“There is no other choice,” Serine told him. “If the men want to father children they must allow the bitter brew to help them.”
“And if the brew could perform this miracle, and the fault is within the man and not the woman, then why are you not with child? God knows, we have loved one another to the very depths of our being, and still there is no issue.”
“And if there were a child, would you allow me to return to Sheffield with Hendrick, or would you poison Guthrie against me and make him go back on his word?”
“Guthrie never goes back on his word. Neither myself nor any man alive could hope to force him to do such a thing. But I will not lie to you and pretend I would not ask him to reconsider due to the change in circumstances.”
Serine drew a deep breath. This was not the time to admit her suspicions. “Rory, there is no other answer. Damask came to me today. She told me she was nowhere near Corvus Croft during the plague. It cannot be the plague that has interfered with her ability to conceive.” She laid her hand against his chest and looked up into his face, taking in his strong jaw, his dark eyes and his raven black hair. God, how she loved him. “Help me to get the men to drink the brew, Rory. At least give me the chance to prove whether I am right or wrong.”
“If you are wrong, the village loses the last chance to produce children, but if you are right, I will lose you.” He took her into his arms and crushed her against him. “Serine, Serine, it need not be this way. Stay with me. Sheffield will survive with Dame Margot in charge. When Hendrick reaches his majority, he can claim his rights.”
“Sheffield will be distributed to friends of the king, and Hendrick will have nothing. No matter how much I love you, I cannot shirk my duty to my child and my heritage.”
“You are betrothed to me,” Rory reminded her. “Will you shirk your duty to me?”
“My duty is to love you, as well as to try to use my simple skills to assist the women of your village to bear children.”
“Forget about the women and their children, or lack thereof. Just think about my love for you.” His mouth moved across her forehead and pressed against her hair as he breathed in the clean, herb-kissed scent that was hers alone. “Forget everything except how it feels when I touch you, and how it feels when you touch me.”
He pressed the palm of her hand against his mouth, and her legs went weak as longing overcame every conscious thought.
His tongue, warm and moist, caressed her palm before his lips traveled up her arm, hovering momentarily at her wrist, and again at the soft skin at her elbow.
Serine lay back in his arms, her fingers entwined in his thick hair. She closed her eyes and made a little purring sound deep in her throat. “When you kiss me like that I forget everything...everything in the world except you, and how much I love you.”
“How much I love you.” He repeated her words, but it was a statement in itself, and there was an element of wonder in his voice as he realized the depth of his caring for her. It seemed a miracle to him. Just as she was a miracle come to life. Her hair, her skin, the generous curve of her lips. The way she laughed and the way she sighed with pleasure when they made love. He wanted to hold her, to protect her, to love her forever, and all she could think of was leaving him and returning to Sheffield.
The thought angered him, and he tightened his grip on her lithe body. Unaware of his anger, she responded by sealing herself against him, molding her curves to his muscles in delightful abandonment.
In his arms Serine was able to forget everything. There was only Rory, with his enticing kisses, his persuasive touch and his ability to sweep all thought from her mind. Even Sheffield became but a shadow.
His kisses filled her with the magic of love. A magic long denied, and she was propelled like a leaf caught up in a storm of passion and desire.
It was only when he was no longer with her that she was able to bring herself back to reality and separate what must be from what might have been. Only when his arms were no longer around her could she divorce duty from desire.
Now her whole being responded to his hungry kisses and she met him with a hunger of her own that would not be assuaged with less than complete possession.
Their love became a banquet of physical delights, as decadent as the richest dessert, and as heady as the strongest wine. Together they sank to the herb-strewn floor. Each movement released the fragrance of the herbs, surrounding them in an aroma as pure and clean as love itself. The love they bore each other that would not be denied.
Chapter Thirteen
“Seer, look to your Runes and tell me what you see.” Ethyl spoke the words as she opened the door to Drojan’s dwelling.
The man gave her a disparaging look. “I do not take kindly to being ordered about,” he reminded her. “You would do better to ask me to use my abilities rather than demand that I do so at your inclination.”
“Inclination or no, you would do well to draw your circle and consult your Runes, for Lady Serine believes she has discovered the reason behind the women’s barrenness, and she thinks the fault lies with the men.”
Ethyl almost laughed to see the look on Drojan’s face. He gaped at her in disbelief. “That cannot be,” he protested. “It is the women who bear the children.”
“And the men who plant the seed,” Ethyl said. “If a seed is not planted, the sprout does not grow.”
“The men have labored long and hard to plant their seeds both in the soil and in the bellies of their wives. Your mistress is at fault in her premise. There is nothing wrong with the men.”
Ethyl shook her head and laughed. “Old man, you are wrong. Open your eyes and use your wisdom. Cast your Runes and believe what they tell you, then come to me and we will see if, together, we can keep the husbands and wives of the village from one another’s throats.”
“If Serine insists on blaming the men for the lack of children there is surely nothing I can do to rectify the situation. You must speak to her and tell her to mend her way of thinking. No man in the village will accept her mad assumption.”
