The days that followed were happy ones. Anwen rose early, making her way through each garden slowly and methodically, ordering the chaos section by section. She sang as she worked, and her cheerful voice seemed to lure green sprigs out of the woody stems that stubbornly refused to die away despite years of neglect. Lord de Mareys, likewise lured from his lonely chamber to the outdoors, joined her, watching her from a little distance. Anwen disliked people looking over her shoulder; her siblings only ever did so to find something to criticize, but soon she noticed that he didn’t criticize. He watched from a stone seat built into a niche in the wall, basking like a turtle on a rock, and chatted with Anwen. She liked to talk with him; they were friendly with each other, both finding comfort in company. He knew a great many songs and tales and was more learned than many noblemen she’d met. If he didn’t like to speak of his life before her arrival, she did not blame him; the little bits and pieces she gathered did not make much sense, but his face always fell when he spoke of it, looking as though he could see painful scenes from his past parading through his mind. It was better for her to tell him stories from her days with the nuns, how they taught her to read and write, and how she could speak a little Latin. It was a quiet, slowly budding friendship, and Anwen was grateful for it. As for Lord de Mareys, he seemed content. Occasionally Anwen spotted him watching her with a wide smile, or sitting with his eyes closed and his face turned towards the sun. She usually grinned back at him, which made him flush a little. He wasn’t used to people being friendly, Anwen thought, but he didn’t object, either, which made her happy. Still, he remained mysterious. Some days he did not come into the garden at all, and she only saw him in the evening, when he arrived in the hall pale and limping. He never answered her questions directly, and she soon learned to mostly ignore his obvious illness, rightly guessing he did not relish the idea of his health being noticed. She refrained from doing more wishing him well and brewing him up pleasant tasting tisanes she to be left discreetly by his chair. Of his midnight ramblings there were no sign. Anwen sat up late each night, hoping for a glance of Lord de Mareys in the courtyard below, but for a week and more nothing stirred after she shut and locked her door.
One evening, just as she rose to leave the high table, Lord de Mareys reached out and clasped her hand. Anwen, too startled to speak at first, stood as still as a stock, waiting to see what would happen. There was, she could see, no look of love about him. It seemed unlikely in the extreme that he had any designs on her virtue; in fact, all she could see of his face, which was turned away from her, was bright red, and his palm was just a little damp. There was nothing of the courtier about Lord de Mareys.
“What is it, my lord?” Anwen spoke quietly, but in as ordinary voice as she could muster.
“I want to know something.”
“Yes?”
“Do you find life here bearable?”
Anwen cocked her head to the side thoughtfully. “Well, yes. Yes, very bearable.”
“Why?”
Conscious of his hand, much larger than hers and, she noted reluctantly, reassuringly warm, Anwen forced herself to speak normally. “It isn’t so frightening now. You keep all the unseen oddities away, or at least, they’ve decided not to make things appear and disappear when I am there. I’m busy doing a good work that I love to do. And,” she smiled, “I am fortunate in friendship. It is a much easier life here than I lead at home.”
“Even if you are so isolated?”
“Even so. It is lonely, but bearable. You don’t scold me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, returning her smile. “Not after what happened the last time I tried. I don’t think either of us wishes for cold, courteous solitude.”
“No indeed.”
“I am glad to hear it. Tell me, is there anything I can do to make you happier still?” He glanced towards her briefly, then away.
Anwen looked at him intently for a moment, and then, dropping Lord de Mareys’s hand, plunged her own into her pocket to pull out her old, battered psalter. He sighed, but Anwen barely heard. “This is my prayerbook. The abbess gave it to me when I left them, and it’s always with me, but I say my prayers and read my psalter every day alone, and it would make me very happy to have someone to say the responses, or-or even to bring a priest here.”
“A priest?”
“Yes! You need a chaplain, don’t you?”
“Anwen—”
“I suppose the enchantment makes that difficult, doesn’t it?”
“Among other things, yes. Nobody has yet been able to bring a priest here. My steward once told me the Llanarth priest tried to venture here and found himself back where he started after three days.”
