The Hounds of Annwn (1-2)

Chapter 3-1

CHAPTER 3

How could she have said anything so embarrassing, Rhian thought. Would she never learn to hold her tongue?

As they walked to the manor house, she pulled back on Rhys so that they were walking more abreast of each other. That way she could get a better look at their guest. My, he was big, taller than Rhys, a bit, and broader. Are all humans this large? There was something about him that reminded her of her foster-father, but it was hard to say what, since his face was so expressive, constantly changing, while Gwyn’s was always so careful.

She glimpsed him smiling, not broadly, but quietly, to himself, as if he found everything amusing. Including her clumsy manners, probably.

She sighed silently. Well, at least he looked too kind to hold it against her. She decided he couldn’t have been part of Iolo’s murder. The news had traveled very quickly with the first hunters back from the disaster, some of whom saw it happen and were pleased to tell anyone all about it. The one day she has to miss hunting and look what happens. She was determined to get a look at the body herself, but so far they’d turned her away. Never mind, I know how to get in there after hours when everyone’s asleep.

Who would be huntsman, now? It seemed like it must be Rhys, but she worried about that. He didn’t want it, might not be any good at it. It was so unfair. She was the one who wanted it, not him. She could do it, she knew she could. She’d been practicing, in the kennels, with Isolda’s help. She’d almost had Iolo persuaded to take her with him. Almost. Would it have made any difference? Or would she be dead, too? She shivered.

She looked over at George again as they approached the nearest of the three rear entrances. How had he managed it? Could Gwyn hire him, maybe?

As they entered the hunting room, she sneezed at the smoke from the fire that took some of the chill off the stone walls. She checked to see if anyone else was there, in the comfortable chairs by the fireplace or at the small tables that marched along the right side, but the room was empty. She glanced at the pegs on the outer wall and saw the usual mix of gear, both military and hunting, with several bows, a few swords, and a couple of lances with cross bars. Many of the pegs were empty.

So, nothing out of the ordinary was going on, just everyone busy with something else.

Rhys turned to her and unbuckled his belt with sword and hunting knife attached. He put the two blades together, and wrapped the belt around them to make a neat package. “Would you do me the favor of returning this to my room and bringing me my normal belt while I attend to our guest?”

She looked at him, surprised. He didn’t often ask for casual favors like this, the way he would a friend, much less appeal to her duties to help him as host.

Pleased not to be treated as a child, she nodded at him with appropriate dignity. “Certainly, brother.”

She took the weighty bundle in both arms and ran off through the doorway on the left.

George and Rhys followed her more sedately, entering a large hall with open double doors to the outside on the left wall. It was flagstone paved and the walls were rough stone, like the exterior walls. An archway at each end pierced the long wall opposite the outer doors, and George could see an immense great hall within. Along the outer wall on the far side of the outer doors a staircase led both up and down into cellars. He could smell something roasting through a door at the far side of the hall across from him.

Nearest to him on the left was an enclosed area with doors, like a large set of cloakrooms. Rhys nodded at it. “For your convenience.” George opened a door and discovered tidy if basic indoor plumbing.

After the emptiness of the first room, this hall was busy. Servants and attendants bustled through the open doors and archways, and from the kitchen opposite came a boisterous and continuous noise. Rhys snagged an older man with an air of management about him. “Do you know where my foster-father is?”

“In council, I believe.”

Rhys strode off with George, calling back over his shoulder, “Send us some refreshment there.” Without waiting for a reply, he led George into the great hall in the interior of the manor house.

The very image of a medieval banqueting hall, this cavernous space rose three stories. George noted a raised stone platform with steps all around against the left wall, bearing one row of long tables and chairs. The main floor was flagstoned, wide and empty. Against the right wall, beneath a minstrels’ gallery, stood an orderly pile of long trestle table platforms and supports, with low benches in stacks beside them.

The hall was well-lit and George turned his head to see why. Behind him was a great central hearth along the wall shared with the back hall he’d just left. The chimney rose up internally along the center of that long wall and, at the level of the third floor, was surrounded on both sides by a series of tall windows. The afternoon sunlight poured through and illuminated the space. No windows were cut through any other wall. Tapestries and banners clung to the stone surfaces of the upper walls, their colors faded and hard to discern. The ceiling receded into dimness with a hint of carved beams.

On the wall opposite the hearth was a large archway. George glimpsed the entrance hall at the front of the manor house through it, but Rhys didn’t head that way. Instead, he drew George after him to a closed door in the left wall on the other side of the raised dais.

The sound of steps from behind halted them, and they turned to find Rhian running up with Rhys’s belt and a simple hanging knife. “Can’t I come in with you?” she pleaded.

“You know he won’t allow it. I’ll come find you after and tell you everything. Well, almost. Will that satisfy you?”

She hung on his arm anyway, and when he tapped on the door and then opened it, she came through with them, lingering in the doorway.

