M3 Margueritte: One Happy Ending, part 1 of 2

February 15, 2021February 5, 2021M G Kizzia Leave a comment

It took a whole week before Margueritte felt well enough to sit on the bench under the old oak. She loved her visit with Goldenrod, but she hardly got a word in edgewise. Goldenrod had too much “newsy.”

“And Hammerhead got so ogerish it was scary to be around him, and he broke bunches of stuff,” she said. “But your mother was very brave, and she and Lady Jennifer, that’s Little White Flower, you know, they convinced him to go home to his family for a while. And his family moved down to Aquatainey, but Roland says king Eudo thought the Saracens were scary. I think he was making a ha-ha. And anyway, Lord Larchmont and Lord Birch and Lord Yellow Leaf, that’s Little White Flower’s father, you know, and my mother, Lady LeFleur kept everyone working really hard at what they were supposed to be doing. Mother said you would want it that way, and the Lady Danna, too, though everyone wanted to go looking for you.”

“Grimly?” Margueritte got one-word in.

“Oh, he and Catspaw went to find where Pipes wandered off to, and Catspaw says she wants children. And Marta is pregnant, now that she is married to Weldig the potter, though how anyone can stay pregnant for so long is a mystery. She’s been pregnant five whole months now! Oh, and Luckless and Lolly are talking to each other, now that Lolly says her work here is done, what with Marta being married and all, and they are talking about going to find their own children. I didn’t know they had children.”

Margueritte shrugged.

“Oh, and I saw Owien and Elsbeth kissing once, and I laughed and laughed. It was so funny! And Maven found a new hidey place for nap time and she says I’m not supposed to tell anyone that it is just past the bushes between the kitchen and the tower, you know, where it is all soft grassy on the hillside. Oh, and Little White Flower, I mean, Lady Jennifer is beside herself with frets and fusses because Father Stephano has been here three whole weeks and Father Aden has asked her not to get little when Father Stephano is around, but I think she is really in love with Father Aden, you know. But sometimes he and Father Stephano get really loud, but I think they like each other, so I don’t understand why they get loud unless one of them has some troll or ogre in him.”

“Ahem.”

“Oh, hello, Lady.” Goldenrod flitted over to Margueritte’s shoulder.

“Mother.” Margueritte looked up and pulled her blanket up a little as well.

Lady Brianna looked down at her daughter and the little fairy perched so sweetly on her daughter’s shoulder. “You two are a real picture,” she said with her warmest smile. “But I think maybe Margueritte has had enough for one day.”

“No, Mother, please,” Margueritte said. “I’m all right, really. Here.” And she pushed over a little to give her mother room to sit

Her mother sat, slowly. “I always loved the fall,” she said. “But it is rather chilly out. I think it may snow soon.”

“It may.” Margueritte shared the blanket.

“White and lovely, warm and fluffy,” Goldenrod said.

“You don’t know how wonderful it is to be outside, even if it is chilly,” Margueritte said. Her mother looked at her and after a moment, nodded. “And Goldenrod, even at her most runny-mouth, is the best company a girl ever had.” Margueritte finished her thought.

“I am?” Goldenrod asked with complete surprise.

“The best,” Margueritte confirmed with a nod.

“Weee!” Goldenrod took to the air, positively, and literally beaming with delight. Both Marguerite and Brianna had to smile. They felt a small touch of that delight as surely as if it was their own.

After a moment, Goldenrod settled down, and Lady Brianna looked seriously at her daughter. “I need to speak with you about Jennifer,” she said. She paused only for a moment as if searching for just the right words. “She told me the spirits and people are not supposed to mingle.”

“It isn’t encouraged,” Margueritte said. “Imagine the trouble that could cause.”

“Yes.” Lady Brianna nodded, grimly. “I can testify to that by personal experience over these last several years,” she said. “But there are exceptions.” She was suggesting something. Margueritte got curious. “Say, in the case of true love?”

“Oh?” Margueritte felt suspicious, but Goldenrod voiced the suspicion before Margueritte could ask.

“Like Lady Jennifer and Father Aden who want to get married,” she blurted it right out. Lady Brianna looked over to the Chapel.

“Jennifer has grown into a lovely, faithful young woman,” the lady said. “But I cannot imagine how that might work.” Fairies tended to live as much as a thousand years, and by comparison, the human lifespan was so terribly short.

“Has anyone talked to her father?” Margueritte wondered.

Lady Brianna’s eyes lit up, but she said no more about it as she smiled and patted her daughter’s hand and went back inside with one more word. “Come in soon.”

“I will mother,” Margueritte said and she shrugged off the more disturbing questions by turning back to Goldenrod. “What other newsy since I’ve been gone?” she asked.

Goldenrod flitted, almost danced in the air like a little porcelain ballerina. “Lovey, lovey, lovey.” She stopped still in mid-air. “No time for newsy. I have to see if Elsbeth and Owien are getting kissy again.” And she was gone.

Margueritte got stronger every day, though she remained skinnier than even she wanted to be. But every day she felt more certain of herself, in her identity, and in her memories, including those memories throughout time that she could reach, and she supposed that was the important thing.

After three days, on an early afternoon very much like the other, Margueritte sat again on the bench under the old oak. She had her cloak wrapped tight around her, and her blanket tucked in beneath her legs. She imagined she looked like an invalid, but she felt determined to spend as much time outdoors as she could before the winter made that impossible.

She thought of Roland, of course, and fretted over his going to war. She felt worried for him, and the thought of Tomberlain with him felt frightening. She decided not to dwell on that thought. She just began to wonder for the millionth time if Roland might propose, and imagined what such a life might be like, when she saw Little White Flower, or rather, Lady Jennifer and Father Aden come out from the Chapel.

M3 Margueritte: In the Tower, part 1 of 2

February 2, 2021December 27, 2020M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Margueritte awoke but did not open her eyes at first. Her stomach churned a little and she did not know why. She did not remember being sick. She heard the sound of shuffling beside her, like someone rearranging things on a dresser. She looked.

An old woman had her back turned to the bed. Margueritte sat up a little and that got the woman’s attention. The woman turned, and Margueritte threw a fist to her own mouth to stifle a scream. The woman was frightening to look at, especially in her piercing eyes.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the old woman said. “But you must not act that way toward your own, dear mother Curdwallah.”

“Mother?” Margueritte felt confused, but that did not sound right.

“Yes, dear,” Curdwallah said. “You left the tower again. The little ones almost caught you, and you lost your memory again. I bet you don’t even remember your name.”

Margueritte paused and wrinkled her brow. She did not remember.

“Lucky for you your mother was able to save you again and bring you back to safety. This tower is isolated. You are safe here and no one will find you, but you must stay in the tower, my dear, or you will never remember anything.”

“What is my name?” Margueritte asked.

Curdwallah paused as if she considered her options. “Margueritte,” she said at last. “I always did like that name.”

“Mother?” Margueritte said it, but it was really a question.

“The only one you have,” Curdwallah responded, but she never did smile.

Margueritte shook her head. That did not sound right, but the name Margueritte felt right and it made her wonder about the rest. “I must stay in the tower?” She did not exactly understand.

“It is the curse,” Curdwallah said with a raise of her brows. No doubt, she intended to pretend concern, but in fact it made her look more frightening so Margueritte had to look away and just listen. “You would not marry the evil one.”

“I am old enough to marry?” Margueritte wondered.

“Not quite,” Curdwallah responded. “That was part of the problem, but you must not interrupt your mother. It isn’t polite.”

“I’m sorry, Mother Curdwallah,” Margueritte said, and swallowed, like the name caused a great lump in her throat.

