Raven's Heirs Page 4

The Ferry

  They left early the following morning. Sir Miles was escorting them to the ferry at Varaville himself, along with a couple of men-at-arms. A small company, Sir Bernard had suggested, would not invite any unwelcome attention on the road.

  The first problem, for Owain, was mounting up. he had the mounting block to help him, but that was an embarrassment in itself, rubbing in the fact that he couldn't cope with even getting into the saddle on his own. He had practically lived in the saddle from the age of seven, which was when his father Eryl had finally consented to being followed around by an adoring small boy on a plump pony. he'd followed the horse herds on the Plains with his father every year after that - and he'd followed his father's chariot down to the beach, on the day that his father died.

  It would never be the same again.

  He couldn't get his lame leg to fit into the stirrup, either. The day before, he'd just let it dangle, and got pins and needles in his foot after a while. Today, Gwalchmai was watching, and he came over. "We can adjust this, I think," he said, peering at the buckles on the stirrup leather. he let out the strap and tried it against Owain's leg. "There. With a bit of practice I don't see why you shouldn't be able to ride as well as you ever did."

  Owain grunted by way of a reply. he didn't believe it for a minute. When he turned his head, he just caught sight of the sneer on one of the men-at-arms' faces - Stephen, he thought. There was one person who didn't think he'd ride again as well as he ever did.

  he had a headache, too. He'd watered the wine that came with the evening meal (fish, again, as Gwalchmai had gloomily predicted) until it was barely pale pink, but he still seemed to have drunk more than was wise. He wasn't looking forward to the ride to the ferry.

  They stopped for lunch at around noon - the cloud cover made it impossible to be sure of the time. Owain waited until Gwalchmai came to help him dismount. he didn't want to try it himself and make a mess of it in front of Stephen, or Sir Miles. They had turned off the road by a small stream, and Stephen took the horses to water while the others stretched their legs and munched on oatcakes and apples. Gwalchmai was deep in conversation with Miles again. They had been talking together for most of the morning. Owain could understand about one word in three, but he got the impression they had moved on from heraldry to talk politics.

  It was too cold to hang around for long, so they were soon mounting up again. To Owain's dismay, Sir Miles sent Stephen over to help him mount while he carried on talking to Gwalchmai.

  The man-at-arms was very professional, but didn't speak, and didn't look Owain in the face, even when he handed Owain's crutch up to him. He walked back to where his horse was being held by the other man-at-arms, Matthew.

  It was a quiet comment, spoken with his back to Owain, and it would normally have been inaudible - if Owain had not been aywnwch. Sounds carry on the air, and the Air is an awynwch's element. So Owain heard quite clearly when Stephen said: "Useless cripple. Don't know why the old man bothered to rescue him. And look at him - he sits a horse like a sack of turnips."

  Owain turned away, but not fast enough to miss Matthew's agreeing smile.

  He remained acutely aware that they were keeping the pace easy especially for him for the rest of the afternoon - and he was acutely aware that he needed that nursemaiding. The few miles from the beach to the castle had been bad enough - a full day of riding made him feel as if he'd been beaten all over with a stick. Gwalchmai tried to take his mind off it with inconsequential chat, but it didn't really work.

  They stopped at an inn for the night, and this time Owain didn't care what anyone thought - he just wanted to get off the horse as fast as he could, even if it did mean landing on his hands and knees. He was up again, and with the crutch under his arm, fast enough that it wasn't totally humiliating. Now he was standing up, though, he didn't think he ever wanted to sit down again.

  "We'll get to the ferry tomorrow, probably mid-morning," Gwalchmai said, as they watched the horses being led away. "And after that, I'm afraid, more riding, down to Ravenscar where your mother is waiting for you." He rubbed at his back ruefully. "I hope the beds are decent in this place. My old bones aren't used to this any more."

  Owain attempted a smile. he knew Gwalchmai was just trying to make him feel better.

  Miles led the way to the table closest to the fire, and the three men already sitting there vacated it without a murmur of protest. Owain hesitated. He really didn't want to sit down again so soon, but his legs were so stiff that he couldn't stand up for long either - and he was hungry. he could at least sit down while they ate, and then find out where the beds might be. He lowered himself into a seat by the chimneybreast, and stretched his stiff legs out in front of him. The wooden bench was very hard after a long day in the saddle, but at least he could lean back on the wall and rest his aching back, and it was pleasantly warm. he never really felt the cold, but the warmth of a good fire was still welcome.

  A group of pedlars had taken over the opposite corner. Their packs were piled high against the wall. There were at least half a dozen conversations going on at once, and the babble of Occitan voices was confusing. Owain soon stopped trying to make any sense of it.

