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," mur
mured 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 d
ebased, 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."