by Troy A Hill
To Run At Night
A Prelude to The Cup of Blood Series
Troy A. Hill
Troy Hill Media
Copyright © 2018 by Troy A. Hill
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Troy A. Hill
Images via Deposit Photos
Created with Vellum
Contents
Welsh Pronunciations
Glossary
Join our Teulu
1. Brother Mihangel
2. Derog
3. Clergy
4. Waiting
5. Dinner
6. Ambush
7. Fight and Flight
8. Lady Meron
The Teulu
Welsh Pronunciations
Throughout this series I’ve opted to use modern Welsh words in place of old Brythonic variants.
Any errors in word use or selection are solely mine. Variations in northern and southern Welsh accents are not included in this guide.
Below is a limited guide to some of the spellings and pronunciations you will find in this series.
Welsh Pronunciations: In Welsh, all letters are pronounced, even when it appears impossible to do so. Vowels typical are pronounced in their “soft” forms with a few exceptions:
A as in man
E as in met
I is a hard E sound, as in Queen
O as in hot
U is a hard I or E sound, as in Pita
W (yes, it’s a vowel in Welsh) is the double O sound, as in Zoo
Y has several variations:
Alone it’s usually pronounced uh as an article: y caer (the fortress)
Within a word, it acts as a Welsh U
Double Vowell Dipthongs:
Ei, Eu: as ay way
Ow: long O as in tow
Ae, Ai, Au: as the y in my
Ywy: as in the ui in Fluid
Other Welsh Sounds:
dd: pronounced as the TH sound
Bleddyn = Blethin
Rh: to pronounce this, reverse the sounds. H then R, and trill or roll the R
LL: This is the “dreaded” Welsh sound, and is almost unique to the Welsh language. To pronounce this sound, place your tongue against the roof of your mouth, as though you’ve finished the sound of “EL”, then blow as though you’re pronouncing the beginning of the “H” sound. Add in the “EL” sound. This sound has also been described as pronouncing an L with a th in front of it.
FF: is F as in fan
F: is V as in Avon (Welsh pronunciation of “Afon”)
C: is always hard, similar to the K in English, as in “Cat”
CH: as in the Scottish “Loch”
Names in Penllyn
Neirin: Nayreen
Rhian: Hrrian
Rhos: Hrross
Bleddyn: Blethin
Owain: O-wine
Fadog: Va-dog
If you are a native Welsh speaker, and notice any flaws in the above, please let me know via email: [email protected]
Glossary
of terminology, places, and historical figures
In the early and mid-seventh century, the divisions we know of today, England, Scotland and Wales didn’t exist then. Throughout history, different names and terms have been used for various factions, peoples, and areas of Britain. Below are the terms used in this book. The author has also included historical figures of the time that may be referenced in the various stories.
* * *
Bernicia: A Kingdom, in north-central Britannia. Later, it was combined with Deira to form what would be called Northumbria.
* * *
Britannia: The largest of the British Isles.
* * *
Britain: Modern day Wales: A dark-ages political division that denotes the western half of the lower section of Britannia that is still controlled by the native British. The other sections are often controlled by Saxon and Pagan Kings.
* * *
Britons: The people of Britannia.
* * *
Cadwallon ap Cadfan: King of Gwynedd, died 634/5.
* * *
Cantref (plural cantrefi): A division of land within a Cymry kingdom. Cantrefi were ruled by Lords, who owed allegiance to Kings.
* * *
Cymry: A term referring to the native Britons who remained following the withdrawal of the Roman legions at the beginning of the dark ages (late fourth century and early fifth century CE). This term typically refers to the people we know today as the Welsh. The author will use Cymry to distinguish the Welsh from their Anglo-Saxon neighbors.
* * *
Edwin: King of Deira and Bernicia (d. 632 or 633 CE).
* * *
Fadog (cantref)*: A former part of the Kingdom of Powys.
* * *
Gwynedd: A Cymry Kingdom, in what would be North Wales today.
* * *
Ida: first known King of Bernicia, (d. 559 CE). His descendants were among the kings and rulers of several of the non-Cymric kingdoms of Britannia. "Sons of Ida" refer to his descendants who were fierce rulers and warlords.
* * *
Mercia: a Saxon Kingdom in the midlands of today’s Britain.
* * *
Penda: King of Mercia
* * *
Penllyn (cantref)*: A cantref of the Kingdom of Powys.
* * *
Penteulu: The leader of a Cymry Lord’s war band or guard.
* * *
Rhos (cantref)*: A cantref of the Kingdom of Gwynedd.
* * *
Saxon: Germanic settlers into the British Isles following the withdrawal of Rome from the land. They controlled many of the Eastern British kingdoms during the dark ages.
* * *
* The Author has taken liberties with people and location boundaries, as well as with historical timelines surrounding several Cantrefi and their lords.
