Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit Part 20

. . . he was certainly Lot's son in spirit, if not in actuality.

"But if you do not, when the Saxons finally kill the old man, or the Ladies give up and let me spill his blood for the Land, the Old Stag will give way for the Young Stag, and I will be High King. Just as mother promised." His eyes glittered, and inside her, she grew cold with fear. How had she never seen this before? How had she never seen how ruthless he was, how he would do anything, use any tool, to take the High King's throne? Now, of course, it was far too late.

"I'm sure by now you are also wondering, 'But what about the Druids?' Since it was the Merlin who was so very eager to kill me in my cradle." He laughed. "And of course, the Merlin managed to imprint his desires on the entire Druidic Council. I thought about that, too, well in advance of putting my plans in motion. I have been working at this for years. All of the Merlin's cronies have tottered off to the Summer Lands, and I hold the young ones in the palm of my hand." He spread his hands wide. "And now it all comes together. You, the High King's queen, disposed of. The Druids, mine. The Ladies so concerned with fighting the encroachment of the Christ men that they ignore me. My wife in your place. All of it, building the stair that will take me to the highest place in the land."

She was fighting hard now to even stay conscious. Her vision narrowed, darkened. There was a roaring in her ears. She couldn't hear him anymore. Couldn't see him.

So this is death, she thought bitterly. she thought bitterly.

And then she had no more thoughts at all.

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She hadn't expected to wake, so when she did, it was with a shock as great as the blast of cold air that struck her in the face. She struggled to move, to open her eyes, and plunged into despair when she couldn't. Wave after wave of nauseating emotions washed over her. Panic. Terror. A deeper despair. She tried to force calm on herself, tried to get control, only to have fear wrest it away from her. Her ears were still full of a roaring sound, but under that, she heard the clopping of hooves, and her body was bouncing on a hard, flat surface, and rolling about a bit. So she was in that cart Gwenhwyfach had mentioned. She'd been incompletely poisoned. But she still couldn't move. She was being carted off, to be buried alive. The thought of the frozen clods falling on her face, the earth filling her throat, her lungs, choking her- She thought she would be submersed in terror forever.

But even the terror wore itself out. It ebbed, slowly. And that was when she realized that she could could open her eyes again. And she could-barely-move her fingers and toes. open her eyes again. And she could-barely-move her fingers and toes.

When she forced her eyes open, she couldn't see anything but light filtering through a coa.r.s.e cloth that covered her face. And she was tied firmly hand and foot-tied, in fact, to a pole that ran past her head and feet, so she couldn't bend or kick. But she was awake, and she could move. That counted for something.

And that was when she realized that even if her hands and feet were bound, her mouth was not.

"Help," she croaked, weakly. Then, "Help!" she yelped, louder. "Help! Help! He-" "Help! Help! He-"

The cart stopped. The cloth covering her face was pulled back, roughly.

"Now, now," said Medraut, making no attempt to hide his gloating. "Surely you don't want to leave my company so soon, Gwen?" He gave her no time to do more than gasp at seeing him. He reached down and wrenched her head back by the hair, stuffing one end of a horn into her mouth. "You'll just need to go back to sleep for now. We have a way yet to go." He let go of her hair and pinched her nose shut, then poured more of that cloyingly sweet mead down the horn. "Drink or drown, my love."

She had no other choice. Choking, coughing, she drank. Some of it got into her lungs, where it burned terribly. As soon as he was sure the drugs were taking hold of her, he pulled the horn out of her mouth and smoothed her hair with a tender hand, wiping the tears of pain and rage from her eyes, and fastidiously cleaning some of the slopped mead from her mouth.

"There we are. That's better, isn't it." His eyes were alight with a strange look of pleasure. "What? You thought I was going to kill you? I told you years ago that you were going to be mine; why would I want to kill you? I only married your sister because she was so like you." He patted her cheek, while she shrank back inwardly in horror. "And now I have you all to myself. Your sister will be so concerned with keeping Arthur happy, she won't have time to worry about what I am doing. Besides, she thinks I am going to throw you in a river or bury you, not that I am taking you off to-well, it doesn't matter where. All that matters is that I prepared it for you years ago. Oh, you don't like me now, I know. But you'll learn to love me. I know you will. You won't be able to help yourself."

