by Paul Lewis
The man mumbled something Dodinal could not hear; he eased forward until he was closer but still out of reach. He did not want those bloody stumps touching him.
“Say it again,” he whispered, dry-mouthed.
The man coughed wetly and blood-flecked spittle sprayed from his lips. This time when he spoke, Dodinal heard him clearly but still could not understand a word. The man spoke the same harsh, guttural language as the giant who had taken Dodinal’s mother.
The man called out again, and Dodinal scrambled away from him. The raider began to use his ruined hand to drag himself along the floor, leaving a broad smear of blood in his wake. Dodinal backed up to the door and made ready to run.
Before he could he saw his mother’s face again, heard her agonised cries, remembered his father’s body and the coil of guts that had spilled from it. A terrible anger rose within him, and he bellowed with raw fury. A red mist descended over his eyes, and when it cleared, he was on his knees outside the hut. He had dropped the sword. It was on the ground beside him. The blade’s entire length was slick with gore. Dodinal stared numbly at his hands. They were stained red, his clothes too.
He stood and walked on unsteady legs to the doorway. Even before he reached it he could see that what had been a slow drip of blood was now a torrent. Breathing deeply, he peered inside the hut, glimpsed the glistening mess of flesh, bone and offal scattered across the floor and was immediately and violently sick.
Turning quickly away, he slumped to the ground and was sick again and again, heaving when there was nothing left inside him until his stomach felt like it was being turned inside out. He could only lie there helpless, groaning and retching, until the spasms had passed.
Then he stood and wiped his mouth. Memories flashed through his head like snatches of a nightmare that remained on waking: the man reaching out for him, the sword slashing down, blood spurting, a severed hand spinning as it fell to the floor. The blade rising and then falling. A scarlet rain filling the air…
Dodinal gagged and swallowed the searing bile that rose in his throat. He had never drawn a man’s blood before; today, he had not merely drawn it but sprayed it liberally around the hut. He had chopped head and limbs from the body and hacked the torso to pieces, using a sword that was almost too heavy for him to lift. He had not been able to control himself. It was as if someone else had inhabited his body, someone wickedly strong and utterly without pity.
Dodinal was scared and shocked by his display of unrestrained violence. He was also strangely exhilarated.
As soon as he had recovered, he continued to look for his mother. Though he searched until darkness forced him to seek shelter for the night, he never found her. Often, in the lonely years that followed, he would reflect that never knowing her fate was a worse and more enduring agony than the certainty of her death.
The knight leaned against the doorway, gazing out across the deserted village. A long time had passed since then. His life had altered in a way he could never have foreseen, but in some ways it remained the same. He had been alone then, and he was alone now, and he imagined he would ever be so. Only one thing had changed: as a youth he had lusted only for vengeance, and now all he wanted was peace.
He did not think that was too much to ask for.
Dodinal sighed and closed the door.
No, not too much to ask for. Yet it eluded him.
Suddenly feeling the cold, he lowered himself to the mattress and pulled the furs over him. There he lay, eyes open, dwelling on his past while he waited for Rhiannon to return.
FIVE
The next morning he felt strong enough to leave the hut and decided it was time he met the chieftain Idris. Rhiannon made no secret of her displeasure, arguing he needed more rest. But Dodinal’s mind was made up; he had rested long enough.
She had arrived with a bowl containing more of the nuts and berries that her people currently broke their fast with.
“Your chieftain will think I lack courtesy if I do not pay my respects, now I am recovered,” Dodinal said around the mouthful of squirrel food he was reluctantly chewing. His stomach rumbled. Rhiannon had brought him more cawl the previous day, along with some flat bread, but nothing since. “All the more so because he was courteous enough to allow me to recover in peace.”
“It was not so much courtesy as common sense.” Rhiannon stood over him with folded arms and a stern look on her face. “He knew that disturbing you before you were ready to see him could hamper your recovery. And I would have had more work to do.”
“Ah,” Dodinal grinned. “No doubt you set him straight on that. So it was not so much common sense as his fear of you.”
Rhiannon gave him a withering, thin-lipped glare. “Next time you can stitch your own leg.” But she flashed a smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She was not angry, and even seemed pleased at how swiftly he was healing. Of course, that might only be because she wanted him out of her hut as quickly as good manners allowed, yet he believed she was proud of her healing abilities, for all her reluctance to speak of them.
“I’ll tell Idris you will call on him,” Rhiannon said.
Dodinal raised an eyebrow. “Is that necessary? I mean only to pay him my regards and thank him for sharing his food.”
“He will have none of that, mark my words. Owain is his only grandson and the old man dotes on him. I suspect he would have wanted you to take longer to get well. He tries not to show it, but he is enjoying having Owain spend more time with him than usual. Like me, he will be forever in your debt.”
Her words made him uneasy. It was not in his character to draw attention to himself.
“I only did what any man would have done.”
“I know many men who would have left him to his fate. As I have already said, I do not believe you are like other men.”
“All men are the same,” he countered.
“No, they are not. Now finish your food. I will tell Idris you are ready to meet him so he can get prepared.”
