Chapter 5: Tamlyn's Warning
In the sickroom in Caer Aldene, Margaret sat by the bedside of her cousin Elsibeth. She was the last to remain in the room; Brinn and Varda had recovered and been moved out only the previous day. Elsibeth was among the last to fall ill, when the epidemic had spent most of its evil; and she was in a bad way. Margaret was concerned even more because the worst cases had been among the old and the very young; Elsibeth was twelve, but always had been thin and wan compared to her laughing, blushing sisters.
Rivanone had lost already her daughter Rose, and her son, Gerald, and had almost collapsed from exhaustion staying up from sunrise to sunrise caring for Elsibeth. Elsibeth had cried for her mother and Margaret was afraid to leave her alone with the nuns, as caring as they were. But Rivanone's presence in Margaret's life had imparted a cherishing of family ties; the severing by death of so many of her extended family had highlighted in her heart the preciousness of those left.
Margaret had combed her cousin's hair and plaited a complicated braid over her shoulder, tying it with a sky-blue silken ribbon. She stifled a yawn as she coaxed her to drink more of the elixir in a crock by her bedside. She hoped it had been prepared according to her directions; between sitting vigils and nursing invalids and her own grieving, she had not had time to do more than advise the sisters on medicines; this had been the first one she had even prescribed since the first batch she had herself made...so much in a fortnight, who could assimilate it? The sickness had touched all stations and ranks of Caer Aldene society; nobles, milkmaids, blacksmith, troubadour; even the parish priest had himself succumbed; thankfully, he had early on called in a second priest from King's Leigh to administer rites to the many dying or near death.
Elsibeth finally drifted to sleep. Margaret had taken sleep when and where she could these past days; now she stretched out on the nearest bed, which was fitted with clean linen. When she awoke, the sun was high. Lord Just was sitting at Elsibeth's bedside, talking with her. She self-consciously sat up. Just looked over at her. "Go on up to your bower, young lady. Nurse will be down presently and Rivanone will be up after noon. You need rest as well." Margaret rose, curtsied, and went up to her room.
After splashing her face and brushing her hair, she felt rather like getting out of doors. She had not left the stone halls for days. She tied on a mourning cap-- a spare, black linen cap tied with string under the chin-- and went back down the stone stair.
In the courtyard, Varda and Brinn were playing wedding; their new nurse was playing father of the bride-- Fione had died a week ago. They made a somber looking group in their black mourning clothes, but the sun shone brightly on them; the sparrows never ceased to chirp under the eaves and the girls' laughter was music. Margaret hung in the archway, watching for a few moments, but knew she didn't want any company, or to be roped into their game; but she wanted to have her own thoughts.
She circled around the courtyard beneath the portico and exited to the sheltered, sunny White Rose garden. The earliest roses were just past their full bloom and some were brown around the edges; the deadheads had not been removed at all. Margaret walked the shaved turf paths between the bushes. The sun was hot on the mourning cap. She smelled deeply of the roses, burying her face into the clustered masses of them. Their fragrance invaded her heart and she pressed her face into them. One in this cluster was browning around the edges and she could smell that too. The blended fragrances of life and decay were too poignant and she slowly lifted her face away. She had only wanted fresh air. Now she was hot and retreated for the shade. In the center of the rose garden was a crabapple tree with a stone seat encircling it; there she sat down, thinking, I can't give way now. I am needed. Her fingers went as if to twist her finger-rings, they were not there and she felt only her cool skin. She needed to think about something outside the castle...
Down at the brook, ages ago it seemed, she had met a beautiful man. Who had he been? Why was he there? Time cast him in a strange light, and she wondered at the trust she had so easily placed on him, putting the handle of her own knife in his hand. Yet who could have feared those eyes...When she thought of them, a smile played on her lips. She wished she could go down; not for the moment return to the castle, to the needs and the hush of the sickroom, not just yet- but to the place where a smile had snared her amid the chorus of the thrushes...She arose from her seat and ran the long paved walkway to the stable.
She told the stablemaster, "I wish to ride. Let me have the dark mare Star, and a page to ride with me."
"Yes, my lady. If it please my lady, my son Trin is right here and would be ready faster than he could find a page available at the moment," he said, deferentially. Margaret knew he was looking to advance his son, was making bold; she didn't mind. She waved her hand in accession.
