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She heard her father’s voice, crisp and clear in storytelling, when she approached her parents’ cottage. She opened the door slowly so as not to disturb, and entered. Her father sat not far from the hearth, a small group of children circling him. His dramatic voice would grow in pitch and their eyes would widen, then narrow as his voice softened.
He acknowledged her with a brief nod and continued telling his tale. Her mother rose from the chair next to the hearth and walked over to her and took her hand.
“I am glad you have come to visit.” Whispering was not necessary; her tone was already gentle. “Come. We will sit where we will not disturb anyone.”
Reena moved her mother’s chair from the hearth to the corner of the room beside another chair. A small table with a lone candle sat between the chairs and provided a faint light. Reena removed her cloak, as the room was comfortably warm.
“I am sorry I have neglected you and father,” Reena said, feeling guilty that she had not spent enough time with her parents of late.
“Nonsense,” her mother said. “You have important work to do for Lord Dunhurnal. Everyone in the village talks of your importance and your skills. Your service to him is greatly respected.”
She needed no praise nor wanted it. “I am who I have always been.”
Her mother patted Reena’s hand, which rested in her lap. “The villagers need their gossip, and what better gossip than their own hero. They are proud of you and rightfully so. Let them talk”—her mother stopped abruptly and smiled—“and make you a legend.”
Reena laughed quietly. “There is only one legend.”
“Aye, and he earned the title.” Her mother shivered.
“What tales have you heard?”
“Not tales, the truth.”
“How do you know it is the truth?” Reena asked. “If tongues wag in gossip about me, then most certainly they wag about the Legend.”
Her mother easily switched to French so that if anyone overheard them, they would not understand their conversation. “This is not gossip, it is hushed words whispered in awe and respect, and I think fear.”
Reena was quick to defend the Legend. “Magnus is a good man.”
“Aye, all agree he is a good man—to us. His enemies, or those to whom he poses a threat, are a different matter.”
“As is the way with most warriors.”
“He is not like most warriors,” her mother said. “He is the Legend—”
“And legends are often created by wagging tongues.”
Her mother did not agree. “Legends are made by deeds done, and not always good deeds. Kate, the cook, and her helper Maura tell Justin many tales about the Legend, but it is different tales he hears from the men who come and seek his tanner skills. He shares the tales with your father in whispered voices, though they think me asleep.”
“And your hearing is good,” Reena said with a laugh.
“When you listen, you learn,” her mother reminded her.
“What did you learn?”
Her mother leaned closer. “Villagers desert their homes when they hear the Legend is near, men beg at his feet to spare their lives, he tortures without provocation and lives hold no meaning to him, whether man, woman or child.”
“That is pure nonsense,” Reena said, her voice harsh. “Look at what he has done for our village.”
“His village,” her mother corrected. “And glad I am to be part of it, for his reputation alone protects us and keeps us safe, and besides—” Her mother sighed. “I feel sorry for him. He must make decisions that affect many lives, and in the end someone will suffer. That is the way of battle and war. And I see that he cares for what is his and does what he must to protect; it cannot be easy for him.”
“Yet you sound as though you also fear him.”
“I would be a fool not to. The villagers speak of your return to the village with him. He was a fearful sight sitting astride that huge black beast of a horse, his face concealed by his helmet and his garments all black.” Her mother shivered at the memory. “I do not care to see him in that helmet; he intimidates.”
“He is the Legend.”
“Aye,” her mother readily agreed. “Without it he is Magnus, lord of Dunhurnal, a fair and protective lord.”
