by Jill Stengl
“Art thou related to Sir Hanover Trenton? His son visited Fulbrook Manor in Hertfordshire where I carved the drawing room paneling two seasons past. A goodly lad he is, though harsh with his pony. Isaac Trenton. . .” he paused, finally noticing the girl’s stiffened shoulders. “Thy brother? Cousin?”
Maela abruptly sprang to her feet and flung herself at the grazing pony. Apparently used to his mistress’s unpredictable whims, the pony hardly batted an eye, allowing her to scramble upon his broad back. She dug bare heels into his sides and wheeled him away.
“Maela, tarry! I would escort thee home—” Harry leaped to intercept her, but he was too late. Thudding hoofbeats faded into the darkness. His arms fell to his sides; his mouth slowly closed. Attempting to track her in this strange forest would be useless. “Lord Jesus, bring the child safely home, I pray Thee,” he spoke softly, his face upturned into a falling mist.
He returned to the fireside, his eyes troubled. “What did I say to offend her?” Ragwort looked as puzzled as Harry felt; Laitha looked blank, her mutilated face revealing no thoughts.
Harry caught his sleepy hens, moved Samson’s stake closer to the cart beside the goat, and banked the fire. “Tomorrow I shall inquire about the waif,” he muttered, yet misgivings assailed him. With increased knowledge might also come an increased sense of responsibility. “Lord, what wouldst Thou have me to do?”
He retired early, rolling into his blankets beneath the partial shelter of the cart. The dogs crowded under the blankets on either side of him. Misty rain fell all that night, but he paid it no heed.
two
If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally. . .and it shall be given him. James 1:5
Harry woke early the next morning, to his mild annoyance. His face was cold, but warmth radiated from the dogs at his sides. Laitha snored softly and whimpered in her sleep, the probable cause of his early awakening. He wrapped an arm around the dog. Laitha suffered from the cold, her short coat affording little protection. She deserved to spend her remaining days by a warm hearth, dreaming of past hunts. A blinded sight-hound—could anything be more pathetic? Never again would the great dog stretch her long legs to race through fen and forest. Mankind’s cruelty to dumb beasts at times caused Harry shame—yet even more appalling was man’s inhumanity to man.
Maela sprang to his mind. Though she was well-spoken and mannerly, the child’s furtive expression, ragged clothing, and bruised face bespoke neglect and harsh treatment. His eyes drifted to the log, dimly visible in the morning half-light, where she had perched the night before. Her slight figure and ethereal smile now seemed a figment of his lonely imagination. Yet, would he have imagined the dirt and the smell?
“Lord, didst Thou bring me to dwell in this place for a deeper purpose than the carving of a gallery screen? I have questioned my wisdom in accepting the position—for this lack of proper accommodations is an onerous trial—yet I did believe, and believe still, that Thou didst desire me to take it.” Harry often prayed aloud while alone. “Guide me, Lord, for I am at a loss.”
After a breakfast of boiled eggs, porridge, raisins, wild strawberries, and a large mug of Genevieve’s milk, Harry extracted his greatest treasure, a Coverdale Bible, from his small clothes chest. In the book of Ephesians he located the Apostle Paul’s concise description of a believer’s behavior. It was difficult to read in the gray twilight beneath the trees, but Harry’s memory filled in the blanks.
As he read, he prayed, requesting strength for the day to live as God pleased. “Let me not grieve Thy Spirit with corrupt speech or wicked thoughts. Help me to forgive others as Thou hast forgiven me and to walk in love. Purify my heart from filthiness and foolish, coarse talk, and fill me with Thy goodness. I go before my fellow workers, the maidens, the gentry, and every human creature I meet today as Thine emissary.”
An unpleasant thought struck him. “Surely Thou wouldst not have me to dwell among the servants, Lord. The manor garrets are crowded and noisome. I can function as emissary from here.”
He argued aloud with the persistent, silent Voice. “Nay, I do not consider myself above them, but. . .Yea, I know Thou hast commissioned me as salt and light to the world, and yet. . .”
His shoulders slumped. “Verily, I can deny Thee nothing; for Thy sake I can endure even this. I shall move my possessions to the hall this very day.”
