Knight Dreams

by C. C. Wiley

  Dafydd rose from the bench and came forward. “Terrwyn.” He spread his arms wide, offering a place for her to step into. “What news have you?”

  Shouts of goodwill and encouragement emptied into the room, followed by a burst of laughter. Someone pounded Dafydd’s back as he made his way across the tavern. When he stumbled over an errant foot, her enemy rushed to her father’s side and caught him before he hit the floor.

  Dafydd brushed the helping hands away. “Enough. I have need to hear good news from my daughter.” He pushed his way to Terrwyn. His flushed face and the beads of sweat over his upper lip belied his calm manner.

  She was mystified by Sir James’s show of concern toward her father. It was as if he sensed she carried more than good news. He cupped Dafydd’s elbow, nearly lifting him above the throng of well-wishers. Keeping up the appearance of joy and impatient exuberance, he joined in the shouts of laughter and led the way outside.

  Once in the fresh air, Dafydd turned to swipe James with his fist. “Enough, I say! I did not give my leave for you to handle me as if I were a bag of wool.”

  “Hurry, Father. ’Tis certain you’ll want to see Mam before—”

  Tears welled in his eyes. Joy dissolved in front of her. A shuddering breath escaped, collapsing his bravado. “Tell me,” he urged. “Tell me I have a son and all is well with my lady wife.”

  She made a quick search of her heart and could not bring herself to voice what she had already seen with her curse. If they made haste, he might yet have time to tell his Gwennie just how much he adored her.

  “Come, Father. Mam calls for you.”

  Chapter Four

  Terrwyn shielded her eyes from the hazy sunlight peeking over the angled rise of rooftops. Shadows danced with the gentle sway of the misty morning breeze. The trees wept fat drops of moisture from their newly formed leaves.

  They wept, for she could not.

  A shiver ran through her body. After settling the shawl around her shoulders, she knotted the ends with a resolute snap. The list to restore what she borrowed from Isolde’s cottage was cast solidly in her memory. Herbs were needed to console her father. So involved in his loss, he did not see the pain in those who remained with him.

  Wearily, she left Isolde’s cottage. It mattered little that she had not found sleep in the last three days. Much needed tending. As the eldest, it was her duty to see all was prepared. Someone would need to sit by her mam until it was time to say their final farewells. Coin must be found. Prayer and offering for her mother. A suitable wet-nurse must be secured. Plus there was the livestock to be fed. The garden plot hoed. Water to be drawn. Peat cut and fetched. The list was endless and did not offer her rest. She could do little but smile at her good fortune in not finding sleep for so long. At least, for now, she would avoid the night visions that haunted her dreams.

  Her choice of path set, she hurried beyond the dew-covered green meadow. The field of sweet grass was already dotted with a flock of sheep.

  A long shadow wavered then joined hers. Terrwyn stifled the need to smooth her hair as James appeared by her side. Hastening her steps, she walked as fast as she could without betraying her desire to run away. She was certain the weight of her skirts had doubled since she donned them that morning. Sweat trickled a path between her breasts. Her irritation blossomed. No matter how quickly she moved her feet, his legs appeared to cover the distance with half the effort. He even had a bounce in his step. Could he not see that she wanted to be left alone? Must he be struck over the head to understand?

  Casting him a swift glance, she took in the angle of his jaw, noting where to land her fist. A faint shadow of whiskers peppered his cheeks. His nose was not long and hawk-like, nor did it look as if he grew an apple shape on the end of it. Indeed, it was well proportioned to his face. She shrugged and gave up. Perhaps his face was not as ugly as she wished to remember. She peered through her lashes and let her gaze flow over the rest of his form.

  His dark hair stuck out from under his cap. A forest green tunic cropped his thighs. His brown leggings were spattered with mud and bits of twigs. The hilt of a small dagger peaked over the leather belt, and he had a bow slung over his shoulder.

  Terrwyn pinched her mouth into a frown. By the looks of him, he had been hunting. Well, no matter what the king’s decree, he was not welcome to hunt whatever he willed.

