He had come to Warwickshire on a quest. As man of arms for the town of Aberfoyle, he had been chosen to accompany the holiest of the holy Brothers of Inchmahome Priory. A plague was decimating his village, and indeed, his family. He was alone now in a world that had used to be full. 

           He carried with him few items. First and foremost, he carried the weapon from which his family had taken their name, the lethal halberd. Generations of Halpert men had guarded the town of Aberfoyle, but they were no match for this current enemy. And now, so far from home, his village was without protection from bandits or thieves. He yearned with all his heart to return. He ached to sit once again beside the still waters of Loch Ard that he might pray for the spirit of his father. But there had barely been time for a cursory prayer over the fresh-turned dirt of his grave. There was not even a moment to twine white silk round the branches on Doon Hill begging for a safe return. Daily the funeral pyres burned, higher and higher.

“Arden Forest approaches,” Brother Tobias had returned from seeking counsel in a roadside chapel. As had been true since they had crossed the accursed border, Halpert had been denied entry into church and chapel for he wore armor and weaponry. His weekly absolutions were accomplished in jerkin and leggings, but time was of utmost importance and it was known that with the ‘creeping death’, bandits were likely to attack even a holy man with few possessions. These two pilgrims had not the luxury to stop and disarm. For this reason, Brother Tobias had become that for which he was not trained or equipped - the voice of Aberfoyle. He who had taken vows of poverty and silence was now the keeper of coins and the beseeching pilgrim.

The man Halpert did not like these lowlands. The buildings were not made of solid stone but wattle and daub. Mud and twigs that would melt and burn before a family could grow old. He did not like these people with their slurry tongues and evil glances. He neither trusted nor respected them. But he certainly feared them. They were well armed and they had a love of the drink. Praises to God that he traveled with a Brother of the Church.... for otherwise  even a sharp halberd would not protect him against these uncivilized savages.

The road upon which they traveled was well-trod. It may once have been a simple cow-path between the hamlets of Nuneaton and Warborough, but in recent decades it had become a common road for lumber carts to Nuneaton’s main market square. The previous night had been spent in the hospice of the Etone nunnery. The Sisters had been kind and had eagerly brought soup and bread to Brother Tobias. The scraps they had saved and, unless they reached Warborough soon, they would have to suffer through this small repast. They had suffered worse.

They were fortunate, their prayers were answered. For on the 16th day of the month of March, they did espy the small village which they had long sought. But prayers are answered in ways unexpected, “Brother Tobias, I do not see the Church spire. My eyes must be weary from the road.” James, son of Halpert, slowed his horse and looked in consternation at the hamlet below them.

Brother Tobias spoke quietly, “They may be without means to erect such. That does not mean they are not god-fearing.”
            The soldier looked at the Lord’s servant in disbelief. Even the rudest village in the Highlands built, before all else, a house for the worship of their Lord and Master .

Brother Tobias spoke again, “I see neither manor nor castle, either. We shall search for the girl in their town square and then continue to the Knight’s Temple.”

Halpert bowed his head. He was here to protect… not to judge these heathen people.

The entry of these strange men into the village brought all commerce to a standstill. The horses alone were an uncommon sight. But a man dressed for war in a land of peace was a sight that these people did not relish seeing. That he was with a man of the cloth brought no ease of mind. Brother Tobias seemed oblivious to the rude stares, but James could not ignore that each man stood by his door holding a crude weapon, be it hayfork, scythe, or boathook. Halpert made sure to keep his mount controlled, his eyes focused forward; no word of the prophecy had mentioned bloodshed.

“Good sir, greetings. May God bless you in these holy days of Lent and may you find salvation in his words.” Brother Tobias had dismounted to speak to a man age-old and bent from hard labor.

“Greetings, venerable sir. You have entered the village of Warborough. Do you seek the Hospitaller of the Knights Templar? My son can guide you through the Forest to their sanctuary.” An astute man, James thought. For why else would an armed man descend on their town?

“I thank you, good man. Indeed we do desire to reach the Temple of Balsall, but we have a….” at this point Brother Tobias faltered. He had come to the crux of the matter and it was not easily explained. “Is there one of the Church in this fair village? Or, God save you, a man of the nobility that we may speak with before venturing on?”

The laborer bowed his head and pointed towards a timbered building near the water. “There lives the local lord, whose family has worked this land since the land was brought up from the sea by the grace of God. He is Lord Beasley and he is a kindly master. Tell him that Bratton sends you with greetings and praise.”

As they dismounted, the soldier Halpert spoke under his breath, “The horses will fetch a good price; I fear to leave them unattended.”

The holy man removed a parcel from the bedroll that he carried. “The Lord has given us this pilgrimage. If he desires us to walk, walk we will.”

The soldier sighed, thirty-nine days by fast horse to reach this point. A six-month to return by foot, if luck was with them. There would be no hearth or home to return to if God had so deemed. James rubbed the forelock of his strong, shaggy chestnut. “Be safe,” he whispered. It would not do good to look down upon God’s designs, but a little blessing never hurt any horse.

The building was low to the ground. Built centrally to the river, it commanded the best location to ford the stream. The house functioned as both office and home. A large central room with a straw-covered floor opened directly onto the main road. Small window slits showed that the building had been built for defense, not hospitality. A long table ran the length of one wall. Doors on the wall opposite were thrown open to admit light and air. Through them, the men could see cook fires and the river.

In the dark room it was difficult to see into all the shadowed niches but after his eyesight adjusted, the soldier was startled to see that the room was actually quite full of people. It was as silent as the Mass at Matins.

Brother Tobias held up his hands in the sign of benevolence. “Praise God and praise the denizens of this home.”

Out of the crowd, a man stepped forth. He was a grizzled old man and he walked with a limp, but this was as nothing to him for he walked with authority. The men and women stood aside before him with bowed heads.

“I welcome you to my home, Holy Father and….” The man examined the soldier circumspectly.
           “And my companion, James, son of Halpert, of the village of Aberfoyle in the county of Perthshire.” Tobias spoke as loudly as he could but his voice did not carry and there was general murmuring after his introduction. “I am Brother Tobias from the Priory of Inchmahome, on the Lake of Menteith, also in the county of Perthshire.”
          “Perthshire!” Lord Beasley’s booming voice carried far and wide. Halpert could feel eyes looking in the window slits and see children’s heads peering around their mother’s skirts. “You are far from home, far indeed. Your accent does betray you if nothing else. I bid you welcome. Anne…bring our guests bread. Kellith…bring fresh water. Let us remove the dust from the road and when you are settled you can tell me your tale.”

As Lord Beasley led the men to his banquet table, the soldier’s eyes were caught by the eyes of a woman looking through one of the window slits. He could just see a sliver of her curly auburn hair. But what gave him pause was that hers were the first eyes he had seen in many a day that were not suspicious or hate-filled. They were wide with joy and excitement. He almost smiled at her.

Tremulously, Philomena looked in the window slit. Her father had forbidden her and her sisters entry but, emboldened by the pilgrims’ quiet demeanor, she and her terrified sister, Winifred, had snuck up upon the building. The girls were supposed to be in hiding behind the hayrack with their other sisters until the soldier had moved on. Too many times, a horsed knight had abducted unsuspecting women while their men, powerless, looked on. After ravishing them deep in Arden Forest, the knights would abandon the damaged women to whatever fate they may find. Many a child of the village bore an aquiline nose or a high brow. There were blessings for having the Knights Templar so close. They protected, aye. But it would do well for any maiden to run at the sound of a horse’s hoofs.

Philomena could not make out the features of the two strangers. The room was pressing dark for one and for two they faced away from her. She tapped her toe impatiently. She was daring much, standing here amongst the young boys and servants. Philomena kept one eye on her father and one on the knight. The knight, as tall as Kenric the blacksmith, wore armor unlike any of those of the Knights Templar. Perchance he had come from London-town on business from the King. Perchance he had brought a Priest and the necessary funds for the rebuilding of the Church! Her eyes lit up at the thought. If he were indeed here in answer to her father’s message, sent these many months ago, then her ill-fated betrothal would be as necessary as snowfall in June!

She could not hear the curate’s words but she had no difficulty distinguishing her father’s, “Perthshire! You are far from home! Far indeed!” Philomena’s knowledge of geography was scanty, what need she know more than the local hills and dales? But this sounded like very good tidings indeed. Far from home! Why mayhaps Perthshire was the county in which London lay. She looked with wonder at these men from the court of the King. They were nobly built and… the knight had turned while she was daydreaming and glanced in her eyes. He had glanced in her eyes! A knight of the King had glanced her way! She could barely breathe for the honor bestowed upon her. As she cowered beneath the window, she thought how she would tell Goody Perkins and Meldred of this next time she dined at the Earl of Nuneaton’s table!

A realization hit her. The table was not yet set for the midday meal! She turned quickly to her sister and ordered, “Win, go at once to Phyllida! Tell her we have guests for the noon-meal. The freshest fish. Go now!”

Winifred looked up at her older sister rebelliously, “I want to hear what is said, Pam! I…”

Philomena pushed her towards the cook fires, “Go. Do you wish to dishonor our family before a Knight of the King?”

Winifred sucked in her breath in wonder and lifted her skirts to run the short distance to the roasting pit.

Philomena turned back to spy further on the possible rescuer of her family’s honor and good fortune. His back was to her and he would not sit although his companion did. The holy man was reclined in the seat of honor on her father’s right side. The knight stood at angle from the table. Philomena grumbled to herself and raised her skirts to run around the building so that she might have a better vantage point.

There were more people on this side of the building as it faced the main road. Villagers, men and women, shoved for a view at every eyeslit. Breathlessly, she pushed a servant out of the way and took his spot.

As she looked in the window, she saw that the Knight was looking directly at her. She blushed and ducked her head. Timidly, she moved to the next window where two of her youngest brothers were taking turns watching the ceremony. She pushed them aside and slowly peered through.

He was still looking at her! Horrified, she drew back and accidentally shoved her youngest brother, Aldwin, into the dirt.
            “What did you do that for,” he wailed.

Philomena scolded him, “Shush! Do you want father to hear? Go to the stream and wash yourself. You are as dirty as a louse. You look as if you have been clawing through the pig’s hole.”

Harold, her third youngest brother, watched Aldwin run off but stayed next to his sister. “Pam,” he said, “They have strange horses. Look you, the horses are very hairy.”

Philomena looked towards the horses at which he pointed. “Yes,” she agreed, “That’s because they are horses from far away. They are special horses. Raised on iced cakes and wedding pies.” Harold drew in his breath and exhaled slowly.

“Do you think the Knight may need a squire?” Harold was fond of cakes and pies. Surely they would feed their squire as well as they did their horses.

Philomena looked slyly down at her naïve brother. “Look through the window and tell me if the Knight glances this way! If you do this for me, I will tell father that you desire to be a squire.”

With that promise, the young boy quickly pulled himself up to the window’s ledge. “Aye,” he whispered, “But now he looks away. He is listening to Father. Father is telling them about the Church.”

Philomena’s heart fluttered. The Church! They had come about the Church! Carefully she looked through the window making sure that only her eyes cleared the ledge. She had to hear what they said. Her wedding night fast approached and here was salvation from the brutish hands of Lord Nuneaton’s bastard son.

He was looking at her father. With the sunlight behind him, she saw that he was not as fearsome as she had first thought. The helm covered the pate of his head and much of his forehead so she could not make out as much as she would like. What struck her strongest was that his armor was in need of polishing. He must have been traveling for days and days, she realized. She leaned her head further into the window to see better. That’s when his eyes glanced her way again. She was quick to duck her head.

“Harold,” she whispered, “go to Kenric and ask in our father’s name for the loan of his polish, cloths, and grease.”

Harold looked at her questioningly.

She smiled, “A good squire polishes his master’s armor for battle, does he not? Do you not wish to impress yonder Knight with your abilities?”

With pride, Harold turned and raced off in the direction of the smithy. Philomena licked her lips and with regret realized she had not put on either powder or scent that morning. She did not think Roy of Nuneaton would visit until mid-evening and so she had dressed and coifed simply.  She looked down at her dirt-splattered gown. She had chastised Aldwin, but she had more need of the river than he.

On light feet, she ran to the pool behind the oak grove. She would wash and prepare as well she could for the mid-evening meal. In her heart she sang the praises of the young King’s Knight and the King’s Priest who had come to rebuild the Church. Hopefully, carpenters and masons followed with carts full of iron tools and glass for staining.

As she bathed, she daydreamed about what it would be like to be a lady of the court. She thought it might be like Heaven, much singing and little labor. It would be like Church during the feasts. Or like when the Troupes of Morris Men came to Coventry Cathedral in the early fall for Market Day. It would be like her Birthing Day, but every day! Wine at super, fruit fresh from the tree, the finest, softest cloth, and jewels as big as her fist. She wondered if the Knight was carrying presents from the King to give to the daughter of the town’s Lord. She wondered if he was wedded or betrothed. She wondered if he thought her pretty.

Her favorite sister, Ermengarde, found her as she was drying. She bore good tidings, “Sister, Father has asked the two strangers to stay. And they have agreed! The monk has agreed this e’en to give penance, absolutions, and Communion at the site of the burnt Church. Father wishes all of us to dress in our finest for the service! Mother says I may wear ribbons in my hair!”

Philomena could not help giggling. Rarely was Emmie allowed to wear ribbons for she had a tendency to lose them. This was turning into a most glorious day. “But where shall we dress? The men take up our home!”

 Ermengarde grabbed her sister’s hands and twirled with her in a dance. “She says we should meet her at the Widow Derbie’s home. She has had the servants move our trunks. Oh! And Pam! They complimented your tapestry for its artistry! Hal says Father was besot with pride!”

Philomena hands flew to her red cheeks, “Did Father tell them that I stitched it? Which of the tapestries? The garden? The tree of life? The coat of arms?”

“I do not know,” Ermengarde said, “Hal was called away to rub down the horses. You should see the horses! They are so strange. Like no horses I have ever seen.”

Philomena raced after her sister. She hoped it was the tree of life that he admired. That was the one where she had added her own vision of fruits and nuts. They were the fruits of Heaven, she told any who questioned her. Most scoffed, like that glorified farmer, Roy of Nuneaton, but her sister understood…and maybe this Knight would also.

“Before you, you see our granary. Our mill is fast attached,” Lord Beasley pointed first at a brick-lined hole which was precious low on grain. Next he pointed to the mill which was dilapidated and, except for the slap-slap-slap of the waterwheel, silent. The soldier Halbert felt slight unease, no grain was being milled that day. This was a village that suffered some dire calamity not unlike Aberfoyle’s plague. He would wait until the moments before Vespers to ask Brother Tobias his thoughts. Their conversation might go unheard while the village busily prepared itself for Mass.

 Lord Beasley led them away from the River Avon (“There, see the boy trout tickling? He will grow into a fine fisherman. His family is well pleased.”) and along a cow path to the Oak Grove behind the village. “Here is a place of local fame. In the autumn, as the trees shed, from three counties men travel to reach this spot with their most-prized swine. The truffles found in this Grove are said to taste of Paradise. They sell for their weight in gold.” The lord then pointed back towards the river. “Of course, the Forest of Arden is rich laid with truffles but none as fine as found here.”

James looked at the man in curiosity, “And what think you of these truffles? Are they like Heaven?” He had never heard of a food called truffles but it sounded pleasant. He thought perchance they were roasted with pork. Why else would a man travel cross county with a pig, no matter how prized.

Beasley smiled, “Aye. When I was a lad at my father’s knee, I was given an ounce of truffle on my Communion Day. It did taste of heaven that day. But none in the village may eat. Their value to us is more than food to our lips.” With these strange words, he moved on.

The grove was peaceful and when Beasley and Brother Tobias left the glade to follow the path, Halberd stopped for a moment to offer a silent prayer for his people in Aberfoyle. In his heart he knew that some whom he held most dear must surely have wasted away in the cruel plague’s jaws ere he was long from home.

“Here, where you entered our village, stands the shrine of Warborough. Older than Methuselah, it has stood here to protect the land. It is said that Saint Dubricius, he who crowned Arthur Pendragon, drank from the water of the Avon and slept here without waking for three new moons. His dreams while lying here foretold the death of Merlin.” The two Scotsmen bent low to look in the small cleft of the rock. They could see scatterings of river pebbles, acorns, and wilted flowers... gifts to honor a long-dead Saint.

Brother Tobias ran his palm along the smooth opening and knelt in prayer. The Lord and soldier followed suit. They chanted together.

 “Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae. Et in Iesum Christum, Filium Eius unicum, Dominum nostrum, qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria Virgine, passus sub Pontio Pilato, crucifixus, mortuus, et sepultus, descendit ad ínferos, tertia die resurrexit a mortuis, ascendit ad caelos, sedet ad dexteram Dei Patris omnipotentis, inde venturus est iudicare vivos et mortuos. Credo in Spiritum Sanctum, sanctam Ecclesiam catholicam, sanctorum communionem, remissionem peccatorum, carnis resurrectionem, vitam aeternam. Amen.”

Brother Tobias ended the prayer with a small blessing to Saint Dubricius “the wise teacher of the Welsh. He taught the Saints Illtud and Samson as well as many other holy men.” Neither the soldier nor Brother Tobias had ever heard the names Pendragon or Merlin prior, but Tobias had illuminated a manuscript on the lives of the Saints of the Isles. Therein he had learned of Saint Dubricius’ true worth as a man and a teacher.

