Catch me if you can

[zora_little]

Alys had to force herself not to drop her gaze in the face of such ice-cold anger. What had she done to deserve such contempt?

If he thought he could hold the North against both de Lacy and the houses allied to her father he was a fool. Yes, he had taken the North without their help, but they had not stood against him in the battle against the old lord of this cursed castle. This was madness. She wanted to tell him that there would have to be sacrifices to reach the goals he had set for himself, and that he would need to make compromises on his principles in order to successfully impose them on those under his command. But she also knew very well that this was futile, that a man like Stephen de Valois would never compromise his beliefs. He was the man that troubadours sang about in their verses, but only in fictional tales did such heroes gain the upper hand in the end.

Alys whimpered in pain as he effortlessly lifted her off the ground, bringing her face so close to his that their lips almost touched. Never before had she seen such fury in his eyes, and for a moment she was afraid that he might strangle her in his anger. He hurt her, but she was too shocked to resist his firm grip. Where was the man that had held her and kissed her? “You are hurting me, my lord”, she whispered hoarsely, unsure if the words had actually made it out of her mouth.

The tears that she had forced back earlier now started flowing. This was what he thought of her? This was what he thought of her all along. A spoiled, selfish noble girl. His accusations were not entirely untrue, even if it hurt to admit it. But was this not the fate of those who were appointed to rule over others? Did they not have the duty to value the life of everyone higher than that of one single person if it meant that thousands might be saved? Searching for a spark of the loving, tender man she had come to know in the weeks prior, it occurred to her that she might be guilty, but so was he: in his eyes, her life was not worth much, and he cared not if she would be cast into the arms of some lesser Northern lord, condemned as she was by her station and sex to obey the wishes of her father and brothers.

“Stephen…” she began, petrified. But he would not listen.

“You take your commands from me. And I tell you now that it doesn't matter what your father orders. You will stay here and wed me. You once said you would become my servant, my whore if need be. Were you lying?”

She had to fight the desire to kiss him. Even though she knew that his love and his care were for that dark-haired peasant, Alys desired him more than ever before. Maybe he could be swayed if she just reminded him of the pleasures they had shared? With his lips so close to hers it took all of her willpower not to give in to the memories of his hands on her naked body, pinning her to the cold stone floor of his chamber, and her begging him to take her. For the length of one heartbeat Alys thought she was able to see the same fire in his eyes, the same heated lust, but then he sat her down, and it was over.

“I have sworn an oath to you, my lord, and I do not intend to break it”, she said slowly and tonelessly. I am already your whore, she thought. Sinking onto her knees in front of him, she continued. “And I will wed you to be your wife as you command.”

***

Fira of Riverstone had never intended to end up a nun. But life and fate had had different plans, and as the third daughter of a wealthy Southern lord she had had to consent to dedicate herself to the Convent of St. Phoebe when she was only ten. However, the convent had quickly turned out to be quite suitable for a girl of her passion and sharp intellect, and now, only ten years later she had become the youngest mother superior that the chroniclers were able to remember. The message the Norman lord had sent to her had been vague, almost a plea for good council, and he must have sent it days before the conclusion of the peasant girl’s trial. It had been the tone of his letter that had swayed her to ride to Courtney Castle. Never before had a high-born lord asked the sisters of St. Phoebe to protect one destitute girl from the clutches of power and superstition, and the curiosity of that wish itself had convinced Fira to come and have a look at the girl that stood accused of witchcraft.

And there she was - a mere wisp of a girl, dressed in the ripped, dirty clothes of a peasant boy. The soldier outside had told her that Raven had suffered great hardship, and the bruises and wounds not covered by cloth bore witness to his words. Fira knelt down beside her, gazing at Raven’s face, lovely and delicate despite all she had experienced. With one tender hand the mother superior brushed the dark hair from Raven’s forehead.

“I wonder what drove her to such a bold disguise”, the other nun said. “What did she hope to gain from it?”

“We will hear her tale in due time”, Fira replied.

At that moment Brae returned, carrying a bundle of clothes, a bucket with warm water and a small leather pouch with herbs.

“Annis, why don’t you stand guard outside?” Fira smiled. “We don’t want any curious eyes to drop in on us.” The third nun nodded, and stepped out of the gatehouse to join the two archers who were still waiting. Arnaud knew that Raven was not safe as long as Lord Thomas was in proximity.

Lucais threw furtive glances in the direction of the pretty nun who countered his glances with an even, unsmiling stare.

It was then that the sound of hooves and steel captured their attention, and through the morning mist they saw a group of riders approaching the gate from inside the castle. The colours they carried were those of Lord Thomas of Crowsdale, and sure enough, the stern Northern lord rode at the helm of his bannermen. When he was level with Arnaud and Lucais, he stopped his horse and spat on the ground.

“Tell your lord that we do not recognise his authority in the North any longer, and that we will treat him as any invader should he dare to cross into our lands again.”

Then his gaze wandered to Sister Annis, who stood straight-backed and defiant, meeting his eyes.

“And you, sister” – the word carried such contempt that it was barely audible – “Pray that your God will keep you safe. Your liege lord will likely not be able to for much longer.”

And with that he drove his stallion forward, leaving all three of them standing in a spatter of mud and ice.

 

[Maka]

Ambrose knew the stories of the desert fathers, in the early days of the true faith. Monks, men of vision and purity who had gone into the deserts of Syria and Egypt to listen for the voice of God in the stillness and desolation, in the blinding white flame of the days and unbearable starry chill of the nights. True men of God, like the prophets of old Israel before them. The church had grown soft and corrupt since then. It preached the gospel of the world, sought accomodation with earthly powers.

But since coming north, he thought he had found that primeval voice once again, the voice that the prophet Elijah had heard in the whirlwind. He had come here to destroy a wicked, cunning and strong man and every day he thought he could hear the footfalls of de Valois' doom coming steadily closer.

He stood in the courtyard of de Lacy's castle, stripped to his chest -each rib clearly defined on his hollow, ascetic's chest, rubbed raw from his hair shirt, his breath white in the winter air. He took the wooden bucket before him, cracking its rim of ice with a bony fist, and upended it over himself, gasping at the shock, but finding a raw, harsh pleasure in it too.

I baptize you with water, but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.

He shook out his dripping hair and, not troubling to dry himself, wrapped his hair shirt around himself once again, feeling its familiar, painful coarseness like a benediction descending on him. His morning ritual over, he strode downwards to the dungeons.


Other men might have found Elwynn beautiful, with her luscious pale skin, her abundant red curls and glittering green eyes, her firm large breasts and slim body. She could have been Eve before the Fall, or Delilah. But Ambrose knew what she was -a harlot and a temptress. He regarded her as nothing more than offal.

But still, she would have her uses. Ambrose had learned early on of the connection she had formed with de Lacy's bastard son. He had considered the news, then decided to keep the two in their adjacent cells. It might be a source of strength for Elwynn at present, a way to fuel her stubborn resistance to him. But later on... it might be something else.

"Good day, my child," he said, beginning as he always began on entering her cell. "Do you wish to confess your sins?"


***


Alys' lovely, heartbreakingly beautiful face was stained with tears. Her large blue eyes were despairing. The pride and sense of power that had always lifted and elevated her, giving her tangible authority despite her slender figure and delicate beauty, had deserted her. She knelt before him, and Stephen felt he had destroyed something fragile and beautiful.

He laid a hand on her shoulder, lifting her up. He did not thank her -that seemed too small, too easy a thing. But he spoke:

"I've sent Raven to the Convent of St Phoebe. Their mother superior is known for her wisdom and kindness. She will live out the rest of her days there. I will never see her more."

It was offered as a reassurance, a message to Alys that she would not be humiliated once again. But all the same, Stephen felt a sudden and unbearable stab of regret at his own words. He had been reunited with Raven so briefly, so publically, and under such terrible circumstances. And now he'd never again look into those eyes, dark and yet so bright, never again see that quick shy smile light up her face, or talk of the things they loved together.

Alys thought that Stephen had thrown everything away for his own selfish desires. But the truth was that part of Stephen felt he had made an intolerable sacrifice of his own, in forswearing the sight of the girl he had just realized he loved more than anything in Creation.

More than Alys?

"I will never see her more," he whispered again, as if in answer to his own thought.

 

[zora_little]

When the door of her cell opened with a creak, Elwynn scrambled to her feet, hoping against hope that it was the old jailor, or maybe even the lord’s bastard son, Robert, who had been pardoned and who had now been sent to save her, too.

Elwynn almost laughed at herself at the thought.

Because of course it was him. The bishop, her tormentor.

He had asked her about Raven before. Had told her that the girl had long been caught, and that her own confession would only help to alleviate her own punishment. Elwynn did not know if any of it was true, but she did not trust him to show her mercy if she admitted to the things Raven and she had done. The things she had done with other women! Not even Arnaud knew about them. Elwynn had told herself that she had kept this secret from her lover to protect him, but the truth was that she was not entirely sure if even he could find it in his heart to forgive her.

“Good day, my child. Do you wish to confess your sins?”

The question alone was enough to send cold shivers down her spine. How often had she heard it, and how often had it been the prelude to ever more questions, few of which she even had an answer to, and to frightful pain?

Despite her fear, she forced herself to answer. Elwynn knew very well that the bishop had little tolerance for insubordination, and hated little more than having to ask a question twice.

“I am a whore, father”, she whispered hoarsely. “I lay with men in exchange for coins. A grave sin, I admit it, but one I pray the Lord will be able to forgive me for.” She was barely able to conceal her shaking hands. “Hunger is an ill advisor.”

***
Alys barely managed to look up at Stephen. Something had shifted. It was as if something inside her had been shattered, but she was unsure of what it was. The promise to become his wife suddenly felt hollow and void of emotion. Alys knew that her uncle would never consent to the marriage, that it would break her father’s heart if she disobeyed him. But it was the only choice she now had, after all that had happened.

