Bran, she knew, would forgive her when he saw the men she would bring. Moreover, if she left at once, she could be back in Cel Craidd with the promise of warriors or better, the warriors themselves, before Bran returned.
Having made up her mind, the urge to go reared up like a wild horse and she was borne along like a helpless rider clinging to its neck. She made short work of the arrow she was fletching, set it aside, and rose, brushing bits of feather from her lap. I can't be wearing this home to meet my family, she decided, looking down at her stained and threadbare gown. Hurrying to her hut, she went inside and drew a bundle down from the rafters, untied it, and shook out the gown she had worn as an Italian noblewoman when accompanying Bran on the mission to rescue Will Scarlet. Though of the finest quality, the material was dark and heavy and made her look like an old woman; nevertheless, it was all she had and it would have to do. As she changed into the gown, she thought about what she would say to the family she had not seen for… how long had it been? Two years? Three? Too long, to be sure.
She brushed her hair and washed her face, and then hurried off to prepare a little something to eat on the way, and to ready a horse. Caer Rhodl was no great distance. It was still early; if she left at once and did not stop on the way, she could be there before nightfall.
"Are you certain, my lady?" said Noin with a frown when Merian explained why she was saddling a horse while wearing her Italian gown. "Perhaps you should wait and speak to Iwan. Tell him what you plan."
"I am only going to visit my family," replied Merian lightly. "Nothing ill can come of it."
"Then tell Angharad. She should-" Merian was already shaking her head. "But you must tell someone."
"I am," said Merian. "I'm telling you, Noin. But I want you to promise me you won't tell anyone else until this evening when I'm sure to be missed. Promise me."
"Not even Will?"
"No," said Merian, "not a word to anyone-even Will. I should be at Caer Rhodl by the time anyone thinks to come looking for me, and by then there will be no need."
"Take someone with you, at least," suggested Noin, her voice taking on a note of pleading. "We could tell Will, and he could go with you."
"He is needed here," answered Merian, brushing aside the offer. "Besides, I will be safe home before anyone knows it."
Noin's frown deepened; a crease appeared between her lowered brows. "There are dangerous folk about," she protested weakly.
"I shouldn't worry," replied Merian, a smile curving her lips. "The only dangerous folk here about are us." She took the other woman's hand and pressed it firmly. "I'll be fine."
With that, she took up her small cloth bag, mounted quickly into the saddle, and was gone.
She struck off along a familiar path-it seemed as if she had lived a lifetime in this forest; were there any paths she didn't know?-and with swift, certain strides soon reached the King's Road. There she paused to take a drink of water from her stoppered jar and listen for anyone moving in the greenwood. Satisfied there was no one else about, she crossed the road, flitting quickly as a bird darting from one leafy shelter to another, and rode quickly on.
Just after midday, the trail divided and she took the southern turning, which, if she remembered correctly, would lead to her father's lands in Eiwas. The day was warm now, and she was sweating through her clothes; she drank some more water and moved along once more, riding a little slower now; she was well away from Cel Craidd, and there had been no sign of anyone following her. Except for a few stands of nettles and some brambles to be avoided, the path was clear and bright and easy underfoot. When she grew hungry, she ate from the bag slung under her arm, but she did not stop until finally reaching the forest's southwestern border.
Here, at the edge of the great wood that formed the boundary of the March, the land fell away to the south in gentle, sloping runs of low, grassy hills and wooded valleys-the land of her home. As she gazed out upon it now, Merian was lifted up and swept away on wave after wave of guilt: it was so close! And all this time it had been awaiting her return-her family had been awaiting her return.
Stepping from the forest, she started down the broad face of a long hill towards the small, winding track she knew would lead her home-the same track Bran had used so often in the past when he came calling, usually in the dead of night. The thought sent another pang through her. Why, oh why, had she never tried to get home sooner?
It was no good telling herself that she had been taken prisoner and held against her will. That had been true for only the first few moments of her captivity. Events had proven Bran right: Baron Neufmarche was a sly, deceitful enemy, and no friend of hers or her family's. He had shown neither qualm nor hesitation in sending men to kill them following their escape. Once she understood that, she had stopped trying to get away. In fact, she had been more than content to remain at Bran's side in his struggle to save Elfael. And after that first season, the greenwood had become her home, and truth be told, she had rarely spared a passing thought for Eiwas or her family since.
The reason was, she decided, because in her heart of hearts she knew there was nothing waiting for her at Caer Rhodl except marriage-most likely to an insufferable Ffreinc nobleman of her father's choosing in order to advance her family's fortunes and keep the cantref safe. As true as that may have been, it was still only part of the tale. Partly, too, her lack of interest in returning home was due to the fact that in the months following her abduction she had become a trusted member of King Raven's council. In Cel Craidd she was honoured and her presence esteemed by all, and not merely some chattel to be packed off to the first Norman with a title that her father deemed advantageous to befriend. Merian did not mean to condemn her father, but in the precarious world her family inhabited that was the way things were.
In short, with Bran she had a place-a place where she was needed, valued, and loved, a place she did not have without him. And that, more than anything else, had prevented her from leaving.
Now Bran needed her more than ever, if he only knew it. Stubborn as an old plough horse, Bran had refused to even consider asking her father for aid. They needed warriors; Lord Cadwgan had them. The solution was simple, and Merian was not so childish as to allow anything so inconsequential as stubbornness or pride or a misplaced sense of honour to stand in the way of obtaining the aid her people so desperately needed.
Oh, there was a question: when, exactly, had she begun thinking of them as her people?
Merian continued along the well-trod trail, her mind ranging far and wide as her mount carried her unerringly home. Once she passed a farmer and his wife working in a turnip field; they exchanged greetings, but she did not turn aside to talk to them. In fact, she stopped only once for a short rest in a little shady nook beside the road; she watered the horse, then drank some herself, and splashed some water on her face before moving on again. The sun quartered the sky, eventually beginning its long descent.
The sun was well down and the first stars were alight in the east when Merian came in sight of Caer Rhodl. The old fortress with its timber walls stood tall and upright on the hill, the little wooden church quiet in the valley below. The place breathed an air of peace and contentment. In fact, nothing about the settlement had changed that she could see. Everything was still just the same as she remembered it.
This thought gave her heart a lift as she hurried on, reaching the long ramp leading to the gate, which stood open as if awaiting her arrival. A few more quick steps brought her through the gate and into the yard, where Merian paused to look around.