Curdwallah paused, but Margueritte refused to look.

“You would not marry the evil one. He made you lose all your memories and told you lies to try and trick you into his bed, but you would not. I barely saved you the first time, when we came here. Our great god, Abraxas, made this a safe place for you. You will not be haunted by your past or by strange dreams of the future, and the spirits of the earth that the evil one has sent to find you will never find you here. But you must stay here, always, er, until I can find a cure for the curse. Every time you leave the tower, you lose all of your memories and we have to start all over again.”

Margueritte swallowed again. She could think of no reason to disbelieve what she was told. She screwed up her courage and looked again at Curdwallah. It was not easy. “Am I so beautiful then that he cannot resist me?” She asked.

“Yes,” Curdwallah lied. “And see, your hair has grown again as it should.” Margueritte looked quickly. For an instant, she remembered having long hair, hair to the floor, but this was ever so much more. It looked twice as long as she was tall, and to be sure, she got up to see.

“Good.” Curdwallah said. “Come here, girl.” Margueritte went and Curdwallah brought her to the window. “Tie your hair to the pole here and let it down outside.” Curdwallah said and showed her how. “I have much to do today.”

“But mother Curdwallah, will you not stay with me?” Margueritte asked. She did not want to be left alone, at the moment, in unfamiliar surroundings.

“No. But remember this.” Curdwallah trained her sharp eyes on the girl and Margueritte shrank back ever so little. “You must never go down to the first floor and the door to the tower must always remain closed to you or the spell of safety may be broken. I go in and out the window.”

Margueritte changed her mind in that moment. She wanted company, but Curdwallah, mother or not, frightened her terribly. “Yes, Mother Curdwallah,” Margueritte said, thinking it prudent to be agreeable.

“I must go,” Curdwallah said and taking hold of Margueritte’s hair she easily stepped over the window seat to the sill. “I am servant of our great god Abraxas, and there is always work in service to the god.” She began to lower herself, hand by hand until she reached the ground. “Now pull your hair up.” She instructed. “I will call you when I need you to let it down again.

“Yes, Mother Curdwallah,” Margueritte said, and complied, but to herself, she said, “Abraxas is no god of mine,” and she doubted in her heart that anyone so horrid could be her real mother. When her hair got safely wrapped around her shoulders several times like a great scarf, she went and threw herself on her bed and cried. She did not know why she felt so sad. She really could not remember anything at all. But she felt sad all the same and finally decided that life was simply too unfair for words. She found a bit of bread and a cup of milk on the side table, but she did not feel hungry. There were no mirrors, but she decided she did not want to look anyway. She nearly tripped on her own hair when she went to the door of her room but decided she did not want to search the tower. She hoped her hair would not get much longer. Finally, back on her bed, she cried herself to sleep.

###

Almost a year passed before King Urbon called off the search and sent his condolences to Lord Bartholomew and Lady Brianna. They, of course, were not for giving up.

Early on, Luckless, who could stand at the front door and find the exact spot where a copper had fallen in the labyrinth on Crete, sniffed the air and spun around so many times he got dizzy; but he could not find a trace of her. “But she isn’t dead,” he insisted. “I would know if she was.”

“She isn’t dead,” Grimly confirmed over and over before he disappeared.

“Gone to raise the troops for a good look around.” Little White Flower told Brianna. They had indeed become best of friends, and Brianna did not mind at all that Elsbeth and Margueritte had in Little White Flower something of an older sister. In fact, she sometimes treated Little White Flower like a daughter, and the fee, whose own mother was long gone, responded willingly and with her whole heart.

One afternoon, they walked beside the oak in the triangle and sat on the bench Brianna had put there. “I don’t know if they may find her, though. It is like she has been taken right out of this world.”

Little White Flower stayed big as much as she could stand, and she had taken to wearing the clothes of a true lady and calling herself Jennifer. Brianna thought to change the subject.

“And will you marry Father Aden?” She asked.

Little White Flower began to cry, and Brianna instantly felt sorry to have brought it up. “Without Margueritte that may never happen,” Little White Flower explained. “It is one of the oldest rules of all; that the sprites are not to marry or even mingle with people without permission.”

“Oh. I see,” Brianna said. “But we will find her, and soon.” Brianna always sounded positive about that and Little White Flower, that is, Jennifer perked up a little.

“Oh, I hope so,” she said.

“I have explained all that to Charles.” Roland yelled as he came crashing out of the house.

“But son.” Lord Bartholomew argued right back. “It will do no good getting yourself in trouble as a deserter. We will send word as soon as there is word to send.”

Roland shook his head and would not listen. “Charles has plenty of swords and can take care of himself.”

“Damn, stubborn.” Lord Barth started but pulled up short when he noticed the women. “Sorry, my dear.”

Brianna stood. “Roland. I believe Charles may need you for more than just your sword,” she suggested.

“That’s right.” Bartholomew picked up on the thought. “A good head is worth more than sharp steel alone.”

Roland paused, looked first at Lord Barth and then at Lady Brianna and settled finally on the fairy. “I’m not for giving up,” Roland said plainly. “How about you, Lady Jennifer.”

“No giving up.” Little White Flower agreed, and her cry was completely forgotten and replaced by a grim determination. “I know my Lady LeFleur has kept the little ones to task, lest the world suffer while we search for our Lady; but I think I may pay her one more visit. I can’t possibly do much more praying right now. My knees are almost worn out as it is.” That was quite a speech for the little lady, but then, when the fee spent considerable time in their big size, they tended to behave more like ordinary people.

Brianna took and patted Little White Flower’s hand for support.

M3 Margueritte: Backed into a Corner, part 1 of 3

January 25, 2021December 26, 2020M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Chief Brian took a deep breath. “Please understand. I love our people and I expect the witch’s plans will not be in their best interest. I assume, though I may be wrong, that you may have the power to undo her wicked scheme, whatever it may actually be.”

Margueritte paused once more to consider. “But how do you know I am not also a witch, maybe worse than the other?” she asked. Brian looked at her again, briefly before he looked away once more. He seemed to laugh.

“Because I have seen you and know you, and your mother and family as well. If there is anything in you, it is purity, not wickedness. You have the Christ in you. And you have shown no signs of wanting to take over anything or bend anything to your nefarious will. Why, you are no more witch than I am.”

“But what of the king’s left ear? Surely, he has some sense there,” Margueritte said, but Brian sighed.

“Alas, his left ear is occupied by Finnian McVey, and that Irishman is only in it for himself. Lord knows his agenda, except he is nobody’s fool, not even for the witch. But you see, now, whether the king turns to the left or to the right it will not go well for us, not well at all.”

Margueritte had a lot to think about, though she was not sure there was anything she could do. She hardly had time to think, though, because as she stood to walk, she found herself cornered by Finnian McVey himself.

“Young Margueritte,” he said and turned up his thin lips in what Margueritte imagined he supposed was a friendly smile. “A weard, if you would be so kind.”

“Of course,” Margueritte said, curious enough after what the village chief just told her.

“Over here, if you don’t mind,” he said and took her by the elbow and lead her to the edge of the woods. “What I have to ask is delicate and I would not have untoward ears listening in.

Margueritte extracted her arm before she was pushed into the actual woods, but she found herself well within the shade of the trees and her back to one great tree, while Finnian blocked her way back into the light. “I am sure there is nothing I might tell you which is worth such secrecy,” she said.

“Ah, but there is.” He pressed his hands together and put his fingers to his lips as if deciding exactly how to phrase things. He stepped closer, and she took a small step back, and so he moved her more surely into the shadows.

“I have it on authority that around your home there are certain powers in the world and spirits of the darkness.”

