Born of the Sun

Chapter One: Market Day

Godric Gryffin strolled slowly through the marketplace, savoring the thousands of sights and sounds and smells. The colors, the people, the new and exotic scenes threw his senses into a frenzied dance. He was a tall, finely built fellow, with an open, honest face that did not betoken any great mental prowess to its owner, but was nevertheless very kind and friendly. His forehead was high, his chin square, and his coloring rather unexceptional. He might not have been especially clever or handsome, and his clothes might have been coarse and homespun, but as he passed the occasional beggar he pressed silver coins into their outstretched hands. It was a practice his mother had always taught him to do, even when their own purses were slim and their table plain. "We've got a roof over our heads and clothes on our backs and enough to eat and most importantly, we've each other," she was wont to say. "Others aren't so lucky."

However, his thoughts were not on his well beloved mother as he stared with greedy eyes at the marketplace around him. He had not been to a town fair since he was a child of ten, nearly eight years before, and to his country boy's eyes, it was all very new and fascinating. He saw men fighting with staffs, and shooting arrows, and women selling cloth and jewelry and pies. The stalls were piled high with goods: wearable, edible, warlike, house wares.

Above the teeming, blaring marketplace, the sky was a sizzling blue bowl. Dust rose at every movement, coating all, human, animal, or inanimate. It was midday, and the twisting, tessellated roads were choked with hurrying patrons and sellers. A few sedan chairs, well guarded, moved among the populace.

It bustled. People dashed hither and yon in the pre-midday preparation of the buying frenzy that would soon fill the market. Hordes of people mingled, shouted, whispered, bartered, and traded.

Gold passed from hand to hand as though they were Knuts. Voices were a cacophony of levels - screams, shouts, hails, melded with whispers, pleadings, sometimes threats. Above and below the human clamor, donkeys, camels, and dogs were a discordant accompaniment.

"Make way for Lord Salazaar!" a resonant voice shouted, and like magic the crowds parted. Godric watched as a young Norman lord wearing pale green robes embroidered with silver serpents rode forth on a pure black stallion. For a moment their eyes met: Godric's, brown and curious, the nobleman's gray and haughty. Only a moment, and then the crowds closed again, and the young lord on his black steed was lost from sight. Godric blinked.

"Get out!" A coarse woman's voice rose above the din. "Get out, I said!"

A small, scrawny beggar boy wearing a colorful assortment of rags darted in view. He stuck out his tongue at someone behind Godric's back. "Fine!" he said petulantly, stamping his foot childishly.

Godric looked over his shoulder and saw a wide-girthed woman of middle age wearing an enormous orange apron standing in the wide doorway of an inn. Black Horse, the sign that hung over the door read.

"Dirty little thief, hand the loaf back!" The woman came shrieking out from the inn, waving her rolling pin and causing several people to draw back in alarm. Her gray hair came loose from its bun, giving her a wild, hag like appearance, and her broad face was very red, and screwed up in anger.

Leaping out of range of the rolling pin, which was being waved in random directions, hitting several unfortunate pedestrians, the boy tossed his head and sniffed disdainfully.

"Catch me if you can," he taunted, leaping this way and that like a young grasshopper.

"Give it back, I said, or I'll have your head!" screamed the woman, but before she could start after the fleet-footed boy, Godric took pity on the child and stepped forth.

"Lady, I'll pay for the boy," he said, reaching into his patched pocket and pulling out a silver coin. He offered it with a smile on his honest, kindly face. The woman, scowling, took the money, still glaring at the child.

The boy made a face at her. "Hmph! This bread is sour. Here." The boy tossed the small loaf of bread to a yellow mongrel that lay whining on the side of the street. The dog, with a small squeal of delight, began to devour it.

"Won't eat good bread," sniffed the woman. She turned to Godric. "Sir, would you like to come in for some of the best meat and ale in this part of England?"

Seeing that it was time for luncheon, and that he was very hungry, he answered, "Certainly, my good lady."

Godric made to follow her, before turning back to the ragged beggar boy. "Would you like to join me, my friend?"

The boy grinned. "Sure thing, sir."

They followed the woman back inside the inn, where she gave them a table in the corner, all the while eyeing the boy suspiciously. The boy made a face.

"Think I'm poor, do you?" asked the boy haughtily. "Think I'm a beggar not fit to eat food at your table?" He reached into his shirt and pulled out a string of pearls. "There now!"

Godric stared, first from the milk white beads, and then to the boy's dirty face. Where the devil had the little urchin gotten such wonderful gems?

