In the Eye of the Beholder: A Romance Legend of Charlemagne and His Knights

By E.M. Wilheim

Banished for one year from his fathers court over a disagreement, Prince Leo of Byzantium fights his resentment in faraway Macedonia. His companions, ignorant of the reasons for the fathers decree, are sympathetic toward his distress and wonder what the year in exile will bring until a mysterious vagabond arrives and entertains them with a tale of yesteryear.

Angered by a young mothers foolish devotion to beauty, Morgana, the haughty faery queen casts a spell that disfigures the face of the mothers newborn infant, Princess Gwenyth. Before she departs, she leaves an arcane clue to breaking the spell on a parchment. Another faery, Melissa, wishes to placate the cruel act and endows the baby with the gift of healing so the princess will find acceptance by her countrymen.

Now fully grown, Princess Gwenyth treats her patients in such a kindly manner that they ignore her physical deformity. Admired for her great courage and her skill as an archer, she inspires a loyal following. It is the time of Charlemagnes rule, and the vagabond sweetens the tale with folklore about the French kings famed paladin, Oliver and his son Griffon, father and brother to the marred princess. Unknown to the audience, the faery Melissa is portraying the vagabond.

Trusting that he understands the spell, Prince Leo is eager to face the challenge of rescuing Princess Gwenyth. Dark times have invaded Europe. During the journey, Prince Leo and his knights unwittingly becomes the pawn in a game between the two faeries. Although he has dabbled in sorcery, the princes appreciation of beauty lures him into ambushes that challenge his self-confidence. As time passes, he becomes false to his true character.

The prince and his knights lose their way in an enchanted forest. Then, they find a young boy and a monk who were attacked on their way to Charlemagnes palace in Aachen. The prince safely delivers the child to Charlemagne, solves the mystery of the attackers, and accepts the kings gracious hospitality. Afterwards, Prince Leo and his men leave for a tournament. En route, the meddlesome faery queen, Morgana, conjures up a mighty challenge that demoralizes the companions. Desiring for a peaceful rest, the prince spins a spell creating an invisible wall to protect his men while they sleep. However, the wall is pierced and two young women, hunting a white stag, find him and his men. He listens to them as they speak and understands that one of them is Princess Gwenyth. Struggling to open his eyes to see the women, the prince is surprised to find that neither of the womans faces is masked by a faery spell. His heavy sleep, part of the enchantment, quickly reclaims him. When his spell wears off, he is more determined than ever to meet the princess.

Devising a reasonable explanation for meeting the princess, he enters a tournament near the home of the princess and her family. She does not attend the tournament, but when a mysterious black knight injures him, the only person who can cure him is the princess. By her fathers invitation, he is brought to their home. For many days, she nurses his high fever and bloody wound. Despite that her true face is hidden by the spell, he finds her beautiful in her kindness, courage and character. He also thinks her temperamental and not entirely truthful, but then, neither is he. The wounded prince can be just as stubborn as she and sparks fly between them.

Prince Leo must rediscover his inner truths before he can help the unwilling princess break the faery spell. Magic, he realizes, is not a game for the crown prince of Byzantium.

This novel incorporates characters from the medieval Song of Roland and brewing in the background of the story is the search for the errant Roland, the kings nephew and champion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 30, 2005
• ISBN: 9781465323088

E.M. Wilheim

Ellen M. Wilheim lives in Southern California and holds a M.A. in History from Bridgewater State College. She has accumulated a comprehensive bibliography of scholarly works and myths on Charlemagne and the Dark Ages. She enjoys traveling, museums, reading, gardening and hanging out with her daughters and their friends (when permitted). Her husband, Robert, is her close companion, although the dogs and cats compete for her attention. Her writing is for her soul, and she hopes by sharing it she can give her readers an enjoyable respite from daily pressures.

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Copyright © 2005 by E.M. Wilheim.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

Dedication

For Olga Wilheim, my mother in law, and for Ellen Troy, a friend.

Their steadfast belief in this story convinced me to publish it.

Any lesson I wish to teach is best learned by all.

