Selected extracts taken from The Long Circle
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Now
that the rain had ceased a red squirrel emerged from its shelter and leapt
between the high leafless boughs of an ancient oak tree, searching for food. The
squirrel landed on a thin and decayed branch causing it to break where it was
rotten near the trunk, but the creature was too agile to be in danger of
falling, it had already jumped to safety and was clinging to the gnarled bark of
the wide tree.
The dislodged branch fell to earth with a thud, loud enough to wake the figure huddled on the forest floor. It was a young man who was accustomed to waking in comfort a couple of hours after the sun had warmed the day, not out of doors after a night of rain, yet this was the circumstance in which Howak found himself for the third consecutive morning. He opened his eyes and gazed at the woodland scene around him. Although the rain had passed the world was still wet. Heavy branches dripped their gathered rain water with irregularity, ferns held tiny drops between their fronds and the morning webs of woodland spiders were like delicate jewellery of water threaded with silk. A grey sky and heavy atmosphere offered grim prospects for the day that stretched ahead.
Howak’s father, Henarg, had been the Lord of Thirlanden, a popular lord due to his having worked to stem the corruption which had been rife among the merchants and soldiery under his predecessor’s reign. Henarg measured his success by the improvements he brought to his people's lives rather than by how his personal wealth could increase at their expense. For the few years of Henarg’s reign the people of Thirlanden enjoyed a freedom and prosperity which had been unknown even to their grand-sires. But in the volatile Teynland, despite his benevolence, such a man as Henarg could have enemies, the suppressed soldiers and curtailed merchants held a quiet seething resentment for their lord. Such contained vehemence cannot be held in check for long and, after a seemingly brief time on the throne, both Henarg and Howak’s mother Mawraig became targets for assassins.
Lofrud and Wrelf, two of Thirlanden’s leading merchants, had chosen their time carefully, the eve of Thirlanfest, when the castle celebrated both Teynland's greatest folk hero, Thirlan, and the turning of winter into the approaching spring. They waited until well after midnight when most people would be asleep from the consequences of the night’s celebrations, whether exhaustion, drunkenness or a combination of the two. With the castle unusually free of Henarg’s own guards, the two men had stolen unopposed along the inner corridors of Thirlanden and made their way to Henarg’s rooms in the silence of the night which had little moonlight.
Within the sleeping chamber they paused as their eyes grew accustomed to the almost complete darkness of the room, the soft sound of the sleepers’ breathing was clearly audible, a gentle sound amplified against the background of silence. After a few moments two shapes under the blankets became discernible in the darkness. Wrelf wavered but Lofrud had no hesitation, though only moved slowly towards the bed. He looked up at the dark figure of Wrelf who, feeling Lofrud’s angry glare through the gloom, took up his place across the bed from his accomplice. They held their swords vertically over the sleepers, the points a mere inch above their chests.
“Now,” hissed Lofrud and together the assassins thrust downward, their bronze blades penetrating deep into their victims' hearts.
Howak had stumbled into his room some time before midnight wondering how, when drunk to excess, beer could deprive a man of balance and clear speech yet his sense of direction for home was, if anything, sharpened. He collapsed onto his bed fully clothed, not even bothering to remove his cloak or boots, and sank swiftly into sleep. A noise awoke him with a start. Was it a scream?
He sat up quickly, cursing as his head swam, and for a moment wondered if the sound had been within his dreams. Yet it had sounded unnervingly real. After fumbling for and lighting a candle he went to investigate. Shadows leapt around him, fleeing the candle’s flame, their movement exaggerated by his staggering as Howak’s instincts led him to his parents' rooms. On reaching the sleeping chamber he pushed aside the heavy tapestry curtain from the doorway and held up his candle in order to see. The sight he beheld sobered him immediately.
Sometimes in experience a whole scene is absorbed in a single second, each detail clearly recalled long afterwards as if the passage of time had been suspended to allow for careful observation, so profound is the effect of what is seen. Such a moment now held Howak as the candle cast its revealing yellow glow into the room. He would always recall how his eyes seemed to have been led from the startled jump of the two figures standing over the bed, to the glint of bronze picked out by the flame, downwards to the blood dripping from their swords and finally to the vacant, deeper than sleep stares of his murdered parents. Howak was momentarily paralysed with the chilling horror of the scene. He could not comprehend that the inert bodies on the bed were those which had given him life, protection and joy for all his few years. The very foundations of his life had been ripped away and he felt himself to be reeling physically.
