Gifts of the Queen

  The circle was clear today, the stones old and leaning together in the sun. Taking Hue by the hand, I passed inside. It was damp and cool within the shelter of those stones, and I walked from one to one until I had made the complete round, feeling their rough texture with my hand, noting the moss and lichen on the northern side, running my fingers as a mason would, over the marks where men had hammered them into shape and set them up, in this place where never man nor beast now entered in. You will not come up here again, she had said, but there was nothing to fear here, only old stones sunning themselves. I sat down and leaned back, and felt the warmth against my skin. A lark was singing somewhere, so far-off it was lost in the pale sky. I think I closed my eyes; I think, perhaps, I slept. And when I opened them, Hue was looking at me with a puzzled frown. He tried to tell me what he saw, shivering a little in the sun; I think he tried to say the word for man. And I sensed a presence there. I took him, and went to the circle's edge.

  A score of paces down the hill, the guard were lazing along, laughing among themselves while Robert tried to jump a gorse bush. I could hear them whistling as they rode. I beckoned to Robert to come close, and when he did, put Hue before him on the saddle of the little horse, clasping the older brother's hands about the younger's waist. They rode together, laughing down the hill toward the men. I turned and looked across the open moors, eastward.

  Far away, a horse and rider were coming over the purple hills, slowly at first, then, as I watched, moving effortlessly into a gallop. It was a knight, in mail coat and armed, his shield slung on his back and his sword hilt ready to hand. In one day I had lost all I loved and never thought to have it given back to me. Why did my heart beat so fast, why did the sky swim above my head, why did I feel the sun and yet be cold? The man looked up. I could not see his eyes, blue-gray like the sea, or his mocking smile, or the faint white scar across the high cheekbone, and the horse he rode was brown, not black, but the hair was silver-gold and blew in the wind. And I ran down the hill to him.

  EPILOGUE

  So that was how the Earl of Sedgemont, Count Raoul of Sieux, came back to Cambray, begged to return by a king, peace made between them at last, faith kept by him who to all others was not a faithful man. Returned, the husband of the fair Ann, longed for by his lady wife. Down the hill she ran, they say, her skirts gathered up as a girl, her hair breaking free of its braids; they found her shoes kicked under the bracken fronds. He slowed to watch her come, and when she was by his side, they say, he leaned to push her long hair back.

  'So, ma mie,' he said, 'I am here. Will you take me in? I swear never to leave you again; will you forgive me if I so swear? But I must have all of you, great heart, I cannot share the smallest part.'

  They say she never answered, but smiled at him.

  'Jesu,' he said, 'and so my wedded wife runs to greet me in her bare feet. See how you have cut them on the thorns. Well, then, Ann of Cambray, shall I come home and have you keep me safe? Here then I make my peace with God and you.' He leaned down and swept her before him on his horse, put his arms about her, rode down to Cambray, and entered in its gates. They say he left the great world behind, exchanged it for our small and simple one, found happiness at last, content forever and a day. So it is told, although happiness is as each man must find, and forever is too long for mortal men.

  Thus then the story of their lives and loves, their joys, their griefs. Honor had they known and loyalty, treachery and dark revenge. Should not, free of them, they live out their lives, and should not they be happy in Cambray, that border castle that had cost them so much pain?

  I, Urien the Scribe, write this, that it should be known. Praise God for life, praise God for the child of his homecoming, yet to be born, a blessing on her and on our Celtic race. But since it is given to no man to see ahead, nor should anyone seek God's place to judge the future what shall be done, not done, let it be enough to wish this: that as they hoped to live and prosper so may all men.

  Ora pro nobis.