Swift-Shadow Murders: Chapter 1: The Path to Arvon

This is to be a short-novel

In the shadowed valley,

Brigand and Goblin once did rally,

That they might sally

From the shadowed-keep in the valley,

The river-side lion,

Rode out in defiance,

And smote them with iron,

After his cub was stolen by the giant,

The jewelled crown

the swift-shadow fell down,

when he didst drown,

In the Lond, so that his corpse remains unfound,

The Swift-Shadow Song

In a merry river-fed corner of lovely old Norencia, there in olden times there stretched out as far as the eye could see a large forest that covered the vast majority of the hills and valleys that fill up the county. The greater part of these valleys lay between Waultonné and the river-side city of Arvon. The remains of this once over-large forest can be seen near the great seats of Yvefort, Orifland and the valley fort of the Valléfort or Valleyfort as it might translate.

It was in this place, prowled at one time in those days of yore the monstrous knight of Vifombre, a cruel beast of a man, who had slain the local Comte, and raided countless villages. His swift lance combined with his merciless nature, he was to proclaim himself ‘Comte d’Arvois’ in an attempt to supplant the legitimate line of lords. Followed after by a large contingent of bandits who followed him for years in raiding the rich lands by the river Londe, there was not a single place of safety in Arvois.

But those times were passed, with the violence brought on by the wicked if anonymous black knight (for he had never removed his helm save in his secret base in the mountains) at an end. It was believed that with the death of the Knight at the hands of the Comte Augustin II the ‘Preux’ or ‘Bold’, such dark times were permanently behind for Arvois. The corpse was taken away after the fourth battle of Valléfort, the first of which Augustin participated in, with the battle now a thing of legend.

The fact that King Clovis of Gallia ruled over a peaceful realm, never bothering peasants, forbidding his seigneurs form doing so, all while he worked to uphold the laws of their ancestors. Just, frugal (for he did not much like to tax his subjects) and the most glorious warrior-king in generations, he was the third King of his race and almost as popular as his predecessor Guillaume.

Augustin II of Arvois may have been gone, but his reputation of chivalry, heroism and loyalty still remained. Honoured with a statue of marble just outside the temple in the village near Château-Arvon, one where the brides of the Arvoisian line often went to pray.

This was the custom, honoured by the noble line begun by Augustin I of Arvois, who impressed the importance of chivalry and virtue upon his lineage. Other nobles over the decades had changed, had come to value wealth, power and their own vanity above the lives of their people. The inconsolable state of life, so harsh and unpleasant in many places on earth was in many places in Gallia and none more so than in Arvois reduced. So that a great many cheered the new Comte whithersoever he went, only the Duc de Manarvon was more popular and that only because that fine gent was the greatest symbol of virtue imaginable.

If the people of Brittia across the Channel struggled under the heel of over-dominant Norse rulers from Arnrige, men of the most common birth in Arvois dressed themselves in fine Lyonessian silk. Naturally this state of affairs shocked the siblings. And how could it not shock them? They had never seen such joy, such displays of wealth by common folks, neither in their homeland of Norwend, nor in all the realms the two of them, had traversed since that time with Marculf.

Liberty loving, in such a way that was alien to a great many people, but not those from the lands of Caledonia, or rather her northern near client neighbour of Norwend. Liberty was as crucial to them as breathing, so that they had struggled to adapt to Brittia and Cymru where such a thing is not as valued.

How there could be a land full of serfdom, yet honour so that men were treated as though they were free, and were rich as the wealthiest of money-lenders or nobles on the isle would stun anyone. Quite how this had come about was difficult to explain, with much of the honour for this accomplishment belonging to the sharing of wealth and determination to make the roads safe for commerce, on the part of rulers who now dominated Gallia. At one time but mere Dukes, they had slowly usurped the throne over the course of a century, until at last they had done so.

Once on the throne though, they had shown their continued dedication towards their subjects with King Guillaume annexing alongside his young nephew and heir Clovis the whole of the kingdom of Suddard, then the latter added Folkmaringia to their territories. The roads once unsafe and filled with brigands were now safe, with pilgrims traversing up and down the roads and merchants travelling from region to region, town to town.

A wealthy populace yields a wealthy aristocracy as they say, and none believed in this proverb more than the rulers of Gallia.

Though, King Guillaume was gone, his booming laugh and good-natured humour no longer gracing this world, his policies and good-sense continued in his heir’s reign. The good King’s people still prayed in many places, for the safety and goodness of his soul, in spite of the Grand Divan’s refusal to canonise the man as a Paragon.

Peace had thus ruled, over the lands of Gallia for quite some time so that she had begun to forget what pain, chaos and warfare could cause. So that there arose in many places, the shadow of darkness in such places as in Norléans where Duc Mathias the Bastard ruled. This shadow that challenged the goodness and purity of chivalry, had spread its dark tentacles it was said, into the honour-filled lands of Arvois.

Hence, the worry of Wiglaf and why he had sent his finest pupil south to investigate the matter, and to represent the Order of Magii at the tourney that was to be held there. The Ogre-sorcerer having never failed him in the past, and renowned as one of the most gifted, resourceful of students to ever grace the Order, if amongst the most sullen. Disliking all duties that tore him from his studies, regardless the importance of the aforementioned responsibilities so that he had taken to the road against his will.

Away he had gone, leaving behind him his dearest of friends who included his maid-servant Seonag and her younger brother, both of whom had trailed after him for many years. The two firm admirers of the good Ogre’s gentler qualities (of which most disbelieved their existence). Neither of them quite convinced this was a wise policy, in spite of how the Ogre had insisted they would not much like their time in Gallia.

“Gallia outside of the lands of her vassal kingdom of Vaugrimmé is a dull land, with endless fields and hills only separated by the odd keep or temple. Where I am headed, there is little in the way to interest anyone.” He had said in his usual bleak tone, not wishing to hear the slightest argument against his will and waving away their concerns.

He had thus departed, after a day’s preparation. That had been more than three months before, with the siblings having presented their suit to his master every day until at last, Wiglaf who had begun to worry also gave his blessings to them to go. Marculf after all, was his finest pupil and was never gone so long, with nary a message to his master.

It was into this land of emerald forests and valleys, farmlands and high-hills of the most cheerful sort that the large-tusked and pointy-eared Ogre, Marculf had trod. He had gone on ahead of those he was closest to, as was so very often his wont. Ordinarily this hardly worried his Master Wiglaf, for Marculf though tall, strong, erudite and mighty in the arcane arts so that he could well have passed for a master-sorcerer rather than an apprentice. Because it was more than three months since his last letter, those closest to Marculf had become worried.

None though were closer to him, than Seonag and her younger brother Ruaidhrí. The both of them were incredibly sore, after more than three weeks on the road, then aboard a small merchant vessel then more roads, so that they competed with one another in their grumbling.

“It shan’t be much farther! I’faith, this road stretches on forever!” Seonag whined her calves almost as red beneath her skirts as her fiery red hair.

