Catch me if you can

Another horn blasted as the company of Lord Stephen de Valois entered the inner gate of Castle Crowsdale, this time from a knight inside the court yard. All of the castle’s ladies as well as all knights had gathered here, and Raven was only too aware that they were all being scrutinised by countless pairs of curious eyes.

It was easy to spot Lady Alys, who stood out like a bright sunray between the other members of the household. She only wore a light tunic over her dress, and her uncovered blonde hair fell over her shoulders in thick waves, glowing like summer wheat in the light of the many torches. Raven held her breath, and found herself staring. If Lord Stephen had ever wondered if his future bride might be hard to look upon, he would not have to worry any longer.

As Lord Stephen approached, she bowed gracefully. “My lord. Welcome to Crowsdale! I trust that you had a safe journey?”

From under her lowered hood, Raven considered the young woman. How fragile she looked. She had expected Lady Alys of Crowsdale, the daughter of such a powerful Northern lord, to be strong and proud, maybe wilful even. But this girl rather resembled a cornered deer, shivering not under the cold, but under the expectant gaze of Lord Stephen of Valois and all of her father’s household.

She also noticed that Lady Alys’ hand almost unnoticeably interlaced with that of a young servant next to her, as if she was scared and looked for support. Despite herself – after all, this was the woman who would wed Lord Stephen – Raven felt pity for the young noblewoman. She remembered how intimidated she had been by her lord the first day they had met, and wondered what it would be like for her to be married to a man she had never even met, with the full weight of politics bearing down on her delicate shoulders. Would the expectations not be quite terrifying? And the young lady indeed barely dared to meet her future husband’s eye.

Then Lady Alys’ back straightened, she pulled her hand from that of the other girl, and the fleeting moment of weakness was gone. Lord Marnoch looked curiously anxious as he watched Alys greet his noble guest, and his daughter must have sensed his disquiet and now made an effort to mirror the dignity that her mother displayed.

Raven’s glance swept over the rest of the castle’s inhabitants. Lord Marnoch of Crowsdale was unmistakably a very wealthy man, judging by the numbers of servants, knaves, soldiers and knights that surrounded him. The castle itself was well kept and fortified, and Raven could not remember any tales of it having ever been taken by an enemy’s assault.

Soft music from the great hall drifted across the court yard. It was evident that no costs had been spared to host the liege lord, and when Raven caught a whiff of roast and sage in the air, her stomach rumbled angrily.

The rest of the company dismounted, and the stiff rows of people started to dissolve into a busy crowd. Raven heaved a sigh of relief when she was finally allowed to slide off her horse. Finally! Her legs quivered dangerously when she landed on the ground, but she did not stumble. “Good girl, you must be even more tired than I am”, she whispered to the mare. “Let’s see if we can find you a nice, dry spot and some hay in the lord’s stables.”

A few torches lit up the spacious stone building, and some of Lord Marnoch’s servants were busy unloading the horses of the newly arrived guests. Most of Sir Stephen’s men were also occupied with the bundles and chests, but in the far end of the stables, Raven spotted Arnaud and Lucais, and decided to find refuge in their company.

Arnaud unsaddled his horse while Lucais wiped down another with bundles of straw. They liked to tend to their own horses, and Raven was grateful for a moment out of everyone’s curious gaze. Leaning against a wooden beam she sighed, absent-mindedly scratching her horse behind the ears. “I am looking forward to a bowl of stew and a good night’s sleep. Have they told you where we are to lodge?”

Arnaud raised an eyebrow. “Well, you don’t need to worry about that. Since you’ll now be at Sir Stephen’s beck and call, I imagine that you’ll lodge with him.” He patted his chestnut mare soothingly.

Raven looked up. “With Lord Stephen?” She prayed that the edge of panic in her voice had gone unnoticed. Lucais heaved a saddle over a wooden trestle. “Aye, mon petit. It’s customary, since you are his squire now.”

“His…what?” Were they pulling her leg?

Loosening the saddle straps, Arnaud looked up at her. “Devil’s cock! His squire - you will tend to Lord Stephen. Scrub his boots, grease his chainmail, sharpen his sword, and massage his aching shoulders after a hard day’s work.” He pulled the saddle from the horse’s back and put it aside. “I am sure that you’ll make a good little handmaiden.”

Lucais burst out laughing, while Arnaud returned to his task. Raven, too stunned to speak, watched him fumble with the bridle, which was all the more difficult as his fingers were still stiff from the cold.

Then he turned around. “Mon dieu, don’t make such a face!” He slapped Raven’s shoulder. “It’s a great honour, usually not accorded to poaching squirrels like you. You will learn a lot! And if you do your job well, you might go far.” He bowed theatrically. “Who knows? Maybe I will even call you ‘my lord’ one day?”

Somewhat forlorn, Raven looked from Arnaud to Lucais, who was still busy drying the horses. “He did not say anything to me.” Her thoughts still lingered on the tasks that came with her unexpected elevation. Massage Lord Stephen’s shoulders? Arnaud was surely jesting.

Lucais shrugged. “Well, he must have forgotten over his lovely little bride.” Half over his shoulder, he said to his companions: “Heavens, what a lucky man our lord is, have you ever seen a prettier lass? It seems a right miracle that such weather-beaten lands would bring forth such a flawless beauty.” He put aside the straw and stretched lazily. “Looked right the flustered maid, too, when she set eyes on our lord, all heaving bosom and blushing cheeks. I bet her thighs are already dripping in anticipation of her wedding night.”

Raven bit her lip, grateful that the dim light in the stable hid her own blush. She had to admit – and not without a jealous sting - that Lady Alys was indeed very pleasing to the eye, and would make a perfectly lovely wife for any man. But to her, the young woman had not looked as happy to meet her future husband as Lucais made her out to be. On the contrary, Raven thought that Lady Alys, while displaying all necessary courtesy, had looked rather troubled and mournful.

Arnaud whistled as he finally unfastened the bridle. “Et oui, the sight of her heaving little teats sure whetted my appetite. I don’t know about you my friends, but I hope to taste more than just a bowl of stew at tonight’s feast.” Scratching his mare’s ears, he added with a grin: “I am a modest man, and would even make do with one of her maids.” And to Raven he said, imploringly: “And Rowan, I beg you not to spoil them for us humble, mortal men this time!”

Raven rolled her eyes, now laughing herself. “You are indeed a greedy man if you want to leave the poor creatures with only the scraps. Let me at least teach them so they might teach you how it is done!”

Lucais grunted with laughter. “The boy has been around you for too long, Arnaud!” He took hold of a torch. “But off you go now, Rowan. As his squire, it is your duty that Lord Stephen is well cared for, and he might need your services to prepare for the feast.”

Lady Alys of Crowsdale was indeed a sight to behold. Glowing golden and beautiful in the torchlight, with a pure clear face, startlingly big dreamy blue eyes and a slender body that seemed designed by God with the sport of the bedchamber in mind. But she did not have the confidence that should have gone with her beauty. Her high, clear voice trembled as she welcomed Stephen to Crowsdale and her doe eyes were cast down, not meeting his expressionless gaze.

Then, strength and dignity seemed to come to her rescue. Her slim back straightened as she continued talking, she detached her hand from that of the maidservant next to her and she finished her speech of welcome looking almost defiantly into Stephen's icy blue eyes. Stephen admired her for that, more than for her beauty -which was, after all, a gift of God and not her own achievement.

He dismounted effortlessly, planting both boots firmly on the icy courtyard ground. He had made harder, longer and colder rides than this -his body had been hammered by the exercise of war and field into something akin to cold iron.

"My thanks, my lady. Your hospitality is most welcome."

Stephen de Valois was not one for long and flowery speeches. Instead, he turned to Lucais and Arnaud.

"Bring forth the gifts for the lord, his lady and Lady Alys."

He had selected all three personally. For Lord Marnoch, an artifact he had bought a long time ago in the east -a celestial globe in bronze with delicate silver inlaid Arabic script, denoting all of the major constellations. It was said that Lord Marnoch had an interest in astronomy. For Lady Magaidh, who was said to be a scrupulous and even-handed mistress of her household, an ingenious small mechanical clock made in the German principalities. Lucais and Arnaud brought them forward and they were accepted with appropriate, ceremonious words of thanks by the lord and lady.

"And for Lady Alys," Stephen said, his voice gentler than usual, "Proof that sometimes things can blossom even in a hard season."

He had had it made according to his own specifications by the glassblowers of London and had it transported north. It was a beautiful crystalline rose all in fragile blue and white glass, the artistry so marvellous as to make them seem exactly like the petals of a living flower.

"A winter rose," said Stephen, offering it to Alys.


The preparations for the feast had begun, and Stephen had retired to his chambers in the oldest part of the castle -high and airy rooms above the gate. A tin bath filled with hot water had somehow been brought up countless flights of stairs and now filled the rooms with pleasant, aromatic clouds of steam.

Stephen dismissed the expectant servants and stripped out of his clothes, exposing broad shoulders, a flatly muscular chest, a waist made lean and very hard by war, exertion and travel and a huge, virile cock dangling between his legs. He slipped silently into the hot water.

"Rowan," he said, seeing his newly appointed squire slipping quietly into the chambers. "Come over here."

Raven stood in the entrance of the chamber, her eyes wide. She had caught only a glimpse of his naked form before he slid into the water of the tub, but her throat was suddenly so dry that she had to cough a little. As that one morning in the library, she could not help but admire the beauty of his body, the graceful, fluid movement of his muscles. But Raven had never seen a naked man before, and felt her face grow hot. It was a blessing that Lord Stephen would not notice the signs of her embarrassment in the flickering light of the fire and the candles in his chambers, and that she could hide behind the thick steam rising from the water.

When he asked her to come closer, Raven snapped out of her thoughts. “Sire.” She moved jerkily and with shy hesitation, much like a marionette handled by a rather unskilled puppeteer. If he would find out about her charade now, how betrayed would he feel? It did not matter that they had shared so many evenings discussing the writings of the old philosophers, religion, and his plans for the North, that they were as close as a noble lord and his servant could ever wish to be. This was different.

In order to cover up her inner turmoil, Raven spoke, her voice not as firm as she wanted it to be. “My lord, I am very honoured by your trust.” She paused, trying to keep her eyes on his face. “Never had I hoped to be elevated thus. I thank you, thank you with all my heart, but am also afraid that this is so much more than I deserve.”

She stood next to the tub now, and felt the hot steam gather on her skin. “Lady Alys is a beautiful girl, my lord, and I am sure that she will make a lovely bride.” Was she babbling now? Water drops had gathered on his chest, in the hollow of his throat, on his lips, his eyelashes…Raven shook her head lightly to free her head from these unbidden observations. With a reluctant smile, she whispered: “You will excuse my idle talk, my lord. I am still overjoyed. Is there anything I might do for you before the feast?”

***

Alys sat on her bed, turning the delicate glass flower over in her hands. Brae, who brushed her mistress’ golden hair in preparation for the feast, smiled happily. “What a very pretty gift, my lady! It matches the beauty of his bride.”

Lost in thought, Alys watched as the light emanating from several candles broke in the glass petals. “Yes, very pretty.” She traced the hard material. Lord Stephen de Valois. He was not as she had expected him to be, but what had she expected, really? Her chest tightened at the thought of him. His eyes had been so…so cold. And yet there had been so much tenderness in his voice. So much…what? Promise maybe? Alys sighed. He was here because politics dictated that he should marry a Northern lady, and that was all.

Unaware of Lady Alys’ musings, Brae continued: “A winter rose!” She laughed softly. “Do you think that he was surprised about what he saw? Did he expect to find a snowy owl, and not a girl?” Alys watched the reflection of the many small flames mirrored in her flower. “He did not expect to find such beauty in these lands, but now he stands corrected.” Alys frowned, still lost in thought. “Maybe what he wanted to say is that love could indeed grow in dark times like these, on the ragged soil of strategy and conflict. Of war.” Her hand closed around the rose. “But look how easily it could be shattered.” For the length of one heartbeat, Alys was tempted to crush the flower in her hands. Brae paused in her movements, suddenly realising that her mistress did not share her light mood. “My lady…” The young maidservant hesitated, desperately trying to find words to cheer up the bride-to-be. “What a man he is, this Lord Stephen! No? As if Saint Stephen himself had strode through our gates! Ladies far and wide will envy you for such a husband.”

“Yes, he is…quite beautiful indeed.” But he lacks the fiery eyes and the warm smile of my beloved, she added in thought. He lacks his love for me. Alys carefully placed Lord Stephen’s gift on her pillow, and then pulled Brae’s hands away from her hair. “Thank you, Brae, this will suffice. I will join you downstairs in a moment, but I would first speak to my father about the wedding.”

With this she left, and followed the stairs down from her chamber to her father’s rooms. There were no guards, and for a moment she thought that nobody was there. Just as she put her hand against the coarse wood, she realised that the door was slightly open, and that voices drifted out from inside.

“If the Norman lord does not content himself with her obedience, maybe we should consider other options?” Alys froze. This was her uncle’s voice. “Brother, you speak of treason!” And her father. Alys withdrew her hand from the door and listened.

“Not treason, but common sense. Her other suitors would gladly take her father’s word as law. It is an outrage that he doesn’t!” Alys frowned, listening intently. They were talking about Lord Stephen de Valois, clearly, and of her. She barely dared to breathe. Had Lord Stephen rejected her father’s offer? What had he told him?

Lord Marnoch laughed dryly. “Her other suitors? Greedy dogs, bloodhounds, the whole lot of them! I’d rather send her to a nunnery! And de Lacy would not care for either my daughter’s or even my consent, would he have the choice.”

“Brother, Alys is a sweet girl, and I want to see her happy as much as you do, but to leave the fate of these lands in the hands of a naïve girl would be folly.” There was no answer from his noble brother, and he continued. “You know as well as I do that you took a great risk by choosing a son-in-law that many would rather see burning at the stake than in your daughter’s bed. You made some very powerful enemies. If on top of this the Northern lords will sense even a faint whiff of hesitation, the consequences might be severe.”

She tucked a strand of her hair behind one ear, thinking about what Lord Thomas, her uncle, had just said.

After a long pause, her father spoke again. “De Valois knows all this himself, and I dare not lecture him on it again. He does not trust us, indeed he does not trust anyone, and who would blame him? And I will not to listen to the superstitious idiots who point accusing fingers at all those who refuse to stay ignorant. I doubt not that they fear Sir Stephen’s wit.”

