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: The following events are taking place during the ones described in "The Summer of the Danes". Obviously. A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from the novel for continuity's sake.
In truth, Cynddelw Brydydd Mawr only became Owain's court poet after 1160, and this story takes place some sixteen years earlier. But I couldn't resist the temptation to give such a famous bard a cameo. Do forgive me. Hywel's poem, again, is a genuine item.
Chapter 07 – The Wolf in Sheepskin
Sitting on the bishop's left, Hywel ab Owain was paying little attention to the envoy of his wayward uncle at the moment. His face carefully schooled to reveal nothing of his thoughts or feelings – he did have his father's formidable composure – he watched his shield from the corner of his eye.
The shield-oath meant that they spent nearly every hour of the day together – save for the occasions when Hywel felt the need to warm his bed with a woman and even then, Cuhelyn would sleep on the floor before his bedchamber to guard him – and so he had come to know his shadow quite well. Therefore he could see now that something had upset Cuhelyn terribly.
As a rule, the young warrior from Deheubarth was a laconic creature. For him to get in this unresponsive state, something of grave importance must have happened. Which meant something that had to do with Anarawd; or rather with Anarawd's death.
Considering that mere moments earlier Cuhelyn had been talking amiably to the old Welsh monk, Deacon Mark's travelling companion, it was easy for Hywel's sharp mind to guess that only two things could have caused such an abrupt change in his shield's mood. Either he was offended by the bishop's behaviour on Owain's behalf – or, more likely, on the late Anarawd's behalf – or it had been caused by Cadwaladr's envoy personally.
Judging by Cuhelyn's bleak countenance, Hywel would guess that it was the latter.
But what was it about Bledri ap Rhys that would bring the usually unshakable Cuhelyn in such a state? It was unlikely that they would know each other. Bledri was not one of Cadwaladr's powerful and influential supporters. Hywel himself barely knew him by name and Cuhelyn never mentioned him. Not by name anyway.
Not by name. Keeping his face carefully neutral while listening to the verbal spar between his father and his uncle's envoy with one ear, Hywel felt cold shivers run down his spine.
Not by name, Six out of Anarawd's eight assassins had been found and were dead by now, only two of them still afoot: a common warrior and a nobleman whom Cuhelyn did not know by name. But he carried those faces in his vengeful heart, waiting for the day when he could put names to them – and then extinguish them, forever.
Could it be that the day of reckoning had just come, unexpected and without warning and found Cuhelyn unprepared?
This left Hywel with quite the dilemma. He was not going to allow Bledri ap Rhys to walk away unpunished, but at the moment there was nothing he could do. The time-honoured law of hospitality protected the man while within the bishop's enclave; and besides, he could not raise any accusations before hearing Cuhelyn's testimony.
Right now, the only thing he could blame the man for was the defending of Cadwaladr's despicable deeds – and defend them he did, with such vehemence that it was bordering open disrespect towards the authority of Owain Gwynedd. Hywel wondered if Cadwaladr had sent him on this errand.
Turning more of his attention to the carefully measured verbal blows between his father and his uncle's envoy, Hywel would have dared to answer that question with a resounding yes, despite the man's reassurances to the contrary. The main intent of Bledri seemed to be to prove that Cadwaladr had been treated with unnecessary harshness, without being given the chance to better his ways in the future. He seemed to believe that making Cadwaladr and exile in his own country, without a toehold of land that he could call his own, had been an extremely hard punishment.
"It is certainly a lot less extreme than what was done to Anarawd," replied Hywel's father coldly. "Lands can be restored, if restoration is deserved. Lives cannot; once they are lost, they are lost for good."
"True, my lord," returned Bledri, "but even manslaughter can be compensated by a blood price. And what else is to be stripped of all one's possessions, and that for life, than another kind of death?"
