Upheaval and Change - Tales 27

It took Bronwen over a half hour to get a message to Seth to meet her in the Gardens. When she left the throneroom, the guards assigned her had been absence. She smiled and wondered if her brother had arranged that. She found the nook where they had met before and waited, pacing.

Seth had received the message and after cleaning up and a bit he went to the gardens with glee. He went to their little nook. He spotted her and said,"My lady and love." He smiled widely and briskly walked over to her and asked,"What is the news?"

"I have spoken with my brother privately. He says we should elope and return in a few months. He will have to be angry with us publicly, but it will be okay." Bronwen searched his face, hoping he had not lost his love for her with all the strife.

He smiled widely and said,"If we have your brother's private blessings then that is plenty for me. When do you wish to leave my love?" His eyes looked into hers showing love and anticipation of his dreams coming true by marrying her, the love of his life.

"After the coronation. I would not do anything to make things bad for him. There is restlessness in court because of me as is." She hoped he wouldn't mind waiting. "Hawk said we could go to the mountains and find a druid to perform the ceremony. Can you arrange all that? Mother will have funds for me, so we will not starve?"

He smiled and said,"I would not wish any more distress among people of the court for your brother's sake. I believe I can arrange for the druid to marry us. I would have found a way to have some money, but any money your mother offers is acceptable of course. Please tell her thank you for me. When is your brother's coronation?"

"It is in three days. We can leave that night if that will be okay? What of your knighthood? Did we destroy your chances?" Her heart broke for all the pain that one act had caused.

"Of that I am uncertain. I am almost sure it did, but as long as I have you I will be happy. I mean that. I love you so very much,"He said with a smile. He looked into her eyes again sending her as much as he could with just his eyes.

Bronwen smiled. "We will have a permanent enemy in the Earl?" She pointed out.

"I already knew that. All I care about is that we are in love. Love can conquer many things and believe me I love you so much I would do anything for you." He kept his eyes locked with hers so she could see his completely honesty.

He held her and said,"When we are finally married, it will be made right my love." He kissed her lightly and said,"Please do not worry about it. What will happen will happen, but there will always be our love?"

"Then you will ready things so that we can leave the night of the coronation?" She whispered, not wanting any ears to hear their words.

"Of course my love, everything will be ready,"He said gleefully, but whispering. "May I kiss you or would it be too dangerous?"

She smiled and kissed him gently. "I must go. If we are observed together for too long it will be only worse."

"I will trust you on this my love. Until we next meet then my love." He smiled encouragingly.

Bronwen smiled and kissed him quickly. "I have much to do." She hurried away. She felt light of heart for the first time since the Earl had returned from Nethbo's borders.

Bleys paused in his work, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of a dirty hand. Looking around the stables he smiled, pleased with his labors. Though not in disrepair still the stables had fallen to neglect. He'd swept the rushes, clearing out two seperate nests of rats and one of bats, and laid a layer of fresh dirt from behind the manor house. On top of that he laid fresh rushes. There was a pile of clutter to be sorted through stacked in the corner stall but that could await another day. Mahvros and the pony would have a clean home. As would he.

A burly figure shadowed the doorway and Bleys started, reaching for a sword that was not there. In the moment he took to hide his embarrassment he recognized Albrect, the so-called handyman of the manner. Built like a blacksmith Albrect was as old as he, thick from the neck to his beefy calves with muscled from long hours of hard labor. He was nearly bald, a few close-trimmed wisps hanging on about the sides and back. He grunted in greeting, ducking his head once as he dropped a bale of hay to the side.

"There's three more to bring in, sir." He gestured toward the stalls. "You got 'em looking clean again." The statement was a compliment of sorts, though there was a note of master speaking to servant. Albrect didn't seem to take to 'masters' doing the work of 'servants' and it was clear he wasn't sure how to treat Bleys. For his part the former knight accepted that he wasn't much used to behaving how others expected. He laid the makeshift hayfork aside and stepped past Albrect into the light to once again look over his new home.

He'd ridden to his estate shortly after a trip to the market. The manor house was fairly spacious, having two full stories and a ground floor half built into the earth. The exterior and many of the lower interior walls were made of stone, but half-timber construction was used on the second floor. Interior walls were then plastered and whitewashed, except for the great hall which was faced with carved wood panels. The floors were wooden planks nailed to oak beams, carpted in many places, polished to a high sheen in the remaining areas. A steeply pitched gable roof of slate tiles and leaded glass windows finished the exterior. The small stable Bleys had just finished cleaning, along with a tithe barn and several seasonal cottages, completed the manor complex. It was really rather more than Bleys expected and he was somewhat at a loss with what to do with so large a home. Work had been the thing, however, and he'd thrown himself into it without delay.

It had been made clear to Bleys that the ground floor was the domain of the servants, housing the kitchen, storage rooms, servants' quarters and a workroom. Albrect had been the handyman of the estate for at least a decade, and the aging steward Anlan had been around longer than even he remembered--since he was a young man, at least. That man was both a joy and a boil, knowing everything there was to know about keeping a manor and it's master in comfort and having absolutely no tolerance for things out of place, including a former knight's intentions. He remembered the majordomo's kind greeting followed almost immediately by a reminder to wipe his boots, to never sit in the oak chairs while in armor, and to keep armor oiled and put away as it wasn't his task to see to the accouterments but only the household. Bleys had nodded submissively, barely hiding the smile he freely let loose now.

"The men you hired will be coming early on the morrow." Albrect had come up behind him. 'How could such a big man move so silently?' Bleys thought. Albrect continued. "They should have the...ah, the kennels built by evening."

Bleys nodded and smiled. The kennels were being built to house the first two of what Bleys hoped to be prized hunting dogs. A breeding pair, Bleys had paid a handsome coin for them. Anlan had merely sniffed at the news and reminded Bleys that neither his duties nor that of Albrect included the keeping of pets. For that Bleys would have to hire someone else. Bleys had concluded the same thing. If he was to live here he'd need another servant, someone to care for the horses--Bleys had purchased a pair hardy riding mounts, as well; no sense in domesticating Mahvros with simple rides to and from the city proper--and for the dogs. He'd see to that soon enough. With luck he'd soon be breeding both hounds and horses, and within a year would have a suitable source of outisde income.

