Night Bird's Reign (46 page)

“Yes you do,” Gwydion insisted. But then he looked over again at Amatheon and his brother’s hopeful, fresh face. He sighed. “All right, then. We stop and see Alun Cilcoed.”

It took them less than two hours to come within eyeshot of the gates of Ymris. The city was large, almost as large as Queen Olwen’s city of Dinmael and it appeared to be just as busy. The huge gates were open and people streamed in and out, for it was market day and folk from many leagues around had come to town to buy, to sell and to trade. The stone whitewashed city walls gleamed under the clear sky.

Outside the walls was another much smaller stone enclosure. The gate of this structure was also opened wide and people were bustling in and out, some holding bundles in their hands.

Angharad nodded toward the smaller structure. “That is the paper mill. I suspect Alun Cilcoed is there right now.”

“Then by all means, lead us on to the paper mill. I certainly didn’t come this far out of our way to miss this,” Gwydion said sourly.

“Gwydion, you are a sore loser,” Rhiannon said tartly.

“As are you,” he said swiftly. “Witness the cave I found you in.”

“You—” Rhiannon began, her green eyes hard and angry.

“Don’t,” Amatheon said, reaching over and touching Rhiannon’s arm. His blue eyes were begging and, after a moment, Rhiannon nodded tightly and held her silence.

Angharad led the way as they rode in through the open gates into a huge courtyard. Wooden poles were set up through the yard. They served as a prop for a huge canvas tarp in the event of rain. But today it was clear, so the canvas remained rolled and stacked against one wall.

“How does this work?” Achren asked curiously.

“You’ve never seen paper being made?” Angharad asked in surprise.

“In Prydyn we make wine, not paper,” Achren pointed out. “Know much about making wine?”

“Not much,” Angharad admitted. She pointed to rows of huge, wooden tubs of water sitting to the left of the gate. “These tubs hold a mixture of linen, straw and wood. The metal pistons positioned above each tub are used to pound the mixture into a fine pulp. The pistons are powered by this team of oxen which circle the tubs.”

“At least you don’t use horses,” Trystan said in relief. “That’s not a job for those fine animals.”

“Some mills do use horses, of course,” Angharad said with a smile, “but never horses from your Rheged. Those horses would be far too fine for work such as this.”

The team of oxen, led by a caller, circled the vats. The caller lifted his voice, cajoling the animals forward, calling them his beauties, his lovelies, entreating them in a singsong voice to follow him, which they did eagerly.

Angharad nodded to a group of men who were tilting one of the tubs, pouring the contents into a huge vat. “The pulp is now fine enough to use the molds on.”

Men and women, holding tray molds with fine, wire mesh on the base, dipped the molds into the vat and lifted them out again, allowing the water to drain out.

“They put the molds over there and leave them to drain out as much as possible. When they are dried they turn the tray over and deposit the contents on those pieces of felt. Then they put more pieces of felt over that, and add more parchment. Then they take the pile and put it on a press, to squeeze as much water as they can out of it.” A woman lifted one of the piles and took it to the huge press, positioning it under a vise. A man pulled a few levers and the pile of felt and parchment was squeezed tightly as water slowly seeped out.

When that was complete the woman took the pile to another group of women. “They are hanging each sheet up to dry,” Angharad said as the women hung the sheets over a huge line that stretched across one full side of the compound.

“What are they using to hang them on?” Amatheon asked.

“Human hair,” she answered. “It’s the only thing soft and fine enough.”

“Then it’s done?” Amatheon asked.

“Not yet. Then they take the dry sheets and dip them into those vats there,” Angharad said, nodding her head to another portion of the courtyard.

“What’s in them?” Rhiannon asked.

“Gelatin. Made from horse’s hooves. After that they will hang the sheets up again until they dry.”

“Then they are done,” Gwydion said.

“Then they are done,” Angharad agreed.

“And here, I do believe,” Rhiannon said, “is the man we came to see.”

Alun Cilcoed, having caught sight of them, made his way through the press of people, tubs and oxen that crammed the courtyard. Alun had dark hair and intelligent brown eyes. He was tall, taller even than Gwydion and lean. He was dressed in a laced-up tunic and trousers of soft, tanned leather. His arms were bare, for he was not wearing a shirt beneath his tunic. The only ornament he wore was an armlet of gold on his upper right arm. His locks were tied back at the nape of his neck with a piece of leather. Although it was autumn, and the day was somewhat cool, Alun’s forehead was beaded with sweat, for he was working alongside his people.

