The Circle Of A Promise

by Helen A Rosburg

  In the instant she had risen from the lake and beheld him, in that single burning instant, she had known his image would never leave her. She would forever compare all other men to the portrait that had been etched upon her soul. And when she had come to know him, in those few, short, precious hours, she had come to love him as well. It had not come upon her like a young maid’s giddy first romance, but revealed itself as a certainty, a knowing deep within the essence of her being. She had not doubted it from the first.

  So why, now, did she hesitate? After all they had been through together, all she felt for him, why did she not simply say what was in her heart? Had grief so numbed and maimed her that she was unable to tell this good, honest, loving man what he wished to hear?

  Mara could hardly speak for the sudden and painful lump in her throat. Awash with shame, she nevertheless rose gracefully to her feet and looked Stephen directly in the eye.

  “I will be very happy in Bellingham, Stephen,” she replied in a barely audible voice. “I will always be happy wherever you are.”

  Stephen didn’t realize he’d held his breath until he let it out. “Then you’ll. You still want-you mean, you’ll marry me?”

  “Of course I’ll marry you,” Mara said simply. She had to smile at the boyish wonder etched so plainly on his hard, masculine features. “I love you.”

  Stephen remembered the vow he had made their very first day together; the vow not to kiss her until he had made her his wife, but too much had happened since then. Everything was different now, everything had changed. She had said she loved him.

  As he loved her. Totally. Completely. Forever.

  Mara’s heart hammered as Stephen’s big hands lightly gripped her upper arms. She saw him swallow, saw his lips part. The intoxicating male scent of him came to her as he drew her nearer still. She closed her eyes.

  The whole of Stephen’s being was concentrated in one spot. He lowered his mouth to hers. Covered it.

  She was helpless. All of her life gone before was as nothing, and she opened to him like a flower to the sun. She welcomed him, and surrendered to him, all at once.

  Stephen was dizzy, reeling. Mara was everything he had ever wanted. And now she was his, in his arms, her confession of love still ringing in his ears. But if he did not stop now.

  He pulled away abruptly, leaving Mara breathless. His hands remained on her arms, but he held her away from him.

  “We must-It must be soon,” he said, every word an effort. “The wedding. I’d like to leave for Bellingham at dawn. There’s an abbey along the way, and I know Father Gregory there. It’s secluded, very simple, but he’ll marry us. Unless.”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you’d rather wait until we get to Bellingham.”

  “I did have a ceremony planned. Festivities, feasting.” Stephen’s disappointment was evident. “All the people of Bellingham have looked forward to it since they heard I was to take a bride. So I. I guess we should go ahead and-”

  “Get married at the abbey,” Mara finished. “The festivities may take place after the fact, as they would have done anyway.”

  Stephen was entirely unable to control his grin. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “The only thing I mind is further delay. I want to be your wife, Stephen.”

  “And so you shall be, Mara. So you shall.”

  It was done. As simply as that. All questions answered, all doubt banished. She loved him, wanted him, wished to be his wife. If words were not enough, he had felt the giving of her soul into his in that single embrace.

  Mara was prepared this time when Stephen lowered his head to hers. Her heart had wings. Her spirit soared.

  He loved her. He wanted her. The culmination of her entire life was in this moment.

  Their lips met softly, fleetingly at first. Stephen murmured against her, words meaningless, lost in the passion that rose to engulf them. The meaning, however, was clear. The kiss became shattering in its intensity. The world faded away. The sun slipped behind the distant hills and they held each other, locked in an embrace that would transcend time.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  It was the first day of summer, the most perfect day. The sky was faultlessly blue, the air warm and fragrant and filled with birdsong. Pale and delicate spring flowers had given way to the sturdier blooms of June, and they blossomed along the roadsides and in sunlit patches of forest in shades of red, orange, and purple.

  The small band rode slowly out through Ullswater’s gate, as if afraid to disturb the fragile, magical peace of the day. Once past the castle walls, however, Mara reined Hero to halt. She turned in her saddle and took a long, last look at what had been her home for so long.