  “Good morn, Terrwyn.”

  Had it not been her misfortune to turn her face, her plan to ignore him would have been successful. However, hard as she tried, she could not take her eyes off the flash of blue when he winked at her.

  Her mood soured further as he began to hum a light ditty. She wondered if he had learned it while gathering her countrymen for the English king. She found it difficult to believe his mother was Welsh. What woman would want her son to serve the king by harvesting men?

  She could no longer bite her tongue in silence. “What is there to be joyful about on this day?”

  James reached out to move a wisp of hair from her forehead. “Any day that you can feel the breeze and look upon those you love is a day to rejoice. And you, ’tis certain you have twice the reason, what with your new brother.”

  Terrwyn’s steps faltered. The bundle of Isolde’s herbs and jars of tinctures slipped from her grasp. If not for the tanned hand that caught them, they would have shattered.

  “Here,” he said, motioning with the bag. “Allow me to carry this.”

  Terrwyn blinked as sunlight caught on the intricately woven band of silver wrapped around his finger. A heavy foreboding settled in her stomach. The sun was up and so were the villagers. She allowed a furtive glance to stretch over the village. Those who walked the path paused, frowned and shook their heads. Making a point to show their distaste in her choice of companion, they rushed to the opposite side of the path.

  Terrwyn jerked the bag from his grasp and wrapped her arms tightly around it. James, so intent on commandeering it from her, did not notice the gasps of horror. Nor did he turn his face when his lips nearly touched hers. She searched the cottages that lined the path, looking for a place to hide. To her dismay, a familiar gray shawl came into sight.

  Valmai rushed over, her shuffling feet and scent of violets announcing her presence. “Terrwyn, in truth, how could you? You let your dear mother slip away! Did I not tell you to call on me when her time was near?”

  Terrwyn blanched. Had she misunderstood Valmai’s directions? She thought it had been clear. “Deal with your own,” had been Valmai’s message. She felt the eyes of those around her, their silently directed accusations burrowing into her heart.

  “Had you used the gift, you would have avoided your mother’s death.”

  “Heartless,” a villager joined in.

  Terrwyn felt the roar of blood rush from her face. “Nay! M-mam—” she stuttered, pausing, lost for words to continue. The single name conjured up her misgivings, her fears of failure, and most certainly her loss. What more could she have done to change the fates?

  “Forgive me, Terrwyn, I’ve been away.” James flanked her side and raised his voice above the melee. “You’ll give your lord’s daughter the respect that is due her.”

  “And who are you to tell us otherwise?” another shouted.

  “Enough, Sir James,” Terrwyn hissed, tugging on the pack held between them. “I’ve enough heartache. I have no need for more.”

  She faced the small band of solemn villagers. “’Tis true, our hearts are breaking from our loss of a good woman. I know the loss of your lady is great. We will all miss her. However—”

  Their wary glances told her that they did not listen. They were too busy noting the narrow space she shared with the Englishman. A murmur of discontent began to rustle through the villagers.

  “However,” she added, her voice growing with determination, “’tis your lord whose heart carries the greatest pain. He requires the strength of his people to stand for him while he is bent with grief.”

  Slowly, moans of sorr
ow began to weave into the air. The women gathered and moved as one toward Terrwyn’s home.

  Had it not been for the guilt that tore at her heart, she might have felt relief for their assistance. As it was, she could not rid her mind of Valmai’s finger-pointing. What use was a gift if it did nothing but fulfill a curse? She should have ignored her mother’s demands and searched out the women for some bit of knowledge she did not have. At least then her failure would not have been met unaided.

  Without a word, James held out his hands and Terrwyn reluctantly allowed him to carry her burden. He hooked it over his shoulder. With his free hand, he slipped her fingers into his palm. He pushed through the throng of women. Gasps of outrage cut into their mourning. Yet they parted and moved out of his way.

  Terrwyn felt their looks brand her with the mark of failure. Heard the whispers murmured under their breath. Saw the shock register on those they passed.

