The Tears of the Sun

CHAPTER TEN

ARMY HQ

THE HIGH KING’S HOST

HORSE HEAVEN HILLS

(FORMERLY SOUTH-CENTRAL WASHINGTON)

HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL

(FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)

AUGUST 8, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD

Crack.

Crack. Huon Liu grunted as the shield buffeted into his, taking him at a wicked angle that threw the stress across his leg rather than punching straight back into his fighting crouch. He snarled and switched stance as fast as he could, trying not to stagger, giving ground and bringing the shield up. The armored figure rushed at him with a movement as smooth as oil, nothing to see above the shield save the long vision slit in the curved visor. He was wearing an open-faced sallet himself, but he’d been maneuvered until the lowering sun was making him squint.

Perhaps if he tried a looping flourish cut and-

Crack and his sword struck against the shield, jarring his right hand and arm. It pushed in, binding and hampering his sword-arm.

The other sword lunged towards his face. He brought his shield up and around and ducked his head, desperately trying not to block his own vision. The other’s shield twitched out to block his cut at the leg then darted in to lock its edge under the rim of his and lever it aside.

Another quick pivot, and the blunt tip of the wooden practice sword struck the back of his thigh with paralyzing force. Huon gave an involuntary grunt of pain and went down on one knee, desperately propping the point of his shield on the ground and against his shoulder, whipping his padded oak sword back.

The High Queen stepped back and used the edge of her shield to knock her visor up. Her face was red and streaming with sweat, but she grinned at Huon.

“Not bad, youngster. And you don’t give up, which is the essential thing. If they cut off your arms and your legs, your last words should be: Come back, you coward, I’ll bite you to death! But you’re still thinking too much while you’re doing. Just throw the lever and let it happen. Disarm me, you two.”

Huon levered himself back to his feet and racked the battered practice weapons with the others; nobody in the Household slacked off. Even the Queen spent at least two hours a day at it, and she had enough other work to choke a horse. There was no choice; if you lost your edge you were easy meat in a fight.

Though with armies this big-St. Michael witness, tens of thousands! — commanders may not fight with their own hands as much or as often. But it’ll still happen, and it only takes once to die.

He was wearing the gear he’d picked up in Portland; a brigantine of small steel plates riveted between two layers of leather on his torso, plate vambraces and greaves, a mail camail for neck and shoulders and rows of steel splints on leather for his thighs and upper arms. It was good protection by skilled armorers, and even with the letter of credit he hadn’t quite dared to order a suit of plate that he’d outgrow in a year or less with the prospect of doing it all again several times before he reached his full height. He wasn’t going to be towering, but his hands and feet indicated he’d be adding inches yet.

Right now the armor seemed to be squeezing at him, and he made himself control his breathing. Ogier de Odell was the other Royal Squire now. He was in a suit of plate-he was also a year older-and he’d already relieved Mathilda of the shield and drill sword. Huon lifted the helm and padded cap off her coiled brown hair, transferred them to the armor stand outside the door-flap of the tent and began on the buckles and straps and the slip-knots in the laces of the arming doublet as the High Queen stood or moved to ease their task.

Ogier grinned at him as they worked; he was a good sort, and didn’t presume too much either on his years or his birth; of course, he was very much a younger son of the Count of Odell, not his Viscount-heir. With two sets of trained hands at the task it went quickly. He still felt a little reverence as he handled the suit. It was made from arcane pre-Change alloys that were usually too refractory to work, matchlessly light and strong, the sort of thing only a monarch could afford because it involved a team of highly paid specialists for a year or more using technology right at the limit of the possible.

“You’re in my position right now,” she went on to him as the plates came off.

A page came with a T-tunic to replace the doublet, and Huon handed her the sword belt with the live steel. In the field you wore it even when you were sitting down to eat.

“Your Majesty?” he said, as he knelt and cinched the tooled leather.

“You’re fighting opponents with more weight and bulk. There are ways around that, and it’s a good idea to know them. You’ll be bigger than me soon, but you’re never going to have the High King’s inches, or even Ogier’s.”

“Odard wasn’t a very tall man either, my lady,” Huon observed.

About your height, in fact, he thought; Mathilda Arminger was very tall for a woman, maybe a thumb’s-width over average height for a man. Odard was medium-sized, but he was quick as a weasel.

“No, but he was very bad news in a fight,” Mathilda said. “I saw him kill a lot of bigger men. Including a Moorish corsair in his last fight who, and the Virgin witness that I’m telling you the truth, was the size of Lord John Hordle and had at least as much muscle. He used a brassbound club I could barely lift one-handed.”

Huon blinked; the Dúnedain leader had beheaded an enemy’s warhorse with a single stroke of his greatsword once, and taken off the knight’s head with the next, chopping right through the bevoir plate. It wasn’t the only legendary feat that hung around his name. The thought of his brother’s end brought a familiar rush of mingled pride and grief; also a twinge of doubt that he’d ever be able to live up to the legend.

Mathilda grinned. “Don’t worry, you’ve got years to do that.”

He bowed, and flushed at her good-natured chuckle.

“Now disarm and come join me at table.”

Ogier helped him, though the squire’s kit he wore was a lot easier to shed than a knight’s outfit. He suppressed a groan of relief as the armor and padding came off and the hot dry air dried the sweat. This area had plenty of heat and dust, and only just enough water for drinking. The smell wasn’t too bad; everyone went down to the Columbia and washed once or twice a week and you got used to rankness in the field.

We wash once a week whether we need it or not, as the saying goes, Huon thought.

“Perceptive, our liege-lady, isn’t she?” Ogier murmured. “Sometimes you suddenly remember who her mother is.”

“She’s kindhearted, though,” Huon said, also quietly, since the implication was that the Lady Regent was not. “And she’s good with a sword, too. I thought maybe it was troubadour’s spin, but it wasn’t, was it?”

“Nope. She’s no d’Ath or Astrid Loring, but she’s pretty good, definitely better than the average man-at-arms, the speed and skill makes up for the bulk. Especially in this armor. They’re thinking of marrying me off to Anne of Tillamook, you know?”

“I’ve met her. She’s very nice,” Huon said, wondering at the segue. “My sister spent some time there and she says Anne’s a good mistress.”

Yes, I’d heard about that match. It’s logical; she inherits. Tillamook isn’t exactly rich, but a Countess isn’t going to wear wooden shoes even if a lot of her subjects do! He’s a third son, but his father is a Count. And the families are allies, so it makes sense to link them.

“She’s very smart,” Ogier said. “And pretty, too; and our children would be heirs to a County, even if it’s a bit of a damp, remote one. But I won’t have to worry about my wife knocking me off my horse at a tourney, if you know what I mean.”

“Neither will the High King,” Huon pointed out. “Sweet St. Michael, have you ever seen the man spar? I did just a couple of days ago. He makes the Protector’s Guard knights take him on two or three at a time so he’ll have to really work.”

