Brothers-in-Arms

by Soledad

Fandom: Brother Cadfael

Genre: Action-adventure/Romance

Rating: Adult for graphic violence in the first chapter, which I actually happen to find more harmful for young readers than moderate sex scenes. Suited for teens older than 14 for the rest of the story.

Summary: Cuhelyn ab Einion grew up with Prince Anarawd of Deheubarth and loved him like a brother. Or perhaps more? This is a story exploring the background of "The Summer of the Danes". Accordingly, Brother Cadfael himself will only appear in later chapters.

Disclaimer: The characters and settings of this story belong to the wonderfully talented Ellis Peters (save the historic ones, I guess) and were only borrowed. No copyright infringement intended and no money made. All I wanted was to explore some of the Welsh background of "The Summer of the Danes". The unknown original characters belong to me.

Author's note: The historic events mentioned in this chapter are as accurate as Internet research allows. I couldn't find out which daughter of Owain Gwynedd was meant to marry Prince Anarawd, so I chose Marared (=Margaret), simply because I didn't want to use the same names over and over again, even though Gwenllian was the one who seemed of the right age. If someone could provide any proof about the identity of the intended bride, I'd be very grateful.

The description of Cuhelyn ab Einion roughly follows the one given in "The Summer of the Danes", as he isn't a historic character. By the others, I simply used my own imagination. Prince Anarawd is "played" by Rufus Sewell – imagine him as he appeared as Adhemar of Anjou in "A Knight's Tale". In my head, Cuhelyn has the face and the shape of Nick Holt, as he played Chaka in the original BSG episode "Take the Celestra".

Chapter 01 – The Ambush

Autumn in Deheubarth, the south-western kingdom of the Welsh countries, was usually a cold, rainy and altogether unpleasant affair. In the year 1143 of Our Lord, however, as Prince Anarawd ap Gruffydd, ruler of that kingdom for seven years, looked out of the small window of his bedchamber over the battlement at the Tywi Valley, found it still green and pleasing to the eye.

Dinefwr Castle, the chief seat of the Princes of Deheubarth – kings of that country in all but by name – lay on a ridge on the northern bank of the Tywi River, with a steep droop of several hundred feet to the river, which made it an exceptionally secure place, as it was all but unattainable from that side in case of a siege. 'Twas said that Dinefwr – according to legend first raised by Rhodri the Great himself – could only be taken with the help of treason. For there were secret underground ways cut into the ridge below it; paths that supposedly led to the river, allowing the defenders to escape.

Anarawd had never seen those underground paths himself, and if he wanted to be honest, he seriously doubted their existence. But if the legends gave people the feeling of safety, who was he to take that from them? Everyone needed hope in such harsh times, when Deheubarth was constantly threatened not by a Norman invasion alone but also by the transgressions of its neighbours, and people took their hope from wherever they could. Even from legends.

There would be war again, inevitably, as soon as the civil war in England ended and the struggle between King Stephen of England and the Empress Maud was settled. Whichever of the two would emerge victorious, they would turn their attention towards the Welsh border again, and then the Welsh would have to fight for their freedom once more.

Anarawd knew that they were looking towards a bitter fight as soon as England had relative peace again, and he was prepared for it. Why, it had only been eight years since his father had allied himself with the king of Gwynedd, to take back Ceredigion, the country which had been captured by the Normans; and that Anarawd's stepmother, Princess Gwennlian, beat them in the Battle of Llwchwr. 'Twas a pyrrhic victory, true, and dearly paid with the very life of the Princess; still it gave the Welsh people hope.

But even those victories could only set back the Norman expansion in Wales temporarily. If they wanted to stop that expansion for good – or, at least, for a considerable time – the Welsh Princes needed to set aside their petty internal power struggles. Which was easier said than done, considering that Welsh law secured equal rights for all acknowledged sons, no matter the means of their birth. That law, while just and time-honoured, was also the bane of the Welsh countries. Whenever a Prince built up a strong rule, his sons, born in and out of wedlock alike, often tore it apart after his death, being power-hungry and land-hungry beyond their rightful due. Small wonder that people said Welsh Princes should only be allowed to have one son apiece.

