CHAPTER 1: We Few, We Happy Few


‘Goddam archers,’ grumbled Sir Riley, shifting angrily on his nervous mount, ‘already inside the town! There will be nothing left for us.’

The fair-haired knight was in a foul mood. For days now, he had attempted to provoke some of the French knights into coming out of their town and meeting him in an honorable fight, hoping to pit his thirty men-at-arms against thirty of theirs. Unfortunately for him, the French knew better than to expose themselves to the range of English bows. Finally, after a tiring siege, some archers had managed to sneak inside the town through a breach in the wall. Rotting wooden pikes had poorly blocked the hidden entrance and the archers had been able to slip by fast enough to open the Southern gates at the break of dawn.

‘Hungry men take desperate risks’, opined his friend, who sat calmly on his formidable destrier while surveying the chaos.

Risks that Sir Riley thought devoid of honor.

‘The archers protect your arse, you idiot. I’d stay put if I were you. Besides, small town like this, not going to be much anyway.’

Sir Riley scoffed.

‘You forget what it means to me. Your father did not leave you in debt after his death, unlike mine,’

Sir William shrugged, very aware of Sir Riley’s pecuniary problems but also of the vanity that filled the young man’s head. His ambition had started to become a nuisance to the other noblemen, who didn’t lack in greed either.

‘This isn’t the bloody Round Table, boy,’ snickered the older horseman.

Chastised, Sir Riley turned his stallion around to find a house whose coinage and women would have been left intact, but the cries of havoc had already filled the sky for an hour now. There was little hope to find anything profitable.

The sun was high in the azure and the smell of peat, fire and blood clung to everyone and everything in a rust-colored cloud. William looked around him with disgust before dismounting. Most of the men were already drunk and it wasn’t even near midday yet. However, he felt he couldn’t really blame them. They had laid siege to this town for a little more than a month and appetites were running high.

He led his horse near a church, intrigued that it had been left untouched. After tying his destrier to an oak tree, he entered the sacred building only to realize that the church had also seen its share of battle. The bodies of Genoese crossbowmen were lying in front of the altar, a heap of red and green surcoats. Italian mercenaries, William thought unimpressed. Their chain mails had been stolen of course and a perforated helmet was all the armor that was left behind.

Sir William dropped himself heavily on a bench, feeling burdened by the black armor he was wearing. In truth, he would have been perfectly content being a common archer. Lack of lineage allowed you greater freedom. One might go starving every once and a while but to know freedom…

Sir William d’Aurelius sighed.

Even if he were free from his title, he could never free himself from the Aurelius bloodline that coursed through his veins. His family’s ancestry went back to the days of Rome and had comprised celebrated scholars and poets. Then, four hundred years ago, a mysterious story had surfaced about their clan.

The heir to the family’s considerable fortune at the time, Sir Guillaume d’Aurelius, was still a young lad when the Norsemen came one night to kidnap him. A few weeks had gone by and no ransom was being asked for the boy. It was generally assumed that he had been sold into slavery and his parents were left inconsolable. A few years had passed and they had other children, worried that no one would be left to carry their name. When news suddenly spread that the very same Norsemen who had pillaged their town and kidnapped their eldest son were back, the clan hid the children among monks and prepared for battle.

But the battle never came. When the men went to look for the invaders, they found none to kill. Instead, they found Sir Guillaume calmly waiting for them by the seashore. He was taller and his features had hardened into the palest marble. His eyes, which used to be a beautiful bright blue, shone with a darker glint and his hair, which used to have the sun’s golden reflections, had acquired a disturbing whiteness akin to the waxen moon. But his parents knew at once it was their son; they couldn’t deny the call of their own blood. And so on that day, Sir Guillaume resumed his place in the Aurelius clan like nothing had ever happened. Whenever he was asked about his time amongst the Barbarians, he would always reply:

‘They pledged fealty to me.’

And people would laugh, thinking the boy was being clever.

But something was different about Sir Guillaume. His appetite for all things had decupled and by the time he had grown into a strong, brutal man, it was said that no virgins were left untouched in the town where his family ruled. He was a skilled warrior and like his ancestors before him, could speak and write Latin as good as a bishop.

The first day Sir Guillaume set foot on a battlefield however, it became clear to everyone what had been wrong with the menacing Aurelius; he had been turned into a berserker. Nobody knew how it had happened, though many blamed it on his time spent with the Norsemen. Sir Guillaume killed and maimed like a savage beast but his alabaster skin could not be wounded. His eyes would turn black at the sight of blood and when he wasn’t slashing through flesh with his formidable battle-axe, he was seen biting through an enemy’s neck. They said even wolves feared him.