For Cadwaladr certainly, thought Hywel with a wry smile that did not show up on his blank face. Without his lands and his wealth he could not bind his followers to his case by generosity any longer, which would mean very soon, no followers at all… save such single, devout fools like young Gwion. And that was the very reason why Hywel felt quite sure that his father would not restore Cadwaladr's lands. Not yet; perhaps not ever, if the younger prince did not show any genuine regret.
Owain was no, and had never been, adamant against his brother, no matter whatever follies Cadwaladr might have committed. But murder, and one ordered with the express intention that the kingdom would be prevented from forging an all-important alliance, went way beyond what brotherly love could – and would – forgive.
Hywel had no doubt that his father would remain unmoved this time. For Cadwaladr had not only disrespected his authority as the Prince, he had also endangered Gwynedd, weakening the entire kingdom against the Norman conquering attempts by robbing them all of the prospective alliance with Deheubarth; and for that there could be no forgiveness.
"This is no mere manslaughter we are dealing with here as you well know," said Owain as if he had read his son's thoughts- "What happened to Anarawd was murder. Cold, pre-meditated murder, designed to destroy the alliance between us and Deheubarth before it could have been fully forged."
Bledri ap Rhys paled for a moment and Hywel wondered idly whether his father, too had noticed Cuhelyn's strong reaction to Cadwaladr's envoy and figured out the rest of the ugly truth on his own. He would not dismiss the possibility off-hand. His father was a shrewd man and a good judge of characters. If he had found out the truth, then Bledri ap Rhys had just been warned… and he had clearly understood the warning.
"Murder is too harsh a name for a deed done in heat," he protested indignantly. "Nor did your lordship wait to hear my prince's side of the quarrel."
"There was no need for that," replied Owain evenly. "You may not know, and neither may your prince, but we have an eye-witness of the deed, and one whose testimony is above all doubt. Therefore we know that the ambush was a well-planned one, calculated and executed in cold blood. Eight fully armed men do not waylay four unexpecting travellers crossing their land I good faith in hot blood."
Owain paused, waiting for his brother's envoy to say something to that but Bledri clearly did not have an answer prepared. He apparently had not known about any survivors.
"And even by those odds," the Prince of Gwynedd continued, "half of them were slain on the spot and they could not even silence all the witnesses to cover their abominable deed. You do your lord's case no favour by trying to downplay the dishonourable nature of what he had ordered. You said you came here to plead. My mind is not closed against reconciliation as long as it is civilly sought. You should learn, however, how little effect any threats may have on me."
"Yet, Owain," cried Bledri, forgetting even the basest attempts of courtesy in the sudden flare of his temper, "even you would do well if you weighed the possible consequences of your obduracy. A wise man would know when to unbend before his own fire burns back into his face."
In the shocked silence that followed Hywel shot his shield a quick glance and saw him started out of his stillness, trembling with barely controlled outrage. He was half-rising to his feet already when he caught Hywel watching him. Knowing that obviously helped him to regain control, for he sank back to his place, his expression bleak again, with a barely visible nod of gratitude towards his young lord.
Hywel released a breath he was not even aware he had been holding, grateful for the obedience and self-control of his shield. Had Cuhelyn attacked Bledri ap Rhys, thins would have turned very ugly, very quickly. Someone would be dead by now – most likely Bledri, for Cuhelyn was more deadly with his one hand than he ever might have been with both.
And then they would never learn what mischief Cadwaladr was planning. That would be most unfortunate.
The other guests took Bledri's insolence a lot less kindly, however. There was an uneasy stir and angry murmurs at the high table, passing round both Welsh nobles and the clergy; and even louder, more outraged echoes from down the lower table. Bishop Gilbert's glance jumped anxiously from one place to the other; perchance he was beginning to understand the volatile situation into which his meddling had brought them all.
Fortunately for his peace of mind, the Prince of Gwynedd, unshaken and unshakable as always, needed but a moment to subdue those voices. Hywel could only hope that one day he would learn to radiate the same kind of calm authority. He was born and bread to rule, and had already showed clear signs of his ability to do so, but he was still young and had a lot to learn.
