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  The babe stirred at her touch and kicked once. “We’ll be seeing each other before another seven days have passed,” Elen predicted. “That one’s anxious to be out.”

  Nia patted her belly proudly. “It’s a boy, mother said. She can tell by the way he’s lying.”

  Elen eyed the wool-clothed mound critically. “I hope she remembered to tell the babe!”

  They all three shared a laugh at that, and continued on their separate ways, Nia to the river and Elen and Carys up to the hall.

  The great house of Pont Cymryd stood within a ring of earthworks and deep ditches. The men on watch hailed Elen and Carys as they passed. The house was a long, low hall with grey stone walls and a timber roof. The yard was as busy as the surrounding village with everyone scurrying back and forth to take care of the work of the day, plus the extra work of preparing for the welcoming feast. The breeze was warm with the smell of baking bread and little Ana hurried by with a basket of eggs clutched tightly in both arms. Before the great iron-banded doors waited Urien’s shaggy, black horse. His two men, the toad and the wolf, lounged beside their ponies. No one of the hall’s men had come to make conversation with them.

  Urien would be in there with mother. Elen thought for a moment about circling around to the ovens to deliver her basket of mushrooms. She did not want to trade more barbs with Urien. But stronger than the desire for peace was the desire to know what Urien was saying to mother, and what she reply she made to him.

  “Carys, take the mushrooms around to Siani.” She handed her basket to her sister-to-be. “Make sure she knows these are to stew with the onions. Say to I’ll be with you shortly.”

  Carys gave her a knowing glance, but took the basket under her arm without comment and started on her way. Elen schooled the frown from her face and walked through the great door into her house. Urien’s men eyed her as she passed, but both bowed respectfully all the same.

  Inside, the world was dim, smoky and cool. The beds and sleeping pallets had already been cleared away. Women tended the black kettles of porridge that hung over the hall’s three fire pits. Boys set up trestle tables and benches for those who had the leisure to come and eat beside their warmth. Children raced to and fro as if constant motion could keep the scolding grandmothers from identifying them and giving them their chores. A cluster of women, young and old, sat in the corner at work on the eternal tasks of carding and spinning.

  Mother sat in the great, carved chair that had once belonged to Elen’s father, Ioan. Urien stood before her. A bright blaze of colour caught Elen’s eye. As a courtesy to their guests, Arthur’s saffron and scarlet banner hung above mother’s seat beside father’s shield emblazoned with his blue boar. Urien could not like standing beneath that bright red dragon.

  Adara, Lady of Pont Cymryd, widow of Penaig Ioan, was tall and straight despite her years. She sat straight and tall in the carved chair that had once been her husband’s seat. Her hair fell in a grey cloud past her shoulders, held in place by a circlet of bronze. Her face was lined with wisdom and laughter, especially around her dark eyes. The only sign that the years might weigh on her was her hands. Once strong and clever, her fingers were now bright red and chapped with joints so swollen they lacked the strength to pick up anything heavier than a wooden spoon. The pain in them was harsh, Elen knew, but mother never complained of it. She still carried herself with the dignity and grace of a woman in the prime of her years.

  Where’s Yestin? Elen wondered to herself. The answer came to her a heartbeat later. Keeping our guests occupied so they do not hear what is said at this moment.

  Urien had a warrior’s senses, and he turned as Elen approached, although he could not have possibly heard her over the other noises ringing through the hall. He frowned deeply.

  “I see your daughter would have words with you, Adara. Shall we speak more of this later?”

  “What do you have to say that my daughter may not hear, Urien?” Mother asked pleasantly, extending one of her swollen hands. Elen took the sign and stepped up to mother’s side. Mother, it seemed was not in the mood to make things easy on her neighbour.

  For a moment, Urien looked as though he could spit on the floor, but he evidently decided having his say with Adara was more important than whether or not Elen heard it. She could see the preparation in his face. He meant to shoot his bolt now, and aim it true.

