Balin and Columbine (A Children of the May Novella - Book 1.5b)

Chapter Three: Columbine's Tale (part two)

Things progressed, as these matters of love tend so to do. Within weeks my cousin and Balan had declared their love to their parents. That summer Vellion seemed to bloom. But the two were young, and both families were wary of their passion being like a hot flame that burns itself too quickly and turns to cold ash. My uncle, I think, was also still of a mind to match my cousin to Sir Garlon, whom he believed to be a noble man, and knew to be rich. Brian of the Isles could not provide the riches of Garlon, though I knew that Balan excelled the knight invisible in all that is good and true.

In that first season, Garlon was invited to Vellion much more often than he had been previously, though it was clear to everyone, even Garlon himself, that he would not now win Lily’s heart. I urged my fair cousin to absent herself from his presence, to sneak out of the castle disguised in my pigeon-skin cloak so she could avoid meeting with him.

I did not realise it for a long time, but when lily escaped the castle she did not go to the kind miller’s wife as I advised; she and Balan were breaking their parents’ injunction, and meeting together in the forest. When I discovered this truth I did all that I could to facilitate their meetings. I could see no harm in it; their love was as true as any in this world, and not like to decay while the two of them lived. I now wish I had been less helpful, because if she had been kept close, as my uncle her father intended, my greatest friend in the world might still walk inthis world.

It happened in this last winter that my darling Lily came for the pigeon cloak to go and visit her love. Though the frost lay heavy on the ground my cousin knew that she would find all the warmth she needed in her betrothed’s arms. It was normal at the time that she would be gone from my uncle’s home for one night, and return with the dawn.

But one dawn came, and then another, and soon I could no longer pretend to my uncle that Lily was in her bed with a winter cold. I had used that excuse so often to explain Lily’s absences that my uncle had become convinced that she was sick with love, and had written to Brian of the Isles to confirm that she and Balan would wed this spring. When word spread about Vellion that my white Lily was missing, the whole country laid down their Christmas preparations to seek her through the snows. The ice on the frozen rivers was broken with staves in order to see if she had unluckily slipped into the waters; the lairs of bears and boars were searched at great risk to find any sign of her capture; each hermitage, nunnery and cave was opened up to see if she had sought refuge in one of those lonely places.

I had some idea where she might be found, and lacking my pigeon cloak I put on this poor suit of armour I found in my uncle’s armoury. I had the idea that I might require a sword, and whom I would have to fight if the worst had come to pass, so I girdled this first blade to my waist, the lighter of the two. I kept my eyes wide open for signs of the knight invisible as I stole out of Vellion.

I rode north and east through Vellion, towards Northumbria, seeking that abandoned chapel where I believed Lily and Balan arranged their meetings. When I got near to the place, however, I found an old holy man praying by the roadside. He was a strange-looking fellow, as poor as a hermit, but carrying a fine staff with a ram’s skull at its top. He looked half a holy man and half a sorcerer.

I jumped down from my horse and addressed him:

‘Old man,’ I said, ‘why do you pray to the road? There is a shrine not half a mile from here.’

‘You are mistaken, my dear,’ he replied. ‘For hereis a shrine to true love in the form of a grave.’

I looked more closely at the ground, and saw he spoke true. He was kneeling at the foot of a very low burial mound, one not marked by a stone, but rather by a sword that had been thrust into the dirt, its hilt forming a cross. My blood ran as cold as a winter river. I recognised the marker as Balan’s sword.

‘Here lie two of the truest lovers the world has ever seen,’ said the old man. ‘Balan of the Isles and fair Lily of Vellion. I saw a young lad bury them with his own hands two days past, though he had ridden away, weeping, before I arrived to make his acquaintance and hear his tale. After he had gone I blessed their blood; blood that will now never be mixed in their children, but only in this poor dirt.’

Tears are not in my nature, my king, though I came close to them at that moment. But before water could drop from my eyes, the smoke of vengeance came from my mouth.

‘Who did this?’ I said. ‘Was it Sir Garlon the knight invisible? I will kill that man with this sword.’

The holy man used his ram’s skull staff to push himself to his feet. ‘As to the identity of the one who slew them, that I cannot tell. Though I believe I have discovered the means by which you will find out the person responsible.’

‘Show me,’ I demanded.

‘Follow me, then,’ he told me, and led me a little way into the woods, into the abandoned chapel where I had hoped to find my cousin alive and well. It is a small place of wood; its only stone is its altar-table. My pigeon-skin cloak was folded upon the altar, and this strange sword with its scabbard and hilt of bone was laid upon it.

The holy man went to the altar and took up the cloak. As he unfolded it I saw this gash in the side, and these stains of blood – though they were still wet then.

‘I found this torn cloak thrown in the bushes,’ said the holy man. ‘I believe Lily of Vellion was wearing this when she died. I sense that it was torn from her back by her and young Balan’s assailant. You see these stains?’ He put his hand through the tear in the cloak, and pointed to Lily’s blood. ‘Her lifeblood cries out to be avenged. I tell you that her blood will have blood; this cloak will find the back of the one responsible for her death. If you truly wish to take up the adventure, then this cloak will show where to drive your point home.’

‘Give me the cloak, old man,’ I said. ‘It is mine, and I will wear it until it leaps from me to the back of the one I will slay.’

Then he took up the sword and showed it me. ‘I meant to give this sword to young Balan; it was to be my wedding gift to the lovers. But now it must revenge them.’

‘Then give me the sword, holy man. I will drive that point home.’

He held out the sword and I took it from him. I grasped the strange bone hilt in my hand and tried to draw it from its scabbard, but it would not budge. I strained and yanked but no amount of force would release the blade from its cover.

‘What trickery is this?’

‘No trickery, my dear, read the signs carved into the scabbard.’

I tried to read, but the signs were in a language I didn’t understand.

The holy man raised his staff so that the empty eye sockets of the ram were looking towards the sword in my hands. ‘It says:

I give the Dolorous Stroke

I will be drawn in the quest of two

In the matter of true love

My blade cuts the mountains’ bones.’

I told the holy man that I didn’t understand the inscription.

‘I tell you, fair Columbine,’ he said, ‘there is but one man in Britain who can draw it from your hands. Only when you are met with him will you and he be able to unlock its blade. This man will be your companion in this quest of vengeance. Beware which of you wields the sword, for it strikes sad and happy strokes both.’

I have travelled Britain many months, great King Arthur, seeking the one who can draw this sword so my quest of vengeance can begin. After visiting the courts of so many unworthy kings, to Camelot I am come.