Prologue

     The battle was hot, but the tent hidden on top of the heavily forested rise was hotter. Sasdefain grunted in pain, knowing full well  that her cries would arouse suspicion and attract unwanted company up the hillside. The young attendant and healer slipped a wadded rag into her mouth. Sasdefain immediately took to it and bit down hard, driving all the cries and profanities that could not escape her lips into the muffled barrier of the gag. The healer moved quickly and deliberately, daring not show the tension that was growing behind her eyes. Retrieving yet another warn out bit of cloth and basin of warm water, the healer washed the blood a way. "Soon, my lady," she said soothingly, "there is just a short time left, before it is finished."
      Outside, the battle could be heard easily from the bluff. Metal upon metal, screams of horses and men alike, battles cries of ferocity, the dull thud of shield on bone and flesh filled the summer's night air. Enemy lines were advancing, much more swiftly than Sir Lancot* and his men could have imagined  them to. They were gaining ground up the hill; closer and closer to the tent of Sir Lancot and his lady. Too close for anyone to be comfortable. Especially under these circumstances. Her ladyship had refused to stay at home while the men fought, insisting that she must be with Sir Lancot wherever he went (not realizing what changes in her body were doing to her sense of judgment).
     In the tent, the young healer was becoming increasingly alarmed by the situation. Lady Sasdefain was in no way to travel, let alone flee for dear life; too weak, without repair. Sasdefain groaned, sweat beading her flushed, caramel forehead, her long dark hair laying loose from movement. She drew in one long hard breath and screamed her pain into the gag, straining as hard as she could. Suddenly another cry joined the night's chorus, the fruit of her laboring. Sasdefain removed the gag from her mouth and lay back panting. Another attendant stepped in with a document and a quill and ink. "A girl.... ," she said softly. Extending the quill and ink, she said,"She needs a name." The lady, exhausted and relieved, took up the quill that was offered. She began slowly etching a name on the paper, with one mark. She was on the second later when they came. Whisking them away to safety. Or so they thought. The ranks had been broken, everyone was fleeing for their lives. Mother and newborn child were seperated and with the child went the document with the unfinished name.


*Sir Lancot (Lan-Sot)