A glorious chase! The old stag proved a cunning opponent and led us on a long and elaborate hunt—through deep woods and up along the high ridge and down again into piney forest. We caught him, in the end, with his back to a stony outcrop at the foot of the ridge wall. His clan had escaped, and he was near dead from exhaustion. Still, he turned and fought to the last.
The sun was little more than a day moon, pale and wan on the horizon, when we finished securing the stag to a litter and turned our horses for home. We had traveled far afield in our fevered pursuit. We were tired, and cold where the sweat had soaked our clothes, but well content with our sport and hopeful of winning the wager. A fine and regal spectacle of a sky washed pale lavender and gold in a brilliant Sollen sunset greeted us as we emerged from the woods and began making our way along the lake.
Alun Tringad’s party had returned ahead of us, and they were waiting for us at the cattle pen when we arrived. Their kill—two fine bristle-backed boars—lay on the snow outside the pen. At the sight of our stag, they began exclaiming over our lack of success.
“One lonely deer, is it?” cried Alun, foremost in the gathering. “With all you hardy men on horseback shaking your spears at it, why, I do not doubt this poor sickly thing expired in fright.”
“As sickly as it is,” Cynan replied, swinging down from the saddle, “our stag will yet serve to separate you from your treasure.” He regarded the wild pigs with a sad, disappointed air. “Oh, it is a shameful thing you have done, Alun, my man—taking these two piglets from their mother. Tch! Tch!” He shook his head sadly. “Why not just give the gold to me now and save yourself the disgrace of having your skill revealed in such a pitiful light?”
“Not so fast, Cynan Machae,” replied one of Alun’s supporters. “It is for the Chief Bard to tell us who has won the wager. We will await his decision.”
“Hoo!” said Cynan, puffing out his cheeks. “Bring Tegid, by all means. I was only trying to save you the fearful humiliation I see coming your way.”
At first sight of our party on the lakeside track, Alun had sent a man to fetch Tegid. A call from one of Cynan’s men directed our attention to the crannog. “Here he comes now!” shouted Gweir. “The Penderwydd is coming!”
I turned to see a crowd from the crannog hurrying across the ice toward us. I looked for Goewyn, expecting to see her among them, but neither Goewyn nor Tángwen was there. No doubt they had decided to stay in the warm. Nor did I fault them; I had long been wishing myself out of my sodden clothes and holding a warming jar beside the fire.
A genial hubbub arose as the throng arrived. Everyone exclaimed at the sight of the game, extolling the prowess of the hunters and the success of the hunt—as well they might, for we would eat heartily on the proceeds of our efforts for many days.
“Penderwydd!” Alun shouted. “The hunt is finished. Here is the result of our labors. As you can see, we have done well. Indeed, we have bested Cynan and his band, which is clear for all to see. It only remains for you to agree and confirm the inevitable decision.”
The Chief Bard withdrew a hand from his cloak and raised it. “That I will do, Alun Tringad. What is clear to you may not be so clear to those who lack your zeal for Cynan’s gold. Therefore, step aside and allow someone with an eye unclouded by avarice to view the evidence.”
Tegid examined first Alun’s kill and then Cynan’s. He prodded the carcasses with a toe, inspected the pelts, teeth, tusks, eyes, hoofs, tails, and antlers. All the while, the two parties baited one another with quips and catcalls, awaiting the bard’s decision. The bard took his time, pausing now and then to muse over this or that point which he pretended to have discovered, or which had been pointed out to him by the extremely partisan crowd.
Then, taking his place midway between the stag and the two boars and frowning mightily, he rested chin upon fist in earnest contemplation. All of this served to heighten the anticipation; wagers were doubled and then tripled as—from the slant of an eyebrow or the lift of a lip—one side or the other imagined opinion swaying in their favor.
At last, the Chief Bard drew himself up and, raising his staff for silence, prepared to deliver his decision. “It is rightly the domain of a king to act as judge for his people,” he reminded everyone. “But as the king took part in the hunt, I beg his permission to deliver judgment.” He looked at me.
