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Mennah blinked a moment as she listened to Alanna exclaim their betrothal. She was exceedingly happy for them, but it took a bit of the wind from her sails for her own announcement. It was quite the coincidence they’d become engaged on the same day.

“That’s wonderful Alanna! You two will make a wonderful married couple. That was actually why I called you. It might seem a bit less exciting now that you’ve a wedding of your own to plan, but Armand and I have announced our intentions, and plan to wed within a month. I wanted to invite you and your families to the wedding.” Mennah said cheerfully.


Juliana looked up at Lionel with trusting eyes that expressed her gratefulness. It was like he’d been sent from god to save them. She was so enthralled with him, she didn’t even notice his hands on her shoulders. She smiled up at him in agreement and nodded as se fought to keep the tears of happiness away.

“What ever you feel is best Milord.” Juliana replied.

Lancelot’s jaw dropped and he made a noise of pleasant surprise. “Mennah, you are to be married as well! How grand!” As he smiled broadly, he tugged Alanna even snugger to his side. “Alanna, can you believe it? Well, I suppose we shouldn’t be too surprised—after all, we met each other around the same time that Mennah met Armand. It is only natural that we should be engaged at the same time as well!”

But, while Mennah felt a slight deflation because of the coincidence, Lancelot also felt a certain twinge of envy. “But—a month, you say? You will be married in one month’s time?” His smile lost a bit of its ease. How fortunate were Mennah and Armand that they could consummate their union in such a short time after the engagement—and all because Armand was already a knight, and a respected knight of the Round Table at that—and he also owned a large estate where they would live, and a fine income to support Mennah. Lancelot only a year younger than Armand, but he was still but a squire, and had no income to speak of. He was in no state at all to support a wife and child. Mennah was incorrect if she assumed that they would be planning their wedding as soon as she was with Armand.

And then there was another matter of concern. He turned to Alanna. “Surely it will take no less than a month to reach Rozeshire from Greensbury. We will have to cut our time here short if we wish to arrive to the wedding on time.”

For a moment he frowned in concern, but then he turned his face back to the orb and lifted his brows in assurance. “Worry not, Mennah. We will try our dearest to attend your wedding. Thank you so very much for the invitation. I’m sure you will be most blithe once you are married to Sir Armand. I can’t recall a more gallant knight! How I would love to see both him and you once again in person. We shall have much to discuss!”

He grinned once more, and then he remembered the presence of Adaline, who looked slightly uncomfortable with the use of magic. “Mennah, I hate to halt our conversation so soon, but alas, if Alanna and I hope to be in Rozeshire in a month, we must leave Greensbury in short time. We will be sure to speak again with you. Goodbye, Mennah. Send Armand word of our congratulations!” And with those parting words, Lancelot slipped the orb back into the pouch and tied it to his belt. He gave Alanna a squeeze, and then turned back to Adaline, and his smile turned slightly apologetic.

“Well—this is an exciting time indeed. How I wish we could stay longer, dear Lady Adaline. Mennah did say that our families were invited. But I don’t imagine you would be keen on travelling all the way to Rozeshire, especially if you are needed here in Greensbury. If only we had the powers of the fey and could travel great miles in a single instant! Why must Greensbury be so far from Rozeshire?” He groaned mildly and kissed Alanna’s forehead.

Alanna beamed as Lancelot pulled her closer, and emit a similar sound of pleasure at the news that Mennah and Armand were to be married. Of course, also similar to Lancelot, she felt a twinge of jealousy...for she knew it might be a while yet until Lancelot was willing to make her his bride. Not because he lacked love for her, nay, but because he did not wish to struggled as a wedded couple. She knew that, ironically enough, it was his desire to be a providing husband that held him back from becoming one at all. He did not seem to find their current lifestyle transferable to that of a married couple, and so she would wait patiently until he felt he was prepared to take up vows. But Mennah, it seemed, would not have to wait for an indefinable period. Still, Alanna was merely satisfied that an agreement had been made, and also that her friends had found happiness for themselves. But another displeasing fact was brought up...if they were to arrive at a wedding in Rozeshire in a month, they would have to leave soon...perhaps even that day! After only a few scant days to make up for years lost...

So soon! Alanna thought unhappily, while still managing to keep her smile in place. She glanced over at Adaline, and could see a similar expression shining gloomily back at her. But Mennah and Armand were dear friends, and she could not dismiss an invitation to their union (particularly since it was not merely her own position that she would be enforcing) simply for a few more days of visiting. She had made an initial return, she could always come back.

So she smiled cheerfully into the crystal and bade farewell to the halfling lady, and kept her arms around her lord as she met Adaline's disappointed gaze. Lancelot spoke truthfully about Adaline being needed in Greensbury...and beyond that, it seemed unlikely that Adaline would be at all interested in straying from her lifetime nest. She had never yet ventured far beyond Greensbury's borders...and the very idea caused the young Lady's spine to quiver with nerves.

"It is indeed regrettable!" Adaline agreed sadly, clasping her hands before her. With her delicate brow furrowed with some unidentified stress, she suddenly seized a hand from each of the young lovers before her and added imploringly, "Oh, but you must strike an oath that you shall return someday! Won't you, please?"

Alanna laughed and pulled her younger sister into a gentle hug. "Sweet Adaline, of course we shall! As soon as we are able, we shall call on you...is it not so, darling?" She asked gingerly of Lancelot, shooting him an almost pleading glance as she comforted Adaline.

"Oh, but Alanna...what of your dowry? Sir Lancelot, did you wish for it now, or did you wish to wait until the wedding?" Adaline suddenly lifted her head from Alanna's shoulder and dabbed at her eyes, looking between the two recently betrothed inquisitively.

"My..? Ah...Adaline..." Alanna protested weakly, searching for some delicate way to refuse. She had left home, and her name, and her gender...and her birthright. This had been discussed and agreed upon (at least on Alanna's side), and the matter of a dowry politely refused (again, on Alanna's side) in the hopes that both sisters' dowries might earn Adaline a suitable Lord. But Adaline shook her head firmly, determined.

"Alanna, Mother and Father would have been heart-broken if they learned that you refused any gifts for your intended! Won't you at least accept something? Please, Sir Lancelot, it would mean ever so much to my family! I believe Master Nathan even has something picked out for you, if you will have it."

Alanna shot Lancelot another look, this time embarrassed. Aside from the fact that she wished to leave everything for her sister...she doubted that there was anything within her family's possession that would either interest or truly aid Lancelot. And certainly nothing that would impress him, after having been within the magical vault at Vivienne's villa...

--------

"My Lord?"

Armand woke with a start, the papers he had been attempting to trudge his way through flying off of his eyes (where they had been lain much like a mask from the sun pouring in through the window) and fluttering to the ground in a somewhat embarrassing testament to his inability to focus on the finer details necessary to wedding. So much paperwork, so many contracts, all so that he could be joined to his lady! And ironically enough, all of the paper work and contracts had required that he return to Getonsburg to arrange the union...which meant time away from his beloved. How frustrating! But he cleared his throat, rubbing the brief sleep from his eyes and looking to the flustered steward expectantly.

