Month: December 2020

M3 Margueritte: And Secrets, part 2 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

A crack of lightening split a rogue apple tree down the middle, and a roar came that sounded like thunder.  “I am here.”  Horses danced and skidded away in pure fright, and everyone paused, in the midst of their life or death struggles, to look.

They saw three men, dressed resplendently for battle.  They all glowed a bit with an unearthly glow.  Somehow, Margueritte knew them all by name.  Birch, the eldest fee, stood full sized, big as a man.  He had gray hair like a well-seasoned warrior.  He came dressed all in German-like chain mail of black and silver, though much finer than any German made chain, and the silver looked to be real silver.  Beside him stood young Larchmont, also a full-sized fairy lord, dressed like a druid prince in black and gold that matched his golden hair.  The third was a sight, in wooden chest protection, feathers on his head, a wicked looking war club in one hand and a wooden shield in the other on which the thunderbird had been painted.  Yellow Leaf was his name, and he was not long arrived from the other side of the world.

Beside those three fairy lords, there were three more figures.  Grimly, the hobgoblin stood only three feet tall, pink faced, and dressed all in green like a midget Robin Hood, but no one doubted the determination written all over his grim face, and no one wanted any part of the long knife he brandished with what appeared to be great skill.  Beside him, and a foot taller, stood Luckless the dwarf.  His armor showed neither gold, nor silver, but it looked ancient as if made before human beings ever entered that part of the world, and it also looked like it hardly fit him.  The double headed ax he held, however, appeared to fit him very well.  Last came Hammerhead, the ogre, the youngster from Banner Bein.  He stood eight feet tall, almost as broad in the shoulders and ugly enough to make a stomach turn just to look at him.  The tree trunk of a club he held over his shoulder seemed superfluous.

Lord Birch spoke first into the stunned silence.  “Unhand the Lady.”  He pointed his glimmering steel at the two who held Brianna to the ground.  They did not argue.  They let go immediately and backed away.

Margueritte took that moment to try wriggling again.  “Let go of me.”

“Yes!”  Luckless the dwarf yelled to gain everyone’s attention.  “Let go of our special lady.”

The soldier that held Margueritte did not move and may have even tightened his grip a little out of pure, unthinking fear.

Hammerhead took one step forward and opened his mouth like a shark, wide enough to bite a man’s head off and showed several rows of teeth.  “Let-Her-Go!” he said like thunder and with a great wind that exploded from his gut.

The soldier dropped Marguerite like a hot coal, screamed, and ran off down the road the way he came without even stopping to collect a horse.

Margueritte fell hard onto the mud and rocks.  Concern quickly crossed the faces of Sir Barth and Lady Brianna, but it passed when Margueritte came up laughing, wrinkled her nose and waved her hand through the air.

“Good Lord, Hammerhead,” she said.  “When was the last time you brushed your teeth?”

“I’m supposed to brush them?”  Hammerhead responded in his more normal deep gravel, and honestly, quite scary enough voice.

The Franks laughed, however nervously.  The Saracens were mortified to finally realize that these apparitions actually answered to the young girl.  Immediately they began to grab what horses they could, and each other, to run, except Ahlmored, who took the distraction to take a swing at Bartholomew.  Sir Barth was not so distracted, though, when any enemy threatened his flank.  He blocked the swing of the sword and followed up with a thrust of his own that went right under Lord Ahlmored’s chinstrap, through his throat, and out the back of his neck.  It only stopped against the chain that draped down from the back of Ahlmored’s helmet.  With that, the enemies were all gone.

“Tomberlain!”  Margueritte remembered.  Tomberlain moaned and tried to sit up.  He bled beneath his helmet.

“Luckless!”  Margueritte turned quickly.  “Is there a doctor?”

“Doctor Pincher might be available,” he said with a bow.

Margueritte grinned at the name and made the call.  “Doctor Pincher,” she commanded his attention in a voice she did not know she had.  Doctor Pincher, a half dwarf, appeared out of thin air.  He looked confused at first until Luckless pointed to Margueritte.

“Ah, so it is true,” he said.  “Great Lady.”  He bowed low to Margueritte, but she was concerned for her brother.

