Wilding

8. 4

4

As Thomas caught up, Celyn turned back, irritation flashing across his face. He paused, his gaze raking over him, and he signalled for Thomas to remain behind him.

They soon came to where the trees petered out. A grassy meadow stretched away from them, intersected by a faint path that ran to their right and left in front of them. Beyond the meadow, the forest rose up again, the thick trees obscuring anything else.

To their left, the path went around a small hill and disappeared behind it; to the right, it continued through the meadow until it faded from sight among the trees at the far end. A low murmur, coming from behind the hill, and then the sudden snort of a horse broke the silence.

Celyn moved back among the shadows at the edge of the clearing and stood behind a large tree, drawing his sword and motioning Thomas to another tree close by.

Thomas looked over at Celyn and at the sword held ready in his grip. If it came to a fight, he was doomed. He gripped the rough trunk, hard, and waited, his muscles tight with tension. Maybe I shoulda stayed put.

But it was too late to go back. Three mounted men came around the hill, moving swiftly and with purpose. They were dressed much like Celyn, with cloaks covering a longer tunic and woollen breeches on their legs. Soft leather boots completed the outfit. Their clothing was of natural colours—browns, greys, and blacks. Each carried a long sword similar to Celyn’s at their waist. They were bearded, their hair unkempt.

An aura of grim determination radiated from the men; their eyes sharp on their surroundings as they rode. Thomas willed himself to be invisible. Heart pounding, he glanced quickly at Celyn.

The other man stood poised, his arm muscles flexed as he gripped his sword tighter, his eyes fixed with deadly intent on the group. He was not happy to see these strangers, that much was certain.

The man at the head of the group stopped, throwing up his hand in a signal to stop. The rest halted behind him, almost right in front of Thomas. They all scanned their surroundings, their hands dropping to the long swords at their waists. Thomas froze, hardly breathing.

The leader was young, probably close to Thomas’ age, but there the similarity ended. The hard purpose in the man’s gaze belonged to someone much older than his years. He spoke quietly to the men, the occasional word drifting over to where the two watchers stood motionless in the shadow of the trees. Thomas frowned. The words sounded vaguely Swedish or Norwegian. The short conversation ended, and they rode off again, making little noise as they followed the pathway into the woods at the far end of the meadow.

A few moments after the group disappeared from sight, Celyn relaxed, replacing his sword in its leather sheath. He stalked over to where Thomas stood. “I told you to stay put. You are of no use to me without a blade.”

“Sorry.” He shifted his shoulders, uncomfortable under the other man’s hard gaze. “Didn’t want to be alone.” Celyn frowned, but before he could speak Thomas continued. He didn’t need a lecture. “Who were they?”

Celyn’s scowl deepened, his hard face darkening with anger. “Mercians.” He spat the word, as if it were bitter on his tongue.

“Mercians?”

Celyn’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “Come, back to the fire. It is not safe here, this close to the path.”

It wasn’t safe anywhere, as far as Thomas was concerned, but he nodded, and followed the older man back to the campfire, his head pounding with every step. By the time he got back, he sank down on the log with mingled relief and frustration. He had to get out of here, but how could he when he could barely walk a dozen yards?

Celyn sat down opposite him, his jaw clenching as he stirred the fire.

Curiosity distracted Thomas from his dilemma. “Who are these Mercians?”

A dark eyebrow rose at the question. “Mercia is a kingdom southwest of here. Penda of Mercia is an enemy of my king. His men should not be here, so far into Bernicia.”

“Spies?” That would explain Celyn’s anger, but he had the feeling there was something else, something more personal behind the other man’s ire.

“Likely,” Celyn said, and added a log to the fire, sparks shooting upwards as he did so.

“Do you know them?”

Celyn cut a glance at Thomas, then stood up abruptly. “I set some snares last night. Mayhap God has blessed us with a hare. Stay here. I will be back shortly.”

Before Thomas could speak Celyn turned and melted back into the woods.

Obviously, the other man did not want to talk about it. He puzzled over it for a moment but soon gave up. He half-rose, thinking to explore, but it was no good. The dizziness forced him back down, and he bit back frustration.

God, help me. It was the only thought in his aching head that made any sense, which didn’t say much.