Authors: Daniel Arenson
She pushed the church's doors. They creaked open, and Amabel stumbled in with flurries of snow.
Braziers crackled, and the stone walls spun. Amabel felt faint. The room swayed around her. Her baby cried. Her eyes rolled back.
"Father in heaven!" cried a voice.
A figure raced toward her, robes swooshing. Hands grabbed her and held her up.
"Who is it?" asked a second voice from further ahead, this one softer and deeper.
Amabel rested her head against a broad shoulder.
"Father," she whispered.
She blinked, and her eyes cleared enough to see Father Michael, a tall man with a brown beard. He held her in his arms.
"Come, help me bring her to my chambers," Father Michael said over his shoulder.
A gaunt man emerged from shadows, as cold as the icy wind outside. His eyes were chips of ice. His lips were thin, his nose long, his robes shabby. Amabel gasped, for an instant sure that Lucifer himself had invaded the church, but no... this man wore brown robes clasped with a rope.
A friar,
Amabel told herself.
Only a travelling monk. A man of God.
The friar approached and held her shoulder. His fingers were long and cold; she could feel their chill even through her cloak. He helped Father Michael lead Amabel through the hallway and into a cozy, warm chamber. A fire crackled in the hearth. Ice began melting off Amabel's boots, cloak, and hair. Her babe finally stopped crying and slept.
The men removed her soaking cloak and boots, and helped her into an armchair by the fire, and soon Amabel was warm, dry, and drinking hot mulled wine. Her babe slept in her arms.
"Now speak to me, Amabel," Father Michael said. "Tell me everything."
Amabel gulped and looked up at the strange friar. She had grown up with Father Michael, but had never seen this stranger before. The friar stared back, eyes small, black, and cold. Calculating eyes.
"Father, who... who is your guest?" Amabel asked. The friar was still staring at her, saying nothing.
"This is Friar Robert," said her priest. "He's a traveller from the east, passing through Burrfield as he preaches to farmers across the kingdom. He's staying in Burrfield tonight."
"But only for the night," the friar said. His voice was cold, dripping scorn. "I do not care much for towns of comfort, roaring fires, and sloth. I am a simple traveller. I preach to the poor farmer, the outlaw, the downtrodden. I shall be on my way once this storm subsides."
He's calling us pampered,
Amabel realized.
He's calling us weak.
If Father Michael noticed, however, he gave no sign. The kindly priest placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You can speak freely around the friar, my dear. He is a man of God. Speak to me."
She hesitated. Those dark eyes bore into her. But when she looked into Father Michael's eyes, she saw only warmth and love, so she gulped, and she spoke. She spoke of her father, and of her dear Sam Thistle, leaving to the Crusades. Face hot, she spoke of finding comfort in the arms of Jan Rasmussen, a dark youth who planted her baby inside her, then left to the Coven to become a warlock. She spoke of Mary, a serving girl from her father's tavern, helping her deliver her child.
"I don't know what to do, Father," she said. "My daughter has no man here to protect her, to care for her. What will become of us?" Suddenly she was sobbing. Her body trembled. "I'm so scared! I'm scared what people will say. I'm scared what my father will think when he returns... if he returns. Help me, Father Michael." She clutched his robes. "Please."
As Father Michael patted her hand, whispering comforting nothings, the gaunt friar cleared his throat.
"Perhaps," he said, eyes boring into the babe, "I can offer some assistance."
Amabel stared up at him. His eyes met hers, frozen. His mouth was a thin line.
He looks like one of the gargoyles,
she realized.
Father Michael turned toward him. "What are you thinking, Friar Robert? Speak your mind."
The friar's eyes never left Amabel as he spoke. "I travel west from here, heading to the monastery of St. Barnabas by the river. It lies a two day walk from here. I will preach there for several days, then continue my journey." His eyes narrowed, two slits in stone. "St. Barnabas is renowned for its orphanage, my lady Amabel. I will be glad to take your babe there; she will receive a pious upbringing. She will be raised with walls around her, warm meals to eat, a soft bed to sleep on. I have visited there often to preach to the orphans."