“Tomberlain.”  She pointed.  “He got bonked on the head.  Help my brother.”

“Hmm.  Let me see.”  The doctor drew a big black bag out from the inside of his coat, though the bag clearly looked bigger than any pocket he might have had inside the coat.  Immediately, he helped Tomberlain remove his helmet and quickly announced, “It’s only a flesh wound.  Nothing to worry about.”

Margueritte then remembered her manners.  “Thank you, Lord Birch.  Thank you, Lord Larchmont.  Thank you, Lord Yellow Leaf and welcome to this side of the Atlantic.” The three fairy Lords bowed without a word and became small together and flew off into the woods.  Lady Brianna crawled up beside her daughter and helped Margueritte and herself to their feet.  She held Margueritte because Margueritte appeared to have twisted her ankle a little.

“Thank you Grimly, Luckless, and dear Hammerhead,” Margueritte said.

As she held her daughter and saw for a moment as if through Margueritte’s eyes, Lady Brianna asked her daughter a quick question.  “Are all these yours?”

“Yes, indeed, m’lady.”  Grimly tipped his green hat.

“No, mother,” Margueritte answered.  “They belong to themselves as we belong to ourselves, but sometimes they help me and do what I ask, and I am always grateful.”  She smiled for her mother because her mother seemed to understand far more than most would on such short notice.

“And the unicorn?”  Sir Barth asked.

Brianna answered for her daughter.  “No dear.  Nothing so grand.  Only the littlest spirits and certainly not even all of them.”

“Elsbeth!”  Lady Brianna and Margueritte reacted together.  They paused to listen and heard giggles come from under the wagon.  They peeked.  Elsbeth lay on her back and tried in vain to catch the fairy that buzzed around her face, and she giggled.  Beside her was a dwarf wife who held her cooking spoon like a war club.

“Is it safe?”  The dwarf wife asked.

“Yes Lolly.”  Margueritte called the spirit by her name.  “You and Little White Flower can come out now.”

“Elsbeth.  Stop playing with the fairy and come out here so I can look at you.”

“Aw, Mother,” Elsbeth protested, but complied.  Little White Flower grabbed onto Elsbeth’s hair, came with her and took a seat on Elsbeth’s shoulder.  “This is Little White Flower.”  Elsbeth introduced her friend.  “And this is Lolly, my other friend, even though she is threatening to make me learn to cook.”

“Hmm.”  Lady Brianna saw that her daughter was unhurt.  “That would take some very strong magic.”

“Well, that’s that,” Doctor Pincher interrupted.  “All bandaged, disinfected and cleaned.  Some dead though.”  Three Saracens and one of the Franks would move no more.  Two other Franks were bandaged, but like Tomberlain, neither had been wounded too seriously.  The Africans seemed to have taken their wounded with them, which spoke well for their training to have done so despite the loss of their leader, and the fact that they were frightened out of their minds.  “If you don’t mind my saying, you might tell these mudders it would not hurt to get clean once in a while.  The water won’t melt them, mud though they be.”

“Thank you, Doctor Pincher,” Margueritte said.

“Yes, thank you,” Lady Brianna added.

“Ahem.”  The doctor coughed.  “Don’t mention it, but I do have lots of ‘pointments this afternoon.”  He whipped out a list which stretched to the ground.  No one asked where his black bag went.

“Oh, yes,” Margueritte said.  “Go home.”  She waved her hand and the dwarf instantly vanished.

M3 Margueritte: And Secrets, part 1 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

The afternoon got spent with Maven again, shopping, while Tomberlain went with the boys to practice feats of skill and stupidity, as Margueritte had come to call them.  Sir Barth and Brianna also made the rounds before they had to get ready for the feast and the evening festivities at the king’s court.  For most of the time, Roan and Morgan were not too carefully shadowing the girls.  Margueritte once pulled Elsbeth quickly behind a booth while Maven went after some sweets and when the fools came racing up to look every which way for the girls, she and Elsbeth jumped out.

“Surprise!”  Margueritte stomped on Roan’s foot as hard as she could and Elsbeth kicked Morgan in the shins.

“Girls?”  Maven turned around.

