Destiny's Path (6 page)

“K
EEP OUT OF
sight, do you understand?” Branwen said to the owl-girl. “And don't let the horses stray. We'll be as quick as we can.”

Blodwedd gazed at Rhodri with worried eyes, as though the thought of parting from him disturbed her.

“Don't be alarmed,” Rhodri said. “No harm will come to us.”

Blodwedd made a curious snapping motion of her lips and teeth, as though in her mind she was fretfully closing a beak. “Very well,” she murmured. “But do not leave me overlong with these great beasts—I know not how to control them.”

“They're tied fast,” Branwen reassured her. “Just make sure the knots on the reins do not slip.”

They were in the eaves of a patch of forest that
skirted the ridged foothills below the mountains. Ahead of them the land rose and fell in buckles and ripples, much of it still wild but some parts showing the hand of man. Coppiced woodlands could be seen, the tall, straight, slender branches thrusting up like spears in the silvery early light. Muddy pathways crisscrossed the land, and there were fields where wheat and flax and rye grew.

At the edge of the forest, the hill fell away at their feet. Below them in a cupped valley, they could see the huts and pens and houses of a small hamlet.

Branwen looked at Rhodri. “Ready?” she asked, hefting the young roe deer that lay across her shoulders.

Rhodri nodded. He had the female's fawn over his shoulder: a buck, no more than two moons old. It would make sweet eating.

The hunting had gone well—they had come upon mother and child at first light, feeding upon leaves and shoots. Branwen had paused for a moment, regretting the necessity of harming the gentle creatures, but she had a hunter's instincts and knew she had no choice but to go for the kill. The best she could do for the two animals was to make sure they died quickly and painlessly.

So now they had two fine deer to offer in exchange for clothing. The people of the hamlet would be eating venison that night, and Branwen and Rhodri would have new clothes to fend off prying eyes.

It was a good plan.

Still, Branwen's eyes narrowed as she took a last look back at Blodwedd. Could they trust her? Did they have a choice? She was uneasy about leaving behind her brother's sword and shield and chain-mail coat, but those were items they would not have been able to explain to the people of the hamlet—no more than they would have been able to account for such fine horses in the possession of two young travelers.

But Branwen still had her slingshot, and Geraint's hunting knife was at her hip. No one would find that odd—anyone seeking game in the forest would carry such things.

Branwen and Rhodri trudged side by side down the hill toward the hamlet. Branwen suddenly heard a soft swishing sound behind her. She turned and saw Fain following.

“No!” she called to the bird, gesturing it away. “You can't come. People would be suspicious if they saw you with us.”

Fain circled them, his eyes staring down, his wings barely moving.

“We will not be long,” Branwen called up. “Go! Wait with Blodwedd.”

Fain gave a single harsh croak and then flew back into the trees.

“Remember,” she said to Rhodri. “Speak as little as possible. It was your accent that gave you away as a half Saxon before. These people are unlikely to be
as well traveled as Gavan is, so they may not know a Northumbrian accent when they hear it—but the less said, the better.”

When they reached the hamlet, the ground was bare and a little muddy underfoot. Chickens scratched for grain on and around the path. Goats bleated in pens made from wattle hurdles. There were only three buildings in all, low huts with shaggy, thatched roofs hanging close to the ground and walls of daub and wattle. Two men were making repairs to the wall of one of the huts, scooping the wet paste of mud and straw from wooden buckets and slapping it over cracks and holes where the weather had got in and the wattle framework was visible. Once dry and firm, the daub would insulate the house against the worst that winter could throw at it.

A boy and a young woman were busy threshing, their arms rising and falling as they wielded their long wooden flails to beat the grain loose from the ears of corn that were spread thickly upon the ground. Chaff and straw stalks danced in the air as they worked. Branwen knew that this must be the remnants of the previous season's harvest, hoarded and stacked and kept dry to provide bread throughout the year.

A woman in a brown apron and a white linen wimple stood by the doorway to the nearest hut. There was a wooden crib at her feet. She was spinning wool, letting the cone-shaped bobbin dangle down for a small infant to grab at ineffectively.

