Both the King and Gilmore were considering the premise more seriously.
‘I am all for whatever keeps my sovereign ruling Rhos.’ Gilmore sided with Gwion.
‘I told the good Lady Tegid that you would not wish the remaining undead to perish with their souls in question.’ The young king served her a look of ‘I told you so’. ‘However, you are clearly not yet recovered enough to complete this chore, and they will slow our progress towards Mon. I could use their muscle for the battles ahead, but I fear their judgement is questionable, and they may end up killing more of our men than the enemy.’
‘So what is your plan?’ Gwion hoped to be made privy.
‘I shall leave the prisoners here and travel to Castell Tegid to collect the sword. I shall leave you there to recover while I ride to Mon to aid my brother. That will give you some time to regain your vitality. When we have forced the last of the invaders back to the Winter Isle and liberated Mon, I shall return to Castell Tegid, collect you, and together we can return here and decide what is to become of these men.’
‘All within two weeks?’ Gwion reminded the King of the terms he’d agreed to with Keridwen.
‘You seem to hold her favour; perhaps you can buy us some more time if need be.’ Owain was only half jesting. ‘But I am confident it can be done.’
‘But I will restore their souls to their bodies despite what happens,’ Gwion wished to clarify.
‘I never had an objection to that end,’ the King assured him. ‘That you shall now have some time to recuperate between miracles, I assume will quell any further protest?’ Owain’s sights shifted to the Lady under Gwion’s arm.
It took a moment, but she nodded to agree.
‘Splendid. I’ll leave a small local force to guard this stockade and send the rest of my army to Mon under Madoc’s command. I shall accompany you both, with a few trusted men, to Llyn Tegid. Can you ride?’ the King queried Gwion, who was boggled at the question.
He’d never been on horseback before, and his current decrepit form might simply shatter under such duress.
‘The man can barely walk,’ Creirwy appealed, annoyed that the King could even ask. ‘Gwion shall ride in my carriage with me.’
‘A carriage will slow our passage—’
‘It shall not.’ Creirwy rebutted his objection. ‘I’ll wager money on it.’
‘In that case, I believe you.’ Clearly, King Owain knew better than to take that bet.
‘Oh sorry, I forgot,’ the Lady forced a grin. ‘You only play when the game is fixed in your favour.’
The King’s eyes narrowed in spite, yet he could not bring himself to bare the daggers in his eyes, for he needed the Lady to acquire his unique sword. Owain turned his gaze to the thinning clouds above – the sun was fast approaching its zenith. ‘We depart at noon.’ The King left with Gilmore to mobilise the Cymry.
‘Well,’ Gwion broke the awkward silence. ‘We’d best get moving, or we’ll be a week behind the King before I even get to the carriage.’ He was not joking.
‘Fear not.’ Creirwy withdrew as Morvran scooped Gwion up from behind.
‘Much appreciated.’ Gwion truly meant that, despite that it was a little humiliating being carried through the camp by his huge friend. Now the soldiers gaped at them both in awe and fear. ‘We are quite the pair, are we not?’
Morvran found this amusing. ‘Welcome to the freak show, woodsman.’
Morda, both eyes bandaged, was seated in the driver’s seat of the stout carriage, holding the reins of the team of four horses it took to pull the hefty transport.
‘Please tell me he’s not driving,’ Gwion uttered aside to Morvran.
‘The route we are taking even a blind man could negotiate.’
Morvran’s reassurance was anything but.
‘I jest . . . I shall drive.’
‘You know a shortcut?’ Gwion suspected, considering how confident Creirwy’s boast was to the King.
Creirwy raised the light-weave curtain that covered the one opening in the solid wood carriage. She climbed inside and beckoned her brother to lay Gwion within.
His landing was softer than expected, for the wooden floor of their transport was covered with rugs, blankets and pillows. It was the most comfortable environment Gwion had ever been in.
‘Head us home, Morvran.’ She motioned for her brother to drop the curtain, which was fine enough to allow light to penetrate.
‘I want to see this shortcut of yours, I know you have one.’ Gwion reached out to pull the curtain aside, but the Lady took hold of his hand to prevent it.
