The Unsung Past

Chapter Six: Savage Spears

"The savage ash-spears, avid for slaughter,

have claimed all the warriors--a glorious fate!

Storms crash against these rocky slopes,

sleet and snow fall and fetter the world,

winter howls, then darkness draws on,

the night-shadow casts gloom and brings

fierce hailstorms from the north to frighten men."

--The Wanderer, c. 975

Isaiah stood, pulling himself heavily from the burden of his dead horse. Around him the smell of pitch and the sound of wailing hung. He put a weary hand to his forehead and his fingers came away bloody. The place that they had lingered upon near his hairline throbbed. He was unsure on his feet and the ground seemed to echo that sentiment, being unsure itself. Blinking, Isaiah remembered the blow that struck him down, the spear was still lodged in the throat of his steed. The animal was dying as it fell, pinning him to the battle's floor. His own sword embedded in the belly of an English cavalryman could not lend itself to his aid longer. He was stung, rendered unconscious by the blow of a sword hilt. Perhaps his injury was his savior, appearing as it had to be the blow that killed him, causing others of the enemy to pass him up, leaving him as a fellow of the dead that surrounded him on the cold, clotted gray and red-stained earth. He began now to search for his friends.

At the eve of the battle, their fates seemed tied to one another. Now Isaiah found himself alone, not even in possession of his sword, not even in the company of his horse. He was alone among the dead and the dying. None of the vacant faces were those of his friends, none of the lifeless eyes were ones he recognized. "The day was not ours," he gasped in chocking dismay to himself as he picked out a path for himself toward the edge of the field.

Across the field beyond the miles of torn and bloody landscape, Aaron, Lord of the House of Hufflepuff, sat under a barren birch. In his arms lay his squire and dutiful right hand, Thomas. Twice Aaron thought of removing the arrow from Thomas' chest, several times he tried to stand and go for help. Once he saw a friar pass some distance from him. He tried to call to him, to appeal for his aid. The rent in his side restricted his breath and made him helpless to save his friend, a young man whose wound was in part due to his action to save Aaron's fast fleeing life.

Thomas opened his eyes.

Aaron's own eyes left the horizon and sunk to meet those gray eyes. "Tarry, dear friend. My soul shall thine keep company to heaven. Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast. As in this glorious and well-foughten field we keep together in our chivalry."

"All blood you are, master," Thomas answered. "You must leave me and preserve yourself."

Aaron smiled in response. Thomas knew he could not rule the will of his master. Aaron's will was bent on fellowship in the hereafter with his one faithful comrade. Others had retreated, Bruce and the nobles seemed to have fled or turned. Who knew where their leader be; dead or dying, captured, alive and well. Thomas had stayed though this cause seemed to stir him little. He stayed because Aaron would not retreat. Aaron would not retreat from death now. His words echoed through him, his pledge to Wallace and to Scotland, "I shall serve in your campaign either until I am dead, or until we have victory." He prayed that Scotland was not lost.

A breeze swept though the birch taking the last of the summer leaves and the souls of the two men. They died before Isaiah had reached them.

Eowyn's prattle had harassed Salazar most of their return journey from London to Greenhill. The roads were turned mud with the first soak of the winter. The highways were strewn with farmers returning from market. Salazar wanted rest and solitude. But he knew he would find little of either. He was duty bound to act on Edward's words. He could make good on any threat. Their school was not impervious to his powers, his family's station as royal kin was not enough to sate his roaring superstition and suspicion.

"Father," Eowyn called from the doorway.

He looked up from the spot he had been studying on the polished tabletop.

Eowyn continued, "Abbot Marcus is here to see you on some financial business." She looked as though she was waiting to be filled in on what this "financial business" entailed. She was crestfallen when no explanation came. Salazar saw the waiting expectation on her face and was momentarily struck by her captivation of him, all of his maneuvering. He began to build an idea of partnership with her in his mind. She may become a very useful right hand to him.

Salazar nodded for Eowyn to bring the abbot in.

"Thank you, daughter," he said to her, calculating her reaction when he did not invite her to stay. She wanted to be a part of this meeting. She may suspect the importance of the abbot's visit. Clever girl. He smiled to himself.

"May I compliment you on a beautiful child," the abbot said, breaking into Salazar's thoughts.

He nodded and motioned to the abbot to take a seat across from him at the fire. In the abbot's jewel encrusted hand was a leather bound book. Nervously the man in the cowl and habit of the cloth relinquished the article to his benefactor.

Salazar took it without question. He opened it and curiously consumed every word of the first page. He flipped the cover over and saw the initials burned into the bottom right corner of the leather, E. S. This was a book in the possession of his son.

He looked from the initials in plain script to the nervous and portly face of a man more than fond of the deadly sin of gluttony. "You have stolen from a fellow man of God?" Salazar asked, perplexed.

"I merely come in council to show you that your son has gone astray. There are many passages in that book--presumably his own thoughts--that are wholly out of sync with the Truth. I fear for the soul of young Eomer. Forgive my forwardness in taking it to show you. His possession, as you call it, is in violation of our vows and therefore does not belong to him but to the community of brothers that he daily shares habitation with." Abbot Marcus shifted uneasily.

Salazar began to suspect his angle. "Why do you concern me with this? Cast him out of your order if his thoughts offend the fellowship so. I have no sway over the mind and actions of my wayward son."

"I merely point this out so that you may be prepared for the repercussions of your son's bold and heretic actions."

Salazar straightened in his seat and closed the leather bound volume in his lap. "Repercussions?" he asked with a theatrical raise of his faint blond eyebrows.

Marcus shifted again. "I merely mention the displeasure of your cousin, the king, to protect you and your noble work here at the school. It would be a shame to have this information fall into the wrong hands, Edward's hands." The oily words of the monk degraded Salazar's solitary repose. His first instinct was to toss the man from his home and forbid him to come into his presence evermore. Despite this inclination Salazar swallowed the bile that rose in his throat at the insinuation that Abbot Marcus held any sway over his benefactor, the means for his habits of luxury.

"What is it that you ask of me, dear abbot?" Salazar measured his tone and slowly asked the question that repulsed him to utter.

The abbot shrugged, his shoulders crushing his velvet habit against the folds under his chin, giving the effect that his facial features were swimming in flesh. "Your plans for the mill across the river are underway?"

"As you well know. For it is partially the land of the monastery on which it will be built." Salazar answered evenly.

"My aim is to keep the Slytherin name unspoiled; far from ill-repute..." he hesitated and finally leveled a significant look at Salazar. "That is, if I may own the mill in partnership."

"What you mean to say is you will not sell my son--a brother of your order--as a heretic to the pyre, and my family to the king for a share in the profits of my fulling mill."

"I mean to protect your family, sire," the abbot answered, his voice dripping with false flattery. "That protection is surely worth what I ask."

"What is in the pages of this book that has you so frightened, so willing to turn on a family that has done nothing if not elevate you among the clergy--an honor that certainly does not befit you. Tell me Marcus, how long has it been since Satan bought you, how long have you kept the company of women of the village in your chambers at the sacred monastery with Christ suffering on his cross at the head of your defiled bed, your monks extort the people of the village with false tithes to keep you in your jewels and velvet. How long since you shirked the ascetic life that is your duty, turned your back on the ministry. How dare you talk to me!"

There was a silence infused with Salazar's rage. His heated rebuke echoing in the ears of speaker and listener alike.

"You will have what you ask for. Get out of my sight." Salazar spoke finally, showing his contempt openly for the first time to a man whose relationship he regarded as a silent but necessary evil. "Eowyn!" He shouted after he had finished.

She appeared only seconds later. He knew that she had never left the room but lingered there just outside the door. Just as well. She would be involved anyway.

"Father," she said, demurely lowering her eyes. She could not face him in a rage such as the one she had just witnessed.

"Show our guest out." Salazar swept past her and out of the room. The leather-covered pages gripped tightly in his fist.

"Humbly," Eowyn muttered preceding the abbot and into the hall.

His notice of her as she entered the room was not lost on her nor her father. She was already working out the advantages of this when he had exited the house. She would use his attraction to her to the advantage of her family--her father.

She joined her father in his chambers at the top of the back stair. "What will you ask of me? Give me any charge. This is an insult. I will help right it!" she cried, standing directly between her father and the fire that occupied all of his attention.

"You will do nothing. This matter deserves careful thought and little foolhardy emotion. You will learn to be more like a man and less the fashion of your mother."

Eowyn lifted her chin defiantly. "I am not like her." She dropped to her knees lifting her face to her father's, a hand gripping each of his shoulders. "I would not leave you when you needed me. I am here father. What am I to do?"

Salazar considered her plea for a long time, letting her stay on her knees, seeming not to notice her waiting for his answer. He finally picked the journal with Eomer's initials up from his lap and instructed, "Make a careful copy of every note in here. Then return it to Eomer's cell without being detected. You have a fortnight to do this before your brother returns from Eire with my friend, Godric. Do this for me, my love, without question or comment. I will reveal my plans to you when I have evolved them further."

