by Gwen Rowley
“So you’re luring a mate,” Geraint said. He wanted to keep the troll talking, but his mind felt fuzzy.
“’Tis lonely here. You would not deny me a bride, would you?” he asked plaintively. “I have one in mind, and she is so very lovely.”
Geraint wondered just what a troll would consider “lovely.” “We are far from our land. If we give you the boots, how will we get home?”
“Is your land southwest of here?”
“Aye.”
“Then let the river take you home. It travels under the hills, and will be safe from intruders.”
“But not other trolls,” Geraint said.
“You will be traveling through my land, and the land of my future bride. No one will harm you. You will be riding my raft, and it is far too clever to sink. But I need the boots.”
Enid glanced at Geraint, then back at the troll. “It is a fair trade. I will remove the boots, but will not give them to you until we have seen the raft.”
“And we’ll need provisions,” Geraint added.
“I have nothing suitable for humans but the water on which you’ll ride. Although the meat of a particularly fat cleric might be tender enough to tempt you,” the troll added slyly. “I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”
Geraint saw Enid’s face blanch before she said, “Nay, but I thank you for the offer. Stand back while I remove the boots.”
The troll obediently shuffled away, out of the light, and Geraint felt that not seeing him was worse. But he took the torch from Enid and stood guard over her as she sat to remove the boots. Even the weight of the torch made Geraint’s arm ache, and he barely controlled the trembling. They had to get away from the troll quickly, before the creature realized it might only have to worry about battling Enid. Geraint had never felt so desperate, so useless.
He looked down and saw his wife caressing the boots. “Enid?”
“But they’re so pretty,” she whispered.
The sound of the shuffling troll made Geraint glance up, but the creature remained outside the circle of torchlight.
“Enid, remove the boots,” he said.
He leaned down to tilt her head up. She looked dazed, her eyes glimmering in the flame.
The troll gave his wheezing laugh. “Magic things don’t like to leave their wearer. It would be a shame to have to kill her for them.”
“Enid, remove them,” he said in a more forceful voice.
She licked her lips and nodded. She tugged hard for several moments, and finally the first came off. Holding it at her side, she struggled with the second boot. When they were both off, and Geraint had passed her her own boots, he began to feel better.
Enid rose to her feet, giving him an embarrassed look. She carried the boots in one hand, while the other rested on the hilt of the dagger. “Show us to the raft,” she said to the troll.
“Strength enough to conquer the lure of magic,” the troll said. “I am impressed.”
Geraint stepped toward the troll in time to see it bow its head mockingly and retreat a step. The troll surely must want to keep his raft. Would he try something in the end?
They walked for several hundred paces, always following the river. When they reached a merging stream, the troll turned up it, into a deeper cave. Nowhere on this little journey did Geraint see evidence of torches; the troll must be able to see in the dark. If their torch went out, it would give the troll an advantage.
The cave narrowed along with the stream, and the troll stopped. Enid held out the torch and they could both see a raft made of logs roped together.
“This looks sturdy enough,” Geraint said, “but it will not survive the waterfall.”
The troll nodded. “On the far side of the river, just before the waterfall, the river separates. A small branch moves through a series of caves and rejoins the main river at a later point. I ride this river to visit my future bride. It can be done.”
“But we are taking away your raft,” Enid said.
“But I’ll have the boots now,” the troll said, his dark teeth showing in a grin. “I’ll prove my faithfulness by telling you that you must continue on this river until the second appearance of the sky. If you go farther, the raft will be capsize on another waterfall. Leave it on the riverbank and continue south on foot, where you will shortly come to a river. Here it is narrow and there is a bridge. Your land must lie somewhere beyond that, because you are not of the hills.” He held out a grimy hand. “Now, the boots.”
Geraint leaned down and untied the raft. “Not until we’re aboard.”
“But you’ll take them from me,” the troll said, with the beginnings of a whine in his voice.
