The Scarlet Lioness

By Kefira Bar-Golani

In twelfth-century Ire, a redheaded orphan is saved by a legendary warrior. Trained by him, she becomes a legend herself amongst the villages of Scandinavia, a land torn by inner wars. One battle sends Scarlet on a course that brings her to Johnthe Duke of Agammar and her birth father, and Henryhis ward and only heir, but not his son by blood. When she stays longer than planned, she unwillingly ruins someones plan to get rid of Henry, and by saving his life once, she realizes their fates are entwined and she must do all she can to save his life, even if it means losing her own . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493149018

Kefira Bar-Golani

I've been writing stories ever since I was 13. It was my escape into a fantasy world from an otherwise unpleasant reality. It was my unique way of expressing my self and with an active imagination I came to realize I was really good at it. when I was 18, a young women who later became an inspiration told me I have to become an author, I have to publish my books! I didn't though. When I was 27 I had the biggest inspiration of my life - My son. As soon as I brought him home I knew I had to write again and publish my work. My son and I currently reside in silicon valley. My life can be quite exciting, I meet new people everyday, I balance a full time job and my family time but unlike my heroine - I have yet to find my Henry...

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CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

PART II

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

PART III

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

PART IV

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my grandmother, Savta Laura (RIP), my mother, and Esterika—three women who inspired me in so many ways… Thank you.

A special thanks to A, one of my heroes and inspiration. Thank you for serving our country!

To my coworkers, each and every one of you gave your undying support!

You are awesome!

I love you all very much!

PART I

A Child of Life

Ire 1103-1117

Ire. The Catholic Church conquered

The hearts of all the Irish in the emerald land.

That’s one of the reasons women are underestimated;

In the eyes of men, they are no more than housewives

And child-bearers,

Women with red hair were considered witches and

death by flames or exile was their only faith.

That is how an Irish orphan became a legend . . .

CHAPTER 1

The skies welcomed the darkness that came with the dying sun behind the mountains. The autumn sunsets were always the prettiest , thought the old woman, who stood at the long, narrow window. She was gazing at the colored sky and the different shades of red that conquered them along with a stroke of yellow and orange here and there followed by a hint of pink. The skies looked as though rivers of blood flew upon it and vanished as darkness came when light was no more. Red skies , she thought to herself, the sign of a warrior’s birth . The redness that wrapped the sky looked different from previous nights. Maybe because tonight a child will be born, a new soul will enter the world, and by the signs in the heavens above, it seems as though it will be a warrior, she th ought.

My lady. A young girl, dressed in dirty maidens’ clothes came behind her. I think she is ready.

The labor has been for a long time now, said the midwife, still gazing at the skies. The pain and effort make it seem true.

What, my lady? What’s true?

Tonight a warrior shall be born. With that, she turned from the bloodred sky and entered the chamber of the future mother.

Maggie gave a cry. The pain hit her again and again with no mercy, refusing to let her go. The sweat trickled down her forehead to her light red hair her head lay upon; the red hair was nicely combed a few hours ago, but now it was nothing but a messy, dirty, and wet pile of mayhem. Both her hands clutched at her round swollen belly, and another cry came almost unwillingly out of her mouth. Her thin legs were spread open in front of the most serious midwife. She came in after hours of standing outside, waiting for the moment her fees would be justified. Since that morning the woman maid was in labor, but the baby hadn’t come out yet.

The child is ready, said the midwife.

Good Lord, whispered Maggie. Help me . . .

The midwife looked at her questioningly and proceeded with her work.

Maggie screamed out loud. The scream penetrated the thick stone wall to the cold, torchlit hall. There stood the British duke, John, third duke to the house of Agammar, emissary to King Henry in Ire. On his face was a look of worry and concern that increased by each scream he heard. It’s not supposed to be like this, he thought. She shouldn’t suffer like this! Enough with the screams of pain! Kathrin never screamed as much, and she already bore me four children! Kathrin, the duchess, stood nearby, her face emotionless and cold.

