To Carry the Horn

by Karen Myers

  “Any dark sober color will be fine. Perhaps not green, to make a change from hunt clothing. Don’t forget pockets. Will I also need a robe for the bath?”

  “No, a loose one hangs upstairs for that. Try it and let me know if it’s suitable. Or not.”

  Alun straightened up a few items around the room that didn’t need it. George remembered his suggestion to choose keepsakes of Iolo’s, and thought Alun might be working up his courage to mention it. He asked, “Was there something you wanted to say?”

  “Picked two things, I did, for remembering Iolo. Shall I show you?”

  “Yes, I’d be very interested.”

  Alun returned in a moment. He carried in one hand a small framed portrait of Iolo, looking down fondly at a hound who was returning the gaze. George thought he recognized Angharad’s work. “Very fine,” he said, “and an excellent choice.” Alun looked relieved.

  “The other’s just a little pocket memento.” He held out a jointed snaffle mouthpiece, two bits of polished brass without rings. “Iolo used to fiddle with this in his pockets, he did, whenever he was thinking about something. I don’t know where it came from.”

  “Very suitable, and a good reminder.”

  He continued, “Where do you spend your evenings, Alun, when you’re not on duty?”

  “I have friends, of course. There’s work I turn my hands to, also. Iolo would let me use his workshop here in the house.”

  “Alright by me, too. What do you make?”

  “Oh, small whimsies, is it? Birdhouses and the like.”

  “Will you show me sometime?”

  “Yes, if you wish.”

  “I do indeed.” He sat back down reluctant to move again.

  “Will there be anything I can get you?” Alun suggested.

  Ah, tempting thought. He’d need to take notes. “Something to take notes on.” What else? “Do you know where the pipe and tobacco went? And an ashtray, of course.”

  “And I’ll bring you something to drink, shall I? Mild or strong?”

  “Good idea. Mild, please.”

  Alun took a bound notebook from a drawer of the desk in the room, larger than the one still in the breast pocket of the coat. “Iolo kept a personal journal of his own, here. The older volumes are in the library,” pointing at the next room. He brought an ashtray from the mantle and the notebook over to George’s table, leaving to fetch the rest of the items.

  A personal journal—that will be a help, he thought. Sorry, Iolo, but I’m going to have to read your private words to help solve your murder.

  The notebook Alun brought him was new. Herein starts my own journal and permanent notes, he mused. Not much casual use of paper for temporary purposes here, to be chucked in the fire. Think of it as a discipline to organize my thoughts before writing them down, then. And remember, it may not stay private; how hard would it be to come in when Alun was out and just read a journal sitting on that desk? Circumspection will be required.

  He laid the full-sized journal aside and rose to fetch the pocket notebook and pen from his coat and bring them back to the table. He picked up the new unused journal again and wrote on the first page.

  George Talbot Traherne

  He turned to the next full leaf, and began, inhibited by the thought that, just as he was planning to read Iolo’s private journals, someone someday (if not sooner) might be reading his own.

  Tuesday, October 20

  I arrived Saturday, four days ago, apparently at the moment of the death of my predecessor, Iolo ap Huw. Such a short time for so much to recount. I will not attempt a full account of my experiences in this journal, but will use this for occasional reflections and for notes.

  He paused to think. I should use this as bait, truthful but incomplete or misleading. I can use my pocket notebook for truly secret notes, and only transfer important things to a permanent record.

  I am reading Iolo’s hunt logs for the last three decades, to form a quick understanding of the customs.

  He didn’t want anyone to form an impression that he was looking into Merfyn, Islwyn, and Owen the Leash as part of a deliberate plan. He wanted Owen’s discomfiture in the next two days to look coincidental and personal, not part of a tactical defense for Gwyn. This provided a reason for looking into these years in the hunt logs and had the added virtue of also being true.

  Pulling the hunt logs out of the sack, he found the oldest one and opened it on his lap. Alun returned with a mug of hard cider, and the new pipe with its fixings, and took the coat away for a good brushing.

  George filled the pipe with the fragrant tobacco, packing it loosely with his thumb. He took a long sip of the cider, lit up, and began reading, kept company by the crackle of the fire.

  CHAPTER 21

  As the full pack milled around them in the kennel yards in the dark chilly morning, George was grateful for the warmth of a hearty breakfast inside. He’d slept well in the strange bed and was ready for mischief.

  He turned to Rhian and said quietly, “Be prepared for a bit of theater and follow my lead,” then walked Afanc over to Rhys and repeated the warning. To Benitoe he said loudly, “Please tell Owen the Leash that his services and those of his men won’t be required this morning.” Ives, on foot, and Benitoe both looked sharply at him, and he gave them a private wink.

  “You heard what he said, lad,” Ives said, with a grin. “Get on with it.”

  Benitoe nodded and went through the kennel gates to Owen’s band, sitting their horses. Both George and Ives positioned themselves quietly just behind the gates to listen.

  Benitoe on his small tidy roan pulled up in front of Owen on a great sprawling brown horse and crowded a bit into his space. Owen was in mid-joke with his men and broke off to stare down at him. “What do you want, squab?”