“On our honor, we will not.” Enid tossed one boot at his feet. “This is to show our faithfulness. They are useless to us both right now.”
She stepped onto the raft, and it swayed beneath her. When she was sitting, holding the guiding pole across her lap, Geraint gingerly tested the raft with his own weight. Though again it rocked, it seemed sound enough.
He said, “Do not attempt to follow us, troll. As you know, we can sense your magic. And my lady is capable of destroying you—without any magic at all.”
The troll bowed to her. “The boot,” he repeated, a little more urgently now.
Geraint pushed off from the riverbank and knelt down in the middle of the raft. Enid tossed the second boot to the troll, and as the stream took a curve to join the main river, their last glimpse of the troll showed him petting the boots, holding them to his chest.
“I think he won’t risk following us,” she said.
He handed her the torch, took the pole from her, and used it to keep them in the center of the river. “I hope not. And I hope he gave us the correct instructions. Now listen for the waterfall and watch for where the river separates.”
They traveled for what seemed like hours, and Geraint knew that the boots had saved them considerable time in their journey. He kept waiting to see the troll appear suddenly beside them, but it didn’t happen. He was tense and alert, and able to keep his mind off the throbbing pain that seemed to be spreading from his right thigh up into his hip.
At last they could hear the slowly building roar of the waterfall. Because of the small circle of torchlight, the branching stream appeared so suddenly at their side that he was forced to pole hard to push them into its current. Even then, the force of the main river threatened to recapture them, but at last they slid within a new tunnel and began a slow descent that circled deeper into the hill. He wiped sweat from his eyes and kept the pole ever ready to adjust their position.
“Let me take a turn,” Enid insisted.
He didn’t refuse her. He gratefully sat down on the rough, flattened logs and wished he could close his eyes to sleep. But he didn’t dare, not until they were well away from the troll.
The narrow cave gradually opened up, and the little stream again rejoined the main river. Their raft spun several times from the force of the strong current, but Enid used the pole with an efficiency that soon had them facing forward again. The rumbling waterfall faded away behind them, and as Geraint’s mind drifted, he hoped that the rest of the trip could be uneventful. He thought of his own men, wondering how they fared with his absence. Had they gone to his father? Did an army even now gather to meet the Saxons?
“Geraint,” Enid suddenly cried, “when we explored this cave, we saw the river flow into the next tunnel right beneath the wall. I think we’ll be capsized!”
Chapter 23
GNID stared into the face of her husband, pale and dirty by torchlight. His eyes looked red-rimmed. His skin shone with perspiration even though the air within the mountain was cool. He turned his head to look down river, as if he could see the treacherous end of the cave beyond the torchlight.
“The troll lied,” he said flatly.
“Perhaps the raft can slide beneath, if we lie down.”
“And what about the torch? If only we had thought to ask him for oilskin to wrap the
m in.”
“My jerkin is leather. It will have to do. Hold on to the pole.”
She quickly pulled the garment over her head, leaving her in just a long shirt, now ragged at her thighs from where she’d torn it for bandages. Between them, they exchanged the pole and the jerkin.
As he kept glancing forward, he propped the lit torch between his thighs and, leaning sideways, wrapped the unused torches in her garment.
“Enid, throw yourself flat at the last moment. Hold on to the pole and the raft. I’ll keep the torches.”
“Perhaps I should—”
“I am still capable enough,” he said gruffly.
With no food or proper medicine, how much longer would his strength last? And then she’d have to hold the torch and pole the raft.
And he might die.
Her chest constricted, and her eyes flooded with tears. Turning her back, she angrily dashed them away. She had to be strong enough for them both.
The cave wall suddenly loomed above them. With a last push at the riverbank to keep the raft centered, she flung herself flat beside Geraint. The raft bumped up against the wall, then one corner slid under and they were wedged.
They stared at each other.
“Should we swim for shore?” she asked.
