Dunstan does nothing

Dunstan walked uneasily at Bertie’s side. He felt himself to be little more than a useless appendage of his page, for the important duty of protecting Iylaine fell to Bertie and to Malcolm, who walked on the other side of the girl.

Nevertheless, he preferred the role of humble hanger-​​on to the possibility of being called upon to actually defend her. He knew that Malcolm and Bertie both wore swords under their cloaks. Dunstan had had the forethought to “forget” his.

Dunstan had not thought it a good idea to bring Iylaine to the market today, the first market day of the month, and hence the biggest. It was also the first great market since the woman had been attacked by elves, and the first time that Iylaine had gone out into any sort of crowd since then. Dunstan had thought it too great a risk.

But Dunstan, for all that he was a lord in his own right, had been overruled. It was Malcolm’s birthday, and Malcolm had the conviction that this entitled him to do whatever he pleased. He had, moreover, the sudden self-​​importance of a boy whose age now ended in –teen, and Dunstan suspected he almost hoped for a fight – a chance to show off before his friends and, especially, his cousin.

Bertie had gone along easily. He had wanted to buy a little gift for his mother, and he hoped to see some of his friends who were the children of commoners. Not having a birthday of his own that day, he had instead put forward the argument that it was necessary for Iylaine’s health, and pointed out how the shadows around her eyes had darkened over the month she had been confined to the castle.

As for Dunstan, he rather liked the shadows of her face, and how startling were her blue eyes in the center of them. They were like the reflection of the sky at the bottom of a well, he thought. This poetic sentiment had received the approval of his father, and for this reason he almost thought he would not like to see it made obsolete – except that he truly did care about the health of his friend. That, and the unnerving languor and indifference with which she observed their argument over how she was to spend her day, had decided him.

He had thought his mother would have put a halt to their plans in any case, but he should have remembered that his mother had not shown a great interest in supervising young people in recent days. Only the week before, little Cynewulf had made it as far as the stables before anyone had noticed he was missing.

She had not even insisted that they take Wulsy or another of the grooms, and this unexpected liberty had delighted Malcolm and Bertie. Thus the two of them had set off in high spirits, while Iylaine had come plodding along as if she cared not whether she went or stayed. Dunstan had followed obediently, praying that there would be no trouble, and hoping that his agitation would settle enough along the way to allow him to observe the world around him.

It was a rather miserable day. It was not raining, but the sky was as sullen as a disappointed child who might cry at any time, provided someone was there to witness it. The gray-​​brown fields stretched away on either side of the road, naked and raw without their mantle of snow, and faded into a chilly mist.

Malcolm grumbled about the ugliness of the scene, Bertie reminded him that it was likely to be quite colorful at the market, and Iylaine trudged on in silence. Dunstan could only lament to himself that none of them seemed to appreciate the forlorn beauty of stubble fields in a February fog.

Surely anyone with eyes as sad as Iylaine’s must see it, he thought, but her eyes only stared down at the crusted road a few paces ahead of the tread of her feet. Her arms swung loosely at her sides as if she had not realized that there were other arms on either side of her, either of which would have been happy to steady her over the ruts. But both Malcolm and Bertie had learned not to suggest such a thing.

Dunstan was not sorry, for the two of them kept secret tally of the favors she paid the other, and their days of reckoning, though infrequent, were violent. Then Dunstan thought he saw what ugliness was. Still, he envied them, in a way. After the scuffle, the one would pick up the other, the other would dust off the one, and both would laugh and declare girls a great bother and be the best of friends again, until the balance once more shifted too far towards the one or the other.

Dunstan never fought, except unwillingly with his little brother, and so no one ever picked him up, he never dusted anyone off, and he had no friend of the kind that Malcolm and Bertie were to each other. And yet he could only envy them so far. Neither of them saw the beauty in the barren fields.

As they neared the blaring market, they met people heading in both directions on the roads. The horse and ox trading was done, and the men were walking their beasts home. Some of the older vendors who had already sold through their wares were returning home as well, although the younger folk – the men especially – would be staying a while to drink and spend their profits. 

Meanwhile, heading down to the square now were many mothers with small children who had come home for their supper, and perhaps convinced the children to nap a while, before going down to the market again.