Join our Teulu
In Welsh, the word Teulu (tay-lee) means family. In dark ages Penllyn, the Teulu was the fighting “family” of the Lord and Lady. The men at arms who protected the land and people.
* * *
Members of our Teulu are the first to hear about Troy’s newest books, peek behind the scenes of the writing and researching process Troy goes through, and learn about specials and gifts.
* * *
Flip to the back of the book to learn how to become a part of our Teulu.
1
Brother Mihangel
If he had known what he was about to face, he would still have gotten on the carriage. He was the type of man who did what had to be done, because it was the right thing to do. No matter what the cost.
In years past, he had walked many leagues, often with a heavy pack and weapons. He never expected to be able to walk after those battles. But each time his feet carried him from the battlefield, he crossed himself and sent another prayer to heaven.
“Thank you kindly, goodman,” Brother Mihangel fished in his pouch for one of his few coins.
"No payment needed, brother," the caravan master, a balding and rotund Saxon said. He raised his small wooden cross from his chest. "Always happy to help out a man of God." There were half-a-dozen open topped wagons, pulled by two horses each. A few guards rode along side. Brigands flourished near the borderlands between kingdoms.
In the middle of the wagon train sat a carriage. It was that contraption the merchant led the monk to. The transport was an enclosed wooden box pulled by two horses. Rather small. Four people would be about the most it could carry.
"T
he lady has paid more'n enough for the carriage, and she be most kind, but is a bit sickly,” the merchant said. “Perhap yer company do her well on the journey."
He rapped politely once but pulled open the door without waiting for a reply.
“Pardon, yer ladyship,” the merchant said, from the small doorway. “I can’t be lettin’ a man o’ God walk across this area alone.”
“Very well, Master Eadwig,” she muttered. Her eyes were shut tight against the glare. “Shut the door quickly.”
“She recovers from an illness, and the sun does bother her eyes,” Eadwig said. “Me pardons again, yer ladyship,” he muttered as he swung the door shut.
"Forgive me as well, milady," Mihangel said. He settled onto the bench across from her, so he faced the rear of the carriage. "I am Brother Mihangel, of the Abbey of Saint Columba, in the kingdom of Gwent."
Just as the merchant had, he spoke in the language of the Saxons.
The woman opened her eyes once the door had closed. The curtains were drawn. But the wooden shutter, which slid across a track to block out the weather, was cracked open a finger's length on both side windows. At least they had a bit of fresh air.
The driver slapped the reins with a crack against the horseflesh. Brother Mihangel, as well as the lady, braced themselves. The wheels creaked, and the wooden box swayed as the carriage began to roll along the stone of the old Roman road.
The woman waved him toward a drinking skin that hung from a peg in the wall. A small rack below it held several wooden cups. “Help yourself as needed, good brother,” she said.
He nodded his thanks and poured several splashes into one of the cups. Water. After a morning on the road, he welcomed it. The woman across from him was obviously well off. She was well groomed. Her light skin contrasted with her wavy, dark hair. The colorful blanket that covered her was of fine wool. She nested in a menagerie of soft cushions and pillows.
“Milady,” the monk asked, “may I be so bold as to inquire as to your titles?”
The woman across from him adjusted her mound of pillows as the carriage rattled and creaked.
"Of course, good brother. My late husband was Comte de Meron in Francia," the woman said. Brother Mihangel shook his head. Twenty winters at most had passed in her life. Her skin, though pale, was too smooth. No lines had settled in around her eyes or mouth, yet.
“You are far too young to be a widow, milady,” he said.
“Thank you for the kind words,” she said and gave a small smile. “I am older than I appear.”
Brother Mihangel bowed low in his seat, then reached out with his hand. Lady Meron laid her pale hand in his. The contrast in their skin was remarkable. Hers pale, as though she never ventured into the sun. His own swarthy. Well-calloused and cracked from work in the sunlight for all of his life. Still, he knew his manners. He leaned down to kiss her hand. He was careful to keep the grey hairs above his upper lip from scratching along her delicate flesh.
“My life is brighter for your presence, Lady Meron,” he said. “Would you prefer to converse in Latin?” he asked. “The language hasn’t yet died out completely here. But the island is now festooned with languages and dialects beyond the Latin the Romans left behind.”
“The language of the Saxons is fine for now,” Lady Meron said. “I have learned enough to be comfortable in conversation.”
He pointed toward the water skin and cups. She waved off his offer.
“Your hair,” she said with a smile to offer apologies, “is not cut like the monks I know from Europe.”
Indeed, his hair was long in the back and sides, but his forehead and the front half of his head was shaved bald. He wasn’t an old man, yet he was no longer young. He had more than begun to feel the years he had lived. Every year he had to shave less and less of his tonsure as age thinned then eliminated the hair he had left. What he did have was streaked with grey. Rather, the grey was streaked with bits of his former color.