The woman drew back, dollar signs positively reflected in her eyes, and became all smiles. "Yes, yes, young master, whatever you would like."

After ordering a hearty meal for them both, they settled down to eat.

"Tell me about yourself," the boy asked, munching contentedly on a mutton leg.

Godric studied the boy's face. He was very young, no more than fourteen, and he had a sunny smile. His hair was of an indiscriminate color, but his eyes were very blue. He wore an ugly cap on his head, and he had no shoes.

"I grew up around here," said Godric. The stew was very good. He ate it hungrily. "Not much to tell. My mum's the Widow Gryffin, and I'm training to be a knight under Sir Wulfstan the Wise." He flushed self-consciously. "I'm only seventeen summers, and I'm not very good with the sword, but I hope to become one very soon."

The boy smiled encouragingly. "I'm sure you will," he said. "You'd make a good knight."

Godric flushed again. "And you?" he asked. "Where is your home?"

The change to the boy's face was immediate. "I haven't got a home," he said forlornly. "Daddy doesn't want me."

"Why?" asked Godric, surprised. He could not imagine any father not wanting his own child. Though he had never known his own father, his mother often told him about her much-loved husband. Godric liked best to hear the tales of his great courage and prowess in battle.

"My mother's been dead for years, and he was going to marry again," said the boy sullenly. "I didn't like his new wife and I ran off." He started to cry. "Daddy doesn't want me," he sobbed.

"Don't cry," said Godric, desperately. He did not know how to deal with crying children. "Don't cry. I'm sure he very much wants you home."

"No he doesn't!" shrieked the boy. "If he did, why didn't he come looking for me?"

"Maybe he can't find you," said Godric, soothingly, patting the boy's hand.

The boy sniffled and wiped his eyes. "Maybe," he conceded. "Well, if that's the case, after I've had a good time I'll go home." He stretched. "Mmm, I'm full. Let's go."

Standing up, he took Godric's hand and dragged him out the door.

Outside, people were forming a circle at the edge of town. The boy dragged Godric toward it, eager to see what was going on. As they approached the ring, a man came flying out. The crowd conveniently parted to let him go where he would, roaring with laughter as he skidded to a halt at Godric's feet.

"Next!" called a cold, imperious, decidedly feminine voice.

"I'll go!" shouted a fat, red-faced knight of indiscriminate age.

"Grandfather," exclaimed another man, "you are already very old, how could you hope to win the hand of this young maiden?"

There was a shout of laughter. "The lady is so lovely that even an abbot has come to try his luck."

"What's going on?" Godric asked.

An old woman turned. "Do you not know? The young lady is searching for a husband. Whoever can win her in a duel can have her hand in marriage! Aye, 'tis monstrous exciting."

She turned back to watch the proceedings.

The abbot and the old knight were facing each other.

"Old man," taunted the abbot, "should you win this lady, do you wish her to become a widow right after her marriage?"

"And what of you? You are an abbot, with vows to the Church!"

Godric peered into the center of the circle. A tall, slim, lissome young girl with hair as glossy and dark as a raven's wing and deep, violet colored eyes stood proudly by an older man that Godric presumed to be her father. She wore loose fitting robes of rough material, but it did nothing to disguise the warmth of her coloring or the fluidness of her movements. Her skin was pale and milk-white as the beggar boy's pearls had been, and the puffs of dust that rose around her were like a hazy bronze halo outlining her vivid loveliness. She was barefoot, but there was a string of gold bells at her right ankle that rang faintly in the wind.

The man at her side was over forty, but still handsome. His hair was gray and his brow was lined, but his eyes were still young and searching, as though he sought something he had lost long ago.

The abbot and the old knight were fighting by now. The girl stood immobile, with a face of stone. But at the sound of hoof beats she turned, shielding her eyes against the bright sunlight. Godric turned also, and saw the young nobleman he had seen earlier approaching them.

He dismounted with one sleek move. The crowd parted, breathless. He carried a slim silver saber inlaid with emeralds.

"You are the maid who would duel all comers, with your person at stake."

The girl lifted her head. "I am."

Her father stepped forth. Godric was startled by the steely hate in his obsidian eyes as he gazed into the face of the young Norman lord. "My name is Robert of Huntington, and this is my daughter Rowena."

"The rules?"

"The man in question must be under thirty, and unmarried. If he can win my daughter in a duel, then I shall give her to him in marriage."

"And how long has this gone on?"

"Three months, my lord."

"Three months, and none have yet surpassed your daughter?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Then - let me."

Robert of Huntington hastened to protest. "You jest, my lord. We are but poor peasants. She has neither name nor dowry. How could she match your lineage and wealth?"