Morgana, The Faery Queen

Quoted from her Memoirs

820 A.D. (mortal years)

CHAPTER ONE

The Vagabond’s Tale

The wind first heralded the vagabond’s arrival by ruffling the leaves of the trees in the forest that bordered the estate. Then, roaming over the valley and creeping up the hillside like low-tide waves, the wind crawled along an uninhabited road that partitioned rows of grapevines. Once a treasured stronghold in the foothills of ancient Macedonia, for centuries a part of the Empire of Byzantium, the palace stood proud as the rush of air faltered against its walls.

Scaling upwards, the wind floated past an adamantine warrior who stalked between invisible barriers on the rampart. It pressed a purple cloak against his chest and revealed his broad build. The man, his eyes focused inward, seeing nothing around him, pursued his course until another breeze parted the dark mane of his hair down the center of his head. Then turning to it and inviting its touch, his body slackened and he stood still, his eyes closed, his head facing the sky, while the gust lingered.

The rippling of the foliage in the vineyards must have captured the man’s attention, for he looked upon the fields where farmers tended to their chores. His fingers, sprinkled with dark hair, tapped a cadent drum roll on the rampart—one finger hefting the weight of an embossed ring with the insignia of the royal household. Alone on the wall, he remained there watching with calm expression while his stance betrayed an inner turmoil.

Below, soldiers exercised in the palace enclosure. The gentle breeze caressed them with a gift of revival, refreshing their faces glistening with sweat. The soldiers released a communal sigh, remaining tranquil while the breeze performed its glory. The wind tarried on, approaching the stables and beyond where servants wiped their brows and relished in its cool kiss before returning to their chores.

Another breeze, more confident in its attack, swarmed around the man leaning against the rampart, lifting the border of his cloak and tunic beneath. Awakened from his idleness, the man returned to his rhythmic pacing, folding his hands behind his back as he went.

Roaming across the countryside, the wind quickened and swirled the dust on the road. In the fields, it curled the grapevines around the stakes and forced the farmers to hunker down. As the wind’s strength multiplied, the soldiers’ mantles flapped against their faces and swallowed their shouts. Gusting in and hauling past the man who trudged on the wall, it lashed his hair across his bowed face, forcing a confrontation. Aware at last of the wind’s tempo, he hailed the soldiers below to quit their exercises and joined their dash for shelter. Chasing all out of its way, the wind pursued them through the arched corridors to the sealed palace doors.

Before the tempest ended, the vagabond arrived. Guards on gate duty, their eyes stinging with the dirt that the wind had thrown at them, never observed his gaining, until the gates blew open and he stood before them. The gale whipped his tunic across his hollow chest. His stiff hair looked like a fallen bird’s nest. Brushing the dust from his clothes, he introduced himself as a vagabond taleteller by the name of Melingarde. He had a friendly smile and the mischievous twinkle in his eye promised entertainment. Appealing to the guards for a meal and a bed for the night in exchange for tidings from Austrasia and a tale, he was brought before the steward without further question.

Lord Stefan’s head perked up from his conversation with Dmitri, a brawny man eight years his elder. A slight man, having at last filled in the narrow chest and gangly appearance of his young manhood, Stefan’s deep-set eyes scanned the expanse of his father’s large hall. Watching from the dais, he saw his cousin, Prince Leo, enter the room and greet a small group of men who had hailed him.

There he is, Stefan said, raising his eyes to meet Dmitri’s.

Not another grumble about his father’s deed, said Dmitri, his admonishment deep enough to vibrate an empty room.

Stefan turned on Dmitri with resentment. How can you call His Sacred Majesty’s expulsion of his son from court for a year as a ‘deed’?

Obedience to my liege lord, said Dmitri with an uneasy note lingering in his tone.

Self preservation is more like it. Stefan’s mouth leveled into a flat line.

Dmitri’s shoulders hardened as he gazed at Stefan through tapered eyes.