Even at the beginning of their marriage, her face wore the mask of silence and was emotionless; that was, as the duke learned in the past twelve springs, no mask but the real duchess and his wife. He never loved her; he had never loved any woman as far as emotions were concerned, but when he met Maggie McLachlan, she changed him. Now she was giving birth to his child. A bastard that may not live another day if Kathrin decided so.

Suddenly they heard a voice, the prettiest voice they’d heard in hours of screaming and the sound of unnatural pain. It was a cry, the cry of a new and innocent child entering the world. The duchess stepped away from the big wooden door as the midwife came out, her face ever so serious. The signs have tricked me, she grunted to herself.

What is it? asked the duchess in her ice-cold voice.

A girl, said the midwife in a rather disgusted tone. A damned ugly girl! I wouldn’t even look at the little devil! I won’t even clean her or touch her, my lady. She went back into the room and stood by the door.

What are you saying, Midwife? asked the Duchess of Agammar.

As I watched the autumn sunset, I was sure it was the Lord’s sign. I was sure a warrior would be born tonight.

I would have been more at ease if that were so as well, said the duchess as she gave her husband a cold, piercing look. Another girl, she said as she walked toward him in silent, slow steps. You’ve conceived another girl like the two we already have.

Kathrin— The duke didn’t finish his sentence because the duchess slapped his face so hard it made him silent. In quick steps, without a word, the midwife went into the room behind her.

If it were a boy, I would have honored the wench and sent her to my brother’s estate up north. It’s hard to find dedicated slave boys trained from their birth, but maids are plenty to be found. I will not have a maid who needs to attend to her own children.

What do you want me to do? the duke asked, not meeting her eyes.

Send her away, she said, her blue eyes glittering with anger.

What is bothering you, Kathrin? he asked with a hint of cynicism in his voice. That I love a simple maid more than I love you?

What is bothering me… , she said coming closer to him, her eyes burning in cold flame, is even though I have envied her, I’ve held my anger. But now every time she passes by with the arrogance of being your child’s mother, she will make me feel she is the lady of the house. She’s just a maid, and I am the duchess of this castle! Therefore I want her gone!

Gone where?

I really don’t care, said Kathrin as the midwife came out of the room of birth. The duchess addressed her very coldly, Are they fit to travel?

They will survive a short journey, me lady, said the midwife as she wiped her hands on her apron.

Excellent! The duchess had a frightful grin as she turned back to her husband, the duke. Send her to one of the nearby villages. I think there’s one an hour’s ride from here.

Kathrin, she just gave birth. The duke tried to protest.

That is no new news. She’s not sleeping here tonight. And with that, the beautiful but heartless Duchess of Agammar walked down the corridor, her blue robes dragging behind her, followed by the midwife.

Oh, Maggie, the duke sighed and walked to the small room; he opened the door and walked in. Maggie lay on a half-broken bed. The straw came out of the sides, and the wood frame was broken. She wore a white dress which was stained with blood, her face was brown from filth and sweat that stuck to her smooth skin, and her arms were wrapped around a small newborn, soundly asleep in her mother’s arms.

She is beautiful, isn’t she? said Maggie, her face shining with pleasure and joy.

Yes, she is. The duke sat next to her. How are you feeling?

Exhausted, she replied with a sigh; he sensed something else in her voice though. He felt she was happy. Hold her, she said in her soft voice and handed him the child, a girl with a red curl on her head.

John took the girl in his big arms and held her close. She really is beautiful. Her body was so small and fragile. The duke looked at her small gentle ankles and noticed a birthmark shaped like a sword; he smiled to himself and returned her to Maggie. Interesting, he thought to himself. Perhaps the red skies were a sign after all.

What is it? she asked. I can see you are bothered.

Nothing escapes those eyes of yours. He gave her a smile full of pain as two armed guards entered the room.

What’s happening?

Farewell, Maggie. The duke stood on his feet.

Where are you going? she asked, startled.

I’m not going anywhere, he said. God be with you, love. And with that he left the room. The guards approached the bed Maggie lay upon. One of them grabbed the baby from her mother’s arms and frightened her so much that the child began to cry.

