Copyright © 1993,2002 Richard R. Kennedy All rights reserved. Revised: March 30, 2002 .

In Defense of Eve

L ong ago was an unrecorded distant land mostly populated on the shoreline. Its southern terrain was mostly rolling hills and dales while a smaller section to the north was mountainous. The tallest mountain loomed high above a cliff along the shore. On the other side it faced a vast valley rich with vegetation. At the base of this mountain, the top of which was partially blown off before the dawn of man, there had been built a millennium ago an enormous castle. Behind this fortress — even long before — slanting off and up was a long, twisting narrow passage with steps ascending and then descending into a wide cavern.

Photo by rrk jr

There under poised stalactites high above dozed an ancient, wizened man in a gold and white robe sitting at the edge of a pit raging with fiery lava. On the opposite side, imbedded into the cavern wall was a fossilized tree. Strangely, an offshoot protruded from where its roots once was. An ionic jade-like glow shot up from the lava and shaped a figure of a beautiful dark-haired woman clad in a red and gold linen tunica, laced with a gold belt. She wore a headband of gold with ruby inlay. The old man stirred, then popped his eyes in disbelief and fright. He raised himself up, then fell to his knees in prayer as the glowing figure ascended rapidly up into the cavern heights and streamed through the volcanic aperture into the night air above the land of Lodeston.

The same evening far to the south in the flat lands of Quandron a sultry raven haired young woman danced impassionedly but gracefully in the lambent light of a gypsy campfire circled by wagons and—to the vexation of the women present—the men clapped and ogled, some of whom could not control reaching out for her to touch and pinch her flimsily attired, tawny body. She would look askant, smile coquettishly and nimbly swirl off and glide toward the center near the fire. In exhaustion she finally—to the relief of the women—glided over to a young man and fell into his arms. He carried her off to his hoop cart, covered carelessly with motley cloth, where they engaged in passionate foreplay. As the young man raised himself to spread open her legs, the jade green glow of the north immersed into the girl's body. She sighed and wrapped her legs around the bronze haunches of her mate.

A golden, diaphanous cloud centrifuged tiny, scowling cherubs above the cart, and then illuminated a gorgeous golden haired woman in an elegant white and gold robe. She extended her arm downward and the greenish yellow glow burned through the covering and restored the image of the dark-haired lady from the cave. The two images, enveloped in white light, rose up high into the black sky while the golden one with a smirk upon her face commented, “I see, Lilith, that you are up to your perverse sense of good as usual.”

“Humph, usual!” the dark haired lady blurted, “I shouldn't think after a five thousand year respite, that I'm guilty of a repetitious act!...Besides, how dare you accuse me of mischief after what you did!”

The golden one laughed to the stars and glanced at her cherubs. “Nevertheless, that is the way of the creation now and you must return to your fiery grave.” A fire bolt launched from her finger and Lilith was jolted and flung, howling all across Quandron, and sucked into the boiling rock of Lodeston.

The old man terminated his praying to the howling plunge of Lilith. Beside him stood the stern countenance of the golden haired beauty. He kneeled before her and bowed his head, nervously tugging on his long beard. Her expression softened with a mild smile as she forewarned him, “Ethan, you must stay alert; the balance of creation hinges on your sounding the alarm when she gets restive. Without the boiling purification and her continuous confinement here, the freedom of the human race will be returned to its spineless origin. It was fortunate that I myself was in Quandron to tend to a precautionary measure—call it intuition.”

“Ah, yea, Eve, always the cunning one!”

“And aware,” she added, eying the shoot across the pit. “Keep the axe by your side.”

Nine months later a baby girl was born. The gypsy woman, holding the child close in her arms, was in awe as she gazed upon the infant shrouded in the mysterious glow of jade.

1. Manor of Mari

Out of a grim but final victorious battle a fortnight ago in the eastern inlands of Quandron, a young leader and his knights on war-worn horseback loped through the silence of their thoughts while winding through a path in a thicket. As the column of horsemen emerged from the dark forest into broad light of a meadow, the leader ordered the men to dismount. The men looked surprised; some grunted and groaned mild protest now that they tasted the appetizer of home. He smiled and yelled laughingly as he got down from his spotted gray destrier—forbear of the Percheron—several hands above and infinitely sleeker than a generic draft. “I know, my stout hearted, you need no rest in spite of our long journey from our battle....Still, pity your loyal mounts; in truth, they do need a rest; thus let them pasture awhile so at least they will look fresh when we enter my father's castle.”

While the knights dispersed to care for their war-mounts, another rode up to the leader. With tempered agony in his voice this heavy set rider said, “My Lord Protector, are you not anxious to arrive at the castle? In truth, your father impatiently awaits details of battle.”

The lord shrugged in response. “Oh, much of it has been dispatched—barely worthy of the town-crier anymore.”

[Castle photo by Tripod Image Gallery]

“Still, the cry of distant victory is not sufficient to curb the appetite of curiosity. Not only the lord master but the people must be eager to see you in all your glory to believe it.”

The lord chuckled. “Seems to me it is you, baron, who are eager— perhaps anxious for a wench, eh?”

The burly knight laughed. A graying goatee and mustache framed big yellow teeth. “Well, yea, I suppose, there is one aching my groins.”

The lord chuckled again while he patted Baron Bennet’s mount. “It is your steed that aches. Remove its mail and yours and pause awhile.” The lord-protector turned away to tend to his own steed, then looked back up with a broad grin and added, “Trust me, you will look more regal to your lady in your homecoming mounted on a steed reborn,” he offered as he started to peel off his armor. He was a powerfully built six-footer—unusual for the times but not quite among knights. His tabard bore a different coat of arms from Bennet's.

The stocky knight laughed again, wheeling his black charger round toward the other men and cantered off to rejoin the battalion under his ensign.

A long, lean but broad shouldered youth who had just peeled off his own breastplate, revealing the same coat of arms as the lord-protector's—a white eagle with a scroll in its talons across a field of purple. The youth dared to speak: “My lord, the baron’s castle is but a two hour ride.” He removed his mail headpiece and a thick shock of flaxen hair leaped free.