“But there are priests that set out to preach to the fair folk, sir,” she said, thinking of Owein’s lost son. “Perhaps, if you left the castle again, you might come across such a one.”
Lord de Mareys grimaced. “It isn’t that simple.”
“Why not?” Anwen blinked inquiringly.
“My last cleric was a wicked man,” Lord de Mareys scowled. “He fled after—well, the fair folk do not love priests. If one came here, I don’t know how he would be received by this place. And the woods are vast. The chance that one might find his way and then be permitted to set foot inside is too extraordinary for me to contemplate.”
“I see,” Anwen drooped. “Well, if it can’t be helped—! But you did ask what I would like.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps you could tell me, then, if Easter has passed or not? I find it’s easy to lose track of the days here.”
“I-I have no idea,” he replied in surprise. “It must have done, mustn’t it?”
“Well, I hope so as we’ve been eating meat for more than a week.”
Anwen and Lord de Mareys stood in silence, watching the blue flames in the old hearth flicker and dance. Every now and then he glanced towards her, searching her face, which remained calm and impassive. Anwen looked at the book in her hands and lovingly traced her fingers over the illuminations.
“May I see?”
She handed him the psalter. It wasn’t a great work of art, he noticed, the book being pretty and serviceable, the finest thing a merchant’s daughter could have, but nothing like the old prayer books he’d known in his youth. The first letter on each page was illuminated in red and black ink, sometimes with a hint of blue, or gold, and he could see where Anwen’s fingers had creased the corners or smudged the outer leaves. In some of the margins were little scribbles, tiny pictures of a heart clasped in two hands, or a sun, or a hedgehog.
“Did you draw those?”
“Yes, to my shame,” she chuckled. “I got in trouble for that. Father was so cross.”
“They add to its charm,” he said. “Come with me. I want you to see something.”
A short while later they stood at a door in Lord de Mareys’s chamber.
“You have not seen the chapel, though you’ve wished to see it. I confess I didn’t want to open it up for you. The main doors to it are locked, and I told myself it would take too long to find the key. It isn’t on your ring.”
“Why not?”
“It’s lost.”
“If one could open the chapel we might say our prayers there, my lord,” Anwen suggested with a cautious glance.
“It is empty. There is no presence. Another reason I found to stay away.”
“It would be good to pray there anyway.”
“If you wish to, you may. I haven’t opened it in a long while.”
“I see.”
“You needn’t sound so disapproving,” Lord de Mareys muttered. “I’ve shown no interest in the chapel, and indeed felt none, for many years, but you must remember I’ve been here much longer than you,” he shouldered the sticky door, which swung open with a loud, sharp creak. A scent of must and damp and moldering old beeswax wafted into the room. “And you were not here when I sat there, in the emptiness, day in and day out."
Before Anwen, who felt a little guilty, could press him, he gestured for her to step through the doorway. It opened onto a wide gallery overlooking the chapel below. Everything was pitch black. Lord de Mareys placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her to one side as he hung a lantern on a hook beside the doorway.
“I’ll show you properly in the daylight. There is a fine stained glass window, and plenty of light,” his voice came from behind her, echoing in the void above the chapel. “There is a stair you can use, as long as it isn’t rotted away. If you wish to pray here you may, though I warn you it will need some cleaning. My servants don’t go here at all.”
It wasn’t so much that she was shocked by the offhand way Lord de Mareys spoke of his chapel and his history there—she could tell from his aggressively casual tone he’d been badly disappointed in his clergy and the abandonment to the long loneliness that not even God Himself seemed to wish to alleviate; she supposed, only half understanding, that the empty chapel held not hope but despair. Perhaps she should have been shocked, but she only felt pity. Throughout Anwen’s life, and in the lives of every person she’d ever met, both good and bad, the church was the only constant. People were born and died; seasons came and went. Trade ebbed and flowed, and bad seasons brought sickness and famine that led to loss after loss, and life was always changing. Hearing mass, confessing, daily prayers, processions to holy wells and shrines, the myriad blessings for everything one could think of—those were the the unchanging things, the things that brought you closer to heaven. The church bells told the time. All of this was as ordinary as the beating of a heart and as necessary to life. Castel de Mareys was outside, cut off from it all.
