Barbara Leigh

by For Love of Rory

  In a flurry of motion the steward brushed past them and rushed to Gerta. She turned to the man in pretty confusion.

  “Make your bow, lass. ‘Tis the master himself who stands before you.”

  The girl dropped gracefully in an exaggerated curtsy and raised clear blue eyes to gaze in wonder on Rory’s face.

  “Thank you, my lord, for giving us the shelter of your home.”

  Rory stared at the woman, who bloomed with the health and vigor of youth. His eyes went from her to the chubby babe she held in her arms. The child grinned and held out his arms. But it was to the steward that the boy wanted to go.

  “And this be Master Jamie,” the steward announced proudly. “A fine lad he is, too.” He took the baby from the woman and helped her to her feet.

  And, although the baby was content with the attention of the steward, the mother could not take her eyes from Rory. Her admiration was almost palatable, and, in Serine’s opinion, only a fool would not have seen it. Rory paid the woman little mind, his attention on the boy in the steward’s arms.

  “Gerta.” Serine stepped from behind Rory and into the girl’s view. “I am glad to see you here. I was unable to learn of your whereabouts at the castle and feared you were lost. Are you well?”

  “Oh, most well, Lady Serine.” The girl smiled, covering well any surprise she might have felt at seeing the Lady of Sheffield in these surroundings. She dropped a little curtsy and returned to staring at Rory.

  “We did not know whether you would be coming back,” the steward explained swiftly. “This seemed the best place for the young woman. She has been a great help with the house. I was hoping that if you did not wish to keep her for yourself you would allow me to ask for her. My woman has been dead these many years, and I would welcome a wife and son.”

  The man looked hopefully at his overlord, but Rory did not reply. He was watching Serine, and had come to the same conclusion as Ethyl. The Lady of Sheffield was surely upset by the appearance of the young woman.

  Perhaps there was hope, after all.

  “I will give thought to your request,” Rory assured him. “Right now, I’m sure Serine and Ethyl wish to be taken to their rooms.” He turned to Gerta. “Can you see to that, mistress?”

  “Most gladly.” Gerta breezed past the steward. “Come this way.”

  Serine walked stiffly toward the house. This had not been the sort of reception she had expected. Not only was there another woman in residence but Rory was obviously interested in her, and reluctant to allow his steward to make a commitment.

  Ethyl stepped up beside her. “How convenient that Rory comes home to both woman and babe. He is doubly blessed to have such a harem available to him.”

  Serine glared at Ethyl and bit her lip, choking back angry words.

  “Now that he has found a willing and available woman, and one with a child, at that, perhaps he will join in my petition to the council to allow me to leave with Hendrick,” Serine suggested.

  Ethyl looked back at Rory, who was following them, holding Hendrick’s hand. “I doubt he sees it that way,” she said wryly.

  Serine took a deep breath. “Ethyl, somehow I must turn this situation to my advantage.”

  “And that, too, may be a real challenge,” Ethyl said as she followed her mistress into the house.

  * * *

  Serine found that life at McLir Manor was much the same as it had been at Sheffield. Except that there were men to go out and hunt for game, which kept the domestic flocks from being depleted to feed the castle during the winter months.

  Winter officially began on the feast of Michaelmas at the end of September and was a harbinger of the hard months ahead. By the time the blossoms of spring thrust their heads through the ground, hunger and deprivation would be found at all levels of life. But Serine was a good chatelaine and immediately began taking stock of the supplies of Rory’s holdings.

  The days were filled with the supervision of the household and listing all that would be needed against what was available for the hard months ahead. The nights were filled with love. Rory was openly pleased with Serine’s willingness to work beside him for the betterment of his estate. He could not help but hope that she would grow to love it and forget her insistence on returning to Sheffield.

  Hendrick found that he enjoyed the life so very much like the one he had left behind in England.

  “It is much the same, is it not?” he asked his mother as she supervised the storing of supplies. “We did this at Sheffield.”

