while the crowd screamed. Gwen shouted; the horses strained, and at the very last moment, they pulled a head-length in front of the team that had been winning.
The three teams pounded past as the drivers slowed them, turning them in a great circle to bring them back to the king and his men. The rest of the company swarmed around the winner as soon as it was safe; they gathered up the driver on their shoulders, and Gwen reckoned that if they could have gathered up the horses as well, they would have.
No one seemed to take thought for the poor loser leading his horses back to the picket line. Gwen’s eyes flicked between him and the winner for a moment. Then she ran as fast as her legs would take her for that lonely driver and pair.
“I’ll take them and walk them,” she called as soon as she was near enough for him to hear. “You find the king’s horse leech. He won’t watch the races, he’s at the ale tuns.”
“Epona’s blessings on you, little one,” the man said gratefully, giving the reins to her. Then, despite his own weariness, he ran.
She led the poor drooping things slowly; it wasn’t just the off-side horse that was limping. The stumble must have pulled the other over enough to lame him too. They wanted to stop, but she knew that if she let them, they’d cool too fast, and that might make their hurts worse.
But the driver was back in mere moments with the king’s horse healer; not needed now, she handed back the reins and walked away quickly. If it was very bad news . . . she didn’t want to be there to hear it or to see the driver’s face.
Chapter Four
Supper was what had been left over from the rest of the day for the common folk and baked meat pies and baked fowl for the king’s guests. Gwen had thought she had eaten all the goose she could possibly eat. She discovered, to her pleasure, that she was wrong. And this time, the boys, given the option of savory meat pies dripping with rich gravy, merely picked at the goose, leaving most of it to her.
The sun was setting as supper began; it was fully dark and the torches and bonfire had been lit by the time the last of the guests rose from the table, and the servants and Gwen and her sisters (all but Little Gwen, who had disappeared as usual) carried the valuable cups and knives back to their coffers in the castle.
The queen and her women were long gone. No one mentioned this; no one would say anything about it later. They had gone off to make magic for the High King to ensure a son from the marriage that had been made this day. That was woman’s work, and men were not even supposed to know about it.
Nor were little girls, so Gwen pretended that she didn’t and settled down to enjoy the music and dancing. Little Gwen finally put in an appearance; it seemed she had bullied or cajoled some of the village children to make her a Harvest Maiden, and they were parading about with her at the head of them, in a wreath of leaves and vines, with a stalk of weed as a scepter. The real Harvest Maiden chosen by the women was at the Working, of course. And last year, Gwen probably would have been irritated at Little Gwen’s showing off. But she was full of goose and the knowledge that she was going to be given a horse and training in a few days and that Little Gwen would surely get her come-uppance if she tried to wheedle and pout and cry her way into the same.
“Be wary of that one,” said a voice in her ear. Gwen turned to see Braith settling down next to her, a horn of mead in one hand, and a pottery cup in the other. She handed the cup to Gwen; it held hot cider.
“Why?” Gwen asked, casting a dubious glance after her sister.
“Because there’s power in her.” Braith nodded at the chain of children. “Look at her. Look at who’s following. Boys, mostly. A few girls. Even young as she is, she has that power over the males. Who indulges her? Men and boys. Who persuades women not to punish her? Men and boys. With one like that, there’s no
The three teams pounded past as the drivers slowed them, turning them in a great circle to bring them back to the king and his men. The rest of the company swarmed around the winner as soon as it was safe; they gathered up the driver on their shoulders, and Gwen reckoned that if they could have gathered up the horses as well, they would have.
No one seemed to take thought for the poor loser leading his horses back to the picket line. Gwen’s eyes flicked between him and the winner for a moment. Then she ran as fast as her legs would take her for that lonely driver and pair.
“I’ll take them and walk them,” she called as soon as she was near enough for him to hear. “You find the king’s horse leech. He won’t watch the races, he’s at the ale tuns.”
“Epona’s blessings on you, little one,” the man said gratefully, giving the reins to her. Then, despite his own weariness, he ran.
She led the poor drooping things slowly; it wasn’t just the off-side horse that was limping. The stumble must have pulled the other over enough to lame him too. They wanted to stop, but she knew that if she let them, they’d cool too fast, and that might make their hurts worse.
But the driver was back in mere moments with the king’s horse healer; not needed now, she handed back the reins and walked away quickly. If it was very bad news . . . she didn’t want to be there to hear it or to see the driver’s face.
Chapter Four
Supper was what had been left over from the rest of the day for the common folk and baked meat pies and baked fowl for the king’s guests. Gwen had thought she had eaten all the goose she could possibly eat. She discovered, to her pleasure, that she was wrong. And this time, the boys, given the option of savory meat pies dripping with rich gravy, merely picked at the goose, leaving most of it to her.
The sun was setting as supper began; it was fully dark and the torches and bonfire had been lit by the time the last of the guests rose from the table, and the servants and Gwen and her sisters (all but Little Gwen, who had disappeared as usual) carried the valuable cups and knives back to their coffers in the castle.
The queen and her women were long gone. No one mentioned this; no one would say anything about it later. They had gone off to make magic for the High King to ensure a son from the marriage that had been made this day. That was woman’s work, and men were not even supposed to know about it.
Nor were little girls, so Gwen pretended that she didn’t and settled down to enjoy the music and dancing. Little Gwen finally put in an appearance; it seemed she had bullied or cajoled some of the village children to make her a Harvest Maiden, and they were parading about with her at the head of them, in a wreath of leaves and vines, with a stalk of weed as a scepter. The real Harvest Maiden chosen by the women was at the Working, of course. And last year, Gwen probably would have been irritated at Little Gwen’s showing off. But she was full of goose and the knowledge that she was going to be given a horse and training in a few days and that Little Gwen would surely get her come-uppance if she tried to wheedle and pout and cry her way into the same.
“Be wary of that one,” said a voice in her ear. Gwen turned to see Braith settling down next to her, a horn of mead in one hand, and a pottery cup in the other. She handed the cup to Gwen; it held hot cider.
“Why?” Gwen asked, casting a dubious glance after her sister.
“Because there’s power in her.” Braith nodded at the chain of children. “Look at her. Look at who’s following. Boys, mostly. A few girls. Even young as she is, she has that power over the males. Who indulges her? Men and boys. Who persuades women not to punish her? Men and boys. With one like that, there’s no
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