The peddler’s gray, threadbare cloak was patched here and there with incongruously colored cloth—blue, yellow, red, and a small pink patch at the hem. The threads used to sew the patches were mismatched and sewn with long crooked stitches. Most of the peddler’s face was hidden within the large hood of his cloak, allowing only a glimpse of a short gray beard and a pointed nose. The man’s dry gray hair hung lank and lifeless around his shoulders beneath the hood. His doeskin boots had a hole in the toe.
The scruffy man-at-arms wasn’t in any better shape. His leather tunic and trousers were worn and they too were patched where the leather had eroded. His tunic was spotted and stained but the long, wicked dagger he carried looked both clean and sharp. His face was stubbled with the beginnings of a garnet-tinged beard, and his eyes were dark. He walked with a slouch and his leather boots were scruffy and worn. Perhaps his chief occupation was to guard the horse—a fine-looking animal, no doubt stolen. The horse was loaded down with packs containing the peddler’s cheap wares.
It was late afternoon and the air was turning chilly, as it always did in early spring in the high mountains. The shadows had gathered, darkening the surrounding mountains as the sun began its slow descent. Flocks of sheep dotted the hillsides here and there. Urged on by their masters, they began moving slowly down the mountains to rest the night in the village byres. Occasionally dogs barked commands to their woolly charges. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the tiny huts, and a few women were gathered by the well, snatching a chance for a quick gossip before returning to their labors.
As the peddler and his guard neared the village, they could be heard arguing and snipping at each other. “I told you it was a ridiculous idea to come here,” the guard said.
“And I told you, this is on the way to Caer Dathyl,” the peddler replied, irritably.
“Oh, that’s right. You think the great Gwydion ap Awst himself will buy a few pots and pans from you.”
“Very funny. You know perfectly well that I have some nice cloth for sale.”
“Oh, yes. Maybe he’ll buy a length of that red stuff to make a new gown.”
“He’s got those two women living there, doesn’t he? Dinaswyn, the old Dreamer, and that Arianrod. He’d buy presents for them, just to shut them up, I’d bet.”
“Ha! You just want to get a look at that Arianrod. I hear she’s worth looking at, but I doubt she’ll think the same of you.”
“This is business,” the peddler said, airily. “I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“Only because you never get the chance. And how do you know that Gwydion’s even going to be there to buy anything from you?”
“He’s almost always there, you moron.”
The guard scowled, his dark eyes darting to and fro over the interested women at the well, the small huts, and a few scrawny chickens. “Good thing you brought me along to guard all the money you’ll make in this place.”
“You’re always complaining. You get enough to eat, don’t you?”
“Only when I’m doing the cooking.”
By this time quite a crowd had gathered to hear the two men argue, the crowd growing as the men returned with the sheep. Fascinated, they started at the peddler and the guard, turning their eyes from one to the other to follow the argument.
“Look,” the peddler said, exasperated, “the deal was you guard my horse and I feed you. I’ve kept my end of the bargain.”
“Sure, if you call that oatmeal you make food.”
“What do you call it, then?”
“Slop. Not even fit for the horse.” A few men snickered.
“Fine,” the peddler retorted. “Tonight we’ll stay in someone’s house. Happy?”
“Only when I’m done traveling with you.”
“Oh yes,” the peddler sneered. “You had something better to do. You could have taken that offer from the King you told me about. You know, when he wanted you to lead his warband, but you said that he didn’t pay well enough.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Ha! The closest you ever got to King Uthyr was when you were hauled up for drunkenness.”
The peddler glanced around and seemed to notice for the first time that the entire village watched them. Suddenly his manner changed and he began to address the crowd, his gestures florid and his voice smooth. “Ahem. Ladies and gentleman. A good day to you all.”
“I was never hauled up for—” the guard started.
The peddler punched him in the arm, hard. “Shut up, you idiot. Can’t you see I’m working?” The guard rubbed his arm and gave the peddler a dark look, but subsided.