“Oh do stop your fussing sister,” Ruaidhrí grunted more than a little weary of his sister’s grumbling.

Glaring down at his scarlet-head which so closely reassembled her own, the young maiden was tempted to slap him, as she might have done in another age. At one time, she had slapped him for the slightest disagreement with her.

“I am not fussing,” Grunted Seonag annoyed.

“Aye, you are,” He muttered under his breath.

Seonag pretended not to hear him, with the maiden having to bite her tongue to keep from snapping at him once more. In recent months, he had undergone a change from the bright, cheerful lad he had always been, into a more moody, sullen sort who preferred his own company to that of others.

He was changing, as all boys do about that age into the men they are destined to be. She knew this, and yet there was little she could do or would do in recent days. It was for men to find their own way, and not for women to dictate what they should become, she knew.

Silence dominated the two once more, as they journeyed across the landscape, following the road paved decades ago by Clovis the Golden Duc, the grandfather of the current King Clovis.

“I like this road,” Seonag remarked hopeful to change the topic, to a more cheery one, “It is strong and sturdy, what was it called again?”

“It is dubbed the Lily-Road after the emblem of the first Clovis’s mother the Princess Marthe,” Ruaidhrí explained remembering what their guide had told them, before he had abandoned them. “And I do not much like it, it seems to presage some dark future to my mind.”

“How so?”

“Kings do not build such things without cause to use it one day, or if he does not intend to use it another will use it for some nefarious purpose.” Ruaidhrí muttered morosely, sounding rather more cynical than she had ever heard him speak in the past.

In the past he was cheerful, optimistic and amongst the loudest of boys to ever grace this earth, yet now he was none of those things. Seonag bit her lower lip.

The roads they had wandered through in Cymru had been less adorned than those of this rich land, and without the paved roads of Gallia. Those few roads once paved in Cymru had fallen into ruin, having been paved nigh on half a millennia hence, by the Romalians. The sole reason either of the siblings remained unsurprised to see such quality stones laid down, upon the ground in such a fashion was due to the many distant lands Marculf had taken them to. From distant eastern lands where Emperors ruled still, and built vast wonders, to the shamanistic isles of Zipangu, to many of the mightiest kingdoms and empires of South-Agenor, they were better travelled than most thrice their ages.

If those roads were impressive though, none could quite compare with those of Gallia though, this was perhaps the sole reason for which they were awe-struck and impressed. Many of the early roads established by Roma, then later by Aemiliemagne the great emperor of North-Agenor from centuries ago, none of those compared with those built by Éluan. The Golden King as he was dubbed by his people, he had controlled far less lands than either Roma or Aymon the Great, so that he had focused his efforts far more, upon those lands he did rule. Devoting himself to great architectural wonders, such as the establishment of a grander palace in the city of Lynette, new cathedrals for Vhaimée, Hector and other major cities, Éluan had also paved new roads.

Thus it was that though not the direct lord of Arvois, the rulers of Norençie had insisted upon expanding the King’s network of roads to the north, paying for it themselves much to the gratitude of the mighty monarch.

“Old Éluan, was a mighty King, one who never ever lost a battle, in any form and who was said to have won the love of a goddess in his youth.” Old Guilhèm their guide explained to them, as he held onto the reins of Seonag’s horse.

A quiet man, Guilhèm who had hitherto been quiet save for the occasional grunt watched them with a sidelong stare. Stout, he was built like an ox and was dressed in simple wool, with a thin black cloak thrown over his shoulders, courtesy of his wife he had claimed who worried that he might fall ill should it rain. A Tigrun that was to say a member of the cat-men, who were once the most populous people in all the lands of Pangaea, he sported a short beard the same colour as his grey hair. His feline fur was short and the same colour, with the odd dark spots that decorated sometimes the fur of a lynx. His ears atop his head, were also reminiscent of those of that feline people.

His voice deep, as he spoke the musical tongue of the Gallians, one which he spoke in a dialect that both siblings struggled with, having been taught it by Marculf. The Ogre had taught them the tongue, for he was something of a lover of the culture and people of the vast lands of Gallia, which had only recently become mostly unified under the line of Éluan.

“Which goddess was that?” Seonag wondered, always keen for tales of romance and love, this in spite of how she had more often than not had her hopes for such things disappointed, throughout her young life.

“That I know not,” Guilhèm admitted embarrassed, “I know only that I once heard it said, by one of the monks of the goddess Meret.”

“It may as well have not happened, if you do not know,” Her brother responded petulantly to her horror.

When she called his name and scolded him for his rudeness, he refused to listen. Guilhèm though patient, took the boy to task himself. “You hear me lad, I will not hear you speak so of our late, honoured High-King in that manner. Should I ever hear you speak so of him, I shall do to you as I would any of my children, do you understand?”

“I still do not understand, the love your people hold for him,” Ruaidhrí complained, bitter as always.

“You keep your eyes upon the forest, and shadows and never you mind what you do or do not understand,” Guilhèm retorted evenly with no small measure of impatience.

Silence was restored, as they left the free and green fields of Gallia’s most northerly lands in favour of the deep forests that predominated so much of the landscape. Though, in the valley of some of the highest mountain peaks in the land (at least those not near the Mabillon region), this hardly served to halt the advance of nature. As the legions of Roma before it, nature in the wake of the century of bloody civil strife that had haunted Arvois was determined to press its advantage. Unwary of the fact that man had begun to grow in number, and thus had greater and greater need of lumber for their homes, so that the days of this particular set of woods was numbered.

This particular forest Guilhèm told them, if half-heartedly had once been that which the wicked Vifombre had often prowled about through. “He had a habit of hunting men in this very place,” said the Tigrun with a shiver, “Though, we have begun to cut our way through this forest and its trees, still few there are who like to come near this place.”

“Why is that?”

“It is believed that the wicked phantom, of the ancient Vifombre still haunts this place,” Said Guilhèm, “Just as the legions of the Tenth Legio haunts still some forest in Caledonia does it not?”

“The difference would be that in the case of the Legion in question, it has been nigh on a millennia and it is more than a few men.” Seonag countered at once, rather more fond than most young ladies of ghost-stories and tales of phantoms, as her time with Marculf had changed her from a fearful girl, into an intrepid young woman. “If I may though, it sounds as though the Caleds have more to fear than you Gallians.”

“If you think that is how it is, I cannot help you,” Guilhèm complained as only a Gallian man could, “You really oughtn’t insult our tales and folklore, without first understanding them. The Knight of Vifombre was no ordinary man, and could likely destroy a whole Legio of Roma by his will alone.”

The notion was one that was so utterly ridiculous that, Seonag had to stifle a snort. Demonstrating considerably more tact than she might have in another life, in another time yet she instead repressed this instinctive response. Her brother however did not, though he did have the good grace to cloak his snort as a sneeze.

Guilhèm though annoyed, did not comment or reprimand the boy further.

