Tale of Gwyn by Cynthia Voigt

Gwyn said. “Or I might not.”
    â€œDo I have to marry you to find out?” he answered in mock horror.
    â€œMarry me and you’ll regret every day of your life,” she answered before she thought. Well and he would; she’d teach him how to work and he’d not like being made to learn that.
    â€œAnd what about you, Innkeeper’s daughter, would you regret it?” His eyes held hers, teasing, as if he knew her heart’s secret.
    Gwyn didn’t know what to say. Cam didn’t give her a chance, either. He bowed low to her in mockery and turned on his heel, taking the cheese to his mother.
    Rose and Gwyn walked slowly back to the Inn, with the goats trailing behind them. “Only three goats.” Rose finally spoke.
    â€œIt’s twice what we had this morning,” Gwyn pointed out, ignoring a twinge of guilt.
    Burl did not make her feel any better when she gave the goats over to him. “The kid would not have left its mother,” he said.
    â€œDo you expect me to know what happened?”
    He didn’t answer, just looked at her.
    â€œMaybe Jackaroo had use for the mother,” she lightly offered in the silence.
    â€œAye, Gwyn, you’ve no cause to lie to me,” he said quietly.
    What did he mean by that? “I know that,” she answered, “I haven’t.” She hadn’t lied, not exactly—and she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It was only one goat.
    â€œNor scorn me,” he said, as quietly. He turned away to take the goats into the barn.
    Gwyn watched him go. He should know she wouldn’t do that. She reminded herself of how hard life had been to Burl, that it would be hard to be always serving another with nothing for your own, and no hope; yet she felt no pity for Burl.
    That thought puzzled her. She waited where she was until he emerged from the barn. As he walked by her, she said, “I wouldn’t scorn you.”
    His face turned to her, and he seemed to have forgotten his own words, for he answered, “There’s no lie without its note of truth, think you? Even the old stories, I think, must have some truth to them. If we knew.”
    â€œEven Jackaroo?”
    â€œEven him, Innkeeper’s daughter.”
    She walked beside him. “I would have thought you more practical than to believe in stories.”
    â€œWould you have,” he answered, but it was not a question. “You’d have been right.”
    She would have questioned him what he meant by that, but they both had work to do.

Chapter 7
    T HE THAW CONTINUED ANOTHER TWO days, until the snow started to melt, and all its surfaces ran watery. The stones of the Inn yard became treacherous footing. When Tad and Gwyn drilled with staffs, they often fell, sloshing around in the puddles. Tad complained and Mother backed him up, saying they should give it up; but Da insisted. It was past time for Tad to learn to use a weapon, Da said. So they went out into the yard and fought mock battles. At last, Tad began to make progress enough so that he could defend himself. Then, however wet he became, he didn’t want to quit. They drove each other back and forth across the yard, parrying blows with the heavy staffs. “You’re bigger and heavier,” Tad protested. “It’s not fair.”
    Gwyn shifted her grip and lunged forward, as if the staff were a spear, to jab him in the shoulder. He brought his staff up to deflect the blow, but he was too slow and she had hit him before he forced her staff aside. “That hurt,” he said, but he followed his words with a sharp downward stroke across her wrists.
    â€œGood,” she said.
    He stopped, pleased. “It was, wasn’t it?”
    Before he got too confident, she struck his staff as hard as she could, spinning it out of his relaxed grip.
    â€œNot fair,” he said.
    Gwyn stood panting. “Just go pick it up.”
    â€œWhat if I don’t?”
    She