His brother did not relent. “Would that they feared his sword instead, brother! What of the attacks on villagers? What of the outlaws that plague Sir Stephen’s newly-won lands? Every day without a firm alliance between de Valois and Crowsdale might mean more misery and bloodshed. Think about it. And God help us if this alliance that you have defended against all opposition should now waver, or much worse, should desist altogether.”

Another pause. “What would you want me do? He was quite firm about it: the wedding will only take place with Alys’ free consent. I doubt not that she will give it.”

Alys had to put her hand over her mouth to suppress a sound of surprise. So this was it? Lord Stephen de Valois wanted her to consent, freely, and without her father’s interference? And they were afraid that she would not agree? Her uncle’s voice redirected her attention to the conversation inside her father’s chambers.

“Has she not humiliated us enough at the tourney, when she chose the bastard over all the other noble knights vying for her attention? And rumour has it that she is still so inclined would she be presented with the chance?”

Oha! Her uncle had not forgotten Robert, and the tourney. Her father’s answer was a tired sigh. Lord Thomas growled. “Maybe she does not understand that her moods may drag all that we fought for into the abyss, so let me enlighten her. Let me speak to her, and explain my meaning. If it takes loving consent to get Lord Stephen into her bed, she should give him exactly that.” The wood of his chair creaked as he rose. With steps light as feathers, Alys descended another flight of stairs. Leaning against the cold stone wall, she could not help but smile. So this was it. Lord Stephen granted her the power of consent. Why should she not use it?

Rowan seemed overcome with his promotion; blushing, stammering hesitantly and avoiding Stephen's eye.

Stephen lay back in the hot waters. He was a soldier and used to hardship, but it was a pleasure to feel the bruises and stiffness of the road melt away in the faintly scented water. It made him think of a time, high on Mount Lebanon, when he had washed himself clean of dust and sweat in a pure, free-flowing mountain spring.

He looked at Rowan, the lad's lustrous dark eyes cast down on the floor, only occasionally flickering up to look at him in shy, quick, almost furtive glances. It reminded him of how Rowan had held himself on the day they first met.

"Say no more of it," Stephen said of the promotion. "You have earned it. If our plans prosper, some day you'll be a knight and a better one than most of the high-born bullies who shame the title."

Rowan's mention of Alys made him frown. Was he truly doing Rowan a favour? After all, if Rowan entered the nobility, he too would have to marry for the good of his people. Slender, nimble, beautiful Rowan -beloved by the girls, whose prowess as a lover was becoming fixed in legend -he would not be able to marry for love either.

"Lady Alys is beautiful," he agreed, "And she seems kind and graceful."

Lady Alys was indeed beautiful, a lovely vision from the erotic dreams of a monk or priest. But there was something fragile about her, with her winsome, wistful smile and large, dreamy eyes. She had been cosseted by life, a delicate, fragile thing kept wrapped in cloth. The wife of Stephen de Valois would have no easy time of it, inheriting all of his enemies and the dangers of his life. Stephen could have wished, for her sake, that there was more fire in those mild, sad and wonderfully clear blue eyes. Then he recalled the spark of something else he had seen as she looked at him. Who could tell what she might become in time, as her womanhood blossomed and she stepped outside her father's halls?

"It's her I wish to speak of. I've told Marnoch that I won't marry her without her consent. Marnoch seemed to think there would be some difficulty there. He was about to tell me why but then he thought better of it."

Stephen turned to look at Rowan. "I'd like to see what you can find out about that over the next couple of days. I don't pay much heed to gossip but this marriage is too important. We need to know if there are any unseen dangers."

He laughed dryly. "In the meantime, I'll do my best to court our Lady Alys."

He stood up, the water cascading off the hard, powerful angles of his body. It glistened in the candlelight. Stephen gestured to a cloth on a stand across the room.

"We'd better join the feast. Dry me, please."

A knight! While Raven doubted not that her disguise would be lifted long before she would be able to reach such high standing, she coveted the thought for the length of a few heartbeats. If her lord would deem her worthy of joining the ranks of his noble soldiers, it would be because she had earned it. What would the boys in her village say then? What Father Aldred? She laughed softly. He would probably make her eat her chainmail, and then some.

But her thoughts were interrupted by his next request. "I'd like to see what you can find out about that over the next couple of days. I don't pay much heed to gossip but this marriage is too important. We need to know if there are any unseen dangers."

Raven nodded. Used to servant’s talk and the manifold whisperings of Courtney Castle, she was confident that she would be able to find out if there were serious reasons to Lord Marnoch’s hesitation. Probably it was nothing of importance, but she did wonder if the vile rumours about her master might have fallen on eager ears in Crowsdale. Sometimes, she thought, sometimes it would indeed be wise to pay heed to the words of blabbermouths and talebearers, since it was often there, away and at a safe distance from the ears of the noble folk, that important truths were revealed.

She smiled at Lord Stephen’s dry comment of wanting to court Lady Alys. Everybody in Crowsdale and even his own men would expect no less of him, but Raven knew that courtly etiquette and pretence did not count amongst her master’s many talents. How hard was it to feign emotions that needed yet to blossom and to grow, if they ever would? She bit her lip. Indeed, probably not harder than to feign indifference.

And yet, as Lord Stephen rose from his bath, Raven barely mustered the self-control that would have been that of the boy Rowan, the poacher, the archer, and the newly-appointed squire. She averted her eyes, and when addressed, only nodded, her head lowered as if in obedient deference. “Yes, my lord.” It was impossible not to peek, from under lowered lashes. Curls of fragrant steam rose from his skin. Had God ever created a more handsome man?

Stiffly, but trying to give an appearance of casual servitude, Raven went to fetch the cloth, thankful for every second that she was able hide her expression from Lord Stephen. Get it together, girl, she mouthed silently. For the love of God, do not let him discover your secret now.

But her hands shook, and she had to wrap her fingers tightly around the cloth for it not to show. It was hard not to stare when she walked back over to the tub, where Lord Stephen stood upright, and nothing obstructed the view of his nudity.

Raven felt her cheeks grow hot again. She angrily clenched her fists at her unmanly timidity. I am Rowan, she reminded herself, and everybody thinks that I casually bed whores who then praise my skill as a lover. Rowan does not blush at the sight of his master’s naked body.

She prayed that the thick steam and the flickering candles would come to her aid, and that his mind – surely set on Alys, and possibly her charms – would be distracted enough to overlook her turmoil.

Standing behind him, tiptoeing slightly, she wrapped the linen cloth around his shoulders, so that her hands rested briefly against his chest. Through the thin fabric of the drying cloth, her fingers felt the smooth skin, the taut muscles underneath, and the regular beat of his heart. For the shortest of moments Raven closed her eyes, soaking up the sensation, her lips so close to his back she could feel the emanating warmth, the faint scent of thyme and sage. It took an iron will to force herself to continue.

With an inaudible sigh, she wiped the water off his back, and wanted nothing more than to discard the cloth to feel his skin against her fingertips. Her eyes lingered on the scar. “My lord, who inflicted this wound?” Fascinated, she touched the mark between his shoulder blades with light fingertips. “It looks like it could have killed you…”

It hit her like a fist. That she would never be able to bear the thought of losing him.

In order to distract herself and him, Raven spoke again, hoping that the agitation in her voice was not too evident. “Sire, it is most admirable that you insist on Lady Alys’ consent to the marriage, despite Lord Marnoch’s promise. The daughter might obey her father, but she might not do so with a cheerful heart. A wife who fears and despises you for the force used against her could inflict more damage to peace and stability than any other enemy from within or without.” It was true. But Raven doubted not, and could not doubt in the state she was in, that consent would be easily obtained, and peace finally secured in the North.

Walking halfway around him her arms slid down, drying his waist, his stomach, her heart beating fast and hard against her chest. She could not look up now, did not dare to. Shyly, she guided the cloth over his firm buttocks, his thighs, and then, barely breathing and as gently as she could, towards his cock.

For the length of one heartbeat, Raven imagined that she was able to reveal her true identity, that she would touch the man she had grown to admire – maybe to love, yet she did not dare to even contemplate the word – as a woman, as Raven, as the girl who was now trembling like a leaf, and hoped he would not notice. So this was the instrument that Elwynn had praised endlessly, apparently a source of manifold pleasures. Her throat was dry as she felt Lord Stephen’s cock through the thin cloth. Would that she…

But then a group of people passed the door of Lord Stephen’s chambers, chatting and laughing, and the moment was gone. Raven finished her task, and rose again. “Should I help you get dressed my lord?”

"The scar?"

It was the very oldest of the marks on Stephen's body. It took Rowan's soft, gentle touch on the spot to call it to mind.

"It was a campaign along the Welsh marches, under the old king. I was thirteen at the time."

He half-turned over his shoulder to regard Rowan, and noted with a little confusion that the lad appeared to be blushing hotly.

"I was a squire, like you, at the time to an angry old knight; Sir Hugh of Oxford. God's blood! Every day, he'd find some new way to torment me. He'd have me stay up all night to clean his armour and his sword, then get up before dawn to prepare his horse. He would have me dig holes in the frozen ground, then fill them in again as soon as I was done. I never got a kind word from him all of the campaign."

He hadn't said a word, to Sir Hugh or to any of the other squires, most of whom readily bad-mouthed their own, far more moderate knight masters. He had been taught that it was a man's part to silently endure what could not be mended.

"Then the Welsh rebels came down on us out of the fog one day, and Sir Hugh and I were separated from the others. I killed one of the two that attacked us but the other came from behind and put a spear through my back..."

The memory of the pain came to mind but he contemplated it stoically, unflinching. He noticed that Rowan's hands on his body were trembling and when he met his eye, curious, the rich dark eyes dropped in apparent alarm. He frowned. It was unlike Rowan to show such fear at a mere tale.

"I remember very little of what passed next -I was between life and death. I know that old Sir Hugh killed the other Welshman, though he took a mortal wound, then rode through the night with me in front of him on his horse, up and down the hills, until he found the main body of the royal army. He died soon after he found them. He made me a knight on his deathbed."

Rowan's gentle hands, still trembling, had reached his crotch. The slim archer's eyes were closed now as he slowly ran the cloth over Stephen's cock and balls, the cloth softly lapping up the water. As he finished, Stephen grasped the slender wrist and tilted Rowan's chin to look at him. A slight, tremulous sigh seemed to escape Rowan's lush lips.

"There's no telling what's in the heart of any man," Stephen said softly. "That's what that scar reminds me."

There was an unaccountable, rising tension in the air. Stephen felt on the verge of some unknowable abyss, yet exhilarated and not frightened by its presence. He felt a shout rising up in his chest -a sheer, uncanny charge all over his body. Rowan parted his lips as if to speak and Stephen waited, knowing and not knowing... and then the moment passed, as a group of laughing dinner guests passed by the doorway.

Stephen shrugged off the strange moment.

"Yes, by all means," he said, gesturing to the suit of clothes laid out by the arras. It was all in rich black velvet, slashed with silver -the de Valois arms quartered with the royal arms, which Stephen was entitled to wear, on the sleeve. Stephen did not usually care for such things, but he had no wish to insult his hosts by wearing his usual plain garb at their welcoming feast.

Raven smiled shyly, relieved that the dangerous tension had dissolved. When he had reached for her wrist, she had trembled so violently that her knees had threatened to give in, and she had barely been able to withstand his gaze. Had he felt it, too? Had he felt that all she had wanted at that moment was for him to pull her up, and kiss her?

She could almost hear Elwynn’s clear laughter in her mind. “…begging for him to fuck you…!” She blushed violently at the memory. And yet.

Startled, she realised that she had been on the brink of revealing her identity. This had to stop. Maybe digging a few holes in the frozen ground of the Crowsdale forest was a good idea just now. She certainly had a talent for it.

His tale still lingered in her mind. She imagined the 13-year-old Stephen, still more a boy than a man. It was the first time that he had so freely talked about his past. Had he been afraid then? Or happy maybe, of the honours he had earned?

Her brother Thomas had taught her how to shoot a bow and skin a rabbit when she was eleven years old. Only one year later, he died of a fever, only a year older than Lord Stephen had been when he killed a man. When he himself almost died.

She reached for the undergarments, and held them out for Lord Stephen.

“Is it hard?” she asked, her face strangely tense. “To kill somebody, I mean.”

As his squire, she would need to learn how to wield a sword. Once or twice, Lucais had put a blade in her hand, but she had not shown much enthusiasm, and, if truth be, not much talent either. While a bow had always been a useful instrument for her, a means of supplying food and fur, a sword did not provide such useful excuses. A sword was for killing. Raven helped Lord Stephen to put on the undershirt, and for the very briefest of moments, felt the smooth skin of his neck, his chest under her fingertips, before the thin linen covered him.

Then her thoughts wandered back to his tale. How young he had been then! Raven remembered her brothers teasing her that it was sad for a girl to shoot her first rabbit before receiving her first kiss, and just to spite them, she had dragged one of the village lads behind a barn to find out what the fuss was all about, only to decide that she would take a dead rabbit anytime over the sloppy, wet lips of a miller’s boy. Had Lord Stephen ever kissed a girl before killing for the very first time?

She looked up at his face. There was a softness around his mouth that she had not noticed before, a faint flicker underneath the ice of his eyes. Or was her mind playing tricks on her?

When she stood before him to lace up his breeches, she did not dare to look up at him, for fear that he would be able to guess at her thoughts. There's no telling what's in the heart of any man. But I am not a man, she thought unhappily. And my heart feels ever heavier with the secrets it has to conceal.

Had she fallen in love with Lord Stephen? Dear Mother Mary, please no.

Because what would come of such folly? Even if he would not punish her if he ever found out that she was in fact not Rowan, who was she, really? A peasant girl, and, in fact, a criminal, guilty of thievery, poaching, deceit, possibly treason and whatever a judge would call her most unnatural state. Women had been killed for much lesser offenses in the past. Yes, Raven wanted to think that, should she reveal herself to her master, Lord Stephen would not punish her, but that he would indeed understand. She picked up the black velvet tunic, and brushed with her thumb over the arms stitched in silver. Or would he? And, more importantly still, would his station allow him to forgive her such lies?

Maybe. But even if all the miracles were to occur, one thing was certain: he would never love a girl such as herself. If a woman as radiant and beautiful, as noble and doubtlessly as graceful and learnt as Lady Alys was barely able to stir his heart, how could she, the poaching squirrel, ever hope to do so?

