The Lanolin Saga – Chapter the First…Idylls of the Ides Tuesday, Sep 16 2008

I should like to introduce to you, gentle readers, a young lady by the name of Emerald.  Gracious and graceful, as lit from within by the glow of her goodwill as her golden hair is lit by the sun on a day such as this one, Emerald waltzes through life with nature as her gown.  The air rejoices at her every breath, and willows weep that they can only hope to emulate the beauty of her carriage. Which is not to say that she slumps. No indeed! Emerald’s very being is the picture of blessings. Those who see her pass think to themselves, “What a very lucky girl, and what a lucky soul am I to have seen her!” Little do they know the invisible cloud hanging over poor dear Emerald – the cloud known now scientifically as “Murphy’s Law.”

And for those readers who are not quite so gentle as the aforementioned readers, I should like to introduce a young woman (it should be slander to name her a young lady) by the name of Juniper. A more contrary girl was never known in all of Christendom, though outside of Christendom I cannot vouch for.  Tall as a reed and quick as a whip, her moods and opinions shift with the wind, but her loyalty is fierce and true and, on occasion, steel-tested.

What adventures shall meet with these two lasses? None other than…THE GREATEST THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN!!!!!

Until next time, gentle and non-gentle readers…

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A Simple Transfer of Cargo Monday, Oct 6 2008

The salt air was drenched with half-sobbed commands and whining pleas. 

“Full sail!”

“She’ll catch us. There’s no stopping Mad Junie.”

“Did you hear what she did to the entire Spagnoll fleet in the Adriatic?”

“No!”

“Well then, pray you never learn…!”

 

The deck lurched as an additional sail was raised. Emerald, all but forgotten by the terror stricken crew, dropped to her knees and crawled aft.

She glanced at the approaching skiff with excitement, but also apprehension. Though she knew the stories of Juniper’s piracy had been distorted through many means, among them threats, pub whisper campaigns and the effects of mind altering tinctures, Emerald had never actually seen Junie in battle and she feared to see her dear friend transformed into something ferocious. Though these men be the vilest scoundrels, thought Emerald, they each once had a mother looking over their cradle.

As if in answer to that thought, a childlike wail arose from above her. She looked up, shocked to see the brawny scarred henchman clutching a mast and sobbing in white-knuckled abject terror. His eyes wide and glassy, he pleaded to no one in particular.

“Y-you don’t understand! Sh-she said the scar was a reminder t-to stay orf the seas! If sh-she caught me on water she would…Oh help me!!”

Emerald scrambled to avoid the stream of urine now issuing from the bottom of his breeches, only to find herself facing a pair of stockinged legs. A hand grabbed the back of her gown and hauled her upright. Peter Prique bared his teeth in an insane grin.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he hissed. Emerald winced at his rancid breath. Embarrassed, he shut his mouth, but kept his grip firmly in place as he dragged her to the starboard deck.

A sharp cry sounded from the air and the deck fell deathly silent. All heads rose, mouths agape, to watch a low swooping peregrine falcon circle the ship.

“She’s got her beast…” one sailor breathed.

“Shut up!” cried another, and all voices died.

The skiff neared. Emerald watched in awe as her, not exactly demure, but at least well-bred friend gathered up her skirts, placed her booted foot high on a crate, exposing the length of her bare leg, and struck a flint against her heel to light a small cigar clamped in her smiling white teeth. Cigar lit, Juniper took a long puff, then pulled out a remarkably ornate gun and turned to the stunned crew of Emerald’s boat with a companionable expression.

“You have something that belongs to me,” she said simply.

And with that, twelve screaming crewmembers threw themselves off the deck of the boat and began to swim for shore. One last remaining lackey, the rather large goon, clung to the mast as if his limbs would not allow him to do more than hold on and shake.

Junie squinted and spat out her cigar.

“I remember you…” she said.

He squealed, bolted, and dove to meet his compatriots in the comparatively safe swells of shark infested ocean.

In a single, lightning fast motion, Juniper was aboard the boat, her skiff tied up neatly as if by magic. Emerald felt Prique’s hand shaking as it tightened around her mouth and dragged her backwards.  She cried out, but no sound issued from the putrid seal of Prique’s glove. From the forward deck, she heard the sounds of heavy objects being dropped, wood being cracked open.

“Explosives,” whispered Sir Prique, as if to himself, then dragged Emerald about to face him. He glared at her with a fiendish intensity. “You can swim, can’t you, princess?” Emerald’s heart began to pound.

“Hallo Emmie!” A sharp click rang out behind Prique’s head, causing him to relinquish his sweaty grip on Emerald.  Juniper smiled at Emerald, her merriment not quite reaching her eyes, which swam with unshed tears. “Long day at sea, eh? What say you to dinner at home?”

“Oh, Juniper,” cried Emerald. “That sounds perfect.” She sniffed, but Juniper gently pointed her towards the skiff.

“Board now, then, so we can watch the fireworks from a distance.”

Emerald grinned and gratefully acquiesced, hopping delicately into the small vessel, finding a seat, and settling her skirts about her in a beseeming way. She was grateful for the high deck of the boat, which blocked her view from any of the goings on aboard. She knew what Junie must do; indeed, she awaited the gun blast with held breath, but that did not mean she was prepared to witness it first-hand.

Voices were suddenly raised above her, though she could not make out the words. Last moments, she supposed. How emotional it all was. She sighed and looked out to sea, homeward. Tonight, she thought, we’ll sip that claret I’ve been staving away for my saint’s day and try to sort this whole mess out.

The gunshot rang out. Emerald closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath to feel the bump as Juniper jumped silently aboard the skiff, and the smooth relaxation of the lines as they sailed away from her prison ship. 

“It’s over,” Emerald sighed.

“Not yet,” snarled Peter Prique.

Emerald gasped as she turned to find him looming over her, one hand on the lines. He grinned and leaned in close.

An earsplitting blast cut through the sea air, nearly capsizing the skiff as its force struck the tiny sail. Emerald pulled herself about with a shaking hand. Where there was once a channel ferry, a grey cloud floated, settling down about a collection of burning planks.

Prique nodded sharply.

“Now it’s over.”

 

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The Prodigal Peregrine Monday, Oct 6 2008

“Tell me more,” said Juniper, pacing the floor whilst braiding and unbraiding her hair and glaring at her own reflection in the darkened window.

“I’ll tell you anything you like,” said John, slumping wearily in his chair, “if you’ll stop your incessant walking for just a moment! I’m growing seasick and we’re not even on a boat.”

Juniper halted her march with a stomp.

“And why, pray tell, are we not on a boat?!” she bellowed. “We should be out there, after them, this very moment!”

“We’ve been over this, Juniper,” John answered with maddening condescension. “We cannot navigate by night, not with this cloud cover and the shifting currents of the channel.”

“You mean you can’t, Highness,” Juniper growled, “but I could do it blindfolded!”

“You’re not coming,” John said, rising from his chair. “You’re feverish even now.”

She felt a growing flush begin to betray her, but realizing it was just fury, she drew a deep breath and mastered its outward expression.

“I’m quite well, now, John,” she said, almost sweetly.  He watched her, arms crossed, without expression. She took a small step towards him and extended her hand.

“Feel,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. John faltered, confused, then took her hand in his.  “I am steady, see?” She smiled, gazing up at him, and closed her fingers around his rougher palm, feeling the warmth of it stretch up her arm and into the rest of her body. 

He moved closer to her, his breath growing ragged.

“Steady,” she breathed again, leaning into his embrace. “Steady enough to rip the throats of those bastards open with one dagger swipe…”

John stiffened, not in the intended way, and broke away from her.

“Be that as it may, Juniper,” he said, his voice cold once more, “I’m the one with the key to the mariner’s shed. You can take one of these skiffs if you like, I won’t stop you, but you won’t get far without oar, sail or rope.”

“How can you be so calm?” cried Juniper in fierce frustration. “Emerald could be adrift in the ocean or at a sword’s point even now!”

