Tale of Gwyn (8 page)

Her mother closed the door. “If she'd just have another. Or die from grief and let him take a woman who—if she could not be his wife—could give him children.”

“It must be hard to lose a child, and him her first.”

“Life is hard,” her mother said, crossly. “It's only death that'll be easy for us.”

AND THEN GRANDA SLIPPED INTO
a deep sleep from which he didn't wake even to eat. Someone sat with him, all the hours of the day or night, waiting for his thick breathing to cease. Miraculously, he opened his eyes one morning and Rose came running downstairs to tell Da that Granda wanted a bowl of broth.

The next day, Gwyn and Rose set off for the village, and Old Megg's house. It was the midwinter thaw underfoot, the snow moist and almost as soft as earth, the wind from the south bringing a gentle warmth, smelling of sunlight. They stopped at the Weaver's house to give the Weaver a silver coin for her trouble, for which she did not send thanks to Da. Cam walked with Rose across to the forge and Gwyn was at last free.

With luck, she thought, some of the goats would have returned; whether any of them would be giving milk, she didn't know. She couldn't remember how many nursing nannies there were in the flock when last she'd heard. One of the creatures Burl had brought down that first day had a kid. If there was one, there might be more; if there were more, one might have returned to the pen. If, if . . . She hurried forward.

Four goats stood inside the rail fence, and one had a kid sucking at its teats. Gwyn waited until it had finished, then tied a rope around the nanny's neck, and latched the gate behind them. The kid bleated pitifully.

Walking as fast as she could, pulling the goat along behind her, Gwyn skirted the village and headed southwest until she came to the King's Way. There she increased her pace. The goat trotted along beside her on dainty feet. Gwyn remembered the turnoff, but once there she skirted the field, not sure what she would find and suddenly aware that she had, in her haste, left her staff behind at Old Megg's, and that she carried no knife. She approached the hut from the cover of the forest. Smoke rose from the chimney. She came close, to listen. There were two voices within, speaking. One she recognized confidently, its cracked sound familiar to her even though she couldn't pick out the words it was speaking. Another voice responded, the words interrupted by spells of coughing, and Granny's voice creaked answers to its questions. They talked together like old friends who would never run out of words to say to one another.

Gwyn had no time for a visit, and she had no wish for word to come back to Da that his daughter had given away a goat. She tethered the goat as close to the hut as she dared. “All you have to do,” she said softly, scratching the nanny behind the ears, “is make a little noise. They'll come out to you. They'll give you good care, you'll see.” By evening, the goat's udders would have swollen again with milk, so she would be sure to complain. By evening, then, the goat would be sure to be found. Gwyn slipped back into the cover of the trees, glad of the snow to silence her steps. As she left it, the goat bleated after her. She hid herself behind a broad trunk. She heard sounds behind her, but didn't dare look. Not that she wouldn't have liked to, but if Da found out what she had done—not just taking the goat, but making the journey alone—he'd be angry. And with a right.

After what seemed to her a long time, she looked around. The goat was gone, the door to the hut closed. Gwyn moved cautiously back into the trees and didn't start walking naturally until a slope hid her from the house.

She trotted along the King's Way until a stitch in her side made her slow to a walk. It surprised her that the Way was deserted. There was nobody with goods to take to the Earl's city, there was no Messenger abroad, and no soldiers stayed. In winter, the roads were often empty, she told herself. Besides, the real danger came at night, when darkness hid men's deeds. Besides, anybody she met, if she met anyone, would likely be out and about on no good business.

That thought frightened her, alone and without weapon as she was. She increased her pace, but did not try to run. If she ran she would never hear anyone approaching. Besides, they seemed to attack isolated holdings and avoid the villages, whoever
they
were. If the rumors had any substance to them, there might be several bands of men roaming the countryside. But you couldn't believe rumor, Gwyn told herself.

It wasn't until she had stepped off the King's Way, circled the village again, and was walking across the vineyard, that Gwyn breathed easy. There was nobody at the hut. The three goats she had left waited in the pen, their heads lowered patiently. The kid nuzzled at one of the others, who butted it away. The sun had crossed the center of the sky and the shadows fell away to the east. Rose would be expecting her at the Blacksmith's by now.

