Olran felt better as soon as the Jughead’s hooves hit the far bank of the River Cam, and the horse and his rider disappeared into the woods, heading for one of his secret cave retreats. There, he would find food, shelter and fresh clothing, as well as peace and quiet, which would be rare at Camelot until Gwenhyfar and her parents departed. He was careful to watch where his horse’s hooves went, however, for one could find oneself quickly lost in the realm of the Fae otherwise, even in the woods close to Camelot. Avoiding the place where the ghostly, silvery barrier hung like spider webs across the path, Olran soon arrived at his hidden retreat. After dismounting, and casting a careful eye about to assure he was truly alone, he led his horse into the cave and pulled the screen of woven living-plants over the mouth to obscure it from even the most careful observation. Finally feeling as if he were securely alone, a suppressed breath escaped his lips in a whoosh, surprising him, for he was not aware of holding back his breathing.
“Thank the Goddess for peace and quiet,” he murmured as he walked to the small, neat altar in the back of the cave, where a trickle of cold, clear spring water fell into a natural stone basin. Taking up the silver scoop, he dipped out a full measure of it and washed the altar’s surface clean of debris before lighting the beeswax candle standing there. “For ye, My Lady, in thanks for all I have now, for the lessons of the past, and for a brighter future than ever before,” he whispered as he stood there in reverence for long moments. Once he felt he had offered enough, he bowed a bit and turned to prepare a meal from the stores available, which were generous due to his constant pilfering from Camelot’s pantry. He even had dried meat to make a stew, a delightful prospect in his mind. Setting about creating it by filling a small cauldron with spring water and setting it over the hearth, he lit a careful, smokeless fire designed to heat the water to boiling quickly. While the cauldron warmed, he pulled other parchment packages of dried vegetables, as well as one of dried, beef jerky, and added appropriate portions of everything, stirring to combine them with the spices and herbs he added next. Tasting the broth, he considered the flavor and decided to let it cook a bit before adding anything more, and so he slid the lid into place, raking some of the coals away to allow for a simmering heat. Quickly, he mixed a small pan of biscuits and set them to bake in the coals, before turning to his altar to give his thanks for his meal.
“Blessed Lady of Life, from whom all blessings flow, thank you for this meal, and a quiet place to eat it.”
“Ye are most welcome, Olran of Camelot,” he heard a response. Not expecting it, he whirled with blade in hand, seeing a gorgeous, ethereal woman appear before him. Her skin was pale, her hair, dark auburn, her dress a light green, and she wore a silver medallion around her neck on which was engraved a pair of beautiful horses, a mare and a stallion. Olran knew, simply by seeing the medallion, that Epona, the Goddess of Horses, stood before him and he knelt in obeisance.
“My Lady,” he greeted in quiet and respectful tones, having an affinity for horses himself. It was thought by many of the Knights at Camelot that Olran’s skill with horses rivaled Lancelot’s. Indeed, the big huge ugly roan he rode could have been tamed by no other. Lancelot himself had tried, several times, receiving a nasty bite in a very sensitive place on his last attempt. The First Knight and many others had lost a wager or two by challenging Olran’s skill in this area, much to their mutual regret.
“Get up, silly,” she laughed. “Ye need not kneel to me, Brother of Horses.”
Olran laughed; he had not been called that for many years, not since leaving his Father’s home. “No one has called me that for a long time, my Lady Epona.”
“Nonetheless, ‘tis true. If anyone of yer family has been given yer family’s gift, ‘tis ye.”
Olran could say naught, for her statement was simply true. Warren, Kevin, and Sean, his father and brothers, often broke their steeds’ spirits before they could ride them. Olran had simply gentled the Jughead, taking him into the deepest part of the River Cam and letting him work out his fears and frustrations at being ridden. The mud had kept him from over-exerting or hurting himself, and afterward, when the horse had finished tiring himself, Olran had taken the steed up to the stables for a full treatment; a warm bath, rubdown, brushing and combing until he was dry, and then a generous feeding with molasses-enhanced grain and good grass hay. From that day on, the ugly blue horse with the slightly misshapen head would follow Olran nearly everywhere, while threatening to bite or kick anyone else. Olran had trained the horse to use his fierce nature in a protective way while his master engaged in battle or hunting, and the Jughead had more than a few Saxon deaths to his credit already.
“I have been blessed, My Lady,” he finally responded. “What service may I be?”
“Ye need not render me a service today; in fact, I have come to do ye a service,” she laughed.
“Oh?” he asked.
“Aye. Because ye love horses so, and because of the secret work ye wish to do, ye will occasionally require a special horse, one that can run on the wind or over a body of water if necessary,” Epona replied, taking the medallion from around her neck and handing it to him. “Wear this always, and if the need occurs, ye have only to take the medallion in hand and whistle thusly,” She demonstrated a simple series of notes.