December 19, 2010

My medieval Christmas music is still playing even though it is well past Thanksgiving and I can officially have modern Christmas music blaring. What could be more appropriate than to finally work on a Christmas themed story in Dahlquin? Last week at Monday Night writer’s group we did a writing prompt and I launched into the beginnings of just such a Yuletide tale.

I already know Eloise gives birth to her first daughter in December, what better Yuletide to commemorate? I know what music she would be listening to and singing and teaching her children. I’ll revisit the holiday celebrations of the period (always fun). But the stress, the conflict, the tension…what is at stake on every page, in every scene? Unlike her contemporary sisters whose holiday conflicts include searching for a parking space, hunting a ‘must have’ toy for her children, or the elusive perfect gift for her hard-to-shop-for father-in-law, nay, what confrontations must thirteenth century Eloise face to keep readers turning the pages.

Disease swept through the castle last winter, so plague is out. Rape, pillage and mayhem, not until Christmas day--no wait that is our house!

Her parents must be called away, to a dying sister north in the O’Connor’s lands. Roland, too, must leave mighty Dahlquin Castle during this most festive season, leaving Eloise rotund and physically vulnerable.

Never one to enjoy her ninth month incarceration, Eloise embraces her freedom forming a children’s choir, reciting Christmas stories and Yuletide tales, planning the banquets and feasts as the weather grows ever colder and the travel more perilous. Holding to the belief her mother will return in time to deliver this fourth child. Roland will find Val and both will be warmed and well fed through Twelfth Night.

With Eloise’s parents and husband absent, and her due to deliver any day, a mercenary force instigated by the opportunistic Scragmuirs lay siege upon Dahlquin Castle.

This is to be a short story. Short. Story. Requiring me to have a beginning, middle and end, a theme and a building story line with more and more at stake with every scene. A Scene Tracker and Plot Planner, with a viable yarn to spin.

Can I do this? Will I rise to the challenge as I know Eloise will? I better get started.

I had not planned for Pearl Harbor Day to be the theme of this blog post, but I felt so unpatriotic ignoring it I was compelled to write about it.

Actually, I remember Pearl Harbor Day every year, even when it is not printed on a calendar. (One Pearl Harbor Day I attended a surfing contest) I’m not sure why I’m so devoted to remembering the day. Perhaps it’s because I love history, or that I have seen the FDR footage so many times, or because “From Here to Eternity” left an indelible mark upon me. Or perhaps it’s because Pearl Harbor was a turning point in the 20^th century for American and global history—the point when we entered World War II. Of course, my interest is enhanced by the wealth of film and photos that keep the events alive and potent. Literature and movies continue to build and perpetuate the stories of the war’s military and political giants as well as those of the common solider and civilian—stories that span continents. The Diary of Anne Frank and Patton are but two of thousands. Atonement, by Ian McEwan still speaks to the spiritual depth of those war years. Whatever the reasons, December 7 has always been a day I commemorate.

Is there a message in all this? Is there a reason I am compelled to remember this monumental day, perhaps, neglecting other infamous days of equally great significance? Born in 1955, I didn’t experience Pearl Harbor Day first-hand. For my generation, it’s not a landmark day like that of the Kennedy shooting, Woodstock or December 8, 1980, when John Lennon was murdered. But Pearl Harbor and WWII formed the days of my life—through media and politics—and that of the western world as I came to know it. To this day, I still view World War II as an epic battle between the forces of good and evil, dark and light, freedom and persecution, as opposed to other more ambiguous disasters that have plagued us nationally and globally.

This December 7 I will attend my Tuesday Afternoon Writer’s Group and my daughter will attend Grad Fest in preparation for her college commencement in May. My husband will see patients. But it won’t be just another Tuesday, because I will remind them it is a day that will not be forgotten in this household.