Strangely, Sir Guillaume’s death was never recorded and though everyone agreed the berserker had been killed, few knew how it came to pass. The tale proved to be a popular one and was incessantly retold to procure many maidens with a chill down their spine. As the direct descendent of such a fantastical figure, Sir William had certainly shown no qualms in using it to secure female idolatry.

In his mind however, he doubted the veracity of the infamous saga. Four hundred years was plenty of time to distort a pretty story. But when he was alone, as he was now in the silent church, he prayed the story was untrue. He prayed the curse was only a wet nurse’s idea of scaring little children.

Because if the story was indeed true, it meant that the pale-haired Sir William with dark blue eyes was also a berserker.





* * * * *

At first, Sir Riley had been furious. Every house has been ransacked, except for a little one, kept hidden from view by stout chestnut trees. Men who walked by simply assumed there was nothing there or that it had been plundered already, such was the shabby state of the thatch.

Dejected, Sir Riley went in anyways and was amazed to find the blonde girl who had been hiding inside. She had luminous green eyes and long, golden tresses like troubadours sang about. Her radiant skin was flawless, her lips were pink and plump as if she had been thoroughly kissed and her cheeks were tinged with a soft blush. If she was afraid, her eyes didn’t betray it.

‘Go away!’ she yelled, brandishing her father’s old sword.

Sir Riley lowered his weapon, shocked.

‘You speak English!’
‘My father was English but do not believe that because you share my father’s language that I will spare you!’
‘I should say the same to you.’
‘I said go away!’
‘And what will you do when I leave you here?’ asked Sir Riley, ‘Do you honestly think that you’ll be able to escape a town full of English warriors?’

The blade she held was shaking slightly now, with what he thought was fear. Had he paid better attention, he would have noticed the quiet determination in her limpid eyes. Grinning like a fool, he approached the girl and unceremoniously grabbed her hand.

‘I am Sir Riley of Finisterre. I offer you my protection.’

Wary, the beautiful girl pulled her hand back.

‘What does that mean?’
‘It depends, my lady. Who is your family?’

He took a quick look at her clothing, wondering if marrying the girl would bring him some fortune. Perhaps she was the daughter of rich merchants; her dark rose cotte certainly seemed to indicate that she was a woman with some means. Sir Riley couldn’t help but notice how tightly the dress fitted her slender waist.

“I am Lady Elizabeth of Harris,’ she told him with hauteur.
‘Harris? I thought your House had been all but wiped out, my lady,’ answered Sir Riley, trying to remember what had happened to the last heirs.
‘My father was the last one, my lord,’ said Lady Elizabeth, anticipating his next question. ‘Twenty years ago, lies of treason were spread about my father’ she added, ‘and his fortune was taken away by the King. He escaped to Brittany under the name Henri Aestival and became a merchant.’
‘Did you ever find out whose opinion the King had favored over your father’s?’ Sir Riley asked, pondering if there were any riches left to make the marriage prospect worthwhile.
‘The Aurelius, my lord.’

At this, Sir Riley smiled broadly. Here was a woman who wouldn’t be swooning in the presence of Sir William. If the girl’s fortune matched her beauty, he would do well to marry her as soon as he could. If it turned out that the girl had nothing left, he considered giving her to one of his trusted man-at-arms. The arrangement would allow Sir Riley to take his pleasure while remaining free to seek a more beneficial matrimonial alliance.

‘Your father was successful in his business then?’
‘We own five boats. We are still awaiting their arrival’.

Lady Elizabeth knew exactly what was happening in the knight’s mind. He wasn’t too clever, she thought, and didn’t even seem to wonder why someone like her would remain alone in a small town. Right now, the only thing she was hoping for was that her brother Alexander, whom she had always playfully called Xander, had managed to escape the town safely. Despite her brother’s protests, she had convinced him to leave her behind and had quickly exchanged her padded armor for a flattering cotte. As long as Sir Riley believed there were no heirs left, no one would be looking for Xander.

Though she despised the English nobility, whom she blamed for all of her family’s misfortunes, it took her merely a second to calculate the benefits of marrying one of the English king’s trusted knights. Winning the heart of a favored vassal meant access to precious information, which she could relay to Xander who would then take it to the French king. The strategy was dangerous but the result could turn the tide of this war. Her happiness was an easy sacrifice.

The idea pleased her immensely and made her smile.

