This Present Past

by Traci Harding

  The King appeared quite sobered, as if he might be sick. ‘You are quite right, of course, I have cruelly taken advantage of her kindness. Not very kingly behaviour.’

  ‘Well . . .?’ Gwion considered that the kings of history and legend usually got what they wanted and went to cruel lengths to achieve their ends.

  ‘At least, not the kind of king I wish to be,’ Owain clarified. ‘I want peace for the Cymry, who have known only war for as far back as memory stretches. With any luck, the tales of our Otherworldly allies will deter those who would seek to make trouble on our borders. But if I am seen not to hold the favour of those allies then the trust my soldiers and people have in me will be lost.’

  The idea of negotiating a way to seal the rift between Owain and the Lady made Gwion extremely uncomfortable – the attempt could backfire on him badly, and he could lose Creirwy’s friendship. Yet this seemed the perfect opportunity to put his ability to be stoic to the test. ‘I shall assist with your reconciliation, if I am able.’ It didn’t hurt too much to agree, now he knew the King had no intention of marrying the Lady Tegid. Keridwen had also made it clear that she wanted her daughter to move past her brief infatuation with the young king. Surely, amicable relations could only lead to a happier and brighter future for all involved?

  Their party rode south to clear the mountains that cradled Llyn Tegid to the east, then were forced to proceed slowly up a slippery, muddy pass that wound south-east between a cleft in the mountains and into a vale of a hundred streams. They skirted the underside of the massive mountains that marked the southernmost part of Gwynedd’s highland ranges as the snowmelt and heavy annual rainfall also made this a vale of a hundred bogs. The floor of the valley had been flattened over time by the flow from the mountains, as all the streams hereabouts converged into one massive river – the Afon Efyrnwy.

  The King remarked that up to one half of the vale could be under water and ice in winter. The rest was bog – full of rushes, interspersed with the occasional alder or willow grove. The land here, useless for farming or settlement, was no man’s land. Very few ventured to approach Llyn Tegid in any case, for fear of falling victim to the wrath of the witch and the giant fabled to live there. Owain had been the first to tread this path in a long time, and so the best route in and out over the smaller mountainside streams had been plotted by the young king himself.

  This land, south of Gwynedd’s borders, had been previously known as the Cornovii – the midlands. Abandoned by Rome, the territory was absorbed into Gwtheyrn’s kingdom, before he fell foul of the Saxons. Owain and the Sons of the Long Knives had slowly reclaimed the land for the Cymry, and it had become known as Powys – adapted from a Latin word meaning ‘the countryside’, which was how the Romans had referred to the area. Owain’s kingdom, Rhostir, was east of the River Conway. Rhostir meant ‘heathland’ – due to its vast moorlands covered in heather. It was part of the greater kingdom of Gwynedd, which Owain also ruled, and it was more often referred to as Rhos. In the hope of making partners of his sons, rather than rivals like Cunedda had done before him, their father, Einion, outlined in his will that he granted Owain rulership in Rhos including the main defensive castell at Degannwy; Caswallon, as the second son, would rule on Mon; and their younger bastard brother, Cadfer, would have rulership of the Eryri – the highlands of Gwynedd that he loved so well. Young and idealistic as they were, the three sons of Einion Yrth stood as one against Gwynedd’s enemies, along with the kings of the southern Cymru from Dyfed and Gwent Is Coed. The latter was the kingdom from which Cyngen Brockwell hailed – his marriage to the granddaughter of Cunedda the Great would only strengthen the bond between the Sons of the north and south.

  The cold mush on the ground became the less sodden, slightly more lush terrain of rolling moors, freed of the snowmelt and sprouting green shoots. Such terrain made it easier to cut a route south and the pace of their journey increased – a little.

  Gwion was lagging, not comfortable with riding faster than a trot, and even that was too uncomfortable to do for very long – walking was his preferred pace.

  ‘Could we possibly move any slower, woodsman?’ Brockwell grumbled, clearly wondering why the King had brought along the impediment.

  ‘I would kindly request you cease addressing Gwion thus,’ Owain spoke up to soothe Gwion’s unspoken agitation. ‘On this journey, he is my sage, and will be regarded as such.’

