Cadwy had only yesterday been
introduced to this fearsome and awesome King by his son Gwerdded, and Nynniaw
had been generous with his praise of their shared adventures. He had also
offered his deepest sympathies for the loss of his close friend and empathised
completely, as he had lost many precious friends in battle.
Nynniaw was a huge man, with
bulging shoulders framing an enormous chest and being the finest swordsman in
all Prydein, his self-confidence and his Bri
radiated from him as he passed through the crowd greeting old friends and
comrades. The great man impressed Cadwy with not only his deep understanding of
his own grief but by his sharp intelligence and quick humour. Cadwy had heard
all the legends and stories about this huge and powerful son of Beli Mawr, as
he was one of the infamous Red Dragons of Cymbri and respected throughout the
known world. Around the long, beer-stained top-table, King Nynniaw the
Pencampwr of all Prydein along with King Lludd, King Caswallawn and Crown
Prince Afallach talked freely about their past exploits, each fantastic tale
full of famous historic detail, making Cadwy and his friends hang on every word.
They named other family members and Brythonic legends all in these tales, such
as King Llefelys and the late King Rianaw, whilst Cadwy and his wide-eyed
cyfail had sat agog alongside them, speechless.
All day his cyfail had been morose
and heart-broken over Ioddo’s death, especially Cadwy who felt an acute sense
of responsibility. Each had worn a sprig of mistletoe in his remembrance and
honour, but their morose wanderings had been ended by the arrival of a
fabulously attired Cymbric arwein
with their invitation. Cadwy had chosen to wear Ioddo’s silver eagle brooch, still
struggling with the loss and just couldn’t believe yet that he would never see
him again. Ioddo had given his life in service to him and had been instrumental
in saving Bleddyn’s. It was only Eirwen who prevented Cadwy from losing his
wits over his beloved combrogi’s harrowing death, but nothing could ever erase
that soul-searing vision of his casual slaughter by that Roman Centurion.
As the sun went down across
southern Prydein, the Albion aristocracy had been welcomed as heroes to the
Cymbric Cadlys, and Cridas had beamed
his pleasure at the welcome as the Cymbric hospitality had been faultless. The
Royals and aristocracy of Albion were well-received by a small army of immaculate
servants, all wearing the pristine white tabards of their occupation, each
emblazoned with the Gorddofican armorial in bright woollen embroidery on the
breast. Cadwy, Bleddyn and Hefin were made honoured guests, as were Major Brast
and Sergeant-Major Meyrug and shown to the tables at the head of this great
canvas pavilion. They had all blushed to the roots, when the assembled Lords
and Ladies had stood to applaud them for their service to Prydein. Even Bleddyn
in his linen sling looked awed and speechless at the company he found himself
in, and Cadwy had been extremely thankful for small mercies.
These huge Cymbric pavilions had
been filled with the most fantastically dressed Nobility and once the Kings had
officially greeted each other to more resounding applause, Lludd Llaw Ereint honoured
Cadwy deeply, by bowing to him. Stepping up with an engaging smile, he shook
his hand warmly in his unique way before introducing his family and two more
legendary sons of the great King Beli Mawr. These giants of men had all offered
their deepest condolences and spoke well of the brave young Prince Ioddo ap
Cennydd of Fotadinau, and Cadwy was so filled with pride that these men should
even know Ioddo’s name, he became quite emotional.
Eirwen had been agog at all this gilded
fame and splendour and although her heart was also heavy, her spirit was
unassailable and her liquid emerald eyes had glistened with her mounting
excitement. She had looked absolutely stunning on Cadwy’s arm, wearing a
gem-encrusted tiara over her lustrous auburn curls, with matching stones
glittering in her ears. The white ermine stole she’d worn tonight around a
long, flowing dress of the finest green silk, had given her glowing hair a
stunning canvas in the flickering glow of hundreds of candles. Eirwen had
always possessed a natural poise with a strong aura of femininity and alloyed
to her spectacular beauty, she drew men’s eyes to her irresistibly like moths
to a flame. King Caswallawn had introduced her to a tall and beautiful woman
with huge blue eyes and the longest and finest of fair hair, braided neatly with
golden jewellery and whom he’d introduced as his Lady Fflur. This magnificent
and gracious Lady had drawn Eirwen into her group of fabulous Cymbric Ladies,
in a loud and cheerful corner of this marquee. She was soon lifted from her
grief and chatting to the noble but bold Ladies of Cymbri like old friends.
The magnificent and huge banner of
Gorddofica hung in that daunting corner draped over a pole, placed in a large
plated socket on the ground. Its utterly black, star-spangled background displayed
the Gorddofican flaming war-hammer, surmounting the crowned triple-lane symbol
of the Druids. Two smaller, splayed flags
of the Essyllyr framed this fearsome banner, with fire-breathing scarlet
dragons curving through their heavy, white linen folds. This night, the green
hump-backed Boar of Albion flag shared this back canvas-wall with these sacred
armorials, as this celebration had been arranged in their honour. No-doubt
there had been talk of trade and politics going on everywhere but most of all it
was gossip.
Cadwy had glanced over at those
glorious, infamous banners near to that rowdy corner and at Eirwen, seeing many
unfamiliar Ladies boldly pointing him out with some comment or other. He felt
his neck redden at this bold inspection, done to much ribald laughter and with
the tall and elegant Fflur gazing at him with a strange and unnerving look.
Eirwen joined them then, laughing with a hand over her mouth and he’d looked
away quickly, blushing furiously. Grabbing a cup of mead from the table he’d
covered his blushes, turning away and inserting himself back into his cyfail’s
conversation. Cadwy had resisted the compulsion to glance back at that rowdy
corner, all night.
Cadwy’s spirit had been lifted nonetheless
and High-King Lludd had thrown his arm about his shoulders, enquiring as to the
condition of his still bandaged head-wound as if they were lifelong friends.
Soon and in his musical voice, Lludd began to describe how beautiful the land
around his CaerAulidar was in southern Cymbri. Describing his fabulous Caer,
which he assured him was formed in the shape of a battle-axe, Lludd conjured up
visions of a green and wonderful paradise with his melodic, lilting words and
Cadwy had been entranced. This legendary Cymbric King seemed to have a real
gift for the spoken word and he described these images with the most amazing
vocabulary, from the broad and swift rivers and crashing waterfalls, to the
beaver dams and the huge salmon and trout in the surrounding rivers and lakes.
He’d promised that the forests around CaerAulidar were alive with game and
went-on to invite him and his cyfail to visit him there, promising a fine week
of hunting in his honour and some superb artisans to tempt Eirwen with their
finery.
Cadwy hadn’t been able to help
himself and had asked King Lludd about his revered parents and the very
cornerstones of Prydein’s most recent history. He’d spent the next hour transported
to another world, as Lludd the storyteller came to the fore and told him all
about his amazing childhood and the great Godlike King and Queen, who had ruled
the six hundred Caers in Cymbri and eventually every Caer in Prydein so
successfully. In the following hour Beli and Dôn, the revered and deeply
worshipped monarchs whom Lludd had been fortunate enough to call his Tad and
Mam, took real form in Cadwy’s imagination for the first time in his life.
Cadwy had finally come to know too the value, the substance and the glory that
came with a warriors Bri and tonight
although vicariously, he bathed in its warm and comforting glow.
Lludd Llaw Ereint of Gorddofica & Cymbri.
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