“I will never see her more.”

She almost winced at the sound of his voice.

“Good.”

It was all she managed to say. She was surprised how much it hurt to see the sadness in his eyes when he made the promise never to seek out the peasant girl again.

Then another thought, an unbidden, unwanted thought, crossed her mind.

“What of her companion? What of the outlaw? Will he be pardoned, too?”

 

[Maka]

"It is a grave sin," Ambrose said. He laid a bony hand among Elwynn's copper curls. His face remained stony, but inside he felt a glow of pleasure at the whore's unwilling, instinctive flinch at his touch. He had laid the fear of God on this one, there was no doubt.

"Like Jezebel, Miriam and Mother Eve before you," he continued, "Like the women who tempted the angels in the days of the old, you gloried in your beauty and you used it to lure men to carnal sin. Hunger is no excuse. Better, a thousand times better, to die a chaste virgin than to live as a harlot."

His grip tightened viciously, and he pulled her head backwards towards her shoulders, dragging her up on to her tip toes at the same time. Despite the gauntness of his frame, Ambrose's body had a deceptive, gnarled strength to it. He needed to apply only a little more pressure to break the slender young whore's neck -and he knew she knew it.

"But our Lord has a kind heart. Forgiveness awaits you... if you will tell the truth, my daughter. Do you know what I have here?"

Letting her go unhurriedly, he drew a sheaf of papers out from his sackcloth robe and thrust them under her nose.

"It's a confession, my daughter. Shall I read it to you?"

He did not wait for an answer.

"'This is the testimony of Elwynn of de Courtney Castle. That on the 19th of October, his lordship Stephen de Valois and his soi disantsquire, the woman then calling herself Rowan and passing herself as a man, did come to the house of ill repute where I practised my trade.

"'There, his lordship told me that he had his harlot, the girl Raven, dress as a boy and play the man in order to mock all Christian decency and to glorify their master, the Devil. Further, he told me that they wished to perform a Black Mass and required my services, that they would pay me in silver. They took me to the chapel, where Lord de Valois dressed himself in the garb of a priest and had us kneel and recite the Lord's Prayer backwards. After this, he made Raven disrobe and sat her upon the altar with her legs parted, and had me kiss and suck upon her there while he buggered me, saying that her juices were my Communion wine.

"'Afterwards, he buggered the girl Raven, also upon the altar, while she sang a hymn of praise to Baphomet, by which name they call the Adversary, Satan Prince of Darkness. Lord de Valois used me in all manner of vile and degrading ways, laughing and saying that I was an apt young wench to play the harlot for the Devil.'"

Ambrose's rusty, creaking voice was toneless, his face expressionless.

"'After this, Lord de Valois and his soi disant squire would call upon me at all hours of day or night -sometimes together as before, and sometimes separately. On the night of All Souls, they took me to a witches' sabbat in the woods, where all the devil-worshippers of the North had gathered to pay homage to Satan and to use one another in the way of lust. I was passed from hand to hand and used like the whore I was, by man and woman alike. Lord de Valois was their leader, the girl Rowan his right hand, and they told me of a plan they had to curse Lord William de Lacy, whom they knew to be the only threat to the reign of Satan in the North."

"'I was very far gone in darkness, but through the mercy of Christ I was rescued by servants of the Church who brought me back to the true path. All I wish now is to expiate my sins and live the life of a penitent. Signed on this day, Elwynn of de Courtney Castle.'"

The bishop's voice lapsed into silence. He had hardly needed to read from his manuscript -every word was burned into his memory. He had written it last night in a frenzy, his cock stiffing and aching as he imagined the slender young female bodies writhing together in Satanic bliss, imagined what it was like to be a proud, strong young blasphemer like Stephen de Valois, laughing in the face of God and man alike and breaking beautiful, sin-tainted young sluts to his will as he might break horses in his stable.

He felt no guilt over his fabrication of the stories. There could be no doubt that this Raven had commited depraved acts and had dressed herself as a boy. Such things could only come from the Devil and so it was not false to call her his servant. Likewise, Stephen de Valois was an idolator. It so happened that the idols he bowed down before were called freedom and reason, not Baphomet, but they were still nothing more than fresh masks of the Devil. The confession was God's truth, not man's.

"You need only put your mark to it," he told Elwynn gently, "And swear to it in the court we will assemble. Do this, and you may live out the rest of your days in a home for fallen women. But if you refuse... "

He shook his head sadly.

"Up until now, I have been gentle with you, my daughter. It may not have seemed so, but you should believe me, I have been. If you refuse... I will be gentle no longer."


***


In all the uproar, Stephen had completely forgotten the young man that Raven had been brought in with. He regarded Alys levelly.

"He participated in an ambush which cost both me and your father good men, men we could not spare," he said, his hard blue eyes thoughtful and distant. "But I showed mercy to Raven, and there should be one law for all."

He turned his regard to Alys. Despite his anger over her attempt to manipulat Raven, he respected the beautiful young noblewoman's quick intelligence and her instinctive grasp of Northern sentiments -something still alien to him. He was using her counsel, he realised with a slight shock, the way he had once used Raven's. For all their differences, and the jealous hate that Alys now bore for Raven, the two were alike in unexpected ways as well.

"What would you advise?"

 

[zora_little]

“I cannot read,” Elwynn croaked. “Nor have I learned how to sign my name.”

His ice cold stare made her regret her foolish comment immediately. He did not care about any of this. She looked form his face to the scroll in his hands as if it was a poisonous serpent ready to strike her. Satanic masses! Had the circumstances been different Elwynn would have seen the wicked humour in such descriptions. Many men had asked her to indulge them in similar – if somewhat tamer, and less extravagant – fantasies.

But there was nothing humorous about this.

In truth she only wished to gain time. It was not that she had scruples to lie if it would save her own life and skin. The Lord knew how many times she had shied away from the truth in her life when it had seemed easier to do so. Elwynn did not think herself to be an honest woman. But to speak false testimony against the most powerful man in the north? And what testimony it was! To accuse Stephen de Valois of fornication, of devil worship, of blasphemy and all the other sins the bishop had listed? And what if she would be brought before the liege lord, what if the bishop would not emerge the winner? What if she was made to justify her accusations in front of Lord de Valois, what then? Surely her punishment would surpass by many times that with which the bishop threatened her now.

And yet, the pain he promised was so much more immediate, so very much just in front of her eyes.

“Your grace,” she whispered. “Might it be that you confound me with another? For I have never even met the Lord de Valois, and even if these accusations might all be true, I would commit a grave sin if I confirmed them before you and the Lord, for I have not witnessed such abject behaviour.” She was careful not to mention Raven.

Tears formed in her bright eyes as she silently pleaded for mercy. Oh dear Mother of God, please help.

“I want to obey you, your Grace. It is just that I do not dare to lie to you, your Grace. I would never dare to do that.”

***

For a brief moment Alys was too surprised to speak. After his previous outbreak of rage, after what had just happened, she had not expected this turn of his mood. But she realised how much she had longed for him to ask her advice again, as he had many times done in the past weeks.

But this time her inquiry was not an innocent one.

The reason that she had thought of the outlaw still in chains in the dungeon was yet another betrayal: he had promised her – in exchange for mercy – to reunite her with Robert, who, against all odds, had been kept alive by his father, Lord de Lacy.

“My lord…,” she began. What should she do? The prisoner had killed, had risen up against his liege lords, had stolen from him and possibly cost Stephen de Valois valuable allies and men. He had killed her father’s men and left him looking a weak fool. He was a poor man maybe, and his hands had been guided by necessity, but Alys knew that he was also a ruthless opportunist, a man who could not be trusted, a turncloak. And yet he was the only link she still had to Robert, and she could not bear the thought of severing it.

“Do not execute him, my lord, not yet.” Alys was barely able to meet his eyes. “He might yet prove to give you valuable information.” Information about Robert. About the man I gave up to marry you. Alys looked up at Stephen again.

“And a merciful leader might be able to project strength in these lands so ravaged by death. So much blood has been spilled already.” Alys nodded, as if to encourage her own idea. It was true. Too many had died, and after the girl’s acquittal none of his enemies would care about an outlaw.

“I will have to talk to my father. Will you allow me to go, my lord? I need to speak to him alone.”

 

[Maka]

Ambrose felt as though he could read the whore's filthy, cunning mind as she studied her options, frantically scanning them for an escape like a trapped animal. She would assuredly end up betraying her fellow harlot, Raven. That was what whores did, after all. But every whore also had a secret womanly vanity to her, one that shone all the brighter the more they degraded themselves. She needed to be coaxed and swayed into this betrayal, needed to tell herself that she had to.

He smiled, gently.

"My daughter, it has been the teaching of the Church since time immemorial that there are four kinds of truth. There is literal truth -the kind of which you speak. Then there is allegorical truth, anagogical truth... and moral truth. Perhaps your confession is not literal truth, as the common man understands it... but it is moral truth. Stephen de Valois is the very chief among sinners and he does the will of Satan in this fallen world; the harlot Raven, as you well know, is his wicked right hand in all his works. If this piece of paper brings them to the justice they so richly merit, then it will be as true as the everlasting gospel itself."

That was blasphemy, and the thought only made Ambrose all the more excited. I can touch pitch and not be defiled. He wondered if there were some way to justify putting Elwynn though a reenactment of her Satanic orgies, his breath quickening at the thought.

To his great irritation, he heard footsteps advancing down the corridor. Who would dare disturb him? The jailers had strict instructions not to do so no matter what they might hear. He had taken an especially intense dislike to one of them -a kindly-looking old man who he'd swear dared to look at him with insolent disapproval whenever he came down here.

