Lord Alfred was a good man, a man who loved his daughter. But it is truth to say that he did encourage a match between his daughter and Sir Walter. The latter was an extremely handsome man, powerful, determined. And he had coveted Morwenna for years by then, waiting, biding his time. He had been her friend; she had, perhaps, cared for him.
Until Michael.
I was not with him the day that love first created madness between them. But I had seen that look in their eyes, and later, being with the two of them, it was impossible not to see the passion that had risen between them. There was a war to be fought, but they had time together. Long days by the spring. Nature made their bed, sky and air were witnesses to their love. Yet, as Michael watched the change of things, he feared for her. He still had to go to war, for that was a soldier’s duty. He was her father’s man, defender of her father’s honor.
Then, when they rode away, when banners were flying and the stirrup cup had been drunk, Lord Alfred so innocently lent fuel to flame, telling Sir Walter that he must guard all in his absence—his home, his law, his daughter. Sir Walter assumed then that she was both his ward and his betrothed. He loved her, in his way. Loved her with a sickness. For he suspected her affair with Michael. She made her feelings evident.
Once, when the soldiers had leave while the conflict raged, I don’t remember the date, but it was while hope still stirred in the hearts of all Royalists, Michael took her secretly to wife.
I remember the night. I see it clearly in my mind’s eye, and itwasclear, for there was a full moon, no cloud in the sky. They stood together in a copse of blossoms, she so beautiful, he so tall and powerful, the knight triumphant, the soldier who would not fail. She did not want him to go to war. She was afraid for him, afraid he would fail, because it became more and more evident that Cromwell would prevail. But a man could not turn his back on his beliefs; she would not love him could he do so. And at first, she was merely scornful of her father’s warder, Sir Walter, for remember, once he had been her friend. He loved her. She thought herself safe.
They met, through it all, infrequently. He was there for her when her father fell to a grave illness and was returned to recover at his ancient estate. Lord Alfred was wounded in body and soul; many a day he did not gain consciousness. When he did, he was aware only of the past; he did not remember the war, nor the King’s plight, nor the soldier who had risked his own life to save him and bring him home.
Sir Walter held power. Tremendous power.
But she ignored the dictates of the man who was now her guardian and thought he would make himself her husband, lord of the castle, and powerful, even in the Protectorate that Cromwell would lead. On the first night of her father’s return, she slipped away to be with her husband. It was then that Sir Walter went to her chambers, ready to tell her that there would be a marriage now, that she would be safe with him, whichever way the wind should blow.
She had friends within the castle. Jane, her maid, Garth, the groom. Jeremy, her father’s old assistant. Jane, hearing that he was coming, made a figure in the bed of blankets and pillows, and when he came, she told him that her lady slept, deep in grief at her father’s condition. And Morwenna did grieve his illness, greatly, yet found solace in the arms of her husband. Who better to wipe her tears?
That night, Jane’s ruse was respected.
But Michael had a few days to tarry, and one night, when Morwenna was gone to his arms again, Sir Walter pushed past Jane, entered the room and found that his ward was gone.
The next day he threatened her.
She would not be threatened. She did not see the danger. She told him that though she cared for him, she would never be his wife.
It was from that night on that he began to call her witch.
Subtly, he spread rumor. Aye, she was a witch. What else but magic could give a maid such compelling beauty that she should so entice men? He was a good man, a Godly man, and she made his mind stray again and again. Aye, it was a pity that so many could be so fooled! There had been a time, a Christian time, when the old ways had been tolerated, when wiccans had still peopled the hills. For though we were a land known as England, we bordered that country which was Wales. The people there were filled with fancy and superstition, and it was a way of life, one that they enjoyed. But when James of Scotland became James I of England, he brought with him a fear of witchcraft, and suddenly, in the midst of war and sadness and bloodshed, the country was filled with witch finders. They were not the King’s men, nor Cromwell’s, they were the law. It remained the law that a man should not steal, nor commit murder, though Cromwell sought to murder our King. But witches! Mostly pathetic old women, they were tortured into admitting to pacts with Satan, to dancing with him, bearing his young, selling their souls to kill a neighbor’s pig or put a pox on an enemy. They were used most heinously, prodded, broken, dunked, and yet it was all within the ways of the law, or what remained of the law. Sir Walter, you see, was both sheriff and master of the castle, and half convinced himself that he was like God, doing God’s work and, when the tide began to turn, doing the work of the country. He was Cromwell’s man, and therefore, when the King’s cause began to fail, he could accuse her of treason and heresy as well as witchcraft.
It was England, after all. By the law, witches were hanged.
Heretics and traitors could be burned.
Morwenna loved her soldier, her knight. She made light of her situation, saying that she would not desert her father. He wanted her to come away; she wanted him to quit the army. He could not desert the King’s cause until he was so ordered by the King. She would not leave her father.
But when Michael had to ride to war again, she begged him not to go. She was so fearful. Still, her fear was for him. He promised her that he would come back to her. He swore that when she needed him, he would be there for her. “Always,” he said to her. And I heard it myself. “Whenever you need me, I swear, I will be there.”
