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Chapter 19

I do confess that Curate Addas would not have been my first choice as a travelling companion. Older and given much to endless talk and singing—when he was not talking, he was singing. Oh, how he loved to talk! More to hear the sound of his own voice, I suspect, than to engage in any meaningful conversation. I learned fairly quickly that my constant participation was not strictly required. He would ramble on regardless of any remark or observation I might make. If this seems like a complaint, it is not. The sound of his soft burr droning ever on was more than agreeable to me—I could make out only half of what he said in any case—I simply liked the comforting presence of a fellow rambler, someone to share the vagaries of the road. In truth, it was less a road than a hole-studded dirt path liberally strewn with rocks and other difficulties too numerous and tedious to describe at length: everything from mud wallows where run-off streams from the hillside had washed out the track thereby requiring extended, sometimes dangerous detours, to toothless beggars lying in wait for passing purses and prepared to hobble for miles in pursuit of a coin or two to shut them up. The former we could navigate, the latter we avoided as best we could since Addas had no coins to spare and, with the way ahead so uncertain, I did not care to part with any from my hidden purse. If that makes me a hard-heated miser, fair enough. I own it.

As I say, Addas was happy to ramble on at the mouth, and had a ready supply, apparently bottomless, of stories, observations, and local knowledge. Some, I tried hard to listen to, mostly I allowed it to pass by like birds winging south overhead. These I also noted with some concern. The season was on the change, and I only hoped that we might reach our near destination before bad weather caught us.

“This Caer Gwyn,” I remember asking a little after midday. “What is that—Fair Fort?”

“Mmm, more like White Fort,” he lightly corrected in his lilting accent. “I think because the walls are made of stone.”

Since we traversed a landscape covered in gray stone, I asked, “So why not Gray Fort?”

He laughed. “I think somebody painted it white for some reason.”

“Anyway, how far is it?”

“Not far. In good weather with an early start, I can make it in one day—a long day, mind.”

“And if the weather turns?”

“There is a shepherd’s hut where we can shelter. I use it sometimes.” He smiled. “That, or I sleep under the stars.” He waved a hand over his head and beamed as if this was the most splendid outing he could imagine. “Shepherds do it all the time.”

“Are we shepherds now?” I asked tartly.

He put back his head and guffawed. “I like you, Aurelia. You make me laugh.”

“Do I indeed?” Wary that he might be mocking me, I challenged him. “What else do you like about me then?”

He gave me a sideways glance. “Your red hair and your smile.”

I was aghast. “I don’t have red hair!”

“You do.” He insisted.

“It is russet.”

“And what’s that?” he grinned. “Another word for red—that’s what.”

I stared at him. “And you a curate,” I said at last, thinking to repay his insult, mild though it might be. “I wonder how you have survived so long with only half a brain.”

“Ha! Ha!” he laughed again. “See what I mean?”

That was Addas his sunny outlook was proof against many of life’s indignities. Well, I had plenty in my life to shadow my sunny outlook—not least the journey ahead of me. So, rather than get tangled up in useless argument, I changed the subject to one more pertinent to our predicament. “After Caer Gwyn, how far is that from Deva?” I wondered, resuming my calculations.

Addas shrugged. “I can’t say as I ever heard.”

“Never heard of Deva?”

“Deva—I’ve heard of that, to be sure. But I don’t know of anyone who has ever been there—save a merchant or two, maybe.”

“Most encouraging,” I grumbled. “To be sure.”

“But I have been to Caer Gwyn,” he said happily. “There is a church where Heddwyn often offers services and sometimes I go with him to assist. More often I go on my own. The people thereabouts are good folk, and you should hear them sing. . . .”

He was off, but I stopped listening and concentrated on the road as it wound its way up and up into the wild, empty hills—him talking and me pretending to listen. At midday, we ate a few mouthfuls from his bag and moved on. Later, as the sun dipped low in the west and the clouds began rolling in, I began to wish this shepherd’s hut of his would come into view sooner rather than later.

What I did see, however—a fair distance from the track—was a good-sized holding of two or three houses, barns, granaries, and even a separate cookhouse. We also saw the dogs: five big rough-coated, ugly brutes with huge, muscled forequarters and narrow haunches. Their wide slavering jaws were filled with wicked sharp teeth—the hounds of Hell could not be any more vicious. The beasts came streaking towards us barking furiously, baying for our blood.

I was for running. Save for Addas’ stern and urgent admonition to remain still and calm, I would have taken flight.

The fearsome beasts covered the ground between us in swift leaps and bounds. With Adda’s firm hand on my arm, holding me in place, we stood our ground and allowed them to confront us. I think this confused the animals. Likely, they expected us to flee so they could give chase and, inevitably, pull us down and rip us to bloody shreds. But we did not run, so it seemed they did not know what to do.

