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Afterword II
Her
 

He would have preferred to have gone alone, of course. But the others were necessary, and in this lifetime, you don't always get what you prefer, something that Cully knew better than any other.

Besides, he couldn't have done this by himself, at least not until they reached the Arroy. There were picket lines stretched at all the known approaches to the Bedegraine, and the town of Bedegraine itself had fallen immediately to the invaders from the sea.

Too many years of peace. Too many years of letting town walls fall for lack of repair, too little repair for lack of an enemy to repair it against.

Too many of them.

So they came in through Linfield, and left their horses and their gear at the edge of the Bedegraine, then walked into the forest, single file, with Cully in the lead, followed by Sigerson and his man assisting Penelope, with Fotheringay, burdened with the pack wrapped in blankets next, and Sir Niko bringing up the rear.

There was no point in rushing, not anymore. Let them be pursued into the Arroy, if that's what the others wanted. If Her defenses weren't up to the task, another few hundred soldiers wouldn't make any difference.

Besides, it was good to do something ordinary. It was good to do something, and it was good to know that when they reached a fork, it didn't much matter which path they took.

He always chose the easier one. It didn't make any difference.

Still, there was something not unpleasant in the gradual way that the Bedegraine gave way to the Arroy.

It spoke of Her safety, for one. And, of course, even though neither the Bedegraine nor the Arroy were his long-lost, much beloved Woode, both were forest, after all, and the smell of rotting humus an earthy perfume, was something that could distract him as long as he didn't think about Gray.

He tried not to think about Gray.

He failed.

The others were silent behind him.

It was, by his calculation, somewhere near noon, but there was no way to spot the sun for even a moment through the leafy canopy; what light that trickled down was wan and directionless, giving no warmth or guidance.

It was the silence, mainly, that persuaded him that they had reached the Arroy proper.

He reached back into his rucksack and took out the hairbrush that he had noticed but a few days before. This time, he would not stop to bathe and make himself presentable, but he could, at least, appear before her with properly brushed hair.

He stopped. He didn't know how he knew, but She was over the next rise.

He turned to the others. "Would you," he asked, "would you please give me a moment or two with Her before you join us?" They would have to see Her, of course. But . . . 

It was, of course, Sir Niko who answered. "Of course, Sir Cully. We'll wait for your call."

He gestured at Sigerson and Bigglesworth, who carefully lowered Penelope to the blanket that Fotheringay had spread for her on the ground.

As Cully topped the rise, he thought himself mistaken. There was no sign of Her, just a path leading down into a valley, filled with stones.

"I'll not ask you to sit table with me this time, Cully," She said from behind him.

He turned. She was, as she always was, quite perfect.

"My Lady," he said, dropping to a knee. "I'm relieved to find you well."

"Are you indeed?" Her voice, even after all these years, was still the surprise that it had been when he had knelt before her as a novice: half an octave lower than it should have been, sweet but not to the point of cloying, bracing as a cold stream.

Her perfect lips, the color of fresh blood, parted in a smile.

But there was nothing to smile about.

"Well, no," she said, "there is always something to smile about. Not as much as one would wish."

"No, my Lady, not as much as one would wish."

"Do you hate me, Cully? I sent him to you."

"You send all my lambs to me, my Lady, and I butcher them all, don't I?" He would not let his voice break, not in front of Her. "And why should it have been different with Joshua? Why should he have been so different from all the others?" He raised his hands before his face. "Merely because I slew him with my own hands, with my own sword, without giving him a moment to repent his sins?"

"You think your God would send such as Joshua to Hell, Cully?"

"I don't judge God, my Lady. I judge myself, and perhaps—"

"And more than perhaps you judge Me." She nodded. "Which is, I suppose, as it should be." She touched two fingers to Her own lips, and then to his.

She had never before touched him without his permission. It was all he could do not to seize that perfect hand, clamp his fingers around that perfect wrist.

"And then what, my Cully? And then what? Force my lips to yours? Or wring my slender neck? Or both?"

