The Bwy Hir Complete Trilogy (57 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Gwyn cut the last slices from the heel of bread and set them aside ready to receive the bacon he was frying on the Aga. Bara waited patiently for her portion of breakfast, her nose held high, inhaling the aromas.

Gwyn sighed. He was running low o
n provisions and that meant a trip into town to restock. It was Sunday morning and few shops would be open. Running his hand over his stubbly chin he mentally formed a list in his head: bread, milk, bacon, sausages, cheese, beans, potatoes … The list was endless. He sighed again.

He had intended to spend the day chopping wood and repairing the chicken run. The damn foxes
were forever trying to get in lately and steal the hens – Anwen’s hens, and he’d be damned if he’d let them succeed.

Anwen. She was never far from his mind. Even after four years he still thought about her every day. He wondered what the babe looked like too, although he presumed he wasn’t much of a babe now, probably walking and talking and everything.

Only now and then did he receive news from her. A postcard from far off lands was sent to the Post Office – not the farm – and Liz Jones would secretly deliver them to him, along with jam and cakes, scones and sometimes stews. How he loved Liz’s stew.

He didn’t know how Anwen managed to get these postcards sent to him, or by whom, but he loved receiving them, loved reading her tiny, precise handwriting, but after reading them his heart would sink and a rush of guilt would envelop him. The postcards were always addressed to Dad and Gwyn. She still didn’t know.

Gwyn had made sure the phone was disconnected after the funerals. He did not trust himself to speak to Anwen, not directly. She would know something was wrong the minute he opened his mouth. It was better to have no contact. It was safer for her and safer for the child.

The child. Anwen had delivered a healthy baby boy and she had named him Dafydd Gwyn Morgan. A fine name. Although he knew she called him Davy. Gwyn had told no
-one of this. As far as he knew only Liz and maybe Dai Jones knew of the boy and his name. Gwyn wondered what Taliesin and the Bwy Hir would make of it. If they got hold of him would they change his name? Of course they would. They would make sure he was properly named to include ap – something ap Taliesin ap Aeron Ddu. ‘Bugger ‘em, Bara.’ He threw a piece of bacon rind towards her and she caught it in one snap. ‘Davy is a good name.’  Gwyn took his bacon sandwich to the kitchen table and sat down. Looking towards the window as he lifted the sandwich to his mouth he was surprised and a little annoyed to see Glyn-Guinea traipsing into the yard. ‘Bloody hell,’ he grumbled, setting his sandwich down.

He
rapped on the door and Gwyn opened it. Without waiting for an invitation, Glyn-Guinea barged right past Gwyn and took a seat at the kitchen table, leaning on his walking stick, waiting. Gwyn was stunned.

Gwyn’s attention was caught by the sound of more footsteps. He stepped out of the doorway to see who else was disturbing his breakfast. ‘Morning, Gwyn.’ Dai Jones dipped his head and strolled right past him into the house. Gwyn’s mouth hung open.

The sound of a car approaching up the driveway caught Gwyn’s attention. He recognised the car immediately and scratched his head in wonderment. ‘Morning, Gwyn.’ Saw-Bones Selwyn, unshaven and bleary eyed, got out of his car and walked straight into the house leaving Gwyn standing like an idiot outside his own doorway.

Confused and slightly annoyed, Gwyn stormed back into
the house. Glyn-Guinea, Dai Jones and Saw-Bones Selwyn were all sitting at the kitchen table, their grim, determined faces all turned towards him as he stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘what’s all this about?’

Glyn-Guinea was the first to speak
. ‘Wait.’ He held up a gnarled finger. ‘There’s more coming yet.’

Gwyn rubbed his hands through his hair and stared into the faces of his neighbours. Gwyn wasn’t used to company, he led a solitary life now, one that didn’t include entertaining unexpected neighbours
. ‘If you’ve come about Anwen, I don’t know where she is and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.’

Glyn-Guinea fished in his pocket, pulled out his pipe and began to fiddle in his other pockets for a box of matches
. ‘Have you heard about the vicar?’ His voice was conversational and unvarnished.

‘No.’ Gwyn looked to Dai Jones and
Saw-Bones Selwyn but they kept their faces blank. ‘What about him?’

Glyn-Guinea puffed on his lit pipe, a vine of smoke drifted up towards the ceiling.
‘Vanished.’

‘What?’ Gwyn asked incredulously
. ‘That makes no sense.’ Glyn-Guinea shook his head. Gwyn was baffled.

