Born of the Sun

Prologue

Caryn was walking slowly along the well-worn road to the village. In her arms she carried a basket of food and medicine, for the poor and the sick and the elderly of the town needed tending. Since Beatrice, who, as Gareth Gryffindor's wife was lady of Lionsmere, was in a delicate condition, Caryn had taken to going to the village. She felt it her duty, both as the Lady Beatrice's cousin and as the wife of the Thane of Gryffindor's best friend and most trusted knight.

It was a cool, pleasant day; the first snow had come some time ago, but today there was no precipitation from the heavens. The skies overhead were as clear as running water. Caryn wore a cloak of green as brilliant and deep as her eyes. The color became her bright gold-red hair well.

Caryn had reached the outskirts of the village, near an old run-down cottage, when she heard the low, indistinct groan. Puzzled and apprehensive, she set her basket down and moved slowly toward the deserted hut.

What she saw made her want to be sick. It was a man, fully armored, but grievously wounded, his face bloodied, his body slashed and cut. His breathing was rough, uneven, painfully shallow. He was lying on a pile of dirty straw, and streams of pale winter sunlight streamed through the cracks in the wall and ceiling. She gave a little cry of horror, and was about to back away, when he moaned, in French, "Help me."

A Norman. Caryn was unable to repress a little cry. He was young, only a few years older than her twenty summers. His face was dark and handsome, and he was tall and strong in stature.

Oh God, she thought, the bile rising in her throat. She swallowed hard, and drew out her wand. Slowly, she inched towards him.

An hour later she had succeeded in removing his bloodied armor, and in cleaning and bandaging his wounds. Who he was, she did not know or care; the fact that he was hurt and helpless sufficed. It did not matter if he was Norman and she was Saxon. She fed him bread and wine from her basket, and he smiled weakly up at her.

"Who are you, lady?" he asked, still in French, his eyes cloudy, unfocused as he gazed up at her.

"Hush. You must save your strength," she answered curtly in the Saxon tongue. Bending over him, she tapped him lightly with her wand. "Schlafë," she whispered, and he slept.

************

He was gone when she returned at eventide. Outside, the darkness was falling swiftly and silently, and she stood uncertainly in the crooked doorway, using her wand for illumination. The cottage was empty.

She turned toward the endless road that wound into the dark night. "Fare thee well, stranger," she whispered, and the wind bore her voice away. Then she turned and began to walk slowly back to the Lionesmere Keep, the Castle of the Winged Lion.

************

"You will catch cold, Caryn. You ought not be out here."

Sir Robert of Huntington came up behind his wife, his boots crunching crisply in the soft, dry snow. In his hands he held a warm fur coat, and carefully, he draped it over her slender shoulders. She turned, her bright eyes caressing his finely modeled face, and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"It is only that I longed for a breath of fresh air," she said, her voice half muffled against his cloak. Her hair was like fire against the green velvet. "The castle stifles me."

"I know, love." He smiled, ran his fingers through her hair, but before he could continue the sound of hoof beats upon the ground filled the still, white starry winter night air.

"Gareth is home from the hunt," he said, taking his wife's hand. They started toward the keep, from whence the Lady Beatrice was hurrying out to greet her husband.

Gareth Gryffindor was dismounting from his handsome black steed, and within the next moment had encased his dark-haired wife in a hug. "How does my lady fare?" he was asking, as Robert and Caryn approached.

"Very well," she answered, kissing him soundly on the cheek as his men, several carcasses swung over their shoulders, returned to the keep.

"And the babe?"

Beatrice smiled and patted her stomach. "Strong as ever. Did you have much luck, my lord?" she asked, and he nodded. "Aye. We brought home a half-grown deer and a fat boar. There shall be feasting in my halls tonight." He released her to greet his friend. "You ought to have come, Robert. The boar led us on a merry chase."

"I will come next time," Robert promised. "For now, let us go in and celebrate the spoils. I am sure you are hungry, my friend."

"Aye, hungry as a bear," said Gareth, throwing his arm around Beatrice's shoulders. "Cousin Caryn, I trust you are well also?"

"Aye, my lord. Thank you." She inclined her head to him, smiling. He flashed her an answering grin, and they turned to go back to the castle.

