The next morning he felt strong enough to leave the hut and decided it was time he met the chieftain Idris. Rhiannon made no secret of her displeasure, arguing he needed more rest. But Dodinal’s mind was made up; he had rested long enough.
She had arrived with a bowl containing more of the nuts and berries that her people currently broke their fast with.
“Your chieftain will think I lack courtesy if I do not pay my respects, now I am recovered,” Dodinal said around the mouthful of squirrel food he was reluctantly chewing. His stomach rumbled. Rhiannon had brought him more cawl the previous day, along with some flat bread, but nothing since. “All the more so because he was courteous enough to allow me to recover in peace.”
“It was not so much courtesy as common sense.” Rhiannon stood over him with folded arms and a stern look on her face. “He knew that disturbing you before you were ready to see him could hamper your recovery. And I would have had more work to do.”
“Ah,” Dodinal grinned. “No doubt you set him straight on that. So it was not so much common sense as his fear of you.”
Rhiannon gave him a withering, thin-lipped glare. “Next time you can stitch your own leg.” But she flashed a smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She was not angry, and even seemed pleased at how swiftly he was healing. Of course, that might only be because she wanted him out of her hut as quickly as good manners allowed, yet he believed she was proud of her healing abilities, for all her reluctance to speak of them.
“I’ll tell Idris you will call on him,” Rhiannon said.
Dodinal raised an eyebrow. “Is that necessary? I mean only to pay him my regards and thank him for sharing his food.”
“He will have none of that, mark my words. Owain is his only grandson and the old man dotes on him. I suspect he would have wanted you to take longer to get well. He tries not to show it, but he is enjoying having Owain spend more time with him than usual. Like me, he will be forever in your debt.”
Her words made him uneasy. It was not in his character to draw attention to himself.
“I only did what any man would have done.”
“I know many men who would have left him to his fate. As I have already said, I do not believe you are like other men.”
“All men are the same,” he countered.
“No, they are not. Now finish your food. I will tell Idris you are ready to meet him so he can get prepared.”
Prepared? A greeting, a handshake, perhaps a few words of friendship were all that needed to pass between the two men. Unless these villagers had customs he was unfamiliar with. No matter. He would find out soon enough. “I’ll dress while you are gone.”
“You need to wash first,” she answered. “You stink.”
“And you are too kind.”
Rhiannon smiled as she went over to the fire and took the pot outside to fill it with snow, then set it over the flames. She took an old blanket and a misshapen nugget of soap from the dresser. “This will clear away the worst of the stench.”
It was obvious she was teasing him. Then again, he thought, sniffing at his chest and armpits, perhaps not. He had become so used to his own ripe scent while wandering the wintry wilderness that he had not really noticed it until now.
The moment Rhiannon had gone, he stripped and washed away the grime, revealing rubbed-raw flesh beneath. The water that pooled at his feet was dark and scummy, and steamed in the heat of the fire. Once he was as clean as he thought he could be, he used the cloth to dry before pulling on his clothes. It felt good to be in them again. It would feel even better to have his sword at his side.
When Rhiannon returned, she had her son with her, the boy giving Dodinal the same silent look as before. Then he knelt on the floor and reached under his tunic, pulling out a small pouch that hung from his neck by a leather strap. He emptied its contents into his hand, far more interested in them than in Dodinal.
“He seems less pleased to see me,” Dodinal observed.
Rhiannon watched the boy affectionately. “He knows you are well now, that’s why. He was worried you might die.”
The knight said nothing. How strange to think that someone should fear his death when he himself did not.
“You smell much better,” she said, smiling. “But you still look like a wild man. Sit here.”
Dodinal obeyed. There was no point arguing. He sat on the bench while she took a wooden comb from the dresser and attacked his hair; it felt like it was being torn out by the roots. “Keep still,” she chided. “Anyone would swear you were a child.”
Finally she was done. His scalp tingled, yet when Rhiannon started on his beard the pain in his head paled into insignificance. He reached up but she slapped his hand away. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find wildlife in here. Do you want to be presented to Idris harbouring mice?”
Dodinal gritted his teeth and said nothing, not even when Rhiannon produced a small knife and cut away at his hair and beard until clumps of it were scattered on the floor at his feet.
“There,” she said finally, taking a step back and scrutinising the results. “You look almost civilised.”
“Thank you,” Dodinal said dryly, rubbing his aching chin.
“Now I’ll take you to Idris and the village elders.”
