 
# Ardinéa

Meredith Anne DeVoe

Smashwords Edition

©1999 by Meredith Anne DeVoe

(Revised 2002, Smashwords Edition published 2011)

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Contents

PART 1:

TREAD UPON THE LION

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1: THE FIRST FLOWER

CHAPTER 2: MEETING BY THE BROOK

CHAPTER 3: THE GHOST SONG

CHAPTER 4: THE STING OF DEATH

CHAPTER 5: TAMLYN'S WARNING

CHAPTER 6: THE ELF-KNIGHT

CHAPTER 7: THE TROUBADOUR IN LOVE AND WAR

CHAPTER 8: A BROKEN HEDGE BETWEEN THE REALMS

CHAPTER 9: TREAD UPON THE LION

CHAPTER 10: LAUGHTER IN THE MORNING

PART 2: THE FEY QUEEN

CHAPTER 11: BETROTHAL'S KISS

CHAPTER 12: BITTER WIND

CHAPTER 13: SHADOWS

CHAPTER 14: MEETING ON THE MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER 15: THREE RINGS

CHAPTER 16: BRYCELANDS

CHAPTER 17: JOURNEYS, JEWELS

CHAPTER 18: COME TO THE WATER

CHAPTER 19: A BROTHER OFFENDED

CHAPTER 20: WHAT GOD WILL JOIN

CHAPTER 21: PEGHARA

PART 3: SWORD OF THE SPIRIT

CHAPTER 22: FALLING LEAVES

CHAPTER 23: FROM WHENCE MY HELP

CHAPTER 24: TO THE FOUR WINDS

CHAPTER 25: RIVER OF GOD

CHAPTER 26: AS SILVER REFINED

CHAPTER 27: I WAS A STRANGER

CHAPTER 28: MEETING IN THE MEADOW

CHAPTER 29: TREE OF LIFE

# Part 1: Tread Upon the Lion
## Prologue

Caer Aldene commanded the only crossing for many miles of the Briar River, the first crossing below its headwaters among the impenetrable brambles of the Cloud Mountains from which it tumbled. Its keep was casually sentried, for Briardene was a quiet land, this crossing having never seen attack and its turrets only rarely having been shot from. The town that clung to the bailey surrounding the castle spread like lichen, surrounded by rich farmland from which it took its living; furs, wool, flax, apples, grain, honey and more poured like a river from these dales in a good year, and in a bad one, few went hungry. Lord Gregory, Duke of Briardene, was loved in his domain.

The River tumbled headlong from the tangled uplands. Her youthful ardors were not yet spent and it was a many miles before she settled in for a languid journey to the sea. Caer Aldene's single keep presided easily and prettily as a pretender to the spires that rightfully dominated the landscape-- the unreachable Cloud Mountains to the east. Wrapped in mystery and hidden often in a clinging mist, the twin peaks Primarda and Arvanne were gloried with the sunrise between them in the summer solstice, and home to strange thundering and lights in the summer nights.

## Chapter 1: The First Flower

Margaret's sister, Hildreth, was impossible with pride. It was the morning before her wedding day, and all the inhabitants of Caer Aldene were in the castle yard to greet her fiancé's family.

The illustrious band could be seen advancing over the plain from the west on horseback. Heralds came first, carrying streaming banners, lit by the morning sun. The bridegroom Herrick, with his father Lord Eldred, rode next, flanked by Herrick's brothers, by squires and knights, bravely attired, with swords and shields glinting. Next came Herrick's mother, Lady Anne Gay, her widowed sister Lady Phoebe, and their children, relations, handmaids and footmen, pipers and harpers, porters and nurses and grooms; followed finally by mules laden with luggage and gifts, and even milkcows, a herd of swine, and a flock of running geese driven by a young boy, and a small rear guard.

After all this followed a great number of the villagers' families, tumbling after the spectacle, and some children forming a parade of their own, blowing pennywhistles in tune with the royal pipers, and riding on draft ponies, streaming scarves tied to sapling wands above them. All this mixed retinue obtained the bailey gate of Caer Aldene, where they were met with an equally splendid show of banners and all the inhabitants of the castle turned out in clean, bright clothing. All the young maidens had washed and rinsed their long hair with herb vinegar, and it flowed unbound and glinting down their backs. Each girl stood with narcissus and primroses in her hand. In their midst stood Lord Gregory with his daughter Lady Hildreth by his side, who looked self-consciously stunning, her blond hair sparkling and her green eyes wide.

Margaret's younger sister's excitement could scarcely be contained, and Margaret had to answer a continual stream of questions, finally in exasperation crying out, "Varda, switch not about so, and let go my dress, please!" Margaret saw how Hildreth's eyes wanted to rest on Herrick, who was a proud sight approaching in the head of the procession; but Hildreth was determined not to stare and if at all possible to remain composed. But Margaret searched among the knights for Roald, for last summer he had visited and the two had teased and flirted. There! She picked him out by the sandy hair on his shoulders. There also was her brother Aelfred, who was a squire in Eldred's service. To suppress her excitement she found Hildreth's hand and squeezed it, Hildreth squeezing back and momentarily turning a beaming glance at her. Then both straightened up and put on their most stately manner, for the band had now arrived.

Lord Eldred dismounted and drew near to Lord Gregory, their right hands clasped and left arms were thrown about the other's shoulders in a hearty embrace. Even Varda stood still and looked dignified while courtesies were displayed and welcome proclaimed, and then the nobles' horses were led away and the lovely crowd entered the Great Hall of Aldene. As goblets of honey mead were drunk, the talk grew to almost a roar in the Great Hall. War was discussed on the one hand, babies and marriages on the other...

Aelfred introduced Margaret to his friends, boasting that she could ride a horse and shoot arrows with the best of them. The young people went out to test each other's skills with horse and bow... so the day passed, it seemed to Margaret, in a moment.

A thousand tapers lit the Great Hall of Caer Aldene that evening, and the living hall as well, and each was filled with persons clothed and bejeweled, and liveried servants coming and going, and reels and dancing and wine. If Margaret could have been any happier, it was only because it was a sobering realization that the loss of her sister's company and friendship and even antagonism was going to change her world forever, after tomorrow. Yet perhaps the bittersweet undercurrent only sharpened the beauty of the spectacle in the Hall. The soaring flutes and viols and drums filled her heart as the dancers swept and leapt in time, smiling and sweating in the brave torchlight.

Then she was interrupted in her thoughts by Roald, who touched her elbow. "Margaret, turn aside with me," said he, and guided her toward the side door. Her heart was beating hard, for it was there that last summer, he had stolen from her a kiss. He had so hopefully, tentatively leaned toward her, so softly brushed her lips with his... But when they had turned into dark of the rose garden, he was not at all tentative, but crushed her to himself, and his breath smelled of wine, and the large buckle of the belt with which he was girt poked her in the stomach as he arched over and pressed himself onto her. She cried out his name in dismay and pushed against his chest briefly before he straightened, and gaped at her. "Margaret, I am sorry, but ...what is the matter? I thought ..." She had been so surprised that now a flush of anger, embarrassment and confusion fought within her. These passed and left her staring at Roald, who now looked embarrassed himself, and a little unsteady on his feet. At that moment two menservants carrying candelabrae entered the garden followed by a laughing company of guests, and the moment had passed.

Margaret and Roald returned to the Hall, Roald pathetically trying to outdo himself with courtesy and deference, and Margaret was grateful beyond words when her cousin Malva pulled her away to join a group of girls who were rehearsing the steps of a girl's dance. Roald stayed at a distance and Margaret realized that it was up to her to repair the breach, but was not at all sure that she wanted to. She hoped desperately to be able to talk with Hildreth but realized that her thoughts were far away; she shone in an assembly of nobles among whom she was to take her place the next day as the wife of Sir Herrick. Margaret sighed and tried to see how little was her problem. But at seventeen it is hard not to be ruled by the heart.

It was Rivanone who came alongside her late in the evening. With a questioning glance Rivanone regarded Margaret, who felt under her gaze very like the girl who had so often lain on her shoulder and cried for her mother, Lady Varden, who was lost in childbirth years before. "Auntie, may I speak with you?" Rivanone smiled and led her aside to a servant's door, which led into a corridor with a door to an herb garden and an apiary. There they sat on a bench and Rivanone waited. "You know Roald and I ...that is ..."

"I know that the two of you have smiled at each other a lot in the past. But not tonight?" Margaret gazed at her hands, toying with a ring.

"He tried to kiss me in the garden tonight." She checked her aunt's expression, but Rivanone waited. "I thought that was what I wanted, but ...it was wrong. I felt as if a dog were pawing me. Then I felt sorry for him, because he is my friend. Now I feel awkward, and Roald isn't-- well, he doesn't seem to know how to act, either. And I know that soon the question of my marriage will come up, and that Roald ..." Margaret trailed off, but then her thoughts collected themselves. "This morning I thought I loved him, now I fear I don't have an idea of what that means."

"Love that you feel in your heart is but the flower, Margaret. Without branches and roots, the flower quickly fades. True love is something you do."

Margaret looked up from the ring to Rivanone's face. The headdress she wore as a married woman was simple, pale and filmy in the moonlight, not brocaded or ornamented like the more sophisticated noblewomen of Caer Prim and Caer Morga who graced the hall tonight. In that moment Margaret realized that there was something in Rivanone that few of those fine ladies had. She continued, "Your love has not yet grown. Loving deeds and choices are the roots that give the flower life. Too many young girls seek and find the flower, and grasp it ere being sure that it will be a lasting bloom, rooted in faithfulness from which springs faithful deeds. Then they wonder why they find themselves wed, but still alone. The flower fades, and the thorns cut deep.

"God put it in the hearts of men and women to desire each other-- but He ordained the marriage covenant to teach us a kind of love that requires more than a moment's excitement: God revealed His love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Greater love has no man than this: that he lay down his life...That is what love really is: something you would live and die for. I have spoken with you often of these things, Margaret, but I can see in your eyes that you're finding them out for yourself," Rivanone said, grasping Margaret's hand. "Most girls are wed at a younger age, when they've not had the mind, or the luxury, to consider such questions. You and Roald are both young. If there is love between him and you, it will prove itself. Do not allow youthful lust to hastily pick the first flower!"

She squeezed Margaret's hand and looked at her meaningfully, and Margaret understood suddenly that she was referring to herbcraft: her mother had taught her never to pick the very first of a sought-for plant, but to find others first, to be sure that the area was not depleted. "I can see now that there is more of which we must talk plainly, but not on a night such as this. As for your marriage, your father counts your happiness too dear to wed you off against your will for his own purposes, although that is his prerogative. Count yourself very blessed indeed, and try not to give your heart away so easily! No man wants a dog-pawed bride, anyway."

They laughed in the moonlight, but Margaret caught the veiled reproof.

"But was not Uncle Just chosen to be your husband by Grandfather Geoffrey?"

"Aye, Margaret. As I said, love takes root in faithfulness. Then the flower may bloom, and bloom again. And for us, it has and does."

## Chapter 2: Meeting by the Brook

Elora had been found on the steps of the church in Caer Aldene by Margaret's Great-Great-Grandfather, the first Lord Geoffrey, who in his dotage had given over the cares of Aldene and spent much time in the chapel, with the parish priest; he was the first to arrive for Prime and nearly stepped on the ragged bundle. In the bower of his grandchildren a baby had died in the cradle only two days before. He took the foundling to the bed of his daughter-in-law, Lady Gyvarda, Lord Gregory's grandmother, who was in agony of engorgement. She awoke when the babe cried at the nearness of the warmth and milky smell of the bereaved mother, who almost had no choice but to take and nurse Elora-- her need for the child was almost as great as the child's need of her.

Elora was all her life a person who made herself necessary. She maneuvered her way into caring for the most prominent members of the family, having a talent for nursing with an almost stern attention that sprang from a fierce love. It was she who stayed at Lord Geoffrey's bedside seemingly round-the-clock in his last days, then his son Gyffory's, and his grandson Grefyrd. By the time she had outlasted two husbands of her own and helped birth and raise three generations of Aldene nobles, she had parlayed her position from foundling serving-maid to queen butleress.

Elora had one son when she should have been past the age. Gilling was an itinerant viol-player who sometimes drank too much mead and disappeared for months or years at a time, for he longed to see what was through the green wood and over the fell and beyond the Silver Loch over the plains of the South.

Relieved of her nursing duties due to her age, she took on projects she deemed worthy of her competencies, which were many after serving in Caer Aldene for all the decades of her life. So on this morning of mornings, she was up before the morning star, and whipping a wedding fit for a king and queen into shape, albeit hobbling from kitchen to scullery leaning on a rosewood cane, carved for her by her son.

But one was up earlier even than Elora.

Margaret had barely slept after the dancing and music of the previous evening, though it had ended at midnight, when the Matins bell rang. Margaret had gone to chapel then with her aunt, nodding off to the angelic chanting of the nuns. Still, she had turned and tossed and dozed but briefly until false dawn, when she gave it up, rose as silently as possible, pulled on a plain dress and tossed on a cloak over her hastily-combed hair. She picked her way between rows of sleeping cousins and guests, to the bower's door and down the dim hallways. Margaret slipped out of the castle in the darkness and hurried down the way to Cloud Brook in the graying night, a tow rag in her hand. Only a spaniel named Wag detected her passing and would not be prevented from accompanying her.

The bailey gate stood wide open as it had since she was a child; so peaceful was Briardene. A slim cloaked figure accompanied by a dog would not arouse the suspicions of the sentry in the keep-- if he could even see her at that hour. She slowed as she approached the brook to hear the first birds stirring, first this one, then another. She was exhilarated by the chilly dawn and her adventure; she had never in all her years come alone to this place. She knew where the wild apple trees would hold tender, pale pink buds that her sister would love, and she had got it in her head to have them in hand when Hildreth awoke.

As a child, Margaret had often burst running from the great Hall that overlooked the rolling dales of Briardene. She would skip through the heavy side door, past the stone wall of the White Rose garden, past the vine-covered palings enclosing the vegetable plots; through the bailey gate whose heavy door stood always open. Down the warm, dusty lane rutted by hooves and scented by manure and the briar roses by the way; past old peasants bent under loads, past spirited horses romping in emerald pastures, to the brookside, to the smell of the water whispering in the shade of the willows, where blackbirds and wrens warbled. But this morning, it was yet too early even for birdsong, and the garden and the pastures were wrapped in mist and darkness.

Margaret removed her sandals at the water's edge and lifted the hem of her dress, stepping on the sand, relishing the feel of the cold on her feet, although it made her ankles ache. Wag had splashed into the water, but stopped suddenly, cocking her head, and whining. "What is it, Wag?" Margaret said, and her voice seemed to crack the quiet of the morn despite the babbling of the brook. The dog turned back for the bank and trotted off, her tail held low. She thought it odd, but wrung the tow cloth in the water to wrap the stems of the apple branches in. Then, walking on large boulders that were strewn in the water, praying that she would not slip, she crossed the brook.

She walked in the direction of the wild apple grove and saw with some disappointment that the buds were still but tightly furled. She hoped that putting the stems into warm water would serve to help them bloom today. Margaret approached the nearest of the wild apple trees, her heart pounding strangely, a shiver up her spine. She selected a few branches laden with buds and pulled a blade from her belt.

A breeze stirred the branches of the tree and lifted strands of her hair, causing her to tremble though the breeze was mild. Her hands were almost shaking as she cut into the green wood, and when a voice startled her, she nearly fainted:

"How dare you pull these branches down, without the leave of me, Lady," said a man's voice, teasing, yet softly and kindly.

Margaret spun around. There close behind her stood a young man where none had been a moment before. She saw with wonder that a snowy horse grazed a few yards away. Yet when she met his eyes, her alarm dissolved, for he smiled gently. She stood, releasing her caught breath, at a loss for how to respond, for his manner seemed familiar, and yet she could not recall having met him. She became aware of the flowering branch in her hand, and the knife. Her mouth had gone dry, and she swallowed. "These woods are my very own, and I will pull branches down without the leave of you, young man," she replied, her voice much softer than she intended it to sound, and smiling in spite of herself. "I have come for these flowers for my sister's wedding. Why tarry you here so early?"

"I suppose I have come to help you, Lady Margaret," he said, and held out his hand. She willingly put the handle of the knife in his hand, wondering even as she did so; she watched as he took it from her and turned to the tree before them; he chose branches and severed them with a flick of his wrists. He was taller than she and reached branches that she could not have. She was content to let him choose, for he chose the best, and laid them in the wet tow cloth. He at last said, "Perhaps any more would be too much to carry-- I would offer to carry them back, but ..."

"Thank you, you are most kind; but it would draw attention to my secret errand, for I am alone without the walls, where perhaps I ought not to be," confided Margaret, and stood there, examining him in the rosy light of dawn. His curly, ash-blonde hair hung down long and free, and his eyes, gray-blue; his fine downy beard was deeper gold. She drew a deep breath. The breeze that stirred the woods all around smelled of the promise of Spring.

"Aye, you have never been here by yourself, have you?" His clothing was green, of fine material and beautifully stitched, but the tunic and pants were not like that of the men of Briardene. Nor was it usual for a man to grow his hair long as a woman's, but perhaps far away, in the cities, they did so ... She was aware that she was staring at him and yet felt no urgency to make conversation, nor did the young man seem uncomfortable either. Something set him apart, but she could not discern it.

Finally she said, "Perhaps I must be getting ready for the wedding," and she knew that perhaps she had dawdled too long already, yet she felt no hurry. It was as though all could wait, as if she could wait...

"Your sister must make a comely bride, for she is like a willow tree in summer ...And whom might I wish joy of the marriage?"

"He is a thane's heir, and himself a knight: Sir Herrick of Caer Prim-- You must know of him?"

"I know of his father, Lord Eldred. Herrick was but a squire when... Then he has distinguished himself?" She described to him the circumstance of Herrick's knighting, and he was interested, as any young man would be in tidings of war; he seemed to be vague in the details of current news. In this way they talked for a while, their gaze resting easily on one another; then the breeze again lifted a strand of hair across Margaret's face so that she had to brush it away, and far up the hill, a church bell rang.

She smiled and said, "Really, I must now fly," and he bowed his head, handing her back the knife, then he wrapped the flowering branches in the cloth, and placed them in Margaret's arms. She stood for a moment, sheepishly smiling her gratitude before turning away.

She crossed the brook and slipped on the sandals she had left, paired, on the other bank, and turned to say good-bye-- but there was no one on the other side, yet she would have sworn he had assisted her over the brook. The light had again grown dim; she had not even been aware of its brightness; the breeze had died. Her eyes searched the trees, but he was gone and so was his long-limbed horse, and she realized with a start that she had not even learned his name. As if to confirm that she was not dreaming, she looked down at the bundle of tree branches, but she caught her breath, for they were now in full bloom. As she turned to go, a thrush began to sing clearly in a tree over her head. Wag reappeared, head and tail low, panting.

## Chapter 3: The Ghost Song

Margaret returned to the castle, entering by way of the kitchen, where she was wont to return from the forest and the brookside with armloads of vegetation. "Burda, please bring me a bucket of water," she called, and went into the scullery to fetch a vase. She selected a heavy, pale green glass vessel, poured water into it, and arranged the apple blossoms to her satisfaction. As she did so, she heard again the soft voice of the young man and saw him handling the knife to cut the branches. Her mind began to fill with questions-- who was he, why was he in the wood, and how was it that he knew her? How had she not heard his horse's approach? What of his strange apparel, his lilting accent? She stared into the mass of pink-white blossoms for a few moments, consumed by the faint fragrance that filled her head; then she turned away and asked that the flowers be brought up to the bower at once.

At that moment Elora entered the scullery and was only mildly surprised to find Margaret there, but she paused as she would have limped by and stared at Margaret wonderingly, and with her hand turned Margaret's chin toward her.

"What is it, Elora?" Said Margaret, thinking that she would be obliquely confronted about her covert trip to the forest.

"Why, young Lady ...You look lovely this morning," she said, and turned to continue on her way. "...Like you have just arrived from Faerie Land."

Margaret met Burda, a great strong woman who was but little encumbered by the large vessel, at the door of the bower and motioned her to the bedside of Hildreth, who lay dead to the world. After Burda had left, Margaret, who had rinsed her feet in the kitchen, slipped into bed beside her, but lay thinking ...of Roald's forgivable rudeness. Of Rivanone's affection for a man whom she had not chosen. Of her father's heartbreak over the loss of her mother and the love he now poured into his grist-mill and his bridges... and of the gray-blue eyes that searched the apple tree for the best withies. They held no threat, nor the brittle overworked courtesy with which Margaret had got used to the knights and the noble sons trying to impress her.

It occurred to Margaret suddenly to wonder at this. By his speech and manner and by the gold brooch fastening his cloak, and by the accouterments of the horse and the sword and shield hanging from the saddle, he was as a young knight, yet he had not been among the knights guesting in the castle.

"Nobly born is not noble in heart," Rivanone would say. But noble birth would be required of a fitting suitor, whatever the state of his heart. She thought again of Roald, and her conversation with Aunt Rivanone. She and Roald had been childhood friends. He was wealthy and well-connected, her father cast an approving eye on him, and once he achieved knighthood, he would very likely come looking for her as a bride... could she love him, as Rivanone loved Just? She gazed over at Hildreth and almost envied the simplicity with which she had unquestioningly given her heart to the man on whom Lord Gregory's favor had rested, and Herrick had returned her earnestness; now it was their wedding day. After this day, attention would turn to the question of Margaret's own marriage. She had much to think about, to sort through and talk to Aunt Rivanone about, and soon...

Hildreth stirred and opened her eyes. "Oh, look! How lovely, Maggie! You knew they are my favorite, oh thanks! How did you get them?" She told her sister of sneaking down to the brook, but did not tell all that had happened there; her story seemed somehow inappropriate in the face of Hildreth's excitement.

"After tonight, you'll have this bed all to yourself," she murmured.

"Will you be lonely for me?" Margaret teased.

"Not a bit!" They giggled quietly.

"You'll be mistress to footmen and handmaidens ...You and Herrick will have your own bower together..."

"I am excited. But, Margaret-- it will never be the same. I have always lived at Aldene and with you here, and in these last months I've been so eager to be wed and away from this frontier to Prim Briar, closer to Fearnon's castle and the court of Queen Charis-- who wouldn't be excited!-- but suddenly I feel terribly homesick for our knoll by the river, and the times we squabbled over my shifts you wanted to wear, and everything that has made this our home ...I've decided I want you to have this," she said, sitting up and removing a gold chain with a cross pendant from over her head. "Take it quick, ere I change my mind," she said, smiling through misting eyes. When Margaret hesitated, Hildreth put it over her sister's head, and pulled it down in front while lifting Margaret's heavy, dark hair out from under the gold chain with her other hand. Margaret was almost aghast.

"This is your favorite! Mother gave it to you." She raised the pendant and examined the cross, with rose brambles twined around it. She had coveted it for as long as she could remember. Now it was hers and the reality of Hildreth's leaving pierced her heart.

"It is very old, and no one at Caer Prim will know what it means to me, but you always will. And you'll think of me often when you admire it..." Margaret's eyes overflowed, and Hildreth wrapped her arms around her. After a few moments she patted Margaret's back. "We must get up! Come!"

Soon all the girls were awakening and servants bringing water for washing and bread for breaking the fast. Then began the dressing that occupied the morning. Elora appeared with servants who carried in Hildreth's wedding apparel. Elora presided for a short while until she could be assured that things were going correctly. When Aunt Rivanone appeared, who was to be matron of honor, Elora repaired next to the chapel. Hildreth was arrayed by the servants and Rivanone bound up her hair in a married woman's braids, and made sure that none of the young girls was applying too much perfume oil from a tiny glass-and-gold flask that one of them had brought. Margaret combed her hair less hastily than before, and looked into the wardrobe, where the satin dress she had selected days before seemed suddenly too bright. It had been patterned after one that Hildreth had and Margaret had coveted, and was a bright rose, shiny and brocaded, with gold beaded trim about the neck, sleeves and hem ...She sighed, and laid it neatly back down, telling herself she must not outshine the bride with gaudy colors. She chose instead a simpler, yet more finely-made gown of a pale rose, like the apple blossoms which Hildreth would twine into her long plaits; apple blossoms he had cut for her. For in every spare moment of her sister's wedding day, her thoughts ran down the half mile to the brook, for like a strange dream that wakes one, her mind kept returning there, and dwelling on the face of the stranger, and the words they had spoken with each other.

The nave of the church was packed with persons, the high and low of the country had come for the spectacle of a wedding of nobles; even the laborers wore their whitest tunics and newest of dresses, and the girls' hair was entwined with flowers. Ribbands and flowers adorned heads and arms and hats; small boys even tied them to wands and waved them about. The wedding had been planned to fall just after plowing was done, and a message had been cried among the people imploring all to take the morning off from planting and weeding and washing to be part of the festivities. Within the bailey wall an outdoor kitchen prepared a feast for the peasants on the parade ground, and wine and ale casks were rolled down; they would have their own dancing and music and games.

Margaret had seen many weddings in this church; when she was younger she and Hildreth would beg their nurse, Tyna, to take them down to the chapel to see the peasants' much simpler nuptials; after Tyna had herself wed and moved from the castle, Margaret had brought Varda down. Most of these took place after plowing, before hoeing of rows was needful or fruits ripening; so the month of June was the favored time, also after the harvest was in and before the lambing began; so these weddings were a part of the Advent season's diversion as well.

But no wedding had been so exciting, nor held such importance for Margaret personally as Hildreth's. Margaret stood in place with her family, and when Hildreth approached the altar, Margaret nearly gasped at the vision of beauty that her sister presented, though she herself had been among those dressing and grooming her. Beneath the veil, Hildreth looked like a Viking princess, her carriage and expression bearing a distinction Margaret had never truly seen in her. When Lord Gregory lifted the veil, kissed her, and placed her hand in Herrick's, Margaret knew the joy that pierces, in seeing them united, the radiance of their faces, the beauty of the words of their vows and the two being made one, yet keenly she knew also that Hildreth was no longer her own companion, that from this day she would only rarely see her sister, that she was losing her, and of course she had not appreciated Hildreth for the princess she was while she had her for her own ...God bless Elora, who discreetly pressed into her hand a soft kerchief from her position behind and to her left.

So it was a rather depleted and wan, yet almost relieved Margaret, who emerged from the church when the ceremony was over and followed the procession to Caer Aldene; she was glad the attention was focused elsewhere. She slipped up the stairs to her bower and took water from the jug to wet a cloth and cool her face. She lay across her bed and spread the cloth over her eyes, for they were red; she wished she had thought ahead and made eyebright tea to wash heartsore eyes.

After a few moments she forced herself to arise. "I cannot lay here feeling sorry for myself on my sister's wedding-day, all overwrought and pathetic. Arise and shine, Maggie!" she told herself, and walked to the mirror to examine briefly her reflection. How she had always coveted Hildreth's fashionable fairness and blond brows; Margaret had her mother's dark hair and brows like two black wing-feathers. These frowned together as she smoothed her hair under her golden bridal wreath. She tried to picture herself in Hildreth's place, floating radiant down the aisle... and was surprised to find that the face that awaited her at the other end of the aisle of her daydream was that of the stranger she had met by the brook.

"I do not even know his name," she said to her reflection, who in her thoughts, replied, _But, he is the one._

Margaret shook her head, blinking her eyes.

The mullioned window of the girls' bower was paned with amber glass for privacy; Margaret now wanted the sun to stream in and the fresh air to clear her head before going down to the crowded hall. She unlatched the window and swung it open.

The view took in, over a turreted wall, the hills rolling down to the Briar River. The sky was filled with ragged white puffs of cloud with sapphire in between. The sun was warm on her face, the breeze fresh, almost bracing, and scented of earth; it had the desired effect of rousing her from her introspection. She looked over the brown, furrowed fields, empty today of the ox-teams that had populated them these past days; beyond was common pasture dotted with sheep, and here and there a milkcow. From here she could not see the village, hard by the bailey on the south side, or the cobbled road that went through the village and then turned west and unwound itself down the long plain that nearly vanished in the distance. Instead the view took in the rolling fields and pastures on the near side of the Briar River. Farther away, rougher clearings gave way to forested hills that footed the wild mountains to the east, through which only rough tracks too steep to ride horseback twisted to the wild coast, where only hermits dwelt with the seals in the rocky cliffs over the White Sea. But her thoughts did not roam any farther today than the brook and the apple grove...To a kind voice and rough, gentle hands cutting flowering branches.

She was hardly even conscious of these thoughts when she became aware of a clear tune cutting the late morning air. Looking down into the courtyard, where house sparrows chorused under tiled eaves, she spied a figure seated alone on a stone bench, playing a viol very sweetly. "Troubadour! Gilling!" she cried, and his face looked up and a smile lit the bearded face, and Margaret waved.

She went to find Elora to tell her that he had come. On the stairs she realized that Elora would be very much busied with supervising the goings-on in the Hall and that her feelings about her prodigal son were mixed. Margaret always had liked Gilling, with his stories of his travels and his ready songs and tunes. She decided instead to go and see him herself. For a moment she wondered how he had entered the door of the castle and won the courtyard, but Gilling could charm the whiskers from a wildcat.

She emerged into the courtyard and he looked up. Rather than acknowledge her directly, Gilling leapt up and played his viol.

On sharp-prowed ships I late have flown

O'er silvered waves, o'er blowing foam

To Isle Erin, fair and green

To see what there was to be seen.

I heard there harps, like bells a-ring

I heard pipes like fierce angels sing

But Isle Erin, emerald-green

Was not to me as Isle Ardine.

On sharp-prowed ships I late have blown

O'er silvered waves, o'er flowing foam

To Angeln, of all isles the queen

To see what there was to be seen.

Cathedrals full of rainbow light

Crowned great cities, strong and wide

But Angeln, of all isles, the queen

Was not to me as Briardene.

On sharp-prowed ship I late have flown

O'er silvered waves, o'er blowing foam

To Gallia and Italy

To see what there was to be seen.

The knights and noble ladies there

Were brave and lofty, rich and fair

But kings and queens were not to me

As Margaret of Caer Aldene.

Gilling ended with a resounding note and a flourishing bow, at which Margaret clapped delightedly, jumping up herself like a child in joy. Margaret curtsied to his bow, then turned toward the passage from the courtyard to the hall, for she really must appear soon, or cause a search to be made in her behalf.

There was feasting and dancing all day, and music, and honey mead, and flower garlands swagged over glossy carved beams. There were jewels and gleaming gold and scented hair. Young girls giggled in beautiful, feverish bevies. Dignified ladies and whiskered gents smiled in genteel clusters. Young men grinned, foppish or posturingly manly...All of which worked to divert and comfort Margaret; she threw herself into the festivities.

She minded not Roald's renewed efforts to deport himself gentlemanly around her, and generously tried to make him comfortable. At some point in the day she noted that Lord Gregory was talking with Lord Eldred; his glance and a gesture took in Roald and herself and she wished that, like Hildreth, she could set her heart on him so easily. He was, after all, a good friend and a good prospect for her ...Margaret sighed. Her eyes roamed the attractive company, and she knew well that there was a face she hoped to see. If only she had a name to drop in the hearing of Elora so that she might find something out!

The guests had turned out to watch the dancing of the villagers-- the farmers with bells tied to their shins and ribbons on their sleeves, the little maidens upon whom all strewed flowers as they danced and sang, the women who danced in a circle, some with infants slung across their sides, and the young boys who danced with stakes and clashed them together in time to the thumping of the bodhran drum. The nobles had in turn danced for the villagers in their fine clothing, and all had drunk a health together to Lady Hildreth and her knight.

The longbows had been brought from the armory for a tourney, Margaret herself showing fair skill. Then there was jousting, staff-fighting, and wrestling and horse-races across the lower pastures.

Later, when darkness was falling and most had retired to the hall, Gilling appeared with his viol. Gilling could have been a court musician in any hall in Ardinéa, could have been richly kept and held in esteem; but to his mother's everlasting chagrin, he would not be held to any hall; but longed to wander from place to place, returning after months or years, sometimes ragged and starving, sometimes full fed and wearing gold rings and velvet. But he was beloved in Caer Aldene, and the news he brought from far lands was always welcome.

"Hail and well-met, friend Gilling, "called Lord Gregory, who had learned of his timely return and anticipated his appearance. Gilling bowed deeply with his viol. The other musicians, seeing him, ended their tune and retreated in the direction of the wine-casks. As was his wont, Gilling dispensed with speech but instead cut right into a flamboyant reel. After introducing the theme, he could expound and explore with variations that built all the while on a soaring rhythm which could set the most refined, slipper-clad toe to tapping.

Just as soon as he had climaxed and demurely cadenced this caprice, and before the applause had died away, Gilling cried out, "Here is news indeed, a lay which I have translated from the Gallic, which concerns events on the continent of great interest!" And playing the viol low on his chest, he loosed his clear, strong voice.

The lay concerned the marriage of a Frankish Chieftain's daughter, a beauty named Lisane, to the king of a warring tribe of wealthy barbarians, thus securing peace along their borders, or so they had thought. The Barbarian King's brother, Prince Hervé, attempted a coup which failed, but he had carried off the Queen. The Barbarian King had pursued his brother into the Frankish King's lands, violating the treaty which the marriage had sealed. In the ensuing battle of three armies-- the Franks, the Barbarians and Hervé's men-- the Barbarian King was killed by an arrow. His brother surrendered and was crowned king after all-- by the Frankish King, whose daughter Lisane herself requested to go with him. So King Hervé and Queen Lisane had removed to their country, and peace was secured for the neighbors after all.

The lay was thus ended, and was merrily acclaimed; the band rejoined the Troubadour, and several songs later the singer, mopping sweat from his brow, withdrew toward the side door, where he exited. Margaret, seated with the family group, turned to Varda's nurse who stood near, and asked that she find a servant to carry little Varda, who leaning upon her had fallen fast asleep, up to the bower. When Burda had carried her away followed by the nurse, Margaret stood and turned to a knight, a friend of her father's who stood nearby who, though rough-looking, she knew to be mild-mannered. "Gareth, I would like to take a turn in the garden," she said; he offered his arm and accompanied her out the same side door.

Torches lit the pavilion immediately outside; the wind was picking up and clouds were rolling in from the west, promising rain. She heard Gilling's music in the White Rose garden, and Gareth led her in. The fiddling ceased; she could see that he was listening to another of the musicians talk to him; a lute player with a fine tenor voice. He was telling the traveler that he had gotten a good song from a mutual acquaintance, to which Gilling then said, "Let us hear it, then!"

The young lutenist gladly plucked at the double-strung lute and sang it out as others seeking the fresh air turned into the garden and stood listening or half-listening. After the first few lines, Gilling joined in with his viol, and the bystanders joined the chorus.

Tamlyn was a noble's son and knighted by the King

And he was a comely one, on his war-horse riding

He rode out of an evening all for to go to war

But the maid who bid farewell was not to see him more.

It's seven years his truelove weeps, it's seven seasons 'round

Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless, his head a-hanging down.

Will you go through the Linden Wood, and what will come of thee?

But go thou through the Beechen Wood, Tamlyn, for love of me.

I have no fear of the Linden Wood, my truelove, said he,

And I will ride the Linden Wood all for love of thee.

It's seven years his truelove weeps, it's seven seasons 'round

Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless, his head a-hanging down.

He's mounted on his good black steed, his squire's gone before

And he's away through Linden Wood to ride him west for war.

Evening found him tarrying still in that dismal place

The sun was gone, the Harvest Moon had not dared show her face

It's seven years his truelove weeps, it's seven seasons 'round

Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless, his head a-hanging down.

His squire told a fearsome tale that wrung the lady's heart

How he missed Tamlyn and turned and back again did start

But he heard a fearsome noise of thunder and of bells

As if they were ridden down all by a troop from hell

It's seven years his truelove weeps, it's seven seasons 'round

Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless, his head a-hanging down.

He turned into the trees and hid behind a mossy stone

Clamor from the legion passing chilled him to the bone

Only in the morning light, awakened by the rain

Did the squire dare to take the wooded path again

It's seven years his truelove weeps, it's seven seasons 'round

Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless, his head a-hanging down.

Tamlyn's horse came riderless, its head a-hanging down

He rode not from the Linden Wood, nor was he ever found

But moonlit nights by the green wood, still he may be seen

A comely and a noble ghost-- The soul of Tamlyn.

It's seven years his truelove weeps, it's seven seasons 'round

Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless, his head a-hanging down.

The song ended with clapping from the small crowd that was growing around the musicians.

"A goodly tale," said Margaret. "Almost it makes one to be afraid to go to the woods," she said lightly, but in fact she almost shivered inwardly; being of the kind of nature very much affected by stories and music, and thinking of her own surprise in the woods that morning.

Gareth said, "In fact, I knew Tamlyn; we were pages together at Caer Cynrose. He was a good friend. I saw him occasionally as a squire, and attended his knighting. And it is not altogether a made-up tale; but he rode away on the last day in October, and his horse returned the very next day unharmed, saddlebags full-- so it was known that he had not been robbed, or attacked by wild beasts; but no trace was ever found of him."

"Aye, and that he has been seen is also no tale," put in Lady Phoebe, who with Roald and others had joined the crowd flowing into the garden. "Friar Jonah described to us a man answering his description, whom he met returning from visiting a hermit in the east wilds, while walking by moonlight. Friar Jonah is a man of great learning, not given to fantasy, either."

"I have heard that he was taken captive under the mountain, and I half believe it," said Roald's younger sister, Bissa.

"But that couldn't be true, since we can no more see elves than angels," said Lady Anne Gay. This led to more talk of supposed sightings, and speculations of what may have become of the man. Though Margaret had not heard of the story, it was apparent that it had been a fashionable topic of conversation at less remote courts than Caer Aldene before.

A wag in the crowd declared, "As for his truelove weeping these seven years; his betrothed, Lady Coulomb, eloped with Sir Tristun five years ago!"

"Lady Coulomb, the white bird!" called Gilling, and broke into a well-known song, joined by many voices in the group in the garden.

Ah! Love is like a bird

It lights on whom it may,

But rise the hand to grasp

_And the bird will fly away.._..

Margaret swayed slightly. She realized that her early rising was taking its toll and she was utterly exhausted. Hildreth and Herrick had slipped off hours ago. Under cover of the song she stole away to her bower and her empty bed.

## Chapter 4: The Sting of Death

Late in the morning Margaret awoke. She could hear the music of rain outside. Varda and her nurse had already arisen and gone to break their fast; Rose and Brinn's nurse, Fione, was moving quietly about, tidying up as usual; the girls and young ladies were still asleep.

Margaret dressed and went down to the Hall to see who might be awake. There were but a few knights, and these were getting ready to go out and race horses and do some jousting drills in the rain. Margaret sat on a bench near the fire for a few minutes, chewing oaten bread and drinking sweetened tea, but soon became bored. She decided to return to the bower and fetch her needlework, feeling very let down after the previous day's excitement.

When she entered the room, she found Fione bent over Brinn, her hand on her forehead, looking worried. She looked at Margaret, who came to the bedside and laid her hand on Rose's brow, then on Brinn's. Neither child stirred, but lay with red lips parted, their cheeks flushed.

"They are both warm. Very warm," said Fione, "I will get water and bathe their heads," and she left to fetch a ewer and cloths. Margaret meanwhile pulled back the coverlet they shared, and opened the near window.

Fione returned, followed by Elora, who bent over the children and stared at their faces. "Brinn is burning up!!" Elora rasped. "She will need more than a cool cloth. She needs a cool bath to bring down the fever. And medicine--"

"I will prepare that myself," said Margaret. "I will go now and have the ewerer fill a tub in the bathing room. And I will send up someone who can carry her down--"

"I can lift her," volunteered Fione.

"Very well then, I will send up someone to help you, Elora," she said, and flew down to the kitchen. When water was set to boil and baths were being prepared, she went to the storehouse where the herbs were hung to dry in the fall. She took feverfew, yarrow, meadowsweet...where was some peppermint? She recalled the roast whole lamb of the feast which had been rubbed with herbs and guessed that the last of the dried peppermint had been used. Never mind, there was plenty of that to be found among the banks by the brook. She would send someone down, it was easy to find even this early in the season...But not so the elder flowers she also wanted. They must be properly harvested to be useful. Later, she would go down herself.

She steeped the herbs in a crock, and had an earthenware cup, sweetened with honey, sent up to the bower; she brought another herself to the bathing chamber to see how Brinn was getting on. Someone had told Rivanone that her daughter was ill and she now stooped over the bath, her brown hair uncombed and hanging down to the stone floor, a few strands trailing in the bath. Brinn was barely conscious, complaining vaguely that the water hurt. Margaret handed the medicine to Rivanone, who lifted Brinn's head and coaxed her to drink. She didn't want to, but the taste of the honey in the drink convinced her.

Rivanone had rushed to the bathhouse without taking care of her own needs, and Margaret now urged her to go on, and she sat by the bath. Fione combed Brinn's hair up into a bun and Margaret sang a soft bairn-song to her.

What shall I be when I am grown?

Shall I go live in the wood alone?

Will I dwell in a willow tree

The blackbird to keep me company?

Nay, sweet lass, fair are the trees

But never a home for a one like thee.

Whose shall I be when I am a bride?

Shall I a seashell carriage ride

To greet my groom, a selchie gray

And I, Lady Seal on my wedding-day?

Nay, sweet lass, fair is the sea

But never a home for a one like thee.

Brinn had always laughed at this song, but now only stared. The child began to shiver and was lifted from the bath and wrapped with a sheet. Fione was carrying her up to a room which had been cleared per order of Elora of the knights who had occupied it, when Burda entered carrying Rose, who looked dreadful. "She's turned suddenly very ill, and puked what little was left in her, and fainted. Is that Brinn's bath? Let's put her right in," said Burda, and Margaret agreed. Elora appeared, checked with her hand the temperature of the bath, and said, "Let's have some of that brew that Margaret had made up, hot, right in the bath. She may not keep any down. Lady Margaret, was there no mint in the tea?"

"There's none to be had in the storeroom, Elora. Do you know of other?"

"I'll scare some up, sure. Someone must also go down to find the elder flowers that should be in bloom--"

"That I will see too, Elora. I don't mind going," said Margaret, and quickly left. Margaret called for a page to ready a pony and bring it down to the knoll by the brookside and meet her; meanwhile she drew on a woolen cloak against the rain and hurried down the lane toward the ford, then veered off on the trail to the left. The rainfall was steadily hissing, warm drops; the cloak was hot and heavy with rain by the time she arrived. Under the elder shrubs, which dripped steadily but at least the wet did not drive into her eyes, she pulled the hood off. She withdrew a sack from under her cloak, and the knife she had used when he... Margaret looked about, not expecting to see anything, and was startled to find him gazing at her from the opposite bank of the brook. Delighted, she lifted her hand to wave, and he waved back. His horse stood beside him, drinking from the brook; he looped the reins to the saddle and started over the stream. The water was somewhat swifter than yesterday, owing to the rain, and he had to watch his step on the wet stones. He approached, and his eyes that held no threat fixed upon her. He bowed to her deeply, yet naturally; Margaret very naturally returned him a deep curtsey, and wondered at the joy in his eyes.

"You are a merry spirit, to be watering your horse here in the rain, Sir."

"And you, Lady, cutting branches again? For your own wedding today?"

"To be sure, I look fit to be wed, do I not?" She smilingly retorted, referring to her rain-draggled outfit; but she flushed suddenly and had to look down at the knife in her hand. "In truth, there is no merry occasion that brings me here, but that I need elder flowers for my little cousins, who awoke feverish, Sir. Perhaps you would again help me?" _Oh, please help me, speak with me, stay with me, keep turning your blue eyes upon me!_

He bowed his head slightly, and reached out for the knife. She laid it in his hand, and he reached for a branch, squinting against the drops of rain. "Just the clusters, none of the leaves or twigs," she instructed, and watched as he cut the white flowers, the knife blade against his thumb, raindrops running down his wrist, catching on the golden hairs along his arm, wetting the edge of his green sleeve. She found herself captivated watching him, and bestirred herself to ask some of the questions which had turned over in her mind earlier.

"Sir, you have been so kind, yet in truth I cannot recall that we have been introduced. I could not tell of your kindness to my lord my father without your name," she said, holding out the sack for a bunch of the dripping blossoms, which he placed in the sack, then leveled his gaze at her; for the first time, it seemed clouded. He stood straighter and took a deep breath.

"In truth, Lady Margaret, while I know your name, we never met ere yesterday, though I have seen you often, from afar. I am your servant, Sievan. Forgive me for not giving you my name sooner. But I have done nought for you worthy of mention."

"Sievan," she repeated. "Sir Sievan?"

"Aye," he nodded, and turned to cut more blossoms. He filled the sack, all the while asking Margaret about her family. She told him of her Aunt Rivanone raising her almost as her own mother, and that it was her children that were ill and that it was she and her mother who had taught her the virtue of the herbs for which they had often searched in this place. She dearly hoped she wasn't chattering.

"I am sorry that it has taken your cousin's illness to bring you down here again so soon, but I am very happy to be able to be of help to you, and I do so hope that we may meet under happier circumstances, Lady Margaret. There, your sack is full of good medicine."

She drew out another bag. "I need also some mint, peppermint or spearmint will do. I believe we will find some over there..." She said, turning farther up the bank. The mint they pulled was still short but would be potent. Too soon, the sacks were both full. They stood a moment. The sky had really opened and they had to stand close in order to converse.

"Your horse is wandering away," said Margaret.

"He will come when called," he replied. In spite of beginning to be soaked to the skin, she didn't want to leave that place. She didn't want to leave the glance, the nearness, the scent and sound of him. "How can I repay your kindness, Sir?" said she, wishing she could say much more.

"Only say that we may meet again, and I will live in joy for hoping, my Lady," said. Margaret's eyes widened and her breath caught: it was not a conventional politesse; her heart stood still a moment. He held out the handle of the knife to her, she raised her hand to take it. He put his left hand under hers and placed the antler handle in her palm, her fingers closed around the handle, warm from his hand. She knew that she must turn and go now, and slipped the knife in its holster at her belt, and took the sacks from him. Margaret offered him her right hand, which he clasped. "May we meet again, Sievan," she almost whispered, and there they both stood for a moment, unwilling to let go. Finally she turned away toward the knoll.

The rain was letting up. Climbing the path, in only a few steps she could see the boy, who had taken to flinging small stones at the bole of a large willow a number of yards off; the pony was pulling the new grass which grew thinly on the scabby top of the rise. Margaret turned, perhaps to wave goodbye, but again as before, there was not a trace of him to be seen on either bank of the brook. When the boy saw her, he straightened quickly and grabbed the pony's reins. Margaret couldn't help but smile at the show of diligence.

"Thank you, Alaic," she said, and mounted the pony, who reluctantly headed for the castle, still chewing the last sweet mouthful, which with its horse-scent Margaret could smell, and the wet wool she had pulled over her head, and the fresh rain smell, and Sir Sievan's fragrance-- what was it? New leaves, smoke, pine, rain-washed moss. She jealously clutched the sacks to herself, her hand prickling with the warm imprint of his hand.

When she returned to the castle she was met at the kitchen door by Burda's daughter Maro, who had been set to watch for her. She curtsied shortly and declared, "My lady, there's three more moved to the sickroom and Lady Rivanone wants you to come soon as you are able. Shall I take the sacks?"

"Thank you, Maro, where is Elora?"

"She's in and out. Her son, the Troubadour, took sick, and she's looking after him. She's given my mother instructions as to preparing these. She told me about starting the fresh herbs in cold water..."

"That's good, Maro, here," she said, and hurried to her bower to change to dry clothes. She met Burda on the stair, who stopped to put her hand on Margaret's forehead. "Forgive me, My lady," she said, hurrying on down the stairs. "You look flushed bright..."

By evening, there were eight in the sickroom, and three nuns had come to help minister to their needs. Rivanone would not leave her daughters, and a narrow couch was brought in for her to rest on. Not even Just's pleading with her late in the evening would take her to her own bed. Margaret sat by Varda's bed; she had taken sick after midday. Elora had been called to care for Gilling, who was delirious, and crying out that it was he who had brought the illness to Caer Aldene. So Margaret lingered to minister to the little ones, sang songs in her mellow, quavering voice, and told stories while continually checking that the children were neither chilled nor overwarm.

Gareth and his two squires had ridden out to see about the newly married couple at their nuptial encampment, whose location was uncertain, as was the custom; it was agreed that they should not know for now of the trouble in the castle if they were well. Meanwhile, Lord Eldred had decided that those who were well should prepare to leave for the two-day ride home, provided the rain stopped by morning. The church had within its compound an unused hospital; it was scrubbed and aired, more beds were moved in and infirm adults were moved in there.

Late at night, Margaret found herself nodding. Varda had drifted off to fitful sleep and three new nuns had come to spell the others; the room was quiet but for an older nun praying over a rosary. She held the beads dangling, but Margaret realized that her words were not the usual bead-telling.

"Oh Lord, You healed the sick and even raised children to life from the grave. Sweet Jesu, You are Lord of this child and of her illness as well. I Your handmaid know full well that Your love for her is beyond my comprehension. Help us to have faith and see Your hand at work even in this illness, which in Your sovereignty You have allowed to happen for our good and Your glory. Yet Lord, bear with Your handmaid, for I would plead for the life of this child; yet Lord, Your will be done..." The old woman sighed, and a burden seemed to roll off her. "Your will be done, Jesu. Our Father, who is in heaven, hallowed be Your name." She continued the Pater Noster, and Margaret was moved, for it was no empty recitation. Tears rolled down the wrinkled hands that clutched the beads to her forehead.

Margaret gazed at her sister, and felt her forehead. It was as before. She gazed at Varda, thinking, "Aye, if I could only pray like her..." She stroked her sister's forehead, then turned to her own bower and her bed. Varda was in good hands.

She awoke while it was yet night and looked about the room. One fat candle flickered on a wall sconce. Rose and Brinn's bed had been stripped and it gave her an awful feeling to see the couch empty. She rose quietly and counted. Two young women guests had left the previous day; their manor was but a few hours' ride; Hildreth was gone away; and three were in the chapel infirmary. That left eight that should be there, and indeed there were. She pulled on a shawl and went down to the sickroom.

As she approached the hallway leading to the room, she heard strange noises and sensed comings and goings. A dread wrenched the bottom of her stomach and her mouth went dry. Just then the Chapel bell tolled-- was it Lauds, or--? The bell continued, slow and steady. Each toll weighed on her, making her feet heavier, and yet she thrust herself down to the room, the shawl dragging and falling, and through the portal she rushed to Rivanone's side and threw her arms around her, for her body heaved and wrenched with sobs and her arms held tight the form of Rose, little Rose born the Summer after Varda; Rose the consolation, dancing, singing Rose's life had drained from her. The nuns murmured prayers; Margaret could hear them in between Rivanone's sobs. Lord Just arrived and took up the form of his daughter, and Rivanone left with him, leaning on him, her arm over his. One of the nuns, under her breath, murmured, "A voice is heard in Ramah, Rachel weeping for her children and can not be comforted, for they are gone."

Margaret stood and dashed the tears from her eyes. There went the only one to whom she could run, and here she stood alone. At a loss, she turned to see about Brinn and her sister, and noticed for the first time Elora, who stood in the doorway, staring at the vacant bed and listening to the bell. After a moment, looking much older than her seventy-odd years, she turned back the way she had come and slowly shuffled away. The sound of the rosewood cane stabbing the flagstones was the sound of loneliness.

The novice in the chapel whose duty it was to ring the bell wearied her arms and had to be spelled; eventually, because her services were wanted in the infirmary, a rotation of strong boys from the town had to be got in. The bell rang almost continuously over the next ten days.

Gilling recovered from his fever and gained strength quickly. When he could walk, he found his way to the church, where he was not wont to go, and tarried there crying on the altar. The priest, Father Ezekiah, finally succeeded in getting him into a side chapel to talk. The burden of the curse he was sure he himself had brought broke him and for long he could not speak. Not knowing what else to do, Father Ezekiah began to read aloud of the illuminated Latin Gospel, pausing and translating after each passage, doubting whether the man had received instruction in Latin. When he emerged from the interview, Gilling was silent and sober. He went into the infirmary and asked the prioress how he might serve the invalids.

For several days he hauled slop pails and swabbed the floor of the stinking filth from illness. The prioress had to order him to rest and to eat. Then one day he was bundling soiled sheets for boiling, when he passed by the bed of a knight who recognized his face.

"You are Gilling, the Troubadour, are ya not? I saw you play in the court of the King. And here y'are, swabbing vomit." Gilling stood still, looking into the gray face of the man.

The invalid rasped, "Might we not hear a song?"

Gilling averted his eyes, but a nun nearby said, "Please, good man, it'll make them forget their pain for a while."

He stood, remembering all the laughing, fashionable crowds and noble persons for whom he had been a sensation, another fancy thing to glitter in their eyes and ears before they moved on to the next diversion. How could he have been contented to parade himself before them? To bed with star-struck maidens and bored wives? He was so unneeded by any of these, so dispensable; his songs and bow-scrapings and amorous labors forgotten as soon as they were spent; while desperate eyes wearied of staring down death had only their own pitiful moans and retching to relieve the monotony of pain and fear. Tears clouded his eyes; he despised the amusing ballads of war and love, the endless, quenchless lusts and violences of mankind; he despised his life.

But there broke upon his soul a song he had heard-- he knew not where or when, or how inebriated he may have been-- but it came to him now in clarity, and he began to sing amidst the stenches and moaning of the infirmary, and the moaning stilled. The sun came up as he sang, the first beams level through the open windows, lighting on his face, which to the wonder of the nuns and patients, seemed to shine in return.

There is a tree most beautiful, of which I have heard tell

Where Jesu poured His own life out, to save sinners from hell.

Now is there life for me, and death, it has no sting

The Prince of life has risen and to Him I will cling.

Now is there hope for me, and death, where is your sting?

O most beautiful tree, in your shade I sing.

## Chapter 5: Tamlyn's Warning

In the sickroom in Caer Aldene, Margaret sat by the bedside of her cousin Elsibeth. She was the last to remain in the room; Brinn and Varda had recovered and been moved out only the previous day. Elsibeth was among the last to fall ill, when the epidemic had spent most of its evil; and she was in a bad way. Margaret was concerned even more because the worst cases had been among the old and the very young; Elsibeth was twelve, but always had been thin and wan compared to her laughing, blushing sisters.

Rivanone had lost already her daughter Rose, and her son, Gerald, and had almost collapsed from exhaustion staying up from sunrise to sunrise caring for Elsibeth. Elsibeth had cried for her mother and Margaret was afraid to leave her alone with the nuns, as caring as they were. But Rivanone's presence in Margaret's life had imparted a cherishing of family ties; the severing by death of so many of her extended family had highlighted in her heart the preciousness of those left.

Margaret had combed her cousin's hair and plaited a complicated braid over her shoulder, tying it with a sky-blue silken ribbon. She stifled a yawn as she coaxed her to drink more of the elixir in a crock by her bedside. She hoped it had been prepared according to her directions; between sitting vigils and nursing invalids and her own grieving, she had not had time to do more than advise the sisters on medicines; this had been the first one she had even prescribed since the first batch she had herself made...so much in a fortnight, who could assimilate it? The sickness had touched all stations and ranks of Caer Aldene society; nobles, milkmaids, blacksmith, troubadour; even the parish priest had himself succumbed; thankfully, he had early on called in a second priest from King's Leigh to administer rites to the many dying or near death.

Elsibeth finally drifted to sleep. Margaret had taken sleep when and where she could these past days; now she stretched out on the nearest bed, which was fitted with clean linen. When she awoke, the sun was high. Lord Just was sitting at Elsibeth's bedside, talking with her. She self-consciously sat up. Just looked over at her. "Go on up to your bower, young lady. Nurse will be down presently and Rivanone will be up after noon. You need rest as well." Margaret rose, curtsied, and went up to her room.

After splashing her face and brushing her hair, she felt rather like getting out of doors. She had not left the stone halls for days. She tied on a mourning cap-- a spare, black linen cap tied with string under the chin-- and went back down the stone stair.

In the courtyard, Varda and Brinn were playing wedding; their new nurse was playing father of the bride-- Fione had died a week ago. They made a somber looking group in their black mourning clothes, but the sun shone brightly on them; the sparrows never ceased to chirp under the eaves and the girls' laughter was music. Margaret hung in the archway, watching for a few moments, but knew she didn't want any company, or to be roped into their game; but she wanted to have her own thoughts.

She circled around the courtyard beneath the portico and exited to the sheltered, sunny White Rose garden. The earliest roses were just past their full bloom and some were brown around the edges; the deadheads had not been removed at all. Margaret walked the shaved turf paths between the bushes. The sun was hot on the mourning cap. She smelled deeply of the roses, burying her face into the clustered masses of them. Their fragrance invaded her heart and she pressed her face into them. One in this cluster was browning around the edges and she could smell that too. The blended fragrances of life and decay were too poignant and she slowly lifted her face away. She had only wanted fresh air. Now she was hot and retreated for the shade. In the center of the rose garden was a crabapple tree with a stone seat encircling it; there she sat down, thinking, _I can't give way now. I am needed._ Her fingers went as if to twist her finger-rings, they were not there and she felt only her cool skin. She needed to think about something outside the castle...

Down at the brook, ages ago it seemed, she had met a beautiful man. Who had he been? Why was he there? Time cast him in a strange light, and she wondered at the trust she had so easily placed on him, putting the handle of her own knife in his hand. Yet who could have feared those eyes...When she thought of them, a smile played on her lips. She wished she could go down; not for the moment return to the castle, to the needs and the hush of the sickroom, not just yet- but to the place where a smile had snared her amid the chorus of the thrushes...She arose from her seat and ran the long paved walkway to the stable.

She told the stablemaster, "I wish to ride. Let me have the dark mare Star, and a page to ride with me."

"Yes, my lady. If it please my lady, my son Trin is right here and would be ready faster than he could find a page available at the moment," he said, deferentially. Margaret knew he was looking to advance his son, was making bold; she didn't mind. She waved her hand in accession.

Riding toward the brook, she asked herself why she wanted to go there. After all, this man had made no effort to see her. Even if her father had refused him, she would have heard something of the visit. " _Ah, love is like a bird, it lights on whom it may..._ " She tried to hum lightly, but swallowed a lump in her throat; she had no hope that he would still be lingering somewhere in the woods. But when she got to the knoll, she told the boy Trin to wait for her. She rode the mare down to the brook, and urged her through the water in the shallows to the other side. It was as if she had to cast the broad light of day on the place, to quell her foolish hopes.

She rode Star along the brook through the glade until the trees thickened, and pulled the mare to a stop. She sat awhile, listening to the birds sing and the sound of Cloud Brook. She sighed deeply of the clear, fragrant air of the place. The mare kept tugging at the reins, her skin twitching nervously, and sniffing the air. Margaret thought she was hoping to pull the grass, which was now growing deep; she was too tired to wrestle with her and she slid from the saddle and stood patting Star's neck, holding the reins. Then she wound them around a thick sapling and walked a bit away.

He is not here. Maybe he never will be again.

This side of the brook was not as scabby as the other bank, indeed it was fertile looking, with rich grass between linden and beech trees that reached high. She knew her father had kept it back from clearing because her mother had been fond of it as a beauty spot, and her grandmother and great-grandmother before her. It was called the Little Wood, but was connected in an unbroken sweep to the great Wilds, and its rolling hills were feet to the wild mountains between Briardene and the sea.

It was rumored that in those mountains, the Elvenfolk rode in procession between their summer and winter fastnesses, that they were a fearsome sight; it seemed that everyone knew someone who knew someone who had been in the forest late and been frightened out of their wits by the roar and clatter of the Elven horses' hooves. Leaning on a tree daydreaming, gazing on the shifting waters of the brook, she grew drowsy...

"Margaret."

It was the lowest murmur but her heart skipped a beat as she whirled to see Sir Sievan, standing close to her, holding the reins of his horse. She was startled and cried out, almost involuntarily.

"My lady, please forgive me, I have heard the death-knell and not seen you, and been stricken with worrying, and not able to get word of you or your family."

Recovering from the fright, and once again coming under the influence of his blue eyes that looked so unclouded into hers, eyes she wanted so much to see, Margaret straightened and smoothed the black dress down, and looked down at her ringless hands, swallowing the obstinate lump that had returned her throat. She knew her cheeks were burning. "Please forgive me also, Sir, for you caught me off guard. I did not think to see you again. You come never to Caer Aldene..."

"My lady, for reasons that are difficult to explain-- suffice it to say that I would be overstepping my bounds-- I may not cross this brook, nor leave this wood."

Margaret was silent some moments. "Yet...you crossed it when last we met." If she met his gaze, she would cry.

"Aye, Lady Margaret-- because the truth is, that to see you smile at me, I willingly would cross the very pit of hell." Margaret looked up at him. There was not the slightest trace of humor or dissimulation in his eyes, but only compassion as he searched her face. "Margaret, I hope that you are not offended, nor do I suppose it would be possible...I wish to be no burden at all to you, but only to place myself at your service, in whatever way I can. I know that you are mourning, and are weighted by cares I cannot hope to relieve, but..." He fell silent, because her eyes filled with tears and spilled over.

Embarrassed, Margaret tried to dash the tears away with one hand, while the other fumbled in her pocket for a kerchief. It fell to the ground as she pulled it out. He dropped his reins and snatched it quickly up, and stepped close and very softly dabbed the tears from her face. Margaret had ministered these same caresses a hundred times in the past fortnight, but had not herself been ministered to; the simple gesture overwhelmed her. She hid her crumbling face in her hands. He enfolded her to himself, resting one hand on the hair flowing out the back of the linen bonnet, whispering, "Cry, mourning dove, it is well, it is well. . ." She let all her weary sorrow go, clutching his soft tunic.

Welcome as rain on thirsty lands were her tears, and she cried unrestrained until empty. After the rain that swept away all of the gray faces, the cries of pain, the compassion and loss, had passed, there was peace so deep that she knew not any thought for long moments, and she seemed almost to sleep, resting in the enfolding arms. But thought returned to her, and then she rested still, not wishing to let the embrace end.

They stood, the brook chattering and birds calling; Margaret felt the softness of his tunic, and her hands reluctantly let go. The warmth, the scent of him, the feel of his heart beating against her temple and his arms around her, were all the solace she desired; she was no more able to lift her head and break free of him at that moment than to sprout wings and fly. But eventually, self-consciousness bade her straighten slightly, but she found that her legs were weak as reeds.

She raised her eyes to his, and then she was lost.

With her face upturned to his, his breath was upon her lips and hers upon his, and into the clear sky of his blue eyes she wished to fall forever. He stole no kiss, freely though she would have given it. She had no thought or consciousness in that moment but the soaring silence of her heart, sweeping all away in forgetfulness of joy. Her hands lay where they had been, on his chest. Though for chastity's sake they leaned slowly away from their embrace, in so doing, their hearts were bound ever tighter together, for the jewel of their desire was bound in the silver of purity and the gold of trust. They had stood as it were on an abyss, she felt, desiring with every fiber to fall- but both stood straight and calm.