"Ah...forgive me for interrupting your...studying, My Lord...but there is a young lady here with a most urgent matter...to see you." The steward bowed briefly and nervously exited the room. Armand arched one thick brow and rose, stretching until his back popped a few times as he wondered what could possibly be so urgent. And why was a woman seeking him out at all? True, he was the new Lord of Getonsburg...but were there not others whose positions it was to handle singular matters? Years ago, he would have thrilled at a needy woman coming to him for aid...hoping for a specific sort of need to fulfill, of course. But now, it really was a bit of a nuisance. Still, he had sworn oaths and made vows, and he would not turn away a woman in need just so that he could go on struggling to read wedding papers.

By the end of the long walk from his study to the counsel chamber, Armand was fully awake and ready to handle the matter. It was likely case of a slothful husband, or a missing sister, or even a squabble about an arrangement for sharing milk curds with another woman. Whatever the case, at least he was being allowed a break from the incessant studying of pompous writings.

Within the spacious chamber, there stood waiting a lovely young creature. Her hair was a deep and rich black, and tied into a single thick braid that went halfway down her back, and her eyes the shade of honey-glazed blueberries. Her skin was exceedingly soft in appearance, and with a tone that could only be described as ivory cream, even by a man as un-poetic as the mute Lord of Getonsburg. She was pleasantly curved, but dressed as plain as a milk maid. Indeed, if Armand's heart were not won by the halfling lady of Rozeshire, he would have been quite easily taken by the woman who was waiting for his attention as though she had demanded it years ago. But he was won over by another lady, and quite completely so, so he merely nodded respectfully (and silently as always) to the woman as he would any other (save Mennah herself). It was when he raised his head that he noticed the woman was not alone in the room: in her arms, and pressed to her ample-enough chest, was a small bundle with a tuft of dark hair to match her own sticking out from the very top of it.

Preventing his eyes from being distracted by the child, Armand instead looked to the visitor in his inviting manner, saved for when he needed to instruct visitors to speak without speaking first. The beautiful woman took a step forward, shifting her grip on the bundle so that a young child, no more than a year or two in age and looking very sleepy indeed, was revealed. Armand arched one brow, not seeing what exactly the matter was. The baby looked perfectly healthy, taking from its mother the ivory skin, the lovely eyes, and the fetching hair...it also looked to old to be just then needing a name...and he certainly wasn't the sort to dole out blessings. But at last, after an awkward moment of silence that was typical in Armand's meetings, the woman spoke.

"Lord Armand of Getonsburg, I wish for you to make the acquaintance of your son, Liam."

Suddenly, Armand found himself wishing for the paper work.

Lancelot’s heart warmed as Adaline took hold of his and Alanna’s hands. Then she asked them to promise to return one day. He had no qualms about doing so, but he paused and allowed Alanna to answer first. He had been content watching the two sisters hug, that he had not realized that he had yet to affirm his oath, until Alanna reminded him with her words and near-pleading look.

“Oh, yes! You have my word, Lady Adaline, that Alanna and I will return to Greensbury, once I am knighted, and once my duty permits it. I have become quite enamoured by the lands of the north, and if I am to choose where I may roam and quest, it will very well be this region. I should even wish to live here, Lady Adaline, if I were to choose a permanent home for myself and Alanna.” His face warmed at the thought of cohabiting with Alanna, and again he envied Sir Armand of Getonsburg for his ability to make Mennah his bride in such short time.

But what was this? Lancelot’s ears perked—a dowry? For him? Alanna seemed unenthusiastic about the tradition. Lancelot was about to politely refuse, and claim that a dowry was unnecessary. But he had a sudden change of heart when Adaline persisted, and claimed that it would be an honor to her family for him to accept... and that it was in Master Nathan’s possession. Lancelot was suddenly filled with curiosity—whatever could this family treasure be, that Alanna’s parents would be so insistent was given to the betrothed of their eldest daughter? He was also interested to be presented the dowry by Master Nathan. This may be the confirmation of approval that he so desired from the stern steward.

He gave the embarrassed Alanna a sympathetic look, and then spoke brightly to Adaline: “I will gladly accept Alanna’s dowry, in order to honor your family. In fact, I would even be willing to accept it before we leave... if it be convenient to travel with.” He recalled hearing that Queen Guinevere’s dowry to King Arthur had been none other than the illustrious Round Table, seated with one hundred knights. While he didn’t expect such a large piece of furniture from the House of Greensbury, he was still clueless as to what it might be.

After the matter with the dowry was spoken about, Lancelot inhaled deeply of the pleasant orchard air, and then offered both his arms to the sisters. “I suppose we should return to the manor, and find the rest of our party, and alert them to Mennah’s news.” He proceeded to walk on with Alanna and Adaline, in the direction of Greensbury's most prized manor.

Lionel stared a moment at Juliana, who appeared to be responding to his vows of service with passionate appreciation and trust and even an enthralled joy...her brown eyes were even glistening with unshed tears of rejoice. Had he really conjured such a marvellous reaction from this beauteous lady, as if he was some heavenly being? It seemed too good to be true. Was it possible that she admired him as much as he admired her?

She said only one sentence to him, and he felt engrossed and enraptured by Lady Juliana of Oakford, as if she had waxed poetic for hours. “Lady,” he sighed unguardedly, sounding lovestruck. But with shame he caught himself, and refrained from giving away any more hints of his infatuation.

“We must tell ze others that we must embark for Camelot, and see to it that the dastardly Lord Harold is put in his place,” Lionel insisted. “We won’t yet rouse your sister, but come with me, Lady Juliana, if you will, and we will find my brother and cousin first.”

He took Juliana’s arm and led her through the manor until he came upon Bors and Kantus. He didn’t care what they were in the middle of doing—Juliana’s plight was most important. “Come! We must leave for Camelot! Where is Lance? In ze orchard? Come help me find him, Bors, Kantus.”

Expecting them to tow behind him, Lionel left the manor and set out for the orchard. He would have preferred to take a leisurely stroll of the tree-lined rows with Lady Juliana, but there was no time. He had also lost time to do what he had set out to do that morning—fixing the gate he had broken, and taking Juliana shopping for whatever she wanted. But all of that was out of his mind when he finally came upon Lancelot, walking with Alanna and Adaline.

“Ah! Coz!” he bowed quickly to the ladies to acknowledge them. But it was to Lancelot whom he spoke. “I had just concluded a discussion with Lady Juliana, and she has told me the extent of Lord Harold’s vileness. I believe we should leave for Camelot straight-away, in order to alert King Arthur to the wrongs Harold has committed against these ladies and their home.”

