Fro Elái was stunning in the rosy glow of this embryonic
dawn and although the royal guard were held far enough back from the river by
strict orders, one extremely careful aristocrat had secreted himself
soundlessly into the bushes on the bankside, so that he could actually see his
prey. He held his breath and remained perfectly still, weapon of choice
in-hand, as this was the crucial moment when this hunter would discover if his
quarry would go for the bait or perceive some flaw in its authenticity and move
away.
Lludd had set out in the misty darkness hours ago to be here
at this moment and his eyes narrowed sharply as he detected the slightest
movement, mere reeds from his hiding
place and his eyes blazed in the growing light of this new day’s dawn. He was
confident this morning, not just from his vast experience in all the terrible
ways in which man can prepare ambush but as he was on home-ground, knowing
every inch of this chosen battle-ground and this beautiful stretch of his river Elái.
Finally the moment had arrived and infinitely slowly, Lludd
lowered the long and slim, beautifully crafted rod of ash and gave the silk
line dangling from its tip, an expert flick with his left wrist. The frayed
muddle of woollen fibres and fragments of pheasant feather had been tightly
bound around a sharp hook before being smeared with lanolin and it made the
slightest plop, when it met the
rushing waters of the Elái and it was instantly gripped by the current, making
the tip of the long rod quiver in a sympathetic rhythm. His aim was true, and
in a flash the artificial fly was gripped by something else entirely and
Lludd’s grin was a fierce one, as the largest of the Elai’s legendary brown
trout had put a fine bow in his rod. It was thrashing around on the end of his
line, firmly hooked by its fat and bulbous bottom lip.
It was never going to be easy single-handed but Lludd had
planned this event for several weeks, ever since he’d spotted the huge fish
glide past him one day when he was out walking his dogs and he was well
prepared for this momentous battle. The fight was long and courageous but as
expected, Lludd vanquished this King of fish and up to his chest in rushing
water, he landed it with the custom-made net, strung around a wicker hoop and
made with a handle which mirrored the handle of most Brythonic shields, so he
could wield the net with his silver hand. In just a few short but furious
minutes, a glossy twelve-pound trout lay flapping in indignant surprise on the
bank, alongside a soaked but smiling Lludd and he had caught his record fish.
The slow plod back to his Capital fortress was made through
the most delightful glade and for an indulgent Lludd, it was a ride of pure
pleasure in the rising warmth of this day, his matchless prize hanging from his
saddle for all to see and wonder at. His farmer’s fields around him were all
overflowing their boundaries with their crops which were approaching maturity,
as this summer steadily did the same. It was obvious that the harvest wasn’t
too far away, all across this island of Prydein and it was as well that this
year’s crop would be a bounteous one, as all these farmers knew that at least
ten percent of their finished grain, would be heading east to the beleaguered
werrin of war-torn Caint. All of Cymbri’s thoughts and hopes, lay toward that
fraught southern mainland in these warm and peaceful days, where many hundreds
of their archers had gone in patriotic fervour and where one of Cymbri’s
infamous sons and this famed High-King’s brother, was furiously prosecuting a
brave but controversial war against the Roman invaders. As he clattered up the
paved ramp to the tall main gates of his Caer, Lludd looked forward to a fine
lunch before delivering the great fish to his taxidermist. Then he would have
plenty of time to bathe and change, before the arrival of a very important and
influential guest.
As a cool dusk descended softly outside, the great hall of
CaerAulidar was filled with animated people, talking across the tables to each
other amid the detritus of a fabulous feast and the noise was loud, competing
with the lively group of musicians in the corner with their harps and reed
pipes. The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly, smoky and beery and this long
stone-built thatch stood on the foundations of a truly ancient keep, the roots
of which go back almost two millennia. Lludd Llaw Ereint’s hall reflected this
ancient beginning, as it too was far older than most people could comprehend.
The carved roof posts were almost black with the soot of ages, as was the
thatching held up by them and the armorials on the wall plotted the High-King
of Cymbri’s ancestral precession back to King Dyfnarth Fawr himself, who ruled
this Caer almost three centuries previously and that infamous warlord had been
the great King Beli Mawr’s HênGorendaid. The earlier armorials
tracing back Lludd’s ancestry to the procreators of the Brythons themselves and
the Godly Belenos Hên were long lost in the sundered
keeps which had been built here, three or more times in the intervening
centuries but nobody knew for sure, and so Lludd’s impressive great hall was
just the latest in a long line of CaerAulidar’s thatched constructions on this
truly ancient location.
The top table on the dais was a more serious affair than the
festive atmosphere among the long rows of tables before it, as their guest
sitting alongside the King this evening was a taciturn man by reputation and
his legend would take Lludd’s Bards all night to recite. So General Cadallan ap
Cadall the infamous ruler of the Carfetau was an honoured and much welcomed guest
in this Capital fortress, rising from the heart of glorious Essyllyr. The six
large-framed and hugely respected Gŵyrd of the Leaping Deer who
accompanied their general everywhere, were gathered around the table to the
right and at the front of the dais, cramming their faces with the meat and ale
on offer, as the voyage by sail around Cymbri from Breged and the subsequent
two-hour horse ride had left them ravenous.
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