They journeyed through the rest of the day, with the Tigrun reluctant to break for camp until they were well out of the forest though this meant travelling through the night. “We must not stop for a single moment, lest the shade of the old brigand-knight appear to punish as he might have in his day.”
“The shade shall not appear here,” Seonag rebuffed irritably, her calves aching from having ridden all day, “We ought to rest here.”

“But no one ever does, in this part of the forest.”

“I say we stay here, no matter what tales your father once told you,” She retorted with some of the rudeness that had once marked her amongst the castle-staff of castle Nathfalia where she once lived and served as a chambermaid.

“Sister,” Said Ruaidhrí quietly, a hint of apprehension in his voice, “I do not much like this place, it feels... wrong.”

“Bah, you have let Guilhèm’s love of ancient tales of evil, frighten you into believing all sorts of nonsense,” She snapped with a roll of her eyes. “I should think that you of all people, would doubt such tales more than most. All know that the Unliving have long since vanished from the world.”
“Marculf says that they were only rebuffed for a time,” Ruaidhrí replied stubborn as a mule, “He says that they still haunt the dark places of the world. Haunting places where those not alive yet not dead may hide from the light of the world and where they continue to hunger for the life of others.”

“And you listen to him? I’faith those are but tales intended to scare children,” Complained Seonag.

“Will the two of you cease speaking in your foreign tongue, I shan’t understand save one or two words here and there.” Guilhèm whined now also, his frustration palpable on his face.

Apologies were offered in profuse measure, to the easily irritated feline who was not informed of what it was that they had been arguing about. Though, he did not say anything regarding it, beyond stating that he expected them to get on and be quiet, Seonag had the suspicion he had guessed what they had been arguing over.

Including him in the discussion nigh on an hour after their bickering had ceased, “I should think we ought to stop now, my legs hurt far too much to carry on, at this pace.”

“We are almost at the château, milady,” Guilhèm replied with a wary glance all about him, “I do not like this area.”

“But we are almost out of the woods, surely this should mean that we are safe here,” Ruaidhrí protested no less exhausted than his sister.

“I think not, my very young Ruaidhrí, for we are still within the shadow of Vifombre,” Their guide said sorrowfully, “All the lands of the forest belong to the Fort-Inconnu (Unfound Fort). It is only once the forest has disappeared from view that we might find safety.”

It was not far from where they currently wandered that a duo of woodcutters neared the forest. Neither man was of a particularly charming character or disposition, but rather they were both of a muscular physique with the first of the two bearded and blonde-haired with vivid grey eyes, a twist to his lips that gave him a friendly air. All knew with a single glance to this placid man that he possessed a quick laugh, and a friendly mien.
It was his companion dressed like him in a grey tunic and slightly darker breeches, with the sole difference between them being that the second man was stouter, browner in hair and less prone to smiling. Both carried their axes, as one might a trophy slung over their shoulders, with the two of them walking along in awkward silence.

The source of the awkwardness was the disagreement that had broken out, between them earlier when they had first discussed this plan.

The taller man, at six-feet was of a mind that they oughtn’t to do what it was that they had set out to do; that is to say cut down trees near the old forest, near where Seonag and her brother were travelling. Glancing frequently, to his friend, the taller man who was known as Augustin the ‘Cutter’ or ‘Coupeur’, as the title might be known amongst the Gallians.

“Richard, I do not think this wise,” Augustin said not for the first time, his brow furrowed with worry as he at last summoned up the courage, to speak out against his friend’s plan.

“So you have said, a multitude of times before since this morn’,” Replied Richard exasperated with his best friend’s failure to support what he viewed, as the most obvious solution to their problems. “We must have firewood for the winter, and wood to build a house for young Samuel, is that not so?”

“Yes,” Augustin answered if reluctantly so, as though this single word was torn from his lips. He added, continuing to speak in the same Gallian tongue his friend had, with his words naturally being translated like those of Guilhèm for your benefit dear reader. “And what of the old legends that speak, of the wicked old Knight who slaughtered innocence aplenty until this forest became known as the ‘Fôret-Rouge’?”

“Never you mind, those old tales, they are utterly without merit,” Said Richard dismissively. “Vifombre was lost, and its ‘lord’ dead for nigh on a century.”

“But I say to you, Richard I have heard some rather queer things about the forest,” Augustin reprimanded his friend nervously, “Old Agnes has said that her granddaughter saw something. She says that there has been more movement amongst the trees, and that there was the sound of hooves from deep within for several weeks now.”

“Bah, what does Old Agnes and her similarly named granddaughter knows? They are daft I tell you, as are all others who speak of the return of the Knight of Vifombre or any phantoms in the forest.” Richard snapped at him, “Now cease your bleating and help me by knocking down that tree, while I work on this thin one.”

Augustin sighed. When his friend decided upon anything at all, he would not listen to any others than his own self. Once committed to what he wanted, Richard would regardless, of the madness of doing as he pleased or the wisdom of the counsel given by those around him.

Heaving up his hatchet, the woodcutter followed the other man’s example and moved to chop the wood before him. Hopeful that if he worked swiftly, he might soon be able to return home to his livestock and wife, Marie before any ghosts or brigands happened upon them, or Richard got some other fool notion into his head.

Once the small tree had fallen, he set to work cutting it into smaller pieces, wherefore they loaded the pieces onto the ox-drawn chariot they had brought with them.

Keen to return Augustin was to all but bound to the front to take up the reins, having no wish to be left behind. Whip in hand, he almost struck the beast before the last log had been loaded.

“I do not think we should have come here, we ought to have gone further south-west.”

“Oh cease your fussing,” Snapped Richard annoyed by his perpetual reluctance to explore anywhere near to the woodlands. “Help me load these logs, onto the nearby cart lest I give you a reason to truly wail and moan.”

Reluctantly against his will, Augustin was to do as he was told. Once the logs were one and all loaded, he all but leapt from the rear of the chariot to the front, taking up the whip and reins as he did so.

Rolling his eyes at the antics of his friend, Richard had not intended to say much more. However, it happened that the sound of branches being broken, and brambles being stepped upon drew a sharp cry from the man at the head of the cart. “What was that?”

“I did not hear anything,” Said the stouter man.

Quite why he had lied might trouble you, dear reader, however you must understand how proud Richard could be. Loving his vanity rather more than his friend or his own life, though he had heard the same sudden bursts of noise from deep within the woods he did not wish to seem a fool. This was also why he did not remark upon the other noise he had heard; of metal grinding together and of hooves hitting the earth.

Such noise he knew was certain to inspire panic, in his friend. This it did, when the noise at last reached the ears of the larger man.

Augustin struck at the ox with his whip even as he whipped the reins up and down, which he held in his other hand, even as uncertainty tainted the vanity and foolhardiness of Richard, who leapt onto the back of the cart. Desperate himself, to leave the forest behind if only in the hopes to lord over his friend his victory, even as he deep down wished to leave the sound of hooves behind him.

