by Speer, Flora
Branwen had been content for Lord Ranaulf to be indifferent. It meant Meredith was still hers to care for and love and teach. For twelve years that had been enough, but lately Branwen had endured a nagging worry. She was twenty-six years old, which was to say, middle-aged and growing older, and she could not expect to live many more years, not doing the hard labor that fell to the lot of the villein and his family. While she still could, she must do something to protect Meredith. But what?
A nunnery was not the answer. The illegitimate daughter of a minor baron, even if she could gain her father’s consent to enter a convent, would not take with her a very large dowry. Meredith, once cloistered, could expect only a life of drudgery, of scrubbing floors and sweeping if she were fortunate, but more likely the lowliest and most noisome tasks would be hers. Branwen wanted something more than cleaning the cesspits and laundering the nuns’ monthly linens for her niece.
Marriage? The thought of the girl in the hands of some village brute made her shudder. The idea of letting Sir Ranaulf, who had never cared enough to see his child, choose her husband, was equally unpleasant. Ranaulf was a Norman and therefore a monster who would doubtless choose the most repulsive husband possible for Meredith.
Griffin was right, Branwen thought. I am too sensitive, too particular. Damn Griffin! She slammed the wooden spoon into the kettle, splashing hot broth out of the pot. The flames in the firepit sizzled and then regained their former glow. Damn you, brother, and damn your treachery. I hope you burn through all eternity for what you did, just as Father Conan said you would. You tried to take my life away from me and give it to Edouard the Outlaw, but I escaped. I survived, though it’s not much, and somehow I will see to it that Meredith escapes too. She is fine and good, and as innocent as I once was, and she deserves a better life than this.
The day when everything changed was grey and wet, as were so many others during that rainy spring. Lord Ranaulf s land had been plowed, and now the villeins were free to work their own scattered fields during the three days each week they did not owe to their liege. The earth was sodden, nearly too heavy for the worn, fire-hardened tip of the wooden plow to turn over, but the seed must be planted now or there would be no time for it to come to harvest before the cold set in again, or so her uncle said. Meredith had worked with him in the fields all day, returning to the cottage in late afternoon to collect food and drink to take to him so that Alfric could work until stopped by darkness. A small pot of vegetable gruel, a half loaf of black bread, a piece of hardened cheese – for Alfric was one of the more prosperous of the villagers – made up her uncle’s meal. Meredith started back to the fields.
The iron pot was heavy and hot, and she had to tuck the bread and cheese under one arm to balance the sloshing weight in both hands so she could walk without spilling it. A shortcut through a fallow field seemed a good idea. Meredith hurried. Alfric would be hungry.
“Whooo!” A shape rose before her, seemingly materialized out of air, its arms spread wide.
“Oh!” Meredith backed away, startled. She stumbled, dropping the pot and spilling its contents onto the ground. The bread and cheese followed.
“Whooo!” The shape waved its arms and advanced on her. “Whooo!”
The wild laughter that suddenly began to come from the thing in front of her changed fear into rage. Meredith snatched off the filthy rag over the shape’s head, revealing the homely, grinning face of one of her most familiar tormentors.
“Gyrth, how could you? Uncle’s meal!” She pushed angrily at the boy’s chest and knelt to collect the bread and cheese. Both were damp and muddy, but they could be saved. Uncle Alfric would have a cold meal.
“Alfric has plenty of food,” Gyrth said, sneering at her. “He doesn’t have to give as much of his crop to the castle as the rest of us do. That’s because of you, isn’t it, Lady Meredith? You think you’re a noble lady. You’re just like the rest of us. I’ll show you.”
Gyrth’s thick fingers caught in her hair and pulled her face up toward his. She saw the wicked gleam in his eye and shrieked as he flung himself on top of her, his weight pushing her into the wet earth. She kicked and struggled and yelled and pushed away his hand as he tried to raise the hem of her dress. She stuck her finger into his eye, and when he screamed with pain she rolled away and scrambled to her feet. The cottage and Aunt Branwen were too far away for help. Meredith headed for the field where she knew she would find her uncle.