Adaline looked appalled. Without warning, just as she and Alanna and Lancelot had been working their way towards the manor to retrieve Alanna's dowry, but then they had been accosted by Lancelot's less attractive (and far more vigorous) cousin, who began to ramble things about Camelot and some brute of a man who had somehow wronged the ladies whom he seemed so interested in doting upon. "Camelot? But what of your friend, and her wedding? And who is this Lord-"

"Lionel, que-est ce que tu pense? Restez ici, Lancelot n'est-" Bors came jogging into the room after Lionel, looking somewhat flustered and thoroughly confused. When he saw the collection of others, none of whom could fluently speak he and Lionel's language (even Lancelot, who by all rights should have) he stopped himself and continued in his broken English. "Mon frère, what iz it you are raving of? Zere iz no sense in leaping away when ze ladiez Julianna et Mary 'ave yet to recover from their struggles. And why must we away to Camelot all of ze sudden? It may not yet be safe for ze ladiez, to reveal themselves to ze public court. Particularly if zis Lord Harold iz of some influence! Come, mon frère, le tête avant le coeur!"

Bors was well accustomed to having to talk his passionate brother down from a rash decision. But in the past two years, between Lancelot and Lionel, Bors was beginning to think that his hair would begin to gray from the many reasonings he had been called to issue. Why all of the other men in his family were so remarkably gung-ho about each and every thing, he could only guess.

"I'm afraid I am a tad confused.." Alanna admitted, her brow wrinkling as she looked from Bors to Julianna to Lionel. "Of what are you all speaking?"

"Sir Lancelot, wilt thou join me for a moment?" Nathan's deep and stern voice was added to the confusion as the aged knight appeared from within another adjoining hall, his brow creased with determination for his moment with the younger lad. He was likely expecting to gift Lancelot with his betrothed's dowry, having agreed with Adaline before hand to convince the pair to accept whatever meager token was available. Alanna bit back a sigh, squeezing Lancelot's arm and shaking her head in confusion. They were intending on leaving soon anyhow, so now it seemed that a conversation would merely be necessary for determined which direction they headed. And when Lionel became determined over something, it often required quite the lengthy discussion indeed to sort things out.

"Darling, why don't you accompany Master Nathan? I shall see if I can make sense of all things here..." Alanna lifted Lancelot's hand and placed an adoring kiss upon his knuckles, her mouth pulling into a smile as she drew the necessary strength for the upcoming conversation from the warm depths of his eyes.

Deep brown eyes curiously wandered around the bustling community of Greensbury. Her head turned in all different directions like a newborn taking its first glimpse of life. Greatly amazed at the many diverse languages that spoke around her, the odd pronunciations fueled her fascination of this unique civilization. Upon her journey here, she heard tales of valiant warriors who defend these lands, famed for their extensive knowledge in warfare. Stories of their victory travel like wildfire to other lands developing into myths until turning into fable legends for mothers to use before tucking their children at night. War brought fear to those who watched helplessly and sleepless nights to those who survived it. Feeling a wave of inspiration Lin walked over to a wall of cobblestone while releasing the lute from its bindings. Resting the instrument on her left shoulder, she balanced the bottom on her left knee. Her small hands turned the pegs carefully as she tuned the lute for a harmonious melody. Once she was satisfied with her adjustments, she began to play a soothing tune. Her fingers delicately pluck the strings as if she was picking the petals of a flower. Lin was too absorbed in her musical peace to notice any of the inhabitants walking by. Images of a tranquil country in her mind formed as they accompanied the soft tune. Her fingers quickly plucked the strings emitting a harsh sound portraying an invasion of an opposing force. Soon there was a battle of dominance between the opposites.

Lancelot halted when affronted by his younger cousin, and tried his best to retain what Lionel had rapidly recounted in his thick accent. Something about Camelot, and Lord Harold’s vileness. Lionel had not stopped fuming about the plight of the Ladies of Oakford since they first showed up at the manor.

He sighed amidst the madness as Bors hurried after Lionel and reasoned with him in French. Lancelot was not fluent in the language of his ancestry, but he had picked up a little of what his cousins said, and Vivienne had had the foresight to teach him a little when he was younger.

“Lionel,” Lancelot said, grabbing hold of his cousin’s shoulder once Bors was finished speaking to him. “We will take care of the ladies; don’t fret. And we will be leaving Greensbury soon, but before we go to Camelot, we will stop in Rozeshire. Lady Mennah is getting married to Sir Armand in one month! And we are all invited to the wedding!”

“Oh! Lady Mennah...” Lionel trailed off, his excitement fizzing out like a doused fire. Before Lancelot could say anything more, Sir Nathan appeared and requested his conference.

“Certainly, Master Nathan,” Lancelot complied, a note of curiosity in his voice. He turned once more to Alanna after she squeezed his arm and assured him that she would sort out this business with his cousin. He watched as she pressed her lips to his knuckles. Anytime she granted him a kiss or called him 'darling', it tugged at his heart. Even her smiling at him left him winsome and loverlike.

“My thanks, Alanna,” he murmured affectionately, letting go of her arm to follow after Nathan into the adjoining hall. He halted before the steward, consciously noticing that he had assumed a much firmer posture in face of his elder.

“Master Nathan, Alanna and I have just been notified that our dear friend has invited us to her wedding. It will be in Rozeshire, and in the time of one month. Unfortunately this means we will have to make our leave of Greensbury in short time,” he informed Nathan in a formal voice.

---

Lionel recovered soon enough after the shock of hearing of Mennah’s engagement. He had not thought of the half-fey in a very long time, and so the sudden mentioning of her caught him off-guard—especially since the mentioning pertained to her upcoming marriage. But he was not at all in love with her, he assured himself, so he should only be happy that she was getting married to such a renowned knight as Sir Armand. He cleared his throat gruffly and forced a neutrality to his face.

“My, zis must be ze time of year when everyone is getting engaged!” he remarked lightly. He looked at Alanna, who had recently voiced her confusion. “We cannot possibly miss Lady Mennah’s wedding. And Rozeshire iz on ze way to Camelot, no?” He turned back to Juliana. “If you will not mind, Lady Juliana, attending the wedding of a knight and lady... we will be en route to Camelot soon enough, and you will not have to worry about the welfare of your home and sister.” His dark eyes lingered a moment on her face before turning to his brother’s with a look of mild defiance that said he was taking the ladies to meet the King whether Bors agreed or not.

He looked about when he heard the faint sound of unfamiliar music. They were inside the manor, but there was an open window, rather close to the cobblestone wall. “I wonder who iz making zat noise,” Lionel spoke, wandering closer to the window. He listened to the Oriental-styled strumming and plucking. How it differed from any type of music he had ever heard... And yet, it was very pleasing.

“Come, Alanna. We shall inquire az to who iz playing outside your home,” Lionel gestured for her to follow him. He strode down the hall and left the manor, walking through the broken gate, following his ears to the playing, until he discovered its source: a small, dark-haired young woman playing a lute. It looked slightly different from the type of lute he was accustomed to, but it was of a recognizable shape.

He stared down at her. She seemed unaware, and quite absorbed by her playing. What was most interesting was the way her music would change, from soft to harsh. He cast his eyes to Alanna, thinking of the times he had heard her play the lute, and how it was quite a different style than this foreign girl was playing.

He waited a good couple minutes, before finally utterly a word to the lute player: “Pardon me, Lady... Your playing has caught our attention.”

