Once upon a Spring morn

2

Roel

With her heart pounding, “Sieur, we must tend to your leg wound,” said Celeste, dropping her gaze, knowing a blush filled her features, for in addition to having dark hair and grey eyes and a handsome face, he was tall and strong and most certainly brave. . and dangerous in battle, and perhaps otherwise, too. . the kind of man she had dreamed of meeting one day, and here she was in his arms.

“ ’Tis but a scratch,” said the man, a rakish grin filling his features as he reluctantly released his embrace.

“Sit with your back to my Companion of Quietness,” said Celeste, gesturing at the trunk of the oak.

The man raised an eyebrow at her name for the tree; nevertheless he eased himself down and leaned against its bole.

“Have you a name, Sieur?” asked Celeste, as she knelt to examine the wound.

“Roel,” replied the man. “Son of Sieur Emile and Lady Simone, brother of Sieurs Laurent and Blaise and of Demoiselle Avelaine.”

“You are a chevalier?” asked Celeste as she peeled back the edges of the slash through his leg leathers.

“Oui,” said Roel, breathing in the scent of her hair.

“Oh, my, that is a rather nasty cut,” said Celeste, examining the wound. She stepped to her horse, and unlike Roel’s black, her grey was white-eyed, agitated by the faint smell of spilled blood, mixed with the urine of released bladders and the feces of loosened bowels of the slain men. “Shhh. . shhh. .,” hushed the princess, running her hand along the steed’s neck, calming it. She opened a saddlebag and took out a cloth-wrapped bundle and a small waterskin and returned to the knight.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, and undid the cloth, revealing cheese and bread and an apple. The food she handed to him, but she kept the cloth. As blood welled from the cut, she ripped the fabric in two and laid one half on the grass. She folded the other and set it aside as well. Then she poured water on the wound to wash the blood away, and quickly took up the folded cloth and pressed it against the cut, and bound it there with the first piece.

“There, that ought to hold until I can get you to the manse,” she said.

Yet kneeling, she looked at him, and, dagger in hand, he offered her a slice of apple. “First, demoiselle, let us finish this cheese and bread and fruit, for you never know when we might get to eat again. And, oh, might you have a bottle of wine in those saddlebags of yours?” Celeste burst out laughing. Why, she did not know, though it might have been the incongruity of a wounded man on a field of battle calmly eating an apple and speaking of wine. He smiled in return, a gleam in his eye, and added, “Besides, my sire always told me to never pass up the chance of a picnic with a lovely demoiselle, for you never know what might happen.” Again Celeste felt a flush rising to her cheeks. “Non, Sieur,” she said, “I have no wine; water must do.” He sighed. “Ah, me, mere water. Still, I can drink in your beauty.”

Again Celeste laughed, and she took the apple slice and sat beside him, her back to the tree as well.

“And have you a name?” asked Roel.

“Celeste,” replied the princess.

“How perfect, for does it not mean heavenly?” said Roel, handing her another slice of apple along with a cut of cheese. Then he tore off two hunks of bread and handed her one of those as well.

“Did you not hear me call out my name to those brigands?” asked Celeste.

“Non. I heard you call, but I was yet at some distance away.”

“What brought you?”

“The horns. I heard them and rode this way, and I arrived just as”-Roel gestured toward the slain men-

“one of those bandits moved forward at the behest of another. It looked as if they were going to slay you outright, so I cocked and loaded my crossbow, and”-Roel shrugged-“the rest is history.”

“Well, Sieur Roel, I am glad that you did.” They sat in silence for a while, watching Roel’s black horse placidly crop grass nearby in spite of the smell of death. But at last Roel said, “Were they your enemies?” Celeste shrugged. “They said they had been sent to fetch me to some mistress of theirs. Dead or alive, it mattered not to her. . or to them.” Roel frowned. “Then they would have slain you?”

“It seems so.”

“Too bad their mistress was not among them.” Celeste took a drink of water and passed the skin to Roel, who drained it and set it aside.

He started to reach for the cheese, but of a sudden-

“Hsst!”

Celeste stopped chewing and listened. A horn cried in the distance. Roel leapt to his feet and sheathed his dagger and snatched up his helm and slipped it on. He took up his sword and stepped to the black. “Mount up, my lady, and make ready to ride; mayhap more brigands return. If it comes to battle, flee. I will hold them off.” Sword in hand, he mounted.

Celeste untethered her grey and swung up into the saddle. She unlimbered her bow and set an arrow to string.

