And they'll know we are Christians by our . . .

Big thanks to Deb Raney for this link. Now, grab a tissue, call your family around, and watch this one . . .

~~Angie

Ghiberti's Doors

Click on any photo to enlarge.


I have been taking a class (on video) on great artists of the Italian Renaissance. (I'm sure there's a book in here somewhere!)

Anyway, my subject today was Lorenzo Ghiberti's doors, designed for the Cathedral of Florence, more commonly known as the Duomo.

For the first set of doors, the project organizers held a contest for sculptors. Ghiberti won the first contest, and his doors included 28 gilded panels, each depicting a scene from the life of Christ or the authors of the Gospels. Because the artist could not use color--other than the gold of the gilding--the figures had to be truly expressive and tell a picture.

Having never been to Italy (yet!), I've never seen these doors, but the journey is on my bucket list. :-) The sculptors used "simultaneous narration" and told a single story through many scenes in one picture.

After Ghiberti completed his first set of doors, the cathedral folks held a second contest for another entrance. The finalists were Filippo Brunelleschi and Ghiberti, and they were each asked to do a panel on the sacrifice of Isaac.

Both scenes are amazing, but Ghiberti won the job. This set of doors was comprised of ten square panels, and the larger panels literally gave the artist more room for story-telling. (He also included a self-portrait in the work--you can see his head in the detailing on the scrollwork between frames.)

If you begin in the lower left corner of the gold detailed picture, you see God (portrayed as a man) creating Adam from earth. Move to the bottom center and you see Adam sleeping while God creates a lovely Eve from Adam's rib while angels look on in approval. Move to the upper left and you see Adam and Eve at the Tree of knowledge of Good and Evil . . . with the treacherous Serpent. Upper center to lower right depicts a now ashamed Adam and Eve being forced to leave the Garden, which will remain guarded by angels.

Isn't this work amazing?

Notice the photo of the Jacob/Esau story (this is a photo of a copy). Above the arch to the right, you see a pregnant Rebekkah being told that she will bear twins, and the younger shall rule the elder. In the background on the right, you see Rebekkah on her bed of labor, giving birth. Beneath the arch on the right, you see Rebekkah telling Jacob to kill the kid so she can prepare it the way Isaac favors while Esau goes off to hunt. In the right foreground, you see Jacob (with his mother watching) obtaining the blessing of the firstborn. In the center foreground, we see Esau being told by an aged Isaac that he's too late. And the four lovely ladies to the left--we don't know exactly who they are--they could be the Canaanite women Esau married, or the women that Jacob went off to find (Rachel, Leah, and their maids). Personally, I favor the latter idea. :-)

I've always admired artists--probably because I am utterly unskilled in this area, and also because I think what they do is very much like writing. We all begin with a "blank canvas," and we all strive to create something beautiful that will bring enjoyment, edification, and give food for thought. And finally, we all hope our finished work--into which we've invested a great deal of time and thought and labor--is something that will last and bring glory to the God who gives all good and perfect gifts.

Well, enough rambling for now. Enjoy!

~~Angie

Capital Punishment

I happen to be in favor of capital punishment. Why? Because "Thou shalt not kill" should be translated "Thou shalt not murder," and because God has decreed that when men kill other men--who are created as representatives of God--that they deserve to die.

Gen. 9:5-6: And for your lifeblood I will surely demand an accounting. I will demand an accounting from every animal. And from each man, too, I will demand an accounting for the life of his fellow man. Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; for in the image of God has God made man."

Proverbs 17:15: "Acquitting the guilty and condemning the innocent --the Lord detests them both." [I think this verse applies both to capital punishment and abortion.]

Prov. 6:16-17: "There are six things the Lord hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies, and a man who stirs up dissension among brothers."

I was reading MIND HUNTER, a book by John Douglas, about serial killers and criminal profiling, and came across an interesting anecdote. (This book is not for the squeamish). So for what it's worth, here 'tis, quoted from the book:

When the director and cast of THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS came to Quantico to prepare for filming, I brought Scot Glenn, who played Jack Crawford--the special agent some say was based on me--into my office. Glenn was a pretty liberal guy who had strong feelings on rehabilitation, redemption, and the fundamental goodness of people. I showed him some of the gruesome crime-scene photos we worked with every day. I let him experience recordings made by killers while they were torturing their victims. I made him listen to one of two teenage girls in Los Angeles being tortured to death in the back of a van by two thrill-seeking killers who had recently been let out of prison.

