By Sylvian Hamilton by Max Gilbert Page A

they say is true--a great
beauty. Arlen would have her, dowry or none. It made quite a stir.'

    'Do
you want me to take the picture to her?'

    'Yes.
I will write and tell her how we came by it, and if you will be my
messenger I'll be in your debt.'

    'Not
forgetting my charges,' said Straccan. They smiled at each other with
perfect understanding. 'I'd like to see my daughter, while I'm here.'

    The
lady was not at Arlen Castle but at her summer hall, which had no
drawbridge. Its modest gate was guarded by men-at-arms and the
largest hounds Straccan had ever seen: two enormous bandogs the size
of small ponies, chained one at each side of the gate, straining at
their collars and growling savagely, all white teeth and scarlet
tongues. A thin dirty boy much marked by ringworm, sat by an iron
winch from which chains ran to the dogs' collars. As Straccan
approached, the boy turned the wheel and the dogs were reluctantly
hauled aside. As he passed into the inner court, one threw back its
head and bayed after him, a chilling deep-toned sound that echoed
back and forth from the surrounding walls. A steward called a boy to
escort him to the lady's solar above. There, a waiting woman looked
up, harried, from piles of scattered garments and open clothes-chests
trailing silks, velvets, cambrics and ribbons. She led him up a
winding stair to a window, and pointed out across another inner yard.

    He
found her at last in the stable, sitting in the straw in a tumble of
soiled silks with a colt lying across her lap, its sides heaving as
it drew in one painful breath after another, eyes bulging and
suffused with blood, foam from its mouth everywhere. Her hands
soothed the suffering creature and she bent to whisper in its ears,
blowing her own breath into its red nostrils, regardless of the froth
and muck on her gown and veil. The narrow long-fingered hands held
the colt's shaking head and, as Straccan watched, it grew quieter.
The stertorous gasping eased, the congested eyes closed and opened,
closed and opened, bulging less and less.

    The
woman wiped its nose and mouth with a wet cloth, taken from a bucket
behind her, that reeked of wine, squeezing the cloth so that a
trickle of liquid ran into the animal's mouth, keeping up a constant
flow of whispered words, soft and soothing, just beyond Straccan's
hearing. Suddenly the colt, which had appeared dead a moment before,
sucked in two or three deep breaths and raised its head to look
round. It lurched to its feet, staggered, half fell, regained its
footing, stood trembling on its thin long legs and uttered a
lamb-like bleat which was answered instantly by a shrill anxious
whinny from another stall.

    'That's
his mother,' she said. 'He'll be all right now. Milon!' A groom's
head appeared over the partition. 'Take him to his mother.'

    Straccan
stood aside to make room as the groom led the colt away. 'What was
the matter?' he asked, extending a hand to pull the lady to her feet.

    'He
began to cough, and couldn't stop,' she said, wiping her hands on
the soiled silk of her skirts. 'Then he had one fit after another.'

    “ I
thought he was dying. What did you do?'

    'Oh,'
she gave him a sideways smile, 'I talked him out of it. Who are you?'

    'My
name is Straccan. I come from your brother, lady. Indirectly.'

    'Give
me the icon.' she said. She had washed, and changed her clothes. Her
skin glowed, flawless, in the candlelight and her pale silver-blonde
hair escaped in slippery gleaming waves from a red gauze veil. She
sat with Straccan alone over the remains of their meal at a small
table in her solar while her women came and went, chattering like
birds, giggling and filling the room with scents and colours.

    'The
what?'

    'The
picture.'

    He
unbuckled the pouch at his belt, laid it on the table and took out
the cylinder, handing it to her. She held it but did not open it.

    'There
is also this,' he said, taking out the brief message the unfortunate
Crimmon had carried, 'and this, from the