No! Maggie cried. Give her back! The other guard lifted her up under her arms and knees. Let me go! I don’t want to go! John! No one heard her cries or responded to her pleas. She was taken down a narrow, torchlit corridor; she screamed with all the strength she had left, her newborn competing with her. Let me go! She struggled. Return my child! I don’t want to go! she screamed again and again, but nothing helped. Not the kicking, nor did any kind of rejections, tears, and screams. In a matter of what seemed to Maggie as eternal minutes, she was out in the cold of that autumn night. She was placed on a wagon full of hay, and her baby was returned to her. The duke stood at the front of the castle, at the high wooden gate. He was watching her, his look full of sorrow. John… , she whispered as the wood wagon started to move and waddled down the road, taking her away from his body but never from his heart. He loved her; Maggie never questioned that. Yes, that was a tear slipping down his eye, a tear of grief of what he didn’t want to do, the thing that hurt him, them . . .

I never thought you would do it, said Kathrin, standing behind him.

It was for our own good, Kathrin, for the good of our family. He didn’t look at her. He despised the coldness staring back at him from her cool blue eyes—so lifeless were those beautiful eyes of hers, so beautiful and so poisonous.

Yes, she agreed coldly. However, you never asked me to rid of my bastard—

Enough, Kathrin, for the boy’s sake, we agreed never to discuss it, didn’t we? He looked into her expressionless eyes; she stared right back without a flick.

I’m surprised all the same.

Maybe you should consider that I am merciful and you are not, he said in a very harsh tone and walked by her. Leave me alone. He went to his study room.

Up above on the balcony of the second floor, behind the rock-framed narrow windows, were four young heads watching the maid and her daughter vanish into the night, Marianne and Mary stood in one window while John Jr. and little Henry stood in the next.

Look at them, said Marianne with a slight hint of mockery in her tone, and all for love… She giggled coolly and left, Mary following her like a fox’s tail.

Why does Father love Maggie? asked little Henry, only three springs old. Is it because of the girl?

Henry, said John in a mature tone, the most a seven-year-old could use. Father says boys like girls. That’s the way it is.

So why doesn’t he like Mother?

Who said he didn’t?

If he did, he wouldn’t look at her like he doesn’t.

Adults, said John with a sigh, we’ll never understand them . . .

The wagon drove fast. Maggie lay on her side, staring at the complete darkness of the night; her child lay still in her arms. The wagon entered a small village and stopped. Maggie sat and looked at the quiet and sleepy village. Get off, ordered the driver. Maggie obeyed; weak and powerless, she came down with her baby, carrying her gently. Maggie still felt very weak and could scarcely keep her eyes open. All she wanted was a warm bed to rest in with her child, but instead, she was standing in a village, in the cold of the night, surrounded by darkness, with no means of sheltering and protecting herself and her child.

Don’t ya try camin’ back to Agammar castle, warned the old Irish driver. If you do, you and yer infant will be killed with no hesitation. And with that, his horse returned their tracks back to the castle.

What will I do now? asked Maggie, as if to herself. Lightning hit the skies above, thunder followed with a huge roar, and drops of cool, soft rain came down. Maggie ran through the empty streets and darkened houses, looking for a shelter, covering her child with the bit of clothes she had. She reached three stone steps which led to a tall stone building with two wooden doors decorated with the symbol of the church, the cross. Maggie tried to push the doors open, but her lack of strength and the lock on the door left her outside under a small wooden roof, protecting her from the rain. She knocked on the door, but no answer came. She looked at the small roof and at her sleepy child, and her heart made the most difficult decision a mother could make. She placed the small baby under the small wooden roof that protected her from the rain. God forgive me, my child, she whispered in a voice full of sorrow as she stepped down the stairs. Oh God, forgive me! she cried and ran in a storm of painful emotions into the rain and winds. The baby girl was left sleeping on the stone porch.

Morning came, and the rain stopped. The young Christian monk walked with quick steps toward the church; his brown long robes rustled with each step he took, his eyes always lowered to the ground. He climbed up the stone steps and unlocked the big wooden doors. He noticed the small thing lying quietly near the door and a small face looking at him; he entered the church and closed the door, and a second later, he opened the big door again and peeked out. The thing was a baby just born. If it weren’t for her wide-open big green eyes, he would have thought she was asleep or dead. He kneeled before her and threw a glance at the empty village in the morning before he picked the child up in his hands. At first she was a bit startled, but after a second, she began her natural dialect as an infant: crying. The monk hurried and took her behind the big wooden doors before anyone heard or saw . . .