Ogier nodded and gave a grunt of agreement. “And he deals with them like he was stropping a razor,” he said. “He may be a pagan, but by God he’s a fighting man!”

Then he clanked off to take up his duties; he was in charge of the inner guard this watch. A bell rang from somewhere nearby, and was echoed across the encampment. The royal pavilion wasn’t very large, but it had a tall flag post with the banner of Montival at its peak; now that was lowered, and respectfully folded by a detail. From here you could see a dozen separate encampments, the contingents of the gathering host. It was six-just time for the Angelus-and a haze of woodsmoke lay over the rolling hills and their coat of golden sun-dried grass, with here and there a patch of reaped wheat.

The bell rang again, and the household all knelt except the guards on duty. Chancellor Ignatius had come in today with a wagonload of paperwork, and he led the Angelus. Huon sank to his knees with the others, his crucifix in his hands, and let the comforting familiarity of the words roll over him:

“Angelus Domini, nuntiavit Mariae;

Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto.

Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. .”

To the final Amen.

Varlets set up the folding tables and chairs. Mathilda looked up suddenly at the beat of hooves. Her face was no more than ordinarily pretty with youth and health. But as she smiled she suddenly looked beautiful for a moment.

That’s what the troubadours sing about, Huon thought; and suddenly felt a little ashamed about fumblings with servant girls. Will I love someone like that someday?

The High King and his escort reined in; Huon hurried over with the others to hold the horses. He was in Associate-style tunic and trews, and he leapt down with a foot-over style that kept his back to the horse. Then he caught Mathilda up and whirled her around, despite a laughing protest.

“There’ll be time enough for state and pomp, sure and there will,” he said, and kissed her. “In the meantime, I’ve brought guests to the bounteous epicurean feast we’re laying out this eve.”

Huon had already seen Yseult, riding beside the old warrior Abbot. At her he did grin, and then made a little game of handing her down highcourteous-wise.

“Fine manners you’re picking up at court,” she said.

He snorted. “Bruises black and blue are what I’m picking up,” he said pridefully. “Her Majesty beat me up and down the exercise yard, and when it isn’t her it’s Ogier. They’re merciless.”

A shadow of concern flickered through the tilted blue eyes, and he smiled and shook his head slightly, giving her his hand to the table. The camp cook served out bowls of the evening’s variation on what the army spread through the western fringes of the Horse Heaven Hills seemed to eat every day about this time.

“Ah, yes, the old soldier’s superstition,” Dmwoski said.

Everyone looked at him, and he went on: “The stubborn belief if the sun rises in the east it is an omen predicting stew for supper.”

“And that would be funny, if only it were funny,” the High King said, without looking up from a stack of papers he was editing with quick flicks of a pencil; no or yes or investigate this.

Huon helped to hand the bowls around-page-work, but Mathilda hadn’t had time enough for any squeakers yet, appointments like that were delicate political balancing acts anyway-and sat. The stew was mostly beans and peas, and chunks of an extremely salty dried sausage that had probably been mostly pork at some point, and whatever vegetables were available, fresh or starting in a sun-dried state. There was a stack of flat wheat cakes fresh from the griddle as well, and a rock-hard Sbrinz-type cheese to grate on the stew, and a bowl of raisins for dessert.

Yseult was eating hers willingly enough, but she raised her brows at the way Huon shoveled down his bowlful and went back for seconds before she said, “It just occurred to me that Odard probably ate like this all the way to the lands of Sunrise, on the quest for the Sword. And, well, he was sort of picky about food and clothes and keeping state. If I’m remembering him properly.”

Rudi Mackenzie. .

Or should I just think of him as High King Artos or simply Artos or what? Huon thought.

. . snorted and handed the papers off to an assistant who seized them as if they were a precious relic and dashed off virtually dancing with glee. Huon jumped slightly; Mathilda was acute, but the way the High King could concentrate on several different things at once was disturbing.

“Your recollection is entirely correct and true,” Artos said to Yseult. “He would haul that set of court dress for himself and Matti all the way to Iowa despite all our mockery-and it’s well that turned out. It helped him charm the Bossman there.”

“And my cote-hardie did the same for the Bossman’s wife.”

“Yes, and whose idea was it to bring that? His. The which was worth hearing him swear he’d run wild and chew on trees if he had to have scorched stew of stringy venison one more time. Though he did say I told you so about it after Iowa more than was comfortable or right. He could have a tongue like a needle. Sometimes he’d stick the needle in just to make the person in question screech and jump.”

Mathilda looked off, a rolled up wheat cake in one hand. “When we didn’t have anything to eat he’d joke about that, too. Laugh that it was the first thing we’d had in weeks not fried in grease.”

She smiled at Yseult. “He was the worst camp cook! Sometimes he’d trade off and do the scouring and washing instead just to avoid eating food he’d prepared himself.”

“Or desecrated himself,” Rudi agreed. “I swear by Brigid that the raw materials were usually more tasteful than the end product, uncooked meat included.”

His face had changed, becoming more approachable somehow as he reached for a flask of wine covered in woven straw.

“Now you, a ghràidh, got to be quite good at making whatever we had edible. Better than this, to be sure.”

“Oh, this stew is savory enough,” Mathilda said, wiping her bowl with a piece of the flatbread.

“By savory you’d be meaning thick, brown and salty, no doubt.”

Huon blinked. It was a little difficult to imagine the fastidious brother he remembered slaving over a campfire. Much less the High Queen, not to mention the heir to the Protector’s position, scrubbing out pots and dishes with sand and ashes.

“And here we are, already hashing over the past like withered elders sitting in the sun and dwelling on their youth,” Rudi said.

“Sometimes the past is key to the present,” Dmwoski said. “This mission of mine has proven that once again.”

Mathilda used her eyes in a quick commanding flick, and most of those present withdrew; the trestle tables were taken down. Lamps were coming on throughout the sprawling tent-city, but most would go to sleep with the sun sinking westward.

“Go on, Most Reverend Father,” Rudi said to Dmwoski.

“I will; some of this I learned from the Grand Constable, and some from Lord Huon and Lady Yseult, and other parts from the records. I think I have put it together accurately, but let them correct me if I err.”

He looked down at his hands, his strong-boned furrowed face underlit by the coals of the fire.

“The Lady Regent and the Grand Constable acted quickly when the news of the enemy prisoner and Sir Guelf’s defection reached Portland. The Grand Constable had alerted Sir Garrick Betancourt to hold himself in instant readiness. .”

