Legends of the Four

Now if only she were dark-haired and svelte like the beautiful Guinevere depicted on the front cover of the book, who was lying in Lancelot's arms looking deathly pale, her long dark hair falling in cascades down her back. Then she wouldn't be constantly rejected by men and she'd get rid of those damned freckles that had very nearly cost her her life.

It had happened five months ago, when Helga had a brief encounter with death. She had lived in the center of a sleepy town - Sulvanny - in Turnlovey Hall, the home her father had left her at his death from wizarding cancer, being 153 years of age at the time. The persecution of witches had not yet begun in Sulvanny, for which Helga and her elderly mother, Florensa, were very grateful.

But as with all areas of the British Isles, Sulvanny soon succumbed to the terror and chaos that pervaded many other towns in Britian. And Helga was one of the last women of Sulvanny to be accused of witchcraft, as most of them had already been burnt brutally at the stake, and the Turnlovey name was not then sullied by suspicion and commanded some respect.

But when news of freckles, birthmarks and warts being proof of sorcery reached the ears of Sulvanny's townspeople, any last signs of sleepiness vanished and a new force of righteous tyranny drove the inhabitants to purge the town of all who fitted the description of Satan's helpers.

Helga had watched, nervously hiding her freckles, as woman after woman, young and old, was convicted of the same crime as the one before her. Each was burnt, screaming for mercy, at the stake in the town square before a roaring crowd of men, who would feel no anxiousness about themselves simply because they were men and therefore, the Catholic Church's favourite sex.

And one day, it became Helga's turn to experience firsthand the terror of knowing that there was nothing that could save you from death that had not decided to come early, but was forced to.

It was after morning tea time, and Helga was knitting in one of the two drawing rooms of Turnlovey Hall on that fateful day, when several loud knocks were administered to the front door, demanding her attention. The butler, who was a wizard himself, had come running in, terrified, after he had answered the door and spoken with the authorities waiting to drag Helga out of her home and to the stake, if possible so soon.

And drag her they did, as Helga screamed, kicked and scratched the men with her nails, all the way to court where she was given a very short trial in which she screamed some more and called the judge a "repulsive stinking codfish" and was instantly ordered to the stake.

And Helga, entirely losing her mind, whipped out her wand and was on the verge of Stunning every single person in the room when the judge, a wizard who had abandoned the magical life, ordered her to his private chamber and led her out the back way so she could escape without being seen.

The judge's motives behind this were not that he had fallen in love with Helga's beauty and desired to save her from a terrible fate, nor did he pity her any more than he did his other victims who were all either burned or drowned. He saved Helga's life out of concern for his own self who would be blamed for everything that would ensue if Muggles actually saw Helga do magic with an adult wizard (no matter if he had abandoned his wizarding life) in the same room.

And when Helga bolted out the door of his chamber, he promptly hit himself over the head with a paperweight from his desk and collapsed on the floor, unconscious, as though it were all Helga's doing.

And thus, Helga evaded death. She deserted Turnlovey Hall and fled with her mother to Atlindle, which was Mrs Turnlovey's private estate. After notifying Godric, who had been Helga's playmate from her birth, she shifted to Winthroe Castle (leaving her mother at the woman's request). Godric firmly insisted that she live in the safety of his isolated home which was only visible to the eye of a magical being. So she took up residence at the castle with Godric and his terribly flirtacious and very pretty sister, Georgiana, whom Helga immediately took a dislike to.

It would be false to say that Georgiana seriously minded about Helga's disfavour towards her, because Georgiana was not at all bothered about it. In her opinion, Helga was definitely a "boring old maid" who didn't know "how to flaunt her looks" and who "wasted her time on books and day-dreams when she could be ensnaring men instead". And so Helga and Georgiana dutifully avoided each other's company whenever possible, and ignored each other whenever it wasn't.

While Helga lived in Winthroe Castle, it would have been expected and acceptable if a romantic interest had sparked up between Godric and herself, but what really happened was quite the contrary. Of course, Helga had developed a certain fondness for Godric that stretched beyond the boundaries of friendship.