Sir Riley thought she found him charming and took it as a signal that he could possess her. He dropped his sword on the ground and took his helmet off, greatly unsettling Elizabeth. She had accepted the idea of marrying an English knight but had never imagined that one would even think of raping her. Unromantic as she was, she still believed knights were bound by their chivalric code.

‘Sir Riley,’ she said gently, backing up a few steps, ‘you must stop this… Surely your king will offer me his protection…’
‘I intend to marry you, my lady. Does it matter if I take what is mine now?’

When she made a move to escape, Sir Riley brutally grabbed her upper arms and violently bent her backwards over a shaky table. With a loud crack, the wooden surface broke under their combined weight and sent them rolling on the floor, near the hearth. Groaning with pain but intent on saving her honor, she quickly recovered and started crawling towards the door but Sir Riley was upon her in an instant and had started hitching his coat mail. Elizabeth wanted to scream but couldn’t find the strength. He was crushing her lungs and his sweaty hands were running up her legs. She started wailing loudly when she felt them being forcefully spread apart.

‘Anything but this… anything… please’ she prayed hysterically, turning her face away from the sight of his lecherous pant.

And suddenly, the weight was gone. Elizabeth held her breath for a little while longer, trying to find the courage to open her eyes to confront the worst. When nothing happened, she lifted her lashes to behold a strange man before her, with the unmistakable gleam of mockery brightening his blue eyes. Looking wildly about the room, she realized the sarcasm was meant for Sir Riley, who was now standing up with his chausses around his ankles, hands in the air. The tip of the stranger’s ornate sword was pressed against Sir Riley’s throat and had reduced the foolish lord to a silence punctuated with resentful glares. The sight would normally seem funny to her, but Elizabeth didn’t have the heart to laugh. She quickly covered her legs by pulling down her cotte and clumsily stood up. A soft ‘thank you’ was all she could muster.

Her savior was a striking man. She had never seen hair of that color before. The paleness of his curls was such a contrast with his black armor that she could not look away.

Sir William stared back at the girl with annoyance. She was preternaturally beautiful and would quickly become an object of dispute. There was also the possibility that the Earl, who was cousin to the king and currently leading the campaign, would want to keep her by his side as his mistress. In the end, William didn’t care who got the chit, as long as they didn’t start killing each other instead of killing the French. They had wasted enough time just trying to get inside this stupid little town.

‘My lady, it seems I have interrupted your wedding,’ he said coldly.
‘No!’ she protested, ‘No! I did not wish to be his wife!’
‘But this is war and he has the right to take you... albeit in a less fumbled and clumsy manner.’

The sardonic reproach aimed at Sir Riley’s seductive abilities made the young lord bristle. He was going to kill Aurelius, he decided. He was going to find a way to ruin that bastard’s cursed family and take the Harris girl that was rightfully his. And if she dared laugh at his appearance now, he would kill her too.

But the girl was staring at the floor, troubled. Something was churning in the pit of her stomach… a premonition she couldn’t decipher.

‘A lady such as yourself cannot stay among warriors without a man to protect her honor. I can take you to the Earl and you can become his mistress. The Earl is a good man and you will be well protected’.

It wasn’t a suggestion so much as it was an order.

‘No’, she refused firmly, surprising herself, ‘I cannot be a mistress. Men tire of mistresses and my children would be illegitimate; I seek title and marriage.’
‘You are in no position to bargain, my lady’, he replied, amused.
‘I have beauty’, she admitted shyly, ‘and I have wealth. I wish to marry!’
‘Sir Riley here, despite his folly, is as good as any man. As a gift for marrying my friend, I will make sure he keeps his breeches on until you become his woman’, drawled Sir William with mock magnanimity.
‘Do not rile me, sir!’

Her cheeks turned red. The man was infuriating: he had the arrogance of nobility and the impertinence of privilege.

‘If the Earl cannot marry me’, she enunciated carefully, ‘I will trust him to give me to one of his advisors’.

Elizabeth knew she was threading thin and the glimpse she caught in the stranger’s stormy eyes told her he was no dupe, unlike the hotheaded Sir Riley.

‘If the Earl is indeed a good man as you say, my lord,’ she continued slowly, her eyes cast downward with false prudishness, ‘I will trust his judgment and will therefore only accept the husband he chooses for me’.

Sir William frowned at that. The girl maintained all the appearances of fragility and yet, something about her reeked of danger. He wondered if the Earl would be capable of seeing through this clever little damsel act, but it was high unlikely. The king’s cousin was a forward, honest man more at ease on the battlefield than at court, where political scheming was a sport of its own.

