They almost never received visitors to the farm, and this one was very unusual. She knew this man, at least of him, for he carried on his chest and the saddle blanket of his horse the coat of arms of the Ravan Dynasty. He was one of their Lord’s men. But what could he be so urgently concerned about this early, and with Father?
It nearly made her blush to think of him. Ravan, leader of the dynasty, was so forbidding and strong, his face so brooding and imperfect, scarred with a history he seldom spoke of. Tobias had tormented Risen on several occasions, determined to draw the stories from him. But there were few stories that he could tell, at least that is what Risen told them, for Lord Ravan was very private even to his own son.
He was so fascinating, and Sylvie heard the rumors of how he’d absconded with Lady Nicolette. When everyone thought he was dead, he magically reappeared with Moira, both of them on the red mare. It was a fairytale story, and she believed it was the most beautiful tale she ever heard.
And the Lord’s wife—Lady Nicolette. She was so gossamer, as though she would break from a mere breeze, and so very mysterious. Some even said she was a witch, but Sylvie snorted the thought away. People could be so busy with other’s affairs—so judgmental. Even so, Sylvie had to admit the woman had given her pause on more than one occasion.
Most perplexing of all was Niveus, Risen’s younger sister. They’d all three tried to lure her into their circle of friendship, had attempted to stifle the strange child’s behaviors, but she’d been resolute in her solitude and even more so in her conduct. She would have very little to do with them, very little to do with anyone, really.
This bothered Sylvie; she worried that the child might be mad, touched by something they could not understand. If this was so, what would her fate be? Would the Lord and Lady just keep her safe within the keep of the castle forever? What would happen to her when they were someday gone? These were questions Sylvie asked no one, only herself.
Sometimes, as they played, there Niveus would be, leaning her white head against a door jamb, peering at them with those incredible eyes. “Come, Niveus. Come play with us,” Sylvie had once called, but the child just disappeared, almost as though into thin air.
“It’s all right,” Risen mumbled. “She prefers to be alone.”
“It’s because she’s insane,” Tobias remarked.
“Don’t say that!” Risen was deeply offended by the question. “You just don’t know her, that’s all. She has a destiny you can’t under…” He’d not finished the thought.
“What? Like you know?” Tobias had teased him. “One of your dreams?”
That had not been exactly kind, and Sylvie stepped in, drawing Risen’s attentions away from her obnoxious younger brother.
“I would like to get to know Niveus.” She shrugged. “She simply won’t allow it…yet.” Sylvie gestured to the empty doorway that Niveus had moments ago lingered in.
Risen sighed, “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that, some would think she is mad, but I know she isn’t. I know her. Only, she won’t let me…” he struggled for the right words, “…won’t let me in.”
It made Sylvie wish to know Niveus even more, after Risen said that, just because he wished it. But it was not to be. The child simply had no sensible use for them. And, strangely, Nicolette seemed not concerned for it at all.
The horse snorted, bringing Sylvie’s musings back to the present. She pushed up onto her elbows and continued to peek, blinking away the sleep from her eyes, staying hidden behind the mostly closed window shutter. The rider was dressed in battle leathers and armor, not a messenger but one of Ravan’s soldiers. He never dismounted, only swept his hands at the woods to the northeast and then indicated, with two fingers, southwest toward the castle, up on the hillside beyond the village.
“To the castle…” she barely heard him say, then could not understand the rest of his urgent comment. She saw her mother’s hand fly to her mouth in alarm. Father swung his arms at the house, then gestured toward the sheep pens, and away he ran.
Without notice, the man spun the battle horse and galloped away. Sylvie squinted. Even with the foggy haze, there in the distance on the far edge of the village she could see a white plume of smoke already snaking upward, defiling the barely morning sky.
Dropping the window cloth, she flipped onto her back and grabbed her sleeping brother by the shoulder to shake him awake. “Tobias!” she called his name in an urgent whisper. “Wake up! Hurry, something’s happening!”