  With an expressionless face, Benitoe told him, distinctly enough for anyone loitering about to hear. “The huntsman bids me tell you he won’t need your services this day.” He nodded politely and turned to go.

  Owen swelled with wrath like a toad. His face reddened and he spat out, “He can’t do that.” The men behind him stopped talking, and Benitoe ignored him. “Come back here, you ill-gotten spawn of a weasel…”

  Benitoe turned and interrupted him. “Please clear a path for the pack,” he said, his face smooth, and returned to the gates, while Owen sputtered impotently behind him.

  “Well done,” George said to him quietly as he came back.

  “It was a great pleasure, sir.” Benitoe grinned, now that his face couldn’t be seen by Owen.

  “No doubt, but make no mistake—he was dangerous before, and more so now. I mean to be rid of him altogether shortly, but walk carefully the next few days while this sorts itself out.”

  To Ives he said, “Quick, now, while they’re unprepared. Open the gates.”

  The pack and staff walked calmly and under control past the stymied Owen, and headed out. From the corners of his eyes, George could see a small casual audience which had certainly overheard the exchange between Benitoe and Owen. He thought he detected satisfaction on some of the faces.

  North of Daear Llosg the road led along the slope just a bit above the river, still paralleled by the larger road on the other side. As they came left around a spur of the ridge with the pack, George saw cultivated fields, and then an unpretentious cluster of stone buildings surrounding an old house, two stories high, whose original symmetry had been modified by several additions.

  “Where do we go?” he asked Rhys, who waved him over to a gated field near the house. The pack spilled in and George dismissed them to Rhian’s care as he saw Eurig approaching on horseback in company with a young man he couldn’t place for a moment.

  “Welcome, huntsman,” Eurig said. “I think you know my young kinsman, my great-nephew. Certainly he’s full of tales about you.”

  “Brynach, is that you? I didn’t know you were a relative of Eurig here.” It was his teenage sparring partner from a few days ago.

  “I ex
tend my uncle’s welcome, sir.” He said it shyly, but proudly, looking over at the hounds with longing on his face.

  “Would you like to see the pack more closely?”

  His face lit up. “May I, sir?” he asked, looking over at Eurig.

  Eurig waved him forward, and George called to Rhian, to alert her to a guest. He used his extended senses to monitor the hounds attentively for any alarm, in case his read of the danger they posed to strangers was wrong.

  While Brynach negotiated the gate, Eurig said, “No Owen this morning?”

  “Indeed not.”

  They both watched the young man approach the pack calmly. The hounds came over to sniff his boots, and he leaned down from his horse to pet the ones he could reach.

  Eurig said, noncommittally. “I never thought Owen was necessary. It would be good to see less of him.”

  “Or none of him at all,” George said. They looked at each other with understanding.

  “I see that you and Gwyn have something in mind. Good—it’s past time he bestirred himself about this. You’ll have heard that Edern’s expected?”

  “Yes, I’ve moved into the huntsman’s house to free up his room.”

  “He’s a rare and unusual visitor. You know the history of Gwyn and Creiddylad?”

  “Angharad told me the story just yesterday.”

  “Edern’s visits are infrequent because he doesn’t care for the company of their sister. For him to come now, well, I think Gwyn’s called him in to help.” He looked straight at George. “Gwyn knows he has my support. If he, or you, can use it, just call for it.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to pass that along to Gwyn.”

  “I’ll see you then at dinner. Tegwen’s still in residence, but I came back with Brynach yesterday to sort out some matters at the farm. We go back and forth like this in the weeks at year’s end, since we live so close. Send Brynach back when you’re done with him.”

  He turned his horse and trotted off.

  George returned to the pack to find Rhian conducting maneuvers and Brynach paired up with Rhys. He watched for a few moments before approaching.

  “Nicely done, Rhian.” He waved in Brynach and the two whippers-in.

  “I know you all can sense the hounds directly, one way or another, but I don’t want that to be the only tool in your kit. I don’t know how Iolo liked to proceed, but I recommend you learn and use the ordinary, um, head-blind methods, too. There may be a time when you’re too busy to do anything else other than fall back on that. For example, the hounds should be accustomed to avoiding whippers-in, as part of the packing-up process. When they see you approaching, they should think ‘am I in the wrong place?’ and look for the other hounds, where security lies. If you’re preoccupied with a dangerous situation, if you need to turn them away from a bad place, like a cliff, simply getting in front of them should do the job.”

  “But if we can tell them directly, why not do that?” Rhian asked.

  “You might not have enough time to tell all of them, you might not see all of them, you might be avoiding another peril at the same time—any number of reasons. You want the hounds to think for themselves, when they can, not always to be telling them what to do.”

  Rhys said, “So, you want them to do the task for which they’re bred, to hunt, and you bring them to a place to do it, and maybe a starting point, but you want them to do the real work, as hunting hounds.”

