clawing on his
sandals and making for the door. The horn blared again, echoes ricocheting
between the buildings of the prince’s llys, and blunting their sharp edges
against walls. In the open ward the young men came thronging in arms to the
call, and the hum of many voices, still pitched low in awe of the night,
swelled into a wordless, muted bellowing like a stormy tide flowing. From every
open doorway a thread of light from hastily kindled lamps and candles spilled
into the dark, conjuring here and there a recognisable face out of the crowd. A
jaded horse, hard-ridden, was being led with drooping head towards the stables,
and his rider, heedless of the many hands that reached to arrest him and the
many voices that questioned, was thrusting a way through the press towards the
great hall. He had barely reached the foot of the steps when the door above him
opened, and Owain in his furred bed-gown came out, large and dark against the
light from within, the squire who had run to arouse him with news of the coming
close at his shoulder.
“Here
am I,” said the prince, loud and clear and wide awake. “Who’s come wanting me?”
As he moved forward to the edge of the steps the light from within fell upon
the messenger’s face, and Owain knew him. “You, is it, Goronwy? From Bangor?
What’s your news?”
The
messenger scarcely took time to bend his knee. He was known and trusted, and
ceremony was waste of precious moments. “My lord, early this evening one came
with word from Carnarvon, and I have brought that word here to you as fast as
horse can go. About Vespers they sighted ships westward off Abermenai, a great
fleet in war order. The seamen say they are Danish ships from the kingdom of
Dublin, come to raid Gwynedd and force your hand. And that Cadwaladr, your
brother, is with them! He has brought them over to avenge and restore him, in
your despite. The fealty he could not keep for love he has bought with promised
gold.”
Chapter Five
WITHIN
OWAIN’S WRIT THE INVASION OF DISORDER might bring about momentary
consternation, but could not hope to create disorder in its turn. His mind was too
quick and resolute ever to entertain chaos. Before the muted roar of anger and
resentment had circled the ward the captain of the prince’s guard was at his
elbow, awaiting his orders. They understood each other too well to need many
words.
“This
report is certain?” Owain asked.
“Certain,
my lord. The messenger I had it from saw them himself from the dunes. Too
distant then to be sure how many ships, but no question whence they come, and
small doubt why. It was known he had fled to them. Why come back in such force
but for a reckoning?”
“He
shall have one,” said Owain composedly. “How long before they come to land?”
“My
lord, before morning surely. They were under sail, and the wind is steady from
the west.”
For
the length of a deep breath Owain considered. Perhaps a quarter of the horses
in his stables had been ridden far, though not hard, the previous day, and as
many of his armed men had made that journey, and sat merry in hall late into
the night. And the ride that faced them now would be urgent and fast. “Short
time,” he said, musing, “to raise even the half of Gwynedd, but we’ll make sure
of reserves, and collect every man available between here and Carnarvon as we
go. Six couriers I want, one to go before us now, the others to carry my
summons through the rest of Arlechwedd and Arfon. Call them to Carnarvon. We
may not need them, but no harm in making certain.” His clerks accepted the
expected word, and vanished with commendable calm to prepare the sealed writs
the couriers would bear to the chieftains of two cantrefs before the night was
over. “Now, every man who bears arms,” said Owain, raising his voice to carry
to the containing walls and echo back from them, “get to your beds and take
what rest you can. We
sandals and making for the door. The horn blared again, echoes ricocheting
between the buildings of the prince’s llys, and blunting their sharp edges
against walls. In the open ward the young men came thronging in arms to the
call, and the hum of many voices, still pitched low in awe of the night,
swelled into a wordless, muted bellowing like a stormy tide flowing. From every
open doorway a thread of light from hastily kindled lamps and candles spilled
into the dark, conjuring here and there a recognisable face out of the crowd. A
jaded horse, hard-ridden, was being led with drooping head towards the stables,
and his rider, heedless of the many hands that reached to arrest him and the
many voices that questioned, was thrusting a way through the press towards the
great hall. He had barely reached the foot of the steps when the door above him
opened, and Owain in his furred bed-gown came out, large and dark against the
light from within, the squire who had run to arouse him with news of the coming
close at his shoulder.
“Here
am I,” said the prince, loud and clear and wide awake. “Who’s come wanting me?”
As he moved forward to the edge of the steps the light from within fell upon
the messenger’s face, and Owain knew him. “You, is it, Goronwy? From Bangor?
What’s your news?”
The
messenger scarcely took time to bend his knee. He was known and trusted, and
ceremony was waste of precious moments. “My lord, early this evening one came
with word from Carnarvon, and I have brought that word here to you as fast as
horse can go. About Vespers they sighted ships westward off Abermenai, a great
fleet in war order. The seamen say they are Danish ships from the kingdom of
Dublin, come to raid Gwynedd and force your hand. And that Cadwaladr, your
brother, is with them! He has brought them over to avenge and restore him, in
your despite. The fealty he could not keep for love he has bought with promised
gold.”
Chapter Five
WITHIN
OWAIN’S WRIT THE INVASION OF DISORDER might bring about momentary
consternation, but could not hope to create disorder in its turn. His mind was too
quick and resolute ever to entertain chaos. Before the muted roar of anger and
resentment had circled the ward the captain of the prince’s guard was at his
elbow, awaiting his orders. They understood each other too well to need many
words.
“This
report is certain?” Owain asked.
“Certain,
my lord. The messenger I had it from saw them himself from the dunes. Too
distant then to be sure how many ships, but no question whence they come, and
small doubt why. It was known he had fled to them. Why come back in such force
but for a reckoning?”
“He
shall have one,” said Owain composedly. “How long before they come to land?”
“My
lord, before morning surely. They were under sail, and the wind is steady from
the west.”
For
the length of a deep breath Owain considered. Perhaps a quarter of the horses
in his stables had been ridden far, though not hard, the previous day, and as
many of his armed men had made that journey, and sat merry in hall late into
the night. And the ride that faced them now would be urgent and fast. “Short
time,” he said, musing, “to raise even the half of Gwynedd, but we’ll make sure
of reserves, and collect every man available between here and Carnarvon as we
go. Six couriers I want, one to go before us now, the others to carry my
summons through the rest of Arlechwedd and Arfon. Call them to Carnarvon. We
may not need them, but no harm in making certain.” His clerks accepted the
expected word, and vanished with commendable calm to prepare the sealed writs
the couriers would bear to the chieftains of two cantrefs before the night was
over. “Now, every man who bears arms,” said Owain, raising his voice to carry
to the containing walls and echo back from them, “get to your beds and take
what rest you can. We
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