CASTLE GERVAIS, BARONY OF GERVAIS

PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION

(FORMERLY WESTERN OREGON)

SEPTEMBER 22, CHANGE YEAR 23/2021 AD

The solar was quiet, quiet enough that the tick of a needle piercing cloth was loud. Yseult was curled up in the window seat, restlessly staring out the eastern window of the tower, across the Five Great Fields of the home manor, sunlight glinting on the almost glassy stems of the reaped wheat and the nearly motionless leaves of the Lombardy poplars in the rows separating the fields. The air was warm and drowsy, smelling of slow-flowing water in the moat beneath the pads and blossoms of the lilies, and of the warm stuccoed concrete of the castle walls themselves. It was much better than winter, when they soaked up the dank chill and released it again to keep you in the right mood for the Black Months.

She’d pulled her fair braid over her shoulder and was nibbling on the end. Huon was out east, serving at Pendleton as a page in the fighting train of Sir Chaka Jones, Baron of Mollala. Odard was even farther east, in Boise, Idaho, the guest of President pro-tem Lawrence Thurston, according to his last letter. Which was dated a long time ago, so he might be anywhere now.

Odard didn’t always have time for Huon and me, but he was nice when he did.

She sniffled quietly, and winced. Here it comes, she thought, wait for it. . wait. . five, four, three, two. . Mary Liu reached for her scissors, silk sleeve rustling. A quiet snip and a quick snap.

“Ysi! Daydreaming again! What have you done so far?”

Yseult swung around and lifted the heavy weight of the altar cloth she had been embroidering before it slid to the gleaming wood floor. She brought it over to her mother, sitting between two south-facing windows. As she gave it over she snuck a quick look at the narrow face under the widow’s wimple. They were alike in some ways; her mother had fair hair too, though graying now, and blue eyes. But the bones of her face were much sharper, and Yseult hoped she would never have that look of settled discontent.

Her heart sank. Mama’s been on edge since the letters arrived from Boise.

Yseult watched nervously as her mother slid the embroidered cloth through her fingers. Mary’s moods had been unpredictable since Odard left; it paid to bet on the side of strictness, especially for her only daughter.

Yseult swallowed as Mary’s fingers stopped at the section she’d been working on so desultorily this morning and yesterday.

“This is as bad as your stitches when you were five! You need to pay attention, Yseult. You are fifteen. I was a married lady by the time I was sixteen! And much better with my needle. A King’s daughter had to set an example, back when we were in the Society.”

If you were a King’s daughter, why aren’t you a Princess?

Yseult gulped back the words, surprised that she’d dared to think them in her mother’s face.

Lady Phillipa told me that was just a fantasy of yours. That it didn’t mean the same thing in the Society and you weren’t a King’s daughter, anyway.

She clenched her teeth as her mother pushed the heavy cloth onto the table with a quick nervous gesture and walked a few steps towards the fireplace and back.

“Hand!” she demanded.

Yseult gasped, but held out her right hand, palm up. No good ever came of whining or trying to get out of her punishments. Her left hand grasped her parting gift from Brother Odard. A two-sided medal with St. Bernadette of Lourdes on one side and the Immaculate Conception on the other that hung on a fine gold chain around her neck.

Her right hand trembled and she couldn’t stop two tears sliding down her cheeks as she waited for the ruler to snap against her tender palm.

“Crying!” exclaimed Mary, contempt and dismissal in her voice. “Here.”

She thrust the heavy linen back into Yseult’s arms. “Pick it out, from here to here. Then put it away for now. I won’t have slovenly work on the altar of the Lord. You can. .”

A scratch on the solar door interrupted her tirade. She turned and Yseult drew in a quick, shuddering breath of relief, rapidly and neatly folding the cloth.

“Romarec, what is it?”

“My lady, your brother begs an audience.”

Yseult looked at the matronly housekeeper in some surprise. The last she’d heard, Uncle Guelf was leading the Gervais menie in battle out in Pendleton.

What’s he doing back in Gervais?

She began to sidle towards the servants’ door; strict, hard-handed Uncle Guelf ranked low on her list of people to welcome.

“Certainly. Send him up and do you take this child of mine with you,” said Mary, a tight smile on her face. “She is to work on her sewing with you until the altar cloth embroidery is good enough for me.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Goodwife Romarec bobbed a curtsy, met Yseult’s eyes and made a very small hand gesture to her and held the door open. As she shut the door behind them, Yseult sighed, her palm tingling where the ruler had not hit. Romarec instructed the waiting page to bring Lord Guelf up and waved Yseult towards the door to the servants’ hall.

“Come, young Mistress,” she said. “What’s amiss?”

Yseult gave the housekeeper a rather watery smile. “Mama’s so annoyed and angry all the time, these days. I know the Regent said we all have to do our part in this war, but I wish I could do my part staying with Aedelia Kozlow or Jehane Smitts.”

Romarec led her down the servants’ corridor, frowning.

“You wouldn’t be allowed. Not with the Regent as angry as she is with your mother over the Sutterdown assassins. It took some months for the news to percolate down, but that’s why each family has withdrawn their maidens and none have offered you a spot.”

She eyed Yseult, but Yseult shook her head. “Mama never said what happened with the Re. . Wait! The Lady Regent was mad at Mama because brother Odard saved the life of the Mackenzie and the Wanderer? I mean, I mean, mostly he was trying to keep the Princess safe. . She’s not very easy to keep safe.”

Romarec shot a quick glance up and down the length of the hall before saying softly: “Little Mistress, your mother does you no favors by keeping you ignorant.”

Yseult sniffed and pushed the heavy white cloth into the housekeeper’s hands. She pulled out her hankie and wiped her eyes and blew her nose defiantly.

“Sorry, I was afraid I’d drip on that pure cloth. Mama would have had kittens-more kittens. Mama-Mama and Uncle did something, and Odard came back really angry, but I didn’t hear what he said to her. She wouldn’t tell me, anyway. Sometimes the other maids-in-waiting would tell me things.”

Yseult felt her lip pout out and sucked it back in. Lady Mary had a habit of pinching it if she pouted in front of her. The housekeeper shook her head and hesitated, before opening the door to the large bright room that was the servants’ sewing room. Five peasant girls were sitting by the north-facing windows. They looked up and smiled before continuing their work. Romarec spread the altar cloth with its white on white counted cross-stitch over a table in the back. She lowered her voice.

“It’s not something I should talk to you about; it’s not safe. The Lady Regent was so furious your mother nearly lost her head. Those assassins were sent by a kingdom to the east; Cutters they call them. Your mother and your Uncle Guelf snuck them in, hid them, and gave them money and information. Your mother’s goal, as she told me, was the death of the Mackenzie tanist. Rudi Mackenzie, their Chief’s son. But it all went wrong, and the Princess Mathilda and Lord Odard were put in mortal peril as well.”

Yseult froze, the room going dark around her. Sparks of light starred the blackness and she swayed, clumsily thrusting a hand out for balance. Romarec’s scolding sounded distant through the sea-surf roaring in her ears. Something hit the back of her legs and she sat abruptly on a hard chair. A glass was thrust in her hands and that distant voice ordered her: “Sip!”

