Page 11 of The Dragon Ring
In the center, a huge fire burned in a rectangular pit where a single, scrawny, red-faced boy, dressed only in a thin tunic, tended a spit bearing the carcass of a deer. I broke away from Corwyn’s grip and hurried to the fire, holding out my frozen hands to the flames.
The boy, a sandy-haired lad of about twelve, eyed me like a frightened puppy, but didn’t stop basting the meat.
Corwyn approached the fire, but not to warm himself. Instead he caught hold of the boy by one ear and yanked him away from his task. The boy gave a cry of pain.
Gut reaction made me angry. “Hey, leave him alone,” I said, my bravery returning with the warmth of the fire. “You’ve no need to do that to him.”
Corwyn ignored me. “Where’s yer lord, Yeller ’air?” he barked at the boy, giving him a shake but not letting go of his ear, which had gone as red as his cheeks.
“N-not ’ere,” the boy stuttered and Corwyn released him. He fell to the ground clutching his ear with both hands. Tears pooled in his blue eyes, and I bent to comfort him, but he shied away from my hand and scuttled backwards as though I was some kind of monster.
I straightened up.
“Wait ’ere.” Corwyn dropped his end of the soggy rope to the ground. I’d have tried to get free, but my hands were still too cold, although the heat of the fire was beginning to warm them. He strode across the Hall toward a door in the back wall and knocked hard. It opened, and after a hushed conversation I couldn’t catch, he disappeared inside.
Left alone, I stood over the fire, warming myself. If only I could get out of my coat, which was steaming in the heat. On the far side of the fire, the boy got to his feet. Keeping a wary eye on me, he returned to basting the meat, which was spitting into the fire and smelled heavenly. My stomach gave a plaintive rumble. I hadn’t eaten anything in nearly twenty-four hours, and I was starving– hungry enough to hack off a great chunk of that roast and eat it bloody. Trying not to think about food, I held out my hands to the flames again and bathed in the warmth. I felt my cheeks begin to glow with heat like the boy’s.
Why had Corwyn called him Yellow Hair? It sounded like an insult.
Just as I was thinking I’d try speaking to the boy again, the door in the back wall opened, and Corwyn strode out with three other men. They walked down the Hall toward me, their booted feet swishing in the rushes.
Looking at the newcomers, I forgot the boy. Two were bearded and grizzled with age, but the one who walked between them was younger and clean-shaven. His shoulder length hair was russet brown, and he was a few inches taller than his companions. I would have known him anywhere.
My Fancy-Dress-Man.
I could only stare at him in shock. I blinked a few times, thinking my eyes were deceiving me, but each time I looked at him again, he was still my Fancy-Dress-Man. And he was smiling. Did this mean I was safe now?
He came and took my cold hands in his. “Gwen,” he said, as though I’d just dropped in for tea. “I knew you’d come. How lovely to see you.”
“You know her?” Corwyn asked, nonplussed.
Why wouldn’t he be? He thought he’d caught a spy.
The Fancy-Dress-Man nodded. Now, in the Great Hall of Cadbury Castle, he no longer looked out of place.
I was the one in Fancy Dress.
“I invited her,” my Fancy-Dress-Man said. “Give me your knife, Corwyn, and I’ll cut these ropes. Her hands are frozen.”
Corwyn found his knife, a long-bladed, vicious looking thing, in double-quick time. He passed it to my Fancy-Dress-Man, who slid it in amongst my bindings and cut me loose. Handing back the knife, he took my hands in his again, the warmth of his touch reassuring. My fears that I might be meeting with someone else who would think me a spy began to dissipate. I felt as though I was with an old friend, even though I’d seen him so infrequently in my world. He was a link back to my own time, and I was prepared to hang on tight to him.
“You’re wet,” he said, his eyes travelling over my soaked attire. “Clothes must be found for you. More suitable ones. Stand closer to the fire.”
I found my voice at last. “How is it you’re here? And who are you, really?”
“I live here. And I’m your friend. I told you that when last we met.”
I bristled. “If you invited me, do you know how I got here? You were in my world, and now you’re in this one. And so am I. Do you know the way back?”
His hands tightened around mine. “You’re here because I called you. You came up the Tor and answered my call. You came to Ynys Witrin as I knew you would, and now you’re in Din Cadan, where you’re meant to be.”
I wasnotmeant to be here, but perhaps it wasn’t the right time to tell him that.
I knitted my brows. “And you– whoareyou?”
His fingers found the ring on my finger and rubbed it clean of mud. It shone in the firelight. “Can you not guess?”
I looked down at it, then back up at him. “Abbot Jerome said it was a royal ring of the Kings of Dumnonia. Is it yours? Are you– are you aking?”
