Ascalla's Daughter

by M. C. Elam

  All morning they kept coming, fifteen families in all, pulling handcarts, trudging behind ox drawn wagons stuffed with basket after basket of harvested grain, barley, oats, wheat and their root crops as well. They came with tools, ploughs, pitchforks, and axes. Pots and kettles looped together and hung from the sides of carts clattered and banged, making their own kind of music. A spinning wheel teetered on top of one cart piled so full there was no other place to secure it. They came with wooden benches, rolled bedding pallets, everything not sold at market or paid in taxes. Klea, his wife and children, slogged in last, all the way from Falmora with a blacksmith Evan knew. They’d pass the inn, nod to her, pull their carts and wagons in front of a burned out cottage, and set to work.

  “They must have traveled all night,” Evan told Marcus.

  “Spect they wanted daylight for working. Be hungry when they’re done.”

  “I’ll set the big kettle to boil and fetch a ham and a sack of beans from our stores,” she said

  “Aye, that be a healthy feed. I’ll set the oven fire for your bread.”

  “Marcus?”

  “Milady?”

  “Why have they come now, when winter looms.”

  “Best time, milady. Had to finish the harvest and settle old debts. Winter season gives them time for settin’ a cottage to rights before they got to go into the fields and make crops.”

  “Marcus,” she said again and there was still a question in her voice. “Why do you think it is that sorrow most often follows joy?”

  “Chinera be gone, wee Evan?”

  “Aye, but Runt chose to stay.”

  “No sorrow in that, Evan. Chinera be here.” His big fist thumped his chest.

  ***

  Fifteen families, fifteen strong men, they split the work between them. They built makeshift pens at one end of the commons that were sturdy enough to hold the stock until time allowed for better. With the animals secure, they went to work on the cottages, and when work stopped at day’s end, three of the cottages were habitable. They gathered inside the inn to lift a tankard and share in the huge kettle of ham and beans.

  Marcus bounced Klea’s smallest son on his lap and laughed at a story Klea told about King Ian’s newly appointed High Knight.

  “Fault wasn’t his. Squire didn’t tighten his saddle girth enough. But that mock joust knocked him square on his arse, saddle and all. He come to ground right in front of King Ian.”

  “Thought sure you’d be the one, Klea.”

  “Never put in for it. When the wife heard Lady Evan headed out for Baline, she talked of nothing else. Had ties here, ties lost in the raid. So we come. Rest of the folks for the same reason I spect.”

  Across the room, Marcus saw Melendarius beckon.

  “Glad I be to have you here, Klea. Melendarius wants a word, so I be taking your leave.”

  “Oh aye, Marcus, plenty’s the time we’ll have for talk.”

  Marcus set Klea’s boy on his feet, tousled his curly mop, and headed toward Melendarius.

  “How faired you setting that black nasty to rights?” he said.

  “All taken care of. I found Father Wryth and told him the truth of things. Seems we had a meeting of the minds. He comes a bit closer to my way of thinking, and I to his.”

  “Her names set to rights, then?”

  “I watched Wryth find Chinera and Matthias Whelan in the book. He entered the birth of Ceri Evangeline Whelan. If anyone raises a question about her legitimacy, they only need look at the ledger. Evangeline has Glenny’s journal to support it.”

  “Father Wryth took all right with it.”

  “Overjoyed. He sent a letter to tell her about it himself.”

  “That’ll be a pleasure to her.”

  “Right you were about him. A great affection he holds for our lady, and speaking of our lady, she must greet these people.”

  “Aye, best we fetch her.”

  Evan had stayed in the kitchen out of sight. She knew they came to rebuild Baline. They wouldn’t be here if not for her. A welcome greeting was in order, but with her belly round into a noticeable bump full of baby, she shied away from facing them without an explanation. A mother without a husband, a child without a father, what would they think when they saw her?

  “Milady, you got to make your people welcome. The little ones be fallen over tired and their folks, too. Got days of toil ahead. Some’ll need a place in the tavern ‘til they can make a roof over their heads. You got to come.”

  “Indeed, Evangeline, you must.”

  She turned from stirring what remained of the ham and beans to find Marcus and Melendarius looking at her with expectant eyes. Suddenly, it was all too much. Losing Hawk, the baby, leaving Falmora, the inn, the village, Chinera, and now all those people wanted her to lead them.

