"Come, move closer to the fire, Delia dearest," Rose said, urging Delia to stand up. Delia did so, thankful that she had such a caring friend. Rose moved the chair forward, and Delia sat back down, tucking the heavy blanket around her lap. They returned to their sewing. They had been sitting in Lady Mary’s apartments now for a little more than an hour Delia thought to herself, but Lady Mary had not yet returned from whence she was called away. Hilde had gone with her, and they were alone in the quiet room. The whole castle seemed eerily quiet, making Delia feel slightly uncomfortable. She stopped her needlework mindlessly, resting her hand on her lap. "Dearest, are you all right? Do you feel all right?" "Of course I do Rose, and this is warmer, thank you. It is putting me right to sleep," she lied to her friend. Her mind was racing. Why had Lady Mary been so quickly summoned, and why had she not returned.
The door was shoved open, and two men helped carry Lady Mary past the two girls sitting by the fire. Hilde was following her lady, and weeping profusely. "Lord help us!" she wept. Delia’s heart beat quickly, and she nearly knocked her chair over to run to Lady Mary’s side as they carefully arranged her on her bed in the adjoining room. She grabbed at Lady Mary’s hand. Her eyes were open, staring nearly blankly, but Delia could see that she was not ill, merely in shock of some kind. The men left the room, calling for the royal physician. Two of the other ladies at court swept into the room, biting their handkerchiefs. Everyone was in tears, so Delia could get no word out of anyone, and she began to think that she would lose her mind unless answers were given. She ran to the door, brushing past Rose, who was equally confused. Five steps out in the hall the doctor ushered by, but Delia managed to catch the sleeve of his assistant. "Pray, what is going on? What has happened to Lady Mary!" "Sir Roger has been mortally wounded."
***
The battle raged around them everywhere. Mark knew he was closer than he should be. He knew that the men of the castle were trying to cut them off from retreat, but the king had no plans for retreat. Mark stood at the front entrance of the tent, watching a flaming arrow fly past the tent landing to the right of the canvas ties, going out in the muddy slush. Yes, he was certainly too close. He wasn’t going to desert the rest of the servants though who were standing slack jawed within the tent. This battle was twenty times worse than the one fought at Windermore. There were easily five times the amount of enemy forces and this time the battle was fought according to the traitors’ whim, not the king’s. They had been ready, but it was still somewhat a surprise when the attack began, because everyone imagined that the men within would be too smart to attempt an open attack. Mark knew he had been right about Lord Rocelin. In fact, when he saw the great man in the distance that seemed to direct many, he imagined correctly that this would be none other than the evil miscreant himself.
Lord Walter was fighting as well, doomed to be a part of something he now knew to be wrong, but Mark could not find him in the mix. Having come out not leading, but following with only half his heart involved, Lord Walter had met a similar end as Lord Eustace had the few weeks prior. As he fell from his horse, grabbing at his chest, arrow sticking out of his chain mail, he looked to the gray sky, silently asking for forgiveness.
Sir Roger immediately began to scan the battle for a worthy foe. He did not care to strike down mere foot soldiers, who had little choice in their position, but he did wish to end the life of one man in particular.
***
The night was thick with fog that crept under the edges of the heavy tent. Sir Roger sat at a small wooden table speaking with Mark. The larger man was leaning with both elbows on the rickety tabletop. His face looked tired and dreadfully serious. The news had hit him hard, and he had quietly asked Mark some time later if he would join him in a drink over in the knights’ tent. Everyone was quiet; most men were asleep. Mark admitted to himself that he would also like to be asleep, but Sir Roger, while he had not touched his cup in hours, refused to stand up, ending their silent conversation. Mark was not staying merely out of duty: he had come to respect this man more than anyone he had ever met. Truly he was a good man, and now somehow it was clear that Sir Roger needed his company.
