Chapter Eighteen
Wales
The arrow wasn’t sticking out of her shoulder any longer, but Blayth knew that she must have been in a good deal of pain.
They were riding northeast beneath a dark pewter sky and a great silver moon that was beginning to set. Soon enough, it would disappear in the west and then the land would be as dark as pitch. Blayth knew they would have to find shelter before that happened, a place to tend Asmara’s wound.
He’d tried to do it as soon as they’d left Gwendraith, but Asmara was a strong woman.
She’d ripped the arrow out of her shoulder and kept her hand against the wound, pressing it with the material from her tunic to stop the bleeding.
She wouldn’t even let him stop so that he could get a look at the wound.
She was concerned that men from Gwendraith might try to pursue them and she didn’t want them to catch up, so it was best to put as much distance between them and Gwendraith as possible.
Arrow wound be damned.
Therefore, they raced off into the night.
Asmara’s young stallion was very fast, taking the lead as Blayth’s horse tried to keep up.
To the south, they could see the rise of ghostly hills and to the north, it was mostly flat lands and forests.
All of it was bathed in moonlight, which made the road easy to see.
They were able to dodge things that, had it been a darker night, they would have tripped over.
Blayth mostly tried to stay on Asmara’s tail as she rode the horse at breakneck speed.
She was only holding on with one hand as it was, the other one pressed tightly to her left shoulder, and he was genuinely fearful that she was going to fall off at some point, but his Dragon Princess remained strong.
She held tight as they headed north, passing through smaller towns, and then letting the horses have their head on the long and barren stretches.
On they went, into the night.
Blayth wasn’t entirely sure how long they’d been running, but by the position of the moon, he guessed that it had been at least a couple of hours.
The moon was so low now that it was beginning to dip below the horizon and he knew that they had to find shelter fairly quickly.
On the road ahead, they could see a small village and they could smell the smoke from the dying fires.
He managed to get his horse up next to Asmara’s and grab hold of her reins.
“We must stop,” he yelled over the rush of the wind. “Look; the moon is setting. We must stop for the night.”
Asmara looked pale and frightened. She was in panic mode, fleeing Gwendraith, fearful for her very life.
They both knew what Morys was capable of and even though she’d hit the man with an arrow, she hadn’t really noticed where she’d hit him other than it had been up around his shoulders.
After that, everything was a blur. As Blayth slowed the horses as they neared the edge of town, Asmara was very much starting to feel the pain of her wound.
Now that the rush of fear had settled, the agony of a pierced shoulder was coming to the forefront.
She groaned, leaning forward in the saddle as Blayth looked at her with concern.
The town was very small and Blayth was somewhat familiar with it since Brecfa, Morys’ stronghold was several miles to the west. He knew that there wasn’t a tavern to be found, but there was a church at the other end of the town, one that had been there since the Normans first came to Wales.
He led Asmara’s horse through the streets at a clipped pace as she increasingly gave in to the pain in her shoulder.
Up ahead, illuminated by the setting moon, they could see the tower of the church, which was situated on a small hill.
The tower itself was at least four stories, soaring above the countryside, while the church attached to it was long and rectangular, built from local stone and rubble.
As they drew closer, Blayth could see the churchyard with the stones atop the graves, a superstition to keep the dead from rising.
There was a small structure to the rear of the church, housing of some sort, and Blayth took the horses into the churchyard and headed for the small house.
Once they reached it, he slid from his horse and pounded on the door.
He had to pound on it at least four more times until he heard someone on the other side of the door. By this time, the moon was nearly down and the gnarled oak trees were casting great shadows, nearly blacking everything out. There was a small window in the heavily-fortified door that slid open.
“What’s wanting?” came a voice.
Blayth could hardly see anything as he peered at the small hole. “My lady has been injured,” he said. “We seek your help.”
There was no immediate reply and Blayth couldn’t tell if the person was looking at him or not. He leaned closer to the door, trying to see in the small window.
