The Doe and the Dragon

The Hunting Horn of Venedos died into the distance.
Einion Yrth’s ears strained, but the sound was lost in the breeze and the clomping of his horse’s hooves. “What say you, Majestic, to the notion that we escape for a while?” The prince leaned forward in the saddle and patted the animal’s white flank. “We can have some time to ourselves.”
Majestic snorted a response.
“While my warriors seek a stag, we can explore the Gwynant Valley. We shall see if this place is as they say; with faeries and magic and evil around every turn.” Einion eased the horse down a steep slope. He paused to push aside thick branches, and eased Majestic around a jumble of boulders.
The beechs’ autumn-red leaves dappled the sunlight.
At the River Glaslyn the prince stopped to pull a silver coin from his saddlebag. He tossed it into the water as they forded, at a place where the river was shallow and danced over its pebbles with a playful gurgle.
The Aber Glaslyn swallowed the gift with barely a ripple.
Einion gave the ford’s god a silent prayer for safe passage. He looked and listened for any sign of evil.
An orange stream joined the Afon Glaslyn and Einion looked along its course. His eyes met the gauge in the earth, created when the Old People had mined the mountain’s flanks for copper that still tinted her water. The ancient gauge in the mountain’s flank was deep and dark.
Majestic whinnied.
Einion pulled Lightning from her scabbard and kissed the bare iron. His eyes flitted among the rocks and beeches. The prince gazed at Yr Wyddfa’s steep slopes and stilled, his heart pounding his ribs.
“Merlin’s fortress,” he muttered as he looked up at the citadel. “It seems dead, Majestic. See the way the grass grows in tufts from the walls. If anyone was living there, they would maintain the place. You need not be afraid, friend.”
The animal snorted.
“Men say two dragons dwell in a cave beneath the fortress, Majestic. They say Merlin freed the beasts, in the days when my father was my age. They say the dragons fought, and the red dragon defeated the white. The old druid saw it as a sign that we would wipe the Saxons from Britain.” Einion paused for a bitter laugh. “The Saxons have driven deeper into the south. It seems the great Merlin was mistaken.”
I am Einion the Impetuous. I do not fear dragons and magic in this accursed valley, the prince told himself.
Still his knuckles whitened around Lightning’s hilt.
“If there are dragons here, friend, they are hiding well.” Einion forced his weapon back into her scabbard, but almost immediately reined Majestic to a halt, his heart pounding his ribs.
What was that? he asked himself, certain music was drifting along the valley. He stilled, but the sound eluded him.
“Did you hear anything, boy?”
Majestic whinnied.
“I am sure I heard a noise.” Einion slid down from the saddle and gave Majestic words of comfort as he tied the animal to a tree. “The grass here is lush. You will have a good meal while I seek out what I heard.” He gave the horse’s flank a reassuring pat.
Majestic swung his head around and whinnied again.
Einion turned and put a finger to his lips, urging the horse to calm.
Breath locked in the prince’s throat as he heard it again; the tune carried to him on the breeze. He looked into the beeches, trying to peer through their leaves. He told himself he was hearing a trick of the wind dancing through the branches.
“No,” Einion assured himself as his hand found Lightning’s hilt. He crouched behind a lichen-encrusted boulder. “This is a flute I am hearing, not a joke played by the valley.”
Catching his breath, Einion emerged from his hiding place. Crouching to avoid detection, he followed the river’s bank downstream.
The sound reached him again; melodic, but with an occasional blurred note.
It is as if a gifted musician has a poor instrument that cannot match his talent. Einion swallowed. It is the faeries. They are playing enchanting music to entrap me.
He looked around, back up the valley.
I could turn around, and no-one would ever know.
The Prince of Venedos pulled himself upright and pushed out his chest.
I would know. And Einion the Impetuous will not be afraid of a mere fairie.
He kissed Lightning’s blade and strode toward the sound. His eyes flitted, seeking out spits and traps among the Gwynant Valley’s scattered trees and jumbled rocks.
Einion halted when he saw her.
Ignoring his soldier’s training, the prince relaxed to suck in a breath.
She had her back to him as she sat back on a rock. Her hair fell like a cascade of night down her sea-blue dress.
The music seemed to run with the Afon Glaslyn’s gurgling waters. Einion wondered whether the notes were accompanying the river’s natural tune, or whether the waters were merely a backdrop to the sound coming from her instrument.
Turn around, maiden, the prince begged silently. So I may see whether your face matches your music’s beauty.
The prince swallowed, allowing the flute to take him to realms of fantasy, where rivers ran in clear blue ribbons between lush fields; where cattle were plump and produced milk as sweet as honey; where children played idly without fear of disease or famine; where the crops grew without fail, taking the back-breaking labour from their farmers; where all warriors were promised a glorious death in battle and the choicest cuts of meat in the Otherworld’s feasts; a world where every woman looked like the goddess-queen Rhiannon.
Einion forced himself to retain his grip on his sword. He told himself the woman might be a faerie trap from the Otherworld, sent to lower his guard. The prince crouched behind a rock as he watched her, still allowing her river-music to envelop him.