  “Adara, we are of the oldest blood, you and I,” said Urien, holding up his right hand to show the tattoos there. The raven, the pig, the mare, all the old signs of luck and fortune were embedded in Urien’s skin. “You have knowledge and skill that stretches back to the druids and further. You know the voices and the names of the oldest gods. You could bend those powers to help keep the usurper from our lands.” Now he pointed at her, as if he brought the accusations of the gods with him. “But even you must be prepared. Should Arthur come suddenly, all your learning will be as nothing to protect you.”

  Elen felt the tension thrumming through her mother. She wished she had deflected Urien when she still had the chance. Mother had enough to worry her. She wished she could speak now, but it would not be proper.

  “It is not Arthur who has made threats against our land,” said Adara.

  That surprised Urien, or it seemed to. “You think I threaten you? I would leave us all free as we have ever been.”

  “Free, so long as we agree to abide by your word.”

  “A house must have a master.” His tone said this was obvious to all who had any sense. “It is only when we are together as one house that the border cantrevs have a chance to stand against Arthur.”

  Adara was not dissuaded, or softened. “Again I ask, Urien, what threat has Arthur made against you or I?”

  “He himself is the threat. His dominion increases every year. Such power feeds on itself, lusting to grow ever greater. You know that. We have both seen it.”

  For the first time, mother’s gaze wavered. “Yes.”

  “Even the men of the North have been forced to bend their knees and call Arthur king. To the south of us, Mark has sworn his allegiance. Arthur knows our land breeds kings. Why should he leave us alone ‘til one of ours rises to challenge him?”

  “Those who know of Arthur do not speak of corruption in him.” Mother spoke steadily, but the certainty of her words was not absolute. Elen remembered her own fears of the strangers and the power that rose behind them. Urien took note of all, and he went down on one knee, leaning close and whispering urgently.

  “You know as well as I the tales of how Arthur came to his power. The bones of innocents lie beneath the foundations of Camelot.” Adara looked away. “Yes, I will speak of it. Can you depend on the wolf in his soul remaining leashed and muzzled?”

  “Too much power will blight the soul of any man,” said Adara, but without looking at him.

  Urien nodded soberly. “This is truth.”

  The hall door opened again. Elen recognised her brother’s silhouette black against the bright morning light. Behind him followed three men, each tall and well-shaped. Arthur’s men. Elen could make no move to warn him, but Yestin had quick eyes, and stopped in his tracks before their guests could approach Adara, turning swiftly. Elen watched him gesturing them toward the trestle tables being set up by the fire, inviting them to break their fast out of earshot of Urien.

  Mother’s mouth formed a thin, tight line as she reached her decision. “Very well, Urien. Join us at board tonight. Speak with the men of Camelot and let us see what they have to say to you.”

  What! It was all Elen could do to keep the word from bursting out of her. Mother was going to let Urien confront Arthur’s men? What was she thinking? There’d be blood on the stones. She thought again of the crow cawing in the woods. Was it death it foretold?

  Urien rose to his feet, and bowed, his face calm and serious, completely without the smirk Elen expected to be there. “Thank you, Chwaer.” Sister. The old title of respect between equals. “That is all that I want.”

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p; “Is it?” murmured Mother, although at the same time she nodded her head to Urien.

  She said nothing more as Urien walked past the table where Yestin was ensuring that the men from Camelot were served warm food, and small beer in the good crockery mugs.

  “Wait here, Elen,” said Mother as she got to her own feet. Elen opened her mouth, but mother waved her to silence. “I know, but I would speak with you and your brother.”

  Adara walked down the hall to where her son and guests waited. Elen seethed in frustration at having to keep her place. Arthur’s men had arrived the previous day on their tall, beautiful horses, their bright pennants snapping in the breeze, with Arthur’s scarlet dragon flying over all. That last was brave of them, for in the border cantrevs, there were as many who would lop off their heads for the showing of that pennant as there were who would bow before it.

