Copyright S.McMullen 2010

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE: OSTRA AT HALFLIGHT, AT A BOUNDARY PLACE

CHAPTER ONE: SAMHAIN AT FAERIE BRIDGE

CHAPTER TWO: ANTE OF YULE

CHAPTER THREE: LUPERCALIA AND OSTARA

CHAPTER FOUR: BOUNDARY OF FOOLS, SHIP OF DREAMS

CHAPTER FIVE: BELTAINE MORNING

CHAPTER SIX: EVE OF LITHA

CHAPTER SEVEN: LITHA IN FAERIE

CHAPTER EIGHT: BETWEEN BOUNDARY DAYS AND BOUNDARY PLACES

CHAPTER NINE: HIGH SUMMER IN LONDARIAN

CHAPTER TEN: LAMMAS IN BOUNDARIE

London 1490

The Fleet was not yet one of London's lost rivers by 1448, but it was in decline. When the Romans had settled by the Thames in the First Century, it had been wide enough to admit small ships and its water was clear and pure. Now it was narrower, and rank with foulness. Indeed its new purpose was to carry away the nightsoil, vegetable peelings and rotting offal that were produced by the vast digestive tract that was medieval London.
            It was the day of the spring equinox, and the sun was not far from the horizon. This was a boundary day, and it was nearly a boundary time. To cross between worlds, all that was needed was a boundary place.
            The area where the Fleet met the Thames was known to be charged with magic. On the west bank of the Fleet was St Bride's Well, which had been a source of sacred water since before Christianity existed. Now it was a place of occasional miraculous cures, which conveniently explained away pagan magic with Christian miracles.
            The confluence of the Fleet and Thames itself was also magical. It was a boundary place, a place where there was an identical boundary in another world. At such places one could cross into such worlds, at boundary times, on boundary days.
            On a tower at the corner of the old city wall, just beside the confluence, three figures stood looking out over the river traffic. Two were dressed as merchants, and acted as if they were watching for the arrival of some ship. The third wore armour.
            "A boundary place at a boundary time on a boundary day," said Tordral, who always wore a helmet with the visor down and dressed in chainmail. "Together they are more powerful than all the bombards in creation."
            "There be boys on the wall again," said Ivain, who was a shipwright. "They're throwin' stones at gulls on the Fleet."
            "They will throw stones at our boat if they see it," said Renard, who was carefully disguising his French accent because England and France had been at war for over a century.
            "Master Tordral?" Ivain asked, turning to their leader. "We need the distraction."
            "Launch the waterbomb," said Tordral in a soft, hoarse voice that always made both Renard and Ivain shiver.
            Renard tossed a stone, and within a few heartbeats it splashed into the water, near a barge moored in the narrow Fleet River. On a low landing between the bank and the barge, two men were unloading barrels for the nearby St Bride's Tavern. When Renard's stone hit the water one of them took a match fuse from his cap, blew on the glowing end, then ignited a fuse within the bung-hole of one particular barrel. His companion hammered in a cork to seal it, then they picked it up between them.
            "Ready Jon?" said Guy softly.
            "That I am."
            "Then one, and two, and heave!"
            The barrel hit the water just clear of the barge. A few idlers on the old city wall pointed and some boys threw stones, but the barrel was almost submerged, and presented a very uninteresting target as it floated out through the confluence and into the Thames. As far as the onlookers were concerned, the men had just disposed of a barrel whose wine had turned sour.
            "Aht, the little wretches throw stones at whatever floats," said Ivain.
            "If only they knew," said Renard.
            Within the barrel was a second, slightly smaller barrel. This was filled with gunpowder. The outer barrel was to provide buoyancy, and to give the fuse somewhere dry to burn. To those on the docks who even noticed it, the barrel looked utterly harmless. The sun touched the smoky horizon.
            "How long 'till there's bang?" asked Ivain.
            "I cut a long fuse," said Renard. "We need the current to have it well clear of the confluence before it provides our distraction."
            "The golem boat must be launched before halflight is over," said Tordral.
            "Trust me, master, we French know the ways of gunpowder."
            "Can'ne see the damn barrel," said Ivain.
            "Do not look for it!" hissed Renard. "Folk will think we expected what is to come."
            "Never seen like o' that waterbomb thing. What kingdom fashioned 'em?"
            "Master Tordral devised waterbombs, both the name and the engine."
            "Bomb, from bombos, the Greek word for a booming sound," said Tordral in a rasping whisper.
            "Bomb," said Ivain, shaking his head. "Fine, strong name, but clumsy weapon. Can'ne be aimed. What good's a weapon wi' no aimin'?"
            "There are a lot of ships downstream," said Renard. "Their crews will get a nice fright. In war it is sometimes enough merely to frighten."
            "There's a warship anchored midstream. Big bugger too."
            "Hanseatic cog," said Tordral. "Forecastle, sterncastle, three masts and twenty-eight guns. It is the most advanced ship upon the Thames, yet it is not so advanced as the ship that we are about to launch."
            "The current, it is too slow to take the barrel far from here," said Renard.
            "Current's stronger midstream," said Ivain. "The outflow from the Fleet might push the barrel right out to the ships."
            "Rubbish, the barrel ... "
            Renard's voice faltered. Now there was doubt in his tone.
            "So what's that about the barrel?" asked Ivain.
            "Merde! You may be right."
            The waterbomb had just reached the bow of the anchored warship when it detonated. A huge plume of smoke, water, sewage, rotting offal, and splintered timbers was flung high into the air, and echoes boomed up and down the Thames. The men, women and children of London's docks immediately abandoned whatever they were doing and went rushing down to watch the warship sinking, pointing and gesturing as they ran.
            "Damn stupid frog," muttered Ivain. "T'were a fine ship."
            "Nothing wasted," said Renard with a shrug, "Now we know a waterbomb can sink a ship, and we also have a very fine distraction."
            Beside the barge, on the landing, Guy and Jon prepared to launch a little boat. It was three feet in length by one foot in beam, and its superstructure featured an iron tube about the size of a man's arm that had been fashioned from scrap armour. Beneath it burned a dozen squat candles. Guy aimed for the right hand side of the confluence, then turned a spigot. A jet of steam immediately hissed out, and the moment that the boat was released onto the river it began to move away much faster than the current would have carried it. The two conspirators then continued to unload the barrels for the tavern.
            "Sun's down, halflight's upon us," said Ivain on the city wall above.
            "There, I see the boat!" exclaimed Renard.
            "Oh aye, an' no boys to throw stones at it, what wi' all that show downstream."
            The toy steam boat hissed its way along the Fleet River, glowing eerily and pouring steam into the still air as it headed in the direction of the Thames.
            "A boat that moves of its own effort, is'ne natural," said Ivain, who had built the boat to the specifications of his master.
            "It moves more willingly than most men I have commanded," said Renard.
            As he spoke, the boat entered the confluence of the Fleet and Thames. It vanished. There was the faintest trace of a violet flicker, then the steam, glowing candles and insistent hissing were all gone.
            "Well pickle me nuts!" exclaimed Ivain.
            "I thought I saw a purple flash," said Renard.
            "So it's away te Faerie?" asked Ivain.
            "It has left our world, I can say no more," said Tordral.
            "Reckon its impeller thing's spent by now," said Ivain.
            "I still cannot see why such a little boat can make the crossing to Faerie," said Renard.
            "It is a living creature of all four elements, they being earth, air, fire and water," whispered Tordral. "That makes it a contradiction. Contradictions can break laws. We saw that boat leave our world, so our work is done. Come along."
             Slowly and casually, they made their way down from the wall and began to walk making their way along Thames Street as if intending to look at the stricken warship. By now it had settled on the bottom, its forecastle, sterncastle, masts and rigging still above the surface and crowded with sailors.
            "Now we know that a creature of four elements can cross between worlds," said Tordral as they walked. "Nothing can stop us."
            "But it's just a toy," said Ivain.
            "It is a toy that points the way," replied Tordral.
            "Then what's te do?" asked Ivain.
            "More tests," said Tordral, "but not here in London. There are too many eyes ready to watch, too many hands ready to throw stones."
            "Too many folk te arrest us for sinkin' bleedin' ships," said Ivain.
            "There is a better boundary place than the confluence of the Fleet and Thames. Come along, brother artisans. Tomorrow we sail for the north. There we build our ship in secret, but here we shall return when it is ready."
            They paused for a few minutes at St Paul's Wharf to look at the wrecked cog, then made their way north to the centre of London. The smithy where Tordral was based as in Watling Street, and rang with the sound of apprentices and masters beating iron culverin balls into shape, making brass pipes, forging gun barrels, and filing cog wheels. Tordral knew what every clang, clank, scrape, thud and rasp meant, but behind all the other sounds was the steady hiss of steam. In one corner a larger version of the toy boat's impeller device was being tested. Two breastplates that had once been the armour of knights who had been vanquished in battle had been rivetted together, then patched and sealed to form a boiler. It was clamped above a bed of hot coals, and steam was issuing from a brass spigot.
            "Not long now," said Tordral, looking down at the simple device of all four elements. "In only a few months your child shall be the heart of a new machine, and I shall be the soul."

