Tale of Gwyn (35 page)

“Aye, wife, a man should have a woman.”

“It's not this one who will bear him children—look at her,” Mother said. Then she had turned away saying, “I don't know what our world is coming to,” with such confused unhappiness in her voice that Gwyn couldn't blame her cruel words.

Gwyn had fallen onto the pile of straw that served Burl for a bed, too worn out to even think over the events of the day. All the next day she lay there alone in the windowless room, without even the spirit to get up. The next day, however, and the day after, she had walked the tiny room, to make herself stronger. By the third day she no longer needed the crutch, and she could see by the thick clotted crust on her wound that it was healing and that the scar it would make would be a broad white slash down her calf forever.

Burl brought her food, and some few times Tad came to sit and talk with her. Burl slept in the empty stable, when he slept. They told her, between them, all the news of the day. “But where did you get Jackaroo's clothes?” she finally asked Burl, when she realized he wouldn't volunteer that information.

“They were hidden under a floorboard in your Granda's room,” Burl told her. “When I found them, I left them there, when I was clearing the room. But I thought that day—when it was Cam they were after—that you'd want something to save him.”

They sat by the light of a single candle. Gwyn was on the straw, with her back against the warm stones of the chimney. The crutch she no longer needed leaned by the door, near to where Burl sat facing her. If he had stretched out his legs, as she had hers stretched out, their feet would have touched.

“That's true,” she said. She didn't have any interest continuing that subject, however. “Are there many then, hidden away under floors and behind cupboards?”

“So I think. There must be some truth behind it all, to begin all the stories.”

“And in castles too,” she added, trying to fit that into her understanding of what could go on in the world.

“Aye, so it seems,” he answered.

On the third night, Tad brought Da into the room. He sat with Gwyn for a long time, but said almost nothing. Later he returned with Mother, who was almost speechless, with her tears and her clasping of Gwyn. She brought Gwyn a bundle of clothing tied into a blanket, scolding her for her pigheadedness, telling Da his family must have bad blood in it, wondering if it wouldn't have been better if Gwyn had run off with Cam after all, telling Gwyn over and over again that she was sorry. She had thought of everything, even the soft cloths for Gwyn's time of the month, as a mother will. “What will you do?” they both asked her.

Gwyn could not answer that. “I won't turn to thieving,” she said. “But what did Win do?”

Her parents looked at one another, then Mother answered her. “He came riding up to my parents' door, in all the finery, and he gave me a flower. A stem of quince blossoms it was. It was such foolishness. . . .”

Gwyn wasn't about to argue with that.

“Did you recognize him?” she asked.

“How could I?” Mother asked. “It wasn't until later that I heard about what happened to him. But Gwyn, what will you do, where will you go?”

“I'll be well,” Gwyn said.

“But how?” Mother asked.

Gwyn was worrying that same question as she stood by the doorway watching the double line of horsemen ride into the Inn yard. They wore green tunics and short green capes. The first four carried high flags that rippled in the wind, the golden falcon on a green field with his wings spread out. Da came out and heard the order for wine and food, for the Earl who rode just behind them, and for his retinue who were thirsty and hungry.

Everyone who had come to wait at the Inn this fourth day had gathered outside the wide barroom door as the two horses, riding a little ahead of a dozen others, walked over the stones. The two were a man and a boy, both splendid in long green capes and soft green velvet hats, edged with white fur. Burl stood in front of Gwyn at the stable door, so that she might see without being noticed. She looked around his broad shoulder—and smiled.

Gaderian rode beside his father as a prince must ride, straight and solemn. His eyes, however, were not still. They searched the family and then went around to the windows and doors. As they came near Burl, Gwyn drew back.

“My Lord,” Da sounded surprised.

“As you see me, Innkeeper,” the Lord answered, his voice high and light and pleasant. “I remember your wine and your wife's pastry.”

Da's mouth flapped. If Gwyn had been there, her mouth would have been flapping too.
So
, she thought. She looked over Burl's shoulder and saw the two dismounting, to be escorted inside for refreshments.

