‘My Prince.’
‘You are enjoying the feast, I hope?’
‘The food was excellent. The musicians are tolerable. The dancing has provided me no small measure of amusement.’
‘Wait until Hywel takes to the floor.’ He smiles. ‘He dances like nothing on God’s earth.’
‘I cannot agree. I have seen him dance before. I was put in mind of a bear I once saw goaded into a jig at Brecon horse fair.’
‘And did this bear sing also?’
‘Great heavens, spare us Hywel Gruffydd in song.’
‘I do not have your gift of foresight, my Prophet, but I foretell Hywel in fine voice before the night is out.’ He falls silent, then asks, ‘Are you not pleased? I listened to your words, I acted upon them. I have seen to it the vipers of your vision will not prosper here.’
‘You let the vipers live.’
‘Their slaughter would have come at the price of many good men, and they are slippery creatures. I could not be certain I would slay them all. Better this way, I believe.’
‘The slipperiest creature here is a member of your wife’s family.’
‘Still you persist in attacking my wife!’
‘The pact with the Mercian Queen was her brother’s idea, was it not?’
‘An idea that has spared many men and secured the future of the crannog and the village.’
‘So you trust.’
‘I do. I gave my word, and I have that of the Queen of Mercia. Do you not trust me to govern? Do you not consider me capable of my princely duty?’
‘You I know. You I trust. Beyond that, I sleep with my blade at my hip.’
He takes in my words and thinks on them for a moment before speaking. ‘That you trust me humbles me, Seren. For when I am in your presence I do not trust myself.’
I look directly at him now and the fierceness of his gaze, the unmasked longing in it, quickens my blood. He lifts a hand as if to touch me again.
‘My Prince, you must not…’ I am aghast to feel a tightening in my chest at the thought of his touch.
A roar from the farside of the room heralds the start of Hywel’s ale-fueled speech. He has clambered unsteadily onto one of the tables and stands, goblet held aloft, calling on the gathering to listen to him. His hair is even wilder than is normal for him, his bulky frame straining at its seams.
‘Prince Brynach, Princess Wenna,’ he bellows, swaying and teetering as he acknowledges them with a dangerously low bow, ‘my Lords,’ he inclines his head, ‘my Ladies…’ He closes his eyes and smiles as if in rapture. The assembled company laughs. His eyes spring open again, ‘And all you lowly beggars at the bottom of our fragrant heap…’ this is met with good-natured booing and hissing, ‘pray, take a moment from filling your bellies,’ there is a cheer, ‘slaking your thirst,’ this followed by a louder cheer, ‘or putting your hands on the nearest arse!’ A comment met with loud laughter and some chastising replies from the women in the room. ‘Take a moment, I beseech you,’
‘Get on with it!’ comes a shout from the throng.
Hywel scowls, ‘Stop your noise, and stop debauching for one short minute, is all I ask, you lice-ridden, pox-marked scoundrels!’
‘What happened to “Lords and Ladies”?’ someone wants to know.
‘They left hours ago!’ shouts a soldier reclining on a bench.
Another puts in, ‘They ran for the door when they saw Hywel get up to speak.’
‘Stop your cursed interruptions!’ Hywel roars. ‘Charge your goblets, tankards, beakers, whatever comes readily to hand’—here he pauses to reach out and cup the nearest bosom to make his point. The room fills with laughter again. ‘A toast!’ he declares, a little more seriously now. ‘A toast to the finest prince a man ever had fortune to serve. Who has delivered us from war. Who has provided this magnificent feast. Who will, one day, I am certain of it, be an even better swordsman than I am! Prince Brynach!’ He raises his goblet, wine spilling from it.
‘Prince Brynach! Prince Brynach!’ the crowd takes up the toast and drinks to their savior. And as they do so, all eyes turn to look upon him. And find him standing not with his princess, but with me.
TILDA
Tilda sleeps more soundly than she has done in weeks. Months. Thistle lies next to her on the bed, a furry bolster. Through the window the first light of dawn is beginning to lift the sky, bringing streaks of scarlet and vermillion as it does so. There is a curious stillness to the new day. Tilda gets up and peers through the frosted panes, gasping at what she sees. Snow. Inches deep, come secretly and silently in the night to transform the landscape.