But before they had entered the gray stone walls, the sound of metal on metal suddenly shattered the cool winter air. The four froze, giving each other shocked glances.

"Who would dare exchange blows so near Lionsmere?" Caryn asked in a whisper. "Surely they know - "

Before she could finish her sentence a huge, powerfully built man, whose pale blue eyes identified him as a Saxon, stumbled into view. His clothes hung in tatters. Dried mud clung to his brown tunic, which was torn open and hanging off a thick-muscled shoulder. His face was a mass of cuts and bruises, his scalp had been sliced open, and his white hair and beard was matted with darkened blood.

"'Tis Wulfstan of Valcore!" exclaimed Beatrice, shaking loose her husband's arm and running forward toward the old man. "Grandfather Wolf!" she cried, and the man looked up.

"Be it you, little Beatrice?" he asked, in a weak, hoarse voice. "Little Beatrice of York?"

"Aye! It is Beatrice. Oh Grandfather, what has happened?" She had reached him by then, and heedless of the filth, had wedged her shoulder under his arm to support him. Gareth, looking faintly bewildered, strode forward and took the old man's other arm.

"The Normans," said the man called Wulfstan, briefly. "They hunt me and my band of Saxon yeomen with fifty of his men."

"Bastards," said Gareth briefly and eloquently. He himself was a Saxon thane, and cared little for the arrogant invaders that oppressed his people.

"I have heard of you, Wulfstan of Valcore," interrupted Robert, through narrowed eyes. "You are a Magus, Wulfstan the Wise, the White Wolf of Winterthorn. You fought with the rebels against the Norman invaders in sixty-nine. They say that when a man in your company took a sword between his ribs at York, you were able to save his life, though all others had given up on him."

Wulfstan the Wise smiled sardonically, cracking dried blood at the corner of his mouth. "I have cheated death so many times I have lost count."

"But your band of men? Are they safe?" asked Beatrice, who would not be deferred.

"Scattered," answered Wulfstan, letting out an involuntary groan of pain as he accidentally jolted his injured arm.

"They still hunt your men?" asked Caryn worriedly, pulling out her wand and tapping his face with it. The skin pulled together and healed itself, though the blood remained. She looked faintly sick.

"Aye."

"Then we must hurry, Gareth," said Beatrice.

"Aye," he answered swiftly.

They hurried the Saxon warrior across the drawbridge. Caryn found him a new suit of clothes while Beatrice patched his wounds up, and the two lords armored themselves for battle. "Oh, do be careful," cried Caryn, clinging desperately to her husband's arm as he mounted. He smiled down at her and touched her face briefly. "I will be, my love. Are you ready, Gareth?"

"Aye. Let us make haste."

With a clatter of hoof beats the three men rode out of the castle, ten Lionsmere warriors behind them. Caryn swayed unsteadily on her feet as she watched them ride away. As soon as they were out of sight she climbed up the keep as fast as she could. Beatrice was already standing on the battlements, her face lined with worry, gazing out into the distance. The two women held hands as the red and gold banners of Lionsmere faded away into the black night.

**********

The three men returned in time for supper, battle-weary and sore. Of the ten warriors that had ridden out with them that night, four had returned, and Wulfstan's company of fifty was reduced to twenty-nine.

"I'm afraid we lost many brave and valiant men," said Gareth, wiping sweat from his brow. Beatrice was removing his armor. "But we drove the Normans away in a scant two hours."

"You are not wounded, my lord?" asked Caryn of her husband. He shook the hair from his eyes and kissed her beautiful face gently. "Nay, I am not wounded."

"Grandfather Wolf? You are well also?" asked Beatrice, clapping her hands for a page to come and help him.

"Aye," he said, smiling.

After the men had been refreshed, they all sat down to eat. Gareth, Robert, and their wives headed the tables, with Wulfstan in the seat of honor. Hot food and good wine was served; when at last everyone was satisfied the jesters and musicians were called out. As they sat listening to the sad, sweet songs of a troubadour, Wulfstan said, "I would like to thank you, Lord Gryffindor and Sir Robert, for what you have done for my men. We will be eternally grateful."

The two men smiled. "You're welcome, my friend," said Gareth, smiling. "We are honored to help such brave men."

