Page 95 of The Quest for Excalibur
Under the dark thatch lurked a low door of silvered wood. Cei bent beneath the meager shelter and hammered on it with determination.
Nothing.
Cei hammered again. “Open up in the name of the High King, lest you want me to set light to your house.”
I swiped my wet hair out of my eyes, glad of a cloak made of oiled wool that had kept at least some of the rain off. What a contrast to our rain-free journey on the waytoBadon.
The door opened a crack. Cei jammed his booted foot into it and gave it a shove. “Since when do you keep your king standing out here in the rain? Get out of my way.”
Once, I might have protested at his attitude, but I had a wet, wounded husband to care for, and he came first.
Cei disappeared from view. In a moment he was back. “Plenty of room here for our wounded. Fetch them in.”
Merlin and I got Arthur down from his horse, under protest. “I’m fine,” he complained. “Stop treating me like I’m not.” But he swayed alarmingly. Coping with pain can exhaust you faster than anything. Merlin grabbed his elbow, but Arthur shook him off. “I can do this. Let me be.”
Men and their egos.
Luckily it wasn’t far to the roundhouse. As Bedwyr got the rest of our wounded off their horses, and Llacheu organized the remainder of our men, I walked with Arthur to the door. With difficulty he bent his head and ducked inside, me, Cei and Merlin close behind.
A fire smoldered in the center of the gloomy interior, providing the only light, and above our heads a fug of smoke hung under the conical roof. The men had to stoop to avoid inhaling it. Around the walls, the available space, that seemed bigger now we were in here, had been divided up by low wicker walls– some holding beds, some used as storage.
The farmer, a short-legged, burly-bodied man, stood back to one side, glaring at us from under a shaggy mane of grizzled brown hair, and caterpillar-thick eyebrows. His family crouched around the fire, eyes wide, mouths hanging open, fear written clearly across every face: an old woman with thin, white hair stained yellow by the smoke and the sunken, softly wrinkled features of the toothless; a younger woman with a naked baby at her breast; two adolescent boys; and three small, half-clothed children of indeterminate sex.
Arthur and Merlin’s presence dominated the space, towering over the seated people and the farmer. Cei, unfazed by any notion of waiting to be offered, jerked his head toward the door. “Out, all of you. You’re sleeping in one of your sheds tonight. This is your High King, and I’m requisitioning this house for him and our wounded.”
The people stared at us, uncomprehending for a moment, as though he’d spoken a foreign language. A few glances shot between the adults. Their gazes slid to our weapons. They weren’t stupid. The woman with the baby got to her feet from the log she’d been using as a seat, pulling a shawl around her child.
“Not you,” Cei said. “We’re not animals. You and the baby can stay.”
Her eyes widened in fear. Not unnaturally. Soldiers weren’t known for kindness to women, after all. Not even the soldiers of her own High King.
The farmer took a step forward, but Merlin held up his hand. The farmer bristled. “My wife’s a good girl, m’lord.” His voice shook. “Don’t hurt her. Please.”
Merlin frowned, perhaps realizing what the man feared. “She’ll be safe. You have my word. We want your house for our wounded. None of us are interested in your woman. Except not to let her and your child catch cold. The rest of you will have to manage in one of your sheds. If our men aren’t already in them. Now go.”
The woman remained standing, while the children, shooting terrified glances at the three enormous warriors who’d invaded their home, grabbed their cloaks and a few hunks of bread and hurried out after their father. The old woman, hobbling on arthritic hips, was last to rise, drawing a shabby cloak about her scrawny shoulders.
Merlin stopped her at the door. “You may stay as well.”
She shot him a venomous look that held no thanks, but hobbled back to stand beside the woman and the baby. After a moment or so, they sat back down next to one another, both of them regarding us from beneath suspicious brows, mouths set in sullen sulks.
Cei tossed firewood from one of the alcoves onto the fire, and fresh flames leapt, illuminating the gloomy house. “Let’s get some warmth in here to dry us out.”
I steered Arthur to the fireside. “Sit down.”
With a sigh of relief, he sank down on one of the low logs encircling the firepit, stretching out his wet legs toward the flames. I’d have to get those braccae off him before too long.
I sat down beside him, relishing the warmth and being out of the rain, and wishing this was Din Cadan already. A long ride stretched before us in the morning, with no prospect of the rain letting up. Late summer that had stretched on into autumn had at a stroke become early winter.
Unfastening the pin that held my cloak, I shrugged it off. Silently, the young woman handed her baby to the old crone and, taking my cloak, hung it from a hook where the roof sloped down to meet the low wall. With soft footsteps, she returned to Arthur and her gentle fingers unfastened the fibula that held his cloak in place. Had she realized he was wounded? His cloak joined mine where hopefully they would dry overnight.
I took a better look at her. The bearing of the six children we’d seen had aged her, putting gray hairs amongst the rich auburn, but once she must have been a pretty girl and was probably younger than me. Wide, gray eyes the color of a rainy day, no longer so frightened, peeked from beneath thick eyelashes, and her mouth had a sweet-natured turn to it. Life couldn’t have been easy for her, but she’d made the best of it.
A large earthenware pot sat at the edge of the fire, steam rising from it. She gave it a stir with a wooden spoon and eyed Arthur. “I’ve stew if you’d like some, M’lord. Put some color in yer cheeks.” Yes. She’d noticed.
Arthur sighed and shifted his weight, steam rising from his wet braccae. “Thank you.”
She got to her feet and ladled the stew into a wooden bowl. More a sort of pottage, a few bits of meat sat in a mess of swollen grains and onions. But it was hot. She handed Arthur the bowl, and a hunk of black bread, then filled one for me.