Sir Gerald of Ashdayle was well known in the Lakes District for being tragic rather than mad. True, he lived the life of a madman, but his tragedy had been played out locally, in his tower, on the edge of Keswick. This meant that the folk of the little market town to the north of Derwent Water could fancy themselves to also be part of some grand ballad of magic, lust, death and revenge. This was so much more exciting than their everyday lives, so Gerald was treated as a constant and dedicated hero rather than a village idiot with a title.
            It was late afternoon on All Hallows Eve. As was his inflexible routine, Sir Gerald rose from the remains of his frugal dinner and fetched Eric, his squire, from the kitchen. Together they walked through the snow of late autumn to the river, with Eric holding a burning torch against the fading light. Every day the hour before dawn and the hour following sunset would find the knight guarding Faerie Bridge, a little wooden footbridge that spanned the Derwent River. He had maintained this vigil for seven years, and the people of Keswick now called the rock where he stood Gerald's Watch.
            "Hurry along now boy, don't dally," said Gerald. "Plenty of other lads would love to be in your place."
            What, lugging a bag of weapons through mist and snow in the dark to shoot at elves that don't exist? thought Eric.
            Eric was the son of a woodsman. Nobody else had wished to be squire to a knight who kept a vigil of obsession and took no interest in knightly pursuits. The path that Sir Gerald walked led to neither the glories of war nor to court intrigues that were rewarded with power, and did nothing to prepare a squire for knighthood. Eric had spent three years watching his master calling challenges across the little footbridge to imaginary elves, and had nothing to show for it but exasperation.
            On the other hand, this was better than being a young woodsman in England in 1448, and Eric was not without dreams. He fancied himself being knighted by the king, winning tournaments, rescuing the beautiful daughter of a rich noble from great peril, and being handsomely rewarded for the deed with marriage to the daughter and half the lord's estate.
            Every day the knight's confrontation would be played out in the halflight after sunset and before dawn, although on the great pagan feast days Sir Gerald also shot arrows at the imaginary elves. The summer arrows had white goose feather flights so that they would stand out against the grass, but now it was late autumn, and the flights were red to contrast with the snow. This day was All Hallows Eve to Christians, but Samhain to those who discretely followed the old ways of worship. Eric was neither Christian nor pagan, and this was another of his problems. In a world dominated buy the church, infiltrated by superstition, undermined by old pagan beliefs, and ruled by armoured thugs who believed in chivalry but were not sure what the word meant, Eric was a sceptic.
            As was usual, Gerald's arrows hit nothing but the field beyond the bridge. The knight returned to his tower once halflight had faded from the sky, leaving Eric to retrieve the arrows. This sometimes took as long as an hour if the mist was thick, and before he could go to bed he had to repair any that were damaged. Holding the mutton fat torch, he began his search. He was so intent on looking for red flights against the snow that he did not see the figure in black until no more than a yard separated them.
            "Squire Eric of Solenfield," said a whispery yet cultivated voice.
            The stranger was dressed in chainmail and a black cloak, and wore the type of half-helmet that covered the face to the level of the lips. The eyeslits in the visor were triangles of darkness, cut to suggest an expression of malice. Eric's rationality retreated deep into his mind and hid, leaving the youth to think that he was standing before the devil. He reminded himself that he did not believe in the devil, then crossed himself anyway, just to be sure. The stranger did not vanish in a puff of smoke, which confirmed Eric's beliefs as a sceptic. He allowed himself to feel a little relieved.
            "You know my name," he said.
            "Names are power," said the stranger. "You do not know my name, so you do not know me. I have the advantage. "
            Eric was still not entirely certain that the stranger was human, but human or otherwise, the youth felt very vulnerable. He was fifteen, stood six feet tall, weighed ninety-eight pounds, had left his quarterstaff leaning against the bridge, and knew little about using it anyway. Eric was aware that any man-at-arms, outlaw, or even village ruffian could easily beat him in a fight, so he carefully avoided fights. The stranger held out nine arrows in a gloved hand.
            "Why does your master shoot these across that bridge at halflight?"
            This immediately told Eric that the stranger was new to the area. Everyone for miles around Derwent Water knew why Sir Gerald kept a vigil in the halflight before dawn and after sunset.
            "My master is deluded by grief, sir. He fancies that an elf prince dishonoured his sister fourteen years ago and caused her death. Now he seeks revenge."
            Eric was aware of how ridiculous the story sounded, and as a sceptic he felt rather ashamed. He cast his eyes down at the torchlit snow and waited for the laughter to begin.
            "Revenge?" asked the stranger. "Revenge by shooting over an empty bridge?"
            Eric found himself being taken seriously, which was a surprise. In a way laughter would have been better, because he could have laughed too. Now he had to explain further.
            "That little footbridge is called Faerie Bridge. On certain days the midpoint is said to become the edge of the faerie world during the halflights of dusk and dawn. My master hopes to stop all fae folk from crossing until the elf prince meets him in single combat."
            "How long has he been doing this?"
            "For seven years, since his sister died."
            "How long have you served him?"
            "Three years, sir."
            "Has he ever shot an elf?"
            "Since I have been with him, he has accidentally shot five sheep, two rabbits and a poacher. The people of Portinscale guard the other end of the walkway at halflight, but sheep, rabbits and poachers are not inclined to use paths."
            "So he has shot no elves."
            "No."
            "Have you ever seen an elf?"
            "Not a one."
            "And has any arrow ever vanished into another world?"
            "Not one arrow has ever been lost, sir," said Eric, growing rapidly reassured by what sounded like the position of a fellow sceptic.
            "That is because an arrow shot across a boundary place on a boundary day at a boundary time will not cross into Boundarie. Here are the nine arrows that I gathered. You may take them."
            Eric's feeling of reassurance vanished instantly. The man with the whispery, rustling voice actually believed in magical worlds. Even though he suddenly felt as if the stranger was about to sink poisoned talons into his flesh, Eric reached out and accepted the arrows.
            "I have not heard of Boundarie," Eric said, trying to be polite.
            "It lies between our world and Faerie."
            I do not know where this is leading, but I do not wish to visit the place, thought Eric, now anxious to have the conversation over.
            "I, ah, do not believe in magic and magical worlds, sir," he admitted.
            Below the level of the visor, Tordral's lips curled up into a smile.
            "That is like not believing in the arrows you hold, Squire Eric. It will not stop them hurting you."
            With that the stranger turned and walked away into the mist and darkness, and was lost to view. Eric walked back to Sir Gerald's tower with his head whirling. This was the first time that he had spoken to anyone else who believed in what Gerald was doing. There could not be a greater contrast between the two men, thought Eric. While Gerald had a hot temper and was stubbornly loyal to the point of stupidity, the stranger seemed calm, cool and intelligent, yet full of malice. Nobody searches out arrows in the snow just to exchange a few words about magic, he thought. What does he want, and when will he be back?

