Enchantress Mine by Bertrice Small Page A

out his hand to her he said in careful Norman French, “Come to me, my child. Do you understand me?”
    “Aye, my lord,” said Mairin, and she slipped from Dagda’s lap, and walked over to the Saxon thegn.
    “Mairin,” he said reflectively. “It is not a Breton name.”
    “No, my lord, it is not,” replied the child. “It is an Irish name. I was named for my mother, Maire. Mairin means little Maire in my mother’s native tongue. May I have some wine? I am very thirsty.”
    He offered the child his cup, and she sipped eagerly from it, smiling up at him as she handed it back. “I am going to take you home with me to my wife,” he told her.
    She nodded. “Dagda has explained to me that your own daughter died this spring past. What was her name?”
    “It was Edyth.”
    “Was she pretty? How old was she? What did she die of?” The questions tumbled forth from Mairin’s mouth.
    “Her mother and I thought she was pretty,” he answered her. “She died of a spring sickness. She would have been six this summer. How old are you, Mairin?”
    “I will be six on Samhein,” she said proudly. “They say I am wise beyond my years. Where do you live? I hope not in this awful city!”
    “Samhein?” He looked puzzled.
    “All Hallows’ Eve, October 31st,” supplied Bishop Wulfstan, who now also spoke Norman French.
    “I was born at the precise moment of sunset as the fires were lit,” said Mairin proudly. “Dagda says it means I am blessed by the old ones. He says my head was like a flame pushing out into the world from between my mother’s legs.”
    “God has indeed blessed you, my child,” said the bishop, an amused look upon his face. He suspected his friend Aldwine had taken on more than he knew with this bright and beautiful fairy child. Reaching out the bishop patted Mairin’s head and continued. “God gave you the good Dagda to look after you, and brought my old friend Aldwine Athelsbeorn to your rescue. You will be glad to know that he does not live here in London but in the countryside.”
    “My home is called Aelfleah,” said Aldwine Athelsbeorn. “It lies in a hidden valley between the Wye and the Severn rivers on the edge of The Forest. ”
    “Aelfleah,” said Mairin, feeling the strange word with her tongue. “Aelfleah. What does it mean, my lord?”
    “Fairy’s Meadow,” came the reply.
    “Is Aelfleah a Saxon word, my lord?”
    “Yes, my child, it is. I think it fortunate that the first word of our language that you have learned is the name of the place which is to be your new home.”
    Mairin nodded at him, a serious look upon her child’s face. Then she said, “Please, my lord, do you think that your lady wife will really like me? My stepmother did not like me for she was jealous of me. What of your other children? Will they like me?”
    “My Eada cannot fail but like you, my child, and as for the rest of my family, there is only our son, Brand. Saxon families are usually large, but neither my wife nor I came from big families; and now there are none of them left but we three. No,” he amended, “we four, for you, my little Mairin, shall take the place of the daughter we lost.” Then reaching out Aldwine Athelsbeorn took the child upon his lap, and kissed her gently upon the forehead.
    For the first time in many months Mairin felt safe. She had adored her handsome father, and for most of her life he had loved and spoiled her, but after his marriage to the lady Blanche everything had changed. Seeing his bride’s ill-concealed dislike of his little daughter the Sieur de Landerneau had attempted to placate his new wife by lessening his attentions to the child of his first marriage, and increasing his attentions to Blanche. He had believed that if he could reassure Blanche her jealousy toward Mairin would cease. He had not been aware of the evil in his new wife’s character.
    The little girl, of course, had not understood, and had been frightened by this withdrawal of affection.