Read Online The Eagle and the Raven by Pauline Gedge - Free Book Online
Authors: Pauline Gedge
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his feet apart.
Already he felt content and untroubled. Cinnamus turned away and Caradoc shook the reins, trotting along the wide path, his cloak floating out behind him, his hair streaming with it on the freshening wind.
As he approached the steep slope he dismounted and led the ponies down, and then across the dyke, then mounted again and called to them, rolling ever faster toward the river, veering east under the trees. The mist enfolded him, beading on his arms, his hair, hanging shimmering in the folds of his scarlet tunic. Around the next bend, he knew, was a smooth, straight stretch of track, mossy and even, hailed over by the massive oaks, and he slowly came to a state of nervetautening concentration, wrapping the reins about the frontal bar of the little chariot and balancing with arms outstretched. The ponies’ gait never varied. Whistling and chucking to them all the time, he placed one foot up and onto the yoke, seeing the stretch open out before him. With infinite care he tested his foothold, raised himself, feeling his unused muscles protest. Then he was up, standing lightly on the yoke, and still the ponies thundered on. He stepped out, ran to the ponies’ wide backs, ran back, ran up again, glorying in the perfection of his body, in its instinctive, humbling skill. Then he jumped down onto the wicker floor and took the reins again. The track narrowed now, began to twist, and branches whipped at his face. He crouched, reined in, and turned about, preparing to repeat the performance, but suddenly he heard hoofbeats on the turf and he stood waiting while the ponies steamed and wheezed.
It was a woman on a horse. It was Aricia, her hair braided in three plaits, the short tunic of a man covering her and her legs clad in men’s breeches. Her cloak hung almost to the ground. The mist parted to let her through, and when she saw him she kneed her horse and trotted up to him, sheathing the knife she had drawn.
“Caradoc! So your chariot is running again.” Against the vivid blue of her cloak her skin was pale ivory, but under her eyes there were dark smudges. “That’s good. I’ve been down to the pier with Tog. Your father refuses to take more wine for the dogs. He wants money instead, and the Romans are busy haggling with him. I think the presence of the Druid last night upset them and today they are viewing Cunobelin with some suspicion.”
She was talking too fast, avoiding his eye. and her embarrassment was communicated to her horse. It shuffled and sidled nervously, and its ears were flattened to its dark head.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked her.
She showed him the pouch slung across her shoulder. “Looking for hazelnuts, and perhaps the last of the brambles.”
“That’s servants’ work.”
“I know. But I value every moment I spend from now on in your woods and meadows, Catuvellaunian wolf!”
They smiled at each other and Caradoc got down, taking her reins and his own and winding them around the nearest branch. “Shall I help you?”
“If you like. There is none to see the mighty Caradoc picking nuts, and I have changed my mind about wanting to be alone.” She shivered slightly. “I did not realize how thick the mists were. At least the wind cannot find us in here.”
They left the track and struck out into the trees, and their breeches were soon soaked with the droplets of dew showered on them from the lacy maidenhair ferns and their footfalls muffled by the damp carpet of russet leaves and bilious, wet green moss. Not far from the path they found a hazel thicket, thin twigs standing stiff and brittle, and their feet crunched on the nuts that had already fallen to the ground. They picked busily for a while, content with the deep silence of the wood and the company of each other. Every movement they made seemed to echo a hundredfold in the weighty stillness. Caradoc cracked open the nuts between his strong young teeth, chewing the tangy meat, and Aricia’s fingers flew
Already he felt content and untroubled. Cinnamus turned away and Caradoc shook the reins, trotting along the wide path, his cloak floating out behind him, his hair streaming with it on the freshening wind.
As he approached the steep slope he dismounted and led the ponies down, and then across the dyke, then mounted again and called to them, rolling ever faster toward the river, veering east under the trees. The mist enfolded him, beading on his arms, his hair, hanging shimmering in the folds of his scarlet tunic. Around the next bend, he knew, was a smooth, straight stretch of track, mossy and even, hailed over by the massive oaks, and he slowly came to a state of nervetautening concentration, wrapping the reins about the frontal bar of the little chariot and balancing with arms outstretched. The ponies’ gait never varied. Whistling and chucking to them all the time, he placed one foot up and onto the yoke, seeing the stretch open out before him. With infinite care he tested his foothold, raised himself, feeling his unused muscles protest. Then he was up, standing lightly on the yoke, and still the ponies thundered on. He stepped out, ran to the ponies’ wide backs, ran back, ran up again, glorying in the perfection of his body, in its instinctive, humbling skill. Then he jumped down onto the wicker floor and took the reins again. The track narrowed now, began to twist, and branches whipped at his face. He crouched, reined in, and turned about, preparing to repeat the performance, but suddenly he heard hoofbeats on the turf and he stood waiting while the ponies steamed and wheezed.
It was a woman on a horse. It was Aricia, her hair braided in three plaits, the short tunic of a man covering her and her legs clad in men’s breeches. Her cloak hung almost to the ground. The mist parted to let her through, and when she saw him she kneed her horse and trotted up to him, sheathing the knife she had drawn.
“Caradoc! So your chariot is running again.” Against the vivid blue of her cloak her skin was pale ivory, but under her eyes there were dark smudges. “That’s good. I’ve been down to the pier with Tog. Your father refuses to take more wine for the dogs. He wants money instead, and the Romans are busy haggling with him. I think the presence of the Druid last night upset them and today they are viewing Cunobelin with some suspicion.”
She was talking too fast, avoiding his eye. and her embarrassment was communicated to her horse. It shuffled and sidled nervously, and its ears were flattened to its dark head.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked her.
She showed him the pouch slung across her shoulder. “Looking for hazelnuts, and perhaps the last of the brambles.”
“That’s servants’ work.”
“I know. But I value every moment I spend from now on in your woods and meadows, Catuvellaunian wolf!”
They smiled at each other and Caradoc got down, taking her reins and his own and winding them around the nearest branch. “Shall I help you?”
“If you like. There is none to see the mighty Caradoc picking nuts, and I have changed my mind about wanting to be alone.” She shivered slightly. “I did not realize how thick the mists were. At least the wind cannot find us in here.”
They left the track and struck out into the trees, and their breeches were soon soaked with the droplets of dew showered on them from the lacy maidenhair ferns and their footfalls muffled by the damp carpet of russet leaves and bilious, wet green moss. Not far from the path they found a hazel thicket, thin twigs standing stiff and brittle, and their feet crunched on the nuts that had already fallen to the ground. They picked busily for a while, content with the deep silence of the wood and the company of each other. Every movement they made seemed to echo a hundredfold in the weighty stillness. Caradoc cracked open the nuts between his strong young teeth, chewing the tangy meat, and Aricia’s fingers flew
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