But I am glad it happened, she thought fiercely, hunching against the slashing wind and drawing her cloak high over her face, almost to covering her eyes. Otherwise, I would never have had the courage to break away! I would have remained obedient, perhaps even married Dom Garris . . . and a shiver of revulsion went through her. No, she was well out of that, even if she must spend the rest of her life working as a boy in some stranger’s stables!
The snow was beginning to turn to a wet, soggy rain; the horse’s feet slipped and slithered on the steep trail, and Romilly, sliding into rapport, felt the chill of the wind, the uneasy way the horse shivered and set down his feet with uncertain care on the slippery road. The rain was freezing as it fell; her cloak was stiffening with ice. They must find shelter soon, indeed.
They came to a steep turn in the road, where it forked, one path leading upward through thick trees that lined the trail, the other broader, but steeply downward. Romilly slid off the horse’s back and went, craning her neck to stare through the thick misty rain. Downward she could see nothing except a small runnel of water cascading out of sight over the rocks beside the road; but upward, it seemed to her, she could make out the walls of some kind of building, a herder’s hut or shelter for animals. The broadening road might lead down to a village or a cluster of valley farms, but she had no assurance, nor did she see any lights in the valley, and the rains were coming ever faster.
Upward, then, it must be, to the shelter, no matter how crude; it would at least be out of the wind or rain. She did not mount again – on a trail as steep as this upward path, the horse would fare better without her weight. She took her horse’s bridle, speaking soothingly to the animal as it jerked its head away. She wished she could have had her own horse; this one was a stranger. Yet it was docile enough and even friendly.
The darkness through snow and rain grew darker; it was some building, indeed; not large, but it appeared weather-tight. The door was sagging, half off its hinges, and gave a loud protesting noise when she shoved it and went in.
“Who’s there?” a quavering voice cried out, and Romilly felt her heart race and her throat tighten with fear. Dark as it looked, dilapidated, it was not deserted after all.
She said quickly, “I mean you no harm, ma’am – I was lost in the storm and the rain is freezing. May I come in?”
“Honor to the Bearer of Burdens, and thanks be that you have come,” the voice said; a trembling, old voice. “My grandson went to the town and I make no doubt, in this storm he has had to shelter somewhere, I heard your horse’s steps and thought for a moment it was Rory comin’ back, but he rides a stag-pony and I see you have a horse. I canna’ leave my bed; can ye throw a branch on the fire, boy?”
Now her face was beginning to thaw a little she could smell the smoke; groping in the darkness, she went toward the dull embers. The fire was almost out. Romilly stirred the embers, coaxed it alive with small sticks, and when they caught, built it up again with a bigger branch and then with a log. She stood wanning her hands, in the growing light, her eyes made out a few sticks of decrepit furniture, a bench or two, an ancient chest, a box-bed built into the wall, in which lay an old, old woman, propped up against the back of the bed.
As the firelight grew, she said, “Come here, boy. Let me look at you.”
“My horse-” Romilly hesitated.
“You can lead him round into the stable,” said the old voice. “Do that first, then come back.”
She had to force herself to wrap the cloak over her face and go into the bitter cold. The stable was deserted, except for a couple of scrawny cats, who whined and rubbed against her legs, and after she had unsaddled her horse and given it a couple of pieces of the dog’s bread – the grain would be enough to feed it for tonight – they followed her through the door into the warmth of the now-blazing fire.