Now they could hear the hammer of oncoming hooves, as of a number of riders.

“Is your manse well fortified?” asked Roel, riding to Celeste’s side.

“Indeed,” said Celeste.

“Which way?” asked Roel.

Celeste pointed. “Yon.”

“Then we’ll have to circle ’round, for the riders are

’tween here and there.”

An approaching horn cry split the air.

“Let us away!” said Roel, but at this last clarion call Celeste laughed gaily. She put away her arrow and raised her own horn to her lips and repeated the call.

Roel frowned. “What. .?”

“ ’Tis my own men,” said Celeste.

“Your own men?”

“From the manor,” replied Celeste. “Riding to the rescue, I ween.”

Again she sounded the horn, and it was answered, and in that moment a warband galloped into the open.

And they swirled around the pair and came to a stop, some with swords, others with bows, and these held aim on Roel.

“Princess,” called one of the men, “are you well?”

“Oui, Anton,” replied Celeste, springing down from her horse. Then she called out to the men, “Put away your weapons, for all brigands are dead save two, and they have fled away.” She gestured toward the slaughter at hand and then toward Roel. “This is the knight who saved me.”

Anton sheathed his sword and turned to the others.

“You heard the princess.”

As the warband followed suit, Roel, sword yet in hand, dismounted and removed his helm and faced Celeste. “You are a princess?”

Celeste smiled. “Oui.”

A look of wonder filled Roel’s face, and for a moment he stood stunned. But then he swept both helm and sword wide in a deep bow and said, “My lady.” Celeste smiled and canted her head in acknowledgment, but then gasped. “Oh, Roel, you are bleeding again.” She turned to one of the men. “Gilles, did you bring your bandages and herbs and simples?”

“As always, Princess,” said Gilles, even as he dismounted. He unslung his saddlebags and stepped to Roel. “Sieur, if you will take a seat by the oak, I will tend to your wound.”

“Gilles,” said Roel as he moved toward the tree,

“have you a spare clean cloth?” Of a sudden Roel paled, and perspiration broke out on his forehead. His helmet slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground, but Roel didn’t seem to notice. And then he stumbled and went down on one knee, but caught himself against the trunk of the oak. Celeste gasped and rushed forward and took the sword from him and set it aside and helped him ease down. With a sigh Roel said, “I need to wipe the blood of the outlaws from Coeur d’Acier. ”

“Coeur d’Acier?” said Gilles as he whipped open a saddlebag.

“My sword,” said Roel, his voice weakening, sweat now running down his face.

“Ah, oui, Sieur, a clean cloth I do have,” replied Gilles, rummaging in the bag. He murmured to Celeste,

“Keep him talking.”

Celeste, her heart pounding in fear for Roel, said,

“Did I hear correctly, my knight? Your sword is named Heart of Steel?”

“Oui,” said Roel, reaching for the silvery blade, but his hand fell lax, the effort too much.

Tears brimmed in Celeste’s eyes, and though she felt as if she were babbling, she said, “Oh, Roel, neither iron nor steel is permitted in Faery except in special circumstance.”

His voice still weaker, “So Geron told me,” said Roel,

“even as he gave me Coeur d’Acier.” He closed his eyes and fell silent while Gilles pulled loose the bandage.

As the healer began cutting away the leathers about the wound, “Roel,” said Celeste, “please don’t leave me.

Tell me more.”

Roel murmured, “But Geron also said this blade would not twist the aethyr-whatever that might be-

for the steel is bound by powerful runes and flashed with silver. Hence, he said I could bear it into Faery, for it would aid me in my quest.”

With dread clutching her very soul, Celeste could hardly get words to leave her mouth. Still she managed-“You have a quest?”

“Oui,” Roel whispered. “My sister, Avelaine, has been taken by the Lord of the Changelings, and I would rescue her and my brothers as well.”

“There is a story here for the telling,” said Celeste, her cheeks wet with tears. She again looked at Gilles, but with a small, cloth-tipped swab he was now fully occupied probing the wound.

Wincing slightly, his voice faintly strengthening, Roel whispered, “And tell the tale I will.” And then his head fell forward onto his chest.

“Oh, Roel,” cried Celeste. She turned to the healer.

“Gilles, is he-?”

“Not yet, my lady, but I fear for him,” said Gilles. He held up the swab; the cloth tip was covered with dark grume. “The wound itself is quite minor, you see, but a poisoned blade made the cut.”