Halpert aided the lord in rising. The man walked without difficulty but kneeling and standing were a chore best not indulged. Yet all this was nothing to Beasley. With tears in his eyes, he clapped his hand on the foot soldier’s arm and to the two Scotsmen he said “It is long since prayer was made at this shrine by a Man of God. May blessings fall on you and yours for this service you have done me.”

They were a somber trio who wound their way back to the village. The sparse buildings, thirty at most, with their rain-soaked thatched roofs, stood in sharp contrast to the bright and bubbling river. The hamlet suited their mood and they moved forward to the charred remains of the Church.

Brother Tobias made a sign of the cross and the three men inclined their heads. Lord Beasley pointed towards a partially standing wall, “It was an unholy night. There are those who say they saw the spawn of Lucifer run out of Arden Forest with brands alit. I hold not much stock in that, they are the same folk who put milk out to charm the brownies and rowan leaves for the faery queen.” The soldier, James, did not speak. Every harvest his mother had set out cream for the Urisk Brownies.

He watched as Beasley poked at the ashes of the fire. “The Earl of Nuneaton has begged for the ashes of this fire for his potash kiln. He says ash from the timbers of a Church are more pure than those from the greatest oak. I have forbidden the removal.” Lord Beasley looked squarely at Brother Tobias when he said his next words, “I have declared that as long as the ash remains, we are still Christian men in Warborough.”

James, son of Halpert, lowered his eyes and chastised himself for calling these men savages.
     

“Father!” A young boy with hair fresh-washed ran up to them amongst the ruins. “The lumber men approach and Pam says I should polish the King’s Knight’s armor!” He held up a bag of cloths and two covered pots.

Lord Beasley lifted the boy high into the air. “This is my fifth son, the young Harold. Named for his uncle who joined the Blackfriars at Northampton.” To the boy he said, “The King’s Knight? And what new faery tale does your sister tell? This man is no knight of the King. Do you see the King’s Seal about him? He is a Scotsman come on quest. But your sister be praised for seeing a need that I overlooked. Once I have finished with the lumber men, we shall groom ourselves for tonight’s feast.”

He set the disgruntled boy down. Scowling, the boy looked up at the tall soldier, “Do you feed your horses wedding pie and cake?”

Laughing, the men accompanied the disheartened boy down to the main square of the village.

            A small crowd had gathered in the muddy square before the Lord’s timbered building. Halpert was heartily pleased to see his chestnut and Brother Tobias’ mare were still tied to the lashing posts. He was startled to see that their coats were shining, the nettles and burrs of the road gone. He wondered if this Pam, sister of Harold, had seen to the grooming of his horses as well.

            He wished to go and stroke the chestnut to comfort it, but Lord Beasley was directing his attention to carts already exiting the Arden Forest. “The lumber of the Arden is greatly prized. Indeed the King and the Dominicans ask only wood for their tithe which is a blessing for our village.” They watched as the carts began to ford the river with the help of young boys who had been fishing in the fast currents.

            Beasley nodded to men in the crowd, “They have made a good haul. Hobbie! Find Kenric and tell him to bring his list of needs. I think there will be extra to spare on this trip, God willing.” This brought a small cheer from the crowd and an elderly man hobbled off in the direction of a thatched hut from back of which smoke was rising in thick, grey plumes.

            As the half dozen carts pulled up, the young lumber men leaped from their carts. Each grabbed a sharpened woodsman’s axe before they bowed to their Lord and awaited his further direction. A few, the bravest, looked boldly at the strangers who stood so near their Lord.  Halpert looked upon them warily. These were not only well-armed men, but strong and muscle-bound Englishmen. They may not be trained in the ways of the sword or lance, but they would chop a man down as easily as a sapling. He hoped they were not prone to wild carousing. He hoped Lord Beasley kept order in his village.

            Beasley ignored the lumber men’s curious looks. He directed all his questions to the darkest of the men, a man of the outdoors who had never known the inside of a cottage. “What news, Stanley?”

            Stanley looked over the soldier with a distrusting eye. “No news, my Lord. Except the Knights Templar have lost one of theirs in the woods. A reward is offered.” He looked bored with the information he imparted. The crowd gathered closer. Brother Tobias gave James an imperceptible look, but the soldier remained stone-faced.

            Lord Beasley questioned further, “What reward is proffered? Did you see any hint of the man while on your way?”

            The dark man examined his foot as he considered the questions. “We saw no signs between here and the road to Wootton Wawen. The reward is 3 mark silver.”

            Beasley nodded as the crowd began to mumble excitedly. “All able-men will meet here at dawn’s first light. Any man who leaves ere that will be subject to the laws of traitor. The silver will be used for the building of the new Church. Now all disperse and prepare for the Mass this e’en.” 

           Lord Beasley turned to a group of middle-aged men who had congregated round the lead cart, “John, Harry, Hobbie, Henry, John O’Spar, and Bob Brookes… you will drive the carts to Nuneaton this day. John, learn you the list of Kenric. The rest, disperse.”

           A big man with lazy eyes, wearing the apron of a blacksmith, began speaking to the John whom Beasley had singled out. Meanwhile, the Scotsmen watched the other elderly men climb into the carts where they perched atop the lumber.

            “Godspeed you, our prayers will be with you this night.” Lord Beasley waved them to begin the slow four-hour journey to Nuneaton.  John was the last to go. As he began the climb up the grade, Kenric was still calling out items, “Make sure the tool steel is compact! There should be no bend! If there be no grinding stones, ask for emery. I can craft a fix. If the wax is cheap, buy seven score but only under two-pence. No accounts visit their smithy! He robs the stranger!”

            James, son of Halpert, smiled. So. Even the next village was considered as strangers. How different was this land from the Highlands. He followed the Lord into his home with the boy who would be squire at his heels. He wondered if it would be unseemly to ask this ‘Harold named after his Uncle away at the Blackfriars’ if his storytelling sister was the selfsame girl who had stood next to him at a window slit earlier that day. A girl with curly, auburn hair.

The Widow Derbie’s cottage was damp and small. With seven women and three trunks there was not room to sneeze. The Widow Derbie herself sat upon a stool telling a tale that stilled the air. Blind as she was, she was fortunate in that she could move among the men as an invalid, hearing all. She had been in the Great Hall as the men lunched. She had drunk almond milk as the priest from afar told his tale. And most wondrous, she had heard the knight tell of a prophecy that curdled her blood in the thought of it. She now related all these things with good cheer. While they prepared themselves for the eventide’s Mass and feast, her audience of devout women listened intently as to her embellished description of the priest’s speech.

Lady Beasley slowly twined her favorite daughter’s hair into braids to prepare them for binding with the wire mesh of her prettiest crespine. Aethelinda smiled smugly at Philomena who awaited her turn under Lady Beasley’s dexterous fingers. Aethelinda was but eleven months younger and was considered the prettiest of the Beasley daughters. Their mother thought to set off her daughter’s charms to their fullest advantage. She would use all her wit this night to wed a noble knight to her dearest child. In her mind’s eye, she saw the good priest rebuilding the Church and bringing fame to her village while the Knight protected all and sundry from marauders and charlatans. It would please her much if this man stayed and she would do all in her power to make it so.

Ignoring her sister’s taunts, Philomena brushed her youngest sister’s hair with vigour. Hilde was always lice-infested for she took to napping in the dirt of the Oak Grove. She was always one for hiding from noise and bustle. The poor, shy girl had been much affected by the burning of the Church. The wooden pews had been her quiet sanctuary until that dreadful night. Now, not yet in her sixth year, she hid away from fire and smoke. Beside them Kellieth pulled louse after louse from Hilde’s curly hair. She would squeeze the life from them whereupon she dropped them in a cracked porridge bowl. She would use the vermin to feed her beloved chickens.

Besides these quiet sounds and the din from the road, there was no noise save Widow Derbie’s voice, “Aye, the tonsure on his head makes me think he may be more a Friar than a Monk but he claims he be a Monk from far north. Aye, the land of the Scots who fought our men at the wall these many year gone. I was not alive then but my granny was and she said they were fierce fighters. She told me they wore paint upon their bodies and wore dresses like women. But they proved their worth as men and we did fall back disarrayed.”

Philomena was sure her father had said London-town was to the south. She would ask him during the Evening Mass. Her mind raced onwards. If the knight was from the highlands, than tomorrow would be a high holy day for him being that it was the Saint Patrick’s nameday. But no, she remembered herself, he was the patron of Ireland and snakes. She must remember to ask Goody Faceby who the patron of Scotland be. Surely it was not England’s George.

Winifred, in her usual blunt manner, questioned the frail widow. “Why then does the Knight not wear paint or dress? I have seen him. He is dressed in armor with breeches.”

The Widow Derbie looked blindly across the room in the young girl’s direction. Before she could speak, Lady Beasley berated her rude daughter. “Speak not before your betters, Winifred. Do you wish to spend the feast tonight in the cleft praying to Blessed Dubricius for wisdom and a still tongue?”

Winifred crossly returned to her previous activity, petting the servant Anne’s calico cat. Anne looked on in dismay as the girl stroked the poor cat with much force. With a yowl, the calico rebelled, leapt out of her hands and streaked out the open door. This confusion led to the upsetting of the ribbon box and recriminations all around. Finally, Ermengarde with her good sense asked “Please, dear lady Derbie, tell us of the Knight’s prophecy.” Philomena leaned forward at these words.

The Widow Derbie settled her self once more upon her low stool. “Oooh, it is a dark tale. The town from which he comes, I forget the name, is mightily cursed.” Even the Lady Beasley’s fingers stopped at these words.

“A sickness lies over the town. Many have died. Aye, the day the young knight left, his name be James, that very day, he buried his father.” The women gasped at her words.

“He could not do the duty’s of a son, we were told, for he was sent by vote of the town to the Church of  this Friar Tobias with whom he now travels. I forget myself, he calls him Brother, a Monk of a wondrous Church on a wee island. Yes. He is a monk there and has taken a vow of silence.”

Philomena’s hand snuck across to clamp across Winifred’s open mouth. Winifred looked at her sister in anger, but Philomena’s warning look reminded her of her mother’s threat. Later she might ask her sister why a man under such a vow had been heard speaking. The widow continued, “He is or was or may still be the Prior of this Church whose name I canna say for it is not an English name. Be that as it may, within the priory, a woman came to die of the sickness. But she dinna die. She healed and began to nurse others who came with the same sickness. Alas, they all died. All wondered why she still lived, blessings upon God, and they questioned her much. But they could find no cure in her appetite or prayers to explain. Oooh, I am parched from much talking.”

Aethelinda leaped up at these words and brought the blind woman a beaker of water. Lady Beasley, meanwhile, gestured to Philomena to take her place. Philomena was quick to go and was well seated before the Widow Derbie began again, “So. Still they know no cure. One night, the night before the Knight’s father died, the woman had a dream. She woke but dinna woke. She walked to the island’s edge and in the mist began to keen. The monks found her there and awoke her and she told of this dream.”

The blind woman took another sip from her cup. She looked all about her and in a dreadful whisper continued, “She did say that the Fallen Angel came to her.” All the women recoiled and many crossed themselves at these fearsome words. “He told her that he would take each of them good and bad for he was without companions as he walked the earth. Then she said that nothing could save them but the Cross of the Crimson Knight which could only be found in the Forest of Arden in the Church of Balsall!” The women gasped.

Lady Beasley was the first to find her wits. “But this dream is false. There is no Cross of a Crimson Knight in the Church of Balsall. Satan plays havoc with her dreams and brings further ruin to their town.”

The Widow Derbie nodded, “Aye, that is what your Lord and Master told the young Scotsmen. They have traveled far for a fool’s errand.”

“But mayhap,” Philomena spoke cautiously, “Mayhap the Crimson Knight has not yet reached the Church of Balsall. For the feast of St. Joseph fast approaches and a tournament is to be held. Father says knights of Coventry and further afield will list. Perhaps…” With a jerk, Lady Beasely pulled her daughter’s braid.

Lady Beasely had developed a plan, “Ah, but what if the dream was misunderstood. I see another solution. Perchance the Crimson Knight is the Scotsman himself? If he did marry into the line of Beasely he would take on our shield which is crimson. And what if the Cross that he is to bear is the cross that he carries from the Knights Templar to affix to the spire of our new Church!”

This new interpretation brought all into an uproar. The servant Anne began to cry as she imagined the blessed day their Church was rebuilt. Philomena’s other sisters excitedly discussed which of them should marry the Knight although all knew it would probably be Aethelinda. Meanwhile, Hilde hid neath the cot of the Widow Derbie and curled up betwixt Anne’s other cats.

Only Philomena was unmoved by this new development. She did not like this interpretation. If true, it would mean no chance for her to see the tournament in the Scottish knight’s retinue. Instead she would watch one of her sisters married while she stood behind her new husband and lord, Roy of Nuneaton. She looked with downcast eyes at the skirt of her best kirtle. It was still dyed red for Christ’s Day and there had not yet been time to color it purple for Eastertide. She looked with envy at Aethelinda’s flowing mustard chemise. Her kirtle of a deep pumpkin was still drying in the weak, spring sun. All eyes would be upon Aethel’s fair face that night.

She nursed her last spark of hope, what if, as last sevenday, Roy looked more upon Aethelinda than on her? Would her father bow to his desires? Together Lord Beasely and Roger Roy might suade the Earl to transfer this marriage troth. Philomena was decided, she would allow Aethel to wear her best slippers.

            James was leery to disrobe. True, the Lord of Warborough seemed just and the townsfolk submissive but would they still be once he were stripped of weapon and armor? Warily, he watched the Lord and his varied townsmen shed their layers. Brother Tobias looked candidly at Halpert. It had been three week since they had last washed full bodied. The soldier nodded to the monk and in low breath said, “We shall bathe in turns.” Tobias nodded and began to unloosen his robes. Halpert, knowing the monk’s shyness, turned to watch the dozen men washing in the river. Naked, they sent up great whoops as they splashed cold water upon others’ shoulders and backs. The monk removed his hair shirt and entered the current slowly.

            The boy, Harold, took the monk’s discarded clothing and heaped it on a long, black log that straddled the beach. He now returned to the soldier and lifted the grease jars, “Lord, would you have me polish your armor as you bathe?”

            James nodded and slowly unbuckled the greaves about his legs. “Let’s see how well your fingers work,” he said as he scanned the forest line and village windows. He would have this done piece-meal or not at all.

            Harold took the greaves and went to perch on the log near the monk’s discarded clothing, keeping watch. He worked carefully hard and the soldier smiled. The boy had been trained well by his father, or an elder brother, in the order of polishing. He did not polish in circular fashion as you would silver. A local Knight Templar would be fair pleased to have this squire.

            Behind him, Halpert could hear the yeomen arguing with the lumbermen newly returned from the forest. The townsfolk were of the opinion that this year’s weather foretold a good crop and therefore the fate of the town depended on the farmers now out in the fields. The lumbermen were equally sure that their constant income of pence was what kept the village from starvation.

             Lord Beasley mediated.  His booming voice carried across the beach, “Aye, today’s wood was well delivered and the nine pence, ten pence brought in each three day is welcome much. But it is equal true that a hundred silver mark at harvest time lends itself to good cheer. Would you tell the fisherman to lay down their nets to work the fields? Would you ask the cooper to lay down his lathe that he might take up the axe? Each has a place and each needs of the other.”

            Even so, with such wise words, the men continued to bicker. But now the soldier could tell the words were in jest. They were in high spirits for their day’s work was done.

            Harold came and requested a new piece and Halpert willing gave him his left gauntlet. The dirt of the road was caked upon it and he’d had difficulty in its use for many a day. Upon seeing the grimy steel, the boy looked up at him and said, “My sister says that the good St. George near died for having joints that would not bend. She says armor must be cleaned daily for the knight a-questing.” He looked with challenging eyes at the Scotsman.

            James bit his tongue to keep from laughing, “Och, aye. Your sister is well versed in the code of chivalry. Indeed my armor is near wrack and ruin for my squire did die when I did fight two fearsome beasties not these three days gone by. The dirt you see upon me is actually the gore of gryphon and snake. I am now in the need of a brave squire who fears nae death nor dragon’s claw.”

            The boy’s eyes grew round and he dropped the gauntlet with a clatter upon the rocks of the strand.

            “He teases you, Harold. He has fought no griffin.” Startled, James looked up to see the auburn-haired lass approaching, flanked by a handful of other young maidens. “See his armor is without scratches and the claws of the griffin are as long as a man’s forearm. He jests with you. It was surely a griffon he fought. Some poor landsman’s guard dog. And the snakes you well know are not poisonous except the adder and it grows not to large size.”

            “Och, this must be the sister of whom you talk much. She is knowledgeable in all things as you have well proven.” James, son of Halpert, bowed and introduced himself to the close-knit group.

            They made curtsey and as she stood to make introductions, an eager girl at her side, with doe eyes and slim figure, began to order about all those around her, “Harold, mother has need of you in the Great Hall to prepare for the feast. Kellith, help me remove the Knight’s armor. Anne, take you the Knight’s tunic and leggings that they may be washed ere the feast. Pam, finish you the polishing of the Knight’s armor.” All was a bustle around her and the soldier stepped back as Kellith came forward to undo his armlets.

            “You find me bravely dressed, my lady. I am content.” He looked at the auburn-haired girl for aid. She was busy donning a wool apron as well as long, wool gloves. She saw not his look.

            “You are a covered in filth,” The doe-eyed girl replied. “The flies fear to buzz your hair. Kellith, disrobe the Knight that Pam might clean his armor ere the Mass. We have guests at the feast tonight who would be dishonored to sit near you. Anne, forget not the Friar’s robes. They must be boiled and serviceable by tomorrow’s morn.” Already Kellith’s hands were full with his armlets and right gauntlet. “Kellith, go to the trunks of my brother Edward, and bring his best tunic for the knight. Bring you also the robes of the late Priest.”

