Jenny: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

"I hardly think - " the Guttersnipe began. "Well, whatever. Never mind, Wulf." She waved the other off the bundles of felt. Grabbing the girl by one arm, she pulled her upright. "The ground is uneven," as though they had not been ascending the bumpy track for the last half-hour; "watch your step."

She kept a sharp eye on the girl as they continued on; she knew Wulf was too, striding behind them now. For all she knew, the girl would fall on the ground and start twitching again. It was obviously not a deadly affliction. It was probably more of a nuisance than anything else. And she began to wonder how that would affect the girl's productivity. She'll be no good among the horses. One fit like that and she'll get kicked in the head, and then she'll be even worse off. She would talk to Master Lucius later about it. He would know what to do.

Skirting about the subject, moved by a sort of pity, she said quietly, "I'm from Eryri. You probably won't have heard of it. But my Lord - you will have heard of him. I think they hear about him far away in places like Rome, though they say it's just the crows and wolves who live in Rome now. Sometimes, I think the world watches my Lord the way Gaius said the world watched Caractacus. A very great - " she lifted her head and smiled " - warlord he is. He makes his home in Eryri, up in the mountains, but he is all over Britain meanwhile. Now, I know bards, and I don't mean any disrespect to them, but I am the ward of Britain's Warlord, and that, I think, is a thing deserving of honour. But I am just a pigeon in a cage now, waiting for the moment when they leave the catch loose - and then I'll be free. But not yet." She turned her face to tumbling hills southward. "He is out there, somewhere, thinking of me. And doing great things, too. He is the one that bards will make their songs about, and they will not make the songs to make him greater, but so that no one will forget how great he is."