Raising his eyes from the bed Howak saw clearly the startled guilty faces of the killers, and they saw his. Wrelf rushed towards Howak who cursed for being unarmed, he threw his candle at Wrelf then turned and ran. Lofrud swiftly took advantage of Wrelf’s undefended back and thrust his sword, killing his fellow conspirator.
With tear blurred vision Howak continued to run. Again instinct drove him on through the dark, stone-flagged corridors of Thirlanden Castle into areas illuminated by torches set in wall sconces. Blinded by a rising panic, Howak did not see the man ahead of him until he tripped over him and crashed to the floor. Thinking himself caught by another assassin he almost cried out then recognised Hathrod, one of his father’s guards. Frustratingly for Howak Hathrod was slumped against the wall in a drunken stupor and could not be roused. Howak was further frustrated to see the guard had no weapons except for a quarterstaff, which he took.
Now that he had stopped running Howak began to feel nauseous, both from the horror he had witnessed and from the excess of alcohol surging through his body. He was about to give in to this feeling when he heard running footsteps. Looking up he saw Lofrud in silhouette against the torch flames, Howak froze at the sight of the menacing figure which had suddenly appeared, imposing itself in the shifting light and shadow.
Lofrud peered along the corridor but could not see Howak crouched behind the sleeping drunk. Howak began to take deep breaths as words of his father’s tuition came to the forefront of his thoughts and he suppressed his panic and calmed his confusion with controlled breathing. Now staring steadily at his enemy he quickly assessed the situation and decided that, armed with only the quarterstaff, his chances against the sword arm of Lofrud were slim. He also reckoned the middle-aged legs of Lofrud would not catch up with his youth so he leapt up and sprang away from his hiding place, again running, searching for help. Lofrud lumbered after the shape which had detached itself from the shadows, but Howak was too swift to be caught.
Howak was sweating heavily and fearing for his life as he ran, wondering where
Wrelf might be and if the assassins would have other men close at hand. He had
been running aimlessly, expecting to be confronted and overpowered at any
moment, but as the sound of chasing footsteps receded Howak halted to think. He
leant heavily on the quarterstaff, drawing breath through his dried throat.
After barely a few moments he heard footsteps again.
Was it Lofrud or Wrelf? How many might be hunting him?
He felt threatened, surrounded by enemies in his own home. Fear and panic were
welling up again. Suddenly he made the bitter decision to escape from the castle
altogether.
The precipitous Thirlanden Crag was scarred with narrow clefts, a few of which
led down to the valley floor. Howak found one he knew well from childhood
adventures and slid away from the castle. It was a painful and perilous descent
in the deep blackness of the night, his footing gave way to loose rocks several
times, but with no greater injury than bruised arms and grazed shins he reached
the foot of the crag. Having evaded capture he was well away from the castle
before sunrise.
Before leaving the valley Howak had looked back on Thirlanden Crag. The sun was newly risen and cast long shadows towards him from the east, even they seemed to be reaching out to grab him. The crag itself was black, its western face still holding a vestige of night as all around it was colouring into daylight. Howak considered whether to return and face Lofrud and Wrelf, of whose death he was ignorant, with the charge of murder. Many would have believed him but there may have been other assassins lurking and he may not have made it back to the castle. Thirlanden was too dangerous a place for him on that morning. At least he was alive and free to hide, he could go back to face his enemies on another day.
As the only witness to Lofrud’s act of murder and as rightful heir to the lordship Howak would be hunted to his death, or until the overthrow of Lofrud.
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Hetnar stroked his bearded chin as he
looked thoughtfully at his companion across the table at which they were
sitting. Hetnar was a man of middle years with a lean physique. He had shoulder
length hair and what may have been considered a handsome face but for his left
eye being permanently half closed due to the muscles above the lid having been
severed in a fight in his younger days. His small thin lipped mouth and gaunt
cheeks gave the overall impression of a hardened character and he was indeed
used to the hardship of life on the move.
The man on the opposite side of the table took another large mouthful of
beer then set his pint mug down with an accompanying belch. He was a short plump
character with busy eyes in a face that was virtually round with excess fat. His
corpulent figure betrayed a sedentary and fruitful lifestyle, his travels were
short but frequent between taverns and eating houses, often through back
doorways and down dark alleys. His true occupation had always been a mystery to
Hetnar but he was an invaluable source of information.