‘The Earl only trusts one man, and that is me’.
‘Are you married, my lord?’ she asked with candor, dropping into a perfunctory curtsy.

Her blunt question broke a perverse grin on his face.

‘I am not.’
‘Then I beg for your protection.’

Sir Riley made a strangled sound but Sir William’s sword poked a little harder against the throat.

‘I am rich beyond measure,’ the black knight answered apologetically, ‘and have no need for more fortune. As for beauty… Beauty can be attained through eyes full of ale. What else do you have to offer?’

The question was asked as a cruel jest, telling her exactly how little she was worth. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth cursed this God who kept submitting women to the whims of brutish men. Genuinely hurt but unwilling to give up her request, she raised her chin in defiance.

‘Ask anything of me and I will give it to you.’

Sir William cocked his brow in such a way that he made her blush again. He knew she was acting out of wounded pride. Had he been a better man, he would have waited until she was more reasonable to discuss the terms of a possible alliance, an alliance whose attraction was undeniable. But a good man he was not and he enjoyed the idea that this girl, who had fought so hard to maintain her free will despite an unjust fate, would be at his mercy.

‘I am not a man with regular appetites, my lady’.

She said nothing but did not seem to back down. ‘So be it’, they both thought.

‘Riley!’ he roared, ‘put your breeches on and get out of here!’

Elizabeth glanced nervously at the knight who was putting back his chausses and wondered if she had chosen a man worse than the one she had refused to marry. Sir Riley gave them one last humiliated look before stomping out of the house. She heard him yell at other men nearby, probably looking for the nearest outlet to vent his rage.

Sir William sheathed his sword and advanced towards her until she had to raise her head to look at him. The air around them had lost all its warmth. His irises suddenly flashed like the darkest obsidian while his mouth contorted into a wolfish rictus. Frightened out of her mind, Elizabeth painfully bit down on her lower lip until a drop of blood drew his rapt, feral attention. Was this man the Devil’s servant?

‘You understand, don’t you?’

The voice was soft but laced with menace.

‘Not a sound from you, pet’

His mouth lowered to capture the drop of blood on her bottom lip, before running studiously along the line of her jaw. He lingered in the crook of her neck where his slow, circling tongue suffused her body with heat. Although the foreign sensation made her anxious, she did not hate it in the same way she had hated Riley’s touch. She softened in William’s embrace and gently brought her hands up against the filigree of his black-plated chest. She thought if she were obedient enough, perhaps he wouldn’t hurt her.

Instead, his maneuvers grew increasingly frantic. As he cornered her against the wall, his teeth hungrily nipped at her throat, trying to carve their mark into her neck. The cuts were shallow but the sharpness of the pain caused her to whimper despite his warning. Convinced she was about to be eaten alive, her fingers clawed wildly at the perfect surface of his plate while her own dress was starting to tear from all the exertions her legs caused by kicking frantically. To maintain the girl’s silence, William harshly tightened his steel-clad hold around her waist until he was sure she could not breathe anymore. But the iciness of his armor against her flushed body only elicited more moaning. The sound was blinding him with rage, though he knew not why she made him so wrathful. He wanted to punish her for the state he was in, for the darkness he was going to become. It was all her fault.

When his teeth sank angrily into her flesh, Elizabeth thought the pain would stop her heart and her first impulse had been to push him away. But languor unnaturally succeeded to the shock and all strength was sapped from her being.

William’s control was slipping too fast. The taste of her blood was quickly driving him over the edge and if he didn’t stop soon, he would tear her to pieces. Her arms had fallen listless; her soul, preyed upon by a demonic slumber, beckoned the kill William’s monster craved. Ashamed and desperate, the knight fought himself, growling like a powerful beast before retracting his fangs and allowing the blue to pool again in his irises.

Elizabeth had lost consciousness in his arms. Her head was tilted back, her cheeks still aflame and a touch of gold upon her heavy eyelids. The ray of light from a nearby window made her skin shine a little whiter, her hair a little brighter.

The last remnants of her haziness were dissipating. He was pleased to find that she did not try to flee as she regained her spirits. Instead, the girl stayed in his embrace, observing him with a mixture of fear and bravado, a combination he knew he could not resist if she were to serve it to him every night. Damsel in distress, she was not.

‘Blood’, he finally said without emotion, coldly undressing her with his eyes, ‘That is the only thing I ask of you in exchange for my protection.’

Oddly exasperated, Elizabeth freed herself, swatting his intrusive hands away. Though the statement ought to have stricken fear into her Christian soul, she couldn’t repress a vague feeling of disappointment.

