Chapter 3

Stern Castle upon Wulfenshire

Feast of the Epiphany

January 6, 1355

T his day she attained her eighteenth year, a day nearly all her family would be at Stern for the Feast of the Epiphany. Though the latter was of more consequence for being a celebration of the Three Kings bearing gifts for the Christ Child and commemorating His baptism, ever it delighted Fira some of the festivities were for her.

“Ten and eight,” she murmured where she stood at a window absent panes of horn fit late autumn to prevent winter air entering in abundance. Though they were not to be removed, she had bared one window to look from on high at the land and wood before Stern.

Not only had frosty weather often confined her indoors these past weeks, but tightening of the watch over her six months ago following her seizure at the ruins. Thus, when she wished to venture outside without an escort, it took planning and stealth, which she managed a few times, and only because the watch had eased some for The Gloaming providing no further cause to suspect her departed mother passed the sickness to her youngest.

But I have evidence of it, Fira silently rued. Outside of what she named The Fading for when she was alerted to going still and wide-eyed—and she excused as being deep in thought when questioned—twice more since that day at the ruins her body had betrayed her violently. For it occurring during sleep, there were no witnesses and she had known of it only by way of a bitten tongue, fatigue, and muscle aches, the latter less intense than what she suffered when a man named Mason aided her.

“And still holds close my secret as I hold his,” she whispered, then reflecting on the disparity of the bargain struck with he who persisted in gaining her thoughts, gave a snort whose white puffs evidenced the chill of the air entering the room that comprised the donjon’s entire upper floor. What real harm would be done him were she to tell someone he broke his vow of silence? Whereas were he to relate her struggle at the stream…

Of course, eventually there would be other witnesses, then her family would believe themselves justified in making her feel a child.

Fira closed her eyes behind new spectacles whose pin joining the eye pieces allowed her to adjust the grip atop her nose. Too, they had ties holding them to her face should she move suddenly as during her encounter with the adder.

After another draw of crisp morning air whose scent of snow had been present since Christmas Day, she closed the shutters. Next, she removed her spectacles, pivoted the wooden pieces so they stacked, wound the ties around them, and pushed them down her bodice. Meeting greater resistance than six months ago, she smiled.

Though pleased a spurt of growth had gained her two fingers of height, allowing her to reach some places previously beyond her, there was no reason to consider it beneficial her breasts and hips gained as well. And yet she thought it a fine thing her gown’s lacings no longer had to be drawn in so far little could be seen of the contrasting chemise beneath. She did not expect further growth to shape her figure into one as feminine as her older sisters’, but since now there was a noticeable difference in the span between breasts and hips, none could say she was not womanly.

Peering at spectacles obstructed by her breasts, she said, “I like it very much—for me.”

However, that last was to convince herself it mattered not whether a man was more attracted to her nor an infant could benefit from greater nourishment. Since the Lord had not answered prayers to cure her of The Gloaming, she had decided against wedding and bearing children lest they suffer the same. Thus, just as she alone must be pleased with her figure, she was thankful she had a purpose—to become keeper of The Book of Wulfrith. Even if The Falling Sickness progressed, her family would not tuck her away in a convent to keep her out of sight as was common for many upper class sufferers.

“I like it for me,” she repeated to keep tears from her eyes. “I shall be content with nieces and nephews.”

She turned back into the vast room, over half of which was occupied by aged furniture, armor, and weaponry that attested to her family’s history. The nearest was a perch rising above its box that ceased being useful when the owl’s mended wing and courage finally returned it to the wild where Ondine believed it thrived and had a family of its own.

Recalling her happiness when Fira could not help but reveal the belief she had seen Skyward upon Woodhearst, she grimaced at being unable to offer greater proof by telling of the snake that became an owl’s meal. However, once the thing in Fira’s head appeared to her family in all its ugliness, she would tell all. Ondine would have to understand that just as she had risked much to see Skyward healed, Fira risked much to ensure expansion of their family’s chronicle was carried out with great accuracy.

Though she itched to return to Woodhearst’s ruins—and not for the slight possibility of seeing Mason again—it was too far to travel without being missed. But the Annyn Arrow…

For years she had searched for it. Though it could be wasted effort, since it was shot into a tree between the castles of Stern and Wulfen, she would continue exploring that area when able to slip away. Though she could gain an escort as often done before the seizure beside the stream, lest The Gloaming strike again in a wood and confirm her family’s fear, rarely did she request one.

“I shall do it on my own,” she said, confident the warning signs would provide enough time to gain a safe place in which to wait out the storm’s passing, then she looked to the canvas-covered furniture and chests of clothing.

By now the great hall would be alive with preparations for the feast and Wulfriths recently arrived at Stern, but she was tempted to remain abovestairs longer, giving herself the birthday gift of sorting the contents of a chest and recording each piece in detail. However, she had told her sister-in-law she would decorate the feasting tables. Too, those traveling from Wulfen Castle would arrive soon—her brothers Hector and Rémy, Uncle Owen, Séverine’s young cousin, and half a dozen knights in training unable to return to their families this holy season.

I shall present as entirely normal, she told herself for how closely her eldest brother watched her when he came home to his wife and child. Then smoothing her gown that better accentuated her figure than a year past, she crossed to the door and made her way belowstairs.