"Thank you, Albrect. Tell them there's no rush and to do it right. The dogs will be brought around in three days' time." The big man nodded as if being told something he already knew and returned to his task of moving the hay into the stables. Bleys inhaled deeply and let the air escape slowly. This could be home, manor and all. It was big, and empty, but it could be home. He was used to simple apartments and the life of a military camp, but he thought it was in him to adjust to a more simple life.

Yes, it could be home. He just had to let it be.

As he often did Bleys made a decision almost as soon as the thought had entered his mind. He strode toward the house, already pulling off his sweat-soaked jerkin.

"Does the master wish a bath drawn?" Anlan was standing just inside the antechamber as Bleys entered. The man had a knack.

"No, thank you." Bleys stepped around the fragile-looking older man and headed for the stairs.

Anlan sniffed pointedly and ducked his head. "As the master wishes. Will he be around for supper?" He somehow formed the question with the answer in mind. Bleys didn't disappoint.

"No. I think I'll sup in the city this evening." Bleys had spent his first nights at the inn, coming to the manor only days ago, but he was making a habit of taking his meals in the city proper. A particular tavern had arrested him with it's sensuous smells and he'd fallen in love with the food. The Frothy Mug was living up to it's reputation as having one of the finer kitchens in the city, due in no small part to it's owner and proprietor, a woman of middle years. She ran a fine establishment, of that there was no doubt, and Bleys was more than happy to part with the pennies for such fine meals. Anlan's fare tended toward the bland, if the downright mediocre. In truth Bleys had had better meals while on campaign. Still, even the old man grudgingly admitted that The Frothy Mug was worth the half hour's ride on occasion.

What he didn't mention to Anlan was that it was difficult for Bleys to stay for dinner, eating by himself ("Servants didn't eat with the master of the house," Anlan explained the first night Bleys had invited him to join in his supper; Bleys hadn't asked again). He needed company, even if it was anonymous and transitory. The work about the manor had done wonders for keeping him occupied, but in reality the lack of committed action was worrisome to Bleys. He'd never been without a mission or a purpose and he was finding it quite difficult to adjust to--how Yale put it?--a 'noble of some leisure'. It made him feel the fop.

As Bleys rode one of the new mounts into town he cast a glance back at the manor over his shoulder.

'Not yet,' he thought. 'The place may be beginning to feel like a home, but it isn't Home. Not yet.' He returned his attention to the path upon which he travelled, trying to make out the details of the city some miles ahead. It was there, he knew. He just couldn't see it. Not yet.

Connor drew rein as he crested the rise, his big bay gelding snorting irritably. His broad hand stroked the horse's mane as he looked down at the land spread out below, the sprawling town, and the castle at it's center.

Alec rode up alongside him, cursing at the fiery roan he was astride. Connor grinned through his mustaches; he'd purchased these horses some days back, after they'd left ship on the docks of this new continent. The Saxons had refused to carry their horses--claiming some sort of superstitious omens--requiring Connor and his men to buy new mounts once they'd docked. Never more than an indifferent rider, Connor had chosen the fairly placid bay. Alec had insisted on a stallion, and the roan was the only one the horse-trader had a mind to sell him. Since then, Alec had been cursing the horse, horse-trader, and the Saxons as well on a regular basis.

"Gods rot their flaxen heads," the lean redhead growled. "I should have killed one or two on general principles." He stroked the worn wooden grip of his sword, the last third towards the pommel scored with notches. One for each man he'd slain in single combat. Alec's bandolier bore forty-three marks for combat kills, more than any other warrior Connor had personally met. He was also the only one Connor knew that kept track of men killed in battle and men killed in duels separately.

It was partly because Alec was as fine a hand with the blade as any man walking the earth. Yet another part of it was some twist of fate, the one that had given him his name, Alec the Fell-Handed. Any man he'd ever faced in combat had died, if not killed outright, then later of his wounds. Even when he'd merely nicked a fellow Fennid in a matter of honor--simple duel, to first blood--the man had been dead three days later, baffling the healers. Alec made no apologies for it. His sword was hungry, some claimed.

"Easy, Alec, me lad," Connor said lightly. "Life's too short to be dueling with every Saxon that needs killing. Ye'd grow weary long before the task was done." Alec forced a sour smile, and Connor gave him a clap on the shoulder. He didn't blame the other man's lack of amusement. Saxon raiders had killed Alec's sweetheart four years back, and since then he'd made it a point to kill one when got the chance.

Connor's other two Blades came up just then, Argylle on a stocky grey gelding and Robartach atop a jet-black mare. Argylle rubbed a wiry forearm across his brow, wiping sweat away.

"Were ye plannin' to ride all day, Connor?" he asked, a bit short of breath. Argylle was worse on a horse than Connor was, and it was plain riding wasn't one of his favorite pasttimes.

"Nae. Why should we, when our destination's right yonder?" Connor gestured expansively, taking in castle, town, and countryside. It was, in truth, a fair spectacle. Used to the simple log palisades and minor villages of Skye, Connor had never seen a place so elaborate, so elegant.

So different, he thought to himself. He felt a twinge within him, wondering at the wisdom of his Warmaster in sending him here. He'd argued, something he'd never done before, something he didn't think he had the nerve to do. Argued for sending another man, older, more experienced.

"Ye're the one I want, Connor," old Angus ap Diarmuid had said. "Now get your pale rump out there and find us a battle."

So far, all I've done is miss them, he thought. He'd heard the news when they'd landed in the place these foreigners called Llandaf, about the battle between Abertawe and Nebtho.

Well, mayhaps the fighting isn't quite finished. Or mayhaps it will give me a chance to show these longlanders what the Fianna are capable of.

