The Legend of Lady Ilena (4 page)

When he is rested, we set out under a warm afternoon sun. The trail is joined from time to time by tracks that lead off into the forest, and it widens as we travel.

I don’t see anyone else until late afternoon. My first warning that there are other people around is a sound of metal clashing. At first it is so faint that I am not sure what it is. As I come closer, I recognize the clang of weapons. I stop Rol and pull a casting spear from the holder behind me. I drop the reins so I can loosen my sword with my other hand. At that moment the forest is rent by an unearthly sound.

It is the scream of a fighting stallion, and it echoes again and again around us. Rol, without my firm hand on the rein, leaps forward toward the cries. By the time I have him under control, we have burst out of cover into a large clearing.

A magnificent gray stallion rears and flails his hooves over the heads of several short, dark-bearded men. Their rough clothing and short spears mark them as slave traders like those who raided Enfert every year until Moren arrived.

The big horse is turning and leaping with his iron-shod front feet beating down at them. Behind the stallion a man lies on the ground without moving. Sunlight sparkles on the gold hilt of a long sword beside him.

Rol jerks his head against the bit and tries to join the fight. Two of the men hear him and turn toward us. The gray stallion strikes at their backs and both fall. The rest glance toward Rol and then back to the gray. It rears higher and cries again. I cannot hold Rol, and he too rears and trumpets. I pull him down and regain control. He stands, quivering and snorting but obedient to my stern commands.

One of the men still standing says something I don’t understand. I raise my spear and let Rol move toward them. They hasten out of the clearing, dragging their wounded with them.

I calm Rol and dismount. The gray horse is quieter now. He paces a wide half-circle in front of the fallen man. I walk slowly and speak to the stallion. He moves constantly to keep between me and his master, and I know that even if I could grasp his reins, I would not be able to hold him.

The man on the ground stirs and moans.

“Sir,” I call. “Sir, I can help you if your horse will allow it.”

I see his lips move, but I can’t hear what he says.

“Your horse won’t let me near,” I say.

He tries to raise himself but falls back. The horse turns and nuzzles him. I move closer, and the horse whirls to head me off.

The man manages to speak. “Bork … Bork … All right. It’s all right now.”

The horse steps back a few paces. I advance carefully, watching those big front hooves.

“He’s all right now. He heard me.”

“A fighter, that one,” I say.

“Aye.” His voice is stronger, but he still lies flat on the rocky ground. “Are they gone, lad?”

It sounds strange, but I’m glad to be taken for a male. “Gone. For good, I’d guess. I’ll get water for you.” Rol has remained where I left him. I stroke his neck for a minute to reassure him before I carry my waterskin to the injured man.

He sits with my help and takes the container in his hands. I study him while he drinks. Auburn hair curls around his leather war helmet and tangles into a short auburn beard. His face under the grime and streaks of blood is ruddy with the constant sunburn of the truly fair-skinned. The eye I can see is gray-green; the other has already swollen shut. I’d guess him to be from the South, of a lineage like Grenna’s.

The blood comes from an abrasion on his forehead.
It looks like the mark of a slingstone. He fingers it cautiously.

I ask, “Do you feel well enough to travel?”

“Aye. Soon. I’m just dizzy from the blow.” He reaches up slowly and removes his helmet. “Thank you for coming to my aid.” His speech is familiar with the words and cadences I learned from Moren and Grenna.

“My horse decided for me.”

“This trail is a dangerous place for a lad alone. You are alone?”

I hesitate. He looks safe enough. His fine clothes and the horse’s well-made harness suggest he would have no interest in my belongings.

He sees my reluctance to answer. “I’m sorry. That is not a courteous question. What I mean is, will you make camp with me tonight? Two of us will be safer than one.”

The thought of raiders in the area convinces me. “I’d be glad of company.”

“I am Durant, liege to Arthur. I travel here in the North on his business.” He waits for my response.

“I’m …” I stop. He’s going to think I’m slow-witted if I must ponder every answer, but I hadn’t thought of a name. Ilena is certainly not a man’s name. “Ilun,” I finally manage to say. “Of the Vale of Enfert.”