“Then your authority is wrong.” Margueritte said quickly even as she wondered who else knew the supposed secret. “For I would entertain no darkness around my house, and neither would my mother nor my father who is Count of the Frankish Mark, lest you have forgotten.”

“Light and dark,” Finnian said with a step to force her back. “These are relative terms. They say there is a god, Abraxas, who bears the burden for both. Of that, I would not know, but of the cratures that surround you, I am certain,” he drawled.

“Sir,” Margueritte said. “I must return to the grounds before the others miss me.” She was not really with others apart from Roland, Tomberlain, Owien and her father, and they were engaged in the games, though Finnian did not need to know that. She started to walk, but he put out his arm and stopped her steps.

“Not yet,” he said. “For I also know these powers worship the ground you walk on and will do whatever you ask.”

“Sir. Even if that were true, it would be in the asking,” Margueritte said. “Your spirit belongs to you and for that only you are accountable. Would it be any different with any other spirit? I think not. Whatever you have heard, each one belongs to him or herself, not to me.”

“Ah, but if you were to ask, you could give one to me and then I could see what is what,” he said, and Margueritte took two steps back on that note.

“I am not one to endorse slavery, especially to the likes of you.”

His hand came very close to her face, but he withheld his slap. “I am not asking you, missy,” he said instead. “I am telling you to give me one of the little people, one with power in this earth, and you will, soon, if you know what is good for you.”

“Never.” Margueritte charged toward her freedom, but Finnian caught her and dragged her deeper into the woods. Her eyes yelled for help, but her mouth got covered by his hand. She dreaded the taste but bit him all the same. He yelped and she got out one “Help!” before he hit her, hard. The smile appeared long gone from Finnian’s face as his thin lips turned down in a growl.

Finnian let go suddenly when a little one ran up his back. He giggled, even as he caught something out of the corner of his eye. He spun round and round and tried to get a good look, but the fee moved too fast and stayed always just in his peripheral vision. When he fell over from dizziness, an impish lady gave him a wet, slobbering kiss right before the two below pulled on the string that held up his pants. He fell, face down into the puddle of mud, not there a minute ago. Finnian got up, angry, but his pants stayed around his ankles and there came a great roar, like a lion got right behind him, though it came thundering out of the littlest dwarfish creature. Finnian screamed for his life and ran. He tripped several times because of his pants as he ran back to the ground of the games. Margueritte fell-down, laughing.

M3 Margueritte: Roland, part 1 of 3

January 18, 2021December 26, 2020M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Three days before Samhain in that same year, Roland came riding into the Triangle, much to the surprise of everyone, especially Margueritte. “I was invited.” He professed and pulled Margueritte’s embroidered handkerchief from his pocket. Lady Brianna just smiled and welcomed him, regally. Bartholomew, though glad to see the young man again, looked at his daughter with a different eye. He knew nothing about it.

“Are you returning my token then?” Margueritte asked later.

“Not a chance,” Roland said. “I’ll let you know, but I suspect you may never get it back.”

Margueritte hardly knew what to say, but the joy got written all over her face.

At supper, Roland explained his presence. He was sent by Charles with letters to Urbon, king of Amorica. After leaving the Breton Mark and on returning to Paris with Father Stephano, he dug up the letters Bartholomew and Baron Bernard wrote over the last several years. He read all about the Moslem Ambassador and wished to convey his congratulations on Urbon having the foresight to throw the man out. The letters discussed at some length the incursions of the Moors into Aquitaine and suggested that Urbon keep a careful watch on the coast, knowing the coastline to be full of nooks and crannies where a raiding party might easily find a foothold. Should he need the assistance of the Franks, Charles assured Urbon of his friendship and support. And that was about it.

“Such letters could have been carried by courier. Nothing secret there to move you out of your comforts in Paris,” Lord Bartholomew said.

“Actually, I volunteered to bring them,” he said. Margueritte looked at her food and her heart fluttered. “I wanted to see how Tomberlain was getting along with his swordplay.”

She kicked Roland this time, and she meant to.

Sadly, for her, Roland did seem to spend a lot of time with her father, Tomberlain, and even Owien. They rode once for an hour or so. They had a picnic on the second day, but Elsbeth came along and Goldenrod distracted everyone. They did walk by the stream, but not much got said. It seemed like they both became suddenly very shy. Then Margueritte had her chores to do before they could leave for Vergenville, and she did her best to see them done.

Margueritte worked in the barn, in the potato bins, when Roland came unexpectedly. She wore her apron. Her hands were dirty, and she even had a streak of dirt across one cheek put there by the back of her hand used to wipe away the sweat. “Oh, Sir.” She started to turn away.

“Oh stop.” He said in her same tone. “My mother and sisters sorted potatoes all the time, and likely more than enough for a lifetime.”

“It is important, you know,” Margueritte said.

“Absolutely. One rotten one can spoil the whole bin.” He looked up at Grimly, whom he genuinely liked, and Goldenrod for whom he had the deepest love and affection, and Hammerhead, whom he at least respected, even if he still found it hard to look at the fellow. They lounged around on the hay while their mistress sweated at her labor. “Say, though,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be better to let these little ones of yours sort the potatoes? You and I could maybe walk again by the stream before your brother and father find me.”

“Oh, I don’t know if that would be such a good idea.” Margueritte started.

“Why sure.” Grimly jumped up. “We would love to sort the taters. I’m getting bored just sitting around anyway.”

“I can help.” Goldenrod assured them all.

“Er, okay,” Hammerhead said, not quite sure what was being asked.

Margueritte explained while she wiped her hands as clean as she could on her apron. “You just need to go through them one by one. The good ones go here.” She pointed to the empty bin. “Any that are especially soft or if they are rotten, or even if you are not sure if they are good to eat, put them in the bucket. Oh, I don’t know.” She said in one breath, turned to Roland, and nearly bumped into him. He put his arm over her shoulder as he spoke.

“We can stay a minute to see they get started,” he said.

Margueritte reached both hands up to hold his and make sure his arm stayed around her shoulder, but she said nothing.

“Now, if I’ve got it, the good ones go in the bin and the rotten ones in the bucket. Come on, then.” Grimly climbed up on the bin. Each little one took a potato. At least Goldenrod tried to take one, but she could not quite lift it. Hammerhead took about six by accident and stared at them in utter uncertainty. Grimly made up for the other two by instantly going from one to the next.

“No good, no good. Definitely no good. Nope. No way. Not a chance.”

“Ugh!” Goldenrod tugged with all her little might.

“Nope. No good. Ooo, this one looks like Herbert Hoover.”

“Let me see.” Goldenrod left off her tug of war.

Hammerhead, still unmoved, stared at his spuds.

“Who is Herbert Hoover?” Goldenrod asked.

“I don’t know, but this looks like him.” He looked at Goldenrod and they spoke in unison. “No good.” The bucket started filling rapidly and not one was yet in the bin.

“Nope. Nope. Nope.” Grimly started shoveling toward the bucket and Goldenrod got back to tugging until Grimly made enough of a dent for her potato to roll and take her with it with a “Weee!”

Margueritte’s sides were splitting with laughter, and Roland laughed right with her until she turned toward him, and their eyes met. The laughter vanished in an instant and he drew her up to him and held her tight. Their lips touched, soft and warm, and they might have remained that way for some time if Grimly had not whistled.

“Woohoo!”

“Whaty?” Goldenrod said and got her little head above the edge of the bin.

M3 Margueritte: Guests, part 2 of 3

January 12, 2021December 26, 2020M G Kizzia Leave a comment

“My Lords,” Roland said as he rose. “Lady Brianna. Will you pardon me? I had better see to the horses before I retire.”