I am Einion Yrth, he told himself. Einion the Impetuous does not skulk behind a rock from a mere woman, whether she be magical or not.
His tongue was dry as he drew himself to his full height and thrust his chest out. He stepped forward, allowing the moss to silence his footsteps. What do I say to her? he asked himself as a new fear coiled his insides.
The Gwynant Valley quietened to emptiness as the maiden took the flute from her mouth. She laid it on the rock beside her, with grace Einion had never before believed existed. He stepped forward but a gasp pulled the breath from his body as she picked up a cloak. After a pause to examine the garment, the maiden dipped it into the water and held it under the surface.
She’s washing!
She’s washing at a ford!
Einion trembled as old legends haunted him
The Washer at the Ford! The maiden who cleanses a warrior’s clothes of blood, readying his way to the Otherworld!
Einion leaned forward, trying to glimpse the clothes piled beside her.
She pounded the garment against a rock, using the stone’s firm surface to dislodge stubborn dirt.
Einion did not recognise the cloak.
It might be that she is washing clothes for her family, he told himself. Or for her lord. It is only my superstitious mind telling me she might be The Washer…
Einion forced himself to step forward again, heart pounding and mouth dry.
He looked up in response to a dark movement, and stilled.
The prince’s stomach swirled.
The raven looked back down on him from a branch and locked eyes with the prince.
The Lady of Death, Einion thought. Sweat trickled.
The Lady sits above the maiden, protecting her.
The raven’s eyes bored into the prince.
I do not fear, Einion told himself.
With a cackle, the bird’s wings lifted her into the air.
The maiden jerked to her feet and looked around, green eyes wide in fear.
Einion opened his mouth, but his mind blankened. The prince could not speak.
She is beautiful beyond measure, was all he could think.
The girl wrapped her hair around her. She took a pace back, into the water. The dress’s hem darkened at it touched the river. She looked to Einion, then to the bird disappearing down the valley, then back to the prince.
“Do not be afraid of me, woman,” Einion managed to force from between dry lips.
Her jaw dropped and a hand covered her open mouth.
A delicate movement, despite her fear, Einion decided. She has the grace of a deer.
The maiden gasped as her eyes fell to Lightning.
And she has the Dark Lady’s protection. Einion gazed down the valley, but could not see the bird. He dropped the weapon and extended his palm toward the girl, in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.
Do not run from me, maiden, he begged silently.
She said something with a voice like a songbird’s, in a language Einion recognised but did not understand.
“Irish?” he asked.
Still holding her hand to her mouth, the maiden gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Einion noticed the way the sun tinted her hair. Find something to say, man, he thought.
Her eyes were still wide, but green and sparkling beneath her charcoal-black fringe.
Einion pointed to the flute; a simple instrument of reed, that still lay on the rock. “You play well,” he managed to force out.
She dipped her head, acknowledging the compliment.
The Irish settler-girl understands British, he thought with relief. “Play some more for me.”
She looked at him, then down at the flute, but did not step toward it. She lifted the hem of her dress clear of the water and the river ran around her ankles.
She quivers like a frightened doe. Einion ran a hand across his moustache before stepping forward.
The girl stepped further into the river. The water reached her calves and caressed her dress.
Einion halted.
She looked over her shoulder, as if preparing to flee across the ford.
Think of something to say, man. Are you as mute as the vision in front of you? He stepped backward and leaned on a large rock in what he hoped was a relaxed, non-threatening gesture. Do not enchant my mind with your beauty and then run from me, doe, he begged silently.
The maiden shot her wide-open eyes to the sword between his feet. Einion leaned down and, in a single motion, picked up Lightning and tossed her into the undergrowth.
I will pick my weapon up later, the prince decided. He smiled as her features softened.
“Please play,” Einion begged, pointing to the flute.
The girl looked down on it, then pointed toward the unwashed clothes. “I have to work,” she said, her British broken but understandable.
Einion nodded. Maybe she is a slave afraid of a harsh master.
Or maybe she really is The Washer, he thought. His gaze flitted down the valley, seeking the raven. A chill shrivelled his insides.
A raven is not proof she is the Washer, the prince told himself as his eyes bored into the clothes, seeking out a familiar garment.
Nothing.
The doe is probably just a simple washerwoman, not a spirit from the Otherworld, Einion thought as he stepped to the rock she had been sitting on. He was maybe half a dozen paces from where she now stood motionless in the ford, her blue dress soaking up the river. He picked up the flute and held it toward her. “Please play,” he begged.
The maiden looked to the flute, then to Einion. She gave a yelp, then turned and splashed across the ford.

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Acknowledgements, if possible please:
Thank you to Phil McCormac, who ploughed his way through my first draft and told me what did and didn’t work, and to Gianna Bruno and Cathy Chance, who read a later version and in particular helped get the characters right.
Thanks also to Emma and Peter, who walked countless miles – willingly, I think, particularly when we could find an ice-cream shop - through hidden glens and over dramatic hillforts to help research locations during our Welsh holidays.