Each day, Rhian received an early visit from Gwythyr and they took their morning meal together. She dressed like a young girl every time and carefully fostered his impression of her as compliant and harmless.
He made her skin crawl, and she thought about why, when she was alone. He was not unhandsome, in his older way, confident of his strength and power. After all, he had occasionally bested her foster-father, and she knew that took both skill and courage. He did not treat her badly in this captivity.
But she never forgot she was a prisoner, his only interest in her the claim to legitimacy, the link to Lludd’s line. And how could it be otherwise, with the difference in their ages? If this were a deliberate marriage alliance, one to which she’d been raised, a benefit to her family, well, she might have considered it. But not to her foster-father’s enemy, given away as a favor without her consent.
And in any case there was Brynach to consider, and consider him she did. She tried not to—who knew how this might end—but she couldn’t help it. It fueled her determination to escape.
She would have to get herself out of here. A rescue was unlikely, even if they knew where she was. She’d been saving bits of her meals in preparation, food that would keep and travel well, like dried fruits, cheese, and hard breads.
The first thing she’d asked for was sewing gear, declaring she needed to modify the clothing he’d provided for her. She cannibalized her ruined ceremonial gown and hid it in the wardrobe, the back of the gown with its missing patches facing the wall. The first thing she made was a thigh harness for her larger knife from the material and she felt much comforted by its presence.
She hid the food in a sack made from the same stuff and cached it above her window casement, since she assumed her rooms would be searched from time to time.
The next item for her needle was a pack for her escape. She used a doubled layer of cloth from the gown for that. At least the color would blend in well in the woods, she thought, even if the material wouldn’t stand up to much wear. It had to be large enough for the food, the one pair of dainty low boots among the provided shoes, and travel clothing. She didn’t think the flimsy stockings would do her much good, but they were all she had, so she added as many pairs as she dared from her stores. They would expect a certain amount of waste, but she didn’t want to excite suspicion.
Breeches from a brown woolen underskirt had been easy enough, though there’d been a moment of panic when Gwythyr walked in unexpectedly and she’d had to cover her work with a second gown she’d prepared as a decoy.
Her shift would serve as a shirt, torn off short, but an overgarment or jacket had her stumped for a while. The only cloak she’d been given was lightweight and bright red on both sides. She robbed some brown burlap curtain lining and used that as an outer skin for a jacket, then she quilted more of her gown lining to the inside where it would be protected from external wear and provide insulation. This early in the spring the air was still cool and she would need the warmth, especially at night. The result was clumsy and bulky but she thought it would do.
Today, for the first time, she moved her escape pack with everything except the food and jacket. She threw the red cloak over herself, clutching it shut with one hand, while the other held the pack under the front of the gown through the pocket slits. If she stooped over a bit and no one searched her, it wasn’t obvious. She was intent on smuggling it out of her rooms to a hiding spot somewhere in the garden, where it would be safe from search. She planned to add her jacket in a separate trip, and then the food. All that would be needed then would be to save more food and plan for the escape itself.
She’d spotted a niche in the rock grotto near her favorite bench and yesterday she’d casually wandered over and explored it with a long stick. It had seemed large enough to hold her filled pack, and the dry leaves inside encouraged her to think it was watertight.
After the relocation of the pack, she walked casually to her bench and sighed in relief. The rest would be easier to conceal as she smuggled it out. She smiled at her accomplishment. By tomorrow she could begin to consider how exactly to get away, and her pack would be all ready to go with her.
As she sat on the bench in the weak spring sunlight, she surveyed the possibilities again. This garden was bounded by one other building and the wall of the castle itself. The postern gate on the outer wall was out of sight of her seat, but she had wandered over there before and seen the two guards on duty, night and day. She’d smiled at them and walked away, not wanting to test their patience until she was ready to act.
The other building was an old square tower, four stories tall but only two rooms wide, with two windows on each floor, for the side that faced the garden. The windows had wide balconies on the upper two floors. Nothing moved in them, and the place seemed to be empty.
In fact, the whole castle seemed to be barely occupied, at least in this back corner. The garden itself had a wall that stretched between the two buildings, enclosing it up against the outer wall. She wasn’t ready yet to start probing at the points that were guarded from her, since it might damage her persona of compliance, but that time would come soon. She needed to know what was outside this little area of freedom that had been granted to her.
