Night Birds' Reign(133)

“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.