A frog slipped down the protruding arm of the english merchant. 

His ecclesiastic duties finished, Peter brushed away the memories of another day, in the same place, two years ago. Like today, the wind ruffled his hair and he thought himself handsome as he pledged his loyalty to haughty Coira.

The baritone voice of Nicholas saved Peter from stepping in a pool of clotted blood. His voice sounded angry as he walked, with his hand on the hilt of his sword, down the wooden bridge leading outside town. 

Next to him, a man in laced boots and dressed as one of pope's men removed his helm and revealed the soft flesh of his face. He showed his pearly whites and gave a quick grin to Nicholas. The papist's dark locks looked like the night to the day next to Nicholas' snow white hair.

The small gate at the end of the bridge flung open and a woman and a young man run towards the merchant's body, ignoring the splat their feet made through the two inch deep pool of blood.

Peter prayed the young man, his lips white and trembling with thousand questions would keep his faith at the sight of the gruesome scene.

God was not in the mood to listen to his prayers, Peter thought ruefully when the gloved hand of an old woman descended on the lad's shoulder.

'I told him not to congregate with the likes of them." she pronounced in a self assured tone, with a meaningful look at the youngster.

Peter sighed when he saw youn man's shoulders drop and his eyes fill with doubt. They mirrored his own feelings and Peter shook his head to clear his mind. 

He slowly approached the lad and couldn't help but notice the swollen bruie on his forehead, hidden by the dim light of the twilight. To his surprise the lad whispered.
 
'It was Comyn, I am as sure of it as the sun would rise tomorrow.'

It echoed his thoughts and he attempted to comfort him. The young man gathered courage and continued. He pointed his finger to the english merchant's corpse.

'Only his claymore could do such a thorogh job.' The lad's Adam's apple rose and fell as he swallowed. 

Peter swallowed too under his cowl, for a different reason though. Coira and Comyn belonged together in the fires of Hell. The low haging branches hid both the place where he witnessed their fervent kiss and the intricate woodwork of the trapdoor to the hidden tunnel. He'd have to rid himself of the lad and the two women if he wanted to enter the thicket unseen.

He turned towards the old woman who now berated the other in the same all knowing tone.

'My lady, I heard a large fire would be roaring in the great hall chimnmey. It would speed your recovery.'

He spoke with the voice of authority of a monk known for his healing skills and pointed to her bound hand. With a horrified expression she measured again the unfortunate merchant and motioned to the other two, who followed her without a word.

Peter lowered his eyelids and watched them enter the gate. If Nicholas knew of his plans and offered his help, he never let it show. Since both him and the papist turned toward the gate in a quiet discussion, Peter seized his chance and offering one more silent prayer for the deceased he lowered himself through the thick yellow foliage.

The artist who caved the trap door put into it all the rage of the betrayal coursing through him. He still saw Coira in the maiden carved into the door, her hair spread across her lover. He flexed his hand and shivered as he touched the maiden's bare flesh to set off the secret lever that opened then door. 

Peter felt his heart skip a beat again as he remembered Beatrix incessant questioning. "Don't you think she's too richly dressed when Comyn's around? Where was she a fortnight ago? What was more important that your father's celebration feast, Peter?"

He took a dxeep breath and pushed the lever. The darkness of the tunnel made him nervous each time. His mother told him he'd been afraid since the day he was born and that he wouldn't stop crying until his brother would rock him to sleep. 

Peter felt the wall for the candle and the tinder he always left there. Jamie would not help him today. He'd helped him with Beatrix, curving her incessant badgering, but that was on one of the more and more rare days when his drunken state didn't make him him unbearable for everyone around.

All the muscles in Peter's body froze. Then his heart started to beat slowly and he felt the juice of the fig squashed in his hand dripping down his fingers.

Damn Adam, this joke went way too far. All his pranks ended with a fig and Peter knew he'd find no candle now in the narrow alcove carved into the wall.

Peter followed the narrow path he knew disappeared around the corner and found the larger alcove along it. For the first time in his life he appreciated his soft curls and the linen cap he wore to hide them. He pulled it off his head and tore it to form a strip of cloth. He felt for the stick he and Adam left to play a prank on Tristan so long ago. 

"Do onto other..." Peter murmured with remorse as he wrapped the piece of linen around the end of the stick. He felt in his pocket and found the small bottle of holy oil. With a prayer asking the almighty father for forgivness for what he was about to do, he poured its contents over the bundle of cloth. 