Even knowing she could hurry, Gwyn stopped and looked around her. She breathed in the sweet air and remembered the way the vineyard looked in summer, with the vines grown along the fences in rows and the purple grapes beginning to swell up with juice. She turned her eyes to the mountains, tall and strong and pure white against the blue of the sky. Old Megg's hut dropped melting snow onto the ground. All was well, the scene seemed to say. But she was expected back in the village, and she knew as well as anyone that the scene was false. All was not well.

Quickly, she looked into the hut. The air inside was much colder than outside, and the one little window up under the roof let in almost no light. But it was tidy enough. Gwyn didn't have time to pack up the blankets on the bed, or the pillow, or to empty the cupboards, or to gather together the few plates and cups, or the side of pork, which hung down over the narrow loft. She grabbed one of the cheeses from the shelf and a piece of the rope coiled beside them. The rest she'd have to leave and hope nobody discovered that she hadn't done what she was supposed to. She noted the pile of wood Burl had chopped, stacked beside the wall of the hut near the path that led to the privy, to replenish the little left in the woodbox, but lacked time to carry any inside. In fact, she did nothing at Old Megg's except latch the door carefully behind her and loop the rope around the neck of one of the goats so that the others would follow. She left the gate open and spread some hay at the back of the shed, in case more goats might return.

Gwyn stepped out strong. She wasn't tired in the least. She imagined the surprise those two old people would be feeling, what they would say to one another, how they would wonder where the gift had come from. They might even think it was from Jackaroo. In fact, she hoped they would, because the thought would give them pleasure. It was a false pleasure, but better than none.

Aye, if the Lords would not look after the people, to keep them safe, if the Lords gave the people only enough to keep the tithes coming in . . . Gwyn despised the Lords. They knew nothing of work, they cared nothing for those whose work fed them. Hap—crippled as he had been in the Earl's service—should have been fed and housed, not put to another job. And if someone stole Hap's goat, it was to the Earl he should be able to turn for help. But the Lords no more listened to the people than they listened to their horses. The Lords used horses to carry them and save them the work of walking. And the people were as helpless as horses, under the Lords.

There was so much Gwyn could do nothing about. She could no more bring Blithe's Joss back to life than she could wipe hunger from the land, but she had done one small something about one small wrong, and that thought eased her heart.

“What's got into you?” Wes asked her. Gwyn just smiled and shook her head, passing the cheese over to Cam. “You must thrive on hard work,” Wes remarked.

“She looks to me like she's been meeting someone,” Cam said. “Have you a secret lover, Innkeeper's daughter?”

Gwyn didn't answer.

“I'm not sure I like the idea of my girl meeting someone secretly.”

“I'm not your girl,” Gwyn pointed out.

“That's because your father plays at being lord of the manor,” Cam answered. The laughter in his voice mocked the bitterness of his words.

“He only acts the master over those who act the slave,” she snapped back. She was immediately sorry she'd said it, but it was too late because Wes burst into rich, slow laughter, and Rose joined in.

“She's pinned your ears, Cam,” Wes said. “Answer back and she'll slice you to ribbons with that tongue of hers.”

“Answer back? And me a beaten, broken man?” Cam said. “Life's too short to cross words with a shrew.”

“Gwyn's not a shrew,” Rose defended her sister.

Gwyn could defend herself. “You're beaten?” she asked him, looking up into his face and laughing. “That's broken?” Shave his face and let his hair hang shoulder length, dress him in a tunic and tall boots, and he would be a Lord. He looked like a man whom life could never trouble. “You don't know the first thing about yourself.”

“Osh aye, and you do?”

“I might,” Gwyn said. “Or I might not.”

“Do I have to marry you to find out?” he answered in mock horror.

“Marry me and you'll regret every day of your life,” she answered before she thought. Well and he would; she'd teach him how to work and he'd not like being made to learn that.

“And what about you, Innkeeper's daughter, would you regret it?” His eyes held hers, teasing, as if he knew her heart's secret.