Hetnar had been careful not to betray any emotion when the other man told
him of the death of the Lord of Thirlanden. They were in a tavern in a village
just inside the ring of mountains surrounding Thirlanden Valley, where one had
to be careful of admitting one’s loyalties. The village was close enough to
Thirlanden to be reliant on the castle to make a living, and close enough to be
fleeced in taxation, but far enough away to be on either side of the law as the
mood of the times favoured it.
“So who is in control now?” Hetnar had asked.
“It seems as if Lofrud has been giving the orders since,” the other
man spoke with an asthmatic wheeze punctuating his words.
“And what about the old lord’s son? Hasn’t he taken the
lordship?” Hetnar’s voice was calm and quite engaging for a man who seldom
spoke, often for days at a time.
His companion leaned forward and lowered his voice to a strange whisper.
“Let us say, dear boy, that Lofrud is looking for him. The official word is
that Howak needs to be protected. That
is why Lofrud has so many soldiers on the move, making their presence known.”
He eyed Hetnar carefully, communicating more with his little pig-like
eyes, telling Hetnar that the self appointed successor to Henarg was hunting the
true heir, without using the words which might condemn him in the presence of a
sympathiser to the new ruler of Thirlanden.
Hetnar understood, he nodded and said, “Well if Lofrud has taken over
the guardianship at least we know where we stand.”
“Hmm,” mused his companion who sat back, toying with his empty
drinking vessel. Hetnar drained his own mug.
“Another?” He offered.
“No thank you my dear, I must be about my business.”
“Yes, life goes on for us ordinary folk,” Hetnar said, unsure of his
own meaning.
The fat man looked at him with a frown on his otherwise smooth
complexion. He stood up, his height little more than when he had been sitting.
“Be seeing you dear boy.”
“Aye, perhaps.”
Hetnar watched the rotund figure scurry out of the doorway. He got up to
buy another beer then sat alone, sifting his thoughts. His taut weathered
features were set in a grim expression.
So, Henarg was dead and Howak on the run from his father’s usurper. The
rightful heir was always going to be a threat to Lofrud until he was caught.
Soldiers were out hunting for Howak and others too might fancy that his capture
and deliverance to Lofrud would be rewarded. Hetnar had been heading to
Thirlanden on a private errand but this news changed his plans. He made up his
mind to pursue Howak for his own personal motives.
In judging where to start looking for the fugitive Hetnar immediately
ruled out the south. Thirlanden Valley was no place for such a well known face
to be hidden. Further south there was only Melice Castle and beyond that the
sea. To the east there was also the sea and to the west the desert, which
everyone knew to be a vast inhospitable region inhabited by nomadic tribesmen
hostile to anyone from Teynland. So the north was the obvious destination, more
so because there lay the Forest of Nestry, the favourite haunt for outlaws,
villainous or not.
Hetnar took a long thoughtful draught of his beer and considered the
geography of the north. He assumed Howak would not go along the Arnhaith Ridge
and would also avoid the banks of the busy River Ilydan, which flowed south from
Nestry passing Lethtorlan then Istorlan Castle on its way to the Eastern Sea.
Whether Howak followed the eastern coast or travelled up country to the west of
the Arnhaith Ridge, Hetnar thought it would be better to anticipate his goal
rather than pursue him. He decided to go swiftly to Nestry and enter the forest
close to where the river’s tributaries came down from the moor which lay to
the west.
Hetnar could travel unmolested and would easily reach the north ahead of
his quarry. Along the way he would hear if Howak had been captured, there were
always wayfarers in that region from whom he could gather news and there would
be no suspicion of anyone enquiring of the latest from Thirlanden.
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Using
a heavy bronze handle Howak pulled the door open towards him and stepped into
the house. He found himself in one corner of a comfortably small room, the most
striking thing about the room was its occupant. He was sitting in a huge
straight-backed chair facing a raging fire, upon his lap was an open
leather-bound book with pages of parchment, in his left hand he held a writing
quill. The man was dressed in a black shirt and trousers of a quality Howak had
only ever seen worn by Thirlanden’s richer merchants, which immediately made
the young fugitive suspicious. He was broad shouldered and, even though seated,
Howak could tell he was extraordinarily tall. A huge sheathed sword was leaning
against the chair within easy reach of the seated figure. Here was a man at once
relaxed and in a state of readiness with the air of one in control of all that
surrounded him.