This was a momentous surrender indeed, for Harry cherished his privacy.
Harry packed up his camp and cared for his beasts. After hitching Samson, he loaded the chicken crate and his few possessions into the cart.
“Come,” he ordered the dogs, and set off without a backward glance, walking at Samson’s side. The beast seldom needed prodding; he enjoyed Harry’s company. Genevieve, tethered behind the cart, trotted in its wake.
Marston Hall loomed out of the morning mist. Harry approached it from the rear, but the great manor house was impressive from any angle. Half-timbered with many glass windows, the magnificent hall blended aesthetically into the surrounding green fields and lush forest.
Dogs rushed to greet the small cavalcade as Harry picketed his beasts beside the carp pond. Laitha and Ragwort bristled, stiff-legged and alert. Upon recognizing Harry, the manor mastiffs and hounds relaxed. Soon all tails wagged, noses sniffed, and invitations to play were issued. Harry smiled as he watched. It was good to see Laitha accepted as an equal, though she could not join their romps. Ragwort was dwarfed by his new playmates, but he didn’t seem to notice. Harry hoped none of them would crush the terrier by mistake.
“Good morrow, Joiner.”
Harry turned to see Marston’s headman approaching. “God give you good day, Goodman Lyttleton.”
“I bring news,” Lyttleton went on without pause. “The master has requested thee to abide in the woodman’s cottage near the oak coppice rather than hide out in the forest like a bandit. It needs repair, but he will provide lumber and thatch, if you will do the work. There is grazing for thy stock, and room for a kitchen garden behind.”
For a moment, Harry could only stand amazed at God’s incredible sense of timing and humor. He recalled seeing the cottage, a ramshackle one-room dwelling, located not far from his favorite camp. “I accept this generous offer with many thanks.”
Amused smiles flickered across Harry’s lips as he worked that day. He should not have been surprised, really, for Sir David Marston was a kindly, generous country squire, and God was certainly never behindhand with His blessings. Had he only surrendered his will sooner, he might have been ensconced in the cottage by this time! Harry was eager to explore his new home. He felt ashamed, now, of his stubborn refusal to mingle with the manor servants, but God had made the best of the situation; and, Harry realized, had he dwelt at the manor, he would not have encountered Maela.
Maela. He had almost forgotten to ask about her.
“Have you met such a person?” was Dovie’s answer when he questioned her at dinner. She did not appreciate his topic of conversation. For days Harry had taken the noon meal in the cook’s company, and he seemed to admire her; but always he seemed out of her reach in a way Dovie could not understand.
“Yea, of a truth, in the wood yesterday. She has the appearance and manner of gentry, yet her clothing is in rags. Has Sir Hanover Trenton a daughter?”
Dovie gave an affected giggle and spoke rapidly with great animation. Her hands fluttered about, frequently caressing Harry’s arm or chest. “Speakest thou in earnest or in jest? Sir Hanover has a son, not a daughter. Do you know that he is a courtier of the queen? He is an important man. The castle is but one of his many estates. He seldom journeys hence, for of late the castle has little to offer—yet I tell you plain, he comes within a fortnight. When in the vicinity, Sir Hanover lodges with Bishop Carmichael at Parminster Court.”
“Indeed,” Harry remarked. “He ne’er abides in the castle?”
“I think not.” Dovie batted her big eyes and retied the drawstring of Harry’
s shirt. To her irritation, he wasn’t even looking her way. He munched on a handful of almonds and relaxed against the bench back. They were alone in a kitchen corner, hidden from the chattering maids and field hands by a row of tall milk cans.
“Is Castle Trent deserted?”
“Nay, it has a few retainers. Dobbin Titwhistle collects rent from tenants, and Hera Coats, the witch, watches over the keep. A few old servants remain in the outbuildings for lack of better position.”
“Did you say ‘witch’?”
“Yea, in truth. Every man fears to cross her path, though sundry seek her out for spells and potions. She ne’er attends church, yet no churchwarden dares demand a fine lest she place a curse upon him! She once gave our vicar the evil eye and caused his horse to go lame.”
