Brother Cadfael 18: The Summer of the Danes

something I must tell Owain Gwynedd. I must go to him."
    Cadfael was on his knees beside him, staunching with what linen he had to hand, padded beneath thick folds of brychans, the blood that flowed irresistibly from a great wound in the young man's side, under the heart. Cuhelyn, kneeling with Gwion's head in his lap, had wiped away the foam of blood from the open mouth and the sweat from the forehead already chill and livid with the unhurried approach of death. He looked up at Cadfael, and said almost silently: "We must carry him back to the camp. He is in earnest. He must go."
    "He is going nowhere in this world," said Cadfael as quietly. "If we lift him, he will die between our hands."
    Something resembling the palest and briefest of smiles, yet unquestionably a smile, touched Gwion's parted lips. He said, in the muted tones they had used over him: "Then Owain must come to me. He has more time to spare than I have. He will come. It is a thing he will wish to know, and no one else can tell him."
    Cuhelyn drew back the tangle of black hair that lay damp on Gwion's brow, for fear it should discomfort him now, when all comfort was being rapt away all too quickly. His hand was steady and gentle. There was no hostility left. There was room for none. And in their opposed fashion they had been friends. The likeness was still there, each of them peered into a mirror, a darkening mirror and a marred image.
    "I'll ride after him. Be patient. He will come."
    "Ride fast!" said Gwion, and shut his mouth upon the distortion of the smile.
    On his feet already, and with a hand stretched to his horse's bridle, Cuhelyn hesitated. "Not Cadwaladr? Should he come?"
    "No," said Gwion, and turned his face away in a sharp convulsion of pain. Otir's last defensive parry, never meant to kill, had struck out just as Owain thundered his displeasure and split the ranks apart, and Gwion had dropped his levelled sword and his guard, and opened his flank to the steel. No help for it now, it was done and could not be undone.
    Cuhelyn was gone, in faithful haste, sending the sand spraying from his horse's hooves until he reached the upland meadow grass and left the dunes behind. There was no one more likely to make passionate haste to do Gwion's errand than Cuhelyn, who for a brief time had lost the ability to see in his opposite his own face. That also was past.
    Gwion lay with closed eyes, containing whatever pain he felt. Cadfael did not think it was great, he had already almost slipped out of its reach. Together they waited. Gwion lay very still, for stillness seemed to slow the bleeding and conserve the life in him, and life he needed for a while yet. Cadfael had water beside him in Cuhelyn's helmet, and bathed away the beads of sweat that gathered on his patient's forehead and lip, cold as dew.
    From the shore there was no more clamour, only the brisk exchanges of voices, and the stir of men moving about their business unhindered now and intent, and the lowing and occasional bellowing of cattle as they were urged through the shallows and up the ramps into the ships. A rough, uncomfortable voyage for them in the deep wells amidships, but a few hours and they would be on green turf again, good grazing and sweet water.
    "Will he come?" wondered Gwion, suddenly anxious.
    "He will come."
    He was coming already, in a moment more they heard the soft thudding of hooves, and in from the shore came Owain Gwynedd, with Cuhelyn at his back. They dismounted in silence, and Owain came to look down at the young, spoiled body, not too closely yet, for fear even dulling ears should be sharp enough to overhear what was not meant to be overheard.
    "Can he live?"
    Cadfael shook his head and made no other reply.
    Owain dropped into the sand and leaned close. "Gwion... I am here. Spare to make many words, there is no need."
    Gwion's black eyes, a little dazzled by the mounting sun, opened wide and knew him. Cadfael moistened the lips that opened wryly, and laboured to articulate. "Yes, there is need. I have a thing I must say."
    "For peace between us two," said Owain, "I say again, there is no need of words. But if you must, I am listening."
    "Bledri ap Rhys...' began Gwion, and paused to draw breath. "You require to know who killed him. Do not hold it against any other. I killed him."
    He waited, with resigned patience, for disbelief rather than outcry, but neither came. Only a considering and accepting silence that seemed to last a long while, and then Owain's