“I will help Maven with the dishes,” Margueritte said, knowing it would let her outside as Roland was going outside. Then her father had to ruin it all.

“Don’t mind the ogre if he’s back. He really is a nice fellow.”

“Oh, yes.” Roland had forgotten and needed to think a minute.

“It’s all right,” Tomberlain said. “I’ll go with you and help.”

“Thank you.” Roland stole a glance from Margueritte.

Margueritte took out the plates, knives and cups and set them in the water, not too gently. Marta came back in time to help and ended up doing most of it because Maven’s back hurt.

“What’s the matter missy?” Lolly asked, shooting for the core. “You like that hunk of a young man, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Margueritte said, sounding ever so frustrated. “Tomberlain won’t let me get a word in edgewise.”

“There, there.” Lolly said in her most motherly fashion. “You don’t want to go falling in love, anyway. All that will get you is the three “H’s.”

“What are those?” Margueritte fell right into it.

“Heartaches, Headaches, and Husbands,” Lolly said. “And that last, ungrateful, self-centered child is the cause of most of the first two.”

“I would like a husband.” Marta spoke up from her work and honestly tried to join the conversation.

“Yes, Marta.” Margueritte got curious. “Why aren’t you married.”

“No one ever asked me,” she said.

Maven got up then, grinning, and came forward, rubbing her hands together. “Well, well, well,” she said.

“Now, now.” Lolly tapped her cooking spoon tenderly against Maven’s hands and eyed Marta with a strange look. “I think you need to be leaving this one to the experts.”

Margueritte knew Marta would not be long for this world. “I gotta go,” she said, and she slipped off toward the barn, but could not imagine a reason to go closer than the old oak. Think, think. She said to herself, but it was no good. The moon came up. The stars twinkled and she knew, like Elsbeth, she ought to be in bed. At last, when she could think of no excuse to wander into the barn, and indeed, she felt she could hardly think at all, she settled on returning to the house and to her sleep. She got near the door, however, and heard a word.

“Hello.” The word startled her. “That brother of yours is hard to lose.”

“Thick head, good heart,” Margueritte said, smiled and suddenly felt very giddy.

Roland smiled his perfect smile and it made Margueritte turn her head, slightly.

“What?” Roland wondered. “You should not hide your smile.”

“But my smile is not perfect like your own,” she said, honestly. “You see?” She showed him where the crooked was.

“Who would notice?” he said and reached to touch her, as if looking, but let his fingers linger on her lips. Margueritte looked deeply into his blue eyes before she pulled back ever so little. “All night I thought you had something to ask me.”

“Oh, yes.” Margueritte had to pause to remember. “I wanted to know if you really saved Lord Charles’ life.”

“Yes,” he said. “I suppose I did. But I grew up on the Saxon Mark so in a way I knew what treachery he would face, and he could not have known.”

“You are modest,” Margueritte said, and thought this was a rare and prized quality not found among the braggarts who surrounded her father or who called Tomberlain friend. “But I feel that is very important. I have a sense about your lord; that he has only begun to step into his greatness.”

“The same as I feel,” Roland said, in a more serious tone. “Even though he has already done more in his life than most men ever dream of doing.”

Both looked at each other, and Margueritte wondered why she kept speaking of Charles when Charles was not on her mind or heart. She got ready to ask another question when a little voice interrupted them both.

“What am I missing?” Goldenrod fluttered up and hovered briefly in between them. Roland seemed to take a good long look at the fairy’s face, and she looked at him with curiosity. “Are you loving?” she asked. Neither felt quite sure what she was asking. Roland looked uncomfortable for the first time, and Margueritte answered for her little one.

“I do hope we may be friends,” she said.

“Yes,” Roland agreed. “You know what friends are, don’t you?”

“Oh yes,” Goldenrod said with some excitement. “My Lady, and Elsbeth and I are best friends. And my Lady Brianna and Little White Flower.” And she started a list. “And Luckless, Grimly, Lolly, Maven and Marta, Tomberlain, and even Hammerhead, and Miss Blossom and Lady LeFleur, my mother. She is queen of the fairies, you know.”

Roland interrupted. “So that makes you the fairy princess.” He tipped his hat to her.

“It does?” Goldenrod widened her little eyes. “Wow. Wait ‘till I tell Elsbeth. She’ll be so proud of me.” She flew off as quickly as she came. Roland looked at Margueritte.

“We have pointed this out to her many times,” Margueritte said. “But retention of the facts is a fleeting thing for a fairy so young. She is only about seventy years old; you know.” Roland swallowed and looked again in the direction Goldenrod had gone. Margueritte took a deep breath. “I should be in bed,” she said. “Goodnight, Sir Roland.”

“Just Roland, if you don’t mind. I’m still getting used to the sir part.” He smiled again, but she turned toward the door and stopped only before entering as Roland spoke once more. “By the way, you did not have to kick your brother. He is a good young man, and despite his questions, my attention was all yours.”

Margueritte’s hand went to her mouth. She kicked the wrong leg. She felt very embarrassed.

“Oh, don’t think of it,” Roland said quickly. “My sisters used to do that all the time. It reminded me of home. And I found it very refreshing after all the stiff formalities of the palace. I don’t believe the ladies in Paris even know how to kick.” He tried hard to help, and Margueritte smiled for his efforts, but she felt embarrassed all the same.

“Goodnight then,” she said, went inside, and only paused to say goodnight to her mother who was waiting to escort Sir Roland to his room.

M3 Margueritte: Visitors from the Real World, part 3 of 3

January 6, 2021December 26, 2020M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Bernard looked around at Redux and then the formidable little woman guarding the house and decided the barn made the best place to start. They pushed passed Margueritte and bumped little Elsbeth out of the way, spilling two of the eggs she had so carefully salvaged and went in.

“You two, up the loft. You search the hay. You the horse stalls and you the bins. You look around for anything out of place.” Bernard was good at giving orders, but not about to soil himself actually looking through a barn. The man at the hay began to poke with his sword, but then the cavalry arrived just in time.

“What’s all this then?” Lord Barth asked, almost before he dismounted. Tomberlain, Owien and the sergeant at arms with two men from the fields came to the barn door and the intruders paused in their search while Bernard explained.

“Two escaped men are wanted for questioning by the king. Lord Ragenfrid has ordered us to search the barn, the house and the tower while he has taken the main force on to Vergenville.”

Margueritte spoke up. “I told them the men may have ridden on to Vergen while Elsbeth and I were at our chores, but they do not believe me.” She tried to look forlorn. Tomberlain thought she was serious.

“Are you calling my sister a liar?” he shouted, and only Sir Barth’s arm held him back.

“My Lord,” Bernard spoke quickly. “These men can be dangerous. It is for your own protection that we offer to search on the chance that they may have snuck in without the girls knowing.”

Bartholomew looked at his daughters and got quite a different message than Tomberlain. “I’ll see to the safety of my home and my family. You can move on.”

“My Lord. A secret door.” A soldier shouted and the soldiers gathered there.

“No secret.” Margueritte thought fast. “We keep preserves down there. A root cellar.” Bernard did not accept that. He ordered, and two soldiers raised the lid and one started down the stairs and stopped when he heard a voice. And what a voice it was!

“Hey!” The thunder rolled up the staircase. “Who is that to disturb my sleep?”

“Didn’t I mention the ogre,” Margueritte said. “Much better than a watchdog, you know.”

Bernard went white and the soldiers were already headed for their mounts when the voice returned. “I’m coming up!”

Bernard snapped his head at Lord Bartholomew. “M’lord” and ran for his steed. Six men left as quickly as six ever left anywhere. They did not even see Hammerhead rise like a monster from the deep.

