Nynniaw claims his 'Rhan y Rhyswr' - The Champion’s Portion.

King Nynniaw ap Beli Mawr - Champion of Prydein.

This great tribe arrayed before Caesar now were unusual, looking regal and superior somehow to his trained eye, and his spirits and hopes dipped. Their main battle-banner was an enormous black flag, spangled with silver stars and displaying a flaming war-hammer at its heart, above a golden crown and three tapering lanes. Two long and white, flowing pennants flanked this enormous banner with a sinuous, fire-breathing red-dragon emblazoned upon each. Their Kings were magnificent, especially the huge man in the centre who incredibly seemed to be mounted on a unicorn. A golden crest shone from the crown of his fabulous helmet and a large flaming war-hammer adorned his long, black shield. The mounted lords of his vanguard were similarly dressed in black over polished mail, carrying long, oval black shields with silver war-hammer armorials, in stark contrast to their soldiery. The glimmering army of burly soldiers standing behind them in ordered ranks, wore crimson and black chequered cloaks and trews. To a-man they sported red-dragon tattoos and voluminous drooping moustaches of enormous proportions, which did nothing to hide the murderous grins on their faces. They were stout, dark-haired men with even darker, glittering eyes and Caesar knew these to be killing men. They were all very obviously seasoned and highly experienced warriors who marched proudly behind their round, red-dragon shields and they bristled with tall, razor-sharp spears. More worryingly, they all seemed absolutely delighted to see him.

*   *   *   *   *

Cadwy drew his cyfail up a small hill to the north barely sixty reeds away, to watch with bated-breath as the legendary sons of Beli Mawr joined the fray, and with a devastating downhill, v-shaped charge they split the Roman ranks. A loud clashing of steel arrived on the breeze which erupted from those battling front ranks and within a few brief minutes of determined fury, the Cymbri had effectively corralled Caesar and his officers. They were clearly attempting to allow the legendary King Nynniaw; the Champion of all Prydein to rightly demand his Rhan y Rhyswr, and all these excited witnesses were breathless in anticipation. Bright steel flashed, far swifter than the eye could follow from this distance and the Lords of Cymbri penetrated the gelyn’s ranks in fury, so that Nynniaw could claim his ‘champion’s portion’ and take the fight to Caesar himself. 

Cadwy and all the people around him watched truly entranced by what was enfolding below them on the grass of Fro Cantion, as these splendid Cymbric Lords now poured into the Roman ranks with an unsurpassed élan. Their sacred, glittering blades flashed with the utmost speed and accuracy, and many outclassed Roman soldiers were cut to ribbons before they even knew what had hit them. Black capes over dazzling mail, and a following swarm of red-chequered mantles seemed to explode into those Roman ranks and none could stand. King Nynniaw ap Beli Mawr had thrashed a space around himself with his glorious, glittering and most famous bar of steel, which all here knew without seeing was deeply engraved with its animalistic forms. It was known throughout Prydein as Weiryn y Ddraig and as Nynniaw’s ‘Dragon-Blade’ flashed like silver lightning below, Cadwy held his breath as did everyone around him.

*   *   *   *   *

As Nynniaw approached the obvious knot of protective warriors around their General, the experienced looking ranks of guards closest to Caesar fought like demons in his protection, especially a tall and aristocratic looking officer who barred the way. The enraged Nynniaw would not be deflected nor would he be denied his claim, and he dropped this officer like a sack of dead rabbits at his feet with a savage blow to his neck with the legendary Weiryn y Ddraig. This mortally wounded noble was identified as one Labienus by the cries of alarm and calls for his rescue from the Romans, who dragged this man away, his neck streaming blood and his toga splashed heavily with the same. Supported by Lludd, Afalach and Nynniaw’s enraged son Gwerdded, the Red Dragons of Prydein attacked the General’s personal guard and they were unstoppable. In moments, there in front of the infuriated King and Champion of all Prydein stood the Roman General himself.

“Cymbri am byth! Prydein am byth!”  Nynniaw roared his battlecry and attacked Caesar in a heartbeat. The Romans surged to protect their general, but Nynniaw’s family had responded to his shout and they battled their way around him, dropping Romans like skittles to protect him, and to isolate the two and allow this sacred bout of mortal combat they demanded. Lludd, Afalach and Gwerdded slaughtered Romans left and right with an insurmountable ferocity as did their relentless champions, forcing back the Romans and abruptly there were two men fighting in a clearing.

Hundreds of stocky warriors, bearing red dragons on their shields and on their thick arms flooded three sides of this ground, clearing an area around them and holding back Brythonic and Roman soldiers alike, so that the finest swordsman in the land, and the chosen Red Dragon of Prydein could claim his champion’s portion and address the Roman in single, mortal combat. Nynniaw attacked Caesar again with an electric suddenness and with an enraged overhead cut, but Caesar somehow parried it, stepping away quickly. The two men began to circle each other and the air around them was suddenly filled with the roaring and cheering of both camps, as all hostilities had been wordlessly suspended.

Both were steeped in a lifetime of training and military tradition, and the fight was instantly a highly technical but brutal bout, as they lunged and hacked at each other with accurate and murderous intent. Blocking and parrying with the reactions of serpents, each looked for the slightest chink in the other’s defence and the baying of the crowd around them grew.

The deep and solid ranks of the Essyllyr who had almost encircled this fight, locked-shields now to hold back the swarming Brythons heading uphill, all careering mindlessly toward the vast mob around the fight on its crown. They were all lost to the killing madness and so had to be controlled by the red-dragon warriors of the motherland, but this caused a beaver-like dam of clamorous warriors across the western uplands of Fro Caint. These inebriated, animated warriors were all screaming blue-faced murder and shoving forward like lunatics, as more and more warriors flowed across Fro Caint to thicken their rear ranks at the foot of this hill. However bright their alcohol-fuelled ardour burned, it fell well-short of suicide and none would brave the sharp spears of the indomitable Essyllyr, as their sharp edges had no concept of race or creed. 

“Cymbri am byth! Prydein am byth!” Nynniaw roared again within this manic, almost uncontrollable circle of yelling and jostling warriors. Prydein’s Pencampwr and sword-master began to dominate the Roman general with a furious assault, Weiryn y Ddraig a shimmering blur. 

Caesar blocked and parried for his life, his head flicking from side-to-side to dodge the long, flashing steel and he retreated steadily from the ferocity of this huge warrior, his eyes wide. He flashed his gladius at Nynniaw’s eyes when he was able, but had failed to make even a fleeting contact, as there wasn’t a scrap of exposed skin anywhere on this King, as his dazzling accoutrements were of the very highest order. They clashed again then, the edges of their hugely unmatched swords biting at each other as the two men heaved and twisted for advantage, but Nynniaw was bigger and much stronger. 