Though he would have denied being fearful, he was to play when his friend glanced back at him, being aloof and deaf to the growing thunder of hooves.

The heavens already dark turned positively onyx so that one could have been mistaken for thinking them furious. Thunder menaced and rain-clouds very evidently threatened to spill forth from the storm-clouds, Richard noticed more worried for that than his friend was. Momentarily confused, when he heard the sound of lightning strike behind him or what seemed akin to it, Richard attempted to convince himself then that there was none there save nature itself.

This happened to be the last of his thoughts. Riding forth from the woodlands, swift as thunder, faster than a shadow and with all the ferocity of a devil, hither came, a dark sepulchre figure lance in hand.

His blow struck dead the man to the rear of the cart, ere he threw aside his lance in favour of his sword so that he might sever the ropes that bound ox to aforementioned cart.

This swift-figure a-horse the blackest steed that Augustin had ever laid eyes upon, was taller than even the mighty woodsman who gaped momentarily at him as he and his steed wheeled about a short distance from him. The raiment of this knight was black as night, from helm down to his hauberk and even down to his greaves so that without the slightest light of the suns’ he might have proven impossible to find by sight.

Such was the terror that this knight inspired in Augustin that he for several minutes froze where he sat upon the cart. Gaping at the figure that was his own size, with the sole difference being that he was bedecked in dark raiment of a sort worn only by warriors, rather than the plebeian class to which the woodcutter belonged to.

Screaming for help, it was thence that fortune or mayhap it was the goddess the Gallians revered ever so much, Marianne who swept to his rescue. A miracle was not short in supply in that moment, for it was in that hour that one member of the black knight’s company, rode forth alongside a myriad of others. He was to slash at the reins cutting them apart, so that Augustin was left with little in the way of means of escape.

Seized by mortal terror, it happened that the woodcutter could find no other means of escape save by doing that which seemed the maddest. Leaping across the vast distance that separated him from the back of the horse to the right of the cart, Augustin was relieved when not only did he surprise the other man, but he succeeded in knocking him down from the horse to the ground with him.

Pleased, in the next moment he was to regain his feet, and noticing that his ox had taken flight down the hill, the woodcutter determined to follow. Reins in hand, he gave a powerful kick to the sides of his mount at the same time that one of the brigands made a grab at the ropes. Grabbing at them, it happened that the horse was drawn to an abrupt stop, with the peasant only able to get the steed galloping once after several long minutes of struggle.

Augustin did not see who it was, but one of the bandits raced up just as he regained control of the reins and had thrown off the efforts of the other man to take them from him, he knew only that someone chose that moment to strike at the horse’s rear. Rearing back, and with a loud noise that could have easily been mistaken for a clap of thunder, the steed threw it and all of its eight-hundred pounds into motion.

Racing away from the dark-armoured figure behind him, he was to give neither the trees behind him, nor those to either side of him, nor the brigands he left behind him any further thought. Or give anything at all much thought, such was the terror that ran through him.

The rider and the horse stricken as they were, were borne away on the wings of fear and carried through the forest. Utterly convinced that the knight who had hewed down Richard was hot on their heels, they did not think of stopping until the suns had begun to dip in the heavens above. It was as he realised that he did not know how to stop the horse, and that the possibility that the warrior disappeared on the horizon behind him that Augustin’s screams changed in nature.

“Help me! Someone help me!” Shrieked the wood-cutter mad as a hatter.

It was in that moment that he raced into view, of the travelling trio previously introduced to you dear reader. The three of them having by this time come near to the edge of the forest, leapt up several feet into the air, each of them stricken with shock and horror as the frenzied Augustin came within view of them.

The first reaction of Guilhèm was to pull Ruaidhrí out of the way, off his feet for fear that the boy might do something foolhardy. Seonag for her part was no less stunned and bewildered by the sudden appearance of Augustin, and his maddened horse so that she was almost thrown off her own when it panicked, in response to his. Likely some terrible accident, would have occurred in that moment were it not for the sudden arrival from one bush of a fourth traveller.

Having been in the midst of fishing in a pond nearby to where the trio had pulled themselves to a sudden stop, if only to debate once more the merits of stopping for the evening, the figure abandoning his fishing-rod leapt out suddenly at Augustin. Doing so with the speed of a panther, he was to seize the reins of the horse from the terrified peasant.

The horse frenzied as it was, struggled against the man who had suddenly gripped its reins. It was difficult to say who might triumph, in the contest of beast and man, in those first seconds. Any other man might have at once been pulled off their feet, yet not the man who stood before it.

He was a man quite apart from most others; fierce and rather akin to a wolf in appearance, as he was every bit as blonde as Seonag was red-haired. His blue eyes were tinged with grey-steel even as he held himself up as high as six feet tall, but a little shorter than Augustin himself.

Clinging tightly to the steed, he fought to settle it down as best he could, even as he yelled out in the most commanding voice that ever resonated in the ears of the woodcutter. “Calm yourself, woodcutter! Calm, lest you will never regain mastery of your mount!”

Of course he spoke in Gallian, so the words that flowed from his lips were of a far more musical nature than here noted, and of course they flowed faster than what the siblings could grasp. Augustin though, he struggled for several minutes, to do as he was told when he did at last pay heed to the man’s words the steed was to at last lay all four hooves upon the ground.

“Th-thank you kind sir,” Augustin gasped as he sat astride the horse, his heart still beating a thousand times faster than he could possibly run.

“It was nothing my good sir,” replied the other man, cheerfully to the other ere he turned to leave.

He was stopped short by the warning that issued from the lips of the wood-cutter, who asked of him, “I do not know how you know me to be a wood-cutter however you must know that he is after me!”

“Who?”

“Vifombre! His phantom has returned!”

“Are you certain?” The query if you must know was not asked doubtfully, but with genuine surprise and uncertainty.

“As certain as I am that you stand before me, and the trees all about us,” Augustin informed him with a worried glance behind him only to frown. “He was just behind me, where did he go?”

“Where did who go?” The question was not asked by the stranger who had come to the aid, of the poor plebeian but Seonag.

The Caleds along with their guide, had against the wishes of the Tigrun who attempted to induce them to continue on the path before them, decided to double back to look into what had happened. Neither of the twins was strangers to the madness of the world, most especially to seeing others panic though a man so large, and fierce-looking as Augustin being seized by panic was still a shock.

Neither of the twins though could have known, quite the effect that the sight of them might have had upon the two men. Guilhèm though not blind, to the beauty of his charge, had hardly been affected by it so devoted was he, to his wife so that he hardly gave it much thought.

It happens as all men know when the time comes when the arrow of Cupid should strike him. It is almost inevitably an unexpected event, one that invariably strikes all men no matter his station. Augustin and the knight by his side, were to be struck by Cupid’s arrow at that exact moment. Though, for those of Gallia who did not believe in the god Cupid, and worshipped the goddess Turan believed that she threw javelins which bore the same effect, as the arrows of Cupid.

