To Carry the Horn

Chapter 19-3

She paused, and shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“Soon enough Gwyn discovered that his sister wasn’t truly committed to breaking her marriage, that her letters had been at best misleading and at worst provocative lies, and that he had already dishonored himself in attacking, unprovoked by any real grievance.”

Sorrow crept into her voice. “Then, out of his frustration and dismay, he committed vicious acts which have echoed long afterward. Instead of just ransoming his captives, he began to kill them, one by one, since he couldn’t kill her.

“This was bad, very bad, but worse followed. There was one hostage, Nwython, who had been captured with his son, Cyledr. Gwyn killed the father, and forced the son to eat his heart. The young man broke, raving, and Gwyn was brought to his senses. He released the remnant of his prisoners and sent them back to Gwythyr, but Cyledr Wyllt, that is, Cyledr the Mad, escaped to the forest and vanished.”

George said, “Did it stop there?”

“Of course not. Gwythyr gathered an army and prepared to assault Gwyn, and then Beli Mawr intervened and admitted himself partly responsible. Gwyn bent his knee and offered recompense for his actions, but Gwythyr wouldn’t accept. So Beli Mawr imposed a compact, that the two of them would fight yearly, at the turn of the seasons, until the ending of the world, Creiddylad to live with the winner. Gwythyr, as the more injured party, sought and was granted a boon. He repudiated Creiddylad, and would fight solely for the honor of the fallen.

“So it was decreed that Creiddylad live with Gwyn when he wins, and with her father otherwise and so it’s been for now these many centuries.”

“What sort of fights are these, between Gwyn and Gwythyr?” George asked.

“On Nos Galan Mai, the first night of May, they meet, unweaponed but for their powers, and strive for mastery in contests witnessed and judged by their peers. Gwyn usually wins, but not always. His reward is to do it again in a year.”

“What about Creiddylad?”

“She’s very bitter. She’s never remarried and has no children. Living with her father is uncomfortable for both of them, and so she avoids it if she can. Her power over Gwyn as consort is gone, but she’s still his sister and understands how to manipulate him better than he knows. He allows her to treat the manor as her home and has granted her Pencoed, that is, Edgewood, a small domain nearby for her own private use, most unwisely in my opinion.”

“You think she still stirs up trouble.”

“I know that she does. I don’t like this Madog that she brings with her, these last many years, but Gwyn won’t press her about him.” She rose. “Ah, well, events will unfold as they will.”

George took the cue not to outstay his welcome. He stood up and took one more long look at the wall of paintings, and his eye was caught by a large, off-white horn. Walking up to it, he saw this was a portrait from the side of a huntsman wearing a carved ivory horn at his back slung on a baldric around his chest. I used to know the medieval term for that, he thought. Oh, yes—an oliphant. Roland blew one to summon Charlemagne’s army before his death. “Is that Iolo? I never saw him living.”

“It is indeed.”

He admired the stern, masterful features. That’s a lot to live up to, he thought.

They turned to walk back toward the door, passing an easel with a canvas, draped in a cloth. “Your current work?” he asked pausing. “May I see?”

“I try never to show the subject the unfinished work,” she demurred.

“I’ll promise not to tell him,” he said, raising an eyebrow hopefully.

“I don’t know if that’s a promise you can keep,” she said, smiling. She gestured at it, “Go ahead, if you will. I just started it yesterday.”

He lifted the protective cloth carefully and froze, the cloth still in his hand. The sketch, in charcoal with bits of background painted in, showed a mounted man from behind, his right arm stretching out a long garment, an arrow just coming through the cloth toward the viewer. The archer in front of him still raised his empty bow, and there was a clear area of different landscape behind him.

“I had no idea,” he said.

“How could you? I don’t often do action scenes but I found the composition an interesting challenge and, after all, I was there.”

She took the cloth from his hand and draped it back over the canvas.

On his way back, George mulled over the ancient tales he’d heard, all of which were also family stories. Hard to keep both those things in mind at the same time.

What would happen if the great hunt weren’t successful? Would Gwyn lose his realm, as others feared? If he did, would the family survive, these new kin of mine? Would I be able to get back home or would I be trapped here?

Or if the great hunt failed, for the first time, maybe getting back home would be the least of his concerns. You have to survive to worry about it.

If you don’t succeed, a few days from now, he thought, everything may be at stake. It’s not just the hunting and the killing of human quarry to be squeamish about, there are also real enemies, and you don’t know who they are. You’ve been leaving too much of that to Gwyn.

Man up and quit wasting time. You need to take this seriously. You need a plan.

He considered. Alright, first get the hunt into a shape you can manage as fast as you can. If you can’t lead the hunt, nothing else will matter.

Then find out what really happened in the last few years and see if you can get to know the enemy better, by his actions.

Finally, you’ve got to see what these new powers of yours can do, the beast-sensing, the way-finding, all the rest of it. It’s no different from learning to fight for real, no doubt—awkward while you’re getting started and frustrating, but if they can learn it, so can you. Quit holding it at arm’s-length just ’cause it’s not what you’re used to.

Satisfied with this plan, he let his mind drift as his horse carried him smoothly along. And there’s no reason I can’t slip in another date or two with Angharad while I’m at it, he thought, and smiled.