To Carry the Horn

by Karen Myers

  She joined him, sitting in front of the wall of paintings but looking off into the distance of memory to compose her thoughts.

  “As I said, Creiddylad’s the youngest of Gwyn’s siblings. Unlike his brother Edern, between them, he never knew her as a child and so, when at last they met, he saw her as a beautiful young woman, not a sister. Gwyn wasn’t yet Prince of Annwn, but he was no longer young himself, and just coming into his mature powers. It isn’t unknown for siblings separated by so many years to consort together or even bear children, though it isn’t common.” She looked at George to see if he understood.

  “Their father didn’t exactly approve, but neither did he concern himself about it. Then, in a rare intervention, their grandfather Beli Mawr decreed a betrothal between Creiddylad and Gwythyr ap Greidawl, as a more suitable relationship for his granddaughter. Gwythyr was a powerful lord, older than Gwyn, with many strong allies, and it wasn’t a bad match.”

  She continued. “Creiddylad, still very young, was flattered to be the center of so much attention. She’s always cared too much for the opinions of others, and she spoke to me about it once at the time, to boast about the disturbance caused by this betrothal. It was unseemly in her to glory in the ill-will between rivals with herself as the cause.

  “Gwythyr was acceptable to her, and she did marry him. He was a proud man and thought her the jewel of his possessions. It might all have ended there, but Creiddylad was discontented that calm should follow all the excitement of her betrothal. She wrote to Gwyn frequently, taunting him alternately with her new happiness or with the latest outrage she claimed against her, at random. I don’t know if she really meant him to act, or if she just enjoyed the power to torment, but she proved powerless to stop the events that followed.”

  George was paying rapt attention, sneaking a sideways look at her face from time to time. “Gwyn assembled his band of warriors, and stole Creiddylad back from Gwythyr. She went willingly enough, for the thrill of it. I was told by one who was there that she left on her own horse, with her favorite possessions, and took her time gathering them.

  “Gwythyr pursued them, whether to recover what was his or out of love I cannot say. His own nobles and some of his guests accompanied him, and the two groups engaged in a running series of skirmishes. Gwythyr’s group was divided, in the dark, and Gwyn captured many of his retinue, taking them all back to his lands under his father, planning to go on as before, with hostages.”

  She paused, and shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  “Soon enough Gwyn discovered that his sister wasn’t truly committed to breaking her marriage, that her letters had been at best misleading and at worst provocative lies, and that he had already dishonored himself in attacking, unprovoked by any real grievance.”

  Sorrow crept into her voice. “Then, out of his frustration and dismay, he committed vicious acts which have echoed long afterward. Instead of just ransoming his captives, he began to kill them, one by one, since he couldn’t kill her.

  “This was bad, very bad, but worse followed. There was one hostage, Nwython, who had been captured with his son, Cyledr. Gwyn killed the father, and forced the son to eat his heart. The young man broke, raving, and Gwyn was brought to his senses. He released the remnant of his prisoners and sent them back to Gwythyr, but Cyledr Wyllt, that is, Cyledr the Mad, escaped to the forest and vanished.”

  George said, “Did it stop there?”

  “Of course not. Gwythyr gathered an army and prepared to assault Gwyn, and then Beli Mawr intervened and admitted himself partly responsible. Gwyn bent his knee and offered recompense for his actions, but Gwythyr wouldn’t accept. So Beli Mawr imposed a compact, that the two of them would fight yearly, at the turn of the seasons, until the ending of the world, Creiddylad to live with the winner. Gwythyr, as the more injured party, sought and was granted a boon. He repudiated Creiddylad, and would fight solely for the honor of the fallen.

  “So it was decreed that Creiddylad live with Gwyn when he wins, and with her father otherwise and so it’s been for now these many centuries.”

  “What sort of fights are these, between Gwyn and Gwythyr?” George asked.

  “On Nos Galan Mai, the first night of May, they meet, unweaponed but for their powers, and strive for mastery in contests witnessed and judged by their peers. Gwyn usually wins, but not always. His reward is to do it again in a year.”

  “What about Creiddylad?”