Nonetheless, he took the pouch that contained his Runes from inside his tunic and carefully drew a circle on the floor. Once inside the circle he purified himself with incantations while Ethyl went to the far side of the room and settled down to watch in silence.
With great concentration he took forth the Runes and laid them before him. His face brightened, clouded and brightened again. He looked up and motioned Ethyl to come to him.
“It is just as I said,” he assured her with pompous surety. “There will be children born in our village. The Runes clearly state it to be so.”
“Do they clearly name the parents?” Ethyl asked.
“Runes do not concern themselves with such menial matters. It is enough that they have informed us of this wonder of the future. I shall go and inform Guthrie. He will rejoice at the news, as will the rest of the village.”
Drojan reached out to sweep up the Runes, but Ethyl stayed his hands. “Wait, Seer, there is more you should know that may give meaning to what you see.”
He looked at her askance. “What do you know, woman, and why do you test rather than tell?”
“I have reason to believe that Serine is carrying Rory’s child,” she said.
“Aha!” Drojan hooted the word as he jumped to his feet. “See! It is just as I said. The men are not at fault. Rory has planted his seed in a woman from another village and she is fertile.”
“Damask is from another village,” Ethyl reminded him, “yet she bears no babe.”
“Damask is young,” Drojan hedged. Damask’s inability to conceive had long been a puzzlement to him.
“Your theory is without merit. Damask’s sister is even younger and already has several children of which to boast,” Ethyl returned. “There is only one conclusion that can be reached, and one experiment yet untried. It is the men who must be dosed.”
“With what? They are not impotent. What can you possibly give them that might make a differen
ce?”
Ethyl took a deep breath and sank onto a bench. “When Rory was sore wounded we thought him to be lost to the powers of darkness. His fever soared and his body swelled from the poisons therein. It was then Serine remembered the elixir of herbs that is bitter to the tongue. I knew how to prepare it and she begged me to do so. The task done, we were able to save the man’s life. Now Serine feels that if all the men were given the same brew, they, too, would find themselves able to father children.”
Drojan looked from the woman to the Runes. The message was written clearly there. A woman carried the knowledge that might save the village, but only through the sacrifice of “self.” Fear gripped his heart. Never had he felt so strongly about another human being as he did for Ethyl. She seemed part and parcel of his conscious mind. He could not think, having found her, how he would survive if she was taken from him.
He swallowed the dryness in his throat, foreboding permeating his bones. “What is the brew of which you speak?”
“It is the brew of bitter herbs, outlawed for use by those who cannot understand its goodness.”
“As I feared.” He turned away, looking through the window toward the sky. “Must you involve yourself in this? It is the Lady Serine who wishes to challenge the gods. Let her concoct the brew and take the blame or the blessing as the case may be.”
“That I cannot do,” Ethyl told him. “The secret of the brew is mine and mine is the responsibility to see that it is done correctly and without deviation.”
“Should it be discovered that you use a potion reputed to have poisoned many, even I cannot save you,” he told her.
“I know that, and I do not ask. I can but tell you that the bitter brew has never harmed a soul in this world. It was made for the good of others, and was used for same.”
“Rethink this, Ethyl.” He tried to keep his voice steady, to reason with her and talk her out of assisting in this dangerous pursuit. “There is no reason for you to become involved. Serine is knowledgeable about herbs. She does not need your help. It is dangerous....”
But Ethyl chose to misinterpret his words. “Never fear, old man. I will die silent before I involve you. No one will ever know that I so much as spoke to you of the brew. You have nothing to fear.”
She turned toward the door, but he was there before her, blocking her way.
“But I do fear,” he confessed. “I fear for you. There is danger here. Danger for you.”
“Then you should not be concerned.” She ignored his concern. “I have lived with danger as my companion all my life, and survived. It is no different now.”
“Ethyl, I ask you not to become part of this.” He blocked the door, his face a mask of anxiety. “The people of the village are a superstitious lot. The men must always rebel at any hint of disparagement on their virility. They will try to discredit you in any way that they can, and mistrust all that you propose to do, regardless of your noble intentions.”
“I should not have come.” She sighed, realizing the truth in his words. “I thought perhaps you would be of help, but you give me nothing but empty warnings.” Again she stepped toward the door. “Let me go, old man. You ask too much.”
He took her words into his heart and turned them back onto hers. “It is because I am an old man that I ask this of you, Ethyl. All my life I have been alone, living the solitary existence of a seer. Now, when my life is almost over, I have found someone with whom I wish to share my last years.” He held out his hands, palms upward in supplication. “Ethyl, I don’t want to lose you. I want to spend these last years with you. I want us to be together.”
She closed her eye and blinked back the tears. It had been so long, so very long since she had heard the need and love in another person’s voice. “When I was chosen as archer for the village, you risked your life before my arrows. You did not ask my permission, nor did you tell me of your plan. Had I mis-shot, I would have lost you and all true meaning for living. Once more you must place your trust in me, Drojan. Grant my knowledge the same trust you put in my skill.”