“I grant it gladly,” I replied. “Please, continue.”
The crowd shouted for the Chief Bard to proclaim the winner, but Tegid would not be hurried. Placing a fold of his cloak over his head, he said, “I have weighed the matter carefully. From the time of Dylwyn Short-Knife”—here the spectators groaned with frustration, but Tegid plowed ahead slowly—“and the time of Tryffin the Tall, it has been in the nature of things to hold the life of a stag equal to that of a bear, and that of a bear equal to two boars.” The groan turned from impatience to frustration as the crowd guessed what was coming. “It would appear then,” Tegid calmly continued, “that a stag is equal to two boars. Thus, the matter cannot be settled according to the quantity of meat, and we must look elsewhere for a resolution.”
He paused to allow his gaze to linger around the ring of faces. There were murmurs of approval and mutters of protest from many. He waited until they were silent once more. “For this reason I have examined the beasts most carefully,” Tegid said. “This is my decision.” The throng held its breath. Which would it be? “The stag is a worthy rival and a lord of his kind . . .”
At this, Cynan’s party raised a tremendous shout of triumph.
“But,” Tegid quickly cautioned, “the boars are no less lordly. And what is more, there are two of them. Were this not so, I would hold for the stag. Yet since the difficulty of finding and bringing down two such noble and magnificent beasts must necessarily try the skills of the hunter the more, I declare that those who hunted the boars have won today’s sport. I, Tegid Tathal, Penderwydd, have spoken.”
It took a moment to unravel what the Chief Bard had said, but then all began wrangling over the decision. Cynan appealed to the beauty of his prize and to various other merits, but Tegid would not be moved: Alun Tringad had won the day. There was nothing for it, the losers must pay the winners. Tegid thumped his staff three times on the ground and the matter was ended.
We returned to the warmth and light of the hall, eager for meat and drink to refresh us and tales of the hunt to cheer us. Upon entering the hall, I quickly scanned the gathering. Goewyn was nowhere to be seen. I turned on my heel and hastened to our hut.
It was dark and empty, the ashes in the fire ring cold. She had not been there for some time, perhaps not since early morning. I ran back to the hall and made my way to Tegid; he was standing on one end of the hearth, waiting for the ale jar to come his way.
“Where is Goewyn?” I asked him bluntly.
“Greetings, Llew. Goewyn? I have not seen her,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”
“I cannot find her. She went riding with Tángwen this morning.”
“Perhaps she is—”
“She is not in the hut.” My eyes searched the noisy hall. “I do not see Tángwen, either.”
Without another word, Tegid turned and beckoned Cynan to join us. “Where is Tángwen?” the bard said.
I looked at Cynan anxiously. “Have you seen her since this morning?”
“Seen her?” he wondered, raising his cup. He drank and then offered the cup to me. “I have been on the trail since daybreak, as you well know.”
“Goewyn and Tángwen went riding this morning,” I explained, holding my voice level, “and it appears they have not returned.”
“Not returned?” Cynan looked toward the door, as if expecting the two women to enter at that moment. “But it is dark now.”
“That is the least of our worries,” I said, “if something has happened—”
“If they are here, someone will have seen them,” Tegid interrupted calmly. The bard stepped away. A moment later he was standing on the table,
his staff upraised. “Kinsmen! Hear me! I must speak with Goewyn and Tángwen. Quickly now! Who can tell me where to find them?”
He waited. People looked at one another and shrugged. Some inquired among themselves, but no one offered any information. Clearly, no one could remember seeing either of the women. Tegid asked again, but received no answer. He thanked the people for their attention and returned to where Cynan and I waited.
“We will search the crannog,” he said. Although he spoke quietly, I could tell the bard was worried. This did nothing to soothe my mounting anxiety.
And then one of the serving maids came to where we stood. “If you please, lords,” she said, clutching the beer jar tightly, “I have seen Queen Goewyn.”
“Where?” I did not mean to be curt with the young woman. “Please, speak freely.”
“I saw the queen in the yard,” she said.