The people of Gerald's Tower were either in bed or preparing for the night when Ellienne and Martha heard Eric return. Within the servant community of the tower, Martha and Eric were known to be conducting a very minor type of courtship. Martha was the daughter of a merchant from the town, but had pretensions to life at court and felt that living in a knight's tower and a romance with a squire were the first steps along the path to nobility.
            "Now remember, we play the royal court again tonight," said Martha to Ellienne. "I'll be queen, and you are a noble lady."
            "Yes Martha," said Ellienne, who was very quiet and always did what she was told.
            The tower reeked of manure, urine, rotting food scraps and rancid fat, and the air was thick with resinous smoke from the kitchen fires and mutton fat torches. The straw from the floor had been fed into the fires that day, so the smell was worse than usual.
            The kitchen contained the only fire still burning in the tower, so it was here that Eric went. He needed light to work by, and heat to boil his glue. Ellienne and Martha were grinding almonds into paste as he entered, working by the light from the hearth.
            Ellienne had dark, thick hair and slightly olive skin. She was said to be the only survivor of some French family annihilated during the sacking of a town a year or so earlier. English foragers had probably done the killing, but she had lost her memory. Whoever had captured her had brought her back to England and thought to ransom her, but with her entire family dead and the estate looted and burned, this had proved impossible. Word of the orphan French girl, stranded in England, had reached Sir Gerald's family. As an act of charity Ellienne had been sent to the Tower of Briars, to earn her keep as she grew up. Eventually she might marry some hard working country boy, and live a happy life after such a very tragic beginning.
            Martha was the seventh daughter of a merchant in Keswick. She had been sent to the Tower to get her out of the household, but she was still in her home parish and near her many sisters, so she was always happy. Because she had a willowy figure and long, straight hair, she had often been told that she looked like a secret princess. For this reason she became convinced that she was indeed a noble of some sort, and thought that if she learned courtly manners she would one day catch the eye of some noble suitor. She bathed as often as once a fortnight, rubbed her skin with the petals of seasonal flowers, and chewed mint leaves to sweeten her breath.
             Both girls watched as Eric laid out the arrows in the firelight, then inspected each of them carefully. One had struck a rock and had a bent head. Two others had damaged flights. He began to clean the undamaged arrows.
            "Only three broken tonight," he said as he worked.
            "A glorious battle," Martha replied. "Did you fight bravely?"
            "Oh yes, and it was more exciting than usual. I met a strange warrior in black. He never once removed his helmet."
            "Ah, the leader of the travelling players. Was his name Tordral?"
            Eric blinked in surprise and looked up.
            "Players? Here?"
            "Aye - er, yes. Over the bridge, in Portinscale."
            "How do you know?"
            "Everyone knows, silly. Two days ago the company came to stay at the old Portinscale chapel. They've been allowed to stay there for the winter."
            "Players, near here,"said Eric. "I never heard."
            "All Sir Roger's shouting must have made you deaf. Yes, players, at Portinscale."
            "That would explain why, er, the man Tordral was dressed so oddly," he said. "He must play the part of a warrior."
            "I think the players will ask me to join them because I am pretty," said Martha, standing up and striking a pose. "Do you think I'm pretty?"
            "Oh yes!"
            "I think they will have me play the part of a queen. It is a good way to become a queen. I think I would be a wonderful queen, I have a queenly bearing."
            Martha draped a cloth over a barrel and seated herself on it. She waved a ladle at Eric.
            "You, fellow!" she cried. "Who might you be?"
            "I am a humble squire, your majesty," said Eric, going down on one knee before her and bowing.
            "What are you doing in my court?"
            "I come to tell you of a terrible battle against the mighty warlock Tordral. My master fled, but I fought on and brought the warlock low. Now I return with a tribute of magical arrows from Tordral."
            "You have done well, brave squire," Martha said, raising the ladle high. "I now knight you because you have served me so well." She touched the ladle to his right shoulder, then to his left. "Arise now, Sir Eric of Keswick."
            "Your majesty, thank you. How now may I serve you?"
            "Oh ... tomorrow morning you will return to the battlefield and take a message to Tordral. Tell him that I propose to marry him and unite our kingdoms into an empire so that we can be emperor and empress."
            "Why can't I kill him and take his kingdom? That way you could marry me instead."
            "A worthy thought," she said, slipping from the barrel, and skipping across the room to the door. "Tell me, Sir Eric, what is Tordral like?"
            "Oh fearsome and forbidding, your majesty, and so twisted that he hides his face with a helmet."
            "Ah, now that changes everything. After I marry him, you must be my chivalrous lover, just as Sir Lancelot was to Queen Guenevere."
            Eric smiled broadly, encouraged by her words. Perhaps I have a chance with her, he thought. As he stood up and took a step in her direction, however, Martha skipped backwards through the door.
            "Lords and ladies, the hour is late and I must to bed," she announced.
            "But court is still in session!" exclaimed the disappointed Eric.
            "Well, in that case I must abdicate my throne and dissolve court!" said Martha hastily. "Good night to you all, Sir Eric and Lady Ellienne."
            With that she pulled the door shut, and Ellienne and Eric heard her footsteps receding. Eric sighed loudly as he returned to repairing the arrows. Ellienne continued to grind almonds.
            "Does Martha ever speak of me when I am not there?" Eric asked without looking up.
            "She does do that," replied Ellienne in an flat tone and an accent that seemed to have no particular place of origin.
            "Does she say nice things?"
            "She does. She says that one day you will be a knight with your own castle, and that she will marry you and become a lady. She will go to court in London and meet the king. She is looking forward to that."
            "So she does love me?"
            Ellienne paused to think, as if she were having trouble with the question.
            "I cannot say," she said slowly. "I know nothing of love."
            Eric finished his repairs and looked up.
            "Martha talks a lot about being my lady, but she scarcely ever touches me or says anything about liking me. It make me wonder."
            "That is because of her eldest sister, Mary. The blacksmith's son promised to marry her and got her with child. Then he deserted her."
            "That's not true."
            "That is what Martha told me."
            "He fell out of his coracle while crossing Derwent Water after one ale too many and drowned."
            "Her mother says that no man's promise is worth anything except that made before a priest at the altar. She also says all men must be kept at distance because they want only one thing."
            "But I don't. Well not yet, anyway."
            "Martha says you will have to prove that in front of a priest, at an altar," Ellienne concluded.
            With the almond paste finished, Ellienne began to tidy up. Unlike the other servant women, who slept in a common dormitory, her bed was in a converted pantry in the kitchen. On orders of the cook, someone had to sleep there so that the field hands could not sneak in to steal food during the night. The kitchen was beside the tower's walled garden, however, and the garden was said to be haunted by Sir Gerald's dead sister. Thus all the other women feared being alone in the kitchen at the dead of night, but Ellienne had no such fears. Ellienne had no memories at all from before the summer solstice of 1448, only four months earlier.
            Before continuing his conversation with Ellienne, Eric went across to the door. This was his way of proving that he had no lewd intentions toward her, now that they were alone.
            "Sir Gerald asked about you today," he said. "He wanted to know if any of the village boys took your fancy."
            "I have little to do with any boys, young sir," she replied, dusting crumbs into the fire.
            "But don't you like some boys more than others?"
            "No. I think I must have forgotten how to like boys."
            "Ah yes, your memories are all fled. Don't you remember anything before the summer of this year?"
            "No, but I find that I know needlework and cooking, and I can play tunes on Sam's pipe and tabor."
            "So you have the skills but not he memory of learning?"
            "Yes."
            "Sir Gerald says he has seen others like you in France. They have witnessed such terrible things during the wars that they cannot bear to recall the memories."
            "I have been told that," said Ellienne in her neutral voice.
            "What a difficult question," said Eric, rubbing his chin as he thought. "Is it better to remember both the good and horrible, or to have all of your life sponged away?"
            Ellienne put a hand to her forehead, as if trying to remember something.
            "I ask myself who I am, but there is never an answer," she said slowly.
            "Look, er, if you like I can, ah, arrange for some village boys to come here to play at ball or practise dancing. You might, er, meet someone you like."
            "That is very kind of you, Squire Eric, but just now I am a girl with no past at all. When I do learn the ways of courtship, I would prefer to have a year or two of life that I can remember and chat about."
            "Oh, yes, of course," said Eric, suddenly feeling vaguely ashamed for not thinking of that himself. "Well, good night to you."
            "Good night, Squire Eric."
            With Eric gone Ellienne raked the coals, then changed into her night gown and barred herself in her little pantry bedchamber. As she stretched out on her bunk she reached beneath her thick hair to check her ears. She made sure that they were always hidden from sight, and for a very good reason. At the time of the summer solstice they had been normal enough, but since then they had been growing ever more pointed.
            What am I? she wondered as she let sleep claim her.
                                                                        #
The following morning Gerald and Eric were back at Faerie Bridge well before dawn, and as usual they were alone. As usual the mist was very thick, and it was damp and cold. Sir Gerald demanded privacy when he shouted his dawn and dusk challenges to Faerie, so the people of Keswick and Portinscale knew better than to approach the bridge at those times.
            In the depths of his heart, he too must be embarrassed by what he does, thought Eric as he listened to his master shouting at the bridge. No elves. This is Samhain's ante morning, the day after a great pagan feast. If we cannot see elves today, what other day is going to be better?
            Suddenly a sheep came running along the path from out of the drifting mist behind them. It made for Faerie Bridge, then two more sheep appeared. Moments later a stream of whiteness came pouring along the path from east to west, all peevish bleating and dark, vacant eyes. They clattered out across the bridge and into the field beyond.
            "What is this?" shouted Gerald at Eric. "I am not to be disturbed here, at this time."
            "Perhaps nobody has told the sheep, my lord," Eric replied.
            Two shepherds now appeared. Eric held up his torch, but neither of them was known to him. With his sword drawn, Gerald blocked their way.
            "Who under the stars of heaven are you?" he demanded.
            "I'm Mus, an' this be Wat," said the shorter man deferentially. "Stiv's drivin' frae behind. We's takin' these sheep te Workington."
            "That's on coast," said Wat helpfully.
            "I know where Workington is!" shouted Gerald. "Why do it now?"
            "Rich merchant given'a fancy gold coin. Told us te set off a' halflight."
            Suddenly one of the sheep put a foot through a partly rotted plank on the bridge. It fell, and became trapped.
            "Aht, summat caught t'bastard," called Mus, who then dodged around Gerald and hurried out onto the bridge among the milling sheep.
            "You, come back!" shouted Gerald. "It's halflight, it's dangerous."
            "There'll be a jam o' sheep less'nae I free 'er, master," Mus called back.
            The shepherd bent over and hauled the sheep free.
            "Aht, t'bastard's lame frae fallin'!" he shouted to Wat.
            Mus walked two steps further along the bridge with the sheep in his arms - then vanished. Astonished, the other shepherd made as if to follow, but Gerald stopped him.
            "It's halflight, fool!" shouted the knight. "Step over Faerie Bridge at halflight on Samhain's ante and you too will vanish from this world."
            Faced with evidence of magic as well as an armed and angry knight, Wat decided to turn and run. As he reached the third shepherd he grabbed his arm, pointed at Gerald, and cried that the devil had taken Mus. Stiv concluded that Gerald must be the devil, and both shepherds then fled the way they had come into the brightening mist. The sheep began to mill about on both sides of the bridge. The edge of the sun blazed into view over the fells.
            "A stupid fate for a stupid man," said Gerald as he prepared to return to the tower. "Boy, gather these sheep and take them to the south field, then go to Keswick. Have the crier declare that they were abandoned, and will be forfeit if they are not claimed by next market day."
            Although the only sceptic who had been present at the incident, Eric had been the most profoundly affected. Stories of terrible storms, bright comets, unlikely cures and people who claimed to speak with the dead did not strike him as at all miraculous, but this was something that had happened before his very own eyes. The light was dim and there were sheep milling about and bleating, he told himself. The shepherd fell of the bridge into the shadows and the bleating of the sheep masked the splash when he hit the water.
            Some of the sheep were in the field to the west of Faerie Bridge, grazing stubble that was lightly sprinkled with snow. As he herded them back to the bridge Eric noticed that Tordral had returned, and was sitting against a tree and writing.
            "Squire Eric," called the enigmatic figure in black and chainmail.
            Against his better judgement, Eric went over to the tree. He had learned that it was always a good idea to humour those who seemed important, strong or dangerous.
            "Sir?"
            Tordral stood up, then paced around Eric. The youth was astonishingly thin, and wore a tunic as ragged than the smocks of the shepherds.
            "Do you know who am I as yet?" asked Tordral.
            "You are Tordral, the master of a troupe of travelling players."
            Tordral nodded, then paused before Eric.
            "Squire Eric, are you happy with your master?"
            Eric blinked with surprise. Nobody had ever been curious about his feelings, not his father, not Sir Gerald, not even Martha. He had to stop and think. Having thought, he decided that he felt no particular loyalty to Sir Gerald. Being low born, Eric was only a squire because nobody else wanted someone like Gerald for a master. Were he to take a farthing and look the other way while Tordral ran off with a couple of sheep, where was the harm in that? On the other hand, Tordral did not look like the sorts of people who got public floggings and a day in the stocks at Keswick market for stealing sheep. Eric decided to be honest.
            "Sir Gerald gives me little training in knightly skills, neither does he attend tournaments or fight in wars. All he does is keep his vigils here, at halflight."
            "You are not happy, then?"
            "I serve Sir Gerald, but I'm not a real squire."
            It was not an admission he had made before, but it was true. Tordral appeared to already know this truth.
            "How do you serve him?"
            "I attend him at the halflights, but I am free to do what I will while the sun is up," he replied, a little more eagerly than he had intended.
            "Do you know Swinside?"
            "It's a little hill to the south of Portinscale Village."
            "My troupe is there. Settle these sheep, then come to us."
            Eric had the impression that Tordral was dangling an offer before him. Within the space of a few heartbeats he considered life as a travelling player as an alternative to spending his life as Gerald's squire, then decided that the prospect had definite merits.
            "Do you want me for a player?"
            "That depends. Do you want to be a player?"
            "Yes - er, that is, I would prefer to be a knight, but I'm low born, and Sir Gerald teaches me little, so ... I don't know."
            The sceptic in Eric reminded him that he was not a proper squire, and he could never be a real knight. He might well be a good player. He was skilled at memorising lines, and could sing better than most others. Martha had talked about being a player the night before. Perhaps they could run away and be players together.
            Besides, in a sense I am already a player, he thought. I already play at being a squire, a Christian, and Martha's sweetheart. Sometimes I wonder if any of me is real.
            "Squire Eric, there are former fighting men among my players. I could have you taught to act, or to fight, or both if you wish it. By the time we leave you would know whether it was the path of the knight or the player that you wished to follow."
            Eric became aware that his mouth was hanging open. This was too good to be true, in fact it was disturbingly like a pact with the devil. Even though Eric tried hard not to believe in the devil, the sight of Tordral was enough to shake anyone's beliefs. Because he believed in nothing that was not in front of him, his wildest dreams were not particularly wild, so this offer was well and truly beyond his wildest dreams.
            "What is your fee?" asked Eric suspiciously.
            "Fee?"
            "Your fee for teaching me to act or fight."
            "No fee, as such."
            "Nothing is free," said Eric firmly, voicing one of his very few definite beliefs.
            "True. I need help to do certain tests at Faerie Bridge."
            "Nothing easier," said Eric immediately.
            "At halflight."
            "Oh," said Eric, his heart now sinking. "Sir Gerald would not like that."
            "Sir Gerald allows you to be there."
            "Ah. So you mean me to do the tests?"
            "Yes."
            "Magical tests?"
            "Yes."
            "Like wearing a ram's horns and shouting spells in Latin?"
            "Oh no, just tests like this morning with the sheep."
            "You mean you - you paid those shepherds to drive sheep over Faerie Bridge at halflight?"
            "Yes, at the halflight of Samhain Ante's Morning. Now I know that animals cannot cross into Boundarie alone, at a boundary place, on a boundary day, at a boundary time. By misadventure I also learned that a mortal may cross into Boundarie under the same conditions, and that an animal in his company may cross as well. What do you think? Reply with honest words."
            Eric hesitated. He was seldom asked for honest words. Besides, his honest words were probably not words that would please Tordral. In the past, honest words had never earned Eric any more than a sound thrashing and a warning that one day he would have the best possible view of a heretic being burned at the stake. On the other hand Tordral did not look like a member of the clergy. The worst that might happen would be that Tordral would leave and not come back. As far as Eric was concerned, that was no bad thing.
            "My feeling is that the shepherd Mus fell from the bridge into the river," said Eric.
            "Did you hear or see a splash?"
            "Most respectfully, there was bleating, shouting and confusion on the bridge, the mist was thick, and the light was still weak. I might not have noticed a splash."
            "A plausible answer, and lacking any appeal to magic. I like that."
            "Thank you, master."
            "Will you do my tests?"
            With that Eric knew that he had been accepted. Now a real life beckoned, but he wanted more than just training.
            "May I come with your company when you leave, my lord?" he asked.
            "Only those twisted by hate may join my company, Squire Eric. Help us, and we shall help you. Join us? Trust my word on it, you would not want to pay the price of admission to my little troupe."
            As chilling and bleak as the words were, to Eric they had the ring of honesty. After a few months with Tordral's people he would know how to act and fight. At the very least he could run away to become an actor with some other troupe. At best, he would finally learn to fight and might make a name for himself in the wars in France.
            "I'll do your tests," he declared.

