Tale of Gwyn (33 page)

“Take him, you fools!” The Steward finally found his voice. “I don't care if you take him alive, as long as you take him.”

Gwyn didn't wait to watch what the soldiers would do. She wheeled around and ran to the back door. She mounted the horse, who stepped back nervously at her haste. “Hwyya!” she cried, riding among the four horses who still lingered. They trotted away from her, heading up over the hillside. Their own stables were in Earl Northgate's City and that was where she hoped they would go.

Two soldiers appeared around the Blacksmith's house as she turned her horse's head to ride away. They did not pay any attention to her in their pelting race to capture their own mounts.

Two gone meant four would be after Burl, Gwyn thought. She entered the woods, her mount slowed to a walk, her ears listening. She heard voices calling, and the sound of men breaking through underbrush. She followed the sounds, bent low over the horse's neck. The last thing she needed at that time was to be dismounted by a low branch.

A voice called out in recognition, and others answered it. Gwyn urged the horse on.

The soldiers had caught up with him in a shallow dell near the far edge of the woods, not far from the Inn. He had turned to face them there, his staff held in both hands. Three of the soldiers were closing a broad circle around him, while the fourth lay cursing and clutching his ankle where he had fallen. The soldiers had their short swords out and spoke to one another. “He's only got the staff. Move in now, easy. He'll surrender soon enough. We'll even take him alive.”

Gwyn walked her horse onto the path behind them and unsheathed her sword. At the sound of ringing metal, their faces turned to her. She spoke over their heads to Burl: “My Lord, you had better find your own horse and be off. I can hold them here.”

His masked eyes met hers, but he didn't move. It was the soldiers who moved, joining closer together, conferring. They were in the middle, between the two Jackaroos, at the hollow at the base of the dell. “Go now,” Gwyn ordered Burl.

“As you wish, my Lord,” he answered her.

He turned up the hillside, into the trees, and Gwyn gave her attention to the soldiers, who did not quite dare to move to follow him. They were muttering to one another, two blades held toward her, one toward Burl's retreating figure. There was no one to give them orders, and they were not used to that. All she had to do, Gwyn told herself, was keep them occupied long enough for Burl to make the safety of the Inn. Once there, he could hide in any of a dozen places where they would never find him.

The soldiers seemed to realize this, belatedly. One of them broke away from his fellows to follow Burl. Gwyn rode right at the three, then, forcing her reluctant horse. She hoped that their instinctive fear of being trampled would override their skill with the swords. She rode right at one soldier, who threw himself into the bushes to avoid her.

Once beyond the trees, she turned again, trying to hold the horse in control. The soldiers muttered together, their eyes fixed on her. The fourth soldier called out: “If you lose this one, there'll be the devil to pay.”

“It's the devil playing against us now, I don't wonder,” panted the man Gwyn had driven into the bushes. “There's no sword made to kill a man already dead.”

“Do you not see that it's two different men, you superstitious fool?”

“I see what he wants me to see,” the soldier muttered. “There's never a soldier sent out has taken him. And many sent out that never returned, these hundred years.”

“I see one man in two places,” another said.

“Circle him round,” the fourth advised.

“Aye, if he's living we can take him,” one of the three said boldly. This rallied them.

The three soldiers split apart, one staying in front of Gwyn, the other two circling to her sides. Their faces were grim. Gwyn watched their movements, her sword out and ready. She didn't know what she should do. She didn't even know how to use a sword in battle. She understood then exactly how ill-prepared she was for the role she was playing.

Her horse backed nervously beneath her. For a second, she thought she would lose her balance, then she clamped her legs tighter. The horse must do as she willed. And, if they had her, they would pay for the capture, she promised herself. But they wouldn't take her if she could help it. She had the horse, and they had none. She had the long sword and their own fear.

Gwyn slashed with her sword at the man on her left. He backed off and she turned quickly to the man on her right. It was his arm she hit—for a brief time the sword felt thick and heavy in her hand, before she pulled it free. She did not hear his cry, but looked to the front, where the third soldier reached out to grab at the horse's bridle.

