Excerpt: Untitled

(Desperate to forge an alliance with the king of the Caledones tribe, the Taexali king Cinioch plays his last ace.)

It was a leisurely ride across country, and as the sun rose it warmed the air and the hillsides, and as they passed farmsteads, it turned the ripening barley-rows to gold. Although a pleasant ride, Cinioch had deliberately chosen their route. He would let Giric see the crops growing tall in their fields, the sheep and cattle fat in their pens, the richness and fertility of the rolling coastal plains that were the heartland of his domain. Now, more than ever, he needed to remind the King of the Caledones why he wanted to ally with the Taexali. A good ride, and the opportunity to bag a few choice stags, would no doubt lift the shroud of Giric’s grief long enough for them to come to new terms.

As they rode west, away from the farmed lands, the hounds began to pick up scents, circling with their noses to the ground, tails beating in eagerness. One of them, a great brindled deerhound, suddenly caught a scent newer than the rest, and with a howl of joy, set off in pursuit, the rest of the baying pack close on his heels. This was marked by the riders, and with a cry, they turned their mounts and took off after the dogs. Cinioch felt clods of earth hit his back as the ground was churned up under galloping hooves, felt the wind whipping his face and hair as it caused his cloak to stream out behind him like a banner.

Then, over the rush of the wind and the voices of the hounds, he heard it, that most ancient sound that sent a shiver through every hunter when he heard it. The deep roar of a stag, rolling down the glen as if in challenge. And there, on the hilltop, Cinioch saw him, dark and still against the sky, a magnificent rack of antlers spreading outwards above his head.

The hunters raised their own shout, and the chase began anew.

The pursuit was long and hard, taking them up the glen and into the hills, but at last they brought him to bay, in a stand of young hazel trees overshadowed by twisted yews. Even Cinioch had to admit he was a handsome one, large and strong, the tines of those regal antlers already shedding their velvet, his hide scored by a dozen wounds from the duels of the rut; yet he stood proud and defiant before the hunters that now barred his escape. The hounds leapt upon him in a heartbeat, snarling and slavering, but he was not about to submit. Stamping, he tossed his head and sent two of the dogs flying. One hit a tree with a yelp; the other fell dead on the spot, its belly torn by the great tines. For a moment, the stag managed to shake himself free of the others who had latched hold of him, their jaws snapping at his flanks, his throat, his legs, but before he could escape, Giric’s son Taran aimed his spear and brought him down, bleeding, amidst the bracken. The dogs closed in, jostling around the fallen stag, but they were kicked out of the way by one of the masters of the hunt, who set about tying the legs of the carcass to make it ready for return to the fort.

Flushed and sweating from the hard ride and the excitement of it all, Cinioch turned to Giric. “He was a fine beast, that one.”

“That he was,” the older man agreed, his face flushed beneath the grey drift of his beard. “Truly a king among his kind.”

“A most favourable sign, don’t you think, lord?”

“I do, indeed.”

The hunt went on until evening, the party cresting each hill as it rose before them with mounting enthusiasm, dipping into each gully and fording each icy burn as they met it, following the winding trails marked by the hounds until they went cold, or hollering as they caught sight of a set of tracks in the mud. And though none of the catches after that were as fine or noble as the first stag, they succeeded in bringing down another, smaller one on a windswept ridge, and a third by a scatter of ancient stones, a stray lynx, two swans that had been shot amongst the reeds of a marsh pool, and a few grouse that had flapped in a panic out of the heather before their advance.

Flushed and exulting, the party turned back for Din Brenin, their catches borne by the servants who followed behind the horses. That first rush of excitement was still with them, muted now but still evident as the men exchanged jests and boasts of their actions in that day’s sport. Cinioch nodded to himself with satisfaction. Seithved had been right, after all. A good day’s hunting, and the feast afterwards, would lift his warriors’ spirits after the death of Peredur, and hopefully, now, he and Giric could discuss the matter at hand. With the Caledone king’s youngest son dead, he would have to think of something else to lay on the bench. But what?

