The Circle Of A Promise

by Helen A Rosburg

  “I know not,” he murmured against her fragrant flesh. “I know only that our daughter must marry. She must.”

  His wife nodded. Indeed, none of them had a choice. Baldwin must never be allowed to have Mara.

  Chapter Three

  Stephen sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He buried his face in his hands, but only briefly. He wanted away. Away from the dream. Away from the place of its origin. He pulled on his robe even as he left his bedroom.

  “Steve, are you all right?” Amanda emerged from her room, pulling the door closed behind her.

  “Go back to bed, Mandy. I’m sorry I woke you. Again.” He turned and started down the stairs.

  “Mom?”

  Stephen groaned. His sister hurried down the corridor and pulled her son into her arms.

  “It’s all right, baby,” she soothed. “Uncle Steve just had a bad dream.”

  Stephen didn’t wait to hear any more. He took the stairs two at a time.

  The overheads in the kitchen came on with the flick of a switch, and he blinked in their sudden glare. He opened the refrigerator door. It wasn’t that there was anything in there that he wanted; looking was simply habit And the cold air felt good. The sweat had not yet dried from his face.

  “Stephen?”

  Stephen sighed and closed the refrigerator door. “I’m sorry, Amanda,” he said without turning. He heard the scrape of a kitchen chair being pulled away from the table.

  “It was that dream again, wasn’t it?” his sister inquired, a little too casually.

  “What difference does it make?” he replied tiredly.

  “Sit down, Stevie. Please. Talk to me.”

  What difference did it make? None. Nothing made any difference anymore. Stephen joined his older sister at the kitchen table.

  “Come on, Steve, tell me. Was it the dream?” Amanda persisted.

  Stephen nodded. The pain of it rose up in him: a sudden, terrible rush. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he ground his fists into them.

  “Steve.” Amanda tried to capture one of his hands, but he pulled away from her.

  “Eight years,” he said bitterly. “Eight years, the same dream. Seven years of psychotherapy. And what do I have to show for it?”

  “Stephen!”

  “No. Don’t touch me! I don’t want your sympathy.” He rose from his chair so quickly and violently it toppled over backward. He ignored it.

  “It’s bad enough you have to put me up,” he went on, “give me a place to sleep, and feed me.”

  “Steve! John and I don’t-”

  “I can’t hold a job anymore. Antidepressants don’t work. I can hardly even manage to be an uncle to your kid, for God’s sake!”

  “Stephen, stop it!” Amanda stood and threw her arms around her brother in an attempt to stop his pacing. He shook her off and walked away, arms clasped tightly across his chest.

  “Now they’re telling me they want to institutionalize me? Try a new kind of drug therapy?”

  “It was just a suggestion, Steve, honey. It’s strictly voluntary. Dr. Krieger is just trying to-”

  “Just trying to what?” Stephen whirled on his sister, hands pressed to his temples. “Trying to generate a little more money from the insurance company? For God’s sake, Amanda. It’s been seven years and I’m not better- I’m worse! I’m not working. I’m hardly sleeping. All I’m doing is leeching, sucking off you and John. Scaring Tim. What kind of a life is that?”

  “Steve, sit down and listen to me. Please,” Amanda begged. “Please!”

  Stephen stopped his pacing, but his fists remained balled at his sides. He kept his back turned to his sister. “I’m sorry, Mandy. I’m so sorry. I’D never be able to thank you for all you’ve done for me. But I’m not going to let you do any more. I’m going to take Krieger’s advice and. and go to the hospital.”

  “Steve-”

  “Let me finish, Mandy. I want you and John and Tim to go on with your lives. You and John go ahead and have that other kid you’ve been talking about. Make the guest room into a nursery. You’ve carried this burden- my burden-long enough. I’m outta here.”

  “I hope you’re outta speeches as well,” Amanda said tardy. “Now sit down, damn it, and listen. It’s the least you can do for me, Stephen.”

  The tone of his sister’s voice managed to pierce the armor of his misery. Stephen turned.