Tobias was Risen’s very best friend. They’d known each other since the age of three when they first met in the market, and were naturally drawn to each other—kindred spirits of a mischievous sort, her father had laughed.
Growing up together, Tobias had benefitted from long hours with the Lord’s son, gaining instruction, protection and, on lean occasion, food for their family when Father had once been too injured to work the field.
That’d been a long winter when he fell from the roof. They might have starved but, without calling for help, a soldier had arrived with sufficient reserves to get them through to spring. They’d survived well enough and replanted when the snows broke. Father was eternally grateful, wished to repay Lord Ravan with part of his flock, but the master would have none of it.
Lately, though, Sylvie had to admit, she and Risen had been spending as much time together as the boys did. He was the first to insist she be allowed into their circle, and the three of them had become nearly inseparable for some time. They had wonderful adventures spearheaded largely by Risen’s unusual imagination, her streaming intellect, and Tobias fearless recklessness.
On several occasions they’d spun an adventure nearly out of control but managed to survive. It was so exhilarating, to be alive right now! Sylvie briefly thought this last year had been a perfect year, the best one ever, and the castle grounds were the perfect backdrop to play out their adventures. Risen preferred the woods, but Father worried about that, scolding him. “Don’t worry!” The boy had assured him, “I’m much more fearless than anything we would meet in the woods!”
“He’s cut of his father’s cloth,” Father had told her on more than a few occasions, shaking his head but with a smile on his face.
Sylvie was thirteen, a willowy child with strikingly unusual eyes the color of mint after a good rain. She might be thought of as frail, but what she lacked in strength and stamina, she more than made up for in instinct and brilliance. This child was naturally insightful, and although not schooled, picked up ideas so quickly that Risen had once exclaimed, “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever known!” That had even prompted an appreciative glance from the strange, black haired beauty that was the boy’s mother.
Sylvie had many questions, thoughts, and ideas that she shared only with Tobias and Risen. The idea of eternity, of there being nothing before the beginning. Where did the sky go? Did it just end? Mother and Father would have been upset with her for some of her ideas, for some of her thoughts blasphemed. But Tobias and Risen never told on her, only invited her to share.
It wasn’t intentional. She never meant to insult the Divine creator. It was only that there seemed to be so much more to the universe than they could know. She sometimes dreamed of moving to Paris, of reading from great writer’s works—Roger Bacon’s and William of Ockham’s, or perhaps even a pilgrimage to Spain or Byzantium!
Of course, these were only dreams. It would never be allowed, for she was a girl and could yet scarcely read. Besides, it would be terribly unsafe. Perhaps, if there was no other way, she could become a nun and work from behind the cloistered walls of a church, sit and think of wonderful things no one else had. Let them think her unreasonable, but they just didn’t see what went on inside her head.
But what of Risen? She could never venture too far from him. He was like a brother to her, a kindhearted, handsome, exceptionally close…almost brother…of sorts. Sylvie’s beautiful forehead scrunched up as she tried to categorize exactly who Risen was to her.
&n
bsp; What Sylvie didn’t know was that he was totally, madly, off the cliff in love with her. Yes, she’d felt something too, something curious stirring deep within her soul, but it was not yet as obvious to her. For now, in her mind, their days were spent with wonder and adventure—truly inseparable creatures of grand fortune. And, in her early adolescent innocence, she’d not noticed the way Risen sometimes looked at her lately.
It didn’t matter; life was wonderful, and modern, and with all the promise of a new moon’s tide. And they were floating in it, surfing the most wondrously free years of their lives in blissful unawareness. Indeed, if life were always as vital as it seemed through the eyes of Sylvie this morning, there would be no need for growing up; one could live forever.
“Wake up, somethings happening!” Sylvie stabbed Tobias in the ribs again. He didn’t have time to respond because, just then, their mother burst into their tiny bedroom, the rickety door slamming against the wall. Never had Sylvie seen her this compelling, never.