"I am Cymry," he said and lifted the cross on his chest. The wood was carved in elegant pointed curves that wound through each other.
"I have seen such designs before," she said. "Celts, from Gaul, used such, and their art has influenced cultures in Northern Europe."
“A brother at my monastery says our people have deep roots in the old tribes of Europe. You called them Celts?”
She nodded. “Why the difference in the tonsure? I’ve only seen the ring of hair that the Roman clerics insist on.”
"We Cymry were Christianized before the Saxons, and still follow the old customs,” he said with a slight chuckle. "For years, our Bishops refused to minister to the invaders who stole our lands and killed our people. But, eventually, Rome sent their missionaries. The Saxon Bishops, have worked to grow the faith among the Pagans. Many have come under the Roman Church's authority by their work. We Cymry were already followers of the Christ."
“Ahh,” Lady Meron nodded. “Church politics. I try to avoid such. The nobles of any land usually have enough plotting of their own. It’s often difficult to follow who is backstabbing who to gain which ally’s favor. Surely the church has put such petty intrigues behind them?”
Mihangel could tell from her sly smile that she jested.
“Unfortunately, no,” he sighed, “The Saxon priests under Bishop Honorius tell our Cymry clergy that we must bow to Rome, and then to Canterbury.”
“I suspect from your tone that these bishops of Cymry are as likely to do that as for the sun to set in the east?”
Mihangel laughed. Lady Meron had a sharp wit, despite her convalesce. She closed her eyes at a sudden lurch of the carriage, and her hand shot out to steady herself before she banged against the wall. Fast reflexes, he thought. Her eyes opened again and fell on his walking stick. Almost as tall as he, it was carved with the pointed swirls to match his cross.
“I have seen such design before,” she said. “The Celtic influence is apparent in your art. You called your people Cymry?”
“Cymry is the word for the people of what you call Britain,” brother Mihangel said. “The land is Cymru to us. To the west of these lands, my people live. The original tribes came here after the fall of Troy, and our people have been on these lands long before the Saxons and Jutes came to our shores. Before even the Romans.”
“Ah,” she said. “Perhaps tonight you can tell me more of your people, good brother.”
“Of course, Lady Meron.”
“With my condition, the sun saps my strength,” she added, “if you will forgive me, I prefer to sleep while it is out.”
“I will pray for your health to return,” Mihangel said. “Please take your rest. I shall not disturb you again.”
“You are no disturbance,” she said and adjusted the feather pillows around her. She pulled a woolen blanket up around her and leaned her head back. “I thank you for your kindness, good brother.”
The monk stayed quiet as the carriage jostled along the rutted road. He peeled back the curtain across the window a few times. Each time his hand paused. Lady Meron must have sensed his intent, and gave him a thin smile and a nod of permission. He kept his investigation of the outside world to a few seconds only, then let the curtain close again. They sat in silence, except for the creaking and groaning of the wooden carriage and clop of hooves on the stones of the old road.
2
Derog
“Who are ye?” The whispered call scratched through the leaves of the scrub. Derog glanced along the old Roman road. He too was hiding in the brush and couldn’t tell exactly where the voice came from.
“Derog of Fadog,” he responded, not sure he liked the tone of the challenge to him.
“Stand and show yerself,” the voice hissed.
“Not this close to the road, fool.” Did the man take him for an idiot?
“No one be coming,” the unseen man whispered. “Haven’t seen a bloody wagon all morning. Not even a yeoman with an oxcart.”
"Paega said not to show myself," Derog hissed back. This
was getting annoying. "I can't see where ye be. Rustle about, and I be finding you."
"I'm not daft, neither," the voice in the scrub hissed. "Show yerself, so I know it is you."
"How can ye know it is me, if ye never laid eyes on me," Derog hissed back. "If ye be Dugga, then wiggle the brush, so I know where ye be."
The man stayed quiet.
“Oh Bloody Hell!” Derog rose. “There, ye can see me now, ya fool.”
"I'm no fool," the man said in a normal tone. A section of brush jiggled, and a rotund man stood. His tunic had been dyed various shades of green and brown in a motley pattern. Twigs and leaves were shoved into his unkempt curly hair. They'd been speaking the Saxon language. Dugga definitely sounded like one of the Pagan Saxons. But he was so dirty, Derog wouldn't have known, except for the man's accent.
Atop his head sat the ugliest hat Derog had ever seen. It looked as though it might have once been made of wool. It was frayed. Too small for Dugga's large head, one seam had ripped. He had stitched it together with twigs that left a gap. It was threadbare in places. Several feathers and tufts of down rested atop it. A few seemed to have been woven into the fabric by wear. Dugga might have even had a birds nest atop his head recently, from the looks of that hat.