“I don’t think so,” John replied, stooping to fold the large threadbare rug into quarters. “The de Pourries believe their claim to the throne is a legitimate one. After all, if not for the tradition of matriarchy, the throne would have belonged to them seven times over for several hundred years now.”

“So, they’ll do away with her,” Juniper said, “their only threat, lost at sea.”

“No,” said John. “If Emerald is never produced publicly, then the story of the hidden princess continues, and their claim remains denied.  They have a much greater stake in forcing her to the throne and destroying her from there.”

I won’t let that happen, thought Juniper, eyeing John’s belt.

No keys visible, nor pockets. He met her gaze and smiled, walking to extinguish the lanterns.  She locked eyes with him, her breath held.  Orange light flickered across the planes of his face, and then vanished as he blew out the flame. Stop it, Juniper, she thought. Stop it right now and remember who you are.

“You take the bed,” John said, motioning to the raised pallet in the corner of the room. He handed her the last lit candlestick and lay down on the folded rug. 

Juniper raised her chin, prepared to fight him for the right of sleeping in the most uncomfortable location, but instead watched for a moment as he closed his eyes and rested his hands on his chest.  She walked to the bed and lay herself down, prepared to stay awake for as long as it took.

A mere twenty minutes later, she heard John’s breaths grow heavy and even. She crept to where he slept and crouched down beside him. Her fingers traveled as lightly as feathers over his form, finding no hidden key or pocket, only cloth covering warm skin, contour, muscle.

John’s hand grasped her shoulder, and in a single instant, she found herself pinioned under him with a dagger pressed to her throat.  His face, inches from hers, registered surprise as sleep left him.  He shook his head and tossed the knife across the floor but did not relinquish his hold on her.

Juniper wriggled to free herself, but found her legs wrapping around his hips on their own volition.  His eyes swam with desire.

“I could have killed you,” he whispered. 

“I know,” said Juniper, amazed. She ran her hands through his thick hair and pulled him down into a kiss.

Time stopped as their mouths met. They spun in their lust. John’s body relaxed. Juniper grabbed the wine decanter and knocked him over the head. 

He fell to the floor, unconscious, but still remarkably good-looking, even in emasculated disarray.

“Sorry,” said Juniper, and almost meant it.  She grabbed John’s dagger and fastened it into her belt as she rushed outside.  If the key wasn’t on his person, it must be in his saddle bag, she reasoned.

She rounded the corner of the wharf house and sprinted down the beach to where she’d left the horse. To her extreme dismay, she discovered quickly that there was not a saddlebag to be found on the idle beast, let alone a hidden key stowed away in one.

Juniper kicked a clod of sand and screamed something inaudible, as she was wont to do in times of frustration.  An answering cry sounded from the air.  Juniper looked up.

There, flying towards her, was her beloved falcon, trailing a small parcel from her ankle band.  Craquelin alit on Juniper’s outstretched arm and cocked her head to pick at the package she carried.

“Why, wherever have you been?” Juniper scolded. “And who’s been feeding you? You’re looking positively pudgy!” Craquelin bowed her beak in shame.  In a flash, Juniper remembered John’s signet ring, which he wore tonight. The last time she’d seen it, it had been in her own possession.

“You little traitor!” yelled Juniper, shaking her arm furiously. Craquelin fluttered her wings but stayed put. The little bag flapped open and dropped its contents, a single rusty key, to the ground.  Juniper grabbed it with a grin. “Good girl, Crack-crack!” she said. “We’ll get you some fish when we’re safely at sea!”

In less than an hour’s time, one of the wharf’s meager skiffs was expertly rigged and under weigh.  Juniper sent Craquelin ahead to scout for any ships ahead of them.  The falcon returned just as the sun rose over the ship’s bow.

Discovering a bucket of tar in the small aft hold, Juniper blackened her cheeks and her arms, and drew her standard on the sail in rough strokes – a falcon, in honor of the bird who had served her extremely well today.

She spied the passage ship, not too distant, just off of the starboard bow. She smelled phantom blood in the salty air, grinned, and breathed it in with a lusty gasp.

Proud and focused, Juniper stood like that as she gained steadily upon her enemies, her arm wrapped around the mast and her foot poised jauntily on the four stacked boxes of gunpowder she’d brought along.

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The Seasick Princess Monday, Oct 6 2008

Emerald awoke uneasily, her stomach lurching and her head heavy.  At first, in the utter darkness of the room, she did not know where she could be, except that she was in a bed, and yet was wearing a day gown and corset. 

“Am I home?” she wondered aloud.  “The room seems to lurch from side to side.  I must have had rather too much claret last night!” 

Emerald drew in a breath of stale, hot air, and gulped hard to settle her stomach.  She sat up from the mattress to light the candle that ought to be on her bedside table and slammed her head hard on a wooden plank just above her, falling back to the bed in pained bewilderment.

“I don’t sleep in a bunk,” said Emerald in a very small voice.  She lay very still and observed the bed moving up and down and side to side in uneven patterns.  She gasped as she noticed the sound of shuffling feet on floorboards above her, and even more alarming, the unmistakable noise of water, a great deal of it, slapping against the wall beside her ear. 

In a sudden flood of memory, Emerald recalled the events of the past day and sat bolt upright, once again slamming her head onto the bunk above her, and falling back down to the bed.

“Ow,” she said, weakly.

“Are you daft?” answered an old scratchy voice.  Emerald held her breath and looked to the side, where the blackness of the cabin was broken by a spark, which grew into a match flame.  An old man held the fire to his wooden pipe, gave a somewhat demented smile, then lit a small lantern to his side, bathing the room in a sickly glow.

It was as Emerald feared – a boat cabin of the very lowest means, probably the undercarriage of a small ocean vessel.  She must have been taken here by whatever scoundrel had abducted her from Tobias’s manse.  The old man coughed musically and leaned onto his knobby knees.

“I asked if you’re daft!!” he repeated loudly.

“Ah…no.” replied Emerald, standing up carefully from the bed. “At least, I don’t believe so.”

“Oh,” said the man, with a polite tip of his hat. “I only asked because you seem to talk to yourself a great deal.” He thought for a moment, sucking on his pipe. “I do that as well. But then…I am daft.”

“Oh.” said Emerald, at a loss for any other response.  She swallowed hard, gurgles sounding in her empty stomach.  She looked up at him, a realization striking her. 

“You!” she said.

“ME!!” said the old man, looking around suspiciously.

“You’re that old man from my village…the one who always gives me such ill advice!” 

“You’re mistaking me for someone else!” retorted the old man, blowing out a puff of smoke. “I am the one who always gives you wonderful advice.” 

The door to the cabin swung open and a hairy, muscled arm reached in, grabbing hold of the old man’s collar. 

“You again?!” snarled the man in the doorway, pulling Emerald’s companion out of the room.  “You know what we do to stowaways?” 

“What?” asked the old man, genially.

“We feed them to the Lanolin Channel sharks!” the strong man growled. He stepped into the room, one arm still clamped on the old man.  He leered at Emerald, a scar on his cheek twisting and bending as his grin grew bigger.

“You look a bit green about the gills, HIGHness,” he said with a sarcastic bow. 

“I…” Emerald searched carefully for words.  “I get seasick,” she said weakly.

“Well then,” he said, his tone still falsely polite. “Perrrrrrrrhaps you’d keer to join us up on deck, for yer friend eer’s goin’ away ceremony!”

She had a brief rush of prideful resistance, but her stomach lurching once more, she reconsidered it.

“Why thank you, sir,” she said, taking his outstretched filthy hand to steady herself.

The sailor tugged her down the low corridor with one hand while shoving the old man with the other, until they reached a steep, short stairwell.  He wheeled her ahead of him, pushing his body against hers as she climbed with his mouth against her face, his breath humid on her ear.  She gulped back a rush of sickness and climbed as fast as she could, the old man ahead of her whistling some old shanty and practically refusing to budge.

The hatch opened above them, a gust of fresh, salty air greeting Emerald’s grateful lungs.  She stumbled out onto the deck and looked around frantically at the water’s horizon all about them. No land in sight, she noted, her heart sinking.