  “Right, not as animate tools at the end of an extended pair of arms. So, as we work, let’s listen in, as it were, but do as little ‘push’ or ‘ask’ as possible. I’m not saying give it up, it’s far too useful for that. I’m merely cautioning that too much will weaken the skill and independence of the pack, just as much as not giving them time to work out a line on their own.”

  The staff nodded in acknowledgment.

  George looked over at Brynach. “So, you like the hounds?”

  Brynach grinned. “They’re lovely.”

  “Up for an experiment?”

  Brynach nodded.

  “Please dismount and give the reins to Rhys.”

  Brynach hopped down.

  George extended his senses to monitor this carefully. “Would you mind walking through the pack? You’ll likely get a bit muddy.”

  Brynach looked delighted and waded right in. The hounds were eager for a closer sniff of him and crowded around. George couldn’t feel any aggression from them at all.

  Rhys said, quietly, “Looking to see if the whole excuse for Owen the Leash is a lie?”

  “Yes. I was already convinced of it, but I’m just making sure.”

  “I could’ve told you that. I think the only people that the hounds menace are Owen’s men.”

  “Really?” George called out to the others. “Have you seen the hounds growl at people?” When they nodded, he continued, “Anyone other than Owen or his men?”

  There was a pause, and comprehension dawned on their faces. Rhian said, slowly, “I wonder what they’re doing to make that happen.”

  When they returned from the hound walk, George and Benitoe picked up some food to take with them to eat on the road, since they would both miss lunch, and set off as planned to buy mounts suitable for a lutin.

  As they rode through the village, George asked, “How do you like the work, so far?”

  Benitoe answered without hesitation, “I’m very pleased with it, better than I’d hoped.” He looked over at George with a crooked smile, “I particularly enjoyed this morning’s conversation with Owen the Leash.”

  “Yes, I could tell.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Benitoe said, “There are always a few who think of us as children, because of our size. I’m not a child. I won’t be treated as insignificant, especially by the likes of Owen.”

  This seemed like a good opportunity to George. “I’ve hesitated to inquire, not wanting to be rude, but perhaps you’ll help me understand some of the customs?”

  Benitoe nodded. “Ask whatever you will.”

  “Where are your folk from? How do you come to be living here?”

  “We come from the realm of Gwyn’s uncle Llefelys, in Gaul. When Gwyn became Prince of Annwn and moved it to the new world, he asked for volunteers to help settle and build, and he didn’t restrict it to his own kind. A number of our ancestors wanted to travel, and Llefelys granted them leave to join his nephew.”

  “Do you live long lives, as Gwyn’s folk do?”

  “More than humans, but not like the fae. Two hundred years is a good span.”

  “Ives told me that most lutins work with animals.”

  “Yes, or small crafts. We’re mostly scattered about the farms and villages. We have workers and tradesmen, even a few overseers and farm managers.”

  “Do you all live with the fae, or do you also have your own places?”

  “Independent groups exist throughout this land, especially in the north. Most of us here, at the heart of the realm, work with the fae.”

  They rode quietly for a while south on the main road, having crossed the river at the village bridge some time ago. The day was still dark and chilly, with more rain threatening.

  George said, “The work you’re doing right now will get more dangerous. I believe there are people actively trying to sabotage the great hunt, and the easiest method will be to disable or kill the staff. I expect to be the primary target, but I may not be alone. Are you trained in fighting, at least in defense?”

  Benitoe pursed his lips for a moment, and George thought he wasn’t going to respond, but then he said, “We don’t like to let it be known, but some of us do train with weapons.&”

  “Would you like to carry weapons during your work, as I carry a saber? I can make that be my command, to help keep your secret.” He looked directly at Benitoe. “I think it would be wise.”

  “I’ll consider it. You may be right.”

  “Another matter… What are your skills with animals, exactly? For my part, I can sense the hou
nds as individuals, and ask them to do things. Perhaps command them—I haven’t tried that. It was the same for the woods creatures in yesterday’s hunt. This was new to me, here. I don’t know what’s normal for Gwyn’s folks.”

  Benitoe said, “Like most of my kind, I can feel them, like glowing lights. I know when they’re in pain or uncomfortable, when they’re well-fed and content. In general I can’t distinguish individuals, but I find that some of the hounds are more distinct than others. Cythraul and Rhymi, for example.”

  “Those two are different from the rest of the hounds,” George said. “Iolo’s journals say that he got them ‘from the usual place’ and brought them back to suckle one of the dams. Do you have any idea where he meant?”

  “No. I didn’t know how new blood came into the pack.”

  They compared notes, and the hounds that felt different to Benitoe all seemed to be outsiders.

  “What about creatures other than hounds?”

  “Well, horses, too, of course. Your Mosby’s different from Afanc and Llamrei, as though they aren’t quite the same kind of horses.”

  “Right now, as we go alongside these fields, name what you can detect.”

  Benitoe said, “Mice, dimly. Hawk. Groundhogs.”

  George continued, “Fox, rabbit, something… chipmunk?” He paused. “Man.”

  They looked over together and saw someone working in the field.

  “It’s all there if you look for it,” Benitoe said.