“I’d like to bring back some of what is lost,” she said quietly. “You might add that to my credit.”
“Do what you like,” he replied coolly. “I don’t really care.”
Something in his voice made her turn. Lord de Mareys leaned against the doorframe as though winded.
“My lord! Are you unwell?”
“It’s nothing,” he grimaced. “Just one of my stupid spells came over me all of a sudden. Would you please give me some wine? I will be better directly.”
Anwen brushed past him and arranged the cushions on his chair before pouring a bowl of wine from the flagon that sat on the cluttered table. He noticed her anxious face.
“Pray, don’t worry yourself,” he said as he moved slowly into the room and shut the chapel door. “I’ve often dealt with this sort of thing on my own.”
“That may be,” Anwen moved to help him to his chair, “But you’re not alone now. Please, sit down and I will tend you”
Reluctantly he slid into the chair by the fire. He sighed and took the wine from Anwen gratefully. He looked homely and comfortable, and not at all like a great lord. He looked like a young man, far too careworn and habitually sad. Anwen suppressed an urge to ruffle his fair hair and squeeze his hand. Instead, she wiped his brow with a clean square of linen soaked with oil of lavender.
“You needn’t.”
“I know, my lord,”she replied cheerfully, “But you’ll feel better if I do.”
Lord de Mareys smiled a little. "I’ll be all right, but I am grateful for the relief and your care. That place—” he shook his head.
“Bad memories, my lord. They do strange things to people. There. You should feel more like yourself before too long. Can I do anything else to help?”
“I said I was used to coping alone,” he shook his head. “But I find I don’t like to be alone, Anwen. Will you stay a while, until I feel more myself?”
“As long as you need, sir.”
Half an hour later he was asleep in his chair. Reluctantly, Anwen stretched and forced herself out of the warm room into the cold passageway. She wanted to stay where she was, curled up by the fire—she missed the company of others while she slept—and it was melancholy to lock her own door and undress in utter silence. Lord de Mareys’s sudden malaise worried her; as she crawled into bed she resolved to stay up, listening for any sound or sign that he might be in distress. Half an hour passed, then an hour, and her eyes could no longer stay open. Sleep took her, and almost at once she plunged into a dream. It seemed to Anwen that was in the passageway once again, crowded with phantoms she could only see out of the corner of her eye and faint will-o-the-wisps that bobbed and danced all around, never giving off quite enough light. Some distance before her was a sliver of reddish light: the room beyond an open door. A moment later she knew she was meant to walk towards it, slowly, reluctabtly and heavily, as though trudging through farm muck. As she drew closer the light became the tiniest bit more golden. The will-o-the-wisps began to fade. She grasped the edge of the door and heaved it open.
Before her was a blaze of light and color. The room was lit by hundreds of beeswax candles, their honey-sweet fragrance a soft contrast to the acrid smell of burning wicks. Their light drew her eyes upwards, where banks upon banks of candles lined the walls all the way to the curved, vaulted roof. Ahead and above rose an altar, richly carved out of gleaming white stone, with candles blazing on either side of the niche that held a huge painted crucifix. St. Mary, the Magdalen and St. John flanked the Lord, whose eyes were closed in death. Carved, painted saints were set into the stone, and they gazed outwards, guarding the presence in the golden tabernacle. Golden light shimmered and golden will-o-the-wisps floated here, always going upwards. To Anwen’s left came the sound of a bubbling fountain, and she was unsurprised to see a little spring, mossy and twinkling with jewel like water droplets.
A sudden noise, like a rush of wind, and the faint but distinct clamor of voices echoed just beyond the door and Anwen trembled as fear surged through her. The hunt was coming. She watched as the candles were snuffed out one by one until only the lamp over the altar and two small rushlights in the side alcove remained to cast a feeble light in the darkness. It was cold. Something moved furtively in the alcove, and Anwen bolted, but her legs would not obey her will. She found compelled towards the shadowy alcove and whatever being stirred there. By now the voices were quieter; the hunt was almost upon her. She threw herself into the alcove and saw at once that something, the shape of which was lumpish and undetermined, huddled against the wall.