“Here Maven,” Marguerite said, sweetly.

“Don’t do that,” Maven breathed and completely ignored the two men hopping around, each on one foot.  “I lost you once.  I’ll not lose you again.”  Margueritte simply smiled.

Not long after that, the fat old village chief, Brian himself caught up with them.  He came decked out in a long blue robe with gold trim and looked every bit a prince, though he was not.  He also had the chain and oversized symbol of his office around his neck, and Elsbeth laughed at the way it bounced off his plump tummy with each step.  He wanted to know a bit more about the unicorn.  He could not quite grasp that the unicorn had a plain, silver horn rather than one colored like the rainbow.  “Or at least white,” he said.  “Maybe it just looked gray in the dark of the woods.”

“No, it was gray,” Margueritte said, as her eye caught a sight, she felt surprised to see.  A little gnome pinched a sweet.  She gasped.  Suddenly she saw a dozen little ones, imps, brownies, pixies, and the like, all taking little bits of food and drink here and there.  A snatch of cloth and a broken needle, and she wondered why no one noticed, but then she realized they were all invisible to mortal eyes, except her own.

“What a shame,” Brian said.  “If only I could believe you.  What a wonderful find that would be, to catch and preserve a real, live unicorn, right here in my village.  Prosperity and health would be ours forever.”

“No.”  Margueritte shook her head.  “A unicorn can heal the heart, only.  It is not a fertility or prosperity beast.”

“And how do you know this?”  Brian asked.

“Well, I’m not sure.”  Margueritte said, as Elsbeth reached for her hand, curious at what could be on her sister’s mind.  Immediately, Elsbeth had to stifle a shriek since on touching her sister, she saw all that her sister saw.  “But I think that is right.  You understand unicorns are greater spirits, way beyond my little ones.”

“Your little ones?”  Brian tried to follow.

“Mmm,” Margueritte said.  “Like these.”  She took Brian’s hand and pointed.  Brian saw and gasped.  Maven reached to move Margueritte along, thinking the conversation had finished, but as she touched Margueritte’s shoulder, she also saw and screamed.  Some of the little ones ignored the scream and assumed it was what “mudders” did once in a while, but some looked up, and one particularly little gnome-like dwarf leapt up on a table and shouted.

“We been had!”  With that the Pixies, elves, and hobgoblins vanished from the fairgrounds in a matter of seconds. Elsbeth hugged her sister and whispered in her ear.

“Do it again.”

Chief Brian went off, silent in the wonder of his vision, his great iron symbol of office bouncing all the way.

Maven stopped screaming after a while.

That evening when the fires were put out, there were no untoward incidents.  Tomberlain chose that time to tell the story he heard about the robbers of Cairn Brees and how they broke into the tombs of the kings in search of booty.  When the next Samhain came, the ghosts of the kings and queens rose-up in the dark and exacted a terrible vengeance on those unfortunates.  He did a fairly good job for an amateur storyteller.  Margueritte felt frightened at the proper time.  Maven laughed.  Marta did not say a word the whole next day.  Elsbeth did not speak to her brother for a whole week.

The next day, the day of Samhain felt like a bit of a let-down.  Much of it got spent in the company of Lady Lavinia who took the girls to many of the same places they had already visited with Maven, except she made them talk and name everything the whole time in Latin.  Every time Elsbeth got something nearly right, Lavinia praised her.  Every time Marguerite so much as conjugated incorrectly, she got scolded.  Margueritte noticed.

After that, they began to dream of home and being in their own rooms and sleeping in their own beds.  Even Tomberlain said as much, and they started out early in the day, nearly at daybreak, so apparently, it was a well shared feeling.  Around ten that morning, a strong drizzle started, which did not help their spirits, but perhaps hustled up their feet.  They passed the coast road and the south road, and the rain slackened off.  They got within three bends of the triangle when they stopped completely.  Behind them they heard the sound of many horses coming up fast.

They had no time to get the wagons away safely, so Sir Barth ordered Redux, Andrew and John-James on their honor to guard the women, and especially the children.  When he turned to face the horsemen, they had already arrived.  The Moors appeared, and their swords were drawn.  The melee began at once along with Elsbeth’s scream.  Margueritte joined her scream when they saw Tomberlain knocked from his horse by a wicked hit on the head.