  “I’m only seventeen years old. I can’t lead a village full of people. I can’t even lead myself.” Her eyes filled and brimmed over.

  “Dry that up at once, Evangeline. All that needs happen tonight is that you thank them for coming. They’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Aye, milady, they don’t spect more.”

  “But look at me, my belly’s full of Hawk’s child. What will they think?”

  Marcus stood away eyeing her and rubbing his chin. “Not much to show yet, milady, but spect some be seeing your shine.”

  “But what will they call it? Evangeline’s bastard?”

  “Lady Evangeline, the best way I know to stop ill talk is to own the facts,” said Melendarius. “Besides they came for love of you and Baline. You have their devotion already. Now step out there, and tell them the truth.”

  “You mean tell them that I carry Prince Hawk’s child.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. Can you think of anyone who’d deny that it’s true.”

  She shook her head.

  “Then stop the tears and come greet your people. Tell them tonight and have done with it.”

  ***

  Evan pushed Glenny’s journal across the table. “I entered a new date and titled the section Baline, The Rebirth. Here’s your name, Annabelle and Horace’s. Below, I describe your tie to Baline and about Billy and Devon. I’ve entered every family the same way. For you and Horace, I put in a part about the two of you waiting for work to be finished on everyone else’s cottage before starting on your own.”

  “Thank you, milady, but staying in the inn’s no hardship at all. I believe, and Horace maybe more, that we got to build here. Empty and burned out, Baline’s like a scar wiping out the old ways.”

  “You mean the ways of the Mother.”

  Annabelle fiddled with the frayed edge of her sleeve. “Aye, the Mother’s strong among the people, milady. Lost in Falmora, mayhap lost to King Ian, I can’t say why. But country folk know her. Some say the Mother’s angry. Set on bringing Ascalla down.”

  “I don’t believe that. King Ian’s not a bad man.”

  “Aye, a right good man, but some says he puts no store in the Mother. I spect you know more about his ways than most.”

  “What I know is that I need to start a barley stew and set my bread to rise for supper. Beyond that, I’ll not warrant a guess.” She smiled at Annabelle’s gossip fishing. Whatever she said today was sure to make the rounds of the Baline families before sunset and not always word for word. Still, Evan liked her, and she was a wonderful cook. Already, a few travelers had stopped and spent the night.

  “I best be off and give Horace a hand with the cottage. He’s got it near finished. Roof’s tight and fine. I spect in a day or so we be moving.”

  Evan waved from the kitchen doorway. Inside, water for barley stew bubbled over the fire. She cut a chunk of salt pork into smaller pieces for the kettle and wiped her hands on a towel. Ingredients for fresh bread sat measured and ready on the long table across from the oven. Plenty of time to make bread, she’d set it to rising after she put the journal back in the safe place.

  16 - A False Alliance

  Christopher T
yndall winced when the lash struck him. It opened a three-inch slash that turned white and then crimson where the skin split. Blood trickled down his cheek and dripped onto the folded document he carried on a silver tray. The wound burned like thunder, but he resisted an urge to raise a hand to his face. The measure of his crime went nameless, and he knew the king’s whim was as good an answer as any. After nearly two years in Lawrenzia, nothing about the vile nature of the man who had forced Ellyanna into marriage surprised him.

  “Take a knee when you serve me, Tyndall. Stupid bastard, have you learned nothing?”

  “Majesty.”

  “Majesty, indeed.” King Peter of Lawrenzia stuck his hand in front of Christopher’s face and snatched the parchment from the tray. The paper rustled when he opened it. He made a noncommittal grunt. “Out, Tyndall, get out of my sight.”

  Christopher bowed his way from the room. Mustering enough self-control to curb his temper took more effort each time he faced the old bastard. He stuck the silver tray under one arm and closed the heavy doors. He leaned against them with a weary sigh and tried to regain some of his lost composure. The cut on his cheek was a mere annoyance. He knew the king goaded him on purpose. Peter Brenan was a monster. The thought of Elly beneath that rutting pig made him gag. He clamped his eyes shut trying to banish the image.

