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and said a few Our Fathers, then extended the prayers of Terce by another hour. He tolerated her out of godly condescension for her weak head, his own benevolence and charity … and also because God told him to.
    It seemed that God talked to Brother Dismas. Every day.
    So that very night, when someone rang at the castle gate after midnight, Old Gladdys sat up in pallet and shrieked, “Trouble! ’Tis trouble! Four bells is trouble!”
    No one would answer the call.
    Except Brother Dismas. The Lord’s deep voice had commanded him to do so.
    The gate bell rang and rang, as if someone were beating the metal with a war hammer. Brother Dismas took a fat tallow candle from one of his shrines and lit it from a rush light near the chapel wall. He shuffled across the courtyard and moved toward the inner gatehouse, wondering why God would not let him sleep this night.
    Yawning, he stepped over a few sleeping dogs and looked around for the watch guard. He heard a loud snore. Instead of guarding the entrance, the porter was slumped on a stone bench in a dark corner, an empty ale cup in his limp hand.
    The bell clattered again, even louder than before. Brother Dismas winced when it rang clear through to his back teeth. He held up his light to the peephole and slid it open with an irritated jerk. He stared outside, blinked, then held the candle higher and took another look.
    A moment later he crossed himself and looked up to the heavens. “Merciful Lord, I think you forgot to tell me something.”

    Clio was in the solar at Camrose Castle, standing in front of a column carved with the likeness of William the Conqueror. The Welsh who had occupied the castle until recently had used the oaken column to hold their daggers. She had pulled four deadly looking two-pronged Welsh skeans from the column the day she first arrived.
    She stood back and eyed the likeness for a moment.
    William the Conqueror now had dimples.
    She turned and paced for a minute or two, the evening warnings of Old Gladdys still fresh in her ears.
    “Burn the candles bright this night,” Old Gladdys had said. “There were three hawks circling the tower at dawn, the wind this morn was from the east, and the cook found worms in the yeast.”
    Clio made it a point to ask her what those signs meant, but Old Gladdys only said that was for her to know and for Clio to find out. Cajoling her hadn’t worked. Old Gladdys had gone to a nearby hillside, lit a bonfire, then danced around it singing loud chants that sent Brother Dismas off to the chapel in a dither. He spent most of the day on his knees saying the Lord’s Prayer.
    So with her supper, Clio had passed on the bread, her mind’s eye seeing only wormy yeast whenever she looked at a loaf. She ate only a small piece of cheese and some green-pea pottage. Now, her stomach was soured and even fresh milk warmed with honey could not make her sleep.
    She paced the room, bored and anxious. As she passed the candle stanchion, her quick steps made the candlelight flicker in odd shapes over the stone walls. She watched for a second, then clutched her gown in her fists and spun around.
    On the wall, the outline of a shadow spun and wiggled in a bell shape that looked just like Brother Dismas did when he laughed, his plump belly shaking like eel jelly.
    She released her gown and shifted once, her hands crossed high above her head. The shadow appeared to soar up the walls in the shape of a hawk, easy and free. She could remember watching the birds from the window in her small, dull room at the convent and wishing she were a hawk or a falcon or even a lark so she could fly away.
    A noblewoman had no freedom. She was born to obey the wishes of men. For the hundredth time she wondered what her life would have been like had she not been born female.
    Clio walked over to the narrow castle loophole and opened a heavily studded wood shutter. She stared out at the dark night sky and wondered what it was like to be free like men. What was it