VI. Here Comes the Knight.

On a chilly autumn morning several days after Peter drove the mob away, I was getting firewood when I heard the clip-clops of multiple horses coming through the forest along the trail. I stood and watched apprehensively as several horses ambled into the clearing, carrying knights. They were accompanied by numerous men-at-arms and pack-animals. The misty breath of men and animals drifted around in the cold air. Three of the knights wore black tunics with wide white crosses on them. One knight wore a white tunic with a narrow red cross; two wore red tunics with narrow white crosses on them; and the last, like the leader, wore a white tunic with a narrow green cross on it. They all wore gray cloaks. Their leader was a tall familiar figure—it was Henry.

I was still apprehensive when he dismounted and smiled at me. Nonetheless, I forced myself to give him a comely smile.

"Valerie," he said holding out his hands, "I'm so glad that you're safe."

I took his hands. Bending slightly, he brought one of my hands to his mouth and kissed it delicately. He held it for a little too long.

"I was afraid," he said, "that the werewolf might have carried you off or worse, before I could get here."

Roxanne appeared on the porch, her red hair burning brightly in the morning sunlight.

"We have more to fear from the villagers than from the werewolf," I said.

"Ah, yes," Henry said. "I've heard about that too. We passed through the village on our way here. I spoke with the bailiff, the priest, and Prudence. I know all about that. You have nothing to fear from Rose. I told her that if she spreads any more malicious lies about you, I will cut her tongue out."

"I should have done that myself," I said.

"How is it that you came to be back in Daggerhorn, Henry?" Roxanne asked, as she descended the steps from the porch.

"Father Christophe and the bailiff sent a letter to the bishop after the villagers fled from the werewolf. The bishop knew that this was my home village, and so he put me in charge of ridding the place of the beast once and for all."

"So," Roxanne said, "you are to be our hero."

"I do God's work," Henry replied.

"So said Father Solomon. And he murdered Father Auguste and my brother. Was that God's work?"

"Jesus was perfect; men are not."

"Father Solomon didn't catch the werewolf either," I said. "How will you succeed where he failed?"

"We're not going to hunt the werewolf like the villages did last time, nor will we use Father Solomon's questionable methods," Henry explained. "We know that you are the focus of the beast. Last time, it ravaged the village in an attempt to carry you off; this time it appeared here at your Grandmother's cottage where you are living. The beast will come back. On that, I'll wager. When it does, these will be waiting."

Then Henry pulled from his saddlebag, a steel contraption to which a heavy length of chain was attached. With a groan and great effort, he opened up the two formidable jaws of the apparatus and set its trigger. Using a branch from the pile of firewood, Henry poked the trap, as if an animal were stepping into it. Instantly the mighty iron jaws slammed shut.

"I have a pair of these, and I'm going to use my old smithy to make more. That's how we'll catch the werewolf," he declared.

Until Henry could make more traps to encircle the cottage by placing them in the sundry approaches, he left three of the knights on guard to protect Roxanne and me from the werewolf. I had refused to stay with my mother in the village, for half of the denizens wanted to burn Roxanne and me. Without incurring Henry's suspicions, I tried to persuade him that the werewolf was no threat. It hadn't so much as scratched a villager this time. I suggested that the cowardly villagers had exaggerated the encounter. The rustics had gathered at the tavern to stoke their courage with ale before their abortive expedition to my cottage. Maybe what chased them, I proposed, had been a feral dog. Thinking that I was jesting, Henry chuckled at my suggestion.

The three knights assigned to guard us, were monks—monks of war, but monks nonetheless; however, I didn't like the way that two of them looked at me while I was doing chores. I was especially displeased one brisk afternoon when I found Roxanne, shawl pulled back to reveal the top of her breasts, giggling at the inane story of one of the knights, while he chopped some kindling for her. This "holy man" nearly lopped off one of his fingers leering at Roxanne's endowments.

He carried the wood into the cottage, and then left us alone.

"You're just jealous," Roxanne spit at me when I tried to warn her about him. "How dare he find me attractive and not you."

"That's not it," I replied. "He was looking at me earlier when I went to fetch water. Don't encourage him. He doesn't think you're that special."

"You b—" Roxanne bit her lip, while her nostrils flared in sudden rage.