Glyn-Guinea moved his pipe to the corner of his mouth and spoke through clenched teeth
. ‘He vanished sometime yesterday evening between house calls. Just wait until everybody is here, all will be explained then.’ He nodded towards the door.

Tap, tap, tap
. Gwyn turned to answer the knock. Liz, Dai’s wife and his son Gary stood patiently on the other side of the door.  Gwyn let them through into the kitchen.

‘No tea on?’ Liz asked before tutting and setting about the kitchen, filling the kettle and returning it to the hotplate, opening and shutting cupboards in search of tea making paraphernalia,
shooing Bara out of the way.

Gwyn called Bara to heel and she happily trotted to his side, tail wagging, tongue lolling. ‘Is that everyone?’ Gwyn asked with exasperation.

Glyn-Guinea gave a tight nod. ‘For now.’ He ignored Liz’s tutting as she waved his pipe smoke away from her. ‘So, here we are then,’ he began, ‘not much of an army, but we’ll have to do. The Chosen must make a stand.’

‘I am not one of the Chosen
,’ Gwyn replied flatly and folded his arms across his chest, ‘and neither is Liz unless things have changed.’

Glyn-Guinea’s eyebrows knitted together and he set his jaw
. ‘Yes you bloody well are Chosen, whether you like it or not. As for Liz, she’s one of us, so Chosen or not, we stand as one.’

Gwyn matched Glyn-Guinea’s scowl
. ‘No, I am not Chosen -I am Gwaradwyddedig. The Druids killed my father and my aunt and drove Anwen away. I am not Chosen. Liz can do whatever she likes but I am not Chosen.’

‘You listen to me, Gwyn Morgan,’ Glyn-Guinea
said, leaning forward in his seat and using his pipe to punctuate his speech, ‘You’ve been wallowing in your own self-pity long enough. You are a Morgan. You are part of this village. You are part of the Triskele. Your blood sings with the blood of your forefathers. You are Chosen and you will damn well pull your head out of your arse and help us or get out of this kitchen and be damned.’

‘It’s my bloody kitchen!’ Gwyn shouted back.

A silence filled the kitchen. Only the gentle whistle of the boiling kettle punctured the hush. Gwyn blew out his cheeks and looked into the faces of his friends and neighbours. They were all watching him, guarded but expectant. Finally, Gwyn’s shoulders sagged. ‘What do you want, exactly?’

Smiles split their faces, Glyn-Guinea gave a satisfied nod and Dai Jones got up from his chair and patted Gwyn’s shoulders solemnly. ‘Good man.’

Liz produced a tea tray and the men cleared the table before emptying their pockets, spilling the contents into the centre of the table. From Glyn-Guinea’s pockets came a folded map, a compass, a collection of small runes carved into hazel wood and threaded with string.

Dai Jones produced another folded map, notebooks and an assortment of pens.
Saw-Bones Selwyn produced an address book, small packs of first-aid kits, a scale ruler and the largest wad of bank notes Gwyn had ever seen.

Gary pulled out a Chosen amulet, leaned over and handed it to Gwyn
. ‘Ask no questions,’ he said sheepishly ‘and I’ll tell you no lies.’ Gwyn put it in his pocket.

Liz was the last. From her coat pockets she pulled out a bundle of letters neatly tied together with green ribbon and six silver bracelets all decorated with a gold acorn attached to the chain. They all leaned back from the table and looked to Gwyn. He felt guilty that he had nothing to add to the mountain of spoils. Glyn-Guinea sighed
. ‘Gwyn, go get a Bible, the Mabinogion and your grandfather’s notebook.’

Gwyn scurried to gather the books together. He was confused
and off balance but strangely excited.
What do they have planned
? he thought. He returned to the kitchen and placed the books on the table before standing back with his hands in his pockets.

‘Right then
,’ Glyn-Guinea said, pulling his chair closer to the table, ‘we have a mission. Too long we have allowed ourselves to be cowed by the fear of Arawn.’ The group gathered closer to the table, hanging on Glyn-Guinea’s every word. ‘He grows stronger, bolder and the Triskele is on the brink of collapse.’ He paused and looked into Gwyn’s eyes. ‘He is looking for Anwen and her babe, make no mistake about that. He will need a Bwy Hir body if he is to claim back the lands of Cymru.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Glyn interrupted; concern for Anwen causing his voice to tremble.  Glyn-Guinea chewed on the stem of his pipe and brushed Gwyn’s question aside
. ‘The Bwy Hir and Druids may have gone to ground, cowering behind their walls, but we – we are the ones paying the price. Our flocks sicken or vanish, or worse – are found ravaged. Fish are found dead along the river banks. People – our people are going missing and the Druids and the Bwy Hir do nothing. We’ve asked for help, we’ve offered our help to them and nothing, the Druids do nothing.’

