There was a low murmur of laughter from around the table.
“It did not seem that bad at the time,” Dodinal mumbled, trying to ignore the way the men stared at him with friendly, curious expressions. All save the curly-haired man who sat in the chair near to Dodinal, who was, presumably, Gerwyn. He held Dodinal with a surly and defiant gaze. Could it be that he was intimidated by Dodinal and was determined not to show it? Maybe he was just looking for trouble, as Rhiannon had warned.
His father was powerfully built, with a broad chest and a creased, leathery face that spoke of years of exposure to the elements. His hair and beard were as white as snow but his brown eyes were clear and bright. His accent, like Rhiannon’s, was rich and mellifluous. It was said the Welsh were a nation of poets, but Dodinal knew they were dangerous too. Perhaps that was why he felt comfortable in their presence.
“This is Dodinal.” The chieftain addressed the room once Rhiannon had left them. “My grandson’s saviour, as you will have heard. For that reason alone, if no other, he is now kin. One of us.”
Idris took him by the arm and guided him around the table, calling out the names of the men as they passed: Emlyn, Tomos, Rhydian, Elfed, Hywel and so forth, the names all unfamiliar to Dodinal’s ears. The men either nodded or murmured a greeting in return. Introductions done, the old man indicated the high-backed chair. “Be seated.” Dodinal shook his head and made to squat at the end of the bench — it was the chieftain’s chair and he had no right to take it — but Idris was insistent. “I would consider it an honour.”
Dodinal reluctantly took the seat. Idris settled on the bench. “Gerwyn, fetch our guest some food and drink.”
Gerwyn made no effort to rise. “Why? So we can sit here, watching him eat while we slowly starve?”
“It is tradition to offer hospitality to guests,” Idris answered, his tone reasonable. “True, we are not blessed with as much food as we would like, but we will prevail. We always do. It has not reached such a low point that we can be excused for forgetting our manners.”
“If this weather persists we will have nothing left,” Gerwyn protested angrily. “We can barely feed ourselves, let alone strangers.”
Idris banged his fist on the table, the crash echoing around the hall. When he spoke it was with a voice like iron. “Remember your place. You are the not the brehyrion, but his son. When I ask you to do something, I do not expect defiance.”
Dodinal quickly revised his opinion. On the surface, Idris was calm and benevolent: beneath, he was as hard as the frozen earth.
Not wanting to be the cause of a row between father and son, Dodinal spoke up. “Though I thank you for your kindness, there is no need for food or drink. Rhiannon has taken care of me. And,” he added, looking pointedly at Gerwyn, “I do not intend to be a burden. As soon as the storm eases I will leave. I have matters to attend to.”
The words did not satisfy Gerwyn. He slouched in his chair, arms folded, looking meaningfully at two younger men sat near him. So similar were their features that they had to be brothers. It was clear they would back Gerwyn in a fight. Not that it would come to that, with Idris there to crack unruly heads together.
“Tell me,” the chieftain said amicably, all smiles again, as if no harsh words had been exchanged. “What brings a man to such a godforsaken wilderness as this?”
Dodinal shrugged. He had lost count of how many times he had been asked the same question since embarking upon his quest. He always gave the same answer. “I am a traveller, a wanderer. I drift from place to place, looking for work to pay for food and shelter. Women and song, too, if I am lucky enough to find them.”
The older men laughed, although Gerwyn and his friends did not. Dodinal would have to keep an eye on them if the weather forced him to stay longer. He knew trouble when he saw it.
“I see.” Idris studied him closely. “For a wanderer and a drifter, you certainly possess very fine clothes. The women who stitched them for you told me they had never seen such fine workmanship.”
It was true. While Dodinal could not see the men’s boots under the table, he doubted they were made from soft leather and lined with fur. Their shirts were of the roughest of cloth, while his were of fine linen.
“I work hard and have few needs, so I can afford to buy the best of what I require. Cheaper garments would fall apart quickly, and would not protect me from the elements.”
“And your sword?”
Dodinal sat up a little straighter. “It belonged to my father. When he died it was passed on to me.” That too was a lie; Arthur had presented it to him. “Speaking of which, I would be grateful if you would return it to me.”
“My father offers you hospitality and this is how you repay him?” Gerwyn spat. “By demanding your sword? You will happily take the last of our food and drink, yet you have so little trust in us?”
Gerwyn seemed determined to maintain hostilities no matter what. Perhaps there was already tension between father and son; Gerwyn could be using Dodinal to provoke the old man.
“One more word from you, you little whelp, and you’ll be picking out your teeth from your beard,” Idris warned. With studied slowness, he turned away from his son to face Dodinal. “Of course you can have it returned. Oh, and Rhiannon tells me you lost some of your belongings. That is unfortunate. If I can replace anything when you are ready to leave, I will gladly do so.”
Gerwyn muttered something derogatory under his breath. Other than giving him a contemptuous look, Idris did not rise to the bait.
“Having said that,” the chieftain added, “you are welcome to stay as long as you want.”
“You’re very kind. But, as I have mentioned, I have matters to attend to. I will be on my way as soon as the weather improves.”
“Where are you heading?” Idris asked. There was something about his tone of voice that put Dodinal on his guard. “Camelot?”
“No. My travels take me north.”
“But you have been there.” It was not a question. “I can think of no other place where such fine clothes as yours could be bought.”
“Yes, I have been there.” Better to tell a half-truth than a lie. There was less danger of being caught.
“Did you see Arthur?”
“What if he did?” Gerwyn demanded. “Arthur has done nothing for us. They are not starving in Camelot, are they, Dodinal?”
“No. But then I am not in Camelot. And I am starving, too.”
Idris roared with laughter and thumped him on the back. “Well answered. But that’s enough talk for now. I am not brave enough to incur the wrath of my daughter-in-law. This man was badly hurt. He needs to rest.” He turned to Dodinal. “Come. I will walk with you.”
“No reason for us both to be out in the cold.”
“Except if you fall and open the wound it will be me who needs stitching after Rhiannon gets her hands on me.”
“A fair point,” Dodinal conceded. “But before we go, I would ask again for my sword. Despite what your son thinks, it is not about lack of trust. The sword is of great personal value.”
“I understand,” Idris said, solemn for once. “I, too, have lost someone close. The possessions they leave behind take on a greater importance than they ever had while they lived.”
With that he strode off into the depths of the Great Hall, disappearing past the hanging skins, returning moments later with Dodinal’s sword belt in one hand and a spear in the other. Dodinal stood as the chieftain approached and gratefully took the belt from him and buckled it around his waist.
“A gift,” the chieftain said, offering the spear. “I made it with my own hands. It served me well for many years.”
“Idris, there is no need. You have done more than enough to repay me already.”
“I am too old to hunt now, and I would rather it be put to good use than be left to gather dust in the corner.” The chieftain grinned and dug an elbow into Dodinal’s ribs. “And you could use it as a walking stick until your leg mends.”