Brothers-in-Arms
by Soledad
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: While his description follows the one given by Ellis Peters in "The Summer of the Danes", Hywel ab Owain Gwynedd is a historic character. He was known as a warrior and a poet; a few of his poems have survived to the current day – one of which is briefly quoted in this chapter. It is also a historic fact that his father has sent him out with an army to avenge Prince Anarawd's assassination and drive Cadwaladr out of his lands as a fitting punishment – which he did, very efficiently.
Chapter 02 – The Avenger
Almost four days after the appointed wedding date of Prince Anarawd of Deheubarth and Princess Marared ferch Owain Gwynedd, Cuhelyn ab Einion woke up from a nightmare. A nightmare filled with fire and darkness and excruciating pain. A nightmare in which his lord was dead.
It was a bitter awakening for the young warrior, though, as he opened his eyes to a darkened room, to barely-dulled pain and to the horrible realisation not even the pain-filed haze of a poppy draught had been able to veil from his feverish mind. That there had been and would be no wedding, no alliance between the two kingdoms – and no more light in his own life, for Prince Anarawd was indeed dead.
Anarawd was dead and he, whose duty it would have been to protect him with his own life if he had to, he was still alive.
He felt bitter tears of regret well up in his eyes. He let them flow freely. In his previous life, he would never have allowed himself the weakness of tears, not even when he was alone, but what did that matter now? He had failed to fulfil his oath, failed to protect his lord… he'd even failed to die trying. He had no purpose, no honour, and no place in this world left. Here, at the end of all things, he could afford to be weak.
Anarawd was dead, and he was but a walking corpse that had failed to die properly. He was nothing without Anarawd. Nothing.
He tried to wipe his face when the tears started to seep until the collar of his shirt… only to have white-hot pain lance through his arm when he moved it. It was also heavily bandaged and seemed… too short, somehow. And while it hurt terribly, he could not feel his hand at all.
Why could he not feel his hand?
He turned his head to the left with some effort, looking down, along his shortened arm that seemed to end a little below his elbow – and then realisation hit him like the missile of a crossbow. Not only was his lord dead, his sword-arm was gone, too.
Now he wasn't even a man any longer.
"Nonsense, my lad," a firm female voice replied – he must have thought out loud, apparently. "I've seen my fair share of maimed warriors who learned to wield the sword with the other hand. You'll learn it, too. You're still fairly young, and you're strong enough for it."
He sought out the source of that voice with her eyes and found a lively old woman, short and wiry of flesh and black of eye. She was clad in good, homespun wool and wearing a long apron bound before her gown, from the belt of which small, soft leather pouches were hanging. Her greying hair, too, was bound in a cloth and braided away from her round, deeply lined face. A healer then, most likely… or the herb-mistress of the settlement, whichever border village it might be.
She came closer, supported his head with a small but surprisingly strong hand, and offered him a cup of water. Cuhelyn drank thirstily and felt his senses sharpen a little. Unfortunately, that made him feel the pain more keenly, too, but that couldn't be helped now. He needed all his wits about him to carry out his last duty. Owain Gwynedd had to learn about what had happened to his future son-in-law, and Cuhelyn was the only man who could tell him the truth.
"Slowly, slowly," the healer warned him, "or you shall just lose it again. You haven't eaten anything for more than three days, and the fever has weakened you a great deal. Do you feel strong enough to speak to Hywel, though, even if just briefly?
Cuhelyn felt relief flood his battered body. Hywel was here? Then he hadn't survived for nothing, after all. The Poet Prince would see to it that Anarawd's cowardly murderers were punished and his death avenged.
Not trusting his voice to serve him properly, he only signalled the healer his readiness by closing his eyes briefly.
"Good lad," she said approvingly. "I'll let him in, then."
She vanished from his field of vision, and he could hear her talk to someone at a little distance. Shortly thereafter the quick, sure footsteps of a young man could be heard, and Hywel ab Owain Gwynedd entered the room.