“ 'Tis true, lad, but the horses don't know that,” the lord said calmly. “They have served us well.”

“Aye, they have, my lord,” the lad said.

“Besides...” the lord knight pointed to the bloody bandage round his horse’s once powerful foreleg, “he’s been limping and the leg is swelling.”

The youth inspected the leg closer and grimly shook his head. “The lady Rhonda will have our heads for this.” He lightly tapped the war-horse's muzzle.

The lord-protector laughed. “Aye, on the mark, honest Bryan, you know well my sister's mettle.”

Then Bryan removed the heavy saddle and slid off the unwieldy blanket of mail. The mighty horse trotted off, favoring its foreleg to graze as the youthful knight set the saddle down by the tree and glanced at his master and said, "If only people were as loyal.”

The older knight chuckled. "In truth, Bryan; still, you are as loyal; but...”

"Thank you, my lord, for your faith in me.” The youth cut in as he began to spread out the mail blanket to wipe away the dust.

The protector grinned and shook his head. "Because you've only recently been dubbed a knight on the battlefield, you find it hard to give up your squire habits—you should be tending to your own, Sir Bryan.”

He spread a shy smile, "Still, a strange ring to it....I shall;...still, there is no one as loyal and faithful as Lady Rhonda, I trust still.”

The lord chuckled. "Too many stills may put her in frightful flight! Suffice that she's been waiting starry-eyed these months.”

"Amazing how an experienced warlord can turn years into months.” The youth chuckled.

The lord laughed, then tufted his trim beard over the battle scar on his chin. "How long then?—surely not two years yet.”

"Two months over it,” the youth said, knees in the heavily linked blanket, then returned to his previous thought, "Sti...Though I have faith, I shall still my breath, till I'm sure!”

The lord shook his head, then looked amicably upon the youth, "Good, lad—that is, good sir—with your polishing and his well deserved rest, my old gray will look refreshed and invigorated rather than a weakened nag when we march into the shadows of my father's castle. Poor old Stars, he more than I, deserves the honor....But tend to your own faithful steed, the blanket can wait.” The lord knight sat down and rested against the trunk of a tree; his eyes followed his great horse with silvery starry spots gleaming under the sun as it grazed. He added wistfully to the youth, who was uncinching his own dark brown steed, "Without the great loyalty and endurance of the likes of Stars there would be no honor, no knighthood.” He gave a forlorn sigh, knowing his lame horse could serve no more in noble combat.

The former squire scratched his head and asked belatedly, "No knighthood, my lord?—surely, an animal is not cause for such an honored station.”

The lord knight laughed. "Oh, but it is; for the finest, and most powerful horses in the land are saddled by knights. That is what separates us from the ordinary fighter who still mounts the imported breed of the traditional past.”

"How very odd, my Lord Lance,” the youth said as he scratched his flaxen shock; "surely you have heard of the home-grown steeds of the mountain borough. Yet I have heard there are no knights there.”

"Indeed, and why they are not in need of ours; for there is no substitute for the likes of old Stars,” Lord Lance, said dejectedly as he thrust his chin to the meadow. "Still, I, too have heard of them: beauties, they say.”

Bryan, brushing his steed, said, "And more, it is said that the horses there are so swift of hoof, they more than compensate for the heavy protection we require.”

"Aye, Bryan,” the lord agreed, "there is a point to that. I've often thought myself that the paraphernalia of knighthood might well be counterproductive.”

Bryan laughed. "With your war record, I wouldn't go so far as to say that!”

Somewhat phlegmatically, Lance said, removing his riding duster. "We must see for ourselves someday.” Silence spread over them, and the lord knight nodded off to dream the dream that he could not escape, nor did he want to.

The Lord-Protector sighed in seeing the Mari colors flying from the tower top. The castle would be forever in the name of his mother's maiden name; her grandfather built it and her father established the Order still blazoned on his tabard and escutcheon. Seldom did he use the shield of the king's. On the towering parapet serfs and guards alike poked their faces through the crenelated battlement as the drawbridge creaked in descent. All eyes were on the young Lord-Protector as the battle-weary knights thundered across the bridge on rejuvenated horses into the bailey. Serfs like a receding wave reversed themselves and popped their eyes down upon the knights merging with the cheering crowd of the castle’s outer ward of commerce. Knights and squires leaned from their steeds to touch the up-reaching hands of admiring marketplace women and peasant girls alike skipping along the column of warriors.

Only the Lord-Protector seemed distant, waving but mildly; only his young knight and former squire fixed his eyes to the donjon window high above when the column passed through the gate to the inner ward of nobles. Lord Lance noticed the young knight’s attention elsewhere. He said laughingly, "Eyes only for my sister, eh, Bryan?” as he gestured to the window whence appeared his sister, waving. He beamed up a smile framed by an untrimmed, dusty beard and waved back. He looked over at his squire. "Ah, there she is! Off with you, Bryan, and with Cupid's blessing!”

"Ah, if only I had his youth!” cried out a middle-aged knight who pulled along side the protector's hobbling horse.

The protector laughed, turning to his lord captain. "When you had your youth, John, you didn't know how to use it in affairs of love.”

"Precisely! Now I would know,” he quipped. He looked down at a bosomy matron tugging on the chausses at the calf. "Ah, sweet thing, you want me, do you?...Well, wily woo-ess, meet me at the alehouse in a quarter sand.”

She slid her hand up and clinked a cheap ring on the knee armor. She winked and, above the din of the crowd chanting Lord Lance the Liquidator, croaked, "Yea, my heroic deary, I'll be there but I warn you I can quaff with the best of them.”

"And the other talent too I trust?” He sniggered. He glanced over at his lord commander and winked. He heeled his huge destrier, then tugged the checkrein to ask, "Care to join us, Lance?”

Lance chortled. "I thought you were just pining that you were too old for that?”

"Oh, never too old, but I would like to enjoy it more.”

"Anyway, you go ahead, I must report to the manor lord, you know.”

"Naturally,...tell the old sire I was detained.” He cantered, dispersing the crowd.

