A yell as fierce as any warrior’s rang in Trevyn’s ears, a comet of light flew past his cheek, and unbelievably the grip on his legs was released. Entranced, he watched a howling wolf run madly by with the fur of its back on fire. Meg stood before him, swinging a torch in either hand. She thrust the leaping wolves in their gaping mouths, and they screamed and fell aside. Two circled around and came at her from behind. Trevyn blinked and skewered them with his sword.
“Back!” he shouted, vaulting to her side. “Get back, Meg!” They edged back until they could feel the warmth of the fire behind them. Still the wolves lunged to the attack like mindless things, and still the bright sword drew their life’s blood. Then the leader barked, and they stopped, forming a ring just at the rim of the firelight. The big wolf sat behind them, grinning with long white teeth.
Trevyn blazed into thoughtless fury at this thing he feared and did not understand. He threw his sword to the earth at his feet. “Come out, you!” he shouted. “Fight like other things of flesh! Rend me though you will, I will wrestle you to the ground and break your foul neck with my unaided hands!”
The wolf raised his head and laughed, a high, sinister sound. “Not yet, Princeling,” he cried gaily. “Let us play yet a while. The time for us to meet will come soon enough, and it will be sweet, so sweet.…”
Then they were gone, and the sound of weird wolfish laughter floated on the Forest air. Behind the fire, Arundel trembled and huddled against the sheltering rock.
“So!” Meg softly exclaimed. “Ye’re the Prince of Laueroc.”
Sunk to earth and trembling in his turn, he couldn’t answer her. She tore strips from her muddy skirt, kneeled beside him, bound his hurts as best as she could before she spoke again. “I should’ve known it long since. But I never dreamed yer folks’d let ye go gadding about alone.”
“They don’t, as a rule,” he muttered. “Are you all right, Meg?”
“To be sure, I’m fine!” She smiled tightly. “They didn’t want me, those wolves.”
He glanced up at her, wincing. “Is that what made you guess?”
“Everything. Yer outlandish talk, yer lovely horse, yer lovely self …” She teased him, not being willing to say that she had seen his eyes blaze like green fire. But he did not seem able to smile.
“You saved my life,” he mumbled. “Meg, I’m sorry.…”
“What?” she protested. “Ye’d rather be dead?”
“Nay, nay!” He had to laugh at her, though the movement brought tears of pain to his eyes. “Sorry I didn’t tell you more truth.… It’s hard.”
“I can imagine,” she said wryly.
The wolves still sang, sending echoes scudding like shadows between the trees. Trevyn could not talk anymore. He sat by the fire till dawn, shivering in spite of the warmth of the flames, and Meg kept him silent company. The wolves made the whole Forest wail, but they did not return.
At daybreak, Meg and Trevyn quitted their comfortless campsite. The girl lived just beyond the Forest’s edge, near Lee. They headed that way, both on Arundel, with Molly trailing along behind. Trevyn felt tense, almost too shaky to ride. He wished that they could speed out of the Forest, but they had to travel slowly because of the cow. He found himself jerking to attention at every sound or stir. But before midday he smiled and sighed with relief. A search party thundered toward them, a dozen grim, armed men, headed by Rafe, the fiery lord of Lee. The troop hurtled up to them and pulled to a jarring halt. Rafe grabbed at Trevyn and missed. He nearly fell from his horse in his excitement.
“Trevyn! Are you all right?” he shouted, and gave the youth no chance to answer. “By thunder, is that Meg?” He peered at the grimy girl. “Your father’s been bellowing for you since yesterday, lass. Trev, you young rascal, what have you been up to? Rescuing fair maidens?”
Meg snorted; she had never felt less fair. Trevyn scarcely heard. “Wolves,” he muttered, and felt horror ripple through him, the horror of a nightmare not his own, the horror of a shadow not understood. Wolf and stag were both in Aene, he had been taught, like hawk and hare, water and fire, and all of these part of the old order that only man sometimes leaves—so how could the wolves turn against him? They had attacked him like brigands.… Pale and sweating, he closed his eyes, laid his head on Arundel’s neck. He felt Meg’s thin arms around his shoulders, trying to steady him, but he knew he would slip away.… He heard a cry from Rafe, then nothing more.