San Francisco Writing for Change conference was last weekend at the Hilton on Kearney and Washington, and as usual these exceptional and diligent organizers provided diverse and inspiring workshops as well as talented and varied presenters and speakers. Although the focus was primarily non-fiction writing with the goal of changing the world, there was a generous amount of cross over for the fiction writer like me, although the category of novels that changed the world was lofty and oh so very inspiring, it was also intimidating.

Such great books and driven authors, Charles Dickens illuminating the dark, dour misuses of children during the industrial revolution, the lonely and ignored souls depicted by John Steinbeck, and Harper Lee’s quiet dignity and resolve in To Kill a Mockingbird. This is the short list, to be sure, of literary giants and the heroic stories they were and are compelled to tell.

Never have I sat down to the mighty keyboard with the sole intention of highlighting a wrong doing or travesty in the human condition, expecting my written words to rally people to political or social action. Originally I believed I was writing entertaining stories about things I loved, horses, hounds, and of course, my medieval fetish for castles and cathedrals. The characters spoke and I listened and wrote.

In the end they told me of injustice and heart ache, solitude and earning, and over and over again, the desire to be heard, and the freedom to choose for oneself has become the resounding theme throughout my books. I invite the reader to explore my characters’ world, their adventures and conflicts, religious convictions and heretical pragmatism, love, lust and the hierarchy of conflicted loyalty: Family, God or crown, hopefully with as much laughter and tears as my characters have shared with me. Rousing entertainment and thoughtful reflection are my deepest wish in writing these stories.

Too long have my blogs gone empty, but now that the dark days of menopause seem to have passed just as Europe’s feudal system rose from the dark void of Rome’s demise, I am happy to report that I am again hearing voices, yes, the schizophrenia of fiction writing has returned in full Dolby surround sound and with all the crisp Technicolor of a blue ray peacock.

And that said, I will share the absolute delight I receive when I am happily writing away, engrossed with my beloved characters in medieval Connacht, Ireland, when a conversation will progress onto subjects and about things I didn’t know until my characters surprised me with their insight and candor, my fingers gaily typing away as fast as possible so I know what will happen next. Does anyone else do that? Seriously, isn’t this normal for fiction writing? Or is this why I find myself continually in new dilemmas for my characters to over come, just so I can find the thread of theme I thought I wished to explore?

Is there any more joy in writing than having a total stranger walk out of the woods (literally in my case), into a scene with a voice and presence so enigmatic and engaging that you have to laugh at the absurdity, and write all the more to try and figure out who, what, when, how and why. I just wanted to say: “Who the hell are you and why have you barged in on my story?” Turns out this particular character helped propel my story, getting me back on track, keeping it true to the theme, while enchanting me with the wonder of my mental stability. This guy was not to be denied, luckily my other characters like him too.

Please tell me I’m not alone in this. Isn’t this where the inspiration and stories come from? Jean Auel heard a voice, felt a character, someone who was ‘Other’, didn’t fit in, launching Ms. Auel on a quest to discover who she was, where and when she lived, and ultimately delivered to us the Children of the Earth Series, with all the grandeur and magnitude of the Ice Age.

Another favorite author, Diana Gabaldon, was lead on a bonny quest to unravel the complicated time traveling lives of Claire and Jaime all because she was intrigued by a kilt wearing character on the vintage Dr. Who series. Who indeed, would have thought such an episode could have lead to the whole Rising of ’45 to our own Revolutionary War, with more details and intrigues than I even remember.

I don’t know if James Clavell suffered this affliction or not. I can only wonder.

There it is, I have no secrets, maybe not so funny as the honest woman on a You Tube post, but I’m not ashamed to admit I hear voices, and as long as they don’t direct me to live under a bridge --- wait, they are encouraging me to research the Pilgrim’s Way to Canterbury --- I think I will be alright.