Quiet his voice came. "Margaret." He moved closer, but stood straighter, rising to his full height, but looking intently at her, and took her right hand in both of his, holding it between them. "My name among men, Margaret, is Tamlyn of Braewode."

_Tamlyn_...had she not heard that name, in a song...after Hildreth's wedding? Was he not supposed to be...she searched his eyes, and they were not ghost's eyes. She felt his breath on her face and the warmth of his hand. "You have heard my name, and tales, no doubt. Fear me not, Margaret, you see that I am a living man, do you not?"

"Aye... Sievan-- Tamlyn-- but--"

"My precious one, there is so much to explain to you, but for now I must tell you this, and though it will only add to your cares, it is very urgent. Beyond the mountains, ships have landed. Vallards are encamped and have captured your father's outriders, so Lord Gregory will not hear of this until it is perhaps too late for defense! They are espying the land and planning to attack-- and the first place they must come, they must soon know, is Caer Aldene, in order to cross the Briar River. There are many of them, but they are hidden by the mountains. Your best hope is to hide many archers and footsoldiers in the hills, and when they mobilize, attack them in the forest. They are veteran soldiers, and well armed. If they come to the plains to fight, they will have the advantage, and will neither spare nor have mercy, but will destroy all to draw King Fearnon out quickly, in wrath; yet will already be well embedded into Ardinéa and difficult to assail. The King cannot afford to leave the southern border alone; the Vallards surely know this is Ardinéa's weakness and have found a way to exploit it. Margaret, all depends on a surprise attack in the Wild, where they will be strung out and ill-prepared!"

His voice, while speaking, had lowered to an ardent whisper, and his lips leaned closer and closer to her ear, his eyes flicking about the woods behind them as if on guard. Now he stood and straightened, and looked at her. "Margaret, love, will you be able to give this message to my lord your father? Repeat to me what I have told you." She recounted all that he had told her, he leaned his ear close to listen. When she had concluded, she asked, "But how...?"

"Margaret, I cannot now explain all to you. Your father must have this message." He walked Margaret over to where her mare was tied. He untied the reins, handed them to her and turned to lift her to the saddle; but first his hands cupped her face, and his look said more than words could have.

Her mind was full of questions. _Who are you, where have you learned this, why do I trust you so completely, most beautiful thing I have ever seen!_

"Margaret, when might I again see you? I must, for love of you and your people, send you away for now; and I cannot come to you. May God go with you, Margaret."

"And with you, Tamlyn. Will I find you again here, if I am able to come?"

"I wait and watch, and will know in my heart if you come, I cannot explain how, but I will, if I am able. This warfare will involve me, but I will be happy, knowing that I go to defend you." He removed a shining ring from his hand, and pressed it into her palm. "I know you can not wear it, nor would I make so bold as to ask you to, but only take it if you will, as a token. My intentions are only honorable, though I know not how my desire could ever come to be... I wish I could give you much more." He lifted her to the mare's back. He examined her face, which had been so drawn and now bloomed; but he could read the weariness behind her brown eyes. "I wish to hear of your cares. But every hour gives advantage to your enemies. Go with God, Margaret Aldene!"

Clutching the reins in one hand and the thick ring in her other, she urged Star back over the brook and up the knoll. She knew without turning that the other bank would appear empty, but she felt that she was leaving her heart there.

She saw the boy Trin ahead. How to give this message to her father? "I have met Tamlyn in the woods and he said to tell you..." No, that would never do. They would think her mad. But how to send his message?

By the time they had reached the stable, she had a plan. "Trin, you acquit yourself well. Now get from the infirmary for me the Troubadour, Gilling. Tell him to meet me here at once, and Trin, not a word to another human soul of the whole affair, not even your father, if it means your life!" She saw his eyes light up with importance, and he turned and ran like a deer for the church compound.

## Chapter 6: the Elf-Knight

##

After meeting with the Troubadour, Margaret had fallen on her bed, exhausted, but not before seeing the courtyard come alive with persons running and shouting with excitement, and as she drifted off she heard the diminishing thud of many hoofbeats as messengers departed on fast horses.

She had slept through the noon meal. Before dinner, she looked in on Elsibeth. Rivanone napped on the bed beside her, weary lines in her face. The hours, the days and nights Margaret had spent in here in the last fortnight, laboring over frail bodies! Each that died, took a piece of her with them; each that rallied and improved and was moved out of the sickroom seemed a gift. Now she looked at Elsibeth sleeping. Her color was better than it had been and she was sleeping peacefully, not in a swoon of exhaustion. _It is done,_ she thought. _The blight is passed._ Margaret sighed in great relief. _But something new has come._

Margaret gazed at Rivanone. Hardly a word had they shared with each other, and there was so much she needed to talk about, but Rivanone had other concerns. Margaret went to the window and opened it very quietly and the inrushing warm air relieved the oppression of the room. Rivanone's handmaid, sitting in the corner spinning, looked at her gratefully.

Margaret gazed at Rivanone. _Oh Auntie, I love a man, I am so in love, and I hardly know him! thought Margaret. What would you say?_

Margaret saw Rivanone's face in the moonlit herb garden, in her pale headdress with the silver-shot plaits laying over her shoulder. _Do not allow youthful lust to hastily pick the first flower,_ she had said.

Lust? Margaret felt suddenly abashed. Could that be what she had felt when Tamlyn had held her close? Certainly they had handled one another longer than unmarried people in Ardinéa were expected to. She thought of his hands on her shoulders, so gently holding her away from him; the way her inwards had been fired with an aliveness she had never experienced, the way her breath had come quickly, and her legs had felt weak. _I tell myself that I love him. Do I know what that is? Oh, Rivanone, so laden with cares, how can I speak to you of these things? Where can I find the wisdom that you have?_

She thought of her aunt poring over the illuminated Gospel in the Library. But the Latin, although Margaret understood it well, made it seem to her so remote, so alien that it never seemed to speak to her the way it did Rivanone. It was so much easier when Rivanone could interpret and explain it for her-- then it made sense to her, coming from Rivanone. _Perhaps,_ she thought, _I am too old to have it spoon-fed me. I need to search the Scriptures on my own._

She thought again of Tamlyn's hands, cutting branches in the rain; clasping her upper arms as he whispered about the Vallards in the forest; touching her face, placing the ring in her palm. Her hand went to her pocket, and she withdrew the heavy band, cupped it in her hands, gazed upon it. Margaret had seen and herself owned many lovely and valuable pieces of gold, but this was of a fineness of craftsmanship, and a peculiar quality of gold that she had not seen. It bore the sign she had noticed upon his brooch; a deer beneath an overspreading tree; pierced, yet with erect head and piercing eye-- the eye itself was a tiny blue brilliant. She slipped it over her thumb and twisted it around, examining the vines and birds carved into the bright yellow metal. His hand had worn the inside smooth and shining. Margaret slipped the ring off into the cup of her palms again and rolled it around. It seemed to cast a glow of its own on her palms. _What meant he, giving this ring to me? He knew I cannot wear it for mourning_ ... There was so much that they had been unable to speak of, but only hint at; she understood that.

Is this love...or "in" love?

She loved her Aunt Rivanone. She loved her sister and her cousins and her father. She had sat by bedsides well into the night, even until dawn, holding, reassuring, comforting; she knew that was the sort of faithful deeds her love for her family required of her, though she fought to stay awake and sometimes held little bodies with aching arms, speaking reassurance she did not feel, and giving comfort she herself had craved. She had known that she should do these things, though she hated it and her heart rebelled at times, she knew it for the selfishness it was.

Love takes root in faithfulness. Faithfulness...was it in her? In the hands that gave this ring? Tamlyn had admirably held her away and smiled on her, when she might have surrendered all in return for the comfort he gave to her. He had given her information which might deliver her, yet sought no reward or glory for himself-- why? If it showed him faithful, was it also love? His hands had served her. They had declined to take advantage of her vulnerability, though many men would have; they had sought no praise...Was what Margaret felt, what she had so easily called "love", equal to that?

Gilling had approached Lord Gregory in the Hall, while he spoke with the bailiff about a matter in the village, and requested that he speak with him in privacy. Gregory, seated on a hassock, had dismissed all from his presence; they had retreated. When Gilling delivered the information, he had jumped up from his seat. "Great heavens, man! If this proves true, and no tale, your friend has spared us from destruction and shall have his reward, and you, a fiddle of gold!"

Gilling had merely bowed slightly. "If this angel of death may also bring life, that were sufficient reward for me. I can only say that no lying lips have brought me this news, and may it prove valuable to you, my lord."

Gregory had begun to call loudly for his knights to be summoned, for his scribes and pages; in the bustle, the troubadour had vanished.

Lord Gregory's messengers were sent out at once for King Fearnon's castle, and to the nearer castles and manors. The parade grounds came alive within hours. Rusted swords were drawn from the armory and polished; and knights trained with staffs on the green sward. White peaked tents peopled the meadows within the bailey wall.

Briardene had not seen battle for two generations. Though men had ever been sent to the South of Ardinéa to the border disputed there, now it was their own proud soil, their own cottages and fields and wives and daughters they were defending; now they were to go into the Wild and surprise the Vallards and show them that the Ardinéans still remembered how to rout even the most hardened troops.

For days on end Gregory held court in the Great Hall. His magistrate and sheriff must oversee domestic peace while this affair lasted; the forester was suddenly greatly important for his knowledge of the woods between the Briar and the Cloud Mountains. For Gregory this was all a most welcome distraction from the domestic tragedy of his sister-in-law's family. Now there were thanes and earls within his hall, persons of importance with whom he had little to do in the years since he had married for love, within his own walls, his beautiful distant kinswoman Varden.

Seeing these great persons set a corner of his mind in motion; his son Aelfred would need to be well connected in the future. Hildreth's marriage, he trusted, would prove a good alliance in the future judging by the figure his son-in-law cut among the knights. But perhaps he had better look hard about him in the interests of his two remaining daughters. The next few days would prove out many things.

Gregory's anticipation about facing the Vallards in battle was one of a certain inevitability, that war should come to his peaceable Briardene after so many years with rest on every side. His own father, Lord Grefyrd, after he married, paid shield-money to his best knights to take his place in the wars afar off, until Gregory's mother declined and died young; his father had then ridden off to battle had not returned. He had not seen his first grandchild, Hildreth, who was born before the messengers telling of his death had returned from Ardwin fields.

Lord Gregory was perplexed by Gilling's message, which he had prefaced by securing his oath that he would not demand Gilling's source. For a troubadour to act as a spy or a go-between was expected, but Gilling claimed no credit for himself. The Cloud Mountains were uninhabited except by a few religious hermits, poachers, his own outriders, hunters, and mushroom-gatherers; and the fabled Elvenfolk, but Gregory lent these no more credence than superstitions regarding broken mirrors and such. So Gregory was at a loss to know what sort of folk would convey to him secretly, without remuneration or reward, such valuable news. There had to be some hidden benefit to them, but Gregory could not discern it, and it bothered him. One way to draw out the source, he knew was to advertise a reward...

Scouts had returned from the east, confirming that indeed there were vast camps on the wind-scoured heaths by the coast; many columns of smoke could be seen blowing out to sea. One of the scouts had encountered a pair of spies along Cloud Brook, overheard them chattering in Gallic, which he understood; from his unseen vantage he had shot both with arrows and brought back as evidence the Vallards' brooches that clasped their cloaks. When he delivered this prize, Lord Gregory knighted him on the spot. He had also the maps they had been drawing; it showed the probable routes the Vallards would take through the mountains and down Cloud Brook, which drained a long upland and emptied into the Briar River. Confidence soared, but also urgency; surely there were other spies, and these would be missed, and then the enemy would suspect that their presence was known.

So it was that five days after Gilling had carried the news of the invasion into Gregory's hall, the stratagems of surprise attack had been formulated, troops had been outfitted, bowyers and fletchers had worked long hours making bows and arrows and cobblers making sturdy rawhide boots for moving silently through the Wilds.

Guarding the castle had been for years a casual business; no longer. Full uniformed sentries stood guard not only at the castle entrances and in the keep, but at each bailey-gate as well. There was no slipping unnoticed out of the castle. The Great Hall was full each evening, but this was no revel, although there was a levity amongst all, an eagerness to be about the fight. Lord Gregory required his daughters and nieces to appear each evening for the meal; he bade Margaret wear the least mournful-looking mourning that decency allowed, for the morale of the men. Margaret knew the admiring gaze of many, but as one of few females, young and marriageable, in the Hall, it did not surprise her. She did not guess that without jewelry and bright clothing, her own beauty shone forth the more brightly, and thoughts that she kept hidden suffused her cheeks and lips with roses.

A number of times she saw her father gazing at her, as if considering. One of these evenings, she sat at the family table and during a lull in the conversation, she glanced around her. A few seats away, her father was looking at this man and that, their sons sitting with them, their servants standing behind them, each more finely liveried than the next. It occurred to Margaret that he was evaluating them in some way...and then his gaze turned to her. She smiled at him; he returned the smile, but his eyes were thoughtful and he nodded slowly. Margaret did not need to guess what was on his mind. She dropped her eyes to her ringless hands. She slipped her hand into her pocket again, clutched the ring, slipped her thumb into it. She was filled with a longing to be near Tamlyn, to talk with him, to touch his hand with the golden freckles... She had eyes for no man here. _He is the one,_ she thought, a thought that was both happiness and hurting.

She excused herself and asked Varda if she would like to go to the Library with her and choose a book to read before bedtime. While Varda turned the pages and haltingly read aloud, Margaret took a leaf of paper and ink and a quill from a desk by the wall, and wrote.

Where coltsfoot opens day's first eyes in Spring

Where thrush and blackbird lavish sarabandes

On those who care to walk the spring-kissed lands

To see fair flowers bloom and hear birds sing;

There where I left my heart laying among

Blowing grasses by the shaded brookside

Where willow withies on the breezes ride

And trembling leaves there sing a loving song;

I live a moment when he touched my eyes

A hoped-for love was known and quickly spoke

confession that my feckless heart obeys.

My heart is sealed to bend, and not be broke

Like willows bowed to the will of other,

For I may not ever love another.

"Maggie, Maggie. . ." Varda had called her name several times, and left the book and came over to read over Margaret's shoulder. She stumbled over "sarabandes" and Margaret sighed and read over the sonnet to her, shamed now at her doggerel. Still, saying the last line, her voice diminished to a whisper. Varda slipped her arm over Margaret's shoulder. "Are you in love with someone, Maggie?"

Margaret pulled her close and laughed, sniffing and quickly wiping her eyes with her fingertips. "I'm afraid I am, Varda. Yes, I am in love with a man. But let it be our secret, speak not of it!"

"Does he love you, too?" Varda spoke over Margaret's shoulder.

"Aye, I believe he truly does."

"Will you be wed and go away, too?" Margaret pulled away and frowned tenderly at Varda. "I'm afraid that's out of my hands, love. We'll see."

"Who is he?"

"Promise never to tell?"

"Oh, aye, with all my heart, Maggie."

Margaret cupped a hand over her sister's ear and whispered, "His name is Sievan."

Varda cupped her hand over Margaret's ear and asked, "Where is Sievan from?"

Margaret again cupped Varda's ear. "You ask many questions. Father will choose you a handsome owl to wed, and all night he and you will ask one another who, who?" Varda laughed. "Come, lovey, let us look at a book, and have a tale, and then find Nurse to take you up to bed!" She paged through an illuminated, hand written book, making up stories to fit the pictures; then she sang her the ballad of the Feathered Maiden. She saw her laid in bed, and recited the Pater Noster with her. She laid the poem, folded, under her pillow, knowing that she would find it laughable come morning. Then she was wakeful, and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. She went to find someone to walk to the church with.

The Hall had been cleared of trestles, and her father sat at the hearth, talking with Lord Eldred, Lord James of Caer Morga, Baron Farn of Westroe, and a group of lesser thanes and of knights. Gregory reveled in his sudden importance. His quiet domain had gone from backwater to base of operations overnight. It was the eve of the Lord's Day, and the group was drifting off to sleeping quarters a few at a time. Plans had been laid; the day after the Lord's Day would call for an early rising and troops mobilizing; tomorrow was the lull before the storm; the mood was one of subdued excitement. Lord Gregory spotted her across the Hall.

"Ah, my daughter! Come, come!"

"My lord, my father," She said, stepping forward, and curtseying.

"Why wander you about the Hall, my dear?"

"I wish to go to Mass, father, and I hoped to find others willing to go," she said. Her father's eyes looked quickly about him, but the noble sons in whom he aspired had drifted away to chess games long before, only these Lords with whom he wished himself to converse were left, and a few of his knights.

"Ah, Sir Gareth, good man. You will do me a service and accompany my child to the Church, will you not?"

"Yes, my lord," he said, bowing and proffering his arm to Margaret.

When they emerged into the night and walked the brick path, Margaret recalled suddenly the words he had spoken on the night of her sister's wedding. "Sir Gareth," she said, as if to make light conversation.

"Yes, my Lady."

"What hear you of your friend of note, Tamlyn?" Margaret felt his arm jerk; it was like a rock under her hand for a moment. She could see in his hawk-like, warrior's face that he was deeply perplexed. He groaned, passing his free hand over his face.

"It is strange, Lady, that you should ask. Very strange. I was walking by the riverside two nights ago-- with a young woman, if you must know-- and across the brook, I spied a figure. I left the maid hidden, and approached, drawing my bow and nocking my arrow, to be ready; for his garb was not Ardinéan. I saw a knight in mail, in full array for battle, and sitting like a statue on his horse, as if waiting and watching, his eye keen. I had begun to draw a bead on him, but as I came within range, I could see he was staring straight at me. As God is my witness, it was that Tamlyn, looking not a day older than last I saw him at Caer Cynrose! I dropped my bow down and cried out his name-- and he turned his horse and melted into the forest-- just vanished. But I could swear that it was him, Margaret! ...Ah, I do need to be here, at church. I am glad to be here. Forgive me my ghost tale. I must be going mad, to tell you this. My lady, are you well?"

Margaret was no dissembler; she was relieved that he misinterpreted her stricken demeanor. She drew in her breath and said, "It is good that we are here. Let us go in and hear the holy sisters, Gareth."

Both entered the church, a high-walled stone hall with carved wood beams holding up the tile roof, and tall, narrow windows which shone colors in the day. Now the candles that lit the sanctuary were few, there were more on the other side of the latticed screen through which the nuns and anchoresses, silhouetted, sang serenely. A latticed light fell across Margaret as she gazed over her folded hands at the glow of tapers at the altar. All within its bounds was orderly, well-lit, fragrant with incense, and lovely to look on in the night. The sisters' garb was plain white linen, their hair covered; they were backlit by the altar candles. Each had her place; each sang and spoke the responses, the Latin rolling off of several tongues in unison, unchanged since Saint Brendan had brought the Faith to Ardinéa, though the common tongue had changed much.

Margaret had immersed herself in the effect of it many times, and gained comfort. But tonight she felt that all the comfort was beyond the lattice; that she sat in darkness, coddling her secret passion. In there were no secrets, no confusion. Here where she knelt on the tufted velvet prie-dieu, she was aware that a gulf separated her from that peace. She looked up at the carved rood with Christ hanging on it. It had eyes that seemed to follow one-- wherever she had stood in this chapel, the eyes were upon her-- but they were serene.

She had as a child gazed on those eyes afraid, until one Good Friday she heard His words-- "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do." She had figured that if He could forgive those who drove nails through His hands, then He could forgive her. Childlike faith had covered the sins of a child. Now she felt those eyes again probing her, seeing her secrets. She was not sure how her heart bore the scrutiny. The eyes followed her home, and reappeared even behind her closed eyelids, as she lay in her bed alone, late that night, twisting in the white linen sheets.

## Chapter 7: The Troubadour in Love and War

In the courtyard outside the infirmary, late the next morning, Gilling stood at a loss. The prioress had told him that with the few sick that remained, his assistance was no longer needed. What did he plan to do next?

"I have no plan, Mother. I have not given thought to it...There is nothing I wish to return to."

"Gilling, I would encourage you strongly to seek the Lord and ask what He wills. Perhaps there is a call for you to Holy orders. You know the Latin already? You have a good hand for writing? There are many good uses to which the Lord can put such a one. The new priest has a large project he is eager to begin, and will need good writing hands.

"But Gilling," she continued, cautiously, "You are well-known for...your former conduct. Perhaps...The Lord said that ere you make an offering unto God, be sure that, if possible, you are reconciled with your brethren first." She looked into his eyes, and saw there that he was listening. "He accepts you as you are, a sinner. But He wishes us to be at peace with persons as well."

So here he stood. Where to begin? He would have to travel many years to reconcile himself with all the persons he had used lightly over the years. There were wrongs he could never right...and many secrets that were better left to be forgotten. But there was one, here in this very village, to whose house he now turned his steps.

It had been two years and more since he had turned down this rutted lane to a cottage crammed between two large byres. As he walked, he slowed to take in the changes. Saplings and vines had been allowed to grow thick along the fence line to crowd out inquiring looks. A thin cat, its stomach elongated in dirty teats, started away and ran into hiding as he paused at the gate into the dooryard. He stood a moment, not sure how to approach the cottage. A goat penned into a tiny corner of the yard bleated at him repeatedly, a pig rooted about, oblivious, at the feet of an old man wrapped in a ragged shawl, who dozed seated on a low stump which stood in place of a stool. A flax break and a pile of flax lay untouched at his side. After a few moments, the rhythmic thumping of the loom from within the hovel ceased, and a figure appeared at the half-door. Gilling saw her stiffen with recognition. Distrust lined the once open, but still pretty face.

"You are no longer welcome here, Troubadour," she said, trying to sound harsh and cold, but the last word came out almost as a sob.

"Sintia, I came...to say that I am sorry for the way I treated you and to ask your forgiveness, and perhaps..." His words stopped when the half-door opened and a tiny girl emerged, wearing a short, stained tow-cloth tunic. Her wavy, black hair glistened in the sun. She toddled towards Gilling, gnawing on a small piece of dark bread. Clutched to her in the other arm was a rag poppet, with tow stitched to the head for hair. She looked up at Gilling with Elora's eyes in an elfin face. Gilling was bewildered. Sintia was calling, "Deinn, Deinn...come hither, Deinn!' The child suddenly offered Gilling her stub of gnawed bread.

Gilling swallowed hard. He squatted down to see the child more closely, leaning his folded arms on the rough gate. "She is beautiful," he whispered to himself. He reached in his shirtfront and pulled out several golden necklaces which he wore always. "Take your pick, little sprite," he said, holding them on his outspread palm. Deinn reached out and with one tiny finger touched the glittering metal. Gilling removed the chains from over his head and separated the one she had touched from the tangle of them, and placed it over her neck. Then he laid the rest of them in her hands, saying, "These are for your pretty mother. Can you give them to her?" He stood and backed away quickly, and strode back up the lane to tell the bailiff that he had freely given them to Sintia Rowan, that they were neither stolen nor the price of harlotry, but rather were partial repayment of a debt.

Sintia Rowan stood in the morning sun, regarding with disbelieving joy the handful of gold shining in her daughter's hand.

The day following, the assembled forces mobilized throughout the day. The Briar had been prepared for crossing; the ford had been built up. The road into the forest was narrow, and of necessity the footsoldiers were strung out, so it was hours with the various groups leaving, receiving last-minute instructions in this new type of warfare. To attack, hidden among the trees of the forest! To take an enemy by ambush! Such a thing had not been known or heard of. Those staying behind saw them off with pipes and bodhrans, whistles and songs, and lined the riverbank and every outcropping to watch the crossing all the day.

Gilling had traveled far and slept often in the open, when his money was spent, as often as in illustrious brocaded beds; but never to battle had he gone. Never had he cared about the outcome, being a man without borders. Immediately after his conversion, he had despised both war and love; now he had fallen instantly, hard in love with a tiny girl; her presence forced him to war against those who threatened her and the mother who had cared for her without any help these past two years, fighting battles of her own.

He had always had true aim at the archery butts. But he had never thought to aim his bow at a man in defense of anyone; nor to put himself in the way of another's bowshot for any reason. Nor had he ever taken orders from any man. Now he had a reason to.

He had been but hastily outfitted and what was left of the equipment was not the best. But it bothered him not...He could walk many miles with the best of them, and though his tongue had tasted of the daintiest meats, he was not unused to the driest crusts as well. That did not daunt him.

But he knew not how to conduct himself in the company of the men around him. He would not sing the ballads of which his mind held great store. Nor would he tell with them the lewd and lusty jokes, or the stories of his racy exploits...in short, no one knew what to expect from him, and noble and yeomen alike were perplexed and kept somewhat of a distance.

All but the new priest, Father Raphael, who rode with the nobles, but dismounted to talk to Gilling often. He had heard of this odd convert, and hoped to find in him an ally for his project of a new translation from Latin of the Gospels and the Epistles into the Ardinéan tongue-- a project which he had been discouraged with ever completing in King's Leigh, and which he hoped to press forward with here, away from the prying eyes of his superiors. But when he spoke with Gilling, the man had hesitated, alluding to obligations he was unsure how to fulfill.

Higher they climbed into the mountains. One thing puzzled the vanguard-- where they had expected to lose days in labor, hewing down the thickets of brambles which kept these hills so wild, they found that some storm or stampede had laid them waste, not long before. It was impossible that the Vallards could have cut them down and then retreated; and the spies had seen them, days away, toiling up the ravines on the eastern slopes of the same mountains. So they made serendipitous progress through the foothills and uplands.

As they entered the passes of the mountains, there were more wonders at hand. Bones of fearsome, unknown creatures bleaching on alpine heaths! Places that had been burned so hotly that the ground was seared to glass that crunched underfoot! Yet the air was rarefied, peaceful. A soft music seemed to hover before them, drawing the guides through the easiest passes, riven by many clear laughing springs. Hundreds of men walked with increasing quietness and awe through a land mortal eyes had rarely seen.

At last they obtained the entrance to the Eastern valleys, and a breathtaking vista opened to sparsely forested hills, that gave way to rolling dry plains which swept to the Sea, which lay as a silver thread across the horizon. There was a moment when all gathered silently. Rather than the lusty shout which such an accomplishment would normally have inspired, sober thankfulness lay on every heart, with the confidence that the mystery which led them through the mountains would lead them also to victory.

The horses were left in a wide pass which had good grass. They had not been ridden, but rather led the last few miles, because of the steepness of the trail, and now were left to pasture rather than risk the noise they might make. The men sat in hundreds, chewing oatcakes and wheaten bread which were not yet stale, when scouts reported to Lord Gregory that the enemy was within a day's march. It was evening, with a long twilight here on the eastern slope of the Cloud Mountains.

The western slope had been cloaked in a lush and dripping evergreen forest; from here east were low and twisted trees, rustling fruited shrubs, and silvery aromatic herbs. Gregory thought how much his wife would have been enthralled to see this place, how fascinated with the unfamiliar vegetation and strongly fragrant plants. They would provide good cover, providing the shrubs and gnarled trees persisted farther down the slope. There were deer, gamebirds, and hares in abundance, by the signs; but a fire could not be risked. A continual wind hinted at the distant sea's fragrance.

From where they had passed through the mountains-- a pass the men were calling the Mountain Gate-- snowy peaks rose formidably to the north and south; they were Primarda and Arvanne, seen and named from Caer Aldene, but no person seemed ever to have visited here. A long alluvial fan wrapped the base of the northern peak, scored by ridges fingering east from them, but to the south gaped a deeply eroded valley, cut into the living rock by a loud and torrential river which issued from unseen places higher in the mountains.

It was this same river, farther down, along which the Vallards were laboring, for the land to the south was broken and impassable, a cluster of steep granite faces, scoured by the wind. They would enter the next day a long and narrow gulf where the river ran calm, where crossing was possible at many places; and where there was a bottom many yards wide, like a grassy road. This easy trail was preceded by a very narrow ledge which would force the men to go one at a time, but if they crossed through this valley, they would gain the pass through which the Ardinéan men had themselves come.

So their scouts had been shown by the same luring force which had brought the Ardinéan men here.

The men of Briardene arose not long past midnight, and by the light of the waxing moon, picked their way along the northern wall of the ravine to this gulf. They filled their waterskins in the clear river. They hid themselves in a ledge which had been carved out of the canyon wall by the flooding of the river, about twenty-five feet above the water. There were huge boulders which had tumbled from the cliff above, which acted as turrets for the archers. They ate bread, drank deeply, and then waited in silence.

The dawn broke. The silent sun arose over the silver horizon.

The wait might have been unbearable, but in the song of the unceasing torrent below, there seemed to be encouragement and patience. A few shifted their positions, discovering by dawn's light that their position might be seen. But most lay still, watching their companions, checking their bowstrings, or watching the occasional hawk that hovered inquiringly overhead. Some prayed. Some fiddled with their arrows, smoothing the feathers for the hundredth time. Then the signal came as a ripple of excitement down the line: the enemy was in sight.

Arrows were quickly nocked, to reduce the amount of movement and increase the surprise that would came later. Then came the signal that absolutely no one was to move for any reason.

The river sang them, lulled them, calmed them, seemed to whisper, Wait, wait, peace, wait...The men could hear occasional calls from across the river. A few of them understood their language; heard the jokes, the comments between men not unlike themselves. Gilling lay and listened. Those men had children like his daughter at home. But they should not be here, threatening the peace of Briardene, of his own family...

Suddenly it was as if the song of the very river cried out, NOW! And the horn blast rolled up the canyon, Now!

Gilling's heart pounded in his ears as he jumped to his feet, drew his longbow, and pointed the arrow at a man on the other bank. The roaring of the river seemed suddenly to rise even as the light breeze died. The cliff wall shadowed them and the sun glared in the Vallards' eyes. The arrow left his bow before he could even think and he grabbed another and another from his quiver, the song of his bowstring reverberating in his ear above the cries of shock, dismay and pain, and above the song of the river in which he heard a tiny black-haired girl's laughter. His arrows were not yet spent before the stretch of bank within his bowshot was overcome, and a deafening cry of victory was going up from the archers up and down the stream.

None from Briardene were lost. The sun had smote hard on the Vallards as they toiled along the heated canyon wall, and most who wore it had removed their helms and even their chain mail, believing that days lay between them and their unsuspecting enemy. Few had time even to react; one moment they had been on a tedious if novel march, the next a trumpet blaring and arrows hailing down so thick and fast in the next from the shadows under the cliff above them, they seemed to be pouring out of the very sun itself. No one inhabited this land and the attack was a total surprise. And this, after it had seemed that they were almost magically led along by some force into this passage through the mountains...

This was the complaint of the few prisoners who were taken. Many had fled; of those who had surrendered, these were busied the rest of the day burying the dead. These were transported up the cliff wall to high cave where they were buried, bodies were stacked on bodies after their accouterments had been taken as spoil. Many had no ornament, but were only poor footsoldiers. Some were richly jeweled. These items were taken and it was discussed, but not decided, what to do with them.

For the benefit of the prisoners that remained, Father Raphael brought forth his Missal and spoke the last rites by the mouth of the cave. Gilling translated into the Gallic, and sang the benediction.

Kyrie, Kyrie eleison, eleison

Kyrie, Kyrie eleison

Christe, Christe eleison, eleison

Kyrie, Kyrie eleison

The prisoners, who had shuffled uncertainly in a huddled group after their task of burial was through, clearly marked the genuine sorrow in Gilling's angelic voice. Many had lost brother, father, son, friend. Few were unmoved, and few were any longer fearful of their fate when it was over: the fury of Briardene was spent; the worst, for them, was past.

## Chapter 8: A Broken Hedge Between the Realms

The days after the march into the forest were spent quietly at Caer Aldene. Margaret collected herbs with her sister and cousins. They rode their horses, embroidered trousseau items for Margaret and Malva, read aloud to one another, played chess. One evening, Elora had sung in her still-strong voice, the lay about Tamlyn, which she had memorized, having heard it only once. Margaret thought she would explode, that all her heart was written on her face. When the song was over, Elora had looked at Margaret.

"Heavens, child. It is only a song."

Life in Aldene went on as normally as possible. But always they kept a lookout for news, kept gazing toward the silver ribbon of the Briar, wondering, yearning. Many new fenceposts had been erected of late in the village, Margaret had noticed. She knew that there housewives were burying their valuables, just in case...

She had ridden alone, because Rivanone had said she was old enough to come and go as she pleased, especially with the men gone. Rather than head directly back to the castle, she desired to take a longer ride, elated with her new independence.

She had on a wide brimmed straw hat over a narrow, crocheted mourning cap that was no more than a lacy band over her head. It had been agreed that it was unseemly for morale's sake to send the men off to war while already dressed in full mourning; black had been put off for appropriately somber colors. She wore a dark blue dress. The afternoon sun was warm on the side of her face and she turned from it. As she did, her eyes fell on the way down to the knoll over the brook where she had met Tamlyn. There was no reason why she should not now ride down there. As she did so, she was assailed with doubts. "Am I not overstepping decency, to return to a place where I met a man of whom I cannot speak to my own father, or to Rivanone, because they would think me mad, and keep watch over me in my bower...? But he shall not be there, Gareth saw him leaving to join the battle and no one has yet returned from there. I go to a place where I have been in the broad light of day, with my family, many a time." So she chased away the doubts and rode down to the brookside.

She dismounted and tied Star to a tree. She slipped her boots off of her feet, and daubed them in the cold water. She sat at the root of a willow where she and her sisters had often sat and played; the bark was worn smooth. It was soothing and pleasant to be there. She removed the straw hat, and laid it in the grass.

Margaret began to sing softly to herself a song she had heard Burda singing as she scrubbed the floors of the bower in spring; she watched the waters flow by over the rounded stones, the withies trailing in the water.

My truelove has a-gone away

Beneath the sky, beneath the trees

My truelove has a-gone away

Please God, he'll come again to me.

Please God, he'll come again

Beneath my sky, beneath my trees

Please God, he'll come again

A-riding down the lane.

I lifted my eyes, what did I see

Beneath the sky, beneath the trees

I lifted my eyes, what did I see

I saw him, coming back to me.

Star whinnied and shook her head. Margaret sat up and looked about her. Star nickered again, stretching her head in the direction of the opposite bank of the brook, and a horse answered back.

Through a lattice of willow, on the grassy bank, she saw Tamlyn's horse, and him dismounting. She cried out in joy and ran out into the shallow water, and he met her in the midst of the water, lifting and swinging her around in his arms.

But when he put her down, there was a dismay of joy and sorrow on his face. Tears he quickly dashed from his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, and he smiled, but could not speak for a moment.

"Precious Margaret, you have done well. Briardene has found victory in the Cloud Mountains. Your father is well. Rejoice in this, my love!"

Relief flooded Margaret's face, she sighed and closed her eyes momentarily.

"Margaret, there is so much of which we must now speak, although I wish it were not so, for things can never be the same."

Margaret was alarmed at his words. She felt suddenly chilled, as if she could taste that his words were not going to be pleasant to hear. "Tamlyn, what mean you? What manner of man are you? Who are you, whom I love?"

"Margaret," he began, then led her to the far bank and offered her a seat on the mossy knee of an alder. They were well screened from the other bank by the willows. "I was christened the same as you."

"My father and mother are Lord and Lady Coltyn of Braewode. I was knighted on the warfields of Jonsmoor, when I defended my master, Lord Clewode, Duke of Cynrose, after he had been unhorsed and badly wounded. He rewarded me with a manor that was to be mine when I wed his daughter. So I rode in great joy back to Caer Cynrose, only to find that the daughter was fair to look upon, but my having saved her father was insufficient to win her admiration."

"Lady Coulomb," Margaret murmured, looking to him for affirmation. She found herself wondering jealously for an instant whether he had loved Coulomb. She looked down, hoping her cheeks did not redden. He continued.

"She let it be known that she wished to wed one of higher rank; I was only a low-ranked lord's son. My father kept only a deacon, not a priest; we had no castle, but a manor hall. My father was never a great warrior; he was injured as a boy and bears a withered arm. And it was true that her father's offer had been rashly made in a moment of gratitude, though I did only what I deemed my duty as his squire.

"So I asked to be given leave to ride out again to the wars, thinking that if I advanced my position, I might not find her so averse, and I would not be insulting the Duke, of whom I was and am very affectionate, by abandoning his offer. He had taught me well and was himself, besides a tactician, the bravest of warriors, always pushing himself into the hottest part of the battle, and a venerable man; his own sons, three of them, having squired for him and become knights.

"As I rode out with my new squire and the hot-blooded new war-horse that my lord had outfitted me with, I felt only relief to be away from Coulomb's scorn. I had never questioned accepting her as a bride, but I had never expected to be put in a position of forcing myself on an unwilling maiden, and it had been an oppressive awareness.

"So I rode out somewhat brash on the new horse, but soon had some trouble with him, and had to rein him in considerably. My squire was also of a hot and impatient blood, and he had ridden far ahead of me. It was late in the afternoon when we had started out, thinking to pass through this wood in a couple of hours and lodge at an inn he knew of. Soon it was quite dark. As I rode this skittish beast around a curve in the road, a number of deer burst out of the trees into sight, only a few yards away, and the horse reared suddenly. I was ready, but he continued to rear and then to buck. One of the reins may have snapped, for I thought I had a good grip, but suddenly was plunged down, and knew no more.

"The next I knew, I was awakened by a fearsome noise, and could feel the ground vibrating beneath my head, which jangled the already blinding pain. I lay there in agony and unable to move, Margaret, I was sure my doom was sweeping down upon me, and could only beg God for mercy!

"But instead the noise suddenly ceased, and I heard many lively horses stamping and snorting, and voices speaking in a mellifluous language I knew not. The moon was dark; against the brilliant stars I saw shadows gathering round me. Then one leaned close, and the light grew and lit up a face that peered in to mine-- a face whose beauty and ferocity could not be described. I was captivated and at the same time petrified by the fire within the green eyes that looked into mine.

She spoke to me. "Young son of Adam, fear me not, for you will die; but I may yet be able to save you. But if you choose to receive this healing, you must come with me, and may not return to your world. What do you choose?"

For me, it seemed and easy choice-- death, or life. I knew nothing of the life she was offering, but I wished not at all to die. I could not speak or move, but she understood my faint whisper, and I was given from her own fingers a drop of some liquor from a flask. It burned from my lips down through me, but the fire abated to warmth, and the warmth had a honey sweetness. I was borne away already passing into a delectable sleep.

"When next I woke, I lay on a bed. The air I breathed was cool and sweet with fragrant balsam. Entrancing songs drifted through the walls, which appeared to be entwined branches; later I knew that they were in fact the roots of trees. I knew not how long I had lain there abed, but my fingernails had grown noticeably and needed cutting, but my hair was combed and I felt clean as a child after a hot bath. My clothing had been replaced with this green gossamer and deerskin boots, in place of the heavy wool and hide that had been my own clothing. I never saw my mail again, either. But I soon forgot such things.

"Margaret, near my bed sat a lovely creature. When she saw I was awake, she arose, and smiled. She left, and soon returned, with the Lady who had spoken to me. I rose and bowed, but something stayed me; it felt wrong. Her presence in that room made it seem a cathedral. Her face was like a lioness in nobility, yet the fierceness of the eyes was tempered with a pure fire of compassion. They probed, but did not pierce, my very soul. Finally she spoke.

"'I am Galorian; Queen of Elvenkind. You, Tamlyn of Braewode, have received healing in this place and are well. Remember that you have agreed to my terms, that you are now my subject, and may not return to your own world, for the ransom is costly. Merry met, and we will call you 'Sievan', meaning "foundling" in our tongue!

"'Fear me not, Sievan,' she said, reading my thoughts, for I had begun to wonder what sort of bargain I had struck, and with whom. 'There is much you must come to understand!' she said. And soon indeed did I realize how little we know of those who live under the Mountain. They have been in this land from long, long ago; ere that they came from the East from a land they remember only as Middangeard, and I know that men could sail east of the dawn and west of sundown and never come to this land. Of those that came over the White Sea, but few remain, and these are so caught up in the present, they are not concerned with their provenance, but will only say that it was Time for them to leave Middangeard and come to this place. And a time may come when they must also give over Ardinéa to the sons of Adam; and go on to a realm of which I could learn nothing, but to which all the Elves seemed to look forward as we do to Heaven.

"And Heaven it seemed to me, for I was treated from the start as their dearest brother; never did I hear a cross or demanding word, nor aught of discouragement or disagreement. All persons there were lovely without compare of face and form and of mind and heart as well. All things they did well, from the most menial tasks, which I saw even the Queen perform as if she were dancing with the King. Faces beamed with cheer and health and wisdom, and their tongue-- I would ask them questions on any subject at all, just to hear them discourse in language loftier than the highest poetry of man-- I could not even begin to translate into our halting tongue even the most prosaic line of their hymns of praise to their King...whose seeming absence at first puzzled me, as did many things-- but I get ahead of myself.

"When they arrived here from Middangeard, this was a land devoid of people. I know not how long they were here before us, for their time passes not as ours. But there were apparently creatures in this land that the Elvenfolk subdued, long ere Brendan's folk arrived in ships from over the White Sea. Creatures one believes only to exist in our tales for wee children, but in fact are borne witness to in the Scriptures; which blew fire and smoke; which had leathern wings and fearsome claws. These they slew, planting the barren hills with trees and herbs, they did all this knowing that Man would come someday; and we came. They relinquish the land, not without sorrow, yet having a hope of yet another place to which they go. It was they who seeded the Cloud Mountains with vigorous brambles, discouraging our penetration of their last stronghold on Ardinéa. For they have tasks yet to accomplish. They fight wars of which we suspect nothing..."

Tamlyn trailed off momentarily, looking away. "It is ghastly warfare, Margaret, against ancient things which were better not described; lest it besmirch the fair light of day... horrors we might describe in tales as monsters or behemoths or even dragons. Both males and females don silvery mail-- such as I have on-- see how fine it is, like a fishes' skin, and so light!-- and we would ride furiously, heedlessly into the forest against these beasts, and rarely, but it does happen, one of the Folk would fall under loathsome teeth and claws..." He shuddered visibly, but then shook himself; the shadow passed, his eyes were once again clear. "But usually we return singing to the Mountain Home, all faces around me wild with victory. Even in this way do they pave the wilderness for the inroads that mortal Men must make.

"As I have said, it seemed to me Heaven, and still does. I myself will never age, nor die. I suffer no injustice, malice or even annoyance from any one of them; only acceptance, kindness, and merry smiles. But I differ from them. I am a son of Adam-- a sinner.

"The longer I lived within the sphere of their beauty and goodness, the more acute this awareness came to be to me. It is not their habit to sin, for I believe that they are not under the Curse of Adam, as we are. That is, not directly; but you have perhaps heard it in the Scriptures how that all creation groans with the curse, like a woman in labor, and eagerly awaits liberation. That the Elves have their sorrows and groanings, I did not doubt, nor did I doubt that they were created of God, for His mysterious purposes. There are those who believe that the Elves are from the devil, that they pay him tribute of human lives, that they refuse the sacraments because they are demons. No! They have no need of sacraments, which are only shadows of things which are beyond our comprehension...they comprehended. But such understandings remained beyond my grasp. I began to feel myself and the weight of my impurity like an unbearable burden in their presence."

Margaret was listening closely, oppressed by her own burden.

"Galorian called me before her one day. She said to me, 'You are sick in your soul. I have healed your body. Only the High King can heal this sickness you suffer now. Are you willing to be healed?' I said to her, 'Yes, my Queen. Where may I find the King?' She said, 'He shall come to you. Go you into your chamber and rest.'

"'I went there and laid on my fragrant couch in the darkness. I confess that I gave full vent to my pitiful tears, released by the hope of the healing I might receive. Then He came. But not as I had thought to see Him, for He was no elf, Margaret!...His garments shone like the sun...His face..." Tamlyn was smiling, yet his eyes were growing tearful, but he did not seem aware of it. "If the chamber had seemed as a cathedral when the Queen was there, it seemed the limitless pillars of cloud and sky and stars and light, in the presence of the King.

"I could see as He spread His hands that there were horrible scars on His wrists; I knew without looking that the ankles and His ribs bore also the same marks, and I knew that the wounds were my own wounded soul; that He took my reproach upon Himself, being pierced as I was pierced, yet with wounds that healed...Yes, Margaret; it was that very same Christ whose praises we sing, yet He was real to me, not a carved image hanging on a wall or a face rendered in colored glass! There was no response possible but to fall before Him, for I was undone, but He lifted me up. His embrace took away the isolation and replaced it with lovingkindness, with the knowledge that I was His and He was mine. Suddenly I understood the enchanting madrigals with which the Elves fill the air, night and day, for they live always in a Presence that overshadows all else; they are in love with Him and so they dance through their days laboring for Him, years passing as though in hours.

"But from that day I began to be filled with a longing that my family might know of this King. I missed my parents and brothers and sisters. I began to long in my heart to see the faces of any human being, that I might convey to them in some way the praises of their Redeemer, for the lack of knowing Him and the resulting emptiness in human hearts became keen in my thinking. For of such things the Elves do themselves at times; if you have ever seen a lovely vista, or heard a nightingale cry, and your heart has been lifted beyond the menial concerns of daily life, and your heart has sung praise, and it has wrought an unexplainable joy in your heart, that causes you to praise the undying Spirit, it may be that you have unknowingly heard the songs of the Elves.

"So I began to go with those who rode out to the borders of the forest nearest to human habitation. The Elves love nothing more than to ride, in bands and processions, in parties and alone. After I came to know the wood, I often rode alone, and I was never questioned. Then I came here to Cloud Brook.

"How I used to love to see you with your sisters and cousins and all the little ones and dogs, splashing and playing among the willows. When first I saw you, you were but a young maiden; I confess that it was Lady Hildreth who first caught my eye; blond and tall and slim as she is, she could nearly pass for an Elf. But it was you, the little one, who captured my heart. In time, I confess, I thought less of conveying to you the presence of the King, and more and more of being in your presence.

"You think, perhaps, that my love is light, for I hardly know you, and were I as other men, you would be right. But my time with the Elves has had some effect on me...perhaps being so long among those whose motives are seldom obscure has cleared my eyes to see into the hearts of these persons I have observed. I know you well, my love, and without knowing or intending to, you have stolen my heart and it is only yours, do with it what you will.

"Your sister has a simple heart, and does good to those she loves, and loves all who move in her sphere, which is defined by the ties of family and station; she has no wish for it to be otherwise. For you, things are more complicated. You probe and question what you see; you wonder upon such amazements as Nature displays before you; you rebel in your heart but obey in your deeds. Yes, my Margaret, I know you well, even that which you would hide from others, and love you all the more. You are a sinner as I am a sinner."

Margaret whispered unknowingly to herself, "a sinner..."

"I came here again and again, watching you grow into a maid. I hoped only to see you once in a while, for I felt bound to you more than all others I watched from the wood. Then I watched as you came here alone, and crossed the brook. I saw you remove your sandals, lift your hem to cross, and go into the apple grove. I could not restrain myself, but approached you, and spoke to you. It was a thing I ought not to have done, for I might have betrayed the Elves; but I reasoned that I knew you by then. I knew that in your questioning mind you could see through such lies as are unwittingly told about the Elves-- should the issue ever come up. And as one in love I denied the possibility, foolish as it might have been to do so, that it would ever be a difficulty.

"Anyway I had never thought to encounter you alone again, yet to my surpassing joy, I saw you returning to me the very next day. Foolishly in my joy, I crossed the brook. This brook was given to me to be understood as a boundary line. Again, I abused the trust of the Elves. My desire for you had begun to cloud my thinking.

"When next I saw you, I had waited for a sight of you. I knew there was death in Caer Aldene, and that if you lived, you must have suffered loss, and my heart heard you crying. And I knew of the attackers over the mountains and my heart languished to see them probing the forest and finding a way into your country. And then you came down again to the brook, so weary and in mourning.

"I would be more honorable if I could say honestly that I am sorry for not restraining myself in a moment when you could not resist my embrace, but the truth is, that save for the moment when the King healed my heart, there is no greater moment of happiness, pure or impure, to which I could refer in my life than that of holding you in my very own arms, Margaret. I wished nothing more than to stay forever locked in that moment with you, and if the truth be told I wanted much more than that.

"But I know that priceless is our purity, that it is a treasure to be given and shared with another who has kept pure for the day in which they are forever united-- a day which I dare not hope for. Please don't misunderstand me, for I know that in Ardinéa, there is much that is winked at between men and women ere they are wed. But I have come to see it as so sacred...Why should I kiss this one, and then that one, taking joy where it does not belong to me, hoping that by having a taste I might find the one whom God has for me to be with?"

Tamlyn stopped, and fell silent for a moment, looking down. "How can I speak of these things, when I am not free to partake of them, but have been conducting myself as though... Margaret, there is no greater desire in me than to make you my bride, but it cannot be," --she went numb and there was a rushing sound in her ears; he forced the words out-- "and I will tell you why. But there is more that you must know ere we can speak of such things."

He took a deep breath, and with an effort, set his face and continued. Margaret's face was against her drawn-up knees now; he resisted the compulsion to hold her. He looked instead at his horse, eating of the rich grass. "Within days, all under the mountain were preparing for battle. I suited up and rode here, for I wished to bid you goodbye, for I knew not if I would see you again in this life. I saw instead a man I had known well when a page, Gareth by name, and I thought, perhaps if he sees me, word of my appearance in battle-array will reach the one I love. He saw me, even cried out my name. Satisfied, as I must be, with that, I flew away to rejoin the Elves."

He became restless and paced about, gesturing. "How can I describe to you the riding in procession of the Elven Folk! A multitude of hammered silver bells hang from their horses' bridles, and the steeds themselves are long-legged palfreys, each having a name known to it, and they are high-spirited and nervy, yet gentle and well-broke; they will not lose their riders if it means their own lives- I had no little appreciation for this trait of theirs. The battle-mail they wear is light and fine, yet impenetrable by sword or claw. Their banners stream long and shimmering, maids and men together riding, headlong and smiling, fierce and bright, singing full-throated.

"We rode against no frightful demons this night. No, instead, our adversary was the very briar hedge that kept the mountains for the Elves alone. The fair roses together with the black thorns fell before our flashing swords, as hay before men scything. The horses' hooves trampled the green leaves and cleared a path into the heart of the mountains. When dawn blushed, we saw what we had done, and rode back to the mountain.

"Parties of a few Elves each went out and surveyed the development of the impending attack. The Elves have no love for any violence of itself, but neither do they hesitate to protect men from what might be worse. And so they so subtly lured the Vallards up the valley into the strait where they would meet the arrows of Briardene's men. And they so subtly sang my lord your father's men to the ledge in the ravine where Briardene could take advantage of the lined-out enemy. And we saw the terrible slaughter of the Vallards in the canyon, the rocks running with their blood, and the smattering who escaped were hounded back to the Sea; enough were left that they might return to Europa and tell of the terror they had at the hand of the Ardinéans. Briardene, thanks be to God, is secure for now.

"But Ardinéa is changed forever. The Wilds of the Cloud Mountains have been penetrated and seen by the sons of Adam, and having seen it, they will not be content to remain west of them any more. The hedge is broken down. The day when the Elves must retreat even further into what few strongholds will be left them is in sight. From now on, they must hide themselves from man's view until they must altogether vanish from this land, unless perhaps to cling to hidden places in the mountain peaks.

"That is what I must now tell you, Margaret." He paused. His face was a study in conflict, and the back of his hand wiped his eyes. "I may come here no more. As long as you live, my heart belongs to you alone. But it was not mine to give you...nor was your love mine to win. Tonight, this very night, the Queen will ride forth on her night-black horse. All her court will follow on earth-brown and I with the elf-knights on cloud-pale mounts. We will go to slay the last of the bramble hedges in these foothills, and then to the mountains, not to return. In so doing I will be slaying my very own heart, and it may not rise again."

Margaret had risen from her mossy seat while he spoke this last, and put her hand on his arm. "Sievan, is there no way? You say the Elves are full of love and compassion; why then would they not release you?"

"Margaret, I chose this life of my own free will. If I left them, I would live in a half-world where your years pass as if in days for me. I would see you age before my very eyes, and our children and grandchildren; then live on through centuries, utterly without companionship; a monster in the world's eyes, till the end of this world. I must live with the consequences of my decision."

"But you had no idea, when you made that decision, the cost--"

"Does a wife know what the pain of childbirth will be, or the exhaustion of nursing a sick husband or child? When she finds out, is she released from being a wife because it is harder than she imagined? Is she free to go, or would not she be called unfaithful, a deserter of her vows, an abandoner of her children? And her husband, does he know the anguish of watching his bride transform into mother, seeing her body and her very nature change and age, and become something altogether different than the lass he wed? Is he then released, because it is discomforting? If a new soldier goes to the warfields, and finds that slaying human beings and seeing his friends and brothers and enemies alike dying in blood and pain before his eyes is horrifying, is he allowed to flee the battle, or is he who does so considered a coward and a traitor?

"And all these would I be if I left behind those who pitied me and saved my life, and who showed me freedom from my burdens, and who brought me to know the King...Oh, Margaret, I had thought that if you only loved me, I should be able to bear the parting. Now I see that it makes it harder. I am so sorry..." He fell silent, for she had turned her face away, and fought to remain composed. His hands twitched and he forced them not to reach for her. In this way they stood, both at a loss. Minutes passed. Margaret moaned, "You said the ransom was costly. Yet could I, I would pay it; only name it!"

Tamlyn drew a very deep breath and let it out slowly. "There is only one way I can be free to return to the world of men. I will tell you of it, but it is not in me to ask it of you. I have done you enough harm as it is, my lady." Tamlyn spoke quietly, not looking at her directly.

"After the last time that I saw you, I returned to the mountain after riding long enough that I hoped the bloom of passion had passed from my countenance. But when I returned exhausted to the Mountain, Queen Galorian was waiting to see me. One look into those eyes was all that I could do. She said, 'You have set your eyes on her whom you desire.' I felt her eyes looking into me. 'You have caused her to desire you as well. Your heart and hers are bound together. Even for the noblest sentiments, this thing is not to do.'" Tamlyn paused; he did not repeat Galorian's next words. _You are Elvish-fair in her eyes. She is a child and her love wants testing. Has she the heart to win you?_

He continued, "She said that to be ransomed out of their world, one could lay hold of me, openly, in full view of the Elves, and lay claim to me. Hear me ere you speak, Margaret. There would be some sort of a testing, something fearful. But no matter what happened, the claim would be nullified if you-- if the person were to let go of my body." _Such a one as is able to endure the terrors is deemed worthy, and my claim on you is relinquished. Pure, complete, honest love casts out fear. No light love can prove out the trial of terrors!_ Galorian had said.

All the questions that had run through Margaret's mind and heart in the past weeks formulated themselves suddenly into one, and it was as though she had read his mind and heard Galorian's words. She cried out, "How can a sinner like me have such a courageous love?" Her eyes were suddenly riveted on his, with a vehemence bordering on anger in her face. "Tamlyn, it is my love, not yours, that I consider light; I have questioned my own love for you a hundred times and don't find the answers to be within me. Since Gareth told me that he had seen you, I-- I have desired you, I have thought on you, I have wanted your embrace and your company, I treasure every word that has passed between us. And above all, I live the minute that you held me in the forest, right or wrong, there are no other moments, Sievan, my dear one! But love? What know I of the kind of love that you have for me, that you would allow yourself to be taken away from an unending life surrounded by beauty and goodness, to company with a sinner like myself? That you would dwell among sinners, know suffering and eventually death...for my love? Loving you has never cost me anything yet. I would like to think that I would die to win you, but how can I hope I could pass any sort of test, when I see only my selfishness as against the beauty of your love for me, against which my love looks faint and wounded in my own eyes..."

She fell silent, struggling again for control, her lips pressed together and chin quivering, her eyes no longer flashing, but still regarding Tamlyn's face. Tamlyn listened closely to all she said, wondering. "Margaret, only Jesu, the High King, can heal that wound."

"Jesu..." She let out her breath."But how can I hope to meet Him?"

"Precious one, you are very near to Him already. His eyes have already searched you, nothing in you is secret from him--" Margaret almost gasped-- "And He loves you, with compassion and mercy. You have surely seen the pictures of Him hanging on the cross. He has done this in love, willingly, to win you from the power of sin. He willingly became the Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the whole world. Do you believe that, Margaret?"

"All my life I have heard of it in church, but...those eyes- the eyes that see my sin-" she stopped, and looked at Tamlyn. "But it isn't my sin they look at, is it. It's me! And my sin is in the way, and- and the cross- the cross takes it out of the way." Words that she had heard in Church came roiling up in her mind in a fountain of understanding: _No man has greater love than this: that he lays down his own life for his companions._

That was His love, and the eyes that smote her conscience wanted to take the guilt away and set her free, yet she had clutched it to herself, thinking to cover it up! "Aye, I always believed it, and now I understand it! He takes away sins...because He loves us."

"Then you have only to call upon Him, Margaret, for He is attending you, and will heal as He has promised." Tamlyn knelt down in the grass, and held his hand out to her, and she knelt beside him. He released her hand and folded his together, closing his eyes.

"Oh High King of Heaven, hear our prayer. We are but your little children and in need of You, oh Father. We are but poor sinners before you, but You have loved us with love that conquers sin and death. See before You Lord, Your child, Margaret. She believes that Your Son Jesu lives, He who died to take away her sins and rose again, and I pray that she might know you, my King. How I thank You, Lord, for all You are...and for bringing to Yourself the one whose love I have selfishly craved for my own." Here he broke off, though Margaret could sense that there was more he was not putting into words. Margaret was reminded of the nun in the sickroom praying in like manner, so conversationally, free from formalities, yet in greatest humility. It was as if the King were before Tamlyn, and could hear every word. Margaret looked down, wishing to speak what was in her heart. She saw again the piercing eyes behind her closed lids, and began to cry out her words.

"You find me in this place, Lord, and it shows that I am willful and follow not what is pure in Your eyes, but my own wantonness. I have enjoyed love's embrace, when it was not mine to receive. I have claimed that I love; when I know not what that means. Oh Jesu, High King of Heaven, there is nothing in me that I might stand approved before You. But I cannot bear to go about a pathetic sinner any longer! Hear my cry, have mercy on me, Oh Lord! I believe that You have, on the cross, paid for my sin. Take from me my sins; my willfulness, my desire and deceitfulness, take from me my loneliness, my confusion, my self-pity, fears and weakness; my longings and my loves, all these things and more, Lord, I place at Your feet, I lay them down, for they are more than I can bear alone. I thank You, Jesu, for being my own King. Your wounds are my healing. Please, oh God, give me faith, and the strength to follow You." Then her words and tears were spent. And it truly was as though she could see Him, knowing with the eyes of her heart that He was there.

She heard Tamlyn murmur a soft Amen.

There was a sound of horses' hooves, and she felt the softest kiss on her head but was reluctant to look up or let the moment end, wrapped as she was in Heaven's arms. She heard the faintest whisper, "Go with God, Margaret," and replied only,

"Not farewell."

Through the curtain of willow branches trailing in the water, she could see her that brother Aelfred, still in a tunic stained with mail-rust, had reined in near where she had tied Star. "Maggie! Maggie, where are you?"

She was alone, and rose, feeling light, and as if a tight band had been removed from her chest. She was happy to see her brother. She mopped her tearstained face quickly with her kerchief and stuffed it back in her hanging pocket. Aelfred saw her come from behind the willows, and cried out excitedly, "We have returned victorious, Maggie! We have slaughtered our enemies, and lost not one of our own! Come quickly, Mags, everyone is gathering in the Great Hall!" He rode across the stream and pulled her up behind him. "Why are you on this side of the brook? I can't wait to tell you about it. Come!"

They crossed the stream and Margaret jumped down from Aelfred's horse, pulled on her boots and picked up her hat. She led Star beside a rock, and jumped to her back from the rock. She urged Star after Aelfred, who raced up the knoll and along the trail to the road. Her heart was a roil of emotions, fear and happiness and hope and love, and the wind blew back tears from the corners of her eyes, but she smiled, for there was a peace beneath it all that sustained her, like the water-smoothed rocks over which the brook flowed clear.

## Chapter 9: Tread Upon the Lion

When the men had started back across the mountains, a small party of explorers was sent to verify the contents of a map taken from the Vallards. Briardene, Lord Gregory saw, had been complacent long enough. Who knew what riches, what wonders this land might hold?

But in the background of Gregory's mind a question had kept turning over. The victory had been so quickly won, there was not really a chance for any one man to distinguish himself; rather, this triumph belonged to all of the men. All who had departed Briardene were returning, and only a few had received injury from returned volleys. None of these seemed to be in danger, thanks perhaps in part to powerful healing balms provided by his daughter. The question returned-- who was it who had not only warned of the Vallards's attack, but crafted the strategy that might annihilate them so easily? It was to him that Briardene owed their overwhelming victory. Such a man was worthy of honor and glory...or at least, such a one was to be reckoned with. "Were he a rag-picker, I'd knight him," he said to himself. "Were he a knight, I'd...why, I'd have my Margaret to wed him, I vow it!"

This refrain he recited more than once a day on all the happy march home, the men's spirits not dampened by rain, singing hearty songs and lays as they walked the wooded trails. "I'd have my Margaret to wed him, confer title and lands upon him. I vow I would!"

And this his refrain by the fireside in the Great Hall when he made his homecoming, and gathered all his family, his servants and knights before him to recite the tale of the battle, with scribes to write it in the Castle's History manuscript. "I'd give my Margaret to wed him, confer title and lands upon him, and crown him with spoils from the Vallards, I vow I would!"

Gregory was greatly pleased to see a full smile of deep and wistful joy, surprise, and pride spread across his daughter's face. He didn't see that her hand slipped into her pocket secretly, and that she slipped the heavy gold ring with the deer beneath the spreading tree onto her thumb, and tightly squeezed it. "You have not seen the last of me, Tamlyn," she thought. "God help me, but you will see me this very night, or I die trying. I'll not let you go without a fight."

As the crowd in the hall dispersed, Margaret sought out Gilling. She tugged his sleeve as he was going out through the door toward the servant's quarters with Elora. He stopped and bowed slightly to her, and stepped aside with her to let others pass. "Gilling, I want to thank you for giving my message to my lord my father. I wish you now to tell him, if you will, that it was I who gave the news to you; it came to me from Sir Tamlyn of Braewode-- aye, Gilling, the same one as you have heard strange tales of. But tell him not until after midnight of this night, Gilling. Will you do this thing for me?"

"Your servant, Lady Margaret. Tamlyn of Braewode...I would wish to meet such a storied man myself."

"And perhaps you shall, Gilling." She looked somewhat troubled. "Oh, pray for me, Gilling. Pray to Heaven's High King."

"Yes, little Lady," said Gilling, bowing deeply. "That I will."

"I thank you," she whispered, and turned away. Gilling stared after her in wonder.

The Church overflowed with persons, spilling out into the evening. Margaret stood beside her father, arrayed in celebratory dress of white, wearing her bridal wreath of gold over her combed-out hair and the necklace Hildreth had given her, and she openly wore the Ring on her thumb. In the excitement it went unnoticed. Margaret listened closely to the service. So much of it was for the first time illuminated to her, she had to suppress the urge to laugh with joy, to cry out, Aye!

