Her hand on my ribs seemed to tighten a moment, and not with anger. Again, the sensation that movement produced was . . . intense. Then, she sighed.
“It’s too bad, it really is. But it still wouldn’t work.”
A moment later, with the tigerish energy of which she was capable, Gwendolyn was up and wriggling her way out of the thicket. “Come on—we’ve got to get moving.”
I followed, as quickly and obediently as anyone could ask. I admit, the sight of her posterior wriggling its way through the bushes ahead of me was a powerful incentive.
Once in the open, Gwendolyn cast a quick and wary eye over the area. The sun was over the horizon now, but there was still enough light to see by.
“Safe enough,” she murmured. “I’d rather wait until midnight, but time is a priority.”
A moment later, she was trotting off down a path which could only be called a “country lane” by the most generous definition. “Rutted dirt road” captures more of the reality, understanding that the “ruts” looked to have been made by something other than wheels. Small skids, I imagined.
After a while, once darkness had fallen completely, the little irregularities in the road caused me to trip and stumble several times. The pack I was carrying was not particularly heavy—our food was almost entirely gone, by now—but my special easel was, as always, an awkward thing to carry.
I must have been cursing not entirely under my breath, because I heard Gwendolyn’s husky whisper urging me to silence. Then, in a hiss: “Nobody asked you to bring the stupid thing.”
Which was true, of course, but still uncharitable. I believed I muttered as much. Gwendolyn’s only response was a low chuckle.
* * *
We traveled through the night, our progress greatly slowed by the absence of any moon beyond a sliver and the rough terrain. The same darkness, of course, provided us with a certain measure of safety. Near dawn, Gwendolyn found another suitable thicket and we made our daytime lair. These quarters were, if anything, even more cramped than the last had been.
“What?” murmured Gwendolyn, with another little low chuckle. “No complaints?”
Feeling her pressed against me down the entire length of my body—amazing how thin leather can seem—I believe I managed to choke out a negative reply.
* * *
The next two days passed in a similar manner. On the evening of the fourth day, a complication arose.
Just as we were preparing to crawl out of our thicket at sundown, we heard the drumming of horse hooves. We shrank back into the thickness of the shrubbery, holding ourselves utterly still. Despite the lush foliage, we were able to see enough of the barren ground beyond to study ensuing events.
Two children burst onto the scene, clambering over a distant stone wall. They were both girls—although it was hard for me to be certain at first, between their filthy garments and the fact that they were so young. Perhaps fourteen and fifteen years old. The long hair and a certain delicacy of the features were the principal determinants of my judgement.
One of the girls spotted our thicket. She grabbed the other by the shoulder and pointed at it. The two of them began racing toward us. Next to me, I heard Gwendolyn hiss softly.
Long before the girls could reach our shelter, however, they were intercepted by a man on horseback coming from somewhere behind and to the left of the thicket we were hidden in. The man atop the beast was even mangier looking than the “horse” itself, dressed in what seemed to be a pastiche of filthy furs and bits of armor. His head was covered by a helmet which would have given my uncle Giotto apoplexy had he seen the design. A “horned helmet” it was, just like the staple of barbarian imagery—except the “horns” were actually some kind of (mangy, what else?) antlers, and the helmet itself was not a single piece but several poorly-beaten flanges of iron tied together (not well) by rawhide. One of the antlers had come loose, and was flopping around on the man’s right shoulder.