Still, this would do. She had her pack and a weapon, everything she needed, once she was ready to leave.
He could remember everything that had happened, but only for the last few days. He’d played back the conversations he’d heard that didn’t make sense at the time. Now he could make out the words, but they still didn’t mean much to him.
He was wary of the guards whose restraints and blows he vividly recalled. They occupied a danger zone in his unfurnished memory. One thin stranger he took for another sort of guard had looked him over yesterday. The woman brought him in.
She’d told him to stand up and remove his shirt. The man took an interest in his back, which mystified him. He could feel scars there but didn’t know what it looked like. As the man stepped up to examine him more closely, he moved forward involuntarily. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t make himself stand still.
The man laughed. “His body remembers, even if he doesn’t.”
The voice made him deeply uneasy.
The woman smiled and said, “I thought you might like to see him like this.”
He nodded. “Different methods, different results. I wish you luck with this.”
She’d dismissed the man then, to his relief, and closed the door behind him. Then she encouraged him to sit down and talk with her. She always wanted him to speak but it seemed like too much trouble. He wanted to please her, but every time he started, the impulse died out.
He’d tried speaking when he was alone, but he had the same trouble. Had he always been this way? He didn’t think so, or she wouldn’t be so disappointed. She’d know, wouldn’t she?
This morning he’d walked out onto the balcony and stumbled, spilling the drink she gave him at their meal together. He didn’t want her to be upset with him—she seemed to be angry all the time—so he hid it and pretended to finish the empty glass, to please her.
All afternoon he’d sat quietly in his chair, thinking.
What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I remember anything? Is she my wife? I have no feeling for her, that doesn’t seem right. When she kissed him, nothing happened. He thought that was wrong, but he wasn’t sure.
He knew water was wet and fire burned but there was so much he seemed to have forgotten. How did I meet her? How long have we been married? I can’t always have been like this.
He spent hours of each day looking out at the little view his balcony gave. He was high above the ground, four stories up, high enough to see over the outer walls to the tops of the trees beyond. There was barely enough room for a few steps, but it felt good to be out-of-doors. Below him was some sort of garden. He wanted to walk outside. Maybe he’d ask her about that, next time.
Yesterday he’d seen someone outside, down there. He stood up now and walked to the balcony. No one was there. The bench in view was empty.
He came back in and walked over to the door. Sometimes there were guards on the other side of the door and they told him to go back inside. Sometimes there was no one and the door didn’t open. Which would it be this time?
He turned the handle and the door opened, but no one was there. Something new to consider, he thought. He wandered out into the corridor and followed it to the staircase. There was only one way to go, and down was how to get outside, he knew that much.
The stairs stopped and he faced another latched door. He opened it and blinked at the sunlight. When his eyes adjusted, he saw the bench. He walked over and sat on it, then leaned back and raised his face to the sun, closing his eyes. So many new events to furnish his hollowed out mind.
Maybe he’d ask his wife to come out here to talk to him, instead.
Rhian looked forward to her afternoon time in the cold spring garden. It gave her the illusion of freedom, to be out-of-doors with no guards in sight. She was later than usual today and hastened down the path.
She was surprised to see someone there before her, a man on her favorite bench. Not Gwythyr, she hoped, don’t let him have found her chosen spot. It would never be so pleasing to her again if it was him.
She slowed her steps, then realized it couldn’t be Gwythyr. He was too broad, and not dressed warmly enough for the day, just in his shirt. She ran to him in delight.
“George! What are you doing here? Did they capture you, too?”
He turned his face away from the sunlight to look at her, his head tilted sideways in slight puzzlement. He made no sign of recognizing her. He hadn’t shaved in days.
Her heart sank. What was wrong with him?
She sat down next to him, and he regarded her gravely. “George, talk to me.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak but said nothing and closed it again. There was still no expression in his face, but she was close enough now to see that his pupils were dilated. Whatever this enchantment was, it included drugs.
Steeling herself, she suppressed her dismay. What would Ceridwen do, she thought. We may only have a few minutes. He was clearly a prisoner as she was, and she didn’t want his guards, or hers, to find them together. This might be their only chance to meet.
