Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [153]
They had to duck under low-hanging branches, and even though the leaves were barely budding, the trees here were very old, enormous, and thick, enough that it was hard to see. The horse could barely get between them, and his hooves made scarcely a sound on ground with a padding of old leaves that gave off a bitter scent as he picked his way over them. The air was close and warmer than it should have been. Even though Gwen was not Gifted in that way, she felt the Power here, humming along her skin, like the warning before lightning is going to strike nearby.
And then, without any warning, the trees opened up. And before them was a ruin.
It was not, as she had more than half suspected it would be, a henge. It was a small house, a house and not a hut nor a cottage of the sort her people raised, yet it was not Roman nor of any other style that she could identify. The roof had long since vanished, and yet several trees and a litter of smaller branches and a thatch of leaves had somehow fallen across the stone walls to create a new one.
“I have no idea who built this here,” Lancelin said quietly. “Some Druid? A Lady? Whoever it was, that person had great power. Even I can feel it, and I have no Gift for Power at all.”
“It welcomes us.” She felt that, as well. This place was pleased to have them there.
He nodded, then threw his leg over his horse’s neck and jumped down, lifting her down before she could dismount herself. “I come here when I need to be away from Arthur and the Companions. I can think, here. I can find myself and know even what I am hiding from myself—”
He broke off what he was going to say and quickly took off Idris’ tack. He handed her the saddlebags and took the bucket himself. “There’s good dry wood in there, and a hearth, and if they have not broken, some pots. For sleeping, I fashioned a pallet, and, there is good, dry bracken and some old horse blankets. If you can get a fire going, I shall get water.”
She was about to ask from where, but he was gone. With a shrug, she went into the one-room stone house and found it was just as he had said it would be. In the last light, she quickly made a fire, using his flint and steel, catching the sparks in a nest of leaf fragments, blowing them into a tiny flame and feeding it with twigs until it was strong enough to take the logs. The bracken was piled in one corner, well sheltered, with the blankets atop it and the pallet tossed atop that. Once the fire was going, she hauled the pallet, which was of more bracken stuffed inside a worn canvas cover, down beside it. As she worked, Lancelin came and went several times, filling some of the pots with water. She took the first of those, skinned and cut up the hares, and put the pot into the side of the fire to stew. He continued to bring in water and wood, and at last he left the full bucket outside with Idris.
With a sigh and a wince, he settled down onto the pallet beside her. Only then did she break the silence. “If I had such a place, I would open it to no one.”
He did not look at her; he stared at the fire. The soft light did not touch his eyes, “Not even Arthur?”
The air hummed with Power. This was no place for lies. She touched his hand, and when he finally turned, she gazed into his eyes. “Especially not Arthur.”
He caught his breath, and emotions chased across his face too quickly to read. “Then . . . there is no love between you?”
She tried not to feel bitterness as she shook her head. “This is the lot of princes. I knew that one day I might be needed for—some bargain. I was the unwanted part of a bargain for horses,” she said, the bitterness coming through anyway. “The Ladies wanted a bride for him who was pledged to the Old Ways. He needed an heir. The land needed one. He gave way, but grudgingly. There is nothing about me, the real me, that Arthur wants. I honor him as the High King. But I do not love him, and he does not love