Glenn wept as he listened to the tapes. He said to me, "I had no idea there were people out there who could do anything like this." An intelligent, compassionate father with two girls of his own, Glenn said that after seeing and hearing what he did in my office, he could no longer oppose the death penalty: "The experience in Quantico changed my mind about that for all time."

And there's the story. I don't have to look at photos or hear recordings to know that men are capable of atrocious cruelty. I'm not trying to change anyone's mind, I simply found that story interesting enough to share.

And there you have my thoughts for the day.

~~Angie

Criminal Stuff

I've been researching my next book, so I'm sorry I haven't been blogging as regularly as usual. I've been reading, reading, reading, playing way too much Scrabble on my iPad, and watching a lot of CRIMINAL MINDS on TV.

All grist for the mill, btw. Still, it doesn't result in much blogging.

But I just got off the phone with my buddy Mark Mynheir, retired cop and novelist. Have you read Mark's books? They're great, and of course they're realistic.

I tell this story all the time at writer's conferences, but I don't think I've told you.

Many many years ago I was teaching fiction at the Florida Christian Writers Conference (a good conference, BTW) and I had an entire back row of men. Many of them asked me to look at their manuscripts after class, and it seemed like nearly every man had a book centered around a Navy SEAL, an Army Ranger, or some other military action hero.

So this young man named Mark comes up and shows me his manuscript--about a Marine. I looked at him and said, "What IS it with you men and the military? For heaven's sake . . . what's your day job?"

Mark rather sheepishly told me that he was a homicide detective.

"A WHAT? Why on earth aren't you writing about that?"

"Because it's boring. I do it all day long . . ."

"It's not boring to me. And it won't be boring to other people. "

That night at dinner we probably made the other people at our table uncomfortable as Mark told stories about dead bodies and crime scenes and I egged him on, wanting more and more details.

Long story short: Mark sold a series of cop novels, and he's been writing ever since. His books are great, if you haven't checked them out. Here's a link to his latest.

And whenever I have a cop kind of question, guess who I call? Tee hee.

~~Angie

Megan's Back!

I've been sharing Megan's clips on my Facebook page for some time--she's a unique character, and I love her long, I love her strong! Enjoy!

Angie

Watch this video. And weep.

Quantum Physics and God

I've been doing some reading/research for my dissertation on near-death experiences. The book I was reading yesterday is not a Christian book--far from it. (In fact, the book routinely blames "religion" for many of the world's "wrong" ideas.)

BUT--in a section on physics and consciousness, the author came to a conclusion that pointed directly to God, and I practically whooped in delight.

Let me see if I can explain all this in a manner simple enough for ME to understand it (not being a physicist at ALL):

Quantum mechanics was developed early in the twentieth century to explain the seemingly random behavior of atoms. The rules of classical physics didn't apply to atoms, so scientists set out to understand why atoms were so unpredictable. Quote: "Trying to understand what quantum mechanics means, however, brings us face-to-face with some of the most baffling mysteries ever confronted, and must profoundly change our world view." (Chris Carter, Science and the Near-Death Experience, p. 39).

Probability reigns supreme in quantum mechanics. And subatomic particles do not have definite properties for certain attributes such as position, momentum, or direction of spin until they are measured. It's not that those qualities are unknown, it's that they do not exist in any definite state until they are measured. They behave as waves when not observed, but as particles in a definite location when observed. The position of the atom is thus an "observer-created reality. Its position will also be the same for all subsequent observers, so it is a reality that depends on an initial observation only."

Until observation, the atom is in a "superposition state." If you'd fired the atom toward two boxes, A and B, the box would simultaneously be in both box A and B until you looked to see where it was. Until you looked, you could not say it was IN either box, you could only speak of probabilities that it would be found in one location or the other. But the electron does not have a definite location until it is observed.

Still with me? Okay, now it really gets wild. The observer can be human (conscious being) or a machine (like a Geiger counter). But the machine is a physical instrument and subject to the rules of quantum mechanics, so it, too enters into a superposition state along with the atom. In other words, the results are suspended, too . . . as it awaits being observed by a conscious being.

Physicist Von Neumann "argued that the entire physical world is quantum mechanical, so the process that collapses the wave functions into actual facts cannot be a physical process; instead, the intervention of something from outside of physics is required. Something nonphysical, not subject to the laws of quantum mechanics, must account for the collapse of the wave function: the only nonphysical entity in the observation process that von Neumann could think of was the consciousness of the observer. He reluctantly concluded that this outside entity had to be consciousness and that prior to observation, even measuring instruments interacting with a quantum system must exist in an indefinite state."

Whoa. Do you grasp what he's saying? In the creation of this material world, something other than physical processes had to exist.

