At the sight of him, the armies halted; arrows stopped flying. As the knight continued his ride—back and forth between the two armies, waving his banner of peace—a miraculous thing happened. The air was aglow with radiant light, the most beautiful thing I ever saw, and it was as if everyone there was holding his breath, such was the silence. Then all around me, knights and squires and archers and foot soldiers, all the men in the army, fell to their knees and laid their weapons down. Across the empty battlefield, the knights of Brutanna knelt also. Swords and lances lay everywhere upon the ground.
And then he was gone, the Worthy Knight. He disappeared into the darkness, and all was quiet for a very long time—until one by one, we got to our feet and began talking of it in hushed voices. Across the way we saw King Harry’s men turning back toward the castle. We did not follow them.
Someone said that the king had ridden forward in a fury, to find out why the army had halted its advance. When he saw that the men had dismounted and were kneeling there upon the battlefield and laying down their arms, Gilbert was so astounded and angry that he rode about screaming at them like a madman, cursing and calling them cowards. But then he drew near enough to see the miraculous figure who still galloped between the two armies, all ablaze with light—and of a sudden the king grew silent and sat there upon his horse, transfixed with wonder. Moments later he began to cry out again, only not in anger, but in terrible pain. “I cannot see! I cannot see!” he cried. “Dear God, I am blinded!” And then he fell from his horse, insensible. The duke had taken over the command and had ordered a retreat.
I went looking for Julian, then, praying that he had not been slain in the first barrage of arrows. I found him still in the vanguard, and still upon his knees. Not a single arrow had pierced his fine doublet! Yet there were so many spent arrows lying scattered upon the ground, it seemed impossible that none of them had struck him! It had been a night for miracles, though—what was one more?
“Julian!” I called to him. “Was it not a marvel?” And I laughed at the wonder of it.
He got to his feet and embraced me long and hard. “It was a marvel indeed, Geoffrey,” he said. “Though I fear you shall have to take up farming now—find yourself a comely wife and sire many children and sit by the fire and play sweet melodies upon the lute. For the world has changed this night, and has no more need for your sword.”
Prince Julian of Moranmoor
You will think it ungrateful of me, that after such a miracle I could find it in my heart to be angry with God. For was not a war averted and peace restored? Did I not ride in the vanguard, with no shield or armor to protect me—and live? And is not my brother Gilbert now as tamed by his blindness as a hooded falcon—so that he turns to me for advice, and is moderate and mild, as he never was before?
These are wondrous works, and amazing, and good. But, still—could He not have saved Bella, too? Was such a small gift not within His power?
That night when, just at the decisive moment, the Worthy Knight appeared upon the field of battle and rode through a hail of arrows, causing two mighty armies to stop their advance and lay down their arms and embrace the cause of peace—after all that had happened, I went to find Bella near the birches where she said she would wait. My heart was near to bursting with joy. I had not thought the world had that much goodness in it, and I could scarcely wait to tell her of it.
But when I reached the spot, she was not there. Her horse was gone, and upon the ground I found her dress—ripped apart and stained with mud. There, too, lay her amazing slippers, and a collection of little figures, standing guard most pitifully upon a rock. There was a black wool cap, such as peasants wear in wintertime. And some distance away, at the edge of the forest, I found Bella’s emerald ring. Oh, such terrible evidence!
I returned to the army in haste, hoping to enlist some men to help me search for her. But by the time I got there, the troops were on the move, already heading south toward Moranmoor. I rode forward, looking for my uncle, and finally found him at the front, riding beside the cart that carried my brother. The king lay unconscious, though he did not appear to suffer any pain. Indeed, upon his face there was an expression of perfect peacefulness. I knew not whether God had struck him down as punishment for his sins, or whether He had chosen my brother, as He chose Saul so long ago on the road to Damascus, calling him to turn from his wickedness and do the Lord’s work in the world. Whichever it was, I did not doubt that the hand of God was upon my brother that day.