When his voiced cracked the silence, Mark nearly jumped and his eyes blinked quickly. "They say the attack will come soon." Mark nodded in agreement. The defenses had seemed strangely quiet since sunset, which meant that something was afoot, everyone agreed, but why were they sitting there now if that is all the was on Sir Roger’s mind, Mark wondered. Surely this man, so skilled in war, was not afraid. "He was a good man." Mark squinted his eyes, trying to think clearly at the late hour, after so many hours of silence: "Who, sir?" "Sir Berenger. No one has spoken an evil word about him, you might have noticed." It was true; it was almost as if Sir Berenger had not existed; he was so little spoken of that Mark knew little of him. "I fought with him in the Holy Land. He was nearly twice my age, and twice the man I’ll ever be. I don’t know why he joined with them. I never will understand it."
He mindlessly picked at a strip of the wood that had warped on the table. "Sir, no man is perfect. We all err, even when the greatest things are at stake: I have not always treated Delia the way I should, and for this I shall always be ashamed." "I don’t believe a word of it, my man. And I don’t believe Sir Berenger, who I thought I should die in order to be like in any way, could come to such an ignoble end." "He must have seen the error of his ways, and thought this the only way to die without further bringing shame upon himself and his family." "You think his death was not totally without honor then? He did not die, as a soldier should. A soldier dies at the end of someone else’s sword, not his own." Mark knew this would be hard for Sir Roger to accept, but Mark could only imagine what Lord Rocelin was making these men into, which was something far worse than traitors. "He could not support the fight any longer, sir. That much is clear, and instead of going back on his word or fighting for something that he could not believe, he chose to end it, as far as he could. He has injured their cause, handing us an easier victory. It is as if he symbolically changed sides and fought for the king."
Sir Roger shook his head, still unable to understand his hero’s course of actions these past few months. "If I know anything, I believe Sir Berenger saw the end coming when Lord Rocelin came into the position of power at Baltimore." The word of Sir Berenger’s death accompanied the word of Lord Rocelin being the new man in charge within the stronghold. "How is it you know so much about this man, Mark? None of us know anything. He is young, has never fought with any of us or come to court." "I worked his land," Mark said quietly. Sir Roger cocked his head: Mark was more educated than any serf could ever be, so this story did not follow. "How is it…?" "Sir Roger, I have never chosen to tell anyone where Delia and I came from or anything of our past. It involves so much wrong…" Now it was Mark’s turn to drift off and become strangely quiet.
Sir Roger rested his hand on Mark’s shoulder: "my man, let me pledge you my friendship. I have shamefully unburdened myself on you, now let us seal this friendship by you doing the same." Mark could see that he was serious; Sir Roger truly saw Mark as an equal and a friend. "I worked Lord Rocelin’s land as a tenant farmer as a last choice, when Delia and I were without friends and certainly without food. I had deserted the monastery I was raised in, without thought of how I would take care of Delia or myself. So there we were, and this man proved himself to be a devil." Mark did not know whether he could put into words what had happened, but watching Sir Roger’s face he saw neither shock nor shame at his words. Sir Roger did not seem to be judging him. "We left after he raped my wife in the church," Mark said working his jaw tightly at the very thought.
Sir Roger turned his head away from Mark, looking out into no where. "I know such men," he said quietly. Mark knew Sir Roger was very fond of Delia, treating her almost as a daughter and Mark had thought that Sir Roger truly knew what was beautiful about Delia, and it was not merely her physical form. There was silence for quite some time, during which Mark leaned backwards in his stool, balancing on two legs and folding his arms in front of him. "I know of the other evils involving his character as well I suppose, but perhaps I am being too blinded…" "No, so far you have been right, and now I see why. A man like that does not deserve to live, my man, and I’m sore afraid that he shall not after this battle."