The freshly knighted youth spurred off to the inner steps leading to the keep, dismounted before the tower and bolted through the massive open door and up the twisting stairs. Reaching the second landing, he knocked on the heavy door—disappointed that she had not been there at open door and open arms greeting him. A sweet voice ordered him to enter. He swung in the door, gazed upon the vision that had been at the window. Then he dropped to his knee, ripped off his hat, pressed it to his heart and bowed his head.

"My, dear Bryan, such a cold greeting after so long an absence. I had rather hoped you'd come to sweep me off my feet,” she said with tender sarcasm.

He rose up and momentarily drank in the vision so grandly adorned, highlighted by ravishing red braids adorning the front of her dark green velvet dress. Though two years older now, to him she was still the delicate fifteen year old he had departed from to go off to war as a squire for the mightiest fighter in the land. Nevertheless, he noticed the round, rosy cheeks had thinned to a maturity of supple beauty. He leaped across the room, bowed, took her slim, smooth hand and kissed it. He raised himself up and his dark brown eyes melted into her sparkling blue. He hugged her, released her, nervously toyed with one of her braids, then kissed her on her lips. Her eyes popped, then slowly the lids lowered and she melted in his arms. His mouth slid to her ear and she heard, "Oh Rhonda, my love, how I missed you these years.”

She squirmed from his arms and asked coyly, "Empty were they?...Even though my brother's conquests were heralded throughout the kingdom!”

"What good are conquests elsewhere?” He reached for her hands and urged her toward him. "The conquest that counts is here.”

"Oh?” she said with a derisive snarl, "You think me a conquest, a trophy from the war?”

"Oh, Rhonda, not thirty grains of sand am I with you and already you lash me with your quipping tongue!” he cried as he released her hand and tugged on his shaggy hair. "You know full well I mean it is you who are the conquistador!”

"I see, thus, I command you to kiss me again.” she giggled.

In a large room adjacent to the grand dining hall, the lord master of the manor slouched in a giant chair behind a huge table-desk as he pondered Lord Lance's report of the army's exploits. "You have done well, my son; these conquests added to our possessions' tallies to over half the kingdom.” He rubbed his hands greedily, then reached for a goatskin bag and poured wine into a horn mounted on a silver stand.

The young lord's brows arched and then he paced the flagstone near the blackened hearth, subsequently backing away from the nauseous dank smell of charred scraps of wood left over the summer months. He approached the table and said jokingly, "Aye, my father, meaning that now you pay over half the taxes to the crown.”

The father choked on the wine and let out a guffaw. "Oh, but not for very long, lad. Just think of the manpower we now control. Why, surely in the thousands."

"Aye,...so?" he asked as he sat down.

The father replenished the horn and said slyly, "It seems clear that one who lords over half the population directly should be king."

The young lord reached for the goatskin, grabbed and poured himself a drink into a horn, saying lightly, "Hardly directly, my lord, since you seldom leave the castle even to oversee our own Marian serfs let alone half the kingdom's. Why, the king's men tour the Mari more."

He slammed the horn in to the cradle, "I put a stop to that! I shall decide what the tithe shall be, not the king....Besides, as king I too would tour the land."

The young man laughed. "Only for the glory of worship the masses would extend you."

"Nay, rather for the tithes; I'd need no thieving tax-collectors." Aye, that would be my purpose. Can there be any greater purpose in life than the legacy of a dynasty?"

"There is, my lord and father."

"Don't forget eventually you would be king." He grinned and twinkled his eyes and snickered, "Aye, I see what you mean, but I am too old for youth's pursuits of women."

The young lord vaguely shook his head and smiled. "Tales told of you deny that. But I meant there comes a time when war should end, and justice begin."

"I haven't raised you to become a politician, young warrior. There are riches in sacking a manor; nothing but frustration in politics, trying to please everyone. Nay, respect is gotten from taking, not mollycoddling."

Ah, but justice is stern, even though tempered with understanding...my mother and my grandfather taught me that....Surely, you haven't forgotten the marriage contract."

"Bah, don't bring that up! You are a Kalab, not a Mari. I am your sire, don't you forget that! Both your grandfather and my wife were too heady, meddling intellects that eat away at power." The lord master looked to the vaulted ceiling momentarily, uttering, "In spite of your glorious victories, from my groins I wormed a bookish warlord, it appears!" He glanced at his son, "Is this the fate of nobility's future?—to be educated by milk-sopping monks and women that attempt to sheathe the power of the sword!"

"I am not a warlord, as you were in your youth, father. I do battle only when the defenseless calls upon me. We are, after all, a Christian nation, my lord; and need I remind you after centuries of travail bordering on barbarism that it is now a nation and thus we owe allegiance to the king."

"Aye, but to a king, which I intend to be. A king who intends to develop a nation of strength. I still hold your grandfather responsible for advocating a central government; yet ironically it now fits my purpose."

"Fie, father, you dare not march against the crown! You can't be serious!" The young lord grated as he leaned forward in his chair.

"And pray why not?" He said slamming his vessel of wine to the desk, spilling some of its contents.

"Why, Divine Right, my lord," he said more calmly.

Lord Kalab replenished his wine, held the horn before his lips and growled, "Bah, Church ceremony and fantasy—nothing more!" He drank some wine down and added, "What the Church and Lord Mari can grant to Henry, it can grant to me!"

"Call it ceremony and fantasy if you wish, but one need not believe, to accept its solemn reasoning on the temporal side of the coin."

"Poppycock! You grant that oaf of a king reason!" With anger he finished off his wine, then his rotund trunk flopped back in the huge chair fit for a throne.

"It is not Henry the man that is at issue, but the idea behind the stability of the crown," his son offered. "That was my grandfather's point."

"I need not your tutoring, my son—nor your ghost raising. Stability stems from power and that I have more of than anyone else in the kingdom and thus I aim our crossbows to that end and your sword to point."

"Not this time, father."

"What's this? After having conquered the countryside on my behalf you concern yourself with the existing crown?" He quizzed, leaning forward again to refill his cup. "Why, that sop paid the church for the so-called divine right!"

"It is more than the crown I'm thinking of. Till now your wish was my command, but I cannot jeopardize unification of a nation because you have a dream to become king. I know well that you resent the Mari legacy."

