Gwion got straight to work with his trusty axe, building them a fire, and Creirwy sat observing in the open doorway of the carriage. She just adored watching him work, and had not had the pleasure in some time.
‘Should I see what I can hunt up to eat?’ he queried – for all Creirwy had done towards preparing supper was lay out a blanket.
‘I have the situation well in hand.’ She reached back into the carriage and produced a small lidded pot, which she carried over and placed on the blanket, before returning to the carriage for some bowls, a couple of knives and a ladle.
‘What have you got in there?’ He left the fire and walked over to settle on the blanket, eager to investigate, but when he lifted the pot lid he was bemused to find nothing at all. ‘That’s disappointing.’ His stomach grumbled loudly in protest.
Creirwy came to sit beside him, and placing her bits and pieces aside, she took hold of the hand in which Gwion held the lid and silently directed him to put it back on the pot. ‘Now . . .’ She held his hand in place. ‘What do we wish was in there?’
Gwion grinned, obviously wondering if she was toying with him. ‘A beef stew?’
Creirwy screwed up her nose at this. ‘What about a roasted pheasant . . . in a rich gravy, with onion, turnips and carrots.’
Gwion was drooling. ‘If you insist.’ His stomach grumbled to agree. ‘Oh my—’ The pot was heating beneath their hands.
Creirwy let go and reached for a forked stick to lift the lid from the pot and release the appetising aroma.
Gwion took in deep whiffs. ‘Praise the Goddess for her magic.’
‘Speaking of which—’ Creirwy went to the carriage and returned with two horns. ‘Just like Morda’s.’ She handed one to Gwion. ‘What is your pleasure?’
‘Warm mead,’ he replied with relish.
‘Cheers.’ They clicked horns and drank, and ate their fill of pheasant.
Having delivered on her promise of good provision, Creirwy lay back on the blanket next to Gwion, nursing a full belly as they gazed at the stars twinkling between the darkened branches above. There was widespread scurrying activity going on in the trees and bushes beyond the light of the fire. Somewhere close by a young family of owls were hooting.
‘I swear I didn’t drink that much . . . but I feel rather more relaxed than expected,’ Gwion confessed. ‘Please, Goddess, don’t let us encounter thieves in the night.’
‘That’s fairly unlikely out here.’ Creirwy inhaled the night air and held her breath to savour it. ‘The city will not be so sweet.’
‘But it is very grand, I’m told.’
‘Grander than Castell Tegid proper?’ The Lady found the constructions of mortals unremarkable compared to her home.
‘There will at least be amusements . . . and a grand feast.’ Gwion searched for an upside as always. ‘This is a massive celebration after all.’
‘Will you dance with me?’ Creirwy braved, rolling onto her stomach to appeal to him more directly.
‘I would, Lady, but . . .’ he wore an embarrassed grin, ‘I have no talent in that regard.’
‘What if I could make you the most accomplished dancer overnight!’ She challenged his excuse.
Gwion laughed. ‘If you intend to teach me, I’m really in no fit state.’ He rubbed his stomach.
‘I can glamour the talent into you.’
Gwion found this claim intriguing enough to roll onto his side and look her in the eyes directly – he was no doubt trying to assess if she was teasing. ‘That sounds very “siren”. Are you sure that’s safe?’ he flirted, and her heart did that little dance it always did when the philanderer in him surfaced.
It was dangerous, but not for Gwion, and she was sure she could maintain her cool long enough to have a little fun with him. For she had not been drinking mead, only water, all evening. ‘Trust me.’ She smiled, urging him to lie back once more as she straddled his body and sat back on her haunches to look down at him – her long silver hair forming a curtain around their faces. ‘I’m going to sing to you now, and I want you to focus on my eyes for as long as you can.’
‘All right.’ Gwion was smiling broadly.
His excitement and arousal were intoxicating to her senses, and she sang the long, enchanting notes of her siren song, her body writhing over his as she bathed in the sweet bliss of the goodwill he emanated.