Few of the men were able to keep to their horses on the slippery grass and in the mud and rain.  Slick saddles sent men to the ground while horses sauntered off into the woods, away from the commotion.  Margueritte found herself and Elsbeth pushed down into the wagon and a wet, woolen blanket thrown hastily over them by their mother.

Lady Brianna sat still with a dagger in her hand while Redux the blacksmith took the tool he brought for the wagon wheels, something like a tire iron, and faced off with one of the enemy.  Brianna got startled, when one came up behind her, still on horseback.  She spun with the knife and cut the man’s hand, and then thought fast and kicked the horse which bucked and threw its’ rider.  With her back turned, however, it became easy for two strong hands to grab her from behind and pull her from the wagon seat.  It took two of them to hold her, and even then, it was only because she landed flat on the ground, on her back, and had no leverage.  Unfortunately, she had dropped the knife.

Margueritte, who thought, “Way to go, Mother,” when Brianna cut her attacker, cried out when her mother got grabbed from behind.  She reached out of the blanket to try and catch her mother and keep her from being dragged from the cart, but it was too far to reach.  Then, she felt herself lifted right out of the back of the wagon, and though she kicked, her feet could not quite reach the ground.

“Let me go!” she screamed and wriggled.  “Help!” she yelled.  “Hammerhead!” It was the first name that came to mind.  Perhaps she did not think at all but merely bubbled something up from her unconscious.  Her mother and Tomberlain were both down and who knew in what condition.  Elsbeth was surely no help, and her father fought face to face with Lord Ahlmored who kept shouting, “Save me the woman and the older girl.  Kill the rest.”  So Margueritte shouted for Hammerhead, odd as it seemed.  Odder still was the fact that he answered.

M3 Margueritte: Tales, part 3 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

“Wait outside,” Sir Barth told the girls, and Brianna went to retrieve them while a worried looking queen gladly placed the children in their mother’s hands.  Margueritte and Elsbeth got hustled out and Thomas of Evandell followed.  He saw Lady Brianna torn between care for her children and the need to support her husband.

“I will take them safely to your Maven, is it?”

Brianna nodded to thank him but said nothing.  She returned right away to the great hall.

“So, girls,” Thomas began.  “Let me see if I have got this straight.”

Margueritte looked up.  “You’re not going to make a song, are you?”

“And a good tale to boot.”  Thomas grinned.  “Though I would not worry about it.  I may fudge a few things.  Can’t let the facts stand in the way of a good story, you know.”  He grinned ear to ear.  He made a nice, friendly grin.

The rest of that afternoon got spent with Maven in the market area.  Maven, it seemed, loved shopping all the more when it got her out of work.  By the time they went home for supper, the girls were all tired out.  As they walked in and sat at the children’s table where Tomberlain sat and had a sour face at still being counted among the children, Baron Bernard was talking.  It seemed they were all still trying to keep Sir Barth’s anger under control.

“Apparently, this has been building for some time,” the baron said.  “I suspect the Saracens will be invited to leave after this fracas.”

“Thrown out on his ear would be better,” Sir Barth grumped.

“Have his bags packed for him,” Constantus suggested while he cut off the pig’s ear, his favorite part when it got burnt and crispy.  “I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Yes, where were you?”  Bartholomew asked.

“I thought the Gray Ghost had taken a stone, if you must know.  It would have put him right out of the running.  But no such luck for you.  He is fine and I am looking forward to the race tomorrow.”

“Ha!”  Bartholomew finally perked up a little.  “I’ve a new horse this year that Tomberlain and I have most carefully trained.  I call him the Winner.”

“I did not know you named the horse,” Lady Brianna said, innocently.

Lord Bartholomew looked at her and rolled his eyes.  “I didn’t.”  He looked at the others.  “But it seems a good name to me now.  What do you think, Tom?”

“Winner.”  Tomberlain spoke up from the small table, but his heart was not in it.

“Eat.”  Margueritte encouraged her brother.

“All right for you,” he said.  “You still are one of the children.”

