The Circle Of A Promise

by Helen A Rosburg

  Stephen laughed softly and took both the monk’s hands in his. “Slow down, Father. Please. First let me introduce you to my betrothed-Amarantha, Ranulf’s daughter.”

  “Oh, my. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.” The thin, nervous man released himself from Stephen’s grasp and took Mara’s hands. “My daughter. I am so pleased to meet you.” He glanced at Stephen, brows arched. “Your betrothed, you say?”

  “Yes, Father. It’s why we’ve come today.”

  “My son,” Gregory said quietly, mouth quirked in a half smile. “You have come for my blessing?”

  “Most assuredly,” Stephen replied. “But for something else as well.” His expression abruptly sobered. With concise, measured words, he told Father Gregory of the tragic events recently come to pass.

  When he had done, the good father slowly shook his head. He laid a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “Oh, my son,” he said. “I am so terribly sorry to hear of this. And you, my daughter. God’s mercy on you, and His healing love.” He shook his head again, then brightened. “But you said you had something to ask of me. Tell me, what can I do for you? How can I help?”

  Stephen glanced quickly at Mara. “Based on what I’ve told you, Father, we must needs be married in haste. I want Mara safely my wife.”

  A slow smile spread across the father’s lined and weathered face. “And you wish for me to join you! I am honored.” He turned his kindhearted smile first on Mara, then Stephen. “I am more delighted than I can tell you, Stephen, that you have come here, to our modest abbey, to sanctify the union. Your father would be glad, you know. He would have been happy.”

  “I am glad as well,” Stephen murmured in reply. “Certainly there is no one else I would have marry us. Nor could I envision a grander cathedral.”

  The monk laughed softly. “It is not the place, is it, my children, but the occasion, the moment.” He looked at them each again. “And I can see this is a very special moment, indeed, for both of you.”

  Mara felt the monk’s warm, brown, callused hand take her own. He reached for Stephen’s. “I also see,” lie continued, “that Almighty God has already blessed this union. He has seen the love in your hearts, and the miracle of His own love will shine upon you. Now, and for all time.”

  A shiver ran through Mara’s breast. The words he had spoken were true. He could see into their souls.

  A short time later, without further ado, Mara found herself standing in front of Father Gregory, Stephen at her side. She had changed from her riding costume into the rose tunic and embroidered chemise her mother had made. In her faintly trembling hands she carried a bouquet of wildflowers Jack had handed her at the last moment. Thomas, who would return to Ullswater, and Walter, who would go on to Bellingham, stood near with Jack. Sunlight poured through the windows, mingled with birdsong and the steady, distant sounds of the monks at their labors in the surrounding fields. Father Gregory intoned the words of the ceremony, and Mara felt as if she was floating. She closed her eyes.

  None of it seemed quite real. The horrifying events that had changed her life became as a nightmare banished by sunlight. There was only now. The warmth of the day against her skin. The scent of wildflowers, the song of a lark, the rustle of leaves in a breeze. And Stephen. Her husband.

  Mara opened her eyes. They were one now. Bound together, truly.

  For eternity.

  Chapter Thirty

  Stephen felt positively mellow. He had rested, showered and shaved, and put on clean clothes. He was a happy man. Now all he needed was a decent meal. He stood before the mirror and ran his hands through his long, black hair. Something strange caught his eye and he froze, hands poised in midair.

  His hair had seemed to move as if of its own will. Though he knew he had smoothed it with his fingers, had felt the strands, for a moment he had not actually been able to see his hands. They had just appeared to become. transparent.

  Stephen shook his head. Ridiculous. A trick of light. He slicked his hair back one more time and stepped away from the mirror.

  Much better. He looked like a regular guy, not some raving madman. He wouldn’t stand out in the crowd. No one would remember him if went next door to the diner. Stephen smiled at his reflection.

  The fresh air outside felt good, even if the smells were a little funky: motor oil and exhaust fumes. Cars whizzed by him on the interstate. He started to feel vulnerable.