Cuhelyn had seen Hywel, the son of the Irishwoman, from afar a few times while accompanying Anarawd on his visits to Owain Gwynedd's court, but this was the first time he could take a close look at the young prince. For young Hywel was, surely not more than twenty, yet he looked every bit the warrior he was said to be in his heavy battle armour, wearing a hauberk of chain mail that extended to his knees and to his wrists. Under the hauberk was a padded gambeson of fine wool, yet unadorned like that of any armed knight.
His legs, too, were covered by a form of mail chausses that laced at the back but did not completely enclose the protected limbs, making thus easier for him to mount his horse or move around afoot. An excellently-made longsword was carried on a sword belt around his lean waist. The sheath was plain, unadorned, and nothing but a few gemstones worn about his fine, sturdy throat revealed his rank among his father's people.
The integral mail coif of his hauberk was tossed back, together with the padded hood of his undergarment, revealing a shapely head, held high with easy confidence and framed by short, light reddish brown hair. The guard following him, clad similarly yet perhaps less richly and carrying a crossbow, was also holding the young prince's steel helm. It was conical in form, also unadorned, with a nasal bar to protect the face.
Hywel gestured to the guard to stay behind and asked the healer, whose name was apparently Gwerfyl, about the well-being of her patient.
"He's still very weak," she replied bluntly. "Just woke up for the first time. Make it short."
Hywel flashed her a mischievous yet amiable grin that probably melted the hearts of any woman from fifteen to fifty. "Who am I to disobey the orders of a healer?" he said; then he turned his brilliant glance at Cuhelyn, taking in his battered shape with a single look. "Are you lucid enough to talk?" he asked in the clipped tone of a born warlord.
Once again, Cuhelyn closed his eyes briefly. Hywel seemed to understand, both his willingness and that he was still too wary for coherent speech, for he began to ask such questions as could be answered either with a simple Yes or No, or with the simplest of hand gestures.
"How many guards did your lord take with him upon leaving Dinefwr Castle?" he asked.
Cuhelyn raised three fingers, and Hywel nodded.
"We found the other two… recognised them by Anarawd's coat-of-arms they wore on their breasts. And you were the only survivor?"
Cuhelyn nodded weakly. "Found… in the last moment," he whispered.
"What about your attackers?" continued Hywel. "How many of them were there? We found a few dead, but according to the traces, there had to be more of them."
Cuhelyn rose five fingers, then three. He no longer had enough fingers to show the right number, but Hywel understood him well enough.
"Four dead, four escaped," murmured the young prince, "and we found no sign on them to figure out aught about their alliances. Have you recognised any of them?"
"Two," whispered Cuhelyn. "Two I recognised… The other two… I shall know if I see them. They… must pay dearly."
"They will," promised Hywel, with a dark glint in his bright eyes. "But who were the two you recognised? Do you have any names for me?"
Cuhelyn made a tiny nod. "Their names… Siarl ap Padrig and… Eurig… Eurig…."
"Eurig ap Dilwyn," the prince finished for him grimly. The names were apparently well known to him. "Two of Cadwaladr's lesser chiefs. Also was Cadwaladr behind this cowardly action. Father shan't be pleased."
Cuhelyn laughed weakly, despite his pain, despite his hopeless situation. All knew that while Owain Gwynedd loved his errant brother and tended to forgive him for many things, this would not be one of those things; and that the Prince of Gwynedd was very good at making his displeasure eminently clear. Cadwaladr and his handlangers would pay dearly for their abominable deed… not that any amount of vengeance could make Anarawd alive again. But at least he would be avenged.
"They must pay," he whispered again. "It was my lord's… dying wish."
"A wish I shall honour," said Hywel. "That is what I am here for. My father sent me with an army to investigate the death of Prince Anarawd and to punish his murderers. I do not intend to disappoint him – or to allow Cadwaladr the mistaken belief that he can do as he pleases, going against Father's labours to make peace in this country."