“That was a good dream, too,” he said.

“It’s been two days,” Margueritte pointed out. “I think you may be growing up.” Hammerhead straightened in his pride.

“After a good meal my folks can sleep a whole season,” he said, but then Sir Barth wanted some answers. Elsbeth already started uncovering the men who appeared frozen by what they saw.

“Little White Flower saw the riders from the chapel, and she rushed to get me. Now what is this all about?” Bartholomew asked. He looked at Elsbeth but spoke to Margueritte.

“Don’t worry,” Elsbeth said to the two strangers as she came over and patted Hammerhead on the thigh, about as high as she could comfortably reach. “He won’t hurt you, much.” She paused to let it sink in.

“Ha.” Hammerhead blasted a laugh. “Much.”

“Great Lady. You put one over on them Franks,” Grimly said. “Slick as an elf selling water to a drowning man.”

“Actually,” the short man spoke as he came out from behind the hay, but in a direction that would take him farthest from the ogre’s reach. “That was the most courage and quick thinking I have seen in some time. You are a lucky man, Lord Bartholomew, to have such a daughter.” The short man took Margueritte’s hand and kissed it. “It was the best case of misleading truth I ever heard, and not one untruth in a single word. Have you ever considered politics?

“I think not, m’lord,” Marguerite said, and felt a little embarrassed.

“My sister’s not a liar,” Tomberlain said.

“Water to a drowning man,” Grimly repeated himself.

“May I ask what will become of our horses?” the young man said. He followed his Lord’s lead in kissing Margueritte’s hand. She rather did not mind that.

“A temporary spell,” she said. “It will wear off soon.”

“That’s right,” Grimly said. “Temporary.”

“And who are you?” Lord Bartholomew got tired of waiting for his daughter to give him an answer.

“Charles, aid decamp to the king by order of my father Pepin.” The short man spoke simply. “And my hulking young friend is Sir Roland, knighted three weeks ago last Lord’s day by the king himself hard on his twenty-first birthday. But the honor was long overdue. Best man at arms in the palace. Saved my life, twice now if we can find the priest Stephano. Ahem.”

Roland still held Margueritte’s hand and they were looking, eye to eye. “Er, yes,” Roland said and quickly let go. “My Lord Charles is too kind in his praise.” Margueritte, with a glance at her father, put her hand quickly behind her back.

“Well, come up to the house and let us straighten all this out.”

“Wait,” Charles said. “We must first be sure Ragenfrid did not leave behind someone to spy us out.

“Oh, yes.” Margueritte came to herself. “Goldenrod, would you mind taking a fly about to see if there are any spies lurking?” The fairy came right up, and Roland was glad he stood far enough from Charles not to have his arm grabbed again.

“Yes. A good wing stretchy,” she said, and vanished.

“You’re not the Charles of the Saxon campaign, are you?” Bartholomew asked.

“The same,” Charles said, but before more could be said, Goldenrod already came back to report to Marguerite.

“I went all around the triangle and around the chapel and everything,” she said. “There is one horse by the first road bend, and a man, sneaky, with his head around the tree there.” She pointed to the back corner of the barn where, clearly, no one could see anything but barn. Still, most looked. Hammerhead, who had been having trouble following all the conversation to that point had a thought. He spoke as quietly as he could.

“I think I’ll stretch my legs now that I’ve slept,” he said. “I might just go down the road a bit and see what I might find.” He excused himself, everyone gave him plenty of room to exit the barn, and he began a little sing-song chant. “I love to bite a crunchy head and grind the bones to make my bread. I sing the song that’s in my head, and grind the bones…no, I said that part.” Hammerhead got silent for a minute, then he began to whistle as he walked. If you have ever heard an ogre try to whistle, you will know why everyone in the barn had to hold their sides to keep from laughing out loud.

After a minute, all assumed the way was clear. Lord Bartholomew had been thinking in the meantime. “Father Stephano has gone to the house of my Romanish friend, Constantus,” he said.

“You know the way?” Charles asked.

“Of course. But it is getting late and it will be dark soon. Come and have supper and stay the night. For all their zeal, your friends will have to stop as well in Vergenville, at least to rest the horses, and even if they leave at daybreak, it will be noon at the earliest before they are back here.” He put his arm around Charles’ shoulder. “Now tell me about the Saxon campaign. God, I’m sorry I missed it.” They headed for the house.

“Sir Roland,” Margueritte invited him toward the house.

“Lady Margueritte,” Roland responded. He took one more look into her green eyes before he caught up with the other men and got tackled by Tomberlain. As Margueritte followed, he looked back once more, and Margueritte felt herself turn a little red.

Margueritte thought her figure seemed to be turning out very nice. All the curves and bumps were exactly as they ought to be, and it seemed her best feature. Apart from her figure, however, she imagined she might be pretty enough in her way, but hardly exceptional. Her features were too big: her ears, nose, hands, feet, and lips as well. Her face looked much too round. Just then, Elsbeth, with her perfect, sharp, angular, beautiful face bumped past her with her pert little nose stuck straight up in the air and her hips wiggling like a tramp. “Lady Margueritte,” she whispered.

Margueritte did not feel too grown up to make a face at her sister, even if Elsbeth was not looking. Besides, she thought, Elsbeth has freckles. She withdrew the face, and just in time, as Roland turned his head for one more look before he entered the house.

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

MONDAY

Guests stay in the triangle, and Margueritte feels especially interested in one of the guests. Until Monday, Happy Reading.

M3 Margueritte: Visitors from the Real World, part 2 of 3

January 5, 2021December 26, 2020M G Kizzia Leave a comment

“In the Hay.” Margueritte and the short man spoke together.

“It will have to do,” the short man said

“I will cover you,” Elsbeth volunteered.

“I’ll hide the pitchforks,” Margueritte said, and the short man and young man stopped short.

“Thanks,” the young man said.

Margueritte moved quick and then she helped Elsbeth while the short man kept saying to move further back because a sword could poke as well as a fork.

There were riders coming into the triangle.

“M’lady. I got all but the tails.” Grimly said hurriedly, having caught the excitement in the air.

“Margueritte!” Elsbeth fretted and put her hand to her cheek.

“Goldenrod.” Margueritte did not hesitate and commanded the Fairy’s attendance. Goldenrod appeared out of nowhere and flitted around once to orient herself before she curtsied.

“Lady?” It sounded like a question.

Margueritte pointed. “Make the tails invisible. Quickly.”

“But what should I do?” Elsbeth looked flustered.

“You pick up your mess in the doorway and try to save a couple of eggs,” Margueritte said, to bring her sister back down to earth. “Nothing more natural than you having to pick up the mess you made.”

“Humph!” Elsbeth grumped but got a basket and got to her knees.

The last of the horses seemed to have stopped and a man shouted. “Check the house, the tower, the barn. Look for signs. Look for horses, hard ridden.” Margueritte stepped out and there appeared to be two dozen soldiers in the center by the oak with at least one lightly armed but well-dressed Lord among them.

“Can I help you?” Margueritte spoke very loudly to gain everyone’s attention.

The well-dressed lord whipped around to face her. “Whose place is this?”

“Lord Bartholomew, Victor in Brittany and Count of the Breton Mark, and I am his Daughter, the Lady Margueritte.” She continued to speak loudly. Maven and Marta were already at the front door and Lolly stood between them, gently tapping her cooking spoon in the palm of her hand.

“You’re not coming in here.” Maven muttered with enough determination to make the soldiers think.

Likewise, Redux, his apprentice Graham and Luckless the dwarf blocked the path to the tower. The big blacksmith and his companions were enough, at least, to cause the soldiers to pause and await orders.

