=:= Blakemere Manor, Shropshire - May, 1405 =:=

Sir Gilbert, the fifth Baron Talbot, finished writing up the last of his dispatches. He re-read it as the ink dried, and then satisfied, he folded it up and sealed it with wax.

It was late May, in the year of our Lord, fourteen hundred and five. He had returned to Blakemere Manor, one of his family's homes in Shropshire, to spend some days overseeing the estate and attending to matters of house.

Although he was only twenty-two years old, Sir Gilbert took his duties seriously. He already had a reputation of being a man of action. Certainly he was much more so than his father had been. Where the fourth Baron had seemed content to spend most of his time in and around his manor and home county, Sir Gilbert had already started travelling, and had seen plenty of action in the Welsh Marches since the rebellion began. His successes in battle there already had people talking. Rumours suggested it wouldn't be long before he was summoned to the House of Lords.

With the most pressing business attended to, Gilbert next turned his attention to the leather satchel on the end of the table. He untied the strap and opened it up, taking out the book contained within. He set the tome down on the table before him, and started examining it again.

The young lord frowned as he turned through the thick vellum pages. It was gibberish, the lot. Sir Gilbert had never seen anything like it before, but he knew someone who might be able to decipher the text. His friend Charles back in London was a very learned man, and he might recognize the odd script this manuscript contained.

Gilbert had picked the book up during his most recent campaign in the Welsh Marches, doing battle against Glyndŵr's rebels. The Baron had been in the service of the Prince of Wales for nearly two years now, and this past year especially, his campaigns had been very successful.

Glyndŵr's traitors had just razed the town of Grosmont, burned it to the ground. In March, Sir Gilbert had encountered a force of those same rebels as they were moving on from the massacre. They had him outnumbered, but he led his small company of esquires and archers to victory that day. He and his men had sent almost a thousand Welsh traitors to their graves before the sun had set.

It was after that great victory, he and his company had been moving south, when they came upon a small village. It appeared untouched by the fighting that had been raging across the landscape for the past four years. The locals even seemed surprised to see him and his men marching through.

Sir Gilbert questioned them. Were they loyal to the King? Or were they with the traitors?

Most of them only spoke Welsh, but they found one who could speak proper English. He said the place was called Llanhedd, and he claimed it had not sided with the rebels. But they also refused to swear allegiance to the King. The peasant claimed the village was neutral, as if they had no lord at all.

Perhaps it had been a rash decision, but with the massacre at Grosmont still fresh in his mind, the young Baron Talbot knew the rebels were about, and in large numbers. And since these peasants refused to swear their loyalty to the King, he had no choice but to assume they were on the side of the traitors.

Sir Gilbert had ordered the village burned. Several of the peasants tried to resist. One of them had fought with the bravery and strength of a dozen men. But in the end, Baron Talbot's archers had brought an end to the fight, and then his men brought an end to the village. Three hundred and twenty six Welsh peasants had been slaughtered. The village had been razed, to the last child.

And the only thing of value in the entire place was this peculiar book. It was very odd for such a small community to have something like that. Most of the Welsh peasants were illiterate. They tended to be fairly religious, but that little village hadn't even had a chapel in it. The book had been found in one of the little hovels, before it was put to the torch.

Gilbert looked through the pages once more. It had to be a Holy book. Perhaps some relic from the East. He wasn't familiar with those sorts of writings, so he couldn't say for sure. He knew it wasn't Latin, and it certainly wasn't Welsh. The markings themselves were too foreign.

At last, he took another sheet of parchment, and picked up his pen and ink. He wrote up a letter to his friend Charles, asking him to have a look and see if he recognized the bizarre script, and if he could make anything of this odd book. Perhaps it was worth something. Or perhaps it was merely a curiosity. He asked his friend Charles to write him back once he'd determined the nature and origin of the book, and then they'd decide what to do with it after.

When he was finished, the letter was folded up and sealed. He placed the letter with the book and wrapped both up in the leather pouch he'd taken the book from, tying it closed.

He placed the book with his dispatches, then Sir Gilbert summoned one of his esquires.

"Take some men and ride for London. Deliver these dispatches to the Court. And then take this to Charles Goodland, at Bromsted House."

The man bowed, "Yes m'lord." He gathered up the parcel and the letters and set out, calling for a few men to prepare for the journey and ready their horses.

With the business at hand concluded, Sir Gilbert stood and stretched his legs, taking a walk through the manor.

Up the stairs he looked in on the Lady's room, and his young son.

Richard, born just over a year ago, had been named for Sir Gilbert's father. Gilbert's young wife Joan had died in childbirth, but she had done her duty and given him a son. The young Baron would almost certainly remarry before long. Another political marriage would be arranged, something beneficial to his family.

When he looked in, the nurse Margaret stood and bowed. She whispered "M'lord. Young master Richard is asleep."

Gilbert quietly approached and looked down at his boy. He looked healthy and strong. One day he would be the sixth Baron Talbot.

The Baron spent a few minutes with his son, then exited and continued his walk through the manor. He ended up in the great hall, where he took some lunch.