Jemima Puddleducks descendants, Keswick Landing, Derwent Water, December 1987. Believe it or not, this is a colour photo. Swinside Fell is just visible near the top right-hand corner. In the novel, the Iron Warlock is built at this location.

#

It was quite by chance that on the same morning Sir Gerald made an inspection of his lost sister's rooms in the tower. Her bedchamber was not quite as she had left it, but was maintained as if she still lived there. Every two weeks the bed was stripped and the coverings were washed, even though they were clean. The floors were swept, the rugs dusted, the tapestries brushed, and the cobwebs cleared away. The shutters were opened every morning and closed again in the evening.
            On the battlements a maidservant always scattered grain to draw the birds, as Maylienne had once done, and in a small room with a hearth the maids would take it in turn to do a few stiches of a tapestry that Gerald's sister had begun fifteen years earlier. Next to this room was a library of eighty books, and Gerald made sure that one of the books was always on the reading table by the hearth. A maid would turn a few pages every day, so that when Gerald walked through the rooms, he had the illusion that his sister was still there and had merely stepped out for a moment.
            On this day Gerald noticed that the current book was only a few pages from the end as he did his inspection. Descending the stairs, he went to the kitchen where the servants were preparing the main meal of the day. The cook came hurrying over when she saw Gerald at the door.
            "I need a girl to attend Maylienne's reading room," he said.
            "Martha knows the duties," suggested the cook.
            "Martha is a good maid, but she's of an age to be married and will soon be gone. What about the new girl, Ellienne?"
            "Aht, she's steady enough but has no notion of the duties."
            "Then she must learn, Gretel. Take her up and show her what needs to be done."
            Gerald now went out into the walled garden, there to pace about in the snow as he once had with his sister. It was her fancy that a garden in winter was like a dear friend who was very ill. It had to be kept company, made to feel wanted even though it was not looking at its best. As Gerald paced, Gretel took Ellienne to the reading room high above in the tower.
            "It's very simple," said Gretel, gesturing about with the wooden spoon that she used to stir the pot and beat lazy maidservants. "Every day you come up here and start with doing a few stiches of that tapestry. Then you turn a few pages of the book on the table. That makes it look like the dead lady's still here and reading. Fair gives me the creeps, it does, but it makes Sir Gerald happy and it's nothing difficult."
            "What is the book about?" asked Ellienne, who felt strangely moved by the sight of writing on pages.
            "Don't know, can't read. This one's almost all turned, though, so just take it through that door into the library and pick another to replace it."
            "Pick one? What sort does Sir Gerald want?"
            "Any one, doesn't matter. Just put it on the table and turn a few pages. I do one for every finger I got. After that, toss some grain on the battlements for the birds and you're all done."
            Gretel left Ellienne to the undemanding tasks. The girl went to the battlements first, where  few hardy birds were waiting. Having fed them she descended to the reading room and added a few stiches to the tapestry. Finally she went over to the reading table, closed the book and picked it up. On a whim she opened it again and looked at the title page.
            "Theorica Planetarum by Campanus of Novara," she said to herself. "Strange, this is a very difficult text on planetary motion."
            She began to look through the book, which was written in scholarly Latin.
            "Why would a young noblewoman like Maylienne be reading a book on Ptolemy's theory of how the planets move? It is not even a very accurate theory of ..."
            Her voice trailed away as she realised that she could read. She could read Latin. She could understand mathematics as well, and most astonishing of all, she realised that she had already read this book. She not only understood the work of one the greatest philosophers of all time, she actually disagreed with him!
            Although feeling slightly giddy with shock, Ellienne took the book into the library and opened the shutters, then pulled out some other books. It did not take long to establish that she could also read French, Catalan, Classical Greek and English. The Arthurian Romances of Chretien de Troyes were familiar to her, although she found them a bit silly. She picked up the Canterbury Tales of Geoffrey Chaucer, riffled through the disturbingly familiar text, then stopped at The Wyfe of Bath's Tale. Here was a knight forced on a quest for knowledge, rather than for the adventure or to enhance his reputation. Here too was a woman under an enchantment.
            I too am under an enchantment, she thought, reaching up under her hair with one hand and confirming that the ear concealed there was still pointed. For some moments Ellienne wondered if she might be Sir Gerald's brilliant sister, returned from the dead, or perhaps exile. The thought quickly passed. Maylienne would have been more than twice her age by now. Besides, Sir Gerald would have recognised her.
             Many young girls had daydreams about being a lost princess who would one day be discovered and whisked away to live in a castle. Ellienne was suddenly confronted with the fact that she had once been a scholar. A girl scholar? They are surely more rare than princesses, she thought as she looked around the library.
            Suddenly frantic to find ignorance in herself, she began pulling out other books and opening them.
            "Liber de Proprietatibus Rerum by Bartholomeus Angelicus, read it," she muttered. "Passionibus Mulierum Curandorum by Trotula of Salerno - women's medicine by a female physician. I remember being very inspired when I read this. De Vegetabilius, Albertus Magnus, yes, a good book on herbs, but not as exciting as his writings on the heavens. He taught that the Milky Way is faint stars, that the shadows on the moon are mountains, and that tides are linked to the motion of the moon."
            Ellienne's nerve failed her when she opened the Canon of Medicine by Avicenna, then realised that she had read it in Arabic.
            "How do I know all this?" Ellienne whimpered, thoroughly intimidated by whoever she had been.
            She carefully replaced all the other books, took The Canon of Medicine out to the reading room, and opened it a dozen pages from the beginning. As she descended the steps of the tower, Ellienne was aware that she was no longer the blank, lost girl who had entered the library only a quarter hour earlier. The contents of every book she had opened had come flooding back to her, but not the circumstances in which she had read them.
            "Whoever I was, I must have been intimidating," she whispered to herself.
                                                                        #
Ellienne spent the remainder of the morning discovering that there were written words all around her, words that only she, Sir Gerald and Eric could read. She had seen and understood them for the entire four months that she had been in the tower, it was just the she had never thought about it. Words were embroidered into tapestries on the walls, carved into the archways above doors, and even chiselled into furniture. Rufus me fecit, declared the lid of one very old linen trunk. Who was Rufus, and how did a carpenter learn the Latin to declare that he made you? she silently wondered as she bent over the trunk.
            "Move along there, girl!" shouted Gretel, fetching Ellienne a whack across the backside with her wooden spoon. "Take this basket of food to the players up on Swinside and be quick about it."
            Ellienne walked out of the kitchen and into the walled garden. Carved into the arch in the wall above the gate were the words Quid Nunc? What now? translated Ellienne. The eternal warning to all travellers. What comes next? She walked out into the snowy fields, and as she approached Faerie Bridge through the dispersing mist she realised that she could read the warnings against crossing in halflight that were carved into its timbers. As she crossed the bridge she checked what was in her basket. It was just bread and goose eggs, a simple devotional offering from Gerald's household. While engaged in restoring the chapel, Tordral's  people were considered to be holy pilgrims.
            The ruined chapel where Tordral's company was staying was at the summit of Swinside Hill. The walls were still standing, but the roof, door and everything combustible were long gone. Many years ago a passing army had been in too much of a hurry to do a really good job of destroying the building, so someone had just tossed a firebrand onto the thatch roof then walked on.
            The mist thinned as Ellienne climbed Swinside, and as she neared the summit she found herself in sunlight. There the troupe of players was working very hard. They had already installed a roof frame, and when Ellienne arrived several of them were preparing thatch. She could see that the beams had been expertly squared and dressed before being mortised firmly in place. What is a master artisan doing as carpenter to a troupe of wandering players? Ellienne wondered as she climbed the steep path. If it comes to that, how do I know so much about carpentry? She also noticed that the tents had been laid out in straight rows on a stretch of level ground beside the chapel. A sentry had been posted, their staffs, axes, swords and bows were neatly stacked, and the approaches were all clear of cover. These people definitely know how to defend themselves, yet how do I know to notice such things? Was I once taught to be a child spy?
            A tall, muscular man greeted her as she reached the encampment. He introduced himself as Renard.
            "The master told me to expect you, young mistress," he said. "Welcome to our troupe."
            "Your folk work hard," said Ellienne. "When I passed by this place not three days ago, it was still a ruin."
            "Pah, we are really very lazy, and like our comfort. Once we have a roof, we can sleep and work inside. Winter is close at hand, you see?"
            Two girls were dancing while a woman played the jig Hare's Fancy on a pipe and tabor. Nearby a man was juggling coloured balls. Ellienne squealed and sidestepped into Renard when another man breathed a stream of fire across their path. Six others were lined up before a tentcloth backdrop painted to resemble the interior of a castle. They were rehearsing a play.
            "We are to perform The Son of Getron at Yule," Renard explained.
            "I have read that play, but not seen it," said Ellienne, knowing that the words were true, yet not knowing why she knew.
            "You read?" gasped Renard.
            "Yes, and I write and count besides."
            Renard shook his head, but it was more in amazement than from disbelief.
            "Do you think I could join your company?" Ellienne asked, unconsciously rubbing the place where Gretel's spoon had struck her bottom and suddenly anxious to escape the kitchen.
            "The master chooses who joins us. Why do you ask?"
            "I want to leave the tower. I think ... I think I am more than a kitchen maid."
            "A maid in a company of players is scarcely more than a maid in a kitchen. Come along wench, meet some folk in our troupe before you think to run away with us."
            Ward was a man somewhat older than Sir Gerald, and was making little dolls out of wood and cloth when Renard introduced Ellienne to him.
            "So, our second visitor for the day," Ward said as he offered her a doll. She accepted it out of politeness.
            "She can read," said Renard.
            "Can she indeed? Does the master know?"
            "Not as yet."
            "Well then, introductions must be made. Where is the master?"
            "Talking to the boy from the tower, the knight's squire."
            Ellienne very nearly dropped her basket. Eric is already here! she thought. Does he want to be a player too?
            "I brought these eggs and loaves as an offering from Sir Gerald," she said, trying to hide her surprise. "He has pledged a daily basket of food from his own kitchen while you work to restore the chapel."
            Before anyone could reply, Eric was led into view by a man of medium height wearing chainmail and a helmet. The youth stopped and gaped at Ellienne for a moment as he caught sight of her, then he hurried to catch up. Ward got to his feet, then he and Renard bowed to the warrior in black. Clearly this was the master, Tordral.