‘Shouldn’t you be trying to earn my heart?’ she demanded, instantly regretting her pride.

‘I cannot ask for something I already own.’

Furious to see the mirth dancing in his eyes despite his unsmiling lips, she wanted to curse his name aloud but ended up sputtering a groan of vexation, unable to remember if he had said anything about who he was, other than being the Earl’s closest advisor. The quality of his attire, sober and yet onerous with its fine silvery details, gave away his high rank but no visible crest indicated his lineage.

Her right hand unconsciously came up to caress the bite mark on her neck while her left hand tried holding on to the tatters of fabric that hardly dissimulated her breasts anymore.

‘Who… what are you?’

He stared at her for a very long time, resenting the question she dared ask. The obsidian glare flashed briefly.

‘You are to become lady Aurelius.'





* * * * *

Chapter 2: Greyhounds in the Slips


“I have seen that pallor too often on the battlefield”, said the woman disapprovingly, “She has lost a lot of blood. What did you do?”

The woman had an amiable face, though prone to flustering, and gray eyes that denoted the measured patience of someone who was accustomed to confidences. A few strands of red hair strayed from her linen coif, their color almost an exact match to the rich burgundy hue of her tunic.

Sir William looked at the pale Elizabeth lying on the bed, her hair fanned like amber waves.

“She fainted,” he replied tersely.

The redhead crossed her arms, annoyed.

“Well yes, I can see that. When were you going to tell me?”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“There is everything to tell,” she reproached. “You’ve never bit anyone outside a battle before.”

Sir William loathed the way she forced him to confront his illness. He tolerated it well enough from his chaplain, but to hear it from a woman who studied death so intimately made him feel like one of those rotting corpses she wept upon. She never hid her concern or the reasons behind it. As a friend, she did not want him to damn his soul. As a dedicated surgeon, she took pride in pinpointing the causes and consequences of maladies. Where fools promised him salvation by touching the relics of saints, redheaded Willow always asked about blood, phlegm and bile. She worked fast and she was thorough.

“She fainted twice,” he stated flatly, dodging her last comment.

Willow lowered the ragged blanket that covered the girl’s body and saw that the wounds on her neck had scarred. The marks were clean and showed no sign of scabbing.

“Your bite must act like hemlock juice”, she averred, pensive. “That would explain why men never seem to fight back once you bite them.”
“And here I thought I instilled the fear of God,” lamented William sarcastically.
“As for the second fainting spell, it was probably due to blood loss.”

She paused for a moment and glanced at him sideways.

“Or shock. The heart is a fragile thing, William.”
“So is your neck,” he remarked somberly. “They will hang you for cutting up dead bodies, Red. Or burn you.”
“But you should see man’s heart, Will,” she sighed. “It’s no bigger than your fist.”
“I have seen man’s heart.”

She found nothing to say to that, but remembered what she had wanted to ask him.

“Were you in a fury when you bit her? Like on the battlefields?”
“I’m not sure,” he confessed, shaking his head. “I touched her skin and it burned me.”
“But you don’t feel heat or pain when you change.”
“It burned, Red. I might as well have been bound to a stake.”

Under her watchful eye, Sir William approached the bed, which was little more than a bale straw pallet, and kneeled before it. As he gently caressed Elizabeth’s lower lip with his thumb, the corner of his mouth couldn’t repress the mocking shadow of a smile. Even in her sleep, the girl looked like she was pouting about something. It made him wonder whether she fought wolves like him in her dreams.

“Does it still burn?”
“Like the flames of Hell.”
“Touch my hand. Does my hand burn too?”

He grabbed Willow’s wrist but felt nothing more than numbness. He knew snow and he knew ice, but the warm rays of summer and the scorching crackle of fire were becoming arcane to him. If a man were to forget the feeling of the sun on his face, what humanity could possibly be left of him?

“I don’t understand any of it,” admitted Willow softly.

She watched William run his fingers on the graceful curve of the girl’s neck, where his bite mark marred the creamy skin. Feeling like she was intruding on something infinitely private, the redheaded physician went to the window and opened the shutters. The skies had turned gray and the smell of impending rain saturated the air. Tomorrow, when the English would wake up, bruised and nauseous, she would have to start mending their injuries while ignoring the crimes of the previous day.

“Father Giles has not come back yet,” she commented.

“The old fool thinks a myth can hold some truth,” responded Sir William absent-mindedly, unable to tear his gaze away from the sleeping form of Elizabeth. “He should be back any day now.”