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to meet his gaze and smile. “Well, Sire, if you plan to make me polish your armour and tend to Nimbus all night, I’d appreciate if you would tell me now, so I can grab a bowl of stew before getting to work.”

Stepping back, she looked at Lord Stephen. “If Lady Alys will not consent to such a husband, my lord, she must be heartless, blind and dead inside, in which case her refusal would probably count as a blessing.”

"Is it hard?"

Stephen thought about it as he pulled on his smallclothes, the tanned skin of his battle-toned body disappearing inch by inch.

"Yes, at first."

Men died so much harder than they did in the ballads. Their bodies could have been hacked to a butcher's slab of meat, and yet still they would cough and wretch and twitch and claw at their assailant. The first kills were the hardest for any man, before he learned of the surest and quickest ways of the coup de grace.

"Then, it gets easier. Too much easier. It becomes a motion of the arm, a twist of the wrist. You stop thinking about what it means to take a man's life from him. You stop thinking of the ones you kill as men at all."

Rowan's large eyes had the rich, clear darkness of a winter midnight and the slowly retreating blush only made his fine, angelic features all the more striking. He was a gentle boy, despite his courage and skill with the bow. Even his oft-vaunted prowess in the bedchamber, Stephen thought, ultimately suggested a concern for and interest in his women's pleasure, as much as his on, that was rare among one so young, or indeed among most men of any age. Stephen could never wish that such a one, as finely formed in character as in face and body, could ever gain the frosty hardness that Stephen himself had taken on.

And yet hadn't he already set Rowan on that path, by making him a squire and putting a sword in his hand? And was that his real concern? Stephen cared for the men under his command and did not endanger them needlessly, but he had long accepted that not every man he sent into battle would return. But Stephen did not want to risk Rowan. A man with his skills and knowledge of the woodland would be very useful on Sir Giles' periodic hunts for the outlaws, and yet Stephen felt an immeasurable reluctance to send Rowan into harm's way with him.

“Well, Sire, if you plan to make me polish your armour and tend to Nimbus all night, I’d appreciate if you would tell me now, so I can grab a bowl of stew before getting to work.”

Stephen smiled. For once, the warmth reached his eyes.

"No, indeed. Instead, you'll be dining with the lords and ladies tonight, my friend -if lower down the table than you deserve. You're a squire now, and you'll sit among your fellows."

He pinned his heavy, dark blue cloak to him with a silver pin -a lovely, antique thing from Celtic Ireland.

"Don't worry about offending anyone with your lack of highborn ways. Men are men, peasant or king. The food and wine will be better but the table manners just the same -sometimes worse."

Nobles didn't have to clean up after themselves, after all.

Rowan finished buckling his belt, got to his feet and stepped away from his lord.

“If Lady Alys will not consent to such a husband, my lord, she must be heartless, blind and dead inside, in which case her refusal would probably count as a blessing.”

Stephen almost grinned, shaking his head in mock-reproof. "Peace! Would you have everyone say that I made you a squire for your flattery?"



"What did you promise me when you lay down beside me?
You said you would marry me and not deny me
It's witness I have none but the Almighty
And may he reward you well for slighting of me."

A trio of minstrels were performing in the gallery overlooking Castle Marnoch's Great Hall. The hall itself was a cavernous structure, its high barrel arches blackened by the smoke of countless fires. From the vaulted ceiling hung banners and rusted weapon, trophies of war taken by the Marnochs of generations past. Dogs barked and snapped at one another across the floor and the air was thick with the delicious scents of roasting, sizzling meat, fresh bread, sweet mead and new wine.

Stephen, as liege lord, had been given Marnoch's usual place of honour and Alys had been seated next to him. The lady herself had not yet appeared and so Stephen remained standing, Marnoch watching him, head cocked to one side, from the place on his other side.

"For when I had gold in store, you did invite me;
But now I'm low and poor, you mean to slight me.
For there is no trusting men, not my own brother,
So girls, if you would love, love one each other."

Stephen glanced upwards and Marnoch mistook his glance, his face darkening.

"They were not asked for a song of false love, my lord. It is hardly fitting. I'll send to have them change... "

Stephen made a pacifying gesture.

"No, do not trouble. The song warns against contracts too lightly made. There may be a lesson there."

A frown settled on Marnoch's features as he considered Stephen's comment.

Alys sat at the head of the table, nervously fingering the silver necklace that her uncle, Lord Thomas, had given her as a present.

Instructing the minstrels to sing a song about a fickle, lying lover had seemed amusing earlier, but now, under the knowing gaze of her father’s brother, Alys wished that the music would stop. She did not meet his cool, even stare, but felt the heavy weight of his eyes, and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. His words were still fresh in her mind, and, worse still, brought to life the images she had longed to forget for years.

After she had overheard the conversation he had had with her father, she had eagerly told her maid Brae that not all was lost, that she held one last trump her hands. Alys had almost been euphoric. There was still some time, she had thought. Robert might yet save her from the union with the Norman lord. There was hope still. But now, she was not so sure anymore.

The noise of the many people gathered in the hall, the smoke of the fires, the smell of the food, all of it suffocated her, made her nauseous. Lord Stephen de Valois stood with his back turned, waiting for the arrival of her mother. He had greeted her politely, but had not spoken to her since. When she looked up, her uncle, watching her closely, smiled faintly, almost encouragingly. It was all she could do not to break out in tears.

“Do you remember the man on the gallows, Alys? The traitor?” These had been his words when her uncle had spoken to her just before the feast, only moments earlier, when she had been happy and confident that she would see her Robert again. Of course she remembered the man on the gallows. God knows she wished to forget what she had seen that day, but yes, she remembered. She had been fifteen years old, and it had been the first time that she had witnessed deliberate, violent death. She remembered the blood, and the screams, and the terrible eternity it took for the man to die.

“Why do you ask, uncle?” He had smiled sadly, and tilted her chin up with callous fingers. She knew that he loved her like a father. “Because, my dear niece, you need to be aware that what you saw there was nothing, nothing, against what de Lacy will do to his bastard son if he learns of the secret you share.” She had stared at him, unable to reply anything to this. Her uncle had caressed her cheek. “Why don’t you go and fetch the necklace I gave you? I know it was meant to be for your wedding, but I think you should not wait that long.” And then he had left. It was all he had said. No mention of politics, of war, of the suffering of the people, of her own responsibility to bring peace.

Of course she had gone to fetch the necklace. And now she was here, in the hall, her throat dry and her heart heavy with sorrow, and all she could think of was Robert, and all she could picture was him, bloodied and tortured, dying on the gallows of William de Lacy.

***
Raven shivered, despite the fires in the great hall. It was difficult to shake of the inner turmoil. The image of Sir Stephen, the memory of his all too brief touch and the warmth of his skin, the desire for him clung to her mind and body with merciless claws. It hurt. It made it hard to breathe and to think. Raven clenched her fists, and hoped that the feast would help her gather her senses.

She seated herself between two squires at the long feasting table, trying to be as invisible as possible and all too aware of the stares and whispers. She wore de Valois arms and colours tonight, and could not escape the curious glances, especially, she noticed with a sigh, from the womenfolk of the castle. Arnaud and Lucais were not present in the great hall, and right now, she wished for nothing more than their company.

As soon as she sat down, servants placed a bowl of beef stew in front of her, and only now did she realise how hungry she was. She picked up her spoon with an almost audible sigh of pleasure. However, before she could taste the delicious dish, the boy to her left, a large, pimply squire who wore the arms of a Northern lord, leant over to her.

“Is it true that your master blesses his sword with the blood of a virgin before each battle?” Raven stared at him, the spoon suspended halfway between her mouth and the bowl of stew. She had half a mind to tell him that Sir Stephen did prefer the blood of a brainless toad to that of a virgin, but sensed that this one lacked the wits to understand cynicism. Before she could say anything, the pimply boy went on in a conspiratorial whisper: “Some say that he does not require food or sleep.”

The skinny boy to her right snorted, pointing to the food-laden table with his knife. “That would be a right waste.” Turning to Raven, he said with a grin: “Don’t mind him…say, what was your name again?”

“Rowan.”

“Rowan…what?”

Raven put down her spoon. “Just Rowan.”

The skinny dark-haired boy raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. She was uncomfortably aware that every one of the people at this table held a noble title, no matter how insignificant their house, or, for that matter, how slow their wits.

“Right…Rowan…well, Fionn here makes a louse look like a scholar, and his taste for gossip exceeds that of any kitchen wench. Pay him no heed. The only reason he was ever allowed to become Sir Eoghan’s squire was because his family is richer than the King of England himself.”

Fionn did not protest, but gave both of them a look of utter disdain, before turning away to share his observations with the neighbour seated to his left who seemed much more eager to hear them.

“And what’s your name?” Raven decided that she liked the dark-haired boy.

“I am Cailin of Drystone, but I serve Lord Marnoch, and have been since I was seven years old.” He skewered a piece of meat with the point of his knife. “Except for the damn cold, Crowsdale is a good place to be.” He chewed slowly, and nodded towards Lady Alys. “Good thing, too, that Lord Marnoch has found a husband for his lovely daughter. I think he was afraid that she would run off with the bastard in the end.”

Raven tried to appear as casual as she could. “Run off with…the bastard?”

“Yes, the pretty lad she favoured at the tourney. Caused a right scandal, too – I never would have thought that she would dare to cross her father like that. Lady Alys is the most virtuous and dutiful daughter that ever was.”

Slowly stirring her stew, Raven wondered if this was of importance.

“Who was he?”

“De Lacy’s bastard. Some say his mother was a heretic from the Holy Land. A right devil with lance and sword, too, the maids of the castle talked of nothing else for weeks on end. Devil’s cock, I am glad he is gone.”

De Lacy. Raven stiffened. She knew that William de Lacy was no friend of the House of Valois, and that Sir Stephen did not trust him, but he had never mentioned a bastard son. As far as she was aware, de Lacy did not have any children at all.

“And Lady Alys fell for him?”

Cailin grinned. “Rumours, nothing else.” It was clear that Lord Marnoch’s squire realised that he had already said too much. “Flights of fancy of a romantic mind is all.”

Raven considered the blonde woman sitting next to Lord Stephen, radiant and beautiful like a sunny spring day. Did she fancy another? But even then, it did not matter now, not if she gave her consent to marry the man now standing next to her, tall, and lean and handsome. She swallowed. Many of the noble ladies seated in the great hall threw her master furtive, admiring glances. At Lord Stephen de Valois and Lady Alys of Crowsdale both.

Suddenly, Raven was painfully aware of how desirable Lady Alys truly was, of the graceful line of her neck, her golden hair, her delicate face, the curves of her body. For a brief moment, she imagined herself wearing that dress, the silver necklace, with her thick wavy hair cascading over her shoulders and down her back. Would she receive the same dreamy stares as Lady Alys of Crowsdale was now? Would she be a bride fit for a man like Sir Stephen?

Cailin elbowed her in the side and laughed, obviously misinterpreting her silence. “Don’t worry about that now. Are you looking forward to the tourney?” He chewed on another piece of meat. “I heard there will be a contest for the squires, too! I hope for your sake that your master has trained you well. Fionn here might be a moron, but he is a right brute with a blade.”

There was no denying that Alys of Crowsdale was an extraordinarily beautiful girl. Her creamy, satin-smooth skin was the perfect complement to the soft, golden cloud of her hair and eyes that were as blue as a summer morning. She looked like a pious man's notion of an angel, although a pious man might have been troubled to imagine the nubile, delicately feminine curves of her slender body, shown to perfect advantage by her dress, or the rounded swell of her breasts, a silver necklace dangling temptingly between them.

Even her expression, sad and troubled, did nothing but enhance her beauty. It made a man want to bring a smile to that lovely face, bring colour back into those pale cheeks, a sparkle into the sapphire eyes and a sway to her walk. And there was always just that single tantalising spark of fire there, that suggested that it could be done, and that the doing itself would be pleasure beyond pleasure.

Stephen sat down as Lady Crowsdale arrived. She favoured him with a small but warm smile. The woman had her daughter's beauty, though it was made more mellow and less striking with age.

"You needn't have stood waiting, my lord. Sometimes Norman politeness just makes everything more difficult for everyone."

Stephen accepted the affectionate rebuke with a bow of the head and a rare half-smile. He liked this woman and her husband but it was still strange to think that they might be his parents in law by the end of his stay here.

Stephen sat down and Marnoch and his wife suddenly became involved in a conversation with their neighbours to the right, discreetly ensuring that Stephen and Alys could talk in private. Stephen tried to think of something to say.

The truth was that he had little experience talking with women, at least women of Alys' class. He had no sisters. His early life had been the rough, masculine world of kitchens, guardrooms and hunting lodges. Then there had been the campaigns and the journeys. Haunting dark eyes glimpsed above a veil in sunlit Moorish cities -a brief but intense affair following, sweet, soft-voiced words in Arabic but little real conversation. He could hardly talk horses or war with a delicate lady like Alys, or swap stories of war-wounds as he had been with Rowan not half an hour.

And then he wished for the sweet ease that conversation with Rowan always had. Their ideas sparking off each other, the breadth and excitement and unspoken trust and affection of their debates. Did Alys read? Could Alys read? Particularly in the north, some thought that an accomplishment unsuitable for highborn women. For the first time, Stephen considered his own feelings about this marriage. If it could be accomplished, it had to be accomplished so it hardly mattered but... he didn't want a wife whom he couldn't talk to, a wife with whom he had nothing in common.

The silence between the two was stretching to the point of awkwardness. Stephen took a breath. He had much rather be back laying siege to Castle de Courtney, or even lying between life and death on the foggy Welsh marches.

"My lady, your necklace is very lovely."

Not material from the immortal chansons d'amour, Stephen knew, but he had to start somewhere.


***


Robert had been amused and pleased by the request. She hadn't recognised him, sitting at the back of the gallery with his hood pulled down over his face, but it was as though her request for a song of false love was her reassurance to him. She had looked so lovely, so beautiful and ethereal.

Now he strummed his mandolin, looking down over the hall, and raised his voice in harmony with his two fellows. A minstrel was like a bastard -usefully invisible. They were welcome in most great houses and they could come and go at will. They observed everything but nobody noticed them or wondered where they might go after concluding their songs.