She nodded and left him in the solitude of his thoughts.

He wondered as she left him, gripping the enshrined thoughts of her deceitful brother, how much he could ask of her. He wondered what his son had given him in that journal. From the very first sentence he knew that it was something that would alter his circumstances--but much more, it would alter their course as a feared minority for centuries ever after.

"My steward has informed me that my husband, the Earl of Tyrone, is away," Rowena said, the old steward breaking away from the path behind her and heading toward the mill. She came up behind Eomer whose eyes wandered out among her expansive and youthfully green lands.

"It may prove better to have less of an audience in any case. What I do here must be in utmost confidence with every party involved." Eomer's eyes fell upon the mill damming the winding water below them. "We can count on your steward being discreet?"

Rowena nodded once very slowly. "I do comprehend you. My steward has served my father and myself and is acquainted with all of our ways and does not fear us. But may I apprise you of the details surrounding my husband's estrangement to his family."

Eomer nodded. Rowena indicated a narrow path that cut through the woods and they began that way. She was to show Eomer the limits of her land, four corners where the stones that will hold the wards on her land may be placed.

"I was a good match for him, he thought. My family was wealthy and without a male heir. My brother died in a clan war some years before my marriage to Eoin. But there is such a condition on these lands," Rowena continued, ducking under a branch that Eomer held out of the way of their path. When he released the small bough, drops of dew rained down brightly, catching the dim light of the forest at sunset. They both smiled in admiration of the sight. There was an unspoken agreement between them: Ireland was an enchanting place. Eomer was seeing it now for the first time. Rowena took pleasure at the expressions the sight left on his usually troubled face. "The condition is thus: Ravenclaw lands remain to Ravenclaws as long as any of the bloodline survive. My sons are all that are left. Eoin O'Neil would not hesitate to harm them if he could. He has tried when they were younger. It is harder to do this now, of course, because they have become men." As if clearing her mind to return to her original topic, Rowena shook her head and smiled at her slight tangent.

"Eoin turned out to be a very superstitious man, coming from a family uneducated in the benefits and uses of magic. He fears it--and us. It was not known to my husband what I was, what my family was when he married me. Only after my youngest son, Galahad was born did he find this out. I kept it from him for as long as I could. I did not trust him and I knew the reasons that he consented to marry me. But I was still true to my family and our history." Rowena looked down. "Here is the northeastern limit of my lands."

Eomer looked away to the north and back at the castle, in the loch, half hidden behind the hill they had climbed. "The stones will not be too far apart to prove ineffective. You have a small amount of land. It will be well protected."

Rowena nodded. "Small but valuable; and prey to every enemy. Eoin remains a hostile enemy of my family. He has applied to Rome for the dissolution of our marriage."

Stooping to make a small hole and inserting a wooden stake, a marker, he looked up at Rowena who stood watching with her hands clasped in front of her, "Then it is very well that this Earl of Tyrone is not here in this land. He will make trouble for you." He finished, dusting the rich Irish soil from his hands and the knees of his heavy black woolen habit. "Your lands will soon be safe even from him. If he enters the confines of the ward stones, all that will greet his eyes will be a pasture and grazing sheep dotting the green hills."

Rowena smiled at the thought. "How will that work. How did you manage it? You are, I dare say, cleverer than your father even."

Eomer's face darkened at the mention but recovered quickly and with grace. "The late Hugo's friend in London, he used a smaller scale operation on his own habitation there to stop the rioting that the non-magical community wages on them with the consent of the king. He had no idea what it was that he had done. I have improved it to encompass entire estates. The easiest way to arrive at the concept these wards employ is to think of this land as having many different outcomes. In one outcome a castle was never built here. Your family has never inhabited this land. There are only sheep and an occasional wandering shepherd. The outcome that you and I are present in, a castle does exist. You and I are standing here conversing. Should an individual intruding on your lands wander past the wards he would not see us, he would not even see that keep sitting high out of the water. In essence your land is hiding in another universe, another time, another outcome."

Rowena blinked in surprise and nodded. "I think I see what you mean. That is impressive, Eomer. You will be the savior of us all."

He looked away from her, to his feet and grinned. He remembered the sin of pride and swallowed the grin. He moved toward the river and the southeastern corner of the estate to continue his work. The ward stones would have to be in place before the end of this moon cycle.

There was no reason for alarm as Godric had thought when he came south from Scotland to the estate of his family at Christchurch. He rode the whole of the journey with Rowena, her child Maren, Eomer, Lady Verina, and his own youngest child, Isabelle in fear that Edward and his soldiers would meet them there.

Verina was seen safely to her former convent at Wilton, just upstream on the Avon from Salisbury. They convened there for two days and followed the Avon to its mouth upon which Christchurch is situated at its famous port.

Eomer, Rowena and Maren were to take a vessel from the port there to the coast of Eyre some leagues off. Godric had seen them off and followed the receding silhouette of the noble ship until it vanished on the horizon.

At the end of the wearying journey Godric deposited his sleeping daughter in a room at the top of the stairs; a room with the view of the sea spreading out in front of it. He lay her down upon the richly clothed bed reminding himself that no one has slept there since his own mother had died upon it. Isabelle was much like her in appearance.

He quietly exited the room.

Missing Rose quite a lot when he was home without her was not routine for him. Dividing his time and attention between his duties at the school in the north and with his familial lands in the south, Rose often accompanied him. However, since this was a rather last minute trip and she was well close to giving birth to their fourth child he left her in Scotland. He took Isabelle with him instead. She was not old enough to be of help to her mother, but just so to be a charming companion to her father.

Godric left the shade of the stone keep and went out into the late autumn sun, the last good day perhaps of the season, and sought the parish church where the bishop, his father's old friend, must be finishing services. He listened for the vespers as the sun began to sink behind the glittering expanse of sea beneath him.

The market inside the confines of this walled city was closing for the evening. Only a handful of the vendors that were usually thronging the alleyways and the main gate of the city on Saturday were present now. It was a Wednesday, and by the looks of it a very uneventful one at that. Several of them stopped as they collected the wares that they had not sold and offered a genial smile to their feudal lord or a word of welcome back. Godric returned all of these with jovial politeness. He would have stopped to talk to several of them, to see how the harvest goes. Many were his friends. But he was in a hurry and did not expect to stay in the area for long. He was here just long enough to secure the wards for his estate and the surrounding village. He was troubled by the fate of the villages outside of the area. Many villages lay around the port. All of these required protection of the lord of this land. As far as ten miles hence villages of reliable farmers depended upon him to shield them from attacks by wolves, bandits, and sometimes outside authorities. Maybe, he thought he could ward those villages individually. Would the inhabitants there be able to comprehend the need or the use of such magic? He did not know the answer.

He looked for Bishop Elfred in the parish and in the lofty sanctuary of the cool church. He could not find him--the one man who might have the answers to his anxious questions. Perhaps he could talk to some of the villagers. He might even drop in at the manor of his cousin Sarah and ask for her council. The more he thought about this he liked the idea. Her manor lay just beyond the farthest village in his estates. Her piece of property (the property that now belonged to him after the passing of his cousin Allanar) marked the southern border.

In the dusty road beyond the outer wall Bishop Elfred stood talking to the wife of the tavern owner. His horse stood pawing the dry earth and nodding his head as if in answer to the couple's urgent conversation. With a smile in Godric's direction the woman broke off with a bid of goodnight to the bishop.

"Old friend," the bishop turned and called as Godric approached. "How goes your school?"

"Well, I think," Godric replied. He could not hide the thin line his lips were pressed into, signifying a worry stirring in him. It was not lost on the bishop who had known him since infancy. "I go to my cousin, Sarah's house on business. If you do not have any plans to the contrary I would have your company on the ride out."

The bishop nodded eagerly. "Madam," he called to the woman he had just been conversing with. "Might we beg of you an extra horse?" The woman nodded and disappeared around the back of the tavern where the barn stood. "To save the time of walking," the bishop explained with a wink to Godric.

The bishop on his own horse and Godric on the larger plough horse borrowed from the tavern they set off with the walled Christchurch a dark shadow backlit by the setting sun. The vespers finished ringing with an echo when they saw the other horse trotting at a tired pace in the growing evening ahead of them.

Godric peered into the shadowy east where the sun had vanished and saw two small riders. They were dwarfed in comparison to the enormous workhorse they rode. As the bishop's and Godric's horses' hoof beats stopped and the horses stood still at the behest of their burdens, the taller of the two figures they watched slid from the saddle and hit the earth hard.

Godric thrust his heel urgently into the steed and tore off after the figure on the dark horizon. The bishop followed more warily behind.

