Bard I Read Online Free PDF

lifted Regan out of the drift, ignoring them. She pulled a face.
    ‘Hoo!’ she went. ‘The cramps I have! And oh, it’s cold.’
    Felimid’s teeth chattered. He felt his face turning blue. Buried, they had been out of the wind that ululated over the downs, and there had been a fleece of living wool to snuggle in. Save a few small patches, the snow had not melted and soaked them, but now-by every god and goddess, now–
    ‘Here, take back your cloak!’ Regan said, offering it.
    Felimid had wrapped her in it above her own cloak, hours before. His own garments, with the boots and heavy fur body-belt he’d taken as spoils, had been ample. He didn’t accept the cloak or even notice the offer.
    He carefully examined the harp Golden Singer to be sure she had come by no damage. Nor had she. Her leather bag was strong, and resisted wet like an egg.
    Regan suddenly grabbed Felimid’s arm and pointed down the slope. A man was approaching, a bent gnarled ma n in a sheepskin coat and broad-brimmed hat, a long ash crook in one hand, a wooden shovel in the other. Dogs and sheep must be his.
    ‘Heh!’ he said in surprise, beholding them. ‘What’s this?’
    ‘Why, this is a woman,’ Regan told him, with an attempt at pertness her chattering teeth robbed of effect.
    ‘If you d-d-don’t know that, it must be long since you last saw one! My name is Regan, and this is Felimid mac Fal, a bard of power.’
    ‘Bard!’ The shepherd’s rheumy eyes lit with eagerness.
    ‘Lost, are ye?’
    ‘I’d not just say that,’ the bard contended. ‘I know where we are, and where I’m going, and which way it lies; but if the King catches us, then we will be lost. We’re fugitives, if I must be honest.’
    ‘Fugitives! Heh! Do that mean runners? Well, I never reckoned ye were hiding in the snow wi’ four o’ me sheep for fun. I been looking for the stupid things ever since the snow stopped, feart the wolves ‘ud find ‘em first. The King, ye say?’
    ‘Himself.’
    ‘That’s bad,’ declared the shepherd solemnly. ‘He’ s a hard man, the King is. Only good thing he’s ever done for me is hunt wolves on the downs. Well. Now, look, sir, I can’t help ye. Don’t dare! Not o’ me own will. But then ye’re much younger’n me, and carry a sword, so I couldn’t refuse aught ye might wish to demand o’ me, could I? Heh!’ He grinned at his own cleverness, showing a few brown fangs.
    The bard pointed his sword dramatically at the shepherd’s straggly beard. ‘Take us to your hut and feed us.’ he said with exaggerated menace, ‘or I’ll open your wind-pipe for you.’ For good measure he winked. The shepherd was delighted.
    ‘O’ course! O’ course!’
    ‘Where is your hut?’ Felimid asked, shoving Kincaid back in his sheath.
    ‘Two mile south. sir. Heh! But I’ve got to dig out these plaguey animals o’ mine.’
    He did so, working briskly. Regan retrieved her sack of food while the shepherd dragged his beasts from their white bed. The dogs got them moving with shrill barks and small nips of their hind legs. They sprang and floundered, but they kept going. They reached the shepherd’s hut as the sun was rising, washing the Kentish downs with rose and lavender.
    His hut was a cloghan, a stone beehive at the corner of a garth with low dry-stone walls. ‘Enter, enter,’ he said. He put his four strays with the rest of his flock.
    Within the hut, there was little to see: The recess in the thick wall where he slept on sheepskins and heather months old; his tiny circular hearth; a few small belongings like pots and bowls, and hanging on a bone peg the treasure of his house, a pair of iron shears: he had this, and nothing else.
    ‘Your name?’ Felimid asked him.
    ‘Murd,’ the shepherd answered. ‘Aye, Murd. The dogs’re Giff and Gaff. Good company—heh!—but they can’t talk. It’s good to have folk here who can. The more so as ye’re British.’
    ‘I am,’ Regan said. ‘Felimid is from