I then read of experiments where scientists tried to get observers to use the power of their minds to put the fired electrons into one box or the other. He recorded two signals (zeros and ones) from a binary random event generator simultaneously on two cassette tapes, without anyone listening to (observing) the signals or knowing the output of the REG. One tape was kept in a secure location; the other was given to a human subject with the instruction to produce more zeros than ones. A 50 percent hit rate would have been expected by chance; the subject scored 51, but the odds of him scoring that were beyond a trillion to one. Furthermore, when they looked at the locked-away tape, they found it identical . . . unless someone else had examined it first.

Which leads physicists to this question: how could atoms form themselves into rivers and lakes and trees if no one was around to observe them?

"The assumption we are considering appears even more weird when we realize that throughout much of the universe, and indeed throughout all of it in early times, there were presumably no conscious observers . . . even worse are the problems we meet if we accept the modern ideas on the early universe in which quantum decays . . . were necessary in order to obtain the conditions in which conscious observers could exist. Who, or what, did the observations necessary to create the observers?"

I have an answer: "And God SAW . . . that it was good."

And I love this: the so-called quantum Zeno effect--physicists have found that if they continuously observe an unstable particle in its original state, it will never decay. That is, physicists can 'freeze' the decay of the unstable system by measuring it frequently enough in its initial state." (Carter, p. 59).

In other words, simply by "observing" us, God sustains us. And what does this say about eternity? A lot!

Brings something to my mind: "In him we live and move and have our being."

God sees us . . . and our world . . . and He is the sustainer of everything.

I know practically nothing about physics, but have delighted in seeing how God has underwritten the universe, and how all truth is his truth, and all mystery is his plan.

~~Angie

The Duke. Back when men were men . . . .

My friend Suzy sent me this video, and it's too good not to share. Would that the Duke's atttitude still prevailed!

~~Angie

What to Do with Old Pantyhose

I rarely wear pantyhose anymore, since pants seem to allow me greater freedom and comfort. But every once in a while (weddings, dressy events) I have to pull them out, and there's always the question of what to do with a ruined pair.

(I've always thought that if we can send a man to the moon, surely someone ought to be able to make sheer pantyhose that won't run, but I suppose that would ruin the industry, wouldn't it?)

Anyway--this article is brilliant. I especially like the idea of plant ties and watermelon protectors. :-) I have also heard that pantyhose rubbed across deodorant smears on clothing will take that white stuff right off!

Enjoy!

~~Angie

The Lion and the Man

In heaven, I want to do this, too. Until then, I'll wait.

Come to think of it, playing with my puppies isn't much different from this. :-)

~~Angie

The Cassie Perkins series lives again!

One of the things I've been doing in this two-month break between books is "Kindle-izing" some of my older (way older) books. I'm happy to announce that yesterday (when I wasn't fussing with my slip covers) I finished the last of the Cassie Perkins books, so they are now available on Amazon.com.

These books are different from the Nicki Holland mystery series. Nicki and her friends don't age--the entire series is good for about ages nine through twelve or so. But Cassie ages and goes through things that a lot of kids go through. She's thirteen in the first book and sixteen in the last, and in the books she deals with some unique adventures. In other words, the early books are good for ages 10-14, but the later books are better suited for ages 13-16. In any case, the appropriate ages are indicated on the Amazon.com page description.

Whew. Just a few more little things to do this week (including calling our builder because we've just discovered a leaky roof!) and then it's time to jump into the next book. Which at this point, is only a vague idea in the back of my brain . . .

BTW, I DID try the steamer on the slipcovers last night. That helped immensely, and I discovered that a pancake turner helps with the tucking in--that flat edge, you see. :-) My slipcover still don't look like the ones in the picture, but I suppose they are better than having a rip in the sofa cushion. Thanks for all the great ideas!

~~Angie

The Domestic Diva meets her Match

Okay--I'll confess, I'm usually a domestic diva. I've sewn my own curtains, painted my own walls, stenciled my borders, even laid tile. When the disposal is stuck, I fix it. When the plumbing is leaking, I stop it (or call the plumber). I can dismantle a vacuum cleaner, rehang an electric chandelier, and gather a ruffle in a flash.

But I have met my Waterloo and I'm crying uncle.

I cannot TELL you how many times I've ordered slipcovers from all the best companies, and I can never get them to look right. Never! I usually give up and either stick the slipcover in a drawer (thinking that someday the slipcover fairy will wave her magic wand over me), send it back, or use it for something like dust rags.