"Come on then, lads," he said with a grin he didn't quite feel. "From what I've heard, the man we want to see is down there in that stone fort." He still marvelled at the feats of engineering the foreigners were capable of. That building, that 'castle', as they called them, more than dwarfed the Warmaster's High Lodge. Most of Connor's village would have fit in it.

No matter how high they build them, though, no place is invincible. You can always go over, under, or through. The armies of the Fianna stop for nothing.

Cheered a bit by thoughts of his comrades-in-arms, Connor drove his heels into his mount. Together, the four horses made their way down the hill at a canter, headed towards the castle.

Bronwen was escorted by guards to her mother's chamber. She knew that she had disgraced her family. It was finally sinking in. She also knew that this would be her hardest task, facing her mother. She entered her mother's rooms and did not even look up. She came to a stop at her mother's feet. Her feet, because is was all that she would look at.

Isa had had a conversation with her husband, and finally managed to calm him down a bit. She understood Iorwerth's anger. But then he wanted the best for his little girl, although yesterday he had not exactly shown her. Her heart missed a beat when she saw the girl in front of her.

"Come here darling." She took her daughter in her arms and just held her.

Bronwen looked up at her mother in surprise. Her father had made it clear that it would be her mother most wounded. After a moment's hesitation, she fled to her mother and burst into tears.

Isa took her in her arms. "My poor little one,you must be so frightened". She let her daughter cry. "Tell me, what do you feel for that young man?"

"I love Seth." Bronwen sobbed. "I am frightened of the Earl."

"Oh my darling, why didn`t you say so sooner, daddy said you could make your own choices, you could have told him, now he is upset that you lied to him." She still held the girl close.

"The Earl said if .. if I wanted to be with Seth then he would have him killed." Bronwen trembled in her mother's arms. "A Princess should not be soiled by common hands." She mimicked.

"Sweetheart, you should have told us. Your father would never have allowed that. Have you told him this?" She asked.

"He never gave me a chance." She hadn't stopped crying. "He called me a common.. a common." Her tears drowned out the rest of her words.

"Oh Darling. He did not mean it. He was angry, and worried about you. Please talk to him again. Your father wants the best for you." Her mother said.

'I can.t'." Bronwen's eyes got even bigger. "I . I can't talk to him. I would just cry."

"Isa, love, would you please leave us. "Neither had seen Iorwerth come into the room. But there he stood with tears in his eyes. His wife left swiftly.

Bronwen turned slowly to face her father. Fear and shame clearly etched on her tear stained face. She did not look up at him.

"Daughter" he said grufly . "Maybe I said things I did not mean, I was very angry with you. And disappointed that you had not told me of your choice in men. Was that the way I raced you?"

"No sir." Bronwen could not tell him of Sanglet, her father was the type to just go kill him.

"Then why" He was agitated. "I told you you could choose for yourself, why could you not have been honest to me. Why! What did I do wrong in raising you?"

"I did not mean for things to go so far." She whispered. "It is not your fault.

I thought.. I thought to persuade him.. " She couldn't tell him. "It is not your fault, I take full responsibility for my choices."

"You are my daughter, I raised you. There for it is my fault." he looked very sad. "My little girl." He whispered, suddenly overcome by emotion, a rare thing for him.

"Papa?" Her voice broke, wanting her father to hold her and make things right and wanting to stand on her own.

Finally Iorwerth took her in his arms. "I love you little one. I only want the best for you."

Bronwen nestled into her father's arms. There was something protective there that could not be replaced. "I know." She whispered. They stood for some time thusly, Bronwen did not move. Her father did not show tender emotions often and she was not about to end the loving moment.

With much still on his mind after speaking with Avalynn, Amlyn sought the assistance of a healer to clean his hand. Not even at the point of a sword would he return to his room in the condition that he was. Nia would probably say nothing, but he worried about appearing injured again in front of her. It seemed she was more anxious than normal the past few days, though he could not understand why.

As he passed through the halls of the castle towards the infirmary, servants scurried about on their tasks with a sense of urgency, some shooting him suspicious looks at his worked appearance. With the upcoming coronation of the Regent approaching, the people in the castle were taking no chances in making sure that preparations would be complete for the event. Even the rumours about the princess and her personal guard had been pushed into the background, as people speculated about WHEN the coronation would actually occur. Amlyn paid it all little attention, for he found it a distraction to his own dilemmas.

Seth noticed him seemingly distracted and walked up to him, noticing they had never met and he said, "I am squire Seth McCullen. I don't believe we've met."

Amlyn paused to look at the young man, trying to work out if he recognised him. "Hail," he said. "I believe you are right." He did not realise that Seth was the guard that was the subject of so many whispers. "I am Amlyn son of Berach." As a late afterthought, he added: "Do you need some assistance?"

"No, but you seemed to be distracted. Perhaps you could use some sort of help or maybe an ear that will listen?" he asked knowing this may seem strange, but also knowing he'd feel like a jerk if he didn't offer any help.

"Nay, Squire McCullen." Amlyn would not take up the lad's offer, for his problems were his alone to deal with. "I appreciate your consideration, but I must protect my privacy."

"Perhaps in time we can both learn to trust each other then. I am unsure of what my future holds, but I hope we get to know each other sir. I apologise for the awkwardness of our initial encounter," He said with a smile hoping it would be okay.

Amlyn appeared not to notice. "If our encounter is 'awkward', then that is simply human nature. It is certainly nothing to apologise over." There was no malice to his tone; it could have been a simple statement of fact. Amlyn was tempted to ask what business it was of his, to suggest that they may learn to trust one another. Then he remembered that he was now one of Abertawe's knights, however inept. It would be remiss of him not to offer it's people at least some courtesy. And somehow, within Seth's peculiar manner of introduction, he seemed to indicate some trouble of his own.

Thou shall always render assistance to those who suffer injustice or seek to perform acts of charity, regardless of the station of those that would request it...

