Sometime in the night the storm gave up its howling, and Guinevere ran out of silent tears. Stretched out on one of the absent children's cots, wrapped up warm in soft blankets, she sensed the world growing quiet, and with it she slept.
Morning found her astride a lovely young white mare, following the man called Daniel who was riding an older sturdy brown. All traces of bad weather had blown away, leaving the first crisp chill of Autumn and bright daylight.
After only a quarter hour or so of riding they crested the hill path that led away from the villages and toward the central crossroads. From their vantage point at the top Gwen could see the road they would be taking. It stretched south through a wide, verdant valley and then, in the distance, it curved around and into the gently sloping foothills. She paused for a moment, gazing at it.
It occurred to her that she was choosing this road. No one was coaxing her to follow it. No father nor brother nor knight nor king was pleading with her to take this way or another. She was free to choose her fate – perhaps in a way she had never chosen before. Whatever life she built now would be of her own making. Something in the sight of that long open road made her shiver, and her weary heart lifted just a little bit.
"I won't ask you questions, ma'am," said Daniel, after their second hour of riding side by side. "But I suspect if I don't say something now and then, you'll wonder if I'm in a foul mood or some such thing. I'm not. Sometimes the quiet suits me. But feel free to talk if you like. Or not. It's all fine."
Guinevere, in spite of everything, smiled slightly. She appreciated this man's obvious respect of her privacy, and she also appreciated his willingness to smooth over her awkward silence. If he knew anything of the terrible reason for her banishment he made no sign of it.
"Thank you, Daniel," she said.
He flashed her a genuine smile, and then turned his attention forward and simply rode on.
Guinevere's eyes seemed newly open. She noticed the colors of the green fields and the heather-covered hills. She noticed the vivid blue of the sky. She pondered the shapes of the tiny wisps of clouds that rode high in the mostly clear expanse above her. She considered the shapes of the little weed blossoms that would cast off their seed petals in the slightest breeze. All of this, she took in. It somehow seemed to feed her weary heart.
In the early afternoon they found a peaceful clearing near a little stream, and there they stopped to rest and drink and eat. It was then that Guinevere noticed something about her traveling companion: Daniel clearly loved both of these horses. She could tell in the way that he saw to their comfort and spoke quietly into their ears and stroked their faces. They were both obviously very dear to him. She wondered which one he would be giving away, and why.
But she did not ask. She liked the wordless companionship they had formed, and she wasn't yet willing to change it.
Daniel was nearly six feet tall with short, dark, wavy hair. When they had embarked that morning he'd been clean-shaven, but his angular face was already forming a surprisingly appealing shadow of stubble. His eyes were brown, and his eyebrows were dark and bushy and expressive. He wore an ivory-hued homespun shirt with loose sleeves, and over this he wore a dark leather vest. His hands were worn enough to suggest that he spent at least a portion of his time in farming or some other form of husbandry. He had a capable and serious look about him, an easy smile, and a gentle way with the horses. And underneath it all, Guinevere sensed a depth about him. By his looks, he was likely in his early thirties, but sometimes a look in his eyes made him seem much older.
After sharing a pleasant meal of Eliza's still-fresh bread and some good sharp cheese, they mounted again, returned to the road, and rode on.
As the sun made its long journey across the sky toward the west, Gwen began thinking back again. Her whole heart ached. She wanted to make sense of it. She needed to. But it was all too fresh. It felt exactly like the terrible day long ago when her father had been taken from her. She'd tried and tried then to make sense of it, to understand it, but understanding was not possible. It never really became possible to understand, either. In time the fact of what had happened simply was. In time, she simply came to accept it.Getting from the point of loss to the acceptance had been its own long, lonely journey – a journey which entailed enduring the constant bleeding of her heart and mind until slowly she'd learned how to carry on.
She thought back now on that time. How had she survived losing her father? Her friends had been there for her, but they'd not been able to do much to stop the pain. Merlin had insisted on watching over her. He'd made her sleep in his room so that he or Gaius could keep her from being alone those first few days. The memory warmed her heart. How she would miss him. Morgana had tried to champion her, and then had mourned bitterly with her. Whatever Morgana's dark destiny had been, the tears they had shed together in those days were real enough. This memory, too, touched her. And another great kindness had been done: Prince Arthur had quietly purchased her house for her.
Arthur. More tears. She was growing sick of them.
She caught Daniel stealing a concerned glance at her, and was suddenly mortified at her lack of composure. She resolved to pull herself together immediately. But it proved difficult. At last, after failing to stop crying, she laughed.
"You must forgive me, Daniel" she said with an ironic shake of her head. "I seem unable to keep my wits about me. You must think me rather a ninny!"
Daniel smiled at her, but his eyes were full of understanding. "Fear not, lady. We are, all of us, brought down with our own sorrows from time to time. I'll not begrudge you yours, and trust you'll allow me mine in their time. Without sorrow, I think we'd know not our joy. When it comes, that is."
Gwen felt the truth in every word he said. "Thank you for your understanding," she whispered.
They camped a little way off the road in a glade of spruce trees. Daniel built a fire and saw to it that Gwen was kept warm. He watched to ensure that she ate and drank enough to keep her strength. He watched until she lay down near the fire and wrapped in her blankets and grew still. Then he went over to his horses and sang a lullaby to them as he brushed their fur. But perhaps he was also singing it for Guinevere.
"Hush-a-by. Don't you cry. Go to sleep my little baby.
When you wake you shall have all the pretty little horses.
Blacks and bays, dapples and grays, riding in the night.
When you wake you shall have all the pretty little horses."
His voice filled the darkness with a quiet reassurance that she was not alone. She was indeed far from home. She was bereft and soul-sick and guilty and unhappy. But she was warm and fed and safe. She was under a strange and beautiful sky filled with innumerable stars. And she was not alone.