Prepared? A greeting, a handshake, perhaps a few words of friendship were all that needed to pass between the two men. Unless these villagers had customs he was unfamiliar with. No matter. He would find out soon enough. “I’ll dress while you are gone.”
“You need to wash first,” she answered. “You stink.”
“And you are too kind.”
Rhiannon smiled as she went over to the fire and took the pot outside to fill it with snow, then set it over the flames. She took an old blanket and a misshapen nugget of soap from the dresser. “This will clear away the worst of the stench.”
It was obvious she was teasing him. Then again, he thought, sniffing at his chest and armpits, perhaps not. He had become so used to his own ripe scent while wandering the wintry wilderness that he had not really noticed it until now.
The moment Rhiannon had gone, he stripped and washed away the grime, revealing rubbed-raw flesh beneath. The water that pooled at his feet was dark and scummy, and steamed in the heat of the fire. Once he was as clean as he thought he could be, he used the cloth to dry before pulling on his clothes. It felt good to be in them again. It would feel even better to have his sword at his side.
When Rhiannon returned, she had her son with her, the boy giving Dodinal the same silent look as before. Then he knelt on the floor and reached under his tunic, pulling out a small pouch that hung from his neck by a leather strap. He emptied its contents into his hand, far more interested in them than in Dodinal.
“He seems less pleased to see me,” Dodinal observed.
Rhiannon watched the boy affectionately. “He knows you are well now, that’s why. He was worried you might die.”
The knight said nothing. How strange to think that someone should fear his death when he himself did not.
“You smell much better,” she said, smiling. “But you still look like a wild man. Sit here.”
Dodinal obeyed. There was no point arguing. He sat on the bench while she took a wooden comb from the dress
er and attacked his hair; it felt like it was being torn out by the roots. “Keep still,” she chided. “Anyone would swear you were a child.”
Finally she was done. His scalp tingled, yet when Rhiannon started on his beard the pain in his head paled into insignificance. He reached up but she slapped his hand away. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find wildlife in here. Do you want to be presented to Idris harbouring mice?”
Dodinal gritted his teeth and said nothing, not even when Rhiannon produced a small knife and cut away at his hair and beard until clumps of it were scattered on the floor at his feet.
“There,” she said finally, taking a step back and scrutinising the results. “You look almost civilised.”
“Thank you,” Dodinal said dryly, rubbing his aching chin.
“Now I’ll take you to Idris and the village elders.”
“Elders?” Dodinal was immediately wary. He had anticipated sharing a few words and perhaps some food with the chieftain, and him alone. More people meant more questions. As there were some answers he would not be inclined to share, it could become awkward.
“His best hunters, his closest friends. You’ll like them, man of the wild that you are. But be mindful of his son.” Rhiannon’s mouth curled down. “Gerwyn is a difficult one. He insisted that two of his friends should be on the council too. To speak for the young as well as the old, or so he said. He was just causing trouble as always.”
“He won’t give me any trouble, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure, too. You’re twice his size. Don’t worry; Idris tolerates him but keeps him under control. I’m sure you will have much to discuss. Come back when you’re done. You can stay here for as long as you want. I’ll remain in the Great Hall with Owain.”
“No, please. I have caused enough disruption. You stay here with the boy. I will sleep in the hall, if Idris will have me.”
“He will not. You are an honoured guest. You deserve a place of your own. Those were his words.” Her eyes sparkled in the firelight as she handed Dodinal his cloak. “And I’m sure they were honestly spoken. But by coincidence, it also means he can have Owain stay with him a little while longer.”
“Some coincidence,” Dodinal agreed.
They went out into the howling white world. Rhiannon kept pace with the knight who moved slowly and carefully, feeling a twinge in his thigh as he walked. The snowstorm was so ferocious that, even in daylight, he struggled to take in his surroundings.
As they headed towards the Great Hall, hunched over and with their hoods up to escape the worst of the wind, he could see the tall shapes he had taken for trees were the remains of a palisade. It would have been a stout defence at the time it was built, but years of neglect had taken their toll. There were gaps Dodinal could walk through. With Arthur having stemmed the Saxon tide, there would have been no pressing need to keep it in good repair.
They scurried past smaller huts, maybe two score all told. The gale flattened the smoke columns that rose from their roof holes before tearing them to shreds. He imagined villagers huddled behind the doors, wondering how long this weather and their food could last, emerging only to share meagre communal meals in the Great Hall, where they would talk to while away the long, empty hours.
Squinting against the blizzard, Dodinal could see a barn, inside which a pair of oxen and two sheep stood listlessly, while two chickens paced around and pecked at the floor. Next to the barn was a small sty and Dodinal sensed two pigs curled up together for warmth.
By the time they reached their destination, a long rectangular building, the knight’s face and fingers were numb with cold. Rhiannon went in first, pulling the heavy door open and holding it until Dodinal had followed her through. Then she let the door slam shut behind her and the bellowing wind was immediately muted.
Dodinal took stock of his surroundings.
A great fire burned in its pit at the near end of the hut; a mastiff stretched out asleep before it, legs twitching as it pursued whatever dream-prey it had scented. Several smaller fires burned further down the hut, either for cooking or heat. Smoke was drawn through the roof-holes but enough remained inside to sting his eyes. Before him was a table, longer than it was wide, with benches running along both sides and a chair at each end.