“Why Miss LaVerte!” said a familiar, dangerously silky voice behind her.  She wheeled about and stumbled slightly, then steadied herself.  She looked up and met the man’s gaze with a gasp of horror. 

Peter Prique smiled sourly at her reaction.

“If I’d known who you were at the time,” he said, picking lint off of his Flangian cravat, “I’d certainly have raised your rent!” 

A crew of ugly, unsavory men chortled deferentially at his joke, then stopped abruptly as he glared at them.  He pointed at the old man.

“Overboard! Now,” he snarled. He grabbed Emerald roughly by the shoulder and dragged her to the railing of the boat as the men pulled a short plank out from the hull.  The scarred sailor pushed the addled old man onto it.

“Walk!” he growled. 

The old man laughed and danced lightly to the edge, still holding his pipe.  He looked at Emerald and winked.

“My advice to you, my dear,” he said, “is to go along with these men! They seem like nice fellows to me!”  He looked down at the water, his face scrunched up in contemplation. “Lovely day for a swim,” he said to his pipe, then dove into the water.

“No!!” cried Emerald. Prique shoved her across the deck, so that she stumbled and fell into a puddle of brackish seawater, her bodice laces snapping. She looked up at her former landlord. It was a sadly familiar scenario.

“What do you want with me?!” she cried, her confusion rising to match her nausea.

“Why…” Peter Prique’s face grew perversely delighted. “You don’t know?!” 

A cry sounded from the bird’s nest above them.  Prique looked up in alarm.

“A skiff!” cried the pimply sailor in the nest. “Two leagues and gaining on us!”

Prique hastened to the railing and looked out into the distance. 

“Raise a sail!” he bellowed. He looked back out at the horizon and squinted in confusion. “What in hell is that flag?!”

Emerald pulled herself carefully upright and adjusted her gown to protect her modesty as best she could.  She crept back along the railing towards the masthead and looked out to sea.  She spotted the ship in the distance, a huge swath of white fabric flying from the mast with a messy black symbol painted onto it.

Emerald’s heart began to pound, her stomach now steadied by feverish hope.  She focused intently on the flag, and nearly cried out with joy as it flapped open, exposing the symbol clearly.

A falcon.  Emerald turned to face the salty wind with a sharp eye, her hair flying loose behind her as if in tribute. 

“Sailors beware,” she recited with a grin. “Mad Junie Flint is back at sea!”

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The Wharf House Monday, Oct 6 2008

“I haven’t time to explain,” John said, backing up, knife aloft, as Juniper staggered to her feet.  “But I swear to you that I am not your enemy.  There is much that you do not know.”

“All I want to know,” snarled Juniper, advancing stubbornly on unsteady legs, “is where you’ve taken Emerald!” 

She drew in a sharp breath to still herself as the world spun.  Beads of sweat formed on her brow and her chest grew hot.  Justjohn’s now blurry form seemed to hesitate, then moved a few steps away from her.  Juniper lunged for him, but landed short, her foot catching on her hem and sending her hurtling once again to the forest floor.

Damn this fever, she thought, and damn the peasant bastard who caused it! Unable to muster the strength to push herself from the ground, she stared helplessly at the red and yellow leaves forming her pillow, and then at a pair of wellshod feet stepping up beside her.

“Someone will be along soon to find you, Juniper,” said John softly. “I – I am sorry to see you in this state, but you must understand that I cannot tarry!” 

Juniper opened her mouth, a vitriolic retort ready.  To her shock and humiliation, her body suddenly convulsed in shuddering sobs, tears falling unchecked in streams down one cheek.  She gasped, unable to speak.

“Oh God, Juniper…”

John knelt beside her, drew one arm around her waist and the other her neck and lifted her up into his embrace, carrying her before him like a child.  She squirmed weakly and formed no less than seventeen separate insults to hurl at him in protest, but could not force any words through the cloud of sobs currently lodged in her throat. She felt his firm hands gripping her shoulder and her thigh, his gait quickening as he carried her between trees. 

“I cannot leave you like this,” he said, his voice brusque but soft beside her ear. 

He hoisted her away from him and she found herself beside the flank of a horse, her leg lifting instinctively to sit astride it.  She gripped the mane to pull herself to the front of the saddle as John filled in the space behind her, his arms encircling her again and gripping the reins. 

“I must follow the kidnappers’ trail before they have too much of a lead,” he said, spurring the horse into movement.  “I suspect they’ve taken Emerald to the wharf. I will leave you in the care of the wharfmaster.”

Juniper slumped against the neck of the galloping horse.  She took a ragged breath, her tears lessening, and found herself finally able to speak again.

“I’m not ill at all,” she said in a small voice, “and I have no need of the charity of a lowborn…scoundrel…like…” She sighed and shut her eyes, feeling arms tightening around her waist before falling into a fevered and involuntary sleep.

Juniper awoke to the smell of the ocean, the soft clap of waves against boat hulls, and the uncomfortable feeling of a cotton shift against damp skin. She opened her eyes and saw that she was still lying upon the neck of the horse, now craned at a precipitous angle as the stallion grazed. Her head felt clear now and her body impossibly sticky.

She looked about her.  Around the patch of grass providing repast for the horse were raised dunes of sand and an old wooden platform in severe disrepair, leading to a dock. A motley collection of small vessels were haphazardly, and in some cases hazardously attached to the pilings.  Behind her was a deserted road running parallel to the shoreline, and beyond that, the dark of the forest.  A small light shone further down the beach. Justjohn was nowhere to be seen.

Juniper peeled herself off of the horse and carefully alit on the grass.  After momentary tingling, her legs felt steady beneath her.  She clenched and unclenched her fists, and felt wrath filling her body once more.  She smiled, satisfied, and began to make her way along the beach towards the light, leaving the stallion to his snack.

With every step and every breath of sea air, Juniper felt life returning to her body more and more.  With her newfound equilibrium and the evidence of her dampened body, she reasoned that her fever had at last truly broken.  Would that my illness had ended before this night, she thought bitterly, or I’d not have failed my dear friend!

“No sense in regret,” she said aloud, her voice surprisingly clear. “It will not help me in rescuing Emerald.”

As she moved down the beach, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, she saw that the light issued from a small lodging attached to a long empty dock.  This must be the wharf house John had spoken of.  She would introduce herself there, she decided, and inquire as to John’s direction hence. 

Stepping up to the ragged porch of the establishment, she noticed two signs fastened upon the door.  The top, a proper wooden name and crest, read “Langdonfordshire Wharf House.” The bottom, a letter of hastily scrawled ink on stained parchment, said simply, “Gone to Flange. Back in a fortnight.”

Juniper moved to knock upon the door, then paused, confused.  If the wharfmaster had left for Flange, who then had lit the lamps within?  The moment the answer formed in her mind, the door opened and proved her correct.  Justjohn, his sleeves rolled and shirt untucked casually, stepped aside and motioned her in with a sarcastically gallant bow.

Juniper hesitated and looked past him into the room.  A table was set with two bowls and tumblers of wine.  Her face must have shown her surprise, for John laughed darkly and stepped from the doorway into the room.

“Come and enjoy, Juniper,” he said, seating himself at the table. “The wharf master was kind enough to leave for Flange in such a hurry that he forgot to bring his provisions with him.  Our good fortune.”  John’s face darkened, belying his false cheer.  He drank his glass of wine in one long gulp and slammed the cup back onto the table.

Juniper shut the door behind her and sat opposite him at the table, watching him cautiously. After an awkward silence, she raised her wine and drank, grateful for the soft warmth as it crept down her throat.

“So,” she said. “We find ourselves alone here. I’m quite at your mercy.” 

John snorted through a bite of stew, his eyes twinkling as he looked up at her. Juniper scowled and leaned in.

“My point is,” she went on, “you have nothing to lose by telling me where Emerald is. You say you are not my enemy, but you refuse to give me any information!”

“All right,” John said, leaning back. “Since my plan of secrecy has already failed so utterly, I might as well tell you the truth.  First of all, my name is not Justjohn.”

“Your name is not John,” Juniper repeated.

