The Romance of Eowain

Chapter Eight, Scene Nineteen

      Eithne stepped down from her horse. The mossy turf beneath her feet was springy.

      The company had marched north from Midachath with the blessing of King Dafyd just an hour after sunrise and the morning orisons. The High King's Road rose along the riverside through the Gasirad valley, higher and higher into the foothills.

      By midmorning, the countryside had changed noticeably. Leafy green trees gradually mixed with then gave way to gnarled pines. Her breath began to mist before her. But though the sun struggled through ominous clouds above them and no breeze stirred the damp air, neither rain nor snow disturbed their day.

      They'd passed through the small village of Attabaile shortly before the Sixth Hour of prayer. Eowain took advantage of local craftsmen to trade for freshly smoked and salted meats, fresh breads, maintenance on their horses' shoes, and repairs to some of the mens' boots.

      He'd also spent a small fortune on furs to combat the fresh chill in the air. She pulled her new ermine cloak tight about her shoulders. Her maids similarly appreciated their own more common hare capes. Breda rubbed the fur against her arm as she came to Eithne with a flask of small beer. "He's a very thoughtful lord, my lady."

      "Is he?" She thought so too. It had been kind of him to consider her maids' comfort.

      Breda nodded as Eithne took the flask and sipped from it. "Oh, aye, my lady." She stole a glance across their camp.

      Eowain ordered some men to rest and others to watch. It was then the Ninth Hour for prayers, midafternoon and a good opportunity to rest the men and horses once more, while the drymyn made ready for the company's prayerful obligations.

      Breda raised an eyebrow at the figure Eowain cut moving among the men. "I wonder how far his thoughtfulness extends in... other matters?"

      Eithne pursed her lips around a mouthful of beer and looked at him herself. "Hrmmm." The broad shoulders, the strong arms. His bearded face, soft but scratchy on her cheek. The angle of his cheekbones. The smell of leather and sweat when she was near to him. His uneven and drooping lips, the bottom full and rich, chapped and bitten in the spring weather. He'd dropped a kiss upon her twice. On her cheek, a spot of heat near the corner of her mouth, where a kiss might hide in her smile—if she dared allow herself that dangerous, inviting smile. Those wide, rough hands on her...

      Heat rose in her face. She swallowed and handed back the skin. "Er, yes." She pulled up her fur-lined hood, mindful of her discretion. "There is—I suppose—that to consider."

      The maid took back the skin with a nod of the head. "Yes, my lady." She gave Eithne a wink and a wry smile.

      Eithne couldn't resist and returned the smile. "Yes, well." She composed herself. "So long as we're resting, I should make water. You'll inform Lieutenant Piran?"

      Breda curtsied, and within a few moments, Eithne's three horsemen and two maids made their way off into the trees for a discrete place away from any lecherous soldiers' sight.

      Her father had chosen his men well. She'd already traveled many days and nights with them, and she knew their honor well. They took up positions at a discrete distance.

      She and her maidens tidied up. Eithne stretched the saddle-soreness from her back and shoulders, twisted from side to side and felt as much as heard bones crackle through her spine. The day's journey had been a long one, but pleasant enough, with the chirp of birds and whir of insects to accompany them. She took a long breath of air, listened once more for those pleasing forest noises.