X
As the battle slowly pushed closer to the tents, the other manservant’s grew more frightened, and Mark knew he must do something. He ordered them to retreat along the ridge of hills and stay there until the battle was over. They willingly left the growing tumult, and Mark watched them as they scampered up the muddy hillside. More stray arrows landed frequently to the side of Mark, but he ignored them completely, knowing he could do little to avoid one should it be marked for him. Instead, he began to inch forward trying to get a better view of who was falling and who was prevailing. It became evident that the battle was encroaching up the hill because chaos was breaking loose among the soldiers, and Mark wanted to be sure that the foot soldiers who were panicking were Lord Rocelin’s men and not the king’s. The great armored men on horse back stood out on the clashing battlefield, and Mark instinctively began to scan those men for Sir Roger’s standard, but as hard as he squinted and moved ever closer, he could not find him among the soldiers. There was the king, there was Sir Richard and Lord Adelard, but where Sir Roger was amongst the fray, Mark could not tell.
It was not until the traitors were left completely destroyed and night had fallen that Mark became aware of Sir Roger’s fate. The men were returning to camp, having completed the revenge upon the traitors who were still left. Of the important men, only Sir Gervase lived and he had requested a death by the sword rather than returning to London as a prisoner. While the men were dirty and wearied there was not much time to lose, because spies had arrived with information pointing to an attempted escape by Lord Hugo to the coast of England where he would in all likelihood take off for the Netherlands. The king was already setting plans in motion to cut off their escape route, but that meant they would have to leave at the first sign of daylight. People scurried in the darkness and the air smelled of blood, sweat, and the mud that splashed around them everywhere. Mark bumped into bodies quickly moving through camp as he looked for Sir Roger. He did not dare ask anyone if they knew anything of him, because he refused to believe that anything could have happened to him. Finally, he encountered Sir Richard who seemed more out of sorts than the rest of the men.
"Mark, my man, there you are. He’s been asking for you ever since we got him back to camp." "Sir?" "Roger! Haven’t you heard? Damn if this isn’t the worst thing that could have happened." Mark pushed past Sir Richard, feeling tears sting at the corners of his eyes. Wiping them away with the back of his hand, he entered the tent to which Sir Richard had gestured. There were two men attending Sir Roger, who was laid out on a cot with his tunic torn half way off and blood staining the wrapping they wound around him. The king himself stood in the corner with arms folded. Sir Roger was the only one of the king’s men to fall that day and everyone was silently cursing that it was not them instead. Sir Roger was staring blankly up at the pointed top of the tent in shock from the pain. Mark walked over to the king, bowing his head quickly, too worried about his friend to be busy with a formal greeting. "Through the back" was all that the king said quietly to Mark. Mark could see as the men would roll Sir Roger on his side slightly that a wound had entered through Sir Roger’s right hand side in the back and had gone clear through to the front. Knowing little about weaponry or wounds, Mark could not guess whether it was a sword or an arrow that had done the job. The two men finished their work and stood up and the king advanced to Sir Roger’s side.
Mark saw Sir Roger’s lips move without sound, but the king nodded. The king looked up and nodded his head towards Mark, meaning for Mark to approach. The king spoke in a quiet voice, "I’m sending you home, Mark." "Your majesty? Can I not be of some use?" "Yes, you certainly can: I want you to escort Sir Roger to the palace." Mark bowed his head in acquiescence. "You have been very helpful, and I fully intend to reward you for your service during this time, but now I find it better that you go with Sir Roger." Sir Roger now turned his eyes from the ceiling to look upon Mark and managed to grab his hand weakly with his own. "Tell him, William," he rasped. Mark was somewhat shocked to hear Sir Roger address the king as ‘William’, but the king did not seem fazed. "Sir Roger has asked for you to be knighted for you contributions here, Mark, and I have agreed most willingly." Mark squeezed Sir Roger’s hand and bowed; he was left completely speechless, he was so moved by Sir Roger’s kindness.