“No, it is John,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “John de Crecy.”

Juniper sat and stared at him, momentarily stunned, before regaining her senses and laughing. 

“You lie!” she cried. “A Flangian royal, posing as a Lanolin commoner!  What overwrought fairytale nonsense! Whoever heard of such a thing?”  Her gaze dropped to his hand, to the unmistakable crest upon his ring, and her laughs fell silent. 

John de Crecy ran his hand through his dark hair, then abruptly stood from the table.

“It hardly matters who I am, Juniper,” he said, pacing. “What matters is who Emerald is -”

“What?” Juniper chuckled, sipping her wine. “The heiress to the Flangian throne?!” She giggled to herself before noticing John staring at her with a very strange expression.

“Yes,” he said, simply. “Emerald la Verte de Crecy – my sister, the crowned princess of the Crecy line. Until this dark day,” he added, looking tensely out the window, “the Hidden Princess of Flange.”

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The Little Storm Cloud Monday, Oct 6 2008

As Emerald rode out with Tobias in the afternoon glow, her mind whirred, full of observations, hopes and giddy revelations.  She had always supposed that when a maiden found herself in love, she would be swept away by the feeling, her mind quieted by the pangs and pull of her heart’s decisions.  Yet here she was, most certainly in love, heart pounding, breath shortened, unable to quell a multitude of smiles, all in dazzling variations, yet also unable to quell the flood of thinking!

Her thoughts swam, mainly circling Tobias, on his very superiority to every other man Emerald had yet encountered – indeed, she thought, she preferred him to every man she was likely to meet for the rest of her life.  Wondering how this could be so, she imagined all sorts of other men, tall, short, in trade or in court, reserved or loquacious, and could not think of a single quality that would be better than the collection of qualities she saw in Sir Le Baron.  Even his baldness was now the highest of virtues – how crass of other men to have hair atop their head, and how sophisticated it was of Tobias to have been rid of it.

So her thoughts ran, alongside more scandalous pensees about what would come to pass once they’d left the town confines for the wilder moors and forests surrounding them.  Emerald had already abandoned any hope of maidenly virtue, the last shred disintegrating as Tobias’s strong hand gripped hers in assisting her into the saddle.  Still, she imagined herself putting up a good front of modesty, at the very least exclaiming “I am overcome” at various points, and for a time, these plans occupied her thoughts, until the road before them gave way to nature, and her mind turned to the man beside her and the dazzling day they had ridden into.

It was then, dear readers, that poor Emerald looked curiously behind her and noticed a very strange sight indeed.  In a cobalt blue autumn sky, otherwise untouched by cumuli, sat a small, round, dreadfully dark storm cloud.  Not only was it threatening in its colour, but it seemed to be heading quite quickly for the very spot where she and Tobias were now reining in their horses.

Oh dear…,thought Emerald, her pretty brow furrowed, and then, Oh my dear Tobias, as his hands circled her waist to lift her from her horse.  As her feet touched the ground, his hands loosened but remained there, trembling slightly.  He looked into her eyes adoringly, his face so very close to hers. Emerald closed her eyes and raised her chin.  Tobias gulped and released her, turning to tie up the horses.

Emerald stood in place, her breath caught in her chest.  How much anticipation could she stand?  This maidenly virtue pretense was difficult in theory – in practice, it was excruciating!  Confused, her thoughts finally stalled by her body’s frustration, she walked to him and laid a hand lightly on his arm.  He stared forward, his mouth set in a serious, scholarly expression.

“Tobias…” she murmured.

He wheeled about and kissed her strongly on the mouth. His hands were now around her waist, now at her neck, now entangled in her hair, and seemingly all at once.  The beautiful vista around them was wasted as everything whirled dizzily around Emerald and Tobias, everything inconsequential in comparison to their touch.  Emerald’s breath felt fiery as she gasped between kisses; she felt herself sinking and rising and needing more, much more closeness than this, and was on the verge of saying a very sincere “I am overcome,” when Tobias stepped away from her.  He took a few steps, rubbing his face, before he turned to her with deeply sad eyes.

“I confess I love you,” he said. “I love you desperately, dear Emerald.  And it is for this love that I cannot, CANNOT betray you here!”

“But,” Emerald inquired tremblingly, “what do you speak of?”

“Your maidenly virtue!” cried Tobias, seemingly on the verge of tears.

“Take it!” yelled Emerald in a very undemure tone. “I don’t want it anymore!”  Realizing what she’d said, she clamped a hand over her mouth.

Tobias looked at her for a moment, his face a little shocked.  Then he verily ran to her, his hands once more around her, his mouth finding hers as she laughed in relief. 

He laid her down in the tall soft grass of a lovely low field, hidden from view from the roadway.  Emerald giggled in nervous anticipation as Tobias struggled to untie her many laces.  Just when she felt her bodice freeing, Tobias’s mouth on her throat, she heard the menacing rumble of thunder above them.  Tobias paused and looked up.  There in the sky was the nasty little storm cloud, full to bursting with rain, and gaining on them by the second. 

“Please,” Emerald cooed, “it doesn’t matter…” Tobias agreed with her for a moment, until another rumble joined the thunder in the distance.  This sound was unmistakable – the low roar of a horse and rider approaching at great speed. 

Alarmed, Tobias rose to his feet.  He knelt to Emerald, and retightened the laces on her bodice with a truly apologetic expression. He kissed her hand and brushed the grass from her dress, as she stood mutely, confused about what had just transpired. 

“It is just as well, my love,” he said, all courtesy, and pressed his lips to her hand. “This was overhasty. You are too fine a prize to have been first taken in a meadow like a common farm wench.”

Emerald opened her mouth to disagree, but Tobias kissed her and continued.

“We shall dine together tonight, my dear.”  His eyes were full of plain meaning for a moment, as he looked at her, then he turned decisively and walked toward the road.  At the crossing where their horses were tied stood a member of the Duke’s guard – the verysame guard that Emerald had spoken with that morning.  Tobias, flustered to see someone awaiting them, half bowed to the guard. Emerald stifled a laugh to see him so befuddled. She certainly felt a bit all at ends herself.

The young man – Justjohn was it? – bowed deeply to Tobias to cover up his embarrassment, then rose, glancing at Emerald with an alarmed expression. 

“Sir Le Baron,” he said. “The Duke requests an audience with you at once.  I’m afraid there is some pressing news he must discuss with you.”

“Of course,” said Tobias, already unhitching the horses. “I shall meet with him upon the hour.”  Justjohn nodded and immediately mounted his horse and thundered away.  As Emerald watched him go, she saw him look back at her. How very strange he was.

“Come, my dear,” said Tobias, gently. “I am sorry to see our day so spoiled, whether by rain or politics, but return we must.”  Emerald smiled, feeling the first drops of rain pierce the canopy of trees above them.  Poor Tobias, she thought, riding back swiftly.  He blames himself, when it is only my ill luck that is at fault.

They parted at Goldenseal Cottage, agreeing to meet once more at Tobias’s lodging at the hour of eight o’clock. 

Emerald watched him go, then sat fretfully. She attempted to garden a bit, then to embroider, but no occupation seemed as fulfilling as sitting and waiting fretfully for her evening to begin. Finally, just past the hour of seven, she resolved to walk about the town. If she should pass Tobias’s manse and see him waiting idly for her, well then, she may as well start their proceedings early.  She felt her heart might burst to wait any longer.

She walked down the path, intending to stroll a bit through town, but instead finding herself arriving quite prematurely at Tobias’s abode.  A groom stood a bit apart from the house, attending to three horses.  Emerald stepped to the doorway to present herself, then thought better of it.  How rude it would be for her to arrive so early, when Tobias might have another visitor to tend to.  Feeling a sudden irrational pang of jealousy for this mysterious visitor, to whom the third horse must necessarily belong, she crept around the side of the house, well away from the groom, who might be justifiably shocked to see a young women peeking into a salon window. 

Having had some experience spying on her elders as a child, Emerald knew just the angle that would give her a view into the house without exposing her to those within.  Muffled voices approached the elegantly furnished sitting room that she now looked in on. 

