Brother Cadfael 09: Dead Man's Ransom

at that moment be encamped near Llanarmon, or else with his ally and friend, Tudur ap Rhys, at his maenol at Tregeiriog. Seeing it was winter, however merciful at this moment, and seeing that Owain Gwynedd was considerably saner than most Welshmen, Cadfael chose to make for Tregeiriog. Why camp, when there was a close ally at hand, with a sound roof and a well, stocked larder, in a comparatively snug valley among these bleak central hills?
    Tudur ap Rhys's maenol lay in a cleft where a mountain brook came down into the river Ceiriog, and his boundaries were well but unobtrusively guarded in these shaken days, for a two man patrol came out on the path, one on either side, before Cadfael's party were out of the scrub forest above the valley. Shrewd eyes weighed up this sedate company, and the mind behind the eyes decided that they were harmless even before Cadfael got out his Welsh greeting. That and his habit were enough warranty. The young man bade his companion run ahead and acquaint Tudur that he had visitors, and himself conducted them at leisure the rest of the way. Beyond the river with its fringes of forest and the few stony fields and huddle of wooden cots about the maenol, the hills rose again brown and bleak below, white and bleak above, to a round snow, summit against a leaden sky.
    Tudur ap Rhys came out to welcome them and exchange the civilities; a short, square man, very powerfully built, with a thick thatch of brown hair barely touched with grey, and a loud, melodious voice that ranged happily up and down the cadences of song rather than speech. A Welsh Benedictine was a novelty to him; a Welsh Benedictine sent as negotiator from England to a Welsh prince even more so, but he suppressed his curiosity courteously, and had his guest conducted to a chamber in his own house, where presently a girl came to him bearing the customary water for his feet, by the acceptance or rejection of which he would signify whether or not he intended to spend the night there.
    It had not occurred to Cadfael until she entered, that this same lord of Tregeiriog was the man of whom Elis had talked, when he poured out the tale of his boyhood betrothal to a little, sharp, dark creature who was handsome enough in her way, and who, if he must marry at all, would do. Now there she stood, with the gently steaming bowl in her hands, demure before her father's guest, by her dress and her bearing manifestly Tudur's daughter. Little she certainly was, but trimly made and carried herself proudly. Sharp? Her manner was brisk and confident, and though her approach was deferent and proper, there was an assured spark in her eyes. Dark, assuredly. Both eyes and hair fell just short of raven black by the faint, warm tint of red in them. And handsome? Not remarkably so in repose, her face was irregular in feature, tapering from wide, set eyes to pointed chin, but as soon as she spoke or moved there was such flashing life in her that she needed no beauty.
    'I take your service very kindly,' said Cadfael, 'and thank you for it. And you, I think, must be Cristina, Tudur's daughter. And if you are, then I have word for you and for Owain Gwynedd that should be heartily welcome to you both.'
    'I am Cristina,' she said, burning into bright animation, 'but how did a brother of Shrewsbury learn my name?'
    'From a young man by the name of Elis ap Cynan, whom you may have been mourning for lost, but who is safe and well in Shrewsbury castle this moment. What may you have heard of him, since the prince's brother brought his muster and his booty home again from Lincoln?'
    Her alert composure did not quiver, but her eyes widened and glowed. They told my father he was left behind with some that drowned near the border,' she said, 'but none of them knew how he had fared. Is it true? He is alive? And prisoner?'
    'You may be easy,' said Cadfael, 'for so he is, none the worse for the battle or the brook, and can be bought free very simply, to come back to you and make you, I hope, a good husband.' You may cast your bait, he told himself watching her face, which was at once eloquent and unreadable, as though she even thought in a strange language, but you'll catch no fish here. This one has her own secrets, and her own way of taking events into her hands. What she wills to keep to herself you're never like to get out of her.
    And she looked him full in the eyes and said: 'Eliud will be glad. Did he speak of him, too?' But she knew the answer.
    A certain Eliud was