Placing a gentle hand on each man’s shoulder to quell the pending dispute, the lord of the household and Stefan’s father, Philotas Marcus, joined the conversation. His unwrinkled face could be regarded as ageless except for the jowls that swallowed his jawbone. Dressed in courtly attire of silk saffron tunic and trousers covered by a sapphire robe that hid a rotund swelling at his waist, he watched his nephew fraternize in his home, an isolated haven far from the glamour and intrigue of Constantinople. It is politics, Stefan, and I too have warned you to keep your mouth shut, said Philotas.

Stefan snorted. Politics! It was foul punishment for the man who has quelled the Bulgar rebellion—an expedient maneuver to rid the court of a dissenting voice. His face was awash with feeling. For God’s sake, father, Leo did not deserve this.

Frowning, Dmitri folded his thick arms across his chest. Stefan, you were not privy to their conversation.

Squeezing his grasp on his son’s narrow shoulder, Philotas hoped his son would acquiesce to the subtle reprimand. That’s true. But what I want to know is what transpired between them? What angered Constantine so much that he expelled his son and threatened to disown him?

Fathers and sons disagree all the time. Dmitri murmured.

Well, we must do what we can to reconcile them. Philotas sighed, content that Stefan was keeping quiet. Dmitri, has Leo confided in you?

Dmitri’s dark eyes glimmered. If he had, I would not say, but he hasn’t.

Avoiding his father’s scrutiny, Stefan swallowed his unspoken words. One year—he’ll go out of his mind here in this deserted province. No offense, father.

Shifting his weight, Dmitri nodded in agreement, all the while keeping his eyes on Leo. Indeed, it worries me.

The three of them watched as Leo excused himself from the men. Wearing tunic and trousers in the subtle shade of gray, the prince loomed above the bright colors of silk garments worn by the other inhabitants in the hall. His damp hair forsaking current style touched his shoulders and his smooth cheeks hinted at the dimple in his chin. Not a moment passed before a slant-eyed, coquettish woman in fine silks attempted to drape her arm across Leo’s.

Well, there’s an enticing form of entertainment to keep him busy, said Philotas. His grin disappeared once his son and Dmitri leveled their eyes at him. Curious by their reaction, he looked on as Leo excused himself, gracefully sidestepping the woman and then stood alone, studying the crowd. Of course, he chided himself; his nephew’s integrity would bind him to his betrothed, the Lady Irene. Would that all men were that honorable, and this thought again prompted his curiosity. What had happened between Constantine and Leo?

Eyeing Leo, Stefan shook his tawny hair. Who is he looking at?

Philotas followed the direction of Leo’s gaze and saw in the dim rear of the hall a curious stranger who was tottering on his tiptoes, like a scale measuring near even weights. The gray bearded man in a homespun cloak returned his nephew’s regard with glinting eyes.

Leo pivoted and approached the dais, returning brief acknowledgements to those who bowed as he passed. He leaned toward his uncle, tightening his tunic across the breadth of his chest as he moved. Who is he? He asked in his melodious timbre gesturing to the stranger.

A vagabond from Austrasia. Philotas’ eyes brimmed with affection and a glint of mischief, too.

A servant offered Leo a goblet of wine as Dmitri pulled out a chair for him. From Austrasia? Leo sucked a quick breath of air. When did he arrive? The road was deserted when I was on the wall.

Stefan chuckled and was quick to shrug an innocent demeanor when Leo darted him a questioning look. With haste, he claimed the chair next to Leo.

He came in the middle of the wind storm. Settling into a cushioned chair, Philotas lifted his thin brows. Behind him, a mosaic crafted from stone, ceramic and mortar depicted huntsmen—their arrows notched, their quivers full-aimed at their quarry while wearing blindfolds. With a wink at his son and Dmitri, he spoke in an amused tone. Would your highness enjoy a good story? Anticipating the answer, he motioned to his steward to bring the taleteller forward.

Gazing across the room, Leo’s eyes met the stranger’s and a smile captured his lips. Indeed I would, he said in wistful tone.

