THE GOLDEN HOURS
A
by JAMES DODDS
fter three long, bloody years fighting for the throne, Dukes Henri and Wilhelm came together in a meadow of wildflowers to broker a truce. Leaving their weapons with their men-at-arms, the two cousins sat together and talked, as they had during childhood. Their uncle, the late king, had taken both in as small lads when their fathers were slain in battle. Upon his death, each man had proclaimed himself king. The country took up sides and civil war broke out. Equals in battle, neither Henri or Wilhelm could capture victory. Their support waned as the war dragged on. Cheering throngs turned to sour expressions and open grumbling. Nobody wanted to fight anymore. Especially the two dukes, who would both soon be fathers. The midwives promised Henri a son and Wilhelm a daughter. “I want my child to live in a land of peace,” said Wilhelm. He grimaced. “Truth be told, I didn’t really want to be king. I only laid claim to the throne because the old hag whispered in my ear that King Stephen wished it so.” Henri stiffened, nostrils flaring. “No! The hag told me the same! Had she said otherwise, I would have happily let you rule.” He ground his teeth. “She tricked us into this war as payback for her sister.” Urmalach, the old hag, was a witch, like her younger sister Clotilda. Thirteen years earlier, Clotilda had fallen for the king’s only son. When he spurned her advances, she turned him into a slavering beast who fled into the woods, never to be seen again. The two dukes sat in judgment at Clotilda's trial and pronounced her guilty. As punishment, the king buried her alive in the town square. Mad with grief, Urmalach swore vengeance on the king, the dukes and the entire kingdom. To reunite the sundered country, the dukes vowed to rule jointly as regents until their children came of age, when they would wed and be crowned king and queen. The two kinsmen stood and clasped hands to the cheers of their war-weary followers. The word that peace was at hand spread like wildfire across the kingdom. Seven weeks later, Henri’s son Philip came into the world as the sun rose and shone its glory across the land. That very night, Wilhelm’s daughter Selene took her first breath as the full moon rose clear of the mountain peaks, casting its silver sheen across the countryside, turning night to day. The country rejoiced at this portent of peace and healing. In the days leading up to the double christening, parades and fairs and merry-making abounded. On the blessed day itself, throngs choked every street and alley leading to the palace. Joyous tension electrified the air. The priest blessed the babes, then raised a ewer of holy water over his head. A hush fell over the masses. For one short, magical moment, blessed stillness reigned. “No!” screeched an old woman. The crowd flinched and fell back as Urmalach, the hump-backed hag, stumped up the stairs towards the children. Greasy, matted locks trailed down to mingle with filthy ragged clothes. Two fierce eyes, glowing like coals, glared out from the tangle. Wherever her glance fell, 22