‘Once we are under way.’ She placed his hand back at his side. ‘First, let’s get you comfortable.’
‘I am comfortable.’ His upper body was propped up and supported at the perfect incline to address his company, and yet all the pressure was off his ailing form. ‘In fact, I would venture to say I have never been so comfortable.’
‘In that case, it’s time for your medicine.’
‘Medicine? You have a cure for old age?’ Gwion laughed. ‘We could make a fortune if you do.’
Creirwy’s cheeks rounded as she suppressed a smile. ‘Unfortunately, the cure is very particular to you. The cures of my folk work very differently to the cures of your world. For yours is an Otherworldly affliction and so must be combated with an Otherworldly cure.’
‘Is this the same brew you were feeding me during the healing of the King’s men?’
‘Yes.’ She poured the liquid from a vial into the bowl, and the cure glowed green like Keridwen’s fire and the brew inside her cauldron.
‘Does all folk magic glow green like that?’ He gazed into the bowl she passed it to him.
‘No. Every colour of the spectrum has a use and purpose. But the resonance of green has marvellous regenerative properties.’
‘Must I?’ Gwion’s stomach grumbled, but it was certainly not the medicine it desired, for the brew had the same earthy, musty smell as Keridwen’s undead concoction, which was not particularly pleasant. ‘It makes me drowsy.’
‘No, that was the healing you were performing,’ Creirwy corrected and the look on her face demanded cooperation. ‘Drink and I’ll give you some real food . . .’ She ripped a large chunk of bread off a cob, and the grains within released their fragment aroma. ‘You must be famished.’
‘You are cruel to tease an old man thus.’
She grinned at his grumble and watched him drink the slimy, floral brew.
‘Ugh.’ It warmed his insides as it oozed down his throat, but the aftertaste was like oily, smoky, loam.
‘Thank you.’ The Lady swapped the bowl for the piece of bread and then offered a water-skin, from which Gwion partook first, to wash the taste from his mouth. ‘You’ll feel much better by the time we find the road out of here.’
With a jolt their carriage thrust forward, and the uneven ground beneath their wheels rattled their rigid transport and Gwion’s bones. He tried to suppress his moans of discomfort, but they kept slipping out as the jolts were so violent. He desperately wanted to eat, but the pain was so all-consuming that he could only lie there and bear it.
‘Not long now.’ Creirwy placed her hand upon his forehead and the bliss of her touch forced his eyes closed.
In his mind’s eye Gwion perceived vibrant colours and shapes, bleeding through each other and drowning each other out like ripples on water; the display was calming and fascinating. He had the inkling that what he was observing meant something profound that he should understand. Gwion became so focused on trying to solve the puzzle that the rest of him was benumbed. He slept, or rather teetered on the verge of sleep, but his mind remained lucid.
The colourful geometry faded out and Gwion observed the field of warriors from on high as they witnessed the departure of the King’s small party – Owain, Brockwell, Gilmore and his new squire, Tiernan. The King’s party rode out towards the road that would lead north-west, the carriage containing Gwion’s resting form following up the
rear. Gwion rose higher – absent fear, care or question – through the grey that blanketed the land and into the high noon sunshine, where clouds spiralled like white castles against a deep blue sea of sky. Here he could see for miles around and wished to soar towards the stars, but a large flying object in the distance waylaid him.
‘Rufus?’
The object paused its circling activity and then plunged into the cloud.
It had to be the dragon. He’d expected it would be long gone by now. Where was it circling and why?
The bulk of the cloud was being blown north-east by the regular south, south-west wind that was known to the laymen as the green-grey wind. True south was the white wind and green was west to south-west. True west was known as the pale wind, which tended to blow more during the time of brightness that followed Beltaine. But during this, the time of winds, the green-grey prevailed.
As the flying object was about forty-five degrees towards the west of the wind direction, Gwion estimated that it must be circling somewhere over Gwynedd.
Hear their chant, Gwion? Lady Tegid sounded far away and his consciousness was drawn towards her.