Margueritte spoke quickly into the developing silence. “I would not recommend invading my father’s house, uninvited.” Then she smiled for the Lord. “But perhaps I can answer any questions you might have.” She wiped her hands clean on her apron as a sign of casualness and friendly attention.

The lord assessed things quickly and decided some questions might not hurt. “Two riders were ahead of us. Have you seen them?”

“I heard riders. There may have been two,” Margueritte said, sweetly. “My sister Elsbeth and I have been busy in the barn. Perhaps they have ridden to Vergenville hoping to gain the village before dark.” She pointed down the road. “There is an inn there and if they believe they have lost you, they may stop to rest and refresh themselves.” She smiled again.

“And the priest,” the lord was thinking out loud.

“Father Aden is in the chapel, if you wish to see him,” she suggested, in all innocence.

“No. This one came from Rome. His name is Father Stephano. Do you know him? Do you know where he can be found?”

“Yes.” Margueritte sounded hopeful. “Father Stephano was here three days before he moved on. As to where he may be, I would inquire of the king. I would believe if the Pope sent him all the way from Rome, it must have been to the king’s court, don’t you think? If he could turn King Urbon to the Lord, the rest of the country would follow, no?” She smiled again, and then looked serious. “I am sorry, though, the king’s court is much further away than Vergenville, but then anyone going there would have to come back through Vergenville eventually, wouldn’t they?”

“My Lord.” An older man spoke up, one near him who was also still on horseback. He spoke in Latin supposing to disguise his comment. “This wench knows nothing. Let us search so we may find them.”

“Quiet DuBarry. Let me think. What would Charles do? Take refuge in an outland county? Appeal for refuge from King Urbon? Or hopelessly search for a Roman priest from among a thousand villages of the Breton?

“Appeal to the king?” Margueritte guessed, in Latin. “You may tell the rude man I understand more than he thinks. I will overlook the word, wench, as one spoken by an ignorant fool, unless, of course, he believes the word true, at which point he should say so to my father who will be glad to point out his error with the point of his sword.”

The man nearly rose out of his seat, but the head lord held him down with a wave and smiled, and a nasty looking smile it was. He returned to the Frankish tongue. “Vergenville.” He pointed down the road.

“Vergen to the Breton. You must pass the road to the southlands and the road that runs south to the coast. Keep straight on through the woods and you will find it.” She said, with just the right amount of shy for her age. “And between us, I hope you catch them. They must be terrible men to be pursued by such a noble lord as yourself. I am glad such men did not stop here. I would be very afraid.”

The lord scrutinized Margueritte, and though she stood in a truly submissive pose and had her eyes lowered so he could not see into them, he came to a conclusion all the same. “I don’t suppose you are afraid of anything,” he said.

“Bernard,” he shouted. “Take six men. Search the house, the tower, the barn and the fields.” He paused for one last look at Margueritte. “With the lord’s permission, of course. The rest of us ride.” Most of the men mounted and they were off to Vergenville.

M3 Margueritte: Burning Questions, part 3 of 3

December 30, 2020November 12, 2020M G Kizzia Leave a comment

A commotion could be heard in the fields as men ran, and many pointed when the creature circled in low. Fortunately, the creature chose a back corner of the far quarter, by the Vergen forest to set down. It did not look, from that distance, nearly as big as its’ shadow, but no one doubted what it could do. It flamed the grain in that corner before setting down.

Margueritte and Elsbeth came to the edge of the wood, laughing and sighing for the stories they told and heard from Goldenrod’s storehouse of stories. Some of them were about the Kairos, the Traveler in Time, and that embarrassed Margueritte a little. She reminded Goldenrod that she was not supposed to talk about lives which Margueritte could not herself remember, but Goldenrod said they were elf perfected stories, so who knew how much of them was true. Margueritte accepted that and listened while Goldenrod told about the three dwarfs at the bottom of the well.

“They should have been named Moe, Larry and Curly,” Margueritte said, even as Goldenrod became very agitated.

“What is it?” Elsbeth asked.

“Roan and Morgan again?” Margueritte wondered because that was the only other time she saw Goldenrod in such a state.

“Worser,” Goldenrod insisted, and she flew into Elsbeth’s hair to hide. “Dragon.” Her voice sounded barely above a whisper. As if on cue, Margueritte’s horse reared up and Elsbeth’s horse stepped back from the field and shook her head vigorously, so both girls had a hard time staying up and keeping control of their mares.

“Get down.” Margueritte commanded when she could, and Elsbeth did not argue. The horses, well trained, did not run, but they did step further from the edge of the woods. The girls quickly tied them to keep from losing them, and none too soon as even then the dragon came to land in a great ball of fire. The smoke and the acrid, acid smell came instantaneously, before the mere smell of burning grain and charcoal. The beast roared once. It sounded ear splitting. Then something happened which shocked Margueritte to no end. The beast spoke. It said only one word. “Hungry.” It spoke in a strange tongue, and it looked to snatch up a horse from the edge of the trees. The horse got cooked in an instant, and with great jaws and almost useless front claws the horse got quartered. These bite-sized morsels were then taken into the worm’s mouth rapidly, one after the other, to become four lumps in the worm’s throat. Margueritte watched the worm undulating to swallow the lumps as far as it could.

“Where did that horse come from?” Elsbeth asked. She peeked around Margueritte’s shoulder. “Owien,” she shrieked. The master at arms could not be seen, but Marguerite guessed he got injured and dragged somewhere behind a tree by the boy who now knelt behind his master’s shield, facing the dragon, with his master’s sword pointed up, though he could barely lift it.

“Stay here!” Margueritte commanded her sister like she never before commanded anything. Not that it would do any good, she thought, as she turned back toward her own horse.

Margueritte reached out in time, not for the Danna who said this was not the place for her, and neither for Gerraint, though he was a great warrior in his way, but for Festuscato, the Roman Senator who came north in the days just before Rome fell to the Goths and Vandals. Festuscato had some practical experience with dragons.

“And several saints.” She heard the words clearly in her head, paused and closed her eyes. She went away, and Festuscato took her place, dressed not in her dress, but in the armor he called from home. That armor was a gift of the gods and the last made before the time of dissolution, and the sword called Fate was one of the two that came after Caliburn. At the moment, however, Festuscato felt mostly interested in the cloak which was woven by the hand of Athena herself. It was fireproof, among other things.

Festuscato got up on Margueritte’s mare which he judged would give him the least problem, though he did not like his choices, and with a kick, horse and rider bounded out into the open.

Festuscato knew he had a few moments yet. Dragons were quick to strike and eat, but then they had to take time to swallow and think about what to do next. They had been bred by a strange race, the Agdaline, who bred a command language into their system. Festuscato knew that language, but he felt uncertain if the dragon would respond. “Do no harm.” Festuscato shouted in the Agdaline tongue over and over as he approached the beast. “No fire. Do no harm.”

The dragon looked at him as he approached and turned its’ head at the sight almost a full one hundred and eighty degrees, so Festuscato could be seen upside down. The head snapped back as the man came to face the beast. He was ready to hide beneath his cloak on the least provocation, though the horse would have undoubtedly become toast.

“Do no harm. No fire.” Festuscato repeated.

“No harm.” The dragon said in barely discernible tones.

“No harm. No fire.” Festuscato repeated, again.

The dragon looked straight up and belched a great roar of flame. Festuscato was barely able to keep his horse under him. The dragon still smoked when it came to look again on horse and rider. “No fire.” It repeated.