Nathan and Lancelot had come to a stop. Nathan stood with his legs slightly apart, his large and wrinkled hands resting upon his belt as he scrutinized the man before him. Lancelot was indeed a strapping lad, with the makings of greatness visible in each line of his form. But not all men who were ingrained with the seeds of heroism cultivated it...some chose different paths, some were content to merely wander the country side for years on end. Some lacked the tools to make something of themselves. But what was Lancelot?

As the apology was given for the need to part ways, Nathan merely nodded in his usual terse manner. A friend's marriage was nothing to be scoffed at...in fact, it was that very reason that had landed Nathan a lifetime there in Greensbury. Attending the wedding of a dear friend, and somehow failing to find reason to leave ever after. "'Tis unfortunate, Sir Lancelot. Lady Alanna shall be dearly missed by her sister, and her friends here who have only just found her again. And thou and thy cousins shall be missed as well, I am sure. Come."

Nathan took hold of one of Lancelot's broad shoulders, leading the younger man forward through the halls with a slow and purposeful gait. He continued to speak, likely using more vocalizations than he had throughout his entire acquaintance with the squire. "We are two different creatures, Sir Lancelot...yet I see much of my youthful self in you. You seek to be renowned in this world, in the courts of Camelot. You wish to prove yourself to an extent that your very name wields power...is't not so? Nay, be not embarrassed...I too wished for glories to my name, when I was a younger man, when I was a freshly minted knight. And I did all in my power rise to the notice of those who could grant it unto me...until, while dealing with a particularly unpleasant lake beast, I stumbled across a humble knight...who would become my brother in arms. I traveled with Sir Richard, as you now travel with your kinsmen. I saw many a frightful scenes, and performed a few daring acts alongside my good friend. We never sought glory, but daren't deny it should we be awarded some. But you...you seek to earn a title for thy name...and for your lady's name. I was changed by Sir Richard, made into a humbler man. Perhaps his daughter has a similar effect upon those she travels with, I cannot say."

By now, the two had managed to work their way into one of the less assuming halls, and Nathan halted them next to an even less assuming closet door. There was no rug before the door, and even the locks looked as though they were the most pitiful things in the entire manor. It hardly seemed like an influential point at such a weighty discussion. But Nathan set his eyes sternly upon Lancelot's, gripping his shoulder tightly. "You have requested Lady Alanna's hand in marriage, and she has of her own will granted it. I have nary a claim to make against the match, nor have I any true desire to make one. I was going to make thee a fair warning...that this family is mine, and the children of the man to whom I owe this life are more sacred to mine heart than any law in heaven. And that should you prove an ill husband, I shall not hesitate to make a widow of one of them. For their is no sword sharper than a father's love, this I swear upon the name of the Almighty. Yet I sense, from the manner with which you treat the lady in relative privacy, and the general statutes with which you seem to uphold yourself, that such precautions are unnecessary...so instead I offer you a gift."

This was an odd conversation, at the very least. But Nathan did not pause to further explain any detail, or to reply to any protests. Instead, he turned and worked his way through the few rusted locks that looked as though they might have been tugged away without difficulty, until the musty door was free to be opened. Shockingly enough, it slid open in silence. But Nathan held the door so that Lancelot could not see past the old wood, leaning his large frame into the closet for several moments of ruffling and shoving of unseen objects. Finally, he pulled back and resealed the door. Now, in his hands, was a pair of gauntlets.

They were complex affair...sewn with what looked to be at least five different sorts of leather, with short red fringes dangling off the sides and an odd blue design woven all around the palm sections. The fingertips were stained a subtle red, and they had general creases that suggested a good deal of use over many years around the joints. Nathan stroked the surface of the gauntlets almost affectionately, a musing expression passing over his old face. Finally, he looked back up at Lancelot.

"These are the Gauntlets of Erise. You have likely never heard of them, for Sir Richard was not the boasting sort, and Erise was yet a villain in training when he was defeated. While wearing these, your arms, hands, fingers and shoulders shall never tire. Numerous duels may have been lost without them, and many maidens rescued and townships preserved as a result. They are not beautiful, but vain knights rarely prosper. Take them, as a gift from Alanna's father to her groom. Take them and deserve them, Sir Lancelot."

Lancelot followed Sir Nathan with the soft-spoken respect appropriate for being a guest in the manor, and a junior to the older knight. He was now somewhat more comfortable being scrutinized by the steward. He studied Sir Nathan in turn and paid heed to his wise, wrinkled face—in which the strong, rock-stern countenance of a knight was still visible.

He matched Nathan’s gait in a like fashion as he met his gaze, and did not mind the firm hand on his shoulder. It was as Sir Pelleas used to do. It had been for several years since Lancelot had a true knight to mentor him. He now discovered that he missed having a strong elder’s hand on his shoulder, to guide him through the figurative and literal darkness, in which the right thing to do was not always so evident.

When Nathan spoke, Lancelot listened raptly. “Aye, I must admit it against the virtue of humility. To be renowned, and have power to my name… that is one thing I seek. But what squire would not wish to be the best knight of the world?” He was optimistic in his tone, but this last statement brought a small sigh to his breath. Unfortunately not every squire could be the best. Lancelot was good at what he did; he knew it. But could he ever be the best there was? Such a title seemed unobtainable.

Then, Lancelot felt somewhat shamed when Sir Nathan encouraged him to admit his vain ambitions, and then spoke of the humility of Alanna’s father. His immaturity made itself known when he spoke to defend himself. “Sir Nathan, glory is not the highest good I seek. For two years, I have been humbled by Alanna and my fellows, and we have done deeds for the sake of goodness, and not the glory. Surely, by now, I deserve the official title of a knight, and Alanna of a dame…” But he halted himself from saying more, for he was rightly sounding vain by ardently claiming entitlement. He briefly lowered his eyes, but did not apologize, for talking back to his elder.

Then they reached the old, shabby closet. Nathan was being surprisingly verbose, as he began a second speech, the start of which granted his approval of Lancelot taking the hand of the daughter of the late Lord of Greensbury. Of course, along with his approval, he mentioned a fearsome threat of his vengeance as Alanna's surrogate father. Perhaps the modern bridegroom would be upset by the threat of murder, but as Lancelot was accustomed to the medieval law of the sword, he only nodded solemnly.

“Such is your right, milord. Indeed, if I should ever harm Lady Alanna, I would deserve death. I can only imagine doing so if I was possessed by the Devil, and in such a state, I would not be myself, I assure you." He could also harm her by accident. He had done so before, and he had even made her cry (long ago that was, under the Lake)—but he didn’t bring up that possibility.

Fortunately, Lancelot already had the trust of Master Nathan, and in truth the threat was not nearly as harsh as it could have been. His brows lifted in mild anticipation when Nathan mentioned the gift. He was prepared to love it--whatever it was. And Lancelot had to wait for less than a minute before his gift was revealed to him.

Lancelot squinted in the dimness, for initially he could not identify the two objects. Complex they were—an unusual compilation of worm armor and leather. But he knew soon enough—they were gauntlets; armor for one’s hands. He need only throw one to the ground and that would signal the will to fight.

