to foretell the future as she had done; awenyddion were these soothsayers called in our tongue, who spoke as if in trance and, waking, claimed it was the will of God speaking through their voices. I do not know if their claim was true, but this I do believe: if God, as I think, put it into my mind to remember the lady of the moors on such a day, which of itself must be engraved in memory, there must be reason that, in time, would be revealed. And I should know it too if only I had the skill to make it out. Double-tongued, she had been, but not for malice or pride, almost sorrowing had she spoken. On your lips be it recorded, not on mine. Now for the first time, the thought ran cold, suppose what she had said was yet to come, the truth or untruth of it not yet proved, and all that had gone before was only prologue to the rest. I tell you, it was that realization most of all that haunted me. We were not safe then, not home, the prophesy had not yet begun to be fulfilled the worst still lay ahead. And I also thought this. Three times in my life so far has it been given me as gift (if gift it is) to see time out of place, and never have I wished to know what it had shown. Dear God, I would not want to have that power to foretell what happens to poor souls. Poet, long were the prayers I made to preserve us all from harm. And, most of all, I prayed that out of this morass my noble lord could find a safe way through.
When in the morning I awoke, for at some point even I had slept, it was to camp's misery. The day had dawned to rain, turning the ground to mud, our clothes to sodden rags. Lying on stones cricks your neck, your legs grow stiff, your back stiffer again, fires, banked overnight, blow bitter smoke into your eyes. The men were hungry, bleary, foul-mouthed, not like to give comfort nor yet to look for it. I have spent time in a border camp, as you know, although none might say so to my face; there are days, as old soldiers are aware, it is best to keep out of the way, no hope of courtesies on such a morning as this. Before it was an hour old, Lord Raoul and his men had ridden out, and so they did each day, henceforth, to scour the countryside for fodder and food, to keep watch for enemies and to look for help, although I suspected we could whistle for that. It was true I had not found many friends in Henry's court who were willing to risk themselves when Raoul's luck had run low last year. Those of us left behind began to shift the piles of stone—a thankless task, yet one we did each day, even the village women and I, sitting on the ground, sorting through the shards as if gleaners in a harvest field. Remembering us now, as we were then, bent double in the rain, I am overwhelmed by the enormity of our task. Yet I recall thinking, my legs outstretched, a wicker basket set between my knees, my fingernails scrabbling through the dirt, how in ancient times along the border, men had raised up those gray henges of stone, those circles on the Cambray moors without any help or benefit of tools. If they could, so could we, I thought. And, although at each day's end it seemed as if scarcely a stone had been moved, yet gradually a sort of wall was built between the base of the gate towers. A battering ram, nay, a tree stump with six strong men, could have rammed it through, yet it give illusion of defense, and behind it, we set up tents, established our camp with military routines. Watch was maintained along the river banks, even village lads were trained to mount guard and peasants in the outlying parts bribed to act as spies. So we lived, each day a gift from God, each night of rest a favor deserving of thanks.
When, by the week's end, the rest of the baggage train came stumbling in, we might have been settled there all our lives. But for those of you who see romance in every hour of outdoor life, I tell you it is no jest to be hungry, wet and cold, and even today I cannot bear the thought of eels. For such
When in the morning I awoke, for at some point even I had slept, it was to camp's misery. The day had dawned to rain, turning the ground to mud, our clothes to sodden rags. Lying on stones cricks your neck, your legs grow stiff, your back stiffer again, fires, banked overnight, blow bitter smoke into your eyes. The men were hungry, bleary, foul-mouthed, not like to give comfort nor yet to look for it. I have spent time in a border camp, as you know, although none might say so to my face; there are days, as old soldiers are aware, it is best to keep out of the way, no hope of courtesies on such a morning as this. Before it was an hour old, Lord Raoul and his men had ridden out, and so they did each day, henceforth, to scour the countryside for fodder and food, to keep watch for enemies and to look for help, although I suspected we could whistle for that. It was true I had not found many friends in Henry's court who were willing to risk themselves when Raoul's luck had run low last year. Those of us left behind began to shift the piles of stone—a thankless task, yet one we did each day, even the village women and I, sitting on the ground, sorting through the shards as if gleaners in a harvest field. Remembering us now, as we were then, bent double in the rain, I am overwhelmed by the enormity of our task. Yet I recall thinking, my legs outstretched, a wicker basket set between my knees, my fingernails scrabbling through the dirt, how in ancient times along the border, men had raised up those gray henges of stone, those circles on the Cambray moors without any help or benefit of tools. If they could, so could we, I thought. And, although at each day's end it seemed as if scarcely a stone had been moved, yet gradually a sort of wall was built between the base of the gate towers. A battering ram, nay, a tree stump with six strong men, could have rammed it through, yet it give illusion of defense, and behind it, we set up tents, established our camp with military routines. Watch was maintained along the river banks, even village lads were trained to mount guard and peasants in the outlying parts bribed to act as spies. So we lived, each day a gift from God, each night of rest a favor deserving of thanks.
When, by the week's end, the rest of the baggage train came stumbling in, we might have been settled there all our lives. But for those of you who see romance in every hour of outdoor life, I tell you it is no jest to be hungry, wet and cold, and even today I cannot bear the thought of eels. For such
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