He rose from his chair gracefully. "I shall send a message to Anglesey now, where my father is currently holding court. Then I shall teach my dear uncle a lesson he won't easily forget. As for you… what is your name?"
"Cuhelyn… ab Einion," whispered the wounded.
Hywel seemed to recognise his name. "Anarawd's foster brother and shield, are you not?" he asked with respect. "I have heard of you, Cuhelyn ab Einion, I could just never put a face to the name in my mind. I only wish we had met under different circumstance – but this is not the end of things yet. See to it that you heal and gain back your strength. I shall have need of you when I am done with my uncle."
"What good could… a one-armed man be… for you?" asked Cuhelyn bitterly.
"Two of your lord's murderers have still no names," replied Hywel. "You say, though, that you know their faces; and that is what I shall need when the day of reckoning comes."
He leaned over Cuhelyn and kissed him on the brow; in the manner a king would kiss a faithful vassal.
"Rest and heal now, Cuhelyn," he said. "We shall speak more upon my return. I hope I shall find you in a better shape."
He snapped his fingers, and the guard came forth, handing him the helm. Hywel covered his head with hood and coif and put on the helm, and from this close, Cuhelyn could see that it wasn't completely unadorned, after all. A string of plaited gold, about the width of a finger, framed the cut made for the eyes and ran down the nasal piece. Simple yet elegant in fashion, the helm did show that its wearer was no common soldier.
With a last, parting look at the maimed man on the bed, Hywel ab Owain Gwynedd left the little cottage of the healer Gwerfyl to avenge the Prince of Deheubarth who would have become husband to his sister Marared.
The following days were not very different from each other. In truth, they were so similar that Cuhelyn soon lost count of time again. He still slept a lot, mostly due to the poppy syrup given him to dull his pain, and when he was awake, his mind was fuzzy from all that drugged sleep.
The widow Gwerfyl, who – as he learned – was indeed both the midwife and the herb-mistress of the little settlement, and thus the closest thing the people here had to a competent healer, took good care of him. He was given plenty of fluids to compensate for the heavy blood loss he had suffered, mostly in the form of cawl, which meant a kind of meat broth in these lands, rather than soup like in other parts of the country; or herbal teas, or simply water. As he began to eat solid food again, the widow made him light dishes like lymru or tinker's cakes.
She seemed to consider him very lucky for getting away with his life, even if badly wounded. If she only knew how much he wished he had not! The mere thought of going on with his life – such as it could be with only one arm – without Anarawd in it made him wish to take all the poppy syrup he could get his remaining hand on and never wake up again.
But he could not give up, not yet. Anarawd had asked him with his last breath to see him avenged, and he would do it. Even if it meant to live out his life as a lowly servant at Owain Gwynedd's llys… or as a beggar on the roadside. He only wished there would be more detailed news about Hywel's campaign against his errand uncle.
For despite the pain-filled monotony of his days, some news did reach Cuhelyn, after all. The serving girls who helped the old healer taking care of him (due to Hywel's express orders, it seemed) chatted a good deal among themselves when they thought him asleep. And as all seemed to hold the world of their young prince, Hywel ab Owain was the most common subject of their chatter.
And so Cuhelyn had come to learn that in outraged justice, Owain Gwynedd had sent his son to drive Cadwaladr bodily out of every furlong of land he had to his name in North Ceredigion, as retaliation for his unproven yet well suspected part in the assassination of Anarawd – and that Hywel accomplished his task with relish and efficiency.
"He wafted his army across the Aeron like an avenging angel," one of the girls explained, her dark eyes shining with admiration and excitement, "and drove Cadwaladr headlong out of Ceredigion, with his castle of Llanbadarn in flames behind him."
"Not a toehold of land left to Cadwaladr in Wales," another one added, "and Hywel has done this without as much as ruffling his curls."
"And him looking barely old enough to bear arms at all!" commented the widow Gwerfyl contently. "A shame, truly, that he isn't the elding and Owain's heir. As much as our Prince loves his firstborn, and I doubt not for a moment that young Rhun is worth his father's love, Gwynedd would do best under Hywel's leadership. That young fellow was born to rule, mark my words!"