  “Sit,” she repeated.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he righted his chair and sat down. He kept his eyes on his tightly clasped hands.

  “I’m actually kind of glad this happened tonight.”

  Amanda admitted. “It gives me a chance to bring up something I’ve had on my mind.”

  Stephen glanced briefly at his sister from the corner of his eye. She took it as encouragement and drew a deep breath.

  “I’ve been talking to someone, Steve. About. about your dream. And about your steadily worsening depression.”

  “Another shrink?” he asked sarcastically.

  She ignored his tone. “No. I think it’s become obvious that psychiatry isn’t working. I. I’d like you to try. well, something else.”

  She had his attention at last. Stephen looked her squarely in the eye. “What something else?”

  Amanda took another long, deep breath and straightened her spine. She returned her brother’s gaze. “I’ve been talking to a woman who does past life regressions, Stephen.”

  “Oh, Mandy.”

  “No-listen, Steve. I really think she might be able to help you. She’s been telling me about cases similar to yours-people with psychological problems, even physical problems, that couldn’t be helped by traditional therapies. But, when they were regressed, they found something in a past life that was keeping them from going forward in their present one.”

  “Mandy, come on. You know I don’t even believe in.”

  “There was this woman, for instance,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “She developed bursitis in her shoulder. That’s a pretty common problem, and pretty easily taken care of. But no matter what her doctor did, this woman couldn’t get any relief. She finally took the advice of a friend and was regressed.”

  He couldn’t help it; his curiosity was piqued. “And?” “And she went back to a life when she was a man-a Greek charioteer. She relived a time when she was in battle. There was an accident and he-she-was thrown from her chariot. She sustained a broken shoulder, and a piece of bone was driven through her lung and killed her. The accident was untimely-in other words, it wasn’t her time yet to the in that lifetime. Her soul never reconciled to that early death, and she was unable to move on. Hence, the incurable chronic bursitis.”

  “So?”

  “So, once she relived that experience through regression, she was finally able to come to peace with her accidental death. The bursitis never recurred.”

  Stephen stared at his sister for a long moment. He was tired, exhausted both mentally and physically. For eight years-ever since his twenty-second birthday-his life had been going steadily downhill. He had become more and more depressed, less and less able to function and lead a useful, productive life. Even the doctors had given up on him. The only thing that lay in his future was the prospect of hospitalization and drugs. Why not try this “something else,” wacky as it sounded? Why not?

  “You say you. you know this woman? You’ve talked to her?”

  Amanda nodded.

  “You’re sure she’s not just some. charlatan?”

  His sister sighed. “I’m not sure of anything, Steve. I only know I don’t want you to go into that hospital. Obviously, the doctors don’t really know what they’re doing in your case, or how to make you better, and I.” Tears sprang to her eyes, and Amanda clamped a hand over her mouth as she hiccoughed on a sob.

  Stephen took his sister’s other hand and held it gently between his own. The only real thing left in his life, the only true emotion, was the love he felt for his sister and her family. He had nothing else at a
ll. Nothing.

  “I’ll go, Mandy,” he said softly. “I’ll call your friend tomorrow. OK`”

  Chapter Four

  Even had she not been the daughter of the lord of the manor, Mara would have commanded the total respect of every servant within the castle walls. She had inherited not only her father’s full height, but nearly the breadth of his shoulders. Her waist-length hair was as pale as the frosts that rimed the winter hillsides and, although she normally wore it plaited, today it was unbound and whipped about her shoulders in the cold spring wind. Her stride was long and purposeful, and her blue eyes glinted with fire. She was a Valkyrie, a vengeful goddess, and those who worked in the stables sprang into action when they saw her hurry down the steps from the great hall with her deerhound at her heels.

  The dappled palfrey was her favored mount The sturdy gray mare was saddled and waiting by the time she had crossed the yard to the low wooden outbuilding. Mara mumbled a hasty thanks, ignored the hand prepared to aid her, and swung into the saddle. Eyes were averted as she pulled her skirt down over a muscular but well-toned thigh and slim, booted calf. She gathered her reins, fitted her feet to the stirrups, and put her heels to the palfrey’s flanks. The mare started off at once.

