lady.”
“Cilydd is like his father: he speaks his mind,” said Gwalchmai, smiling. “Here.” He picked up another stone, a piece of ordinary flint, and tapped it against the threshold. Cilydd stopped howling and squinted at it. Gwalchmai offered him the stone, and the boy took it and began pounding the doorpost. The warrior straightened and dusted off his hands. “Again, my lady, welcome,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the pounding. “But I am afraid my house is not fit to welcome you, at the minute.”
“Ach, great lord, we can leave,” said Maire cheerfully.
“It would not matter much if you did,” said Gwalchmai’s servant Rhys, also emerging from the house, “for the place would still be inside-out. You have moved in and out often enough, Maire. One would think you could do it better by now.” Maire grinned and bobbed her head, and Rhys, having dealt with her, bowed to me. “Greetings, most noble lady.”
“I am sorry to have no better hospitality to offer you, my lady,” Gwalchmai said, “but if you care to come in, there is probably some wine.”
“I thank you, no. Lord Gwalchmai, I wish to speak with you. Perhaps we could walk down to the walls—unless you need to prepare for your journey now, of course.”
“I am the last one needed to prepare for my journey; indeed, I am in the way—am I not, Rhys? It is a sweet morning, my lady. Let us walk.” He leaned the spear against the doorpost, then, looking at Cei’s son and his flint hammer, handed the weapon to Rhys instead. I handed Rhys the whetstone, which I was still holding, and Gwalchmai and I set off down the hill. It was indeed a sweet morning. The previous day’s clear weather continued, and the sun was bright in a soft sky, the air warm enough to make my spring cloak too heavy. Gwalchmai wore no cloak, and for once was without his mail shirt as well, and he walked lightly. His red tunic was loose, and I could see the end of a scar running up onto his collar bone. He had plenty of scars.
“You seem pleased today,” I said, to start the conversation, and because he did appear happy—a rare thing recently. “And Rhys did as well. Are you glad to be leaving Camlann?”
“To be leaving Camlann—I am neither pleased nor displeased at that, lady. But I am glad, for Rhys’s wife had her child last night, and she and the baby are both well.”
“Ach, good! I must visit them. Is it a girl or a boy?”
“A girl. And Rhys is pleased with that, as well, for now he has both a son and a daughter.”
“I am very glad of it. So, will Rhys be coming with you to Gaul now?”
He shook his head. “I have told him to stay. He was meaning to stay until his wife was delivered, and there is no need to change the plans. He now says that he will go, because she is safe, but it is plain that his heart stays with her, and I would not wish to drag the rest of him away.”
I was a trifle disappointed. Rhys was a plain, honest, down-to-earth farmer’s son, and in his way as great an idealist as Arthur. When he had become Gwalchmai’s servant he had eased one trouble from my mind. Gwalchmai was otherworldly enough to forget to eat, and honorable enough that he thought it preferable to be cheated than to stand up for his rights against someone weaker. Without Rhys he would undoubtedly overwork himself. I wanted to order him to be gentle with himself, wanted to mother him, as I had ever since I first met him. Then he had been flat on his back and delirious among the other wounded whom Arthur had left in my father’s cow-byre, the first time he came to my home. Gwalchmai had watched me then with the dark eyes of an injured animal, and flinched when I came near him. Most wounded men like having a woman to tend them. They are reminded of their mothers, and feel safer. Perhaps I had reminded Gwalchmai of his mother, and the thought of Morgawse had frightened him. At any rate, I had noticed him, shown him special warmth, until the
“Cilydd is like his father: he speaks his mind,” said Gwalchmai, smiling. “Here.” He picked up another stone, a piece of ordinary flint, and tapped it against the threshold. Cilydd stopped howling and squinted at it. Gwalchmai offered him the stone, and the boy took it and began pounding the doorpost. The warrior straightened and dusted off his hands. “Again, my lady, welcome,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the pounding. “But I am afraid my house is not fit to welcome you, at the minute.”
“Ach, great lord, we can leave,” said Maire cheerfully.
“It would not matter much if you did,” said Gwalchmai’s servant Rhys, also emerging from the house, “for the place would still be inside-out. You have moved in and out often enough, Maire. One would think you could do it better by now.” Maire grinned and bobbed her head, and Rhys, having dealt with her, bowed to me. “Greetings, most noble lady.”
“I am sorry to have no better hospitality to offer you, my lady,” Gwalchmai said, “but if you care to come in, there is probably some wine.”
“I thank you, no. Lord Gwalchmai, I wish to speak with you. Perhaps we could walk down to the walls—unless you need to prepare for your journey now, of course.”
“I am the last one needed to prepare for my journey; indeed, I am in the way—am I not, Rhys? It is a sweet morning, my lady. Let us walk.” He leaned the spear against the doorpost, then, looking at Cei’s son and his flint hammer, handed the weapon to Rhys instead. I handed Rhys the whetstone, which I was still holding, and Gwalchmai and I set off down the hill. It was indeed a sweet morning. The previous day’s clear weather continued, and the sun was bright in a soft sky, the air warm enough to make my spring cloak too heavy. Gwalchmai wore no cloak, and for once was without his mail shirt as well, and he walked lightly. His red tunic was loose, and I could see the end of a scar running up onto his collar bone. He had plenty of scars.
“You seem pleased today,” I said, to start the conversation, and because he did appear happy—a rare thing recently. “And Rhys did as well. Are you glad to be leaving Camlann?”
“To be leaving Camlann—I am neither pleased nor displeased at that, lady. But I am glad, for Rhys’s wife had her child last night, and she and the baby are both well.”
“Ach, good! I must visit them. Is it a girl or a boy?”
“A girl. And Rhys is pleased with that, as well, for now he has both a son and a daughter.”
“I am very glad of it. So, will Rhys be coming with you to Gaul now?”
He shook his head. “I have told him to stay. He was meaning to stay until his wife was delivered, and there is no need to change the plans. He now says that he will go, because she is safe, but it is plain that his heart stays with her, and I would not wish to drag the rest of him away.”
I was a trifle disappointed. Rhys was a plain, honest, down-to-earth farmer’s son, and in his way as great an idealist as Arthur. When he had become Gwalchmai’s servant he had eased one trouble from my mind. Gwalchmai was otherworldly enough to forget to eat, and honorable enough that he thought it preferable to be cheated than to stand up for his rights against someone weaker. Without Rhys he would undoubtedly overwork himself. I wanted to order him to be gentle with himself, wanted to mother him, as I had ever since I first met him. Then he had been flat on his back and delirious among the other wounded whom Arthur had left in my father’s cow-byre, the first time he came to my home. Gwalchmai had watched me then with the dark eyes of an injured animal, and flinched when I came near him. Most wounded men like having a woman to tend them. They are reminded of their mothers, and feel safer. Perhaps I had reminded Gwalchmai of his mother, and the thought of Morgawse had frightened him. At any rate, I had noticed him, shown him special warmth, until the
Similar Books
