The Hounds of Annwn (1-2)

Chapter 2-1

CHAPTER 2

Kinsman?

George had no trouble recognizing the name. There was a Gwyn Annan who was the father of his grandmother Georgia, but he had gone to France with his son in the 1950s, soon after her marriage, and vanished. George didn’t know much about her family. This must be a descendant from that line.

Bellemore had been vacant since then, kept in good repair by a farm manager, and supervised by a lawyer from Culpeper for annual repairs and cleaning from an apparently inexhaustible budget. It had been part of the Rowanton Hunt territory long ago but closed as a fixture for decades. Rumors of the current heir returning had been confirmed when the senior Master of Foxhounds, his grandfather Gilbert Talbot, received an invitation to hunt there today, mailed from the lawyer’s office under instruction. Could this be the heir? He called it “his land.”

That made some sense of who he was, but couldn’t explain the clothing, or the dead man lying bloody on the ground.

Gwyn recalled himself first. “We’ll discuss this later. I must see to this outrage now.”

He looked up at Idris. “Take everyone who will go back to the manor and see that they’re well provisioned, with apologies for the abrupt ending of their sport today. Make sure you listen to their complaints. I want to hear their speculations about this affair afterward.”

Idris nodded, turned his horse, and headed over to the main body of riders to begin organizing a general withdrawal.

Turning to one of the men beside him, Gwyn said, “Thomas, take some of these standing here to clean poor Iolo’s body as best you can. We’ll tie him onto his horse for the trip back.”

The appointed man, weatherbeaten and competent, gathered two to help him and they began a quiet discussion about what to do.

Gwyn turned back to George. “Idris named you huntsman. Is it so?”

“Not quite. I’ve been whipper-in for many years, both to my grandfather and then to his successors, but it’s not how I make my living. I’ve hunted hounds, on occasion, filling in for our huntsman.”

“Did you send those two hounds down to the pack?”

What was he getting at, George wondered.

“Yes. I’m sorry if I’ve interfered but it seemed clear that they weren’t on a trail and not with the pack where they belonged. I’m afraid I just reacted as I would for my own hunt.”

“And they obeyed?”

“Well, of course.” The question surprised him. The hounds always obeyed him—they knew him well after all, he thought. Maybe these hounds didn’t know him, he reconsidered, but it was a common enough command he gave them.

“Then I put you in charge of the pack for now to bring them home, if you would. As you can see, someone has killed Iolo ap Huw, my huntsman and foster-son.” He couldn’t keep the affection and grief from his voice.

Taken aback, George thought, what have I walked into? And then he mulled it over, just how would I take a strange pack home, I wonder?

He looked over at the hounds, both b***h and dog hounds milling about silently, a mixed gender pack. They were white with small reddish-orange markings, especially on the ears, and most were broken-haired rather than smooth.

Obviously someone needed to bring this pack back, and this Master, grieving and facing an emergency, asked me for the respect due his office. Hunting etiquette required George to make himself useful and he resolved to put all other speculation aside until the hounds were back safely. “Alright, then, I’ll give it a try. Who’s the senior man among the hunt staff?”

Gwyn pointed to the one who had first seen George at the edge of the woods. “That would be Owen the Leash.” Owen had been watching their conversation since he arrived, sitting his white horse at some distance from the pack.

George remounted and rode over to Owen, introducing himself and explaining his assignment. “How are you organized?”

Owen pointed out the other three mounted staff. George could see that they surrounded the pack but not closely, keeping them together like cowboys driving cattle. Only one, rather younger than the others, got close to the hounds. “Iolo it is who leads them and throws them into covert after their quarry. We three follow behind to keep them from turning.” His gesture excluded the younger man, and his expression made it clear he thought of the hounds as threats, not partners.

That was odd, George thought. Whippers-in usually operated from the side, to keep hounds together and stop them hunting separate trails on their own, or from the front, to turn them away from hazards like roads. They didn’t drive them forward or prevent them from turning back altogether—hounds were only too eager to hunt.

“And what about that one?” he said, indicating the younger man.

“Oh, that’s Rhys Vachan. Of the blood he is.”

An odd expression. What did that mean?

“Where are the kennels, and how far?”

Owen said, “We’ve come about five miles, hunting across the high ground. It would be three miles back, without detour.” He pointed west toward the mountains.

“What happened to the huntsman?”

“We stopped to water horses and hounds, and Iolo brought them up to the woods here. A whirling cloud, twice the size of a man it was, sped over the ground from the west and aimed directly at him. With a howl, and blood, the cloud passed over the slope. There’s outraged some of the hounds were, and a few trailed it and gave tongue, but they lost it and returned.”

The tale was fantastic, but he seemed to be sincere enough. “Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

“No, never. It’s cursed Gwyn is.”

George let that pass. He didn’t like the way Owen described the hounds, as if they were enemy troops to fend off. Maybe the other fellow would be more in tune with the pack. He raised an arm to the young Rhys and waved him over. Rhys was fair-haired and beardless, looking to be in his early twenties.

“My lord?”

“I’ve been tasked with bringing the hounds home. What do you suggest?”

