[Undómë]

Meghan

‘I don’t care what you told my brother. You do not need to ride by my side like some hound guarding a prize nanny!’ Meghan’s teeth were clenched as she spoke; her words barely audible as Rædwald held her horse’s reins. Her fists were gripped tightly about her saddle as she placed it atop Ash’s blanket, knuckles as white as the frost that laced the ground. A barely banked anger made her body stiff with the effort to keep it under control.

Ash shook her back as the saddle was placed, protesting the vigor with which Meghan had put it down. ‘Sorry!’ Meghan’s voice took on a less indignant tone as she spoke to the nervous animal. She cinched the saddle on securely and grabbed the reins from Rædwald’s hands.

‘Go eat! Go polish your helmet! Go do something and leave me alone!’

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Rædwald

Now what had brought on this fit of temper? Perhaps, he thought in hindsight, it might have been better had he simply stayed close to her as they rode, rather than to try his reasoned arguments on her; the ones concerning how much safer she would be by staying near him. Worse yet, he conceded, was that he had actually tried to order her to comply, citing his own expertise in fighting and her brother’s express requests of him.

He paused for a moment and turned back to her. She was just tying her bedroll onto the back of her saddle. A pale light filtered down through the bare branches of the trees and caught her face in profile. The planes of her face had softened as she spoke to her horse in a soft, sing-songy voice. And the cold breeze brought a flush to her cheeks. Several strands of pale gold hair strayed from her thick braid and curled along the hollow of her jaw.

It struck him how like her mother she was. Esme had been beautiful in those long gone days. Without, and within, her beauty. And a kind, gentle spirit, too. Old memories flooded in, hitting him with an almost physical force. He shoved them away, knowing there was no profit in pursuing them . . . the what-ifs, the might-have-beens. He had gone soldiering. And when he’d returned she was married, with two children to look after and Alric, a good-hearted man, at her side.

Tsah! Water under the bridge, old man! he reminded himself. Though Alric is gone, Esme is but a fragile ghost of herself. Best leave the memories for your dotage.

He drew in a deep breath and looked away to where the sun’s light struggled through the grey haze of early morning. And then looked back once more, the light of this present reality forcing the picture before him into sharper detail. Esme’s daughter . . . Esme’s spirited daughter . . . Yes, he would see her through safely . . . for her mother’s sake, he must see her through.

‘That’s it, then Lis,’ he said, turning back to his mount who was already packed and ready to go. ‘We’ll simply have to outmaneuver her . . .’