He generally travelled about the northern shires in the guise of a minstrel once or twice a year. It was a perfect way to acquire information, gossip and rumours on the state of the country. Some of it he passed on to his father, some of it he kept to himself, waiting for the day when it all might be useful. It was also useful to maintain his minstrel persona. He was known in various parts and among fellow players as Alain, and there was a vague understanding that he spent most of his time further south. He was a naturally gifted musician and singer and so a welcome temporary addition to most minstrel troupes.

He had never come here as Alain before. He was too well-known in Crowsdale after the tourney and it was dangerous, but he'd known after that meeting with his father that he'd have to take the risk. This was his last and best chance to steal Alys away forever.

All the preparations were in place. He had his own men, men whom he had spent time and effort gleaning from the dross of his father's men and winning to himself through money and charm. None of those who had taken a woman by force on his father's brutal raids, or who delighted in killing to no purpose. Not good men, perhaps, not tame men, but loyal men. He had secured the fastest horses that he could and perhaps as early as tonight, he was prepared to steal Alys away. A swift sailing ship waited for him, his lady and his band in a cove on the coast, its captain an old ally. After that, it would be a short journey across the northern sea to Flanders and then, who knew? There was always a need for mercenaries among the Italian states or perhaps they could venture eastwards and carve out a fiefdom for themselves in the territories of Poland and the Teutonic Knights. They didn't care about the quality of your blood there, just the quality of your steel.

As for those loyal to his father, they would remain encamped nearby, waiting for the signal for the raid on Crowsdale that would never come. Robert's only regret was that he wouldn't have the chance to kill them.

He looked down in the hall. The Norman lord had joined Alys. Robert regarded him levelly. Unlike his father, he didn't hate Lord Stephen de Valois. He could even find it in his heart to pity him a little -getting a mere glimpse of a perfect jewel such as Alys and having it stolen away from him.

He supposed that de Valois would be accounted handsome by women. His face was hard and imperious but not unkind, his cheekbones set high in his face in the aquiline Norman way, and his blue eyes had a frosty glitter to them. His body was lean, hard and sculpted to perfection by exercise and exertion. Even the thought of disobeying the orders of such a man required a surprising effort of will, just as it might for a woman to avoid succumbing to his charms.

But de Valois was holding himself uncharacteristically stiffly, and it clearly took an effort to speak, haltingly, to the angel at his side. Robert shook his head, a smile of pure mischief arching his full lips. He remembered the first time he had talked with Alys -the sheer sparkling, flirtatious flow of wit and warmth that he had produced, knowing that every word was enchanting her, binding her closer to him. De Valois might be handsome but he certainly didn't have Robert's way with words.

It was a little cruel, even if de Valois would not know it at the time, but Robert could not resist letting Alys, and just Alys, in on his presence at that exact moment.

"'The Gypsy Lover'?"

The leader of the troupe, Marcus, shrugged. "Why not? Take the lead."

And so Robert began to sing. It was the story of a high-born lady who forsakes her house and lands and her new-wed lord to follow a wild, roving gypsy. He knew that Alys would recognise his voice immediately.

“You are very kind, my lord.” For the first time this evening, Alys smiled. “My uncle gave it to me as a wedding gift.” The word just slipped out, and she blushed violently. While everyone in the great hall knew why Lord Stephen de Valois had travelled to Crowsdale, no official proposal of marriage had been made yet, not to her face at least, and it seemed indecent for her to make mention of it.

But if there was one thing that Alys of Crowsdale mastered, it was the art of polite conversation. Lowering her gaze demurely, she continued: “Forgive my audacity, my lord, but the joy over your visit seems to have gotten the better of me.” Well aware that many eyes were watching her every movement, she managed another smile. “Your presence both honours and delights us.” She lifted her cup to him in a gesture of perfect, non-committal courtesy. Could the Norman lord ask for more?

If circumstances would have been different, Alys might have appreciated his difficulties with words, his uncharacteristic, almost shy way of addressing her, but she could not wipe the fear for her beloved’s safety from her mind. Where was he now? Did he think of her, just like she thought of him? Did her image torture him, just as the memory of his black eyes tortured her? Oh, my dear Robert, if you just knew how much my heart aches for you!

It was then, just as she lifted the cup of wine to her lips, that the minstrels on the gallery started to play another song, and the beautiful voice of the singer carried across the great hall. His voice.

Alys froze, and her lips parted in a silent scream. It was him, there was no doubt about it, she would recognise his voice anywhere. Robert. He was here, in this hall, he was here with her! For a brief moment, time seemed to be suspended, and all she could hear was her own deafening heartbeat. How was it possible? Was she dreaming? But no, the rich aroma of the wine, the heat of the fires, the smell of the food – everything around her was immediate and real. He really was here, disguised as a travelling musician, providing entertainment for her, her house, and her husband-to-be.

Madness! How could he risk his life so? If he was discovered, he would die this very night, cut down by any of the knights of her father’s house, all of whom longed to wipe off the stain that the love between Alys and Robert the bastard had caused on all of their honour. And in front of Lord Stephen, her future husband! Alys’ hand holding the cup was shaking, and it took much self-control not to let it slip from her grasp.

And yet she could not suppress the feeling of wild joy. He had come to save her, and he might yet succeed, and for the length of a heartbeat, all the terrible images of death and punishment were forgotten. Robert was here. He had not forsaken her. He was here.

The song drifted across the hall. Alys wanted to close her eyes and let his voice, his rich, beautiful voice, caress her in absence of his lips and hands – no! - in anticipation of both. He had sung this song for her before, once, and it had been the promise that he obviously intended to keep. Her gypsy lover…

Her clear blue eyes met that of her uncle. He looked straight at her, unsmiling, before his gaze rose to the gallery, where the minstrels – and Robert! – were seated. Her heart skipped several beats. Dear Mother Mary, please do not let Robert be discovered. Did her father’s brother suspect anything? Had she been too obviously troubled by this song?

Lord Stephen was also still looking at her. Had he noticed the sudden light in her eyes, her joy and her fear? With the lucidity of the desperate, Alys straightened her back, and delicately placed the cup of wine back on the table. She lifted one hand to her necklace. “A piece from Celtic Ireland, I believe, just as your pin seems to be.” Her voice was even, pleasant, not even hinting at the turmoil raging inside her. Did it work? Alys did not dare to look at her uncle, silently praying that he was watching her interaction with Lord Stephen again.

Wanting to prolong the moment of distraction, she continued. “For me, these tokens are small glimpses into a world I have not yet been able to see. Alas, I have not yet had the joy of travelling, but I would like to see Ireland, and the lands across the sea.” It took an iron will not to look up to the gallery, but Robert’s life depended on it. “Tell me, my lord, how do you find our grim lands after all the beautiful places that you must have seen?”

Stephen found his breath catching in his throat at the sudden transformation in Alys' face and eyes. Her breathing suddenly quickened and a flush spread all over her lovely face, at once fear and a wild, sweet joy like nothing he'd ever seen on it before. It was though the prediction that had crossed his mind, about the lucky man who could awaken something within the girl, was coming true before his eyes.

But he was not the man. What had occasioned the sudden change in Alys' expression? The minstrel had begun to song, a song of romance. Just a young girl's daydreams? Or... he found himself glancing at Alys' uncle, whom she mentioned had given her the necklace. The older man looked back at him and smiled politely, his eyes closed off. Stephen hoped that Rowan had been able to find something. There was more going on here than he had realised.

Alys' expression had turned demure and her complexion had return to its usual ivory so quickly that he could almost believe he had imagined it.

"The places I've been...?" asked Stephen.

She had mentioned Ireland -a wild place of mountains, bogs and rainswept forests, which the Norman invaders surveyed fearfully from their hilltop castles. No place for a delicate young woman, although Stephen's estimation of Alys' character and strength were beginning to be revised upwards.

And there was the land of his ancestors, Normandy, which Stephen had visited on his journey to the Holy Land. Grim, grey fortresses amidst the cliffs and people as hard, dark and unyielding as the soil. As you travelled south, the landscape gradually softened in character, until the Mediterranean basin, cradle of the great empires of the past, came into view.

Rome had been a maze of tumbled ruins, a poignant shadow of its former glory, a place of contrasts between white heat and patches of shadow under the columns where thieves ambushed the unwary traveller. In Cyprus and the Lebanon, Stephen had his first inkling of the beauty of the civilization he and his fellows had set out to smash, glimpsed it in the lines of intricate, indecipherable Arabic script and the infinite, mathematically pure complexity of the geometric designs and architecture.

Damascus, Jaffah, Acre, Jerusalem, Cairo. War, truce, war, sand wet with blood. How could one begin to describe it all?

"I've seen beautiful lands," he said at last. "But the north is also beautiful."

And it was true. He thought of the winding, snowy roads through the trees he had taken to get here, of the cry of a lone bird in the woods at dawn. He thought of the people -Rowan's flashing dark eyes, his shy courage and pure face; Lady Alys with her own form of bravery, with her own golden beauty.

He smiled.

"Perhaps one has to search for it a little more than in southern lands. But doesn't that make it all the more precious? Like a rose in winter."

Alys sipped her wine, desperately trying to appear casual. With her stomach in knots, she barely managed to touch the food on the plate before her. The feast around her had faded away - her thoughts were on Robert, and on him alone. The wish to run up the stairs to the gallery to join him, to see him with her own eyes, to be in his arms again was overwhelming, but she knew very well that it would have been his death if she gave in to it.

His song drifted through the hall, sending shivers down her spine, touching her very core. It was hard to tear her mind away from the memory of his embrace, his kisses, and the fire in his eyes when he looked at her. How brave of him to enter the very den of the lion to save her, mocking his enemies, laughing in the face of fate and death! For Alys, there could not have been a more romantic way to prove his love to her. He was her Tristan, her golden knight, ready to die a thousand times for his lady! They were star-crossed lovers for certain, what better prove could God give her than this? Forgotten were the words of her mother and her father, their pleads for her to be responsible. Having grown up sheltered, without want or need, Alys had drawn her inspiration from the songs of the troubadours, from the epics of romance, and tales of lovers who rather died than to forsake each other. It was a game for her, a drama in which she was both puppet and puppeteer. The thought filled her with courage. If Robert was able to fight for her thus, she would do the same.

The weapon she chose was the one she had started to sense was her most powerful one: charm. She remembered something her mother had once said to her: “Women are not at men’s mercy only because they lack their brute force. If used wisely, your beauty can become a weapon more dangerous and more efficient than any sword, my dove. But like a knight skilled with a blade, you must learn how to wield it.”

She was not yet a knight yet, no self-confident master at the art of seduction and not yet fully aware of her effect on men, but she knew that she was able to capture their attention if she so wished. And if Lord Stephen de Valois only had eyes for her, he would not see anything else. If she was able to dissipate all of Lord Stephen’s suspicions, her uncle, her mother, and her father would be satisfied as well, and Robert would be safe.

The young Norman lord was without any doubt a fierce opponent on any battlefield, but his words betrayed his unease in the face of more gentle weapons. And did he not want to be seduced? Had he not come to Crowsdale to claim a bride? If she was able to hint at a promise that he wanted to believe, she might yet emerge victorious.

Lifting her eyes to meet his again, holding his gaze a second longer than would be common, she smiled. “My lord, you flatter me and these lands, but without much merit. I hear that the North presented you with a rather frosty welcome and little of the love that you deserve as its just liege.” She blushed. “I am guilty of a similar slight and ask that you forgive the inexperienced young woman who fears what she does not know.” She put her hand delicately onto that of the man next to her. “I have to admit that I was afraid to meet you, my lord. Vicious tongues have been busy marring your name, composing horrid tales of your exploits.” She tilted her head and laughed softly, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Now I can see that jealousy was their only counsellor, and that all that I have to afraid of is to lose my heart.”

Alys was aware that every smile granted to Lord Stephen de Valois was an offense towards the man she really loved, and who was doubtlessly watching her every gesture from the gallery, but reluctance would have been a very blunt, and thus treacherous weapon indeed. Convinced that the quality of her performance would decide over her and Robert’s fate, she excelled at it.

Withdrawing her hand, she picked up her cup to toast her noble guest. “To unexpectedly pleasant discoveries, then, my lord.” Then she called over Brae, her handmaiden. “Brae, please go and tell these talented musicians to play a saltarello. I think it is time for a dance!”

***

Raven was suddenly not all that hungry anymore. A tourney? Great. But this was not the reason for her unhappiness. Cailin motioned towards the head of the table.

“They are a pretty sight, the two of them together, eh?” He reached for a honey cake and started nibbling on it. “I can already imagine the troubadours falling over each other to come up with the most elaborate way of describing their lovelorn gazes and their embraces under blossoming trees.” He rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Your master must have ploughed through rows of maidens before settling on our Alys, by the looks of him.”

Raven frowned, poking at a piece of lamb with her knife. “I…I don’t know.” It was the truth. Lord Stephen had never mentioned women, ever. But then again, she had only known him for about a month, and Castle Courtney was a veritable bastion of men, at least ever since she had been there. There must have been women before, at court in London, and on his countless journeys, but Lord Stephen rarely talked about himself, let alone about past romances.

The boy leant back in his chair and licked his fingers. “Don’t make such a face, Rowan, I did not mean any harm by that. A man does not live off food alone, right?” Leaning closer towards her, he whispered: “Lord Marnoch keeps me on a short leash. Thinks that a future knight should not exploit the weaknesses of kitchen wenches. Well, I think that it would be much worse not to cater to their needs.”

Raven barely listened. She secretly watched Lord Stephen and Lady Alys, and felt a hot rush of jealousy. The young noblewoman, so sullen and pale earlier, had transformed into a radiant bride before everyone’s eyes. Nothing was left of her sad demeanour. How had Lord Stephen managed this small miracle? She sighed. Did she really need to ask? How could any woman withstand his charm, really? Nobody was more aware of that than herself.

And Lord Stephen, who had initially seemed uncomfortable and stiff, now leant towards her, a smile arching his beautiful lips. Raven had always secretly hoped that this expression was something reserved for herself, and the realisation of how laughable that thought had been was painful. Raven was surprised how much it hurt to watch him court another woman. She raised her cup of wine, hoping to wash down these ridiculous sentiments. Another woman! As compared to who? The little poacher?

Cailin looked at her quizzically. “You are not having a good time, are you, Rowan?” He poured both of them another cup of wine. Raven smiled faintly, biting her lip. All that she wanted was to leave the hall, and be alone. Maybe she could steal herself away, tend to Nimbus.