            Halpert retreated before her onslaught until his boots touched the water’s edge. The men behind him laughed and mocked the stranger’s duress. He could not stop the two sets of women’s hands as they unbuckled and relieved him of both armor and weapon. “I know not the name of the ladies who undo me,” he said quietly with as little dignity as he could muster.

            The doe-eyed one gave him little backwards glance as she carried off his halberd and helm, “I am Aethelinda, daughter of Lord Beasley, your host.”

            With the eyes of the serving wench upon him, James stripped his tunic and leggings and slipped in to the cold water. As he scrubbed himself clean with river sand, he watched the auburn-haired girl oil and buff his armor. Meanwhile his bane, Aethelinda, stood close by watching the men in the Avon. Brother Tobias came up to him and whispered, “They have taken my robes.”

            The knight nodded, “She is the girl. The one who polishes my helm.”

            The Scotsmen looked upon her. “By the grace of God, I hope not,” Brother Tobias said.

            James smiled, “She is the girl.”

            Halpert took advantage of his forced captivity, to wash the sweat and dirt from his locks. Were he more well placed, he would consider trimming his beard. He continued to steal glances at the girl upon the log. Her sister had grown weary and had left the beach to return to the timbered hall. He was not displeased to see her go. After the dark-complexioned serving girl returned bearing robes and garments, Tobias left the chilled water. He closely guarded the cross upon its chain around his neck.

            The soldier watched good-humoredly as the monk attempted to dress several paces from the girl. She was intent on buffing the knight’s gorget. The neckpiece being unwieldy, she paid him no mind. But Tobias was shy and directed many fearful glances her way. When he was fully clothed he awkwardly took up the halberd by her side and brought it to the river’s edge.

            The rest of the men had now removed themselves and were drying by the cook fires. James could hear them discussing the dinner’s meal with great joviality and ribald humor. It made his stomach growl to smell the savory stew cooking so close by.

            As he left the water, he clapped his hand upon Tobias’ shoulder, “Well, I have besmirched the reputation of the Scots, I now make us cowards before English women. Mayhap you can restore our dignity ere the night is through.”

            Tobias in a most aggrieved tone said, “They are savages. Stripping a man and they unwed. Look you. Go and talk to this strumpet. Get her to come with us that we may be away from here.”

            The soldier balefully nodded, and, dripping, strode up to the lass. “How soon, miss, will my armor be suitable for wear?”

            She looked up at him and smiling said, “If my sister has her way, you will be dressed and in the Great Hall before I draw another breath.”

            He laughed as he drew on the leggings that the serving wench had brought, “Och, I must say, our lasses are not as bossy as these hereabouts.”

            Philomena looked guiltily towards her father’s house, “Oh, she is not so bossy as all. It is that she received good news this day and thinks, maybe right, maybe wrong, that she deserves more than her usual due.”

            “And you received no equal good, Miss She Who Has No Name? Very well, I revoke that I called her bossy.” As he spoke, Halpert drew on the tunic that had been brought for him. He pulled on the sleeves and shook his head. They were a hand’s length too short.

             Philomena looked down at his pale calves peeking out, “I am called Philomena, also daughter of Beasley. I will soon get you stockings. You canna wear greaves with those leggings elsewise.”

            “Och, Phillo-mean-uh. I expected not that name. I thought you were the one that the young squire Harold told me of. Her name was Pam. Do you have any other sister of that name?”

            “It is my family name. I have six brothers and four sisters. You have met Aethel. There is also Ermengarde, who is as clever as any girl, and Winifred, who is not as clever, and Hilde, whom if you see, then you count as lucky, for she hides like a fairy.”As she spoke, she dripped grease into the grooves of his gauntlet that his fingers could move forward and back easily.

            “And how old be Hilde? And the rest? And where are your brothers for other than Harold, I have only met Andrew and John when we did lunch.” The knight took up another cloth and began to oil the breastplate that sat by her side. By doing so, there was no longer a barrier betwixt them.

            “Hilde is near six seasons. Winnie, 10. Emmie, 13. Aethel is 16 come May. My brothers work the fields or fish until twilight. That is all, cept Aubert, who is in Nuneaton to meet with my prospective suitor’s family.” When she said these last words, the Scotsman looked up from his polishing. He saw her face was pale and he worried at these words.

Philomena stood on watch o’er her sisters. In the twilight, with candle and brands burning, the shadows swallowed all natural things. Beyond the ruins of the Warborough church, she looked with fear upon the dark shapes of the forest. For all she knew they might be Lucifer’s evil minions plotting further harm for her kith and kin. The woods by day, wherein she did find peace and comfort, by night became hostile and forbidding. Witches lurked behind the toxic holly spying on sleeping villages or lying in bramble patches awaiting their demon lovers.

The townsmen stood in solemn half-circle round the Lord’s servant. Philomena felt pity for him for he had not the tongue for mass. Twere better he return to his vow of silence. By the blessing of God and the teaching of her father, she knew the words he must be saying, but she could hear him not.

If the liturgy were correct, he would be saying, “omnipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis vestries, perducat vos ad vitam aeternum.”

And thus in quiet tones, the townsmen replied, “Ah-men.”

She pulled her sister, Hilde, closer and looked with displeasure upon Aethelinda. Ignoring her Mother’s command, the brazen girl dared sidle amongst the men. Aethel stood near the young Scottish knight. Philomena could not make out his features in the dim light, but feared he looked often in her sister’s direction. She hoped not that he would chastise the girl whether she deserve or no.

The holy monk continued on in low, stammering voice. He mumbled “Indulgentiam” and hereupon he did cross himself. The eldest daughter of Lord Beasley mouthed the words with him as if to give him courage, “nostorum tribuat nobis omnipotens et misericors Dominus.”

And now she could speak aloud, “Ah-men.” Quickly, she did squeeze young Winifred who had not given correct response. With a start, the day-dreaming girl quickly added her tiny “Ah-men”.  Philomena looked to her Mother to see whether this lapse had been noted, but saw Lady Beasley’s head was turned to watch the road. Philomena felt a chill; she knew what her mother awaited so eagerly…her eldest, dearest son, Aubert and her daughter’s betrothed, Roger Roy of Nuneaton. For brief instant, Philomena dared pray that some dire calamity befell them on the road. With repentance in her heart, she then asked forgiveness for this sin.

Soon the service should be over and she could lead her sisters to Hall. She must parcel out duties for each. To little Hilde she would give the lover’s oaken spoons to set upon the high table. To Winifred must go the tankards for the low table as she was quick and would set them ere the men came for mead and meal. Ermengarde of the graceful hands would set her Mother’s dowry, the goblets of Nuneaton Hall, upon the ladies’ bench. She herself would take charge the high table’s most prized items, the Coventry chalices.  

The dusk grew darker and the sounds of the forest stilled. Philomena could make out the faint words, “Deus, tu conversus vivificabis nos.”

In sing-song, all the village replied, “Et-plebs to-ah lie-tee bee-tur in-tay.” Philomena rubbed her sisters’ backs with pride. They had spoken correct response though to mass they had not been since Epiphany-week.

She turned her attention again to her sister. In horror, she could tell Aethel was now making eyes at the young knight. Philomena made sign to her sister Ermengarde and pointedly looked at Aethelinda. Ermengarde put hand to mouth in fear. Aethel had the luck of the faeries for she went unseen by both mother and father. Wracked with worry, Philomena took up Hilde in her arms and pushed Winifred before her. She pressed her young sisters upon Ermengarde who took them with nary a word.

The Scottish priest spoke louder. So close to end of service, he now grew confident. “Ostende nobis, Domine, misericordiam tuam”

Under cover of the loud response, “Et sal-you tar-ee to-um da no-bis,” Philomena moved closer to her wanton sister as her eye roved twixt Lord and Lady Beasely. When she came upon Aethelinda, her hand darted and pulled the truant girl’s mantle. Aethel turned in surprise.

Close by now, she could hear the monk intone, “Domine, exaudi orationem meam.” She pulled again upon Aethelinda’s cloak.

Clearly she heard the nasally voice of Lonny the porter, son of the wainright Lorence, as he spoke in clumsy Latin, “Et claw-more me-us odd tay wean-ee-at.” With chagrin, Philomena looked at the knight Halpert and hoped he thought not ill of her townsmen. Their hearts were good, if their Latin were not. With these thoughts warring in her head, it was the ticks of two heartbeats before she realized the Scotsman was watching her openly. She bowed her head in modesty and pulled her sister away.

Before she reached the safety of Ermengarde, the priest had spoken the final words of Mass. “Dominus vobiscum.”

With hullaballoo, the folk of Warborough near shouted, “et come spirit-to to-oh!”

Philomena grabbed Ermengarde’s hand and together they lifted skirt to outrun the villagers to their hall. With gasping breath, she issued orders to each sister in turn. Her anger at Aethel would have no time for release. The Hall must be ready for guest ere the first foot of stranger touched the lintel.

Philomena did not look back, but Aethel did. She saw a most pleasing sight. The young Scots knight was watching her most surely. His eyes were turned her way and in the flickering brand light she could see a smile upon his lips. It may be a trick of the shadows or no, but Aethel’s heart beat hard with happiness. She fancied this man greatly and would tell any who came her way.

Within the smoky hall, Philomena found none but dogs and babes asleep. Blessing God and the virtuous saints, she did unlock her Mother’s dowry trunk. Drawing out the prized possessions, first she gave the spoons to Hilde that she might be well-hid before any approached. Next came out the great metal tankards, won in contests by Lord Beasley’s grandfather in the lists.

Twenty of the tankards were pewter and cold to the touch. These would go upon the lower table which was set this day along the length of the tapestries between entry and river doors.. Nine fine tankards were glass-bottomed and six of these were set for the Lumbermen who had made good haul this day. Mayhap this prize would make their journey back to forest less wearying. The final three were distributed to the men of high honor amongst the villagers, the blacksmith Kenric, the oldest man of the village, John Plow, and the fearsome hunter, Darral of Coventry.

Philomena next brought out her mother’s small oaken chest which held the twenty-four wine goblets of Nuneaton. They had been a gift from the current Earl’s mother. There had been high hopes that Lady Beasley would have married the Earl but it was not to be. He was of wicked appetite and did ne’er take a bride. He had, it was said, thirty children by many an ill-used woman, be she servant or vassal. Indeed, Philomena had heard from the Earl’s very sister, Goody Perkins, that he had killed a husband who disturbed the Earl in conquest of the poor man’s newly-wed bride. Philomena had taken the warning well and thus returned with the lumbermen that eve rather than stay within the Earl’s walls.

The chest she unlocked and handed to Ermengarde. “Begin at the door’s end and work towards the high table,” Philomena ordered. This was not customary for the glassware was usually placed in order of rank, but the table settings this night were all a jumble. Where customarily Lady Beasley sat at center flanked by the women in descending order, tonight she would sit near high table that she might hear the Scots priest. There was much whispering amongst the servants for she had chosen her daughter Aethelinda to sit at her right side, thereby the young girl would be much admired by both the Scotsmen and Roger Roy.

With great care, Philomena lifted out the box of the nine silver chalices of Coventry. Her father had received these as present from the Clerics of Coventry for his tithing. They were his greatest treasure and his secret pride. He loved to feast that he might bring them out without shame to glance upon. She carried the ebony box up to the high table and with key did unlock. She moved aside the velvet and smiled at the glowing metal.

First she did place in front of Father’s seat, his favorite goblet, embossed with his name saint, St. Edward. St. Andrew’s chalice, whom she had learned was the Scottish patron, was placed at Beasley’s right side for the blessed monk. Here she felt dilemma and finally chose the chalice of St. Florian for her father’s left hand. There would sit Roy and it pleased her to think he would drink from the patron of brewers. Perhaps St. Florian would keep Roy sober. For jesting her brother, she placed the chalice of St. George at the monk’s right hand for the knight Halpert .

She heard the footsteps of men entering and quickly placed the final chalices without considering to whom they might go amongst her brothers. She knew they wouldst trade amongst themselves after casting many an envious glance upon the Chalice of St. George.

With ebony box, she returned to the large chest. The serving women were placing cups of beer upon the lower women’s table under her mother's direction. Lady Beasley approached with hand outstretched, “Have you the keys, Pam. The tables are set. We must to table.” Philomena curtsied and returned the keys to her mother who attached them to the ring at her waist. With modest step, she followed her mother to the ladies’ high table to take her seat at Lady Beasley’s left hand.

She was pleased to see that Ermengarde set Winifred at her left hand so that the two sisters might watch the bold girl’s tongue. Hilde was hid beneath the bench already chewing the heel of a trencher. Philomena was about to ask from whom she stole the bread when Emmie urgently whispered “Pam” and pointed to the high table.

            With shock, she saw her florid, young suitor ignore the customs of the table to take the prize spot at her father’s right hand. Her father had not yet entered and the man already sat and bellowed for beer as he looked over the maidens of the room. Philomena felt her face go red and looked to her brother Aubert for assistance.

            But Aubert was at the lower men’s table talking to the woodsman Stanley about the haul he had seen as they passed on the Nuneaton road. Pam turned in desperation to her mother to forestall the insult. Lady Beasley considered and replied, “He knows not of the visitors or the priest amongst us who deserve the honor. It is no great sin. You must not look for fault in your betrothed for it is you who are at fault to do so.”

            Philomena heard breath inhaled in surprise and turned to see the knight and monk standing nie here. Her father was long down the table conversing with Widow Twopenny to thank her for a rare treat of Damson Plums that she donated for this feast.

            Philomena, in confusion, did stand and curtsey. She led the Scotsmen to the table for introduction. Her betrothed had the Chalice of St. George already to his lips. It would dishonor him now to remove. She introduced the strangers and then caught her second eldest brother’s eye. “Andy,” she said, “You have switched the cups.”

            “Oooh, aye, Pam,” he said. “How could you give my namesake’s cup to Roy who has no respect for which Saint Andrew truly deserves.”

            Philomena shook her head at this calamity and said, “Saint Andrew is the patron of Scotland, you fool. That cup was for Brother Tobias who does us such great honor this e’en.”

            “You lie, Pam. Saint Andrew is the patron of fishermen. Do you say the Scots are fish? Are you saying that the knight Halpert is a big trout?” At these words, Roy spit out his mead in merriment and turned to clap an arm on his future brother-in-law.

            Pleased by the success of his joke, Andrew stood and called to all his brothers, “Here now, I would introduce you to the Big Trout and Brother Tobias who have traveled from Perthshire to visit with us. To their health!” Andrew raised his chalice and drank deeply. In disgust, Philomena removed herself.

Her kirtle was wine-red, her smock linen-white, her hair in auburn braids. The knight watched her curls that would not keep from escaping their net. Enthralled, he saw her hands lift and make shadows upon the wall. Besmitten, he glimpsed her sweet face by turns smiling and grimacing and teeth bared and fierce in battle switched. She stomped her feet to show the goblin’s tread. She swished her skirt to mark the lady’s entry. She blew cheeks wide to scorch with the dragon’s breath. And through the story always the woodsman with his axe held high. Chop he right, chop he left. Before him, all did fall.  

The villagers followed her story with gaping mouths and James looked in wonder as she adapted to the music that played at her backside. He knew she had no knowledge what song next be played, be it romantic ballad, war tune, or religious hymn. But every one she incorporated within her tale. He had been hard pressed to keep straight face during the religious hymn wherest she made the Goblin play at being priest. A fatal marriage that, wedded by Goblin in mockery of the sacred rite.

As Aethelinda the laird’s prized wren sang, James thought on song to challenge. He smiled as he remembered his babe brother’s favored lullaby, but no, too easy for this quick maiden. Again he thought himself of his neighbor McCafferty’s favorite drinking song. But no, this Lord Beasley would not allow. It was a challenge indeed. And Saints be praised, he knew of which to choose and, with goblet to lips, did smile wide. He made a prayer to St. Gregory upon his goblet for giving him kind inspiration. The knight awaited the finish of Aethelinda’s song, ‘Sweet William’.

“Lord Beasley,” he said with good humor. “On the morrow, holy Tobias and I go forward in haste to find the Knight’s refuge of Balsall. I have heard tell from your sons that a tournament awaits on the feast of St. Joseph. I have me in mind to join the lists and defend the honor of this fair town. It would please me much to have your daughter sing the song of John Barleycorn who survived such torture that he might bring life to this, his land.”

The small speech of the Scottish knight brought untempered reaction amongst the host. There were those who were pleased. The brothers Beasley were envious and did cajole their father to let them journey also. The Lord himself was most honored to have a seasoned knight represent the village of Warborough once more. Not since he himself had fallen in the lists these six years had a knight worn the shield of Warborough in battle.

But there were also those who were ill-pleased at his words. Lady Beasley and Aethel were much distressed to hear of his soon flight. The monk, Tobias, also looked upon his friend with great disfavor. He liked not the suggestion that James should die for this foreigner’s town. But most unexpected was reaction from Roger Roy. With swollen face and bleary eyes he boasted, “Ha! Blindfolded I could beat this man, be he on horse and I on foot.”

Beasley turned with laugh and said, “Man, you are drunk indeed. Go you the morrow with the brave Scottish knight and defend Nuneaton’s honor, but else speak not. You have drunk too much.”

Roy raised himself from bench and made pledge, “The morrow I go to the lists to fight for Nuneaton’s honor and my young bride.” He looked about him and unseeing of his Philomena made toast to Aethelinda in her stead.