I started for the door. Tegid caught me by the arm. “When was this?” he said; the maid hesitated. “Speak up,” he snapped. “When did you see her?”
“Early this morning,” the maid said, her voice quivering. She realized, I think, that this was not at all what we wanted to hear. “They were laughing as they walked—the two of them, the queen and Queen Tángwen. I think they were leaving the crannog to go riding.”
“It would have been dark still,” Cynan said. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, lord,” the maiden said. “I know who I saw.”
“And Tángwen was with her?” Cynan pursued.
“Yes, lord.”
“Thank you, Ailla,” I said, recognizing the young woman at last; she often served as one of Goewyn’s handmaids.
Tegid dismissed her then and said, “Now we will search the crannog.”
On our way from the hall, Tegid snared Gwion, his foremost Mabinog, and whispered something in the boy’s ear. Gwion nodded once and darted through the door ahead of us.
We searched, the three of us, each taking a section of the crannog. It did not take long. I ran from house to house, smacking my silver hand on the doorposts to alert those within, then thrusting my head inside. Most of the huts were empty—the people had gathered in the hall—and in those that were occupied, none of the residents had seen either woman. I also looked in the storehouses. As I hurried to rejoin the others at the hall, I knew that Goewyn was not in Dinas Dwr.
Upon returning to the hall, I met Tegid standing at the entrance with Gwion Bach beside him. “It is not good,” Tegid told me bluntly. “I sent Gwion to the stables. Their horses have not returned.”
My heart sank and my stomach tightened. “Then something has happened.”
Cynan approached, and I could tell from the way he walked—head down, shoulders bunched—that he had discovered nothing and was now more than concerned. “The trail will be difficult,” he said, wasting no time. “We will need a supply of torches and a change of horses. I will summon my war band.”
“The Ravens will ride with us,” I said. “Drustwn can follow a trail even in the dark. I will ready the horses. Go now. Bring them. And hurry!”
17
NIGHT RIDE
We took up the trail at the place where I had seen it diverge from the lakeshore track. By torchlight the horses’ hoofprints showed a staggered black line across the wide expanse of snow.
Across the valley floor we galloped, thirty strong, including Cynan, myself, and the Raven Flight. Tegid stayed behind. He would order matters at Dinas Dwr while we were away and uphold us in our search.
I wrapped the reins around my metal hand and clutched the torch with my flesh hand. The torch flame fluttered in the wind above my head, red sparks sailing out behind me as I raced over the undulating snow. The cold air stung my cheeks and eyes; my lips burned. But I did not stop so much as to draw my cloak over my chin. I would not stop until Goewyn was safely beside me once more.
Upon reaching the heights of Druim Vran the trail became thin and difficult to see. The wind had scoured most of the snow from the ridgetop, but some remained in the sheltered places, and we proceeded haltingly from patch to patch where we could find hoofprints.
It appeared they had ridden eastward along the ridgeway. The day was good. They had moved toward the rising sun. I imagined the two women making their way happily along Druim Vran with the silver-bright dawn light in their eyes. We, however, followed in Sollen’s deep dark, a starless void above; no moon lit our way. The only light we had was that which fluttered in our hands, and that was fitful indeed.
I refused to allow myself to think about what might have happened to them. I pushed all such thoughts from my mind and held one only: Goewyn would be found. My wife, my soul, would be returned unharmed.
Drustwn pushed a relentless pace. He seemed to know where the tracks would lead and found them whenever he paused to look. Thus we followed the Raven’s lead along the ridgeway—deep, deep into the dark Sollen depths on our night ride. We rode without speaking, urgent to our task.
Nor did we stop until the trail turned down into the glen. The facing slope was clear of snow, and though we spread ourselves along the brush-covered decline, we could not recover the trail in the dark. In the end, we dismounted to search the long downward slope on foot.
“It may be that we can find the trail again in the morning,” Drustwn suggested when we halted at the bottom of the glen to confer. “It is too easily missed on the bare ground.”
“My wife is gone. I will not wait until morning.”
“Lord,” Drustwn said, his face drawn in the torchlight, “daylight is not far away.”
