May Earth Rise

by Holly Taylor

  But King Uthyr was dead, by Catha’s own hand, and Madoc had been set in his place to be the ruler of Gwynedd. And besides, Catha thought to himself, Madoc wasn’t completely useless. He did have a beautiful daughter, a daughter that figured prominently into Catha’s plans. One day soon he would have her, in his bed and bound to him by law. Catha would be the next ruler of Gwynedd, as his reward. In the meantime, he had to suffer Madoc’s foolishness. But this state of affairs would not last forever.

  “These strangers presented themselves to the wool works as expert dyers, were taken in and put to work,” Catha said. “They have been here for almost seven days. I want you to determine who and what they really are.”

  “What makes you think they aren’t exactly who they say they are?” Madoc asked sourly. Clearly he was put out with Catha this morning. And Catha knew why. For when he snapped his fingers Madoc’s mistress came running, which is exactly what had happened again last night. And Madoc was still smarting over it.

  “There is a whiff of something here I do not like. Find out what it is.”

  Catha watched Madoc closely as the King of Gwynedd struggled between two courses of action—between pretending he had authority and between knowing that he must do as he was told. One day, Catha thought, Madoc will lose that inner battle and say and do something he should not. On that day Catha would kill him and be done with this nonsense.

  But Madoc chose the wiser way, and so lived a little longer. “I will find them myself and question them. What do they look like?”

  “They are both old, well past their prime. One of them has a short, gray, beard and dark eyes. The other has hair that is almost all gray, though it was probably something more like your color when he was younger. He has blue eyes and carries himself as though he is the lord of creation.”

  Madoc paled a little, and his hand shook slightly as he brought his silver and sapphire cup of ale to his lips. Catha’s brow rose at that. “What, King of Gwynedd, do you think you know these men?”

  Madoc mutely shook his head as he drank.

  “You are certain you do not know them?”

  “I don’t know them,” Madoc said shortly. “And, anyway, it is almost time to go.”

  “Go?” Catha asked as though puzzled. Inside, he smiled.

  “On the hunt.”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” he asked lazily as he put on his leather gloves. “You are not going on the hunt this morning.”

  “Not going?” Madoc rose from his ornate chair, his silver goblet still clutched in his hand.

  “You begin your investigation this morning. The rest of us will go on the hunt.”

  “The rest of us? Including—”

  “Including Arday. Your beloved mistress, and mine.” Catha grinned. “Nor will your daughter be spared. Tangwen goes with us this morning.”

  “Tangwen is not—”

  “Is not what?” Catha asked sharply, cutting into Madoc’s sentence.

  “Is—is not—not fond of the hunt.”

  “But,” Catha said with a smile, “I am. And I always catch my quarry. Tangwen had best remember that.”

  He turned and left the chamber, stepping out into the cool morning. In the courtyard men and dogs and horses wandered in controlled chaos. Arday, the sister of the Lord of Arllechwedd and former Steward to King Uthyr, made her way toward him. Her black hair shone almost blue, like the raven’s wing, in the morning light. Her sensual, dark eyes glittered as she slowly walked up to him. In spite of himself his pulse quickened at the sight of her. He had no love, but he did have passion, and Arday flamed that passion effortlessly. He would never be brought down by his desires, but he acknowledged them and fulfilled them as he wished.

  Arday smiled slowly as she bowed gracefully to him. She rose and lightly touched his strong, muscled arm with her fingertips. She wore black riding leathers that emphasized every graceful curve of her rich body.

  “My lord,” she said her voice musical and throaty. “Are you ready?”

  “For the hunt?” he asked, as he took her hand and lazily kissed her fingers, his tongue teasing each one slowly.

  “For the hunt,” she agreed with a throaty laugh. “Where is Madoc?” she purred.

  “Staying here.”

  “Why does he not hunt with us?” Arday asked with a very slight frown above her silky brows.

  “Why, will you miss him?”

  “Not I,” she said softly. “Yet I wonder what mischief he might get up to without you here to watch him.”

