She laughed then, withdrawing her hand, masking the importance of the moment with flippancy. ‘Oh you already owe me!’ she told him. ‘More than you’ll ever be able to repay.’ She let the dramatic statement diffuse the situation further, handing him back the empty bottle. ‘And you can start by getting me another beer.’
Tudor took the bottle and nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said, smiling back at her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Black Mountains, Wales 1085
When they arrived at Talgar Rhiannon felt as if she were suddenly in the middle of a strange city, rather than the small settlement she had known all her life, she had grown so accustomed to her isolated and remote home over the past year. As they threaded their way between the collection of buildings that made up the village, her new acquaintance reined in his horse and dropped back, so that they were not taken for a single party. She had not time to ponder the significance of this, as she was too diverted by the novelty of being among people other than her small mountain band. It was unsettling indeed to see so many strangers, all of them apparently going about their everyday lives quite contentedly. Not for them the fear of being discovered, of being persecuted, of being turned out of their homes. As the cart made its slow progress down the single street of the village, she saw women sitting on doorsteps spinning, one rocking a crib with her foot as she worked. Two elderly men worked together to repair the hurdle fence of a small paddock. A young ladwas re-thatching the roof of one of the larger dwellings. A cat lay in the late autumn sun washing its paws. And yet, when she looked more closely, there were small things that alerted her to change. Aside from babes in arms, there were no children to be seen. Ordinarily they would be scampering around the settlement, amusing themselves at the expense of a long suffering dog, or playing a game, or chasing one another. Or else they would be helping their parents with wood gathering and sorting, or carding wool for spinning, or minding the livestock. Where were they? As Dafydd steered Dilly past the blacksmith’s workshop Rhiannon noticed the smithy was not making ploughs or pitchforks but swords. There were several stacked up on the bench behind him in varying states of manufacture, while he held one with pincers and hammered the white hot blade to a thin and deadly finish. He did so with grim determination, not for one instant taking his eyes from his task to acknowledge the visitors. The bitter smoke from the furnace drifted out upon the chilly air, so that Rhiannon was sure she could taste the metal. She shuddered at the thought of what those very swords would one day do. Had word reached the village of raiders from anothercantref? Was the Cymru Prince preparing to defend himself against an attack from an avaricious Norman Baron? Surely this Welshstronghold could not fall. And there was something else. After first thinking people were behaving in a normal manner, Rhiannon now saw that they were not, because they were all going out of their way to avoid the newcomers. Two women carrying bundles of wood actually lowered their heads rather than meet the gaze of the strangers. Where was the usual smile of greeting? The wave of welcome?
Brynach had also noticed something strange about the place.
‘I don’t care for this,’ he said quietly to the other two. ‘Something’s amiss.’
Rhiannon nodded. ‘Those women looked frightened.’
Dafydd sought to reassure them both. ‘These are dangerous times, people are wary is all. Come, we can tie up on the green. People will see the lambs there well enough.’
Talgar was not a town, but it was a larger village than most for many miles in any direction. There were more than thirty dwellings, all clustered together, for the most part their backs turned to the mountains behind them, the arrangement sheltering them from the worst of the winter winds. Many were built of wooden frames with wattle and daub walls, though several were made of stone. All had thatched roofs which would repel rain and snow effectively while keeping in whatwarmth could be generated by open fires inside. Some even had chimneys rather than simple holes in their roofs. Hurdled enclosures corralled pigs and precious cows. The green at the centre was a place for gatherings; markets, celebrations, musterings. On the other side of it sat the sturdy wooden church and its smaller graveyard. Unusually, there was even an inn beside the green. It was a simple wooden building with benches outside, glassless windows and a sign with a painting of a barrel of ale on it. A solitary old man took his ease on one bench, his back against the rough wall of the inn, his bony hand around a mug of ale, and a long clay pipe clamped between his teeth which were few but sufficient for their important work.
TheRhiangollran through the village, a benign little river providing a vital water source for all the inhabitants and livestock. At the far end of the run of houses stood the mill with its worn water wheel, and next to it a strongly doored barn for the storage of grain and flour. Beyond the mill, set a short distance apart, was the great house of the erstwhile Lord of Brycheiniog, where his family had lived for generations. They were an illustrious line, said to be that of none other than Saint David himself. If there was a place and a family that could resist the encroachment of the new King and his Norman nobles, surely Talgar was it. The nametranslated as ‘end of the ridge’, referring to the Black Mountains from where Rhiannon had emerged. Beyond the village the land fell away to a broad river valley, towards Herefordshire and the border. Any advancing forces could be seen coming for a long time before they reached the village, and attack from the narrow mountain pass behind would be as difficult as it was improbable.