More attendants entered the room and Mark was ushered out. Standing alone outside the tent, Mark stared up into the sky. His breath was white against the blackness of the sky and his thoughts were similarly contrary. While he was reeling at the thought of what this elevation would mean for his life and Delia’s as well, he also knew that his own lucky position was in stark contrast to Sir Roger’s, taking the joy out of the news. A steward came out of the tent and placed his hand on Mark’s shoulder to get his attention. Mark nearly jumped out of his skin. "Forgive me, but I’ve been asked to tell you that Sir Roger will be ready to be moved by dawn." "Thank you," he absently replied.
At first Mark thought it very strange that they would risk moving Sir Roger, especially since his hopes for surviving had been pronounced very low, but soon he learned that the man had himself requested that he be removed to the palace with all possible speed. Sir Roger wished to return to Lady Mary, fully believing himself to be dying and wishing to see his wife one more time. As they traveled along, Mark rode alongside Sir Roger’s conveyance, thinking frequently to himself that it might possibly have been Sir Roger accompanying his wounded body home to see his wife one last time, and the thought produced not only great sorrow for Sir Roger and Lady Mary, but also a great wish to be back at Delia’s side with all alacrity.
It took them a number of days to progress back to London, partly due to the slow mode of travel in bearing Sir Roger along. As they traveled, Sir Roger did not improve but he also did not grow worse, which Mark found somewhat remarkable owing to the jolting movement that he was being subjected to all day long. At night, he sat with Sir Roger, who slept little due to fever, and at times, Sir Roger would be well enough to speak. It embarrassed Mark how often Sir Roger would express his regard for Mark, effectively telling him that since he should never have an heir, he wished to make Mark the heir to everything he had. Sir Roger also spoke of his regard for Delia, promising Mark that it was he who had dealt Lord Rocelin his death blow, so that he could never hurt Delia or Mark again. This touching information was nearly too much for Mark, who now felt himself forever and completely indebted to Sir Roger and Lady Mary, and without any way of paying them back, except to attempt to return him to Lady Mary as he desired. Lady Mary, Mark came to see more clearly than ever, was everything to Sir Roger. She was more than a wife to him: he relied on her completely, and it occurred to Mark that Sir Roger might have drawn his strength and courage from his lady and not completely from his own spirit.
***
Lady Mary was kneeling in front of the altar, as she had now for some days after she recovered from the initial shock of the news concerning her husband. She would barely leave the chapel, and only did so due to the constant urgings of Delia, Rose, and Hilde; if they had not bothered, she would have never eaten or taken any rest, because she thought the only help she could offer her husband were her dedicated prayers. Delia had joined her in the somewhat chilly chapel and was kneeling down next to Lady Mary, but she did not notice her for a quarter of an hour, and when she finally did, she said quietly without turning her head, "my dear, you should not be here." "Why not?" Delia asked, fearing she was being sent away. "It would be better for you to be resting with a fire before you, not in this drafty chapel on your knees." "I am perfectly well. I wish as much as you to help the king, Sir Roger, and the soldiers." "I know you do," Lady Mary said quietly bowing her head with a sigh. "I shall let you stay ten minutes more and then I must truly send you away…I will not have your health on my hands."
She was not given the chance to send Delia away, because within ten minutes Hilde came rushing into the chapel out of breath. "Can you not hear the bells?" she asked between gasps. Delia turned her head and looked up at Hilde questioningly, but Lady Mary would not budge. "They ring for Sir Roger," she said hurriedly, and Lady Mary drew in a quick intake of breath, but still would not turn. "They bring him back and he is upon the palace as I speak!" "Do they bring him or his body?" Lady Mary asked in a throaty whisper. "Oh my lady! They bring Sir Roger himself…" then Hilde turned to Delia with a smile, "and your husband is with him, Miss." Delia stood up, nearly tripping over herself to run out of the chapel, picking up her heavy skirts as she ran. Lady Mary looked up, saying thanks aloud, and was helped up by Hilde as they made their way out of the chapel.