But when, just a few days ago, he had told her that he thought of her as no more than a sister (having found out about her amorous prospects for him from Georgiana), she realised that all those weeks of trying to catch Godric's eye and seem extraordinarily pleasant and pretty were wasted. She then reverted to losing herself in worlds where she could forget about her grievances and pry into someone else's life. That is to say, she read books.

The castle's library was packed with them but was fairly dusty because of the deficiency of visitors interested in its ancient tomes. Both Godric and Georgiana did not experience excitement about reading - Godric being a man of action, and Georgiana not very literate.

So Helga spent hours, day after day, in the stuffy library of the castle, reading book after book of stories by wizarding authors of terrifying horror tales that kept her looking over her shoulder for insane murderers. Books of magical adventures in far away lands, of chivalrous deeds committed by brave knights, and ancient books of lore and legend that wholly mystified Helga no matter how many times she read through them.

But on this particular day, it was a book of romance that caught her attention, and she had been reading it for quite some time, eyes regularly clouding over with tears of pity, understanding, appreciation, and frustration, when a strong masculine shout drifted into the room.

"Helga! Where in hell are you? Helga!"

Placing a bookmark on the page she had been reading, Helga sighed and called out, "I'm in the library, Godric!"

Soon she heard the tell-tale thump, thump, thump of boots echoing in the hallway outside the library and seconds later, Godric's head appeared around the door, his face breaking into a grin as he registered Helga curled up in an armchair beside the fire, feet tucked neatly under her. "Sticking your nose in the books again, eh?" he said, his brilliant green eyes twinkling.

Helga bristled in vexation at this comment, as she always did when her appearance was mentioned in even the subtlest way. "For your information, they are extremely interesting and if I were you - "

"Which you are not, thankfully."

" - I would be sticking my nose in them too. They are your legacy and you ought to know your own property, Godric."

The black-haired man shook his head and sighed in exasperation. "Let's not turn this into a lecture about all my faults, shall we? I'd much rather ask you on the whereabouts of our dear delayed friend, Salazar."

"Oh Godric, he's probably just being held up for some reason. You know that he's always got many things to do, what with all that property he owns. Give the man some pity!"

"Pity! Why should I pity him? He's devastatingly wealthy and could have any woman begging for him in under a minute! And anyway, you know that he doesn't like being pitied, Helga. He's the kind of man who wouldn't accept pity if he was within an inch of death! And it's already been half an hour since our designated time. I'd say that this is not even fashionably late, as he likes to call it. If he's not here by seven o'clock then he'd better have a bloody good reason for it."

Helga stretched lazily like a cat and yawned unceremoniously. She had long since abandoned all formalities and coyness with Godric; he was now no more than a brother to her, and she had absolutely no intention of starting any romance between them, as it had failed miserably before. He was her primary confidante, always had been, and she was enormously grateful that nothing had changed between them due to their short-lived love affair. More like nonexistent, thought Helga.

"Georgiana's been after him for weeks!" said Godric, jostling Helga out of her thoughts.

"Him, who?" asked Helga irritably. She always assumed an irritated tone of voice whenever Godric's sister was mentioned.

Godric shot her an exasperated look and rolled his eyes. "Salazar, of course! Who did you think, Arthur of Camelot?"

"Well I wouldn't put it past Georgiana to raise the dead just so she could amuse herself with them."

"Ha! She can barely make a Forgetfulness Potion! And she'd probably go off to powder her nose before she was even through one stage of the necromancy process."

"Sometimes I wonder if she isn't a - a - " faltered Helga, "what is it you call a wizard who can't do magic?"

"A Squib, oh lovely being of no memory!"

"Well, sometimes I wonder if she isn't a Squib - what a vulgar word! - because of her poor abilities in magic," said Helga, ignoring Godric's previous comment.

"Hey, there's always the Muggle cabarets in France!" quipped Godric. "She ought to fit right in, and then I'd get free favours from her - ah - co-workers."

"Ugh! At times like these I couldn't think of more repulsive creatures than men," sniffed Helga.

