Gwaine sat still in the darkness for a few minutes, deciding what to do. He doubted very much that Raynelle, angry as she might be, would leave him and go back to Inglewood Castle without even a word. She must have gone out for some other purpose—hunting, perhaps? But there was still some salted meat by the fire, enough to last them the rest of the day, at least, if Gwaine remained here. And when he shifted in bed and a stab of pain went up his leg, he knew that he wouldn't be able to ride all the way back to Camelot without at least another day or two of rest.

Whatever she was doing, he didn't like the idea of her wandering around the forest by herself with those wolves around, especially when the light wasn't good. But he reminded himself that she had probably been hunting in these woods from the time she was old enough to shoot, and that she had clearly demonstrated her ability to deal with the wolves the day before.

Finally, unable to get back to sleep—unwilling to, after that nightmare—Gwaine got out of bed, hobbled over to the fire, fed it a bit, got himself something to eat, and got back under the covers as quickly as possible. It was far too cold to stay out of bed.

As he sat up, wrapped in blankets and furs, and ate a bit of breakfast, he looked around the cabin in the dim red light of the fire and tried not to think about his nightmare. As his success was minimal, he was doubly thankful an hour later when the door opened and Raynelle walked in.

"You're up early," she said briefly as she walked over and crouched down by the fire to warm up. She kept her cloak on her and her hood up and barely looked at him.

"You were up even earlier, apparently," Gwaine replied mildly.

"I found your horse." Raynelle answered his unspoken question. "Its bridle became stuck in a thicket and an old man who lives in the forest found it before the wolves did, and housed in his lean-to overnight. I brought it back with me." She glanced at their slightly diminished food supply. "Good, you've eaten. Here." She picked up his trousers and socks, which had dried overnight.

Gwaine took them hesitantly. Was she going to send him off to Camelot with a sprained ankle?

She again anticipated his thoughts. "I have been too long from the castle; my attendants will be worried about me. And I need to prepare for my brother's arrival. I will take you to Gwyn ap Nudd—that's the man who found your horse. His hut isn't far, so you won't have to ride far this morning with that bad ankle. He has said you can stay with him for a few days until you are able to ride more comfortably."

Gwaine didn't answer, but finished pulling on his clothes. He was as well aware as she was that the difference in comfort between Inglewood Castle and a beggar's hut would surely have made up for the difference in distance. While she was providing a place for him to recover, she was still subtly insulting him by not taking him into her home. But Gwaine certainly did not hold it against her. For a moment he remembered with distaste his mother's offer of a meal to the men who had taken Gwalchmei—no, he did not blame Raynelle at all for not wanting him to come anywhere near the castle.

Raynelle silently helped him on with his chainmail and his cloak—easier for him to wear them than to carry them—and supported him out the door and helped him onto his horse. Walwen tossed her head and whinnied with happiness at the sight of her master.

"Foolish beast—runs off and leaves me to the wolves, and then is so happy to see me return," Gwaine said, patting her neck—but his tone was affectionate.

Raynelle took the bridle and led Walwen herself, saving Gwaine the trouble of guiding the horse or using his legs—and swollen ankle—to help direct her. They headed off in silence through the woods, the only sounds those of boots and hooves on snow, and Walwen's noisy breath in the still winter air.

"Gwyn was an old servant of my father's," Raynelle said at last, breaking the silence. "He was his Master of the Hunt. My father taught me to shoot, but Gwyn taught me to track." Her tone talking of the old servant was more tender than any Gwaine had heard her use so far: very different from her usual bluff and hearty—or pointed and angry—voice. "He also taught me herblore—he is, in fact, a far better healer to have charge of you than me." She glanced up at him for a moment with a small smile. "Meanwhile, he will probably tell you terribly embarrassing stories of all the beginners' mistakes I made when I was first learning to hunt. I will only ask you to remember that they all took place many summers ago." Gwaine laughed. "My father used to say that I should not be embarrassed when an old servant told tales of my childhood: it meant I had gained their affection and loyalty through long years of friendship."

She broke off here, and Gwaine frowned—not at her words, but at the connection he could not help but make with them. If the records had been right, if Raynelle had had no brother, how would her servants have reacted to Gwaine's usurping of her father's place? If Sir Gromer had died with no issue, the servants would surely have welcomed someone to come and take charge. But perhaps Raynelle was competent to do most, if not all, of the business of a lord of the manor. The only thing Inglewood lacked with her in charge was a man to lead the men-at-arms in defense of the castle or the King, if need be. If this was the case, the servants would certainly have considered Gwaine an interloper. How would they have reacted to him? Probably no better than Raynelle had, and possibly worse. Would they, perhaps, have even fought to defend Inglewood from him, as an intruder and usurper?

But perhaps they would instead have responded as his own mother's servants had done. Cowed by Sir Accolon and his cronies, aware that without the income from the land of Gwalchmei she was destitute and without support from the King she was friendless, most of the servants had not done more for their former mistress than offer her clothes, food, and shelter the first few nights while Gwaine recovered from his head wound. (He unconsciously reached up and rubbed the old scar, which was still visible along his hairline on the right side—one of the reasons he kept his hair long.) But they had not been able to tarry, and had moved on and away from Gwalchmei as soon as possible: Accolon would not have reacted well to them if he had found them there. And none of the servants had accompanied them.

It was not that Gwaine blamed them, precisely: after all, the servants' position had been precarious, and his mother, now destitute, had had nothing to offer. And times were hard. It was no wonder they had chosen to keep their source of income rather than throw in their lot with a poor woman who did not know how to work for her keep. But he wondered now, with Raynelle's words echoing in his head: had his family so treated the servants that they felt no loyalty to their former mistress?

Gwaine shook his head to clear it. His mother had worked hard to support them after the King refused to restore her husband's lands to her. She had persevered with quiet dignity, and he could not imagine her mistreating a servant. And his father, whom she rarely spoke of… But he preferred to imagine that his father had been noble, chivalrous, generous. Since he was old enough to think about such things, Gwaine had come to believe—or made himself believe—that the reason Gwalchmei had become so poor in the years leading up to his father's death was because Sir Loth had been too generous. It was not that he had been irresponsible or taken too much out of the land without putting enough back into it—he had given too much away to his servants and his friends. Being part of a royal court was expensive, and perhaps Sir Loth had allowed his friends to borrow from him too freely to cover their expenses. Those friends certainly had not come to the aid of Loth's widow and orphaned children when he was slain in battle: maybe it was the result of a guilty conscience.

Gwaine's daydream was interrupted when Raynelle broke the silence once more. "We're here," she said. They rounded a copse of trees and Gwaine saw a small hut with smoke curling into the sky through a hole in the roof, and a lean-to large enough for two horses. Raynelle helped him into the hut, said the briefest of goodbyes, barely allowing Gwaine time to thank her, and slipped out again to unsaddle his horse and then head to Inglewood Castle. Gwaine found himself face-to-face with an old man with a soot-smudged face and bright black eyes. They stared at one another for a long moment. Gwaine felt a little self-conscious before that direct and piercing gaze. Sir Leon, he thought, would never have allowed a retired Huntmaster to stare him down, but Gwaine felt his own eyes dropping to his lap. Then Gwyn moved, holding out a bottle.

"Whisky?" he said.

TBC

AN: Sorry about all the Gw- names, but they're so common in Arthurian literature! Couldn't really avoid them.

Please review! Since I'm home on Christmas break until the second week of January, I might actually be able to update regularly!