herself getting ready, so that she could do what she really wanted: watch Brand and how he moved, every word he spoke and every gesture he made.
The camp was struck. Fast. Brand's men moved with a disciplined efficiency that should have pierced warnings through Cunan's devious head. The only thing Brand stopped to do without the slightest care for time was to make her eat, more than she wanted to. But it was either swallow the food herself or be force-fed.
Nothing faltered. Nothing went wrong. They rode as fast as they had yesterday, nay, faster, with scouts and in complete silence. They had passed the border into Mercia, the wide kingdom that lay between Wes-sex and Northumbria. Enemy to both.
She used the only time of respite to seethe herbs for her patient, feverfew, woundwort and blackberry leaves. Pointless gesture. It would not be enough. They both knew it.
She rode and watched and waited for him to succumb. So did Cunan.
She had had time to make her plans.
She made use of the instant when Duda closed up beside her mount and Cunan drifted ahead, drawn away from his eager watch on her by the greater eagerness with which he watched his true quarry.
She turned to the revolting collection of patched wool that housed Brand's companion and began on the stratagem that might have consequences beyond her control.
There were not many choices.
"You realize you will have to do something, do you not?"
Shaggy hair and a beard that seemed to be a refuge for the remains of last night's meal turned toward her. There had to be eyes in there somewhere. A mind?
"About what?"
She glanced ahead. Cunan's brightly coloured cloak caught the wind.
"Dwyn's bones," she hissed. "I have no time for games. You will need to have your plan worked out before Compline…" What did they call it in English? "Nightsong. Otherwise you, all of us, will be taking our orders in Pictish."
Something blinked. Perhaps there were eyes in there. She reserved her opinion on the brain.
"Well, that would not do any good. I do not speak Pictish."
There certainly was no brain
. "Of course, it would be all right for you. Looking forward to it?"
Choices.
This time, she could not tear her gaze away from her brother's unprotected back.
"It does not matter the smallest curse what I think. I am telling you what is going to happen—"
"Ah. You know, do you? Got it timed?"
She gritted her teeth. He probably thought, in his grubby Northumbrian head, that she had added the juice of deadly nightshade berries to the infusion of herbs she had given to Brand.
This was pointless. There was no more she could do. She spurred forward, after Cunan. But as her horse crested the rise, she saw it. What must be their destination: a little group of buildings inside high wooden walls. The unmistakable shape of a house of religion. The single bell suspended above the shingle roof rang out across the evening air.
It was a small monastery. They were allowed inside. It would have been a brave monk who had refused admittance to so many armed men. But when the doors of the refuge shut behind them was when the danger began.
Brand collapsed.
She had been waiting for it. She knew it would happen the moment sanctuary was reached because it was only force of will that had kept him going. Will and the responsibility for his men riding through the open lands of Mercia.
She also knew that there would be a small moment that was hers because the watchdogs would begin rending each other apart instantly. There was room for only one to command. She could not control that. There was only one course for her.
She slid through them, fell on her knees beside the body and flung herself on it, so that it would take the most unseemly show of force to drag her off.
This was her battle, fought on her terms. She would win it. The fire in her blood surged in the strength-giving recklessness that came only with total commitment to one course of action.
She raised her head.
"Father…" She fixed her
The camp was struck. Fast. Brand's men moved with a disciplined efficiency that should have pierced warnings through Cunan's devious head. The only thing Brand stopped to do without the slightest care for time was to make her eat, more than she wanted to. But it was either swallow the food herself or be force-fed.
Nothing faltered. Nothing went wrong. They rode as fast as they had yesterday, nay, faster, with scouts and in complete silence. They had passed the border into Mercia, the wide kingdom that lay between Wes-sex and Northumbria. Enemy to both.
She used the only time of respite to seethe herbs for her patient, feverfew, woundwort and blackberry leaves. Pointless gesture. It would not be enough. They both knew it.
She rode and watched and waited for him to succumb. So did Cunan.
She had had time to make her plans.
She made use of the instant when Duda closed up beside her mount and Cunan drifted ahead, drawn away from his eager watch on her by the greater eagerness with which he watched his true quarry.
She turned to the revolting collection of patched wool that housed Brand's companion and began on the stratagem that might have consequences beyond her control.
There were not many choices.
"You realize you will have to do something, do you not?"
Shaggy hair and a beard that seemed to be a refuge for the remains of last night's meal turned toward her. There had to be eyes in there somewhere. A mind?
"About what?"
She glanced ahead. Cunan's brightly coloured cloak caught the wind.
"Dwyn's bones," she hissed. "I have no time for games. You will need to have your plan worked out before Compline…" What did they call it in English? "Nightsong. Otherwise you, all of us, will be taking our orders in Pictish."
Something blinked. Perhaps there were eyes in there. She reserved her opinion on the brain.
"Well, that would not do any good. I do not speak Pictish."
There certainly was no brain
. "Of course, it would be all right for you. Looking forward to it?"
Choices.
This time, she could not tear her gaze away from her brother's unprotected back.
"It does not matter the smallest curse what I think. I am telling you what is going to happen—"
"Ah. You know, do you? Got it timed?"
She gritted her teeth. He probably thought, in his grubby Northumbrian head, that she had added the juice of deadly nightshade berries to the infusion of herbs she had given to Brand.
This was pointless. There was no more she could do. She spurred forward, after Cunan. But as her horse crested the rise, she saw it. What must be their destination: a little group of buildings inside high wooden walls. The unmistakable shape of a house of religion. The single bell suspended above the shingle roof rang out across the evening air.
It was a small monastery. They were allowed inside. It would have been a brave monk who had refused admittance to so many armed men. But when the doors of the refuge shut behind them was when the danger began.
Brand collapsed.
She had been waiting for it. She knew it would happen the moment sanctuary was reached because it was only force of will that had kept him going. Will and the responsibility for his men riding through the open lands of Mercia.
She also knew that there would be a small moment that was hers because the watchdogs would begin rending each other apart instantly. There was room for only one to command. She could not control that. There was only one course for her.
She slid through them, fell on her knees beside the body and flung herself on it, so that it would take the most unseemly show of force to drag her off.
This was her battle, fought on her terms. She would win it. The fire in her blood surged in the strength-giving recklessness that came only with total commitment to one course of action.
She raised her head.
"Father…" She fixed her
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