CHAPTER EIGHT #3
And so it was decided he should stay. The weather had already made the leap from blustery autumn to raw winter.
Each morning the ground hardened further with a fresh frost. The last of the leaves fell from the trees.
Hungry birds stripped branches of berries of increasing scarcity.
The winds which funnelled through the high valley were now as icy as those which blasted across the mountain ridge.
The smell of snow was in the air. Better he stay the winter with them.
He would be safe. Come spring, he could decide for himself whether he wished to continue on his way or become a permanent part of their community.
As Tudor’s strength returned, Rhiannon took it upon herself to familiarise him with his new home.
With his wound healed to Mamgi’s satisfaction, he was allowed to slowly return to usefulness.
He now slept with the others in the barn, and after breakfast each morning, Rhiannon took him out to walk another part of their mountain territory, to collect firewood or water, to gather plants for medicaments, to hunt birds and rabbits.
There were times when the slow rate of his progress clearly frustrated him, but she learned that he was even tempered, patient, and determined.
She also learned the he was cautious in talking about himself, reluctant to speak of his past, and resistant to making firm plans about his future.
She was not surprised by this. Long before the Norman’s took England and then spread west to threaten the borders, Wales had been a turbulent and dangerous place in which to live.
Warring princes had for generations disputed lands and titles.
Reticence and wariness had become sensible traits in uncertain times.
She of all people knew how thin a thread held a family safe.
When Tudor had been residing at the settlement for nearly three weeks, Rhiannon asked him to accompany her to the stream to gather the last of the moss before it was lost to the coming snows.
The ground was unyielding beneath their feet and she knew there would be scant opportunity to gather useful plants before winters frigid grip choked the life from them for another year.
She noticed Tudor walked more evenly, no longer favouring his left side, his injury having ceased to make its presence known to him with every stride.
Even so, he was far from fully recovered, a fact not helped by the poor diet the community existed on in the winter months.
They had found warm clothes for him to supplement his own and they hung loose on his angular frame.
It would be some time before he regained his previous muscular form.
She pulled her hood up against the mean wind that followed them as they descended into the river glade.
As always, Taran loped beside her, silent and watchful, not yet prepared to allow this stranger near his mistress unsupervised.
‘He is your shadow,’ Tudor observed, watching the hound.
Rhiannon dropped a hand onto Taran’s shaggy head. ‘He misses my father still, I believe.’ She glanced at Tudor. ‘Or do you not credit creatures with such sensibilities?’
He raised his eyebrows a little. ‘Have you not met my horse?’ he asked.
Rhiannon smiled. ‘He does have an unfortunate temper. What made you choose such a mount?’
‘The vicious ones are cheap, and often superior to their more biddable stablemates.’
‘Are you a born tamer of horses, then?’
He shrugged. ‘We have an agreement - he does not bite me and I do not bite him.’
‘It seems he and Bronwen have a similar pact. He appears to love the child almost as much as she adores him.’
‘So you see, he is not the evil beast some would have him named.’
They had reached the stream. She stopped on the bank, pausing to listen to the song of the water as it chased over the rocks on its hurry down the mountain.
The usual scents of the glade were held in ice now, so that now only the water itself had an aroma, sharp and fresh and brilliant.
The lower branches of the rowan trees and blackthorn that stretched over the stream were bejewelled with frozen water droplets which glistened beneath the cooling sun.
She breathed in the life-giving wonder of the glade untouched and ungoverned by man, unchanged over centuries.
Tudor stood beside her. ‘Is this place special to you?’ he asked, surprising her.
‘It is.’ She hesitated, uncertain how she could begin to tell him of the magic that was such a part of her.
Uncertain, indeed, of whether or not she could ever tell him.
And yet, all the villagers knew. She was no longer Gwen to them.
She was Rhiannon, Queen Witch, and their magical protector.
How could she keep such a thing secret from someone living among them?
How long would it be before whispers reached him?
Would it not be better to be clear and open, rather than have him ponder half truths and snatches of talk?
As the silence between them grew wider she sought to turn the conversation away from herself.
‘Here, these are the mosses Mamgi asked for,’ she said, stooping to peel the icy, furry green cushions from a stone by her feet.
‘And see there,’ she pointed to a nearby tree, ‘that lichen has many uses for healing. Can you reach it?’
He did as she asked, wincing as he stretched up to get the tangle of pale grey plant that grew upon the boughs of the blackthorn bush.
Rhiannon saw his pain. ‘You are not yet mended,’ she muttered. ‘I should not have had you walk so far.’
‘I am well enough. Do not concern yourself.’
‘Naturally I am concerned. I owe you my life.’
‘A service you repaid by saving mine,’ he replied, handing her the lichen.
As she took it from him she saw that his hand trembled. She realised then how much his injury must be troubling him, and how determined he was not to allow that suffering to show.
‘You put yourself in great danger to help us,’ she said, watching him closely.
‘You were to sell your services to the Lord at the great house, were you not? What turned you from your own purpose to go to the aid of a stranger?’ As she asked the question she wondered what she wished to hear for his answer.
If he confessed to having had his head turned by a young maid, would she think less of him?
If he did not, would she be disappointed?
He seemed to draw back from her slightly. When he spoke his voice was calm and level but held a trace of anger in it. He looked at her directly, holding her gaze with his dark, soulful eyes, hiding nothing. ‘Think you that a sell-sword cannot act save a purse of coins be dangled before him?’
‘Why, no! That is not my belief. I…’
‘Is it not sufficient that a person do what is right? Must his character be questioned because of what he might yet do, without knowledge of his history or reasons?
‘Forgive me, I had no wish to judge, I merely asked for my own… understanding.’
‘And what would you do with that understanding?’
‘I would… know you better,’ she said quietly.
Seeing the sincerity in her expression his manner changed. ‘It is I who should ask forgiveness,’ he said, turning his face from her. ‘You have treated me with nothing but the greatest care and kindness. I should not have spoken so.’
Rhiannon stepped past him, plucking more lichen from the trunk of another small tree. ‘Your injury pains you. I should not have troubled you with such things.’
‘I..’
She turned to look at him then, her own face uncharacteristically serious.
‘You are under no obligation to explain yourself to me, sir. Your business is your own. We all have pasts to keep, and few of us wish to parade them before people we are newly acquainted with. Come, let us return. Even now the cold deepens and will tire you further.’
Seeking to mend this sudden fracture in their friendship, Tudor pointed to the berries on one of the larger Rowan trees. ‘Shall I fetch those down for you?’
‘What? Oh, no, thank you.’
‘Are they not of use.’
‘They are of more use to the birds.’
‘Birds that you then might hunt?’
‘No, they are too small.’
‘It is generous of you to put the hunger of such little lives before that of yourself.’
‘I act not out of generosity. Those small birds will feed bigger ones. Bigger ones feed wolves. Wolves we hunt for their skin.’
He glanced about him then. ‘There are wolves this high in the mountains?’
She smiled then, unable to resist laughing at him.
‘Do you not know there are wolves to be found everywhere? Some wear shaggy coats, others the colours of the Norman king. As long as you are here it is the hairy ones you have to worry about. And if you’re nice to him, Taran will keep you safe,’ she said, pausing to click her fingers to summon the hound before turning back up the path towards home.