CHAPTER NINE
I
t
was an hour or more before Caradoc could think plainly of what had just happened. Gwynedd sat patiently by his side as he told again and again of the battle, of the rainbow and the charge, of Bobyn, of Catuval’s horses tangled in their own entrails, the Belgians lying dead or being hunted as far as the eye could see by yelling horsemen. But now he could not bring his tongue to speak Reged’s name. Always, as he came near the end of his story, his voice broke and he stopped, the sound of the ghastly raven in his ears again. Then Gwynedd held his hands and nodded, as though she understood what it was like to see a brother with the arrow’s feathers sticking out from under his chin and his hands still raised towards the gods.
Gwyndoc sat dumb by his king, his head hanging i