Isaiah stood for a moment and breathed in every aspect of the tableau in front of him. Thomas, bloodied down his brown doublet, face pale, rested his head against the chest of his lord, Aaron. Aaron, sword dropped to his side, lay in a small pool of his own blood as it eschewed from a rent in his side just under his ribs on the left side. Both of the men had knuckles bloody and broken. They had made a good fight before a brave end. "Here is a noble fellowship of death," he muttered. The sound of footsteps belonging to two people approaching him from behind was not lost to him. He bent slowly to one knee as if to pray for the departed. He reached slowly and subtly for Aaron's sword that lay to the right of his bent knee. Squeezing the hilt between his own tired and battle-marked fingers he rose swiftly and spun on his heel swinging the blade in an arc fast over his shoulder. It met the enemy blade with a crash above their heads.

He met the eyes of his father's pupil and his own former schoolmate, Faramir.

Quickly dropping his blade, the metallic zing as it slid down the length of Faramir's own blade to the ground was the only sound between them. Isaiah looked over Faramir's shoulder and saw his sister, Isaidore's anxious face as it glanced over his wounded brow.

"You should not have come," Isaiah said sternly, glaring at young Faramir as he sheathed Aaron's discarded weapon. Faramir replaced his weapon in scabbard as well. "You should not have brought her."

Isaidore stepped between the two and answered, "It is I who brought him, Isaiah. Azria and Mungo have come as well. I should fetch them to attend to your wound, brother."

"No," Isaiah said quickly. He moved aside so that the two may see the picture of heroic death he had been admiring. "I do not think it wise that either of them see this." He moved toward the birch and lifted Aaron away from the trunk. "Faramir, help me to lay them out properly."

Without a word Faramir moved to Isaiah's side and lifted Thomas in his arms spreading him out under the tree they had been resting against. Isaiah laid Aaron next to him. "Here were two good men," Faramir said under his breath. His eyes lingered on them for a moment.

"Come," Isaiah said, stirring him from his solitary reverie. "Give us charitable license," he continued, crossing himself; Faramir followed his direction and Isaidore as well, "that we may wander o'er the bloody field to book our dead and then to bury them."

He walked quickly in the direction of the collective fray. Bodies were strewn in the most awkward positions. Bodies fell and were trampled, more carcasses were piled on top of these. Some peasants close by had come already to wander and search as well--some for bodies and others for whatever else the dead may have to offer.

Faramir stopped one of these scavengers and asked about the Ravenclaws. The scavenger answered favorably to a description of Theoderic. He mumbled, "Thrice within the hour I saw him down, thrice up again and fighting. From helmet to the spur, all blood he was."

Isaiah looked to Faramir and nodded; an accurate description it was of Theoderic.

"In which array does he lie, brave soldier?" Isaiah asked. The flattery was not lost on the scavenger who puffed his chest out with pride. "I fought next to him," the man lied. "He tore off that way after the English."

Faramir and Isaiah turned and headed in that direction, exchanging dark looks.

The small class filed out and eventually dispersed themselves in all directions. Salazar appraised his pupils as they fled to the last of the warm sunlight and wondered how many of them would receive the bells and bandolier of his trade, finally taking the Necromancer's Oath. Not many, he frowned in thought.

He turned to the raised dais and began to collect his papers.

"Does this book contain what it seems to?" Eowyn's voice chimed behind him before he even heard her footfalls.

Salazar stood and saw that she waited at the door. No woman was permitted inside this class without his permission. It was not the trade of a woman. Eowyn had been an assistant to him on many occasions, collecting equipment, arranging texts, but she had never been allowed to learn, though he was in no doubt that she would excel.

He beckoned her forward with his finger.

Eowyn seemed honored to be allowed admittance, as if she were being initiated into that great secret society of the Knights Templar. He gave here one small thought. If she proved in the time to come to be loyal to him unto death even, she may yet earn the rights and privileges heretofore only awarded to the men of the magical realm. The thought warmed his heart. She was far better than a man, better than a woman. She carried a loyalty to him alone that left her free of attachment to nearly everything else. She would soon be pushed into a decision that might even test her last attachment to anyone but her father. Would she also be willing to betray her brother?

"Perhaps more than it seems, my dear," Salazar answered. He glanced at the finished copy in parchment and the velum original in his daughter's ink-stained grasp. "Is it complete?"

"As complete as the original," Eowyn replied, handing the copy to her father. "What Eomer thinks and knows to be, and what he writes down may prove to be separate. I will return this to his cell." Eowyn turned to go and Salazar looked to the copied parchment, rifling through it as a cursory check of her work.

Eowyn turned and favored him with an uncertain glance. "Will the abbot make good on his threats, father?"

Salazar frowned and felt his heart sink a little. "Not likely," he answered gently. "He talks, but there is rarely anything behind it. He is the least of my worries." He was disappointed with Eowyn's concern. Whether it be for her brother's safety or in doubt of her father's power over the abbot, it did not voice the confidence in her that he had hoped for.

Eowyn nodded and clasped the book to her chest, drawing her cloak around her. She looked at him one last time, doubt painting her face with a dark expression, and pulled her hood up to veil her face. Salazar looked back at the pages and did not notice her sidestep into the hall to permit another guest's entry. When he heard footsteps again he almost called for Eowyn to leave him be. As he looked up he choked the words down and glared impatiently at the woman walking brusquely across the room, closing the distance between them in some hurry. Apparently his protocol could not be exercised upon everyone.

"Tell me plainly, Salazar," Helga said without greeting. Her face was flushed and her hair was falling untidily into her face, her linen head cloth was slipping away from her forehead, "has anyone returned from the wars?" She clasped her hands in front of her and stood boldly waiting for an answer. If it were not for the slight trembling in her hands and face he would have thought her a very powerful force. She was, however, nothing so powerful to him.

He took his time, looking away from her, placing the precious copy of his son's findings in a leather satchel with his other things. Finally he looked up and said, "I know not. But I know this: it would serve all justice if you, Rowena and Godric lost your gallant sons. It was not their fight to meddle in."

"If not theirs, than whose, my dear Salazar," Helga said slowly with a deliberate edge to her words.

Salazar took in her beauty and her trepidation, scanning her from the floor to her golden crown of hair. He could not pass the thought from his head that he had sacrificed Verina and her love for this. He felt no love or duty to her. He could only detect the feeling of distaste that was swelling into a dull, aching hatred.

"Tell me, Helga," he began slowly, moving his eyes over her still. He could tell it made her uncomfortable and did not stop appraising her. "How will our demise befall us? You have the gift of seeing what has not yet come to pass. Will this end badly for all of us?" he locked eyes with her and sensed that she desperately wanted to look away. She did finally.

She turned her face from him and looked to the floor. "I am haunted by many visions. But my sight has become cloudy."

"So why do you come to me?" he asked, taking a calculated step toward her like a predatory cat testing the resolve of its prey. "Do you love me, Helga? Do you ache to be near me?" He came to stand directly in front of her. She still kept her head turned from him. He would not be permitted to touch her lips. He settled instead to graze his lips against her neck, moving a hand to brush her hair and the linen drape from his face. He lifted his chin and rested his lips on her ear. Softly he whispered, "We could be invincible together. Ally with me and we shall have no more cloud covered days and years. We will have everything. I can give you everything."

"What can you give me?" Helga asked breathlessly. "What will you promise me that I would want?"

"Me," Salazar answered simply. "You want me. I feel your desire for me radiating from you. You are all too obvious, my darling." He felt her shudder as he lifted a hand to her waist moving slowly upward. "I feel your heart racing when I touch you." His hand came to rest at her heart, rising and falling with her breathing. "You can lie to me, Helga. But you cannot fool me. Surely you did not think you could?" He laughed mockingly, pulling away from her, delighting in the way she leaned after him, an unsatisfied glint momentarily catching in her eyes.

He collected his leather satchel and walked past her.

"This dance we do is killing both of us, Salazar," she cried after him.

He turned the corner. His answer coming faintly after her, "No. It kills all of us, my dear."

Helga turned and stared after him, blinking back tears. She wiped them away quickly and shook her head as if to dislodge thoughts that she would not want to clutter her mind. She lifted her chin and walked defiantly from the room in the opposite direction that Salazar had gone.

They were just children. The small girl with matted braids sat upon the giant workhorse with a wide-eyed expression of confusion and surprise. The boy had fallen from the back of the animal. As Godric rode up, pulling back on the reins of his borrowed steed, he saw the large wound splitting the boy's forehead to his left ear. He leapt from the horse and knelt at the side of the fallen child. The boy was unconscious but still drew breath. Godric lifted him quickly from the ground and turned to the bishop as he came to a halt behind Godric's horse.

Godric hoisted the boy's limp frame upon the bishop's saddle in front of his knees. He then turned to the girl on the large horse's back. "What has happened, young one?" Godric demanded.

The frightened child looked at him, eyes growing wider. "He is hurt," the girl said in a small, high voice.

"Why have you come?" Godric asked, looking to the bishop, alarm on his face that mirrored the girl's.