Yseult felt her teeth begin to chatter and clenched her jaw. I won’t be weak! She sipped, nearly coughed at the fiery-sweet taste of the herbed apricot brandy in the flask and looked up, her sight clearing. Romarec’s concerned eyes met hers. She nodded and sipped again.

“My mother endangered the Princess?” she whispered, incredulous. “That would be treason, and not petty treason either! Why are any of us still alive?” Her mind made a leap. “Odard! Odard fought for her. She must have begged his life of the Lady Regent.”

Then she waved her hand as Romarec glanced to either side again. “No! No, you are right. Not now. Some other day. Now, I should do what Mama says.”

A frisson of fear ran down her back, a physical sensation like the edge of nausea, and she shuddered. Her appalled understanding of her mother’s idiocy made her stomach twist as if she’d eaten green apples, a knowledge as much of the gut as the brain. Fear for herself warred with fear for the whole family; high treason could see them all executed and the lands attainted. And treason was tried before the Court of Star-Chamber, not a jury of your peers. The Lady Regent was not known for being forgiving about anything, much less the life of her only child and heir. Having that child and heir run off-the rumors were plain it had been without permission, and there had been a rare public loss of temper by the Lady Regent-wouldn’t have made her any sweeter about it.

Goodwife Romarec nodded and straightened up, speaking in a normal voice: “Well, my little Mistress, seeing that you have been assigned to sew with me, I’ll tell you that I can really use the help. These are five new maids, each as clumsy as a cow with her needle and each one worse than the last, but they’re all I have, now the maids-in-waiting are gone, to sew all the clothes that we must provide for the castle. We need to make sure the Christmas distribution is done, and we only have a few months to get through the tasks.”

Yseult smiled. She wished she could hug so lowly a person as the housekeeper. But Lady Mary frowned on what she called Yseult’s familiarity with the lower classes. That was old-fashioned thinking, of course. Nowadays nobles knew who they were. Instead she nodded.

“Yes, Romarec, I think that will help me become more disciplined. What times do you think I should work for you?”

“I. .” Romarec studied the altar cloth, running it through her hands. “What are these symbols?” she asked.

Yseult shook her head. “Mama tells me what to embroider, by the count. She’ll give me a starting point, but she won’t explain. She told me that it would make me concentrate more, that I was getting distracted and letting the colors and shapes guide my hands and not the pattern, itself.”

Romarec shook her head. The last foot of cloth she frowned at. “This? She thinks this must be taken out? Child, your mother never could decide from which side of her mouth she should blow! I can see the difference, with my eyes six inches from the cloth, but on an altar at five yards, white on white, it’s not going to show at all. Howsoever, your Lady Mother is sure to ask and inspect. So, come meet my new girls, pick this out and I will expect you here from nine in the morning every day. You will have elevenses with us and eat dinner with the castle staff and work until three in the afternoon.”

“And then?”

“Thusly, Master Johannsen will still see you at four for your riding lesson, and we will inform Mistress Virgilia that your tutoring will be in the evening.”

Yseult nodded, relieved to be free of the hot, boring solar and out of her mother’s sole company.

How awful! I never felt like this about Mama, before. But there were always maids with us!

She picked out the slightly sloppy stitches, wondering why Guelf was in Gervais and what the war news from Pendleton was.

Maybe Guelf brought a letter from Huon? Or one from Odard! Dispatches? Or mischief? Mischief! What a word for high treason. What will happen to us?

She tried to settle the gnawing worm of anxiety in her stomach by ignoring it, forcing her hands not to twitch. She wasn’t very successful. Some time later as she carefully taught Martha how to do a stretch stitch so the cuffs would stand up to rough handling she suddenly wondered:

Jesus’ wounds! Should I tell the Regent my uncle is here? What if he ran away? No, he’ d never run from a fight. . But, what is he doing here? What should I do? Odard! Huon! Where are you? I need your help!

At three, her dilemma still unresolved, she raced up the stairs and back corridors to her own apartment, two rooms in the west tower’s third story; the light was always a little dim here, because this low the windows were all narrow slits, but space was always at a premium in a castle. The passageways seemed very empty and bare without the men who’d marched east with the host to Pendleton; it made you realize how the vassals and their menies doing garrison duty made up so much of its usual population. With only the families of the permanent staff and the remnant of older men and boys too young to take the field she felt like one of a handful of dried peas dropped into a drum.

Her maidservant helped her out of the soft violet cote-hardie and rose linen chemise, then hesitated.

“Is there news from the war, my lady?”

Yseult blinked, and then remembered that the girl had a sweetheart who was a spearman; her previous maid had been her first, and had just left to marry a blacksmith in town.

“No, Hathvisa, there isn’t. I’ll tell you if I hear anything, though.”

“Thank you, my lady. The riding habit?”

“Yes, please.”

She pulled on a riding tunic, then the heavy brown pleated wool split skirt, and shrugged into the short tight jacket. She rejoiced in the relative freedom of movement the riding habit gave her as she stamped into her boots and snatched up the hard leather riding hat. Racing down the stairs she was tempted to stop at the little prie-dieu just inside the door of the castle chapel her mother had set up to the Immaculate Conception and St. Bernadette.

Later, when I get back! That’s what I’ll do! I’ll ask my saint and see if she can help me figure out what to do!

Master Johannsen was waiting for her in the courtyard, holding the reins of her spirited little bay palfrey, Iomedea. Yseult shook her head at his offer of a leg up, swung into the saddle and then followed him out into the pasture north of the town that the castle also used as a training and tilting ground. That was empty too, none of the tall coursers or destriers whose hoofprints still marked the green turf, the stands that were put up for a tourney gone except for the anchor-points.

The lesson concentrated on defensive and aggressive moves that an unarmed woman, mounted, could use when under attack. With her new understanding of her danger from her mother’s actions, Yseult wondered at the content of her lesson since January. They finished with his usual command.

“Ride now, for an hour, practicing your canter and trot.”

Another hour of freedom from the solar was precious to her.

I might not be horse-mad like some girls, she thought. But I’ll take a horse over alone with Mama right now, any day! And I don’t even have to take an escort, with men so short.

She finished off her workout by taking the bridle path northeast along 99E, up to the tangle of vines and quick growing sumac, poplar and hemlock and sapling oak that was rapidly obliterating the burned-out site of old Woodburn. Her father and later her mother had supervised the stripping and destruction of the deserted town. She could just remember watching the foresters fire the controlled burn when she was five, and the quickgrowing trees planted for fuel and coppice were already fifteen or twenty feet tall in this moist mild climate.

She circled north on the edge of the raw young forest. Only the castle folk used South Boones Ferry Road, so she shook the reins and galloped over the familiar winding path, spurring Iomedea around the bend into Parr. A man stepped into the path and snatched at the bay’s bridle. Yseult gasped but there was no time to be afraid, or to think. Horsemaster Johannsen’s voice rang in her head.

“Wait for it, wait. . four, three, two. .”