“But it cannot be true,” said one, unmistakenly her dear Tobias. 

“It is beyond question,” said the other man, stepping slightly into the room.  “It is Emerald.”

Emerald gasped. Why did they speak of her?  And who was this other man? She craned her head, dangerously close to being exposed.  The man took another step, running a hand through his dark hair.  It was the duke’s guard, Justjohn!  He turned to a crestfallen Tobias, who had followed him into the room.

“She is my sister,” said the guard.

Emerald’s head reeled, and she stepped, dizzy, away from the window, while everything seemed to shake around her. 

She turned to the road and saw Juniper standing there, a sure hallucination.  She might have called out to her just the same, but her view was suddenly covered, and such was the state of her mind at that moment that it took her some time to realize she had a bag over her head and was rather roughly being carried off through what smelled like the forest.  As that revelation sank in, she felt a flood of panic rush through her veins, the final straw to her delicate mind and body, both of which promptly dissolved into a dead swoon.

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Escape from Mercy Monday, Oct 6 2008

With her peregrine gripping her shoulder and a black embroidered handkerchief gripped in her fist, Juniper dashed from the low door of the hermitage to the nearest tree.  She slumped against the trunk, hearing light pious voices growing louder in their song.  Her forehead beaded with troublesome sweat.  She scowled and swatted it away with the cloth in her hand.

“What a nuisance this illness is,” she said softly to curious Craquelin.  “That peasant Justjohn will pay for it dearly.” She smiled wickedly, picturing his face beneath her wellshod foot, and whipped her head around the tree.  Seeing the distant cloister emptied as the nuns attended afternoon prayers, she sprinted halfway across the clearing, stopped to wheeze for a while, stomped her foot angrily, causing dust to fly in the air, which triggered a coughing fit and a resigned slow trudge the rest of the way to the stables.

Juniper crept inside, shutting the low wooden door quietly behind her.  She walked the aisle, peering in at the horses, mostly dun fat docile creatures, totally unsuitable for a rider with spirit, even if tamped down by illness.  Juniper crossed her arms in frustration.  She was going to have to pick one, and fast, if she was to reach Emerald before nightfall.  She put her hand to the gate of an old grey mare (presumably and lamentably not what she used to be), when she heard an angrily robust whinny sounding from the end of the barn. 

Hiking up her skirts, partly to cool her fever-flushed legs, Juniper hastened to investigate.  There, in the last stall of the stable, was one of the finest stallions she had ever laid exacting eyes on.  Glossy black, his white eyes gleamed with energy.  He raised his head high as he paced, tossing hay from his short path in the stable.  The need to run flowed fast through his veins, and as he met Juniper’s eyes, he saw the same lifelong, insatiable desire pulsing through her, and he bowed his neck to her in homage and stilled his walk.  Juniper put her hand to the gate.

A door opened with a loud squeak at the end of the stable. Juniper hastily snatched a horseshoe and whip from a hook on the wall and held them behind her back.  Young Sister Lonegrine stepped down the aisle, smiling at her, incongruously. 

“So you’ve found your horse, have you?”  She laughed, in that annoyingly musical way nuns seemed to be prone to.  “He’s a wild one, not easy to keep a hold on.  Makes a lot of braying noise too!” She snorted.  “Perfect match for you, I should say!”

Juniper quickly debated options.  Should she take the horse and run?  The nun certainly didn’t seem much offended by the impending theft and escape, so threatening force was probably not necessary, however, potentially amusing.  Opting for the entertainment value, Juniper widened her stance and held her whip aloft, a steely glint in her eye.  To her great shock, Sister Lonegrine responded with a pleasant nod.

“I see you’ve all your travelling gear,” she said, her small mouth smirking lightly. “I shouldn’t expect you’d be threatened on the road, dear. Especially not with a young man like yours looking after you!”  Here she collapsed into titters behind her upraised fingers.

Juniper sighed and swung the gate open, making for the saddle hung on the stable wall.  She swung back around when she realized what the insipid woman had said and leaned against the gateway weakly. 

“What young man?!” Juniper asked sharply, her facial expression overcoming the feebleness of her stance.  The nun blanched.

“Why…the one who brought you this horse and l-l-livery,” she stammered. “I thought you knew…”

“What did he look like?” Juniper pulled herself upright.  Who was this mysterious benefactor?  If she didn’t know, she couldn’t very well find him and punish him for his presumptuousness, could she?

“Tall?” The nun stared wideeyed at Juniper, who grabbed at the saddle and grunted in frustration. “Yes, tall! Dark haired…” She smiled. “Very handsome!”

Juniper lugged the pallet and saddle over the grateful stallion’s back.

“Did he look peasant or noble?” She focused on her buckles.  Sister Lonegrine stammered softly again behind her. Juniper spun around, her face flushed. “PEASANT OR ROYAL?!?”

“Royal! Royal!” Now the nun looked feverish too. “Definitely royal.”

Royal, thought Juniper. That’s solves that, then.  Henri had come to her aid after all.  Perhaps some warm welcome would be in order, but certainly not until he was in full command of his faculties. 

Juniper mounted the horse, smiled sweetly and bowed her head to the good Sister, then nearly trampled her as she galloped from the stable.  As she thundered away into the woods, she looked back at the convent, growing smaller and smaller in the distance.

“Thank you, Sisters, for saving my life,” she said, sincerely, then spat back into the wind.  She didn’t look back again until she reached Lanolin, just after dusk.

She tied the horse to a busy post outside the Rowdie Inn, so that her return would be less conspicuous.  She patted his head respectfully.

“Don’t fret, my new friend,” she said. “I shall see you again soon.” He whinnied lightly, then turned his attention to snorting and kicking at the lesser caste beasts around him.

Juniper set off quickly for the main road, leading to Goldenseal Cottage.  She kept her hands in a tight fist as she walked, willing herself not to think of what could have happened in her absence.  She pictured Emerald, safe in her home, just fixing dinner, preferably venison stew with a red wine reduction. Juniper had been forced into vegetarianism for over a fortnight now, so her daydreams were rather specific.

Her daydreams were vivid also, which is why she reacted with such surprise when she passed a small roadside guest home belonging to the Duke, large windows brightly lit, into one of which Emerald LaVerte was now peering intently.  It took Juniper a full two seconds to realize that Emerald seemed to be spying on someone within.  She laughed to herself in delight.  How very undemure it was!

Her laughter stopped in her throat as she saw a man approaching Emerald from the darkness of the forest.  Before she could yell out to her, another man had crept from around the other side of the house and forced a bag over Emerald’s shocked face, dragging her away into the shadows.  Suddenly, the light was extinguished in the house and the yard plunged into darkness.

Juniper ran as fast as she could into the black of the forest. She groped blindly for branches as she ran, calling out for Emerald but hearing no response.  As a sob grew in her throat, and a flush in her face, she saw a light ahead of her like a light blue orb in midair.  She reached for it and it became two, then five, then countless lights.  She felt something large and blunt strike her back.

When she opened her eyes a few minutes later, she realized that it had been the ground. The clearing around her was now lit by a warm candleglow.  She propped herself up with a moan and looked up at the man holding the candle.  She felt frustrated rage pulsing in her veins so violently, it was almost audible.

John Justjohn transferred his candle to his left hand and pulled a dagger from his belt with his right.

“Don’t try anything, Juniper, and don’t slow me down,” he said quietly, “or so help me – this time, I will kill you.”

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The Break of Day Monday, Oct 6 2008

Emerald awoke to a bright day, birds chirping, a fragrant breeze blowing lightly through her window rustling her golden hair, which was quite full-bodied and shining today.  Naturally, she crept carefully from bed, peeked cautiously out the window for storm clouds or tree branches ready to fall onto the cottage, then scanned the walls for deadly spiders.  Nothing was in sight – could it be that the contrary luck that followed her like a shadow had taken one fine day of vacation?  It must be so, thought Emerald joyfully, as she spied a thin crimson envelope resting on her floor just inside the doorway.