"There has been trouble in our village. Mama sent us to you to warn you. Will you help them? They are dying!" the girl pleaded, working herself up into a fit of hysteria.

"Who dies?" Godric asked, quickly reaching up and pulling the small girl from the bare back of the tired animal. He carried her also to the bishop's horse and handed her to him, situating her behind him on the saddle. The bishop pulled her arms around him and closed her fingers around the belt of his tunic, whispering to her to hang on tightly.

"The soldiers kill everyone, burn everything. Can you help mama?" the girl pleaded, tears streaking her dirty face.

Godric ran to the huffing horse that they had ridden and threw his rope to the bishop. "Take these children to my home. Sound the alarm and empty all of the fields. Bar the gates once everyone is safely relocated within them.

"But my lord," the bishop said, hesitating. His horse sidestepped impatiently and the mare he led behind them whinnied. "I cannot close off the city until you have returned."

"Do it! And with haste. Lock the gate," Godric ordered, jumping to mount his plough horse and turning to instruct the bishop. "I will find my own way." He dug his heels into the beast once more and bolted in the direction of the farthest village on his estate.

The horse's flanks heaved and the animal became sweaty and began to slow before they reached the village. Godric could see the tall plume of smoke. He knew that the raid would be well finished before he would arrive. He cursed the horse that bore him and wished for his own fine Apollonius. With one hand holding and reining the animal he reached for the sack at his hip with the other. He had one ward stone with him, the one that he had brought to show his cousin, whom he was riding to seek council with. It was Purbeck marble. The same marble quarried from this land for their beloved school. By the same token he cursed not having brought the others with him. He had carried four of these stones with him on his journey from Greenhill to Christchurch. Three of them lay covered in a cloth at the foot of the bed that his daughter rested in. He would have to hunt for stones out here to replace them. He certainly could not go back for them. Time was too costly now for such things.

As he neared the village the road became increasingly littered with corpses of men and women. Carcasses of horses and hogs lay burning in the fields. Godric slowed his horse, replacing the precious ward stone in his sack. He scanned the horizon. Nothing moved.

Leaping heavily to the ground he left the tired animal where it was. It would not wander. It was too exhausted.

Godric passed a hand over his brow. He was sweating.

Vapor from the many huts and cottages on fire mingled with smoke and created a haze over the decimated farming land. All of the crops, animals and people who lived here were gone. Many lay on the roads and fields, struck down as they tried to flee the danger. It was a danger that he, as their feudal lord, was sworn to protect them from. They provided him with possession, wealth and food. All they had asked in return was protection that it was his first duty to provide.

He knelt next to a fallen villager, a man carrying a hayfork. There was a metal-headed spear lodged between his ribs. His other hand was stretched out ahead of him as if beckoning to someone. Godric followed the hand and looked further into the distance where a boy lay, his throat savagely cut, nearly severing his head from body.

Godric thought about Isabelle asleep at his home in the walled city.

He stood and stumbled down the dusty road a little further into the village's center. There was a group of soldiers in scarlet and gold, so close to resembling his own scouts, lying dead. A hearty man, one Godric had known by reputation--the blacksmith lay with a hammer in his beaten and bloody hand. He had lain waste to five of the king's men before being subdued himself. "Brave man," Godric said.

So it was the king who perpetrated this folly on his people? Godric had no time to puzzle over the explanation of such an act. He was definitely up against a greater force than mere bandits. It was as he suspected. The king had bent his will against Godric and the rest of his kind. The city will not fall! Godric thought to himself, rising from the side of the blacksmith quickly. I will not let him have my city, nor anyone who takes shelter within her!

He passed several beaten women, retracing his steps to his horse, all of whom he wondered which was the mother of the poor children messengers.

Suddenly he felt eyes upon him. Grabbing the reins of the large nag, Godric jumped back into the saddle and made for the quarry beyond the village at the border of his land. There was no more time. He could not fight off every soldier that had come onto his vast estate. But if he could set up his ward system he could hem them in and with God's divine grace hold them off until he could crush them. He had to crush him. He had so much faith to earn back from his people. Never could he have failed them as he did now.

"Wallace is taken," Theoderic said, finally emerging from the direction of the setting sun. Galahad sat up from his spot under a shade tree and then stood to greet his brother.

"You have seen him? You are certain?" came Galahad's rushed words. "Is it possible?"

Theoderic nodded gravely. "There is no more hope. The nobles had sold him before the battle. Edward's offered more lands and false titles. They were bought even before they rode into battle alongside of us."

Galahad crossed himself and prayed to Saint Patrick. "God be merciful on our friend," he finished.

"God may, but the king will not be," Theoderic said. Something on the road had caught his attention. He moved closer to see who was approaching.

"Enemy soldiers?" Galahad asked standing next to his brother and peering in that direction.

Theoderic shook his head. "No, I do not think it is the enemy. One of them is a woman."

"It is Azria," said Galahad, astonished. He ran to her, hefting his sword's tip from the ground and sheathing the weapon.

"Mungo is with her. I wonder at their coming," Theoderic said under his breath.

"Dear friends, you have been safely delivered from the fray," Mungo cried in relief, grasping Galahad's outstretched hand.

"The day is not ours," Theoderic replied grimly, bowing slightly to Azria and grasping Mungo's hand in turn.

Galahad lead them to the main field of battle where the ground lay littered with men dead, struggling, and some clinging moment's before death.

"Have the holy brothers come yet to give these men their rites?" Mungo asked, turning quickly from the field to Galahad with concern. "Nay, I know not. It would appear none but scavengers have come yet."

"I set to my task, then," Mungo answered moving off into the bloodied crowd of men. Many that could pull themselves inched closer to him, climbing and clawing over the dead and severely wounded. Mungo soon became entrenched in dying men and was not bothered by those that grabbed and tugged at his robes, begging him for their last rites, or for him to end their suffering. He calmly set to his duties and systematically worked through the carpet of humanity.

"I shall see to that injury, Theoderic, and then I help my brother," Azria said indicating a sizeable gash at the back of his calf that caused a limp.

"It is not deep. See to the dying first, if you will."

Azria smiled in reply and moved in the direction of Mungo, kneeling next to a boy with an arrow wound.

Galahad and Theoderic looked across the expanse of carnage. Galahad breathed deeply. "The day is not ours," he repeated Theoderic's words. "And we have lost our shepherd." He turned to his brother. "Is our cause at an end? Is Scotland at her end?"

"I do not know, brother," Theoderic answered without looking at Galahad.

"Where do we go from this point? What is there from this moment?" Galahad asked with a deep sigh.

Thedoeric broke his eyes from the field ahead of him. "There is honor in life or death. Come with me to free Wallace or die in the effort."

Galahad's face broke into a hopeful grin and followed his brother limping off of the field and into the western light of evening.

"You there, my lady," a voice shouted behind Isaidore.

She started slightly and then stood from Aaron's body and turned. There was a messenger in a brown tunic looking coldly down on her.

"You have business with me, sir?" Isaidore asked, baffled. She moved closer to the man's heaving steed.

"I have business with Lord Aaron of Hufflepuff. A message I deliver from his aunt in Wilton." The messenger looked from her to the men she attended. "Do you know him?"

"Sadly, yes," Isaidore answered. "He is here. What is Lady Verina's message?"

The messenger looked for a minute as if he would not tell her. Then he shifted and said, "Are you connected with that family."

"Yes," Isaidore lied. "I am his sister, Azria. Verina is my aunt as well."

The messenger nodded and then handed down a roll of parchment to her.

Isaidore moved quickly forward and unrolled the page. She read the script quickly. "She has seen soldiers moving south from the river toward Christchurch. She foresees danger." Isaidore looked up expectantly to the impatient man.

"May I prevail upon you to take me to my companions?" she asked breathlessly.

He held a hand out for her pulling her onto the saddle behind him and wheeling his horse. "I never deny the will of a beautiful lady."

Isaidore ignored the comment and pointed in the direction Isaiah and Faramir had gone. The messenger tore off toward the road, gravel flying behind the hooves of his mare.

She saw the scavenger birds before the horse had cleared the stand of trees that blocked the killing field from her view. Isaidore had seen dead men. There were plenty in the place where Aaron and Thomas had been killed. But such a mass of limbs and groaning she had never before imagined.

The messenger said an oath and spurred his horse forward. Azria and Mungo were to one side of the field, bloodied and busy with the task of saving as many as they could. Azria held the hand of an English knight as Mungo pulled the arrow from his thigh.

Isaidore pointed them out to the rider and he turned his horse in their direction.

Faramir and Isaiah appeared from the stand of trees, staring at the horse and two riders, hands to the hilts of their weapons.

Isaidore jumped from the mare before the messenger could help her down and ran to them. "Azria!" she called.

The red-haired woman pushed herself to her feet and shaded her eyes, looking toward Isaidore.

"She is Azria?" the messenger called after her.

Isaidore waved him off and he shrugged, turning his horse and passing in front of Isaiah and Faramir before bolting off to other business, no longer concerned with this scene.