“And you are my biggest and bestest brother in the whole world,” she said.  “And I would be heartbroken if you wasted away for not eating.”  Tomberlain smiled, but did not dig in.  “Besides, I have seen you attack food like a general on the battlefield.  I sometimes wonder if there is anything you will not eat.”  Tomberlain grinned a little more.  “Isn’t that right, Elsbeth?”

Elsbeth muttered something unintelligible.  She looked all but asleep in her soup.  Not much later, Lord Bartholomew and Lady Brianna rose from the table.

“To bed, children,” the lady said.  No one argued.  All were tired.

“Winner versus the Gray Ghost!”  Sir Barth laughed, but it was serious business.

Sure enough, in the early hours of the morning, the Lord Ahlmored and all his people were escorted out of town by some fifty men at arms.  Sir Barth cheered.  Baron Bernard shrugged.  Constantus the Roman was not around being, no doubt, with the Gray Ghost, or still in bed.  Aden the Convert showed up to talk to Lady Brianna.

“It was not pretty,” he said.  “Duredain the druid has finally gotten his way.  Luckily, I reminded the king that he knew my mother and father and the service my father did for his father.  I may have been twenty years at Iona, but I am a native Breton, born in Amorica which is still my home and Urbon is still my king.  With that, the king relented a little and did not talk exile, but he strictly charged me not to speak the name of Jesus the Christ in his presence, or, on Duredain’s insistence, among his people who might accidentally speak the name in the king’s presence.  The king said he had heard enough about prophets and sons of God for his lifetime.”

“But what will you do?”  Lady Brianna sympathized.

“I will speak of my lord and savior to whomever will listen,” he said with a smile.  “If young Marguerite can be so bold right at the king’s feet, who am I to be afraid when I am miles from the king’s feet?”

“Good for you,” Bartholomew said, and both looked up at him.  He gave a slightly embarrassed shrug before he explained.  “A man always has the right to follow his own conscience and pity the man who doesn’t.  Hardly qualifies to be called a man.”

“All the same,” Aden said.  “I would like to come and stay in your chapel now and then if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Brianna said quickly.  “Anytime.”  Lord Bartholomew, however, rolled his eyes and imagined all the pilgrims it would attract to tromp across his fields.

Lord Bartholomew came in second that year, but he was as close to Constantus as he had ever been.  Third got taken by Finnian McVey, and people wondered how this Irishman, in so short a time, had come into such grace with the king to be picked to ride the king’s best steed.  Finnian might well have won the race if he had not been penalized for “accidentally” whipping his opponents with his crop a couple of times.  “You Breton don’t know how to properly race,” was all he said.

At the noon meal, Thomas of Evandell, as was his custom, came in to entertain the children with a taste of what their parents would get in the evening.  He just began the tale of how Gerraint, son of Erbin, became so jealous for his wife, he drove her into the wilderness, when the door suddenly slammed open.  Curdwallah the hag stepped into the inn, and Elsbeth hid her face in Tomberlain’s shoulder rather than look at the witch.  Curdwallah cocked one crooked eye at the children.  The eyes looked more bugged out and hungry than ever to Margueritte and she dared not look directly into them, even for a moment.  Curdwallah made an almost imperceptible wave to the two who were sitting in the dark corner and then she headed to the stairs, a short cackling laugh touching the corners of her lips.

Finnian and the village druid, Canto, were nursing their cider.  Margueritte did not think they were there to spy on Thomas, but rather they seemed to be eyeing the children, and especially herself, though for what nefarious purpose, she could not guess.  Thomas took that moment to lean over and whisper.

“They say there is not such a mystery to the death of Curdwallah’s husband and sons.  They say she waited until her sons were plump and juicy and then she boiled them and ate them down to the bones.  They say her husband found out, but in her wicked strength she overcame him and strung him from the ceiling like a spider strings its’ prey.  Slowly, they say, ever so slowly she sucked the living blood out of his veins and when she had feasted, she buried the man’s shriveled carcass under the Tower DuLac and locked the door and never goes in that way, but climbs to the window one flight up whenever there is something she needs in the Tower.  They say she is a devotee of Abraxas…”

“Stop.  Stop!”  Elsbeth had her face buried in Tomberlain’s shirt and wept.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Thomas said, to comfort Elsbeth.  He placed his hand on her head once he realized he had gone too far for the little one.  “Let me tell you a different story of DuLac which happened long ago when Arthur was king and the great warrior who came from there and the Lady of DuLac.”  He proceeded to tell about Lancelot and gave him his Frankish name.  It was a wonderful story, full of love and honor, and enough battles to keep Tomberlain happy; but Marguerite felt sure Elsbeth would still have nightmares.  It being Samhain, she was not sure she would not have nightmares herself.