Below him, the bulk of the army that remained formed a guard along the side of the road.
They would follow Madoc to Ynys Mon, more fondly referred to as Mam Cymru – the Mother of Wales. The isle was so bountiful it could survive without the mainland, but not the other way around.
The warriors were waving their arms about and cheering the royal party as they went, but to his ears their cheers were muffled and inaudible.
In their eyes you are the hero of this battle. Warm breath and the whisper in his ear propelled Gwion back into his body and his consciousness landed with a painful thud.
‘Gwion am byth! Gwion am byth!’
The cheers filled his ears, and Gwion looked to the opening in the carriage as Creirwy held aside the curtain so that the soldiers could commend and bless their new hero.
Gwion didn’t imagine the King would appreciate his army chanting the praises of someone else, and it felt uncomfortable to be the centre of such adoration.
‘Hail your king for bringing me to your service.’ Gwion was frustrated when his combrogi persisted with their chant. ‘Close it!’ he bade Creirwy as the men only chanted louder upon sighting him. ‘Please.’
The Lady allowed the curtain to fall. ‘They see the sacrifice you have made for them and only wish—’
‘We’ve all made sacrifices . . . mine is just more obvious.’
Their carriage hit the road and the extreme jarring ceased to a degree. Finally Gwion found the peace to take a bite of his bread.
‘Ahh!’ Even his teeth were weak! He aborted his attempt to tear off some crust and held his front teeth a moment, afraid they might have been pulled loose. ‘Ouch.’ He dug out some of the fluffier, seedy innards with his fingers and placed that in his mouth.
‘I’m sorry I asked you to follow me into this. I should have told you to run.’ The Lady’s weak smile was full of sadness.
‘Or let me die?’ Gwion voiced his hunch and Creirwy appeared suddenly horrified. ‘I know the Saxon split my head open, and somehow this was miraculously healed without the King knowing about it. I am guessing I was the only living man healed by the cauldron of the Goddess that day . . . which might explain why I am the only man capable of healing the undead spawned from the same brew.’
Now tears were welling in Creirwy’s eyes.
‘You made a deal with Gwyn ap Nudd to spare my life? Why?’
‘You’d just saved mine!’ she defended. ‘I swear I didn’t know you were going to be able to heal the undead, or what that gift would cost you.’
‘I didn’t for a moment think that you did.’ Gwion held both hands up in truce, and they jittered uncontrollably until he put them down. ‘Not the wisest druid in all the land could have foreseen what has befallen here. My concern is what that deal cost you.’
‘No.’ She brushed the droplets from her eyes and regained her cool demeanour. ‘You must never ask, for I can never tell.’
‘You remember your dealings with the Night Hunter?’
‘Only humans forget their Otherworldly covenants, I am Fey . . . mostly.’
‘But, Lady, I cannot allow you to suffer—’
‘Must I terminate our association, Gwion, son of Gwreang? That is not my wish.’
This was not a sweet appeal; there was real anger behind her eyes. Gwion felt he had little choice but to agree. ‘I shall never speak of it again.’
The vow relaxed Creirwy.
‘But I will say that I am eternally in your debt for your pains on my behalf.’
‘That pain is all that gives me joy.’ She near choked on her admission.
A painful lump was building in Gwion’s throat also. He desperately wanted to understand why Creirwy had done what she had for him, and what she had relinquished of herself to do so, but his curiosity paled in comparison to her friendship and happiness. ‘Despite my affliction, please know that I am very grateful to still be living, breathing and in your company, Lady.’
‘This is the curse of your association with me.’ Her expression was sympathetic.
‘I shall never see it so,’ Gwion vowed.
Again she forced a smile, as if she knew different, but did not care to argue. ‘Where are we, I wonder?’ The Lady pulled back the curtain and leaned out the side door to look behind them. ‘Beyond sight of the camp.’ She then looked ahead. ‘And the King’s party are doing their best to leave us behind. So be it.’ She pulled herself back into the carriage, and then withdrew to the back wall, beyond Gwion’s feet. ‘I’ll need quiet.’