XI
Delia ran along the stone corridor and burst through the wide door leading to the courtyard where the arrival of Sir Roger’s convoy was being greeted. There was a small crowd gathering already as the procession came to a stop and some of the king’s men rushed forward to help lift Sir Roger off his makeshift bed to convey him to his chamber. Everyone else was waiting to greet the returning men, who were now heroes. Delia’s breath came in short puffs of chilly white air as she stopped and looked frantically around for Mark amongst the returning group. When she finally spotted him towards the back of the group, her heart nearly stopped and then she thought her lungs might burst as she grabbed up her skirts once more and ran towards him across the courtyard. He was helping direct the men who were come to move Sir Roger, but he was also looking around to see if Delia was one of the smiling faces that were slowly coming from the palace inner walls to greet them. He did not see her running towards him until he had turned all the way around at which point she was not eight steps away from him.
She threw herself into his arms and he lifted her off the ground as he grabbed her around the waist. "Oh Mark!" was all she managed as she spoke into his neck, tears springing to her eyes. He set her back down, but would not release her from his grip. She pulled back slightly to look at him once more, not quite convinced that after nearly four months this could truly be her husband, and as she did so, Mark leaned forward to place a kiss on her forehead. "You are very good to come meet me like this. This is exactly what I wished for, my dearest wife," he whispered, pulling her head against his chest once more. Delia pulled away, and Mark, forgetting for a moment where he was, kissed Delia, although it was not entirely appropriate to do so. Delia thought she might melt onto the cold stone floor when she felt Mark’s arms around her once more and when he was so close and real.
But then, Mark seemed to come to his senses to some degree, and worriedly knit his brows as he spoke: "Delia, sweetness, it’s freezing out here and you don’t even have a wrap. Why aren’t you wearing a cap?" "I heard you were back and rushed here. I don’t even feel the cold. How could I when you have not even been inside for weeks? I should be a very poor wife indeed, if I did." "I’m afraid I must order you inside, Delia. Look, there is Hilde with Lady Mary and they are going in with Sir Roger. Follow them and I will be inside as well in a few moments." "Oh, Sir Roger! For shame! In my own happiness, I had forgotten how great a sorrow there was still to be had. Tell me, how does he do?" "Not well, not well at all, but he has gotten back to Lady Mary, which is what he wanted above all." At these words, new tears sprang from Delia’s eyes and Mark wrapped his arms around her once more. "Oh, I can’t bear to be with Lady Mary, Mark. I simply can’t. I know I should be mournful, and I am, but my happiness to have you home and safe is written all over my face and I feel it a betrayal to her. Don’t make me leave your side." Mark looked into her eyes full of tears that pleaded with him, and he found himself helpless under their power.
Holding onto her hand, he walked briskly over to one of the higher-ranking attendants and drew his attention. "See here, I am going in with my wife, but I should like to hear if anything changes with Sir Roger. Make sure I am sent for." "Will you be in your room, Sir?" "Yes, most probably I will." "I shall see that it is done, sir." "Thank you, my good man." And the man bowed and rushed off himself. Mark and Delia hurried inside, but as soon as they were in the palace walls, Mark paused to kiss Delia once more.
"You have no idea how glad I am to be back to you, Delia. I’ve nearly thought of nothing else but returning to you since the moment I left." Delia found she could not stop crying, even though she knew herself to be happier than she ever had been, knowing that Mark was safe and by her side once more. "What’s this though, crying so much? Am I not as grand as you hoped I would be?" he asked with a smile, wiping away her tears with both hands. Delia laughed quietly. "I don’t know why I can’t stop, but I can’t. I suppose just thinking of how I missed you so much is a little overwhelming. I’ve been brave, Mark, and you would be very proud of me, but now I can’t find any more strength to be brave." "All right then," he said putting his arm around her and beginning to walk towards their apartment.