When I approached my uncle, he was most astonished to see me. He had heard nothing of my arrival at the camp earlier in the evening or my quarrel with Gilbert. When I told him how it was I came to be with the army, and of all that Bella had undertaken for my sake, and for the cause of peace, the duke was greatly moved. He most willingly gave me a score of men to search the woods and fields for any sign of her.
We left right away, for I was near frantic to get back to that clearing—though in truth, I had little hope of finding her alive. But at least I could bring her home for a decent burial, with all the honors she deserved.
We combed the woods and the countryside nearby for three whole days, but we did not find her. And so I grew angry with God and said blasphemous things and wept hot tears at the injustice of it, and the terrible pity.
Then I returned to Moranmoor, to act as regent for my brother until he came to himself and could rule once more. We had a holy truce now and needed no hostage to guarantee that which God had decreed.
I dreamed of Bella some nights, as she was when we were children. And when I woke, I could not believe she was no longer on this earth, so vivid was my vision of her. And so, remembering that she had said she would make her own way back to Moranmoor if I did not come, I began to hope that she had just been traveling all that time. Perhaps she had seen the armies advancing upon one another and had been frightened by it, and had ridden away in haste, leaving her treasures behind.
Of course this did not explain the torn dress. Moreover, she had said she would wait for me, and that she was not afraid, and I believed her on both counts. All the same, I clung to this one little hope, for I had no other.
Thus I went to the queen and asked if she had in her household a girl whose mother had recently married a knight, a widower with one daughter.
“Marianne,” she said. “She was in my household, but is no more.”
“For what cause did you send her away?” I asked.
“For gossiping of private matters, and telling state secrets about the town.”
“That is the very one I am seeking!” I said.
“The girl believed I would protect her, because I liked not Gilbert’s plans. She came to me and said that she had endeavored to stop the war by sending her stepsister to you, Julian. Imagine! She thought I would embrace her for it.”
“But you did not favor the attack—is that not so?”
“I did not. I thought it deeply wrong and shameful. But it was none of her affair. I will have no one in my household who cannot be trusted to keep her tongue.”
“Will you tell me where she dwells, this girl? For I seek her stepsister, who was my dearest friend. She risked much to save me from a certain death.”
The queen looked down at her hands then, embarrassed—for it had been Gilbert who had put my life in peril, and she knew this right well, and was ashamed of it. “Truly, Julian, I will do all I can to help you.”
And so she told me, and I went there—to the house of Sir Edward and his wife, Matilda.
They were most astonished to see me. Matilda flushed scarlet when first I was announced by the housemaid, but she recovered herself with admirable speed and was soon offering me a seat by the fire and sending the maid to bring me wine.
Sir Edward was upstairs in the solar when I arrived, and had to be sent for. When he came into the hall, he bowed low and greeted me respectfully, as was proper. But after that, he said little, speaking only when questioned directly.
Besides Sir Edward and
his wife—and the maid—I saw only Matilda’s two daughters from her first marriage. The eldest—the infamous Marianne—was quite handsome, I thought, though she had a bold, flirtatious manner I did not like. And the younger one, Alice, seemed strangely withdrawn. Bella was nowhere to be seen. And so I decided to ask my questions quickly, then be gone—for I did not like these people much and cared not to prolong my visit to their house.
“You have another daughter?” I asked Sir Edward. “Isabel?”
He nodded. “Yes, my lord.” Matilda and Marianne exchanged looks of astonishment. Bella must have spoken of me in their hearing, I thought, and they had not believed her—that she could possibly know a prince, much less be friends with one. They would be just the sort to mock her over it, too. It pleased me to watch their consternation now.
“When did you see her last?” I asked.
“More than a month ago,” he said. “She left the house in the dead of night and we have not seen her since.”
My heart sank. “And you have had no message from her?”
“No. Nothing at all.”
