CLICK HERE TO RETURN TO "The Iron Warlock" CONTENTS PAGE

Gerald's estate was relatively prosperous, but the folk of the surrounding countryside and fells were very poor and made a hard, marginal living, mainly from keeping sheep on the quite beautiful land beside the lakes. Thus it was that the free miracle play was eagerly anticipated for miles around. The priest saw it as an uplifting religious lesson to celebrate the restoration of the chapel, but for the local merchants and peddlers it was a chance to sell cakes and ale. The peasants were just excited about getting anything for free.
            Because King Getron's son was abducted at the start of the play and was miraculously returned to his family at the end, Gerald got the idea that King Marmorinus was an elf and that the play was about mortals triumphing over Faerie. For this reason he announced that he would send a silver florin to each of the players, and gave his entire household permission to attend the performance. Gerald refused to be present himself, however, having sworn to take no pleasure from anything until he had avenged the death of his sister.
            Eric spent most of Yule at the chapel, helping to unpack and assemble the stage and props. The backdrops were just cloth hangings with scenes painted on them, attached to the chapel's outer wall by poles and ropes. The stage was three handcarts pushed together, covered with planks and draped with tentcloth. More tentcloth on poles provided the curtains that hid the actors and singers as they waited to make their entrances.
            Eric was very excited by the roles he had in the performance, and for the first time in his life had started thinking realistically about the future. He was to be one of King Getron's guards, bravely dying to defend the young prince against the soldiers of King Marmorinus. Martha was sure to be in the audience, and she would see him doing something heroic.
            While this was not in the same class as rescuing her from a dragon, it would allow him to look like a hero. As for his other role, it was very funny and he knew that Martha had a sense of humour. Once they were a recognisable couple, Eric could press Sir Gerald about his career, because he would soon have a wife and family to support. Would he become the tower's seneschal, or did Gerald truly intend to make him a knight? Did he have a future in the tower at all, or should he leave with the players in the spring? Martha had already talked about becoming a player herself, so perhaps they were destined to have a life together on the road.
            Everything seemed to depend on Eric's performance in the play. The first sign of trouble appeared during Gerald's dusk vigil.
            "I have decided to attend the miracle play," the knight announced after he had finished calling his challenges and shooting his arrows across Faerie Bridge.
            "But my lord, your vow!" exclaimed Eric, instantly in a state of panic.
            "To take no pleasure until my sister be avenged? I will not abandon it, diligent squire. My intent is to attend this play to show that I approve of good and selfless works. At the end, I shall reward the players in person."
            "Very good, my lord."
            "I even hear that you are to be in the play."
            Eric felt another stab of panic, this one so sharp that he almost fancied that an arrow had streaked out of the darkness and struck him.
            "The - the players? I - I was helping them restore the chapel in my free hours. They invited me to play - er, in the play. To be in the play, that is. It seemed a worthy thing to do."
            "Indeed, and I approve."
            "You do?"
            "Yes indeed, it is a pious and worthy act."
            "They asked me to help with the preparations for the mystery play, then asked if I fancied being a player," babbled Eric, not quite able to believe that his master actually approved. "I saw no harm in it."
            "Of course not, but remember that you are squire to a knight of the realm. You must preserve your dignity."
            "Oh all my roles are dignified!" exclaimed Eric. "I fight and die as Getron's guard when the forces of the evil Marmorinus attack."
            "That seems worthy. What else?"
            Appearing in the orgy scene at all was bad enough, but breathing fire, juggling sheeps' eyes and pulling a stuffed rabbit out of his codpiece while wearing read tights, a pair or horns and a pointed tail did not seem to qualify.
            "It - it would spoil the ending for you, my lord," he improvised.
            "I see. Well, if I may give silver florins to a worthy endeavour, then why should not my squire give of his time also?"
            "Thank you, my lord."
            "When does the play commence?"
            "This night, an hour after halflight's end."
            Gerald glanced up at the stars, then looked west. Halflight was over, and in the distance he could hear the voices of the people of Keswick, who were waiting to cross Faerie Bridge to get to the play.
            "You fetch my arrows, and I shall go back and tell the folk that it is safe to cross," said the knight.
                                                                        #
Eric had been suffering from a slight trace of stage fright in the days leading up to the performance, but as he dashed the mile to the chapel he had no thoughts whatever of making a fool of himself by forgetting what to do on stage. Sir Gerald was coming, and Eric was to play the part of a common conjurer while dressed as the devil himself. Gerald's thoughts on conjurers were well known. As far as he was concerned, they were all merely thieves and cutpurses who had not yet been caught.
            If the devil existed I would say he was getting back at me for the red tights, horns and stuffed rabbit, thought Eric as he ran.
            Eric arrived at the chapel out of breath from the run, and was scratched, filthy and bleeding from several falls in the darkness.
            "Master, master, Sir Gerald is coming to the play!" he gasped as he fell to his knees before Renard.
            "Gerald?" said Renard. "Here? To watch?"
            "Yes, yes. He wants to be seen to support a worthy cause, and - and he will see me perform as a common conjurer! Sir Gerald hates conjurers. One once distracted him by taking his purse and making a sparrow appear from within it and fly away. Some time later he discovered his coins had been replaced with little stones. I cannot play the part of a conjurer, please my lord. There are so many other players in the revel scene, please, please, I shall not be missed."
            "Give your tongue a rest, let me think. You could play a different part."
            Eric suddenly sat back on his heels, wondering whether the night could possibly get any worse.
            "Please, no, anything but that! Not a new part, not unrehearsed."
            "It is important, but brief. You speak no words, and only tread the boards for some moments. Squire Eric, get to your feet. You must pace through the new role. Now! Guy will help you."
            "But, but, my - that is, Sir Gerald's arrows, I've not fetched them yet."
            "One of us will fetch them back for you while the play runs its measure."
                                                                        #
Tordral had chosen the time and place for the performance in order to have the greatest possible impact. The ground beside the chapel was almost level, and the stage was flanked by a dozen tallow torches. Above, the stars gleamed like ice turned to fire, and all around was darkness. Nothing familiar to the people of Keswick or Portinscale could be seen, so it would be easier to draw the watchers into the illusion of the play. Even the chapel had been transformed. Restored, it was miraculously new to the eyes of those whose great grandparents had only ever known it as a shell of stones surrounded by weeds and bushes.
            Sir Gerald was given the first view of the chapel's restored interior, and he was so moved that he pledged another dozen florins to buy wood to make benches and a door. Other minor dignitaries of the area followed, and all declared that the players were worthy folk for doing such work in their idle season. Some of them gave coins, but most merely made loud pledges. The area before the stage quickly filled.
            "Sir Gerald, may we have the services of your maid Ellienne?" asked Renard.
            Ellienne had walked to the chapel with the rest of Gerald's household, and had expected that she would just sit quietly in the audience and watch. Renard's request had been so unexpected that she had not even begun to panic as Gerald replied.
            "Ellienne?" he asked in surprise. "What does she know of plays and players?"
            "She can read."
            "She can?" he exclaimed, turning to Ellienne. "Why did you not tell me?"
            "I thought nobody would be interested, my lord," replied Ellienne, who had learned in the six months since the summer solstice that modesty and humility could keep a person out of a lot of trouble. "I am just a kitchen maid."
            "Who taught you to read?"
            "I don't know, my lord."
            "But surely you remember?"
            "I cannot remember that or anything else, my lord. I just know I can read."
            "I see, of course. Poor girl. You remind me of my sister, so clever and scholarly, then blighted by tragedy. You really can read, you say?"
            "Yes my lord."
            "And you already tend my sister's library. Can you read the books there?"
            "That I can, my lord."
            "Then as part of your duties you must go to my sister's library each day for an hour and read. Having a girl in the library and reading will make it seem as if Maylienne were alive again - but where are my manners? You, Renard. You say you need Ellienne to read?"
            "Yes my lord. The players need someone to prompt them with their lines if they forget. They have been so busy with repairing the chapel that they have neglected rehearsals."
            "Ah, but that is a worthy reason to miss rehearsals. Wench, attend Renard and help as you are able."
            "Yes my lord," said Ellienne, giving a curtsey.

#
Any other girl would have been thrilled that she had found favour with Gerald, but Ellienne was a new parchment upon which very few lines had been written. She knew that she was not human, that she was a warrior maid, and that she had read more books than everyone else in Keswick put together. To her, finding favour with a knight was nothing impressive by comparison. On the other hand, some of those who worked in the kitchen would be jealous, and would do their best to make her life a misery. Every advance comes at a price floated into Ellienne's mind, but she did not know what person in her forgotten life had said it to her.
            Perhaps this is Tordral's way of gradually freeing me from duties in the kitchen, she decided.
            Behind the chapel Ellienne discovered a scene of vaguely ordered chaos in the murky shadows. Eric was being stripped of his torn and muddy clothes and helped into real chainmail and a half-helmet. His wooden sword had been painted white, and in the torchlight it looked as if it were made of steel. Nearly all the others were dressed as warriors of Getron or Marmorinus, both the men and women. Getron's son was played by Lil, who was the shortest of the company and had the best singing voice. Grace played Getron's wife,.
            Because few of the audience even knew what a play was, and only three or four had ever seen one performed, Ward stood in front of the stage curtain and began to set the scene for them. Behind the curtain, Getron's family and household guards took their places on the stage. Ward now drew the tentcloth curtain aside. The audience gasped at the sight of the backdrop painting of a splendid castle, in daylight. On stage, Ellienne saw a carpet of pale faces in the torchlight. Somewhere there was Sir Gerald, the village priest, the kitchen girls, in fact everyone that she had known for the six months past. The faces were a blur of pale ovals in the torchlight, and seemed not at all threatening.
            This should make me freeze with terror, thought the girl, recalling the vaguest memory of stage fright, yet not feeling any of the terrors that should have gone with it. I wonder why I feel nothing.
            The principals began to sing their parts, but Ellienne only had to stand unmoving and read prompts to the people on stage when needed. When Renard began playing his bagpipes, she knew that the battle scene was beginning. Being one of only three guards fighting ten invaders, Eric was expected to put up a brave defence before being overwhelmed. He thrust his wooden sword at a player wearing a black surcoat, and the man obligingly fell. Several people in the audience cheered. Eric crossed swords with another player in black, feinted to his leg, then cut to his neck. The second player dropped, and this time everyone cheered. He had engaged a third player when there was a scream from the audience.
            "Look out Eric!" screamed Martha. "Behind you!"
            For Martha, along with most of the audience, the action on the little stage had merged with reality. Eric felt the prod of a wooden sword in his back, which was his cue to die.
            "He's killed Eric!" shrieked Martha. "He's killed our Eric! "
             Eric lay with the other fallen players, and Ellienne noticed that he had a broad smile on his face. Had I coin to wager with, I would wager that the lad will be granted a visit to Martha's nest of delights this very evening, thought Ellienne.
            Ward drew the curtain across to hide the stage, and everyone began getting up and helping to change the backdrops. Ward now stepped out in front of the audience and narrated what had happened for the benefit of those who were not sure what was actually real. He assured them that it was only a story, and that nobody had been killed. Even so, Martha and several other women were in tears, and a few men asked Sir Gerald whether he wanted volunteers to help get Getron's abducted son back. All the players who had been dead warriors hurried off the stage and went behind the chapel to change costumes.
            "Courtier clothes, everyone," hissed Grace. "Eric, not you. Off with your chainmail now. Bend over, shake - there we go."
            "Bring the halo."
            "Who'se got the frame?"
            "It's with the halo."
            "No it's not."