The first to speak, was the knight who being more accustomed to beauty, widely travelled as he was, “The Chevalier de Vifombre, milady.”

“Vifombre you say,” She said with a worried frown, a little apprehensive she was to ask of her brother in their native tongue, “Do you suppose that Marculf might well have happened upon him? Or might have been captured by the knight in question?”

Ruaidhrí shrugged his shoulders, hardly certain himself. His non-committal response though served to spark irritation in his sister, who once again returned her attention, to the two men. Both of whom, she suspected might be more eager to answer what questions she had.

“You did not see the knight, with an Ogre did you?”

“Non, milady though had we seen one, I can assure you I would not soon forget,” Augustin assured her at once, wherefore he shivered a little, “I myself have never much liked those beasts.”

“This one is different, he is a good friend and is known by the name of Marculf,” Ruaidhrí snapped at him.
“If you are indeed friends with an Ogre, I would advise you do not say so if you are bound for Château-Arvois,” the knight warned in his deep voice, frowning worriedly at them. “They may not be half so fond of them, as our friend here or myself.”

“Thank you, sir… whatever was your name, sir knight? I apologise for our rudeness,” Seonag apologised at once, worried that she might have somehow offended him.

“You may call me, Salomon milady,” the knight stated falling to a single knee, before a lady rather than a plebeian girl of the farthest point north, of the Lordly-Isle. Treating her, as though he had never seen her likeness in all the years of travel he had endured, and indeed this much was true. He had never in fact, seen so unique, so striking a lady such as that which he now laid eyes upon.

“Sieur Salomon, if I may ask what is it you and your friend- what was your name?” Seonag asked ignoring the growing impatience of her younger brother.

“Augustin milady,” Augustin piped up with no less enthusiasm, though he did not have quite the same courage as the man next to him to make grand pronouncements. His was a shyer nature, one less prone to outspoken shows of confidence as Salomon was, “And what happened is that the Chevalier de Vifombre, suddenly appeared. That is to say, I believe it was him, as he wore the armour from the tales, and hewed down my friend with the aid of his fellow brigands, in the manner of the ‘Brigand-Knight’ of old.”

His explanation was one that brought a new frown of worry, to all those present with the old tales of Vifombre that is to say Guilhèm and Salomon. The latter though, it must be acknowledged had his own frown hidden behind the lowered visor of his helm. It also happened that Seonag though ignorant of the tales, was no less worried as something in the tone of Augustin communicated to her, the danger that lay in the vicinity of where they stood at present.

“I shall inspect the place, you came from noble woodcutter,” Salomon promised ere he turned next to the siblings and their guide saying to them. “You best hurry along to Arvon and out of the valley.”

“Thank you,” Seonag was to say to him breathlessly, no less affected than the men were by her, though she had eyes for but one of them.

When they turned away, leaving behind the two men, the siblings from Norwend was to at once come to argue over the two in their own language. The pair bickering because of the young maiden remarking about how kind the two were, and how they must not tarry.

“They hardly spoke to me,” Ruaidhrí grumbled, “Or even glanced at me, I must say sister that I do not much like those two.”

“Bah, then speak up if you do not wish to be forgotten,” She hissed at him, irritated by his disapproval of the pair of them.

The two men while the siblings fought and all along the road ahead of them, hurried back the way poor Augustin had come. They trod down whither the beaten path where they were to discover a great many ruined branches and foliage that the woodcutter had torn his way through, in his hurry away from the bandits.

Ever more apprehensive the further along the two went, it happened that Salomon was to ask of his newfound friend, “If you might prefer to flee, you should do so Augustin.”

“Non, I will venture whither you go, I am cowardly it is true however I must show you where it was that my friend died.” Augustin refused at once, as they went so that the knight was to nod his head approvingly.

The two of them were to arrive near where the wagon had been left some time ago, doing so after nearly an hour of travel.

The wagon had been looted and plundered, even of its wheels so that Salomon at once grew concerned. It was uncommon for bandits to go quite so far, unless they were desperate peasants rather than lawless brigands.

Augustin though, being a peasant was more concerned with the lost lumber and the corpse of his friend which had been left to lie in the fields. “We must cremate him, lest the crows peck at him or some of the old legends come true.”

“Bah, I do not believe in such legends,” Salomon grunted, yet still he bent down to pick up the corpse and him onto the cart.

“You ought to, milord,” Augustin warned sharply, with unusual rancour.

Surprised, as the woodcutter had demonstrated himself hitherto that moment too shy to truly criticise him, Salomon looked on him now, with respect. He had underestimated the man, he thought to himself, approving of the show of force on the peasant’s part.

It was as they waited that Salomon took the time to search the area around them, only to find that the locale was empty of bandits. There was in fact no hint of those who murdered poor Richard. It was a source of consternation on the part of the knight.

The fire was soon set, and made with the two waiting throughout it by giving over a prayer and swearing solemnly to have Richard’s ashes taken to a douvard. The ashes would necessitate they knew a holy man to bless, ere they were buried as was proper.

 “I am not mad,” Augustin muttered to him, as they made their way thither to the nearby town, “I swear to you, milord I did see the Knight of Vifombre.”

“I believe you,” Salomon replied earnestly, glancing at him with a slight smile. “It happens that I have heard rumours of his return for some time, before my return to Arvon.”

Pleased that the other man believed him, the relieved woodcutter was to fall silent at this time. It was not an uncomfortable silence though; it was the sort that all men eventually fall into. A comfortable, friendly thing that bound them as closely together as their gods, tongue and culture did, and bound by these things they were.

The ashes were dully blessed, with the local monk of the village to which Augustin belonged to, complaining loudly to them. “You really ought to have come sooner; it is not the proper way of things to cremate the man yourselves. This is our duty!”

“Apologies, brother we were a touch over-eager and simply wished to hurry the process along, as I have need of Augustin with me in Arvon.” Salomon said to the bald monk who stared at him in surprise, just as the woodcutter did. “That is to say, I have need of him for a witness, so that we might convince the Comte to have the forest searched.”

Though, reluctant to part with the finest woodcutter in the locality, the abbot grumpily agreed that this was best, once it was mentioned to him that Vifombre had returned. Far more familiar than most, in the locality with the legends of that particular brigand, the abbot requested that they ask for a guard to be garrisoned in the local village. “We have no desire to suffer through, more persecutions by local brigands, as we did all those years ago.”

The two were to make for Arvon, the reason for the peasant’s need to head in that direction had to do with his desire to place before the local lord a formal plea for protection. It was his view that someone ought to alert the man, of the danger that haunted the forest.

