Marie paused at that thought. She had not known her mother, who had died giving birth to her and her brother, Michel, in 1477. She wondered at the odd thought, why had she thought of her for no apparent reason, she certainly did not remember her. She did know that her father said she resembled her mother more than either of her sisters, well with the exception of her height. She realized that both her father and her grandfather doted on her for that reason, and she often wished she had known her mother.

She shook her head, trying to clear it, and realized Sir Bastien was waiting for her answer. “I’m not sure, Tonton,” using the nickname she had always had for him, “I have had disturbing feelings, well I actually can’t describe what is disturbing, but it is sort of an iciness that has reached my heart. It is as cold as the deep barrows of Châlons.”

“How long have you had these feelings, Marie?” asked Sir Bastien, suddenly seeming far more serious than he ever had. It was almost as if he had grabbed and shaken though he had not moved, it was only his voice that startled her. He had never used that tone with her before, or even in her presence, but is focused her thoughts as she struggled to form her words.

“This morning I believe. This morning I woke to that,” she paused, trying to choose the most appropriate word, “that inescapable chill. I believed at the time that it was the weather, but neither clothing nor the fire warmed me.”

“Lady Marie, I would like you to go to the great room, I have to some things to attend to, and I feel that you need fellowship, and no other place is as attended as the great room.” Marie considered this and turned to comply. Sir Bastion accompanied her down the stairs, to the ground below. As she turned into the entrance of the Keep, Sir Bastien turned toward the gatehouse.

Marie entered the keep, and made her way to the great hall. She was the last of her sisters unwed, and as such, the lady of the keep, a duty she preferred not to have, but nonetheless one she performed well. As she entered the great hall, there was a rustle as several men stood to allow her entrance. She noted the numbers, and wondered again at the vulnerability of the castle. She was only a lady, and was not supposed to understand tactics and strategy, but she was not a typical lady.

She had been the youngest of her siblings, born hours after her twin brother. Actually, due to the length and difficulty of her mother’s labour, she had born on Lily Day, a day after her brother. The labour proved to be ultimately fatal, as Marise had died on the first day of Plough-Tide. Because of the death of their mother at birth, she and Michel had been inseparable, discussing all manner of things as they grew together.

She shook herself again, chasing off the dark iciness in her soul. The ten men who had stood were looking at her. Regaining her composure, she crossed the stone floor to the fire, and sat down in a comfortable chair among the several ladies present. She listened absently as they continued their gossip, her mind working on several levels. The fire dredged up more memories.