“Fine idea,” said Rhys with a grin. “After all, he steered his boat into a storm.”
Tristan rolled his eyes as they hurried towards Mr Pugh and the re-tacked Flint. “As I told you, I endeavoured to sailaroundit.” He shook his head and tied his holdall to the saddle straps. “It came from nowhere and the boat was tossed like a leaf on the wind, but I knew there wasn’t time to return. I headed west and almost outran it but got caught in its tail.” He grimaced.
Mari hugged him and his brother caught him tight by the shoulder. “But such expertise brought you back to us.”
Brimming with verve, he took Flint’s reins and mounted up, tightening his thighs.
“Hie!” he rasped.
His stalwart gelding thrust his nose high, snorted, pawed the gravel and…whilst not exactly galloped, certainly trotted at a fair clip from the forecourt.
Tristan pattedFlint’s mane and praised his staunch perseverance as they entered Cythraul Woods, for the snow had gathered apace here, flakes denser and settled on the boughs, the leafed ground and the shoulders of his greatcoat.
Such winter beauty lay all about him, trees glistening, a delicate white layer of peace imposed upon wild nature.
Flint trotted on, knew his way through the woods even without the imprints of Gwen’s carriage wheels which were only vaguely discernible now, the track being silently obliterated.
In such serene surroundings, Tristan contentedly sifted his mind, memories sliding in like paintings in an art gallery.
Gwen bringing baskets of food to the boat shed.
Her smile.
Their conversations.
He’d begun looking forward to her visits. Missing her when she’d not come.
Realising that beneath the elegant and generous lady was an adventurous and spirited woman.
Kissing her.
And then…knowing.
Yet, since his return, she’d said nothing. But perhaps…
If, as he hoped, she still had feelings for him, wouldn’t it be just like the selfless Gwen to leave him be if his memories of her had been lost. She would not push her own feelings, if friendship would be the cost.
He recalled that first day he’d limped through the door, a wreck of a man, and he’d all but ignored her, set upon by Rhys and Mari.
What must she have thought? How must she have felt?
Or perhaps he had it all wrong…
He glanced up and, through the trees, saw the clearing where they’d all gathered Christmas greenery, where Gwen had brought himself and Mari together, and where, in that summer before the wreck, they’d collected a branch of ash from which to carve their pendants. A June day of light and lush green, and now he couldn’t believe the memory of it had been so drowned by the sea because it was as blindingly real as–
What the hell?
Peering to the track ahead, he noticed a stain to the snow as though a well in the ground had spouted a crimson tide, tainting the virgin white.
Flint had halted of his own accord and was softly whinnying, so with a frown, Tristan dismounted.
His heart slowed.
Then stopped as he stared at a stain of blood.
Glancing back, he could still just make out the traces of Gwen’s carriage wheels coming from Llanedwyn village but then a gouge of snow and churned leaf litter indicated a sudden halt.
And was that…
