Furtively, she looked at the neglected cross. ‘May I pray a moment?’
‘Of course, my lady,’ said Gawain. ‘I will see to the horses.’
Rhian knelt on the stones, clasped her hands together tightly, bowing her head and squeezing her eyes tightly shut. She heard Gawain’s footsteps as he came and went, heard the gentle ring of harnesses lifted, settled and tightened over the stamping and mild protest of the horses.
She meant to pray. She tried. She wanted to call up images of the Virgin’s serene face, of Christ’s noble suffering, but all she could see were the eyes of the sorcerer, and how he called and compelled.
Was it he who sent the vision of the Green Man to frighten her into a faint? Had he already begun his possession of her then, and his laying his claim on her at the crossroads was the end of it, rather than the beginning?
Fear wrung a single tear from Rhian’s eye, and it trickled down her cheek.
Was there any man, king or companion who could keep her safe?
And yet, she had prayed before in the darkness, and there had come Gawain, who had caused the sorcerer to flee before him and brought her back to herself.
With that thought, the fear eased, and Rhian found her fingers loosening a little from each other.
Mother Mary, if this man truly is your servant, I beg you watch over us. Help me to know that I am doing the right thing. And watch over Whitcomb until he may rise again at the Day of Judgement. Amen.
A little peace came to her then, and hope grew a little stronger. She was able to rise and walk outside without flinching. Dawn shone through the trees, doing little yet to dispel the night’s cold, but at least there was light. Gawain was working among the three horses. The glance he gave her was only mildly inquiring, leaving her the privacy of her thoughts.
Thetis was already saddled. Rhian’s bow with its broken string protruded from the quiver hanging from the saddle. Rhian tried not to look at it. She tried to hang on to the peace of prayer as she mounted Thetis. She would not be abandoned now. Surely not now.
Gawain mounted his palfrey. The warhorse’s reins had been tied to the smaller horse’s harness. It was obviously used to this arrangement for it started forward peaceably enough when Gawain nudged the palfrey into a walk and then into a trot.
There should have been a squire, Rhian realized, shocked that she had not noticed before. He had said his errand was urgent, but what was so urgent that the High King’s nephew would travel without even one servant or companion?
The unwelcome sensation of being watched stole over her. Rhian shivered and knotted her fingers into the reins as she urged Thetis forward to follow Gawain onto the highway.
Neither of the travellers looked back to note the pair of ebony ravens perched in the bare oak tree. Nor did they see that while one flew off to the east, the other flew to the west, as if to join their party and travel alongside them.
‘There, Sir!’ The boy running ahead of the mounted men pointed as he cried out.
Rygehil squinted. The dawn had not completely penetrated the thick trees yet and they rode through twilight. The shape that the boy pointed out was little more than a mound of darkness on the bed of last year’s fallen leaves. But for the crows, it might have been a log or a faggot dropped by some peasant out cutting fuel. The ill-favoured birds swirled above the fallen form. They perched upon it, stabbing eagerly downward with their sharp beaks.
It is a deer, Rygehil tried to tell himself. It is a sheep that strayed from its pen. But his heart did not believe that, and it flared within him. He drove his heels into his horse’s sides and charged forward to the ragged crossroads, scattering crows in all directions so that they cursed him loud and raucously with their harsh cries.
When he saw it was a man that lay in the scuffed and scattered leaves, his first feeling was one of relief, for the corpse was not Rhian. But in the next moment he recognized the face, cold and grey in the faint light of dawn, and then he saw what had been done to it.
‘Whitcomb,’ he breathed, tears stinging his eyes. He dismounted and knelt beside his steward.
The mutilations were vile, obscene, and the true old man’s blood was everywhere. The men behind him were saying their prayers. Someone retched. Above all the crows cawed, speaking to their comrades of their prize. Rygehil squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he crossed himself. Bitter gall filled his throat and his soul.
You deserved better, my friend. Better than me for a master, and a far, far better death than this was.
Slowly, Rygehil stood and looked about him. The men, who had remained on their ponies murmured uneasily to each other. The boys holding the reins simply looked scared. Leaves and loam had been churned and kicked. Whitcomb’s blood had spilled freely onto the exposed and muddy ground. That same mud held hoof prints that travelled in several directions, as did the prints of men’s boots, and the smaller disturbances of a woman’s feet.
He looked down to the road. The hoof prints continued north and east, already blurring and softening as dew and warmth worked on them.
Does he have you then, my child? Did Whitcomb offer up his life to try to buy off that fate I sold you to? Or are you free now and gone far away?
Gradually, Rygehil became aware that he was cold, and that behind him, ponies and mules stamped and snorted and men blew hard into cupped palms.
Hobden, a thin man with a wispy beard, coughed behind his rawboned hand. ‘My lord,’ he said. ‘Shall we go on?’
Rygehil looked out at the crossroads again, but his mind seemed to have gone as numb and as cold as his naked hands.
‘No,’ he answered at last. ‘We will take Whitcomb home with us.’ He turned away.
‘B – but my lord,’ stammered Hobden. The man had turned pale, with fear or with anger, Rygehil could not tell which. ‘Your daughter…’
‘May God preserve her,’ Rygehil said, bowing his head so that the men would not mark his shame at his own cowardice. ‘For I no longer can.’
It was almost dawn when Euberacon rode once more in sight of his habitation. To most eyes, the place he approached looked to be a single, crumbling tower, the remains of some fortress of the Romans, or perhaps of the Saxons and their failed war against Arthur. The bright rays of the rising sun touched on pale stone mottled green by moss. The whole structure listed to one side and any builder with half an eye would have said that it would collapse completely with one more winter.
To Euberacon, it was a palace like nothing else the length and breadth of the whole cold, crude isle. It was built of pure, white marble. Its four towers were topped with gilded roofs that flared with vibrant light as the morning touched them. Inside the single gate was a courtyard walled with cunningly painted tiles, so it seemed he rode into a fantastic garden of drooping trees laden with fruits of red and gold. A fountain spread its bowl in the centre of the yard, showing a mosaic of all the ocean’s fishes swimming in sapphire waters. Another mosaic, this one depicting delicate, twining flowers, spread out beneath his horse’s hooves.
This place could appear to be many things; a cottage, a grove of trees, a single miraculous tower standing on its own rooftop. The spells that protected it and shifted its appearance were of ancient origin, and costly in time and material. They were, however, well worth the care he had taken with them. This was a small land, and for the time being,