But, of course, it was the only man who would dare disobey the bishop. William de Lacy, his face flushed with excitement. He ignored Ambrose's severe glare as he entered the cell.

"Still at your whore, eh? Come away. I have news... great news!"

Ambrose reluctantly left the cell and stood with de Lacy outside in the corridor.

"It's that unnatural wench, Raven. She was captured at Castle de Courtney and taken before de Valois!"

Ambrose frowned. He had not taken his ally for a fool.

"That is hardly good news. It means that de Valois can control the trial. He can place all the blame on her, claim to have been bewitched... "

"That's just it!"

De Lacy's eyes were shining.

"He had the perfect opportunity to do just that. The slut confessed to everything, went to her knees, said she'd put a spell on him to do her will... and he pardoned her. Before all the North, he pardoned a self-confessed witch and devil-worshipper."

Ambrose felt a thrill of excitement, of pleasure, moving though him.

"Truly," he murmured, "'The Lord hath delivered him into my hands...'"

He did not have de Lacy's detailed knowledge of Northern politics, but he knew men and he knew nobles. Very few would stand by a man who would pardon a witch who condemnned herself out of her own mouth.

What, he wondered, had driven de Valois to such reckless self-destruction? He had always been a clever man, after all. Had God sent a dream of madness his way? Did he think his much prized reason would hold sway even up here in the dark North?

Or, and Ambrose smiled to think it, had he perhaps been swayed by love for this dark-eyed little peasant girl, for this hybrid and unnatural creature? Ambose very much hoped so. Because if Stephen did love this monster, it would be all the sweeter when he and de Lacy took her away from him, used her as a weapon to humble his pride and ultimately destroy him.

"Where is Raven now?" Ambrose asked briskly. "Has he kept her with him, to satisfy his lusts again?"

De Lacy shook his head.

"No. Even he would not dare such brazenness. He has sent her away."

"Where?"

"I know not. But my spies are at work. They'll find her, sooner or later, no matter where he has hidden her and then... "

Ambrose smiled tightly. With Raven in their possession, along with Elwynn's testimony, their case would be unassailable. After crushing de Valois, they could ensure that even his cousin the king would seek no retribution. Everything was in place.

"How do you fare with the whore, by the way?"

Ambrose did not like the sly grin that de Lacy accompanied his query with. He once again put aside his instinctive dislike of his Northern ally. De Lacy was undoubtedly a sinner, undoubtedly a man of blood, but God could still make righteous weapons of such men. And he truly hated Stephen de Valois.

"I believe she will place her mark on the confession," Ambrose said curtly. He had not liked, either, the cynical amusement with which de Lacy had read the confession. That anger came back to him now, and with it, an idea.

"But I believe I have a way that would speed the process along... "

"What is it?"

"She and your son have become close. Let Robert be tortured. Let his screams echo through her cell night and day. Let her know that his suffering can end once she admits to her wrongdoings."

His suggestion had the effect he had been hoping for. De Lacy's face went pale.

"He... it... the boy is a treacherous whelp, it's true, and I would gladly put him to a clean death by the sword but... torture? He is my son. My only son... "

The last words were in a whisper. Ambrose wanted to preserve them in his mind forever, wanted to caress them and burnish them until they shone.

"Well, you can sire half-a-dozen new sons on that haughty wench Alys of Crowsdale, after we take her back from de Valois," Ambrose said. "Good English sons, brought up in the true faith, not like yon Moorish half-breed."

"Yes, yes... " de Lacy muttered, pacing and scowling.

Ambrose maintained his solemn expression until he'd turned his back on de Lacy, when he allowed the smile he'd been holding back to emerge. God found a way, to wreak his retributions. Truly, God always found a way.


***


Stephen considered Alys' plea, his face expressionless.

"So be it. He will live... in chains, for now, but he will live. Now go to your father."

 

[zora_little]

Raven lifted her head.

“Where…where am I?” She was lying on a bed, the clean linen soft against her fingers. Sunlight fell through a window, and the sound of morning birds was all she could make out. “Am I dead? Is this…heaven?”

There was a low chuckle, and Raven turned to see a kind-looking young woman was sitting next to her bed.

“You’re in the Convent of the Sisters of St. Phoebe.” The young nun put on hand on Raven’s. “You are safe here.”

***
Elwynn sat cowering against the cold wall of her cell. Ever since the bishop’s visit she had barely been able to sleep, and she had not even touched the food that the kind jailer kept bringing her. Her mind was racing. After having been interrupted during their last interrogation, the bishop had granted her some time to think. Elwynn knew that her choices were between signing the confession that she knew to be a lie – none of the bishop’s words had been able to convince her otherwise, even though she would never admit this out loud – and facing the consequences if she did not. Raven was doomed. And Lord Stephen de Valois? Would the signed confession of an illiterate whore really be able to bring one of the most powerful lords in the North to his knees?

Then her thoughts strayed to Arnaud. Would he be able to forgive her? She pictured him standing in the great stone hall, hearing de Valois’ accusers read out the words that the bishop had read out to her, seeing her there, the false witness, the liar, the woman who helped destroy his lord and protector. Would he be able to love her then?

Never had she felt so hopelessly trapped.

Then, an odd noise. First it was a muffled groan, the sounds of someone who fought against his urge to express pain, somewhere close by. She sat up, alert like an animal sensing danger. The groan rose, a man shouted, another laughed, angrily.

The groan turned into a blood-curdling scream. Elwynn could feel her skin crawl in horror. This was Robert’s voice, there was no doubt. Even though the thick stone walls muffled and distorted the sounds, Elwynn knew that it was him. De Lacy allowed for his own son, his own flesh and blood, to be tortured in his dungeons? What kind of father, what kind of man would do that? And why? If he had been proven to be a traitor, why recur to such cruel treatment? The scream trailed into an exhausted moan.

She pressed her hands over her ears, drawing her knees as close to her chest as she could. There was a brief moment of silence, then laughter, then another scream. “Please stop,” she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. “Please stop.”

***

Alys trembled as she spoke. Her father stared at her open-mouthed. She had not gone to him immediately, not that night. But now the words were out, hanging between them like ice.

“You…what?”

“I gave him my word. I am his. I will marry him, honour him as my husband.”

“Have you lost your mind? After everything that has happened, you cannot mean that, Alys.”

“I will bear his children.” The words sounded flat, emotionless. “He has taken me to his bed already.” She looked up at her father now, her face determined. “You and Lord Thomas wanted it no other way. Was my body not the price you were only too willing to pay for an alliance with de Valois?”

The slap to her face came so hard and so swiftly that her head spun around, and she could taste blood.

Her brother towered over her, his eyes blazing.

“You whore!”

Alys refused to be scared. It was clear that her brother would strike her again, but their father stepped between them, his face drawn and tired.

“We are leaving today. The bond between our house and that of de Valois is no more.” He looked at her, the sadness in his eyes unbearable. “But you, Alys, are no longer a daughter of mine.”

 

[Maka]

It was time.

Ambrose had not particularly enjoyed torturing Robert. It was true that he was undoubtedly a Saracen infidel. It was written all over his lustrous, sullen dark eyes. Such men as he had taken the Holy Land from the True Faith, turned Jerusalem into a profane brothel for their lying, idolatrous prophet. There was some satisfaction in making one of them pay for the deeds of all their kind. Too, it was a revenge by proxy on William de Lacy, for his innumerable slights and insults. But ultimately, the whole process was merely a means to an end.

And he reckoned that it had served that end. When he reentered the whore's cell, she was curled up tightly in a ball, her pale and beautiful face now red and blotched with tears. Pain and fear destroyed vanity and humbled proud hearts, praise be to the Lord.

"I was with your friend Robert just now, daughter," he said softly, approaching her. "I am trying to persuade him to put away that book of lies the Saracens use, and take up our holy faith."

That was a lie, too, and a wholly unnecessary one that Ambrose told sheerly for the joy of it. He assumed that Robert was a Saracen at heart, if he did not deny God altogether, but he had not troubled to put any questions to him whatsoever.

"Alas, he is obstinate. The only thing I can think is... " Ambrose stroked his chin, pretending to think, "That he lacks good example. Will you sign the confession now, my daughter?"

 

[zora_little]

Elwynn did not cry anymore. The tears were of no use, they did not bring the relief she longed for. The screams had continued, in irregular intervals, and then they had ceased. The silence had almost been worse, since she could not help wondering if they had actually killed him, if de Lacy was a cruel enough man to have his own son tortured to death.

She realised that she had never actually seen his face, that she had no idea what he looked like. Elwynn tried to imagine features that would match his gentleness, his wit, his sense of humour. He had been the only person in what felt like an eternity who had been kind to her, and now he was suffering, maybe he was dead. The idea of being left behind in this dungeon with his presence to comfort her scared her so much that tears welled up in her eyes again.

It was then that the door to her cell opened with a creak. Elwynn did not even need to look up – in fact she had no desire to do so – to know that it was no other than the feared bishop.

“I was with your friend Robert just now, daughter. I am trying to persuade him to put away that book of lies the Saracens use, and take up our holy faith.”

Her face was hot and dry from the tears she had shed. She sat up, shaking, her back pressed against the wall as if the cold stones could provide any security. Of course it had been no other than him who had hurt Robert. And of course the bishop would find no harm in the fact that he tortured another man in order to convince him that the faith he stood for was the only right one, and he would easily be able to convince himself that each new soul he won for his faith was a victory, even if that soul would be broken. Elwynn was too tired to see the outrage in this.

His smile made her skin crawl. There was much promise is this smile. Promise to hurt Robert again. Promise to hurt her. Promise that he would not relent, not for a moment, until each of them bent to his will.

“Alas, he is obstinate. The only thing I can think is...That he lacks good example. Will you sign the confession now, my daughter?”