She quickly prised it open and read the text, then held the letter to her heart as she drew in a giddy breath.  A fortnight had passed, and Sir Le Baron had returned to her.

Emerald dressed quickly, fretting briefly over the choice of a lowcut dress in buttercup or a more modest one in bluebell, then opted for a milkwhite day gown with an intricately laced bodice.  “O gown,” she said, threading the silk strands, “Do help me preserve my feminine virtue…while at the same time rendering him little more than a lust driven woodland beast!”

Though the letter filled her with joy, one little fact had given Emerald a rather uneasy feeling.  Tobias (as he signed his letter, how adorable!) had said to meet him at noontime at a guest manor near the castle, where he had been given lodging by the Duke, who had returned from the hunt a few days previous.  If the hunting party had indeed returned, why had Juniper not paid a visit to Goldenseal Cottage immediately, as she was always apt to do?  Though it was possible she was still too embroiled in her relations with the Duke to slip away, Emerald found it highly unlikely.  If Juniper had returned to Lanolin, Emerald would have seen her within the hour.  She resolved to inquire at the castle en route to the appointment with her knight.

As she exited her cottage, Emerald glanced over her shoulder to Juniper’s cottage on the hill, where there were no signs of recent use. She continued on her walk, her uneasy feeling growing into a small pit in her stomach.

When she reached the castle stables, she spied two men in the uniforms of the mounted guard speaking to one another other in hushed voices.  She waited a moment for the conversation to subside, then one more, tapping her foot, then approached them and interrupted.

“Pardon me?” she asked with a polite smile belying her impatience.  The shorter of the two men started when he looked at her, his face turning quite pale.  He backed away, mumbling something to his companion, then hastened from the stable.  What odd behavior, thought Emerald, and why do I get a strange chill to see him react that way?  She recovered herself and looked to the other guard, a tall, rather handsome young man with an unconcerned expression.

“Yes, Miss,” he said.  “How may I be of service?”

“My name is Emerald LaVerte,” she said, by way of introduction. “I’ve a question about…”

“Emerald?!” The young guard said, his face suddenly full of emotion, which changed too quickly back to reserve for Emerald to interpret it. “I apologize, madame.  My name is John and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“John…?”

“Just John, madam.”

“Oh,” said Emerald, a bit confused. Why did that phrase seem so familiar?  And why was she wasting so much time pausing to think during this conversation, when she should be asking the question that was plaguing her? 

“John, I wonder if you were along on the hunt?”

“I was, miss,” he answered with a polite smile.

“Do you happen to know what befell my dear friend Juniper? I don’t believe she has returned…” Her voice trailed off at the expression on the guard’s face, this time undisguised.  He could not or would not meet her eye, picking up a horse’s brush and beginning to groom a chestnut behind him.

“I believe she was taken ill, Miss Emerald,” he stated at last, “and is being cared for at the Convent of Our Lady of Bleeding Hearts.” He met Emerald’s alarmed gaze. “I inquired a few days ago, and she is almost fully recovered, though a fever lingers.”

“Thank you, John,” said Emerald in a shaky voice. “Juniper has a strong constitution and I am confident she will recover soon.”  She nodded to him and continued on her way.  Well, that explains her absence, she thought.  Three minutes down the road, she realized that she suspected this guard was not telling her the whole truth.   Six minutes down the road, she thought how odd it was that a very minor member of the Duke’s guard should have personally inquired as to Juniper’s health.  Her worries evaporated as she neared the great lawn of the guest cottage and spied Tobias holding the reins of two fine horses, his face the picture of nervous excitement.

She approached him, her body aquiver.  She smiled demurely, surreptitiously loosening the laces in the back of her bodice as he bowed to her. 

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L’Ennui de Solitude Monday, Oct 6 2008

After several days, marked by several unsuccessful escape attempts, (her legs not functioning quite as strongly as she expected), Juniper began to focus her energy on ignoring the kind solicitousness constantly buzzing about her.  From matin chimes to vespers, there were nuns all about her, tending to her still persistent fevers and insisting, despite all discouragement, on reading her scripture until she was forced to feign sleep and bear the indignity of hearing them cluck to one another about her infirmity and the “Lord’s graciousness.”

Juniper, as a rule, attended only whatever god happened to be presenting her with a natural disaster, Poseidon still reigning as the most fearsome from her days on the Atlantic, but she surprised herself by saying a prayer of thanks to this milquetoast God of the Christians whenever the bells would ring for hourly prayers. 

“God,” she said quietly. “I thank you humbly for giving me a rest from these wretched nuns for a few moments.  I pray that some sort of calamity causes the archway to the chapel to crumble, trapping them all within. Amen.”

When it became clear that Juniper had not amassed enough absolution points, or whatever they called them, to make this transpire, she came up with an alternate solution.  When Sister Rose entered, her face aglow with the light of piety, or perhaps the communion wine from the pantry, Juniper sat up, a practiced meek smile on her face.

“Dear Sister,” she said, bowing her head penintently. “You have all been so kind to me this fortnight, and I thank God that he sent his angels to my assistance.”  (Sister Rose’s mouth fell open a little, then closed in a tidy smile as she recovered from her shock.) “However, it is becoming quite clear that my recovery is in the hands of a higher power.  I think that I derive rather too much pleasure from the warm company of you sisters!”

Here Sister Louisa and Sister Timpania entered from eavesdropping in the next room and cried “No dear!” “You need the company of the chaste in such a time as this!” “However will you learn godliness without us?”

Juniper swallowed a sudden spurt of bile and continued.

“I fear…it may be my country superstition, but as my fevers have only slightly abated, it seems that God is displeased with our communing. Perhaps,” she sighed, a ready tear rolling down her cheek, “I must undertake to spend some time in the hermitage.”

Sister Rose crossed her arms.

“How do we know, silly little goose, that you won’t try to run off again before you’ve healed?” The three nuns laughed, their heads bobbing without the starched wimples moving.  Juniper gritted her teeth and willed her flush to appear frail rather than enraged.

“I accept that I cannot,” she said quietly. “I must make my peace with God. Surely you would not deny me this?”  The nuns still looked a bit skeptical.  Juniper sighed and continued with a glint in her eye. “For I feel the presence of the dark lord every hour, truly nigh, truly nigh. I have sinned and Satan has me in his sights for his bride, and if he cannot take me…he’ll surely find a fetching alternative here!” She rocked back and forth murmuring to herself.

An hour later, she was alone in the hermitage with a week’s worth of rations and no prospect of visitors.  She sighed happily for a half second before her mind turned to Emerald.  Craquelin was off delivering a missive to the Duke, imploring his help in saving Emerald from whatever dire plot was brewing among his men.  Well, perhaps the tone was more one of ordering than imploring, but it was the best that Juniper could muster, and she prayed (truly prayed!) that he would soon arrive here with a horse to bear her back to Lanolin. Until that time, she would enjoy the quiet immensely.

Three days later, Juniper lay in a sulk, staring up at the ceiling, bored out of her lovely gourd.

“I’ve nothing to do, I’ve nothing to do, I’m no one at all, I’m no one at all,” she sang, then turned over on her side. “Talking aloud to one’s self is a sure sign of dementia. Perhaps I have contracted syphillis despite all my precautions!” She laughed mirthlessly, then began throwing things around the small room, as she had done for the past day.

She went to the window and looked out, pouting.

“I never thought I’d say it,” she sighed. “But I need company!”

Just as she said it, as if sent by the Holy Spirit, Craquelin alighted on the windowsill, a message in her sharp talons.  With a mutual squawk of joy, Juniper lifted the falcon onto her shoulder and prised open the message. It read:

“Miss Juniper, I am afraid the Duke has taken ill.  He asks me to tell you that there is no need to fear, as it is the usual malady, but he shall be ensconced within his room for at least the next week, and thus, unable to aid you in any way.  He wishes you good luck. Signed, Guttaud, Ducal Attache.”

Juniper read it, then read it again, then paused to stare out the window, before crying out.

“BASTARD!!!!!!!!!” The sound rang out all the way down the field into the cloisters, where knowing nuns shivered in fear for Juniper’s soul.

