Annie, the ugly barmaid, went around filling the mugs again; she was pinched and groped as she passed. Dafydd had sent Glynis to Caerhun for "a while."

"An' the boy, Tom? Did 'e look pleased?"

"Ah," Tom said, "just like an English wife; not pleased but wor- kin' with a will."

Hywel, his cheeks burning, turned away—though they were not looking at him—and went down to the cellar, hearing behind him, "No wonder Welsh rebels fight so foul—"

Downstairs, Dafydd was cleaning a fish packed in ice and sawdust. He looked up for a moment as Hywel appeared, then went back to his work.

"I did nothing," Hywel said in Cymric. His eyes hurt and his voice kept catching.

"I know what you did," said Dafydd, in English. Hywel waited, struggling against tears; Dafydd said no more.

Hywel finally said "He was looking for a wizard, here. I wonder if he was looking for Glyn Dwr, to help him."

Dafydd stopped cutting at the fish. He held the knife lightly, looked at the flash from the blade. "Did he say that?"

"He—" Hywel's anger was all turned to fear by Dafydd's sudden softness. "He said he was looking for a wizard."

"Well then. Let's hope his friend finds him. Somewhere other than here, gods willing." Dafydd took a few more strokes at the fish, then tossed it onto the kitchen lift and stomped up the stairs, wiping his hands furiously on his apron.

Hywel wept.

 

 

The sun was below the hills; Hywel was headed toward the kitchen to get Ptolemy's dinner when a hand touched his shoulder.

"Easy, boy! Didn't mean to scare you." It was Tom the soldier. His bow was over his shoulder; he slipped it off and held it out to show Hywel. "Ever drawn one of these?"

Hywel shook his head vaguely.

"Takes practice," Tom said. "We say, to make a bowman, start with his grandfather. I'm going to shoot a bit while there's light left.... Would you like to come along? Yew Alice is long for you, but..."

"No," Hywel said. "I... can't." The bow was white and beautiful. Hywel had seen longbows before, of course, but never been offered the chance to shoot one.

"I shouldn't'a laughed at you. Serjeant said so. I... didn't mean anything." Hywel realized suddenly that Tom was only four or five years older than himself.

All I know of magic.

"Tomorrow?" Hywel said, in a small voice.

"I'll be gone tomorrow. Serjeant said."

Then Ptolemy would be gone, and there really was no choice. Hywel tried to hate the soldier, for his mockery, but it was impossible; like hating Dai, or Dafydd more than two hours after a whipping, or...

"I have work," Hywel said, and left Tom and his beautiful Alice behind. When he came back from the kitchen, they were not in the yard.

Ptolemy ate not quite so slowly as the night before. When he had finished, wiped his mouth, pissed into the bucket, he motioned Hywel around to sit facing him, and arranged his ruined clothing.

"These seemed like such finery in Ireland," he said. "When I knew they must take me at last, I put on my best. They did not seem impressed. Are English lords so fabulous?"

"They wear silk," Hywel said.

"Oh, I know. Our silk.