"Isaidore," Isaiah called, running after her with Faramir behind him. "What has happened?"

She did not answer but passed the role of parchment into Azria's stained hands. She only turned when he had grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. "I told you to stay with Aaron," he raged.

"Aaron?" Azria said, lifting her eyes from the parchment. "Have you seen my brother?"

Mungo, after making the wounded enemy knight comfortable, stood at his sister's side and looked expectantly to Isaidore as well.

"He is dead, Azria. I am sorry. He is with Thomas who is also dead at the edge of the forest just beyond that wood," Isaidore replied guiltily. She turned to Isaiah and spoke quickly. "I have just had this message from Verina at Wilton who has seen Edward's soldiers. She saw them make toward Christchurch. She suspects they will besiege our father's land.

"Azria," Isaiah said. "Where have Theoderic and Galahad gone?"

"They have headed into the west. They look for Wallace, I believe." Azria handed her aunt's message to Isaiah and leaned on Mungo's arm for support. She looked very pale after hearing of Aaron.

"Mungo," Isaiah commanded. "How long will you be until you have finished here?"

Mungo surveyed his situation. "I could be only two days if I work through the night."

"Isaidore will assist you and Azria. When you have finished return to the school and inform them there whither we have gone. If Theoderic and Galahad return send them to us. Send any of my father's men at the school to us as well."

Mungo nodded and Isaiah turned beckoning Faramir to follow.

Isaidore turned to Mungo. "What shall I do?" she asked.

Mungo turned to the wounded knight again and took one of his arms and pulled him to his feet. "Help me to move him," he answered.

Azria said a quick prayer of protection for Isaiah and Faramir and turned back to the task.

Salazar was with the surveyor plotting the mill's future situation along the river when the messenger arrived. Plods of earth rose and fell quickly away from the hooves of the swift animal as the rider pulled fiercely on its reins. It reared up mere feet before colliding with the two men.

The surveyor ducked and moved to one side. Salazar stood in his place, staring at the messenger with cold indifference.

Without a word a sealed roll of parchment was handed down to him and the horse was made to wheel bearing the rider quickly to another destination.

Salazar looked down and noticed the seal of the abbey at Wilton. He broke it and unfolded the two sheets. Unsurprisingly it was a letter from Verina.

"Excuse me. I have urgent business," Salazar said abruptly and left the surveyor alone on the grounds.

He unfolded Verina's letter again once in the shade of the school.

He read:

Salazar dearest,

I know it is you who are to blame for what my eyes witness today. At dawn I rose to walk along the river. Twice before I stole away from the convent to the water's edge I thought of packing my things and returning to you. I will not entertain the thought further. I am done with you. You have betrayed your friends as you have betrayed me. You gave yourself to Edward just as you gave yourself to Helga.

I was passed today by five hundred soldiers of Edward's vast force. It is not coincidence that they come into this part of the country and I know that it is you who have sent them here. It was not you that gave the order, I know, but it is just as well.

I cannot love a man who will turn on his brethren and on his friends. You have given all of us up to the king for the slaughter. An excessive gift to show your loyalty. May you be rewarded for your noble sacrifice. They are headed to Christchurch. I saw it all in dream. You have bent Edward's scorn toward Godric. I inform you know, as soldiers march toward his home that he has taken his youngest child with him. Now you may add her to your list of wronged innocents that grows ever longer. If she dies, heaven forbid it!, in this fray, be it on you.

We all go down with this ship while you, rat, save yourself and swim to shore. Oh! Valliant knight of Slytherin, I say well done!

Furthermore, do not come to me. I stay at the convent as will your child when it is born. I do not wish it to know you. If I see you I will not know you either, for you are not the same person to me. That man who came to the chapel as I knelt and prayed, swearing oaths to me--he is dead.

With the messenger I also send word to Lord Aaron and his men of the fate of Christchurch. Godric's men at the school will fight for him as well. If there were more that I could do with what power I have to stop you I would.

I bid you luck in your future endeavors and goodbye,

Verina

Salazar finished the letter, read it one more time and crushed the pages between his fingers. He was stung, wounded and furious. He felt a dizzying unreality descend upon him. He would think on her personal attacks another day. There were more urgent matters vying for his attention at present.

He reentered the violent light of the outdoors and felt slightly disoriented.

A young girl in a linen head cloth, carrying water passed him.

"Girl," he called to her. She set the bucket down promptly and came to stand in front of him.

"Sire?" she said with an officious bow.

"Fetch me the steward of the school," he commanded. Watching her race off impatiently, he paced for some time and then stopped one of his own guards near the river to summon ten of his men.

The girl came back shortly afterward with a chubby man that was huffing with great show, as if to let Salazar know how he had rushed straight here.

He waved the girl off and she returned to her bucket and disappeared into the inner bailey to the kitchens.

"Is the guard of Gryffindor here?" Salazar asked without ceremony.

"Some have left to enter into Wallace's service at special request of Master Godric himself, but many of the tournament school remain, sire," the steward replied with a low bow.

Salazar nodded. "Lord Gryffindor just sent me word to ready them. His lands are under challenge of the king. Gather them at the outer stable. I will brief them in an hour." He turned to his own estate then hesitated. "Make sure everyone of them are present," he said finally. The steward left in the opposite direction and crossed over the bridge.

Salazar met with the head of his guard and the ten men that had been summoned. The dark room was all green and silver surcoats. His men would not fail to carry out their orders. They came from a stock wholly different from the pure and noble Gryffindor creed.

"A trap has been perpetrated upon my loyal friend, Lord Gryffindor. There is a snake among his lion hearts. I have gathered his men in the outer stable. I have had them questioned and found them guilty. Your orders are to bar the door and burn the structure." Salazar gave the order for many deaths as if he were ordering a special subtlety for the evening's feast.

His head of guard shifted uneasily. "And it was the Lord Gryffindor who gave this order upon his own men?" he asked.

"He is besieged in his own city. He cannot act. I am acting for him. I command you to do my will which is his will."

"As you wish, my lord," the head of the guard said bowing. The ten behind him bowed as well. They left Salazar standing outside of the gate to his estate. It was many minutes before Salazar found the telltale plumage of smoke on the horizon that he had been anxiously waiting for.

Godric was unsure how much this beast of his could endure. He needed to get to as many villages as he could, get to the quarry and, if needs be, outrun enemy troops.

The sweaty nag looked doubtful, but there was no other option. The animal had to go the distance. The house of his cousin came into view, unscathed. It had been passed up by the raiding soldiers--or perhaps they had not arrived yet. This thought made Godric spur the horse into a faster gallop, pushing it to its limit. "Come on old girl, just a bit further."

He slowed as he neared the wall. Inside its shade he saw his cousin, Sarah kneeling in tilled soil. She was gardening, unaware that her household was situated in the midst of great danger.

"Godric?" she said, looking up at him in surprise. "How is it that you have come so far to visit, and on such a wretched beast?" She called the boy at her stables for water to give the heaving horse.

Sarah was older than Godric but possessed the youthfulness of those that are magical. She had always kept herself in excellent health. Her family, Godric's family was one of warriors. Sarah was not an exception. Even now, when gardening, she wore her hair tight but without a head cloth, though she was a widow. She wore the breeches and tunic of a man and hunted annually with Godric and his men. Godric had a suspicion that Rose did not like her for her manliness.

"I have not the time to explain everything to you, Sarah. You must come with me. You are in danger here. And furthermore, I require your assistance. We must take two horses with us. Let the others free before the raiders come." At the mention of them, Godric went to the gate and checked the road again. It was clear for the moment.

"Whither shall we go, cousin?" Sarah asked pulling on her riding gloves and taking her leather wrist guard from her belt and tying it to her left wrist.

"To the quarry," Godric answered slapping his tired horse on its hindquarters and watching it set off toward the winding Avon.

"The quarry?" Sarah questioned, favoring Godric with a look of incomprehension.

"Are there others in the house?" he asked, ignoring her questions.

Sarah shook her head. "My staff and my dog. No one else."

"I will get our horses. Let the other animals and your staff make for the woods. Tell them to be hasty. Leave everything else behind. The king's soldiers will be on the roads now. They have ransacked the village." He indicated with a finger the dark smoke against the darkening night sky.

"Have you any stone lying about?" he asked a moment later, when Sarah reemerged with her bow and a quiver of arrows.

"The servants are setting everything to rights. The house will be deserted in half an hour," Sarah said without hearing him.

"Stone, Sarah!" Godric called.

Sarah shrugged, "Pull up a paving stone I guess. What would I need to keep spare stone for?"

Godric went into the garden and kicked at one of the medium sized slabs of marble with his heel. He grunted loudly with the effort and pulled the stone from its resting place. He pulled out the ward stone he had carried with him and a dagger from his belt. Sarah watched on curiously, strapping the quiver of arrows over her shoulder and tying the points at her waist.

