Tale of Gwyn (13 page)

“Nobody keeps the Lords from war, if they are bent on it. So the King must protect his Earls.”

He closed the book, without warning. Gwyn moved away from where she had stood so close behind him.

The rest of the day and evening passed in silence. Gwyn sat with her back at the stones, listening to the whisper of the wind. Waiting. She was waiting, she knew, for the snow to cease. Then, when the snow had ceased, she would wait for it to settle enough so they could safely walk through it. All of her life was waiting, she thought crossly.

The Lordling made his last trip outside for the day and crawled into the bed. Gwyn followed his example and could have howled aloud at the flakes still falling from the thick sky. She forced herself to lie quietly by the fire, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for sleep.

The whimpering woke her again, but she recognized it immediately. She rose to comfort the boy. Once again, she spoke gently, touching his wet face with her fingers until the wide eyes focused on her. Once again, he lay back without a word. But she advised him, “If you tell the dream it will not return, my Lord.”

In the flickering light, with the hair around his face wet with his own tears, he looked young, a small child. “I cannot.”

He had misunderstood her. “I mean, when we return, perhaps your father.”

“Him last of any,” the Lordling said.

Gwyn shrugged and returned to her place by the fire. She did not return to sleep, however, and neither did the boy. She could hear him moving on the bed, weeping still. Finally, she stirred the fire and spoke toward the other side of the room. “We must do something or we will both go mad, cooped up here.” Then, hearing how she had spoken, as if to one of her own people, she said, “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said—”

“Please give me silence, Innkeeper's daughter,” his voice asked. He did not sound like a boy.

Gwyn did not need his rebuke. She rebuked herself. Wrapped up in a blanket, lying on her back beside the banked fire, she took herself to task. It was childish to let the feelings of being cooped up, and restlessness, govern her thoughts. She could not afford childishness. The Lords were their own law. Just because they went on two legs did not mean they were the same as the people. And she herself, Gwyn, the Innkeeper's daughter, was just feeling edgy at this time of her life, because the time for choice was approaching her. That there was no choice she cared to make from among those offered her was an irritation to her. Her life did not belong to her.

But whose life did? Were she to wed, her life would belong to the man she married. Were she to say no, her labor would belong to Tad at the Inn, and she would become the Innkeeper's unmarried daughter, until she was too cumbersome or old to work there. Then she would come out to one of these solitary holdings, and her works and her days would belong to herself. Since she could not have her heart's desire, and she knew she could not, then she would not. But it was hard for a woman.

No easier for a man, who without holding or wife must go serve as a soldier, unless he went into service to the Lords. No easier for a man with a holding either, because his life belonged to his holding—whether that was what he wanted or not.

Gwyn knew what she did not want, and so she knew her choice. Da must be satisfied. To have two of his daughters well and gladly wed was more than most men could hope for. She would be useful to Tad, and Da would value that.

Gwyn too must be satisfied. She must also govern her tongue more closely, because it wouldn't do to dissatisfy the Lordling with her service.

W
HEN GWYN STEPPED OUTSIDE THE
next morning, she was nearly blinded by light. A bright blue sky hung overhead. Sunlight reflected off the expanse of snow. Her eyes hurt as she went around the side of the house to the privy. Returning, she did not return inside. By then her eyes were accustomed to the light, so instead of entering the house she pushed her way through the snow piled up on the hillside running down before her. The snow lay chest high. It was hard work to force her body through it. She leaned into it and fell rather than walked forward. It gave way reluctantly beneath her weight. She scrabbled upright again and fell forward again.

This was hard work and she made little progress. The air was icy around her. They could not leave that day, nor for many days yet. She stood at the end of the short path her body had forced from the snowfield and looked to the mountains, which nibbled at the rim of the blue sky.

Cold as it was, she had no desire to go into the dim house. She spread her arms wide to greet the mountains.

The Lordling stood at the door of the house, watching her. She reined in her feelings and made her face quiet. She went back to make him his bowl of porridge.