Wulfstan looked at them all with affectionate eyes. His gaze rested on Caryn. "You are with child," he said, his voice gentle. "A man-child, strong, and lusty." Turning to Beatrice, he continued, "And you, little Beatrice, the babe you carry in your womb is also a son. They will become great wizards - the greatest of their time, and perhaps, for all times."

Robert and Gareth exchanged glances. "You speak the truth?" demanded Gareth.

"The Wolf does not lie."

"We must name them," said Beatrice impulsively. Her face was glowing and warm.

"Let Wulfstan name them," said Robert. The old warrior smiled, pleased.

"In the ancient legends of our people," said Wulfstan, slowly, "there were two great warriors who loved each other like brothers. Godric of the Golden Lance, and Salazaar of the Silver Spear. Thus, Gareth, let your son be Godric, and Robert, yours be Salazaar, and may they love each other as brothers do."

There was a moment of silence, as the troubadour's deep voice rang richly out in the halls. Then Caryn said softly, "You have chosen well, Grandfather. Thank you."

The old man smiled and closed his eyes. Pointing out a finger, he whispered, "Accio!" In an instant two objects soared through the windows and landed on the table before him.

A gold handled sword and a silver handled saber.

"Ah," said Wulfstan, his hoarse voice soft and almost musical. "This is the Phoenix Sword, and this, my friends, this is the Dragon Saber. They were forged by the fires of the gods themselves." He handed the first to Beatrice and the second to Caryn. "They are my gifts to your unborn sons."

The two women bowed their heads. "Thank you, Grandfather," they said. The moment was strangely poignant. He smiled at the two bent heads with their ropes of smooth hair, and stood. Gareth and Robert stood immediately as well.

"My men and I must be going," he said. When Gareth began to protest he dismissed him with a wave. "No, I cannot stay the night. We are in haste. Come, my men, we must go."

"Then we must see you off," said Gareth.

They walked out into the still, starry night. The snow sparkled in the moonlight.

"You must come again soon," said Robert.

"I will return before the week ends," replied Wolfstan gently. Placing a gnarled old hand on Caryn's shoulder, he said, "Beware of the silver serpent, my lady." As she gazed at him, startled, he mounted his horse and looked away into the distance. "May God go with you," he said, and let out a hoarse cry, slapping the withers of his mare. In an instant, he was off, his men following closely behind. Soon, they had disappeared into the dark night.

************

It began to snow again that night. It snowed all the next day, and the next. It was on the fourth night, as Gareth, Robert, Beatrice, and Caryn sat by the fire of the great hall, that the guards signaled movement outside the walls of the castle. Climbing the steep stone stairs to the battlements above the keep, Gareth and Seymour watched in bewilderment as a force of one thousand strong swept into the field across from the drawbridge.

"Why do they lay siege to us?" demanded Robert in shocked dismay, as men moved into position around the castle. "And who are these damned assailants that storm this castle without pennon or banner displayed?"

"I don't know," said Gareth with similar astonishment, as a massive knight in black armor rode forth and issued a challenge. Gareth's mouth tightened. "But whoever he is, and whatever he intends, he sure won't get away with it."

In twenty minutes, the one hundred of their men were armored and ready. Robert led the line of defense, while Gareth himself rode out to meet the enemy on his black charger with fifty men strong. They were not a minute too soon in their preparations. As Robert returned to the top of the battlements, the shrill blast of a bugle sounded through the air.

It was the signal for assault.

The castle trumpets instantly answered in notes of defiance the challenge of the enemy. The shouts of both parties augmented the fearsome din, and almost instantaneously the attackers let loose their arrows. The black knight was heading a body of men close under the outer barrier, and they were pulling down the piles and palisades with axes. Soon they had made a breach in the barriers, but they were rushed back by Gareth and his band of warriors. The pass was disputed hand to hand, and man to man.

The black knight himself fought Gareth, who brought him down with a single mighty blow, breaking his sword. But he rose again on foot, grabbing an ax from one of his knights. Soon Gareth had fallen, but his men, headed by Robert, compelled the black knight to pause, and dragged their fallen lord back within the walls.

The assailants won the barriers. They pressed the defenders upon the outer wall, some planting ladders, some swarming like bees, and endeavored to ascend upon the shoulder of each other. Stones, beams, and trunks of trees were thrown at them, but as fast as they bore the wounded to the rear, fresh men supplied their places in the assault.

