Mark My Footsteps

Forth they went together

Wen leaned on the windowsill, gazing out into the frosty evening. Silvery moonlight cast shadows across the deep drifts of snow that covered the fields and buildings like a thick quilt and bowed the branches of the trees outside the castle walls. Behind him, a fire crackled in the hearth, while the frigid winter air bit at his nose and cheeks. The contrast between the nearly stifling heat at his back and the biting cold at his front was invigorating.

A movement among the trees to the east caught Wen’s eye, and he leaned forward, watching the slow progress of a dark figure that wound back and forth through the trees, stopping often to bend and dig at the deep snow. As his eyes adjusted, and the figure came nearer to the castle walls, Wen realized it was a person clad in ragged homespun collecting fallen branches.

“Angus!” Wen called over his shoulder.

“Yes, sire?” There was no deference in the page’s tone despite the honorific. Angus saw little point in pretense when they were alone.

“Come hither.” Wen pointed out the window as Angus came to lean over his shoulder. “Yonder peasant: who is he?”

Angus rested a hand on Wen’s shoulder and leaned further out, then recoiled. “Damn! It’s curséd cold out!”

Wen sighed. “Yes, it is. Well? Can you tell me who that is and where his dwelling?”

“Of course. I’m offended you doubt me.” Angus placed a hand over his heart in mock outrage. “He lives a good league east of here by Saint Agnes’ Fountain.”

Wen looked back out into the night. The peasant had filled his arms with wood, and was now trudging through the snow in the direction Angus had indicated. “Right then.” Wen stood and turned purposely toward the door. “Have food and wine brought. We will see him dine tonight.”

“Of course, sire.” Angus followed Wen out the door, easily matching the king’s quick stride. “Shall I call for a messenger, or will you be haring off into the frigid night yourself?”

Ignoring the clear disapproval in his page’s tone, Wen replied, “I cannot ask more of others than I am willing to do myself.”

“Of course, sire,” Angus repeated, disapproval drenching his words. “I will have the food and wine brought directly.” He turned away toward the kitchens while Wen took the main staircase to the entrance hall.

***

Angus, bundled in multiple layers of coats and scarves, met Wen at the front doors. Slung over Angus’ shoulder, a haversack completed the look. A serving girl from the kitchen followed Angus, her arms loaded with firewood.

“Ah, wonderful!” Wen took the wood from the girl, who curtseyed and quickly headed back to the warm kitchen. Wen turned a frown on Angus. “You do not have to accompany me.”

Angus raised an impudent eyebrow. “You are not going alone, sire.”

Wen found himself smiling, as he often did at Angus’ words. “I suppose I am not.”

“Very good, sire.” Angus pushed the heavy wooden door open, and marched out into the cold with his head held high.

Wen followed him out into the bitter cold, hunching his shoulders up around his ears.

***

Wen strode through the drifted snow, head held high. Beside him, Angus stubbornly struggled to keep pace, head bent grudgingly against the wind’s wild lament. The night grew darker around them, the wind stronger. The moon was veiled by clouds, but Wen could yet see that they were nearly there.

Angus slipped, stumbled, and nearly fell. Wen caught his arm and pulled him close, blocking the bulk of the wind with his larger body. He bent to put his lips to Angus’ ear. “Mark my footsteps, my dear heart, and I shall guard you from the winter’s rage.”

Angus shivered and nodded, and Wen guided him to grip the belt at the small of Wen’s back. And forth they went together, Angus treading in Wen’s footprints. And the cold could not reach them for their blood had always run hot whenever they did touch.