‘Cambil is Hunt Lord,’ said Leofas guardedly. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘You know I have not. Nor will I. If I told Cambil that sheep ate grass he would deny it and feed his flock on beef.’
The older man nodded. ‘That is true enough. And I agree with you about the Aenir, but Cambil thinks differently. He seeks new trade agreements, and he has invited an Aenir captain to watch the Hunt.’
‘He didn’t see the sack of Ateris,’ said Caswallon.
‘No. But you did and it changed you.”
‘I won’t deny that.’
‘How is the boy you brought home?’
‘He is well. Your lads helped him, I think, though he has not spoken of it.’
‘Neither have they, but I heard. They’re good boys. Layne would not allow Agwaine to harm him and Lennox stood by him. That made me proud, for it’s hard bringing up boys without a mother. And they’ve turned out well.’
‘They are a credit to you.’
‘As is Gaelen to you,’ said Leofas, ‘for he took them all on.’
‘He is a credit to himself. Will you argue against Cambil on the Council?’
‘On the question of the Aenir, I will.’
‘Then I’ll take up no more of your time.’
‘Man, you haven’t finished your ale. Sit and be comfortable for a while. I don’t get many visitors.”
For an hour or more the men sat, drinking ale and swapping stories. It came to Caswallon that the older man was lonely; his wife had died six years before and he had never taken another. On the death of Padris three years ago Leofas had refused to stand for Hunt Lord, claiming it was a young man’s duty. But he remained on the Hunt Council, and his words were heeded.
‘How long do you think we have – before they invade?’ asked Leofas suddenly, his eyes clear despite the jugs of ale.
Caswallon fought to clear his mind. ‘I’d say a year, maybe two. But I could be wrong.’
‘I don’t think so. They’re still fighting in the lowlands. Several cities are holding out.’
‘We need a plan of our own,’ said Caswallon. ‘The valley is indefensible.’
‘Seek out Taliesen,’ Leofas advised. ‘I know these druids raise the hairs on a man’s neck, but he is wise, and he knows much about events outside Druin.’
For two months Caswallon took Gaelen with him on every hunt, teaching him more of the land and the creatures of the land. He taught him to fight hand-to-hand, and to wrestle and to box, to roll with the punches, and to counter swiftly. The lessons were sometimes painful, and Gaelen was quick to anger. Caswallon taught him to hold his fury and use it coolly.
‘Anger can strengthen a man or destroy him,’ he told the youth as they sat on the hillside above the house. ‘When you fight, you stay cool. Think with your hands. When you strike a blow it should surprise you as well as your opponent. Now pad your hands and we will see what you have understood.’ Warily the two circled one another. Caswallon stabbed a straight left to Gaelen’s face. Gaelen blocked it, hurling a right. Caswallon leaned out of reach, the punch whistling past his chin. He countered with a swift left that glanced from the boy’s jaw. Off-balance, Gaelen hit the ground hard, rolled and rose to his feet with eyes blazing. Caswallon stepped in to meet him, throwing a right cross. It never landed, for Gaelen ducked inside the punch and caught the taller man with an uppercut that sent him reeling in the grass.
‘Good. That was good,’ said Caswallon, rubbing his jaw. ‘You are beginning to move well. A little too well.’ Reaching up, he took Gaelen’s hand and the younger man pulled him to his feet. ‘Let’s sit for a while,’ he said. ‘My head is still spinning, I think you’ve shaken all my teeth.’
‘I’m sorry.”
Caswallon laughed. ‘Don’t be. You were angry, but you kept it under control and used the power of your anger in your punch. That was excellent.’ The two sat together beneath the shade of an elm.
‘There is something I have been meaning to ask you,’ said Gaelen, ‘about the bush you hid me in when the Aenir were close.’