            "Anyone seen the halo?"
            "Found it! The frame's here too."
            The wicker halo had been designed to attach to a larger man's head, so now there was a frantic scramble to modify it to fit Eric.
            "Here's your sword, lad. Careful with it, the flame will be real."
            On the other side of the chapel the bagpipes began playing La Manfredina, which marked the beginning of the banquet revel in the court of King Marmorinus. Eric was escorted around the chapel by Grace.
            "Just move very slowly, and keep that sword away from anything that can burn," Grace hissed as Ellienne snatched her reedpaper pages back from the flames.
            "Which is everything," said Eric.
            "Aye, so be careful. One last time, what do you do?"
            "I'm Saint Nicholas, appearing miraculously. I enter stage left, cross to centre, take Lil by the arm, then lead her down stage right and off the stage. We walk right around behind the audience then back to the stage. By then the stage will be made up as Getron's castle again, and you will be waiting as his mother, Euphrosina."
            "Good, good, you have it. Remember not to walk too slow, that sword will not burn forever."
            Renard began striking a handbell with a drumstick, and Grace set fire to the tallow-soaked cloth that wrapped Eric's sword. Eric held the flaming sword high as he walked onto the stage and into the orgy that was the court of Marmorinus. King, courtiers and soldiers froze. Ward explained that Saint Nicholas had appeared miraculously and suspended time. Lil was at centre stage playing Adeodatus, the son of Getron. Taking her by the arm, Eric led her off the stage, lighting their way with his burning sword. They began the long journey around the audience. Ellienne could hear people praying to Eric as Saint Nicholas. She could also see Lil's hand fondling Eric's bottom. She wondered if Martha had the same view.
            What does love feel like? Ellienne wondered. Is it like the loyalty I feel for Tordral for giving me my life back, whoever I may be? If so, it must be grand.
            "That's our Eric, he's died and turned into an angel," shouted Martha, which indicated that she could not see where Lil's hand was. "He's got a magic sword!"
            By the time they had returned to the stage, the backdrop had been changed to that of Getron's castle. Leaving the Getron family united again, Eric hurried off the stage and gave his burning sword to someone to be extinguished.
            "Get the halo off!" Eric hissed to Guy. "The frame's digging into my head."
            "Not yet, you have to bow."
            "Bow?"
            "Bow to the audience!" prompted Ellienne.
            Cheering, whistling and clapping erupted as Ward explained that the good folk had triumphed, and that the play was at an end. Eric allowed himself to be guided back to the stage. The players lined up and joined hands behind the curtain. Ellienne noticed that Eric was holding hands with Lil on one side and Grace on the other. Ward whisked the curtain aside. Clearly the audience was not familiar with the post-performance bow, for there was a great gasp, then furiously renewed clapping and cheering as the cast bowed together.
            Ellienne soon lost count of the number of bows that the audience demended. Presently Gerald stood, held up his hands for silence, then called for a collection for the players. Renard offered his cap for the collection, and Gerald tossed a handful of silver in. Eric stood holding the cap while those of the audience who had anything to offer filed past. Ellienne lurked in the background, contemplating the unfolding romantic triangle between Eric, Martha and Lil with detached curiosity. It was like being an audience of one for a little drama that they were acting out. Loyalty seems somehow more pure than love, Ellienne decided. What I feel for Tordral is pure, but whatever Eric, Martha and Lil feel for each other seems confused and grubby.
            "That was a truly magnificent performance," said Gerald as he stood with Renard. "Your people are very accomplished players."
            "Thank you my lord."
            "I have seen The Play of Daniel, and The Play of Robin and Marion. Do you know them?"
            "They are very old works, my lord, but yes. We have performed them both."
            "You have? Magnificent! Yet you chose The Son of Getron?"
            "Robin and Marion is a very slight amusement, while Daniel is rather too complex for a country audience that is mostly commoners. This play is simple and exciting. It has a battle, a lost child, a banquet, and a miracle, all tied together by a happy ending."
            "Yes, yes, quite so. Your, ah, staging is more elaborate that is usual. In the plays that I have seen, the singers move very little, and there is no drawing of a curtain to change the scenes. They just stand in front of a different backdrop."
            "We think our style is the way of the future, my lord: excitement, action, and getting the audience feeling like they are watching things that are real. Mark my words well, in a hundred years everyone will perform plays as we do."
            "Well, I'll not be alive to attend the plays of 1548, but perhaps we have been given a taste of the future tonight. Well done, all of you."
            Ellienne had been had been listening as she watched Eric holding the collection cap. She was in two minds about just how complicit he might have been in encouraging Lil, but as she caught sight of Lil sidling in Eric's direction she decided that he was probably innocent but highly vulnerable. A dangerous predator was intent on whisking away his heart away before Martha had a chance to show her interest ... but just at that moment Martha burst out of the crowd and flung her arms around Eric's neck.
            "Eric, Eric, you were such a brave warrior and glorious angel!" she cried as others continued to file past and drop coins into the cap.
            "I was actually Saint Nicholas," he replied sheepishly, uncertain of how to react to Martha now that she was showing more ardour than himself.
            "We must have a feast in the kitchen to welcome our hero back to the tower," she said, turning to the rest of Gerald's household. "Eric, what would you like most?"
            "I would really like someone to get this halo off me."
            Renard took the collection cap from Eric, and Martha removed the halo.
            "Aht, there are comedians in the audience as well as on stage," said Renard as he examined the takings in his cap. "Two plane tree leaves, gold with autumn."
            Gerald gasped and snatched the cap from him. He drew out the two leaves and held them up in the torchlight.
            "These leaves are freshly fallen and unshrivelled, yet the trees hereabout are long bare," said Gerald. "Red gold that turns to red leaves is ... the gold of Faerie!"
            With that the knight flung the cap down and snatched the burning torch from Renard. He drew his sword.
            "Foul daemons of Faerie, come back and fight!" shouted Gerald, holding the torch high and glancing about for two faces that would be more fair than was humanly possible. "Creatures of Faerie! Answer me!"
            People scattered as Gerald set of in pursuit of whoever had donated the leaves.
                                                                        #
Two figures watched from amid the shadows of trees at the base of the hill as Gerald hurried down the path, brandishing his sword and waving his torch in the faces of everyone that he could confront. They were not shadows, so much as thicker darkness that the eye slid past, and were crowned by pale faces.
            "Why does the fool persist with making a spectacle of himself," said Darvendior. "After six years less a half, you would think that he might have learned better."
            "Such devotion is the foundation of ballads and romances," replied his sister. "I wonder if he sponsored this play, hoping that we would join the audience to watch."
            "Such cunning is beyond his wits. No, it took our leaves to catch his attention. Now he will stand all night at Faerie Bridge, hoping to catch us."
            "What concern of ours is that? We have another boundary place to be at when morning's halflight arrives."
            "It is annoying, nothing more."
            "It was you who twisted Sir Gerald's sister, so you must live with the consequences."
            "She spurned me. Nobody spurns a prince of elves and walks away whole."
            "Your choice, proud brother."
            By now the audience had largely dispersed, and in the distance the players could be seen taking their stage apart by torchlight.
            "So, did you see what you wished to see, alluring and powerful sister?" asked Darvendior.
            "The play was boring and without merit, but the performance was exceptional. For mortals, these players are very good."
            "Then you are happy?"
            "Happy, no. Satisfied, yes. Of late there has been strangeness at the edges of Boundarie. This troupe of vagabonds is new to the area, so I suspected them of some involvement. Now I am satisfied that they are indeed players. That makes me unhappy."
            "You are happy yet unhappy?"
            "Yes indeed, brother. Something has come to this place. Not Gerald, not his squire, and not the troupe of players, yet something lurks here. It is invisible, evil, and very, very patient."
            "Mortals cannot afford to be patient."
            "A wasp lives but months, bother elf, yet its sting is no less painful to a mortal who lives decades. Somewhere nearby is a nest of wasps, and it must be found and burned."
            Darvendior looked back up the hill to the chapel. Eric and Martha were still in each other's arms.
            "I wager that young Eric's stinger will soon find a welcome in that wench's nest," he said, inclining his head in their direction.
            "That is no business of yours or mine, brother. We should search for ..."
            She shook her head as she paused to think.  Darvendior turned back to her.
            "For what?"
            "A stranger. A scholar, perhaps. If a man, he may be a guest of the local priest. If a woman, there is a nunnery nearby where she might well be staying."
            "And if a spy?"
            "A spy may masquerade as anyone. If a merchant, and he would stay with other merchants. There are also outlaws in the woodlands of the fells. Suppose not all outlaws are as they seem?"
            "You mark out too much ground to cover, sister, and we cannot even be sure that there is anything there to find."
            "True, all true."
            "Then let us ramble in the fields and forests of Earthlie for what remains of this night. It has been an amusing few hours. Perhaps we can be the means to spread some amusement as well."
            "Keep your means of amusement within your trousers, brother of mine, and keep your hands off the wenches of Earthlie."
            "With you to watch, what else can I do? What are your orders?"
            "Remember when we mingled with the audience? Folk spoke of some master, who sponsors the players. His name is Tordral, he wears chainmail and a helmet as the rest of us wear robes and hats. They say he is a warlock."
            "A warlock who wears iron? Impossible. Iron smothers magic like a pail of water flung onto a fire."
            "Perhaps you are right. Let us search out some shepherds, and ask whether they have seen other strangers hereabouts."
                                                                        #
In the weeks that followed, Eric's status improved considerably. Being the only player who was also local, he was now held in high esteem in both Keswick and Portinscale. Even more pleasantly, he was allowed to kiss Martha twice, and she held hands with him when they went to market. He was not able to spend as much time with her as he would have liked, however. He still had to train with Tordral's players, and now Sir Gerald insisted that Eric also help with the restoration of the chapel. All of this meant that he had less time to spend in the company of Martha, but then he was the most eligible youth for many miles around, so he had nothing to fear from rivals for her affection. As the glory of playing Saint Nicholas began to fade in the Tower's kitchen, at Tordral's camp the danger from Lil's wandering hands intensified.
            Lil was something of a dilemma for Eric. She was flirtatious, and her hands seem to find their way under his tunic alarmingly often. Eric assured himself that she was only teasing, yet suppose that she was serious? Fantasies of encounters with Lil in the woodlands slipped unbidden into Eric's thoughts, and returned over and over again, no matter how firmly he dismissed them. By contrast, touching Martha anywhere between the knee and neck would get his hand slapped.
            "A truly chivalrous knight's love should be unrequited," he muttered to himself as he studied one of Gerald's books on the theory of chivalry, "yet did the man who wrote all these rules about unrequited love ever feel the touch of a wanton girl's fingers on his bare flesh?"
            Under the instruction of Tordral's people Eric learned to use a two handed broadsword, to fire a culverin by himself, and even to play a few simple dances on Renard's bagpipes. During the chatter of idle moments he discovered why every one of the players harboured grudges against Faerie. Renard turned out to be the most intriguing of them. He was a master of the black powder weapons, yet had read every book that Eric could think to mention. He seemed to know as much about magic as Tordral, which was not to be expected of a mere sergeant-at-arms. Although he was never happier than when talking about wars, women and feats of drinking, he was careful to stay off many subjects that interested Eric. He also insisted that he had lived in Faerie for seven times seven years.
            "It was a glorious place, but my elfin mistress grew bored with me and had me cast out of her palace and hunted like a fox," he said as they rested from sword work on a cold but sunny afternoon in late winter. "I was lucky. I reached a boundary place on the right day, at halflight."
