had had their amours , and the bards sang constantly of man and maid when they were not chanting of war. In theory Owen knew all about love. Dafydd ap Gwilym, the Nightingale of Dyfed, had been a famous lover and had found himself in trouble on more than one occasion. One moonless starless night on the way to keep tryst with someone’s wife, Dafydd’s horse and he had fallen into a peat-hag. The song ended with a curse on whoever had wielded the spade … love made apes of men. Owen smiled.
Hywelis said: ‘Hangman’s Hill looks dark today!’ She pointed to where a mound, topped with a spreading oak, glowered over the valley. There were tufts of white bog-cotton growing at the marshy hill-foot, and squirrels leaping in the branches of the oak.
‘I remember,’ he said: ‘We hanged the Saeson there, after Bryn Glas.’
‘We!’ She turned to laugh at him. ‘We were children!’
‘Yes. And we are children no longer.’
Near Glyndyfrdwy an offshoot of the Clwyd rushed down from the mountains, and in it choughs and dippers played, taking off with a clap of wings as the burdened pony approached. To the east on an eminence stood the castle of Dinas Bran, another of Glyn Dwr’s possessions, and north-easterly between Llantysilio and Eglwyseg a narrow fissure marked the pass to Ruthyn plain and the territory of the Lord’s old enemy. With these grim landmarks in sight they came home, passed through the desolate courtyard and entered the manor. There Hywelis carried the cub up to her chamber and anointed his wounds, leaving him to sleep on sheepskin in a chest. She rejoined Owen at the door of the meadhall and they went in to where the Lord sat, fretful and rigid, before a smoky fire.
Owain Glyn Dwr was over sixty years old, spare and straight, his hair and moustaches thick, his face still unerringly handsome. Only his deep eyes were fenced in by regret and dreaming, as if by looking into a time past they might by will cause reversal and change, or command a second chance. The mind behind those eyes was peopled by the dead. Often they emerged to keep him company, with sweet smiles and warnings and battle-cries from lips long rotten. Today had been one of profound phantasms and silent oaths. Faces had fled before him like hawthorn-blossom in the wind. He could swear that his dead wife had passed her hand over his face, and that Gethin the Terrible, his favourite lieutenant, had once more raised the Dragon banner on Craig-y-Dorth. The Lord sat, his long jewelled hands hanging limply over his knees, and in the draught from the opening door the smoke whirled about him so that he sat in a cloud. The fire was unnecessary, but this was his hearthstone and must be kept warm at all costs, or everything was ended. A dog lay on the edge of his mantle, in dog-years twice its master’s age. It raised its old blind head and growled, then, catching Hywelis’s scent, thumped the floor with a bald tail.
‘Quiet, Cafall,’ said Owain Glyn Dwr.
Hywelis went forward and knelt. The dog probed her skirts, smelling fox-blood, then sighed and dropped its nose. The Lord looked at Hywelis and she knew he saw her well, was examining every pore of her skin, every thread of her hair, and her every thought.
‘How is my lord and father?’ she said tenderly. The meadhall in which she knelt was sparsely furnished and its Lord the captain of a broken ship, but she felt strong, able to shoulder the trouble of others, give comfort.
‘There’s blood on you, girl,’ he said. ‘Are you hurt?’
She laughed and stroked his hand, feeling the little scars from years of handling steel and leather, and the tender veins, engorged with age.
‘No.’ She half-turned. ‘Tell, Owen.’
Owen stripped the baga with its booty from his shoulder and threw it down in tribute.
‘We shall eat well today,’ was all he said.
‘You’ve tried your new weapon?’
‘Yes, and it’s sweet. It gives death and life!’—with a winking smile at Hywelis. She
Hywelis said: ‘Hangman’s Hill looks dark today!’ She pointed to where a mound, topped with a spreading oak, glowered over the valley. There were tufts of white bog-cotton growing at the marshy hill-foot, and squirrels leaping in the branches of the oak.
‘I remember,’ he said: ‘We hanged the Saeson there, after Bryn Glas.’
‘We!’ She turned to laugh at him. ‘We were children!’
‘Yes. And we are children no longer.’
Near Glyndyfrdwy an offshoot of the Clwyd rushed down from the mountains, and in it choughs and dippers played, taking off with a clap of wings as the burdened pony approached. To the east on an eminence stood the castle of Dinas Bran, another of Glyn Dwr’s possessions, and north-easterly between Llantysilio and Eglwyseg a narrow fissure marked the pass to Ruthyn plain and the territory of the Lord’s old enemy. With these grim landmarks in sight they came home, passed through the desolate courtyard and entered the manor. There Hywelis carried the cub up to her chamber and anointed his wounds, leaving him to sleep on sheepskin in a chest. She rejoined Owen at the door of the meadhall and they went in to where the Lord sat, fretful and rigid, before a smoky fire.
Owain Glyn Dwr was over sixty years old, spare and straight, his hair and moustaches thick, his face still unerringly handsome. Only his deep eyes were fenced in by regret and dreaming, as if by looking into a time past they might by will cause reversal and change, or command a second chance. The mind behind those eyes was peopled by the dead. Often they emerged to keep him company, with sweet smiles and warnings and battle-cries from lips long rotten. Today had been one of profound phantasms and silent oaths. Faces had fled before him like hawthorn-blossom in the wind. He could swear that his dead wife had passed her hand over his face, and that Gethin the Terrible, his favourite lieutenant, had once more raised the Dragon banner on Craig-y-Dorth. The Lord sat, his long jewelled hands hanging limply over his knees, and in the draught from the opening door the smoke whirled about him so that he sat in a cloud. The fire was unnecessary, but this was his hearthstone and must be kept warm at all costs, or everything was ended. A dog lay on the edge of his mantle, in dog-years twice its master’s age. It raised its old blind head and growled, then, catching Hywelis’s scent, thumped the floor with a bald tail.
‘Quiet, Cafall,’ said Owain Glyn Dwr.
Hywelis went forward and knelt. The dog probed her skirts, smelling fox-blood, then sighed and dropped its nose. The Lord looked at Hywelis and she knew he saw her well, was examining every pore of her skin, every thread of her hair, and her every thought.
‘How is my lord and father?’ she said tenderly. The meadhall in which she knelt was sparsely furnished and its Lord the captain of a broken ship, but she felt strong, able to shoulder the trouble of others, give comfort.
‘There’s blood on you, girl,’ he said. ‘Are you hurt?’
She laughed and stroked his hand, feeling the little scars from years of handling steel and leather, and the tender veins, engorged with age.
‘No.’ She half-turned. ‘Tell, Owen.’
Owen stripped the baga with its booty from his shoulder and threw it down in tribute.
‘We shall eat well today,’ was all he said.
‘You’ve tried your new weapon?’
‘Yes, and it’s sweet. It gives death and life!’—with a winking smile at Hywelis. She
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