Riding toward the brook, she asked herself why she wanted to go there. After all, this man had made no effort to see her. Even if her father had refused him, she would have heard something of the visit. "Ah, love is like a bird, it lights on whom it may…" She tried to hum lightly, but swallowed a lump in her throat; she had no hope that he would still be lingering somewhere in the woods. But when she got to the knoll, she told the boy Trin to wait for her. She rode the mare down to the brook, and urged her through the water in the shallows to the other side. It was as if she had to cast the broad light of day on the place, to quell her foolish hopes.
She rode Star along the brook through the glade until the trees thickened, and pulled the mare to a stop. She sat awhile, listening to the birds sing and the sound of Cloud Brook. She sighed deeply of the clear, fragrant air of the place. The mare kept tugging at the reins, her skin twitching nervously, and sniffing the air. Margaret thought she was hoping to pull the grass, which was now growing deep; she was too tired to wrestle with her and she slid from the saddle and stood patting Star's neck, holding the reins. Then she wound them around a thick sapling and walked a bit away.
He is not here. Maybe he never will be again.
This side of the brook was not as scabby as the other bank, indeed it was fertile looking, with rich grass between linden and beech trees that reached high. She knew her father had kept it back from clearing because her mother had been fond of it as a beauty spot, and her grandmother and great-grandmother before her. It was called the Little Wood, but was connected in an unbroken sweep to the great Wilds, and its rolling hills were feet to the wild mountains between Briardene and the sea.
It was rumored that in those mountains, the Elvenfolk rode in procession between their summer and winter fastnesses, that they were a fearsome sight; it seemed that everyone knew someone who knew someone who had been in the forest late and been frightened out of their wits by the roar and clatter of the Elven horses' hooves. Leaning on a tree daydreaming, gazing on the shifting waters of the brook, she grew drowsy...
"Margaret."
It was the lowest murmur but her heart skipped a beat as she whirled to see Sir Sievan, standing close to her, holding the reins of his horse. She was startled and cried out, almost involuntarily.
"My lady, please forgive me, I have heard the death-knell and not seen you, and been stricken with worrying, and not able to get word of you or your family."
Recovering from the fright, and once again coming under the influence of his blue eyes that looked so unclouded into hers, eyes she wanted so much to see, Margaret straightened and smoothed the black dress down, and looked down at her ringless hands, swallowing the obstinate lump that had returned her throat. She knew her cheeks were burning. "Please forgive me also, Sir, for you caught me off guard. I did not think to see you again. You come never to Caer Aldene..."
"My lady, for reasons that are difficult to explain-- suffice it to say that I would be overstepping my bounds-- I may not cross this brook, nor leave this wood."
Margaret was silent some moments. "Yet...you crossed it when last we met." If she met his gaze, she would cry.
"Aye, Lady Margaret-- because the truth is, that to see you smile a
t me, I willingly would cross the very pit of hell." Margaret looked up at him. There was not the slightest trace of humor or dissimulation in his eyes, but only compassion as he searched her face. "Margaret, I hope that you are not offended, nor do I suppose it would be possible...I wish to be no burden at all to you, but only to place myself at your service, in whatever way I can. I know that you are mourning, and are weighted by cares I cannot hope to relieve, but..." He fell silent, because her eyes filled with tears and spilled over.
Embarrassed, Margaret tried to dash the tears away with one hand, while the other fumbled in her pocket for a kerchief. It fell to the ground as she pulled it out. He dropped his reins and snatched it quickly up, and stepped close and very softly dabbed the tears from her face. Margaret had ministered these same caresses a hundred times in the past fortnight, but had not herself been ministered to; the simple gesture overwhelmed her. She hid her crumbling face in her hands. He enfolded her to himself, resting one hand on the hair flowing out the back of the linen bonnet, whispering, "Cry, mourning dove, it is well, it is well. . ." She let all her weary sorrow go, clutching his soft tunic.
Welcome as rain on thirsty lands were her tears, and she cried unrestrained until empty. After the rain that swept away all of the gray faces, the cries of pain, the compassion and loss, had passed, there was peace so deep that she knew not any thought for long moments, and she seemed almost to sleep, resting in the enfolding arms. But thought returned to her, and then she rested still, not wishing to let the embrace end.
They stood, the brook chattering and birds calling; Margaret felt the softness of his tunic, and her hands reluctantly let go. The warmth, the scent of him, the feel of his heart beating against her temple and his arms around her, were all the solace she desired; she was no more able to lift her head and break free of him at that moment than to sprout wings and fly. But eventually, self-consciousness bade her straighten slightly, but she found that her legs were weak as reeds.