Neither of them had thoughts for the lord at first, consumed with thoughts of Seonag as they were. It happened though that the local lord, a great patron of chivalry, was deep into his cups in the middle of his grand hall. A hall that was located of course within the twenty-three meters high castle, and twice that in width and length, with the hall occupying but a portion of this space. It was a place of some prestige in history, built seventy years hence. A glittering hall, built of stone and with silver blades on the walls that were interspersed with a banner that represented the lord’s home. The emblem of the stag decorated with silver horns was an emblem that the first lord Augustin of the house’s mother was said to have sewn for her son.

The by now fifty year old Pierre d’Arvois, was a great bear of a man, who had begun to run towards fatness in his later years. Bald, with a thick beard that was dark-brown; with flashing eyes the same colour he was dressed in a simple tunic with the family emblem stitched into his livery.

A dour and severe man was he, one who did not take well to his wife’s rather more gossip-mongering ways or his daughters’ tendency to simper and tease men. In contrast to the rotund former-warrior, his sons’ were formidable warriors with a great deal of renown to them. The eldest had departed for the court of King Clovis, where he had been warmly welcomed. It happened that the second, third and fourth sons had departed for distant courts to find their own way.

When they had left, he had been overjoyed and full of encouragement for them, having a dozen letters of introduction written for each of them, by his secretary. But overtime, as the years passed without any of them returning to so much as visit, Pierre became embittered. It was his view that his eldest or second son ought to succeed him.

“Oh I am certain that this year will be different, you see they promised to return for the spring jousts,” His wife Gisèle swore up and down, at every opportunity.

“Doubtful,” He grumbled having long since begun to prepare himself, to remove them from his will. “They will neither return for their mother’s sake, nor to attend the weddings of their sisters.”

“Do not be that way Pierre,” She chastised sharply, rolling her eyes with a heavy sigh that served only to make him all the surlier. The Comtesse was a plump woman, with dark-blonde hair and vivid green eyes that reminded all who looked on them, of the greatest warmth who had none of her husband’s melancholia about her. To her mind, her sons’ were doing what it was that they were always meant to do; seek their fortune and become the men they were always meant to be. “They will return home.”

“Yes, and papa do remember not to scowl the whole way through this joust,” his eldest daughter Augustine reprimanded with a slight chortle alongside her mother. A prettier version of the fifty-two years old woman, with the same hair and eyes she was however far slimmer and more than thirty years her junior.

“Bah,” the old man grunted having no desire to cede an inch even as he could not say, no to his daughters. The man was to turn away while his women-folk busied themselves, with their gossip so that he could focus his attention upon his court fool.

An equally old and bitter old man, who had ceased with his jests some ten years hence when his son had passed away, this old man Gilbert seated to Pierre’s left drained as always his goblet.

The two men were to lean towards one another, more interested in their own conversation; they did not pay attention to the troubadour’s song.

Yvain was this troubadour’s name, a Dwarf from the underground lands of Évranlouin, in the south. A great singer, he was good looking for a Dwarf he had come some ten years hence and had also become a favourite of the Comte.

“No! No, I do not approve of this song, really now, how dare you have it played in my presence, Pierre!” One man shouted, it was the douvard Charles de Héralon.

“What is it?” Pierre wondered a little startled, only to pay rather more attention than before to the clergyman seated at the other end of the table.

“This song of Yvain’s is not to my taste, or worthy of good company such as this one’s,” Charles hissed at him raising his nose up at the Dwarf.

“Really now? I had thought that it might be to your taste,” Yvain retorted mockingly, irritated by the noble-born douvard who glared back at him.

“It is far too lower class in my view,” Charles complained, raising his beak-like nose at the Dwarf who raised a single perfectly plucked brow at him.

“What song was it?” Gilbert asked morosely.

“On that matter, why is a fool permitted to sup at the same table as a lord?”

“A query I ask myself all the time, in regards to a certain clergyman,” Pierre grumbled to himself.

Casting a stern glance in his direction, to silence him Augustine took it upon herself to defend her beloved ‘papa’, “Now, now Brother Charles it happens that Uncle Gilbert is grieving. He and Papa are old friends, and therefore there is no better place for him to eat and stay, than with us, his family.”

“But he is not family!”

“Away, with you, you woman,” Gilbert grumbled at the douvard.

“Shall I once more sing of the great sir Ghyslain the ‘Black Knight’ who rescued the beauteous princess Gauceline, from the serpentine dark sorcerer Sypertius the Defiler?” Yvain asked of the Comte slyly, a smile on his bearded lips.

“Never!”

“Certainly, it is Augustine’s favourite tale,” Gilbert encouraged wearily.

“And mine!” Pierre added eagerly, “Sing o Yvain and let us rejoice in the songs of old, that we may revel in noble deeds not seen in these parts for nigh on forty years!”

“Of Ghyslain, Augustin’s mighty son,

Let us now sing, he who was glorious as a sun,

Genial, he always won,

Every joust that he didst begun,

From his father he didst run,

Lo! His father the great Duc, red as the sun,

Full of agony had it spun,

That Ghyslain was an ungrateful son,

‘Why my child?’ he didst query,

And Ghyslain said in a tone most weary,

His fate was very dreary,

His lady love was most cheery,

In the spring he saw Gauceline the White,

Red-lipped, blonde haired, she was his light,

She cast aside his night,

Lo! She made him fight,

Her favour he wore into every fight,

Many sought him out of spite,

For she was the most bright

Of all Léon’s daughters, he of flawless light,

Many were the men who didst write,

Hopeful to excite

The passion of the White,

But lovely as the spring, she took fright,

And Gauceline would only have her knight,

Lo! Didst he set out,

His father regretfully cast him out,

He thus set about

To conquer a land, no matter his doubt,

This for his Gaucelin the Devout,

She whom none could romance if they had gout,

Or they of many doubts,

Ghyslain of the black-armour set out,

First to Havion, and there he had bouts,

And fought in many jousts,

Thence went he to the dark-lands,

With naught in his hands

Save his lance and plans

To make Gaucelin his wife, and to seize lands,

There amid all sorrows he didst withstand,

And there he didst expand,

His many lands,

In the name of she of the white-hands,

In the spring he saw Gauceline the White,

Red-lipped, blonde haired, she was his light,

She cast aside his night,

Lo! She made him fight,

Her favour he wore into every fight,

Many sought him out of spite,

For she was the most bright

Of all Léon’s daughters, he of flawless light,

Many were the men who didst write,

Hopeful to excite

The passion of the White,

But lovely as the spring, she took fright,

And Gauceline would only have her knight,”

“It is unworthy, and low-brow,” Charles ever the snob sniffed disdainfully, “I much prefer the song of Yvonne the Maiden.”

“Speaking of low-brow music,” Ophélie, Augustine’s younger sister grumbled beneath her breath, to the amusement of her eldest sister. It was at this time that she yelled to the horror of several present in the grand halls of Arvon, “What of the song of Arndryck the Golden? I remember hearing that once, many years ago Yvain will you not sing of Gallia’s Guardian?”