  They’d been given the hospitality of the hall, but Elen still had not gotten a close look at them. They kept themselves and their men out of the way all the previous evening. Some thought that was haughtiness. Others thought it was because they were determined not to be too much of a burden to the house. Elen could not tell which was truth, yet. She wanted to see these men. She wanted to hear whether their voices rang true or false, to watch the way they watched the world around them. As it was, all she could see was that as mother approached, the men rose, and the guests bowed to their hostess. She stood before them, probably making some inquiry about their comfort and whether all was as they would have it. Adara touched her son’s arm, and said something which made the others laugh. Mother beckoned women over with more bread and pitchers of beer, then she returned to her chair, Yestin following behind her.

  Adara did not elect to stay in the great hall. Instead, she walked through the small rear door and down the narrow, dark corridor with the stores and extra sleeping quarters that opened on either side. Mother wore a single iron key on her girdle. She used it now to open the lock of an oaken door. The other side was the treasury.

  It was a place of sacks and chests, bolts of good cloth, wooden casks, and graceful clay jars and plates that came from as far away as Rome. In the centre was a long table of age-darkened oak with only several balances and their weights to clutter its surface. This room sheltered the wealth of the cantrev, and one of the few places they could speak without being interrupted or overheard.

  Yestin closed the door without being told. He was not tall, her brother, but he was broadening to become stocky and strong as their father had been. His beard was dark to match his hair. He dressed simply, in a plain tunic, breeches and sandals, but his wrists were clasped with silver rings to show his rank and honour, and his bearing, if Elen was honest with herself, was becoming such that he did not need such outward show for one to mark that.

  Mother sat down on a folding stool. Elen could not help but see how tired she looked. Her swollen hands lay in her lap, useless.

  “You may speak now, Elen.” Mother’s tone held no anger, only acknowledgement.

  “Why did you do it?” The words burst out of her like water from a broken barrel. “Why invite Urien to the feast?”

  “What!” cried Yestin, looking from Elen to Adara.

  Adara met her children’s disbelieving gazes calmly. “Because I want to see how Arthur’s men react to him, and he to them. We are in the middle of this game, my children. It is best to see how those to either side will play.”

  Yestin swallowed, nervousness showing plain on his face. “You are not truly thinking you’ll side with Urien?”

  Mother rubbed her temple, trying to stave off a coming ache, Elen was sure. “I do not want to, but it may be that we have to. We are small here, and we are weak. We cannot ever forget that. If Arthur will not lend us protection, then we must not stand in Urien’s way.”

  Elen moved closer to her brother. They’d present a united front in this much. “It’s like we’re choosing which knife to have pointed at our throats. Why does this come to us?”

  But she knew why. They all did. The wealth of Pont Cymryd lay not in the number of its kyne or the extent of its fields, but in the placement of their land. If you come from the east, we are the last gentle land before the mountains, and the best crossing of the river from the Roman road for miles in either direction. If you came out of the mountains from the west, they were the best way to the enemy, and the river and its bridge would give guard to any retreat.

  Mother looked into the distance. Did she see the past, or the future? Adara’s eyes had looked on both before. “Since the Romans left us, we have had no overlord. It was to the benefit of all that the bridge was a free passage, and we were careful to deny use of it to no one. But now, overlords are rising from among our own, and that time is gone. We must choose a side, or sword and fire will choose it for us.”

  Cold settled in Elen’s heart, but it was Yestin who spoke first this time, leaning across the table, planting both hands firmly on its surface. “Mother, what have you seen?”

  Adara shook her head. “Nothing beyond what some understanding of the world’s ways have shown me, Yestin, I promise. Should I resort to other means, you will know.

  “This is the truth, my children. Arthur is four days ride in good weather and does not care to pick a fight. Urien is over the next hill and chafes to break the peace of the countryside. We need to care very deeply what he thinks of us.” She sighed again. “Come next spring, Yestin, you will be married and my place will be yours. That will make some things easier, but I do not know that we can hold off making an alliance until that time comes.”