  The one thing he could make sense of was the bowl of thick vegetable broth that arrived in front of him soon after he had sat down. A wooden platter of bread was placed in the centre of the table, with five leather tankards.

  "They serve good ale here," Miles said, to Gwalchmai. "I usually stop here when I'm going to the Duke's court on father's business."

  Owain ignored any further conversation. Broth was much more important. He noticed nothing around him until the bowl was empty and he'd soaked up the last sops with his slice of bread.

  He sipped at his mug of beer caustiously. It was dark, and had a sweet taste under the bitterness of the hops, quite unlike the small beer he dimly remembered drinking as a child. He sat back, nursing the tankard and hoping that nobody would try and refill it for him. The warmth, and the beer, and the food, were all combining to make him feel sleepy, and the bar was only dimly lit by two or three lanterns and the flames of the fire.

  Before long, though, he found that he did need to get up again. He needed to find wherever the inn kept its latrines, fairly urgently. He whispered as much to Gwalchmai, as soon as there was a lull in his conversation with Miles - and Gwalchmai never seemed to run out of things to say. "Just across the yard- there's a lantern marking the door," Gwalchmai said, before turning back to Miles. Owain hauled himself to his feet. He really did ache all over now. Stephen and Matthew had joined the pedlars at the other end of the bar to play quoits, and there was a fairly clear path to the outside door with enough room for him to swing his crutch.

  Once outside, it was dark, and quiet, but he found the latrine easily enough, and did what he needed to do. As he stepped outside the door, underneath the lantern, he felt his crutch twist under him on the cobbles, and he fell. Someone laughed unpleasantly, and he realised there were two of them, one on each side of him, and one of them had kicked his crutch from under him. The other one raised his foot to kick Owain where he lay, and Owain rolled, only to find himself kicked from the other side. "Useless cripple," the man said. It was Stephen, of course it was, and Matthew with him, doing under cover of darkness what they had not dared to do in daylight. Owain was more manoeverable than he lookes, and he avoided the next kick while he scrabbled to his feet - and then the inn door opened, letting light out onto the cobbles from the bar, and the two men melted into the darkness as if they had never been there.

  "You all right?" Gwalchmai asked. He was swaying slightly, though Owain was pretty sure he hadn't drunk much of the beer either.

  Owain got the crutch under his arm properly and stood up. "Fine, thanks - must have slipped on the cobbles," he said.

  he limped back into the bar while Gwalchmai watched him go from under the lantern by the latrine. As he entered, he was very aware o
f how alien he was here - the babble of Occitan around him, and everyone a stranger. He eased himself back into his seat and tried to disappear into the gloom. Stephen and Matthew were back with the pedlars, playing quoits. They might never have gone outside at all.

  "Bed," said Gwalchmai, as soon as he got back. "It'll be another long day tomorrow, my lad."

  Owain followed him out, glad of the excuse to get out of the bar, and out of Stephen's sight.

  "Are you really all right?" Gwalchmai asked, quietly.

  "Fine," but they both knew that he hadn't really slipped on the cobbles.

  Owain sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and propped his crutch against the wall. He kicked his shoes off wearily. "So, is this how it's going to be?" he asked. "People picking on me because of my lame leg?"

  "Stupid people, maybe," Gwalchmai said.

  "And - what about my mother, when she sees I'm lame?"

  "Your mother is not stupid - and there's more to you than a lame leg. Never forget that."

  They were sharing the bed again. After three years of a narrow single bed in the corner of Captain al-Saad's room, it felt very strange to have someone else sharing the mattress with him. he didn't want to move once he' got comfortable, in case he collided with Gwalchmai's knees, or elbows. The old man, however, seemed quite unconcerned.

  A little while later, the door opened again. Owain pretended to be asleep, but he could feel the creaking as someone else joined them in the bed, from the far side. That would be Miles, he realised, as he listened to the mutterings from Matthew and Stephen. They were dragging pallets into position to sleep on the floor beside the bed.

  Owain had heard this about Palatine inns, but he'd never really believed it until now. It would have shocked the corsairs, to have everyone lying in a heap together. In Ytir, of course, whole extended families bedded down round the same central hearth at nights - but that was families, not people who weren't even related. Owain lay as still as he could, and hoped he wouldn't need to roll over in the night.

  Morning came all too soon, with a line of light around the edge of the shutters, and the distant crowing of the village cockerels. "We'd better be moving if we want to catch that ferry," Sir Miles said, without stirring himself. Stephen and Matthew, however, rolled off their pallets, and Owain squinted as Stephen opened the shutters to the morning light. They dressed quickly in the unheated roomm and Owain dragged a borrowed comb through his hair. He still wasn't used to wearing it loose, and hooked strands behind his ears to keep it out of his eyes.

