‘Even so . . .’
‘And she is no friend to our family,’ snapped Meria. ‘I would not wish to see her invited to my home. Let us speak no more of it.’
Gwen sighed, replaced the cloak on its peg and moved to the chair opposite. For a while she looked into the fire, thinking of how strong and healthy Ruathain had been before this dreadful illness. Sadness swept over her. ‘I think he is going to die,’ she said, tears in her eyes. ‘Vorna might know of some remedy . . .’
‘I said we will speak no more of it!’
Gwen sat very quietly, Meria’s anger causing her to tremble. She had always hated raised voices and argument. Closing her eyes she thought of Bran, and wondered how such a warm and compassionate soul could have sprung from a harsh and unfeeling woman like Meria. Gwen wished she could have known Bran’s father, the first Ruathain. Men still spoke of him with fondness, and talked of his love of family and his affinity with children. Meria had never once hugged Gwen’s sons, or shown any genuine affection towards them. It was a mystery to Gwen. Opening her eyes she glanced across at Meria. The older woman seemed to be dozing. Gwen rose from the chair and moved back into the bedroom.
Orrin was fast asleep, his thumb in his mouth. Ruathain was lying very still, his skin gleaming in the lantern light. She stroked his brow. The skin was hot, but he seemed more comfortable. Gwen sat down beside him, holding his hand.
She was still there two hours later when his breathing grew more shallow. Suddenly his eyes opened. He looked at Gwen and gave a smile. She felt him squeeze her fingers.
Then he died.
Bane could not sleep. Throwing back the covers he climbed from his bed, pulled on a knee-length tunic of pale grey wool, and walked out into the main room. The fire was almost dead and he blew it to life, adding fresh fuel. The events of the day would not leave him. Riding into Lorca’s camp had been an act of almost suicidal stupidity, and he was angry with himself. Had it not been for the crippled warrior Grale, he would now be dead, his body dumped in the forest, food for foxes and worms.
From the back bedroom he could hear Gryffe snoring. The sound was somehow comforting, although, in a way he could not quite fathom, it left Bane feeling isolated and alone. He sat quietly, feeling the heat of the fire wash over him. Truth to tell, he missed Rage and Telors. All the while he had been in Stone he had thought of the mountains and forests of Caer Druagh with a fondness covered by the warmth of the word home. Yet now he was here the same warmth touched him when he remembered Rage. It was as if contentment was always somewhere else, floating before him like a wraith, ever beckoning, never found.
He heard the gentle creak of a bedboard and then the soft padding of feet upon the rugs of the floor. Bane glanced up to see plump Iswain move into the room, carefully and quietly pulling shut the bedroom door behind her.
She walked over to him. ‘Shall I fetch you something to eat?’ she said, keeping her voice low.
Looking into her round and friendly face he met her gaze. Her dark eyes seemed sorrowful in the firelight. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked her.
‘Aye, I am fine. I could prepare a tisane.’
‘No. I need nothing.’
They sat in silence for a little while, Iswain taking up the iron poker and prodding at the burning logs.
‘Talk to me,’ he said softly. ‘What is troubling you?’
She took a deep breath, and seemed about to speak. But then she shook her head. ‘Everything is all right now. My man is asleep in his bed. There is food in the larder, and no enemies close by. Who can ask for more than that?’
True,’ he told her.
‘Gryffe says that the next time a druid passes we will Walk the Tree. He says that when the summer is here he will buy me a ring, and that, one day, we might have a farm of our own. He is a good man, Gryffe.’