He awoke hours later to find himself tucked into a monstrous sickbed. At Rafe’s stronghold, he knew, because he saw that same lord seated beside him. “Have you nothing better to do?” he mumbled.
Rafe smiled. “How do you feel?”
Burns stung him, seemingly to the bone, even before he moved. He hoisted himself painfully. “Confounded. Not long ago I hated snow. Now I could go out and roll in the stuff. I take it you’ve cauterized the wounds.”
“Ay, we’ve had to brand you, lad.” Rafe pulled back the sheet, reached into a bucket at his feet, and piled mounds of snow on Trevyn’s legs and shoulders. “You’ve slept for five hours or so. Could you manage more?”
“Hardly!” Trevyn supported himself gingerly on one elbow. “I don’t remember much. Did I make a fool of myself?”
“Nay, indeed! You were in a dead faint—lay like a felled tree. By my troth, I don’t think I could have done it otherwise.”
Startled, Trevyn glanced up to see tears sliding silently down Rafe’s rugged face. He reached out to touch the older man’s hand.
“Rafe, you must be spent. Get some rest. I don’t need a nursemaid.”
“I’m sorry, Trev,” said Rafe wretchedly. “But how am I to feel? Meg told us about those wolves, and they must have been mad, rabid. What if—” Rafe gulped to a stop.
“They were not rabid.”
“If you die,” Rafe blurted, “it will mean more than the loss of one that I love.”
“They were not rabid. You are worrying for nothing, Rafe. I am not likely to die from a few bites.” Trevyn felt the touch of a shadow and lay back wearily. Still, he spoke with assurance. Rafe studied him, mindful of the visionary powers of the Lauerocs.
“You are not just saying that. You are quite certain.”
“Of course.” But Trevyn did not tell Rafe why he knew he would take no harm from his wounds. The big wolf, it seemed, had plans that they should meet again. Unpleasant as the thought was, it afforded some solace. Luck, in the form of Meg, had seen him through the first encounter. And the next time he would somehow be better prepared.
Chapter Four
A few days later, as soon as he felt well enough, Trevyn rode out to see Meg.
The cottage stood at the Forest’s fringe. The goodman, Brock Woodsby, Meg’s father, took his name from that fact. Working in the yard, he was the first to see the visitor approach, and he stumped over to the rickety gate to meet him. Watching from within the cottage, Meg put her hands to her mouth in consternation. She could not hear her father’s words, but she recognized the stubborn set of his back.
“Who might it be?” Brock gruffly addressed his visitor.
Perhaps the man was a trifle dense, Trevyn thought. He introduced himself by name and title, still sitting on his horse, waiting for the gate to open. But Brock Woodsby did not move.
“I thought as much,” he stated. “I thank ye for the sake of the lass, Prince. She says she’d have been lost without ye. But ye’re mistaken to come gallanting hereabouts. Ye’ll be the ruin of the girl. Already folk are saying ye’ve had yer way with her. I think not, if I know my lass, but that’s the talk. And what else might ye want with her indeed?”
What indeed? But Trevyn was too young to be amused or intrigued by the aptness of Brock’s question. He bristled and fixed the goodman with an icy green glare. “What, are you denying me admittance, then?” he demanded.
“Mothers defend us!” Meg whispered. The small cry brought her own mother to her side. Glancing out the window, the goodwife fluttered like a partridge. T
he youth outside the gate wore a bright sword, and he looked tempted to use it on her husband.
“I deny hospitality to no one,” Brock replied stiffly. “I only ask you to think. Think of the girl.” As he spoke, the maiden in question came out of the cottage and approached him, walking serenely. He rounded on her. “Get back i’ the house!”
“What? Stay out of the Forest, ye tell me, and is it stay out of the yard now? Ye’ll be keeping me in the chimney corner next.” Meg faced her father sunnily, and Trevyn grinned at her, all his chagrin suddenly forgotten. He slipped down from Arundel and opened the gate for himself, though a moment before he had been determined to make Brock do it. The quarrel no longer seemed worth pursuing.
“Rafe’s not allowing me in the Forest, either,” he remarked to Meg. “Small fear I shall disobey him in that regard.”
