belts of ivy. The central one held a knotted staff, yet he wasn't old. His face was broad, pale and clean-shaved apart from a black goat-beard, which fell from his chin to his belly. His eyes were onyx beads: unblinking, inscrutable.
"The Countess of Lyr honours us with her presence," he said, his deep tone echoing in the vaulted chamber.
For all her dirt and blood, Countess Madalyn stood proud before him. "I haven't walked half naked for ten miles just to be flattered, Gwyddon."
"Has your god finally abandoned you?" he asked.
"Nor did I come here to discuss religion."
"Then what? Politics?" Gwyddon gave a sickle-shaped smile. "At which you are clearly a novice to be so easily outmanoeuvred by a marcher baron, when the rest of the world knows the marcher barons are nothing but brute-butchers, the blunt edge of Edward's anger."
"Don't lecture me, druid!" Her voice was a strained croak. "I've been trying to broker a peace for our people while you and your pagan rats hide in holes in the ground!"
Gwyddon's smile faded. To either side of him, his fellow priests, older men with white beards and wizened faces, frowned at her blasphemy. There was a chorus of whispers, and the countess realised that others were close by - men and women, children too - all acolytes of the ancient religion, huddled in the shadows beyond the misty pools.
"Bring the countess some food," Gwyddon said loudly. "Bring her a cloak as well. And a chair."
"I want none of these things," she retorted.
"Nevertheless, you will have them. We may be pagans, but we are still respectful of rank."
Three figures scurried up, recognisable as slaves by their shaved heads and the brand marks on their brows - though whether male or female it was difficult to tell. One laid a cloak of ram's fleece over the countess's shoulders. The second produced a wooden chair, onto which she lowered herself painfully. The third brought a table, and placed on it a bowl of steaming rabbit broth and a flagon of mulled wine. Up until now the countess had ignored her gnawing hunger, but the mingled aromas of sweet carrots, boiled cabbage and succulent braised rabbit-flesh almost overpowered her. She struggled not to fall on it with gusto, though she didn't actually stop eating until she'd scraped the bowl clean, at which point she drained the flagon in a single draught. The wine was rich, spiced with orange and ginger. And it was hot - a heady warmth passed through her cold, battered body.
Gwyddon watched without comment.
"You've heard what happened?" she finally asked.
"Of course."
"Ill tidings travel quickly in Wales."
"In Wales is there any other kind of tiding?"
"What King Edward is doing makes no sense." She shook her head, as bewildered as she was still horror-stricken. "Does he expect to win people over when he appoints someone like Corotocus and gives him a free hand? How does he think he'll gain his subjects' love?"
"You are mistaken in thinking that he wants their love," Gwyddon said. "In these far reaches of Britain, he is content to have their fear."
"You don't seem disturbed by that."
"Why should I be? As you say, we are rats living in holes. And who drove us here? Not the English, not the Normans - the Welsh."
"Pah! In other countries you'd have been exterminated."
"We'd have been exterminated here had Christian monks had their way. Only the sympathies of certain noble families ensure our survival. Your family for instance, countess."
She stood up abruptly. "Don't mistake me for someone I'm not, Gwyddon. I don't sympathise with heathens."
"So why tolerate us in your domain?"
His voice was deep, melodious. He peered down at her, his eyes glinting. The emerald vapour writhed around his tall, enrobed form like a brood of ethereal vipers.
"I... I..." Countess Madalyn was briefly entranced by the vision. "I... don't believe in slaughter."
"You didn't believe in slaughter once," he corrected her. "Why else are you here now?"
"They've taken my daughter."
"I
"The Countess of Lyr honours us with her presence," he said, his deep tone echoing in the vaulted chamber.
For all her dirt and blood, Countess Madalyn stood proud before him. "I haven't walked half naked for ten miles just to be flattered, Gwyddon."
"Has your god finally abandoned you?" he asked.
"Nor did I come here to discuss religion."
"Then what? Politics?" Gwyddon gave a sickle-shaped smile. "At which you are clearly a novice to be so easily outmanoeuvred by a marcher baron, when the rest of the world knows the marcher barons are nothing but brute-butchers, the blunt edge of Edward's anger."
"Don't lecture me, druid!" Her voice was a strained croak. "I've been trying to broker a peace for our people while you and your pagan rats hide in holes in the ground!"
Gwyddon's smile faded. To either side of him, his fellow priests, older men with white beards and wizened faces, frowned at her blasphemy. There was a chorus of whispers, and the countess realised that others were close by - men and women, children too - all acolytes of the ancient religion, huddled in the shadows beyond the misty pools.
"Bring the countess some food," Gwyddon said loudly. "Bring her a cloak as well. And a chair."
"I want none of these things," she retorted.
"Nevertheless, you will have them. We may be pagans, but we are still respectful of rank."
Three figures scurried up, recognisable as slaves by their shaved heads and the brand marks on their brows - though whether male or female it was difficult to tell. One laid a cloak of ram's fleece over the countess's shoulders. The second produced a wooden chair, onto which she lowered herself painfully. The third brought a table, and placed on it a bowl of steaming rabbit broth and a flagon of mulled wine. Up until now the countess had ignored her gnawing hunger, but the mingled aromas of sweet carrots, boiled cabbage and succulent braised rabbit-flesh almost overpowered her. She struggled not to fall on it with gusto, though she didn't actually stop eating until she'd scraped the bowl clean, at which point she drained the flagon in a single draught. The wine was rich, spiced with orange and ginger. And it was hot - a heady warmth passed through her cold, battered body.
Gwyddon watched without comment.
"You've heard what happened?" she finally asked.
"Of course."
"Ill tidings travel quickly in Wales."
"In Wales is there any other kind of tiding?"
"What King Edward is doing makes no sense." She shook her head, as bewildered as she was still horror-stricken. "Does he expect to win people over when he appoints someone like Corotocus and gives him a free hand? How does he think he'll gain his subjects' love?"
"You are mistaken in thinking that he wants their love," Gwyddon said. "In these far reaches of Britain, he is content to have their fear."
"You don't seem disturbed by that."
"Why should I be? As you say, we are rats living in holes. And who drove us here? Not the English, not the Normans - the Welsh."
"Pah! In other countries you'd have been exterminated."
"We'd have been exterminated here had Christian monks had their way. Only the sympathies of certain noble families ensure our survival. Your family for instance, countess."
She stood up abruptly. "Don't mistake me for someone I'm not, Gwyddon. I don't sympathise with heathens."
"So why tolerate us in your domain?"
His voice was deep, melodious. He peered down at her, his eyes glinting. The emerald vapour writhed around his tall, enrobed form like a brood of ethereal vipers.
"I... I..." Countess Madalyn was briefly entranced by the vision. "I... don't believe in slaughter."
"You didn't believe in slaughter once," he corrected her. "Why else are you here now?"
"They've taken my daughter."
"I
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