ONLY one raven remained at Caer Tair Cigfran. He perched on the well, too old and cranky to fly away. Every time a human approached him, he squawked and protested our presence, as if we were to blame for his age and his aches and pains.
I left him alone, confident that he would die soon from old age.
On the day we planted, the faeries came back. The villagers batted at them as if plagued by a swarm of insects. Cedar and his friends laughed uproariously. I laughed with them. The villagers glared at me. Many made the sign of the cross or a clenched fist with little and index finger extended, certain that I had invited a new plague to replace the old.
But the faeries tired of the game and retreated to the forest and the sacred spring.
The next day, the trees began whispering among themselves. A mighty clash of men with iron weapons. Many deaths. Many important deaths.
Where? I asked.
Somewhere else, they replied.
Who? Is my father well?
Silence.
I asked about Curyll. The trees and wind had no answer.
I worked alongside the villagers, my skirts kilted up, and a broad hat shading my face. The people were still leery of me, but learning to accept me. I worked as hard as they and asked rather than ordered them when I needed help.
Carradoc’s daughters remained firmly inside the caer, aloof from the commoners.
Before the end of the week the first refugees arrived at our gates.
Newynog smelled them from the edge of the field we sowed with the last of the seeds. Five puppies barked with mock fierceness in imitation of her alarm, then tumbled into an equally fun wrestling match.
At the first signs of alarm in my great wolfhound, I scanned the horizon with every sense born in me. The shimmering layer of light that surrounded every living thing glowed a little brighter where the road disappeared over the hill to the southwest.
“Someone comes,” I called to men and women who paused to look also.
“More than one, I’d guess, by the size of the dust cloud,” Llandoc added. Carradoc hadn’t ordered his exile for challenging the lord at Beltane, so I allowed him to stay in the village. We needed every strong man available.
Without much conversation, the villagers moved toward the caer. Carradoc had warned us all to be wary of strangers.
No presentiment of danger sat on my left shoulder. I remained a few moments longer, absorbing the warm sunlight, cherishing the sensation of freshly tilled Pridd caressing my bare toes. The scent of the land rose up in heady waves. A few faeries returned and flew loops around my head after the villagers deserted the field.
I stayed as long as they did, knowing there was no danger to me as long as they flew and giggled in my ear.
“Eeep!” the faeries yelped and disappeared in a twinkling of colored lights.
That drove me toward the safety of the fortress walls faster than the news of strangers approaching. Newynog followed close on my heels, herding her offspring in front of her.
I scanned the road from the top of the watchtower alongside a sharp-eyed lad well noted for his far vision but nearly blind with things close at hand. He bore with humble acceptance the jokes about his clumsiness until we needed him. Now he was one of the most valuable retainers I had.
The magical energy surrounding the swarm of people approaching told me their numbers, nearly two dozen, and that they came afoot. The boy reported the same information a heartbeat later.
Two dozen afoot? They could be outlaws, renegades, or a small raiding party working their way inland from the Irish Sea, like the men Da and I had encountered near Deva last autumn.
I dismissed the last possibility. Raiders or outlaws would have to have grown terribly bold to use the road in broad daylight. We’d heard no rumors of raids from other villages and caers. We’d heard nothing. The trees and faeries spoke of a great battle far away, not of burning and looting close at hand.
Refugees, then. With the recognition, I sensed pain.
“Open the gates!” I called down. “Diones, take some men and help carry the wounded. Hannah, we need bandages and herbs. Lots of hot water and wine to cleanse the wounds.”
The steward and his wife crossed themselves, looked to each other for guidance, and set about obeying. Many of the villagers stared at me, mouths agape. Except Llandoc. The young smith grinned at me knowingly. He fairly leaped to haul the huge cauldron we used for soap making out of a storage shed. His father raced to the smithy for charcoal to heat the fire beneath the heavy pot.
Berminia and Marnia poked their heads out of their room, one of the former conical huts that had been incorporated into the foundations of the Long Hall. “Is Nimuë returned?” Berminia asked meekly.
“No,” I replied.