Godric eyed her expectantly, a grin creeping around his face.

"Oh, all right, all right. Yes, I can't help but be fascinated about what goes on in them taverns. What an exotic life those girls must lead!" said Helga almost wistfully, as Godric collapsed into a chair in gales of laughter. "And what is so funny, may I ask?"

But Godric didn't answer for a while, as laughter kept bubbling up inside him and spilling out of his wide mouth. Finally - "Oh, I just imagined you in one of those costumes that they wear in cabarets. All frills and short skirts and lacy undergarments - "

"Right, that's enough from you!" snapped Helga, a wicked smile threatening to overpower her grimace of revulsion.

Godric smiled nonchalantly and, looking at the gold ornate clock on the mantelpiece under which a fire was burning merrily, he said, "Salazar has fifteen minutes to go before he's an hour late. Honestly, whatever happened to his punctuality?"

Helga yawned again and rearranged herself in her seat. "Leave the man alone, Godric. If he's late, he's late and there's nothing we can do about it. Now I'm going to carry on reading this book, as I was doing before you rudely interrupted me, and I suggest you get acquainted with one or two yourself while we wait for him."

So the heir of Winthroe Castle stood up, randomly chose a book from the shelf nearest him (Isle of the Sultans), and stretched out in his crimson velvet armchair, joining in with the tranquillity of the scene.

~ ~ ~

At about the same time as Godric stuck his head around the door of the library, Rowena finally entered Mulfaver Wood, snagging the edge of her cloak on a branch to her left. She was quite out of breath and full of hurting joints and muscles, not being used to so much strenuous exercise. So she slowed down to a walk and trudged, gasping and puffing, along the surprisingly well-trodden path that led through the heart of the wood and out into the next town.

The only sounds Rowena could hear in the wood were her own footsteps and ragged breathing; neither birds nor animals were anywhere in sight and there was an eerie gloom all around. She didn't dare take out her wand and cast a spell for light, in case there were any stray Muggles in the wood for some odd reason.

And then she heard the horse.

Actually, it was only the sound of the horse's hooves that resounded throughout the wood but nevertheless, Rowena panicked. What was a horse doing in Mulfaver Wood? They were the main means of Muggle travel at that time and there weren't any wild ones near Mulfaver, as far as she knew. Was it someone from the village coming to find her?

Instantly, her heart quickened its pace though she wasn't moving, and she pricked her ears in the direction of the sound. No, it was coming from the heart of the wood, away from Mulfaver, but it was coming closer to her with every passing second. She looked around wildly for a place to hide but there was none, so she resolved to peeking out from behind a thick oak.

The horse soon reached the clearing Rowena was in and stopped there, to her displeasure. She realised that it had a rider, but she couldn't see his face as he seemed to be swathed in the very shadows themselves. The colour of the horse was such a deep black that it was almost blue, but it was a strangely beautiful animal and Rowena suddenly longed to touch its brilliant mane.

Presently, it spoke ... or so it seemed to Rowena who was mesmerised by its beauty, but it was actually the rider to whom the smooth drawling voice belonged to.

"I know you are hiding somewhere, and I will not go until I have established who you are," the voice said, making Rowena jump and thus reveal her hiding place.

Not that it was much of a hiding place anyway, she thought grumpily.

"You know, it's quite ridiculous for you to still hide from me though I know exactly where you are," the man informed Rowena in a mildly amused tone. She was sure it was a man because no woman ever had a voice as low and sensual as that. "I am already quite late for my destination and one of my - friends - would certainly murder me before I had even alighted off my horse, if I were anymore delayed than I already am. Come now, don't make me dismount and drag you out myself."

"How do I know that you're not going to attack me for some obscure reason if I come out?" inquired Rowena boldly, surprising herself.

"Well, judging by the fact that you're apparently still alive, although I know the exact place where you are standing and have an especially sharp dagger on me, I won't attack you unless you attack me first ... madam. Now will you come out or do I have to fulfill my threat of dragging you out myself?"