But she was also watchful of an opportunity.

Father Raphael stood after the nuns had chanted a Psalm. He had in his hands a leaf of paper. It was the part of the service for him to preach a sermon; instead, he explained that the words of the Ninety-first Psalm which they had sung were sermon enough; and he had translated them from the Latin.

"He that dwells in the secret place of the Most High

Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

I will call the Lord, My refuge, My Fortress, My God; I will trust in Him.

"Surely He shall deliver you from the hunter's snare,

And from peril and pestilence.

He shall cover you with His feathers,

And beneath His wings you shall take refuge;

His truth shall be your shield.

You shall not be afraid of the terror of the night,

The arrow that flies in the day,

The death that walks in darkness,

The destruction that lays waste the noon."

There was a stir of assent from the people in the church.

" _A thousand may fall at your side,_

And ten thousand at your hand;

But it shall not come near you.

But with your own eyes you shall look

And see the reward of the wicked.

"Because you have made the Lord, My refuge,

The Highest, your dwelling place,

No evil shall befall you,

Nor any death come into your dwelling;

For He shall give His angels charge of you,

To guard you in all your ways.

"In their arms they shall lift you up,

Lest you strike your foot against a stone.

You shall tread upon the lion and the cobra,

The wild lion and the serpent you shall trample underfoot.

Because you have set your love upon Me, therefore I will deliver you;

I will set you on high, because you have known My name.

When one calls upon Me, I will answer him;

I am with him in trouble;

I will deliver him to honor.

With long life I will satisfy him,

And show him My salvation.

"Amen."

Margaret repeated to herself, "Amen, oh my God, my ownest God, Amen." She felt that the Priest's words had been for her alone, that they were embroidered upon her heart, and she savored them. Easily she regarded the carven figure of the Lord on the cross.

Church was soon over, and the joyous crowd withdrew into the night that had fallen. Margaret looked up at the teeming stars. She turned to Rivanone.

"Auntie, there is a thing which I must do, for love of God and for one who has done us a great good. But I may not speak of it, for every moment is needful. Please pray for me!"

Rivanone looked at her, astonished. She saw the determination in Margaret's eyes where there had been uncertainty before today. Rivanone wished there were enough of her to have been more like a mother to Margaret, for she suddenly realized how since the night of the wedding, they had hardly spoken. She sighed. "Go with God, Maggie dear. You are grown, and I'll not second guess you."

Margaret kissed her Aunt and ran to the stables.

She rode into the unknown dark. She knew only that she must find what remained of the briar hedge that was not yet hewn down.

She followed the well-beaten trail of the men into the hills. Star was undaunted by the dark, and followed a trail with a fresh smell of horses and men. Margaret's senses were alive to the black trees stretching over her, leaves softly rustling, to the occasional stir of some creature in the woods or in branches overhead. Fireflies danced in a swath of grass. An owl flew silent as breath overhead.

After two or three hours, Margaret came to a place where, in the starlight, the woods opened in a wide swath. She reined in Star, and dismounted. Holding the reins, she felt the ground beneath her. She picked up a pale, limp object and fingered it. It was a dying rose.

Margaret leapt back upon Star and turned her up the hill, following the swath of hewn vegetation. Star tripped over thick rootstocks. Margaret could see starlight faintly reflected off the cut stumps. These wild roses had been centuries old, some of them. She thought of Tamlyn's description of the Elves slashing at them with their narrow swords, and marveled. She urged Star on, for time was passing.

They were climbing higher, away from the River. She wondered that few men had tried to penetrate this thicket and enter the lands on the other side, but she knew it had something to do with the Elves. Brambles could be burned and land cleared.

But the land was not yet ready for us, she heard herself thinking. And now it awaits us. They are laying it open to us.

She had followed this strange road for perhaps another hour, when she came to its end. A stream reflected starlight, babbling quietly; on the other side a wall of foliage arched over her head, studded with pink thimbleberry blossoms. It appeared to have met the hedge on the other side, forming a tunnel over the stream-- a hidden passage. This was the end- the cut section ended here. She could go no further, and dismounted. She led Star away from the opening and removed the bit from her mouth, tied her to a tree. She spoke to her and petted her, trying to reassure herself as much as the dark-eyed horse; then returned to the slain hedge, and stood by a large tree in the dark, somewhat away from the murmuring stream. She peered about, pulling her cloak about her.

"Oh Heaven's King, please let them come here this night. Please let me set my eyes on him whom my heart loves. I call You Lord, My Refuge, My Fortress..." She sat in the quiet of the forest night, listening. But she did not feel alone.

Perhaps hours passed; the stars so slowly swept overhead. She started at every leaf fall or water drip; there was no danger of falling asleep. She twisted Tamlyn's ring around her finger. A lone, lost firefly wended through the trees. A nightingale sang far away; then an owl hooted, causing her heart for a moment to flutter as if the nightingale took flight in her own chest. She prayed. And then she heard something.

At first it was a low roaring. But it quickly rose, and rose, filling her ears with a deafening rumble, and a jangle as of a thousand silver bells. The stars brightened; the light burnished the steely beeches surrounding her. Horror filled her heart, Margaret couldn't breathe or move from the dark of the tree she leaned against. But when she saw what made the ringing and roaring, her heart leapt, both with dread and elation.

A black horse headed up the procession from down the hill, and on it rode sidemounted a creature who must be the Queen. Golden hair streamed back from an angel's face in which eyes seemed to blaze with their own inner light. A starred crown shone on her brow and she bore on her arm a shield, and on it the deer with the sapphire eye. Margaret immediately understood why Tamlyn had decided as he had. In the arresting face was no deceit or malice, but it was terrifying in beauty and power. Yet when she saw Galorian, her will was steeled. " _You shall not be afraid of the terror of the night_ ," she whispered repeatedly. The black horse passed her by as if not seeing.

Then came a great company of brown horses, their harness jingling with a multitude of tiny silver bells, glittering in the radiant starlight. Such faces she had never seen, which shone with exhilaration, their heads bare, and hair streaming behind them. Each one, male and female, was taller than any living man. They seemed not to see her there, and rode by within inches. They brought a wind that blew back her hood.

Then she saw white horses approaching. She looked upon the faces, and even as she saw his face, he saw hers; when his pale horse passed, fighting the bit, without thinking she threw back her dark cloak and leapt upon him with all her strength, locking her arms round his shoulders and dragging him down from his horse. He threw away the reins and swung his leg over the horse's back and leapt away and somehow they landed standing, his arms steadying her. His horse reared over them, and circled around them, bellowing.

The Elfland Queen gave a thrilling cry, and there were horses all around them, and wild, beautiful faces, and jeweled accouterments flashing in the starlight. Margaret's heart was a drum and her throat a desert. Tamlyn spoke in her ear, "Be not afraid, my Margaret, whatever may follow; fear me not, nor let me go. I'll not harm you!" She tightened her embrace and found her voice.

"I claim Sievan Tamlyn of Braewode, and I will not release him, so help me God!" she cried with a bravery she did not feel. Horses' hooves thundered and harness bells jangled all around; the stars blazed forth brighter than day.

Margaret was holding no longer to a man, but felt the rib cage expand, prickling with coarse hair; and the arms that held her become powerful, tawny furred limbs with claws biting into her flesh, and the blue eyes became amber in the face of a lion, which snarled and roared deafeningly, huge fangs glinting in black gums close to her face; every sinew in the furred, hot body straining against her, a pungent musky smell emanating from the fiery mane, the claws tearing open her clothing and her flesh, but at the moment when she could no longer hold him and her arms were giving way, she screamed out,

" _You will tread upon the lion and the cobra, the wild lion and the serpent you will trample underfoot..._ "

The roaring ceased, the claws withdrew and the agony ebbed away, the body in her arms shrunk to the size of a man, but her relief was short lived, for next she had in her arms smooth scales, cool to the touch, and a serpent's face with inhuman eyes fixed on hers, chilling her very soul; she could not look away. Each scale formed into a jewel, iridescent in the brilliant cold light of the stars. She felt powerful coils encircle her torso, abdomen and legs, and begin to contract, tighter and tighter; a dry and loathsome forked tongue caressing her face and neck and the circlet on her hair; and at the moment when she knew her bones would snap and she would suffocate, her heartbeat banging in her ears and throbbing in her head, her vision swimming with the hypnotic stare of those amber eyes that whispered seductively of the sweet intoxicating oblivion of abandonment and surrender, she gasped,

" _You shall not fear the death that walks in darkness._ "

Abruptly the air rushed into her lungs, and she sobbed and coughed with relief and weakness. But just as she caught her breath, and strengthened her grip, she felt within her arms a hard, round, unforgiving mass; she smelled an iron smell.

It began to heat, and in a moment was scalding, and continued to heat until Margaret turned away her face as far as she could and heard the sickening hiss of her own flesh searing, could smell her burning hair and could see through her clenched eyes the white-hot glow of the metal, and her brain was white with pain, and she was screaming with torment, and could only sob " _It shall not come near you...it shall not come near you..._ "

Then all was dark, and quiet.

## Chapter 10: Laughter in the Morning

In a dimly lit cottage Gilling sat by the hearth with a small black-haired lass fast asleep in his lap. She had fallen asleep ages ago but he had been talking intently with Sintia. Her father slept on a pallet nearby, now and again snoring loudly. "The new priest tells me that the banns will not need to be read, since there is already a child. That is, if you are willing to name me her father."

"And what happens when your viol wanders over the horizon again, and you follow it? With all your friends among the courtiers, what law would hold you?"

Gilling considered. He wanted to say, "God's law," but knew that that would not be the assurance she wanted. He also could see the struggle in her eyes, and in the set of her mouth: she still loved him, after all. Though she could ill afford it, she had kept one of the gold necklaces to wear; he had seen it glinting on the freckled skin over her collarbone. The rest of the gold had gone to thatch the roof, pay the debts, buy a younger goat and a few fowls, shoes for her senile father, and a field of flax to beat, heckle, spin and weave for the coming year. But it was not in him to flatter and woo her now and win out. Time would show whether he was worthy of her trust.

The Priory bell rang. "I am afraid I have a midnight errand in the Castle, a message to give Lord Gregory," he said, rising and placing the burden of his lap into Sintia's arms. She looked uncertain and maybe regretful of having spoken so; his errand did sound as though he were excusing himself. Gilling resigned himself; explanations would do no good.

When he saw the glance she tendered on the sleeping Deinn, the unconscious smile that stole over her lips, he saw that indeed she was still a beautiful woman and as good a mother, not only to her child but her father as well, as she could be. Quickly, before she turned away with the child, he placed a kiss on her cheek, and turned to go. As he crossed the threshold, he called back over his shoulder, "Marry me, Sintia!" He went out singing into the night.

Margaret felt cool skin against her forearms and heard the gentle rustling of leaves and felt a cool night breeze soft on her face and stirring her hair; she was unharmed. Only Tamlyn's bare arms around her held her from falling to the forest floor, his voice almost singing with joy, "Margaret, my Margaret, it is well. All is over. You have redeemed me, my love, my brave-hearted bonnie lady!"

He held her, swaying gently, in the dark of the woods, by the obscure light of stars and the rustle of the leaves. Margaret sobbed on the skin of his chest with horror, then relief; then she laughed with triumph.

"I've won you, Sievan, I've won!"

She shivered, and with an effort, unlocked her numb fingers and loosened the arms that still tightly encircled him; they were so tired that they fell to her side. When the strength returned to her arms, she kilted her mantle around him, for he was mother-naked, but they were past its disconcerting either of them. As she pinned the brooch at his waist, he put a hand on her cheek. "Margaret, does anything stand between us?"

She pressed her cheek against his hand, smiling, almost afraid. "Nothing in this world."

"Then, Margaret, might I ask your father if you will be my bride?"

"Oh, aye, love, you might." He held her close then, as he had not allowed himself to before. She held him, neither clutching, nor crying.

After a time, she took his hand, and led him down the stream to her horse. Star nickered as they approached. Tamlyn lifted Margaret to Star's back and mounted before her, and they rode, speaking softly to each other, he astride and she sidemounted, her arm about his waist, slowly down the hills to reach the murmuring river as the dawn chorus was swelling and day was breaking over the Cloud Mountains. They talked of many things that they had not had opportunity before.

Caer Aldene was very quiet in the dawn. White tents in rows dotted the bailey grounds. A sheep blatted somewhere in the pastures above. Ragged patches of mist lifted off the Briar River as Tamlyn and Margaret crossed at the ford and dismounted to let Star have a drink. The mare was tired. They stood close, wanting, not daring to stand closer.

"I will ride to the castle, and get you something, perhaps, more suitable to wear?" She smiled at her mantle, his only kilt.

"I would rather appreciate that, much as I do like this," Tamlyn replied, and for the first time, they laughed together, and wondered that they had not before.

"Then you shall see what sort of a welcome you shall have, Elf-knight," said Margaret, turning and leaping unaided to Star's back.

When she had ridden out of sight, Tamlyn moved behind a stand of reeds down the bank, lay the cloak on dry stones and slipped into the clear, cold water. It braced him. He was soon chilled and waded back to shore, where he stood, hidden and dripping, looking up at the spires of Aldene glinting in the morning sun.

He looked back toward the forest, which gave way in the distance to hills blue in shadow, and farther away the twin mountains, mauve against the yellow air of the sunrise, light gilding the peaks. Emotions blended in his face. He breathed deeply and turned, with a resolved half-smile, back to the sunlit towers.

Hooves clattered in the stableyard, and Trin ran from the stableman's house. He was the only sign of life other than the swifts wheeling over the yard and under the eaves. "Trin, fetch you to me the knight Gareth, and tell him to bring a suit of good clothing; I shall soon repay him. Tell him to come at once!"

Trin ran on another strange errand for Lady Margaret, and in a few minutes Gareth came squinting into the early light, stifling a yawn, and incredulous to find the stablemaster holding three fresh horses, and Margaret on a fourth. "Come, Sir, let us show you a merry meeting! Come, Trin, and lead the extra horse as you go!" She rode away even as they were mounting, and they followed after her down to the River.

Gareth was astonished as he rode up to the cloak-wrapped figure on the bank. "In faith, Tame Braewode! Then you are not a ghost!"

"Well met, Gareth Ryleigh; I am alive!"

"Clothe him, if you would, Sir Gareth. I will wait over there," she said, moving away demurely, for in front of kind, rough-hewn Gareth, Tamlyn looked like a shorn lamb. She heard them talking, Gareth exclaiming his astonishment; Margaret tried not to think about what Gareth must be turning over in his mind. Trin caught up to the men with the spare mount.

When he was dressed, Margaret rode back to them. She gazed at Tamlyn, in Gareth's embroidered linen tunic and deerskin trousers and boots, his blond hair drying in the sun, he looked fully human for the first time since she had laid eyes on him. She had a moment of exultation, as if believing for the first time, now he was out of the forest and clothed as any other man, that she had passed the test and won him. The events of last night were already remote and inconceivable in the morning sun. Yet here he was.

She spoke quietly. "I must go to my bower and rest. Sir Gareth, Sir Tamlyn must also be exhausted. Please take him to where he can rest as well, and spare him for now from explanations. Later, please take him to my lord my father and introduce him, then surely all will hear our strange tale."

"Your father will sleep long, for he was up late, into this morning. When I retired I saw him going aside into the Library with the Troubadour, who had some message for him."

A satisfied smile spread over Margaret's lips, and a giggle escaped them. Before mounting the horse Trin held for him, Tamlyn drew near to Margaret and took her hand. He gazed long into her bright, weary eyes, smiling gently. She looked into the clear eyes that held no threat. They had no need of words.

# Part 2: The Fey Queen

## Chapter 11: Betrothal's Kiss

No stranger history had been recounted in Caer Aldene.

Before the Hall hearth, Lord Gregory's own maiden daughter, Gilling the Troubadour, his best knight and trusted friend Gareth, and the long-haired stranger Tamlyn of Braewode, had told of Margaret's winning the captive from among the Faerie Folk!

Gregory's sense of satisfaction at knowing Briardene's champion was tempered, or perhaps enhanced, by the strangeness of this young nobleman and his fabulous but irrefutable tale: his rash commitment of his daughter's hand to the one whose information had spared Ardinéa the Vallards' attack, was vindicated by serendipity.

He had not given much thought to details regarding the lands he had promised, yet the young man had not seemed concerned with these. Nor, though grateful, was he greatly impressed by the share of gold and silver and jeweled swords and scabbards and gilded mail taken from the Vallards...

But when Gregory offered Tamlyn his daughter's hand, then did the stranger's eyes look into his with thankfulness reflecting the fullness of his reward. Tamlyn had said, "That were the only guerdon I would have asked of you, my lord, and all these others would have meant nothing without my lady your daughter, Margaret of Aldene." Then some part of the strangeness of the stranger departed from Gregory's eyes, for he had himself wed Margaret's mother in preference to increasing his own riches and power. Full of wonder, he watched this Tamlyn take from him his beaming daughter's hand, and found himself singularly moved by the glance they shared.

He had leaned over her to give betrothal's kiss. How slow he was to take it, and how long they lingered near, even as all in the Hall were cheering!

Many days after, Lord Coltyn and Lady Tamar of Braewode sat at their board eating dinner with their daughters and sons when he heard his steward cry out in surprise. There was a commotion in the entry hall, and then a figure appeared at the door. All sound ceased. Lord Coltyn bolted up from his seat, overturning it.

Lady Tamar turned her calm blue eyes on the young man in the doorway and rose. "I knew you would return to us," she sighed, her eyes brimming over with tears.

His father finally realized he was not seeing a ghost, and ran to embrace him with his good arm. He held him, and swore at him, and finally held him away to look at him. "Please forgive me, my lord my father," said Tamlyn. In his father's eyes he read it all.

His brothers and sisters crowded around him; only the oldest ones recognized him, the younger ones had only heard of their brother Tamlyn who vanished. He pushed through them, to reach his mother, who embraced him fiercely, saying only, "My boy, my son..."

"My Father, my Mother, I have been a captive, but am now free."

He looked upon his brothers and sisters, hardly believing the changes seven years had wrought in their growing bodies. "Coltram, Tamaris, Barta...where is Tamarlanne? She is wed! But she was but a child...and these are also my brothers? And this tiny maid, my sister? . . .My niece, Coltram? Your daughter?. . ."

Dinner was forgotten, many voices spoke excitedly at once.

It was much later, after the little ones were in bed, that Tamlyn sat at the hall hearth with his father and mother (whose eyes were never dry even until now), and his oldest brothers and unwed sister. It was then that he drew from his vest a rolled and sealed leaf of paper bearing the signet of Lord Gregory of Aldene. As he told the story of his entrance into the faerie realm, and of Margaret and his redemption, his father and then the rest read over the letter corroborating his story.

"That is why you look so young, why...you look younger than even Barta," said Lady Tamar.

Coltram was just finishing the letter for the third time. His face was dark.

"Father, how can one accept a tale like this? Elves? Come, are we pagans full of superstition, or children taken in by nursery tales?"

"Coltram! Hold your tongue! Will you call the Lord of Aldene a liar? And here is your brother, ere your very eyes! As for the Elves, there are many things of which you know not, son. You just keep your doubts to yourself. We should rejoice that he who was lost to us is now found."

Coltram looked angrier than ever, but said, "Yes my lord my father." His eyes cut into Tamlyn's heart from his seat. Then he averted them. He arose and bowed slightly to his father, then turned to leave the hall. Lord Coltyn called after him, "Hold, son, a moment." He rose and went to the door where Coltram stood impatiently. There they had a hushed conversation.

Lady Tamar said, "I believe every word you say is true, my Tamlyn," and he looked at her, incredulous at the implication that his own father might not. She continued, "Since we gave up hope that you might be found, Coltram has been the eldest, and the Lord-heir. Suddenly he is deposed from the position he had grasped. Give him time. We had long ago given you up...Although, a mother never gives up, my son. These seven years I have never heard hoofbeats approaching but I didn't pray, in the deeps of my heart, that you were coming home to me.

Blue eyes regarded blue for a long moment. Tamlyn leaned forward in the chair and slipped his two hands round his mother's plump, jeweled fingers. He had never known them to be anything but soft and warm as they were now.

"God answers prayer, Mum."

He leaned back in the chair. "I have gifts for everyone, and I completely forgot to bring them out. I believe Coltram will be well pleased with the jeweled dagger and scaled gauntlets I brought him."

"Ah! You haven't forgotten what your brother is like, then! That will go a long way toward bringing him alongside of you." They grinned at each other as his father returned to the hearthside.

"As the letter states, I have been gifted with lands and some wealth of my own. There will be no need to take away anything on which he has cast his eye. If anything, perhaps I will be adding to it. I will soon be adding to our family, as well." His mother did not miss the tender set to his lips as he glanced toward the fire.

Lady Tamar dabbed her eyes quickly. "I have missed you so much, but God has a way of making things good, does He not?"

In the weeks after his return from the assault on the Vallards, Gilling had turned his feet down the lane to the little cottage almost in spite of himself. He had tried to stay away, to give Sintia Rowan time to think. He was afraid of pressing his suit and causing her instead to thrust him away. He knew there was enough pressure on her as it was.

But again he walked slowly toward the newly-thatched cottage and turned in the gate. After latching it behind him, he turned and found that a new pair of eyes regarded him-- wide and ice blue, nearly white; and white-blond hair made the young girl's angelic face almost frightening, although it was but a child's face.

The girl began to keen, rising from her task with the flax breaker in her hand, dropping the half-beaten flax.

Sintia looked out over the double door, then emerged form the house and took the girl by the shoulders and looked reassuringly at her, pushing her back to her seat. The girl peered into her face and then sat down, picking up the fallen flax and beating it, looking to Sintia, who smiled and nodded, and turned to Gilling. He stared at the girl, and she peeked back from beneath the wide brim of her straw hat. Sintia waved him into the house.

Deinn ran to meet him and he caught her up. He saw that Sintia's father lay in his bed, apparently asleep. Sintia had sat at the loom and was again working the shuttle and harnesses...Almost challenging him to ask about the creature in the front yard. Instead, he addressed Deinn.

"Who is the big girl in the yard, darlin' ?"

"Mary." Pronounced, "Meh-wee."

"Mary, is it? Is she helping your mother?"

"She sleeps wit' Mama an' me. She not talk...I talk. I'm big gehl."

"Yes, you are a big girl. Pretty soon you'll be helping Mama too, aye?" He caught Sintia flicking her eyes at him, not unpleased.

Soon she arose to lay the noontime meal on the board. She awoke her father, and Gilling helped him to the bench. Master Rowan asked again Gilling's name, Gilling again told him. Deinn drew Mary in by the hand, and she sat, furtively glancing around at the bowed heads during the blessing, then drank her milk noisily and tore at her bread with both hands. Sintia finally was forthcoming.

"Mary is deaf, but not so dumb, I'm thinking. She works well and learns fast. Father can't work anymore, he won't stay awake long enough to produce anything. If I have to break and heckle the flax it's time I can't be weaving, which is how I earn our bread. If she works out I can have her for nothing but her keep. She's from a large family, coppicers, woodcutters; they can't feed them all well enough to suit them. Then they left her home alone and... Something happened to her while they were gone. A man took advantage. Of course, nothing can be proven because all she can do is point and yammer. But her brother took out after him and..." Sintia glanced at Deinn. "He got his revenge. Now he's on the run and the family asked the bailiff if he didn't know a way to be rid of her in good conscience, as on her account they lost her brother's wages. He complained to me of it when I saw him last, and I said I'd give her a try. She came day before yesterday."

Gilling listened, trying not to stare at the girl, whose feral eyes roamed the board, resting on the last lump of cheese impaled on Gilling's knife. He offered it to her, pointing the tip of the knife away when he saw her eyes widen. Slowly her hand reached for it, then delicately pulled the cheese from the knife. She rested her eyes on him, their blue-whiteness almost luminous in the half-dark of the cottage. Then she smiled-- such a smile!-- as only infants smile, wide and luminous; the sun coming out.

It lasted but a moment, but a grin lingered behind the hand that clutched the cheese and fed it to the smacking mouth. Gilling realized that there had been a moment of silence, and he glanced at Sintia, who was grinning slightly, knowingly at him. "She is a handful, but I must admit I couldn't be entirely impartial once I'd seen that smile."

The meal was cleared and Deinn sent outside with the few scraps to throw, one at a time, to the pig, and Mary returned to her flax breaking, and Sintia sat again at her loom. Gilling took the hetchel hanging from a peg on the wall, and a beaten armload of flax, and sat between the loom and the doorway, combing the beaten flax and sorting tow from linen, and keeping an eye on Deinn, and singing absently.

"So, Troubadour, have you come to eat my bread and comb my flax again? Are there not ladies in brocade and silk in carpeted courts who would love to offer you much more rewarding company, for only the labor of serenading them?"

That was the way she was, testing him, not daring to trust that he returned for more than the possibility of the joy of her bed. They had been over this ground before.

"None of those ladies' hearts is the softer for their fine clothes. Nor their tongues less sharp," he added. She smiled at her loom and missed not a beat in her work.

"Sintia, you know what brings me here--"

"Penance." He was caught off guard, but only for a moment.

"Nay, Sintia--"

"Atonement. Conscience. Guilt."

Gilling looked at the work of his hands, considering it as he searched his heart.

"While I'll not deny there is some truth in what you say, there is more than that. I want to do now what I let you think I promised three years ago. Yes, conscience prods me. But I intend to pester you and bring you money when I can because I want to. Not only because of Deinn. You are a strong and beautiful and merry-hearted woman. I have been in all the high courts in Ardinéa, and I have been over the White Sea and seen women and men of renowned beauty and nobility; I have sung for queens, princesses, and ladies beyond counting. When I look at you, Sintia Rowan, I know what it is I am looking at."

"Do you, now?" The loom ceased its rhythm; her hands balled and rested, white-knuckled, on her lap. Her voice was low and controlled and hard like a blade. "How can you know what I am and what I have lived since you went your way?"

Gilling's hands also stilled. He quietly put down the hetchel and waited.

"I looked for you, heartbroken, but stupidly hoping you would come for me. Then I was with child. I hid it for as long as I could manage, wearing a bulky shawl to market even in Midsummer. Then the looks began. Soon girls I had gadded about with at the fairs were turning their backs on me. Boys who had flirted with me threw small stones and bits of dung. Father was the last to notice. For his shame he beat me hard as he could manage at his age. He was never the same after. That night I lay in bed crying, when the pangs began. I hoped I was dying from injuries. I had Deinn alone and then I lay in my blood, hoping I would die from childbirth."

Her voice quavered. "But when I heard her cry for only me, I said, here is one who will love me and not leave me. At least for a while."

She lifted her chin, swallowed hard and continued. "Father hasn't been able to weave for years, and between nursing Deinn and caring for him, I hardly had time. So I had to go to the alms-gate, and wait, with my head covered, for charity. Troubadour, can you know what that is like?

"As she got older I could work more and more. People began to ignore me, and then to accept me. I suppose some even pitied me and tried to be kind, but I shut them out. Father could do less and less, but I was able to keep us fed.

"One day I brought a piece of goods to market. I got a good price and the woman liked the quality and ordered two more bolts; she showed her friends and they also ordered a bolt apiece. As I walked home I decided something. When I walked down the lane I was going to hold my head up, uncovered. So it is now. My cloth is good, and sold ere it's woven. Deinn is healthy and brings me joy. I was counting my blessings. Then you come through my gate.

"I had tried to make myself forget you because I couldn't love you, nor could I truly hate you, either. I knew what sort of man you were ere I flattered myself to think I could have you. I hoped you would show me all the splendorous beauties of which you boasted, the true and faithful love of which you sang as you seduced me. When you disappeared I could settle my mind that you were just such a man, and I just another fool. I had taken a risk, and lost. I could live with that. But when you come here, the gates of my heart unbar, against my will. I pummel the resurrecting hopes. I dare not hope that you will come again, and dread the joy I feel when you do.

"Do you know what I am? Can you possibly know?" The balled fists were quivering with tension. Her eyes were still fixed unseeing and dim on the web of the loom.

Gilling got up to his knees and took one of the fists in his hands, smoothing it flat and kissing the palm, and laying it against his face. "Lassie," he said,"I love you more than ever."

Finally her eyes began to stream and her head bowed.

"Oh, please don't. . ." she whispered, but he cut her off.

"Sintia, I can never change the past. If I came here hoping for that, the truth is that I love you now, for who you are now. I don't intend to try to be sorry enough, nor will I now promise splendors. Marry me, and I will take a position at court. Here-- Lord Gregory would take me in a heartbeat-- or somewhere else, where no one would ever have to know, or look at you askance. I can't take away the wounds. But I can, Sintia, offer you something else. Maybe something better for Deinn, in the future.

"Please, please, consider it. You don't have give answer now --"

"Yes."

He looked at her, unsure that he had heard. "Yes, God strike me," she looked at him, vanquished, but her eyes narrowing slightly. She was drooping and looked tired. She sighed deeply; there was relief in it.

Gilling stood slowly. "God bless you, Sintia." He made the sign of the cross over her. "God help me, I'll do right by you."

"I doubt whether God has much use for the likes of us," she said, the hint of her wonted bitter smile softening her eyes.

"Oh, nay, Sintia. If you recall, His own Son was born under rather-- questionable circumstances."

Elora knelt erect at the prie-dieu in her tiny, private bedchamber. Even here, her elbows pointed at prim angles and her gnarled fingers aligned, pressed palms together in prayer; so habituated was she to a high-ranked servant's posture.

" _Pater Noster, qui es in coelis_...Amen."

Stiffly she made to arise, knuckles to the turkey-work cushion on which she knelt: Lady Varden's gift, years ago.

She stood and loosened the coiled plait at the back of her head and let its iron gray heaviness fall. She took up an intricate ivory comb-- Gilling's gift from some faraway land-- and combed, as she had each morning and evening for threescore and ten and more years. Her once night-black hair had been her only beauty.

She thought again of the offer her son had made. Ten years ago Lord Gregory had given her this tiny room, carpeted on walls and floor, and with its own minuscule hearth and mullioned window and narrow wardrobe, and now a pallet against the wall, where her son would creep in and lay later. Before that her bed had been in a nook in the bower of the children, for almost fifty years; except for the two brief eyeblinks that had been her marriages.

Thomas Chase, whom she loved, had brought her to his father's house and loved her tenderly. Thomas had given her two years of happiness she had not considered possible at her age, for she was two score and four years when they wed. Didymus, his twin, she married after Thomas died of some unstoppable internal failing, thinking to borrow joy; but God would not be mocked and in less than a year Thomas's twin passed in the same way. The house had passed to their younger brother and Elora had found welcome in the castle. Then she discovered she was with child. Her son was raised in the way she was, as an adjunct to the Aldene family, even to learning his letters and Latin beside the noble children. But the castle walls had never held him as they did her-- but then, he was a man.

Before all that she had shared a bed with Engyrd, who had ruled the nursery herself twenty years and died in the bed next to Elora, who had spooned broth and porridge and wine into the quivering lips for several weeks, the unseeing eyes focusing and unfocusing on her face, before Elora arose one morning and found her rigid and cold. The girl Elora had set her face and instructed the servants in a hard voice how to tend to the body. Engyrd...Thomas...Didymus...Gyvarda...Geoffrey...Fading memories. Some of those she remembered were known to no one else still living.

She had lived and breathed the halls and floors and windows and doors of Caer Aldene all her life. Someone had once suggested she become an anchoritess, have a cell in the Priory and spend her dotage in reading and prayer. From Elora, the suggestion had elicited a laugh so unwonted, that the recommendation had never again been tendered by anyone in earnest.

Now her son wanted to take her away from this place. Unthinkable.

Except that...Except that she could no longer make herself indispensable as she had always done. She nodded to sleep at sickbeds. Her hands were too cold and knobby to comfort children-- if anything, she frightened them with her never-beautiful and now shriveled visage. Her old connections for news and gossip were all dying off; the younger ones not prone to regard an ancient butleress as influential and therefore worth their time. When she woke in the morning and coiled her hair and splashed her face at the washstand, there was nowhere she had to hurry off to. The tapestry loom could sit vacant and no one would be dismayed. The life she lived in her private bedchamber was never again going to be the life she always had, but would shrink back in on itself, until this room and the old purring grimalkin who warmed her toes at night would be her world, and some child sent to attend to her needs, eventually to spoon broth and wine and porridge into her trembling lips.

She had always wished that Gilling would take a position in court, settle down somewhere and make a place for himself in this world. Now he wanted to take her off over the hill to live with his bride, to sit by her hearth with the girl's old father.

Unthinkable, but. Perhaps. She laid the comb aside and blew out the lamp, and lay open-eyed in the dark until she heard her son slip into the room, hang up his viol and his overgarments, and lay quietly on the pallet by the wall.

## Chapter 12: Bitter Wind

The mullioned windows of the bower where Margaret slept were open, but not a whisper of air passed through. Margaret, in her thinnest shift, twisted in and out of airless dreams on her bed. The covers were kicked to the floor hours ago. Dawn finally illuminated the haze to the east. The church bells rang Prime. The sound was enough to waken, but not rouse her, and she lay with an arm slung over her face, a dull headache forming in her forehead. She heard a cow lowing incessantly. Probably it had lost its calf in the darkness, she guessed. She wished it did not sound so forlorn. She would like to think she was the only lonely soul in the world, at least at that early hour, and that beast was stealing her self-pity. She tried to laugh softly at herself, but the ache in her forehead chose that moment to begin throbbing.

She rolled to her side and lifted the lid of a small carved and inlaid chest by the bedside. There were folded kerchiefs, her comb, some small jewelry, and other sundries. She found a tiny vial of lavender oil, and tipped out a drop onto a kerchief. She replaced the cork in the vial and put it down in the chest. She laid back on the bed and held the scented cloth near her face.

As every morning, she prayed silently for her betrothed, for herself and others, and she wondered sometimes, if she were not a little strange doing so.

Everyone had the Pater Noster and prayers at night. But in the morning, when her mind was clear, and she woke before most did, the quiet and the dawn drew her to a place she shared with no one. But since early Summer, God had been meeting her there. Perhaps He had been there all along, and she had not known it. But as she spoke wordlessly in her soul this morning, she was impelled to rise and go out walking. She ran a wet cloth over her face and neck and pulled on a plain dress and slippers. Her heart beat strangely although she was calm and she hurried down the steps.

She found her way out to the castleyard, and heard calling from the sentries at the bailey gate. Two of her father's knights-- she could see their shields-- were entering the gate. One of their squires led a riderless horse, which even Margaret could see had been ridden hard and not rubbed down. As they drew into the yard, she saw that one of the knights held a limp figure on the saddle in front of him. She ran forward as two men came running from the Hall to receive the man the knight passed down to them. It was Tamlyn.

He was brought, a man under each shoulder, into the hall, and laid on a bench. Margaret tried to get in between the knights who crowded around him, but they had seen hard-ridden men more than she, and eventually she waited on the fringe of the group.

Her father arrived, his face still dripping and his tunic unbelted. The knot of men opened, and Margaret jumped in alongside Lord Gregory, twining her arm about his. A knight said, "He is bruised and nicked, but not badly wounded. His clothes are all shredded in places. He was found a mile from here, his sweated horse standing over him. He must have been fleeing some attack, become exhausted and fallen. But what he was running from, we couldn't figure; no one would have pushed his horse that hard if they didn't have to."

Lord Gregory glanced at him. "Take him to the knights' quarters. Set a page to watch him, and I want two men to ride about and see what he was riding from. When he wakes, the moment he wakes, call me," said Gregory, turning away, then noticing Margaret on his arm. He patted her hand and left, returning to his chamber.

But Tamlyn did not wake that long day, nor the next morning. He was laid in Gareth's room, his gashes tended to; and on that second morning, Gareth looked at him and began to speak, seeing his eyes open. Tamlyn only lay staring. Gareth shook his arm, felt his forehead, and pulled him to sitting. Finally, Tamlyn's eyes turned to him. He arose and found in the wardrobe the chamberpot, which he stood before and used. Then he went to the washstand and used that as well. Then he stood, not seeming to know what to do next, his head already beginning to sag.

"He is in a daze," Gareth told Gregory. "Perhaps he fell hard from the horse. I'd give him a day or two." But it was many days, and Tamlyn did not change.

Lord Gregory's private chambers were replete with mementos of his Lady Varden. Her embroidered pillows mountained the high, wide bed they had shared; rugs of her design covered the floors. Fabrics she had chosen curtained the bedstead and hung the windows. If one squinted hard, one could imagine oneself in the forest of an afternoon, for leaves, flowers, branches, birds, deer and foxes were everywhere.

It had been a long time since Margaret had been summoned here for private family talk. She arrived as the servants were being dismissed and those who had exited first were already bending their heads together knowingly. She entered the door and Rivanone's handmaid went out, closing the door behind her with a heavy sound. Thank Heaven that Just and Rivanone were here.

Margaret curtseyed. "My lord my father, you summoned me," said Margaret, wishing that she could crawl into his lap, like the younger Varda, thereby deflecting the brunt of what would follow. Her father took her hand and kissed her cheek, which was burning. Then he motioned her to sit by him, at a group of tufted chairs by the room hearth. God bless Rivanone, who immediately came and sat by her. Margaret wished her father would come to the point, for he stroked his bearded jawline with his thumb and forefinger and hesitated. Suddenly Margaret knew this interview was difficult for him as well. She dropped her eyes to her lap and prayed inwardly.

Finally Gregory cleared his throat. "The fact is, daughter, that when I promised you to wed our Sir Tamlyn of Braewode, no one was happier than I that you and he already loved one another, as anyone could see. It was a good match for many reasons. But, it was not at that time the case that-- his condition was such that-- that he is unwell, not suitable for marrying. I would be remiss to allow you to remain betrothed to him, in his present state. Thankfully, you and he are only betrothed, which our laws allow to be terminated by simple agreement, should adequate cause be found. Lord Just is well-versed in such matters, and we believe that such grounds can be demonstrated in the case of Tamlyn's state of mind. However, my daughter," Gregory's eyes, which had been fixed on a point on the carpet during this dissertation, rose to meet Margaret's, "I am not dead to the fact that you are strongly bound to him. What you did to win him makes that very plain. What say you to all of this?"

Margaret sat quietly. She was surprised at her own reaction, at the calm she felt, although she had known that this confrontation was inevitable and for days had dreaded its coming. Finally she spoke. "My father, I paid too dear a price for him to lightly dismiss him from my life. I understand that his state is disturbing. It is to me, perhaps more so than anyone, precisely because I do love him. But I respectfully do ask that he be given time. Our wedding date is not yet for many months, and he may well recover." She wished that her voice did not sound so plaintive.

Lady Rivanone took her hand. "Margaret, the longer you are betrothed to him, the more difficult it will become to be realistic about him. If your ties are broken now, it will not change Tamlyn's fate, whether he recovers or not. If you wait, it will be that much more painful for you to break it off later. And if he does recover, and he truly loves you, then he may return to seek you again."

Margaret couldn't believe it was her aunt saying these things. From her father, or Lord Just, she might have expected it, but from Rivanone...she had not anticipated the truth of her words, and found herself unable to speak, and wanting to scream. They were talking, and there was wisdom and knowledge and sense in their words, but it was all a roaring in Margaret's burning ears. She struggled to retain a grip on herself. If she cried, they would think her a child whose voice did not bear heeding.

Just was speaking. "We think it would be in everyone's best interest if Tamlyn returns to his home in Braewode. There is no better chance for his recovery than in his own home, surrounded by his family, who can care for him whether he gets better or whether he deteriorates further."

"Yes, and I am arranging for him to be escorted there, while he is still able to travel; and later, for all the wealth that is rightfully his to be taken there as well," said Gregory. "As you know, I must away to King's Leigh even tomorrow, or I would accompany him myself, as rightly I should do. He is a noble son, and a hero of Briardene, and deserves honor; but I am summoned by the King. Lord Just must remain here in my absence. I will, however, send of the best of my knights to represent me, and enough persons to be sure he is cared for on the way."

"He _is_ a noble son, _and_ the hero of Briardene, _and_ was promised the daughter of the Duke of Aldene; and now is being packed home, the engagement retracted," said Margaret, in a firm, even voice she herself had never heard. "Lord and Lady Braewode deserve no mere envoy, no third-party representation. If my lord my father, you cannot yourself go with him, then it should be me. It is I who laid claim to him and brought him out of the Realm in which he lived and was well, where he would never grow old or die. It is I and no other who ought to explain to Lord and Lady Braewode that their long-lost son is being returned to them but half a man."

There was silence in the room, except for the sparrows outside the window, whose chirping Margaret noticed for the first time. Just looked to Gregory, who looked very unhappy, pressing his lips downward thoughtfully.

"I don't like it, but. . ."

"But her argument has merit," said Just. "Braewode will be insulted as it is, without adding this: that we do not represent ourselves properly. Tamlyn was engaged once before to marry Clewode's daughter, and after she eloped, Coltram of Braewode attempted to make some claim against Clewode, even though Tamlyn had gone missing for some long time. We do not need Aldene connected with any more ill rumor than there will inevitably be. The house of Braewode is not a high one, but well-connected, and wealthy, too."

There was a pause that seemed to last forever. Finally Gregory shifted in his seat. "In truth, I see no other way. Courtesy must be given its due." He didn't say out loud, that he thought a journey of several days with an invalid would change Margaret's feelings about him.

Rivanone said, "She will need a handmaid to go with her, she is old enough for her own anyway. I am in no condition for such a journey, myself." Margaret wanted to kiss Just and Rivanone, but kept her eyes steady on her father. He began to nod slowly, and Margaret knew she was going. Talk turned to the necessary arrangements.

Back in her own bower, there was no privacy. She slipped off to the rose garden and cried into a kerchief, not caring that in the opposite corner, a boy was spreading manure around the roses. She wasn't even sure why she wanted to go with Tamlyn, to meet his family and then tell them, Behold your son, half-mad...But she could not watch him ride away and never see where he went. She could not let a day that she might be near him slip away. And she could not let some other bring poor faded Tamlyn to be lost and pathetic in his own home. When her tears were spent, she turned for the chamber that belonged to Gareth. The knights' quarters were empty. She went down a cool stone passage with arched wooden doors on either side. No lady had any business here all alone, in the knights' bedchambers. A pageboy exited one of the rooms, and was taken aback to see Lady Margaret in these halls. Margaret asked him which room was Gareth's.

Wordlessly he showed her. "Wait here, lad, please," she said, and knocked on the door. There was no response.

"Probably Gareth is on the parade grounds. The knights are practicing for tourney. Probably just that...fellow in there...Sir Tame." The boy shrugged. Margaret lifted the iron latch and pushed the heavy door, which opened hard against a strong draft.

She saw Tamlyn seated by the wide open window, the plain curtains blown back and almost flapping in the breeze that blasted in. The wind had blown the quill and papers off the desk and threatened to topple the lampstand, which wobbled. Margaret approached him. He sat still as a rock in the wild wind. His face was not vacant, but rather intent, as though concentrating on something far away. She thought of closing the window, but decided not to, although it blew her hair around her. She called his name. He stirred, frowning. The boy hung back in the doorway. "Sievan, Tamlyn, my love, it is I, Margaret!" She almost shouted at him, and finally his eyes turned to her, and smiled so beautifully. She tried to return his smile.

"Margaret," he said, reaching for her hand, and for a moment he was there with her, and began to recede.

"Tamlyn, you must hear me," she said, kneeling before him and clasping his hand between hers. She rested her elbows on his knees and clung to his hand, trying not to lose him to the mists. "Tamlyn, others will come soon and tell you that we will no longer be betrothed, that until you are well you must return to the house of your father. Sievan, my love, no matter what happens, it is not my will to be parted from you. My heart will always belong to you, no matter what happens. I wish to be with you always."

"And I with Margaret," He searched for words and failing to find them, slipped away. "No, Margaret, for your own sake, no..." His eyes lost focus and seemed to look through her for a moment. Then his troubled gaze returned to the window.

"Tamlyn. Tamlyn!" she wrapped her arms round his waist and pushed herself between his knees, pressing her cheek against his chest. But he stiffened and grabbed her shoulders painfully, and held her away so that he could see her face. "What I gave you- give it not back to me. It was wrong, but don't give it back!"

"What mean you, the r---"

He put a finger to her lips, silencing her. "Come not near me again- or-..." He seemed to freeze, and would no longer respond, but seemed to be in pain, his eyes closed.

"Is there not anything I can do? Sievan?"

Nothing. His hands slowly drew to his chest, balled as if in prayer.

She stood, not caring that tears fell down her cheeks. "Tamlyn, where you are now, I cannot grasp and win you." Then she leaned over and kissed the top of his head. She backed away from Tamlyn toward the door. An errant sparrow flew in through the window, hovered, and flew out again. Tamlyn never noticed.

## Chapter 13: Shadows

She had never been so far from Caer Aldene even as Prim Briar, and Margaret dreaded the long hours of riding, and sleeping and eating in strange houses and halls. Rivanone instructed her how to shift positions on the horse's back to relieve the ache of sidemounted riding. She also told her to appreciate the passing landscape and the pageant of the stars of the night sky, in order to alleviate the monotony of the hours on horseback.

Rivanone also instructed her on deporting herself seemly around the men who would accompany them. "Knights and men that are mild as lambs within your father's Hall feel their oats out on the land, under the sun. It is up to you, Margaret, to set the tone of respect and courtesy. Oh, how I wish I could accompany you!" She said, glancing at her children playing, and a hand stealing to her belly, which was just beginning to push against the gathered fabric. She looked back at Margaret. "Suddenly you are all grown into a maid." She put a hand on Margaret's face. "This will not be an easy journey for you, Maggie, in many ways. But the very fact you insist upon it shows what you are made of. You're going to be fine. My prayers will go with you."

With many backward glances and waves at Rivanone and Varda, Margaret rode upon Star's back away from her home. In front rode two men-at-arms, Squire Geven and Squire John; next Sir Gareth beside Tamlyn, then Margaret and her new handmaid, Willa, a freckled, strawberry-haired lass of fifteen years; a niece of Burda's, she promised the same rawboned strength, but with an affected grace. Trailing behind Willa were two spare horses who carried their gear.

Gareth attempted periodically to engage Tamlyn in conversation. Tamlyn did respond at times vaguely, at other times not at all. The first hours, Margaret stared about her and kept glancing over her shoulder at the sight of Caer Aldene's clustered towers receding. They trotted down the long valley toward the crossing at Brightford, where they would turn south and stop at an inn in the highlands.

They passed through the fields of silvery grain, of flax blossoms like carpets spread under the sun, and timothy meadows of countless acres, snowy with sheep on the gentle humps of the dales. Margaret somehow resented the beauty until it wearied her resistance and in spite of herself, she began to draw deeply of the bright air and follow delightedly the swoop and wheel of the swallows, the undulations of the oats in the wind, the cavorting of the heifers in the pastures, the sailing hawks high above.

The road came abreast of the Briar River. There, where the last glimpse of the castle could be seen, they stopped to water the horses and eat bread. There they found Gilling the Troubadour, removing his pack to shift the load around.

Gilling explained that he was going to King's Leigh, to find a position and a home for his bride. There was much teasing and friendly abuse from the men, which Gilling accepted as his due. Margaret suggested to Gareth, aside, that Gilling ride one of their spare horses, for he would be going the same way for some miles. "I suppose if I can't keep you safe from his like, I'm no knight at all," said Gareth, and Gilling gratefully accepted.

Willa had been quiet until now. Margaret wondered if she were sullen or shy, but a glance from Tamlyn to Margaret said that she felt sorry for her and was embarrassed by the situation. With Willa there, Margaret did not need to feel sorry for herself. Margaret steeled her resolve: she would neither be tragic nor shamed by her predicament. She stood straight and looked Willa in the face. "Willa, turn aside with me," she said, and they walked up into the meadow to stretch their aching legs, soon they returned.

Margaret approached Tamlyn, who was surprised to see her there; confusion followed joy in his features. "Lady Margaret, where do we ride to this day?"

"To your home, Sir Sievan." She tried to collect her heart, which seemed to have leapt into her throat. He stared at her, trying to grasp.

"But that mountain will be empty now," he said, his eyes clouding. Gareth suggested that they continue on. It was several minutes before Margaret understood Tamlyn's meaning.

Gilling rode with the men, the sun gleaming on his black hair; a continual stream of songs and stories coming from him. He was speaking to the men of his travels. "Only in Ardinéa, and really only in Briardene, could one man alone travel on foot without fear of brigands or highwaymen. Only in Ardinéa can a plain peasant plow his lands and lay in his crop without fear of roving bands of pillaging knights and men-of-war sweeping in, burning his home and eating his livestock and abusing his daughters and killing or conscripting his sons. Only in Ardinéa can a priest stick with the business of preaching to his people, without having to engage in the tawdry business of selling God's forgiveness for money, in the form of indulgences. Only in Ardinéa, and in Erin, can a maid go about with her lovely hair to the wind, for in Angeln and elsewhere all women go swathed about the head and neck with such fabrics as the law permits their social station!

"I saw wonders there, and wealth and splendors in the houses of the nobles, such as Ardinéa can only imagine. I heard music and poetry and preaching that ravished my insides. But I also saw there such wretched poor starving in looted villages; I saw Jews massacred for no other reason than that their seized property was coveted by some town council; I saw persons burned at stake for crimes ranging from adultery to bearing an unfortunate birthmark; I saw hordes of flagellants whipping themselves bloody for repentance, and then mobbing the priest and inciting the townspeople to stone him to death for opposing them. I saw knights impatient for the charge ride over their own footsoldiers to get at the battle, and princes ravage their own villages to keep from feeding their enemies.

"I also saw people cover the path of a beloved prioress with their coats as she walked barefoot in the snow. I gave a piece of bread to a starving child, and saw him break it into crumbs and feed it to an infant. I knew of a father who paid for his son's crime against a peasant girl by giving his house and lands for her dowry and entering a monastery a beggar.

"The crossing of the White Sea is treacherous, with blinding mists, contrary winds, and shifting shoals—most years, it is nearly impossible, and few ships can make it through. I'm thinking that has been Ardinéa's salvation. But I had to come back here. Europa exhausted me. What a magnificent pageant of beauties and of horrors!"

As they approached the village Sweetbriar, Margaret was so thankful to be able to get off her horse for a few hours she managed a smile at the children who ran alongside of their horses. By force of habit, she lifted her head high, and saw Willa do the same.

They turned into a large arched gate before a great stone house. They were met before the door by a lanky youth, who held the noses of the two foremost horses. The men-at-arms helped him to lead away the horses, while the rest entered the dark hall.

Margaret blinked while her eyes, which had had the sun in them much of the day, adjusted. From the darkness emerged the landlord and his wife. They were greeted graciously, but Margaret wished the windows were larger; the hall seemed cavernously stuffy and she still could see no one's face clearly.

After they were shown their sleeping quarters-- two minuscule rooms behind the chimney-- they were asked to dinner in the side hall. To Margaret's great relief there were paned windows looking over a flower garden from which the landlady called her several children to meat.

Sons and daughters tumbled in noisily with dogs and even a goat, which was shooed back out the half-door. It was apparent that Gareth had explained Tamlyn to Mistress Corday, and she had taken him on as a project for dinner, seating him next to her, urging bread and broth on him as one would an elderly uncle, her plump hands fluttering around him. Occasionally a child's squeal caught his attention for a moment, he even smiled momentarily.

Margaret caught herself staring and forced herself to breathe regularly. Willa was wide-eyed enough for both of them, torn between delight in the familiarity of the domestic scene and distress at the possibility of offense to her Lady's nobility. Margaret caught up a toddling girl onto her lap and engaged her in a clapping game. Willa decided to relax, and petted a hound begging at her side.

"I hope ye don't mind this little hall. The great room is -- well, not half so comfortable. Master Corday built this on after Grandmaster Corday passed on. Here 'tis so much more convenient for the kitchen, and ye can see--"

"What you're eating, for good or ill," broke in Master Corday. They laughed around the table. "I suppose I ought to break windows into that old barn, or else move the cows and horses in, but me father would roll in his grave, that hall was his ancestors', ye know. Built in a time when great trees grew all around and huge log fire roared winter and summer. Now our coppice-wood must suffice. "

"Sir Tamlyn, will ye have na' more meat? What a shame, to take a bad fall, and such a young handsome knight. Bron, get more spiced wine for the guests! Later, Bron and his brothers will have music, they're terrible excited about the Troubadour; or maybe ye'd like to turn in early? Ye'll be riding on early? For Hartsfall? Oh. . ." She made a long hissing sound and crossed herself.

Master Corday spoke up. "Hartsfall has the pestilence, but bad. The bell has been tolling there day and night. Ye can't go that way, no. Bron, boy, tell them how to get around Hartsfall, through the log way."

Bron had sat by the cold hearth with a sack, and was drawing from it a set of bladder pipes. He began to talk to Gareth about the forest road, offering repeatedly to show them in the morning. It was settled.

The sun was abandoning them. Candles were lit, and out came the lute and pennywhistle. The children were swept off to bed, protesting. Margaret sat in a window seat, the window swung open partway to admit a balmy air, enjoying the novelty, the music, and the azure sky fading over hills receding to the west.

Margaret was gazing at the first-appearing stars and shifting in the seat, for her muscles were not accustomed to all-day riding and were beginning to stiffen. She became aware that the atmosphere in the room had changed, and turned to look. Bron had left the room and in the lull, Tamlyn had picked up the abandoned set of bladder pipes. He wrapped his long fingers around the complicated instrument familiarly. He sounded the drone, at first tentative, then pure and strong.

Talking ceased. Not a jig or reel did he play, but a sweet and crying air.

Margaret was transfixed. Tamlyn sat straight, his face unreadable. His melody wrapped around Margaret's breath, each note a probing shard that drove deeper past her heart into her very soul, and sweetly slayed her. The love he had spoken by the river, the embrace that had sealed her heart to his, she was sure that he sat and declared for all in the room to read plainly, yet he spoke nor sang a word, neither did his eyes regard her, they were closed. But she knew somehow that the tune was for her, for where she had heard it, she knew not; but words welled up within her, even as Gilling joined in on his viol and singing the words.

When it comes to you, I am undone

My reasonings are frail

When it comes to you, I bow my head

And my defenses fail.

My heart is but a shiv'ring tree

And you the breath of Spring

When it comes to you, I spread my hands;

surrender everything.

I have no sword, no shield against

The arrow of your love

My heart is pierced, and I am slain

nor can ever have enough.

I abhor the husk all Winter-chilled

lying lonely in the night

O come, Spring, and breathe your love

And end my winter's night.

The tune ended, and there was silence momentarily.

Margaret knew, finally and simply in her dismay, that if she had had any thoughts of leaving him behind at Braewode and returning to her Caer Aldene and going on and forgetting Tamlyn, she knew better now. She bowed her head.

When she could hold it up, she excused herself. Willa had already gone to prepare her chamber.

She washed the dirt of the road and the smell of horses from her and laid on a narrow bed. When she closed her eyes, she saw shadow landscapes moving toward her and passing; the effect of many hours' travel. Willa cleared her throat and knelt primly by her cot. Margaret jumped up and knelt also for prayers.

_Oh, Jesu,_ she prayed, after the Pater Noster. For a long time it was only, _Oh, Jesu_. Then, _Why, oh why, Lord, did You ever let me love him? Look what it has cost me._

_Look, Margaret_. A still, small voice prodded a corner of her mind. She opened her eyes, and they met a small carved crucifix on the stone wall before her: _Look what it cost Me to love you._

Margaret laid her head on her folded hands, and the tears that wet them were of understanding and gratitude.

In the darkness Margaret awoke suddenly, alarmed for a moment by the unfamiliar surroundings. She needed to relieve herself. She arose and opened the wardrobe, but she could see nothing, nor was she willing to rummage for a chamberpot in the darkness.

She knew the privy was not far away and she slipped on her shoes. Her brushed-clean shawl hung in the wardrobe, she pulled it around herself quietly and went out into the blackness of Grandmaster Corday's ancestral hall.

One of the silky-haired hounds lay across the threshold of the hall's side door; it arose and accompanied her. Upon her return, the hound trotted ahead, toenails clicking on the flagstones. It froze halfway across the abyss of the hall, and without thinking, Margaret froze too.

To her left, a pale oblong formed against the dark. Breathlessly she turned toward it. A shadow loomed within the doorway. A glint of light hair: Tamlyn was going out the front door of the hall.

Margaret walked quickly after him, wondering if perhaps he was looking for the privy. She exited into the yard and cast about, looking for him. The dog emerged beside her, and growled toward a movement crossing the yard.

Margaret called his name, softly, then louder. His shadow melted into others. She ran across the yard lightly, lest she stumble. She could only just see the dog running ahead of her and prayed it could see Tamlyn. She called his name louder, now, panic rising in her breast.

She ran in the road, now, between darkened cottages. Dogs barked and a baby's cry faintly drifted from a lit window; crickets chirped. Suddenly she almost collided with him.

"Tamlyn!" She grasped his sleeve, panting with more than exertion. "My love, where are you going to?" He slowed and stopped. She came around in front of him and grasped both his forearms. "Sievan, why are you out here?"

His head appeared to loll for a moment in the dark; she felt him shake it. Then his hands raised to her shoulders and gripped them. "Margaret? Why are we out here in the dark? Where are we? I must away, this is my battle, and He that is in me is greater than he that is in the world..." His grip on her shoulders loosened and he leaned as if to go past her, but she shook his arms.

"Tamlyn, for love of God, you must come back with me now. There is nothing out here for you, _please_ , love, come with your Margaret." She propelled him toward the hall and talked continually, half begging, half ordering him to come, hanging desperately onto his arm, her fingers laced in his.

In the yard a thrush began to sing for the dawn. Somewhere a cock crowed. Tamlyn started. "Oh Margaret, Love, I am only mortal, now. How can I withstand him?" He crumbled before the door. She screamed for Gareth, for help; Master Corday appeared in his nightclothes with a lamp amid barking, milling dogs, with Gareth and the men-at-arms behind him.

## Chapter 14: Meeting on the Mountain

If he had been endearingly pathetic before, Mistress Corday now found Tamlyn frighteningly addled, and brought his breakfast to the door of the men's sleeping chamber, to keep him away from the children. Gareth saw her cross herself as she left the chamber. She was polite and ingratiating to all her guests, but clearly disturbed by his presence in her home, and they prepared to leave as soon as possible.

Gareth rode in front with Bron Corday, who rode through the village with him importantly. A certain young darb was overtaken on the road with milkpails on her yoke, and he riding his lanky gelding beside a tall knight bearing sword and shield. Her eyes grew round and her cheeks flushed, and the sigh he drew when they had passed spoke satisfaction beyond words.

When they had cleared the village, they let the horses trot. With Bron riding next to Gareth, Margaret had managed to take the place beside Tamlyn. It worried her that he forgot to move with the horse, and jostled until the horse tossed its head in annoyance, and he remembered to tighten on the reins, which Gareth had knotted close to the horse's neck. Margaret knew that a good knight could about ride in his sleep; it seemed to her that Tamlyn did no more than that.

Margaret wrestled with anxiety and mortification. She had not eyes for the flowers surrounding thatched cottages, nor the ringleted children who played in the dooryards or helped their mothers weed the vegetable plots; for the orderly spread of the selions by the bottom of Hart Brook or the fragrant, new-mown timothy drying on the carpet of the sun. Where these things had solaced her yesterday, today she clung to God in her mind. Wretched in her heart, she had to keep on with the others. They were three days from Braewode. _This will not be an easy journey for you, Maggie, in many ways..._ Rivanone's words.

Bron, after enjoying many stares from locals who rode or walked the roads, parted with them reluctantly after showing them the entrance to the forest road. Margaret was incredulous that they were to trust to this sometime logging trail, but Gareth and his men seemed unconcerned, and called farewell and rode on into the coppicelands.

These gave way in time to second-growth woods where the trail climbed steeply. By a brook that crossed the path, they watered the horses and ate bread still fragrant from Mistress Corday's oven, then continued. Margaret saw Willa wince as she mounted the dappled gelding she rode, helped up by John. Margaret was sore about the legs and back, too, but she was used to regular riding; Willa must be in misery. Their eyes met. Margaret leaned toward her and quietly said, "Are you well? I'm told the second day is the worst of it."

Willa's eyes rounded with self-consciousness. "Oh, no, my Lady, I thank you, I am fine, oh, never better my lady, thank you for inquiring. . ." She was flush, and embarrassment waltzed with gratification. Margaret suppressed an amused smile, substituting a polite one and looking away. She had caught Willa sighing earlier, regarding Margaret standing by Tamlyn and offering him a skin of water; Willa was infatuated, as many new serving-maids were, with her noble lady and her tragic knight. Rivanone had warned her about that, too. Her only advice was to be kind and not roll one's eyes when they were looking. She realized how much she missed her aunt with the lavender scent and the steady gaze.

The trail followed the shoulder of hills that lifted up, and up. The number of stumps they passed diminished and the forest thickened, yet the old-growth trees were also larger and wider-spaced. Beeches and oaks followed upon ferny glens and marshes and secretive tarns. The trail narrowed and the party now rode one by one. Margaret rode behind Tamlyn.

The forest suddenly changed to pines. There were several acres that had been cut and the regrowth and shrubs crowded the trail, which climbed more steeply. Margaret found that Star's cinch needed tightening and her saddle blanket needed straightening; she stopped and slid from Star's back. She called to Geven, who came to tighten the cinch while Margaret tugged at the blanket. The riders forward of them disappeared in the overgrowth.

Finally Geven gave her his knee to use for a step to jump to Star's back. Margaret urged her forward to catch up to the others. In a minute they passed from the cut-over area into thick evergreens. Ahead on the trail, Gareth was riding back to meet her.

"My horse's gear needed attending, Sir; we are well," she called to him. He looked beyond her, puzzled.

"Where is Sir Tame?" he said. No response. "He was behind me--"

"And ahead of me," said Margaret. Gareth cast his eyes about. He thrust his chin at Geven and John, who wheeled their horses around and went back along the trail. Margaret wanted to follow them. "Stay, Lady; he can't be far away and Squire John is an able tracker. I would go, but I promised your father I wouldn't let you out of my sight. Fine job I'm doing too. . ." He swore. "Forgive me, Lady," he said, but Margaret couldn't speak, but sat staring down the trail, listening to the men's calls. It grew very quiet but for leaves rustling and birds calling.

Minutes passed. Willa, thank God, was still and silent, as she had been taught to do in tense moments, but Margaret heard a surreptitious sniffle. Margaret was sure she would either scream at her or break down with her, when Willa looked up and said, "Hoofbeats--"

John came up the trail. "Geven's leading his horse. He must have wandered off, just where the overgrowth ended. He had no idea where he was going to," he said, and Geven rode up, leading Tamlyn's gray by the reins. Tamlyn was slumped but trouble was evident in his face.

As the group milled into position to continue, and no one was paying attention for a moment, John leaned into Gareth's ear. "We had to catch him, he seemed reluctant to come. He said, 'It's only me that he wants.'"