  Amanda would be frantic. He’d have a few days’ grace, he was sure. She was a very private person, very discreet She wouldn’t go straight to the police. She’d give it a while. But only a while.

  There was a drugstore in the strip mall that boasted the Fifties Diner. Stephen bought a pair of cheap shades and a baseball cap. In the diner, he sat at the counter with his back to the windows.

  His appetite wasn’t as hearty as when he had first started out, but he forced himself to eat-good, solid American food. Meat loaf and mashed potatoes, creamed spinach. He felt a little better when he was done, but anxious. Anxious to return to her.

  He broke into a jog once on the way back to the motel, and had to force himself to walk. He didn’t want to stand out in any way, give anyone cause to remember a tall, dark, broad-shouldered man. In case anyone came asking around. He stuck his hands in his pockets.

  Stephen felt some change and a modest wad of bills. The money wasn’t going to last too much longer. Long enough, he hoped. But. long enough for what?

  He wasn’t sure yet Not yet. He was moving through his past, moving toward something. He always had the sense of a task he must complete. He had to keep going, and make resolution with his dream. He hadn’t had it since he had been going back. If he didn’t complete his task, however, whatever it was, he knew the dream would return to haunt him to his grave.

  The motel room smelled faintly of the soap he had used in the shower. He locked the door behind him and put out the do not disturb sign. He sat down in the small chair by the window.

  He could now go back easily, quickly. Yet he delayed. He had to dunk for a minute, concentrate.

  He remembered the past clearly now when he returned to the present He was in love with the most beautiful, amazing woman God had ever created. He was as much in love with her at this moment as he had been in his former life. It was torture to have to leave her in the past and return to the present, however briefly. It was joy, ecstasy to return to her. There was only one problem.

  Although, at need, he had developed the ability to return to the present from the past, he had no awareness of the present while he lived his former life. When hunger or thirst summoned, he simply faded out of northern England and into upstate New York. It was a problem he knew, instinctively, he had to solve. There was something he had to carry back with him to the past, some knowledge, some knowingness, in order to complete his task. He hadn’t figured out how to do it yet, how to pierce the veil from both sides. But it was crucial.

  And he didn’t have forever.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Elizabeth had lived all her life in the village of Bellingham. She was petite and considered pretty, with her piquant features, reddish brown hair, and sprinkling of freckles. People also told her she was a bright little thing, and she had certainly always been curious and eager to learn everything she could. Her father was the town brewer, and she had long known how to make the very best ale. As a small child she had haunted the baker and learned all she could about baking. She loved clothes and had learned to sew, and had even visited the fuller on the river to see how bales of sheep’s wool became cloth. She was meticulous in her personal habits, careful of her few belongings, and as neat as a pin. Her mother had always said she would make someone a fine wife, but Elizabeth wanted something more. She wanted to do something-she simply didn’t know what it was yet.

  It was a bright, warm afternoon in early summer when Elizabeth left her labors, along with everyone else in Bellingham, to stand by the side of the road and watch the baron return to his castle with the woman who would be their
baroness. It was that day which changed her life. That day, Elizabeth finally knew what she wanted to do.

  There were only five riders and six horses, the extra a pack animal to carry the few items Mara had chosen to bring with her from Ullswater. But the group could have been an army, so powerful was the impression they made.

  There was the baron, handsome and strong like a hero prince from one of the tales Elizabeth’s grandmother used to tell her. He rode his prancing charger, whose chestnut coat gleamed like polished copper in the sun. His ever-present servant, Jack, followed with his ready smile and plumed hat. Next were two of the baron’s knights, heavily armed, lances couched in their tall saddles, stallions draped in colorful trappings; and last came the woman who would be baroness.

  Elizabeth caught her breath.