Aethel did blush and began a singing the Scottish knight’s ‘John Barleycorn’. But her voice did fail, for it was a most terrible song and she had not the fight for it. Thus with pride, Andrew took up the verse of ‘Barleycorn’ whilst Aethel went to her mother for cold comfort.

There was three men came out of the west,
Their fortunes for to try,
And these three men made a solemn vow,
John Barleycorn should die. 

             Halpert bit his thumb at this sad turn How could he now abduct the young Philomena when her betrothed rode at his side? He looked upon Tobias who gave him hard look. He knew he would receive no counsel for any righteous monk detested the heathen’s song of the Corn King’s yearly death. The prophecy was no help to neither, for it had only said ‘the man-at-arms will espy a girl who would he take to the Knights Templar’

They ploughed, they sowed, they harrowed him in,
Throwed clods upon his head,
And these three man made a solemn vow,
John Barleycorn was dead. 

             He looked upon the girl in her red dress and renewed his solemn vow that through the Grace of God he would save his dear people of Aberfoyle. And he watched as her fingers flew showing the dragon, goblin, and a passing ogre make pact to kill the woodsman. He expelled breath at her quick wit. And wondered how she’d save the poor woodsman his fate.

 

They hired men with the scythes so sharp
To cut him off at the knee,
They rolled him and tied him by the waist,
And served him most barbarously.
They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
Who pricked him to the heart,
And the loader he served him worse than that,
For he bound him to the cart. 

          Amidst the clapping of the townspeople, Philomena played out the dastardly scheme of these monstrous villains. Andrew could hear the children singing along and with great booming voice called out the next verse. 

They wheeled him round and round the field
Till they came unto a barn,
And there they made a solemn mow
of poor John Barleycorn.
They hired men with the crab-tree sticks
To cut him skin from bone,
And the miller he served him worse than that
For he ground him between two stones. 

            And now all in Hall, from lowest table to high, sang and clapped along. James was saddened to see that his Philomena had stopt her tale in order to spin one of her wee brothers in circle. Now he would not know how the goblin did meet its sad death, nor how the woodsman was saved. 
 

And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
Proved the stronger man at last.
And the huntsman he can't hunt the fox,
Nor so loudly blow his horn,
And the tinker he can't mend kettles or pots
Without a little of Barleycorn.

        Tobias was in foul mood. “I feel as naked as e’er I have, with no hair shirt.” 

        The knight removed armor to lay at his side near beyond his halberd, “Well, it will be a trial for you this night that you must face for the sake of God’s good will.” 

        “It is not seemly,” Tobias grieved as he removed tunic and leggings. James hid smile within his beard and said nothing. All round were man and woman unclothed and it was right and seemly. That Tobias should in his nakedness feel so marked was a passing fancy. 

        Halpert removed his travel-worn boots and glanced to see where such and so of his hosts were situated. He saw his Pam across the Hall removing ribbons from her sister’s hair. She was still in chemise and he could see her form through the light cloth. He felt stirring in his loins so quickly turned attention to other folk.

          He spied that Roy lay near the town-road doors. Luck was with the knight, the oaf had already fallen in drunken stupor before removing his breeches. They would stink the next day of piss and beer, but at least the Scottish knight need not worry the molesting of Roy’s betrothed that night. 

         As the knight undid tunic and breeches, he whispered worry to the monk regarding the morrow. But the monk would not answer for he was half of the belief that trouble-all stemmed from James’ own fault. Halpert bent to prayer, he prayed that the girl Philomena would have answer in the morn, for he had none. Save one answer… that he would wish this night to lie with her. And that was a desire that God would not appease. 

          He covered self with cloak and paused to watch the maiden as she prepared her rest. She did undo her braids as she told stories to the elusive Hilde. She removed chemise and he drew in breath that his desire was so strong. He thought on his quest and he thought on her and, as the Lord’s young son went about to snuff the candles, he thought on Aberfoyle and wouldst she like the Highlands and wouldst she like her life there.

         The sounds from the River Avon, the snores of the drunken, and the moans of the fornicating were soothing to him, reminding him of feasts a-home. He fell asleep with questions unanswered but heart content that he did right by God and Aberfoyle. 

            With start, Philomena awoke engulfed by inky black. Fear trapped her heart til she felt the comforting weight of Hilde under arm. Reaching, she touched the slumbering Ermengarde and felt safe once more. The maiden listened to the breathing of her many companions. She lifted head to spy what sound had awoken her and as she lifted, remembered....

             In her dream, Philomena had lifted her head in just such a way as now. A golden light surrounded a woman who be wrapped in blue mantle and holding a spray of spring roses. The kindly woman had said something. She had given warning. She had given… and Philomena remembered.

             Disturbing not her sisters, she lay Hilde unto Ermengarde’s side. Philomena felt about for her chemise in the dark. Donning dress, she stood and crept to her trunk neath the Tree of Life tapestry that she could not see. Within the chest, she felt out her daily kirtle, the nubby woolen smalt blue. She tied waist with a woven cord then searched deeper in chest for her heavy nutmeg cloak. Satisfied, she pulled on the itchy stockings and then carried her new doeskin boots to her father’s side.

              She crept too quietly. The warrior’s training would not leave him, crippled though he may be. Ere she could speak, his sword was at her throat. In firm whisper, he asked, “Who goes there like a thief?”

              “I,” she whispered as the sword traced her jugular.

             The sword was silently removed, “Pam, what wakes thee in the night?”

             “Father,” she whispered, “I have had vision. A blessing unto me. But you must rise. We must to the ruins of the church ere dawn breaks.”

             With her aid, he was made to stand. His knee sore hurt in the morning’s cold. “Help me dress, daughter, for I am lame.”

             Philomena lightly tread to his oaken chest. There opened and removed his doublet, tunic, and hunting cloak. She carried all these to his side where he stood a-rubbing his crooked knee. Using her as crutch, he girded himself, but in the movement, did awaken his good wife.

             She softly cried in sleepy voice, “What news?”

             “Up, wife,” her husband whispered, “A miracle may be in Warborough this chilly morn. Bring my leggings, bring my boots. We dress for the grace of God. Bring my shield, daughter. The coat of arms will be displayed.”

             When all were clothed, most quietly they moved through the crowded hall, snaking a winding path through dozing forms. The Lord’s hand was pressed hard upon his Lady’s shoulder to prevent false step. It was Philomena who opened River Door to make safe their passage.

             In dull light, she could see a fog rolling off the Avon. She looked back into warm, safe hall where she spied James, son of Halpert astir, watching her. She made gesture begging him to follow whereupon she closed door behind her.

           The three walked in the deepest shadows that lie before dawn, Philomena described her vision, “A blessed woman dressed in blue mantle bore pink roses of spring. She said unto me. ‘The men of Warborough must not seek the Knight in Arden forest. He is lying upon the altar of your church. If your men do leave, great disaster awaits your village this day…”

             At these words, Lord and Lady Beasley did gasp and cross themselves. Her father found breath to speak, “The altar is in ashes, dear Pam. How comest a man there?”

             “I know not father. But the lady spoke more. If we find not the knight else dawn’s first ray, he will be lost us. I am to assist the Knight to Balsall. So she did command.”

             “Blessings of the Saints above, my little dove,” Lady Beasley crossed herself once more. “With fog, this dawn might soon catch us and we know not.”

             But the Lord’s injury allowed not speed and so they arrived with clear view of the foggy ruins. Hobbling upon his lame leg, Beasley took self from wife and climbed o’er timber to reach the chancel. His footsteps brought great clouds of ash to join the fog. “There is none here,” he said in saddened tone.

             Philomena gave hand to her mother that they might search the ruins. Twas a fruitless search. With blackened hands and downcast countenance, they stood in circle about the ruins of the altar. No sign there was that it had been disturbed by aught but wind and rain. Philomena placed hand upon the holy ashes, “Tis warm still! He may yet be near!” 

             Her father bent hand to ashes and oath passed his lips, “By God’s good humour, you are right. Be it beast or man, a body has lain here this night.” He looked about him and with defeated voice spoke, “Alas, the fog is thick, we canna follow. Even with ashes upon him he be the faster and soon be away.”

             “We must make try, Father. For the villagers sake,” already Philomena was leaping down to follow the trail of cinders. She turned mindful to aid her father who grunted when weight went upon his weak leg. There was no help for it, she turned to assist Lady Beasley who paused to stare at her daughter’s black hands.

              “Wipe your hands upon the dewy grass, Pam. You look a scullion,” upon these words her mother leapt into her husband’s waiting arms.

              He laughed and chided her, “My hands more dirty be than those of our fair daughter. Now your gown shows all the dirt.” Philomena was pleased to see her mother in good humour for she wiped her kirtle down with no ill will.

             Slowly, they followed the path unto the village road. As they walked along in quiet fog, they heard dew drop from the oaken branches and the creak of straw roofs settling, but no sound of man alive. Soon the trail dwindled until no scent or sight of ash was there.. As they turned each to each for counsel they heard a voice in the fog. “Who goes there? I am armed and shall defend lest you answer.” 

            “Tis the Scottish knight, James,” Philomena called out before she realized what she had done.

             The knight spoke again, “Philomena?”

            The maiden blushed to hear him say her name so well. She thought he not capable of such. Her father spoke for her, “Aye, tis I, Lord Beasley and we search for a man. How come you on the road this early morn? Didst you lose way in the fog searching for cesspit?” Lord Beasley moved forward towards the voice.

             “Aye. I have found a man and guard him here. Come closer, I can nae leave him. He is well armed,” the voice came more to their right, they left the road in direction of the Saint’s shrine.

             “We hear. We are close. And here we be,” out of the swirling fog they saw the man Halpert with his weapon drawn upon a most miserable knight. The  cowering knight was in most humiliating position. He had been hooked by the Scottish knight’s halberd as he gobbled the Saint’s offering. The trencher left at shrine yesternight by maid Anne still sat within his hand. Dribbles of stew ran down his smooth chin. He was full man and yet no beard he grew. 

            “Greetings, Lord and Lady Beasley, good morn, Maid Beasley,” Although his words were pleasant his tone was not. Philomena felt a shiver of fear at his soldierly stance. The axe blade of his halberd was upon the poor man’s neck. “I speak in evil tone for this man knows no word of English. Brother Tobias was able to speak the High Latin with him but he has gone for aid.”

             Philomena licked her lips and spoke not. The Scottish knight had donned not his armor. Only leggings he wore. The man upon the ground would have heard neither chink of armor nor trod of shoe. The blade must have been felt ere he suspected enemy.

             “I speak some English, my lady,” in thick accent the man did address the ladies. All looked upon him stunned.

              Lord Beasley demanded explanation, “Well, who be you man? Speak! Why darest you enter Warborough as a thief to steal the bread of our good Saint?”  

            The blue-eyed knight asked for the fearsome weapon to be removed. Lord Beasley drew his sword and raised shield before saying “Aye, James, please you to step down.”

             The Scottish knight stepped back that he might stand between Philomena and the foreign man. She watched the muscles upon his back contract as he spun halberd to direct its pike. It would pierce before sword was drawn if the man grew foolish enough to dare attack.

              The blue-eyed knight set belted sword upon ground and slowly stood with hands outstretched. He was fair short and without the meat necessary to handle heavy lance. Philomena thought he must surely be a pitiful knight... or a wily one.

             “I am Ryan. I come from Kilkenny,” the knight looked to see if they knew of the place. They did not. “In Eire. Across the sea.” His audience seemed to find this a satisfactory answer. He continued, “I journey to Londontown for Tournament. I lost my way in your Welsh wilds.” 

             Now Lord Beasley interrupted, “We are no Welsh! We are not the blackguard Welsh! Runts of the litter, every one!”

             Philomena bit lip to keep from laughing. What fool this man be who thinks he is in Wales? They were nie a hundred leagues if not more from Wales. He may as well say that he himself stood now in Londontown! 

             Lady Beasley cared not about this man’s want of geography, “What be your family and have you betrothed?” Philomena put hand to flaming face. What conniving question for a man who is found lost in forest like a babe. Wouldst the Lady truly wish a son-in-law who canna find the road home? 

            To Philomena’s dismay she felt eyes upon her. The Scottish knight had moved that he might look upon her. She saw he smiled at her blushes and she felt deep shame. With determined eyes, she lifted nose and gave him no look.

           Confounded, the knight Ryan answered the Lady, “My family be the Howards of Kilkenny and I am not wed.”

          The good monk Tobias returned with the brawn of the village to escort errant knight to Hall. Lord and Lady Beasley quelled mob with word and glance that they might treat the beknighted Irishman with fine courtesy. This walk in the fog to their Lord's half-timbered home was a journey of merriment for the poorest of villager to richest. Three silvers mark would bring food to the tables of all for full three week's tide.

        Shoeless, the Scottish knight walked most slow and cared not whether reward be found or not. He cared only that his feet didst hurt, his Philomena was engaged, and that he must leave this place within hour and her safely in his grasp. Thus, grateful was he to see she dragged her feet and, as the fog roiled, found her near at hand. With neither armor nor horse twould be foolish to attempt abduction but his yearning was strong to do so.

        He watched her small form in kirtle and smock with hair in cloud about her modest face. He knew no words to speak so was glad for her conversation, "How comest you to the shrine?"

        "Och," he laughed low that none but she might hear, "We followed upon the strand but heard you not. Blindly, we moved in fog and fell upon the high road. We walked a-pace until we reached trees’ edge. Knowing we had missed our mark, I begged to turn. But Brother Tobias, being a righteous man, mindful of shrine nearby, beseeched that we stop for prayer. There we came upon the foreign man unawares."

       Philomena looked upon him in wonder. With realization he bethought himself. He had spoke too much. He had made himself look the lost fool. With regret, he felt the bane of his words.

        Thus it was that he was near startled when she spoke her thoughts. "The blessings of Mary and the Saints upon us. They did direct your steps and brought great good fortune to Warborough." Her low voice dropped e'en lower that he hardly could make out the words, "A whisper to you, kind knight. My father feels you a hero to save the town. My mother looks upon you as possible suitor for my dear sister. For your good town's salvation, I beg you to leave afore the cock crows."

       He considered his words most careful, "Och, I am no hero for this town nor suitor for your sister. But if good deed may bring help for either, you may have my strong right arm." He looked down upon her to see effect of his words upon her. He gripped his halberd at base and near thorn to prevent stray hand from removing sparkling dew that coated her untamed curls.       

      She peered into the fog as if she heard him not. When she placed her lithe white hand upon her locks to brush away the offending dew, his step faltered. She turned in distress and, looking into his eyes this once, spoke, "I thank you your strong right arm." She curtsied and moved away. He followed wishing to pledge his strong left arm, his good right eye, his bewitched heart, whatever part that she might have need of.

        The travelers stood upon the banks of the river preparing to make ford. Most glad were all, save one. Stanley, the lumber man, liked not the task set him. He was to lead the merry group upon the path through dense forest to the Hospital of Balsall. Would that he were with his comrades who now mocked and chided as they crossed the river without him. They went to chop wood and he to cater to the liege lord's brood, a passel of strangers, and a bevy of servants. But his lord did order, so he stood awaiting these final preparations with ill good humour. 

        Lord Beasley of Warborough went from pilgrim to pilgrim offering last advice, "Pam, my dear dove, fly quickly to Balsall and back. My ki-wren sing for your good sister to give her cheer. Andrew, I spare you gladly for this task, keep your sisters well. Roger Roy, tis honor indeed that drives you forth."

         He moved on to the two men a-horse, "Brother Tobias, may your time at Balsall be short, may your return journey to Warborough be quick. James, son of Halpert, keep your weapons about you, the forest is full of bandits. Hooded men stalk the groves for easy plunderings, let them not find them this day.

         Next he went to his townspeople who would follow on foot, "Kenric, stay near my daughters and keep protection. Bring honor unto the town of Warborough and shoe many a horse for the lists. Pledge 1/10th your earnings to the Temple in our name. Goodman Stanley, lead them safely, to and fro, and watch most careful the chest of our reward."

        Finally, he addressed the Irish knight, "Good Ryan of the noble line of Howard, may fortune serve you well in the tournament and, for your sake, I pray that your first challenger be not yon Scottish knight or Nuneaton's issue." The Irish knight made scoffing look upon this good advice and kept sharp tongue about the strength of men in poor armor. His armor, as all could see, did gleam and showed well his prowess.

         Whilst the Lord of Warborough bid fare-the-well, his wife went about her duties, ordering servants and giving last minute instruction. "Kellieth watch Aethelinda's cloak. It has loose brooch. Anne, your maiden is wont to sleep uncomfortable. Make Philomena's bed with lavender neath her pillow to aid sweet dreams."

        To Phyllida, the cook, she kindly spoke, "The dried fruit we send is low, hunt you for mint upon the road to add. Look you near brooks and ponds. Robert, keep your wife safe, for we wouldst have our good cook back for Eastertide to dress the hares. Andrew, my darling, protect your sisters and make prayer at Balsall for those who have fallen this long year.

         With nod of farewell, the Monk Tobias and his Man at Arms, Halpert, kicked their steeds’ sides to ford the Avon. Behind them those a-foot gingerly crossed from rock to rock balancing parcels and pots upon their heads. Last to cross was the Irish Knight himself. When last he had crossed the Avon, he had plashed across with no knowledge of fording. Now he watched and, with awkward pace, attempted the rocks. His greaves were sore wet before yonder bank was broached.