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Bod.

Gŵyr Bodfyca ap Leon 'Mawr', Warden of CaerCarwyn in Bidog, Albion.

As the Prince and his Lords were away, Gŵyr Bodfyca Mawr the Warden of CaerCarwyn would not take the responsibility of risking the Dun and ordering an attack on such a large force to save the town, as he only had this small reserve garrison to command and thus constrained, was forced to bear witness to the sacking of Draenwen. 

His reputation was such every person in this fortress knew he wouldn’t stand for it, and the murderous look on his big face at that moment confirmed it, as the huge and imposing warden of CaerCarwyn simply glowed with his frustrated outrage. Gŵyr Bodfyca ap Leon was a tall, barrel-chested and grizzled old warrior who had seen active service in Cridas’ elite and celebrated Plyfyn y Baedd in last year’s Roman war, being known as a ferocious and merciless killer in his prime. Known now as just ‘Bod’ by his old comrades in the Regiment of the ‘Quills’ and Gŵyr Bodfyca Mawr; the Warden of CaerCarwyn by everyone else in Albion and Prydein. That prime was well behind Bod now, although his heroic past exploits had warranted a permanent position of authority in one of Albion’s great Caers for his retirement. Bodfyca had thought the offer of Warden of CaerCarwyn a gift from the Gods themselves, when he was first offered the position by King Cridas himself. That the King had chosen him personally to be warden to his son and heir had filled him with pride, as he was not an Albion-born man. Bod had become an Albion man that day though and for life, also becoming known more recently as Bodfyca Mawr for more obvious reasons. 

Bodfyca hailed from DunGanwy on the Aber of Afon Conwy, deep in the Decawangly territory of Cymbri but had fled that territory as a boy, when it had been invaded and destroyed by marauding Iweriu. The mercenary scots had sailed up the estuary in a fleet of ships and laid siege to the fortress, but not before his family and every single person in the Treflan below the Dun had been slaughtered, apart from Bodfyca, who had fled into the woods surrounding the fort. Running as fast as his thin legs could carry him, Bodfyca had managed to reach the tiny fishing village on Maes Ddu, the beach below Penrhyn Gogarth, where he stole a boat and escaped. As he rowed across the swirling estuary toward Penmaenmawr, Bodfyca could see the whole estuary of the Conwy was in flames behind him and for an eleven-year-old boy who had just lost everything he had ever known, it was a harrowing image he would take with him to the grave.  

Young Bodfyca had grown up hard and alone, surviving from one forest to the next like a wild animal. He lived from hand to mouth for years, until he started to fill out and grow, but once Bod began to grow, he never seemed to stop. Becoming an adept hunter through sheer necessity of survival, Bodfyca grew from the cub to the bear as he travelled this country, heading ever north almost thoughtlessly, as it was just easier. Crossing the border from Breged into Albion, the huge young man dressed in ragged skins had been filthy, lice ridden and covered in rough matted hair from head to foot. Causing uproar in Treflan Annan on arrival and labelled a ‘monster of the Gwyllion’ by an elder Gawres, Bodfyca was beaten with sticks and driven from the town by all its inhabitants and chased back into the woods. 

Shunned and driven-off from every town and village he stumbled across, Bodfyca became shy rather than vengeful and drew into himself, living in a cave and living hand-to-mouth for many years. As he matured, Bodfyca became bored with his cave and determined to strike-out once more, seeking something he didn’t yet know himself he needed. North he headed once more, dressed in deer-hide and with a bag tied to a pole thrown over one huge, bulging shoulder. 

Bodfyca’s huge size and undisguised ferocity had got him noticed however, when he eventually pitched-up at DunPeris in Enouanta a few weeks later looking for work. Despite his uncivilised appearance and the unholy stench emanating from him, the ‘Gŵyr Enouant’ had soon found employment for the huge and almost feral bear of a man.  

There had been no point in attempting to turn this enormous, almost wild creature of the woods into a swordsman, and so Bodfyca had been equipped with bronze amulets and a monstrous double-headed war axe. The massive but still growing Bodfyca Wyllt had become expert in their deadly use in no time at all, becoming the hot topic of discussion throughout the fortress. The bucket sized helm and the massive armour pieces which had to be especially made for him had cost a fortune, but he had justified the investment in his first battle, as it had been against a warband of invading scots and calling him ‘wild’ had been in hindsight, quite an understatement. 

Bodfyca had gone-on to avenge his family and his Cymbric village and the vanquished fort of DunGanwy that day and many others since, fighting Iweriu raiders on several more occasions in his military career for the northern Kingdom of Albion. It was in these emotionally-charged battles, that Bodfyca had carved huge bloody swathes through the enemy. He had written his own legend in Prydeinig history in those intervening years and done it in hot Iweriu blood, losing the ‘wild’ title and becoming the fearsome and hugely respected Bod. 

Thirty-six long and dangerous years had passed since that formative and traumatic period which had so heavily influenced this man and shaped his complex psychology, making him the belligerent and much-feared Warden of CaerCarwyn he is today. Over recent months and in his more sedentary position, Bodfyca Mawr’s belly had begun to compete with his enormous chest but it took nothing away from his capabilities, rather it added to his physical presence and authority, and the big Cymbric man did carry it well enough. 

*   *   *   *   *

Unknown to these brothers, those silent men had gained the unnerving title of ‘the forlorn hope’ and these were almost the last of the fighting men from the main fortress, leaving its safekeeping to its ferocious defences and a skeleton-crew, which struggled to even rise to that risible description there were so few of them. The women, servants and porters had armed themselves and even the children of the Caer had come to stand on boxes, to take the places of those brave men on the southern and western palisades facing the town. They did this one at a time, and the replaced warriors had then assembled below in front of the gates, in the same way as their comrades had done previously, none of which had survived. However led by the enormous and fearless Bodfyca Mawr, these valiant Albion men were prepared for one mad dash to death or glory, and one desperate final attempt at grabbing the enemy’s hostage in whatever way possible. Then they had to get their beloved Princess back inside the gates of the fort somehow, and then at least the tragedies of this day will have been mitigated to a large degree.  