  Though the reign of his predecessor had been fraught with civil wars, Henry III enjoyed a serene rule. The barons had no quarrel with him. Thus, Ullswater too was at peace-secure except for its recent tension with the Earl of Cumbria. The gate was open and the bridge across its dry moat lowered.

  The guard in the watchtower hailed her, but Mara rode past without comment. She kept the mare to a collected canter until they were beyond the castle walls, then gave her mount its head. Her hound loped at her side, pink tongue lolling, but Mara didn’t slow. Her father disapproved of unchaperoned rides and would send a loyal retainer after her as soon as the gate guard reported her departure. She wanted to get as much of a head start as possible.

  The gray mare was heavily built and sturdy, rather than swift. Nevertheless the miles fell away. Soon her father’s castle, built on a hilly slope near the great, dark Ullsmere, lake without depth, lay far behind, and still the mare galloped on. Mara’s heart hammered along with each pounding hoofbeat. Marriage. It would be the end of the world as she had known it. Mara had no illusions; no husband would ever be as accommodating as her father had been. There would be no more wild gallops through the countryside, no more hawking or hunting. Her husband would not care that she could accurately throw a dagger or competently aim a crossbow. He would have no pride in the fact she could effectively wield a broadsword. No. None of those things would impress a man. A husband.

  Nostrils flared and neck lathered, the mare slowed to a trot. Mara did not urge her back into a gallop. The horse’s flagging steps were in perfect rhythm to her own faltering heart and hopes.

  Beatrice, her mother, was as fragile as she was beautiful, intelligent, and devoted. Two sons had been stillborn before Mara, and there had been none after. Doting on their daughter, Ranulf had encouraged-and Beatrice had allowed-Mara’s training in what otherwise were masculine pursuits. She had not, however, neglected her daughter’s education in the feminine arts.

  Mara sighed and allowed her mare to fall into a plodding walk. She was, she mused unhappily, amply prepared to run a manor. She was familiar with the spices that turned an ordinary table into a grand one; she knew how to store and use medicinal herbs, how to dry certain flowers with which to sweeten dank rooms; and she could even ply a needle with a certain degree of competence, if not artistry.

  Yet to spend the rest of her life engaged in these mundane pursuits? Never again to feel the wind of freedom in her face, or experience the thrill of a hunt? The thought was intolerable. Not to mention thoughts of the man himself. Her life, her future, would now belong to someone else. A stranger. An intimate stranger.

  The palfrey halted when she felt Mara stiffen unnaturally in the saddle. Mara didn’t notice. Her hound sat down nearby and gazed up at her, panting, his tongue lolling. He cocked his head and uttered a thin whine.

  The sound intruded on Mara’s reverie, and she turned her attention to the huge, shaggy dog. A bitter smile touched her mouth. “Would to God I had been born like you, old friend,” she murmured dryly. “A male.”

  But she had not She had been born the weaker sex and so must have a man to protect and provide for her. Mara snorted. It didn’t matter she was likely more capable than most men. As her mother had said: a husband there must be, so a husband she would have. And if her immediate betrothal would save her from the clutches of the unspeakably cruel and avaricious Earl Baldwin, she supposed it was at least one small thing for which to be grateful.

  She had to admit her parents were right: Only marriage to another would save her. Of that there was no doubt. If she remained unmarried and refused to wed Baldwin, the earl would simply petition the king for her hand. And although Henry was just, he was also a man. He would neither understand nor countenance Mara’s refusal. He would grant Baldwin’s request.

  Mara shuddered. Death would be preferable to life with the Earl of Cumbria.

  Absorbed in her thoughts, Mara was unaware of how far she had ridden, or in what precise direction. She did not notice that she had come to the southernmost border of her father’s lands, to the point where they joined with Baldwin’s. She likewise did not notice the small band of riders that crested a distant, brown hill and halted, their attention turned in her direction. She noticed only that the day seemed to have grown considerably colder. She pulled her cloak more tightly about her shoulders, and shivered.