Yet that, too, was easier said than done. Despite having converted to Christianity centuries ago, the old beliefs in the sacred nature of their rulers were still very much alive among the Welsh, and their Princes felt the unvoiced expectation to prove their virility by siring children (preferably sons) left, right and centre, as the virility of the King (or, in their case, the Prince) and the fertility of the land were closely connected in people's minds. Not consciously, perhaps, but even more strongly as it had no logical foundation.

Anarawd, also born out of wedlock, ruefully admitted having fallen into that trap himself. Though he could hardly regret having set such a fine son as his Einion, now barely seven years old, into the world. But the truth remained that Einion was his elding, as the Welsh called the firstborn son, and that would not bode well with any further sons he might sire with his soon-to-be-wedded wife, Owain Gwynedd's daughter Marared.

Owain ap Gruffydd, who had become the Prince of Gwynedd at about the same time as Anarawd had become that of Deheubarth, continued his father's policy of binding other Welsh kingdoms to his by the ties of kinship. After all, the late Princess Gwenllian had been his much younger sister. Thus he had offered a renewal of alliance between Gwynedd and Deheubarth by marrying off his daughter to Anarawd, and Anarawd had accepted, for he knew that only a united Wales could hope to resist the Norman conquerors – and even that hope was a fairly uncertain one.

Not that accepting such an offer would have been a hardship. Like all of Owain's children, Marared was exceedingly comely, having inherited the rich colouring of her Welsh mother, instead of Owain's Danish fairness. Anarawd had only met her once, but could clearly remember a tall and vigorous girl, with a striding grace in her step and a braid of glossy-blue black hair as thick as her wrist wrapped around her head like a coronet, and stray curls framing her wide, white brow. She had been a pleasure to behold, her dark, radiant eyes attentive and slightly mischievous in her oval face, taking his measure with one fleeting glance that had nonetheless seemed to pierce his very heart.

She would make a worthy Princess of Deheubarth, as worthy as her Aunt Gwennlian had been. Whether she and Anarawd had any personal interest in each other was of no consequence. They would marry, for the good of their people, and arrange themselves privately. That was the way things were done in all royal families of Wales, though admittedly, the men had a great deal more freedom in such arrangements than their wives.

Anarawd sighed and returned to his bed, sliding back under the brychan to bask in the warmth of his lover's body. Cuhelyn, always a light sleeper, always on the edge about the safety of his lord, opened an eye immediately, fully alert in the very moment he did so.

"Is it time yet?" he asked in a low voice.

Anarawd shook his head and kissed his lover's back between the shoulder blades, making him shiver with pleasure.

"'Tis still early," he replied. "Go back to sleep, cariad."

Cuhelyn turned around in bed to face his lord, his beloved one. He was a comely young man, a couple of years younger than the Prince himself, and of true Welsh build: sturdy and compact, very trim even in his vulnerable nakedness, and dark of hair and eye.

Those very black, intense eyes were that had caught Anarawd's interest in the first place; way back when they were still but half-grown youths, growing up together at his father's court. The way they focussed on distance, looking through what lay before that then-young boy's gaze, be it man, beast or object, rather than at them, had bewitched the elding of Prince Gruffydd at once – a charm that still held him captured. It had been so strange, almost frightening to see it coming from someone still so young, and it had not lost its effect even now, ten-and-some years later.

Cuhelyn's mother, Mairwen, had been one of Prince Gruffydd's many mistresses once, ere getting married off to a faithful vassal. Yet there were no blood ties between them, for Cuhelyn had been born almost four years after his mother's marriage to Einion ap Iefan, and thus there could be no doubt about the identity of his sire. Even less so now that he had grown up to a true younger version of his father, comely in his black and brooding fashion, and tended to a contained silence.

They had grown up as brothers, as Cuhelyn had been sent to the Prince's court at a very tender age, with the express intention to become the guard of one of the young princes. He had been assigned to Anarawd and had not left his lord's side ever since. At first, Anarawd regretted that they were no brothers by blood, for Cuhelyn had always been closer to him than any of his siblings; shield and sword to him, and a calming shadow in the heat of the day.

Yet when he reached the age of eighteen and understood that his love for Cuhelyn was not at all like that of a brother, he was grateful for the lack of blood ties between them. As understanding as the Welsh were towards the rapidly changing passions of their Princes, incest would not have been tolerated. Just as Anarawd could never have wedded Owain's daughter, had he been a son of Princess Gwenllian, instead of being an early sprout, born out of wedlock.