The head priest of the village was an old man with long white hair and an even longer, whiter beard. His robes were brown and new; a cross swung down his neck to his belly belt as he walked in big and quick paces. His head was high and proud as he passed by the villagers, who greeted him with awe as he was the servant of God in their eyes. He entered the big stone church and left the big wooden doors open. He walked toward the stage in front of the holy statues and picked a long white piece of cloth and put it over his neck, preparing for the morning ceremony, when he heard sounds from the side room, a room meant for the preparation of the holy men for the ceremonies. He heard crying and whispering across the closed room. He opened the door fearlessly and found his pupil, back turned to the door as he leaned over the table. The minute he noticed his master was standing in the doorway, he immediately turned to face him, hiding his deeds behind his back.

What are you doing here, my boy? the priest asked.

Nothing, protested the young man I just—

What are you hiding there behind your back? asked the priest, and without waiting for a response, he walked toward the table.

It’s a… , the young monk began to explain, but the priest had already pushed him aside gently. Baby.

"Is this thing yours?!"

No, Your Honor.

What cursed deviled woman seduced you and left you with such a burden? He pointed a blaming finger at the helpless child.

There was no woman.

A man?! You dare commit the acts of Sodomy?! The clergyman’s voice echoed with his fury; the child that was chewing on a small piece of cloth now began to cry, frightened. What happened? asked the old priest as the young monk rushed to the small creature.

She’s hungry, said the monk and picked her up gently. She was just born. Someone left her by the stirs outside.

Another bastard… , the priest sighed and stared at the baby as if he was staring at the most unholy thing he had ever seen. It seems that every week another one is born. When they come to the house of God, they’re usually done suckling. Did you see the woman?

No, Your Eminence.

And I assume there’s no point in trying to find her. So what are you going to do now, my boy? The clergyman sat in a wooden chair, arranging his robes around him.

I’ll go to the mothers in the village, I guess.

You’re not planning to get married, are you, lad?

Of-of course not, Your Eminence.

Good. Now go and quiet that wretched thing. It’s giving me a headache.

Yes, Your Eminence. The young monk wrapped the baby in clean cloths and held her close to his body to warm her up and make her crying stop. After he left the church, the old clergyman sank deeper into the wooden chair and sighed.

The women of the village were more than thrilled to see the infant in the young monk’s arms as he asked them to feed the girl. The women passed the child around them for three moon cycles; they said that without the blessed help of the young monk, the child would have not survived at all, but at the end of three tiring months, she was full of life, thanks to his care and concern. Although he missed most of the ceremonies and his master’s lectures of bastards and their punishments, the monk was quite content with looking after an innocent, helpless child. But as time passed, he realized he couldn’t take care of her forever, and so he sought another home for her.

At first he thought of sending her to a monastery, but the nearest one refused to accept another orphaned bastard. So the monk waited till he could find a suitable house for the girl; even as a maid or a slave girl, she would have a good chance at life. It was a rainy day, one of the most blessed days of Ire. The young monk ran through the raindrops and found shelter under a shaky wood roof at the front of a stone house. In his dresses he hid the small baby that had grown so much in the past three months, hiding her from the rain. The monk gave her a glance of faith and security; she smiled and giggled a childish giggle.

The young man looked ahead, and through the raindrops, he saw a carriage, closed and hooded, protected from the pouring rain; a few men were loading a few wooden boxes. Someone’s leaving the village, thought the monk to himself.

A tall woman covered by a long dark cloak went out of the nearest stone house and entered the carriage, one of the men lend her his hand to help her step up. The monk thought quickly and ran toward the carriage as it started to move. It stopped an inch away from the young monk, who, for an instant, felt a fear of death over him. He approached the side of the closed carriage; a dark curtain was moved aside by a gloved hand, and a beautiful but sorrowful woman looked out the carriage window, her face expressionless. What? she asked in an angry tone, almost violently. You wish to make me stay here as well? My husband is dead. I have no desire to stay near his tomb . . .

