Chapter 6: the Elf-Knight
After meeting with the Troubadour, Margaret had fallen on her bed, exhausted, but not before seeing the courtyard come alive with persons running and shouting with excitement, and as she drifted off she heard the diminishing thud of many hoofbeats as messengers departed on fast horses.
She had slept through the noon meal. Before dinner, she looked in on Elsibeth. Rivanone napped on the bed beside her, weary lines in her face. The hours, the days and nights Margaret had spent in here in the last fortnight, laboring over frail bodies! Each that died, took a piece of her with them; each that rallied and improved and was moved out of the sickroom seemed a gift. Now she looked at Elsibeth sleeping. Her color was better than it had been and she was sleeping peacefully, not in a swoon of exhaustion. It is done, she thought. The blight is passed. Margaret sighed in great relief. But something new has come.
Margaret gazed at Rivanone. Hardly a word had they shared with each other, and there was so much she needed to talk about, but Rivanone had other concerns. Margaret went to the window and opened it very quietly and the inrushing warm air relieved the oppression of the room. Rivanone's handmaid, sitting in the corner spinning, looked at her gratefully.
Margaret gazed at Rivanone. Oh Auntie, I love a man, I am so in love, and I hardly know him! thought Margaret. What would you say?
Margaret saw Rivanone's face in the moonlit herb garden, in her pale headdress with the silver-shot plaits laying over her shoulder. Do not allow youthful lust to hastily pick the first flower, she had said.
Lust? Margaret felt suddenly abashed. Could that be what she had felt when Tamlyn had held her close? Certainly they had handled one another longer than unmarried people in Ardinéa were expected to. She thought of his hands on her shoulders, so gently holding her away from him; the way her inwards had been fired with an aliveness she had never experienced, the way her breath had come quickly, and her legs had felt weak. I tell myself that I love him. Do I know what that is? Oh, Rivanone, so laden with cares, how can I speak to you of these things? Where can I find the wisdom that you have?
She thought of her aunt poring over the illuminated Gospel in the Library. But the Latin, although Margaret understood it well, made it seem to her so remote, so alien that it never seemed to speak to her the way it did Rivanone. It was so much easier when Rivanone could interpret and explain it for her-- then it made sense to her, coming from Rivanone. Perhaps, she thought, I am too old to have it spoon-fed me. I need to search the Scriptures on my own.
She thought again of Tamlyn's hands, cutting branches in the rain; clasping her upper arms as he whispered about the Vallards in the forest; touching her face, placing the ring in her palm. Her hand went to her pocket, and she withdrew the heavy band, cupped it in her hands, gazed upon it. Margaret had seen and herself owned many lovely and valuable pieces of gold, but this was of a fineness of craftsmanship, and a peculiar quality of gold that she had not seen. It bore the sign she had noticed upon his brooch; a deer beneath an overspreading tree; pierced, yet with erect head and piercing eye-- the eye itself was a tiny blue brilliant. She slipped it over her thumb and twisted it around, examining the vines and birds carved into the bright yellow metal. His hand had worn the inside smooth and shining. Margaret slipped the ring off into the cup of her palms again and rolled it around. It seemed to cast a glow of its own on her palms. What meant he, giving this ring to me? He knew I cannot wear it for mourning… There was so much that they had been unable to speak of, but only hint at; she understood that.
Is this love…or "in" love?
She loved her Aunt Rivanone. She loved her sister and her cousins and her father. She had sat by bedsides well into the night, even until dawn, holding, reassuring, comforting; she knew that was the sort of faithful deeds her love for her family required of her, though she fought to stay awake and sometimes held little bodies with aching arms, speaking reassurance she did not feel, and giving comfort she herself had craved. She had known that she should do these things, though she hated it and her heart rebelled at times, she knew it for the selfishness it was.
Love takes root in faithfulness. Faithfulness…was it in her? In the hands that gave this ring? Tamlyn had admirably held her away and smiled on her, when she might have surrendered all in return for the comfort he gave to her. He had given her information which might deliver her, yet sought no reward or glory for himself-- why? If it showed him faithful, was it also love? His hands had served her. They had declined to take advantage of her vulnerability, though many men would have; they had sought no praise...Was what Margaret felt, what she had so easily called "love", equal to that?
