here's a clue...
The letter. That damned,
bloody letter.
Nathaniel Lewis felt
every contour through his mist-soaked cloak as he navigated his horse along a
steep incline. It plagued him throughout his solitary journey from London to
the Welsh highlands.
He should have burned it.
Lord knew, he had already committed every word to memory. Their latest cipher
had been compromised, the letter read. A worrying concern, but no cause for
alarm even though this had been the second key to be deciphered this half year.
Cromwell had a gifted cryptographer in his stable; Nathaniel had to find a way
to lure the man over to the king’s
side.
No, it wasn’t the breach
of a new cipher gnawing at Nathaniel’s gut. What chased him away from the
comfort of Lincoln’s Inn to the wild and barely passable Welsh countryside were
the final words in the missive. “Meet me in the hamlet of Blaenau Ffestiniog on
the next full moon. You will find it.”
Blaenau Ffestiniog.
Nathaniel didn’t need to
enquire about the small hamlet which eluded all maps. He knew it and well.
Fifteen years ago on a fierce, howling night, he turned his back on the place
of his birth, intending never to return.
His grip tightened on the
reins.
Now the question haunted
him: how did this intelligencer, a faceless, nameless man known only to
Nathaniel by the code name Mister Moss know of Blaenau Ffestiniog? No one knew
anything about Nathaniel’s past—he made sure of that.
Nathaniel’s first sight
of Blaenau Ffestiniog hit him in the gut—nothing had changed. Slate-roofed
cottages still lined the main road while pigs rooted in muddy lanes. Dirt,
rocks, and peat smoke everywhere. Slate thrust from the rutted ground like
broken bones poking through lacerated skin. And the shadow of a jutting rock
stretched across the mill road like a gnarled, accusing finger.
The smells of river mud
and decomposing weeds struck Nathaniel, making his blood pulse faster. He could
taste it at the back of his throat. In the distance, the rushing of a waterfall
roared through his head. Panic gripped his throat—the urge to turn his horse
around overwhelmed him, meeting be damned.
A weathered sign hung over the inn’s door and
swung on the wind. The Hammer and Anvil. Nothing soft and furry like a fox or
firkin. Not here, where existence was bleak and death bleaker still.
Nathaniel crossed the inn’s
threshold, and all heads swivelled in his direction. Greedy eyes eager for any
gossip fodder. For a heartbeat, Nathaniel was once more a half-starved youth
praying he’d not to be chased away. Sharply, he lowered the brim of his hat and
claimed a table tucked into the corner.
A serving maid pounced to
take his order. Though she was young, there was something about her flat face
that reminded Nathanial of the landlady who once kept this place. A daughter
perhaps?
“A flagon of your best
wine.” Nathaniel peeled off his riding gloves and placed them on the table.
The wench didn’t move.
Instead, she studied Nathaniel with a vague frown. “Have you been at the Hammer
before, my lord?”
Although she spoke to him
in Welsh, Nathaniel answered in English. “The wine?”
With a small huff, she
spun on her heels. In a thrice she returned with a flagon and pewter cup. Still
preoccupied with trying to identify him, she sloshed several drops of wine on
his glove. Nathaniel stared at the blood red wine seeping across the soft
leather like pools of blood. His stomach clenched.
“My apologies, sir.” The maid dabbed at his gloves with a cloth. “That
should do it. No harm done.”
“Enough,” Nathaniel said,
his voice hoarse. “Leave me in peace.”
Nathaniel waited,
carefully scanning the room, dreading to see a familiar face. Another quarter
hour passed. His attention shifted to a thin lad feeding the peat fire. Several
hounds flocked around the boy, and he nudged them gently out of his way.
Everyone else ignored the lad, as though he were of no account.
“Dirty weather, this,” a reedy voice said in
English. “Mind if I have a tipple?” In his distraction, Nathaniel hadn’t
realized that they had been joined by an old man until the old gaffer slipped
into a chair across from him.
Nathaniel took in the man’s
bare cloak and tattered hat that landed beside the flagon. “Go away, old man. I
have nothing for you here.”
The man gave a lopsided
grin. “I could use a draught to warm my innards. Tell you what—in exchange for
a cup of wine, I’ll read your fortune.”
Nathaniel moderated his
breathing to school his temper. “Beg a drink elsewhere.”
The gaffer rubbed his
salt-laced beard. “Shame—and with you coming all
this way to find answers.”
Nathaniel’s eyes
narrowed. “Who are you?”
“Deep questions, aye, but
that is a story for a long winter’s night. Some call me Moss, but everyone here
knows me as Teithiwr.”
Nathaniel’s brow quirked.
“Calling yourself traveller? As you wish.” He passed Teithiwr his untouched
wine. “Why did you want to see me?” Nathaniel toyed with the onyx ring on his
finger.
The man smiled benignly
and accepted the offering. “First your fortune, then my news. Your palm, if you
please.”
“Chiromancy? I’m not having my palm read.”
“Come now, you’ve
journeyed far as it is.” The gaffer grinned over the rim of the cup.
The hairs lifted on the
back of Nathaniel’s neck. “Curious meeting place
you’ve chosen.” He carefully moderated
his tone to sound bored. “You’ve been posted in Caernarfon, have you not?”
Teithiwr’s smile did not
fade. “You were going to show me your palm?”
Nathaniel exhaled slowly.