She ducked back into her room without another word. Marnia lingered a moment longer before retreating as well.
A few of the villagers looked to where Carradoc’s daughter had disappeared, then back to me. They drifted back toward the building in silent agreement with the young women that I was the usurper and they the rightful ladies of the caer.
I raised my eyes to the sky in exasperation and wondered if Uther had as many problems with his client kings as I had with my stepdaughters. Da would know how to handle them. But Da was not here and never would be.
I decided to ignore Berminia and Marnia for now. The villagers would have to learn to trust me on their own, without the directive of the girls.
They were my age, but I considered them children.
Llandoc had just finished filling the cauldron from the well when the ragged knot of people arrived at the gate. Leading the group and half-carrying a limping man was a square-built man wearing the brown robes of a Christian priest. Faeries always fled the presence of the followers of the White Christ. The priest’s shimmering blue aura reached out to enfold all of his flock. His inner peace, despite the pain and turmoil around him, spoke to me.
“Welcome, Father Thomas,” I said as I rushed to help support the man he held up by sheer force of will.
“Do I know you, lass?” He looked at me with puzzlement.
“I used to spend winters with Lord Ector and his family. I was in the hall the night you exorcised a demon from my friend Curyll.”
“Ah, the boy with the stutter. How fares he?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen any of the family for many months.”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember seeing you in the hall, daughter. But that was four or five years ago. You must have been very young.”
“I was.” My tongue stumbled over the next words I knew I must say. Some Christians would run from me and the help I offered because of who and what I represented. “My father is The Merlin. I did not participate in your ritual.”
“Ah, that explains it. I didn’t have the privilege of baptizing you. That is why I didn’t recognize your spirit. They call you Wren, don’t they? Short for Arylwren.”
“Yes, Father Thomas. I offer you and yours hospitality. But I am not of your faith.”
“Not all of these poor refugees follow the Christian way either, Wren. But they are hurt and need a place of safety. The war rages long and hard in other parts of Britain. There are many who need help.”
“They are all welcome. I cannot deny them hospitality because of their faith.”
“Are you a healer, like your father?”
“Yes. I have tools at my disposal you will not like.” But only tools, not the great healing magic. A gap opened in my thoughts. I knew I’d need that magic some day to save Curyll’s life. Perhaps I should start experimenting with it now.
“If they help the innocent, your tools come from God, no matter what you call Him.”
“Or Her.” I smiled, liking this man immensely.
“We have much work to do, Wren. And more people likely to come.”
“My father will not like you spending his stores on strangers,” Berminia said from behind me. “You’ve changed everything. Nothing is the same. My father doesn’t like change, and neither do I.”
I had been so caught up in the powerful aura of the priest I hadn’t noticed when she left the sanctuary of her room.
Some of the villagers backed away from us. Carradoc’s heavyhanded justice affected all of them. If my husband had not left the morning after Beltane, I was certain he would have flogged Llandoc, possibly even killed him, for daring to jump the bonfire and besting the lord’s performance.
“Berminia, your father left me in charge of the fortress. I choose to extend hospitality to those in need. I’m sure the healthier ones will work for their keep. We haven’t enough hands to plow and plant on our own. Many of our people marched beside the warband. Many of them may not return. Come, Father Thomas, let us begin by cleaning the wounds to see who needs the most help.”
Change. Berminia saw change as chaos. Change didn’t frighten me. I saw it as the continual evolution of my life pattern.
“My father does not tolerate Christians.” Berminia tried again to undermine my authority. A note of desperation had crept into her voice. Her younger sister cowered behind her.
“Your father doesn’t believe in anything but himself,” I replied. “But he is not here and I am. I choose to tolerate anyone who needs my help. That is the way of the Goddess.”
“And the way of Jesu Christus,” Father Thomas added, crossing himself.
“You have no right to give orders here.” Berminia took a deep breath and plunged on with her defiance. “You murdered Peter the stable boy by magic and then banished my sister to certain death when she tried to stop you. You, Arylwren, are a murderess, and I can prove it.”