"The wealth is in the maiden herself," said the young nobleman, smiling mockingly. "She is her own dowry."

The crowd laughed.

"Still, sir - "

"I match your description as to age and marital status, my good man. You have no right to deny me."

"By right of my - "

"That is quite enough, father. I will duel this man, and gladly. If he is as" - she paused breathlessly for effect - "courageous as the others I have met" - shouts of laughter - "then we shall be rid of him quickly." She threw back her raven head. "By all means, let us duel."

She held out her hand, and curtseyed deeply, her fine eyes full of scorn. Stepping lightly into the center of the circle, a vision of loveliness and grace, she nodded at her adversary and drew her sword. Its flash was reflected in her deep eyes. The young lord drew in his breath sharply.

The crowd surged forward as their swords met, coming together and flying apart too quick for the watching eye to follow. They had never seen such a duel before. The girl's skill equaled and perhaps even exceeded the lord's, but he had twice her strength. Metal clanked against metal. She swung her sword forward in a low arc, and he leapt smartly over it. She shoved the sword forward, and it tore the sash of his robes. With a flick of her wrist she tossed the embroidered sash backward and caught it with her other hand.

"I'm sorry," she said, coldly. "Father, I believe that is enough for today."

The young lord narrowed his eyes. "We have not yet decided the outcome, I think," he said, in a soft, dangerous voice.

She barely had time to ward off his blow, but it didn't matter; her sword shattered under the strength of his. The impact sent her flying.

He caught her easily, holding her in his arms as though she were a child.

"Do you yield?" he asked, softly.

"Put me down," she demanded imperiously.

"Only if you yield," he said, stubbornly.

With one swift motion, she drew back her hand and slapped him, striking him hard against the cheek.

His hold only tightened. "Yield," he demanded again, softly.

"Very well," she said, through clenched teeth. "I yield."

The crowd hooted. But before any had a chance to speak, a sonorous voice boomed out, "Make way for Lady Slytherin!"

A covered sedan was carried at a smooth, steady pace down the street. The crowds parted, awed by the mere presence of the great lady.

"Move," snarled a guard, as a young child scampered into the way.

A soft voice called out from within the curtained sedan. "Be gentle with the children, sir."

At the sight of the sedan, the young lord dropped the fair Rowena and strode toward his men. Pulling on his coat, he demanded to his guards, "Who was it that informed her ladyship?"

None met his eyes.

Swiftly, he mounted, but Robert of Huntington demanded, "Where might I find you to discuss details?"

"There is nothing to discuss," he said, not even looking at the older man.

"You won my daughter to marriage."

"That was but a jest. Good day."

He turned his horse and rode toward the sedan. "Mother!" he called.

"Salazaar? What are you doing here? Have you been fighting, child?"

Robert of Huntington's lips turned white. That voice. He would know that voice anywhere. Only one woman on earth spoke like that . . .

He was dreaming. That was the only explanation.

"I was only playing," said Salazaar, appropriately repentant. "Come, Mother, let us return to the palace."

"You can't just leave," said Godric, both shocked and angered by the young man's utter callousness. "Where is your honor?" He drew his own gold handled sword.

"Are you challenging me?" asked the young lord in amusement.

"Yes. I am challenging you."

"Salazaar!" His mother's voice was reproachful. The gauze portiere was drawn back to reveal a face of incredible beauty, framed by glorious red-gold hair. "You mustn't."

None heard the gasp that escaped Robert of Huntington. It was her. There was no mistaking that flaming hair, or the deep, lovely eyes. She had lost the youthful freshness of her beauty, but the indescribable majesty of her charm remained. He stood there, frozen, gazing on the Norman lady, the woman who had once been his wife. Until one snowy December day, when his world had shattered, and Fate had taken away everyone he had ever cared for. Gareth, his cousin and childhood friend; Beatrice, whom he had loved like a sister, and Caryn - Caryn, the beautiful, the gentle, the loving.

Only one question remained - why was she now the wife of a Norman lord?

***

Next chapter: the fight between Godric and Salzaar, we are reintroduced to Beatrice; Robert's story since that fateful December day is told, we learn of Rowena's origins, and we discover who the beggar boy is.

Thanks to Calypso and Amanda for reviewing the prologue.

As always, Amanda (weekend_soul and author of "False Hope is Better Than No Hope At All," which can be found at Astronomy Tower) and I can be found at our Y!Group at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/PillarofFire. I also have gooey D/G fics at Astronomy Tower, for your pleasure.