She saw Alfric coming toward her. He must have heard her screams. There was no need for explanation. Her torn clothes told her story.
Alfric swung a fist at Gyrth. He missed and the younger man kicked him in the belly. Alfric sat down hard, all breath gone from his lungs. Gyrth laughed, aiming a second kick, this one at his head. Alfric grabbed the swinging foot. Unbalanced, Gyrth went down. Alfric had his breath back now, and he was standing again. Picking Gyrth up with one huge hand, Alfric landed a punch with his free fist and then threw Gyrth away from him. Gyrth’s head hit the cooking pot with a loud thud. He lay there as though he were resting on the softest pillow.
“Up, Gyrth!” Alfric was breathing hard. “Get up and fight.”
“Uncle.,” Meredith caught at Alfric’s arm. “Something’s wrong. He’s not breathing.” She knelt and touched Gyrth’s body. “I think he’s dead.”
“Dead? No.” Alfric squatted on Gyrth’s other side to check his breathing. He winced and pulled his hand back, and Meredith knew it was so. Gyrth really was dead. “He was hurting you. I wanted him to stop.”
Meredith forced back the scream that was building inside her and stood, pulling at Alfric’s arm as she did so.
“Uncle, we must go home and tell Aunt Branwen. She will know what to do. Come away.” She tugged again and Alfric rose, shaking his head as he looked down at Gyrth’s body.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said.
“I know. Come on. Let’s go home.” She prodded Alfric gently. He was weeping now.
“I never meant to hurt Gyrth,” he said, turning aside from the sight of the body on the ground.
“Uncle Alfric, this way.” Meredith tried to catch his arm, to guide him toward his cottage. Alfric pulled away from her.
“I have to tell his father what I’ve done.”
“No” Meredith knew there was bad blood between Gyrth’s father and Alfric because of the extra food Alfric was allowed to keep. The man would think Alfric had deliberately killed his son. “Before you do anything else, we should tell Aunt Branwen. Uncle Alfric, please!”
He went with her unwillingly, protesting that he ought to tell Gyrth’s father and the village priest, and then he must go to Lord Ranaulf’s seneschal and inform him that one of the laborers had been killed.
“Are you mad?” Branwen demanded when she heard this plan. “Alfric, you know they will call it murder.”
“I was only helping Meredith. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Alfric huddled on the dirt floor of his cottage, and put his head between his knees and wept. Branwen regarded him with exasperation before turning to Meredith.
“Did Gyrth hurt you?”
“N-no. He frightened me and he threw me into the mud, but that’s all.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.” Meredith was near to tears herself under her aunt’s tense scrutiny.
“Go down to the stream and wash,” Branwen ordered. “Hair and all. Get every bit of mud off.”
“Wash? The stream is cold.”
“Do as I say.” The words were formed between clenched teeth. “Now, Meredith.”
When Meredith returned to the cottage some time later she stepped into an argument between her aunt and uncle.
“We must leave this place,” Branwen insisted. “You know Gyrth’s father. The stupid lout will say you murdered his son, and insist on justice, and the other villagers will back him up. The best you can hope for from the seneschal, if they even bother to inform him of this, is to be heavily fined. You are too poor to pay any fine, so they will p
ut you into the castle dungeon. No one ever comes out of there. But more likely, they won’t tell the seneschal.” Branwen paused, thinking with despair of what the villagers would do to Alfric. “Why won’t you listen to me?”
“I killed him.” Alfric stared at his knobby hands as though they belonged to someone else. “I have never killed anyone before.” His heavy shoulders slumped.
“Alfric.” Branwen was growing impatient. “We must go at once, before Gyrth’s death is discovered.”
“I cannot leave.” Alfric regarded his wife sadly. “I belong to Lord Ranaulf and to the land. You know that.”
“Norman rubbish!” Branwen’s dark eyes blazed. “You are as stupid as Gyrth was, as stupid as everyone else here. You belong to yourself, if only you would see it.”
“You are not like us, Branwen. You are,” Alfric searched for a word, “you are foreign.”
“I am Welsh,” Branwen told him, “and I thank God I am too proud to bow my head to a Norman lord!”
