The Rose, the Falcon and the Sword.

The travelers stopped to rest beside a stream, the clear water carving a path through the slope of the hill and falling in an arc over the raised verge which separated the path from the forest to their right, to cut across their path. In winter this road would be impassable. But Anwen was glad of it now, to be able to wash her arms in the clean water and feel the shock as the cold water hit her overheated skin. The sound of water calmed her, her stomach settling after hours of lurching along in her canopy bed and she knew how well her companions were pleased to retreat into the shade awhile and stretch their legs after the ride. It had been long journey to make in this blistering summer heat, and Anwen thought she was probably the only one of the party not glad that they were finally nearing their destination.

“What are you doing, Highness, baking yourself in all that sun? Come away this instant.” Lynette was standing at the edge of the tree line, her arms folded disapprovingly over her chest.

Anwen sighed at the reproof but turned back, scrambling up the bank into the shade of the trees. Throughout the journey every measure had been most careful to shield Anwen’s delicate complexion from the sun. In a world where fair skin was a mark of aristocracy and any trace of sunburn or tan the peak of vulgarity it was vitally important that the princess should arrive with the natural paleness of her skin intact. That was why it had been ordered that she travel in a canopy, shielded from the glaring July sun by veils shades. Anwen hated being incased in that silk walled box, half stifled and blind to the country they passed, the country she would one day have to rule. It had been such a relief, to be free, and to feel the sun on her face again… but Lynette was right, as always. She had not come so far concealed and half smothered to start sunning herself now.

It was dark in the dense shadow of the trees and it took Anwen’s eyes a moment t adjust. Lynette was by the camp fire, standing hands on hips glaring down at the uneasy cooks- boy who was preparing the stew, miserably conscious of the matron’s disapproving stare.

“No, no boy put the thyme in first. What those Mechalans will think, our servants, not even able to prepare a decent stew? A disgrace I call it.”

“Lynette,” Anwen called, to distract her. “Would you come here a moment?”

Lynette’s official title was lady – in - waiting to the princess but as she had served Anwen in this capacity since the girl had been five years old, and had pretty much brought her up single handed, she had long since ceased to think of herself as a servant. In company however Lynette never disobeyed a direct order from the princess.

“My lady.” she said reluctantly, striding over to where Anwen stood. The cooks- boy flashed Anwen a grateful smile, and then dropped his eyes suddenly in confusion, as if struck by the impropriety of grinning at a princess. Anwen suppressed a smile as she turned to Lynette.

“I wanted to ask you is all ready for our arrival? Are all the preparations made?”

Anwen had merely grasped at the first reason she could think of for calling Lynette over. Lynette’s raised eyebrows informed her that this was not the right question to ask.

“All that must be done, has been done in ample time, your majesty need not concern yourself. I have never yet failed in my duties as I think your majesty would know…”

“Forgive me, Lynette I did not mean to offend you….” Anwen said hurriedly “I only wondered if there was anything I could do to help.”

Lynette drew herself up.

“With all due respect, Lady, these are servant’s affairs, and none of your concern. A true Queen would never concern herself with such trivialities. You forget your place.”

Anwen winced. In matter of royal behaviour Lynette was her mentor and guide, and Anwen valued her opinion immensely. It was one of her greatest fears that she would disgrace her country and her mother’s name in these new lands.

“I’m sorry.” she said softly. “You are right. I will try to be more heedful.”

Lynette sniffed, and gave Anwen a half nod, which Anwen knew to mean she was forgiven. A mark of a true bred lady, in Lynette’s opinion, was never to indulge in the vulgarity of expressing her emotions in words. Instead Lynette employed an intricate language of sniffs and snorts to convey her feeling to those present. From an early age Anwen had become as familiar with this secret language as she was with her spoken Sperish. A short one like this, accompanied by a short nod was a gesture of forgiveness, or on rare occasions, a conceding of a fault. A long slow exhale of breath meant anger, or disapproval, a short grunt affection, a nostril flare indicated surprise.

“Will your majesty eat? That lazy boy should have finished preparing the meal by now.”

“Perhaps later.” Anwen’s stomach had still not quite recovered itself from the jolting ride.

“We cannot stop for long, my lady. Fastred thinks if we make good speed we will reach the castle by nightfall.”

“So soon?” Anwen whispered, but Lynette had already gone. Suddenly Anwen found herself even less inclined to eat her meal than ever. Unpleasant though it was Anwen was unwilling that this journey, her last as a Speran and a single woman was nearly over. Unreasonably Anwen found herself wishing she would never have to leave this wooded glade with the sun shifting through the leaves, and the trees growing. Her stomach revolted at the thought of re- entering that silken cage, to be bourn helplessly forward like a sacrificial animal to the altar. She would not admit it but the strangeness of the life before her frightened her. If only she could have some idea of what to expect. If she could just see the castle, to be able to picture the place that would be her home…. but no, it was invisible its face cloaked by this sea of trees and by twenty miles of this winding giddy road.

And….. her husband? Anwen knew little enough of the man she was about to marry. The envoys sent to propose the match had waxed lyrical about his valour, his wisdom, his strength. They hadn’t mentioned his appearance. Anwen could have questioned them closer, but she knew better than to place credence on the words of envoys. They had probably never even met the man. And what did it matter if the man was ugly? She would marry him anyway.

Lynette had brought Anwen some food and spread a rug on the ground for her to sit down. Anwen settled herself dutifully and accepted the stew Lynette passed to her. Although not at all hungry Anwen thought it best not to antagonize Lynette further by refusing to eat. Surprisingly her first bite of stew was not at all unpleasant.

“This is good.”

“I have been giving Anru some advice.” Lynette said “We cannot be letting those Mechalans think the Sperans do not know how to train out servants.”

Anwen smiled, privately sympathizing with the unfortunate Anru.

They ate in silence, silently absorbing the sounds of the forest, and the sharp smell of the unfamiliar leaves that littered the forest floor, relishing the experience all the more with the knowledge that they would soon be traveling once more.

A boy had just entered the cover of the trees, evidently having been to visit the stream, as his face and hair were wet. It looked as though he had stuck his head under the running water. Anwen looked at him with interest, not recognizing him as one of the palace servants. His face was oddly still, almost contemptuous as he looked back at her. Anwen, unaccustomed to being looked at directly by strangers found herself blushing. Those fierce golden eyes seemed to full of a feeling, so alien, so familiar that Anwen felt the shock of it sear straight through her. And then slowly he bent his head towards her, in a short bow. It a common enough courtesy to show one of her station yet somehow there was a faint sense of irony at the gesture, as if there was some hidden message behind it that the boy expected her to understand. Disconcerted she barely recollected the customary nod of acknowledgement.

“Who is that boy?” she asked, as he turned away and walked back to the servant’s camp.

Lynette’s lips tightened in disapproval. “A forlaetan, Highness. Part of your dowry.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen him before.”

“Of course not. His kind travel at the back of the escort.” Lynette said coolly, “May I take your bowl?”

Anwen handed her stew bowl to Lynette, trying to ignore her look of annoyance at the bowl still half full of congealing broth. A forlaetan. But he was so young, not much older than herself. What could have happened to consign him to such a fate? What could he have done?

But there was little enough time to wonder. The camp fire was quenched, horses saddled, and their belongings gathered up. Anwen meekly allowed herself to be helped once more onto her bier, trying to share her companion’s eagerness to be moving once more.

At least tonight it will be over, she thought, at least I will know, for better or for worse, what kind of man my husband will be.

A/N: I’m not quite sure how to go about getting a beta for an original writing piece but if anyone out there is willing to give this fic a going over please contact me . I would love to have someone work with me on this.