Peter searched the floor for two small sticks. There was never a shortage of them. He pushed back the question of where the perfect dried out sticks came to be in a closed tunnel. With a patience born of fear, he rubbed the two sticks until a spark lit the torch filling the air with the smell of myrrh.

It cast ominous shadows on the pictish figures drawn on the wall who told the story of an long gone world. Peter pulled his cloak tighter around him to ward of the cold of the chilly night. He'd be out of this damned tunnel as soon as his feet could carry him.

He stepped over the metal links that littered the floor to the door at the end of the tunnel. Tristan had ripped apart the chainmail he painstankily build for a whole month when Adam suggested it was the ugliest thing he ever saw. Peter had joind the prank and both ended with a swollen lip. The chainmail was not the only thing broken that day.

Peter shivered thinking of the one hundread yard left but he must not fail. He could not let Annabel win. He couldn't stand any more of her crocodile tears and could watch no more her brow crease in mock concern. 

With a groan he pulled himseld closer to the wall. The metal links remained sharp after all these years and he didn't need holes in the soles of his boots, not with the winter approaching and judging after the chill in the tunnel, the first crusty snow already falling.

Perhaps thinking about the bright sun in mid summer would bring some warmth into his chilled bones. Merlon's braided hair moving with her body flashed through his mind and Peter drew his hand through his disheveled hair. She had been most obliging to him in the past couple of years.

The soft noise of an opening door prompted Peter to feel for his swordbelt. He almost panicked when he found only the cheap rope that kept his homespun cloak together.

The old woman's astonished gasp made Peter drop his hand and tighten the grip on his torch. 

"How did you come upon the knowledge of this tunnel, Jona?"

The flame flickered on Jona's candle, revealing the soft tremble of her hand. She smoothed the linen square covering her hair and her slender shoulders. The flame burned stright now and Jona squared her shoulders. 

"You youngestrs never cease to disappoint me. Jamie threw up on my shoes last night and muttered something about a prank Tristan played on you. He mentioned tomorrow afternoon, Edward and an old legend."

Jona's eyes stared coldly at him and her eyebrows raised in a haughthy accusation.

Peter lowered his head. He remebered well the night when Fergus had his lands stripped from him, when he donned, by necessity, the monk's robe and Jamie drwoned his guilt in the first barrel of ale.

Jona pointed to the door and Peter saw no reason to tarry. He lifted his robes and scurried through the door like a chastized child. He watched the old woman carefully pass through the door into the dimly lit corridor. He prayed she would not see him behind the musty tapestry. God had mercy this time and he could see her shaking her head at the woman he saw earlier today mourning the hapless english merchant.

The woman whimpered and blew her nose before giving Jona a deferrent curtsy.

Peter startled at the sound of the dour voice behind him.

"We have at least a two hours ride to the abbey. It's already dark and the snow blankets the ground. We'll never make it in time".

Peter turned and looked straight into the slanted eyes of the man behind him. His lean chest and fake expert stance didn't intimidate him anymore.

"Adam went too far this time, Merlin. I hope you know the extent of the disaster your proteges created. I am not the only one who knows."

Merlin flinched and Peter instinctively knew he planned to harm him on the way to the abbey. His eyedrums rung and his belly rumbled. He was in need of a clear mind and he needed sustenance for it. Peter braved the daily stench of the manor house and stepped into the hall.

He swore a silent oath when he saw Jamie pull his hand off the sensuous maid and straighten his shoulders when he eneterd the hall. Jamie's bethrotal feast was tonight and Peter surmised it was another reason Jamie sought the comfort of the ale barrel night after night.

There will be a sleepless night for both him and Jamie. Judging by Jamie's limp arm, he'd be again in the company of an ale mug, in the mahogany chair he so despised and yet loved so much. 
 
An almost naked woman pulled Merlin aside, and he hissed before departing:
"One hour, ouside, be ready."

Peter sighed with relief and returned the almost invisible nod Isaac gave him. Sometimes, in the distant past, perhaps when the pictish drawings were still drying in the tunnel below, one of Isaac's ancestors swore allegiance to one of Peter's forefathers.
 
If not for Isaac, he's be dead many times over. Tonight he'd save his life again.

Tonight, he'd not go back to the abbey. Tonight, with isaac's help he'd be on a ship bound to the continent.

"Tonight, the Pope's envoy will board the same ship. Show him this when he comes for confession".

Nicholas slipped a small pouch into his hand as he humbly asked for a blessing. Peter nodded in benediction and Nicholas lowered himseld back on his chair.

Peter noticed with joy the sack in Isaac's hands. He thought of everything, including a packed dinner.

For the first time in years he had hope.

