‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘my horse and I have many conversations. I tell him of my hopes and dreams as I ride, and he listens. Occasionally, when I speak of my more romantic beliefs, he will toss his head and snort. That is his way of telling me that the world is not as I would wish it to be.’
‘He sounds very wise, your horse.’
‘Indeed he is.’
They sat in silence for a while, and Gwen was surprised to find that his company was not at all intrusive. He applied no pressure, was not inquisitive. He merely sat, completely at ease, watching the fire dancers as they leapt and twirled. She wanted to ask his name, but that would have meant initiating a conversation, so she too watched the dancers.
After a while he spoke again. ‘Do you know the land to the east of Golden Rocks, where the woods back onto cliffs of sandstone and the river widens?’
‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘It is very pretty there.’
‘I plan to build a house there. I plan to build it with stone.’
‘Stone? Why would you have a house of stone?’
‘I want it to last. I want my children and my children’s children to come there, and know the joy I experienced. I intend to have large windows facing west, so that the setting sun can shine upon my hearth. I mentioned this to my horse, and he did not snort once.’
‘Then you must do it,’ she said. ‘One should never ignore the advice of a wise horse.’
He laughed then, and she smiled. Never before had she made a joke, and though it was not a particularly good one it was a breakthrough for Gwen. She wished he would tell her his name.
‘Do you have other wise animals?’ she asked him.
‘No. I have a very stupid hound. We call him the Old One. He does not like other dogs, but will pad across the meadows in the early morning, ignoring all the rabbits. They are so used to him that they carry on feeding as he passes by. He likes rabbits. One of my other hounds – a young rascal named Piga – took off one morning on a rabbit hunt. The Old One charged at him, nipping his shoulder and driving him from the meadow. Then he sat down, and all the rabbits came back out of their burrows and began feeding again. I am very much mocked by my fellows for the antics of the Old One.’
A red-headed woman approached them. ‘There you are,’ she called. ‘Come, Bran, as the Master of the Feast you should be at table.’
He waved at her. That is my mother, Meria. Commanding, isn’t she? Well, I must go and do my duty.’ He rose and strolled away.
Gwen found that she missed his company even as he began the walk back to the feast tables. Suddenly he turned and strolled back. ‘Come,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘We can dine together.’
Fear flickered once more, but she took his hand and he raised her to her feet. They were married five weeks later.
Now, as she gazed around the house in which Bran had grown to manhood, Gwen felt only sadness. Her son had been so strong, so quick and so full of life. It amazed her how swiftly that strength had evaporated. And now he was gone.
The door opened and Meria strode in. ‘Can you believe the stupidity of that woman?’ she said. The calm atmosphere disappeared in an instant.
‘Which woman?’ asked Gwen, returning to her chair.
‘Vorna. She had a dream that Sea Wolves were coming across the land to Three Streams, and that we should all just leave and run away into the wilderness. I’m sure some people will. Idiots all of them.’
‘It is said she once had great power.’
‘Aye she did. But not any more. Now she is merely wilful.’
‘Why do you hate her so?’ asked Gwen.
‘She befriended the bastard Bane – the man who has sworn to kill Connavar. Can you imagine that? Such treachery? She should have been hanged!’
Gwen said nothing. She walked back into the bedroom, anxious to be away from Meria and her radiated unpleasantness. Orrin was still sleeping. It had been over four hours now, and he rarely slept so long in the daytime. Gwen sat beside the bed and gently shook his shoulder. ‘Time to wake, little one. I shall toast some bread for you.’