Streaming cold water, our clothing sodden and heavy on our limbs, we gained the brush line and forced our way through thickets of elder, willow, and hazel. Thorns raked at us. We penetrated the brush and drove through the standing wood, making for the steep bank down to the river.
At high tide, the Modornn is a wide, shallow expanse of gray green water. At low tide, it is a broad sweep of mud cut through by a single deep channel. Either way we would have to swim, but I hoped the tide would be high enough to cover our tracks across the muddy stretches on either side of the channel.
By the time we reached the river’s edge, I could see that tide was on the ebb. The water level was falling, but there was still enough water to cover our tracks; and if we hurried, we could reach the farther shore before the mudflat became exposed.
Without a backward glance, we lurched across the tidal estuary: sprawling, falling, hauling one another upright, and fighting on through the mud. We floundered through the channel and slithered across the shallows on the far side. Sticky, foul-smelling muck sucked at our feet and legs.
By the time we reached the far bank, the water scarcely filled our footprints. But we dragged ourselves into the undergrowth and lay on our backs, gulping air—listening for the sound we dreaded: the shout of discovery and the clatter of hooves across the estuary.
We waited, but the shout never came. The hoofbeats did not sound.
When it appeared we had eluded the pursuit, at least thus far, we drew together the ragged remnants of our strength and staggered deeper into the wood, away from the bank. Only then did I begin to hope we might yet escape.
We had eaten little since our capture—dry bread and sour beer which the guards let down to us—and hunger had sapped our endurance. We walked east, away from the river, and stopped in a clearing to rest and let the sun dry our clothing.
There we listened intently for any sound of the chase. We heard neither hound nor horse. And slowly the quiet of the wood began to calm us.
“We have no weapons, no provisions, no horses,” Llew said, rolling onto his side. “Can we expect a welcome cup from the Cruin, do you think?”
The Llwyddi and the Cruin have often met face-to-face on the battleground. But just as often have we feasted one another. Meldryn Mawr always enjoyed King Calbha’s respect, if not his friendship. “Well,” I observed, “a bard is welcome anywhere.”
“Then lead on, wise bard,” Llew said, “and let us hope Lord Calbha is in as sore need of a song as I am of a hot supper.”
We rose on tired legs to begin our journey through the wooded hills and boggy lowlands to the Cruin stronghold at Blár Cadlys. All that day we walked—with much backward glancing and many a pause to rest and to listen for the sound of pursuit. We reached the grassy banks of a secluded stream as the sun slipped behind the hills.
There, weary and footsore, we stopped for the night, drinking our fill from the stream, and then wrapping ourselves in our cloaks to rest and sleep in the long, winter-dry grass. I woke at dawn and roused Llew. We washed in the stream, and then continued on our way.
Four days we journeyed thus, sleeping at night beside a stream or pool and moving on at dawn. Four days on foot through dense wood and reeking bogland. It was too early for berries, and we could not stop to catch any game. But we kept starvation at bay with shoots and roots that I knew how to find; and we drank from fresh streams and pools.
At the end of the last day, and the end of our strength, we came in sight of the Cruin settlement. Hungry beyond words, we stood at the edge of the surrounding wood and watched the silver smoke rising from the cooking fires within the caer. The scent of the smoke brought water to my mouth and a sharp pang to my empty stomach.
Blár Cadlys is built atop a great oblong hill which guards the entrance to Ystrad Can Cefyl, the Vale of the White Horse, the principal route into the heart of Llogres. On the broad plains of the sprawling valley run the huge herds of horses which give rise to the Cruin boast: horsemen second to none. Indeed, the boast is not without a shade of truth.
“Do you think they know what has happened to Meldryn Mawr?” Llew wondered.
“No, they could not know yet—unless . . .”
“Unless Paladyr has preceded us?”
He spoke my thoughts exactly. “Come, we will soon discover what they know.”