“Elders?” Dodinal was immediately wary. He had anticipated sharing a few words and perhaps some food with the chieftain, and him alone. More people meant more questions. As there were some answers he would not be inclined to share, it could become awkward.
“His best hunters, his closest friends. You’ll like them, man of the wild that you are. But be mindful of his son.” Rhiannon’s mouth curled down. “Gerwyn is a difficult one. He insisted that two of his friends should be on the council too. To speak for the young as well as the old, or so he said. He was just causing trouble as always.”
“He won’t give me any trouble, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure, too. You’re twice his size. Don’t worry; Idris tolerates him but keeps him under control. I’m sure you will have much to discuss. Come back when you’re done. You can stay here for as long as you want. I’ll remain in the Great Hall with Owain.”
“No, please. I have caused enough disruption. You stay here with the boy. I will sleep in the hall, if Idris will have me.”
“He will not. You are an honoured guest. You deserve a place of your own. Those were his words.” Her eyes sparkled in the firelight as she handed Dodinal his cloak. “And I’m sure they were honestly spoken. But by coincidence, it also means he can have Owain stay with him a little while longer.”
“Some coincidence,” Dodinal agreed.
They went out into the howling white world. Rhiannon kept pace with the knight who moved slowly and carefully, feeling a twinge in his thigh as he walked. The snowstorm was so ferocious that, even in daylight, he struggled to take in his surroundings.
As they headed towards the Great Hall, hunched over and with their hoods up to escape the worst of the wind, he could see the tall shapes he had taken for trees were the remains of a palisade. It would have been a stout defence at the time it was built, but years of neglect had taken their toll. There were gaps Dodinal could walk through. With Arthur having stemmed the Saxon tide, there would have been no pressing need to keep it in good repair.
They scurried past smaller huts, maybe two score all told. The gale flattened the smoke columns that rose from their roof holes before tearing them to shreds. He imagined villagers huddled behind the doors, wondering how long this weather and their food could last, emerging only to share meagre communal meals in the Great Hall, where they would talk to while away the long, empty hours.
Squinting against the blizzard, Dodinal could see a barn, inside which a pair of oxen and two sheep stood listlessly, while two chickens paced around and pecked at the floor. Next to the barn was a small sty and Dodinal sensed two pigs curled up together for warmth.
By the time they reached their destination, a long rectangular building, the knight’s face and fingers were numb with cold. Rhiannon went in first, pulling the heavy door open and holding it until Dodinal had followed her through. Then she let the door slam shut behind her and the bellowing wind was immediately muted.
Dodinal took stock of his surroundings.
A great fire burned in its pit at the near end of the hut; a mastiff stretched out asleep before it, legs twitching as it pursued whatever dream-prey it had scented. Several smaller fires burned further down the hut, either for cooking or heat. Smoke was drawn through the roof-holes but enough remained inside to sting his eyes. Before him was a table, longer than it was wide, with benches running along both sides and a chair at each end.
On the walls were mounted trophies — deer, boar and bear — the heads gazing down at the room with glassy, unseeing eyes. Skins had been hung roughly halfway along the hall. Presumably the area beyond them was where the chieftain and his family slept.
A dozen men watched him in silence from the benches, most of them older than Dodinal. A younger man with a mane of dark curly hair sat in the chair closest to the knight. At the opposite end from him was seated a stout, older man, his chair high-backed and ornate. It was he who broke the silence, rising and making for Dodinal, one hand outstretched, a grin across his face.
“So this is the man who saved my grandson’s life,” he boomed, taking Dodinal’s hand in his to shake it vigorously, and clapping him repeatedly and forcibly on his shoulder. “It is good to finally meet you!”
Dodinal turned helplessly to Rhiannon.
“Our friend is a man of few words,” she obliged. “And he is not comfortable with grand gestures of thanks. Not when he believes he only did what any man would have done.”
“Nonsense,” Idris exclaimed. The chieftain’s voice was loud enough to rattle the walls, or so it seemed to Dodinal. “I know of no other man who could have fought off three ravenous wolves and then walk almost all the way here with half his leg bitten off!”
There was a low murmur of laughter from around the table.
“It did not seem that bad at the time,” Dodinal mumbled, trying to ignore the way the men stared at him with friendly, curious expressions. All save the curly-haired man who sat in the chair near to Dodinal, who was, presumably, Gerwyn. He held Dodinal with a surly and defiant gaze. Could it be that he was intimidated by Dodinal and was determined not to show it? Maybe he was just looking for trouble, as Rhiannon had warned.