Before another thought might enter the dragon brain, Festuscato spurred to snatch up Owien. Their other horse, the nag Owien got to ride was apparently too old and lazy to even run too far. “Can you ride?” He asked the sergeant at arms, who just came around from being knocked unconscious when the dragon snatched his horse.

“I think so,” he moaned. His arm looked busted all to pieces. Festuscato helped him up on the nag, put Owien in front and took the sword and shield to discard as an unnecessary burden. At the edge of the woods, he knew the dragon had nearly finished swallowing.

“No harm. No fire.” Festuscato repeated the command. The dragon said nothing in response. It merely stared at them with the fire dancing in its’ red eyes. Neither did Festuscato wait for an answer, but immediately rode towards Elsbeth, snatched her by the hands so she would ride behind him, and they did not stop riding until they were well away. They turned from the top of a small hillock by the woods and heard the dragon roar and spew fire once more into the sky. It took to wing and paused only briefly over the far pasture to snatch a cow in its’ larger hind claws. It flew north and passed right over the rider’s heads, who followed its’ flight as well as they could until it got lost in the clouds.

“Owien, dear,” Festuscato said, inadvertently calling him by Margueritte’s term. “You need to get your master to the house, but not too fast lest you worsen his condition by banging across the uneven ground.

“Yes sir,” Owien said.

“Your name, Lord?” The sergeant asked, though the delirium of his pain came on him, so he had to struggle to keep conscious.

“Festuscato,” he said. “And I will see to the girls and their safety.”

Owien started out at a slow and steady walk which he did his best to maintain even after he reached the flatter fields. Luckily, the old nag seemed content to move at that pace.

Festuscato took Elsbeth back to her own horse. When they got down, Elsbeth stared at him. Goldenrod came fluttering back from wherever she had hidden and clapped both hands with delight. Elsbeth squinted and cocked her head, though not nearly as far as the dragon.

“I can kind of see my sister in you,” she said. “Only she doesn’t have any red in her hair and your light brown eyes don’t look like her green ones.”

“But Elsbeth. Aren’t you forgetting what you should do when you are saved by a brave knight?” he said.

Elsbeth stiffened briefly, but then she saw he was teasing her. She played along with a curtsy. “Thank you, most brave and noble knight.” Then she went one further and stepped up to kiss his cheek. He laughed and immediately traded places with Margueritte, who continued the laugh, and Elsbeth joined her in the release of their fears, until they fell to the ground, laughing. Goldenrod’s fairy laugh, a powerful enchantment in its’ own right, kept them at it until they could hardly breathe. Goldenrod then broke the spell with her question.

“What are we laughing about?”

It got late, well after all the talk of dragons and other monsters had subsided, well after Owien had been praised and Elsbeth had kept silent for once, and well after bedtime when Margueritte sat straight up in bed. It came to her like an electric shock. She had no idea who Festuscato was.

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

MONDAY

Margueritte and Elsbeth are surprised by Visitors from the Real World. Don’t Miss it. Until then,

M3 Margueritte: Burning Questions, part 2 of 3

December 29, 2020November 12, 2020M G Kizzia Leave a comment

“If the Lord saw fit to make these little spirits, they must have some purpose in his plan. And in the end, they must be accountable to him in some way, even as we are,” he finished.

“Now as to Margueritte’s place among them, that is something to think about.”

“But my Lord.” Little White Flower spoke up. “If the little ones did not have someone to watch over us and set boundaries for us, there is no telling how much mischief we would do to this world and to all the people in it.”

“I believe this,” Lady Brianna agreed. “Even under Margueritte’s watchful eye they can’t seem to resist lying, cheating and stealing.” She shook her head.

“But we’ve brought it all back.” Little White Flower spoke for the defense. “Or nearly all of it.”

Father Aden looked at the fairy and then Margueritte and prepared for two experiences for which he could hardly prepare.

“Margueritte, I do not know why you should have to be born again and again as you say, but I understand that only such a one would be graced with the gift of these little spirits of the Lord,” Aden said.

“Gift?” Margueritte half-kidded to lighten the atmosphere. She knew it was her turn to show something. She took her Mother’s hand and held tight. Taking Aden the Convert’s hand with her other hand, she closed her eyes. She and her mother had discussed it. This was not the place for the Danna. But Gerraint, Son of Erbin, was willing to come through, and he was a well-known man of faith. In only a moment, Margueritte disappeared and Gerraint sat in her place. A tear came to his eye as he spoke in the chapel.

Good Father,” he said. “I too do not know why I am reborn and never know the glories of Heaven, nor did any of the scholars of my day, not even Merlin, only one thing is needful to remember. This is Margueritte’s life, and this fine Lady is her mother as surely as anyone was ever mother to a child, and this surprisingly quiet one is her good sister, annoying though she can be.” Gerraint smiled a little as Elsbeth was not too old to stick out her tongue and make a face. “And this one is part of her responsibility as it was part of mine in my time.” He smiled for Margueritte’s mother and squeezed her hand and then he went home and Margueritte appeared back in her own place. Her mother hugged her, and none too soon.

The last surprise became a surprise for all except for Aden who had been forewarned. Brianna looked at Little White Flower and spoke clearly. “Get big, please,” she said.

“Must I?” Little White Flower asked one last time.

“Yes, you must.” Brianna affirmed, and the fairy did and stood tall and slim in a full-length white deerskin-like dress that made her swarthy skin stand out. Her long hair that reached to her knees looked nearly as long as Margueritte’s, and certainly as dark, and her eyes, a rich loam brown appeared to dance with sparkles of Gold.

“Golly Gosh.” Goldenrod said from one pew back where she had snuck in to watch. Little White Flower appeared to be twenty something, much older than Elsbeth ever suspected, and much more beautiful, as fairies are, than human eyes normally get to behold. Little White Flower immediately looked to her friend, but Elsbeth did not know what to think. She always thought of her fairy friend as about her own age, which was not quite ten. She never imagined her as a full-grown woman. She did not know what to think.

Little White Flower looked again at the Cleric who was but thirty, after all. And there was something in the look to make a heart stop. Father Aden also did not know what to think or what to say, though it crossed his mind that many of the scholars at Iona were married. They had not given into that silly Roman superstition concerning celibacy, and he felt glad for that.

Lady Brianna finally, and graciously, as was her way, broke the ice and hugged Little White Flower. “Welcome to the family,” she said, and added, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

Margueritte nodded, and then got up to hug her too. She suspected for some time that this might be the case, and probably could have known for sure if she thought hard about it.

Elsbeth got up last of all. She neared tears and knew what would happen long before any of the others. She had lost her fairy. Little White Flower would be Father Aden’s fairy now, and she would remain his for the rest of his days.

They had peace in the triangle after that, or as much as there can ever be when there are little ones literally under foot. The promised prosperity came to the farm, and everyone benefited from the bounty.

In the Lord’s year 711, Tomberlain got formally invested as a Squire as he turned seventeen. All of those who had been calling him that already cheered. The rest cheered as well and said it was well deserved. Owien, age 12 cheered loudest of all as the two boys were indeed becoming fast friends. Owien looked up to Tomberlain as an older brother and mentor, while Tomberlain found in Owien an alternative to having sisters. He also did not mind the adulation of the youngster, but unlike some who would have swelled their heads, Owien’s adoration of Tomberlain drove Tomberlain to always do his best and try to be the best so as to not disappoint the boy.

Lady Brianna recognized in young Owien a quick mind and a sharp wit which she claimed would be wasted in the fens. She brought him and his mother to the Triangle. She set him to page for the master at arms, and when he turned twelve, she began to send him with Tomberlain and the girls to Lady Lavinia’s to learn his letters.