         Halpert looked back and waved at thirty-odd villagers who hoped for so much from this small journey. They minded him of that dark morn when he'd left Aberfoyle and turned to see scarce ten villagers stand on the Green to wave him good fortune. His countenance fell upon the memory until he heard the Ki-wren begin to sing at her sister's request: 

               In England the garden of beauty is kept
              By a dragon of prudery plac'd within call;
              But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept,
              That the garden's but carelessly watched after all.
              Oh! they want the wild sweet briary fence,
             Which round the flow'rs of Erin dwells,
             Which warms the touch, while winning the sense,
             Nor charms us least when it most repels.

             Then remember where ever your goblet is crown'd,
            Tho' this world whether eastward or westward you roam,
            When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
            Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

             The Scottish knight dismounted once sight of  the village was lost by a sharp bend in road. James stood by side of road to watch the band pass by. When all were safely on, he turned to copse at side of road and said, “You may safe out, Bratton.”

           Out tumbled old man Bratton who first had greeted the Scotsmen upon their entering Warborough. He looked fit and ready for travel. He carried with him leather bag. “Greetings, knight, I thought I might follow safe with group to the fair.”

          The Scotsman looked with suspicious glance, “Why then were you not amongst the train upon the river’s banks?”

         Bratton smiled down road toward the village, “The Lord mislikes whoring, swindling, and pernicious activity of all kind. Better I be found missing in the fields then stopped ere journey begins.” With a wink, the old man sped to catch the stragglers up road.

         As the knight mounted steed once more, he said in voice loud and dreadful, “No boy who wishes to be squire of mine sneaks off without leave to his mother.” Upon riding some small distance, James looked back to see the discouraged figure of young Harold kicking stones upon the path as he walked, head down in shame, back to his own village. The knight full smiled and set his horse a-gallop. Halpert would not be slowed, his fortune was well. He was on road to Balsall with the fairest daughter of Warborough and he knew not why.

          Day progressed and the ladies took to hunting for herbs along roadside that they might sell at faire. He made fast upon his saddle the ladies' net pouches laden with feverfew and comfrey. He took opportunity to speak with the fair Philomena as she handed him full pound of dandelion. "My lady, I have been wondering upon thy name. It is most peculiar strange."         

          Philomena did blush at his words and looked aside, "Tis not. I being born in the late morn, my father tells, a nightingale sang upon my birth. A good omen, says he, and for it I was named. I have not the voice as Aethelinda and Andrew do for I am Philomene not Nightingale." Here she laughed at her own jest.

         James looked upon her in consternation, "Och, this answers me not. How does a nightingale turn into a Philomena? Is this some common jest that I know not?" James watched Roy of Nuneaton tossing fallen twigs for entertainment that his hounds may catch.  The Scotsman kept close eye as he stepped closer to the English lass to hear her words.

        Philomena turned and smiled, "Oh...have you not the story of Philomene the Nightingale in the wilds of the Highlands?"

        The Scottish knight spoke softly that none else might hear, "Nae, my lady, we are without such. Lessen the weariness of the road and tell me the tale of Philomene who be or be not the Nightingale. And if you prove so bold, I shall tell you the tale of James the Mighty Reever, for whom I am named."

    “Once upon a time,” she began. “A long time ago, when the Saxons ruled all of England, there lived two daughters of the king Aethelwulf. They lived in the great town of Winchester wherein are buried the Kings of England.” Philomena turned to look at the Scottish knight, “Have you been to that great town?”

  “Nae, I have not visited. Is it near here?” He would like to visit the town from which her namesake came.

  “Oh no, it is far, far away. Many days you must travel. Past the henges and the barrows. I know none who have visited there. Let me continue the tale apace. The two sisters were named Progney and Philomene.”

  “Progney is also a most unusual name,” James noted.

  “Aye. They are foreign names. The King was well-read and well-traveled it is said. I think they may be French names. A bard once passed on way to Temple Balsall and told tale that my name meant ‘beloved of mind’ in French,” Philomena looked doubtfully at the Scottish knight.

   He looked down at her and considered, “French is sore language for tongue and they are poor at battle. Morelike, it is a good Pictish name. Did he have translation for the Progney?”

  She smiled, pleased by this assessment and replied, “No. He denied the name Progney. I think you right, tis not a French name.” With renewed bounce in her step, she went on, “Now these two sisters, they loved each other most dear. As Martha to Mary and so to each. But it came day for them to wed to further their father’s lands. Progney was married to a Chieftain in the wilds of Wiltshire.” Philomena looked to see if this name held any meaning to him but saw it did not.

  “So away Progney traveled and for four years she saw neither kith nor kin until after her third birthing she brought forth a son. There was great celebration in all Wiltshire and her husband, the Chieftain, promised her anything her heart might desire,” Philomena looked up at the Scottish knight with wide eyes and arms opened wide to show the enormity of the promise.

  “Och, no man should ever promise that. A woman’s desires can never be fulfilled,” James mocked her teasingly.

  Philomena’s cheek dimpled. She was ready with retort when interrupted by Aethelinda laden with spray of hoarhound. “Look you, Pam! Hoarhound for Goody Turner’s cough!” Aethelinda removed ribbon from her sister’s hair that she might tie up the bundle of leaves. She handed the herbs with pride to Halpert that he should put them upon his saddle.

  As he went about this business, Aethelinda whispered to her sister, “What do you talk of so earnestly?”

  In hushed voice, Philomena said, “I tell the story of Philomene and Progney. I am now at the part where husband promises her heart’s desire.”

  In loud voice, Aethelinda replied, “Oh, I know this story well, and you must own, all agree I tell the story far better. I will continue.” With coy glance, she looked to see the effect of her words upon her intended target.

  James, the knight, looked up in surprise from his reined horse. He saw that upon her words the two maidservants had fallen back to hear as well as brother Andrew. With angry expression, he finished tying the herbs, crushing them in process. Their bitter scent filled the air. He cursed under breath for it was well-known that the scent of hoarhound attracted bees. He patted his steed’s rump and prayed that Arden Forest was home to lazy bees who would not suffer to bother them.

  “Now, I tell the tale,” Aethelinda smiled prettily at the Scottish knight as he returned to Philomena’s side. “Progney, the Saxon princess, said unto her husband as she held her new-borne son, ‘I request unto you dear husband that you bring hither my sister who I have not seen this four some years for she is unwed and I have desire for her to meet your noble lords.’ Then her husband did agree.”

  “Why had Philomene not yet married? Was she not of age?” The Scottish knight directed his questions to the auburn-haired girl. He received no answer for Aethelinda was rapidly describing the long treacherous journey from Winchester to Wiltshire. Halpert glowered and controlled his foot from kicking a passing stone. He was no eight year old boy who would be squire.

  Aethelinda spoke quickly that the story might soon be over for she wished to sing a song regarding her own name, “…and thus the Chieftain saved her from bandits upon the road and Philomene thought him very brave. And he thought her most beautiful and so he decided to seduce her. Next morn, he roused her early from sleep and said messenger had come bearing news of her sister’s death! He ravished poor Philomene upon the road and said she would be his new bride.” 

  James looked with dismay at Aethelinda, “She must have been sore wounded to hear of the death of her beloved sister! And now this man uses her so ill when he is not only guard, but brother? What pernicious story is this?”

  Andrew put up silencing hand “You tell it wrong, Wren. You forget half the story and more besides! I will continue the tale.” 

  The Scottish knight looked out of sorts and turned to hear Philomena’s thoughts. His heart was glad to see she had stopped to fill her net-bag with the leaves of a vervain bush. He slowed step that he might help her. “My mother uses this in brew to wake us during long watches,” he whispered to her as he bent to strip leaves at her side.

  Philomena shyly nodded and handed to him the bag, “Aye, my mother makes that and also a poultice to heal small wounds. We are fortunate to find for it has been a wet winter.”

  He smiled and held open the netting that she might place more inside, “The story of Philomene pleases me not. I have heard no word of nightingale.” 

  Once they finished harvesting the bush, they looked to see Andrew and Aethelinda far ahead arguing still over the telling of the story. Philomena pondered a moment before dusting her hands upon her apron. “So it is true that the Chieftain did take for wife his sister. Which is fair and just if Progney had died, but she had not. The Chieftain took Philomene to a small manor that lay deserted in a treacherous swamp and there left her in his servants’ charge. There she lay swollen with child as he rode to his castle to tell Progney of her sister’s death.”

  “The villain,” James said simply.

  “Oooh, aye. He was most black-hearted,” Philomena agreed. “Whilest he was gone, a bird came to her…”

  The knight interrupted, “A nightingale?”

  “No, a lark. And the lark said to her ‘Your sister lives. You live in sin and will perish and be tormented in Hell for all eternity!”

  “Och, brazen bird!” James looked down upon Philomena’s bouncing curls. Ribbonless, her hair now swayed in time to her steps. “Here, a leaf,” he spoke before combing his fingers through her fine hair.

  Philomena knew not that there had been no leaf. She put hand to hair distractedly and combed her locks as she continued with the story, “When the Chieftain returned to the manor, Philomene accused him. ‘My sister lives. Take me to her that we may return to my father!’ When the Chieftain heard these words he was in terror, for the King of the Saxons was a most powerful man. He took from his scabbard his sharp dirk and with fierce stroke, cut out her tongue!”

  “Nae! What monster is this! What evil man! What cursed villain!” Halpert stopped in middle of road to vent. He was beside himself with rage that any should dare harm one of the name Philomene.

  Philomena laughed and turned to urge him on. “We must on, noon is soon upon us and we must set out day meal. Do you hear the rest of the story or no?”

  The Scottish knight stroked his beard, thoroughly shocked, “And she carrying his wee child in her? It is a sin that he has done! No good must come of it!”

  Philomena grabbed his sleeve and laughing dragged him forward upon the road, “I shall stop. The story upsets you.”

  “Nae, nae. Continue! The dog must get his beating!” James was adamant.

  “As you request, good knight.” Philomena made sure he followed before continuing, “The Chieftain left her at his manor and would visit to take his pleasure. She could tell no one of her troubles. But then, by the grace of God, she realized plan. At night by candlelight she would weave tapestry. In pictures she showed the tale of what her evil brother had done to her. Once finished, she sent a servant with this tapestry of woe to her sister.”

  A smile had spread upon the knight’s face for he sensed what surely must be coming. Philomena dragged her footsteps that they would not catch the retinue too soon before tale was done.  “When Progney received her sister’s handiwork she examined it in horror. Before thought and reason could stop her, she had raced to her bedchamber. There she took up dagger and killed her infant son to spite husband!”

  The Scottish knight gasped but Philomene continued headlong with the bloodthirsty tale, “Aye, most gruesome was the babe’s death. Then hiding the dying child in her kirtle she raced down to her husband’s stables. There she slit the throat of his prize charger before leaping upon her own mare. Away she flew to the manor where her poor sister was held. She flung the dead babe at sister’s feet and they did embrace and wept.”

  Halpert was beyond speech and shook his head at this harrowing scene. Philomena crossed herself before finishing the tragic tale, “But the Chieftain followed and he came to kill both wife and sister. As he took sword to strike them dead, a passing fairy took pity upon them and turned them to birds. Progney became the Swallow and Philomene, the Nightingale.”

  James came to full stop and looked down road towards a meadow where their companions of the road took rest. He stared up to sky and then at forest behind him. Finally he looked down into her glowing face. “But the swallow does not sing, the nightingale has beauteous voice, and Philomene has nae tongue whereas her sister does.”

  Philomena smiled up into his troubled face. And as she smiled, the cloud upon his face lifted. He smiled, not knowing why she smiled, but wishing she would remain so evermore. “Ah, you are wiser than my dear father. He mixed the names in the telling and I, without knowing, was named for the swallow and not the nightingale. But I am praised by many for my skill at weaving.”

  He laughed at these words and raised the vervain to brush her cheek, “These Saxons were a bloody lot. You must away to Scotland where none should harm your pretty tongue.”

  Blushing, she stepped away and looked towards her betrothed Roy. He was lying in meadow stuffing dried apples into his mouth as he swatted away the flies upon his face. “If you hunger, Phyllida will serve you.” After these words, she lifted skirts and ran to her brother’s side.

  With hooded eyes, the knight tied vervain to his warhorse’s saddle as he contemplated what story he could weave for a James the Reever that would hold candle with that of Philomene. 

     After the noon-meal, the travelers started upon the road. James, the Scottish knight, noticed that two were missing from the ranks and went searching in near woods. There he found Kellieth disheveled beneath the lusting Irish knight.

      Halpert moved with quiet step back toward the road and waited for their approach. First came the knight Howard with satisfied grin and happy gait. “If you seek flesh, hers is tender,” the Irishman offered before setting off to join the pilgrims upon the road.

     Some minutes passed before the tear-stained girl emerged. Without word, Halpert held out flask of liquor that she might calm. Then he lifted her silently into his saddle for her legs were weak.

     He quickly jogged horse that he might catch sight of the band upon the road. Once viewed, he slowed to walk and watched as the Irish knight deigned to join Roy of Nuneaton and Andrew of Warborough.

     Phyllida and Stanley with careful watch made slow progress back to the tall steed of the Scottish knight. James was the first to speak, “We must keep watch. The Irish knight is a rogue.” These words brought tears from Kellieth as she protested her love for the blue-eyed knight.

     Stanley sighed and moved forward without glancing upon the serving wench. Phyllida walked at her side and offered sweetmeats to soothe her tears. The Scottish knight felt most miserable. There was no way this pompous knight would take a simple maid for his goodwife. He had defiled her and left her a whore.

      James looked up to see the Lumberman Stanley pause upon the road to speak with Philomena. In surprise, she looked back into James’ eyes before traveling on to her wretched serving women. She gave Stanley reply afore he moved off to walk between Aethelinda and Anne. They noticed him not for they listened in rapt fascination to Roger Roy’s bold claims of heroic exploit.

     Philomena paused to gather dandelions upon the roadside. When the horse came abreast, she stood and walked alongside, stroking the stallion’s chin groove.

     She looked to Kellieth but spoke in strained voice to the Scottish knight. “Sir, you owe me story. Who is this James the Reever and for why are you named after him?”

      There was small pause as the man searched for the fragments of the story he had contrived. “This tale begins in the Trossachs near Loch Lomond,” Halpert began.

      Immediately he was interrupted by Philmena, “the true-sacks near luke…”

      “The Trossachs being the forest wild near Aberfoyle where I was a bairn. There you can see the proud red deer dart where the gentle roe hides. And Loch Lomond’s fame is widespread. It is a deep Loch. You know of Lochs?” He looked inquiringly across his steed’s muzzle to the English lass.

     “Aye, my mother’s dowry chest has one,” she looked encouragingly at him to continue the story.

     “Och, no. That be a lock. A loch is a…. a pond. But large. Fair large. And deep. Such as….” he could think of no body of water beside stream or pond in his travels to Warborough.

     “Such as the deep ocean,” Philomena finished the description.

      He had not seen the blue sea but felt it served well, “Aye, but with water as fresh as the Avon if twere enclosed by slate and heath.”

     She nodded, pleased that she understood so well a place she had not seen. “And the tro-sacks are a wood full of oaks from which you get your…”

     Here he shook his head fiercely, “Nae, there isna oaks, but beech and ash.”  Philomena fell silent at these words, chastised.

     Discomforted James looked about him for agreeable pardon. “Ach, I have in mind. There are trees similar but not as large or fine as these hereabouts. Oak they may be as well as holly and willow. Warborough is fortunate indeed to have such wealth of lumber.”

     The girl continued to walk downcast. She knew not what slate, heath, loch or trossach were and felt the fool in front of her servants. The Scottish knight scratched neath the horse’s chinstrap that he might place hand near hers.

     He started the story anew, “Upon the road walked James the Reever, descended from the Clans MacGregor and Campbell who ruled that area.” He looked to see if she was listening and could tell not. “There upon the road he met a lone woman, richly habited, who had fled her family’s home.”

    Out of corner of his eye, he saw Philomena look up in interest. His voice improved. “She was sent to Cloister at Brig O Turk. There she had encountered a harper who had seen a wyrm upon Craigmore.” James stopped when he saw her look down again.  “Och, och. I tell this story poorly.”

     They walked on apace as none spoke. The Scottish knight tried once more, “This singer told the woman, richly habited, that as he climbed mountain near Aberfoyle he had seen a giant dragon, a worm of most prodigious size.”

     “A dragon lives near your village truly?” Philomena grabbed his sleeve in worry. The horse sensed her distress and stopped his walk. Phyllida stood with mouth agape at mention of Dragon. Philomena continued, “Mayhaps this beast brings plague to your village. You must…I will tell Roger Roy and the Irish knight Ronald, they will go with you to destroy this…” 

      James grabbed Philomena’s soft hand and brushed it lightly, “The Irish knight Ryan is no match for beast or man. And Roger Roy would not leave his betrothed untended if he be sensible. Nae, listen to the tale of how James the Reever killed the wyrm and brought riches to the village of Aberfoyle.” 

     “Oh!” Philomena removed her hand from his grasp and brought it to her cheek in distress. She had forgotten herself in her worry for his poor stricken Scottish town. “Blessings upon God and I beg pardon for my forwardness.” Phyllida looked from mistress to Kellieth and small look passed between the cook and the serving wench.

      Halpert began to walk again giving her no pardon. The horse lifted hoof following his master’s lead. “The woman, richly habited, removed herself from cloister for she was deeply in love with this harper… singer, Donald of the Campbells. Her family had wished her to wed Roger of the MacGregors but she would have him not.”

       Philomena spoke quietly, to show she was unmoved by the touch of his hand, “Was James the Reever kith or kin to the singer Donald or Roger of the MacGregors?”