There was but one answer to that. "Neither, Lady." He forced himself to rise. "Do you need protection?"

She shook her head. "I'm safe here, and, should that change, I should be able to retreat from the world, from this world. But you didn't come to see to My safety. Did you?"

He shook his head. "I don't think it's safe to try for Alton, and the way to Londinium and the College is likely watched, and guarded."

"You want me to fit the swords to your companions?"

"Yes. Can you? Will you?"

She frowned. "Yes, and yes. Sigerson won't do, though; the fire of any of the live swords would burn out his spark, and he'd feel the lack of it more than, than one would miss—"

"Would miss a hand?"

She swallowed hard, and nodded. "Yes. More than one would miss a hand. You think Penelope for the Goatboy, perhaps?"

He shook his head. "No. For Albert. The combination of Sir Guy and Albert eased her pain. Perhaps Albert can do so alone."

"I'm not sure she'd be the ideal choice—"

"And you see others?" he asked.

"No," she said. "Well, that leaves Bigglesworth and Fotheringay for the Khan and the Goatboy—"

"Bigglesworth for the Goatboy, yes. At least for the time being."

"And Fotheringay for the Khan?"

"Hardly."

She smiled. "Of course not. You'll carry the Khan, won't you?"

"Of course, my Lady."

Once more, She touched Her fingers first to Her own lips, and then to his. "So be it, my Cully."

"I'll go get the others. If this is to be done, t'were best done quickly."

"There's time enough for one more question of you, isn't there?"

He forced a smile. "And, yes, for one more answer, Morgaine. And the answer, as You know, is yes. Yes, You are my Lady, as you always shall be."

"I know. I just wanted to hear it one more time, from your lips."

It was easy to turn away from Her, and not just because it was but for a moment—it was because the Khan, and his own doom, waited.

"As will I, my Cully," she said, her voice so low that for a moment he wondered if she had meant the words for his ears.

But it was only for a moment.

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Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Afterword II
Her
 

He would have preferred to have gone alone, of course. But the others were necessary, and in this lifetime, you don't always get what you prefer, something that Cully knew better than any other.

Besides, he couldn't have done this by himself, at least not until they reached the Arroy. There were picket lines stretched at all the known approaches to the Bedegraine, and the town of Bedegraine itself had fallen immediately to the invaders from the sea.

Too many years of peace. Too many years of letting town walls fall for lack of repair, too little repair for lack of an enemy to repair it against.

Too many of them.

So they came in through Linfield, and left their horses and their gear at the edge of the Bedegraine, then walked into the forest, single file, with Cully in the lead, followed by Sigerson and his man assisting Penelope, with Fotheringay, burdened with the pack wrapped in blankets next, and Sir Niko bringing up the rear.

There was no point in rushing, not anymore. Let them be pursued into the Arroy, if that's what the others wanted. If Her defenses weren't up to the task, another few hundred soldiers wouldn't make any difference.

Besides, it was good to do something ordinary. It was good to do something, and it was good to know that when they reached a fork, it didn't much matter which path they took.

He always chose the easier one. It didn't make any difference.

Still, there was something not unpleasant in the gradual way that the Bedegraine gave way to the Arroy.

It spoke of Her safety, for one. And, of course, even though neither the Bedegraine nor the Arroy were his long-lost, much beloved Woode, both were forest, after all, and the smell of rotting humus an earthy perfume, was something that could distract him as long as he didn't think about Gray.

He tried not to think about Gray.

He failed.

The others were silent behind him.

It was, by his calculation, somewhere near noon, but there was no way to spot the sun for even a moment through the leafy canopy; what light that trickled down was wan and directionless, giving no warmth or guidance.

It was the silence, mainly, that persuaded him that they had reached the Arroy proper.

He reached back into his rucksack and took out the hairbrush that he had noticed but a few days before. This time, he would not stop to bathe and make himself presentable, but he could, at least, appear before her with properly brushed hair.