"How dare you!"

"Oh, my father, be reasonable. It is not for you that I conquered, but rather to end the petty conflicts among the barons and to bring lasting peace to a young nation. And since you appear to lay claim to half the kingdom, are you telling me that you still haven't turned over the land from the previous exploits to the King's surveyors?—why, that is outrageous! You mentioned sacking before. I should not have to remind you that the Mari does not indulge in sacking but rather to protect the defenseless against tyrannical barons!"

"Do I hear right? Not for your own flesh and blood you risked your life and my men; but for some brain-less purpose? Why I'd rather you did it for a woman than for this!"

The young lord could not restrain a smile. "Oh as in the war of Troy, I suppose?...Well, schoolmen say that war was for the idea of beauty rather than for Helen herself." Lance smiled and added, "I must confess, I did it for my mother...and now in her memory."

"Bah, you and your ghostly past!" The lord master wriggled his nostrils, grunted, while jerking his frosty beard, "And what do the bookish Churchmen know about war! Warriors need the thrust of boiling loins of appetite to reach their end."

"Such as treason, I imagine. For what you ask of me is just that. True, I did purge the land of monstrous manor lords; but, remember, it was with the king's blessing as well as yours," he reminded him. "Surely, there was the need to defeat the warring boroughs that brought destruction to the people caught in between. Good riddance to that riffraff of monstrous leaders! The king already has sent his envoys to oversee the castles and relieve my contingent force."

The father slumped heavily in his chair as he laughed raucously. "By God's blood you are a monkish knight! You actually believed I would allow that! Why my own envoys already occupy those castles and rather than relieve, they now command our occupational forces. Since you're so monkish, you should appreciate that charity begins at home."

"Fie, for shame!" the young defender yelped, popped up from the chair to pound a fist on his father's desk. He stared down to the smug, pocked face. "Home is now the state, father. We cannot continue to fight among ourselves, lest forces from beyond the borders see us vulnerable. Defense of a nation is what matters now."

The heavy set lord master looked fiercely into his son's eyes and said in a grave tone, "If this castle in truth is not your home—for that is what you mean—then, you are not my son and must leave these walls."

The young lord's jaw dropped in disbelief while he looked at his father and dropped back into his chair, shaking his head.

The door swung open and Rhonda dashed across the room and landed in her brother's lap and smothered him in kisses as she squealed in between, "Shame,... shame,...my unkind brother,...Shame on you!" Her father laid a wistful eye of better times. She leaned back in his arms and chided, "You've been home for two tumbles of the glass and I have had to search every cranny of the castle for you! Why, my darling Lance, did you not impatiently search me out?"

Lovingly he smiled and gazed at his little sister's pixy expression, then swept her up in his arms and danced and swirled her about the room, she giggling and he laughing heartily. He dropped her gently in the chair, pecked her on the cheek, kissed her on the lips, took her braid and tickled her nose, chuckling, "Don't toy with me, sweet, little Rhonda; for well I know you were these two hours occupied by coyly dodging Cupid's darts of pup's love with Bryan." He tickled her nose again.

She giggled, then squeaked, "Heaven's, Lance, hardly could I trust myself for such a length of time. Besides, Bryan was not with me more than paltry grains and off he rushed to the stable to see to your dear, crippled horse."

His glee turned to momentary sadness, "Aye, I believe you—so concerned and loyal is my once devoted squire."

"What's this? Has Bryan fallen out of favor?"

He chuckled and lightly pinched her cheeks. "No, little sister, I dubbed him after our final battle."

She pressed her cheeks into his chest. "Oh, such good news! He never told me! Oh so gallant he is in modesty! Surely, he is most deserving, though still so young to be a knight."

"Young in years, but not when measured in battle experience," he noted.

"Oh, but such sad tidings in the health of your loyal mount!...Is there no hope for stout Stars?" she asked sadly.

"It's a wonder he survived a blow of a flying chain to bear me home. Nay, never will he be the same to take the brunt of battle."

"Poor Stars...how well, as a little girl, I remember him. So spirited a colt he was, and such pleasure did he give me at play. Now I swear I shall give him comfort while he heals. Though he may never be the same, I promise to tend to him and each day set him to pasture."

The father shook his head and said, "Oh, and are we in the business of extending charity to our horses, like a loyal and devoted serf too sick to perform his duties to the castle? Nay, the cost of feed is too great to retain a useless steed."

She wrinkled her pearly forehead and scowled. "And why not? Truly one as gallant as Stars deserves our kindness. Oh, father, you cruelly jest to even think to send a proud and loyal steed to the tanner!"

The sparkle in her sky blue eyes faded and Lance eyed her with his own unhappy hazels. "I fear," he said gravely as he glanced down at his father, "our father has lost his sense of loyalty."

The father leered at him. "No more from you, especially to speak of loyalty to a horse when out the window flies loyalty to your blood."

Rhonda gripped the arms of the chair and thrust forward and said with puzzlement, "Pray, my ears deceive! Surely, I do not hear my father chide my hero-brother fresh home from marvelous battles."

Sadly her father looked into her puzzled eyes and said dejectedly, "There is no marvel to victorious battle when its purpose is misconstrued." He leered up at his son.

"Oh, father, such mystery is unbecoming—there is no other purpose than to win in behalf of good. Truly, our Lance has shown this....Now, stop this, you two....Must I be as our dear departed mother and stand between this boredom of father-son scrapping?" She leapt from the chair and tipped the goatskin vessel into her father's horn, and again into her brother's. In handing them the drinking vessels, she said maturely, "Enough now, my men, clink the horns of wine in preparation for tonight's festivities in honor of our knighted warriors who bring honor to our land!"

Lance entered his room; so seldom home, he had to note details. He was grateful for the tub of tepid water drawn for him by Rhonda's handmaiden and other servants. An old man entered and hobbled over to him with greetings: "Young Lord, what a sight for these tired old eyes!"