For that, he was also grateful. Deheubarth needed the alliance with Gwynedd, and if he had to use his own body to seal that alliance, he would do so gladly. And Cuhelyn would understand. He always did.

A calloused hand touched his lips gently, and he forgot all his worries as he saw Cuhelyn's range of vision shorten, focus on him with almost frightening intensity and grow warm in devotion and fondness. Even the set of those long lips softened into a barely visible smile, and Anarawd felt his heart melt in his breast at the rare sight. As much as he rejoiced in his shifting dalliances with his mistresses, there was only one whom he loved fiercely and with all his heart – and that one was not a woman but this brave young warrior in his bed. His most faithful guard who served him not only with his sword but with his body as well.

Anarawd leaned over to kiss those smiling lips and Cuhelyn opened to him in that beautiful, sweet submission that always made him weak with want. That such a valiant, strong-minded man would submit to him so completely and find such delight in doing all his bidding was something that always filled him with awe. Every time he realised how fortunate he was to have such devotion gifted upon him, he asked himself whether he truly deserved it – and humbly wowed never to misuse it.

"You worry too much," murmured Cuhelyn, dragging sword-roughened hands along Anarawd's flanks. "You are not supposed to worry when you lie with me. Have I failed to provide much-needed distraction? Then I am neglecting my duty shamefully."

"Say no such thing!" replied the Prince, kissing his lover deeply again. "You have never been a mere distraction, and you have never failed your duties towards me, you know that. You are here to keep me sane in all this insanity. I could not rule Deheubarth without you at my side. Sometimes I believe I couldn't even sleep but in your arms. You won't leave me, will you? When I wed Owain's daughter and will have to visit her in her bedchamber, you will wait for me, won't you?"

Cuhelyn smiled at him serenely. "I shall never abandon you, my brother… my Lord… my Prince. You know that… why do you feel the need to ask?"

"Sometimes even princes are in need of some reassurance," admitted Anarawd.

When – after a copious breakfast in bed and a hot bath in the wooden tub standing behind a curtain – they emerged from the Prince's bedchamber in the next morning, the courtyard was already full of bustle. Grooms were loading the baggage horses for the Prince and his small entourage, as well as preparing the mounts of the men who would be riding with him for the journey. There was the moisture of a brief shower on the grasses, yet the light of the early morning sun was already shining on those fine drops, and the sky above their heads was a pale, clear blue. Only a few wisps of cloud – or perhaps the last remnants of lifting mist – swirled around the golden ball of light that was rising on the east steadily.

"A most pleasing morning for a pleasant journey," commented Anarawd, mounting his tall roan horse with the practiced ease of a man who had been riding almost since the time he had learned to walk.

Cuhelyn followed suit, hiding his wince as his backside hit the saddle. This was not the first time he had to ride out after a long night of vigorous love-making. He'd always prevailed before, and he would prevail this time, too. There was something else that bothered him, causing a discrepancy between his concerned mind and his well-loved body.

"I don't like it that you only take three of us with you," he said.

Anarawd rolled his eyes. "Cariad, we are not going on a war campaign! All we need to do is to cross Ceredigion and meet Hywel ap Gwyddeles at the southern border of Gwynedd. He and his people will escort us to Owain's llys safely."

"Precisely the part of crossing Ceredigion is what worries me much," admitted Cuhelyn. "The recent border disputes with Cadwaladr don't make this a safe journey, even though otherwise it would indeed be a short and easy one. I do not trust Cadwaladr. He doesn't like being merely the co-regent of Gwynedd; his hunger for land and power is insatiable, and 'tis getting worse as time passes by."

"Still, I see no reason to worry," replied Anarawd. "Power-hungry and land-hungry as Cadwaladr might be, he is no fool. He knows how much Owain wants this marriage to make Gwynedd stronger; he would not dare to cross his brother in this matter."

"Unless he does not want Gwynedd to grow any stronger as long as Owain rules," pointed out Cuhelyn. "But what if he wants to rule himself? He certainly can get support from England; from the Earl of Hertford, who is brother to his wife, or from her uncle, the Earl of Chester, who has grown to be almost a little king while England is torn apart by kin-strife."