The afternoon was slipping away when they gained a woodsman's cottage which Bron had told them would make satisfactory lodgings for a night, but they found it full to brimming with the woodsman and crowds of his relations, who had come from Hartsfall to escape the pestilence. They were a cheerful bunch, as if on a lark; but it was clear that the tiny cottage could hold no more guests. Noises were made about clearing out the lean-to for the Lady of Aldene, but Margaret signaled to Gareth, _Please, no_.

They went on instead, after a friendly glass of ale and a bowl of stew with greens, toward a pleasant and dry spot, a grassy opening within the pines; hidden from the trail, it had a deeply cushioned floor from centuries of pine needle accumulation. To Margaret, this was a thrilling serendipity-- to sleep not in stone hall or brocaded bower, nor smoky wattled hut, but in a living depiction of Lady Varden's bower, with leaves and birds and deer and foxes all around. The men set watches, and around a good fire they bedded on their saddle blankets under their cloaks. Geven had shot a grouse and a hare along the way, being very quick with the bow, and they had had roasted meat on the last of the fresh bread for dinner. Gilling sang after dinner and John was persuaded to play his flute. To Margaret it was a wonder-- the diamonds glittering on the velvet heavens; the sparks flying up from the fire, whose heat and shifting, dancing lights lulled her to deep sleep on the horse blanket.

She awakened much later, thinking that she was dreaming. In the glow of embers, it was Tamlyn's face that hovered over her, gently calling her name and touching her shoulder.

"Margaret, awaken, love," he was saying. She stared at him, struggling to realize that it was not a dream. The fire flared with branches that Geven was laying on them. She sat up. Willa, John, Gilling and Gareth were now awake also. Her eyes returned to Tamlyn's face, and his eyes were voluble with emotions as they had been blank and impenetrable. With effort, he turned his body so that he was addressing the group. "There is one by whom I am oppressed, from whom I was escaping when I was found in Briardene. His name is Moruan. He draws me, against my will; but something has interrupted him. Even Elves must eventually rest, or face some distraction--"

"Elves!" said Margaret. "But you had said that they were without sin, like angels--"

"Aye, Margaret, and like angels they may also fall; but unlike us, for them there is no redemption. Moruan is proud as Lucifer was proud-- and beautiful to behold. I must speak quickly, I know not how long until his mind again overarches mine; it is all I can do just to be as I have been, to resist as I have been resisting. But I have been only half aware of what goes on around me. I had no idea that I was dragging you, Lady Margaret" \--spoken like a song-- "and this little maid, and you, Gareth, and these men, into danger with me, for Moruan is nearer than ever. You all must flee while you can, for he is a hater of men. He is only one, but a fearful enemy. It is me that he wants- that is, he thinks I have the thing he wants."

Tamlyn turned to Margaret. "Where is the ring I gave you? Do you have it with you?" She was puzzled beyond words, but turned to Willa, who reached into her wallet and pulled out a small pouch with some small jewelry items in it. "If you don't mind, Lady, give me the pouch."

From her hand he passed it to Gareth. "Reach in there, friend, and take a ring out of it". Gareth fingered the velvet, finding the shape of a ring, and putting in his large fingers, somewhat hesitantly. His eyes looked to Margaret, whose glance reassured him. He pulled the ring from the pouch. It flew from his fingers. "Aagh! What in--" Gareth blew on his fingers. "It felt hot!"

"Margaret, pick it up. It will not harm you." She reached for it, where it gleamed brightly in the grass near where Gareth squatted. The metal was cold. "Please give it to me." He took it. "It cannot be taken, only--" He took Gareth's hand, and placed it in his palm, where it lay, cool-- "given. Except by the Queen of Elvenkind, who gave it to me." The knight stared at his palm. After a moment Tamlyn held out his hand for the ring. Gareth fairly threw it back to him. Tamlyn put it into the grass, blew on it. The grass caught its brightening glow and shriveled away, smoldering. Tamlyn picked it up and handed it back to Margaret, his hand lingering on hers; the ring's only warmth that of his hand. He did not see Willa cross herself, her eyes transfixed on the blackened spot in the grass where a last wisp of smoke writhed and vanished.

"The ring was entrusted to me by Galorian, Queen of Elvenkind, when she also gave me mail, sword and shield. There is no sorcery in it; it is frozen fire, fastened in place by the stone in it. Moruan is willing me to give it to him, but he must not have it. His heart has turned to evil and for such would he use it."

He arose to standing, and all followed. "You must all get away from here. Get the maids out of this forest. I must ride in the opposite direction, to draw him away. There is no more time for explanations." He strode to the horses, picketed at the edge of the firelight. He found his own. Gareth picked his saddle from the stacks of gear, helped him outfit the gray. Then Tamlyn drew his mail coat and coif from the saddlebag. While he pulled it on, he called, "Don't wait till morning. The moon is up, move now." He disappeared behind the gray to mount.

Margaret ran around to him. He turned from the horse, wordlessly and breathlessly regarding her. She threw herself into his arms, and he clung fiercely, hurting her with the hardness of his ringmail, but she heeded it not. "God be with you, Sievan," she whispered tearlessly. She stepped back; her eyes were keen. Tamlyn stared, his mouth open, wanting to say so much, unable to say anything. He turned and leapt to his mount's back and vanished into the shadows of trees.

The men were outfitting the horses. Willa was just tucking the last of their things into the tooled wallets; she held them up for Geven to put in the saddlebag. Margaret stood, her eyes burning after her elf-knight. She realized that the sky was becoming azure; dew was chilling her uncovered hair. Still she stood. Willa was unwrapping oatcakes from a cloth and handing them to the knights, and to Margaret. She realized they were ready to go, and felt hollow and light and cold. The stars were disappearing, and birds waking. The men were talking quietly near her; Willa stood silently close to her.

"...I can't ask you men to go after him; neither can I leave the maids; I promised. Of course if it were just us..." Gareth's eyes met Margaret's, who turned to face him, her eyes still burning.

Willa surprised them all. "No knight should go to meet his death alone." Her eyes were bright and fixed demurely in the middle distance, her hands were folded, looking for all the world like old Elora, who had trained her; not like the freckled, round-faced girl she was.

Something broke free and almost laughed within Margaret, and she tossed her head up. "How soon will it be light enough to follow?" John whooped with delight. Gareth glared at him, his frown meant to abash, at least in show.

"Lady--"

"There goes the Lord-heir of Braewode, your friend and sword-fellow, Gareth, and my beloved. How shall we let him face his adversary while we run for safety?" Gareth heard the brittleness, the fear; but also the heartbreak which she did not speak. But a part of his heart had ridden off into the forest alone as well. His hesitation emboldened her. "What sort of Christians and Ardinéans are we, to flee while our lamb goes to slaughter?"

"Your point is made, Lady Margaret. God and Lord Gregory forgive me, but you have spoken well...John, whenever you can find his trail, we will go." With a short bow, he turned away, muttering under his breath. "Tamlyn Braewode, brother, I hope you know what you've got there."

John followed an easy spoor through grass bejeweled with dew. The pines gave way to beeches; they went up hills and down, but ever higher. The dew burned off and John at times dismounted to follow the trail, hunched over, leading his mount, but most of the time the lanky gray's hoofprints could have been followed by a child, for Tamlyn had ridden fleet when the ground allowed it. Despite her brave words, Willa was pale and stoically miserable, and Margaret knew it was not strictly for her saddle-soreness. Margaret felt strangely, for she did not know how she should feel. Fear, boldness, resignation, recklessness, desperation-- these roiled beneath the surface, but she was calm. Voices saying, _Idiot, rushing into certain danger for the romance!_ And voices saying, _Four armed men against one fey, and Tamlyn said the ring must be given, not taken._ And she trusted neither voice within her, but recited again to herself, _You shall not fear the death that walks in darkness..._

It was past noon when Squire John turned to Gareth, stopping his horse and waiting for him to catch up. "For some time now, he has been riding slower and slower. Now his horse is meandering, not as before, in a straight line. But we continue east. My guess would be, he is back under the spell of that Moruan. At the rate we're going, we should catch him by day's end-- he still is well ahead of us. What shall we do, Sir?"

"We'll have a short rest now. Then we'll try to get closer to him. I'd like to be just far enough behind to surprise his enemy. When that happens," he glanced behind him, "You understand that I have to protect the maids even more than I am bound to look out for Tamlyn. Maybe we're all riding to our doom anyway. Honor notwithstanding, if something happens to me, for God's sake get the Lady out of here. Get her to give him the ring, or something. What can he do with that bauble that is worth lives?" He frowned, for this had unsettled him; why Tamlyn would sacrifice himself even for a magic ring was beyond him; there must be more to it that he hadn't had time to detail. But these Elven Folk had kept to their own business and humans to theirs for as long as humans had lived in Ardinéa. They could surely take care of this matter without human help. Or maybe that was the problem...human involvement in Fey business.

The group was not provisioned, having anticipated the hospitality of Lord Gregory's relatives and vassals along the way. The men refused the oatcakes that Willa offered; they were used to going without a meal frequently on their tours of duty to the borders. Margaret was a castle-raised creature used to a regular and abundant board and discovered she was ravenous. Oatcakes were filling and wholesome. She refused a second and indicated to Gareth that she was ready to move on.

After another hour or two of riding ever upward through the widely-spaced trees, the land grew scabby and the trees somewhat low and stunted. Gareth waved the group to a halt. "We are close to the top of this hill. John is riding ahead, and he'll tell us--" He stopped, because John had already returned.

"Just over that rise of stone over there, and a little ways on, Tamlyn is sitting, or kneeling. His horse is wandering around, unhobbled. There is no cover around, just a bare hilltop, rock and tufts of grass."

Gareth looked thoughtful. "If Moruan has him where he wants him, out in the open, then he must not be afraid to show himself either. But he is expecting a party of one to meet him-- one dazed man. Not four armed men to protect him. I can't leave the maids alone. The best place for them is in our midst. One can't get by four. Tamlyn said he was but one."

"Only a coward makes his enemy come to him, rather than going oneself to face him fairly," said Gilling. "Maybe he won't come out if he sees us."

"Aye, but neither can we make a charge with the maids in our midst, and there they must be, for their protection-- I will not leave them alone in the woods. No, let us go out and wait this rendezvous with Tamlyn." They rode in a knot over the top of the rise and Margaret caught her breath. To the East, mountains rolled away in majestic succession to snowcapped peaks; to the west, forested hills bowed to a hazy distance of golden plains she knew to be farms and fields, filigreed with creeks, hedges, and lines of trees edging fields. The sky opened hugely, giving her a wild feeling of freedom; great puffs of white clouds rolled over in the achingly blue sky. But her sense of dread returned when she saw Tamlyn bowed, kneeling on the bare rock. The group made for him. He was as heavy and closed and lamentable as the scene about him was bright and beautiful and open.

Gareth had arrayed himself in his mail that morning; now he pulled up his mail coif and checked all his gear. His eyes were like flint; Margaret wondered at the transformation from her family friend to the steely warrior she now saw before her. Gilling adjusted his quiver and rehearsed the grabbing of arrows, the nocking and drawing and aiming. He lamented that he had only his hunting-bow, for provisioning himself along his way, not the longbow with which he could have nailed this Moruan long before he reached them. Geven and John tightened their hauberks. They also had bow and arrows but chose instead their swords and bucklers. Margaret dismounted and went to Tamlyn. He wore his mail; she drew up his coif, laid his sword across his knees and propped his shield before him. Sweat was beading on his bowed face and dripped from his brow. She wished she could wipe the face with her silken kerchief. But she heard a noise.

A rumbling cloud swept over the sun. The wind blew up and several things happened at once. Tamlyn's horse whinnied and reared and ran away with clattering hooves on the rock. Gareth was yelling at John and Geven to follow a dark blur that roared by behind Margaret's back too fast for her to see what it was. Willa struggled to control her horse and Margaret's, whose reins she held. Gilling also took out after something that passed by with a clamor. Margaret grabbed Star's bridle and talked to her sternly and lovingly and managed to gain her peace, then Willa's pony's, but the pony shifted nervously.

Margaret heard hooves thudding and heard the clash of steel. She turned, wide-eyed, to see Gareth engaged with a knight on a huge smoke-colored stallion. The two closed, hacked and thrust with swords, wheeled around and closed again and again in a violent dance. As she watched, Gareth, his face contorted, yet strangely beautiful, beat back the knight, who feinted back away from the hilltop; they disappeared over the very knoll from which they had arrived.

Margaret, Willa, Tamlyn and the horses were alone on the windswept hilltop. There was no sign of the others. The clashing sound faded away. Willa slipped off her pony and stood there, between the horses. She bowed her head against the pony's flank and hid her face there, weeping. Margaret pressed Star's reins into Willa's hand and stepped away, in order to see something of what was going on. She cast about, panting with fear, seeing nothing. Where were the men? The trees began to toss in the wind.

Then she saw him.

An Elf- arrestingly beautiful. He approached, tall, so graceful, a slight smile on his lips. His black hair streamed on the wind. His skin was smooth, his face beardless, and his pale gray clothing floating on the wind. Margaret could not take her eyes from his seraphic face, but his amber eyes rested-- it seemed to Margaret, tenderly-- on Tamlyn.

"My brother, why is it that you have so resisted me? It is I who truly loves you, Sievan. I wished to set you free from the clutches of Galorian, that witch. But you would not have it. I asked nothing but your love and friendship. She imprisoned you, would have kept you from the one that you loved so well. Am I not the only one to whom you could pour out your heart and tell of your desire, the Lady Margaret? And even she has been turned against me by Galorian's lies; she who endured the agony and revulsion of Galorian's challenge, and bested her to win you.

"Sievan, will you not now give me that which would set us both free from the bondage which we now suffer? Come now, little brother. Let this thing be over between us. The ring belongs not in the mortal world. Nor with her who would have kept you bound to herself, within her arbitrary borders and boundaries. Go not here, touch not that. Even to cutting you off from your own family and the love of your Lady! No more. I would never bind you, but free you to be all that your heart could desire to be. Free to burn with the desire that is within you. . ."

As he spoke, he had approached Tamlyn, who now looked as though he would crumble into a heap over his shield. Moruan bent and lifted Tamlyn's hand from his lap. He examined it for a moment. Then he gently replaced it in Tamlyn's lap. His eyes rested for a few moments on Tamlyn, but seemed to look through him. Then he turned his gaze full on Margaret. Those eyes.

Frozen before with fear, she now felt an ease creeping upon her, silencing the voices within her that had tried to make sense of the scene before her. It was all too much, happening too quickly. But to look in those eyes of warm gold, stilling all the anxieties; to look upon the beautiful face coming closer... The wind that shook the trees softened to a welcome zephyr that caressed her, searched her, and found what it wanted. He was speaking, and the words wrapped around her mind, her vision swimming in a haze at the edge of his face. "He said that he loved you, beautiful Lady. Yet here you are, having followed him out to this place, alone in the howling wilderness. Far from your home, and those who care for you. Here he is, as wretched as he can be. Too cowardly to bear for himself that which was entrusted him." He stepped close enough to breathe upon her. She was unable to move away, nor, strangely, did she want to. "It is the ring. The ring is the key. He gave it to you. You don't want it! Poor Lady!" Moruan sighed, brushing back a strand of hair from Margaret's face. "To win your heart, and to give his awful burden to you."

Unthinking, Margaret's hand found the ring within her pocket. She withdrew it. Anything to end Tamlyn's bondage-- "It was never his to give. I am the one who can release its power. You and he can be free forever. Only give me the ring, and be free!" The wind was wild, warm and joyful, as before a summer storm.

Her hand was over his open palm. With Moruan's energies focused on Margaret, Tamlyn had roused and shaken his head. Now he was standing.

"Beloved," Tamlyn intoned softly toward Margaret, "Do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits, whether they are from God... For Satan himself can disguise himself as an angel of light -" The eyes turned to Tamlyn and a hissing sound escaped the Elf's lips, Tamlyn braced himself as if shoved backward. Moruan turned back to Margaret, his eyes gripping her mind again. "Free-ee," he promised. His whisper became in her mind a fierce wind, blowing other thoughts away, leaving her mind scoured of all, a blank gray landscape. Helplessly she stood, her hand hovering, her vision but a tunnel to his eyes, "to be all your heart desiresss."

" _The heart is desperately wicked, and deceitful above all things. You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free,_ " Tamlyn gasped, his hands on his head, now, in agony. Moruan with a wave of his hand thrust Tamlyn back, out of Margaret's line of vision, where he fell with a thud against a rock. But Margaret, unseeing, had heard Tamlyn as a cry in a storm, and had all she could do now to set her will, to draw the ring back, setting the hand behind her back, and taking a step away from him, in agony and dread, as though a chasm yawned behind her. Moruan stepped close again, bending his face- beautiful even in rage-- over hers, grasping her hair and yanking her head back.

All this time, Willa had cringed against the horses, but the tension overcame her. She rushed toward Margaret, and from the hand behind her Lady's back, she pried the ring, raised her arm and flung it at Moruan, shrilling, "Take it, and leave her alone!" Moruan flung Margaret backward by the hair and cried out in anger as his clothing burst into flame, a fierce flame as though a forge-bellows blasted it, and he seemed to explode upward. Margaret fell hard but her fall was broken by something that gave beneath her. Something hard bruised her side, she arched away from it and writhed to her side with a groan. She was laying on Tamlyn, whose body had cushioned her fall: his sword hilt had bruised her.

Willa ran to her side. Margaret heard an animal screeching; saw the ponies rear and run. "Willa, the ponies!" she called, and the maidservant ran obediently after them. The wind roared and trees began to break.

A burning shadow was soaring at her from the racing clouds, wings trimmed falcon-like. She pulled Tamlyn's heavy sword from the ground with her left hand, pointing it upright from where she lay, thoughtlessly steadying the blade with her right hand, at the flaming hulk that extended its talons to strike. Too late, Moruan saw the blade pointed at him, spread his wings to stall in the air. Screaming, he caught the blade in his black-feathered ribs, and danced over her, wings spread, with his golden, hooked maw trying to free himself of the blade. The talons stabbed this way and that, and Margaret on her knees, clutching her bleeding right hand to her chest, cringing one way and the other, trying to avoid the talons, her dress pinned down by them.

Tamlyn snapped awake to the sound of the shrieking, his mind completely alert. He saw the giant peregrine and the glint of his sword stuck in its side, and dove for the hilt, at the same time throwing his weight against the bird's body to knock him off of Margaret. As his hands closed upon the sword hilt, the peregrine's beak closed on his forearms, and wrenched him upward by them: but Tamlyn held the sword fast, and it ripped the great bird upward across the ribs to the keel. With an ear-splitting shriek Moruan dropped Tamlyn several feet on top of Margaret, and struggled to take flight.

Tamlyn jumped to his feet and stood over Margaret, sword at the ready, but Moruan had gone over the mountain. The wind was dying down, going cold.

Margaret was unconscious and covered in blood and shreds of dark feathers, her clothing shredded in places. He bent over her. He could feel breath on his cheek. He pressed his ear to her chest and felt the heart weakly galloping. He went over her body for wounds and found that her right hand was deeply and cleanly sliced open to the bones, and blood streamed from it. He pulled at the hem of her skirt and used his dagger to cut a long strip from it, and tourniquetted her right arm. As he did so, Gareth rode up, viewing with horror the Lady on the blood-soaked ground. Willa, shaking and pale, came crouching up to them. Tamlyn pointed to the trail of blood leading away, and Gareth spurred his horse in that direction. John also appeared and followed Gareth. Then rode up Gilling, his arrows spent, and looking confused. He was leading Tamlyn's horse, which he had found.

"Gilling! We have to get the maids out of here. There's not time now to tell what happened. Let's get them back the way we came. Willa, where is the ring?" the two looked around the area quickly until Tamlyn found it in the grass.

Tamlyn carried Margaret in front of him and Willa rode behind Gilling. They rode almost at a trot off the mountain height, west, down into the forest. They rode for some time and came to a brook where they had watered their horses earlier. Tamlyn dismounted and caught Margaret as she slid off. By now she was half awake. Tamlyn carried Margaret to the brookside and sat her down. He checked her arm and slowly loosened the tourniquet. "Willa, lass, can you help me?" Willa came over, but when she saw the blood-smutted riding habit, she blanched and began to cry. "Never you mind, but go sit you down. Soak your burned hand in the cold water." Tamlyn bit his lip and unlaced Margaret's frock himself, Margaret sitting with her hands in the air. Gilling helped pull the sleeves over the ends of her arms. Willa rallied and untied Margaret's boots and leggings and pulled them off, looking sheepish. Then Tamlyn removed his sword and mail, with Gilling's help, and stripped to his trousers. To Willa's consternation he lifted Margaret in only her bloodstained shift and strode into the middle of the brook with her, lowering her into the flowing water.

Margaret was suddenly wide awake, gasping with surprise. Tamlyn sat down in the water with her on his lap and smiled at her, glad for the clarity in her eyes, and she at that in his. He removed the bandages around her hands under the cold water, which cooled the pain, but Margaret paled and grimaced. "Blow through pursed lips," Tamlyn advised, noting how silent she was about her suffering; he knew how badly the sword wound must sting. His own arms were badly bruised, though the mail had protected them somewhat. Willa had regained herself and tossed Tamlyn a linen rag from the brookside. Although the wounds needed cleaning, Tamlyn used the clean towel to wipe Margaret's face of the blood and feather fragments. "Is it bad with you?" he asked. She looked up at him.

"If I didn't hurt so badly, I'd be thinking I was dead and in Heaven," she said, and tried to laugh weakly, but tears escaped from the corners of her eyes.

"Hush, my lady. Here, lay your head back, let me clean your hair...good. Now let's see to your hand." The water had dissolved the crusted blood and he swabbed it away gently. He lifted her right arm over his head. "Rest it up here on my shoulder, so it slows the bleeding." She caught the towel with her left hand and lifted it to his face, to an abrasion.

Then she just dropped the towel and snaked her arm around his neck. She pulled close, leaning her head against his neck. "You've come back from...wherever you were." There they sat for a moment, till she began to shiver.

Tamlyn again lifted her from the water. Margaret said, "I believe I can walk just fine, Sir."

"I know," he said, and deposited her on the bank. He forced his eyes away from her clinging-wet shift while he bound her right hand tightly, and left Willa to fuss over her clothing. He found a clean tunic and tore fresh bandages, and when Margaret had on a dry dress over her damp shift, he wound her hands in the linen. He made Willa take salve and a bandage on the burn on her palm where she had seized the ring. Gilling had found in his knapsack a flask of brandy and pressed it upon Margaret, who reluctantly but gratefully accepted, for her right hand grieved her.

The afternoon was getting late. Clouds were gathering. The group in the forest hovered uncertainly, looking up the way they had come from the mountaintop. Tamlyn turned to Gilling. "What did you see up there, Troubadour, when we were attacked?"

Gilling shook his head. "Nothing I've seen before, nor can I be sure how to tell it, except in song. You were on your knees, and Gareth said we should array ourselves around you. He was before you, John and Geven on either side. Two riders appeared-- and I say 'riders' for lack of knowing exactly what they were, but they were loud and fast and dark and they swooped by us, and turned as if to attack from the rear. Gareth sent John and Geven after them. Then another larger dark shape, and Gareth took that one on. Something came at me and I took aim with my bow. It swerved away. Thinking back on it I can see that it moved so as to pull me away from the mountaintop. When I maneuvered to return to you and the maids, it came at me. When I pursued, it turned away. When my last arrow left my bow, it vanished. By then I was in a hollow and it took me awhile to find my way back. I came across your horse and it followed me back. And here we are."

"Gareth contended with a knight, so it appeared to me," said Margaret. "When I think on it, it feinted away from the mountaintop as well, yet kept Gareth hotly engaged. I didn't see the other... attackers. My back was turned. You, Willa?" Willa only shook her head. "Never you mind," said Margaret, for Willa was pale and shaken.

Margaret stared at Tamlyn, unable to talk of Moruan, not wanting to think about the way he had insinuated himself into her mind, and the horror of his attack. Tamlyn picked up the narrative.

"Moruan came after that. Those riders- they were all tricks of his mind. He soon realized I didn't have the ring and turned to Margaret. The grip he had on me for a fortnight and longer, he now laid on her. Then Willa threw the ring at him, he attacked-- Margaret wounded him with my sword. Wounded, he lost his power over our minds and I was able to hurt him further, so that he flew away. Then you returned."

"Flew?" Gilling looked confused, but shook his head in wonder, and no one elaborated. "What a wondrous lay could come of this!"

Darkness had fallen while they talked and speculated what had become of the others. Tamlyn suggested they wait where they were until the morning. They could listen and watch best if they were still and in one place. So the group settled down with the horses picketed and fed oats from the saddlebags on Gilling's horse. Willa offered the last oatcakes, but no one would take them until Margaret saw how Willa wanted one, and she accepted one for Willa's sake, and then the men did as well. Tamlyn said they should rest, and took the first watch. They stretched out in cloaks so as to be ready to arise quickly. Gilling lay near the horses and Willa and Margaret lay nearer Tamlyn. Willa, exhausted, dropped off like a child, and Gilling, who could sleep anywhere, dozed as well.

Margaret lay in pain of her hand, unable to sleep, and eventually Tamlyn said quietly, "Have you had a good night of sleep since you met me, Margaret?"

Margaret turned her head to look at him, smiling. She rolled to her left side and sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees, holding the right hand up, where it throbbed less. She remembered the long nights awake by sickbeds, the restless nights awaiting Tamlyn's return from Braewode, the worse nights after he returned. Aunt Rivanone had often slipped into bed beside her to talk, then. Dear Rivanone seemed very far away, as did her sister, brother and father. Suddenly she turned to Tamlyn. "What of your family? Did you see them, was it well with them?"

He smiled, looking wistful. He moved close, so they could talk very low. "Aye, my parents are well. My brothers and sisters-- they were so much older. My oldest brother Coltram had a family...The youngest hardly knew me. Seven years is a long time for young ones to change. But we had time to know each other again."

He sighed. "I missed you every day. I was going to come back and ask to marry sooner, perhaps in Advent. Perhaps it wasn't wise, but I have loved you so long. Then Moruan was waiting for me, in the forest road. He greeted me as a friend, but soon his real intentions were clear." His brows were clouded. "I fought him hard and barely made my escape. But I didn't try to destroy him then because... he was at one time dear to the Queen. Of the Elves, that is. When I was part of their world he had no power over me. But as a mortal, I soon found there was no escape once he had set his mind on me and though I seemed to be asleep, every moment, I prayed and prayed. When I despaired and ceased to cry out to God, then I found myself drawn toward him. In a dark half-world I labored, as if when waking from a dream one struggles to open one's eyes, never sure what was real and what was illusion...Did I really play the pipes in a sunlit hall, and you were there?"

"That you did."

"And before that, you tried to reach me. But where?"

"In Caer Aldene, in Gareth's chamber- I realize now that you tried to warn me, but I didn't understand."

"The next I remember, you and I were walking in the dark, you pulling me back. Then I woke, and we were all sleeping in the forest."

Margaret explained about the detour taken to avoid the pestilence-stricken town, and how they had followed him to the mountaintop. "Sir Gareth is a good man." Tamlyn was visibly moved. "God has given me friends who would lay down their lives...And here we are. How is it we have come to this pass, my Lady? How is it that you are here with me, on this road? What in God's name are we doing here?"

Margaret realized that Tamlyn knew almost nothing of the last weeks, and their present predicament must seem strange indeed. "When you came back from Braewode, you were found laying in the road, marked from fighting. Everyone thought you had fallen from your horse and had a knock on the head. But days went by and you were the same. It was a hard time for me when you went away, for then I had to think of my cousins and the others who died, and I missed you too, and looked for you return. After you came back..." Her voice trailed off, quavering. She dabbed her eyes quickly on the linen wrapped around her hand, straightened her shoulders, and continued. "My lord my father told me that you should return to your father's house, that our betrothal must be ended. He was summoned to King's Leigh for settlement of matters having to do with the Vallardan prisoners, more problems in the south, and so on. I am sure that the King would have had a proud welcome for you as well for your part in the ambush of the Vallards, but no one knew what to do with you. Anyway, he was going to send you with a knight for protection and a letter-- a letter!-- explaining the withdrawal of the marriage offer. I told him that you deserved better and asked to go myself. He really had no other way of discharging his obligation of courtesy, so he consented.

"That is the truth. But the truth in my heart was that I could not say goodbye to you. I wished to be near you, to hold on to hope for as long as I could."

Tamlyn looked away. "And see where it has led you. I have been the greatest and most selfish of fools and I could never say how sorry I am, for many things."

"It was my choice to follow you. I have no regrets, even if we die tonight. How many noble ladies can thusly earn the love they ask?"

Tamlyn looked at her. The moon leapt from the clouds, striking the blue in his eyes. It was the same inviting sky into which she had once fallen, but night-dark, with stars. He pulled the mail gauntlet from his nearer hand and reached to touch her face.

"Ladylove, you had that long ere you ever saw my face."

They sat in silence for some time. Margaret swallowed more brandy from the flask which Tamlyn urged on her. Despite the stinging pain, she grew tired and laid down on the horse blanket. Then she turned to him.

"What were those words you spoke on the mountain? The truth shall set you free? I could find no answer to his smooth thoughts, but those words cut to the heart."

"God's words. From Scripture. Moruan is a master of half-truths. Only the mightiest of Elf-warriors- or Truth- can combat him. Scripture says that the word of God is alive, sharper than any two-edged sword, dividing soul from spirit, joints from marrow, it judges the very thoughts of your heart. That is a sword even you can and must learn to handle. Only that weapon kept me from falling completely under his thrall." _But it will not keep me from the influence of you_ , he thought, _My love, my friend, even my sword-fellow. If we come safely out of this, I hope you never have to fight my battles for me anymore._

It was Gilling's watch when Gareth and the squires returned. Gilling's sharp ears discerned their voices afar off and he woke Tamlyn. They met the men, who were leading their mounts, following John who traced their steps. They led one of the missing horses; sadly, Willa's had been found with a broken leg and they had cut its throat after removing its gear.

In hushed voices they compared their stories. It had been for the others as for Gareth; they had labored hard with a shadowy adversary only to have it vanish before their eyes. Said Gareth, "I had a moment of joy when my sword finally got past his and cut into him, but -whishh! The man and horse were gone, and I was unmarked, though I had taken many blows. I wheeled all around looking, and realized I was far from the mountaintop. I returned, met John, and saw you; I was sure the maids were dead and went to follow the blood trail, hoping for revenge. But the trail petered out. Returning, I found Geven, who said that he had ridden over the mountaintop and found it empty. The three of us turned back and searched for Moruan, but in vain. The trail just ended. So we turned back again and came after you."

Tamlyn stared at Gareth and finally said, "I am undecided, whether I want to strike you or embrace you. I would most likely lie dead on that mountaintop, and Moruan still at large and looking for the ring, if you had not come after me. Instead, my Lady lies wounded on the cold forest floor. In Heaven's name, what possessed you to bring her and the girlchild out here?"

"I could say that it was her idea. She made the case that your rank, and honor, and our very Christian faith required it; but I knew that it was her heartbreak, more than concerns about honor, that moved her to speak so. You ought to be proud to find such esteem and honor and love from such a one as her. And when the time comes, brother, I'd like to see you find it in yourself to say no to her.

"You see, I've been fighting for Lord Gregory these years while you were hanging about Cloud Brook in your pretty Elf-mail. Just about the time I got my courage up to ask if I might court her, he started talking about what earl or duke he might marry her to, and for our friendship's sake, I had to put my heart away. But I haven't drawn my sword without whispering, for Margaret Aldene, for two years and more. So don't think I acted carelessly concerning my lord's daughter whom he put into my protection. Unwisely, perhaps. But it will be worthwhile to me when my Lady has her heart's desire.

"But it wasn't altogether her idea, and as far as that goes, I don't believe that I need to explain that to you, my friend."

The two men stood, tall Gareth looking slightly down on Tamlyn. Finally Tamlyn offered his right hand, and Gareth took it, pulling him in for a rough embrace.

Gilling put in, "Well, I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who ever looked on Lady Margaret, but at least I never thought I had a chance." The men stared at the Troubadour a moment, then laughed softly.

"So then, now what? Which is the wise path now?" said Tamlyn. "Moruan is weak and vulnerable, if he lives. If he has not come back for another attack, then he must be near death. But it may take days to find him, and we have no supplies-- not even arrows for hunting. Lady Margaret needs better than my battlefield doctoring; she needs shelter and cleanliness if her wound will heal again and not kill her with poison blood. We can go back to Sweetbriar, but I believe that Deermont, toward Braewode, is closer. If we leave now we could probably be to the upland road by nooning. In Deermont is the Abbey Saint Savior's. They would nurse her well there. Then we can decide what we need to do. Shall we leave now, or are you men in need of rest?"

Gareth looked at his squires. They looked back at him, alert. "We'll not die from a few more miles. But what is the need of pursuing Moruan any further?"

Tamlyn looked uneasy. "He has not only set eyes on Lady Margaret, but invaded her thoughts. He knows her now, and it would not be easy for him, but not impossible either, for him to oppress her as he did me. My life means nothing to me until I know for sure that he cannot or will not touch her."

## Chapter 15: Three Rings

The horses' gear was redistributed; Gareth's big horse was stumbling-weary and was relieved of all but a halter. The men decided to walk, Willa also insisted on walking for awhile, "to save the horses;" Margaret knew that she was glad to be off horseback. Only Margaret rode, with Tamlyn leading Star, and her arm in a sling high on her chest.

Willa again surprised the men by setting a valiant pace on her sturdy legs with her face set like flint in front of her, her face shiny and her cheeks red. Margaret also wished to walk but knew that the bleeding would only worsen, and she was no sturdy kitchen-maid, but would only slow progress. For the first time in her life she found herself chafing at her exalted position but forced to resign herself to it.

Walking south, they followed descending ridges. An occasional promontory showed the fertile fields of Briardene nearing; then crossing a wide creek which Tamlyn called Laughingbrook, they found the Hartsfall-Deermont road, which soon gave out into pastures and fields, and they mounted their horses there. Soon they saw the towers of St. Savior's.

Gray stone walls rose foursquare on a rise above the village with orchards stretching away behind. Within the walls, the cloisters, ivy-wrapped with red clay tile roofs, surrounded a courtyard; the church angled toward the town invitingly. Margaret was wan and exhausted by the time they reached the gate and were welcomed in, and more thankful than she could have anticipated to be taken under the wings of nuns who brought her wine and bread and broth and a hot water bath with soap and clean dressings for her hands. Tamlyn had poured wine into the wound and stitched it closed with tiny sutures. Gareth, behind her, braced her against himself, his strong arms across her shoulders. Margaret turned her head away and tried not to make any sound. After that, her weariness and blood loss combined with the wine and the hot water of the bath had her swooning and nodding before they had laid her in an unoccupied cell, where the hard pallet with good linen sheets over bedstraw was like a cloud in Heaven to her tired body.

The men also were regaled with hot baths and bread and wine and beds, and their horses rubbed and fed and bedded with the abbey's oxen. They all slept until Prime next morning.

Margaret had returned Galorian's ring to Tamlyn in the forest. Now he sat in the morning sun, rolling it in his palm in the sunlight, much as Margaret had done many times. His blue eyes regarded it both sternly and warmly. In its yellow circle many memories, happy and sad, were bound up with the scruple that it was not really his. It had not been his to give, and as a result, he was bound to do something he dreaded: he must return it to her who had entrusted it to him together with a charge which he had not succeeded in keeping.

He had lit many good fires with the ring, while in the woods on forays, to cook silver fish and gray rock doves he had caught to feed himself. He had in this way eaten the trout from Cloud Brook for days on end so that he might watch to see Margaret again when he knew she was coming. He had even learned to spin from it a few flashes of flame merely for amusement; but had long since tired of using such a wonderful thing in such light wise. But it had never been his to give away. He knew what he must do.

He resolved to discuss his plans with Gareth and then to find Margaret, who was having her dressings changed at great and fussy length by the Sisters. But as he approached the ivy-covered cottage where they were boarded, the priest's son came running in the front gate, crying, "News! News!"

The priest and his wife appeared at the door and bade the boy catch his breath, and waited patiently, rolling his eyes at the boy's drama.

"The Lords of the Fiefs of Bradmead, Tolebrough, Saint Fay, and Jonsmoor have allied themselves against King Fearnon," the boy recited what had been cried in the village. "They besieged the city of Hearthbrough, and committed ravages in the countryside and the city when it fell. King Fearnon led 600 lances and 750 archers against them, and beat them back across the Brad River, but they have captured knights banneret and bachelor, 40 in all, and demand ransom from King Fearnon. Captives include Lord Clewode and his squires, the twin sons of his sister, Lady Roelle; Lord Gregory of Aldene, Duke of Briardene; his squire, his own son Aelfred; and..."

Tamlyn raced for the stables, where he led forth his horse, threw on bit and bridle and leapt to its bare back. He rode the main street, trotting tightly around pedestrians and livestock that milled about, until he found the crier, in a knot of persons before the public water trough.

Tamlyn listened carefully. What the boy had said the crier repeated almost verbatim, and then he went on, listing the names of all forty knights captured. "Ransom moneys are being collected against promissory that they will be restored when the rebellious alliance is quelled and the perpetrators of crimes against the citizenry are punished, for the King has sworn that he will not tolerate brigands and pillage in Ardinéa. The King and his companies are mustering in the walled city of Salimont. Ransoms are being solicited and collected there; runners are sent to every town of Ardinéa."

Tamlyn dismounted and led his gray to the watering trough. The plash of the water covered the noises of the town, helping him to think.

If he left here to war against Bradmead, Margaret was vulnerable to Moruan. Margaret would be safe for a time in St. Savior's. But what then? If he went after Moruan, she would have no protector, for Gareth must surely ride after Lord Gregory, or to Aldene to raise ransom for Gregory and his knights- his release would be delayed by several days, and the chance of Gregory's being killed would grow each day. If he were killed, whoever was then guardian of Margaret would have no obligation to Tamlyn, but would probably use her hand for reward to one of his allies or champions, as Coulomb had once been offered to him. If Gregory were ransomed and released, he might think himself no longer obligated to honor the betrothal.

Margaret had sacrificed too much for his sake, to let her be passed off onto one she did not desire, her struggles in vain, and her hope dead.

Tamlyn could not simply give the ransom money to Gareth, though he had enough gold hidden in his saddle pouches, and more. If Tamlyn should not return from the path he must now take, his family would make considerable trouble over that.

In the bustle around the fountain Tamlyn prayed. One solution stood out in his mind, and he turned and walked back to St. Savior's leading his horse. When he arrived, he found his saddlebag, drew a package from it, and after gazing thoughtfully at it for a moment, went to see Margaret.

Willa arrayed Margaret in a velvet gown she had brought to wear at Braewode. Sir Gareth gave her away before the door at St. Savior's. Word had reached the townspeople that a Lord and Lady would be wed after Vespers, and the churchyard was full of onlookers. Trembling, breathless with joy, Margaret walked to the door where Tamlyn waited, who wore a white tunic she had embroidered for him at Aldene, and Gareth raised the veil, kissed her cheek, and gave her hand to Tamlyn. They spoke their vows, they placed rings on each other's hands, and Tamlyn kissed her mouth. They knelt and worshipped, they rose, and walked together, husband and wife, from the door of the church, showered with flower petals.

The guest cottage had been cleared of other occupants. Sir Gareth, with John and Geven, rode from the church door toward Salimont, with Gregory's ransom in his hand from Tamlyn. Gilling had ridden on his way on a loaned horse to King's Leigh, his purse filled. Willa and the priest's wife had swept and scrubbed the cottage, laying out such things as Margaret had, and had hung the bed with a length of fine, snowy linen; with garlands of roses and rose petals. The small room welcomed the bridegroom and bride. "It is like a nuptial tent," said Margaret, enchanted. Suddenly she was shaking. She turned away and began to fuss with her veil, folding it corner to corner with bandaged hand and trembling fingers...

"Lady Braewode," said Tamlyn. She looked up and smiled miserably at him. "Oh, Margaret, I know this is not at all what you dreamed of, nor is it what you deserve." Her face collapsed in tears, but she was almost laughing. He wrapped his arms around her, and she around him.

"That isn't it at all..." she sniffled into his shirt.

"Then what, my bride, come, tell me?" He said, lifting her chin to gaze in her eyes. Margaret saw her reflection there, floating on a sapphire tarn in snow. Then he had a kerchief in his hand and was so softly wiping away her tears. For a moment they were standing by Cloud Brook, thrushes singing and water softly playing.

"I...I love you, Sievan," she sighed, and he covered her mouth, so gently, with his own.

Something God puts in men and women that learns to desire another, longs to draw closer, and deeper, and to give and reveal of oneself the intimate regions denied the world, to trust and to open and to receive and to know and to give. Something to be shared with only one, for God is one, and in this longing He gives our nature there is reflected the soul's need and passion to know the One Who made it, the only One it may forever trust. Only to one, may one give all.

One to one, all given, all received-- this is love, and it is altogether lovely.

Morning came stealing through the open windows to intrude within the white linen curtains in which the married couple breathed dreamlessly, long blond and brown locks twined together. With the light and birdsong and chapel bells and the fresh, almost cold air, came inevitability, came preparations, came words fewer and quieter and farther between.

There was a long, silent embrace by the gate. Then Tamlyn mounted his gray horse and rode away, galloping. Margaret stood valiant but with tears flowing, her throbbing hand held to her chest. As she watched him disappear down the road, she whispered the old blessing.

"Christ beside thee, Christ before thee, Christ behind thee, Christ within thee. Christ beneath thee, Christ above thee, Christ to the right of thee, Christ to the left of thee. Christ in thy lying, thy sitting, thy rising. Christ in heart of all who know thee, Christ on tongue of all who meet thee; Christ in eye of all who see thee; Christ in ear of all who hear thee."

Willa came from behind, sliding her hand into Margaret's elbow. Bravely in the pincer grip of exultation and grief, she stood immobile until the rain began.

The gray horse rode east under cobble and over rill, until Tamlyn stood on top of that fateful mountain. There was no trail left to follow. In his mail he stalked the perimeter of the stony hilltop and even called Moruan's name into the echoing void. He lit a fire in plain sight on the mountaintop, using the ring. In its glow he examined the wedding ring on his left hand. He thought of his bride and their one night together. He prayed for wisdom. He sat up most of the night, sleeping when dawn showed over the eastern mountain range.

In the late morning he turned northeast. Through silent forests where few men ever tread, and the trees were large around as cottages, and the moss that grew upon them as deep as a fleece, and it would have been easy to ride ten men abreast under them, and the leaves were turning yellow as gold, he rode to a mountain in the shadow of Arvanne.

Dread he squelched as he approached the hollow hill in the evening. He dismounted by a spring, drinking of the freshet, where moss and lichen with its tiny gray cups covered the knees of an oak growing over the pool. There he shed his mail and all his steel and iron. He closed his eyes in prayer for a long time. When he opened them, the stars shone like day. He rose and turned.

The Elf before him was Siarsian, who regarded him calmly, his hair long and silver-white, a necklace of raindrops around his neck. In the Elven tongue he said only, "Come," and turned away. Tamlyn followed, leaving his horse. They walked and walked. They passed into a chamber bright with peat fire, and even brighter with the presence of the golden-haired Queen of Elvenkind, whose light was nevertheless dimmed with grief. She knelt, wrapped around a bloody figure: Moruan. Her sorrow was eloquent in the very syllables of the Elven tongue in which she spoke.

"His father Finrel was a flowering tree among the sons of the forest, and when the dragon's flame took him from me, the light died from ere my eyes. This child was my heart's resurrection. Now his life slips away. Though he was evil, he is my only son." Tamlyn stood silent. "He wanted that to which he had no right. Is Sievan not also guilty of this?"

"Aye, Queen, it is true. For me there is forgiveness with God. For him, I know not."

"The evil one is the father of lies. Sons of Adam are deceived. We are not. We know evil for what it is. A few choose it. Why? It is a mystery. My son coveted things not his to have. He was of the wind, but craved the fire."

" _He makes His angels winds, and His servants flames of fire," Tamlyn murmured, bowing his head in sorrow._

"No servant was Moruan, to Him of whom you speak."

"I return to the fire to you now, Queen. I am not wise enough to handle it. I gave it to a daughter of Eve to win her heart, unthinking of the peril. Even though she had already given it freely," he murmured, placing the beautiful ring before her. She picked it up, compressing it in her palm for a moment, her face hard edged and unreadable by human eyes. Her palm opened and there was a sputter of vanishing yellow flame, and a brilliant blue drop of water in her hand. She turned the palm so that the water ran down her own face and on Moruan's. Her face softened to tenderness that was anguish to look upon.

"There, my son, the only tears that I may shed for you. Go, be the storm wind and beat the ice clouds around the sky." She released the lifeless body. A shiver of wind blew through the chamber and where Moruan had lain, there was nothing.

Galorian knelt bowed for a long time, her face hidden within the shimmering curtain of her hair, queenly even in wretchedness. Tamlyn waited, weeping the tears that Galorian would not allow herself. Finally her lioness face turned to him. "Sievan, you did not kill my son."

"It was my sword, he was my adversary, he was wounded in my defense by one who never would have had anything to do with him, had I not ensnared her in my foolishness," he cried. "I am errant here, intending to seek his death in order to protect her, and to keep from him the ring. I wielded not the sword alone, but I killed Moruan."

"You have spoken well. You know the atonement is not demanded, but given freely; not for your sake, but for mine?"

Tamlyn's mouth was dry, he closed his eyes. _No, no, no!_

"I know it."

"You know, Sievan, that because he was fallen, and not free, it would not be as a free son, but as a bondman?"

His heart was compressed as though he would cry blood tears. His head bowed down. _I have a wife in the other world. But here is she to whom I owe my soul. Oh God, forgive me-_

"Behold your servant, my Queen, for the sake of your son Moruan."

Siarsian stepped up behind him with a crystal dagger in his hand. He gathered Tamlyn's golden, waist-length locks in one long-fingered hand and with the other, slowly severed them.

To Lord Gregory Aldene, Duke of Briardene. My Dear Father, I write this letter hoping and praying that it finds you well and at liberty, and Aelfred as well. After we parted last, we encountered some misadventures in the Wilds, to which Sir Gareth, who was with me as protector as you wished, was witness and party. He has hopefully had opportunity to explain all these things to you. He is in no way to be blamed for what befell us, for he discharged his duty honorably and admirably.

My father, I know it has not been exactly as you would have wished, but I am wed, and I trust you will give your blessing to us. We thought not only of our own happiness, but by marrying me Tamlyn was able to put in my hand the price of your ransom, which Gareth carried; and also to assure that your wishes as concerns me be carried out in case your captivity were to end not in the release for which we are fervently praying at the several offices each day.

I remain for the present time at Saint Savior's until you are restored to us and until matters concerning my receipt of the house and lands Tamlyn has given me are resolved, or until he returns from the errand which Gareth will also hopefully have explained to you.

I am recovering well from my wound, and Willa is a great comfort to me.

Your loving daughter, Maggie

Lady Margaret Braewode

## Chapter 16: Brycelands

Winter stole over St. Savior's and with it Prime held in deep darkness, and Vespers also, unless the moon peered over the ivy walls. A messenger brought news of her father and brother's release. Snow piled deep and messengers were few, on snowshoes.

Margaret's hand healed to the point of itching fiercely across the deep red scar; she could hold a pen wrapped fat with a cloth, and she wrote letters to Rivanone and her sister Varda. She tried to embroider but had to give it up, for the needle continually escaped her fingers. Thankfully, Willa could stitch finer and faster than Margaret ever had been able, and produced shirts for Tamlyn and shifts for themselves that piled up over weeks until Margaret said, "Enough;" then she went back through embroidering them.

Tamlyn still did not return. Winter receded and the crocuses braved the pale sunlight and snow. Against the southern wall where the sun warmed the stones, diminutive, shiny new leaves emerged among the ivy. The roads were a morass. Soon she received a visitor: the houseman of Brycelands, sent by Lord Braewode to receive her instructions as to opening the house for her when the roads were passable.

Tamlyn still did not return. Spring reluctantly arrived, the trees leafed out. The scar ceased to itch and only ached as she worked to stretch and strengthen her hand.

An armed messenger came bearing her brideprice, and she bought a horse for Willa and a mule for their baggage. The priest hired men to accompany her, and with a hollow heart, and many good-byes and promises of letters to the sisters, she left St. Savior's.

It was but a long day's ride to Brycelands, and as they began an icy wind brought flurries of snow and rain. But then the sky opened, the sun poured out and the tiny new leaves on the trees sighed quietly. New lambs, foals and calves were in the pastures and coltsfoot and violas graced the roadside. They arrived at Brycelands in late afternoon.

Pastures spread over a broad rise in the land sweeping up to a turreted stone manor with a tiled roof. Riding on Star, wrapped in her fur-lined mantle, Margaret pulled her hood back. The sun glinted on the red roof tiles, a flock of white doves circled from the stable over the house. Rising behind the house was an ancient keep, golden in the failing light. As they drew near she heard a flock of migrating finches that were chattering in a grove of huge lindens to one side of the house.

They drew near the entrance to the hall. The houseman appeared in livery; soon the stablemaster, butler, cook and chambermaids also. She was assisted alighting from Star, who was led away to the stables with the other horses. The retainers bowed or curtseyed deeply to her, welcoming her as Lady Braewode.

As she started in toward the door, Willa turned toward her and gasped, looking beyond her. "My lady, look!"

Margaret turned around. Before her the pastures swept away, a sea of freshly springing green, giving way to plowed strip fields, to the broad sweep of the Briar River, to shadowed blue hills dotted with silver lakes and distant spires. Swifts twittered and swooped high and low, and in a lower pasture, several deer were emerging from a copse for an evening browse. Church bells began to ring Vespers on the edge of hearing.

Willa saw on her lady's face the first smile she had seen all day, and thus she turned into her new home, ready to be content with what she found there.

Tamlyn still did not return. Margaret oversaw the roses being pruned and manured. Lent came; she fasted and prayed, becoming overly thin and wan. After envying her sister Hildreth's spare middle, she found her reflection gaunt and made an effort to eat more bread. The new year began at the Feast of the Resurrection.

Time was heavy on her after the house and barns had been quite thoroughly cleaned and freshened. She looked harder about her and had the tiled floors pointed and polished, cracked mullions reglazed, wall hangings repaired, beams and rafters oil-rubbed, and so on. The house had been empty for over a year, the land administrated from Braewode, and there were a number of issues to settle with the village now that she was taking it on.

One beautiful day she was walking in the lawns behind the house with Willa, when the houseman came huffing and puffing across the shaved turf to her. She hid the disappointment when he announced visitors-- not Tamlyn.

"My lady, Lord Coltyn Braewode, Lady Tamar Braewode, and Coltram Braewode and family have arrived."

"Thank you, Rafert. I will meet them in the hall. Prepare rooms, bring wine-- heat lots of water for baths--" She waved her hand, moving away toward the rear hall entrance. She stopped abruptly and turned to Willa. "Do I look all right?"

Willa reached up and smoothed some hairs back into her lace headdress, tugged her bodice, straightened the folds of her sleeve. "Aye, my lady," she said.

Margaret straightened and walked into the hall followed by Willa, who held her arms primly. Before the cold hearth, Tamlyn's family stood, already having been served spiced wine and their mantles taken away by the butler. As they turned toward her, one pair of eyes captivated her-- those of Lady Tamar, for they were the same blue as Tamlyn's, with the same golden hair tucked neatly into a headdress.

She realized she was staring and hastened to greet them. She gave her hand to Lord Coltyn, who kissed her cheek. Lady Tamar drew her into a warm embrace, and held her left hand in her soft, warm fingers and examining the intricate wedding band. Coltram shook her hand and introduced his wife, Jehanna, whose eyes darted around and would not meet hers. Tamlyn's sister, Tamaris, also blond and blue eyed, also greeted her warmly, and she sat nearest Lady Tamar.

An uncomfortable moment of silence followed the introductions. All eyes were upon her. She inquired about their journey; the roads were firm and not dusty; highwaymen were unknown in that part of the country. Coltram looked as if he were going to speak, but Lady Tamar spoke first. "Are you quite settled in here? Are there sufficient servants? Is there anything you need?"

"I find the house to be very satisfactory, I am quite at home, and need only for my husband to return to complete my happiness."

Silence settled quickly in again. Coltram rushed into the void. "So where is our Tamlyn? You see, no one has explained to us what is this errand on which he is said to have gone. We are concerned, to say the least."

Margaret took a deep breath, summoning composure. "As you know, Tamlyn has been...entangled with the Faerie Realm. Ere he left the Realm he had given me a ring, as a token. As it turned out there was another, of the Realm, who coveted this ring. After he visited you he was waylaid by this one, who put him under some supernatural oppression. He escaped and made his way to Caer Aldene. . ."

"Yes, so you have told us in your first letter." Lord Coltyn cut in, grimacing impatiently. Lady Tamar looked abashed. "The question is, where is he now?"

Margaret valiantly drew a cool mask over the rawness inside. "After we were wed, he went to vanquish his enemy, as I have written. Somewhere in the eastern Wilds. More than that I know not. I can only wait."

Lady Tamar's hand touched hers.

"Margaret, will there be no child?" She asked very softly.

Desolation drained the color from the cool, unflinching mask. Is it not very obvious? "No, my lady, there will not."

Coltram caught Coltyn's eye with a look of vindication. Margaret couldn't maintain much longer. She arose. "You must certainly be weary from the road. I will show you to the rooms. If you wish, baths can be brought ere the evening meal."

"Lady Margaret, you must understand that this is very difficult for us," offered Lord Coltyn, as if relenting. "Our son was lost to us for seven years! We had given him up for dead. Then he reappeared, and now again he has vanished, after marrying his bride apparently mid-journey-- we just cannot make sense of any of it."

Margaret stood silently. "I am not sure I can help you with that," she murmured, and turned away. The mask remained in place long enough to lead them to the guest chamber. In her own bower, she wanted to bawl and stamp her foot on the tiles like a child. "No," she told herself. "I am eighteen years old, a wife, and mistress of my house. I am a Lady, and a daughter of a duchess. I will wait on God. I will not let others steal my peace. If he lives, Tamlyn will return to me!"

Willa entered the room, followed by the houseman, who carried in an armload of firewood. After he had deposited it in its place, he stood and cleared his throat, removing his hat and holding it in his hands before him. "My lady, might I speak freely?"

Margaret turned to him. "Please, Rafert." He glanced at Willa and then the door, she went and closed it. "My lady, I was born a servant in the Braewode house, and have served them most all my life. Begging your pardon, but I have seen a bit of their ways." He hesitated.

"Say on."

"Lord Coltyn craves the eminence and glory for his sons that was denied him because of his withered arm. Master Coltram has always chafed at being second son, and grasps at any chance to advance himself, and of course his father supports him, as well he should. But he has no claim on Brycelands, nor authority over you.

"Lady Tamar has a big heart. I can see that she is very tender to your-- ah, considerations." He looked suddenly as if he had fumbled. "Any road, Lord Coltyn will favor you once the Lady has had a chance at him. But Coltram favors no one, unless there is something in it for him. Forgive me, Lady, I suppose I've already said too much."

Margaret looked at him evenly, and nodded slowly. "Thank you, Rafert Houseman. Your counsel is most welcome."

He bowed and turned away. At the door he turned suddenly. "Begging your leave, my lady, but the hunting around Brycelands is second to none for deer, boar, and hare. The Braewodes might be invited to partake."

Margaret almost laughed: the men could be gone all day. "Thank you- Renard." The houseman smiled, bowed, and left the room.

The men took themselves off to the forestlands at dawn, leaving Margaret with Lady Tamar, Tamaris, and Jehanna; and their handmaids. As it happened, it began to rain shortly after sunrise, and the women sat in Margaret's bower, where the windows were brightest. The other women embroidered and spun, Margaret took up the Gospel Tamlyn had given her to read, after showing the wound in her hand, and explaining that she could not grasp the needle in her fingers well. Jehanna spoke for the first time that morning.

"I wouldn't mind if I never had to embroider another stitch," she said, stabbing the needle and throwing the work in her seat as she rose. "Excuse me," she said. Her handmaid scurried out of the room behind her.

When they were gone, Lady Tamar said, "The poor girl must have one of her headaches again today. Sometimes in summer Jehanna takes to her bed and cries from the pain. She says she can't even see sometimes, things swim and burst before her eyes, and roar in her ears."

"That is a burden. What have the doctors done for her?"

"Ah, she's been bled, fed, put to bed and left for dead," said Tamaris, "She won't see any more of them. Nothing has helped. She's gotten so she's not even pleasant when she's feeling fine."

Margaret began ticking off on her fingers. "Feverfew. Meadowsweet. Saint John's Wort. Cool wet cloths, and lavender, in a dark room. Excuse me, please," she murmured, curtseying and leaving, Willa following behind. Some time later she returned, Willa carrying a covered pot and some cloths, and Margaret with a small silver cup. "Lady Jehanna, as your hostess I wish to do all that I can to make you comfortable. Please try my honeyed brew. It can do you no harm."

Jehanna regarded her as if she would as soon scratch her. With a forced smile, she accepted the silver cup out of politesse. After a taste, she put it down. "Please try to drink it up. Relief may come more quickly." Jehanna looked at the cup. It had not been unpleasant, and this new sister-in-law was her hostess. She silently drained the cup. "I am having the butler hang curtains around your bed. It may help to have a cool cloth on your forehead and to lay with the curtains drawn. And there is more of this tisane if you wish it. There is also a fan by your bed, for your maid to cool you with."

Jehanna's eyes were actually wet. "I do believe I will lie down now for awhile," she said softly. Willa and Jehanna's maid carried the pot and the cloths out to the guest chamber.

When she was gone Lady Tamar said, "Thank you, even if it doesn't help, she'll know you understand. It is hard to be merry, or even courteous, when one is in misery. I'm afraid that Coltram... Well, thank you."

"Of course, my lady. I also occasionally suffer bad headaches."

"You have a doctor here in Brycelands?"

"Oh, aye, but my own mother taught me the virtues of many plants. She had no patience for leeches and bleeding cups. She loved flowers, herbs...And my Aunt Rivanone also."

"Have you seen any of your own family since you and Tamlyn were wed?"

"I am afraid not. My lord my father, after he was ransomed, remained in the south to help King Fearnon quell the Bradmeads. My Aunt is having a baby any day now. My married sister Hildreth also is expecting, and her husband is also at Salimont. My brother Aelfred is my father's squire. And I don't want to miss Tamlyn's return, so I have not gone to them."

Lady Tamar looked thoughtful. Tamaris said, "I hope you are not too lonesome here, especially with my brother missing and all."

Margaret spread her hands. "I desire no one's pity, please. You know what manner of man is Tamlyn. His love is great consolation to me. And the love of God that he led me to understand in a way that I never had before. Tamlyn waited a long time for a chance to know me. I also am willing to wait as long as it takes, and be faithful to him. I dwell in my own house, and it is so very pleasant here."

"Your being alone here, without a champion, will be an issue for you, you must know," said Tamar. "As Lord-heir of Braewode, Tamlyn owes homage to Cynrose."

"I have written to Lord Clewode, and am arranging to send shield-money in his stead. I have asked that he would hire me a knight he found acceptable. As for the last seven years, the Lord Clewode has accepted that Tamlyn was not free and has waived any scutage owed." Margaret looked out of the rainstreaked window at the misty lawns and pastures and groves stretching away from the house. "I had no idea how complicated all this could be...The Faerie Realm has no regard for Ardinéan litigiousness. Nor did I ever think that I would have to. I was born in a castle-- the law never seemed to touch me."

"Well, I feel it only fair to tell you, my son Coltram is not too happy with things. Actually Lord Coltyn is sending him off from here to Salimont-- that is why he has his battle-gear and his war-horse with him-- partly to have him cool off a bit. He has been impossible since Tamlyn reappeared. For a long time he has assumed the place of Braewode Lord-heir. Even this house, he had counted his own; when Tamlyn gave it to you... Part of the reason the houseman was sent to Saint Savior's was to verify the circumstances of the marriage with the priest there. I see this is upsetting to you, dear, but I think it only fair that you know. Coltram has a lot of influence on my husband, for many of his own hopes are in him. But on the other hand, my husband also dearly loves Tamlyn, and has great good will toward you as his wife, and as she who rescued him. And I must say," she placed one of those silky warm hands on Margaret's, "that I think God has blessed Tamlyn and our family with you, and I look forward to knowing you better."

Margaret squeezed the hand. "Thank you, Lady Tamar. I appreciate your honesty. I will try to make an ally of Coltram, if I may."

"Tamlyn told me, but do tell me again, how he led you to the Savior. We never tire of hearing such things, Tamaris and I."

At the evening meal, Jehanna appeared relaxed and made a visible effort to be personable. The men were full of their hunt and the way their hounds had rounded the deer to them; and that on the way home with the stag draped over a horse, the dogs had bolted into the brush and routed a young wild sow; Coltram had dispatched it with his lance. They enjoyed the meat with dinner, and the talk stayed away from contentions.

Margaret looked around her hall, in which usually she ate at an empty table with Willa. The Braewodes' entourage filled it with laughter and talk. The houseman's talents were brought to light in directing the staff to meeting the desires of her guests. She relaxed and enjoyed the human sounds.

Coltram's squire brought out a lute and Tamaris a viol. Margaret took a turn at the lute as well, realizing she missed the music in her life. There was singing and dancing and stories until late in the evening-- the Braewodes evidently knew how to liven up a quiet house. Margaret danced with the men and joined a circle dance with the ladies and handmaids all together-- even Jehanna.

They remained five days, except for Tamaris, who remained a fortnight after that. Tamaris played her viol, her blue eyes fixing in a way that reminded Margaret of Tamlyn, when he played the bladder pipes. Tamaris sniffled in church when the host was lifted up, to Margaret's wonderment. Tamaris loved to ride, and they explored Brycelands together.

On these rides, Margaret noticed that where the borders of Brycelands ended, it gave out against scabby knolls, marshlands, and rolling hills which hid tight hollows. All of the haugh, the fertile bottomland around the Briar River, was hers. The Bryceland village was cupped in a hollow, its surrounding farms riding the cresting hills. The manor, appended to an ancient castle keep which was all but subsumed into the structure of the house, was situated to survey all the surrounding territory. The bottomlands, the pastures, even the grist mill were hers and rented to the Brycelanders.

Disputes were heard in the court at Cynrose, and in Tamlyn's absence, she realized, Bryceland manor had very little to offer Brycelanders. In the dim hall before the cold hearth she discussed this with the houseman, questioning him closely on the workings of the economics and government. He answered her questions, somewhat discomfited at having to analyze for himself relationships and authorities. She saw his unease and dismissed him, but sat alone, sorting it all out in her mind.

For now there were words burning themselves into her mind that she could not reconcile: _Verily I say to you that it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Heaven. I tell you, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God._

_What is this telling me?_ thought Margaret. _What am I to do about this? Sievan, when will you come home and help me understand? Please, please come back to me .._

Saint's days and festivals of the passing seasons marked the year slipping away. Tamaris departed with long waves goodbye and promises of letters; letters brought tidings of Rivanone's twin boys, Hildreth had miscarried but soon was pregnant again; her father returned to Caer Aldene and Aelfred was allowed to spend the winter reading the law with Lord Just, with the understanding that swordcraft was to be his first activity of the day, and he must learn to polish mail and wrangle warhorses like any squire.