There were seven men hiding inside the gate, prepared to sally-forth and assist the forlorn hope in gaining its security as a last resort, as these were cooks and burly stewards, but they were armed with sharp steel and Brythonic courage. The faces of Bod and his forlorn hope were soot-blackened, their clothing dark and apart from their huge leader with his legendary axe, each carried a long spear and a round shield, also blackened with soot. They knew they would need every fleeting second if their bold plan had any chance of success, and so they crept out of the fortress and assembled either side of the huge Bodfyca and alongside the ramp, crouching among the scrub at the verge and staring down at the assembling enemy horde with fearful eyes. 

From the other side of the town, Cilwyn and Dilwyn had seen the furtive exit and assembly of those little black figures before the distant gates of the fortress and their pulses had raced, fearing another vain attempt. It was obvious even from here who was leading this last-ditch attack, as his bulk caught the eye and they were compelled to watch with bated breath, as the shadowy figures vanished into the dark ground alongside the chariot ramp and the ambush was set. 

The enemy warband eventually moved-out on foot, the same way they had arrived but now leading a small herd of stolen horses, one of which carried their Princess who had been thrown face-down over it and they marked it well. The raiders took the main curving drover’s road and headed north, uphill toward the dark and silent fortress, but its battlements were still crowded with spearmen, darkly silhouetted against the night. As the warband approached, all those soldiers at the palisades began to create a great din, crashing their spears against their shields and throwing rocks, anything to attract the attention of their enemy, so that their heroic compatriots crouching in the shadows below in ambush would have just an extra little chance. 

It seemed to be working as many of these drunken raiders responded, by gesticulating back at the indistinguishable soldiers high above them on the battlements and brandishing their weapons in victorious insult. As they climbed the hill and drew abreast of the Caer, the men in the shadows sprang into action and Bodfyca led a four-man spearhead, running straight at the rear flank of the retreating horde. This huge Cymbric legend attacked them with a mindless rage, allowing the three chosen men behind him to slide past and make directly for the horse carrying their Princess. The others then formed a single line behind their furious leader and their vanguard, who were having great initial success from the surprise, and the fact that the men tasked to lead the horses away were none too sober. Constrained by the ditched road running uphill, the great host of warriors was slow to respond to what was unfolding behind them, and even slower to turn around. 

The three retrievers were led by a shield-man with a long sword, guarding his two combrogi, who were only armed with daggers as they needed to be agile and dextrous. With the protection of their guardian before them, the two men grabbed Eirwen’s horse, as bedlam exploded behind them. One cut the rains to free the horse and then he swiftly cut the Princess’ bindings, so that she could rise-up and ride the horse straight up the ramp and through the open gate, whilst the others guarded the horse’s rear. They were alarmed when Eirwen slumped from the saddle and fell to the road senseless. The two men had to grab her by the wrists and ankles and carry her, as they abandoned the horse and made a dash for the gates. 

The enormous Bod and his compatriots roared with fury, as they fought the enemy to protect these chosen men, but they were hard pressed by the horde coming back down the hill. They had only needed moments for Eirwen to ride through the gates but that couldn’t happen now, and so the two retrievers ran for the gate with their unconscious Princess swinging between them like dinner, as Bod and his beleaguered men tried to hang on for that bit longer.  

Even the shield-man of the frantic retrievers was engaged, the fighting suddenly raging closely around them as these wild and drunken invaders had eventually woken up and sobered up, to realise what was going on. Now Bod and his brave men had awoken the beast they struggled valiantly to contain it, as the two men rushed toward the gates behind them with their prize. They almost made it, but it was the excellence of the Epidian Gŵyr which was the telling factor, especially Elgan, as he had the calm disposition and quick-thinking mind of a trained and experienced leader, and his four knights were in the habit of obeying his orders without hesitation. 

The four big men around the man-mountain from Cymbri had perished but Bodfyca remained huge and roaring, as he felled one drunken enemy after another with his awesome battle-axe. In the blink of an eye, an archer took him down with an arrow, which pierced his great heart and the enormous warrior fell without another sound.

The protective shield men and all their supporters had perished in moments, as they were massively outnumbered, whilst Elgan and his four ferocious knights had made directly for the gatehouse and got there just before the brave pair carrying their Princess did. These two reckless Albion warriors were brought up short by five unwavering blades of repute, held in steady and seasoned hands. They had no option left to them and so they lowered Eirwen slowly to the cold flagstones of the chariot ramp and put her down carefully, their eyes never leaving those of Elgan’s, which were ablaze with indignant anger.

To their eternal credit and honour, they didn’t flee as they could have and stood tall together before the prone form of their Princess on the ground, and shoulder to shoulder, they drew steel and died together. Elgan alone with his sword kept the hopelessly ineffectual amateurs from coming out through the gate to help Bod’s ‘forlorn hope’ and the little band of brave rescuers justified their tragic name, as the last one was put cruelly to the sword. 

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New Life and new responsibilities.

“Have you seen Brast?” Cadwy demanded of Hefin, clearly unhappy at the delay but Hefin shook his head and curled his lip.

“Have you tried his thatch in the town?” His combrogi offered with a smile, knowing the stress of impending fatherhood was weighing heavily on Cadwy in these final hours.

“Brast has a house in town?” Cadwy queried with a slight frown, as it was news to him.

“Mm yes, he shares it with a very fine lady called Siân, you know the lady who makes our coats and waterproof capes?” Hefin asked him with a sparkle in his eye, pleased he had something to distract Cadwy with.

“Siân Gwniyddes? Yes of course I know her, but how on earth did Brast manage to secure that particular lady’s affections?” Cadwy asked Hefin, his frown deepening. “I would have thought that she was a little aristocratic for our good Brast ap Bwlch, and perhaps a little young?” Cadwy finished thoughtfully, but with a grin breaking out on his face for the first time in many days.

“You know Brast, now he’s a Lord there’s no stopping him!” Hefin chuckled in response. “Siân is certainly all-woman though, so you have to admire his courage Cadwy and he has lost a little weight recently, which isn’t a bad thing.” Hefin added with a smirk, making Cadwy laugh.

“That’s all very well Hefin my combrogi, and while Brast’s ambition and recent fitness is perhaps to be admired, he is listed as being on active duty, as-per the day’s roster, is he not?”

Cadwy didn’t even wait for a reply, reaching for one of the aforementioned Lady Siân’s fine overcoats and Hefin stood to join him.

“I think we should pay him a visit don’t you Hefin? Let us see what our ennobled combrogi is up to in this secret town-house of his!” Cadwy growled and that shark-like smile which Hefin knew so well promised some fine entertainment, and he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Hefin scuttled after Cadwy out of his private lodges and followed him down the stairs with a matching grin.