Lady Melangell's words intruded into his thinking, like a knife cutting through flesh. He had sworn to follow her instructions as a result of his surrender, and like it or not, he was compelled to at least determine whether this particular case would apply. More likely than not, this young man was either being passed over for another squire, or facing some doubt as to their ability to satisfy the candidacy requirements for knighthood. Hardly an injustice, but something nagged at him nevertheless to find out.

Amlyn stepped out of the middle of the corridor and allowed a pair of young house maids to pass. He did not notice the quick glances that they cast at Seth, for he had his back to them. "You say your future is uncertain... Why is that?"

"I am surprised you have not heard. Princess Brownen and I are in love. When we went to exercise that love in secret, but the King arrived it was obvious and now I believe everyone knows. Perhaps I was mistaken, but now you do know sir,"he said humbly still trying to make sense of it all.

Amlyn blanched when Seth spoke of 'excercising' love with the Princess. He had not expected to meet the subject of such a scandal, and with all he had heard about it, he was surprised he hadn't recognised the young man sooner. "Who is your knight and lord?" He finally managed to murmur. The squire at least deserved a chance to explain himself before he decided whether to speak with him further. But in a case such as this, he had to know who Seth answered to.

"High Knight of Fire Deidre. She has taught me all about fighting, and I am sorry for beng so open with you. It was very presuming and wrong. Please forgive me for that." He said honestly hoping he didn't seem like a gloater or anything close.

Ach, the boy is truly cursed, thought Amyln. What a dilemma he faced. He began to talk slowly, evening his tone and making sure he could not be overheard. "While this is none of my affair or my business, if you have done what people are saying, then you have likely ruined your chances of knighthood. I am very surprised that the Regent has not had you beheaded. Many Kings in the North would do far worse to you, and to your family in retribution." Seth had performed an act of sheer political suicide from his point of view. But he realised that he had done much, much worse in his past. Though never had he thought to take a woman's virginity before marriage, noble or not. "I assume that there are... other circumstances involved?" He almost didn't want to ask.

Seth raised an eyebrow and asked,"What do you mean?' He hoped he had not presumed too much when speaking with him, but then again the cat was out of the bag, so to speak.

Amlyn shook his head as if to clear it. "I retract that," he quickly said. "I contradict myself by claiming no right to know, yet I pry at the same time." He stepped back and sighed. A sympathetic attitude for the boy started to grow, for he knew from experience that stupid choices usually gathered terrible results. As he looked about the corridor to see who was around, he said "My only advice for you, despite whatever may have occurred, is to admit your failures, acknowledge you are responsible, and accept the consequences of your actions." And then... Oh shite, he thought to himself, catching a glimpse of a familiar red-haired figure.

"Believe me I have every intention of being honest with any questioner. Thank you for your help." He noticed Amlyn's look and followed it and saw Diedre. Then he looked back to him.

"I have been no help to you at all," he contradicted, keeping an eye on the Captain who seemed to be looking for someone. "But I have little to give you even if I did. It appears you have more than enough assistance anyway. I hope you are blessed with the King's mercy, Seth." Before he could answer, Amlyn had turned about and continued his journey to find a healer, hoping to avoid the barbs of another meeting with the High Knight of Fire...

Breathlessly she ran into the stable, her cheeks pink with exertion and chest heaving. She surveyed every inch of the stable with her wide eyes, but what little hope she had kept within her breast dissolved quickly enough. She was too late.

Slumping against the wall of a nearby stall, Deirdre closed her eyes and let out a deep, pent up breath. Perhaps it would be better this way after all. She hadn't truly expected Allyn to spend this long tacking his mount and preparing for his departure, but by the time she had convinced herself to see him, she was certain he would already be gone. He had seemed hell-bent on leaving immediately anyhow. And from what she had seen of the stable, it seemed as though she was right.

Pulling her cloak tighter about her shoulders, she gazed morosely at the wall, slipping into one of her characteristic blacker moods. Her face smoothed into an setting no more expressive than a statue's even as she stared at a point past the wall. As she turned to leave, she clenched her fists, the only sign of the frustration, anger... and sadness she was experiencing.

The dark mood that settled over her shoulders was enough to keep her from recognizing the stallion at the end of the stall, only half-saddled for a long ride. It was enough to keep her from noticing the obvious signs of a struggle not far away from that nervous stallion.

And it was enough that she almost collided with the heavyset man who was running into the stable as if the devil himself were on his heels.

A few quick skips backwards were the only thing that kept her from tumbling headlong into the ground after bouncing off his gigantic frame. Forcing a sheepish smile she didn't feel to her face, she turned to apologize before she recognized the man. "Emyr!" she exclaimed, his name coming to her after only a moment of thought. He usually guarded the far reaches of the castle walls; she couldn't imagine what had brought him to the stables with his cheeks puffing as if his heart were going to burst.

"Lady," Emyr gasped, and Deirdre was forced to smile despite herself as the man bent to catch his breath. She had forgotten that peculiar habit of his; more than four times her girth, Emyr had always treated her like a delicate flower, broken at the slightest touch -no matter how many times she proved she coould throw him to the ground.

It was his habit of calling her 'lady' that had driven her crazy at first, but as she had acquainted herself with the not-so-gentle giant, she had been more amused by it than anything. "Captain," she corrected automatically, the words passing her lips without thought. Stepping forward, she laid a hand on his still-shaking shoulder - it took a lot of energy to move bulk such as his so quickly. "Are you all right, there?" she asked, her amusement turning quickly to concern.

"Course, lady," he breathed, managing a brave look. He shook his head suddenly. "Been lookin' - *gasp* - for ya ever'where." Deirdre's frown and piercing gaze was more than enough to keep him going. "Merk 'tacked that goat-lovin' murd'rer," he managed, his knuckles whitening as he continued, "and Sir Shannon..." He took another deep breath, "he hurt Merk pretty bad."