Dahlquin Castle, Before Dawn, #4

DAHLQUIN CASTLE, BEFORE DAWN,

June 8, 1224 AD

The six guests rose before the dawn, as planned. No one suspected their foul purpose. By design, they had drunk far less than it appeared. While it seemed they slept soundly, in actuality they gauged the pulse of the castle. Before light, they would execute the gatekeeper and guards then open the gate to Timothy O’Neill’s army. Aye, they were mercenaries. Why not? They could be bought; their reward might be in land grants if the invading force were successful. To take Dahlquin would be a prize indeed. Remote enough the king might not rush to its defense. What a message it would send to the rest of the Irish kings. This could be a stepping-stone eventually taking the whole kingdom, or merely a good place to start one’s own realm. Or work out the details of a truce, keep Dahlquin, and be absorbed back into the old regime. There were many possibilities if the only loyalty was self-interest.

With silence and stealth, three of the mercenaries made their way through the grounds. Approaching the gatehouse was harder than they anticipated. Lord Hubert was a careful and thorough man. More sentries to be silenced than expected, still Hubert expected the assault from without, not treachery within his very walls.

The other three assassins slunk to the residential tower. Quite a bit of wine and flattery tricked a disgruntled laundress into revealing the locations of the bedchambers of the lord, lady and their daughter. With the Dahlquin nobility murdered, taking the castle would be much easier to take. Dare they dream of a smooth takeover? Invade the castle, declare themselves the lords, and demand allegiance. Give the new subjects a chance to live by swearing their fealty to the new overlord: Timothy O’Neill. This plan had so many inherent possibilities.

Returning from the chapel, Donegal’s mind was full of doubt, should he have stayed with Eloise, sending Alexander to join Eoin? Thoroughly he checked in with all the posts through the castle on his way. All was quiet as it should be; nonsense, he chided himself, Eloise was fine. When he heard a foot fall behind him, Donegal turned half expecting to see Alexander, dice in hand, begging to trade duty. Donegal’s mouth was covered, his head yanked back. As the assailant behind cut his throat, another held his legs firmly. Eoin, his mind screamed, he could picture his cousin, alert; feel his own failure to duty, Uncle… Donegal struggled in vain as his lifeblood pumped furiously from his body. Panic overrode any pain, until weakness, darkness, cold and the final humiliation of evacuation ended his days.

The residential tower was very quiet again; Donegal’s body was left sitting as if asleep, his padded gambeson absorbing the thick, spent blood, but not the stench of filth. Tiny pairs of eyes watched the body, unafraid of the retreating men. Rats drawn by the smell inched greedily from the hidden depths, cautious only of a cat’s return; or one of the dogs.

But the hounds slept soundly in Dahlquin this night. Perhaps Lord Hubert had grown soft or relaxed his guard. Maybe he was overconfident in the Dahlquin image of invincibility and tenacity the assassins thought as Eoin was murdered outside Lady Eloise’s very door. With the two guards dead, one assassin slipped into her bedchamber. It was dark but not silent. Snoring rattled the furnishings, making his hair stand on end. No more guards, no hounds. Barely enough light glowed from the hearth to illuminate two sleeping figures on the floor: Nursemaids, perhaps? The bed was empty. Unslept in. Sir Byron quietly felt around anyway, for any form. Only a book. He scanned the room thoroughly. Armed as he was it was impossible to be absolutely silent, one of the sleepers roused.

“My lady, dear, is that you? Elo-” the name remained unfinished, the woman was sliced near in half. The commotion woke the other sleeper. The red-haired assassin grabbed for the man’s head in the dark. A scuffle ensued; muted voices, finally John felt a large hand cover his mouth and part of his nose. A dagger pressed cold and sharp on his throat. Was it wet, John pondered? Blood? His?

“Where is she?” hissed Byron’s angry voice.

John could smell blood, lots of it. Whose? His wife’s? They were here together, in the lady’s room; sleeping on a pallet upon the floor waiting for her. His wife had been the Lady’s nursemaid since infancy.