Upstairs we have a perfectly functional sofa and loveseat, but the loveseat is situated where the sun shines on it, and as a result, the fabric weakened and ripped--on both sides of the seat cushion. So, reluctant to get rid of a perfectly functional love seat and matching sofa, I ordered two easy-looking slip covers from a hip catalog company. You can see their photo . . . and mine.

I tell you, I searched for directions and found none except "drape over furniture, tuck excess into cracks, and enjoy." Ha! I tugged and tucked and tucked and tugged and stuffed. I kept stuffing the excess into the cracks between cushions to the point where my fledgling fingernails kept buckling from the pressure (and I seem to only grow fingernails between books, so I'll probably lose them soon, anyway.) I know my covers are still wrinkled from the packaging, but I had to see if they'll work before I decide whether or not to send them back . . .

Sigh. I simply cannot get them to look like the picture. If you have any tips, I'm all ears. Until then, I have covered up the worst wrinkles and stuffingswith strategically-placed pillows and throws.

Now I'm waiting for someone to spill something so I can take them off, launder them, and hopefully get the wrinkles out. In the mean time, I shall grin and bear this domestic humiliation because the thought of taking them off to get rid of the wrinkles . . . well, it's not gonna happen. :-) It look nearly an hour to get them to look THIS good.

~~Angie

The Chase

Okay--THIS is modern technology . . . for about a week, maybe. :-)

Enjoy!

Angie

"Vintage" Technology and Kids

This is adorable . . . funny, to watch these kids try to figure out how to work these "old" technologies, none of which are really old! Enjoy!

(While I was kindle-izing some of my 20 year old books, I realized that these kids weren't calling each other on cell phones, etc. A couple of times I had them pick up on the "extension" and found myself wondering if modern readers would even know what I was talking about!

~~Angie

Afton, final installment

As the sun set, Corba bedded the children on their mattresses while Wido stirred the coals on the hearth in the center of the house. A fire was hardly necessary, the weather was so warm, but the glowing red embers comforted him.

Wido watched the coals until he heard the regular breathing of sleeping children, then he joined Corba in their bed. Her back was to him, and when he touched her, her body convulsed in soundless sobbing. He held her until she lay exhausted from crying.

The moon was shining through their open window when she spoke. “I never thought of us as poor,” she said, her voice remarkably clear. “We have each other, we have a home, we have children.”

“We are not poor,” Wido said. “Even when my poor crops have failed, the lord’s generosity has sustained us.”

“I have never counted that as charity,” Corba said, wiping her face with the light woolen blanket that covered them. “We give Perceval his due as lord, and he gives us our due as his villeins. It is a partnership.”

“Aye,” Wido answered.

“But today has taught me what poverty is. It is not that we lack clothing or furs, for we have what we need and no more.”

Wido lightened his voice. “You have to agree, dear wife, that we could find use for a cow.”

“No.” Corba’s voice was emphatic, and she gazed steadily into his eyes. “We are poor because we have no power. We have no voice. If we had twenty cows, we would still own nothing. All that we call ours is the property of Lord Perceval. We do not even own the children we and God have created.”

Wido was silent, thinking. “The voice of God is our voice,” he said, finally, “And He has sent us another child to replace the one we will lose to Perceval. God is our judge, as He is Perceval’s. Father Odoric tells me so, and I do not believe a priest can lie.”

“Aye, but will God comfort Afton when she is flogged for making a mistake in the castle? Will He teach her when she grows wise to the ways of women? Will He defend her chastity when a knight desires to have her?”

Wido felt a slow burn begin in his stomach. “I will make it so,” he said slowly.

Afton, part 9

Wido’s steps were heavy as he led the ox home. Afton scampered ahead of him, happily splashing her slim legs and tunic in the rutted road’s muddy puddles. How could such a child find a home in Lord Perceval’s castle? Why had Endeline not chosen one of his sons? He had five sons, fine sons, but only one daughter!

Wido was not a man of learning or sophistication, but he had the good sense to prize the few rare treasures life had sent his way. Corba was one treasure, more beautiful and gentle than the rough village girls he had known as a young man. He had been honored and humbled when she consented to become his wife. And Afton was like her mother, all golden hair and sensitive spirit.

The ox snorted behind him, anxious to be back in the community pen, and Wido considered what his neighbors would say. “You are fortunate to lose her,” the men would agree, “for what is a girl child but an obligation to pay a dowry?” Sons were strong and valuable, and Wido was particularly blessed with sons.

But there was something about the sprite that had been born to him first. Endeline had recognized it; even Bodo, wretch that he was, had desired it. Wido could not define the quality that made Afton unique, he only knew she had always unsettled him. Perhaps it was God’s will the girl leave. He had never felt she belonged to him.