But Cailin did not let up. “Listen, are you a good climber?” He emptied his cup. “If you like, I can take you up the mountain. There are bear caves that are said to be inhabited by fays. They’ll make you forget the girl who broke your heart, I swear it.”

Raven raised her eyebrows. “Fays?”

He grinned. “I have never seen them, but others have. Maybe tonight we’re lucky?”

It was interesting, in a way. Even instructive. Watching Alys of Crowsdale at this moment was like watching a natural swordsman pick up a blade for the first time, like listening as a musical prodigy struck the first chords from his instrument. Perhaps she wasn't perfect. A trace of hesitation as she laid slender fingers on his wrist, a tiny false note in her kittenish laugh.

Or was that a part, intentional or otherwise, of her charms? To suggest that she was so overawed by the man in front of her that she faltered in her careful performance, that she forgot her lines.

And Stephen tried to keep thinking along these lines -detached, austere, cynical. To try and bear in mind the dangers about him. But it was harder and harder. Alys' light touch was a fire and the sparkling glance of her blue eyes like refreshing wine. The smile came to his lips unbidden at the very sight of her demurely flushed face, the so-innocent seduction arched on her pouting lips. It had been so long...

For no reason, his eyes went to the bottom of the table. Rowan seemed to understand women intimately, based on Lucas' stories. Perhaps his pretty squire would have been able to parry Alys' attacks, even fascinate her in turn. Rowan slept in his antechamber now -he could ask him tonight. But at present, Rowan's place seemed to be empty. Stephen felt oddly hollow for a moment. When he returned his gaze to Alys, some of the sheer attraction he had felt for her had dwindled, as though with his squire's departure.

"My lady," he said with a slightly teasing smile. "I'll drink to your toast, but I propose one of my own. Your father and I were discussing earlier such power as women should have. May we drink to the power of women?"

The musicians struck up a rollicking saltarello and Stephen calmly stood, extending his hand to Alys. With his athletic, toned body he was an unusually graceful dancer.


***


She was just playing with the Norman lord.

She had to be. She loved him. Had she not given the signal of the request for the song of false love? Did she not recognise his voice lifted in song. Robert tried to calm himself. And yet, as Robert drummed on the butt of his mandolin and plucked at the strings, he found jealousy gnawing away at him.

How could she smile that way at a man she felt coldly towards? She had even reached out to touch him. Alys was so reserved, so cool. It had taken time even for hotblooded Robert to melt those walls of ice. Now this stonefaced southerner was recieving all of her smiles, her little attentions?

But it was just a ruse. It had to be. He loved her and she loved him. It was a woman's trick, a way of blinding Lord Stephen, perhaps arousing a little flame of jealousy in her own true love.

Wasn't it?

The conflict blazing in Robert's soul found its way into his performance, hot and fiery chords in quick succession.

Alys accepted the Norman’s lord hand with a demure smile, while other ladies and lords around the table rose to join them in the middle of the great hall.

From the corner of her eye she caught sight of her father who seemed both stunned and moved by the unexpected change in her behaviour. Her mother smiled. One hand resting on her husband’s arm, she nodded faintly in her direction, communicating her approval. Lord Thomas, her uncle, walked around the table to stand with his brother and wife, as if he wanted to see the miracle up close. Alys’ heart raced with joy. They all believed it. It worked. This was the power of women that Lord Stephen had raised his own cup to, this was her power, and she was just beginning to gauge its extent.

She curtsied in front of her supposed husband-to-be, well aware that the vision of the young couple had silenced all murmurs around the table. It was as if the room itself held its breath in face of the beauty that was unfolding, carried by the music drifting through the hall from the gallery.

Alys could not help but throw a furtive glance up to where she knew her Robert must be. Did she sense a note of anger in the play of the minstrels? Did she just hear a barely detectable slip of the hand on the strings of the mandolin? It did not matter; it could not matter, not now, with all eyes on her and the Norman lord. Robert would surely understand that she was playing a role to save them both.

And she played it well. Her hand slipped from that of Lord Stephen, gracefully and lingering a moment too long, before moving on to the next dancer as the choreography of the dance demanded, and on like this, around and around, her radiant smile and her beauty filling the great hall like sunlight.

Her happiness was contagious. The banter and chatter around the table started again, maybe even a note more cheerful than before. It was as if the tension that had held all the guests in its grip had loosened somewhat, as if the air was less oppressing. Lord Thomas bent down to his brother and whispered in his ear: “You see, brother, her sense does match her beauty. Have you ever seen her happier than this night? I have to admit that I am relieved. With her free consent, there are no more obstacles to the wedding.” His older brother nodded, his gaze fixed on his daughter. She did look happy, didn’t she? Lord Marnoch gently put his hand over that of his wife and squeezed it.

Lady Magaidh watched her daughter over the rim of her cup. Alys was a good actress, much better than she had ever suspected. But she doubted not that the act would turn into real affection for her future husband, and how could it not? Leaning over to her lord husband, she said: “Do you remember the first time we danced? You kept stepping on my feet all evening, and yet I fell in love with you as deeply as I could ever have hoped. At least our daughter will have a husband who knows how to dance.” Laughing softly, she raised her own cup to a toast.

***
Raven took a deep breath when the cold winter air hit her face and made her eyes water. If it was at all possible, the temperatures had dropped further and now, standing on the wall of Crowsdale Castle, the wind ripped mercilessly at her cloak. It had started to snow again, and the light dance of a few scattered flakes quickly turned into a thick whirlwind curtain of snow. And yet she was thankful that she was not in the warm hall anymore. The thought of Lord Stephen touched at her heart with fingers icier than the frost outside could ever have been.

Faint music drifted from inside the castle across the courtyard, where men sat scattered around fires, drinking and eating, some laughing, others singing. Did she hear the roaring laughter of Lucais? Raven wondered where Arnaud had ended up. He had likely managed to secure himself the company of some castle maid to keep him warm.

“Do you really think that we can climb the mountain in this weather?” Raven turned towards her companion who was himself hidden under a thick cloak, his hood drawn so deep over his face that she barely saw his eyes. A woollen scarf was wrapped around his neck, covering his mouth and nose.

“Yes”, he nodded. “The way up is behind the castle, protected from the wind. It’s easy, you’ll see.” Raven looked up. Castle Courtney was nestled against a steep rock. Here and there patches of snow stood out against the black stone, but the mountain itself was shrouded in darkness.

“Very well”, Raven muttered, more to herself than to Cailin. The idea of exertion and reckless endeavour seemed even more alluring now, with the image of Lady Alys and Sir Stephen burnt into her mind. She wondered if he had noted her absence.

Cailin pulled down his scarf and grinned at her. “It is rumoured that the fays will grant a wish to anyone who manages to catch a glimpse at them. Do you know what you would wish for, Rowan?” Her answer was instantaneous: “I do.” But she did not wait for the other squire to ask about details. “We should go.”

For a while they walked along a path flanked by pine trees, before Cailin stopped and indicated: “Here, this is the best spot to climb up the rock. It’s not that steep, and there are plenty of edges to hold on to.”

Raven looked up, but it was hard to see much. She shrugged and nodded. Darkness had never frightened her, and she was an excellent climber. Both of them started working their way up the rock, fingers curling around bits of sharp stone and wet roots. Soon, the cold was driven from her bones and all she could concentrate on was the way before her. She knew that if she slipped now, she would likely break a few bones, or worse.

She could hear Cailin breathe heavily close by, and a soft curse when his heel slipped off the rock. This had been a good idea. The fatigue would let her sleep tonight, and keep away sad dreams.

Feeling for the next edge in the rock, she drew herself up, placing her booted feet carefully in order not to slip. When she looked down, she only saw the thicket of trees, and the faint flickering fires of Crowsdale Castle.

It was then that she heard the whispers. Raven froze.

She looked up, but all she saw a sharp ridge that could possibly be a sort of plateau, making it an excellent place to camp. There was no sign of a fire, however, no glow, no smell of smoke. Whoever was up there meant to remain hidden from spying eyes and the castle. Poachers, or bandits maybe? Raven gave Cailin sign to stop, to remain quiet.

“What?” he whispered. “Did you see any fays?”

Raven shook her head quietly, hoping that the boy would stop talking. She listened intently. Had the whispers stopped? Had they heard them? Her heart was madly racing in her chest. Maybe she had just imagined it? The wind rustled the trees softly.

There it was again. Soft voices, whispers of several men. Raven held her breath. Could she risk a glimpse over the ridge to see who was there? Now Cailin had heard it, too, and his eyes widened. She stayed glued to the black rock, trading silent glances with Lord Marnoch’s squire. Should they go on? If the men were of ill intent, all it would take was a shove. But Cailin was clearly set on finding out who these men were that were hiding so close to his master’s castle. Silent as a lizard, he pulled himself closer to the ridge, while Raven held her breath. If they were poachers, they would likely run. If not…her eyes fixed on Cailin, she prayed that the fays would grant her this wish.

Alys moved with an airy, elfin, impossibly lightfooted grace through the lines of dancers. She laughed and smiled, tripping effortlessly through the measures, and leaving behind a trail of merriment and good cheer, but it seemed as though all of her sweetest and warmest smiles were reserved for Stephen and each time the dance brought her around to him again it seemed as though her hand lingered a little longer in his.

Muscle memory and natural agility carried Stephen through the motions, but the fact was that his other partners recieved scant attention -a blur of faces and limbs in the hall firelight. All of his focus was on Alys' slender, graceful form weaving through the dance and he waited impatiently for it to bring her round to him again.

He had never been a fool for a pretty face or a fetching body, but this felt different. Tonight, Alys seemed to hold an elemental power. It was not just him. He felt the looks of hot envy that many of the men of the hall were directing at him, from the youngest of the squires to the doddering old greybeards on the lower benches. This was a girl on the very brink of golden, fruitful womanhood and it was allowed to him to pluck her.

The dance ended with a final flourish and each of the original pairs once again faced each other. Stephen felt the need for cool night-air. He once again wondered where Rowan had gotten to. He bowed to Alys and instinctively looked to her parents for tacit approval. They gave him a benign smile.

"Excuse me, my lady. It is very warm in here. Would you care to walk through the gardens?"

Still breathless from the dance, her cheeks flushed with joy and excitement, Alys looked at Sir Stephen in surprise. It was warm inside the great hall, but outside it had started to snow again, and the wind howled angrily around the thick stone walls. Surely the polite Norman lord was aware that Crowsdale, a mountain fortress built for the merits of easy defensibility, did not have anything that resembled a garden, at least not during this time of the year. Nobody regretted this lack more than romantic Alys, and for the first time, she felt a rush of shame in the face of this travelled man who had seen so much sophisticated beauty. Crowsdale was rough and sturdy; it did not accommodate finer tastes.

But of course he knew all this himself - it was quite clear that he wanted a chance to be alone with her at last, away from hundreds of curious pairs of eyes. Her heartbeat accelerated as she threw a furtive glance towards the gallery, from where Robert was able to see the exchange between her and Sir Stephen. Her hesitation had already stretched into an uncomfortable silence, but Alys failed to think of any reasonable excuse to deny him this request without causing suspicion.

And while everything inside her rebelled against the thought of leaving the great hall, leaving Robert behind amidst his enemies he had faced to be close to her, all she could do was to slightly bow her head and smile. “Of course, my lord. I am in need of some fresh air myself.”

Brae, who had watched the exchange attentively, came running with her thick cloak lined with fox fur and put it around her shoulders. “Thank you, Brae”, Alys muttered, desperately wanting to send Robert a message. But she did not trust even her handmaiden to be able and brave such a task, so she only took the pair of fur mittens from Brae’s outstretched hands and remained silent, painfully aware of her handmaiden’s hopeful, happy glance from her to the Norman lord. She, like everyone else in the great hall, had been fooled by her performance. It occurred to her that her beloved Robert might feel the same. What if he thought that she had banned him from her heart in favour of Lord Stephen de Valois?

But there was nothing she could do. Her father and mother looked at her, smiling, nodding slightly in encouragement. Lord Stephen held out his hand for her to take, and all she could do was accept it. Surely, he would interpret her trembling as nervousness of the prospect of pending intimacy.

When they stepped out of the hall, leaving behind the warmth and the music, the snowflakes settled in his hair and hers like delicate stars. It was cold, but she did not feel it. “I am afraid that these mountains do not accommodate idyllic strolls, my lord, and they are jealous of warmth and quiet. To enjoy the gardens you spoke of I take refuge in tales and the myths of old. But you have seen so many wonderful lands – please, do talk to me about it.” She smiled warmly at him. “Here we say that it is sinful and greedy not to share beauty.”

***

For a while, nothing happened. What did Cailin see? The snow whirled around the rock, and her fingers had started to ache with the cold.

“I don’t know who they are”, Cailin whispered down to her. “But why would they lurk here if they had honest business?” And before Raven managed to object, Cailin pulled himself up on the rock, and shouted: “What are you doing here?”

Raven stared up at his feet, wondering if it would be wiser to simply stay hidden. But would she not be accused of treacherous cowardice? As a squire, she could probably not afford such luxury as fear in the face of lesser men, and with a silent prayer, she climbed up after Cailin. What she saw made her breath catch in her throat with fear.

A group of men, all armed, stood around a fireplace that had clearly been put out with the onset of night. A few rabbit bones laid scattered around the plateau. At the sight of Cailin and her, they had risen to their feet, but it was clear that they did not feel threatened. “My lord”, one of the men, a younger, dark-haired hunter who reminded her of Arnaud, finally said, “Forgive us our crime, but a man needs to eat.” He vaguely pointed in the direction of the rabbit remains. Raven raised an eyebrow. These men were poachers?

She glanced across the troupe of men. There were at least twenty of them, as far as she could see, but none of them made motion to attack.

Cailin spat on the ground, his voice trembling with anger. “You are nothing but a band of fucking thieves then! My lord master does not appreciate scum like you scouring his land. Do you know what he did to the last poacher we caught here?”

Despite the dark, Raven was almost sure that see could discern a wry smile here and there on the men’s faces. Had Cailin lost his mind? Did he really think that these men would be intimidated by the arms sewn onto his attire? They were exceptionally well-armed for a band of poachers, holding not only knives and spears and bows, but carried swords as well. It occurred to her that she had never encountered poachers thus armed before. If they so wished, they were able to rid themselves of the unwelcome intruders easily, with, as Lord Stephen had put it earlier, a simple flick of the wrist.