He and Sir Walter had crossed paths many times. Sir Walter claimed only to care for Morwenna’s welfare. Naturally, Michael was welcome in the manor. He was Lord Alfred’s captain, and his champion. Yet, subtly, Sir Walter warned him away from Morwenna.
“You cannot help our lady in these difficult times,” Sir Walter said. “I see that you watch her. You had best forget her.”
“Ah, but, sir, she is the daughter of my dearest patron, Lord Alfred. I will never forget her. I will wage any battle for her.”
“You think you can fight battles, win wars, that are lost.”
“I think that I am steadfast, and I will always serve my lady, as I have served her father.”
“You must take care, sir, because the wind begins to blow in one direction now. If Cromwell’s forces find victory, you, sir, will be a traitor, and you will not be welcome here.”
But as always, his wife slipped out to be with him, and she was angry when he spoke about Sir Walter.
She lay with him, and he with her, and they were man and wife. No matter what the words they exchanged, they were happy with one another. She leaned upon an elbow, watched his beloved face and shook her head. “Maybe we underestimate him.”
“Your father still lives.”
“Poor father has no mind.”
“He would not dare seize power while your father lives. Still, you should come with me now,” he told her gravely. “Tonight. We’ll ride tonight. Across the snow. The Prince will flee soon to Scotland. We’ll follow, adventurers in the night, riders of a fierce storm.”
She touched his face. “My love, I cannot, will not, leave my father.”
He took her hand, holding it to his cheek. “Is your love for him greater than your love for me?”
“My love is as steadfast as your loyalty—for you both,” she told him.
He rolled, taking her into his arms. “If I did not think him a pompous ass, I would force you with me now. Ah, wife, dearest wife. I find no fault with your love for your father, but he is not truly with us anymore. Still, to
know that I am loved with that same sweet devotion is something I take with me in my heart, wherever I go.”
“Why must you still go?”
“We have argued this—”
“The King loses.”
“I will not be the greater cause of his loss.”
“And I will not leave my father.”
“Stubborn wench,” he accused.
“You are the arrogant fool, my husband.”
“Still, lady, no evil shall touch you. I am your husband, your fool, and I will let no evil touch you. When you need me, I will be there.”
“If Cromwell does take this war—”
“Then he will understand that a soldier has fought with loyalty. When the King disbands us, I will be a good citizen of my country.”
“It will be a miracle if we are to be together, to live a normal life, to see a family grow, to love forever.”
“There are no miracles, my lady. Just the strength of our wills, our convictions—our love.”
She smiled. “I, beloved, will believe in miracles. For us both.”
When the cock crowed, it was time to part. She to the manor. He to the war.
It was after that day that Sir Walter began to turn.
He had loved her so much. Wanted her so much.
And he was bitter. Very bitter. He came to her room again one night, demanding that she accept his proposal. She would marry him within the week.
She rejected him flatly. She wasn’t afraid. Her father was still alive.
Sir Walter was like a rabid dog. She would marry him. If she did not, he would have her killed. Publicly. That would bring her lover, and then he would kill Michael, as well.
She was amused. He would never kill Michael. Michael was stronger; Michael rode with soldiers. Sir Walter might have a few men in his employ, he might be sheriff, but he wouldn’t kill her. And he couldn’t kill Michael.
“You mark my words, my beauty,” he told her. “You will change your mind. I will see that you burn.”
“For what? Despising you?”
“You are a witch.”
“You’ll hang me, then.”
“You’ll die for whatever crime I say. I can make it happen.”
“Never. Michael will come for me before he’ll let you kill me.”
“We’ll see, won’t we, my dear. These things will happen. Unless you determine to love me. I will see you dead by Christmas, unless you change your mind.”
“I will not change my mind. You don’t understand. I love Michael. I will love him forever.”
“I will arrest you tomorrow.”
“For witchcraft?”
“For witchcraft, heresy and treason. You will burn. Unless there is a miracle.”
“Arrest me. Light your fires. There will be a miracle.”
But there was not to be….
* * *
“Robert, there you are.”
He heard her voice from the depths of sleep. He was cramped, cold, uncomfortable. Too many dreams. They came back quickly. He didn’t think he liked sleeping in this house. He opened his eyes and saw his own fingers, lying on wood.
A desk.
Pages.
A book.
“Robert? Are you all right?”
He looked toward the voice. Jillian was there, dressed not for riding but for church. She was wearing a long woolen skirt and a matching sweater, and her hair was shimmering, her eyes brilliant, curious, as she watched him.
“What on earth are you doing in here?”
What on earth, indeed?
He thought he had been dreaming. Dreaming a ghost, a book, a story. The library. If he hadn’t been dreaming…
A ghost had come to his bedroom and then told him he had to go read a book.
And here he was.
He shook his head, trying to get the cricks out of his neck. “I, uh…”
Simple, he thought. Milo on the mind, Jillian in danger, Douglas worried, me keeping silent. I dreamed up a ghost. Power of suggestion. I walked to the library. Picked up a book with a story about star-crossed lovers during the English Civil War. Fell asleep again…
“Robert? I just thought I’d tell you we’re leaving now.”