  Memories assailed her. They rushed and tumbled in her mind’s eye as if the very walls of the castle called out to her, begged her not to forget.

  She saw days of summer long ago, when she’d been but a child and had laughed and played, rolled with the hound pups, and charged about on her pony. When she’d been hugged and kissed and loved, and brandished her first sword, carved of wood.

  She remembered evenings in the great hall, a warm and welcoming fire that crackled in the hearth during the long, sharp days of winter. Her parents’ love for one another, and the way they had guided her so surely through the awkward time of adolescence. Ice on the Ullsmere and snow in the yard.

  She recalled the crisp, bright days of autumn, the aroma of roasting venison, and the hearty taste of ale. Leaves of gold. Shedding her child’s body and emerging into womanhood.

  And she remembered all the springs, blossoms as dainty as dewdrops, her mother’s laughter, forests greening, mares heavy with foals and ewes with lambs. Sunlight on melting snow and trickling streams. An icy lake, and a man who had planted a seed in her girl-woman’s breast.

  A seed planted in soil fertile and innocent. Bathed in blood. Steeped in sorrow. But a seed that had grown nonetheless, and flourished.

  No one moved during Mara’s long contemplation of her home. Trey sat in the dust, unconcerned. Horses indolently swished their tails. Mara straightened in her saddle and gazed at her husband-to-be.

  She had still been a girl that day by the lake. Now she was a woman, and she loved like a woman. No giddy and giggling courtship, this. They’d be partners, for all time. Soul mates who had found each other, cleaved to each other.

  Mara glanced over her shoulder one more time. The gray stone walls of Ullswater seemed warm in the sun, content, full of their memories and at peace with them.

  She put her heels to Hero’s sides and silently rode away.

  It was nearly a day’s ride to Bellingham. The Cistercian Abbey was almost halfway between Bellingham and Ullswater, just over the border on Stephen’s estate. Close by noon they were still on Ullswater’s land. The narrow road wound through a vast wood, and Mara welcomed the shade. The summer heat was upon them. She looked over at Stephen, clad, as usual, in his mail.

  “How do you stand it?” she asked, and nodded at his armor. “Aren’t you in danger of being boiled in your own juices during the summer?”

  “Constant danger,” he replied.

  Mara laughed. “When we reach the abbey we might just be able to carve you up and have you for supper. Father Gregory would no doubt be glad of a nice roast for his table.”

  Stephen’s expression sobered. “You know, I usually do send supplies to Father Gregory and the monks. I should have brought something with me this time. We arranged the journey in such haste, I forgot.”

  Mara reached over and briefly laid a hand on his arm. “He’ll certainly welcome you, Stephen, with or without a gift. Especially if you’ve been generous in the past.”

  “Of course he will. I just feel bad.”

  They rode a few moments in silence. Then: “How long have you known Father Gregory?”

  “Oh, a very long time.” A half smile touched Stephen’s lips. “Before I was born, my father was hunting with some of his knights. On the road to the for
est, my father’s horse stumbled and fell on him. His leg was broken. None of my father’s men knew what to do-except send for help, naturally.”

  “Then a small band of monks came along the road. They were journeying, tired and hungry, but Father Gregory stopped to help. He was skilled in the healing arts. He set my father’s leg and, from herbs and plants he’d found along the wayside, concocted a tea that soothed my father’s pain.”

  “When my father asked what he might do for the monk in return, the monk merely said, ”Say a prayer to God for us, my son, that He might one day send us a benefactor upon whose land we may build a small abbey.“ ”

  Mara smiled. “And your father gave him the land?”

  “Not right away. But he did bring the monks to the castle to fill their stomachs. It was my mother who, after meeting them, actually persuaded my father to give them the plot.”

  “And they built their abbey.”

  “Well.” Stephen shook his head. “They were a poor order. They built little more than hovels. Until.” He sighed. “You know my mother died following my birth. When my father knew she was. was not going to survive, he sent for Gregory. Over the years the monk had brought great comfort to my mother. He. he offered solace at her death. She died with my father holding one hand; Gregory the other.”