* * * * *

Father Giles and Father Caleb rode their horses towards the town of Rondeau, which was rumored to have fallen under the English. Having met two days ago in a small village overrun by mercenaries, they had decided that despite God’s omnipotence, it would not serve them to tempt the Devil by traveling alone. Brigandage by the English garrisons, who burned and pillaged everything on their path, had left a void for French bandits to rule the forests.

On their journey, both priests had discovered a shared interest in mythology. Father Giles was impressed by the vast knowledge of Father Caleb, whose discourse vibrated with passionate certitude, the hallmark of youth. They had been able to discuss obscure legends to trump their boredom but the sudden appearance of heavy rain had cut their conversation short. The agreeable trot turned into a mad gallop. As mud flew behind their horses, they saw the lone tower of Rondeau appear before their eyes, and then its stonewalls. The wooden gates had been left wide open, revealing the peasantry’s constructions of daub and wattle.

Father Giles knew that most of the knights would be at the tavern, sharing tales of feat and keeping their armors from rusting in the downpour. Under his soaked brown hood, he gestured to Father Caleb as they halted their horses behind a large house with branches and leaves hanging over the door. Carrying their leather bags with them, the priests entered the raucous establishment where metal clanging and uproars of laughter greeted them. A joyful fire illuminated the hearth and the warm breath of barley permeated the oak walls. Giles recognized the Earl, sitting in a corner with his trusted vassals.

“I knew you were looking for a friend but I did not realize it was the Earl you were talking about,” said Caleb.
“I am looking for one of his knights.”

When he finally saw the pale blonde hair, Father Giles approached the royal table, with Father Caleb in tow.

“Ah! Father Giles!” exclaimed the Earl in good humor. “Our esteemed weaponry master! But we haven’t seen you in weeks! What did Will do with you?”

Sir William rose to his feet and grinned with masculine loftiness.

“I have sent my chaplain to fetch me some vellum, your grace. I wish to write down the story of our campaign against the French.”
“You do well, my boy. You do well!” approved the Earl.
“You grace,” interrupted Father Giles, “I would like to introduce you to my traveling companion, Father Caleb. He has entertained me with many jousting stories from France.”

Just as Giles had hoped for, the Earl’s ears perked up and the knights started clamoring loudly, demanding to know if the celebrated Rostand de Gascon was as unbeatable as the rumors had portrayed him to be. Sir Riley, being himself a name to be reckoned with in tournaments, enthusiastically welcomed Father Caleb.

“You must tell us, Father. They say he will be defending Pontmercy, the town we will be attacking next!”

Satisfied that none of the knights would be following them, a serious Sir William abruptly grabbed Father Giles by the sleeve and led him to the back of the room, where they descended into a cellar occupied by an archer and his giggling woman.

“Get the Hell out of here,” ordered Sir William, irritated.

The lovers did not waste time straightening their clothes and quickly escaped the knight’s ire. Father Giles could still hear the noises above, but knew that no one would hear what he had to tell his lord.

“Will, I have found… found a book, written by a priest. I could not save him, but he claimed to have written down all the knowledge that was passed down to him by his order.”
“What order?”
“I can’t be sure… the priest said he was a Watcher,” answered Giles nervously.

The knight looked at Giles’ hands, whose knuckles were turning white from gripping the leather bag so tightly. The chaplain was always very secretive when it came to his knowledge of religious sects, but his extreme demeanor warned William that something extraordinary must have occurred.

“Templars?”

“Definitely not,” posited Father Giles, “Besides, most of them are dead now. Maybe Cathars.”
“The book, Father.”
“Ah! The book is stunning: it is half-bestiary, half historical accounts… but the historical accounts are, well, half-historical. However, it does explain how Sir Guillaume was killed. Or I suppose it would be a theory of how he was killed...”

William was growing impatient with Giles’ meanderings.

“Fine. How?”
“It doesn’t appear to make much sense. The book proclaims Sir Guillaume was transpierced by Ascalon.”
“The lance of St. George?” frowned William, perplexed.
“Yes, though not by St. George himself, clearly. But someone did wield Ascalon and killed Sir Guillaume. The man ought to have been well-known… but I could not find his name.”

Sir William understood what Giles dared not say explicitly: such a man would have been celebrated as a hero, remembered through countless epic poems and yet, his identity had been carefully erased from the past. A slow anger ate at William’s heart; he also understood that his own death would be that of a prized beast and not of a man who had strived to overcome his condition. History belonged to the Rileys of this world, he thought bitterly.

Father Giles mumbled.

