My name is Sheila Davidson.  Welcome to my website.

In the spring of 2003 I had a dream and after I recorded it on my computer I kept on writing and an entire novel resulted!

Hear Heaven is an inspirational romance set in a fictional village in medieval times. It was published by Vineyard International Publishing in May 2005. A sequel, Heaven's Tears , was published in November of 2006.

Only once in his lifetime did Isgoré Armaddi abandon his God. And it nearly cost him everything.
   

Hear Heaven is set in the 12th century. Braydon Manor has been enjoying peace for many years when a great evil descends in the person of Kora Rae Doxler. As the landlord falls beneath her spell the manor suffers dark days indeed.
   

Over time the scars of the near-disaster heal, except for those that mark Isgoré’s heart. Will he ever recover from the time when he refused to ‘hear Heaven’?

See sample chapter below.

Heaven’s Tears welcomes you back to Braydon Village and life in the 12th century. The story follows Peter and Eryc Duggan, twin brothers who approach life quite differently, as they pass from the days of youth to the ways of men.

Peter, the adventurer, loses his heart to the mysterious Arabella, a dark-eyed beauty who possesses a gift that she neither understands nor wants.
   

Eryc, the future steward of Braydon Manor, is devoted to the landlord’s fair niece, Stella, though having no illusions about the wall that forever divides them; the difference in their social standing.

See sample chapter below.

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News Flash:

A third volume, Heaven Knows, has arrived and may be ordered through my STORE page. See sample chapter below.

See Review by Donna Dawson:  http://www.authordonnadawson.com/bookreviews.htm

And:

A CD of my original songs of worship and prayer, titled Heart of the Heavens, will be released in October. I'll post the launch date and location soon.

Heaven Knows, the third volume in the Braydon Manor series, returns the reader to the 12th century and tells the tale of Ida, a young woman who arrives in Braydon Village after  a violent wind storm destroys her home.

The welcoming reception of the Bosh family does much to heal the hurts of Ida’s losses, but even as she is finding peace, Finton Davidge grows more and more disturbed by her presence. Lovable friends weave in and out of the story as Ida does her best to avoid Finton and Finton struggles to quell his growing curiosity concerning Ida.

See sample chapter below.