************************

MONDAY

There are tales the people tell, and the there are secrets revealed that no one will talk about, they hope.  Monday.  Until then, Happy Reading

*

M3 Margueritte: Tales, part 2 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

The afternoon began wonderfully, and full of celebration for the newborn child.  “Every child is like the Christ child,” Father Aden said.  But then there were horses in the fens, and four men came up quickly, followed by a fifth some distance away.

“Duredain, the king’s druid,” Bartholomew breathed.  He did not especially like the man, and neither did the people of the fens, many of whom were there under sentence of the druid acting as magistrate for the king.

“Lord Bartholomew.”  The druid was always polite to the Franks, but it seemed thin.

“Roan and Morgan I know,” Sir Barth said.  They were Brian, the chief of Vergen’s deputies.  “But who is this tall, lean one with you?”

“Finnian McVey.”  The man introduced himself.  “Lately arrived from the Irish shore and welcomed to the hospitality of King Urbon’s court.”

“You will cease and desist this distribution at once, on the king’s orders,” Duredain said, getting right to the heart of the matter.  “These men and women have been put to this hardship under penalty of law.  They are not to be aided in their sentence or comforted for their wrongdoing.”

Sir Barth reached up to rub his chin and think of what to say.  In the interim, Lady Brianna and Aden the Convert both spoke in unison.  “Nonsense!”  Fortunately, before the argument could begin, the fifth rider arrived; Thomas of Evandell, the king’s bard.

“Lord and Lady Bartholomew.”  He shouted from some distance to gain the attention of all.  “Lord and Lady Bartholomew.”  He repeated when he arrived.  “The king requests your presence in the court at this time.  Would you be so kind as to accompany me?”

“The girls.”  Lady Brianna voiced her first thought, and Father Aden nodded for her sake to indicate that they would be safely escorted home.

“Actually.”  Thomas negated the whole arrangement.  “The king has asked if you would bring the girls, if it is not inconvenient.  He has heard stories and wonders if he may hear more of the truth of the matter.”

Duredain the druid squinted at the girls.  He had not anticipated this, but it did make his job easier.  “Yes,” he said.  “I, too would like to hear about these things.”  He snapped at Roan and Morgan who did not get it at first but realized soon enough that their mounts were required.  They reluctantly got to their feet in the unfriendly crowd.  Sir Barth got up on one horse and took Elsbeth in his lap.  Margueritte got up behind her mother on the other horse and held on tight around her middle.  As they left the fens, she saw Aden the Convert try to turn the men to their drink.  The men seemed determined, en-mass, to scare the pants off Roan and Morgan who, after a moment of hesitation, fairly ran for their lives to the sound of much laughter.

“You bet your bippy,” Margueritte said in a language she did not know, and she laughed without having the least idea why she laughed.

In the house with the wooden towers, which was clearly more of a fort than a proper castle, Margueritte looked at everything while Elsbeth ignored it all.  Margueritte saw a great skill in the tapestries and that all the furnishings were well made and well kept.  Elsbeth yawned until they came to the armed guards and entered the courtroom.  The king sat at the end of the room with the queen beside him.  Everyone else stood, except for Brian, the very overweight village chief, who had a little chair off to the side, and Canto, his druid, stood there with him.  Duredain and Thomas went to one knee before rising.  Lord and Lady Bartholomew nodded their heads and simply said, “Your Majesties.”

“I have heard some strange tidings concerning these daughters of yours,” the king said and did not wait for the niceties.  He looked at the girls and Margueritte curtsied and nudged Elsbeth to do the same, which she did after a thought.

“Your majesty,” Margueritte said, as she momentarily looked down to keep her balance.

