by Holly Taylor
“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” Gwydion said absently as he gently held the arc in his hands. “We’ll understand it, when the time comes.”
MEANWHILE, FAR AWAY to the northwest, a hawk circled the sky above the mountains of Eryi. The huge bird rode the winds, occasionally emitting a fierce cry.
And then the call came, and the hawk almost dropped to the ground with the sheer force of it.
It was time. Time to go south, to journey to the special place. He did not know who or what called him there. He did not yet know what he was to do there, once he reached it. But he knew he was born to do this, and so did not hesitate.
He circled the sky once, twice, three times. And then he flew south, the wind beneath his wings.
Chapter Eighteen
Ymris and Ynad Bran Kingdom of Ederynion, Kymru Collen Mis, 494
Addiendydd, Disglair Wythnos—early afternoon
Three days later they crossed the border into Ederynion and the following day they drew near to Ymris, the chief city in the cantref of Arystli.
And during those four days, Angharad and Gwydion had argued, and argued, then argued some more.
To the south loomed Coed Ddu, the Dark Forest, which stretched throughout most of the southern portion of cantref Arystli. Scarlet leaves of oak and rowan blazed in the distance, offset by evergreen firs and alders. Yellow birch and aspen dappled the forest with splashes of gold. Overhead the sky was clear, and there was a crisp breeze blowing that danced through the long, brown grasses of the plain that unfurled before them.
Angharad rode in front of the group with Gwydion the better to continue their “discussions.” Rhiannon and Amatheon rode behind them, with Cai, Trystan, and Achren bringing up the rear of the party.
Angharad clenched her teeth and reminded herself that to lose her temper would be counterproductive. But she was precariously close to doing it anyway.
For Gwydion still refused to go just a few leagues out of their way to Ymris itself, claiming that they did not have the time. But Angharad continued to insist that they go to the city and acknowledge the Lord of Arystli, Alun Cilcoed. Angharad continued to point out that Queen Olwen herself, if she knew, would demand it.
“It would be in insult to one of Olwen’s most important Lords,” Angharad said again, for what seemed like the hundredth time, “to come so near and not pay our respects.”
“We are not going out of our way to visit Alun Cilcoed of all people,” Gwydion said flatly. “I wonder,” he went on in an abstracted tone as he raised his eyes to the sky, “just how many times I am going to have to say that.”
“I told you, he’s nothing like his brother.”
“Llwyd Cilcoed is a toad,” Gwydion said, “and, no doubt, comes from a family of toads. When I was visiting Olwen, Llwyd was rude and overbearing.”
“Now who does that remind me of?” Rhiannon put in with exaggerated innocence. “Let me see . . .”
“Ha, ha,” Gwydion said tonelessly.
Rhiannon, Angharad knew, was on her side in this debate. Not because she thought visiting Alun Cilcoed was important, but because she never missed an opportunity to annoy Gwydion. Cai, Trystan, and Achren all sided with Gwydion, saying that Alun would not be insulted if he weren’t even aware that they were in the area.
And Amatheon—well, Amatheon did not join into the debate at all. Angharad knew full well why. He was interested in her. He teased Rhiannon and paid her extravagant compliments, but he watched Angharad almost all the time. Yet he was also loyal to his brother and to Gwydion’s wishes. So Amatheon kept his silence—unwilling to commit himself to either side in this ongoing debate.
“If anyone could tell me just what Olwen sees in that Llwyd Cilcoed I would be most grateful,” Gwydion went on.
But Angharad would not answer him, though she knew exactly why Olwen was attracted to Llwyd Cilcoed. She wondered why no one else seemed to understand. For Llwyd bore a resemblance to Kilwch, Olwen’s dead husband—the husband she had not valued until he was dead, the husband she had not known she loved until it was too late. Since he died Olwen looked for Kilwch in every man she saw, searching for a way to say how sorry she was. And she had found it in Llwyd Cilcoed.