Yes, she was tired. There was no way out. It was unlikely that she would ever see Arnaud again. That she would ever leave this dungeon. That things would get better.

With a slow nod, she consented. “Yes your Grace,” she whispered hoarsely. “I will sign it.”

***

Raven blinked against the bright winter sun. Her hands rested against the icy stones of a low dry wall that surrounded a garden, now laying bare and sleeping, the approach of spring still only a distant promise. The air was fresh and cold, and she took a deep breath. Alive. She was alive, and safe from harm. That is what the young nun sitting at her bedside had promised her.

The convent of St. Phoebe was tucked away in a long valley surrounded by high mountains that towered over the buildings scattered along a river. She shielded her eyes against the sun and looked up at the rocks. Safe. Her thoughts were still slow to adjust, as if she was trying to emerge from a long, bad dream.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

The voice was soft, friendly, but Raven had not heard Fira approach and spun around in alarm. The woman in front of her was dressed as the other nun had been, her eyes alert, and of an icy blue that reminded her of Stephen.

Raven could only nod.

“Yes….my lady.”

Fira shook her head.

“I am no lady. My name is Fira, and I am the mother superior in this convent.”

Raven nodded again.

“It was Lord Stephen’s wish for you to take holy orders and live out the rest of your days here, with us.”

At the mention of his name, she flinched. The trial seemed like a distant, horrific ordeal. But he had pardoned her, and now she was here.

“Yes…mother superior.”

Fira watched the girl in front of her closely. She was clearly still scared, overwhelmed by all that had happened to her. And how could she not be? Raven was now clad in a linen dress underneath her thick winter cloak. Her face was still pale, but her bruises were fading. How was she going to make sense of the forces that had toyed with her so cruelly? She would need time, and Fira was willing to grant her that much at least.

“Don’t be scared. Your stay with us is not punishment, Raven, even if it might seem so to you.” A faint smile played around Fira’s lips. “But do see it as a chance. As an opportunity. I am curious to get to know you.” She motioned around the grounds. “Have a look at your new home for now. You are still recovering. Just know that you are safe here, that you are in our care now. You are welcome here, if you are willing to let go of the weights of your earlier life.”

***

Alys sat in her room, staring into the distance. If she had disliked Courtney castle before, she hated it now. Her family had left, and so had most of their bannermen, leaving the castle feeling empty and abandoned.

She stared into her lap. Had she made the right choice? Her father had not hit her, had not screamed at her like her older brother had, who upon leaving her had spat in her face. It was a curious thought, to think that they were enemies now, her family and her, that in the event of a war, she would be without their protection.

And Stephen? Would he be there to protect her? After that night, she had avoided him, and they had barely spoken a word. If he had noticed her swollen, split lip, he had made no mention of it. Alys knew that he loved another, just like she once had, like she maybe still did. But they were betrothed, and would marry very soon. Alys knew that the only reason he still wanted her to be his wife was his pride, his defiance of her family and the whole of the north. And more importantly, as the only daughter of Lord Marnoch of Crowsdale, possible alliances with a strong northern house through marriage were now lost to his foes. Yes, maybe that was the main reason he did not want to let her go.

It would be a sad wedding.

 

[Maka]

Stephen sat in his library in the east tower, staring at a manuscript laid out before him. Aristotle's Poetics, acquired by his agent in Paris some weeks earlier and sent to him at Castle de Courtney. In the confusion of the trial, he had no time to consider it. Now he had set aside to consider it -and he sat without reading.

How often had he and Rowan -he and Raven, discussed this text? They had combed through the church fathers for allusions to it, and the rare golden seam of a direct quote from it, speculated on its contents, on the giant steps Aristotle must have advanced literature with its publication. Now it lay before him at last. He could answer all of the questions that they had -and instead, he frowned out across the sea of white that was the snowy forest all around him.

Did they have an extensive library at the convent of St Phoebe's? Perhaps he could arrange to have some books from his own collection sent to them, as a charitable gesture...

Stephen caught himself. His idea was a transparent attempt to reopen communication with Raven. She would know who chose the books sent from Castle de Courtney, she would understand the care with which they were chosen -crumbling Greek and Latin manuscripts chosen with the kind of intimate concentration that a courtly lover might chose a bouquet of flowers for his lady. And now he found himself imagining the blush of happiness that would spread across her face as the books arrived, slender dark brows slanting in concentration as she sat down to read them in some sunlit room, her quick, bowman's fingers turning the fragile pages with gentle care. The vision brought him such happiness that Stephen instantly knew that he could not carry his plan out.

Sending the books would be no abstract, charitable gesture but a declaration of love. And that would violate the promise he had made Alys, after she had sacrificed everything for him.

The nature of Alys' jealousy did not strike Stephen as strange. She watched, eagerly participated, as he made a wanton, moaning whore of her handmaiden but an outwardly innocent gesture such as sending books to a convent, would cut her to the heart. Because it was a gesture that echoed with a shared past she had no part in, because it was a gesture of love and not just of lust.

And so he cast the longing out, and sat pretending to read the Greek manuscript in front of him.

"My lord?"

He had appointed no replacement to Raven as his squire, so the tasks that once fell to her were now carried out by a succession of seemingly interchangeable pages, all of them terrified of the dark moods of their lord and prospective lady. The page cleared his throat.

"My lord, petitioners await below. They crave audience."

So still they came. Spiteful, superstitious, ignorant, quarrelsome, greedy, and hateful, beating their wives and torturing animals for sport. The yeomen of Merry England. The same ones who regarded him as a witch because he read books, the same ones who would have burned Raven at the stake. They'd bow and tug their forelocks to him, or to de Lacy, or to the Devil himself if they saw profit for themselves in it. Why had he laboured so hard to help such ingrates? Why had he not left them to Bishop Ambrose and de Lacy, the hard and grasping masters whom they deserved?

Then he recalled. Raven had come from among them, had always known full well what they were, been obliged by their prejudices to disguise her sex. But she had worked harder than anyone to realise his vision for the North, to build up and to better. She had not let herself be consumed by hatred or resentment -and he knew that she was not now.

Stephen bowed his head, humbled. He looked at the page and, for the first time since the trial, smiled.

"Very well. Tell them I will be with them shortly."

He paused. Had Raven not taught him something else as well?

"And call my lady Alys. I wish her to be present when we hear the petitions. Not on the gallery. At my side, so I can hear her counsel."

The page bowed, trying to conceal the pleasure on his features. The lordship's orders were unorthodox -but was what that next to his actions in the past? More importantly, he had at last stirred from the dark, barren mood that had held him in its sway for the past week. Perhaps spring was not so far away after all.

 

[zora_little]

“This is the second time I caught poachers on my land, my lord. I caught one of them, an insolent lad, who thinks my rabbits and my deer are for any peasant to hunt and eat.”

Alys considered the man, a minor noble with a face like a ferret, and whose eyes darted nervously from Stephen to her and back to his liege lord. A man who was eager to please and quick to betray, someone who would readily bow to his betters while kicking those beneath him. She frowned, but said nothing.

“My lord, allow me to set an example and string the lad up. It’s the only way these poachers learn.”

He bowed again, one hand on his sword hilt, waiting for Stephen to speak. Alys softly cleared her throat, knowing that he would want to hear what she thought of the matter at hand. The intense dislike of the petitioner made it easier for her to speak her mind.

She bowed to Stephen, speaking in a low voice.

“My lord, I advise against executing the boy.”

It was the first time in a week that she faced the world as Lord Stephen de Valois’ future wife and lady of Courtney Castle. When the timid page had communicated Stephen’s wish for her to attend the audience by his side, she had been very pleased, and, if she was honest, also relieved. Maybe he really did forgive her.

“The winter has been harsh, my lord, and the misery of past wars still weighs heavy on the peasantry. Food has been scarce. Poaching is a serious crime without any doubt, but to punish the offenders too severely under the circumstances will breed resentment, but will do nothing to alleviate the hunger. I suggest he should pardon the poachers, and that we send someone to the villages there to see what they are lacking. Maybe that way the people who feel the need to hunt other men’s rabbits can be kept from doing so.”

***

Brae squinted at the needlework in her lap, undoing a careless stitch for the third time. Her mind was elsewhere. It was with increasing frequency that she overheard gossip in the castle that reflected badly on her poor lady, with other servants wondering how long the fair northern girl would accept to share Lord Stephen’s company – and his bed – without being married to him. And Brae, too, wondered why he still hesitated.

Lord Stephen would need to wed Lady Alys very soon, if he did not want to humiliate her further, but Brea was too afraid to address her mistress, and too timid to approach her future husband. She had not been alone with Lord Stephen in over a week – something the brunette maid sincerely regretted – but she did not have the heart to seek out his company either. His dark moods scared her. Sometimes she wondered about the girl Raven, if she, despite not being a witch, commanded a hold on the Norman lord that he was now unable to shake off.

***
Raven sat bent over a faded manuscript, her brows knitted in concentration as she tried to make out the words in the light of a flickering candle. The convent was equipped with an extensive library, but its content paled in comparison to the treasures Lord Stephen had collected in the eastern tower of Castle Courtney. The text before her was a careless copy of an account by Herodotus, and many words were indecipherable. Raven sighed.

Whenever her thoughts strayed to Stephen it was as if a cold, cruel hand squeezed her heart, making it harder to breathe. She wondered how he was, if he was safe, what the fallout of the trial had been. Annis had told her about Lord Thomas, and her description of the scene at the gatehouse had Raven deeply worried. She wished for nothing more than a word from him, a message of any kind, a sign that he was well. And even if she did not readily admit it to herself she wished to know if he had forgiven her, the peasant girl who had lied to him and betrayed him and his trust, had undone his alliances so carelessly.

Maybe the fact that he did not send any messages was a good sign. Maybe it meant that he had forgotten about her already. Raven angrily wiped a treacherous tear from her eyes.

