And another six! Six Sentence Sunday is good fun – register at the website any time between Wednesday and Saturday each week then on Sunday choose a published work or WIP, and post 6 sentences from it. Then romp around the world reading and commenting to everyone elses.
As per usual – 6 from A Fierce Reaping, a story set in Yr Hen Gogledd – the Old North – during a period when something very like Welsh was spoken from the Firth of Forth to the Tamar. Cynfal’s conversation with Moried is broken up by their respective troop leaders.
Moried shot him a smug and knowing smile, eyes flicking past Cynfal’s shoulder, before returning to his lord. Cynfal blew his cheeks out in exasperation, as much at himself as Moried, then turned to find Cynon getting to his feet. He too was looking across the room to Gwlygad and Aneurin, who had just entered with the harper, Gwion, at their heels.
He was taller than Cynfal had expected, broad shouldered, with a considerable flush brightening his pale face.
“There you are, you little bastard,” Cynon growled. “Cynfal, you can go – I want a word with my cousin in private.”