This was something Angharad knew, but she would tell no one. For Olwen was both Angharad’s Queen and her friend, and Angharad would not speak of private matters to others. Besides, Gwydion was only trying to distract her from the matter at hand. And she would not be distracted. She opened her mouth for another try, when help came in a manner she had not expected.
“I hear Alun Cilcoed is very rich,” Rhiannon said idly.
“Yes, he is,” Angharad replied, turning slightly in the saddle to glance back at Rhiannon. “Most of the trees we use in producing paper in Ederynion come from his forest of Coed Ddu. He has a large paper-production yard just outside the gates of Ymris. And you know how much in demand parchment from Ederynion always is.”
“I suppose he must have a very large fortress, then,” Rhiannon went on. Her green eyes were gleaming as she met Angharad’s confused glance, then she cut her eyes to Amatheon, who was suddenly listening intently.
“Huge,” Angharad replied, still wondering just what Rhiannon was getting at. Whatever it was, Trystan, Cai, and Achren seemed to have already understood it—they were all trying to hide their grins.
“Too bad, then, that we won’t stop there. I hear Alun is known for his hospitality. Besides being able to sleep in a bed I have no doubt that he would supply us with privacy. Perhaps even giving each one of us our own sleeping chamber.”
“Really?” Amatheon asked his blue eyes alight as he glanced up.
“Honestly, Rhiannon,” Gwydion said absently as he carefully scanned the countryside, “you and your preoccupation with sleeping in a bed. I had no idea you were so fragile.”
“And I had no idea you were so paranoid,” Rhiannon replied sharply. “As if an occasional chance to sleep in a bed is hurting something. You know perfectly well that the Laws of Hospitality—”
“Are you really going to rant about that this entire trip?”
“I might,” she said sweetly, baring her teeth in a smile.
Amatheon went on, as though nobody else had spoken. “Our own rooms?” he asked Angharad.
“I don’t see why not,” Angharad replied.
“Gwydion,” Amatheon said eagerly, “I think it would be wise to stop and pay our respects to Alun Cilcoed. I really do.”
Gwydion halted his horse and the rest followed suit. He eyed his brother suspiciously. “Now you want to stop to see Alun Cilcoed? I hardly think—”
Gwydion stopped. He looked at Amatheon’s face. His eyes cut to Rhiannon and he scowled, opening his mouth to say something that would, no doubt, have been rude. But then he halted again as he followed Rhiannon’s gaze—for she was watching Angharad and Amatheon with a half smile on her face. Then it dawned on him. He glanced at Rhiannon who sat her horse with an air of innocence.
“Thank you, Rhiannon,” he said shortly. “Thank you very much.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rhiannon said airily.
“Yes you do,” Gwydion insisted. But then he looked over again at Amatheon and his brother’s hopeful, fresh face. He sighed. “All right, then. We stop and see Alun Cilcoed.”
It took them less than two hours to come within eyeshot of the gates of Ymris. The city was large, almost as large as Queen Olwen’s city of Dinmael and it appeared to be just as busy. The huge gates were open and people streamed in and out, for it was market day and folk from many leagues around had come to town to buy, to sell and to trade. The stone whitewashed city walls gleamed under the clear sky.
Outside the walls was another much smaller stone enclosure. The gate of this structure was also opened wide and people were bustling in and out, some holding bundles in their hands.
Angharad nodded toward the smaller structure. “That is the paper mill. I suspect Alun Cilcoed is there ri
ght now.”
“Then by all means, lead us on to the paper mill. I certainly didn’t come this far out of our way to miss this,” Gwydion said sourly.
“Gwydion, you are a sore loser,” Rhiannon said tartly.
“As are you,” he said swiftly. “Witness the cave I found you in.”
“You—” Rhiannon began, her green eyes hard and angry.
“Don’t,” Amatheon said, reaching over and touching Rhiannon’s arm. His blue eyes were begging and, after a moment, Rhiannon nodded tightly and held her silence.
