Jack Whyte - The Eagles' Brood

Down and around we thundered, my horse and I, gaining the valley floor and swinging back hard to cover the ground between us and the fleeing boy, and as I rode I wondered who he might be. We emerged at full gallop from the cover of a thick clump of bushes and yet again I hauled my mount to a halt, so that he slid, stiff-legged, his haunches almost on the ground while I stood in my stirrups in amazement. Before us, the far wall of the ravine in which we rode rose sheer for thirty paces and more, and on the flat sward at its feet the boy stood staring upward, his eyes fastened on the cliff above him. Before I could move, he sprang forward and began to swarm up the stony, grass-covered face. No more than thirty paces and a thin screen of leaves parted us, but I knew that he was unaware of me, having neither seen nor heard my approach. I kicked my heels into my horse and then, just as it began to move forward, the boy stopped climbing and looked sideways, allowing me to see his face for the first time.

It was Cassandra! The realization stunned me. Her name sprang to my lips and I kicked my horse harder, urging him forward, but she had already made her choice of direction and now her total concentration was on the cliff face and her climb. I shouted again, knowing as I did so that she could not hear me. I waved wildly, but her concentration was absolute. In almost less time than it takes to describe, she had reached the rim of the cliff and disappeared beyond it without once looking back. But I had had ample time to look at her, and wonder how I could ever, even from a hundred paces, have erred in thinking she could be a boy.

Bitterly disappointed by her disappearance—she had vanished beyond the rim of the cliff so quickly that I knew I had no hope of catching her—yet filled with a glorious elation, I sat there beneath the stony face of that cliff and thought on her: the clear-etched muscles of her long, lithe legs below the shortened, tucked-in skirts of her white tunic, and the shape of her body as she had paused at several points in her ascent, her weight distributed perfectly, her eyes scanning the rock above her for her next handhold, had brought an ache to my throat. What kind of girl was this? I asked myself. How and where had she learned to perform such feats? Where had she come from? And where might she disappear to, once she had fully recovered from her injuries? One thing was frighteningly clear to me. Her body had fully recovered already, and today I had seen little evidence of any other damage, either to mind or spirit.

I made my way eventually to the hidden valley, my thoughts and my heartbeat still in turmoil, and found it strangely difficult to approach the small stone hut. She was there, as was Daffyd. When I entered, she looked up at me and nodded, then continued what she had been doing, scraping and curing what I took to be a rabbit skin. She had discarded the white tunic and now wore the simple homespun shift that was her normal dress. Daffyd mumbled at me, and then he, too, continued working on whatever had demanded his full attention that afternoon.

I felt uncomfortable there, even though the concentration shown by both of them left me free to stare at Cassandra as much as I might wish. Her hair, unbound, fell down before her face, obscuring all but the line of her cheekbone on one side. The fullness of a soft breast was a mere suggestion to interfere with my breathing. The line of her thigh beneath her shift was as clean and pure as the arc of a rainbow. I felt guilty and miserable, although to this day I have no idea why that should be so, and soon I took my leave and rode home in a mood that was half misery and half unbearable excitement. I knew she had recovered. I knew that I loved her. And I knew I had no way of telling her, of wooing her, or of keeping her beside me.

Heading back to my quarters one morning, however, on the way from a dawn parade, I was shocked to see Daffyd coming towards me. I gazed at him, wondering what he was doing here in Camulod, so far away from his ward.

"Daffyd," I said, hearing the incredulity in my voice. "What are you doing here? Where's Cassandra?"

"At home, boyo! In the valley."

"Alone? What are you thinking of?"

"I'm thinking of the work I have to do, and the tasks I have been neglecting."

"What? What d'you mean?"

He winked at me and shook his head in reproof. "Merlyn, I said I'd stay with the girl as long as she needed me. She doesn't need me now and there are others, I hope, who do. Mod and Tumac, for a start. Their education has been sadly neglected these past weeks. They'll be wild as the heather by the time I see them again. Probably have to beat them, I will, to get them back into harness."

I was still gaping at him, aware of the movement of people around me and the clatter of hobnailed sandalled boots on the cobbles as the men dispersed from the parade. The sky was cloudless; the day would be hot. A blackbird was singing somewhere close by, and I was almost whispering in my urgency to chastise Daffyd without anyone hearing what I was saying. "But you left her all alone out there?"

He looked at me as though I had lost my wits, and made no attempt to lower his voice, "Out where, boy? She's not 'out' anywhere. She's safe and snug in a stone hut with a fireplace and a strong roof in a valley that's as secret as this place isn't."

Almost panicked by the loudness of his voice, I grasped him by the arm and pulled him aside, to where we could stand in an angle of the walls of a building without being jostled or overheard. "For the love of Jesus, Daffyd, keep your voice down. Remember the girl's life is at stake!"

He freed his arm from my grasp and adjusted the folds of his long cape, glancing casually at the passers-by as he chastised me for my unthinking use of my aunt's prayer which had, on my lips, become an oath. "For the love of Jesus, is it?" he murmured, out of the corner of his mouth, "I am a Druid, boyo. What would I know about the love of your Jesus? But the girl is safe hidden. Nobody is going to bother her there, except perhaps you." He cleared his throat and continued, "She's a strong girl, your Cassandra, and healthy as a horse now, too. No need to look after that one. Not any more." His expression changed and he smiled at me, stepping close to grip my shoulder with his free hand. "She's happy there in your valley, Merlyn. Perhaps happier than she's been in a long time. Who knows? She has food and a clear pool for fish and for water and she can snare rabbits better than I can. She's happy there. No threats, you see.

"She'll be waiting for you to go and see her. Now the rest is up to you. Remember, though, what she has been through. She trusts you now, but who knows what she thinks of men in her mind? You know what I mean? If you can treat her gently, kindly, you might make a fine, full woman out of her, but run at her like one of your great, rutting stallions, and I won't be responsible for what you'll do to her, or she to you. Remember that, Merlyn. There is a young woman who has been hurt in ways that you and I can't even begin to imagine, let alone understand. Do you hear me?"

"Aye, Daffyd, I hear you. I know what you mean. Are you sure she has enough food?"

"Food? That one? She'd charm honey out of the bees! She will be fine. Next time you pass that way, take her some flour and some salt. That's all she'll need. And don't worry about her. She has a home and it's the perfect place for her. Leave her to enjoy it for a while and then go and see her. But be careful, Merlyn. Don't hurt her, boy."

That hurt me. "Do you think I could?"

"I know you could, without intending any harm at all, so be careful with her. Now I have to go, and so, by the dress of you, do you."

"No, I'm done. I've been on parade. Now I have some free time before I have to meet with my father."