  ‘What?’ both Brockwell and Gwion spat at once – such an appointment ranked Gwion as the highest adviser to the King.

  ‘He is not trained!’ Brockwell made a fair argument.

  ‘Gwion has been chosen by the Gods, not by a prophet’s hearsay or due to long years of study, but by action in the face of Otherworldly adversity, to which all here can personally testify,’ Owain concluded. ‘I have never met a man more worthy of the title.’

  Brockwell was most perturbed. ‘If he’s so bloody blessed by the Gods then why can’t he ride faster?’

  ‘We have food in our bellies and our horses have worked hard; no need to push on.’ The King matched Gwion’s pace and did not pester him to venture beyond his skill.

  ‘No need . . .?’ Brockwell smothered an angry objection.

  ‘Do you have somewhere else you want to be? Ah!’ The King appeared enlightened. ‘Of course, you would rather be celebrating our victories on Mon with your affianced.’

  ‘Not at all, brother, bogs in the mist are every bit as pleasing,’ Brockwell forced himself to humour.

  ‘You are right, you should go,’ Owain decided.

  At this point in their journey, by taking a direct route west, Brockwell would reach the sea and could then follow the coastal route north to the Isle of Mon – avoiding the worst of the mountains.

  ‘I will not!’ Brockwell sounded most sincerely insulted. ‘I just want—’

  The King held up his hand to silence him. ‘It is high time you returned to Caswallon and report.’

  The expression on Brockwell’s face was torture. ‘But I do not yet know the end of these events.’

  ‘But you do,’ Owain replied. ‘All here do. But my brother must never learn of it. He need only know that the Saxon threat has been thwarted, and that the Sons of the Long Knives have achieved every goal that we swore in blood to the Arth that we would. Our fathers have been avenged and our land is free of raiders . . . except maybe for that dragon.’

  All present suppressed a smile at the mention of their shared secret blunder, and Gwion’s curiosity about the identity of the Arth was reignited.

  ‘Should I mention our involvement in the dragon’s appearance?’

  Owain shook his head.

  ‘What dragon?’ Tiernan spoke up.

  ‘Exactly.’ The King commended the lad for his vigilance. ‘If Caswallon has turned our mistake to his good fortune and legend, then more power to him. Between his dragon and my sword, none shall challenge us for quite some time.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem right for me to leave before your gruelling task is done.’ Brockwell made one last appeal to stay.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do to assist, Cyngen. I have my troops to protect me, and one of the finest warriors in all of our land at my side.’ He motioned to Gilmore. ‘I have a sage blessed by the Gods, and an invincible sword on my hip . . . so I believe I am as well supported as could be. Go, be with your bride and celebrate with my brothers. Tell them I am just ensuring the town of Pengwern and the Viroco fort settlement are well secured, but I will join you all shortly. Take Tiernan with you.’

  ‘But I am Gilmore’s squire!’ The boy protested abandoning his mentor.

  ‘You shall just have to be my squire until Gilmore returns,’ Brockwell proffered.

  Cyngen Brockwell was an even more famed warrior than Gilmore, so the lad resigned himself to the King’s bidding. ‘May the Goddess be with you, Highness.’

  ‘What he said,’ Brockwell too was resigned to leave now – they all knew that what lay ahead was no place for a young boy.


  ‘I have no doubt of it.’ The King gave a nod as the pair parted ways from their party.

  ‘I hope you can ride faster than that bloody sage.’ Brockwell baited Tiernan as he urged his horse to a greater pace than it had known all day.

  Tiernan took off and was overtaking his new mentor within minutes. ‘Keep up, old man!’ The lad’s wicked laughter lightened the sombre mood for a moment.

  ‘I’m surprised you dismissed him.’ Gwion knew Owain and Cyngen were the best of friends.

  ‘The task at hand requires reverence and cogitation . . . not really Brockwell’s skill set.’ Owain led off to follow the high ground of the moors through the bogs to the south where they would meet the Afon Banwy and follow it down to Llanfair, where it turned east towards the site of the battle.

  The wind-chill was slightly less biting with every mile they put between themselves and the ice caps of the Eryri. Gwion’s new clothes kept the frost at bay more efficiently than his humble threads ever had, but still the cold numbed him to his bones and he mourned the hot steamy waters of his bath. They could at least be thankful that the rain held off despite the heavy cloud cover and mist.