“This passage… here, it implies that the lance brings salvation to whomever seeks it… or, huh, death... It’s all very confusing...”
“Where is the lance now?”
“I’m not sure… The book mentions Ascalon being hidden in the light of the sun standing still.”
“Hidden in the light of the sun standing still… ‘the sun standing still’ is a solstice… The solstice is next week,” murmured William.
“The priest told me to go to the Abbey of Pontmercy to seek the light,” added Giles, “I don’t know what the light is, but we need to go there soon.”
“What about that second book in your bag, Father? Anything in there?”
“I only brought it for Willow. It contains illustrations of plants I’ve never seen before and of women performing strange… rituals. I thought she might find it interesting.”

William nodded his assent. She was certainly Giles’ equal when it came to her fascination with pagan lore; he only wished she would be more careful about it.

Noticing William’s concern, Father Giles tried to smile reassuringly. The three of them had sidestepped the moving line of heresy so often that it was a miracle to still be alive. Unbridled knowledge had the power to anger the Church, but by virtue of being a priest as well as the chaplain of an Aurelius, Giles could research anything to his heart’s content. Having William as a lord also permitted Willow to further her science, though her midnight dissection of dead bodies still had to be kept a secret. To Father Giles, however, the knight would always remain the boy whose mind was more attuned to poetry than to war. William never expressed regrets but Giles knew how much he missed the tranquil contemplation of his young life at Oxford.

“I’ll take you to Red,” said William after a moment, “I had to leave her side to announce my marriage to the Earl.”

As the knight made his way upstairs to rejoin the chaotic sea of drunkenness and hilarity, a flabbergasted Giles followed him precipitously. In their hurry to leave the tavern, they did not notice that Father Caleb had already disappeared.




* * * * *

Objects were flying across the room as the prim and proper Lady Elizabeth hurled things at the closed door with all her might. If the cauldron hadn’t been so heavy, she would have thrown it also. As it was, only wooden bowls and wool cloths flung at the door, their inability to break denying comfort to the young woman’s fury. She longed for the satisfying detonation of a crossbow.

“I cannot believe I offered myself to an Aurelius!” she cried for the umpteenth time, imagining his body transpierced with arrows.

When she had woken up, a woman named Willow Rose had been by her side. Having gently extracted a promise from Elizabeth to not leave the house, the redhead had gone to fetch some fresh clothes. Thus bound by her word, the blonde girl sat petulantly on the bed, cussing like the lowliest serf. Feeling rather sheepish after having uttered a spectacular profanity, she hid her face in her hands and let out a muffled whine.

“What will Xander think of me?”

After a decade of seeking vengeance, Alexander was certainly not going to forgive his sister for sharing the enemy’s bed so she could carry their heirs. Elizabeth did not see how she could possibly tell her brother what she had done.

“But it isn’t done yet, is it?” she thought with a glimmer of hope.

The union could still be delayed long enough for her to gain the information she sought before escaping Aurelius, and Xander would never need to find out. This delay would be easy enough to create, she assumed, since Sir William didn’t seem eager to spend time with her in close quarters. Slightly offended and yet thankful for the opportunity it provided, her alert mind moved on to the second portion of her problem, which entailed much more serious difficulties. Where would she find parchment without arousing the suspicions of Sir William and how was she going to send messages to Pontmercy, where Xander had taken refuge? It took days for the English themselves to scout the areas before taking a decision. Once she uncovered their strategies, how would she send the information fast enough? And what if the English switched strategies mid-course, or at the last moment? Would she then be throwing the French into harm’s way?

“I need allies… Many allies,” she murmured to herself.

Elizabeth shivered, cold and hungry. No food had touched her lips since last night and the extreme emotions that had assailed her all day exerted their toll. When was Willow Rose coming back? Was she to spend the night in this place alone? Just as she was giving up all hope of receiving benevolence, the door opened and a man wearing a wet cloak walked towards her with urgency. As she stood up, preparing to defend herself, he thrust a leather object in her hands. His small movement revealed the black and white robe he wore underneath his cloak, the colors of a Dominican priest.

“I must give you this before she comes back.”
“Who are you?” asked Elizabeth, taken aback by the tall man with fiery eyes.

She looked at what her hands held and recognized a glove that Xander used for falconry. The gold embroidery and the precious stones had visibly been removed to give the glove a more sober appearance. Inside it, Elizabeth found a small bird made of red cloth.

“He asks that you do not attempt to contact him until you reach Pontmercy. Only then will he send the gosshawk to you.”
“Is he in good health? Is he with the Duke?” she pressed him.
“He is well, though he will not be when the news of your marriage reaches him,” scolded the priest severely. “Aurelius is a heretic.”
“Father, you must help me find a way to delay the ceremony!”

