Castle of Dreams (14 page)

Meredith gave in at last. While she changed
into the dull brown dress and braided her damp hair into some
semblance of neatness and covered it with a triangle of grey wool,
Branwen made up two bundles of food, wrapping them in cloth. She
threw a thin blanket about Meredith’s shoulders and took another
for herself.

“We will need these at night,” she said. “Now
come.”

Branwen handed one of the bundles to
Meredith, then went to the door and peered out.

“As I thought,” she murmured. “Alfric has
already confessed to Gyrth’s father. The fools are gathered by the
well, discussing the matter. We must be quick, Meredith. Our very
lives depend on it. Slip out the door and around the far side of
the house, then run straight toward the setting sun. Don’t stop no
matter what happens. I will catch up with you.”

“I’m afraid,” Meredith quavered,
hesitating.

“We must go.” Branwen gave Meredith a hard
push, and then she was out the door. She saw the knot of villagers,
and finally realized it was too late to delay any more. Branwen was
right. There was real danger here.

Meredith scurried across the fields, dodged
behind a clump of bushes, and then continued as Branwen had
instructed her, straight toward the sun, which was setting in a
pale, silvery haze. She heard Branwen close at her back, heard,
too, the ugly sound of shouts and cries from the village behind
them.

They were past the open fields now, at the
edge of the forest Lord Ranaulf kept for his hunting pleasure.
Villeins were forbidden to cut the wood or to snare the game in
this private preserve. Only the dead branches that had fallen to
the ground might be picked up and carried home for firewood.
Meredith had seen what had been done to one of the villagers last
winter, a man who, unable to bear the hungry crying of his children
any longer, had gone into the forest and snared two squirrels for
dinner. She did not like to think about that.

Meredith hesitated at the edge of the forest,
and Branwen nearly ran into her. They both looked back at the
village, where leaping flames and a plume of smoke indicated the
location of Alfric’s cottage.

“They will search for us,” Branwen said. “I
know them. They accepted my herbal cures and my help when they were
hurt, but now that Alfric is condemned they will call me witch, and
the priest will call me heretic, and they will burn me as they now
burn my home, and you with me, if they can catch us. Violent death
brought me here and violent death sends me away again.” Branwen’s
last words sounded like an incantation.

“Where are we going?” The specter of a fiery
death had put an end to Meredith’s remaining resistance. Nothing
she did could help Alfric now. She could only try to save herself.
“Where, Aunt Branwen?”

“Home.” Branwen’s voice broke on the word.
“It is time I went home again, Normans or no. Yes, it’s the best
thing for you, too. You will be well out of Ranaulf’s hands. We are
going to Afoncaer. Come.”

She took Meredith’s hand. As she did, the
setting sun suddenly filled the air with a rosy glow, turning the
sky orange and pink and purple in a lurid display that easily
outshone the flames that were consuming the remains of Alfric’s
cottage. Meredith spared one last glance for her former home, and
another for the brilliant sky above, and then followed her aunt
into the thick, dark forest.

Meredith knew about Wales. Aunt Branwen had
told her of the green, misty land from which she had fled years
earlier, of dark, quiet woodlands interspersed with steep hillsides
dotted by rocks and rushing mountain streams, of deep winter snows
and soft, flower-spangled springs. It had relieved Branwen’s
homesickness and isolation to talk of Wales. Of her personal story
Branwen had related little.

“The Normans came. I left.” And then she
swore Meredith to secrecy about everything she had said.

Meredith was used to Branwen’s secrets. She
had been absorbing secret information about herbs and other plants
for as long as she could remember. Since Meredith was old enough to
walk, Branwen had been taking her to gather the roots and berries
and wild herbs that she used for her medicines. Branwen had taught
the girl as they picked or dug, or weeded in the tiny garden patch
by the cottage door. Meredith was so apt a pupil that Branwen had
told her she would one day surpass her teacher, and she was so
discreet that Branwen trusted her completely.

What Meredith had not understood from her
aunt’s descriptions was just how far away Wales was. As the days
passed and they continued their westward journey with no sign of
the splendid green land of which Branwen had so lovingly spoken,
Meredith felt ever-greater admiration for her aunt.

