Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [98]
“But can you do this?” Gwen wanted to know. She hesitated. “The place is often marshy and soft. But—”
“Alone, no, but with Ifan, Bronwyn, and Gynath, yes.” Cataruna smiled at her. “Well, find us some swift horses, and I’ll find Bronwyn. We will need them to get there before March’s army does.”
Gwen grinned at Ifan. “I thought bards lived for epic battles to make songs about.”
Ifan snorted but did not comment. Gwen left them making preparations and headed for the paddock.
She would not be using Rhys or Pryderi. Both of them were ideal for scouting, with great endurance, agility, and intelligence, but not much speed. To get to the right place before King March and his army did, they needed only speed and endurance.
They needed five horses out of the king’s herd used by his messengers. They were ugly as mongrel dogs, stupid as stones, and uncomfortable to ride; you would never dare to leave one unattended or it would run or wander off, and no few of them were as skittish as ferrets, but they had a ground-eating lope that they could hold from dawn to dusk with minimal rest.
She picked out five with relatively even tempers and ordered them saddled and bridled, speeding things up by taking care of the fifth one herself.
Ifan shook his head in dismay as he brought a small pack and traveling harp to the paddock where the five horses were tied up to the fence. “My back will curse you for this, Gwenhwyfar.”
“Your back isn’t the part of you that I am worried about,” Gwen replied without thinking and then blushed as he roared out a laugh. “I meant your hands, brother!”
“I’m sure you did.” He was still snickering when Cataruna and Bronwyn arrived, both looking resigned when they saw the horses awaiting them. Then he sobered. “However my back will complain, I will endure it.”
It was not only Ifan’s back—and rump—that were complaining when they reached their goal. It was worth it, though. March’s army was not in sight. After a few hours of rest, Gwen took it on herself, while Ifan, Cataruna, and Bronwyn made their preparations, to ride out as fast and hard as she could to the west, taking two of their mounts with her in order to change them out and keep them all relatively fresh. March’s army was not within a day’s hard ride, which meant they were not within three to four days’ of the border yet.
She and the horses were weary when she rode back to the campsite. She had carefully chosen a spot hidden away from casual view, like her old favorite nutting spot, in a copse tangled with nettles and raspberry bushes, and she had instructed Ifan on how to further conceal the camp. He had done a fairly good job—not nearly as good as she would shortly but not at all bad for someone who had only made hunting camps before this. If she had not known they were there, she probably would not have spotted them.
There was just enough room in there for the horses, but since she now knew that March’s army was quite far off, it would be safe to move them and hobble them where they could browse. Her three were tired enough that they would probably not cause any trouble, at least, not for a while.
She whistled the signal that they had all agreed on and was rewarded with the sight of Ifan popping out into the clear and waving at her.
“How far?” he asked, when she was in hearing distance.
“Far enough that we can finish the work and be gone,” she replied, dismounting with a wince. How the messengers weren’t crippled, riding these boneracks, she could not imagine. “How near are you three to being ready?”
Ifan grinned and ran his hand over the top of his head. Gwen was struck, once again, by what an odd sort of fellow he was. He looked as if he had been put together from the gods’ leftovers. His hands seemed to be too long for the rest of him, and they were very graceful, which was at odds with the rest of his body, which was gangly and awkward, like an adolescent’s. His chin stuck out like the prow of a boat, his brow was almost too broad,