  “She’s very bitter. She’s never remarried and has no children. Living with her father is uncomfortable for both of them, and so she avoids it if she can. Her power over Gwyn as consort is gone, but she’s still his sister and understands how to manipulate him better than he knows. He allows her to treat the manor as her home and has granted her Pencoed, that is, Edgewood, a small domain nearby for her own private use, most unwisely in my opinion.”

  “You think she still stirs up trouble.”

  “I know that she does. I don’t like this Madog that she brings with her, these last many years, but Gwyn won’t press her about him.” She rose. “Ah, well, events will unfold as they will.”

  George took the cue not to outstay his welcome. He stood up and took one more long look at the wall of paintings, and his eye was caught by a large, off-white horn. Walking up to it, he saw this was a portrait from the side of a huntsman wearing a carved ivory horn at his back slung on a baldric around his chest. I used to know the medieval term for that, he thought. Oh, yes—an oliphant. Roland blew one to summon Charlemagne’s army before his death. “Is that Iolo? I never saw him living.”

  “It is indeed.”

  He admired the stern, masterful features. That’s a lot to live up to, he thought.

  They turned to walk back toward the door, passing an easel with a canvas, draped in a cloth. “Your current work?” he asked pausing. “May I see?”

  “I try never to show the subject the unfinished work,” she demurred.

  “I’ll promise not to tell him,” he said, raising an eyebrow hopefully.

  “I don’t know if that’s a promise you can keep,” she said, smiling. She gestured at it, “Go ahead, if you will. I just started it yesterday.”

  He lifted the protective cloth carefully and froze, the cloth still in his hand. The sketch, in charcoal with bits of background painted in, showed a mounted man from behind, his right arm stretching out a long garment, an arrow just coming through the cloth toward the viewer. The archer in front of him still raised his empty bow, and there was a clear area of different landscape behind him.

  “I had no idea,” he said.

  “How could you? I don’t often do action scenes but I found the composition an interesting challenge and, after all, I was there.”

  She took the cloth from his hand and draped it back over the canvas.

  On his way back, George mulled over the ancient tales he’d heard, all of which were also family stories. Hard to keep both those things in mind at the same time.

  What would happen if the great hunt weren’t successful? Would Gwyn lose his realm, as others feared? If he did, would the family survive, these new kin of mine? Would I be able to get back home or would I be trapped here?

  Or if the great hunt failed, for the first time, maybe getting back home would be the least of his concerns. You have to survive to worry about it.

  If you don’t succeed, a few days from now, he thought, everything may be at stake. It’s not just the hunting and the killing of human quarry to be squeamish about, there are also real enemies, and you don’t know who they are. You’ve been leaving too much of that to Gwyn.

  Man up and quit wasting time. You need to take this seriously. You need a plan.

  He considered. Alright, first get the hunt into a shape you can manage as fast as you can. If you can’t lead the hunt, nothing else will matter.

  Then find out what really happened in the last few years and see if you can get to know the enemy better, by his actions.

  Finally, you’ve got to see w
hat these new powers of yours can do, the beast-sensing, the way-finding, all the rest of it. It’s no different from learning to fight for real, no doubt—awkward while you’re getting started and frustrating, but if they can learn it, so can you. Quit holding it at arm’s-length just ’cause it’s not what you’re used to.

  Satisfied with this plan, he let his mind drift as his horse carried him smoothly along. And there’s no reason I can’t slip in another date or two with Angharad while I’m at it, he thought, and smiled.

  CHAPTER 20

  Alun found George at the stables, as he handed Llamrei over to a stable lad. The skies had darkened all afternoon and a light drizzle was beginning to fall.

  “There’s been a development,” Alun said. “Edern ap Nudd is arriving, unexpectedly.”

  “That’s his room I’m in, isn’t it?”

  “Not any more it is. At Gwyn’s request I’ve moved you to Iolo’s place.”

  George checked his pocket watch. He had an hour before the afternoon session with Hadyn. “Shall I come see my new quarters, then?”