She stretched on her bench, aching from the hunched position she had been in over the last hours. Her habit still felt foreign to her, constraining. It was curious that of all the disguises she had worn in the past month, that of a woman was the most uncomfortable to wear. Annis, a cheerful girl from an upper class family in central England, good-naturedly teased her for the way in which she often fiddled with the starched dress.

It turned out that she was still in possession of her bow, the only tangible object that provided a link to her former life, proof that she had not simply imagined all of it. Raven was surprised to hear that it had been no other than Arnaud who had insisted that she was allowed to take it with her, and even more astonished to hear that it had been him who had guarded her from the vengeful swords of Crowsdale. None of it made sense! She also wondered about Beval. Was he still alive?

“Raven! You are late again!”

Roused from her thoughts she looked up to find Sister Catherine standing in the doorway, impatiently motioning for her to follow her to the chapel for evening mass. Fira had insisted that raven be exempted from all daily chores until such time that she was fully recovered from her injuries, and not all other women in the convent were pleased that she received such exceptional treatment, especially since she was of such a low station. All the other women and girls were born to noble families who were able to afford the care of St. Phoebe, and Catherine was said to be a direct relative to the king of Aragon. She had taken an immediately dislike to the peasant girl Raven, a sentiment that she made no effort to conceal.

“Hurry!” she spat, dragging Raven along the corridor to the chapel, shaking her head in disapproval. “I don’t know what Stephen was thinking by sending you here, clearly you are not a girl who belongs in a convent.”

Raven froze.

“You know Steph…you know Lord de Valois?”

Catherine smiled grimly.

“Of course I do. Before I came here, I was to become his wife.”

 

[Maka]

It was a curious, and perhaps fateful, chance that the first case should have involved poaching. It cast Stephen's mind back to the first day he had met Raven, the day that had changed both of their lives forever. He was tempted to lose himself once again in reverie, but he shook off the impulse. Raven must be forgotten. She must. Instead, he turned to Alys to hear her advice.

The fair young noblewoman had seemed pleased that he had called her to the hall, and seemed equally willing to try to plough over the ground of their violent dispute and plant again. She held her slender body straight but not rigid, smiled when he looked at her but did not allow her gaze to linger in a way that could have been read as lewd, suggestive or insolent.

She had so many virtues, qualities that would have made her a fitting bride for any man in England. She possessed an ethereal, delicate beauty with her flawless, creamy complexion, her eyes like shimmering azure stars, and the long fine hair that spilled to her shoulders, shining like pure gold glittering on pure snow, with her ripe and tender body so apt for love's caresses. She was wise yet passionate, possessed with a love of romance that suggested a warm, open heart. She was outwardly chaste and yet in the bedroom possessed a wild and wanton streak that would have done credit to a Southwark whore -and she loved above all to submit, craved it as she craved life.

Such a woman should be loved. And Stephen had begun to fall in love with her, against his better judgement. But then, Raven's trial had burst everything apart and whatever had been growing between them had been crushed underfoot.

Could it be reclaimed? Looking at Alys now, Stephen thought it might, if he kept a close guard on his heart.

"You will pardon the poachers," he said.

The petitioner choked, but Stephen continued. "And we will send to your lands, to find why it is that your tenants are driven to theft."

He fixed the noble with a meaningful stare.

"If my men find that it is because their lord squeezes them too hard in the matter of taxes... justice will be done."


And so the session progressed. Stephen was easier in mind. It was not just that Alys' advice was excellent, though it was. She was a Northerner like Raven, although one came from the peasantry and the other from a mighty lord's castle. Raven understood the people instinctively, but Alys had sat at her father's councils and at some point met with every person of rank in the entire region. She understood the subtle dynamics underlying th politics of the North, the fine questions of heritage, blood-feuds and old alliances that the nobles of these regions held dearer than honour itself.

But it was also the unfamiliar feeling that he was no longer obliged to do all this, to fight this unending battle, alone. He had an ally now -an ally for life.

And so, when the last petitioner made his bow, Stephen held those in attendance with a gesture.

"There is one more thing."

He looked at Alys.

"The Lady Alys and I have been betrothed since St Stephen's Day. There are no obstacles to our union. We will wed in a month's time, on the twentieth of March -the first day of spring."

 

[zora_little]

“Thank you, my lord.”

It was all she had said to him, her voice soft and even, betraying no emotion. Why had it suddenly become so very difficult to open herself up to him? He still scared her, even though he had never made any allusion to her betrayal again, had never struck her or caused her harm. And yet she felt a cold chill when she looked in his blue eyes mirroring her own, his beautiful eyes now so void of desire and trust. And who could blame him for it? But he, too, had not been honest about his heart, and for a moment Alys wanted to give in to the tears welling up in her eyes.

“Please allow me to withdraw, my lord. I am very tired.”

Alys returned to her chamber confused and agitated. After Stephen’s announcement the petitioners had dispersed, but she had taken great care not to appear troubled. One more moth until the wedding meant another month in uncertainty in his castle, one more moth of whispers and stares, one more month of utter loneliness and uncertainty. Why wait? Each day she spent sitting trapped inside the walls of Courtney Castle seemed to weaken her resolve, making her wonder if he did not secretly plan for his Raven to return.

Brae stood up and put her needlework aside when Alys entered.

“My lady, you have received word…” The maid hesitated. “A letter from Crowsdale.”

Alys’ eyes widened.

“Thank you, Brae…”

Her words trailed off, confused. Who had delivered it? Did she have friends in this castle she was not aware of?

Standing by the window, she unfolded the letter.

“My dear daughter,” the note read in her mother’s uneasy, awkward handwriting. “You cannot imagine the pain that comes with your absence in our house. Sleep does not come to my eyes, and I have no tears left to cry over you anymore. It is hard to put into words the suffering of having lost my daughter under such circumstances.”

Alys looked up, feeling a knot forming in her throat. Her mother was usually a hard woman, unyielding to grief, and very rarely had she used such tender words in her presence before. She continued to read.

“All the signs now point toward war, Alys. And if war comes, you will be behind enemy lines, deprived of our protection. What is worse is that if you wed this man, you will become the target for those that wish to rid these lands of Stephen de Valois. I beg you, do not force your brothers, and your own father, to have to face the day on which their bannermen slay their sister, and their only daughter. I assure you that your father would not survive such grief. Even now, food barely passes his lips, and at night, in his sleep, he cries out your name in agony. It is hard to watch my beloved husband suffer so cruelly.”

The pleading tone of the message brought tears to Alys’ eyes. After so many days of lonely contemplation in Castle Courtney, after never hearing a kind word from anyone, after thinking that her family had long forgotten her, the letter brought both relief and terrible pain. She knew that it must have taken her mother great strength to sit and compose such a letter.

“I know that you have given Lord Stephen de Valois your word, my dear daughter. Your lord father himself promised you his hand in marriage and I, too, closed my ears to your pleading to spare you. You can imagine how much it now pains me that I did not listen to you, that I pushed aside your fears about that man as the moody phantasies of a girl.”

She remembered the day that her mother had presented her with the necklace she was to wear for her wedding, and the slap she had received for calling Stephen a master of witchcraft, whose whore she did not wish to become. How much everything had changed since then.

“There is a way out of this betrothal, my dove. If you consent to swear in front of a jury that you were to be wed against your will, and that de Valois forced himself upon you before holy vows have even been exchanged, you will be free again to come home. Because you were right: he is not a good man and your accusations were valid. He does not deserve you, and will never be able to love a creature as pure and beautiful as you. You succumbed to him under unfortunate circumstances, but nothing is lost yet. We will welcome you with open arms. I beg you, my daughter, free yourself from his terrible spell, and come back to us. – Your mother.”

Alys lowered the letter into her lap with shaking hands, and her eyes were swimming with tears. Brae looked up at her in alarm.

“My lady…? Have you received ill news?”

She shook her head.

But this letter was treason. She could not tell Brae about its contents – ever since the trial Alys had felt that her once trusted maid was unable to keep secrets from Stephen. Coming home. Would she want to? Would she betray Stephen so very cruelly? But knowing that her mother and father were waiting, and crying for her, made her feel a little less vulnerable. She was not alone after all.

Walking over to the fireplace, she pressed the letter against her chest one last time before throwing it to the flames.

***

Evening mass had been a blur of hastily whispered prayers that Raven had barely managed to concentrate on. She was grateful to be in the library again, pretending to take an interest in Herodotus.

Catherine was sitting bent over another manuscript, her face illuminated by a candle as she worked on the manuscript in front of her. Stephen’s former betrothed. Raven watched her from under lowered lashes. Another women that her former liege lord had never made mention of. Why? Catherine was closer to Stephen’s age, and of an extraordinary, graceful beauty. She had a commanding air about her, a fearlessness that Raven found intimidating, almost aggressive. What could have happened to tear their union apart? And what was more, did Stephen know that she now resided in the convent of St. Phoebe? Raven trusted that she would find answers to all of these questions in due time.

It was at that moment when the young abbess appeared by her side.

“I noticed your distraction earlier, Raven.”

The dark-haired girl blushed.

“My apologies, Mother Superior. I do not mean to appear ungrateful…or arrogant.”

Fira laughed softly.

“I do realise that this is not your intention, and you have been through great hardships. It will take time for you to feel at home amongst us.” She paused. What a curious creature that Raven was. It was only understandable if de Valois had indeed fallen for her, as some rumours alleged. “Lord Stephen has done you a great kindness in sending you here,” she said. “And it is time for you to learn more about our convent, and the woman who lent our movement her name.”

Raven lowered her eyes, overwhelmed by the familiar sadness that overcame her each time she was reminded of Stephen, but she nodded quietly, hoping that Fira had not noticed.

“I wish for nothing more than to serve him well. I am truly grateful.”

