The morning light, a pale imitation of dawn, had barely begun to dilute the gloom in his chamber when Morfudd arrived. She carried not just his usual meager breakfast, but a bundle of cleaner, though still coarse, clothing – a linen undertunic that felt surprisingly soft against Cadogan's skin after weeks of nothing but the rough sick blanket, and an outer tunic of dark, patched wool. There were no leggings, a clear indication of his still-invalid status, or perhaps an assumption he wouldn't venture far.
"Yr Arglwydd," she said, her voice hushed, her eyes darting towards the door as if the lord himself might materialize, "he expects you before the midday meal."
He nodded, his throat tight. The "work" was indeed beginning. Dressing was an ordeal. His limbs, though stronger than weeks past, still felt like ill-fitting extensions, prone to trembling. Morfudd helped, her touch surprisingly deft, her silence more telling than any words of encouragement. She tied a simple leather belt around his waist, from which nothing hung. He was a shadow, indeed, stripped of any accoutrement of status or capability.
When she finally stepped back, he took a breath. "Mi gerddaf," he had said. I will walk. Now he had to prove it.
The journey from his small, reeking chamber to the great hall was a via dolorosa measured in heartbeats and aching muscles. Morfudd walked beside him, a silent, anxious sentinel, ready to offer a steadying arm he was determined not to need. The corridors of Caer Maelog were rough-hewn stone, slick with damp in places, the air thick with the smells of woodsmoke, stale rushes, unwashed bodies, and the distant, acrid tang of the smithy. Torches in iron sconces cast flickering, inadequate light, making the shadows dance like hungry wraiths.
He saw few people at first – a scullery maid scurrying past with a bucket, her eyes downcast; two guards leaning on their spears by a heavy wooden door, their bored gazes flicking over him with momentary curiosity before dismissing him as unimportant. Each step was a victory, each breath a conscious effort. His analytical mind, however, was not idle. It absorbed the details: the state of repair (or disrepair) of the walls, the quality of the weapons the guards carried, the general atmosphere of grim functionality. This was no decadent court; it was a frontier fortress, braced against a harsh world.
The sounds grew louder as they approached what he presumed was the great hall: the murmur of voices, the clatter of a dropped utensil, the occasional gruff laugh. Morfudd paused before a pair of taller, slightly more imposing doors, though still made of rough, dark timber. She looked at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and a strange, nascent pride. "Bydd wrol," she whispered again, then pressed a small, smooth river stone into his hand. "For luck, an old charm." He closed Cadogan's fingers around it, the coolness a small anchor. He nodded his thanks, then straightened his thin shoulders as much as he could.
Morfudd pushed open one of the doors, and he stepped through into the great hall of Caer Maelog.
It was a vast, cavernous space, the roof supported by thick, smoke-blackened timber beams that disappeared into the gloom above. A long, central fire pit smoldered, its smoke supposedly drawn upwards through a hole in the roof, but enough swirled beneath the rafters to make the air hazy and acrid. Rushes, old and trodden, covered the stone floor, doing little to mask the underlying damp or the smell of stale ale and unidentifiable food remnants. Banners, faded and bearing crude sigils he didn't recognize, hung limply from the walls.
At the far end, on a slightly raised dais, sat the Arglwydd Maelog upon a heavy wooden chair draped with furs. He was not alone. Flanking him were two younger men, both clad in leather and mail, their expressions hard and watchful. Other sons? Likely. Their features bore a familial resemblance to the lord – the same stern jaw, the same assessing eyes, though one was broader, more overtly martial, the other leaner, with a restless energy. A handful of other men, clearly warriors and retainers, stood or sat on benches along the walls, their conversations quieting as he entered. All eyes turned towards him.
He felt a wave of dizziness, the sudden exposure, the weight of their collective gaze, pressing down on him. He clutched the river stone in his pocket, its coolness a small comfort. He focused on his father, the Arglwydd, who watched his slow, unsteady approach with an unreadable expression.
It took an eternity to cross the length of the hall, each step a conscious act of will. He could feel the eyes of the warriors on him, could almost hear their unspoken thoughts: Is that him? Cadogan? Still alive, then. Barely. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, aiming for the dais, for his father.
When he finally reached the foot of the low platform, he stopped, breathing a little heavily, but upright. He offered a slight inclination of his head, a gesture he hoped conveyed respect without undue subservience. Cadogan's residual memories offered no clear guidance on courtly protocol here.
Lord Maelog surveyed him for a long moment, his silence a heavy blanket. The two younger men beside him exchanged a look – the broader one with a smirk, the leaner one with a flicker of something less easily defined, perhaps curiosity or disdain. "Ti'n cerdded," the Arglwydd observed, his voice devoid of inflection. You walk. It was not praise. "Fy Arglwydd," he managed, his voice thin but steady enough.
"Morfudd tells me the fever has broken," the lord continued, though his eyes suggested he gave little credit to Morfudd or the fever. "That a glimmer of sense has returned to you." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze like iron. "We shall see."
He gestured to a space before him on the rushes. "Kneel." The command was flat, absolute. Cadogan's knees, already trembling from the walk, threatened to buckle. The mind within him recoiled at the overt act of submission, but rebellion now would be suicide. He sank slowly, unsteadily, to one knee, then the other, the rough rushes digging into his skin.
"For a moon and more," the Arglwydd said, his voice resonating in the quiet hall, "you have lain useless, a burden on this household. My other sons," he gestured to the men beside him, who straightened slightly, "carry the weight of this caer, defend its borders, lead its men. You… you have consumed resources." The broader son smirked again, more openly this time.
"But," Lord Maelog continued, his eyes never leaving Cadogan, "perhaps the gods have seen fit to return some strength to your limbs, some purpose to your blighted spirit. You said you would walk. You have walked." He paused. "Now, you will learn to work."
The Arglwydd gestured to a warrior standing near the dais, who stepped forward, unrolling a crude parchment map, weighted with stones, onto a low table. "There is a holding," the lord said, his finger stabbing at a point on the map, near what looked like a wild, forested border. "The Barony of Glyndŵr. It was once… productive. Now it is thorns, wolves, and fearful men. Its tithes are unspoken of. Its last reeve was found with his throat slit a season ago." A murmur ran through some of the retainers. Glyndŵr. The name clearly held a grim reputation.
"This," Lord Maelog said, his gaze returning to Cadogan, a chilling glint in his eyes, "shall be your domain. Your responsibility. Go there. Make it serve Caer Maelog again. Or die trying. It is, perhaps, all you are fit for." He leaned back. "You will take a handful of men – those I can spare, which are few. You will take what supplies Morfudd deems you need for the journey."
He fixed Cadogan with a final, unyielding stare. "This is my will. Do you understand, boy?"
The Barony of Glyndŵr. A poisoned chalice, indeed. Thorns, wolves, fearful men, and a murdered reeve. The mind within Cadogan, the historian who knew of such frontier lands, the strategist who recognized a death sentence packaged as a responsibility, felt a cold dread. But beneath it, something else stirred – the faintest, most perverse flicker of opportunity. An empty, broken land was also a blank slate.
He raised his head, meeting his father's gaze directly. Cadogan's voice, when it came, was still weak, but it held a new, unfamiliar timbre."Deallaf, fy Arglwydd." I understand, my lord.