"A poet and bard as well as a warrior," enthused another girl. "Truly, no Prince could wish for a better son!"
Behind his closed eyelids, Cuhelyn forced back the tears that threatened to come to the surface. For hadn't his lord, too, been called the best son a Prince could have wished for? And now Anarawd was dead and would soon be forgotten – for that was the way of things in this thankless world – and no amount of vengeance could bring him back again.
Cuhelyn willed himself to go back to sleep. Perchance if he tried hard enough, he wouldn't wake up the next time.
Yet apparently, such relief was not granted to him – at least not as long as he hadn't fulfilled his lord's dying wish. When he came to again, he woke up to the sound of a harp and a light, pleasant baritone singing to it.
Karafy gaer wennglaer o du gwennylan;
myn yd gar gwyldec gweled gwylan
yd garwny uyned, kenym cared yn rwy.
Ry eitun ouwy y ar veingann
y edrtch uy chwaer chwerthin egwan,
y adrawt caru, can doeth yn rann. (1)
Opening his bleary eyes, Cuhelyn looked around to find the source of the music, and soon he spotted Hywel ab Owain, sitting on a stool and playing a small, hand-held harp. He no longer wore his armour; instead, he was clad like a courtier of his father's court, in a fine linen shirt and long, blue hose, over which he wore a fitted tunic of heavy, dark blue silk, lined with vair – the fur of the squirrel – in a striped pattern of white and soft blue-grey. It was a fairly expensive piece of clothing, but a royal prince with lands to his name could clearly afford it.
As he was sitting there, curly head bent over the harp, 'twas hard to imagine that he was the same young warlord who'd just won a minor war.
"A beautiful song," said Cuhelyn, surprised that his voice was at once serving him so well. "One of your own, I deem."
Hywel looked up and smiled. "It is indeed. How do you feel?"
"Better," replied Cuhelyn, realising that it was true. "The pain is… bearable. I wonder why they keep giving me the poppy."
"I asked Mistress Gwerfyl to do so," Hywel admitted. "I feared you'd do something… foolish, had they not kept you sleeping most of the time."
Cuhelyn blinked a few times in confusion… then he understood. Hywel had been afraid that he might take his own life, out of despair – or out of some old-fashioned sense of honour. In the olden days, death, even by one's own hand, would have been preferable to lifelong infamy and shame due to failing to protect one's lord, and some warriors still lived by that old codex. In truth, Cuhelyn himself did it, too. Had Anarawd not asked him to be the harbinger of vengeance, he would have taken his own life. The way things were, though, that choice stood not open for him.
"You need not to fear for me," he said. "As long as one of my lord's murderers is alive, I shall not give up on my life."
"That is one of the things I wanted to speak of with you," answered Hywel. "We've captured a few of Cadwaladr's lesser chiefs and their men. They are on their way to my father's court to answer for their deeds, assuming they had any part in Prince Anarawd's death. The two you have recognised are dead already. Siarl ap Padrig fell in the battle for Llanbadarn Castle and Eurig ap Dilwyn died from the wound you had dealt him during the attack at the ford. I was wondering, though, if you were strong enough to come to Anglesey with me. Perchance you can recognise more of the attackers among the captives."
"If I am needed, I shall go," said Cuhelyn without thinking.
But Hywel shook his head. "I know you are willing," he said. "But it has been scarcely two weeks since the ambush. You shan't be able to make the long journey to Anglesey – unless we take you with us in a litter, hung between two horses. You are still quite weak."
The thought of being carried into Owain Gwynedd's llys in a litter, like a dead animal, instead of sitting erect in his own saddle appalled Cuhelyn at first. No self-respecting warrior would do such a thing, unless they were already dead. A man's face was half his armour, and losing face was one of the worst things that could happen to a Welsh warrior.