“We are not here to serve men, we are here to free ourselves form the shackles of having to serve them.” Fira considered Raven, lifted her chin up to look at her delicate face. The flames of the candles around them danced in her blue eyes. “Phoebe is our patron saint because she taught us how to live up to our full potential as women, in the way God made us, and not in the way men tell us God made us, or wants us to be.”

“I have never heard of her.”

The young abbess smiled. “No. Most men – and many women - try to deny her existence, and the church frowns upon those who follow her teachings, and worse, those who instruct others about her. But Phoebe is part of our faith, too, and one day her gospel will be worshipped alongside the others.”

Raven frowned. Neither Father Aldred nor Stephen had ever made mention of Phoebe. Had Father Aldred not known about her, was that possible? As if guessing her thoughts, Fira continued:

“It is thanks to the patronage to Lord Stephen de Valois and his allies that our convent is able to prosper, but very few can be trusted to know about us. There are some priests and bishops that sympathise with our cause, but often even they do not know each other’s names. There is only one other convent in the world that worships Phoebe, far away from here in Egypt, in the ancient city of Alexandria.”

She put one hand softly against Raven’s cheek.

“There are many things you can learn here, and there is no haste. I suggest that you leave Herodotus for now and concentrate on the teachings of the Gospel of Esther.”

 

[Maka]

Stephen lay alone in his bed. It had been some time now since Alys had last joined him there -and Brae would not come to him without her mistress. He passed her in the halls now and then -and saw the brief flash of longing in her soft doe eyes, and with it an equally powerful fear. Was she afraid of him once again? Or was her fear for him?

Preparations for the wedding feast were in hand, with Stephen's few remaining allies in the north gathering to join him at Castle de Courtney. The wedding would be a brief affair -afterwards, the guests would be preparing themselves for war with de Lacy. And afterwards -assuming he survived? Would he and Alys rediscover a fondness for each other, with the north at peace and Raven and Robert no more than memories? Or would things stay as they had been these last few days -an armed, wary silence?

Turning restlessly in his bed -still too soft and yielding for his hard warrior's body, he found himself thinking, for the first time in years, of Catherine de Latas, who was once to have been his bride.

A couple of years younger than him, she has been fostered with his family as a child. Even then she had been very pretty -and a bold, impetuous and wilful girl. She was quick to anger, and her wit was quick and biting. Stephen had been able to handle her better than most others -his cool and calm stoicism enduring her tempetuous moods, and the two of them began to spend a great deal of time together. Changeable as always, there were days when she seemed to do everything she could to anger and torment him -and days when all she seemed to want to do was find ways to please him. On the day when her parents had summoned her home, she had flung into a tremendous rage and hid herself in her room, and had to be dragged out kicking and screaming.

And Stephen had half-forgotten the difficult but affectionate companion of his childhood by the time he returned to London, weary from Crusades and long travels in lands beyond the sea. And found that the talk of the court was now all of the exotic and brilliant young Catherine de Latas, a young woman whose beauty was only matched by the power and wealth of her family. Surprised and pleased, Stephen had called on her -and become entranced. Catherine had riped from a pretty girl to a beautiful, sophisticated young woman, whose education had taken place in courts across Europe. There was still the same steel underneath, but she had learned to mask it better. And she had been pleased to see Stephen -pleased but not surprised. Stephen realised later that it had simply never occured to Catherine that Stephen de Valois would not one day reenter her life. She had decided she was going to marry him soon after first meeting him, as a child, and she was used to getting her way in all things.

The passion sparked between them soon roared into an inferno, and they made plans to wed.

But Stephen had reckoned without the intrigues of the court. The old king was dying, factions in London were jockeying for influence -and a marriage between two of the most powerful houses in the realm looked suspiciously like a bid for power, perhaps even the preliminaries for a bid for the throne itself. Edward de Courtney, in London at the time and still in favour with the king, had pressed for Catherine's hand in marriage in turn, threatening her family if she rejected him. Nobles began to line themselves up behind Stephen and de Courtney, to summon their retainers from the country and house them in the city. Every day, more bands of armed men would march in through the gates. It would take very little for open warfare to start, with neither Stephen nor de Courtney willing to back down.

Catherine was trapped. If she married either man, bloodshed would be the outcome -and bloodshed was inevitable if she delayed any longer. And so, brilliant and unpredictable as always, she had declared that she had received the call, and intended to take holy orders.

And Stephen saw now that it was the only act that could have prevented violence. Since she could now marry neither party, the tension dissipated. The retainers were sent back to their harvests, the two combatants stood down. In due course, the old king had died and his successor, as a peacemaking gesture, invited both Stephen and de Courtney to join his new Order of the Candle. Though it had still ended in violence between them -on the blood and mud of a northern battlefield a few years later.

Stephen saw the wisdom of Catherine's action now. But at the time, blinded by his desire and his pride, he had been coldly furious. It seemed so of a piece with everything she did -her wilfulness, her impulsiveness, her love for teasing and tormenting. To have offered herself to him, then snatched it away forever...

A letter came from Catherine, on the day before she took her oaths and renounced the world forever. Stephen had burned it unread.

Now, lying staring into the darkness, he wondered what it had said. An explanation, pointing out the reasons for her decision? Some fond memory of their shared childhood? Or perhaps a last-minute change of heart, an offer to elope with him and let London burn in consequence?

It didn't matter, Stephen realised grimly. For the sake of his pride and his principles, he had been prepared to sacrifice his own life and the lives of many others. Now he had placed himself in that position once again -and he had rejected Raven's attempt to save him, as Catherine once had.

Dawn seemed very far away.

 

[zora_little]

It had been several weeks that Raven lived with the sisters of the Convent of St. Phoebe. Her wounds and bruises had finally healed, and the nightmares that plagued her every night had become less and less frequent. She had gotten used to the confining dress of a novice, and to the daily routine and tasks she was expected to perform. Raven showed great interest in herblore, and the abbess Fira agreed to have her assist in preparing tinctures and pills, teaching her the names of many flowers and plants used for healing and other medical purposes. From her many expeditions to the woods – in a life that now seemed distant and unreal – Raven knew many berries, leaves and roots, but she had had no notion of the many uses they had.

The frosts of winter were starting to give way to rain and stormy spring weather, and Raven had received permission to explore the forests around her new home. For the first time since she had fallen into the hands of Lord Thomas she had picked up her bow. The wood felt soothingly familiar, and she still performed the task of shooting an arrow with great ease, almost automatically, as if her muscles remembered her old life better than she did. It was a bittersweet feeling. But being able to leave the dark halls of the convent and breathe the air of the forest again made Raven blossom. Colour returned to her cheeks, and the sparkle in her eyes, dulled by the grief and pain that had followed her for so long, lit up once more.

The life in the convent suited Raven. Most of her fellow sisters were kind, intelligent women who took an interest in the affairs of the spirit and the world, who liked to read and discuss the religious and philosophical texts. Whereas in her former life Raven had only ever been able to seek the opinion of Father Aldred, or Lord Stephen, she was now surrounded by three dozen women who enjoyed nothing more than to challenge each other in matters of the mind.

The many tasks that suddenly occupied her days – and many of her nights – had kept her from the library for a while, but today it was raining very hard, and so Raven had finally found an opportunity to turn her attention to the text Abbess Fira had mentioned. But she had not been entirely prepared for what she was going to find.

Last night Joash came to my chamber. He is by turns gentle and tender, and fierce and stormy. But last night he was tender. He knelt before me and kissed the insides of my hands, kissed my thighs, placed his lips to my secret place and lapped at me there, ravishing me with irresistible pleasure. Afterwards, he told me that he had been among the Christians. Joash likes them, though they will have nothing more to do with me.

Raven stared at the text before her, her cheeks burning. Esther really did not dress her thoughts in uncertain, chaste words.

She remembered the night she had spent with Elwynn in the brothel, posing as Rowan, but finding pleasure at the young whore’s hands as the girl Raven, in just the way Esther described in the gospel. It was no wonder that the church did not want this text to be circulated, to be read and taught in a convent. Raven herself hesitated to read on. Stephen had never before mentioned the Gospel of Esther to her, but if he was a patron of this convent, surely he was familiar with their teachings, and the patron saint that had lent it her name.

“Do you find the gospel instructive?”

Raven looked up to find Catherine standing before her, a hint of a mocking smile on her lips. The slender woman looked down on her with one raised eyebrow, and Raven felt as if she had been caught in the middle of an indecent act.

“Has he had you?”

The bluntness of the question drove the colour into Raven’s cheeks, and all she could do was shake her head. Of course the other woman was speaking of Stephen. That realisation created a strange familiarity between them, an uncomfortable, involuntary closeness. Catherine considered the younger girl’s face. She clearly did not believe her.

“The rumours say that he was mad about you, that he threw away everything he had gained just to save you…” The noblewoman seemed to speak more to herself than to Raven, sounding puzzled. It was as if she was looking for an answer in Raven’s delicate features, in her eyes, on her lips. “How is it possible that he would be so enchanted by a girl he never…?” Her voice trailed off, and with a frown, she focussed on Raven again. “Are you telling me he risked everything for a peasant girl dressed as a boy?” There was disdain in her voice, condescending and biting. Raven wanted to shrink away from the other woman’s scrutinising gaze, unsure what she had done to deserve such dislike.

“He did not know I was a girl.” The words hung between them like ice, and Raven immediately regretted having said them out loud.

Catherine laughed without humour.

“I have given up my life to save him once, Raven. And I will not let you ruin this, not for me, and not for him.”

With that she turned and left. Raven felt that she had made a very uncomfortable enemy within the walls of the convent.

 

[Maka]

It was the season of spring storms. William de Lacy watched from his high tower at the pines and firs far below howling like wolves in the wind and rain. He did not look at the chessboard that lay, its game finished now, on the side of his bed.