HEAR HEAVEN by Sheila Davidson Chapter 1 - Isgoré It was well into the evening when the men and women gathered their tools and marched from the fields, a satisfied silence accompanying them on the way to their home. Ahead of the harvesters lay Braydon Village, a burg of about 350 dwellings, the only world that most of its inhabitants would ever know. Rising like a giant sentinel, Braydon Castle stood watching over the village, its back toward the East Sea. Built of white stone, on a rainy day it glowed softly but in the light of the setting sun it glistened like a brilliant jewel. A great wall of dark stone wrapped around the castle and its outbuildings and continued down the hillside to encircle two thirds of the cottages. Lush golden and green fields surrounded the outlying crofts. A few of the laborers were on horseback and one of these riders was a hard-working young man named Isgoré Armaddi. He was a tall, well-built youth with a head of curly, sand-colored hair. The quality of his clothing and his mount set him apart from his companions for he was, in fact, the son of the landlord and stood to become very influential in his part of the world. In his late teens he would inherit his family’s estate, Braydon Manor, along with its village of 1,000 souls. But even at 17 the manor’s dependents and the land were well served by his youthful vigor and his strength of character. Isgoré was deeply committed to his home. The landlord’s son also held a particular status with the faithfuls, the followers of the one true God. There was a legend among them that he had had a visit by a heavenly messenger who had given him a miraculous gift, the power to reduce his age. Like his family, Isgoré was a devout follower of God. In his youth he had given himself to extended seasons of prayer and fasting. In the spring of his 13th year, on the second day of a fast, he was alone in the manor chapel, kneeling before the altar where, apart from sleep and chores, he had been spending his time. As he was praying on this day he had an encounter with a heavenly being who stood beside him, directed him to get up from his knees, and presented him with the miraculous gift. This wonder told Isgoré that at any time in the future he had the power to reduce his age by any increment he chose, not exceeding half of his age at the time. Once this information was imparted, the messenger had stood silently, as though waiting for the boy to speak, but although Isgoré managed to remain standing, he could not formulate any response. After a time the visitor began to answer questions, just as though the boy had asked them, when in fact he had not. And as it turned out these were the answers that he would need later in his life. In some wonderful way Isgoré would be reminded of these words and would have much cause for thanksgiving because of them. The youth was told that this treasure was being entrusted to him in light of his devotion to the one true God and for the purposes of heaven and the benefit of Braydon’s people. He was free to use it as he wished, but there was also a specific purpose for the gift and he would be made aware of that at the proper time. The message was delivered wrapped in a rich sense of God’s love for him, an assurance that helped to assuage the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. Once the heavenly visitor had gone, Isgoré sank back down to his knees in silent wonder. He stared unseeing at the stone flooring for a long time before he was able to focus his mind on what had just taken place. Thankfully his heart continued to beat of its own accord, his lungs to rise and fall, for being as overcome as he was, he would have forgotten to breathe. So this was something of what the mystics wrote and sang; this was how it could be that a messenger of God met with a mortal to transact heaven’s business. Isgoré wondered at the appearance of the being and realized that it had not been all that clear. The visitor’s lips had never moved but this had in no way hindered his words from sounding clearly in Isgoré’s mind. Or were the words spoken to my heart? The messenger had stood motionless, except when he had gestured for Isgoré to rise, and at the close of the exchange when he had placed his hand on the boy’s right shoulder while assuring the young man that his God was pleased with him, that this would not be a burden to fear, and that he would have much reason to rejoice when the day of God’s calling for the gift arrived. For many days following this encounter Isgoré had been aware of the sensation of the heavenly hand on his shoulder. As he returned again and again to his place before the chapel altar he wondered if the visitor was still nearby. Over time, though, he realized that the being had come only once and that the comforting presence he felt thereafter was the same sweetness that had always come when he prayed, the abiding assurance of the presence of his God. # The rhythm of Isgoré’s life had returned to normal. He was the only son of the landlord of Braydon Manor. Because his father, Edron, had committed his life to missionary journeys throughout his twenties and thirties he was well into his forties before he had returned home to take a wife and settle at Braydon. Edron was 49 years old when his son had been born. At a young age Isgoré spent his days with his father, learning all aspects of running a large estate:  how to deal with staff, tenants and merchants, to oversee building construction and maintenance, and the breeding and care of livestock, to supervise the farming and marketing of produce, an endless list of tasks. As landlord of Braydon, Edron also presided over legal matters by way of weekly hearings in the castle’s audience room. His son accompanied him at these as well. Braydon Castle had been home to a number of generations of Armaddis. Early in the manor’s history the raising and selling of donkeys had been a significant source of income. These had served the surrounding farms and had provided pack animals for the explorers who had come from the coast on their way over the nearby Palattio Mountains with an eye to finding riches on the other side. The neighbors had affectionately called the estate Braydon and the name had stuck. The donkeys were long gone, as were dreams of riches on the other side of the mountains, when Edron and Isgoré were laboring together to maintain the vast holdings that their ancestors had built up in and around Braydon Manor. Theirs was a close, companionable relationship bound by their devotion to the one true God and their love and respect for the land. Edron had much to teach, Isgoré much to learn, but already the workings of the younger man’s mind were shedding new light onto old methods. Isgoré was a great delight to his father and would serve the estate well in the years to come. Four years after Isgoré’s encounter with the heavenly being his brother, Ardon, was born as his mother passed into eternity. At 66, Edron was handed an infant son and widowhood and it appeared to be too costly an exchange; he slipped into a world of his own. While still able to perform many tasks around the manor, he became more of a farmhand than a landlord. And Isgoré, at 17, took on the raising of Ardon and the running of the estate. As he labored from dawn to dusk, he drew strength from the memory of the vision’s hand resting on his shoulder. And on those occasions when he cried out in exhausted grief, he would sense the comforting weight and warmth of that heavenly caress. Many times he relied heavily on that assurance.