Yet, after the first moment of quiet outrage, he realised that he was no warrior any longer – just a crippled man whose fate would depend on the mercy of others for the rest of his life. Owain Gwynedd would wish to hold court as soon as the captives arrived. And if he, Cuhelyn wasn't there, Anarawd's murderers might get away unpunished. He could not allow that. Until Anarawd's death was avenged, he still remained in the service of his dead lord. Afterwards… afterwards nothing would count anymore.
"I… I'll take the litter," he whispered, stomping down his pride ruthlessly.
Hywel gave him a compassionate look. He was a warrior, too; he had to know how much willpower it had taken Cuhelyn to give in like that.
"Do you wish me to send messages to your kin?" he then asked. They must be worried about you.
Cuhelyn shook his head. "I have no kin left," he said. "My parents are dead, and as for my brother… I have been as good as dead for him for years. I have left all our lands to him when I took the shield-oath… made myself free from all family obligations to be able to serve my lord without any obstacles. I never thought I would leave battle alive after he'd fallen – now I have neither family, nor honour. I am alone."
I am alone – this was the worst fate among the Welsh, where the whole life was built along family lines. Without kin, a man could find no place in the Welsh countries. After Anarawd's death, whom he'd failed to protect, Cuhelyn was more or less an outcast… for who would take into his service a failed warrior, even if he weren't one-armed, who had already allowed one lord to be killed?
Hywel knew this all too well, and that was one of the reasons why he'd been concerned about Cuhelyn. However, he also knew that the young man hadn't been amiss in his effort to protect his lord … and that Cuhelyn might prove useful in more than just in pointing out Anarawd's murderers.
"You are not alone," he said forcefully. "You are my responsibility now, and I shall see into it that you find a place for yourself in Gwynedd – if you don't wish to return to Deheubarth, that is."
"I do not," replied Cuhelyn with a sigh. "My lord and his brothers got along surprisingly amiably as Welsh Princes go, but they would not want me there. In their eyes, I shall always remain a failure."
"Well, then," said Hywel brightly, "I shall take you home with me."
Cuhelyn smiled bitterly. Home, that had always meant for him the place where Anarawd would be. How could he ever think of any place as home again, now that Anarawd was gone? But he said nothing. That would not have been courteous towards Hywel who hadn't shown him aught but generosity. If he had to live for a while yet, he needed a place to stay, and Hywel was offering him just that. Refusing the offer would not only be rude but foolish as well.
"As you wish, my prince," was all that he would answer.
Hywel, though, shook his head. "Your prince will always remain Anarawd. I respect that. He was more than worthy such devotion as you are said to have shown him all your life. I hope you will find me a worthy prince, too, once you know me better, but even if you do not, I shall always hold my hand above you. Men as faithful as you have become scarce in these times. The few that are still here deserve to be cherished."
There was nought Cuhelyn could have answered to that; less so as he did not feel all that respectable, himself. But if Hywel wanted to protect him, he would gratefully accept. He needed protection in his current state. Anarawd's murderers would learn soon enough that he had not died with the others and might try to correct their mistake. Besides, he no longer had a place within Deheubarth, now that his lord was dead. Until he'd done his last duty to him, he would accept Hywel's protection.
Hywel's cortege mustered in the dawn, in a morning that was surprisingly clear, with a pale blue sky and nearly no clouds upon it. When Cuhelyn emerged from the healer's little cottage that he had not left once during his stay in Mostyn, the tents of Hywel's army along the hillside above the little village were already folded and loaded onto the pack horses. Warriors and grooms were hurrying to perform their tasks, manservants were shrilling to each other above the general noise of a busy morning – 'twas a well-ordered chaos, as always when a large group of men was about to get on their way.
He stood there for a while, watching the bustle of preparations for departure with a heavy heart. He was about to leave behind everything he knew and head off to a new life among strangers… even though generous ones. He only hoped he'd be able to find a way to earn his keeping. 'Twas unbecoming of a warrior, even of a maimed one to live off the alms of his benefactors.
