Chapter 28: The Emissary

Word of the Saxon attack on Caenbwnsa reached Llwddawanden on what started out as a quiet afternoon in the shrine’s healing chamber. With his beds empty and his shelves stocked, Olyrrwd had persuaded Herrwn to release Caelym early and go for a walk along the lakeshore. They’d reached their usual sitting spot and were watching a pair of ducks dabbling among the reeds when an out-of-breath servant came running up, calling, “Master Olyrrwd, Master Rhedwyn says you’re needed at once!”

Grumbling about how much time he spent patching up the damage Rhedwyn’s young idiots did to each other in their mock battles, Olyrrwd heaved himself to his feet, shouldered his pack of instruments and medicinals, took up his staff, and trudged off.

On a whim, Herrwn decided to take the path through the woods instead of going back the way he came. Lost in his thoughts, he took a wrong turn and wandered farther into the forest than he’d intended. He was about to turn around when he heard a voice singing a song he remembered from his long-ago childhood in tones so lovely that it seemed to him a nightingale must have learned to sing with human words or, seeing as that was close to impossible, then perhaps it was an elfin maiden.

He stopped and turned his head to locate the direction of the sounds. Knowing the risk of disturbing elves in their revels, he went cautiously through a grove of aspen, drawn by the sweetness of the song and the gaiety of the laughter that accompanied it.

Coming to the edge of the trees but still hidden within their shadows, he saw the shrine’s little priestesses-to-be skipping along with Annwr, who was singing as she led them dancing in a ring.

While Herrwn had heard Annwr sing before, it had always been in a chorus behind Feywn, whose vibrant, shimmering voice overpowered the rest. He was standing there, transfixed in the delight of what he was seeing and hearing, when, suddenly, Annwr’s song stopped and the five little girls squealed, “Down!” and dropped to the ground. Then Annwr held out her arms to embrace them all, and the girls, laughing and giggling, scrambled into her lap.

It was a sight that brought back the memory of how Annwr had confided her longing to have as many children as she could hold in her arms, and Herrwn—in a moment of pure selflessness, rare even for him—could feel her joy as if it were his own. Not wanting his intrusion to disrupt their game, he stepped away, into the trees, and went along his way, finally free of regrets for what might have been.

Herrwn’s mood of quiet contentment lasted only as long as it took him to walk the rest of the way down the hill. As he reached the main path, he saw Benyon running toward him, gasping, “Olyrrwd sent me to find you, Master—there is talk of war!”

War? Thinking that this must be an exaggeration of some hot-headed dispute between Rhedwyn’s men, Herrwn began to remonstrate with Benyon over his choice of words, for Herrwn was, above all else, a teacher, and he held the proper choice of words to be important, whether they were spoken by a pupil, a fellow Druid, or a servant.

But instead of rephrasing his message by replacing the phrase “talk of war” with “a serious disagreement,” as Herrwn suggested, Benyon repeated, “Olyrrwd sent me to find you!” in a shrill tone that bordered on insolence. With that—and with only the briefest of bows—he turned and rushed back down the path to the Sacred Grove, losing a sandal along the way.

If one ritual site among the many within Llwddawanden could be said to be more awe-inspiring than the rest, that one was the Sacred Grove—an outer circle of ancient oaks that enclosed the seven stone pillars believed to have been placed there as a peace offering by giants to the Goddess.

There were festivals, including the coming Summer Solstice Ceremony, during which the ordinary people of the valley were permitted to enter the Sacred Grove. This was not any such occasion, and yet, as he drew closer, it seemed to Herrwn that every man and woman in the valley—Druid, villager, or servant—was there, all of them talking at once. As chief priest, Herrwn should have been consulted before any such gathering took place, and he meant to demand an explanation as soon as he could get to the center of the crowd and make himself heard.

Benyon pushed ahead into the crowd and was lost, but then Labhruinn emerged, and after gesturing to Herrwn he turned back and called in a commanding voice, “Master Herrwn is here! Make way! Make way!” as he plowed a path through to the center of the throng.

On either side of them, Herrwn heard the words he’d never before heard except in the recitations of the great sagas—“Arise! Arise!” “Death to our enemies!” “Victory or death!”

Benyon had not misspoken! These were calls to battle.

Then, cutting through the general commotion, he heard Olyrrwd’s gruff voice, saying, “Be quiet! Let the man finish!”

When they reached the center of both the grove and the crowd, Labhruinn stepped aside so Herrwn could see a bruised and battered figure wearing a blood-spattered cloak and keeping himself upright by leaning on a makeshift crutch.

The man was tottering and barely able to stand even with the aid of his stick, his garments were torn, his head was wrapped in blood-soaked rags, and his face was so battered and swollen that it was only on hearing his voice saying, “We were peacefully tilling our fields when a Saxon war band, led by the captain of their king’s guard, attacked without warning,” that Herrwn realized to his shock and dismay that it was Asof, an elder from the village of Caenbwnsa and a well-known visitor to the shrine.

While most Britons living outside Llwddawanden had long since converted to Christianity, there remained a scattering of steadfast believers who continued to worship the Goddess and pay Her the homage She was due—faithfully gathering together their offering each year and sending it by their most trusted emissary to be added to the tribute that the highest of the shrine’s priests carried to Her on the night of the spring equinox. While not everyone in Caenbwnsa belonged to the Goddess’s clandestine cult, many did, chief among them Asof, who had been their go-between with the shrine for as long as Herrwn could remember.

