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 aroun
d, 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 withi
n 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.