The
restless shifting flames of the fire caused shadows to dance upon the man's
face. To Howak’s eyes he was a strange looking character. His dark hair was
brushed back from his forehead revealing a hairline which receded at the temples
but came forward to a point at the centre of his forehead, accentuating his
angular features of high cheek bones and a hawkish nose. His cheeks were taught
and his narrow mouth had thin lips, the whole face came to an end in a firm,
slightly pointed chin. It was a strong weathered face somehow appearing old and
youthful at the same time.
The
man’s eyes were on the dishevelled form of Howak who stood in the doorway. He
smiled and said, “Well come in lad, keep the fog out.”
Howak
closed the door behind him and stepped further into the room.
“Sir,
I am sorry to disturb you but I am lost and in need of shelter.”
“You
look as if you are in need of the summer months to hurry along. Take off those
damp rags and warm yourself by the fire while I find some dry rags for you.”
The
man spoke with a deep rasping voice in a strange accent which puzzled Howak. He
laid his book aside and stood, all in one flowing movement, then left the room
to return a few moments later with a bundle of clothes, making hardly any noise
as he moved. His stealth and quick motion surprised Howak as the man was well
over six feet tall and his strong build would lead one to expect a heavier gait.
He tossed the clothes to Howak.
“Here,
these were left by a previous visitor. Sit by the fire while I finish my
writing,” he said in his hoarse tones.
“Thank
you,” Howak said as he caught the bundle with one arm. He laid his
quarterstaff on the floor and changed quickly, too tired to feel any
embarrassment as he undressed. There was a simple cotton shirt, wool leggings,
thick socks and a blanket to wrap around his shoulders, together with some rough
cloth which he stuffed into his boots to help them dry. He sat on a rug close to
the fire, enjoying the radiated heat. The warmth of the small room cheered
Howak, the fears he had felt when outside diminished, but they had been real and
the night was still real, still out there.
For
a few minutes there was silence broken only by the crackling of the firewood.
Howak gazed into the flames, relaxing his thoughts by imagining shapes and faces
in the burning wood while the man finished writing in his book, then he became
aware that his host was staring at him. Howak looked up.
Closer
to the fire the man’s eyes could be seen quite clearly, eyes of pure black
within off-white. Those eyes now gazed thoughtfully at Howak as if they were
searching into him. Howak felt nervous, unsure of what to say. He realised he
had not introduced himself and wondered if he had offended his host’s sense of
etiquette or if indeed he cared for such things, but he was reluctant to give
his name. This dark character seemed benevolent but could he be trusted?
As
if aware of Howak’s uncertainty the man spoke, “My name is Celtorn and this
is not my house but one of several, ah, shared accommodations,” he said, then
added, “amongst the right people. We keep them stocked with firewood, clothes
and food for any stragglers in the night.”
When
silent Celtorn had an aura of solemnity about him and when speaking his hard
accent was suitable for stern words, seeming to offer wisdom even in the most
mundane of speech. But Howak now saw he could also purvey an air of humour for
his grave façade vanished as he smiled.
In
his softer, more rounded Thirlanden tones Howak said, “I am fortunate to have
found you. I was completely lost.”
Celtorn said, “I
can tell by your appearance you are not local.” He did not say he thought he
recognised the youth. “If you have wandered out from home you will not get
back in one night.”
“Or
for many,” Howak said bitterly, staring back into the flames as thoughts of
the villainy of Lofrud and Wrelf filled his mind. If he had not been so full of
his predicament he would have been more civil especially to one who had offered
hospitality.
Celtorn
did not need to look closely at his visitor to see he was obviously upset by an
inner turmoil, but he was prepared to wait for an explanation so kept the
conversation simple.
“Now
you are warm and dry but hungry, I’m sure.”
“Indeed.”
Howak's dark mood lightened at the mention of food.
Celtorn
stood and reached to a shelf above the fire. Taking some leaves from a jar he
cast them into a pot of boiling water suspended over the flames. After a few
moments he poured some of the liquid into a couple of simple but well crafted
clay mugs, handed one to Howak and took a sip from his own. Howak also sipped,
it was a refreshing fragrant infusion that lessened Howak’s hunger. Celtorn
then crossed the room to another shelf and returned with some prepared root
vegetables and herbs which he cast into the same pot, leaving the lid off. The
aroma which soon filled the room made Howak salivate in anticipation, he had
dreamed of such smells over the previous few days.
