Page 12 of The Bear's Heart
But no one came.
On the morning of the fourth day, Olwyn and I were standing in front of the hall, both of us wrapped in thick cloaks against the biting wind. To the west, the Sabrina Sea lay silvery in the pale sunlight, the hills of South Wales a dim grey haze beyond. To the east, the distant hump of Glastonbury Tor rose just visible out of the flat plain.
The fortress gates, which had been kept firmly shut since my arrival, swung open, and three riders entered on hairy little garrons. I’d have known the first one’s tall frame and tonsured head anywhere– Jerome, Abbot of Glastonbury. My spirits, which had been down in my boots, rose, and I tightened my grip on Olwyn’s hand. As no guards stood near enough to eavesdrop, I leaned toward her and whispered a hurried question. “Does Abbot Jerome come here often?”
Without looking at me, Olwyn gave a tiny shake of her head. “I’ve never seen him here before.”
The three riders picked their way up the slope toward the hall, warriors and womenfolk gathering about them like an escort party, and someone disappeared into the hall to fetch Melwas. With no one to force us away, Olwyn and I stood our ground and waited for Abbot Jerome to reach us. His two fellows appeared to be laymen. With a start, I recognized Corwyn, the man who’d first escorted me, my hands bound as a prisoner, from Glastonbury to Din Cadan just over two months ago. Neither Abbot Jerome nor Corwyn seemed in the least bit surprised to see me.
Melwas emerged from the hall, and Olwyn and I moved away from him, her grip on my hand tightening as though for support.
Jerome brought his garron to a halt and swung down from the saddle. I was pleased to see that as an exceptionally tall man, he topped Melwas by half a head. Melwas’s people shambled to a halt behind the horses in a ragged semi-circle.
“My Lord Melwas,” Jerome said firmly, his head inclining in the smallest of bows. Not having seen him bow to any other kings, I couldn’t be sure, but this curt bow could have been seen as a measure of the lack of respect he felt toward this particular king.
Melwas returned a similarly slight bow. His heavy brows knit together in barely suppressed anger, and the muscles of his jaw kept tightening as though he were repeatedly clenching his teeth. “Father Abbot.” The words squeezed between his teeth with marked reluctance.
Jerome glanced at where Olwyn and I now stood, as far from Melwas as we could get. “I come from King Arthur in search of his wife,” he said calmly. “He waits with his considerable army beyond the marshes, ready to cross them and take Dinas Brent if necessary.”
Melwas’s black eyes blackened further, if that were possible, and those thick brows lowered in a scowl that would have quelled lesser men than Jerome. “Do you think that scares me?” he asked with measured scorn. “Another army advances even as you stand here. Three days ago I sent riders to Viroconium. King Cadwy will soon be here to claim his prize. He’ll see off that insolent pup who thinks he rules Dumnonia.”
Jerome shook his head slowly, his calm serenity never changing. “I fear you are wrong.” His voice never rose. “The Dux Britanniarum has had his men in the forest surrounding Dinas Brent all of that time, and your men were apprehended before they headed north. The message they were carrying is in King Arthur’s hands, not those of his brother. King Cadwy does not even know you have the queen.”
Relief poured over me. Here I’d been, thinking Arthur couldn’t know where I was, when all that time he’d had us surrounded, biding his time. Indignation that he’d left me here so long rose to the surface. I bit my tongue to stop myself from crying out to Jerome.
Melwas glanced at me and Olwyn, his narrow face suffused with fury. My heart, which had been soaring, skipped a beat in fear. This was a man who now found himself trapped, an animal at bay, surrounded by his enemies. And I was still his prisoner. I could see him weighing the possibilities that lay in front of him.
Silence stretched between the two men. Anger, shock, disappointment and cunning flitted across Melwas’s face in quick succession. His plans had been thwarted. Cadwy wasn’t coming to his rescue. He’d kidnapped the wife of his overlord, and his fortress was surrounded. If he had any sense he’d be working out how best to turn this situation to his advantage.
“And what is it you offer me in return for the Queen?” he asked.
Jerome regarded him without speaking for a moment, then sucked his lips thoughtfully and straightened his back, bringing him taller still than Melwas. “The safety of your people,” he replied.
Melwas gave a snort of derision. “You think I care for that? Give me something better, or I’ll have you kicked down the hill by my womenfolk. No prating priest tells me what to do.” He hadn’t lost any of his monumental ego.
Jerome stood silent. There was an impasse between the two of them.
“Let me tell you what I want,” Melwas said. “I want you to tell that imposter king to take his army and leave, or I’ll send his wife back to him in pieces, starting with her pretty little nose.”
My heart, which had already been pounding, now leapt into my throat. After the things Olwyn had told me over the last few days, I had no reason to doubt Melwas would do exactly what he said.
Jerome stood his ground stoically. “If a hair on her head is touched,” he said, never taking his eyes from Melwas, “I’m to tell you that King Arthur will raze not just your fortress but the whole of this Isle of Frogs to the ground with not a single person or animal left living. But no man will kill you, for he will reserve a special punishment for you. Your death will be a long one.”
Behind Jerome, Corwyn licked his lips, a grin spreading across his broad face.
Melwas looked beyond the riders toward his warriors. What was he thinking? His men shifted uneasily, glancing at one another or their feet. None met his gaze. An awkward moment passed. Their support for him hung in the balance.
“I have my own conditions,” he said finally. “Do not forget the queen is my prisoner, and now I also have you…” His voice trailed away, edged with menace.
Jerome regarded him with equanimity, not a trace of worry touching his somber face. I remembered how much I’d liked him the first time we’d met, how I’d felt he was a man I could trust. If anyone could get me out of here, he could. Perhaps that was why Arthur had sent him.
“You would do well not to threaten a man of God,” Jerome said. It was a good thing men of God in the fifth century were nothing like the priests and vicars of the twenty-first, who mostly had to deal with nothing worse than Bible study classes and village fete organization. But this was the Dark Ages, when people still believed God’s wrath could come down in thunderbolts. Even Melwas, conceited as he was, must feel that fear…
Melwas strode over to me and, seizing me by the upper arm, dragged me to face Jerome. Olwyn’s hand was pulled from my grip as she shrank away from him, like a beaten dog. Melwas’s hard fingers dug into my flesh like pincers. I was going to have bruises.
“Do not forget she is my prisoner,” he snarled, lips curling back from his yellowed teeth. “I can do what I like with her, and neither you, nor your posturing lord, can stop me.”
I bit my lip, partly to stop myself from crying out at the pain from his grip, partly to school my face to hide my fear.
