The Exile of Elindel

by Carol Browne

  Angwen smiled, clasped his hand, and pulled him down to the grass. They sat and watched the sun-dappled water lapping against the riverbank, and she leaned her body against him.

  “Could you find it in your heart to love someone like me?” she asked, a tremor in her voice.

  Who couldn’t? “Angwen, you’re very beautiful, and well, if things were different, I’d stay by your side forever, but—”

  “You are my warrior—”

  “I’m nothing of the sort,” he said.

  “But I can see,” she said. “You are a true son of our race.”

  He wanted to deny this, but her trusting gaze stifled his protest. In her eyes, he could do no wrong.

  Angwen could know nothing of his past, his self-doubt, and his cowardice. He travelled with elves and braved hardship and danger, apparently because he wanted to. He carried a sword and was born of a race of warriors. So she clearly took his valour for granted. No doubt in her mind, he represented someone she could lean on after years of supporting others.

  How could he shatter her illusions, when she had little else?

  With her encouragement, could he become the kind of man she already believed him to be? Might he finally realise whatever potential the Saxons had denied him? But such thoughts were fantasy. He couldn’t stay here.

  Could he?

  Someone called him from the distance. Godwin heard his name, but it took some time for him to give the summons his full attention. It was Trystin, and the urgency of his plea demanded an answer. As he pulled away from Angwen, a great abyss yawned between them, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

  “By Frigg!” he cried. “What now?”

  “Your friend sounds very distressed,” she said.

  “That’s nothing new.” He grimaced and stood. “Trystin, over here!” He held out his hand to help Angwen to her feet. Gathering up his knife and cloak, he led her out of the trees.

  Trystin stood on the riverbank, nervously chewing his nails.

  “Come back to the village, Master Godwin! You must . . . Grimalkin . . . she’s . . . there’s trouble!” So saying, the elfling took to his heels.

  Godwin sighed and made to follow him, still holding Angwen’s hand.

  Master, don’t leave me!

  Oh, Frigg, he’d forgotten the sword!

  “Angwen, please go on ahead. I must go back and fetch my sword.” He smiled to dispel her anxiety. “Don’t worry, I won’t be long.”

  ***

  As Godwin neared the village, Grimalkin was calling his name, and her neighs were both urgent and angry. Soon, she came into view, kicking and bucking, surrounded by a ring of people. A length of rope dangled from her neck.

  “Piss off, you turds,” she screamed at them, “or my hooves will churn your guts!”

  Godwin thrust his way through the noisy crowd. Angwen stood with the villagers, and she looked relieved when she saw him. He stopped next to Grimalkin and glanced round at them.

  “What in Frigg’s name is going on?” he demanded.

  “Your beast tried to run off, so we brought her back,” said a middle-aged woman. “Then she started playing up. Kicking and jumping about like a mad thing.”

  “It’s that time of year,” remarked an old man. “She must have got wind of the wild nags that live beyond the hills.”

  The villagers nodded.

  Godwin cocked his fists on his hips and gave the pony a menacing glare. “Curse you,” he muttered under his breath. “You were left in charge of the stone!”

  “We all need to sow a few wild oats,” retorted Grimalkin, tossing her head. “I saw Angwen sneak off after you.”

  Grimalkin’s candid and thoughtless remark left Godwin speechless with rage.

  The old man scratched his scanty beard and shook his head at Godwin. “She’s a stubborn brute. A killer. Never seen a more mettlesome beast.”

  The villagers muttered agreement.

  “You’ll have to give her the stick,” said the woman, offering her staff for the purpose. “Show her who’s the master.”

  Heads nodded in the crowd.

  “The first dog that takes a stick to me gets his nose bitten off,” cried Grimalkin.

  “Shut up,” said Godwin. “You’ve caused enough trouble.”

  “Listen, Brit,” she whinnied. “You only know their side of it. The bastards wanted to eat me!”

  “Don’t give me that. You’re full of tricks.”

  “Seeing as she’s unmanageable, stranger, would you care to sell her?” The old man looked at him hopefully.