Afton sprinted toward the cottage, and the ox quickened his pace now that its pen was it sight. Wido dreaded breaking the news to Corba. He led the ox into the pen, fastened the gate, and stooped to affectionately rub the tousled heads of Matthew and Kier, who were spinning their wooden tops on the impacted earth. Was it only a few days ago he felt like a king of the earth with a beautiful wife, five sons, a daughter, and a sheep? Now he knew full well that he was not a king.

Corba was waiting in the doorway. “Lady Endeline was here,” she said stiffly, a broom in her hand. “We are to lose one of our children in place of the sheep that died.”

“I know,” Wido answered, patting her shoulder as he passed. He settled onto a stool near the table. “The annual rents are to be paid next month instead of at Michaelmas.”

“So soon?” Corba’s hands flexed instinctively over her unborn child. “The babe will not yet be born.”

“It’s not the babe she wants,” Wido said, trying to keep his voice calm. He reached for the round loaf of brown bread on the rough table and broke off a generous hunk. “She wants the girl.”

Corba abruptly drew in her breath and sat down. In the corner of the room a chicken clucked, a sure sign their best laying hen had laid yet another egg.

“Nothing else will do?” Corba asked, her voice strangled.

“Nothing else,” Wido answered, chewing his bread. The dark rye bread seemed tasteless in his mouth, and he swallowed it with great effort. “It would not be wise to argue, in any case.”

Corba straightened her shoulders. “Then there will be one less mouth to feed and a dowry we may not have to pay, if all goes well,” she said, her eyes dark and wide. “If the girl minds her manners, she may stay as a handmaid for many years. It will be good for us.”

“Aye.” Wido agreed. He muttered the words Corba wanted to hear even though he did not believe them: “This is a good thing.”

The family ate supper together as they always did, the children scrambling for bread and scooping thick pottage from their wooden bowls. Wido found his eyes irresistibly drawn to Afton. She ate with her usual concentration, but once she looked up and frowned. “Mama,” she asked, one eyebrow raised delicately, “can’t we get some pomegranates for supper? They were delicious.”

By all the saints, perhaps it was a good thing she was leaving.

Afton, part 8

Three

Endeline wasn’t sure what she would find at Wido’s house. The mud cottage with its freshly thatched roof looked neat enough for the house of a lowly villein, but out of it emanated odors and sounds she couldn’t identify.

She nervously jiggled the reins in her hand and nodded to Sir Gawain, the burly knight who had accompanied her to the village. He dismounted from his horse and called into the dusty courtyard of Wido’s house: “Lady Endeline is at your door, villein! She asks to see Wido the plowman or Corba, his wife.”

A woman’s dust-streaked face appeared at the window, then she hesitantly stepped through the doorway. “I am Corba,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

Endeline’s gaze froze on the woman’s belly, where the rough tunic stretched tautly over the round shape of her unborn child. “My husband Lord Perceval tells me that your sheep has died,” Endeline said icily, forcing herself to look into the woman’s faded blue eyes. Her horse stamped a hoof impatiently, and Endeline shifted in the saddle. “I have come to choose a substitution for your annual tribute.”

“Aye,” Corba answered, bowing her head respectfully. “What do you have in mind, my lady? I weave very well, and I could make you a nice cloak.”

“I would like to see your children.”

Corba blinked rapidly, but stepped back into the cottage. Endeline studied the sky, where a squawking flock of crows flew overhead. Troublesome birds. She ought to have Gawain kill them all.

Presently a boy stepped out of the house, then another, until five dark-haired children stood blinking in the sunshine. Endeline gazed at them hungrily.

The youngest boy was but a baby, a chubby bundle of delight. The next was dark-skinned. Two were of the same size and manner, both shyly studying the trappings of her horse, and the tallest stood defiantly, a challenge in his eyes.

Endeline bit her lower lip. Perceval would choose the tallest boy, no doubt, but she knew the choice was not simple. The child who would live with her noble children must possess a brave heart, adaptability, and charm. Most of all, he should reflect well upon her and Perceval.

Gawain interrupted her thoughts. “Are these all the children?” he called to Corba. “I heard there were six.”

“There is a girl,” Corba replied, her voice uneven. “She is with her father in the fields of the lord.”

Endeline lifted her reins. “I must see her, too,” she said, relieved that her decision could be postponed.

“I will lead you there,” Gawain offered, and Endeline pulled her horse’s head to follow Gawain to the fields.

