Gwenhwyfar (45 page)

The Ceffyl Dwr,
she thought to herself. The Water Horses sometimes took on the aspect of other hooved animals than the horse. The green eyes were a good clue as to what they were, and so was the fact that this path they were on was never very far from a stream. As they pressed on, he increased the pace again until they were trotting and she was really stretching her legs. It had be a long time since she’d walked this far. Her legs started to hurt.
Ah, gods, if only he would be a horse so I could ride!

But she knew that was impossible, for he would be keeping his distance from her because of the iron ax and knife. And she dared not abandon the only weapons she had. But “Thank you!” she called softly. The he-goat bobbed his head but did not look back at her again.

Behind them, the sound of the dogs faded with distance, then died away. If they hadn’t lost the trail before she joined the Water Horses, they surely had now.

Her side ached; she pressed her elbow into it and kept up.

That was a risk she would have to take. Annwn was a dangerous place for mortals, and the Water Horses were not often known for having kindly natures. There was no telling what else she might meet there, either.

But she thought she could probably keep herself safe as long as she kept her wits about her. At this point—yes, Annwn was much to be preferred over being in Medraut’s hands.

The goats pushed on, and she held her aching side and ran with them. Wherever they were going, one thing was sure. It was away from Medraut.

T
he goats finally
stopped in the last blue glow of twilight at the edge of a lake—stopped and then plunged in. They didn’t stop, either—nor did they swim. They ducked beneath the still, cool surface with hardly a splash at all and didn’t emerge again. Gwen found herself quite alone except for a fluttering in the reeds of birds, and the distant mutter of ducks.

Gwen was not at all surprised at their sudden abandonment. Exhausted, yes, but not surprised. The Ceffyl Dwr, like all the Folk of Annwn, were fickle and quite easily lost interest in the plight of mortals. It was wiser, when you got aid from them, not to count too much on it and never to expect anything further.

So here she was, on the edge of a lake with nothing more than the clothing on her back, the ax, and the contents of her bucket. In the dark, hungry, and with a raging thirst.

All right. Things were not so bad.

Though she was hungry, she had been eating well in captivity; a few days without food would do her no harm, and a single night was negligible. She had water right here at her feet. She could find some place to hide in order to sleep, even in the dark, and if the moon came up, well, all the better. The important thing was that she was free, and the Water Horses had made sure that Medraut would have a wretched time trying to track her. Even though he had hair of hers to do so magically, being so muddled up with the Water Horse magic might well be enough to throw him off the “scent” there, too, for a while.

While she could still see, she bundled the knife in the leftover strips of toweling, then got herself a bucket full of water. The dipper made a fine cup, and she drank until she was sated, then sat down and waited to see what sort of moon would rise.

To her great joy, it was full; the sight of the pale orb lifting slowly above the trees made her breathe a sigh of intense relief. She would easily be able to see now, to get into what was probably the single safest place to sleep unless she found an old den to hide in—tied into the crotch of a tree as far above the ground as she could manage.

The light painted a swath of silver across the lake, and touched the wisps of mist that were just beginning to rise from the waters. In the morning, well, there were a lot of things that she could do to find food. There were edible roots, and if she could manage to make a line, she could certainly fish. The ax was a comfort to have, but it was the sharp little knife that was going to make all the difference to her survival.

She gathered up her things and began to prowl the lake shore, and within moments she found exactly what she needed: an ancient tree, uprooted by a winter storm, lying half in, half out of the water. She explored the trunk, pulling brush that had piled up against it aside, and uncovered a hollow beneath it full of dead leaves blown in by the winds that was just big enough to hold her. She shoved her possessions in as far as they would go and crawled in after, pulling the brush back across the opening. The leaves crackled and gave off a slightly bitter smell, which should further serve to mask her scent.

It appeared that the Water Horses hadn’t “abandoned” her after all, since this shelter was no more than fifty paces from where they had left her on the shore.

For the first time since she had stormed into Arthur’s chambers, she smiled. Triumph tempered with caution made her spirits rise. She had done it; she had escaped, and although she’d had
some
help in getting away and had certainly benefited by good luck,
she
was the one that had rescued herself. That triumph eased the aches of over-used and too tired muscles, warmed her all over, and, finally, let her ease down into the first real sleep she had had since she left Castell y Cnwclas.

It was the sound of a small wren peeping inquisitively not a foot from her ear that woke her. She knew exactly where she was; a warrior got into that habit of waking with full knowledge fairly quickly, and it wasn’t one that was easily lost. The sound of the bird was reassuring. If anyone or anything had been snooping about, that bird would not have been poking through the brush that hid her sleeping spot.