And yet they did not. Raven tried to make out any signs of allegiance to a certain lord, a noble family. But all of the men were dressed in simple hunter’s gear, and while they looked like fighters, they did not resemble knights. Was it possible that the outlaws that plagued the villages further south had come up until Crowsdale?

The man spoke again, pleadingly spreading out his hands in front of him in a gesture of subservience. “And yet I beseech you to forgive a few hungry men their trespassing, my lord”, he said. “It has been a harsh winter, and is tonight not the feast day of Saint Stephen himself?”

“Lord Marnoch does not forgive those who feel entitled to taking their own alms where it pleases them”, Cailin snapped. Raven touched his arm lightly.

“But today is a day of celebration, is it not?” Raven tried to make her voice sound firm. “A day to celebrate the coming peace?” She simply did not understand how Cailin still insisted on punishment when it was so clear that he and herself would be lucky to get off this rock alive – but she guessed that this kind of arrogance really was a privilege of the noble folk.

“You should listen to your pretty friend there, my lord”, the man said. “All we ask of you is mercy. No harm has been done, and I give you my word that we will not go after your master’s deer.” Again, there were silent snickers. Raven was sure that his words were nothing but mockery, but that it would be foolish, suicidal even, not to heed them.

“Cailin…”, she began, but he interrupted her.

“Mercy is not mine to grant. But if you have any brains, you should run as fast as you can, before the Crowsdale knights will come down on you.”

Their interlocutor bowed exaggeratedly. “Thank you, my lord. Your gift will not go unreturned, I swear to you.” With that, they started to gather up their belongings, and vanished, one by one, in the thick forest. Raven had the uncanny feeling that his promise had been a threat, and that these men would indeed return, but not with thanks.

“We have to go back immediately and report this”, Cailin said, his voice edgy. “I am not sure how your master handles criminals, but mine does not wish to encourage them with mercy that could easily be mistaken as weakness.” And without another word, he started to descent.

Crowsdale commanded the heights. Stephen and Alys crossed the courtyard and made their way up the dizzying, vertiginous climb up to the highest battlements. Solicitious for his companion's safety on the icy, treacherous steps, Stephen extended a strong arm around her, keeping her as steady and sure of her ground as she had been on the dancefloor.

The truth was that she almost seemed not to need it. Wrapped in fine furs, flakes of silver snow shining in the warm golden tangles of her hair around her face, Alys of Crowsdale seemed more sylph-like and airy than ever, her slender weight as nothing under Stephen's arm, as though she simply floated through the world rather than treading it like earthy mortals. Had Helen of Troy been so beautiful? There had been a war for Helen -where were Alys' other suitors?

That made Stephen frown. What success had Rowan attained? He had no taste for spies... though the word 'spy' fit the fiercely loyal, honest Rowan poorly. And Stephen's frown smoothed into a rare, slight smile as he thought on the youth. Even among putative allies here at Crowsdale, he was surrounded by those who would use him and those who would lie to him. Marnoch was a good man, but Stephen sensed that he was keeping things from him -he knew more of the situation in the North and of de Lacy than he chose to reveal. Alys' beauty and charm was a bright flame, an irresistible dream, but she kept the truth of her heart close. Dark-eyed, quick-witted Rowan with his way of cocking his head to one side when in thought, with his lightning smiles and flashes of merriment and sadness -Rowan was the only one who would not lie to him.

They reached the pinnacle of the battlements, looking down on the great, windswept gulf below the castle. Stephen considered Alys' question. Though they had come to a halt, he had not removed his arm from around Alys. It felt good, nestling there at the small of her back.

"The lands? I'm not much of a storyteller, my lady."

This was true, although somehow he sometimes found the words coming with extraordinary flow and rhythm during his conversations with Rowan, images and ideas coming from places within him he'd had little knowledge of. He thought of the lands beyond the sea, staring out at the falling snow.

"They still get snow in the highlands of the Holy Land, in winter," he began, "But I've heard of places further east where snow never falls. I met a man from Ind once, a scholar and a merchant. He told me that before he came west, he'd read of snow in a Frankish text and pictured it..." Stephen gestured, "Growing up from the ground. Like mushrooms."

Stephen continued to speak, almost thinking out loud.

"Damascus is a sight to see. So hot in the summer, but they build fountains everywhere so that the city rings with the sound of rippling water. They hold their markets under awnings and trellises of vines, so that it's cool and shady there even in the heat of the day. At the centre of the city, there's a great pillared mosque, surrounded by gardens, where the Saracens say Christ will appear in the last days..."

He had not been able to approach the mosque, as an unbeliever, but it seemed like a beautiful spot. His travelling companions had spat at the notion that Christ would appear first to Saracen infidels and not to men of the true faith, but after the ways Stephen had seen Christian men behave in the battles to the west, he sometimes thought Christ might hide his face from them forever.

He was talking more easily, more confidently now, angling his strong body so as to protect Alys from the worst of the winter blasts.

Alys looked out over the forest below them, blurred by the whirling snowflakes. All too aware of Lord Stephen’s arm around her waist she barely dared to move, praying that Robert did not see her like this. Trapped in his disguise and in the great hall, he was unable to follow her, but Alys knew – knew him well enough – that he would rather suffer miles between them than this separation. She felt the same.

But then she was distracted by Lord Stephen’s tale of the merchant, and his idea of snow. Her laughter was clear and pleasant like silver bells. “Like mushrooms?” She mimicked the movement of his hands, and their fingers touched, interlaced briefly, before she withdrew them. “What a droll thought!” She looked up at him, her eyes shining. “But many lords here would swear on their lives that they believe the heathens in the Holy Land have horns, and that surely isn’t true either.” She looked at him, her smile briefly fading. “And I think I prefer the merchant’s ignorance over that of these men. It brings less grief and less pain to this world.”

Her face lit up again. “Forgive me, my lord. As most people here, I am weary of war and bloodshed. I do not believe for one moment that the Muslims do not feel the same, heathens or not.”

Alys knew about the rumours of Robert’s heritage, and often she had imagined him to be a Saracen prince who would take her with him to the Holy Land, amongst his own people, when the time was right. The outrageousness of this idea had kindled her passion, had increased her love for him manifold, but she had never shared it with anyone. She had imagined sunny shores, gardens filled with scented flowers and trees and colourful birds, palaces filled with song and laughter. The Saracen lands of her daydreams were the exact opposite of the dreary cold castle of Crowdsdale. They were a place of peace, and warmth, and love. Who else should rule in such a place other than Robert?

Maybe this was why hearing Sir Stephen speak about Damascus made her heart beat faster. These were the lands that she wanted to see, and one day, she would see them. The markets, and the fountains, and the mosque where Christ was said to appear. All of it.

And there was something else, even though it was hard for her to admit: the young Norman lord, so reserved before, was now talking with ease, passionately, his mind unfolding before her very eyes. Whereas he had been so tense in his words before, so unbending, he was now shedding the inhibitions he must have felt in the great hall, gazes and expectations weighing on him.

It was hard not to see the appeal in this transformation that seemed to smooth the hard angles of his beautiful face, and that melted the ice in his eyes. The stern liege lord changed into a man of passion and wit, of almost overwhelming charm.

Before she knew what she was doing, she reached out to take hold of his free wrist, and she said in a low voice: “You are a wonderful storyteller, my lord, and too modest about your talent. I wish to hear more about your travels. The images you describe warm me better than any fire…” Alys could feel her cheeks grow hot as she unconsciously drew him closer to her, her eyes fixed on his. What was she doing? Almost too hastily, she turned from him and drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “But I am afraid that even your tales will not keep the frost away for much longer. Maybe it would be better if we went back inside?”

***

As soon as Cailin reached the ground, he rounded on her, his eyes narrow with anger. “Why did you stop me? These men were criminals!” He threw his arms up. “Thieves!” Raven was exasperated at his stubbornness. “Because they would have skewered you like a rabbit”, she retorted angrily. “It is not bravery to act the idiot. Do you think you would serve your master better if you were dead?”

Cailin laughed dryly. “Sometimes I wonder if it is not true what they say here about you Southerners. Cowards and sissies, too soft for the North.” Raven knew that she should probably have acted offended, maybe even have threatened the dark-haired boy with a beating, but she was much too tired to even care. Without another word, she started walking back towards the castle, and he followed her in silent rage.

The next time she would just let them kill him, she swore angrily to herself. What an idiot if he thought that his name and title would keep him safe. Maybe he needed to learn that lesson the hard way, maybe the pointy end of a sword would poke some sense into him. They arrived at the small gate that they had passed when they had set off towards the mountain. Two guards nodded lazily in her direction, and she was just about to turn around to face Cailin to give him a piece of her mind when she saw them standing together on the battlements, their backs turned toward her and Cailin.

The snowflakes clung to her thick lashes, and, melting, blurred her sight as she stared up at the beautiful couple. Cailin stopped in his tracks and joined her where she stood. Following her gaze, he grinned. “Would you look at that? No troubadour could wish for a more pervasive image of nascent passion. The two of them are a match made in heaven, if you ask me.”

Raven did not reply. Suddenly she wished that all she had to face was a group of ragtag poachers armed to the teeth. It would have been easier than this, and it would have hurt less.

Lord Marnoch’s skinny squire elbowed Raven softly, his earlier anger at her apparently forgotten. “Judging by the way your master holds himself around Lady Alys, he has lost his heart to her already. And who can blame him? That’s usually the effect that girl has on men.” Then he turned to Raven with a slight frown. “But I need to report what we saw. And don’t worry, I will not tell anyone what a chicken heart you are.” At these last words, he smiled. “Meet me later in the hall. I promised you fays, and all we saw were these ugly bastards. But I will find us some pleasant company yet.”

And with that he was off, leaving Raven to her thoughts. Watching Sir Stephen with Lady Alys hurt worse than she would have ever imagined, and yet she was unable to tear her eyes away from the sight. The way that his arm was around her waist, holding her steady even though there was no danger of her slipping or falling…the way he was shielding her from the storm…Cailin was right. It looked like he would be able to marry the woman he loved after all.

The wish to run up to him, to tell him that Lady Alys was not the woman he thought her to be, that she had allowed a de Lacy bastard to court her, to love her, that she was a liar – it was so strong that Raven trembled. But she knew that it was not reason, but jealousy that whispered these ideas into her ear, that it would destroy all that Sir Stephen had worked for so very hard: a strong alliance and peace in the North.

She tasted salt on her lips. No, she would not cry, she thought angrily, wiping the tears away. Not for this. What a stupid girl she had been, and the pain she felt now was her fault alone. Nurturing romantic nonsense like this? But when she watched Alys turn towards Sir Stephen, laughing, touching his wrists as if to pull him close, it felt as if someone ran a white-hot blade through her heart.

Enough, she whispered angrily, and turned away, directing her steps towards the stables, where she hoped she would be alone, at least for a little while.

The stable was warm, and as she had hoped it seemed deserted. Nimbus, Sir Stephen’s black warhorse, raised his head as she entered.

Raven walked up to him and smiled, caressing the horse’s silken muzzle. “You are smarter than all of them, aren’t you? You knew right away that I wasn’t a boy?” The horse chewed contently and Raven put her cheek against his smooth neck. “But you have kept my secret for me.” Another horse whinnied softly.

“Nimbus…” Raven whispered, “I think I have to stop this charade. I have to stop lying to Sir Stephen. Don’t you think?” Nimbus only blinked, breathing deeply. “I have to tell him who I really am. I cannot be his squire, or his archer, when all I can think about is his touch, his gaze, his voice, and the beauty of his face, his body. I am of no use to him like this. I wanted to be strong, like a boy, but now I am nothing but a stupid girl in a costume. It has to stop.”

And she knew that she was right. First thing next morning, when she would be alone with her master, she would tell him. If Sir Stephen had any love at all for the boy Rowan, maybe he would find it in his heart to forgive the girl Raven as well.

It happened very quickly. Suddenly, Alys no longer seemed to be simply play-acting flirtation. There was a flush on her cheeks and the look in her large sapphire eyes could have warmed a man through the longest midwinter night. Her gaze was fixed on Stephen's as her delicate hand closed around his wrist, drawing him closer against her body. The spell seemed to break as she half-turned away, distractedly murmured that perhaps they should return...

Stephen brought his hand to her chin and cupped it gently but firmly. He drew her gaze back to him and leant forwards. He kissed her eyelids softly and tenderly, breathing in her scent, taking her in his arms, feeling the delicate, wild flutter of her heart under the soft, firm breasts pressed against his chest and beating like a blacksmith's hammer.

Then, his lips slightly parted, he kissed her lips. Slowly, taking his time, tasting her lips with his tongue. Her mouth tasted sweet and fresh, like ripe strawberries.


***


"Sir, we shouldn't!"

The chambermaid's name was Sara and she was just the girl to take Elwynn off Arnaud's mind. She was plump and busty, with soft, curly brown hair in a cloud around her head, and she wriggled and giggled in a very pleasant manner. She'd had eyes for the handsome archer since the moment his company arrived in Crowsdale.

It was not as though Arnaud were a jealous man, in the usual way of things. He and Elywnn used to laugh together over her other customers, Elwynn describing their predictable predilections, their frequent inadequacies and their occasional interesting innovations to Arnaud. But he'd never before heard her sound the way she had with Rowan, and afterwards she'd tell him nothing of the things the pretty young archer had done, only smiling a secret, sensuous smile up at the ceiling. And Symon had been riding him about unmercifully ever since.

But now he'd see if he couldn't get Sara to scream his name the way Elwynn had screamed Rowan's. They were lying together in the hayloft, she coyly hiding her face but leaning invitingly against his shoulder. For some reason, he thought of Lord Stephen and Lady Alys and the thought made him chuckle. Low or high-born, everyone went through something of the same little rituals. He was feeling better already.

Just then, somebody walked into the stables. Sara's eyes opened wide with alarm.

"Sir, I can't be seen with you here! I have my reputation to think of..."

He hushed her with a finger to her lips. "Shh," he whispered. "It'll just be some groom."

Arnaud edged forwards on his stomach to take a look. He almost cursed out loud when he saw Rowan's slender form below, tending to Nimbus. Even here, was the squire determined to thwart him getting cunt? At least Rowan he could shoo away. He opened his mouth to do so.

Then he heard a snatch of what Rowan had said.

"... but now I am nothing but a stupid girl in a costume..."