  A servant girl brought a tray to the table in the bar, piled high with toast, butter, jam, five bowls of porridge - and the inevitable tankards of ale. Owain pushed his to one side - he longed for a mug of coffee. Gwalchmai raised an eyebrow at him, and wandered off in the direction of the kitchen door. A few moments later, the servant girl whisked away Owain's untouched tankard of ale and replaced it with a mug that contained warm milk. Owain noticed Stephen's expression of contempt, and ignored it. In the absence of coffee, warm milk would do just fine.

  They made good inroads into the porridge and toast and, bolstered by the hot food, Owain almost felt ready to mount up again when they went out into the inn yard. He wasn't aching anything like he had expected to. He was starting to get the hang of the mounting block, too, and hardly held them up at all.

  By the time they reached the river, he was getting used to the way the horse moved, and was sitting better in the saddle. His muscles were loosening up again, too, and he didn't need any help to dismount.

  Sir Miles and his men set off home with the borrowed horses, and Owain was pretty sure they'd be back at Lansargues Castle by nightfall now he wasn't around to slow them down. With a bit more practice, though, he was starting to feel that he would be able to ride at least adequately when he got back home.

  The ferry was in, and a small knot of foot passengers was waiting to one side for permission to board while a large covered wagon was manoeuvred on board with its six horses. The ferry was only just long enough to take it, though it was wide enough for all the foot passengers to have plenty of room.

  "Here," Gwalchmai said quietly, and in Tiraeg. He dug out a parchment from his pouch and passed it to Owain. "Your permission to be here - and remember you're my nephew and apprentice, which means," he added, hefting his cloth bag in Owain's direction, "that you get to carry the luggage."

  Owain nodded, and took the document and the bag. Gwalchmai carried his harp himself. They queued up with the others to present their papers to the customs official at the dockside. he passed them through without a second glance.

  Gwalchmai moved further onto the ferry and leaned on the railing. "That went surprisingly smoothly," he said cheerfully. "Now all we have to do is hire fresh horses on the other side of the river, and we should be at Ravenscar by nightfall."

  At the other side of the river, the whole process was done in reverse, but in Tiraeg. The foot passengers came off the ferry first, before the wagon was allowed to move, and again they had to present their documents to a bored customs official - who brightened up when he saw the harper.

  "Welcome back, sir. I hope you had a pleasant journey."

  Gwalchmai grinned. "It's good to be back where music is properly appreciated," he said.

  "...and where a harp gets you almost anywhere without having to answer awkward questions," he added, for Owain's benefit, as soon as they were out of earshot of the official. The man had waved Owain through without even glancing at his papers, on the strength of his association with Gwalchmai.

  The Harper looked up and down the dock. "There's a livery stable here run by a family who have Morwenna as their patron. I can give them a promissory note...." He paused, ans something in his expression made Owain look round warily.

  A woman walked down the quayside, accompanied by three guards armed with spears. She wore a luxuriant cloak of pale silver-grey fur. It swept the ground as she walked; her silver torc was only just visible beneath the thick collar and her thick, dark hair, arranged in the traditional four plaits.

  Beneath the cloak, Owain caught a glimpse of burgundy riding habit, and the woman's gloved hand resting lightly on the hilt of a sword.

  She looked vaguely familiar.

  "I wasn't expecting to be met," Gwalchmai said as she approached them. He sounded disapproving. "I thought we'd agreed that this should be managed as discreetly as possible."

  "Brecca and I agreed that it would be better if I came to meet you, after you'd left," the woman said.

  Her gaze swept past Gwalchmai and fastened on Owain, taking in the borrowed Palatine tunic and hose - and the crutch. "I wasn't expecting that," she said. Owain looked down at the ground. He was going to get a lot of that sort of reaction, he knew. he just hoped that, when it came to his mother, it would be different.

  The woman moved forward and swept in a circle around Owian, keeping the hem of her cloak from touching him as she went. "So," she said quietly. "Are you really Owain Brecca, boy?"

  "My lady," Gwalchmai said stiffly, "he has proved to my satisfaction that he is the Lady Brecca's son."

  "I asked the boy the question," the woman said, without looking in Gwalchmai's direction. "Well? I'm waiting."

  Owain looked up then. He remembered now who she was, and he felt the first stirrings of annoyance at her disbelief. It hadn't occurred to him that he might not be recognised until this moment. "I am Owain Brecca Morwenna, heir to Pengwern and Meliden," he said steadily, and added, "Aunt Rhianmelt."