“Where is she?” Byron’s voice grated in John’s ear. John was bleeding and overwhelmed. The stranger threatening, the oppressing odor, and the unconscious game he played not to believe it was his own wife’s death he smelled.

“The lady,” the Byron demanded.

“Eloise? Not here?” John finally croaked through the pressure of a blade already severing the outer layer of flesh. John felt his own death as imminent. How clear and indisputable: His wife and now him. He knew it, to his amazement, accepted it, and shouldering the full responsibility of a man, made no effort to alter it. He would die.

The knight felt the futility of it too. Byron would get no information from this dredge. Worthless filth. Keeping back of the man to avoid the blood, he slit John’s throat to the spine. Angered, he kicked the bodies, as if this would somehow reveal where his prime target was. Curse the bitch. No wonder it had been so easy. She and her notorious hounds from hell weren’t even here. What next, assist his partners with the lord and lady? Maybe Eloise was with either of them, or they would know where she was.

A small dog yapped in the adjoining chamber. The squire was to assassinate Lady Anne while the two knights killed the father and heir. Instead of the sleeping lady, he found only a small hairy dog biting viciously at his ankles. Kicking at the relentless dog he rummaged quickly through the empty bed, Sylvester continued to bark and bite. The squire heard a deep, rumbling growl, but there was no source. The witch’s chamber was haunted, the squire thought.

Hounds from hell were abundant in Dahlquin. Lord Hubert usually had any number of dogs with him. The Lady Anne preferred small companion dogs, but even these were alert, could bark a warning, and put a good bite on an unprotected finger.

There was no one in Lady Anne’s bedchamber this night. This was uncommon among the nobility. . It was Sylvester’s growls and yaps that alerted Lord Hubert’s dogs, which in turn woke Hubert, Anne and Sir Reginald.

“No one here, either?’ hissed Byron as he slipped into Anne’s chamber.

It was Lord Hubert who must be killed first, the heir and then the witch. But where were the women?

Hubert and Reginald reacted immediately, without thinking or speaking. Neither man had fully undressed; they had fallen into the uncomfortable sleep of men with unresolved problems on their minds. Anne slept restlessly as well. It was the ill luck of the other assassin, Sir Davydd, to face Hubert and Reginald, armed and waiting. But it was the hounds that took the day.

The savage dogs got the assassin by hand and throat. No chain mail covered his face, making an easy target. The table was overturned, ewer and bowl crashed to the floor. A chair slid across the room, propelled by man and dogs, wedging beneath the bed. Reginald was closest to the door adjoining Anne’s chamber, the carnage of red headed man and flailing dogs separated him from Hubert on the other side. Anne sat petrified on the bed.

“Where are the guards?” Anne wailed, incredulous with the howls and destruction before her?

As Byron came to assist his brother, Sir Reginald descended upon him with an elbow to the face, feet swept out from under him, the traitor thudded to the stone floor. Taken alive to answer questions and suffer a proper death later. Seeing this, the squire turned and ran to take his chances with the gatehouse.

By the time Lord Hubert could call off the dogs, Davydd was but a torso mangled and mauled. He would answer to no one but the Devil. Hubert hated a mess in his bedchamber. As a knight and lord, battle was a way of life and he thrived on it. But in his bedchamber where he, his wife and child took their refuge, this was defilement. Even as these thoughts ran through his head, he was in flight to the bedchambers of his women. Anne’s room lay undisturbed save for the ranting Sylvester. That little excuse for a dog helped save his life. Hubert didn’t appreciate the debt to a dog no bigger than a flea on a real Dahlquin hound. Later.

His worst nightmare awaited him in his daughter’s chamber. The stench of blood and death hit him as he entered the door. Foul it was when a body was laid open. No time for emotion, he methodically analyzed the scene. Bed mussed, but unslept in. The nursemaid, hacked almost in two, lay cruelly strewn across the floor. And who was the other? Definitely not his daughter: A man, aye, John. Look again, fool, maybe your mind refuses to see what is truly present, he scolded himself. There were only two bodies. And Eloise was not one of them. No sign of a real struggle, no dogs, either. Eloise was not here or taken hostage. Relief and fear.

