Consorts of Heaven by Jaine Fenn Page A

into. At that moment she would have given anything to be able to live out a quiet, ordinary life in the only home she knew. If only the Weaver had not seen fit to make the cloth of her life so, born of violence and a cursed mother and losing her loving husband too soon. She shook her head: such thoughts achieved nothing.
    She spoke a prayer to the Mother of Mercy that this hearth might be re-awakened to provide warmth and shelter for the family who would make their home here next. Then she picked up the water-jug and threw the contents into the flames, pulling the door shut on the hissing, steaming fire-pit.
    As they walked down from the village to the milling mass of people and animals on the valley floor Kerin heard a high keening from the moot-hall. Sionyn was dead. She found herself glancing over her shoulder, half-expecting Gwellys to come running out to attack her.
    No one appeared, and soon the familiar smoke-and-ordure reek of the village was replaced by the subtler smells of the moor: damp grass, bruised heather and the occasional sweet whiff of cloudberry flowers, their scent released by the night’s rain. The sounds of mourning were drowned out by the cries of the animals and the terse shouted orders of the drovers.
    Kerin led them to the back of the drove, behind the sled. As they approached she counted nineteen men; in a normal year thirty or more would go. Fychan was at the front with two other council members: Cadmael, who had no family and who she expected to see; and Howen, whose presence was an unwelcome surprise.
    The men near the back nodded to acknowledge them, though her decision to travel in her husband’s drove gear garnered her some odd looks. Still, she had no intention of walking to market in a skirt and clogs; whatever concern she might once have had for what others thought of her was disappearing like dew under the morning sun.
    Arthen stood in front of the crowd of villagers who were staying behind. When the drovers had got themselves into some sort of order he called out in a voice loud and confident enough to carry over the sounds of the animals:
    ‘Bad times may be upon us, but they have come before, and will again. We will endure, as we always have. This year we are also blessed. We must all pray that the sky-touched child finds favour with the Cariad, and so may bring us closer to Heaven. Now, travel safely, trade well, and be an example to others as to the merits of our folk.’
    He traced the circle of the world, and everyone - including Sais, Kerin was pleased to note - echoed him.
    At the front of the drove, Fychan gave a high repetitive cry - hi-hi-hi - and with lows of protest from the cattle and yips and barks from the dogs, the drove lurched into motion. Everyone, drovers and villagers alike, sang the Drovers’ Hymn as they moved off. After their initial complaints the animals fell silent, heads down, fly-brush tails swishing as they plodded along. Despite herself, Kerin kept looking back as the village slowly receded.
    Damaru capered ahead, taking no notice of the drove while managing to more-or-less keep pace with it. Sais trudged determinedly by her side, his face grey.
    ‘Are you all right?’ she asked after a while.
    ‘I - I think I’m going to find this hard work.’
    ‘The men say you get used to it after a few days.’
    ‘I hope so. Kerin, I was wondering . . . isn’t that boy with the scarf around his head a bit young to be in charge?’
    ‘Fychan? Oh aye, that he is,’ she said bitterly. Of course, she knew about everyone here, but they were all strangers to Sais. ‘He is Arthen’s son. Before, his elder brother has gone, but now Sionyn is - Sionyn caught the falling fire, so Fychan goes in his stead.’ Sais needed to know about their travelling companions, and so she quietly filled him in on names and trades and talents. Talking of such familiar matters gave her some comfort against the coming uncertainty.
    Shortly after they lost sight of the village they