His father was powerfully built, with a broad chest and a creased, leathery face that spoke of years of exposure to the elements. His hair and beard were as white as snow but his brown eyes were clear and bright. His accent, like Rhiannon’s, was rich and mellifluous. It was said the Welsh were a nation of poets, but Dodinal knew they were dangerous too. Perhaps that was why he felt comfortable in their presence.
“This is Dodinal.” The chieftain addressed the room once Rhiannon had left them. “My grandson’s saviour, as you will have heard. For that reason alone, if no other, he is now kin. One of us.”
Idris took him by the arm and guided him around the table, calling out the names of the men as they passed: Emlyn, Tomos, Rhydian, Elfed, Hywel and so forth, the names all unfamiliar to Dodinal’s ears. The men either nodded or murmured a greeting in return. Introductions done, the old man indicated the high-backed chair. “Be seated.” Dodinal shook his head and made to squat at the end of the bench — it was the chieftain’s chair and he had no right to take it — but Idris was insistent. “I would consider it an honour.”
Dodinal reluctantly took the seat. Idris settled on the bench. “Gerwyn, fetch our guest some food and drink.”
Gerwyn made no effort to rise. “Why? So we can sit here, watching him eat while we slowly starve?”
“It is tradition to offer hospitality to guests,” Idris answered, his tone reasonable. “True, we are not blessed with as much food as we would like, but we will prevail. We always do. It has not reached such a low point that we can be excused for forgetting our manners.”
“If this weather persists we will have nothing left,” Gerwyn protested angrily. “We can barely feed ourselves, let alone strangers.”
Idris banged his fist on the table, the crash echoing around the hall. When he spoke it was with a voice like iron. “Remember your place. You are the not the brehyrion, but his son. When I ask you to do something, I do not expect defiance.”
Dodinal quickly revised his opinion. On the surface, Idris was calm and benevolent: beneath, he was as hard as the frozen earth.
Not wanting to be the cause of a row between father and son, Dodinal spoke up. “Though I thank you for your kindness, there is no need for food or drink. Rhiannon has taken care of me. And,” he added, looking pointedly at Gerwyn, “I do not intend to be a burden. As soon as the storm eases I will leave. I have matters to attend to.”
The words did not satisfy Gerwyn. He slouched in his chair, arms folded, looking meaningfully at two younger men sat near him. So similar were their features that they had to be brothers. It was clear they would back Gerwyn in a fight. Not that it would come to that, with Idris there to crack unruly heads together.
“Tell me,” the chieftain said amicably, all smiles again, as if no harsh words had been exchanged. “What brings a man to such a godforsaken wilderness as this?”
Dodinal shrugged. He had lost count of how many times he had been asked the same question since embarking upon his quest. He always gave the same answer. “I am a traveller, a wanderer. I drift from place to place, looking for work to pay for food and shelter. Women and song, too, if I am lucky enough to find them.”
The older men laughed, although Gerwyn and his friends did not. Dodinal would have to keep an eye on them if the weather forced him to stay longer. He knew trouble when he saw it.
“I see.” Idris studied him closely. “For a wanderer and a drifter, you certainly possess very fine clothes. The women who stitched them for you told me they had never seen such fine workmanship.”
It was true. While Dodinal could not see the men’s boots under the table, he doubted they were made from soft leather and lined with fur. Their shirts were of the roughest of cloth, while his were of fine linen.
“I work hard and have few needs, so I can afford to buy the best of what I require. Cheaper garments would fall apart quickly, and would not protect me from the elements.”
“And your sword?”
Dodinal sat up a little straighter. “It belonged to my father. When he died it was passed on to me.” That too was a lie; Arthur had presented it to him. “Speaking of which, I would be grateful if you would return it to me.”
“My father offers you hospitality and this is how you repay him?” Gerwyn spat. “By demanding your sword? You will happily take the last of our food and drink, yet you have so little trust in us?”
Gerwyn seemed determined to maintain hostilities no matter what. Perhaps there was already tension between father and son; Gerwyn could be using Dodinal to provoke the old man.
“One more word from you, you little whelp, and you’ll be picking out your teeth from your beard,” Idris warned. With studied slowness, he turned away from his son to face Dodinal. “Of course you can have it returned. Oh, and Rhiannon tells me you lost some of your belongings. That is unfortunate. If I can replace anything when you are ready to leave, I will gladly do so.”