Hywel walked up to him to see if he was ready to leave. The young prince wore his mail shirt and helm once again – they ought to be safe within his father's kingdom, but one could not foresee what resentful followers of Cadwaladr might have tried in their anger and grief. After having asked about Cuhelyn's well-being, he whistled to the grooms, and those led by two horses, between which a litter was fastened for the wounded man to travel.
"We have found the horses of your party," he said, "and sent them back to Dinefwr under guard – save your own. That one we shall take with us, so that you may ride into my father's llys on your own, should you find the strength in you to do so."
Cuhelyn thanked him for such consideration. He also thanked Mistress Gwerfyl for taking such good care of him; then he allowed the grooms to help him into the litter. Perhaps he could have climbed in alone – but there was no reason to overtask himself. He would need his strength later.
Hywel seemed to agree with his decision, for he stepped up to his own horse, and as he reached for bridle and stirrup, so did the whole cortege. They all swung aloft into the saddle, and as Hywel rode out of the village, his officers fell into neat order about them, lining Cuhelyn's litter on both flanks, the rest of their men following them, well-ordered as it could be expected from a victorious army.
Cuhelyn thought that they would make due west, to the sea and cross over to the Isle of Anglesey at Carnarvon, which lay opposite Owain Gwynedd's llys at Abermenai. Instead, they were bearing somewhat northwards, through Snowdonia, which was a swift though not always easy path – not to mention that it did not lead to Anglesey.
"True enough," Hywel laughed when Cuhelyn pointed this out during one of their rests. "That is because we are not going to Abermenai. My father has heard tidings about the Earl of Chester that made him move the court closer to the English border. By the time we have crossed the Pass of Bwlch y Ddeufaen, he, too, will have reached Aber – and that is where we are to meet him."
After that nightly rest, the track they had been following began to rise gradually, keeping company wit a little tributary of the River Conwy, until they reached the moorland and an ancient yet still perceptive causeway, laid with stones and cushioned with rough grass. 'Twas an old Roman road, wide enough for a column of men marching six abreast or three horsemen in line. A road made for the single purpose of moving a great number of men, indeed whole armies, from one stronghold to another, as quickly as possible.
It headed directly to a sheer barrier of mountains that seemed utterly impenetrable – unless one knew of the gate at the Pass of Bwlch y Ddeufaen. Once they passed that gate, they would soon begin to descend among the hills on the other side, and in another day or two, depending on their speed, they would reach Owain Gwynedd's royal seat at Aber.
Cuhelyn wasn't quite sure whether he felt anticipation or dread by that thought. One thing was certain: once he'd given testimony and – hopefully – pointed out the rest of Anarawd's murderers, his life as he had known it would irrevocably end. Whether he would find the strength to begin a new one was a question he still could not quite answer – not even for himself.
The high stockade of Owain Gwynedd's royal seat and tref of Aber lay in the middle between salt marshes on the one side and terraced green hills on the other one, within an hour's ride from the old Roman road. As soon as the porters and the guards at the gates had seen Hywel's banners flattering on the road, cries and the ringing of trumpets arose from within, and the household came a-running to welcome the young prince home as it was the due of a victorious warlord.
Cuhelyn had only seen Aber fleetingly before, and now he had to admit that it was an impressive sight. While not one of the ancient stone fortresses, it was a walled town of considerable age, with stables, armoury and hall, an entire array of guest houses and various other outbuildings lining the walls of the great court of Owain's maenol. It was clearly a well-organized household. Grooms surged out of the stables to take care of the horses. Squires came to offer their young prince refreshments. Everyone was laughing and talking excitedly, outdoing each other in greeting the returning hero.
Hywel was the first out of the saddle, and went straight to the great timber hall where the Prince of Gwynedd stood on the top of the stairs in his royal person, accompanied by the rest of his family. Owain embraced his returned son with unmistakable pride and affection that was heart-warming to see, and Hywel respectfully kissed the hand of the lady on his father's side. Cuhelyn knew from hearsay that this was not his mother Pyfog, but Princess Gwladys ferch Llywarch of Arwystli in Central Wales, whom Owain had married for dynastic reasons some ten or so years ago. Still, they seemed to get along amiably enough.