He laughed, and pulled the coverings over her head again. And mercifully, the roaring, and the blackness came back, and she was carried away by them and hid inside them.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Gwen sat cross-legged on her pallet on the floor, patiently braided her own hairs into a thread. A few threads and she could make a cord. If she had a cord, she might be able to strangle Medraut with it . . . cross-legged on her pallet on the floor, patiently braided her own hairs into a thread. A few threads and she could make a cord. If she had a cord, she might be able to strangle Medraut with it . . .

There was not much else to do. She lived in a small room with a high window in one wall and a mattress heaped with furs on the floor. The floors were stone, the walls were stone, and the timbers of the ceiling could not be reached by any means from the floor. Without a knife, it was not possible to cut up the furs or the canvas cover of the mattress. She was wearing heavy woolen gowns of material too tough to tear and too closely woven to pick apart, without any fastenings or cords. She was barefoot.

The latrine was a heavy stone basin in the corner with a hole much too small to stick anything down. The huge guard that brought her food sloshed a bucket of water down it when he came in.

Medraut had gone to great lengths to make sure that there was nothing in here she could use as a weapon. Her food was served in a gra.s.s basket, and she ate it with her fingers; her drink came in a blunted drinking horn that wouldn't serve as a weapon itself and wouldn't smash to give her something with a point or edge. Those were taken away when she was finished, and the guard stayed there until she finished.

This place, whatever it was, must have been built on the Roman style, for the floor was warm, though not nearly as warm as Arthur's palace.

She was not sure how long she had been here. Weeks, certainly. Months . . . probably. For most of the early part of this ordeal, she had been unconscious for long stretches thanks to Medraut's potions.

Medraut visited her from time to time; his visits were irregular, and the only way that she knew one was going to occur was when she began to feel dizzy after eating. He made sure that she couldn't move long before he unlocked her door. She had been completely unsuccessful in detecting whatever he was putting in her food; she'd tried not eating altogether, but eventually hunger drove her to eat. After all it wasn't as if she wanted to die-that was the last thing she wanted. She wanted to get free.

She was pretty certain that on the last several visits, Medraut hadn't touched her, although she knew very well he had done whatever he liked early on. Probably he had found that lying with someone as unresponsive as a corpse was rather unsatisfying. Instead, of late, he had a chair brought and sat in it, talking at her until she lost consciousness. That might actually have not been so bad if he had given her any real information. She knew far more than she wanted to know now about how he had gotten rid of Arthur's sons, how he had hoodwinked Arthur into trusting him, what most of his late childhood had been like-and far, far too much about how he had been certain she was destined for him from the moment he saw her.

But a very, very strange thing also happened when she was drugged-and sometimes, when she was asleep.

Visions-maybe. If visions they were, she could hardly credit them. But if they were not, why on earth would her mind have made such a thing up?

She got glimpses into the life Little Gwen was leading in her place, and at first, everything happened as she would have predicted. Little Gwen absolutely reveled in her place as queen, wallowing in the baths and the preening, gossiping viciously with her ladies and for mischief setting them against each other, ordering gown after sumptuous gown, and entertaining Arthur in her bed with a wanton abandon that made Gwen blush with shame.

But then something happened. A new Arthur began to appear in that bedchamber of nights. An Arthur that she she had never seen, a man who, despite his years, seemed more vibrant, more alive, than she had ever seen him. And under the charismatic spell of had never seen, a man who, despite his years, seemed more vibrant, more alive, than she had ever seen him. And under the charismatic spell of that that Arthur . . . Little Gwen softened. Gradually, she ceased tormenting her ladies. Gradually, her demeanor took on a cast that Gwen couldn't really identify at first. Arthur . . . Little Gwen softened. Gradually, she ceased tormenting her ladies. Gradually, her demeanor took on a cast that Gwen couldn't really identify at first.

And when she did . . . that was when she simply couldn't believe the dreams. Because-if she was right-Arthur was taming the untamable Little Gwen, winning her to him the way he won his men's hearts. And she simply could not believe that anyone as self-centered as Little Gwen could come to care for anyone other than herself.

She'd had another of those dreams last night. It seemed just as impossible as the ones before it. If she didn't know better, she would have thought that Little Gwen was having second thoughts about betraying Arthur.

Impossible.

As she braided, she began to feel the tingling in her lips that signified he had slipped a potion into her again. With a resigned sigh, she thrust the thread she was braiding with the others she had made under the mattress, then stretched out under the furs and waited for the paralysis-and Medraut-to arrive. She stared up at the ceiling and the tiny bit of sky that was all she could see through the window.

She was almost beginning to look forward to this. It made for a change in the endless sameness of her days. She had thought she was bored as Arthur's queen; here she had nothing whatsoever to do except exercise, comb her fingers through her hair, and braid what came out.

