Tale of Gwyn Read Online Free Page A

table with two stools beside it, a shelf for dishes and mugs, a shelf for food, a ladder leading up to the narrow loft, and a bed beside one wall on which two old people huddled together like children.
    Gwyn went to the door and grabbed Tad’s arm, pulling him inside. “Just be quiet,” she told him. He knew better than to argue with her.
    Without looking at the couple on the bed, the old man mumbling into his beard and the old woman rubbing helplessly at his shoulder, Gwyn took some wood from the box and put it over the coals. Calling Tad to help, she blew on it, gently at first and then, when the little flames licked upward around the logs, more strongly. “You watch that,” she told her brother. He didn’t answer, but he obeyed her.
    Gwyn unpacked the old woman’s basket onto the table. As she took out the last turnip, the old woman called her name. She went to stand by the bed.
    â€œHap?” the old woman croaked.
    Gwyn looked into an aged face. The man’s hair was whitened, like snow-bearing clouds, and his beard was as tangled as the hair on his head. His eyes were red with weeping and his lips rolled into his mouth the way lips did on the toothless old. He sat hunched forward on the bed, covered by a worn quilt that was as dirty as his hair. His head swung back and forth.
    â€œGwyn, the Innkeeper’s daughter, at the Ram’s Head,” the old woman said.
    The eyes focused on her.
    â€œShe walked me home.”
    The man coughed and wiped his sleeve across his eyes and nose.
    â€œI thank you,” he said. He started to move on the bed, to sit up straighter.
    â€œBut what happened?” Gwyn asked.
    â€œThey came, three of them, and took our nanny—it was just after you had gone.” He coughed again. “And the dog followed them out, but he hasn’t come back yet. I couldn’t close the door against the dog, could I?”
    â€œNo, of course not,” his wife soothed him.
    Gwyn asked, “The soldiers came?”
    â€œI didn’t know them,” the old man said to his wife. His withered hand moved up to indicate the bottom half of his face, “but they were bearded.” They spoke to one another, ignoring Gwyn. “I’m worried about the dog.” His voice was rough, like unplaned wood, and he coughed as if his words irritated his throat.
    The crone’s eyes met Gwyn’s and the old head gave a shake. She didn’t want him to know yet.
    â€œAnd how will we live, without the milk nanny gave,” he asked, his voice shaking.
    â€œOsh aye,” the old woman crooned, nodding her head and getting up, as if that question told her what she waited to hear. “We’ll live on the Earl’s Dole and apples, and when the thaws come the snares will fill.”
    â€œWe’ll never be able to buy another goat,” he reminded her.
    â€œNo, we won’t. So maybe we’ll die, this winter or next, and that’ll be together like everything else we’ve had from life, good or ill.” She moved clumsily around the room, hanging up her cloak on a hook behind the door. “They’ll try to eat her, as I think, and they’ll find her tough. They’ll lose teeth on our nanny. She’ll have her revenge,” she told him, her laughter creaking like an ill-hung door.
    â€œYou’re a terrible old woman,” he said to her, but a smile washed over his face.
    â€œThese children have built up the fire again. Isn’t that nice?”
    â€œWe have to be going now,” Gwyn said. “But I wanted to ask you where—” She came close to the old woman who stood at the table, her hands moving among the turnips. Gwyn lowered her voice and picked up a turnip, standing with her back to the bed so that her low words would be muffled. “—I could move the dog?” she asked softly.
    â€œYes, I do see.” The old woman nodded her head, and her eyes filled with tears