Without thinking, Gwyn dug her heels into the horse's sides. The horse leaped forward. She saw the soldier's face close as she went past him, and she felt his lunge at the leg she thrust out to kick him off. Her horse shied to the side. Swaying, Gwyn grabbed for his mane with both hands. She dropped her sword.

There was nothing else for it now, so she bent low over the animal's neck and urged him on, into the woods, away from the path. Burl had his head start and that was all she could do. She must make her own escape now. Jackaroo could not be captured. Riding low over his neck, she slapped at the horse with her hand, forcing his pace.

She kept to the woods until she was beyond the village, then she headed across open land, down hill and up. She had no idea where the soldiers were. She was coming up on the vineyard before she realized that she stayed in the saddle only by her hands wrapped into the horse's mane, that her body bounced helplessly. Only one leg gripped at his sides, and that was no good. She looked curiously down at her left leg.

Blood streamed out from the split leather. It ran down over the shoe, thick and red. Gwyn's head swam at the sight and at the recognition that it was pain she felt, spreading outward from a numbness at her leg. The horse threw her off.

Gwyn landed with a blow that knocked the breath from her body and knocked her hat off. She had no time to think. She was just below the vineyard, so she grabbed at the hat and forced her legs under her. She stumbled between the rows of vines and fell down onto her knees, again concealed.

The sun poured down on her back and her ears rang. She could hear nothing but a curious whimpering breeze and her own heartbeat. Beside her, the twisting vines rose, each one covered with broad leaves and heavy with purple grapes. Gwyn's mouth was dry and painful, and she wished the grapes were ripe. She would have liked to put a grape into her mouth and feel it burst there with sweet liquid.

The whimpering came from her own mouth, and she clamped her teeth shut over it, to silence it. There was no sound of pursuit, but she thought there would be pursuit. She knew now how the hares felt, when the dogs were after them. Like the hares, she was too frightened to move. But she would like, she thought, to have just one grape and to burst it with her teeth.

And she would have liked, she thought dizzily, to know what Burl was doing dressed up as Jackaroo, although she began to believe she had imagined all that. She was no longer quite sure how she had come to be crawling here in Da's vineyard, with one leg uselessly dragging behind her, and the soil soft and clinging underneath her. She remembered that she must not be found as she was, although she didn't know what was wrong with the way she was.

Gwyn dragged herself across the dirt of the vineyard between the tall rows of vines. Insects buzzed all around her. She did not know why it was so important to keep her hold on the hat she clutched, which slowed her down terribly and was, anyway, too bent and dirty ever to be worn again.

She emerged at the crest of the hill on her knees and looked down the long distance to the hut and shed. That steep distance, she rolled down, which seemed—curiously—to take no time at all. The first thing she did, when she came to stop against the goat pen and pulled herself up once again onto her knees, was vomit.

Gwyn slid under the fence, pulling with her arms because her legs were of no use to her, and dragged her stubborn left leg behind her as she made her wormlike way across the pen to the open gate. What luck that the gate was open, she thought, crawling up to the house. The door to the house was open too, and she pulled her body inside.

Gwyn took off the mask she wore. But why should she wear a mask? She proceeded with her three-limbed crawl across the dirt floor to the open cupboard. It took some time to remember how the clasps of her tunic worked, but she knew she was undressing as fast as she could. As fast as she could was too slow, and although she did not know why she should hurry, she knew that she must.

The boots were hard to remove, especially the left boot with a gaping hole just below her knee. It was a pity that someone had slashed such fine leather, she thought, bending over to pull the boot down, wondering why it should be so painful to do that, as if her flesh too were slashed open. The boot was ruined, and that was a great waste.

She had shoved all the clothes up into the cupboard, but with the nagging sensation that she had not done things right, when her strength gave out. Gwyn thought she would lie on the bed until she felt better, except that the bed was far away and a girl had left her skirt out on it. Gwyn hoped the girl wouldn't be frightened to find her here, in her home. She hoped the girl would have something to drink too.

