To Carry the Horn

Chapter 3-2

“Does my grandfather Talbot know?”

“I’m not sure what he believes. I departed soon after their marriage. It was time; I’d remained long enough that my unchanging appearance was beginning to cause remark. I claimed a son in Europe from a first wife to create an appropriate heir, as I’ve done before, and left my daughter an inheritance of all but the actual estate and its furnishings.”

“How could you leave your family?”

“It must always be so. Her mother was gone, and I’d seen her into adulthood with a husband. I’ve looked in from time to time. Does she live still?”

George was horrified. Doesn’t he keep track of his own daughter? With an effort he held his face expressionless.

“She’s becoming frail. Does she know what you are? She inherits none of your… traits?”

“I never told her—it wouldn’t be kind. We have few children and, when we have children outside the blood, they mostly gain little of us except our affection.”

If that, George thought.

“Did you ever meet your granddaughter Léonie, my mother, before she died?”

“I didn’t know she’d died.” He was silent for a moment. “I often saw her in the woods of Bellemore, on her pony. We had many pleasant, if anonymous, chats.”

Rhys laughed. “You named your estate ‘Bellemore?’ Did you tell your grandfather?”

George gave him a bewildered look and Rhys turned to him with a flourish. “Cousin,” chuckling at the salutation, “you see before you the great Prince of Annwn, Gwyn ap Nudd. His father is the great lord Nudd of the Silver Hand, called these days Lludd Llaw Eraint, ruler in Britain, and his father is the mighty Beli Mawr, our highest present power. Hence ‘Bellemore.’”

Gwyn said smoothly, with an unruffled expression, “Word play’s not uncommon in Virginia estate names. I didn’t ask him for permission, nor yet you, pup.”

“Wait a minute,” George said. “It may be taking me a while to catch up, but I remember some of the old Welsh stories from my father. If you, sir,” nodding to Gwyn, “are the Prince of Annwn, then those hounds would be the Cwn Annwn, the Hounds of Hell.”

Gwyn nodded.

George was taken aback at his calm agreement, then laughed uncertainly into the silence—no wonder everyone was afraid of them. “How did I survive that?”

Gwyn looked at him. “Sometimes our blood does come out, after all. Those of my blood are in sympathy with our beasts, and so, it would seem, are you.”

George wondered. It was true that hounds and horses were biddable for him but he had never tried teaching them anything out of the ordinary. He looked at Myfanwy in his lap. “Would you sit up for me, my lady?” She glanced up at him and rose to waggle two paws in the air, eyes agleam. “Thank you,” he said faintly, popping another bit of ham in her mouth.

Before he could explore the dozens of questions that came to him, he pulled his mind back to the basics.

“Can I return? Or have I already lost years, as the stories say?”

“Yes, you can return. The stories are wrong; time passes the same in all worlds. Do you wish to return? Can you not stay the night, at least?”

George thought about it. He wanted to find out more about this place and his new relatives, but he felt the tug of his home and his responsibilities. “I will be missed and I don’t want to cause distress, nor should they send searchers on a fool’s errand.”

He remembered the text message he’d sent a few hours ago. He pulled out his cellphone and saw that the message was still unsent; there had never been a usable signal since the disastrous jump in the woods. No GPS signal either. A chill went up his spine at this confirmation that he was in a place without cell towers or satellites, or even, presumably, electricity.

As he fumbled with his gadgets, Gwyn said, “We have agents in your world. We could get a message to one that would be delivered this evening to, say, your grandfather.”

George was tempted. He wanted to explore this unexpected heritage, at least briefly. “If I return, can I come back?”

“Perhaps, but I don’t know for certain if you can do it on your own.”

Ah, there’s the subtle prod to reinforce the offer. I’m being played, George thought. He’s got something in mind, and he’s being very smooth about it.

Alright, George decided. “If I can get a note delivered to my grandfather, I’d like to stay a little while. Thank you.”

Gwyn smiled at him. “Excellent. You’ll find paper and pen on my desk. Rhys, please arrange a room for our kinsman.” Rhys departed on the errand.

With apologies, George lifted Myfanwy off his lap and walked to the desk on the far side of the room where he found an ink well with a dip pen and smooth rag paper. What could he possibly write? He settled for truthful and obscure.

Grandfather,

I can’t explain right now, but something completely unexpected has come up and I may be away for a few days. Mosby and I are fine, and I’m very sorry to have caused any worry. Could you please ask Bud to look after the place and the animals for me? Please tell Sam Littleton at my office that it’s a family emergency; Bud has the number.

Fondly,

George

His farm manager, Bud, could look after things for a few days. He’d have to defer a proper explanation until he understood more about what was happening. Perhaps his Talbot grandfather comprehended more about his wife’s family than he let on.

He gave the sheet to Gwyn who folded and sealed it. He stepped into the great hall and stopped a passing servant. “Send Idris Powell to me.”

After a few moments, Idris entered. Gwyn handed him the sealed sheet. “Get this to Mrs. Catlett as soon as possible, this afternoon, for immediate delivery to Gilbert Talbot. She knows who he is.” Idris nodded and left.