“Burl,” she whispered. “I can go south with them. He said, the boy—” But that wasn't the first step. “You have to talk with them.”

“I won't be able to get near them,” Burl said. Gwyn knew he was right.

“I can follow them and catch them up,” she said.

“They're mounted,” Burl pointed out.

“Go find out what's happening,” Gwyn ordered. Then she heard her voice and said, “Please, Burl, it's a chance.”

He turned his face to her. “I'll be going with you,” he told her quietly, and left before she could answer that.

Gwyn went back to the little room and stood in front of the table. A candle burned on it. If she had her paper, she thought—but she could not go up to her room to get it, and now Burl had gone it was too late to send him. If she had only thought. If she could only get some message to Gaderian, she thought. There was no charcoal in that room to make marks on a piece of wood. Her knuckles rapped on the tabletop as she thought frantically. She stared into the candle's flame, as if the answer might lie there where wax melted down into a tiny pool before running over the sides to harden. The flame danced before her eyes. The Innkeeper's daughter was days gone from the Inn. She could not suddenly reappear, to hang off the Earl's stirrup and ask for shelter. There would be too many questions asked.

He had said, she remembered from a long time ago, that she could now trust him for anything. She hoped he spoke true, because she must trust him now.

A tiny pool of yellow wax rolled over the edges and slid down the candle's length, making a design like the icicles they had seen near the frozen waterfall.

And that was the way. Or, rather, it was a chance when she could think of no other.

Gwyn took the candle up in her hand and tipped it sideways in its stand, letting the melted wax form a pool as broad as her palm on the tabletop. When it was thick enough, she set the candle down, and with a piece of straw, started the letter
G
in soft wax. The straw broke. She took another and doubled it over on itself, digging out the shape of the letter.

The wax cooled quickly. She levered it gently up from the wood and—holding it gently in her hand—took up the parcel of clothing in her other hand. She returned to the stable door. She waited for the Earl and his son to reappear. If Burl could get the wax into Gaderian's hand, if he would understand it, if his father would give him his way . . . If, if, again, she thought. So much depended on chance.

She held her crutch at her side as she waited. Burl hurried across the Inn yard, to tell her that they were rising from their lunch, and two men went to bring forward the Earl's horses from where they grazed beyond the Inn yard.

She put the wax into Burl's hand. “You have to give this to him, to the Lordling,” she told him.

“Aye, Gwyn.” He started to protest, but she saw the two men returning, mounted and leading the riderless horses forward.

“Burl, just do it, please,” she asked.

“What is it?” He looked at the disk flat in his hand.

“It's a
G
. A letter, the first letter of my name.”

“You know letters?”

She nodded impatiently.

“All of them? Do you know—”

“
Burl
.”

“Could you teach me?”

“Yes.” She would have promised Burl anything to get him moving before it was too late. “Just give it to him, to the Lordling.”

“You're a terrible woman when you've got your mind made up,” he told her. She had no time to wonder at the laughter in his voice. She just shoved him out of the doorway.

The Earl mounted high on his horse. His son mounted beside him, his face masked into a formal expression as he gathered the reins into his gloved hands. His eyes no longer searched the Inn yard.

“I will read this, as you ask,” the Earl said to Da, holding the rolled paper that he had, himself, given to Da a few days ago. Gwyn smothered laughter. There was so much masking and masquerading going on, it was a wonder the world didn't just crumble apart, like an overdone pastry. But she didn't mind. It made a fine joke.

That was, she thought, what Win had meant, perhaps. The joke had been enough for him, and it might be enough for her, since she had given up everything else. She relaxed for a minute, to enjoy the Earl's performance.

“And I will report what the man told you to the King,” the Earl said.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“But I am sorry to hear that your daughter is gone,” the Earl went on.

“As are we,” Da agreed, meaning more than the Earl could understand.