Sometimes he asked himself if he would ever grow large enough, both in body and mind, to be an adequate replacement for his father. Rhun might be the elding and thus would become the Prince of Gwynedd after their father, but his subjects would eat him alive without Hywel standing behind his throne like a rock wall.
Owain, in the meantime, showed nothing but amiable interest for the petitioner's words. His friendly smile was the most frightening thing Hywel had ever seen, which was saying a lot, considering that he was his father's warlord and as such well-used to the horrors of battle.
"Am I to take your words as a threat, or a promise or a forecast of doom from heaven?" asked the Prince of Gwynedd with such piercing sweetness that lesser men would have fallen to their knees and beg his forgiveness.
Bledri ap Rhys did no such thing, of course. But even he, arrogant and self-assured though he might be, backed off a step involuntarily – as if trying to avoid a blow – and arranged his countenance into a demure expression. A false one, no doubt, but he was clearly no fool. He had made a mistake losing his calm and he knew it.
"I only meant that enmity and hatred between brothers is unseemly among men and surely must be displeasing to God," he replied, choosing his words with considerably more caution than before. "It cannot bear but disastrous fruit. I beg you; restore your brother to his rights."
He was nothing if not insistent and could use that honeyed tongue of his well, Hywel had to give him that. However, he also had the uncomfortable feeling that there was more behind Bledri's self-assured brazenness than simple arrogance. It seemed to him as if the man knew something no-one else could even guess, and that knowledge gave him an advantage on everyone else. Even Owain.
"We certainly will not; not yet, in any case," answered Owain, giving his brother's envoy a measuring look that perchance saw more than Bledri would be willing to show. "However, it might be beneficial for us all if we considered this matter at more leisure. In the next morn I and my court set out for Aber and Bangor, taking with us some of the lord bishop's household and these visitors from Lichfield. It is in my mind, Bledri ap Rhys, that you should ride with us and be our guest at Aber. Perchance on the way there, or in my llys, you will find a better way to develop your argument, and I will have ample time to consider those consequences you have so eloquently reminded me of. It would not do to invite disaster for want of forethought," he said in a honeyed tone with barely concealed razor's edge in it. "I hope you will not refuse my hospitality, which is so freely given."
Hywel needed all his considerable willpower to suppress the grin that would otherwise have split his face from ear to ear… more so when he saw the bishop breathing through deeply in relief. The Norman might believe that his well-meant (albeit heavy-handed) effort of peace-making had succeeded. Everyone else in hall knew that Bledri ap Rhys had no choice but to accept Owain's invitation – the true nature of which was well understood by the Prince's guards.
Bledri himself had understood that as well, if his tight smile was any indication. But he could control his face well enough to plaster a pleased expression all over it as he took his reserved place among the bishop's guests and raised his drinking horn to the Prince.
Fresh rounds of mead were brought around as they now reached the hour in which entertainment would be required. Cynddelw Brydydd Mawr, Cynddelw the Great Poet, Owain's bardd teulu stepped forth first He was the poet of the Prince's retinue and family, which meant that he sang to the warriors before battle as well as to the Princess in private.
There were other, lesser poets in Owain's court – twenty-four in number, all together, all highly trained professionals, all members of the closely knit bardic order, but Cynddelw was the chief of them, enjoying special status among his fellow poets. One of his privileges was to accompany his lord when Owain rode off to battle… or to any potentially dangerous situations.
He stepped forth now, at the gesture of the Prince. An apprentice handed him his harp, and he sang the greatness and virtues of Owain's line and then the beauty of the country that was their home, earning great praise for his skills and the beauty of his voice… and rightly so, for only Gwalchmai ab Meilyr the pencerdd, the chief of song in Owain's court, who stood above all other court poets and occupied a special chair at the Prince's own table during feasts, could be compared with him.
When he was done and had been aptly praised for his art, Hywel rose from his seat as was his right. While not a member of the bardic order, his talent was acknowledged by the bards of his father's court and therefore he could sing at feasts whenever he wanted.
