“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.