Thick garlands of flowers and leaves, woven in the courtyards, were strung along the balconies of the houses. Gael had not gone to the Carach on the hilltop after all, but ridden on a well-worn track round the hill and come to the river crossing, a ford in old times but now a solid causeway, well above the moorings where the Lienish ship and other craft had been made fast. Over the causeway, there was a livery stable at a busy crossroads, with market stalls, a pen for fowls and the first lambs. One road led to the north past a gate to the town. The other joined the high road that led through the meadows and on to the handsome main gates of Wennsford, never shut in these peaceful times. Gael rode this way, beside a fine grove of trees, with ash and apple and a tall larch, all green for the spring. She observed the old roundhouse across the highroad. There was plenty of cover in the roadside meadows for those watching: she saw a place where a great tun of ale had been tapped, and drinkers sat on tavern benches.