“Let’s move on, Ilun. I doubt they’ll be back”—he glances toward the trail the raiders have taken—“but it’s time to stop for the night, and I don’t fancy this place.” He moves to gain his feet, and I reach out to
help him. I grasp his forearm and feel the bulging muscles of a practiced swordsman. He is taller than I, as tall as Moren.

Bork eyes me with some distrust, but he stands still enough while I help his master into the saddle and slip his sword into its case. Durant grasps the pommel and sways from side to side as Bork walks out of the clearing.

I watch the forest around us closely, looking for any break in the trees that might signal a path into a sheltered spot. The red evening sun is disappearing by the time we locate a suitable place. Branches scrape at my trousers as I lead the way through thick evergreens. I can hear a stream nearby, and a cliff along one side gives shelter.

Darkness has almost overtaken this clearing. There is a rich scent of mud and greenery. Even the sounds of birds and insects seem muffled here. The heavy foliage and solid cliffs give the tiny space a welcome feeling of safety.

“Rest,” I say. “I’ll water the horses and see to the fire.” Durant dismounts without speaking. His knees buckle, and he holds on to the saddle. I hurry to help him. He is able to walk with my support, and I leave him sitting on a flat rock against the cliff.

Bork looks back as I lead him toward the sound of running water, but Durant calls out in a shaky voice, “Go on, boy. It’s all right. Go.” The big gray snorts and follows alongside Rol.

Durant seems stronger after he has rested and eaten. I move his pack to a flat space between the cliff and the small fire I’ve built. I sweep sticks and debris away and make a bed with pine boughs and his saddlecloth. He lowers himself carefully and adjusts the pack for a pillow. He is asleep by the time I’ve finished feeding the horses.

I pull off my helmet and shake my hair loose. I’m not sure what to do about my disguise as a young man. Durant is courteous and speaks like a man of honor; I think I can trust him.

I leave my helmet and leather vest by the fire when I go to the stream to wash. While I’m there, I make a poultice of mud and leaves and carry it back to Durant. He seems to be sleeping soundly, but he stirs and opens his good eye when I put the cold pack against his swollen forehead.

He looks puzzled. The eye opens wider, and he sits up. The poultice tumbles into his lap. “Ilun? Ilun of the Vale of Enfert?” He stares at my unbound hair and at my bodice where my wet tunic clings to my body.

I back away from him and hope the firelight doesn’t reveal the flush I feel burn across my face.

“Not a lad at all, it seems.” I can hear the amusement in his voice. I remember the laughter of boys at home when they enticed one of the girls off to a hidden place. My sword and spears are across the fire. Even my dirk is there where I dropped it with my vest and helmet.

He follows my glance, and a frown crosses his face for a moment. “What is your name, lass?”

I do not answer. I don’t want to give even that to a strange man. I move farther away.

He reaches out and grasps my wrist with a firm hold, but his voice is gentle. “I’m sorry I laughed. You surprised me. Do I look so frightening to you? Do you really think I would harm you?”

“Some men say it is not harm but only what is natural.”

“I well know what some men say and do. I am not a man who forces women. I am pledged to Arthur’s table. It is our oath to protect women from the danger you fear.”

“I have heard that from the bards,” I admit. “I did not know if it was true.”

He speaks slowly as if to make sure I understand. “It is true, lass. If you do not wish to tell me your name, I’ll call you Ilun. I want nothing from you that’s not freely given.”

Perhaps it is his manner or my need for a friend, or maybe it’s something I do not understand in this isolated spot, but I believe him. His grip on my wrist has relaxed. I could pull away from him, but I find I draw comfort from his rough palm against my skin.

“I’m called Ilena. I apologize for giving you the wrong name, but my father taught me always to travel as a man.”

He nods carefully. He finds the cold pack with his
free hand and holds it against the swelling. “That is good advice indeed. Still, it is not safe for a woman to travel alone in any costume. How did your father let you leave without an escort?”

I take a deep breath. For most of the day I’ve put Moren’s death into a corner of my mind. Speaking about it will bring back the pain. “He is dead.” I can say no more and look down to hide my sudden tears.

He says, “I’m sorry. Have you no one? Your mother? A brother?”

