“There,” she said finally, taking a step back and scrutinising the results. “You look almost civilised.”
“Thank you,” Dodinal said dryly, rubbing his aching chin.
“Now I’ll take you to Idris and the village elders.”
“Elders?” Dodinal was immediately wary. He had anticipated sharing a few words and perhaps some food with the chieftain, and him alone. More people meant more questions. As there were some answers he would not be inclined to share, it could become awkward.
“His best hunters, his closest friends. You’ll like them, man of the wild that you are. But be mindful of his son.” Rhiannon’s mouth curled down. “Gerwyn is a difficult one. He insisted that two of his friends should be on the council too. To speak for the young as well as the old, or so he said. He was just causing trouble as always.”
“He won’t give me any trouble, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure, too. You’re twice his size. Don’t worry; Idris tolerates him but keeps him under control. I’m sure you will have much to discuss. Come back when you’re done. You can stay here for as long as you want. I’ll remain in the Great Hall with Owain.”
“No, please. I have caused enough disruption. You stay here with the boy. I will sleep in the hall, if Idris will have me.”
“He will not. You are an honoured guest. You deserve a place of your own. Those were his words.” Her eyes sparkled in the firelight as she handed Dodinal his cloak. “And I’m sure they were honestly spoken. But by coincidence, it also means he can have Owain stay with him a little while longer.”
“Some coincidence,” Dodinal agreed.
They went out into the howling white world. Rhiannon kept pace with the knight who moved slowly and carefully, feeling a twinge in his thigh as he walked. The snowstorm was so ferocious that, even in daylight, he struggled to take in his surroundings.
As they headed towards the Great Hall, hunched over and with their hoods up to escape the worst of the wind, he could see the tall shapes he had taken for trees were the remains of a palisade. It would have been a stout defence at the time it was built, but years of neglect had taken their toll. There were gaps Dodinal could walk through. With Arthur having stemmed the Saxon tide, there would have been no pressing need to keep it in good repair.
They scurried past smaller huts, maybe two score all told. The gale flattened the smoke columns that rose from their roof holes before tearing them to shreds. He imagined villagers huddled behind the doors, wondering how long this weather and their food could last, emerging only to share meagre communal meals in the Great Hall, where they would talk to while away the long, empty hours.
Squinting against the blizzard, Dodinal could see a barn, inside which a pair of oxen and two sheep stood listlessly, while two chickens paced around and pecked at the floor. Next to the barn was a small sty and Dodinal sensed two pigs curled up together for warmth.
By the time they reached their destination, a long rectangular building, the knight’s face and fingers were numb with cold. Rhiannon went in first, pulling the heavy door open and holding it until Dodinal had followed her through. Then she let the door slam shut behind her and the bellowing wind was immediately muted.
Dodinal took stock of his surroundings.
A great fire burned in its pit at the near end of the hut; a mastiff stretched out asleep before it, legs twitching as it pursued whatever dream-prey it had scented. Several smaller fires burned further down the hut, either for cooking or heat. Smoke was drawn through the roof-holes but enough remained inside to sting his eyes. Before him was a table, longer than it was wide, with benches running along both sides and a chair at each end.
On the walls were mounted trophies — deer, boar and bear — the heads gazing down at the room with glassy, unseeing eyes. Skins had been hung roughly halfway along the hall. Presumably the area beyond them was where the chieftain and his family slept.
A dozen men watched him in silence from the benches, most of them older than Dodinal. A younger man with a mane of dark curly hair sat in the chair closest to the knight. At the opposite end from him was seated a stout, older man, his chair high-backed and ornate. It was he who broke the silence, rising and making for Dodinal, one hand outstretched, a grin across his face.
“So this is the man who saved my grandson’s life,” he boomed, taking Dodinal’s hand in his to shake it vigorously, and clapping him repeatedly and forcibly on his shoulder. “It is good to finally meet you!”
Dodinal turned helplessly to Rhiannon.
“Our friend is a man of few words,” she obliged. “And he is not comfortable with grand gestures of thanks. Not when he believes he only did what any man would have done.”
“Nonsense,” Idris exclaimed. The chieftain’s voice was loud enough to rattle the walls, or so it seemed to Dodinal. “I know of no other man who could have fought off three ravenous wolves and then walk almost all the way here with half his leg bitten off!”
There was a low murmur of laughter from around the table.
“It did not seem that bad at the time,” Dodinal mumbled, trying to ignore the way the men stared at him with friendly, curious expressions. All save the curly-haired man who sat in the chair near to Dodinal, who was, presumably, Gerwyn. He held Dodinal with a surly and defiant gaze. Could it be that he was intimidated by Dodinal and was determined not to show it? Maybe he was just looking for trouble, as Rhiannon had warned.
His father was powerfully built, with a broad chest and a creased, leathery face that spoke of years of exposure to the elements. His hair and beard were as white as snow but his brown eyes were clear and bright. His accent, like Rhiannon’s, was rich and mellifluous. It was said the Welsh were a nation of poets, but Dodinal knew they were dangerous too. Perhaps that was why he felt comfortable in their presence.
“This is Dodinal.” The chieftain addressed the room once Rhiannon had left them. “My grandson’s saviour, as you will have heard. For that reason alone, if no other, he is now kin. One of us.”
Idris took him by the arm and guided him around the table, calling out the names of the men as they passed: Emlyn, Tomos, Rhydian, Elfed, Hywel and so forth, the names all unfamiliar to Dodinal’s ears. The men either nodded or murmured a greeting in return. Introductions done, the old man indicated the high-backed chair. “Be seated.” Dodinal shook his head and made to squat at the end of the bench — it was the chieftain’s chair and he had no right to take it — but Idris was insistent. “I would consider it an honour.”
Dodinal reluctantly took the seat. Idris settled on the bench. “Gerwyn, fetch our guest some food and drink.”
Gerwyn made no effort to rise. “Why? So we can sit here, watching him eat while we slowly starve?”
“It is tradition to offer hospitality to guests,” Idris answered, his tone reasonable. “True, we are not blessed with as much food as we would like, but we will prevail. We always do. It has not reached such a low point that we can be excused for forgetting our manners.”
“If this weather persists we will have nothing left,” Gerwyn protested angrily. “We can barely feed ourselves, let alone strangers.”
Idris banged his fist on the table, the crash echoing around the hall. When he spoke it was with a voice like iron. “Remember your place. You are the not the
Dodinal quickly revised his opinion. On the surface, Idris was calm and benevolent: beneath, he was as hard as the frozen earth.
Not wanting to be the cause of a row between father and son, Dodinal spoke up. “Though I thank you for your kindness, there is no need for food or drink. Rhiannon has taken care of me. And,” he added, looking pointedly at Gerwyn, “I do not intend to be a burden. As soon as the storm eases I will leave. I have matters to attend to.”
The words did not satisfy Gerwyn. He slouched in his chair, arms folded, looking meaningfully at two younger men sat near him. So similar were their features that they had to be brothers. It was clear they would back Gerwyn in a fight. Not that it would come to that, with Idris there to crack unruly heads together.
“Tell me,” the chieftain said amicably, all smiles again, as if no harsh words had been exchanged. “What brings a man to such a godforsaken wilderness as this?”
Dodinal shrugged. He had lost count of how many times he had been asked the same question since embarking upon his quest. He always gave the same answer. “I am a traveller, a wanderer. I drift from place to place, looking for work to pay for food and shelter. Women and song, too, if I am lucky enough to find them.”
The older men laughed, although Gerwyn and his friends did not. Dodinal would have to keep an eye on them