“Did you walk all this way alone?” Meredith
asked one evening while they huddled beneath a tree and chewed on
crusts of bread, now stale and rock-hard.

“I was younger then,” Branwen said. “And I
feared what lay behind me. I traveled faster than we do now.”

“What did you fear?”

“I’ll tell you some day. Not now, I’m too
tired.” Branwen pulled the ragged woolen blanket around her
shoulders and settled herself to sleep, and after a moment Meredith
did the same.

Branwen seemed to know where she was going,
and Meredith never questioned the direction they took. They kept
away from villages, and whenever they spied other travelers, they
hid themselves until the others were out of sight. It was not
terribly difficult to remain unnoticed so long as they were
careful. This part of England was thinly populated, not having
completely recovered yet from the near-total devastation inflicted
by the Conqueror’s armies some thirty years before. There were the
occasional ruins of burned-out houses in which they could shelter
for a night, and there were vast areas where the forest had
reclaimed what had once been farmland, and in these forests they
could hide. It was other fugitives they had to be careful of, and
errant knights who wandered the roads that were little more than
cattle paths through the wilderness. Two females, traveling alone
were open to fearsome danger, but Branwen was cautious and clever
and skilled at finding edible roots and berries once the food they
had brought with them was eaten, and the spring nights were
blessedly warm, and so they made their way steadily south and west
toward Wales.

It was raining. It always seemed to be
raining, or at least misty. Water dripped off every leaf and twig
and the thick moss squelched beneath their feet. With each step she
took, cold, muddy water oozed through the shredded soles of her
clumsy shoes. Meredith had no idea where they were. She only knew
that they had been walking for more days than even Aunt Branwen
could count, and she was cold and hungry and so tired she wanted
only to curl up and sleep forever in the shelter of one of those
big, moss-covered rocks that continually blocked their path.

She did not see the man at first. Meredith
trudged on mindlessly until she realized Branwen had stopped. She
looked back to see if something was wrong with her aunt, then
followed the line of Branwen’s gaze.

He stood beside a tree, watching them. He was
tall and very thin and he was old. His flowing white hair and beard
and soft grey robe seemed to her at first to be some illusion of
the thick, drifting mist. Outlines were oddly indistinct in this
fog-wrapped countryside, but after a few moments her blurred sight
sharpened and Meredith saw that he was real. His deep-lined face
was tense, his pale grey eyes were fixed on Branwen, who stared at
him as though he were some vision from one of the ancient tales she
so often told to Meredith. Then Branwen spoke, using words
Meredith, though she did not understand them all, recognized as her
aunt’s native tongue.

The old man answered in a voice deep and
quiet, like the gentle breeze in the treetops on an April evening.
Hearing that voice, Meredith felt fear and weariness melting away.
Whoever he was, this man spoke her Aunt Branwen’s language, and
surely no one so aged and frail could be dangerous. The man raised
a bony, blue-veined hand in a graceful gesture, then turned and
moved off into the mist. Meredith blinked, and he was gone. Branwen
took her hand.

“Come,” she said to her niece. “He will give
us shelter.”

“Who is he?”

Branwen did not reply, but led Meredith in
the direction the man had taken.

“I can’t see anything,” Meredith protested.
“Where is he?”

“Use your eyes, child. He’s there.” Branwen
pointed to a faint movement, an eddy in the fog in front of
them.

“We are lost, Aunt Branwen. Is this a magical
forest?”

“We are not lost. This is Wales. We are
home.”

If this was Wales, Meredith was not certain
it was worth the journey. The heavens opened wider and the rain
fell harder. Meredith and Branwen were soon dripping water off nose
and chin and hair, dripping like the trees and bushes around them.
Meredith had never been so cold and wet. And still Aunt Branwen,
holding tightly to her hand, followed a guide Meredith could not
see. But then, Meredith was not really looking. She kept her eyes
on the ground, trying to avoid roots and rocks and fallen branches,
and when she thought at all, it was only of her own misery.