  The baroness-to-be did not ride a palfrey, like other ladies, but sat astride a warhorse like her betrothed and his knights. She wore fawn-colored leggings beneath a midnight-blue tunic, and leather boots to the knees. A silver girdle encircled her slender waist, but not merely for effect. She wore a dagger on the right, a short-sword on the left. A huge and shaggy gray hound trotted at the heels of her high-stepping gray stallion, whose dappled coat was like sunlight and shadow in a wooded grove.

  Elizabeth knew she would never see anyone as imposing or breathtakingly regal as the woman astride that charger. Or anyone as beautiful.

  The hair wound tightly atop the woman’s shapely head was as pale as spun silver, and seemed to shine with a light of its own. Her skin was flawless, her perfect features sculpted from marble, her eyes brilliant gems. She was larger than life, unreal, a goddess.

  Elizabeth stood spellbound as the troop moved through town and on up the hill to the castle. She did not come to life again until she saw diem cross the moat and pass beneath the castle’s iron studded gate. Then she picked up her skirt and ran after them as fast as her young, slim legs could carry her.

  The day was one of the happiest of Mara’s life: first the quiet, magical wedding at the monks’ clearing in the wood, then a ride through countryside she had never seen before, but had loved almost at once.

  She had felt exposed initially, as they neared Bellingham and left the more heavily forested land behind them. But the hillsides were grand and green, quilted with patches of purple heather, or white.

  The town of Bellingham itself was small, quaint, and tidy, with its thatched and timbered cottages and tiny market square. The people of the village lined the main street, smiling and waving and craning their necks for a better view of the baron and his lady. Then the town was behind them, the castle ahead.

  “What do you think?” Stephen inquired anxiously. He had pulled his horse alongside Hero, and Mara was touched by the worried expression that furrowed his normally smooth brow. She gazed up at the stone castle clinging to the hilltop, so different from the sprawling and shady Ullswater. But it looked sturdy. Secure and impressive. It was Stephen’s castle. Her home.

  Mara smiled. “I think it’s wonderful.”

  The lines on Stephen’s face relaxed, and they rode together across the wooden bridge and under the gate.

  Alfred and the remaining contingent of Stephen’s guard stood awaiting them in the bailey. Horses’ hooves echoed on the cobbled surface.

  “Welcome, my lord baron,” the older man said formally. He made a slight bow. “My lady.”

  “It’s good to be home, Alfred.”

  Boys appeared to hold the horses, and Stephen dismounted to assist Mara. A scattering of servants stood shyly in the shadows of the high walls. They smiled at their master and eyed their new mistress. With a gracious smile, Mara took her husband’s arm and they all entered the great hall.

  The Norman hall was unlike anything to which she was accustomed. It was a palais, built in the French style with no undercroft. The long, wide room was at ground level at the opposite end of the courtyard from the gate and donjon tower. And it was lovely. Mara caught her breath as they entered the wide and heavy double doors.

  Many tall windows lined the hall, which was not as long as Ullswater’s, but wider. The ceiling was higher as well, the roof raised to nearly twice the height of Mara’s home. She looked up and saw a narrow gallery that ran all the way around the perimeter of the room. Opposite the door and beyond a massive Norman arch was a large hearth with an intricately carved mantel, flanked by two colorfully painted screens.

  “Entry to the pantry and buttery,” Stephen said, and indicated the screen to the left. “And to the right.”

  Their eyes met, and Mara felt some of her newly found serenity drain away. It had been a long day, the most important of her life. She had ridden many miles, to a new home. Stephen’s entire household looked to her either for instruction, or to see how she would acquit herself. On top of it all, she was about to embark on a new, and intimate, relationship-one she had longed for, desired with every fiber of her being.

  The days had passed and the bond between them had become a strong and binding chain, but the consummation of the relationship-die physical reality-had always been in the future. Now the future had arrived. Mara’s knees were weak.

  Stephen, unaccustomed to the ways of women as he was, was nonetheless attuned to the woman at his side. He lent her an arm for support, and guided her to the head of the hall where he turned to face the small crowd gathered behind diem.