            "But you are a mortal," said Eric, who was growing very familiar with the rules of magic that he did not believe in. "You should have fallen down limp and helpless in Boundarie without an elf escort."
            "Ah, but I did have an elf with me. An elfin hunter pursued me over the edge. There a mighty guardian of Boundarie challenged us with a riddle. In his frenzy to kill me, the elf warrior ignored the guardian's challenge, so the monster struck at him. While they fought, I crossed back to Earthlie. Half a century had passed, but I had not aged a single day."
            "Aht, you two, down te Newland Beck with ye!" called Ivain as he walked past. "Master's got a new weapon."
            "I know of it," said Renard.
            "But we only just finished it," said the old man, scratching his head.
            "Who is we?" asked Renard as they fell in with Ivain.
            "The master, Jon, Guy and meself. We built our parts separate, an' master assembled 'em just an hour back. How'd ye know?"
            "I am the master's sorcerer, remember?"
            Sorcerer, thought Eric. A sorcerer in the guise of a low born warrior. It had been a good disguise until that slip of the tongue ... but perhaps it had not been a slip. Eric was aware that he was slowly being taken into the confidence of Tordral's company of players - who were not players. Where is this leading? he wondered.
            After three years in the service of Sir Gerald, Eric knew the pagan feast days as well as any pagan. This was the eve of such a day, but it was not a boundary time. Thus whatever was being tested was likely to be real. There was a sharp, metallic smell on the air, like steam from a rusty iron pot. The smell hung about Tordral's camp constantly, and Eric knew it to be from the hissing sufflators that they used constantly in their forges. These were just enclosed vessels filled with water that were suspended over a small fire. The jet of steam that resulted was then piped to a bigger fire to make it burn more fiercely. Eric thought it odd that steam from water could make a fire burn better, but the evidence was before his eyes and real, so he accepted it.
            "Such a relief," said Eric aloud as they walked.
            "What is?" asked Renard.
            "We are going to see something real. So much in my life is not real."
            "Not real? What is that?"
            "Well ... everything. Magic, elves, Faerie, Boundarie, being a squire, courting Martha, learning to fight -"
            "We teach you to fight."
            "I've spent more time carving angels on the sides of benches than I have crossing blades with you."
            "But suppose you found yourself in mortal danger from a pack of outlaws with only a chisel to defend yourself?"
            "Ah yes, I could ask them to sit down and wait while I carved them a nice cherub."
            "Squire Eric, your are too cynical," said Renard. "You must let a little magic into your life."
            "Magic? I have never once seen anything magical."
            "What about Blind Harry's corpse made alive?"
            "That was probably some churl dressed up in his clothes and rubbed with rotting meat."
            "Why would we do that?"
            "How should I know? To make me think magic is real, to test my resolve to stand and fight, to see how readily I would soil my trousers."
            "Alas, Squire Eric, I feel pity for you."
            "Why? Because I attend a witless knight who shoots at nothing across an empty footbridge in all weathers?"
            "No no, it is because you refuse to see the wonders that are all around you."
            "Where, for example?"
            "Here, at Newland Beck. You are about to see a wonder greater than magic or miracles, but you will probably think it a trick."
                                                                        #
They arrived at Newland Beck to find that one of its tributaries had been blocked to form a wide pool. Tordral was standing before the company, and Jon was holding a beautifully made toy boat. Tordral beckoned to Renard as they approached. The sergeant began speaking as Eric and Ivain sat down.
            "Think upon these rules of passage," Renard began. "A mortal can cross into Boundarie, yet an arrow cannot. A dead man may cross, but a live sheep cannot. Jon, what does this mean?"
            "Boundarie is, to human form, open, whether dead or alive," said Jon slowly.
            "This is correct. Now, this little boat has form, yes?"
            People muttered that it did, or just nodded.
            "This boat is form without spirit. Without a human to paddle, wind for sails, or the force of a current, it cannot move. Motion without life, air or water should not be possible. Break that law, however, and you can go anywhere and do anything."
            "My head hurts," complained Ivain, and everyone laughed.
            "Then think on this. The king's palace is forbidden to the like of me."
            "Aye, an' a good thing too!" called Ivain. "Ye'd tup the queen otherwise."
            Renard waited for the laughter to die down before continuing.
            "If I gather ten thousand armed men, however, I can break the king's law and force my way into his palace."
            "Aye, but the queen would still slap yer face."
            "Squire Eric, would a boat that moved of itself break any law?"
            "Ah, yes. To move of itself, without anything to help, it would have to be alive, like a duck," said Eric.
            "All true. I say that this boat is alive, too. See, it has a little sufflator mounted on it, a vessel of iron, containing water, heated by fire, which creates steam. Who knows of sufflators?"
            "To make fires, blaze hotter, they're used," said Jon. "For any blacksmith, the making, is easy."
            "Think, now, those who were not in the master's company in London. How to move a boat so that enchantment may not stop it?"
            "Row?" called Grace.
            "Enchantment can make a rower swoon. I have seen it happen."
            "Sails?" suggested Lil.
            "Enchantment can control the winds."
            "A tow horse?" called Eric.
            "Elves have a way with animals."
            "Drift with the current?" said Ivain.
            "Water can be commanded by the fae folk."
            "How then?" asked Eric.
            "With what the master calls a steam impeller. Ivain, you know boats."
            "Aye, I've built a few."
            "Fling a heavy rock from a boat. What happens?"
            "Er, big splash?"
            "The master discovered as a child that the boat also moves a little in the other direction. Eric, replace the master with a sufflator flinging steam, and what happens? "
            "Nothing, steam's not so heavy as rocks," said Eric, although he had the feeling that he was missing some very important point.
            "But the water in this little sufflator is as heavy as a small rock. Watch now."
            The boat's sufflator was a long, thin metal cylinder. Seven squat candles were burning beneath it, and there was a spigot at the back. Jon turned the spigot with a gloved hand and immediately steam hissed out. Everyone stood up and moved away, looking very uneasy. Clearly they know something that I do not, thought Eric. Lil sheltered behind him, looking over his shoulder, her arms around his waist.
            "Is this sort of thing dangerous?" he asked.
            "Only if we're alone, in moonlught," giggled Lil.
            Jon set the boat on the water. Immediately it began to move of its own accord. There were cries of amazement, then cheers.
            It moves my itself! thought Eric, astounded. Not possible. Surely some trickster is at work here.
            "So, you have before your eyes a wonder, Squire Eric," said Renard. "Do you still think that the world around you is nothing but tricks and deception?"
            "Perhaps a duck is concealed beneath the boat but with its legs free to paddle," said Eric. "It has to be a trick."
            The little boat had almost crossed the pool when without warning the sufflator exploded with a blast like a culverin shot. The wreckage promptly sank.
            "Like Boundarie, this idea has its dangers," sighed Tordral in the silence that followed. "Jon, Renard, search for the pieces."
            As Renard walked away Eric became exceedingly aware that Lil had slipped her hands under his tunic and down the front of his trews.
            "Please!" he hissed over his shoulder. "Someone might see."
            "Only if you let me play hunt-the-arrow with you again, in halflight."
            "No!"
            Eric abruptly rocked backwards. Pushed off balance, Lil hurriedly withdrew her hands to break her fall. Eric hurried away to stand near Grace, who was not inclined to put up with any nonsense from Lil. The company stood around watching while Jon recovered what he could of the wreckage, then they began to go their separate ways. Renard called Eric to him on the way back up to the camp.
            "Do you understand what the master just did?" the sergeant asked. "And please, no talk about exploding duck tricks."
            "Er, he mounted a sufflator in a boat, and made a thing without life that moves."
            "What is the word for that?"
            "A golem. Some sort of Jewish device, I think."
            "What else? What are its elements?"
            "All elements. A sufflator is a device of earth, air, fire and water."
            "Very good, Squire Eric, but now tell me this. How well would Sir Gerald be disposed to our master if he were to see such a golem boat vanish at the river's midpoint?"
            "He would be astonished, but it would not take his fancy. Sir Gerald wants only weapons to fight Faerie."
            "Even were Tordral to tell him that the next boat might carry iron nails mixed with black powder, affixed to a long fuse?"
            A weapon, thought Eric. Any weapon would certainly secure Sir Gerald's attention. Even a floating powder horn moved by a concealed duck and lit by candles.
            "That would be different," said Eric brightly.
            "Are you sure?"
            "Sir Gerald would swear eternal brotherhood to anyone who could set off an explosion in Faerie."
            "Free access to Faerie Bridge on boundary days will be enough. The master has a second golem boat ready, and if we use one less candle it may not burst. Tomorrow it will be tested before Sir Gerald."
            "Tested? You mean it may not work?"
            "It will, as long as it does not explode."
            "Well, why no build a stronger sufflator?"
            "No time, Squire Eric, no time. I am taking a gamble because I need free access to Faerie Bridge. It straddles an edge of Boundarie that is on water. Faerie Bridge is on the only such boundary place outside London, and London lacks privacy. We must do our tests here."

#
In her time in the tower library Ellienne noticed a very curious thing about the window. Every word spoken in the walled garden three floors below was quite clear to her when she was sitting beside it. One of the books that she had been reading referred to this as a whispering gallery, a trick of the builders whereby one could hear words more loudly at distance than when standing closer. On this day she was reading at the window when Martha and Eric returned from the market. Instead of going across to the door to the kitchen they stopped in the snow to conclude an unfinished argument.
            "... and if you ever again put your hand on my tush when I bend over, then - then I'm going to ask old Hugh to go with me to the market from now on," whispered Martha angrily.
            "But we're meant to be sweethearts," replied Eric. "Sweethearts do that sort of thing."
            "How do you know? I wager that wanton baggage Lil has been giving you lessons."
            "Not so! Renard told me."
            "Renard? Lies! You have become too skilled at running your hands over the forbidden parts of me. You would get me with child."
            "What? From patting your bottom? You only show me tenderness in the company of others."
            Ellienne chanced a glimpse down into the garden, but they did not notice her. Eric seemed restless, pacing in a circle while Martha trailed after him and nagged him about Lil.
            Is all this grief truly the attraction of being in love? Ellienne wondered silently. Alas, poor Eric, you fight off the temptations of Lil without any reward from Martha. Little wonder that folk prefer to read about affairs of the heart, rather than experiencing them. Being empty seems less painful than being in love. I shall never fall in love. Loyalty is far better.
            It was the afternoon of Imbolc'e eve, and the day was well advanced. The garden was still snowbound, but the famed spiral briar roses after which the tower had been named were seen at their best when bare and stark. All grew in spirals that were about the diameter of a man's calf. Some grew clockwise, others anticlockwise, and there was even one that had been split in two while a seedling and been trained into intertwined clockwise and anticlockwise spirals. At the centre of the garden, however, was a single bush that was growing completely wild and untouched. Ellienne could not make up her mind whether this was her most or least favourite.
            Presently Eric and Martha sat down together on one of the stone benches.
            "Eric, for the love of heaven what is the matter?" Martha asked. "Why do you spend so much time with the players?"
            "I've told you, many of them are veterans of the wars in France. They are teaching me to fight."
            "You never invite me to watch."
            "You are always busy in the kitchen when I have to go there."
            "I wager you choose the times so that I'm always busy."
            "Why would I do that?"
            "So you can play fondle botty with that baggage Lil in some hayloft."
            "Never!"
            "Then show how much you love me by staying here in the tower tomorrow."
            "And get my face slapped if I come within arm's reach of you?"
            "Eric, Eric, you will have all of me forever once we are married. All you have to do is prove your love by waiting - and by staying here tomorrow."
