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Day One
Catrin
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Catrin set off towards the rows of wagons and tents—upwards of a thousand of these as well—that occupied the fields around the festival grounds and housed everyone attending.
Trahaearn had pitched his tent two more fields over, so few had been close enough to hear him singing. Catrin and Rhys had been nearby because they valued their privacy and didn’t mind having to walk farther than most to reach center of the activities. By contrast, Moriddig had found a spot closer in.
Because bards were traditionally wanderers, those with more resources than Trahaearn lived out of a covered wagon they drove from community to community, event to event, and which contained their worldly possessions. Even renowned and well-compensated bards like Moriddig and Gruffydd were still required to move from place to place, accompanying their lord while he circumnavigated his domain. With over twenty administrative centers just in Gwynedd, Llywelyn had been known to travel from one llys to the next every few weeks in order to maintain his relationship with, and oversight of, every person in his country.
“Where are you off to?”
Catrin practically jumped out of her boots as her brother fell into step beside her. Hywel had come to the festival as a member of Tudur’s retinue. As she’d just noted, their eldest brother was the sponsor of Llywelyn’s former bard, the very Gruffydd ab yr Ynad Coch now leading the procession. Gruffydd, son of the Red Magistrate.
Gruffydd’s father had been one of Llywelyn’s legal advisors, which was how Gruffydd had come to royal attention. In Wales, lawyers and bards were both expected to be literate, so it wasn’t uncommon for employment in these areas to run in families. It helped that Gruffydd’s voice was also one of the finest imaginable. His position as Moriddig’s primary competition this week had been well-earned.
“Moriddig didn’t come to the rehearsal, so I volunteered to fetch him.”
“Perhaps he mistook the time.” Hywel was six inches taller than Catrin, so he had to shorten his stride to match hers. Only two years apart in age, they had been natural allies as children. They’d fought, teased, and supported each other until, at the age of sixteen, Catrin had been married to a Norman and gone to live in England. Hywel had also spent their growing up years as Rhys’s best friend, since the two men were almost exactly the same age and had been thrown together essentially since birth.
The twenty years they’d spent apart hadn’t changed how much she and Hywel loved each other. As with Rhys, adulthood and recent suffering had served to deepen their bond. Also like Rhys, Hywel was among the few people in this world Catrin could truly trust.
Now she scoffed. “Gruffydd is there. The only way Moriddig isn’t there too is if something has happened. Perhaps he is unwell.”
Hywel grinned and added in a snide tone, “Perhaps he became so puffed up with his own importance that he actually burst. Against all expectation, we are about to find ourselves rid of his pompousness forever.”
Catrin put out a hand. “Don’t say that. Never say that.” She had spied Moriddig’s wagon and picked up her pace, not liking the deserted feel of the place. If he were anywhere, he should be here.
“Don’t tell me you actually like him?” Hywel easily kept pace.
“Of course I don’t like him, but I have seen far too much death in recent years, not to say these last few months, to wish it on anyone, even someone I don’t like. I certainly don’t need to see any more.” Her words were heartfelt, but just speaking them out loud prompted Catrin to trot the last few paces to Moriddig’s wagon.
The entry at the back was blocked by canvas, with the strings tied in a tight bow holding it closed. Every other time she’d passed before now, the flaps had been hooked open to the wooden frame. Catrin rapped her knuckles on the side. “Moriddig? It’s Catrin, Rhys’s wife. Hugh sent me to find you. They are about to start the rehearsal! They’re waiting for you.” That might not be true anymore, but her words were designed to elicit a response, if anything would.
When no reply came, Catrin put her ear to the canvas door. The fabric wouldn’t be thick enough to prevent her from sensing movement inside, but there was nothing to hear. In fact, the feeling in the air was still that of absence, like walking into an abandoned building and knowing without having to peer into every nook and cranny that it was empty.
“He isn’t here,” Hywel declared. “We should look elsewhere. Perhaps he is with his lord.”
“I suppose he does have rooms at the castle, though didn’t he have to give them up to someone in the king’s party?” Catrin wrinkled her nose. The castle was where the king would sleep tonight, even if he was holding court in his pavilion at the festival grounds. She didn’t want to walk all that way only to find Moriddig wasn’t there either.
But then, just as Catrin was deciding she had no choice but to try somewhere else, Moriddig’s brother arrived with a smile and a raised hand in greeting. He looked nothing like Moriddig, tall and thickset where Moriddig was slight. Though he had the physique of a workman or soldier, his hands were smooth, more accustomed to holding a pen than a blade. Like many men, as a symbol of his relative wealth, he wore a signet ring on his left hand and was dressed in finely woven clothing, which included a hood of a particularly beautiful blue color.
His name had once been Cynddelw, which his Norman masters had no notion how to pronounce. Now he was Adam, which was much simpler for them, and maybe that made Adam’s life easier too. Really, it was a wonder Moriddig hadn’t changed his name to something the Normans could encompass, like Morgan or Marcus. Both were pronounced essentially the same in English as in Welsh.
“I thought I might find you here,” Adam said in his typically friendly fashion. “I’ve just come from the festival. Hugh told me you offered to look for Moriddig. He’s not here either?”
“It does not appear so,” Hywel said.
Adam put his hands on his hips. “Where did he go? I can’t believe he would intentionally miss the rehearsal. He knows how important it is. Moriddig!”
Hywel bit his lip. “I would think if he could answer, he would have come out by now.”
Adam wrinkled his nose, which was pretty much the only expression of annoyance he ever allowed himself. Catrin had found him to be generally of a sunny disposition, greeting everyone with a smile and a kind word. His job required it, since he was the one to smooth all the many feathers Moriddig ruffled over the course of a day. He also made sure Moriddig got to events on time, didn’t overspend his money, and ate regular meals.
Prior to Edward’s conquest, when Wales had been independent, household bards had been among the most trusted advisors in a lord’s retinue. Some acquired as much wealth as a steward or other nobleman. Special dispensation had even been made for them within Welsh law. Thus, it was completely natural that a bard of Moriddig’s standing needed someone like Adam to look after him. Bards were notorious anyway for being unreliable about everything but their work. Moriddig was actually more organized than most.
Adam was still lamenting. “We breakfasted together, and then he said he was going to warm up his voice before coming along to the rehearsal. He didn’t want me to walk with him because I made him nervous. He said he would meet me there. We talked about timing his arrival so he was among the last to arrive but not the very last.” The look he shot Catrin wasn’t even sardonic. “It is important to maintain his status in that way.”
“I was loath to enter the wagon uninvited, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you did,” Catrin said.
“Mind? Of course he will mind. He hates being interrupted and always thinks he’s right.” Adam grinned as he spoke, implying that this was something to laugh about, rather than to find annoying. Then he began working at the strings holding the door closed. “Let’s see if he left his crwth. That might tell us if he at least intended to attend the rehearsal.”
A crwth was a particularly Welsh six-stringed instrument, like a lyre, but played with a bow. It was at the center of any bard’s musical repertoire.
Adam finally got the strings untied and flung open the sides of the canvas door. The crwth was indeed hung on its hook. Below it were Moriddig’s booted feet, toes pointed at the ceiling, since he was lying face up and unmoving on the floor of the wagon.
Moriddig wasn’t going to lead the assembled bards at this festival today—or, in fact, ever again.
