Tudor made no comment on this. Another arrow fell just short of her leg. The steep, meagre path allowed noopportunity for Tudor to make the horse swerve to evade further shots. Rhiannon knew it was only a matter of time before one of the deadly arrows stuck home. Unless she did something. She searched her mind for what they needed, for what could save them. Then it came to her. It was not an action she had ever attempted before, but she believed it was within her to do it. She closed her eyes, not for one second loosening her grip on the sweat-sodden mane. She turned her mind to the wild landscape, to the wind that chased across the wiry turf, to the rain clouds that threatened in the west, to the watery sun behind those clouds. She breathed in those elemental things, those fundamentals of her world and her life and the dormant power within her. She had moved clouds before. The weather listened to her if she could only summon its attention. She heard the rushing noise in her head again, the pounding of her heart against her eardrums, the pulsing of the blood in her veins. The temperature dropped. Even with her eyes closed she knew the sky had darkened. Still what she needed did not come, as if she were not asking in the right way somehow, as if her command of the elements was not yet sufficient. She opened her eyes then, tilting her head back, leaning against Tudor, so that when the arrow that came and penetrated his back, shattering two of his ribs and lodging there, she felt thereverberations of that terrible injury through her own body. Tudor gasped but neither cried out nor loosed his hold on the reins and his grip on Rhiannon. Instead he spurred his horse on faster. She felt the weight of him as he struggled to remain upright in the saddle. She had to act now. She must succeed.
Acting instinctively, she released her grip on the horse’s mane, relying on her natural balance and her companion’s hold on her. Slowly, carefully, she opened her arms wide, lifting them up to the heavens, before drawing down the very clouds from the sky. Unbidden, strange words filled her mouth. Words which she sang out, clear and high, letting the low wind whip them away and up and around until she was surrounded by them. And as the words enveloped riders and horse alike, so a mist descended. This was not some wispy river vapour pulled up by a heating sun, rather this was a dense miasma, a heavy, sodden fog, as if the very clouds themselves had dropped to the earth. Within seconds, they were cloaked in the mist, completely hidden by it. Ahead of them remained clear, their path plain to see and easy to follow at speed. Behind them, all visibility was gone. She heard cries of fear and confusion and the whinnying of horses as they lost their footing. The frightened animals would not go forwards into that supernatural ether. The soldiers too, foughtboth fear and blindness, until at last she could hear them no more. Soon the only sounds were the rhythmic pounding of their own bold black horse’s hoofbeats, its snorting breath, and the air rasping in and out of Tudor’s damaged lungs as they sped on towards the mountain top and home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Their arrival at the mountain hideout caused great consternation. The villagers dropped whatever they were doing, abandoning spinning, weeding and wood chopping, all rushing to see the stranger Rhiannon had brought home to them. All were anxious for news, and concerned about the missing men. Bronwen darted forwards from the small crowd that had gathered in the yard of the croft.
‘Where is Dadda?’ she asked before Rhiannon had even dismounted. ‘Where is Dilly?’
Owain shouted, ‘What madness is this? To bring a stranger here!’
‘We will be given away!’ one of the older men warned.
Others echoed the questions. With a shrewd glance, Mamgi took in the wounded soldier, the fine horse, and the look of shock on Rhiannon’s face.
‘What of Brynach, child?’ she asked, her voice more gentle than usual.
‘He took an arrow to the leg,’ she said, addressing the whole company. ‘Talgar is in Norman hands.’ Shewaited for the gasp of horror and murmured oaths to subside before continuing. ‘Dafydd is on his way with the cart. Now, help me. This man saved my life.’
At once the mood changed from one of suspicion, shock and complaint, to one born of a common cause. With great care they lifted Tudor from his horse, making sure not to move the arrow still lodged in his back. When they lowered him to the ground, he slumped to the floor, or would have done had not so many hands held him up. Rhiannon saw that he had slipped into unconsciousness and was worryingly pale.
‘Carry him into the croft. Mamgi…?’
‘I am with you!’ she told her, hurrying behind on frail, crooked legs, her staff stabbing at the muddy earth with each step.
Owain attempted to take hold of the horse’s reins and narrowly avoided being bitten. It flattened its ears, rolling its eyes, its head low, turning this way and that to ward off any who might try to get close. When it sensed movement behind it the animal swung around, threatening to bite again.
The crowd shrank back.
‘This is a bad tempered creature!’ Owain declared. ‘Best shut the yard gate and leave it be.’
One of the older boys nodded his agreement. ‘Most likely it will be more biddable when it is hungry.’
‘No.’ Rhiannon paused. ‘He needs tending. He should be taken in the barn, watered and fed.’
Owain shook his head. ‘He’s savage, I tell you. I’ll not touch him.’
Others shook their heads in agreement, one or two taking a step back to distance themselves from the agitated horse. It stood alone then, champing anxiously at its bit, its mouth foaming, steam rising from its sweat-wet flanks as it watched its master being carried away. Rhiannon felt sorry for the animal. This was not some thick-skinned farm horse, nor a woolly coated mountain pony accustomed to the thin winds and sparse grazing of the hills.
‘Without that horse,’ she declared, ‘I would be dead and our cart would not this very moment be making its way here, unchallenged, loaded with our winter supplies. Is not one of you up to the task of repaying this animal the debt we owe him?’
Feet were shuffled. Owain would not meet Rhiannon’s challenging gaze. Then, quietly, calmly, little Bronwen emerged from the crowd and walked towards the horse. One of the women cried out in alarm, telling her to stop. Even Owain thought to grab the child, but Rhiannon signalled to him.
‘Leave her be!’ she said.
Bronwen approached the animal as if he were merely a foal in the field, or one of the stray lambs she loved to care for. The horse pricked his ears. It dropped his head to sniff the girl, its nostrils blowing warm breath into her hair, making her giggle. The animal towered over her, but she was not afraid. Reaching up, she patted its neck with her tiny hand before taking hold of its rein and pulling gently. She led the way to the barn, the horse following meekly.
Inside the croft, Rhiannon had the men lay Tudor on the low bed. Mamgi issued instructions that the fire be stoked, water be boiled, moss be gathered, and the smithy fetch his pliers. She instructed one of the women to bring her stitching needle and any thread she could find. Rhiannon knew which remedies to take from their precious stores. Once extra tallow lights were lit and everything assembled, Mamgi shoo-ed out everyone else save the two of them and the blacksmith.
‘You must pull the arrow back, for it cannot pass through,’ Mamgi told him.
The man shook his head sadly. ‘It will wound him further.’
Mamgi shot him a look. ‘Shall we leave it there till spring then and let the may queen see to it?!’ she snapped. The smithy knew better than to respond to that. He took up his position beside the injured man.
The old woman used a sharp knife to cut away Tudor’s clothes, tearing them until his back was exposed. Rhiannon stepped forward with cloth and hot water and washed away the blood that coated his skin.
‘The bleeding has stopped,’ she said. ‘But his breathing, it sounds so very painful. How can we mend him, Mamgi?’