            "It's Imbolc tomorrow," he muttered. "Do you know what that means?"
            "Er ... that's the midwinter fire festival. Country folk light bonfires to ask the old gods to return the world to spring, and priests preach against country folk worshipping pagan gods."
            "Aye, and the next two evenings and mornings will be boundary times. That bodes very ill. "
            "I thought you didn't believe in such things."
            "Aye, and I don't, but Sir Gerald does, and so does Tordral. Tomorrow morning Master Tordral means to meet with Sir Gerald at his vigil. Sir Gerald hates to be disturbed at such times. He may well attack Tordral."
            "He may, but what has that to do with you staying in the tower and helping me to chop up vegetables?"
            "My two masters are going to fight and you want me to chop vegetables?"
            "I want you to stay away from Lil!"
            "I won't be with Lil! You're not listening to me, you just want me to throw my prospects away to prove I love you."
            This sort of thing never seems to happen in any roman courtoise, thought Ellienne. I should write this all down as a new type of romance. Kitchen bench romance? Chopping board romance? It may start a new fashion.
            "Just do whatever squires do when their masters fight," said Martha. "Then come back to me."
            Eric got up and began pacing back and forth before her.
            "I - I am sincere about you," said Eric. "I've spoken to Sir Gerald about ..."
            "About?"
            "About my prospects. Well, our prospects. The Tower of Briars has no seneschal, Sir Gerald himself looks after many of a seneschal's duties. That is not seemly for a knight. He also feels bad about neglecting my training. Instead, he proposed grooming me to become seneschal here."
            "But that's wonderful!" Martha exclaimed, clapping her hands.
            "Yes, and it means that we could be betrothed."
            Betrothed! flashed through Ellienne's mind. Betrothed to a seneschal. Surely a good prospect for any maid such as Martha. Just like the happy ending to a sad story.
            "You're just saying that as a ploy to get your hand up my skirts," said Martha, suddenly casting about for any excuse to cool Eric's ardour. "My mother told me all about what boys say to have their will of a girl."
            This is silly beyond all belief, thought Ellienne in amazement.
            "Well speak to Sir Gerald, ask him," Eric replied.
            "I can't do that! I'm only a kitchen maid."
            "So what do you want of me?" exclaimed Eric angrily. "You call me a liar, then refuse to speak to the master to prove me truthful."
            Does she realised just how many girls would fall over themselves to be courted by a seneschal? wondered Ellienne. She is too stupid to be worthy of him.
            "Eric, love ... somehow I just don't feel old enough," Martha managed, finally aware that she was in danger of discouraging the youth a little too much.
            "You're nearly fifteen."
            Say yes or marry a ploughboy, thought Ellienne.
            "Eric, I will say yes to being betrothed to you -"
            "Ah!"
            "But only after you become seneschal."
            "What? That will be years away."
            "But surely our love is greater than a few years."
            "Sir Gerald said I must be twenty."
            Five years, thought Ellienne. Five years is not much. I have lost three times more years from my life.
            "Five years is not so long," said Martha.
            "Five years is a third of my life thus far," retorted Eric. "That is too much. You just look for excuses to push me away."
            True enough, thought Ellienne.
            "Squire Eric, I ask very little!" Martha suddenly snapped sharply. "You have slain no dragons and won no tournaments in my honour. Can you honestly claim to have done more than chase away the occasional dog that barks at me in the market? If you love me so very much you must do something important in my honour, and being made seneschal of the Tower of  Briars is something important. I have no more to say on the matter."
            With that she snatched up her bags and stormed off into the kitchen. For the rest of the afternoon Ellienne wondered if she might have seen the end of their liaison. For her, it was a vicarious romance, something better than was to be found in books, yet of little risk to herself. There was definitely no risk of being tumbled in a hay loft and finding herself with child. Even more importantly, there was no risk of caressing hands discovering her pointed ears and putting her on a path that would lead to few brief but distressing moments tied to a stake on top of a pile of firewood. With every word that she spoke and move that she made, Ellienne was constantly aware that she not entirely human, and of the need to keep humans at distance. As for her true nature, that was very much open to question. The fact that she was not human was as plain as the ears on her head, but only Tordral was providing any details and those details were few and widely spaced.
                                                                        #
With the sun still above the horizon but the mist rolling in across the lake, Ellienne walked openly from the kitchen, through the walled garden, and out into the fields. She made for the woods that lined the Derwent River, but once amid the trees and out of sight she shed her cloak and bundled it into a roll which she wore across her shoulder. The clothing beneath was that of a shepherd. She now made her way to the river. Sir Gerald and Eric were there already, preparing for halflight and the evening's vigil, but they were some distance back from Faerie Bridge and out of sight. Taking a long, straight pole from beneath the snow she checked the bridge again to be sure that nobody was on it to see her. Holding the pole at one end, Ellienne took a run at a narrowing in the river, plunged the pole into the water and vaulted over. She had pulled the pole after her and was hiding in the snow-encrusted holly bushes when Eric came out to the bridge to investigate the splash.
            Ellienne was long gone by the time halflight arrived and Gerald began firing his arrows into the mist and calling his challenges. She made her way into Portinscale, and here some cheery drinkers took her for a real shepherd and called to her that a secret Imbolc bonfire was to be lit that night. She waved, nodded and thanked them, then hurried on. Tordral was in the chapel when she arrived, and was not to be disturbed. Ellienne began the night's training with May, and on this night her instructor was quite pleased with her progress. It was well into halflight when Tordral came out and asked about whether Ellienne was showing promise.
            "A mere six weeks, and already her muscles are harder," declared May. "She is regaining her talent for fighting and killing. In a few weeks more she will be fit to take on all Faerie."
            "One never knows when it may come to that," said Tordral. "Thank you May, that is enough for tonight. Ellienne, I shall walk you back to the river. How will you cross the bridge if Eric is still there searching for Sir Gerald's arrows?"
            "I use a staff to vault the river further downstream. I learned the trick from watching boys at play."
            "Very good, you are indeed resourceful. You will need to be even more resourceful in just two weeks, on the day of Lupercalia."
            "Oh? What is to happen?"
            "One thing at a time, so answer me this first. What can enfold you completely and touch all of your body without you feeling it? What can blind both mighty king and lowly peasant, yet flee at a single spark?"
            "Darkness."
            "Good. In life what gives comfort in the heat of summer, but in death banishes winter's cold -"
            "A tree. Shade in summer, firewood in winter."
            "Correct, but when a guardian confronts you with a riddle in Boundarie, I advise you to let him finish the riddle first."
            "My apologies."
            "In just two weeks you will go into Boundarie and face a guardian. Should you live, you will then go on to Faerie."
            "Should I live? Boundarie?"
            "Yes."
            "And the guardian might kill me?"
            "Yes."
            "For just getting a riddle wrong?"
            "They take riddles very seriously in Boundarie."
            Ellienne suddenly had a moment of severe doubt. Sneaking about in the darkness and learning secret fighting skills was very exciting after the boring routine of the tower, but confronting real danger and risking death was another matter entirely. She looked into herself - and found nothing. Within her was a void, there were no reference points for fear. She knew that death was to be feared, yet she had little life in her past, so she was not sure how precious it was meant to be. Tordral had known me in a past life, she reminded herself, yet perhaps Tordral had too much faith in me. Ellienne decided that she should express a bit of fear.
            "Are you sure you don't need some sort of warrior and hero to go on your quest?" she said in a soft voice, as if genuinely frightened.
            "It can only be you," said Tordral firmly.
            "But I feel so weak and helpless."
            "When by chance your ears are discovered to be tapered, and some mob of yokels drags you before the priest, Will you be any less helpless? They will tie you to a stake and burn you alive just for being what you are. You are in the wrong world, my girl."
            "I might be too frightened to get the riddle right."
            "You have no choice."
            "I could run away!" exclaimed Ellienne, as if letting her fears off the leash.
            If Tordral reacted at all, she could not tell.
            "To where?" asked Tordral.
            "To a nunnery."
            "Your hair will be cut as a sign that you have abandoned vanity. What do you think will be found under your hair, and by the very people most likely to burn you? Your safety and your destiny are in Faerie."
            "But I might fail you, or even betray you," said Ellienne, tracing through the logic with cold precision as if it were a board game of strategy. "I could step into Boundarie, answer some ogre's riddle, then continue on into Faerie and never come back again."
            "True. That will be your choice, but I must warn you that without an elf to be your mentor, you will have no place in that world. An elfling in Faerie without a mentor or patron is no better than a kitchen maid in this world, trust my word or find out the hard way."
            One fact was by now overwhelmingly apparent to Ellienne. Tordral was very good at making people do things, willingly or otherwise.
            "Trusting your word is not easy," said Ellienne. "I see you use a great many people. How do I know you do not discard them when they cease to be useful?"
            "Ellienne, every one of my people could walk away from me at any time, and in safety. So too could you, although you are in danger from every one else other than me. I am not forcing you to do any of what I ask."
            "I do feel that I am being forced into this."
            "Do you indeed? Well then, come along into the chapel, I have someone that I want you to meet in there."
            Tordral lit a taper at one of the fires, and by its light they went into the chapel. Ellienne sat down at a writing desk, and Tordral gave her a sheet of reedpaper and a quill.
            "Now read this short note and copy it down in your own hand," said Tordral.
            Ellienne began to read the note.
            Ellienne of an unknown house, when you read this note you will have no memories of your past life, but your elf heritage will be visible in your ears. Know that before you lost your memories you did solemnly promise to serve Tordral. Trust my word upon this, because my word is your word.
            The world reeled before Ellienne as she realised who had written the words. She was now very grateful that she was sitting down.
            "Now, if you will be so kind as to copy out -" began Tordral.
            "There is no need. The writing will be identical, I know my own hand when I see it."
            "So are you convinced?"
            Being so very unlike other girls, Ellienne recovered from shock or fright  with extraordinary speed. I do not have enough information to be convinced, she decided, then she pondered her next move in this game of strategy.
            "You have such a way with making people obey, Master Tordral. I cannot help but wonder about the circumstances in which I wrote this."
            Tordral reached under the helmet and untied the strap. Slowly but smoothly, she lifted the helmet clear of her head.
            "You were writing it because I asked you to write it," said Tordral, who then pushed back her shoulder length hair to reveal a rounded ear.
            Ellienne slowly stood, staring at the face that had been behind the visor. Tordral never let anyone so close to her, and now Ellienne saw why. Her eyelashes were too long, and when she unlaced the chainmail gorget the profile of her throat was altogether too smooth to be that of a man.
            "Who are you?" asked Ellienne.
            "I am Sir Gerald's sister."
            It was suddenly clear to Ellienne why Tordral was so very driven, as were the motives behind whatever she was doing to attack Faerie. Tordral replaced her helmet and fastened the strap.
            "You were born on the twenty-second day of June, 1434," said Tordral. "Your mother left you at the Allerdale Convent, half a mile north of the tower. It was the day after the elf lord Darvendior crippled my eyes, and I sought refuge in that convent the same day. You were named Iris. Once I realised that you were another outcome of the arrogance of elves, I looked after you as my own until you turned seven years of age. It was then I decided that one cannot live in a nunnery forever, so I feigned my own drowning in the River Derwent and took you away with me."
            "And then?"
            "All in good time."
            "Yet I can extrapolate," said Ellienne, with all the raw energy of a knight pressing home an advantage against a tired enemy. "You are a warrior, and I am learning the skills of fighting so fast that I must have been taught them before. You dressed as a man, and I as a boy. You probably took me to the wars in France. When I turned fourteen and lost my memories, I was dressed as a girl, given a false story and sent here."
