It was a softly lowered sky that rained feather-light droplets upon the village that morning. The mist was not cold, for spring had arrived in earnest, and the rich, brown earth drank deeply of the refreshment, pushing forth in turn its tender, verdant shoots in places where heel and cart did not intrude. The world was taking on its new mantle of brighter daylight, even under an overcast sky. And everywhere one's gaze fell, there was some new splash of pale green as life insisted on making itself known again.
She'd always felt that rain made these hues more intense. The soil was darker, the tree trunks starkly contrasted against vivid, young leaves. The gentle spray in the air landed upon her flaxen hair and clung in tiny drops, as they might to a delicate web.
"Brynleigh," said a woman's voice, near at hand. "You should cover your head! You'll catch illness."
Brynleigh turned to smile at the figure striding beside her along the village street. “Did you come to visit me only to fret over me, Elfswith?” she chuckled. The older woman’s head was already covered with a simple, brown shawl. Bits of golden hair, streaked with silver, peeked out around Elfswith’s chin.
“It is not chilly,” Brynleigh went on, turning her eyes forward again as their steps crunched wetly against the soaked gravel. “I like the rain in spring and summer. Do you not?”
“Nay,” replied Elfswith, casting a fond, sidelong smile at her young friend. “I like a dry head and a warm fireside at my age.”
“You are yet young!” objected Brynleigh, a little too quickly, and both women broke into gentle laughter at the same moment. She slipped her hand through Elfswith’s arm as they passed under a pair of towering, broad-limbed trees that leaned together like an archway. Beyond was a wide, open square, filled with parked wagons, crates, and barrels arranged under colorful canopies.
“Young enough to be thankful that you have a spare bed on the first floor of your cottage,” Elfswith quipped, her sky-blue eyes sparkling with mirth, even under the dull light of the clouds. “And that I do not have to battle the stairs.”
The pair meandered together in a lazy, careless fashion around the marketplace. Anyone beholding them might note that there was no intent or purpose to their path, and they seemed like countless other women of the village. Thankful to be out of the house after a long winter, and content to have a friend at hand for idle chatter and a laugh or two while browsing an endless array of crockery, clothing, and other sundries.
“Those stairs would be no match for you, Elfswith,” Brynleigh said with a grin, as they paused before a display of eggs of varying sizes and speckled hues. “You still manage the Snowbourn stable without any trouble! I never knew a sturdier or more hard-working woman.”
If Elfswith had a retort ready, it never fell. Before either woman could speak another word, a loud voice cut into the pleasant din of the market square.
“Aye, he gone off again and got himself hurt. Lost his horse, too, I heard.”
Brynleigh and Elfswith turned to stare at each other in wide-eyed silence. The voice was from a well-known woman of Bancross, an infamous gossip whose high, piercing voice grated on one’s ears.
Brynleigh’s first instinct was to turn and steer herself and her friend away from the unpleasant sound, and the potential to overhear unseemly things that she should not be privy to. But there was something about Elfswith’s countenance that held her feet in place. The older women was turning to listen to the muckraker.
“Surprised he isn’t dead yet!” The mouthy woman continued. By the time Brynleigh resigned herself to glancing in the same direction, a small cluster of townsfolk had gathered, blocking the gossip from her view. She did not feel this was any loss.
“Do you know who this woman is speaking about, Brynleigh?” Elfswith was murmuring into her ear.
“No,” said Brynleigh, “And I don’t think it’s right to speak of someone in this…”
“What comes of not minding his carpentry and running off alone all the time. Thinks he’s a hero, does he? Well, now!” interrupted the voice.
Brynleigh felt as if something had struck her in the chest. She could feel the blood draining from her face. Beside her, Elfswith’s expression changed as she observed the shift in her companion.
“Brynleigh?” she pressed in a gentle tone.
The younger woman abruptly loosed Elfswith’s arm and stepped forward to shoulder her way into the gathering crowd of nosy spectators. The voice continued on, heedless. “Now we have a dead horse! Can you imagine? What gall! Cocky is what I call it.”
“That’s enough!” Brynleigh heard her own voice rising up and bursting out of her throat, without meaning to do so. Bodies parted and she stood face-to-face with the gossip-woman. Muddied blue eyes stared out from a lined face that seemed strained and tight, as if she’d endured the years through sheer, bitter determination.
“Friend of yours, is he?” the woman crowed, squinting disapprovingly at Brynleigh. Elfswith stepped up behind her, laying a gentle hand upon her arm.
“If you mean Duncadda the carpenter, then yes, he is,” Brynleigh replied coldly. “And you won’t say another word about him here, or anywhere else.”
“Bah!” snorted the loud-mouthed woman, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s brought it on himself. Not my doing, is it? These farmers think they’re all knights and heroes. Run off to save the world!” she cried, gesturing dramatically in the air. “And get themselves hurt or killed! And who picks up the pieces? Us! Well, if there’s any justice this time, he’ll die on that bed he’s laying on and spare us the trouble next time round!”
“Not another word!” cried Brynleigh, taking another step to bring herself eye-to-eye with the woman. Her fingers tensed, curled, balled into a fist at her side.
“Brynleigh, no!” Elfswith’s voice was strangely soft and low in her ear, and the hand on her arm tightened. “Come away, my dear. Come.”
The gossip-woman’s eyes bugged out of her skull, and in them was fear. But she held her ground, stiffening her spine, jutting out her chin. And when Brynleigh hesitated and then leaned away again, the woman’s gaze turned smug.
“Go on, go see if he’s dead yet!” The triumphant crowing followed Brynleigh and Elfswith as they made their retreat. Brynleigh’s face was flushed, and her pale brows drawn tightly together, while Elfswith’s gentle features held only concern.
“I have heard that name,” said Elfswith, taking her young friend’s arm in turn. Together, they hastened back the way they had come, making for the archway of the trees at the edge of the square. Elfswith’s eyes lingered on Brynleigh as they walked.
“Yes,” Brynleigh muttered distractedly, her darkened, blue eyes staring ahead into the silver gloom that clustered between the houses on either side of the lane. “He will be with Yllfa.”
Sensing the tempestuous anxiety that rippled just beneath the surface of Brynleigh’s quieted demeanor, Elfswith gave her arm another squeeze and said plainly, “I am coming with you.”