Lance's eyes lit up. "Ah, my loyal Elm, how wonderful to see you again! Your eyes might not be what they used to be, but your attentive spirit as our loyal castellan, I see, is the same!" He gestured to the bath and fresh clothing laid out for him. "And the room has been sweetened...my nose tells me."

"Oh, yes, but that was Tracy's idea," he corrected his master and glancing over at the pretty dark-haired girl rubbing tallow to lather for the tub. "You do remember Tracy, don't you?"

"Why, of course, how could I forget the curly headed tot who was more a playmate to my sister than a servant girl." Tracy turned round from the tub and smiled gently. He walked over to her and picked her up in his arms, much as he had his sister and then pecked her on the cheek. "My between you and Rhonda I can't tell who has grown faster! You're both beautiful young ladies now!" He let her down, and she looked up at him mildly embarrassed, but then stood on her toes and threw her arms round his neck. Looking up at him, she said, "Oh, my lord, it is so good to have you home and most of all safe....I could never stop worrying about you. I sometimes envied my Lady Rhonda for having such confidence that nothing terrible could ever happen to you."

"Ah, that's sweet of you, my dear." He pecked her on the ringlets over her cheek, then withdrew her arms. Patting her head, he said, "Now go and play with my sister, little one, I have to take a bath." He reached in and tested it. "My, it's just perfect—almost a shame to dirty it with over a fortnight of travel dust. Thank you, Tracy."

"Oh, my lord, dear me, we don't play anymore, except cards! We mostly talk now."

He laughed. "Aye, that's the proof in the plum pudding that you two are grown up women now!"

She curtsied, throwing him an innocent little kiss by the door way and ran out giggling.

He still had a smile on his face while turning to Elm to say, "What a lovely girl! It makes fighting all worth the pain when you see that you are protecting the likes of her."

"Oh, yea, lovely indeed—and worth the waiting too, eh?" Elm chuckled.

Lance shook his head and grinned. "Still have a little of the devil in you, eh?"

"Oh, young lord, it is not a fork, but rather a bow and arrow I carry, you know?" He arched his bushy white brows and tapped his heart. Lance mocked a poke in his face and laughed. Elm went on, "But really, sir, isn't it about time? And since none of the noble ladies have seemed to meet your fancy since you were a raw young lad of fifteen...I thought perhaps, you might be interested in an uncommon commoner."

"You're right in one respect, you honeyed meddling fool, the kind of blood does not concern me, he asserted. "But to suggest Tracy...well, simply ridiculous. Why, I think of her as another Rhonda under the roof."

"Oh, my, what a shame. Yea, we cannot have any of that,” Elm laughed. The nation's hero courting a sister! We simply have to change your perspective of her—to ward off scandal to the Mari name."

Lance dropped the last of his raiment and immersed his rump in the tub, laughing. "Mari, eh?...Not Kalab?" He looked at the old meddler gathering up his clothing and then hanging his sword and baldric on a wall hook. "If it will make you feel any better, loyal Elm, you remind me of my mother always chiding me for my bachelor ways...."

The old castellan blessed himself at the mention of his adored former Lady of the Castle, and sighed. "Ah, your dear mother, how I miss her graciousness and beauty!" He crossed himself again.

"But I have been thinking about it, said Lance, diverting the conversation about his mother."

"Tracy,?" the old man jumped, grinning from ear to ear.

Lance laughed. "No, not Tracy, you incorrigible mirth-sayer. I mean, I'm tired of the Order."

"Oh, bless my heart!—the very Order founded by your mother's father!"

"Aye, ironic isn't it that the Order of Governance should devolve upon my father!"

"Ah, but you have reinstated your grandfather's purpose!"

"In any case, I feel something is missing. Oh, I admit, it is gratifying to do good unto others. And the aspect of chivalry is romantic when you're young and you relish the pride when one benefits from your prowess. But I am not a monk; it is not personal enough. There is a big difference between the notion of love and the actual experience, I should imagine."

"Oh, yes, my lord, that's a very clean fact—no vagueness there." Then Elm got a twinkle in his eye. "But you said before that it was all worth the fighting for the likes of Tracy—surely, that's personal."

"Why you codger, you never give up, do you? Among other reasons she is still a baby. At least that is how I perceive her and probably always shall. And I still have enough knighthood in me to be a bit of a romantic—but the errant drive for a love that will totally and completely enchant me."

"I see,...yea, the errant quality of knighthood perceives enchantment residing at another place....Forgive me, young lord, but you still have some growing up to do." He smiled and left a towel within reach, and left his master speechless as he left the room.

Lance did not make the alehouse, but he did summon Sir John to his room before the banquet began. Sir Charles, a giant red bearded knight and third in command, accompanied John. "Good, Charles, that you are here for I summoned John to detail a plan that you will be in charge of carrying out. To begin with, have the scribe duplicate this." He held up a parchment. "It seems my father is getting senile and cantankerous." He handed Sir John, who appeared inattentive, the scroll. "I really don't know if I can believe him, but it's too important to the crown for us to ignore. So I want you in the morning to arrange a rapid messenger network to deliver these countermanding orders to the relief guards sent to the manors we occupy."

Sir Charles scratched his shaggy beard and asked, "Countermand what, Lord Lance?" Sir John plopped in a chair.

"My fool father claims he preËmpted the king by sending his own relief guards with orders to subsume our men for the purpose of holding the castles for his own designs!"

Sir John's face was in his hands which were rubbing his eyes and then he yawned. "Oh, my, forgive me, Lord Lance. But that wench was true to her word. She almost drank me under the table."

Charles laughed. "Not into bed, I gather, then?"

John shook his head. "Even if she had, with the condition she and I were in, we couldn't have done much." Lance and Charles laughed. John stretched his eyes and said, "But, now that I have gathered my faculties, Lance, it seems to me that old Kalab could be serious. Why, even in the old fighting days, he used to talk about setting up his own kingdom in direct violation of our Order."

"Well, I hope you're wrong, but we can't chance it; so see that the messengers are dispatched first thing in the morning. Our troops, though, I'm sure, have already resisted the old man's order."

The three men rose to their feet. Charles took the message from John. "While you two attend the banquet, I shall take this to the scribe. Those heading to the farthest points should leave tonight."

