Scotland, 1557
on the road between Perth and Whithorn
A persistent mist had given way to cloudy stillness. Lise had dropped back in the line of riders until she rode just before the hired guardsmen who brought up the rear of their party. They were traversing a lightly wooded hillside on the way to Sterling, which, for the most part, required them to ride in single file.
Their way often took them on such paths. Swollen by Autumn rain, the glen bottoms were often too treacherous to afford safe passage, so they took paths higher up occasionally wooded slopes.
Lise was weary, saddle sore and damp. In truth, she felt that she had not been properly dry since their departure from Perthshire, sometimes, she thought morosely, not since they left Bordeaux.
Ahead, she could hear the voices of Margarete and Owen. They had taken to passing the long hours of their journey by trading songs. This was a fairly straight forward process for Owen, as he was fluent in French after his years with Colin in Paris. Margarete had to coach him on pronunciation, as the tunes she knew were mostly of Southern origin, but her task was nothing to Owen's.
Gamely, Margarete was attempting to learn Welsh ballads. This was largely an exercise in rote learning, and required Owen to repeat the songs, and individual phrases many times. Though a part of her resisted it, Lise felt his voice soothing her manifold discomforts. Nevertheless, she willfully chose to skulk back among the guardsmen, undesirous of companionship. The guardsmen, seeing little warmth between the women, accepted Lise as a servant like themselves and, after their initial abortive attempts to engage her, (curtly rebuffed,) left her entirely to herself.
She still rebelled inwardly against this mad venture of Margarete's. To go on pilgrimage to pray for a child was frivolous enough she felt. To do so in late October, when the weather was dreadful, and the country in turmoil, was downright madness. As Margarete's attendant however, she had no choice but to accompany her mistress.
Since the events of Lamas night almost three months ago, all of Lise's actions were governed solely by duty. Since the shocking attack on her person, the double rape, the degradation that had come to be known by all in the castle, it seemed to Lise that her very life had ebbed.
It was not merely the devastating effects of the assault, but also the memories it evoked of long buried pain, and the reminder of her own vulnerability. The fact that the assault had occurred on the very night after she and Owen had, at long last, come together in love, was the ultimate cruelty of fate. Since that night, it seemed that the love Lise had known for both Margarete and Owen had flickered along with her spirit.
Ahead, the singing was abruptly silenced, and Lise became aware that the horses were being halted by wary riders. Looking up, she perceived little sign of alarm however, more so a sense of alert caution.
Riding close to the head of the company, Owen and Margarete beheld the obstruction on the crude path at the same time. Some distance ahead, but directly in their line of travel, stood two deer, unmistakably doe and stag, and equally unmistakably in the postures of copulation.
Owen shot a sideways glance at Margarete, and had to steel himself not to laugh at the wide-eyed surprise on her face. To the left, the wood was more dense, impassible for their horses. To the right, the slope became precipitous, equally impassible. Owen and the lead guardsmen agreed, with a silent look, that their only course was to remain still and wait for the conclusion. Even had they not sported several dead geese across their saddles from a few lucky bow shots that morning, none would have felt at ease dispatching the deer with arrows at such a moment.
His amusement not withstanding, Owen edged his horse a little away from Margarete's. Both had been abstinent for longer than each preferred, and the intimacy created by music and a common purpose, gave him the sense that this was a vista they could not comfortably share.
He glanced back to see Lise taking in the scene. When she saw that he watched her, she raised her eyebrows at him in a way he could not interpret.
Fortunately, their approach had allowed them to perceive the obstacle soon enough to halt the horses before they could be made restive by the deer. All remained as quiet and still as possible, cautious of the stag.
When the act had concluded, the lead guardsmen signaled for them to continue. Owen made a point to follow him quickly, allowing Margarete the opportunity to fall back, which she did.
"You look like an ignorant villager who has just been dazzled by a cunning Magician," Lise remarked, catching sight of the look on Margarete's face."
In former days, Margarete would have been stung by Lise's acerbic tone. Now, she was so grateful for any spontaneous remark that she barely registered the sarcasm.
"I'm sure I've seen such things before growing up," she said thoughtfully, "But it never looked quite thus to me before. I suppose it's because I have..." She broke off, unwilling to speak the words.
Lise bit back the unpleasant rejoinder that came to her lips. Something in Margarete's young face stopped her. It was the familiar, slightly vacant expression Margarete got when something had stirred her into unexpected reflection. Suddenly and startlingly, Lise was moved by tenderness. Her own bitter sarcasm suddenly seemed so at odds with the purity of Margarete's curiosity and introspection.
"Is that how all such matters between men and women seem to you now?", Margarete asked, so gently that Lise felt no impulse towards sharp response.
"What do you mean?", she asked, to buy time.
"So base, so animal, so lacking in tenderness, so brutish."
Lise felt a quick and devastating desire to weep. Margarete's soft, almost diffident words seemed to resonate like a shout in her head, and twisted something painful in her guts.