The hilltop manor was spared the cloying heat of August, and the days passed in merest increments to the ragged end of summer, when leaf edges browned and fields were stripped of their boon of golden wheat and silver oats.

Then it was a year to the day of their wedding, and Tamlyn had not returned. While music and crowd noises rose from Bryceland village for a Saint's feast, Margaret passed the day in silence in her room, sending even Willa away with money to accompany the houseman's wife to the fair. She closed the heavy oak door to her bower, and opened a carved chest at the foot of her bed. She drew out the seed-pearled scarf that had been her veil and spread it on the bed. She spread out the white tunic he had worn. She remembered his face, his touch, his kiss, his eyes, his hair, his scent, his voice with the fey lilt; she fingered the fine bumps across her palm where he had with tiny stitches closed her wound. And she recalled the surrendering of the deepest chambers of her heart and body in his embrace, the surprise of his tears running down her scalp as she lay beneath him. She wished to cry as hard as she could, to ventilate the well of her sorrow.

She refused his death, she cried in anger at him, she bargained with God for his return. Her tears turned bitter and she railed. Finally she was wrung dry. Exhausted, she dozed, and the flutter of dove wings outside her open window figured in her half-remembered dream of birds of love that fly away, always too soon. She arose as the autumn light failed. She splashed her face and combed her hair. She felt like a raw wound. She stood before the mirror, empty inside, and she had no idea what to do. She wandered to the prie-dieu and knelt. But she could not begin the prayer in the book which lay open before her. "God, here I am. I am alone, with nothing to offer you. My heart is empty. I have been willful, now I say, Thy will be done. God, Jesu, I know not what to do. To You I surrender it all. Help me. . ."

There she knelt, her face on her arms, for some length of time. Not crying-- her tears were spent. Just waiting. She heard the doves flutter by her window again and again.

Then did I become in your eyes, as one who found peace.

She did not know from whence the remembered phrase surfaced, although she knew it was from the Song of Solomon. It was just there, and she drew a heavy sigh which left her lightheaded: she had eaten nothing. Surprisingly, she was hungry.

As she opened her door she heard voices in the hall, and Willa came red-faced into her room, untying her bonnet. "My lady, Lord Gregory has come! Shall I- " but Margaret had lifted her hem and run down the stair to fly to Aunt Rivanone's and Varda's embraces with joy. They held each other tightly for a long minute, and Margaret inhaled deeply of the lavender scent that emanated from her aunt's clothing, that soothed deep, deep within. Gray streaked her hair and lines in her face marked the deep joys and sorrows she had faced with faith and hope.

Rivanone held her away to look at her, marking the tired eyes, the redness that lingered. "Margaret, dear, we tried so hard to make it here yesterday. I didn't want you to have to be alone this day." Blessed Rivanone, she did not press the point but smiled gently, her eyes scanning, but not invading her. "What a woman you have become, my little Margaret. I believe your height equals mine now. Your hair bound...Come, see the twins!"

She pulled back from a large basket an embroidered covering to reveal two sweet, sleeping faces. "Justan and Gyvard, meet your cousin Margaret!"

"Oh, Auntie, they are beautiful. The wee lambs!" They marveled over the infants. "They are the reason we had slow going, they wanted to nurse continually in the unfamiliar surroundings, didn't you, darlings? And now you will sleep, of course." Rivanone and Varda had rushed into the hall before Lord Gregory, and now Margaret went out to meet him. In the fading twilight, he was surveying Brycelands, and looked approving. He turned and saw Margaret in the light of a page's torch, and in that moment did he realize how he had missed her, that in the turmoil of the year he had hardly taken notice. He warmly kissed her cheek, and held her hand, visibly moved. They entered the hall. Rafert had materialized in his livery and was bringing wine and had got the hearth dancing with flame. As he passed by, he murmured, "squabs in bacon, savory rice, summer fruits, dried apples poached in wine. . .?"

" Excellent, Rafert," she responded. She stood a moment, observing the sudden bustle that again filled her hall--her hall-- with voices and life. "Thank you, God," she whispered, "For making me go on."

Wonderful gifts her family had brought her-- tapestry and carpet, velvets and wools, fine linens, laces and the silks which were rarer than ever for the lack of ships which won through to the shores of Ardinéa; silverware and jewelry and to her heart's delight, a lute; hesitantly a set of bladder pipes was produced, and several flutes and whistles of blackwood, silver, and ivory. Rivanone had oils of damask rose, lavender, peony, heliotrope, and rare sandalwood and patchouli. There were horses, a pair of kashmir goats, peacocks, and harlequin ducks settled in the stables for the night.

There was music and talk late into the night, not exuberant and boisterous like the Braewodes; The Aldenes were more reserved and serious. Margaret and Varda held one baby boy or the other much of the evening-- she had hidden her tears when, after Tamlyn had ridden away, her time had come around; each time there was a small grief she endured, which was why Lady Tamar's question had stung so.

There was no such sting in Rivanone's queries, direct as they might be, for she was her flesh and blood. Even when she looked into her eyes and said, "Margaret, for the time being you are neither wife nor widow, and no one can say how long this will be. Some will not be comfortable with you, without your man's honor to stand behind. You have been willful; in consequence you will have to be willful to make decisions on your own, stand firm in who you are, even while people try to put doubts in your heart. Some will try to fix you, or to take advantage. You need to decide beforehand how you will handle such people. Then when you face them, you will be in a strong position."

Margaret drank in Rivanone's words. "I have already seen how Tamlyn's family was perturbed, which is understandable. But I hated having to be on my guard, especially around his brother and father...I never had to look out for my own interests at Caer Aldene."

"Aye, but you are not alone, remember that. You have us, and you have our God."

"Aye, Auntie... _that is one thing Tamlyn left me_ ," she thought. "I am so glad you are here. Oh, please," she said, pressing her hands to her eyes, "I've cried enough today."

"Oh, Margaret. You've worked every memory over, haven't you?"

"Aye, and I've lived in them too long. I just don't know how to go on, what to do next."

"I wouldn't worry for that too much. Life has a way-- or perhaps I ought to say, God has a way, of not letting us sit around too long. Pray about what to do next. Probably ere you're ready, He'll show it to you." Margaret had crossed her arms on her chest, listening to Rivanone with red eyes. Now she leaned her head over against her shoulder, and Rivanone took her in.

"I cannot say that I understand why you have made the choices that led you to this place, Margaret. But I can see that you do intend to see it through, as is right. That, I can understand, and support you with all my heart."

The leaves of the lindens in the front of the manor yellowed and fell in a golden storm when the wind rose. Margaret rode out in any direction, sometimes cantering wildly across fields of stubble, Willa looking determined on a rangy strawberry roan named Skara that Lord Gregory had brought; Margaret secretly laughed that the horse and Willa were so well matched, for the little maid was becoming a tall, rangy thing herself. Other days she sat astride dark Star and circled the hilltop indifferently, staring at the little houses of the holdings surrounding the manor, and wondering about their lives.

She rode in the lanes and tried not to stare at the groups of children spilling from one house, the old couple together weeding their vegetable plot, the young couple kissing in the doorway, the harried mother scolding her sullen son, the merchant family in pretentious finery receiving the priest for dinner; the cobbler hammering, the young maiden singing, the child crying. She sat as she always had, head high and spine erect, upon her high-bred horse in her fur-lined cloak, her handmaid and footman riding just behind her, and a man-at-arms left behind by her father, who trailed along rather despondently, wishing rather to be following knights to the wars in the south. She nodded with grave dignity when the Brycelanders waved, and let go a smile.

## Chapter 17: Journeys, Jewels

##

Springtime brought blossoms, skies blackened with migrating birds, and a visit from Gilling the Troubadour. Margaret was excited to see him after more than a year and a half had passed, and to meet his wife, a redhead with a lively countenance. They were on their way to Caer Aldene to retrieve Elora, who was spry as ever but lonely, and had conceded to come to King's Leigh. They made a unique entourage.

Dame Sintia had with her a black-haired girl whom Margaret knew to be older than their marriage, but was obviously Gilling's child, and a sturdy, kicking boy child with her red hair; and a young maid with disturbingly pale eyes and silvery blond hair, who could not speak or hear, but who communicated with the little girl through quick gestures only they could understand; Deinn spoke for her.

Gilling was in the court of the King now; referred to the Earl of Rovehill by Gregory, he had been heard in his house and the King had immediately expressed his envy, whereupon the Earl gave Gilling to King Fearnon, who rewarded him richly. No one looking on Dame Sintia, in her velvet gown and gold rings, would guess that she had once woven cloth in a musty hovel with a leaking roof. Gilling looked of ruddy health, and his voice had never been richer, it made the rafters in Brycelands hall ring with his music. Margaret clapped with the same delight he had brought her when she was a child. He coaxed a song or two from his wife, and asked Margaret to sing. Willa brought out her lute before Margaret could decline. She strummed and sang; Gilling noticed her difficulty with her right hand. He spread Margaret's hand before his wife and children and told again of how she had slain her husband's enemy with the sword. "I will make a song of that, what a story that is to tell! But first, I have something that may help you to play. . ." He went to a wallet in which he kept strings for his viol, spare parts and tools and oddments. He found, after rummaging, curved gilt-metal plectrums, which he bent around Margaret's fingers. Then she tried the lute again. It was far easier to pluck the strings, as she did not have to curve her palm as much. The metal also made a brighter, clearer sound on the strings. "They take some getting used to, but you may find you can play better. Keep them, I don't use them anyway."

"Thank you, Gilling. Perhaps you will sing with me, that song about Tamlyn?"

Gilling looked surprised, but agreed.

Tamlyn was a noble son

And knighted by the King...

Sintia joined in on harmony, and even Deinn seemed to be familiar with the song.

It's seven years his truelove weeps

It's seven seasons' round

Since Tamlyn's horse came riderless

His head a-hanging down.

Margaret had stopped singing. There was a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.

But moonlit nights by the green wood...

The song ended, and she tried to brush the feeling away. Thankfully, Gilling had immediately begun another.

Lady Margaret combed her hair

She wore a dress of green

And she's away to the greenwood

Where she has often been

To gather wild apple blooms

Where she has often been.

"How dare you pull these branches down

without the leave of me?"

Margaret turned herself about

to see who it might be

There she spied a fair young man

whom she had never seen.

"These woods they are my very own

My father gave them me

And I will pull the branches down

without the leave of thee."

But with one look he's captured her

And she's no longer free.

He's taken her by the grass-green sleeve

And sworn to her his heart

He's kissed her once and kissed her twice

They knew that they must part.

"Tell me, oh Tamlyn," said she

"What sort of man you be?"

"I will tell you true, Margaret

I was christened same as thee.

But I rode out of a bitter eve

From off my horse I fell

The Queen of Elfland found me dead

And she made me well,

And took me to the hollow hills

with Faerie Folk to dwell.

This very night the Folk will ride

And I must with them go,

Not to return from mountains high

Among the fields of snow,

And never more to see you,

And may with God you go."

He's kissed her once, he's kissed her twice,

but she answered him "No."

Lady Margaret combed her hair

She wore a dress of blue

And she's away to the greenwood

Frightened through and through,

To meet the Fair Folk as they ride

Frightened through and through.

And first rode by the black horse

Astride, the Elfland Queen

Then rode by the brown horses

The Elven-court riding

And fairer nor more fearsome folk

Margaret had never seen.

Then came by the white horses

Ridden by Elven knights,

The thunder of their coming

Froze Margaret with fright

But then she saw the face she loved,

It set her heart aright.

The lightning flashed across the sky

The stars, they blazed like day

She's thrown her arms around him

And cried, "Tamlyn I claim!

I will not let him go

though I die tonight!" she says.

And they have changed him in her arms

into a roaring lion

But she has held onto him fast

She knew that he was kind

She would not let him go

For she knew that he was kind

And next they changed him in her arms

Into a twining snake

But she has held onto him fast

He was one of God's own make

She will not let him go

For he was one of God's own make.

And last they changed him in her arms

Into a burning iron

But she has held onto him fast

And he's done her no harm

She will not let him go

And he's done to her no harm

And last they changed him in her arms

Into a mortal man

And she's flung her mantle over him

Saying , "Oh, Tamlyn, I've won!

She's flung her mantle over him

Saying, "Oh, Tamlyn, I've won!"

To Margaret's delighted applause, Gilling bowed deeply. "Thus I have published you in the court of King Fearnon, and the fame of Lady Margaret is all the talk in Queen Charis's circle. So," he said, turning to Sintia, who handed the baby to Willa, and reached into her beaded purse. She produced a small scroll, sealed and tied with twisted silk. She handed it to Gilling, who bowed deeply while proffering the scroll to Margaret. "Of course the King already wanted to meet with Tamlyn, whom he remembered knighting and giving him this very house, after the business with the Vallards; now he and the Queen want very much to receive you in the court in King's Leigh, as soon as convenient for you."

Margaret broke the King's seal almost reluctantly, and slid the silk ties off the letter. The parchment unrolled but stubbornly and she had to drag it over the edge of the mantle so it would lay straight. The letter had a wonderfully decorated border and was drawn in a lovely hand.

To Lady Margaret Aldene of Brycelands. Having heard the news of your valiant deeds concerning Sir Tamlyn, Lord-heir of Braewode, and wishing to hear of these things first hand, we desire to receive you in Caer Leighame, at the earliest possible date.

May the peace of our Lord go with you, Queen Charis Tiralounde.

Margaret stared and stared at the letter, a thousand different thoughts running through her head-- what she would wear, with whom she would go, what would the Queen be like-- and another part of her mind watching, amused, slightly sad. "You can go with us when we return, if you like, or any time sooner if you'd rather not wait," offered Gilling.

Margaret was speechless. Willa could no longer contain a cry of excitement.

Smiling at the group, Margaret knew she wouldn't wait. That she wasn't waiting anymore. It wasn't a decision, but a bittersweet observation.

Preparing to go, however, took much longer than she had anticipated. New gowns must be sewn, letters written, escorts hired, the house arranged for her absence, and so on. In fact it was nearly the Solstice before Margaret set out from Brycelands, amidst her own entourage. Meanwhile her father sent Sir Gareth Ryleigh to accompany her.

The fresh-faced girl who had set out from Caer Aldene now had the sobriety and reserve that characterized her family, brought on early perhaps by unresolved thoughts of the heart. There were seven different houses and inns they stayed at, an ever-shifting landscape through which they passed, prairies and hawks and deer and foxes; many different people, deep woods with badgers and squirrels and nuthatches. There was a stout young girl crying with labor pangs by a hedge; she said her husband was coming after her soon with a waggon, but they carried her to an inn and paid her lodgings. They gave alms to itinerant friars and preachers and heard their declamations. They crossed the Briar River three times on stone bridges. They were joined by traveling knights in mail, riding on various errands here and there.

King's Leigh had been named for the fair meadows on which it had been situated before it had become a city and the King had come to dwell there most of the time. The white walled city spread itself neatly by the Briar, reflecting the midday sun as they approached. Many turrets stood at regular intervals, with conical roofs, flying the falcon flag of Ardinéa, where all hawks were free by law. Within were the largest houses Margaret had ever seen. Many Caer Aldenes could have fit within the walled city, and many Brycelandses, beside.

Margaret was thrilled at the teeming, bustling life of the great city. The archways and sculpted lintels and gates and courtyards and squares seemed endless, and the number of people that filled them uncountable. Gareth knew the way through, and they trotted through streets wide and narrow, lined on each side with tall houses, half-timber and brick giving way to dressed stone, many bearded thickly with green ivy. Then they were at Caer Leighame.

While Gareth talked with the guards, Margaret looked around. She struggled not to be overwhelmed, and instead focused her gaze ahead of her and sat up straight. Then they were entering the gate of the royal palace.

They were shown into an apartment whose beauty Margaret almost squealed in delight to see, but she was told that visitors were being received in one hour, and her luggage was arriving. Margaret was almost glad to be hurrying out of her riding habit and washing furiously in scented water that was brought. Willa and Margaret giggled like children as they checked each other's faces and hair and dove into their best shifts. Willa brought out an ivory velvet gown which had been wrapped with cloths in the folds very skillfully so as not to crease, and helped Margaret into it.

Then she bound Margaret's hair with flying fingers into intricate braids and covered it with the most transparent of silk headdresses. Willa threw open the trunks and found her best jewels. In less than an hour, Margaret stood before the mirror Willa held for her, and could hardly believe her own eyes. She smiled at the mirror, then at Willa, then she kissed Willa's cheek. "You! Get dressed, too!" She tossed the mirror on the bed and helped Willa dress. She gave Willa a silver chain to wear.

"Oh, God, I hope we are acceptable. Oh, God!" said Margaret, gripping Willa's hand and kneeling to pray for a moment. Then she felt ready.

The butleress who had shown them to the room stood outside. Willa addressed her, curtseying. "Mistress, My lady wishes to see you," she said, deferentially.

The butleress stepped into the room, and curtseyed shortly to Margaret. "Yes, My lady."

"Mistress," said Margaret, "I am but a young wife from Briardene, lately of Brycelands in Cynrose. I have never been to court this high. I would be obliged to you, should you tell us if we country girls are ready to go into the presence of the Queen."

The butleress's eyes widened, amused at her candor, then her eyes traveled quickly over the two. She had not reached her position in the Palace without being a quick judge of persons. "My lady, your appearance will be most acceptable; however, I would suggest that one's very best jewels and bridal crown be saved for the dinner and evening."

"Thank you, Mistress, your counsel is most appreciated. Willa, take these and bring me instead the pearls..."

In moments they stood in the rear of the Palace Hall. Margaret quailed inwardly and stood near Willa among the rich personages milling about. She found herself actually frowning with dislike of the artificial fashions of some of the ladies and men as well; with stiffened headdresses and cloth-of-gold mantles, overambitious broideries and overpainted faces. Where was Gareth Ryleigh? She had dearly hoped that he might escort her, but since he was not her husband, perhaps...

Something was happening; some trumpets played a short fanfare, and at the head of the room, with less ceremony than Margaret might have anticipated, King Fearnon and Queen Charis entered and stood, hands clasped and raised between them, at the fore of the room, and the court chamberlain began to announce names, and persons went forward to meet the King and Queen.

She looked toward the Queen. She seemed to stand in a ray of light in her pure white gown. Her golden plaits cascaded from beneath her crown almost to the floor. Margaret's name was announced. Alone, she moved forward as the others had done, shadowed by Willa. She forgot her anxieties as her eyes rested on the Queen's fair face; she was a person among people; there was nothing to dread. She halted before the royal couple and curtseyed deeply. Rising, she saw the Queen's face break into a smile. Margaret smiled in return and receded to the side where the others had turned aside.

Several more people were announced and came forward. Then music began and spiced wine was brought out. Formalities were shed and groups of people began talking. One of the last to be announced was a knight who she knew to be a friend of her old beau Roald, Sir Kirkstan; they had met at Hildreth's wedding. He fairly leapt upon her and inquired about her family.

So, looking at him, she was completely taken by surprise to turn and find that the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting were approaching her. Mid-sentence Kirkstan clapped his mouth shut and turned to Charis, bowing deeply. Margaret also curtseyed.

"Lady Margaret, of song and story, how pleased I am to meet you in person," she said, with total sincerity.

"My Queen, I am more than honored..." Margaret said, wishing it didn't sound trite. They stood, smiling. Kirkstan thrust into the void and began babbling; the Queen smiled at him kindly and turned back to Margaret.

"You will sit at my table tonight. In the morning one of my ladies will come to bring you to my bower for some quiet talk." The King appeared beside her. Beside Charis he seemed to stand in a shadow, yet his dark-bearded visage was honest, his dark eyes bright and true. Margaret blinked; it was as if she had just come in from outdoors and her eyes needed to adjust.

King Fearnon took her hand and kissed it. "Margaret, we are pleased." He too seemed sincere; Margaret smiled, speechless, her heart fluttering. The King led the Queen away. Margaret watched the people surge around them, pressing for attention; she realized that for the King and Queen to seek her out was an honor indeed, she was breathless. Courtiers now pressed in on Margaret with a flurry of interest in an unknown Lady in whom the Queen was interested.

After some polite talk, Margaret and Willa returned to their room. Her footman stood outside the door, guarding restlessly. Inside the door, Margaret turned and grabbed Willa's forearms and shrieked exhilaratedly. Then they both flopped down on the bed and Margaret realized how tired she was. The sun was setting and it was near time to appear for the dinner. But before she put on her crown and her sapphires, she felt oddly reluctant. She watched Willa rise and eagerly check her garments which the footman had hung in the wardrobe. She puckered with mild disapproval over one or two wrinkles, but did not impugn the footman; she was not that way.

She was going to sit with the Queen of Ardinéa, and tomorrow visit her storied bower. Yet she would just as soon sit and read a book while Willa sewed. She chuckled softly, looking at the freckled girl who grew taller by the week.

Willa stood behind her at the dinner, as was the custom. But Margaret kept wanting to turn and include her in the conversation. As honored as she was to sit at the royal dinner table, and as well trained as her upbringing had made her for such situations, she sighed wistfully more than once, looking about her at beautiful strangers and new acquaintances. It didn't matter that she compared well-- it was the comparing that grated. She kept looking back at the merry face of the Queen, whom she realized she liked very much already. _Who wouldn't?_ she thought. _She is beautiful, so merry, she is the Queen. But there is more to her...something sets her apart from other women who are beautiful and merry._

She was staring, and Lord Garem, Duke of Twelve Lochs, was waiting for a reply to a polite question.

"Aye, my lord, King's Leigh is situated most ideally, and beautifully laid out as well. From what I hear of the cities of Europa, many more ships would founder in the shoals of the White Sea with persons desiring to reach Ardinéan shores, if only they knew how fair her cities are."

"Well said, my lady! And this is your first visit to King's Leigh, is it not?" Lord Garem continued, but Margaret's eye was caught by something over his shoulder. It was Coltram, deep in conversation with a group of knights; talking and gesturing while several listened. He came to his point, it made its impact, he sat back. While another man began to talk, he glanced toward Margaret and by the look on his face, was surprised by her looking straight at him. Margaret nodded hello; he looked away quickly. Surely he couldn't have thought that she didn't see him looking at her. Why would he be rude to her?

"Aye, Lord Garem, I am quite overcome," she murmured.

Thankfully, those at the table rose as the King and Queen rose, and they left the dining hall for the Great Hall where there would be music. Many streamed out in that direction, and Gareth appeared beside Margaret. She was so glad to see him. He walked with her toward the hall and John with Willa.

Margaret had never heard such music as came from the consort in the Great Hall. It thrilled her, it transported her. Then they began the song about Tamlyn that Gilling had made. She was pushed forward to dance-- with Tamlyn's brother, Coltram!

His earlier discourtesy was gone, and he smiled at her and danced skillfully-- indeed, he made her look good; she had not danced much in the past year. When the song ended, all kinds of people wanted to talk with her and question her and hear of her adventure and of Tamlyn, and where was he?

Coltram was drawn into the group as well, but kept his counsel and drifted away, an unreadable look on his face. Willa glared at him and Margaret ought to have chastised her, but couldn't. Margaret made the most of the attention, feeling somehow that a time might come when friends would be valuable.

Margaret met the morning grateful that she had not drunk too much of the luscious wines that had been served. She had fended off three propositions, met two amiable ladies who lived within a day's ride of Brycelands, and had enough fun to forget her puzzlement over her brother-in-law's behavior.

A lady-in-waiting, Lady Sarine, and her own handmaid, Yola, arrived at her chamber in the morning and sat on the bed conversing while Willa dressed Margaret. Willa quickly evaluated what Sarine wore and chose that from Margaret's dresses that was most like it, and bound Margaret's hair in like, but not too alike, fashion. Margaret noticed, and thought that Willa would make a better courtier than she herself would ever be. They followed Sarine, a young girl who chattered endlessly and was clearly proud of escorting Margaret through the corridors to Charis's bower. Willa, carrying Margaret's gift to the Queen of an exquisite white mantle of kashmir goat wool, trimmed with pearls, trailed behind with Yola, a mere child who was intimidated by Willa's height and seeming severity.

As she entered the bower, Willa's severity reached its apex as she pursed her lips together in an effort not to gasp at the beauty of the white granite pavement, the huge, pale tapestries on the walls, the high, crown-molded ceilings, the tall, arched windows streaked with pouring rain and dressed in crewel work draperies, the harp music and rose scent filling the air; but her gray eyes grew wider and wider and the whole room seemed to dim when the Queen herself approached.

Willa sank in a perfect echo of Margaret's deep curtsey, her eyes darting anxiously from foot to foot to see if her lady's footwear was proper, but saw with utter amazement that the Queen's feet were bare on the woolen carpet! She stared at them even while proffering the linen-wrapped gift, and tore her eyes away while the Queen expressed sincere gratitude and exclaimed over the unmatched softness and rarity of the pure white kashmir wool.

Willa reddened and was grateful to see her Lady drawn aside by the Queen, who looped her arm through Margaret's and led her to a velvet couch by the tall windows, and Willa herself stood among the handmaids, who were watching a game of chess, which Willa had learnt from Margaret the past winter.

"Margaret," said Charis, taking her right hand, "Tell me again, in your own words, of how you met your husband, and how you took him for your own." Margaret found herself telling the whole story, beginning with the morning of Hildreth's wedding, and going on until her own wedding at Saint Savior's and Tamlyn's departure in the morning. It was a long tale, but Charis was intent on it, and telling it was easy. All except for the parts about Moruan; the Queen's eyes looked troubled, and Margaret passed quickly over him. Margaret found she enjoyed it, that it was like singing a song, that her heart flew and crashed with the story, and then it was told; Margaret found she was trembling and dropped her eyes. All ears in the room had been keen to her voice and there was a moment before the hum of voices resumed. Margaret realized that Charis still held her hand.

"I have had to learn to hold a pen with my thumb and middle finger, and cannot hold a needle well," she almost apologized, for something to say.

"His sword cut your hand while you defended him," Charis said, her eyes unreadable, probing Margaret, "And with his morning gift, he gave you his back," she merely stated, yet there was a question in it. Margaret raised her eyes to the Queen's.

"A thousand times, I would do it over for love of Tamlyn," she said coolly.

Charis's eyes softened, their fires banked, and she smiled, nodding slowly. She released Margaret's hand, and Margaret realized that it was hot and yet dry and tingling; the warmth of Charis's hand had eased the usual ache, whose absence was like pleasure.

"Come to the window. The rain has stopped, the clouds are breaking," said Charis with a glance at the women that told them to stay. Charis rose and herself turned the latch and swung the window wide. Margaret came to her side, and looked out. A long garden swept away from the window, its wall hidden by trees, over which a distance of hills and the River's shining curves lay under windblown clouds going ragged around the edges, and letting patches of sun in here and there. Birds chorused in the trees of the garden, and a fountain played in it, overfull from the rain; drowning out the noise of the city beyond the walls, and of the room behind them.

Charis drank of the fresh breeze and leaned out over the windowsill. A maid brought a long cushion and laid it over the wide, stone sill before retreating. Charis sat down, and patted the cushion for Margaret to sit also. After a moment, she turned to Margaret.

"My lady, speak freely with me. You are lonesome for Tamlyn?"

Margaret's heart was crushed and there was no hiding it. Willa was suddenly there with a kerchief, and hesitantly drew away after Margaret's grateful glance. When she had some control over her voice, she crossed her arms, holding the kerchief to her temple in a balled fist. "I have dreams. He stands on a mountain, whispering my name-- I see his eyes, feel his breath-- for me, he lives; he is not dead yet. Is that very strange?" she asked, opening her eyes to look into the Queen's, whose eyes returned her intense gaze.

"If he is not dead to you, then he lives," she murmured, her eyes half-lidding, but seeming to burn even brighter. Margaret was arrested. Suddenly the sun leapt from the clouds and struck Charis blindingly. As Margaret looked, it was as when a candle flame is caught in sunlight and its own luminosity becomes transparent: that was the only way her mind could describe it. She shook her head slightly as Charis shimmered and rose and retreated from the blinding brightness. She took Margaret's hand and pulled her close, and whispered, "It is not so strange to me, for Elvenkind have their own laws, their own time. Not for no reason are our ways sundered. Have patience, and lose not hope." She embraced Margaret closely, and there was strength and kindness in it, and the strangeness of the moment fled away.

Church bells chimed around King's Leigh for Terce, and Charis pulled away, smiling at Margaret. "Open Court this morning, you will come?"

"Yes, my Queen," said Margaret, not sure she wished to, but feeling indebted.

Charis regarded her. "Your brother-in-law, Sir Coltram, will bring a petition this morning-- he mentioned it last night. I believe it concerns you. I am glad that we talked. Come!" She turned away, and skirts rustled as she rose. "Return here afterwards; we will sup together." A maid brought the white mantle and a pearl brooch, and another her crown, and another a scepter. Margaret fell in with the women lining up to go to the Hall, Willa her reassuring shadow. Again, Margaret had the sensation of her eyes adjusting to the seeming dimness around her, and voices jarred against the lilt in Charis's voice. What did that remind her of?

As the group proceeded from the bower, Margaret turned around and saw that the bower which had seemed so magnificent was not truly much larger than her own at Brycelands, nor so lofty as it had appeared.

Soon they were in the great Hall of the King, where the Queen joined Fearnon on the dais, the women ranging themselves to her side, while the King's men-- knights, squires, pages, chamberlains, ministers, and so on, swarmed around most of the dais in clusters. People of all ranks filled the room in drifts; some hanging back and others pressing forward impatiently. Margaret picked out some faces she recognized; others were strange to her both in face and dress: Southards, Lowlanders, Moormen.

Court began, and it was clear to Margaret that the dispute at the border of Ardinéa and the southern Fiefs, though in truce, brought bitter issues to the Court, and she was impressed with King Fearnon's ambition to bring justice to the lowliest peasant whose cow had been slain for meat by raiders. There was a lord from the north who had seduced a serving-girl while a prisoner in Bradmead; he was fined an endowment for the baby's sake when he declined to wed her. There was land whose ownership and borders were in question. In one case, where the dispute seemed unresolvable, the King gave of his own lands, rather than disinherit one family completely.

Then she saw Coltram approach the throne. He bowed courteously and handsomely. She peeked from behind the woman in front of her, backing up unconsciously against Willa.

"My King, my Queen," he began, making a short speech about the kindness of their justice and wisdom and so on. Then he came quickly to the point. "I am the second son of my lord my father, Lord Coltyn Braewode. My older brother, Sir Tamlyn Braewode, vanished into the wilderness nearly two years ago, and there has been neither word nor sighting of him since. His own wife, Lady Margaret Braewode, may vouch this word."

Margaret froze, incredulous, behind the women in front of her, but Coltram did not turn toward her nor acknowledge that he was aware of her presence. She began to feel a dread anger and fought it away. Coltram continued, "My lord my father is now quite ill and fears to die. Unless my brother's death is declared, my father will die heirless, his baronetcy extinct. And Tamlyn's widow will be bound by her vows to a man no longer living. I petition this court to declare that Tamlyn of Braewode is deceased, and I, his brother, may carry the title and name of my father among the living, that his honor might not vanish from the earth." With this he bowed gracefully.

"Let Lady Margaret Braewode speak," spoke the Queen, smiling slightly at Margaret. Margaret wanted to cry, but called on Heaven's King to hold her composure. In the space of a breath she had it, and moved forward. Heads swung around toward her; there was a susurrus of whispers. She curtseyed deeply to the King and Queen, then turned and curtseyed to Coltram, whose smile had vanished, but his head was high and his face relaxed.

"My King; my Queen; my brother-in-law speaks well for his father's interests. I am thankful that my father-in-law has such an advocate." Margaret was partly sincere. There was a ripple of discreet laughter. She didn't wish to make an enemy of Coltram, however, and she spoke quickly. "However, I also have an interest in advocating for my husband--"

"Her _late_ husband--"

"--Whom I have reason to believe may yet live. Proof I cannot offer you. But neither can any other show proof that he does not live." She gave that a moment, raising her eyes hopefully to Charis, whose reassuring glance slowed her thumping heart.

Coltram spoke smoothly. "We have a law that after one year, an abandoned wife" --Margaret gasped-- "may be declared free and have the same rights as a widow."

King Fearnon spoke. "That is common law. There is no such law among the nobility. However, Lord Coltyn, God spare him, must have assurance that he has an heir. He may disinherit Tamlyn of Braewode if cause can be shown. However, the circumstances of his disappearance make this very difficult."

"Come, my King, Faeries and Elf-knights?" Coltram struggled with his composure, even as he forced a laugh and glanced about him, looking for concurrence. Margaret marked that Charis bridled, her eyes fierce, King Fearnon held up his hand and Coltram wisely shut his mouth.

"Tamlyn's inheritance can be held in trust by the next in line-- that would be you, excepting of course all that belongs to his bride by right of marriage. However, his title cannot be transferred until death is declared." He looked thoughtfully over at Charis, who returned his gaze; their eyes made some exchange before the King turned back. "Seven years. After seven years have passed from his disappearance, Margaret may apply to Cynrose court for widowhood, and then, you for his title and heritage. Until then, Tamlyn of Braewode is considered Lord-heir. You will hold his inheritance in trust upon your father's death until that time-- unless," he flicked his eyes at the Queen-- "Tamlyn were to return ere the seven years are over; then all would return to him."

Coltram was clearly frustrated even as he delivered his speech of thanks and backed away, knowing that Fearnon would not change his pronunciation once it was spoken. Margaret could not speak, but smiled weakly and whispered gratitude while she sank down low before returning on quivering legs to the women, drained by the confrontation. Willa sidled up close to her, beaming with pride; Margaret gripped her hand. When she felt the attention turned elsewhere, they quietly left.

In the afternoon, while closed court was held and the King and Queen received a new raft of visitors and courtiers, Margaret had Gareth take her about to see the city. She stopped at a goldsmith's and went inside with Willa. She whispered to the goldsmith, whose bushy brows arched in surprise, and he brought out some earbobs and bracelets, rings and neckchains. "Model them for me, Willa," she said, and Willa delightedly tried on pieces she picked from the selection; together they settled on a necklace, bangle, and simple earrings, which she held before her unpierced ears in the shop's mirror. Margaret paid for the pieces, changing the earrings for a ring, and a small brocade bag to carry them in; she bought also a new pin for Gareth's brooch; he had lost it on the way and was using an ironwood stick. Then she turned to Willa. "My dear Willa, these are for you, who have been worth your weight in gold to me on this journey." Willa's gray eyes widened with surprise, then tears. Margaret pressed the bag into her hands, and Willa clutched them to her, dashing her eyes and sniffling, and then remembering her ever-ready kerchief.

"Sorry, my lady. Thank you, my lady," she croaked. Then she stood up straight, taller than ever. Margaret noted that the planes of Willa's face were standing out, her nose taking a good shape: she was no longer a round-faced child. They left the shop and Margaret asked Gareth to remove his brooch. He removed it from his cloak, and Willa took and refastened it with the gold pin. To her surprise, he colored, though he grunted his thanks; he hesitated before lifting her to her horse. Margaret smiled to herself, that this gruff warrior was so touched by her little gift.

It rained on their return journey for two solid days. Margaret thought that the smell of wet horses never would leave her nostrils. The manors where they lodged were crowded and merry at night with music and dancing and storytelling. Margaret insisted they start early; she knew Sir Gareth was eager to be about his knighting business. After the late nights she dozed in the saddle. Gareth, John and Geven had a good laugh at her expense, saying that she would make a good swordmistress yet, riding in the rain and sleeping on the march.

The third day it only drizzled intermittently, and the fourth day dawned glorious. A drying breeze picked up from the west and by afternoon, men were cutting hay under the azure sky. The scent of it was intoxicating. They came to the last ford of the Briar that they needed to cross, and it was swollen beyond hope of crossing. Gareth drove his palfrey into the surge, but turned back.

"On my war-horse I'd not bat an eye, but the ponies will never take the ladies over. We'll have to wait, or go on upstream." The men discussed alternate routes. As they stood their horses, letting them pull the lush grass, Margaret saw a short way off, the inn where they had paid the girl's lodging that was in labor. Margaret directed Willa to look in and ask about the mother. Willa dismounted and walked the stepping-stones through the mud yard to the inn, fending off the innyard dogs with her riding-crop.

In a few moments, Willa came bounding back, looking flustered. "My lady, the innkeeper says --" She was superseded by the innkeeper, a large woman who stalked across the yard in a few steps with a squalling bundle in her hands.

"My lady," she panted, making something like a curtsey, "The girl who you lodged, she left here as soon as she was delivered. I've had to pay a wetnurse, tend to this motherless brat, and have a screaming infant at all hours in my inn to boot! Never had none of my own and can't start now. Now I'd like to know what shall I do with her, seeing as you brought the mother here, and I haven't been able to trace her. She was so fat I doubt whether anyone even knew she had a brat, and there wasn't any husband looking for her, and that's for sure. She probably sneaked out to have it and leave it, but you came along with your kindness, God reward you, my lady, but the question is now, what are you going to do with the baby?"

As she spoke she pushed closer and shoved the child upon Margaret, who had to let go the reins and catch it before it fell; the horse shied and the woman backed away quickly. Gareth had watched the interchange with bewilderment, but now rode his horse forward to cut her off from her door, hollering at her while the other men circled around her. "Hold!" cried Margaret. All eyes were upon her. _"Oh God, what have I fallen into?"_ she thought.

Aloud she said, "I will pay you for your care for the babe. Right now, fetch the wetnurse, the babe is hungry. Tell her I will hire her for three days' nursing while journeying with us and three more returning home. Bring me three dozen clean nappies and a good sheepskin. And a carry sling. Do it now!"

The innkeeper turned toward the wall of horses. Margaret looked at Gareth, who turned his horse as if in a dream. After the woman had huffed off, happy to smell money, Margaret fixed her eyes on the infant, who no longer cried, but switched her tiny head around, rooting for the breast. She heard Gareth jump off his horse and stamp away, muttering his disbelief. Geven looked confused and John sat with his head turned away, his shoulders shaking violently as he snickered. Willa came up and peered at the baby. "Put your finger in its mouth," she said. Margaret slipped her finger in the tiny mouth, and it sucked powerfully; surprisingly so.

"Nappies!" Gareth was heard to growl, and John finally laughed out loud.

The baby fell asleep, exhausted by crying. Then Margaret held a sleeping babe in her arms, and she didn't even look up when she heard the innkeeper harrying the wetnurse up to her. She was thinking of Rivanone saying, "God has a way of not letting us sit around too long."

## Chapter 18: Come to the Water

At the new fountain at Bryceland Village, a traveler stopped and put down his pack to draw a drink for his dry mouth and to splash his already shining clean face. The bailiff, who sat at a stone seat, regarded the man running his fingers over his chin to smooth his first-growth beard. He read the nervousness mixed with longing in the young man's eyes. "Well met, and where are you headed, stranger?"

"To Brycelands."

" _Christ_ lands, you mean."

"Aye?"

"Are you also a Gospeller, then?"

"Since I know not what you mean, I cannot count myself one, I suppose," he said, looking past the bailiff up the valley. Meanwhile the bailiff took a walk over him with his eyes, taking in his travel-worn clothing, his newly-washed hair still damp, and the graceful bearing, the honest expression.

"What sort of accent is there to your voice? Are you Ardinéan?"

"Aye. But I have dwelt in the forest these several years. I suppose it's that."

"Ah. If you get up there, you'll be in time for bread and alms. That is, if you're needing them."

The traveler looked the bailiff in the eye. "I hope I'll be no trouble to anyone. My intent is to see whether I have a place, and stay in the area. If not, then I'll be moving along. Perhaps I'll be seeing you in Church, Bailiff," he said, shouldering his bag, bowing slightly, and turning up the road.

The bailiff chuckled, watching him go. "See you in Church, indeed!" he murmured.

The walking man approached the manor along the dirt lane; sheep grazed in the afternoon sun and cows were ambling up toward the byre lazily. To one side of the manor hall stood a group of spreading lindens, ancient and thick about the trunks. As he mounted the rise he saw that a group of persons were clustered under these trees, standing as if watching and listening. He could only hear the blowing of the breeze in the grass and as he came closer, in the tree branches; and then he could hear a voice declaiming-- a woman's voice. A full-throated alto-- it was Lady Margaret. She stood on the platform of a stump of one of the lindens which had long ago been cut and smoothed for sitting in the pleasant shade the trees afforded. The traveler approached the edge of the meeting and stood and listened, transfixed.

"...He says, _Ho! Everyone who thirsts._ We all of us are thirsty; we must acknowledge our need and lack and desire before the Fountain of Life, and be ready to come before Him with our thirst, ready to receive that which we desire, ready to drink what is offered. _Ho, everyone that thirsts, come to the waters._ When we are thirsty, water is what will meet our needs; when we know we are needy, whatever we call it, whether sorrow, whether shame, whether fear, whether weakness, He says come to the waters, that is, come to Him, Who will meet our needs as water slakes our thirst.

"Further He says, _He who has no money, come, buy and eat._ How can we buy and eat if we have no money, nothing to offer? It is by grace that God gives us, without return, what we need in our soul-hunger and heart-thirst. It cannot be bought, no; in fact if we come to Him we can only come empty-handed; if we think we can offer Him anything in return for the Bread of Life, we need only remember that before Him, we are poor and needy; whether rich or poor, man or woman, noble or common, high or low. We have no coin that can buy salvation. But praise Him, our God, Who says, Come ye! Everyone! Bring Me your thirst and hunger! Buy and eat!"

Lady Margaret's arms had been lifted in the air, in one hand a small, tooled book, but now she lowered them, clutching the book before her, and lowered her head. "Let us give thanks to Him who has provided us so richly with these words to know the truth, with this lovely afternoon, and with such provisions as we are able to share with you this day. These alms and loaves cannot satisfy the soul, but only He Who gave them. Our Father, Who is in Heaven, Holy is Your name..."

Many in the meeting joined in the Paternoster and a hymn in the common tongue, a wonder to the traveler. Then a loose queue seemed to be forming, as a man who had stood near Lady Margaret throughout the address opened up a large wallet and began to distribute coins of money to some, while Margaret spoke with others, and a large-boned, freckled young woman gave out loaves of bread. The dirt lane streamed with persons departing, and soon few were left.

The young man had pulled his hood over his head before he himself approached her, waiting patiently his place on line, his eyes to the ground. The almoner had handed the wallet to Margaret and turned to help the younger woman with something. The women in front of him spoke with her for what seemed to him an eternity, for his heart thudded within his chest. He stared down at her hands, which were wrapped around the small book and the wallet, which she held against her chest, hidden in the folds of her sleeves.

Finally she turned to him, asking his name and reaching into the wallet, and holding out to him coins in her left hand. He grasped her hand. Her breath caught. He pushed back her sleeve. An intricate ring shown on her third finger. The hand that pushed back the sleeve bore the same ring.

The wallet and the book and the coins dropped to the ground. Now the traveler pulled his hood back and she cried out as she met the blue eyes. Eyes that held no threat. "Margaret," he said, and it sounded like a song, with the lilt only he had to his voice.

Margaret was unable to believe her eyes or to speak or do anything. Tamlyn knelt before her, wrapping her hand in his. "Margaret, can you still be mine?" Her eyes were blurring with tears. She raised her crimped right hand and placed it over his, and nodded yes.

"Yours, Tamlyn," she squeaked, and the tears flowed, and he stood and his arms were around her, holding, as he whispered her name again and again. She felt his body shake with silent sobs against hers, and she held him, digging her knuckles into his tunic, then relaxing. Thus they stood for a length of time neither one could have said, for in each heart reeled shock, joy, bitterness, gratitude, and grief in a poignant overwelling. When finally they leaned apart, neither knew where to begin speaking. Margaret made the sign of the cross over him in blessing.

A throat cleared nearby. She turned toward the almoner and the handmaid, who waited, the almoner patiently and the woman staring hard at Tamlyn. "My lord my husband, Tamlyn Braewode, has returned." She fought a moment to control her voice, the handmaid's hands flew to her mouth. "Please go now and prepare his house for him. Prepare him a feast, for he that was lost to us, is found!" In a few moments they stood alone under the linden trees. Margaret stared at him and softly touched his downy beard.

"You have not changed since we said goodbye, while I have grown older."

"Because I have been in the Faerie Realm. But my heart has grown old mourning each day for you."

"I have grown in willfulness, and not in wifeliness."

"You have grown very much in God, while I have forgotten how to live amongst the sons of Adam. I know not how to be a husband to you, either. But, I am willing to learn."

"And I also. . ." She warbled, dashing tears from her reddening eyes. "I did not think you would ever return. I was sure you must have died, but I couldn't believe it. I would not let myself think of it...How long has it been, now?"

"Seven years. Seven years I have served the Queen Galorian for that I killed her only son."

"Moruan?"

"Aye."

"Her son...How...Will you stay, now? Can you stay here with me, please?"

He saw the misery in her eyes, and she in his. "I am free to stay, and that is my one desire, if you will have me. I pray that we may never part. But, Margaret, I have not taken the sword for seven years, but have been a servant. You married a knight, but I don't know if I can be that any longer. What think you of that?"

She looked at him in the same tunic in which he had ridden off, much faded and frayed at the sleeve edges. His beautiful hair had been shorn; his beard was still downy. Only the eyes looked older, sorrowful. "I have no heart to watch you ride away to war, not knowing whether you may return to me. You married a noble lady who was very fond of finery and dreamed of going to court. I don't think I can be that any longer. What think you of that, Tamlyn?"

He regarded her unruffled linen dress, without adornment or jewels, only the gold chain she had always worn, the betrothal ring on her left hand, and the spare, transparent married woman's headdress. "That you are more lovely without finery," he said, "With the ornament of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is very precious in God's sight, and mine." They stood, their eyes searching, under the lindens with the wind rustling in their leaves, and a linnet chatting in the branches overhead, and the shadows of clouds sweeping the meadows and green hills beyond. "Sievan, you came back to me," Margaret murmured; he reached for her and she came. Fires long closely banked burned with unexpected brightness.

That afternoon and evening and night were not long enough. Margaret hardly slept, for she watched him laying beside her within the embroidered curtains, the lamp flickering behind the fabric. He slept as if too tired to live, yet woke with eyes bright, turning to her and reaching for her, long before the dawn came. Realization dawned slowly upon them that at long last they were together as God intended, and they spoke little of the thousands of days apart, for a horror of them lay bound in the pit of each heart, until morning when Margaret found courage to ask him of his time in the Faerie court.

He spoke of things which seemed so wondrous to Margaret. "But so many times the Queen would rather sit and listen to me tell of what she called, things which angels desire to look into. For they are forever servants of the King, never sons, as we are. . ." Tamlyn's voice trailed off. When he again spoke, his voice was very low. "Oh, Margaret--" he took her hand, buried his face in it. "It was wrong...to bind myself again to them, when I belonged to you...to live as a bondman, when free...and I knew it, not long after I had sworn myself...to serve her, and leave you alone and undefended. Oh, God, forgive me, Margaret. . ."

She wrapped her arms bruising-tight around him. A tumult of questions Margaret had not allowed herself to ask answered each other in a seethe of accusations, wonders and sorrows. He was asking her forgiveness. All that stood between them now was within her. Could she?

"How could I not forgive you, love, after all this?" said she, but as if persuading herself. "Shall I resent you for your faithfulness, after it is mine at last? If you had remained with me and been my knight, God only knows whether I would have you alive now. Come, love, let us forget what lies behind. We have each other now, and I am thankful. I am too tired of being lonely, of being sad and angry-- yes, angry, love-- I want to forget it all, and be your wife. I have loved you too long in a void to stop loving you now that I have you here with me. Kiss me, Sievan, and know that I promise to forgive you."

Margaret told Tamlyn that his father and mother both had passed away, and of the judgment of King Fearnon concerning his title. "I have done nothing towards applying for widowhood, but I expect your brother will be here soon to expedite matters."

Tamlyn made no reply to this. His head hung down.

"I have dealt with him, with his prodding and manipulations and demands and petitions, for years. Where he finds the time to bother with me, I know not. He has fulfilled every ambition your father held for him, and more--"

"Then let him have what he wants. I will let him have it all, if he will leave us alone. God knows he deserves every bit of it, title and all. I have been no kind of son to my father and mother, and now they are gone."

Margaret hung her head, shocked at her own thoughtlessness. "I am so sorry."

After a time he looked up. "I had known, somehow. Two winters ago."

Margaret and Tamlyn regarded one another, the losses and shadows of the past drifting like smoke between their gazes.

"Are you bitter toward Coltram?"

The question found Margaret unprepared. She turned her head away. "I would have to confess that my heart struggles toward him." The sun was fully up now, and a knock on the door of the bower was heard. Willa opened the door and called in, "My lady, unless you need me, I shall go our rounds with the houseman. . ."

"Good, Willa, go with God. I don't need you now." The door shut quickly. In the silence, Margaret leaned back against the carven headboard and wrapped her arms around her knees. She gazed far away beyond the embroidered bedcurtains. When she spoke, her voice was low and quavering. "I had a foundling, a little girl. We called her Sunniva. She lived to three years old. It was almost two years ago she died." Tears fell freely, but Margaret dabbed at them indifferently. "My little darling, she helped me to live without you, and. . ." She took a deep breath. "After the Lord took her to Himself, I couldn't-- I had nothing-- Coltram came then, for once he was very sweet. He asked me if I would come nurse Jehanna, for she had had a fit after one of her headaches and fallen unconscious. I went, just to get away from the silence and idleness here.

"I nursed her, but she never awoke and passed away. Then I tried to arrange it with Coltram to care for their children. At first he seemed to like the idea, but then he changed his mind and sent the bairns instead to your sister, Tamarlanne.

"When I came home here, I knew I had to take care of someone. I cried out to God, wondering why He was taking everyone away from me. On the way to Church I passed the house of old Darcy, an elder woman who lives alone. I looked in on her and she was ill, so I stayed and nursed her. She begged me to see to another woman down the lane. Darcy put out the word and soon I went nowhere without people begging me for remedies. Many I could help, many I could not. I hadn't realized how I missed having many people around me, for at Caer Aldene one was rarely alone.

"So I buried myself in that for a while, but I found myself more and more seeing the needs of their souls, for which my salves and poultices and potions could do nothing. I found myself reading Gospel to them, asking them about their lives. I saw their anguish and longed to see them born anew of God, with the hope and peace He gives. Soon a crowd was gathering at sickbeds, for the spectacle of a Lady preaching and nursing, I suppose. People espying at windows and doors, children hiding under beds to hear.

"Last year was a bad year for crops, and those who rented my fields near the River had their wheat and oats washed away, it was so wet, and all the crops were poor, even the fruits. I bought grain from the west, and began to dole it out. One morning as I prayed I remembered that Jesu is the Bread of Life, and I could feed their souls with that. So I began...Well, some have called me Lady Preacher, though I like it little...The Word says women ought not to teach, but I must speak that which He gives me to say." She looked at Tamlyn, who had risen to sitting on the bed. "That is why you found me speaking to a crowd yestereven. Rather than following hunts, or attending court, or entertaining lords and ladies. . ."

"Who would have made my entrance rather awkward, Aye?" They smiled at each other. He reached for a lock of her hair that trailed on the pillows and softly combed it with his fingers. "No more thankful sight could have met my eyes as I returned to Brycelands, not knowing whether- what I would find... Margaret, don't you think it very serendipitous, very kind of God, that though we were parted, we have yet grown together in this-- that we have both become as servants? I am not sure what kind of knight and lady we'd have made, nor will we ever know. There is much that is lost to us..." He was thinking, Sunniva..., an echo in his mind that put a name to the void that had been between them and filled it with rays of sun. "But God has been good to us, letting us have this time now."

Margaret looked so tender that he dropped the lock of hair and drew her to himself tightly, and he kissed and kissed her again.

"We ought at last to rise and dress," said Tamlyn. "There are things without this curtain which need looking into, I am sure," he said, sliding from the bed and throwing the bespoke bedcurtains aside, and the window sashes open wide. While he washed with cold water from the ewer, she delved into a trunk and found a snowy tunic not unlike the one in which he had arrived,-- which he had worn every Lord's Day for seven years-- and drawers and trousers Willa had sewn and relentlessly washed and aired each year and laid folded with sprigs of lavender, since Margaret would not part with them.

Tamlyn combed out Margaret's hair and plaited it, thinking of how he had dreamed of this while plaiting Galorian's horse's flowing tail. He buttoned her fastenings, recalling how he had unbuttoned them at the brookside, when she was drenched in Moruan's blood. She even found pearls for her ears, which she had got out of the habit of wearing. So at last they stood, ready for the noon meal. So they went down together, he to the head of his table in the hall hung with his own coat of arms, and she to the place beside him, happily surrendering the headship to him.

## Chapter 19: A Brother Offended

Before the entry to Braewode Manor, Sir Coltram glowered at Tamlyn.

"What is this?"

Coltram looked askance at Tamlyn, rudely ignoring his greeting.

Tamlyn was unperturbed. "Brother, I know this must be difficult for--"

"Brother? How dare you." Coltram held out a hand with a quick glance to his groomsmen, who had been moving to lead away the dismounted horses; they stopped in their tracks and stood, trying not to look at anyone. "Who are you, and what want you of me and mine?"

"I want nothing that belongs to you, Coltram. I am your brother, Tamlyn-"

"Ah, yes, the resemblance is uncanny." Coltram tilted his head back, regarding Tamlyn through half-lidded eyes. "My elder brother Tamlyn, dead these seven years and more. My lady Margaret, I had you figured differently. You really had me believing that you cared nothing for your late husband's inheritance, but now that the requisite seven years have passed and you see your chance slipping away..." Coltram began to chuckle. "Tell me, lad, which of my father's many bastards would you be? Ah, let me guess. From that pretty redhead nurse who was sent away so suddenly. Or perhaps--"

Tamlyn's voice was rolling thunder. "Enough, Coltram, of degrading him whose title you may soon bear, if you will only hear me." That got Coltram's attention; he waited. "Take this, read it ere you judge me or my lady wife." Tamlyn drew from his surcoat a rolled paper and held it out to Coltram, who never dropped his eyes from Tamlyn's, but at last deigned to take and unroll the paper. Margaret saw the changing expression, the widening and narrowing of his eyes, the dark and light succeeding each other. He perused the paper once, twice; then his arms dropped to his sides; the paper curled slowly back into a roll of its own accord. Margaret moved slightly closer to Tamlyn and hooked a hand very lightly into his elbow. Her gaze was steady. Coltram began tapping the rolled paper on his thigh as he turned to pace on the wet cobbles.

"You would relinquish to me the baronetcy of Braewode." He said it, not looking at anyone.

"Aye, Coltram. It is only an acknowledgment of the truth; that you have been the loyal son my lord our father wanted and needed, not I. I need nothing from you, and want nothing, but this:--" Coltram looked at him, finally-- "That we be brothers again. That there be no acrimony between our families. That is what Father and Mumma would have wanted." Tamlyn turned toward Margaret. "Let us be going, love. Let him take his time." He lifted Margaret to her horse, and mounted his own; their attendants did the same. "Coltram, Clewode already has seen those papers. They need only to be signed by you. Brother, don't belabor it," he said, at which Coltram looked up at him from the papers he had again unrolled. "I expect to hear from you timely. All you would have had by virtue of my Lady's widowhood is in there." He turned his horse and they moved away.

Coltram stood in the gray afternoon before the Hall. _God knows, he did look just like Tamlyn. Spoke like him, too; but he couldn't hide that odd accent he had, whoever he was. Too young by a bowshot, too. His beard was just thickening up. Tamlyn would be near two-score years._ Seven years agone, Tamlyn-- or whoever it was then-- said that in the Realm, one did not age. But Coltram had refused the possibility of that world long before. No one could enchant Coltram with babble about Faeries.

Margaret could have had the young man, if she wanted him, without pretending he was Tamlyn; as a widow, she was free to choose anyone she wished. Or was she deceived? Or what was in it for her? Did she so crave the fame her elf-knight brought her that she was willing to substitute him with some half-brother, born on the wrong side of the blanket? But why then renounce Tamlyn's heritage? What were these people about? He watched the riders departing, focusing on the boot of Lady Margaret's right foot where it bounced against the near side of the charcoal mare she rode. He marked her profile as she turned her head to speak with her impostor. _I could have had her myself, had I played it right_.

He replayed an irksome scene in his mind. They had finally buried Jehanna, a relief more than a loss. He had lost her weeks before. Now her headaches no longer would oppress his hall, nor her wildness liven his nights. Coltram had gone to the bower of his children, to find Lady Margaret with the three of them in her lap, wetting the black velvet gown she had worn to the burial with their smuts and tears; she had seemed unconcerned with that, but brought the little maidens closer to herself, her hands gathering them in, speaking softly. Her tucker had come askew of the neck of her dress, and a strand of her dark hair lay across her collarbone. He evaluated her in the dusk of the bower; she was slim and lovely of face, if one cared for brown-haired girls. She was practically a maid-- for though he had never tried to dissuade those who whispered that her foundling was her own brat, he knew for certain that it hadn't been; he had seen her with his own eyes in Leighame Palace just weeks before the child's appearance at Brycelands-- but as a widow, she would require no morning gift, no father's blessing.

As the days passed, it became clear to him that she was more than fond of his children. Jehanna had given him no sons. She had caught his eye, and his children gave him an in. One evening after she had bade the bairns goodnight, he met her outside their door and proposed that they marry as soon as her widowhood was declared. She had gone round-eyed and demurring at this suggestion. He had drunk wine to get his courage up, and her prim surprise irritated him. Apparently, she was intimidated by him; very well, he would use that.

"Come, my Lady," He had said, moving closer, "We are both of us alone now. Is not a living man better than a fey for a husband?"

He put his left hand on the wall over her shoulder, his right on his hip, leaning over her. He let his eyes be filled with her comely face, her lovely form. She shrunk, breathless as a trapped hare, but was silent, and he had the peculiar impression that she was praying. A numbness crept over him. Suddenly he swayed on his feet, though he was used to drinking much more on occasion. He closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it; when he looked again, Margaret was disappearing with a swish of her skirts into her door. He heard the bolt slip softly into place.

He had approached her more than once, but after that first time, she simply looked at him, clear-eyed, in the face. "No, my brother."

Now as Coltram saw them disappear down the hill away from Braewode Manor, he turned away, smirking bitterly. It was a shame, really; Margaret was evidently a resourceful and unscrupulous young woman, he and she would have made a good pair. Her courtly aspirations would have complemented his military ambitions. "Let her have her renown, for what it's worth; and her young lover. I have what matters to me, now."

The clouds cleared off and the stars crowded the moonless sky as they drew near to Brycelands. Margaret rode the crupper behind Tamlyn's saddle with her arm around his waist; her horse had tired. The evening had snapped cold and still and she drew near to his warmth, watching for shooting stars as they rode.

The village was quiet. Compline had passed and the midnight office had not yet rung. The plash of the fountain could be heard almost to the head of the cobbled street. Behind shuttered windows somewhere, a tenor flute played a melancholy air. The bailiff, hearing hooves, came out into his dooryard. Margaret called a good evening to his house.

"Thank you kindly, my lady; and to yours as well," he said; gladness in his voice at having been caught vigilant. "See you in Church, my lord," he called. Tamlyn waved his hand.

When they started up the lane to Brycelands, Tamlyn called to the others to go on ahead of them. He turned his rangy palfrey toward the low sheep fence and jumped it, and cut across the field and up the hill, to a point of the field where the open sky lay about them. He slowed the horse to an amble, giving it its head. It wandered to almost a stop, snuffling in the short grass and pulling a mouthful the sheep had left behind.

"What are you thinking on, my lord?" said Margaret.

"I am thinking... _I will surely bless you and make your children to number as the stars in the sky..._ " he murmured.

" _And in your offspring all nations on earth will be blessed, because you have obeyed Me,_ " Margaret finished.

Tamlyn hummed his admiration. "Very good, for a daughter of Eve," he chuckled.

"What mean you?"

"I never saw a Bible in the possession of the Elves, yet they knew it, line upon line. And so did I, somehow. It was available as air. It was... easy to be a Christian among them."

"You handled your brother very Christian, today, I thought. _A brother offended is harder to win than a walled city, and contentions are like the bars of a castle._ "

"He is my own brother. How could I not?"

Margaret was silent.

"I have to confess that today I missed Them. When I saw my brother's face, when I heard his evil thoughts toward you, and me. It made me sad to be reminded, Love, that I was not altogether unhappy serving Galorian. Nor was I completely without consolation, for my heart trusted your faithfulness. And perhaps misused it. There, Love, I've said it. I am so--"

"Do not say you're sorry, oh, no," cried Margaret, tightening the arm about his waist. "Do you think I would have wanted you pining every moment, when I had my Sunniva, my foundling, my _sievan_? Think you not I felt sad to find that her smiles filled my heart and let me forget you for a while?" She said it quickly, wincing, turning her head to muffle it in his cloak. Tamlyn dropped the knotted reins and turned, and clasped Margaret's waist; he dragged her around in front of him and held her close. "Tell me about Sunniva. What was she like?"

"Just an ordinary, miraculous child...We knew from the start she wouldn't last, she never kicked her feet, or moved her legs, and as she grew but a little, she never seemed to breathe well...But she smiled and smiled. And she loved us with all her little heart. She was always ill and needed constant care, but even so it was so hard to let her go...My little Sunniva, my little angel visitor...I hope there will be more children. Our own."

"Ah, As the stars in the sky?"

Margaret lifted her eyes to the brilliant heaven. "I could hope so. Our own." Tamlyn looked down and in her wide, dark eyes, saw reflected there the bright powder of the stars in miniature. Until his own shadow eclipsed them as she pulled his head down over hers, his heart swelling as he held her tighter still.

Tamlyn stood at a worktable, surrounded by Margaret's bunched herbs hanging, and crocks and jars of beeswax, lanolin, and tallow; he was binding with gut a new membrane to the chanters of the bladder pipes. A messenger arrived from Lord Coltram Braewode with the papers signed and witnessed by Lord Clewode. Tamlyn stood examining the papers, sealed with the heavy, dark, tasseled imprint of the Duchy of Cynrose. There was a finality to holding them, a loss he had not expected.

He brought it out to the rear garden, where Margaret was pruning the roses, for the gardener was not ruthless enough to suit her. The grass had not yet browned, but the roses were all but bare, and the ivy a deep bronze over the gray stone wall beyond. A chill breeze whispered of rain to come and the sky was leaden, but her face bloomed like the last rose of Autumn. She stood as he approached her and smiled with pleasure. She took the papers and glanced at them.

"No longer Lord of Braewode." She stated it, and regarded him, touching his arm. She saw it affected him and stepped close, leaning into his shoulder under the arm he wrapped around her neck. "You will always be a son of the King."

"Ah, amen to that. . .What is title, anyway? What is nobility, that I should feel in some way lessened?"

"An honorable name is an inheritance. Its price is above rubies, aye? That is loss, to be sure, though it diminishes you not one bit, if your own name is honorable." She gathered an excited breath. "What then shall we call our bairn?"