Heaven Knows - Sneak Preview Chapter 1 - The Storm Ida had been so careful about remembering her given name. For years she had cradled it deep inside, moving to its rhythm as she recited it to herself, speaking it out loud when she was alone, smiling over the happy past when she had gone by her own name. And now all was lost; her name, her childhood and much of her memory. As the young woman made her way along the uneven trail, the last vestiges of a violent windstorm slapped at her, their attempts at stealing away her tattered clothing weakening. That same storm had flattened her village, killed many of its inhabitants, and scattered the survivors. The forest was a jumble of fallen trees, darkened still by overcast skies, empty of anything that breathed. Ida walked alone, having turned away purposely from the shadowy figures that were heading in the direction of her village’s nearer neighbors. In the eerie aftermath of nature’s rampage, she moved downriver, having no reason to proceed and no reason to turn back. Her home was gone, her village was gone, her childhood memories were gone, but the only loss that plucked at Ida’s heart, assaulting it with prickling pain, was the loss of her name. She bobbed her head to the beat of her steps in an effort to retrieve the memory, but the only scene that replayed in her mind’s eye was of the day that Goram had tattooed his choice of name for her onto the tender flesh of her inner forearm–I-D-A. He was my husband. This thought astounded her as she looked down and examined the limb swinging at her side. The angry pattern seared by the poker had healed long ago, leaving its message in shiny, ribbed scarring on her skin. Ida could recall the fury burning in Goram’s eyes, feel it still in her bones where he had pinned her to the ground with his knees and wrenched her into submission with his hands. His menacing voice seemed to sound yet in the keening of the wind, but the young woman was unable to snatch back the name she had been given at birth, the name Goram had stolen from her. Ida tipped her head to the side, shaking off the memory of his assault, sending it to join the rest of the confusion that fluttered in her mind. Ida had been walking for two days, stumbling along the bank of the River Drawn. In the cold hours of the night she had fallen into a dreamless sleep, feeling neither the pain nor chills that wracked her flesh. Thankfully, as she neared the final steps of her trek, the land tipped downward to the place where the Drawn poured into the East Sea. Braydon Village lay directly in her path. # The wild spring storm was like nothing in living memory. It began as a gentle and welcome rain high in the Palattio Mountains, slipped down onto the thirsty Ivory Plains, and began to gather unnatural speed and strength as it swept northward. The old growth of Braydon Forest tried to make a stand against the rush of it, but only served to hide its ferocity so that when the weather broke free of the woods to burst across the River Drawn, the people of Ida’s village were taken by surprise, gray skies having been their only warning. The sudden arrival of cutting rain driven by a bullying wind brought terror to every heart. Chelsea-on-Drawn was a small village, a collection of cottages lined up on the north bank of the River Drawn, at the place where the river widened for a few miles before its last run for the East Sea. Usually somewhat unsettled when swollen by the spring runoff from the mountain snow, the river water was tormented by the storm’s fierce winds that chased it over the banks to lash out time and again, slapping and clawing at anything it could reach. After the initial shock, the villagers put up a valiant effort to protect their homes and belongings, but by the second day the battering storm had narrowed everyone’s attention to a single focus:  staying alive. Lashing themselves to stout tree trunks, men, women and children cried and struggled against the screaming, tormenting wind until at last they had no energy left. As the hint of daylight awakened the third day, what was left of Chelsea-on-Drawn was a wretched sight indeed. But for a few bits of stonework marking a foundation or a fireplace, all the cottages were gone. The land was swept clean of any evidence of habitation. All livestock were gone, some having run away ahead of the storm, the rest having been destroyed by its murderous power. The weak, cold light of morning crept across the ground where the village had been, exposing broken and uprooted trees strewn and tangled in a wild array, the earth stripped and rearranged into something unrecognizable. The pitiful daylight failed to rouse all of the figures slumped against the trees; only a little better than half of Chelsea’s population had survived the night. Too shocked and tired to register any emotion, the living freed themselves from their bonds, laid the deceased out flat on the ground, gently closed unseeing eyes, and walked away in silence. They headed toward the west and the north, where the nearest villages lay, in hopes the storm had not obliterated those also. Ida alone turned east and walked unnoticed along the riverbank toward the walled berg of Braydon. Two days later, late in the morning, she stumbled into the heart of the village where she finally came to rest in a heap in front of The Bent Elbow. And just before her eyes closed for what she hoped was the last time, she caught a wavering glimpse of mountains and a stream, a magnificent display of color and light. Ah, heaven at last. She sighed in relief, even as the hard-packed earth assaulted her as she fell.