Emyr quickly stood straighter, struck by the captain's suddenly pale expression. He had never seen blood drain from anyone's face that quickly before. Fearing she would faint, he put an arm out protectively. "Lady, all three are seekin' out the healers, I 'lieve," he added quickly, but it was all he managed to say before she bolted.

Emyr shook his head, watching her dash across the courtyard with the speed of a gazelle. He lumbered across the yard with in his own way, but he could only shake his head with wonder. Only love could make a person move like that, he decided with certainty and a secretive smile. She had taken to Merk like a second father, he confirmed in his mind, and thought no more about it.

As usual, Rowena found her father when he was in the stables. "Da, can we ride?" She figured out of the castle was the best place to ask him. She could see his shape now and the shape of a horse. She didn't tell anyone for it was barely there and she didn't want anyone to be upset if it went away again.

Iorwerth smiled at her, after all the trouble with his elder daughter, he longed to spend some time with Ro. She was yet so young and uncomplicated and pure.

"Sure darling. I always have time for you."

Rowena waited as he saddled his horse and lifted her upon it. They rode out of the yards and Rowena laughed with glee at the wind pulling against her face. When they had pulled up to walk for a bit she leaned her head back against her father. "Soon, I will be nine." She began.

"Yes you will." . Her father smiled, it the usual for her to start giving him is about precedence so close to a birthday.

"I was thinking. I was supposed to be fostered to Uncle Wyn but now.." She let that drop. Her excitement was barely contained and finally she could hold herself know longer. "Can I foster with the Arch druid?" The words tumbled out and she looked up at her father even though she could not really see him.

That took him by surprise. He had four of his children here at court, the others where fostered with nobles. It would not be a bad thing to have her fostered by the druid, she would be close, Isa would love that. But for the little girl to be a druid herself, that was hard for him. "Why do you want that, little one" he asked gently.

"It is where I belong? I don't.. I don't fit in with the other children in the palace. I mostly play alone? But when I am here.." Her hands motioned around them. "Out here I feel like I do when you hold me. Like I belong here? I think that the best way to repay the gods for bringing mum home is to take care of the things I love?" Rowena hoped that made sense. It was very hard to put into words what she felt inside.

"You don't fit in because you are a princess. You have to give it a little time. Honey, I am not against it totally. But you are very young, in my opinion to young to make up your mind about something so important. And you are still not completely well." He said thoughtfully. "I want you to take more time. It will be okay if you spend time with the druids, to find out exactly how they live. And then after awhile you can make a decision. How does that sound?"

That seemed fair to Rowena, and it wasn't a no. "Okay. I will tell the archdruid." She twisted in front of her father and hugged him. "I love you." She whispered.

That made Iorwerth feel very good. He felt at peace with himself again, "I am very glad to hear that, little one. I love you very much too." He held her very close on the big horse.

The two men would be glad to make the Holstead farm. It was there that the two traders stayed every time they passed through on their way to and from the capital seat. The rain was coming down in a torrent as if the very bottom of the oceans had fled to the skies.

The wind rose as they approached the farm house. The wailing cry of the trees sounded as if they approached the river of death itself. The two men pulled at horses for they had less then the length of a good a wheat field to go.

"Hold!" Shouted Conner as he suddenly came to a stop.

"What?" Asked Jakob. "What is the matter?"

"There's no light in yon house?" Conner pulled his bow. "Better be ready for trouble. They was expectin us."

Arrows nocked, they proceeded toward the dark house. Off to the side, the barn loomed out of the dark like some ominous beast. The banging of shutters sounded in the the wind and rain. Even the curtains blew out the window.

Conner stepped foward onto the wooden steps. His bow centered on the doorway's open black maw. He could feel the fletching of the arrow against his right cheek as he heald steady, ready to release. He wondered breifly when he had pulled it taut? WHAM! The door slammed to and then whipped open again as the wind swirled it.

"Lor" Said Jakob behind him. "I thought.."

"Shh" Conner stepped carefully into the house. He fumbled around till he could find a lamp and lit it. The glow filled the room. The shutters were broken, tables and chairs were overturned. A dinner still luke warm was on the dying embers of the kitchen fire.

They searched the house but found nothing, no blood, no bodies. They then searched the barn and found nothing. The horses and cattle still safely in their stalls. "Where are the children?" Jakob knew children usually hid during such a disturbance. They went back to the house and Conner picked up the table. It had been set for the family.

"Looks like they was about to eat dinner." Conner went and pushed the door shut. "Go stable our kit and I will serve this meal. MIght as well not let it go to waste?"

"Are you sure we should stay here?" Jakob asked nervously.

"They done been here, whoever they was, no reason for them to come back? I figure this our safest place?" Conner motioned him to the door. "Now get."

He opened and closed the door behind Jacob and went about fixing the meal. He felt bad for the family. Slavers probably got thim. He thought. But they were far from a slave port? He shrugged and began to stir up the coals. He saw the oddest thing on the floor and picked it up. It was a raven's feather? He stuck it in his vest. They would report this to the gates when they arrived at Captial. Till then, perhaps they would only travel during the day.

****meanwhile****

"What do we do with the children, Mistress?" The man bowed before the woman dressed in black.

"Send them to the keep to be tested." She ordered. "The couple? They are ready for the ceremony?"

"As you directed Mistress Raven." He said with a bow again. "Your priests await your vigilance and direction."

"Good, let Donn this day drink deeply for soon he will need his strength to take back the Land of Cei Newydd from the Pagan Priests of the One God."

"Sir Amlyn, isn't it?" Came a voice from the windowed alcove.

Sir Amlyn stopped walking and looked towards the source of the voice. He saw a young male outlander, dark-skinned and somewhat short, watching him from within. While noticing the tattoos on the side of his face, he knew nothing about their culture or traditions that would allow him to even guess at their meaning. "Aye, I am Amlyn," he said, turning to face the man.