Godric carved rudimentary symbols, runes, into the stone, paying close attention to copy them precisely as they appeared on the original stone.

When he was finished he let the stone fall and took Sarah's spade that she had discarded in the garden and began to dig a hole.

Distracted by the prospect of a skirmish she raced back inside and hefted her dead husband's sword. Tying the scabbard to her belt she came back out into the garden where Godric was chanting silently over the carved stepping stone and lowering it into the hole three feet in diameter and at least four feet deep. She came to stand beside him and helped to kick earth back into the hole, stomping on it impatiently until it resembled nothing more than another spot of tilled ground.

"Everyone has left." Sarah mounted her horse and handed the reins of Godric's fresh steed to him. He tucked the ward stone into its leather pouch and mounted his horse, wheeling it violently and racing out of the gate after Sarah. They kept close to the forest and stayed off the road. Should anyone happen to come over the rise, they would have time to hide among the forest's underbrush.

They would reach the quarry in about an hour Godric estimated, pushing his horse, a younger sleeker mare now.

There was no one on the road. He constantly kept watch over it while he also kept his distance from it. Looking over his shoulder to check on his cousin, Godric found her lips curled into a smile. She was enjoying herself. Had it not been his lands, his family, his mistake, he would probably find the prospect of taking on Edward's forces exuberating as well.

As he thought this he heard the hoof beats of his horse and his cousin's multiply. He had been scanning the distance ahead of himself vigilantly, but checked his rear less often. Now he pulled up the reins of his animal, grinding to a halt on the soft forest floor. Sarah stopped behind him and pulled her bow from her shoulder, reaching behind her for an arrow to thread it with. She took aim against the rise behind them and loosed her arrow before more than the soldier's head was visible over the hill. The trajectory of the weapon was true. The scout toppled from his horse and fell motionless, his horse tearing off sideways and turning back the way it came. Four more scouts cleared the rise.

Godric wheeled his horse and tore off faster toward the quarry, Sarah behind him, bow on her shoulder, tying her reins to the horn of her saddle. She slipped her bow back down into her hands and pulled another arrow from her quiver, turning from her waist still seated on her galloping steed, she loosed another arrow with the prayer, "Artemis, make my arrows accurate. God, my Father, conduct the souls of the fallen to your kingdom."

Her second arrow did not stray. It hit a soldier in the shoulder and brought him down.

She quickly threaded her bow and took aim again, her horse swerving and causing her to lose balance. She toppled sideways into her saddle, holding on to one stirrup to save herself. A soldier in scarlet and gold had charged her horse while she was turned taking aim at another. The horse swerved and Godric caught the enemy scout between the shoulders, driving his blade deep within the man's back.

Sarah looked behind her and saw her bow lying on the ground, soldiers closing the space between them. "Now or never," she breathed to herself, digging her heel in behind her horse's ear. It gave a loud whinny and she pulled the reins to turn the horse about. Still hanging in the saddle she charged the three remaining scouts, hearing Gordic's horse sucking in breath and blowing it out fiercely as it ran beside her. She looked up sideways and saw his sword raised outward from his arm and his teeth bared like an animal on the attack. Her bow was in reach and she let go of the reins to bring her closer to the ground. Her knee was still around the horn of her saddle and she was upside down dangling from her horse. Reaching out, she scooped her weapon up in one hand and with the other pulled the reins and a bit of her stallion's mane, hoisting herself back into her seat. She squeezed the horse's ribs with her thighs and wheeled again in the direction of the quarry. It was in sight. But for whatever purpose Godric intended them to go there, she was sure that bringing Edward's soldiers along was not part of that plan.

She looked behind her and Godric was parrying a blow from one of the soldiers, they had engaged in hand-to-hand on horseback. Sarah smiled. That style of fighting favored her cousin. She looked to the two remaining scouts. One seemed anxious to follow her and decided to outnumber Godric. Sarah stopped her horse and took careful aim. She caught him in the throat but he remained in the saddle, his horse now directionless, carried the man toward the river. Just as well, Sarah thought, watching him while she threaded another arrow into her bow; he will be dead before they reach the water.

She loosed the next arrow and watched as it lodged itself into the thigh of Godric's attacker. He looked down at the arrow and with and angry cry, wheeled away from Godric and after her. She drew him away from Godric and began to thread another arrow. Before she could loose this one at her pursuer he dropped from his animal sputtering bloody oaths. Falling face forward she saw Godric sword sticking straight out of his spine.

Godric raced after him and leaned forward in his saddle bending over and disengaging his weapon from its victim. One more scout was on his trail.

She thought Godric would try to outrun him but he surprised her. He stopped, turning his horse perpendicular to his pursuer. It was too sudden a move for the scout to turn. He would collide with Godric and his horse--her horse. At the last moment Godric held his sword in front of him, using it as a spear. The blade sunk deep into the neck and shoulders of the enemy animal. The rider was thrown from the beast as it fell to the ground as well. Tearing his sword from the wound of the dead horse Godric turned on the scout. He inched backward; his leg was broken. Godric moved deliberately after him.

"Why are you here?" Godric asked, lifting his blade above his head.

The soldier stared apprehensively at the blade glinting as it caught the early night's moon rays and his bloody lips trembled as he answered, "Edward sent us to scourge the wicked."

"And the wicked are scourged," Godric answered him, bringing the blade down on him, crushing his ribs, finding and piercing the man's heart.

He climbed back into his saddle and took off after Sarah. "Make for the cave of the quarry. The faster we find shelter the safer." He slapped his mare on the hindquarters with his bloody sword and rode toward the rock face.

The servant girl, Claire, did not like the malevolent glint in Master Salazar Slytherin's eyes as he ordered the steward to round up Lord Gryffindor's men. She carried the water around the bailey wall and then listened very carefully once out of sight. She peeked, half-hidden by the wall and half so by the linen head cloth she wore. She guessed his plans even before he called for his own head of guard. She had only an hour to act.

Dropping the bucket she ran to the hall next to the kitchen. Some of the apartments above this were assigned to the tournament school. Her brother's chamber was among them. As she guessed when she climbed the stairs and pushed at the door, it was not locked. Her brother was too trustful of everyone to ever think of employing a lock.

She fell to her knees hurriedly at the foot of his modestly clothed bed and threw open a trunk that rested there. It housed all of his possessions. Mostly these were weapons. One was a dagger that her father had saved to get him when he had advanced from the riding school into one of the coveted tournament school positions. There were also a few articles of clothing; most of them were wrapping the precious implements of war and sport that seemed so dear to him. She selected a sword and set it carefully beside her. Next she unraveled several other weapons replacing them in the chest and dropping the clothing on top of the sword. Next she withdrew a belt and wound it around the bundle. She closed the trunk when she was satisfied with what she had taken from it and then moved quickly to the bedside. She looked at the spare set of boots sitting there and examined her own feet. They would be too big. The last thing she needed was to have attention drawn to her clumsy oversized costume. She decided to forego the too large shoes and fished under the bedstead for Faramir's crossbow. She felt a sharp point and pulled. She had uncovered a quiver of arrows for the weapon. She tossed them onto the bed and knelt, reaching under the bed once more. Finally her fingers fell upon the heavy wooden weapon. It was familiar to her. She had learned to hold the weapon properly but had never been allowed to shoot it. She shook the thought from her head as it made her stomach nervous. The crossbow was thrown onto the bed with the quiver.

Claire pulled the heavy woolen cover of the bedclothes over the weapons, moving to toss the sword and the clothing into the bundle as well. She hefted the heavy burden in her hands. It looked like the daily washing that she was accustomed to taking out in the morning. She was relieved that it looked no more conspicuous than a daily routine. But catching sight of herself in a dirty pane of window glass she halted for a moment. She had not considered what she would do with her hair. She could not wrap it, certainly. If she wanted to look accurate, like a soldier, like a man, it would have to be cut.

She took in a deep breath. She knew the penalty of cutting her hair short like a man's.

With resolve she threw off her head cloth and knelt at the trunk again. She pulled out the dagger and held it in her palm and then wrapping her fingers around it, squeezing the hilt. How many more could she save if she did this? If she was caught and punished would she regret what she was about to do? Her answer came back to her defiantly. No.

She rushed to the window again and saw the reflection of a frightened girl. Her clean linen shift and blue full apron would soon be changed for a soldier's uniform. Her long raven black hair that fell over her shoulders in untamed waves must be cut to the length of a man's. She screwed up her face and shut her eyes tight, lifting the knife to her neck. She grabbed a handful of her own hair and tugged at it making it taut, leaving no slack. She sawed at it with the dagger until her hand fell away with her hair still in it. She looked at herself in the window and gained courage from the defiant reflection staring back at her. She resembled her own brother more than she realized.

She cut the rest quickly now and evened out the frayed ends. She was still young looking, but more convincing now, anyway.

