Like many others in the forest he had heard of the poet, and his first invitations had been courteously refused. Then Groundsel had sent a messenger with a gold coin — and the promise of more.
The man had better be worth it, he had decided, or he’d cut his ears off. Arian and Nuada were waiting in the cool of the southern entrance when Groundsel appeared. Nuada gave a courtly bow — which pleased the robber — while Arian merely smiled. Groundsel’s delight was complete.
‘Enter, enter,’ he said. ‘Welcome. I have heard wondrous tales of your skill, master poet. I trust you will not disappoint us, poor folk that we are.’
Nuada bowed again. ‘My Lord Groundsel, I can only hope that my poor talents prove worthy of the trust implicit in your invitation.’
‘I am no Lord,’ said Groundsel, sitting back on his chair and ordering wine to be brought for his guests. ‘Just a poor man trying to do his best for the people who need him. These are hard times. But I am not a Lord — nor would I want to be.’
‘A Lord,’ said Nuada, ‘is a man who commands respect from those who serve him, or fear from those obliged to serve him. He should also be a man of courage and leadership. Last year, I am told, a great fire sprang up, and men turned to you to save them, you organized bands of workers, dug a fire ditch, cleared the ground before the blaze and yourself worked alongside your men. That is heroic leadership, my Lord, sharing the dangers and inspiring your followers.’ Groundsel was lost for words. The fire would have destroyed his granary and winter would have brought Starvation and an end to his leadership. Could the fool not see that? But the words were pleasing, and he was beginning to see the value of his investment in the poet, he turned his attention to the girl, asking her name and straining to be cool and pleasant. He talked with them for an hour before having them escorted to an empty hut at the western edge of the village. When his men returned to explain that the woman and the man were not together, and desired separate accommodation, he was overjoyed. He ordered a second dwelling cleared, the resident family being moved to an overcrowded hut to the north. Naturally, there was no argument.
Back at the first dwelling, Arian turned to Nuada. ‘You flatterer! Oh, my dear Lord Groundsel, what a hero you are!’ she mocked.
Nuada grinned at her. ‘And you, I suppose, offered nothing by way of flattery yourself?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘He all but climbed into your breeches, but you just stood by smiling provocatively. Do not think to lecture me! I was raised at court, where the wrong word or look could see a man ruined — or worse. This is no different. Groundsel is like a king here and to go against him could result in unpleasant consequences.’
‘We are here on safe conduct,’ she reminded him.
‘Oh, grow up, Arian. Safe conduct? The man is a savage. However, he is a rich savage, so that gives me a reason for being here. But if you will take my advice, you will leave as soon as it is dark.’
Arian had already decided on that very course of action, but the poet’s words stung her.
‘I shall do nothing of the sort. I will leave tomorrow after breakfast. I wouldn’t miss your performance before these rabble for… for a gold piece!’
He shrugged. ‘As you will. I should have known better than to advise a woman so worldly-wise. But when he drags you to his bed, I think you will find there is a pig inside that silk shirt.’
‘Jealous, poet? Are you attracted to men?’ She hurled the question like a barb, and was furious when he laughed at her.
‘You are angry, Arian,’ he said. ‘Was I not attentive enough on the journey here? Did you expect me to ask you to share my blanket? How remiss of me!’
The truth of his words made her blush furiously. Had he so invited her she would have refused, but she had expected him to make an advance. Her hand snaked out to crack against his cheek. For a moment anger flared, then he smiled, bowed and left the hut.
Arian watched him go, then swore under her breath. The poet was right; it was foolish to trust Groundsel’s safe conduct. And yet she had only risked this journey in the hope that it would inspire some concern in the heart of Llaw Gyffes. In that she had failed miserably. She pictured Groundsel and his lust-filled eyes and slowly pulled the hunting-knife from its sheath at her side. The edge was honed to razor-sharpness and curled up into a double-edge crescent. Drag her to his bed?
She slid the knife back in its scabbard. And waited.
Arian sat beside Groundsel as Nuada stood on a central table and wove his spell over the seventy or so men who had crowded into the hall. His talent filled the room — his voice mellow and musical, his words rich and rolling, his stories vivid and compelling. Even Arian, who often found the battles of men incomprehensible, was swept along by his tales of heroes and maidens, swordsmen and sorcerers.
His delivery was subtly different here, she noticed — more quickfire and the stories less romantic, as if he had gauged his audience in the moment that he stepped to the table. The heroes he spoke of were common men, who had risen to the ranks of the great or who had fought against the evils of the monarchy in times past.
Groundsel was as spellbound as his men, his dark eyes fixed on the poet. Nuada closed his performance with the tale of the great fire, and Groundsel’s part in it, emphasizing the strength of character and the powers of leadership that were gifts from the gods to men of certain futures. The hall exploded with applause and Nuada bowed to the audience, then turned to bow even lower in Groundsel’s direction.
The outlaw leader stood and returned the bow. Bathed in sweat Nuada leapt from the table, swept up a flagon of ale and downed it.
‘You are a man of great talent,’ Groundsel told him as he joined the outlaw and Arian at the far end of the hall.
‘My talent would be as nothing without the exploits of heroes, my Lord.’
‘How did you come to hear of the fire?’
‘Everywhere I have travelled men talk of it,’ Nuada answered. Arian leaned back and shook her head. She said nothing. Early in the evening Groundsel had put his arm around her, stroking her neck or patting her thigh. But when Nuada had begun speaking he had forgotten her presence. It was galling. And as for the fire… everyone knew how Groundsel had done nothing until his own granary was threatened. Three villages were destroyed and fourteen people died before he even stirred from his own settlement.
In that moment, Arian came close to hating Nuada for glorifying the incident.
Groundsel turned to her and grinned. Sweat had drenched the yellow silk shirt and it was creased over his bulging belly. His hand pawed at her thigh. ‘You are a fire in my blood,’ he whispered, pushing wet lips against her cheek.
She blushed deeply and pulled away from him, but his brawny arm circled her shoulder to drag her in against him.
The door at the far end of the hall opened and two men entered. The first was drenched in blood; the second was Llaw Gyffes.
Llaw supported the wounded man, helping him to a chair. Men rushed towards them, blocking Arian’s view. Groundsel leapt to his feet and ran forward, knocking aside any in his way.