We stumbled from the wood and staggered up to the caer—but slowly so that they would have time to mark our approach. And they did. For as we set foot on the track leading to the gate, three warriors appeared at the breastwork of the gatehouse. The foremost of them called out us, commanding us to halt and declare ourselves.
“I am Tegid Talaryant,” I shouted back to him, “Chief Bard to Meldryn Mawr of the Llwyddi. The man with me is champion to the king. We have matters to discuss with your lord.”
The porter regarded us doubtfully, exchanged a brief word with his fellows, and then replied, “You claim to be men of esteem and honor, yet you come to us as beggars. Where are your horses? Where are your weapons? Why do you come to us ragged and on foot?”
“As to that,” I answered, “I deem it no man’s affair but my own. Yet it may be that Calbha will think it worth his while to welcome us as befits men of our rank and renown.”
They laughed aloud at this, but I stopped them quickly enough. “Hear me now! Unless you take my message to your lord, I will declaim against you and against all your kinsmen.”
That gave them something to think about.
“Do you think they believed you?” asked Llew, as the three discussed my threat.
“Perhaps not. But now we will see how far they trust their luck.”
Apparently the Cruin guards were not in a wagering mood. For, after a short deliberation, one of the three disappeared and but a moment later the gate opened. Four warriors emerged from the caer and came forth to conduct us to the king’s hall. They did not speak, but motioned us to follow them.
I had once been in Blár Cadlys with Ollathir, and found it little altered from the way I remembered it. Yet there were changes: grain stores increased in number, and two warriors’ houses now where there had been but one. Outside the artisans’ huts men worked at fashioning spear shafts; the cattle pens had been enlarged.
As we neared the hall, one of the warriors hastened ahead to alert his lord. King Calbha received us outside the hall. Broad-shouldered and bullnecked, he wore his dark hair and beard short, and his mustache long. He strode toward us, a hand on the hilt of his sword, and a mild frown creasing his wide brow. Those with him watched with interest to see how the king would deal with us. “Greetings, Llwyddi,” the Cruin lord said, but he did not extend his hands to us. “It is long since we have welcomed your tribe within these walls. I cannot say it is a pleasure I have missed.”
“Greetings, Lord Calbha,” I replied, inclining my head respectfully. “It is long since the Llwyddi have ventured across the Modornn. But no doubt you will soon acquire the pleasure of welcoming us with greater frequency.”
The Cruin king’s eyes narrowed. He had heard the implied warning in my words. “Let them come,” he replied. “Whether in peace or in war, they will find us ready to receive them.”
He eyed us head to heel, and what he saw did not impress him, for his scowl deepened. “Why have you come here like this?”
“In Prydain,” I answered, “a bard is shown the comfort of the hearth before he is asked to sing.”
Calbha rubbed his jaw. “In Llogres,” he said slowly, “a bard does not wander through the land like a fugitive of the hostage pit.”
“Your words are better than you know, lord. And if my throat were not so parched from thirst and my belly so slack from hunger, I would tell you a tale worth hearing.”
Calbha tilted back his head and laughed. “Well said, bard. Come into my hall. Eat with me and drink; take your ease and sleep. Want for nothing; you are my guests—you and the mud-loving champion with you.”
I raised my hands and gave him a blessing. “Let peac
e attend you while we shelter beneath your roof, and may all men call you Calbha the Generous from this day forth.”
This pleased the lord of Blár Cadlys. He went before us into the hall and called for the welcome cup to be brought to him. The brew-master hastened forward, bearing a goodly-sized silver bowl. He offered the bowl to his lord, who took it and drank a deep draught.
“Drink! Drink, my friends, and refresh yourselves,” Calbha said, wiping his mustache on the sleeve of his siarc. He passed the bowl to me and I drank, thinking I had never tasted ale so rich and good.
I then passed the bowl to Llew, who should have drunk before me—he was Lord of Prydain, after all. But I thought it best not to reveal his rank at this time. He paid no heed to the slight, being only too happy to clutch the bowl between his hands.