Anarawd shook his head. "The people of Gwynedd would never follow Cadwaladr the way they follow Owain," he said. "You know that as well as I do."

"I know," replied Cuhelyn gravely, "but does Cadwaladr know it, too? Or does he believe he would have the greatness of body and mind and ability to replace Owain at will? For if he does, then we might run into trouble on our way to Gwynedd."

"You are seeing ghosts again," said Anarawd in fond exasperation.

"I am not!" protested Cuhelyn. "You must not believe that just because your own people love you and Owain wants you as his ally no-one would wish to harm you."

"I do not," replied the Prince. "Which is why I'm taking you with me. I know you'll protect me, no matter what we might have to face."

"With my life if I have to, and gladly so," swore Cuhelyn fervently. "Still, cariad, if for nought else but for the peace of my troubled mind, dispatch the border patrols to keep an eye on our travelling route, I beg you!"

He spoke with such urgency that in the end the Prince gave in. Cuhelyn rarely asked him for anything, and never for himself. Besides, he had a good, if overly suspicious mind in that handsome dark head of his, and his instincts usually served him well. Thus Anarawd sent a messenger before them to alert the border patrols about their coming, ordering them to draw closer to his planned route and to watch the road.

That seemed to put Cuhelyn's mind to ease for the time being. In any case, he protested no more when the two other guards, Gwyhthyr ap Hopcyn and Morcant ap Lleu – both seasoned warriors and faithful to their Prince to the fault – joined them, and the four of them left Dinefwr Castle, heading towards Ceredigion.

Despite Cuhelyn's dark expectations, the first day of their journey was spent without any hostile encounters. The weather remained uncommonly pleasant, save from a few showers during the night, which they spent enjoying the hospitality of a minor nobleman at two-third of the way to the border, so the rain did not bother them at all.

In the next morning, they set off early on; right at dawnbreak, in truth, for Anarawd had planned to cross Ceredigion at its narrowest expanse in one day's ride and meet Hywel ab Owain Gwynedd, commonly known as Hywel ap Gwyddeless, son of the Irishwoman, before sunset. They were supposed to meet at Mostyn, a small fortified village in the southernmost part of Gwynedd and spend there the night ere continuing their journey to Owain Gwynedd's court at Abor.

Cuhelyn prayed fervently to reach that part of the journey undisturbed, knowing that once they had reached Mostyn, they would be safe. Although not the elding and his father's heir, Hywel, the Poet Prince, was known as a fierce warrior, and – in spite of his youth – also a shrewd strategist who would not come to meet an honoured guest and ally at a disputed border without a suitable escort.

Yes, once they had met Hywel, they would be well-protected. Until then, though, Cuhelyn would have to look out for every oh-so-slight sign of possible trouble. Gwythyr and Morcant would do the same. They all knew this country like the back of their hand; Morcant, born and raised in Ceredigion, more so as the others. Perhaps they would be fortunate, after all.

His personal misgivings notwithstanding, Cuhelyn understood all too well why his lord had chosen to travel with such a small escort. It was an appeal to Cadwaladr's honour (such as it is, he thought dryly, having his well-founded doubts about the newly-established lord of Ceredigion) to respect the planned alliance between Deheubarth and Gwynedd. It was also a defiant attempt to show that Anarawd was not afraid to ride out with only a handful of his trusted guards at his shoulder. Cowards were utterly despised among the Welsh who expected their leaders to be valiant as well as virile, and travelling with a large, heavily armed escort across a supposedly allied country would have reflected badly upon the Prince.

Yes, Cuhelyn understood his lord's reasoning perfectly well. That did not mean that he wouldn't hate the fact that as a result, Anarawd had to put his safety, perchance his very life at risk. Unlike his lord, Cuhelyn did not trust Cadwaladr to be reasonable. He had met the younger Prince of Gwynedd but once, years ago, when Owain tried to win Anarawd's support in objecting the nomination of Bishop Meurig for the see of Bangor, and while he approved of the comeliness of Cadwaladr's appearance, he remained doubtful about the mind housed in that handsome husk.

