ye get it? Who does it belong to?”
Immediately she flinched away, scrambling out of reach.
“Nay! Mine!” she cried.
“Yours?” Niall asked, his eyes on the silver stag badge of the Yeomen. “Ye say the clothes are yours?”
She crossed her arms about her protectively. “Mine! No touch.”
“Well, she seems to understand what we say well enough,” Niall said. He bent towards her. “Lassie? Are ye hungry?”
She nodded her head voraciously, though she sidled back nervously, keeping a fair distance between them.
“Lewen, lad, why do ye no‘ go and find our guest something to eat? And happen make up a bed for her? She must be sick and weary. We can question her again in the morning. For now let her sleep and recover.”
“I’ll fill up the bath too,” Lilanthe said with a quick smile. “She’s filthy.”
“Nay!” the girl said emphatically.
“Ye need a bath, my lass. Ye’re no‘ sleeping in my good sheets until I have all that blood and muck off ye.”
“Nay!” the girl said again, gripping her hands into fists. She pointed one finger at the winged horse, now drowsily lipping at the bucket of warm mush with a blanket over its back. “Me stay. She mine. Mine!”
“You want to stay here with the horse?” Lewen asked.
She glanced at him and nodded, her expression clearing for a moment. “Mine.”
“We do no‘ seek to take your horse away from ye,” Niall said sternly. “Though they say one canna own a winged horse. They canna be tamed with spur and whip, or broken to bridle and saddle, like ye have tried to do.” He gestured with one hand to the bridle in the straw where Lewen had dropped it, its bit befouled with blood and foam. “A thigearn wins the trust and respect of his horse, he does no’ bloody its mouth and whip it till it founders.”
It was clear she understood his meaning, for a crimson blush swept up her throat and face, and she dropped those disconcertingly luminous eyes. “Dinna mean to hurt,” she said haltingly, searching for the right words. “No… no other way.”
“No other way for what?” Lewen asked. “Ye have ridden a long way. Where have ye come from? Are ye fleeing from someone?”
She shook her head, not looking at him, and made another emphatic gesture. “Go away,” she said. “Leave me. Me go. Soon me go.”
“But ye are hurt still,” Lewen said. “Will ye no‘ let us tend you, and give ye some food? And your mare? Ye canna mean to ride her anytime soon. She is sick and exhausted, and sorely hurt too.”
She looked at him in alarm. “Hurt?”
“She’s exhausted,” Niall said in cool tones of condemnation. “And her flanks have been flayed cruelly.”
The girl flashed him an angry look. “No‘ me. Thorns.”
Niall grinned, his teeth flashing white in his dark bushy beard. “Ye’re rather thorny yourself, my prickly lass. Nay, do no‘ look daggers at me. Ye may stay here in the stable if ye’d prefer. Indeed, somehow I think I’d sleep sounder tonight if ye did. It’d be like trying to cage a snow-lion cub to bring ye into the house. Lewen, lad, will ye go and get her some blankets and something to eat.”
Lewen nodded and tried to smother a yawn. He had to admit he was tired and hungry after the long walk through the forest.
As he turned to go, Lilanthe knelt down in the straw beside the girl, reaching for one lacerated wrist. At once the girl snarled at her, baring her teeth like a wolf. Lilanthe started back in alarm. Lewen turned back in sudden concern for his mother.
“Do no‘ be afraid,” Niall said, surprised. “My wife is a healer. She shall no’ hurt ye.”
The girl glared at them through the matted knots of her hair, her whole body tensed and ready to spring. Lilanthe made a tentative move towards her and the girl lashed out, raking Lilanthe’s cheek with her filthy nails. Lilanthe gasped and shrank back, blood beading on her cheek. With a roar of outrage Niall strode forward, drawing his wife into the
Immediately she flinched away, scrambling out of reach.
“Nay! Mine!” she cried.
“Yours?” Niall asked, his eyes on the silver stag badge of the Yeomen. “Ye say the clothes are yours?”
She crossed her arms about her protectively. “Mine! No touch.”
“Well, she seems to understand what we say well enough,” Niall said. He bent towards her. “Lassie? Are ye hungry?”
She nodded her head voraciously, though she sidled back nervously, keeping a fair distance between them.
“Lewen, lad, why do ye no‘ go and find our guest something to eat? And happen make up a bed for her? She must be sick and weary. We can question her again in the morning. For now let her sleep and recover.”
“I’ll fill up the bath too,” Lilanthe said with a quick smile. “She’s filthy.”
“Nay!” the girl said emphatically.
“Ye need a bath, my lass. Ye’re no‘ sleeping in my good sheets until I have all that blood and muck off ye.”
“Nay!” the girl said again, gripping her hands into fists. She pointed one finger at the winged horse, now drowsily lipping at the bucket of warm mush with a blanket over its back. “Me stay. She mine. Mine!”
“You want to stay here with the horse?” Lewen asked.
She glanced at him and nodded, her expression clearing for a moment. “Mine.”
“We do no‘ seek to take your horse away from ye,” Niall said sternly. “Though they say one canna own a winged horse. They canna be tamed with spur and whip, or broken to bridle and saddle, like ye have tried to do.” He gestured with one hand to the bridle in the straw where Lewen had dropped it, its bit befouled with blood and foam. “A thigearn wins the trust and respect of his horse, he does no’ bloody its mouth and whip it till it founders.”
It was clear she understood his meaning, for a crimson blush swept up her throat and face, and she dropped those disconcertingly luminous eyes. “Dinna mean to hurt,” she said haltingly, searching for the right words. “No… no other way.”
“No other way for what?” Lewen asked. “Ye have ridden a long way. Where have ye come from? Are ye fleeing from someone?”
She shook her head, not looking at him, and made another emphatic gesture. “Go away,” she said. “Leave me. Me go. Soon me go.”
“But ye are hurt still,” Lewen said. “Will ye no‘ let us tend you, and give ye some food? And your mare? Ye canna mean to ride her anytime soon. She is sick and exhausted, and sorely hurt too.”
She looked at him in alarm. “Hurt?”
“She’s exhausted,” Niall said in cool tones of condemnation. “And her flanks have been flayed cruelly.”
The girl flashed him an angry look. “No‘ me. Thorns.”
Niall grinned, his teeth flashing white in his dark bushy beard. “Ye’re rather thorny yourself, my prickly lass. Nay, do no‘ look daggers at me. Ye may stay here in the stable if ye’d prefer. Indeed, somehow I think I’d sleep sounder tonight if ye did. It’d be like trying to cage a snow-lion cub to bring ye into the house. Lewen, lad, will ye go and get her some blankets and something to eat.”
Lewen nodded and tried to smother a yawn. He had to admit he was tired and hungry after the long walk through the forest.
As he turned to go, Lilanthe knelt down in the straw beside the girl, reaching for one lacerated wrist. At once the girl snarled at her, baring her teeth like a wolf. Lilanthe started back in alarm. Lewen turned back in sudden concern for his mother.
“Do no‘ be afraid,” Niall said, surprised. “My wife is a healer. She shall no’ hurt ye.”
The girl glared at them through the matted knots of her hair, her whole body tensed and ready to spring. Lilanthe made a tentative move towards her and the girl lashed out, raking Lilanthe’s cheek with her filthy nails. Lilanthe gasped and shrank back, blood beading on her cheek. With a roar of outrage Niall strode forward, drawing his wife into the
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