Free Isle of Glass by Judith Tarr Page B

tireless, taking joy in her own swift
strength.
    By noon a grey drizzle had begun to fall. They pressed on as
hard as they might, following the white shape of the elf-hound. At last they
surmounted a hill, and the trees dwindled away before them. Jehan whooped for
delight, for there below them in a wide circle of fields stood a village.
    It was splendid to ride under the sky again, with no dark
ranks of trees to hem them in and the wind blowing free upon their faces.
Jehan’s gelding moved of its own accord into a heavy canter; the grey mare
fretted against the bit. Alf let her have her head.
    They did not run far. A few furlongs down the road, Alf
eased Fara into a walk. He smiled as Jehan came up, and stroked the mare’s damp
neck. “We’ll sleep warm tonight,” he said.
    o0o
    The village was called Woodby Cross: a gathering of houses
about an ancient church. Its priest took the travelers in, gave them dry
clothes to wear after they had bathed, and fed them from his own larder. He was
rough-spoken and he had little enough Latin, and the woman who cooked for him
had at her skirts a child or two who bore him an uncanny resemblance. But he
received his guests with as much courtesy as any lord in his hall.
    “It’s not often we see people of quality hereabouts,” he
told them after they had eaten and drunk. “Mostly those go eastaway round
Bowland, to one of the lords or Abbots there. Here we get the sweepings,
woodsfolk and wanderers and the like.”
    “People don’t go through the forest?” Jehan asked.
    He shook his head. “It’s a shorter way, if you don’t lose
yourself. But there’s bad folk in it. They’re known to go after anybody who
goes by.”
    “They didn't bother us.”
    The priest scratched the stubble of his tonsure. “So they
didn’t. But you’re two strong men, and you've got good horses and yon fine
hound.”
    Thea raised her head from her paws and wagged her tail. Her
amusement brushed the edges of Alf’s mind.
    He ignored her. He had been ignoring her since he had turned
in his bathing and found her watching him with most unhoundlike interest.
    “The King,” Father Wulfric was saying. “Now there’s someone
who could sweep the outlaws out of Bowland, if he’d take the trouble. But he’s
away north, chasing those rebels who broke out while he was on Crusade. You’ll
have a fine time finding him.”
    “Actually,” said Jehan, “we’re looking for Bishop Aylmer;
but that means we have to look for the King. They’re always together. Two of a
kind, people say. Fighters.”
    “That’s certain. But I think my lord Bishop ought to pay a
little more attention to his Christian vows and a little less to unholy
bloodletting."
    Jehan carefully avoided saying anything. The woman and the
children had left, ostensibly to return to their own house. The children had
looked surprised and fretful; one had started toward the curtain that hid the
priest’s bed from public view, before her mother dragged her away.
    He shrugged a little. Alf had not spoken, either. He was
gazing into the fire, eyes half-closed. Something in his face spoke to Jehan of
Alun’s presence.
    The novice yawned. “Whoosh! I’m tired. It’s a long ride from
the Marches.”
    “And a fair way to go yet," said Father Wulfric. “Me,
I’m a lazy man. I stay at home and mind my flock, and leave the traveling to
you young folk." He rose from his seat by the hearth, opening his mouth to
say more.
    He never began. Alf stirred, drawing upright, taut as a
bowstring. Firelight blazed upon his face; the flames filled his eyes.
“Kilhwch,” he whispered. “Rhydderch." It was a serpent’s hiss. “He rends
the web and casts it to the winds of Hell.”
    Thea growled. His eyes flashed toward her. “War, that means.
War. I can delay no longer. I must go to the King.”
    “Tomorrow.” Jehan’s voice was quiet, and trembled only a
little.
    “Tonight.” Alf reached for his cloak, his boots. “War comes.
I must stop