After his midday meal, he decided to have a look at the household accounts for the months he'd been away. He trusted his steward of course, but it was still his duty to stay ontop of things at Blakemere, as he did with his other properties.

Gilbert let himself into his stewards room and closed the door again behind him, then sat down at the desk. He started looking through the papers his steward had left out for him.

Only a few minutes later, Sir Gilbert became aware of another presence in the room.

He turned, and found himself looking at two peasant women. He had not heard the door open or close, and yet these two women were standing there between himself and the door. As if they'd simply appeared there, as ghosts.

Gilbert stood, demanding "Who are you?"

He didn't recognize either of them. They weren't part of his household staff. They may have been from the nearby village, but that didn't explain how they'd gotten inside his manor, let alone into this very room. The manor was secure and defended. There was a stone wall and a moat. And then there was the guard house, and his men.

The women both appeared older than himself, by at least a decade. The older of the two looked to be in her mid-thirties. She had hair black as a raven's feathers, that hung straight down, partway down her back. Her eyes were bright blue. She was as tall as Gilbert.

The other woman looked a few years younger. She was slightly shorter, and her blonde hair was tied up into a bun. Her eyes were a green-grey colour.

They were both dressed in threadbare clothes and wrapped in thin robes. And both women appeared somewhat gaunt, hungry. The pair looked tired too, and both had a haunted, melancholy look in their eyes. It was as if they both shared a deep pain that ate at their souls.

Sir Gilbert demanded again, "Who are you? What's the meaning of this interruption?"

The one with black hair spoke first. Gilbert didn't understand what she was saying, though he did recognize his own name. And he knew the woman was speaking in Welsh, he'd heard the language often enough to recognize it, although he'd never bothered to learn it.

He interrupted, "Damnit woman, speak English!"

The blonde spoke up. She used English, although it was clearly not her native tongue.

"She is Ffion, and I am Rebekah. We are of Llanhedd. We are the last. You murdered everyone else."

Gilbert scowled. "And you travelled all this way, that I might finish the job? I don't know how you got into my home, but unless you've an army outside my door..."

The one called Ffion spoke again, more Welsh nonsense, which the blonde then translated.

"We brought no army. But we will have our revenge. For I am a priestess and Ffion is the embodied, and we bring with us the wrath of our Goddess. We will avenge our people. Our friends, our families. Our husbands, and our children."

"I've heard enough of this nonsense." Gilbert called for some of his men.

Ffion spoke again in Welsh, and Rebekah shook her head, "No one is coming to help you."

Sir Gilbert wasn't worried. He had nothing to fear from a pair of peasant women. He asked, "Apart from your own deaths, what did you hope to achieve by coming here? What do you think you'll get from me?"

The blonde answered calmly, "Revenge. You took from us all we held dear, you stole our future from us. So we are here to take that from you. Your line will end with you. Sir Gilbert, you will be the last Baron Talbot."

As the blonde woman was speaking, the other one turned her back to Gilbert for a moment. When she turned again to face him, she now held a child in her arms.

Sir Gilbert's eyes widened as he recognized his son in the woman's arms! Suddenly he was tense, ready to leap to the boy's aid, but also wary. It's possible the woman held a knife or had some other means to dispatch the child.

He didn't understand how young Richard had suddenly appeared in the peasant's arms. She must have had him concealed with her somehow, hidden behind her, or under her clothes somehow.

"Unhand my son!" he demanded. "Your quarrel is with me, don't hurt my boy!"

Ffion again said something in Welsh, which Rebekah translated. "Unlike you, we do not make war on children. The child will not be harmed..."

Gilbert demanded, "What then? You seek ransom? You know you won't live long enough to spend it..."

His voice trailed off as there was a flare of light in Ffion's eyes. It was as if the blue of her eyes glowed brightly for the span of a heartbeat.

Gilbert felt a dizziness pass over him, and he blinked, shaking his head to clear his mind of the sensation. He frowned a little, "What the devil was that..."

The blonde peasant replied, "That was your destiny being changed, Baron Talbot. Your past and your future. Your child is unharmed, but she will not inherit your title."

Gilbert's eyes widened as he suddenly understood what the raven-haired woman had done. Sir Gilbert had a son no longer. The raven-haired peasant was now holding his daughter Anne, named for one of his aunts.

He could still remember having once had a son, and naming the boy Richard after his father. Yet now he knew that somehow, that had never happened. He knew that in truth, his wife had given him a daughter. Gilbert already knew that the records would reflect this.

His eyes widened as he glared at the two peasants. "Sorcery! Devils work! What have you done?!"

Rebekah stated "As we said, your line ends with you. You will be the last Baron Talbot."

Gilbert stared at the two peasants, his eyes still wide, his mind still reeling with shock. The raven-haired one was still holding Anne in her arms.

Ffion spoke again, still more Welsh.

Rebekah nodded to her, "You're right. He is young and healthy, he will almost certainly remarry. There could be another son, unless we intervene further."

Gilbert stared at the two peasant women, and for the first time he started to feel fear. After what they'd just done to his child, he had no idea what else they were capable of. He could hardly attack them though while one of the witches was still holding his only child in her arms.