            "Very good. Your powers of logic are quite awesome."
            "Now I am turning into an elf."
            "You are fourteen. It is to be expected."
            "And you are becoming a machine."
            "Also true."
            "Why?"           
            "To get revenge for what was done to me."
            For a time Ellienne thought about revenge. Because she knew little of either love or hate, the idea of revenge meant little to her as well. She decided that her magical father was not worthy of loyalty, because he had seduced her mother, then abandoned her. She was not entirely sure about her mother. The woman had abandoned Ellienne in turn.
            "What do you know of my mother?" Ellienne asked.
            "She must have been of a noble family. You were found on the nunnery doorstep wrapped in fine cloth and with a pouch of gold beside you."
            "In all those years did she never visit me?" asked Ellienne, feeling the vague stirrings of what anyone else would have recognised as resentment. "I thought mothers loved daughters."
            "Perhaps she did. My guess is that she abandoned you completely so that your father could never find you when he returned. You should visit Allerdale nunnery and check the registers. You were called Iris, and I was Maylienne."
            We were victims together, thought Ellienne. When everyone else abandoned me, Tordral was always there. Tordral is my family. Tordral deserves my loyalty.
            "How may I serve you, Mistress Tordral?"
            "I have declared war on Faerie, and I am going to win."
            "You intend to fight an entire world? One woman? Alone?"
            "Not alone, and not as a woman."
                                                                        #
A quarter hour later Tordral and Ellienne emerged from the chapel, and were anyone sufficiently close to hear what they were saying, it would be obvious that the girl had become even more methodical and focussed. Ellienne's voice and manner had taken on a curious edge, like a very sharp blade rubbed in snow.
            "Now take my lessons seriously, wench, for on your first trip to Faerie you will be alone for two nights and one day," said Tordral. "One mistake, a single error, and you could be obligated for seven years."
            "I do not make mistakes."
            "And do not try to show off in Faerie."
            "I never show off."
            "Do nothing to draw attention to yourself."
            "Yet you live your life in chainmail, more obvious than any other?"
            "By drawing attention to myself I draw attention away from you. Just observe and learn. Manners and caution are everything in Faerie, so make heavy use of both and you could well return to me."
            The lessons continued, all the way down Swinside, through Portinscale, and on toward Faerie Bridge. The mist had dispersed as rapidly as it had arrived, and now the night was quite clear and intensely cold under the light of the setting moon.
            "Most important of all, do not kill anyone," said Tordral.
            "I have never killed anyone," replied Ellienne.
            "Again."
            "I've killed someone?"
            Suddenly Tordral stopped, a finger to her lips.
            "Eyes are upon us," she whispered. "Wait here, in the shadows by this tree."
            Tordral seemed to dissolve into the night. Ellienne waited. Presently there was a truncated squeak from nearby.
            "Squire, to me," Tordral called softly.
            Ellienne found Martha lying in the snow with Tordral's knee in her back. The breath had been knocked out of the girl and she was gasping for breath, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.
            "This is Martha, from the Tower of Briars," said Ellienne to Tordral as she helped Martha to her feet.
            "Please don't hurt me, honourable sirs," whimpered Martha. "I meant no harm."
            "I am Tordral, and this boy is Squire Robin," said Tordral, gesturing to Ellienne who was still dressed as a shepherd. "What are you doing here in the dead of night?"
            "I - I'm looking for my sweetheart, Eric."
            "Squire Eric, whose master is Sir Gerald?"
            "Er, aye. He learns fighting from your folk by day and sits vigil with Sir Gerald at halflights. I think he might be in danger."
            "Well we cannot leave you prey to those things that roam about in the hours of darkness," said Tordral. "Robin, my lad. Escort this wench back to the tower. I'll see if I can find Squire Eric."
            With that Tordral turned and vanished in the direction of Portinscale. Very clever, thought Ellienne. I now have a reason to return to the tower.
            "Come along," said Ellienne, taking Martha by the arm.
            "Please, wait a moment," said Martha. "I must find Eric."
            "If he is in danger, what can you do?" asked Ellienne.
            "He is only in danger from wenches," muttered Martha. "Lil from your company of players, or Ellienne from our Tower, I am not sure which."
            "I do not know anything about all that," said Ellienne as steadily as her voice would allow.
            My first romance, thought Ellienne. Someone should have told me I was involved.
            "I thought it was Lil until tonight, he spends so much time with you players. He says he is training, but I thought otherwise."
            "But he does train with the players."
            "Now I know that. Unlikely though it seems, that strumpet Lil must be innocent."
            Leaving me to be Eric's lover, thought Ellienne, tracing the logic through to its unlikely conclusion.
            "Perhaps this Ellienne is also innocent."
            "Hah! Tonight I stole down to the kitchen and checked the door to her little sleeping chamber. It was pulled fast, but not bolted from inside. I opened it, and she was not within. She must be with my Eric."
            "Surely not. Ellienne is the wench who can read books. She seems to me like a scholar, as pure as the windblown snow and a bit ... boring."
            "My mother says that no wench is boring to any lad once her skirts are hitched up around her ears."
            I can take her to the tower, then slip into the shadows and change into robes that mark me as Ellienne, thought Ellienne. But no, she will want to know why I am up so late. I would only be up and about if courting Eric.
            They set off for Faerie Bridge together. Ellienne had learned to move with a minimum of sound, and because of the snow even Martha was walking with little noise. Over the weeks past Ellienne had also realised that her eyesight was a lot sharper than that of ordinary people. The waxing moon shone through the branches of the leafless trees, and Ellienne heard the trace of a sound in the distance. If Martha had heard it, she had taken it for the chittering of a night bird. Ellienne suspected otherwise. She seized Martha's arm and hissed for silence. Martha froze, and for a short time there was no sound at all.
            Here it is, the very means to cover my trail, thought Ellienne. Not a very honourable means, I must admit, but hers was a doomed romance from the start. I am doing Martha and Eric a favour.
            "What is it?" asked Martha.
            In time Martha would chance upon what Eric is doing. Better she knows now, and do some good for me rather than later and do no good to anyone.
            "Robin, what is it?" asked Martha again.
            Last chance, thought Ellienne.
            The silence was finally broken by a distant giggle.
            Martha followed Ellienne's pointing finger, then they crept off in that direction. Presently they stopped at the edge of a clearing. At first Ellienne thought she was looking at a strangely shaped animal with two heads, then the realisation of what was being played out before her began to sink in. She reminded herself that she could see a lot more in faint light than the other girl.
            "I - they - there are two people tupping like sheep," whispered the astonished Martha.
            "That is because there is snow on the ground, it is too cold to lie down," said Ellienne.
            "Who are they?" asked Martha. "It's too dark for my eyes."
            "I see a tall, thin youth and a girl with ice-blonde hair."
            "Eric is tall, and Lil has blonde hair," hissed Martha angrily.
            They watched in silence for a time. Martha began to tremble with outrage. Ellienne was now clear of Martha's suspicions, but it was still a very intense and delicate moment.
            "I saw a lot of this sort of thing in France," whispered Ellienne, who had been told as much by Tordral.
            "Are you trying to cheer me up?" muttered Martha between grating teeth.
            "Yes."
            "Well don't."
            "We should leave while they are still busy."
            "But - but -"
            "Come away!" hissed Ellienne.
            They were at Faerie Bridge before they spoke again.
            "When - if - he gets back to the tower tonight I will -"
            "Martha, you must not mention anything at all about this."
            "But, but, but he, they - I mean -"
            "For weeks past you have been at pains to keep Eric's passions at bay. Am I wrong?"
            "No, but -"
            "Clearly his passions have found another outlet."
            "But he still pays me court. Just a handful of hours ago he was talking about marrying me, yet now - he - they - I mean you saw what they were doing!"
            "You discouraged him. Perhaps you discouraged him a little too much."
            "My mother told me to! She knows all about boys, she tells me about all the things that they do. They are like animals when they are alone with a girl, especially at night."
            "Not all boys are like that."
            "My mother says they are, and my mother knows about things like that."
            "Well we are alone, at night. What have I done to you?"
            "Um, nothing."
            "As for Lil -"
            "Lil! If Blind Harry were alive, even he could see that she had an interest in Eric."
            "Go back to the tower, try to sleep."
            "Sleep? With the sight of that in my memories?" snapped Martha with an angry gesture back the way they had come.
            "Then seek solace by thinking of Eric watching Lil flirt with her next fancy."
            "She would jilt my Eric? The wanton baggage!"
            "She will indeed. Oh - and see there!"
            "What?"
            "On the battlements of the Tower of Briars, a figure. I have heard Ellienne telling Tordral that she had been reading books about the heavens. That must be her, comparing what is taught in books with what is actually in the sky."
            There had been nobody on the battlements, but Lil was open to any suggestion by now.
            "I thought only boring old scholars with long beards do that," she said.
            "Well then, Ellienne must be very boring. She is certainly not courting Eric."
            They reached the tower and entered through the Walled Garden. It had been Ellienne's intention to see Martha to the servants quarters, then slip back to the kitchen and go to bed. It suddenly became apparent that Martha had entirely different ideas. Ellienne found herself  wrapped in Martha's arms with their lips jammed together. After a moment that lingered entirely too long, Martha drew breath. She then took Ellienne's hand and guided it through her robes and to her breast.
            "Robin, Robin, your may have all that Eric was denied," she said breathlessly. "The tower is asleep, nobody will find us here."
            It will not be long before Martha gets yet another unpleasant shock, thought Ellienne. To her, the kitchen was dim but distinct. For Martha it would be pitch black. She remembered that her rolled up cloak was over her shoulder.
            "Somebody's coming!" gasped Ellienne, then she broke away from Martha.
            She unrolled the cloak and threw it over herself, then tore off her cap and shook out her hair. She could see Martha groping about in the dark, practically helpless.
            "Who is that?" Ellienne cried out in a higher, sharper voice than she had used as Robin, then she raked at the coals in the hearth. A little light flared up to illuminate the kitchen. "Why Martha, what are you doing here?" she asked.
            "I - I was hungry," was all that Martha could manage as she tried to straighten her clothing.
            "The cook does not allow it - but you are dressed for outdoors."
            "So are you."
            "I was on the battlements, studying the sky. Sir Gerald allows it."
            Martha considered this. For her it was obvious that Ellienne had not seen Robin. It was time to throw herself on the mercy of the strange, cool girl.
            "I've been at Faerie Bridge," she confessed. "I saw Eric there with - with that girl from the players."
            "Oh no," gasped Ellienne. "You poor dear."
            Now they embraced in a rather less erotic manner, and as they sat on one of the chests Martha poured out the story of what she had seen with a youth called Robin, who had then gallantly escorted her back to the tower. Exhausted by the emotions of the hour past, Martha finally left. Ellienne went to her own little bedchamber.
            I mustered enough guile to survive tonight, so surely I can do as well in Boundarie and Faerie, she thought as sleep began to claim her.
            Suddenly she sat up, opened her chamber door and stepped out into the kitchen. Laid out neatly were the arrows from Gerald's halflight watch. Eric had been there. Eric had been there and done his repairs for the night.
            By all the stars of heaven, his shoes are beside the hearth, drying out, she realised as she caught sight of the evidence proving that Eric had returned to the tower before Martha and herself, and had not gone out again. Eric is innocent ... so just who did we see amid the trees, near Faerie Bridge?