Heaven’s Tears Chapter 1 – Sidney Sidney Ambrose Samuel Spelling sat on the floor of the cottage, hugging his knees to his chest. He stared at the bed where his mother lay. Having fluffed her pillow and tucked the inadequate blankets tightly around her, he could think of nothing else to do for her. Even what he had done seemed of little consequence. Mrs. Spelling had been dead since midday and the evening shadows were creeping across the dirt floor. Sidney was utterly alone in the world. Never a strong woman, Sidney’s mother had declined steadily over the past seven months, since the day his father’s lifeless body had been brought home from the forest. In a tragic accident, the tree he had been felling had crushed the life out of him. The eight-year-old boy had done what he could to care for his mother, but now that task had come to an end. As night settled over him, Sidney was filled with a dark numbness. He was unable to think what to do. Had he tried to move, he would have discovered that his body was cramped and stiff, locked in the position he had held for hours. As lamps were lit in the cottages of Braydon Village, Father Peter made his way along the lanes. When the Spelling croft came into view, he was alarmed to see that no welcoming light shone through its shutters. It looked empty, although the priest knew that there had to be at least one person at home. He increased his pace. Reaching the cottage, he rapped on the door. “Sidney, Mrs. Spelling, are you there?” Father Peter opened the door and walked in. He was met by a close silence. “Sidney, are you here, boy?” The priest could hear his own heart pounding but could detect no other sign of life. In the deepening dusk, he managed to light a lamp, then turned toward the bed. Mrs. Spelling appeared to be sleeping soundly. Or is she sleeping? Father Peter looked more closely at her face and realized that the slack set of her mouth marked the ultimate resignation. Mrs. Spelling had passed away. When could this have happened? Where is the boy? As the priest turned to leave in search of young Sidney, he discovered the lad crouched on the floor, head resting on his knees. The life appeared to have left the boy’s body as it had his mother’s. Setting down the lamp, the elderly man knelt before Sidney and placed his hands on too-thin arms. “Son, it’s me, Father Peter. I’m here now. I’ll take care of everything. Sidney?” An eerie stillness surrounded the silent figure. Father Peter could not remember ever sensing such utter despair in all the grim times he had faced over his long tenure as the priest of Braydon. He had to take Sidney away from this cottage, to a place of warmth and life. Frances Duggan came to mind. Father Peter knew that this was his God’s prompting. Frances was the daughter of Lial Hosford, a tanner. As a young woman, she had come to Braydon Castle as a milkmaid. In a matter of weeks, Frances had married Braydon Duggan, the castle steward, one of the most eligible bachelors in the village. He went by the name of Duggan. Father Peter had known Duggan and his family all his life. The priest had taught him and his two brothers to read and write, and instructed them in the holy writings of the one true God. Duggan’s parents had taken the priest in when Father Peter had chosen to relinquish his quarters at Braydon Castle to Duggan and Frances upon their marriage. Although Frances had borne three sets of twin boys, her kind heart always had room to care for another. She would provide a safe haven for this little orphan. “Sidney, I’m going to help you to stand.” The boy’s limbs were unyielding. “This may hurt, but you’re going to let go of your knees now. That’s it. And stretch them out, like that. That’s right, Sidney. Now I’ll take your arm, and we will get up together, all right?” Father Peter’s bones creaked as he struggled to raise himself and Sidney to a standing position. He caught the staggering boy, wrapped his arm across his shoulders, and placed Sidney’s arm around his waist. “There we go. I’ll leave this lamp burning for those who will come to tend to your mother. She’ll not be left alone in the dark.” Father Peter guided Sidney out into the lane and prayed that someone would come by with a wagon. The old priest and the small boy had shuffled past no more than a dozen dwellings when they heard the welcome sound of hoof beats, the accompanying rattle of a wagon. “Hey there, friend! It’s Father Peter. Would you be so kind as to give us a ride up to the castle?” “Certainly, Father. Climb aboard.” As the priest lifted Sidney onto the back of the open wagon, he noted how little the boy weighed, how bony he was. Oh God, please do not let this dear one waste away as his mother has. Give him the chance to grow up, to be strong and healthy and happy after all that he has endured. It took a number of attempts before the priest hoisted himself up beside the boy. The wagon carried them up the rise to the manor and Frances. # Duggan came down the