Outside fine rain had started. It would soon be night. Looking up, 1 saw the wisps of cloud were very low, was reminded of days at the hafod in my boyhood and 1 opened my mouth to feel the tiny pickings of the rain on my tongue and lips, like a child catching snowflakes. There was a cawing of crows. Over the wooden wall of the yard 1 could see, at a little distance, the crowns of trees. The court was evidently an upland stronghold. Shortly, a young and nervous looking priest appeared. His hair was tonsured in the Welsh manner. Next was dragged forward my fellow prisoner, the Frenchman, who had tried to speak to me and washed my neck. He too was tasting the clean air, tilting his face to catch the fine wash and stretching his eyebrows upward. He was tall and a little fat, the dark hair threaded with grey.
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Ifor nodded to Dafi, who left my side and went to help with the prisoner. The fetters on the man's feet meant that he had to move by making absurd, hopping little steps. Ifor spoke quietly to the priest, who spoke to the prisoner in Latin. The Frenchman shrugged and shook his head. The priest tried again more slowly and loudly, 1 think trying to hazard a few words of French here and there. After this there was a pause. The prisoner looked down. The slightest movement of a shoulder. 1 thought that this time he'd understood, but the priest spoke once more. The prisoner looked at him dazedly, then turned his head to look over the wall to the treetops where the crows were calling.
'Oh great Christ' Ifor shouted, interrupting the priest. 'Come on. Bring the bench. Bring the bench. Here. Here.'
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The bench he'd sat on in the hall was brought out and the prisoner was laid face down on it, his head overhanging the end. Dafi and the other man held his chained hands to the ground underneath his face. Ifor gave some instructions to Rhys Ddu, who sat astride the man's back. People, the little girl who'd stooped to look up into my face among them, appeared from various buildings to watch. Ifor nodded to Rhys who caught hold of the prisoner's hair and jerked his head up. The man grunted and then started to speak quickly and quietly. I assume he prayed. Ifor took out his knife and knelt in front of him.
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He held the blade by the man's cheek, then paused, dropped his hand, squinted up at the sky. The light was poor. He looked around as if expecting to find a lamp nearby, but then settled to his job once more. He wiped the speckles of drizzle from his knife on his shirt, said, quietly, 'Hold his legs' which two young men did, and, with speed and a kind of bored expertise, he dug out the eyes.
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There were screams that could have split rock and I heard an explosion of wingbeats from the trees. Dafi half crouched at the hurt arm, eager to get up.
'Turn him round, Ifor? , he said. 'Top and tail?'
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'No no no no no' Ifor said, smiling at him as he got to his feet. 'Minimum force. Minimum force. In politics, my boy, restraint is everything.'
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He wiped his knife again, this time on Dafi's shirt, and waved an arm.
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The signal was for the hoopwoman, who waddled forward carrying a bag and turned her attention to the mutilated hostage. He was still conscious and whimpering. She had him turned and sat on the ground so she could treat him with her ointments.
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'Silly boys' she said.
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The people started to move away, murmuring about the show. A few crowded round the woman to see the wounds.
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