  “He will be about my business. There are two strangers in town—two old men, dyers down at the wool works. I have told him to find out who they are.”

  “Ah,” Arday said. “And he will no doubt obey.”

  “No doubt.” Catha was momentarily distracted from Arday as he saw Tangwen feeding her horse an apple. The golden mare lipped the treat off of Tangwen’s delicate palm. The princess was dressed in riding leathers of brown and sapphires glittered in her reddish-gold hair. Arday followed his gaze.

  “Do you really think she is the woman for you, General?” Arday asked with a sardonic smile on her face.

  Catha grasped Arday’s wrist and squeezed. He knew it hurt her, but Arday did not cry out, though a sweat broke out on her brow and her dark eyes widened in pain. “Do not even think to criticize me, Arday,” he said softly. He let go her wrist where the bruises of his fingers were already beginning to darken on her white skin. The sight of those bruises excited him and he licked his lips in anticipation.

  Arday, gently cradling her wrist smiled again. Her eyes flickered with something that Catha could not fully identify. It might have been contempt. It might have been a dark knowledge. It might have been something else entirely. He did identify it, much later, but by then it was far too late.

  TANGWEN UR MADOC bent her eyes to her horse’s golden mane, so she wouldn’t have to acknowledge that Catha’s eyes were on her. The forest of Coed Dulas was dark and silent even in the bright morning. Sunlight managed to pierce the dense branches and pool on the forest floor, illuminating piles of dead leaves and scrawny underbrush. Far ahead dogs coursed along, baying and barking, calling to each other, scenting for prey. She was surrounded by people—Coranian warriors in bright byrnies of woven metal and holding short spears, Kymric huntsmen in muted green and brown, officers of her father’s court in soft riding leathers—but, as always, she felt so alone behind her wall of dishonor.

  Shame covered her like a mantle, a shame she never got used to enough to ignore. For her father had no business calling himself the King of Gwynedd. The true ruler of Gwynedd was Morrigan ur Uthyr var Ygraine, her dear, bright, generous friend and cousin. For Tangwen, having both won and lost the battle of conflicting loves in her heart, had thrown in her lot with her cousin, abandoning her father to his fate. He didn’t know it yet, of course. Very few did—those in Tegeingl who secretly did the bidding of the Cerddorian, Morrigan herself, and, of course, the man who claimed her heart, Bedwyr, Morrigan’s lieutenant.

  She smiled to herself at the thought of Bedwyr, his fearless brown eyes and the love she thought she sometimes saw there. She did not see him often, for things were far too dangerous for that. But, sometimes, as she went to the marketplace to pass on the information that she learned in her father’s fortress, she caught a glimpse of him, standing at one of the stalls or hawking wares of his own. Sometimes she was able to speak to him directly and at those times her heart leapt in her breast, though she would only speak her message. Sometimes she had to content herself with a mere glimpse, a smile, a look. Sometimes she did not even see him for days on end. But she always knew that he was alive, for she would know it in her heart if he were dead, though no words of love had ever been spoken between them. She was too conscious of her father, of who she was and of what she was doing to risk telling Bedwyr the state of her heart. But she thought he must know it. And hoped with all her soul that he might feel the same way. If not now, then some day.

  She sensed s
omeone else’s eyes on her and looked up to find Arday riding beside her. Her father’s mistress smiled at Tangwen, though the smile did not seem to reach the dark eyes. As always, Tangwen found herself confused and uncertain with Arday. For she was convinced that things were not all that they seemed with her father’s—and Catha’s—mistress. But she did not know what to make of the things she thought she saw. Sometimes she thought Arday took up Catha’s attention to deflect it from Tangwen. And sometimes she thought Arday was simply what she seemed—a greedy, sensual, amoral—and clever, woman.

  “Princess,” Arday said equably. All around them the hunt cantered, people laughing and talking. Up ahead Catha had turned away to say something to one of his officers. The insistent sound of the barking dogs cut across the bright morning.

  Tangwen inclined her head but did not answer. She bent her head and fingered the bright jewels in her horses’ reins.

