and goods, the hire of a Danish fleet.
Within his vision the fields in the distance gave way to the first undulations of sand, and the scattered trees dwindled into clusters of bushes and scrub. Somewhere beyond, perhaps even in chains after his recapture, Cadwaladr brooded and waited for help which his brother coldly withheld. No matter what the offence, not the breaking of his pledged word, not even the murder of Anarawd, if indeed such guilt touched him, nothing could justify for Gwion Owain’s abandonment of his brother. His own breach of faith in leaving Aber Gwion saw as unforgivable, and had no blame for those who condemned it, but there was nothing Cadwaladr had done or could do that would have turned his devout vassal from revering and following him. Once given and accepted, fealty was for life.
And he could do nothing! True, he had leave to depart if he so wished, and also true, he had a company of a hundred good fighting men bivouacked not many miles away, but what was that against the numbers the Danes must have, and the defences they had secured? An ill-considered attempt to storm their camp and free Cadwaladr might only cost him his life, or, more likely, cause the Danes to up anchor and put to sea, where they could not be matched, and take their prisoner away with them, back to Ireland, out of reach of any rescue.
The distant prospect afforded him no enlightenment, and no glimmer of a way forward towards the liberation of his lord. It grieved him that Cadwaladr, who had already lost so much, should be forced to pay out what remained to him in treasury and stock to buy his liberty, without even the certainty that he might recover his lost lands, for which the sum demanded of him had been promised in the first place. Even if Owain was right, and the Danes intended him no harm provided the debt was paid, the humiliation of captivity and submission would gnaw like an ulcer in that proud spirit. Gwion grudged Otir and his men every mark of their fee. It might be said that Cadwaladr should never have invoked alien aid against a brother, but such impetuous and flawed impulses had always threatened Cadwaladr’s wisdom, and men who loved him had borne with them as with the perilous cantrips of a valiant and foolhardy child, and made the best of the resultant chaos. It was not kind or just to withdraw now, when most it was needed, the indulgence which had never before failed him.
Gwion moved on along the ridge, still straining his eyes towards the north. A fringe of trees crowned the crest, squat and warped by the salt air, and leaning inland from the prevailing wind. And there beyond their uneven line, still and sturdy and himself rooted as a tree, a man stood and stared towards the unseen Danish force as Gwion was staring. A man perhaps in his middle thirties, square-built and muscular, the first fine salting of grey in his brown hair, his eyes, over-shadowed beneath thick black brows, fixed darkly upon the sand-moulded curves of the naked horizon. He went unarmed, and bare of breast and arms in the sunlight of the morning, a powerful body formidably still in his concentration on distance. Though he heard Gwion’s step in the dry grass beneath the trees, and it was plain that he must have heard it, he did not turn his head or stir from his fixed surveillance for some moments, until Gwion stood within touch of him. Even then he stirred and turned about only slowly and indifferently.
“I know,” he said, as though they had been aware of each other for a long time. “Gazing will bring it no nearer.”
It was Gwion’s own thought, worded very aptly, and it took the breath out of him for a moment. Warily he asked: “You, too? What stake have you over there among the Danes?”
“A wife,” said the other man, with a brief, dry force that needed no more words to express the enormity of his deprivation.
“A wife!” echoed Gwion uncomprehendingly. “By what strange chance…’ What was it Cuhelyn had said, of three hostages left in peril after Cadwaladr’s defection and defiance, two monks and a girl taken by the Danes? Two monks and a girl had set out from Aber in Owain’s retinue. To fall victim in the first place to Cadwaladr’s mercenaries, and then to be left to pay the price of Cadwaladr’s betrayal, if the minds of the Danes ran to vengeance? Oh, the account was growing long, and Owain’s obduracy became ever easier to understand. But Cadwaladr had not thought, he never thought before, he acted first and regretted afterwards, as by now he must be regretting everything he had done since he made the first fatal mistake of fleeing to the kingdom of Dublin for redress.
Yes, the girl, Gwion remembered the girl. A black-browed beauty, tall, slender, and mute, serving wine and mead about the prince’s table without a smile, except occasionally the malicious and grieving smile with which she plagued the cleric they said was her father, reminding him on what thin ice he walked, and how she could shatter it under him if she so pleased. That story had been whispered around the llys from ostler to maid to armourer to page, and come early to the ears of the last hostage from Ceredigion, who alone could observe all these goings-on with an indifferent eye, since Gwynedd was not home to him, and Owain was not his lord, nor Gilbert of Saint Asaph his bishop. The same girl? She had been on her way, he recalled, to match with a man of Anglesey in Owain’s service.
“You are that Ieuan ab Ifor,” he said, “who was to marry the canon’s daughter.”
“I am that same,” said Ieuan, bending thick black brows at him. “And who are you, who know my name and what I’m doing here? I have not seen you among the prince’s liegemen until now.”
“For reason enough. I am not his liegeman. I am Gwion, the last of the hostages he brought from Ceredigion. My allegiance was and is to Cadwaladr,” said Gwion starkly, and watched the slow fire kindle and glow in the sharp eyes that watched him. “For good or ill, I am his man, but I would far rather it should be for good.”
“It is his doing,” said Ieuan, smouldering, “that Meirion’s daughter is left captive among these sea-pirates. Such good as ever came from him you may measure within the cup of an acorn, and like an acorn feed it to the pigs. He brings barbarian raiders into Gwynedd, and then goes back on his bargain, and takes to his heels into safety, leaving innocent hostages to bear the brunt of Otir’s rage. He has been as dire a curse to his own best kin as he was to Anarawd, whom he had done to death.”
“Take heed not to go too far in his dispraise,” said Gwion, but in weariness and grief rather than indignation, “for I may not hear him miscalled.”
“Oh, be easy! God knows I cannot hold it against any man that he stands by his prince, but God send you a better prince to stand by. You may forgive him all, no matter how he shames you, but do not ask me to forgive him for abandoning my bride to whatever fate the Danes keep for her.”
“The prince has declared her in his protection,” said Gwion, “as I have heard only an hour ago. He has offered fair ransom for her and for the two monks who came from England, and warned to the value he sets on her safe- keeping.”
“The prince is here,” said Ieuan grimly, “and she is there, and they have lost their grip on the one they would liefer have in hold. Other captives may find themselves serving in his place.”
“No,” said Gwion, “you mistake. Whatever rancour you may have against him, be content! This past night they have sent a ship into the bay, and put men ashore to break their way into the camp to his tent. They have taken Cadwaladr prisoner back with them, to pay his own ransom or suffer his own fate. No need for another victim, they have the chosen one fast in their hands.”