“Get up, get dressed.” Mother yanked the blanket off of them both and tossed boots at them each in turn. “Quick now. We haven’t much time.” Her urgency was contagious, even more so than when the storm had knocked down the west fence and the herd had gotten out, threatening to disappear in the woods.
“What? What’s wrong?” Sylvie pulled on her shift kirtle as fast as she could. She made it a habit to sleep in her stockings when it was cold, and reached to grab the brace—the one Ravan’s blacksmiths had made special for her—that rested propped against the bed stand. Wrapping it fast about her right leg, she laced it snug in seconds, having done it so many times before. Then she reached for her shoes, tossing Tobias stray one to him as he pulled on his trousers.
“Mother,” she called to her in the other room, “Tell us what’s wrong! We can’t help if we don’t know what’s happening.”
“We must get to the castle,” she called back to her. “There’s a…conflict. We need to go there fast as possible. Hurry now. There’s not much time.”
Tobias began to bemoan the fact that he was up so early. Evidently he did not understand the gravity of the word conflict. “Be silent!” Sylvie spat at him. “We’re in trouble!” She could see her mother’s profile through the doorway as she donned her cloak. Sylvie could tell by the distressed look on her face and the way she avoided eye contact that something very serious was afoot. Something much worse than lost sheep.
They’d known for many years that an overthrow was always a possibility; it was generally considered a risk of life. Landholdings, fiefs, and even kingdoms suffered the risk of flux at any time, especially with the English so intent on war. When takeovers happened, only the strongest survived. Change always seemed inevitable, but as time had passed, few enemies had chosen to take on the new leader of this dynasty, for the Ravan Dynasty would be a hard won target for even the worst of them.
Perhaps they’d become complacent. The realm was, most thought, secure with its force of nearly five hundred and strategic position where the river bent about a cliff. It would not be enough for invaders to take the town. They would have to take siege of the castle, and that would be a nearly impossible task indeed.
“Hurry up!” she pressed Tobias again. “We have to go, now!”
Her younger brother smashed his cap down onto his mop of brown hair and shot his sister a look. “You don’t have to wait for me. You know I can run faster than you any day.” And with that he bolted from the room, leaving Sylvie behind.
She ignored the jibe and bit her lip, calling to her mother in the other room as she snatched up her cloak. “Mother, where’s Father?”
“Getting the animals loose. Hurry now.”
It was lambing season, and the sheep were corralled. If there really was a conflict, the animals would be safer in the pastures. Mother ushered the children toward the front door. In the distance Sylvie could hear yelling, and there was another plume of smoke from a nearer edge of the village.
“Why is the village burn—” Tobias began.
“This way! Come this way!” their father yelled. He was just coming through the pasture gate and motioned from the edge of the field, waving them toward the meadow and the creek. It wound its way down and through an outcropping of forestation that ran up next to the edge of the town, farther west from them. “There!” he pointed. “That’s where we need to go, to the woods!”
Running as fast as they could, the three caught up with him in no time, Tobias dragging Sylvie along as she struggled, limp-running as best she could. “Quit lagging! Why are you always so slow” he shot at her, then wondered, “Why this way, Father?”
“Because with the cover of forest we may not be seen. We can reach the edge of the town farther west, make it to the castle,” Sylvie answered for him, breathless not so much from the run but from the tension she felt. It was a terrible feeling, to be in peril. She hadn’t had time to pull her hair back, and it escaped, a wild, blonde and tangled mess over her shoulders and long down her back. She was beautiful—a lame angel struggling to keep up with the rest of them.
“Sylvie is right. We need to avoid the village, try to reach the castle from around the northwest side. It’ll be safer,” Father said between gasping breaths.
“I don’t understand. What’s hap—” Tobias began.
Before he could finish, there was a stir and a commotion from down in the edge of the trees. Father froze and Sylvie ran nearly smack into him. Half a dozen soldiers stepped cautiously from the fringe of the woods, lances drawn, edging toward the meadow. Neither their surcoats nor their shields sported the Ravan Dynasty coat of arms.