She reached out and took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. His beard prickled against her palms, but he followed her lead willingly enough.
“Do you know who I am?” she said.
There was no reaction beyond a confused look.
“Do you know who you are?”
Ah, that provoked a reaction, at least. His brows wrinkled and he looked worried.
“Never mind,” she said. “Listen to me.”
He watched her carefully.
How much would he understand? “You’ve been drugged. These people are your enemies. Don’t drink anything they give you and be cautious of the food. Don’t let them know you’re doing this.”
He tilted his head, still puzzled, but she had his attention.
“I’m a friend, a kinswoman. I’m a prisoner, too.”
She couldn’t tell if any of this was getting through to him. It tore at her heart to see him like this. He was a pillar of strength in her mind, and here he was disarmed and at the mercy of his enemies.
A red squirrel distracted her. He scolded them both for disturbing his domain. George smiled at it, the first true expression she’d seen on his face. The beast-sense, she thought. Maybe that’s untouched.
“Listen to the animals, George. Listen to them very hard. In here.” She tapped her forehead. “You can trust them, the beasts don’t lie. Listen to what they tell you.”
He seemed to consider this. Maybe it would give him some pathway out of this, she thought.
“Where’s your room?” she said.
He twisted in place and gestured vaguely at the upper floors of the stone tower.
She was worried about his guards. This had to be some sort of accidental escape.
“I’m going to leave you now so they don’t find us together. Do you understand? They mustn’t know that we’ve met.”
He reached for her arm with a confused look, but there was no help for it. She gently plucked his hand off and stood up. She bent over and kissed his forehead, and left him there alone in the fading light, an ache in her heart. Cernunnos, watch over him, she thought.
All night long he had puzzled over the girl in the garden. He played her words to him over and over again.
The guard who found him and brought him back to his room had given him a blow for wandering off, but he hardly noticed. There was so much to think about, now.
She knew his name. George. It seemed to fit. She said the people here were enemies. She felt like a friend. Was she? She knew things, too, like the woman.
This morning he took his glass from the smiling woman’s hands and deliberately walked out onto the balcony to drink it. When she wasn’t looking, he carefully spilled most of it over the edge before returning to finish his breakfast with her.
After she left, he thought long and hard. How did I lose my memory? If the girl was telling the truth and they did it somehow, then they could do it again and he would forget all of this. The thought alarmed him.
He pulled a half-burnt twig out of the fire and walked out onto the balcony with it. Facing the wall of the building, where it would be invisible from inside the room, he wrote on the stone in charcoal.
George.
Don’t drink.
Lies.
Enemies.
Listen to animals.
He glanced over the words, and added one more thing—a sketch of an oak tree. He didn’t know why, but it felt right. He was pleased. He would see this every day and it would remind him. He looked down, but no one was in the garden.
He went back in and laid down on his bed. He closed his eyes. He’d heard mice in the walls last night. What would happen if he listened to them very hard?
Angharad put down her brush and set her palette aside when the guards admitted the old woman to her rooms.
“Have you brought me those new pigments then, granny?” she said, smiling until they closed the doors again.
More quietly, she said, ‘That glamour gets more detailed every time I see it, Ceridwen. Tell me the news.”
Ceridwen remained standing, in character, in case the guards suddenly opened the doors again. “There’s still no word on where they are, nor news of Gwythyr and Creiddylad. Gwyn thinks the most likely place remaining is Gwythyr’s domain in Gaul. Calubriga is far from any ways, and that might be a reason to choose it, if they had plans for George.”
“Any luck getting in there to see?”
“Not so far. I’ve passed the task on to Rhodri, since he’s at Llefelys’s court, and maybe he can come up with some legitimate reason to visit. He’s dying for something useful to do, in his own words.”
Angharad’s shoulders sagged.
Ceridwen said, “We’re not abandoning the search, but Gwyn’s got me busy with my own rounds, too, so we’re trying to combine the tasks. Has George’s status changed?”
She suppressed the sense of desolation that threatened to overwhelm her. She needed to focus on what she could do to help. “I can still feel him, very distant and to the southeast. He’s not himself. It’s not like his captivity by Madog, there’s no sense of pain, but it’s not right, either.”