“I gave you shelter,” Alfric said, “and food.”
“And I gave you the use of my body and I worked side by side with you as any wife would. And now you will desert me and turn yourself over to Lord Ranaulf’s men out of some stupid loyalty to a monster who burdens you with endless toil.” Branwen stopped, spying Meredith standing in the doorway. Reaching forward, she grabbed Meredith’s wrist and pulled the girl to face Alfric. “Your sister was raped by Lord Ranaulf, and this is the result. Will you let the same thing happen to her when the men the seneschal sends here see her? Or to me? Or worse yet, let it be done by one of Gyrth’s friends, who are no better than he was? It will happen if you are hanged or cast into Lord Ranaulf’s dungeon and we are left here alone. Have you no thought for us?”
“I must do my duty,” Alfric replied.
“Then I have done with you. I will not stay here alone and unprotected against villagers who hate us.”
Alfric must have seen the lone tear trickling down his wife’s pale cheek, but he gave no indication of softening.
“Do what you will,” he said. “You will take Meredith with you.” It sounded oddly like a command.
“I wouldn’t leave her here.” Branwen’s voice was softer now. “I love the girl, and I know better than you how badly the villagers have treated her because she is Ranaulf’s daughter.”
“I don’t want to know where you are going. If I know, they could make me tell.”
“Uncle.” Meredith pulled her wrist out of Branwen’s grasp and threw her arms around Alfric. “It’s all my fault. You hit Gyrth for me.” She burst into tears.
“No.” Alfric took her by the shoulders and set her away from him. One large, mud-encrusted hand stroked along her cheek, “I struck that blow for your mother, too. I will go tell Gyrth’s father what I have done, and then I will go to the castle.”
“You will never get there,” Branwen predicted, her voice rough with tears she would not shed. “You won’t live till the end of this day. Gyrth’s father will see to it that the villagers punish you at once, and he’ll take his own chances at the castle later.”
“Don’t go.” Meredith tried to embrace Alfric again, but he moved to the door.
“Obey your aunt. Be a good girl.” He turned back toward his wife and looked at her long and hard. “Go at once. Don’t linger here,” he said, and then he was gone, and the door closed firmly behind him.
“No!” Meredith started after him, but Branwen quickly placed herself between the girl and the door.
“Stay here,” she ordered.
“He did it for me,” Meredith insisted. “I’ll go to Lord Ranaulf’s seneschal and tell him that. I am the lord’s daughter, surely…”
“It will make no difference. By going before they come for him, Alfric has given us a little time, and we will use it well.” Branwen wiped her eyes and, all business now, handed Meredith a bundle of cloth. Meredith pushed it angrily away. Branwen was equally angry. Her urgent tone allowed no further argument. “Do not waste Alfric’s sacrifice, Meredith. Do as I say. Put this on. It was your mother’s. It never fit me, so I kept it for you. You are as tall as she was already, though not as thick in the body. It will be loose.”
Meredith gave in at last. While she changed into the dull brown dress and braided her damp hair into some semblance of neatness and covered it with a triangle of grey wool, Branwen made up two bundles of food, wrapping them in cloth. She threw a thin blanket about Meredith’s shoulders and took another for herself.
“We will need these at night,” she said. “Now come.”
Branwen handed one of the bundles to Meredith, then went to the door and peered out.
“As I thought,” she murmured. “Alfric has already confessed to Gyrth’s father. The fools are gathered by the well, discussing the matter. We must be quick, Meredith. Our very lives depend on it. Slip out the door and around the far side of the house, then run straight toward the setting sun. Don’t stop no matter what happens. I will catch up with you.”
“I’m afraid,” Meredith quavered, hesitating.
“We must go.” Branwen gave Meredith a hard push, and then she was out the door. She saw the knot of villagers, and finally realized it was too late to delay any more. Branwen was right. There was real danger here.
Meredith scurried across the fields, dodged behind a clump of bushes, and then continued as Branwen had instructed her, straight toward the sun, which was setting in a pale, silvery haze. She heard Branwen close at her back, heard, too, the ugly sound of shouts and cries from the village behind them.