“It's stopped snowing,” he said as they passed one another at the door.

“Yes, my Lord.” She kept her eyes down. She would speak only when spoken to and sit quiet through whatever days they must spend here.

She served him without a word. He kept looking at her, but she stood back aloof. He looked more like a boy this morning and she wondered how old he was. He said, “Thank you,” and “I'm finished now,” but there was no answer she needed to make to that. The Lords were always courteous to their servants. She ate beside the fire when he was done.

“I would like a bath,” he said, when she had set the clean bowls back on the shelf.

Gwyn felt her temper rise, but she governed her tongue. She brought in bowls of snow, which she melted by the fire. She poured the water into an iron kettle to warm over the flames. He would not expect a tub, not here in this house. She stood behind him, holding a cloth for washing and a large cloth for drying.

“I will wash myself,” he told her.

She went outside before he told her to. She made the pathway in front of the door broader while she waited, until it was like a small yard, where she could walk in a circle to take exercise. Even the slight exercise of walking felt good to her legs.

When he summoned her back into the house, it was to unwelcome news.

“Innkeeper's daughter,” the Lordling said, “you must bathe. Bring in some snow to melt. I will keep my back to you.”

Gwyn stood mute. Could the Lords order her even when to wash herself?

“After which,” he continued, “we will open the door and let fresh air into this hut. The stench is intolerable.”

“I cannot bathe if you are in the room, my Lord,” Gwyn finally said, keeping her voice level.

“Then I will wait outside, if you must have it so.”

Gwyn cleaned the kettle and hauled in more snow, stripped, and washed herself quickly before the fire, shivering because she had not waited to heat the melted snow enough. Then she rinsed out the cloths they had used and lay them beside the fire to dry. What her mother would say, washing in midwinter, Gwyn didn't like to think. But when they had aired out the small room, she had to agree with the Lordling that it was more pleasant, although she did not speak her agreement to him.

The day dragged along underfoot. Gwyn moved restlessly from one task to the other, unable to concentrate her attention, unable to find any enjoyment in any of the tasks her hands performed. She completed few of them: She washed a few of the mugs, then abandoned that chore; she went outside to increase the area she had flattened down, then tired of the cold and exercise; inside, she started on the second cupboard, but only got as far as emptying its contents onto the bed—a pile of cloths and rags of various weight, some cotton, some wool. The Lordling sat at the table, his body motionless but his fingers restlessly turning the pages of the long book. At last, he turned to an empty page and drew on it with one of the charcoal sticks. Gwyn had water warming by the fire for washing out the inside of the second cupboard, when he spoke to her again:

“I would learn to use the staff, Innkeeper's daughter.”

She hesitated before answering, to keep herself from snapping at him. It would be easier, she thought, if she had been stranded alone, without this boy to act the Lord with her.

“I know you can teach me. I saw you, you were teaching your brother.”

Gwyn sighed. “We have no staffs, my Lord. This room is not very large.”

“You can make some from the firewood,” he told her. “We will do this outside.”

Well, without any exercise she would have trouble sleeping that night, Gwyn thought, and she thought she could avoid hurting the Lordling. “Yes, my Lord,” she answered him.

The staffs she made were splintery and short, but good enough for learning. Her hands felt clumsy, holding the staff with mittens on, but she did not think that mattered. The Lordling was a slight and delicate little thing, and she would have to be careful to play gently.

To her surprise, he proved a quick student and a persistent opponent. At first she struck slowly, giving him time to get his guard up so that she wouldn't hit him. But he didn't like that.

“I cannot learn how to use it if you will not fight me hard, Innkeeper's daughter.”

“The staffs can give serious injury, my Lord.”

“Not as you are using it.”

So she fought him a little harder, less careful not to alarm or hurt him. He was quick on his feet, seldom off balance. Gwyn, larger and more skillful, pressed him backward until he fell into the high snow behind him. He sprang up and brushed his cloak clean. “Again,” he said.