Cadwy had only knocked once, when the newly painted door in the pretty thatch off Stryd Fawr of Draenwen was opened by a tall, statuesque woman of around forty summers in experience. She stood smiling in the doorway and between an overflowing pair of bloom-filled hanging baskets, making quite an impression on both young men.

 “Siân Gwniyddes?” Cadwy enquired politely and with a respectful bow, whilst a grinning Hefin did the same alongside him and the lady of the house’s eyes grew, as recognition blossomed in them. This lady was no shrinking violet however and she covered her surprise at such unannounced and royal company with a very attractive and engaging smile, showing perfect white teeth.

“Your majesty Prince Cadwy and your highness Prince Hefin, it is a great honour to receive you both in my humble home, Brast has told me so much about you!” She informed them with an unfathomable look on her attractive face. “Please come in and make yourselves to home!” She smiled at them and both men understood completely Brast’s fascination with this tall and beautiful Lady, who seemed to exude a feminine grace unmatched by any of her local contemporaries in Draenwen.

“Let me fetch you both some mead my Lords and I will let Brast know you are here.” Siân smiled and bowed again as they entered with deep bows of their own, before their glamorous hostess retreated to her well-organised kitchen, and both young men were compelled to watch her swaying departure.

A loud crash of something getting knocked over and which didn’t bounce, came from behind a screened-off chamber at the back of this long oval thatch and it made both visitors grin, as their abrupt arrival was clearly causing some consternation to this lady’s unseen partner. The bead curtain was swept aside abruptly and Gŵyr Brast came forward to greet them blushing furiously, as his dishevelled hair and soft woollen dressing gown were evidence enough of his impromptu stand-easy. Before he could bow and offer his formal greeting to both Princes, Cadwy forestalled him.

“Ah Gŵyr Brast, I have been looking for you!” Cadwy informed him with that enigmatic smile he had come to know so well and Brast couldn’t meet his Prince’s eyes, shuffling his feet on the doeskin floor in acute discomfort. “Nothing of any great import, but as you are declared on active duty by the roster, I sought you out in the barracks but to no avail. I didn’t know you had vacated your billet in my Caer and taken up residence in the town?” He challenged Brast politely but the edge to his voice although subtle, was discernible to both his male listeners.

“I er, yes we have..”

“I see, I see!” Cadwy interrupted him mercilessly, beginning to walk around this pleasant thatch and taking-in its spacious interior, as Brast stood involuntarily to attention in his dressing gown behind him.

Cadwy swept his gaze around this tidy and vibrant interior, which reflected their hostess’ warm and friendly personality and it was clear too with barely a glance, that this homestead accommodated two people and more than that, it was evident to Cadwy that its occupants were a couple.

“You kept all this under your helmet you old rogue!” Cadwy growled at Brast with a canine grin as he drew alongside him, and Brast responded with one of his own, still blushing and unable to hide his pride. His quiet smugness was interrupted by his lady and the two Prince’s hostess, as Siân approached them carrying a tray laden with steaming mead and a plateful of her own delicious-looking butter biscuits. The mouth-watering biscuits caught Hefin’s eye but Cadwy held Brast’s gaze in his own with no compassion, his expression unreadable, and Brast was compelled to shuffle his feet again as Siân joined them.

“You have kept the big-day a total secret too Brast and your modesty does you proud, but if I’m not mistaken, I’m betting the good Lady Siân would like to make a grand day of it?” Cadwy enquired of them both quite loudly and out of the blue, accepting a horn of mead from his gracious hostess.

Brast suddenly looked as if he’d been shot with an arrow, whilst Hefin alongside him looked just as shocked and strangely guilty, as if it was him who had shot him. Hefin gulped with a dawning realisation and his eyes grew, as barely suppressing his surprised mirth, he watched Brast blush to his roots alongside him, and stand open-mouthed at his Prince’s presumptive but painfully incisive words.

The Lady Siân in comparison was as quick as a whip, and knew immediately what her royal visitor was about, adopting a questioning look herself and appraising her co-habiting partner with an arched eyebrow. Brast blustered something unintelligible under this cold and unavoidable scrutiny but then he ran out steam and ideas, to just stand there looking at Cadwy and Siân like a rabbit caught in a hunter’s torchlight. Cadwy was without mercy still and took the lady’s hand, leading her to the cushioned bench against the brightly coloured eastern wall of her own living room with the utmost courtesy.

“You must let me introduce you to my amazing Gwraig y Let - Lydia Lady Siân, as she has organised so many wonderful handfastings, she could do it blindfold I’m sure. My wife Princess Eirwen will also be sure to want the celebration in the great hall of my Caer, and I too would be most honoured to accommodate you for the happy event!” Cadwy beamed at her and turned to the two men watching, who were clearly gripped by precisely opposing emotions.

A bulging, bug-eyed Hefin looked as though he was about to explode into an apoplectic vapour, whilst a wide-eyed, crumbling Brast seemed to be gripped by some frantic but silent seizure alongside him, which for some unknown reason forced the poor man to flap his hands about in acute discomfort.

Cadwy completely ignored Brast’s furious gesticulations with that predatory grin of his, turning back and becoming effusive once more in his generosity to the Lady Siân beside him, and it was Hefin who broke first.

He couldn’t hold it-in a moment longer and Hefin duly exploded into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, falling to the hide matting and rolling about on Lady Siân’s floor, hooting with hilarity, as Brast glowed like a forge-fire above him. Cadwy and Siân looked-on with cool expressions from the sofa but they couldn’t hold the façade anymore either. Hefin’s irrepressible amusement was as infectious as snake venom and in a flash, they were all laughing, and the tears rolled down their faces including Brast ap Bwlch’s, who nodded and moved to his Lady Siân, put his arm around her shoulders and grinned fit to bust.

“I can’t have one of my most senior Gŵyr running around like an uncivilised soldier can I Brast, especially as I have set-aside some land for you to the north?” Cadwy pointed out casually and Brast’s open mouth shut with an astonished snap of his teeth. Cadwy glanced at him and smiled again. “Yes that abandoned farm estate above Bryn Collen which I’ve seen you covet. It needs governance Brast, if it is ever to recover and begin feeding our people again and I thought you could do with a new challenge!” He informed his senior Gŵyr, who looked as though he had just swallowed an egg, as the ramifications of the Prince’s easily spoken words could not be overlooked.

Prince Cadwy was elevating Gŵyr Brast ap Bwlch again, this time to a landed Tumon and Brast had to sit down at this point. Even the erudite Lady Siân looked shocked and robbed of words at this life-changing event, and her tears demonstrated that the gravitas of today’s events were suddenly very clear to her, and her stunned-speechless partner.