I had with me Bella’s things, wrapped in a sheepskin. And so I laid the package down upon the floor and unfolded it carefully. It stung me each time I looked at them—most especially the torn gown with its implied tale of violent death.
“Do you recognize these?” I asked.
The women knelt around the sheepskin to look, exclaiming over the glass slippers and the fine brocade of the ruined dress.
“This is her old cap,” Matilda said. “But we have never seen these other things before. The night she left she was still wearing her peasant . . . the clothes she came to us in. She had nothing so fine as this. I think they must belong to someone else.”
“No,” I said. “She was wearing them when last we were together, the night she disappeared.”
“What are these?” Matilda asked, picking up one of the dough figures. I had brought only four of them. I had not been able to part with the last one, the skinny little princeling.
I looked Bella’s stepmother hard in the eyes. “That is her family,” I said.
She seemed puzzled, and put her hand to her heart as though to ask—me?
“No,” I said. “Her family. Beatrice and Martin and Will and Margaret. The people who loved her and cared for her all those years.”
At that, Sir Edward flushed and turned his head away—and I was very glad, too, for he should be ashamed!
“Your Highness?” It was Alice, the younger girl.
“Was there not a ring? An emerald ring?”
“Yes!” I cried, startled, and held out my hand to show her, for I wore it upon my little finger. Alice took hold of my hand to look at it, forgetting in her excitement that I was a prince and that to touch me so was a breach of propriety.
“It was my ring!” she said. “Father gave it to me—and I gave it to Isabel on the night she left.” And then she let go of my hand and hung her head and began to weep. “She is dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I fear she is.”
We all sat in silence for a while, gazing down at Isabel’s ruined lady costume lying there before us, and the little dolls she had made, and the coarse wool cap—all that was left of her now. Then Alice looked up at me again, her eyes bright.
“Did you look into the stone?” she asked eagerly. “Perhaps she is there. You could see. It might tell you something.”
“I do not understand you, child.”
“Here, come over by the window and I will show you. Hold it thus—see how the light strikes it? Now look inside, and perhaps Isabel will be there. It is a magical ring. I saw my father in it many times, even after he died.”
I looked at Alice for a moment—to judge if she was not right in her mind, or if she was only making sport of me—but I decided she was in earnest. And so I looked into the emerald as she directed. And strangely, I did see something there, though I could make no sense of it. The image was dark.
“Keep looking,” she whispered. She was standing close to me, her hand upon my arm. “It takes a while. You will see it better in a moment.”
And gradually it did become clearer. I was looking into a dark room, or perhaps it was the dark corner of a room. A poor cottage, it seemed, with a straw pallet, and a figure lying upon it.
“Can you see her?” Alice asked. “Is she there?”
“I do see something. Or someone. Only, Alice—it is not Isabel. It’s a man.”
“Oh,” she said.
“But how strange this is!” I cried. And indeed, I could scarce believe it—but the more I looked, the more certain I became. “I had not thought him mortal,” I said, more to myself than to her.
“Who?” This from Marianne, who had been hovering nearby, listening.
“The knight—he who saved us all. I thought he was some heavenly being, sent by God. Yet I see him lying wounded in a peasant cottage, like any man—though in the same white armor as before. And there is still the flame about his head. Only it is not so bright as it was.”
“Let me see!” said Marianne, and she pushed in between Alice and me, and grabbed my hand with the ring on it. I lost the light, then, and the vision was gone.
“Lady, you are too familiar!” I snapped, and pulled my hand away. She cringed, as I had meant her to, and slunk away. Still, Alice stayed where she was, calmly watching me.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It will be there again, when next you look. Only—how I wish it had been Isabel you saw!”
“Alice,” I said, “I know by rights this ring belongs to you. But I had thought to wear it always, in her memory. It comforts me mightily.”
