Gwenhwyfar (23 page)

An overcast sky meant no sunset; the darkness thickened as the Saxons huddled closer to their fire, hacking chunks of mutton from the carcass spitted over the fire with their knives. They were going short for drink, it seemed, melting snow in a battered pot rather than seeking out a stream. And they were not happy about this thin drink, either; there were muttered complaints and unhappy looks cast at the man Gwen judged to be their leader. He was probably what passed for a lord among the Saxons, and one’s lord was expected to furnish good food and plenty of it, along with presents and loot.

There was not much to distinguish him from the rest save for the wolfskin cloak he sported. He might be a little older, but all of them had much the same in the way of arms and armor. Shield, spear, long knife, and a heavy leather jerkin; two had bows, the rest, slings. But the leader had a sword; in fact, from the look of it, Gwen judged it was a Roman sword, probably looted and possibly passed through several generations of owners. She liked the look of it; it was a proper Roman blade, so it was short by the standards of those her father’s smiths made. That made it the perfect length for her.

Then she chided herself. She must keep her mind on those men below, not on their possessions.

The conversation around the fire was remarkably uninformative. The men seemed to be taciturn by nature, conversed mostly in grunts, and were uninterested in discussing the reason why they were here. The best solution would be to take one or more of them alive and beat the answers out of them. She’d learned all she could from them at this point.

She needed to time when she ghosted out of the tree very carefully. There had to be enough light to see her way through this part of the forest and back to her troop, but not so much that the Saxons would see movement.

“You think King Bear has aught men about?”
one of them asked suddenly, looking around, as if he had sensed her eyes on him. She froze.

The leader laughed.
“Nay. He be a-casting himself on grave of the she-bear and her cubs and weeping senseless. Mayhap he’ll find his man-parts again come spring, but he’s throwin’ of his apron o’er his head now.”

The others laughed as well, and the first speaker shook his shaggy blond head and went back to gnawing his mutton.

So that was why they chose now.
It made perfect sense—though she was more than a bit put out that these Saxons had better intelligence of what was going on at the High King’s seat than she did. Word
had
come, just before they’d heard rumors of skulkers on the border, that Arthur’s twin sons had died, and his queen had perished of grief for them. The details had been confused and muddied; some said they’d been killed in a boar hunt, some that they had been murdered, and one grisly tale swore it was the High King’s own foster brother, now his seneschal, Kai, who had murdered them out of jealousy and in secret, That is, the tale ran, it was meant to be secret, but the head of the fairest had been sent in a box that only the murderer could open, and Kai, all unknowing, had opened it before the whole court.

A boar hunt, well, that made some sense. They were
just
of an age to participate in such a dangerous pastime. And murder, well that was possible, though less likely. But Arthur had a temper, and if it had been Kai, foster brother or no, there would have been a fourth grave and a new seneschal. On the whole, she was inclined to think it was a boar hunt after all, since one of the few details of that version said that Arthur’s favorite hound, Cabal, had died defending them.

But there had been nothing more before Gwen and her troop had gone south and east as fast as their horses could take them. This was fresher news than she had, and she was heartily annoyed.

But . . . there was a certain feeling of grim satisfaction in hearing it, too. So the High King was prostrate with grief was he? Well, perhaps the carrion crows he had set to fly when he’d had all those tiny babies killed had come home to roost in the royal bower. Now he tasted the grief he had given to so many. And if it was the Merlin that had given him that evil advice, well, it was too bad the Merlin couldn’t sip from that same cup of gall.

She could not help but think of her father, and her mother, and the little brother who never got a chance to draw a breath . . .

But that thought softened her bitterness. It had been said for many years now that this between Arthur and his Queen was not only a marriage of state but a love match. And she thought of her father sitting hollow-eyed in his hall and thought of the High King doing the same, and her heart turned to pity him.

But only for a moment; more movement below in the thickening dusk alerted her. All the men (except the leader) were settling onto their beds of bracken, their cloaks wrapped tightly about them. The leader had taken a seat with his back to the fire, scanning the open meadow. And, as if the gods of the place had decided to favor her entirely, thick snowflakes began to drift down out of the blue-gray sky.

She began to flex and stretch all of her muscles, from fingers to toes, warming them and getting ready to move. And when she judged she was ready, she moved as slowly and deliberately as a tortoise, backing her way down the branch and then the trunk, making absolutely sure of every hand- and foothold before committing her weight to it. It was the sort of climb that took great patience and a lot more strength than most might think. But she got quietly to the ground without the Saxon leader having even the faintest idea of her presence.

She blessed the snowfall; she had been planning to pull off her gray wolfskin cloak and drag it fur-side down on the ground behind her for a while to muddy her tracks. Now she would not have to. There would still
be
tracks leading away from the tree, but it would not be possible to tell what had made them. And if she had more luck, at least one of the men would blunder about in there, looking for wood, and further churn up the snow.

At this point, however, night was all but upon her. Now she had to turn to her other trick to find her way. With her left hand, she reached for the trunk of the next tree just at shoulder-height; even though she had good night-vision, she could barely make it out, dark against the white snow. She ran her fingers along the bark, and found the little cut she had put there, pointing the way she should go.

Step by slow and careful step, making sure to make as little noise as possible, she made her way from tree to tree, following her marks. She counted each tree that she passed, and when she had gone far enough, she took a deep breath and called like an owl, three times.