Her hand crept into her pocket where she carried George’s pocket watch, and her thumb rubbed over the engraving of St. George and the dragon.
She sighed. “Lludd’s making a show of searching, as if he fools anyone by that. Then he comes in and tells me all about it. Despicable.”
Ceridwen said, “The problem is that people tend to wink at Rhian’s abduction, as if it were just the impatience of a suitor for his bride, and Gwyn’s huntsman just isn’t important to them. I thought there would be more outrage at the violation of guest rights, but that’s focused largely on you.” She glanced at the doors. “The more you’re seen in public with Lludd’s guards trailing you, the better.”
Angharad nodded. “What news from Annwn?”
“Nothing further since the attempt on the master-tokens a week ago. I hear that Eurig is using Maelgwn as a scout and has him trailing one suspicious character after another. Mostly he’s been set to follow the two huntsmen, who seem to be behaving themselves.”
Ceridwen smiled at Angharad. “You’ll like this bit from Eurig… Apparently Dyfnallt caught Maelgwn tracking him and invited him to do it openly. Said it would be good practice for them both.”
“I can just picture it,” Angharad said, with a half-smile. “What do they say about the abductions over there?”
“They’re distressed by it, as we are. Rhys, of course, is frantic, tied down in Edgewood and unable to help his sister.”
“Edern’s no better,” Angharad said. “I’ve advised Gwyn not to let him linger in Lludd’s presence. His temper is too uncertain.”
“The real problem is Seething Magma. Maelgwn told her, apparently. She wants to come and find George herself. A fair exchange, she put it. Gwyn appealed to her to be patient for a little while.”
Angharad pictured the sudden appearance of a rock-wight, asking Lludd uncomfortable questions. “An appealing thought, but much too risky. She’d be in too much danger herself.”
“And you?” Ceridwen asked. “How are you holding up?”
Angharad glanced around her room. No wall space remained without some sketch of George, both as himself and as the horned-man and the deer-headed manifestation of Cernunnos. The painting she was working on was her second on the subject, the first one prominently displayed on another easel. The new one showed Rhian in huntsman’s livery, standing by the horned-man’s side. Both looked out implacably at the viewer.
“Me? I encourage Lludd to visit me here, where I can show him my latest work.” She grinned, wolfishly. “He doesn’t seem to like the atmosphere.”
Gwyn brooded alone in his rooms, reviewing his latest correspondence. Too many moving parts, he thought. Too much that could go wrong.
He had to keep the rock-wights out of it, for their own safety, but he was surprised how much of Seething Magma’s insistence had carried over into her written offer. It made him forget her alien nature and her great age. He hoped he’d convinced her that he had better knowledge of how to proceed than she did. She did win one point, though—Eurig would keep her informed.
Rhodri sent encouraging news from Llefelys. He would remain neutral, Rhodri believed, in any dispute with his brother. Better, he was not pleased with Gwythyr’s behavior, and if the captives were truly at Calubriga, maybe something could be made of that.
Ceridwen was making slow going of her colleagues. They were notoriously reluctant to commit to change, but she was pushing away at them.
George had done better, on his hunting tour. Gwyn was surprised there’d been no direct attack, but Emrys reported that even the hostile courts had been somewhat disarmed by the huntsman, holding their hand where they might well have violated guest right and justified it afterward. Emrys knew of one planned poisoning which was revealed and avoided, and another “hunting accident” which he thought was deliberate, but since it had missed and George evaded the trap, they kept silent about it.
That situation was improving, at least, but more of his potential allies wanted to meet the huntsman, and now Gwyn couldn’t produce him.
He still thought Rhian would be safe until Nos Galan Mai, but everything in him revolted at the thought of her held helpless and in fear. He told himself, they are both resourceful, and tried to believe his own reassurances.
Lludd had taunted him when he protested the abduction publicly. “Lost your foster-daughter and your great-grandson, both? Careless of you.”
He thought Gwyn was powerless. Gwyn grinned mirthlessly. Gwythyr may think he’s taken them to use as weapons against him, but he’s wrong. They’ll turn in his hands.