Gwion groaned beneath her in pleasure and protest as his eyelids slowly closed.
‘You are relaxed,’ she whispered. ‘You hear only my voice, and will believe and do as I command. Bark like a dog if you understand.’
‘Woof, woof,’ he replied.
Creirwy dismounted him and clapped, delighted her little scheme was working. ‘Stand for me.’
Gwion rose up, eyes still closed, steady on his feet and no sign of his inebriation.
‘Excellent.’ She approached and took hold of his hands. ‘Look at me.’
His eyes snapped open, attention to her.
‘You, Gwion, are a highly accomplished dancer, with a perfect sense of rhythm and the ability to learn step sequences at a glance. Accept this.’
‘I accept,’ he said.
‘Wonderful. So show me.’
Gwion gripped her waist in one hand, held her hand out in the direction they were moving, and took off with her, twirling and spinning her about as they went.
The rush of joy and laughter made her giddy; she was drowning in his happiness and her own – she had to stop. ‘Enough!’
He spun her away from him and Creirwy twirled a few times before she came to a stop. ‘Perhaps this feast shall be fun after all?’ She took a moment to catch her breath, observing Gwion who stood motionless, not weary in the slightest. ‘Now, before I release you from my control, you have a little secret about King Owain that you’d like to share with me.’
‘No,’ he uttered, shaking his head ever so slightly.
Creirwy fanned her face as she approached him, finding his ability to resist her rather tantalising; he’d obviously built a little sub-conscious safety wall around the information she sought, without even being trained in psychic self-defence. ‘Impressive.’ It was apparent, Gwion had exceptional willpower and control of his facilities – even drunk and enchanted. Be that as it may, he would succumb to her request; she just needed a more subtle approach. ‘Tell me.’ She toyed with his hair and gazed deep into his eyes. ‘What did Owain do that makes him so admirable in your eyes?’
‘He forwent the opportunity to kill Hengist to secure peace for all the Cymry.’
She gasped upon enlightenment – the secret was far more explosive than she’d imagined. ‘The Saxon behind the Treachery of the Long Knives?’
‘Aye.’
‘If the Sons ever found out they’d kill him, and Cyrmu would be plunged into civil war.’ Creirwy now realised why Gwion had been so tight-lipped. Despite what Gwion might think, Owain’s secret was safe with her, for her malice towards the King had faded as her love for Gwion had flourished. Thus she dismissed the volatile information to a dark recess of her mind, and shifted her attention back to Gwion. There was one thing she still wanted from him, and she led him back to the blanket where they both lay down once again, facing one another. ‘Kiss me as you want to.’
Gwion cupped his hands around her jaw to urge her closer, and tenderly pressed his lips to hers. The restraint and feeling behind his every touch and movement only made Creirwy want to immerse herself deeper in his delirium. Their bodies like magnets sought ways to lock more closely together, and Creirwy let slip her self-control to revel in her own desire.
A stabbing pain deep in her belly killed her pleasure with short, sharp shocks that made her burn with heat and alarm. ‘Forgive me!’ She wept to be deprived of that which she craved more than anything in existence. ‘I will not defy you again, I swear it,’ she cried into the night, cursing herself for being stupid enough to try something like this beyond her mother’s isle of protection.
The invisible burning b
lade withdrew from her body and she collapsed to the blanket on her back, thankful for the relief and weeping, embittered by the constraints of her own design. Her sights turned back to Gwion, lying beside her, wide-eyed and unable to react.
This one is off-limits to you, if I recall.
Creirwy sat up and looked around, expecting to see the Night Hunter, but he remained elusive.
With a young monster to deal with now, I rather fancy you’ll be needing your life, to ensure the wee wretch doesn’t kill anyone you care about.
Creirwy had never desired to kill anyone; it seemed a great irony that the one soul she would cross that line for was immortal. ‘What do you want?’
I require your services.
Creirwy panicked, assuming he meant that he wanted her to seduce someone. A treasure chest appeared on the blanket before her, and she calmed a little.