Angharad led the way as they rode in through the open gates into a huge courtyard. Wooden poles were set up through the yard. They served as a prop for a huge canvas tarp in the event of rain. But today it was clear, so the canvas remained rolled and stacked against one wall.
“How does this work?” Achren asked curiously.
“You’ve never seen paper being made?” Angharad asked in surprise.
“In Prydyn we make wine, not paper,” Achren pointed out. “Know much about making wine?”
“Not much,” Angharad admitted. She pointed to rows of huge, wooden tubs of water sitting to the left of the gate. “These tubs hold a mixture of linen, straw and wood. The metal pistons positioned above each tub are used to pound the mixture into a fine pulp. The pistons are powered by this team of oxen which circle the tubs.”
“At least you don’t use horses,” Trystan said in relief. “That’s not a job for those fine animals.”
“Some mills do use horses, of course,” Angharad said with a smile, “but never horses from your Rheged. Those horses would be far too fine for work such as this.”
The team of oxen, led by a caller, circled the vats. The caller lifted his voice, cajoling the animals forward, calling them his beauties, his lovelies, entreating them in a singsong voice to follow him, which they did eagerly.
Angharad nodded to a group of men who were tilting one of the tubs, pouring the contents into a huge vat. “The pulp is now fine enough to use the molds on.”
Men and women, holding tray molds with fine, wire mesh on the base, dipped the molds into the vat and lifted them out again, allowing the water to drain out.
“They put the molds over there and leave them to drain out as much as possible. When they are dried they turn the tray over and deposit the contents on those pieces of felt. Then they put more pieces of felt over that, and add more parchment. Then they take the pile and put it on a press, to squeeze as much water as they can out of it.” A woman lifted one of the piles and took it to the huge press, positioning it under a vise. A man pulled a few levers and the pile of felt and parchment was squeezed tightly as water slowly seeped out.
When that was complete the woman took the pile to another group of women. “They are hanging each sheet up to dry,” Angharad said as the women hung the sheets over a huge line that stretched across one full side of the compound.
“What are they using to hang them on?” Amatheon asked.
“Human hair,” she answered. “It’s the only thing soft and fine enough.”
“Then it’s done?” Amatheon asked.
“Not yet. Then they take the dry sheets and dip them into those vats there,” Angharad said, nodding her head to another portion of the courtyard.
“What’s in them?” Rhiannon asked.
“Gelatin. Made from horse’s hooves. After that they will hang the sheets up again until they dry.”
“Then they are done,” Gwydion said.
“Then they are done,” Angharad agreed.
“And here, I do believe,” Rhiannon said, “is the man we came to see.”
Alun Cilcoed, having caught sight of them, made his way through the press of people, tubs and oxen that crammed the courtyard. Alun had dark hair and intelligent brown eyes. He was tall, taller even than Gwydion and lean. He was dressed in a laced-up tunic and trousers of soft, tanned leather. His arms were bare, for he was not wearing a shirt beneath his tunic. The only ornament he wore was an armlet of gold on his upper right arm. His locks were tied back at the nape of his neck with a piece of leather. Although it was autumn, and the day was somewhat cool, Alun’s forehead was beaded with sweat, for he was working alongside his people.
“Angharad ur Ednyved,” Alun said formally, bowing low. “You are most welcome here. To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
“To the fact that you have a large fortress,” Angharad said dryly.
Alun’s brows went up.
“I promised my companions that you would be able to provide a room for each of us for the night,” Angharad explained, her lips twitching, although her tone was solemn.
Alun grinned and as he did Angharad noticed that her companions smiled, even Gwydion. “Then, by all means, you must join me tonight. We will feast together and you shall have the best my house can offer.”
“And the sleeping arrangements?” Angharad asked pointedly.
“You shall each have a private chamber,” Alun said grandly, “as that is clearly what you came for.” He eyed them all then grinned again. “Whether you each stay the night in them is certainly up to you.”
Angharad stretched luxuriously on the feather mattress. A fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace. A huge bearskin rug rested before the hearth. The bedstead was covered with a fine coverlet of sea green. A glass beaker full of red wine along with two glass goblets tinted a delicate green rested on the small, oak table next to the bed.