stairs in answer to Father Peter’s knock. Seeing the condition the boy was in, Duggan scooped him up and gestured for the priest to precede them up the stairs to the rooms he and Frances shared, located over the gatehouse. The priest was heartened when he saw Frances standing in the golden glow of hearth and lamplight. Bless this home, God. “Frances, how are you this evening?” He reached out to take her hand. “Very well, Father. What has happened to the boy?” Frances watched with deep concern as her husband lowered Sidney onto a chair in the dining area. The little boy’s frame seemed too frail to hold him upright. Even his copper-colored hair appeared faded. “Frances, Duggan, this is Sidney Spelling, the woodcutter’s boy. He has been caring for his ailing mother since last fall when his father died in that dreadful accident in the woods. Today, I am sad to say, his mother passed on as well.” He shook his snowy head. “I found Sidney alone in the cottage. I was hoping that perhaps –” “This young fellow is going to be staying with us, isn’t he, Duggan?” “Yes, dear, of course he is.” Duggan smiled at his wife, knowing that hers was not a question at all. “We have plenty of room. He can have a bedchamber of his own or bunk with one of the lads.” Duggan rested his hand on the boy’s head for a brief moment. “Frances will take good care of you, boy.” The adults looked at one another, each aware that the little boy was in poor condition, sick at heart as well as in body. Frances fought back her tears and forced herself to speak lightly. “I shall put on the tea, and we can share some bread and jam before turning in. Would you like that, Sidney?” She neither expected nor received a response as she went to the stove to prepare the tea. Father Peter pulled up a chair beside Sidney’s and sat down, putting his arm around the frail shoulders. He turned to Duggan. “We can talk later about arrangements for Mrs. Spelling. Sidney has her all tucked up, comfortable in her bed.” He gave the slender shoulders a squeeze. “Such sadness close on the heels of the master’s wedding celebration.” Duggan shook his head. “Life is full of joys and heartaches, isn’t it, Father?” “True enough. But I must say, if there’s joy to be found, your clan will find it. As soon as I cast my thoughts to a haven for Sidney, it was your Frances who came to mind.” “What’s that about Frances?” The tea and bread were brought to the table. Father Peter smiled at his hostess. “I was saying that you were the first person God brought to mind when I wondered about a haven for Sidney.” Suddenly the front door banged open, and a great ruckus was heard coming up the stairs. Two grown men burst into the room. Frances sighed. “Who won this time?” “No contest, Mother. I did, as ever.” Father Peter had always had difficulty telling Eryc from Peter, and with failing eyesight, he rarely took the chance of calling them by name. Duggan leaned toward him and smiled. “That was Peter.” “Ah,” said the priest. Frances cast the young men a tolerant smile. Eryc and Peter, her babies, were about to turn twenty. Wherever has the time gone? These twins were identical. They favored their father’s looks more than the other boys. They wore their dark hair long, most often tied back. They were tall and broadly built like Duggan. But there the similarity ended, for in their characters, Peter and Eryc were more opposite than alike. Eryc followed Duggan in his devotion to Braydon Manor, and it was easy to foretell that he would stay, dedicated to its well-being. He had always been a steady boy, solid and settled. Frances secretly hoped that Eryc would take on more of his father’s duties so that, when Duggan was ready to let go of the reins, he could succeed him as steward. While Peter worked as hard as any of them, he was an adventurer, drawn to wandering and seeing the world. He had been on a few excursions with some of his brothers, but was now preparing for a journey on his own. He planned to head out in a matter of days. Peter being the more boisterous of the two youngest twins, Frances knew that things were bound to be quiet after his departure. God has been kind to bring me Sidney to soothe my heart when Peter is gone. “Boys, this is Sidney Spelling.” Frances made the introductions. “He will be staying with us for a time.” She handed Sidney a mug and paused to make sure he was able to hold it. After a moment, Father Peter guided the mug to the boy’s lips. Sidney took a sip. Frances said, “He can sleep in Broyce’s old room.” Two of the Duggan boys, Broyce and David, were married. After they left, Wyll shared a room with Rainyer, leaving one room spare. “Great,” said Peter. “Will you still be feeding us, now that Sidney’s come?” Sidney looked up in alarm, and Peter laughed, tousling his hair. “I’m only joking. You eat up now.” He crossed to the sideboard to fetch mugs for Eryc and himself. After a few minutes of friendly chatter, Duggan asked Eryc to see Father Peter back to his lodgings. Before