The Legend of Lady Ilena (3 page)

“Come, boy,” I plead. “It’s too cold for you out here. Come down to the warm house.”

He keeps his eyes on my face. His body seems to cling more firmly to the mound of earth. In the torchlight it is hard to tell where his black-and-white coat ends and the rocky dirt begins.

“Cryner!” I speak sternly and point down the slope. “Now!”

He ignores me. I grasp his collar and pull him off the grave. He tries to climb back, but I hold him firmly. The old dog’s loyalty brings tears to my eyes. Partway down the slope he gives up and stops trying to return to the grave.

Inside the house he sniffs at Moren’s bedplace, then searches the room, whining and snuffling. At last he falls into his bed. His wheezes grow softer, and he finally sleeps.

When I extinguish the torch, the only light comes from the fire; I sit and stare into the coals.

Cryner moans in his dream, and I know that I too must sleep. There will be chores in the morning whether I have rested or not, and I need a clear head to decide what I should do. I am so tired that I fall asleep as soon as I lie down.

I awaken in the morning to the sound of rain spattering against the thatch. Cryner is creaking to his feet. I let him out and stand in the doorway to watch raindrops bounce off mud in the yard. The outside fire smokes as water hits live coals.

When I let Cryner back in and close the door, it is dark and dreary inside. It did not seem so when Grenna and Moren were here. My childhood was filled with song and laughter. I learned about the outside world around this table. My parents taught me about
our faith and told me stories of fortresses, banquets, and battles.

I look around at the two empty bedplaces, the benches where my parents sat at mealtime, Moren’s drinking horn, and the bowls stacked beside the fire. My grief is so deep that I can’t even cry; I sit, silent and numb, for a long time.

The rain lessens and then stops completely. I can see light brightening around the shutters. Outside there is a sound of horse’s hooves and the jingle of harness metal. Someone is moving down the track from the pass.

I collect two light spears and hurry out the door with Cryner at my heels. A large black horse stands just outside the fence. The rider sits looking over our house and barn. When he sees me, he raises his right hand slowly with no weapon in sight. I lean the spears against the side of the house and raise my right hand also. Cryner growls deep in his throat. I grasp his collar with my left hand and feel his neck hair rise and stiffen.

I wait for the traveler to speak, to state his business. He is well dressed, wearing a cloak in a bold checked pattern I haven’t seen before. The first rays of the sun peer through the thinning clouds and glance off brass strips around his leather helmet. A thick black mustache covers his mouth. His eyes are hidden in the shadow cast by his helmet rim, but I can feel their relentless stare.

He sits in silence for what seems a long time. Then
he turns the horse and urges it back up the trail. Cryner growls again and tries to pull away from me. I hang on to him and watch horse and rider until they disappear over the top of the pass. The encounter leaves me uneasy, but I have other things to think about.

As I go about the morning chores, the same question turns over and over in my mind. What should I do now?

At some point as I let out the horses, clean the stalls, milk the cow, check the fish trap, and feed the flock of chickens, I realize what I must do. It is a frightening thought, but Moren’s words were clear. I must travel to the East myself.

I’ve always known that we belonged somewhere else, that we had come, for reasons I was never told, from a home-place near the eastern sea.

In stories, we learn of people’s lineage for nine generations. Even here in the Vale of Enfert folk speak of their parents, grandparents, cousins, and other relatives to identify themselves. I can’t do that because I know no lineage other than daughter of Moren and Grenna.

I look like Moren: tall, with broad shoulders and full black hair that must have a plait or sturdy circlet to keep it from bushing about my head. My eyes are blue, not the pale-sky color seen here in the vale but a deep near-purple hue; Moren’s, though, were gray. Grenna’s eyes were not blue either, but gray-green like the sea, and I have none of her round softness or fair complexion and auburn hair.

I can name my parents, and I am proud of them; but I cannot name my parents’ parents or my uncles and aunts. I don’t know who else I resemble, whose voice might sound like mine, who might hold her mouth just as I do when I am thinking. And I do not know what family I belong to, what land I can call my own, what house or fortress sheltered me when I was born.

Moren meant to tell me at last, but he waited too long. The story of my lineage and the place where I belong lie in the East.

I
STOP
R
OL AT THE HEAD OF THE PASS
. T
HE TREES SPREAD
autumn colors across the valley. The stream murmurs and splashes beside me.
A
cool morning breeze carries the scent of wood smoke from rooftops below, but
I
am leaving before anyone is about in the village. I’ve said my farewells and want only to begin my journey.

I’m wearing trousers and boots, with a heavy leather vest over my tunic. Moren’s war helmet fits well enough with my braided hair tucked up under it. Since
I
am traveling alone, it is especially important that
I
appear to be a man out about men’s business.

I
trace the gold-trimmed hilt of my sword with my finger. It rests ready to hand in its carrying case on the saddle. When
I
dismount,
I
can move it to the scabbard that hangs from my belt. My dirk, its steel blade newly sharpened, is also on my belt along with my tinderbag, sling, and leather sack full of slingstones.

Moren made a great ceremony of presenting the
sword to me a year ago. He said I was as skilled with weapons as any man he’d ever taught, and this was my reward. For a moment his presence seems real beside me, and I can almost hear him say, “Now, lass, you’ll make your own destiny and submit to no one.”

I brush my hand across my face and rub the tears on my trousers.

I should wait to tell Jon goodbye. He will be disappointed to arrive and find me gone, but we’ve said all there is to say these past few days. We agreed that he would move into the house and care for the animals and tend the fields until I come back.

If I come back.

