The Rogue

The raven came first.

It landed upon the window sill in the kitchen of the silversmith's wife and croaked so loudly at me that I nearly dropped my ladle into the hot wort.

"Wretched bird! Shoo!" I waved my hand at it, but it merely tilted its head to regard me with bright eyes. "Fie! Away with you!"

I knew as well as any the repute of these birds, but had less desire than most souls to be in the company of a creature so associated with superstition.

I had sufficient trouble without being found in the company of drinkers of blood and harbingers of death. The silversmith's wife would be rid of us for once and for all, if anyone in this village whispered that I kept a raven as a familiar. Such tales were all nonsense, of course, but I dared not risk an inopportune rumor.

"Shoo!" I flicked a cloth at the bird, which seemed untroubled and unimpressed by my antics. The creature bobbed its head and seemed to cackle at me, no doubt enjoying my discomfiture.

"Begone!" I picked up an onion, the bird watching me with knowing eyes all the time, then flung it across the kitchen with all my might.

I missed the raven by a good three hand-spans, though the onion splattered against the wall most impressively. The bird screamed and took flight, uninjured and apparently insulted, which suited me well enough.

I sighed and rubbed my brow as I eyed the mess. I not only had to clean the shattered onion but would have to explain to my patroness why I had seen fit to destroy her foodstuffs - without admitting to the presence of the raven, lest her superstitions be fed. How sweet it would be to have no need of Fiona, with her sharp face and sharper tongue!

I had learned long ago, though, that there was nothing to be gained in bemoaning one's circumstance. I stirred the wort again and fought the urge to grumble.

My ale is fine, I dare say, the very finest. But with no kitchen, no pot, no spouse, the law decrees that I cannot be granted a license to brew. My ale has long provided what little coin my family had, so I am compelled to brew. What choice have I but to ally with this wife or another?

Fiona it was, for she would have me as her partner, if by her spouse's command. It would take a more foolish woman than I to not perceive that though I did most of the work, Fiona kept most of the coin -- and one less aware of nuance than I to not note that coin and spousal approval were not sufficient in Fiona's view to suffer a witch in one's kitchen.

We were convenient to the silversmith and his wife, and it was for this, not a matter of principle or Christian duty, that they tolerated us. I have learned not be surprised that charity is so circumscribed, nor that principles can be so readily forgotten.

Once this massive pot was strained and flavored with my particular combination of herbs, I hoped for brisk sales over the holiday season. The ale would spoil in several days and, as I worked, I worried anew that I had made too much.

I could not risk the loss of any of my investment in ingredients. Competition was fierce in Kinfairlie for ale-making, there being so few other sources of profit. I had a good repute, but the harvest had been mean and all the other brewsters would be making similarly large batches.

I frowned and stirred the wort while it came to the boil. Making ale is a tedious trade and one requiring much heavy labor. I am not afraid to work, indeed I welcome labor. A heavy day ensures a solid night's sleep, at least, and a reprieve from the multitude of worries that plague me.

This day was the first day of the so-called Twelve Days of Christmas, though I should undoubtedly have to explain to young Tynan again and again why there were fourteen days in total so designated. The prospect made me smile.

The wort began to sputter and splash. It was a feat to move the cauldron from the fire myself, but I would have to do it again. I cursed Fiona, who contrived to be absent whenever her assistance might have been helpful. The pot was large enough and hot enough that even once it was away from the heat, it continued to chortle.

It was when I had wrestled it from the fire and halted to wipe my brow that I heard the hoof beats. I turned, eyes narrowed, and listened.

Three fleet steeds, their hooves shod with iron. Dread prickled down my spine. Not plough-horses, for they pranced too lightly. Palfreys lightly burdened, perhaps. And a fourth steed. Larger. Faster. I listened, wanting to be certain, my heart thumping with its own certitude.

The fourth beast was a destrier. There could be no doubt.

I closed my eyes, swallowed, and prayed that the beast's rider was not who I feared it might be. There was no reason it should be him.
After all, Kinfairlie's meager tithes have been hotly contested since the liege lord and manor were lost. We were accustomed to various nobles assaulting the town in search of tribute.

Especially before a holy day.

The hoof beats came closer. When the raven cried, even at a distance, I knew.

The silversmith's house faces the main square of Kinfairlie, where markets are held and criminals are hung, and it was here that the new arrivals came to a halt. I stiffened, but did not go to the door. The steeds' hooves clattered to silence, the destrier neighed and no doubt tossed his head.

"I seek Ysabella of Kinfairlie!" roared a man, his voice achingly familiar.

Merlyn. My heart lunged for my throat.

For years, I had imagined how we might meet again, how I would scorn him with blistering wit, yet now I merely whispered his name beneath my breath like a besotted damsel. In truth, I did not know whether to be frightened or relieved, to be joyous or disappointed. He had come in pursuit of me, after all this time, a boon to my pride if not a good omen for my future.

"Ysabella!" he shouted anew and I wondered if he was drunk.

I glanced over myself and smiled wryly at the embellishment of fermented malt upon my skirts. No doubt the hair had escaped my braid, my face would be hot and nigh as red as my hair. It was a far cry from the reunions I had so oft envisioned, when I was garbed in richness and hauteur, my words as sharp as lances.

My appearance would do very well to show my spouse his importance - or lack of it - to me.

I crossed the kitchen and opened the heavy wood door. Even though I braced myself, my heart stopped. Merlyn was just as imposing as before, his two young squires fighting to control their palfreys. He was garbed in the black and silver he favored, the hues of his house, the hues that made him look more dangerous and dashing than even he was. I looked hastily at his companion. Stalwart Fitz was still with Merlyn, his face only slightly more lined than before.

"Good morning to you, Merlyn," I said, feigning an indifference I hardly felt. "What brings you to Kinfairlie?"

He urged the steed closer, then dismounted, casting the reins aside. His smile was confident, roguish, and enough to set my very flesh to flame. His gaze swept over me, leaving a tingle in its wake and I gripped the door lest I cast myself at him like a harlot. His breath make a cloud against the sky that darkened too early in this season.

"Well met, chère," he murmured, with the intimacy one reserves for lovers.

And I flushed scarlet, heating from nipples to hairline. Worse, I could not summon a sound to my lips.

Merlyn knew it, curse him, and grinned with wicked satisfaction as he closed the distance between us.