Gaping around him as he tugged on his beard, Melingarde the vagabond stood to one side of the dais. He drank from a goblet of wine a servant brought him and, placing the half-empty vessel on a corner of the table, waited while the household members occupied couches or sat cross-legged on cushions set upon the marble floor. Children scooted beneath his feet, shoving one another, edging closer to him and pestering him to begin.

Melingarde bowed with flourish, first to nobles on the dais and then to the general audience. He straightened his shoulders, cleared his throat and began his narrative. His voice rang throughout the hall.

My lords and ladies, on this glorious but perhaps a bit too windy day, he said with an impish grin, "I pray that I may entertain you with you a story that some might consider tragic.

For most of my life, I have traveled far, and I have many stories that I could tell, but this tale became my favorite when, not too long ago, I traveled in the northern region of Austrasia, commonly known as France, and met the young maiden and heroine of this tale. His arms spread wide, embracing his listeners.

"Now, I pray that you will listen carefully for this tale asks a curious question—one that I have pondered many times. It is also a tale that begins with a woman’s selfish folly and her misguided ideals.

"In Charlemagne’s court, the king is served by twelve legendary paladins, including Prince Oliver, who is renown for honesty and valor. When he was young, Oliver married Princess Audrey, who came from a small kingdom that paid tribute to Charlemagne. Princess Audrey’s beauty drew comparisons to the pagan goddess of love or the celebrated Helen of Troy.

"Some even say that she and Oliver must have shared a love potion, for upon their first meeting, a passionate ardor grew and no one could keep them apart. Within the first year of their marriage, they had a son, Griffon. Both Oliver and Audrey were very happy with their young son, who today, is a man nearing twenty, and is an undefeated tournament champion like his father. Audrey, however, had her heart set on having a daughter. In the next year, her wish was fulfilled.

"When Audrey first learned she was with child, she consulted a renowned witch in the area and learned that she was carrying a daughter. Convinced that beauty was all that men desire for marriage, for that was her mother’s perception too, Audrey dreamed of her child’s promising future and boundless opportunities for riches and property. She believed her daughter would be the envy of every woman, for considering in particular the child’s parentage, there could be no doubt that she would be graceful and lovely.

"As the baby grew inside her, Audrey spent her idle time wandering through meadows with her maid, boasting about her daughter’s face. She even avowed that her daughter’s beauty would surpass the charms of the famous and ravishing fairy queen, Morgana. This was Audrey’s terrible mistake, for her rash comments reached the ears of this very fairy who zealously guarded her belief that no mortal could ever surpass her own beauty. At once, Morgana’s displeasure was aroused, and leaving her home on the shrouded island of Avalon where King Arthur sleeps, she took flight in search of this bragging woman.

"Cloaked in blue, so that she blended with the sky, Morgana listened to Audrey’s bold declarations. Would it be that she had only thought them, then Morgana might not have been enraged. But Audrey’s vanity became an irritant to the fairy queen, much like an untended blister chafes the skin until it is tender and sore.

"Ignorant of the fairy queen’s disapproval, Audrey continued to share her expectations of her daughter’s fairness with anyone who would listen, incensing the fairy queen enough for her to act. She decided to teach this human a lesson.

"Morgana waited until the day when the baby daughter left her mother’s womb. No sooner was Audrey’s daughter born, than the fairy queen invisibly hovered by the mother’s side and chanted a spell.

Melingarde’s gaze searched the curious faces of his audience as he shifted his feet.

"Verily, the midwife still held the babe in her arms, and the exhausted mother had not yet set eyes on the infant when the spell took hold! In an ancient and mysterious tongue, Morgana spoke:

To one who dreams of her infant’s beauty

Let her now suffer

True beauty eludes those who seek it

To the one whose mother foolishly challenges the queen Morgana

Let her now suffer

When precious beauty finds its value in truth

Then let the spell be broken!

The baby’s face befell a horrible occurrence. It was covered with a thin, bluish mask and that alone disfigured the facial features enough to frighten anyone. But that was not enough for the fairy queen. While one eye with an eyebrow shaped like a seagull’s wing in flight seemed normal, she misshape the other eye by sticking the lids together and placing over it an angular eyebrow that hunched down ready to attack. The symmetry was thrown asunder, for the now abnormal eye was lifted high unto the babe’s forehead. Still not satisfied, she puckered the unfortunate one’s mouth dropping the side beneath the normal eye, so that a smile could never take shape.