“That's my good, strong boy,” she crooned as the pudgy fingers snatched at the thread. “That's my clever one.” The infant gurgled and blew bubbles in delight.

She looked up as Branwen and Rhodri walked toward her.

“Good morrow,” she said, a tinge of suspicion in her voice, although Branwen guessed it was no more than the normal caution reserved for strangers. She eyed the carcasses stretched across their shoulders. “Those are fine looking beasts, fresh from the forest, if I'm any judge.”

“That they are,” said Branwen with a smile. “We killed them ourselves before the sun came up this very morning. Mother and child caught napping in the twilight. I felled them with my slingshot.”

“
You
felled them?” the woman said with an arch of her eyebrows. She looked at Rhodri. “And what were you doing, my fine young fellow, while this girl-child was at the hunt?”

Rhodri hesitated for a moment.

“He helped,” Branwen said quickly. She stepped forward, stooping and letting her burden down. She crouched, patting the golden-red hide. “They would make many a good meal,” she said, smiling up at the woman. “Would you be interested in a trade?”

“I might,” said the woman. “If you can prove that you have come by these beasts honestly, and are not thieves and vagabonds.”

“And how would I prove that?” Branwen asked lightly. Usually she would have bridled at such a suggestion, but she was wise enough to keep her temper with the doubtful woman. Anger and hard words would get them nowhere.

The woman gestured to the slingshot that hung from Branwen's belt. “Show me your skills,” she said.

Branwen stood, slipped the slingshot from her belt, and felt in her pouch for a stone. “Tell me what to hit,” she said.

The woman looked around. “That wooden pail yonder,” she said, pointing to a pail that stood by the goat pen some fifty paces away.

“Hmmm,” Branwen said, eyeing the easy target. “You mean to test me well.” She smiled. “I can but try.” Then, quick as a flash, she spun the slingshot twice around her head and let fly. The stone cracked on the side of the bucket.

A smile broke on the woman's face. “A skillful maid, indeed,” she said. “And who taught you such skills?”

“My brother,” Branwen replied. She straightened her shoulders and looked the woman keenly in the eye. “These carcasses are mine, and I would take it badly if anyone disputed it. Shall we trade?”

“Aye, lass, we shall,” said the woman. “Come inside, and we shall speak at our ease.” She glanced at Rhodri. “And will your silent companion enter, too? I have stew prepared, if the two of you are
hungry. I can heat it while we come to some fair agreement.”

Rhodri laid the young buck down beside its mother and followed Branwen and the woman in under the low lintel of the door. The windows of the house were unshuttered, and the interior was full of light. As was usual among such dwellings, the rectangular house had a beaten earth floor with an oblong firepit in the center, girdled with stones. A ladder stretched up to a hayloft under the thatch. There were straw mattresses against the walls, and to one side of the firepit, a pair of quern stones were set in a wooden frame. A young girl of seven or eight years old was slowly turning the stones, and fine white flour was trickling into a stone trough. She glanced up curiously at them as they entered.

“Stop that now, Ariana,” said the woman. “Go and feed the goats—and milk them, too. Don't you hear them bleating, girl?”

“Yes, Mama,” said the girl, getting up and trotting from the hut.

“Now then, sit you down,” said the woman. “Bartering is made easier in comfort, I find.” She took a pair of black iron tongs and lifted a stone out of the fire. “You look healthy and hale,” she said, carrying the smoking stone over to a large wooden bucket of stew. “So I don't take you for beggars.” She looked at Rhodri. “Despite your rags and tatters. Whence come you? Whose daughter are you, maid?” She lowered
the stone into the bucket. There was a hiss and a gout of steam.

Branwen leaned forward, watching the thick brown stew already bubbling from the heat. They hadn't eaten yet that morning, and a bowl of stew would be very welcome.

The woman put down the tongs and folded herself up to sit on the floor. Branwen and Rhodri sat in front of her.

“My father is a farmer of Cyffin Tir,” Branwen told the woman, reciting a tale she and Rhodri had worked out earlier that morning. She was aware of Rhodri staring intently at her, his lips moving a little as though he was mouthing silently to himself the words they had rehearsed together. “We met with bad fortune. The Saxons came raiding, and our home was burned and all our possessions along with it. I was sent over the mountains to seek clothing and goods to help us build our life again.”

