Medieval 01 - Untamed

greyhounds. When Dominic moved to follow, Gwyn spoke quickly.
    â€œFear not. Neither man nor beast would harm a Glendruid girl.”
    The icy glitter of Dominic’s eyes swept over the old woman.
    â€œLady Margaret is no longer a girl to run the fields like a cotter’s wench,” he said in a cold, precise voice. “She is the wife of a great lord and the mistress of a powerful keep. She is a prize that any man would be glad to take.”
    â€œThere is danger,” Gwyn admitted. Then, so softly that most men wouldn’t have heard, she added, “But not to her. Not quite.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    The old woman looked up at Dominic for a long, silent moment.
    â€œI sense danger,” she said finally. “Meg must have sensed it as well. But the danger wasn’t to her. It was to the keep. There are perilous times ahead, lord. The omens—”
    Gwyn’s words stopped abruptly when Crusader half reared and champed fiercely at the bit. Despite Dominic’s coldly running rage, he curbed the stallion without cruelty. Crusader pranced in place, flexing his powerful neck and hindquarters.
    â€œSpare me the Glendruid nonsense,” Dominic said bitingly. “There are always perilous times. There are always omens. There are always betrayals. It is what a man makes of them that matters.”
    With that, Dominic released the stallion. The horse sprang forward as though shot from a catapult. Simon followed quickly. The clatter of hooves on cobblestone became a hollow thunder as the two big horses crossed the bridge. Sun struck lances of light from hauberks and helms, making them gleam coldly.
    When Dominic reached the fork in the path, the hounds were waiting with an impatience that equalled his own. Like the man, the hounds were disciplined. Despite their whining, seething eagerness, they were well-behaved. They stood ready to respond to voice or horn.
    â€œGive this to Leaper,” Dominic said, handing over Meg’s nightshirt.
    The handler took the shirt and held it out to a silver-gray bitch. The hound sniffed, whined, and sniffed again. After a few more moments she lifted her head and whined eagerly.
    â€œShe has the scent, lord.”
    â€œLoose her and only her,” Dominic ordered. “If she picks up the scent quickly, keep the others tied. I want no unnecessary noise arousing the countryside.”
    The handler took the leather leash from Leaper’s collar. At his signal she bounded forward to cast about for the scent she had been given. It took her only a brief time to find it, for the ground was damp, ideal for holding spoor. The greyhound began tracking at a run.
    Dominic and Simon followed at a hard canter, their chain mail glittering in the cloud-veiled light. Behind them the leashed hounds howled their disappointment.
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    S LOWLY Meg stood and stretched, trying to loosen the muscles of her back. She had spent the past few hours on her hands and knees, searching among the heaped rocks and at the base of the standing stones that ringed the haunted place. The small sack she used for gathering herbs was finally plump with the hard-won harvest. It bounced companionably against her hip as she headed out of the sacred oak grove.
    It had taken Meg much longer than she had expected to harvest the new leaves and stems and a few of the bitter roots of the plant she called ghost slipper. She had even found a few other useful herbs and some seedlings to take to her gardens. There were others she could have taken, but it would havekilled the plants to steal their leaves. The season was early for much foliage. Only the daffodils were fully grown, their yellow faces searching for the sun from every glade and streamside.
    The haunted place was well behind Meg when the sun finally managed to pierce the spring overcast. A shaft of pale yellow light lanced down, setting scattered oaks and moss-grown rocks softly afire. Stone and bare branch gleamed darkly, as though freshly made. Far out at the tips of the oaks’ spreading arms, the first green whisper of summer’s leafy bounty swelled.
    The silent promise of the buds and sun loosened the tension in Meg’s body. As though the shaft of sunlight was a wild falcon to be tamed, she held up her hands and whistled sweetly, bathing herself in light.
    From the crest of the hill, an answering whistle came.
    Instants later a greyhound raced toward Meg at a fantastic pace, eating the ground with