He stopped. He didn't know how he knew, but She was over the next rise.

He turned to the others. "Would you," he asked, "would you please give me a moment or two with Her before you join us?" They would have to see Her, of course. But . . . 

It was, of course, Sir Niko who answered. "Of course, Sir Cully. We'll wait for your call."

He gestured at Sigerson and Bigglesworth, who carefully lowered Penelope to the blanket that Fotheringay had spread for her on the ground.

As Cully topped the rise, he thought himself mistaken. There was no sign of Her, just a path leading down into a valley, filled with stones.

"I'll not ask you to sit table with me this time, Cully," She said from behind him.

He turned. She was, as she always was, quite perfect.

"My Lady," he said, dropping to a knee. "I'm relieved to find you well."

"Are you indeed?" Her voice, even after all these years, was still the surprise that it had been when he had knelt before her as a novice: half an octave lower than it should have been, sweet but not to the point of cloying, bracing as a cold stream.

Her perfect lips, the color of fresh blood, parted in a smile.

But there was nothing to smile about.

"Well, no," she said, "there is always something to smile about. Not as much as one would wish."

"No, my Lady, not as much as one would wish."

"Do you hate me, Cully? I sent him to you."

"You send all my lambs to me, my Lady, and I butcher them all, don't I?" He would not let his voice break, not in front of Her. "And why should it have been different with Joshua? Why should he have been so different from all the others?" He raised his hands before his face. "Merely because I slew him with my own hands, with my own sword, without giving him a moment to repent his sins?"

"You think your God would send such as Joshua to Hell, Cully?"

"I don't judge God, my Lady. I judge myself, and perhaps—"

"And more than perhaps you judge Me." She nodded. "Which is, I suppose, as it should be." She touched two fingers to Her own lips, and then to his.

She had never before touched him without his permission. It was all he could do not to seize that perfect hand, clamp his fingers around that perfect wrist.

"And then what, my Cully? And then what? Force my lips to yours? Or wring my slender neck? Or both?"

There was but one answer to that. "Neither, Lady." He forced himself to rise. "Do you need protection?"

She shook her head. "I'm safe here, and, should that change, I should be able to retreat from the world, from this world. But you didn't come to see to My safety. Did you?"

He shook his head. "I don't think it's safe to try for Alton, and the way to Londinium and the College is likely watched, and guarded."

"You want me to fit the swords to your companions?"

"Yes. Can you? Will you?"

She frowned. "Yes, and yes. Sigerson won't do, though; the fire of any of the live swords would burn out his spark, and he'd feel the lack of it more than, than one would miss—"

"Would miss a hand?"

She swallowed hard, and nodded. "Yes. More than one would miss a hand. You think Penelope for the Goatboy, perhaps?"

He shook his head. "No. For Albert. The combination of Sir Guy and Albert eased her pain. Perhaps Albert can do so alone."

"I'm not sure she'd be the ideal choice—"

"And you see others?" he asked.

"No," she said. "Well, that leaves Bigglesworth and Fotheringay for the Khan and the Goatboy—"

"Bigglesworth for the Goatboy, yes. At least for the time being."

"And Fotheringay for the Khan?"

"Hardly."

She smiled. "Of course not. You'll carry the Khan, won't you?"

"Of course, my Lady."

Once more, She touched Her fingers first to Her own lips, and then to his. "So be it, my Cully."

"I'll go get the others. If this is to be done, t'were best done quickly."

"There's time enough for one more question of you, isn't there?"

He forced a smile. "And, yes, for one more answer, Morgaine. And the answer, as You know, is yes. Yes, You are my Lady, as you always shall be."

"I know. I just wanted to hear it one more time, from your lips."

It was easy to turn away from Her, and not just because it was but for a moment—it was because the Khan, and his own doom, waited.

"As will I, my Cully," she said, her voice so low that for a moment he wondered if she had meant the words for his ears.

But it was only for a moment.

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Framed