When Herrwn had last seen Asof, just six weeks earlier, he had looked hale and hearty for his advanced age and had been, as always, cheerful and gregarious. Who would so brutally mistreat such a good-hearted man?

The answer to his unspoken question came in outcries all around him—“It was Saxons!” “Foul, filthy beasts!” “Curse them and the horses they ride on!”

“Let him finish!”

Whether Olyrrwd wanted to hear what Asof had to say or just get it said so he could take him to the healing chamber, the physician wasn’t a man to be trifled with when he was in a temper. The crowd went silent and Asof went on—his speech slurred by his broken teeth.

“They surrounded us, cutting off any escape, laughing and jeering as we begged for mercy.”

The clamor rose up again—“Beasts!” “Savages!” “Worse than ogres!”—and above the din, Ossiam cried out, “Will no one who loves the Goddess go forth to answer this outrage?” looking at Rhedwyn as he spoke.

Rhedwyn drew his sword and would, no doubt, have called his men together, had not Labhruinn interrupted, “Wait! I have a question!”

Stepping closer to Asof and lowering his voice, he asked, “You say you were attacked by the king’s soldiers—how many were there?”

Although clearly distraught as well as fatigued and in pain, Asof drew himself up as he answered, “I do not know the exact number, but there were many of them, a score at least, all coming at us with their clubs!”

“Clubs? Not swords?”

“Were not their clubs enough? We were working in our fields! We were not armed to defend ourselves! All of us were injured. Idwal had his arm broken, Alpwn was beaten senseless, Maelwr was kicked so his ribs were smashed!”

There was no need for Asof to mention his own injuries, which were only too apparent.

“All were hurt, but no one was killed?” While not exactly rude or disrespectful, Labhruinn’s voice had taken on the dogged tone Herrwn recalled from his inquiry into “the most beautiful jewel.”

“Some may die yet, if that matters!” Asof remained adamant even as he swayed from the effort this conversation was costing him.

“Why do you badger this poor man? Has he not suffered enough at the hands of our enemies?” Ossiam’s outburst struck a chord with the muttering crowd, but Labhruinn answered it as though it were just another question put to him in the classroom.

“Because this may not have been an attack by our enemies at all! Why would a war party attack farmers tilling their fields? And why with clubs? If these villains were soldiers of the king, would they not come armed with spears and swords? This sounds more like the work of local ruffians to me!”

“It was not!” Asof drew strength from some last reserve to refute this implied downgrading of what he and his fellow villagers had suffered. “I know the local ruffians, and these were strangers! And they were dressed in the king’s colors! They carried his banner! And their king knows we stood against them and were the last to surrender to him!”

“But that was twenty years ago! Why wait until now to punish you and then send his troop across the kingdom just to break a few heads? If it was revenge they wanted, why not burn the village to the ground?”

“I don’t know what evil lies in the minds of Saxons or their kings, but I know that after they’d done their foul deed, they went to the tavern, swilling ale without paying for it and boasting that their king challenged anyone who dared to come to do battle against him!”

“But that, too, makes no sense! You have said you were easily beaten down; why bother with such a challenge when you were already defeated?”

“Why does it matter?” Rhedwyn demanded while Asof was gasping in indignation. “Our honor is at stake! We will answer his challenge!”

“Because if this was the work of ruffians, then what you must do is go there and teach Asof’s folk to defend themselves, perhaps leaving some of your men to stand with them! But if it is an army—or the forward contingent of an army—they may have done this to draw you out into an ambush! Do you want to lead your men into a trap?” Labhruinn retorted, now with a sharp edge to his voice.

Herrwn had never thought the two brothers bore any resemblance to each other, but now, their face set in matched stubbornness, it was clear to see they had come from the same parents after all.

While Rhedwyn was searching for some fitting retort, Ossiam broke into the debate, his sarcasm dripping like water from an icicle.

“And what, in your great wisdom, would you have us do?”

Labhruinn seemed to think this was a genuine question.

“We should send spies to see what force, if any, is gathered against us, so we may prepare our counterattack if we need one.”

The debate might have gone on longer, but Asof teetered on his crutch and what little color was left beneath the purple bruises drained away.

“Enough!” Olyrrwd barked. “This man is my patient, and I am taking him to the healing chamber! And you, Labhruinn, you will ask no more questions of him until I tell you he is recovered enough to answer!” Then, turning on Rhedwyn, he said with equal force, “And, you, Rhedwyn—who anointed you our king? And when did you get the power to declare war without going to the High Council?” Pointedly ignoring Ossiam, he turned to look at Herrwn.

Herrwn understood. He raised his staff, declaring, “The news that Asof has brought, at great peril to himself, is a matter of much importance, and we will consider what we are to do at the meeting of the High Council.”

For a moment it seemed that Ossiam would object, but instead he raised his own staff and proclaimed, “This is a matter for the next council!” as if it were his own idea. He then declared, “I will go to my tower to seek the messages from the powers around us!” and left with a dramatic flourish of his staff.

Pausing only long enough to roll his eyes and shake his head, Olyrrwd put a protective arm around Asof’s waist and guided him through the crowd toward the healing chamber.

Maybe sensing that his older brother wasn’t in a mood to listen to anything that he said, Labhruinn edged over to Herrwn and murmured, “I wonder, Master, if it might be wise for Rhedwyn to send his men to guard the outer gates in case Asof was followed?”

Herrwn thought this was very wise, and he repeated the suggestion word for word, breathing a sigh of relief when Rhedwyn called for his men to follow him and rushed off.