Pausing, the vagabond swallowed a drink of his wine.

While Morgana behaved so horribly wicked, he continued in a lyrical tone, "a wiser and kinder fairy made a sudden appearance. Her name was Melissa and, if fairies have hearts—for we sometimes wonder such, especially after learning of Morgana’s spell—then hers broke when she laid her eyes upon the infant and saw Morgana’s handiwork. Melissa did not have the power to break Morgana’s spell, but she was able to cast her own. Choosing wisely, she gave the infant extraordinary healing powers. She knew that if the child could offer such skills, mortals would need her and accept her, even if they were frightened when they gazed upon her face.

"Now as all of this happened, time stood still, for as you know, fairies have such power. The midwife, having told the mother that she had a beautiful baby daughter handed the baby, swarmed in a blanket, to Audrey. Audrey folded back the blanket to see her daughter’s face, and she let out such a shrill that her husband, Oliver, came running into the room. Shaken by the sight of her child, Audrey would have taken the infant to the woods and buried it alive, but Oliver forbade it.

It was then that a parchment, with Morgana’s spell written on it, floated down from the ceiling and landed on the bed. The prince read the words and his face paled. He could not fathom what they meant, but Audrey at once understood that she was to blame for this misfortune. She cried out to Morgana to reverse the spell on the innocent child and offered herself in stead. As the story is told, both Oliver and Audrey shivered at the sound of Morgana’s wicked laugh. The two despondent parents pleaded, but Morgana had flown away, having stopped listening to their words.

To relieve his parched throat, the vagabond emptied his goblet. Mesmerized eyes locked onto his face, waiting for him to continue his tale. His eyes twinkled.

It was then that the other fairy, Melissa, appeared before Oliver and told him of her own spell. She encouraged him to raise the infant to be charitable in her heart, to help others when they are ill for such a gift she now had, and to search for what Morgana meant to be the truth. It was good that she spoke such words to the baby’s father, for the mother soon died. The vagabond shook his head in disapproval.

Now, it happened one day while I traveled in this region of Austrasia or France that a terrible sickness befell me. Being a vagabond, with no wealth at my disposal, but rather always relying on the charity of others, I turned to the monks of a famous abbey for their healing skills. I stayed with them for five days with a raging fever and a swelling on my leg that nearly doubled the girth of my thigh.

The vagabond smiled at the young children who sat at his feet. "I needn’t tell you how miserable I was nor how ugly this swelling looked! The eldest monk finally came to my side and told me that he could not help me anymore, unless I gave him permission to cut off my leg.

"Frightened by his intentions, I said, ‘But I am a nomad, a wanderer. How can I continue without a leg? Is there nothing else that can be done?’

"The monk thought about this and told me of one other solution. In the region, there lived a young woman with a reputation for great healing. Unfortunately, the monk explained, a curse had been placed upon the lady at birth making her frightening to behold.

Verily, the vagabond continued now in an irritated tone, "the monk hinted that some fools considered the lady a witch who had contracted with the Devil.

"Still, how could I permit the monk to cut off my leg when another might save it? Everyone knows few patients survive once an arm or leg is amputated.

I begged him to bring her to my side so that I could seek her assistance. From the look on his face, I sensed that he would have preferred to cut off my leg, and maybe his own, than to allow me to reject the lady once she came to my side. Before he agreed to summon her, he repeated her plight and threatened to throw me out if I behaved unseemly toward her. I had to cross my heart and swear to die before I could convince him. The very next morning she came to the abbey, and took charge of my care.

Was she really frightening to look at? asked a child with widened brown eyes. The vagabond’s eyes narrowed at the child.

Vagabonds see many frightening things when they travel, he answered.