It was a moment before Tamlyn looked into her upturned face, taking in her meaning in the blushing smile. Then he threw his head back and shouted, and drew her up and spun her about him.

## Chapter 20: What God Will Join

The war had been cold for three years; the old truce had expired, but neither south nor north found advantage in stirring up the embers for the time being. Groups of knights and pairs of spies crept delicately along the border. Small clashes were written off as local grudges in the interest of preserving the larger peace. But peace gives warlike ambitions no room to grow, and grow they will.

One of the Bradmead lords forced to repay ransoms found a bitter opportunity. The King had no offspring, but had three nephews, sons of his sister who was married to the Earl of Westroe. Two of these, Hillard and Aelfrey, were hunting in a forest a half-day's journey north of the border. They encountered the vengeful lord with a group of knights who were spying out the land. The two refused to be taken captive, and his knights slew them both, fair youths. Before the sword cut him down, Aelfrey managed to put an arrow in the eye of the Southard lord, blinding it. Hillard had thrown his weapons down. "In the name of Jesu, I will not fight you," he was said to have said, "You must then kill me as a coward, and may God forgive you as I forgive you." Words that were made into ballads, which magnified the brothers' beauty and nobility, and the foul nature of their murderers.

While maidens sighed and sang over the fallen youths, their husbands, brothers, and would-be suitors were singing songs of arms and marches while they geared up. Mothers' hearts froze with fear that their sons and husbands might not return. They tried not to ponder what may come if the Southards overwhelmed them.

Some of the Vallards had been ransomed and set at liberty. It was thought that they would surely wish to return to Europa, but some lingered all these years for various reasons, and had insinuated themselves into the nobility of the South, stirring up the ancient rifts into bitter acrimony and reviling hostility. They also taught the Southards the advantages of rapine and destruction in weakening the enemy. The Bradmeads were eager to try these new ideas out on the resilient North.

Beneath the bare linden trees at Brycelands, Margaret and Willa would sit and watch the men practice at the longbow, aiming at old casks set down the hill, sometimes rolling down the snowy sheepmeadow. The grove which was her alms grove on the Lord's Day, became the parade grounds where formations and arrays were drilled, where the battle ax and mace and spear were tried.

Come Spring one hundred footsoldiers were sent out of Brycelands on the day after Whitsuntide toward the gathering pall on the south horizon: smoke from burning villages. They were led by Tamlyn's proxy, a landless hired knight, who led the men to the banner of Lord Coltram Braewode. The fields had been plowed in haste, and the women dispersing from the parade ground from where they mustered led their children to the selions to plant wheat, oats, barley and peas, sowing tears and prayers with every cast of golden seed under the warm spring sun.

Tamlyn frowned as he watched the century vanish down the river road, at odds within himself. Resolutely he turned toward Margaret, whose hands were folded atop her ripe belly. " _I ought to be grateful, Lord, for my duty lies where my joy lies also,_ " he thought, gazing upon Margaret, and noticing the light sheen of perspiration on her brow, and that she breathed as though winded, her eyes distant. Then the focus returned, and she turned to look at him, smiling self-consciously.

"Is it well with you, Margaret?"

"Ah...Aye, now it is." She took his hand. He stood at a loss, and then wrapped his arm around her, and she leaned into him. He placed a hand lightly on her protruding belly and felt the flesh under the linen go hard, and Margaret's breathing change, and her arm went round his waist. When the moment had passed, he steered her toward the manor house. They stopped several times on the way, and she clung to him.

In their bower, he wanted her into the bed, but she insisted on circling the room again and again, as Rivanone had done when she lived at Caer Aldene. Willa bustled in and out, thickly layering old sheets on the bed, tying back the bedcurtains, having a water-butt brought up and filled with warm water, urging raspberry leaf tea on Margaret, laying out nappies and the tiny clothes she had sewn, and telling Tamlyn that he need not remain.

He looked at his wife, and she looked all dismayed at him. "Could you not stay longer?" she asked plaintively, sitting on the edge of the bed, breathing hard.

"As long as you want me, my dear one," he said softly.

Willa brought dinner to the room, but Tamlyn had only a nibble of bread and Margaret nothing. Evening came and Willa lit the lamps from the low fire on the hearth. The birth waters broke on the polished floor and Willa mopped them up. After that, when the pains came, Margaret could not stand any longer, but hung from Tamlyn's neck, and finally she sat on the bed when the pushing gripped her. By then there was no question of Tamlyn leaving, even if he could have pried her slender fingers from his freckled hand, which they clasped with a strength he never would have suspected from them, the wedding ring bruising his knuckle.

His lady was far from him now within the universe of her struggle, and he could but daub and murmur and hold her up as a clench and a roar grew from within her, and finally from her brokenness and suffering a bloody miracle emerged.

Before Willa had caught the greasy infant up in the receiving-blanket, Margaret let go Tamlyn's hand and reached for her son, dragging him out onto her chest, where the newborn child regarded her from pale-blue eyes. There was a moment when Margaret could not breathe for the sight of him, and the tears changed to a sob of joy. Willa poked her finger in to sweep the child's mouth of mucous, and he squalled. Tamlyn leaned over to see him closer. Margaret turned to him, eyes shining, pain forgotten. "Look on your son, father," she said; and no title or honor bestowed on a man is dearer to him than that in such a moment.

"God so loved the world, that He gave His one and only Son. . ." murmured Willa, and a secret broke open to their hearts, the word Son blazing like a hearth, and new life after blood and pain, and cries like music, now replaced with the peace of the baby's nursing-song and the sweet flesh bathed clean and wrapped in the softest linen, and laid by his bathed mother, who slept now in exhausted bliss while the babe tried his new eyes out on whatever was around him.

Willa left reluctantly with a final armload of soiled linens, and Tamlyn undressed and laid beside Margaret. He pulled the tiny bundle close to him, speaking softly to his own son, and for the first of many thousand times, gazed with wonder on a tiny, mobile face, wrinkled and lovely and precious beyond words.

By Midsummer the company returned triumphant to a village forewarned by messengers; the river road became a fairgrounds as families ran to meet their men, of whom most returned. Collections were taken for the families of the men who were lost. Tamlyn and Margaret gave them their houses, saying that a man's life was overpayment for a home on earth, and remitted their rents on selions as well.

With the knight, Tamlyn's deputy, who collected his reward and departed again, Gareth arrived, together with his squire Geven and John, now Sir John, with a squire of his own, his younger brother Ellis. Gareth himself had been awarded a baronetcy and owned a hall and lands which he rented out, for he was always riding about.

Rafert was gone to the armory to receive the longbows and other implements loaned out, and Margaret and Tamlyn were out in the village, and Willa sat with the infant Ryanh, in his cradle, in the cool manor hall at Brycelands, mending some snagged turkey-work on a cushioned stool in a patch of sunshine that slanted through the windows. Without announcement, Gareth walked into the hall with Sir John, who characteristically was laughing about something or other, and the two began to shed their surcoats and mail.

Willa rose and walked to the two of them, curtseying and smiling with recognition as she reached for their coats. "My lord Gareth; Sir John, welcome to Brycelands."

Gareth studied a moment the tall, handsome young woman before him, her gray eyes wide and sun glinting on the gold chain about her neck. Sir John cried out, "Is this the great lass who rode with us in the forest? Willa, is it not? My, but the years are kind with you!" He chatted on, Willa's eyes dropping demurely and with pleasure. But before she turned away, her eyes again turned toward Gareth, who managed to mumble a greeting lest he be found to be rude. What he said, he could not have told, for his mind was melting with the solvent of gray eyes and the heat of a red-gold flame of hair. For her strawberry hair had gone redder and her form tall and slender, and the grave dignity she had affected as a girl was now her very own.

"We didn't come here only for a look at the babe," Gareth said after dinner. "My lord your father wanted me to be sure you were aware of what the situation is in the South. You know about the burned towns, the villages stripped of winter food, things all Ardinéa is talking about. Only a day's ride away, refugees crowd the houses and halls, not knowing what they may find when they return to their homes, or how they will sustain their lives.

"But you need to know that this new truce is probably not worth the sheepskin it is written on. King Fearnon has sent all to their homes for now, but only to rest, to fatten, to get their harvest in so that Ardinéa is strong. But come the winter, something is surely coming, and you need to be ready. Fearnon has his spies in the South.

"Keep the archers at the bow, Tamlyn, and dust off the staff for yourself. Something is surely coming."

Margaret's hand crept to Tamlyn's and lay lightly over it. He turned his sober gaze to her for a moment. "Let us have music, now. Gareth, do you still blow the little whistle?"

"Heavens, Tamlyn, not these many years. But John here still blows the flute, and to pass the time while he tootles away endlessly I've taken to beating the bodhran drum. Break out the music, then! Geven, run fetch us the flute and the drum."

Willa took Ryanh from Margaret's lap, smiling and crooning to him, while Margaret tuned the lute and fitted the plectrums to her fingers. It was easy to play many lively and stirring tunes that all knew well in Ardinéa...Until Ryanh decided it was time for nursing, and Margaret handed the lute over and took Ryanh, turning away as she loosened the front of her dress. She turned to Willa and asked her to sing. Willa went self-conscious in a way Margaret had not seen for years, but agreed.

Where the wood goes green in May, where the flowers spring so gay,

Where the mountain meets the plain, where the freshet drinks the rain,

Where the hart follows the hind, where the oaks are ivy-twined,

There the King did give the chase to the white deer, fair of face.

Sing, brave bow, the King's heart-song, arc thine arrow swift and long,

Find the heart so wholly wild, tame the white doe, loving mild.

Up the eastern mountainside, in the forest he did ride

Soughing of the wind in trees did bring his heart a wondrous ease.

When he spied among the flowers, in an ivy-twined bower,

Feeding of the lilies there, at the sun-set, the snowy deer.

Sing, brave bow, the King's heart-song, arc thine arrow swift and long,

Find the heart so wholly wild, tame the white doe, loving mild.

One look of the doe's eyes, all other desire dies,

Over mountains he must race, through deep waters follow chase,

Under star and under moon, and the morning coming soon,

There upon the river-shore, his last arrow bent the bow.

Sing, brave bow, the King's heart-song, arc thine arrow swift and long,

Find the heart so wholly wild, tame the white doe, loving mild.

Down fell the deer the King chased long, stilled the hunting-bow's brave song,

Still the thrushes, still the dove, still the woods with broken love.

Falls the King in mourning sore, by the silvery river-shore,

Swears his own life in return, if the white doe living were.

Sing, sweet bow, the King's heart-song, arc thine arrow swift and long,

Find the heart so wholly wild, tame the King, so loving mild.

In his arms a maiden lay, fairer than the Queen of Fey,

White of skin and gold of hair, pure of heart in Fearnon's snare.

"I will live and love you, King, you have won me following,

I am yours and you are mine; let none part what God will join."

Sing, sweet bow, the King's heart-song, arc thine arrow swift and long,

Find the heart so wholly wild, tame the white doe, loving mild.

Willa trembled as the song died, her eyes bright, silvery as the river in the song. Margaret wondered to see it and the heat that burned behind the freckles. Her soprano never had soared so heartfelt, and Margaret saw where Willa refused to look, at the warrior's unreadable face riveted upon hers.

Sir John was clapping and exclaiming his appreciation. "The tall maid is full of surprises! Well done, Maid Willa. Many I have heard sing that song, but none have done better."

"Aye, Willa, that was fit to be heard in Charis's court."

Willa eyed her gratefully and demurred. Behind Margaret's concealing shoulder, Ryanh squealed in the moment's silence; they laughed and Willa stood quickly to take Ryanh to burp and change him while Margaret fastened her dress again, and turned back to her company.

Sir John held up his goblet toward the butler for more spiced wine. "So where did the Queen really come from? Is it true what they say, that the King found her in the forest while hunting, a nameless maid, and loved her more than all the noble ladies? That the song of the hunt is merely an allegory of seduction, what with pursuit, and felling, and arrows piercing and all?"

"No one seems to know," said Gareth, waving off the proffered demijohn of wine, "Except that he brought her back with him from somewhere in the Wilds. But I for one, find it hard to believe that the very King of Ardinéa would wed any lowborn maid, when he had his pick of princesses!"

Tamlyn was watching Willa, who now turned suddenly away with the child. "Then, Gareth, you have never known love." He looked at Gareth. "Have you, now?"

"Noble born is not noble in heart," said Margaret. "What is nobility, anyway? The common footsoldiers give of their own lives as valiantly as the mounted knights in the warfields, do they not? Are we not all sons of Adam, daughters of Eve? Is not title a human institution, and not a God-ordained one?"

"Title may be conferred by men, but nobility-- the kind of which my Margaret speaks-- that is given of God."

"Aye, all men are made in God's image, and last time I was in Church, there was still only one God," said John.

"Well, and well, I concede! Heaven's sake!" cried Gareth. "I suppose it's just as likely that she came from Elfland-- let's argue that, instead, maybe it'll get me in less trouble!"

"Maybe not, in this present company," laughed John. Under cover of the uproarious mirth, Willa slipped back beside Margaret, quite collected, holding the freshened baby close while Margaret took up the lute. Her gray eyes were a cool stone wall to any but the babe.

Tamlyn rode with Gareth, to show him the lay of Brycelands. Each had many stories to tell the other of the intervening years, though they pretended to be hunting. Tamlyn found a curious relief in speaking of the time he had spent serving for Moruan's death to someone not wholly incredulous or wonderstruck, but who had been a part of things. Gareth raked Tamlyn for leaving Margaret alone, then stopped himself. "I suppose I'm not one to speak of love or its laws. Sorry, brother...I never had any sisters, but I guess I feel protective...and there was a time when I felt more than that."

"I know it was wrong of me, very awfully wrong. But, by then it was too late, for I had already spoken. I just. . .Oh, I just thank God that He kept her for me, though I don't deserve it. No one could ask of a woman what I have asked of her, and she has gladly given."

They rode awhile in silence. "What of you, Gareth? Is there any woman for you?" Silence. Finally Gareth said, "To anyone else, Tame, I'd say, no, and think I meant it. There've been a few I've loved, the way one loves a new horse. But when I see the tall maid, grown into a woman, I think of having a wife. Which I never think of, otherwise."

"Aye, a good thing, for Willa never would have you, baron or no."

Gareth bridled. "And why ever not?"

"Gareth, are you a believer?"

"What, a Gospeller?"

"I am talking about, do you believe what you hear in Chapel: _To as many as received Him, to them gave He the power to become children of God... ."_

"Aye, I believe that, who doesn't?" Gareth shrugged.

"Most don't, not really. Have you, yourself, received Him? Do you love Him?"

"Hmm." Gareth smiled. "I would have to say that there was one time I loved Him more than anything. It was at Blackbrough, whipping the Bradmeads. I was knee to knee with Lake and Rhys-- great friends of mine, riding like archangels into the fray. Then they were down. I pulled to the left to rejoin the line, and there was no line, I was alone in a sea of Southards. I prayed then, in desperation, and when I fought my way clear to the King's van, oh yes, brother; I loved God, and I told Him so."

"Like a new horse, aye?"

"Ouch! . . Look, what does this have to do with the maid?"

"If Willa were to have a husband-- and she's awfully devoted to Margaret, you know-- he would have to love God."

Gareth looked into the trees and shrugged. "How can you love someone you've never met?"

"Did you not meet him in Blackbrough?"

"Like you yourself have said, I loved Him for a moment, because of what He did for me there." Tamlyn could see it cost something for Gareth to say so.

"He gave you your life there-- at least, you believed so at the time, did you not? But what if He hadn't, where would you be then?"

Silence, but Gareth was still listening. "I also love Him for what He did for me, when He gave His life in exchange for mine on the Cross; life no Southard's sword can take from me. In this we behold God's love for us: while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us."

"Sinner. Aye, that would be me, all right." Tamlyn wondered if he had said enough, and they rode on for a few moments. Then, over the rise of the meadow, they spotted a group of deer, does, fawns and yearlings. "Let's see whose arrow gets the spike-buck there," said Gareth, reaching back into his quiver, and the horses leapt ahead to the chase.

After the venison feast that evening, and a few songs and many stories, Margaret lay on the bed within the curtains. Willa had combed Margaret's hair out, suppressing tired yawns the whole time, so Margaret had sent her to her own chamber. After she had left, Tamlyn had come in to undress. Margaret spoke through the curtain.

"Willa needs her own maid. She does too much herself. I think she is ready for it. We can make her a butleress."

"Ah, Willa. I do agree with that."

"Do you know, last time the Troubadour was here with his family, they had old Elora along. Do you remember Elora? This was perhaps, two years ago. Elora was quite sullen, glared at Willa disapprovingly. I asked Sintia what she was about, and Sintia said that Elora thought I had utterly spoiled Willa for a maid, letting her wear gold, and her hair spread out, her ears pierced, and her eyebrows plucked; and besides that she had become altogether too big and showy for a handmaid. Dear old Elora! We laughed and laughed at her expense. But I realized there was truth in it. Willa looks more like one of Charis's ladies-in-waiting than a mere handmaid."

"She is more than that to you, anyway, is she not?"

"Oh, aye. Willa is very dear to me. She was my comfort...while you were gone." Margaret's voice trailed off. "And now that you are here, who comforts her?" Margaret thought aloud.

"She busies herself with the sick, besides caring for you and Ryanh. And she is very enamored with God."

She arose to change the baby's napkin, and then she placed him in his cradle next to the bed. She lay down to gaze at him, pulling the curtain back and singing very softly. The baby was not content to lay there, and she drew him up beside her. Tamlyn moved close, and rubbed Ryanh's cheek with his thumb. Ryanh kicked and smiled hugely. Tamlyn and Margaret talked softly over him until he drifted to sleep, and Margaret laid him in the cradle. When she returned to the bed, Tamlyn wore a smile she had come to know well for what it promised.

## Chapter 21: Peghara

Gilling rode with Lord Gregory in the vanguard of King Fearnon. He had had no choice but to come, but his heart was not in it.

Knowing what was to come in the ensuing weeks he had sent Sintia, together with Elora and the children and Mary, with Lady Hildreth's entourage. They were traveling many days to Caer Aldene, where he would much rather go, and perhaps not return.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy entertaining the Court, and he and Fearnon had become great friends. Nor was he any longer restless to travel. If anything, he liked Court overmuch. And so did Sintia.

Thank God she had a great native common sense, and was very careful with their money, which Gilling had no head for. Nor was she susceptible to the decadent subculture of many of the courtiers who passed through their lives. It was just that courtly expectations dominated their lives, set their priorities, even compromised their values. It decided who their friends were. It was too comfortable and easy, and Gilling had a hard time picturing the Carpenter of Nazareth in his situation.

Sintia had been sick to leave when on the surface, things appeared peaceful. But Gilling had been in on some conversations about the year's calm seas, about the influx of silks, dates, figs, porcelain, oranges, exotic furs, jades, influenza, lapis lazuli, sandalwood, myrrh, patchouli, holy relics, tropical birds, books, diamonds, papal legates and their mercenaries. The whole South was a roil of excitement, and the Bradmeads were too quiet. Gilling had a dread of this ride, for what they might see or not see.

From King's Leigh, the royal entourage had gone to the mouth of the Briar, where it roared into the sea; after spreading into a lake a mile wide, it funneled between high blackstone headlands and plunged, a deafening cataract, a roaring silver torrent, which silenced the onlookers and wetted beards and manes and fur trim with tiny droplets, and cleared the mind of all but the immensity of the river's movement, down into the white and frothing cloud with its perpetual rainbow rippling among the jetting currents of mist, before the fresh waters roared out down a boulder scree into the White Sea, whose own rushing confluences and laboring crosscurrents only welcomed its turbulence into the fray. One heard its thundering for hours after and felt the drumming in one's chest. No wonder it was named Jehovah Falls.

From there they crossed the great loch on ferry boats and watched the little freshwater dolphins leaping in rafts from the whitecaps. Then they set out along the border from west to east, visiting the string of walled cities and castles that guarded it.

All was quiet, crops unmolested, not so much as a corn-crib overturned. Much too quiet, Gilling was thinking, almost wishing for a confrontation of some kind to relieve his tension.

Sintia would have left for Caer Aldene the day before. Mary would ride with their son, Thomas; Deinn on her little white donkey, Sintia with their new daughter Elorinne. Elorinne was a cranky little thing who had begun colicky; thank God that was past; for in spite of her fussiness, Gilling was smitten with her and filled with longing for the whole noisy bunch of them. Elora would ride erect as ever on a gentle old mare.

Now an outrider was returning from a sortie to report. He rode by the guards, barely reining his horse to explain his message to them; the guards waved him on. Fearnon lifted his head and stopped speaking mid-sentence and gave his attention to the approaching rider.

"I met a refugee from the next hamlet, Verdene. He said he was looking in the pasture land for a lost sheep when he saw his village set afire. He fled from there, but he did see the attacker's device: Blue and gold quarterfields, gold castles on blue."

"Tolebrough, or his knights," said Lord Eldred, next to Lord Gregory.

"There is an empty manor there, belongs to Lord Kendryn. The villager couldn't see it from his sheep pasture."

"How many did he say were with him?" said Fearnon.

"He saw only a dozen, perhaps; four lances. But he had turned and run quickly, I think, to save his own skin. When I talked to him he was crying over his mother and sisters, and thinking to turn back and look after them. I told him to do no such thing, lest he give us away. I did get out of him that there is an entry to a passable hollow just ahead that would lead us closer to the village behind the cover of hills in pasture, and give out on high ground to the south of the village. If we follow this path, we will be visible well before we reach there, and all uphill from there."

"Good. Columns, array! Lances ahead, archers behind!" Fearnon cried to his captains, they turned about calling to their knights.

Gilling turned his horse to join the mounted archers, but not before he heard Lord Eldred grumble to his son, Herrick. "Let's go get our fill of Tolebroughs. The cravens never ride out in small number."

So they rode a sheep-path a mile or so into an emerald valley. Over the crest to their left, smoke was drifting in ragged patches. Then there was a blatting and a drumming of tiny hooves, and hundreds of sheep ran over the hill towards the columns lined out along the sheep track; and behind the sheep, shadows against the summer clouds and drifting smoke: a column of warriors along the ridge, less than a quarter mile away.

The herd broke upon them like a crying, snowy wave around the war-horses' legs. A few hot-blooded horses, trained to run toward a clash, broke the line and charged the leaping sheep and turned back, confused. But the King cried out to hold the line and let the sheep pass, which took several prolonged moments. Meanwhile the column up the hill had arrayed and begun to roar down toward them.

Fearnon cried out and all turned and charged up the other side of the valley, retreating, as the sheep herd swept away down the valley's funnel. The enemy line broke in confusion as some charged ahead to pursue while their captains were yelling to pull back and re-form.

Halfway up the hill, Fearnon called his knights to turn about; now nearly half the Tolebrough lances were charging up the hill and Fearnon swept down from the high ground and they joined in battle under the summer sky.

The archers dismounted and from their vantage point up the hill, loosed their arrows on the second wave of Tolebroughs now bearing down. Gilling called to his drummer to draw his bow; there was too much going on for music.

The Tolebroughs were outnumbered and when a group of them pulled back to re-form, they instead turned and rode away over the crest where they had come from, leaving some few of their number stranded, to throw down weapons and surrender. The emerald valley was a churn of mud, loose and dead horses and men and abandoned weapons, and the smoke and clouds drifted overhead in the sudden peace.

A huddle of mounted and dismounted knights were knotted around the King's horse; he was bent and holding his face, from which even at his distance Gilling could see that blood streamed, and hands were reaching, calling to the beloved King as he crumbled heavily into their arms.

The old keep of Brycelands that was used for an armory had a locked inner room in which were stored treasures from the Vallards, Tamlyn's reward from Lord Gregory. They had not seen the light of day except for Willa's annual rampage of dusting and sweeping the airless chamber. Shields and gilded ringmail were hung in array about the room, and in the lamplight that Tamlyn and Rafert Houseman brought with them, the room glittered like one of Solomon's dreams.

Tamlyn gazed darkly at the swords, one by one, hanging around the room. There were a dozen of them, beautiful specimens, polished faithfully each year and hung separately from their scabbards to thwart rust. He would be content to leave them hang like this till doomsday, to taste no more blood. But his vassals, the farmers and weavers and cartwrights of Bryceland village, needed to see that they had a protector, even if he paid shield-money and let another go in his place while he remained.

He chose a suit of mail with a detached coif, which would be easier to wear. He took a graceful sword and scabbard, scaled gloves which had been new to Ardinéa when the Vallards brought them, and other effects. He had ordered a shield and brooch made bearing the crest he had taken after giving the Braewode name to his brother: fawn and white, very unlike the bold scarlet and gold of the Braewode arms; but the same burning tree depicted. For now, he took a very ordinary iron buckler.

He and Rafert carried the items back to the stable, where they were dusted and Tamlyn donned them, covering the glorious mail with his long summer surcoat of fawn and white linen. He disliked that there was a pleasure in the weight of it, and grew silent as he awaited the caparisoned old war-horse to be led to him. He mounted, not without effort, remembering how the mail had taken getting used to when he wore his first suit,-- was it near a score of years before? He combed through his beard, which itched with its late thickening, and thought again of shaving it for the first time.

The groomsman led the horse to him and he mounted and rode from the stableyard to the front of the manor hall, where he had promised Margaret he would ride by before going about the village. There she stood, her cheeks blooming in the morning coolness, and holding Ryanh in front of her. She smiled reassuringly, though he read the mixed emotions in her face. He stopped the huge horse, who stamped impatiently as if for a charge, despite its age. He regarded her wordlessly, and she him. Then his new squire rode up behind him and he turned down the lane for a tour about the village and its borders. For the benefit of the Brycelanders, Lord Tamlyn of Brycelands was riding his estate.

He toured through the village at a walk, the clop of the warhorse's platter- size hooves drawing the villagers into their dooryards to see Tamlyn arrayed in his glittering mail. He recalled how delightful the attention had been to him, when he was proud and young and rode, newly knighted, with Lord Clewode. Now he was just as glad the attention was for his gear and not for him.

He rode beyond the village to its limits and turned down for the Briar River, to ride downstream to the limits of Brycelands and up the edges of the fields to the rough pastures.

He arrived at the River and turned south along the banks. The fog still hung over the River near the shaded banks, which between the road and the water's edge, bloomed with a profusion of wildflowers-- gravelroot, boneset, goldenrod and mullein. The selions snaked along the river, the grain going golden-ripe and just now silvered still with morning dew.

He came to the place by the River where he could turn and see his house at the top of the sweep of fields, and he sat his horse a moment, pointing out landmarks to the squire, Faulk. He was a fatherless nephew-or-other of Lord Clewode, a brown-haired, silent young man with a tiny mustache and a large port wine stain up one side of his face. He evidenced amazingly sharp eyesight, and a preference for plucking the mandola with Tamlyn's piping, over any curiosity about the Faerie Realm: Tamlyn wished not to be a curiosity. As they sat in the ragged mist, the sun making splendors in the oats and wheat, the war-horse's skin began to twitch, and its head turned back in the direction from which they had come. Faulk's horse whinnied, and Tamlyn's wheeled to face what they now heard as a brittle faraway thundering that rolled nearer by the moment.

Faulk grimly clenched his horse's reins to keep control, while it fought for its mouth. "Shoan, Shoan, steady now," Tamlyn spoke quietly to the warhorse, who stood, every muscle taut, its ears and nostrils indignant, one hoof canted. The distant report grew louder and resolved into a tattoo. "I have heard that sound before," commented Faulk, before his horse bolted up the shining fields for the manor house, a mile away, Faulk clinging on.

Tamlyn waited, and the taut war-horse waited his command-- a retired favorite of Lord Clewode's, he was showing his worth-- and the horse came into sight.

Full bore along the river road, and one could not have said whether its hooves touched ground or the ground shuddered like a whipcrack along beneath its passing. In his mail, Tamlyn shuddered, his mouth full of sand as he croaked, "Peghara," for the tall mare slowed, eyeing him with recognition; and circled around him, the war-horse frozen, sensing Tamlyn's panic-- and then it leapt away again down the river road, its clatter receding with it as it vanished around the bend of the river and into the forest in a screen of swirling river-fog.

It was several moments after the last of the dying reverberations that the birds rejoined their singing, that Tamlyn was able to breathe, and a sob of relief like laughter escaped his throat, and tears of deliverance wet his cheeks. He felt his aliveness, the sunshower drops lighting on his face and lashes and melting with his tears, the iron burden of the mail, the heat in his gut from the exertion of alarm, the powerful, obedient animal clenched between his mail trews.

"Oh Lord, thank You. Thank You, Jesu," he repeated, crossing himself. Shoan began to circle and he laughed with release, and spurred the horse on down the road to complete his circuit, the horse galloping and whinnying to relieve its own tension. In a few minutes he was rejoined by Faulk on his sweating gelding. After a glance, there was no comment on the event between the men.

Returning hours later to the inner room of the armory, Tamlyn gazed about the glittering room. "Rafert, would these not look better on Ardinéan knights than they now do, hidden in the dark? What need have I of all these...Will this one not fit my brother Coltram well, and this one Barta?"

"My lord, 'f 'I might say so, each one is worth a...well, a dozen proud horses, or a parcel of land, coffers of coronets--"

"My brother's good will is worth that many times over. I'll send him another suit to give away as well. Swords, trews,-- these helms I couldn't bear to wear, but they are brave, he will welcome them. Look at this one, garnets all about the brow! _And I say to you, make friends for yourselves by unrighteous mammon._ " Tamlyn smiled as he looked at Rafert's face in the lamplight.

Rafert tossed his chin with a chuckle. "Aye, My lord. Will you be taking these over to Braewode directly?"

"Not I, but I will send another. Who is a good and trustworthy envoy?. . ."

Margaret was nursing Ryanh in the Hall when Tamlyn returned from the stables, exerted but feeling light from removing the mail. He hung his surcoat and leaned over her, kissing her and then his son. Alone in the Hall, she had been careless in covering herself, and he kissed the exposed flesh as well, a wonder of satin softness, with a distinct scent from the baby's milky sweetness.

"There has been a stir while you were gone, some hours ago. A vision of a pale horse was seen to have passed through here with that peal of thunder that rolled earlier, ere the rain. A handful got excited and were sure that it was a horse of the Apocalypse! The priest and I had a time to show them in the Scriptures that it could not be so. But they went on and on about this horse they had seen. Didn't they, Ryanh, and woke you up, and there you sat crying and just didn't know what was going on!"

She sat the infant up to burp him; he looked at Tamlyn and smiled the unstinting smile of a four-month-old. He smiled and reached for the baby, and she fastened her dress.

"I saw it too." He talked to Ryanh, who pulled at his beard, fascinated. Margaret waited, sensing that it had affected him. He sat down, and took the sweet cider drink that the butler brought. "Thank you. I saw her, and I knew her. It was not just a runaway horse, it was... from the Realm. I myself had combed burrs from her silver tail, and oh God, Margaret, I thought she was coming for me-- but she went on down the road--"

His voice broke off and he held Ryanh close, his eyes closed. Then he leaned over to Margaret and clung to her a moment. She pulled him close.

Ryanh complained and he straightened. "Remember what Gareth said? Something is happening, and quickly, now. Else why...and on what errand. . ." He looked at Margaret, whose eyes were wide.

"Charis," she murmured. Tamlyn gazed at her, nonplused.

"How did you come to know about her? It is not spoken of."

"I saw it in her, when she spoke with me in her bower. Everyone says there is something about her, but no one takes it serious. But I have seen Them, and I knew...I never spoke of it, because-- well, it seemed...sacred. No, ...intimate."

They sat wondering, Tamlyn nuzzling Ryanh's velvet head. "The King was to be riding the borders, starting some days ago, so said the crier. Can it mean..."

Neither had the heart to say it.

In the bower of the Queen, within translucent curtains stained with sunlight, Charis awoke with a gasp and lay, as if pressed down into her bed, her long fingers spreading. "Fearnon, my own, my Fearnon," she wept, and a hand pressed to her eye, for a moment in sinking agony-- then it was erased. Her body relaxed and simultaneously she sat up in the bed, aware of a sound beyond the open window.

Charis arose, veiled in her golden hair, to the window which overlooked the garden. "Yes, it is time, old friend," she spoke in a strange tongue to the tall horse who stood on the terrace by the murmuring fountain.

She turned and from within the lace curtains drew the sleeping newborn from the bedclothes. "Féarna, come. Our time here is done. Goodbye to the love we have known. Goodbye to my sweet Fearnon."

The Queen was out the window and down to the fragrant garden to the horse who nodded her graceful head and knelt camel-like for her to mount. Then over the wall and into the intoxicating azure of the summer sky did the shimmering horse carry her royal burden, away from King's Leigh, surging through the lonely cumulus regions, while the tiny Princess slept all uncaring of the bright beauty; her mother's bosom Heaven enough.

# Part 3: Sword of the Spirit

There are three things which are too wonderful for me

Yea, four I do not know:

The way of an eagle in the air,

The way of a serpent on the rock,

The way of a ship in the heart of the sea,

And the way of a man with a maid.

Proverbs 30:18, 19

## Chapter 22: Falling Leaves

##

Oats and apples ripened, the leaves began to hint at golden glories to come, and the harts in the forest to get cantankerous with one another. The seasons rolled over the land as ordained from of old. But in Ardinéa there was confusion among the sons of men.

Fearnon's death and the Queen's disappearance with the days-old Princess Féarna under unbelievable circumstances had not only left King's Leigh without a sovereign, but had put an apocalyptic mania in the streets of the city which took eyes off of events in Caer Leighame, where the canniest kind of vying was going on.

Fearnon had no living parent nor brother, nor, when it came down to an issue, could anyone find out Charis's lineage. His eldest sister, the Princess Liona, was wed to the Earl of Rovehill (he had a younger sister also, Linfar, mother of the slain twins). Liona was a striking, handsome woman who spoke eloquently and had many admirers. She was challenged by Lord Clewode, only a second cousin of the King, but with a following because of the great need for a leader in matters of war. Also Liona had produced no heir and was past the age. These emerged as the main contenders.

Night and day they had ridden with the body of the Fearnon back to King's Leigh, with couriers racing ahead on the fastest horses. When the King entered the city, the whole of the province had crowded in to see him, even while many fled to relations in the north and east with tidings and their children and valuables. Wild-eyed preachers of repentance lifted their arms in the streets, striving to be heard over the rowdy buskers and opportunistic hawkers of foodstuffs and wares. Parades and processions, both sacred and profane, overran the crowds with banners, music, incense, and sheer numbers.

Gilling arrived in the pandemonium, and realized it was as good a time as any to say good-bye to King's Leigh. He collected a few clothes and instruments that were left in their rooms and gave the rest to friends. It was amazing, the amount of things one could be burdened with and not realize it. He hated to be in the empty rooms, without the continual noise of his children. He offered his services as a messenger and took a bulging wallet of letters and coronets and left, riding and leading a leggy, fast pack-horse. He was glad to leave the chaos. His first stop, with letters from Lord Clewode, Gareth and Gregory, was Brycelands, in Cynrose.

The arrival at Brycelands of Hildreth with her children and servants and men-at-arms, together with Elora and the rest of the Troubadour's family, was a joyful though worrisome time. Brycelands was full of servants going to and fro, and the children in a pack running up the stair and across the gallery above the main Hall and back down again.

Hildreth exclaimed over Ryanh, but then passed him back to Willa. Hildreth had nurses for her beautiful daughters; even a wetnurse for the baby. Margaret told herself that Hildreth merely wanted to become pregnant again as soon as possible in order to produce the son she was surely eager for. But Hildreth was not overly taken with children, wishing instead to read books or embroider, to take long, hot baths and have her handmaid fuss over her golden hair, combing and plaiting. She fussed over Margaret's hair, plaiting new styles while Margaret read over the letters from her father and brother Aelfred.

"So Father is to wed Lady Phoebe," Margaret stated flatly.

"Aye, and about time. I believe she'd have wed him years ago. It's time he had someone to comfort him. I don't believe she's of the age to have children, but why should he be alone? And she is quite wealthy."

"Oh, aye, that I know." Margaret's conscience was scalded. She resolved herself. "Aye, I am glad he will wed. God give them joy!"

"Of course, that letter is a week and some days old. He was leaving on a foray with the King, and Lord Eldred, and my Herrick, and three score knights with their squires, and as many archers; all to ride the border and survey what was going on. Oh, Margaret, I am always so proud when Herrick rides with the King! This time, when he returns, for once I will be more slim than when we left, for the food has been terrible on the way here. No wonder you don't come often to court. Between that, and your husband not being about for all those years, my dear, you have hidden yourself away. Our mother was a Duchess, you know; she had no need to strive, but you, well, one would think you didn't care at all about your place."

Margaret winced as Hildreth tugged severely the remnants of the plaits she had been working on from Margaret's brown hair and flicked the comb through it. "Hil, I have to say that I don't give it a lot of thought. The people that matter to me, love me for who I am. And if I look for esteem, I hope it is in the eyes of God, rather than man."

Hildreth didn't seem to know how to respond, and Margaret winced, realizing how sanctimonious she probably sounded. But there was nothing for it, and she sighed as she turned over to Aelfred's letter.

Margaret chuckled to read it; Aelfred was as diffuse in his enthusiasms as ever. He had completed his law studies at last, however, and was assisting in the magistrate in King's Leigh. But now he took a belated interest in the arts of war, and persuaded their father to allow him to continue squiring for him. Margaret read the letter aloud, and Hildreth commented. "That gives him a chance to leave court occasionally to get breathing room from the many female admirers of the future Duke of Briardene."

They shared a laugh over that. Margaret put the letters down on a nearby hassock. "What of the Troubadour these days?"

"He has ridden with the King on foray as well. He is fast friends with King Fearnon these days. They go to Church together, can you imagine!" She began yet another set of plaits in Margaret's hair. "Dame Sintia was quite wonderful for company on the journey here. She had a sharp tongue for slothful innkeepers, and rules her children closely; but she loved a good song, too, and a good laugh." Hildreth leaned close to Margaret's ear. "Where did she come from, anyway? She sounds to be from Briardene."

"I am not sure. But is she not also wise? She gave me some good advice years ago. I was talking of the problem of some poor I had here, loaded with debts from blighted crops and ill fortune. I was giving them charity, but she said, _A length of linen will clothe for a year; a loom for a lifetime._ Well, these folk weren't weavers, but I brought a cooper over from Hartsfall to teach them to make casks and butts and pails, for we had no such in Brycelands since the old cooper had died; and let them cut the wood from fields I wanted clear. They paid their own debts and kept their pride."

"Hmm...I suppose as the manor mistress, you must concern yourself with such things."

Margaret was more hurt than offended. After a moment she summoned courage.

"Hildreth, I know what you must think of my life. You and I find value in different things. I am very abundantly blessed and have all I could desire to make a woman content. I enjoy being concerned with things on my estate, with people of all degree. God made people to be in community with each other, not for some to toil all their living away while others take away their increase and live in purposeless luxury, never giving thought to the hands that do their work.

"I have beautiful gowns and jewels, but they are not as lovely to me as the face of my bairn, or as the orderly array of my village when I look out upon it and know that all within it are safe and have bread to eat and their children are clothed. Even if it means less jewels and gowns for me. I know the names of most of the people and have been able to use the knowledge and skills we received from our own mother to ease their illnesses, and the truth that God has given me to combat their fears and superstitions, and to give them hope. That brings me much greater satisfaction than new gowns."

Hildreth put the finishing touches on Margaret's hair. and then leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Good, Maggie. I am glad to know you are happy, and I admire your beneficence. It is not what I would choose, but if you are content, then I accept that. Contentment is better than jewels. Ah, are you still wearing that old thing I gave you?

"Hildreth! It means the world to me!" said Margaret, her hand closing on the cross pendant that hung down the front of her gown.

"Now I am teasing you. I am glad to see it, it reminds me of Mother. Come, now that your hair is perfect, let us have a turn in the garden, let the wind spoil it, so we can do it over."

Margaret stood and looked in the mirror. "I love it, Hildreth. Thank you." She embraced her sister and kissed her cheek.

Tamlyn burst into the room. "News from King's Leigh. I held the courier so that your party could hear it all." There was trouble in his face, and the church bell began to toll for the King of Ardinéa.

When the courier had given his news and departed, the Hall was full of discussion. Hildreth wanted to depart as soon as possible for Caer Aldene; Margaret urged her to stay longer and await news. But Tamlyn spoke.

"My lady Hildreth speaks wisely, Margaret, and you and Ryanh also should go to Caer Aldene, where it is the safest. There is no better refuge for you while Ardinéa is in turmoil than your father's castle. Caer Cynrose will have so many comings and goings, Aldene will be better."

Margaret gazed at him. "And what will you do, my lord?" she almost whispered.

"I must go down to King's Leigh, and put myself into Lord Clewode's service."

Margaret sighed deeply, and nodded gravely at him, her eyes wide. He continued, "I will lead half the century of footsoldiers, and hire lances on the way. If their lives are laid down for the sake of Ardinéa, then mine will be also." Margaret's eyes glistened with sorrow and admiration. "The other half of the century I will leave armed, under command of the one they elect to be constable over them, to protect the Brycelanders. Take with you what you value most of what we have; the Queen's disappearance bodes not well for Ardinéa."

That evening, Tamlyn had dismissed Willa from their bower early, and sat holding and caressing Ryanh, talking and playing for nearly an hour, until the infant was worn out and cried for the breast. Filled and content, he fell asleep quickly, and Margaret laid him in the cradle, covering him and staring at the blossom-like face, so much to her like a tiny, angelic Tamlyn.

When she turned to Tamlyn, he was filling a wash basin from a kettle he had set near the fire earlier. He had stripped to the waist, and had a towel in his hand. He rose and came over to the bed, took Margaret's hand and led her to the hassock by the hearth. Margaret gasped with surprise when he set her foot in the basin and wordlessly washed it with scented soap, rinsed and dried it, and then the other. She saw him kneeling as a servant before Galorian, and cringed from the bitterness that tried to raise its head; focusing instead, as she had learned to do, on the fact of his presence here and now and the overcoming tenderness of his gesture. She gazed at the blond curls going tawny and wanted to touch the beard he had trimmed closely. He was drying the second foot now, and pushing the basin aside, he laid across her lap, wrapping his arms around her waist. They were thickening again with hours of staff fighting and of hacking at a post in the stableyard with an old sword. She spread her hands over his arms.

"Then let me also wash yours," she murmured.

"No," he said, muffled in the fabric of her shift, and from the tone of his reply she knew not to say anything more. She bowed her head and prayed inwardly over his inner battle, and her own.

The morning before she left, when he went to the armory, she followed him with the lamp into the inner room where he and Faulk gathered the heavy armaments, and then to the place by the stable where she helped array him, handing to him piece by piece his coif, belt, scabbard, surcoat, dagger, sword, spurs, gauntlets, shield. Fighting all the while the blurring of her eyes, living only for the kiss he would give her before he mounted the war-horse Shoan, and unprepared, when it came, for the depth of his kiss, the fierce tenderness, that would leave no chamber of her heart undisturbed, that so thrilled her, that she could not help but return his smile when he pulled away.

She walked out to watch him ride in his mail, and a breathtaking wind was blowing up the long slope from the west, and she smiled into the wild beauty.

So Margaret departed from Brycelands for Caer Aldene with her sister, with Gilling and Elora and Sintia, with several of Lord Herrick's guards and a cartload of valuables and provisions, driving the best horses and the albino kashmir goat, with a few sheep and pigs for provender. The cows and the rest of the livestock were left in the care of village milkmaids, with the cows' milk for payment.

In the wide plain before Deermont, Margaret gazed eastward, looking for the twin peaks in the afternoon sun. From here they were mere bumps on the horizon, dark with distance. Closer were many rolling hills and lower mountains, and she wondered which was the mountain on which she had used Tamlyn's sword; it was impossible to tell. She wanted to talk with Willa about it. But Willa rode behind, with the other servants, laughing and talking. Margaret rode with Hildreth, who was tired of travel and not in a mood for talk. Margaret found a lot of time to pray over Tamlyn, who rode the opposite direction, south and west to King's Leigh.

At Saint Savior's they were made welcome in the guest cottage. Margaret met many old friends she had known during her winter there and on subsequent visits; and the children had no lack of holders and coddlers and playmates in the sisters there, and the abbess was content to let the cloisters ring with childish laughter in between the offices. Hildreth much admired the illuminated books which they produced, and ordered a copy of Augustine for a gift to Herrick. They enjoyed the singing at Vespers and the hot baths provided them in the guest lodge, which was full to bursting with their retinue.

In the morning they bade farewell to the sisters and faced a chill wind in the road north. The clean smell of drifting leaves and woodsmoke was on the breeze. They turned off the road to allow a contingent of men-at-arms and footsoldiers to march through. Then the road veered east, hard by the foothills and the dark forests of the eastern Wilds.

By the Laughingbrook, Margaret simply had to stop and visit the woods. She dismounted and called for Willa to accompany her. When they had withdrawn into the trees, Margaret drew Ryanh from within her mantle where he was warmly ensconced. He objected pitifully for his sleep to be disturbed as Willa took him, clucking and baby-talking to him as she wrapped him against her own warm chest. He cried louder and turned continually around toward Margaret. Finally she washed her hands in the freezing brook and shook them dry and took him. He left off wailing and laughed in anticipation as she fumbled with her dress opening within her mantle, and took him close to nurse.

In the sudden quiet, there was a clamor of voices, a clash of steel, neighing, and hoofbeats from the direction of the road, just beyond the trees. Willa reached a hand out and gripped Margaret's arm, both of the women staring round-eyed toward the sound of yelling, of hooves, and screaming, and the clang of weapons. Margaret began in the direction of the road, but Willa pulled her back. "Stay, my lady! Stay!" By force of her larger size, and Margaret being encumbered by the nursing child, Willa pulled her backward into a gully that cut the bank of the brook.

Where a tree had fallen in a windstorm, its root-ball stood exposed by the rock where it had stood, and under this Margaret and Willa crouched, hearing unfamiliar voices ringing in the woods above them. Ryanh began to fuss; in her fright, Margaret's milk was binding up. She gazed down upon him, fixing her mind on him and on her milk flowing, trying to breathe evenly, and she jiggled him a bit to soothe him. He fell quiet again, nursing hungrily.

"Jesu...Jesu... _Fear not, for I am with you, be not afraid, for I am your God_ ," Willa was whispering under her breath.

The sounds from the road receded and died in the stirring breeze, which showered them with yellow leaves.

How long they sat there, clinging to each other, they could not have said. The voices diminished, but to their straining ears every sound formed itself into a pursuer. The light changed as if evening was drawing on. Over the murmur of the brook, they could hear a distant bell, ringing and ringing. Ryanh had fallen asleep but now stirred and woke. Margaret finally turned to Willa, whose face was streaked with tears. "What happened? What shall we do?"

## Chapter 23: From Whence My Help

There they sat leaning on each other until it was almost dark. Then they rose from their hiding place and breathlessly made their way back to the road, crushed by every footfall sound they made. It was empty and dark, just a still gray swath in the blackness. Margaret whispered, "How far was it from Saint Savior's? Can we make our way back there?"

"We must. Come, let us wait no longer, we will walk all night to get there. My lady, come," said Willa, guiding her south and walking briskly. Ryanh sat in the fur-lined sling and babbled quietly in a singsong, until he drifted to sleep again as the moon played in and out the clouds, and the women passed in terror along the dark forest road.

They hid in the trees when a dark knot of persons passed by; they were silent and hurried by as if afraid themselves. Long after they were gone, Willa and Margaret made their way back down the road with pounding, praying hearts, and nearly died of fright when a deer crossed the road in front of them.

They passed from the forestland into starless pastures and then fields of stubble. Not even a dog barked in the tightly-shut cottages, nor did any lamp shine, but for a few moments, they heard on the wind the sound of an old man softly sobbing, without hope.

Margaret's back was killing her from the weight of the baby and her feet were sore to numbness by the time they stumbled to the gate of Saint Savior's, long after the moon had set. Willa knocked quietly on the heavy door for a long time, while Margaret leaned on the stone gatepost, falling asleep on her feet, her arms around the breathing weight of Ryanh. Finally moving lamplight shone vaguely on the tree branches overhanging the wall, but Margaret felt not relief, but sudden alarm. The heavy gate swung wide abruptly and they looked into the face not of the Mother Abbess, but that of a bearded, heavy-set knight, who barked in a Southard accent to two other men, who pulled them roughly within the gates and barred the door.

Margaret could barely understand the babble around her, but she made out the words "high-born" and "ransom" as they were examined and gestured at in the lamplight. Margaret's mantle was drawn back and they saw the sling with the infant sleeping, they discussed him while Margaret tried to turn away protectively, but the hands on her arms tightened bruisingly.

"Is this the way you treat the daughter of a duke?"

Willa's voice rose suddenly, imperious. She was jerked by the arm, but stood tall, nearly head to head with the guard who held her. He understood enough and clipped orders to the guards, and Margaret and Willa were thrust forward.

In the courtyard where yesterday the children and nuns had laughed and played, weapons and foodstuffs, pillaged from the town, were piled in sheaves. Some men stood in the dark, talking low, until they saw the guards with the women; there was an exchange in a guttural brogue of which she understood but little, but guessed the meaning.

The Southard knight, who preceded them, knocked on a door, which opened, and he spoke some words to the man within. The door opened wide and they were pushed through. The soldiers left and the knight entered.

A man was being outfitted by his squires in his mail; he had evidently not been awake long. His red beard still dripped from washing. He emerged from the neck of the mail coat and viewed them with interest. The squires tugged the mail into place over his solid girth. He waved them off. Approaching the women, he bowed slightly. His eyes rested on Willa.

"My ladies! Ye will be telling me what brings ye to this place so early in the dawn?"

Willa remained silent, gazing at him coolly; she did not drop her eyes. "Tell me, what're yeer names?" His accent was lower than that of the knight's; he spoke quite clearly for them. "Come now, are noble ladies always going about at night in Ardinéa? No, ye must be looking for yeer companions. The Lady Hildreth of Prim, she would tell us nothing, either, aye. But she was known to us by Sir Reddinalt, here. What of these, heh?" The knight shook his head, shrugging, and made some reply.

"Well then, I am Lord Givson, of Bradmead." He moved closer and pulled the pin from Margaret's brooch and her mantle fell away. He frowned to see the baby stirring within the sling. Then he did the same to Willa. Margaret then saw the brocaded pouch she had given to Willa to carry; on a long silk cord, it held the best of her jewels. Givson pulled at it. Willa stood like a tree. Givson merely drew his dagger, flicked it through the cord and returned it to its sheath in an eyeblink. Turning, he spilled the contents onto the Mother Abbess's writing table: more pouches; beaded, tapestried, seedpearled: Willa's matchless work.

"Where are the sisters?" Margaret asked, trying to sound bold, but her voice was hoarse.

"They were given the opportunity to leave. But not before their Mother Abbess made unnecessary fuss, I am afraid. She is detained." He was frowning thoughtfully at the pouches on the desk, fingering one delicately. Then he opened the top to look inside. Margaret knew that against deep blue silk, a large, exquisite diamond and sapphires in gold--jewels, not jewelry-- nestled; they had been her mother's. Margaret rarely wore the spectacular necklace and earrings, they were too splendid. Givson began speaking quickly with Reddinalt, who looked incredulous at Willa. The two debated for several minutes, becoming more excited. Hiding her anxiety, Willa only stood taller and stiller. Meanwhile, Ryanh woke and cried, and Margaret turned away to nurse him. The taller of the squires discreetly placed a stool next to where she stood; Margaret sat down, utterly exhausted. Finally, Givson sent the other squire out, who returned momentarily with another knight in a tunic stained with rust from his mail.

This man looked at Willa and shook his head vigorously, laughing in Givson's face. Margaret understood enough of what they said; she looked up at Willa, wide awake with wonder. Willa looked down at Margaret, who whispered, "He thought you to be the missing Queen Charis!" Willa nodded, then leaned over to Margaret, the curtain of her hair hiding their faces.

"My lady, what shall I do?" she whispered close to Margaret's ear.

"Tell them nothing. Who knows how they will treat us, and if they think you noble born, it may go better for you!" Margaret's free arm wrapped about Willa's shoulder, and Willa's arms around Margaret. "Be strong, be brave! Do not fear them--"

"For I am your God," Willa finished with her. For all their words, their breath came ragged and despite the coolness of the room, there was a fevered sheen to both their brows. Nevertheless, Willa again stood tall, and faced Lord Givson.

"Where is Lady Hildreth now, and her retinue?

"Ye will break yeer fast with me, my ladies, and we will discuss these things further."

Gilling arrived at Brycelands to find the place a roil of activity. In the town a group of women chanted while rhythmically kneading loaves; a stream of them brought raw loaves back to their hearths for rising, and baked loaves back in large packbaskets. Above the town the lawn before the manor house was full of people and horses and donkeys; as he drew nearer he could see that their burdens were being readied for marching. Each man carried bedding and a packbasket, a longbow and quiver and a skin of wine. In his gilt mail, Tamlyn was easy to spot as he passed through the hubbub.

Tamlyn saw the Troubadour approaching, mounted and leading the packhorse, and pushed forth to meet him coming. They greeted each other, and Tamlyn asked what news the Troubadour might have heard on the way. There was nothing that Gilling suspected to be accurate; they compared information and Gilling drew out the letters he had brought from Margaret's family and a letter for Tamlyn from Lord Clewode, which Tamlyn immediately opened.

As they stood there, a draught horse, still in harness, charged up the hill, ridden by a farmer with young girl riding behind. The farmer cried, "Lord Tamlyn! Lord Tamlyn!"

The crowd parted before them, and the farmer slid from the horse, and reached for the girl: by her plain gown, a postulant from Saint Savior's. "I found the lass on the road toward Deermont, where I was headed this morning. She ran all the night, alone, and she has ill news!"

"Let her tell it, then!" Tamlyn said, drawing near and taking the girl's hand. "Come, lass, sit you down here, on this tent roll. Bring her water to drink, Faulk!"

The thin girl sank gratefully onto the tent roll, wiping her dust-and tear-streaked face with her headdress, which had fallen from her pale, cropped hair during the ride. She sniffled and then took a deep breath. The men were crowding around her and Tamlyn called for silence.

"Our Abbey was attacked by men from the Fiefs; I knew their banners because I grew up near the border. They came from nowhere, it seemed; they must have approached through the forestland toward Hartsfall. They did not do us much harm, except that they forced the sisters to leave, and the old and sick ones of us have sought shelter in the town; some were going to set out for Hartsfall by cover of night. Also they kept Mother Dorcas there." She accepted the bowl of water that Faulk brought her. "Bless you, sir; for love of God, can you help us, my lord? Lord Killyan's manor was empty."

Gilling looked at Tamlyn's stricken face.

"Where are. . ." Gilling began.

"Lassie," Tamlyn was saying, squatting before the girl as best he could in his mail. "Were there any prisoners among them, any women at all?"

"I saw none, but I was among the first expelled from the place."

He turned to Gilling, who comprehended. "Perhaps they won through ahead of them."

"There were horses, though, with Ardinéan markings on their bridles, that they must have captured; some blue with white stars, some fawn and white, like unto your own surcoat; I noticed that none of the horses were war-horses, but riding-horses; mares, asses, even."

"One black mare with a white star on its head, dressed as a lady's mount?"

"Ahh... Aye, my lord."

"Margaret's mount. If the Southards came far through the forest in secret, they would be on foot, and the horses would be stolen ones. Oh, Troubadour; God knows what has become of our families! I thought I sent them to safety, not to the hands of the enemy!"

The maiden was replacing her headdress, she shivered in the cold, her shoulders sagging with weariness. "Rafert, have one of the maids to care for her. Thank you, Sister. . ."

Faulk was wrapping the cloak from his own shoulders around her, and she eyed him gratefully before chastely dropping her eyes.

"I am but a postulant. I am called Grace."

In the Refectory of Saint Savior's, a breakfast, generously supplied by the stores of the abbey, was being served by a few of the nuns who had apparently also been "detained" for such a purpose. Their eyes met Margaret's. She searched their faces; though grave, they were calm, and Margaret hoped desperately that none had been ill-used by the men.

Margaret spoon-fed Ryanh a bit of porridge while she herself nibbled at bread. The food smelled wonderful; the men heaped their bread with butter and ate of the ham, bacon, baked eggs, sliced apples, honey and creamy milk. Lord Givson leaned over to talk in heavy brogue with the other men. He turned, smiling, to Willa and Margaret.

"It would seem that it is Lady Margaret, daughter of Lord Gregory of Caer Aldene, Duke of Briardene, who graces our table this morning. A fine catch; yeer husband will be eager to have ye back at a good price, Lord. . ." He waved his hand, palm upward, hoping Margaret would politely fill in his name. Margaret was trying to decide whether she ought to give his name or not, but a voice rang out down the table, singing a few lines of a song in which Margaret recognized her own name.

There was laughter around the table. "Ah yes, Tamlyn the elf-knight, the seducer by the brook!" Margaret was too tired and frightened to argue that point.

"He will surely wish to win back his lady who won him from the evil Faerie Queen! But what of our tall maiden here? From whence will her champion come?"

" _From whence comes my help? My help is from the Lord, Maker of heaven and earth,_ " Willa intoned icily. But Givson only regarded her with increasing admiration.

Margaret found his pretense of geniality aggravating. "My lord, what are your intentions toward us? And concerning Lady Hildreth, about whom you said we would speak? We are here in your power. Will it be well for us, or ill?"

"That all depends. Yeer sister was quite cooperative, once her men-at-arms were disposed of: and they did fight well, what a pleasant diversion after our dreary march through the Wilds! She and her friends are now on their way back around through the forest to the Fiefs, along with the wonderful spoils they carried, and the finest that this abbey had to offer. Pious stuff, but gold and silver nonetheless. Too many children, but Ardinéan hearts are said to be soft where they are concerned; their keep will surely be worth their ransom. We were not here after spoils, but conquest; although there is some consolation in spoils. Our conquest eludes us: but never mind, it hardly seems needful, what with the untimely death of good King Fearnon, and his Queen's disappearance, and shirttail relatives clamoring for the crown, Ardinéa has got itself into a mess all of its own; what a day!"

Margaret was roused. "To what end would you wish to disturb the stability of Ardinéa? Has not Fearnon shown his goodwill and honored your independence? Would you wish to return to the days of many squabbling fiefdoms, and no hearth secure in all the land?"

"Aye, secure hearths; and complacent knights, who forget the art of war, and lapse into indolence and road-building, and fatten as lambs to be slaughtered by any passing tribe with a greater measure of spirit! What glory in that? M' ladies, this is the best ham I believe I ever have had, do eat some! And this rich cream, after a fortnight of marching provisions!

"Any road, we couldn't have the baby along; she has been farmed out to a nurse in-- what is this hamlet's name? Deermont. But as for ye. After a day or two I imagine we will have spoilt our welcome in these parts. Then we will graciously withdraw, taking our rightful booty."

"Rightful? Have you learned some new dispensation from the Vallards of whom you are so fond in the Fiefs? The good folk of Deermont have worked hard for Lord and Lady Killyan and for their own households, to provide food and good things, and you may simply come and take it from them, because you have a sword?"

As soon as she had said it, Margaret knew his brittle good humor was at an end for her, and she tried not to shiver at the cold mask which drew over his features. "I speak with women of these things. Reddinalt! Remind me why I should suffer lang with these females?"

"Their dead bodies fetch poorer ransom." Spoken clearly, for their benefit. The mask resolved again into a smile, the half-lidded eyes gleamed at Sir Reddinalt. He spoke no more with Margaret and Willa during the meal. She did not dare to ask about the servants and the others-- Sintia and her children-- who had been with Hildreth. She kept her eyes on her infant son. She missed the sympathetic glances of more than one of the Southards, but Willa saw.

When breakfast was over, Margaret and Willa arose and stood, not sure what was expected of them. With a dismissive wave they were taken by guards to two separate cells, like the one in which Margaret had slept the night after emerging from the forest with wounded hands.

She asked the squire for nappies for Ryanh, gesturing at his wet bottom; the extras she carried in the fur-lined sling were exhausted. He kindly brought clean rags to her cell.

The cell had a tiny hearth which was empty and cold, and the floor was cold stone. There was no water in the basin for washing. After sitting on the cot and nursing Ryanh, Margaret spread her mantle on the floor for Ryanh to lay on, and she dangled her cross necklace in front of him. All uncaring of the crisis which surrounded him, his little face shone delight in the glittering bauble, and he cooed and squealed as he lay on his stomach, kicking his chubby legs. Laying next to him on the cloak to play, she passed out from exhaustion.

When she awoke, the door was being opened. The tall squire stepped in, and as Margaret sat up, he bent with apologetic eyes, and in his big hands picked up Ryanh, who had worked his way to the edge of the mantle. He turned away quickly, speaking quietly to the baby, wrapping him in the fur-lined sling. Margaret's head swam with horror and fatigue, she jumped up crying out, spots swirling before her eyes. She screamed out for Ryanh and leapt on the heavy door as it thudded shut. Ryanh's wails receded down the hallway, while she pleaded and cried for mercy, uselessly rattling the stout door.

When she had exhausted herself with crying against the little grate in the door, and leaned into the door wishing she would awaken from the nightmare, she heard Willa, faintly.

"My lady, can you hear me? My lady?"

Margaret found some voice in her to squeak a reply. "Oh, God, Willa, they've taken my babe away! How can this be happening!"

She sobbed afresh, and when she was quiet enough to hear again, Willa was calling to her. "My lady, listen. Remember Lord Givson said they would be going back through the wilderness? They must mean to take us with them, to get ransom. Could you take a nursing infant through the wilderness, in the rain and cold? He said they lived on marching provisions; they probably make cold camps so that there are no fires to give them away. How then could you care for little Lord Ryanh, keep him warm and clean? We must commit him to God, we must pray he will be loved and cared for and that the Lord will reunite you with your child again. Margaret, we know not what lies ahead. We must be strong and brave, and not fear them, for God is still God, my Lady!" Willa sobbed the last out and fell silent.

There was silence for some minutes in which Margaret struggled between sinking into blackness, and a strange calm which seemed to flow from the echo of Willa's words.

At last, she spoke into her hands. "The Lord bless you and keep you, my baby," she whispered, struggling to keep her eyes and mind clear.

Tamlyn dashed off a letter at the writing table in his bower, and gave it to a courier to run it to Lord Clewode, explaining the postulant's story and that he would be marching his men toward Deermont, if not defending attack at any moment from that direction. He would be rounding up men from the vicinity and outfitting them as best he could, and was sending messages around and about to all to come and join them. The old keep's granary was to be filled with the harvest so recently gotten in to the many cottages, and the inhabitants who remained were set up in watches so that the Brycelanders could flee to the hills in case of attack, and have grain to keep them for the winter after the Bradmeads moved on.

Already, livestock were being driven from their warm barns into the pasture hills and hollows to hide. Any sick and old and toddling were lodged within the keep. More bedrolls were being hastily tied to backs. And even as the courier's hoofbeats died away down the river road, the Brycelanders' swollen century marched and rode for Deermont.

