Brother Cadfael 18: The Summer of the Danes

Brother Mark wondered, half aloud. "Cadfael, I must speak with her as soon as may be. In Carnarvon I have seen her bridegroom. He came hotfoot from the island to join Owain, she should know that she is not forsaken. This Ieuan is a decent, stalwart man, and will put up a good fight for his bride. Even if Owain could be tempted to leave the girl to her fate here, and that is impossible!, Ieuan would never suffer it. If he had to venture for her with no forces but his own small following, I am sure he would never give up. Church and prince have offered her to him, and he is afire for her."
    "I do believe," Cadfael said, "that they have found her a good man, with all the advantages but one. A fatal lack! He is not of her choosing."
    "She might do very much worse. When she meets him, she may be wholly glad of him. And in this world," Mark reflected ruefully, "women, like men, must make the best of what they can get."
    "With thirty years and more behind her," said Cadfael, "she might be willing to settle for that. At eighteen, I doubt it!"
    "If he comes in arms to carry her away, at eighteen that might weigh with her," Mark observed, but not with entire conviction in his tone.
    Cadfael had turned his head and was looking back towards the crest of the dunes, where a man's figure had just breasted the rise and was descending towards the beach. The long, generous stride, the exuberant thrust of the broad shoulders, the joyous carriage of the flaxen head, bright in the sun, would have given him a name even at a greater distance.
    "I would not wager on the issue," said Cadfael cautiously. "And even so, he comes a little late, for someone else has already come in arms and carried her away. That issue, too, is still in doubt."
    The young man Turcaill erupted into Brother Mark's view only as he drew towards the spit of sand, and scorning to go the whole way to walk it dryshod, waded cheerfully through the shallows directly to where Heledd sat. Her back remained turned towards him, but doubtless her ears were pricked.
    "Who is that?" demanded Mark, stiffening at the sight.
    "That is one Turcaill, son of Turcaill, and if you saw us marched away to his ship, you must have seen that lofty head go by. It can hardly be missed, he tops the rest of us by the length of it."
    "That is the man who made her prisoner?" Mark was frowning down at Heledd's minute island, where still she maintained her pretence at being unaware of any intruder into her solitude.
    "It was you said it. He came in arms and carried her away."
    "What does he want with her now?" Mark wondered, staring.
    "No harm. He's subject to authority here, but even aside from that, no harm." The young man had emerged in a brief flurry of spray beside Heledd's rock, and dropped with large, easy grace into the sand at her feet. She gave him no acknowledgement, unless it could be considered an acknowledgement that she turned a little away from him. Whatever they may have said to each other could not be heard at such a distance, and it was strange that Cadfael should suddenly feel certain that this was not the first time Heledd had sat there, nor the first time that Turcaill had coiled his long legs comfortably into the sand beside her.
    "They have a small private war going on," he said placidly. "They both take pleasure in it. He loves to make her spit fire, and she delights in flouting him."
    A children's game, he thought, a lively battle that passes the time pleasantly for both of them, all the more pleasantly because neither of them need take it seriously. By the same token, neither need we take it seriously.
    It occurred to him afterwards that he was breaking his own rule, and wagering on an issue that was still in doubt.
    Chapter Nine
    In the abandoned farmstead where Owain had set up his headquarters, a mile from the edge of Otir's camp, Cadwaladr set forth the full tale of his grievances, with some discretion because he spoke in the presence not only of his brother, but of Hywel, against whom he felt perhaps the greatest and most bitter animosity, and of half a dozen of Owain's captains besides, men he did not want to alienate if he could keep their sympathy. But he was incapable of damping down his indignation throughout the lengthy tale, and the very reserve and tolerance with which they listened to him aggravated his burning resentment. By the end of it he was afire with his wrongs, and ready to proceed to what had been implied in every word, the threat of open warfare if