  “It is not the same,” she admonished him. “Rory’s holdings are not your heritage. You belong at Sheffield and I intend to see that you are allowed to return.”

  The boy wandered about the room, peering into bags and baskets. “When I go home I will see that all my serfs learn a trade they can ply in the winter. Then, in the spring, they can market their wares.”

  Serine shook her head. “The serfs will want to neglect their estate pledge and go to every fair in the countryside. Your estate will suffer.”

  “The people here do so and their land is lush and well tended,” Hendrick said.

  “The people here are not serfs,” Serine reminded him.

  “Perhaps that, too, should be changed,” Hendrick said thoughtfully. “Tim and the other boys from the village are happy here. They do not wish to return to England.”

  “They are happy because this is still new to them. Once they are no longer spoiled and feted they will want to return to Sheffield where they belong.” Serine’s voice was firm, but in her heart she wondered if her words rang true.

  Hendrick did not argue. He did not understand his mother’s indignation, but he knew that it was directed at the circumstances, and not at himself.

  * * *

  With the aid of Ethyl and a reluctant Drojan, Serine had reviewed every aspect she could think of in an effort to discover where the problem lay in the inability of the women of Corvus Croft to become pregnant.

  “It cannot be their diet.” She sighed as she went over a list she had made as to what the women ate. “The food is much like what we have in Sheffield, and, in truth, even the poorest villager here eats as well as the castle folk in England.”

  Together they made certain the women were not taking motherwort, which was believed to prevent pregnancy. Nor were they using undo amounts of nutmeg or rue, which were known to cause miscarriage.

  “And it can’t be due to the indifference of the men.” Serine paced back and forth across the herb kitchen. “Each woman swears that her man could not be more attentive in doing his part.”

  “And that is surely a miracle in itself,” Ethyl said sourly. “Men are renowned to enjoy that part of a relationship above all else. Why would they not be attentive?” Ethyl crumbled a mixture of dried herbs and rubbed her hands together before brushing them over her garments. “It seems to me it is the men who are not doing their part, else the women would be pregnant.”

  Serine took immediate offense. “That is not so. Rory could not be more solicitous of my feelings.”

  “Is it disappointment I hear in your voice?” Ethyl probed. “Perhaps you think he will let Hendrick go should you give him a child of his own. I tell you, it would not be so. He would keep all of you here forever.”

  Serine had not thought what might happen should she become pregnant. She had not done so even though the love they shared had progressed to a point where it sometimes threatened her sanity. This must be one of the times, for surely Ethyl’s words smacked of truth.

  Serine did not reply. There was no need. Ethyl was correct in her premise and they both knew it.

  * * *

  Rory fought his own battle. He did not want Serine to leave, but, for the good of his people and his village, he wanted the women to become pregnant. Invariably, when pondering the subject, his thoughts returned to Serine’s reaction when she had learned of the presence of Gerta in his home. Had it been relief that there was another woman with a boy child who might take the place
of Serine and her son, or had it been jealousy that had caused the sharpness in her voice?

  He could not pretend to know, but he would do all in his power to find out. And if it meant forcing Serine into admitting she did not wish to share him with another woman, he would do so. He might even enjoy the game, he thought with some amusement.

  Gerta did not bother to hide her pleasure at Rory’s attention. She proudly displayed her son, loudly singing the praises of the boy whenever possible.

  Through the steward’s favor, Gerta had found a place at the table above the salt, as well as having a room of her own. And while she did her share of work around the manor house under the careful tutelage of the steward, there were also maidservants who kept and cleaned Gerta’s rooms, as well as varlets who cooked and served the food. Her life in general was a far cry from that of a milkmaid at Sheffield.

  From what she had been told when she arrived in Corvus Croft, her little son would be raised a free man, no less in importance and respect than the steward himself.