“What about Beltain? You can’t beat a spring wedding!” Cadwy broke the shocked silence with an ever-broader grin. “Anyway, whatever you both decide will be fine with us all I’m sure, but please let me know, as quite a few of us will need new coats for the occasion!” He winked at Siân and the laughter came back with a decidedly happy ring to it.

Barely an hour later and high in the private royal lodges of CaerCarwyn’s western corner tower, its ruling Tywysog had returned, as had his anxiety. The lines of concern on his face now competed with the ungainly scar across his forehead and he found it almost impossible to keep still. He sat fidgeting in his armchair by the window once more and chewed on his already ragged fingernails when he wasn’t playing with Eirwen’s puppy for the distraction.

Lydia was in with Eirwen, as were several hand-picked nurses and experienced midwives, and they were all sure that it would be soon. Eirwen had been in labour these last twelve hours and Cadwy had paced the passageways and hallways of CaerCarwyn like a caged beast, and it was only Hefin who could approach him without incurring any serious and lasting injury. They had both taken a chance at a few hours at the hunt in Coedwig Collen earlier and at Hefin’s insistence. The break would take Cadwy’s mind off the looming event admirably and they headed for the stables.

Cadwy, Hefin and a dozen archers had just entered Cwm Collen on the spoor of a family of wild boar, when a rider had caught up with them, effectively ending the all-too short hunt before it had even begun. Then it had been a frantic dash back to the Caer as fast as their chargers could carry them, and Cadwy had stalked these corridors the same way ever since; with the murderous step of a deadly hunter.

The tension in the birthing chamber could be felt through the oak door, or at least it did to Cadwy’s feverish imagination. He fondled Eirwen’s gangly but adorable puppy again as he waited in his agony and longing.

It was a pale, long-legged and shaggy hunt-hound of around eight weeks old which distracted him, and this agreeable puppy had been sent north with a trading caravan, all the way from Cymbri and at the behest of that maternal country’s high-king Lludd Llaw Ereint. The hound was only recently whelped, and its grey-white coat was already tough and springy, ideal for the physical challenges of the uniquely privileged hunting life ahead of it. It would not however suffer the punishing life of a hunting dog of the werrin, who had to earn their meagre keep day after day but would sojourn on the odd aristocratic hunt in fine style and unhurried pleasure. The rest of this dog’s fortunate life would be filled by being the adoration of his mistress, who was missing this day, but this little puppy knew none of this, and was happy having his long and sculpted belly tickled by Cadwy. Curiously and uniquely to the hunting dogs of the Cymbri, Llew had rusty red tips to his pointed ears, one of which would stand pricked, whilst the other bowed and flapped as carelessly as its entirely demented owner, wriggling furiously now in its master’s lap, demanding his undivided attention.

Infant screaming suddenly punctured the air and punctuated his thoughts just as effectively, making Cadwy’s eyes fly open. He stood up abruptly and returned Llew to his stout timber pen in a daze, but then didn’t have a clue what to do, and just stood there in the middle of the chamber, glowing and grinning fit to bust. His ears strained to hear the staccato screams of Olwydd ap Cadwy in the berthing chamber next door, over the whining of the now abandoned and forgotten dog, and Cadwy felt rooted and stunned into inactivity.

Hefin came bursting through the door then with Brast and Bleddyn at his heels, and they all stood there with the most stunned expressions on their faces as another volley of infant screaming erupted from beyond the door. They crowded this ante-chamber now but none of them knew what to do next, as a frisson of panicky emotion swept through the four of them. Then the door to the bed chamber opened, making all their heads turn and a smiling Lydia held it open. Cadwy just beat Hefin through the doorway and he rushed to the bedside with Brast and Bleddyn in hot pursuit.

Gripping Eirwen’s hand and staring into those mesmerising eyes and her smiling face, Cadwy knew all he needed to know in that instant, and it will always be that way between them. Cadwy turned, and there in the midwife’s bloody hands was his son and heir, and he felt his very soul soar into the heavens at that enervating moment.

His indignant little face was deeply wrinkled and purple in protest, and he was squealing fit to bust with his anger at such rude and undignified treatment. Cadwy simply glowed with an incomparable pride and still in a daze, he reached for him, his eyes glistening and his heart banging in his chest.

“My son, Olwydd ap Cadwy ap Cridas, of Selgofa and Albion!” He growled with the overwhelming emotion, a look of wonder now on his face, as the nurse handed over the warm and squealing baby in its first swaddling.

“You may have to revise that statement darling.” Eirwen told him laconically, watching him closely from one elbow.

Cadwy was hardly listening, as he was staring deeply into his son’s eyes and all the things he planned for this fortunate young boy were written across his awe-struck face, at that unique and life-enduring, first moment between father and son.

“How so my love?” He asked absently, lost in the perfect beauty of his son’s flawless face. “Isn’t he just adorable?” He asked them all. Eirwen, Lydia and all these nurses chuckled in response.

Cadwy looked up with that star-struck expression still softening his normally warlike features and filling his eyes with a new and undiscovered paternal love, which was suddenly so powerful Cadwy could hardly draw breath. “Olwydd!” He cooed, lifting the child and his indulgent smile deepened.

“Just so Cadwy, as our first child will need to be called Olwen, Bronwen or something else very similar!” His wife told him mysteriously and finally the acorn dropped, and the look which took hold of his face at that educational moment was a priceless one, and it drew a throaty laugh from his wife. “She is a perfect little girl Cadwy and we have surely been blessed by Brigida herself!” Eirwen added dreamily and the fire of that same new and burgeoning maternal love which was growing alarmingly within her, blazed from her beautiful emerald eyes.

Cadwy stood stunned and surveyed his daughter anew, and the most engaging smile erupted from them both at that delightful and edifying first moment between daughter and father, and so he lifted her even higher and laughed.

“My Gods I have a daughter and all Prydein should now be shaking in their boots, for with the conjoined blood of the old-enemy coursing through her little veins, this warrior-princess will one day rule all of northern Prydein!” He declared theatrically, his neck flushing pink with the oath made for amusement, but his glittering eyes gave credence and lent a certain gravitas to it.

“What about Gwenddoleu?” Eirwen proposed from her bed and Cadwy’s smile was so broad, you could see his gums.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the honourable, fierce and unassailable Princess Gwenddoleu ferch Cadwy ap Cridas, of Selgofa and Albion!” Cadwy tried out the title for the first time with a sense of immense and unique pride. Applause broke out among these nurses, but it was quickly swollen by the people crowding the door, the leader of which was a beaming and clapping Hefin.