  Hawk-nosed and thin to the point of emaciation, Earl Baldwin knew he did not make a good first impression. All his wealth, all his power, could not compensate for his lack of physical attractiveness. He was aware, moreover, that his predilection for wearing black caused many people to liken his appearance to that of a crow. But these days that was only whispered behind his back. The penalty for such an insult, should it be overheard, was a just and fitting one, rendered swiftly. Death.

  Baldwin smiled to himself. His brother had learned that lesson: not to cross him. Howard, the elder, the chosen, the handsome, the shining one. Howard, who had been petted and fawned over by their mother. Howard, who had become their father’s constant companion, accompanying the old earl everywhere as he learned what he must to assume his birthright upon his father’s death. Howard, who had unfortunately chosen to eat those delicate mushroom pasties prepared for the boys’ noonday meal, the pasties Baldwin himself had so wisely declined to touch.

  Naturally, the cook had been blamed. An accident, surely, choosing the wrong, the most poisonous mushrooms from the forest’s bounty. But such an accident could not afford to be repeated with just one precious little heir remaining. The cook had been summarily hanged.

  No one had ever suspected. Not really. Just Baldwin’s mother, who had never liked him very much to begin with. And then he had grown tired of her long, wary looks, the expressions of disgust and revulsion that occasionally passed over her fine, pale features. When she’d finally died, after a long, wasting illness, no one had suspected the honey mead that she took each night to help her sleep. She had never been the same, anyway, since her eldest son’s death.

  Baldwin’s smile of satisfaction deepened. He smoothed back his long, glossy black hair. Unfortunately, although certainly his finest feature, those locks did not, he knew, enhance his unusually pallid complexion or pale, slightly protuberant blue eyes.

  Still, those were things that would be overlooked by his future bride. If she knew what was good for her.

  Baldwin licked his thin, colorless lips and cast his gaze down in dreamy contemplation of the bony hand that gripped the reins. The hand that would soon stroke that firm, white flesh, that extraordinary hair of Ranulf’s brat. Baldwin’s smile gathered into a chuckle.

  Yes, indeed, the incredible Amarantha would soon be his. This time, he had an offer her father could not refuse. This time, if an alliance with
the Earl of Cumbria was not enough for the old fool, Baldwin would offer more. Surely hunting rights in Cumbria’s vast and bountiful forests, and the gift of several hundred acres of land along Ranulf’s borders, prime grazing land, should be. He could afford to be generous, as generous and magnanimous as he wished. He would get it all back soon enough when the miserable old fool died and his daughter inherited.

  Armarantha.

  The mere thought of her thickened the blood in his veins. Mara. Haughty, arrogant, magnificent Mara. A woman so extraordinary Baldwin was willing to forget, temporarily at least, the humiliation of his last attempt to press his suit.

  “My Lord. Excuse me, Earl Baldwin. Look there, just ahead, at the foot of the hill.”

  Irritated by the distraction, Baldwin waved his man away as if shooing a fly. But his thoughts had been interrupted. Rewarding the offending knight with a scowl, he gazed in the direction the man indicated.

  And saw her. Like a dream come to life, there she was. Unmistakable, larger than life. Amarantha. Ranulf’s daughter. She sat her mount rigidly erect, chin high. Her nearly white hair was unbound and caressed her shoulders like a rare silken cape. There was no one else like her, and soon, very soon, she would be his.

  The four knights who accompanied their earl watched a smile briefly light their lord’s usually bleak countenance and knew they were in for a bit of sport. Not a man among them blamed the earl for his all too obvious desire, and not one of them wouldn’t have given much, if not all, he owned to be in the earl’s position.

  “There she is, lads,” Earl Baldwin called. “My bride-to-be. My beauty. What say we give her a warm welcome and escort her home?” Then, wanting no reply-expecting none-Baldwin cruelly spurred his mount into a dash down the hill.

  Trey’s growl was low, ominous. Mara knew immediately the sound meant someone approached. She looked up, and movement on the distant hill caught her attention. She saw the riders headed in her direction.