Margaret guessed that about an hour passed, when Lord Givson turned the lock and entered the door.

She stood facing him sternly, and fighting tears, determined not to let him see her grief. "Where is my son?" she hissed.

"He is cared for." Margaret regarded him unflinching, though the color of her skin seemed to change by the minute. "Now remove your jewelry, and anything else you may have about you. Do it quickly, and I won't search you." Margaret pulled the gold hoops from her ears and the rings from her fingers. She placed all in Lord Givson's hand; he separated the wedding band from the rest and placed it in a small bag hanging round his neck, and dumped the rest, tinkling softly, into a larger hide wallet held open to him by the lighter-haired squire. He turned to go even as the other squire tossed a woolen mantle on the floor with a plain brooch pin, and grabbed up her fur-lined cloak, disappearing with it. Margaret picked up the crumpled woolen nun's mantle up from the floor after they left. Underneath it, on the flagstones, lay the rose-twined cross on the long rope chain, glittering in the narrow stripe of sun that angled through the narrow window.

She went to the door, looking out the grate. They had gone, and she picked up the necklace, wondering where she could secret it away. Her gown had a pocket in the side seam, and she put it there. Then she called, "Willa, love, is it well with you?"

"Aye, My lady. And with you? Have they taken away your gold?"

"Aye, they have. They have taken all they can take." She did not mention the necklace, in case they could be heard. And then she thought, there is one more thing they can take. But she made herself not think of it.

The squire appeared in the evening to take the chamberpot away, and returned with it empty and rinsed. He also brought water for the washbowl in the stand in the wall niche. Margaret was surprised at this kindness; he was a frighteningly large, homely but pleasant-faced, dark-haired youth with a stubble of whiskers on his upper lip and chin. Before he turned to go, Margaret checked the hallway outside, then turned to him. "Please, good man; where is my son?" She hadn't meant to, but her lips trembled and her eyes grew wet as she said it. He looked miserable, but turned away in silence, and locked the door behind him. But outside the grate he hesitated, bowing his head to the grate in the door.

"It is well with him. Warry not, m' lady." Margaret drew a deep sigh as he withdrew. Later when the same squire brought a plate of food, he hurried away without meeting her eyes. Deep in the night, she lay awake, her breasts engorged so that she was too uncomfortable to sleep. She wept again for Ryanh, and for Tamlyn, and changed the milk-soaked towel in her shift, and tried to stop weeping and to pray yet again.

## Chapter 24: To the Four Winds

Galorian sat on the mossy outreaching limb of a massive oak, pensively thumbing the feathers of a long arrow. Below her, on another branch, Charis stood, her chin on her arms which were crossed, leaning on Galorian's branch. Downward they gazed at a band which wended their way on foot through the oak forest. "Of course, we had never foreseen that the sons of Adam would bring such madness into the Wilds. You must have known, my sister, but you never could have told us. And now, here they are, trampling the broken hedgeway."

"What we must do will be given to us to know. It is all part of the tapestry that the Weaver wefts in His wisdom. While we wait, may we not console the downtrodden hearts? There are daughters of Eve, and they go against their will. One of them is known to both of us."

"Aye, and by her hand-"

"But such matters are settled, and we ought not speak of them."

For a moment Galorian was silent, gazing on the dark head that passed below. She returned the arrow to the quiver at her back. "We must not be known to them as yet. But yes, let us find ways." The little band having passed, the two queens leapt to the ground, bows in hand, and their mounts approached and followed behind them. Farther away in the understory of the woods, other tall figures that had been still and watching also moved.

Margaret and Willa rode together on Willa's roan horse behind the pack mules. Margaret sat behind, one arm around Willa's waist and the other tucked under her own aching bosom. At last it had ceased to wet her clothes, but the pressure was not yet easing. When she thought of her son, she could not have said whether the pain was worse in her breasts or in her heart. She laid her head on Willa's shoulderblade.

The imperturbable roan's ears were flicking back and forth and its skin twitched momentarily. There was a sweetness to the air in the grove through which they passed, and a lifting of the heart; a sound of-- birdsong?

Her eyes pierced the forest around her. Pale yellow leaves fluttered like moths. _No one has heard the Elven-folk ride these many years, since the briar hedge was broken down,_ she thought. _Still, they are out there. And so? Our paths are necessarily sundered. It is better so. Our ways would be frail, for them. Their ways would be witchcraft, for us. Someday they will leave Ardinéa altogether. Tamlyn said so._

Down the misty aisles of the forest, she had glimpsed something. She lifted her head and blinked: but it was gone. "What is it, My lady?" Willa asked.

"Two deer," said Margaret; "One white, one gold. Oh, they were so very lovely."

Margaret awoke; she had drifted off without realizing it. Willa was sliding off the horse and it was dusk. Margaret shivered. The woolen cloak was not nearly as warm as her fur one. She also slid off the horse and landed unsteadily, with a gasp of pain from her overloaded chest; Willa caught her arm. When the handmaid looked in her face, the gray eyes clouded with worry. "My lady," she whispered, laying a wrist to Margaret's temple, "You are hot."

"But I am freezing to death."

"You're flushed. Milk fever."

"If that is all, then it will pass." She pulled the mantle tighter, her teeth chattering. "How I wish there was a fire, at least, but no chance of that."

The women were spoils of war and must be protected; Lord Givson had sent them with three squires of his own household, including a lithe, silent scout; a crooked nosed fellow with long, mousy hair; and the big, darkhaired, one who had attended them in Saint Savior's. This one hung close by them, obviously somewhat burdened by the responsibility. Though homely, his was an honest face with kind, dark eyes. Now he was stripping the roan of its gear, and he laid the horse blanket down and bade the women sit on it for their cold supper. Willa was torn between playing out her charade as a lady on the one hand, and wanting rather to stand awhile and regain circulation in her buttocks on the other after hours of sitting stiffly erect and clutching Margaret's arm so that she would not fall from the horse.

The young man brought them a loaf of bread, hardboiled eggs, some cheese, and a skin of wine. Margaret drank a bit of the good wine, and worried to bits a piece of the fragrant abbey bread, but sat with her eyes glassy in the twilight. Willa bade her lay back down.

The squire returned for the remnants of the supper; Willa had gathered them into the cloth and stood nearly eye to eye with him, for he slouched somewhat.

"What is your name, Sir?"

"Ah'll give ye mine if ye'll give yeers."

"Very well. I am Willa."

"M' lady Willa--"

"No, but I am only Lady Margaret's handmaid." She said it with a curtsey before standing tall and regarding him again.

"I am Squire Ramsaidh FitzElleryn, and how can I believe ye?" She gazed at him evenly. "That is, why should ye be telling me this?"

Willa dropped her eyes to examine the intricate tooling and the silver closures of his hauberk. "Here we are, a day's ride into the midst of the wilderness. You and your men are all we have. Will it go well for us? Or ill? It is up to you, is it not?" Ramsaidh looked uncomfortable. One of the other men came up to him, but he waved him away. Willa looked down at Margaret, and lowered her voice. "My lady is unwell. Her nursing infant was taken from her only a day ago, and hers was the only breast for the child, so she has milk fever. There, we have no secrets from you."

Ramsaidh understood the unasked question. "I am to bear ye safely to Bradmead. There I am to place y'under custody in the citadel of Denisham, where the others of yeer party have already gone. Ye will remain until ransomed, and then be released. I trust y'will not be harmed, if ye cooperate. More than that I may not say." By his tone of voice and his slight bowing of the waist, Willa understood the unspoken answer. She lowered her eyes, and after he moved away, she sighed with deep relief and turned to kneel by Margaret and shelter her from the teasing wind.

Later, when the dark was deep, and the men talked quietly, readying to lay on their bedrolls nearby, Willa felt the fur of Margaret's mantle settling quietly over her and Margaret. Gratefully she pulled the edges over Margaret's form.

Willa watched the dawn come through the bare branches overhead, her breath steaming toward the pale sky. She had wrapped her length around Margaret, who shivered although Willa was sure she would burn up under the fur. Eventually, Willa drew out of the mantle, tucking the edges around Margaret, and rose to her knees to pray, murmuring very low. To her astonishment, broguish voices joined her in the Paternoster, and when she arose, Ramsaidh offered a hand up, which she took, flushing with surprise.

The lanky one, Kent, was tying his bedroll to a mule he had already loaded with spoils. Willa stood, feeling the aching muscles in her back. She realized that the men were nearly ready to leave and she knelt to rouse Margaret so that the horse blanket could go on the roan. Squire Olney, the mousy-haired one, held the roan's head and Ramsaidh lifted the women in turn to the horse's back. He had not asked for Margaret's cloak; his face had registered dismay at her febrile appearance. He shifted his short sword behind him for marching and took Skara's reins himself.

The scout, Squire Kent, jogged ahead, Squire Olney led the two packmules loaded with tapestries, food, linen and gold from Saint Savior's. In this way they traveled on through the ever more ancient wilderness for four monotonous days.

Tamlyn had gathered many men who had fled into the surrounding country with their families after their hamlets and villages had been alerted by the sisters, who had sent the young ones out in every direction. But many of them had little or nothing for weapons, their soldiers having been sent south. From their ravaged farms they took their pikes and mattocks and flails, and whatever else could be imagined as a weapon.

But when at last they had approached and surrounded Saint Savior's, the gate hung open and the place stood empty. A careless departure had left the cloister strewn with rubbish and discarded items. Furniture had been dragged out into the courtyard; a fire left burning in the refectory hearth. The smell of urine tainted the air in the cloister. Tamlyn with stomach clenching and sword drawn edged his way down halls, throwing open doors and praying. He found only bare rooms, stripped of all beautiful and useful things.

Having exhausted the dormitory, he called his men and returned to the courtyard. As he emerged under the leaden sky, he saw the Mother Abbess and a few of the nuns standing in the yard in a cluster of men. As he approached the men parted and she turned to him. In her arms was his son.

Tamlyn threw down his sword and gauntlets and scooped the child up to him, kissing and holding him, and then remembering his mail, he threw back his coif and held Ryanh against his face. The baby cooed with recognition, patting Tamlyn's face and kicking his little feet within the blanket.

The men were all talking at once about the whereabouts of the Southards. Tamlyn turned to the Mother Abbess. "Mother Dorcas, where. . ."

"I know not what has happened to my lady your wife, for when the Southards came at Compline and battered down our gates, I confronted them and ordered them to leave us alone, but they locked me in a storage room. There I stayed until next afternoon, about Nones, when one of them opened the door and gave me this child and escorted me to the gate, without a word. I recognized the babe immediately, for I had seen him the day before.

"I went to the nearest house, finding it empty, also the next house and the next. I prayed and prayed, for the babe was hungry. Then I found a ewe in a cottage, with a lamb still suckling. At this time of year! I knew it was from God, and I tied the ewe's head to a post, and managed to milk enough into little Lord Ryanh's mouth to quiet him.

"There I stayed, for there was milk for the babe, and some meal I found for myself, and embers in the hearth to start a fire to warm us. This morning I went out for firewood and saw that the Southards were departing the abbey. I watched, hidden until they had gone--"

"Your pardon, but when was that, and where did they go?" interrupted Gilling.

"First light, and they were going north."

"What of Lady Margaret, Lady Hildreth?" said Tamlyn.

A stout nun with a strong voice spoke up. "We were detained to cook and wait on the Southards. The Lady Hildreth was among them when they arrived, and her children. Her baby was given to the sisters and the priest's wife who were expelled, also the others who had been with Lady Hildreth. We believe that they have gone to Sweetbriar for refuge, and took the baby with them. The next day she was gone, but now we saw Lady Margaret and her handmaid at the morning meal. But by the grace of God, I don't believe that they laid a hand on any among us to our hurt, excepting Father Rendal."

The other women were nodding assent.

"Then your prayer was heard, Mother, when you commanded them in Christ to leave us alone," put in a frail-looking sister.

Several voices chimed in, "Aye, praise God, Thank You, Jesu. . ."

Gilling was asking if they had seen his wife and children. Tamlyn turned to Lord Killyan's son, who had stripped the armor from his father's body and put it on, though he was not yet a score of years; and the Constable whom the Brycelanders had elected, a grizzled man with a wise face.

"We ought to ring the bell, to knell Lord Killyan and Father Rendal, and to alert the Deermonters that they may safely return. Faulk, send up one of the lads up the tower. I need a wetnurse for my son. And then we must pursue the Southards."

Gilling said, "Ought we not, my lord, to negotiate with them? They have your wife; what will they do with her if we attack them?"

"Aye, and what if they have made for the forest? How shall we fight them then? And do we know what their numbers may be?"

"Six knights, fifteen squires, thirty footsoldiers," said the stout nun. "We had to feed them, and I asked how many. That was what Lord Givson told me."

Another spoke up. "Aye, and a knight and three squires left to take Lady Hildreth back to Bradmead, and three more squires took Lady Margaret. I noticed them gone when we fed them last."

"Bonnie, brave lasses, the lot of you! Soldiers and spies in headdresses!" cried the Constable.

"Mother Abbess, a word?" said Tamlyn. They stepped apart from the group of men, who were discussing their plan of action. "My thanks to you, Mother, for caring for my son, the light of my eyes," he said, holding the silky head to his again, "I must ask this of you; that you will find for him a wetnurse who will come and care for him here in Saint Savior's, and that you yourself might watch over him until I find my wife and return for him? Or send word to Caer Aldene, to Margaret's foster-mother, her aunt, Lady Rivanone."

"I know Lady Rivanone, and I believe I can find someone, aye. And he will have plenty of mother-love, here," She reached for Ryanh, and Tamlyn kissed him again, stroking his fine skin and smelling his hair. Then he handed the babe over to Mother Dorcas, who cooed to Ryanh, turning away to the sisters, who clustered about her, hands reaching for the baby. Imperiously she waved the hands away, calling, "Come, sisters; we have much work to do! Floors to be mopped, inventory to be taken!"

Tamlyn reached into his surcoat and found a purse, and dumped out a handful of coronets. "Mother Abbess," he called, and she turned back to him. Gratitude registered on her face as she pocketed the coins, bowing her head. Then she turned back to the women. Ryanh's flower-like face regarded Tamlyn over her shoulder as she moved away, sucking on a little fist. "Oh, Margaret, love, is it well with you, my stolen lady?" he whispered.

There was nothing left of the Bradmeads, only a wide trail churned into the leaves of the forest floor, veering off the Deermont-Sweetbriar road, and a trail of pillaged households and three manor houses emptied of gold, jewels, good clothing, arms, tapestries, and any other easily packed items. But there had been some warning at these, and there were no more kidnappings or slayings evident.

Near the road, the bodies of Margaret's and Hildreth's men-at-arms were found, hastily covered with stones from the woods. Tamlyn rode his war-horse some way up the trail into the forest, as though it would reveal anything at all to him. Faulk followed behind, silently for a minute. Then he called out, "My lord."

Tamlyn reined his horse. He knew he was being irrational. "Oh, God! All I can do, Faulk, is go south and buy my lady back." Faulk sat silently, knowing it was a terrible moment for his Lord, who looked longingly up the trail. Then his face set, and he turned his horse back to the road.

When Tamlyn and Faulk rejoined the men milling about the road, Tamlyn called for attention. "The Southards have escaped, and the captives with them. We are in no way prepared for many days' journey in the forest, nor is there time to prepare. Troubadour, go and find your wife and children in Hartsfall or Sweetbriar. We need scouts, brave and silent men, to follow unseen into the forest, and report back when they learn anything. Half of us must muster out for the Fiefs, as we had intended; and half must form a close-woven guard for the area, with ready couriers. Constable, I leave you to organize men for that. I also expect those who remain to organize the foodstuffs, clothing and other relief for those who bore the brunt of the Southards' pillaging.

"Young Lord Killyan, I leave you to bury your father and the other dead, God rest them. I am riding south this very day, this very moment! My men will array in the next meadow. We can still be in King's Leigh in five days, and under the banner of Cynrose, if we leave now. Then, let us be going." Without ceremony he turned his horse and trotted south, his face set for King's Leigh.

Margaret's fever broke, the wooziness left her, and the fullness receded; she joined Willa with the men in kneeling prayers at rising and laying down, and at occasionally walking some distance for a change. The forest air was fresh with the first cold snap of the autumn. Flocks of migrating geese began to cloud the sky and the sun coaxed from the fallen leaves a scent as they continually rustled through them; in some places a foot deep. Margaret forced her thoughts away from her husband and her child, lest she suffocate with longing. Instead she ruthlessly focused on the beauty of the baring woods surrounding her, and on accomplishing this journey, whatever she might find at its end.

"We have much to thank God for," murmured Willa.

"Say on," said Margaret.

"The men are kind-- Lord Givson might well have sent us with brutes. They are good even to Skara. And it has not rained much."

"And we shall be ransomed, and return home-- we have that hope," said Margaret.

Willa was silent. Margaret was a married noblewoman. For herself, she was not so sure. " _But I will hope continually, I will praise God more and more._ How does it go? _My mouth will tell of Your righteousness, and Your salvation all the day long, for I know not their limits._ "

"You are a treasure, Willa." Margaret now fell silent, silently vowing not to let anything befall her beloved handmaiden. _Heartmaiden, I call her, Lord_.

They had walked high into foothills of the Cloud Mountains' southern reaches, now they began to descend hill after rolling hill. The trees were less massive and there was less space between their trunks. The woods seemed to close in and become dank, the ground softening. Soon they began to skirt the edge of a boglands, which seemed to go on for miles. Muskegs spread over murmuring water, studded here with withering ferns and sumac and there with denuded marsh willows. Just at twilight, they reached the edge of a large, dark loch into which the endless marshes drained. Far away on the other shore, pinpricks of light could be seen.

Here the men built a fire on the shore, and sat down to roast a brace of ducks that had appeared, dangling from Kent's belt; this together with the abbey bread, now quite dry, and apples gone mellow, and springwater with a wine taste from the refilled skin.

The men sat up late, talking and singing their songs, letting the fire die.

Margaret and Willa sat at the edge of the firelight, listening to the novel sounds in the quiet. Finally Squire Kent turned to them. "Each other's songs, we have heard. Do miladies have a song for us?" Singing was far from Margaret's heart at that moment, on the dark lakeshore, no stars or moon to cheer the night. But when Willa began softly to sing her lament, she joined in minor harmony.

By the rivers of Babylon, there sat we down,

and we wept, when we remembered Zion.

We hung our harps upon, our harps upon the willows

We hung our harps upon the willows there.

For those who took us captive asked of us a song

How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?

We hung our harps upon, our harps upon the willows,

We hung our harps upon the willows there...

There was a moment of despairing silence as their voices died away, the men staring into the fire.

"There, Kentigern, ye asked for it," said Ramsaidh, to break the mood.

"Oh, aye, and I gat it, too," he replied. The men resumed their talk and laughter, but it was a while before the hollow ring was out of it. But having sung, Margaret found her burden lighter. "Come, Willa, let us sing another. After all, these men are only vassals to their lord, doing his commands; and they have been kind, aye?"

"Aye, we can't kill them with sorrow ere we are out of this wilderness, can we, my lady?" They shared a little laugh, and the men turned, surprised to hear it. Margaret began a praise-song, and prayed through the song, winning out in joy, even as the enemy hidden on the other shore wondered to hear the women's song in the night, drifting over the placid water, seemingly from the haunted bogs themselves.

The dawn came leaden, a light merciless breeze chapping Margaret's cheeks. She was amazed to see the surface of the wild lake afloat with drifts of wild geese, their honking a cacophony. With a thunderous roar, they began to take flight, and for many minutes the air was full of beating wings and the cries of thousands of the heavy birds, circling around and forming their flocks to fly south. The three men and two women stood awed by the sight, unable to speak over the sound.

When the air cleared of all but the stragglers, Margaret and Willa saw two long, shallow cargo boats rowing toward them, the rowers chanting in time with the plashing of the long oars.

Margaret understood that last night's fire had been a signal to the other shore, perhaps a half-mile away. The rowers were powerful, and soon arrived and pushed the prows upon the muddy shore. Margaret and Willa became acutely aware of themselves, wild and bedraggled as they must appear, but the two oarsmen did not take unusual notice of them, but greeted the squires deferentially and set to work loading the spoils in the boats.

Soon it was time for the women to get into the boats as well. Willa had never been in a boat before and blanched. She sat on a rolled tapestry, then slid lower in the boat so she could not see over the gunwales, and sat with her face covered with her hands.

Margaret started climbing in the same boat, but Ramsaidh stopped her. "M' lady, do ye swim?"

"I don't," said Margaret. Ramsaidh took her arm, directing her to the other boat. Dismayed, she called, "Willa, look at the water, or you will be ill!" Willa uncovered her face and smiled miserably at Margaret as Ramsaidh helped her into the other boat.

The horse and mules had been stripped of gear, and as the boats were pushed into the water, their long leads pulled them toward the lake. The mules gamely marched into the water, but Skara balked, her ears laid back. Squire Olney tugged sharply on the lead, which was tied to the horse's bridle. Skara groaned and tossed her head, and biting the bridle, she began to pull the boat back to the shore. Willa was up and over the prow and at Skara's head in a moment, speaking calmly to the great horse. "The water is like ice! Can she not be ridden around the lake?" she said to Ramsaidh as he came up to the horse to take her head. He produced a few oat groats from a pocket and held them in his large open palm for the horse to snuffle. His large, calm hands smoothed the horse's neck while his speech calmed the maiden.

"It is impossible. Marish on the one end, a great gulf on the other. This is the only way, without traveling hours downstream. The water is not as cold as ye are thinking, for below the surface it stays warm well into fall. She will have a rub, and blankets, and hot mash on the other shore, I will see to it meself, Maid Willa." Reluctantly, Willa left the horse and returned to her place in the boat. She sat down, and called to the horse, and clucked. Skara went forth, and the boats started over the silvery water. To the women's surprise, most of the lake was shallow, and Skara merely trudged, withers-high, along the bottom, leaving a foaming trail of bubbles that rose from her hooves disturbing the bottom.

The mules, whom Ramsaidh led from the other boat, were shorter of leg, but were energetic swimmers, and soon the gap between the boats grew wider. The wind was cruel away from shore, and Margaret fought off an overwhelming loneliness, thinking of Tamlyn's voice, talking low with her in the night; his clear blue eyes, the feel of his beard against her cheek, his heat beneath the coverlet. She thought of her baby, now separated from her across this great water, and the thought was dreadful. Her eyes closed a moment in prayer. Ramsaidh's voice jarred her to the present.

"Yeer handmaid, my lady; be she bond, or free?"

"Willa is a free woman. Only criminals and debtors are bond, in Ardinéa. Why do you ask me, Squire?"

"I wonder who will speak for her in the day that she is ransomed. Her father?"

"Willa's father and mother are gone. My husband will undoubtedly buy her freedom when he buys mine. She is dear to us."

"She is not betrothed, then?"

Margaret sat up very straight, feeling her cheeks go hot. She hissed, "Have you not already taken enough from me that is dear? My family you have parted to the four winds, taking the very babe from my breast, and done I know not what with him; would you also take her who is my only companion now, and all that is familiar to me? Aye, for I have seen how you look at her, Squire."

Margaret regretted her outburst, for now the tears came, and she turned her head away, wrapping the cloak tight around her. There were several dips, pulls, splashes and drips as the oarsman labored steadily amidships. "M'lady, please, hear what I have to say," Ramsaidh murmured. Margaret waited as he shifted his body, holding the mules' leads in his bole-like fists, to draw closer to her. "Yeer husband is a knight, aye? Does he decide what orders he might follow and what he is above doing?" He hesitated, but Margaret would not acknowledge him, fighting a hatred that welled up within. "Our Lord Jesu said to render unto Caesar his due, and to God, His. Also has the great Apostle not instructed us to obey every authority over us? Then what choice had I, even if I despised doing it? Am I then evil? Lord Givson is my uncle and my foster-father, for I am a bastard son of Lord Elleryn of Bradmead. Therefore I am doubly bound to honor his commands. In fact, I disobeyed him when I gave yeer son to the Mother Abbess, for I wrapped him in the fine white blanket; so that she would be sure to know him as a noble child."

Margaret began to wail unselfconsciously with bitter relief, "Oh, my Ryanh, oh thank You Jesu, Oh God. . ." Against her hand over her face, she felt a light touch of fabric; Ramsaidh was offering her a kerchief, which was creased and none too clean, but she didn't care. She hid her face in it and sobbed, but her hardship was so lightened that as she wiped the last tears away, hope lit her face.

Ramsaidh sat for a long time, staring at the distant shore and watching the mules patiently churning away. The mules climbed a sandbar, and Ramsaidh called to the oarsman to give them a moment to catch their wind and his own. They had crossed, perhaps, two-thirds of the way over the lake. They sat waiting for the other boat to catch up. In the quiet, Margaret heard sounds of axes and sawing from the other shore, of hammer and chisel ringing on stone, and the cries of men singing out in the morning air. Ramsaidh finally cleared his throat and spoke low to Margaret, who now met his gaze evenly and almost with gratitude.

"I pray each day, m'lady, that God will make me wise to know what to do about such things. For I do not agree with the Bradmeads in warring against Ardinéa. Nor do I love war-- especially now. But how can I go against the teachings of Christ, which are not easy ones, but seem to me very clear in this case?"

"I cannot answer you that, Squire. I never saw it in quite that way. Christ fed hungry people, He healed lepers, gave hope to outcasts. What does war have to do with that? For He has also said that he who lives by the sword, dies by the sword."

"I cannot answer ye that either." They sat in silence, watching the approaching boat and its ripples spreading on the lake surface. Ramsaidh said to Margaret, "The channel is just ahead, where the water's surface is ruffled." Then he stood up in the boat, and called to the other boat, "Let the horse breathe for just a minute, we don't want her to cool off; then go on over." He told the oarsman of the boat they sat in to continue ahead. "In battle, I have seen men most selfless and sacrificing, not withholding their very own lives to save others. Is that not Christ-like? _Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends._ "

"If we were truly like Christ, we also would lay down our lives for our enemies, aye? _For while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us._ " Margaret stared at her hands, which twisted the smutty kerchief. "I wonder if I would do that." They sat in silence.

"At least one may meet kindness, even in war," murmured Margaret. Ramsaidh was frowning toward the other boat, where Willa's face was fixed on Margaret's, sitting opposite Kentigern and Olney.

They were near the other bank, and the mules treaded the shallows near shore, when Ramsaidh leaned over to talk very low with Margaret. "Keep yeer hair bound, and stand tall, and no one will bother ye, my lady. I am going to lay claim to Willa for now. She may refuse me later if she chooses. But no one will molest her as long as they view her as mine."

The oarsman was up and tossed the painter to one of the men on shore, who pulled the prow up on shore. Ramsaidh let go the mules' leads, for they were running ahead up the shore. They were immediately caught and led to a rough, low stable which faced a large fire, to be rubbed dry. Skara soon followed as well. After helping Margaret from the boat to shore, Ramsaidh approached some of the men who were coming to unload the boats. He called them over to himself and talked with them several minutes, reverting to the broguish southern speech. Margaret and Willa stood, looking around them.

Forest was being vigorously cleared south of the river. The sound of hewing filled the air, and a smell of green wood, and smoke from a number of burning brushpiles, which hung in the air cloyingly. A knoll above the lake was being quarried, and Margaret now recognized that a foundation was being cut into the rock for a round donjon keep; the removed stone was being dressed and laid around the circle. All this work was industriously pursued by several dozen men and oxen.

Listening to the men talking, Margaret caught that resupply had been expected the day before but was late in coming; and that her sister with her two older daughters had passed through with her captors yesterday and would probably reach the place called Denisham today. Margaret was startled, for she had remembered Lord Givson saying it took them a fortnight to reach Deermont, it was taking but half that time to return. Had they lost their way? Had they been espying the land? Or was Deermont perhaps not where they had intended to emerge from the wilderness?

While she puzzled over this, Ramsaidh approached them and bade them follow him. He went to the stable where the horse and mules were being attended to. While they were rubbed and blanketed, he took some black bread and leftover porridge and some honey. He crumbled the bread into a hewn-log trough, covered it with hot water, and stirred in a bit of honey and the porridge. This he fed to the horse and the mules, and kept pouring small quantities of warm water into the water trough for them to drink slowly.

He began to comb out the horse's mane. Having been walked, rubbed, fed and warmed, Skara began to close her eyes in tired contentment. "I wish to speak freely with ye, Maid Willa, Lady Margaret. It was not intended at the beginning that any women be carried away to this place. As I understood it, we were to take Caer Aldene honorably," the women gasped in surprise, "and there would likely be captives for ransom on either side, as is customary in battle. Saint Savior's, Lady Hildreth's party-- they were all part of my Lord Givson's misjudgments. The fact is that you have no protection in this land, Willa, as an unbetrothed, alien maiden. I feel some obligation-- nay, I am concerned and anxious to see to yeer safety. I have seen yeer admirable devotion to your Lady, and yeer strong faith. Also yeer beauty and proud bearing are not lost upon me. I would ask that you consent to be betrothed to me-- then no one will harass you, for I will be yeer protector. I give ye my word that ye may return to yeer own people when the Lady is ransomed. Or-- perhaps ye will stay and be wed with me."

Willa looked wide-eyed at Ramsaidh, then Margaret, her lips parting in surprise.

Margaret laid her hand on Willa's arm. "I cannot decide for you, Willa. But I don't know how else you can be protected."

Willa stood, looking down for a moment, her freckled face unreadable. "Aye, then," she said, very softly. Ramsaidh approached her.

"Ye are witness, my lady." He leaned over Willa, who raised her face to his and he kissed her on the mouth, brotherly. "Done, then." He removed the large silver brooch from his own cloak, and replaced Willa's with it, to mark her as his. Willa looked dazed.

He had had a tent cleared out for them, and hot water brought. There was no tub, and only rough, yellow soap, but to remove the filthy garments and wash was delectable. Willa was quiet, and moved as if in a trance. Margaret didn't know what to say to her. Covered only in their cloaks, they laundered their undergarments and stockings in the pail, shivering. "I have never washed a garment in my life, except as child's play," commented Margaret. "I have had servants to do all these things for me. You have given all these years, and I have taken."

"My lady, you have fed and clothed and adorned me royally, and treated me more like blood than bondslave. Who can forget that they thought me a queen!!"

"Willa, had I known what would come of you accompanying me--."

"Let us not speak of it. We still do not know what might have become of me, aye? Oh, my lady, have I done the right thing? I don't know whether to cry, or to laugh with triumph. Am I ennobled, or debased, selling myself for safety? Should I not rather trust God, and not in man?"

"But all along, you have claimed God as your protection. Perhaps it was God sent him to protect us, aye?"

"I know not, and I am afraid." She swiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

" _Do not be afraid, for I am your God_ ," Margaret whispered.

They put on their woolen dresses and took the wrung-out clothes out to the fire by the stables to dry them in the heat. While they stood by the fire, Ramsaidh remained within sight, busied with re-packing loads for furthering their journey. Willa kept looking thoughtfully, furtively in his direction and finally as he passed nearby she turned to him.

"Betrothed," she said with a curtsey, and he stopped, startled and amused.

"Aye, Maid Willa?" he said with a slight bow.

"My lady and I have need of a comb."

Ramsaidh's face fell and he looked terribly uncomfortable. "A coomb," he murmured, and moved away.

Margaret couldn't believe it. She wanted to sing, but whispered, "Willa, you lovely, wicked girl! Where would he get a comb, but from our own things? What shall he do now?"

"We shall see. Probably nothing at all."

Their shifts were ignominiously spread on a brush pile for all to see. Margaret and Willa talked and joked rather grimly, trying to forget their captivity and their own mixed feelings of kinship and resentment for their warden. They had gathered up their dried garments and were returning to the tent when Ramsaidh reappeared.

"Here is a coomb for ye." He pressed into Willa's had a bright golden crescent. She opened her hand and was dumbstruck at the intricate haircomb that glimmered in her palm. "It was my mother's," he murmured, and slipped away. The teeth were smooth from long use, of tortoiseshell, ornamented with gold. They went into the tent and changed into their clean clothes, and sat to comb each other's hair in silence.

"It would be far simpler, if he were hateful," said Willa. But neither laughed.

The noon meal was of goose roasted over an open stone hearth. Margaret learned that early in the dawn, men had tied bunches of marshgrass around their heads and then swum up to the unsuspecting geese and pulled them under by their feet. The workmen squatted or sat on peeled logs which lay about in abundance, eating with their hands and talking with one another. Ramsaidh had a plank lain level, and a smooth-worn log rolled over for seating, and had Margaret and Willa served at this makeshift table. There was ale with the meal, which Margaret did not normally care for, but the smoky bread and fowl and the fresh air gave it a wonderful flavor. The cook at one point came over to Ramsaidh to apologize for the paucity of the foodstuffs.

Ramsaidh said that he was leaving immediately and that he would be sure to look into the matter of the late resupply. After the meal Skara was led forth from the stable, and the mules, and four more horses: Ramsaidh's, Kent's and Olney's; and another old gelding which Ramsaidh was renting from one of the men there. They quickly prepared to leave. The extra horse was for Margaret.

The road away from the clearing led up to the top of a long slope, where the keep was perched. The trees had been cut to the top of the windswept ridge and down, and then the road plunged into thick forest and downward. The trail switched back several times. After a stunning view of the distant Brad Meads, Margaret was oppressed by the dark monotony of the woods. She continually had to kick and cluck the old horse forward, whose gait jolted down the rough road. Then Kent, who went ahead as usual, was calling back to the group: a courier was running up the road, leading his sweated horse; Kent dismounted to speak with him.

When the rest of them caught up with Kent, the courier had finished giving his message and was moving on, calling greetings to Olney and Ramsaidh. Kent turned to Ramsaidh.

"The Vallards have betrayed us, and have brought over ships full of cavalry and infantry and have taken Bradmouth, and much of the surrounding country. All available men are assembling at Caer Tolebrough. There is no resupply coming, but all the workers are summoned to return to Denisham to muster out from there."

There was a moment of stunned silence. Ramsaidh said, "Kent, Olney. M' Lord Givson must be met and informed. I will escort the maids. Ye go back over the lake and find him, fast as ye can!"

"What of the mules?" said Olney, who was leading them.

"One each to the maids. Ye have all your gear?"

"Aye."

"Aye."

"Go, then! Godspeed!"

Kent mounted, and Olney tossed the mules' leads to Margaret and Willa, and they turned up the road after the courier. Ramsaidh turned to Willa and Margaret.

"We'll not go to Denisham. God only knows what may be going on there, or what might happen to ye. I am taking ye back to Ardinéa."

## Chapter 25: River of God

Even as they spoke, the hovering gray sky began to pour rain. The wind blew from the north, surprisingly warm. Ramsaidh led them off the road, across the slope in the face of the rain. When they had well left the road behind, Ramsaidh turned his horse around to them.

"We will have to make our way down to Salimont. If we continue north and west, we will inevitably find the great Marish. If we skirt it to the westward, eventually we will come to the Brad River. Once we cross it, we must only continue west, and where we come out of the forest, we will be in Ardinéa."

"Squire Ramsaidh," said Margaret, "Why do you do this?"

"I have hated this whole affair. The Bradmeads have always held that we need to flex our arm now and then in order to retain our fief, for former kings have often tried to put us under tribute or eliminate our independence; that is, until Fearnon. These past few years we have entertained these Vallards, while they plumped up our pride and ambitions. When I say we, I mean my father and his father and brothers, and the Tolebroughs and Gawens of Saint Fay and all the Southards. They thought that hosting the Vallards was a wonderful way of flouting King Fearnon. There were some who were suspicious and said the Vallards had other designs. I never knew what to think, but I know now. Now we have overreached, and are all spread along our border, and the Vallards are ravaging the coast, and it is our own doing."

"But will you not be expected to join the troops in Caer Tolebrough? What will they do when they learn what you have done?"

"Probably Lord Givson will be hoping that his ill-fated foray will have been forgotten. Do ye know, we set out to take Caer Aldene, by night? But we were bewildered, then we came out on the road, and there were yeer sister and friends, and we had to capture them, for they had seen us. In questioning Lady Hildreth we realized it was too far from Aldene to make our way there secretly, and Saint Savior's offered an easily taken refuge. Then Givson had the brilliant idea to recoup the loss by kidnapping Hildreth and ye." Disgust and anger registered in his demeanor.

He turned his horse, and Margaret and Willa looked at each other. Hope lit each face, wet with rain.

In silence they rode through the dreary afternoon, but Margaret's heart sang with gratitude, and was sick in other moments with worry for her sister and nieces. The warm rain began to come in sheets, until about an hour before sunset, when the storm suddenly swept away, taking the clouds with it. The group stopped to camp and ate bread. Ramsaidh took out a flint and steel and some fibrous material and started a campfire to dry their clothes. He opened the mule's packs and fed them grain. He handed them the bundle of small things Givson had taken from them at the abbey. Margaret was almost beside herself with happy anxiety to be going back to her own country. But Willa was thinking, "What is he giving up for us?"

From Margaret's pocket she pulled the gold chain she had hidden there and put it on. Willa withdrew from her pocket the tortoiseshell comb Ramsaidh had loaned her.

Willa handed it to the squire. "Thank you, I have my own comb again," she said. He examined it, squatting in the firelight, rubbing his thumb along the smoothness of the teeth. "My mother also is dead," she said softly.

He looked at her uncomprehending for a moment, then understood. "I am sorry about yeer mother, Maid Willa. My own mother is living, in the convent of Saint Fay's." He looked at the comb, his homely brow knitting, looking troubled. His chin actually began to quiver and he turned away. Willa began to move away, but he turned suddenly and cried out, "Pray for my soul, Willa! What a wicked thing I have done, shunning my own conscience and calling it duty -- I don't even dare ask forgiveness."

Willa turned back to him, moved in spite of herself. She laid a hand on his arm. "If we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive," she murmured.

"But--"

"Do you think your sin is too big for God?" said Willa, relentlessly. "Did He die on the cross for only little sins? Or was His sacrifice not sufficient for Ramsaidh FitzElleryn's sins?" Ramsaidh began to chuckle through his sniffles. He tried to look at her, but had to turn away to mop his face before turning back.

"All right then. His grace is sufficient, thank God. But I will not ask for grace from ye-- not that I don't think ye would give it; but because I know ye would, it is my desire to earn yeer esteem." He patted her hand that still rested on his arm, then took it and pressed the comb into it. "Please keep this. I have other tokens from my mother, and ye have more need of it than I." Then he moved away and began to fix up a shelter for them to sleep in.

Late in the next morning they reached the bank of the Brad River. As they began to follow it west, they were forced to dismount and lead the animals down the rough places where the river descended. Margaret wondered if ever they would find a place to cross, but cross they must, for the other side of the river was Ardinéa. But the river was swift with yesterday's rain.

As the sun began to descend the sky, they passed a place where the river spread, and it looked as if the animals could cross. Still they continued on for some time, hoping for better, but then Ramsaidh said that they should turn back and cross there.

"I must go over first, and build a good fire, for inevitably, our things will be dunked, and this clear sky means a chilly night. Although it should be our last in the forest-- by this time tomorrow we should be at the gates of Hearthbrough."

He took the leads of the mules, and plunged his unsaddled palfrey into the greenish water. The water reached his thighs and the mules were required to swim; Ramsaidh merely released the lines and the mules swam across, reaching the bank farther on. Once across, he jumped off his horse and ran down the bank to fetch the mules. He had the fire going and the blankets from the mules' loads spread in about an hour, while Margaret and Willa sat on the opposite bank, listening to the roar of the river, and spotting migrating hawks and geese overhead, a pair of weasels foraging the riverbank, and an otter who disappeared shyly beneath the water. Then Ramsaidh crossed back over to them. "Yeer Skara can easily make this crossing. The old fellow, Thistle, I am not sure of. He'll most likely have to swim a bit. Ye, m'lady, cross on Wintauk-- my palfrey, here. Tuck yeer legs up high as you cross, and lay on his neck. I'll swim over with the old one."

"Swim!" said Margaret, but saw no alternative. She mounted the huge horse and gripped the rein firmly, and spoke the horse's name. The shaggy bay's ears turned to her voice as she clucked him into the river, his hooves crunching the gravel under the water. Willa soon followed, and Ramsaidh walked into the water, leading the old dun, who immediately began to give him trouble, balking rather than face the water. Patiently Ramsaidh worked him farther into the stream, talking firmly to him and walking by his head, gripping the reins close to his mouth.

Margaret recoiled from the water, drawing her legs awkwardly onto the horse's back. Willa did the same as they entered the deepest part of the channel. Margaret kept her eyes on the cheering sight of the fire at the opposite side-- in Ardinéa.

Then Wintauk stumbled.

She fell forward over his neck and slipped toward the downriver side as the horse struggled with his footing. The cold water was a shock and she cried out, trying to regain her seat by pulling up on the reins and the horse's mane. The horse that Ramsaidh was leading reared and bellowed, and Wintauk yanked his head away from Margaret, turning to the sound of the struggle between his master and the other horse. Her gloved hand slipped to the end of one rein as the current pulled her away from the horse; she gasped from the cold closing over her, filling her boots and gloves, her heavy garments wrapping around her and dragging her down. Willa shrieked and kicked Skara ahead toward her, but the unruffled mare merely continued.

Ramsaidh had let go the dun, who turned for the bank from which they had come and ran into the forest; while Ramsaidh plunged into the river. But Margaret was being swept along much faster in the middle of the stream, her head and flailing arms rising and sinking. Wintauk reached Ramsaidh and he climbed on the horse's back and crossed the river. He began to ride down the other bank, for Margaret had vanished down the rapids where the river narrowed.

Margaret gasped and coughed and struggled for a breath over and under the dark water, every inch of her skin screaming from the cold. Boulders flashed threateningly by and the water sucked her ever faster away. Dark blots began to crowd her dimming vision, as a strange warmth and peace began to enfold her. She could no longer feel or move her limbs or get a breath and did not care. Then her body slammed against a submerged rock, and she forgot her struggle and surrendered to the delectable sleep of darkness.

The water slowed where the river widened, and in the twilight, bare feet disturbed the smoothness of a slow-eddying pool where Margaret drifted. There was a sound in the dusk, as of silver bells.

In the last light, Willa picked her way down the bank on Skara's back, sobbing occasionally as she desperately scanned the bleak water. She met Ramsaidh, his head hanging, leading his exhausted horse back up the river bank. Both he and Wintauk were stumbling. Willa cried out at the story his sagging shoulders told. He shivered violently and could barely lift himself to Skara's back. Uncaring, Willa felt dampness seeping through her clothing where he leaned against her back, breathing hard.

Empty and numb inside, the tears drying in tracks on her freckled face, she rode Skara back to the dying fire. Ramsaidh collapsed by its warmth, as Willa threw some sticks on the embers and stirred them to life. They hissed and reluctantly began to burn, smoking heavily. She watched the smoke drift over Ramsaidh, and in the crackling silence she realized that his shoulders were racked with more than shivers. Blindly she picked up his woolen tunic that he had discarded earlier and brought it to him as he stripped off his damp linen shirt. He put it on and then turned to his horse, leading him closer to the fire and rubbing; but after the long walk up the bank, the horse didn't seem to need it. Ramsaidh fed the animals.

Every moment was an effort and a burden for Willa. She stared at the flames as Ramsaidh stripped the gear from the horses and moved tiredly about. After a time he squatted by her, offering bread, which she refused with a slight shake of her head.

"I will take ye back to yeer people tomorrow," he murmured huskily.

"I have no people." She drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them, laying her head upon them. "Margaret was all I had."

Silence dragged slow like a rusted chain, marked only by the crackling of the fire and the weeping of the river. Finally Ramsaidh bestirred himself to lay out the horse blankets for them to sleep on opposite sides of the fire. He found Willa's cloak in the gear and very slowly wrapped it around her shoulder. Her hair drooped forward, hiding her face, straying in the dirt too close to the fire. Gingerly he brushed it back over her shoulder. His hand brushed her neck and he felt tears wet the back of his fingers. Washing over his howling self-reproach was the desire to wrap himself around her.

But Willa's own longings were barred within the stone wall of her eyes. She sat, numbing from the outside in, unable to move. She drifted to sleep, sitting, late in the night, and strong hands softly gripped her shoulders and laid her on the blanket, tucking the cloak around her. Though it woke her, she did not stiffen or recoil, but found that one small edge of her engulfing loneliness melted away.

Tamlyn knelt in the white chapel in Caer Leighame. Part of his mind counted the strikes of the tower bell. With the other part he forced himself to form coherent phrases of intercession to mingle with groanings that could not be uttered. He had arrived in King's Leigh to find that Clewode had finally deferred to Princess Liona, now Queen Liona, in order to get on with things; but the reality was that it was Clewode who commanded the Ardinéan legion, while Liona occupied Caer Leighame as a beloved figurehead. Even more surprising was the development that the troops were to muster out beginning the following morning to march unopposed into the heart of the Fiefs, to fight with Southards against the Vallards. The matter of Deermont and the abbey and his slain men-at-arms was being tabled; the hostages were in the process of being returned.

But his relief was short-lived, for his wife and her handmaid had come up missing. Before running south with tucked tail, Lord Givson had reported the loss of his best squire and oh yes, two Ardinéan females. Highwaymen were blamed; one of their horses had returned to its owner at the site of the new castle.

Five bells. Vespers was in one hour, then he must report to Clewode for final instructions before the morning's march. Clewode wanted to see the horse he had given Tamlyn, who had to be geared up. Tamlyn needed to pick up his sword from the arms shop where it was being sharpened. No, he would send Faulk after it: that bought him some minutes in the sanctuary.

Margaret had prayed in this very chapel, wondering where he was. The same God heard her prayers then, and his now.

By now all Ardinéa was aware of the attack on the Fiefs, and Ramsaidh was accepted in the Priory at Hearthbrough, though the brooch Willa had returned to him plainly declared him a Bradmead. He turned over the possessions of Saint Savior's and offered coronets to pay for their return there. Both were given baths and Willa ate in the refectory, Ramsaidh in the priest's house.

Vespers' echo was dying away in the gleaming chapel, the candles being snuffed. Ramsaidh had slipped in late and knelt behind Willa, whose washed hair glinted in the candlelight about her bowed head. She stood and he stood, waiting, and finally she turned. He was shaven and dressed in good clothing, a white shirt and dark jerkin and trousers. Her eyes went wide and she held her breath. Ramsaidh offered her an arm and they walked from the chapel. When they were out the door, he said, "Maid Willa, I need to know what ye plan to do. I wish to put myself at your service, if you wish it."

Willa was still, looking at the silver clasps of his jerkin. "I know I must find Lord Tamlyn, and tell him--. . ." Her chin quivered.

"I will take ye there." It was an offer. Willa realized she was being asked.

"Aye, Sir. I suppose so." She wiped her eyes and looked up at him. "I am not accustomed to making the decisions. I would be waiting to know your plans."

"If Tamlyn doesn't have me jailed, then I don't know. I can no longer serve Lord Givson. I must find another master then, or...think and pray what to do next. _What I'd like to do next, is hold ye,_ " he thought. " _I'd like to wed ye, and make ye mine. But I cannot ask that of ye now. Jesu, help me."_

Willa's hand touched his arm. "My lord Tamlyn is not a vengeful man," she said with sad pride lighting her eyes. "So we will ride for King's Leigh in the morning? And I will pray for you, that you know what to do next, and you for me?"

"Aye, that I will," he said, his voice deserting him.

## Chapter 26: As Silver Refined

In a dream, three silver-gray wolves lay close about her, warming her body; she could actually feel their smooth fur and caught a whiff of musk. As if at some signal these rose and departed. Her bed was a pile of fluffy, dry moss on pine boughs, and her garment was silver-white gossamer. A fire burned brightly nearby, reflecting warmly from the boulder behind her.

In the wolves' absence, cool air was rushing in against her skin, waking her. She sat up, and was startled with joy to see the figure that sat, one arm about her knees and ankles crossed, close by. "Queen Charis Tiralounde!" Margaret gasped, rising to her knees and bowing her head.

"No need of that here, Margaret." Margaret stared at Charis, then looked about her. A few white pottery vessels- plain ware, but elegantly shaped- sat near the fire, steaming fragrantly. "Is it well with you, Margaret?"

"Aye, it is, my Queen. But what...how..."

Margaret had noticed a square cloth which held small piles of dried plants. Among them were herbs Margaret knew would prolong sleep. She sat back down in the moss, feeling her aching muscles and lungs, and trying to think clearly. A horrible recollection came to mind. "How have I come to be here with you? I was drowning in the Brad River. . ."

"And so I found you, drifting in shallows." Charis ladled fragrant broth into to a bowl and handed it to Margaret. "Drink this, Margaret." Margaret gratefully downed the steaming broth, and accepted a flatbread from the Queen's hand as well.

"You found me?...And what of Willa, and Squire Ramsaidh, where are they?"

"They are well, but they have left the forest. More than that I know not." Margaret looked stricken; she felt weak and Charis reached over and laid her hand on her head, as a mother does to a child. Her anxiety melted away. Charis smiled at her, and Margaret found herself smiling in return.

"I am grateful to you for tending to me, for saving my life from the river. How may I thank you?"

Charis looked gravely into her lap. "I do have somewhat to ask of you, Margaret, and it is no small thing. But a few summers will pass ere we Folk depart this land forever." Charis straightened one very long leg, and Margaret now saw that Princess Féarna lay nursing at the Queen's breast. "Let me tell you something of my people.

"When we first came over the sea, our destination was not these shores. Our ship carried the house of Finrel our king, husband of Galorian. Many, many were the deeds of Finrel's folk, valiant and brave, but many were rooted in vengeance and vainglory. The great wind that blew the ships of our people drew us apart and away, and though we struck sail and rowed until our hearts would burst we could not prevail against it. So it was that our ship was cast hard upon the shores of Ardinéa, and broke upon the rocks.

"We were in great dismay, and wept to be parted from our kin, and for many days we sat on the shore, gazing into the sea, silent before the wind, asking for what reason he had taken us hither, rather than to those shores that we desired with all our hearts.

"Then King Finrel stood and faced us, and said that this was a judgment, visited upon us for his sake. That even as we had left the shores of Middangeard, the wind had spoken to him, that he would either drive their ship beneath the waves, or bring them to the place where they might serve mortal Men who were yet to come. This was in repayment for the men whose fates they had trampled and whose lives they had not held valuable, in the land from which they sailed. Finrel said, 'My heart was crushed within me, and I told the wind that I could not discern which was more just, and only the great King whom wind and sea obey could judge such matters. So it is He who has brought us here. Let us be strong and face the task that has been laid upon us, whatever it will show itself to be. For when it is accomplished, then we will be as silver refined, and will cross the oceans of heaven itself and find our kin among its lights. Kind is the grace of our High King!'

"So we arose, with hope before us, and from the wreckage that strewed the sand we took such things as remained to us, and went up into the great forest that stood before us, and gazed no longer at the sea. It was not long before we knew our task. For great, horrible beasts inhabited the land here, and ten thousand mortal Men could not have withstood them. But our hearts were kindled with joy, for such we had faced many a time in Middangeard- though they had been vanquished there long before. And these were not evil-spirited such as we had known, but only of teeth and claw and strength that came out of the dim past, and men could not have survived in Ardinéa. So for an age we have hunted here, and joyous has been our quest, and hopeful is its end. We hunted in forest and plain, under mountains and over muirs.

"Then came Brendan and Kilda hand in hand, with their followers. We saw that our task, though still great, was nearing its end. We had served them well, and the beasts were driven far into the mountains. But it was at this time that we lost Finrel, for when he had met with Brendan he loved him, and repented so that he had ever despised the children of Adam, that he leapt on his horse Hara and rode straight for the lair of the most ferocious and dreaded of the beasts. But Hara returned to us without him, and we knew our king was gone.

"And we knew already that Finruan his son would not be king after him. Already he was called Moruan, and had sundered his path from ours. Though born on these shores, the hatred of Men was in his blood, and only grew with time. He began in his youth to be the most fell of hunters; before he understood why we hunted. He loved the chase and the bloodshed for itself. He became as a wind that drove the beasts into the mountains. He learned the ways of flight, and it was he who slew the last of the flying beasts. But when he understood that none of this was for us, but for the ones who would come after, his face fell. And when he was told of Men, who are frail, and their days short, he hated them. He called them Usurpers and refused any more to hunt the fell beasts. He wandered for a long time by himself. His friends sought him, to give him counsel, but he only tried to instill in them a hate for men. They would not listen to him.

"Even Sievan Tamlyn besought him, at Galorian's behest, to turn him back from his evil path; for this was the task she had laid upon him with the giving of her ring. Moruan may perhaps have seemed to tender friendship, but I do not believe he was sincere, though Sievan loved him. I am sure that it was for slaughter that he led him as a lamb. It was only the ring and all it represented- the power and authority of his father, Finrel- that he was after."

"And this Sievan gave me as a token..."

"An impulsive and unwise gesture. Still, had it been in his possession the night you claimed him, Galorian could not have relinquished him. Instead you too would have become part of our world. She knew it was even then on your own hand, and that ill would come of it. But the ill end- that Moruan is no more- is perhaps not an unmixed evil.

"Of Moruan and his deeds after that I will speak no more. He smote our hearts, and tainted the joy we had known of these forests and meadows. The choice of Moruan left many scars, most of which cannot be seen. Deep is the sorrow of Galorian and great have been her losses in Ardinéa."

For a moment Charis was silent, and heaved a heavy sigh. Then she lifted her gaze again, and was smiling.

"Then, we had no king but the One who made us, and to Him we cried. And He answered us, and reminded us of our hope, to be as silver refined, and to cross the oceans of Heaven.

"Brendan's people grew strong, and have all but filled this land. We have diminished and retreated apace until we live only in our mountains, among the last of the beasts who are too strong for men. But great is our consolation, for the time of our great hope draws near. It is as though we hear already the call from Heaven sounding!

"But as for me, my joy is bittersweet. For my daughter Féarna may not go, for she is of mortal flesh. When the time comes I wish to entrust her to you and Tamlyn Sievan. Sorrows there will come also, from the choice of Charis."

Margaret was awed and for a long moment found nothing to say.

"How would I find her?"

"She will come to you. I know not when it will be, but she will find you. That is, if you consent."

"Of course, my Queen."

Charis lifted Féarna and handed her over to Margaret, who lay the child in her lap, to look her over. The infant gazed at her in the same way that Ryanh did and Sunniva before her. Margaret was deeply moved, and she sniffled. Something sets her apart...Margaret wiped her eyes.

"Dearly do you long for your own son, aye? So do all the Folk long for their own. They are few and very far between for us."

"I fear greatly for my son."

Charis looked into her eyes. "Do not lose hope."

"How will she live among the sons of Adam?"

"She is one of you. Yet time will have to tell what she may have of her other nature." Charis was gathering things together, the tiny silver bells jingling on the hem of her robe. She handed Margaret another small loaf with a sweet taste, and she ate it slowly, watching Charis.

A question occurred to Margaret. "When your people leave- if a mortal Man was among you, what of him?"

Charis smiled. "Sievan could not have gone with us. He would have been released, and become only Tamlyn again, mortal as you. It was thought wisdom that he was never told this. Still, though the test was hard, are not Sievan and Margaret glad of it? Did it not prove many things?"

Margaret shivered at the memory, but nodded. "Yes, my Queen."

"I am not Queen in this place, but my sister is." Margaret started with surprise. Then she realized that Charis was readying to leave. "Though I saved your life, you are not bound to me. You were given no choice. And as you have now learned, whatever Sievan taught you of Elvenkind, there is much to which he was blinded."

She bent and lifted Féarna to herself, and smiled at Margaret, who smiled in return, but then cried out, "But I am lost and defenseless here! Where will I go, what will I do?"

Charis leaned over and took Margaret by the chin, leaning in close, her eyes burning. "Margaret, you have a weapon, which you have already learned to use; and you have the Bright and Morning Star to follow. May His face shine upon you, Margaret. Christ beside thee, Christ before thee, Christ behind thee, Christ within thee."

Margaret joined her in the familiar words. "Christ beneath thee, Christ above thee, Christ to the right of thee, Christ to the left of thee." She was moved, knowing that she would never again see this Queen whom she loved in her heart, who had sewn her child's fate to her. "Christ in thy lying, thy sitting, thy rising. Christ in heart of all who know thee, Christ on tongue of all who meet thee; Christ in eye of all who see thee; Christ in ear of all who hear thee."

Leaning over to kiss Margaret on the cheek, Charis suddenly vanished.

The pots were gone, the fire out. Over a tree branch, her own river-washed garments fluttered gently. She pulled them on over the pearly robe; the silken shift, the linen dress, the woolen overdress, the woolen hose and leather boots. She was neither cold nor hungry, and she knew which way to go.

It was late in the afternoon when she stopped and listened, hearing a churchbell far in the still distance, and her step quickened on the damp forest floor. The sun set straight ahead of her, but a waning yellow hunter's moon was already peering through the trees behind and there was a glimmer from some bonfire that played hide-and-seek beyond the trees ahead. She emerged from the forest into pasture, barren and black in the moonlight. She stumbled forward and realized that the ground had been burned over. It was getting colder and she wished for her cloak. She wrapped her arms against her chest, feeling it withered and empty with her milk gone. The thought of Ryanh propelled her onward.

A glimmer ahead turned into a stone cottage. An acrid smell of burning was still about the place. Margaret was disturbed by the loneliness and the mystery of its emptiness. It was silent but for a quiet scuffling that began after she had stood nearby for a few moments, seeing stars where rafters should have been tied with thatch. Not wishing to see what night creature was already making itself at home in the abandoned house, she turned and almost ran down the path that led to it, her mouth dry and her heart pounding.

She passed two more like it and was nearly in tears when she saw the glow of the light she had earlier glimpsed ahead of her. She slowed and approached very quietly, and finally stood still, straining to hear and see. She prayed, a dry and desperate prayer.

There were faces in the firelight, several of them. Others moved in and out of the light, to become ghost shapes shifting in the shadows beyond. Then she heard a small child's wail.

There was such need and sorrow in the sound that she started forward, regardless. She was but a dozen yards from the fire when a voice barked, " Hold! Who comes?" She was still trying to swallow her heart when a brand was snatched from the fire and thrust near her face.

"What is this? It's a woman!"

"Bring her over here!"

"What woman?"

"Where did she come from?"

The men in the group were on their feet, pulling her close to the fire and crowding her with questions. She searched the faces and saw them thin and pinched, their clothing plain and worn. Margaret found her voice.

"I am Lady Margaret Aldene, wife of Lord Tamlyn of Brycelands, daughter of the Duke of Briardene. I have escaped my captors and I am lost. I want to go to my home in Bryceland Village, in Cynrose."

There was silence. A child's voice came from somewhere. "Does the lady have any food?" The child was shushed.

"My lady," a man with grizzled whiskers rimming a kindly, intelligent face spoke up, bowing slightly before her, and gesturing as though to remove a hat which was no longer there. "They call me Gairn Bowen. We are farmers, vassals of Lord Urian of Oxbow. Our homes were burned but what, three days ago now. Lord Urian has not returned from King's Leigh, and we are trying to find any stock the Southards might not have taken, and are moving on tomorrow. We would be glad to take you as far as we may, and share with you such as we have."

"But how have you come to be here, my lady?" said a thin creature by the fire. The question was echoed around, and faces peered into hers.

"I was abducted by Southards, and taken into the forest, and...I escaped. I have walked alone all the day, and found you good people here, and I thank my God that you are Ardinéan. And what brings you out of your homes, into the night around this fire?"

A woman of short stature and a lined, but goodly face with green eyes spoke first.

"We have no homes. The Southards. They have come with fire and destruction. Today we buried our priest and his wife. They don't like that in the Fiefs, you know, they want us to be good Romans like they aspire to be, just like the Vallards they're so taken with. They took everything we had for winter's food and clothes. We've eaten the last of our bread, My lady, but we're just now cookin' up some porridge for you and the bairns."

The kindly man, Gairn, spoke next. "They were all around all day long. Those of us who could, hid in the woods and watched while they took what they wanted and burned the thatches off our roofs. I don't think they meant to burn the fields, and what would be the point, this season? But the wind blew burning thatch all over the place. Jaffret, here, got scorched bad." Margaret turned to see a tall young man laying, his face and shoulder smeared with grease and clay. She wished for some of her balm right then, to be crushing and steeping herbs in fragrant beeswax and clarified tallow in her redolent pantry in Brycelands.

A younger man spoke next. "We expected that Urian, or Tynal, lord of Deep Wells, the next village over, to come, but no one ever did, nor has yet. I expect they are all gathering in Salimont--"

"Or in King's Leigh, squabbling over who will be King!" put in the short woman.

"--But all of a sudden, the Southards were clearing out in a big hurry. The bridge in Hearthbrough is supposed to be destroyed, but they came from that way and left that way. We've had no news from there to know what goes on. Anyway there are places where a crossing might be made between there and Salimont."

"The Brad River is not such a barrier after all," said Margaret. "I crossed it myself, I and my companions, and \--was separated from them, but it can be crossed...so what will you people do? Where will you winter? You will need clothes, food, animals, everything."

There was silence for a moment. "That is the question," said the woman.

There was talk, and thin porridge which Margaret sipped from the bowl though it was unsweetened and smoky-tasting, and she wished she could let the large-eyed children have it, but her every move fascinated their politely averted gazes.

The woman stood at length, stretching her arms. "Your good woolens will have to be your best blanket tonight, my lady. Come, you can sleep by me and the bairns. It's only hay in a rick, but it's dry and warm, and no fleas. Come, Robin, come Linnet, come on, Larkin. Good night, kinsmen." The children complained to leave the warm of the fire to walk to the low byre where in the moonlight they bedded in the loft over the sheepcote.

"Good woman, what is your name?" said Margaret.

"Oh, Rossignol, Rossignol Bowen. I am Gairn's daughter. My husband was a footsoldier killed oh, four years ago, and I live in my father's house. If you don't mind, my lady, what of your own husband?"

Margaret smiled in the dark. "My Tamlyn is a bonnie knight. He was preparing for war, and sent me to my father's castle--"

"Knight!. . .Castle!" she heard gasps and whispered exclamations from the children.

"Aye, I was born in a castle, and live in a manor, but my bed is no warmer nor my company finer than the present company. So I set out for Caer Aldene, and was in the woods when my sister and her companions were attacked by a bunch of Southards. My handmaid and I carried my baby all night--"

"Baby!" This from Rossignol herself.

"--To Saint Savior's abbey, in Deermont. But the Southards were in the abbey and took us captive. They had already sent my sister and her children off. They took away my son and sent us off through the forest.

"After some days we arrived at a great loch in the forest, which we crossed to where they were building a new castle. Then we found out that the south is being attacked by the Vallards! One of our captors, who had been kind to us, repented of abducting us and began to take us back. When we crossed the river-- I -- I fell from the horse, washed away in the river, and I lived to tell about it. For here I am, thanking God to be alive."

"That is a tale. That must be where you got that bruise on your head, aye?" Margaret pressed her temple, for the first time aware of where her head had banged a river rock. "And that explains why the Southards left so sudden. You have bent the bow, that is for sure. But it was the river of God that bore you alive to your own shores."