                                                                        #
Because it was so well known that Gerald did not tolerate company during his halflight vigils, he was always surprised when anyone violated his privacy. The figure that appeared in the half-light that heralded morning looked from a distance to be someone carrying an infant, but Eric immediately noticed that the bundle was glowing. Tordral, he thought as he recognised the shape of another toy boat. Tordral himself. This must be important if Tordral himself will launch the golem boat.
            The intruder stopped a little upstream. Gerald scowled with anger, then strung his bow before striding down to the water's edge. Eric trailed nervously behind him, aware that he owed allegiance to both of these people. Gerald stopped and pointed along the path to Keswick As he opened his mouth to tell Tordral to go there, the figure in black placed the little boat on the water. Curiosity smothered the knight's anger.
            "Sir, do you know who I am?" he asked Tordral, intrigued.
            "You are Sir Gerald of Ashdayle," replied Tordral's soft but commanding voice in the dim light. "You sit here every morning and evening, seeking revenge."
            "And who might you be?"
            "I am Tordral."
            "Tordral the master armourer?" exclaimed Gerald.
            "None other."
            "Tordral, who also has the troupe of players on Swinside?"
            "I am that Tordral too."
            Master armourer, thought Eric. A master armourer leading a troupe of wandering players. A troupe which includes a sorcerer, master carpenter, a master blacksmith, a clockmaker, a shipwright and several very experienced men-at-arms. Who are these people?
            "What business have you here?" asked Gerald.
            "Look into my boat, what do you see?"
            Forgetting his own question, Gerald put his hands on his knees and peered down. Eric looked down as well, but kept his distance. He knew that golem boats could explode.
            "I see a brass tube, and beneath it burn six candles. From its back protrudes a spigot ... A sufflator! I have seen them used in France."
            "Very good. And how were they used?"
            "Turn the spigot and steam gushes out." Suddenly Gerald remembered why he was there. "If you know me, you must know I am not to be disturbed," he said sternly.
            "What use has a sufflator?" Tordral asked, ignoring the warning.
            "I - ah, they are vessels that are half filled with water and heated by a small fire until steam gushes from the mouth. They may be used like a bellows, to make a fire blaze up. They are very effective, even with wet wood."
            "True. Now watch."
            Tordral turned the spigot. A jet of steam blasted out, so loudly and abruptly that even Eric stumbled and fell in his haste to scramble back. Gerald had his bow drawn and an arrow pointed at the boat.
            "Be at ease, Sir Gerald," said Tordral above the sharp hissing.
            The armourer aimed the boat into the middle of river, then released it. Amid clouds of steam, it drew away from the bank. Gerald crossed himself.
            "Had I not seen, I would not have believed," he said fearfully.
            Where do they hide the duck? wondered Eric.
            "As a child, I found that a rock flung from a boat's stern will propel it forward a trifle."
            "But your boat flings no rocks," said Gerald.
            "My boat is flinging steam."
            Eric stared after the boat. It was now moving at the pace of a walking man. Perhaps it is some real effect, like gunpowder propelling an iron ball from a culverin, he decided, then felt a lot better. Renard could be right. The world could be filled with real wonders that I am not able to see. How now may I go about seeing them, and which of them are tricks? I mean that boat moving by itself seems a feeble trick, compared to pulling a rabbit out of my codpiece. Then again, breathing a streamer of fire is a trick, but it is real. I just spit lamp oil from my mouth and hold a torch to it. Where do tricks end and wonders begin?
            "So, your toy can cross a river," said Gerald, again remembering that Tordral was intruding. "Am I meant to be impressed, or - It's gone!"
            "Observant of you."
            "At the river's midpoint, it vanished. How? Where? It did not sink, I was watching."
            Eric had been looking directly at the boat when it had vanished. It had not exploded, had not sunk, and had not been drawn up to the underside of Faerie Bridge on very thin strings. Thanks to the candles, it had been very well lit.
            That is it! thought Eric. The candles were very bright, and everyone knows that when a bright candle is snuffed the eyes take some moments to attune themselves to the darkness. Yes! Someone was submerged in the Derwent River, at the midpoint, breathing through a long tube that led to the other bank. When the boat passed over, he merely reached up and drew it below the surface with a minimum of fuss. By the time our eyes adjusted to the darkness, there was nothing to see but a few ripples.
            "You know the lore of boundaries, Sir Gerald," Tordral was explaining. "This part of the Derwent River is special. It exists in both our world and another. The banks are a boundary between earth and water, the surface is a boundary between water and air, the midpoint is a boundary between one side of the river and the other, and there is much, much more. At this place one can cross between worlds."
            Gerald's suspicions returned. Tordral was too smooth, and seemed to know too much about what obsessed the knight.
            "Crossing between worlds involves more than just crossing a river," said the knight.
            "Oh yes. You can only do it where the boundaries exist in both worlds, and during the halflight boundary times. You, Squire Eric. What are those times?"
            "Dusk or first light, lordship," Eric replied. "Times that are neither night nor day."
            "And on what days?"
            "The great pagan feasts, and their eve and ante days."
            "Clever boy. And what is today?"
            "Imbolc, lordship, the fire festival."
            "Are you saying that your toy has gone to another world?" Gerald interjected.
            Tordral gestured out over the water with a soft jingle of chainmail.
            "It has left this world, I claim no more."
            Gerald walked out onto the bridge, taking care not to approach the midpoint.  There was no trace of the boat.
            "Here is none of the ceremony and incantation of religion or hedgerow magic, yet here is something extraordinary," Gerald muttered softly. "Eric, tell me what you saw."
            "I saw the boat move of its own accord, master. At the river's midpoint it vanished from sight."
            "Did it sink?"
            "I did not see it sink," said Eric, quite truthfully.
            "Did mist shroud it?"
            "The boat was making a lot of steam, which is akin to mist."
            "Yet the steam was behind it and the boat was in clear view. Tell me precisely what you saw."
            "In the space between two heartbeats the boat ... vanished. There was a puff of violet smoke, or so I recall."
            "Yes, yes, that was the very manner of it."
            Gerald returned to the east bank. By now the sun was up and the world no longer had an ill-defined, shadowy aspect. The greyish palour on the land was gone, colours were bright, and outlines sharp, but amid all the bright normality Tordral remained dark and shadowy, dressed in black cloth beneath chainmail, under a black cloak. Eric scanned the far bank for air hoses, but saw none. He looked downstream, but could see nobody crawling ashore and clutching a toy boat.
            "Sir, what are your intentions?" Gerald asked Tordral.
            "I am an armourer, you are a knight. You need a weapon, I devise weapons. I have just demonstrated a weapon."
            "That toy, a weapon?"
            "Oh yes," said Tordral. "It can reach your enemy, even when your enemy is in another world."
            Gerald turned and looked back across the Derwent River. That prospect was very attractive to him.
            "I have an enemy in another world," said Gerald.
            "As do I," said Tordral. "An enemy in Faerie."
            "Tordral of - Tordral, what is the whole of your name?"
            "Tordral is all of it, Sir Gerald. I have a past that is best left unspoken."
            "As you will. Would you walk with me back to Keswick? It is past dawn, so my half-light vigil is over."
                                                                        #
The hall where Castellerine Lynder of Cumbriel held court was all tall, elegant columns of pale blue stone and walls of exquisite stained glass. She had thick, wavy hair that was the colour of straw and reached down to her waist, and the features of her face were elegant and delicate, yet also angular and sharp to the point of being unsettling. A rabbit would have had the sense to treat her as a fox, but humans are not inclined to be so sensible. She was dressed in blue robes on this day, with green gloves of gossamer-thin lace. In her hair was the tiara of gold inset with emeralds and sapphires that was the symbol of her authority.
            The castellerine liked to begin her audiences with petitioners and supplicants at the great arched doors of scented cedar, then walk slowly along the length of the hall with them. When they reached the steps to the throne, the visitor would walk no further but the castellerine would ascend the steps to the throne and pronounce her verdict upon the matter.
            "It was upon the morning of Imbolc," said Adrontiel, her tall, blonde liaisory counsellor. "At the boundary time the paths ..."
            "Yes?"
            "They failed."
            The castellerine felt a stab of alarm. She had predicted more strangeness on this day, and now here was strangeness.
            "Which paths in particular?"
            "All paths, your highness. It was just for a short time, no more than a dozen breaths would take."
            "And it was midway through half-light?"
            "Yes. I was making a crossing at the time, it gave me quite a start."
            By now they had reached the steps to the throne. Castellerine Lynder turned around and began to pace the floor of the hall again. This signified that she was very concerned, and did not know how to pronounce on the matter. Adrontiel was suddenly alarmed.
            "At Samhain, a shepherd and sheep blundered across the Wylver Bridge boundary path," she said. "The sentinel killed the shepherd, who was a mortal without a mentor. After returning his body to Earthlie, it ate the sheep."
            "That happens."
            "At Yule a bloated corpse floated across into Boundarie from the world of mortals. The sentinel cast an animator upon it and returned it to Earthlie also."
            "That is part of its duties."
            "Now, at Imbolc, I hear that the master glamour of Boundarie has been discomfited."
            "There is bound to be an explanation," said Adrontiel, who had a very fine posting and did not like the prospect of change. "The Keeper of Boundarie may be angry about something."
            "Three boundary days and three incidents, all in a pretty row. A shepherd, a corpse and a damaged glamour. Does it mean anything, Adrontiel? Is someone trying to probe Boundarie without obeying the rules of the glamour? The incidents happened at the boundary place where Gerald of Ashdayle keeps his vigil. Does that mean anything?"
            Adrontiel laughed unconvincingly.
            "Trying to probe Boundarie is like trying to scratch through a castle wall with a fingernail," he said, making scratching motions in the air. "No mortal could live long enough to do it. Besides, such incidents have happened before."
            "What? Why was I not told?"
            Adrontiel was very adept at managing the flow of news. If it was good, he directed it upwards to the castellerine. Were it bad, someone lower than himself was shouted at an kicked. This method broke down if bad news managed to bypass him on the way up, so he tried to intercept it first and make it sound a little less bad.
            "It was too trivial, your highness. Last Ostara there was the shortest of ripples in the fabric of Boundarie. It was in the evening, and only for a few heartbeats. None would have noticed, except that Douriet d'Halmer was crossing at the time and he mentioned it to me much later, by way of an amusing tale."
            "So perchance it happens more often than we know. If  there is nobody crossing, it is not noticed?"
            "Quite so. I only mentioned it because I encountered it myself."
            The castellerine's mood lightened. There were others matters that concerned her, and this was turning out to be a mere annoyance. Her thoughts returned to Gerald of Ashdayle, and a very different problem with crossing between Earthlie and Faerie.
            "Poor Gerald," she sighed.
            "Gerald of Ashdayle?"
            "Yes. Such misguided loyalty. He has made Faerie Bridge almost unusable by his stubborn and futile vigil."
            "He is a beacon, casting unwanted light upon us!" muttered Adrontiel. "We cast pail after pail of water over that beacon, yet he blazes up all the more brightly."
            "He is also a symbol of how futile it is for a mortal to stand against Faerie ..." A sudden doubt entered the castellerine's mind. "Adrontiel, do you think Gerald might have given up with calling challenges and shooting arrows in favour of magical attacks?"
            "Your highness, anyone who is dull and stubborn enough to keep a thankless vigil for so many years has not the wit to conduct magical attacks."
            Gerald's story was a sad little footnote in a greater epic, and not at all important. Finally deciding that the matter was settled, Castellerine Lynder ascended the steps to her throne.