  “I’m so sorry, Stephen,” Mara said softly.

  “He became a great friend of my father’s during the succeeding years. He befriended me as well. I adored him,” Stephen said simply. “When my father died, he kept watch over me until I-I became a man.”

  “And now you keep watch over him.”

  Stephen glanced at Mara and smiled. “Exactly. But I have been remiss in my duties lately.”

  “You’ve had other things to think about.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” They exchanged looks. “Still, I should have remembered to bring something with me today. Especially since I’m going to ask him a special favor.”

  “A very special favor,” Mara echoed. Her eyes sparkled. “And I think I know a way we might be able to repay him.”

  The woods through which they passed, on Ullswater’s far northern boundary, had once been her father’s favorite place to hunt. “In the last few years, however,” she explained, “my father hunted closer to home. The deer population in these woods must be significant by now. And we do have Trey with us.”

  Stephen grinned. “I’m game if you are.”

  Mara groaned. “That was terrible, Stephen.”

  “Yes, it was,” he agreed cheerfully. “But you, my love, had a very good idea.” He turned and called to the men behind him. “We’re going into the woods to try and take a deer. Walter and Albert, stay here and watch the road. Jack, lend me your bow.”

  The small man rode forward, unslung his bow and quiver, and handed them to his lord. He shook his head in mock sadness. “I don’t know about this. It’s usually me what brings down the game in a hunt, y` know.”

  “Keep your thoughts to yourself, where they belong,” Stephen retorted good-naturedly. “Come along, Mara. Trey!”

  The big dog’s ears perked up. Mara slapped her thigh. “Come, Trey. Hunt!”

  The hound bounded off into the wood.

  It was slow going at first in the dense forest. Trey loped ahead, zigging and zagging. Small animals skittered away through the undergrowth. A jay scolded from the tree-tops. Trey eventually drew ahead as Mara and Stephen wended their way deeper and deeper into the forest, and soon the dog was out of sight.

  Mara and Stephen jogged their mounts, making their way carefully around the trees, and waited to hear the hound’s braying bark that told them he had sighted prey. As Mara had supposed, it was not long in coming.

  Stephen and Mara reined in sharply. Mara pointed. “It came from over there.”

  The pair exchanged a slow smile. “After you, my lady.” Stephen made a sweeping, courtly gesture.

  Mara did not hesitate. She put her heels to her mount and urged him into a lope. It was the first time in a long time she had felt the blood sing through her veins. This was what she loved.

  Accustomed to the woods on her father’s estate, she was adept at guiding her stallion through the dangerous obstacle course. Stephen quickly fell behind.

  But he did not trail far in her wake, and the blood thundered in his ears as well. God, but she is magnificent, he thought as he rode. Then he threw caution to the winds and urged his chestnut to greater speed.

  On through the forest they pounded, faster and faster, until at last they caught sight of Mara’s sleek gray hound. He was just ahead, running flat out. A stag and three does leapt ahead of him. They were headed toward a small glade, a clearing of light and space in the shadowed gloom.

  Mara leaned low on Hero’s neck. The glen approached swiftly. At the last moment she saw the fallen tree at the clearing’s perimeter, barring the way before them.

  Mara gripped her reins a little more tightly and directed Hero’s head, making sure he saw the obstacle before them.

  Trey and the deer disappeared on the far side of the glade. Alert to his mistress’s hand on the reins, Hero eyed the fallen trunk and gathered his great body. He took the tree in a graceful bound. Stephen was not as lucky.

  He did not see the trunk until he saw Mara’s stallion rise into the air. He was off balance, unable to properly guide his mount by the time they reached it. The stallion coiled his muscles to spring, but too late. His front feet grazed the mossy bark, and his left front leg tangled in an outcropping branch. He came down in the glade upon his knees.

  Stephen was thrown forward. He clutched at the saddle, then at the stallion’s streaming mane. He was unable to save himself.

  Mara heard the horse’s whuumpphh as its massive weight connected with the earth. She wheeled Hero in time to see Stephen tumble to the ground. “Stephen!”

