Dark Maiden by Lindsay Townsend

this year. Why there? What else is there? Writings? A relic of evil? A foul and secret sacrifice?
    The idea appalled her but she knew what she must do. I must return to the Tower. That is the root of this present evil.
    She crossed herself and looked directly at the abbot. “Will you and the brothers pray within the abbey church today, Holy Father?” she asked. “Through today until dawn tomorrow? That is how you may best help me.”
    “A vigil of prayer,” Abbot Simon said. “We shall do so.”
    “Prayer and offerings before the reliquary of the Magdalene, before her cross,” Yolande went on. “Prayer and more offerings for Saint Michael too. Both saints ask this.”
    In her dream, they had demanded these things, but Yolande decided not to admit it. The Magdalene had also insisted that her most sacred relic should remain within the monastery church, lest the enemy win the upcoming battle in the Tower and she and Michael must make a stand. Yolande thought it wisest not to admit that either.
    “It shall be done, my daughter.”
    “May I have some herbs from the gardens? If they could be blessed by you, Father, and drenched in holy water.”
    “Tell me what you need, Yolande. It shall be brought to you within the church.”
    She hurriedly recited a list of sacred and magical herbs, relieved when Abbot Simon asked no questions and made no comment, not even when she mentioned roses and lilies and Solomon’s seal, flowers grown for their beauty and perfume as much as their virtues.
    “You said you would need fresh milk, also, and honeycomb,” Geraint reminded her.
    “You, Geraint, can collect them from the kitchen,” the abbot responded with a flash of his earlier arrogance.
    “I will that.” Geraint was smiling. He smiled a lot, especially when he was angry or nervous.
    Yolande waited for the abbot to leave and then asked quietly, “Will you sit with me for breakfast?”
    Geraint settled on her cot, patting the thin mattress next to him. She was glad to see the familiar gesture, for he seemed careful of her this morning.
    “Would you prefer—” she began, but he interrupted her.
    “I am staying with you. I want to stay with you.”
    She was happier than she could say but still felt compelled to warn him. “Once I begin, there will be no going back.” She took the pitcher of ale from him and forced a swig down her dry throat. “It may be strange.”
    “As queer as the burning oak branch?”
    “Stranger than that, maybe.”
    He chuckled and plucked a ribbon from her hair, one she knew had not been there an instant earlier. “I like strange.” He flicked the red ribbon up into the air, where it became two then three, flashing and coiling up and down like fiery tongues as he juggled them. “Strange is part of my trade.”
    “It will be terrible.” Yolande hid her burning face behind the pitcher, longing to say more but nervous of doing so in case Geraint thought she believed he could not cope.
    Instead, he frowned at her like a Jack-in-the-Green, making her smile. “Better, much better. Do not be anxious over me, Yolande. I have worked with and trusted others. You cannot last long as a tumbler if you do not. And I shall work with and trust you.”
    “That is it, do you not see?” she broke in, ashamed to be admitting this but knowing she must. “I have always worked alone.”
    He raised a black, bushy eyebrow at her. “By choice?”
    “Well, there was no one else.”
    He caught her up suddenly and whirled her about the chamber as if at a midsummer revel, her bare feet resting on his as he danced with her up and down the room.
    “Give me a drink, girl. I am parched.” He took the jug from her and downed the rest of the ale in one long swallow. He balanced the empty vessel on his forehead and walked with it and her back to the cot.
    “It will be different with me,” he said.

Chapter Five
     
    “How do you prepare?” he asked, setting her down beside the cot and her bow.
    She watched him