A few carefully placed questions seemed only to affirm his doubts. Cadwaladr had the reputation – even among his devoted followers – of being hasty, rash, wildly generous to friends yet irreconcilably bitter against enemies. Given his thinly-veiled envy for Owain's position and his ambitions to get his hands on lands along the border that would, by right, belong to Deheubarth, Anarawd could safely count on being considered an enemy by him.

What was worse, Cadwaladr seemed to be able to wake strong devotions in his followers, due to his generosity, his fierceness in battle and the undoubtable charm of his personality. It would be easy, too easy for him to drop a veiled remark about how the Prince of Deheubarth was a serious obstacle in his way to well-deserved greatness… without actually ordering anyone to assault him. He did not need to do so. His men, like Anarawd's own ones, were faithful to the fault. It was a Welsh thing, this absolute devotion to their rulers; something very few were free of.

Riding at his lord's left, so that he could use his better hand in case he needed to draw his sword – even though he could use both if he had to – Cuhelyn watched the profile of his Prince with silent admiration. He had never met Anarawd's mother, as she'd died giving birth to Prince Cadell before Cuhelyn would come to the court, but he'd heard that she'd had some French blood, one of her ancestors hailing from Provence, and Anarawd, unlike his younger brother, definitely showed some of those attractive foreign traits.

He was taller than most of his Welsh countrymen, of more slender build, with broad shoulders, a lean body and slim hips; long-limbed, light on his feet and most graceful of movement. His oval face was dominated by a pair of wide, almond-shaped hazel eyes and framed by a neatly trimmed, short beard, a dark russet brown in colour, like the thick curls clustering around his high forehead. His features were finer, more elegant than those of the average Welsh nobleman, although he did have his father's prominent cheekbones, which made his appearance even more pleasing. Yes, he was a comely man, even if one did not see him with the eyes of love as Cuhelyn did.

He was also a great man and a great warrior, whose deeds – particularly the fight in which he'd slain Letard 'Little King', a local tyrant who had terrorised his father's subjects while the lords of the land had been away fighting Norman invaders – were the objects of many songs. He was widely loved and admired, well beyond the borders of his own kingdom. But greatness often bred envy, and envy bred hatred; and hatred, paired with greed for land and power, was a dangerous counsellor. The further their party rode into Ceredigion, the darker Cuhelyn's worries grew. He couldn't wait to leave Cadwaladr's lands safely behind them.

They rode undisturbed for the greater part of the day, and in the late afternoon they reached the verge of the wooded country that parted Gwynedd from North-Ceredigion. This was an area held dangerous in recent times, for it was known to house small bands of outlaws whom poverty and the constant warfare along the borders had driven to despair and who could roam the woods mostly unhindered in a country that had been largely lordless for some time.

These were mostly desperate peasants whose small strips of land had been burnt or pillaged by one of the warring parties. Their grievances were with all Welsh Princes and any lords, be they of one of the Welsh kingdoms or of foreign countries. Thus Anarawd's party could not count on their lord's name as a reason for being spared. However, such outlaws usually attached merchant caravans or trader troops, where there was booty to be taken. Four armed warriors with only a little food in their baggage were not a preferred target, as a rule. There was too little to have, for too much risk involved. Still, Cuhelyn was increasingly concerned, and the wary looks Gwythyr and Morcant were throwing about them all the time spoke of similar concerns.

The path upon which their party travelled was now so narrow that only two riders could go on it side by side, and even that rather uncomfortably. It also began to descend into a dingle, traversed by a brook, the banks of which were broken and swampy, overgrown by willows, the roots of whose, half-bared by some kind of recent landslide or flood, reached over the water in the air like gnarled, bony fingers.

Morcant ap Lleu, who had ridden at the head of their small retinue, pulled the reins of his horse, bringing the good beast to a halt.

"This must have happened but a short time ago, perhaps during the spring floods," he said in concern. "I cannot remember the pass being this desolate."

"It was not," agreed Cuhelyn, who also had travelled the route before. "But it being what it is now, I'd say this would be an excellent place for an ambush."

"Very true," said Anarawd with a displeased frown. "Nonetheless, we need to cross the pass; and right now, hasting through the defile as fast as possible might be the best choice."

"It would also make us the most vulnerable for an attack," reminded him Cuhelyn. "We ought to be very careful while we pass."

"I shall ride forth again," offered Morcant, "as I know these lands best. You can follow with our lord, and Gwythyr will take the rear, protecting your backs."