            "Proclaim it throughout my realm that there is nothing to fear if one cannot cross between Faerie and Earthlie at a boundary place, on a boundary day, at a boundary time," she said to her audience of one. "The ripples in Boundarie's glamour are fleeting, and will soon pass."
            Adrontiel finally had a chance to do what he did best, which was bow. He was tall, yet he could bow very low, so low that his long hair brushed the ground yet with such grace that his cloak billowed out like a pair of golden wings. The castellerine was happy, and that was all that mattered to Adrontiel. He knew that bad news had a way of resolving itself and vanishing, it was only a matter of keeping it from causing alarm in the meantime.
            Thus the matter of the ripples in Boundarie's fabric was settled. The castellerine was glad to cast it from her mind, and Adrontiel was sure that it would go away.
                                                                        #
Ellienne was gathering firewood from a pile outside the tower's walls when Sir Gerald and Eric returned with Tordral. She fell in with them. Eric was carrying the weapons, and did not attempt to speak with her. He looked very nervous. Tordral had already briefed her about what would happen on that morning, and thus far the venture seemed to have gone well. It was clear from the conversation, however, that Sir Gerald had not yet accepted Tordral as an ally. Gerald was a warrior, and warriors were well known for being suspicious when faced with novel weapons. Tordral seemed aware of this, and was content to let Gerald lead the conversation..
            "Your mode of clothing intrigues me," said Gerald. "Why wear a helmet and chainmail, even when at leisure?"
            "It hides my form. I have been twisted by our common enemy."
            Gerald smiled, nodded and waited for Tordral to pour out some tragic story. Tordral fell silent.
            "What is the name of your enemy?" Gerald asked presently.
            "The elf lord Darvendior."
            Gerald stopped as abruptly as if he had walked straight into a stone wall. He stood with his mouth hanging open. Tordral walked on for a few paces, then turned and regarded Gerald through the helmet's eyeslits. Even Ellienne had never heard the name of the elf who had dishonoured the knight's sister.
            "Darvendior," hissed Gerald as they resumed their walk to the tower. "So, you have encountered the elf lord himself?"
             "I am one of many wronged by him."
            "Well then, Tordral, be called my friend. May we speak of your boat?"
            "My boat has no secrets, sir, it merely combines all four elements: air, water, fire and earth. It is a living creature, but without life."
            "Impossible!" exclaimed Gerald.
            "By being impossible, it can cross between worlds. Squire Eric, you lived in a monastery once, so you must have some scholarship. What is a spirit?"
            "A being with a soul, but having neither life nor substance."
            "Correct. It may fly through the air and stride through walls, because the rules of the natural philosophies do not constrain it. My boat is the opposite. It has life and substance, but no spirit. Thus the rules of the unnatural philosophies do not constrain it. As you both saw, it is beyond some rules of natural philosophy as well. It may move with neither wind, nor current, nor oarsmen to drive it along. Magic cannot touch such a thing."
            "Could you make it large enough to carry warriors?" asked Gerald.
            "No."
            This is a surprise, thought Ellienne. Anyone wishing to part Sir Gerald from his gold would definitely claim it possible.
            "But surely your toy is reality made small?"
            Ellienne knew that this was an another awkward moment. She had never seen the toy boat working, but had helped Tordral to write notes about its development. Understanding the boat's principle required intelligence, and intelligence was not high on the list of requirements for knighthood.
            "There is an effect called diminishment of scale, Sir Gerald," said Tordral, now speaking even more slowly and deliberately. "To be impelled by a jet of steam, even a small barge would need a sufflator of truly vast size."
            "Enough gold could pay for that to be built."
            "Not so. Try to build a sufflator bigger than a common barrel, and it will burst."
            "Why is that?"
            "I cannot say. Perhaps the nature of steel itself, perhaps the inability of blacksmiths to render steel sufficiently hard. A barge impelled by the biggest workable sufflator would not outpace a duck in no great hurry. The slightest breeze or current would divert it."
            "But you clearly want my patronage. What else do you propose?"
            "A weapon, Sir Gerald. A weapon that can attack Faerie using air, water, fire and earth."
            Gerald shook his head and gave a little snort of disappointment.
            "I have tried shooting a culverin across the river at half-light, just as I have tried shooting arrows," said Gerald. "The shots merely hit the field on the other side. They stayed in this world."
            "As they would."
            "Well then, Master Tordral, what is a culverin but a bombard made small?"
            "Culverins, gonnes and bombards propel metal balls by gunpowder. That is merely earth driven by air and fire. I propose to build a weapon that can cross between worlds, a weapon impelled by steam, which is water, rendered into air by fire burning wood."
            "Eric?" asked Gerald, looking very intimidated by such scholarly talk.
            "That is as he says, my lord. All four elements would indeed be in such a device."
            "Could you really do it?" asked Gerald, turning back to Tordral.
            "You have already seen what I can do."
            They reached Gerald's tower and paused before a gate in the outer wall.
            "And so to market," sighed Gerald as he prepared himself for the inevitable bargaining. "What is your fee?"
            "Nothing."
            "No fee?" gasped Gerald.
            "No fee," echoed Tordral.
            They stood in silence for some moments, neither knight, squire nor maid believing what they had just heard.
            "But there is always a fee," managed Gerald at last.
            "Not for my services. I want only vengeance, but I need your help for that."
            "What manner of help?"
            "The purchase of metals, timbers, and such other materials as I need to build a ship small enough to sail upon Derwent Water, yet large enough to be armed with one breech-loading bombard, cast out of bronze. It will be the workshop where I perfect my weapon, far from the prying eyes of those on the shore. Beyond that, the upkeep of twenty men and women between now and mid-year, and permission to camp beside your old barn on the lakeside."
            "An odd list," said Gerald, nodding. "Costly, but not unreasonably so."
            "The weapon exists only in my head, so it must be lured out with coins and toil. I already have the artisans to hand, disguised as my company of players in my company."
            "Brilliant, brilliant beyond telling," said Gerald with genuine admiration.
            The knight took a brass key from Ellienne and opened a gate in a tower's outer wall. Beyond was the beautiful but unkempt garden, with luridly green holly bushes and ivy contrasting with the grey of the stone wall and the snow. The bowers and stone seats were piled with snow and half-smothered in bushes and vines.
            "I must go my way," began Tordral. "Think upon my offer."
            "No! No, stay," said Gerald, gesturing through the gate. "For seven years I have been plagued by physicians selling eye potions to make elves visible, rogues peddling goblin traps, and fraudsters selling fairy nets. They demand gold, but offer no proof. You offer proof, but ask no payment. For that you have my attention."
            "I am honoured," said Tordral with a very slight bow.
            "You say you were twisted by our enemy, but your very name derives from the French word for twisted."
            "Tordral was not always my name. Are we allies?"
            "You tempt me. I have kept vigil at that bridge for six years and a half. Is that not so, Eric?"
            "Yes my lord."
            "I have seen eyes watching me that float upon air, I have shot good arrows with heads of cold iron at illusions that dispersed like smoke, and I have fallen into slumber then awakened to find my bowstring cut. Their laughter mocked me from invisible lips, yet ... yet worst of all, for three years past they have ignored me, shunned me, almost as if I were too pathetic to torment. Still I stalk them, because ... Please, come in for a moment. I would show you something."
            They entered the garden, and Gerald turned about several times, his arms outstretched.
            "Enchanting, is it not? You should see it in spring, with everything in leaf and the flowers blooming. The illuminations in holy books show paradise as a vast church, but I think it is a garden."
            "Briar roses, grown in spirals," said Tordral, slowly pacing along a path leading to the centre. "Dozens of them, except for that big, wild bush in the middle."
            "My grandmother was one to control people, animals, and anything else alive. It was she who twisted the wild and untamed briars into spirals. After her death, my sister Mayliene tried to straighten one of them, but it snapped at the base and died. Once twisted and allowed to grow stiff in that shape, they could not be made straight again."
            "Neither may I be made straight," said Tordral
            "Maylienne planted a young briar in its place and let it grow quite free."
            "That central bush?" asked Tordral, looking at the bare tangle of branches and thorns sprinkled with snow.
            "Yes."
            "It is a symbol of freedom amid those without hope," said Tordral, nodding.
            Sir Gerald pressed his lips together and breathed heavily and evenly, as if trying to fight down the urge to sob. He was betrayed by a tear which meandered down his cheek.
            "Master Tordral, tell me of all that you need!" Gerald declared firmly. "I am of a mind to become your patron."
            "So very easily?" asked Tordral, apparently surprised by the sudden change in the knight.
            "You and my sister ... you are of a kind. I think she would have liked you. I know you would have liked her. Ellienne, go to Gretel, fetch three mugs of hot soup from the kitchen."
            Gerald gestured to a stone seat and brushed the snow off. They sat down together. Eric sat on another seat. Only Martha was in the kitchen when Ellienne entered, and there was soup bubbling in a pot above the fire.
            "Martha, the master is back with a guest," said Ellienne urgently. "Bring soup for three."
            "Fourteen years ago this was Maylienne's favoured place for reading," Gerald was saying as Ellienne hurried outside again. "She knew five languages, and read Aristotle as easily as any French roman courtoise. I was lying on the grass, not four yards away. Suddenly a great lethargy washed over me, and I was scarcely able to move. As I lay helpless, an elf lord came. He introduced himself as Darvendior, he tried to entice Maylienne away to Faerie. Do you think that sounds insane? Feel free to laugh."
            "I believe, pray continue," said Tordral in a voice held studiously level.
            This is the moment a charlatan would sound sincerely sympathetic, thought Ellienne. This is a very bad moment to offer sympathy.
            Martha emerged from the kitchen with three mugs of steaming soup on a tray. She served Gerald with a respectful curtsey, then Tordral. As she approached Eric she made to stumble, however, and landed the freshly boiled contents of the mug squarely in his lap. Eric screamed with pain as he leaped to his feet.
            "My lord, I swear it was an accident!" she said hurriedly, turning back to Sir Gerald and giving a little curtsey.
            Gerald was annoyed because his story had been interrupted, but was not particularly concerned by Eric's distress. Ellienne noticed the trace of a smile on Martha's face. Eric continued to shriek.
            "Eric, enough of that!" snapped Gerald. "You will not need the use of that thing for some years yet. Go inside, change your trews, then get back out here. Martha, get back to the kitchen. Ellienne, stay here in case I want anything else fetched. Now where was I?"
            "The elf lord was in this garden with your sister," said Tordral. "You were englamoured helpless."
            "Yes, yes, and she refused his advances," said Gerald proudly.
            "Brave girl. Elves take badly to rejection."
            "Indeed. He - he had his revenge. He afflicted her with a cruel but subtle blight. She had to be sent to a convent, to be cared for as an invalid. For seven years she languished there, then one morning her footprints were found leading into a river. When word reached me ... I returned from the wars in France and came here, to my family's summer tower. I have kept my fruitless vigil ever since."
            "Not fruitless, Sir Gerald. Over the years I have gathered many others blighted by Faerie into my company. Indeed it was the story of your vigil that drew me here."
            "Then if you succeed, my vigil of seven years will be time well spent."
            "Ah yes, and that brings us to a task that you must perform."
            "Name it."
            "You must cease guarding Faerie Bridge."
            Gerald's eyes bulged for a moment, and his jaw worked while his mind went in search of words.           
            "But for near to seven years I have kept a vigil there," he finally managed.
            "And achieved nothing," replied Tordral.
            Suddenly his brow furrowed with suspicion.
            "Just who is your master?" he asked, staring intently at Tordral.
            "I have no master, other than the king."
            "Those of Faerie would find it convenient to have me gone."