But even more so than that; they were endowed with fortitude. Was it magic in them that prevented fatigue, as was in Lancelot’s shield? He was too polite to ask. But what impressed him even more was that they were the gauntlets that had once belonged to Alanna’s father, who had earned them in a duel against a proto-villain named Erise, and had used them to the success of his adventures. They didn’t look like much, but indeed they were a family treasure.

Inspired by Nathan’s words, Lancelot accepted the gauntlets and held them in his hands. Before donning them, he took a moment to run his fingers along the armor and leather, which was rich with texture. They had once been worn by Sir Robert… and they were his now. It was a special gift indeed. And as he expected, he loved them. It reminded him of when he received his beloved Arondight from the water shrine under the Lake, and was told that it had once been wielded by his grandfather, King Lancelot I.

Feeling the same connection to the past as when he first grasped the hilt of Arondight, Lancelot drew the Gauntlets of Erise over his hands. They were far superior to mail mitts, for he had better control of his fingers, and yet each was protected by the small, overlapping metal plates. And as a blessed coincidence, they fit him perfectly. He formed his armored hands into fists and closed his eyes in satisfaction. Indeed, the strength in them extended all the way to his shoulders. He felt energized throughout, as he did before a joust or duel. But as there was no outlet for this sudden surge of combat-readiness, he took off the gauntlets and found himself stroking them as Nathan had done.

“If only I could have known the Lord of Greensbury,” Lancelot said wistfully, still gazing upon Alanna’s dowry. A far cry from the Round Table and one hundred knights, yes, but the humble gloves satisfied him, and filled him the sense that he had a place in the long history of the House of Greensbury. “But these gauntlets… I am honored to possess them. I will make good use of them, as I’m sure Sir Robert intended. I thank you, Master Nathan, for placing them in my hands. Now, if we have no other business, shall we return and show dear Alanna what her father has allotted me?"

The day had started out so wonderful, so Mennah tried to contemplate where things had taken such a horrible turn. Ralcia had seemed unusually excited at first that morning when she’d woken Mennah up. She said there was a wonderful surprise coming today that she knew her cousin would love. She most definitely could not have meant who had come this morning. That was the thing about small estates, news traveled quickly. Mennah was unsure of how to take the news, it was a shock to say the least. Armand hadn’t confirmed the woman’s claims yet according to Genna, one of the kitchen servants, and she lied by saying the woman looked like a common street harlot. Mennah could feel she was lying, but appreciated the young girl’s efforts to cushion her feelings, so said nothing upon it. Mennah wasn’t a fool, Armand was no virgin, and heard of many of the women he’d bedded down with, mainly by the boasts of some of his men overcome with drink. She not been comfortable hearing them, but contented herself with the fact she was his lady, and now only she. It was the estimated age of the babe that had stricken her the most. No more than two years.

Ralcia’s good mood had soured instantly at the news of the baby. She sat next to her cousin with carefully concealed furry, though it was yet to be revealed toward whom it would be unleashed. She knew of Armand’s tom cat past, but she knew he was passionately in love with her cousin. She couldn’t imagine him being with another woman while he loved Mennah, he wasn’t that kind of man. This woman however, she knew nothing about. She instantly didn’t trust her. Ralcia had been raised around women who used deceit and tricks to win themselves men, and human or not, she wouldn’t put it past this one to use a child to try and instate herself into a place of comfort.

“I would not trust everything this woman says cousin.” Ralcia said before rising and leaving the chamber. She headed down the halls and corridors looking for Armand. They needed to have this mess cleaned up before their surprise guests showed up, for she highly doubted they would take kindly to this news.

Mordred entered the castle after a tedious morning of hawking. There was much commotion. Camelot was a lively enough place that there was often a flurry over one scandal or another, but if it was not over a scandal, it was surely about the visit of an illustrious person. But it was not often that the guest was the ruler of a fey realm.

So, the famed Lady of the Lake was among them—the lady fey who was famous for being a patroness of knights and kings, who would once every couple decades endow a bold hero with a prized (and enchanted) weapon. Of course, the most recent gift had gone to Arthur… but that was more than twenty years ago.

Mordred was very fond of the fey, as were all decadent knights. He had done his share of errant-knighting, and had spent much time indulging in the pleasures of fairy realms. He had not been to the Lake, but he had been to the Hill, the Fountain, the Mound and his favorite—Maidenland. He was saving the Lake for when he went a-questing next spring. It was Britain’s best-kept secret, he was told by the few lucky knights who had once stumbled upon it. From what he heard, it was a Roman-esque paradise, rich in treasure, of which the bathing and dining was most exquisite. If one is injured, it is an excellent realm to come upon, for the healing powers of the fey are unparalleled. It also houses the largest kelpie herd of all of Logres, and a visiting knight could try his luck to wrangle and bridle one of the marvelous beasts. And of course, the ladies!

But the downside was that it was elusive to locate, and as of the past couple years, the Lady had not been open to visitors. But here she was, paying a long overdue visit to Camelot. Mordred had to see her, if she was as beauteous as everyone was raving.

She was visiting with Master Merlin and Queen Morgan, Mordred was told. After that, she would meet with the High Queen. Mordred decided to wait. He lingered in the hall, and happened upon his older half-brother, Sir Gaheris.

“Did you hear? Sir Armand is getting married,” Gaheris mentioned casually.

“Poor devil. Feeling guilty over a bastard, is he?” Mordred murmured.

“Nay, that’s not the case. But Mordred, she’s a fairy,” Gaheris added.

“Fie! So much for a faithful wife. What is he thinking? As if loosing his voice wasn’t misfortune enough.”

Gaheris raised one brow in agreement, and then went about his way. Mordred remained in the hall. He nodded his head and smiled softly at two passing ladies, his eyes trailing after their backsides.

He strolled into the Great Hall, and eyed the Round Table. With one hundred and fifty seats, the table was absolutely massive. Every time he saw it, he drew in a sharp breath of awe. Half a dozen knights were seated, talking amongst themselves. Mordred did not yet have his name written in gold upon one of the seats, and so he left the Hall, and made his way to where his own order met, in the Queen’s throne room—which was also the chamber in which she formally greeted her guests. There was situated a much smaller table, rectangular so as the Queen may sit at the head. It would seat about fifty knights. It was becoming an ever more populated order, as there were not enough seats at the Round to admit all the knights who came to meet King Arthur. But that was not to be fretted over; once Arthur returned from war, with the names of the dead, there would surely be more seats available at the Round.

Mordred avoided his seat at the Queen’s table, and instead leaned against the wall, gazing intently at Guinevere’s throne.

Nathan nodded approvingly at Lancelot's reaction to the dowry, and his expressed desire to have known the late Lord of Greensbury. A wistful smile passed over the old man's face as he clapped Lancelot approvingly on his strong back, guiding him back towards the others. "Though I, too, regret that you could not have met his Lordship in person...I must say you are most fortunate, son, for having met him in a much lovelier and younger form. In the last few days I have come to realize that my dear old friend still roves the earth...in a kin spirit that may not have even lived on through one of his sons."