“Please help us,” he said. “My lady has a wound that needs tending. We… we have been attacked. Won’t you please help?”
More dead silence. As Blayth pondered what more to say, as he was trying not to frighten the person on the other side of the door, Asmara slid off her horse and marched up to the door.
“You are a priest,” she said irritably. “You cannot refuse to aid us. Open the door or I will start screaming. That will rouse everyone in town and they will wonder what you are doing to a woman that is causing her to scream. Is that what you want?”
As Blayth looked at her, shocked and amused, the small panel jerked shut and, suddenly, the door was being unbolted from within. When it lurched open, they found themselves looking at a small man with a care-worn face, wrapped in heavy woolen robes.
“A lady with a tongue of fire,” he said unhappily, looking at Asmara. “Who are you, girl?”
Blayth pushed into the small structure before Asmara could answer. He shoved the man out of the way, pulling Asmara along with him, and they found themselves in a two-room hut, dark and cold. The man, regaining his balance after being pushed aside, scurried after the pair.
“See here,” he said angrily. “What’s wanting?”
Blayth found a chair in the darkness and pushed Asmara down onto it. “I told you,” he said. “My lady has been injured in an attack. I would like hot water and wine if you have it, and bandages. I swear to you that we mean you no harm, but I must tend her wound.”
The man appeared quite put out. He frowned at the pair and prepared to order them out, but then he realized that would be futile.
They were inside now, and it was clear that they intended to remain, so he had little choice.
Angered, he shut the door and threw the bolt.
Then he pointed to the hearth with just a few burning embers in it.
“Well?” he said. “If you want hot water, then put fuel on the fire. It’ll not burn all by itself.”
Grumbling to himself, the man went into the second room, pushing back heavy curtains that covered the doorway, and disappeared inside.
Asmara looked up at Blayth, who wriggled his eyebrows in silent commentary of the irritated man, before turning for the hearth.
He found the kindling right away, as it was scattered by the hearth, and he carefully placed it on the low-burning coals, blowing on it until the blaze began to take off.
By the time the man returned from the other room, a decent fire was beginning to roar.
“Water is outside,” the man told Blayth snappishly. “Bucket is next to the door.”
As Blayth stood up from the fire, the man lit two fat tapers and a soft golden glow began to fill the room.
Now that there was some illumination, Blayth could see that the room was packed to the ceiling with items – pots, clothing, broken pieces of furniture, and more.
It took Blayth a moment to realize that among the clutter, he saw shields – English shields – as well as pieces of armor, satchels, saddlebags, and in one corner he saw a stack of weapons.
Pikes, poles, and broadswords. He most definitely saw an array of English broadswords, more than likely worth a fortune, wedged into a corner and suffering from neglect.
It was an astonishing sight and he very nearly forgot about the water, but Asmara groaned when she shifted on the chair and leaned on the table that was next to her, so he quickly went about his tasks.
But those broadswords had his attention.
As Blayth ran out, Asmara tried to find a comfortable position leaning against the table but it was nearly impossible.
Her left shoulder and entire arm were aching painfully, and she kept her hand over the wound area simply because she was afraid to ease the pressure.
It seemed to feel better when her hand was firmly against it.
She didn’t know how badly she’d been hit, but she knew it hurt a great deal.
As the fire in the hearth began to burn brightly and the tapers lit up the chamber, Asmara began to see what Blayth had seen.
More clutter and possessions and weapons than she’d ever seen outside of an armory; there were several big shields stacked up, partially covered by what looked to be tunics or banners, and the broadswords in the corner glistened weakly in the light.
The sight was almost enough to distract her from her pain.
“What is this place?” she asked the man, who was fumbling with something over by another table. “Why do you have all of these… these things?”
The man didn’t answer her directly. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “They are mine,” he said. “Tell me your name.”
Asmara hesitated. “Morwenna,” she said, giving him the name of her mother because it was the first thing that came to mind. “Who are you?”
“I am Jestin.”
“Are you the priest here?”
He nodded. “Aye,” he said. “Who is your man?”