Robert had been right. That thrown-away remark, just before he'd betrayed his father. Stephen de Valois had won the game. His pawn had become a queen. De Lacy left it there to remind himself never to underestimate de Valois, even when it all seemed over.

But even de Valois could not escape the trap they'd set for him now. The whore, Elwynn, had signed Bishop Ambrose's farcical Black Mass confession -or made her mark, at least. They had not publicised it yet -they wanted Raven in hand first. But once they had that cunning little peasant slut, Ambrose would find a way to make her sign it as well -and Stephen's few remaining allies would melt away like snow in spring. And de Lacy had his agents searching every village in the North for Raven. There were only so many places de Valois could have hidden her -and that delicate, pretty face that had been his undoing made her eminently noticeable.

But somehow, de Lacy felt less than satisfied. It was not the chess game. It was the thought of Robert.

Ambrose had been at his silkiest in explaining the necessity of having Robert tortured. It had gotten Elwynn to confess, that was true. But it still stuck in de Lacy's craw.

He stared out at the rain. Then, acting on a sudden impulse, he summoned the warden of the dungeon. He gave certain orders. Then, feeling oddly relieved, he turned back to his study of the storm.


***

"What?"

Robert could not believe his ears.

The guard was one of the stolid, unimaginative ones. He'd beaten Robert when ordered to, but it was clear that he bore him no ill will -indeed, was totally indifferent to him.

"That's right. You and the woman will be sharing a cell. One night only mind. Make the best of it, aye?"

Robert listened to the grating sound of the cell door next to his being undone, to the murmur of an exchange between Elwynn and the guard, and then the sound of footsteps.

His heart was beating fast.

Was this one more cruel trick of the Bishop's? Or could this be, might this be, real?

Elwynn's slim silhouette loomed in the doorway to his cell.

This was his father's doing, Robert suddenly knew. An act of mercy -or an apology. He'd given them one night together.

Robert suddenly felt like a bashful and blushing boy. He smiled awkwardly.

"Welcome to my cell."

 

[zora_little]

Elwynn shuddered as the guard put his hand on her arm.

“Lord de Lacy wishes for you to offer… some consolation to the bastard,” he said with a sleazy grin, not even trying to hide his own desire for her. “I am sure a delectable little whore like you will have no troubles coming up with ideas on how to do that.”

Then his grin faded.

“And make no mistake, this is not an offer. It is an order. Fuck him, suck his cock, and whatever else you might come up with. Make him want you. Because if he doesn’t…, well, Lord de Lacy has said that he has no use for a whore who doesn’t know how to distract a man.”

Then he roughly pushed her towards the iron door.

The torch shed enough light onto Robert to distinguish his features. Elwynn could not hide her shock at his appearance. His face still bore the traces of torment: dark bruises and scratches, a swollen and split lower lip that had only slowly started to heal. The torn clothes he wore did not hide a thin scarlet scar that ran from the side of his neck to his collarbone, angry like a burn, as if someone had pressed a white hot iron against his skin. Elwynn lifted one hand to her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes. What father would allow his own son to be punished so cruelly, no matter what he might have done? And to what end?

“Welcome to my cell.”

His shy smile was all it took for Elwynn to be convinced he wished her no harm, not even now, not even after all that had been done to him. Robert would not take out his anger on the little whore that was now at his mercy. There was a glint to his eyes that immediately gained her trust.

He was young. Despite his injuries and the bruises she could see that he was beautiful, with large dark eyes in an almost delicate face, thick black hair and a lean build that reminded her of an agile, strong cat. It was no surprise that the young lady of Crowsdale had fallen for the forbidden bastard son. Robert was more slender than she had him expected to be, but the weeks, maybe months in this cell would have taken their toll on him.

He tried to hide it when he moved, but Elwynn noticed the flicker of pain in his features as he welcomed her. The screams were still fresh in her mind, and lately nightmares had refreshed her memory night after night. What would one have to do to a man as spirited as Robert in order to make him cry out in such pain? Hot irons. She shuddered. The pincers and spikes that the bishop had threatened her with countless times, all both proof and tools of his wickedness. Despite herself her gaze flitted from his neck to his wrists, still bruised and bloodied from the shackles his torturers had used, cowards that they always, always were.

“I am so sorry for what they did to you,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze. “The bishop must have a very cruel understanding of what faith might mean, and a strange way to make a man love Christianity.” She wondered if Robert had sworn off his false god and embraced the true faith as his father had wished him to do, or if all he had achieved was to hate him all the more.

Outside someone coughed.

Then, remembering the words of the guard, she started to unlace the thin tunic she wore over her dress. It felt odd, strangely cruel even, to try and seduce Robert now, in his state, in a prison cell. But what could she do? After all, she was a survivor.

***

Brae hesitated, her heart pounding so fast and loud in her chest that she was sure that he would be able to hear it through the heavy wood of the door. Again she lifted her hand to knock. But what right did she have to interfere in this matter? Would he not be angry with her? The truth was that she as much longed to be in his presence as she feared it, and each time she saw him around the castle, her pulse quickened in anticipation of him giving her the faintest sign that he felt the same. Brae knew it was silly to entertain such vain hopes – noble lords like him bedded women as they pleased, and without the qualms of having to think about their feelings. But sometimes, when she was alone, Brae closed her eyes to recall the night that she and her mistress had been with Lord Stephen, how he had taken her on the floor of his chamber and made her a woman. One time the memories had been so intense that she had almost climaxed just imagining him moving inside her, but was roused by an insolent kitchen boy from her thoughts, who to this day teased her for indulging in daydreams the little bastard rightly deemed to be steeped in sin.

Everything that had passed between them on that one night had been nothing but indulging in lust, at least for him, and why would he care about the storms unleashed in her heart, or the sweet memories of him treating her like his lover? Brae also knew that his mind was elsewhere, that the happiness of that moment was long gone, together with his dreams of peace and a strong northern alliance. And yet.

But tonight she was here for another reason. Lady Alys had grown gloomy and distant, and for three days, had not touched her food. Another letter had arrived from Crowsdale, but again her mistress had read and burnt it without disclosing any of its content to her maid, but it was very clear that the message had only increased her distress.

Now Brae was here to beg Lord Stephen to pay a visit to his fiancée. Brae knew that Alys deeply regretted having gone against his orders, and that she had dared to set up the peasant girl to confess to crimes she had not committed. She had lost everything to the promise she had made to the Norman lord, and she deserved his forgiveness. Waiting another whole month with the wedding was a humiliation she could barely handle, now that her own family had disowned her. And if nothing else, Alys needed to know that he cherished her, and that he would love her as his wife. That he still desired her.

Finally, taking a deep breath, she knocked. “My lord Stephen?”

 

[Maka]

Elwynn looked even more beautiful than Robert's most fevered fantasies. In the dark of his cell, the pale-skinned redhead looked like a vision of beauty sent from Paradise. Even in the low, flickering torchlight her fiery hair seemed to glow with its own inner light, her soft, smooth skin begged to be caressed and kissed. She looked nothing like whores Robert had known -battered and exhausted and aged before their time by the hellish life they'd led. Elwynn by contrast was straightbacked and healthy, with the sparkle of life and youth and joy in her green eyes, for all their sadness.

He'd been gazing at her in astonished admiration for so long, that at first he did not react when her delicate digits went to the laces of her tunic. The thought that he might be able to see her bare breasts sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine... but he forced himself to act, going over to her and placing a restraining hand over her.

"Elwynn... " he said. His mouth was so close to hers. "I know what they told you to do. But you... you don't have to. Not with me. I'll tell them you did it all... "

He plucked the fingers from her laces and on an impulse began to kiss them softly, his deep brown eyes glowing with arousal despite his words. He did not step away from her as he knew he should.


***


He was sitting, staring into the embers of the dying fire. Out of habit, Stephen ignored the knocking at first. Rowan will get it. He grimaced. He was still so dependent on his squire, still felt her absence like an ache in his heart. How could he concentrate on the troubles of the present when it felt like all he could register was her absence?

But at last he got to his feet and opened the door, a scowl like thunder on his stonily handsome features. It softened a little, but did not fade altogether, at the sight of his visitor.

Brae looked more doe-eyed, shy and vulnerable than ever -her long, carefully brushed brown hair falling to her shoulders, her large brown eyes fearful and imploring. As ever, she had something of the air of a graceful, frightened little fawn on the verge of bolting back into the forest at the first sign of a harsh word or menacing gesture. Stephen tried to find the patience and calm that had once been second nature to him.

"What is it, Brae?" he asked curtly. "A message from your mistress?"

 

[zora_little]

Elwynn had not expected this. How could he find it in his heart to be this kind? Tears welled up in her eyes against her will as he gently brought her hand up to his lips to kiss the tips of her fingers. She had not had much human contact after her captors had snatched her away from the brothel, and most of it had been brutal and frightening. Now, that she was with Robert, his gentle voice suddenly become flesh, all the fear and terror of the past days rushed to the surface.

But she was ashamed to cry in front of him, him of all people, after all that he had endured. Wiping away the tears angrily with her free hand, she tried to regain control of herself.

“I am so sorry…please forgive me.” She looked up at him, amazed at the glow in his beautiful dark eyes. “I did not expect you to…after what they have done to you…I am so sorry.”

***

“My lord…” Brae’s voice was barely a whisper, a sigh. “My mistress does not know I am here, and yet I am here on her behalf.”

All courage had left her as she tried to withstand his icy gaze. What had she been thinking? Her eyes on the floor, she curtsied, shaking like a leaf.

“Please forgive me, my lord. I should not have troubled you.”

***

Catherine threw her head back, panting, her fingers helplessly digging into the linen sheets as she came, violently, again.

Annis emerged between her slender thighs, wiping her lips and smiling mischievously.