  The simple thought sifted through the turmoil in her heart. It was as she’d seen it many nights before. Only this time, she was not alone.

  Chapter Five

  Terrwyn ran the blade of her knife around each leg of the hare. She skimmed the well-honed edge over its neck and down its soft belly. Mindful of her task, she began to peel back the fur. A flawless pelt held a chance of bringing more coin from the furrier.

  Some believed the only choice of weapon against the hare was to snare it with nets. Their aim uncertain, they did not loose their arrows upon their prey. She disliked this mode of hunting and preferred to place her arrow perfectly.

  Unlike the men, she had no time to sit and while away her morning. There were pelts to gather and sell to the soldiers before they took their leave. What meat her family did not eat she would cook and offer to the men for a hefty price. Sheep, they could not afford to part with. However, a few conies caught fresh from their warren might whet the men’s desire to part with their money. Her family would enjoy the feel of a little jingle in their pockets.

  Only yester eve she had overheard Sir James’s men talk of their imminent departure. No longer would they sit on their backsides and wait for the mysterious archer to show himself. To a man, the soldiers agreed that there were no other archers in the village, nor did they hide in the surrounding lands. She had heard their grumbles, their arguments that it was more than likely the wretched Welshmen were telling tall tales to match their lies.

  A knowing smile raised the corners of Terrwyn’s mouth. A sharp marksman must be sure to keep his arrows from arcing in the air when English soldiers were sniffing about.

  She flipped the rabbit fur onto the growing pile of pelts at her feet. Not as tender as fowl, however its dark meat would still put a glow in her father’s cheeks. Perhaps today he would fill his belly with something more than strong ale.

  Terrwyn looked up to see her little sisters’ tawny brown heads in the distance. She took off her apron and wiped the red stains from her hands. Stretching out the kinks in her back, she waited for Glynis and Adain to reach her side.

  Worry pulled at her mouth as they drew near. The cherry blossoms in their cheeks had faded. Their dark eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. Terrwyn folded her arms around their thin shoulders and held them tight. Their weeping, which had been heard day and night, was now replaced with silence.

  Terrwyn was grateful for the compassion the villagers had shown her family. They had treated Mam with utmost care as they washed and prepared her body. They wept while they plaited her mane of silky brown hair. They covered her head in fine linen and wrapped a shawl woven of the purest wool around her shoulders. Finally, Terrwyn herself had placed two gold coins, payment for passage to the other side, on her lids.

  Terrwyn had waited to hear the clap of thunder as her mam discovered it was an Englishman who had slipped those coins into her daughter’s hand. Truth be told, her mother would probably forego entrance into heaven’s gates rather than accept help from his sort. Though she hated to keep it a secret, Terrwyn dared not let anyone know of James’s generosity. Still it was a wonder that her father never came to question how she had enough coin for a church burial.

  While the women ministered to Mam, the men of the village had put their back into preparing the burial site. Their blades sliced through the woven mat of sod, scratching a hole into the earth. They gently peeled back the sod as one would when working the skin from an apple. Resettled over her mother’s coffin, it became a blanket woven of earth and vegetation. And there, Mam rested.

  A week had passed since Mam’s death. One by one, the villagers had nodded and agreed that there was nothing more for them to do. Their task was finished until another life passed on to the other side. And her family was left to face the day by themselves. Life would not wait. It would move on with or without her family’s permission.

  Terrwyn pushed back at the heavy weight that pressed against her heart and she squeezed her sisters’ shoulders. “Here now, Glynis, look at these berries. If you smile brightly, I’ll wager Catrin might construct a sweet or two.”

  Glynis bent down to peer at the willow basket at their feet. “Do you think father will like a taste?”

  “I cannot imagine our father turning down a treat such as this.”

  Glynis picked up the basket and held it protectively to her chest. Adain shook her head and answered the question her twin did not speak aloud. “I shall stay and help Terrwyn.”

  Her face solemn, Glynis nodded and set off in the direction of the village.