Amabel clutched her daughter closer to her breast. She stared down at the pink, sleeping face.
My beautiful daughter.
She looked up at Father Michael, eyes pleading. Surely there was another way, another solution....
But Father Michael only nodded. "Friar Robert speaks wisdom, my child. I have myself visited the orphanage of St. Barnabas. The children there are well fed and well taught; a child can receive a fair, pious upbringing there."
Amabel's eyes stung. She held her baby close.
How can I give you up? You are my daughter, my love....
"It is only two days away," Friar Robert said. "You could visit her when she grows older. None need know your shame in Burrfield. None need know of your unholy acts with the peasant boy. You will remain a fine lady in this town... not an outcast. I will take the bastard child there myself."
Her daughter woke up. Her mouth opened and closed. Her hands reached out to Amabel.
"Please," Amabel whispered, her voice so soft, she wasn't sure they could hear. "Please, I... I cannot, please...."
Yet Father Michael only patted her head, and spoke of piousness and righteousness, and Friar Robert only stared with cold eyes, and spoke of her shame and sins. The wine spun her head. Sobs and tears claimed her. Before she knew what was happening, she had let Father Michael hold the babe, for only a moment...
...and found herself outside, standing upon a hill, wrapped in her cloak. She felt so cold. She felt so empty without her child at her breast. Shivering, she watched the dark figure of Friar Robert walk downhill, across the streets, and out the gates of Burrfield. He was but a thin, black sliver in a world of storming white.
"No!" she shouted, tears claiming her. "No, please! This isn't what I want. I changed my mind. Please!"
She ran. She ran down snowy cobblestones, the houses spinning around her. She ran out the gates, and through the forest, shouting for Friar Robert to return, shouting for her baby. She ran through the night, until dawn rose cold and pale, and finally she fell to her knees. Teasel Forest stretched around her, towering, taunting, glimmering with ice.
Just keep moving,
she told herself. She pushed herself to her feet.
They went to St. Barnabas by the river. Just keep moving.
She walked for three days.
She drank melted snow, and she ate nothing.
Just keep moving.
Half dead, she stumbled through the gates of St. Barnabas. Famished and trembling, she reached the orphanage and collapsed upon its doorstep. She pushed herself up and ran between the children, seeking her baby, seeking her love.
"Where are you, my daughter?" she cried, voice hoarse.
But they had never heard of Friar Robert. They had never seen her baby girl.
Amabel's life shattered. No more tears fell from her. No more pain could fill her. She stood among the orphans, cold, frozen, dead inside.
"Goodbye, my daughter," she whispered, staring at nothing. "Goodbye, my beloved, my Madrila."
She never spoke to anyone of that winter... not to her friends, not to her father when he returned from the Crusades, not to Sam Thistle who returned to Burrfield knighted and proud. She did not speak of it even when she married Sam, even when she gave birth to his children.
"I love you," she whispered to her son of shaggy hair. She laughed when she touched his curls. "He's scruffy."
She loved her Scruff, her first born son... but when she played with him, she still thought of Madrila.
"I love you, Neev," she said, crying and laughing, when she gave birth to her second son.
"I love you, Jamie," she said when a third child blessed their family.
A girl. A beautiful girl. As beautiful as my Madrila, the child I lost.
Her pain lived within her every day, and every night she prayed to God. She prayed for her lost, secret child to someday come home.
* * * * *
Robert grabbed his cane. His eyes blazed and Madrila froze. Fear flooded her like a bucket of ice dumped over her head. She wanted to flee, to fight, to do
some
thing... but the terror froze her.
"This stew is rubbish," Robert said. He tossed the bowl at her. She ducked, and the bowl smashed against the wall behind her. Stew oozed across the floor. That seemed to infuriate Robert further. His cane shot out, whacking Madrila across the arm.
"Clean it, you piece of garbage!" he shouted. His cane lashed again, hitting her shoulder. Pain bloomed. "Clean the damn floor, and then make a proper stew!"