But the ladders were quickly thrown down. The black knight, infuriated, splintered the postern-gate with the ax he still wielded. They rushed into the castle.

It happened so quickly that there was no time to think. Robert placed his wife and his best friend's wife on the back of the mighty steed Demon, and bade them escape with their lives.

"No!" sobbed Caryn, "I won't leave you."

"Go!" bellowed Robert. "Go!" He slapped the horse's flank, and it was off; the drawbridge was lowered as they flew past on the back of the swift-footed Demon.

They had ridden for ten long, agonizing minutes deep into the forest when hoof beats sounded behind them. "Beatrice!" shouted a voice - Gareth's voice. Beatrice reigned in Demon, so suddenly that the two women were thrown to the ground. Gareth rode into the clearing. An arrow was sunk in his chest, but he kept on towards them, gasping for breath and gritting his teeth against the pain. In his hands, he carried the Phoenix Sword and Dragon Saber.

He dropped the two weapons to the snow-covered earth. "Take them and save yourselves," he choked, looking white under his tan. "Run and save yourselves."

"The devil we will," exploded Beatrice. "We're going to make it, we will"- tears were streaming down her cheeks, "Oh - Gareth!" she shrieked, as he slumped forward in his seat and fell to the ground. "Oh - God - "

He smiled weakly up at her. "The baby," he whispered. "Save yourself, Beatrice . . . I'm dying . . . go, quickly, before they come . . ."

"No!" she sobbed, "No, I won't leave you, Gareth, you mustn't die - "

It was too late. Her cry resounded in the old forest. She caught him in her arms, and wept bitterly. Her fingers found the gold-handled sword, and she drew it, but a hand stayed her.

"No." It was Caryn. "No, you mustn't do this," she said. "You must think of the baby."

"Oh," she sobbed, and the sword dropped from her fingers, sinking into the snow and the earth. "Oh God," she whispered. "How did this all happen?"

There were more hoof beats echoing in the old forest. "We must hurry," said Caryn, helping her cousin gently to her feet. "They are coming for us. We must get away, and you shall raise your son to remember. We can't stay her and let Gareth have died in vain."

Beatrice nodded weakly, the fight gone from her. Wordlessly, the two women mounted, and with a slap, Demon was off again. Swiftly and more swiftly he ran, but the pursuers were fast approaching. An arrow, straight and true, hit the beast in its flank, and it reared in pain. The women were again thrown to the ground, but this time they were surrounded by leering men. Long lances were pointed at their throat.

*************

Caryn drifted in and out of consciousness. She was only dimly aware of the journey on the path that took them back out of the forest. She called to Robert, but he did not come. She was tired, so tired. But where was Beatrice? Oh God, she mustn't fall asleep. She mustn't. But she was so tired . . .

Lionsmere Keep rose before her, stark and gray against the winter sky. There would be safety there, she thought, her heart leaping in her chest, before she suddenly remembered that there was no safety to be found anywhere. A pitiful cry escaped her lips when a vaguely familiar voice called out in Norman French, "Unhand the lady!"

The clash of swords followed. Shouts, hoof beats, and at last, blessed, blessed quietness. Caryn swayed, and fell off her horse. She braced herself for the hardness of the ground, but instead she fell against a broad, warm chest. She opened her eyes, but the effort was too much, and at last she gave away, and fainted.

************

In a small, comfortable inn on the road to London Town there came a party of Norman knights. The leader, a tall, muscular man, carried a slim young woman in his arms. The minute he stepped into the inn he shouted, "A room for the lady, and a doctor as soon as you can find one!"

He plunked fifty gold pieces on a hard wood table. The innkeeper hurried to find the woman a room, and sent his young son to find the leech.

**************

"Robert! Robert!" Caryn cried out restlessly in her sleep. A large hand encased hers, and she opened her eyes, exclaiming joyfully, "You've come!"

It was then her vision cleared. The man who sat by her bedside was dark, not fair. His robes were green, with a silver serpent embroidered on it, not red with a gold lion. A man she recognized . . .

"You!" she exclaimed, drawing the covers closely around her. "Are you not the man that I found in the old cottage outside Lionsmere Village? What am I doing here?"

"I was riding by Lionsmere Keep," answered the man, in passable Saxon. "I saw the Black Knight attack you."