Several villeins were plowing in the wide wheat field, but only one plowman was accompanied by a young girl. Endeline watched the pair from the edge of the field, carefully noting the child’s slender form, height, and agility. “She moves well,” she said, watching Afton leap from ridge to furrow as she goaded the ox. “She could be a beautiful dancer.”

“She would do well with you as her teacher,” Gawain answered, displaying the tact that had earned him the distinction of being Perceval’s most trusted knight. “But no child of a plowman will dance as well as a nobleman’s daughter.”

“How old would you say she is?” Endeline mused. “She’s about Lienor’s age, is she not? And the blonde hair will be more seemly in my household,” she added, thinking of the row of black-haired boys at Corba’s house. “She would almost be able to pass for Perceval’s child.”

“No child of a plowman--” began Gawain, but Endeline silenced him with a stern look.

“Go tell the plowman I’ve chosen his daughter,” Endeline said, turning her horse’s head toward the castle road. “The girl should be brought when the rents are collected next month.”

Afton, part 7

Wido stood before Hector’s desk and shuffled his feet uneasily. “What is it?” Hector snapped, looking up from his ledger books. “I’ve a full day planned, plowman, so state why you’ve come.”

“It’s about the lamb for my tribute,” Wido said, clearing his throat. “My ewe has died. I wondered if you would give permission to make a substitution at Michaelmas. My wife would gladly weave the lord a tunic or surcoat, or perhaps his lady would like a linen cloak? My wife does fine weaving.”

“So does every other woman in the village,” Hector replied, scratching in his ledger with his quill. “I’ll think on it, plowman, and we’ll arrange for a substitution.”

“I could capture a wild hog from the forest,” Wido offered.

“The hogs in the forest already belong to Lord Perceval,” Hector sneered, glaring up at Wido. “And hunting is prohibited there by the king’s order.”

Wido looked at the ground in embarrassment and Hector paused to dip his quill in the cow’s horn of ink. “I’ll make mention of your dead sheep in the ledger,” he said, “and I will decide later what you shall give at Michaelmas.”

***

Lady Endeline gave a curt nod to her maids. “You may leave my chamber,” she said, her tone sharp. “Lord Perceval is on his way.”

When the maids had curtseyed and left, Endeline slipped off her heavy fur surcoat, loosened her hair, and reclined regally on their bed. Her silk tunic clung to her slim body; perhaps Perceval could be distracted this afternoon. She had already bade Hector send two cows to the church, and the priest had promised to pray for her. As an afterthought she had quietly commanded one of the village women to buy a fertility charm from a carnival witch. The charm now dangled between her breasts, and Endeline smothered a smile. Her brother the abbot would threaten her with hellfire if he knew she had resorted to witchcraft. But whether through the powers of heaven or hell, she wanted another child. Three were not enough.

She heard the sound of Perceval’s boots on the stone floor and absently pulled all but one curtain down around her bed. She raised one knee, exposing the white flesh of her leg, and extended her arm to the door. When Perceval came in and saw her thus--

But Perceval was not alone. Behind him was Hector, and neither man even glanced at the bed when they entered the room. “I want a careful accounting,” Perceval said, tossing a ledger book on the table. “King Henry may visit in September and the stores must be replenished before then. Have all the manors sent in their due?”

“Aye,” Hector nodded. “And more is due at Michaelmas.”

“Perceval,” Lady Endeline interrupted.

“Michaelmas is not until the end of September!” Perceval fretted, pulling energetically on his beard. “Could we demand an earlier accounting? If we required the annual payment in August, would our store be sufficient to do the king honor?”

Hector scratched his bald head thoughtfully. “August is harvest month, my lord. The villeins will be hard pressed to harvest their crops as well as yours.”

“Perceval.” Lady Endeline’s patience was growing short. What if the witch’s charm would not last for more than the day?

“Why don’t we take the annual tribute in July? We could call for the rents on the day of St. Mary Magdalene.”

“Hay month, my lord? The villeins will be so busy--”

“All right, then, June.”

“Plough month?”

Perceval lost his patience. “Man, how long does it take for a villein to bring his required rent? The annual tribute is well-known and planned, so what difference will it make if we call for the rents early?”

Hector bowed his head in face of Perceval’s anger. “None, my lord, but in the unusual cases. For instance, Wido, a plowman in the village, must pay tribute of one lamb. But his ewe has died, and he will need time to come up with a suitable substitute.”

“And what is a suitable substitute?”

“I do not know, my lord. Perhaps you can tell me.”

“What does the man have to offer?”

Hector shrugged. “Chickens. A small garden plot. His wife, who weaves.” He smiled. “His wife’s best talent is producing children. A healthy baby every year, to serve you, my lord.”

