On the third day after setting out from Port Cient,
“Land ho!” cried Thome, lookout on the foremast above.
“Mizon dead ahead.”
“Steady as she goes,” said Chevell.
“Aye, aye, My Lord Captain,” replied Gervaise, the helmsman.
A candlemark later, Chevell debarked from a swift gig and sprang into the saddle of a waiting horse. In haste he rode to the palace, but e’en ere seeing King Avelar, he stepped to the stable where the king’s messengers stood by. “Quint!” he called, and a lithe lad sprang down from the loft, his pants unbuttoned and his shirttail out, and there came a giggle from above.
“My lord?” he said, grinning, while stuffing in his shirt and buttoning his breeks and buckling his belt.
Chevell handed the lad a letter. “Quint, grab a remount and take your fleetest steed. Be as swift in delivering this as you are with the ladies.”
“Where be I going, my lord?”
“To Springwood Manor. Know you the way?”
“Oui, my lord. ’Tis where Giselle lives.”
“Ha! My boy, have you a doxy in every port?”
“Well, my lord, I would not call them doxies, but, oui, I know many a femme. ” Quint grinned. “Such is the life of a king’s messenger that he spends much time in households away.”
“Then be on your way, lad.” Chevell handed the youth a golden coin. “Take care, and see this gets into the hands of the steward himself, or if not him, then give it over to the armsmaster.”
“Someone in charge, my lord,” said Quint, leading a saddled and provisioned horse out from its stall, and then another to tether to that mount.
Moments later, away galloped the lad, Chevell watching him go.
Then the vicomte turned, and he made his way across the yard toward the palace, for there was much to tell the king.
19
Forest
Beyond Port Cient the land rose up from the sea to become rolling hills, with scatters of thickets and groves amid ground cleared and filled with vineyards and fields of grain and cultivated rows of vegetables, as well as orchards and nut groves. Farmhouses dotted the land, some attached to byres, others not, and an occasional manor graced a hillside. Pastures with herds of grazing cattle and flocks of sheep gathered ’round these dwellings, and gaggles of geese hissed at the pair of sunwise-faring riders, but only if they ventured too near.
The air smelled of turned earth and new-mown hay and the tang of fruit ripening, and of the dung of cow and sheep and horse, and of barnyard and henhouse and sty, and of sawed and chopped timber and woodsmoke from hearth fires. Traces and pathways and lanes and farm roads crisscrossed the region, and Celeste and Roel followed a well-travelled way as it wended among the hills and passed nigh many a dwelling. Field workers or drovers or farmwives and children would pause in their daily chores to watch these two strangers riding by.
“Where be ye bound?” some would call, and Roel would point ahead and answer, “Yon.”
“Well, don’t go too far-the forest be that way,” said a straw-hatted man ambling along the lane in the same direction Celeste and Roel fared, the man leading yoked oxen pulling a wain filled with large, pale yellow root vegetables-parsnips, most likely, their sweet fragrance redolent on the air.
“The forest?” asked Roel.
“Oui. It be a terrible place.”
“Terrible in what way?”
“Strange goings-on and mystifications, that’s what.”
“How far?” asked Celeste.
“Two days by horse, or mayhap three, all told,” he replied, raising his voice to be heard above the grind of bronze-rimmed wheels now running over a rough patch of road. “They say it lies beyond the pass through the mountains, and that’s just a day away.”
“They say?” asked Celeste.
“Oui, them what should know, for I wouldn’t be fool enough to go there myself.”
Celeste glanced at Roel, and as he began to grin, she gave a faint shake of her head, and so he put on a sober mien and said, “Merci, mon ami.”
“Eh,” said the man, with a gesture of dismissal, as he continued his unhurried walk and led his oxen onward, the wagon trundling in tow.
Celeste and Roel rode beyond, leaving the man in their wake.
By midday the pair had ridden well past the farming region, and the land had continued to rise.
When the noontide came, they stopped in a willow grove nigh a stream for a meal and to feed and water the horses. As soon as the animals had been taken care of, Celeste sat down among the tall, waving grass along the bank, the seed-bearing heads nodding in the faint breeze. Roel handed her a torn-off hunk of bread and a wedge of cheese and plopped down beside her. Celeste took a bite of each and peered at her map. “Hmm. .,” she said, chewing and then swallowing. “Roel, look at ONCE UPON A SPRING MORN / 159
this.” She tapped a spot on the chart. “This place might be two or three days hence.”
Roel leaned over and looked. “A twilight bound, eh?
Ah, I see, this is the one marked EF. ”
“Oui,” said Celeste. “And if what that crofter said is true, then EF might mean ‘enchanted forest.’ ”
“Are there such things?”
Celeste smiled. “This is Faery, my love.” She took another bite of cheese.
“Ah, yes,” replied Roel, then frowned. “But, say, aren’t all things in Faery enchanted, be it a forest or field or stream or whatever else might be?” Celeste nodded. “Oui, yet some things are more charmed than others. And when something is particularly Faery-struck, then it is said to be truly magical. Hence, the EF on this map might indicate just such a place.” Around a mouthful of bread Roel asked, “And what might be in an enchanted forest?”
Celeste shrugged. “Wonderful folk. Terrible beasts.
Magical pools. Dreadful pits. Who knows?” Roel swallowed his bread and said, “Who knows?” He took a sip of water and then added, “Well, I suppose we will, once we reach it. -And by the bye, using your definition, I would call the Springwood an enchanted forest. It has wondrous folk, and it is ever springtime therein. Besides, it has a beautiful princess who rules that demesne.”
Celeste laughed and leaned over and kissed Roel.
“Mmm. . cheese,” said Roel, licking his lips. “I love cheese.”
Celeste giggled and pushed a crust of bread toward his mouth. “Here. Make your meal complete.”
“I’d rather have another taste of cheese, if you don’t mind.” And he embraced her and they kissed again, and two hearts began to race.
“Love,” said Roel, his voice husky with desire, “this grass is as soft as a bed.”
“Yes, it is,” she replied, her own voice laden with want.
Unclothed, they made reckless love amid the tall blades and stems and heads, flattening all in a wide and nearly circular swath. Breathless at last, lay they on their backs side by side. A sheen of sweat drenched Roel, beads running down in streamlets. A glow of perspiration covered Celeste, runnels pooling between her breasts and within the hollow of her navel. For long moments the lovers looked up through the limbs of swaying willows at swatches of blue sky above, and listened to the shush of the soft breeze whispering among the leaves and the murmur of the stream as it wended its way toward a distant sea. Finally, Celeste sprang to her feet and pulled Roel to his, and laughing, she jumped into the clear-running flow, and waist-deep, she splashed water upon her knight. “Oho!” cried Roel, and he leapt in after the princess.
Dressed once more and riding onward, Roel said,
“Speaking of enchanted forests, I believe that willow grove arear now qualifies, for certainly you enspelled me. ’Tis a wondrous glamour you have.” Celeste said nought in return, though the contented smile on her face perhaps conveyed more than words.