“Hubert,” Anne said, a Psalter in her hand, “Eloise is in the chapel.”

Again Hubert scanned the chamber.

“Light. We need light,” Hubert said, taking a candle to the embers in the hearth.

Reginald entered dragging Byron bound and gagged behind him. Hubert’s hounds snarled, snapping at the captive. Sylvester sniffed at the dead bodies on the floor.

“What, are you sure she isn’t here?” Hubert asked suppressing panic.

“Aye, the chapel,” Anne continued, “she left her Psalter on the bed, a sign to Nurse or I. Before God, oh Hubert,” she wailed as the brunt of the shock set in. Not knowing what to do next, she clutched the Psalter to her breast as if it would miraculously make her daughter appear. The lady gave a thought to run to the chapel, a thought to attend to Nurse and John; but she knew from the stench that it was no use.

“Murder! Guards! The guests be traitors!” Reginald shouted stepping into the corridor. “Stop the guests! Guards!”

Eoin and Donegal were quickly discovered, dead; others were summoned from their posts. No trace of Eloise or her dogs, except the sign she was in the chapel.

Welcome to my Dahlquin Chronicles blog. I have committed myself to posting the beginning of my first book in this series, starting with the introduction and first chapters. I am undecided as to how much I will post or whether to follow the book(s) chronologically.

Dahlquin is a story of self-determination. Ireland in 1224 AD is a volatile isle poised for civil war with the black cloud of English subjugation threatening from the east. At the western edge of the known world a young woman rebels against her rigid, patriarchal society, as her family battles to maintain their autonomous base of power.

Eloise Dahlquin is the quintessential adolescent, a medieval Dorothy, seeking a voice in her hostile world. Remote, enigmatic Connacht, Ireland bridges the old and new, blending Celtic mysticism with church doctrine, Irish blood lines with Welsh-Anglo, in this universal struggle for co-existence. Why me, why this book? I have researched the Middle Ages into middle age. I have been married over thirty years and raised two children: I know about seeking a voice in alien cultures. Of equal importance, if I can’t get “boinked” in a medieval castle or cathedral I will write about it.

For more information not found here or on my website, please follow the “contact me” instructions. I would honestly, truly and most emphatically LOVE to hear from you.

Thank you for coming.

DAHLQUIN, continued 3

Eloise and her mother dropped off another basket of herbs in the kitchen, it smelled divine, roasting mutton, fresh bread and the most hearty, meat and leek gravy. The preparations for the feast were well in hand, and Eloise hugged Margaret, kissing her in appreciation; travel and confinement forgotten. The cook patted the girl’s cheek leaving a flour handprint.

The seneschal thanked Eloise for the ledger, pleased the accounting was in order. “She’s got potential,” he addressed Lady Anne, who clutched her little dog in the crook of her arm.

Bolstered by the praise Eloise continued to sing and dance her way towards the residential chambers.

“Come, Mother, what a night this will be,” she held her hands out encouraging her mother to spin and twirl with her. Her two large dogs moved ahead, investigating.

“Eloise, not now,” her mother directed. “This is no time for such frivolity. These men and their purpose are yet unknown.”

“Aye, and we their hosts! What entertainment, we will sing…and dance,” Eloise said, arms over her head as she pirouetted right into one of the pages, leading the six knights to the baths, her father and Reginald behind.

Eloise bounced off the boy in surprise, and into the practiced arms of Sir Davydd.

She stared into his green eyes topped by prominent red eyebrows, an eager grin spread across his face as he steadied her.

“Eloise!” her father and mother gasped simultaneously. The little dog, Sylvester growled from Anne’s arms.