            "This youth is squire to Gerald of Ashdayle," said Tordral in a voice so low that it was almost a hiss. "Squire Eric, these are Sergeant Renard and Yeoman Ward. They will teach you some skills in fighting."
                                                                        #
Ward and Renard slowly circled Eric, assessing him as if they had expecting a hunting dog but had been delivered a sheep. Eric cringed with embarrassment. Ellienne was watching. Ellienne would tell everyone in the tower what he did or did not do and how he had failed. It was not that the girl was mean or vindictive, she just told the truth no matter how devastating it might be. In a way she was more brutal with facts and truth than the sceptical Eric.
            "How long a squire?" asked Ward.
            "Three years," mumbled Eric.
            "What weapon do you favour?" asked Renard.
            Eric hesitated, glancing at Ellienne. He had been trying to impress Martha with boasts of how well his knightly training was progressing. Now the truth was in danger of escaping.
            "His master has seen fit to teach him no weapons," Tordral explained, coming to Eric's aid. "I have pledged to train him in sundry martial skills in return for performing certain services at Faerie Bridge."
            "No weapons?" said Ward in a hard, sceptical tone. "He looks fifteen. That's old for starting."
            Mortified, Eric looked at the ground with his cheeks blood red.
            "But that's good, no bad habits to unteach," countered Renard in an encouraging voice.
            "Players travel the open road, and anyone who travels the open road must know how to fight," said Tordral. "Players must also feign to fight on stage, and before many folk who do know a real fight when they see one." Tordral turned the dark eyeslits of the iron helmet upon Ellienne. There was another long and awkward pause. "Now who is this?"
            "Respectfully, master," said Ellienne as she offered the basket to Tordral with a little curtsey, "Sir Gerald send these as an offering because your folk do holy work here."
            "Ah, that is kind of him. Please convey my thanks."
            "Begging your pardon, master, but young Ellienne can read and write," said Renard.
            Eric had the impression that the shadows behind the eyeslits suddenly became even more intensely black.
            "What languages?" Tordral asked.
            "French, Latin, English, ancient Greek, some other tongues," said Ellienne more eagerly than Eric had ever seen. "I can count, too."
            Ellienne stopped as she noticed the jaws of Eric, Renard and Ward drop in amazement.
            "We are holding up Squire Eric's training," said Tordral. "Ward, Renard, kindly proceed. Ellienne, walk with me."
                                                                        #
Using wooden swords and shields that were actually stage props, Ward took Eric through some basics of sword and shield to get an idea of whether the youth was genuinely inexperienced, or was just being modest. It turned out to be the most intensive three hours of training in Eric's entire life. When he was finally allowed to stop and rest, Eric was already feeling sceptical about where it was all going.
            "I never see Sir Gerald using a shield," panted Eric as he lay on the cold, bare ground. "Are shields still used anywhere, apart from in tourneys?"
            "A rich knight can afford fancy plate armour in place of a shield, but you will never be rich enough to buy armour and a warhorse," said Ward. "A shield is cheap to build and very effective."
            Because his answer was bleak, brutal and devoid of any sort of optimism, Eric decided that Ward could be trusted and that his words were true.
            "But who would hire a knight who has only a sword and shield, and fights on foot?"
            "Trust my word, lad,  battlefields have become too dangerous to be on a horse and wearing armour. At Crecy I saw the ground littered with dead French knights clad in costly armour, all brought low by bowmen like me."
            "Crecy?" asked Eric. "That battle was over a hundred years ago."
            "Ah, another scholar."
            "You - you speak as if you were there," said Eric, suddenly deciding that Ward was no more to be trusted than Gerald, Tordral, the town priest or the local hedgerow witch.
            "I was at Crecy. Since then I have spent seven times seven years in Faerie, then as many again."
            Eric searched frantically for appropriate words to use in a reply that would not seem rude. Here was a man who was talking complete nonsense, yet here was also a man who was teaching him how to fight. Eric reminded himself that he had learned more swordwork in the three hours past than in the previous three years with Sir Gerald. To reply as if trips to Faerie were as easy as the half mile walk from Keswick to Portinscale would have definitely seemed sarcastic, so he decided to steer Ward into doing more of the talking.
            "That is ... ninety-eight years!" Eric exclaimed.
            "Smart lad, so you can count too. I escaped nine years ago."
            "Er, were you lured away by enchantments?" Eric ventured, stretching his eyes wide and hoping it looked like an expression of wonder.
            "Aye, and I was a rich man back then. At Crecy I plundered the dead for small but costly trinkets: rings, jeweled silver daggers, gold florins, and the silken favours of great ladies, all the way from Cathay."
            "Wealth that a single archer might conceal and carry with ease?" asked Eric.
            "Clever lad, you'd make a fine battlefield looter. Aye, 'tis true. I returned to England a rich man, and I thought to live long and die rich. Alas, as I was riding home from Portsmouth harbour I passed through a wood and saw a lady being set upon by ruffians. I strung my bow, then laid four of them low before the others fled."
            "Did you marry that lady and live in a great house?" asked Eric, for all sorts of tales usually ended up that way.
            "Lad, that was the very heart of my intention. She implored me to escort her back to her castle. I was quick to agree. She led me to a gate in an old wall that guarded the ruins of a great house built by the ancient Romans. Alas, how was I to know it was a boundary place? It was dusk, on Beltaine. The year was 1338, and I did not see another year of our calendar until 1436."
            Eric was about to say how young Ward looked for his age, but then he reminded himself to take the story seriously. He was desperate to learn acting and fighting skills, and this was his only chance.
            "So the lady was not of this world?" he asked.
            "No lady of this world could ever have matched her beauty."                                   
            "But surely you were suspicious when you saw her castle was just ruins?"
            "She embraced me and laid kisses upon me. Men do not act with sense when a lady does those things, you will learn that lesson soon enough. We stepped through the gate and ... I have not the wit to describe what I saw and heard. A vast, dark forest, a huge troll to bar the way, a difficult riddle, the command to drop all iron objects that I carried, then we were in the strangest land that you may guess at. The lady did indeed have a castle, and it was fair beyond any dream you could ever conjure."
            "It still sounds to be a pleasant fate," said Eric, who was now growing anxious to get back to his training.
            "Pleasant? Pah! I did not know the lore, and that is not wise in Faerie. Very soon I had eaten Faerie bread and drunk of Faerie mead. Before I knew it I had bartered all my fine rings and jewelled silver daggers away. I had thought to charm that lady and win her hand in marriage. Instead I found myself in her obligation, forced to work as her servant. Slowly I learned the ways of fae obligation, and even in Faerie there are some who are upon hard times. I got an elf into such obligation to me that he agreed to take me back to Earthlie rather than be in my service for seven times seven years."
            "Earthlie?" asked Eric, mainly to show that he was paying attention.
            "That is the Faerie name for our world. There is Earthlie and Faerie, and between them is Boundarie. All of us in Master Tordral's troupe have been to Faerie. See the carpenter who is thatching the roof up there? His is Ivain, he helped build ships for William of Normandy when he invaded England nearly four hundred years ago. Be careful what you say when Jon trains you in the riding arts. He once fought in the service of the great Richard Coeur de Leon, and was the lover of a beautiful queen. Those ladies there are Meg, Grace, Anne and Lil. All were got with child by elf lovers. They were turned out of doors by their parents, and forced to live in hardship while raising fae brats."
            "I see no children."
            "Elf lovers return after seven years and take the boys away, leaving a pouch of Faerie gold as fee. For girls it is fourteen years."
            "That seems honourable enough."
            "Faerie gold becomes the dried leaves of autumn in our world. Even the pouch has more worth. Watch out for that lady chopping wood, she is very dangerous. Her name is May, and a very evil elfin lover once tried to kill her. She killed him instead."
            While Eric did not believe any of what Ward was saying, he was certain that the troupe was more than it seemed. The fifteen men and five women were hardened warriors, and were certainly more than the a troupe of players that they feigned to be. They were indeed a very formidable fighting force. Gerald's tower was home to thirty souls, but only ten of them knew what to do with a weapon, and just four of those had ever been in a war.
            They might well attack some similar, isolated castle, slaughter everyone inside, get away with all the gold and jewelry that is within, then go their way again as humble players, thought Eric, and perhaps they even have designs on Sir Gerald's tower. Yet even this makes no sense. Their leader makes no attempt to pretend that he is a man-at-arms or perhaps more.
Eric suddenly realised that Ward had avoided speaking about Tordral.
            "And Tordral?" Eric asked, innocently forcing the matter.
            "Nobody knows Tordral's story, but Faerie must have treated him harshly indeed," sighed Ward. "He gathered us together, a troupe of Faerie's victims. He has promised us revenge, and we believe him."
            "He frightens me," said Eric, this time with complete honesty.
            "He frightens us all. Malice hangs above him like a storm cloud - but enough talk. We must spend some time with the quarterstaff before you go for the day."
            "The quarterstaff? But that is not a chivalric weapon."
            "For the present, Squire Eric, it is your only weapon, so you must learn to use it to effect."
                                                                        #
Tordral and Ellienne circled the hilltop several times, all the while conversing in Latin, French and English, and discussing books that they had read. Unlike Ward, Tordral said nothing of Faerie at first, instead asking Ellienne about her life and background. Of this, Ellienne could say very little.
            "I remember nothing beyond last June," she explained. "I was told that my family was killed in the French wars."
            Tordral nodded. "Such things happen. People can blot out all the years of their entire past to escape an hour of horror. Perhaps it has left you more fortunate than those who can remember everything."
            "I remember how to read in many languages, yet none of the lessons in those languages. It must seem so strange to you."
            "Not at all, sometimes I wish I could forget what made me what I am. Tell me, what do you see in my name?"
            "It is from the French word for twisted, master."
            "And do you believe in Faerie?"
            For Ellienne this question was similar to "Do you believe in France?" or "Does Scotland exist?" Because she had so few memories, she treated everything as real until it was proved otherwise.
            "Oh yes. The cook at the tower, Gretel, tells me that boggarts steal scraps of cheese at night. Nixies move stools so that folk may trip over them in the dark, and leave pantry doors open for mice to creep in."
            "I meant do you believe in the land of Faerie."
            "Sir Gerald say it exists, so it must."
            "Indeed it does. I have been twisted by Faerie, just as your master Sir Gerald has been twisted by the magic of its bright and beautiful folk. All of my company have been twisted by Faerie, they are all Tordrals to a greater or lesser degree. That is what unites us."
            "But Squire Eric is not a victim of the elves, and he trains with you."
            "Squire Eric cannot travel with us where we are going. You can."
            "I - ah ... what do you mean?"
            "You are an elf."           