Iomedea reared and crow-hopped, obedient to the signals she sent. She raised her quirt. .

Thee may not need it, little Mistress, she heard Johannsen say in her mind, But nonetheless, I’ll be teaching thee a few maneuvers. The mare’s a nice girl and will learn well, and it never hurts to know.

Even as she brought the quirt down, cutting at the ragged man, her eyes met his. He started, dodged the whip and jumped back into the trees. Yseult gasped and set Iomedea forward at a hard gallop, her heart pounding.

I didn’t think I would need a groom here! On my own land! Who was that? she wondered. I thought I knew him, just for an instant. . I’d better tell the guard captain right away.

Anxiety and fear rode with her as she hurried back to town at a trot. She pulled up at the edge of the built-up area; Gervais wasn’t big enough to rate a city wall. A Tinerant caravan was setting up as she did, their barrel-shaped house-wagons grouped in a square and a wild music of violins and guitars sounding; the ragged, gaudy figures made extravagant bows. . one of them still juggling cups and daggers and apples while he did. A storyteller was declaiming to an audience of village youngsters and youths: “Know, O Prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars. .”

She threaded her way through the crowds, not presuming too much on deference; she was a lady, but a very young one. Early evening, just as the sun set, was her favorite time in Gervais; everybody was in a good mood and thronging the streets between the shingled brick and half-timber houses and workshops, calling greetings and laughing. Hooves clattered on brick or asphalt paving.

Then a chill. A detachment of men-at-arms in the black armor of the Protector’s Guard lounged in front of the Chinese Hand Inn, drinking beer and munching on bread and bowls of sweet-and-sour chicken. They whistled and wolf-called as she rode by, laughing at her glare and elevated nose. An under-officer came out of the inn with a wineglass in one hand and a chicken leg in the other to snarl at them: “Show some manners there, you dogs! Can’t you see that’s a lady?”

Doubtless they were the escort for some courier. Yseult arrived back at the castle with her cheeks flushed by more than good exercise.

As she dismounted in the stables, her uncle Guelf Mortimer strode in, calling for his groom. He saw her.

“Where’ve you been, brat? Your mother’s that worried about you! Go to her right now!”

Yseult ducked around him and ran. Guelf was rough spoken and known to slap people who displeased him. Her other uncle, Jason, many years dead, had been rough mannered, too. Yseult rushed into the castle.

Why’s he so mean? I might as well stay downstairs with the cow-handed sewing maids, she thought resentfully. At least they are polite to me! Of course, they have to be.

In the great hall she hesitated, torn between conflicting desires. The chapel and prayer called; Guelf had ordered her to go to Mary, and she really needed to change.

Chapel can wait until after dinner, she decided. I’ll be calmer then and won’t hurry things. I must listen for the voice of the saint or the Immaculata with calm or I won’t hear it. So, what to do now? It’s a toss-up. Will Mama be angrier with me for coming to see her in all my dirt or if I come in later and make her wait? I’d better go see her first.

She scratched at the door and slipped in when her mother called.

“Back?” asked Mary.

Yseult eyed her warily. She stood by the fireplace stirring the coals with an iron poker. There was a sheet of paper in her hand and the grate was adrift in ashes. Ashes sullied the expensive rug from Oregon City that Mary stood on. More papers littered the large worktable by the southern windows.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Well, how do you like spending the day with the sewing maids?”

There was small sneer in Mary’s voice. What is she sneering about? Me liking the maids? Or did Uncle Guelf upset her? He’s always telling her what to do and it makes her mad.

She answered the question with a question. Father Haggerty got annoyed when she lied to her mother. “Working with five cow-handed seamstress apprentices? How do you think I like it?”

Ooops, that sounded really impertinent, and my voice sneered too.

Mary giggled, a sound Yseult had never heard her make before and tossed the paper into the fire. “Well, indulge your taste for the lower orders. I think. . it’s September. . October, November, December, January, February, March. . Yes, my fool of a daughter can leave the company of hicks and fools on April Fool’s Day. That works out nicely. You may have your supper and lessons with Virgilia in the evening and break your fast with me in the morning, here in the solar.”

Yseult gaped and then snapped her mouth shut. What will happen on April Fool’s Day? she wondered. And why is she giggling? Usually she’s mad after Uncle is here!

She watched Mary pick up another piece of paper and suddenly wondered. Where is her rosary? I haven’t seen it dangling from her belt in months. She used to make such a point about it, about being Catholic originally not a change-Christian. . but I haven’t seen it. . in forever.

Mary turned towards her, raising the very fine, fair, plucked brows. “Did you need anything before you sit down to lessons?” she asked.

“No, Mama.”

Yseult swallowed and shook her head. She edged her way to the servants’ door in the west wall, intent on getting out of her mother’s presence.

I have to think! Why am I just noticing things now? What do they mean?

The rosary was gone from her mother’s belt and so was the lovely enameled locket of the Annunciation she had always worn; a gift from her father. Mary giggled again and turned back to the fire.

The main door to the room crashed open. “I arrest you, Mary Liu, Dowager Baroness of Barony Gervais on the charge of High Treason. Do not resist your arrest or you may be put to the Question, or executed out of hand!”

Yseult froze, breathless. Her mind went blank as the Lady Regent’s men tramped into the room in full armor, swords drawn. It was as if her mind was an eye, and it had looked into the sun.

Mary reacted instantly. She whirled from the fire, her green silk cote-hardie swirling and flaring into the hot coals as she grabbed the poker like a club and ran. She managed to get two steps from the fireplace, running towards the paper-loaded table, her burning train scattering glowing embers across the carpet. The sergeant behind the captain was faster; two strides brought him within reach of Mary and he swung an armored fist to her stomach with a dull thud.

Mary’s small body rose until the tips of her satin slippers left the rug, then folded around the point of impact as if bending in. The poker fell with a muffled thud. The servants’ door slammed open into Yseult’s back, throwing her face down, left cheek skinning across the precious rug and grinding into the hot embers.

“We’ve got possession of the Castle, Sir Garrick,” said the man at arms standing by her head.

Yseult gasped and choked and sneezed on the fine paper ashes. She lay dazed, unable to move; to understand what was happening; to see anything but the man’s steel sabatons and the point of the long sword in his hand; to hear anything but the harsh voices and the creak and clatter of armor as they moved around the infinitely familiar room now made strange. She could see her mother’s small body heaving.

The sergeant beat out the flames in Mary’s silk skirts with his gauntleted hands. She fought madly as soon as she managed to whoop in a breath; struggling and screeching, clawing at the armored man as though her soft nails could rake through an Associate’s panoply. Two more men at arms, men Yseult recognized as part of the group who’d teased her earlier, trotted in with a bundle of white cloth.

Mary was yanked upright, her arms forced into sleeves much too long for her, the tunic buckled in back and then the arms crossed over, wrapped around and the sleeves brought forward to buckle in front. Yseult shuddered, gasping, almost glad she was lying on the ground in case she fainted.

