Part III: A Life Changed (Original)

After Sunset.

The sun had fallen below the horizon but the light had not yet completely faded when the five strangers entered the Redwing’s hilltop fortress, escorted by a full ten of his household guard, their faces grim. Ildrayne looked up from the squirrel she had just taken with her bow—she had been trying to extract the arrow without damaging it—and watched them limp wearily through the gate. One of them leaned heavily on—was half-carried by, really—one of the guardsmen. She wondered who they were, how they had gotten so incredibly filthy. She had never seen men so dirty, except occasionally when she had sneaked peeks at soldiers having their mud-fights. They were all over mud from head to toe; not a stitch of their clothes that wasn’t covered in it. It was caked on their faces, their hands, their necks, in their hair. The near-white of the almost-clean bandage on the wounded one’s knee contrasted sharply with the mud on every other surface. Black mud, near as she could tell in the fading light, like what she had found in the marsh on the northern border of her father’s lands. What would soldiers be doing in there? She wondered.

That they were soldiers was clear: the weapons they carried, the armor they wore, even the way they carried themselves in spite of their filth, all told that they were. And none but soldiers could have traveled, five men alone, through the country that surrounded her father’s lands, and not been taken by the brigands that plied the roads freely. And they were unbound and bore their own weapons, so they must be friends.

Maybe it was brigands, she thought, then discarded the notion. Something about the condition of these men said they had not been set upon by thieves. Thieves did not ambush armed men, not unless they had overwhelming numbers, and they never left their victims alive. What are they doing here? She wondered as she watched them stagger toward the keep.

She noticed that they wore surcoats over their armor. Only one kind of soldier wore surcoats in her experience. Iron Hands, then, she mused, but why aren’t they out with Father? An entire Hundred of the fighters had left with her father to go kill Saxons ten days ago, and they had heard no word of them since. Perhaps these carried news? News of Father! She forced herself to remain calm; now that they were between her and the keep, it would not do for the knight’s daughter to go racing past them to get to her hiding-place in the keep where she might hear their news. A year or two ago, she might have gotten away with it, but now she was twelve, a young Lady of House Redwing. She reluctantly turned her attention back to the squirrel, finished cutting the arrow free, and tucked the carcass’s tail behind the belt of her trousers. She used a white linen napkin—she would have to hide that one from the cook—to clean the blood from the arrow, then slid it back into her quiver, unstrung her bow and slipped it across her chest.

In truth, she knew, a Lady shouldn’t be out at dusk shooting squirrels with her bow, but there were some things she just wasn’t willing to give up for the sake of being a Lady, certain indulgences she felt she just had to secure, and usually did, from her father. The bow was one, and she thought her skill with it actually made him proud; while he was always careful to show the proper amount of disdain toward her accomplishments with it, the scoldings were almost always accompanied by a covert wink and a veiled smile. Her mother just rolled her eyes.

Even Trinity, her best friend, had decided she didn’t like doing what she called boyish things anymore, preferring to remain within the hillfort when Ildrayne went hunting, or exploring, or spying on her father’s soldiers as they walked their patrols. Trinity favored dresses, now, and even went so far as to look askance at Ildrayne’s trousers and boys’ shirts occasionally. A Lady should look a Lady, she had even said once, and gotten herself tripped into a mud puddle, dress and all, for it. This evening she was most likely doing what she did every evening, primping and trying on dresses and practicing her flirting—sometimes with the soldiers, but more often with the soldiers’ sons. Ildrayne shook her head at the thought. Boys were fun to look at (especially the older ones), more fun to wrestle with or race against, but she had never understood why she should want to flirt with them. She felt her cheeks color at the mere thought.

She looked back up at the strange band of soldiers, just to see how far they had gotten, how much longer she had to wait. They seemed to be moving with painful slowness, just a little more than halfway to the keep now. She noticed that the wounded one had something strapped to his back. Two somethings: a sword and a big helm, a helm with what looked through the mud to be wings on it. Her father’s? The mud caked to them made it hard to tell, but they certainly looked like it; she had seen few swords as long as her father’s greatsword, and even fewer helms with wings on them. And Father left with a Hundred of Iron Hands, she thought. They must be his. But why would he have sent them back?

Her young mind started to race with ideas, trying to fill in the gaps between what she saw and what she knew to be true. That her father had been killed never even occurred to her; was he not invincible? Had he not killed fully a thousand Saxons with that very sword on the soldier’s back? And he had left with a full Hundred of Iron Hands! They were the best, so every soldier in her father’s guard said, so her father said himself. An invincible warrior surrounded by invincible warriors—what could possibly have happened to him?

More likely he had won a tremendous victory and sent his tools of war back because he would no longer need them on this trip. He had killed the Saxons he had gone to kill; he had killed all the Saxons, and had sent the accoutrements back to tell them there would be no more war. He was halfway home now; these five were tired because they had run the whole way so they could bring the news of victory, that the grand feast and festival would be prepared and waiting for him when he got back. He would pick her up in his mighty arms and make her the queen of the festival, just as he always did in the spring. She wondered what her crown would be made of this late in the year.