At least she was still fit. She did every exercise she could remember, practiced fighting moves even if she didn't have a weapon, stretched and flexed until she was more limber than she had ever been in her life except as a small child. She had learned how to run and tumble in these wretched gowns, even if she couldn't run very far in the tiny cell.

She even practiced that meditation that the Ladies did, though she wasn't very good at it. She prayed a great deal. She recited what she could remember of bardic ballads and epics.

She did that now, waiting for the potion to take effect, staring upward, because when she couldn't move, she really didn't want to be frozen in a position where she had to look at Medraut.

The room began to spin, even though she was lying down. Beneath the furs, she tried, experimentally, to move her arm, and couldn't. So . . . he should be entering at any moment.

This was when she heard the bar on the outside of the door slide aside, and the door sc.r.a.ped open. Footsteps on the stone followed as Medraut entered the room, followed by a servant with a comfortable chair; who placed the chair and washed out the basin with a bucket of water. She could just see Medraut out of the corner of her eye; he made a face, and waved a hand in front of his nose.

"Time for another bath and a new gown, my love," he said. "You'll like that, won't you?"

She felt a little sick inside. Yes, she liked being clean. No, she did not like the fact that it happened while she was unconscious. Not one bit. She would wake up with her hair washed and braided, completely scrubbed, and in a new clean gown. She had no idea who or what was doing this, nor what, if anything, happened besides the washing. What was the most disturbing, perhaps, was the level of detail; her fingers and toes were neatly manicured, the nails trimmed, and even buffed to a soft polish. There were none of the perfumed oils of Arthur's baths, but there was a faintly pleasant scent on her skin afterwards. Any tiny abrasions or bruises were anointed with a balm, and calluses were sanded.

"Well, now, where were we?" Medraut asked, rhetorically, since she couldn't answer. She turned her attention back to the ceiling. In a way, since she was forced to listen to these monologues, she was glad even her expression was frozen. At least he didn't know how revolted she was most of the time by his confidences. And why did he ever think that this would make her care for him?

Maybe because Gwenhwyfach used to hang on his every word?

"Ah, I don't believe I ever told you how Lot told me that I wasn't his." She heard him move a little as he settled himself in the chair. "It was one of those rare moments when he was sulking about being Mother's pander, rather than gloating about it. Possibly his temper was because she was lying with someone he hadn't picked himself, and she wasn't allowing him to watch. So when I interrupted him to show him the results of the sacrifice and blood spell I had done all by myself, he knocked me into a wall and called me 'Arthur's unnatural b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' "

At this point, likely, Gwenhwyfach had been cooing with sympathy to him. Oh, how she wished she could stop her ears. The images that his narrative called up made her feel even more ill. Her imagination-given what her visions had shown her of Anna Morgause and her past-created scenes of Medraut's mother disporting herself with a lover all too vividly. And it was hardly that she disapproved of lovemaking-though her own experiences were not inclined to make her crave it herself. It was how Anna Morgause had used it: as a tool, a weapon. Even with Arthur. Especially Especially with Arthur. with Arthur.

"I knew better than to move. Lot is entirely unpredictable, and there was no telling how he would react. He glared at me a moment, then stormed off. I went to ask Morgana what he meant." Gwen couldn't turn her head to see his expression, but his tone was casual, as if he were telling a tale about someone else. This had probably hurt him-yes, even him-if it was true. If. There was no telling, with Medraut. Perhaps the reason for his casual tone was that it actually had never happened at all.

"She told me that what Lot had said was entirely true. Even the 'unnatural' part." He chuckled. "She explained it all to me, that Mother was Arthur's half-sister, and that even though the G.o.ds themselves often mated with their siblings, or daughter with father and son with mother, small-minded mortals thought this was wrong. A very enlightened woman, is Morgana. None of that really mattered to me, either." His voice took on a faint tone of gloating. Now this, this, this she could believe. Very little mattered to Medraut, so long as he got what he wanted. "All that did matter was that Lot, whom I hated and despised, even at so young an age, was not my father. My real father was the man who was King over Lot, who had the Folk of Annwn as his allies, and the Merlin as his servant. My real father was Arthur, the High King. What Lot intended to be the moment of my humiliation became the moment of my release and elevation. That was the moment that I knew that I was destined for great things. I would either create something unparalleled, or destroy it. Either way, my name would never be forgotten." this she could believe. Very little mattered to Medraut, so long as he got what he wanted. "All that did matter was that Lot, whom I hated and despised, even at so young an age, was not my father. My real father was the man who was King over Lot, who had the Folk of Annwn as his allies, and the Merlin as his servant. My real father was Arthur, the High King. What Lot intended to be the moment of my humiliation became the moment of my release and elevation. That was the moment that I knew that I was destined for great things. I would either create something unparalleled, or destroy it. Either way, my name would never be forgotten."