Rowena was by now too hypnotised by both the man and his horse to resist the order, and tremblingly stepped forward into the patch of moonlight streaming from the canopy of the wood. She couldn't see the man any better but she understood that his horse was not actually black but midnight blue. And then she realised two more things - that she had never seen a horse like this one before, and that the man sitting astride it must have been very wealthy indeed. Or he could have been a thief.

After a rather long pause, the man asked, "Where are you heading at this late hour? And in those clothes, too ... "

Rowena felt a sharp pang of indignation. So what if her clothes were old and tattered? Her appearance was not the most important thing in the world to her and she wouldn't let this man or anybody make fun of her. "Where I am headed is my own business. And as for my garments ... well, they suit me just fine, thank you very much."

"Good, good. I like passionate women who can defend themselves; if not with a sword, then with the tongue. But even though I am supposed to be cruel and heartless by popular belief, I cannot let you go without knowing exactly where it is you are going."

Touched by the man's concern, Rowena softened; perhaps he could help her find somewhere to stay for the night and then perhaps she could find another village to live in. After all, he had what looked to be a very healthy horse, and she had tired blistered feet. She sighed wearily. "To be honest, I don't really have any idea about where I'm going - "

"Then it can't have been a very well-planned expedition," interjected the man.

" - and I was planning on sleeping in this wood - "

"Which wouldn't be a terribly good idea considering your condition, not to mention the reputation of this place."

" - but I will decide to change my mind if you would help me. And I don't appreciate being interrupted!" finished Rowena angrily.

And it was a few seconds before she registered that the man was laughing at her. The nerve of him! Why, Rowena could easily hex him and his devastatingly beautiful horse into oblivion if she wanted to! But somehow, the thought didn't really appeal to her at that moment and her anger abated slowly, as she watched the blue sheen of the horse's silky coat travel around the side of its body that was facing her.

"There's a little village just a little way out of this wood - Mulfaver, I believe - and if you like, I could drop you off there," suggested the man.

"No! There's a - a - a witchhunt going on there right now! And I don't think the villagers would take kindly to an interruption on so lovely a horse. They might think that you used sorcery of the wickedest kind to enchant the beast."

"Ah yes, Minuit is a rather handsome animal. The horses of the Nuit Foncée breed are very rare and therefore difficult to come by. My ancestors, however, have had a claim on them for generations and this one was passed on to me at the death of my father. And it's quite fortunate that I don't have any siblings, otherwise there would have been a most bitter feud, and all because of a pretty horse," explained the man.

If anything, he sounded quite proud and boastful of the legacy he inherited. But anyone would be proud to own an animal like that, as Rowena reminded herself. Then, a thought popped up in her mind. " Minuit ," (the horse turned its head towards her), "that is a foreign word, is it not?"

"Indeed. French for midnight, and quite an appropriate name, eh?"

Rowena nodded silently. Yes, the man was definitely very rich and probably came from a very old distinguished family. That is, if he wasn't lying. But if he was, then he was awfully good at it because it sounded so plausible and Rowena believed every word.

"Now, enough of this! I don't even know your name and here we are, in the thick of a supposedly haunted wood, talking about my family!" the man snorted. "How - "

"Positively delightful!" filled in Rowena truthfully.

The man contemplated her for a moment then shook his head, clearly amused. "Tell me, you wouldn't happen to be the witch that was supposed to be burnt in Mulfaver tonight?"

Rowena blanched.

"As I thought. Really, madam, you are quite hopeless at cunning plans, you know that? And don't you worry; I won't turn you in to the authorities. I happen to be a wizard myself. Lord Salazar D'Ornoir, at your service," the man said, giving her a short bow while still perching steadily on the horse. "And may I have the pleasure of knowing your name at last?"

Relieved to know that Salazar was not a Muggle and wouldn't be letting her burn at the stake for witchcraft, she finally told him, "Rowena Partholain, at your service, milord."