  “The baroness and I thank you for your welcome,” Stephen began. There were murmurs as the meaning of his words sank in. Stephen smiled and held up his hands as the volume slowly increased. “I know it’s a surprise. We had planned for the festivities to take place here, in Bellingham. And they shall. We will celebrate this marriage, and your new lady, in grand style.”

  Stephen turned his smile on Mara, then purposely sobered his expression. “But give us one week’s time. My wife, as you have surely heard by now, is in mourning for her family. And she needs time to feel at home here. I’m sure you will all do your best to assure her happiness and comfort.”

  The tone of his voice dismissed them, and his order, politely phrased though it was, was obeyed as if law. Mara was impressed by her husband’s easy ability to command-as she had been by his gentleness and kindness, his courage, daring, prowess with a sword. And now.

  The light was failing fast. Day had reached its end. Servants laid the tables for the evening’s meal, and Mara’s hands trembled in accompaniment to the weakness in her knees. Gentle pressure on her elbow moved her toward the screen to the right of the fireplace.

  “After you, my lady.”

  Mara entered the apartment she would share with her husband.

  “My lady.” Elizabeth appeared from nowhere and dropped like a stone into a deep curtsy. Then the girl remembered herself and added: “My lord baron.”

  Stephen’s hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword. “Who are you? And how did you get in here?”

  Elizabeth remained in the curtsy, eyes fixed to the floor. “My name’s Elizabeth, lord,” she answered swiftly. “Forgive me, I. I just slipped in when no one was looking.”

  Mara and Stephen exchanged a swift glance. A smile twitched at the corner of Stephen’s mouth, but his words remained stem.

  “And why have you `just slipped in‘?”

  Elizabeth looked up at last. Her light brown eyes were wide and shining. “Oh, to serve the lady, of course. Please, my lord, don’t be angry. I couldn’t help myself, I couldn’t. As soon as I saw her, riding through the village, I knew I had to come. There’s never been anyone so perfect, so beautiful. I can do most anything, and I’ll take good care of her, I will. I.”

  Elizabeth stopped abruptly. Her cheeks flushed hotly and both of her small hands rose to cover her mouth. “Oooh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go on like that. But, oh, my lady.”

  The look of adoration in the girl’s eyes went straight to Mara’s heart. She could not possibly turn the child away. Furthermore, she needed someone like Elizabeth, not only to assist in her personal car
e, but to help her learn the ins and outs of Bellingham Castle. When Trey left his place at Mara’s side and quietly padded over to lick Elizabeth’s face, the matter was settled.

  At Stephen’s almost imperceptible nod, Mara said, “Very well, Elizabeth. I should be happy to have you look after me.”

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you, my lady!”

  “Perhaps you could begin,” Stephen said smoothly, “by bringing your mistress something to eat.”

  When the girl had left, hurrying eagerly to her first task, he turned to Mara. “I hope that’s all right with you. I didn’t think you should have to preside over the hall on your very first night here.”

  Once again his thoughtfulness surprised and touched her. “No. Thank you, Stephen,” Mara said softly. “You’ve been kind, so kind to me in everything. I don’t know that I can ever, ever thank you properly.”

  As soon as the words left her lips, however, Mara knew she could, indeed, thank him properly. He was her husband now. She loved him, belonged to him. And she would give herself to him.

  True to the bond between them, Stephen easily read the message in her eyes. He had desired many women before, but none had ever made him tremble. He glanced at the wide bed that he had ordered covered with peacock blue silk to match her eyes, and tenderly cupped his wife’s face in his hands.

  The breath left Mara’s body in a single, long sigh. Her heart hammered, and her vision blurred as Stephen’s face bent closer. She felt his lashes flutter against her cheek, felt his warm breath, the first, faint touch of his lips on hers.

  “Oh, my lady, my lord baron-excuse me!”

  If the girl had not been so earnest, Stephen would have been angry. As it was, he had to laugh and reluctantly stepped away from his bride. “You will have to learn to knock, girl.”