“Nay?” she said slowly. She missed the Forest; she missed the foxes that would come and follow by her feet, the wild doves that would light on her shoulders. She felt hurt by her Forest, betrayed, that any of its creatures could turn against her as the wolves had done. But she could not explain this, and especially not to Trevyn. She didn’t want him to think her queer, as so many others did.
Her mother saved her from further response. The goodwife came bustling out, having settled her hair and flung on a shawl. “Come in, young master, have some fresh, hot scones!” she beseeched Trevyn. She did not take it the least bit amiss that Meg had found a prince in the Forest. And Brock, having had his say and been ignored, led his guest to the cottage with dour courtesy.
The scones were very good. Trevyn sampled them that day and many a day to come. He stayed a month at Lee, riding out nearly every day to see Megan. His motive was only partly to gall Brock Woodsby. He would greet the goodman distantly, but he always met the girl with honest delight. Meg chatted with him like a longtime friend, and she was full of questions.
“What’s yer name mean, Trevyn?”
“Beloved traveler, or some such.” The youth gestured impatiently. “It’s just a baby name. I shall have a sooth-name someday.”
“Ay?” Meg wondered cheerfully. “How so?”
“That is as it comes,” Trevyn countered. “What does your name mean, Megan?”
“Not a thing.” She grinned wickedly. “We’re common folk here.”
Trevyn almost flushed, feeling a hint of reproach, but Meg went on unconcernedly. “What brings ye to Lee, Trevyn?”
He laughed. “Arundel! He brought me through the snow straight to the manor gates, and very surprised Rafe was to see me! I would have perished in the storm if it weren’t for him. He is a marvelous horse. Twenty years ago he carried my uncle through far stranger perils in this same Great Forest and beyond.”
Bemused, Meg let it pass that he had not really answered her question. “Then was yer uncle an outlaw as well?”
“He joined with the outlaws of the southern Forest after they had saved his life. Arundel brought him to them nearly dead from tortures in the Dark Tower of the evil kings.”
Meg shuddered. “And he met yer father then?”
“A bit later. They did not know that they were brothers. Hal had been raised as King Iscovar’s heir, but really his father was the lord of Laueroc.”
“Folk say that King Iscovar killed Leuin of Laueroc and the Queen.”
“Ay, and he would have liked to bend my uncle to his will. Hal roamed the land constantly to elude him, with my father as his blood brother and companion. Your lord Rafe was their friend, too, in those times; they met him and Queen Rosemary at Celydon. And they traveled to the Northern Barrens, and into Welas, the west land, and even to Veran’s Mountain, where they met my kindred, the elves.”
“Elves!” Megan bounced excitedly. “I thought that was just—singing, y’know.”
“Nay, the elves are real. But all of them except my mother have sailed to Elwestrand, a land beyond the western sea.” A faraway look filled Trevyn’s eyes. “Hal sang of Elwestrand long before he knew it existed anywhere but in his mind.”
Meg grappled in vain for an answer to this. Trevyn had that look sometimes that can make a woman weep, sad eyes and a smiling mouth.… But other times he had the look of eagles. After a moment he went on.
“When Iscovar died, Hal and his followers ousted the evil lords, and my mother gave up her immortality to marry my father. Those were strange times for him; he had never expected to be a King. But when Hal found out they were brothers, he found Father his crown. Hal had never wanted power anyway, though it was fated on him.”
“How so?” Meg sat agape at this matter-of-fact talk of elves and destinies.
“It was written in The Book of Suns, the prophecies of the One. The Book made their kinship clear, and told them that Hal would have no heir.”
“I saw him once, and Queen Rosemary, as they rode to Celydon,” Meg remarked. “’Tis a shame they’ve no children. But ye’re lucky ye’ve no cousins or brothers to fight ye for the throne.”
“I wish I had a dozen,” Trevyn grumbled. “And they could have the throne, and welcome.”
“Why?” asked Meg, not at all disconcerted.
“Never mind.” Trevyn smiled in spite of himself. “Save your breath to cool your porridge, Meg.”
“And let ye spend yers to swell yer wings of fancy? Ye’re so bursting with portents and mysteries, how is a poor girl to know the way of it?”