George saw a large comfortable room, plastered along the inner walls. The one outer wall across from the open door was wood-paneled and filled with bookcases and papers. In the half of the room near the entrance stood a great table, half-occupied now with several people. Gwyn was seated at the narrow end furthest from the door, listening to an earnest discussion. Behind him, in the back half of the room, were desks and tables, and more stacks of papers. A fire had been laid in the hearth behind the desks, but it hadn’t been lit.

Paintings, mostly portraits, hung on the plastered walls, along with several oil lamps. A number of small tables and chairs were scattered beyond the council table. On the right, another closed door led to the front of the building.

Gwyn looked up as they entered. He caught Rhian’s eye and raised an eyebrow. She sighed melodramatically and turned away, shutting the door behind her.

George remained standing near the door while Rhys walked the length of the table and approached Gwyn. Gwyn raised a hand to halt the conversation around the table.

Rhys came to a halt. “My lord, the hounds are safely back in kennels and all’s well. Our guest’s horse has been seen to, and I’ve brought him back to you.”

“My thanks, foster-son. Please be seated while we finish our business.”

Raising his eyes to George, he continued, “Please wait a few minutes, kinsman. I would speak with you privately.”

Answers at last, I hope, George thought. Who are these people? Will they let me leave wherever this is?

Rhys and George removed themselves to some comfortable chairs beyond the great table. A quiet tap on the door they had used was followed by a servant bringing in a tray with food and drink. Rhys waved him over and he set up on a small table between them. A fresh round crusty loaf, butter, ham, cheese, and several apples, with flagons of cider and water, tempted their appetite. George’s pocket knife was short for the purpose, so Rhys used his belt knife to cut for them both. He poured out some cider into glasses where it bubbled quietly along the sides.

George’s stomach overruled his growing concern about how he was going to get back home. They ate in pleasant silence for a few minutes, concentrating on the food. The cider was sparkling and mildly alcoholic.

Rhys raised an eyebrow at him. “My foster-father called you kinsman?” he asked.

“I don’t understand it myself. I know of someone with that name, but this can’t be him, he’d be dead,” George said.

A quiet scratch on a nearby closed door leading to the front rooms of the manor house caused Rhys to shake his head and rise, opening the door to let in two small white terriers, long haired and wiry-coated. The noise in the front rooms beyond them vanished again once he closed the door.

The terriers promptly parked themselves in front of the food and waited, quivering. “Nothing wrong with those noses,” George said quietly, trying not to disturb the discussion around the table.

“They are scamps and rogues, and my lord is excessively fond of them.” Rhys smiled. “Allow me to introduce Taffy and Myfanwy.” He patted the seat of the chair he occupied and Taffy hopped up into place, rewarded with a tidbit of ham. Myfanwy looked up imploringly at George, so he obliged her with the same invitation and welcomed the bit of warmth along one leg, kept contented by small but frequently solicited bribes.

The conversation at the other end of the great table was intense but quiet, and George couldn’t make out much of it.

Gwyn rose. “Let me know what you find immediately. We’ll continue this in the morning. If you’ll excuse me…”

They pushed their chairs back, nodded, and left through the door to the great hall.

Gwyn came over to Rhys and George in the corner. “Any left for me?”

He pulled another comfortable chair over and sat down. Rhys handed him his own glass and refilled it with cider, cutting him some bread and ham. Gwyn looked over at Taffy in Rhys’s lap. “Well?” The terrier jumped down and hopped up to Gwyn’s seat. Myfanwy studiously ignored him to keep George’s nice warm leg. Gwyn chuckled. “Traitor,” he told her.

Silence persisted while Gwyn took a few bites. Then he sighed, put his glass down, and looked directly at George. “We have much to discuss.”

George cleared his throat. He could finally ask the most important question.

“Where am I?”

“There’s no simple answer to that. This is still Virginia, after a fashion, and yet really more a reflection of Virginia in another place.”

George nodded to himself. Well, you knew it was something like that already, didn’t you, he thought. He took a deep breath.

“If you’re about to say that I’ve been carried off by the Fair Folk to Elf-land, I’m not sure I can well dispute you. There’s too much concrete reality in all of this.” He could hardly believe that he’d actually said this, but he truly had no good rational explanation to hand.

Gwyn smiled. “We would call it the otherworld.”

Maybe this will make more sense from another direction, George thought.

“You’ve called me ‘kinsman.’ What are we to each other?”

Gwyn approached the topic indirectly. “My kind are very long-lived and we’ve been in this new world for centuries. From time to time, some of us are accustomed to visit your human world, and sometimes we stay for a while, as a change.”

Suddenly George rethought the brief introduction in the field. Not a cousin in the Bellemore family, perhaps. “You’re the father of my grandmother Georgia Annan, aren’t you?”

Gwyn nodded. “And thus your great-grandfather.”

Rhys had been silent so far but at this he grinned. “That would make me some sort of cousin, wouldn’t it?” He sounded pleased.

George recalled the Bellemore estate history. It was often empty for a generation or two, and then re-occupied by an heir in the male line. Gwyn returning periodically under a new guise each time?