“And walk all the way home? It would take weeks, and you would have to leave me behind. We should trust our bargain with the troll. But if your breath begins to fail you, leave the raft and save yourself.”
“It will not come to that. I sensed no true malice within the troll. Let us go.”
She put the pole beneath her body, and he did the same with the wrapped torches. They both put a hand on the wall and shoved upward, forcing the raft down. Water surged over the logs, soaking them. As they slid beneath the tunnel, the water rose higher, and at last she was forced to hold her breath as the river engulfed them and the torch went out.
With her fingers she clung to the raft, and her back scraped repeatedly against the ceiling of the tunnel as they rocked in the strong current. Her lungs strained, her mind panicked, and she wondered how much longer she could last. Then she felt Geraint slide away from her. She frantically reached for him and held on, the pole still secure beneath her.
Then suddenly the water drained from her ears, and she lifted her head. As air rushed into her nose, she breathed it gratefully.
“Enid?”
She met Geraint’s fumbling hand with her own. “Aye, I’m here, my love. We survived.”
But they were in total darkness. She squirmed to roll onto her back, then lifted her hand high, but did not touch the ceiling.
“We must reach the bank and try to light a torch,” he said. “Do you still have the pole?”
“Aye. I’m going to try to kneel.”
As she got her knees beneath her and slowly straightened, she felt terribly vulnerable in the absolute blackness. She kept flinching as if the ceiling would slam into her. But she was able to push with the pole, and soon the riverbed scraped beneath them. She gave one last hard push, and they stuck fast against the bank.
Geraint rolled into her, and she caught him. He was shivering.
“You could warn me next time before you use your amazing strength,” he said.
She clasped his head and kissed his wet hair. “Forgive me.”
“You brought us to land—I guess I can grant you my forgiveness. I am going to attempt to light a torch. You hold on to the raft.”
On her knees she followed him to the muddy riverbank and knelt there, her splintered fingers digging into the raft. She could hear his heavy breathing as he unwrapped the torches.
“Finally we have luck,” he whispered. “One is damp, but the other two seem dry. And my flint and steel are still in their pouch.”
Several sparks flashed briefly in the dark and died away. Then there was a whoosh of flame, and the torch lit. She answered his grin with her own.
Both their stomachs growled in unison, and they shared a shaky laugh.
“Perhaps when we see the sky for the first time, we’ll be able to stop and hunt for a meal,” Geraint said, offering her the jerkin.
“You keep it for the torches. We can’t risk losing them.”
“But you’ll catch a chill.”
“I am never ill, Geraint. You’ll see. When our children’s noses run and they awaken at night with coughs, I will be able to see them through it without succumbing myself.”
His laughter faded to a brief, warm smile. “You’ll make a wonderful mother.”
“And you a father.”
“Are you saying—”
“Nay, I am not with child. But the future yet awaits us, Geraint, and we will reach it.”
She held his hand in time to feel a shiver sweep through him.
Standing up, she said, “We have to get you out into the open, where we can build a fire for warmth. Are you ready to go?”
He looked around him. “I never wish to see a cave again. I’ll follow you onto the raft.”
Once they were aboard and moving, the current grew ever swifter as it was joined by more streams. Enid watched Geraint sleep, the torch propped between his arm and his body. She was glad that he could find rest. When he woke hours later, she thought he looked feverish, but he wouldn’t let her touch his skin. He merely insisted that he would man the pole while she rested. To her surprise, she fell instantly asleep, and in her dreams their children laughingly ran about her skirts.
She was startled awake when the raft ran aground. Opening her eyes, she expected to find Geraint slumped in an exhausted heap, the raft lodged against the cave wall. But instead starlight twinkled overhead, and the half moon shined down on her. The pull of its power sizzled inside her, but she ignored it. Though her husband still held the pole wearily, the last effort must have taken its toll, for he was slowly collapsing sideways.
Still holding the torch, she caught him with one arm. “You have succeeded, my husband. Take your well-earned rest.”