“Angharad ur Ednyved,” Alun said formally, bowing low. “You are most welcome here. To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

“To the fact that you have a large fortress,” Angharad said dryly.

Alun’s brows went up.

“I promised my companions that you would be able to provide a room for each of us for the night,” Angharad explained, her lips twitching, although her tone was solemn.

Alun grinned and as he did Angharad noticed that her companions smiled, even Gwydion. “Then, by all means, you must join me tonight. We will feast together and you shall have the best my house can offer.”

“And the sleeping arrangements?” Angharad asked pointedly.

“You shall each have a private chamber,” Alun said grandly, “as that is clearly what you came for.” He eyed them all then grinned again. “Whether you each stay the night in them is certainly up to you.”

Angharad stretched luxuriously on the feather mattress. A fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace. A huge bearskin rug rested before the hearth. The bedstead was covered with a fine coverlet of sea green. A glass beaker full of red wine along with two glass goblets tinted a delicate green rested on the small, oak table next to the bed.

Angharad, having just visited the bathhouse, was clean and warm and wrapped in a guest robe of green velvet. Her red hair, still slightly damp from her bath, cascaded down her back as she slowly drew a comb through the shining strands.

The knock on her door did not startle her, for she knew who it was. But when she opened it, she discovered she was wrong.

“Gwydion!” she exclaimed.

Gwydion stood with his arms crossed and a scowl on his handsome face.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, more sharply than she had meant to. She definitely did not want Amatheon to see Gwydion at her door and get the wrong idea.

“I don’t want to spend the night, if that is what you are worried about,” he said shortly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It is not a ridiculous assumption,” she pointed out, stung. “After all, we’ve spent a few nights together before.”

“True,” Gwydion said a gleam in his silvery eyes. “But this journey is hardly the time or the place to continue such meetings.”

“I didn’t think it was,” she said shortly.

“Didn’t you?” he asked, his brows raised.

“You—”

“I meant Amatheon,” Gwydion explained. “What are you trying to do, Angharad? Curious to compare brothers?”

She flushed, if only because part of her had been entertaining that notion. She lashed out, raising her hand to slap his face, but he caught her hand before she could.

“Don’t even think about hitting me, Angharad,” he said evenly.

“And don’t even think about telling me what to do,” she said between gritted teeth as she snatched her hand from his grasp. “What is this all about, anyway?” she asked in a calmer tone. “We are friends, Gwydion, who have been, on occasion, lovers. Since when do you care who I sleep with?”

“Since the man in question is my brother.”

“And that matters because?” she asked, her brows raised.

“Because I think he might be in love with you.”

Angharad’s breath caught in her throat. She had not thought of that. Surely Gwydion was mistaken.

Gwydion, correctly interpreting her expression, went on, “I know what I’m taking about. I know my brother. What will you do, if I am right?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, after a moment of silence. “I really don’t.”

“Ah,” he said, the scowl melting from his face. “I see.”

“You see what?”

“I see that loving my brother back is not out of the question.”

“How do you know that?” she asked brusquely.

“Because if it was out of the question you wouldn’t still be contemplating sleeping with him tonight.”

They were both silent for a moment. Then Gwydion went on, in a gentler tone. “What will you do, Angharad?”

“I really do not know,” she said slowly. “But I can promise you, Gwydion, that I will be careful.”

“Than that is enough, I suppose. Good night, Angharad,” he said as he raised her hand to his lips and turned it over to kiss her palm. “I wish you a pleasant evening.”

She watched him walk down the corridor and turn the corner. She stood for a moment in her doorway, thinking on what Gwydion had said.

She knew that the wisest thing she could do would be to turn away Amatheon at the door. She was the Captain of the warband of the Queen of Ederynion, and that was the most important thing in her life. Her experience of men indicated that they wanted to be the most important thing. That was why she had long ago decided that a permanent relationship was not for her, for she would not put up with a man who demanded that he be the center of her world.