They were past the open fields now, at the edge of the forest Lord Ranaulf kept for his hunting pleasure. Villeins were forbidden to cut the wood or to snare the game in this private preserve. Only the dead branches that had fallen to the ground might be picked up and carried home for firewood. Meredith had seen what had been done to one of the villagers last winter, a man who, unable to bear the hungry crying of his children any longer, had gone into the forest and snared two squirrels for dinner. She did not like to think about that.
Meredith hesitated at the edge of the forest, and Branwen nearly ran into her. They both looked back at the village, where leaping flames and a plume of smoke indicated the location of Alfric’s cottage.
“They will search for us,” Branwen said. “I know them. They accepted my herbal cures and my help when they were hurt, but now that Alfric is condemned they will call me witch, and the priest will call me heretic, and they will burn me as they now burn my home, and you with me, if they can catch us. Violent death brought me here and violent death sends me away again.” Branwen’s last words sounded like an incantation.
“Where are we going?” The specter of a fiery death had put an end to Meredith’s remaining resistance. Nothing she did could help Alfric now. She could only try to save herself. “Where, Aunt Branwen?”
“Home.” Branwen’s voice broke on the word. “It is time I went home again, Normans or no. Yes, it’s the best thing for you, too. You will be well out of Ranaulf’s hands. We are going to Afoncaer. Come.”
She took Meredith’s hand. As she did, the setting sun suddenly filled the air with a rosy glow, turning the sky orange and pink and purple in a lurid display that easily outshone the flames that were consuming the remains of Alfric’s cottage. Meredith spared one last glance for her former home, and another for the brilliant sky above, and then followed her aunt into the thick, dark forest.
Chapter 12
Meredith knew about Wales. Aunt Branwen had told her of the green, misty land from which she had fled years earlier, of dark, quiet woodlands interspersed with steep hillsides dotted by rocks and rushing mountain streams, of deep winter snows and soft, flower-spangled springs. It had relieved Branwen’s homesickness and isolation to talk of Wales. Of her personal story Branwen had related little.
“The Normans came. I left.” And then she swore Meredith to secrecy about everything she had said.
Meredith was used to Branwen’s s
ecrets. She had been absorbing secret information about herbs and other plants for as long as she could remember. Since Meredith was old enough to walk, Branwen had been taking her to gather the roots and berries and wild herbs that she used for her medicines. Branwen had taught the girl as they picked or dug, or weeded in the tiny garden patch by the cottage door. Meredith was so apt a pupil that Branwen had told her she would one day surpass her teacher, and she was so discreet that Branwen trusted her completely.
What Meredith had not understood from her aunt’s descriptions was just how far away Wales was. As the days passed and they continued their westward journey with no sign of the splendid green land of which Branwen had so lovingly spoken, Meredith felt ever-greater admiration for her aunt.
“Did you walk all this way alone?” Meredith asked one evening while they huddled beneath a tree and chewed on crusts of bread, now stale and rock-hard.
“I was younger then,” Branwen said. “And I feared what lay behind me. I traveled faster than we do now.”
“What did you fear?”
“I’ll tell you some day. Not now, I’m too tired.” Branwen pulled the ragged woolen blanket around her shoulders and settled herself to sleep, and after a moment Meredith did the same.
Branwen seemed to know where she was going, and Meredith never questioned the direction they took. They kept away from villages, and whenever they spied other travelers, they hid themselves until the others were out of sight. It was not terribly difficult to remain unnoticed so long as they were careful. This part of England was thinly populated, not having completely recovered yet from the near-total devastation inflicted by the Conqueror’s armies some thirty years before. There were the occasional ruins of burned-out houses in which they could shelter for a night, and there were vast areas where the forest had reclaimed what had once been farmland, and in these forests they could hide. It was other fugitives they had to be careful of, and errant knights who wandered the roads that were little more than cattle paths through the wilderness. Two females, traveling alone were open to fearsome danger, but Branwen was cautious and clever and skilled at finding edible roots and berries once the food they had brought with them was eaten, and the spring nights were blessedly warm, and so they made their way steadily south and west toward Wales.