“Majesty.”  Elsbeth echoed.

Margueritte looked at the queen.  She heard so little about her, Margueritte could not even remember the woman’s name, but she looked like a nice older lady, and the queen smiled for her.

“Come.”  The queen spoke up to her husband’s surprise who still scrutinized the girls with his best, practiced glare.  “Come and tell me all about it,” the queen prompted.  Margueritte accepted the invitation, and Elsbeth followed.  When she sat at the queen’s feet, Elsbeth beside her, there arose some consternation in the gallery.  The king said nothing, however, as it was apparently what the queen intended.  The gallery became mollified and snickered a little when Elsbeth’s seven-year-old finger went to her nose.

“Well, it all started…” Margueritte began her story, and she told it almost word for word, exactly as she told her parents.  She stuck strictly to the truth as well as she remembered it.  The queen asked very few questions and the king asked none and only spoke at the beginning when the queen lit up at the word dance and said how she, too, loved to dance.

“You have the Maying, woman.  And that is enough dance for the year,” the king said.

When Margueritte finished, she felt satisfied that the real story had gotten out in spite of Elsbeth’s interruptions and embellishments.  And when the king and queen were silent, the king opened the floor to questions from the court.

Duredain the druid became one of the first to step up.  “You say you slapped this ogre, this very force of nature itself, and he crashed against the wall and fell unconscious?”

“Yes sir,” Margueritte answered forthrightly.

“And how is it that you, a little girl, were able to do this?” he asked with a smirk.

“I do not know sir,” Margueritte said honestly.  “Unless it was by the grace of God.”  She swallowed and added, “I am a Christian, you know.”  She looked to her mother and saw pride in her mother’s eyes.  Margueritte was not completely unaware of the political implications in her statement.  The queen appeared unmoved by the revelation, but the king sat straight up, and the druid huffed and puffed, but said no more at that time.  Instead he chose to stand warily beside his king.

“And how is it that lightning came from your fingers to strike the imp?”  A woman asked.

“I do not know,” Margueritte said.

“And there are no imps handy to show you.”  A man back in the crowd muttered and several of the courtiers laughed.

Far and away, most of the questions were about the unicorn.  Elsbeth could not say enough in praise and told over and over how she was healed of all her fears and torments simply by touching the beauty.  Marguerite, however, did not like the tone of some of the questions.  These were asked mostly by men at arms, hunters all.

At the last, the Lord Ahlmored stepped forward as if he had waited patiently for just the right moment.  “Well I, for one, do not believe a word of it.  Oh, I am sure the young ladies have told what they believe is true, but I suspect the truth is more that some ordinary thieves stole the girl in the woods when they had a chance, no doubt to hold her for ransom.  The lovely Margueritte followed her little sister and probably found a gentle old nag that had come loose of its tether and wandered off in search of a good graze.  Then by mere chance they stumbled on the cave of the thieves, sheep rustlers we might call them.  The leader probably slipped in the doorway to allow the girls to escape, which happens.” Lord Ahlmored shrugged.  “The nag, which was certainly lost and had nowhere else to go, then carried them off before the other thieves could stop them.  I suspect there is no more to the real truth than that.”  He shrugged again like that should be the end of the story and the discussion.  Reason prevailed.

Lord Bartholomew, however, had not been counted on.  Red with fury, he broke Brianna’s hold on him.  “Are you calling my daughters liars?”  He shouted and faced the African who merely smiled and bowed.

“Not at all,” Ahlmored said.  “I did say they honestly believe their own story, but you know how these things get built up in the mind, and especially in the imagination of children.”

Bartholomew only kept back when Baron Bernard and Bernard’s squire, his own son Michael stepped in front of him.  Sir Barth felt steaming mad, but he was not the only one.  Duredain the druid looked ready to spit.  Ogres and unicorns made sense in his world, even if they were encountered by one who had the audacity to speak of this Christ.  Arrogant Moslem ambassadors and their rationalistic “explain-it-away” sentiments, however, were intolerable.  For all his faults, the druid could never tolerate a closed mind.

“You’re a fool, Ahlmored,” he said, as Bartholomew looked at his girls.