            "Oh yes, and I am hoping with all my heart that those of Faerie start using the bridge again.  I am preparing an ambush."
            "What manner of ambush?" Gerald asked.
            "That depends upon who crosses the bridge. I need to encourage the use of Faerie Bridge by the fae folk."
            "But why?"
            "Trust me, Sir Gerald."
            "What you ask reeks of subterfuge. You could be an agent of Faerie, if not an elf yourself."
            "Just as you could."
            "What?" exclaimed Gerald, bounding to his feet and half drawing his sword. "How dare you, sir?" he demanded angrily.
            Tordral remained calm. Ellienne looked fearful.
            "Think upon it, Sir Gerald. "At every halflight you are at the bridge, armed and alert. Folk hereabouts are in fear of approaching the bridge at those times. Nobody but you and Eric ever sees the bridge at those times. Were you both in league with Faerie, were any number of fae folk slipping over the bridge during your vigils, who would ever know?"
            Gerald considered this, then slammed his sword back into its scabbard. Eric returned, wearing dry trousers but waddling rather than walking.
            "I will do as you say, but only until the day of the summer solstice," Gerald conceded in very bad grace.
            "That will be sufficient. In any case, you will indeed be required to maintain your vigil on some days. I shall tell you what they are."
            Gerald flung his arms up, then let them flop to his sides.
            "I accept that too, but under a condition."
            "I shall hear it, but I can promise nothing."
            Gerald waved in Eric's direction.
            "Eric must watch Faerie Bridge."
            Eric gasped softly, and his head snapped around. Ellienne saw that Tordral was smiling.
            "For what reason, my lord?" asked Tordral.
            "Because if the elf lord does cross into this world, Eric can run back to the tower and alert me. At the next halflight I will be waiting at Faerie Bridge, barring his way."
            Tordral turned from Gerald and regarded Eric through the dark triangles that were the eyeslits of the helmet. Ellienne could see the gleam of glass within the slits.
            "What is your feeling on the matter, Squire Eric?"
            "I am willing, Master Tordral," said Eric.
            "Then you might as well move out of the tower and live at the camp," said Gerald.
            "But my lord -"
            "Not another word! You will report to me each morning but live at the camp. Otherwise you would spend you days running back and forth and be of no use to anyone, what?"
            Gerald laughed, so Eric also laughed politely, all the while looking about as if another mug of soup were in the air and aimed at himself.
            "One thing more," said Tordral, turning back to Gerald. "This maid, Ellienne, must attend my camp whenever I call for her."
            "Ellienne?" exclaimed Sir Gerald suspiciously. "What is your intention? I give none of my people into lewdness."
            "I need a scholar."
            "Ellienne has no memories beyond a few months past."
            "Ellienne has memories of what books she has read, even if she has forgotten the act of reading them. I need a scholar."
            "Why not use Eric? He has read books, and he will be close to hand from now on."
            "Why indeed?" said Tordral. "Eric, who was Maimonides?"
            ""Er, I don't know my lord."
            "Ellienne?"
            "He was a great Jewish scholar who was also physician to Saladin."
            "What was the principal question of the Scottish philosopher Duns Scotus?"
            Eric spread his hands and shrugged.
            "If you take the memories from your soul, do you still exist?" said Ellienne.
            "Why plant angelica in a garden?"
            "To season roast duck?" ventured Eric, but Tordral shook her head.
            "To protect against witchcraft," said Ellienne.
            "How may I see as well in the dark as a cat?"
            "Wash your eyes in one part nightshade and ten parts water," said Ellienne when Eric just shrugged.
            "Nightmares?" the master armourer asked.
            "Rosemary placed under the pillow will dispel nightmares!" said Ellienne.
            Tordral turned back to Gerald.
            "You see?"
            Gerald raised a finger for silence. "Very well, Ellienne may work for you as well, but she sleeps here, in the tower."
            "Of course. Welcome to my service, wench."
            "Eric, swear loyalty to Tordral," Gerald said. "Swear that you now have allegiance to nobody other than Tordral, myself and the king."
            "I do so swear, my lord."
            "Each morning, after sunrise, you will come to the tower and tell me what has been happening."
            "Yes my lord."
            "Now fetch whatever you need from the tower and go with Tordral. Perform well, and your training as my future sensechal will commence when your service with Tordral is at an end."
                                                                        #
Eric was relieved that the humiliation was over as he walked from the garden. He had known the answers to each and every one of the questions that Tordral had asked, but had been under strict instructions to get them wrong. Now he had to move out of the tower, which would not do his courtship with Martha much good. Still, only seeing Martha once a day would mean only having to endure one unpleasant scene per day, rather than a couple of dozen, he thought has he gathered his possessions. He did not have much to fetch, but as he began to pack his arrow repair tools in the kitchen he realised that he had an audience.
            "You are going away?" asked Martha.
            "Er, yes. Sir Gerald has given me into the service of, er, a very important man."
            "Are you going to war?"she asked sharply.
            "No, I'm going to Portinscale."
            "So, it's that Tordral and his players."
            "Um, yes."
            "So what about me?" she demanded, although sounding as if she did not care in the slightest.
            "I have to see Sir Gerald every day, so I'll be at the tower every day. We can see each other then."
            "So you're going away and you didn't ask me!" shouted Martha.
            "Sir Gerald said I can start training as the seneschal when I return from Tordral's service."
            "You still didn't ask me."
            There was an eternity of silence that in reality did not last very long at all. How does one go about courting a girl who wants nothing more than an excuse to shout at him, he wondered.
            "Well, nobody asked me either," he managed to retort.
            "I never want to see you again as long as I live!" screamed Martha, who then dashed out of the kitchen without even bothering to slam the door and ran up the stairs.
            No tears, thought Eric. Were I in real grief I would be in tears.
            Eric frantically scrabbled to pack his possessions before Martha came down again. Moments later he was back in the walled garden. Tordral and Eric walked from the Tower of Briars in silence, and said nothing until they reached the chapel at the top of Swinside. The squire was fairly sure that Sir Gerald had been tricked, but was not sure how. Martha's mood was anyone's guess. She was acting as if she had caught him with another girl, but he knew better than anyone else that no such thing had happened.
            When they arrived at the camp Tordral briefed Renard about the new arrangements with Sir Gerald, then ordered him to move the camp. It took only an hour for the camp to be packed, even though they had been there for months. Eric walked with Renard as they set off for the shores of Derwent Water.
            "You have never served in a castle or great house, Squire Eric," said Renard as they approached Portinscale.
            "No my lord. How did you know?"
            "You lack the guile and manners of those who have lived among courtiers. I find your honest and open attitude refreshing, but it could get you into trouble with nearly everyone else. Learn to mind your tongue."
            "Er, yes."
             "Now tell me of your origins. You have been with us for months but said little about yourself."
            "My story is the least interesting of all who are here."
            "Tell it anyway."
            "My father was woodsman. He worked for a monastery, and the monks taught me to read their books, and to write with a quill and ink. I think they meant me to be a monk. One day Sir Gerald rode past and saw me writing rude words in Latin on the side of a cart with a piece of charcoal. He told my father that he needed a squire, and squires have to know how to read and write, so here I am."
            "Go on."
            "My father gave me into Sir Gerald's service. Cost him one florin. That was three years ago."
            "How old are you now?"
            "My father told Sir Gerald I had a yuletide for each of his fingers, and two of his toes."
            "Twelve added to three is fifteen years. You are promising, Squire Eric, very promising. You read, you write, you are sceptical when faced with nonsense, and you are not too timid to ask questions or speak your mind. Tordral must esteem you very much, and Sir Gerald surely regrets losing you."
            After the demoralisation of the contest of scholarship with Ellienne, Renard's flattering words had little effect on Eric.
            "Sir Gerald granted Tordral my service so that I could spy upon you all, and probably thinks I will be killed when I learn too much. When I am killed, he will assume he can't trust Tordral."
            "You are so suspicious that you do not even trust the man you spy for?"
            "No."
            "But you can trust us."
            "So what am I to do if I learn your secrets? Promise to try to forget them if you promise not to kill me?"
            "Squire Eric, trust me when I tell you that you will never learn the truth until it suits the Master. Neither will I."
            Presently Eric stopped and pointed across the lake. There was a derelict barn near the shore beside a stretch of flat ground where sheep were grazing.
            "See there, that stone barn not far from the water? That is where we must go."
            "Good access to the water, but not easily to defend," commented Renard. "I suppose we cannot have everything. Come along now."
            "How did the master know the boat would vanish?" asked Eric as they entered Portinscale.
            "You ask me what the master knows?" replied Renard once he had stopped laughing. "I can only guess at things like that."
            "Then what do you guess?"
            "Gerald was guarding the only known boundary place upon water hereabout, so the master was forced to test the boat in front of him. We knew that a creature of one element has similar properties to one of all elements, it is very arcane scholarship but it is sound. Beyond that, well, sometimes we must trust to fortune, and this time fortune was good enough to smile upon us."
            "Oh. So what are my duties now?"
            "The master says you will spy upon Faerie Bridge, morning and evening. You will also spend time in the villages, spreading good words about us and listening to gossip. Soon they may think we are building devil machines, and we cannot have that."
            "What are devil machines?"
            "I do not know, but people will think we are building them."
            "Oh."
            The villagers of Portinscale pointed, stared and looked worried as the company tramped past them. This was not so much because they were building devil machines, as that they were going away and moving their business closer to Keswick. The players had bartered services in Portinscale for produce for three months now, and had helped the hamlet to prosper through winter. Renard had the troupe pause in the hamlet, and presented the deacon with a scroll returning custody of the restored chapel. After assuring the people that they were only moving over Faerie Bridge and down to the lakeside, and would be just as eager to trade with them as before, they continued on their way.
            "It barters us good will, Squire Eric," said Renard as they walked. "We need to spread good will because all the other things we will soon do will seem very peculiar indeed."
            "Will I still train as a warrior or player?" asked Eric.
            "A warrior, I should think. Soon we will need all the warriors we can get. Sir Gerald will give us five months, or so the master said. Today is the Imbolc Fire Festival, so the midsummer solstice is five months away, less a week. Not much time before we must move on."
            "My lord, about - about the future. Will I go with you?"
            "Only the master knows. Don't you want to stay with your girl in the tower?"
            "Martha? We have fallen out. Or at least I have fallen, and I think it's because she pushed me."
            "Ah."
            "Besides, Lil has showed me interest. Do you think it's too late for me to show some interest in return?"
            "Don't place much hope with her, Lil shows interest a great many lads. Was your parting with Martha over Lil?"
            ""Martha's fickle moods caused us to part," said Eric miserably as he tried to rally. "She acts as if it is over between us, but if she decides to come back to me I shall welcome her back."
            "Just as well. Lil slipped away with Jon's young apprentice last night. I think she was going to Faerie Bridge with him to do things to make you jealous."
            "What sorts of things?"
            "Things that involve clothing being removed."
            "Then they must have got rather cold for nothing. I found all the arrows quickly and returned to the tower."
            "I doubt that they noticed the cold."
            "Why do all that just to hurt me? She could have just slapped my face like Martha does."
            "Perhaps Lil really does fancy you," said Renard with a wink. "Wil and you are of a similar height and build. Perhaps she just closed her eyes and pretended it was you."
            "That seems too silly to be true," said Eric, who had decided that the time for being sceptical had returned.
            "Courtship is all about being silly, Squire Eric. That is why it is so enjoyable. That is also why it is so destructive."
                                                                        #

CLICK HERE TO RETURN TO "The Iron Warlock" CONTENTS PAGE