To a loud and tuneful call of three horns, the vibrant flags of celebration unfurled on the high battlements of CaerCarwyn and the cheering of the werrin in Draenwen far below was loud, even from this remove. The news flashed outwards over greater Bidog like a wild summer fire, along with the name; Gwenddoleu!

The canny, forward thinking brewers, butchers and bakers of Draenwen got up from their bracken and regardless of the uncommon hour, they went to work with knowing looks.

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Swyn y Gwynt

Y Medd Melys;
‘First horn is for thirst, the second for pleasure. Three horns for song and the fourth is for leisure. Five horns for folly, the sixth is for slumber but the seventh horn reveals the dark Druid’s number.’

Bellnor had made a fine effort at the wonderful food and drink on offer, looking pleased and effusive at the centre of the top table and he had been gregarious throughout. Among the gifts on the huge table before him, sat a small two-gallon oak cask and Bellnor had been eyeing it all afternoon knowing well what it contained, as the mysterious markings burned into its timbers were familiar to him. Although it was many years since he had sampled a proper vintage Swyn y Gwynt, he recognised this small wooden barrel for what it was; two gallons of pure magical nectar and in the High-King of Breged’s considered personal opinion, it was rarer than dragon’s piss. ‘Sound of the Wind’ was the famous and much lauded honey-liquor of Myrddun yr Ogof, the long-dead alchemist and master-distiller who had stored his liquor in oak barrels, deep in a draughty cave system in the nearby lands of the much reduced Tectoferdi tribe. His wirod-mywyd, or ‘spirit-of-life’ as the Prydeinig called their beloved liquor had become legendary, earning the wily old distiller a small fortune, but his very finest vintage was known as ‘Swyn y Gwynt’ and this precious spirit was so wonderfully delicious and pure, it was thought to have been touched by the Gods themselves.

The Tectoferdi were known throughout Prydein as master bee-keepers and their honey was hugely popular with the werrin of all Breganta. Myrddun Ogof had sought out these Bee-Masters, as the liquid gold their minions produced was flavoured by the heather and wild flowers which festoon the broad downs nearby, and which occupy the heartland of this north-midland territory. As the chatter and noise of this banquet washed over Bellnor, his gaze fell on the barrel once more and his thoughts returned to old Myrddun Ogof and his long-lost underground distillery…. With the liquid gold of Tectoferdi’s bees secured, Myrddun began by building a fine reputation across the region for producing the purest medd-melys and Myrddun gathered the profit from selling this excellent mead, investing it into a future, in the further distillation of his most popular produce. Soon his honey liquor became famous, especially his finest work; Swyn y Gwynt for which the aristocracy would pay an exorbitant price, such was its reputation. Myrddun had died without issue or a subordinate to run the distillery and so his caves had become abandoned. They had been raided by anonymous rogues and most of his stock stolen, soon after his death from some mysterious illness in his inner organs, but the cave system was such a dangerous warren, rumours were rife about undiscovered reserves of honey liquor, hidden away still in some dark corner. Even a great pile of lost Swyn y Gwynt was conjured up by the more optimistic. Warriors and bards alike would retell the old tale with relish across Prydein, on those long cold nights when the warm mead was all gone. This had all happened more than a hundred years ago, making a real barrel of Swyn y Gwynt a very rare thing indeed. It was thought they were all long-gone but this one had somehow survived and by some miracle, his daughter-in-law had managed to procure it for him. There were many counterfeits these days depressingly, a sad development in recent years across many industries and it was common knowledge in this modern world; not all that which glitters is gold. Bellnor could tell by these rare markings however that this was the real thing, as it was in the original barrel, hand-made by the master himself and it promised untold delights from its incredible age, and Bellnor just couldn’t wait to tap it. His pleasure deepened with anticipation and he salivated a little in expectancy and looking around, he even nodded and smiled across to his son, who returned it to his credit and it seemed as if this exciting and God’s blessed day was having a soothing and conciliatory effect on all.
The King glanced across at Morwena then, appreciating now the efforts his daughter-in-law had made and she was proving to be a very accomplished hostess, flitting here and there and organising everything, always industrious. He was forced to revise his opinion of her, as without her tireless efforts to make this celebration a complete success, and her determined reaching out to him, he probably wouldn’t have come, even as he knew it would have driven a wedge between him and his son no amount of diplomacy could have drawn. Now it seems her persistence has paid off, as this had been a truly wonderful celebration and his beautiful granddaughter had stolen everyone’s hearts, in the short periods of calm between the raging bouts of bedlam which issued from her. This whole maes was relaxing now into this warm and memorable day and Bellnor’s great shoulders sagged, the knots of tension finally unravelling, and he beamed back at the rows of flushed but smiling faces before him. Gŵyr Eidyn and his burly, grey-haired comrade Gŵyr Cydwas smiled thinly in return to the High-King from their long side table but then eyed each other nervously and both remained silent, Cydwas’ head dropping and Eidyn too lowered his gaze, as it couldn’t be much longer.
The Adlonnwr was no mere Jester even as he dressed and performed as a well-known one, as this man was among the very best sleight of hand merchants in all Prydein. Morwena had spent much silver in getting this famous magician here today and for this happy event. Bellnor roared with laughter, as the man with the elusive hands produced a fully inflated pig’s bladder, seemingly out of thin air. Morwena watched her Chwegrun carefully and was thrilled that Bellnor was enjoying himself so much. He had been so kind to her earlier, praising her for the excellence of the feast and thanking her sincerely for her efforts in creating such a spectacular success in the Founding of his granddaughter, even shaking hands and embracing Cartysman before throwing his arms about them both. Although Prince Cartysman had stood a little rigid at first, the cheering of all the guests seemed to soften his attitude and blushing furiously, he too relented and the smiles broke out everywhere.
A bunch of flowers appeared as if by magic under the King’s nose and he roared with laughter again, his elbow resting in confirmed ownership of the barrel of honey liquor. Morwena was compelled to go to him in his joy and sliding her arms around his great muscular shoulders she hugged him, smiling as he patted the back of her hand. “He’s very good Morwena, wherever did you find him?” He asked her, his eyes sparkling from under his bushy eyebrows and echoing his laughter. “I’ll send him to you after the feast father, and he can tickle your ribs in private for a week or two!” She offered with a mischievous smile and Bellnor nodded in agreement, flipping the performer a whole gold coin. The man’s eyes grew huge, but the coin vanished in thin air and once again the applause was loud. The Jester bowed deeply to Bellnor but when he arose a moment later, he was wearing a completely different shirt, and the High-King of Breged was astounded, standing and leading the cheering. As if in sudden afterthought, Bellnor turned and bent to Morwena.