Harry believed her. The vicar had not so far impressed him with either intelligence or sincerity. He seemed the type to lend credulity to the curses of a village witch.
“I would have Mistress Coats prescribe thee a love potion, for thy heart gives me little notice!” Dovie leaned close, her eyes serious. “Leave off this incessant talk of castle affairs! Give me thy full regard, for I would know thee well, Harry Jameson.”
Now she had Harry’s undivided attention.
“I hear you have been provided a cottage, Harry. Couldst thou use mine aid setting it to rights?” She playfully walked two fingers up his chest and cupped his bearded cheek in her hand. “I would accompany thee hence at eventide.” Heavy lashes fluttered as she lifted inviting eyes.
“Nay, I need no such aid!” Harry leaped up, nearly fell over the milk cans, and fairly ran from the kitchen.
Safely back in the woodshed, he berated himself for a fool. Dovie was obviously practiced at using those big cow eyes and her shapely body to entice men. He had been foolish to spend time in her company.
“Thou hast removed scales from mine eyes, Lord! It is well, in truth, that I shall not live at the manor. Dovie is unlikely to frequent the coppice cottage, for it is a fair distance. Indeed, Thou doest all things well.”
Tense and somewhat rattled, he felt in need of vigorous work. Simon, the ancient woodsman, as gnarled as the oak trees he husbanded with tender care, discovered Harry behind the woodshed, pounding on a knot-ridden hickory log.
“Harry, thou couldst better use thy skills. His lordship pays thee to carve wood, not hack it to kindling,” the old man chuckled.
Harry’s mallet dropped to his side, and he jerked the adze from the half-split log. “True enough, Simon.” He wiped one arm across his forehead. He had stripped off his jerkin to work in his shirtsleeves. It was not a hot day, but Harry was overheated. His chest heaved in a sigh; sweat trickled down his temples.
“Have you a burden upon your heart?”
Loath to speak of his misadventures with Dovie, Harry instead broached the subject of Maela. “I met a child, a gently born child in tattered raiment. She claims the name Trenton. I would learn more of her.”
“A maid child, you say?” Simon mused. “Artemis Coats’s daughter, no doubt.”
“Coats! Is the child mad, then, to claim kinship with Trenton?”
Simon rubbed his rough hands together. “Did she appear mad?”
“Nay, she appeared intelligent and sane,” Harry admitted.
“Her claim is valid, though not legal. I know the Coats family of old.”
Harry nodded. “Continue.”
“Sir Hanover Trenton has a wife who resides at another of his properties, near London. Notwithstanding, while lodging at Castle Trent, his lordship went in unto the damsel Artemis, daughter of a servant. In time she was found with child, and Sir Hanover was filled with joy, for his wife was barren. His lordship intended to make the child his heir, but alas! His wife also conceived a child. Artemis delivered a girl child, but the wife presented Sir Hanover with a son.”
“Isaac Trenton,” Harry murmured, suddenly understanding Ishmaela’s reaction and the significance of her name. “Artemis named her daughter Ishmaela, knowing that Isaac was the child of promise.”
“If you claim acquaintance with the child, she must yet live, though her mother died years since.”
Harry’s eyes were vacant. He was recalling Ishmaela’s betraying statement, “I am no lady,” and her evident hunger for love and friendship. “Poor little waif,” he sighed.
“Attend upon me now, leave the wench alone, Harry. If Sir Hanover wishes me to think her dead, then dead she is. I would not cross the desires of the gentry.”
But Harry’s thoughts were far away. The afternoon was waning; soon he would be on his way to the cottage. Would Ishmaela return to the clearing? He would have to look for her, just in case.
three
Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new. 2 Cor. 5:17
Marston made good his promise; stacks of lumber and thatching reeds awaited Harry when he arrived at the cottage that evening. It was, actually, little more than a pink wattle and daub shack with a small livestock shed and fenced clearing at the rear. Its rotted thatching had caved in at one place near the peak of the steep roof. No chimney emerged through the blackened thatch, for the cottage had no proper fireplace, only a charred depression in the center of its dirt floor.
Harry took a quick glance around the filthy interior. “It has. . . potential.”
