Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [72]
In fact . . . that was what the Saxons called her as well, except that they were sure she was a spirit in truth.
I should think about that, she reflected, as the odor of burned mutton came to her nose. That could be very useful. There must be some way to encourage them to believe I really am some vengeful phantom.
Peder had been right. And so had Braith. She was Epona-touched; there wasn’t a horse in all her father’s herds that she couldn’t ride. She took to weapons work with the same ease that Gynath danced or Cataruna sang. Clearly, she had been born to walk this path, and Peder’s careful weighing of her talents and physical abilities, his selective training, had made her the best scout in King Lleudd’s entire army.
Her father was not just indulging her; she was of great value to him doing what she was. And it was not as if he lacked for heirs, for Gynath and her beloved Caradoc had already given him five living grandchildren. If that were not enough, Cataruna had graced him with two more. Four years ago she had returned from the Ladies of the Well not only a Lady full trained but with a bard husband who just happened to be one of the King of Gwynnedd’s younger sons and well schooled to be Forest Lord to her Lady of the Fields in all the rites.
Which left Gwen free to do as she pleased, and what she pleased was to serve in peace as her father’s right hand, and in war as his eyes and ears, and the eyes and ears of his army.
She bent her ear to the rough talk about the fire; she had schooled herself in the Saxon tongue this past year and more, reckoning it would be useful both in questioning prisoners and in understanding things she was not meant to overhear. It was an ugly speech, harsh and guttural, having none of the lilting beauty of her own, the song of that used down in Cornwall, the poetry of the Gaels, the measured grace of the languages of the east, or even the logic and cadence of the Latin it was said that the High King spoke. Cataruna’s husband, Ifan, was the one who taught her all these tongues, and perhaps he had worked some special magic to put them into her head, for surely they came to her as easily as breathing.
An overcast sky meant no sunset; the darkness thickened as the Saxons huddled closer to their fire, hacking chunks of mutton from the carcass spitted over the fire with their knives. They were going short for drink, it seemed, melting snow in a battered pot rather than seeking out a stream. And they were not happy about this thin drink, either; there were muttered complaints and unhappy looks cast at the man Gwen judged to be their leader. He was probably what passed for a lord among the Saxons, and one’s lord was expected to furnish good food and plenty of it, along with presents and loot.
There was not much to distinguish him from the rest save for the wolfskin cloak he sported. He might be a little older, but all of them had much the same in the way of arms and armor. Shield, spear, long knife, and a heavy leather jerkin; two had bows, the rest, slings. But the leader had a sword; in fact, from the look of it, Gwen judged it was a Roman sword, probably looted and possibly passed through several generations of owners. She liked the look of it; it was a proper Roman blade, so it was short by the standards of those her father’s smiths made. That made it the perfect length for her.
I should not mind being that sword’s next owner.
Then she chided herself. She must keep her mind on those men below, not on their possessions.
The conversation around the fire was remarkably uninformative. The men seemed to be taciturn by nature, conversed mostly in grunts, and were uninterested in discussing the reason why they were here. The best solution would be to take one or more of them alive and beat the answers