He understood the art of deflection—in fact he was a master of it. He could
play this game. “Very well, if that will loosen your tongue.”
The gaffer bent over
Nathaniel’s outstretched hand, tracing various lines with his grubby
fingernail. “River mud. Deep in your pores—seeping into your veins.”
“You’re blind old man. My
hands are clean.”
Teithiwr ignored the
comment and continued his exploration of Nathaniel’s palm. “Very interesting lines.” He turned Nathaniel’s hand
to catch the light of the candle.
Nathaniel’s gaze shifted.
By now a crowd had gathered close, all to hear what the old fool had to say.
Rank foolishness. This intelligencer was a liability.
Teithiwr tugged on
Nathaniel’s ring finger. “You’re a traveller too. You’ve journey far
yet nowhere at all. Saturn is strong in you. Careful, he’s an exacting master.”
“Have you seen enough?” Nathaniel
tried to disengage himself, but the old man locked his wrist.
“See this line?” Teithiwr
poked at the fleshy part below Nathaniels thumb. “This is where we see how pure
a life you’ve lived. Sodomy? Illegitimate children? I see none of those. But
divers lovers, aye. No attachments. Wonder why?”
Nathaniel held the man’s gaze, forcing himself
not to flinch. The gaffer’s words disguised a sharp edge. “You tell me since
you claim to know my past.” There—he laid the challenge on the table.
The gaffer shrugged. “The
past is wherever one chooses to look for it. But the future—that requires
skill. Have you the stones to learn of your death? It’s all there in your palm.”
“By all means,” Nathaniel
said. “Tell me.”
“A duel,” Teithiwr continued. “And this other line shows you
are no coward. The duel will involve your heart. Ah! A duel of honour.”
Murmuring approval spread
through the spectators.
Nathaniel had enough, and
he yanked his hand away. “Very well, you have divined that I am no sodomite or
a man to spread my seed indiscriminately. Instead, I would be well-advised to
practice my swordplay with renewed diligence. Scatter these crows so we may
conclude our business.”
This all had been a lark,
and that knowledge caused relief to sweep over him. This Teithiwr knew nothing—couldn’t
possibly have been so canny as to have ferreted out Nathaniel’s secrets. He was
foolish and sloppy and drew far too much attention to himself.
Nathaniel waited for the
crowd to disburse then lowered his voice. “I’ve journeyed several
days travel to reach this godforsaken place and you have squandered my
patience. What. News. Do. You. Have. For. Me?”
Teithiwr covered
Nathaniel’s hand with his own and pressed a curled paper into Nathaniel’s palm.
When he lifted his hands, Nathaniel’s fist closed over the contraband. “A new
cipher. To be used for all future correspondences,” the old man said, all trace
of humour gone. “There’s a counterspy in our midst. Start with the Postmaster.”
Nathaniel nodded his
gratitude. Tossing several coins on the table, he said, “Stay, enjoy your
tipple on my account.”
“Good journey, friend.”
Good riddance.
While the inn’s lad ran
to the stables to fetch his horse, Nathaniel waited by the horse trough. The
rain had finally ceased and a clean breeze began to shred the low bank of
clouds clinging to the hills. With the old man’s words smarting like an
ulcerous sore, Nathaniel faced the hills.
A stream tumbled down the
hillside, swelling to a waterfall before collecting into the river below.
Exactly as Nathaniel had
last seen it—except that the water ran clear of blood. The river’s flow was no
longer blocked by the body of a man lying face down in the water, his cassock
bunched up over his broken knees. And Nathaniel was no longer the frightened
boy hiding amongst the rushes, looking in horror as the lifeblood of the one
soul who had shown him any kindness stained the water wine-red. The rushing of
the water mingled with the remembered whooping from those who had left him
there. For Nathaniel to find.
The mountain’s accusing
finger stretched to Nathaniel. Marked him as one of its own. No matter the
years. River weeds and blood were in his blood. Perhaps he hadn’t fled far
enough.
“You don’t remember me,
do you?” Teithiwr appeared at his side, his boots barely making a sound. “You’ve
shut out your past, or so you think.”
The rest came flooding
back. Five men drunk on blood-lust, one a stranger—a slimy bastard from
Caernarfon visiting for the summer. That one had led the troop, and the sword
he gripped shone bright with blood.
“You killed the
priest.” Nathaniel didn’t bother keeping the disgust from his tone. The anger
surged like the rushing waterfall. It had been an amusement to them, of no more
account than beating a mangy cur. But they had taken something vital away from
a fatherless boy.
Teithiwr tipped his hat
before walking away.
Nathaniel watched the man
saunter down the lane. Teithiwr had awakened dormant memories inside him and
now they would no longer be put to rest. Was vengeance and justice really any
different?
Nathaniel tipped his own
hat to the retreating figure. “Until we meet again, Mister Moss.”
© Cryssa Bazos
An aside from Helen: I too grew up near the River Lea, and I assure you it looks nothing like the image for the video! Adele (and myself) would have known the river as it neared London and the River Thames (see the clue image for our view of it!) where the land is flat, marshy and doesn't have mountains! One of the highest points would be a few miles from Waltham Abbey atthe edge of Epping Forest overlooking the Lee Valley Pole hill is 91 metres (about 300 feet) above sea level ... so definitely not mountainous! And just to add to confusion: the Valley is the Lee Valley, the river is the River Lea...