“Now? How about in five minutes?” he queried. “I’d like to come with you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled and shrugged. “Great. We’ll wait.”
Agatha and Henry went, as well. Douglas didn’t comment on the others, but he made Robert welcome.
The church was beautiful and very old. The stones in the cemetery in the churchyard dated back to the sixteen hundreds. Robert found himself staring at them, looking for people named Michael or Morwenna.
The sermon was about miracles. Life itself was a miracle. Faith was a miracle. The most important miracles were those created every day, little miracles, miracles of caring. It wasn’t a long sermon but short, sweet and uplifting. Douglas commented as they left the church that he liked the priest.
“I always like a guy on the positive side,” he told Robert. “Too many fire and brimstone fellows out there. Everything is bad, nothing is good. Hell, yes, we all need help now and then. But life is what we make it. Don’t you agree?”
“Definitely,” Robert told him. “We’re all responsible for ourselves.”
“By the grace of God, here I am,” Douglas said. “Now, there’s a miracle.”
Jillian was smiling. “Robert doesn’t believe in miracles, Grandfather.”
“When there’s a miracle sitting right next to you? Shame on you, son.”
Robert smiled, amused by the way they teased him. “I stand corrected,” he said. “You, sir, are a miracle. You’re also an example of hard work and taking the bull by the horns.”
Douglas sniffed but seemed pleased. In a few more minutes, they were back at the house.
In the kitchen, they had pastries, coffee and juice, and then Jillian said she was running up to change for riding.
“By the way, Grandfather,” she said, speaking a bit hesitantly, “if you see Daniel, tell him that we’ll be a few hours. I know he doesn’t need me, but—”
“You didn’t check with him last night?”
Watching Jillian, Robert thought he saw her flush uncomfortably.
“I was going to. I, um, forgot. I fell asleep.”
She was lying, Robert thought. He wondered why.
“Well, I’m sure nothing earth-shattering can happen in a few hours. What do you say, Robert?”
“I’m not involved at this stage. When they have the finished product, I take over,” he told Douglas.
“Then, bless you, my children. Go riding.”
“Meet you at the stables in ten minutes,” Jillian told Robert.
The horses were already saddled and bridled, each in its customized tack, when he reached the stables. He started for the mottled white horse, Igloo, but Jillian stopped him.
“No, take Crystal. You liked him yesterday. And he liked you.”
“He’s your horse.”
“Igloo is a sweet guy, too. Please, I insist.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Instinctively, he checked the girth, noted that the saddle and stirrups were the same as they had been yesterday, and mounted. Jillian obviously loved to ride, and was good at it. She leapt easily into the saddle and seemed instantly comfortable. She patted Igloo on the neck. “Behave yourself today.”
“Is he known for making trouble?”
She grinned. “He’s Griff’s horse. He’s a prankster.”
“Well, now I feel bad. You should ride your own horse.”
“I’ll be fine. I like a tussle with Igloo now and then.”
“Ah, you think I can’t handle him?”
“No, I didn’t say that at—” She broke off, aware that he was teasing her. “Race you up the hill,” she told him.
And then she was gone, snow from her horse’s hooves hitting him in the face.
Laughing, he too
k off after her. They ran for a fair distance. Igloo was strong, but Crystal was faster. He sped past Jillian, her turn to be pelted with snow. She laughed, trotting up as he waited for her.
Then she took off again.
He urged Crystal forward. When he was abreast of her, he leapt from his horse, catching her, bringing them both down into the snow. She laughed, catching her breath.
“Are you planning on making a habit of dumping me in the snow?” she demanded.
He leaned on an elbow, keeping her pinned. “I couldn’t resist temptation,” he told her.
She stared up at him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes incredibly bright.
“I’m falling in love with you, you know,” he told her.
She sucked in her breath, still staring at him, not speaking at first. “I owe you my life.”
“You don’t owe me anything. Besides, you might not have been killed. You might have stopped in time.”
“I might have. But you saved me.”
He smoothed a reddish-gold lock of snow-covered hair from her forehead. “Saved you, saved myself. I told you, I’m falling in love with you.”
“We’re going slowly,” she said softly.
“Fine. I’m slowly falling in love with you.”
“I’m freezing,” she said. “And if we don’t capture our wayward horses, they’ll head back without us.”
“Good point,” he said, rising, then helping her to her feet. Luckily the horses had wandered only a few steps ahead. They were easily caught.
“Need a hand?” he asked.
“No, thanks, I’m fine,” she said, shaking her head. She was quickly up, watching him as he mounted.
“Robert?”
“Um?”
“I’m…seriously, thank you again.”
“For?”
“Your daring rescue.”
“Well, according to your husband,” he muttered, “it wasn’t enough.”
“What?” she demanded sharply.
He looked over at her, shaking his head. “Sorry. I just…” He shook his head again, embarrassed.
“What?” she demanded again. “Robert…”
A Season of Miracles Page 15