Mama’s eyes! she thought. They’re black. No, they can’t be. The pupils must have gotten so big I can’t see the color. . I think I’m going to be sick.

A second cloth was wrapped and strapped around her waist and legs. Mary’s headdress fell off, her graying blond braid flopping free, coming loose in wild tangles, her body still heaving and twisting in the soldiers’ hands. Yseult propped herself up with her right hand, her left cheek throbbing, her left arm a mass of throbbing pain from shoulder to wrist. Three clerks were helping the man called Captain Garrick sort through the papers on the table; he was a tallish brown-haired man with a neat pointed chin-beard and mustache, in full armor except for the gauntlets and helm. Two more were smothering the fire and carefully pulling out the charred scraps.

“How much did she burn?” asked Sir Garrick.

“Hmmm,” said one of the clerks. “I make it ten pages by the surviving edges and corners. She didn’t do the best job. What are they?”

“Probably drafts of their letters.” Sir Garrick frowned down at the bound woman struggling and screaming at his feet.

“Adolphus!” he snapped. “Quiet her down. I can’t hear myself think.”

A slender unarmed young man wearing a white tabard with a red cross on the shoulder came forward. After frowning for a few minutes he pulled a small brown bottle out of his leather satchel.

“Laudanum,” he said briefly. “I hate to use drugs, but I don’t have too many options. I could try to gag her, but the danger of her choking or aspirating is very high. The danger of overdosing her on opium is lower, but still significant. Especially with a case of hysteria like this.”

Sir Garrick grumbled under his breath. “She’ll do herself an injury anyway if we don’t quiet her, and we need her alive.” Louder he said: “Drugs. I take the responsibility.”

Mary struggled and thrashed like a salmon in a net, but Adolphus was very good; he dribbled the drops in one by one. Yseult blinked, trying to sit. An ungentle hand, gauntleted and armored, pushed her back down.

“Bide where you are, girl,” said the rough voice. “Bide quiet, that’s best.”

She lay watching her mother try to spit out the drops and Adolphus pour small amounts of water in her mouth and rub her throat. Gradually her struggles eased and she lay still, breathing heavily. Sir Garrick turned towards Yseult and smiled thinly. She cowered, feeling much like a rabbit confronted by a coyote. Or a wolf.

“Vulture and her chick, all in one net. Neat. Ah, Goodwife Romarec, attend.”

Yseult’s teeth chattered; her skin wrinkled as if it were freezing cold, not a warm early evening. Romarec was frog-marched into the room and shot one quick glance at Yseult before bobbing her curtsy to the knight. With her came all the higher staff; one of the men had a bleeding bruise across his cheek and was being assisted by two of the Protector’s Guardsmen.

“Sir?” the housekeeper said; there was a slight beading of sweat on her brow, but her voice was quietly respectful.

“Attend, all of you.”

He pulled a leather tube from his belt, twisted off the cap that closed it and shook out a roll of heavy paper, the kind used for official documents. It was sealed with a blob of red wax and ribbon; he held it up, then showed it to his own second-in-command.

“Fulk, witness that this is the Lady Regent’s personal seal, and unbroken.”

“I witness it, Sir Garrick.”

The man went on in a loud official voice: “I am Sir Garrick Betancourt, belted knight and second son of the Baron of Bethany, Captain of Lancers in the Protector’s Guard under the Grand Constable of the Association, Baroness d’Ath. I will now break the seal and read this warrant.”

He flicked off the wax with a thumbnail, undid the ribbon, and opened it.

“The bearer has done what has been done by my authority, and for the good of the State. Signed, Sandra Arminger, Lady Regent of the Portland Protective Association, holder of the Crown’s rights in ward for the Princess Mathilda Arminger.”

Yseult’s breath caught again. He could have them all killed, right now, with that backing him up. With a warrant like that you could do anything.

“Fulk, witness that this is the Lady Regent’s signature.”

“I witness it, Sir Garrick.”

“By this warrant I am empowered to take possession of Gervais and arrest the Liu family as instructed.”

He turned to Romarec. “Pack for her ladyship: two sets of underclothes, two dresses, two surcoats, a cloak. They should be old clothes, linen and wool only, shoes and warm boots, socks. Bed linen, a blanket, the silly things a woman needs to primp with and whatever sewing project she has in hand. My squire Kai will accompany you. Make sure you put nothing dangerous in the bundles.”

“Scissors, sir?”

“Bring them to me. They will be delivered to Fen House.”

Romarec bobbed again, turned and turned back. “Fen House? Where is that?”

“That is none of your concern. Mary Liu is being arrested for treason. She will be kept under wraps there until such a time as the Lady Regent believes she can move forward in this matter.”

“Is House Liu proscribed or attaindered?” she asked.

“That is none of your concern either,” answered the captain.

Romarec drew herself up. “I have served House Liu for more than twenty years, my lord. I believe it is my concern.”

He gave her a nod of grudging respect. “No. For now the demesne is going to be under my guardianship until the Lady Regent has tried the Dowager Baroness. All her children need to be present for that. At the very least you can expect her to be kept under arrest in Fen House until Lord Odard returns.”

Tears leaked down Yseult’s cheeks at the thought of her brother, stinging in the burns.

He’s so far away! He’s our lord but he can’t protect us now!

Then she remembered Huon, her other brother, waiting for battle in Pendleton. What has happened to him? she wondered. Chaka likes Huon; he should be protected, but the Lady Regent. . How could Mama put us at such a risk!

Romarec left and returned after a time with three large duffel bags; the kind soldiers used to cart their kit to battle. Not the fine wooden trunks that opened into a traveling wardrobe her mother used to travel and visit in Association territories or to visit Court. Romarec picked a pair of tiny scissors-thread nippers-out of the work box and tied the basket up in a large napkin and stuffed it into the third duffel. The scissors she handed to Sir Garrick.

“Good,” said the captain. “Now, attend. Do you know Alex Vinton?”

The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy for a: “Yes, my lord Odar’s valet and manservant.”

“Have you seen him in the last month or so, or even since he left?”

The housekeeper shook her head, but Yseult gasped and burst out, “S-s-s-so tha-tha-that’s who tha-that was!”

Sir Garrick turned and swiftly knelt by her. “Who, when?” he asked urgently.

The hand was still pressing her down and her teeth were chattering as she said: “The man, I, I, I–I-”

Sir Garrick frowned and said, “Let her up, soldier. A glass of water, please, Adolphus.”

The chirurgeon brought the water as Sir Garrick helped her sit. She was trembling now, huge shudders traveling up and down her body as if powerful hands were shaking her. Her teeth chattered against the glass. Adolphus frowned and tilted her head, pulled at her eyelids and pressed her fingernails.

“Shock,” he said. “It’s hot in here, but is there a blanket?”

