a common rider. One at a time, his men led their horses into line at the watering trough. Ricyn found Camlwn, who was holding the reins to Dagwyn’s horse as well as to his own.
“And where’s Dagwyn?” Ricyn said.
For an answer Cam jerked his thumb at the nearby stable, where Dagwyn and a kitchen lass were embracing passionately in the shadow of a wall.
“One last sweet farewell,” Cam said, grinning. “I don’t know how he does it. I’ll swear he’s ensorcelled a lass in every dun we’ve ever been in.”
“If not two. Daggo, come on! Save it for when we ride home!”
The soft, silvery notes of Lord Dannyn’s horn drifted through the dun. When Dagwyn tore himself away from the lass, the warband hooted and jeered. Calling orders, Ricyn mounted his horse. The familiar scuffling jingle as the warband followed his example was sweeter than any bard-song. He led them around to the front of the dun, where the rest of the army, over three hundred men in all, waited by the gates with the carts, packhorses, and servants off to one side. Gweniver turned her horse out of the confusion and rode over to fall into place at Ricyn’s side.
“Good morrow, my lady.” He made a half bow from the saddle.
“Morrow. This is splendid, Ricco. I’ve never been so excited in my life.”
Ricyn grinned, thinking that she was like a young lad on his first ride out. It seemed impossible that she would be there, wearing mail like the rest of them, with the hood pushed back to reveal the soft cropped curls of her golden hair and the blue tattoo on her cheek. The sky turned gray with dawn and paled the torchlight below. Up at the gates, servants began to attach the chains to the winch. Lord Dannyn rode his stocky black gelding down the line, paused here and there to speak to someone, then finally jogged up to Gweniver.
“You’re riding at the head of the line with me, Your Holiness.”
“Oh, am I, now? And to what do I owe this honor?”
“Your noble birth.” Dannyn gave her a thin-lipped smile. “It’s a cursed sight better than mine, isn’t it?”
As they rode away, Ricyn stared at Dannyn’s back and hated him.
All that morning the army ambled west along the coast road, which hugged the sea cliffs. Ricyn could see the ocean, sparkling turquoise flecked with white, running slow waves onto the pale sand far below. Off to the right lay the well-tended fields of the king’s personal demesne, stubbled golden, where an occasional peasant walked along, bent double as he gleaned the last few grains of the first harvest. Ordinarily, Ricyn would have been whistling as they rode, just because it was a lovely day and they were headed for glory, but today he rode instead wrapped in his thoughts, alone at the head of the warband instead of next to a familiar riding partner. Every now and then, when the road curved, he would see Gweniver far ahead and wish that she were riding next to him.
Yet that night, when the army camped in the broad meadows along the cliffs, Gweniver came to his campfire with her arms full of her gear. He jumped up and took the burden from her.
“You should have let me tend your horse, my lady.”
“Oh, I can stake out a horse if I have to. I’ll be sharing your fire.”
“That gladdens my heart. I was wondering just how long Lord Dannyn would keep you at his side.”
“And just what do you mean by that?”
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