Craquelin fluttered to the other edge of the room, well acquainted with her mistress’s rages.  To both of their surprise, Juniper recovered quickly and began to laugh. 

“Well,” she said to the bird. “Henri certainly picked another fine time to have one of his ‘fits’! There’s only one thing to be done.” Craquelin cocked his head, then flew to her outstretched arm, as if in agreement. Juniper opened the door to a bright, cool day.  “Steal a horse from the Sisters of Mercy.”

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At the Rowdie Inn Tuesday, Sep 23 2008

As Emerald approached the Rowdie Inn, she heard the once familiar sounds of drunken midday revelry and cheerful, unskillfully played music.  She smiled, remembering what fun she’d had there before attending more mannered functions at the castle, but found her steps faltering the nearer she got to the building.  She couldn’t explain it; all within seemed to be lively and bright, yet as she approached, a dark foreboding grew within her, a feeling she knew by now she must not discount.

An old man sat on a bench outside the cracked oaken door stuffing a long whittled pipe, his pack slung alongside him.  He peered up at Emerald and flashed a broken grin before leaning in and intoning, “Speak to Madame Rowdie about what you seek…she is a great woman…”

Well, thought Emerald, it isn’t a bad suggestion.  The widow Rowdie, owner of the inn, was not, by reputation, overly friendly, polite or helpful, but this mysterious old man seemed to have some sort of otherworldly knowledge.  Emerald smiled at him.  He scowled and coughed a cloud of green smoke.

Emerald pried open the heavy door and stumbled into the hazy, crowded hall.  Stepping daintily around leering drunk men, slack jawed pages and serving women with heavy laden trays, she realized part of the reason for her dread.  She had never been to this establishment without Juniper by her side!  Without Juniper and her everyready dagger, it all seemed so tawdry and dangerous.  What on earth was a knight of the king’s service doing in a place like this?

Through the crowd, Emerald spied the sharp chinned mistress of the inn, Madame Rowdie, surveying the crowd with a perpetual grimace.  She smiled with relief, picked up her skirts and made her way over. 

“Madame Rowdie,” said Emerald, with a demure curtsey. “I am in search of a man who is lodging here.  I do hope you can help -”

Madame Rowdie spat on the ground beside Emerald’s silk slippered foot. 

“Don’t give nothin’ for nothin’,” the innkeeper growled. “Not even to a ‘fine lady’ like yourself. You wanna find yourself a man for the night, I suggest you go the stables.”  She turned to a busty red faced girl holding an enormous tray of beers. “EVIE! You slip and you’re back upstairs workin’ on your back, savvy?”

Emerald blushed brightly, swallowed hard and forced herself to go on.

“Ah, no, Madame, I understand there is a Tobias Le Baron lodging here, and I wish to return something that belongs to him…”

“Eight crowns.”  The innkeeper scratched inside her elaborately piled hair, then reached her hand out to Emerald.  “And no less. You want information, you pay.”

“Pardon me?” Emerald’s eyes widened.  This woman was entirely disreputable! What was that old man thinking? In a flash, she remembered him from another day – suggesting she speak to Sir Peter Prique, “a great man.”  The old fool was insane! Emerald drew in as much breath as she could fit into her corset and raised her chin.

“I mean only to return something to one of your guests.  I will find Sir Le Baron, and when I do, I am sure Sir Le Baron will not be pleased to learn -” A great crash sounded from the stairway, a number of people, including poor Evie, stumbling onto the sodden ground.  Amidst the mass of bodies, a handsome man stood up and doffed his cap, revealing a head remarkably free of hair.

“Sir Le Baron?” he asked, his eyes locked on Emerald.  She felt her face flush again and her breath falter – but differently now.

“Yes?” she said in a small voice, as the pub quieted.

“I am Tobias Le Baron,” he said, bowing.  He rose with a smile and looked around the room, slight disgust registering on his face.  “Care for a walk?”

They exited the dank inn into a bright and clear day.  Sir Le Baron paused briefly at the doorway and shouted out a sarcastically jovial “FareWELL!” to the crowd.

Emerald turned to the bench, an indignant remark ready for her wayward advisor, but the mysterious man had disappeared, mysteriously, though a green cloud of smoke remained.  How very…mysterious, thought Emerald.

“I take it you know this area better than I, Miss..?” said Sir Le Baron.

“La Verte.  Emerald La Verte, of Goldenseal Cottage,” she replied, suddenly quite grateful at the prospect of a civilized conversation.

“What a lovely name…” The knight peered at her as if remembering something, then cleared his throat. “Now – what is it you wish to give me?”

Emerald flushed, her mind blank for a moment as their eyes locked. 

“Oh!” she cried, her hand fumbling in her cloak pocket for the crimson envelope.  “A letter – it blew from the main road onto my little greensward. I fear it has not reached its intended destination.”

Taking the letter from her, the knight’s face grew serious.  He recovered himself and hastily tucked the letter away.  He smiled at Emerald.

“What a conscientious young lady you are, and how astute!  You were able to tell my name from the symbols on the seal! Remarkable…”

Emerald opened her mouth to explain, then quickly closed it and smiled demurely.

“Twas nothing, Sir Le Baron…” she said, peering at him furtively. 

“Please, Miss La Verte – do call me Tobias, if it’s not too forward.” He looked cautiously at her, and continued as she nodded. “Would you do me a kind favor, if you have the afternoon free?  Show me the town of Lanolin?  I have not been here for many years, and I should like to see it as you do.”

Emerald felt glee well up in her.  She stifled a grin, and nodded politely.  What was this feeling?  Surely she was just happy for the opportunity for information – an answer to the riddle of the letter.  But there was something else as well. Somehow she felt a pull towards this man, this strange rugged man, from far away. 

She tried her best to banish these thoughts and continue to converse politely as they walked, but their glances at each other grew longer and longer as the day wore on, until she felt she could not bear the weight of them any longer without some resolution.

Tobias was from the King’s City, over two days’ ride away.  He was only here on some clandestine errand, yet here he was, enjoying the day with her.  Their talk flowed freely as they approached a meadow in which sheep were grazing.

“This is one thing I cannot understand about the countryside,” Tobias laughed. “The vast amounts of food in supply here! Surely it is not necessary, for example, for that one sheep to eat quite so much grass. It’s revolting really.”  He pointed to a lean looking ewe, munching a clump of clover. “And the food, even in the fine establishments in Lanolin, so very…rich! And creamy! It turns the stomach.”

Emerald felt her smile fading.  Perhaps he was not quite so fond as she’d been hoping.

“Well,” she said, quickening her pace. “I did not know that the King’s City found us ‘country folk’ so gluttonous.  I shall certainly have to watch my figure if I am ever invited to court!” 

Tobias ran to catch up, his face confused.

“Miss La Verte! I am terribly sorry if I have offended you! I assure you, you need not watch your figure – I have been watching it myself and it is quite fine.” He flushed and gulped. “I mean to say, you are quite lovely and I am sure do not eat as much as an animal would.”

Emerald could not help but giggle at his efforts.  She slowed her pace and took his arm when it was offered.

As they approached Emerald’s cottage, the late afternoon sun bathing the scene in a golden glow, Tobias stopped and looked fervently at Emerald.

“I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed this day, Miss La Verte,” he said.  “Tomorrow I must return to the King’s City, where many duties await me.  But I shall endeavor to return in no less than a fortnight.  Indeed – every fortnight, if I may!” He pressed her hand to his lips, then, with great effort, released it, bowed and walked away.

Emerald watched him go.  What a fine gentleman, and what a fine day!  She hummed to herself, her steps light as she walked up the path to her cottage. 

A sudden feeling of dread stopped her hand on the door.  She turned and looked into the nearby copse, but spied nothing amiss.  She could have sworn, though…out of the corner of her eye, she’d thought she’d seen a short man, wearing the symbol of the Duke’s guard.  It couldn’t be, she thought, they’re all away on the hunt. 