Hywel then returned to Cuhelyn, who had indeed come this last stretch of the way on the back of his own horse and took his bride with his own princely hand.
"You must be tired," he said, "so let us help you. I shall arrange you a guest chamber and send over one of the healers to take a look at your wounds."
Cuhelyn nodded gratefully. Now that he'd given his warrior status the due honour of arriving in the proper way, refusing help that he so sorely needed would have been unreasonable indeed. So he allowed Owain's servants to lift him off the saddle and more carry than lead him into a passage between the rear end of the Great Hall and the long timber range of the storehouse and the armoury. There, in the shelter of the outer wall a number of small rooms were built beneath the watch-platform, shadowed deeply by its overhang: the guest chambers.
Within, the guest chamber was small yet clean and well-ordered, the bed covered with a brychan and a table standing next to the door for the guest's belongings. As Cuhelyn owned nought but a horse, his weapons and a spare set of clothing, this was even more than he would need.
"'Tis not the guest chamber of a stone keep," said Hywel with an apologetic shrug, "but I hope it will do 'til we find you some permanent lodgings."
"It has everything I could wish for," replied Cuhelyn. "Unless you can arrange a bath for me, that is."
"Certainly; I am in dire need of one myself," said Hywel, laughing. "Now, if I know my father, there will be a feast tonight. You are welcome to join; but if you'd wish to rest instead, we'd understand and take no offence."
"Then I think I would prefer to rest," admitted Cuhelyn. "The long journey has taken its toll on me; and I'm still not comfortable with strangers glaring at my arm… or what is left of it."
"I can see why; although there is no reason to be ashamed of your injury," said Hywel.
"I'm not ashamed," corrected Cuhelyn. "I'm uncomfortable. I need time to get used to it myself – it has been less than a month that I've lost it."
Hywel nodded. "All will understand that. Feel free to remain here for the evening, then. However, my father would wish to speak to you once you have rested a little, I deem. He… he valued Anarawd very much – like everyone else."
"Save those who murdered him for standing in their lord's way," answered Cuhelyn drily. "But I shall gladly speak to Prince Owain whenever he calls me before his presence. My lord respected him very much, and I... I shall be forever in his debt for sending you to avenge his death."
"Good," said Hywel. "Try to find some rest. I shall send the healer first, and then the servants with the bath. For now, you're our honoured guest. Everything else can wait 'til you've regained some of your strength."
With that, he left to go after his own business. Some time later an elderly healer came to examine Cuhelyn's stump and found it healing well enough, albeit just a bit inflamed. He gave him a salve to prevent infection and a draught against fever, then re-bandaged the maimed limb and left, promising to return on the next day.
Barely had the leader gone, two maidservants came with a wooden tub and began to fill it with hot water. Despite Cuhelyn's protests, they deftly undressed him and washed him from head to toe as if he were but a child. When he was dressed again – in clean clothes that they had brought for him and that suited him surprisingly well – other servants came to take the tub away, and the girls brought him something to eat.
Cuhelyn was not truly hungry, but crempog spread with good, salty butter and sugar was not something he could ever resist. So he ate a few wedges, drank a tankard of mead, and then lay down on his bed obediently, to rest until the Prince of Gwynedd would find the time to speak to him.
~TBC~
End notes:
1) I love a bright fort on a shining slope,
Where a fair, shy girl loves watching gulls.
I'd like to go, though I get no great love,
On a longed-for visit on a slender white horse
To seek my love of the quiet laughter,
To recite love, since it's come my way.
"Awdl V" (Ode 5), line 1; translation from Gwyn Williams (trans.) Welsh Poems, 6th Century to 1600 (London: Faber & Faber, 1973) p. 43.