I shake my head. His hand still rests on my arm. The gentle pressure sends unfamiliar sensations through my body. I move casually as if to ease my muscles with a new position and break the contact between us. My skin tingles where his hand has been.

We are both silent for a time. The fire crackles beside us, and I can hear faint night noises in the surrounding forest. Something moves beyond the thick circle of trees in the direction of the stream—an animal looking for water or for its dinner. We listen till it passes.

I remember Cryner looking for me this morning and my comfortable bedplace in the snug house I’ve left behind.

Durant’s voice brings me back to the clearing. “You seem far away, Ilena.”

“I was thinking of my home.”

“Why have you left so late in the season? And where do you travel?”

“I go to relatives in the East,” I say. “I hope to move ahead of the snows.”

“You shouldn’t travel alone.”

I try to sound courageous. “I must go to Dun Alyn.”

“Dun Alyn, is it?” He moves his head away from the cliff and winces. “I need to lie down. Let us talk more of this tomorrow.”

We are not disturbed through the night. I wake to a cold rain that has put out the fire. Durant seems rested, though the swelling is worse. I convince him to sit and eat while I saddle our horses.

As I spread the saddlecloth over Rol’s back, I notice Durant lowering his head and tracing the sign of a cross over his bread. His lips move, though I can’t hear what he says. He looks up to see me watching him.

“I am a Christian,” he says. “It is thus that we thank Our Lord for his gifts of food and health.”

“I know,” I say. “I do the same at morning bread, but all the others in our valley follow the Druids. I am surprised to see another Christian.”

“And I did not expect to find one of my faith in this area,” he says. “Do the monks visit the Vale of Enfert?”

“Aye, a few,” I answer. “Our home has been a convenient stop for those who travel from the western isles, and my parents always gave them a warm welcome.”

“Have you encountered hostility for your faith?”

“No, but my father always spoke of the Druids with respect, though we did not attend the sacrifices.”

“That was sensible. The Druids have been our religious leaders and legal experts for hundreds of years.” He pulls Bork close to a large stone so that he can mount more easily.

I see that Durant is in pain as he settles into the saddle, and I say, “You need rest.”

“We’ll be at Dun Dreug by noon. I can rest there.”

“We?”

We are both mounted now. He leads the way out of the clearing, and the horses settle into a steady jog. The track is wide enough for us to ride side by side.

I repeat my question. “We? I do not plan to visit Dun Dreug.”

“You cannot wander about unescorted.”

He seems to have forgotten that I was unescorted when I saved him yesterday, but I say only, “I ride beyond Dun Dreug.”

“Yes, Dun Alyn is two days farther east. I would like to see you safely there. But first I must wait for word from Arthur at Dun Dreug. Where I go next depends on the latest news of Saxon movements.”

“And I must go on as I have planned.”

The discussion is cut short as we hear horses approach. Durant guides Bork in front of Rol, and we ride forward slowly, single file. I shift the reins to my left hand, ready to seize a weapon or raise my hand in greeting. Durant loosens his sword in its holder before he lifts his arm in the sign of peace.

There are three men and one woman in the party
that rides toward us. They too have slowed and prepared for whatever greeting is appropriate. We pass with right hands high and empty, our eyes on one another’s weapons.

The man in front is short and heavy. His beard bushes down over his heavy vest, and blue streaks mark his forehead under an iron helmet. The woman behind him is older than I, with a thick braid of black hair falling below her helmet. She wears leather armor and trousers. Tattoos decorate her cheeks and forehead. Her dark eyes stare into mine. We nod slightly to each other as her gray-and-white dappled mare passes close to Rol. The two following are also in leather armor with war helmets, and both bear blue markings on their faces.

After they pass, Durant falls back beside me and whispers, “Look back in case they stop. I can’t see well with this eye.”

I loosen my grip on the reins so Rol can find his own way and turn in the saddle. The last man in the party is watching us. He waves with his right hand, and I do the same. We stare at each other until Durant and I round a bend that blocks our view.

“Are those of the painted people?” I ask.

“Yes. Many in this area wear some decoration, but only the painted people from beyond Red Mountain still tattoo their faces.”

“Are they a danger to us?”