We’ve talked often since the funeral. Jon cannot understand my desire to go east. There is a life for me here and a place beside him. I explained that my feelings for him were those for a brother. At last he stopped trying to change my mind. I’m sure he will marry someone else soon.

Something moves in our yard. Cryner has come out to look for me.

The tears flow hard now. I know I will not see the old dog again. I fed him meat for breakfast and hugged him close. The urge to turn Rol back down the trail is strong. I could carry my things inside and put the spears by the door, my sword in its spot near my bedplace, and the valuables back into the hole beneath the loose stone.

I would say to Jon, “I’ve changed my mind.” I know how the smile would brighten his face.

Rol tosses his head and snorts. I turn him away from the valley and down the far side of the pass. How hard it must have been for Grenna to force her tired horse up this steep path with me weak and crying in her arms! Why did they undertake a journey so soon after my birth? And why did they leave their home to brave the worst winter weather in anyone’s memory? I hope to find answers to my questions at Dun Alyn.

We halt for a few minutes’ rest at the bottom of the slope. The wide trail that crosses northern Britain stretches as far as I can see in either direction. Westward lies the Oak Grove.

Like everyone else in Enfert I looked forward to Midsummer’s Day. As soon as it was light, all of us would make the two-hour trip to the clearing beside the Sacred Grove. Through the morning we would visit with people from other valleys, trade livestock, buy pottery or ironware, and share the food we’d brought with us.

In the afternoon we would listen to Gersmal, who has been a Druid in this area for as long as I can remember, tell news from all over Britain and even stories from faraway places like Rome and Gaul.

The Druids are the wisest and best-educated men and women in Britain. They alone know the ancient law code. They can foretell the future from the path of
a wild hare and read omens in the flights of birds. Druids are trained to detect shapeshifters and determine if their intentions are for good or evil.

It is the Druids who know the calendar for the year. Gersmal would speak at length about weather predictions and seasonal movements of the animals we hunt. He would tell us which days are safe for travel, when to plant our crops, and what times are favorable for hunting.

Disputes over land, cattle, or other matters would come before him for judgment. Families or whole villages might ask for spells of protection from enemies or for ways to counter a curse laid against them.

But as the sun lowered in the west, Moren would urge Grenna and me toward our horses. The others would stay for the bonfires, the rituals of the stagman, and finally the sacrifices. We would be back in the Vale of Enfert by nightfall. The rest would fall asleep under the great trees and leave for home at dawn.

I learned what happened in those long evenings in the darkening Oak Grove from my friends. I had nightmares for weeks after some of the stories. When I asked Moren about the sacrifices, he looked grim and shook his head before he answered.

“It is the old way, lass. A plan to rid the tribe of someone who won’t follow the customs or to dispose of prisoners taken in battle.”

“But what about the child?” I asked. “Jon said they sacrificed a child.”

He hesitated a long time before he answered. “I don’t know. Perhaps it was crippled, unable to grow up properly, or unusual in some other way.” He was silent again for a time. At last he said, “Most places have stopped human sacrifice. Even before monks came with the new religion, the worst of the old customs had begun to die out.”

“Then,” I asked, “is Gersmal the only Druid who kills people in the Oak Groves?”

“No,” he said. “There are others.” He walked away then and refused to discuss it any further.

I turn Rol to the east. We travel steadily all morning, and stop at noon in a clearing where ashes mark the fires of old camps. I recognize the place from a hunting trip two years ago.

Moren and I had ranged far into the forest, sometimes on paths no wider than our horses, in search of game. We got back to the main trail by nightfall, but darkness trapped us here a half-day’s ride from home. Moren cut the ritual portion from the deer I’d brought down with my spear and burned it as an offering of thanks for success in the hunt. Then we cooked some of the meat for ourselves and Cryner. It was the old hound’s last trip with us.

I unharness Rol so he can graze in comfort. I carry very little with me. Food for myself and oats for Rol are tied on top of my pack along with my cloak. The pack holds a clean tunic and undergarments, slippers, the blue dress from the last of Grenna’s weaving, and
an elegant girdle Moren brought me last summer. I have my bracelets and gold circlet along with Grenna’s bronze mirror and her finest bone comb.

The heaviest things in the bundle are the bag of coins and the gold torc. I found both yesterday in the safe hole beneath a loose floor stone in our house. I pulled the bag of coins out to take with me. Without Moren’s armbands and pendant, the hollow should have been empty, but I caught sight of leather far back in the space. I tugged it out and unwrapped layers of old skins.

An afternoon sunbeam slanting through the window caught the heavy neckpiece as I laid it on the table. I stared at it, amazed; I had never seen so much gold. The circlet for my hair is a thin gold band with enameled circles decorating the ends, and my bracelets are lightweight twists of thin gold wire. Even Moren’s pendant does not hold as much gold as the torc.

It is formed of eight ropes of gold twisted together. Each rope is made up of eight gold wires wrapped around each other. The whole is bent into a circular shape with large terminals, elaborately carved, marking the ends. I can feel its weight as I lift my pack to the ground. I try to imagine how it would feel around my neck.

I remove the case of casting spears, the two long war spears, my round shield, and the waterskin. Finally I take off the saddle and unfasten the bridle bit. It is a
lot of work, but Rol must rest and eat if we are to continue traveling all day.

After he drinks from the small stream that runs beside the clearing, I let him crop grass while I sit with my back against a tree to eat bread and dried meat. I close my eyes and am almost asleep when a sound startles me. Rol has stopped grazing and stands with his ears forward. He faces the way we’ve come. I listen intently for a time but don’t hear anything else.

Rol relaxes and goes back to eating. Now there are only bird and insect noises, but I don’t close my eyes again.