I do not wish to stop you, said the young man. I know your husband’s deceased and that you have no children . . .

I’m no senile, friar. Go, she told the horseman sitting in front of the carriage.

Wait, my lady, the monk called desperately. The carriage stopped once more as he showed her the baby under his cloak. I’ve been taking care of her for three moons now.

Good for you, said the woman coldly.

I was hoping you would like to take her with you.

Absolutely not!

Please accept her as a gift from our Lord.

Go away!

You could sell her as a maid wherever you go. The carriage’s wheels had begun to move a moment ago, but now they stayed still.

Did you say ‘sell’? she asked, raising a brow.

Of course, he said surely. I’m sure the Lord’s deed will reward you with a few gold coins. He gave her a crooked smile.

I’ll take her, then, said the woman and roughly grabbed the child from his arms. A moment later, the carriage was moving and driving out of the village. The young monk stood under the rain for a long minute until he left the empty road with a lighter but somehow heavier heart . . .

The next morning was the first in three months the young monk rose for the morning prayers after a quiet night’s sleep. He walked to the big wooden doors of the church when suddenly a redheaded woman grabbed his robes and fell to his feet, crying hysterically. You must help me! she cried through tears of despair.

Calm down, my child, he said gently. What is it?

I must confess, she said as he helped her rise to her feet.

Here, my child. He led her into the tall church. What have you done that you seek our Lord’s forgiveness?

The woman looked at the monk with red eyes.

I have committed the foulest deed.

What have you done? he asked calmly. Have you murdered?

She nodded her head.

Stole? Again she nodded. Sinned with a man?

The tears renewed their streams on her pale face.

Yes. I have sinned with a man, she said in a whisper. You must understand I was but a maid in a British house. My name is Maggie McLachlan, and I became pregnant with child there. I left my child here, on the stone steps, and went to my family, a day’s travel from here, but I became ill from grief and the pain of birth. My child… She wept loudly.

Relax, child. He gave her a piece of cloth to wipe her nose and wipe her tears, which she did immediately. You said you left her by the stairs some time ago?

Yes. About three moons ago. She was only born, tell me she is well.

She is safe.

Ho! The Lord has taken her! I knew she would perish. My love . . .

The girl lives.

Will the Lord ever forgive me? I’ve murdered my own child! Where is she buried?

She’s not dead. I’ve sent her away.

No… my child… John… , she whispered weakly.

She’s safe. He held her shoulders in a gesture of support.

My daughter… , she whispered once more and then fell into a deep and silent darkness . . .

The widowed woman traveled all day in the rain and cold, through the cries of hunger and fright of the small infant in her lap. She now understood why she had never wanted her husband to get her to have children. So ugly and dirty, she kept saying in disgust. It’s always hungry. No wonder people are starving… She was glad when they reached a village on their way. Her late husband was a merchant and had told her of a few men who owed him money; one of them lived in a small stone house in the village they were now passing. The widow smiled for the first time since they had departed from her place of birth. The carriage stopped, and she stepped down, holding her skirts in one hand and the cuddled sleeping baby in her other. She walked gently to the door and knocked loudly.

The door opened a few seconds later. A tall, gray-haired drunken man leaned on the entry and could scarcely keep his eyes open.

Good evening, love, he grinned with crooked teeth. I fear I’m in no mood right now.

I’m not here or that, you fool.

He opened his eyes as widely as he could as he recognized her voice.

You’re his wife! he said, frightened and drunk. I remember! I have no money!

I’ll still collect your debt right now. He saw two big men standing near her carriage.

I said I have no money, wench!

There is no need to shout, she said calmly and smiled. I’ll collect only half your debt.

Oh, thank you, Lord!

Only if you take care of this child.

What?! He stared at the now wide-awake child, who gazed at him with her big green curious eyes. Not a chance!

Then I’ll take all the money now.

No, no, no! He took the baby in his arms and handed her five gold coins. There. No more debts, aye?

