It was decided that we should stay off the King’s Road so as to avoid any travellers, especially Norman soldiers. For two days we made our slow way through the winterland and shivered in a frosty silence as we moved through a world bleached white by the snow and cold—the stark, bloodred berries of holly and the deep green strands of ivy twining round boles of elm and oak the only hues that met our colour-starved eyes.
The Forest of the March seemed to slumber beneath its thick mantle, although here and there we saw the tracks of deer and pigs, sometimes those of wolves and other creatures—the long slashing strides of the hare, and the light skittery tracings of mice and squirrels. Overhead we heard the creak and crack of cold boughs and branches, and the occasional twit and chirp of birds interested in our passing. But these were the only things to relieve the dull sameness of the slumbering greenwood.
Nor was Siarles the easiest companion a man might choose. Short-tempered and quick to judge; easily stirred to anger or despair; in character, steadfast; in mood as changeable as water—he is Cymry through and through, Siarles is. Poor fella, he is one of God’s creatures that is happiest when most miserable. And should he lack sufficient cause for misery, an imaginary source is all too easily conjured. For some reason he had taken against me from that first day I dropped out of the tree. By day’s end, I reckoned I had endured enough of his rudeness. “Siarles, my friend, there is a boil of contention between us as wants lancing.”
“So you say.”
“I do say it. You act like a fella with bees in his breeches every time we meet. For the life of me, I cannot think why that should be. Nevertheless, I know an unhappy man when I see one, and here I have one in my eye.”
“I am not unhappy,” he said, his whole face puckered in a petulant scowl.
“I think you are. Or, if not unhappy, then displeased. Tell me what you’ve got caught in your craw, and I will do my best to help you.”
He glared at me, then turned away. “Finish saddling your horse. It is time we were on our way.”
“No,” I replied. “Not until you tell me what is wrong with you.”
He turned on me with sudden anger. “With me?” he said, almost shouting. “You find fault with me when it is yourself you should be chiding.”
“Me! What have I done?”
He made a sound like the growl of a frustrated dog and turned away again.
“Well, this is going to be a long day a-standin’ here,” I told him. “I’m not moving until I know your mind.” He glared at me balefully, and I thought he would not speak.
“Well? What is it to be? Either we make peace between us, or stand here and glower at one another like two stubborn roosters in a yard.”
He snarled again, his frustration boundless, and I could not help but laugh at the hopelessness of the situation. “See here, Siarles, my contrary friend. You’re going to have to give me something more than grunts and growls if we are to get to the meat of the matter. So you might as well tell me and get it done.”
“I don’t like Englishmen,” he grimaced through gritted teeth. “Never have. Never will.”
“Half an Englishman only,” I corrected. “My mother was a Briton, mind. As was your own if you had one.”
“You know what I mean. Bran had no business taking you in.”
“No? It seems to me that a lord can take a vassal of any fella willing to swear fealty to him. I bent the knee to Bran right gladly, and my word holds fast through fair or foul,” I declared. “You wanted to come along because you don’t trust me. You thought I’d steal the ring and fly away as soon as I got out of sight.”
He glowered at me, and I could see I’d hit near the mark. “You don’t know what I think,” he muttered at last.
“Yes, I do,” I told him. “You had a cosy little nest in the greenwood and then along comes this big ol’ Englishman, Will Scarlet, stomping all over your tidy garden with his great boots, and you’re afraid he’s going to squash you like a bug.” Siarles frowned and climbed into the saddle. “But, see here, I en’t about squashing you or anybody else, nor usurping ’em from their rightful