I can still see Addas—motionless as a rock, staring the baleful creatures down, refusing to be cowed. Every fiber in me screamed for flight but, drawing on that brave man’s strength of conviction, I forced myself to remain immobile, hardly daring to breathe, every beat of my heart a hasty prayer.

“That brown brute, there,” Addas whispered loudly in my ear. “He’s the leader. Look him in the eye and don’t look away. Stare at him. Make him feel your courage.”

“I don’t have any courage,” I whispered back.

“Do it anyway. Believe—and it will be so.”

I did as he asked. What else could I do? We were stuck there until . . . until the creatures grew bored, or frustrated, exhausted their ferocity, or attacked. However it was, the brutes soon gave up their growling and howling and, one by one, simply slunk away.

I watched them go and gazed at the cluster of dwellings in the near distance. All this commotion had failed to raise any interest from the houses or outbuildings. No one came to call off the dogs, nor so much as poked a curious head out the door to see what had roused the beasts to fury. We stood watching as the dogs trotted away, and I said, “Now what?”

“You can let go of my hand if you like.”

I glanced down, saw that I was tightly gripping his hand in mine—when had I done that? I instantly released him. “Sorry,” I muttered. Then asked, “How did you know what to do?”

“Heddwyn taught me,” he smiled. “I’ve seen them before. They’re not usually so feisty.”

Fiesty?” Well, that was one word for it.

We resumed our journey into an increasingly lonely hill country under an increasingly cloudy sky. Well, that farm holding, unwelcoming as it may have been, was also the last one we were to see in the daylight that remained. We passed no other settlements, houses, or trails leading to any habitation, and the day closed over us.

Indeed, the sun was well down and I was once again searching the hilltops and valleys for that shepherd’s hut. As it was, we did not see that small, round dwelling of wattle-and-daub until the moon was peering over the distant hills. Save for Addas’ knowledge of the way, I would have missed it. We made our way to it and, thankfully, found it empty, then quickly set about scraping together a few twigs and branches from the nearby bushes to make a fire. Inside the hut was a small stone hearth and a little dry kindling. There was also a pile of fleeces hung over one of the beams. We dumped our gleanings on the hearth and while I set about spreading the fleeces for sleeping places Addas lit the fire. I heard him say something and turned to see him down on his knees, hunched over a tiny heap of shredded bark, repeatedly striking sparks from the flint and iron he carried in his bag, and singing to his little heap of kindling.

“What are you doing?” I asked, arranging my cloak beside me on the dirt floor.

“Making a fire,” he said, without looking up.

“I mean, what is that you’re singing?”

“Me? I wasn’t singing.”

“You were, you know,” I insisted. “I may be mostly deaf, but I heard singing just now, and you’re the only other one here.”

He regarded me shrewdly. “You’re not as deaf as you pretend, I think. You hear well enough when it suits you.”

“So speaks the great physician, Addas of Aberdyfi.”

He laughed and admitted, “Well, I might have been singing the Kindling—it’s an old song my mother sings when the flames won’t catch. She says it helps.” He shrugged again. “Who knows?”

“Maybe it does help,” I said. “How does the song go? Sing it for me.”

He bent forward and struck the flint again . . . and in a moment, his voice filled the hut. He sang:


“In Jesu’s holy sight, King of Sun and all that shines,

“I stretch my hand on high and let it fall,

“Swiftly, swiftly, let it fall to strike,

“And strike again the kindling spark.

“Thou Spirit of Love, hearth’s true warmth,

“Breath of Life, Lord of Light and all things bright,

“Illumine thou our passage through this dark night,

“Illumine thou our passage through this dark night.”


As he sang, he struck his chip of flint to the iron and sent the sparks into the dry stuff he’d gathered—once and again and again, many times, until at last a red gleam appeared followed by a tenuous thread of smoke. Bending low, he cupped his hands around the pile and, blowing gently, coaxed the fledgling flame to life.

Once he was satisfied that the flame had caught, Addas sat back, beaming and announced, “You see? It worked.”

“Your mother taught you well.”

We made ourselves as comfortable as possible beside the hearth, feeding twigs and bits into the slowly growing fire. When at last we had a goodly blaze going, we sat back—Addas on one side of the hearth and me on the other—and let the warmth seep into us for the night was growing chill. Addas opened his bag and brought out bread and cheese: hard brown bread, and soft sweet cheese. He also had apples and a bit of fish, smoked and dried and wrapped in oak leaves.

We shared the meal and I began to think that this journey to Deva might yet be saved. True, I had lost my berth aboard the ship and my belongings with it; but if the days ahead continued as well as this one just past, I would reach my destination. With this thought in mind, I stretched out on my and pulled my cloak over me, snuggling in to watch the flames and let the night and sleep overtake me. For, it had been a day begun in panic, but ended in peace. I sank into to my night’s rest content.



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Framed