Ffion was speaking again, and Gilbert recognized his daughter's name.

He demanded, "What's she saying now?!"

Rebekah looked at him and smiled. "Ffion suggested that the girl should have a mother."

Gilbert glared, "You'll not take my only child from me! I'll see you both in hell before I let that happen!"

Both the peasants smiled slightly, as if amused by his outburst. The black-haired one was staring at him again, and he saw the blue of her eyes flare bright once more.

This time things around him seemed to fade to white as the dizziness struck him even harder.

It took a few moments for Gilbert's vision to clear. He found the two peasants still staring at him, and both were still smiling. Oddly, the two of them appeared to have grown taller. The blonde was now as tall as himself, and the raven-haired witch now stood a few inches taller than him.

Ffion stated, "A fitting end, I should think."

Gilbert blinked in surprise realizing he could now understand her the woman, although he was sure she was still speaking Welsh.

"What have you-" He froze before he could finish his sentence.

That was not his voice! That was the sound of a young woman! And his words had come out in Welsh, not English!

His heart was racing as he looked down at himself. Instead of his usual finery, he was now garbed in a simple peasant's dress. A dress!

Around his face and draped over his shoulders he could feel and see his hair was now much longer. A fair blonde, his wavy locks now fell a few inches past his narrow shoulders.

He could see his arms were now slim and delicate, ending in small hands with long delicate fingers. Although the cloth of his dress hid much from view, He could clearly see his waist was narrow and his hips wide. And the swell of his ample bosom was unmistakable. Looking down he could see the deep cleavage on display in the wide neck of the dress.

"No!" he breathed. His eyes remained wide with shock and fear, as he stared down at himself.

His hands slowly rose up, shaking slightly. He refused to trust his eyes. What he was seeing was impossible, it simply could not be.

He grasped at his chest and a yelp of shock escaped his lips. The flesh under his hands was firm but yielding, and the sensitive skin responded to his touch. He felt some little shocks through his body as his large nipples started to grow erect under his fingers, pushing outwards against the fabric of his bodice.

Gilbert felt his cheeks flush and his breathing quickened slightly, as some of the little shocks of sensation settled in his groin. The feelings down there were entirely new and foreign.

Shifting his stance, Gilbert could feel his legs were similarly smooth and slim now, like his arms. And as he pressed his thighs together, he knew without a doubt, there was no longer anything manly between them.

With another yelp he leaned down and gathered up his skirts, pulling them upwards, to see the truth with his own eyes. There at the place where his two slim shapely legs met, beneath a small patch of blonde hair, he could see the folds of his womanhood.

He felt his heart falter as he realized he would father no more children. And with a wave of nausea he realized if he still wished a son, he would now have to carry and bear the child himself...but that meant someone else would have to be the father!

He straightened up and let his skirts drop back down. He looked towards the two witches again, eyes wide. His heart pounded, and his body felt weak, his stomach cold and heavy, as another wave of dizziness came over him.

Ffion's eyes were still aglow as she stated, "You are Sir Gilbert no longer. Your name is now Eigra."

The woman was still speaking in Welsh, and he could understand her words. He somehow recognized the name, it meant 'maid'.

Rebekah gestured to something on the left, and Eigra turned, and gasped.

There sat Sir Gilbert's body. He was slumped at the table, head resting atop the papers of his household accounts.

There was yet another wave of dizziness. Eigra steadied herself, leaning back against the wall. As her head cleared, she understood.

She still knew that she had begun this life as an Englishman of noble birth. She had been Gilbert, son of Richard Talbot, the fourth Baron Talbot. She knew that she'd become the fifth Baron when her father had died. She knew as Sir Gilbert, she had been successful and ambitious.

And now she knew, that life was no longer hers. Now she was a Welsh peasant named Eigra. She could neither read nor write, nor did she know anything about battle or tactics, leadership or lordship. She could still speak English, but it was no longer her mother tongue.

And she knew there was no way anyone would ever believe her, if she tried to convince them of her true nature. To everyone else, she was just a maid. Just a Welsh peasant girl named Eigra.

Sir Gilbert was dead, and he had died without a male heir. There was only little Anne, who still lay sleeping in Ffion's arms.

The two witches were still watching her, and Eigra looked to them. With fear and confusion in her voice, she pleaded "What will I do? What do you expect of me now?"

Rebekah stared at her and stated, "Stay here and care for Anne Talbot as her maid and nurse. Or flee and take your child with you. She is your daughter, you may be a mother to her."

Ffion added, "Either way, the line of Sir Gilbert has ended. Our work here is finished, and now so are we."

The raven-haired woman stepped forward, pushing the child into Eigra's arms. She then stepped back again, standing once more beside her blonde companion.

Eigra gently took the babe into her arms. She looked at the two women and gulped, staring at them. "But... What do I..."

Ffion's eyes flared once more with the blue light, and then the two were gone. They had vanished as suddenly and silently as they'd arrived.

Eigra stood there alone, holding her daughter. She stared at Sir Gilbert's body, slumped in the chair next to her.

She trembled a little, as tears began to fill her eyes.