She raised her eyes to his, and then she was lost.
With her face upturned to his, his breath was upon her lips and hers upon his, and into the clear sky of his blue eyes she wished to fall forever. He stole no kiss, freely though she would have given it. She had no thought or consciousness in that moment but the soaring silence of her heart, sweeping all away in forgetfulness of joy. Her hands lay where they had been, on his chest. Though for chastity's sake they leaned slowly away from their embrace, in so doing, their hearts were bound ever tighter together, for the jewel of their desire was bound in the silver of purity and the gold of trust. They had stood as it were on an abyss, she felt, desiring with every fiber to fall- but both stood straight and calm.
Quiet his voice came. "Margaret." He moved closer, but stood straighter, rising to his full height, but looking intently at her, and took her right hand in both of his, holding it between them. "My name among men, Margaret, is Tamlyn of Braewode."
Tamlyn...had she not heard that name, in a song...after Hildreth's wedding? Was he not supposed to be...she searched his eyes, and they were not ghost's eyes. She felt his breath on her face and the warmth of his hand. "You have heard my name, and tales, no doubt. Fear me not, Margaret, you see that I am a living man, do you not?"
"Aye... Sievan-- Tamlyn-- but--"
"My precious one, there is so much to explain to you, but for now I must tell you this, and though it will only add to your cares, it is very urgent. Beyond the mountains, ships have landed. Vallards are encamped and have captured your father's outriders, so Lord Gregory will not hear of this until it is perhaps too late for defense! They are espying the land and planning to attack-- and the first place they must come, they must soon know, is Caer Aldene, in order to cross the Briar River. There are many of them, but they are hidden by the mountains. Your best hope is to hide many archers and footsoldiers in the hills, and when they mobilize, attack them in the forest. They are veteran soldiers, and well armed. If they come to the plains to fight, they will have the advantage, and will neither spare nor have mercy, but will destroy all to draw King Fearnon out quickly, in wrath; yet will already be well embedded into Ardinéa and difficult to assail. The King cannot afford to leave the southern border alone; the Vallards surely know this is Ardinéa's weakness and have found a way to exploit it. Margaret, all depends on a surprise attack in the Wild, where they will be strung out and ill-prepared!"
His voice, while speaking, had lowered to an ardent whisper, and his lips leaned closer and closer to her ear, his eyes flicking about the woods behind them as if on guard. Now he stood and straightened, and looked at her. "Margaret, love, will you be able to give this message to my lord your father? Repeat to me what I have told you." She recounted all that he had told her, he leaned his ear close to listen. When she had concluded, she asked, "But how...?"
"Margaret, I cannot now explain all to you. Your father must have this message." He walked Margaret over to where her mare was tied. He untied the reins, handed them to her and turned to lift her to the saddle; but first his hands cupped her face, and his look said more than words could have.
Her mind was full of questions. Who are you, where have you learned this, why do I trust you so completely, most beautiful thing I have ever seen!
"Margaret, when might I again see you? I must, for love of you and your people, send you away for now; and I cannot come to you. May God go with you, Margaret."
"And with you, Tamlyn. Will I find you again here, if I am able to come?"
"I wait and watch, and will know in my heart if you come, I cannot explain how, but I will, if I am able. This warfare will involve me, but I will be happy, knowing that I go to defend you." He removed a shining ring from his hand, and pressed it into her palm. "I know you can not wear it, nor would I make so bold as to ask you to, but only take it if you will, as a token. My intentions are only honorable, though I know not how my desire could ever come to be… I wish I could give you much more." He lifted her to the mare's back. He examined her face, which had been so drawn and now bloomed; but he could read the weariness behind her brown eyes. "I wish to hear of your cares. But every hour gives advantage to your enemies. Go with God, Margaret Aldene!"
Clutching the reins in one hand and the thick ring in her other, she urged Star back over the brook and up the knoll. She knew without turning that the other bank would appear empty, but she felt that she was leaving her heart there.
She saw the boy Trin ahead. How to give this message to her father? "I have met Tamlyn in the woods and he said to tell you..." No, that would never do. They would think her mad. But how to send his message?
By the time they had reached the stable, she had a plan. "Trin, you acquit yourself well. Now get from the infirmary for me the Troubadour, Gilling. Tell him to meet me here at once, and Trin, not a word to another human soul of the whole affair, not even your father, if it means your life!" She saw his eyes light up with importance, and he turned and ran like a deer for the church compound.