Romarec pulled one out of the cupboard and brought it over.

“Open the windows. I want air in here, as long as we don’t shock her further with a sudden temperature drop.”

The men silently moved aside and allowed the housekeeper to wrap up Yseult in the blanket. The windows all banged open. Yseult saw relief on the faces of many of the men crowding the stuffy room. The brisk evening air stirred bringing a medley of scents; cook fires, jasmine from the garden, the stables, and an odd thick iron smell.

She saw Sir Garrick nod to an unspoken question from Romarec. The woman settled behind Yseult and hugged her.

Adolphus put the glass to her mouth. “Sips,” he ordered. “Very, very small sips. You are in shock. If you try to gulp, you will choke.”

Yseult sipped, and sipped again. Slowly the shudders settled down. But her tears still ran, stinging her left cheek as they slid over the burns. She saw Sir Garrick’s face, annoyed, but resigned.

“Let her cry,” he said to the medic. “I’ll get nothing out of her until that’s over.”

He knelt with a clank and put his hand under Yseult’s chin, the harsh calluses on his fingers like human sandpaper. It felt like her father’s hand or Odard’s.

“I need the information, soonest, daughter of Gervais! Control yourself like a noblewoman. Quickly!”

Yseult nodded and gulped. . which started hiccups. Romarec chaffed her hands and rubbed her back. More handkerchiefs appeared at her gesture and Yseult breathed deeply. Her breath kept catching on her hiccups, but they faded away as she kept breathing and sipping from the glass Romarec held.

Twice today, some distant part of her thought wryly. It’s turning out to be a real black letter day.

Romarec gave her the glass, but her left hand wasn’t working and Adolphus had to catch it. “Saints Cosmas and Damien! What happened? How did you injure your wrist?” he asked probing.

“Doo. . doo. . door. . hit me. .”

“Where?”

“Back.”

Quick competent hands probed up and down her spine and shoulder blades. She twisted away as he touched where the door had hit her. He took her face again and tilted it.

“Burns, rug and embers. Ah! From your mother’s gown. You must stop crying, you’ve washed them with enough salt water to clean them, that’s for sure, but it’s getting inflamed. I think you’ll have a few scars.

He turned to Romarec: “Goodwife, get some soft cloths, soak them in water as cold as you can get it and dab at her face. Get the swelling under control. No arnica or witch hazel; this one’s too close to her eye. Just cool water.”

Adolphus wrapped her wrist in a tight bandage and pinned it to the front of her riding jacket. She concentrated on sipping, holding the glass in her right hand.

“I. . I can talk, Sir, Sir Garrick,” she said.

“Good girl! Ten minutes to control a hysterical fit, all on your own. You’ve got steel somewhere, Gervais.”

She shook her head, tears still trickling down her cheeks. The left one stung and throbbed.

“I–I went riding over the east bridle path today. I left the castle about five, five thirty. Master Johannsen might know exactly when.”

“Were you just getting back when we saw you?” asked Garrick.

She nodded. “I was going to find Jubal, the Captain of the watch and tell him. But my uncle yelled at me and I went to find Mama and forgot. A-a man, a-a beggar, I thought-tried to grab Iomedea’s reins from me about halfway along Parr Road, where it bends south. He looked at me, and I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t think of anyone. . I hit him with my quirt and he jumped back behind the tall oak tree. I thought it was because I hit him, but, maybe it was because I wasn’t who he thought would come?”

“And once I asked about Alex Vinton you remembered who it was?”

Yseult flushed at the skeptical tone in his voice. “It was his eyes. . That’s all that he couldn’t disguise. He was hunchbacked, dirty and had dreadlocks. . Alex was always well dressed and clean and he taught us dance, and he was always very upright and picky about posture.”

Yseult leaned back against Romarec, suddenly very tired.

What an awful day! she thought and then had to control the hysterical giggles that threatened to set off the hiccups again at the utter banality of that.

Sir Garrick stood back up and ordered a manhunt along the path.

“Find that landmark and comb-fine-tooth comb-the entire area. We have to find him. Alive and able to talk if at all possible, but don’t let him escape even if you have to shoot.”

She pressed the burning cheekbone into the soft, cool cloth, wiping her face with a sigh.

“I guess that’s really bad? He must have come to talk to Mama?”

Garrick looked down at her. “I wonder just how much you know and don’t know?” he asked thoughtfully.

Yseult shuddered again and sipped more water. Breathe, she ordered herself. Sip. We are in so much trouble. I’d better not ask anything else.

The wrapped, now still body of Lady Mary was carried out, along with the three duffel bags; diligently searched by Sir Garrick before being sent on. Yseult kept an unexpected smile off her face as the much detested white on white altar cloth popped out of the third bag. Yseult heard a thump. Sir Garrick leaned out of the window and waved her over. Romarec helped her up and over to the window. Her mother lay in an oxcart, the duffels holding her in place.

“She’s off to Fen House, where she’ll stay until Lord Gervais returns. You’ll go to Todenangst, yourself. The Lady Regent summons you and your younger brother to await her pleasure. She told me to reassure you that Lady Mary will not be killed out of hand. Once Lord Odard is back she must stand trial for high treason and he must defend himself from the charges of accomplice. . as must you and Huon.”

Yseult gulped. The cart moved forward and she gasped, the gulp turning awry and she choked and coughed and wheezed desperately. Lying on the cobbles, in a pool of blood was the hapless, headless body of her much disliked Uncle Guelf.

“Oh, poor Layella; lost her babe and now a widow,” exclaimed Romarec. She crossed herself and then grabbed Yseult as she swayed.

“Where’s his head?” asked Yseult.

Her voice sounded distant, beyond the heavy surf roaring in her ears. That makes three, spoke an unruly voice in the back of her mind.

“Taken to be displayed on the traitor’s wall at Todenangst.”

She decided that must have been Adolphus speaking, for Betancourt spoke right afterwards.

“Sit her down. Romarec, pack for the girl. Include a set of court clothes, but mostly what I told you for her mother. She will need an attendant in Todenangst; not you, who?”

Sparks danced before Yseult’s eyes and she concentrated on not throwing up. “Mistress Virgilia, the Lady Governess,” she heard. “Or the old nurse, Carmen Barrios. Her own maid is inexperienced.”

“Not the nurse. I remember her; she’s very old. Virgilia. . Would that be Virgilia Santos? A collateral of Baron Jacinto Gutierrez?”

“Yes,” breathed Yseult.

“She’ll do. Where is she?”

Romarec patted Yseult on the shoulder. “I’ll bring her with the bags. Will you take Yseult away in a tumbrel as well?”

“No; she’ll ride. She has two horses, I believe. I’ll send them with her, and one of the undergrooms.”

“Goodwife,” said Yseult.

Romarec stopped and looked back, “Yes, little one?”

“If the captain allows, pack the books on my nightstand. There are several and they are my special favorites.”