She shrugged to herself and let herself into the cottage, leaning back against her door with a bright sigh.  It wasn’t until she’d eaten, bathed, read a bit and was readying herself for bed that she realized she hadn’t found out a thing about the mysterious letter!  Somehow now, though, it didn’t seem quite so important.  Whatever it pertained to, she was sure it would be resolved, and anyway, it had little bearing on her! It seemed that, at last, nothing could shake her hopefulness.

Poor Emerald was wrong again.

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Mal de Chasse Thursday, Sep 18 2008

Mid-afternoon, four days into the hunt, the men set off from the tent camp cheerfully, the wind lifting their capes as they galloped away.  The Duke halted only briefly, rearing his horse back to nod sternly at Juniper, who stood beside her tent with her arms crossed and eyes blazing.  His message was clear : do not follow.  She bowed with grand sarcasm and watched him go, then kicked a clump of dirt and stalked into her tent.

“The indignity!” she cried to her peregrine, Craquelin, who cocked his head in apparent sympathy.  “To be punished for my prowess! I can’t very help the fact that they’re totally inept hunters, can I?”  Craquelin picked up his leather hood and began to gnaw on it. 

“Exactly,” said Juniper, scooping the falcon up and setting him on her hand as she swept outside to examine her tent.  While outside the rest of the camp’s lodgings, one or two banners flew, displaying animals such as hares, foxes or badgers, Juniper’s tent was a mess of colors and fabric.  She had captured every heraldic animal in the first three days of the hunt, a feat normally endeavored without success over a fortnight.  Apparently this did not sit well with the men, especially after Bors de Gavin had run screaming from the black bear that Juniper easily picked off mere moments later.

Yes, Juniper conceded, perhaps she could have done without riding through the hunting party laughing and waving the three final flags in the stunned faces of some of the most important noblemen of the kingdom.  But to be told to stay in her tent all day like some naughty child, (and by a man she brought to the point of begging nearly nightly!) Well, it was not to be borne.

Juniper decisively threw a deep brown cloak about her, pulling the hood close around her face. 

“Today, I’ll wear the hood,” she said to Craquelin, replacing him on her shoulder, “and you can go without for a change.”  She quickly wrapped up some bread and cheese, mounted her grateful horse and set off for directions unknown.  She was out of sight of camp when she realized she’d neglected to bring a weapon of any kind.

“It’s all right,” she said to herself. “I wasn’t planning on hunting anyway. I just hope I don’t meet with any unsavories.”  As if suddenly not sure of it, she glanced over her shoulder into the dark of the woods.

After an hour, she came upon traces of the path the hunting party had taken.  She raised her head angrily and wheeled her horse in the opposite direction, determined not to meet with any of them.  If she strayed too far from camp and needed to find alternate lodging, so much the better. That would certainly send a potent message to the haughty Duke. 

She rode for hours, letting Craquelin fly occassionally and slowing to admire some startlingly lovely natural features, hidden grottos and forgotten shrines.  When her stomach began to complain, she stopped at an abandoned anchorage beside a lively stream.  She laid her cloak and sackcloth on the ground and sat to enjoy her repast, setting Craquelin down beside her to pick as he would at the bread.  She smiled, enjoying the sun warming her bare arms, and closed her eyes, listening to the calming sound of running water and wind rustling the leaves.

Juniper tensed and opened her eyes.  Intruding into the natural music was the sound of low voices and metal clinking.  Was she imagining it? No; the horse stood cautiously listening and the feathers on Craquelin’s wings were splayed in defensiveness.

Juniper motioned quiet to the horse, picked up the peregrine and stepped barefoot silently towards the back of the building, from whence the voices seemed to be emanating. She saw two figures, partly concealed in the shadows of the trees, but both clearly wearing the vestments of the Duke’s guard.  Juniper sighed with relief that they were not thieves. Still, what were they doing so far from the hunt?  She pressed herself closer to the wall and strained to hear their conversation.

“…the girl I need.  She is worth any price to my employer,” said the taller of the two, in a strangely patrician voice.

“I need some guarantee,” said the other in a peasant slur. “…never hurt…when you take her.”

Juniper leaned in closer to better hear.  Take her? Who?  The taller man removed a ring from his finger and gave it to the other.

“This is your proof,” he said.  “Show it to LeBaron. You’ll be further compensated.”

The smaller man laughed in a gravelley tone and pocketed the ring.  Juniper quickly took the ring from her own finger and allowed Craquelin to bite it once, then took it back and nodded to the falcon to fly away.  When she looked up, the tall man was backing away and his companion bowing to him.

“I’ll do whatcha say, sir,” said the smaller guard as he mounted his horse. “But I don’t see why anybody’d want to hurt Miss LaVerte!”

Juniper felt the blood rush from her heart. Not Emerald! What were they plotting!?  She staggered involuntarily from the building into the woods.  From here she could see more clearly the short guard riding away in the distance and the taller one unhitching his own horse, his face suddenly illuminated by a ray of sun.  It was the same guard she had encountered that night outside Peter Prique’s house!  His eyes raised from the bridle and met hers, shock registering darkly.

Without a moment’s pause she ran around the house to where her horse was grazing, stumbled and picked herself up again.  She knelt to gather her cloak and rose to find the guard at her back and his knife at her throat.  He smiled sarcastically, his eyes fixed on her intensely.

Her hand wandered to her thigh, but found no dagger there.  The man came around behind her and put his hand around her throat, removing the blade to his belt.

“Not armed today, are you, Juniper?” he murmured. “I must assume if you were, I’d be at somewhat more of a disadvantage.”  Juniper felt her face flush.  She glared ahead as his hand tightened and he walked her backwards towards the anchorage.

“As you mysteriously know my name, may I at least have the satisfaction of knowing yours?” she asked through a clenched jaw.  He laughed behind her.

“So polite! You must really be afraid, my dear.” She squirmed angrily, but he pulled her further back and tightened his hold.  “Don’t worry, I don’t aim to kill you.  But if you heard everything that was just said – well, I can’t have you following behind me, can I?”

“Perhaps you should kill me!” cried Juniper, her face flushing with rage. “For if you harm one hair on Emerald’s head, I will come after you with such vengeance as you’ve never seen.”

“I’m sure you will,” said the guard, dragging her into the dank, pitchblack anchorage.  “But not for several days.”  He wheeled her about and kicked the door shut, shutting out all light.  Juniper felt his mouth near her forehead.  “My name is Justjohn,” he whispered, and kissed her brow.

“That’s a bastard’s name,” said Juniper. 

She felt his hand at her throat, just below her chin.

“Good night,” he said.

Juniper opened her eyes to a bright noon sun streaming through arched open windows.  She lay in a clinic wing under crisp sheets, three young nuns peering at her, fascinated.  She swallowed and winced in pain.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice barely creaking out.  A pretty pale faced nun leaned in and patted her back down onto her pillow.

“Don’t trouble yourself! You’ve got a bad cold, but you’ve passed through your fever.”  One of the others nodded aggressively.

“Praise be to God that Sister Lucinda wandered to that old hermitage yesterday, or you mightn’t have been found in time!” said the third nun, as if she couldn’t contain herself. “Set upon by robbers, I take it! And bound up like that! Horrible thing, horrible.”  All three nodded, their heads bowed devoutly.  Juniper sat up, groggy.

“I have to go…I have to find…” she mumbled.

“No, no, no,” the nuns cried. “A few days more rest, at the very least.” 

Juniper’s head pounded, and she grudgingly reclined back onto the bed.  The pretty nun’s face perked up and she walked into the hall, returning with Craquelin on a stick.

“Your friend returned to you, I see!” she laughed. “I could tell by the anklet which matched your horse’s bridle markings.” She seemed greatly impressed with her detective work.  Juniper smiled weakly. 

“One other thing,” said the nun. “He was carrying this.”  She reached into her pocket and drew out a ring, handing it to Juniper.

Juniper examined it.  A heraldic ring – a falcon and a unicorn.  Only royals bore a unicorn on their crest.  Why was that peasant bastard carrying this? 

“Good work, Craquelin,” she said before her throat swelled and her eyes shut by themselves again, leading her into a fitful slumber. 

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