In one hour he wouldn't ride to his death, he would sail to a new life.  

Vochita watched the old soldier as he convalesced on the bench near the waterfront. He'd been a fast and skilled swordsman in his heydays. Rumors even went he was in the possesion of a secret formula. Perhaps he'd been just a fool to barter his quiet life as a smith for a sword.

The man attempted to arrange his black hat with his trembling hands and a hiss left his mouth when he failed. It was still hard for Vochita to stomach the sight of his fingerless hands. His sullen expression proved the knowledge he'd never wield neither the sword nor the smith's hammer had finally sunk in.

The hair on her back prickled and Vochita knew it didn't bring good news.

"My dear, you must come and help me. We have people to tend down at the tower."

Deprived of a childhood friend, Vochita grew in the shadow of her mother. Despite that, she had kept her luminous eyes and good disposition. She nodded at her mother and forwned again at the low, sultry decolletage of her dress. Vochita sighed. This dress would look good on a young maiden and her mother was well past her prime.

"How's the irishman, mom?" 

"He asked for you. That's why I called for you. The old curmudgeon wouldn't let me help. Says I am a fake old... It is  not appropriated for your ears, my dear. I would stay close to make sure he doesn't say anything a young maiden shouldn't hear."

The image of the quiet irishman berating her mother made her smile. The soft and gentle eyes sparkling under the pale gray hair falling over his face told her there was more to the man than her mother was giving him credit.

A closed sedan chair passed by them. If the emblazoned door showed who it beloged to, the foul smell told them who the passenger was. No riches the seasoned soldier amassed through his sword would save him from his fate. The animosity at the castle grew by day since the boyar had yet to name his successor.

He had no blood ties among the inhabitants of the castle, none with the smallest right to claim the succession.

She feared Dan, the black knight would shed blood in his attept to seize the lands and the castle. She bore the proof of his rage, under her breast where his dirk cut in his attempt to force her. His auburn hair stole her breath when he arrived as a new soldier in the service of the boyar. He'd been forthcoming with his attentions and she found out on what was to be their first night together of his bouts of rage.

Each time she remembered the fated april night, she thanked God for the stranger that happened in the middle of Dan's attempt to rape her. She knew not who the stranger was. She only remembered the fingers of his metal glove drumming a lively tune on his polished armor as he chased Dan away.

She'd gone willingly to Dan, however some time that night her resolve broke abruptly.  So did Dan. She escaped with her life and honor intact. The ruined lace dress and the scar under her breast were a stark reminder of what men were capable of.

Her aunt suspected something. She accepted eventually her story of a boar forcing her to hide in a thorny bush. Yet auntie still badgered her mother to send her to the monastery to teach her some sense.

"She's going the wrong way, Caterina. Her place is in the church." 

Vochita sighed. She could never understand how her father never suspected the fact she was the only one standing between his  sweet sister Maria and the tower and the lands that went with it.

Vochita then sighed again.

There she was, her flaxen hair neatly bound in a golden threded net, greeting them with her ominous large and oh so fake smile, dear aunt Maria.

Vochita climbed without enthusiasm the wooden stairs leading from the waterfront to the tower. Her mother stayed behind, under the pretense of checking on the old man. She knew it was a pretense. Beyond changing his bandages and stuffing down potions on his throat, she barely exchanged a word with him.

On the top of the hill, a big man pushed a marble urn. He came from the west and he didn't speak their language. He spoke a bit of latin, just enough to make sense of the building plans. With the latin she knew and a lot of gesturing she found out he was lowborn, the son of a builder.

Aunt Maria was scarcely aware of it. His stature leant him an air of mystery and perhaps a hint of nobility. His creamy skin glowed in the morning sunlight and he turned his head to Vochita with a subtle smile.

She returned her smile in acknoledgement and scurried by her aunt, who enthralled by the builder's smile attempted a conversation. If aunt Maria's red cheeks woulnd't have already given her away, the glow in her eyes spoke how smitten she was with the young man.

Vochita muttered when she was at a safe distance:
"Who's to go now to the monastery, aunt Maria?"

The church's ageless bells sounded the time for dinner. Vochita stepped into the courtyard and a girl of about ten years of age crossed her path.

She run down towards the wooden stairs and yelled:

"Maria, master retched again. I swear it was because of that brute. He forced his way into his room and reproached him the lack of respect and his low pay."

Vochita sighed at the girl's heartfelt report. She tried real hard to please the master, as she called the boyar.

The voivode, the duke of Valachia made her his ward at a very young age. He treated her like a princess, as the gold bands at her wrists and the glittery hair net proved.