Angharad, having just visited the bathhouse, was clean and warm and wrapped in a guest robe of green velvet. Her red hair, still slightly damp from her bath, cascaded down her back as she slowly drew a comb through the shining strands.
The knock on her door did not startle her, for she knew who it was. But when she opened it, she discovered she was wrong.
“Gwydion!” she exclaimed.
Gwydion stood with his arms crossed and a scowl on his handsome face.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, more sharply than she had meant to. She definitely did not want Amatheon to see Gwydion at her door and get the wrong idea.
“I don’t want to spend the night, if that is what you are worried about,” he said shortly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It is not a ridiculous assumption,” she pointed out, stung. “After all, we’ve spent a few nights together before.”
“True,” Gwydion said a gleam in his silvery eyes. “But this journey is hardly the time or the place to continue such meetings.”
“I didn’t think it was,” she said shortly.
“Didn’t you?” he asked, his brows raised.
“You—”
“I meant Amatheon,” Gwydion explained. “What are you trying to do, Angharad? Curious to compare brothers?”
She flushed, if only because part of her had been entertaining that notion. She lashed out, raising her hand to slap his face, but he caught her hand before she could.
“Don’t even think about hitting me, Angharad,” he said evenly.
“And don’t even think about telling me what to do,” she said between gritted teeth as she snatched her hand from his grasp. “What is this all about, anyway?” she asked in a calmer tone. “We are friends, Gwydion, who have been, on occasion, lovers. Since when do you care who I sleep with?”
“Since the man in question is my brother.”
“And that matters because?” she asked, her brows raised.
“Because I think he might be in love with you.”
Angharad’s breath caught in her throat. She had not thought of that. Surely Gwydion was mistaken.
Gwydion, correctly interpreting her expression, went on, “I know what I’m taking about. I know my brother. What will you do, if I am right?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly, after a moment of silence. “I really don’t.”
“Ah,” he said, the scowl melting from his face. “I see.”
“You see what?”
“I see that loving my brother back is not out of the
question.”
“How do you know that?” she asked brusquely.
“Because if it was out of the question you wouldn’t still be contemplating sleeping with him tonight.”
They were both silent for a moment. Then Gwydion went on, in a gentler tone. “What will you do, Angharad?”
“I really do not know,” she said slowly. “But I can promise you, Gwydion, that I will be careful.”
“Than that is enough, I suppose. Good night, Angharad,” he said as he raised her hand to his lips and turned it over to kiss her palm. “I wish you a pleasant evening.”
She watched him walk down the corridor and turn the corner. She stood for a moment in her doorway, thinking on what Gwydion had said.
She knew that the wisest thing she could do would be to turn away Amatheon at the door. She was the Captain of the warband of the Queen of Ederynion, and that was the most important thing in her life. Her experience of men indicated that they wanted to be the most important thing. That was why she had long ago decided that a permanent relationship was not for her, for she would not put up with a man who demanded that he be the center of her world.
She slowly shut the door and returned to the edge of the bed, picking up the comb again and absently running it through her hair. It would be best to send Amatheon away. She knew that now. She had no wish to hurt him, and no intention of becoming permanently involved.
She answered the door, her comb still in her hand. It was he. His blue eyes were alight with desire. Before she could even speak he reached out and caressed a thick, silken lock of fiery hair that cascaded over the front of her robe, drawing his breath in sharply as he did so.
“Amatheon,” she whispered. And then she drew him into the chamber, her lips on his, closing the door behind him.
Meriwydd, Disglair Wythnos—early afternoon
THE PARTY DREW near to the gravesite in the bright afternoon. The mound lay just on the fringes of the forest, surrounded by delicate aspens whose golden autumn leaves shook and whispered in the slight breeze. Sweet white alyssum sprouted through the stones of the mound, so thick that it seemed that the grave was covered with a delicate snowdrift.