Tonight, he wanted it very much, and while most people perchance accepted him to sing about the beauty of the women of Gwynedd, mischief got the better of him, and he chose the Gorhoffedd, knowing that no-one would dare to translate certain words of it for the Norman bishop.
Caraf trachas Lloegyr, lleudir goglet hediw,
ac yn amgant y Lliw lliwas callet.
Caraf am rotes rybuched met,
myn y dyhaet my meith gwyrysset.
Carafy theilu ae thew anhet yndi
ac wrth uot y ri rwyfaw dyhet. (1)
As he sang, he could see Canon Morgant stiffen in his seat with a thunderous expression and the broad shoulders of the old Welsh monk on Cuhelyn's other side shake with suppressed laughter.
The excellent music provided by Owain's bardd teulu and his own son went a long way to dissolve the tensions of the evening into amity and song. Hywel himself – unlike the clueless Norman bishop – was not the least relieved or comforted, though. There were still many things he did not know yet. Things that might turn out as very important; and he was not about to remain in ignorance until it might be too late.
"Come with me," he said to Cuhelyn when the feast finally ended and the guests began to filter through the faint rectangle of light that was the open door of the bishop's hall into the moonless, windless night. "I need a word with you."
Cuhelyn acknowledged his orders with a simple nod. He would have followed Hywel anyway – it was his duty and his privilege as Hywel's shield to remain on his lord's side all the time – but Hywel needing a word with him meant that there would be questions. Questions the young prince expected him to answer truthfully.
Cuhelyn had no qualms doing so. Hywel deserved to know the truth.
They walked along the guest quarters, enjoying the freshness of night air after hours in the smoke and heavy odours of the hall. Most visitors had turned in already, and so would Hywel, too, soon enough. They would have to be fresh and rested in the dawn when the Prince's cortege would muster. But first they needed to speak, and in this mostly abandoned part of the enclave they would have some privacy, at least.
"Tell me," said Hywel after some companionable silence. "What quarrel do you have with Bledri ap Rhys? I will admit that he is a man who can raise one's tempers in no time. Yet your dislike of him seems to be older."
"It is," agreed Cuhelyn. "Nearly a year older by now, though I did not met him before. Never saw him among Cadwaladr's chieftains."
"But you did see him last autumn," said Hywel without surprise. "When Anarawd was murdered."
Cuhelyn nodded, his eyes smouldering in the darkness.
"He was leading the ambush," he said in a low voice. "Always, holding back, never entering the fight himself, save for one short bout. He was the only one who got away unhurt. I could not tell you his name right away, for I never heard it."
"Yet when he came into Gilbert's hall tonight, you recognised him," that was not a question but Cuhelyn nodded again nonetheless.
"In the very moment I saw him, I knew him; how could I not? I se his face every night in my dreams, hovering in the background while my lord is bleeding to death… and I cannot raise my sword to defend him, for my sword, together with my sword-arm, lies across my lord's body…"
Hywel took a sharp breath. He knew Cuhelyn still had nightmares – it would have been hard not to take notice as they shared sleeping accommodations most of the time – but he never imagined the frequency of them.
"You dream of that each night? Small wonder you sleep so little."
"I do not need to sleep to dream of it," Cuhelyn stared into the darkness. "It is enough if I close my eyes. Perchance when they are all dead, I will be free of them."
Hywel nodded in understanding. Avenging one's murdered lord was the sacred duty of every Welsh warrior; but in Cuhelyn's case there was more than just honourable obligations. Cuhelyn had loved Anarawd more than life itself. Anarawd had been the very purpose of his existence, the air he had breathed. Losing his sword-hand had been the smaller one of his losses, and though he had seemed to found his place within the royal household in Gwynedd, there were times Hywel still worried about him.
This was one of those times.
"You know I cannot allow you to kill him just yet," he said cautiously. "Not while we still do not know what Cadwaladr is planning. And even then, Father would insist on a proper trial. On his own volition or by force, Bledri is his guest now, and as such under his protection."