  They walked up the lane between the kennels and the stables. There were a few workshops on the right opposite the kennels, and then a high wall with a gate facing the lane, before the row of buildings continued. Entering at the gate, George discovered a two-story house fronted by a small tidy yard, much of which was garden. Two hollies, a male in dark green and a female forming berries, flanked wide steps to a veranda, and a tall tamarack larch provided shade over the whole house while leaving the garden’s southern exposure open. The walls of the neighboring buildings rose windowless on either side to provide a private sheltered haven.

  There were benches in the garden, and seats on the veranda, with tables. “Iolo liked to spend his time outside whenever he could,” Alun said.

  It was peaceful here, George thought. You could hear the kennels faintly, but separated by the garden wall, the lane, and then the empty kennel yards, it was a pleasant background noise rather than a nuisance. A neighbor’s barking dog is an annoyance, he thought, but fifty of them was music.

  “Easy access to the kennels, isn’t it?” George said.

  “There’s a door across the lane there. His own corridor to his office. They call it the huntsman’s alley.”

  They climbed the steps to the veranda. George could see that the house stretched almost from one side of the space to the other, with a narrow way around. “Does it go all the way through?”

  “This is the back entrance. The other side’s grander and fronts on the lane.”

  It’s bigger than it seems, he thought. More deep than wide. As he entered, he confirmed his prediction, seeing three rooms on each side of a wide central hall to a double door in front. “Iolo lived here all alone in this space, with you? You must have rattled about like two peas in a pod.”

  “They tell me he raised families here, before my time. His great-great-grandson Islwyn lived here with him for several years before he died, but he was already grown. Since then we’ve kept rooms closed upstairs, and there have been few guests.”

  Alun took George on a brief tour. Kitchen to the left, followed by dining room and a front parlor. On the right, George could see Iolo’s personality more clearly: a workroom with hand tools and materials that seemed to be an overflow from the kennels, a library in the middle, and a study at the front of the house that appealed immediately, with its worn leather chairs, fireplace, and books.

  Upstairs, Alun showed him the guest bedrooms in front, furniture draped in sheets. The middle room on the west side was smaller and currently given over to storage for furniture too large for the attic. Beyond that was a corridor leading to two small rooms with windows fronting the garden side, above the kitchen. “My room is there,” Alun said, indicating the outer room, “and years ago there was a maid in the next room.”

  The end of the hall held a bathroom with a view of the garden over the veranda roof. Next to it, over the workroom, was the main bedroom.

  Alun opened the door for George. “I’ve packed up Iolo’s clothes and stored them. Your things from Edern’s room are here.”

  There’d been a woman’s touch here once, thought George. The bed was backed by the eastern outer wall, leaving the windows all along the garden wall free for window seats, with a fine view of the Blue Ridge marching south on the right, over the outer palisade. Three wardrobes stood against the wall, mostly empty now, and two chests of drawers. A comfortable pair of armchairs with a table between them completed the picture of a little private world, where two people could lock themselves away for a time. “What does that door lead to?” he asked, pointing to a door opposite the garden windows.

  “That was the nursery.”

  “Ah.” The location made sense. He opened the door. This was a small room, over the library. The furniture was draped in cloth. “How long since it’s been used?”

  “I don’t know. Many, many years.”

  It seemed melancholy to George, this empty nest sort of life played over and over again. I suppose you get used to it, he thought, but the constant reminders must be depressing. Or maybe family visits would fill a house like this with life and compensate for the ebb and flow of grown children.

  “Thanks for making me at home here,” he said. “I must be off to the training. Should I eat at the manor generally?”

  “Breakfast here. Lunch or dinner or guests, just let me know.”

  “Who takes care of the garden?”

  “Ifor Moel has the grounds men see to it. The rest of the place, that’s my job.”

  “I’ll see you before dinner to change, then.” A thought occurred to him. “While I’m gone, I’d like you to choose something or two of Iolo’s, to remember him by. I’m sure he’d want you to do that.”

  Alun flushed. “Aye, I shall do so.”

  George spent the earlier part of the evening in the huntsman’s office, listening to the rain fall.

