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.”