Sir Garrick gave a quick nod and Yseult wondered why none of the other men had taken off their helmets or gauntlets. She caught his eye.

“What happens to my Aunt Layella, and her sister, poor Aunt Theresa, who was supposed to marry Uncle Jason? What will they do now? Can they stay at Loiston Manor? All the house of Gervais is gone or under arrest; we can’t protect them. Will you protect them? And where are Odo and Terry Reddings? And Sir Chezzy?”

Sir Garrick grimaced. “All good questions. I don’t have answers for every one. Sir Harold Czarnecki was wounded on September fifteenth during the retreat from Pendleton.”

She gasped and he frowned at her. “Yes, I suppose everybody will soon know. We broke our teeth on Pendleton. Boise and the CUT were there. With force much greater than we had expected. Czarnecki’s squire was killed in action. Young Odo Reddings was shipped out with Czarnecki and Terry’s body. They’re all at McKee Manor, as of this morning. And under guard. I am appointed steward for this land. My job is to determine how deep the rot has penetrated. Was it just your mother and uncle? Or are the rest of the adults in on it? We can’t risk them being Guelf’s agents or dupes.”

Yseult shuddered. Sad Aunt Theresa, who had lost the child her Uncle Jason had left her pregnant with when he was captured and murdered on a mission for Gervais, was unthinkable as an agent of evil; much less gentle Aunt Layella who had lost her babe just six weeks ago. And this man, the Regent’s agent, would have to question them hard and long. She shuddered again and blotted quick tears as a sudden thought obtruded. .

Terry! Dead? How much more death will I see today?

The papers were sorted, docketed and bundled up, along with the charred fragments from the grate. Yseult could hear Sir Garrick’s men tramping through the castle, scaring the servants as they searched, their voices loud and echoing down the corridors. A few times she heard crashes.

Sir Garrick cursed under his breath and strode to the entranceway.

“This isn’t a sack! Have a care, there! Fulk, go see that they stay under control.”

Yseult felt a glassy calm descending on her, and a huge weariness. The housekeeper brought three packed duffel bags in for her and her fleece-lined cloak. She huddled Yseult into it as she whispered, “Courage, dear heart. I’ll be waiting to hear good news of you.”

For once Yseult didn’t care about the strictures on her conduct. With a sob she turned and hugged her, one armed.

“Take care, take care!” she whispered. “I will pray for you.”

“And I for you, chick.”

“Will you give your oath to stay with your escort and not try to escape?” asked Sir Garrick.

Yseult looked up at the knight with swimming eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “Parole. I will cast myself on the mercy of the Lady Regent. I swear by God the Father, God the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

She crossed herself and hesitated as the armored man gestured to the door.

“But, please, can I take my Bernadette and my Immaculate Conception from the chapel? I–I was going to go there to pray this evening”-a short hysterical laugh escaped her-“but matters seem to have overtaken me! I promised.”

Sir Garrick sighed and nodded. “I’ll take you there. Let me first check your bags.” He pulled everything out, shook each piece and repacked the bags. Just as neatly as Goodwife Romarec had done in the first place, she noted. Yseult sighed with relief to see her Bible, her first book on St. Bernadette, Our Lady’s Little Servant, the Werfel novel, Song of Bernadette, and Trochu’s serious work on her as well as the collected writings of Bernadette edited by Laurentin.

At least I’ll have those, she thought, only briefly regretting the seven novels on her bookshelf.

“Everything is in order here. Let’s go to the chapel. I’ll have to check everything you wish to bring.”

He stood and turned to his men. “Ranulf, Digory, take four men-at-arms. Mount the girl on her own horse; make sure you bring her other one. Get some pack mules for these; pick ones that can keep up. Each of you take a remount as well from our string. Master Johannsen will help you. It’s twenty miles, give or take, to Todenangst. I expect you to arrive around midnight. You’ll take care of the girl; she’ll not be able to mount on her own with her arm injured. See that she’s treated with the proper respect due a young Association noblewoman or I’ll have someone’s ears.”

He escorted her down the stairs and to the pretty chapel off the great reception room. It was late and the stained-glass window was dark, only the wavering light of the votives dancing over the nave. Garrick snapped his fingers and Yseult stifled an improper giggle as two oil lanterns appeared like genies. He placed them on the altar. She picked up her rosary from next to the saint’s votive; a confirmation gift from her mother-pink quartz beads carved in the shape of roses, with an amethyst cross carved with doves dangling from it.

Suddenly timid, she pushed it into her pocket as she shot a look at the knight, and then knelt on the rose velvet cushion before her special prie-dieu. She looked up into the tapestry she had worked years before when she decided to give her devotion to the Saint and Virgin. The compassionate face of the Immaculata and her saint, kneeling below, steadied her.

“I don’t know what to ask for, Lady, Saint. Help me find the strength to walk down this valley of fear, I guess.”

She stood, pillow in hand. Garrick had one of the bags opened and stuffed the pillow in. He gestured to the rest of the setup.

“All of this?” he asked, a slightly ironical note in his voice.

She sighed and shook her head. “No, just this porcelain of the Saint and the picture of the Virgin and her Basilica.”

She passed them to the knight and he carefully packed them in the duffels, muffling them in layers of cloth and padding. He finished fastening the bags and stood.

“Does all your family give their devotion to Bernadette and the Immaculata?” he asked, standing.

She looked up, startled and shook her head, thinking his eyes were a surprisingly light sage green next to his dark skin.

“Just me. Dowager Phillipa gave me the child’s book. And I’ve been on the lookout for older books about her ever since. Years ago, Mama set up my own oratorio here so I could have all my things just so. I learned tapestry stitch making that arras.”

The man nodded. “My family has a special devotion to these two, and to the healing arts. Adolphus is my cousin. Well, time to go. Come, young Gervais, your horse awaits.”

He took her out to the courtyard. The callused hand took her chin and tilted her face up.

“I can give you no hope, daughter of Gervais. I will pray to God and do you pray to Lady Sandra as well as the Virgin. You are caught deep in this coil. Hope, faith, humility, might bring you free, if you are innocent. I will do my best for your people here.”

Then she was walking down the steps, glad of the warm wool riding skirt, the heavy jacket and the cloak draped over her. Torches flared in the courtyard but she didn’t see her uncle’s body, though the stink of sudden death lay heavy.

Yseult looked up as she finished the tale. There was warmth in Mathilda’s brown eyes as she pressed a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder.

“That was very hard,” she said.

Yseult nodded thanks, then burst out: “My mother and uncle, they were so stupid!”

The High King snorted. “That they were. It was stupidity and no more ambition than many another has shown before them, at first, before the. . enemy. . took advantage of the door they’d opened. But stupidity is often punished more heavily than mere wickedness, the world being what it is. I don’t suppose it’s any consolation, but many another has made the same mistake. In this war, they usually pay heavily for it.”