Yvain opened his mouth to sing, the song of which she spoke, just as the fifteen year old girl’s mother and sisters sought to shush her. Their apprehension was rewarded with the slamming of Pierre’s goblet upon the table, as he stared red-eyed at his daughter.

The girl was to clasp her hands over her mouth, and might well have apologised for her actions were it not for a servant hurrying over, in a terrible hurry.

“What is it Martin?” Pierre asked startled and distracted from his daughter’s gaffe by the apprehensive guard.

“We have visitors’ milord, a group of them,” Martin the servant announced, “I was sent by captain Ordéric to inform you there is a small host of them.”

“What is the matter with them? Why kick up so much of a fuss, over a small band of travellers’ man?” Pierre demanded of the servant who hesitated.

The man informed him of the cause for his consternation, at which time all became silent. They were not certain how their lord might take this news. Certainly, there was no official reason to object to those such as they but in truth he had no wish to comply with their request.

When the travellers were presented before him, they were a motley group of knights and held themselves with poise and dignity. Chief among them, was a dark haired man with a neatly trimmed beard, dark eyes and tanned skin, with his hauberk and livery decorated with the symbol of the gold-dragon.

Stiff, he returned the stern glances of all around him, with equal fervour save where the douvard was concerned for he was not a man to glower at a man of the cloth. “Greetings, milord I am Mathieu of Havion, heir to that noble title. I demand entry and hospitality, from your noble house for my friend and myself.”

The lord glared in response.

“Please o lord, let me speak for you,” Another man, this one had decorating his livery and hauberk with a white wisteria-flower symbol. The man was to introduce himself rather more calmly, with considerably less sternness, “Milord Pierre, I am Casimir d’Ulvon, my father and yourself fought side by side years ago, for King Clovis during the war to conquer Folkmaringie.”

“Ah yes, I remember him, Alexandre I believe his name was,” Pierre said struggling to remember the man of whom he spoke.

“Yes, your memory impresses me, considering he was but a squire at the time,” Casimir replied in a much more diplomatic tone than his friend might have used. “My friends and I are en route for the south, for Norléans where we have been invited to join in supporting the legitimate lord’s claim against his rivals.”

“Why go to fight for a lout such as he?” Gilbert grunted to the visible irritation of Mathieu who shifted and opened his mouth to answer.

A swift glare in his direction silenced him though, with Casimir replying smoothly if stiffly, “Because he is friend to Mathieu’s father, and honour demands that we aid him, also because the King has requested that we send aid in Mathias’s hour of need.”

“Which is right and proper, save for the fact that the Norléanians are louts, and brigands one and all,” Gilbert complained loudly.

“Excuse me, but what is your rank to speak to us so? You are dressed as a fool, therefore mayhaps you ought to play the part and cease to meddle in noblemen’s affairs.” Mathieu objected at once, bristling as might a lion that one attempts to force a collar onto.

“Never you mind Gilbert, he is as a brother to me and has long been my dearest friend since youth and has stood by me against bristling spears, long after your father took flight!” Pierre roared furiously.

“Peace, milord,” Casimir interrupted only to turn about to his friend, “Silence Mathieu, you disgrace yourself! There are ladies present here, will you seek to humiliate their father before them, as you did in the last castle we were guests in?”

Mathieu fell silent, falling back.

“My friend apologises.”

“Does he now? I wish to hear it from his lips.”

“Papa please, you should not push too hard on this matter,” Augustine scolded her father, who stared at her aghast that she might defy him, at such a time.

What none had noticed though, was the pity with which she had looked on their guests with, how she had paid the rudeness of Mathieu little mind. She had eyes only for the pained, exhaustion that haunted the faces of the new arrivals.

It happened that her father stared from her to his guests, “I seek to protect you, would you bring into our house those men who might well harm you most in all, the world?”

“And would you punish men who can barely walk at this time, for fear of them? They are from east Norençie it is true, but are those men not any less our brothers and cousins, than we are theirs? Does it not teach in the Book of Ziu, we ought to fight alongside and in support of our brothers in arms?” Augustine argued fiercely, quoting from her father’s favoured book from the Canticle.

This response drew an approving nod from her mother, who was visibly impressed by her daughter’s proficient knowledge of the Canticle. Her sisters looked on her with no small amount of admiration. The men for their parts all stared at her, some with hope others with appreciation for more than her beauty. All were deeply impressed. They had good reason to be, with even her father pleased at her words, and preoccupied mentally with noting that he would have to see fit, to thank the nuns who had overseen her education thus far. All were pleased. All save for Charles. He was never happy, to hear someone rely upon the Canticle to win an argument, as he was the very worst sort of cleric one could possibly find. He was the sort who liked to know more than others, and only read it (skimmed it really) that he might persecute those less knowledgeable than himself.

“It is not right and proper that a woman should quote, the good book,” He grumbled only to add, “Save if she is a nun.”

“Oh do be quiet you,” Pierre hissed irritably, before he added, “I will allow them permission to sleep in the south-east tower but insist that guards be placed there.”

His daughters came near to objecting against this condition, but their mother a wise woman who had seen her share of sorrow was to nod her head in agreement at once. “That seems reasonable to me husband, I will oversee the arrangements at once.”

“We thank you for your consideration, milord,” Casimir said at once, grateful for their hospitality such as it was.

As they left, he was to glance worriedly to his friend when the man, refused to move to follow after the Comtesse. He was not the only knight who was concerned that Mathieu might well cost them, their new accommodations.

The heir of Havion, had no intention of doing so but rather placed himself before the lady Augustine and her mother when they in the company of a number of guards slid from their places behind the main table, to act as guides. On one knee, he was to lay on the back of their hands a very courtly kiss ere he regained his feet.

The elder lady was visibly softened by this gesture, where the younger flushed scarlet as the rays of the twin suns’. Unaccustomed to such treatment, to such courtesy for there were no knights willing to be so daring in the presence of her father.

Pierre for his part when he saw this, was to growl not unlike one of his hunting dogs, and to demand impatiently, “On thy feet Mathieu d’Halvion, lest I ensure that you never regain them again.”

The younger man threw him a defiant glance, wherefore he motioned with stiff-necked politeness to the blonde Augustine, “After you dear ladies, we are eternally in your debt.”

The honour shown to them, and the courtesy that was entirely proper was of a sort that not even Pierre could object, though he tried to do so. A single reproachful glance from his wife, was chastisement enough though so that he resumed his place, asking one of the servants to refill his goblet he subsided into impatient silence.

Yvain was promptly called forth once more, to resume his song which he did with unequalled eagerness, to the amusement of all.

As they stepped outside, and crossed the courtyard Casimir turned to his friend to say to him, “I did not expect you to comport yourself in that manner, Mathieu. You are ordinarily so brusque, that I did not take you for a man to act in so courtly a manner.”

“Even the coldest of men and highest of knights, are but men,” Mathieu retorted with almost equal sternness used to reprimand him earlier. “And the ladies of this house are a far finer sight to behold than any I have beheld as of late.”

