A rianwen woke with the familiar scents of heather and pine in her nose. She stretched and scrambled up, ready to meet the new day. Won’t Peredur be surprised to find that I am up before he is! she laughed to herself. Her companion was always mercilessly teasing her about her dislike of getting up early in the morning. “Slothfulness is one of the seven deadly sins, Etlym,” he’d always say, wearing a waggish grin. The disguised princess made her way to the courtyard. She washed her face in a water trough and set about making herself useful to Aldris and his family. They were guests, after all, and she was anxious to repay the lord of the Gododdin horse for his hospitality. She went to the stables where Cryf had spent the night. He greeted her with a whinny and a toss of his head. “When was the last time I gave you a good grooming, eh?” she said, reaching up and rubbing the slope of his long, proud face. He buried his nose in her chest and happily slobbered all over it. “It would never do to have you walking around looking dirty. Why everyone would say what a lazy servant Sir Percival has!” She fetched his grooming tools and climbed into his stall. He snorted and made disapproving huff-huff-huffing noises at the sight of the comb in her hand. Sidling away whenever she approached, he forced Arianwen to dance around him, making ineffectual swipes. “You’re in one of your moods today, I see,” said his longsuffering human servant. Dindraine had warned Peredur that Cryf was a bit of a prankster, and it was one of his favorite games to pretend that he absolutely loathed to be groomed. He would refuse to stand still, to make it as difficult as possible for Arianwen, until he was bored of it and settled down to submit to what he secretly liked. “You know,” the disguised princess muttered, once she finally cornered him, and attacked his coat with the curry comb. “If we find ourselves besieged and starving, I’m recommending that we eat you first!” Cryf responded with a snort. Satisfied that he hadn’t lost his dignity by appearing to be too eager to be groomed, he stood quietly with his eyes half closed and glazed over; his lips twitched, as he finally gave in to the enjoyment of Arianwen’s ministrations. A blizzard of hairs flew around as the girl brushed all the dirt in his coat to the surface. Once she was finished, she rubbed him down with a coarse brush made from horsetail, sweeping the dirt away. She fetched a bucket of water, and went over the horse’s body again with damp hands, followed by a coarse linen cloth. She combed tangles and burrs from his auburn streaked mane and tail and polished his charcoal coat until it gleamed like onyx. She softly sang as she worked, to the intermittent accompaniment of screeches from on high. Marching back and forth above the heads of horse and servant, and glaring down at everyone with a superior air was the merlin Symril. Aldris had not a proper mews, so the feathered huntress had spent a dry and happy night in the rafters of the barn. Arianwen released Cryf to graze with the other horses in the open paddock, and the stallion showed her his gratitude by finding the first available patch of mud and rolling lustfully in it. “You exasperating animal! I did not spend all morning grooming you, to have you go and get dirty again!” Aldris’s lovely golden haired daughters laughed as they watched the slim faced “boy” and the mischievous stallion. A frustrated page chased Cryf around the paddock and into a pond, to wash all of the newly acquired mud away. The girls brought fresh cloths and joined in helping to rub the horse dry. Cryf took all the attention in stride, as if it was his due. He rolled his brown eyes and remained wholly unrepentant in the face of all the scoldings. “He’s rather self centered at times,” she said to Aldris’s daughters. With their golden hair and golden eyes, they reminded her of lionesses. “Fine animal, that,” came a new voice. Arianwen looked to the far end of the paddock. What she at first thought to be a rioting clump of grass and brambles untangled itself and revealed itself to be a strangely clad old man; he was wearing bits of bark about his person, in lieu of armor, and his brow was crowned by a wreath of holly. He shuffled over, using a hayfork as a staff. “Bore da, Brenin Hen,” she said, bowing to the moving mound of foliage in playful homage to the prickly crown that he wore. She tried not to openly gape at the odd individual. “Bore da, boy-bach,” the man returned, with a salute of his own. “Do you go to hunt the Beast today?” one of Aldris’ daughters asked. The old man was a regular visitor, though his comings and goings followed no set sign or season. He would always turn up with a new tale of a narrow escape, or a chance at victory lost. “I am always hunting the Beast,” the old man responded. “Worry not, maiden, for soon you and your people will be able to walk safely through the woods again.” “Since you are a guest, Etlym,” said another one of the girls, “I shall tell you about the Beast.” Arianwen bowed her head and patiently listened to the story that she knew by heart. Soredamor thought that she saw the Beast once, when she was out riding, although none of the rest of us really believed her. Poor thing, she’s been afraid of the dark ever since. If the creature is anything like what Soredamor described, I believe this rustic will need more protection than bark can offer!, the disguised princess thought. “What brings you to the North Country?” the rustic asked, thoughtfully stroking his moustache. “I travel with my master, a pilgrim knight,” Arianwen replied politely. And here he comes now, she thought, catching sight of Peredur approaching. He had much the same reaction as she to the old man’s appearance. “Halt, Mooncalf!” the rustic barked, as Peredur approached. Arianwen left the men to their conversation, as she went with Aldris and his family, to continue with the morning chores. She hoped Cryf would mind his manners and not start a fight with any of the other horses. * * * Glossary: Bach – small Bore da – Good morning Brenin Hen – Old King