  The guards noted his overdue pause and cast looks in his direction. Everywhere someone watched. Here in the hallway, outside in the ornate gardens, his every move was documented and reported to the king. No life, even one in a place as opulent as Brendemore Palace, made-up for the constant scrutiny and Brenan's vicious nature. Christopher itched to retaliate, but swallowed his anger for Elly’s sake. It burned his gut, but he was one man, and the outcome of such an action meant death. With him gone, the queen would be alone.

  “My Lord King’s aim is flawless, don’t you agree, fellows?” he said.

  Christopher indicated his cheek and saw them nod in agreement, their suspicions dissuaded for now at least. He walked the length of the corridor, turned right at the end, and entered another hallway where sunlight shone through stained glass windows and cast jewel-like colors across the opposing wall. The soles of his boots clanked against the polished, marble floor and drew the attention of two more guards. The new pair stood on either side of the entrance to the queen’s apartment. Neither glanced at him, though he knew they marked his coming and the time. They would know his departure as well and report all movement around the queen. What choice did they have? Obey the king or suffer his displeasure. Loyalty didn't dictate their behavior. Brenan's control lay in his ability to manipulate them. They had families, wives, children.

  Christopher knocked softly and entered. The queen sat near the windows working a tapestry needle in and out of the canvas in front of her. She looked up and motioned him nearer.

  “Christopher, tell me quick. How did the king take the news? Are we safe from the axe? What words have you? Oh, that he would send us home. I pray for it daily,” said Queen Ellyanna.

  He took a knee and gazed into eyes so blue they reminded him of the open sky. Silhouetted against the window her fair hair shone like spun gold. His body blocked her from view of the ever-present ladies in waiting. He took her hand and kissed the open palm. Her breathing altered slightly, and he knew she welcomed the touch but feared detection. Still he couldn’t resist running his tongue along her life line. She tugged her hand away, and he lifted his head.

  “Christopher, no,” her voice a breathy whisper, “If he catches us,” she didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

  She was his Elly, and despite her marriage to Brenan, he still thought of her as his betrothed. Their union would have joined two honored Glynmora houses, but all of that was before Elly’s father, Stephen, came to Lawrenzia seeking a treaty on behalf of his brother King Robert Merrill of Glynmora. Christopher was part of the early preparations for the meeting, and nothing had made any of them suspect trouble.

  Stephen acted as Robert’s ambassador. A careful planner and negotiator; he was often away from Glynmora and never traveled without his family. The household moved from place to place, wherever King Robert’s business took them and Christopher’s betrothal to Ellyanna, made him part of the family.

  “Don’t blame, Papa,” Elly had whispered, tears welling in her eyes the first time he managed to gain entrance to her rooms. He didn’t blame Stephan. How could he blame a man who loved his family and didn’t want to spend weeks away from them? Besides, how could he blame Stephen when his audiences with Brenan found no truth to the dark rumors that poured out of Ascalla?

  ***

  Months of correspondence between the two rulers preceded their arrival, and every exchange brought rich gifts and congenial greetings. He found Brenan cordial, likable, generous and the perfect host.

  “How does he strike you, Christopher?” Stephan Merrill asked. They sat at King Robert’s table in Glynmora after his final trip.

  “He seems genuine enough, sir”

  “Aye, I thought as much from his letters. It’s just the talk of raids.”

  From what they knew of Brenan, the man was far too shrewd to risk attack with such a poor approach and treacherous escape. Like Ascalla, Glynmora had seen border raids, but without a living witness to identify the attackers, the only finger that pointed blame at King Peter belonged to Ian Hawkins, and the only evidence he offered was an unsubstantiated story about revenge over a woman.

  “We are agreed, then,” Robert Merrill said. “We push forward with plans for the alliance.”

  ***

  Stephen set the travel date, and three weeks later, one son, one daughter, one wife and a dozen others, including Christopher, entered Brendemore, the capital city. Pipers played while a detachment of knights met them at the gates and escorted them toward the palace keep. Young women dressed in white and draped in feathery veils of every hue danced alongside the entourage. Boys carried pitchers of sweet wine to refresh the travelers. Banners of purple and gold velvet adorned balconies. Everywhere flowers dressed the main promenade, and ahead, palace spires of rich pink stone pointed skyward. Whether the stone was actually pink as some said or just an illusion of reflected light, most could not attest to, but rumor told how seeing the high walls, the turrets, the battlements inspired awe in the eyes of any newcomer. Far more elegant than any other in the known world, Brendemore palace sat high atop a hill in the center of a city that sparkled. How could they know that beyond the banners, beyond the flower-strewn avenue, lay squalor? Ellyanna fell victim to the sweet music and gaiety around them. She left her horse to walk among the people. Abram, her brother, joined her despite mother Millicent’s protest that both of them maintain a polite distance. Before long, all of them fell under the carefully orchestrated spell.