‘So, we’ve sent a message via Liz to Awel and she has agreed to help us.’ He leaned back as the others nodded. ‘Awel Chan y Bant is going to help us stop Arawn in his tracks. We are going to help her find Anwen and the babe and bring them safely to the
Dell before the horned devil, Arawn or that witch, Atgas can get their hands on them. We are going to find their lair and take back our people and Awel … she is going to slay Arawn and send him back to
y Gwag
.’

‘Awel?’ Gwyn’s voice raised an octave
. ‘Awel is going to kill the most feared Bwy Hir in all of history?’

‘He is still mortal, Gwyn. At least until he finds a Bwy Hir body, which is why we must find Anwen and her child.’ Glyn-Guinea pulled the pipe from his mouth.

‘How? If the Druids and Bwy Hir can’t find Anwen and her child, if they can’t find this Arawn or where he’s hiding, then how the hell are we supposed to?’ Gwyn folded his arms again.

‘My cousin kept in contact with Anwen, she told me about their little conversation – Mary and I were quite close.’
Saw-Bones Selwyn piped up. ‘Mary was as close to Anwen as I was to Mary. They were in contact until …’ Dai Jones leaned over and squeezed Selwyn’s arm. ‘Until she was found dead,’ he finished for him and Selwyn nodded gratefully.

‘Mary from London? She was your cousin? Anwen spoke of her.’ Gwyn became attentive
. ‘So was Anwen with her? Is Anwen safe?’

‘She wasn’t there. Mary died alone in a house fire, not two days ago. Anwen would contact Mary every now and then
to swap news. They were friends.’ Saw-Bones Selwyn slumped in his chair.

‘How do you know all this?’ Gwyn felt suddenly angry that he had been kept in the dark.

‘I was Mary’s contact.’ Liz spoke softly. ‘I was the go-between for Awel and Mary. I too was Mary’s friend.’ She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

‘So all this time you knew where Anwen was?’ Gwyn’s voice was gruff, abrupt.

‘No.’ Liz shook her head. ‘I knew that she had contacted Mary, but Anwen wasn’t with her Gwyn. Anwen kept herself and her babe hidden, even from Mary. They only ever spoke over the phone. No-one knows where Anwen is – that’s why we need you to help find her.’

‘I told you. I don’t know where she is! I haven’t spoken to her since she left – she still thinks Dad is alive.’ Gwyn cleared his throat
. ‘I wouldn’t even know where to start looking.’

‘The postcards.’ Liz leaned over and placed a warm hand on Gwyn’s forearm
. ‘She sends you postcards – maybe they can offer us a clue.’

Gwyn’s voice grew louder
. ‘They’re from foreign countries, Liz, you of all people know that, you’re the Post Mistress for heaven’s sake.’

‘Hey.’ Dai Jones gave Gwyn a warning look
. ‘Liz is only trying to help. We need to find Anwen.’

‘Sorry, Liz.’ Gwyn inhaled deeply and brought his temper under control
. ‘Sorry.’ Liz squeezed his arm and smiled. ‘Shall I get you the postcards?’ he offered and went to the hallway bureau and brought back a small stack of dog-eared postcards.

He passed them to Liz and she began sifting through them, passing them one by one around the group. Gwyn felt that he was being intruded upon but held his tongue.

‘They’re from all over the world!’ Dai Jones exclaimed as he flipped a postcard in his hand. ‘This one’s from Morocco! Where is that exactly?’ He looked around the group but no one offered an answer.

‘I told you.’ Gwyn folded his arms again
. ‘They’re from just about everywhere, but I know she’s not the one posting them, she says so in one of them.’ He leaned over and plucked a card from Liz’s pile and began to read it.
“I know you always liked stamps, so a friend agreed to post this for me when they arrived in France … I’m well and so is little Davy. I miss you both and hopefully one day we can all be together again. Take care of yourselves. I only wish I could speak to you on the phone. I miss your voices. Love A.”