She realized the soldiers had reached the ladder to the keep’s lone door, ten feet above the ground. The wounded one was having trouble with the ladder; finally two of the other men stationed themselves one above him and one below, and all but dragged him up. Finally they all disappeared through the door that had begun to glow with a warm yellow light in the gathering dark. She waited for the last one to disappear, then counted slowly to ten and ran to the ladder. Acting the Lady be hanged, she thought. I want to hear this.

She ran first to her chamber, on the top floor of the keep, where she dropped her bow and quiver carelessly on her bed. I’ll pick them up later, when it’s time for bed. Then she ran back down the stairs to the second level, the main level where her father’s audience hall was. Instead of bursting into the hall—her mother would be receiving the soldiers in there, she knew—she ran around the back hallway to the kitchens. She jerked the squirrel from her belt and tossed it to the cook without stopping, ignoring the woman’s scolding remark as she wormed her way into the second pantry, the one that shared a wall with the great hall, the one with the mouse hole that let out right between her parents’ great chairs, so she could hear even their whispered conversations. Through that mousehole she had eavesdropped on countless audiences and formal dinners, occasions to which a child could not be invited. Her parents knew nothing of this hiding place; she was sure the cook would never have told, and no one else knew of it. She ignored the flour that dusted her trousers as she settled down to listen, stifled an exasperated sigh as she realized she had missed the first part of the meeting.

“…am very sorry, my Lady,” one of the men was saying, his voice thick with fatigue and—was it sorrow? Pain? Defeat? Why does he sound like that? “We did everything we could, but they were too many. We failed.”

Too many? Failed? What is he talking about?

“Nonsense,” came her mother’s voice, calm and full of authority. She had always loved listening to her mother at these audiences. That a woman could have such poise, such an air of command, always struck her as at once strange and exciting. “You have done more than anyone could have expected of you. Iron Hands or no, you have had an ordeal few could have survived, let alone get as far as you did.” Had her voice been shaking toward the end?

What is going on? What of the great victory? The festival? Her need to know more was almost frantic. She could not calm her breathing, tried instead to keep it low and quiet, that no one would hear her. She wanted to scream it: WHAT HAS HAPPENED?

“My Lady,” came the first voice again, “please accept our condolences. We have all lost greatly with him. Britain has lost greatly.”

Condolences? Lost greatly? I don’t understand! But understanding began to force its way into her mind. She fought it, beat at it with all the strength she could muster. Her father was not dead! There had to be another explanation!

He paused to draw a shuddering breath, obviously trying to compose himself, waited several moments, then, “We stand ready to accept any punishment you think appropriate….” A muffled thud and something metal clattered across the floor. Another voice shouted “Llewin!” And a third: “Sergeant Llewin!” Then yet another man growled something—an oath, obviously—in a language she did not recognize.

The second voice spoke again. “His wound has broken open, my Lady. Please forgive him. He needs rest and medicine.”

Ildrayne fought the tears she could feel welling up inside her, swallowed the sob that threatened to rip her breast open. He’s not dead! He can’t be dead!

“There is nothing to forgive.” Her mother’s voice again. “You all need rest, and food, and medicine, and baths. You will have them all here.” She drew a shuddering breath; after a moment, she spoke again. “There will be no more talk of punishment. In a few days, I will write a letter of commendation for you to carry to the General of Iron Hands himself.” Another long, ragged breath. “I forbid you to go back to retrieve my husband’s body. It is safe now, and my husband’s—my guards will find the Saxons that remain on these lands and in the marsh. Enough have died. Let no more Britons die on his account. My men will see you to the guest quarters and arrange for food and healers and baths.” Then under her breath, so that no one but Ildrayne, with her ear to the mouse hole, could hear: “Rest now, my love. I will see you again when my work is done.”

Ildrayne couldn’t hold the sob in any longer. She barely got her hand to her mouth to deaden the sound before it broke loose, threw herself away from the mouse hole so that no one would hear her crying and learn that she had been eavesdropping. Anything else that was said in the hall was lost to her in the sobs that did not diminish, but kept coming harder, faster, that now racked her entire body. Somewhere in her mind she knew she was making too much noise, but she no longer cared, could not have stopped even if she had wanted to. It was as if all the tears in the world had suddenly found their way into her heart and now burst out to stream down her face. She did not have the strength to stand, could not even find the strength to rise to her knees. There was nothing left but agony, nothing but the terrible knowledge that he was gone. Her father, the hero, the invincible warrior whom all Britons loved and all Saxons feared, was gone. He would never fold his strong arms around her again, would never make her laugh with his funny stories, would never be there to kiss away the bad dreams that would always come.

And then her mother was there, on the floor of the pantry heedless of the flour on the rich material of her dress, gently picking her up from where she lay, folding her arms around her, gently pressing her face into a shoulder that had its own strength, whispering words of love into her ear. Dimly she wondered how she had found her. And then her mother began to cry as well, her body shaking with silent sobs. And they sat there, mother and daughter, crying for the man they both had loved, mourning their lost hero, knowing that all the tears in the world would never be enough to fill the void.