Howak
said, “I’m afraid I have nothing to offer, I have been wandering some time
with nothing but that old quarterstaff, which isn't even mine.”
“No
matter,” said Celtorn, “it will be good to share food, that is enough.
Perhaps you have some news or a tale to pass the time.” He pried gently.
“I’m
not really one to remember stories, my father, now he…” Howak fell silent as
the remembered images of his murdered parents came back to him and a haunted
look came into his eyes.
Howak
hesitated a moment, his heart began to pound as he prepared to reveal his
identity. “I am Howak of Thirlanden, my father was Lord Henarg and I am now
the true Lord of Thirlanden.”
Celtorn
seemed unmoved, his lack of surprise surprised Howak. He continued to speak,
relating his account of the events of that horrific night, the murder of his
parents and the treachery of Wrelf and Lofrud. He ended by saying, “Now I fear
I am hunted in the south but I aim to win back my land and people.”
Celtorn
nodded thoughtfully, still looking into the fire, but now with an expression of
deep sadness, he said, “The news came to me two days ago, though a slightly
different version. Wrelf was also killed. The common news is that Wrelf was the
sole villain and Lofrud just too late to prevent the villainy. I did not know
the murder was also by Lofrud’s hand, he must have killed Wrelf as well.”
Howak
said, “Then Lofrud is lying to save himself. I didn't see Wrelf slain but I
speak the truth regarding Lofrud as a murderer, why else would I flee from
him?”
Celtorn
didn't answer but said, “I thought your face familiar. I knew your father, he
was a good man and this deed angers me deeply.” He paused to think. “I heard
a search for you was being carried out but I had my suspicions, I did not
believe for a moment that Lofrud was looking for you out of concern for your
welfare. You did well to keep to the back routes, from what I hear there are
many of Lofrud’s men abroad.”
Celtorn
turned his head slowly and looked straight into Howak’s pale blue eyes. Any
hint of humour had gone from his hawkish face, his expression was now grim and
determined. For a moment Howak feared him.
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Efyd’s smithy and cottage stood a little apart from the other dozen or so homes in the hamlet. The smithy was a stone built, single storey construction with a moss encrusted slate roof. It had a large double door but no windows. Alongside this workshop was a two storey wooden house, a rare sight in Arnhaith where people mainly lived in simple huts. The house had several windows with no symmetry to their placement, giving it a slightly bizarre appearance. Behind the buildings there was an acre of cleared land with long wild grass and several bushes scattered about. This land was surrounded on three sides by ancient sycamore trees from which some saplings had begun to encroach onto the field where their seeds had fallen. The wild wood was slowly regaining the human intrusion. The approach to Efyd’s home was along a rough path flanked by tall oaks and birch trees whose higher branches held numerous crows’ nests revealed now by the absence of leaves. Overhead the disturbed colony of carrion birds 'crawed' harshly as they wheeled and tumbled against the dark sky.
The smith was pleased to see Celtorn and welcomed them both warmly. He was a short, middle aged man with a kindly demeanour. His eyes, wide like two blue circles, and his mass of thick curly hair, that grew upwards rather than falling to his shoulders, gave the impression of a somewhat comic character one could not help but like.
A great beaming smile greeted Celtorn. “My dear old friend, how good to see you. And who’s this? Taken an apprentice at last?” Efyd looked at Howak, his face retaining the appealing smile.
Celtorn said, “Efyd, it is good to see you too. This is my companion, Howak of Thirlanden, Howak this is Efyd Gefail, one of the few dependable constants in a world of upheaval.”
Efyd’s face was full of whichever emotion he was feeling at the given moment and now it was brimming with wonder, his eyes seemed to get even wider.
To anyone not familiar with his trade the bronze smith’s workshop seemed a shrine to disorder. Tools and small moulds littered one workbench whilst larger moulds, some clasped shut to hold their cooling artefacts, others open revealing the shapes they formed, were to be seen in all available floor spaces. From hooks in the walls tongs were hung while on another workbench there were small anvils and more delicate tools. All of these items could be better examined with close scrutiny but the more obvious and obstructive objects were the furnaces and their accompanying heaps of charcoal and coloured rocks piled up against the walls.
For this evening’s work Efyd chose to use a small open furnace that was in the shape of a bowl, into this he put charcoal and broken pieces of green and blue ores. He held up one of the smaller green pieces for Howak to see.