  Godwin turned to confront him. “Sell her?”

  “I have nothing much to barter with, just a couple of trinkets, but my family is starving, you see.”

  “She would feed a great many of us,” cried another man in the crowd.

  “Told you,” snickered Grimalkin.

  Godwin looked round at the hungry eyes and lean faces taut with desire; some were even licking their lips. A shudder ran down his spine. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t. She’s too useful.”

  Then Ceara hobbled towards him, waving her staff in the air. “You would see us starve, then, stranger? The Saxons taught you well!”

  “Ceara, please!” cried Angwen. “The pony is his, and this man is our guest.”

  Ceara’s lip curled. “Did we send him an invitation?”

  “You can’t make me sell her.” Godwin placed his hand on Grimalkin’s neck in a gesture of ownership and whispered to her, “Don’t panic. I’ll protect you.”

  “And who’ll protect you?” she whinnied. “Look at ’em. They’re getting nasty!”

  “You have no charity, stranger,” Ceara said with a sneer of contempt. “You have eaten our food, which we cannot spare, and what need have you for a pack-horse? Your covetousness is a sin.”

  “You shall not have my pony.”

  Angwen touched Ceara on the arm. “It is not fitting that we should fight,” she reminded her. “And if we abandon our courtesy, then we become barbarians.” The two women looked at each other. Angwen inclined her head, and after a moment’s consideration, Ceara gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Whoever harms this animal will answer to me. Now, back to your work, all of you.”

  With much muttering, the villagers dispersed, and Angwen turned to Godwin, her hands spread in apology. “Forgive them, Godwin, but they are broken and dispirited. They were not always so callous.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “I think you had better tie up your beast. I wonder that this was not done before.”

  “I trusted her too well.”

  He glared at Grimalkin, but she regarded him with indifference. He moved to her side and tugged at the pack, pretending to check that it was still in place, but really to reassure himself that the Lorestone was safe and undamaged.

  The woman who had served him breakfast approached. She stopped before Angwen, made a slight curtsy, and then muttered something Godwin couldn’t hear.

  “Thank you, Angharad,” said Angwen, and she turned to Godwin. “Morvyth has asked to see you now,” Angwen announced, and she held out her hand. “Let us first secure your animal, and then I will take you to my aunt’s dwelling.”

  Taking her hand, Godwin followed her, and when they reached the meagre hut, they found Trystin hiding behind the door. Frightened by the angry crowd, he had run indoors. Seeing Godwin, he sighed with relief and threw his arms about him.

  “Go and fetch a bale of hay to keep Grimalkin out of mischief,” said Godwin as he pried himself from the elf’s embrace.

  He tethered Grimalkin and gave her a scolding, though he knew he was wasting his breath.

  Then he followed Angwen across the village to the home of the dying chief.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Inside the dwelling was a sunken room, a low fire hissing on the hearth. There were shelves laden with heirlooms and ornaments, and from the rafters hung bunches of herbs, adding their fragrance to the air. The vague shapes of benches and chests
squatted in the shadows.

  Godwin stood beside the door while Angwen crossed the room and stopped beside the raised bed.

  “Aunt Morvyth,” she said, “the stranger, Godwin, is here to see you.”

  A frail hand fluttered on the coverlet, beckoning Godwin to approach. Angwen drew up a three-legged stool and stood it beside the bed.

  “Greetings to you, lady,” said Godwin.

  “And to you, traveller,” said the old woman. “Will you sit awhile?”

  Her voice, though feeble with sickness, had a warm, maternal quality, and Godwin felt at ease in her presence. Smiling, he lowered himself onto the stool.

  “Some light, Angwen,” the old woman said, “and then you may leave us, my dear.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  Angwen lit two torches on the wall beside the bed, kissed her aunt on the brow, and tiptoed from the room.

  Now that Godwin could see the old woman more clearly, it was obvious how sick she was. Her skin was wrinkled, sallow with illness, and her lips were drooping and slack. Upon the pillow was a cloud of soft white hair.

  “I forget your name, stranger,” she murmured.

  “My name is Godwin, lady.”