“You are getting really good at this, Annis,” Catherine sighed, gasping for air. “Such talent.”

The noble girl laughed, and kissed first her right inner thigh, then the left, her eyes never leaving Catherine’s.

“What do you make of the dark-eyed girl, Raven?” Annis asked suddenly. Catherine frowned, knowing full well that her playmate was only feigning innocent curiosity. She was aware that the other women in the convent knew her history, and were now wondering how she would handle the peasant girl that had, seemingly single-handedly, condemned her former fiancé, the most powerful man in the North, to almost certain defeat.

“Why would he send his lover to this convent?” Annis continued. Catherine growled, and slipped away from underneath her lover.

“She claims that he has not touched her.”

Annis propped herself up on one elbow, gently caressing the other woman’s leg, trying to win her over again.

“That does not sound like the Stephen you described to me.” She looked up at Catherine, smiling. “I always imagined him to be a man with an appetite.”

Catherine did not answer immediately. Yes, the man she had fallen in love with so desperately had indeed been a man with an appetite. When he had returned from the crusades he was barely a knight, barely a man, but already then songs were written about his exploits on the battlefield, and wild rumours about his prowess as a lover had set many noble women’s hearts aflutter with desire for him.

She twirled a lock of Annis’ silken hair between her fingers, remembering. No other man, no woman, had ever made her feel the way Stephen had. No other had ever driven her to such ecstasy with barely a caress. And she knew, knew for a fact, that he had felt the same. Fate, maybe, and politics had driven them apart.

He had been the one to tell her about the teachings of Phoebe, about the convent in Egypt. It had been for that reason that she chose this place to wait for him, to escape the confines of the London court, the petty intrigues and unpredictable alliances. But he had never come, never even answered her letter, her desperate plea.

Her pride wounded, she had not attempted to write another letter to her lover, her future husband. Stephen knew, from her message, where to find her, and that she was waiting for him. Catherine could be sure that he had received the letter, as it had been her most trusted servant who had put it into his hands. For some reason he had decided not to come, and she had never heard from him again. That he sent Raven here now just added insult to injury.



If Stephen had hidden the girl away in this convent with hopes of keeping her to himself, he would find that his dark-eyed peasant was not impervious to seduction and vice, and that a woman as Catherine knew how to nurture the seeds of revenge and scorn better than most others.

She had watched the young woman, an innocent little creature, seemingly pure, without much knowledge of carnal sin. Catherine did not believe for one moment that her disguise had served as a cover for debauchery, as some had apparently claimed in the trial against her. Raven knew nothing. It would be so easy to lead her astray.

The girl was without blemish or blame, but would not be for much longer. Maybe she was not a witch, but there were many ways to turn others against a woman, ways that could prove just as effective.

Raven would learn soon enough.

“I think we should fully welcome her into our midst, Annis,” Catherine said softly, pulling her lover into another embrace. “I think she deserves that.”

***

Raven carefully crushed the small dry berries, her brows knitted in concentration as not to spill any of the valuable content of her bowl. She had grown to enjoy her lessons in herblore with Fira, and in some ways, the young abbess reminded her of Father Aldred, who had enjoyed teaching her so very much before her follies had gotten him killed.

She had not yet found time to discuss the gospel with Fira, however, partly because Raven was too shy to ask. The forbidden text – one that Stephen had apparently kept from her – had illuminated her on the patron saint of the convent, which only led to many more questions, but very few answers.

The sisters at the convent of St. Phoebe did not believe that a god who had created human beings able to feel such intense sexual pleasure wanted his disciples to remain celibate and chaste. In the forbidden gospel of Esther, it was Phoebe who called on women to enjoy their bodies and those of others, men or women, in worship to the Lord who had made them. She bowed lower over her table, blushing deeply at the thought. So far she had no reason to believe that the nuns of this convent were different from all the others, with their daily routines of prayer and labour. And yet.

Looking up from her task, Raven looked at Fira.

„Why did he send me here?”

For a while, Fira silently considered Raven, her features inscrutable.

“He sent you here because it is the only place he could hope would keep you safe.” The young mother superior absentmindedly played with the small crucifix hanging from a thin chain around her neck as she spoke. “Sure, as the liege lord he could have chosen any convent under his care, and none could have refused to shelter you if he commanded it. But his allies are few, and he knows that his enemies will not rest until they have destroyed him.” Fira’s blue eyes rested on Raven as she continued. “He knows that I will not betray him, and that I will not judge. This is why he asked me to help you. Even if he is defeated, if he falls, you will be safe here.”

Raven lowered her gaze, her chest tight with grief.

“Do you think he will be defeated?”

Fira sighed. “Only God knows who will prevail, but I pray every day that Lord Stephen will succeed in his endeavours to free these lands of old superstitions, of ignorance and hate. It is said that his marriage…” She hesitated as Raven looked up, eager to hear what she had to say. “No. You don’t need to hear of this, Raven. Not yet. You need to heal, and to forget. For now, try to find solace in the wisdom of these texts, in the beauty of this place, in the company of your sisters here.” Fira smiled, and her eyes now sparkling with a sudden, unexpected playfulness. “Esther has a lot to say about female companionship.”

 

[Maka]

At first, Robert could only watch in helpless frustration as Elwynn wept, the tears sparkling on her beautiful face in the half-light of the cell. He laid a hand to her shoulder, brought her to the stone bench that was the cell's only furnishing.

It also served as his bed. Robert put that stray, hungry thought from his mind as he sat Elwynn down, his arm around her slim shoulders. He sat, saying nothing for a time, simply relishing her warmth, her fresh feminine scent, the slow return of her heartbeat to normal. The pain from his injuries faded away to nothing in her presence.

Fiery red hair, green eyes. His mother had once had a dream where he wed such a woman. As smitten as he had been with Alys, part of him had been a little disappointed that things were apparently not going to fall out as his mother had envisioned.

And now...

Robert had been a rover and a rake up and down the length of the country before he set eyes on Lady Alys. Once upon a time, he would already have been strategizing ways to get Elwynn into bed, finding ways to innocently brush against her firm round breasts, of making her lean into him, of introducing charming notes of flirtation into the conversation.

Now, it felt different. He'd known Elwynn as a voice for so long, her embodiment in an angelically beautiful body seemed... strange, somehow. There was something sacred about it.

And yet he could feel arousal roaring up inside him at her touch, her feel.


***

Brae was trembling, unable to meet his gaze. She fixed her doe eyes on the floor in terror. Stephen was unable to suppress a wave of frustration. Crossing the distance between in three long strides, he loomed over her, lifting her little chin so that she was forced to look him in the eye.

"What is you want to say on your mistress' behalf? What is it she cannot say for herself?"

His eyes were the frozen, unmerciful blue of distant glaciers.

 

[zora_little]

Again, Elwynn was humbled by Robert’s gentle manner, his self-assured way in consoling her, when it was really him who needed consolation. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and tried a brave smile, maybe simply to see what it would feel like, to herself at first, and then up at him.

“I have been wondering about you for so long, about what you would look like.” Elwynn turned her head, bringing her lips close to his. “And you know, I have imagined you to look just like that.” Her smile widened, and came easier now. “Without all the scars and the bruises maybe…” She extended a shy hand, and her fingertips softly brushed against the dark patches of skin on his neck, careful not to hurt him. “But I thought that your eyes would be just as dark.”

Elwynn looked at him, her tears already forgotten. “Just as beautiful.”

***
Brae tried to collect her wits. His cold gaze unnerved her, but she knew that she needed to say what she had come to him for. Was he angry with her? It was hard to imagine that this was the same man who had kissed her, held her, courted her with such passion. And yet. Gathering the last shreds of courage she could muster, she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

“My lord, I think it would be of great help if you would pay a visit to my mistress. She is…” Brae stopped, but not because her bravery had failed her again, but because she was at a loss of how to describe Lady Alys’ state to the man in front of her.

“She is fading.”

Brae nodded, as if to underline her simple statement.

“She is fading because she has nothing left to hold on to on this earth. She is lonely and scared.” A sharp edge had crept into her voice. “If you could reassure her that she is still…still loved, still desired…then maybe you can regain the ally you were looking for when you accepted her hand in marriage.”

The young girl took a deep breath, pale with fear that she had overstepped. But the words were out, and nothing could make them unsaid. As if remembering a lingering thought, she added:

“My lady Alys is inconsolable for her disobedience towards you, my lord. She did not mean any harm, and she knows that she has wronged you. She is sorry.”

 

[Maka]

Elwynn's gentle, delicate touch against his skin was filling Robert with a slowly building desire. He took her hand carefully, gently, in his, and kissed her fingers one by one, his eyes meeting hers all of the time, while his desire grew into a hot, glowing flame.

At last, he pulled her to him and kissed her on the lips, seeking to taste at last the sweet honey of her kisses.



***


Stephen had set aside chambers for Alys and Brae in the most pleasant and airy part of the grim grey castle. It was facing the east, where the young women could enjoy the rising sun over the forests every morning, and by his order, fresh wildflowers were placed around the rooms every day. He had also ordered that she have the run of his library, perhaps secretly hoping that she might have the same taste for learning as Raven. He recalled that he had pictured the fragile, lovely young noblewoman blossoming in the sunlight, slowly growing to love her new home.

That all seemed long ago now. Now Stephen knelt on the rush matting at the edge of the bed, the first dawn light just making its way through the window. Under her blankets in the bed, Alys made a sleepy noise and turned over, Brae nestled snugly in her arms. Stephen watched them, hs face expressionless, his hard warrior body unmoving.

He had considered Brae's message, through a sleepless night -considered what he had been doing, what he had been asking of Alys and how little he had been offering her in return. Then he had come here and taken his position, unmoving, kneeling, a lord yet a suppliant, prepared to wait for hours for her to wake if necessary.