"Are you not a Norman yourself?" she asked, scornfully, backing away.

"If you are asking me, lady, whether I was in league with the Black Knight, then my answer is nay."

He handed her a cup of steaming brew, and she took it mindlessly. She relaxed a bit, but her eyes remained dark, watchful. "And my husband?" she asked, finally. "What of he? What of Beatrice? Where is she?"

The man tensed. "I am sorry," he said, at last, gently. "I was too late to help your husband and your friend."

"They are dead?" she shrieked.

The man did not reply. She threw the cup to the ground, and it shattered, hot liquid splattering his legs. When she burst into a passion of tears, he gently covered her hand with his. "Lady, you must not upset yourself," he said. "For your child's sake, if not your own."

"How - how did you know about the child?"

"A doctor came earlier to check on you."

She was silent for a moment. Then - "The Saber?"

"Are you referring to this, Lady?" He reached to the stand beside her bed, and handed her the silver saber. Her fingers closed around it tightly.

"Oh, thank God," she whispered. "I would not have failed him twice."

They were silent for a long time. At last, she asked, "What is your name, lord?"

"Reginald," he answered. "Reginald Slytherin."

****************

Beatrice winced as the horse stepped into a rut, jarring her stomach against the hard ridge at its withers. She was bruised and battered from her journey through the forest and the Norman knight's brutal treatment. She was thirsty and tired and afraid.

What had happened to Caryn? Had she been injured, or killed? When they had been taken, a group of men had led Caryn back toward Lionsmere Keep, while she had been brought even deeper into the forest.

When she turned her head, she saw the blood-red of the Black Knight's colors, and then the appearance of a huge crimson silk tent. The knight on whose horse she had ridden lifted her down roughly. As her feet touched the earth, he shoved her to the tent. When she reached it, the flap was lifted, and she was thrust inside.

At the sound of coarse laughter, Beatrice turned. It was the Black Knight, his helmet on the table before him. This man had murdered her husband, she thought, and launched herself at him. Rough hands held her back, and the Black Knight laughed.

"Welcome, my lady," he said, as though she had merely strolled in for a visit. "'Tis kind of you to join us."

"Kind?" she spat. "That is what you call your vicious abduction?" Thoush she addressed herself to the Black Knight, she surveyed the interior of the tent, noting the riches, the lustrous silks, heavy tapestries, and exotic furs.

"Now, now," said her guard, "That is no way to address Sir Axton. On your knees," he said, kicking her, so that her legs buckled and she fell to the ground.

Beatrice spat at Sir Axton's feet. Oh, she knew who he was - how often had Gareth spoken of this arrogant Norman lord?

"B****," growled Sir Axton, as a man hurried forward to wipe off his boots. He raised his hand to strike her. She ducked and rolled out of the way - just as a knife zipped through the tent. Two powerful arms snaked their way into the tent. Beatrice was picked up easily, and the flap closed again. Enraged, the Black Knight let out a roar, and charged out.

Beatrice and her rescuer had vanished.

**************

"Grandfather Wolf," said Beatrice, her eyes squeezed tightly shut to keep her from being sick. "Grandfather Wolf, how did you know I was here?"

They were sitting on a magical carpet, and flying away into the darkness of the night. Beatrice, feeling ill, was lying down, while the old wizard steered.

"I have been watching since Axton de Valcourt's arrival. Think you that I did not know who he is? There is not a Saxon for three hundred miles who does not know of de Valcourt's cruelty - and despise him for it."

"Where - where is Robert?"

"Dead," said Wulfstan briefly.

"And - and Caryn?"

Wulfstan turned to look the young woman in the eye. "I don't know," he said at last. "I don't know."

**************

"Where do you intend to go, Caryn?"

Caryn drew her cloak tightly around her against the bitter December winds. "I have no place to go," she said at last, lifting her eyes to the far horizon.

"Come with me, then," said Sir Reginald. He took her hands in his. "Come with me to Serpentwood Hall."

"I cannot do that."

"For your child, Caryn. You must think of the child. If you come with me, I can help you raise him. Think of it, dearest. You are a woman, alone in this world."

She was silent for a long time. Finally, she lifted her drooping head. There was a single tear streaming down her cheek. "Very well, then," she whispered. "I will go with you."