So saying he turned his horse from her grip and gave the animal its head, for it needed no spurs to send it plunging forwards, out of the barn, clattering over the stones of the yard, and out through the gate. Taran ran at the horse’s side. The men-at-arms followed, bristling with arrows and swords and axes, shields strapped to their left arms, their helmets low on their heads.
She watched them go, her stomach knotting with dread, her head aching from the loud buzzing in her ears which seemed to have been provoked by the proximity to such violence as her father had just ridden off to meet. He would take the high path that skirted the valley floor. With a handful of men it would serve himwell, letting him keep a view of whatever might be progressing towards the vale. She turned to squint into the lowering sun in the west. Below, she could make out the villagers, most of them still working in the fields, unaware of how close danger was, and how soon it might be upon them.
She ran back into the barn, cursing beneath her breath that she had no horse of her own. All that remained was Dilly, the aged sorrel cob. She grabbed a rope halter and quickly looped it over her head, pulling her from her stall. It took precious seconds for her to hitch up the long skirt of her dress and tuck it into her braided belt so that she could leap up onto the horse’s back. Even this steady old mare had sensed the state of agitation around her, so that Gwen’s heels against her sides soon had her cantering down the track towards the village. The small cluster of cottages that were homes to the twenty or so families that lived in Cwmdu were mostly empty. The day was fine, and the time of year meant that all hands would be put to harvesting crops, even the children. Only the smithy had stayed behind, working in his forge. She could hear the rhythmic beat of hammer upon hot iron and steered Dilly to the far side of the village.
‘Owain!’ she shouted. ‘Owain, there is a war-band near. We must raise the alarm!’
He stepped out into the sunshine from the gloom of his workshop, still holding the metal he was working clenched in heavy pincers, his bare arms slick with sweat.
‘What’s that you say? Who would challenge your father? No, answer me not, for I know the greed of our new masters,’ he added, referring to those avaricious barons who were only too willing to carry out their king’s wishes.
‘Everyone must go up to the hall.’
‘You would have us go to ground like hunted vermin?’
‘I would have you live, Owain. The elderly and the children cannot fight. There are not men enough here…’
He knew what she said was true, but it made it no easier to hear. He threw down his tools and his leather apron. ‘Ride to the west field, then,’ he told her. ‘Grandmother Williams is abed in her cottage. I will carry her to the house.’
She left him to his task and flicked the rope on poor Dilly’s neck, asking from her a turn of speed she was not ordinarily called upon to show. As she left the village she paused by the church, calling for Father Mills.
He emerged from the main door of the modest wooden building.
‘Heavens, what causes such alarm?’ he asked.
Gwen explained. When he seemed unable to decide what to do she told him, ‘I am to fetch the villagers. Go to the house. Rufus will let you in.’
‘But, I cannot leave the church.’
‘Father, it is not safe. You must go!’ she called over her shoulder as she urged Dilly back into a scuttling canter.
By the time she reached the edge of the field her shouts had been heard. The villagers straightened up from their toil, listening to her summons, coming to a swift realisation that danger was near. They abandoned their tools, their handcarts, their baskets of bait, and as one they started to run. Small children were swept up and held close. The older family members were assisted by the stronger ones, but still their progress was worryingly slow. She slid from Dilly’s back and three small boys took her place, their elder sister leading the mare. Gwen ran with them all the way back up to the house. Rufus greeted them at the door.
‘Make haste, my lady! Your mother frets fit to faint.’
‘Here, Rufus, help the children,’ she said, taking them from Dilly and handing him the smallest. As the villagers hurried in through the main door she scanned their faces. Owain arrived, Mamgi Williams on his back.
‘Have you seen Dafydd and Bronwen?’ she asked him.
He shook his head, too puffed to speak.
Mamgi spoke up in a reedy voice. ‘One of the lambs strayed from the fold. They went in search of it.’ She pointed with a bony finger in the direction of the valley, the same direction Lord Llewelyn had ridden. Would he have seen them? Might he have warned them? If so, why had they not arrived at the house? Gwen reasoned they must have been further to the west, away from the path Father had taken, and would be oblivious to what was happening. She swung her leg over Dilly’s back, wheeling her around.
Rufus stepped after her. ‘My lady, you cannot go!’
She turned to face him, and, knowing her, seeing the determination written upon her face, he knew that she must.
‘Keep to my mother, Rufus. She is in your care now,’ she told him, and then urged Dilly away from the house and down the track once more. As she rode she turned this way and that, searching for a sign of the missing pair. She soon realised they could not have encountered her father, or been close enough to see the band of men-at-arms leaving the valley. She turned down to the lower track, the one that followed the winding stream known as theRhiangoll, deciding thelost lamb might have sought out the coolness of the brook on such a hot day. However fast she persuaded the poor mare to scramble down the rocky slope, their progress felt maddeningly slow. Just as she was on the point of despair she spotted them. Dafydd had the lamb on his shoulders and Bronwen was trotting at his side. She hastened to them. Dafydd received her news calmly, but she saw a shadow of anguish cross his face when he looked at his young daughter. They decided to follow the river back up to the house as the quickest route, with Bronwen riding Dilly, holding the lamb that she refused to abandon. They had gone only as far as the village when the sound of thundering hooves reached them.
‘Does Lord Llewelyn return?’ Dafydd asked, though they could not yet see the approaching horses.
They listened, though Gwen already knew what was coming, having clearly sensed the proximity of extreme danger. There were too many horses. They were riding too fast for a band of friendly soldiers returning home. This was a sizeable force, and travelling at the speed of aggressors. Her father had failed. It was clear there was not time enough to make the safety of the hall.
She handed Dafydd Dilly’s reins.
‘Make haste! Take the mare and ride for the hills. You will not be followed; it is the house they are come for.’
‘You ride, my lady. I can run alongside.’