        James contemplated aspace and said, “I recollect that he was brother to one and cousin to the other. He was warder of the gate at his Uncle’s fortress near Aberfoyle and had been sent by his cousin, Roger of the MacGregors, to abduct the cloistered girl.”

       “Oh, tis dreadful! He has caught her unawares upon the road!” The ladies looked fearfully up and down the road and into shadows of the forest to spy out if similar villains did lurk.

       “Fear not, good ladies. For Roy…Roger of the MacGregors knew not that his cousin, James the Reever, had sworn upon the altar that as long as one stone remained upon another of the walls of the Kirk…of the Church of Aberfoyle, he would himself wed the woman.”

       Philomena looked at the Scottish knight in surprise, “Oh! She must have been a very beauteous woman to inspire such men!” Phyllida nodded in agreement.

      “Indeed she was. She was a quick wit, and yet, most humble. And pleasing in voice. And gentle. She was a lady of most high degree,” Halpert looked away into forest to control his glances. Kellieth gave slight kick to draw Phyllida’s eye. Each arched an eye at other and looked in Philomena’s direction.

      “But had she no retinue upon the road? How comes she to be alone in the wilds of Truch…” Philomena faltered. 

       James quickly spoke, “Trossachs, aye. The harper.. singer Donald Campbell had devised ruse. He used cantrip to cast a spell upon her. First, he cut a lock of her auburn hair and then he cut her palm to make pledge. With droplets of her blood he soaked the lock of her hair. Once done he gave her potion which made her a young squire. To James the Reever she looked a nine year old boy.”

       Philomena exclaimed, “Ah! Most wondrous! Be a harper a form of magician?”

       The Scottish knight thought it best to let the definition pass, “So some say. He can cast small magic. Now with the blood-stained locks, the harper left the woman at Cloister bidding her to hie to Aberfoyle while he rode to the Fortress of his cousins the MacGregors.”

        James glanced Philomena’s direction to see if she followed and was enboldened upon seeing her devoted eye, “Once reached, he cried ‘Alas, Alackaday, your love has been eaten by the Wyrm of Craigmore!’ Er…‘the Dragon of the Mountain Crags!’ All the while the wily harper planned to meet his love upon Aberfoyle Green and marry her at the Kirk…church while all mourned her death at the Cloister in Brig O Turk.”

       Once more, Philomena stopped in the road with distressed look, “But why did the harper not bring his love with him to the Fortress?  Why did she walk so unprotected when a prodigious dragon lay so near? He seems not a….”

       James looked upon Philomena with such approval that she did blush, “Oh, he was daft. Foolish in love, and foolish in life. He knew small spell but not small wisdom. He had left her to find her way to Aberfoyle alone for he had but one horse and wished to hurry his step.”

        Philomena drew disgusted face at this news, “And how did the lady feel of this treatment?”

        “She was sore angry. She liked not the thistles upon her cloak, nor the pebbles neath her thin slippers.” The Scottish knight looked down upon Philomena’s sturdy boots which she immediately hid from sight.

         He smiled and continued on, “When she met James the Reever upon the road, she told him of the Wyrm… dragon…forgetting that she was a boy and hoping that he might protect her. She was sore glad to see that he wished to kill the dragon to show his courage to the countryside. But rued her words when he commanded her to be his squire in the hunt.”

         Philomena drew in breath, “Oooh, what could she say? She had the look of squire. What could she say?”

        Kellieth and Phyllida had long since lost thread of story for they were fixated upon the glances and gestures of the two a-courting before them. Phyllida oft looked forward to see if Roy of Nuneaton’s jealous eyes looked back for his betrothed. She was glad, yet angry, yet scared, that his eyes did not.

       “Aye, there was nothing she could say. So she joined him as he climbed the Crags. As they climbed, James the Reever told her of the treasures they would find. He promised 1/10th tithe to the church, 1/10th tithe to the Laird, 1/10th prize to the squire, and one half to his true love.” Halpert looked meaningfully down in to Philomena’s sparkling eyes.

       She whispered, “Did she know that she was his true love?”

      “Soon she did for she asked of whom they ventured so much for. When he described her many charms, the lady knew her name and was most honoured,” James whispered back.

      Philomena said nothing as she looked down the road in dreamy fashion. He bent closer that he might speak in lower voice, “And she watched James the Reever kill the Craigmore Wyrm with his great two-handed sword.”

       Philomena looked up into the knight’s green eyes and asked, “Was there great treasure?”

       “More than maiden can dream. A dragon’s trove. And that night when the spell was broken, the lady and the Reever did marry in the Kirk of Aberfoyle while the Harper Donald seethed.” James looked happily down the road. “With his riches, the Reever settled in Aberfoyle with wife and became Laird of the land. It is said they had seventeen children who never knew want or care.”

       Philomena sighed in pleasure. Phyllida and Kellieth gave knowing looks and commended the story. As James looked with pleasure upon Philomena’s contented face, he heard not Kellieth’s question, “But what of the poor harper, Ronald of Campbell? Whom did he marry and how did they fare? Had the beauteous maiden a servant that he took fancy to?”

James woke to the ugly growl of a fearsome sergeant, “Awake, ya scabs! Awake, ya foreleign sluts!”

In harmony with the grumbling men about him, the Scottish knight shuddered when his feet first touched the cold slate floor. He wondered what dim fool had built this chilly excuse of a barracks in a forest full-wide of warm oak. In his mind’s eye, he could see some scheming Master of the Order positing that a chilly floor upon dawn’s break would lead to chaste bodies and cleansed souls. James, son of Halpert, chuckled for his first desire had been to curl up within his sheets…

The shivering knight felt a sting and then whack against his shoulders ere words reached his ears, “Out, out, you foreign fairy, no wool gathering here, no poppy picking!”

James fought urge to stand and face his new nemesis, the Vigil Sergeant of Lauds. The pudgy, slapadash soldier was quick with stick and used it at every opportunity, acceptable or not.

Already the Sergeant had forgot him for now the fat man pounced upon a lazy young squire still enblanketed. The grotesque Sergeant grabbed the youth in bear-hold and ripped him from bed.

“Best to dress ere he notices you again,” a kindly, bush-bearded knight spoke from cot opposite.

James nodded in thanks as he donned leggings and doublet. He looked the length of the room, sixty-odd boys and men ranged the room filling every spare bed. The room was near on a weaponry. The Vigil Sergeant had nerve unlimited to challenge capable men with a rough-hewn stick when swords, halberds, pikes were within a man’s reach.

As if his thoughts were overheard, the Sergeant yelled out at men still a-bed, “Who dares to flaunt Lauds Sergeant? Who dares to flaunt Todd Packer?”

At these words, the Scottish knight fair laughed, for what sad wench upon birthing this fat lump had thought such name fitting? With little heed, Halpert called out, “Och, you are a wily fox, indeed, and pack a poor man’s wallop.”

Those not in vicinity of the Vigil Sergeant’s stick laughed at the jest which led the blustering man to laying blows about him thick and fast. With bruises and curses, the knights scattered before his onslaught.

Once quit of the insufferable Packer’s sphere, James returned to the Temple's Priory to meet his holy friend, Tobias, as agreed they yesternight. The stench of the stables hung heavy in the office. This pleased the two men greatly. If stink could keep away eager ears and gossiping tongues, then may there always be stink.

Tobias knelt before the cross, deep in solemn prayer lest stranger pass and look within. He looked not upon his well-armed friend as he queried in the sing-song voice of prayer, “Didst though enter the lists?”

James gave pause, remembering the vows and oaths sworn, “Aye. I am now these three days run under the rule of the Order of Knights Templar. I am sworn to be obedient to their rules, chaste, and pious before God.”

The Prior of Inchmahome closed eyes and followed the third of the nine stances of prayer as extolled by the good Saint Dominic. With his prized rosary tightly clutched in hand, he spoke again, “Did Roy of Nuneaton also give oath?”

The Scottish knight shifted uneasily, he liked not the way this conversation did tend, “Och, aye.” In a heated rush, he told his doubts, “But to these Englishmen, I think these words mean little. For one of their very knights, Ryan of Ireland, has proven he disregards such sacred vows.”

At this revelation, his companion’s tonsured head merely nodded, “Aye, I have heard they take the vows of Poverty, yet…fine horseflesh, master-worked armor, bejeweled weapons…”

The Scottish knight sighed. He wished he were back amongst his Scotch troops, wearing common kilt and preparing for battle, true to vows that ensured victory and honor. “They make great noise about this tournament, the prize is vast.”

The holy man sneered, “What good is such a prize for a man who has accepted poverty as his lot? The prize we seek is greater.” Both crossed themselves upon these words. In Aberfoyle, every life and every hearth depended upon the winning of this contest.

“How stand you amongst the…” Tobias asked timidly. He knew it was God’s will that James win this tournament but human weakness made him question his Lord’s decree.

The knight looked away in shame, “I have not the skill with bow that these men have. Sword is their strength and I shall be hard-pressed, but if the blessed Lord aids…. I am a match for any man in polearm.”

These were worrisome words for his friend, “The English are famed for their use of the longbow and those unwieldy….” Tobias could not recall the name of the large sword they used. They were seen little in his land and considered passing strange.

“Aye,” James agreed nervously. Echoes resounded from the shuffling of his feet as steel hit marble, “I hear tell there is another from the Highlands, I have seen him not. And there be some from foreign lands. By God’s good grace, I will fight them in the first rounds and, thus, trounce handily. If so, my final opponent may be wearied from battle with more capable men…”

“Let us pray for God’s intercession,” Tobias aided James in kneeling that they might pray in Dominic’s fourth stance. With left hand pressed to heart, each raised right hand to the heavens and begged for guidance.

As his knees began to protest his armor’s weight, the Scottish knight spoke aloud the prayer to St. Michael, patron of warriors, “Crux sacra est mihi…”

Inauspicious was the raising of the Balsall flag to mark the tournament’s open. The dye had run in the making and thus the white field of the Temple’s flag bled a ruby red cross. Spirits were revived as the Priests laid the arrows upon the arena’s blocks, and the crowd did cheer in anticipation.

Archery was the least of the knight’s arsenal. It was considered the coward’s way to kill a man, be he pawn or minion. It was acknowledged in theory, if not in practice, that the longbow be used only in battles of overwhelming odds. Whittling down a flood of enemy before the more noble hand-to-hand combat was acceptable, if not gallant. To kill an equal with bow was akin to knifing as they slept, a villain’s strategy and not keeping with the way of the Lord.

Next to parade across the arena’s packed earth came the Master of the Knights Hospitallar. It was great honor that he stood on these grounds. He had traveled long distance from Hertfordshire and carried with him the Bow given to the Knights by Queen Matilda herself in long off time. Its great age made it near impossible to draw, but all who touched it were said to be lucky in the way of archery.

As each knight entered the lists, first they did touch of Queen Matilde’s Bow and then they took up the yew selected for them by the Keeper of the Lists.

James waited his place watching these first challengers when he spied Aethelinda standing near the list’s corral. He made way through the crowd of hopeful combatants, thus losing his spot, and asked her eagerly, “You bring me news?”

She smiled coyly at his eagerness and pressed forth a small bundle of herbs. “I have brought you a tussy mussy to wish you luck this day.”

Around him, he heard sniggers and realized that bored knights awaiting their turns openly watched this ‘tryst’. He looked down at her long, bronzed fingers clasping the spray of ivy, vervain, and other greenery. The Scottish knight fought an urge to sneeze at the competing scents, “I thank you. Where sit you and your retinue?”

Aethelinda ignored the question as she pressed the greenery into his hands. Her excitement could not be diluted by his cold thanks. He looked most noble in his armor and she saw he carried the shield of the Beasleys as promised her father. With high spirits, she spoke in her most refined voice, “A corpsage for courage!”

His face plainly spoke that he thought her daft. She worried she had misused the word. With red face, she explained, “Corpsage. ’Tis from a French song I learned it well last Eastertide in Coventry. It means a tussy mussy for your chest.” With hungry eyes, she looked upon his chest, “For your body…corpus-age.”

“Ah,” he said simply as he continued to hold the corpsage limply in his hand, “These French dress fair strange.” She held her tongue for over his greaves he wore his patterned kilt.

Aethelinda pressed on further, “Each leaf means a different thing, as you know?”

In consternation, he lifted up the leaves that already lay crushed in his steel gauntlet.  She tried not to appear distressed as she told him the meanings, “There is vervain which gives you vigour and long life. This herb here,” She pointed at some limp parsley, “’tis wilted, but still, means ‘victory’.” She pointed to another leaf of what looked like fennel, “I found these this morn; it means ‘Worthy of Praise’…”

James scratched his beard, “Worthy of Praise? How can that be? Fennel means that not in heraldry. There must be a story to explain as your sister Philomena’s story of her name and the nightingale.”

Aethelinda looked aggrieved, and in the looking, reminded him of his Pam’s low-cast face when he told the tale of James the Reever. Relenting he spoke, “I thank you though. Luck need be with me this day, for there are many a fine warrior amongst this crew.”

At these words, the dark-haired girl leaned over the barricade to kiss him full round his lips. The son of Halberd felt blush as he endured the jeers and taunts of his armored audience.

“For luck,” she sang before fetchingly whisking up her skirts and, near skipping, ran pellmell to the benches. As the men about him whistled and called out words of praise, he followed her with his eyes to see whereon she might join her friends. With great displeasure he discovered the bench she shared was filled with all her Warborough companions save Philomena.

Disgruntled, he thrust her bouquet into his sporran and turned to push his way back towards the lead of the pen’s gate.

His anger had not died by the time of his turn. He touched Queen Matlide’s Bow quickly for she was no queen of his. He wished instead he could touch his fair Philomena’s bow lips. As he took up the yew, he regretted those thoughts as they were not thoughts of the chaste. He asked pardon of the men about him and spoke words of prayer before taking up green-fletched arrow. The crowd grew restless at his slow pace and shouted words of mockery regarding his dress and manner.

He smiled for the taunts reminded him of the battlefields of Dunbar. Once again the English mocked and, once again the Scots would prevail. This he knew. Taking up foreign arrow, he drew back and shot true.

With second arrow, he imagined twere pixie’s arrow and the target be the eldest Beasley daughter’s heart. He let fly and it sheared well. No more was heard from the crowd.

Choosing third arrow, he imagined it were the Fairy Queene’s arrow which would pierce the loutish Roy’s heart that he might forget any love he might have for his betrothed. With nimble fingers, James let fly this last arrow and it struck true and fast.

The Scottish knight stood in stunned amaze and thought ‘Would that the prize were Philomena’s hand and Roy of Nuneaton’s head!’

In the festooned Priests’ stands, the visiting Scottish prior lifted eyes skyward to praise God for this miracle. He alone knew that round Aberfoyle, James, son of Halpert, was famed a poor shot. None need know that the boy’s squint whilst sighting a dozen yard had ignobly removed him as apprentice from the Hunter’s Guild. If prophecy rang true, Tobias wouldst repair this insult and request the knight be made honorary Master of the Hunt.

James ignored praise and well-meets as he removed himself from the contest grounds. He thought not on the Hunter’s Guild, Aberfoyle, or even on the prophecy that so tightly bound him. The Scottish knight’s thoughts were upon his next conquest. The unsharpened swords lay in bundles near the charter house and he had in mind to buy salve for soothing tightened muscles. He wondered who kept watch at Warborough’s herb stall…

Philomena deftly intertwined leaves to make a handsome bay leaf crown worthy of any victor. Her fingers worked mindlessly for her thoughts were upon the shouts and jeers of the distant crowd. From her wooden booth, she could just see snatchs of movement beyond the gaily painted stalls. She well knew that a great cheer would never be heard for her Roy, lest of all for a foreign Scotsman. Irregardless of such reasoning, her heart raced madly when the distant crowd grew boldly loud.

As daughter of the lord, it was her duty to watch the contents of the stall, and more particular, keep watch upon the lazy blacksmith. When the clash of metal upon metal stilled, she would glance o'er to insure Kenric was still at his labors, stoking the fire or shining steel with leather strop. Sullen, Kenric may be, but with each tine he straightened, each shoe he cured, those were hard won pennies in the thin purse of Warborough.

Stanley, her good and true servant, filled forge with constant oak. No battle would tempt this man from such a sure farthing. With a woodsman’s forethought, he had chopped a goodly amount of birch to start the fires burning hot and now the heat was near stifling. Excellent neighbors for those who apply hot mustard and ladle healing soups.

A great shout came from distant arena and Kenric looked hungrily up towards the ruckus. Two copper of his were bet already and he none the wiser how the chosen man did aim. With hand raised to beseech a moment's rest, he turned to plead with his hard mistress.  Startled he was to see Philomena’s wistful look, her crown of leaves left forgotten upon the stall’s wide counter.

A smile crossed Kenric’s brutish lips. He stood to realize 25 copper from Darryl of Coventry if the eldest Beasley and Roy of Nuneaton did not wed. Prior day, Kenric had watched with pleasure her constant companion as they traversed from Warborough to Balsall. He had stuck close to the bastard Roy and kept him from seeing his sweetheart's flirtatious ways. Kenric's joy grew greater when, drawing poker from forge, he spied the selfsame Scottish knight approaching from yonder market street.

No custom they had seen upon these roads since the horns blew to open the Balsall Tournament. For this reason alone, Philomena looked no longer towards the empty village, all were at the arena. She was thus much surprised by the Scotsman’s bold greeting, “Hail, Philomena of Warborough!”

The girl jumped in surprise, scattering bay leaves to the ground. She turned to see the son of Halberd at her booth’s back. Clutching her throat to control unsteady pulse, she begged forgiveness, “Pardon, sir. With the clanging of the blacksmith, I heard not your approach.” 

