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Description
It took them a month to reach Northpeak at their pace, and each night they raised two colorful tents that must have seemed quite out of place on the empty road. When they arrived in the small town in the land of sod roofs and old gods, they had healed fully. The only trace of the fateful king's feast were fresh scars rippling zig-zag upon their backs, twenty each, hidden from the outer world.

True to her word, Christabelle now wore the ankle-length undertunic and supertunic of female dress. The pale blue supertunic fit snuggly, as was the fashion, and what waist and chest she had were politely obvious to any beholder.

A helpful farrier directed them to a well-kept house with pale walls and thick green grass flowing from the roof. The stout wood door pulled open at Christabelle's first knock, revealing a tall woman framed by the warm interior of the house. Several people looked up from the hearth across the room.

One of the men stroked sorrowful notes from his lute, and the jongleur's voice carried quite clearly to the door. He sang a song such as they had now heard often, about Umberhill's missing heir. "There was a duke, strong but mild, had three wives, and yet, no child. . . ."

Ignoring the song, Christabelle caught frantically for words. She had often thought of what to say to Sir Guy's widow, but she fell at a loss. Gideon bowed, and Christabelle mimicked his perfect form without thinking to curtsey.

If the woman thought this odd, she politely refrained from saying so. She was fair enough to look upon, but her true beauty showed from behind her sad, blue gaze. "Do come in. I already have company, and two more won't be out of place. You seem travel worn."

In a dramatic moment, the jongleur's voice raised. "He called for his son to be brought, yet gone was the man they sought."

"Milady Dagny? Lady of Sir Guy of Northpeak?" Christabelle asked timidly, wishing the jongleur would be quiet.

"I am." A note of regret caught in her voice. Perhaps she already knew of her husband's death.

Christabelle fell to one knee, expressing her regret in the sincerest form she knew, whether the gesture befit a woman or not. "Milady, I have something terrible to confess, but please hear me through, that you might understand."

The lady's expression showed that, though bewildered, she gathered much from Christabelle's sentiment. Clearly, she knew that something troubling had occurred to her husband that demanded her judgment, and that the offender stood before her in the form of an awkward, boyish young woman. Her lip quivered slightly, the only crack in her composure.

Christabelle explained what she and her father had done as gently as she could. It nearly proved harder to endure than the score of stinging lashes. Finshing, she bowed her head. "I place myself at your mercy for my part of this."

Description
It took them a month to reach Northpeak at their pace, and each night they raised two colorful tents that must have seemed quite out of place on the empty road. When they arrived in the small town in the land of sod roofs and old gods, they had healed fully. The only trace of the fateful king's feast were fresh scars rippling zig-zag upon their backs, twenty each, hidden from the outer world.

True to her word, Christabelle now wore the ankle-length undertunic and supertunic of female dress. The pale blue supertunic fit snuggly, as was the fashion, and what waist and chest she had were politely obvious to any beholder.

A helpful farrier directed them to a well-kept house with pale walls and thick green grass flowing from the roof. The stout wood door pulled open at Christabelle's first knock, revealing a tall woman framed by the warm interior of the house. Several people looked up from the hearth across the room.

One of the men stroked sorrowful notes from his lute, and the jongleur's voice carried quite clearly to the door. He sang a song such as they had now heard often, about Umberhill's missing heir. "There was a duke, strong but mild, had three wives, and yet, no child. . . ."

Ignoring the song, Christabelle caught frantically for words. She had often thought of what to say to Sir Guy's widow, but she fell at a loss. Gideon bowed, and Christabelle mimicked his perfect form without thinking to curtsey.

If the woman thought this odd, she politely refrained from saying so. She was fair enough to look upon, but her true beauty showed from behind her sad, blue gaze. "Do come in. I already have company, and two more won't be out of place. You seem travel worn."

In a dramatic moment, the jongleur's voice raised. "He called for his son to be brought, yet gone was the man they sought."

"Milady Dagny? Lady of Sir Guy of Northpeak?" Christabelle asked timidly, wishing the jongleur would be quiet.

"I am." A note of regret caught in her voice. Perhaps she already knew of her husband's death.

Christabelle fell to one knee, expressing her regret in the sincerest form she knew, whether the gesture befit a woman or not. "Milady, I have something terrible to confess, but please hear me through, that you might understand."

The lady's expression showed that, though bewildered, she gathered much from Christabelle's sentiment. Clearly, she knew that something troubling had occurred to her husband that demanded her judgment, and that the offender stood before her in the form of an awkward, boyish young woman. Her lip quivered slightly, the only crack in her composure.

Christabelle explained what she and her father had done as gently as she could. It nearly proved harder to endure than the score of stinging lashes. Finshing, she bowed her head. "I place myself at your mercy for my part of this."