The Hill-King's Bride: an Allegory for the Modern Church

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Rowen never saw or heard those who attacked her. A sharp pain on the back of her head preceded a gag and ropes around her hands and feet. Rowen watched as strangers fell on her lamb and her king.

The princess . . . Maple; Rowen must remember that she chose to be called Maple of the Highest Hill . . . Maple was dragged away from the king and abducted, but it was what they'd done to the king that had made Rowen close her eyes, blocking out the sight of it.

They'd surrounded Bryn Ma'ar with clubs and staves, had beat him until he wasn't moving at all. At first, he'd tried to defend himself, but without a weapon or armor of any kind, Bryn Ma'ar was helpless to stop the mob of people that surrounded him. They were dressed and spoke as valley-dwellers, their speech filled with hate and anger.

After he'd gone down, the king had curled himself into a ball with his arms over his head to protect it, but eventually, the tight ball had relaxed and his arms fell away from his head. Still the blows rained down on him, booted feet kicked at his head and body until Rowen couldn't bear to watch her king be murdered so.

Eventually, the noise died away with the tramp of booted feet. Rowen was cold. She knew she'd have to do something or risk freezing to death, but with her hands and feet tied, whatever she found to do would have to be soon. Her dagger was out of reach with her hands tied. Desperate for some means of freeing herself, Rowen sat up and looked around.

The only sharp edge within sight was sheathed at the king's waist. Rowen scooted herself through the snow, ignoring the dull numbness that was spreading through her limbs, ignoring the sting of cold as the snow worked its way up under her jacket and shirt. There was a knife, perhaps, but Rowen's fingers were too numb to use it. It took a very long time before she was free.

The king was breathing, she discovered, but only just and he was as cold as she was. Both of them were in danger of freezing to death. Rowen weighed her options. She could walk back to the fortress, but in the time it took her to get there and get help, the king would freeze to death. Rowen wouldn't leave her king.

He'd risked his life to rescue her and Cade once. It was time to repay the favor. She laid beside him and worked their coats so that the garments overlapped each other around both Bryn Ma'ar and Rowen. She hoped that they'd be missed soon. Surely the tracks in the snow would tell the tale that her tongue would be too cold to utter.

It was late afternoon before Rowen heard any indication that someone was within earshot. "Over here," she tried to yell, but was too cold to do more than murmur the words through the chattering of her teeth. Finally, she summoned all of her strength and timed the shudders that made her teeth chatter. "Help!" she managed.

To Rowen's relief, someone answered. "Hey, over here!" It was Bowen's voice, which was shortly followed with, "Ma! What happened?"

"Attacked," she managed when her son bent over her and the king's prone bodies. "Lamb . . . gone . . . King bad." And that was all she could do.

"Dad, Wynd, over here!" Bowen yelled again. "We need help!" Soon, Cade was lifting his wife while Wynd, Bowen, Yestyn and Gwyn helped carry the king toward the fortress. Cade followed the others to the fortress and into the King's Hall, where the king was laid on a couch that was pushed as close to the fire as safely possible.

Rowen huddled in Yestyn's favorite chair beside the fire, gratefully wrapped in a warm blanket while her husband inspected her hands, face and feet for frostbite. Thankfully, both the king and Rowen suffered from only mild frostbite in their feet. The king, however, was gravely injured from the beating he'd suffered.

Cradled in her husband's arms and soaking in the heat of his body, Rowen told her tale as soon as the king had been tended, watched the expressions on the faces of her audience range from shock and disbelief to horror and outrage.