“Oh, no, my lord prince, it is yours now. I gave it to Isabel, and I believe she would have wanted you to have it. And besides, it has spoken to me already, and given me comfort. And I believe it guided Isabel when she was in need of it. Now it speaks to you. There is a reason you saw what you did when you looked into that stone.”
“What do you mean, Alice—a reason?”
“The knight must be in need of you,” she said. “Else you would not see him there.”
“I cannot fathom it,” I admitted. “I thought him an angel! He brought two armies to their knees! How could such a being now lie wounded in some hovel, like any common mortal?”
“Is that what you saw?”
“That is exactly what I saw.”
“Then it is true. You should go and find him,” she said. “And see what he wants.”
“But I know not where he is!”
“The ring will guide you,” she said. “I am sure of it.”
“Then I will go. And if you are willing, I would have you come with me. For I think God has called you also to this task.”
Her face beamed then—and suddenly she became a very different Alice from the shy, downcast girl of moments before. She was now a radiant young lady, confident and full of spirit.
“Oh, yes!” she cried.
Alice
Oh, Father, I have such an amazing story to tell you—I think you will scarce believe it!
Remember how I longed to go adventuring with you when I was little? Well, now I have had an adventure of my own! Of course it was not quite so wonderful as it would have been to sail off with you to exotic lands and see the strange, wild creatures that dwell in those places, and meet all the pashas and the sultans. But I know that can never be, for you are in God’s arms now. All the same, I am sure you hear me up there in heaven, and think of me often and love me as much as you did before you died. And so I know it will delight you to hear that I have traveled all the way to Brutanna with a royal prince, at his personal request!
See? I knew I would astonish you!
But wait—there is yet more! We went there to rescue the Worthy Knight! And we found him, too—and such a miraculous and confounding event that was! I am sure you know the knight of whom I speak—I think all in heaven must have peered over the clouds to watch and cheer his amazing ride. Well
, we saw him in your emerald ring, Father, lying wounded in a humble cottage! It seemed wondrous strange to us, Prince Julian and me, that such a miraculous being could be truly mortal, at risk of harm like any common man. But I suppose that only one who loved peace enough to die for it had the power to bring about such a miracle.
How dreadful, then, that he should lie untended in a hovel—perhaps even upon the point of death—after all the good he had done! And so, on the very day we learned of his plight, we rode out to come to his aid.
The prince was accompanied by a great many nobles, as well as the king’s physician, who would tend to the knight should we find him. And Father—you need not fear there was any impropriety, that I rode among all those men unchaperoned—for Queen Alana came also, together with the ladies of her household! She went to give thanks and to do penance, she said. Oh, Father, the queen is not haughty or proud, as you might expect her to be, but kind and good. She treated me with the greatest kindness and said she wished me to come to court and be one of her ladies. But I fear that would injure Marianne’s feelings—for the queen sent her away. I guess you already heard about that.
We traveled at a brisk pace, so anxious was the prince to find the knight, and so afraid that he might die before ever we got there. We were guided all the way by your ring, and Prince Julian would have me beside him at all times so that I might interpret what he saw in it. There was no real need of this, though, for the visions came to him and not to me. He would see a mountain there in the emerald, or a winding road, or a copse of trees—and always we would come upon that very mountain or road or trees soon after, and know we were headed aright. Still, I was glad he wished for me to be at his side, for he is a most splendid prince, Father, and handsome and good.
As we rode north, there was much talk among the people as to where we were going and why. Many of them joined our procession—common folk and highborn alike—as though they went on a pilgrimage. This happened in Brutanna as well as in Moranmoor.
Our numbers had grown to several hundred, I would guess, by the time we left the main road and headed into the countryside, to the west of where King Harry’s castle stands. The soil in those parts is rocky and poor, not fit for farming, and so it was used for the grazing of sheep. The way soon grew so narrow that no two could ride together, and it was so uneven that we were forced to slow our pace. If ever there was a spot where you would expect to find a humble cottage, this was it.
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