What neither man noted or paid much mind to when they at last reached their destination, was the scarlet cheeks of the younger lady who had heard every word. It was the view of the elder that, while the Comte d’Havion was not a man to be respected, he had done well in the upbringing of his son and that her daughter could do far worse. The lady also mused that it was right and proper for Augustine to take up a husband soon, especially if it meant settling such a bitter feud as that which existed between Arvois and Havion.

It was as the ladies returned chortling to themselves, after the courtly words of thanks on the part of their guests that they were to come near to leaping some forty or fifty feet in the air. The source of their fright was the striking of someone’s fist against the castle-gates.

“Let us in! Let us in! We come bearing terrible news, of a great tragedy that has rocked the local village just a few leagues from here!” Léon cried out to the residents of the castle, with the Tigrun speaking in fluent Gallian with an accent most recognised as local.

From the local area, and having worked as a guide of sorts for previous travellers, Léon was well-known to those within the castle so that the women were familiar with his voice. This did not mean that they were quite overtaken with joy, to hear it.

“It is far too late for him to be out and about, he really ought to wait until morning,” Gisèle hissed full to the brim with outrage at the rudeness of the Tigrun.

“Why is here, after the gates have been closed?” Augustine asked her mother, worried as the gates had only just been closed after the arrival of the company from Havion.

“O please do open up dear lord and ladies of the castle, there are bandits about and we bring dire news, and there is a lady and youth here so do open up!” Léon begged from the other side of the gates, as he began to panic.

“No need to panic, you said they knew you, if they do they will open the gates if not we will have to find accommodations in the village.” Said another voice, though the ladies did not know who it was, only that it sounded like a boy, it was in truth as you well know dear Reader, Ruaidhrí.

The lad was in a terribly foul mood, as he had hoped to have reached the castle where there might be fresh food; it was his view that they ought to have stopped along the way. Especially he told himself, if it meant that they were to meet with the closed gates of the castle.

It was Seonag who was to add her voice to that of Léon’s, with the women inside deciding to send to inform Pierre. The Comte hardly happy to take in more guests, was to at first prefer to send them away, however it was Gilbert who was to prevail upon him.

“We both know Léon, he is not a man to conspire with brigands,” Gilbert counselled eagerly, at last putting down his goblet.

Never a man to refuse his dearest friend, Pierre was to with a heavy sigh nod his head, “Very well. They may enter, though I want it to be Alain sent out, while the ladies are to withdraw into the keep, as I will not have them at risk.”

All was accomplished exactly as mighty Pierre of Arvois wished it to be, with the trio welcomed within the boundary of the keep, and ushered inside. They did so reluctantly, with both siblings displeased to be treated as criminals, while their guide looked from knight to knight apprehensively.

“It should be aright,” He whispered to them nervously, patting the lady Seonag’s hand in a paternal manner.

“I am not afraid,” Seonag retorted and it was true, she had heard much about Pierre, and was convinced he was a good man, as there was not a single soul who spoke poorly of him. Nowhere in the foothills, nor in the valley, nor amongst his rivals in Norléans, did anyone speak poorly of him. From the lowliest of peasants, to the highest of nobles to the most middling of clergymen they all spoke well of him and his knights, that not one of them would do any harm to a lady. Neither unwise, nor naïve by her nature, she knew that she was safer within the boundaries of the walls of Arvon, than she was without.

Welcoming them into the bosom of Arvon if cautiously so, the men of Arvois was to conduct them into the presence of the Comte. Once there, they delivered the warning that the terrible Vifombre was once more abroad in Arvois.

The one, who delivered this news in halting words, was Léon himself, who spoke hesitantly of all that they had heard from Augustin. “You see my liege, it has come about that a great many bandits were seen in the village down in the valley near the forest. We came along on ahead, of the knight Salomon and the woodcutter Augustin, who saw Vifombre.”

“Have you any proof, Léon?” Pierre demanded harshly of the guide, who hesitated at this query.

Confused by the tone of the Comte, it was Ruaidhrí who spoke up, “Milord, we did not see this bandit-knight but can assure you that the fear of this woodcutter, seemed quite real.”

The boy was by all custom not supposed to speak up at that moment, it was something that might well have earned him a lashing by any of the lords of Norléans or even those in Brittia. But Pierre had never been a man fond of a whip; there was something in him that inhibited him from making use of it under any circumstances.

Still, in spite of his dislike for harming a child, he wielded such a look of strong disapproval against the youth that he succeeded in subduing him without a word. It was only when his middle daughter spoke out that he was to soften ever so slightly, “Oh do let the boy be papa. I am sure he wishes to believe in this knight of Vifombre, as surely as David once did!”

The reference to his fourth son was a blow that none others might well have gotten away with making, but as the reference came from one of his daughters Pierre let it slide. The memory of David’s letter home last Yuletide in particular had left a wound in his soul, so that he wanted no real mention of his youngest son.

“Please o milord, we only wish for a place to stay, even a stable would be fine if only you would offer it to us in pity! We came here from distant Cymru, where our friend Marculf’s home is with his master Wiglaf, and hoped to find him as we had heard tell that he had gone missing.” Seonag intervened desperately, pleading their cause with all the passion of one of the people of the farthest north of Bretwealda.

Pierre never a man hard on women was to consider her words with sincere courtesy, was however not only moved by her pleas, but also by the reference to Wiglaf. He knew the Cymran, and held him in the highest regard, which was why he was to say to her, “Did you say the Master Wiglaf? How did you come to know him?”

“He is Master to our beloved friend Marculf, who is his prized student,” Ruaidhrí retorted for her, as she nodded at her brother’s words.

“And where is he now?”

“He has gone missing, somewhere within your lands,” Seonag replied at once in her clumsy Gallian, “It happens that we are in search of him and think that the Knight of Vifombre may have seized him.”

Pierre once again irritated by their insistent reference, to the man whom his father had struggled so hard against in his youth, he was to after a long moment, full of tension say to them. “Very well, you have permission to stay but will not be permitted to leave the stable tomorrow, if there are no further reports of this false Vifombre. I have no intention to let such baseless rumours, stop the annual tourney.”

At this time Seonag opened her mouth to object; though capable of incredible lady-like behaviour she had all the grace of a three legged elephant. It was not however a blow to her right side that quieted her. Thus it did not come from her younger brother but instead, from the equally exasperated Léon.

“Quiet!” The Tigrun hissed at her, with the lady snapping her mouth shut.

Whereupon her younger brother begrudgingly accepted the offer of the stables on all their behalf, though he did so reluctantly, “Thank you milord, we accept your offer gratefully.”

“I must warn you all though, if it is found that you have lied to me, you shall all be fined and made to pay for this outrageous farce of yours.” Pierre said ominously and distantly each of them could have sworn that they heard the distant sound of thunder. In truth, it was the slamming of the gates, the message from this was no less firm; here Pierre commanded and he was no lover of lies even accidental ones.