  “Godwin, I am pleased to meet you. Angwen has told me some of your tale, but forgive me, my memory cannot be trusted, and I go soon to meet my maker.” The candour of her statement caught Godwin off guard, and she smiled at his discomfiture. “Be of good cheer, young man. I do not worry, nor should you. Now, it would please me to hear you talk. I do not lack for visitors, but they tell me nothing new.”

  Godwin thought for a moment, wondering where to begin. “Angwen told you I was brought up by Saxons?” When Morvyth nodded fractionally, he went on, “I was very young when I was taken in a raid, and my sister . . . they killed my sister. I don’t know what became of my parents, nor do I know what tribe I’m from.” He paused as the old pain came to the surface. Odd that it still had the power to hurt him after so many years. “I dream of it still, though I don’t remember all of it. I’ve always hoped . . . I’ve longed to meet others of my race.”

  “Ah, be not sad, my son. Curiosity is natural, and such ordeals as yours were all too frequent once, but life must go on for the sake of the tribe. We may be a persecuted race, but we are not defeated yet. I believe we will rise again.”

  “But Morvyth, somehow I feel . . . cheated. I’m ignorant of my people, their customs, their beliefs, and there’s an empty place inside me . . . ” He stopped himself. He hadn’t intended to talk this way, but there was something about this woman that made him want to unburden himself.

  “I can tell you nothing of other tribes, only the history of ours.”

  “I’d like to hear it, lady.”

  “And I should like to tell it.” Morvyth chuckled. “My memories of the past are sharp, and elders love to tell tales, do they not? But do not worry. I hope to be brief.” Her thin lips curled with humour, and Godwin smiled back at her.

  For a moment, she paused and gathered her thoughts.

  “We are of the Gododdin tribe—of whom we are surely the most unworthy, the lost ones who strayed too far from home. Cunedda, our chief, brought us down from the northlands many long years ago. My father was among their number, a mere boy who aspired to live as a warrior among warriors, and in his thirtieth year, he fathered Gwion, my brother, who became heir to the settlement our father founded. Eftsoons, I followed.

  “At that time, we lived farther east. The Romans had abandoned this land, but they left us their houses, their towns, and roads. But soon, the invaders came. The Angles and the Saxons. They were warlike and hungry for our land. Many of our kind fled west, and we were forced to follow, but the Saxons could not be stopped. The High-King himself made a treaty with the invaders. We knew they were treacherous and were not surprised when they broke the pact and laid waste the land, destroying the towns and villas. The future promised us nothing but conflict. My father was slain in battle, and Gwion became our chief. Ah, such a man, my brother. No finer warrior ever lived.”

  A glow of pride glimmered in Morvyth’s eyes. “He married late in life, you know. Ethne. Young, she was, and beautiful. She gave him a son and then a daughter. Ah, those two! I loved them. As dear to me as if they were my own. They were tiny chits when their father became our chief. And they were always together. Alas, poor Verica never knew the joys of fatherhood, for I have always been barren.”

  Godwin laid his hand upon the old woman’s arm, but she didn’t seem to notice his attempt at consolation.

  “I believe it was in the year 479, a party of Saxons fell upon us. A terrible day. Gwion lost not only his children, but also his wife, Ethne. And I . . . I lost my Verica. The raiders stole what they could and burned our homes, and then they went. Gwion and I sought solace together . . . Many long, long nights of grief.

  “But still, the tribe remained. We could not forsake our people. So, we decided to retreat farther north, and Gwion threw off his sorrow. He knew that without his leadership, his people would be lost. He took a second wife. Her name was Caronwen—half his age and the temper of a wild cat! But he loved her. She bore him Angwen and, later, Aled.

  “For some years, all went well. Our tribe moved on, and we made our settlement here. We did not lose touch with the ways of the world, and we were safe from the Saxon menace. But then there came a great famine and a pestilence that covered the land and took so many from us. Caronwen . . . she was one who succumbed, and Gwion was left a lonely old man, trying to hold his tribe together—the remnants of it, at least.