Gilling had approached Lord Gregory in the Hall, while he spoke with the bailiff about a matter in the village, and requested that he speak with him in privacy. Gregory, seated on a hassock, had dismissed all from his presence; they had retreated. When Gilling delivered the information, he had jumped up from his seat. "Great heavens, man! If this proves true, and no tale, your friend has spared us from destruction and shall have his reward, and you, a fiddle of gold!"
Gilling had merely bowed slightly. "If this angel of death may also bring life, that were sufficient reward for me. I can only say that no lying lips have brought me this news, and may it prove valuable to you, my lord."
Gregory had begun to call loudly for his knights to be summoned, for his scribes and pages; in the bustle, the troubadour had vanished.
Lord Gregory's messengers were sent out at once for King Fearnon's castle, and to the nearer castles and manors. The parade grounds came alive within hours. Rusted swords were drawn from the armory and polished; and knights trained with staffs on the green sward. White peaked tents peopled the meadows within the bailey wall.
Briardene had not seen battle for two generations. Though men had ever been sent to the South of Ardinéa to the border disputed there, now it was their own proud soil, their own cottages and fields and wives and daughters they were defending; now they were to go into the Wild and surprise the Vallards and show them that the Ardinéans still remembered how to rout even the most hardened troops.
For days on end Gregory held court in the Great Hall. His magistrate and sheriff must oversee domestic peace while this affair lasted; the forester was suddenly greatly important for his knowledge of the woods between the Briar and the Cloud Mountains. For Gregory this was all a most welcome distraction from the domestic tragedy of his sister-in-law's family. Now there were thanes and earls within his hall, persons of importance with whom he had little to do in the years since he had married for love, within his own walls, his beautiful distant kinswoman Varden.
Seeing these great persons set a corner of his mind in motion; his son Aelfred would need to be well connected in the future. Hildreth's marriage, he trusted, would prove a good alliance in the future judging by the figure his son-in-law cut among the knights. But perhaps he had better look hard about him in the interests of his two remaining daughters. The next few days would prove out many things.
Gregory's anticipation about facing the Vallards in battle was one of a certain inevitability, that war should come to his peaceable Briardene after so many years with rest on every side. His own father, Lord Grefyrd, after he married, paid shield-money to his best knights to take his place in the wars afar off, until Gregory's mother declined and died young; his father had then ridden off to battle had not returned. He had not seen his first grandchild, Hildreth, who was born before the messengers telling of his death had returned from Ardwin fields.
Lord Gregory was perplexed by Gilling's message, which he had prefaced by securing his oath that he would not demand Gilling's source. For a troubadour to act as a spy or a go-between was expected, but Gilling claimed no credit for himself. The Cloud Mountains were uninhabited except by a few religious hermits, poachers, his own outriders, hunters, and mushroom-gatherers; and the fabled Elvenfolk, but Gregory lent these no more credence than superstitions regarding broken mirrors and such. So Gregory was at a lo
ss to know what sort of folk would convey to him secretly, without remuneration or reward, such valuable news. There had to be some hidden benefit to them, but Gregory could not discern it, and it bothered him. One way to draw out the source, he knew was to advertise a reward…
Scouts had returned from the east, confirming that indeed there were vast camps on the wind-scoured heaths by the coast; many columns of smoke could be seen blowing out to sea. One of the scouts had encountered a pair of spies along Cloud Brook, overheard them chattering in Gallic, which he understood; from his unseen vantage he had shot both with arrows and brought back as evidence the Vallards' brooches that clasped their cloaks. When he delivered this prize, Lord Gregory knighted him on the spot. He had also the maps they had been drawing; it showed the probable routes the Vallards would take through the mountains and down Cloud Brook, which drained a long upland and emptied into the Briar River. Confidence soared, but also urgency; surely there were other spies, and these would be missed, and then the enemy would suspect that their presence was known.
So it was that five days after Gilling had carried the news of the invasion into Gregory's hall, the stratagems of surprise attack had been formulated, troops had been outfitted, bowyers and fletchers had worked long hours making bows and arrows and cobblers making sturdy rawhide boots for moving silently through the Wilds.