"I know," replied Cuhelyn simply. "I will wait."
"You may have to fight Canon Meirion for the privilege of killing him, though," said Hywel with a sudden grin. "He did not take kindly Bledri's interest in his daughter."
"A wise man," said Cuhelyn. "He would take it even less kindly if he knew who – and what – the man truly is."
"He cannot; not yet," warned Hywel. "Beldri must not realise that he has been found out. Do you think he has recognised you, too?"
Cuhelyn thought about that for a moment; then he shook his head.
"No, I do not believe so. People rarely noticed me before… well, this," he waved with his maimed arm briefly. "I was Anarawd's shield, meant to merge with the shadows. Even now that your father told him there had been a survivor, he never wasted a glance in my direction."
"For the better!" said Hywel contentedly. "That way he remains feeling safe, however mistakenly, until the time arrives to move against him."
"He likes to abuse the fact that once received, he is safe from any harm or affront," agreed Cuhelyn. "Few other people would be brazen enough to threaten the Prince of Gwynedd in his face… and passing it off as a reminder of heaven's displeasure, too!"
"He drew in his horns soon enough, knowing he had gone a step too far," said Hywel with a shrug. "But whatever mischief might be in the planning, Father has seen to it that Bledri cannot play any part of it. Nor will he get the chance to warn Cadwaladr that we have taken warning and are now on the guard."
"I doubt that he would have planned to do so," said Cuhelyn thoughtfully. "It appeared to me as if he had provoked your father's… hospitality purposely. Think about it: it might suit him to come along with us to Aber, keeping his eyes and ears open for Cadwaladr along the way and within Owain's llys."
"If he intents on spying, it would do him no good," replied Hywel. "He would not find a way to send word to his master."
"Are you certain of that?" asked Cuhelyn. "Where there is a will, there is always a way; or will be, sooner or later. But what if he simply wants to keep himself safely out of the struggle between the two princes? He is treated as a guest in your father's court, even though he is, by all means and purposes, just a prisoner. As a guest, he can come to no harm, whatever the issue. If Cadwaladr wins, he can return to his own lord's side without reproach. If Owain emerges victorious, he will be just as safe from injury in the battle or reprisals after it."
Hywel shook his head. "He does not strike me as a cautious man. Such a man would not provoke Canon Meirion's black ire by fooling around with his daughter."
"No," said Cuhelyn dryly. "Caution is not what leads Bledri ap Rhys. It is blank treason, I suppose. He sought – and found – a way to remain on the side of the winner, no matte what. And under the mantle of hospitality, he can afford such small provocations, knowing he can come to no harm."
"Do you truly believe he would turn his back on Cadwaladr, after taking part in Anarawd's murder, in the vague hope of saving his own hide?" asked Hywel doubtfully.
Cuhelyn nodded. "When it truly comes to bloodshed? Yes, I do. A full-scale battle in less predictable than ambushing unexpected travellers; and he knows as well as we do that – unless Cadwaladr should find some very powerful allies on the run – he has no chance against Owain in open battle. Bledri ap Rhys prefers to let others bleed for a shared purpose."
"So you think he would not try to flee?" Hywel frowned and stared at the open door of the bishop's hall, where the tall, broad-shouldered shape of a man appeared, backlit by the still glowing fire of the hearth within. His face could not be seen against the light, but his erect carriage revealed him as Bledri ap Rhys.
Cuhelyn followed his lord's look and shook his head. "He may test the watchfulness of your father's guard, for sport; but not seriously, no. That would be foolish, and whatever else the man by be, he is certainly no fool."
They both watched with mild curiosity as Bledri stood in the doorway for a moment, letting his eyes get used to the darkness; then he began pacing to and fro on the beaten earth of the court, like someone who wanted to work out the stiffness of his limbs after having sat in one place for far too long. It took them a moment to realise that his seemingly aimless pacing was taking the man closer to the open gate of the precinct by every turn.