She pressed him again, moving him backward, until he came to the edge of the flattened snow. There, he whirled around, like a dancer. At the same time, he swept with his staff at her feet, holding it at one end like a sword. She jumped backward, and by the time she was ready to begin the attack again, which was no time at all, he had already moved around her and stood waiting, with the flattened snow at his back.

They didn't stop until the sun started to lower and the temperature fell sharply. Inside, he sat at the table, listless again. She served him stew, then—while he ate—cut up meat from the slab of pork to add to the pot after she had served herself. She would cook the meat during the evening, then set the pot aside to cool over the night so that she could remove the fat into the morning before setting it over the fire again to finish cooking. Pork released too much fat into the gravy, making the stew oily and heavy. The Lordling, she noticed, did not finish his bowl. She scraped what he left back into the pot. Gwyn served her own bowl before adding the fresh meat, a turnip, and some more water to the pot. She would start bread again that night, she thought, glad for something to do. In the meantime, she thought, seeing him drawing at the table, she had better finish cleaning that cupboard so that his bed would be clear when he wanted to get into it.

Gwyn took a bowl of warmed water and a cloth. She worked as slowly as she could, spinning the job out, rubbing over the boards with a damp cloth, rinsing the cloth, wringing it out to rub over the area again, then taking a fresh cloth to dry the rough wood. When she heard the Lordling stir restlessly behind her, she smiled. Let him amuse himself, that wasn't her job. Her job was to keep him fed and to serve his needs, as he required of her. No more. It gave Gwyn pleasure to hear his restlessness behind her as she worked placidly at her chore.

She reached her hand in to wash down the back of the cupboard above the shelf, but could not reach in far enough. That was curious. She moved her arm to the lower half and found a board at the back there, which she patiently washed, then washed again, then dried. That completed the job, but she tried the back of the top shelf again, because she was in a mood to be slow and thorough.

Her hand, holding the damp cloth, went into empty space. She put her shoulder inside of the cupboard and reached as far back as she could. The shelf cut against her shoulder as she stretched her right arm out. At first her hand met a wall, much deeper back than that of the other cupboard. That, too, was curious. She groped downward with her hand. Her fingers found rough cloth, a blanket. She brought the damp rag out and dropped it into the bowl of water. Then she groped at the hidden storage place again. The blanket covered something hard, but soft at other places. She pulled the cloth aside, working her hand underneath it. She felt smooth leather, which ended on top of something silky, and then hard metal, long and sharp, too long for a razor—a sword? What would Old Megg be doing with a sword hidden away in her cupboards?

Gwyn's finger went back to the leather and she pulled it toward her. It lay loose, and she brought it slowly forward, over onto the shelf—a boot, the brown leather worn soft, a boot so long its top was folded back into a cuff, its soles well-cobbled but worn. Gwyn pushed it quickly back into its hiding place and pulled at the silky fabric. She didn't understand what these things were doing in Old Megg's hut, but if the silky thing was blue and was a vest and with silver clasps—

“Innkeeper's daughter,” his voice said, right behind her. Gywn froze. “I would have a word with you.”

She did not dare to turn. “Yes, my Lord.” She could see a silver buckle shining on blue cloth, smooth blue cloth. She did not dare pull it any further out, not at that moment when she was not sure how effectively her body blocked his view into the cupboard. She did not want to push it back into its hiding place until she had confirmed her guess.

“Jackaroo,” she thought.

“Who?” he asked. “What?” She had spoken aloud.

Confusion tied Gwyn's tongue in knots. “Let me finish this. I must clear your Lordship's bed. If I may continue, my Lord?” She spoke humbly, to please him, as her hand shoved the tunic back and tried to replace the rough blanket. When she withdrew her head and shoulders from the cupboard, she saw him hovering close behind her.

“What did you say?”

“If I could replace the things in the cupboard, my Lord,” she repeated. She kept her eyes down to hide her face and thoughts. What would Old Megg be doing with Jackaroo's clothing from the old stories?