  It was a good ten hours in the saddle at cautious speed to reach the battle site, and having left Lake Tegid after the midday hour, dusk was fast approaching. They could make their destination by pushing on into the night, but the land was a quagmire and dangerous enough in good light, thus the King pulled them up by a glen of dry ground that buffered the Afon Banwy.

  ‘We shall camp here.’ He dismounted to lead his poor muddy-footed steed to water.

  Gilmore resisted the command to dismount. ‘Would it not be better to rest where your army is about you?’

  Owain had a laugh, thinking him alarmist. ‘This sword has a body count, and it shall not let me die until that quota has been filled. I could sleep in a den of vipers and walk away unscathed.’

  ‘If you say so, my Lord.’ Gilmore swung his leg over his horse and slid off.

  ‘Hunt us up some dinner while there’s still light. Gwion and I shall get a fire started.’

  Gwion had to smile at the irony of being back to the same work despite his promotion.

  The King understood his new companion’s wily smile and shrugged. ‘I know I would prefer to confront this debt at dawn rather than after dark. One last night of sweet dreams before the nightmares of my recompense rob me of contentment.’

  Gwion nodded to vindicate the King’s reasoning – Owain did not have to justify his reasons for this respite to him, or anyone! ‘These men are damned; your sword is their liberation – don’t forget that.’

  Owain’s sombre spirit was unstirred. ‘I know. But how legendary it would have been to have had a battle where no one actually died but lived on to know and do better thereafter.’

  ‘Like a game of Gwyddbwyll,’ proffered Gwion.

  ‘Exactly. We nearly accomplished it.’ The King held his thumb and first finger a wee way apart. ‘We were that close.’

  ‘It is still a far greater outcome than might have been,’ Gwion encouraged as he began his search for old fallen branches that might be cured enough to burn in this damp. ‘Your sacrifice has secured your objective. You have done your great forefathers proud.’

  ‘The sacrifice has mainly been yours, my friend.’

  ‘Sadly, Sire—’ Gwion ripped a large branch from where it had fallen into bushes and been kept off the soggy ground. It would burn nicely ‘—I feel that onus is about to shift.’

  ‘Aye.’ For the first time Owain appeared unnerved. ‘I hope I shall face my fate with the same dauntless courage you have shown.’

  Gwion was tempted to laugh, but did not. ‘You have more courage in your little finger than I have in my entire body!’ He dragged the branch into the clearing and began stripping it for fuel.

  The twigs were damp from mist, but snapped easily – it would be hard going getting this to light with flint and metal, but Gwion had char cloth in his kit of woodsman tricks that would aid the spark to flame.

  ‘It was not I who braved no man’s land to speak with a witch feared by all!’ Gwion pointed out. ‘Nor did I brave the Otherworld alone at the risk of bringing the wrath of Gwyn ap Nudd upon myself.’ This made him wonder. ‘How did you become the ambassador to the Otherworld for the Sons of the Long Knives, and not the Arth to whom you are all sworn?’

  ‘It was my idea to seek Otherworldly allies.’ Owain shrugged. ‘Caswallon has a fear of Otherworldly affairs, and Cadfer is too interested and young to be trusted at this stage. I am the eldest of the sons of Gwynedd, so I volunteered.’

  ‘And the Arth?’ Gwion continued snapping twigs from the branch as if this was a secret that he was indifferent to uncovering.

  Owain grinned, apparently knowing better. ‘You still haven’t worked that one out, huh? Good. You are a smart man.’

  ‘He is you.’ Gwion took a stab in the dark as it appeared Owain made a lot of decisions for the Sons of the Long Knives.

  ‘No. I am not the Great Bear, king of kings.’ Owain was amused – perhaps by the notion, or the opportunity to mind tease his new subject. ‘Have I not already suggested as much?’

  With what Owain had just revealed of his brothers, neither of them were likely to be the Arth either. ‘Perhaps this great leader is a phantom you invented? Or an amalgam of all the Sons? After all, you cannot kill a man who cannot be identified.’ Gwion considered this would be a very clever move, and it gave no one ruler clear seniority over the others.