The woman's face clouded. “Ach! Saxons,” she spat. “The devils that they are! Would that King Cynon were a stronger man—a great, bold leader like our Prince Llew—then maybe those ravaging dogs would be sent to the rightabouts!” She looked at Rhodri. “And what is your tale, boy?”

“I worked on the farm with Branwen,” he said, his foreign accent all too obvious in Branwen's ears.

She winced inside and wished he had not used her real name. Why hadn't they thought to come up
with aliases? But the woman showed no sign that the name had any significance to her.

“Did you? Did you, indeed?” said the woman. “Well now.” She leaned over, stirring the stew with a wooden spoon. “So, you wish to trade meat for clothing and…what? Pots? Farm tools? What else?”

“Clothing would suit us best,” said Branwen. “Perhaps a dress and a wimple, and a jerkin and leggings, and maybe a woolen cloak or two—if you are willing to part with them.”

“We have spare garments,” said the woman, hooking her head to a simple wooden box under one of the windows. “But it is a lot you ask for only two deer, my child. If your need is so great, maybe you would be willing to work to make up the difference? The boy could set to the winnowing, and perhaps you could spend a morning at the loom?”

Branwen glanced at the tall wooden loom that stood against the wall. There was already cloth in the frame. Branwen had seen women at the loom daily in Garth Milain, but she had never been asked or expected to join in the time-consuming and laborious task.

All the same, if a morning of weaving would get them what they needed, she was willing to accept the woman's offer and try her hand at the loom. But could they afford that kind of time? Neither her vision of the coming carnage nor Blodwedd's message from Govannon of the Wood had given any indication of
when Ironfist's attack was due to fall on Gwylan Canu. Today? Tomorrow? By the new moon? When?

“I see you have your doubts about my offer,” said the woman, now spooning the steaming-hot stew into two bowls. “Eat now and think it over. For the two deer, I can offer little more than a cloak or two and a gown. If you need more, you know what I'd have you do.” She handed the bowls to Rhodri and Branwen then heaved herself to her feet. “I must check on the babe,” she said. “Talk it over—you'll find it's a fair offer, and the longer you are prepared to work, the better you will serve your folk back in Cyffin Tir.”

So saying, she went stooping out through the low doorway.

Branwen waited until she was sure the woman was out of earshot. “You shouldn't have called me Branwen,” she hissed to Rhodri.

“I know,” he said, his face troubled. “The moment I said it, I knew it was a foolish thing to have done.” He shook his head ruefully. “You were right—I should have kept quiet. We should have told her I was mute!”

“All the same, no harm was done,” said Branwen. “Just be more careful from now on.” She lifted a spoonful of the stew. The meat was chicken, and she could smell cabbage and onions, too, as well as parsley and a hint of rosemary and savory. It smelled wholesome and appetizing, and she ate it with pleasure, speaking between mouthfuls. “But what are we to do? Can we
afford to spend time here? There's little purpose in us telling our tale to Iwan ap Madoc if we arrive in Doeth Palas too late for it to do any good.”

“I think we have a few days,” said Rhodri. “It will take Ironfist a little time to organize his men and take them to the coast—it's not something that can be done all of a rush.”

“So, you think we should stay here and work?”

“I would rather not, if we had the choice.” Rhodri glanced over to the wooden box of clothes. “I'm thinking that if I were a little less honest, I'd be sorely tempted to grab what we need and make a run for it.”

“Steal from her?” said Branwen in dismay. “How can you think such a thing while you're filling your belly with her food?”

“Not steal,” said Rhodri. “Borrow. As we did the horses—remember, you said when you took them that you would be glad to bring them back to their rightful owners when your need of them was done. So it would be with this woman's clothes. That's all I was suggesting.”

Branwen shook her head. “It's work or nothing,” she said. “We could offer to bring them more game—but it's hard to catch deer or wild pig in full daylight—and we'd be as well off working through the day as wandering the forest till dusk. But I'm concerned about Blodwedd. What might she do if we do not return soon?”