" _I have somewhere to go back to, and God willing, somebody to take me in as well,_ " Margaret thought. "Do you pray, at bedtime? Then let us pray together." They knelt in the straw, and said the Paternoster. Then Margaret prayed aloud for the Bowens, for her family, for Willa. They then laid down in the straw, close by each other, and slept under the yellow moon.

"Heavens, Tamlyn, will you ever get old? You were in my service back when Fearnon found his Queen, but you're hardly looking near two score years. Your brother had something to say to that. I told him I would never forget the face that stood between me and death on Towmoor! By God, you were my angel that day, nothing between me and the earth but my mail coat, nothing between me and the sky but flailing hooves and flashing swords, and here you appeared. I thought of the sword that guarded Eden, turning every which way at once; that was what your sword looked like. Ha!" Clewode slapped Tamlyn's shoulder.

"You rewarded me well for that, getting Fearnon himself to knight me there on the field, and very honored I was and still am." Tamlyn bowed his head reverently over the glittering burden laid over his arms. "My lord, these past many years, I have done nothing to earn your regard, being entangled in affairs outside your concern. Yet you have always remained for me very much my champion and my friend, defending my wife during my absence. Only as a small token of my regard do I offer you these gifts, and renew to you my homage." He knelt and laid the gilt mail coat and jeweled dagger at Clewode's feet. Then he stood.

Clewode's squires moved forward to lift the presents up and lay them with Clewode's armaments. The great, grizzled warrior laid two heavy hands on his shoulders. "Well met, Tamlyn. I accept with gratitude. Now, as for tomorrow. You will lead your century and a cavalry detachment, mostly of Lowlanders, under your brother Coltram's division. As I am now Chief Commander, Coltram is over the Cynrose army. I know you well enough to trust you will be an obedient Esau. The older shall serve the younger: though no one would believe you the older. Though it seems you pay dearly for those years, son." It was not possible to know whether or not he alluded to his daughter, whom Tamlyn had nearly married.

"God has worked it for His good. I have no regrets." Tamlyn met his gaze unflinchingly.

Satisfied, Clewode slapped the shoulders again. "Good. I will look for you just after Lauds, then. When Prime rings we will be on our way to Salimont!"

Tamlyn bowed again and watched Clewode leave, pounding the war-horse's flank as he passed in the same affectionate way he had Tamlyn's shoulders.

## Chapter 27: I Was a Stranger

As he had expected, Tamlyn was placed in the rear, between the body of Coltram's division and the supply train. Coltram had been curt as he had expected; although Tamlyn saw that he sported the gilt mail, showy jeweled helmet and dagger and sword he had given him.

The day was warm for so late in the year, and windy, but a bank of dark clouds curtained the sky behind them, to the north. Tamlyn almost wished it would come and cover the sun which baked him in his mail. A courier on a tiny, light horse sped up from behind, searching the forest of pennants and shields for a particular coat of arms. Tamlyn craned his head back to see if the courier had a message for him. The courier continued up the line and Tamlyn settled back in his saddle. _Margaret, my Margaret, where are you? Why is there no word at all?_ Another voice within him said, _God knows exactly where she is. She is in His hands._

Another courier was coming down the line, from the opposite direction. He was from the Fiefs. Tamlyn viewed him with interest, wondering what his errand could be, for he had passed by all the ranking commander. The courier, a lean, sharp-eyed man, caught sight of Tamlyn's shield and immediately turned to meet him. Tamlyn turned his horse out of the flow of men and horses, his heart quickening.

"Lord Tamlyn of Brycelands? Squire Kentigern of Bradmead. My lord Givson returns his token pledge from my lady yeer wife, and asks you to retrieve her mare from him at the encampment in Tolebrough." The squire drew a small purse from his coat and handed it to Tamlyn, and then turned as if to go.

"Hold, squire!" called Tamlyn. Faulk, who had been watching intently, signaled to others, and they blocked the Southard's retreat. "What does he mean by this? Where is my Lady?"

"My lord, I was among those with her until I was sent on another errand. Somewhere between the Brad River and Denisham, she vanished with my lord--"

"Aye, all that I know already. But where might she be? Because after this business is finished I intend to find her. Can you give me any idea at all?"

The squire looked uneasy with his situation. "Come," he said, "Let us ride together a space, and I will tell ye all that I know." Tamlyn moved his horse alongside Kentigern's and the others moved back into their positions.

"Say on, Squire. I'll not threaten you, but I can't vouch for everyone around us. Bradmeads are not well-loved among us, and for good reason."

Kentigern fixed his gaze ahead, but tilted his head slightly toward Tamlyn's, intoning softly. "My lady yeer wife, and her handmaid, were counted as treasures to be guarded, and no one raised a hand against them, but we conducted them safe through the forest to Hidden Loch, from which flows the Brad River. We crossed into Bradmead territory and started down through the forest. We got word of the Vallards' attack from a courier, and my lord Squire Ramsaidh sent Olney-- that was the other man with us-- and me back to find Lord Givson and tell him the news. So we left Lady Margaret, her handmaid, and Squire Ramsaidh in the road, with the packmules laden with their possessions and stuff from Saint Savior's. No one has seen them since that time. My lord," he turned to meet Tamlyn's stare, "Taking knights for ransom is one thing; abducting ladies is quite another, and none of us was for it. But we had our orders. Ramsaidh in particular felt terribly responsible for the women, and whatever befell them, I know he would have defended them with his life."

He turned back to the road ahead. "I wish I could tell ye more. Ramsaidh was a friend of mine."

Tamlyn slipped Margaret's wedding band from the bag. He tossed the bag back to Kentigern and waved him away, wordlessly. As Kentigern rode away, he thrust the ring onto his own little finger and steadied his gaze ahead.

Margaret awoke in the dawn. Rossignol was poking her children awake. "I heard a cock crow-- listen, there it is again! Run catch it, and we'll eat broth ere we leave! Take a stick, for the dogs!" She heard a shuffling and a scramble down the ladder of the loft as the children ran in search of the fugitive rooster.

By the time Margaret had picked the straw from her clothing and hair, Rossignol had singed and gutted the hapless fowl and her daughters had filled a pot with water to boil. Unceremoniously she quartered the bird and threw it in the water.

"Bairns, search the vegetable plots one more time and see if you can't find and onion or even a carrot for the broth." She turned to Margaret as the girls ran off. "Not very likely, but it'll get them outa me hair for the present. Now. Bread! I don't let them see where I keep the meal or they'll tease for more. Oatcakes will suffice for today. Thank ye, Jesu, ye gave us this day our daily bread."

Margaret felt foolishly idle, without an idea of what to do. She had never cooked, had no possessions that needed tending to, and there were no walls behind which she could relax while others worked. She wanted to speak with Rossignol or one of the others about what they were to do, but they all were very busy. Her arms suddenly ached for the tiny bulk of Ryanh, for the sweet baby-smell of him and his priceless smiles. She slipped her hands into her deep pockets and discovered her comb.

She stood away from the fire and tended to her hair. The bright morning sun felt almost warm on her dark head as she combed and braided. She longed for Willa to be tending to her hair and her clothes. Then she would comb out Willa's beautiful red-gold hair. Oh, where was Willa now?

The girls returned, panting with exertion. "Mumma! Linnet found a carrot!"

"And I got parsley, Mumma, lookit!" The dirty prize of a yellow shape no larger than Margaret's thumb, and a green tangle of parsley, were held up and almost thrown in the seething water as-is, but Rossignol made much over them and insisted they be washed and chopped first. Margaret watched as she cut the carrot against her thumb into the pot, many very thin slices like coins. The girls' hair glinted white-gold in the sun. The girls then stood over the aromatic pot, watching the coins roll around with the leaves, until the oldest tired of it and turned away. She saw Margaret and came over to her, the younger ones trailing behind.

Margaret still held the ivory comb in her hands. The girls did a very pretty curtsy before her, and stood staring. Margaret said, "Might I also comb your hair? How is it you stay so clean?"

"Thank you, my lady, we swim in the brook, for our tubs burned up when they burned the thatch," Said Robin, the oldest.

"The brook is cold," whined Linnet.

"I can well imagine," said Margaret, turning Robin about by the thin shoulders, and starting on the blonde hair.

"But Mumma says we mustn't be dirty children, and she makes us go in anyway. Then you run to the fireside to dry your shift in the heat. It's rather fun, to tell the truth. And we don't have any lice, for Mumma makes us pick horsetail and boil it to wash with. " She dropped her eyes. "I'm talking overmuch, am I not? Mother wants me to try for a place in the manor, and she says I mustn't chatter away, or I make the nobles tire of me."

Margaret merely smiled, her eyes filling, blurring the girl's blonde curls so that they could have been Tamlyn's.

The oatcakes and the broth they shared around the fire from a single bowl was as ambrosia to Margaret. Whatever virtue imbued Charis' bread which had so sated her had worn off, and her stomach, unaccustomed to involuntary fasting, complained within the hour for more. But there was no more to be had.

"God will provide," said Margaret, feeling strangely confident. With the few belongings the family had left, they set out from that place. Margaret wondered at their so easily accepting her into their number, sharing what little they had with her. Unlike with other nobles, she needed no title or courteous display to be given entrance into their fellowship. _What have I to share with them?_ She wondered. She prayed and prayed over their journey and provision, when the three little girls were not hanging on her hands, asking for songs and stories, and telling them about persons from their village Margaret would never know.

Toward nooning they came to an abandoned cluster of houses, which had also been torched. In an empty byre, Gairn discovered a pail of milk, which sitting in a cool place, had clotted but not spoiled. They shared the yogurt around, giving the creamy top to the children. It was mildly sour. "Hunger is the best sweetening," Rossignol commented.

Rossignol was bareheaded, though widowed; Margaret soon saw why. Before they set out she examined Jaffret's dressing on his burns. They were weeping through the fabric, which on close examination proved to be a yeomaness' headdress. It desperately needed changing. Margaret removed her own headdress and changed the bandage. Jaffret didn't know any better but Rossignol cried out in protest when she saw it, even as Margaret went toward the brook to wash the fouled cloth.

Rossignol asked Margaret to tell her story once again, and she found that with all the questions as they walked, the miles and the hours slipped away. Finally Rossignol asked, "My lady, what will you do now? How can we help you?"

Margaret hesitated. "I want to go back to my home, in Brycelands, in Cynrose. But I have been thinking that perhaps my lord my husband will rather have gone to fight, and if that is true then I am not sure what is best. I am praying in my heart that the Lord will guide me. To King's Leigh, perhaps, where I might learn what is happening and where I might stay with my brother who lives there, or even my uncle, Lord Rovehill." She broke off when she saw eyes go wide.

"Perhaps you have not heard the news, that Liona Rovehill is crowned queen," said Gairn.

Margaret took this in. They all were staring at her anew. "God bless our queen," she said, for something to say. She was comparing in her mind the charming and ambitious, fur- and jewel-clad aunt with the painted face who had visited her father periodically during her childhood; with Charis Tiralounde, the barefooted fey queen, who had given Fearnon such joy that his warlike strivings were tamed, and his desire for justice and peace flourished.

"The Queen's niece, Mumma! It's like a fairy tale! She combed our hair!"

"And ate our poor broth, and slept in our straw--"

"And truly grateful and indebted I am, for you shared with me your own widow's mite, which came dear to you; and I will see that you will be rewarded. But for now, I am as a beggar among you. Jesu has said, _I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you took me in, and inasmuch as you have done it for one of the least of these My brethren, you have done it for Me,_ " said Margaret.

They had ridden four days now, and excitement was building among the troops and divisions. Frequent were bursts of song, sometimes punctuated by knights banging their lances against their shields in rhythm, a deafening beat that roused men to sing by the thousands at times. Tamlyn rode among it, strangely detached and somber, yet at times thrilled almost to tears by the thunderous din.

The Fief of Jonsmoor comprised seemingly endless heaths by the sea, stretching in desolate beauty, in shades of russet and sienna and gold and purple under pale blue sky. In summer, children from undefended seaside villages scoured the moors for nests full of speckled eggs, sternly admonished to leave one egg for each they stole. The relentless wind hissed in the dried heather and carried a salt sting with it.

Finally word came that tomorrow the Vallards would meet them in battle on these open fields. Tamlyn gave thanks that they were not going to withdraw into the walled city at Bradmouth to be besieged for perhaps weeks or months and causing innocent civilians privation and fear. The encampment was rowdy that night until the command came down that all must to bed after one last song, which was drummed and sung loud enough that Tamlyn was sure that the Vallards just over the horizon must surely hear it.

In the tent he shared with Faulk, and with several cavalry officers Clewode had placed under him, Tamlyn lay on his horseblanket, fingering Margaret's wedding ring. It gave him an awful feeling to have it, wondering where she was without it. He prayed again desperately for her. Almost as an afterthought did he pray for the battle tomorrow; it never seemed real to him until he saw men and horses before him as his enemy. He was drifting off when he heard a stirring in the tent; he squinted in the darkness and heard his name whispered.

"Gilling! Troubadour, well met!" Tamlyn leaned up as Gilling threw his blanket down next to him and whispered.

"Tamlyn, I am so utterly exhausted I won't await your invitation to squeeze into your tent. I have traveled as hard as ever I have in my life to reach here, but let me tell you that my family is well and sends you greetings, and I even heard that Lady Hildreth was in King's Leigh as of three days ago when I left there."

"Only three days, Gilling! Then sleep, man! Ah, but where are Sintia and your children now?"

"I sent them to Aldene, some of your father-in-law's men were going through. She also will tell Lady Rivanone of your child's whereabouts."

They were silent. Tamlyn heard Gilling wearily pull up to his knees, even heard his lips moving silently in prayer, and then a slight figure enter the tent and nearly fall with exhaustion near Gilling, before he drifted off to sleep.

Tamlyn was awake long before dawn, as usual, and met with Clewode, then returned to his tent for his mail as the sky grew a heartbreaking silver blue. He stepped in, nearly tripping over a body cocooned near the doorflap. Faulk was up and dressed, and wordlessly lifted Tamlyn's mail coat, readying it for Tamlyn to stick his head in the opening. Gilling began to stir, and once his eyes had opened, he jumped up and rolled his blankets out of the way. He frowned at the form near the door. "A boy I picked up on the way for a groom. Claimed to be an orphan, might have run away, I'm not sure. I'll be right back." He stepped over the body out into the gray light. When Tamlyn emerged from the neckhole of the mail coat, Faulk was gaping at the boy, who had awakened and sat up, looking around, shy and confused.

Tamlyn looked over at him. The boy stood and began to roll and tie his blankets with Gilling's, then stepped outside the tent flap, scanning right and left, then seeing Gilling, who came around the side of the tent.

"I forgot, which way to the horses, Master?"

"We will not decamp today," he said, entering the tent. "Lord Tamlyn, where will a troubadour sleep in this tent forest?"

"Here with us, God willing, friend. Your things may go right there, against that wall." The boy scurried in, placed the roll of blankets and hurried back to the door. He whispered something to Gilling, and Gilling nodded, and the boy left. Tamlyn returned to his task of armoring in his mail trews and coif, shoulder and leg guards, belt, dagger, scabbard and sword, surcoat, gauntlets and buckler. Faulk, the faultless and silent squire, was there with each piece as they had done so many times over, until the last glove, which he stood holding out and dropped as if startled when the serving-boy re-entered the tent, his face briefly visible in the light from outside the tent. Tamlyn looked at Faulk, whose stare could burn holes. He looked over at the boy, but Faulk had recovered and was pressing the glove into his hand. But Tamlyn stepped over the boy, who jumped skittishly out of his way.

"What is your name, lad?"

His head hanging, he mumbled, "Trion."

Tamlyn lifted his chin with the hand not yet gloved. Then he smiled, shaking his head. "But I had thought you were called Grace," he said quietly. Faulk was beside him. Gilling was beside himself, gasping.

"You are--" Tamlyn clapped a hand over Gilling's mouth, cutting off his breath.

"Shhh! Do you want everyone to know?" He was trying not to laugh.

"So that's why-- and all this time-- I knew she looked familiar, why didn't I--"

Despite the din of preparation that filled the tent by this time, they were attracting glances, and Gilling clamped his mouth shut. They all picked up the few things they needed and stepped outside the tent.

Tamlyn whispered, "No time for the tale now. Gilling, your homage was to the King, aye? Then ride with my archers, aye? Sir Jahel is over them. Gr- Trion will have to remain here. Stay in the tent and out of trouble, maiden, and pray and pray for us! Come, Gilling, I will take you to Jahel. . ."

Seas of men and horses flowed this way and that in a vast ocean of movement into the west, glittering mail and tossing manes and pennants forming crests of wavelets within the ocean. The din of voices and trooping feet and hooves and the clack of weapons was a crazy music in the brilliant morning. The plain onto which they spilled stretched out before them, and as they caught sight of the Vallards, there was a silence that fell as they surveyed them. There were more than Tamlyn would have thought possible without emptying Europa, but certainly not more than the joined Fiefs and Ardinéan force.

Their mail sparkled dully and their pennants waved in a blur, seeming to float above their heads. Clewode seemed indifferent to them as he called out commands in his powerful voice-- Tamlyn often had wondered at the singer he would have made. Tamlyn, in Coltram's division, was to the left of the center. His longbows were to come behind the lances and take a small rise left of the imagined center of the plain; from there they could target a huge section of the field. His lances were to form the leftmost flank. Tamlyn took the right end of his formation, to keep them pinned to the other lines. At this distance, he could only just make out Clewode's voice.

Now his blood was warming. He looked back at Faulk, behind him with the other squires, hands crossed in his lap with the reins in one and the hilt of his sword in the other, a thousand-yard stare in his eyes. This was Faulk's first battle.

Tamlyn turned back, strangely moved. Ardinéa had not seen a battle like this for generations.

Clewode's instructions were finished, and a deafening cry went up, followed immediately by the rhythmic crash of lances on shields, swords on bucklers, bodhrans and guttural "Huhs" as they began to move forward. There was no song for their breath was saved for fighting. The warhorses could hardly be restrained.

The horses were drawn in tight, so that the men's knees almost touched. Tamlyn's glance alternated between Clewode and the Vallards who were drawing near. The drumbeat of the shields continued in unison although their line stretched a half mile wide. Then it began to accelerate as the horses were allowed to begin a canter, then a gallop; it ceased altogether as the sound of drumming hooves drowned it out. They reached the rise where the archers were to position themselves and began down the other side, even as the archers, running, took their positions and dropped behind, and a second line of riders swung in behind from the main body. Tamlyn lowered his lance; as one his line did the same. They crashed into the Vallards.

Lances shattered on impact and splintered wood flew around their heads and under the horses' hooves as horses and men screamed and wheeled; swords rang as they were drawn and clanged against shields, mail and flesh. Tamlyn saw distorted faces come at him under helmet nasals, blades flashing, shields brandished, horses falling, blood spraying. The Vallards had fewer horses-- most were stolen-- and the poorer had been put at this end, without lances. Tamlyn's knights scythed them down like hay, or unhorsed them and left them to be captured or to fight with the footsoldiers. He called to them to close ranks again and swung around to close with the Vallards' second line.

They plowed through the column, scattering riderless horses and leaving a few for the Ardinéan's second line to clean up as they pressed further toward the center. They were getting close enough for a few arrows to hiss across their path now, but they were spent enough to be nearly harmless. Tamlyn saw one prick Shoan's neck and fall away, leaving a small droplet of red; the horse, mad to rush headlong into the fray, never noticed.

There was no opening, it seemed, into the clash of horsemen, so Tamlyn cried out and signaled his cavalry left, behind the Vallards' cavalry line. They tore through the line of infantry, surprise and intimidation doing more work than steel, wreaking chaos into the Vallards' formation. Suddenly there were pennants ahead, and he swerved for them, calling his Lowlanders.

His line had stretched diagonally as he did so; he had lost track of a few men and slowed to let them close. Then he stood in the saddle, pointing his sword at the cluster of royal banners. Like lightning his band crashed diagonally across the knot of the horse guard with Tamlyn at the front, his huge horse bellowing and terrorizing the horses he approached, so that Tamlyn had the advantage before he even reached another man. The Vallards' van was left in complete disarray after they passed.

Having harassed the very King of the Vallards, it was time to fall back against the other Ardinéans and re-form. There was Coltram in gilt mail-- but a block of knights was pursuing them. At his cry they wheeled and met these horsemen, who were of the King's guard and fought well. But after several losses they pulled away, and Tamlyn turned about to find Coltram. He was not in sight. Where he had been was now a roil of horses and men, thick with Vallards. Tamlyn turned his horse and hesitated. He yelled his men in close to him, noting in a quick count his losses, and the position of his second line behind them. Then he made a trotting advance on the area of his brother's last position. Arrows were beginning to rain down but he held his pace and closed with the fighting, purposely placing himself just off the line, so he could stand in the saddle and cast about, though staying with the line.

Men and horses toiled with one another, steel on steel, flesh striving with flesh, destroying and groaning and falling; triumphing and shouting in a terrible dance. Tamlyn saw Coltram, unhorsed but standing, engaged in swordfighting with a Vallard. Tamlyn called to the knight to his left and broke with his line and rode to Coltram. At his command, Shoan reared up and stabbed his hooves down, crushing the hapless Vallard beneath the twin sledgehammers. Sheathing his sword and awkwardly dismounting next to Coltram, he pushed the reins into his hands. "Take him, I'll find another!" he screamed above the din, taking Coltram's shield and shoving Coltram up onto the horse, then handing up the shield. There was no time for the surprise on Coltram's face. Coltram, yelling commands, turned Shoan, who leaped away with him.

Tamlyn drew his sword and looked around him. He realized that arrows from his longbows were whistling overhead. He couldn't see anything, down here on the ground, but dead and dying horses and men, and Vallard knights helplessly pinned to the heather by the weight of their heavy continental armor.

Tamlyn ran a short distance to a riderless gray horse with a charcoal mane. Tamlyn grabbed the rein and touched the gray's head, speaking to the horse for a moment reassuringly. Then he hauled himself on, the horse beginning to run even as he climbed so that once he was seated he had to wheel about, looking for his men again, his feet searching for the stirrups. The Lowlanders had appended themselves onto Coltram's line. By the time Tamlyn reached them and positioned himself, the Vallards were calling a retreat. They had the negotiation banner up. The battle had scarcely lasted an hour.

Tamlyn looked about him. The Ardinéans had taken the field. Vallards lay in windrows, here and there a small group of horsemen re-forming and approaching their royal guard, and infantry melting away. The Ardinéans fell back and re-formed. Clewode called his division commanders together, and Coltram rode to him on Shoan.

Clewode was grinning shamelessly. Tamlyn made out, "They didn't think to find us in the habit of war! . . ."

Tamlyn looked at the blood on his sword then and trembled inwardly as he wiped the blade on a cloth that hung from the scabbard for that purpose, and sheathed it. There was the life's blood of men staining his mail and surcoat. Familiar to Tamlyn was the exultation followed closely by emptiness and shame that dogged him after victory, when the clang of weapons gave way to the tired panting of the victors and the cries of the dying, the swoop of swallows and the buzz of insects. He had seen it on other faces as well, and knew that most men got past it quickly, a few never. Tears mingled with his sweat as he sat on the Vallard warhorse, resting. Swords were sheathed as they sat now, captains counting the losses. Tamlyn was missing four men. One he saw limping toward him. Another he had seen go down. The hour of battle had so quickly come and gone that he knew he would be days recalling all the minute details; the humans he had closed with and cut down, their cries as they fell- he would hear them as he lay in his tent, he knew.

For he counted their humanity, and for hours would recall each face, and wonder what sort of friend, brother, son he was. A great warrior he would never be: such men raged with superhuman fire, thirsting for blood, the sword's edge all the keen flame of their thought. No eyes revisited their dreams.

He turned his attention to counting his men and finding the fallen among the littered bodies on the field. Injured were being tended to, dead were being accounted for and laid in rows in their Vallard's clothing. He found his three knights; one was dead, one gravely wounded and broken, and one with an arrow through a weak point in his mail, near his armpit.

Tamlyn broke the shaft, deftly whittled it smooth with his dagger, and rubbed the stub with Margaret's healing balm before shoving it through the muscles of the man's shoulder to his back and removing it. The Lowlander groaned as he was held by his fellows, and sat silent while his wound was staunched and dressed. He was borne away. Tamlyn returned to the group of his Lowlander knights.

Faulk appeared close behind him as his men reformed and stood, spent and waiting. Tamlyn pulled his mail coif back. Suddenly, beside Faulk, a slight figure appeared, and handed up a skin of water to him. Faulk took it, smiling silently down at the blooming face, but he called to Tamlyn and threw the heavy bag to him first. Tamlyn thanked him and drank deeply before tossing it back. Faulk then drank and handed Grace the skin. "Thanks," he said. Grace vanished, and Faulk sat up and looked ahead. Tamlyn noticed that the thousand-yard stare was gone from his squire's eyes.

Negotiations were quickly carried out. The Vallards were to utterly desert Ardinéa Isle, leaving all armaments behind, including horses and mail, down to the last dag and arrow. Even their king's crown was taken and placed on Clewode's head. Little provender was to go with them save water to drink.

Before the setting of the sun, they were climbing down the road they had cut into the stone cliffs at the canyon mouth of the Brad River, and jumping into tossing skiffs to be rowed among the skerries back to their ships, which had remained under sail for days, unable to anchor in the confluence of seas. The season of calm had abruptly ended, the sand beaches had washed away, and the White Sea had returned to the whitecap froth from which it took its name. By nightfall the last of them had been herded down the cliffside, and Tamlyn was among those who watched the last boats, their lanterns marking their bobbing path to their restive ships. He stood till midnight watching the ships' lanterns lose themselves in the stars of the southern horizon, while listening to the battle being refought and retold again and again around him.

The citizens of Bradmouth were dancing to skirling reels around bonfires along the cliff edge, and Clewode was in a richly embroidered tent lit from within, hammering out an agreement with the Fiefs. Tamlyn knew that Givson was in there, that Margaret was one of many chips on the table. He spoke with others outside the tent for a while, then decided to slip away and find his own tent, and headed in that direction.

He had set Faulk at liberty for the evening, so when he returned he had to strip his palfrey of gear. He watered and fed and blanketed him between Star and Shoan. The handsome pale gray horse had been one the Vallards were required to leave behind, and he stood beyond Star. Tamlyn recalled how wordlessly Coltram had handed him the reins, but then he had grabbed Tamlyn's hand in both of his and clung tightly for a moment. "Many thanks, my brother," he had said, before releasing his hands and turning quickly away. Later, one of Clewode's squires had told him how loudly Coltram had bragged of his brother's boldness in unhorsing himself for his commander. Tamlyn gave thanks again for how the Lord Himself had resolved that situation, feeling a weight was lifted.

Every muscle in his body ached and more than that, he felt drained. Judging by the bruises he could feel he had taken many blows, but none had drawn his blood, though one blow had ground the ringmail into the flesh of his right forearm. Deep gashes on his horse showed how close he had come. The salve he had rubbed into the gashes reminded him poignantly of Margaret by its smell, for she had crushed the herbs and heated the tallow and beeswax in her sunlit pantry.

Without assistance, Tamlyn had to struggle out of his mail in the darkened tent. He was beginning to go stiff and sore all over. Too tired to care, he left it something like folded and knelt on his bedroll, which Faulk had spread for him, and prayed. He was so tired that his prayer was little more than a gulp of desperation as he begged again for Margaret's life.

At that same moment, many miles away over burnt ridges and empty fields and bare forests, Margaret limped alone, her hands tucked into her sleeve-ends and crossed over her chest against the freezing wind. She had loosened her hair and it lay over her shoulders, her only cloak. She had passed some time ago a dark and leafless copse; a dot of embers glowed and voices seemed to growl: she had padded as silently as she was able past the bush.

Yet there was yet no sign of the next village she had hoped to reach. The road was narrow and rutted, and she had to watch her step. She reached a high point on the path and paused to look around her. As she did so a shadowy movement behind her caught her attention. But looking, she saw nothing. She continued down the hill, but glancing back saw a figure silhouetted against the charcoal sky. Her breath caught.

She walked more quickly, but had been afoot for many hours without food or drink, and her feet bleeding sore. She couldn't think what to do, there was no hiding in the bleak landscape. Glancing back she could see the figure gaining quickly on her, crouching as though to make softer footfalls. She almost shrieked but clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh, God, help me, help me, help me!" she whispered into her hand.

Now there were three other, smaller shadows drawing rapidly near- but they were converging on the taller figure. Her feet were rooted and she heard the tiny snick of a knife being drawn, could now see the large size of the rough hands that stretched toward her--

His cry was cut off as the first of the wolves brought him down, his knife clattering to the stones at her feet. She was never quite sure how she made it to the next stone house, where she was found in the dawn, awaking from yet another dream of wolves laying warm against her, curled as she was in a ball on the doorstone.

## 

## Chapter 28: Meeting in the Meadow

Margaret had walked through the gates of King's Leigh erect and bedraggled. No one had given her a glance as she made her way through the streets alone; in her dusty dress, which hung loose and was tattered about the hem, she looked but another serving-maid in her lady's castoff.

The wheel spokes of the streets led to the palace, Caer Leighame, at its center. The closer she approached it, the more conspicuous she began to feel, although she had several times ridden high along the King's Road, dressed and jeweled so finely. Some nobility whom she recognized had passed her without a glance, children running after, calling and playing, even as they had called and played after her as she rode beside knights.

God had brought her there. Not in the way she had hoped, for there had been no recourse or rescue for her along the way, the manors being shut up tight to all comers with their lords at war and their ladies sent to the walled cities. She had parted ways with the Bowens, whom she had come to love, four days before, when they had decided to remain in a village where their relatives had plenty of food. They had begged her to wait but a few weeks, when they would be settled in and could accompany her. But she was frantic to go on. She had left at Lauds bells, leaving her golden necklace draped over Rossignol's sleeping form.

She never failed to get a piece of bread, or a pallet to sleep on, or a bowl of wash water, at the door to a church with the other refugees with whom she walked; but had not the heart to explain herself or her journey. She only wished to find her husband. She carried tired children, preached encouragement to the weary, shared her borrowed blankets with shivering old women. She drew into herself; it was as if God was saying this to her: "Trust only in Me." And He had provided.

Now she sat at the edge of a fountain in a small square in the avenue. She washed her face and hands, and tried to see her reflection in the water. She wished she had the courage to sit and comb her hair in public. She prayed, nearly dizzy with hunger, her eyes closing. She stood, finally, unsure where her brother's house was located. Caer Leighame was straight ahead. She rose, licked her chapped lips and walked on.

She approached a sentry by the arched gate and stood before him. "I have a message for Queen Liona Rovehill, from her niece, Lady Margaret of Brycelands." She curtsied elegantly as she said so.

The sentry was obviously puzzled. Messages did not normally come from bareheaded women on foot who had evidently come a long way. Yet it was also clear that her manner was not as a commoner. Margaret barely saw him signal with his head, but another man came from the blockhouse and asked her to repeat her message. As she did so, yet another man approached and listened to her. "Is not Lady Margaret of Brycelands she that was abducted, and lost in the wilderness?" he asked the first man.

"It is I, as I live. I have walked here from the eastern Wilds. I wish to see Queen Liona, for she is my aunt."

The men stepped away and conferred amongst themselves. Margaret was standing in the sun, and felt woozy from the brilliance of it. Then they returned. The second man said, "My lady, might I see your hands?"

Margaret held out her palms. Across her right was the silky, livid scar. Staring at it, inexplicably, her eyes began to weep, and she dropped her eyes to hide it.

"Come, my lady. We will speak more inside." The small door in the gate through which he had come was opened and she was taken inside. She waited in a guardroom. For a long time she slumped on the bench, feeling forgotten. At last, footsteps approached and she rose. It was the second man again, who had introduced himself as Squire Eben. "The Queen will see you in Open Court, which has just begun. Come, my lady."

Margaret went forward, mortified, but she was too worn out to think of what to say. She was ushered through halls familiar to her but which she now saw with different eyes, having seen only dusty roads and strangers' kindnesses now for seven, eight days? She wasn't even sure of that. The gleaming grandeur of the palace interior did not seem possible. Into the illustrious Hall she limped in her filthy, hanging garments, her travel-worn boots, lacking ornament or headdress on her tangled hair, into the perfumed silken company. The Queen Liona herself, a strikingly handsome woman, sat on the edge of her throne, dominating the room, crowned and powdered and sparkling with diamonds. Before the dais Margaret sank into the deepest curtsey, her eyes swimming with ghosts for a moment when she stood again, the jewel-like colors around her in dizzying contrast to the drab fields and dusty paths she had walked for days.

"Who is this creature before me? Come, tell us your name, for we can see that you are a lady," said Liona, gesturing dramatically.

Margaret was puzzled, for she saw recognition in her aunt's eyes. "Your Majesty, I am Lady Margaret of Brycelands in Cynrose, daughter of Lord Gregory Aldene, of Briardene." Murmuring astonishment filled the Hall. "I beg your mercy to overlook my filthy appearance in your court, my Queen; for I have walked from the eastern Wilds where I was separated from my abductors, who captured me in Deermont in Cynrose...a fortnight and more ago." The shining people all began to talk at once.

The Queen rose, rustling with skirts, from her seat and took a step down toward Margaret. Her eyes were two fires, fixed upon her. "The Margaret of whom you speak bore a mark in her hands. Show us your hands." Margaret spread her trembling hands upward toward the Queen, who hardly glanced at them but grasped the right, holding it high so that the scar could be seen by all.

"This is without any doubt my own niece, Lady Margaret, daughter of the Duke of Briardene! Carried away without mercy by the cruelty of the Bradmeads, she has escaped their clutches!" There was an uproar in the court. "Let us praise the bravery of the bonnie lady, whom God has brought far, in cold and rain! Welcome home, daughter, to your own people, and may the abuse against you be avenged!" The uproar changed to a rumbling. The Queen drew close enough to kiss the air by each of Margaret's cheeks, and eyed a chamberlain, who sent forth two of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting to draw Margaret away, while she continued her speech with upraised arms. Margaret was appalled, but too tired and weak to find words as she was taken by the women from the now roaring hall-- who were all those people, already bursting into a martial anthem?-- to the gentle heaven of a bath and a bed with linens in a warm and polished room. Her garments were taken away, to be disposed of; but for the gossamer elf-robe she wore next to her skin. With wonder, Margaret saw that it was white though she had lived and slept in it across Ardinéa. She insisted it be washed and returned to her.

When she awoke, it was early morning of the next day. She could hardly take in the luxurious feeling of the fine, linen sheets and the embroidered silken shift against her clean skin. The sun poured in between creweled drapes. Today there would be no endless walking on blistered feet, no freezing wind on her neck, no standing at crossroads praying to know which way to go and that no man would accost her; no inner battle with self-pity and discouragement. She cried with relief then flipped herself out of the bed to her knees to pray and to thank God.

A covered dish by the bedstead held fruit, bread and butter, hazel nuts, and a small bowl of creamy milk. It seemed an unfathomable luxury to eat to fullness of sweet things, spreading the butter with a gleaming silver knife and wiping the crumbs on a satiny napkin, the beams of sun through glass windows sparkling on the crystal goblet.

There was a mirror over the washstand. Margaret saw herself clearly for the first time in a fortnight, sun-browned and windburnt, her lips cracked and pale. Her face was thin. Bilious-colored shadows remained of the bruise on her forehead. And with a shock she saw white hairs straggling from her crown among the brown.

There was a soft rapping at her door. "Yes, who is there?"

"Margaret, are you awake?" Margaret recognized Hildreth's voice and flung open the door, pulling Hildreth in and embracing her.

"Ah, Hildreth, Hildreth, so good it is to see you! Is it well with you? How was your journey?"

"A nightmare, beginning to end;" she said, waving her hand dismissively, "but we came through, my brave little maidens and I. We were treated tolerably well, especially after Givson arrived at Denisham to send us back. But what of you, Maggie! How is it you got away from them?"

Margaret recapitulated her journey as they sat on the bed. She told her sister all and left nothing out. There was unquestioned trust in Hildreth's eyes, even as she heard the unbelievable.

Hildreth told her that Gilling the Troubadour had left word on his way through King's Leigh that both Ryanh and Hildreth's baby daughter were in the Abbey Saint Savior's, and that his own family were well.

"I have money here in King's Leigh. How much will you need? What will you do?"

"Hil, I have no idea where Tamlyn is--"

Hildreth held up a hand. "He should be returning today from the wars in the south. The Vallards have been expelled from the land, and you should hear how Clewode has put the Fiefs in their place. Of course, the Queen is not too happy with his having made peace without her involvement. But there he was, right down in Bradmouth with the whole Ardinéan legion-- he could have squashed them flat! How could he let an opportunity like that go? Anyway, Tamlyn is safe, my own husband and our father and brother are all returning."

Margaret sank onto the bed. "I don't know how I am going to live with a warrior. How do you face the days Herrick is gone, knowing that he may never return?"

"I knew he was a knight when I wed him, and so you knew Tamlyn, did you not? Rejoice, for you will see him this day, perhaps! And ere I forget, Una, go ask the butleress if she can send up the cobbler and the jeweler. My shoes will never fit your troll feet, and you need something shiny against that nut-brown skin."

"What I wish for, is a horse. I can't wait for shoes, I'll have to have my old boots cleaned."

A serving-girl came in and laid down a long bundle on the foot of the bed: Hildreth had brought some of her own gowns for Margaret, and while they talked, the maid helped her dress. Lacings up the back of the dress were tightened, but still the dress was not snug, the way Hildreth would have worn it. Hildreth had even brought a sewing kit and Margaret had to stand on a stool while the maid and Hildreth, seated on the thick rug, hemmed them up, for Hildreth was half a head taller, and the dress dragged long on Margaret. Then they started on her hair. Finally, gowned and coifed, she looked in the mirror. She laughed, "I look like a milkmaid in a silken gown."

"Nothing new there," quipped Hildreth, and Margaret playfully hit her arm.

Ramsaidh emerged from an inn but a few leagues from King's Leigh. When he had left his home, the leaves had just begun to flutter from the trees; now it was coming on pig-slaughtering time. Lord Givson had promised Ramsaidh his knighting before Advent: so much for that. Well, finally his promise would be made good this afternoon, and then...He still knew not what the future held, it depended on what the drowned woman's husband would do.

He could throw me in a dungeon, and never look back. And I would well deserve it. At least his lady gave me pardon before the River took her.

His mind avoided the future by straying to the past. He had pawned his brooch and buckler, and any other obvious marks of his coat-of-arms, and stayed in the types of places that didn't ask too many questions. Four days ago he had left the maid Willa at her lady's home, in Brycelands. Feeling he had nothing to lose, he had declared his love for her, and his despair in knowing that they could never be together. She had stood, pale and silent, her eyes filling with tears. Finally she had taken his hand and shaken it in both of hers, her slender hands lost in his. "Though you and I are each alone in this world, may it be bearable, knowing that you and I share in the same. Go with God, Squire Ramsaidh," was all she said, but her eyes and voice said much more. But not the one thing he had longed to hear, and he had immediately realized how foolish his hopes had been. If he had admired her great dignity and self-restraint before it was hardly fair of him to expect her to drop them now.

But then, just as he turned to go, she allowed him to fold his arms around her; she sighed against him. How he had lived for that brief embrace! And how he hated his life, without the maiden, how dreary were his travels in the strange autumnal country. He rode out on Wintauk, toward King's Leigh, but he would bypass the famous city and take the road up which, if the news was accurate, the triumphant army would be returning. Tonight, God willing, he would be dead, in prison, or... God only knew what. He had lived with the vague dread so many days it would be a relief whatever it was to be.

Margaret was nearly ready to go and waited only for her boots to be returned from the cobbler. He had almost screamed in protest when he saw them, but she reassured him that she only needed them until he could bring her a finished pair of new shoes. Still complaining, he had had his servant carry them off. She was glad of the distraction when the jeweler came, for she was stuck in the room without shoes to wear. Hildreth picked out earrings, bracelets and so on, but Margaret was becoming too worked up to pay much attention. The Queen sent greetings and regretted that she was too busy to look in on Margaret that day.

Margaret was treated like an invalid and a meal was sent to the room. There was far too much food for one person, but Hildreth wanted to return to her children rather than stay and eat with her. So she was alone for some time, staring out the window and pacing barefoot around the small room. Who would have thought that a want of shoes could be such a frustration, after what she had come through, it seemed so petty.

She was ready to go to the stables barefooted, when she heard a group in the hall approaching, and there was a rapping at the door. She opened the door. Lady Rivanone burst into the room, still in her riding clothes, with Ryanh in her arms. Margaret burst into tears, overwhelmed with delight, pressing the infant to her face. Her sister Varda, and Rivanone's daughter Brinn and her twins Justan and Gyvard piled into the room, everyone crying out and reaching out and chattering at once.

Gilling rode next to Grace, at last hearing her story out. "So you ran away from the abbey, with no place to go? What did you think you would do?"

"Exactly as I did."

"Where did you get the boy's clothes?"

She hung her head and mumbled. "I took them from a bleaching-field. But I left my good linen shift and woolen habit," she added quickly.

"And where would a boy pawn a nun's garments?" Grace looked at a loss, then defiance hardened her features.

"I was sent to Saint Savior's against my will. I was got rid of. I didn't belong there. You see, I love God, and I pestered my parents about it, I admit it. They saw me as too pious to be marriageable, and sent me and my dowry to Saint Savior's. But just because I love God doesn't mean I want to live in a cloister, with everyone else that does! I want to be where people can hear the message He has given me!"

"And what message would that be?"

"To turn, and believe the good news, that God has sent a Savior into the world to redeem us sinners."

Gilling chuckled. _Lord, where do you find these people?_

"You believe it, I know you do; I have seen you at prayers. What would you do in my place?"

Gilling shook his head. "It's a different kind of world, for a man. Lassie, I didn't belong walled up either when I was a lad...But you are welcome to join my family until you know what it is you will do. That is, after you have returned those garments, and explained yourself to Mother Abbess."

Ramsaidh rode slowly by the great bridge that led into King's Leigh, gazing over the silvery water of the Briar River at its white turreted walls. There was ivy creeping up in many places, and much traffic flowing in and out of the main gate. He could sense the festivity in the air. Any other time he would have wanted to go in and see the beautiful city, but turned himself away. He passed the city by and headed south.

The sun was beginning to lower in the sky when he spotted the glint of mail and pennants on the horizon. He sat waiting for a while and watched the growing mass of humanity approaching.

It was well after the noon meal when Hildreth returned, plunging in to the crowded room with her daughters, just as Margaret was lacing up the cleaned boots. They had been oiled and polished and given new thongs and soles and were quite presentable. Ryanh had fallen asleep in her arms and lay on the bed, oblivious to the noise. Margaret's heart broke to be leaving him, but couldn't see moving him from the bed, when he had been traveling himself for six days. The wetnurse Rivanone had brought would have to stay; Hildreth's baby and her wetnurse also remained in the room. She fairly ran, pulling Rivanone's arm along to the carriage-gate where horses had been readied. Rivanone, Hildreth, Margaret, Varda, and their children and retainers, issued forth from Caer Leighame happily into the sun. Hildreth had even brought Margaret a hat for the sun, "Not that it'll help at this point," Hildreth had said. The day was cold despite the sun, and once they left the shelter of the city walls to cross the bridge over the Briar, Margaret could smell winter in the fresh wind.

There were crowds of people riding and walking out along the King's Road; the high and the low, the rich and poor, mendicants and harlots, farmers and artists were going out to meet the legion whose arrival the couriers had forewarned. There was a jubilee in the air, and the women caught the tone and sang sweet and loud the songs they heard along the way, but difficult as it is to sing while trotting horses, there was much laughter as well. They crossed the rise beyond which the plain opened south, and they cried in delight as the army was already drawing near; from here they could pick out a few pennants already. The crowd had thickened around them and the excitement was boundless. They slowed to a walk for the sake of the many women and children on foot. Plowed fields had given way to pasture and the crowd flooded over the edge of the narrow, cobbled road and spread over the rolling meadows. Now the approach of the army could be distinctly heard over the crowd noise. The men were singing, and even began to rattle their weapons for noise. Pipes keened victory songs and bodhrans kept time. Margaret's group moved off the road a distance to watch for their pennants. They had to yell at the top of their lungs to converse now.

Commander Clewode was in the center of the vanguard, his enormous horse caparisoned and his banners high. Just behind his group, Margaret spied Coltram: and an empty space in his group. Where was Tamlyn?

Squire Ramsaidh had seen the Brycelands coat of arms and ridden up next to Tamlyn's group. By yelling and by hand signals he conveyed over the cacophony that he wanted to talk with Tamlyn. Tamlyn's heart leaped and he immediately broke ranks and rode to the shoulder. But there was no being heard there, either. The two men, frustrated, rode up the hill a short distance. To Tamlyn's consternation, the man dismounted, ungirding his sword belt and laying his weapons on the ground. Agitated, Tamlyn dismounted so that he could hear the man's speech.

Margaret cast about, and suddenly spotted Tamlyn leaving the road and riding away into the grass on the other side. She cried out and kicked her horse toward him, and sat waiting at the roadside for an opening in the procession to cross the road, while the borrowed pony tried to join the parade.

Over the song of a thousand voices, his eyes on the ground before him, Ramsaidh stated his name, and that it had been he who had taken the Lady Margaret into the wilderness. "And where is she now, man?" Tamlyn said, leaning over the kneeling man. "Speak up, will you?" Tamlyn tried in vain to swallow his drumming heart. But the man's voice and eyes dropped and he was talking about riding through the wilderness, deciding to return the maids instead to Ardinéa, when...

Margaret found her opening and plunged the mare through the flooding throng to the other side and up the hill, wild with joy, to where her husband stood among the waving grasses, holding the reins of his dancing palfrey, the sun sparkling on his golden locks and glowing in his white linen shirt and fawn woolen hauberk. A man knelt before him, and looked up at her approach: it was Ramsaidh. His mouth and eyes popped wide open and all color drained from his face.

Tamlyn turned to see her. He caught her in his arms as she jumped from her pony into the waving grass.

## Chapter 29: Tree of Life

Tightly, tightly did he hold her against him as the world roared by, and sweet were the kisses he gave her. Tamlyn held her face back-- overthin, sun-browned, and the remnants of a bruising about her forehead-- she was never more beautiful in his eyes. "Margaret, I didn't know if you lived or -- oh, thank the Lord." He pulled her to him again. Then Margaret dashed the tears of joy away and turned to Ramsaidh, who was completely at a loss.

"Ramsaidh, where is my Willa? Is it well with her?" she cried.

Shock still registered in his face, but he found his tongue. "M' lady, I left her in Brycelands, four days since." He bowed to her. Margaret sighed with relief. "But we watched ye drown! We searched for hours! Willa mourns for ye-- she needs to know that ye live!" Tamlyn had stood quietly, his hands lingering on Margaret's shoulders. She looked at him. He waited an explanation, but still feasted his eyes on her, confusion and joy in his face.

"Ramsaidh tried to return us to Ardinéa. When we crossed the Brad River, he gave me his own horse to ride, but I slipped off and washed away, down the river-- but Charis, _Charis_ rescued me! And I walked here; I arrived in King's Leigh only yesterday, and Ryanh is here too; Aunt Rivanone got him after Sintia told her where he was."

"You walked here from. . ." Tamlyn shook his head in wonder. "Glory to Jesu," he whispered. His look turned stern at Ramsaidh. "You stole away the light of my eyes, man, and then drowned her, and left her alone in the wilderness? Do you know how long it may take me to forget all that?" Hope came into Ramsaidh's whipped-dog eyes.

Margaret clung to Tamlyn's arm. "Squire Ramsaidh has asked for, and received, my forgiveness. He knows he did wrong and tried to make it right, love. And he gave up his own heritage and clan in doing so, for he crossed his foster-father, Lord Givson Bradmead. He was kind to us, to his own hurt. He loved his enemy, and became our protector."

Tamlyn's eyes returned on Margaret's face, softening. Then he turned to Ramsaidh. "Will you swear to me fealty, Squire? For I have somewhat to give you to do."

Ramsaidh dropped to his knees again and stretched out his hands, which Tamlyn clasped in his. "I, Ramsaidh FitzElleryn, pledge my faith to you my lord, Tamlyn of Brycelands, before God and these who witness."

Tamlyn pulled him up. "How quickly can you fetch for me the maid Willa? For we will stay in King's Leigh for some time; aye, Margaret?" From his little finger he pulled her wedding ring and slipped it lovingly on her hand.

Lord Gregory, Aelfred, Gareth, and John rode up and there were more embraces and greetings and Margaret's promise to tell her tale to all later on, after they had recounted the battle. The whole party mounted horses and rejoined the procession to King's Leigh.

Some days later, Tamlyn was in the courtyard of Aelfred's house with Gyvard and Justan, coaching their staff-fighting. Just and Aelfred stood by, commenting, encouraging and pointing.

Rivanone turned away from the upper window from which she had been watching and describing the scene below to Margaret, who sat with Ryanh to her breast. The baby grew frustrated and pulled away, wailing, not yet satisfied. Margaret sighed in resignation and handed him to the wetnurse, on whom he settled in quickly. "Rest your gaze on him while he nurses, and make him stay on you a little longer each time. Are you feeling anything yet?"

"This morning, I felt a letting-down feeling when he cried. And there is a fullness. . ."

"Very well, in a few days you'll really be going again! Just don't give up."

Margaret stood and looked out of the window, but the courtyard was deserted. "Where have they gone?"

Into the room walked breathless Willa, followed by Tamlyn. Margaret flew over and they embraced. Belatedly, Willa pulled away and curtsied, "My lady." Margaret pulled her back into her arms.

"My friend. I missed you so, Willa." Willa began to cry, and hid her face.

"I smell of horses. I ought to wash, if it please you, my lady."

"I will go with you, and show you around." Margaret linked her arm in Willa's, squeezing it to herself as she took her down to the washroom. Willa squeezed back, still sniffling. As Willa washed and changed, they talked, and ended by standing by the small window, leaning against the wall.

"Brycelands was so ringingly empty without anyone there. I couldn't get past the thought of you vanishing down the river-- and thinking, if only I had done this or that-- and when Ramsaidh came riding up to the house with the news, I wanted to jump on Skara and come right away, but Rafert convinced me I should pack and wait the morning; and poor Ramsaidh was worn to a stub from riding hard. Squire Ramsaidh, I mean." Willa flushed, but then she was crying again.

Hildreth appeared in the doorway, and put a hand on her hip. "Standing about the washroom, gossiping like two milkmaids! Tamlyn said I might find you here. He wishes you would come upstairs, some squire wishes to see you." Willa's eyes grew wide, and her cheeks redder, and she suppressed a smile even as she sniffled and wiped her eyes.

Hildreth looked at her strangely, then turned to walk beside Margaret as they went into to the hallway. "I wanted to tell you how utterly proud I was of my little Maggie when you marched up to Queen Liona and described the desolation of southern Cynrose and demanded that relief be sent, and that the area be better defended in the future. After the noise she made about your piteous travail on foot through the wasted region, she could hardly back down. And of course she was just looking for an excuse to build another castle along the border anyway."

"Castles don't feed people, they only burden them more. Still, hopefully they won't be left to fend for themselves the next time. It is poor country, not like that around the Briar, it is hard enough for them. Willa, you saw some of that, aye?"

"My lady? Oh, aye, but we went north and east of Chaisey Brook and the Silver Loch, back to Brycelands. It was fine-looking country there." Margaret now stared at Willa, who grinned unwontedly.

They entered the room, where Hildreth joined Rivanone and their daughters and sons near the dying window light. Servants were lighting lamps and putting turf billets in the hearth. The light shone warmly on the tapestried walls and the blooming faces. Tamlyn held Margaret up at the door, and asked Willa to come with them.

They turned into Aelfred's small, disordered library. "Squire Ramsaidh, well met," said Margaret cautiously as he turned and bowed to her.

Tamlyn said, his eyes twinkling, "Margaret-love, my squire has asked our blessing to court your handmaiden. What say you to that?"

Margaret looked at Ramsaidh, and then at Willa, and neither of them seemed to know what to do with their faces. To Ramsaidh, she said, "Squire, what would your intentions be?"

His homely features, always mobile and uncertain, rested on Willa's face, still and slightly smiling. "I love the Maid Willa, and I wish to wed her, if she will have me."

"We are witnesses, that you have spoken it. And how and where would you keep her?"

"I must continue in service to my lord, Tamlyn, till he release me. I own outright a grant in the Fiefs, but disposing of them is uncertain. I will not go back there. I can make no promise of moneys other than a squire's living at present, m'lady. But I believe that God will provide."

"And you, Willa?" Margaret's heart sank a little, crestfallen, when Willa didn't look at her, but at Ramsaidh.

"It pleases me well. For-- I also love Squire Ramsaidh," said Willa, her cheeks burning.

Tamlyn addressed them, his tone serious. "You both know it will not go easily with you, a Bradmead and a maidservant. Squire, this will not help to mend any ties that yet remain for you. Willa, there are those who will not let you forget that they see you as unequal because of your birth."

Ramsaidh looked at Tamlyn. "Well familiar am I with my birth being despised, with those who would always wish me to try to prove myself equal. I would be Willa's shield against such. As to ties-- I am afraid that nothing could have more surely severed them than the choice I made in crossing the Brad River." His gaze returned to Willa, who returned it, no longer smiling. "Yet in that sundering, I became bound to another who stood alone."

Margaret felt a small lump in her throat when she said, "Then may God bless you richly, and give you joy. My lord?"

"Aye, and we would also endow Willa." Willa turned a grateful smile at Tamlyn and Margaret, then dropped her eyes. They returned, Willa trailing as usual behind Margaret, but oblivious to her, to the room where the family was gathered, now watching closely a chess game between Aelfred and Just.

Soon dinner was announced and they went to the lower hall. Tamlyn took Margaret, who had Ryanh on her arm, aside. "Did you know, love, that Ramsaidh is Lord Elleryn Bradmead's only heir? His mother was a young noblelady whom he seduced; her father was sore about it and influential enough to force Elleryn to acknowledge the child. He probably stands to inherit considerable wealth, if he is not disowned; and we ought at least to address him 'my lord,' for he is the son of a chieftain, and foster-son of a warlord. Clewode heard Givson say that he had been going to knight Ramsaidh. And he willingly swore fealty to me!"

Margaret looked impressed. "He makes nothing of it. He always called himself 'squire,' nothing more. I had no idea how much it cost him to follow his conscience."

"The reason I tell you this, love, is to show you how good God is. For she whom you count your sister in your own heart, can be that in the eyes of the world, as Lady Willa, aye?"

Margaret's face lit up. Silently she tried the name on her own lips. "Aye, God is good, is He not?" She laughed with pleasure.

Tamlyn steered her toward the table. She took his hand and leaned up to his ear. "Look at her. She'll be useless to me now. They are foolish over one another."

He stopped and leaned over her. "As I am still for you, my lady." He kissed her, and kissed her again. Ryanh laughed and he kissed the child's forehead. Then they went to join the candlelit smiles around the table laden with steaming meats and fragrant breads, to give thanks for the supper.

Later, Margaret sat on the bed in their guest chamber in Aelfred's house, pensively combing out her own hair, having sent travel-weary Willa to her bed earlier. "They hardly know each other. They were thrust into each other's company by circumstance. Do you think they really love each other?"

Tamlyn closed the wardrobe and came and sat by her. "Is that a question for me to answer?" She began to comb his golden locks, which fell past his shoulders; she cherished its length and begged him not to cut it, though it made him self-conscious. "Time will tell, aye? You and I hardly knew each other, when we wed. Looking back, I don't know how you set your love on me the way you did."

"Aye...I couldn't help myself. I was young, naive, and vulnerable; and you, older, more worldly wise, with Elven charms...They sing of you as the seducer in the forest. Is there not some truth there?" Margaret teased. To her wonderment, Tamlyn reddened in the cheeks.

"What is it?"

He sighed. "Truth to tell, love, I never had kissed a maid, and I was afraid to. It was not solely honor that restrained me, but fear. It was good fear, I suppose."

Now Margaret pinked, and looked at the comb in her lap. "I was kissed once before."

"Forget it, then." Tamlyn reached for her hand. "God worked it for good. Anyway, you hardly knew me. So, why do you love me so well?"

Margaret looked at him, at a loss. "I just do. You are my husband. You are beautiful to me, and the father of my bairn." She smiled wryly. "Well, then, and why do you love me, my lord?"

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Your faithfulness and courage crown your beauty, as with jewels. You are my own bride, and the mother of my beloved son. But you see, it's not for what we do, but who we are that we love each other. Cannot Willa and Ramsaidh love the same way? They have the same Christ for an example as we do."

"Gareth will be sorry, will he not? He waited too long. Sooner or later he must learn to make a commitment."

"Aye. In more ways than one."

"Hmm...It's just that I will miss her so. And I will keep praying for Gareth." Margaret laid her head on his shoulder. After a few moments she said, very quiet, "Will you be a warrior again?"

Tamlyn laid his head on her own, speaking with his lips brushing her hair. "When I had been a servant to Galorian all those years, and God was merciful to reunite us, I thought I couldn't be again. But then, I thought of war as a way for a young man to glorify and enrich himself-- not as a duty to others. I never could go raiding for spoils; no, never. But Lord Clewode is not like that. If I must be, then I must be. Ardinéa must be defended from the likes of Vallards and rogue Southards. But I never will love war."

"Sievan, you are selfless to a fault, if that were possible."

"I'll give my forty days each year and no more: I will have things to attend to at home. And what of you, who said you could not be a fine lady again; did I not see you in blood-red velvet in Liona's court?"

"Oh, aye, and glad I am that Willa has brought my own clothing, and Hildreth can have her brave brocades back!...How long will we stay in King's Leigh? For I miss looking after my Brycelanders."

"Willa told you, it is well with them. When Liona is pacified about the Bradmeads, we can go any time."

They sat quietly then, listening to the hiss of the peat fire, looking on the sleeping babe in the cradle, leaning into each other. Margaret raised her head to look into his blue eyes that held no threat. She sighed as he kissed and pulled her closer. She wondered if she would always imagine there were thrushes singing and water murmuring in the shade of willows when he held her this way.

Snow whitened the fields of Ardinéa and clouds tumbled over one another in the cold wind that cleansed the hills and valleys. Then the sun mounted higher in his course and filled the streams roaring with snowmelt, and glinted off the backs of a trillion migrating songbirds, many of which rested in their wonted places in Ardinéan beeches, oaks and lindens. The blackened fields greened over and the runnels of the roads dried to passability.

Tamlyn, Margaret, Lord Gregory, Lady Phoebe, Lord Just, Lady Rivanone, Lord Herrick, Lady Hildreth, Lord Aelfred, Lord Ramsaidh and Lady Willa, with an entourage of attendants, burst from King's Leigh, yearning for the lakes of Cynrose and the rolling dales of Briardene. A courier was sent ahead to prepare the way; so that when the crowd piled into Brycelands, Rafert had the place delightfully warmed and fresh and fitted out, with aromas wafting from the kitchen. After a day's rest, for the sake of the children, The Briardene contingent rode north along the willow-lined Briar River.

Ryanh was trying to walk already. He fell often on the rugs and flagstones, and jumped up gamely to try again, pulling on the stools and bedposts for support. A cloud of blond curls stood out from his head and he laughed or cried, but was never placid.

Willa had bloomed with pregnancy and wore an infatuated smirk as though the quickening within her was her own personal discovery. Margaret held off mentioning her own second pregnancy to Willa, letting her glory in it.

A schedule of jousting and archery tournaments had been set forth for the warm months in order to keep knights competitive in peacetime. Queen Liona was too saddled with magisterial duties to be able to stir up the old animosities; in fact Clewode, the defense minister and de facto warlord, had the enviable duties of kingship, minus the crown; while Liona, nominally the sovereign, had the unenviable ones.

Lady Margaret and Lady Willa made for the stump beneath the Linden trees, where a servant was spreading a rug over its dampness. Margaret held Ryanh's hands and he clung as he bumbled along after 'Auntie' Willa. They got to the stump and sat, watching Tamlyn and Ramsaidh in full array ride out to where Faulk had set up a dummy on a post for jousting practice.

After a few smart passes, the men turned toward each other. Secretly Margaret hated to watch it. They wore heavy, quilted hauberks under their mail and they had both gone to wearing helmets over their mail coifs, but the impact and the danger caused her to grimace, ducking her head and clenching her stomach every time they closed. Ramsaidh was a big, solid man; Tamlyn was average-sized but quick and clear-headed as a rain-washed sky. Ramsaidh was bold as a bruin; it never occurred to Tamlyn to be afraid. Each had unhorsed the other more than once. Today they let it go after a few passes and went at each other with the harmless blunt swords, instead. Margaret then relaxed as the sun swept over the landscape, sparkling on the Briar at the foot of the long swale before them.

After the noon meal, Margaret left Ryanh to nap with a servant while she and Willa rode out to check on some of the villagers. They returned somewhat downcast that a small baby had not lived.

Margaret was staring ahead, up the lane to Brycelands, where a white speck moved across the track. She squinted, trying to see.

"What is that in the lane ahead?"

"'Tis only a stray sheep, aye? But no...I don't wish to trot, because of the baby; but you go ahead," urged Willa.

"No, but I will wait up for you."

Willa looked at Margaret. "Why, you also are with child, are you not? Why said you not so?" Margaret only smiled at Willa and reached for her hand. "God restores double. He lifts up the lowly! He gives beauty, instead of ashes! He sets the solitary in families, and gives exceedingly abundantly above what we think to ask! When the desire comes, it is a tree of life!" said Willa, her eyes shining.

The two rode up the lane, closing on the snowy creature.

When they reached the archway leading to the courtyard off the stables and byre, Margaret slipped from Star's back and softly approached the white goat, who bleated plaintively at her. "This is my kashmir goat, that Hildreth said ran off when they were attacked! Oh, where have you been all this time, and you're all combed so lovely...but what is this?"

Hanging around the goat's neck, chiming softly, were many tiny silver bells on a gossamer ribband.

The End

****

Dear Reader: I hope you enjoyed Ardinéa, it was my first full-length book which I wrote purely for my own enjoyment back when I lived in Vermont. Looking at it now, it's a little overly romantic—okay, gushy, even—but I still enjoy the vividness of the descriptions and think I handled the action scenes well. You should also know that while I had read the Lord of the Rings trilogy more than once at that time, the films were years away from production and Tolkienesque references seemed downright obscure at that time. Those who have read Tolkien beyond the beloved Trilogy will easily recognize references to "Middeangeard" and the fate of the Faerie Realm as none-too-veiled derivations of the Professor's mytharc.

I hope you also enjoyed my retelling of the Tam Lin legend. For more information about Tam Lin visit www.Tam-Lin.org.

Please visit my blog, Welcome to the Woods, at www.blackbirchwoods.blogspot.org for links to other stories, and my second novel, Blackbirch Woods, which is very, very different from Ardinéa, but is after all, Tam Lin in a different, very American form.

God bless you!

Meredith Anne DeVoe