She stayed right where she was, though; she could not afford a single wrong step out here. Her resources were too thin to allow for mistakes, and even though she had a head start on those hunting her, they had the advantage of numbers and mobility. She had no time at all to waste. Everything must be carefully planned.

She needed food; it was too early for berries, finding a cache of nuts was chancy, and she didn’t want to wait here to see if she could snare rabbits. Roots were possible, especially those of water plants, but the best idea was to fish. In the spring, fish were hungry. The best use of that toweling was to make a fishing line. She could carve a hook easily enough, and a bit of twig would serve as a bobber. She knew exactly where to dig for grubs and worms. So, unravel a long woof thread from the toweling, make a hook, get bait, fish. That was the first order of the day. Next, try to find a flint or other sparking stone; they were often enough found among the pebbles in streams and lakebeds. She had the ax, so she could make a fire if she could find a piece of flint.

Cautiously, she pushed the brush out of the way and took a careful look around before emerging into the dawn.

By the time the sun was overhead, she was full of fish, she had a hook and line, a flint, and had even found a way to sew the “shoes” together, padding the bottoms for a little more protection. They were only cloth, so they wouldn’t last long, but she only needed them to last until she managed a better substitute, or found someone she could trust, or stole something.

With more cooked fish, cress, and some baked cattail and mallow roots in the bottom of her bucket, protected by a bit of cloth, she headed west.

She was very glad now that she had taken the bucket. It was proving as useful as the knife. It now held food, dry tinder, and the flint she had found among the stones at the lakeshore, as well as the rest of her meager belongings. The Water Horses had not made another appearance, and she assumed they had either forgotten her or had given her all the help they were inclined to. So before she left the lake, she had left three nicely cooked fish and some baked cattail roots on a rock beside the water by way of a thank you gift.

As she cautiously threaded her way through the forest, using streams as often as possible to keep her trail broken, she made a mental inventory of things she wanted. Real shoes and real trews were both high on the list, and so was a bow. She tried very hard not to think too much about the fact that she had no idea where she was. She was a scout, and an expert one at that. She knew all of the signs that showed where people were, and the farther she got from Medraut’s villa, the more likely it was that it would be safe to approach them.

She also kept her eyes open for anything edible, and she gleaned some early mushrooms and a squirrel’s cache of nuts that way.

It was not until she found another good place for a camp, this one a hollowed out but still standing, tree, had set several snares made with more raveled thread from her towels, had eaten and made herself comfortable for the night that she realized something.

Even though this was real hardship and was only going to get harder, she didn’t care how long it took to find her way to friends.

For the first time in her life, she was free. There were no demands, no duties she was obliged to perform. She answered to no one out here, and her own skills and her own two hands were enough to keep her fed and safe.

As she restlessly shifted, finding a comfortable position in the hollow she had scooped dry in the rotted wood, the inescapable thought came to her.
What if I never went back?

She immediately scolded herself for being impractical, if nothing else. She was well enough equipped to stay healthy and fed in the spring and summer, but winter would surely kill her. She did not have enough in the way of protection or hunting gear to survive even a mild winter.

But what if—what if she could find a way to live out here? Never go back to Arthur? And for just one heady moment, she entertained a daydream of complete freedom. Perhaps she could find an old hermit’s hut—she wouldn’t need much. If she were settled, she could spend her time hunting and tanning the hides of what she caught. She pictured herself making serviceable garments from rabbit hide, then, making a crude bow, bringing down deer . . . living out a life with no obligations to anyone but herself.

She sighed, the fantasy dissolving almost as quickly as she had conceived of it.
I’d go mad.
Although she liked her own company well enough, she knew she was not the sort for a hermit’s life.

And aside from all that . . . Gwenhwyfach was masquerading as her, and that could have no good ending, not for Arthur and not for anyone else, either. She had to get back and expose the treacherous bitch. Medraut had had a very long time to plan whatever it was he was going to do, and he probably would not have kidnapped her if his plans weren’t close to fruition. She owed Arthur that.

The weight of duty and responsibility descended on her again, as if someone had piled heavy stones on her heart. And she cried, just a little, as she settled in for sleep.

After two days of almost direct westward movement, Gwen relaxed a little, and began to look for signs of human beings. While it was true that Medraut’s control extended this far, practically speaking, she didn’t think he was all that interested in anything that went past the immediate boundaries of his villa. Medraut was, at heart, disinclined to trust anyone but himself. Governing land required a great deal of work—work he couldn’t perform if he wasn’t physically present. She had the feeling that the reason he had, as time passed, left her alone for so long, was that was still cultivating his place as one of the King’s Companions. The work her father did day to day meant he was always dealing with his chiefs and nobles, sometimes over details as small as the harvest from an individual farm. Medraut couldn’t possibly oversee extensive property himself, yet it was work he would never trust to anyone else.