  Terrwyn smoothed Adain’s hair, reminded of the little wren that often sat on their windowsill. Small, delicate, the little bird was easily forgotten until it began its song. “You do not mind so very much?”

  Adain quietly shook her head and began to gather the pelts.

  Terrwyn caught her sister’s hand. “Do not bother yourself with this. Take the other basket. Find a few cheery posies—”

  Adain stared at the empty basket. After giving the suggestion a considerable amount of thought, she glanced up. “Mam always loved the flowers I brought.”

  Terrwyn’s heart swelled when the cloud lifted from Adain’s face.

  With basket in hand, Adain squared her shoulders. “I will pick only the ones that are as beautiful as our mam.”

  Terrwyn matched Adain’s serious tone with her own. “’Tis a difficult undertaking you have set for yourself. But one that shall make us all proud of your efforts.”

  Satisfied the girls were busy with their tasks, Terrwyn renewed her concentration on the last rabbit lying at her feet. She wielded her blade with precision, moving the skin away from the meat.

  Her thoughts felt the familiar tug and, before she realized it, she found herself lost in the vision she had seen the night before. She pushed at the shadows, holding them at bay. Instead, the shape of the black swan swam in front of her eyes. Wary of the bird’s nasty disposition, she watched it draw near and had the odd sensation of wanting to stroke its feathers.

  Terrwyn flinched and sucked on the blood seeping from the knick along her thumb. If not for hearing the shouts coming from the English encampment, she feared she would have laid her palm open. Her mind clearing, she searched the horizon.

  Her sister’s name tore from her lips. “Adain!” she yelled. “Run!”

  Terrwyn’s bow thumped against her thigh as she ran toward her sister. Her heart thundered. Soldiers ran hither and yon, dodging the stones Adain kept pulling from her basket. Their angry curses could be heard over Adain’s scream when she must have launched her last rock. Throwing the basket at the men, Adain yanked up the hem of her skirt and ran.

  Terrwyn paused. There was no other choice. She had to end this before it went any further. She nocked the arrow against the bow. In rapid succession she let loose her shots until her quiver was empty. Each arrow narrowly missed the soldiers and landed near their feet.

  Adain scurried past and peered from behind Terrwyn’s skirts. “Ugly Englishmen. She’ll curse you where you stand,” Adain shouted, punctuating her comment by stick
ing out her tongue.

  Terrwyn pressed her palm over Adain’s forehead and shoved her out of sight. “You’ve done enough, little one.”

  “What shall you do?” Adain asked from behind. “Go ahead, shoot a few more. Mayhap one will actually hit the big louts.”

  “Do you not see the quiver is empty? What did they do to you? Are you harmed?”

  “Nay, my body is fine.”

  Terrwyn lifted her eyes from the advancing men and turned just enough to see her sister. “Well?”

  Adain’s face crumpled. “I could not let it go unchallenged. ’Tis our land! ’Tis my right!”

  “’Tis my belief they wish to challenge your Welsh right to pelt them in the head.” Terrwyn braced for their outrage. If only her father were there to calm their pride with liquid spirits. Why he had not come when the first cry for help rang out, she could not fathom.

  Adain grabbed her hand and held it tight. “Terrwyn,” she whispered hotly, “the big oxen didn’t mind where they placed their feet. They stomped all over Mam’s flowers!”

  Although Adain’s words were strong, Terrwyn knew her fear was greater. Unfortunately, her little sister had not thought of that before launching rocks and insults at the soldiers’ heads.

  Terrwyn’s worries mounted as a swarm of villagers formed at the base of the hill. They moved as one, pitchforks and hoes gripped in their fists. Their anger buzzed in the air. A voice of calm could not be found. She searched their faces, flush with years of pent-up hatred. The face of their leader was not amongst them. Her father, absent from his flock of sheep.

  The soldiers turned. Their advancing progress slowed as their bodies pressed into each other to form a mass of strength. The Welsh villagers did indeed form an army. One made of husbands and wives. Sons and daughters. The soldiers’ faces twisted as they swiveled their glances from Terrwyn to the villagers. They waited, determining which flank to strike first.