Salazar drew himself up straight on his horse and stared at her fiercely, a frown forming on his face, though Rowena could not see it. Was it her? Could it really be ... her?
A heavy silence hung between them as Salazar surveyed her face and strove to get a look at her neck for that one little sign that would prove the identity that she claimed was true, but her hair surrounded all parts of her neck.

Perhaps if he used charm and guile he would be able to force it out of her ... "Dear me, Miss Partholain - or may I call you Rowena? - You do understand that with one slip-up from a single witch, the entire wizarding world is put in jeopardy? Quite careless of you, if I may say so."

"Well, I'm very sorry for leading the wizarding world into danger, but I was not using magic at the time of the discovery at all! It wasn't my fault in the slightest," was Rowena's haughty reply.

"Ah, then it must have been that little birthmark on your neck that gave you away? It is shaped rather like an eagle, correct?" he quizzed, giving her a shark's grin.

Rowena's eyes widened with shock and her hand slowly travelled to her throat where the birthmark was still obscured by her hair, confusing her as to how Salazar could possibly know about it. "You're not related to me by any chance, are you?"

Salazar gave a short bark of a laugh. "Funny how I know more about you now than you probably ever knew about yourself. You've never seen me before and never even heard of me, and then all of a sudden, I know so much about you than you could ever have imagined. And I'm sure you don't want to be left in the dark so shall we get moving and inform you about it later?" he asked, and then paused. Rowena was sure that he grimaced as he said, "Ugh! That was a terrible pun, was it not? 'Left in the dark', indeed. Sometimes I wonder at my own sanity, not to mention my license in sarcasm."

Rowena laughed and a bright clear tinkling filled the wood. "Thank you for informing me of that. But where exactly are you going to take me? The road through Mulfaver won't be too good for us at this time, and I haven't got any relatives or friends living nearby, and you're atrociously late for your meeting now, and it's all my fault - "

"Honestly, madam, do you ever know when to stop talking? Or were you a parrot in your past life?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, I suppose you haven't travelled much, Miss Partholain? If you did then you wouldn't have to grovel before me on the ground as I'd order my servants to do."

The corners of Rowena's mouth turned down at this. "That is not a very pleasant way to treat the people who serve you. It would never be acceptable in my home. And no, I have not travelled much at all, and I think I'll allow you to call me Rowena, since we're becoming so well-acquainted."

"Well then, Rowena, can you ride? And I mean fully astride, not side-saddle, as it would be grievously uncomfortable for you and I would feel guilty for putting you through such pain!"

"Well, I - I honestly don't know. I've never ridden a horse, you see."

"It's not very difficult. We just need to keep you on top of him, that's all. Now, come here and give me your hand."

Rowena walked across the leaf-littered ground to the horse and offered her hand to Salazar. She was no longer afraid of him, and as he grasped her rough hand in his gloved one, slid the other round her waist, and somehow hoisted her onto the horse's back behind himself, an arrow of delicious warmth shot through her body, right from her toes to her scalp, and she shuddered.

"Are you all right?" asked Salazar with surprising gentleness, feeling the tremor go through her body.

"Yes," Rowena whispered back, savouring the heat as it tingled on her skin. "Yes, I'm fine."

"You'd better hold on to me, and don't loosen your grip. We've got a long way to go yet and I don't want you falling off and becoming a bloody mess," said Salazar. Then he heaved an exasperated sigh. "I did it again. Wonderful. I'm going insane. And I haven't even got an heir to the family name yet!"

"Oh I'm sure that won't be a problem for you. There must be hundreds of women just waiting to get in line for the conception of an heir to your lordly belongings," observed Rowena, snaking her arms around his cloaked waist.

But none of them appeal to me as much as you, thought Salazar with all the bitterness in the world. "En avant, Minuit! Onwards!" he cried aloud, and before Rowena could look behind her, they were off almost faster than the speed of light.


AUTHOR'S NOTES: Enjoyed that? Thought it sucked? Tell me about it! (Ah, I meant review actually). For those of you who think that I was heinously cruel about the Catholic Church, I do apologise, but it did do all the things listed in this fic. My source was the following website: Prosecution or persecution? The real story of the witch-hunt