  “Not long after we came to this place, we discovered there were elves nearby, but our race and theirs have ever been friends and we had no cause to fear them. They left us undisturbed . . . but alas, a new king ascended the throne.”

  “Vieldrin,” muttered Godwin.

  “I believe that is his name. He took our gold and horses because we refused to acknowledge him sole master of these lands, and rather than destroy us, he placed an enchantment upon our village. Should any try to leave this place, it compels us to turn back. Indeed, I fear that if we could defy this spell, the result would be certain death. So, Godwin, we are trapped here and time has stopped for us. The price of our freedom is to worship Vieldrin as our lord and master, but that we can never do, for God is our only master. But this elf-king will not kill us. He enjoys our torment and knows our race scorns death anyway. And Vieldrin is insane.”

  “Morvyth, did Angwen tell you that my companions are elves?” Godwin asked.

  Morvyth nodded. “They are good elves, she said.”

  “And one is very powerful. Our intention is to destroy Vieldrin. If he can be slain, we will do it.”

  “My son, such a hazardous task. We cannot help you, for we are helpless ourselves. Whatever we had of value was taken from us by force, by the Saxons, the pestilence, and the elvish king.” She shook her head in dismay. “All I can give you are my prayers and my blessing, such as it is. God guard you in your quest.”

  “This god you worship,” said Godwin. “I have little knowledge of him. As a child, I was taught some things by a man called Aethelwulf, a wise man among the Saxons, but your beliefs are a mystery to me. Aled said I was a . . . a heathen?”

  Morvyth frowned. “Aled has no manners. No blame attaches to you, my son. Each man must follow his heart.”

  “The Saxons have many gods, Lady Morvyth, and I have believed in them, but . . . ” Godwin thought of the Hill-Shrine. Since Faine touched his heart, he had become aware that there might be more supernatural entities at work in the world than he had ever imagined.

  “Godwin,” said Morvyth, “I know God helps me. He gives me comfort and strength. We all seek different things in life. We must all tread different paths. Faith and belief are private things, which you must discover for yourself.”

  Her hand sought his upon the coverlet and squeezed it, and for a while, they sat in a thoughtful silence. At length, Godwin needed to talk.

  “It�
��s strange, the things I remember. When the Saxons took me from my tribe, my sister and I were outside the village. I think we were sitting under a tree and we’d been picking blackberries. We had a basketful.”

  Morvyth lifted her eyebrows; he assumed she did so out of polite interest.

  “I was carried away by a tall blond man, and the basket was scattered on the grass. And there were some wooden toys, I think. I see it more clearly in dreams, but also I see my sister . . . He killed her.” He swallowed and turned his head away as the old pain tore his heart.

  Morvyth clutched at his sleeve. “Blackberries, you say?”

  “Yes. Apart from those cruel memories, this is all I have of my past.”

  He drew his sword from its sheath and held it up. The smooth steel gleamed in the torchlight. Morvyth propped herself on one elbow, and there was a wildness in her eyes which filled him with alarm.

  “Please, Morvyth, I’m sorry. Don’t be afraid!”

  “No, let me see it! Let me see!”

  He lay the sword on the coverlet, and she touched the hilt with quivering fingers.

  “Is it you?” she gasped. “After all these years? Brave blade, you have been true to your master!” She turned her gaze upon him, her eyes awash with tears. Her frail body shook with emotion. “Oh, God be praised. Indeed, we are saved.”

  Godwin jumped to his feet. “Morvyth, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Nothing is wrong, my son! No, Godwin, it is wonderful!” Morvyth fell back on the bed, torn between weeping and laughing.

  “Be calm, Lady Morvyth. I’ll fetch your niece.”

  Morvyth grabbed him by the sleeve. “No, stay, my son!” she begged between sobs. “Sit down, please. You must not leave me, not a second time!”

  Frowning, Godwin hesitated, and then he complied with her plea. She held out her hands, and he took them in his own, and her agitation slowly waned, her breathing returned to normal. She stared at him all the while, and tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Bear with me, Godwin. Do not be alarmed, for I have another tale to tell, and when I have told it, I am sure to die happy.”