Aye. She left for the carriage. And take a bath. She entered the carriage, and as it drove away, the old half-drunken man sniffed his clothes.

Bah, he muttered and closed the door.

In the small stone house he placed the baby on a pile of hay covered with a piece of brown fur and looked at her; he found a small red curl on the top of her head and touched it gently. Hello, Red, he said. You’re goin’ to need a name, aye? He patted the red curl. Scarlet, he finally said. Aye, ‘Scarlet’ will do you just fine. The baby girl, now named Scarlet, lay sound asleep n her new house . . .

CHAPTER 2

Scarlet opened her eyes, a ray of light struck through the closed window of the small wooden house she lived in. Her fifth spring had passed, and she had become a small redheaded girl.

She sat on her small bed, which was nothing but a pile of straw; red messy locks of hair fell on her face, and she pulled them back in a messier pile on her head with a small, white, stained cloth.

After she had eaten a piece of moldy bread and made sure half of it was left for the old, mostly drunken man she lived with, she went down to the stream. He wasn’t her father; she knew that because he told her after a woman in the village called her a bastard witch. Scarlet didn’t quite understand the meaning of that insult, but she was clever enough to know that it wasn’t something people took lightly when she walked by them, seeing their hate-filled eyes. The stream crossed the village in a quick but quiet manner, much like Scarlet’s steps. She wore a brown, knee-high dress, the same one for three springs now, the sleeve could barely cover her elbows, and she wore a woolen shawl over her arms and shoulders to keep her warm in the morning chill. She kneeled by the water and put her hands in it, shivering as the water touched her hands and arms; she threw some water mercilessly on her face and rubbed her arms until they were red.

While she was bathing her hands, feet, and face, she saw a monk approach the waters. He was carrying a basket of laundry and was ten paces away when he noticed the redheaded girl sitting near the water. With a blush of redness on his face, he turned around and doubled himself back. Even though it seemed that she couldn’t care less, Scarlet actually held her tears. It wasn’t the first time the villagers avoided her.

She knew they hated her; she was the only child in the village that was feared and considered ill. Except for the reverend, no one looked after her well-being, and even he had his limits for taking care of her.

Hua! she exclaimed as she remembered there was mass this morning, and she had promised the reverend she would come.

She looked up at the brightening sky of the morning, at the position of the sun, which she had studied every day since she could remember. I still have time till the mass, she thought to herself and finished bathing quickly and carelessly; then she hurried to a big stone house where all the villagers were seen entering.

When she entered the cool building, she saw all the stone benches full and where there were a few empty seats, the people put a piece of cloth or shoved someone to the empty space as they saw her approaching. She gazed over to the front of the rows where the reverend stood in fine new white robes; he was looking at her and pointing at the empty seat in the front row. Scarlet moved toward the stone bench and sat down in the empty space in the center. All the villagers on that bench rose and stood next to the walls.

After the ceremony was over, people left the stone church empty; only Scarlet was left sitting at her emptied bench, her face sulking. The reverend, an elderly man with whitening hair, sat next to her, holding a dish of cold stew. Scarlet took the bowl and ate the stew hungrily without looking even once at the old man.

You didn’t participate at the ceremony, he said calmly.

Scarlet didn’t raise her head form the bowl of food she was digging into; with a mouth full of half-chewed food, she said, I don’t know it… She finished her stew and burped; the reverend handed her another small plate with a small piece of fish and some vegetables. She devoured them with great appetite.

Hungry? he asked rhetorically.

You would be too if you haven’t had a decent meal for three days, she said, finishing the last crumbs off the plate.

Life’s full of pain, my child, he said, and she lowered her face to her naked feet. No, he said in a kind. Never lower your face to look helpless as if you are different in your misery from others.

Why do people hate me? she asked as she looked at him, her eyes full of tears.

People around here are God’s men and women and have been raised on the faith of the holy one.

Then they should be good people, she said with a hint of bitterness.

They are.

No, they’re not!

Why do you think thus?

Because if they were good people, they wouldn’t have hated me and called me names . . .

They are all the subjects of Jesus. They, the word, echoed in her mind, no room for bastards as herself; her face darkened with hate and anger.