Meanwhile, Burl had slipped around the horses toward Gaderian. When one of the Earl's men tried to stop him, he called out, “My Lord?”

The Earl recognized him. “Yes, lad, what can I do for you?”

“I have a gift for your son,” Burl said. He passed the wax to Gaderian, who took it with a puzzled expression. He looked first to his father for permission and then down at his hand. A mask seemed to fall over his face and his hand folded around the disk, crushing it.

Gwyn's heart fell.

Burl waited. The minutes stretched out as the Earl hesitated, politely, to see why Burl still stood before him. Burl said nothing.

Gwyn could have kicked him into speech, and her hands were clenched into fists under the silence forced upon her.

At last Burl risked speaking. “My Lord, I would go with you.”

Gwyn let her breath out.

The Earl frowned. He looked at the Innkeeper and the frown didn't leave his face. “I don't think—”

“But Father,” Gaderian interrupted. “We are in his debt.”

The two Lords looked into one another's faces. Gwyn could have cried aloud with the waiting. However, these two had never spoken much with words, so perhaps this was their way. Her way had to be this helpless waiting.

“All right then,” the Earl agreed at last. “If the Innkeeper will permit.”

Da looked as surprised as everybody else. “I will,” he said.

“My Lord . . .” Burl's voice, calm as a summer afternoon, made another request. “I have a woman with me now.”

Gwyn saw Gaderian's swift reaction to that, and how he held his eyes from searching the Inn yard again. She leaned on her crutch, ready to step out. She would take nothing more than the parcel of clothing with her, and that was right. The Inn was Tad's, and the three gold coins in the purse under her pillow. He would never know, but they would pay him for the goat. So he would have fair measure of her.

“I will trust anyone who travels with you, lad,” the Earl told Burl.

Burl waved a hand to Gwyn and she hobbled out into the yard. She saw the disappointment in Gaderian's face before her eyes returned to the ground. In her mind's eye, she held the image of the old woman, hobbling along beside her up the snowy Way, and she swung her head back and forth as the old woman had done and imagined the weakness in her bent legs as she stood hunched over her crutch among the horses at the center of the Inn yard. Her appearance had shocked them, she could feel it. They ignored her, as people will when they do not like to see.

“You'll need to ride in one of the wagons, lad,” the Earl said. “I'll find work for you, in my service.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Burl said. Like everyone else, he ignored Gwyn. “I have everything that I need.”

“Then we will go on.”

Gwyn could see no higher than the Earl's legs, so she studied the stones at her feet as she listened.

“Innkeeper, I thank you for being a good master. And you, mistress.”

“Aye, Burl,” Da's voice answered slowly. “I'm sorry you must want to go. I had thought to leave my house a man who could serve it well and loyally.”

Burl accepted the rebuke. “Such servants come to houses that merit them,” he answered.

They were talking with masks on their words.

“I had thought, lad,” the Earl spoke sternly, “that you would keep your master's daughter from mischance.”

“That was my hope, too, my Lord.” Burl's voice was quiet, untroubled. That would puzzle the Earl, Gwyn thought, but it would comfort her parents.

“Maybe you'll come back.” That was Tad's voice.

“Maybe,” Burl answered. “But if I do, it will mean that I've failed.”

“I don't care,” Tad said stoutly. If she had not been so carefully acting her part, Gwyn would have smiled. The way was made, now, for Burl's return to the Inn. Everything was done.

The horses turned to go. She followed Burl's legs, losing distance at every step. She left the Inn yard with her back bent over the crutch, her feet weak on the stones, the parcel dragging on the ground. She could not even turn her face to take a last look at her home, and that was hard, but it was how she must go.

W
EEKS LATER, GWYN STOOD BESIDE
a broad river. The water ran with the colors of sunset. Thick forest crowded up to the bank opposite. The purple sky was wide overhead here, because of the cleared land behind her. Long feathered clouds stretched across it, their edges burning gold. Soon it would be autumn, although in the south, Gaderian had told her, autumn came later and the winters were not so severe.