She would have shivered at his words if she had been able to move. She believed this, too, believed fervently that Medraut hated Lot and Lot hated him-and that Medraut craved fame or infamy and didn't care which he got, so long as he had it.

"Mother sensed that I had learned the truth and questioned me about it. I told her, but only in Morgana's presence, because I wanted Morgana to know I had told, and I wanted Mother to know that we were together on this." He let out his breath in a long sigh of reminiscence. "Mother was always a little afraid of Morgana, and I didn't know why at the time, but I felt that with Morgana there, she wouldn't dare punish either of us. I found out later, of course, just why Mother feared her. Morgana had pledged herself to the Morrigan when her woman's blood first began to flow."

That meant nothing to her-well, except that if Anna Morgause was wary about this Morrigan, it would be wise to be even more wary. He laughed softly, mockingly. "You're puzzled, of course. You wouldn't know of the Morrigan. She is the Dark of the Moon to Cerridwen's Full Moon. They know her well in Eire, though, and it was a wise woman of Eire that taught our Morgana of her. She is the chooser of the dead, the storm crow, the washer at the ford. She is power and chaos, and she suits our Morgana most perfectly. Even Mother was afraid of the Morrigan's power."

Gwen felt a cold that had nothing to do with the potions or her paralysis. It wasn't wise to mix with the G.o.ds, the dark ones in particular. "Lot himself has always left Morgana alone, even though he l.u.s.ts for her to this day. I often wonder if that wasn't why Morgana pledged herself in the first place."

Well, Gwen couldn't fault Morgana for protecting herself from Lot, whose excesses rivaled those of his wife. But dealing with the dark side of the moon G.o.ddess-risky, risky business. Everyone knew there were always two sides to every Power, but dealing even with the bright side of the changeable G.o.ddess of the Moon was a great deal like trying to bargain with the Folk of Annwn. Cerridwen was fickle enough; what was the Morrigan like?

It wasn't wise to put a name to the dark ones, nor to give your name to them, and it was even more foolish to bargain with them. Not unless you wanted them to come for you one day, asking a payment much too high for what you got.

It did rather sound as if that was exactly what Morgana wanted.

"So, Mother didn't argue with Morgana, she didn't even chide her. She just said 'Since you have told him, you might as well have the teaching of him.' And that was what she did." Gwen heard him get up from his chair and walk over to her pallet to peer down at her. The ceiling seemed to move in a slow circle, with his face as the center of it. "Ah, still with me. Good. It is really quite important that you hear this, my love. You need to understand just why it's futile to resist me and important to love me."

He sat back down in his chair, satisfied that she was still listening to him. "Naturally, Morgana told me everything then, not the least of which was how the Merlin had tried to have me killed when I was born. Morgana had seen just this thing in her scrying and had told Mother, so Mother had made certain I was safe by giving birth early. By that, Morgana was as much my mother as she was, if not more. Well! When she told me that, I was all for pledging to the Morrigan myself! Unfortunately, the Morrigan does not accept males." He sighed, theatrically. "Nevertheless, Morgana taught me and kept me safe from my brothers until I could defend myself. Shortly after that, Mother decided that it would be a fine idea to wed Morgana to your father. She had intended him for herself, but her magics were thwarted."

Oh, Gwen remembered that all too well.

"Now I would imagine at this point, you are wondering why Morgana didn't ensnare your father. She was more powerful than mother, and the moon G.o.ddesses, bright and and dark, are G.o.ddesses of pa.s.sion and love. It's a logical question." The chair creaked as Medraut leaned back in it. "The answer is simple enough. She didn't want him. Why would she? He was an old man, more than old enough to be her father." After a pause, he began to laugh, harder and harder, the sound filling up the entire room, battering her ears. After what seemed like far too long, his laughter died down. "Oh, my. That was funny. You should be able to understand her feelings perfectly, my love. After all you dark, are G.o.ddesses of pa.s.sion and love. It's a logical question." The chair creaked as Medraut leaned back in it. "The answer is simple enough. She didn't want him. Why would she? He was an old man, more than old enough to be her father." After a pause, he began to laugh, harder and harder, the sound filling up the entire room, battering her ears. After what seemed like far too long, his laughter died down. "Oh, my. That was funny. You should be able to understand her feelings perfectly, my love. After all you are are married to an old man who is more than old enough to be married to an old man who is more than old enough to be your your father." father."