leaving, the priest spoke to Sidney. “I will come back tomorrow. I will take care of your mother. We shall have a lovely service for her the day after. Does that suit you, lad?” The boy nodded. “Yes, sir. And thank you most kindly.” “God keep you and give you good rest. You have done a great work looking after your mother, Sidney. No one could have done more for her than you have.” The priest looked up and took the others in in a glance. “Peace to this house. Good night.” Eryc left with Father Peter. Frances took Sidney to the lavatory to show him where the washing up things were. Then she went to find him a nightshirt. She brought him a soft old shirt her boys had outgrown. Sidney found Frances in a chamber with two narrow beds. She was turning down the covers. “There you go, dear. Crawl in here, and we’ll have a prayer.” Sydney lay down and Frances drew the covers up under his chin. He stared at her while she closed her eyes and prayed, blessing Mrs. Spelling’s soul, thanking God for Sidney coming to be with them, and asking for God to help Sidney through these sad days. Then she kissed Sidney on the forehead. “Will you want the lamp left burning, seeing as you are in a strange place and all?” “Oh no, ma’am.” “It would be all right if it would make you feel better, truly.” Sidney shook his head and managed a small smile. “Fine then. Peter and Eryc are across the hall if you need anything. Good night, dear. See you in the morning.” Frances blew out the lamp and left through the heavy curtain that served as a door to the room. Sidney lay listening to the sounds of the family settling down for the night. There were whispers and bursts of laughter, then all was quiet. It felt good to be lying in such a comfortable bed. The sheets were softer than any Sidney had ever felt, and the bed smelled as fresh as a summer breeze. The small boy took a deep breath and sighed heavily. He tried to be grateful, but was overcome with the heavy blackness of his loss. A burden of guilt settled on him. I must be thankful for the care of these people, but I do not want tomorrow to come. I do not want to wake up without my ma. Sidney turned quickly onto his side and buried his face in his pillow, trying to stifle the sobs that rushed from his body. What am I going to do? How can I live without Ma? He pushed harder on the pillow as the tears continued to flow. Peter waited for a while, letting Sidney cry. When he felt it had gone on long enough, he got up, lit a lamp and went into the hall. Lifting aside the curtain, Peter walked up to the boy. “Sidney, ol’ man, it’s me, Peter. Can I help you?” He put the light down and sat on the edge of the bed, resting his hand on Sidney’s shoulder. The boy was trembling. “Here, Sidney, let me have a look at you.” After a moment, Sidney slowly turned over, wiping his shirtsleeve across his eyes and nose. Peter held out his arms, and the boy accepted the invitation, sitting up and leaning into the big man’s embrace. His head rested on Peter’s chest, and Peter’s arms engulfed the small boy. Sidney cried again, but after a short burst, all was calm. “Would you like it if I slept in the other bed over there, Sidney?” A moment passed before the head on his chest nodded in assent. “Fine, then. And would you prefer the lamp be left burning?” This time the head motioned no. Peter smiled. “Right. You lay back, then, and hopefully you can get some sleep.” Peter pulled up Sidney’s covers before settling into the other bed. He looked over at the boy, a question on his face. In a croaky little voice Sidney said, “I’m all right, now. Thanks.” Peter nodded and blew out the lamp. # The next morning, on her way to the kitchen, Frances looked in on Sidney. She was surprised to see someone sharing his room. She wasn’t sure which son it was until she met Eryc coming in from early morning chores. Eryc shrugged. “I heard them up a couple of times in the night, so I left Peter to sleep it off.” Frances touched her hand to his cheek, then turned to start breakfast. Eryc followed her. “After prayers, Peter and I can take Father Peter and a cart down to the Spelling place. I expect the manor will provide for the wake and all?” “Yes. Your father’s already gone to speak to Isgoré. We know what he will say.” Isgoré Armaddi was the Duggans’ landlord. Frances was certain that a more godly man could not be found. A devout follower of the one true God, his faith influenced all aspects of life at the castle and much of life in the village. # Braydon Castle consisted of two long buildings facing each other across a wide courtyard. The gatehouse and service buildings backed into the wall overlooking the village, while the grand manor house stood on the seaward side of the property, the East Sea dancing far below the cliffs behind it. All buildings within the castle wall were constructed of light-colored stone that had been hauled to the site from a great distance because the wife of an Armaddi ancestor had insisted upon it. The