Father Caleb stared down at the golden-haired girl, whose large green eyes reminded him of Eve’s sin. This child’s soul had to be saved. Her beauty was an affront to God and needed to be walled inside a convent, where she would learn that suffering was the only prayer worthy of the Lord.

“You will ask for a confessor. Aurelius will suggest Father Giles but find a reason to turn him down. I will arrange the rest. Beware of the snake, my child, for he will seduce you and cause your damnation.”

Her heart swelling with gratitude, Elizabeth watched the priest leave the room and scrambled to find a place to hide the indisputable proof of her betrayal. But the house was incredibly bare and her temper had left no object unturned. Noticing a long leather strap lying on the floor, she used it to wrap the soft glove tightly around her inner thigh. Her panicked state made her fingers slip as she clumsily tried to keep the glove in place. By the time she pulled her kirtle down, the door opened once more and Willow Rose stepped over the threshold with a gleeful smile, carrying a wooden hutch.

“It’s not raining anymore!”
“Oh,” simply said Elizabeth, indifferent.

Willow carefully set the hutch down and lifted the lid. She pulled out a linen chemise as well as a loaf of maslin bread.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have white bread,” declared Willow, who was still rifling through the walnut chest, “we nearly ran out of food and this was the best we got for this evening. But it’ll be better tomorrow, when the men go out to nearby towns. You’ll get milk and cheese and meat. It’s just that they’re all pretty drunk right now.”

Without care or concern for manners, a starving Elizabeth seized the bread and took a big bite out of it. She couldn’t remember the last time she tasted something so heavenly. To her addled senses, the rough and grainy texture of rye was as sweet and soft as the whitest ambrosia. But Willow wasn’t quite done yet with her pleasant surprises as she pulled out a houppelande whose color equaled the purest emerald. A dye so intense would have cost a fortune, Elizabeth surmised. How many families did the Aurelius clan dispossess to augment their riches? Gingerly, she touched the beautiful ivy-leaf pattern of the fabric. She had seen men wear houppelandes before but she hadn’t seen one made for a woman yet.

“You can wear it for the ceremony tomorrow”, said Willow, “Isn’t it lovely?”
“Tomorrow?” replied a stunned Elizabeth, “But I can’t!"
“You don’t want to get married anymore?” asked Willow, concerned.
“Oh no, that’s not… that’s not what I meant”, reassured Elizabeth, in her most gentle voice.

Willow sighed with relief.

Elizabeth had wanted to make the redhead her confidante but Willow’s devotion already seemed aligned. And yet, she didn’t appear to be the kind of person who would have been part of a despot’s retinue. This hasty judgment quickly convinced Elizabeth of the necessity for her to mind her expressions of displeasure from now on. If she wanted to gain access to the Earl often, she had to earn Sir William’s trust by showing gratitude towards him and towards the people who served him. She didn’t think she could ever learn to fawn like a maiden at a jousting match, but she could pretend to be content. This little predicament would have been far easier to bear had he not been an Aurelius, she concluded. Perhaps befriending Willow could take the sting out of living a lie for a while. And it would be nice to not feel so lonely.

“Are you going to be my servant girl?”

Willow blushed with embarrassment.

“Actually, I am Sir William’s surgeon,” she corrected awkwardly, “I came here because he asked me to look at your wounds. But I figured you could use new clothes… and food… Do you want me to still look at your marks? I’m afraid there’s not much I can do… “
“I have never met a woman surgeon before.”
“Well, there are many of us out there” assured Willow with a hint of sadness, “Just as many as the men and just as good. It’s just lately… Lately, they don’t let us study by their side as much as they used to. Soon, they’ll have us do nothing more than nurse and deliver babies, you just wait and see.”
“But you can save lives, right?” inquired Elizabeth admiringly.
“I can save lives,” acquiesced Willow with a smile, “English and French.”

The lightness of her affirmation could not disguise her grave wisdom. Pensive, Elizabeth caressed the green fabric that was still covering her lap and closed her eyes. The door must have been left ajar because she heard women screaming. The fate she had avoided hadn’t been spared for the peasants’ wives and daughters. What kind of justice was war? And what kind of justice was vengeance if she were to kill the man who had rescued her from a brutal deflowering? She thought of Xander, because thinking of him always made her angry enough to hate the English. Though she did not share his hatred, it steadied her resolve. She was going to make Aurelius love her and she was going to betray him.