Sylvie knew instantly. These men were not of this realm. The dead grass was quite tall where she stood, and it was obvious the soldiers hadn’t spied the small family yet. But it wouldn’t be long before they did. Father halted and ducked, bending over before spinning about.
“Back! Back to the house! Hurry!” He remained hunched over and shooed his family away, back in the direction they’d come.
“But Father,” she whispered as they ran. “They could come from the woods behind our home as well. Should we not try to reach the village straightaway?”
He ignored her, shoved her and her brother back toward the farm. Together the small family moved as hurriedly as they could, back to the meager protection of their home. Mother and Tobias ran on ahead. Father held onto Sylvie’s hand as he bent over.
There was only the small clearing to cross, then they would drop down into the cloister of buildings that was their little homestead. In the distance, a third plume of smoke was snaking up from another edge of the town, an indication that whatever was afoot had met with the villagers there as well.
By the time the small family was running across the small meadow that would crest in front of their home, the soldiers had spied them and were chasing, beginning to catch up with them. Mother and Tobias were still sprinting ahead. Father had a death grip on Sylvie’s hand and was now fairly dragging her along. Finally, he simply swooped his daughter up into his arms and raced, clutching her fast to his chest as he ran.
Sylvie, her arms clasped around her father’s neck, could see over his back, could see the man in the distance stop and raise his bow. She watched as the soldier released the arrow but she never saw it fly. It was as if in a dream, and she blinked, then felt her father gasp, stumble and pitch forward.
Thrown clear, she felt her father’s grasp yank from around her, and she hit the ground very hard, rolling over twice before coming to rest sprawled on her back. The breath knocked from her, she was unable to cry out, and only just lay there, dazed by the fall. The sky was the palest blue overhead, and she gulped, struggling to find her breath.
Turning her head, she gazed in shock at her father’s face not very far from hers. His eyes were wide, emploring. He was whispering something, and she reached a hand for him, tried to touch him.
Father lay prone, arms outstretched upon the meadow’s crest just before they reached the gate.
With his neck craned severely to one side, his cheek was crushed cruelly into the frozen earth. His eyes were open and his lips continued to move, but no sound was coming out. Only a bubbling pink froth emerged from the corner of his mouth.
It was to Sylvie like a drawn out nightmare as he blinked so slowly, sputtering. From the middle of his back protruded the arrow. It appeared so small, so thin. Could that have hurt her father so mortally?
She was beginning to get her breath back even more and started to cry out but heard a voice calling her name from the nearby watershed—the one close to the gate that housed the irrigation cistern.
“Sylvie! Quick! Come quick!”
“Risen?”
She looked about, confused by the chaotic string of events. Father had fallen, terribly wounded, and why was Risen in the watershed?
The men would see her soon, were close enough that even though she was small, her form would come into view beyond the crest of the hill.” If she laid unmoving, the soldiers would likely pierce her through with a lance, ensuring her death. It was simply the way of war. She could not know this…but Risen would.
“Hurry! There’s no time!” Risen called as he dashed from the watershed and snatched her by the hand, pulling her up and dragging her the short distance back to the small outbuilding. They crashed through the narrow opening and splashed into the shallow cistern, Risen thrusting her fully inside before kicking the ramshackle door closed behind them.
Falling against the small shed wall, Sylvie turned and saw Risen silently motion for her to sit down. The tiny building was short, too short for even the children to stand up inside. Perching upon the narrow edge of the trough, for the walls of the watershed were too close in for them to lift their legs from the icy water of the cistern, they sat in stunned silence. It was so very cold, and Sylvie cried out softly.
Through the dim slits of the small outbuilding, in the growing light of day, they could see her fallen father, face down on the barren meadow knoll, the arrow sticking up from between his shoulder blades. He lay so motionless Sylvie couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. “I have to go to him; I have to—” she whispered desperately, tears stinging her eyes.