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She needed to time when she ghosted out of the tree very carefully. There had to be enough light to see her way through this part of the forest and back to her troop, but not so much that the Saxons would see movement.

“You think King Bear has aught men about?” one of them asked suddenly, looking around, as if he had sensed her eyes on him. She froze.

The leader laughed. “Nay. He be a-casting himself on grave of the she-bear and her cubs and weeping senseless. Mayhap he’ll find his man-parts again come spring, but he’s throwin’ of his apron o’er his head now.”

The others laughed as well, and the first speaker shook his shaggy blond head and went back to gnawing his mutton.

So that was why they chose now. It made perfect sense—though she was more than a bit put out that these Saxons had better intelligence of what was going on at the High King’s seat than she did. Word had come, just before they’d heard rumors of skulkers on the border, that Arthur’s twin sons had died, and his queen had perished of grief for them. The details had been confused and muddied; some said they’d been killed in a boar hunt, some that they had been murdered, and one grisly tale swore it was the High King’s own foster brother, now his seneschal, Kai, who had murdered them out of jealousy and in secret, That is, the tale ran, it was meant to be secret, but the head of the fairest had been sent in a box that only the murderer could open, and Kai, all unknowing, had opened it before the whole court.

A boar hunt, well, that made some sense. They were just of an age to participate in such a dangerous pastime. And murder, well that was possible, though less likely. But Arthur had a temper, and if it had been Kai, foster brother or no, there would have been a fourth grave and a new seneschal. On the whole, she was inclined to think it was a boar hunt after all, since one of the few details of that version said that Arthur’s favorite hound, Cabal, had died defending them.

But there had been nothing more before Gwen and her troop had gone south and east as fast as their horses could take them. This was fresher news than she had, and she was heartily annoyed.

But . . . there was a certain feeling of grim satisfaction in hearing it, too. So the High King was prostrate with grief was he? Well, perhaps the carrion crows he had set to fly when he’d had all those tiny babies killed had come home to roost in the royal bower. Now he tasted the grief he had given to so many. And if it was the Merlin that had given him that evil advice, well, it was too bad the Merlin couldn’t sip from that same cup of gall.

She could not help but think of her father, and her mother, and the little brother who never got a chance to draw a breath . . .

But that thought softened her bitterness. It had been said for many years now that this between Arthur and his Queen was not only a marriage of state but a love match. And she thought of her father sitting hollow-eyed in his hall and thought of the High King doing the same, and her heart turned to pity him.

But only for a moment; more movement below in the thickening dusk alerted her. All the men (except the leader) were settling onto their beds of bracken, their cloaks wrapped tightly about them. The leader had taken a seat with his back to the fire, scanning the open meadow. And, as if the gods of the place had decided to favor her entirely, thick snowflakes began to drift down out of the blue-gray sky.

She began to flex and stretch all of her muscles, from fingers to toes, warming them and getting ready to move. And when she judged she was ready, she moved as slowly and deliberately as a tortoise, backing her way down the branch and then the trunk, making absolutely sure of every hand- and foothold before committing her weight to it. It was the sort of climb that took great patience and a lot more strength than most might think. But she got quietly to the ground without the Saxon leader having even the faintest idea of her presence.

She blessed the snowfall;