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‘Take care,’ he said simply to her. ‘Take
care.’ Gwenhwyfar leaned down from her horse and kissed him, once, lightly, as
so many times he had kissed her before riding out. ‘I have Meriaun and Ider to
protect me, and I go into the mountains where I was born.’ She touched his
face, stubbled
with the growth of an unshaven
beard. ‘You also take care.’
And she
was gone, heeling her horse into a trot as the men
hauled the trunk from across the gap, gene where
the black
space of night hovered
beyond the slope that dropped down
with
alarming steepness into the dark, bog-bound levels of
marsh and
deep-shadowed alder. Arthur saw only the swish of her horse’s tail and her
hand, raised in parting.

At dawn, Hueil left his secure ridge, and
swung down towards Deva, and Morgause. And Amlawdd, with his following of
baggage carts and army whores, broke their night camp and marched for
Viroconium.

§ XXXIII

Gwenhwyfar and the men
rode as far as practical in the
darkness,
making slow passage through the marshes and across
the river. They stopped to rest and graze the horses and
to snatch a brief few hours’ sleep before entering the heavily
wooded
valley that would take them up into Gwynedd.

The winter snows had come and turned to rain,
although the heights of Moel Siabod and Yr Wyddfa were still decked in
white blankets. Gwenhwyfar had known winters when
even
the tough hill sheep had perished beneath snows that lay
impenetrable for weeks. This had been a wet, cold
winter,
though there was even now
time for the snows to come again. It
was the first week into March, but
there were not many early flowers or green buds on the trees. Spring would be
late this year.

They were watched as they entered the valley.
There was
nothing seen or heard, only a
feeling of eyes on their backs and
the tell-tale sign of their horses’
ears twitching back and forth,
listening. And
then, as the sun rose, eight mounted men
appeared from out of the dawn
mist, Gwynedd men, weapons drawn but not raised, politely offering escort.

They were taken along
the valley to Enniaun, who waited for
them beneath the ancient stronghold called the Place of
Ravens,
a hill fort of old magic, rich in stories, wraithed in
superstition. Gwenhwyfar’s father, the great Lion Lord
Cunedda,
had been laid to rest up there. Enniaun’s horses were
still saddled, traces of wet mud and sweat clinging to their coats.
His
boots, too, were muddy and he looked tired, drawn and dishevelled. The mist had
settled lower, drifting down the mountains, the grey breath masking the quiet
hills and wooded
slopes, making them quieter
still. Gwenhwyfar’s sense of
distinct
unease sprang into full alarm. She jumped from her
mare, ran to her
eldest brother crying, ‘What is wrong?’
Enniaun
retained his tired smile of greeting, hugged his sister
to him, indicated the fire his men had set. Hares
were roasting, and a brace of duck. ‘Sit near the fire, sister, food will be
ready soon.’ He took her elbow, guided her towards the warmth while
calling for
drink to be brought. Rebellious, Gwenhwyfar shook
him off, stamped
her foot. A childish action, but one that
seemed
fitting. ‘I don’t want warmth or food or drink. I want to know why you are not
riding to aid my husband, and what is happening here in Gwynedd!’
Enniaun persisted, tried
again to seat her before the fire; his
sister’s
sudden-flared tempers had not dampened with the years,
then! With a sigh and gesture of submission, he
seated himself,
accepted wine. ‘It
is some while since I last had chance to fill my
belly, I intend to eat, even if you do not.’ He began on a portion
of
hare, added with exasperation, ‘For God’s sake sit down, woman –aye and you,
nephew.’ Enniaun nodded at Meriaun,
who
stood near the horses wearing a frosted frown. ‘Let me eat,
then we can
talk.’
Meriaun, not as easily riled as
Gwenhwyfar, sat cross-legged
to the opposite side of the fire, regarding
his uncle through critical eyes. He had noticed some of the things Gwenhwyfar
had not. The men were dropping with fatigue, several with bandages covering
wounds. The horses went ungroomed, also wounded, some of them. He helped
himself to meat, offered some to Gwenhwyfar, who reluctantly flounced to the
grass beside him.

Enniaun took only one
mouthful, then launched into explana
tion. ‘We cannot help
Arthur. Powys is grumbling along our
borders
again and the sea-wolves are also at our throats. Môn, it
seems is no longer enough for them. Ships are
lying off our coast as
far down as
Ceredigion.’ Enniaun paused as riders approached,
coming at a hard canter, their horses slithering
to a halt. Two men
leapt from the
saddles, strode with quick, long paces towards the fire, wasted no time with
formality or greeting. Enniaun finished
what he had been saying. ‘There
have been a few skirmishes, nothing serious, but ...’ Abloyc, their brother,
stripping his gloves from his hands, completed the sentence. ‘But if we pull
our men out to aid the
Pendragon, Powys and
the sea-wolves will be like bees
swarming
to spilt honey.’ Briefly, he and the other man,
Dogmail, embraced their sister before flopping down before the
fire,
expressions as grim as Enniaun’s.

Caught between Gwynedd’s need and that of her
husband,
Gwenhwyfar pleaded, ‘Help us now,
and when Hueil is finished
Arthur will bring the Artoriani to flush
every sea-pirate from Gwynedd and Ceredigion. Powys will not dare go against
the Pendragon! Arthur will help you, as soon as he can!’
Enniaun was shaking his head, sadly, slowly.
Dogmail shifted
himself to a more comfortable position, and Abloyc’s
fingers were fiddling with his dagger. None was willing to answer the truth.
Someone had to, had to spit it out. Surprisingly, the someone was Meriaun, who
thought of himself no longer of Gwynedd but of the Artoriani.

