wasn’t already with Gerraent, he would reach the Falcon on the morrow.
After a few minutes he slowed the bay to a walk to save its strength. Alternately walking and trotting in short bursts, they traveled all night and reached, just at dawn, the border of the King’s personal demesne. Galrion turned south, heading for the wild heath to avoid the well-traveled road. On this roundabout route, it would take longer to reach the forest, but he had no choice. By noon, the horse was weary and stumbling under him. Galrion dismounted and led it along until they came to an unkempt woodland on the edge of pasture land. He found a stream and let the bay drink. It was when the bay began grazing on the grassy bank that Galrion realized he was starving. In his hurry, he’d forgotten to bring any coin, not so much as a copper. He could no longer ride up to a noble lord’s door and expect to be fed simply because he was a prince.
“I’m not quite as clever as I need to be,” he said to the horse. “Well, I wonder how you go about stealing food from farmers?”
The horse needed to rest, and Galrion was weaving with exhaustion. Letting the improvised halter rope trail for want of a proper tether, he left the horse to its grass, then sat down with his back to a tree. Although he told himself that he would rest only for one watch of the day, when he woke, it was late in the afternoon, and he heard voices nearby. He jumped to his feet and pulled the dagger out of his shirt.
“I don’t know whose it is,” a man was saying. “A stolen horse, from the look of this bit of cloth.”
Galrion crept through the trees and came upon a farmer and a young lad, who was holding the bay by the halter. When the horse saw Galrion, it nickered out a greeting. The farmer spun round, raising his heavy staff.
“You!” he called out. “Do you claim this horse?”
“I do.” Galrion stepped out of cover.
The lad started urging the horse out of the way, but he kept frightened eyes on his father and this dirty, dangerous stranger. When Galrion took a step forward, the farmer dropped to a fighting crouch. Galrion took another step, then another—all at once, the farmer laughed, dropped the staff, and knelt at the princes feet.
“By the sun and his rays, my liege,” the farmer said. “So you’re out of the palace. I didn’t recognize you at first.”
“I’m out indeed. How do you know so much?”
“What’s better gossip than the doings of the King? Truly, my prince, the news of your disgrace is all over the marketplace. Everyone’s as sad as sad for your mother’s sake, her such a good woman and all.”
“She is at that. Will you help me for her sake? All I ask is a bit of rope for this halter and a meal.”
“Done, but I’ve got a bridle to spare.” The farmer rose, dusting dead leaves off his knees. “The King’s warband rode by on the east road today. The tailor’s daughter saw them when she went out to pick violets.”
The farmer was even better than his word. Not only did he give the prince the bridle and a hot dinner, but he insisted on packing a sack with loaves of bread, dried apples, and oats for the gelding—more food, no doubt, than he could truly spare. When Galrion left at nightfall, he was sure that the King’s men would hear nothing but lies from this loyal man.
It hardly mattered what the farmer would have told them, if indeed they did ride his way, because by mid-morning of the next day, Galrion led his weary horse into the virgin forest. He found water, gave the horse a meager ration of oats, then sat down to think. He was tempted simply to go to Rhegor and let Brangwen think what she liked about him, but he had the distinct feeling that Rhegor would be furious. For the first time in his pampered life, Galrion knew what it was to fail. He’d been a fool, dishonorable, plain and simply stupid—he cursed himself with every insult he could think of. Around him the forest stretched silent, dappled with sunlight, indifferent to him and his short-lived human worries.
Husbanding every scrap of food, scrounging what fodder he could for his horse, Galrion made his way east through the forest for two days. He stayed close to the road and tried to calculate where the Falcon’s party might be, because he’d made up his mind to intercept it. Late one afternoon, he risked coming out onto the road and riding up to the crest of a low hill. Far away, hanging over the road, was a faint pall of dust—horses coming. Hurriedly he pulled back into the forest and waited, but the Falcon’s party never rode past. With Brangwen and her maidservants along, they would be making early camps to spare the women’s strength. As it grew dark, Galrion led the bay through the forest and worked his way toward the camp. From the top of the next hill he saw it: not just Lord Gerraent and his retainers, but the King’s entire warband.
“May every god curse them,” Galrion whispered. “They knew she’d be the best bait to draw me.”
Galrion tied his horse securely in the woods, then ran across the road and began making his cautious way to the camp. Every snap of a twig under his foot made him freeze and wait. Halfway downhill, the trees thinned somewhat, giving him a good look at the sprawling, disorganized camp. In the clearing along the stream, horses were tethered; nearby, the warband was gathered round two fires. Off to one side among the trees stood a high-peaked canvas tent, doubtless for Brangwen’s privacy, away from the ill-mannered riders.
The true and dangerous question, of course, was where Gerraent might be. The firelight below shone too dim for Galrion to make out anyone’s face. He lay flat in the underbrush and watched until after about an hour a blond man came out of the tent and strolled over to one of the fires. No man but her brother would have been allowed in that tent in the first place. As soon as Gerraent was safely occupied with his dinner, Galrion got up, drawing his dagger, then circled through the underbrush, moving downhill and heading for the tent. The warband was laughing and talking, making blessed noise to cover his approach.
Galrion slit the tent down the back with his dagger, a rip of taut cloth. He heard someone moving inside.
“Galrion?” Brangwen whispered.
“It is.”
Galrion slipped back into cover. Wearing only her long nightdress, her golden hair loose over her shoulders, Brangwen crawled out the rip and crept to join him.
“I knew you’d come for me,” she whispered. “We’ve got to go right now.”
“Ah, ye gods! Will you come with me?”
“Did you ever doubt it? I’d follow you anywhere. I don’t care what you’ve done.”
“But you don’t even have a scrap of extra clothing.”
“Do you think that matters to me?”
Galrion felt as if he’d never truly looked at her before: his poor weak child, grinning like a berserker at the thought of riding away with an exile.
“Forgive me,” Galrion said. “Come along—I’ve got a horse.”
Then Galrion heard the sound, the softest crack of a branch.
“Run!” Brangwen screamed.
Galrion swirled round—too late. The guards sprang out of the trees and circled him like a cornered stag. Galrion dropped to a fighting crouch, raised the dagger, and promised himself he’d get one of them before he died. A man shoved his way through the pack of guards.
“That’ll