            Ellienne suddenly felt as if the bottom had dropped out of her stomach, and she betrayed herself with a little gasp. She had put her hands to her ears to check that they were concealed beneath her hair before she even realised it. Tordral's lips curled up into a shallow grin.
            "Your ears taper, and you lost all of your memories upon your fourteenth birthday," said Tordral. "At the age of seven, the boy children of elves lose all memories, and fir girls it is fourteen. They do, however, retain all of the skills they have earlier learned. You have kept your skills in languages and mathematics. You remember the content of all the books you have ever read, and you have read many books. Am I correct?"
            At those words Ellienne glanced about to check that nobody was nearby, then reached up with her left hand and pushed back the black  hair until her left ear was exposed.
            "Do you know who I am, Master Tordral?" she pleaded. "I can remember nothing from more than a few months ago."
            "Nothing at all?"
            "I ... I was told that my parents were French, and that an English army burned my father's house and killed my entire family. Some chivalrous noble took pity on me, and had me sent to England."
            "All nonsense."
            "Nonsense?" exclaimed Ellienne.
            "Both of your parents are still alive."
            "Alive," she echoed. "So one of my parents is an elf?"
            "That should be obvious. Does Sir Gerald know of your ears?"
            "My ears only began growing thus very recently. I kept them hidden for fear of ridicule."
            "They began to changer last June."
            "Yes, they did. But how do you know all this?"
            "Later, I shall tell of that later, you are not ready for the whole story as yet. In the meantime, the surest way to be burned at the stake as a daemon is to let anyone see your ears. Keep them concealed."
            "They embarrass me, so I keep them hidden anyway."
            "Continue to do so. As I have said, all of my company have been touched and twisted by Faerie. You have too, even though you cannot recall it. Would you like to join us?"
            Tordral's offer was completely unexpected. Just a day or so earlier Ellienne had been a mere maid that everyone treated as just a little simple. Suddenly, far too suddenly, she was becoming frighteningly special. For a moment she longed for her old sense of blank emptiness to return. She almost wanted Gretel to appear and hit her with a wooden spoon to return the world to normal.
            "Sir Gerald is my master," she replied, rubbing her hands together and cowering.
            "If Sir Gerald knew of your real past he would not permit you to remain a kitchen maid for any more than a heartbeat. One day he shall know the truth about you, but until then I have great need of you. I ask again, do you wish to join us?"
            "I am frightened. In the kitchen I have a roof over my head and food on the table, and the women are kind enough to me in a fashion. If I run away I would lose all that, and you may cast me aside once I am no longer useful."           
            "Listen to my question, wench. I am asking if you wish to join my troupe, not commanding you to run away."
            "Do I wish it? Yes, yes, with all my heart."
            "They stay in Sir Gerald's service, but serve me when chance permits it. Will you do that?"
            "I ... I believe there is no harm in it. Yes, I believe I shall."
            "Then welcome to my troupe of players, and my company, Ellienne. For now, please indulge me and do not tell another soul. Pretend that you are still in Sir Gerald's service."
            "Upon my life, yes. What would you have me do?"
            "Make sure that you bring Sir Gerald's offerings here every day, so that we have a chance to discuss your tasks and duties. Has any boy been courting you?"
            "No."
            "That is good, there is much that you must do alone, and in secret. In the meantime delivering eggs and bread here will keep your visits above suspicion. Always assume that you are being watched, Ellienne, and do everything with care and caution. Nobody must know that you are special, oh so very special."
            For Ellienne, the world was suddenly a different place. Only a day earlier she had been secure but empty. Now she was anything but secure but the first pages of the story that was her past were being turned for her to read. Although Tordral was anything but approachable, Ellienne suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of loyalty to the warrior. The feeling was so intense that she very nearly cried out. Try as she might, she could not recall what people meant when they talked about love, hate or any other strong emotion. Now she had learned to feel loyalty, and she liked the feeling. It gave her a place, it allowed her to belong, it defined her. Before that moment she had felt like a ghost, drifting empty through the lives of other people. Now she was beginning to be real.
                                                                        #
Ellienne returned to Gerald's tower once she had finished speaking with Tordral, but Eric stayed on to watch the players rehearse when his training was done. Before long he was invited to join in with them. He learned to breathe a streamer of fire from Guy, and was taught a new jig from the south by Lil. In return, Eric demonstrated several conjuring tricks he had learned years ago. He broke a twig, made the pieces vanish, then pulled it out of Renard's nose, unbroken. While his audience was still clapping he pushed the twig into his fist, then pulled out a square of cloth. For his finale, Eric tossed the cloth in the air with his left hand, caught it with his right, rubbed it into a ball between his hands, then opened them to reveal Renard's purse.
            "I wager that you used no magic to do that," said Renard as Eric tossed the purse back to him.
            "There is no magic at all, only trickery," replied Eric. "Er, respectfully, my lord."
            "Hold there, a silver florin is missing!" exclaimed Renard.
            "My apologies," said Eric, drawing the coin from behind Renard's ear.
            Again his audience laughed and clapped.
            "So where did you learn such ... trickery?" asked Renard.
            "My father was the woodsman for a monastery, and one of the monks was a reformed cutpurse. He had once made his living by distracting people with tricks while his free hand pilfered coins and trinkets."
            "Enough of this, it seems that you are already a performer of some merit. We are to perform The Son of Getron for Yule, to celebrate the roof of the chapel being restored. You will be one of Getron's soldiers in the battle scene, then a conjurer in the court of King Marmorinus in the banquet."
            Eric immediately thought of Martha. He would be able to look dashing and brave in front of her, because she would be sure to be in the audience.
            "Will the play be at halflight?" he asked. "You know, Sir Gerald and his vigil? I have to be with him."
            "It will be after dusk, with torches flanking the stage. The darkness shuts out the rest of the world, and makes the play more real for the audience."
            "Then I'll do it."
            As he walked back to Gerald's tower Eric was now sure that his destiny was to be a strolling player instead of a knight. The troupe had taken him through the moves of the battle scene, and his role was to kill two enemy warriors before being heroically cut down. He had learned the moves after being shown them a single time, and even Tordral commented that he was a natural actor. Fortune suddenly had nothing but promise for Eric and he was certainly looking forward to returning to the troupe the next day. Nevertheless, he still forced himself to feel morose.
            "Everything is going too well, someone must surely be scheming my downfall," he muttered as he walked. "And if not someone scheming, then it will be witless Sir Gerald who will somehow manage to spoil everything with stupidity."
                                                                        #
"Foul and evil daemons and spirits of Faerie, attend my words. I, Sir Gerald of Ashdayle challenge you to chivalrous combat for the honour of my dead sister!"
            As he shouted his challenge, Sir Gerald stood holding a culverin in both hands, pointing it over Faerie Bridge. The weapon was an iron pipe bound to a wooden stock, with a touch-hole bored at the pipe's base. Eric stood beside him with a smoking match fuse. It was just after sunset on the evening of the midwinter solstice, and the light was still strong enough for Eric to see the warnings carved into the wooden posts of the bridge. They forbade anyone to cross just before sunrise or just after sunset on the days that were listed. This was only useful to those who could read, however, and such people numbered not one in a thousand.
            "Fire now," said Gerald.
            "Er, how?" asked Eric.
            While Gerald had seen culverins fired on the battlefield, he had never actually fired one himself. The gonne-man who had provided the weapon had given them instructions about how much powder to use, how to wad the ball and ram it down the barrel, the dangers of reloading without first checking for smoking fragments, and which end to point at the enemy. There was, however, more to firing a culverin than all this.
            "You fire it by igniting the powder with the match fuse," said Gerald, trying to recall how he had seen it done on the battlefield.
            "But the powder is in the barrel, under the ball and wadding."
            "There's a touch hole at the base. Touch it."
            Eric nervously put his finger on a small hole in a depression at the base of the barrel. Nothing happened.
            "With the fuse!" shouted Gerald.
            Eric did as instructed. Again nothing happened. Never having seen a gunpowder weapon fired, Eric was beginning to think that they were in the same class as angels, ghosts, elves and things that went bump in the night: all very frightening when they were in ballads and romances, but lacking in substance anywhere else.
            "It cannot be so hard to use, I have see men of very scant wit using these things by themselves in the heat of battle," said Gerald.
            "In that case you should have no trouble using it, my lord," said Eric, hoping that Gerald would not follow his wordplay.
            "They just touch the smoking end of the fuse to the hole. There is a small puff of smoke at the hole and a thunderclap at the open end of the barrel. The ball is then shot out as swiftly as an arrow and it kills people."
            "Then why not use a bow an arrow?"
            "The merchant who sold me this one said it was just the thing against fairies and elves."
            "So is a bow and arrow," said Eric. "I mean the fae folk are so frightened of yours that they never come near Faerie Bridge."
            This had not occurred to Gerald. He frowned in thought as he stood holding the culverin.
            "You just may be right," he said brightly. "All the more reason to get this culverin working."
            "Why is that, my lord?" sighed Eric.
            "Well, when they see me with this culverin, they will think it not dangerous and feel safe to approach. Then I shall shoot."
            "We are not having much luck with the shooting part just now."
            "You are quite right there," said Gerald. "All the more reason to discover the trick of making it work."
            "Perhaps the powder is not good," suggested Eric.
            "But I paid three pennies for it."
            "You paid that for the fairy net, sir."
            "But that worked."
            "You caught eleven bats, two thrushes and a blackbird."
            "But that proved it worked."
            "The fairies might have been flown straight through the net, my lord."
            Gerald had not considered this.
            "Yet again, you are right. Well, back to the culverin. How do we find out if the power is good?"
            "We could try burning some," suggested Eric.
            Gerald watched as Eric uncorked the powder horn and poured a small pile on the bag in which he had carried the weapons. He touched the end of the fuse to the pile. It ignited with a loud whoosh and a dense cloud of pale smoke. Eric yelped and fell back in the snow, coughing and beating at the sparks in his hair and clothes.
            "Well that seemed to work," said Sir Gerald.
            "The bag!" cried Eric, scooping up snow to extinguish the smouldering edges of the hole in his bag. "The powder burned my bag."
            "Perhaps you should have piled it on the rock," said Gerald. "Powder burns hot and ignites all around it."
            Eric his not like it when his scepticism was proved to be unfounded. Discovering that gunpowder really did explode was rather like being told that God was waiting in the walled garden and wanted to have a few words with him on the subject of atheism. On the other hand, he was now convinced that gunpowder really did explode.