Arnaud's mouth fell open. In pure shock, he could not stifle a confused, inarticulate curse.

He kissed her with a tenderness that Alys would have never suspected from the Norman lord. She sighed against his lips, utterly lost.

Her hands lay against his chest, both wanting and not wanting him to let her go. Her eyes were closed, and she was almost on tiptoes, unable to prevent one hand from snaking up behind his neck to pull him closer into the kiss.

But as if suddenly realising what she was doing, Alys finally pulled back from him gently. She emerged from the kiss breathless, as if breaking through the surface of water after almost drowning. Only his firm grip kept her from falling. “My lord…we should not…” Alys glanced over at the lights from the windows of the great hall, and a feeling of guilt swept over her. Was she just betraying Robert with the man she had deceived all evening? It was almost comic. “I cannot…” But Alys did not have the strength to utter any more lies.

“You are very bold”, she finally whispered hoarsely, but neither her flushed face nor her eyes conveyed disapproval. And did she disapprove? It was hard to shy away from the truth. “You must think me a girl of low morals.”

Never before had she been more confused. She loved Robert, more than anyone, of that she was certain, so why did she want Sir Stephen to kiss her again? And not only to kiss, but to… Alys blushed to a deep crimson and had to look away. Where did such uncouth thoughts suddenly come from? Yes, she loved Robert, with all her heart, but this, she could not deny it, was different. This was the kind of raw desire she had never allowed herself to feel before, but that was now crashing through her in violent waves, crawling through her veins like molten lead, setting her nerve ends on fire. Alys did not know what she was longing for, what it was that she had been missing, but it was as if something in her had been unlocked. But it was wrong, it was hopeless. It was not what she wanted. Or was it?

All she could do was to look at Sir Stephen, breathless and speechless, hoping that he would grant her deliverance, in one way or another.

***
A sharp curse rang through the stable, and alarmed, Raven looked up towards the hayloft, from where the voice had come. When she saw Arnaud gazing down at her, she gasped in shock, and staggered backwards, slowly shaking her head in disbelief at her own bad luck. “Arnaud…” she whispered. “I…I…please…”

She could not find the words. What had he heard? Judging by the look on his face, he had heard enough. For the length of a heartbeat Raven considered running, maybe taking Nimbus to try and flee this cursed place. She looked over her shoulder and up at Arnaud again, nervous like a trapped deer. “Please…” she pleaded again, her hands held out in front of her in a helpless gesture. “Please don’t tell them.” She liked the young archer, and he had always been kind to her.

But hers was a lie that would test his loyalties. Would he turn her in?

***

Father Aldred shuffled around in his small church, putting out the rest of the torches before closing it up for the night. The midnight mass he had read for Saint Stephen’s Day was over, and all the villagers had gone home. All but one little girl of maybe nine years and her mother, who both helped the old priest to sweep the church floor, stack the few valuable candles in wooden boxes, and polish the worn golden chalice.

“Raven sent us so many nice things; nobody went away hungry this night!” Her little girl voice rang through the small stone chapel. Father Aldred patted her head and nodded. Pointing to a basket filled with a few remaining honey cakes, pieces of roast deer wrapped in linen cloth, apples, wine, and white bread, he smiled: “And there is enough left for another little feast, Bethan! Raven will make all of us grow round and fat.” The little girl peeked into the basket and giggled, her large dark eyes shining.

Father Aldred considered her with a warm smile. She looked more like her big sister every day, and it seemed like she had inherited Raven’s spirit as well. Despite the cold, the hunger and the hardship, he had never seen the small girl complain. “Go on, take a cake.” Motioning at the pile of straw and dust that she had swept up, he added: “You have earned it!”

Bethan took out one dripping cake, looking at it reverently. “Thank you, Father Aldred.” Her mother turned, her arms at her sides, smiling. “Go and share that with your father, sweet pea. He is waiting for you at home.” Bethan nodded.

As she was about to reach up to the iron handle of the wooden church door, it sprang open, and the outlines of several men appeared in the doorway. The girl shrieked and sprang back. Father Aldred frowned. “Good evening…the hour is quite late, what is the meaning of this?”

Two men stepped inside. One was grim-looking, with a hard face, a lantern jaw and a shock of greying red hair; the other was tall and sported a thick black beard. Both were armed. There were at least ten more behind them, but they did not enter the church. Bethan attempted to dart away from the door to seek refuge with her mother, but the red-haired man grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back. “We are here by order of our liege lord, Sir Stephen de Valois”, he grunted. “And we are looking for poachers and the riffraff that have been plaguing his land with thievery.” Forcing the small girl to let go of her honey cake, he smiled coldly. “And it looks like we have found one already.”

“This was a gift!” Bethan protested.

“You little rat! Do you think you can take me for a fool? You must have stolen this! How would a little girl like you come by cakes from the castle kitchen?” The man walked over to the basket. “And all of this?” He sniffed and opened one of the linen packages. “Roasted deer? You have stolen these!”

“No, Sire, I swear we didn’t, Sire!” The girl was on the verge of tears now, struggling in his hard grip. Her mother rang her hands. “Please, good man, we have done nothing wrong. Our daughter works for the liege lord, our Lord Stephen, and she sent us these gifts for Christmastide.”

The red-haired man’s lips curled into a suggestive smile. “Is that so?” His voice was low and dangerous. “What services does your sister render to our liege lord?”

Finally, Father Aldred found his voice again. He was shaking with suppressed rage. “My dear sirs, let me assure you that we are neither thieves nor riffraff, and that the girl in question holds a quite honourable position in said castle kitchens. These gifts were sent here with our liege’s permission, and if you would care to ask him, he would tell you the same.”

“No local girls work inside the castle”, Long James said harshly. “Or have you heard of any recent acquisitions, Symon?” The bearded man shook his head while his eyes darted around the church. “No, I have not.”

“I swear, Sire.” The mother was on her knees now, pleading with the intruders. “The good Lord Stephen did her a kindness. He took her in.”

James’ voice was unyielding. “What does she look like then?”

“A bit like our little Bethan here, Sire”, the mother answered, anxiously kneading her apron in her hands. “But her hair is darker still, she is slender, a girl of nineteen years.”

“She is a handy and virtuous girl, the best maid any lord could ever wish for…” Father Aldred interrupted hastily. He saw where this was going and wanted to stop it. “Why don’t you help yourselves to a bit of roast meat, and some wine?”

Symon silenced him with a wave of his hand. A possibility had occurred to him, a thought so outraging that he barely dared to let it come to its logical conclusion in his mind. He squatted down in front of the girl, took her gently by both hands, and asked with a voice as sweet as honey: “Now, little girl, is your sister very handy with a bow?”

Bethan looked from her frightened mother to Father Aldred, who had gone very pale, back to the man in front of her. Symon gave her a kind smile. “Don’t be afraid, I won’t get angry.”

“Yes, she is”, Bethan whispered breathlessly. “Better than any of the boys in the village”, she added, not without pride. Symon squeezed her hands reassuringly. The red-haired man grinned, starting to understand what his companion was getting at. “And when did your dear sister enter the service of our liege lord, do you remember?” The girl nodded eagerly. “Yes, Sire. He came upon her in the forest, a little more than one month ago. He took pity on her, because she was hurt.” Bethan looked at Father Aldred, who was groaning as if in pain. “Wasn’t it so, Father Aldred? That was what you told us?” Her large brown eyes searched desperately for the priest’s approval.

The poor old man was trembling now. “I don’t quite remember, Bethan.”

Long James walked up to him. “Oh, but you do, old man. Wasn’t it you who treated the girl“– he emphasized the word and the priest winced – “after our hunting party found her in the woods? I seem to remember that Lord Stephen called upon your services then, because his own surgeon was absent?”

Father Aldred tried to withstand his gaze, but could not. It was not that he was afraid for his own life, but what he had always feared was now about to happen: Raven’s disguise had been discovered, and there was nothing that he could do to protect her, to at least warn her of the danger that she was in. He was going to fail his student, his little Raven, after all.

Meanwhile, Symon continued his interrogation. “And what is her name?”

Bethan spoke with a bit more confidence now. “Raven.”

“I see.” He stood up and exchanged a long look with Long James. “What a pretty name.” He wanted to laugh out loud. It was close enough. Rowan...Raven…that little witch!

James turned to speak to the other men, still waiting outside the church door. After exchanging a few whispered words with them, he came back inside. Walking up to Bethan and her mother, he said softly: “Well, since this has all been cleared up, why don’t you go home?” He exchanged a brief look with the bearded archer who knew what they had actually come to Stonechapel for. Symon suddenly realised that neither mother nor daughter would make it back home, and had to fight a sudden urge to warn them of the pending danger.

Bethan looked back at Father Aldred, her dark eyes full of fear and doubt, but her mother ushered her away as fast as she could.

The old priest defiantly stood his ground. “You are not here by order of Lord Stephen, are you?” He smiled grimly. “And we are not the riffraff that plague his lands.” James drew his knife and walked over to him. “You, old man, come with me.” The priest stood no chance against the much stronger assailant who pulled him into the small side room of the church.

For a moment, Symon stood alone in the empty room, wondering if he had made the right decision. From afar, he could hear the screams of a woman. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, so he would not start to retch. The little girl had been so small, so very vulnerable.

From behind the small door he could hear muffled sounds of Long James talking with the priest. Then there was a short shuffle, a groan, and a cry, and then the church went silent yet again.

James returned, his hands bloody, and his face grim. “The old fool has been taken care of.” He slid his knife back into his belt after wiping it against the old linen curtain of the confessional.

Symon went very pale. “You…you killed the priest?” He hastily made the sign of a cross in front of his chest. “Why…?”

James’s thin lips curled in contempt. “What turned you into this simpering maid, Symon? You were so eager to join our ranks, and now you are afraid to get your hands dirty? That fucking priest”, he motioned over his shoulder, “would have run off at the first occasion to warn that bitch and our liege lord.” He growled. “Unfortunately we have now lost a witness to testify against her in front of a court.”

Then his smile returned. “What about the whore?” Symon frowned. “Elwynn?” James nodded, his hand caressing the hilt of his sword absent-mindedly. “For weeks now I had to listen to you and Lucais crowing about her and the pretty archer. Don’t you think that it is time to pay her a visit?” The older man shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “We don’t need her to prove the truth of this. If Rowan really has tits, we only need to reveal them to everyone. It’s easy.”

Long James’ face changed into a hard mask. “Do you really think that it would be wise to accuse our lord’s favourite pet without a witness? Are you that daft, Symon? What do you plan to do? Walk up to her and order her to strip in front of Lord Stephen? He would never allow it. God’s wounds! For all we know he has kept his hand over this poaching cunt, probably because she has been sucking his cock all this time!”

Symon knew that his companion was right, but Long James’ thirst for violence and blood scared him. He had seen it many times, the pleasure he took in dealing out pain and torturous death, but Symon could not find such sentiment in his own heart. He might have ranted about Elwynn’s refusal to fuck her lover’s companions, but she was a good girl, whore or not, and did not deserve such a fate.

“You know that Elwynn and Arnaud…” he started, hoping to deter the other man from his plan. Long James spat out. “What! Do I need this Occitan shit’s permission to fuck a whore? And trust me – if she has covered up this abomination, I will fuck her, and I don’t mean with my cock.” Symon looked away, unable to bear the mad glint in the red-haired man’s eyes. “The whole affair smells of debauchery, of witchcraft and sorcery, and truly, it could not have come at a better time. Both Lord de Lacy and the church’s inquisitors will be excited to hear about this.” He chuckled softly. “Ah, little Raven…let’s see how many birds we can hit with this stone.”

For a moment, Alys stiffened against Stephen and the palms of her hands rested on his broad chest. Her lips were closed, unresponsive. Then all of a sudden, with a little sigh, she seemed to melt into the kiss, going on tiptoe to wind a slender white arm around his neck and pull him closer.

She returned his kiss with a reckless, passionate hunger, yielding all of herself up to him. When she broke the kiss, her voice was stammering, breathless and husky and there was a crimson flush on her cheeks. Alys' golden hair was in disarray, only adding to the classical, delicate beauty of her face, and her deep blue eyes seemed larger than ever, wide with confusion and hesitation and regret and a lustful, fervent intensity.

And Stephen saw her as he had not before. She had been shy and close-mouthed at the reception in the courtyard; sparkling, charming, gorgeously unattainable throughout the banquet, but now he felt at last he had seen Alys of Crowsdale without her defences, exposed and vulnerable without the defence of her charm -a sight almost as stirring, in its way, as the sight of her glorious body naked might be.

He found himself thinking of something Rowan had once whispered to him, the lad's voice low and curiously unsteady: "Lady Alys will soon find her defences breached. And she will gladly welcome the invader."

Despite her words, Alys had not left the circle of his arms and she looked up at him with a poignant, breathless uncertaintity. A pulse fluttered delicately in her throat, like that of a little bird. Stephen laid a hand against her cheek, frowning.

"Perhaps I am over-bold. If so, I ask your pardon."

A finger went to her cherry ripe mouth, still slightly parted, and gently touched the sweet Cupid's bow curve of her upper lip.

"But why would I estimate your morals so low? You know your parents' mind, and you know mine. If you would have me, I am yours, before God and man."

He run his hand through her silky hair, luxuriating in the softness and warmth, moving it away from her beautiful face. He leaned in closer to whisper into her ear, his lips not an inch away.

"And if you would not have me, then that is all you need to say."



***

Arnaud dropped down from the loft to advance on Raven across the stable floor, his face a mask of disbelief.

"What..."

His gaze was slowly travelling up and down her whole form. That pretty face -always too delicate and fine in its bone structure to be a boy's. That form -limber and toned but with a woman's lithe sleekness to it. The way he... she stood, the way she spoke and cocked her head, her little gestures...

"Arnaud, who's he?"

Sara, tired of waiting, had poked a ruffled head over the loft, evidently deciding to risk her reputation. The thought brought Arnaud to earth.

"He's just a friend, ma petite."

Arnaud's gaze fixed again on Raven.

"But he and I need to talk. Wouldn't you say, Rowan?"

Alys shivered violently, but not from the cold. Never before had she been as confused. She wanted to escape his embrace and she did not, she wanted him to kiss her again and she did not. She wanted him and she did not. How had he been able to move her so?