Tears filled her eyes. Madrila grabbed a rag, knelt, and began cleaning the floor. Friar Robert's cane slammed against her back, knocking her down. He was shouting above her, but she couldn't hear him. Pain and rage pumped through her.
When his cane landed again, she spun to face him. She snarled. Such rage filled her, that she thought it would consume her. In all her ten years, she had never felt such rage.
"Enough!" she shouted, wept, and snarled. Too many nights did he beat her. Too many scars covered her back. Before her rage left her, she grabbed a shard of the broken bowl and hurled it. The clay scratched Friar Robert's cheek.
For a moment he stared, frozen. Rage flooded his face. His blood was bright red against his ghostly skin. His lip trembled, and he bared his teeth. His cane rose.
Madrila ran.
She dashed out the door, Robert in hot pursuit. She ran between the trees, screaming and shaking. He ran behind her. A rock sailed over her head.
"Come back here, girl!" he shouted. "You are mine!"
Madrila ran off the dirt road, leaving his hut behind. She would never return, she knew. Trees blurred and spun around her. Branches slapped her face. In all her ten years, she had never gone this far from the hut. She did not know what world lay here, but anything was better than his cane, his rage, the stone floor he made her sleep on, the gruel he fed her. So she ran, trembling, weeping, bleeding. She ran until night fell, and his shouting faded in the distance.
Finally she fell atop a pile of leaves, trembling and terrified. She wept then. She called for him then.
"Master Robert! I'm sorry. I'm sorry! Please. I'm here! Take me back. Please...."
But he did not answer. She fell asleep trembling, alone, and lost.
When dawn rose, she walked among the trees, desperately seeking the hut, seeking the only other human she had ever known. Tears ran down her muddy cheeks. They tasted salty on her lips. Night fell, and still she could not find the hut, and hunger rumbled in her belly.
I'm alone. I'm all alone.
She slept huddled between the mossy roots of a tree, rain drizzling upon her.
On the third day, she met the bards.
She crouched behind branches that day, sipping water that dripped from leaves. When singing floated through the forest, she froze and stared, eyes narrowed. She had never heard singing before; it was the most beautiful thing Madrila had ever heard. Notes floated like dry leaves on the breeze. When she peeked between the leaves, she saw them: a troupe of travelling men and women dressed in motley. Three were dwarves, shorter than her; they wore bells in their hats and particolored clothes. The taller folks wore bright vests with golden buttons, silver shoes topped with bells, and plumed hats. Several dogs walked among them, dressed in colorful, sequined sweaters.
As they walked down a narrow path, the men and women sang and played stringed instruments; Madrila would later learn these were called lutes and harps. She listened to the words of the song, gaping.
Oh the witch did cast her spells
And oh the mountains shook!
The knights could not defeat her
her magic had them cooked!
Heroes came from all the lands
to face the witch's magic
even though their swords were bright
their end was fast and tragic!
Madrila couldn't help it. She found herself singing along, marvelling at this mighty witch, her dark magic, and the power she wielded.
"Hush!" said one of the dwarves, voice sharp. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the forest, and the music died. "I heard something from the trees."
Madrila leaped to her feet. She wanted to run and hide, but... if she ran, she would never more hear this music. She could not flee these people. She stepped out from cover, muddy and wafer-thin, leaves in her hair.
"Keep singing," she said, eyes stinging. "Please."
They gaped at her, their eyes softened, and her life forever changed.
She travelled with them that summer, and the following autumn, and learned their songs. Her voice was high and pure. At dozens of towns, she sang with these bards, sad and solemn when singing of tragic heroes, bouncy and winking when singing of mischievous elves, dramatic and booming when singing of battles and dragons. The dwarves danced and juggled around her, and the minstrels played. They called themselves The Snowy Owls—the most excellent troupe of travelling bards, jugglers, and dancers.
But Madrila's favorite song, and the one she sang best, was still that first one she heard... the song of the witch.
Oh the witch did cast her spells! And oh the mountains shook!
Whenever Madrila sang this song, she felt mighty and feared, like the witch herself. She imagined herself wielding magic, shaking the mountains, and killing Friar Robert with blasts of fire.