As Dafydd stopped the wagon to a rail on the green, Rhiannon jumped down and arranged the whicker baskets in a humble display. They did not look like much, but they were carefully woven and their usefulness made them saleable. Brynach untied the lambs, keeping ropes on their necks so that they could graze the short, wiry grass. They looked fat and well and stood a fair chance of attracting a buyer. Rhiannon knew that October being slaughter month there would have been any number of such lambs offered for sale in the preceding few weeks. This was the time extra livestock was sold, not only to provide money for other supplies, but so that they did not need to be fed all through the winter. She could only hope that there were still those who wanted new ewes to bring on for their flock, or perhaps a fattened lamb to butcher and salt. Dafydd unstrapped Dilly’s harness and led her out from the shafts so that she could step down to the river to drink.
Rhiannon noticed that Meredith Tudor did not stop at the smithy, nor turn his horse toward the inn. Instead he continued to ride straight, as if his destination were the great house itself. Was he come to work for the Welsh Prince himself then?
A stout woman with a limp emerged from her cottage and came over to examine the lambs. Wordlessly she pinched their backs, probing their ribs, digging her fingers deep into their fleeces to check their weight. Here was no shepherd. Her interest and expertise clearly lay in feeding people.
She asked what price was being asked for the pair, or at least, Rhiannon was aware that the woman was asking something. What she had seen coming out of the inn had, however, caused her to hear such a rushing in her ears and feel such a thumping in her heart that she was not able to make sense of the simple question. For there, stretching his arms as if from a sleep and belching loudly, stood the man who she had fought with in Dafydd’s cottage, unmistakeable because of the burn scars on his face. And there, beside him, was the second man who had so terrorised the family that night. The one whose arm she had sliced from wrist to elbow. She stared at them, her mouth open, her mind racing.
‘My lady?’ Dafydd’s voice reached her but still she could not speak. ‘What is it? What troubles you so?’When he followed the direction in which her eyes were fixed he had his answer and let out a harsh string of oaths beneath his breath.
Brynach took in the shock on the faces of his companions and, without knowing the details, was sharp enough to see something serious had happened. Rhiannon saw his hand go to the hilt of the knife at his side. She turned to him, pulling her shawl up over her head.
‘Be still, Brynach. Dafydd, pull your hat low and tend to the horse so they cannot see you. Hitch her up to the cart.’ When he looked puzzled by this instruction she added, ‘It may be we have to leave sooner than we had planned.’
The woman was losing patience. ‘Do you want to sell these lambs or no?’ she asked. ‘And no silly prices, mind.’
While Brynach stood holding the ropes attached to the lambs and watching the men from the inn, Rhiannon sought to bargain with the villager, her voice low.
‘Have you corn? Or hens?’ she asked, hoping her anxiety did not show in her face. She expected the woman to haggle and was fearful the transaction would take too long. For every minute they stayed now put them in danger of being noticed. It was highly likely the men would seek to take their revenge on the girl who had wounded both their bodies and their pride.What was yet more worrying was the fact that they were now dressed in the colours of the Normans. Rhiannon noticed Dafydd searching the village for signs of more of the invading soldiers. At the same moment, she and he both noticed that the small paddock in front of the great house contained several horses. These were not hairy hoofed animals for drawing carts or pulling ploughs. These were fine riding horses, sleek, well fed, fit and valuable. Soldiers’ mounts. She wanted to believe they belonged to the Welsh Prince’s men, but if that were the case, why would there be mercenaries in the employ of the Normans at the inn but a few strides away? No, the inescapable conclusion was that Talgar had fallen to the new King. It was a dreadful truth to take in. They had left the safety of the hills and walked directly into the camp of the enemy. It could be that Hubert de Chapelle himself now inhabited the great house.
‘I’ll give you two sacks of corn and a trio of birds,’ the old woman said. Her voice was both harsh and loud, and could no doubt be heard for quite some distance. So it was with horror that Rhiannon heard her ask, ‘And where have you come from with such lambs? I’ve not seen mountain sheep here for many months. I don’t know your face, girl. Tell me, where then is your farm?’
‘We travelled from further up the high valley,’ she said quickly, keeping her answer deliberately vague.
‘You’d have done better to come to the autumn fare.’
‘My… my grandmother was ailing. We could not come sooner.’
The woman narrowed her eyes, as if she could better see through the simple lie by doing so.
‘Three bags of corn,’ Rhiannon countered, hoping to pull the woman’s attention back to the lambs. ‘And two brace of birds. One a cockerel.’
‘Ha!’ The woman’s laugh was even louder than her talk. ‘You seek to fleece me like an old ewe, young mistress?’
‘I promise you, I wish only for a fair price.’
‘What’s fair is what buyer’ll pay.’ The woman circled the lambs, hands on hips, letting out a low whistle.