  That evening, they had gathered in the banquet hall, and found the room bedecked in splendor. Every conceivable delicacy spread before them, partridge stuffed with wild rice and mushrooms; haunches of venison dripping with juice; roast pig, juicy meat pies with pastry crusts turned a perfect golden brown; baked apples in brandy sauce; fresh figs, plum cakes decorated to perfection, and a fountain of iced wine. Whole blocks of ice, carried from high in the mountain passes where the snows never melted, and carved into the shapes of birds and flowers and faeries, decorated each of three long banquet table. A dutiful server stood behind the chair of each of King Peter Brenan’s guests, ready to fill an empty goblet or tend to any other need. Throughout the long meal, while music played, the cheerful talk brought the promise of an alliance between the two realms. With the meal nearly finished, Stephen Merrill stood. He raised a goblet of wine to make a toast of thanks and endorse the kindness of their host, but before he could speak, King Peter nodded. Two guards approached and stood on either side of Stephen.

  “I believe in getting right down to business, Merrill. No sense dawdling through more dismal pleasantry than you deserve, wouldn’t you agree? That said, I announce that the time has arrived for
our meeting,” said Peter. “I will keep it short. You come seeking alliance with Lawrenzia. I offer no alliance, Stephan. I will take Glynmora. That is the message I send to your fat brother. I accept nothing less than the surrender of that fine land to my rule. Do you understand me?”

  Outraged, Stephen took a step forward. The guards restrained him and forced him to his knees.

  “Father!” Abram called out. His voice shook with fury. “Take your hands from my father.” He started for the nearest of the guards, but before he could clear his chair, the servant standing behind him slashed his throat. The wound bloomed like a scarlet flower spewing blood that washed his brocade doublet. A bewildered look came into his eyes and a deadly gurgle issued from the gash. The bloody slit, cut in an arc across his throat like a garish, grinning mouth, appeared clownishly funny. One final hiss and Abram pitched forward into his plate, mixing blood with the cooked apples and sweet brandy sauce he would never finish. Millicent’s anguished cry brought a Glynmora knight to his feet. Like Abram, the server slit his throat.

  “Is there another who would thwart my hand?” said Peter. His voice was whisper soft as though he did no more than pass the time of day. “Now, as I see today’s events, you have but two choices. Those of you remaining will denounce Robert Merrill and swear loyalty to me. You will sign documents declaring your sworn allegiance and my right to the rule of Glynmora. Refuse me and you depart this world as your companions have. Your decision makes little difference. Glynmora is mine. My warriors ride on your capital city as we speak.

  “You lie.” Stephen spat the words. His face turned livid. “You may use fear to exact such a promise from my people, but none will be true to you.”

  Peter shrugged. “Think what you will. Say what you will. They will swear, or they will die. As for that sweet morsel, you call daughter, I will wed her and bed her. Lawrenzia has been too long without an heir.”

  Hours later when the carnage ended, twenty men lay dead, Stephen Merrill among them, Peter Brenan’s demand for allegiance refused over and over. Millicent, gentle mother, loving wife, removed to the slave pens, but not before King Peter turned her over to entertain his hungry knights while her daughter watched in silent terror. The beautiful banquet turned to bloody carnage and only Elly and Christopher remained. One look into her pleading eyes, and Christopher knew he had to stay alive. She watched him take a knee and repeat an oath that denounced King Robert and promised his service to Peter. What use would his death serve? He must protect Elly and somehow get her home. He couldn’t do that if he didn’t stay alive. She must understand that what he did was for love of her and not the treasonous, cowardly act it appeared. She must understand and forgive him. He swore to the oath, signed the document of loyalty, and bore inside a hatred that screamed for vengeance.