  "I'm not your aunt, boy," she said, just a little too quickly.

  "No, you're not," Owain agreed. "But you've been an aide to my mother longer than I've been alive. You helped to teach me to ride. I used to call you Auntie Ree. I used to like you." he raised his eyes to hers, challenging. "I'm beginning to change my mind."

  "It's been three years," Rhianmelt said. "Why didn't you contact us before now?"

  "I tried,
" Owain said shortly. "Do you know how hard it was to find pigeons who knew the way to grandmother's tower? I'd almost given up hoping that my messages would be answered."

  "And, when you were captured, what happened to the others?" she asked.

  "My lady, this is hardly the place...." Gwalchmai protested.

  "This is exactly the place, Harper," Rhianmelt snapped. "I need to know now that he is who he says he is - for Brecca's sake."

  Gwalchmai scowled. "Are you questioning my word as a Harper?" he asked, his tone all the more dangerous for being low and even.

  "That's enough!" There was a snap of authority in Owain's voice that slightly surprised him, and the sudden squall he conjured up was strong enough to make Rhianmelt stagger.

  The wind died as soon as it had appeared. Now Rhianmelt looked shaken. "My apologies, Owain Brecca," she said quietly, "but I had to be sure."

  "I will say this once only," Owain continued curtly. "The others were taken South to be sold as slaves - except for Ferdia. He died."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, Rhianmelt said. She looked as if she meant it. "I remember you were close."

  "We did everything together," Owain said, equally quiet. He shook his head, to tryto clear the bad memories away. "And you also owe Gwalchmai Morgan an apology, for doubting his word," he said.

  "You're right," she said. She turned to Gwalchmai and bowed slightly. "A Harper's word should not be doubted. I apologise."

  Gwalchmai bowed stiffly. "Apology accepted, madam," he said formally. Owain looked at him sharply. The Harper looked as if he'd just swallowed a pint of vinegar. he may have said he accepted the apology, but it would be a long time before he forgot Rhianmelt's slur on his honour.

  "Now, to our business here," Rhianmelt said to Owain. "We have horses waiting just up from the dock for you. Brecca sent me to tell you to avoid the coast road. Some of Ianto's men have been seen watching that route, so we're going to head inland and then swing round from the north to Ravenscar."

  Owain frowned. "Ianto?" he asked, as he fell into step beside her. One of the men-at-arms took Gwalchmai's bag for him. "My uncle Ianto? Why should we need to avoid him?" He swung round to glower accusingly at Gwalchmai. "Is this something else you didn't have time to mention?" he asked.

  "I wanted to get us both safely out of Moissac before I started to explain what's been happening in your family," Gwalchmai said. "To put it briefly, the world believes you are dead. We believe your Uncle Ianto wants to keep it that way - so that, when the Lady Morwenna dies, there will be one less vote against him succeeding her."

  Something cold shivered its way down Owain's spine - and gathered in a solid knot in his stomach. "I thought I'd be safe when I got home," he said quietly.

  "And so you will be, when you get to Ravenscar," Gwalchmai said. "As soon as Morwenna and your mother recognise you publicly, there will be nothing Ianto can do, but until then...."

  "Until then, we will take the inland road, and we have four spears and my sword to protect you," Rhianmelt said.

  They were climbing a wide, stone flagged ramp off the quayside now. At the top, a spearswoman was guarding a group of horses. Owain groaned quietly. Now he would have to attempt to mount up in front of Rhianmelt, straight after shouting at her. She'd be as contemptuous as Sir Miles' men-at-arms.

  "Tell you what," Gwalchmai said cheerfully, "I'll go down to the livery stable, like I was planning before Lady Rhianmelt met us, and I'll hire a litter for you."

  "No! I can manage!" Owain glared at him.

  "He hasn't ridden for three years, after all," Gwalchmai continued, to Rhianmelt. "Until a couple of days ago, that is. I won't be long...."

  "I hardly think that will be necessary, Master Harper," Rhianmelt said.

  "I can do it - it'll be fine," Owain said, still seething. He took the bridle that was offered to him - and scrambled into the saddle as if he was climbing up the side of the Sohar from one of the rowing boats. The horse, unprepared for this, sidled uneasily away from him, but the movement was no worse than the ship in a swell.

  "If you'll just adjust the stirrup for me?" Owain said, icily polite, as he brought the horse round in a circle. Gwalchmai was grinning, and Owain was about to swear at him in Turkic - when the Harper winked at him. "I knew you could do it if you were angry enough," he murmured, as he adjusted the strap.

  Owain poked him with the end of his crutch, not very hard, and managed a lop-sided grin back. "Sneaky old - Harper," he said.

  *****