“Help!” was all she could gasp out.
In answer came a low growl.
Anwen started back, and a flicker of candlelight revealed that the figure had the face of the beast she’d seen so often before. Behind them the door swung wide, and a blast of cold air slapped Anwen’s face. Something darker than the darkness rushed in, and Anwen watched as the beast turned to spring over her head, throwing itself at the silently screeching shadows, but the darkness kept deepening, unstoppable. The alcove candles went out, and she screamed as the beast turned and rushed back towards her.
She awoke drenched in sweat, and her throat was as raw as if she’d been screaming not only in her dream but in her bed as well. Groping for her tinder, she made her way to the window and shoved open the shutters. The night was dark and incredibly silent. She lit a candle, and sat, staring.
I’m wide awake, she thought, willing herself to feel brave in the unsettling quiet. I wish Lord de Mareys was here.
Unable to sit still, she dressed and brought out her cloak to huddle into as she paced in front of the window. Her thoughts went back to Lord de Mareys. She heard nothing stirring, and the courtyard was empty. Hopefully, he was fast asleep in bed by now.
I should check on him. He looked very ill. I don’t care that he told me to stay in my room.
The emptiness of the castle daunted her, but by now she was frightened and worried enough in her own room to trouble about orders against leaving. In any case she somehow felt sure she would be forgiven. She took up a few potions and salves and shoved them into her pockets, lit a small lantern, and, briefly wondering which invisible servant might take offense at her leaving the chamber so magnificently bestowed upon her, unlocked the door and slipped into the passageway.
She knew her way well enough, even in the dark. Lord de Marey’s room was shut, as she’d left it. No lights lit themselves, no strange presences made themselves known. All was silent, but Anwen felt a prickling in her mind that told her was not right. Before she could knock and enter, the door burst open, causing her to jump aside, and Lord de Mareys dashed through, passing without seeing her.
This was the moment she’d been waiting for. Anwen quickly hid the small lantern she carried beneath the cloak she’d donned for warmth and darted after him, her soft leather shoes making no noise that could be heard above the thudding of Lord de Mareys’s heavy tread. She followed him down the stairs and through the great hall, slipping out of the narrow opening of the door into the courtyard without him seeing her. He moved with a purpose, though his gait was strange, almost limping by the time he was halfway across the courtyard, his shoulders hitched up and tensed as though braced for something. Anwen suppressed an urge to call out to him. She had no desire to get into trouble, and if she wanted to find out where he went it was best for her to remain invisible. She followed as close as she dared. The night was dark, but the torches on either side of the gatehouse allowed Anwen to see Lord de Mareys arch his back, twisting painfully. It cut her to the heart to see him in obvious pain, and she nearly forgot her plan in her anxiety to help. She’d run a few paces when he righted himself, shook off whatever pain remained, and ran through the gate. The postern creaked open, and he turned, looking to see if he was followed. Anwen ducked into a shadow; Lord de Mareys passed beyond the castle gate. A few seconds later, Anwen stood outside the little door, hearing his footfall fade into the woods down a greenway.
I was right. There is a path that appears for him. Where is he going?
The path was straight and well lit. The trees divided overhead, allowing the moonlight to illuminate the way. The smell of wild thyme and mown grass crushed underfoot that always accompanied the paths filled Anwen’s nose. She neither saw nor heard any sign of Lord de Mareys, which troubled her a little. He was ill, so he couldn’t be going far along the road. He could not get to Llanarth and back by morning, she reckoned, so most probably he was going to the hidden village. If that was the case she might be able to find someone in a similar position to her own, perhaps even poor Cousin Owein’s son, maybe willing to serve in Lord de Mareys’s chapel after his being lost for so long in thrall to the fair folk. That there was no proof to support her idea did not trouble her; perhaps Castel de Mareys’s isolation had muddled her mind, or perhaps she wanted to have a priest or any other semblance of ordinary life so badly she ignored the unlikelihood of everything turning out as she hoped. In any event, Anwen wandered down the path, forgetting a little that she was not prepared, and trying to reassure herself that surely Lord de Mareys was just a little way ahead. She walked for what seemed like hours, though by the position of the tiny sliver of moon she could see, it could not have been long. Sleepiness began to overtake her. She had to find Lord de Mareys.