            "Master, that's the trick!" exclaimed Eric, suddenly realising what they were doing wrong with the culverin. "We have to pile a little powder in the scoop over the hole. That lights the powder in the barrel."
            "Well that's obvious," said Gerald. "Fetch the powder horn and do so."
            Both knight and squire were holding their faces as far away as possible as Eric lowered the smoking fuse to the little pile of powder that had been placed at the base of the barrel. There was a thunderclap blast as the charge ignited, sending a ball of iron an inch in diameter streaking across the bridge, and also knocking Gerald flat on his back in the snow. A stiff breeze blew the cloud of fumes aside. Two hundred yards to the west a sapling toppled, struck by the iron ball.
            "Fine shot, my lord," said Eric, as Gerald got to his feet.
            "Fine shot?" replied the knight. "But I see no dead elves."
            "But that tree is now in very poor health. You were aiming for it, were you not?"
            "I, ah, yes, of course. Ah, but would that my shot had reached Faerie, and not stayed in this world. Now reload."
            Having seen the effect of spark on gunpowder, Eric was especially careful to clean out the culverin's barrel properly with a damp cloth on the end of the ramrod before reloading.
            "Come on, come on, I could have had a dozen arrows shot off by now," said Gerald impatiently.
            "I did suggest that, my lord."
            "Ah, but an arrow could not bring down a tree."
            "Why would you want to shoot a tree?"
            "Well ... one may need such power, elves may be very hard to kill. I mean, do you know anyone who has ever killed an elf?"
            "Admittedly not, my lord."
            "Well then, I really must try a culverin."
            "Brilliant logic, my lord."
            "Thank you, Squire Eric. Er, what is logic?"
            "Logic is ... being very clever, my lord. Will you be needing me to fire the next shot?"
            "The culverin has a devilish kick. Still, if common churls can use them alone, a knight of the realm can surely use one with ease. You will just do the loading."
            Eric's ears were still ringing from standing too close during the first shot, so this was quite a relief for him.
            "It is a most terrifying weapon," said Eric as he began to pour in the powder.
            "If it terrifies you, surely it must terrify the folk of Faerie," replied Gerald happily.
            Eric padded an iron ball with waste fleece and rammed it down the barrel, then handed the loaded culverin to Gerald. He stood well clear as Gerald fired again. This time the knight managed to hit the decking of the bridge. After three more futile shots there was no more powder remaining in the horn. Gerald strung his bow and commenced shooting arrows over the bridge.
            "My lord, may I go down to the river and wash the fumes from my face and hair?" asked Eric.
            "Do as you will, but stay out of my way."
            Down beneath the bridge, out of Gerald's line of sight, a rope had been stretched across the River Derwent. On the opposite bank was the dark shape of a body. Eric's task was simple, and his instructions were clear: haul the body across the river by means of the rope, then chronicle all that happened. The dead man was Blind Harry of Portinscale, who had died of a fit a week earlier. The body had been laid to rest in a grave near the chapel that Tordral's people were restoring. It had been salvaged from the grave that afternoon, and was reeking.
            Eric heaved on the rope, and on the other side of the river the body slid into the water. Hand over hand, Eric pulled at the rope. The body drew closer, bloated by the gases of decay and floating high in the water.
            As it reached the midpoint of the river there was a faint violet flash. Eric blinked. The body appeared to have vanished, and all tension had gone out of the rope. After a moment he continued to draw the rope across the river. He saw that the end had been severed cleanly, as if by a very sharp blade. There was no sign of a body floating north with the current.
            First gunpowder, now magic, thought Eric. No, I am only willing to accept a single weird thing on any one day.
            "Boy, what are you about down there?" called Gerald.
            "I found a rope, my lord!" Eric called back, hurriedly splashing chill water on his face and hair.
            "Attend me, and be quick about it."
            By itself, the rope was nothing to raise the suspicions of Sir Gerald. Knight and squire stood guard at the bridge until halflight was past, then Gerald returned to his tower. Eric was left to take his torch and retrieve the arrows from the west side of Faerie Bridge. He found some of Tordral's players already there, gathering the arrows in the snow.
            "Well done, young squire," said Renard, holding out a sheet of reedpaper. "Now read this."
            Eric held his torch up to the writing and read.
            This day I saw balls of iron shot from a machine of earth, air and fire across a boundary place at a boundary time. They stayed within this world of Earthlie. This by my hand, Renard of no parish, Yule eve's halflight, 1448.
            "What have you to add?" Renard asked as Eric looked up.
            "Nothing. This is as it was."
            "Good, that is good. Now what of Blind Harry?"
            "I drew the corpse across the river by means of your rope. At about the midpoint the rope was severed by a means I did not see. The body sank out of sight, and there was a flicker of violet light. I have the rope here."
            Renard examined the rope, then dropped to one knee and began to write with a charstick while Eric held up the torch. Eric read the brief chronicle as it was being written.
            Squire Eric drew a corpse across the river at the boundary place at the boundary time, and observed it to vanish at the midpoint. There was a flare of violet fire to accompany this enchantment. The rope securing the corpse was severed, as if by a sword's blade. From this I deduce that the corpse of a mortal may cross into Boundarie. I also deduce that one may cross into Boundarie from west to east as well as east to west. This by my hand, Renard of no parish, Yule eve's halflight, 1448.
            "Blind Harry's corpse merely vanished," said Eric firmly. "Respectfully, that is. We have no proof that it left this world."
            "Ever the sceptic," said Renard. "Still, one sceptic has more value than all the scholars in Oxford."
            "My lord?"
            "The gullible are as common as dust, Squire Eric, and dust has little value. Now please, explain the clean cut of the rope as a sceptic would."
            "You - or someone - might have glued a cleanly cut rope to the body. Soon after the water touched it, the glue dissolved and the rope came free, looking as if sliced cleanly."
            Renard smiled so broadly that his teeth gleamed in the torchlight.
            "Superlative reasoning, Squire Eric, but why should I go to so much trouble to deceive a mere squire?"
            "A rogue may drink with a shepherd while another steals his sheep - er, with respect."
            For a moment Eric fancied that he had gone too far, but Renard just laughed again.
            "A fine attitude to have, it will see you prosper."
            "I don't understand you," replied Eric. "You seem so very practical and full of good sense, yet you believe in magic."
            "Squire Eric, do you believe that the little carvings in the shape of kings on a chess board are indeed kings?"
            "No, my lord."
            "Yet you still play chess. Last week you beat me in a game and won a pint of ale. The rules and pieces were nothing but fancies, yet they delivered a pint into your hands, and that was real."
            "I ..."
            Eric had a feeling that he was being led into a trap, so he decided to say no more.
            "Were this a game of chess, and were Sir Gerald your opponent, and were you winning, what might happen?"
            "My master has little patience with games. The only time I played chess with Sir Gerald, he flung the board and pieces from a tower window when the game went badly for him. It took me days to recover them all."
            "Did he win the game by doing that?"
            "No. You win games by following the rules."
            "Neither will he win revenge against Faerie by ignoring the rules of magical places, but Tordral is learning the rules of Boundarie even more thoroughly than the fae folk. When his grasp of those rules is superior to theirs ... well, even I am not sure what will happen. Today we learned that human form without human life may cross into Boundarie, and that the edge of Boundarie reaches from the decking of Faerie Bridge to the surface of the River Derwent. They are two more rules for crossing Boundarie and entering Faerie. What do you think of that?"
            "Do you want ..." Eric groped for diplomatic words, but found none. "Do you want honest words, my lord?"
            "Tordral does not punish honesty, Squire Eric, he rewards it."
            "I don't believe in either Faerie or Boundarie," said Eric.
            "Then just treat the whole world as a miracle play, and act out your part. Speaking of miracle plays, are you confident about your roles in our Yule play for tonight?"
            "Well, yes, but there is little for me to do. I have to fight with a wooden sword and die in the battle, then perform conjuring tricks in the banquet scene. There are not even any lines for me to speak."
            "Then there is no problem?"
            "Not entirely. I dread to think what Sir Gerald will do if he sees me on stage. He hates conjurers."
            "Sir Gerald will not be attending, but hundreds of others from hereabouts will be in the audience. Any band of ruffians can pretend to be wandering players, but by performing a play we prove ourselves genuine. This play is important, Squire Eric. It makes us look real as players, and thus harmless to our enemies. We are not yet strong enough to get into a fight."
                                                                        #
Everyone knew that Ellienne slept in the old pantry to keep guard over the kitchen at night, so none of Gerald's household thought to check on her, lest they be thought to be trying to steal choice morsels. Thus it was that Ellienne could leave her tiny bedchamber and make off into the night dressed as a shepherd, quite without fear of detection. The shepherd's clothing had been given to her by Tordral, and she had been told to attend the camp after dark. The thought of wandering about in the dark and thickening mist while dressed as a man would have filled any other girl with dread, but Ellienne did not have the memories from which dread is fashioned. Eric was searching for arrows with his tallow torch and calling the mist some very unseemly names as she crossed Faerie Bridge, and he paid her no attention. Two of the players appeared to be helping him. Before long she was at the chapel on the summit of Swinside.
            "Today you have some lessons to learn," said Tordral, standing in the shadows and all but invisible.
            "Do you have a new book for me to read?" asked Ellienne.
            "This is not  book learning. May, attend us."
            Ellienne had not known that May had been standing nearby, even though her eyes were exceptionally sharp. The woman was more than four decades old, but had not grown fat with good living, neither was she gaunt with privation. There was something odd about her movements, an odd, smooth grace that a cat stalking a bird might display.
            "May has had an interesting past," Tordral explained. "Do you know that being a noble can be very dangerous? Assassination is a constant threat."
            "Crowns are heavy, yet all would wear them," said May.
            "Correct," said Tordral. "Now Ellienne, how would you protect a noblewoman?"
            "Post guards?" ventured Ellienne.
            "In her bedchamber?"
            "Er, outside the door."
            "And if the assassin enters by the window?"
            "Post guards there too."
            "But a great lady's bedchamber may be high in a tower. Guards cannot stand by the window, but a clever assassin might climb the wall and enter. What then?"
            "The lord must always sleep with his lady."
            "But lords are often away at court, or the wars."
            "Then the lord must resign himself to making another marriage," said Ellienne, hoping that she was not failing an important test.
            "A practical approach, but there are other ways. Take this knife, then fancy that I am a great lady and that this hilltop is my bedchamber. Try to stab me."
            "Stab you? But -"
            "I am wearing chainmail, Ellienne. Go ahead. Stab really hard."