She placed her hands in his and moved willingly into the comfort of his embrace. But even as his kiss lifted her from the cocoon of years, she heard him grumble, “It is not you I distrust, my love. It is everyone else.”
* * *
Since there was only a small amount of the potion left that Serine had brought from Sheffield, the women set to work to produce a copious amount, which would serve the whole village. Once the herbs were in the vats, they would age for a fortnight. During that time Serine and Ethyl set about in an effort to make the men drink the brew.
It was Damask who had given them the idea. Joining them in the herbal workroom, she had shuddered when Serine suggested she taste the liquid.
“I would almost rather remain childless than take such a potion.” She shivered visibly and stamped her foot after swallowing. “If this is what brought Rory back to life I have no doubt he got better only to keep from having to take more. ‘Tis truly nasty!”
“We plan on asking the men to drink it.” Serine tried to sound nonchalant.
Damask, still suffering from the aftertaste, shook again. “I cannot imagine getting Guthrie to swallow even a mouthful. He would spit it out before the smallest drop could find its way down his throat.”
“Would he not drink it if he knew it would enhance his chances of becoming a father?” Serine persisted.
“He wouldn’t believe anything that nasty could provide positive results,” Damask told her friend. “No, Serine, you must come up with a better excuse to get that vile potion down any man in this village. In truth, it looks as bad as it tastes, and any man who took a mouthful would swear he’d been poisoned.”
“Think you the women would drink it?” Serine asked hesitantly, feeling her last hope slipping away.
“Are you certain it is to drink, and not a poultice for a boil?” Damask suggested.
“I am sure that this bitter brew is the last hope for children for Corvus Croft,” Serine said, holding the last of the brew against her breast. “I would think a brave man would have the courage to swallow even if it is not palatable.”
“Guthrie would have to drink it first before I would take more,” Damask contended.
Serine’s eyes lit with joy. “That’s it. As soon as the new batch of brew is ready you will both take it, and all the other husbands and wives, as well. And the men will take the first draft to set the brave example for their wives. What think you?” Serine directed her question to Ethyl, who had remained silent throughout the discussion.
“I think you’ll be very lucky if anyone takes more than one swig of the brew, but even one swig is worth a try. And, God knows, some of the spirits men drink smell as bad and taste worse.” She turned back to her pestle, ending her portion of the conversation.
Serine honored the older woman’s feelings and turned her attention to Damask, who was still trying to think of some way wherein she could entice Guthrie to agree to take the brew so that she would be spared.
* * *
By the end of the month it was evident that Serine’s plans had gone awry. With each woman to whom she spoke it became more obvious that the men had refused to take the brew, and would continue to do so. Any hint that they might be responsible for the lack of children was met with disbelief bordering on thoughts of heresy.
“I dare not approach him again,” a well-endowed matron announced. “He’s never had a harsh word for me, until I hinted that it might be of benefit to us both if he would take the brew.” She straightened the sleeves of her tunic and tugged at her skirt. “I shall not attempt it again.” And, giving Serine a self-righteous glance she pranced off across the green toward her home and her uncooperative husband.
Serine wrung her hands in frustration. She looked to Damask for support, but Guthrie’s wife had no support to give.
“It is the same with Guthrie. He won’t touch the herbal brew. I have tried slipping it into his gruel, as well as his mead and ale, but
he always sniffs it out and bellows at me as though I’m trying to poison him.”
“‘Tis not poison,” Serine insisted. “I’ve told you a hundred times the brew has no ill effects.”
“Except that it looks and smells terrible,” Damask asserted. “I cannot abide the sight of it myself, and my stomach turns if the carafe passes beneath my nose.”
“You are too squeamish,” Serine scolded. “If you find yourself with child you’ll think yourself half dead before you recover from the earliest stages of discomfort.”
“If I find myself with child I will be too happy to care about physical discomfort,” Damask asserted, oblivious to the expression of disbelief on Ethyl’s face.
The young woman left, her small supply of bitters replenished. It was then Serine turned to Ethyl.
“We need to make more of the brew,” she said as she assessed the supply in her jars. “It seems they waste more than they use, and—”
Ethyl bent over the jar. “You are right on all counts,” she agreed, “but I refuse to jeopardize your life and my own by making more of the brew. There has already been talk likening it to poison. I will not do more than I have already done. You have become addleheaded in your quest to return to Sheffield. If the women are so dull witted that they cannot think of an inventive way to make their men drink of the brew, perhaps they don’t deserve children.”
Serine gasped. “How can you say such a thing?” she asked. “You know as well as I that the women have much love to give.”
“Not if they are too dull to invent a way to make their men swallow but a small drink, no worse than green ale.”
“It is not their intelligence that is at fault,” Serine declared. “It is their honesty. They are too honest to deceive their husbands.”
“And you are too gullible to be believed,” Ethyl snorted. “I’ll leave you to your dreams of honest women. I’m going to Drojan. He, at least, has no illusions about the human race.”
Serine followed the woman to the door. “But, Ethyl, I need help. I cannot manage a brew of such proportions by myself.”
Barbara Leigh Page 17