Her fate, like the fate of all boyar's holdings hung in balance.

Roger, the brute with chestnut colored hair, was among the contenders. He was not the worst that could happen to the little girl though. Vochita understood she was unsettled by the sudden turn of events. Who could forsee the aging but otherwise healthy boyar would suddenly fall sick?

His wife never grew accustomed with the child thrown in her lap, She complained incessantly she owed much of the white that liberally sprinkled her once red hair to her ward. Perhaps the girl was not blameless. There were rumors the woman had found snakes in her socks and frogs in her bed. The relationship was strenuous at best and Vochita felt the girl's anguish at the fate of her master.

Roger strode out of the tower, visibly troubled. A strand of brown hair hung over his left eye, and he raked his fingers through his hair again. Vochita shook her head. He most likely ruined his chances with his restless pitch for attention on the elderly boyar.

After him, the boyar's wife slammed the tower's door in her wake. She then berated Roger copiously for the sorry state of her husband.

The little girl snarled and interrupted in a rebelious tone.

"Stop your fight, you know very well what happens at night. You both want him dead!"

Vochita blanched and stepped forward. She took girls' hand and motioned her to stop.
"Elise! This is not what a young girl should say! I am sorry Dina."

Unfazed, Elise lowerd her eyelids and looked at Roger beneath her lowered lashes. Soft chuckles coming from the audience proved her impersonation of Dina hads been successful.

"Power and wealth, that's how you called it, Dina. You've never been my mother."

Elisa broke from Vochita's hold with a powerful pull and run inside the tower, replacing the chuckles with louder and louder muttering.

"Pwerhaps tomorrow morning would bring a solution to this unrest."

The soft yet resonating voice made Vochita cringe. Today Ziza wore a green hunting dress and a hat with a white feather that matched the dress with perfection. She held the reins of her mare with one hand, and a hawk perched on her free arm. She measured Vochita and Dina distantly and smiled in response of the burning desire visible in Roger's eyes.

Ziza dismounted then embraced aunt Maria. Her black hair contrasted Maria's flaxen color. Vochita knew it was dyed to hide the early silvery strands Maria couldn't pluck anymore. 

Visibly incomfortable, Maria tool a fortifing breath and lifted slowly her dress, ready to leave. Her silvery eyes rested on Dina.

"You've always been good for nothing. The duke would hear of your attempt on our master's life. Leave us."

She left in a swish of velvet and petticoats, her glassy look gliding unfocused over the crowd.

A hand clapped Vochita's shoulder and the scent of lavender enveloperd her. Sher breathed in deeply and raised her eyes to the soft light of the full moon. She knew who stomped down the drawbridge. She knew the hand on the shoulder although small, would be cracked from the laundry and blistered from work.

Vochita turned with a huge smile, her first smile today.
"You're late, Rose".

Rose pursed her lips in a mock pout.
"What did I miss?"

"A riotous wave of accuasations on who plotted to kill the boyar. On forbidden liaisons and how worthless some people are."

Rose tapped her lips with her finger pensively.

"You know, that supreme blackguard, Jan said the boyar will not see the sun tomorrow."

Vohita's rich brown eyebrows joined together in a deep frown.

"A week ago I didn't think he'd be here today. I didn't see him so I couldn't say how bad it is. Rose, I fear for Elisa."

Rose nodded.

"She is a rebelious one. She'd make a feisty wife to someone one day. If she make it that long. She'll be a beauty one day, why one could tell by her soft curves even now."

"Rose!" Vochita berated Rose softly.

"I don't play by your rules, Vochita. Oh I heard Dina mumbling incoherently on my way here. Thought first it was because of the gift Elisa left for her on the windowsil."

Rose smiled ruefully.

"I had to comfort Elisa, hold her in my arms for a while. I didn't feel like it first, after a day's work to placate a spolied brat."

"Elisa is hurting, Rose. If what I heard at the assemblage was true, she's been through a lot."

"Did anyone mention a relic, Vochita?"

"No, no relic, why? There were only angry words exchanged. However I know now where my silk petticoat is. "

Rose grinned and tossed her hair, that hung freely past her waist.

"I wonder if anyone else noticed the coiled dragons softly embroidered in your aunt Maria's petticoat. Speaking of the Dragon, there was a shipbound drummer sailing the far away channel around February this year."

Vochita blinked.

"Drummer? So what?"

Rose drew closer and whispered in her ear.

"They're rumored to sail in the service of the Dragon. He drummed a lively jig on his polished armor. Some say to stave the boredom of the voyage, others that it's a harbinger of death."