-------------



Armand was tall and his powerful legs long enough that he had always managed a quick stride. Even when he was in no hurry, Armand had a natural knack for walking quickly. So now, when it felt as though his entire world were crashing down around his ears and his future and the happiness of his lady were in danger of evaporating with the sudden appearance of a child he had no previous knowledge of, Armand was practically soaring with determined strides through the halls of Rozeshire manor. After a long series of dealings with his stewards, arrangements had been made for the woman and her (his?) child. It had been suggested (much to Armand's horror) that cases such as these could sometimes be handled with a simple banishment. But what if the child WAS his? Then he would have cast away his own son, and the boy's mother, and surely there would be great punishment in God's Kingdom for such a man...

And besides that, Armand the Bold was (or at least tried to be) a just man. He could not simply banish away his problems and hope that he never heard from them again. Many men did, of course, but Armand was determined to sort this thing out. And what if the boy grew, and then returned years later as a man intent on claiming a stake in Armand's lands...after he had begun a family with his beloved Mennah? And how could Mennah, or indeed any of Armand's subjects, ever respect him in the future if it became known that he had brushed away this woman and her infant? And then, of course, there was the small matter of time...

Armand had earned fame for being bold and courageous...but never had he been particularly well known for his cleverness. So it had taken a few of his sharper assistants to point out to him that a child of the approximate age of this one that was claimed as his would have had to have been conceived within the last two years. And it was within the last two years that he had been courting Mennah. Therefore...

But it was impossible! He had been faithful, despite the strong urge and the difficulty to refrain from previous habits of promiscuity, to Mennah. He was certain that since their first kiss he had thought only of her. And yet still...despite his certainty of his innocence, there was that deep nagging doubt. What if, though he was loving and loyal to Mennah, upon one of his nights out with his men he had mistakenly had one mead too many? What if he had somehow slipped early on in their courtship? He felt certain he hadn't, but upon deep thought (not something he partook of often, but given the situation..) he miserably accepted that there might be an argument for it. He would simply have to comb through his men, demanding to know if any of them had seen him go away with a lady other than Mennah at any point during the past two years. In the meantime, he arranged for the beautiful dark-haired woman and her child to be kept in comfort at Getonsburg keep. And he had to speak with Mennah before the entire country knew of the situation.

So Armand had rushed to Rozeshire, and was now charging through the halls without so much as a 'how do you do' to those he passed, seeking out his lady. Finally, he nearly crashed into her cousin. Deciding that she would do for an escort, Armand seized the lovely fey by the shoulders and his lips formed the urgent silent question. "Where is Mennah?"

“Thank you, Queen Morgan,” Vivienne said in a tone of benevolence as she sat in the chair set aside for her. She smiled at Niniane a moment, and then looked again at Morgan. Amazingly, she felt kindly to the dark queen, who the future had ordained as a damned villainess. Morgan looked to be in low spirits—she looked just as Vivienne had felt for the past two years, and had only just overcome—at least, had managed to disguise.

“Do you really think of our conversation often, Morgan? As do I,” Vivienne said. “And I am in good spirits, as you have noticed. And the sun around my neck is sitting right beside me—my dearest Niniane.”

Niniane was sitting quietly, her eyes passing through the chamber, but her gaze lingered most on the old magician. When Vivienne made mention of her name, Niniane blinked her radiant blue eyes away from Merlin and regarded Vivienne warmly. She reached out her hand and placed it on her elder sister’s sleeve.

There was a lull. Vivienne’s smiled faltered when Niniane did not say anything. The girl did not talk much—only if the conversation pertained to her vast knowledge of the ancient woods. Vivienne’s smile returned, but it was very forced, and she felt water prick behind her eyes. How quickly her mood had changed…

It was all because of him. He was the marvelous prodigy she was supposed to be introducing to Camelot—not her golden-haired half-sister. As lovely as Niniane was, and with all the false hope she had inspired in Vivienne, she was not Lancelot. She simply did not inspire the interest that Vivienne had in a young knight that she had fed from her own breast and raised so devotedly, knowing that he was promised for greatness.

But she couldn’t show her weakness. She had to remind herself that she was a supernatural being, the very essence of wonder and feminine mystique and spirituality—she was the almighty Lady of the Lake. She could very well live without a mortal knight. She could very well be happy without one boy—and so she was. She was!

Her face brightened, and her brief upset could no longer be detected. She spoke to her magical peers: “I have been teaching Niniane the secrets of the Lake, so as to prepare her to take my place when I retreat to Avalon, which I plan to do after the reign of Arthur. As you may imagine, her education is vital. She has lived largely in the company of mortals, and is not yet versed as I would like her to be in the ways of magic and fey.”

Niniane listened brightly, but added nothing of her upbringing. Her beauty spoke most for her. She looked exactly like Aphrodite—if one were to take away her medieval gown and give her a sea shell to stand upon.

“Merlin,” Vivienne turned to him, knowing that he knew what she was thinking, and she knew what he was thinking. And they both knew what would happen in the future… “You do not currently have a pupil under your tutelage. I was hoping that you would provide her with the education you once provided me. Do you remember, Master Merlin, when you were once my teacher, and I your pupil? Happy times, were they not?” She gazed upon the older man fondly.

Ralcia fixed Armand with a stare conveying her irritation. He was obviously looking for Mennah, but she needed information from him first. She’d have to be careful to ask yes or no questions, but that was a minor detail. She didn’t have a lot of time to try to figure out the best way to portray this story to the large, possibly easily offended guest that would arrive by supper. At least her clever and highly insightful (if not a bit of a prankster) friend would be with them.

“The last I saw of Mennah she was in her chamber, though I highly doubt she’s still there. She tends to be a bit restless when she’s upset, and yes she knows. The entire estate knows, and we’d better get this straitened out before my surprise guests show up, or we’ll be dealing with a bunch of rather unhappy northerners.” Ralcia said a bit exasperated. She then sighed keeping her cool and looked him in the eyes.

“This woman who claims to have bared your child, do you recognize her in the slightest? Even overcome with drink you’d have to have recognized something? Do your men remember seeing her?” Ralcia said expecting an answer. She wanted to believe in Armand’s faithfulness, but she needed the facts before she’d do any blind trust moves.


Mennah, as Ralcia had said, did not stay in her chambers long. She found herself roaming the grounds aimlessly, simply letting her feet lead the way to her undetermined destination. The grounds soon led to the village, which she quickly fled, easily being able to decipher the hushed whispers of the women chatting while doing house work.

“The Lord’s street harlot”

She tried blocking out the words, but at least her people were wonderfully loyal. None of them had even met the woman and already she’d never be welcome if any of them could help it. For all they knew she could be some noble woman who simply found Armand as wonderful as she did. After all it wasn’t unheard of. She’d heard stories of lesser noble women bearing a knight a son and then having her father force him to marry her. A bit desperate, but not unheard of.