George was startled. He knew Mariah Catlett slightly, a middle-aged woman who rode quietly but competently in the first field of the hunt.

Rhys re-entered the room. “Good. Rhys, take charge of your kinsman until dinner, if you would.” He turned to George, “I’ll speak with you again later this evening.”

Dismissed, George and Rhys returned to the great hall. Rhian was sitting on the steps of the dais, waiting for them.

Rhys informed his sister, “Rhian, allow me to introduce your kinsman. He’s Gwyn’s great-grandson.”

Rhian brightened at the news. She sprang up and then curtsied formally.

He continued, “He’ll be spending the night so at least some of your questions will be answered.”

Rhian looked George over critically. “What will he wear tonight? Everyone’s staying, too curious to leave.” George frowned; he hadn’t considered the matter of evening dress here. Rhian was right—it would be poor manners to be improperly attired at what promised to be a formal event.

“What’s it matter?” Rhys said.

With a great look of scorn, Rhian ignored him, “We had better sort that out now; there won’t be time later after kennels. Let’s see what’s in his room.”

Looking tolerantly over her head at George, Rhys shrugged and the three of them passed through the great archway to the front hall and the main stairs.

Gwyn moved to his desk and straightened up after George, wiping the pen and capping the inkwell. He took advantage of the rare solitude to consider his options.

This was the first time a human descendant had ever come to him. On those few occasions when he thought it appropriate, he had brought one with him, usually permanently. They had adapted well and lived out their lives, as humans do.

This one, however, seemed to have been thrust upon him. It wasn’t surprising that he’d been unaware of his existence; there was little point in tracking his ever more diluted blood in the human world indefinitely, especially with their short lifetimes. But how did George get here? And why was it so timely? He discarded the notion of coincidence with barely a moment’s consideration.

Who was interfering in his affairs? Was it the work of a secret ally or an enemy? Enemy seemed more likely—why would an ally be hidden?

The prudent thing would be to have nothing to do with him and to refuse the bait. Unless, he reconsidered, it would be better to keep him close and forestall any damage by controlling him, letting whomever was behind him think him deceived.

And yet, all that he could see of George so far persuaded him that he was not only who he said he was, but that he was also an independent player, unaware of Gwyn or the otherworld. What to believe?

Surely if he intended to deceive he would feign great family affection and desire to stay. Instead, he’s taking it slowly and a bit reservedly, as if he distrusts me and would truly return to his home in a day or two.

If he’s genuine, then he’s taking it well, better than some of his predecessors.

Well, what choices do I have? I must have a huntsman or risk losing everything. Remember how Arawn was weakened until finally he failed the great hunt. That was cleverly done, too, using Pwyll as a distraction and a test. I helped bring him down, and I remember the methods. He glanced at Angharad’s painting of his investiture as Prince of Annwn at the hands of his father.

I had help then, in the moment of crisis when it counted. It shouldn’t surprise me, I suppose, to find help again. And if I’m wrong, at least I’ll have a chance to control it.

I’ll take George at face value for now and try him as huntsman. If he can do the job, and if I can persuade him to stay long enough, then I may survive this for now. If not, I must fall back on Rhys, and that’s not likely to succeed. Better to gamble on the possible unknown over the known impossible.

Let’s see how he performs in company this evening.

As they entered the front hall, George discovered grand stone stairs ascending on either side of him to a common mid-story landing above the archway from the great hall, then rising in a single course to the next floor. The pattern repeated itself again as he peered upward. The wide double doors in front, a match to those in the back hall, were closed, but windows on each side showed a view through a square-columned porch and down the extensive front grounds.

On either side were smaller archways and formal rooms, crowded with people and movement. A few were still in riding costume, but most had changed clothes. George took them for the members of the field that had been sent home early. Servants passed through with refreshments and had been doing so for some time, to judge by the noise level.

Rhian ignored them and bounded up the stairs, Rhys and George following at a more dignified pace. She waited for them at the top of the stairs. “Where did you put him, Rhys?” she called down.

“In grandfather’s room. It has a view of the kennels.” Turning to George as they climbed the stairs, he said, “The second floor’s for guests and the third for family, but many of our family are only occasional visitors, so they have permanent rooms on the second floor which we use also as guest rooms when they’re not present. On crowded occasions, we have additional quarters in the yard.” He pointed in the direction of the grounds behind the house.

The top of the stairs opened up into a formal sitting area, with a double-door that led to the second story of the porch. They turned right along a corridor that George realized surrounded the interior shell of the great hall downstairs. There wasn’t time to examine the paintings and colorful objects hung everywhere, but he got a good look at some of the weaponry from many periods and various cultures. As he passed one battle ax scarred from use, he thought, these may be decorative, but I notice they’re not bolted to the wall. Handy for an impromptu brawl.

After passing two doors on the left, Rhys opened a third and led the way into a good-sized chamber. “This is the room that my grandfather Edern ap Nudd uses when he’s here. He hasn’t visited for several years.”

George saw a high canopied bed, a wardrobe and chest, and some chairs and low tables in front of the unlit fire in the hearth on the right hand wall. Colorful rugs lightened the floor. He walked over to the narrow, tall windows on the opposite wall, stepping around the desk below them.