the circumstances. “I am old, and fit for nothing but lying on my belly before the fire, like an aged dog with too many hunts behind him.”
Edward was silent for a time, which was a mercy, to Dane’s mind. A soldier, a commander of men, Dane was not used to idle talk, and he did not relish it. He was beginning to hope they would gain the abbey gates without exchanging another word when the lad spoke again.
“I would court Gloriana,” he said, with a note of glumness in his youthful voice. “She is beautiful and kind, full of spirit and joy. She is quick-minded, in the bargain.”
“Does the lady return your sentiments?” Dane asked. The high abbey gates were shut, and he bent from Peleus’s gleaming ebony back to grasp the latchstring. Another sign, he thought, of either carelessness or a zealot’s belief in peace that admittance could be gained so easily.
“Gloriana believes herself to be devoted to you,” Edward answered, with a directness Dane could not fail to admire. “She will get over that, as time passes.”
Dane recalled the lady’s admonition that he go “to hell … and roast there on a spit,” and smiled sadlyas he rode through the open gateway. She’d gone a long way, had the lady Gloriana, toward putting her “devotion” behind her. Why did that cause him sorrow? he wondered. Surely it was the best that could be hoped for, that Gloriana should cease caring for him and resign herself to a quiet life in the seclusion and safety of an abbey such as the one he and Edward entered now.
The abbess, Sister Margaret, swept into the small courtyard, clad, as were all the members of her order, in a plain gray kirtle and wimple. She beamed at the sight of Dane, and the motion sent wrinkles spreading gently over her face, like cracks in brittle ice.
“So,” she said, as Dane dismounted. “What we have heard is true—you have come home to Hadleigh Castle at last.”
Dane raised his eyes to the gloomy hulk in the distance. “I have indeed come home,” he answered, “but to Kenbrook Hall. I will reside there, once I have attended to a few difficult matters.”
Edward uttered a small, disdainful grunt, but offered no other comment.
“How fares the lady Elaina?” Dane asked. Sister Margaret had given him her hand, and he had squeezed it slightly, for their affection for each other was great.
Sister Margaret sighed and turned to lead the way across the crumbling stones of the courtyard. The abbey, like Kenbrook Hall, was old, with a history that reached far back into the mists of history, beyond the things that had been recorded on scrolls and pages of parchment and into the realm of legend. “She claims to have truck with the fairies,” the abbess answered, “and it’s certainly true that Lady Hadleigh seems to grow younger, while the rest of us age. Ithink, now and then, that her fancies are not fancies at all, that she not only knows the little people but is somehow one of them and privy to their most cherished secrets.”
“Perhaps you have attended our brother’s wife too long,” Edward observed.
Dane gave the lad a withering look over his shoulder, and Edward was suitably chagrined, though the effect would probably wear off all too soon.
Elaina sat, bathed in sunshine, in a corner of a small courtyard. Her face was raised to the light, a small smile played upon her mouth, and her eyes were closed. Her hair gleamed like burnished gold, and her kirtle, made of some gossamer fabric, moved softly in the breeze and seemed, in its own way, as alive as the grass or the birds or the fluttering green leaves of the oak trees.
She opened her eyes and gazed upon her visitors without surprise. Her countenance was placid and serene, and Dane thought, as she got up and glided toward them,
If Elaina is mad, then so am I
.
“Dane,” Elaina said, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “You’ve grown since I saw you last. And there are no scars—at least, not visible ones. I suppose that
Edward was silent for a time, which was a mercy, to Dane’s mind. A soldier, a commander of men, Dane was not used to idle talk, and he did not relish it. He was beginning to hope they would gain the abbey gates without exchanging another word when the lad spoke again.
“I would court Gloriana,” he said, with a note of glumness in his youthful voice. “She is beautiful and kind, full of spirit and joy. She is quick-minded, in the bargain.”
“Does the lady return your sentiments?” Dane asked. The high abbey gates were shut, and he bent from Peleus’s gleaming ebony back to grasp the latchstring. Another sign, he thought, of either carelessness or a zealot’s belief in peace that admittance could be gained so easily.
“Gloriana believes herself to be devoted to you,” Edward answered, with a directness Dane could not fail to admire. “She will get over that, as time passes.”
Dane recalled the lady’s admonition that he go “to hell … and roast there on a spit,” and smiled sadlyas he rode through the open gateway. She’d gone a long way, had the lady Gloriana, toward putting her “devotion” behind her. Why did that cause him sorrow? he wondered. Surely it was the best that could be hoped for, that Gloriana should cease caring for him and resign herself to a quiet life in the seclusion and safety of an abbey such as the one he and Edward entered now.
The abbess, Sister Margaret, swept into the small courtyard, clad, as were all the members of her order, in a plain gray kirtle and wimple. She beamed at the sight of Dane, and the motion sent wrinkles spreading gently over her face, like cracks in brittle ice.
“So,” she said, as Dane dismounted. “What we have heard is true—you have come home to Hadleigh Castle at last.”
Dane raised his eyes to the gloomy hulk in the distance. “I have indeed come home,” he answered, “but to Kenbrook Hall. I will reside there, once I have attended to a few difficult matters.”
Edward uttered a small, disdainful grunt, but offered no other comment.
“How fares the lady Elaina?” Dane asked. Sister Margaret had given him her hand, and he had squeezed it slightly, for their affection for each other was great.
Sister Margaret sighed and turned to lead the way across the crumbling stones of the courtyard. The abbey, like Kenbrook Hall, was old, with a history that reached far back into the mists of history, beyond the things that had been recorded on scrolls and pages of parchment and into the realm of legend. “She claims to have truck with the fairies,” the abbess answered, “and it’s certainly true that Lady Hadleigh seems to grow younger, while the rest of us age. Ithink, now and then, that her fancies are not fancies at all, that she not only knows the little people but is somehow one of them and privy to their most cherished secrets.”
“Perhaps you have attended our brother’s wife too long,” Edward observed.
Dane gave the lad a withering look over his shoulder, and Edward was suitably chagrined, though the effect would probably wear off all too soon.
Elaina sat, bathed in sunshine, in a corner of a small courtyard. Her face was raised to the light, a small smile played upon her mouth, and her eyes were closed. Her hair gleamed like burnished gold, and her kirtle, made of some gossamer fabric, moved softly in the breeze and seemed, in its own way, as alive as the grass or the birds or the fluttering green leaves of the oak trees.
She opened her eyes and gazed upon her visitors without surprise. Her countenance was placid and serene, and Dane thought, as she got up and glided toward them,
If Elaina is mad, then so am I
.
“Dane,” Elaina said, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “You’ve grown since I saw you last. And there are no scars—at least, not visible ones. I suppose that
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