‘As you wish, but—’
‘Shh.’ She raised her hood to cover her face, and then tucked the rest of her form deep inside her cloak so that nothing could be seen.
Creirwy began muttering under her breath; Gwion couldn’t make out her words due to the noise of the carriage clattering along the road. Then Creirwy began to sing, and Gwion closed his eyes to listen for a time – maybe this was her way of relaxing him, for he was certainly relaxed. Her voice, like her touch, mysteriously dismissed all pain and woe. Sometime later he opened his eyes and was stunned to be unable to see his hand in front of his face for the mist. His first impulse was to call to his companions, but as the Lady had requested silence he refrained. He concluded that the shortcut was through the Otherworld. That was how Creirwy could be so confident in her boast that they would not waylay the King.
To the side of the carriage where the curtain was, the light seeping through became more intense as the song ebbed and the mist began to disperse. Gwion looked to the back of his transport expecting to see the hooded form of the Lady Tegid, but her clothes lay in a crumpled heap upon the floor. Through the ebbing haze, the back wall and ceiling appeared partly obscured by a large shadow that, once exposed to the light, quickly slid down the back wall and beneath Creirwy’s clothing. The cloak again filled with form, and moments later, a hand emerged to draw back the hood to expose the beauty that was the Lady Tegid.
She looked directly to him and Gwion did his best not to appear stunned by what he’d just seen. ‘You’ve brought us to Castell Tegid via the Otherworld.’
‘I have. We are now a day in front of his royal pain, and you are healing faster, so it was of double benefit to us.’
Gwion inspected his hands, which appeared younger and seemed to have lost some of their stiffness. ‘That feels quite a bit better, thank you.’ He managed to sit upright without wincing. ‘But what if the King realises we are missing? He may waylay their journey to look for us.’
‘He will be too determined to prove wrong my boast of beating him; he won’t look back until he reaches his destination.’
She was probably correct, but still, Gwion felt this was no time to be playing risky games. The King desperately needed to get to Mon to aid in driving the invaders back to the Winter Isle across the sea.
‘Oh, dear Goddess!’ Gwion g
asped, remembering the flying dream he’d had before leaving camp.
‘What is it?’
Gwion hesitated to voice his concern. He was no prophet, nor had he ever been. Should he tell the King that he’d dreamed of seeing the dragon circling over Gwynedd?
‘Gwion.’ The Lady placed a hand on his shoulder to snatch him from his contemplation. ‘You have been through a great ordeal. It’s time to see your new home and to rest. Come.’ She tied aside the curtain, disembarked from the carriage and beckoned him to follow suit.
To arrive at Castell Tegid, situated on its own island in the middle of the lake, their carriage had crossed a stone bridge that led onto the outer bailey drawbridge that, once closed, isolated the fortress completely. A road led through the expansive outer bailey grounds, sloping upward and winding its way up to the main structure high atop a hillock overlooking the lake on all sides. As the outer defence walls ran downhill, the view from in front of the portcullis was panoramic!
The ground was a mass of muddy puddles from the snowmelt, yet patches of green were scattered around the high ground of the mountains and valleys that cradled Llyn Tegid. The dormant trees had shaken off the winter frost and were beginning to bud. The mists rolling across the lake surface swirled up to meld with the cloudy sky above, while all around water could be heard dripping, trickling and flowing down the rocky hillsides as waterfalls and creeks that ran into streams and fed the lake. A few floating patches of ice on the lake’s surface were all that remained of the winter ice sheet, and the fresh wind that whipped Gwion’s hair against his face was filled with the rich scent of damp earth.
‘It’s glorious.’ Gwion admired nature’s breathtaking display.
‘There is nowhere I would rather be at any time of year.’ The Lady appeared to appreciate her return to familiar surrounds.
‘But how did you negotiate the Otherworld?’ Gwion was perplexed. ‘Without a guardian to hold open the gateways, how did we not lose time or become trapped there?’
‘I couldn’t get anywhere but here thus,’ she confessed. ‘This place is a hub between worlds and Mother is the proprietor.’
This Present Past Page 8