2. Erinysia

The great dining hall was cast in torchlight fixed to the gloomy walls and by candlelight on the long tables. The minstrel introduced the occasion with soft folk ballads as the knights reacquainted themselves with their wives or lady-friends. Successful merchants and guilds-men within the castle's wards and from nearby villages attended, bearing many gifts for the men of war and their ladies. The continuous flow of wine and ale raised the din of happy times and increased the tempo of song and rhythm. Servants bustled in and out under the arcade that crossed the bailey to the kitchen. Great platters of swine, venison, pheasant, and fruit cluttered the massive bench-tables and the bones and cores strewn the floor to the delight of hungry hunting hounds as the battle-worn men gorged themselves on such food they had not had in months except in the interims of securing rebellious manors.

At the center of the dais was the Lord Master Kalab, and apparently by design several chairs on his left were vacant. The sundry chairs on his right were reserved for the king and his entourage, even though he knew the king declined. The manor lord was busy gorging himself with a whole bird—though not without frequent glances at the low-profile dancing girl of the minstrel. On Rhonda's insistence, Bryan and Tracy were included at the left end. Rhonda and Tracy had not yet arrived. Lord Lance sat next and up from Rhonda's vacant chair. Nearest Kalab was Bennet, then Sir John between his comrades in arms. Sir John seemed in high spirits again for the festivity—keeping the cup-bearer busy.

Bryan was drumming his fingers on the table impatiently waiting for Rhonda.

Tracy finally entered looking ravishing in one of Rhonda's dresses and sat down next to him, touched his shoulder and asked, "Do you remember me, once-Squire Bryan, now the grand Sir Bryan?"

He dropped his jaw in surprise. No, I can't believe it is little Tracy!...Amazing what two years can do!...And of course, how could I ever forget you...always so close to Rhonda."

She giggled, then touched the lean knight's nervous hand, "Yea, but even then you barely knew me, so taken up you were with Lady Rhonda."

"That's not true. I remember well how I used to think that nowhere in the world could there be two lovelier girls living under the same roof." He took her hand to kiss.

"My, until this day I've never had my hand kissed before," she said, feeling both embarrassed and proud, "and now this is the second time! The great Lord-Protector honored me with one too!"

"Evidently it’s because it is so difficult to think of you as a grown lady. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Rhonda either."

"Nor we of you!—leaving as a boy and returning a heroic knight! Rhonda and I are so proud of you!"

"Speaking of whom—what is detaining Rhonda?"

Tracy's eyes twinkled. "She wanted to dazzle you with her mother's necklace; but we couldn't find the jewel box. She is now trying to decide from her own jewels what to wear. She sent me down so you wouldn't feel awkward sitting alone."

"Zounds, she doesn't need jewels—why, she's a gem herself!"

"I would agree," Tracy said, "except I cannot think of my soft, gentle lady as a hard, cold stone!"

"Aye, you have a point," he yielded.

Rhonda finally arrived and before sitting down she boldly kissed him on the cheek. A Mari ivory medallion dangling conspicuously.

"Ah, yea, how well I remember that medallion your grandfather gave you!" Bryan said nostalgically as he momentarily fondled it.

"Oh, my dear Bryan, how I wish he were still alive sitting right now at the center! How so different and wonderful our lives would be!" Then she looked over at Tracy and reached across Bryan to touch her arm. "Except were it so I should never have met my dearest friend."

Bennet leaned across John to Lance and out of earshot of the lord of the manor: "Why does your father seem so aloof, my lord?" asked the baron. "This is so unlike him—especially on an occasion to honor glorious victory. Why, to look upon him one would think we lost!"

"Alas, it seems victory is not enough," the young lord said forlornly.

Sir Bennet chuckled. "Oh?...Did he want us to return with his enemies' heads as proof?"

"Nay, but it seems he wants the king's."

Looking surprised, the broad knight, clacked, "In sooth?" He grinned. "Surely, you jest." He rubbed his coarse, cropped, slightly graying goatee and looked over at the lord of the manor, tearing away at the pheasant and drinking it with hefty drafts of ale.

Lance cast a glance and said, "I'm not the court jester but I hope my father is. Further, he threatens to disinherit me if I do not carry his banner to this vile purpose."

"But I trust, if he is indeed serious, you will not go against your father's wishes," he said confidently. "After all, our loyalty of knighthood is to him foremost."

"Not when his wishes go against the crown and our Order," the young lord retorted unhesitatingly.

Bennet glanced momentarily at the old lord, then said despondently to the young lord, "Besides which, it is to him that I owe my scutage."

"Good grief!" Lance sputtered in disbelief. "Why would a trusted, heroic knight be beholden to him?"

"The time my battle wound crippled me for two years."

"Oh, is there no end to his meanness!" Lance chafed. "And, my God, that was eight years ago! Surely, my grandfather did not levy such a thing upon you!"

"Nay, it was imposed after his death."

Lance shook his head, glancing over momentarily at his father. "The scoundrel!"

"Well, whatever, it is almost paid in full." Bennet. stroking his hairy chin, again glanced over at the lord of the manor. He added, "Perhaps your father has good reason."

"Sufficient reason, aye. He wants to be king; but I wouldn't call that reasonable."

Sir Bennet raised his tankard, restrained a smile, then quaffed the ale. He looked out at his banner knights' becoming more raucous and merry. "I suppose, your father—perhaps rightly—thinks Henry is not from the cut of kings."

The young lord turned to his other comrade and looked at his battle-scarred face and said seriously, "What say you to that, John?"

John gestured to the cup-bearer to refill his heavy metal goblet and replied, "In my days as squire to your grandfather, I remember him saying that kingship was inevitable because it was far better to distrust one in command than two dozen battling barons hungry for land and power."

Lance nodded. "Aye, I see the merit....And there's the possibility that Henry will grow with the awesome responsibility."

John raised the massive goblet and drank a toast. "In truth, more than your father would. Still, I like the idea that you would then be in line for king."

Bennet grimaced to the remark, then raised his drinking horn and toasted, "To the horns of dilemma, then!"