Gift this to the King’s bride on her wedding day.
‘And if it is some sort of curse my family will be blamed.’ She stood and backed away. ‘I don’t think so.’
You work for me!
‘Augh!’ A stabbing pain in her back made her drop like a stone to the ground. Then it eased almost immediately.
I’d hate to do away with such an asset. Allow me to explain this treasure and you will see that there is nothing untoward here.
His lady had them up and away early the next morning, and although Gwion wanted a turn behind the reins today, Creirwy took the first shift while he woke up. Last night was all a bit hazy, as was his head this morning.
‘That must have been some wicked mead you wished up for yourself last night.’ Creirwy smiled like she knew something he didn’t.
‘I don’t remember much beyond finishing dinner. Did I do anything that I might regret not remembering?’
‘Sadly no, you were a perfect gentleman all evening.’
‘How remiss of me.’ He was disappointed that even drunk he was still inhibited by the ties that bound him to behave.
‘You did promise to dance with me at the wedding,’ she added in consolation.
Gwion waved off that vow. ‘A promise that will be kept. If nothing else, I am an excellent dancer.’
Creirwy seemed most appeased to hear this, and as Gwion shifted his sights from her he noted something odd. ‘Lady, your ring.’
The clear dome had gone all misty.
‘That figures – as soon as we get near a town.’ Creirwy pulled her team to a halt.
‘What does it mean?’
‘Trouble.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘The ring only warns of danger; if intentions were good it would still be clear.’
‘Then should we not be speeding up?’ Gwion argued, at the same time recalling Keridwen’s instruction to heed Creirwy.
‘Go into the carriage and then use your ring,’ she commanded. ‘Go!’ Creirwy sang her mist into being to enshroud their property and hinder the visibility to their attackers.
Gwion jumped to the ground and ducked under the door curtain before fetching out the ring from its pouch to hold in his palm. It was dark in here, and difficult to see if the enchantment was working – there was every chance Keridwen had given him another placebo charm.
There was movement on the roof, and then all went quiet for a moment. The curtain in the carriage drew aside, allowing misty light to flood the dim space.
‘What do we have in here then?’ A very large, burly man stuck his top half inside to take a look around, but was wrenched back out again, and pounded against the side of the carriage, yelling until he was silenced.
‘Fin!’ a voiced called, whereupon the screaming and pounding was repeated.
‘What is that? Run, lads!’
Gwion found the screams of several men, all being battered about at once against the container he was in, rather distressing. Yet, as silence returned, he felt he could have assisted his lady with her ambush, had he been made party to the plan.
‘All clear.’ Creirwy opened the curtain. Gwion felt a little giddy when he looked down and could not see himself, although he felt solid to his invisible hand.
‘Well this is . . . disconcerting.’ He felt he might do well to accustom himself to the strange shift in perspective before he attempted to use the ring for anything truly important – or vomit spewing out of nowhere might give him away. He returned the treasure to its pouch and climbed outside to find the mist gone and several men lying about the ground – unconscious, perhaps dead? ‘They look a little well equipped for your average thieves.’ Gwion noted they wore chain mail beneath their cloaks, and upon closer inspection he deduced they were all still breathing.
‘Rogue soldiers perhaps?’
‘Or men out to take advantage of all the rich folk en route to the wedding, while their lord is out of town?’
‘Regardless, we are leaving.’ Creirwy climbed back up onto the carriage. ‘We’ll be at the capital by the time they wake.’
Creirwy appeared completely radiant as they set off once again. ‘I think I enjoyed that a little too much.’
Gwion wasn’t a fighter, and didn’t relate. ‘I just hope your ring was right and we didn’t just beat up some visiting King’s guard.’