What on earth did he mean, disappearing so quickly when I ought to have been able to see something of him?
Cross, her thoughts began to flutter in different directions, confusing her and increasing her frustration until she stumbled a little and uttered a small oath. She stood up and held her lantern aloft, and was startled to see a ring of yew trees a short distance ahead, each tree growing almost into each other. It looked as though there might be a clearing in the ring. Apprehensively she looked behind, hoping the greenway and, off in the distance, the gap in the trees where she’d entered the wood would be right there. It was gone. The woods grew close around her and she was entirely alone. Anwen knelt down to feel for the path, but she knew already it was gone. A small patch of lawn beneath her feet was all that remained.
Her stomach dropped and she fought back a whimper, struggling to keep off panic. The lantern cast only a little light, and each way she turned there were only trees and rocks. No sign of a village, nor of Lord de Mareys. No sound of anyone or anything. Even overhead was a black expanse of heavy emptiness. Her sleepiness returned, stronger than ever, and with it a quiet resignation. It all seemed hopeless. And if all was lost, there was no point in her worrying.
In the ring of yew trees lights kindled suddenly and the sound of what could have been laughter floated towards her. Anwen’s foggy mind struggled to remember why she ought not follow the laughter or the lights. They flickered and fluttered prettily in the air, out of the yew circle and closer to her. It was strange, and she remembered hazily she ought to be scared, but somehow all caution slowly seeped away. All she wanted was to lie down and rest.
“Anwen!”
Someone called to her, a familiar voice she couldn’t quite place.
“Anwen, there you are!”
Blinking slowly, Anwen’s mouth fell open as she saw the figure of her brother Godric emerging from somewhere withing the ring of trees. He was dressed for long travel, but very finely. His hood and cloak were lined with fur, and his handsome, dissolute face glowed with delight. Anwen, ridiculously pleased with this turn of events, beamed at him. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to see her brother, smiling at her in an uncharacteristically carefree and joyous way, walking towards her in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night.
“Godric!” she exclaimed wonderingly, “How came you here? Did John tell you where I had gone?”
“No, he didn’t,” he shook his head. “He never came to the hall, and I never went to the farm until I heard from the steward that you had gone to pay the debt! You can’t imagine my feelings when I heard that! My sister, gone to work—practically to slave—for so small a thing!”
“It was small, but the rose wasn’t his to take,” she frowned, puzzled at her inability to remember the exact circumstances of Alcuin’s crime. “I am perfectly well. Happy, even. Will you come back with me? Only I fear I have lost my way.” Dimly, Anwen wondered why she was so calm. She couldn’t remember the feeling of fear, though she knew she’d felt it not long before.
“Nevermind, Anwen! I know where to take you.” He held out his hand, and again Anwen vaguely thought this strange. Had Godric ever offered his hand to her in kindness? It was a welcome gesture, though, so she took it gladly.
The wind picked up and the faint laughter grew stronger as Godric pulled her along after him, towards the yews. “Come now, sister, come with me. The woods are no place for you.”
She staggered after him, now shivering with cold. She couldn’t see properly—some kind of dullness settled between her eyes and the wood. Godric pulled roughly, and her lantern swung wildly, showing up the knotted forms of trees that seemed to leer as they leaned towards her. Branches whipped against her face as the now bitter wind blew. At last Anwen stumbled into the clearing and the wind stopped. It was silent again. Lights hung on the trees, and the air around her prickled as it did before a storm. She shivered, though it was no longer so cold, and in that bright, warm light, her mind cleared.
She was surrounded by the fair folk.