Thus, the children grew. Margueritte turned fourteen in the spring of that year and showed every sign of becoming a fine young lady. Elsbeth turned eleven that summer, and she also tried very hard to be grown up. She was eleven, going on twenty, Margueritte teased, and there was some truth in that, though Elsbeth still had plenty of childish moments. Elsbeth, Margueritte, and sometimes Goldenrod became fast friends again, and did nearly everything together. They often rode far into the wilderness to picnic and play, and though Lord Bartholomew resisted the idea because, as he said, there are still spies around, and there were, Lady Brianna convinced him to let them go, because she knew the time the girls spent together was drawing short, and soon enough they would find nice young men, and after that they would never have such time together again.

“And they better be nice young men.” That was all Sir Barth had to say.

Once again, everything changed when the fall came, and the leaves first began to change in the Vergen. It seemed a warm day, what Little White Flower called a Navajo Summer, when a great shadow appeared, circling around the open fields. The men came running in. Sir Barth and Tomberlain were with Redux and Luckless by the forges, and from there, looking down on the grain, the shadow looked clear as a new cast bell.

“I can’t see it.” Tomberlain squinted towards the Heavens. He used his hand to help shade his eyes, but it did not help. Bartholomew spoke after a glance upward.

“But it is big, whatever it is. Where are the girls?” he asked.

“Riding,” Redux said. “I helped saddle their mounts only an hour ago.”

“Damn.” Lord Bartholomew swore, which he rarely did, and then he turned his eyes to the dwarf who seemed to be trembling with certainty.

Luckless swallowed hard. “Dragon,” he said, and the men turned white.

M3 Margueritte: Burning Questions, part 1 of 3

December 28, 2020November 12, 2020M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Late in the spring in the year of our Lord, 710, when Margueritte turned thirteen, a great caravan got spotted in the northeast quarter, headed toward the Mark and for Amorica. Margueritte was out riding with Elsbeth and Tomberlain when they found it. There were some riders with the caravan, but mostly mule and oxen wagons that moved slowly across the fields. Tomberlain went for Bartholomew, but Margueritte and Elsbeth refused to move from their perch. They were on a hillside, hidden enough by the trees to not be an obvious target, so on the promise that they not move an inch, Tomberlain went, and he was not gone long.

Lord Bartholomew and every man of the March he could muster came armed to the rendezvous. Even young Owien came with them, having taken up as page to Sir Gilles, Bartholomew’s sergeant at arms. They rode down toward the oncoming troop, slowly and carefully, not knowing what to expect. Bartholomew, of course, told the girls to stay put, but of course they did not.

Several men rode out from the wagons to face their visitors. The men did not appear hostile, and they did not appear to be armed. Appearances can be deceiving, but in this case, they turned out to be gypsies, that wretched and miserable race said to be doomed to wander over the earth, never to have a home of their own for the great sins of their forefathers. Margueritte never thought that was quite fair to the children and grandchildren, and she felt a pang of conscience when she drew near.

Margueritte pulled up to wait, but Elsbeth could hardly keep herself from riding into the midst of them. They were stopping at any rate. The day was on. Marguerite did not hear what deal her father made to have them pass through the Mark unmolested, but she felt sure it was pass through. There would be no long camps on the Breton border.

Margueritte, however, did hear what Goldenrod whispered. “Breedies,” she called them with a turned-up nose.

“What do you mean, breedies?” Margueritte asked.

“They got little one blood in them,” she said. “Not much, but enough to make them smelly.”

“Hey! I’m a breedie, half Frank and half Breton,” Margueritte said.

“You’re a human bean.”

“Being.”

“You all smell stinky, the same,” Goldenrod said and rolled her eyes, as if everyone knew this.

“Thanks a lot.” Margueritte kicked her horse to get a closer look.

Lord Bartholomew got invited to examine the camp to be sure the gypsies were not hiding the weapons of a secret army, and Tomberlain and Elsbeth went with him and his troops, so Margueritte thought it would be all right. When she got near, however, she saw something she did not expect to see. Curdwallah was speaking with one of the gypsy chiefs while at the same time trying to blend into the background with the hope that Sir Barth and his troop would not recognize her. Margueritte recognized her. Curdwallah the hag could not escape recognition despite how much she appeared like just another gypsy witch.

“Invisible?” Margueritte checked with Goldenrod.

“Naturally,” Goldenrod responded with some miff to think that Margueritte had to remind her.

“Fly there.” Margueritte pointed and quickly looked away so as not to let on that she saw Curdwallah. “I must know what she is doing here so far south of her place. I must know what she is saying.”

“Oooo.” Goldenrod stood on Margueritte’s shoulder. “Spies for gossip.” Margueritte felt the fee practice peeking in and out from behind her hair several times before she took off.

“But Lady, the price you ask is too steep,” the gypsy said.

“I warned you not to enter my territory without my permission.”

“But we have gone around. You are not disturbed.”

“You misjudge.” Curdwallah put her hand to his shoulder, squeezed a little, which caused the man to grimace in pain. “Amorica is mine. All the territory is mine, and you will meet my price, or you will pay in other, less pleasant ways.”

“I will do what I can.” She squeezed a little more. “All right. All right.” He yelped and fell to his knees.

“But wait. There are too many eyes here, and I feel certain someone is listening in.” Curdwallah turned slowly around and nearly stopped right where Goldenrod hid. Fortunately, the fairy, though invisible to mortal eyes, thought it prudent to also hide behind a bucket. Curdwallah’s eyes moved on. “We will be better in your wagon,” Curdwallah said, and the poor gypsy led the way while Goldenrod sped back to Margueritte’s shoulder. She peeked out from the security of Margueritte’s hair before she said anything at all.

On hearing, Margueritte wheeled about and rode back to the hill, and then home, thinking the whole way. When she told her father about it later, he chided her.

“Why didn’t you tell me right away, while we were there?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Margueritte admitted. “I didn’t think of that. I did not know if it was important or not.”

One thing that was important came up some days later. It happened during Beltain of that year, not many days after the gypsies, when lady Brianna’s conscience finally needed to be cleared. Tomberlain and Owien were out proving what hard heads they had, as Margueritte put it, but the girls were kept close to home. Lady Brianna was not going to risk another Beltain romp, and on that day, she took the girls into the chapel where Aden the Convert had taken up temporary residence.

This thing had weighed heavily on Lady Brianna’s mind since Beltain a year ago, and really since the little ones first arrived in their lives. To that end, she insisted that Little White Flower come to church. The poor fee acted frightened out of her wits just to think of it, but one look at Father Aden calmed her, greatly.

Aden had actually been taken to Iona as a baby in his mother’s arms. His own father had died doing no less a thing than saving the king’s life. Aden grew up in Iona and lived twenty years under the eyes and tutelage of the monks. At age twenty, he felt the great calling to return to his native land and spread the gospel, and he received a warm reception at first for the sake of his father. Some ten years later, the reception had cooled considerably, and at times, especially during the seasons, Aden felt grateful for the safety of the Frankish mark.

“But it is the Celtic way,” he said. “I look to the scholars of Iona and the people look to me. The children look to their parents, and on down the generations until we are able to make our own Iona here in Amorica, and grow our own scholars, steeped in the knowledge of the Lord. It is better than looking, like sheep, to some distant Bishop to know what we are supposed to think and do.”

Then the topic turned to Little White Flower and the rest. The fairy turned beet red when Aden examined her, and he seemed not a little embarrassed himself. Then there were hours of discussion, searching as much of the scriptures as they had, and finally concluding on this note: First, that it was wise of Sir Barth to charge his people in the strongest possible terms to say nothing of their presence to anyone at any time, and second, that there were more things in Heaven and on Earth than they could imagine