"Nay," said John, "that implies a choice—there is none. The old man is probably bewitched from what I hear at the alehouse."

Bennet looked taken-a-back for a moment, then responded rather unconvincingly, "How can that be? Witches don't really exist."

"Well, maybe in his mind they do," John said.

“Enough said, my loyal friends,” Lance commanded, “let us drink and let petty power mongers fantasize all they want. As for Henry,...well, it is suffice to say here lies a start, a new era. Henry is all we have." Lance raised his drinking horn, and said loud enough above the din for his father to hear. "To the king." John raised his goblet and repeated Lance. Sir Bennet, hesitated, glancing over at Kalab who was scowling and shaking the breast-bone at them. He leaned to the drinking partners and whispered, "Apparently our old warlord thinks otherwise!" He looked again with a gleam in his eye to the sulking Kalab, who was mad enough to throw the pheasant remains at them. Instead he growled, "Fools, under my roof the toast is meaningless!"

Lance responded with a chortle and lightheartedly said, "Oh, father, put away your grudges for tonight and be merry....I therefore, change my toast to the most powerful and glorious lord manor in all the land!" The two knights joined in with a hardy yea.

Kalab grinned sweepingly, wiped his greasy face in his sleeve and raised his huge drinking horn. "Now you make sense, my son; I am glad that you as well have put away your monkish fantasies." Then he looked down the table—his daughter and the new knight playfully cooing—he yelled to Tracy as he pointed to the empty chair next to him, "What's keeping Lady Erinysia?"

She was jolted momentarily but said in a nervous tone, "I'm sorry, great lord, but I have no idea where the great lady is."

Rhonda turned to him with an annoyed expression and rasped, "Father, please, we are enjoying ourselves. Must you dash my spirit with concern over that dreadful woman?"

"Don't wag disrespect, child!" he warned; then he sharply turned from her to signal a servant girl to dispatch the new mistress of the manor.

The girl curtsied, then hesitated and said, "Yes, my lord, but I know the lady shall be here shortly. She is preparing a surprise for you and your knights of victory."

"Oh? Well, make haste to hasten her," he snapped. The girl sprung to the arch behind the dais.

The tempo of song, melody and rhythm accelerated as the honored knights increasingly made merry with their women. Suddenly as if on cue the song and dance minstrel stopped, and hurried to a dim corner where their small table was. The flutist and drummer quickly quaffed down their wine, while the dancing girl and guitarist sat down and refreshed themselves. The drummer left behind his light drum and ran to the corner up front to the right wing below the dais where a huge kettledrum rested. The flutist hurried to the center and just below the dais and piped an eerie tune.

A door from the donjon midway up the dining hall swung in. A beautiful woman, decked in a bawdy dress likened to Spanish peasantry, thrust forward alluringly a willowy leg. The flute tweaked excitedly. She raised her dress and short-stepped into the aisle and then swirled along the first table to the center area below the dais. The knights gasped to silence and gaped at her daring as the free-flowing dress revealed her pubic hairs surrounding a tassel of green round a tiny sparkling jade. She cocked her head gracefully to the lord of the manor, tongued her lips, then abruptly turned back to the eager expectations of the men. The flutist let loose a sustained ear-piercing note, and she arched her back, extending her arms above her till her palms reached the floor, complementing the arch. She raised one leg and her gown slid up her thigh; she repeated this with her other leg. Her dress now to her hips, she spread her legs for all before her to see the wonder. The flutist reached his highest pitch, then slowly wound it down as his body slowly twisted to the floor. She righted herself, half snarled at the men, leaned forward and beckoned seductively with her arms that they come to her. Two knights eagerly stumbled after her and she laughed coarsely and danced away.

The drum slowly followed the beat of her bare feet, the toes adorned in a variety of rings, as they nimbly glided along the polished flagstones. Her graceful arms and hands were constantly, seductively, in delicate, sensuous motion and her eyes sparkled at the knights under spell — to the annoyance of the ignored women at their side. She pirouetted along one table lane. Knights reached out for her, pawing her smooth dark legs or her alluringly exposed shoulders. Some could not refrain from touching her long raven, flowing hair fanning out over her shoulders and back as her eyes, though in constant orbit, seemed to burn into every man's soul. The flute again pitched to high levels as though in competition with the maddening thumping drum which vibrated the captive loins of the enthralled men. When she reached the end of the table she reversed herself and briskly rolled closer to the men who each vied to catch her in his arms and to hold her in eternal ecstasy. But like a snake she coiled in out of their arms. Reaching the head of the table she skipped to the other side and repeated her coy, coquettish manner.

Upon reaching the end of the table she deftly jumped on to it and continued her dance, gracefully avoiding outstretched arms and the platters of carcasses and fruit. Not one knight could resist reaching out for her elusive legs or ankles. Approaching the end of the table she slid to an entrancing prone position. Slowly she reached for an apple from a platter of fruit beside her. Suggestively she bit into it and rolled the morsel in her cheek, then frowned and spat it out. Looking over her sweaty bare shoulder, she seductively rolled her lips, then turned away and hypnotically waved the apple before the eyes of a knight beside her. Breathlessly panting he managed to resist trailing his beard down her hot thigh which he had jack knifed and held tightly in his arm. He snapped at the apple several times. She let him nibble on it momentarily as her thigh slid out of the crook of his arm and elevated round his neck to press his mouth into the apple. She squirmed away from the knight with the apple stuck in his mouth. The kettle drummer pounded furiously as she leapt from the table and beat her feet against the flagstone at a maddening pace while twisting her body like a serpent. Hurriedly she returned to the man with the apple and tore it from his mouth, tossing the core to the dogs. Then she whirled round and round till she dropped to the floor and the drumming stopped.

The flute squealed into prominence and the woman uncoiled and leaped onto the dais, pirouetting round the table, she threw her arms round the surprised younger lord, edged his face toward her lips and kissed him hard. Whirling away she circled to the front of the table onto which she jumped up in front of the lord of the manor, raised her skirt to the bodice, then dropped, stretching in front of him. She reached out, gracefully her hand toyed with his beard, then her fingers lightly stroked his mouth. Suddenly she tugged furiously at his beard and his faced plunged into her breast.

