Dodinal put the ring back and, without thinking, ruffled the child’s hair, just as Idris had done. A smile appeared on Owain’s face, making him seem like any other boy of his age. Dodinal felt a surge of affection. Damn this place and these people. They were starting to get to him in ways he had not been prepared for, slipping stealthily through the defences he had put up many years ago.
Later that day, left alone again, he ventured outside. The sky was dark grey and the snow still fell but the wind, though bitingly cold, was slightly less vicious. Using the spear for support, Dodinal walked around the hut to see if his leg would hold up in these conditions. It did. Heartened, he moved deeper into the village. As he passed by one of the huts its door opened and a pinch-faced young woman looked out. She saw him, and her eyes widened and she slammed the door shut. Dodinal shook his head and laughed quietly to himself.
So much for making friends.
He made his way past a roofed wood store, then past the Great Hall towards the palisade that defined the village boundary.
Several posts were missing, and many of those still standing were crooked, riddled with rot. It was just as well the land was at peace. Dodinal stepped beyond the open gates, which hung crookedly on wooden hinges, and onto the frozen earth between the fence and the forest where the villagers grew their crops.
He closed his eyes and cast out. There was no wildlife within reach of his senses. Had something driven the beasts and birds away? What could do such a thing? No great predator, or else he would have sensed it. A forest fire, then, or some similar calamity? There was no other explanation.
He cast north and his senses brushed against…
He returned through the broken gate, and from there to Rhiannon’s hut. Other than the crump of his feet through the frozen crust of snow the silence was absolute.
Once indoors he warmed his hands by the fire and picked at the remains of the stew Rhiannon had brought earlier. He had not felt hungry then and did not feel hungry now, as if the slender pickings of the past few days had shrunk his appetite along with his belly. He had grown soft in Camelot, but wandering the wilderness had made him lean again. Now his ribs and cheekbones appeared as sharp as blades.
He yawned, out of boredom rather than tiredness. He needed a distraction. But what? Unlike Owain he could not occupy his mind with a few trinkets. But that gave him an idea. He went back out long enough to find what he wanted in the wood store, then returned to the hut and found Rhiannon’s knife.
When she visited that evening, Dodinal was pleased to see she had brought Owain with her. “I have something for you,” he said to the boy. He knelt before him and held out his hand. Resting on his palm was a small wooden carving of a wolf. “Go on, take it. Unlike the wolves we encountered, this one will not bite. But I hope it will remind you of me and our adventure in the forest.”
After glancing uncertainly at his mother and receiving a nod of encouragement, Owain reached out and took it. He peered at it and gave Dodinal another of his rare smiles, then threw his arms around the knight and hugged him briefly before scurrying over to the table. Taking out the pouch, he emptied its contents onto the tabletop and set the wooden wolf down amongst them.
“That was nice,” Rhiannon said. “Very thoughtful.”
Dodinal busied himself with tending to the fire.
During the days that followed, he fell into the habit of walking around the village every morning and afternoon. Each time he left his sword in the hut; he had no need of it and it was something of an encumbrance. The worst of the storm had passed. Although the sky was laden with slate-coloured clouds there was only the occasional flurry of snow. Yet there was no respite from winter; the air remained bitterly cold, the ground icy beneath its thick covering of white.
One afternoon he went again to the cleared area beyond the palisade. Reluctantly he cast his mind northwards. There was nothing. He began to make his way back up to the village, feeling relieved.
As he reached the broken palisade, Gerwyn stepped through one of the gaps, one hand on the sword in his belt. Dodinal reached for his own and silently cursed its absence.
“Best you go back the way you came, traveller,” Gerwyn spat. “We have barely enough food to feed ourselves.”
“I thank you for your advice,” Dodinal responded pleasantly. “But I have no intention of going anywhere for now.”
Gerwyn glanced back. Dodinal followed his gaze. Gerwyn’s two friends, the brothers who had sided with him in the Great Hall, waited on the other side of the fence. They, too, were armed, and glared at Dodinal with unconcealed animosity. If it came down to a fight it would be three men against one. But of course he could not allow it to come to that. In the heat of combat he might lose control.
He could disarm them. Yes, they carried swords, but it was unlikely they would have had much cause to use them. Dodinal, though unarmed, was battle-hardened and had brute strength to call upon. He might have to break the odd bone or blacken a few eyes, but at least these three would still be breathing when it was over.
He drew himself up to his full height. A flicker of unease crossed Gerwyn’s face when he realised he had to crane his neck to meet Dodinal’s eyes; his head was roughly level with Dodinal’s chest.
“If you want me to leave, then I will leave. But not until I have said farewell to Rhiannon and your father.”
“There’s no need for that. Just go while you still have the chance.” For all the bravado of his words there was uncertainty in the younger man’s tone, the subtlest hint of a tremor.
“Not without my sword. I will fetch it and then leave.”
Dodinal laced his fingers together and, stretching his arms out, flexed them until the joints popped, shockingly loud in the stillness of the late afternoon.
Gerwyn took a step back towards the fence. His friends backed away a little, too, sharing nervous glances.
As they edged away, so Dodinal stepped towards them. Gerwyn’s back came up against the palisade and he looked around until he located the gap and hurried through it. Dodinal continued his slow advance until he was inside the village with them.
“Well, here we are. Now, my friends, if you will kindly step aside, I will fetch my sword and the spear your father so generously gave me and pay my respects to him before leaving.”
Gerwyn looked a little desperately at his friends, and they looked back helplessly at him. They would be torn between anger, frustration and fear; wanting to take Dodinal on yet sensing they were no match for him, as much as their youthful pride was loathe to admit it.
Finally Gerwyn’s shoulders slumped. “Stay, if you want. I no longer care. But remember, each morsel of food that passes your lips is denied the women and children of this village. I trust that rests easy on your conscience… assuming you have one.”
He spat on the ground and stalked off towards the Great Hall, his two friends falling in behind him without a word.
Dodinal relaxed. He had avoided bloodshed, which was good, but now he had given Gerwyn even more of a reason to hate him, by facing him down in front of his friends. Dodinal would have to watch his back. There was no telling what the chieftain’s son might do.
He looked up into the turbulent sky. When all was said and done, Gerwyn had spoken the truth. He was a burden on these people. He could not leave until the thaw came, yet to stay meant depriving them of food that was rightfully theirs.
There was only one answer. He hurried back to Rhiannon’s hut.
He would take to his bed early. Tomorrow he would be up with the dawn.
SEVEN
The sky was dark, but streaked with light to the east. A wind had picked up during the night, driving the
