clutched the cub and made to rise from the ground. It stood half as high as a man and its wingspread measured a man’s length and more. Deep in its throat it growled, the growl echoed by Bronwen and by Hywelis’s cry as she leaped up and ran towards the bird. She knew an eagle would attack a human; yet Madog was her cub as much as Bronwen’s. He struggled in the talons, his downy white waistcoat catching the sun. Hywelis, seizing a fallen branch, ran at the eagle, half-tripping on her ragged dress.
The rider spurred his pony down the hill and drew rein. He was young, just on manhood, with a strong wild face and thick tawny-gold hair. He had extraordinary eyes, flecked and ringed with gold but essentially a brilliant blue, flawless and penetrating. Strong light or certain moods could turn his eyes from blue to gold, and now the sun coloured them an amber honey. He carried a small springald loaded with an arrow, and, steadying his mount with his knees, he stood in his stirrups and fired. The arrow sped; he bit his lip, there was not as much time as he would have wished, and even with this beautiful springald which he had made himself, there was the chance of error. The barb curved as intended and pierced the eagle’s throat. A white membrane veiled the bird’s eyes, the talons unclenched and Madog rolled crying away, his back cut to the bone, his forehead bleeding. The eagle died, wings shuddering, flexed open. Hywelis bent over Madog; he was too badly injured to run. Bronwen was watching, frantic, from some close hide. Hywelis gathered the cub into her skirt, while the rider dismounted and came near. She looked up, and knew him.
He said: ‘Is it badly hurt?’
She shook her head.
‘I shall nurse him. Look, he trusts me.’ The cub, shivering with fright and pain, had turned blindly to Hywelis, pressing its mask against her, bloodying her dress.
‘I shot well,’ he said, though not boastfully.
‘You did indeed. Owen ap Meredyth ap Tydier, my thanks.’
‘A brave weapon, this,’ he said, and patted the baga at his saddle-horn. It was filled with dead rabbit and pheasant and grouse. He surveyed Hywelis. He had known her always; they had been brought up together at Sycharth and Glyndyfrdwy. To him she was merely one of the wilder elements of the courts, along with the poets and doom-bringers. Always fey, always solitary Never elegant. Today, he saw her ankles scratched bloody by thorns, her neck splashed with mud from a peat-hag, her hair uncombed. He himself was fastidious to a degree, and his own jerkin, although patched, was good wool and deerskin and carefully preserved. Yet he realized that Hywelis here in the valley was perfect. Her torn green gown merged with the bracken, her white skin was like the clouds over Eglwyseg and her hair was as rich as the fox’s pelt. She was smiling at him.
She was almost three years his senior. He had a vague memory of her being put in charge of him when he was small and dreaming off while he got into mischief, leaning down the well-shaft to see his reflection, opening the stable-door and nearly being trampled by the Lord’s big stallion … long ago. He, Owen ap Meredyth ap Tydier, was now a man, nearly the age of Prince Henry when he burned Sycharth. Owen was related to Glyn Dwr through a cousin of the Vychan line; he was also his godson. His father, Meredyth ap Tydier, outside the law for killing a man while in service to the Bishop of Bangor, had left his infant son with the Lord for safety, and had departed for ever.
Hywelis continued to look at him, gratefully, at the strange iridescent eyes, the bright hair and tanned face, and something moved without warning in her mind, a mystery. Without form but carrying sure consequence, it was the same feeling of significance as on the night of Iolo Goch’s return. Feelings of climax yet of expectancy, maddeningly obscure; the end or the beginning of something unknown. It flowed within her head, it faded to stillness; she
The rider spurred his pony down the hill and drew rein. He was young, just on manhood, with a strong wild face and thick tawny-gold hair. He had extraordinary eyes, flecked and ringed with gold but essentially a brilliant blue, flawless and penetrating. Strong light or certain moods could turn his eyes from blue to gold, and now the sun coloured them an amber honey. He carried a small springald loaded with an arrow, and, steadying his mount with his knees, he stood in his stirrups and fired. The arrow sped; he bit his lip, there was not as much time as he would have wished, and even with this beautiful springald which he had made himself, there was the chance of error. The barb curved as intended and pierced the eagle’s throat. A white membrane veiled the bird’s eyes, the talons unclenched and Madog rolled crying away, his back cut to the bone, his forehead bleeding. The eagle died, wings shuddering, flexed open. Hywelis bent over Madog; he was too badly injured to run. Bronwen was watching, frantic, from some close hide. Hywelis gathered the cub into her skirt, while the rider dismounted and came near. She looked up, and knew him.
He said: ‘Is it badly hurt?’
She shook her head.
‘I shall nurse him. Look, he trusts me.’ The cub, shivering with fright and pain, had turned blindly to Hywelis, pressing its mask against her, bloodying her dress.
‘I shot well,’ he said, though not boastfully.
‘You did indeed. Owen ap Meredyth ap Tydier, my thanks.’
‘A brave weapon, this,’ he said, and patted the baga at his saddle-horn. It was filled with dead rabbit and pheasant and grouse. He surveyed Hywelis. He had known her always; they had been brought up together at Sycharth and Glyndyfrdwy. To him she was merely one of the wilder elements of the courts, along with the poets and doom-bringers. Always fey, always solitary Never elegant. Today, he saw her ankles scratched bloody by thorns, her neck splashed with mud from a peat-hag, her hair uncombed. He himself was fastidious to a degree, and his own jerkin, although patched, was good wool and deerskin and carefully preserved. Yet he realized that Hywelis here in the valley was perfect. Her torn green gown merged with the bracken, her white skin was like the clouds over Eglwyseg and her hair was as rich as the fox’s pelt. She was smiling at him.
She was almost three years his senior. He had a vague memory of her being put in charge of him when he was small and dreaming off while he got into mischief, leaning down the well-shaft to see his reflection, opening the stable-door and nearly being trampled by the Lord’s big stallion … long ago. He, Owen ap Meredyth ap Tydier, was now a man, nearly the age of Prince Henry when he burned Sycharth. Owen was related to Glyn Dwr through a cousin of the Vychan line; he was also his godson. His father, Meredyth ap Tydier, outside the law for killing a man while in service to the Bishop of Bangor, had left his infant son with the Lord for safety, and had departed for ever.
Hywelis continued to look at him, gratefully, at the strange iridescent eyes, the bright hair and tanned face, and something moved without warning in her mind, a mystery. Without form but carrying sure consequence, it was the same feeling of significance as on the night of Iolo Goch’s return. Feelings of climax yet of expectancy, maddeningly obscure; the end or the beginning of something unknown. It flowed within her head, it faded to stillness; she
Similar Books