Rhonda pushed back her chair, burned her eyes at the woman and scampered out of the room crying. Bryan turned to Lance and looked at him pleadingly. Tracy scurried after her.

Lance rose up staring over at his father hungrily sucking her breasts. With fury in his eyes, the son barked, "How dare you bring dishonor and lechery to my mother's house and offend the innocence of my dear sister!"

The lord of the manor raised his head and scowled at his son. Then he grinned and said in ignorance, "Dishonor and lechery, you say? Why, my boy, this is Lady Erinysia, your new mother."

Lance flushed and reached where his hilt would be, but he was without it. He jerked round and followed after his sister. He paced across the anteroom, but before he ran up the twisting stairs, he paused a moment, wiped his brow and muttered, "My God, I think I would have killed him!"

While passing the lower landing of his mother's room, he heard sobbing. He gently opened the door. Tracy was on the bed trying to comfort her. Rhonda lay face down sobbing into her mother's pillows. In her hand she clutched a miniature portrait of his dear departed mother. He sat down on the side of the high bed and stroked her long hair unbraided by Tracy. He said softly, "My poor sister, so this is what you've been exposed to in my absence. Who is this woman?"

Rhonda choked on her sobs, her body quaking. She said, muffling into the pillows, "A witch!"

"Aye," he humored, "but what other being? I'm sure I've seen her before."

She rolled on her side and looked up at her brother with misty eyes. "No other but a witch—I swear, our father is under her spell!"

"Is it true? She's not just a passing troubadour? He actually married her?"

"Yea," she sobbed and brought the portrait to her tiny breasts. "Our father's bitch and....Oh, I cannot grasp the word."

Tracy looked up at him. "Wife, my lord."

" 'Swounds!" He enveloped Rhonda's shaking body in his arms. He looked at Tracy. "When?" he asked Tracy. Rhonda jerked a convulsive sob, and he held her firmer and let her cry. He lowered her gently to the pillows and caressed her face, parting the wet strands from her cheeks.

Tracy fazed tear-filled eyes. “They married nary a month after you departed from your mother's funeral."

"Oh, no! That soon?"

“Soon! Rhonda blurted, “Why at all?” Then she became calmer and looked into her mother's face. "Not two weeks in your tomb, dear mother; this bed still warm from your fading presence, yet did he take rude ceremonial vows that fixed the witch in your bed."

"Witch, bitch, both or either, why does she seem familiar to me?"

"And why not? She was Lady Hunter and widowed in half the time of our father’s. The Earl of Huntersland was murdered while you were gone."

"Murdered! Earl Hunter gone!—incredible!...By whom?"

"No one knows—except, I'm sure, the witch knows."

"Rhonda, no, my little one, let not that lively imagination of yours dip into dark mires," he chided mildly. "Perhaps she and our father, lonely in kind and lacking normal stamina, did allow themselves to ease their sorrow," he added unconvincingly.

She rolled her head violently in the pillows. "Now whose imagination runs wild—and in face of her ribald performance tonight!" She sat up looked at her mother's picture again, then lovingly laid it by her side. With clearing eyes she looked over at Tracy and fell into her arms.

"Oh, my dearest, you were my strength in that nightmarish time!" She slowly drew from Tracy and looked up at her brother. "At first, I too thought such comforting motives in the make believe portion of my mind that he so soon should hurl our dear mother to oblivion. But, oh, Lance, how he has changed!—no longer the sweet, kind father we once knew."

He grimaced and said bitterly, "Aye, but no longer is he tempered by our loving mother."

She burst into tears and then clung to him. He held her for a while,

"She seems calm enough, if not asleep, to take her to her room now where I can prepare her for the night," Tracy said.

"Surely, she can stay here in her own mother's room!"

"But she wouldn't want to. As she said they sometimes sleep here and the witch Erinysia has taken private occupancy here and thus defiling your dear mother's memory."

At his chest he fidgeted with his tunic and moaned, "War is not as bad as this!...And, you sweet lass, in the midst of it, too."

"I thank God for that—to be here to comfort your darling sister," she said emphatically.

"You are a king's treasure, dear Tracy."

"I'd rather be a treasure of a knight—alas, my station makes that impossible," she said looking up at him with obvious admiration.

"Oh, think not on it; the time will come when some young gentleman, will perceive the crystal clear nobility within you."

"Some...?" she murmured. She wanted to bite her lip for the utterance.

He picked up his sister and Tracy led him up the winding steps.

The intense pitch of revelry continued well into the night. Then one by one each of the carousers yielded to fatigue, nausea and heavy drink and slumped over the table or fell back off the bench. The knights more prone to love than drink and venison, stole off into the shadows of the wards or into the stables with their women, most of whom were ignorant, some innocent, serf girls. The knights fortunate enough to be in the graces of noble ladies tailed off into the sundry partitioned apartments for guests adjacent to the hall and at the foot of the donjon.

The former Lady Hunter was dozing lightly in her new husband's limp arms. His harsh snoring and heavy breath reeking with drink, stirred her in the dim light of the only candle left burning on the dais table. All the wall-torches and table candles burned out. She carefully squirmed from his arms and stole over to Sir Bennet. She shook him from his stupor and motioned that he follow her, putting her finger to her lips. One of the hounds on the dais stirred and growled; her eyes burned in the darkness as she waved her arm as though in discourse, and the receptive animal rolled over with a whimper and lay still. She tiptoed out the hall onto the twisting stairs; she paused at the first landing. She decided against entering the mother's room. And as if on air passed Rhonda's room and reached the uppermost landing to the tower. The baron followed—heavy with drink, struggling up the stairs, though alert enough to steal quietly—to grasp the opportunity awaiting him.

At the doorway to the lord of the manor's room, Bennet was pulled in by Erinysia as she closed the door behind him and slid the bolt. He wobbled and squinted while she undressed before him. He fell back in a chair agape as he marveled at her gorgeous brown body, deliciously highlighted by the flickering red of torchlight. She slinked toward him, straddled his thighs, unbuttoned his kirtle and licked his hairy teats.