• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Gildas is a stiff-necked fellow, but honest and fair, and once I saw that he was going to make good on his boast, I left him to it,” Gwyn told her. “Let him have all the fame, if fame comes from this, for reconciling Melwas with your High King.” He chuckled a little. “In truth, cousin, I think that Melwas was getting mightily weary of the company of his prize, confined as he was to one small island, and not all of that.”

“And will he still be calling himself ‘King of the Summer Country’. . . cousin?” she asked.

His smile grew teeth. “I think not. He has seen that it is not wise to usurp what is another’s, whether it be a wife or a title. And by the way, I thank you for calming his flock of little brown chicks.” The smile softened. “That was courteously done.”

She flushed a little. “That hadn’t been my intention when I went to look over their hennery,” she said, with a slight laugh. “But they clucked and fussed so, it moved me to pity. Besides, it was no great effort, I only had to tell them the truth.”

“As fair-spoken as you are fair of face,” he laughed. “It is as well that I have me a lady who holds my heart fast—and you have your duties to your father. Elsewise I would steal you away as Melwas stole that fool of a Gwenhwyfar to the true Summer Country.” He lifted an elegant brow and gave her a thoughtful look. “I think you have great things in you, cousin. I do not yet know what they are, but surely the hand of a goddess is on you.”

She was a little flustered now, although she was determined not to show it. That was twice, now, that men had called her attractive. She was not at all sure what to make of this . . .

Then again . . . the two men who had found her lovely were the King of the Annwn and a monk. Neither were “men” in the ordinary sense. She ought not to place too much importance on this.

“Have you any notion of what Gildas brought about?” she asked instead.

“Some. He’ll turn over the queen, of course. And for taking her, there will be some Christian punishment or other. I think he’ll be giving over his stronghold to Gildas, though what the monks will do with it, I’ve no notion.” He shrugged. “They do not trouble me, I do not trouble them. They will bring no weapons of iron and steel to my door, and that is all I care for.”

She pondered this. “Well . . . if ever the Saxons overrun this place, the stronghold will make a safe place for them to go.”

Gwyn nodded, his eyes on the nearing figures. “And this is no bad thing. Blood spilled so near my door would bring the sort of the Folk that I do not care for. The sort that only look for more blood, and finding it not, goes hunting for it. That is always bad. You mortals are not so discriminating when it comes to my kind and are like to punish all for the faults of a few.”

She could find no reason to dispute that claim and sighed. “I wish it were not so. But if wishes were horses, my father would have no need for stallions.”

“Well said.” He bowed a little to her. “With that, fair cousin, I take my leave. The Folk still owe you something of a debt. You may feel free to claim it of me at your will.”

And then, he stepped . . . away . . . again. A single pace to the side, and he was gone, just as the boat touched the shore.

And so there was more waiting.

Not with the tension that there had been, however. Her men, grateful for the fresh bread, something all too seldom seen by warriors in the field, went out hunting and fishing again, and they shared their catch with the monks, who in turn supplied another round of bread and honey. An interesting spirit of camaraderie sprang up between them; a spirit she encouraged. In the rest of the encampment, the sense of relief was palpable. It was one thing to go to war against the Saxons; they were the enemy. It was quite another to go to war against someone whose men you had recently fought beside.

There was no doubt that Gildas was going to do well out of this. He did not much care for Arthur, or so it was said by a few of the monks, but he cared even less