The Scottish knight came round her booth to lean upon the smooth counter. He spoke with good humor, “Apologize not. My dear Ma oft said I walked with fairy feet. Even armor clad, I am a stealthy guard.” 

Philomena smiled and looked down upon her hands shyly, “How goest the…” 

“Och, well. Fair well. I did better than hoped, but less than desired,” James gently ran his armored fingers through the pile of bay leaves upon the counter plank. 

She laughed, “Oh, did you not hit center mark thrice? Tis right hard. But how stand you? Do you make the cut?” 

“Fear not, I made center mark thrice. Twas my desire to have a friend there to cheer me. Why stand you here all alone?” As he spoke, the Scotsman removed his gauntlets that he might aid Philomena in collecting the errant leaves that lay scattered. In quiet, they collected leaves neither noticing Kenric’s sudden decision for quiet activity. Just now he polished horseshoes that they might gleam upon the dirt.

Philomena broke silence, “Should you not be in the lists?” 

“Nae,” he leaned once more upon the ledge. “I have finished well. I have no worry for my rank. I spoke with the Herald's Squire, a good fellow. The call for the swords will be after the Sext. Two score knights still wait their showing at bow.” 

Philomena raised eye, she liked not his hubris. In warning tone, she admonished, “Two score knights! They might be eagle-eyed and drop your rank.”  

James laughed at her haughtiness, “I am fierce competition for them then for I eat eagle for snack and each does quake in terror at my bootstep.” 

“Pfff” was all the girl replied before once again taking up bay leaves to wrap a lordly crown. 

“It pleases me to see you make my winner’s laurel,” he winked as she looked up at his words. 

Philomena set down the bay leaves abruptly, “Shouldst you not be practicing with thine sword to prepare for this day’s event?” 

With obliging hand, he drew out his sword and laid it down upon the plank betwixt them. “Tis a fearsome thing,” he sagely nodded. 

She sniffed, “Ooooh, aye. Ever so. I hear tell it has killed many a dog and earthworm.” 

The Scottish knight's laugh was contagious and even the eavesdropping Stanley smiled. James pointed at her in mock accusation, “You forget the monsters of the night that lay hid neath my niece’s croft!” 

Philomena’s face softened and with careful finger she ran nail along the length of the sword. “Tis well-cast, no pocks or fissures.” 

James looked upon her distrustfully, “Mmm, just a sword, lass. If you wish to see a fine made, handle my steady pole.” He took up the sword once again, “How comes a lord’s needle-working daughter to know the secrets of sword-casting?” 

She licked her lips in embarrassment and shyly admitted, “Gainst my will, tis true. My betrothed is enamored of the sport and talks endlessly. To improve my…” She paused, unsure, “My father gave me lessons that I might prove more…” She could not glance at the knight as she spoke. She liked not how grasping her family looked in this light. 

Grimly, he replied, “Tis waste. Empty your head of it. Tis a plague for a maiden to have such knowledge.” 

Philomena looked up in teasing surprise, “Oh, no, good sir. Tis helpful. Imagine if by spell or syrup, I became a boy! Aye, a boy, who squires a Scottish knight on quest to kill a dragon!” 

James saw she jested and so played the fool to make her laugh, “Och, you have me there. For I remember tell of such a tale. T’were a most famous story and perchance I shall tell you some day…” 

“Ock! Perchance? Perchance?” Philomena hid her laughing behind her hands, “Are you now Englishman with your ‘perchance’? Ock, Ock!” 

Ruefully, the Scottish knight looked up to the billowy clouds for clever retort against her rebuke of his magpie tongue, “Och, you sound like a choking crow with your ocks and ocks. If you be Scotch, you need more…” 

James was startled out of speech by a new voice. A deep baritone did speak, “Be I Scotch? Damn me, if I be not!”

Philomena and James spun to see a most magnificent knight standing proudly before the blacksmith. The knight was dressed in verily armor beauteous. The silver and gold breastplate was embossed with a snaky medusa of a most homely aspect. Upon his greaves, dragons held aloft the rubies of his kneecaps. The helm he carried was topped with not one, not two, but six plumes of cornflower blue. His belt housed three scabbards for he boasted tuck, dirk, and arming sword for protection. Jewels shone upon pommels, guards, and medallions. 

Philomena grabbed James’ hand in wonder and gave him look of prodding insistence. Closing his fingers round his newly-won prize, he accepted her commission and turned to the man who had so rudely intruded upon their conversation, “Sir, perchance you be of the Highlands?” He bit lip to hide his smile as Philomena’s light laughter reached his ear. 

“Teats true! Ha ha! Do you see the jest? Teats, aye? Ha ha! Indeed, I am of the Great Royal House of Scotland as you see from my….” The stranger looked about himself in dismay, “My shield, my shield, has any seen my shield?” He began to pat himself as if it may have attached itself to him leech-like. 

Kenric held aloft the stranger’s over-worked tower shield to display the crude Scottish Gryphon in rampant form. The bedecked knight cried, “Ah yes! 5 gold piece to affix my newly purchased medallion. Token of the Knights Hospitallar!”

He turned with confident air back to the son of Halberd, “I am Michael Scot and ahoy! I see you wear the skirts of the Scottish! Very festive! I would wear mine but I misplaced them in one of my London palaces. And who’s the girl with the pretty tittes?” 

James stepped forward to place himself before the strange man and thus hide the defenseless Philomena. Angrily, he spoke, “You speak not like any man I’ve known Highland borne.” 

“Ah, right. Ha ha! Clever!” The knight Scot bowed slightly in the direction of James. “Well hit! Ha ha! I see thou are as good with thine bow as thee are with thy… strike me!” He pushed his way through the thin air to look upon the bowls lining Philomena’s counter, “Do you sell magic potions? I have need of…” here he whispered, “I have a ferocious cut and fear I canna fight if it tis not cured in time.” Michael held out his hand and removed glove that Philomena might see his wound. 

Philomena bent near and with bemused voice answered, “I see no cut, nor wound, nor any…”

She was stopped midspeech by the rude knight, “Tis there, as plain as the nose upon my face!” Hereupon Michael did try to look upon his own nose, with no good result. 

“This patch of red?” James pointed to the heel of Michael’s thumb. 

Michael winced though naught but air had touched it, “Ooooh, careful! Tis a seething wound and the slightest touch is agony!” 

James looked upon the man as if demented, “I touched it not. Look, tis only where you gripped sword’s pommel.”  

“That’s how it begins!” Michael moaned as he grasped aching hand to the medusa's face, “First the rash, then the profusion of blood, and finally…. death.” He looked upon his death-dealing hand aggrievedly. 

Philomena laughed, “Ock! I have just the balm for such a wound. Tis made of a very rare herb which only a child of five seasons may pick on a ruby half-moon’s night. For 5 gold, I shall apply the plaster.”

The trumpets had sounded, and courageous knights had answered their call, prepared to stand their trial by sword. The tournament crowd had swollen; all able bodied stood upon benches circled round the arena. Even the infirm lay in the shade of Chancery to watch the noblest of weapons put to test. The cheering reached deafening levels as squires brought forth bundles of wooden swords. In ranks five deep, the knights stood preparatory for their name call.

James looked to the seats of honor and nodded to the good priest Tobias. The Scotsmen exchanged nervous glance. It was well known that the English were terrors with gladius and sword. Tobias made small sign, a blessing upon his kinsman.

A herald, festooned in ribbons and hard cloth, opened parchment in the center of the lawn and the crowd grew quiet. The first of the lists had been drawn by lot and now the names could be called.

“Hark the lists!” The herald’s shout was loud and commanding, “Eight pairs shall level off in marked squares! With wooden sword you canna draw blood! Victory is insured when one drops his sword! The first disarmed in the opening rounds shall forfeit all further trial. Five shall thus be forfeited. Five more shall be chosen based on ranking for dismissal at end of this day’s final contest.

Rumbling could be heard amongst the knights. This was unwelcome news. Many had hoped points won in the archery trial would hold them steady through to the joust. Halpert himself felt unease at this news. He hoped dearly that he would be partnered with one of the youths, still weak of limb and unsure of pommel’s balance.

The Herald repeated the rules of Chivalry before stating the prize, “Three victors shall be chosen for laurels. Each along with the three victors from this morn shall join the great Master of the Knights Hospitaller for High Meal in the Chancery.” The crowd swelled in noise as clapping and cheers drowned out further words.

Gingerly, Halpert’s steel-covered fingers drew bay leaves from the sporran at his belt. He lifted the favor to his lips for kiss as he scanned the crowd in hopes of catching her eye. She had promised to watch a round of combat ere returning to her herb stall. Tasting fennel, James looked down in disgust to see Aethelinda’s posy. Away from him he threw the bouquet to be trod upon by other armored heels. Frantic, he searched his pouch for the bay leaves that had fallen from her hand. A sigh of relief escaped him as he plucked a limp bay from the bottom of the sporran. With a kiss and a smile, he set the lucky charm upon his tongue.

“….Balsall’s champion, who shall meet in square with Sir James Halpert, Warborough’s champion.” Startled by the herald’s call of his name, James pushed through the ranks to choose his weapon from the trestles. All the swords looked equal well-made except one that was water-warped. He balanced three in hand before choosing a fourth.

A squire led him to the fifth square, close near to Chancery and full distance from the corral of awaiting combatants. James smiled in pleasure. With hope and luck, the eyes of the throng would be upon other skirmishers.

The smile quickly disappeared as he watched the knight who approached. Twas none other than the sergeant of his morning displeasure. The Lauds Sergeant himself, Todd Packer.

“Har! Har! They have allowed women amongst the ranks, I see,” Todd Packer shouted so loud and vulgarly that all eyes turned their way.

The Scottish knight examined the flat of his sword for knots or hairlines. He kept his eyes steady and his tongue silent.

Todd Packer was not one to leave a joke so fast, “Tell me, girly, how will it feel to lay at my feet with my sword at your neck?”

Halpert whispered, “The only successful means you’ve found to bed a woman, I warrant.”

His whisper had been heard. The pot-bellied knight crowed, “Ha! A woman lies atop Packer nightly. I am a prize that all wish to attain.”  Several score of the crowd whistled and shouted at these bold words and many a lady blushed.

James looked with dismay at the offended women with their averted eyes and reddened cheeks. “Och, aye,” he said in thick accent, “You are plump enough to make good stew for any who hunger, but the price sounds too dear to warrant the meal.”

More would have been said, as the crowd cheered on the insults, but the herald’s trumpet had sounded and the battles began. The Lauds Sergeant was livid at the quick wordplay of the foreign knight. Sir Packer’s sword, well-trained in the veteran’s hands, went directly for the Scotsman’s heart.

With the Warborough shield, James was able to still the blow but the shock of the fat man’s strength knocked Halpert back three paces. Cheers went up for the local hero upon this first strong attack.

Halpert caught breath and circled his opponent. Todd Packer had no desire for such dallying. He brought sword down to crash upon the crown of Halpert’s head. James ducked neath the Sergeant’s arm and jabbed his sword at the Packer’s exposed underplating.

In fury, the fat knight bellowed and wrenched away from his precarious position. When he turned back to battle, the Scottish knight stood stock still as if in contemplation. The Sergeant took advantage of the moment and brought sword roughly round to hit Halpert across his undefended belly. With his bastard sword, he would have eviscerated, but with tournament wood there was only the clanging and ringing of oak upon metal.

As Todd Packer’s sword arm swung across the Scottish knight’s breastplate, James’ own sword followed. Even while the Laud Sergeant grunted in pleasure at his good strike, Halpert’s sword smashed the back of Packer’s gauntlet, snapping bone and breaking wrist. With a cry of surprise, the wooden sword fell from the fat man’s limp hand.

A squire called stop and the Herald announced, “Sir Todd Packer falls, Sir James Halpert of Warborough takes first round.”

James stood near the Chancery with the other victors from his round. They were all engrossed in the combatants now on the field, sizing up future opponents.

The Scottish knight had black heart and black eyes, but not for the battling knights upon the field. Indeed, he was most upset at a conversation nearby. A woman’s voice could be heard,“I was ever so worried! When he drew up his sword, I thought it would be the final blow!”

And then came the odious, gloating voice, “Huh! I had him the minute he walked in the ring. I could see there was bruising on his shoulder last night and so first I hit him hard upon that spot and then…”

“Oh!” The girl’s voice registered disgust and James could not help but glance to see Philomena’s reaction to her betrothed’s admitted evil act. He saw she looked away from Roy, shamed by his words. She only repeated, “Oh!” but in his heart, James knew what she truly said, ‘You are a great beast and I hate you and I despise you and I wouldn’t marry you if you owned all the shires in England!’ How the blackness in his heart melted at her simple ‘Oh!’

Roy continued on, unawares, describing his crowning victory and how he'd won several bets placed upon the outcome. James stared fixedly at the ribbon tied to the pixane at Roy of Nuneaton’s neck. It was a pale red ribbon and yesternoon it had wend itself round Philomena’s waist. The taste of bay upon James’ tongue could not hide the hint of bile that had risen in his throat.

“I must return to my wares,” Pam pleaded as Roy began to describe the time he slew his Uncle’s thane with the very same move. “God’s luck upon your hand,” she spoke quickly to forestall him. With half-curtsy, she moved away towards the market square. Roy with self-satisfied smile returned to watching the tournament so that he might call out advice and ridicule the less fortunate.

James saw possible opportunity and circled the Chancery that he might come, by chance, upon the girl. He swung sword as if practicing, and thus, innocent of intent.

“Why! Sir Halpert!” Philomena’s hand had moved to her breast in surprise.

“Why, Lady Philomena!” Smiling, he looked briefly towards the tournament ground before saying in slight accusing voice, “Why are you not in the stands? Do you not wish to encourage your betrothed?”

With guilty look, she clasped her hands together, “Oh, he…” The girl stepped closer. “Sometimes I don’t understand… Roy isn’t….”

The Scottish knight stopped breathing. He saw his hand move of its own accord. No power of his controlled it. His steel-encased fingertips lightly touched her face, gliding down her cheek. “I know…. He does not deserve…” He watched as her eyes widened and her lips parted. His head bent, hers lifted….      

When the Knight James Halpert, Champion of Warborough, was called for the second trials, a squire was sent to locate him. There was jeering around the arena for he had kept the crowd waiting, a grievous sin.

His opponent sneered as James entered. With condemning finger, he pointed at the shield upon the Scottish knight’s strong right arm. The young Knight Templar questioned, “Be you a knight of Warborough?”

“Aye,” Halpert said calmly. His mind was elsewhere.

The young knight openly mocked, “Warborough is not famed for their fencing schools.”

Halpert smiled, “Nor is Balsall.”

Their fight was in earnest and lasted three-quarters an hour after all others had been decided. The two fighters were well-matched. The Knight Templar, though young and green in the way of blood, was well trained and well suited to the sword. The Scottish Knight, upon the other hand, was in love.

Love won to the groans and moans of the crowd. They had wished the young Knight Templar to defend the honor of Balsall. The Herald’s next words upset the crowd, “Sir John Brookstone falls, Sir James Halpert of Warborough takes second round.” Scattered boos echoed across the arena but were quickly drowned out by the cheering of the Warborough faction.

The third bout of the afternoon brought forth a dangerous opponent for the wearied Scotsman. His wooden sword was heavy and sweat still stained his brow from the last bout. He had no desire to meet this new menace.

His challenger was a German knight sent as envoy from the Emperor to the King of England’s court. The German envoy had learned upon reaching Maidenhead that the English King was rumored to be visiting the Welsh territories and so, single-minded in purpose, the German knight had come hither in hopes of interception.

His pursuit had thus far been in vain, but he had done his Emperor one service. All counties hereabout walked in fear of this man’s martial skill. He knew arts most strange. Indeed, there were those that said he was a black mage straight from Satan’s court, given a death-dealing sword in exchange for his very soul.

Count Dwide von Schrude wore all black to terrify his enemies. He never smiled, for a smile showed weakness. His Satan-spawned sword was made of Toledo steel and legend said it could not lose in battle.

Halpert, having heard such rumors as they sped through the barracks, was very glad a wooden sword hung awkwardly in the Count’s hand. “Nice sword,” the Scottish knight said conversationally.

“Thanks…” the Count looked down to admire the silver polish of his Toledo…  Von Schrude’s head jerked up in shock. “This is a baby’s sword!” He waved the wooden sword clumsily in front of Halpert’s face.

James shrugged, “Suits you.”

The Count let out a sound not unlike a child spitting up porridge, “Dolt! Do you know who I am?”

“No.” The Scottish knight looked interested, “Who are you?”

Dwide was seriously taken aback, “I am Baron Dwide von Schrude, Count of Neider-Isenberg, and envoy from the Emperor!”

“Isenberg… Isenberg….Hmmm…. Never heard of it,” James waved blithely at some children in the stands.

Dwide’s face took on an apoplectic hue, “Never heard of it! Of course you’ve heard of it! Everyone’s heard of it! Surely you know pretenders to the throne are trying to foment rebellion among the people by renaming it Lower Isenberg! Everyone knows that!”

James looked intrigued, “Foment rebellion? Against you?”

“Yes! NO!” Dwide had not noticed the heralds sounding the trumpets for battle to commence, “Against the Emperor himself! I have told them that the Imperial Diet says in the black ink of the Emperor’s very own hand…” He followed this with a very quiet, “Well, in his scribe’s hand…” before he raised his voice again in righteous anger, “that it is known as Neider-Isenberg! If I had not been sent here on this important mission for the Emperor, I would be now slitting the throat of every villein who dared to speak the words ‘Lower Isenberg’!”