Guarding the castle had been for years a casual business; no longer. Full uniformed sentries stood guard not only at the castle entrances and in the keep, but at each bailey-gate as well. There was no slipping unnoticed out of the castle. The Great Hall was full each evening, but this was no revel, although there was a levity amongst all, an eagerness to be about the fight. Lord Gregory required his daughters and nieces to appear each evening for the meal; he bade Margaret wear the least mournful-looking mourning that decency allowed, for the morale of the men. Margaret knew the admiring gaze of many, but as one of few females, young and marriageable, in the Hall, it did not surprise her. She did not guess that without jewelry and bright clothing, her own beauty shone forth the more brightly, and thoughts that she kept hidden suffused her cheeks and lips with roses.
A number of times she saw her father gazing at her, as if considering. One of these evenings, she sat at the family table and during a lull in the conversation, she glanced around her. A few seats away, her father was looking at this man and that, their sons sitting with them, their servants standing behind them, each more finely liveried than the next. It occurred to Margaret that he was evaluating them in some way...and then his gaze turned to her. She smiled at him; he returned the smile, but his eyes were thoughtful and he nodded slowly. Margaret did not need to guess what was on his mind. She dropped her eyes to her ringless hands. She slipped her hand into her pocket again, clutched the ring, slipped her thumb into it. She was filled with a longing to be near Tamlyn, to talk with him, to touch his hand with the golden freckles... She had eyes for no man here. He is the one, she thought, a thought that was both happiness and hurting.
She excused herself and asked Varda if she would like to go to the Library with her and choose a book to read before bedtime. While Varda turned the pages and haltingly read aloud, Margaret took a leaf of paper and ink and a quill from a desk by the wall, and wrote.
Where coltsfoot opens day's first eyes in Spring
Where thrush and blackbird lavish sarabandes
On those who care to walk the spring-kissed lands
To see fair flowers bloom and hear birds sing;
There where I left my heart laying among
Blowing grasses by the shaded brookside
Where willow withies on the breezes ride
And trembling leaves there sing a loving song;
I live a moment when he touched my eyes
A hoped-for love was known and quickly spoke
confession that my feckless heart obeys.
My heart is sealed to bend, and not be broke
Like willows bowed to the will of other,
For I may not ever love another.
"Maggie, Maggie. . ." Varda had called her name several times, and left the book and came over to read over Margaret's shoulder. She stumbled over "sarabandes" and Margaret sighed and read over the sonnet to her, shamed now at her doggerel. Still, saying the last line, her voice diminished to a whisper. Varda slipped her arm over Margaret's shoulder. "Are you in love with someone, Maggie?"
Margaret pulled her close and laughed, sniffing and quickly wiping her eyes with her fingertips. "I'm afraid I am, Varda. Yes, I am in love with a man. But let it be our secret, speak not of it!"
"Does he love you, too?" Varda spoke over Margaret's shoulder.
"Aye, I believe he truly does."
"Will you be wed and go away, too?" Margaret pulled away and frowned tenderly at Varda. "I'm afraid that's out of my hands, love. We'll see."
"Who is he?"
"Promise never to tell?"
"Oh, aye, with all my heart, Maggie."
Margaret cupped a hand over her sister's ear and whispered, "His name is Sievan."
Varda cupped her hand over Margaret's ear and asked, "Where is Sievan from?"
Margaret again cupped Varda's ear. "You ask many questions. Father will choose you a handsome owl to wed, and all night he and you will ask one another who, who?" Varda laughed. "Come, lovey, let us look at a book, and have a tale, and then find Nurse to take you up to bed!" She paged through an illuminated, hand written book, making up stories to fit the pictures; then she sang her the ballad of the Feathered Maiden. She saw her laid in bed, and recited the Pater Noster with her. She laid the poem, folded, under her pillow, knowing that she would find it laughable come morning. Then she was wakeful, and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. She went to find someone to walk to the church with.