‘Arthur may not be able to help, Gwen.
Gwynedd does not have the knowing of how long this bad blood with Hueil may
last.’ Reluctantly he returned Gwenhwyfar’s direct challenging gaze. ‘Nor can
Gwynedd rely on Arthur having the victory of this thing.’ She was on her feet,
defensive anger and frustration spilling over the boil. ‘Were Gwynedd to help,
victory would be a certainty! We have only the Artoriani and a handful of Winta’s
men. The militias this side of the Wall have refused to march
out lest Hueil attacks their settlements. We are
but a few
against the many!’ The men made no answer, they sat
cross-legged around the fire, expressions embarrassed, knowing she had the
right of it, but the right was on the wrong side of a damned impossible
situation. Dogmail, sitting, studying his hands, not raising the
courage to look at her, spoke: ‘When Gwynedd went
north with
you before, it was to settle our hearts against a land which
was
our father’s and his father’s before
him. Also, Gwynedd was not
in the danger that she is in now.’ Gwenhwyfar
ignored him, swung on her heel, the metal of her scabbard clanking as she spun.
She was wasting her time here; Arthur needed every sword, and she had thirty of
them here in Gwynedd.

Enniaun climbed wearily to his feet, but made
no attempt to follow her. ‘The sea-wolves were not roving in so full a pack
then, and Lot fought with only a half-sharpened blade, he had no real stomach
for a fight. Hueil has higher ambition and has been trained to fight by the
best war-lord this land has ever known.’ He raised his eyebrow as Gwenhwyfar
halted, half turned, reluctant, to face him, dipped his head in a slight nod.
‘Hueil was of the Artoriani, sister, he fights like
Arthur, with
his head.’ Slowly Enniaun raised his arms, let them drop in
a gesture of expressed frustration. ‘Why do you think the raiders
have set sail, at this time of year, in such
numbers? Who do you
think has lured them from their crumbling
settlements to a promised land of gold?’ His eyebrows creased lower. ‘Why has
Powys suddenly developed a greed to extend her
borders? Hueil
buys his diversionary tacts, my sister. He can afford to
pay a
high price to those who wish, for
whatever reason, to help him.’
It was true, Gwenhwyfar knew, all true.

Enniaun swept his hand towards where some trees
had been felled, to where the beginnings of a building had started. ‘I had
you brought here to this place for a second reason
sister, beyond
our meeting. I
thought you would like to see, I build a holy place
here,’ he snorted, ‘least,
I had intended to. When the fighting eases, I will try again.’ He leant across,
took her hand in his. ‘I build for our father’s memory this church, and I will
give this
valley to the men and women of
God who will come here. It will
be a valley of God, of the Cross of
Christ, and of peace.’ He
squeezed her hand,
said with a choke to his voice. ‘I want you to
accept what I must do,
sister. Arthur will.’ He was no longer talking of his church of the Valle
Crucis.

Meriaun was rising to
his feet, brushing damp from his tunic.
He
held his hand out to his dead father’s brother. ‘We have our
quarrels, my uncle, and even in this, though I
see your reason, I
am not certain I would follow the track you take,
but,’ and he shrugged, ‘you are mounted and have set off on the ride. I trust God
to be with you.’
Enniaun took the proffered
hand, accepted what was
intended as
an offering of peace between them. ‘Good hunting,
my nephew, cast your
spear well.’ Meriaun nodded, smiled, followed after Gwenhwyfar who was already
calling for the men and horses.

The valley with
its green hills and calm river returned to its
peaceful sleeping as the riders departed their separate ways. The
spirit
of Cunedda, had it been watching from its sentinel post on the top of Dinas
Bran, could have looked westward into the high mountains of Gwynedd, to Moel
Siabod and Yr Wyddfa,
or east, across the
lesser hills, towards Deva. Happen, given the
death that was about to
strike that proud town, it was best that
the
old Lord rested, instead, in the sanctuary of the Other
World.

§ XXXIV

Peace. The chance to sit
idle by a river and cast a line for fish, to
see
your children grow and raise children of their own. Peace?
Huh, a foolish dream that had no place in the world
of men.
The sickly smell of greed, Arthur thought, had a lot to answer
for. He ran his hand along the arch of his stallion’s
neck.
Onager’s ears were back, as always.

When Lot had tried for the North – by the
Bull, it seemed a
long time ago – none had
challenged the necessity of the
Artoriani to fight. It was expected,
begged for, and Arthur had responded. But even in these few passing years, the
North had changed, aye because of that brief, flurried war, which had left it
poorer than before and aside from its own kind, friendless.
This time, the rich lands of the south were
speaking against the
need to fight in
the North. Let Hueil have it, the loudest
mouths said. Of what use is it
to us? Caer Luel is a grinding
quern dangling
at our necks, Eboracum an abandoned town,
left to the ravens and the poor, who care little where they dwell,
and
the Saex. There is nothing in the North save the smell of poverty and
inhospitable, mist-shrouded hills, they said. Let Hueil have it! Arthur’s
messengers, bearing their scrolls of parchment and
wax tablets, had returned swiftly, bringing, time and time
again,
negative answers, a refusal to fight. There would be no Cymry this time, only
Artoriani.

Arthur called ahead to
the officer. ‘Order the men to
dismount. We will
walk, rest the horses.’ They were marching
for Deva, had been
riding through sparse woodland, a variety of
trees and open clearings, the ground free of undergrowth.
This was wet ground, low-lying, mostly marsh, scattered with treacherous bogs
that sucked man and beast into hidden pits. Difficult for fast riding, perilous
for fighting; Arthur wanted to
be away from
it. Let Amlawdd follow. He would have as hard a
time of getting through
this stuff as the Artoriani. And Arthur was enough ahead to choose the ground
if he had to turn and
make a fight of it.
Deva was a handful of miles off, but horses, no
matter how well fed,
could not be pushed beyond endurance if they were to be needed for another day.