As the Count stormed and threatened, James casually knocked the wooden sword out of the German’s hand.

And now only six remained. The final battle of the day and the crowd, burnt from sun and hungry for even’ meal yelled for blood. Down to the arena came priests to bless the ground once more and give special blessings to sword and man.

Tobias came to James side and whispered, “This battle is o’er. Save strength for the morrow. The Red Knight fell to the strange Scotsman’s sword.”

“And how stands Roy of Nuneaton?” James searched the remaining combatants for Roy.

“He fell in his second battle, I forget to whom,” the priest held up his wooden cross that James might kiss.

As he did so, Halpert examined the stands for Roy or the Red Knight and failing to find, looked with distress towards the market. “Go you to Warborough’s stall and keep close watch upon the Beasley girl,” he ordered.

Tobias looked most unwilling, “Do you fear for her safety?”

James with mastering voice answered the question not, “Go, while heads are focused on the lists. Soon Vespers will be upon us and your absence noted.”

With solemn step and devout posture, the priest left the knight’s side.

The Herald of the Field marched out upon the grass.  He announced in a loud, resonant voice, “The six to contend stand forth. Knight of the Order, Robert Mounford of Balsall….” a great cheer arose as the recently returned hero from Jerusalem walked to his designated square.  “…Champion of Balsall and Knight of the Realm.” The Herald paused to let the shouts and clapping of his fellow Englishmen die down.

Finally, the crowd settled that the Herald might continue. “He shall meet in battle the Knight of the Order, Sir Alan Marcell of Berkshire, Champion of Bisham and Knight of the Realm.” The audience was visibly disappointed. They had wanted Robert Mounford to trounce one of the two foreigners who still sullied the lists.

Their prayers were answered in the Herald’s next breath, “Squires, mark. To the middle square. The Knight, James Halpert of…” The Herald could not make out the name Aberfoyle upon his parchment. “…of Scotland. Champion of Warborough.” The excited clapping of the small group neath the Warborough flag was noted and slight cheering was heard round the arena.

The Herald bowed in direction of Warborough’s flag before he continued, “He shall meet in battle the Knight, His Royal Highness, Michael Scott of Scotland. Champion of…. Scotland.”  There was a touch of disdain in the herald’s voice as he read out these words.

James rued that of all the knights he might challenge, it was to the deranged Michael Scott he must lose.

“Well, well! Well met,” the self-called Scotch Royal struck out hand to wish luck. “Now see you, the plaster has done wonders. I am in the final round!”

The smell of mustard and onions was strong and Halpert wondered if the other contestants had fallen due to strong hunger. “Well met,” Halpert nodded as Michael Scott made practice swings in the air with his bent sword.

“Watch close, young scallion,” Sir Michael ordered.

Halpert raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Scallion?”

The elder knight paused in mid-twirl, “Oook, as you say, I forget myself. Of course, newly steeped in fair Albion’s muck…Uhm. Homer. The Odes. As he did say, you are newly here, and unknowing of the language. Stick close, young knight. I will teach you the ways of… fair Albion.” Michael Scott’s arms opened wide to suggest all was available for the learning.

With tongue in cheek, Halpert murmured, “Thank you. I thought… Is not a scallion a type of onion?” James wondered if the odor of onion and mustard had anything to do with Scott’s misspeaking.

Sir Michael laughed uproariously, “You think of leeks. The best leeks in all of Christendom can be found not thirty leagues away. The town of Coventry reeks of leeks! Indeed a village nearby is called Leek-on-the-Wold and I didst take leak in their Wolds! Ha! Ha! HA!” With each ‘Ha!’ Michael swung his sword in wide arc nearly hitting the squire who kept watch.

James was pleased to hear the Herald’s trumpet. No further comment upon onions would be necessary.

His Royal Highness Michael Scott took battle position. “Good luck to us both, son, but more to me because I’m Royalty. Oh! Look! Your trousers have fallen! Oh my!” He began giggling madly which made his blows quite ineffectual.

Philomena stared in wonder at her betrothed. “What age of evil be this that you demand such?”

Roger Roy looked about him to judge possible hue and outcry. He saw her father’s man, Stanley, at wood pile with axe in hand. Closer still, the Warborough blacksmith Kenric held heavy tongs for the gripping of red-hot nails. Roy of Nuneaton decided now was not a time to show his future bride her place. There were better times for such, and less public.

“Ah, Philly, twas just in jest. I was just a-testin’ you. As you see, you have failed most woefully.” He tried to make his voice light although he felt anger and shame bubbling in his gut, warring with the ham and gristle of his lunch.

Philomena’s demeanor faltered. Her father would be displeased if she had endangered union with the House of Nuneaton. “A jest? How be that jest?” There was slight accusation in her voice.

Roy looked away so that he might hide his open face from her prying eyes. She was half-smart, this wench, and oft caught him in lie. “It was no such princely sum. I only wagered the half pence. I just tested you your devotion. Alack, you are no Patient Griselda.”

Philomena’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Here now were non-truths heaped upon half-truths. “The 3 mark silver is not mine to give. By rights and law, I have no piece of it.”

Roy’s face puckered in thought. “But, and this is just for the shaming of you, you carry the key to the lockbox. I have no need of such princely coin, but beholden to me, you should have given all in your possession.” He looked her straight in eye to challenge.

Philomena expelled breath in relief. “I have no such key. I carry no key upon my person.”

Most startled, Roy looked about her girdle for possible sign of chain or key. Seeing her lack, his gaze turned towards the Chapter House. Already, the Teutonic knight would be pacing at agreed upon spot and Roy must go there empty-handed. His anger swelled at such sad plight. That he, the wealthy favorite son of a powerful Earl, must go with hollow purse to foreign scum… it could not be borne. He must wrest away Warborough’s locked casket and toss it contemptuously at the German's dirty feet. There was no other way to preserve honour.

Roy’s conniving plans were further undone by the approach of a battle-hardened knight of the Temple. “Fair greetings to you, Maiden. I have need of ointment.” A look of anger from Roy of Nuneaton was not enough to turn this brave knight from the herbal stall. He addressed Roger Roy directly, “Have I done you wrong, Brother in Arms? For I think not that I fought you this day.”

“Sir, sir,” Philomena put out beseeching hand to stop possible conflict. “What ails you that I might take your coin in exchange for relieving balm?” She stressed the word ‘coin’ that Roy might see the wisdom of allowing this unexpected interruption.

“I fought a madman, milady. A scoundrel from the north. He bashed about my head as one deranged. I fear welts and bruising from his strange attack.” The knight lifted helm gingerly from his scalp to reveal full head of bruising. “If your balm heals me rightly, a promise I shall give that Joshua of Balsall, slayer of the Moorish infidels, was right cured by the hands of the Warborough faction. My word shall bring much custom and such coin would buy you snug sleep for many a festival day.”

“Joshua of Balsall!” Roy’s incredulous exclamation drew his attention. “It inna true that you are Joshua of Balsall!”

With helm in hand, Sir Joshua bowed in Roy of Nuneaton’s direction. “The honour and the fame are mine, sir.”

“Yet... yet…” Words failed Roy some time. “Sir, I have heard rumor that the King himself begs you to take up his banner for your prowess in battle. How stand you here among lesser men?” Roy’s hands pointed vaguely towards the Temple’s grandstands, suggesting that all, save himself, were unworthy of Joshua of Balsall’s presence.

“Oh, indeed. Rumors fly.” Joshua of Balsall laughed at the suggestion. “But what could the King offer, be he ever so powerful, that I do not already receive from my brothers, the Knights Templar?”

Philomena looked from her betrothed to the wounded knight and back again. She had heard of the famed Joshua of Balsall. Who in all Christiandom had not? He had led attack upon Jerusaleum and had taken many a keep and brought ruin upon more towers than could be counted. His strength was so remarked upon that he was called the Bloody Templar for the red flowed freely when battle lust came upon him.

Indeed, she realized, he was a most red knight. And her next thoughts surprised her, ‘I must find James!’

Count Dwide von Schrude stood impatiently within the shadow of the Chapter House doors. He had sent all his servants in each of the compass directions to hunt down his debtor.

He knew not which discomforted him more as he waited -- were it the heat beating down upon his black armor or the injury to his pride that an incompetent man had bested him at swords. At this time he decided upon the heat. The fool, he forgot now even his name, who had won at wooden swords was a scoundrel. A cheater. All saw that the Count had not been ready when the horns sounded. Indeed, Count von Schrude had at once applied grievance to the Sergeant of the Lists. Dwide knew only the formality of the event precursed the dismissal of said offensive scoundrel.

“Count von Schrude?” The Count looked down at the young curly-haired woman who stood at the bottom of the Chapter House steps. He smiled for twas obvious she was in awe of him, as well she should be. The smile flitted from his lips and his usual sneer of dominance returned to its rightful place.

“Yes, woman?” Before she could reply, he followed this with, “I am not in need of your sexual services. Take your wares elsewhere.”

The woman's mouth fell open in shock. “Uh…. No. That’s…” She shook herself to regain calm. “My betrothed, Roy of Nuneaton, sent me in his stead to tell you he even now comes to pay his debt.”

His sneer turned to a scowl. “I have not all day. If he is not here within the span of 40 breaths, I will… No. 60 breaths. I am a fair man. I will begin counting now.”

Philomena watched as he inhaled deeply. Just as the last ounce of air filled him, she asked prettily, “Do you mean 'man breaths' or 'woman breaths', my lord? For I hear tell that women….”

The Count began coughing as he tried to answer her question with lungs still full. His sputtering and hacking made all he said incoherent.

She made no move in his direction but inquired, “Are you unwell, sir Knight? I can call the Sergeant of the Lists to take you to yon hospitaller’s room.” She grasped her hands before her that she might look most circumspect.

“Foolish woman, I have never known a day of ill health, I am a…” his voice was overtaken by a new fit of coughing.

“By God’s leave, sir, I think you most unwell. I will call for aid. Mayhap some passing warrior can carry you to comforting bed!” Philomena’s voice raised that it might be heard over his coughing. She turned to see if any remained in the arena but was greeted only with the sight of her own maid Anne tending to a wounded soldier.

Turning back to the Teutonic knight, as he had finally brought control to his corporeal being, she begged his favor. “Sir knight, a comrade of yours has fallen. I carry herbs and poultices to heal. I will send my serving woman to attend you.” She lifted skirts and, bethinking herself, gave last parting words, “Roy of Nuneaton will soon be here to repay his debt to you upon his honor.”

“In 60 breaths he will or my revenge will be swift,” Dwide von Schrude replied to the swiftly retreating figure. He said loudly before inhaling once more, “Two!”

Using her long fingernails and his dirk knife, Anne slowly removed sliver upon sliver from the Scottish knight’s cheek. “It is an idiot’s choosing, to use wooden swords!” She looked with contempt upon the wooden sword that lay at his side.

“My lady, you are full right. Real swords, with strong steel, would have been safer.” The twinkle in his eyes, the laughter in his words were noted not by Anne so fierce was she in her beliefs.

“God grant in future that it be so. Here is my mistress, Philomena of Warborough, now. She may have…” Before Anne could say more, Pam had knelt at James' side.

Pam looked over his supine figure upon the dusty ground, “How now? Are these his only injuries?”

The Scottish knight answered in Anne’s place, “Aye, lass. Nothing of the telling, but this kind servant was most insistent that I recline for her administrations. A bed would have been softer, but I fear….”  He waved at the Anne to show he was upon her orders.

“Anne,” Pam spoke, stopping his words. “Go you to the Chapter House and wait with the German Count until Roy comes. I am Roy’s mark until he arrives. You take my place. I will escort this good gentleman to the Sergeant’s side after applying healing salve. Then will I to you and the Chapter House.”

Anne nodded and stood. Pam could hear her quickly retreating footsteps as she applied a thin coating of Vervain grease to his cheek. “There,” she said. “You are completely healed. I think you may one day fight again.”

“Eleven!” Count von Schrude had just exhaled when he saw a vision before him. It was an Angel of God. With golden hair and slim figure she could have been a Rhine Maiden.

All memory of the debt owed him was forgotten. His eyes bulged as he shouted the opening lines of the knight’s missive to the dame of his heart,

“Ich zôch mir einen valken mêre danne ein jâr  
dô ich in gezamete als ich in wolte hân 
und ich im sîn gevidere mit golde wol bewant, 
er huop sich ûf vil hôhe und vlouc in ándèriu lant.”

With sickly smile, he awaited her rapturous reply

Anne looked upon the black-armored knight with revulsion. She fingered the cross at her throat before addressing the foreigner, “You stand on England’s shore, heathen. Speak the King’s tongue or speak not at all.”

Words poured from the gallant man’s tongue. “You speak this English well, Rhine goddess. I, too, have studied much and could pass for an Englishman if it were my desire. Since I rule all of Neider-Isenberg, I do not desire to pass as English swine.” He gave pause for breath, “I must return to my castle ere snow closes the passes. It is most dangerous to travel there in winter for the wolves are cunning and strong. I tell you fact when I say they are the most dangerous beasts in all the known lands.”

Skepticism mingled with hope warred in Anne’s eyes. Carefully she spoke, “You rule all of Neiderberg? From… your castle?”

“Yes!” Dwight came down three step that he might be nearer the angel before him. “It’s a nice little castle. I inherited it from my father who inherited it from….”

“How little, exactly?” Anne had never met anyone who lived in a castle. Not even a little one.

“It is just the right size. There are 23 bedrooms, the stables of course, a receiving room, the game room, the chapel, the powder room, the Great Hall, an archery range, a ballroom where we store the munitions for my trebuchet, the barracks. I have been told that there are also kitchens and, I believe, a laundry. The dungeons are famed throughout the land.” The pride in the German knight’s voice was palpable.

Anne’s eyes had grown soft as the list progressed.

“Here be the Sergeant and soon your soft bed,” Philomena pointed helpfully across to the Temple’s Genesis doors.

James tarried, “I thank you greatly for your assistance, fair maiden. How much owe I for the use of your servant and your healing salve?”

Philomena was quick to reply, “They are free, good sir, for I fear they were thrust upon you without your leave.”

“Free?” Michael Scott spoke behind them. “Free? And to me, a royal of the Scottish court, the defeater of Warborough’s shield, you made charge of the ointment this day late passed.”

Philomena pushed away the Halpert’s fist of coin, laughing. To the knight, Michael Scott, she replied, “Ock! He speaks false. No ointment has need he, nor payment need I. Away with ye and good luck the morrow in the lists.”

The Sargeant of Matins turned quizzical glance upon the strangers from the lands up north. “I knew not that Warborough had champion.”

“I am on quest and play host to many parts as I follow the Lord’s will,” James looked skyward to show his respect to his creator, lord, and master.

Philomena smiled, “Aye, he is Warborough as it is my father, Lord Beasley’s, will that the Scotsman carry the clovered grey and red shield.”

Seeing that nothing was amiss although all irregular, the Balsall Sergeant bowed and returned to his post. He was followed most close by Michael Scott who wished to know what raimant would be required for that night's feast.

James watched the strange Scotsman leave with much pleasure. As if conversation with Philomena had not been interrupted, he quizzed her, “Why clover? I must ask. For I saw me no clover in Warborough,” James brought the shield from straddling his back that they might contemplate it.

Pam touched the shield lightly as it was talisman to her family. “Our church, fair old it was, was built by my relation many generations past when the Crown deeded him the land. The windows were of odd shape. Trefoil to represent the trinity. Our church was known amongst travelers as ‘the clover-coursed church’ although dedicated to St. Ambrose.”

“St. Ambrose?” James stroked his bearded chin in puzzlement. He had expected the church to be named in honor of the Saint whose shrine graced Warborough.

“Aye. Not the Ambrosius of which you think, for he was a Saxon king of great strength, whereas St. Ambrose is patron of beehives.” Pam said this in sing-song voice, as if she had been schooled in it for many a year, or had said such stock phrase to many a wandering pilgrim.

James shook his head. The name Ambrosius meant nothing to him. “Och, you misunderstand my surprise. St. Ambrose is well known. It is that I have seen clover amongst the oak of Arden whereas I have seen no beehives.”

Philomena paused to consider this. “Mayhap my distant relation kept bees in the manner of Virgil the poet.”

James smiled. “Have you read Virgil, then? You have hidden depths, maiden Beasley. Trained in the Latin authors as well as in swordmaking.”

Beasley crossed her eyes at him, but sudden, her face took on serious thought. “You have made me forget myself. I am pledge for Roy. I must return to Chapter House.”

“I shall accompany thee,” the Scottish knight said formally. “I have, as great warrior that I am, been invited to dine with the Bishop for high meal. I would ask you to accompany, but I fear only the truly magnificent have been invited.”

James, son of Halpert, and Philomena, daughter of Beasley, were laughing as they arrived at the entrance to the Temple’s Chapter House. There upon the steps they found the Teutonic knight lost in happy thought.

The laughter died upon Philomena’s lips as she searched in vain for Ann, “Where be my serving maid?”

Dwide von Schrude deigned to glance her way, “If you mean that fair vision, that angel amongst mortals. She has gone to bid farewell to her companions for she joins my side this day.”

“What!” Pam could not conceal her stunned reaction.

The Count seemed not to care about her shock. “Oh, and Roy of Nuneaton has not shown. As you are his mark, I shall also take you with me to Neider-Isenberg. Here is one of my servants.” He waved his man forward, “Josef, take this woman to the nearest dungeon to be held until I leave this place.”