Chairs were produced, and we sat with Calbha, passing the welcome cup between us until it was empty. The king would have filled it again but I prevented him, saying, “Your ale is the best I have had in many, many days. But if I drink more now, I will not be able to sing.”
The king made to protest. Llew spoke up just then: “Lord, as you see, we are not fit guests to sit with you.” He spread his hands to his torn and mud-spattered clothes. “Allow us to bathe, and you will find us more agreeable companions.”
“I see that you have traveled hard,” Calbha conceded. “Wash yourselves and come to me when you are ready. I will await you here.”
We were conducted to the yard behind the nearer of the two warriors’ houses where there stood a great stone trough full of water which the warriors used to bathe when they had finished their practice in the yard. A basin was brought to us, and tallow soap and cloths to dry ourselves. We stripped off our dirty clothing and stepped into the trough. The water was cold, but we sank into it gratefully and felt ourselves revived. We lathered hair and limbs, taking it in turns to ladle water over ourselves with the basin.
While we were washing, a woman came and removed our clothes, replacing then with fresh garments, so that when we had finished we did not have to face our filthy rags again. As we dried ourselves, Llew abruptly asked, “Why did the Coranyid attack only Prydain?”
The question caught me unawares. It was true that Lord Nudd and his vile war band had, in their unrestrained frenzy of hate, destroyed nearly every settlement in Prydain. Yet this Cruin stronghold—near to Sycharth though it was—had escaped destruction. Why only Prydain? Why not Llogres? Why did Lord Nudd concentrate his wrath on Prydain, alone, while Llogres—judging from Blár Cadlys— stood unmolested?
“Your question is astute,” I replied at last. “I cannot answer.”
“But you knew the Cruin would be here,” he persisted. “You knew, Tegid. You never doubted it.”
“I did not stop to consider. I only thought to escape—and this was the nearest refuge,” I told him.
Llew pursued. “That may be so. And yet you assumed the Coranyid had not destroyed the Cruin. That is not like you, Tegid.”
We dressed quickly, pulling on the clean clothes we had been given, and making our way back to the hall. The fire had been kindled on the hearth, and chairs had been placed around it. Calbha was seated, and some of his advisers and members of his war band had joined him—perhaps twenty men in all. A dark-haired woman sat beside him, and his warriors stood nearby with cups in their hands, talking loudly.
“Who is this woman with Calbha?” Llew asked.
“It is Eneid,” I answered. “She is the queen.”
Lord Calbha and his wife had been head-to-head in conversation when we entered. At our approach they stopped their talk; the queen straightened and regarded us with interest. We came to where they sat. I greeted the queen, who inclined her head and said, “My husband tells me you have traveled from Prydain on foot, and slept in thickets and fens. I hope you will find the hospitality of Blár Cadlys more to your liking.”
“Thank you, lady,” I replied. “Already we are more comfortable here than we have been at our own hearth.”
The queen rose then, saying, “You will be hungry. Sit with my husband. He is eager to discuss with you. While you talk, I will attend to more agreeable matters elsewhere.”
She offered me her chair and waved Llew to the empty seat nearby; then she took her leave of us.
“You are the first guests we have had in a very long time,” the king said. “My wife will deem it an insult if you do not eat and drink your fill at every meal. For myself, I would be happy to hear word of what passes in the lands beyond Modorrn.”
“Ask what you will, lord. I will tell you all I may.”
“Tell me this, then,” Calbha said as we took our places next to him, “have you escaped from Meldryn Mawr’s hostage pit?”
Calbha was direct—to the point of rudeness. Yet he had promised us the freedom and comfort of his hearth. I saw no ill intent in him, or in his brusque manner, and decided to answer him forthrightly, matching his directness with my own. “Yes. We have escaped from the captive pit at Sycharth and have come to you for help.”
My free admission caused a small sensation among Calbha’s men. He silenced the talk with an upraised hand. “A bard and a champion in the captive pit?” he mused. “It is not like Meldryn Mawr to waste the abilities of such skilled men needlessly. Your crimes must be great indeed.”