Pwyll stepped from the shadow of the alcove, and for the first time got a close look at the one-armed knight. Even had the man had been whole, one could not help but note the suffering that haunted his face. It wasn't the faint lines and battle scars that told the tale, as much as it was the vacancy in his eyes. It took Pwyll a second to realize he was staring. "Pwyll ap Llywarch, mi'lord," he said with a curt bow. He hoped he'd gotten the address correct. "I wonder if I might have a word with you," he said, indicating the nearby door to the garden.

Amlyn said nothing, but briefly nodded to Pwyll and walked towards the door. Through the archway, the garden was brightly lit by the sun just travelling past the noon zenith. As he walked outside, and the sunlight hit the skin on his face, he turned towards it and half-closed his eyes, momentarily forgetting the outlander as he quietly relished the warmth. It was always a relief to escape the tight confines of the stone walls of the castle.

Pwyll looked again on the face of this knight, and wondered if he was right to have approached him. This dark man seemed to have no humor in him, and was as likely to rebuke Pwyll out of pride as he was to listen. 'He has a right to his privacy too...' Pwyll considered for a moment. Unfortunately, short of making a total ass of himself, there was no turning back -- he was committed.

Noting how the man seemed to be enjoying the sun, Pwyll said conversationally, "Among our people, the sky is considered the womb of the Mother, and the sun her life force." The dark knight said nothing, but turned to look questioningly at Pwyll. 'Off to a roaring start, I see...' thought Pwyll as he girded himself to continue. "I watched you practicing in the training yard the other morning, and -- although I know it comes as no great complement -- I was very impressed."

"... It would be wonderful to see through your eyes," said Amlyn. He had not wished to be reminded of that morning, for since then he had not dared to try his arm once again. But it did not upset him, for Amlyn was still curious about Pwyll's description of the sun and the sky. "Without the sun, we would see nothing at all, not even the walls that surround us." He turned back to look again across the garden at the tops of the trees, his shoulders releasing some of their load.

"Maybe yes, maybe no," Pwyll answered the unvoiced question. "Our people also speak of places in which there is no sun -- and yet people see, walk, hunt and war. Places of the mother, but not of her womb." Pwyll paused for a heartbeat, and noting the look of interest on his companion's face, continued. "It's funny. I was reminded of a story about such a place when I saw you again in the hall -- the tale of Arawn, the Grey Man."

"Do tell," he said. While he was sure there was a point to be made at some stage, he would hear Pwyll out first. Speaking with Avalynn had taught him that the outlanders were an interesting group of people; practical, unconcerned with appearances and down-to-earth in their approach.

"Oh. It's a simple enough tale," Pwyll began. "Arawn, who was lord of Annwm, the land of the dead, was forced to face a great demon in single combat. He met the demon at the edge of his realm, and battled him without respite for seven days. Eventually, Arawn was victorious, and, as was his right, he was faced with the choice of sending the demon back whence he came, or slaying him. Although Arawn was merciful and sought to banish the demon, the demon pleaded with Arawn for an honorable death. Eventually, Arawn relented and cut the demon's head from his shoulders. However, the moment the deed was done, the demon instantly rose up whole and proof against the Grey Man's weapons. Arawn had been cheated, and was now defenseless against his foe..."

Here Pwyll paused in his narrative. He found it difficult to keep the drama out of the telling. It was, after all, a bard's tale and one that usually involved detailed accounts of scenes and battles. However, Pwyll knew instinctively that this audience would not appreciate such flourishes, and so he forced himself to continue in a more subdued tone.

"As was the custom in that place, the issue would be decided by single combat again after a year's time. Arawn was sorely troubled. He was faced with an enemy against which all his trusted weapons were useless. So, he paid trickery for trickery, and came to this world to find a man willing to take his place. Well. After many heroic trials, the man, in the guise of Arawn, eventually battled and defeated the demon." Pwyll finished his little tale and smiled at the one-armed knight. "You can see why I was reminded of this story?" he asked.

After a few moments of thought, Amlyn turned to Pwyll and shook his head. "Nay, sir. I think of many things when I hear your tale. Whether any of them are related to your own insight, I have not the wisdom to speculate." Regardless of this uncertain answer, he hooked his hand onto the belt of his scabbard and waited to be enlightened.

Pwyll considered his course a moment before explaining. "When I saw you in the training yard I was amazed at your skill with the sword. Fifteen, perhaps twenty, separate actions flowing smoothly in a gracefully timed rhythm. Your strokes, parries, and thrusts framed in a language that spoke to me of years of practice and employment on the field. And yet... and yet... the actions were not perfect. One stroke would arc wide, while another might waiver; one thrust would glance to the side, and the next fall short; and of course there was the loss of the weapon itself. I thought to myself that there was something wrong with this scene -- something that had little to do with being out of practice. I must admit I was puzzled. I left the yard without an answer to this riddle, and it has only been in the last few hours that I believe I have found the solution.

"Like Death, I mean Arawn, you have lost not your skill, but your ability to use the weapon you have effectively, and like Arawn you need to find a new one. For him it took the form of a man to take his place in battle, for you it should be as simple as having a sword made and balanced for a one-armed man." Pwyll paused, then smiled again before concluding, "This was the first reason I thought of the story of Arawn... the second was simply that you fit my image of what a Grey Man should look like."

Amlyn had trouble alternating between smiling and frowning. True to his suspicions, Pwyll was not only entertaining, but also gifted with a level of common sense and intelligence that seemed impossible for such a young man. He glanced down at his shifting feet, and thought of how he should answer. "I had a blade similar to that which you describe," he began. "I received it as a gift, but I believe it was more intended as a curse. No good ever came of how I wielded it, and I was glad to exchange it for the sword you saw me using the other day." He stepped away and slowly walked out onto the gravel path, assorting and cataloguing words in his mind. "That sword serves as a reminder... of what I've lost. Perhaps it does me more harm than good, but perhaps in another way it spares me from making the same errors of judgement all over again. Well-" he said abruptly, pausing to examine some roses with a long face."-I thought of all this after it was stolen of course..."