Gerwyn muttered something derogatory under his breath. Other than giving him a contemptuous look, Idris did not rise to the bait.
“Having said that,” the chieftain added, “you are welcome to stay as long as you want.”
“You’re very kind. But, as I have mentioned, I have matters to attend to. I will be on my way as soon as the weather improves.”
“Where are you heading?” Idris asked. There was something about his tone of voice that put Dodinal on his guard. “Camelot?”
“No. My travels take me north.”
“But you have been there.” It was not a question. “I can think of no other place where such fine clothes as yours could be bought.”
“Yes, I have been there.” Better to tell a half-truth than a lie. There was less danger of being caught.
“Did you see Arthur?”
“What if he did?” Gerwyn demanded. “Arthur has done nothing for us. They are not starving in Camelot, are they, Dodinal?”
“No. But then I am not in Camelot. And I am starving, too.”
Idris roared with laughter and thumped him on the back. “Well answered. But that’s enough talk for now. I am not brave enough to incur the wrath of my daughter-in-law. This man was badly hurt. He needs to rest.” He turned to Dodinal. “Come. I will walk with you.”
“No reason for us both to be out in the cold.”
“Except if you fall and open the wound it will be me who needs stitching after Rhiannon gets her hands on me.”
“A fair point,” Dodinal conceded. “But before we go, I would ask again for my sword. Despite what your son thinks, it is not about lack of trust. The sword is of great personal value.”
“I understand,” Idris said, solemn for once. “I, too, have lost someone close. The possessions they leave behind take on a greater importance than they ever had while they lived.”
With that he strode off into the depths of the Great Hall, disappearing past the hanging skins, returning moments later with Dodinal’s sword belt in one hand and a spear in the other. Dodinal stood as the chieftain approached and gratefully took the belt from him and buckled it around his waist.
“A gift,” the chieftain said, offering the spear. “I made it with my own hands. It served me well for many years.”
“Idris, there is no need. You have done more than enough to repay me already.”
“I am too old to hunt now, and I would rather it be put to good use than be left to gather dust in the corner.” The chieftain grinned and dug an elbow into Dodinal’s ribs. “And you could use it as a walking stick until your leg mends.”
Dodinal bid the gathered men good day. Gerwyn and his friends made no attempt to respond, but the others did, even though their farewells were immediately lost when Idris pushed open the door and the wind charged in. The two of them stepped into the furious storm.
Although it was only late morning, it was as dark as dusk. Wind made the trees creak like the bones of the dead. The snow rose as high as Dodinal’s knees, making the going slow. He was thankful he had the spear for support. By the time they reached Rhiannon’s hut, his heart was beating hard and he was drenched with sweat.
He stumbled through the door and made straight for the bench, where he sat down heavily, groaning with relief. He barely felt the spear slip from his frozen fingers or heard it rattle on the floor.
“Wouldn’t listen to me, would you?” Rhiannon scolded, picking up the spear and leaning it against the wall. “Wouldn’t wait.”
Dodinal raised a weak hand. His teeth were too busy chattering to allow him to speak.
“Well, never mind. What’s done is done. Get your cloak and boots off and put them by the fire to dry, before you catch your death. You too, Idris. Not even a mighty brehyrion is immune to sickness.”
Both men obeyed without question. Rhiannon took their sodden cloaks from them and hung them to dry, heaping fresh logs on the fire until the flames were roaring. Then she pressed a beaker into Dodinal’s hand and gave another to Idris.
“Drink,” she commanded.
He sniffed it cautiously. The infusion smelled herby and sweet. He drank it quickly, relishing its warmth in his belly. His skin tingled and he fought to keep his eyes open; although he had been awake for just a few hours, he felt like sleeping again. His leg ached. It was not as well healed as he’d thought. He should have listened to her.
Owain ran over and threw his arms around Idris. The old man grabbed him in a bear hug and lifted him up, growling like a wild animal as the boy wriggled helplessly in his arms. Dodinal watched them with a wistful smile on his face. He envied them. It had been a long time since he had felt affection for anyone, or anyone for him.
“Come on, then,” Idris said as he put him down, the boy tussle-haired and flushed. “Time to get you back to the Great Hall, I think. We’ll call for the women to get the cooking pots on.” He gave Rhiannon an anxious look. “Though for how much longer we’ll be able to do so is another matter. Hardly any of our stored food remains.”