  ‘You are partly correct, to be sure,’ Owain allowed, his grin broadening. ‘But the legend is no phantom.’

  ‘Perhaps he is a king of which I know not?’ Gwion was running out of guesses.

  Owain shrugged, but remained tight-lipped as he retrieved sticks from Gwion’s pile to form the basis of their kindling. ‘All the Sons have played their part in this campaign – if not in battle, then in supplies, troops, reconnaissance! We’ve all earned this victory. I have only to settle our Otherworldly debt and we shall all finally know happier, more fruitful times.’ The King pulled Dyrnwyn from its scabbard; it burst into flame and he placed it among the twigs to ignite them.

  Clearly, Owain was not going to enlighten him to ‘the Sons” greatest secret, and perhaps that was for the best. ‘I have no doubt that you shall overcome this last hurdle, and achieve the lasting peace you desire for the Cymry.’ Gwion dropped his load of wood to warm his hands over the flame, alongside Owain.

  ‘And I have no doubt that you will eventually figure out the identity of the Great Bear.’ The King’s cheer hardened to determination. ‘Tomorrow will see an end to this campaign and closure for our betrayed forefathers; that I know. It may have been many years in coming, but the reckoning of the Sons of the Long Knives is nigh complete.’

  Dawn brought rain, which spurred their small band into the saddle as soon as there was sufficient light to see their path. No one mentioned the gruesome chore that lay ahead, and Gwion couldn’t see how the experience could be anything but harrowing. But if Owain was trepidatious, he did not let it show.

  This last battle had been dubbed the battle of Mynydd Baddon – the battle for ‘Bath Mountain’. This was in reference to the Viroconion hill fort that overlooked the old Roman stronghold Viroconium Cornoviorum and the beautiful baths within. For although the actual battle had taken place nine hours’ ride east of the stronghold, it was the extensive complex and connecting towns and forts that were the ultimate prize. Owain planned to make the stronghold his new capital. From there he could keep a close eye on their eastern borders for all the Sons, while ensuring this major trading route remained open, thriving, and bringing wealth into the kingdoms of Gwynedd.

  When they reached the small collection of roundhouses that they had used as a base to launch their surprise attack on the Saxons, the constant drizzle had soaked them all to the bone. But the scene that greeted them at the stockade of the undead added a new depth of fear to shivers already qua
king Gwion’s body.

  King Owain’s guard had formed a blockade around the imprisoned Saxons, with hay bales, upturned carts and barrels. The force had loaded bows aimed at the edge of the forest that bordered the campsite, where a Saxon band stood watching in the open – the distance between the forest and stockade was too great for arrows to reach.

  ‘Holy mother of Gods . . .’ Gwion stammered under his breath – completing their task would be gruesome enough; having to do battle first would only add to the tragedy. Gwion could feel the vial the Goddess had given him warming his sternum – it was the only part of his body that wasn’t frozen. He was tempted to whip it out and drink it there and then, but this situation could well be drawn out beyond a day, and so he stayed his hand.

  ‘If they are of the mind to free the captives, things are about to get very complicated.’ Owain urged his horse forward at speed to the stockade to converse with his men.

  The Saxon band had been spotted late yesterday, looming in the forest, but had yet to show aggression.

  ‘Perhaps they wish to negotiate a release?’ suggested Gilmore.

  ‘That cannot happen.’ Owain had to kill every man in the stockade – all nine hundred and sixty of them – to appease the Night Hunter, and he very much doubted their comrades were going to watch that happen. ‘Does any man here speak the raiders’ tongue?’

  When all his warriors shook their heads, the King looked to Gwion. ‘Any ideas?’

  This was the moment Gwion was expected to think of something brilliant, but his mind was blank – all he could think to do was drink the potion and hope for the best. ‘I have—’

  ‘Sire!’ Gilmore pointed to the forest where one of the Saxons was walking into the clearing alone.

  ‘I shall go.’ The King made a move but Gilmore stepped into his path.

  ‘Not without me.’

  ‘He is alone,’ Owain reasoned, ‘and within range of our arrows.’

  ‘Let me go,’ Gwion blurted.

  ‘Why? You do not speak their tongue any better than I do.’