  “There are two old men, two strangers in Tegeingl. At the wool works,” Arday murmured.

  Tangwen’s head came up swiftly, but she did not turn to Arday, afraid that the older woman would see the truth in her eyes. “And what is that to me?” she asked, feigning puzzlement. For she did know that, indeed, two strangers, sent by High King Arthur, had arrived in Tegeingl. But she did not know who they were. Nor what their mission was.

  “I am certain that you would not wish anything to happen to them. And it will, unless you act fast.”

  “Again, I do not know—”

  “Yes you do,” Arday said swiftly, quietly. “And it will be up to you to ensure they live long enough to do what they came here to do.”

  “I tell you—”

  “Catha knows that they are here. He does not know who they are, but he is suspicious. He has set your father to discovering these men. Whether or not your father suspects who they really are, I do not know.”

  “Who they really are?” Tangwen asked softly, turning slightly in the saddle to face Arday.

  “Do you not know?” Arday asked, studying Tangwen’s face. Whatever she saw there made her smile. “One of them is Myrrdin ap Morvryn, the former Ardewin of Kymru.”

  “And the other?” Tangwen asked, her heart in her throat, although she could not have said why.

  “Ah. The other is Rhodri ap Erddufyl, your grandfather. But I do not think that Madoc will be pleased to see his da.”

  “Who are you?” Tangwen breathed. “Who are you really?”

  “Arday ur Medyr, onetime servant to King Uthyr. Which was always enough for me.”

  Arday turned her horse and rode off up the line. She reached Catha’s side and smiled wickedly at him, resting her hand for a moment on his thigh.

  Tangwen turned away, her head in a whirl. Arday’s motives were still murky to her. But her information might be true. True or not, she would not take the risk of doing nothing. She would send word to the Cerddorian that the two men High King Arthur had sent were in danger. She would keep her eyes and ears open and hope to hear more.

  And she would, if Arday’s information was true, perhaps come face to face with her grandfather, the man many had thought dead long ago. It might be that he had come to Tegeingl to help her lift the shame from her family.

  If so, she would be ready.

  Meirwydd, Tywyllu Wythnos—twilight

  MADOC AP RHODRI crouched in the lengthening shadows cast by the open gates of the wool works just outside the city walls. Four Coranian warriors huddled silently beside him, their spears held tight in their competent hands. In twos and threes the Kymri of Tegeingl left the wool works for the evening, going home to their snug houses within the city walls. Torches glittered in their hands as they made their way home, easily passing Madoc and his hidden warriors by, laughing and talking as though they did not have a care in the world.

  It had been three days since Madoc had been set to finding the two old men Catha had told him about. Madoc had not for one moment expected it to take so long. But, somehow, he had kept just missing his chances to catch up with the two men. Every time he had come to the wool works they were not there. They had either just left, or were to arrive momentarily. No one knew where the two old men lived. Some thought they had set up camp in the forest. Some thought they were staying just the other side of the river. Some were sure that they were staying with this man or that one, but no one could quite agree on exactly with whom.

  Those times he had chosen to wait for them to come to work had been fruitless. The Kymri around him had gone calmly about their business as he and his guards waited inside the wool works walls. His folk had bowed to him when they passed. They had not smiled or been anything but respectful. But Madoc knew that they were laughing at him. His people had always laughed at him. He had imagined that this would stop when he became their king but it had not.

  And each day he became more and more conscious that he was being made a fool of. And each day he had become more and more fearful. For he had thought he recognized the description of one of the old men. He could be wrong—he would give anything if he were—but in his shallow heart he knew that he was not.

  His father was here. His da had returned to Tegeingl.

  Madoc had thought his father long dead. Twenty-four years ago Rhodri had, at the death of his wife, Queen Rathtyen, rode out of Tegeingl without a word to anyone. Madoc had not seen or heard from him since. He had assumed, he had hoped, that his father was dead.

  But even this boon was, apparently, denied him. Nothing, nothing ever went right for him. He had become king of Gwynedd, but no one listened to him. He had a beautiful daughter, but Tangwen was ashamed of him. And now his da had come back. To do the gods only knew what.