            The blade of the knife gleamed brightly in the glow from a nearby fire. Because Ellienne had only very recent memories, she had few of the inhibitions that most other girls had been taught in childhood to develop as virtues. Assuming that Tordral did not intend to die, and that chainmail probably stopped knives, Ellienne lunged. May skipped gracefully across, as if she were demonstrating the steps of some dance. Ellienne felt her wrist seized, then her whole body was twisted around and she was rolled up over May's back before she went flying through the darkness. She thudded to the ground, and found herself lying on her stomach with May's knee between her shoulders before she realised that she had neglected to scream. The knife was no longer in her hand.
            "May was once a member of an elite and secret sisterhood that protects ladies of high degree from assassination," said Tordral as May helped Ellienne to her feet. "Unlike guards, they can share a lady's bedchamber. Unlike chambermaids or ladies in waiting, their fighting skills are fearsome indeed."
            "I have not heard of them," wheezed Ellienne, who was somewhat winded from striking the ground.
            "That is because they are secret. May will now begin your training in her dark and deadly arts. Think of yourself as a girl squire. May?"
            "Most men are stronger than most women," began May, suddenly putting on a surprisingly cultivated accent, "but strength is not everything. Give me your hand."
            Although apprehensive about another short flight through the air, Ellienne held out her hand. May took her gently by the wrist.
            "Now were I to press my finger just below your elbow -"
            "Ah!" shrieked Ellienne at the sharp stab of pain.
            "- it takes little strength yet hurts most wondrously. Were I to bend your hand thus -"
            "Ow!" cried Ellienne, dropping to her knees to try to escape the pain of May's grip.
            "- you would drop any knife that you were holding and fall to your knees. Notice too that I am now in a position to knee you in the face. A blow from the knee of even the most frail of ladies is equal to a punch from the fist of a very strong man. Up you come."
            "I shall leave you to your practise," said Tordral, who then glided into the shadows of the chapel with just a suggestion of swishing chainmail.
            "Mind now, a big advantage for a woman warrior is not to be taken seriously until it is too late," continued May. "Never ever show off your skills for the entertainment of others."
            "I have lived my life keeping secrets," said Ellienne. "The half year of my life that I can remember, anyway."
            "Good. Your only audience should be the man or woman who is about to die. Once the assassin is dead, pretend that some man leaped to your defence, then fled before you could even thank him. Someone is sure to claim the credit."
            "This all seems strangely familiar," said Ellienne, shaking her head as if to free up a memory.
            "Oh yes, I expect that it is."
            "But why?"
            "Because you are already a member of the nameless sisterhood."
            It took Ellienne a moment to comprehend what May had just said. She was a member of some dark society that killed killers. She was also a scholar. Ellienne added to that the fact that she was an elf, then her imagination failed her.
            "Will you tell me who I am?" she asked.
            "You are not yet ready to learn that," said May. "Now then, there are also things that you must do to revive the strength in your body. Muscles may not be everything, but there is advantage in a woman being unexpectedly strong. Always walk to market rather than riding the cart, carry heavy loads whenever the opportunity presents, and when you have time alone there are other exercises that will build strength without large muscles."           
                                                                        #
Down by the river, Renard had left Eric with two of the players to find the remaining arrows. In the darkening mist were Grace and Lil, alone in the field with him.
            "How many more arrows to find?" called Grace, holding her tallow and rag torch high.
            "Sir Gerald shot twenty-seven arrows, and I have two dozen plus one recovered," said Eric.
            "How many more's that in the king's tongue?" called Lil.
            "C'est deux," replied Eric.
            "What?"
            "The king speaks French, dummy," said Grace.
            "Two more arrows," said Eric, now aware that he had probably annoyed the very pretty Lil rather than impressing her.
            "Found one!" said Grace. "It's hit a tree."
            Eric sighed as he set off in her direction. Cutting the arrow out of the tree trunk without damaging it would take a long time. There was a snap from the direction of the other torch.
            "Oopsie, I stood on the last arrow in all this foggy mist," said Lil.
            Revenge, thou art as sweet as honey and swift as the wind, thought Eric as he accepted the pieces from Lil. He would have to tell Roger that it was he who trod on the arrow, of course. Explaining about his place in the troupe of players was all too hard. I'll tell Tordral that I prefer to collect the arrows by myself from now on, he decided. The remaining arrow had hit the tree squarely, and the iron head was all but buried in the trunk.
            "That's all arrows found," said Lil brightly. "No more to do, so we're away."
            "No you don't!" said Grace sharply as she clipped Lil across the ear. "I saw you jump on that arrow."
            "Didn't either."
            "We're stayin' until young squire cuts this one from the tree or it's Master Tordral who will be hearin' from me concernin' you."
            Sullen silence descended as Eric got to work on the tree with his knife. The bark around the arrow came away easily enough, but the wood beneath seemed as hard as iron.
            "Someone's comin'," said Lil.
            Eric and Grace ignored her. They were doing nothing wrong, after all.
            "There, he's crossing Faerie Bridge," said Lil, suddenly fearful. "Don't like it."
            "This is a common walkway across Sir Gerald's estate, and common folk may use it as long as they stay on the path," said Eric. "We are all common, so we may be here."
            "Want to go," whined Lil.
            "Should mind this next time you steps on an arrow for mischief," said Grace. "We might have been -"
            "Saints above, it's Blind Harry!" shrieked Lil.
            Eric had snatched up his quarterstaff and had stepped between the advancing spectre and the women before he realised what his body was doing. The tallow torches lit up a corpse advancing out of the mist, and it was bloated and trailing water. Blind Harry's eyes glowed amber, and they followed Eric as he approached. The words of a tavern song floated through the young squire's mind:
            Oh sing fal de riddle me raddle,
            And beware the likes of she,
            Fal de riddle me raddle,
            And the blind man he can see.
            With increasing alarm Eric saw that Blind Harry's staff was a thick branch, not cut neatly from a tree but apparently ripped down by brute force.
            I am faced with a corpse who wants a fight, thought Eric. This is the third weird thing I have faced in one day. Does nobody care that I can accept only one weird thing per day?
            Now grateful for all the quarterstaff instruction of the weeks past, Eric made a feint for Blind Harry's leg, then rammed the end of the quarterstaff into his stomach. A wave of foul gasses belched out at Eric, but Blind Harry came on, apparently unhurt. The walking corpse swung at Eric with his branch. The youth blocked the blow with his quarterstaff, but the force behind it lifted him from the path and sent him sprawling into the snow.
            "Lil, run for the master!" cried Grace from behind Eric. "Fetch him here. He'll know what's to do."
            Again and again Eric tried to stop the walking corpse, but although slow it showed no sign of pain no matter how hard he struck it.
            "Grace, run!" he gasped as he was sent sprawling yet again. "I'll slow him down, save yourself."
            "Without me to hold the torch you're fightin' blind, young squire. I'm standin' with you."
            Eric now swept for Blind Harry's foot, and managed to drop the corpse to the path. Although invincible, the walking dead man was slow. Eric worked his advantage by tripping him another five times before he heard voices behind him.
            "Squire Eric, stand aside!" shouted Tordral.
            Eric did as he was told, and Blind Harry lumbered past. He made no attempt to approach or attack anyone. They followed him through Portinscale. Nobody was awake in the darkened village as Tordral's troupe escorted the corpse on toward Swinside.
            "A splendid act of bravery, Squire Eric, but you need not have bothered," said Tordral as they walked.
            "But master, he was coming at us. The women -"
            "Were safe. Blind Harry's corpse was animated with a glamour cast in Boundarie, then sent back into our world."
            "But it is not a boundary time," said Grace.
            "Most likely he was sent back during halflight, but some ways downstream. He does not walk very well, so he took some time to get back to Faerie Bridge. He will now return to his grave at the chapel."
            Blind Harry climbed the hill unaided, stopped at the pile of rocks that marked where he had been laid to rest, then flopped to the ground and lay still. Tordral vanished into the night as the grave was being re-dug. Renard struck off Blind Harry's head with an axe, then Jon drove an iron stake through his heart.
            "Was that truly necessary?" asked Eric once he had finished throwing up.
            "We must ensure that he stays down where he belongs," said Renard.
            "You mean he might rise from the grave yet again?" asked Lil.
            "Perhaps. You never know with glamours."
            Once the corpse had been re-buried, Renard and Grace returned to Faerie Bridge with Eric. As Renard chopped the last arrow free of the tree trunk, Eric and Grace retrieved the other arrows from where they had been abandoned.
            "You stood between me and a nightmare, Squire Eric," she said softly. "I'll not forget that."
            "Pah, as it happened he was harmless," replied Eric, genuinely embarrassed.
            "But you weren't to know, Squire Eric."
            Grace put a hand beneath his chin and kissed him on the forehead. Eric's mother had died when he was a baby, so he could not remember ever being kissed by a woman. He had no idea of what to do or say, and had a hard time accepting that it had happened at all. A woman had kissed him. It seemed as unlikely as fighting with Blind harry's corpse.
            "I, ah, think a knight should always defend women," said Eric lamely.
            "Then you'll make a fine knight indeed."
            "Squire Eric, your arrow is free of the tree trunk," called Renard, ending the awkward moment abruptly.
            All the way back to the tower Eric tried to come to terms with what had happened at Faerie Bridge. Perhaps Blind Harry had not died in the first place, and the corpse that Eric had dragged across the river had been that of someone else. Then again, Blind Harry might really have died, but someone who resembled him very closely could have been dressed in his clothes and told to go on the rampage. Another trick would have been to replace the corpse with a living man, who had cut the rope, dived beneath the water, then swum away. The corpse was then replaced and mutilated when they got to the chapel.
            Why is Tordral trying to deceive me, or is someone else trying to deceive Tordral? wondered Eric. Whatever the case, there has to be a plausible explanation.
            For Eric, there could be nothing else. He knew conjuring tricks, so he expected tricks from everyone else. Even when something dead lumbered out of the unknown, it had to be a trick.
            Then there was Grace's kiss. He had defended a woman, and she had treated him as a hero. The feeling of being heroic was absolutely intoxicating, and he longed for some new danger to leap into view next time he was in the company of anyone female.
            "Eric?" called Martha from an upper window of the tower as he entered the walled garden.
            "Aye," replied Eric, wearily waving his tallow lamp. "Only one arrow broken tonight."
            "Did anything exciting happen?"
            "Nothing more so than usual."
            "I heard screams and shouts."
"Just some drunks from Portinscale fighting," said Eric, aware of what would happen if he told Martha that he had defended another woman from danger, and been given a kiss for his trouble."

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