My eyes have beheld lepers, for instance, and people with sicknesses that puff out their faces or fill their skin with sores. Never, however, have I seen the likeness of Princess Gwenyth. That is her name, he said as an aside. "Her face was bluish, just as folk said, and one eye was squeezed shut and, because of this, she always looked angry but her mouth most captured my attention. Can you imagine never being able to smile? To never be able to show one’s happiness with a mere upsweep of the mouth? Always, the princess seemed to be suffering with bad humor.

"Yet, there was such a gentle and courteous manner about her and her voice was so lovely and soft, that I found myself liking her, despite how she looked.

"Right away, she examined my leg and asked me questions about the swelling and fever. With her own prescriptions and unguents, she promptly tended me. To assure my rest, she personally guarded me as a wild bear protects its cubs. Never have I felt so harbored. Do you know that within two days my fever vanished? Before the end of that week, I was able to stand on my feet and hobble. So happy I was and so delighted that I had not agreed to having my leg removed, that I said a small thank you to the fairy Melissa for giving the princess such healing powers.

"Unfortunately, I said these words while the princess was nearby, and I sensed that she had become sullen. Indeed, I heard her sigh so heavily that I thought I had offended her and begged for her forgiveness. Truly, I told her, her powers were gifted and I was forever indebted to her. Then I thought that I should offer to repay the princess for her kindness, so I asked her if she could use my assistance.

"She hid her face from me and whispered, ‘So, you, too, have heard of the spell. I suppose you know the words that have made my life so unbearable.’

"I told her I had heard the tale, and then I did my best to repeat the words. Storytellers do remember such things, you know. When she asked me if I understood the meaning of the spell’s words—‘when precious beauty finds its value in truth,’—I did not know what to say.

"Alas, I guessed that she had to search for the meaning of true beauty or find understanding in the beauty of truth.

"‘Nay, sir,’ she differed with me. ‘Surely, the word, value, must have some hidden meaning, too! There is value in being a true beauty, for people certainly shun those who are not. This lesson I have learned well, and still the spell has its hold.’

In a soft voice, he continued. I could hear the sorrow in her voice, as she drifted into her thoughts, and I admired her spirit. For it is near to impossible to persevere in a world that scorns those who are different and still remain as kind as she is. Then she told me that few were as accepting of her appearance as I had been. That, she said, was payment enough. I thought I heard a low laugh then and I realized how happy she was to be received so easily by me.

Pausing, the aged storyteller’s footsteps crossed in front of the dais.

But the meaning of the spell is quite simple, exclaimed the melodious voice of the brawny nobleman who sat next to the lord of the household. The man’s eyes were shining.

Melingarde opened his mouth to respond but no words came out.

My dear nephew, kindly permit the man to finish his story, Philotas pleaded with a wry grin, his eyes scanning the hall and finding many enraptured faces nodding in agreement. We find the story interesting, don’t we? Continue, storyteller, and when you are done, then my nephew may ask his questions. He glanced at Leo, and asked in a tone that all but mocked, you can wait until he is finished, can’t you?

The nephew’s lips slackened. I beg your forgiveness, he said with courtesy to Melingarde. I spoke too soon and should have waited to hear the story to its end.

’Tis nothing! I am delighted that you find this tale pleasing, bowed the vagabond. A playful grin claimed his face, forcing him to clear his throat in an attempt to hide it. "Now, my lords and ladies, and other listeners, I beg for your forgiveness because I had jumped ahead in my story and neglected to tell you more about the spell and the princess.

"So, let me return to the young Princess Gwenyth who pays the price of her mother’s vanity. The prince did everything in his power to protect his daughter from public scorn. Yet, from the first, through the talkative efforts of the midwife, the provincial people knew about the spell. As Gwenyth grew older, it became difficult to seclude her from the peasants who lived in the surrounding area.

"Many people who knew of the spell came forward and offered their interpretations of its meaning. Mostly, they claimed that the right suitor would come one day and when he could see her face through the mask, the spell would be broken. Prince Oliver toyed with this explanation and encouraged suitors to come forth and try to break the spell. Unfortunately, none of those who came, including the mysterious black knight, had any success.