"That came out wrong," I said. "I didn't mean it, Roxanne. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm so sorry. I wanted to protect you that's all. The tension is too much for me to bare now. I need you more than ever."

"I know. That knight told me Henry will have all the traps ready tomorrow."

"How can I warn Peter?" I asked. "How can I warn Peter?"

"He must have realized that the villagers would do something, Valerie, like last year when Solomon was summoned," Roxanne said. "He'll surely take precautions, or go deeper into the forest away from the village."

"No, no," I fretted. "He'll think that he has to protect me, and he'll get caught in one of Henry's traps!"

The stress was too much for me, and I began to sob. It was Roxanne who was the strong one. She took me in her arms and held me while I cried. She cradled me tenderly and motherly. When my tears dried up, Roxanne released me.

"I know what you need," she said, as she unlaced her bodice and exposed her breasts.

I frowned.

"But," she pouted, "you always love to play with my udders."

With her hands, she mashed her breasts together, and then she pinched her pink teats, pulling on them slowly.

"Not now, Roxanne."

"This will put you in the mood," she said, taking down from the shelf a jar of ointment made from herbs that had calming properties. We used it to rubbed each other's bodies. To warm it up, she set it by the hearth.

"Not now, I told you."

"You are suffering, Valerie," Roxanne said. "You comfort people who suffer with your herbal remedies; I'll comfort you in my way."

And she caressed my face with her finger tips, and she kissed me lightly. When I didn't respond, she kissed me harder, kissed me with ardor. Still, I was passive. Roxanne let out a long sigh and stepped back. She was going to put away her big creamy-white breasts and lace up her bodice. I grabbed the string with a waggish tug. With a come-hither grin on her lips, she looked at me.

"Be my healer, Roxanne," I whispered.

Around the bed, numerous candles were burning. Roxanne and I were kneeling on the bed, rubbing each other's naked body with warm unguent and kissing each other's mouth. Over our moans and panting breaths, a floor board creaked loudly. I stopped massaging Roxanne and pulled away from her lips. We both turned toward the direction of the sound.

Suddenly the curtain was pulled aside—Henry stood by our bed with sword in hand, his eyes flaring with anger.

"You are witches!" he proclaimed. "And you're anointing yourselves for the night-flight."

"That's false," I shouted back. "We're not witches!"

"It's clear now," Henry said. "Rose was right!"

"No," Roxanne declared. "Rose is a liar."

"Lo! I see it with my own eyes!" Henry testified. "You're applying the flying ointment to each other."

"This is a harmless salve," Roxanne asserted. "Valerie and I love each other. We lie together like husband and wife."

"Abomination!" Henry roared thunderously, putting the point of his sword to her throat.

Roxanne closed her eyes tightly and bit her lip to keep her jaw from trembling.

"For God's sake, Henry," I entreated, "put your sword down, please. I beg you, don't hurt Roxanne."

His strong arm shook a little.

"You're not a murderer, Henry," I said, trying to use a calm voice. "You won't get closer to God by shedding blood."

He swallowed hard, trying to maintain his resolve. His grip on his sword tightened. His knuckles whitened.

"Please, Henry," I whispered. "If you ever cared for me, don't harm Roxanne. I brought her here to live with me—your sword should be at my throat."

He looked at me. He looked at Roxanne, and back at me. The features of his angry visage softened. Slowly he lowered his sword and then put it back into its sheath. He exhaled deeply. He looked at me sadly, and then turned and left like a breeze slicing at the curtain around the bed. I grabbed my red cloak and followed him outside.

"Henry!" I called from the porch.

He was on the steps, but he stopped and turned towards me.

"I thought you might be a witch," he said, "but instead I find you and Roxanne—you and Roxanne—if it had been Peter, I could understand..."

"I needed someone," I explained. "I lost my sister, my grandmother, and Peter."

"And your father."

"And my father," I reluctantly added. "And I lost you too, Henry. You left to be a crusader. Roxanne needed someone. She lost Claude. We needed each other. It is nothing evil."

Henry took a deep breath.

"Well, I'm glad you're not a witch, Valerie," he said. "Vows or no vows, I could never have had you burned at the stake." Then he smiled at me.

I smiled back.

"That's good to know!"