  The wind had been knocked out of him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. His charger regained its feet, shook its head, then its body. It was unhurt.

  But Stephen was still unable to move. Mara flung herself from Hero’s back and returned to Stephen’s side. She knelt beside him and gently took his face in her hands. “Stephen. Stephen, are you all right?”

  He thought he was. Embarrassed perhaps. Humiliated. But physically unharmed. But he was also, he realized, in an extremely advantageous position.

  “Stephen, please talk to me! Are you all right?”

  He merely groaned. He kept his eyes shut.

  “Oh, Stephen. Please, my love, say something! Speak to me!”

  He allowed his eyelids to flutter open weakly. “Mara?” he croaked.

  “Stephen, oh, Stephen! Tell me you’re all right! Where are you hurt?”

  Slowly, Stephen raised a limp hand and touched his mouth. “Here,” he breathed.

  “What? Your mouth?”

  “Mmmmmm.” Stephen moaned again. “Here. Right here.” He tapped a finger to his lips.

  Mara sat back on her heels, hands on her hips. “Stephen! Are you-”

  “Ohhhh.” He rolled his head to the side.

  “Stephen!” Mara again captured his face in her hands.

  It was the moment he had waited for. Before she could react and draw away, Stephen reached up and tangled his fingers in Mara’s hair. He drew her head down to his.

  “Yes. Here,” Stephen sighed, and flicked his tongue across her lips. “Kiss me, Mara. Kiss away the hurt.”

  Both stallions stood together quietly. Then Hero shook his head, walked to where the fallen humans lay, and chuffed his warm breath over them.

  They didn’t notice. They didn’t move. They were lost in each other, and very, very far away.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The Cistercian Abbey was as secluded as Stephen had said.

  It was midafternoon when they left the road and entered a small woodland. To Trey’s delight, another two does and a buck bounded away before them. They leapt lightly through the undergrowth, disturbing all manner of animals that
darted in every direction. Birds scolded warnings, fluttered into the sky, and returned to their leafy bowers to observe. The band rode on for several more miles on a faint track before they saw signs of life other than animal.

  Mara rode at Stephen’s side, and was delightfully surprised when she saw the clearing. They went from mottled shadow to brilliant sunlight into an area that had been cleared and cultivated. Brown-robed monks toiled among the neat furrows, their backs bent and brows moist They all ceased their labors when they noticed the band of riders, and stared at them curiously.

  Stephen bent from his horse to speak to the nearest robed figure. “I am Stephen, Baron of Bellingham. Father Gregory is an old friend, and I’ve come to ask a favor of him. Can you take us to him?”

  The monk nodded and gestured for them to follow. Mara felt self-conscious with so many pairs of eyes upon her. She knew the Cistercians were an isolated order, and wondered how long it had been since they had seen any outsider, much less a woman. She disliked disturbing the peace of their sunny glade and solitary existence, but at the same time was glad she had come. The solitude and peace of the place were a balm. There could not be, Mara thought, a more perfect spot on earth for her and Stephen to be wed.

  “Abbey,” however, seemed a misleading description of the lovely, quiet place. There was no imposing church, merely several small buildings, simply, sturdily built of wood and local stone. The monk who led them disappeared into one modest edifice and, a few moments later, Father Gregory appeared.

  “Stephen, my son, how good to see you. It’s been a long time. Too long.” The narrow, gray face was changed dramatically by a smile. The monk glanced briefly at the rest of the party, the knights and servant. “But you must have come on important business. Please, please, come inside. Brother Roald,” he said to their guide, “please see to the horses. This way, this way!”

  Such joviality did not seem to go with the tall, thin monk, but it didn’t matter; Mara liked him at once.

  Father Gregory led them into the small wooden building that served as their chapel. Summer sunlight streamed onto the wood-planked floor and turned it to the color of warm honey. The father gestured at one of the hard wooden benches pushed against the wall. “Sit, please. You’ve been journeying. You must be weary. May I offer refreshment?”