Rhys replied straightforwardly enough, but George could hear the doubt in his voice. “If you’re not afraid, then walk among them for a few minutes and let them smell you.” George could see Owen’s eyes widen at the idea. “Then if you mount and ride forward, they should follow when you call them.”

“Sounds like a plan. I don’t know the way, so please stay close to the pack when we head off and let me know if I go astray.”

“As you wish.” Rhys rode off to what would be the point of departure at the head of the pack.

George looked down at the pack and saw about fourteen couple of hounds, assuming they counted their hounds in pairs for speed like everyone else. “How many should there be?” he asked Owen.

“We left with thirteen and a half couple.” That would be twenty-seven hounds. George half-smiled at the old hunting joke that you should always have an odd number of hounds out, since it was the odd hound that found the fox.

“Are they all here?”

“Yes, my lord.”

George walked Mosby past Owen and around to the far side of the pack. Before dismounting he glanced back and saw the bulk of the field moving off west at a slow canter. Three men were tending to the body on the ground, but the remaining dozen or so, and all the hunt staff, were watching him attentively. No doubt they expect to see a stranger’s discomfiture, he thought. Alright, then. Let’s disappoint them. He stood in the stirrups, swung his right leg over behind him, and dropped down. He drew the reins over Mosby’s head and looped them over his left arm, giving him a solid pat on the shoulder. Then he walked into the pack.

The first of the hounds came to him, and he could feel the undivided attention of the remaining men and dead silence outside the rustle of the pack. Ignore them. Concentrate on these hounds. The dog hound sniffed his boots daintily, then raised himself on his hind legs prepared to brace his front paws on George’s chest to inspect his face. He was enormous, and shaggy, more like an otter hound than a foxhound. George took a step back and let the hound drop lightly down to all four legs where he stood almost at waist level. George put a hand on his head and crooned to him, “Hey, puppy. Good old puppy.”

The dog hound stepped away and was succeeded by two dancing white bitches, whose interest was kept at ground level with a knee and some adroit dodging. One by one he made the acquaintance of each hound as he walked through the pack. He marked a few boisterous youngsters as likely young entry, hounds getting their first experiences of hunting with the pack, but otherwise they came to him in an orderly fashion, calm and courteous.

These are lovely hounds, he thought. I’ll bet they’ll come along just fine, especially if they’ve already had a run.

Then Owen edged a bit closer to watch his progress. Immediately, the hounds nearest to him raised their hackles and set up a low, almost subliminal, growl. They turned to face him with a sinister sort of focused alertness. The deep noise increased in intensity and threat, like the wavering hum of a hornet’s nest. The bystanders, who had begun moving normally, once again froze to watch, and Owen backed hastily away, the hounds quieting when he did. George had never seen this behavior in hounds before. Maybe they’re right to be cautious of this pack, but it doesn’t make any sense.

He resumed his progress through the interested hounds. As he led his horse forward, George saw that the hounds sniffed him casually but kept out from underfoot, while Mosby placed his feet carefully and came along behind him without any fuss. George made his way through the pack trying to make sure that he touched and was smelled by every individual hound. He was overwhelmed with first impressions, but there were a few hounds that he particularly liked the look of.

He called over to Rhys, as he approached the front of the pack. “Who are the leaders?” Rhys pointed out several hounds, including one dog hound named Dando, the first hound that had come to greet him.

“They’ll follow Dando anywhere,” Rhys said.

“Let’s put that to the test,” George said, as he mounted up.

He sat easily on Mosby and looked over to the rest of the hunt. The departing field was no longer in sight. The dead man’s body had been wrapped in someone’s cloak and tied across his horse’s saddle. George caught Gwyn’s eye and raised his eyebrow as a question. Gwyn nodded, and George stepped out.

He put himself at the head of the procession since the hounds usually led the field with their huntsman. He turned in the saddle and summoned Dando with a “Come along, Dando, puppy,” and the white hound cooperated as if they had hunted together for years. The pack paced tranquilly behind him, then Owen’s men, and then Gwyn and a man leading Iolo’s horse with the grim few who had stayed to help. Rhys rode nearby but behind and off to the left, calling out general directions. They headed west, toward the Blue Ridge.

Gwyn took his place at the head of the remnant of the field, behind Owen the Leash. Glancing back at the dismal procession behind him, his stomach tightened and he could feel his shock and horror begin to give way to a boiling rage.

Iolo, his foster-son and companion of hundreds of years, slain in his prime like an animal, in the midst of his work. Reluctantly he admitted his own sense of guilt in the matter; Iolo wasn’t murdered because of any crime he’d committed. Killing him two weeks before the great hunt was a master stroke aimed at Iolo’s lord instead.

For twenty years Gwyn had felt his enemies picking at his control of the hunt, but he never thought they would move so directly against the huntsman. He knew one of them had to be his sister Creiddylad, but he wasn’t sure what part she played. He felt the old familiar heartache at the thought, but Owen the Leash was hers, and he could no longer think of her as innocently involved. There were certainly others, though. He detected the hand of at least one other and thought he could name him: Gwythyr. Surely his sister wasn’t working together with her ex-husband—that he wouldn’t believe.