Nia was stunned. "Picked up already? After three days, you're telling me that it was picked up and paid for, less than an hour ago?! Who picked it up?"

The weapon smith was quite confused. "One of th' young men from th' castle. H-he had th' money and a letter he presented stating he was here to take delivery of the Knight of Emerald's sword. It had a seal..."

"What sort of seal?" she said furiously? "Did you even check?"

"Miss," he said with the edge of panic creeping into his voice. "There are weapons delivered and picked up between here and th' castle everyday!"

"Ohhhh, so you DIDN'T EVEN LOOK!" She swore loudly. "Check the racks again! You'd better have made a mistake, or I'll have him come down and personally take it out of your hide....."

"But you don' haf'ta throw your bloody reminder away," Pwyll said enthusiastically, slipping again into the comfortable sing song brogue of his people. "Keep it on your mantle piece, an' get yourself a new weapon. You've got a rare skill with the sword and you can't put it aside! How can you keep yer oath to the king, if you cannay fight for the man? ..An' besides, it would be a real shame not to pass on what you know..." With this, Pwyll stroked his short beard in a comical caricature of a thoughtful man. "...Perhaps a trade might be worked out?"

Amlyn shot Pwyll a quizzical expression. That sword was a part of the only woman he ever thought he could love: he could no more leave it on a mantle piece than he could he remaining good arm, for he would feel incomplete without both. Melangell had given it to him to use instead of his black sword; and while she had not made him swear to never obtain another, he could not bring himself to do so. But now, to his dismay, he found himself needing a new weapon. "What do you suggest?" he said carefully.

"A simple enough deal. I find you a weapon, an' in trade you teach me how to use the thing." Pwyll had finally come around to asking what he wanted of the dark knight. "I couldn't of course afford to buy the blade, an' I wouldn't expect any formal instruction as such, but this could benefit us both. You'd not only get the best sword for you, but also the chance to practice and work on your balance. I learn not only how to use the longer blade, but also how an opponent might." Pwyll reasoned.

"I intend to have a new blade crafted," said Amlyn. "So obtaining a weapon is not an issue. However..." Amlyn began to see some other possibilities rapidly materialize within his mind. "If you have some skill with smaller weapons, then I have a squire who is yet to begin her martial training. She lacks the strength at this point to learn the standard weapons of a knight, but she needs to learn some basic combat maneuvers with shorter swords and perhaps even how to use a bow. If you can do this and teach her, then I will in turn, teach you what I know." Satisfied with his own counter-offer, Amlyn managed a wry smile. "I will even provide you with a suitable sword."

Pwyll digested the offer. He had to admit that it was more than fair. With the exception of Altarian's lessons, life at court was proving to be more than a little slow. Regular fighting exercise in the training yards would have been incentive enough, but the added attraction of learning from the dark knight made the decision an easy one. Still, it wouldn't do to appear too eager. "Two weapons in trade for one! How could I call myself a cattle trader if I agreed to that!" Pwyll said in a tone of mock outrage, "I'll tell you what I'll do. If you give me time for time, lesson in exchange for lesson, we'll have ourselves a deal... an' I'll even find myself a suitable sword."

"As you wish," agreed Sir Amlyn. He accepted the outstretched hand of the obviously satisfied outlander and shook it. "I am not sure of your own duties, but I plan to start the squire's training at around mid-afternoon in the training yards, tomorrow," he said.

"Very well," Pwyll replied with a smile. "I look forward to teaching her to dance in the afternoon sun."

As the two walked slowly towards the door that led to the Great Hall , Pwyll turned to Sir Amlyn and said, "You never did ask me the name of Arawn's hero."

Sir Amlyn thought for a moment as they continued forward, "Pwyll?" he said, with a small smile.

"Just so, Grey Man. Just so."

It was amidst the onset of evening that the female pair lounged about Avalynn's room, tossing back and forth various quirks and bits of interest that occurred throughout the day. Laera, seated in a chair adjacent to the window, busily stitched a portion of some dark red fabric, while Avalynn sat upon the edge of her bed, neglectful of an open tome in her lap.

"And he still refused?" The younger asked, a brow lifted in disbelief.

"That's right. I kept offering more coin, but he turned me down each time. He simply wouldn't do it." Avalynn released a sigh fraught with agitation. "Some people don't know an opportunity even when it grabs them by their rocks."

Laera half-giggled her reply, not missing a single stitch as she worked the fabric through her hands. "Don't fret, Ava, I'm taking care of it. You just want these two slits, right?"

"Correct." The outlander's lips curved upward in a grateful smile. "I appreciate it, Lae. I should've known not to ask the 'royal' tailor to alter my dress. 'It's just not proper to show that much leg,'" she mocked.

"It's no trouble. But you do owe me a favor, now." Laera grinned. As the light played oddly against the woman's cheek, her expression appeared rather devious.

Avalynn formed a smirk, eyeing her counterpart suspiciously. Before she could interrogate Laera, however, her attention was drawn through the window -- at what could only be two moving, human forms. The younger was quick to notice the shift in Ava's gaze and joined the observation.

A moment passed as the two women huddled against the window and peered down at the figures in the garden. But the silence was soon to be interrupted.

"That's him!" Exclaimed Laera suddenly as she poked the glass with her finger in an attempt to indicate the subject.

"Him who?"

"Him... him the squire that I followed around the castle! He's so handsome..."

"And he's with some girl," Avalynn witnessed, her forehead pressed against the window.

"What?!" The younger blinked and tilted her focus on the second figure. In her trance with the squire, she had failed to look at the bigger picture.

"And they're kissing!"

"That... that... whore!" Laera's face was now on fire; she was unable to look away.

On the other hand, Ava was unable to keep from laughing. "Seducing a perfectly good squire, I see. Well, I wonder who she is."

"I don't," came Laera's gruff reply as she tried to control her flush.

