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.”