Dodinal shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. If I have to give my life to save others, then so be it. I am not afraid. But too many people have died tonight, Hywel. The village needs good men like you if it is to survive. Besides, a man travels faster when he travels alone.”
“And a man dies faster when he fights alone,” Hywel snapped back. Dodinal could not help but laugh, despite the night’s shattering events. Even so, he would not be swayed and when the two men parted he shook Hywel’s hand solemnly. Whatever happened, he was certain he would not see the tracker again.
He intended to return directly to Rhiannon, to offer whatever comfort he could. But on his way he heard a familiar voice raised in anger, and he knew that Gerwyn had returned.
FIFTEEN
As the knight cast eyes on Gerwyn, the late
Dodinal looked beyond him to the two men guarding the old man’s body. Standing close to them, awkward and fidgety with nerves, were the brothers Gerwyn had taken on his hunting trip. It came as no surprise to him that they had returned empty-handed. One of the brothers shrugged helplessly as Dodinal held him in his gaze. The knight ignored him and returned his attention to Gerwyn.
“We were attacked.”
“Really?” Gerwyn spat. “You think I have not worked that out for myself? I am no simpleton, no matter what you think.”
One of his hands now clasped his sword hilt, but as yet he had made no effort to draw it. Dodinal tensed. He was willing to forgive the man his hostility in the light of his father’s death, but if he spilled over into outright violence, the knight would put an end to it. “I did not intend to suggest that you were,” he said. “If you let me speak, I will explain what happened.”
Gerwyn dismissed the words with an angry gesture. “You are alive. My father lies cold on the ground. Even a simpleton can see you were more interested in saving your own hide than protecting his.”
“He had no duty to protect your father, you gutless bastard.”
Dodinal turned his head at the unexpected interruption.
Rhiannon marched towards them, wearing a furious expression. “He had no duty to protect anyone, but he did because he chose to.” The words tumbled out of her in a torrent. “He led the fight against the creatures that attacked us. Yes, your father is dead, but know that he died valiantly. If it were not for Idris and Dodinal, and the other brave men of the village, we would all be dead and our children would all have been taken.”
Gerwyn assumed a condescending air. “‘Creatures’? You must have taken a knock to the head, woman.”
“That’s enough,” Dodinal growled, but the words were lost as Rhiannon drew level with Gerwyn and, without breaking stride, slapped his face with the palm of her hand, hard enough to rock him on his feet. She thrust her face into his, spraying him with spittle. “Where were you when all this was happening? Far from here, shying away from hard work, just as you have always done.”
Gerwyn was frozen in place.
“It’s a pity you weren’t around to help defend us when we were attacked. My son might still be here if you had been, and your father might still be alive.” Rhiannon jabbed a finger hard into his chest. “If you want to blame anyone for his death, then blame yourself.”
With that she spun on her heel and stormed off, leaving Gerwyn thunderstruck, with a livid welt on his face. The fight had gone out of him. When he turned to Dodinal, he appeared to have just surfaced from a sleep filled with confusing dreams. “What did she mean about Owain? And what is all this talk of creatures? Has the world gone mad?”
Dodinal was too weary to care whether Gerwyn understood what had happened or not. “Believe me, I am deeply sorry about your father, but my place is with Rhiannon. Find someone else to tell you what occurred here tonight. You will find it hard to believe, but believe it you must. And, yes, the world
He had no more to say and so he left, to find Rhiannon and do whatever he could to help her through the long night ahead. She had commandeered another of the huts whose occupants had been killed. One by one the injured were carried in for her to assess their wounds, and stitch them or bind them as necessary. Candles had been lit all around to boost the light from the fire.
It was ceaseless, demanding work. Dodinal watched her with increasing concern, she seemed to age years as the night passed. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin was wan and taut. He could have wept at the sight of her.
Midnight came and went and still she was not done. Her hands were painted red with blood, her clothes were spotted with dark patches. She was so tired her body swayed, and she had to pause from her work while she rubbed her eyes into wakefulness, smearing blood across her face. Her fingers trembled as she stitched torn flesh with needle and sinew until the only way she could hold them steady was by gripping one hand with the other.
Finally Dodinal could bear it no longer and insisted she rested. “You have seen to the most badly injured,” he told her, ignoring her protests and guiding her away from the healing hut towards her own. “The others have but minor wounds. They can wait until morning.”
Once inside, he ordered her to lay on the pallet. He found a cloth and used hot water from the pot to wash the blood from her hands and face despite her weak protestations. Then he pulled the furs up over her. “I will not sleep,” she insisted in a drowsy voice. Her eyelids drooped. Only her anger and fear were keeping her awake.
“No matter, as long as you rest. You have been through a terrible ordeal. You need to take time to regain your strength.”
At that, she cried out and sat bolt upright. “What about Owain? How can I sleep when he is all I can think of?”
Dodinal gently pushed her down. “Rest, I said. Think of your son, by all means. Only, think of the joy you will feel in your heart when I bring him safely back to you.”
She looked deep into his eyes, seeking the truth of his words and finding it. Satisfied, she nodded and settled down, turning onto her side and pulling the furs up to her chin.
Dodinal busied himself with tending to the fire, then sat at the table and stared into the flames while he slowly sharpened his sword. He went over his memories of the attack and asked himself if there was anything he could have done to have altered the outcome.
After a while he noticed Rhiannon’s breathing had slowed and was deep and steady. The anxiety had fallen from her face, and she looked once more like the kind and beautiful woman who had tended to his wounds. He would do anything for her, and for her son. It vexed him greatly to be sitting in the warmth of the fire while Owain was in the forest at the mercy of the gargoyle creatures. Every fibre of his being demanded he should be out searching for him, and for the girl. Now he knew what to look for, he would be mindful of signs of the creatures’ passage. Yet for all his gifts, he could not see tracks in the dark. Blundering off blindly in the wrong direction could set him back hours, or even days.
It was frustrating, but he had to wait.
He rested the sword against the wall and sat in silence.
Finally he drifted into sleep too.
He woke with his head at an awkward angle, his neck stiff and sore. Weak grey light seeped like watery gruel through the gap between door and floor. He had slept straight through until dawn. He stood and stretched, twisting his head from side to side until he could move it freely. It was cold. The fire had burned low. He fed it wood and banked it until it flared into life.
He warmed his hands above the flames, then crouched by the bed where Rhiannon slept, her chest gently moving, her lips slightly parted.
He let her remain undisturbed, holding on to that image of her while he pulled on his cloak and fastened it at his shoulder. There was every chance he would not survive to see her again. This was how he wanted to remember