  And now it seemed even Rory found Gerta and her babe of interest. Perhaps Rory McLir himself would decide to adopt the child. As she watched the chubby cherub crawling around on the garden lawn she reflected on what his life would be like should he grow up with the advantages she envisioned.

  “So, here you are.”

  Serine’s voice jarred the girl from her daydreams. Gerta jumped to her feet and bobbed a curtsy. “The steward has given me some free time to feed my child and let him play a bit in the sun,” she explained.

  Serine sat on the bench, drawing the girl down beside her. “There’s no problem,” she assured her. “It was just that you looked so pensive. I wanted you to know that I understand, and I’ll do everything possible to see that we return to Sheffield where we belong.”

  Gerta jumped to her feet, her face reflecting her horror at seeing her plans for her son suddenly shattered.

  “Oh, no, m’lady,” she managed to say. “It wasn’t longing for Sheffield that I was thinking on. I bless the day that the men of Corvus Croft brought me and my babe here.”

  “How can you say such a thing?” Serine demanded, all sympathy washed away with the girl’s words. “Sheffield is your home.”

  “In Sheffield I was but the milkmaid and of such little note that no one paid me any mind until I was made May Queen and became pregnant by the Stag Lord.” Gerta shook her head. “I do not wish to leave Corvus Croft. Here my child is accepted and, as a woman obviously able to bear children, I am accepted, too.”

  Serine paused thoughtfully. This was not the first time she had been told that one of her Sheffield serfs did not want to return to their home. “I will not try to force you, nor will I try to convince you to return to Sheffield. But I will give you the opportunity to return should you change your mind.”

  “I have no wish to return to Sheffield and live as a milkmaid when I can have a man who will love and care for me right here in Corvus Croft.”

  Before Serine could answer, Gerta’s face brightened. Serine saw Rory cross the garden, nonchalantly lifting the baby boy when he saw the child’s upraised arms. And while there was little more than a greeting between Rory and the baby’s mother, Serine felt an unsettling pang over Rory’s interest in the little boy.

  * * *

  Serine went about the village talking to the women, making suggestions under the watchful eye of Drojan, who, in turn, was under the equally watchful eye of Ethyl.

  And while the older couple never kissed or caressed in public, there was no question of their relationship. Their eyes touched with understanding and affection no matter the distance between their bodies.

  Damask, with her easy laughter, was a welcome friend, and Serine found herself falling into easy camaraderie with the woman.

  With the arrival of October, Serine, with the assistance of Damask and Ethyl, gathered mistletoe and gleaned away the berries, cutting the leaves and small twigs. From this they extracted the fresh juice, and the village women drank it in a cup of warm water both morning and evening, but the holidays were upon them and there was still no sign of issue.

  Serine wrung her hands, but Damask continued her tasks as wife of the headman, while Ethyl said nothing.

  “I don’t understand either of you,” Serine scolded as they sat before the fire in her solar. She was on the final stitching of a wimple for Ethyl as a Christmas gift. It was no secret, and Ethyl contemplated it with the pride of future possession.

  “What is it you don’t understand?” Ethyl asked, her eye centered on the wimple.

  “No one except myself seems to care that none of the women is with child.” She jabbed the needle through the linen and caught her finger with the point.

  “We all care, Serine,” Damask assured her. “But those of us who live here have become immune to disappointment when it comes to childbearing. We no longer cry in public.”

  Serine accepted her explanation and turned to Ethyl instead. “And what about you? You seem not to care that we are not to be allowed to return to our home.”

  “I feel very much at home here,” Ethyl said quietly.

  “You can’t mean that! Why, everything here is different from England. Even the preparations for the holidays are steeped in the ways of the Druids rather than in the holy mother church.”

  “The holidays are the same. The feasting is the same, and Christmas is still the Christ child’s birthday,” Ethyl assured her mistress. “The only difference is that these people admit that festivities took place long before the priests came with their robes wrapped about them and their hands held out for alms.”

