Ellis Peters - The Summer of The Danes

“Why, we sit back and wait, here where we are, until either Otir decides to accept his price for us, or Cadwaladr somehow scrapes together whatever fool sum in money and stock he promised his Danes.”

“And if Otir cannot wait, and decides to cut his fee by force out of Gwynedd?” Mark wondered.

“That he will not do, unless some fool starts the killing and forces his hand. I exact my dues, he said, from the debtor who owes them. And he means it, not now simply out of self-interest, but out of a very deep grudge against Cadwaladr, who has cheated him. He will not bring Owain and all his power into combat if by any means he can avoid it and still get his profit. And he is as able to make his own dispositions,” said Cadfael shrewdly, “as any other man, and for all I can see, better than most. Not only Owain and his brother are calling the shots here, Otir may well have a trick or two of his own up his sleeve.”

“I want no killing,” said Heledd peremptorily, as though she gave orders by right to all men presently in arms. “Not for us, not for them. I would rather continue here prisoner than have any man brought to his death. And yet,” she said grieving, “I know it cannot go on thus deadlocked, it must end somehow.”

It would end, Cadfael reflected, unless some unforeseen disaster intervened, in Otir’s acceptance of Owain’s ransom for his captives, most probably after Otir had dealt, in whatever fashion he saw fit, with Cadwaladr. That score would rank first in his mind, and be tackled first. He had no obligation now to his sometime ally, that compact had been broken once for all. Cadwaladr might go into exile, once he had paid his dues, or go on his knees to his brother and beg back his lands. Otir owed him nothing. And since he had all his following to pay, he would not refuse the additional profit of Owain’s ransom. Heledd would go free, back to Owain’s charge. And there was a man now in Owain’s muster who was waiting to claim her on her return. A good man, so Mark said, presentable to the eye, well-thought of, a man of respectable lands, in good odour with the prince. She might do very much worse.

“There is no cause in the world,” said Mark, “why it should not end for you in a life well worth the cherishing. This Ieuan whom you have never seen is wholly disposed to receive and love you, and he is worth your acceptance.”

“I do believe you,” she said, for her almost submissively. But her eyes were steady upon a far distance over the sea, where the light of air and the light of water melted into a shimmering mist, indissoluble and mysterious, everything beyond hidden in radiance. And Cadfael wondered suddenly if he was not, after all, imagining the conviction in Brother Mark’s voice, and the womanly grace of resignation in Heledd’s.

TURCAILL CAME DOWN from conference in Otir’s tent towards the shore of the sheltered bay, where his lithe little dragon-ship lay close inshore, its low sides mirrored in the still water of the shallows. The anchorage at the mouth of the Menai was separated from the broad sandy reaches of the bay to southward by a long spit of shingle, beyond which the water of two rivers and their tributaries wound its way to the strait and the open sea, in a winding course through the waste of sands. Turcaill stood to view the whole sweep of land and water, the long stretch of the bay extending more than two miles to the south, pale gold shoals and sinuous silver water, the green shore of Arfon beyond, rolling back into the distant hills. The tide was flowing, but it would be two hours or more yet before it reached its highest, and covered all but a narrow belt of salt marsh fringing the shore of the bay. By midnight it would be on the turn again, but full enough to float the little ship with its shallow draught close inshore. Inland of the saltings there would, if luck held, be scrub growth that would give cover to a few skilled and silent men moving inland. Nor would they have far to go. Owain’s encampment must span the waist of the peninsula. Even at its narrowest point it might be as much as a mile across, but he would have pickets on either shore. Fewer and less watchful, perhaps, on the bay shore, since attack by ship was unlikely that way. Otir’s larger vessels would not attempt to thread the shoals. The Welsh would be concentrating their watch on the sea to westward.

Turcaill was whistling to himself, very softly and contentedly, as he scanned a sky just deepening into dusk. Two hours yet before they could set out, and with the evening clouds had gathered lightly over the heavens, a grey veil, not threatening rain, but promising cover against too bright a night. From his outer anchorage he would have to make a detour round the bar of shingle to the mouth of the river to reach the clear channel, but that would add only some quarter of an hour to the journey. Well before midnight, he decided blithely, we can embark.

He was still happily whistling when he turned back to return to the heart of the camp and consider on the details of his expedition. And there confronting him was Heledd, coming down from the ridge with her long, springy stride, the dark mane of her hair swaying about her shoulders in the breeze that had quickened with evening, bringing the covering of cloud. Every encounter between them was in some sense a confrontation, bringing with it a racing of the blood on both sides, curiously pleasurable.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, the whistle breaking off short. “Were you thinking of escaping across the sands?” He was mocking her, as always.

“I followed you,” she said simply. “Straight from Otir’s tent, and off with you this way, and eyeing the sky and the tide and that snake-ship of yours. I was curious.”

“The first time ever you were curious about me or anything I did,” he said cheerfully. “Why now?”

“Because suddenly I see you head-down on a hunt, and I cannot but wonder what mischief you’re about this time.”

“No mischief,” said Turcaill. “Why should there be?” He was regarding her, as they walked back slowly together, with somewhat narrower attention than he gave to their usual easy skirmishing, for it seemed to him that she was at least half serious in her probing, even in some way anxious. Here in her captivity, between two armed camps, a solitary woman might well scent mischief, the killing kind, in every move, and fear for her own people.

“I am not a fool,” said Heledd impatiently. “I know as well as you do that Otir is not going to let Cadwaladr’s treason go unavenged, nor let his fee slip through his fingers. He’s no such man! All this day he and all his chiefs have had their heads together over the next move, and now suddenly you come bursting out shining with the awful delight you fool men feel in plunging headfirst into a fight, and you try to tell me there’s nothing in the wind. No mischief!”

“None that need trouble you,” he assured her. “Otir has no quarrel with Owain or any of Owain’s host, they have cast off Cadwaladr to untie his own knots and pay his own debts, why should we want to provoke worse? If the promised price is paid, we shall be off to sea and trouble you no more.”

“A good riddance that will be,” said Heledd sharply. “But why should I trust you and your fellows to manage things so well? It needs only one chance wounding or killing, and there’ll be blazing warfare, and a great slaughter.”

“And since you are so sure I’m deep in this mischief you foresee…”

“The very instrument of it,” she said vehemently.

“Then can you not trust me to bring it to a good end?” He was laughing at her again, but with a degree of almost apprehensive delicacy.

“You least of all,” she said with vicious certainty. “I know you, you have a lust after danger, there’s nothing so foolhardy but you would dare it, and bring down everything in a bloody battle on all of us.”