Free Far Traveler by Rebecca Tingle Page A

born, I mused. “She ran away from her father’s home ... she even stole books to take with her.” But she had once wanted her freedom, I suddenly understood. Before all her years of loyalty and obedience, before she became leader of Mercia, my mother had simply wanted to choose for herself what to do. She had remembered that, and she’d given me a horse.
    â€œGytha,” I said, grabbing up the bag of bread and apples, “I—I need you to help me get some things.”
    Â 
    â€œYou say you want to ride out in this muck, Lady?” The stableman put a hand on Winter’s tether, but kept his skeptical gaze on me.
    â€œJust to the minster. The abbess of Sceaftesburh”—I showed him the handbook—“wants this for her scribe to copy before she leaves Wintanceaster. Immediately, they said.”
    The man hesitated another moment, then went off, grumbling softly. “A ride in this slop’ll spoil that grey coat—and hard words from the stablemaster if he’s not cleaned up soon as they’re back. Don’t suppose the lady’ll stay around for any of that, with her own clothes covered in mud. ...” He returned with a saddle and bridle stained with years of use. Would Aunt Dove begin to search for me?
    When the slave had finished, he offered his cupped hands, and I let him help me onto Winter’s back.
    Had he felt the leather leggings I wore beneath my skirt? I forced myself to look him directly in the eye, and cocked my head a little, as if to say, anything else?
    â€œKeep his head in, my lady. You’re a small one, on that great beast,” was all he said.
    No one stopped me as I rode through the open doors of the stable. I was well cloaked and hooded, and no one in the king’s tun knew that Winter had once been Lady Ælfwyn of Mercia’s horse.
    Just before I reached the marketplace, I awkwardly reined Winter into a side street and slipped off his back. Quickly, I led my horse into the deserted shadows just beyond the tannery, a place most folk avoided thanks to the stench of curing hides. I dropped the reins over Winter’s head and stooped down to scoop up handfuls of mud. He shifted once or twice as I began rubbing the mud onto the parts of his coat not already splattered by our short ride—neck, rump, even his face and ears—until Winter’s near whiteness was closer to the dirty grey of his mane and tail.
    My turn now, I thought, looking around fearfully. No one had yet ventured into this dark, stinking corner of the tun.
    I pushed back my hood and reached beneath my cloak. With some difficulty I stripped off the old gown I had worn beneath my wraps, wadding it into my satchel along with the handbook. Beneath it I wore the dirty wool and leather clothes Gytha had bought from a boy in the street. I still had Mother’s dagger, and I drew the little knife from its sheath, hoping it was sharp enough for the job I had to do now. I raised the knife and, wincing, severed the first few strands of my long hair.

    In the hall of the little burgh, the lady broke off her tale. She stroked the hair of the child on her lap, who had fallen asleep.
    The traveler stirred himself from the place where he sat listening. “It is written in the Mercian Chronicle,” he said slowly, “that the winter after Lady Æthelflæd’s death, her daughter, Ælfwyn, was bereft of all authority among the Mercians, and taken by King Edward into Wessex. No other mention of Ælfwyn appears in Mercia’s Chronicle, nor ever again in any West Saxon history. ...” His voice trailed away.
    The lady smiled. “Yes, but listen, and I will tell you what happened.”

II
    WIDSITH

12
    LOST
    â€œHO THERE! GET OUT OF THE WAY, BOY!”
    With a jerk I awoke and found myself standing at the side of the road, leaning against my horse’s warm body. Behind me a pair of carts dragged by tired horses were creaking to a halt,