She slowly shut the door and returned to the edge of the bed, picking up the comb again and absently running it through her hair. It would be best to send Amatheon away. She knew that now. She had no wish to hurt him, and no intention of becoming permanently involved.

She answered the door, her comb still in her hand. It was he. His blue eyes were alight with desire. Before she could even speak he reached out and caressed a thick, silken lock of fiery hair that cascaded over the front of her robe, drawing his breath in sharply as he did so.

“Amatheon,” she whispered. And then she drew him into the chamber, her lips on his, closing the door behind him.

Meriwydd, Disglair Wythnos—early afternoon

T
HE PARTY DREW
near to the gravesite in the bright afternoon. The mound lay just on the fringes of the forest, surrounded by delicate aspens whose golden autumn leaves shook and whispered in the slight breeze. Sweet white alyssum sprouted through the stones of the mound, so thick that it seemed that the grave was covered with a delicate snowdrift.

Angharad made to dismount her horse but Amatheon was already there, lifting her from the saddle and setting her on the ground, his hands spanning her slim waist. The others tried to hide their grins, but Angharad didn’t really mind that at all. She felt like grinning herself, for her night with Amatheon had been truly wonderful. He had been passionate, as his brother had been, but he had also been tender and loving, for his deepest feelings were involved. And this was as unlike Gwydion as could be. Their lovemaking had been the best she had ever had—and she had had many men. But never one like Amatheon.

“Thank you,” Angharad said to Amatheon after he helped her down.

“Yes,” Achren said, her generous mouth twitching, “if you hadn’t helped her down she might have fallen.”

Rhiannon laughed. “Her experience on a horse being so limited,” she explained.

Amatheon, his eyes alight, smiled. “Tease me all you want to,” he said cheerfully, “I can take it.”

“You should,” Cai said as he dismounted. “Since you can certainly dish it out.”

Trystan, still on his horse, batted his lashes at Amatheon. “Maybe you could help me down too?”

Amatheon, a grin on his face, pulled Trystan from the saddle to the ground. Trystan rolled and instantly got to his feet with an answering grin. The two men squared off, each going into a wrestler’s stance.

“I bet my saddle on Trystan,” Achren said.

“Done,” Cai replied promptly.

“Pardon me,” Gwydion said acidly as he got down from his horse, “but does anyone happen to remember what we are doing here? I ask just out of curiosity.”

“Oh, Gwydion,” Rhiannon said as she, too, dismounted, “you’re such a killjoy.”

“Apparently someone’s go to do it,” Gwydion said shortly. He fixed Amatheon and Trystan with his silver eyes and the two men straightened up, an innocent look upon their faces.

“We weren’t doing anything,” Amatheon said ingenuously. “We were just waiting for you to get on with it.”

“Than wait no more,” Gwydion said.

“Tell us about this place,” Cai said seriously. “What exactly happened here? And when?”

“It happened in the year 275,” Rhiannon replied as Gwydion opened his mouth to answer. “Ten years after High King Lleu was murdered. It was called the Battle of Ynad Bran. Known as the fourth Battle of Betrayal.”

Gwydion gave Rhiannon a hard look at her interruption and she smiled sweetly at him. “Perhaps,” she said graciously, “you would care to take it from here?”

“I would,” Gwydion said shortly.

But Angharad thought she saw the faintest gleam of humor in his eyes. It was a sight rarely seen, and it surprised her.

“It began in 260,” Gwydion said as the others gathered around the grave. “That was the year when Sulia, the Queen of Ederynion, died; the year her husband, King Llywelyn, became unhinged by grief at her loss. King Llywelyn called his three daughters to him after the funeral. There was Regan, the eldest, mistress of Bran the Dreamer. There was Gwladas, the second daughter, wife to King Peredur of Rheged. And there was the youngest, Luched, who was not yet married.”

Gwydion gazed down at the barrow as a slight breeze shook the aspens. “Regan and Gwladas, mindful of the riches they could still get from their father, spoke effusively of their love for him when he asked. But Luched was forthright and honest. She said that she loved her father as meat loves salt. Which is to say that they complement each other. But King Llywelyn took this to mean that she did not love him. In a rage, he exiled her from Ederynion, declaring that she was an untrue daughter.