He had to laugh at her. It was a relief to see his forebodings as nonsense, even for a moment. Meg’s teasing was a balm on spirits too often darkened since the fight with the wolves.
Meg had long since learned that fellows liked her best if she jested with them. When she did it well, they could forget that she was a skinny, plain-faced maid and treat her simply as a friend. So she had no sweethearts, but at least she had male company at the occasional social affairs of the countryside. Her brave show fooled no one, not even herself. But she made the best of what she had: a quick mind and a droll wit. And when the Prince came, she bantered with him as was her wont.
He had known no such easy companionship from the youths and maidens of Laueroc. They had shied from his rank and his elfin strangeness. So he found it a relief and a delight to be treated with something less than royal respect. Meg’s shafts of wit were never cruel, and she aimed them most often at herself. Trevyn had seen her with the wolves; he knew her courage. Her merciless honesty concerning her own shortcomings was a different kind of courage, he thought, and he admired her for it.
“No doubt the bards will sing of how ye pulled the fair maiden from the mud hole,” Meg mused. “They hold forth about everything ye Lauerocs do.”
“No doubt,” Trevyn gravely agreed.
“’Twill be known, of course, that they speak of Molly,” Meg added. “As she is young, and has not yet calved.”
Trevyn never tired of listening to her. He had met many kinds of women in his young life: high-scented foreign princesses, chilly court maidens, flirtatious servant girls. None of them had tempted him to more than a quick conquest. But this fine-boned, birdlike creature, bright and cheeky as a sparrow, drew him back to her again and again. He had felt for her small breast once, wondering what she kept beneath her shapeless peasant blouse, and she had pushed his hand away. “Nay, Trev,” she had told him, not even angrily, only with a certainty he could not question. He did not try again, but he came to see her even more often than before. All his life he had dreamed of finding a friendship such as Hal and Alan shared, or of finding a true love.… But he told himself that this Megan, this homely, comical maid, was nothing more than a diversion to him. He liked to be diverted, and certainly the girl did not mind.
He was thoughtless, as Brock had feared. Otherwise he might have known how his face floated before her inward eye day and night. He should have known how he inspired her love, he who was the talk of every lass in the countryside. But it must be said that Megan hid her love well. Once she had showed fondness for a youth, and it had driven him away. Brave though he
thought her to be, she would not risk showing her heart to the Prince. She fed her soul merely on the sight of him and the memory of his lighthearted words. Sometimes, lying in her bed at night, she silently wept.
“When must you be going, lad?” Rafe asked Trevyn one evening at the manor keep.
“Trying to rid yourself of me?” Trevyn retorted. Though he would talk to Meg for hours, he found little enough to say to his kindly host.
“You know that you’re welcome to stay the rest of your life.” Coming from Rafe, this was not hollow courtesy. “But surely you must be back to Laueroc by Winterfest.”
“There will be ill cheer at my home this feast-tide,” Trevyn responded sourly. “Nay. I’ll stay a while longer.”
Rafe gaped, for Trevyn had told him nothing about his troubles with Gwern, or about Hal’s strange behavior, or even about the wolves. But the lord of Lee rose to the occasion with the enthusiasm for which he was famous. “Why, we’ll make a royal festival of it, then!” He rubbed his hands in delight, for Rafe was as eager as a boy when it came to a frolic. “We’ll have a regular carole, with musicians and everything, O Prince, in your honor. It will be just what this poor country place needs for some waking up.”
Trevyn smiled, knowing quite well that the manor already buzzed with his presence. “I will invite Meg,” he decided.
Rafe cocked a quizzical eye at him, not knowing what to make of the youth’s friendship with Meg. The girl was odd, folk said, talked with animals as if they were human.… Of course, the Lauerocs spoke with animals, too, and possessed many stranger powers, and no one spoke ill of them.
“No harm to little Meg, lad,” Rafe asked cautiously, “but why? You could have your pick of many a lass who would do you better credit as a partner.”
“But Meg makes me laugh,” Trevyn replied.
When he made his request of Meg she answered as seriously as she had ever spoken to him. “I’d love to, Trev. But I have no dress, and I wouldn’t know how to behave. Ye’d better ask a girl who is better prepared.”
The White Hart Page 50