“And where on this green-earth did you find this barrel of Swyn y Gwynt?” He queried with an astonished expression, but his canny daughter in law wasn’t forthcoming and tapped the side of her nose with a finger, an enigmatic smile playing around her lips. At a nod from her a steward approached with a mallet and pin, and she leaned closer to her father in law. “To be quite honest father, I know not where it comes from, but a merchant offered it for sale and I bought it for you. I have noticed you haven’t been able to take your eyes from our little gift, so I have brought a brewer to tap it, and so that you can sample it now. I know you’re dying to taste it!” She told him in his ear and with that enduring, enigmatic smile of hers. Bellnor didn’t need much persuasion and was clearly delighted at her continued thoughtfulness, nodding to the steward and finally relinquishing his precious new gift. With one practised blow, the steward drove a spigot into the barrel and the man stood it back upright on the table carefully in front of the King, before bowing deeply and retreating. Bellnor’s mouth salivated sharply in anticipation and as the liquor was poured carefully into a beautiful imported drinking glass with a long, twisted stem by a nervous arwein, he could hardly contain himself. The liquor was so pale it was almost translucent, but when he held it up to the sunlight, subtle tones of honey and autumn gold were revealed in its mysterious depths. To Bellnor’s sophisticated nose, the bouquet of heather and wild blooms came alive on his olfactory palette. He breathed its fumes in deeply, glorying in its complex but sweet aromas which promised so much. The King stretched out this moment of pure personal pleasure, taking the time to appreciate where this nectar had come from, as the sounds around him faded, being replaced by the arrival of a curious and melodic wind, whose subtle, somewhat melancholic tones drifted toward an enraptured Bellnor from somewhere in the trees hereabouts.

With narrowed but glittering eyes the King lifted the lovely glass higher, considering its contents of such venerable age and the unique individual who had brought it into this world, and he revelled in the keen sense of anticipation which gripped him. The first sip did not disappoint, in fact it delighted him and stimulated his taste-buds, making his eyes roll upwards as the aged liquor washed over his tongue and all his celebrating senses. It was even more delicious than anticipated and Bellnor smacked his lips, nodding and smiling his appreciation to Morwena but as he did this, he detected a slight oiliness on his lips and it had no business being there. As Bellnor licked the unexpected film from his lips with a frown, Morwena’s face was inscrutable and her eyes unfathomable at that breath-catching moment. The sounds from the wind and the hundreds of guests became strangely hollow to his ears then and his heart began to beat a little differently in his chest, which suddenly felt tight and it gave him an alarming twinge. https://iffy88227.wixsite.com/sonsofbelimawr

The taste of freedom.

Supporting their injured comrades and surrounding the one horse and its precious cargo, these doughty men pressed on hard across the valley before them and climbed the wooded hillside, praying that this was the last one. As they crested this forested hill, the rocky north-western coast and the great glittering Sea of Atlantis lay before them, now less than a mile away. 

Within half an hour, they had rediscovered the head of the pathway which had led up from the rocky shelf overlooking the curving gravel beach they had landed at that night, which seemed so long ago now to all these men. The barren and inaccessible, stubby little promontory down to their left which thrust out into this vast ocean, protected their one means of escape, which had been secreted at its rock and boulder-strewn tip. It would have been useless mooring any ship in the water off this small and rugged finger of land, or anywhere in the open on this coast, as it would have been discovered by the passing Iweriuan sailors who scouted this channel, or dragged away and destroyed by one of the great storms which come howling in from that mind-bogglingly vast Atlantean Ocean to regularly assault this inhospitable coast, especially at this time of year.

In the stygian depths of a moonless and starless night, Ederus’ marine engineers had cleverly tied the stern of a single-masted trading ship to two huge oak trees, which overlooked the fingertip of this peninsula before them. With the mast stowed and using cut trees for rollers under the hull, they had hauled the boat backwards up the shingle slope beneath the two great oaks, which now supported the weight of the vessel in its steep downhill position. When the tide was at the correct height, the two ropes could be cut at the stern and the ship launched back into the sea.

Hidden beneath the hanging branches of the two great oaks, their little trader awaited them, its cubbyholes packed with everything they might need, including medical equipment, food, water and even a big pot of honeyed liquor awaited them in the promise of its seasoned timbers. All they had to do now was move left along this ridge and scramble over the jagged rocks of the peninsula to its point, clamber aboard, raise and wedge the mast and wait for the tide, in the most perfect hiding place and poised for a fast escape when the time was right.

The tide was rolling in from a dense bank of sea mist, which was beginning to ghost around the rocky tip of the isthmus before them, adding to their cover and the conditions it seemed couldn’t be better. The end; Eirwen’s fraught rescue and their freedom and safety, their escape from this wild and ungovernable land was in sight and it enervated each of them, bolstering their spirits and firing their hopes. All felt that they may yet achieve this glorious accomplishment, and the lifetime of everlasting bri which this particularly stellar success would undoubtedly bring with it.

“Let’s go.” Cadwy said quietly breaking the spell and Eirwen nudged the horse, who obeyed her smartly and plodded forward.

“Black bull’s bollocks!” Brith cursed with a low growl and they were all brought up short by the horrifying sight which materialised ahead of them on the rocky, seaweed-strewn beach below. Two long lines of spearmen had drawn this curse from the grimacing Gadwyr, jogging into view below in a big arc, coming from the trees at either side of the beach to join in the centre. With a resounding crash, they locked their shields into a tight-fitting wall and their access to the peninsula and their escape was effectively barred.

The harsh battle-cry of these enemy reached them on the wind now, as did the rattling of their spears against the steel-rimmed lime wood of their shields. Cadwy’s spirits plummeted at this unholy racket and his teeth bared as he grimaced down at this force blocking their escape, knowing there was no chance of fighting their way through them, even as the Gadwyr declared them all dead men and were at this moment preparing themselves for the reckless downhill rush to death or glory.

Cadwy looked to his left, past this small peninsula and along the coast to the west and their real destination, toward Porth Talar and Ederus’ fleet, but it was easily four of five miles through that dense forest in the distance and although he knew in his heart their chances now were slim to none, there was no quit in him. Against all the odds they had rescued Eirwen and he wasn’t going to throw all that away and negate the glorious efforts they and their lost comrades had invested into this mission. There was a far more pressing assignment now and if there was a chance, even the slimmest most inconceivable chance of getting to his father in law and warning him, they had to take it, or all their endurance and courage will have been for naught. If they had to battle their way through that forest and run the five miles to the coast, being harried by the enemy every step of the way then so be it, as to Cadwy’s furious mind the die was cast.

