The Summer of the Danes by Ellis Peters Page B

edge of the board, the knuckles sharp and pale as ice. He said no word and
made no sound, but his bleak stare never wavered.
    “Too
harsh a name,” said Bledri fiercely, “for a deed done in heat. Nor did your
lordship wait to hear my prince’s side of the quarrel.”
    “For
a deed done in heat,” said Owain with immovable composure, “this was well
planned. Eight men do not lie in wait in cover for four travellers unsuspecting
and unarmed, in hot blood. You do your lord’s cause no favour by defending his
crime. You said you came to plead. My mind is not closed against
reconciliation, civilly sought. It is proof against threats.”
    “Yet,
Owain,” cried Bledri, flaring like a resinous torch, “it behoves even you to
weigh what consequences may follow if you are obdurate. A wise man would know
when to unbend, before his own brand burns back into his face.”
    Cuhelyn
started out of his stillness, quivering, and was half rising to his feet when
he regained control, and sank back in his place, again mute and motionless.
Hywel had not moved, nor had his face changed. He had his father’s formidable
composure. And Owain’s unshaken and unshakable calm subdued in a moment the
uneasy stir and murmur that had passed round the high table and started louder
echoes down in the floor of the hall.
    “Am
I to take that as threat, or promise, or a forecast of a doom from heaven?”
asked Owain, in the most amiable of voices, but none the less with a razor edge
to the tone that gave it piercing sweetness, and caused Bledri to draw back his
head a little as if from a possible blow, and for a moment veil the smouldering
fire of his black eyes, and abate the savage tightness of his lips. Somewhat
more cautiously he responded at last:
    “I
meant only that enmity and hatred between brothers is unseemly among men, and
cannot but be displeasing to God. It cannot bear any but disastrous fruit. I
beg you, restore your brother his rights.”
    “That,”
said Owain thoughtfully, and eyeing the petitioner with a stare that measured
and probed beyond the words offered, “I am not yet ready to concede. But
perhaps we should consider of this matter at more leisure. Tomorrow morning I
and my people set out for Aber and Bangor, together with some of the lord
bishop’s household and these visitors from Lichfield. It is in my mind, Bledri
ap Rhys, that you should ride with us and be our guest at Aber, and on the way,
and there at home in my llys, you may better develop your argument, and I
better consider on those consequences of which you make mention. I should not
like,” said Owain in tones of honey, “to invite disaster for want of
forethought. Say yes to my hospitality, and sit down with us at our host’s
table.”
    It
was entirely plain to Cadfael, as to many another within the hall, that by this
time Bledri had small choice in the matter. Owain’s men of the guard had fully
understood the nature of the invitation. By his tight smile, so had Bledri,
though he accepted it with every evidence of pleasure and satisfaction. No
doubt it suited him to continue in the prince’s company, whether as guest or
prisoner, and to keep his eyes and ears open on the ride to Aber. All the more
if his hint of dire consequences meant more than the foreshadowing of divine
disapproval of enmity between brothers. He had said a little too much to be
taken at his face value. And as a guest, free or under guard, his own safety
was assured. He took the place that was cleared for him at the bishop’s table,
and drank to the prince with a discreet countenance and easy smile. The bishop
visibly drew deep breath, relieved that his well-meaning effort at peace-making
had at least survived the first skirmish. Whether he had understood the
vibrating undertones of what had passed was doubtful. The subtleties of the
Welsh were probably wasted on a forthright and devout Norman, Cadfael
reflected. The better for