When he placed a gentle hand against her cheek, she shuddered. He had been so reserved earlier, so cold. How could she be sure that this was the man underneath the mask? That he was not deceiving her like she had him, in order to get what he wanted? What he wanted…she pictured his hands on her naked body, imagined herself trapped underneath him, giving herself up to her lord husband….the thought drove the blood in her cheeks again.

“If you would have me, I am yours, before God and man. And if you would not have me, then that is all you need to say."

What to reply to this? Her mind was racing, frantically leafing through all the thoughts that she had been certain of only hours earlier. That she did not want to marry the Norman lord; that she loved and wanted Robert, that she would risk her life to be with him, just as he was now risking his. That she was scared to lose him to the scorn and revenge of her family, to that of his cruel father. That she was nevertheless responsible for her actions, and for her choices. That she wanted an end to the war. That a lasting alliance between the North and the house of de Valois - and therefore the King himself - was hers to achieve. But Robert…he was here, waiting for a sign. He would take her away from all of this, away to safety. Her Saracen prince.

Just say the word.

When she felt his breath against her neck, his lips brushing ever so faintly against her ear, a tingle trickled down her spine and she was unable to suppress a soft sigh. Was she really this weak? No, this was not love – not yet at least – but it was unbridled, all-consuming lust. How did he do this? Maybe he really was a warlock, as many in the North seemed to believe. Had he put a spell on her?

Alys shook off this disquieting thought and laid a shy hand around his neck to pull him into another kiss, but not before whispering: “Yes, my lord” against his lips, unsure of what she had meant by this ambiguous answer. But maybe Sir Stephen would be able to make sense of it?

***

Raven gazed up at the girl now peeking out from the hayloft. Thankfully she did not seem to have heard her confession, or if she did, she had not been able to make any sense of it. Judging by the look of Arnaud’s face, he was still struggling, too.

Her heart was beating very fast, but she held Arnaud’s inquisitive gaze as best as she could.

“Yes, we need to talk”, she said in a low voice. “But not here.” With that she walked over to the stable entrance, sufficiently far from the girl’s eager ears. Gathering all the courage that she could muster, Raven turned to face Arnaud. Single erring snowflakes got caught up in her hair, but she did not feel the cold wind that was blowing through the half-open door. “Arnaud…” She looked at him, her dark eyes wide with confusion. Where to start? What to add to the revelation he had already witnessed? She wanted to simply shrink away from his gaze, vanish into thin air like a ghost.

Finally, since she had to say something, she whispered: “Don’t think that I am wicked…or of ill intent. I have not thought much of it at first, when Sir Stephen caught me poaching. I was scared that my punishment would be more severe if he found out that I was a girl.” Raven carefully monitored Arnaud’s face for any sign of approval.

She suddenly realised that Arnaud must also think of Elwynn, and of that fateful night in the brothel. A deep blush coloured her cheeks when she thought of the many taunts that Arnaud had suffered afterwards from their comrades. And Elwynn! Now he knew that his lover had covered up a most dangerous lie, and never told him about it. Would he be angry at her, too? Raven opened her mouth to comment on this, but decided that there was nothing to say. She alone was responsible for the deceit, and she prayed that Arnaud would not hold it against Elwynn that she had agreed to help a frightened girl.

But would he do the same? “I swear that I wanted to tell Sir Stephen. Tomorrow morning I will tell him.” Her voice was shaking now, but she was determined not to cry like the weak girl Arnaud would think her to be. “All I ask is that you grant me tonight to gather my courage. He is…they are…Lady Alys must never know, and he…seemed so happy earlier.” Raven realised that she was babbling now, and fell silent. After a moment’s hesitation, she added: “If I ask you as a fellow archer to grant me one more night, would you agree to that?”

Alys' shallow, rapid little breaths were sweet and warm against his lips. She was trembling and the closer he held her, the more she shivered and the more flushed her beautiful face became. If this was still a performance, then Alys of Crowsdale deserved to be remembered among the greatest players of her age. That was his last rational thought, fluttering in a roaring inferno of lust. Play-acting or not, she was irresistible.

Her shy hand on his neck, pulling him gently down to her hungry lips, eradicated rationality. Their lips came together in shared hot, urgent need. He tasted her, possessed her, pulled her slender body against his hard chest and let his hands travel across her body. He felt her flinch and momentarily stiffen as his hand reached the base of her spine and he pulled her even more closely to him, searching her mouth with his tongue.


***


It was patently obvious that the banquet's reason for being had departed along with Lord de Valois and Lady Alys but, presumably for appearances' sake, it was prolonged some time after they'd left, with the minstrels playing to an increasingly depleted audience.

Lord Marnoch and his lady exchanged secret, pleased smiles before making their way to their own bed. Robert hated them. The word came up to the minstrels' gallery that everyone was to be sure to avoid the high walk, where Lord Stephen courted Lady Alys and would not appreciate intruders. Robert's knuckles went white against the strings of his mandolin.

Spiced wine and mead was periodically sent up to them. Robert did not usually indulge while performing but now he lifted the steaming cups to his lips again and again. His head swam with the heat, with the alchohol, with his treacherous thoughts. Only his fingers, supremely gifted at producing joyful sounds from instrument and woman alike, kept a steady, confident rhythm.

And finally, it was done. The great hall had almost emptied, and the last few remaining revellers were too drunk to notice whether music was playing or not. His fellows talked of going to the servants' quarters, perhaps finding themselves some willing women to warm their beds. Alain ignored them, stalked out the upper way.

He had to know. He picked his way across the battlements. The mad idea crossed his mind that Alys had already rejected de Valois, that perhaps she waited alone for him on the heights. He quickened his stride, heedless of the perilous, icy slush underfoot.

And then the couple, silhouetted by the moon, loomed on the battlements above him. De Valois and Alys, locked in a passionate embrace. For a moment, Robert's hands tightened into fists -de Valois was forcing himself on the young beauty. But then a shaft of moonlight illuminated the two.

Alys had looped an arm around de Valois' neck and was pulling him close. She was kissing him wantonly, hungrily, kissing him as she had never kissed Robert, her eyes closed in ecstasy. Robert felt sick, dizzy and nauseous. He took a breath, blinked, hoped that this would be some illusion crafted by wine and moonlight. But it was not. As he watched, de Valois' hands moved down Alys' slender body. Robert turned away, began to pick his way down the stairs.

Could this still all be part of the deception? But for whose benefit? How far would Alys go? How far would he go? He was only aware of two desires: the desire to talk to Alys face to face and the desire to hurt Lord Stephen de Valois.

He'd had carefully-laid plans -plans with a minimum of risk and bloodshed, patient plans. He mentally consigned them all to the flames. He would not wait any longer. Tomorrow, he'd know the truth, if he had to storm Castle Crowsdale itself.

He walked down to the courtyard, heading for the postern gate. No need to maintain his cover as a minstrel any longer. As he passed by the stables, he saw a strikingly pretty, lithe young man, dark hair speckled with silver snowflakes, standing by the stable door, staring out into the falling snow. Robert instinctively recognised the aching desolation in his dark eyes.

"Love is the very devil," he told him as he passed by, vanishing into the falling snow.


***

Arnaud let the stranger's brief interruption pass without comment. He was held motionless, torn in different ways by a number of contradictory instincts.

One was to spit, to make the sign of the cross and call shame upon the unnatural girl before him. He was no holy man but surely some things were not right in God's eyes? But that was a weak, stillborn urge.

Stronger was the urge to slap her, to try and make her feel the hurt he'd felt. Had she and Elywnn laughed at him, mocked him as they lay in bed together? Why had Elwynn not confided in him? There was hurt there but Arnaud found himself overcoming it. He was not Symon, who cared so very much to be thought well of and who could never abide people laughing at him. If Arnaud had cared very much what others thought, he would never have declared his love for a whore.

That thought uncoiled a new and powerful thought. Rowan had always been the comeliest of the archers. Cleanlimbed, graceful, lithe, with a hauntingly lovely face -he'd attracted stares from the women of Castle de Courtney and more than a few of the men. Wonderingly, Arnaud let his gaze trace the lines of Rowan's body as though for the first time. Elwynn had not been faking her cries of ecstasy... Arnaud knew them too well. Devil's cock, he'd have liked to have seen them together.

That thought brought on the final and triumphant instinct, which was to laugh long and hard, to laugh until his sides shook.

"... oh, God Almighty, Rowan... what is your name? God Almighty, Rowan, we're a proud company, we de Valois archers. A pretty little slip of a girl is more man than most of us!"

He laughed again, shaking his head. The night air was slowly cooling his mind.

"I should tell Lord Stephen now. You've heard the shit they say about him already. You can imagine what they'd do with someone like you. But perhaps if you promise..."

His eyes narrowed.

"And what's his happiness to you, anyway? You've been lying to him, just as you've been lying to all of us, for weeks now. How do I know you're not the spy of one of his enemies?"

Alys was lost in his arms. It was the first time that a man kissed her like this, both tenderly and with such overwhelming lust. A soft moan escaped her lips as he pulled her closer against him. The caresses that she had exchanged with Robert had been innocent and shy, heavy with her worry to appear wanton and unworthy of him. Why did she not feel the same inhibition with Sir Stephen? Was it because she did not love, but want him? Or because she did not love Robert as much as she had thought?

His hands slipped underneath her cloak, and Alys suddenly wished that they were alone. She realised that if he would want to take her tonight, she would not protest. The thought scared her, and as if she suddenly realised something, she broke the kiss, her hand still around his neck. “My lord”, she whispered hoarsely. “Someone might see us like this.”

Alys stepped back from him, trying to catch her breath, her eyes shining with desire. The heat seemed to spread from her body’s core to her very fingertips. Did he feel the same?

“I never thought it possible; that you would be able stir my heart thus.” One of her slender hands rested against his stomach, as if torn between pushing him away and pulling him into another embrace. “Let me admit to you that before you arrived in Crowsdale, I hated the thought of becoming your wife. But now…” Her fingers absent-mindedly caressed the taut muscles underneath his tunic as she spoke, her voice low and clouded with need. “But I cannot give in this easily, my lord. Here in the North it is not proper for a woman to succumb to a man like this, without formal bond and promise.” Yet she could not bring herself to remove her hand. “Make me your wife, Lord Stephen, and I shall be yours.”

It was strange to listen to these words make it out of her mouth. Alys felt his heartbeat against the palm of her hand. Did she really mean them? Was she still protecting the man she had sworn she would love until the day she died? Her eyes suddenly widened in shock, and she withdrew her hand as if she had burnt it. Robert!

It looked like the banquet had drawn to a close. Laughter rose up from the courtyard, and a few scattered guests made their way through the snow, probably searching for more mead, company, or shelter for the night. Alys frowned. How long had she been up here?

She needed to find Robert! What if he had left, and without a sign from her?

“My lord, forgive me, but please allow me to retire. For if I don’t, I doubt that I will have the strength to resist.” Alys knew that this was not a lie, but it was not her honour that she was worried about.


***

Raven was briefly distracted the angry comment of a very handsome young man who walked past the stables. What had he meant by that? His eyes, dark as her own and full of fiery rage, had briefly flashed in her direction. Maybe he was drunk. She followed him with her eyes until he vanished into the whirling snow.

“My name…” she began as the archer started to laugh. She attempted a shy smile herself, watching him double over in amusement, but she was too scared to be relieved just yet. “My real name is Raven”, she whispered wearily, unsure if he had heard her. “I am from Stonechapel…”

When Arnaud’s laughter subsided, she looked at him expectantly. Surprise, anger and doubt were all discernible in his features, and she was not sure which of these conflicting emotions would prevail. But his words took her by surprise. Raven blinked at him. “A spy?” She smiled faintly. “Me?” Arnaud had obviously not heard the other part of her confession, and despite her misfortune, she was grateful. “Please don’t tell him now, not just yet”, she pleaded.

Then she paused. Arnaud was right, of course. Lord Stephen’s archers and his men might feel slighted, hurt in their pride to have fallen for her ruse, but what of Lord Marnoch? What of his daughter, his future bride? And worse still, what of his many enemies? They would not laugh this off like Arnaud had, and they would certainly not agree to simply remove her from his side and be done with the whole affair. Raven shivered. For the first time it occurred to her that her goodwill and her desire to see Lord Stephen pacify the North might become his undoing.

Everyone in Crowsdale and in Courtney Castle thought her Lord Stephen’s squire, his close confidant, his student. If they found out that she was in fact a girl, what would they make of the endless hours spent locked in the library, the walks through the forest, all that time they had spent alone together, let alone the fact that she now tended to him in his own chambers? Raven her skin prickle with sudden fear. Whore. What else would they call a girl like her? Witch. She had to lean against the wooden beam of the door frame as her knees went weak.

“Arnaud….” she started, struggling to find the words that would convince the young archer. “I never meant any harm by my disguise, I really did not.” Raven stared at her feet, watching a couple of snowflakes melt into the leather of her boots. She was very close to telling him that she had fallen in love with Lord Stephen, and that that was the simple reason she cared about his happiness, and nothing else. Or should she reveal to him that Lord Stephen had relied on her to report traitors in his midst? As much as she wanted to confide in Arnaud – to finally confide in someone – she was not sure if he could be trusted with such knowledge.

She looked up at him again, her large eyes shining. “But when Lord Stephen offered me a position amongst his archers, I took that chance because it seemed a miracle to me not to be stuck in my village any longer, to wait for a man to be bold enough to ask my hand in marriage, to have his children and then see my life trickle away, as it is the fate of most peasant girls.”

Her voice was firmer now. “I have learned much from you, and never in my life have I seen an archer more skilled than you. Would you have taught me any of the things you did would you have known that I am a girl? Would you have treated me as an equal when we shared a table and a roof?” She took a deep breath. “Or would you have looked at me with the prospect that I might warm your bed, and bring you pleasure, and nothing else, much like you look at that girl up in the hayloft?” Raven smiled shyly. She did not want to stand the accuser either. “And truly, would Lord Stephen have looked at me twice if had seen nothing but a hurt and hungry peasant girl in the woods? But as the boy Rowan, I have been able to learn from him, to exchange thoughts and ideas that common mores do not want women to even contemplate.”

Raven sighed. “He has grown to know me well. Indeed I believe he knows me better than most, save for this one thing, that I am no boy. I beg you to give me the chance to explain myself to him, before your revelation might spoil that opportunity forever.” The knot in her stomach grew more painful. “I am no spy, and nothing is further from my thoughts than to cause Lord Stephen grief or harm. I cannot prove it, but I beg you to believe me.”