  An old man walked out of the gate, a torch burning fitfully in his thin hand. His silvery beard was cut close to his lean face. He wore a tunic and trousers of worn, dark gray wool. He walked slowly, as though tired, his brows knit in thought. He kept his eyes on the ground, not even bothering to look around him as he walked.

  At Madoc’s gesture, the warriors rose to their feet and they all followed the old man at a discreet distance back to the city. They closed the gap as they shadowed the man through the gates of Tegeingl. Once inside the city, at Madoc’s nod, the four warriors sprinted to the old man and bade him halt. For a moment Madoc thought the old man would not stop. But he did.

  “What is going on here?” the man demanded as two of the guards grabbed his arms. The third pointed a spear at the man’s neck. The fourth tied a length of rope around the old man’s thin wrists.

  Madoc stepped up to the old man, torch in hand, to examine him. He looked the man over carefully. The man’s dark eyes danced in the wavering light of the torch, though his seamed face was solemn.

  “Myrrdin,” Madoc breathed. “So, it is you.”

  Myrrdin inclined his head. “Yes, Madoc,” he said quietly. “It is I.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Myrrdin smiled. “You don’t really think I am going to tell you that, do you?”

  “Oh, I think you will,” Madoc smiled back. “There are so many ways of persuading you to talk to us.”

  “Ah,” Myrrdin said soberly. “As unoriginal as ever.”

  Madoc’s fist shot out. The old man’s nose began to bleed, but his eyes still laughed. “Do not think to make a game of me, old man,” Madoc began.

  “But, Madoc, it is so easy. And so fun.”

  Madoc slapped Myrrdin hard, and the sound cracked through the descending night. He reached out and grabbed Myrrdin’s hair, dragging the old man’s face up. “I said, do not make a game of me.”

  “Too late, Madoc,” Myrrdin gasped, still laughing. “Far too late for that.”

  “My lord,” the captain said, as he moved to halt Madoc’s third swing. “Not here. Back at the fortress.”

  Almost Madoc ignored that advice. But the captain was right. Here was not the place to interrogate the former Ardewin of Kymru. It was too open, too exposed. And the gods only knew where his father was. At his gesture th
e guards pushed Myrrdin forward toward Caer Gwynt.

  Madoc followed just behind Myrrdin and the last two guards followed behind him. He noticed that the streets were unusually empty. At this time of night there should have been some people still about, making their way home. But there was no one. Lights shone at all the windows, but not one person seemed to be out of doors.

  But he had thought that too soon. For just ahead of them a figure stepped out of the shadows and stood in the center of the road. The coppery taste of terror leapt into Madoc’s throat as he recognized the figure that now blocked his way.

  Rhodri ap Erddufyl, Prince of Prydyn, onetime king of Gwynedd, stood motionless in the center of the street. Torchlight glittered off his silvery hair, still tinged here and there with red-gold. His cold, blue eyes surveyed his son, and obviously did not like what they saw.

  They never had.

  Myrrdin’s nose was bloody but his eyes were keen and steady as he raised his head to look at Rhodri. The four guards halted with their hands on their spears, waiting for orders from Madoc.

  But Madoc could not speak past the fear that lay on his heart like lead. For he knew his father. And he knew what his father would do.

  “You are not glad to see me, my son?” Rhodri said softly as he took a step forward.

  “You!” Madoc breathed at last. “You are alive.”

  “So I am,” Rhodri agreed. “Alive. And here to do my duty.”

  “Your duty?” Madoc asked weakly.

  “Yes. For it is a poor father that does not discipline his son.” With a rasp like the distant thunder of a summer storm, Rhodri drew his blade from the scabbard by his side. Starlight and torchlight glittered on the tempered steel.

  “Da,” Madoc whispered.

  “My son,” Rhodri said, implacably. “My son. What have you done?”

  “I—”

  “You betrayed your king.”

  “The son of my mother and another man! A man you hated!”

  “King Uthyr was the rightful ruler of Gwynedd. Your mother proclaimed him so.”