  “‘Tis true.” Damask backed up the older woman. “The yule log came from the Druids and even ‘blood month,’ when the animals are slaughtered, reaches back deep into the past.”

  Serine looked on the days between All Hallows’ Eve and Christmas as a dark time, filled with the mourning cries of doomed animals. This was the time of winter slaughter when the meat was butchered and smoked or salted to keep it eatable as long as possible. And while she did her part to preserve the meat, she looked forward to the time when work was suspended over the fortnight from Christmas Eve to Twelfth Day and festivities took full reign.

  “I guess I am a bit out of sorts,” she admitted apologetically. “I had so hoped that the mistletoe would prove to be the miracle we have awaited.”

  Damask shook her head. “We no longer believe in miracles,” she said sadly. “But we have held more hope in our hearts since you agreed to try to help us. Surely if your knowledge of herbs could save Rory when he was so close to death, you will come upon the elixir that would allow us to bear children. You cannot imagine how much I envy you Hendrick.” She sighed and laid her embroidery in the basket. Her eyes took on a dreamy glaze as she continued to speak. “To carry within my body the child of my husband would be to me the greatest of miracles. I have prayed and sacrificed and even made pilgrimages, but perhaps the old ones are right and the village is truly cursed.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Ethyl grunted. “The cows calf, the chickens hatch their eggs, the pigs reproduce. It is not the village that is at fault.”

  “Are you casting blame on the men because they stole the children from your village?” It was more an accusation than a question, and Ethyl took it as such.

  “It is not for me to cast blame. I say that only the people of Corvus Croft are barren. The animals, the fowl and even the land is fertile and productive.”

  “Then what is the answer?” Damask asked, but tears formed in her eyes before Ethyl could reply. “Nay, never mind. There is no answer. We will go on as we have and I shall live a long, prosperous and barren life.”

  Blinded by tears, she rushed from the hall.

  Chapter Twelve

  To all the people of Corvus Croft it seemed the union between Rory McLir and Serine of Sheffield was made in heaven...to all save two.

  Serine loved Rory. And while she went through the motions of a good and loyal woma
n, betrothed to a man who was honored and revered in his own land, she knew that when the time came she would take her son and leave, and she knew that time would come.

  Despite this knowledge, it pained Serine to see Gerta with Rory. It pained Serine when the fair young woman scurried across the courtyard, the hall or the garden to present her son to the lord of the manor...Rory.

  It hurt to see Rory take the child and swing the bouncing boy about in his arms, answering the infant’s laughter with his own.

  Rory’s demeanor with Hendrick was always so much more restrained. There was never any display of the lightheartedness Rory showed Gerta’s child. And while it was doubtful if Rory could have picked Gerta out in a crowd, despite the fact that she lived in Rory’s house and ate the food he provided, it hurt, nonetheless, when Serine was forced to witness Rory’s uninhibited displays of affection for the woman’s infant son.

  “Why does he not marry Gerta?” Serine scolded as Ethyl tried to arrange her hair. “Why does he not allow me to take my son and return home?”

  “He doesn’t love her.” Ethyl gave Serine’s hair a jerk. “He loves you, and you throw his love in his face.”

  “What do you expect me to do?” Serine demanded. “Should I give in to his demands and tell him I will stay in Corvus Croft? If you were lady of Sheffield Manor, is that what you would do?”

  Ethyl paused thoughtfully before answering. “I would give serious thought to my actions, but there is no doubt in my mind that, knowing what I now know of life, I would not throw back the love Rory McLir offers, for someday you will surely blame the people of Sheffield for your loss, you will blame Hendrick and, more than that, you will blame yourself.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Sheffield has been in my family for generations. I would never willingly give up Sheffield. Rory must understand, and once he does, he will support me in my pledge to return to England.”

  “Is that what you believe?” Ethyl asked, her one eye penetrating Serine’s fragile shell.

  “It is what must be.” Serine’s eyes filled with tears as she said the words.