She could still hear the rain drumming
relentlessly, but the sound was behind her and she was no longer
being pelted with drops of cold water. Meredith raised her
head.

They were in a cave. Her throat constricted
with a moment’s fear as Branwen led her around a corner. Meredith
relaxed a little at the homey sight of a fire set in a hole scooped
out of the cave floor. A natural cleft in the rock above the
firepit allowed the smoke to escape. Over the flames a cauldron
swung from a tripod, its contents bubbling softly and sending forth
a heady herbal fragrance. Above and around her curved a high,
smooth wall of grey stone, flecked here and there with some silvery
substance that caught the firelight and glittered when she moved.
The chamber was so large that she did not feel the least bit
uncomfortable, though she sensed there was a hill or mountain above
her, its great weight pressing into the earth.

Breaking away from Branwen, Meredith stumbled
to the fire and held out her hands toward the warmth. She heard
Branwen speaking, using that soft, half-familiar language again,
and the strange man’s whisper-quiet voice in reply.

“Meredith, take off your wet clothes, child.”
Without thought, Meredith did as she was told. Branwen wrapped a
warm blanket around her. Meredith wiped her nose with the back of
her hand and moved closer to the fire’s heat. The old man had been
doing something to the cauldron, and now he handed Meredith a
wooden bowl into which he had ladled chunks of vegetables and
thick, steaming broth.

Meredith sank down beside the fire and began
to eat, pausing only when the old man brought her a wedge of brown
bread, which she used to sop up the last of the juices in her bowl,
polishing the sides of it with a piece of crust before popping it
into her mouth and licking her fingers.

The man had watched her all that time, but
Meredith did not mind. She was over her first fear of him. His
ancient face was kind, and his pale grey eyes were soft, so soft,
misty and gentle. She could not tear her eyes from his. A beguiling
humming sound filled her mind, relaxing her tenseness. Fear,
hunger, cold, aching feet and tired muscles, all faded from her
consciousness. She was warm and dry and well-fed, and, best of all,
safe at last. She was certain of that. She began to feel sleepy.
Her eyelids drooped, her head nodded.

She roused herself once to look around for
Branwen, and found her aunt robed in a grey gown identical to the
man’s. It apparently belonged to him for Branwen had rolled up the
sleeves and bloused the body of the robe over a belt so she would
not trip on the hem. Under the fold of the gown at Branwen’s waist,
Meredith could see the gleam of the tiny jeweled dagger her aunt
always wore. It was, Branwen had told her, all she had left of the
treasures that had once filled her old home in Wales. In the
village and on their journey, she had kept it next to her skin,
like a secret talisman, but now she wore it openly, a badge of
rank.

Branwen finished drying and combing out her
dark curls and came to sit beside Meredith. Her pale face glowed
and her dark eyes shone as she took the bowl of stew and the spoon
their host offered her and began to eat.

“This man is Rhys ap Daffydd,” Branwen said
between bites. “He is a distant cousin of mine, and when I was a
girl he was my teacher. This is his home. He will let us stay with
him.”

“I thought we were going to your old home,
Aunt Branwen.”

Branwen spoke to Rhys again, then turned to
Meredith.

“Afoncaer and Tynant both belong to the
Normans, but Rhys says they do not come here, into this part of the
forest. There are few of them, and too many of their men have died
by Welsh arrows when .they strayed too far from the fortress. It is
safe enough. We will stay here.”

Meredith nodded, too sleepy to ask more
questions. Branwen’s arm was across her shoulders, lifting her,
helping her to walk the few steps to where a pallet lay close
against the cave wall. Meredith tumbled onto the pallet, pulled the
blanket around herself, tucked her bare feet snuggly under the
lower edge of the warm wool, and closed her eyes. She could hear
Branwen and Rhys talking, talking, in the beautiful musical
language of their homeland. The sounds drifted together, blurred
softly, and faded into silence.

She lay on her side, her eyes closed, still
half asleep. There was something warm and alive and gently
vibrating pressed against her chest. Smooth fur rubbed across her
chin, startling her into full wakefulness. Meredith found herself
staring into the wide blue eyes of a small white cat.