The Hall had been cleared of trestles, and her father sat at the hearth, talking with Lord Eldred, Lord James of Caer Morga, Baron Farn of Westroe, and a group of lesser thanes and of knights. Gregory reveled in his sudden importance. His quiet domain had gone from backwater to base of operations overnight. It was the eve of the Lord's Day, and the group was drifting off to sleeping quarters a few at a time. Plans had been laid; the day after the Lord's Day would call for an early rising and troops mobilizing; tomorrow was the lull before the storm; the mood was one of subdued excitement. Lord Gregory spotted her across the Hall.
"Ah, my daughter! Come, come!"
"My lord, my father," She said, stepping forward, and curtseying.
"Why wander you about the Hall, my dear?"
"I wish to go to Mass, father, and I hoped to find others willing to go," she said. Her father's eyes looked quickly about him, but the noble sons in whom he aspired had drifted away to chess games long before, only these Lords with whom he wished himself to converse were left, and a few of his knights.
"Ah, Sir Gareth, good man. You will do me a service and accompany my child to the Church, will you not?"
"Yes, my lord," he said, bowing and proffering his arm to Margaret.
When they emerged into the night and walked the brick path, Margaret recalled suddenly the words he had spoken on the night of her sister's wedding. "Sir Gareth," she said, as if to make light conversation.
"Yes, my Lady."
"What hear you of your friend of note, Tamlyn?" Margaret felt his arm jerk; it was like a rock under her hand for a moment. She could see in his hawk-like, warrior's face that he was deeply perplexed. He groaned, passing his free hand over his face.
"It is strange, Lady, that you should ask. Very strange. I was walking by the riverside two nights ago-- with a young woman, if you must know-- and across the brook, I spied a figure. I left the maid hidden, and approached, drawing my bow and nocking my arrow, to be ready; for his garb was not Ardinéan. I saw a knight in mail, in full array for battle, and sitting like a statue on his horse, as if waiting and watching, his eye keen. I had begun to draw a bead on him, but as I came within range, I
could see he was staring straight at me. As God is my witness, it was that Tamlyn, looking not a day older than last I saw him at Caer Cynrose! I dropped my bow down and cried out his name-- and he turned his horse and melted into the forest-- just vanished. But I could swear that it was him, Margaret! ...Ah, I do need to be here, at church. I am glad to be here. Forgive me my ghost tale. I must be going mad, to tell you this. My lady, are you well?"
Margaret was no dissembler; she was relieved that he misinterpreted her stricken demeanor. She drew in her breath and said, "It is good that we are here. Let us go in and hear the holy sisters, Gareth."
Both entered the church, a high-walled stone hall with carved wood beams holding up the tile roof, and tall, narrow windows which shone colors in the day. Now the candles that lit the sanctuary were few, there were more on the other side of the latticed screen through which the nuns and anchoresses, silhouetted, sang serenely. A latticed light fell across Margaret as she gazed over her folded hands at the glow of tapers at the altar. All within its bounds was orderly, well-lit, fragrant with incense, and lovely to look on in the night. The sisters' garb was plain white linen, their hair covered; they were backlit by the altar candles. Each had her place; each sang and spoke the responses, the Latin rolling off of several tongues in unison, unchanged since Saint Brendan had brought the Faith to Ardinéa, though the common tongue had changed much.
Margaret had immersed herself in the effect of it many times, and gained comfort. But tonight she felt that all the comfort was beyond the lattice; that she sat in darkness, coddling her secret passion. In there were no secrets, no confusion. Here where she knelt on the tufted velvet prie-dieu, she was aware that a gulf separated her from that peace. She looked up at the carved rood with Christ hanging on it. It had eyes that seemed to follow one-- wherever she had stood in this chapel, the eyes were upon her-- but they were serene.
She had as a child gazed on those eyes afraid, until one Good Friday she heard His words-- "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do." She had figured that if He could forgive those who drove nails through His hands, then He could forgive her. Childlike faith had covered the sins of a child. Now she felt those eyes again probing her, seeing her secrets. She was not sure how her heart bore the scrutiny. The eyes followed her home, and reappeared even behind her closed eyelids, as she lay in her bed alone, late that night, twisting in the white linen sheets.