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.