"Now, the black knight has come once a year, on the same day, for four years. In the first year, the princess received him but, when the spell continued its hold, she sent him away. Since then, she refuses to even greet him for she does not understand his pursuit of her affection.

I cannot imagine how she must feel, waiting for some prince or lord to break the spell. For it is not in her nature to sit back and wait. She has the character of the olden Frank wives who, wielding their swords, fought beside their husbands in battle. Aye. She earns the respect of everyone she treats despite how the fairy’s magic distorted her appearance and how some people avert their eyes from seeing her.

The vagabond chuckled. Feisty, that is what she is. His slender fingers curled his long beard until his hand dropped away as a slight scowl formed.

"Oh my, I’ve forgotten to mention an important detail. The princess has a reputation for great healing skills, but to those who follow the tournaments in the area, she is also known for her skill in archery!

Indeed, Princess Gwenyth has won many archery awards. Charlemagne himself gave her a sparrow hawk when she won a competition held at his court. The hawk was a perfect gift since the princess loves to hunt. In truth, no sooner had young Gwenyth learned to ride a horse than her father took her with him on his daily hunts giving her the opportunity to perfect her talent with bow and arrow.

The storyteller paused and his keen eyes roamed across the room. "When she first told me about her archer’s skill I became fascinated because I could not help but wonder how she could be so talented if she only had one useful eye. I spent some time pondering this and when I had the chance, I asked her if she only used one eye to focus on her mark.

"To my bafflement, she explained that when she touched her face, she felt both her eyes open and shut.

"This is wonderful news,’ I averred, ‘for certainly the day shall come when the spell shall be broken!

"With a tone of anger and determination that surprised me, she advised me to forget the silly and false tale told by the locals. Emphasized by the sad formation of her mouth, her words stirred my sympathy.

"‘Do you mean to say,’ I asked, ‘that the story is a fabrication?’

"‘Of course, it is,’ she answered. ‘I’ve seen no proof that fairies truly exist. I was born this way and despite what my father wishes to believe, my appearance will not change. ’Tis all foolery.’

It was then that I saw a single tear drop from her good eye. I began to doubt her and remembered that she had said she could feel both her eyes open and shut. Yet, I said naught, for fear to make her angry. Instead, I offered my solace and expressed my gratitude that I had met her and that she had healed me.

Before we parted on that day, she hugged me farewell and even bestowed upon me gifts to ease my travels. Her kindness overwhelmed me, as did her courage. I stayed in that region for a few more months, but before I left, I learned that the princess continues to heal the sick. She occasionally competes in tournaments and treats the wounded competitors. Sadly though, her face remains behind the bewitched mask, his voice softened, and that is the end of my tale. The vagabond bowed before his audience.

As the people applauded, a golden-haired youth stood up and spoke, But your story has no ending. What will happen to her?

Ah, my young one, you must use your imagination. Could her disfigured face be a physical deformity or could it be that the story of the fairy queen’s spell is true? If that is so, will she ever rid herself of the curse? Or, maybe our friend, the lord’s nephew, has deciphered the spell correctly.

The boy followed the vagabond’s gaze to the nobleman who sat listening with grave expression. You mean Prince Leo? If, as he says, the answer is simple, then why hasn’t the princess figured out the meaning to the spell on her own?

Yes, interjected Leo, his hair slipping on his shoulders with his movement as he bent forward. Why hasn’t the princess or her family understood the meaning of the spell? The answer doesn’t seem that difficult to me.

Frowning, the storyteller folded one arm across his chest and rested an elbow on that arm. "Sometimes, when people are too close to a situation, they are unable to see it clearly. Like the hunters on this mosaic, his hands swept toward the mural behind the dais, they are blinded. You, my lord, may have the advantage of observing the problem from a distance. If only you could meet the princess and offer your interpretation."

Resting his chin on his broad knuckle, his embossed ring gleaming on one finger, Leo said, "your story is most intriguing. I find myself wanting to believe in the spell, but the princess’ explanation that the story is false might be true. I