That seemed the most reasonable course of action, and thus the others gave their consent. Morcant ap Lleu therefore advanced, riding forth and crossing the brook, and taking up a defensive position as soon as he reached the other bank, to watch over the Prince's crossing.

The precaution paid off. For as soon as Anarawd's roan was standing on stable ground on the other side, they were assailed, in front and flank, with a ferocity to which even seasoned warriors like themselves could offer but little resistance. Which was barely surprising, as the men attacking them clearly weren't outlaws. They were trained warriors, too, some of them wearing mail shirts and light helmets over their well-made clothes, and riding boots made fort he wealthy.

The helmets had no visors, thus Cuhelyn could see their faces well enough, even in the flurry of activity… and his heart sank, seeing his earlier suspicions affirmed.

Two of the attackers he recognised at once. He'd seen them among Cadwaladr's lesser chiefs at the meeting of the Princes with Bishop Bernard, three years previous. He even knew their names. Siarl ap Padrig and Eurig ap Dilwyn they were called – and known to be the oldest, most faithful vassals of Cadwaladr. There could be no question about the goal of the attack, then. They were here to remove the Prince of Deheubarth from the way of Cadwaladr's success. At heir lord's express orders? Doubtfully. But with his unspoken consent – without the slightest doubt.

There were eight of them altogether, all armed to the teeth. Cuhelyn did not know the others, but they seemed to be men of common stock – save one. A tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man in a finely-wrought mail shirt yet bare-headed, black-haired and black-moustached, with an arrogant beak of a nose and an air of command about him. This one held back at first, as if waiting to see how the ambush would succeed, ere getting personally involved in the fighting. Whether he was the leader of the whole action or simply someone who preferred others to do the dirty work for him, Cuhelyn could not tell… nor had he the time to think about it, as they were already fighting for their very lives.

Gwythyr ap Hopcyn, who had taken the rear, was attacked and slain by two of the commoners ere he could have crossed the brook properly. Still, he had not given his life cheaply. The lance he tore from the hand of one of his attackers and hurled into the melee with his dying breath hit with deadly precision, nailing a third man to an oak-tree that happened to be close behind him and killing him at an instant.

That still left seven against three, as now the black-moustached man, seeing how they'd failed to surprise the Prince's party, draw his sword and joined the fight. He rode with great speed up right against Anarawd, the other two vassals of Cadwaladr hot at his heels.

Desperate to hurry to his lord's aid, Cuhelyn spurred his horse against another commoner blocking his way, drawing his sword at the same time, and striking with such black fury that he cleaved the man's skull in two, down to the teeth. Then he gave his gelding the spurs again, racing over to where Anarawd and Morcant were fighting five other opponents.

Yet even the speed of such a fine horse as his Islwyn was not fast enough against a lance thrown by a firm hand and with a true aim – such as the lance thrown by Eurig ap Dilwyn that pierced Morcant's heart from a distance at twenty paces mercilessly. Ramming his sword into the belly of his closest opponent with the last of his strength, Morcant ap Lleu, faithful vassal of Prince Anarawd for nearly ten years, dropped to the ground, dead, leaving his lord unprotected for the first time in his long, devout service.

Unprotected but for Cuhelyn, who was fighting like a demon, having finally reached his lord's side. Anarawd was bleeding heavily, having received a lance wound through his left shoulder. Those cowards dared not to come within the reach of his legendary sword. Instead, they had thrown a lance at him, as they had done with Morcant, wounding him from a distance, without endangering themselves in an honest fight of man against man.

The impact of the lance had thrown the Prince from his horse and effectively lamed his left arm, so that he could not longer hold even his light shield with it to protect himself. Everything depended on Cuhelyn now, and he whirled around like a berserker, wielding his own sword with his better hand, and the one Morcant had dropped with the other one. Anarawd was doing the best he could with only his sword arm at his disposal, and soon another of the commoners lay slain at their feet.

But they were still outnumbered five to two, and the Prince was beginning to feel the effects of the heavy blood loss. He caught another wound in his left flank, a fairly deep one, and Cuhelyn, while dealing a powerful head strike at Morcant's cowardly murderer, cleaving the steal helmet Eurig ap Dilwyn was wearing in two, albeit failing to kill the man at once, realised that the next strike would mean the end of Anarawd.

