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.