Endeline’s temper flared. “Perceval!”

Perceval turned toward his wife in bewilderment. “What are you doing, woman?”

Hector bowed and left the room. Endeline rolled onto her stomach and kicked her bare legs playfully. “I want another baby, my lord,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Give me another child.”

Perceval shook his head. “For this you interrupt a meeting with my steward? I have given you three children, and I am not to be blamed for your barren womb.”

Perceval turned to leave, but Endeline ran to him, her bare feet skimming the floor. She flung her arms around his waist. “I gave two cows to the priest. I sent for charms from the witch at the carnival. I’ve done all I can, Perceval. But you must give me a child!”

Perceval scowled in impatience, but she would not let him go. For seven years she had longed for another child, but lately the feverish longing would not be denied. She clung steadfastly to his belt, perspiration dripping from her forehead, her hands trembling. She desperately hoped her body would convince her husband; her words had evidently failed.

Perceval lay his hand on her head. “Come, my dear,” he said, helping her to her feet. He walked her to the bed, and her eyes alighted in hope. But Perceval shook his head. “No, Endeline, I cannot stay with you now. But you should not carry on this way. If God wills another child, it will be. Didn’t your brother assure you of this?”

“I am barren because the first animal I saw after Lienor’s birth was a mule,” Endeline moaned softly. “A sterile mule. My handmaid said it was so, and I believe her.”

“You must not believe her.” Perceval sat on the bed and draped his arm around her thin shoulders. “You have three worthy children, lady, what others could you want?”

Endeline shook her head. “Would you be happy with only three horses? Only three fields? Only three manors?”

“That’s a different matter.”

“No, it is not.” She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “I am married to a great man. I should raise great and noble children, as many as I can bear in a lifetime.”

“Then raise noble children.”

“How?” Her voice was flat.

Perceval stood and smoothed his surcoat. “Wido the plowman has a wife who has a baby every year. He also owes me tribute. Go to him with my blessing and take what you desire.”

Afton, part 6

After passing the hedge that sheltered the village, Afton walked resolutely to her house. “I’m sure no queen lives here,” the boy said, tilting his head and peering at the rustic cottage. “My father says only villeins and a few free men live in the village.”

“Your father didn’t know about the pool of the twin trees, and he doesn’t know about the queen of Sheba, either,” Afton replied, grabbing the boy’s hand. “Come on in, and I’ll show you.”

The boy allowed himself to be led inside. Afton waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and she wondered why he looked so curiously at the furnishings: a table, a bed, several straw mattresses on the floor, chickens, and a huge presence over in the corner of the room.

“Is that--”

“The queen of Sheba, our sheep,” Afton answered, taking the wreath from his hand. She placed the wreath gently over the ewe’s head and watched while Sheba began to nibble contentedly on the flowers. “See? I told you she loves flowers.”

The boy sat uneasily on a small wooden stool and looked around. “You live here?”

“Yes.”

“You left the feast to come here? Why?”

“Because I was tired of taking care of my brothers.” She tilted her head and gazed at him. “Why did you leave?”

Calhoun shrugged. “I wanted to find some excitement. Maybe a fight. I’m a good fighter.”

“I’m not going to fight you.” Afton walked over and stroked the soft nubby wool of the newly shorn sheep. “Don’t you think Sheba is wonderful? I love her. My father loves her. She’s going to have a lamb, you see, and that’s good for us, my father says.”

“I want to find a real queen and pledge myself as a knight. I want to fight battles, maybe even in Jerusalem, and kill the infidels.”

Afton turned blank gray eyes on the boy. “What’s an infidel?”

“You don’t know? Why, they are heathens who are not Christian,” Calhoun said, pounding his palm with his fist. “The enemies of the church! My uncle the abbot tells me about them all the time.”

“Oh.” Afton grew quiet and sat on a bench. “I don’t want to kill anybody. I want to stay here with Sheba and the chickens.”

“That’s because you’re not a man,” Calhoun said, standing up. He stretched to make himself as tall as he could, and Afton was impressed, even if the boy would not swim.

“We ought to return to the castle,” Calhoun announced.

“Yes,” Afton agreed. They left the house, where Sheba munched contentedly on her wreath of poppies, berries, and daisies.

***

The next morning when he opened his eyes, Wido knew something was wrong. Flies that usually attached themselves to the shredded ferns Corba hung in the corners of the room were swarming in the darkness. There was a strange odor in the room, too, something more than chickens and sheep and eight people.

He rolled off his hay mattress and slipped on his tunic. Over in the corner, not far from where his children lay sleeping, Sheba lay on the dirt floor. With one touch Wido knew she was dead.

