occasion

  Leat (Leet)

  A man-made waterway

  Litany

  Call and response prayer recited by clergyman and congregation

  Llys

  The timber-built royal court of Welsh princes

  Lodestar

  A star that acts as a fixed navigational point, i.e. the Pole Star

  Lodestone

  Magnetised ore

  Lye

  A solution used for washing and cleaning

  Mandora

  A stringed instrument, precursor to the mandolin

  Mangonel

  Armament used for hurling missiles

  Marl

  Soil of clay and lime, used as a fertiliser

  Messuage

  A house (rented) with land and out-buildings

  Midden

  Dung-heap

  Missal

  The prayer book detailing Mass services throughout the calendar

  Moneyer

  Coin minter

  Mountebank

  Trickster or entertainer

  Mummer

  An actor or player in a mime or masque

  Murage

  A tax levied to pay for civic repairs

  Murrain

  An infectious disease of livestock

  Myrmidon

  A faithful servant

  Nacre

  Mother-of-pearl

  Oblatus

  A monk placed in the monastery at a young age

  Orts

  Food scraps

  Ostler

  Horse handler

  Palfrey

  A horse saddled for a woman

  Palle
t

  A narrow wooden bed or thin straw mattress

  Palliative

  A pain-killer

  Pannikin

  A metal cup or saucepan

  Parfytours

  Hounds used in hunting

  Parole

  The bond of a prisoner upon release from captivity

  Patten

  A wooden sandal

  Pavage

  A tax levied for street paving

  Penteulu

  A Welsh rank: captain of the royal guard

  Pommel

  The upward point on the front of a saddle

  Poniard

  A dagger

  Prelate

  A high-ranking member of the church (i.e. abbot or bishop)

  Prie-Dieu

  A kneeling desk used in prayer

  Pyx

  A small box or casket used to hold consecrated bread for Mass

  Quintain

  A target mounted on a post used for tilting practice

  Rebec

  A three string instrument, played using a bow

  Rheum

  Watery discharge of nose or eyes

  Saeson

  An Englishman

  Scabbard