He nodded, his head lolling against her shoulder, and he slipped into unconsciousness. She gasped at the heat radiating from his skin, burning through his damp, filthy garments.
She whispered his name, shook him, but he didn’t answer. She dragged him from the raft, sank the torch shaft in the mud, then quickly pulled the raft ashore before it could float away.
For just a moment, she put her hands on her hips and stared around her. By moonlight she could see the ground stretching away. Hills ringed them on all sides, dark patterns against the sky. The quiet of the night was broken only by the hooting of an owl, and the sound of a rustling animal somewhere off in the distance. Surely there could be no human inhabitants to worry about. She was going to risk a fire regardless. She had to warm Geraint and look to his injury.
After the fire was high and strong, she laid out her own jerkin to dry. When Geraint’s ragged hose were removed, she was able to see that the wound in his thigh, left several days untreated, now oozed a smelly pus that made the injury ominous. She had seen more than one man lose a limb from such a deteriorating condition. Using another scrap of her shirt, she cleaned the wound deeply, pulling out shreds of his garments that had lodged inside. Geraint thrashed through it all. Though it made her work more difficult, she was glad to hold him down, if only to prove to herself that he yet fought to live.
But the worst of it was using the heated dagger to burn shut the wound. Geraint woke enough to scream before he passed out again. She was left shivering in despair. Was it too late to save him? While the moon crawled across the night sky, endlessly calling to her, she watched over her husband, spooning water between his lips and bathing him with her river-soaked shirt. She worked on him until his skin finally seemed cool to the touch, and his sleep had eased into restfulness. He even began to lightly snore, and she giggled as the tears ran down her face.
Glancing up once more at the moon, she saw it low on the horizon, weaker now, but still available to her. She had to renew her powers now, or risk losing them.<
br />
For the first time, she questioned what she truly wanted.
As she looked at Geraint’s beloved face, she knew she loved him beyond all reason. She wanted to be his wife in every way, to remain at his side, to bear his children. And though he seemed to accept all that she had brought on herself in this quest to aid her people, she knew that his father—his people—would never understand or accept. If she remained as she was, a disciple of the Lady of the Lake, she would forever be the outsider.
She wanted his love—she wanted his trust. It was time to give up the magic that made her different. She no longer needed it. Through her own intelligence and wit, she would make sure that her tribe and the people of Cornwall never faced each other on opposite sides of a battlefield. And she trusted her husband to commit to the same.
As the moon slid below the horizon, she watched it go, felt its hold on her shiver, then fade away at last. Relieved, confident, she curled up against her husband’s side and fell asleep.
WHEN Geraint awoke, he felt like he’d done battle—and lost. His muscles ached as if with a hundred bruises, but no longer did his thigh throb and burn. When he moved it, a shot of pain made him wince, but it was bearable after what he’d endured poling the raft down river for hours while he let Enid sleep.
Had they rode the river just the past night? He had lost sense of time. The sun was high overhead, and it seemed like an alien thing after their time in the caves. Hills loomed above him on all sides, giving him the feeling of being cut off from the world.
He came up on his elbows and looked around. Though he did not see Enid, evidence of her was everywhere. Their garments were stretched across bushes to dry. A huge fire burned, and the carcass of a rabbit dripped sizzling fat that hissed when it hit the embers. With his eyes closed, he inhaled the delicious odor, and his mouth watered. He realized that he was naked, but the heat of the sun and the fire made him feel warm and comfortable. He could see the blackened scar across his thigh, but there was no blood, no pus. He was healing.
And then he saw Enid, and his very breathing seemed to stop. She was naked but for the braies about her hips. She moved silently through the tall grass, her every step silent and purposeful, watchful and listening. She carried the raft pole, which she slowly hefted like lance. He saw the wicked point she’d carved into it only a moment before she flung it hard. Her body arched with triumph, her fists in the air, her breasts bobbing in time to the movement of her muscles.