The old Roman road was strewn with travellers; the caravans of visiting nobles, guards on foot and horse, merchant carts and produce wagons. There was also a myriad of people on foot – tradesmen, entertainers, farmers with livestock, all looking to profit from the increased custom the wedding celebrations would generate over the next few days. It had been fairly easy to manoeuvre around the travellers for most of the day, but once the huge wooden fortified walls of the city could be seen stretching wide across the landscape, progress towards the city slowed to a crawl as the traffic bottlenecked through the guarded gatehouses that led into the city from the north, the south and the west. The River Severn, Afon Hafren to the Cymry, flowed by the east wall, forming a natural barrier between their kingdoms and lands to which the invaders had retreated.
Gwion recalled glimpsing this city a few times in his youth, but only from a distance – during the warmer months his father would trade with some of the merchants who lived on the outskirts. Along this main thoroughfare north, the Saxons had preferred robbing travellers to running the city, thus Viroconium became a dangerous place, and had fallen into disuse. The Cornovii people were cattle folk and salt traders. Known for their metal work, they preferred fortified hill fort structures that were more easily defended. Viroco was not a stone-walled fortress, but an extensive Roman villa complex, designed for trade, rest and recreation. The massive wooden fortification that surrounded the city was new, and appeared a much more formidable target than it had in living memory. These outer walls were adorned with the long banners of the red dragons of Gwynedd – the emblem of Owain’s royal line. The speed with which the barrier had been erected rather staggered belief – which would be exactly what all the King’s visiting allies would be thinking.
Creirwy had not retreated into the carriage, choosing instead to remain hooded, beside Gwion up front; Gwion couldn’t help but feel the Lady didn’t entirely trust his horse-wrangling skills – but to be fair, neither did he.
At the gatehouse, guards were checking papers and directing folk to their designated areas of the city.
‘Purpose?’ asked the guard in charge, sounding rather sick of talking.
Gwion handed over their invitation, bearing the King’s dragon seal.
‘And who might I have the pleasure of addressing?’ The guard’s tone became more accommodating – he didn’t look beyond the seal and Gwion doubted very much he could read in any case.
‘I am Gwion, accompanying the Lady Tegid—’
‘You are Gwion Bach!’ the guard exclaimed, sounding excited rather than doubtful. ‘As in the ode?’
‘What ode?’ Gwion frowned.
The guard laughed at his ignorance and turned about to announce his discovery to his combrogi.
‘This is Gwion Bach!’ Th
e claim seemed to garner a lot of attention as people began gawping at him in awe.
‘As in, the ode to Gwion Bach?’ asked another guard.
‘He says he’s never heard the song,’ explained the boss.
This seemed to amuse everyone.
‘That’s ’cause he’s been away with the Goddess studying,’ said a young woman awaiting entry with a large basket of flowers, close by.
‘How do you know this?’ Gwion was stunned.
‘The ode, of course.’ She giggled, her body swaying in a flirtatious manner as she began to sing.
‘Gwion Bach, our champion,
saved the lives of one thousand men!’
The guards joined in.
‘Raised them up from the dead
as he withered on his own death bed.’
Then everyone within earshot joined the chorus.
‘Gwion Bach, blessed by the Fey
hand to the King on his darkest day.
Heads did roll, a deal was struck,
Saxons fled and won’t come back!’
Gwion was laughing nervously – his heart swelling with delight at the honour of being serenaded by his combrogi.
‘Gwion Bach, the Goddess called
to learn the wisdom of the Otherworld
And there he abides with ink and pen
’til the Arth calls him to service again!’
Everyone applauded themselves and the man they were serenading. Gwion was so choked up he couldn’t speak.
‘It is an honour to meet a living legend.’ The guard handed back their papers. ‘Move aside!’
The guards forming a wall across the Royal Mile – the road leading to the noble accommodations, the forum and baths – moved back to form a guard of honour, holding hands to their hearts as Gwion drove his cart past.
‘It seems I’m not the one drawing all the attention this day.’ Creirwy nudged his shoulder with hers, seemingly delighted that he was venerated for his deeds. ‘The respect and love of the people is a powerful thing.’
As flattered as he was by the attention, fame was not something he desired, and it just left him feeling shocked and uncomfortable. ‘How did that happen?’
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