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.