"Oh, look at her gown..." The elder's voice suddenly adopted a thoughtful tone. "She must be royalty to dress that well."

'It' dawned upon the pair simultaneously, and together they blurted, "Seth and Bronwen!" Of course, it was none other than the princess and her lover... those that had been the subject of many a rumor, lately.

Another laugh erupted from Avalynn -- she felt almost silly for not having identified the sweethearts sooner. "Looks like you picked the wrong man, Lae!"

"It does, doesn't it," sighed the younger. Both women looked on as the couple finally parted and scurried out of the gardens. "Ah well... Mayhaps the next one?"

"Mayhaps," replied Avalynn gently as she placed her hand upon Laera's shoulder. Only she was aware of the grin that split her face.

As they led their horses through the winding streets of the city, threading their way between townfolk and travelers of countless varieties. Herdsmen drove small clusters of goats or swine here and there, oxcarts hauled barrels or loads of different sorts. Mixed among them were hawkers shouting out their wares, and of course, people merely going about their daily business.

To the four mercenaries, from a land where trees outnumbered people by a vast margin, it was something of a new experience.

"How the devil do they stand all this noise?" Argylle muttered, dodging a man who was hurrying off on some errand or other. In truth, the din was not so great, but it was constant. There was no silence, always there was the background of sounds and voices.

"I canna fathom why any sane man would live here," Robartach agreed sourly, directing wary glances at the crowds that moved about them like currents in a stream. His right hand led his horse, but his left rested on the onyx pommel of his shortsword. "Say what ye will, Connor, about their magnificent buildings and all, but these people are daft."

"Stow that talk," Connor said gruffly. "Daft or nae, we're trying to find a market for our spears. That means understanding these people, and getting along with them." He shot a look at Robartach, then back to his left at Alec. "No challenging, unless I clear it first. Ye can defend yourselves, but pull your sword without cause and ye'll live to regret it." A quiet chorus of "ayes" answered that, and he nodded tightly. Discipline.

Ahead, he saw what looked like a travel-house...in Llandaf, they'd called them "inns" or sometimes "pubs". It looked serviceable, clean and well kept.

"Come. We'll find shelter, and figure out our next move from there."

They tied their horses to a rail outside, and Connor detailed Argylle to watch the mounts. Ducking his head under the door's lintel, he stepped into the common room.

The room was somewhat dim and smoky, but cheerful enough. Rushes covered the floor, and light spilled in from broad windows, wooden shutters folded back. Tables dotted the floor like toadstools, mostly empty at this time of day. A few rough-clad men sat, mugs or tankards in hand, talking softly or smoking clay pipes.

"Wait here," he ordered, and headed over to a heavy plank bar, where a lean man in patched woolens was polishing a pewter mug.

"Help you, goodman?" the barkeep asked politely enough, noting the size of the newcomer, the presence of weapons, and his foreign dress.

"That ye could, if ye've rooms to let," Connor said solemnly. "My men and I need lodging. And meals as well." Scratching his hair, which hadn't seen washing in a while, he added, "Baths if they're to be had."

"Will you gentlemen be staying long?"

Connor shrugged, and his mustaches twitched with a faint smile. "Canna say for sure. It depends on business. Say a fiveday at the least."

"Very well, then," the barkeep paused a moment, lips moving as he totalled up numbers in his head, then kept a sober face as he said carefully, "That would be about oh, tenpence, for the lot of you." It was a fair price, but he wasn't sure of the means of this tall stranger.

"All right, let's see now..." he muttered, fumbling in his belt pouch, then decided to the nine hells with it. He came up with a fistful of coins and slapped them on the bar. "How much? More or less?"

The barkeep gaped momentarily at the small pile of shillings and pence, then straightened his features and very cautiously separated ten of the smaller coins, pushing the remainder back. "Er, ah, you gentlemen can take the two rooms at the top of the stairs. I'll have someone bring you up tubs and hot water to wash. Dinner will be ready when you want it. If you, ah, need anything, just ask. Glynn's my name." He offered a hand, which the muscular stranger shook equitably

He'd expected the horse-trader to give him back something to make up the difference, for the horses, serviceable though they were, weren't worth the fine Skyan craftsmanship. Instead of furs, jewelry, or something of that nature, though, the man had given him a pouch of silver disks. Connor thought to argue, but hefted the pouch, and figured the weight in metal value was fair enough. Besides, he'd had a headache from the dickering.

He soon came to realize that those disks were what these people used in trade. But that didn't mean Connor was used to the queer practice.

"All right, let's see now..." he muttered, fumbling in his belt pouch, then decided to the nine hells with it. He came up with a fistful of coins and slapped them on the bar. "How much? More or less?"

The barkeep gaped momentarily at the small pile of shillings and pence, then straightened his features and very cautiously separated ten of the larger coins, pushing the remainder back. "Er, ah, you gentlemen can take the two rooms at the top of the stairs. I'll have someone bring you up tubs and hot water to wash. Dinner will be ready when you want it. If you, ah, need anything, just ask. Glynn's my name." He offered a hand, which the muscular stranger shook equitably.

"Connor. Me thanks, friend." He swept the extra coins into one broad palm, took a moment to compare the relative sizes of two of them, and dropped them back in his pouch. "We've horses outside. Ye have a stable, I saw?"

"Yes. There's a lad who can see to them for you. Give him a penny," Glynn paused, then risked saying, "that's the small ones. And he'll give you good service."

"Ah. Again, thanks." Connor turned towards the door and his waiting companions, and the innkeeper thought he heard him murmur in a low voice, "the smaller one..." before the three were outside again.

Glynn wiped the sweat off his brow. "Bloody foreigners," he muttered, then went to fill a mug for one of his patrons. Gods send they wouldn't be any trouble, and perhaps they'd part with more silver before moving on...he'd be sure to collect that additional penny from his stableboy, after the strangers were upstairs. The boy didn't need all that to himself, but no need for these fellows to know that. This cheered him, and he whistled as he broached a fresh keg.