Godric laughed. “Oh Anwen, you are easy to guide.” His face changed, still looking like her brother but somehow wider and sharper and more animal like. All around the circle were men and women of varying shapes and sizes, beautiful, but each with the same sharp, cunning expressions and features. They looked utterly wild and capable of anything, for any reason, cruel or kind, as long as they were amused by it or thought it reasonable. Their laughter was inhuman, not cruel, exactly, but wild and totally other, neither man nor beast. Their clothes shimmered like silk and gossamer, and several wore crowns. A few wore helmets from which stags’ horns protruded. One or two appeared to have wings like butterflies.
“Didn’t Lord de Mareys tell you to stay home?” Godric continued, “His current state of affairs is most unfortunate for him, but perfectly acceptable when you look at it the right way.”
Anwen had no idea what he meant by this but tried to look brave. “Please, I—I don’t know exactly who you are, but I only meant to follow the greenway into the village.”
“Why?”
“To see where Lord de Mareys went. And I thought I might find one of the priests who set out to preach to you good people.”
In answer the fair folk laughed, or hissed, or scampered, or growled, depending on their own thoughts about such things. “We have nothing to do with that,” the one who looked like Godric said. “You oughtn’t either. Such an unfortunate thing, and far too low for one of His estate. We don’t mind it as much as some of the others, of course, but they’re not good company at all.”
Bewildered, Anwen said nothing. Fair folk liked to confuse and trick people, and she could think clearly now. She would not give them the opportunity to fool her again.
“You are not Godric,” she said quietly. “Please, where is my brother?”
“Somewhere or other. Probably sleeping off another escapade back in Llanarth,” laughed not-Godric. “He is very useful, in his way. Now, my dear, you broke the rules of the house that has shown you such courtesy! You weren’t to leave, Anwen Godwinson. It flies against hospitality to break your master’s rules like that. Yes, we know your name quite well, and now you’re lost. You can’t be rescued because no one knows where you went, because your lord trusts you. Very foolish to trust people. But then, he’s never been wise.”
“You tricked me by pretending to be my brother!” Anwen spat out. “And there was an enchantment-I was so sleepy— that is not fair.”
“Don’t be stupid. You aren’t stupid in general. Once you are on a greenway path you are in our territory. It is well within our purview to visit with those who stray down our roads. If you go along with such visits that is your own fault. You were too full of your own cleverness, Anwen. Why, you left without your usual safeguards!”
Anwen gasped, knowing it was true. With a sinking heart she realized this meant that what she did at Castel de Mareys was known to the fair folk.
Which, she thought miserably, meant that it was possible that Lord de Mareys was in league with them, despite his assurances. Or the bwbach that served Castel de Mareys were spies.
She could have cried. In her haste she had not brought holy water, salt, oil, or iron, and had acted before she thought. She began to be very afraid. If she was not already in their realm it looked as she soon would be. “No, please,” she pleaded. “Let me go home. I don’t know how you know that, but I promised I would pay my debt, and your people know how sacred a duty that is!”
“Poor Anwen. It certainly isn’t Lord de Mareys who tells us things. He is barely on civil terms with anyone, let alone the people of the wild. It’s simply that I guessed correctly. If you’d had your trusty bits and bobs, you’d never have seen us. I must say it worked out very well for me! Don’t worry, though, we’ll take care of you!”
With that, the one who looked like Godric grinned horribly, and began to dance, all the wild figures in the yew circle joining in a fast, whirling dance. The wild faces swirled around her impossibly fast, and the golden lights grew and grew as she felt she was being pulled into an endless, wild dance she could not have stopped even if they let her go. She would go on dancing and dancing forever. They gripped her hands tightly and the inhuman human faces laughed as they danced through the clearing. She began to grow sleepy and numb, with only a cold frisson of fear keeping her tethered to her own world. Soon she would be in fairy, and she would never see her family again.
I’ll never see Lord de Mareys again.
A roar broke through her daze, and she looked up just as one of the fair folk slashed at her face with his needle-like fingernails. She cried out in pain. The roar came again, and the chaotic whirling dance stopped as she dropped to the ground, breathless and reeling. For a moment there was stillness, and then, a scream.