“Malachite. Some craftsmen work this stuff into jewellery but I regard that as a waste myself. Now as this is for a special customer – no smelly work.”
Instead of using arsenic compounds as Celtorn had described, Efyd threw into the furnace a small amount of brown-black coloured nuggets.
“Casserite, or tinstone, to give it its more common name. Some makes its way to me now and again,” he explained. “I’ve been keeping it for such a time as this. Now we need plenty of heat for the smelting of this little lot.”
The furnace already held a bed of smouldering embers which Efyd began to fan back to fire using a bellows. With each squeeze of the bellows there was a rush of air and the embers glowed, the more he worked, the stronger the draught became and after some effort the charcoal was fully aglow. Soon the heat was sufficient to ignite the ores, and the fire that sprung up burned, to Howak’s surprise, with a green flame. As the ores and charcoal grew even hotter they began to react together, releasing the copper and tin trapped within the rock.
Efyd’s eyes were wide, “Ah the tin!” he exclaimed, “this will be a fine cast.”
He looked up at Howak, who was studying the work intently, and said, “the molten metal will flow to the bottom, then we will let it cool a little into our piece of bronze.”
This took some time but Howak watched the green fire and Efyd in fascination throughout the whole process whilst Celtorn dozed in a nearby chair, only taking interest in the heat from the fire. When the metal was ready the smith transferred it to a clay crucible to be heated again until molten. Whilst this second heating was in progress Efyd showed Howak the arrowhead moulds. They were two piece moulds of clay, the smooth face of each half having a carved recess in the desired shape of the arrowhead, the two halves were bound together into a single mould, with a hole in one end.
As Efyd prepared the moulds he explained to Howak, “In the old days they used a single piece mould made of clay fashioned around a wax model. When the bronze was poured in, the wax would melt and be displaced by the metal. But the mould had to be broken open, a shame if it was a particularly good one.”
Eventually, when the bronze was ready Efyd poured some of the dazzling yellow liquid into each of the moulds in turn with great care. He stopped before the crucible was empty and passed the tongs to Howak.
“Here, you try one, create your own weapons,” he smiled encouragingly.
Howak was keen and gladly tried his hand at casting, spilling rather more on the outside of his one mould than Efyd had done on all of his.
Efyd frowned, “Well it’s your first day on the job I suppose.”
Howak laughed.
With the work complete they cleared up as much as was necessary then woke Celtorn and retired into Efyd’s cottage leaving the casts to cool.
Efyd’s kitchen was as clear as his workshop was cluttered. The furniture comprised of a free standing cupboard, a small worktable and a larger table with five unmatched chairs. The only other feature was an open-hearth fire over which was suspended a steaming cauldron. Efyd drew any water he needed from an ornate bronze pump behind the smithy.
The smith ladled out generous helpings of stew from the cauldron, it was simple fare of root vegetables, carrots, turnips and parsnips with a thick stock fortified with spinach and barely.
“I left this simmering earlier so it should be good and hearty by now.”
Their bowls were deep and the food excellent and as the travellers had only eaten cold meats and cheese for a few days they had huge appetites, managing a second and third helping. After they had eaten, Efyd left the kitchen to return shortly with a tray bearing a large jug and three, pint-sized copper beakers which he placed with mock ceremony before his guests.
“Now I’ll bet you’ve not had a taste of ale for a little while,” he said then grinned somewhat foolishly.
The brew was both uplifting and relaxing, a mellow, slightly sweet beer with a lingering hoppy aftertaste.
“Your own?” Celtorn asked.
“Of course, you must have smelled it from the south.”
“Oh there’s nothing as good as this in the south,” Celtorn said after his first deep draught. Howak had to agree.
They swapped anecdotes and tall stories as the beer loosened their tongues and induced a relaxed ambience. Efyd bemoaned the lapse in the tin trade, forecasting the decline in standards in his craft and the upsurge of prices in tin-bronze goods from the south, with ruinous consequences for local economies. Like many dedicated to a single profession Efyd saw the future of the world as being dependent on the success or failure of his own produce. Wool merchants and fruit sellers would be equally influential at the centre of their universes, ignorant or dismissive of the work of bronze smiths.
The hour was late when they emptied the jug for the last time and through heavy lidded eyes found their ways to their respective beds. It was not too long before the cottage reverberated to snoring in three distinct timbres.
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