The Wood of Stern Castle

This day he attained his thirty-first year, a day that could have passed unnoticed had he not shared the event of his birth with the Feast of the Epiphany.

When Amaury had transformed from a cripple of bent back to a laborer of imposing stature and stride, he had kept the name Mason. Not only was it fairly common in England, but the Barony of Wulfen was distant enough from Woodhearst there was little chance of encountering those from the village in which he had settled not long after arriving in this country.

Now this French nobleman become a commoner hefted the axe one last time and sank the blade into the sawn-off trunk of the tree on which he had chopped enough wood to supply the old hunting lodge for days.

As he released the handle, he heard horses moving west toward Stern—likely en route from the fortress of Wulfen that had gone relatively quiet a fortnight past when most aspiring to knighthood returned home to celebrate with their families. So too had many workers employed by the Baron of Wulfen to rework the underground passages routed from various parts of the castle to the bordering wood.

Ironically for how Amaury had passed his years of captivity in Caen, he was among those removing stone, dirt, and serpentine roots, sometimes entirely from the underground, other times conveying the weighty matter to old passages to close them off. He had also done most of the work of removing iron gates that would be reset in new corridors.

Being unknown to the Wulfriths unlike many fellow miners, likely the only reason he had been employed was for his size and strength. And more evidence of that for his access to the underground being restricted to temporary portals in the outer bailey that would be sealed off once rerouting was completed, ensuring only the trusted knew how to access the passages. It was the same with outlets beyond the walls, and likely even fewer were conversant in those secrets.

I would take such precautions were I responsible for many, Amaury thought. Then hearing the horses draw near and knowing they would pass on the road two hundred feet out, he told himself to fill the cart with firewood and stack and cover what remained lest the promise of snowfall keep its promise this day.

“Do it,” he growled. And disobeyed.

It was months since he began working at Wulfen Castle with the expectation he would see his son within days. Though he must have, there were a half dozen of the right age and coloring that could be him—providing Mace’s hair had remained dark. Unfortunately, as all were seen at a distance, it was impossible to seek a resemblance to himself or Alainne.

Thus, if these riders were of Wulfen and en route to Stern to celebrate the Epiphany, this was his chance to identify Mace who would surely be invited by his cousin. Of course, that assumed the boy had not already arrived at the castle where the Wulfrith ladies dwelt.

Leaving his head bare for how heated he had become, Amaury ran as he had not since escaping the Caen mines.

Non, he corrected, recalling the lovely red-blond sprite whose cry he could not ignore. That day he had run with just as much speed to save one who belatedly named herself Fira Wulfrith. Were he able to look upon Mace this day, soon the boy would be inside walls Amaury had studied and, having wondered which window in the donjon belonged to the lady, chastised himself for being moved by one well out of his reach, though not because of age.

Though young, she had attained womanhood, and compared to many who might present as a suitor, his age was very acceptable. Neither was kinship a deterrent, their degree of consanguinity well beyond what the Church and common sense deemed near in blood. The greatest deterrent was though Amaury had put himself back together during years of unutterable torment and following his escape, he had too many cracks he did not trust to remain sealed up in a relationship whose intimacy would expose the dark that was fond of violating his dreams. Another deterrent was neither she nor her family had reason to want him, especially were the truth known of this De Chanson descended from the D’Argents. Fortunately, having already experienced love and a son born of that, no more children were needed. He had his heir with whom he would be reunited after justice eliminated the threat to father and son.

Reaching his destination, Amaury settled behind an ancient oak whose split trunk and winter-ravaged branches would conceal him from those who passed. Be among them, my son, he silently entreated.

When over a dozen riders appeared, it was confirmed they were of Wulfen for the silvered, dark-haired warrior leading the others—Baron Wulfrith, husband to Séverine. That he was honorable was all Amaury had needed to know to keep from snatching his son from the baron’s wardship ahead of less offensively reclaiming him. Since his attention must not be divided to survive what lay ahead, this distant relation would continue to ensure Mace’s safety .

When a boy of good size and dark hair brought up the rear alongside the baron’s uncle, Amaury recognized him as one seen at Wulfen. Though this glimpse was too brief to search his face for resemblance, it was not needed since glints of silver at the back of his crown were visible before he went from sight around the bend in the road.

Swept by emotion that rendered him weak and more so at the sound of boyish laughter as if the baron’s uncle said something amusing, Amaury voiced a breath of pain and turned his back to the tree for support a warrior should not need.

“Our boy, Alainne,” he rasped. “He is well, has the D’Argent silver the same as I, the Baron of Wulfen, and the baron’s uncle.”

Unashamed of tears not shed since his wife’s death, he let them be. He had many leagues to go before regaining a semblance of the life stolen from him, but just seeing Mace and knowing he was in the best place possible at this time strengthened his purpose.

Once he ordered his emotions, he returned to the chore for which he had volunteered to distance himself from the lodge hosted by Ermine and her son who was a boy in a man’s body. For the restlessness of other tunnel workers accommodated there and attempts to engage him in conversation and activities, it suffocated. They were good men whose hard toil was rewarded with ample coin and rest over the Christmas season, but they needed to resume work the same as Amaury.

Not quite the same since my accursed laboring ends upon receipt of long-awaited tidings, he corrected. However, for gaining a glimpse of Mace, he no longer resented the wait since he could depart certain of his son’s identity and happiness. Should all go wrong, there would be some peace for him in death.