Anwen watched as a huge, fur covered creature leapt, snarling, into the yew circle. Everything began to move extremely fast again but now she could see clearly. The creature was massive, as tall as a man and broader, with a head like a cross of a bear, a lion, and a wolf. In all her life she’d never seen such a head, not even in the gargoyles at the cathedral in her old city. It had powerful shoulders, and while it galloped on all fours, once inside the clearing it stood and strode upon two legs. The beast stopped for an instant by Anwen, who braced herself to feel its teeth. They never came. She opened her eyes again to see it charge the crowd, a beast running on two legs, with none of the thought or hesitation a man would display. Screams and harsh cries clamored on all sides as the creature swiped and clawed at as many as it could reach. The fairies began to melt away, or to rush at Anwen with mouths agape just before they vanished. Anwen knew she was hurt—her face burned, and her arm hung lifelessly at her side, but she had to move. One of the fair folk spotted her attempt to crawl away, and bolted towards her, but what he meant to do she never found out; the beast tossed him aside, tearing his back with terrible claws. Anwen tried to pick herself up to run from both fairy and beast but only made it a few paces before treading on her skirts and falling. She screamed as a searing pain scraped along her back, and darkness closed in. The last thing she saw before her eyes closed in blessed unconsciousness was the beast standing on its hind legs, staring down at her.
Anwen had no idea how long she was asleep. Her eyes fluttered open briefly, noting she was no longer in the yew circle, and she could see no fairies anywhere. That was all she could do. In and out of sleep she went, unable to tell what was real and was a dream. When mostly awake, she knew she was moving, but had no idea where, or how, or why. Trees like phantoms in a fog loomed on all sides, and she could see it was a little lighter. She shivered, and rolled her head to the side, where something soft and warm came between her and the chill air. A sliver of something solid she could see out of the corner of her eye, but that was all. She mumbled something, but it didn’t seem to matter very much. She let her eyes stay closed. It felt good.
Eventually she woke up a little more thoroughly, the world around her being too bright to stay comfortably asleep. She groaned and her head swam, but she felt she was lying still. The ground was hard beneath her. Lights flickered before her hazy vision.
O, God in heaven, not the lights!
She shut her eyes against them and jerked away, kicking wildly, falling back against something solid but cushioned, which cradled her gently. She called out incomprehensibly, thinking of her mother, and then of the Abbess at the monastery, then of Sian, someone kind and solid and impossibly far away. It felt like the fair folk would be after her again if they noticed her, but moments passed and nothing happened. She began to breathe a little more easily and slowly, cautiously, opened her eyes. Her sight was still blurry, but she could see that the flickering lights were not the golden orbs of the horrible ring. They looked like torches, high off the ground.
“Anwen,” said a voice, rough and deep, from behind her head. She would have jumped, but if the solid, warm thing had done her no harm so far, she didn’t think she cared to exert herself. She was so tired.
“Mm.”
“Anwen, wake up. You’re safe. You are at Castel de Mareys.”
“No, I can’t be,” she mumbled, very sure of her thinking as she squinted. “That can’t be right. I got lost. It won’t let me find it.” She sighed sadly. “Only Lord de Mareys can find it again.” She tried to turn to see the speaker’s face but stopped when a pain in her shoulder made her cry out. She sucked in through her teeth but noticed that her comforter seemed to have a truly remarkable, long, dark beard.
Like a picture of a Saracen, she thought mistily.
“It is Lord de Mareys, Anwen. I found you,” said the gravelly voice slowly.
No, that was impossible. He would be too angry.
With the absolute certainly of someone only half awake she shook her head. It swam hideously. “No. Can’t be. My lord is very handsome. No beard.”
The voice seemed to pause a moment and then made a wheezing noise. It might have been a laugh. “Is he? I will be sure to tell him so.”
“No” mumbled Anwen. “No, can’t presume in my place. Most improper. But he is. And I’m lost.”
Then she was lifted up and felt a change in the air, and the lights dimmed. She closed her eyes again and turned her face into the softness of the fur cloak that wrapped her up and knew no more.