As Gwen teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, it came to her in a last moment of pure nausea that for once, Medraut was right; she did did understand Morgana's feelings in that, if in nothing else. She understood them perfectly. understand Morgana's feelings in that, if in nothing else. She understood them perfectly.

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Gwen awoke, as usual, slowly. But as she woke, she was aware almost immediately that she was not where she expected to be.

Scent came to her first, and the scent was of steam and soap, with a touch of rosemary. Then came the sense of hard pressure at her back, not the soft mattress. And there was no weight of furs on her, either.

It was warm, extremely warm. As sensation came back to her fingers, she flexed them, and ran them over the surface she was lying on.

Wood.

There was no wood in her cell except the beams of the ceiling.

She fought against the clinging hold of the potion, struggled to free herself of it, feeling hope begin to stir. She had to see where she was! Finally, she got her eyes open, and looked up at the ceiling above her. It was tiled in blue mosaic. And although it was not tiled in a pattern she recognized, she knew very well what this must be: a Roman bathhouse in a Roman or Roman-styled villa.

She was where she was always groomed while she was unconscious. Only this time, for some reason, she was alone. These rooms echoed dreadfully; if there had been anyone else here, she would have heard the breathing, even if they didn't stir.

So, alone, and somewhere other than her cell. Hope took on strength. By this time, she knew exactly how soon she could move as the potion wore off; she was nearly on fire with impatience, until at last, she was able to sit up.

She had been lying on a wooden bench very near a small soaking pool, smaller than the one she knew in Arthur's villa. This definitely was a Roman bathhouse, for the entire interior was paved in mosaic-blue with scenes of mermaids on the walls, brown with plants on the floor and in the pool. Her hair was still damp and a bit heavy but not soaking, so someone had been drying it before she had been abandoned. She was in a chemise, but not a gown, though there was a clean one nearby.

There were, in fact, a great many things nearby . . . including a knife that someone must have been using to clean and trim her nails. It wasn't a big knife, but it was more of a weapon than she had seen in far too long.

With her eyes fixed on it, she held her breath and listened. There was a lot of commotion going on in the far distance. Shouting. Fighting? Something urgent had interrupted the people grooming her, and kept them occupied long enough for the potion to wear off. If that was fighting, they might even have forgotten her.

At some point, though, someone would realize that they had been gone too long. She had to act, and act quickly.

The first thing she did was to don the gown, slit it up the middle, and use strips she cut from the towels she found to bind the result to her legs like a pair of trews. She followed that by making crude cloth shoes of the remains of the towels. Once, she would have been able to go barefoot in anything but snow. No more. And if she managed to escape, she couldn't afford damaged feet. She braided her hair roughly, tied the end with a bit of sc.r.a.p, then hunted, quickly for what else might be useful.

She took what was left of the towels, the knife, and the pumice stone she found there, and a dipper, shoving everything but the knife into a small wooden bucket. She didn't have the time or the strength to break up the bench to get a club, but she could swing the bucket to bash someone with, and she had the knife.

The only entrance into this room probably led to the changing room. She eased toward the doorway and peered cautiously through it. The next room, also paved and walled in mosaic like the first, was empty, but unfortunately there was nothing useful there in the way of clothing or a weapon.

There were two more doors into the changing room. She could not afford to take the wrong one, lose time, possibly be trapped in the one with the cold bath in it. She listened again, going over how a bathhouse was laid out in her mind; there would be at least one room that had a cold bath in it, but any sound would be coming from the doorway that led to the rest of the building.

That way. What she wanted was the quickest way outside, one that didn't pa.s.s any more rooms. Granted, she didn't have much in the way of resources, but stopping to try to steal anything would only increase the risk of being caught. She moved quickly to the corridor. Here the mosaic continued only on the floor; the walls were plaster, painted with fading scenes of Roman G.o.ds and creatures of story. What she wanted was the quickest way outside, one that didn't pa.s.s any more rooms. Granted, she didn't have much in the way of resources, but stopping to try to steal anything would only increase the risk of being caught. She moved quickly to the corridor. Here the mosaic continued only on the floor; the walls were plaster, painted with fading scenes of Roman G.o.ds and creatures of story.