Gwyn didn't know what to say. Cam didn't give her a chance, either. He bowed low to her in mockery and turned on his heel, taking the cheese to his mother.

Rose and Gwyn walked slowly back to the Inn, with the goats trailing behind them. “Only three goats.” Rose finally spoke.

“It's twice what we had this morning,” Gwyn pointed out, ignoring a twinge of guilt.

Burl did not make her feel any better when she gave the goats over to him. “The kid would not have left its mother,” he said.

“Do you expect me to know what happened?”

He didn't answer, just looked at her.

“Maybe Jackaroo had use for the mother,” she lightly offered in the silence.

“Aye, Gwyn, you've no cause to lie to me,” he said quietly.

What did he mean by that? “I know that,” she answered, “I haven't.” She hadn't lied, not exactly—and she didn't want to talk about it anymore. It was only one goat.

“Nor scorn me,” he said, as quietly. He turned away to take the goats into the barn.

Gwyn watched him go. He should know she wouldn't do that. She reminded herself of how hard life had been to Burl, that it would be hard to be always serving another with nothing for your own, and no hope; yet she felt no pity for Burl.

That thought puzzled her. She waited where she was until he emerged from the barn. As he walked by her, she said, “I wouldn't scorn you.”

His face turned to her, and he seemed to have forgotten his own words, for he answered, “There's no lie without its note of truth, think you? Even the old stories, I think, must have some truth to them. If we knew.”

“Even Jackaroo?”

“Even him, Innkeeper's daughter.”

She walked beside him. “I would have thought you more practical than to believe in stories.”

“Would you have,” he answered, but it was not a question. “You'd have been right.”

She would have questioned him what he meant by that, but they both had work to do.

T
HE THAW CONTINUED ANOTHER TWO
days, until the snow started to melt, and all its surfaces ran watery. The stones of the Inn yard became treacherous footing. When Tad and Gwyn drilled with staffs, they often fell, sloshing around in the puddles. Tad complained and Mother backed him up, saying they should give it up; but Da insisted. It was past time for Tad to learn to use a weapon, Da said. So they went out into the yard and fought mock battles. At last, Tad began to make progress enough so that he could defend himself. Then, however wet he became, he didn't want to quit. They drove each other back and forth across the yard, parrying blows with the heavy staffs. “You're bigger and heavier,” Tad protested. “It's not fair.”

Gwyn shifted her grip and lunged forward, as if the staff were a spear, to jab him in the shoulder. He brought his staff up to deflect the blow, but he was too slow and she had hit him before he forced her staff aside. “That hurt,” he said, but he followed his words with a sharp downward stroke across her wrists.

“Good,” she said.

He stopped, pleased. “It was, wasn't it?”

Before he got too confident, she struck his staff as hard as she could, spinning it out of his relaxed grip.

“Not fair,” he said.

Gwyn stood panting. “Just go pick it up.”

“What if I don't?”

She shrugged. “I'm not the one who needs to learn.”

He wanted to refuse, she could see that and hear it in his sulky boy's voice. But he also wanted to see if he could get through her guard again, so he turned to fetch his staff.

“He's always there,” Tad reported. “Watching. I don't like being watched.”

“I don't think the Lords are much concerned with what you like,” she answered. “Defend yourself.”

Instead of doing as he was told, he raised his staff and moved toward her, with short, thrusting strokes. Gwyn was surprised and unready. She had to retreat a few steps, while he smiled at her discomfort, before she could make her own attack.

While the thaw held, Granda's health held. He was too weak to leave his room, but he swallowed broth and cups of warmed wine. However, when the cold flooded down over them from the north, as if the mountains blew their icy breath down over the hills, he declined again. Always, then, behind the daily work, they listened for sounds from the rooms above the barroom. Gwyn sat her turns with him, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Granda was old, fifty-eight, and had long outlived his friends. Until the autumn he had been alert and spry, saying over and over that he planned to live to sixty, and maybe even beyond. They had thought he might, but he'd taken a cold before the first snow and had been sickening ever since. The family cared for him, as he had cared for them.