At these words I raised my head. Drustwn was right, the sky was already paling in the east. Night had passed me in a blur of torchlight on glittering snow.
“What do you advise?” I asked.
“It is no good thrashing around in the dark. We could destroy the trail without knowing it. Let us rest until there is light enough to see.”
“Very well,” I agreed. “Give the order. I will speak to Cynan.”
Drustwn’s call rang out behind me as I wheeled my horse and started back up the line. Cynan had been riding to the right of me when I had last seen him. Several of his men passed me, hurrying to Drustwn’s call. I saw Gweir and asked him where Cynan was, and he pointed to two torches glimmering a little distance away. Cynan and Bran were talking together as they rode to where Drustwn waited. I reined in beside them. “Why has he stopped?” Cynan asked. “Have you found something?”
“We have lost the trail,” I answered. “There is no point in going further until sunrise.”
“Then it is best we halt,” Bran replied.
“No,” I told him tersely, “finding them would be best. But this is all we can do now.”
“It has been a cold night,” Cynan fretted. “They were not prepared.”
I made no reply, but at Cynan’s remark I realized that I had not once considered the women having to spend the night on the trail. It had not occurred to me because I did not for one instant believe that they had merely lost their way. It was possible, of course, but the likelihood of intruders on Druim Vran had led me to assume otherwise.
Now Cynan’s words offered a slender hope. Perhaps they had merely wandered too far afield and been forced to shelter on the trail for the night, rather than try to find Dinas Dwr in the dark. Perhaps one of the horses had been injured, or . . . anything might have happened.
We continued to where Drustwn and most of the other riders were now waiting. They had quickly gathered brush from the slope and had a fire burning. Others were leading horses to a nearby brook for water. I dismounted and gave my horse to one of the warriors to care for and, wrapping myself in my cloak, sat down on a frost-covered stone.
Shivering in the cold while waiting for the sun to rise, I remembered the beacon. I rose at once. “Alun!” I shouted. “Alun Tringad! Come here!”
A moment later, Alun was standing before me. He touched the back of his hand to his forehead. “Lord?”
“Alun,” I said, lay
ing my hand to his arm, “do you recall the beacon we found on the ridge?”
“I do, lord.”
“Go to it. Now. And return with word of what you find.”
He left without another word, riding back up the slope to the ridge-way. I returned to the rock and sat down again. Dawnlight seeped into a gray-white sky. Darker clouds sailed low overhead, shredding themselves on the hilltops as they passed. Away to the north, white-headed mountains showed above the cloudline. The wind rose with the sun, gusting out of the east. Likely, there would be snow before day’s end, or sleet.
I grew restless, rose, and remounted my horse. “It is light enough to see,” I told Drustwn bluntly.
Bran, standing with him, said, “Lord Llew, allow us to search out the trail and summon you when we have found it.”
“We ride together.” I snapped the reins and turned to the slope once more.
We were still searching for the trail when Alun returned. Cynan was with me, and Alun seemed reluctant to speak in front of him. “What did you find, man?” I demanded.
“Lord,” he said, “the beacon has been lit.”
“When?”
“Impossible to tell. The ashes were cold.”
Cynan’s head whipped toward Alun at the news. “What beacon?”
I told him quickly about the beacon pile I had found on the ridge. “It has been burned,” I said.
His jaw bulged dangerously. “Clanna na cù!” he rasped through clenched teeth. “Beacons on the ridge and strangers in the glen—and we let them go riding alone!”
He did not blame me for my lack of vigilance, but he did not need to; I felt the sting of his unspoken accusation all the same. How could I have let it happen?
“We will find them, brother,” I said.
“Aye, that we will,” he growled, slapping the reins against the neck of his mount. He rode off alone.
As if in answer to Cynan’s gruff affirmation, there came a blast on the carynx. Drustwn had found the trail. We raced to the place and took up the chase again. The sun was well up and the morning speeding as if on wings. The tracks led across the glen. After we had followed a fair way, it became clear that they had made for the far side of the glen. Why? Had they seen something to entice them on?