Then a frightening thought struck her. Would Armand marry her instead? Mennah didn’t doubt Armand loved her, but would he feel obligated to marry this woman who bore his child? He was a noble enough man. She soon found gut wrenching terror the new instigator of her flee. She needed to find a quiet place to just simply think, away from whispers and any reminders of the news.

Eventually she came to a deserted patch a wild flowers within the Apple orchard. She’d played here often as a child she remembered, and relished in the quiet serenity of the place. Sitting in the patch, she set to work plucking petals of some of flower after flower (an oddly calming action), and quietly thinking to herself. Despite her best efforts she couldn’t help feeling a bit of resentment toward the woman, though she refused to hate the child. She’s been on the receiving end of the stick too many times to let herself hate a child simply for being born. His mother however, was fair game. Was she beautiful? Confident? Intriguing? She imagined a hundred different scenarios, none of which made her feel any better. She must have done something wrong if she’d driven him into another’s arms. She went over every little mistake she’d made within the last two years. Between all the tripping in the long dresses she was unaccustomed to, the time she’d been caught helping in the fields during harvest, and the time she’d out aimed him when they’d practiced with bows together, he’d must have found something inadequate. She pulled her knees up to her chin, and finally the tears she’d fought so gallantly against all morning began to fall.




Renton was a bit irritated, but not surprised, to hear Armand had left for Rozeshire earlier that morning before he’d arrived at Gentonsburge’s manor. He’d heard the wedding announcement and had come to congratulate his cousin. He also found this as the right moment to reconcile with his cousin, for their last meeting had not been had a happy conclusion. It was mainly do to the fact Renton had been drunk at the time. Very drunk. Renton had been very close to his uncle (mainly due to the fact he was one of the few relatives he could stand), and he’d taken to the taverns after word of his death. Renton was not pleasant to be around when he was drunk, one of the few traits he’d inherited from his twisted father. Renton was often compared to his mother, in both looks and personality. From your average person it was a complement, but from any member of his family it wasn’t. Unlike his brother Gabon and cousin Armand, who had brown hair and hansom tan complexions and wells built bodies, his hair was raven, his skin fair, and quite lean. He was strong aye, but lacked the visual prowess they had.

“At least he’s got a pretty face.” Had been his brother’s remark many a time, but that brought up another set of issues he didn’t want to dwell on now. He’d simply have to wait patiently for his cousin’s return, though it didn’t help he felt a head ach coming on. Generally for him it meant something bad was going to happen, but he chuckled a bit at the possibility to himself as he closed his eyes and massaged his temples. When he opened his eyes again however he grimaced as he saw an all together too familiar raven haired beauty standing near by. Damn, he really needed to start paying attention to these bloody headaches.

The music of the foreign lute player had had an effect on Lionel. It was subtle, but he thought of the player and her music every once in a while when his mind was unoccupied by the uneventful stretches of travel. The girl had not spoken back—perhaps because she was too engrossed, or she didn’t understand the language. They had continued on and left Greensbury later that day.

Lancelot was regretting leaving Greensbury after spending such a short time there. But Adaline and Nathan had understood, and they bid him and Alanna good will. After a couple days of travel, his heart was light again as he cherished the fact that he was now betrothed to Alanna, and he had been accepted by her family. He was also happy for Mennah and Armand, and was eager to be a guest at their wedding. Lionel kept bringing up Camelot, for they had taken the Oakford sisters with them—and Lancelot was excited to be heading in that direction, as well.

After making good time for a week, a new sense of wistfulness came upon him. They were riding through marshland, and had come upon a large lake. He eyed the gently rippling water with a certain degree of longing. He had missed that familiar smell of aquatic life. He missed the Lake of his boyhood. He missed his foster-mother.

His steed was nostalgic as well, as he turned his head to the lake. Lancelot pat his kelpie, commiserating. He knew that Clarric wanted dearly to be loosed of his bridle, and swim in the water to his heart’s content… but it simply could not be done, not if Lancelot wanted to keep his charger.

Still, Clarric was becoming ever more restless as they rode along the edge of the lake. The squire had an empathetic connection to his horse, and he could almost detect a dehydrated pain in the languid motions of his steed. The poor creature longed to douse his coat in the water, which was in such close proximity. It could not be forgotten that Clarric was a kelpie—a water horse--and a freshwater lake was the environment in which he would naturally reside.

“Let us stop here for a bit,” Lancelot addressed his party, having mercy on his aquiline counterpart. They were on the king’s road, and there was a nearby boulder that would be adequate enough to rest on. He dismounted and led Clarric by the reins to the edge of the water. Clarric immediately lowered his head and drank. While Lancelot stood next to his horse, he noticed what appeared to be animal tracks in the mud. From the size of the tracks, the creature’s feet must have been at least a foot long. They were, however, not as large as a dragon’s tracks.

Lancelot lowered to his haunches to look closer at the tracks. He reached forth his armored hand to brush aside a patch of reeds. It appeared that the tracks went forth into the water. But before he could act on this precaution, there rose a few bubbles to the lake’s surface. Before he could retract his arm, a long black neck flew out of the water and a large set of teeth latched onto his hand.

“Lord!” Lancelot gave a yelp.

He could hardly see what it was that emerged and grabbed him. It happened very fast, and he barely had time to struggle against the monster’s fierce tugging. He was wearing the gauntlets, and so his hand could not be crushed. But before he could fully draw his sword with his free hand, the beast pulled with such force as to drag him head over heels into the water. With such a tumble, his hand inconveniently lost grip of Arondight, and his sword fell onto the shore. Clarric reared up and whinnied, but he was too spooked to follow in after.

He swallowed a big gulp of water as he was pulled into the depths by the long-necked beast. He felt himself violently thrashed about through the water as the monster wagged his neck all about, still biting down tightly on his hand. Lancelot, amidst this frightening underwater struggle, balled the fist of his free hand and pounded it on the beast’s small head. He was released for a moment, in which he lifted himself up to the surface with only enough time to take a gasp of air and cry out a garbled “Help!”

He was pulled down again by his assailant, who rammed against him with his rotund body. Again, Lancelot was submerged and desperate for breath. Clarric, seeing his knightly rider in trouble, defied his instinct of self-preservation and charged into the water. After a furious splash, the horse disappeared under the surface and rammed into the black lake monster. The monster swam deeper to avoid the sharp hooves of the kelpie, taking Lancelot down with him.

Maraud was leading Roryn and Mabuz towards Rozeshire, and they were walking through the apple orchard—as it was quite picturesque in the late spring. “Oh, how lovely… wild flowers,” Maraud admired. Then she hushed and stopped when she heard the faint sound of crying. Up ahead, there was Mennah, with her knees pulled to her chin, weeping on a patch of flowers.

Maraud’s brows drew up in concern as she turned to Roryn and Mabuz. “I should try to comfort her. Stay here.” She touched Roryn’s sleeve, and then approached Mennah with soft footsteps.

“Mennah, love? My dear girl…” Maraud spoke to her gently. She set down the vase, and then kneeled next to the half-fey. She placed her hands ever so softly on Mennah’s back and shoulder. Becoming a mother had instilled in Maraud such tenderness and the will to care, as she had never felt before. This new motherliness was present in the timber of her voice and the delicacy of her touch.