She threw the dagger on top of the now unclothed bed and covered her head again with her head cloth, expertly tucking the ends so that her hair would remain hidden. Claire hefted her disguise and exited the room.

She passed a boy her age, presumably a page under Lord Gryffindor's tutelage.

"You there, sir," Claire said, stopping the boy.

"Yes," the boy answered with hauteur when he realized he was being addressed by a maid.

"How much will you ask of me for your boots," Claire asked, afraid that she sounded obvious.

"My boots?" the boy asked, glancing at his feet and then back to her. He appraised her. She hoped she did not look as desperate as she really was. Finally he answered, "I will give them to you for a kiss."

Claire hesitated. Here was another compromising situation she would have to overcome to help many. This was the reputation of maids. She knew what was generally thought of her kind. But Claire was beyond reproach. She had never entertained the thought of giving in to the will of a man. Like many, she had been approached in dark hallways or on an empty staircase, but she had always politely and successfully spurned the advances of men. She felt her moral foundations waver. As she nodded, she reminded herself that many men would die if she did not consent.

She set her bundle carefully to the side, always mindful to keep the blade from clanking against the stone floor. When she returned her eyes to the boys face he was grinning hungrily.

She folded her hands in front of her and leaned forward pecking him on his lips. When she pulled quickly away he grabbed her waist and pulled her bodily into him. He turned her back into the wall and held her there between himself and the stone. The boy's hands were free now and roaming over her, exploring and groping. He pushed his lips violently into hers and knocked her head against the stone behind her. She felt his fingers moving up into her head cloth concealing her short hair. She stopped him just before he had ripped the linen cloth away. He settled instead on employing his hands moving down her skirt and pulling it up, slipping them under its hem. When his fingers coldly grazed her thigh she decided to end the game.

Claire pushed him gently away, flirtatiously and giggled. She bent to pick up her load and felt his hand exploring her bottom through her clothes. She stood and waved a finger at him. "I will be late to the laundry. You must let me leave. But wait for me. I will be back this evening."

He grinned and pulled her closer, kissing her neck.

"Your shoes now, if you will, darling," Claire said.

He kicked them off and then handed them to her. "You will bring them back to me tonight?" he asked hopefully. "I sleep in the outer stable."

Not tonight, Claire thought, all urgency coming back to her. "Depend upon it," she said, fleeing with her ill gotten boots. She tried to affect a walk of unconcern. She found herself, however, focusing on the corner around which she could hide from him as she felt his eyes on her. She rushed to that bend in the wall and then broke into a run when she had made that point. She was reminded of herself, as she deposited her bundle under an outside stair behind the kitchen and smoothed her apron as she slowed to walk inside.

She made a cursory sweep of the bailey. She still had time. There were no soldiers in the Slytherin green and silver loitering around the school yet. Picking up a flagon of wine, Claire set it on a tray and collected some pewter goblets as well. She carried these things to the outer stable, all the while scanning for even a hint of the Green Guard.

Once she had gained the shade of the low timber structure, she looked through the thick crowd of Godric Gryffindor's men, all scarlet and gold. She, being the only woman in the room, drew quite a bit of attention to herself. She found the head of the Gryffindor guard standing at the back of the room. None of the men found it unusual that all of the horses had been let out to graze when it was not custom to let them out so closed to nightfall. Several lanterns had been lit and hung along the beams. She approached and curtsied slightly, offering him the wine. He smiled and took some, shooing her away. She looked at the other men milling about before they were to be addressed. She wished now that she had already donned her disguise. But as a maid carrying wine, she knew she would not be challenged by a Slytherin guard. By the same token, she would not be listened to by a Gryffindor.

"Sir," she offered, beckoning him from his closest companions.

The tall and dark featured man seemed not to hear her and almost turned away from her to listen to an underling when he caught her motioning to him from the corner of his eye. "That will be all," he said to her finally, turning.

When she did not leave immediately he waved her off again impatiently, his hand colliding with her tray. He cried out in annoyance and cursed. Several men laughed and jeered.

Claire felt her face heat and she stooped to gather the cracked vessel and scattered goblets. When she looked up again, wiping frustrated tears from her eyes, her brother's companion from the school had knelt beside her and collected several goblets on the tray.

"I was watching you, Claire," he said in a low voice so that only she could hear him. "What are you trying to tell the head of the guard that he will not listen to?"

She hesitated, looking into his kind, hazel eyes. They felt familiar to her when she was not even feeling familiar to herself. She had never been so bold, had never needed someone to hear her more than now. And her brother's friend, Christopher, was willing to listen and to help. But she chose her words carefully. "I need him to know that you are all in danger. Lord Slytherin has set this trap. He will not come to brief you on plans to ride to the aid of Christchurch. He plans to burn the stable. I overheard him with his guard. He does not want you all to come to the aid of Godric who is besieged by the king."

"And what do you propose. You have a plan, Claire. I see it behind your eyes." Christopher was peering at her. It was hard for Claire to know if he had believed her or not.

Claire nodded, collecting more fragments of the earthenware in the pool of deep wine. "Let yourselves be drawn into this trap. Do not resist them. There will be a boy standing at this back entrance. When the Slytherin guard bars the exits and sets fire to the structure make everyone prostrate themselves. It will help them not to breathe the smoke and become light headed. When I leave with my tray, pass the word around quietly to the men. Everyone should make for the back door that my friend will be waiting to open for you."

"This is madness, Claire," Christopher said, his hazel eyes wide with astonishment.

"I have no more time to convince you. The guard comes. You must trust that I would not lead you into peril," Claire said, boldly placing her hand over his for the briefest of moments before rising with her tray and leaving through the front entrance of the stable.

She heard the muted oath of the head of the guard as she left. She saw the Slytherin guard filing into the school as she walked away, endeavoring to remain clam, without running to the kitchen where her gear was stashed.

She threw the tray away from her and dived under the stairs as she heard the group of about ten pass by the kitchen to the stable.

Claire dressed as quickly as she could, tying the sword to her belt and the crossbow to her back. She exchanged her own narrow shoes for the boy's boots and already felt transformed, mightier. She felt she had weight with men, if only in minuscule amounts, still it was more than she had had as a woman. She threw the woolen bed cover over all of these clothes giving her a degenerate appearance of a young beggar. But it served to hide the conspicuous crossbow.

She shook her short hair out and set off toward the rear of the stable at a run. Suddenly she stopped at the gate and saw another boy loitering there. He was wearing the page's uniform. "You there," she commanded in what she hoped was a man's voice. "Gather the horses that were sent to pasture in the fields. The Gryffindor guard will need them."

The boy nodded once and raced off toward the pasture.

Claire turned and sprinted toward the stable, now flanked with silver and green. Three of the ten men had torches and remained outside of the building. Two were inside, the others blocked the exits. She heard a gruff voice giving orders for a march to Christchurch. She knew it would be the stout Slytherin head guard. Slipping behind two barrels at the rear exit, now barred and blocked with two soldiers, Claire waited.

Sarah was bent adding the last of the rune carvings to the final ward stone. Three had already been placed. She could mark the area traveled by the heaving of her animal and her own sore seat. Night had nearly closed the day and nocturnal noises chorused while the soft murmurings of Godric's incantations over the eastern stone died out.

He stood quickly and wiped the soil from his hands. "Have you finished?" he asked.

Sarah nodded and blew the stone's dust from her blade. She handed it to him and looked on apprehensively as he surveyed the markings.

"You have great skills that I have been unaware of all this time," he said with a half smile. He had forgotten himself momentarily and the great haste with which they must complete the task of warding the grounds. He replaced the stone in the saddle's bag and mounted.

Sarah looked at her feet, her smile slipping from her face as well and put a foot into its harness, swinging her other over the saddle. She sat forward and dug a heel into her horse's side. They were circling around, heading north this time, the nearest border point to the port of Christchurch. She estimated quietly that this would be where they were to run into the majority of the king's men. If their plan was to succeed they were going to have to fight their way through the blockade and past the city to the northern shore. If they were successful in this, she thought with a despairing frown, it would be nearly impossible to make it back though the barricade and into the city's safe walls.

She looked to her right and saw a calculating frown on Godric's face as well. He knew the odds as well as she did. Her fingers wrapped the sleek birch of her bow tighter and she urged her horse on faster.

Galahad and Theoderic were shunted from one side to the other as the massive and angry sea of humanity swelled and eddied around them. Galahad remained vigilant, scanning the crowd. They could be recognized; he kept the thought foremost in his mind. Also with him was the thought that his brother was turning. There had been two days with which he entertained the hope of fighting through the guard set on the prisoner. Two days they had traveled just out of the sight of the entourage, every moment wondering if they would receive better conditions for an ambush. They were to have no such conditions. John Blair had met them in the city, having apparently followed his friend and his captors as well. He persuaded Galahad and Theoderic to desist. And then a light in Theoderic's eyes extinguished itself.

