17) Apple

The Mare appeared just before dawn, a sturdy riding horse in the morning twilight. Grahme picked Bronwyn up by the waist and set her astride, settling the deep red folds of her cloak warmly around her and making sure that the pack containing pouch and flask and knife was securely tied to the simple saddle the Mare chose to wear that morning. There was no bit or bridle, but the creature seemed confident in her knowledge of their errand and the path they were to take.

"Behave for your father, girls, and remember that he's a giant, and therefore just a bit frightening." They giggled and he bent slightly and kissed her cheek. "C'malong, Robbie," she called, and the dog materialized out of the morning mists, followed by a great bear and her cubs.

Bronwyn waved farewell to all, turning once to look back and see them all waving in return. A scarlet bird flitted ahead of them as they wended their way down the mountain trail, and past the village, and through a town or three. The witch paused at the crossroads that might take her to the castle where once she was queen, but turned and took the southern road, deep into the woods.

Three days they rode out at first light and stopped late in the afternoon. Three nights Bronwyn dreamed of her giant, and her daughters, and older memories, of darkness and violence and blood. She had little notion of how she would stop the wolf eye'd woman, or what plots she would have to unravel.

The trees grew tall and thick, wider around than her giant, darker than her memories. Moss grew on most things, and deer walked calmly through the scant underbrush. The road became a track, then a rutted trail where carts had passed less often than not. Finally, Bronwyn heard the singing. She slid down from the Mare, who obligingly was not as tall as she had been that morning.

The woman gathered flowers in one of the sudden forest clearings where light broke through the canopy and touched the ground. Bees and butterflies followed her and the blossoms she carried, and birdsong hung in the air in counterpoint to the woman’s singing. Janette had grown tall, and her skin was milk white except for the faint flush of exertion from her walk. Bronwyn remembered the girl who had spent hours with cosmetics, vainly trying to achieve the same results. Ruby lips and raven hair were much like her father's, but now her smile was bright and genuine as she sang. She stopped, startled, when she saw Bronwyn.

The witch limped forward from the shadows of the forest, pushing back her hood. Her own hair spilled free, midnight masses punctuated by the streak of stark white at her crown and temple. Janette stared for a moment, as recognition dawned. "Stepmother?"

"Yes, child, I am that," Bronwyn shifted uncertainly, not knowing how she would be received.

The princess rushed forward and swept the witch into a tight embrace. She was taller than the older woman, and her frame was strong and slim. "I'd hoped you'd come! So much has happened - I think you would be pleased." Stepping back, she was suddenly shy. "Won't you come home with me for supper?"

"Why, I suppose I could do that, yes." Bronwyn hitched her pack up over her shoulder; the Mare had disappeared altogether into the darkness of the woods.

They walked the path together to the Deep Woods Monastery. "Abbot Tirce passed away in the spring, so there are only seven brothers now. They can't seem to decide who will succeed him as Abbot, and can't be brought away from their writing and transcribing and research long enough to choose his successor. Perhaps you could help with that." She chattered happily about life at the old chapterhouse, and her election as Cellarer.

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"Have you taken vows, then?" Bronwyn asked.

"No, but I suspect they have forgotten that." Janette grinned suddenly. "I suspect that they frequently forget that I'm not one of the Brothers, too."

"Then they are remarkable in their dedication to their duties," Bronwyn spoke wryly; her stepdaughter was very obviously not a man. "So you are treated well?"

"Yes, your Grace, and I've treated them well, also."

"Janette, please call me Bronwyn, or you may call me stepmother, but I've no room for titles these days.”

Janette smiled, "Yes, Stepmother." As they passed slowly through a patch of sunlight Bronwyn noticed a thread or two of silver in her raven hair.

"Have you have many visitors? Suitors, or a sweetheart?" Bronwyn asked cautiously.

"We're a bit out of the way. I have a guardsman, Dale, who came with me from the Palace. He and his wife Rebeka live with their children in a cottage just outside the cloister walls. Otherwise, there's a tinker who comes to visit, and a woodsman brings us firewood in the fall and in the spring, and a provisions cart from the capital from time to time." She thought for a moment. "No suitors among them, though the Lord Regent visits each year on my birthday."

"Would you be open to an offer, should one be brought to you?" Bronwyn thought that perhaps the whole thing might be settled quickly, except for the threat of the old woman.

"I'd not given it much thought," Janette lied, blushing and looking down. Bronwyn smiled and continued on in silence, limping on her twisted ankle.

They were greeted as the Deep Woods Monastery came into view by a tremendous brood of children, six boys between five and ten years old, and a girl of perhaps eleven. Bronwyn staggered as another thread of fate pulled through her chest, and Janette took her arm, steadying her.

"Give us some room, children. Stepmother, this is Jaq and Jute, Tristin and Trustan, Jarmin and Jarvis and their sister Lisbet. They are Dale and Rebeka’s brood, and they are all very brave and loyal." They chattered, excited, and swarmed around the women as they escorted them down the road.

A tidy house, somewhat larger than a cottage, nestled against the cloister wall. A woman came to the door, a spindle in one hand and a bundle of fiber in the other. "Miss Janette, who is our visitor?" she asked cheerfully, though there was a certain wariness in the way her blue eyes looked Bronwyn over.

"Rebeka, this is Bronwyn, my stepmother," Janette said simply. The spinner startled and dropped her spindle and flax, warily stepping out to greet them.

"Your Highness, it is a great honor to see you again," she said, curtseying. Bronwyn closed the last distance and hugged her former maid tightly.

"It is wonderful to see you here, and with such a wealth of riches."

Rebeka laughed. "A girl and three sets of twin boys - that's quite enough riches for any grand lady, I'm sure." She surveyed her brood shrewdly. "And I suspect they have not all finished their chores," she added, and they scattered with a jabber of protest and exuberance, except for Lisbet, who curtseyed and made her way to the small cow shed built onto the side of the house. "All of our joy is doubled here. Even the cow has twins each spring."

"A great blessing, I'm certain, with so many mouths."

"We are very blessed. Dale is away for the day, but will return at nightfall. I'm sure Janette has much to show you." Rebeka hugged Bronwyn tightly again and turned to pick up her spindle again.

"Rebeka -" the former palace maid looked up at the former queen's troubled tone. "Beware strangers."

"Always, my lady. Always." There was a shadow behind her smile, and an old pain, unvoiced.