Wido dragged the carcass out of the house without waking Corba. Around the ewe’s neck were the remains of one of Afton’s floral wreaths. Wido fingered the usual flowers, then pricked his finger on an unfamiliar leaf with a sharp tooth. There were berries on the branch, and Wido knew instantly what had happened. “Baneberry,” he muttered under his breath, silently cursing the field where it had grown. The berries, highly poisonous, had killed not only the family’s ewe, but the lamb that was owed to Perceval at Michaelmas, only four months away.

Afton, part 5

A stand of oak trees lay between the pasture outside Margate Castle and the village; lonely sentries for the army of oaks that dwelt deeper in the depths of King Henry’s forest. “I know this spot,” Afton said, skipping ahead of her companion. “Would you like me to show you a magic place?”

“There are no magic places in the forest,” Calhoun answered, lifting his chin. “My father and I hunt in these woods, and he would have told me if such a thing existed.”

“He can’t know everything, though, can he?” Afton asked. It rattled him that there was laughter in her voice. “Can anyone but God know everything?”

After considering her words, he nodded. “All right, show me this place.” He threw the floral wreath over his shoulder. “Lead on, girl, and I will follow.”

Afton laughed and scampered into the trees. The ground at the edge of the forest had been recently flattened by the footsteps of eager villagers searching for greenery, but Afton moved quickly into the deep woods where the brush grew thicker and footing was more uncertain. Calhoun looked up uneasily as the trees thickened and daylight disappeared from around them.

He struggled to keep up. The wreath was awkward and scraped against his side. He would have thrown it off, but he was anxious to present it to the mysterious Queen of Sheba. He also found it difficult to keep his footing in the leaves that carpeted the forest floor--his previous journeys into the forest had been on horseback, never had he actually walked through it.

He was tired and a bit cross when he finally caught up to the girl, who stood before a pair of massive oak trees. “I call them the twin trees,” she said, her eyes shining as she gazed upward. “See how the trunks have wound around each other? Why did they do that, do you know?”

Calhoun made an effort to close his mouth and quiet his breathless panting. “I suppose they grew together,” he answered, his voice sharp. “Does it really matter?”

Afton shook her head. “No. But up there, where both trunks bend together, they point to my secret place.”

Calhoun’s eyes followed her hand. Perhaps twenty feet from the ground, both trunks jutted sharply westward, then seemed to recover and reach again for the warmth of sun and sky. He looked from the tree to the west--what place could this simple girl have found?

He was about to ask when she suddenly smiled and whirled away from him. She ran about twenty paces to the crest of a hill, then jumped down and out of sight.

Calhoun followed, then gasped at his delightful discovery. Beyond and below the hill lay a perfectly round pool, shimmering like an emerald in a dark and lush earthen setting. No human footsteps had crushed the dainty vegetation surrounding this pool, indeed, the boy wondered if anyone but this blonde sprite had ever visited the place.

Afton sat on a rock at the edge of the pool, her long legs gently skimming the surface of the water. “It’s nicer than you might think,” she told him in a conspirator’s whisper. “You can swim here and no one will bother you. I call it the Pool of the Twin Trees.”

“How did you find it?” Calhoun asked, his voice sounding strangely loud in the stillness. “Does your tutor let you enter the King’s forest--”

“My what?” She crinkled her nose and grinned, and he noticed for the first time that she was missing two front teeth. “I come here when my mama says I am free to play. I learned to swim here, too. Watch.”

Without warning, she kicked off the simple slippers she wore, shimmied out of her outer tunic, and dove smoothly into the water. He was amazed that the water was transparent; the emerald quality of the water came from moss growing on the bottom. He could see every movement the girl made, and soon her head and shoulders appeared at the far end of the pool, her soaked chemise clinging to her skin. “Come in,” she called, her teeth chattering. “It’s cold, but you’ll get used to it.”

Calhoun pondered his situation. He had learned to wrestle and fight, to throw horseshoes and handle a horse. But never had he learned to swim. Yet, the girl made it look easy, as simple as jumping in and sailing underwater to the far side of the pool. But what if it were not easy? What if he floundered and sank? Drowning would be better than asking for help, but neither choice was attractive.

“I want to go see this so-called Queen of yours,” he called, his chin jutting from his youthful jaw. “My patience grows thin.”

Afton dove and again became a rippling watery angel, then reentered the world of light and air and climbed out onto the bank. She threw her tunic over her head and stepped into her slippers. “We can go now,” she said, passing Calhoun without a backward glance. “But I could teach you to swim.”