outside of the wall and all stonework throughout the village was of the local dark gray, almost black stone. Opposite the gatehouse, where the Duggans lived, stood the great hall. To the right were the kitchens and the cook’s garden and orchard, to the left, the three-storeyed quarters of the Armaddi family. Two windowed towers flanked the main entrance. Another stood at the far end. Next to this second tower stood the chapel, angled inward towards the main gate. Beyond the buildings lay an ornamental garden with gravel pathways, some trees, and large expanses of lush green lawn. A strip of forest stood against the far wall. Duggan had been born on a croft just inside the great black stone wall that encircled more than half of Braydon Village. Two months later, Isgoré had been born into the comfort of Braydon Castle. In spite of their diverse backgrounds, the two men had known each other their whole lives. At seventeen, Duggan moved to the manor and became Isgoré’s right-hand man and closest friend. Not long after this, Isgoré inherited all of Braydon, and Duggan took on the duties of steward. And so it had been for more than thirty years. But while Duggan had aged at a natural pace, Isgoré, by a miracle of God, was now about the age of Duggan’s middle sons. When Isgoré was a boy, he was given a heaven-sent gift that had been used twice with wondrous effect. The gift gave him the power to reduce his age. The first time it was employed, he was delivered from the designs of an evil woman whom he almost married, a woman who followed the ways of darkness. In a moment of desperation, God had intervened. The second time happened only a few weeks before Sidney’s arrival, on the eve of the landlord’s wedding. Without Isgoré asking, his God caused the years to fall away so that he was no longer twice the age of his lovely bride, Raymore. The excitement surrounding the landlord’s long-overdue wedding, and the dramatic changes that had overtaken the groom, were only now becoming old news in the village. # Thus it was that the distinguished-looking Duggan with the graying hair sat across the great hall table from his landlord, Isgoré, a man who appeared to be half his age. “She died midday, you say, but the boy was not found until dusk? How tragic, how tragic.” Isgoré shook his head. “Good thing he’s as light as a bird,” Duggan said, “otherwise Father Peter might not have been able to lift him from the floor. They arrived at our place just before we turned in.” “Frances will keep him, of course?” Isgoré smiled. “For certain.” His friend smiled back. “I’m thankful that my wife never met up with a homeless bear over the years. I don’t think I could have shared my home with it –” “And it would have been you moving back to the stable quarters!” As the men laughed, Cook hurried over to them. “Have you not heard of the passing of Mrs. Spelling, then, and that her dear boy is right now staying at –” Cook cast a critical eye at Duggan. “Well, of course you know!” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What are you laughing about, gentlemen?” The landlord smiled and clapped his hand over his mouth. We look as guilty as a couple of boys in knee breeches. The cook of the manor was not very tall, plump, her hair graying, but with her fists planted firmly on her hips, and her eyes riveted on a person, she was a force to be reckoned with. Isgoré was reminded of the tribute he had paid to Cook at the wedding banquet. He had noted that, while he may have been the landlord of Braydon, it was she who truly ran the whole estate. Pentella Doxler had come to live at the manor at the same time as Duggan, and Isgoré marveled that, once again, she had all the news and was going to see that things were done properly. He hung his head, but Duggan could still see the mischief in his eyes. “Our mistake, Cook,” Isgoré muttered. “We were about to discuss plans for the lady’s wake.” Duggan looked up at her, but she was not fooled by his feigned contrition. “Oh, you two! As if there’s anything to discuss. She has no means of her own, so she will be seen to as any other member of this household would be, is that not so, sir?” “Exactly.” Isgoré sat up and became serious. “Father Peter will have her remains brought to the chapel, the ladies will do the tending, and we will gather tomorrow morning at prayers to say our final farewells.” Cook nodded. “And may I find something suitable in the storage rooms for Mrs. Spelling to wear? I don’t expect she had more than one change of clothing.” “Oh yes, anything you need.” Isgoré looked at his steward. “What will become of their cottage and belongings? The boy can’t stay there alone.” Duggan agreed. “He won’t be going anywhere if my wife has anything to say about it, and there’s always someone who would be pleased to move within the village wall. Perhaps after tomorrow Frances and one of the boys can take Sidney home to decide what to leave there.”

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