With a brutal blow in the gut with the pommel of his sword, he threw the dazzled Eurig from his horse, clearing the way for himself, and sprang from the saddle as well, hoping to shield the Prince with his own body if he had to. Anarawd was considerably weakened by now, his desperate attempts to fend off the swords of his would-be-murderers taking less and less effect. Save from a miracle, it was only a matter of time till they would get through his defences.

Fortunately for him, the black-moustached man was holding back again, for some reason Cuhelyn could only guess. Perhaps he wanted to enjoy the advantages resulting from the Prince of Deheubarth's death without having actually sullied his hands with Anarawd's blood, in case the winds of fortune would change any time, soon.

As if that would make him any less of a murderer!

Siarl ap Padrig seemed to have no such concerns, though, as he advanced on the weakened Prince with his sword raised above his head. He held it with both hands, ready and willing to deal Anarawd the final blow. Catching his opponent's sword with the cross of the one in his right hand, Cuhelyn tossed the man backwards with all his might, desperate to get to his Prince in time to fend off that killing blow.

He almost got to Anarawd in time. Almost. He even managed to intercept the blow… alas, not with his sword. He barely felt the searing pain as Siarl ap Padrig's blade sliced through flesh and bone in that brutal strike, severing his left arm right under the elbow and still keeping enough of its momentum to run through Anarawd's unprotected chest, dealing him a mortal wound of which he would not recover again.

The world seemed to slow down to near-immobility around Cuhelyn. He saw Anarawd waver and fall onto his back, bleeding to death, his own severed arm, with the sword still tightly clutched in his hand, lying across the Prince's limp body like some morbid kind of honorary sash. He could feel life pouring out of him rapidly, like the blood was pouring from the stump of his maimed arm, and a strange cold began to seep through his body, now that the heat of the battle was over.

He knew he would die in mere moments. The murderers would not leave witnesses. Not that he would care about what might happen to him.

All he cared about was the man whom he loved more than life itself. He dropped to his knees, cradling Anarawd's face in his remaining hand, desperate to see into those beautiful eyes one last time. Anarawd was still alive – barely – and somehow found the strength in him to grant Cuhelyn that last wish.

The Prince looked up at his lover with cloudy eyes, not knowing that Cuhelyn was at death's door himself – and smiled.

"Cariad," he whispered with a coppery sigh. "See me… avenged…"

"I shall live… for nought else," promised Cuhelyn, well knowing how little time he had left to live but wanting his beloved to die in peace. "Go now… and rest… Wherever… you go, I… I shall follow."

With the last ounce of strength still lingering in his maimed body, he leaned forward to kiss his lover farewell, mixing their blood in the final union of approaching death. Then he fell onto Anarawd's dead body, lost for the world – forever, he hoped.

Thus he did not hear the affray caused by the arrival of the border patrol that had, as it turned out, come up behind them, worried about the rumours of outlaws and their Prince's safety. With any luck, they might even have arrived in time to save him – but fate had caused them to come late. The laments and cries of their dismay over that failure were lost on Cuhelyn, too.

He did not hear the border patrol chasing away the surviving assailants. He did not feel when the stump of his left arm was bound off in the last minute to save his life, and had he known of it, he would have protested. Like the warriors of the old days, he would find it a disgrace to return alive from the field on which his lord had been slain.

Besides, what reason did he still have for living? What was he without Anarawd?

But he was blessedly unaware of all those events, and could thus not protest when the men of the border patrol put him on a litter, together with the dead body of his lord and his severed arm, and whisked him away to Mostyn in Gwynedd, for that was the closest place considered safe for him.

The bodies of Gwythyr ap Hopcyn and Morcant ap Lleu were bound onto the backs of their horses and taken with them. They bodies of their enemies were left behind for the carrion eaters. Only their weapons and any such objects that could have helped identify them were stripped and taken as proof for Owain Gwynedd and his officers.

That was the end of the promising alliance between the Welsh kingdoms of Deheubarth and Gwynedd, much to the grief of any sensible Welshman who would have loved to see their people united against any foreign threat. Yet – against his expectations – it was not the end of Cuhelyn ab Einion, who would get the chance to fulfil the promise given to his Prince in his dying moment.

~TBC~