Recoiling from the admonished tones of her parents, Eloise studied Sir Davydd, he was not the pretty one she heard about.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said politely, “I am so sorry, are you hurt?” She brushed him off, and tidied his surcoat.

Davydd laughed, “Takes more than a fine dance to ruffle my feathers. No harm done. Are we to see some more?”

Eloise flushed pink further highlighting the white flour handprint; nodded to the other knights and stepped back. “Mayhaps, tonight. Mother and I love to sing and dance,” she added, enthusiasm building, she dared a glance up.

Hubert moved in, “I do apologize, sir, my daughter is…exuberant.” Everyone heard the pause as Hubert hesitated for a suitable word. He glared at his daughter before turning his attention back to his guests. This was not the time or place to present his wife and daughter to these strangers. Both women wore aprons, had dirt under their fingernails, with flowers and rosemary woven in their hair like two vulgar May Queens. This intrusion forced his hand. To dismiss his women would be rude. He must make the proper introductions all around; and he did, grimly.

Nor did Hubert appreciate the leering glances cast upon his daughter by his guests as each took her hand ceremoniously. Except Byron; he seemed offended, and Hubert knew that look as well. Not everyone loved Dahlquin, and many suspected his women of witchcraft.

“Please, take your leave, we will see you at the feast,” Hubert said, signaling the pages escort the knights to the baths. Best they were contained elsewhere.

“Ladies, I look forward to this evening,” Davydd said, “Mayhaps you could teach me a dance step or two,” he addressed to Eloise.

“But watch your toes, he’s a bit heavy on his feet!” Ioan teased.

Was Ioan the pretty one, Eloise wondered? He did have large brown eyes, but pretty like a woman, none of them fit that description.

“Lord Hubert, you have been blessed,” Davydd said, “tonight we shall dance like never before,” or ever again, he thought with deceitful satisfaction. “Ladies,” he bowed and left with the others.

Eloise blushed and bit her bottom lip with anticipation. What fun, already she played the music in her head, practicing the steps. She reached for her mother’s hand to proceed to the residential tower. They, too, needed to freshen up. Instead her father gripped her arm painfully.

“Have you gone daft? Flitting about when there are serious matters to consider.” Hubert peered at her, his stern brow knotted with fury. Few people had the audacity to meet his gaze on a normal day, only Eloise had the unadulterated gall to do so now; and she only chest high.

“Nay,” she said, offended. “Mother and I have been exceedingly busy with”

“You embarrassed me,” he cut her off, “and continue to do so.”

“I would be a gracious hostess, as you and Mama taught me,” she huffed indignantly.

“Eloise,” her mother said, taking her arm. “Not now.” But Eloise shook her off without a glance.

Reginald tried to catch the girl’s eye, to distract her from this foolish impudence; he adored Eloise and wanted to help manage that Dahlquin spirit, but she was locked on her father.

“Taught you to prance about as an uncouth…public woman!” Hubert’s voice was livid; he fought for appropriate language.

“Uncouth! Mama never…I would sing and dance to make you proud!” she interjected. “Seems my only purpose.” Rather than send her to a university, they insisted she slave away in domestic servitude.

“Ellie,” Reginald warned, shaking his head. She needed a mate, and children-sons of her own to vent that energy. Of course, in the eyes of her uncle, no one was good enough for her. Who could love her as she deserved and shelter her as Hubert and he did?

“Dahlquin is,” again Eloise didn’t finish.

“I have indulged you too long,” Hubert said, his hand clenched in a fist.

Anne bit her bottom lip, sighing audibly.

Contempt mixed with anger covered Hubert’s face, but Eloise didn’t recognize it.

“Indulged! You teach me rule, tell me to be strong, then yell at me,” Eloise carried on, ignoring her mother, provoking her father.

“Eloise!” Reginald called, reaching for her, to put a hand over her mouth, something, “Stop this foolishness.”

