Read Online Tale of Gwyn by Cynthia Voigt - Free Book Online

her arms impatiently free from the blankets and took the bowl from Gwyn, drinking the water down. “And that’s enough coddling,” she declared.
    Gwyn sat back.
    â€œMy ankle’s twisted. That’s why I’m sitting here.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œFour men came, thieves, to take the goats.”
    Somehow, Gwyn wasn’t surprised.
    â€œI knew I couldn’t fight them off, so I opened the gate. Shooed the creatures out.”
    â€œWere they bearded?” Gwyn asked.
    â€œThey didn’t like that, they didn’t like that one little bit. They shoved me aside—and then set off chasing the goats.” Old Megg smiled then, remembering. “I don’t think they’ll have caught many.”
    â€œYou fell,” Gwyn said.
    â€œAre many returned?”
    â€œWhen was this?” Gwyn asked.
    â€œI thought sure the ones with milk would come back, when it was time for milking. How many are in the pen, lad?”
    â€œFour,” Burl told her, his voice unworried.
    â€œI wouldn’t close that gate, there’s more. The others—” She turned to look at Gwyn again. “I don’t know where they’ll have got to.”
    â€œUnless those men were total fools, there’ll be some in their pot.”
    â€œTell your Da I’m sorry.”
    â€œHe’ll know.”
    â€œIt was the night before last, unless my mind wandered. I could swallow down some cheese.”
    Gwyn cut her off a chunk. Old Megg gnawed at it. “I didn’t like to stand on the ankle. The cold has done me no good.”
    â€œWhat do we do now?” Burl asked Gwyn. She cut them each a chunk of cheese while she thought.
    â€œShe can stay with the Weaver. Da will see to that.”
    â€œWe’ll bring the goats down to the Inn,” he said.
    â€œThis house will need to be closed up.”
    â€œI’ve my own blankets, and food to take,” Old Megg said. “That’ll ease the pain of her hospitality. But I’ll need your shoulder, lad.”
    â€œBoth our shoulders,” Gwyn said. “And then we’ll return to see what’s to be done here. Things’ll be safe enough, I think, for a time.”
    â€œNot bearded,” Old Megg said. “They weren’t our people, they were soldiers. Their hair—”
    Gwyn understood. The soldiers had shorter hair than the people or the Lords, cut into a round circle over their ears. Probably so it couldn’t be pulled when they fought, she thought, although it might have been to prevent them from becoming vain. “Whose soldiers?” she asked.
    â€œThey wore shirts and wraps, not the uniforms. I don’t know whose they were, Hildebrand’s or Northgate’s, or maybe even up from the south. It made no matter to me whose they were. They didn’t speak—except to curse me,” Old Megg added, “and that was like music to my ears.”
    â€œWe’d best be going on, if you’ve got the strength,” Burl said.
    â€œI’ve the strength, lad,” Old Megg sighed. “It’s the bones for it I haven’t got. All I ask is that I don’t take a long time dying.”
    By the time they arrived back at the village, the sun was high in the sky and Old Megg’s breathing was ragged. She kept her eyes closed and didn’t respond while the Weaver made up the bed in her spare room and complained. One of the daughters built up a fire while the other put away the food and clothing Gwyn had carried down, and the Weaver complained.
    Cam sat by the kitchen fire, watching the activity, a lazy smile greeting his mother’s more petulant observations.
    â€œâ€”why she couldn’t go to the Inn as I’m no nurse, and my own living to get,” the Weaver muttered.
    â€œWe have guests,” Gwyn explained again.
    â€œBringing her here to die. You have a stable too, unless I’m mistaken.”
    â€œIt’s