“We have committed no crime, lord,” I replied, “save one only: displeasing one who has wrongfully proclaimed himself king.”
If my first reply struck sparks, these words lit a flame. The king’s advisers and warriors began clamoring as one. “Tell us!” they cried.
“What does this mean? A new king? Who is it? Tell us!”
Lord Calbha leaned forward, concern creasing his brow. “A new king? What of Meldryn Mawr?”
“Meldryn is dead. Killed by his champion.”
This disclosure silenced the hall. Calbha’s eyebrows raised in wonder, and his eyes turned to Llew.
“No,” I told him, “Llew is not the murderer. The deed was done by Paladyr, the man Llew replaced.”
“Who is king now?” Calbha asked.
“The Great King’s son, Meldron, calls himself king now,” I answered. “He has seized the kingship for himself.”
Lord Calbha shook his head in disbelief, and his advisers fell to muttering among themselves. “What has happened? You are Chief Bard—or so you say—how could you allow the kingship to be challenged in this way?”
“I bestowed the kingship as I saw fit,” I replied simply. “Prince Meldron disagreed with my choice. He seized us and threw us into the pit.”
“Ah!” said Calbha, understanding at last. “So that is the way of it.”
“Yes,”
“And what of Meldron? Will the warriors support him?”
“They will.”
“I see.” Calbha paused, then turned to one of his advisers, and beckoned the man forward. The two spoke together privately for a moment, and then the king turned and said, “I know this Meldron. I am reminded that he led the Llwyddi war band in the northern troubles some time ago.”
“That is so, lord,” I answered. “He is an able war leader. Meldryn had given him authority over the war band.”
“What is in Meldron’s heart—peace or war?” the Cruin lord asked, revealing his own heart to me in that question. I knew then that I was right to trust him.
“Meldron will do all to advance himself, whether through war or peace—though he deems peace much the slower course.”
“But what of the king?” Calbha asked. “You said you had given the kingship to another. What happened to him?”
I had determined the mood of Calbha’s court and could now disclose what I had deliberately held back. “He sits before you, lord,” I answered, touching Llew on the shoulder.
Calbha turned his gaze to Llew and observed him for a moment before answering. “I did not know I received a king at my hearth. I trust my ignorance did not offend.”
“Lord Calbha,” Llew answered, “I am not so m
uch a king that you should take note of me. Neither am I a man to imagine offense where none is to be found. Indeed, I come to you as an exile and have found acceptance that was denied me elsewhere. I thank you for that, and I will not forget it.”
Llew’s answer could not have delighted the Cruin king more. At once all questions ceased and jars appeared and our cups were filled. We drank, and the queen and her servants entered the hall. Others hastened to bring the tables so that food could be served. We ate our fill that night and slept secure beneath Calbha’s stout roof.
6
SAFE HAVEN
We spent the next days at Blár Cadlys resting and regaining our strength. King Calbha proved himself a considerate host. He did not stint with food or drink, neither did he try to exploit our distress for his gain. And there was much about our predicament which a less honorable lord might have used to his own benefit. But Calbha left us to our own counsel and did not make any demand upon us. I grew to trust him. And since he had earned my trust in this small matter, I decided to trust him in the greater: I told him all that had happened in Prydain through the unnaturally long Sollen season. I told him of the destruction wrought in Prydain by Lord Nudd and his demon Coranyid. He sat silently astonished as he listened.
When I finished, he replied, “Sollen was overlong, and more fierce than is common, it is true. Yet we did not mark it strange for all that.” He shook his head slowly. “But this . . . Prydain destroyed, you say? It is more than I could have imagined.”
Calbha could not illuminate the mystery of Prydain’s destruction. He knew nothing of Lord Nudd’s attack, so he could not answer why Llogres had escaped the demon horde’s vengeance.
“What do you want of me?” King Calbha asked, perceiving that we had come to the purpose of our visit at last.
“I ask your aid in helping us restore Llew to the throne of Prydain,” I told him.
The Silver Hand Page 5