“Indulged!” she cried again, mistaking her father’s prolonged silence for license to continue. “Nay, I work too hard! Trying to make you proud. Indulged! Everything I do is for,” she didn’t finish.

“Enough! You will take your meal in your chambers.” Hubert’s voice was flat, without emotion as he withdrew, turning his back to her. The worst, he was barely in control. Eloise knew not to speak now. No one was that stupid. As an only child and heir to Dahlquin, her father taught her from an early age about management. Eloise was a bright girl and Hubert lavished education on her. It was awkward, and at times a dangerous game to allow a woman, even a noble lady to learn or do too much. Despite the very clear messages of station and function, the laws and rules were ambiguous and inconsistent, so easily twisted and manipulated by the upper classes as best suited them.

Disappointment was not adequate, horror too dramatic. But somewhere between lay her feelings. Eloise had argued with her father in the Great Hall. Tensions were high with all the excitement and she went too far.

Too late she heeded Reginald’s plea, now he shook his head and shrugged at her. The disappointment in his brown eyes brought tears to hers.

Eloise looked to her mother. Anne made no attempt to intercede either. This was between Ellie and Hubert. Although she needed Ellie to assist her as hostess of Dahlquin, Anne would never argue with Hubert when he was in such a state. With a heavy heart Anne watched Eloise stalk off to the residential tower. Life was full of hard lessons.

Back in her chamber Eloise’s nurse brushed out her long, amber hair. Should have been for the banquet, but now it was simply a routine before bed.

“So soft it is,” the nurse commented. She felt compelled to break the brittle silence crackling between them. “Luxurious as silk, dear.” Eloise did not answer. “Always liked this color on you, too,” the elderly woman commented regarding the gown. “Highlights your blue eyes and white skin.”

“They’re blue gray,” Eloise corrected. Who cared? No one would ever see them save a handful of kin in the residential tower.

“Aye, so they are. All the more desirable, too.” Her young charge had many admirable attributes. The lady was a little shy of medium height. Like her mother she was trim and modestly built. What she lacked in womanly bosom could always be enhanced, or padded. Where her mother was the quintessential noble lady, quiet, subdued and elegant; Eloise mirrored her father in action: Loud, robust, challenging.

“Your father wants only to protect you, dear,” the nurse continued. “To insist on singing may have been overlooked. But dancing, before strangers, is a bit provocative, sweet one, truly.”

Eloise rolled her eyes. “Not you too.” The girl sighed. “Dancing and singing are suitable forms of entertainment for guests. Mother and I sing all the time, it’s no sin.”

“Aye, the singing,” the nurse offered, “your father might have agreed to that, later, if he saw fit. But you insisted, nay demanded.” The nurse wiped a tear from her eye. “Lucky you are not to be beaten beyond recognition. Your father is tolerant; patient as a saint with you.”

Eloise frowned, wiping her own tears. Why was it always her fault? Surely she was the patient one, in a world so full of restraint and confinement. Often enough she was compared, unfavorably to her saintly mother. But now her father, too. In silence the nurse continued to brush out the girl’s hair in long gentle strokes.

“Please, go,” Eloise said. “Don’t miss the banquet.” Music, distant but joyous haunted the chamber, reminding Eloise what she was missing.

“With you here alone! Nay, we’ll dine together,” the nurse answered. Faint laughter joined the music.

“Please, you can tell me what I missed. I won’t be alone,” Eloise pointed to the pair of hounds. Dragon, yipped in her sleep, massive paws flicked as the prey fled before her in the dream. Beast stretched out before the hearth. “I’ve some confessing and penance to do,” Eloise sighed. “And tell Margaret to wear the new apron!”

The nurse frowned and started to disagree.

“Don’t add guilt to my disappointment.” The Lord and Lady Dahlquin saw to it Eloise never suffered alone, her actions had serious consequences for many people; this burden of responsibility came with her noble birth. “Please go, you and John.”

“I won’t be late,” the nurse said, closing the door behind her.