On the walls were mounted trophies — deer, boar and bear — the heads gazing down at the room with glassy, unseeing eyes. Skins had been hung roughly halfway along the hall. Presumably the area beyond them was where the chieftain and his family slept.
A dozen men watched him in silence from the benches, most of them older than Dodinal. A younger man with a mane of dark curly hair sat in the chair closest to the knight. At the opposite end from him was seated a stout, older man, his chair high-backed and ornate. It was he who broke the silence, rising and making for Dodinal, one hand outstretched, a grin across his face.
“So this is the man who saved my grandson’s life,” he boomed, taking Dodinal’s hand in his to shake it vigorously, and clapping him repeatedly and forcibly on his shoulder. “It is good to finally meet you!”
Dodinal turned helplessly to Rhiannon.
“Our friend is a man of few words,” she obliged. “And he is not comfortable with grand gestures of thanks. Not when he believes he only did what any man would have done.”
“Nonsense,” Idris exclaimed. The chieftain’s voice was loud enough to rattle the walls, or so it seemed to Dodinal. “I know of no other man who could have fought off three ravenous wolves and then walk almost all the way here with half his leg bitten off!”
There was a low murmur of laughter from around the table.
“It did not seem that bad at the time,” Dodinal mumbled, trying to ignore the way the men stared at him with friendly, curious expressions. All save the curly-haired man who sat in the chair near to Dodinal, who was, presumably, Gerwyn. He held Dodinal with a surly and defiant gaze. Could it be that he was intimidated by Dodinal and was determined not to show it? Maybe he was just looking for trouble, as Rhiannon had warned.
His father was powerfully built, with a broad chest and a creased, leathery face that spoke of years of exposure to the elements. His hair and beard were as white as snow but his brown eyes were clear and bright. His accent, like Rhiannon’s, was rich and mellifluous. It was said the Welsh were a nation of poets, but Dodinal knew they were dangerous too. Perhaps that was why he felt comfortable in their presence.
“This is Dodinal.” The chieftain addressed the room once Rhiannon had left them. “My grandson’s saviour, as you will have heard. For that reason alone, if no other, he is now kin. One of us.”
Idris took him by the arm and guided him around the table, calling out the names of the men as they passed: Emlyn, Tomos, Rhydian, Elfed, Hywel and so forth, the names all unfamiliar to Dodinal’s ears. The men either nodded or murmured a greeting in return. Introductions done, the old man indicated the high-backed chair. “Be seated.” Dodinal shook his head and made to squat at the end of the bench — it was the chieftain’s chair and he had no right to take it — but Idris was insistent. “I would consider it an honour.”
Dodinal reluctantly took the seat. Idris settled on the bench. “Gerwyn, fetch our guest some food and drink.”
Gerwyn made no effort to rise. “Why? So we can sit here, watching him eat while we slowly starve?”
“It is tradition to offer hospitality to guests,” Idris answered, his tone reasonable. “True, we are not blessed with as much food as we would like, but we will prevail. We always do. It has not reached such a low point that we can be excused for forgetting our manners.”
“If this weather persists we will have nothing left,” Gerwyn protested angrily. “We can barely feed ourselves, let alone strangers.”
Idris banged his fist on the table, the crash echoing around the hall. When he spoke it was with a voice like iron. “Remember your place. You are the not the brehyrion, but his son. When I ask you to do something, I do not expect defiance.”
Dodinal quickly revised his
opinion. On the surface, Idris was calm and benevolent: beneath, he was as hard as the frozen earth.
Not wanting to be the cause of a row between father and son, Dodinal spoke up. “Though I thank you for your kindness, there is no need for food or drink. Rhiannon has taken care of me. And,” he added, looking pointedly at Gerwyn, “I do not intend to be a burden. As soon as the storm eases I will leave. I have matters to attend to.”
The words did not satisfy Gerwyn. He slouched in his chair, arms folded, looking meaningfully at two younger men sat near him. So similar were their features that they had to be brothers. It was clear they would back Gerwyn in a fight. Not that it would come to that, with Idris there to crack unruly heads together.
“Tell me,” the chieftain said amicably, all smiles again, as if no harsh words had been exchanged. “What brings a man to such a godforsaken wilderness as this?”
Dodinal shrugged. He had lost count of how many times he had been asked the same question since embarking upon his quest. He always gave the same answer. “I am a traveller, a wanderer. I drift from place to place, looking for work to pay for food and shelter. Women and song, too, if I am lucky enough to find them.”
The older men laughed, although Gerwyn and his friends did not. Dodinal would have to keep an eye on them if the weather forced him to stay longer. He knew trouble when he saw it.
“I see.” Idris studied him closely. “For a wanderer and a drifter, you certainly possess very fine clothes. The women who stitched them for you told me they had never seen such fine workmanship.”
It was true. While Dodinal could not see the men’s boots under the table, he doubted they were made from soft leather and lined with fur. Their shirts were of the roughest of cloth, while his were of fine linen.
