Prologue
Stormhellion Castle
Anteran
1320AD (After Dragons)
The stony-faced man and the cloaked, hooded woman walked almost unnoticed through the jostling, drunken crowd in the gaily-festooned Great Hall. The festivities had been gathering speed since before lunch and most of the courtiers were now too far in their cups to make the distinction between one reveller and the next.
It was not the man's first visit to Anteran, and if any had paused in their merry-making to regard the pair they might have recognised something familiar in the man's gait, or in his face; he was not the flame-haired, large-bellied buffoon of days gone by, but his eyes were the same––black as pitch, though lacking the mirth that was once his trademark.
When the couple reached the foot of the raised platform at the head of the hall they stopped.
The woman kept her head bowed; her face under the hood was shadowy and indistinct, and her body shapeless beneath the great cloak that hung to the floor.
In contrast, the man stood erect with his chin up and his spine straight. He wasn't handsome––his features were too heavy, and his pallid skin showed the faint dents of youthful pocks around his neck, throat and jaw––but he carried himself with the natural confidence (bordering on arrogance) born of god-given privilege that made him attractive in the eyes of some women. He was head and shoulders taller than anyone around him. He wore plain linens beneath suede breeches and tunic; and a cloak pushed back over his shoulders. His red hair was clipped unusually short, contrary to the fashion of the time for tails and ribbons. His face was gaunt and a muscle ticked in his square jaw. He carried a plain parcel wrapped in twine and his dark eyes were fixed upon the trio sitting on the platform: Eanfrid, the beaming, flaxen king of Anteran, his ethereal, raven-haired wife, Cynwise, and their newborn son.
A little girl of about six or seven summers, with long blonde curls, wearing a luxurious, emerald velvet gown, peeked from behind Eanfrid's throne. She analysed the serious man's appearance, and then her face lit up. She threw herself across the platform and jumped. "Uncle Griffid!"
Griffid caught her in his free arm.
The queen's head snapped up and her gaze fell upon the man below her. Her gently blushing cheeks drained of colour. She reflexively hugged the infant prince to her breast making him squawk in protest. "Ean," she rasped.
Eanfrid was already staring at his daughter in the grip of the king of Cathas. He felt as though someone had hit him with a fist of iron squarely in the centre of his chest.
"If it isn't Princess Winifred." Griffid hefted her up. "My goodness, but you are no little princess any more. I believe you are almost a woman."
"I'm nearly six," she announced grandly.
"Six. Why it is only a skip and a jump to twenty from there."
A tiny frown marred her sweet brow. "No, uncle. Seven comes after six." She counted with concentration on her fingers. "It's a long way to twenty after that."
"Still, you're growing so fast the next time I see you you'll likely be married."
"Not for a long time, I hope." She ran a hand down his cheek. "You look funny without your beard."
"Do I?" He reached for her ear pulling forth a silver ragan in his thick fingers. "What have I told you about keeping your fortune here? You never listen."
Winifred giggled when he handed her the coin. "Thank you."
As he watched this performance, slowly, dizzily, Eanfrid grew conscious of the entire court looking up at him. Realising he was squeezing his wife's knee hard enough to bruise her tender flesh, he relaxed, cleared his throat, and stood to speak––swaying for a moment as his vision flashed with stars. His throat was dry as parchment. Swallowing didn't help; he had no saliva.
Cynwise spared a hand from their precious son and linked her slim fingers through his.
Despite the close atmosphere in the hall and her proximity to the brazier they felt unusually cold, and trembled, but being physically connected to her grounded him and gave him strength. He put his other hand to his lips and coughed once to clear the dread from his throat. "Ahem...Griffid, this is an unexpected honour." His heart was thumping now at an inhuman pace as though every nerve in his body urged him to take his family and flee. Sweat prickled in his armpits and down his back, soaking into his shirt. He searched Griffid's hollow face for a clue of his intent. There seemed no obvious malice reflected in the stygian dark eyes. He appeared to be unarmed. But Eanfrid recalled the harsh conviction of Griffid's last words: 'see me again and die, or wish you had'. The grave sincerity with which the man had spoke was still enough to curdle Eanfrid's blood and wake him in the dark hours of the morning in a cold sweat.
Yet he was here, apparently in peace. Had time healed the most grievous of wounds?
Still hefting the little princess, without being invited Griffid stepped up onto the platform and handed the parcel to Eanfrid. "I would not miss the opportunity to visit you on the Naming Day of your first son."
Eanfrid blinked in disbelieving surprise. A little warmth dared to return to his chilled limbs. He desperately wanted to think Griffid had forgiven him. "It takes a great man to extend the hand of friendship to those who have wronged him," he said, unable to hide the palpable respite in his voice. "On behalf of my family, I thank you."
Griffid's gaze slid to the exquisitely wrapped bundle in the queen's arms. "May I see him?"
Eanfrid plainly saw Cynwise's hesitation. She fired a quick, questioning glance up at him but he subtly squeezed her hand and let go. Though he understood her reserve his heart was bursting now with newfound pleasure. He wanted Griffid to acknowledge his son; it seemed a step towards restoration of relations between them all. The thought of life returning to what it once had been between Cathas and Anteran made him tingle all over with incredulous excitement.