Galahad saw him now, his flat, resolved stare studying the planks of the platform, the sturdy wooden structure of the gallows, the ropes tied and waiting on the horse's harness. The executioner in his black garments and mask was pacing and keeping the sinister beat of the cheering crowd. He heard Blair come up behind them, pushing onlookers aside with contempt.

"He comes." Galahad heard Blair utter the words in a constrained gulp.

Slowly the crowd turned as the wheels of the cart could be heard. The attention was no longer with the executioner, but with the condemned. Galahad was now behind his brother as they turned to watch the cart's progression to the platform. Beside him Blair could be heard taking in a sharp breath.

Theoderic thrust his chin out with steely resolve.

He was not positive, but Galahad thought Wallace had looked their way and had noticed his comrades. But when he moved from behind his brother, Wallace was staring resolutely forward.

"Lord, lessen the suffering of a noble man and a brave heart," he could hear Blair muttering emotionally beside him and his stony brother. Only, Galahad was not positive that anyone had heard Blair's fervent request, least of all God.

A lower magistrate came to stand in front of a table shaped like the Christian cross, his rich robes pinned to his shoulders, billowing out regally behind him. Calling out with a loud voice, the magistrate said, "William Wallace, you have been accused of treason against the crown and are hereby sentenced to death. Do you deny the accusations?"

Wallace was being lifted to the platform, his hands and feet bound by rough, thick rope. When he gained his footing he drew himself up and faced the official. "I deny the accusations, yes," he answered. Drawing another breath, glaring at the man with one eye, the other having since swollen shut from a previous beating, Wallace continued, "I have never sworn allegiance to this king of yours."

An outraged cry came from the crowd and the magistrate theatrically waited for it to die out before speaking again.

"That matters not," the draped and haughty official replied. "He is your king." He stared at Wallace for a moment longer, poised for further argument. Wallace merely stared at him, his mouth shut, immovable against government intimidation. Suddenly the magistrate turned to the executioner and announced, "Purify this evil soul through pain. He will confess!" Standing to the side, the magistrate allowed the masked man to replace him in front of Wallace where he spun him to face the crowd jeering below him and placed the noose around his neck.

Wallace only lifted his chin defiantly and scowled.

Watching as the rope stretched from the horse to a pinion over Wallace's head, to his neck, pulling him from the ground, Galahad reflexively reached for his concealed sword. Blair caught his hand and pulled it from under his cloak.

"I cannot allow them to take our shepherd," Galahad said, holding Blair's solid gaze.

Blair answered, "So another shepherd must collect the strewn flock. We cannot risk ourselves. Wallace would tell you the same."

Galahad unclenched his fist and dropped his hand from the hilt.

The slack on the rope loosened and the prisoner was dropped hard to the wooden plank floor.

"Do you confess?" the magistrate roared over the din of the crowd around them. Wallace did not confess, but stood slowly, gasping for breath.

The magistrate nodded and said to the executioner's team, "Stretch him, then."

The rope was taken from Wallace's neck and his arms and legs were freed of their heavy bonds. To each wrist and ankle was added a new length of rope, the wrists bound to hooks along the scaffolding of the structure, the ankles attached to the harness of the plough animal. When the horse's hindquarters were slapped the horse once again fled toward the gates, stretching Wallace's limbs, his joints suffering and his wrists bleeding. His fingers gripped the rope and Galahad could see him gritting his teeth against the torment, but he did not cry out. He did not appeal for mercy. His pain was the pain of his countrymen. Galahad felt it, Theoderic felt it. It was apparent on the face of his childhood friend. Blair's eyes filled but he did not look away from the face of his companion.

Galahad swore that these fell deeds would be visited upon these men. His life would be bent toward revenge forevermore.

It was not in Wallace's power to stand of his own accord after he was dropped this second time. He was carried to the cross-shaped table, the magistrate leaning over him.

Galahad and the others, still very far from the front edge of the crowd, could hear Wallace's gasps for breath as his body revolted in blinding agony.

"I can give you mercy," the official whispered, hovering over Wallace's heaving form. "I can end all of this if you will confess your crime."

Wallace made a nodding gesture and Galahad held his breath. Wallace could not break, he thought. Surely Wallace could not break.

Then, as the magistrate was poised to hear his confession, Wallace gasped and summoned all of his strength to swell his aching body with breath and cried out, "Pro Liberate!" the sound of the cry dying out in his throat but still ringing in the ears of the crowd.

The official nodded, the executioner grabbed the sickle-like instrument from his repertoire on an adjacent table. The moans of a hungry or disgusted crowd drown the gasps of the victim and the laughter of the persecutor as the disemboweling began.

Galahad looked away, crossing himself. "Jesus Christ," he breathed.

His brother stood solidly by and bore the scene silently and stoically.

Blair was weeping behind them.

When Galahad had looked up the sickle had been replaced with the axe. The executioner had the instrument drawn back, over his head, bearing down to swing. His eyes had been fixed upon Theoderic's. Galahad turned to see his brother staring fixedly at Wallace in return. There was an unspoken oath between them.

When the axe had fallen Wallace breathed his last.

Galahad and Theoderic had already left the city and began their journey home when Wallace's body had been torn to pieces and sent to the corners of the kingdom.

Claire, crouched behind two barrels, silently flung her covering from her shoulders and withdrew from the quiver across her back an arrow, threading it into the crossbow. She looked up to note the progression of the two men barring the back entrance of the outer stable. Lifting the weapon. Claire took aim and launched the arrow at one of the Slytherin guards who went down quickly grasping for the arrow embedded between his shoulder blades. But not before he had dropped the massive plank in place, sealing the doors. Claire's heart beat faster. She came out of her hiding spot, gripping her unloaded crossbow and flung it at the remaining guard. It collided with his helmet and he staggered, dazed and then fell. Claire hefted the plank and half lifted it from its cradle when another guard came around the corner of the structure with a bucket of pitch. He dropped it and ran toward her, pushing her from the door. The wooden plank came loose from the door as the guard fell on top of her, pinning her under him.

She could smell smoke and began to hear cries and yells from inside the stable. She tried to call for Christopher but her assailant was straddling her, his hands to her neck. He was leaning into her, putting the pressure of himself on her windpipe.

Claire gasped and sputtered, kicking her feet and clawing at his hands as he smiled down at her. In her watery vision she could see the thatch of the roof engulfed in orange flames. Why had they not believed her? Why had Christopher not told them? All was lost now, was it not?

Claire's arms sank from her sides as she teetered toward unconsciousness.

The guard that had been smiling as he cut off her air supply was suddenly coughing blood. It was dripping from his lips onto her face. She blinked and turned her head, avoiding the blood that had dripped into her eyes. The pressure on her throat had ceased and the guard's form fell limply on top of her.

She lay there for what seemed like several minutes, the sounds of clashing weapons and men engaged in combat swirled around her. The weight of the guard was finally dragged from her and she suppressed the urge to call out Christopher's name in relief to see him offering her his hand to help her to her feet. Almost too late she had realized that she was no longer Claire. To buy herself time to think properly she turned from her rescuer and surveyed the scene before her. Many of the Slytherin guard were subdued, those that had fallen were being heaped inside the burning structure; those taken alive were now also being forced inside. One soldier in scarlet and gold was re-barring the door. Amidst the screams and pleas of the Green Guard trapped inside the inferno, Claire felt herself spun around by one strong grip on her shoulder. She gasped, momentarily lost by the scene that she had had a hand in.

Several of the Scarlet Guard was staring at her.

Claire fought quickly for words, swiping bloodied strings of hair from her face.

"This is the boy whom we are to thank for our deliverance from the Green Guard, is it?" the swaggering head of guard said, standing next to Christopher and appraising her as if he was rather unimpressed.

"Sir, it is," Christopher answered for her as she opened her mouth and gaped, horrified that nothing would come out.

"Do you have a name, boy?"

"Erthane," Claire gasped at last, her eyes wide with horror as she was in the midst of so many soldiers, all having given their attention solely to her. "I have horses." She had spoken the words as the head of the guard made to add something further. "That is," Claire stammered, "I have gathered the guard's horses if you wished to fly to you lord's aid...that is," she finished lamely, looking down at her hands.

The guard surveyed her for several minutes more. "Men!" he commanded in a booming voice. "To your horses."

The Scarlet Guard filed out of the school leaving Claire alone with Christopher. He was staring. Claire shifted uncomfortably in his gaze. Finally Christopher bent and retrieved the crossbow Claire had launched at her attacker.

Taking it uncertainly, Claire flung it over her shoulder. Christopher squeezed her upper arm in a comradely gesture and walked away. Fighting a thrill that built in her stomach and a smile that spread to her lips Claire hefted her sword and followed. She had passed as a boy at least, and passed her own test of courage.

*some passages were kindly borrowed from Shakespeare's 'Henry V'.

*not that I am lacking in imaginative ways to execute a person. Wallace's death was by the traditional means of execution for treason. There is not better visual example of this method than at the end of the film 'Braveheart'.