Regina’s gaze went downward as though she were looking for something just behind him, and suddenly she asked, ‘Where is Dog?’
‘Regina—it is eleven years.’
There was a silence, filled with the fluttering and calling of the birds overhead and then Regina said, ‘I had forgotten … Do I seem as changed to you as you do to me?’
He nodded. ‘We shall have to learn each other all over again.’
‘I think it should not be too hard,’ Regina said, softly as though she were consoling a child. ‘I think I should have known you again, under the change, even if I had not been waiting for you; and I am still here for you to find me.’
In the little grotto the light was fading. ‘It is late,’ Regina said. ‘We must go home and cook supper … Thank you for your strike-a-light, Owain. It has lit me so many fires to warm me.’ She gave a little quick sigh as though she was not aware of it.
‘We should have a blue olivewood fire tonight—but I dare say an ordinary one will cook the supper just as well.’
‘I have a hare in my bundle that I caught yesterday,’ Owain said.
‘And I have two eggs. I saved yesterday’s—as though I knew that you would come today.’
‘Eggs? How did you come by two eggs? Regina, how have you fared for food all this while?’
‘Well enough. You taught me how to set a snare, remember, and autumn is a good time for food. And as for the eggs—’ Her face that had been so still, was suddenly shimmering with delight. ‘There’s a little outland settlement over in the woods beyond the Virocon. They must lose quite a lot of hens to the foxes. They’ll never miss one little brown hen more.’
Owain stared at her for a moment, then flung up his head with a joyous crow of laughter. ‘Yes, you were right! You were right! You are still there, Regina!’
He stooped for the crock, which now held three hazel leaves floating on the surface of the water: but Regina was before him. ‘No, you have your bundle—besides, the crock needs knowing. See, it is cracked here, and if you tip that way it dribbles, but it was the best I could find.’
She held out her free hand for his, and they climbed the three steps together and turned as they had turned so often before, towards the furthest corner of Kyndylan’s Palace.
‘The roof has fallen in,’ Regina said. ‘I have made a kind of shelter in the old corner, with branches and grass. It is not very good, but you could make it keep the rain out.’
‘I’ll make it keep the rain out.’ Owain hesitated, then looked round at her as they walked. ‘But not for long. We must be on our way in a few days, Regina, while there is still time left before winter closes down.’
‘Are we still going to Gaul?’ Regina asked carefully, after a few moments.
‘No. That was for the dark; now, there’s a dawn wind stirring.’ Owain tipped his face a little, as though feeling the wind on it as he walked, and his hand tightened on Regina’s. ‘We are going south-west into the hills. There was an old man and an old woman there; I do not think I ever told you about them, but they were kind to me once, and they’ll welcome you for my sake, until they have time to welcome you for your own, if they are still there.’
‘And if they are not still there?’
‘Then we’ll build a turf hut and light a fire in it, and in-take a patch of hillside, and I’ll find a sheep to go with your little brown hen,’ Owain said.
ROSEMARY Sutcliff was born in Surrey, the daughter of a naval officer. At the age of two she contracted the progressively wasting Still’s disease and spent most of her life in a wheelchair. During her early years she had to lie on her back and was read to by her mother: such authors as Dickens, Thackeray, and Trollope, as well as Greek and Roman legends. Apart from reading, she made little progress at school and left at fourteen to attend art school, specializing in miniature painting. In the 1940s she exhibited her first miniature at the Royal Academy and was elected a member of the Royal Society of Miniature Painters just after the war.
In 1950 her first children’s book, The Queen’s Story, was published and from then on she devoted her time to writing the children’s historical novels which have made her such an esteemed and highly respected name in the field of children’s literature.
She received an OBE in the 1975 Birthday Honours List and a CBE in 1992.
Rosemary Sutcliff died at the age of 72 in 1992.
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