"There is no need to be brave. I shall be brave for the both of us now, Delia, for it seems that you do have some idea of how glad I am to be back." "Oh, indeed, Mark. I do very well, because I’ve looked over every night at your empty place in the bed, wishing you were there," she said quietly as Mark shut the door behind them. "Is that true?" he asked coming to her side to kiss her once more. "It is true and more. Do you remember when we would meet in the forest?" "Yes, of course I do," he said stroking her hair and drawing her towards the bedroom. "Well, I used to cry at night alone in my bed, because I imagined that it would be nicer to have you to share my bed with, but I thought I should never be given that chance." Delia’s words still made her blush, and Mark could not help but kiss her once more, as they sat down on the bed. "Only, this was so much worse, because now I have…grown so accustomed to you being here beside me that I felt very much alone without you." "Did you?" he asked softly drawing his arm around her waist and kissing her nose lightly.
"I did. But I also wanted you home quickly for other reasons," she said grasping his other hand and placing it right above her lap. Mark tilted his head and looked into Delia’s eyes. "Are you…?" "I thought perhaps when you left, and that terrified me, but now I’m very sure." Mark smiled and looked down at his own hand still pressed against her abdomen. "You’re sure?" "Can you not tell? I am some five months along," she said shyly. "No, you’re right, I can tell," he said pressing more firmly and breaking into a broader smile before kissing Delia yet again on the lips for some time. "Are you happy, my love?" "I could not be more so, Delia. But are you all right? Have you been doing all right without me? If I would have known that you were…" Delia put up her hand and placed two of her fingers over Mark’s mouth. "Mark, I’m fine. I’m doing so much better…than before." There threatened to be tears in Mark’s own eyes at the thought of the baby he had buried, but he quickly was given over with the joy of Delia and his new expectations.
"Then I have news for you as well, Delia, which might not be as superb as yours, but it is surely just as miraculous." "What is it?" she asked resting her head against Mark’s shoulder for a moment. "I am to be knighted, according to the wishes of Sir Roger." Delia sat upright. "Knighted!" "For my contribution during the battle. I gave advice…that is all, but Sir Roger would like to see me knighted and make me his heir all the same." "Oh Mark!" Delia said throwing her arms around his neck. "This is everything you’ve ever deserved, just as I knew it would be." "I believe that I owe this new honor to you as much as to my own efforts, for I know from Sir Roger’s own mouth that he thinks on you as a dear daughter and as saint as well." "Certainly not." "No, he does. Yet, you see how like you, my happiness has come at the expense of others." Mark swallowed and Delia urged him to lay back. "Rest, my love. You have not been in such a soft bed in many a month, I gander. Worrying will do us no good." "No, you’re right about that Delia, but I wish to see you at rest as well, for if I had known…well, I would not have been half so pleased to see you running after me in the courtyard in freezing weather." Mark was serious, but he spoke with a smile, and Delia lay next to him and they rested for some time together in each other’s arms.
XII
Months passed and Sir Roger, defying the odds, partially recovered under the careful watch of Lady Mary. Although greatly diminished in his physical well-being, Sir Roger was able to spend his time in comfort. In addition to Lady Mary, Delia and Mark were constant companions of the less mobile Sir Roger. Mark had worried that Sir Roger’s limitations would bring discontentment to what had been such an active strong man, but the effect was just the opposite: Sir Roger seemed to be at peace with his situation and took the ministrations of his wife stoically, so long as she did not treat him as an invalid. The carefully crafted illusion that Sir Roger was improving and would soon be able to join the knightly group who had recently returned from the field victorious was upheld by all, even the king. This illusion seemed to allow Sir Roger to enjoy the company of the people around him, keeping frustration at bay.
Amongst the comfortable group surrounding Sir Roger was the new addition of Albert, Delia and Mark’s new baby. Delia, refusing to send her child to a wet-nurse, was rarely separated from her child, who was a handsome and strong infant.
