Alred remembers a girl
“And we took some eggs,” Cynewulf gushed, “and we opened the door a crack, and we put the eggs on top of the door, and when Cook came and opened the door, they fell off like BOOM! on her head, and cracked and got egg everywhere!”
He flung himself on the floor next to his father and rolled around, laughing over the sheer genius of his prank until the tears came to his dark eyes.
“Mmhmm, mmhmm,” Alred agreed solemnly. “Fell off like BOOM! I see.”
“It was a good trick, wasn’t it, Papa?”
“Well, that depends. Was it worth losing your dessert every night for a week?”
“Oh, yes! Dessert is only good until it’s gone, but I shall remember this trick forever! And laugh about it when I am old! And tell my children! As you do!”
Alred laughed. “Is this the example I am setting for my children?”
“You also set an example of being a good knight, and a good gentleman, and being good with my sword. And also telling funny jokes.”
“Old Man, you flatter me.”
“And, Papa? Do you know what else?”
Alred was about to ask what else when a knock came at the door of the little boy’s room. “Uh, oh,” he said to his son. “Some tedious business for you, no doubt.”
“It’s probably tedious business for you,” Cynewulf said, but he rose and straightened his clothing before calling, “Enter!”
The door opened, and Alred’s steward was behind.
“Oh! Tedious business for you!” Cynewulf groaned and collapsed on the floor again.
Alred did not bother to rise. “It had better not be tedious at this hour,” he smiled.
“I beg Your Grace’s and your lordship’s pardon,” he bowed, “but there is a young man here to see you, and says he will not go away until he has. He says he is a shepherd, but that you will want to see him.”
“A shepherd?” Alred sat up.
“I don’t know him. He is not one of ours. He has a foreign accent, and he says his name is Damon, and that you would know him.”
“Damon?” Alred repeated. He knew he had heard that name before…
“If you don’t, I beg your pardon, and I shall send him away.”
“No—wait…”
Alred searched his memory for anything attached to the name Damon. Damon the shepherd… the shepherd Damon…
“Did he smell like sheep?” Cynewulf asked, squinting sagely up at the steward.
“I did not notice any particular odor,” the man smiled.
“I think you should take your sword, Papa,” Cynewulf advised.
“‘It is the shepherd-singer Damon who sings…’” Alred muttered to himself, finally pulling a phrase out of the great library of his mind. And then he remembered.
“Ah!” he cried. “I know the man! Of course I shall see him.” He rubbed his hands together in delight. “I shall meet him in my study.”
“But Papa! Your sword is there!” He turned to the steward and ordered, “Don’t take him there until Papa is already there.”
Alred laughed.
“I never met a shepherd that didn’t stink like sheep!” Cynewulf protested.
“My boy, he’s not a shepherd, he’s a shepherd-poet, in the Greek fashion. The sheep—if ever sheep there are—are simply part of the decor.”
After he had put Cynewulf to bed with an abbreviated version of one of his favorite songs, Alred went down to his study, wondering by now at the boldness of the elf. He was beginning to fear that he had not come merely to discuss poetry. It was growing late, and the night was already quite dark, for it was the longest of the year.
He found Ears standing before the fire in his study, with the hood of his cloak up over his head. Alred locked the door, and once the elf had seen that he had come alone, he removed the hood to reveal a pale, pained face.
“How can I help you?” Alred asked at once.
“Can you go to Egelric tonight?”
“Of course. Is he in trouble?”
“Sela has been killed.”
“Sela—” The great void left by his own wife’s death yawned before him again, and his head swam with a sudden dizziness.
“My cousin is with him now. Wulf is there, but Gils is gone.”
“Gone…”
“Elves did it,” he said bitterly. “Her people! Not mine. I think they don’t want any more of these half-elf children—as if it were a debasement to such dogs as they are!”
Alred was startled back into the present by the savagery in the elf’s speech. “But Sela…” he began.
“They took both of the boys, but we have only found Wulf so far, and I took him home and met Egelric myself, when he came home. I tried to explain, but I don’t know what to explain…” His voice was growing softer again as he spoke of Egelric. “And he was very upset… you can imagine…”
“Young man, I don’t need to imagine.”
“Oh—of course. I’m sorry.”
Alred shrugged dismissively. “What will they do to the baby?”
“I don’t know. I—I told Egelric he was in no danger, but I don’t know. I think his father may have him.”
“Where was Wulf?”
“One of his… accomplices had him. He was easier to find. But we shall find the other. He can’t hide from us.”
“I can send men to help look for him.”
“No, no, that wouldn’t help. And I don’t…” He paused and looked away briefly as if measuring the danger of what he was about to reveal. “I can’t let the other elves know of this. Now only I and a few of my cousins know. But if the others know, they won’t help Egelric, nor let me help him. I think they would only be relieved if Gils were to die.”
Alred frowned, and the elf added quickly, “You don’t understand. You mustn’t judge them if you don’t understand.”
Alred shrugged again. “What can I do?”
“Go to Egelric. Bring him here if you can.” He pulled his hood up over his head again. “I shall bring the baby here when we find him.”
“What about Sela?”
“I have told him that we shall take her body, and do as is done for elves. For our kind. It is an honor to her.”
“And what is that?”
He removed his hood again with a gesture of impatience. “A tree shall grow over her. As was done for Egelric’s wife Elfleda.”
“A willow tree that is always green?”
“No. That is different. This tree will not grow a hundred years in one night. But these are no ordinary trees. It is an honor. We must hurry. I must help them search.” He pulled up his hood.
“What sort of tree?”
“What?” he snapped. “You want to know what sort of tree? I don’t know—a willow or a rowan I suppose.”
“A cherry tree?” Alred asked, wistful with his memories of the laughing, chattering girl she had been.
“Why?”
“A bee-wing-flower tree, she used to say. Poetic, don’t you think? She always wanted the bee-wing-flower fires. It was her favorite wood.”
“A cherry tree, then,” the elf murmured and went to stand before the door with his back to the room, as if the thought of Sela saying anything made him uncomfortable.
Alred paused for a moment as he buckled on his sword. “‘It is bee-wing-flower-fire in the evening I wait,’” he quoted softly, pulling another long-forgotten phrase out of the great library of his mind. And then he began to cry.