The hearty chieftain had gone. In his place was an ageing man struggling to conceal his fears for his people.
“The weather will turn soon,” Rhiannon assured him, though she could have no way of knowing when the storm would break. It had already raged for longer than any Dodinal could remember.
“You’re right,” Idris said. “Of course it will. Dodinal, you are welcome to join us, although I understand if you would prefer to remain here alone to rest. You look like a man ready to drop.”
Dodinal nodded gratefully. “I will stay. I would not want to embarrass myself by falling asleep at your table.”
“Then rest for however long you need. We will arrange for food to be brought to you.” Idris looked across at Rhiannon. “Take the boy and go on ahead. I will join you shortly.”
She frowned as she listened to the wind rampage around the hut. “Do not tarry. The storm is blowing harder. Any worse and I fear the roofs will be torn off.”
“Then all the more reason for you to go now. I will not be more than a few minutes behind you.”
Mother and son left then, Idris tousling the boy’s hair as he passed. The flames frantically swayed this way and that when Rhiannon opened the door, settling again once she had closed it behind her, leaving a flurry of snowflakes in her wake.
Idris stood and took his cloak off the peg Rhiannon had hung it on. “I will not keep you from your rest, Dodinal. But I want you to know I meant what I said. You are kin now. To lose my eldest son was bad enough. It tore a hole in my heart. But if I had lost my grandson, too …” he broke off, visibly emotional.
“Your son does not regard me as kin,” Dodinal answered lightly, in an attempt to brighten the mood.
Idris made a dismissive gesture. “Ignore Gerwyn. He is young and foolish. And a little disconcerted by you, I think. When he sees you he sees his older brother, whom he worshipped. That he was taken in such a cruel and meaningless way fills Gerwyn with anger. He hits out in every direction, not caring who he hurts.”
“I understand.”
“Yes, I believe you do. I know who you are, you see. I know what you are, Sir Dodinal. You talked, you know, in your fever.”
Dodinal started to protest.
Idris raised a hand for silence. “I will not say a word. I asked if you had been to Camelot to give you the opportunity to tell the others, if you had been so inclined. You did not choose to tell them. I will honour that. You have my word.”
Dodinal was too weary to add anything to that.
“Though why you are wandering this blasted wilderness and not staying warm and well fed in Camelot is beyond me,” Idris said.
“I am on a quest,” Dodinal answered without thinking, startling himself by speaking the truth. He had spent so much time of late dwelling on his past that he had allowed his guard to slip.
“Seeking what?”
“Whatever I might find.”
What else was he supposed to say? That all he sought was peace, an end to the violence and bloodshed that had dogged him since childhood? Even if finding it meant having to sacrifice his own life? Death held no fear for him, provided it was an honourable death rather than the kind of unjust and demeaning end that Elwyn had suffered. That would be the unkindest fate of all.
“Well,” Idris said, making for door. “I wish you luck. But it seems to me that if a man does not know what he is looking for, he might not know when he has found it. Rest well. I hope we can talk of these matters further, when your strength has returned.”
He paused and reached into a pocket. From it he took a sharpening stone, which he placed on the table. “A blunt blade is as dangerous as a sharp blade, but in a different way.”
He left Dodinal to stare dolefully around the hut. What had Idris been trying to say? That Dodinal had found what he was looking for, yet his eyes were closed to the truth? Then again, maybe the chieftain had not been trying to say anything. It may have been offered as advice, nothing more.
Yet the doubts persisted. Dodinal had been so intent on moving on it had not occurred to him he might want to stay. Not just until the storm had abated. To put down roots and settle. Already it felt like he had friends here; Idris, Rhiannon, Owain. No doubt the men he had met in the Great Hall would offer their hands in friendship too. Even Gerwyn might come round eventually. Stranger things had happened.
Dodinal stood and began to pace, limping around the fire as he tried to bring order to his confusion. He had sought peace, and there could surely be no more peaceful a place than this.
It was hard, here. A bad winter was no mere inconvenience, as it would be in Camelot. It could mean the difference between survival and a lingering death.
Yet Dodinal would consider himself blessed if his future battles were waged only against the weather. While the urge to move on still pulled at him, that could be because it was all he had ever done. Could it really be that he had found what he was looking for after all?
Feeling torn in too many ways, he lowered himself to the mattress and pulled the furs over him, banishing the thoughts from his head. At the moment he had no choice but to stay. Only when the snow stopped and the thaw came would he know how he really felt.