The answer came back. Three calls, then a count to five, then four calls. She followed the sound, pausing now and again, to repeat her call and follow the reply.

She had done this so many times in the past that she had schooled herself to patience. It only
seemed
as if it took forever to make her way through the snow-filled darkness.

But, at last, she did. She hooted and heard the answer right beside her, and she felt Aeron grip her elbow with one hand. She reached around and clapped him on the back, and the two of them made their way to the carefully concealed camp.

She didn’t speak until she squatted down beside the fire and accepted a fire-warmed stone to cradle in her hands. “Small raiding party of six,” she began, and made a succinct summary of everything she had seen and heard. “I think we’re going to have to take them,” she finished. “And get one alive to tell us what they’re up to.”

The others nodded. “Try to ambush them in the morning?” asked Aeron. “Or see if we can find a better place to bring them down?”

“Morning would be best. They don’t think there’re any fighters out here, just the odd farmer. They’re good enough not to let their guard down, but they’re also not as alert as they could be.” She let the heat from the stone soak into her. “I want to hit them before they have any inkling we could be here.” She looked around her troop; four, counting herself, but that should be enough. Aeron and Meical were the best of the archers. So they would be best put as first and last watch, so they had solid, unbroken sleep. “Aeron, first watch, I’ll take second, Owain, third, Meical, last. Meical, wake us all at first light. We’ll take them from the forest, and I only need one living.”

The other three nodded. Aeron wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and ghosted off into the night. They set a proper watch, regardless of conditions, with the sentry making irregular rounds outside the camp. She smiled to herself. She could not have asked for better men.

The rest of them took heated stones from beside the fire and curled up around them to sleep. Like the Saxons, they had made beds of bracken to keep them off the snow. Tolerably comfortable, actually, especially situated as they were in the heart of a thicket, screened from wind and most of the falling snowflakes.

Sleep when you can. Eat when you can.
Reminded of that second of the warrior’s rules of the field, she rummaged out a lump of cheese and some cold rabbit from the common food pack. That was the one good thing about a winter campaign. Food didn’t go bad; you didn’t have to subsist on rock-hard journey bread and dried meat. If you had it in camp, you could take it with you for a good wholesome meal. She ate quickly and neatly, licked her fingers clean, then ate a handful of clean snow for a “drink,” curled up around her own rock, and went straight to sleep.

Luck was with them. When the troop eased up toward the Saxon camp, five of the men were still asleep, and the sixth was nodding over his ax, his back warming at the fire. Gwen signaled all of them to leave the rightmost man alive. They nodded and spread out a bit, to get a better field of fire. Her shot would be the signal to the other three.

She lined up six arrows point-down into the snow, then put a seventh on the string. Seven. Always her lucky number. She pulled back her arrow, sighted carefully on the lookout, and let fly.

The first missed, lodging in his shoulder. But before he could shout, her second took him in the throat. Her third and fourth went into one of the sleepers, as two more arrows hit the sentry before he could slump to the ground, her fifth and sixth went into the next sleeper, and her seventh into a third. By that time, all of the men but the one she had designated as the one to save were feathered with four to six shafts, all without any of them uttering a sound. The last one woke by being kicked over by Aeron, to find three swords pointed at his throat.

He tried to get up and fight anyway. That didn’t last long. He was lying down, and although his ax was at his hand, there wasn’t much he could do before a vicious slash to his arm opened it up from wrist to elbow. Aeron was the best of them at sword work; he managed to keep from cutting the man open so badly he would bleed to death before they got any information from him.

Gwen had stayed well out of his line of sight, letting the men disarm him and tie him up. She had an idea; she didn’t much like the results she had been getting from beating information out of prisoners—it tended to be wrong as often as right, and there was no way of knowing which. She’d talked this over with the troop this morning; they had agreed with her on that point and decided to let her try something different.

One of the things in her kit was powdered chalk; she dusted her hands with it when she was going to attempt a difficult climb or when she was unsure of her grip on a weapon. While the other two kept the prisoner busy, Aeron came over and helped her dust it all over her face. She held her breath to keep from inhaling any of it, then did the same with her bare hands. Then she took off her cloak, and unbound her hair, and approached the prisoner from behind, naked sword in her white hands.

Owain wrenched him around when she was in place and forced him to his knees so that he gaped up at the white-faced, white-haired, gray-clad virago glaring down at him.

His eyes registered his shock. She smiled.

“Do you know what I am?” she whispered in Saxon. She had reckoned that whispering would be more impressive than speaking.

His mouth worked for some time before any words came out. “Th-th-th-the White Ghost!” he stammered, sweat starting all over his greasy brow.

She leaned down slightly. “Yes,” she breathed. “And I eat men’s souls. The bodies I leave for my black chickens.”

As if on cue, several ravens, attracted by the red blood soaking into the white snow and made bold by winter hunger, alighted in the tree branches above her, calling. She did not bother to keep the glee from her face. This could not have been timed better if she had planned it.

His face had been white with pain and fear, but now every vestige of blood drained from it. She leaned forward a little more. “I have feasted upon the spirits of your companions,” she said, narrowing her eyes and smiling as if sated. “And I am inclined to let you live—if you tell me what I wish to know.”