“What has made you weep so, Mennah?” Maraud was impelled to ask. She wrapped her arms around Mennah so as to comfort her with a warm embrace. “Is there anything I might do to help? Or do you only wish to be alone right now?” Her eyes were pained as she watched the tears fall from Mennah’s face. She caught one small teardrop on the tip of her finger, and let it fall into the plucked flowers.

Mabuz averted his eyes, partially hiding himself behind a tree trunk. He wished to comfort Mennah as Maraud was doing, but he doubted she would be relieved to see his return. He looked to Roryn, as if seeking some advice from his mentor. “Do you think I should leave before Mennah sees me, Roryn? She might hate me still… for what I did two years ago…”

"It is not difficult to remember." Merlin began, returning her fondness. "but hard to imagine yourself as someone who learned from me. You have prospered so grandly and flurised beyond expectation Lady Vivienne." He rested his boney hands upon the arms of his chair, curling his fingers lazily around the rests and seeming to drift back into memory.

Morgan, on the other hand, looked slightly bored at what she could only assume was a memory from far too long ago. She looked to Ninlane, who did verymuch bear a resemblance to Aphrodite, which in a way, made Morgan feel a bit more sickly. She too, rested back in her chair, but out of sheer internal weakness.
"This is your half-sister, if I recall?" she asked, a little more flatly than she'd intended.

Two days and nights had passed since the great battle, against greater odds they prevailed to win the day. But after every battle there is the sorrow that day many a friend and brother was placed upon a great pyre, were they were burnt, to join there Ancestors at the great table were they would feast for eternity.

On there return to the border fort a great feast was laid out and for the next day and night the warriors feasted and drank, in memory of the dead, praising there life as well as there brave deaths. Many songs were sung about battles of old, of heroic deeds and of great conquests against great foes, about the forging of Briton, and some about the old pagan gods of old.

The next day those that had started the trip from Camelot and had survived began there return journey when night fell they would be returning to there families, there wife's there children, rejoicing that they get to spend another winter with them before the Saxon raids would start again.

Arthur rode at the forefront of the small force of the three hundred that had left only one hundred and fifty returned, and there would be much sorrow on the streets of Camelot. He would personally go through the streets the next day, telling the families that there husbands and son's had died heroes of land and that they would be remembered in times to come, before he compensated them with gold for there losses.

The day past quite uneventfully with a few stops they made good time and as the sun set they breasted the top of one last hills before the flat lands that led to the fabled city of Camelot. On the sea breeze they could hear the faint sound of trumpets calls going up, detailing the arrival of the force, letting the city know.

That the King had returned.

Armand heaved an aggravated sigh as Ralcia accosted him with questions. He found Mennah's cousin pleasant enough company, but it was not she that he wished to be speaking with at the moment. And the frustration of not being able to rail right back against her with his own heated words was immense at that particular moment. She told him that Mennah was stowed away in her room...upset...and he would have preferred to hear that she refused to speak with him out of anger. He had been hoping for a wrathful lady, rather than to hear that he had hurt her in some way. The news that the entire estate new of his predicament was not news that he had wanted to hear, either. It only meant that by now, his whole realm would know of the child, which would not be so bad if it were not for the fact that Mennah now had the whole realm to feel embarrassed in front of. The brief horrifying thought had passed through his mind once or twice, of course, that Mennah might relinquish her acceptance of his proposal with the apparent faithlessness he had supposedly shown early in their courtship...and he was not yet even certain that he had done it!

So he irritably nodded or shook his head to Ralcia's questions, knowing he would not see the end of her pestering and be able to speak privately with Mennah until he had done so. He fervently shook his head as she asked if he recognized the raven-headed beauty who claimed to be the mother of his child, determined that he did not. As to whether or not his men recognized the woman, he held his hands up helplessly and shook his head. He had not yet had the opportunity to question his men, not even the ones whom he was friendly enough with that they would have accompanied him on a celebratory night into a tavern. He had been in too much of a rush, after gingerly dealing with his supposed son and his mother, to reach Mennah and swear his loyalty still lay with her.

But as Ralcia questioned him, something deep within Armand's broad chest sparked up like the beginnings of a great fire. He began to grow irate not only with Ralcia and her pestering questions, but with the situation in general. He had been a true roving spirit before he had reunited with Mennah, it was true. And he felt no regret in most of his past actions, save for once or twice accidentally (due to being misinformed) becoming romantically involved with a lady who belonged to another man, or who turned out to be supporting the opposite side of a conflict he fought in, or who...but that was not the point. He had found love in his childhood friend, something far deeper and more desirable than any brief romantic fling, and despite the many winks and subtle come-hither gestures he had grown accustomed to receiving from the various fair maidens he encountered on a daily basis, he had been determined to feel no woman's touch save hers. It hadn't been an easy switch in lifestyle, but he had made his mind to do it...and he wouldn't have tossed that away after a few tankards of ale, would he? Nay!

Armand became resolute. This child must either be older than he appeared to be or not his at all, for he would not have gone into another woman's embrace. It was simply impossible! And it was of the utmost importance that he relay this fact to Mennah, for the thought of her shedding any tears (which surely she must have) on his account weighed heavily on his heart.

So with his sculpted jaw set determinedly and his eyes flashing with importance, Armand made a gesture that suggested that Ralcia's interview was complete, and that he must now speak with Mennah. He knew, as Ralcia had mentioned, that she would not likely still be resting in her room, and following her cousin around in search of her would prove useless. So he turned away from the fey woman and continued his hurried step, calling out his lady's name with great urgency. Of course, none but she would hear him, so the sounding of his deep voice did not echo around the halls and stir up birds from the trees and cause servants to take pause...but even if it had, he would not likely have cared.

Finally he had eliminated the estate and the town (by glancing quickly, not wanting to dawdle by enduring the questions of other Rozeshire citizens) as locations for his betrothed. He was now in the gardens, which he probably should have looked through first...but he did not wish to think that he had upset her so much that she would need such great comfort.

"Mennah!" Armand hollered, cupping his mouth to carry the sound. "Mennah, I must speak with you!"

Poking his head around a tree, he finally spotted her. She was sitting on the ground, knees to her chin, with...Armand nearly groaned at the sight of Maraud comforting her. While he was normally pleased enough to see Mennah's former teacher, there was always the vague memory of the time, very briefly, where he had nearly made love to the older woman at the first opportunity. He had certainly found her alluring at the time, and he was still eager to find himself in such a beautiful woman's embrace back then. Mennah had been there, and with her unusual abilities...she of course knew of the former attraction. It had been fleeting, and now both Maraud and himself were devoted to other beings, but he wondered if just the memory of the momentary event in the past would cause Mennah further stress. For a moment, he considered turning back the way he had come and waiting until he could speak to her in private. Women with conflicting emotions were dangerous.

But he put back the urge, taking a deep breath and quickly striding forward. He called out once more as he closed the distance between them, rubbing his suddenly clammy hands dry on his surcoat like a nervous boy. "Mennah!"