Curse of the Celts

was no more than a contained piece of sea trapped by the northernmost section of Cymru, by Eireann to the west, and by Mercia stretching north until it hit the land of Alba. I had a vague appreciation of the island’s geography and knew that the sea here was sheltered compared to the waters that crashed against the toe of Britannia where Bronwyn was from. But to me, the reality of it was beyond anything I had imagined from photos. The vastness of the water as it stretched out to the horizon was incredible; it went on for ever. No crowded vessels bobbing on it, hustling for space at the dock, just an infinite emptiness that went on and on, shimmering and undulating in the wind. I could taste a tang on my tongue that blew away the last vestiges of the ties that bound me to Londinium. These waters were constant, as was the land at my back. Life was sleeping in the wintry forest but it endured, and so would I. Come spring, the cycle would turn.

Devyn sat tall in his saddle, his dark curls tossed by the wild winds coming off the sea, his face lifted to the castle ahead of us. The horses’ heads lowered as they huffed their way in the frigid air, clip-clopping over the bridge that spanned the river and then up to the castle entrance. The winds buffeted us mercilessly as we made our way across.

Bronwyn gained us entrance after speaking softly with the guards who stood sentry at the open gates. Unlike at Dinas Brân, a party of our size was considered little threat here at Conwy Castle. The single tower in the hills was nothing to this magnificent fortress; there were towers and buildings behind massive fortified battlements behind which the entire town could take refuge. We clattered through to the courtyard, and grooms came forward to meet us and take our horses before we had even dismounted.

A small figure emerged, cloakless, from the building at the far side of the courtyard. He hurried over with a quick step as he greeted Bronwyn with a warm “Niece” and embraced her in welcome.

The Prince of Gywnedd was a smaller, wiry version of his brother. Though his curly hair was also grey, he was lighter of spirit, which made him seem younger than Devyn’s father, though I was aware that Llewelyn was the senior by some years. His lively eyes surveyed us and then grew dark as they lit upon the scarred face of Gideon.

“York,” he snarled. “You are not welcome here.”

Gideon’s chin went up as a broad grin spread across his face at the dislike directed at him.

Bronwyn laid a softening hand on her uncle’s arm as he bristled at Gideon’s impudence.

“Uncle, he’s with us,” she explained in an attempt to get him to back down from his unwelcoming stance.

“I don’t care who he’s with. No one from House Mortimer will spend a night under my roof,” the small man gritted out, his hand lifting in a signal that brought armed guards to escort Gideon from the castle.

“Uncle, he’s with me,” Devyn said, stepping forwards and lowering his hood.

The Prince of Gywnedd kept one eye on the Anglian who was the target of his ire but he turned, giving his attention to the young man before him. The hard lines softened as he registered Devyn. He lifted a shaking hand to touch the gaunt face under the tumult of black curls.

He looked to Bronwyn who smiled in confirmation.

“Boy…” he whispered, dragging his nephew into a fierce embrace. Although he barely came to Devyn’s shoulder I worried that he would do some damage to his nephew, so strong was his embrace; he held on to him as if by doing so he could prevent him from ever disappearing again. “So it’s true. You’ve come back.”

Devyn pulled back with a wince. “Uncle Llewelyn.”

Both men stood there taking stock of the changes visible in each other. I wondered what his uncle made of the changes in the young man he had known. Were his memories of the sad, withdrawn boy I had glimpsed in my vision or of better times? He and his father must have spent time here, in this great castle. I imagined Devyn’s chubby legs running across this courtyard, perhaps thwarting a nanny as he escaped to the stables. Was there any sign left of the child he would have known in the lean, sombre man before him?

A crooked smile tugged at Devyn’s lips, lighting his face.

“Gideon left his father’s house long ago; he’s Deverell’s man now,” Devyn said, defending the Anglian.

“I don’t care what kennel the pup crawls into at night, I’m still not letting a rabid cur enter my home.”

Gideon’s eyes darkened at the damning declaration, a tic appearing at his jaw. The warrior might present an indifferent mask to the world around him, but he wasn’t immune to the slurs that came his way. Richard Mortimer, the Steward of York, was one of the most powerful men in the land. Why did Llewelyn despise him, and would that hatred extend to Marcus and the House of York once he discovered who he was? Marcus and I exchanged glances.

Devyn’s smile broadened as he glanced at the glowering warrior, all too aware that Gideon would love nothing more than to oblige the prince and take off back along the coast. But he had promised to deliver us to Carlisle so he couldn’t leave without us, and we weren’t going until Devyn was fit to continue north.

A tall, fair-haired man now stood at Llewelyn’s shoulder and Bronwyn looked to him to intercede for us. The new arrival smiled broadly at her and Devyn but said nothing.

“Rhys.” Devyn’s eyes warmed briefly in greeting before returning to their deadlock with his uncle. “He saved my life and he has got us this far. If he goes, I go.”

Devyn laid down his ultimatum, putting a hand on his uncle’s shoulder in a familial manner.