“Brith!” He called the man who was grinning terribly and preparing himself for slaughter, as were his nine surviving huge warriors, two of whom were injured. Each clearly relished their obvious last battle in this world as the lights of death danced in their pale eyes, which blazed from their red hair and beards. Catching the man’s animated and brutal gaze, Cadwy shook his head decisively. The Gadwyr chieftain screwed up his murderous eyes at him, surveying him coolly as he hefted his enormous axes. Cadwy held the giant’s gaze but said nothing, as there was nothing to say, they had a higher calling and Brith knew this as well as he did, as did every person here.

Looking bleakly back down at the force of over a hundred-armed men, who clashed their long spears against their round black shields and were clearly beckoning the Gadwyr to come down for some beachside fun, Brith conceded and spat to the ground. Barking a monosyllabic, guttural order, Brith caused the shoulders of his men to slump and they turned away from the raucous challenge on the beach below, but it was clear they were half-expecting it and they assembled behind their barrel-chested leader without a word.

“It looks like a cross-country hike gentlemen of about five miles that way and….” Cadwy was pointing to the west but stopped in mid-sentence and his eyes closed in despair, his arm falling to his side and his shoulders slumping.

A long row of armed enemy warriors had emerged from that distant treeline and it stretched the whole width of the forest. This unbroken front-line led several ranks of similarly clad Iweriu tribesmen, all appearing from the trees behind them and there were hundreds of them. They carried a forest of long spears, whose bright, freshly-whetted edges glinted in the sunlight, flashing their steely warnings. Cadwy looked around himself once more, at the grim faces of the stalwarts who had followed him all this way and he caught Brith Fawr’s gaze again and the man’s smile had returned, in that oh-so dangerous way of his. Cadwy had-to laugh, a terse bitter laugh and he nodded, his own tension releasing.

“Very well my irreplaceable friend and battle-brother Brith Fawr, it has been an honour and it looks like you’re going to get your last mad dash into glory after all!” He said with a grin and was rewarded with a similar grimace in response. “Olwydd, my esteemed friend and colleague, it has been an honour and a privilege to know you too sir and it seems, to die alongside you!” Cadwy turned to inform the towering ghost-warrior beside him seriously with a bow and was honoured in return with a deep and respectful bow.

These Galedonians were men of few words and they turned to their duty, with fire in their eyes and coursing through their Brythonic veins and Cadwy wondered how on earth his people could have considered these amazing individuals enemy for so long, as they were among the very finest men and women he had ever met. He wouldn’t replace one of them with any Albion man he could name and was extremely glad that Albion and Galedon were now allies and was determined to keep them so, as long he had any say in the matter. Their two northern nations had proved without doubt that together they were virtually unstoppable, as that vainglorious gwain Caesar had discovered to his everlasting shame and failure last year. Together they had achieved so much this time too and although it now seemed that this perilous gambit had failed, that their hair-brained rescue attempt was finally over, and they were all about to fall at the last ditch, his pride at risking everything alongside these elite warriors was unbounded. Cadwy’s eyes glittered with these emotions which crowded him, when he turned to Eirwen and looking up at her he grasped her hand.

“It’s just you now my darling. You must give us our glory and seal our everlasting bri, by escaping and reaching your father.” Cadwy told her, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed but dry now and he gripped her hand tightly, expecting perhaps the collapse and the flood of tears, for which indulgences there was precious little time. He was amazed at what happened next and, in some way, it was harder to bear. Eirwen sat up in the saddle with a sniff, her bottom lip trembling and her terror shining clear from her beautiful emerald eyes, but she didn’t weep. Eirwen looked at him with the most tragic and forlorn look and it almost broke him.

This empirical, irreplaceable woman he had found and for some reason still a mystery to him, the Gods had seen fit to make her love him, as deeply and unfathomably as he loved her and yet now, he must lose her, and he found it hard to breathe, having no words to describe the pain he was in.

Eirwen was bone-white and rigid in the saddle but she too knew the import of the message and warning she carried, as the aristocracy of all Galedon were in dire threat of being wiped out and their lands invaded, and she alone had one last chance. A precarious, last-ditch chance it may be but Cadwy’s heart was overflowing as he watched her come to terms with her duty and the inconceivable weight of responsibility, which visibly settled on her shoulders at that moment. Over and above the tragedy playing out here and around her, Eirwen his amazing wife bore it and so he was remorseless.

“You must run west my love and don’t spare this horse, run it to its limit if you must but get to your father!” Cadwy drew her attention back to him, pointing at the slowly advancing line of troops. “That way, straight at them my love but when you get to there!” Cadwy pointed again, showing her a break in the ridgeline. “Cut right there and head down to the beach at an angle and you should clear that shield-wall. When you do, head around the peninsula quickly as the tide is coming in and then sprint down the coast and don’t stop for anything!” Cadwy growled, the emotions catching in his throat and Eirwen bent to him and took his filthy face in both her trembling hands. She kissed him hard, before gazing deeply into his eyes.

“I love you more than life itself Cadwy Fawr and I always will, until my last breath in this world and when I pass from it, I will seek you out in the Underworld and we shall continue this discussion and a few others.” She told him gravely but with that familiar arch to her eyebrow, sitting up again and gathering the reins. “Go and deal with that shower on the beach darling and I shall see you down the coast in an hour or so.” She instructed him with a smirk and Cadwy couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him, but her face returned to a thoughtful seriousness. “Please convey my love and everlasting gratitude to the men Cadwy and tell them I will make sacred sacrifice in all their names if I don’t see them in Porth Talar in about an hour from now! Oh and if our child turns out to be a boy, please tell him that I plan to call him Olwydd.” She finished more brightly, even as the tears now broke and coursed down her alabaster face. Taking one huge but tremulous breath, Eirwen took a last look down to the garrulous enemy shield-wall on the rocky shore below, who barred them from the misty ocean beyond and their freedom. Tearing her eyes away from the small, rocky and now inaccessible outcrop of their salvation and with its unattainable treasure at its tip, with a deep sigh of resignation she spat the bitter taste of lost freedom to the snow.

Looking away from the promontory to her left and glancing to the east from some prickle of female intuition, Eirwen stared at the white, swirling blanket of fog and what she saw there made her gasp and her red-rimmed eyes fly open.

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