Dunstan called his roving eyes back from the fields and skies and began anxiously watching the faces of the people they passed. The men swung wide with their animals to avoid them, sometimes stepping out into the field. None wanted Iylaine’s evil eye to land on his recent investment.

The sad eyes of the beasts rolled in their heads as they tried to get a glimpse of her despite the tugs to their halters. The animals all looked to Iylaine with the same veneration the people showed when their young queen rode out among them with the princesses. But Queen Eadgith always waved shyly to the people. Iylaine only walked on, unseeing, as the oxen passed, bellowing after her.

The women eyed her more strangely, and Dunstan could not determine what they meant by her. Some of them made the sign to ward off her eyes, others crossed themselves – and this was as usual – but others stood and stared at her as if she were something new. He could see the news of her arrival go rippling down the road on a wave of whispered gossip. As they neared the market, he found that the women had heard of their coming before they were seen, and they stood in uneasy knots, looking expectantly up the road as the children came down it.

Then it happened.

As they passed through the cluster of little houses that stood behind the baker’s shed, a woman came running outside, clutching a nearly naked baby against her.

“Mistress, Mistress, won’t you save my baby?” she cried.

Before the boys could move to stop her, she had thrust the child nearly under Iylaine’s nose.

Iylaine wailed, “Malcolm!” and clutched at his arm – it was his sword arm, but certainly he could not have drawn his sword against a woman and a baby in any case.

Dunstan saw the other women descending on them like a flock of starlings.

“Get back!” Malcolm warned. “What can she do for your baby?”

Dunstan saw how the child’s face was bright with fever, and how its head lolled.

“She saved you!” one of the women called.

“Only touch her, please!” the mother begged, and she pressed the baby against the elbow Iylaine had raised to ward her off.

Dunstan saw how Bertie was trying to squeeze himself between the two of them, but that left Iylaine’s back exposed, and another woman laid a hand on Iylaine’s shoulder. The girl shrieked in terror.

“Get back!” Malcolm shouted again, but now all of the women were pressing them round.

“No one ever got healed of the camp fever so quick as you!” one of them shouted back at Malcolm, almost accusingly.

“Then ask me to touch your babies!” he replied. He allowed Bertie to detach Iylaine’s hands from his cloak, and she went willingly to cling to the taller boy.

“She did it!” a toothless old woman crowed. “We know!”

“She’s a healer!” another woman shouted. “Just like her blessed mother! And her grandmother, what saved my youngest boy!”

“Only touch her!” the mother pleaded, but Iylaine turned her head away. Dunstan saw that her face was white, even unto her lips.

The women were growing angry at Iylaine’s refusal. They did not seem to realize they were terrifying the girl, and still more were coming, attracted by the commotion like further starlings. Like the birds, they all seemed to be scolding at once. Malcolm was trying to talk to them, but Dunstan could not follow either end of these attempts at conversation. And the women were beginning to jostle one another for a chance to touch Iylaine’s cloak or hair.

Bertie turned to him, and his eyes too were angry. “Won’t you do something?” he hissed. “Are you a lord or what?”

Dunstan felt himself grow as pale as Iylaine. He had not expected that he would be called upon to do something. He tried to think – what would his father do? But his father always knew what to do – he just did, and it was the right thing.

Dunstan felt his head shrinking down into the protection of his shoulders, as if he hoped to find himself a turtle rather than a lord, as if he hoped he could make himself small enough to simply disappear.

Then it happened.

Iylaine pushed herself away from Bertie, threw back her head, and let out a scream that set the dogs barking half a mile away. The women were startled enough that she was able to slip past them and run out across the fields, towards the dark forest that shimmered behind the mist. Despite the burden of her cloak and her heavy dress, she ran faster than any girl, faster than most boys.

Malcolm swore and ran after her, and Bertie, after a scornful look down at Dunstan, did the same.

The women, having nothing left to see but him, all turned to look at him, and at the sight of their lord’s heir remembered themselves. They began to wander back to the market, muttering amongst themselves to hide their awkwardness, or else went to comfort the sobbing mother, who had, at least, had the opportunity to press her baby against the elf’s arm.

It did not occur to Dunstan that they should or did feel ashamed of what they had done. All the shame in the world was, as ever, for him.