"Come on!" Hywel grabbed Cuhelyn's mutilated arm with the same unforced spontaneity with which he would grab a healthy limb, and Cuhelyn briefly loved him for that. "This I have to see!"
Cuhelyn was very much of the same mind. Whatever Bledri was planning, he needed to keep an eye on him. Prevent him from leaving; by force if he had to.
They treaded their way carefully among the tired servants clearing away the remnants of the feast, falling back so that the object of their interest would not spot them, while Bledri continued his roundabout way to the gate. He did not try to thread softly; maybe deliberately so, his footsepw well audible on the firm ground. When he saw no-one taking notice of him, he abandoned his previous tactic and walked straight towards the open gate…
…only to walk headfirst into two very obviously drunk men before he could reach it. The two had their arm around each other for mutual support, coming from the fields without, and unceremoniously enveloped him as the third party of their inebriated hug.
"Why, my lord Bledri!" exclaimed one of them in the booming voice of a high-spirited drunk who loved everyone after the right amount of mead. "Taking a walk in the night air before going to bed? And a fine night for it, too!"
"We'll bear you company willingly," offered the other one, just as heartily. "It would be a shame to lose your way in the dark, with all those people around full of mead. Come with us, we'll deliver you to your own brychan safely. It would do no good to have a guest of the lord bishop come to any harm."
"I am not so drun, that I would go astray," replied Bledri, clearly unconcerned and unsurprised. "You are right, though; it is late, and I will ride with the Prince's cartege in the morn. I think it will be better for me to go to my bed. Goodnight to you, too!"
With that, he turned to saunter back towards the hall door, still dimli lighted from within. The two guards – now not seemeing the least drunk – merged with the night again, their work temporarily done.
"He was not surprised," commented Cuhelyn, glaring after Bledri's retreating back.
"No," agreed Hywel. "I think he expected to be stopped and was merely testing the watchfulness of the guards, just as you have foretold. Now he knows that any attempt to leave would be simply and neatly prevented. He will not make another attempt; not tonight."
"Perhaps not," allowed Cuhelyn reluctantly. "I would better keep an eye on him tonight, though."
"No," said Hywel decisively. "He would stay put for the rest of the night, and so should you. We have a long ride before us tomorrow, and you need to be rested."
"I am not tired," protested Cuhelyn, but Hywel silenced him sternly.
"Well, I am, and I intend to retire. Don't be a fool, Cuhelyn; this particular snake will not go anywhere, not for a while. Come and lie with me!"
Cuhelyn stiffened involuntarily… until he hard his young lord's soft laughter.
"Not that way, you fool. I said you needed to rest, and rest you will, even if have have to bind you to the bed and sit on you. But it would do you no good to be alone tonight; not after you had to face him."
Cuhelyn relaxed slightly. He should have known that Hywel would not demand that kind of service tonight, not right after he had just found one fo Anarawd's murderers. He was ashamed of his own reaction.
"Forgive me, my lord…"
"Nonsense," Hywel leaned in and kissed him on the brow like a brother; never on the mouth with a lover's kiss, that would remain forever Anarawd's privilege. "You are shaken; that is understandable. Come now, the night is not getting any younger, and we both need our sleep."
He herded his shield towards the guest lodgings gently but firmly as he would handle a skittish colt, and Cuhelyn went with him obediently, knowing that Hywel was right. He needed to sleep. And entwined in his lord's protective arms, perhaps the nightmares would not bother him tonight.
~TBC~
(1) Hywel's song:
O England's hate is my love unsleeping, Gwynedd my land,
Golden on every hand to the myriad reaping.
For her bounty of mead I love her, winter content,
Where turbulent wastes of the sea but touch and are spent;
I love her people, quiet peace, rich store of her treasure
Changed at her prince's pleasure to splendid war.
"Gorhoffedd" (The Boast), line 3; translation from Robert Gurney Bardic Heritage (London: Chatto & Windus, 1969) p. 39.