“It was a good hunt, Lord Cinioch,” said Giric behind him, and Cinioch turned in his saddle as the older man nudged his horse to come level with him.

“It was,” he agreed. “The gods favoured us well today. May they continue to do so.”

He said that last part with careful gravity, hoping Giric would pick up on the hint, but the Caledone king’s only reply was a noncommittal noise in his throat. It raised Cinioch’s hackles somewhat: how was he supposed to carry on the conversation after that?

But then Giric spoke again. “How fares the Lady Eilwen?”

“Eilwen?” The unexpected question threw him. Of what concern was Eilwen? He had arranged this hunt so that he and Giric could discuss the important matters - the alliance between the Taexali and the Caledones - not make small talk about their kin.

"She grieves for Lord Peredur, of course.” Whether that was true or not, he had no idea, but it was the politic thing to say. Then he added for good measure, “As do we all, lord.”

They continued in silence for a few moments, then Giric said, “She is a beauty.”

Cinioch followed the old man’s gaze to where Eilwen rode with Rhelemon and the other women. Though most of them were talking and laughing together, his half-sister rode in silence, her back stiff and her gaze focused aloofly at some point in the middle distance. Yes, she was beautiful, even he would concede that. Willowy and fine-boned, pale skin striking against a cascade of black hair, she was the image of his mother, the unwelcome reminder of Ygerna’s shame. Ill-begotten, the result of some tryst in the darkness beyond the Beltaine fires; who was she that the blood of Fortriu should run in her veins so strongly? She was the very proof of the diminishment of his line.

But now, as he watched Giric, noting the way the old man’s eyes were trained upon Eilwen, he began to wonder whether this was not the gods’ boon to him. If her beauty made men willing to overlook the dishonourable circumstances of her birth, then he must grasp the opportunity now laid out before him.

He forced a laugh. “She is indeed a beauty, my lord. There are many suitors eager for her hand.”

That was true enough. Only yesterday Edarnan son of Gede had come to him, asking yet again that he might marry her. Well, Cinioch had seen to it that that was the last time Edarnan should come grovelling for his sister. Maybe, now, if he was on the right track, this mention of suitors might goad the Caledone king into action.

“She will make a fine wife for the man fortunate enough to wed her,” Giric remarked.

Cinioch now thought briefly of Eilwen’s sharp tongue, icy manner, and nettlesome wilfulness, but decided not to mention any of them. Instead he searched about for something more encouraging - no easy task. It was as if the woman had deliberately eradicated any good points from her character, just to frustrate him.

“Indeed. She can keep a household in order, my lord, and she has a mind to call her own.”

And didn’t she just think it made her better than him? With her smug Druid tutors, who seemed to enjoy taking her part whenever they could, and knowledge of Latin letters - imagine! What use were they to the kings of the winterland?

“And she is dutiful,” he said. Grudgingly, perhaps, but she seemed to respect Giric - so who was to say?

Giric was silent for a long while, and Cinioch watched him obliquely as they rode, the laughter and conversation of their companions a dull buzz in the background. His heart was suddenly pounding even more than it had during the hunt. This was it; he could almost taste it. The whole future of the alliance between the tribes, of his dreams, now rested on what was decided during this conversation.

“Since the death of my son,” said Giric, “my heart has burned with the desire for vengeance against Rome.”

Cinioch bit down on a smile. “As do we all. It is my desire that Rome shall one day repent for the ruin it has brought to our people. To your son, my lord, and indeed, to all of our ancestors who fell at the Hill of Don. I cannot rest until I see Rome driven from our lands once and for all.”

“Then we are brothers in vengeance, Lord Cinioch.”

Cinioch held his breath, waiting, praying to every god that this was it.

Giric lifted his head, and a slow, knowing smile touched his lips. “And I would have it that we also became brothers in kinship. By marriage.”

Cinioch returned his smile, silently exulting. He reached across and grasped the Caledone king’s arm, the gesture of warrior brother to warrior brother.

“Then I believe that we can come to an agreement.”