  He’d been surprised at dinner by Gwyn’s public congratulations on the successful morning hunt. Gwyn then upped the ante by announcing that he would accompany him on Thursday’s excursion to see for himself, forbidding anyone else from joining him. This afternoon’s conversation with Angharad had made Gwyn’s political position clearer to him, and his public praise just ensured that his opponents would be motivated to act lest their long plans fall to nothing. He wondered if Gwyn recalled the plan to bring the relationship with Owen the Leash to a conclusion on Thursday.

  George had hoped to meet Edern but he hadn’t yet arrived. He had the stern face from Angharad’s portrait of him still vividly in mind and wanted to see the original to form his own opinions.

  The post-dinner session learning the hound names had gone well. In another night he and Benitoe would have touched all the hounds once as a group and would be ready to cycle back around till they were reliable with all the names.

  Tomorrow’s hound walk would take them to Eurig’s place. He was eager to see it and to use the opportunity to strengthen his bonds with him. He was sure Eurig would prove to be a valuable guide to the politics, if he could keep his interest and goodwill.

  Moved by the portrait of Iolo with the oliphant horn, he’d asked Ives for the key to the cupboard, but Ives told him it was among the personal effects that Alun had taken charge of. This left him grappling with a good task to sink his teeth into for the remainder of the evening, and he decided to start researching the events preceding the coming of Owen the Leash.

  He walked over to the shelves of hunt journals. He needed the ones from more than twenty years ago, starting with a healthy staff of Islwyn and Merfyn. He picked out a volume from about thirty years earlier, and flipped through it looking for those two names. Merfyn was mentioned throughout, and Islwyn made an appearance near the end, so this seemed to be a good place to start. He pulled the handful of volumes from that point to the present, added the current one from the desk, and put them in a buckskin sack to protect them from the weather.

  No point ligh
ting a fire in here tonight, he thought. Let’s look at these in my new study, in comfort, and then toddle off to bed nice and early.

  He took the private exit Alun had shown him, down a roofed walkway between kennel yards, unlatched the gate at the lane, and latched it behind him again. A quick dash across the lane to the gate in his garden wall and then up the path to the huntsman’s house kept him relatively dry, but he was glad for the warmth of the house. This rain seemed to mark the turn of seasons to true autumn, putting a chill in the air.

  He stripped off his boots on the porch—still his only shoes until Mostyn’s work arrived—and padded in stocking feet into the house, carrying them. Alun appeared out of the kitchen to take them away but paused, his eyes riveted by the toes beginning to poke holes through George’s much abused socks. “I can fix that,” he said. “Go on in to the study. I’ve laid a fire there.”

  Oil lamps were lit in the hall. Walking carefully in his stocking feet so as not to slip on the polished chestnut floor, George carried his sack of books into the front room and put it next to a worn leather chair by the unlit fire. By the light from the hall he found a lighter on the mantle and lit a wood splint from a holder there, touching the splint in turn to the oil lamps along the walls and then to the kindling beneath the logs, leaving it there to catch.

  The sound of the rain outside on the lane intensified, coming down in sheets and making the fire and lamp-lit room more appealing by the moment in contrast. He took off his somewhat dampened coat and collapsed with a whoosh of pleasure into the seat by the fire.

  Alun reappeared with slippers and socks in hand, and a robe over his arm. “These slippers were never used. They should fit, and the socks, too. I’ll take those you are wearing.” His look invited no disagreement on the subject.

  He draped the robe over a chair. “This robe is little used. It’s for sitting, when the hunt coat comes off.”

  George changed his socks and tried the slippers. It felt odd to wear a dead man’s shoes, but the fit was fine. He was amused to see they were moccasins, not moccasin-styled, but the real thing: one-piece, ankle-high, stitched together at the top with leather thongs, and made of a heavy buckskin. He stood and lifted the robe, holding it out to look at it. It was more of a dressing gown in dark burgundy wool, with pockets and cuffs, suitable for appearing before other people if they called. He could see the point of such a garment to supplement the fire as the weather grew colder and tried it on. It was tight across the shoulders, and he could see Alun making note of it. “I’ll tell Mostyn to make a robe to your size. What color should it be?”