Then Jesus was a bad man, she said in her anger.

Don’t speak thus of holiness, child. Beware, you were born in sin, and your life will be sinful! You must be careful of what you say or think. He rose and stood in front of her. Those born from sin will live in sin. With that he left her on the stone bench.

That evening when Scarlet sat on her bed, staring at the small stone house they lived in, lighted by a small fire that kept them warm, she asked the old man she lived with a question that she had thought of since that morning. How are we born from sin?

He coughed.

What?! He was astonished and gave her a queer look.

The reverend, she explained. He said I was born in sin. How?

He can’t know that. No one knows who your parents are, even I don’t. He leaned back in his chair and drank from the wineskin in his hand. What is a sin? he asked after a short sigh.

A deed or speech that offends the holy values, she said, like murder or a lie.

I see the good father taught you more than nonsense. Well, to be born from sin is to be born from parents that weren’t properly married in the marriage ceremony of the church.

What is ‘marriage ceremony’?

It’s a ceremony that binds a man and woman so that they may be together by the laws of the church.

And how is it done?

Well… He scratched his head, trying to find the perfect way to answer. A man and a woman enter the church and, ahmmm, exchange vows.

She opened her mouth to ask more.

No! Ask me no more! I’ve got a headache.

Scarlet, being the smart child she was, understood it was best she asked no more. But she still wanted to know what a marriage ceremony was . . .

The next morning, the sun rose bright and warm—change from the stormy winter of Ire that had just passed. Scarlet bounced with bare feet in the pools of mud from the last winter rain, a game she enjoyed all by herself since she had no friends to play with. She was right outside the house of the drunken man she lived with. He came out of the small stone house and stretched his hands.

Where are you going? asked the redheaded girl as he started to walk into the village.

The market has come, he said still walking.

I’ll come with you.

No.

Why? I promise I’ll be good.

All right, he said with a sigh, and she picked up her pace to match his.

The market was a gathering of stands that purchased all sorts of things: foods, weapons, fabrics, and pottery. Scarlet lost the man she had come with as she was fascinated by the sight of the market in her village. People walked round and exchanged what they needed for silver coins. Then her eye caught a gathering of children playing with sticks on the ground near the stands.

You moved! called one of them.

Did not! yelled another boy, sitting in the center, playing with the wooden sticks on the ground.

Did too! called a black-haired girl. It’s my turn now!

I want to play too, said Scarlet, standing outside the circle of children. They all heard her but ignored her presence and continued to play. Scarlet’s heart sank, and she came closer to the group. I want to play too, she repeated desperately. The circle opened and a tall, yellow-haired boy came to her. He looked down at her small body, expecting her to fear his size, but Scarlet knew no fear.

I want to play too… , he mimicked her, and the group of children burst into laughter. Why don’t ya go home, ya little bastard?

Ya, bastard, the others called. Scarlet could feel the blush burn her cheeks and her neck, at first from embarrassment, but then it grew to a raging anger.

Go home! called the yellow-headed boy and gave her a slight push that sent her off-balance. She quickly recovered and ran into his belly, knocking him down into the mud. The children laughed again, entertained from the show. They helped the boy up from the mud; his eyes held a great fury as he looked down at the fearless redheaded girl standing proud and strong. He turned around to leave, and just as Scarlet felt relieved, he turned back at her and shoved her so hard that she flew into a stand of fruit. The wood broke under her, and the merchandise rolled all around as a woman screamed near her.

Bastard!

Thief!

Laughter.

She saw fruit rolling between the legs of the villagers that crowded around her. Scarlet was on both feet and hands, ashamed to look up. She wanted to run away from there, wanted someone to take her away from there.

The merchant whose stand she broke was furious; his fat, bearded face was red with anger. Stupid thieving child! he exclaimed behind her.

Scarlet’s heart thumped within her. She leaped to run away, but he quickly seized the back of her neck and pulled her up till she was on her tiptoes. She still struggled. Whose child is this? he called gratingly. Scarlet wanted to cry from panic and pain of the big hand on the back of her neck. I didn’t mean to do this! She wanted to call out, protest her