The cloth wrapped around her feet m.u.f.fled her footsteps and allowed her to move in complete silence. She listened intently as she moved and kept a sharp watch for places she might be able to hide if anyone came along this corridor. But no doors gave onto it except the one at the end, and the only light came from slit windows high up under the ceiling.

The noise was all coming, so far as she could tell, from the opposite side of the villa. And to her delirious joy, the corridor she was in opened not onto a courtyard but onto a bit of graveled yard surrounded by a laid stone wall. And in the center of the yard was a pile of wood, a chopping block, and an ax, left stuck in the block, as if the user had been interrupted. This was the yard that supplied the hypocaust with wood!

With that in her hand it would take more than two or three men to make her a captive again. She ran out into the yard, seeing the mouth of the furnace in the wall to her right as she did so.

She shoved the knife in the bucket, grabbed the ax, and yanked it out; the wall had been built to keep people out, not in; there was a rough way up it by way of the wood stacked against it, and she took it, flinging herself flat on the top of it to avoid being seen.

The wall was built at the top of a steep slope, with woods at the bottom. It was a long way down to the ground. But this height was nothing she hadn't managed before, so long as she remembered how to fall and tumble. The building she had just left loomed higher than the wall-there was no way to tell what all the ruckus was about. She just hoped it would continue.

Breathing a prayer to Epona, she tipped herself feet-first over the edge, ax in one hand, bucket in the other.

She hit hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to break or sprain her ankles, and she turned the fall into a barely controlled tumble and let the momentum hurtle her down the slope at a pace far faster than she could have run. This came at a cost, of course; stones hidden in the long, rank gra.s.ses bruised her ribs as she rolled over them, and she collided abruptly with a tree trunk at the bottom. But still-nothing broke, and she was able to scramble to her feet and duck into the woods.

She felt as if she was on fire with exultation. She was free!

Free, yes. But the trick is to stay free. She paused, panting, to take stock of her situation. She paused, panting, to take stock of her situation.

All right, I have no idea of where I am. Or . . . when . . . It could be early spring or autumn. The trees were leafless- It could be early spring or autumn. The trees were leafless- But buds on the branches of the bushes that screened her were greening.

Spring, then. She had been Medraut's captive for most of the winter. She still didn't know where she was, and there was no way to find out quickly. Or slowly, for that matter. a.s.suming she got away, far away, and encountered farmers or a village, she didn't dare ask anyone, for as soon as it was known that she had escaped, Medraut would have his men out looking for her. She had been Medraut's captive for most of the winter. She still didn't know where she was, and there was no way to find out quickly. Or slowly, for that matter. a.s.suming she got away, far away, and encountered farmers or a village, she didn't dare ask anyone, for as soon as it was known that she had escaped, Medraut would have his men out looking for her. Think, girl. Think, girl. East was dangerous. South was the Saxons. North was Lot's. East was dangerous. South was the Saxons. North was Lot's.

All right. No matter where I am, if I go west, eventually I will come to our lands, or at least the lands of Father's allies. All she had to do was figure out just which way was west. All she had to do was figure out just which way was west.

But first she had to put as much distance between her and that villa as possible, and for that the best answer was to travel directly away from it, no matter which which direction that was. direction that was.

Bucket in one hand, ax in the other, she made herself think calmly and gathered all of her scouting skills together.

Then she slipped into the forest like a phantom.

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Those scouting skills returned with every step she took, until she was slipping through the woods as silently as any deer and leaving less trace. Perversely, the fact that her feet were wrapped in rags meant that she left almost no footprints, and the few she left were unrecognizable as human. Every time she came to a stream, she waded into it and walked along it for as long as her feet could take the cold. She never went in the same direction twice, either, going upstream on one and downstream on the next. So when she heard the hounds behind her and then heard their baying turn to bafflement, she knew she had bought herself at least a little more time.

But if they got downwind of her, they would find her without finding her trail, so she needed to either get downwind of them or get something between herself and them that could confuse the scent.

She was hoping for a nice swamp, or some other pungent way to break her trail, when she realized that there were some sort of animals in the woods ahead of her, for she heard slow footsteps and the occasionally breaking twigs. She froze as she heard snuffling, then relaxed as she recognized the sound as a herd of deer rather than the vastly more dangerous herd of swine. She altered her course to find them, pushing through more underbrush, until she surmounted the top of a little ridge, crouching to keep from making a "human" silhouette that would spook them.