Gwyn pulled herself up onto her one good leg, her hands on a wooden table, to see if the girl was on the bed. She tumbled forward onto her face. At least, the strange thought drifted across the cloudy blackness of her mind, Burl was safe. The black clouds closed in around her.

G
WYN SWAM THROUGH FIRE—SOMEONE,
at the back of her mind, asked if this was burning and were the dead then not meat at all. She turned to ask someone how the news could be carried back to the living, but nobody stood there. The fire was water, and she let it drown her.

Gwyn toiled along the mountain's stony face. The stones burned underfoot and against her palms. They burned where they touched her leg. She had to find the eastern pass the Lord had spoken of, but she lacked a leg so her progress was slow. Sweat poured down over her naked body. She stood under the waterfall then and opened her mouth to take in the sweet cold water. When her foot slipped on the rock, she had no strength to grasp at the stones, so she let the waterfall carry her down, laughing aloud as she tumbled along the foam.

Jackaroo rode by her, in the night. He reined in in front of her and took off his mask. He was Win, with his wolfish features and his sad laughter. He took off his mask. He was a girl, her hair the color of maple leaves in autumn, riding high and proud. He took off his mask. He was a Prince, just a boy. . . . No, a young man and angered, and the dark figure on the horse took off his mask. He was dead, long dead, his eyes blind sockets and his fleshless jaw hanging down. He rode his horse over her. The iron hooves pounded on her leg. Then Jackaroo's bones crumbled and the heavy tunic fell down upon her. He wanted to smother her.

Gwyn opened her eyes. Heavy bedclothes lay over her. It was a dream. She was alone. She slid into sleep.

It was dark when she awoke again. A sound in the darkness had roused her. She could not turn her head. Light came—a candle. She remembered how to turn her head and saw a dark figure seated with its back to her, its head low so that all she could see was the dark shape of shoulders.

This was Old Megg's hut she lay in, but she was too tired by the effort of moving her head to be surprised. Hazily, she remembered Gaderian. He must build a fire, or they would freeze.

The figure at the table turned around, but it was Burl. “I knew you were,” she said.

“Are you awake then,” he asked her.

Gwyn shut her eyes.

She heard him bring a stool over, near to her head.

“If you would eat,” he asked her.

She opened her eyes. “I'm not hungry.”

“Aye, Gwyn, and you are.” It was easier to agree than to argue. He had soft pieces of bread, which he soaked with wine before dropping them into her mouth. She swallowed as many as she could before raising her hand to push his hand away.

In the candlelight his eyes were shadowed. She fell asleep.

Light lay in the room when she awoke again. The window over the bed was open, as was the door. Burl was still there. There was pain in her left leg, which throbbed and burned. She pulled herself up in the bed, but had no strength. He fed her again, cold broth into which he dipped pieces of bread.

“What happened?” she asked him.

At that, he laughed aloud, putting the bowl back on the table and bringing a bucket of water to her bedside. “I must change the bandage on your leg.”

“I remember
that
,” Gwyn said angrily, dismayed at how weak her anger sounded. “But what happened since then. That's what I want to know.”

He didn't answer her, and she lacked the courage to look down at her leg. She felt him unwrapping, then the cool water, and then a dry, tight bandage. She should have had the courage to look, she thought.

“In the cupboard, Burl,” she remembered.

“No, I've buried them,” he soothed her. “You've had a fever—the wound inflamed. It's been five days. The sword cut almost down to the bone, and then—it was filthy. I had salt for it. Aye, Gwyn, you didn't like that. But it's healing now.”

“Next time I'll look at it,” she promised. “But Burl—” She tried to sit up.

“Nay, rest, I'll tell you.” He sat down on the stool. She fixed her eyes on him and waited.

“You look tired,” she finally broke his silence.

“Aye and you look yourself like death. I made it safely back. I thought you would come later, but you didn't. I didn't know what to do and Tad—he thought you might come here. So we came here and found you.”