  Yestin straightened up, pulling himself back, ordering his thoughts. A memory struck Elen, of her brother toddling behind her when she was a tiny girl herself, holding onto her skirts to keep upright. It was still startling to her sometimes to see him as the grown man he was, especially since he had come to look so much like their father.

  “Winter puts a halt to all matters,” Yestin said. “There are ways to delay while we take good measure of our choices. When the men from Camelot are gone, let us send Seith and Teilo to Urien with gifts and soft words. Let them see what can be learned from him and his men. Some in that house have loose tongues. While they are gone that way, let me go to Careleon and see this Arthur Pendragon. Let him make his offers in his own house with his own words. By the time we all return, it will be too late in the fall for any matter of treaty or arms to begin. We will know better which way to turn when the spring comes again.”

  Mother nodded, and Elen thought she saw relief in Adara’s eyes. What had Urien said to her that Elen had not heard? What else was happening that remained unseen? “There is much sense in what you say, Yestin. What do you say, Elen? You know in any such agreement …”

  “I know, Mother. My betrothal will likely be made with this treaty.” The words left her throat dry, but it was as it must be. “Better the future of our house be made by marriage than by the spear.” Her marriage day had been long delayed, and now she thought she knew why. Mother had known the stakes in that game would rise, and she was waiting to see how high they would go before she made the bargain. “Against all expectation, my brother is proving to be a man of sense.” Yestin scowled at her, an expression Elen had known for years, and she smiled back at him. “Let us see them together tonight and then separately over the summer.” She bit her lip. She would marry for the good of her land and her people. She knew that. She was prepared. But still … “W … would it be Urien himself?”

  “No,” said mother firmly. “It need not to come to that, thankfully. Urien has another lady.”

  “I have never seen any.”

  “No. Urien has secrets, and he keeps them close. The name of his lady love is but one.” She got to her feet. “So, let us learn what we may of them, as my son so wisely suggests, and then we will see.” She pulled on her public face, all distance and dignity. “Now, to your work, my children. We must not disgrace ourselves this night.”

  Elen and Yestin stood aside, letting th
eir mother pass through the door before them. Elen glanced at her brother.

  Are Arthur’s men steady? she tried to ask him. Are they true men?

  Yestin gave the barest hint of a nod. Elen hoped to find relief, but instead her worry deepened. Honest offers from the high king might only tempt Urien to desperate measures. She thought of his men, the wolf and the toad, and wondered if Urien’s honour could be counted on to hold them and their fellows back.

  Fortunately, preparations for that evening’s formal welcome of their guests left Elen little time to dwell on her fears. The good cloths had to be brought from the treasury, shaken, brushed and sunned. Fresh rushlights had to be prepared and placed. The stock of precious tallow candles had to be assessed and those lights set behind the high table. Their hall had no dais. The high table was wherever the great chair stood. Mother’s old chair was brought out for the first among the guests to sit in.

  This was only the beginning. There were the mountains of food to be gathered, cleaned, and prepared. Those who tended the outdoor ovens watched the sky anxiously as the clouds gathered, and prayed to the ones who watched the making of bread that the rain would hold off until the feast was safely laid. Barrels of beer had to be brought up from storage and tapped. What wine there was had to be tasted and watered. Cider jugs put in the river to cool had to be retrieved. All the good serving dishes had to be brought out from the treasury. The boys and girls who would be serving with those dishes had to be washed, combed, and dressed, inspected and, finally, fed so they would not grow faint during what would be a long, slow meal.

  After all this, Elen barely had time to dress herself, but it was not something she could neglect. Her appearance was also part of the honour of house and cantrev. She had the unmarried women’s quarters to herself as she put on her good dress of white wool trimmed with deep blue ribbons embroidered with a complex pattern of waves and knots. She belted the dress with a girdle that was similarly embroidered and tipped with two hollow silver balls that rang pleasantly when she moved. She took her black hair from its customary braids and combed it down until it flowed freely across her shoulders and settled a bronze circlet chased with images of birds on her brow.