Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a Spring morn

Roel’s black and Celeste’s grey were saddled and ready when Roel arrived.

Anton and a number of men stood by; a frown of worry stood stark upon the captain’s face. “My lady,” he said, “I suggest we fare with you.”

Celeste smiled and shook her head. “Roel alone is ward enough, armed and armored as he is. Besides, I have my bow and a full quiver of arrows, and surely that will be enough to deter anyone who thinks otherwise.”

“But there might be more brigands abroad,” said Anton.

“In which case I shall sound my horn,” said Celeste.

“As you will, my lady,” said Anton.

And with that, Roel and Celeste set forth from the stable.

The moment they were out of sight,Anton and his men saddled their horses and followed at a discreet distance.

“They are trailing us, you know,” said Roel.

Celeste sighed and nodded. “Anton has ever been overprotective. Usually I have to steal away to find solitude.”

“You are a treasure not to be lost,” said Roel.

Celeste laughed, and onward they rode.

They passed by the great oak, and all signs of battle were gone. Two furlongs or so beyond, they came upon a mass grave; Anton and his men had dragged the brigands this far to be well away from Celeste’s Companion of Quietness; here they had unceremoniously buried them.

Without comment, Celeste and Roel rode on.

Letting the horses walk for the most part, the two spent much of the time speaking of their childhoods and their dreams for children of their own. But all was predicated on Roel surviving the search for Avelaine and Laurent and Blaise.

Now and again they would dismount and lead the horses, though once in a while they raced at breakneck speed across an open dell.

And always behind, but well within a swift gallop, trailed Anton and his warband.

And the lovers rode among groves of wild cherry, their pink blossoms bursting in glory, and a storm of petals swirled about them in a roil of air.

“When will the cherries ripen?” asked Roel.

“For these trees, never,” said Celeste. “And although they lose their petals in the turning breeze, when no one is looking they replenish themselves and begin anew.”

“Anew?”

“Oui. These particular trees are ever petaled, for this is the Foret de Printemps , my love, where spring is never ending.”

“You mean the season is somehow arrested?” Celeste nodded. “Endless, undying, perpetual.”

“How strange,” said Roel, looking about, wonder in his eyes. “Why then isn’t the ground ’neath them piled neck-high in petals?”

Celeste laughed. “No one knows, my love; it is but another mystery of the Springwood.”

“Magic, I would say,” said Roel. “-Is all of the forest like this? Ever caught in the season?”

“Oui, it is.”

“Oh, my,” said Roel. “How marvelous. A woodland ever wakening. ’Tis a unique wonder.” Celeste smiled and said, “Let me tell you of the Winterwood, the Autumnwood, and the Summerwood.” As she spoke of these other domains and their own miraculous attributes, they passed among white-flowering dogwoods and across fields of purple crocuses, and places where mushrooms pushed up through layers of decaying leaves. They forded rushing streams and galloped by new-budding trees, and o’er fields of grasses turning green as they rode among spring everlasting.

Celeste and Roel stopped for a picnic lunch along the banks of a stream running swiftly with snowmelt. And above the burble, Roel frowned and cocked an ear.

“What is it, my love?” asked Celeste.

“I hear a rustling.”

Celeste laughed. “Ah, it is but the wee folk.”

“Wee folk? Fairies you mean? Or Elves?”

“Oh, non. Fairies are quite like you and me, though perhaps a bit smaller in stature. Not Elves either, for they match us in size as well. Non, my love, the wee folk are tiny.” Celeste held a hand some six or so inches above the ground. “Some smaller, some larger, some winged, others not. Perhaps you would call some of them Sprites and others Pixies, though those are but two kinds of wee folk.”

Roel looked about, and now and again he caught a glimpse of furtive movement in the undergrowth. “Are we trespassing in their demesne? Is that why they gather ’round?”

A tiny giggle sounded and more rustling, and something or someone at the edge of Roel’s peripheral vision dashed from behind a rock to behind a tree.

Celeste laughed. “Non, Roel. They gather because I am their nominal liege lord, and they come to pay their respects.”

“You are their liege?”

“Oui. The whole of the Springwood is my demesne.”

“The entire wood?”

“Oui.”

Roel slowly shook his head. “Why, then, Princess, would you choose someone as me-the poor third son of a common knight, and not the prince or the king you deserve?”

Celeste took Roel’s hand. “You are no common knight, Roel, but are the man I have dreamed of.”

“You have nightmares, eh?”

Celeste broke into laughter.

It was late in the day when they returned to the manor, Anton and his men yet trailing, and even as the two handed their horses over to the stable master and his boys, Gerard came and discreetly waited.

As Celeste spoke to the hostler, Gerard stepped to Roel and said, “My lord, it is-”

“Oh, Gerard, I am no lord.”

“Nevertheless, my lord,” said Gerard, stubbornly, “it is time to make ready for dinner this eve. Your bath awaits, and I will dress you.”

“Dress me, Gerard?”

“Oui, my lord,” said the tall, gaunt, bald-headed man.

“I am assigned as your valet de chambre.” Gerard’s smile lit up his face, for he was truly happy at his change of station.

Dinner was held in a large dining hall, Celeste at the head of the lengthy cherrywood table, Roel at the foot.

Others were ranged along the sides, among whom were Vidal, tall and spare and with silver hair, steward of Springwood Manor; Anton, a stocky redhead, captain of the Springwood warband; Theon, brown-haired and wiry and of average height, captain of the houseguard; Gilles, the healer, dark of hair and eye; and brown-haired Henriette, petite and sharp-eyed, chaperone to the princess. Three other ladies were present, but Roel could not place their names.

And all were dressed in finery, the women in satiny gowns of topaz, of emerald, of sienna, and of azure, the men in shades of russet and grey and auburn and deep blue. Celeste wore topaz and white, with matching ribbons loosely entwined in her hair. Roel wore indigo-

trews, hose, his shirt with puffed sleeves inset with pale lavender diamonds. Even his silver-buckled shoes were dark blue.

Marielle, a blonde sitting to Roel’s right cooed, “Oh, Sieur Knight, do tell us of your rescue of our beloved princess.”

Roel smiled and said, “Mayhap you have that backwards, my lady, for I think it was she who rescued me.”

At Marielle’s puzzled frown, Roel said, “You see, I rashly charged in among the brigands and found myself within a seething melee, and it was Princess Celeste who made certain that none came at me from arear. Had she not done so, I likely would not be here tonight.”

“But surely, Sieur,” said Marielle, “you slew nearly all.”

“Oh, non, mademoiselle, ’twas the princess who took many down. In fact I imagine she slew more than did I.” Marielle made a moue, and Anton said, “Of the thirteen slain, seven were by sword, six by arrow.”

“Thirteen?” asked Roel. “But two escaped.”

“No, Sieur Roel. Of the pair who fled, we later found both dead in the woods, one with a missing hand, the other with an arrow in his side. Both bled to death.”

“Ah, I see,” said Roel. “What else did you discover?”