He left his possessions and livestock in the weed-choked yard and set out for the clearing with the dogs at his side. Ragwort barked for joy, and even Laitha let out a yelp or two. All day long they had watched over Harry’s possessions, waiting beside the fishpond for their master to finish his work.
“No longer, my friends,” Harry told them. “We now possess a cottage and garden. No more traveling to and fro; no more vagrancy.”
If only that were true. For many months now, Harry had wanted to settle, to possess a free-holding of his own. He wanted a wife, children, and a community wherein he would not be always considered a foreigner, an interloper. He greatly missed his family—especially his mother.
At the tender age of thirteen, he had left school to be apprenticed to an itinerant master joiner. Three years later, in Lancashire, Master Wilson Tupper had suddenly died, leaving his apprentice to complete their current project alone. Harry not only completed the mahogany mantelpiece; he improved upon his master’s work. Impressed and amazed by the boy’s genius, his employer had recommended him to several friends. Never since had Harry lacked for work—indeed, he could not meet the demand for his exquisite carvings.
But a traveling artisan’s life did not offer the stability Harry craved.
Ishmaela’s pony grazed contentedly beneath a spreading tree. Lifting its head at Harry’s approach, it whinnied, sniffing noses with Ragwort, who still kept a wary eye on its hooves.
“How now?” Harry greeted the friendly creature, patting its shedding neck. A cloud of chestnut hair rose beneath his hand.
“His name is Pegasus,” advised a voice from above. Harry looked up into the branches of the oak, but saw nothing at first. A pixie face peeked from around a huge bough, and Maela giggled. “Fooled you, did I not?”
Warmth welled up in Harry’s big heart. “Yea, of a truth, you fooled me, child.”
Kirtle hitched into her sash, Maela showed most of her skinny white legs as she nimbly scrambled down the tree. Harry averted his eyes, dismayed by her lack of modesty.
Retying her cap strings, Maela skipped up to him, then fell to her knees to greet the dogs. Ragwort covered her face with moist kisses. Laitha still hesitated to approach, though she showed some desire to meet the child who called her name in such caressing tones.
Maela looked up into Harry’s eyes and smiled.
“Come hither.” Harry held out a hand, but Maela only looked at it, then at his face.
“Do you not wish to see my new dwelling? Sir David presented me with a cottage this day, and it needs work aplenty ere I sleep in it.”
Maela rose
in a fluid motion, but made no move to accept his hand. She called her pony, which came to her with bobbing head and a soft snort. Taking him by the forelock, she looked up at Harry.
Harry turned to lead the way to his new home, telling her the story of its acquisition as he walked. Maela strolled along beside him. She said nothing, but once when Harry looked at her she smiled again. He noticed that her teeth were straight and even, though as dirty as the rest of her. Why they had not rotted was the question.
Stopping before the ramshackle cottage, Harry gave a sweep of one arm. “Thou art welcome to my humble dwelling, but I commend thee not to enter ere the roof be mended. The present thatch is occupied, I fear.”
“You will need a canopy upon thy bed.” Maela giggled as she pushed over the gate to the livestock pen and herded her pony inside. Genevieve had made good headway against the weeds in Harry’s absence.
He smiled. “No doubt, lest my slumber be disturbed by enterprising mice.” Watching her fondle Samson and Genevieve, he wondered what subject to discuss next. He could not bring up the subject of her parentage unless he wished a repeat performance of last night’s hasty exit.
Turning from the animals with a happy sigh, she inquired, “What wouldst thou have me to do? I would help thee.”
He floundered for a moment. “Uh, you may sweep rubbish from the yard while I replace this gate.”
“Have you a broom?” Maela approached the cart. At his affirmative reply, she dug through his tools until she found the old twig broom, then proceeded to sweep the yard. Following her industrious lead, Harry set to work, building a new gate for the livestock pen.
Conversation would have been difficult, so Harry began to sing as he worked, filling Maela’s wondering ears with ballads and hymns. His medium tenor voice was sweet and clear.
Her work completed, Maela busied herself with freeing the chickens, scattering their grain, and brushing the donkey and the pony. “May I milk Genevieve?”
He stopped filing for a moment. “Have you milked a goat before?”