by Jill Stengl
“Never.”
“I will teach you.” Laying aside the nearly finished gate, he rose, brushing shavings from his hose. Lifting his elbows and flexing his shoulders, he stretched, groaning softly. “A long day,” he explained to his waiting audience of one.
She nodded, looking sympathetic.
“I’ll begin supper soon. Tonight we have a coney for our pottage. There was game to spare at the manor this day.” He rubbed his belly, and Maela smiled, rubbing her middle in imitation.
Genevieve was more than willing to be milked. Harry tied her to one of the few solid posts in sight, then settled on a stool at her side. Placing a wooden bowl beneath her swollen udder, he showed Maela how to pinch off the teat, then push out the milk with her remaining fingers. Milk foamed into the bowl.
Maela clasped her hands at her breast in delight. “May I try?”
Harry vacated the stool, but stayed close. Maela patted the curious goat, then reached for the firm udder. Taking one teat in hand, she tried to squeeze it off, but her small fingers could not reach, and only a trickle of milk rewarded her effort.
Genevieve stamped impatiently, narrowly missing the bowl.
“Here.” Harry squatted and placed his hand on top of Maela’s to pinch off the teat for her. “Now squeeze gently.” He felt the warmth of her little body beside him. The foul odor was intense, but he bravely ignored it.
She didn’t move. Glancing down at her, he was startled to see her eyes squeezed shut. Every muscle and nerve in her body was strung taut. “Maela? What ails thee?”
With a suddenness that knocked him off his feet, she flung her arms around his neck and squeezed. For an instant he thought she had attacked him, but when his hand touched her quaking shoulder he realized that this was a hug, a sign of trust and affection.
Sitting in the dirt, he patted a protruding shoulder blade, not knowing what to say. She knelt before him, her arms squeezing tight, her dirty cap resting on his shoulder. Gently he reminded, “Genevieve awaits thee, child.”
Maela nodded, wiped her nose and eyes on one sleeve, and turned back to the goat. This time, with Harry’s help, she managed to squeeze several good streams of milk from Genevieve’s udder. With a satisfied smile, she surrendered her stool and watched Harry finish the job.
“May I milk her again next day?”
“Perhaps. ’Tis time to prepare our coney stew, lest we starve.”
While Harry built the fire in a cleared space in the yard, then gutted and skinned out the rabbit, Maela made herself useful by washing and chopping the vegetables. Harry stole frequent glances at her intent expression as she worked. In spite of the dirt and the smell, she was an appealing creature. Those big dark eyes and black brows were startling against her white skin, and her turned-up nose gave her a saucy look. Never before had he seen such an adorable mouth. Her lips were smooth and full, and a deep dent above her upper lip gave the impression that she was perpetually puckering up for a kiss. She seemed younger than thirteen, perhaps due to her diminutive size.
“Tell me about thy family,” Maela ordered, scooping chopped leeks into the pot.
“My father is the youngest son of a Spanish nobleman.”
Maela’s jaw dropped. “Indeed?”
“He was destined for the Roman church but could not accept its teachings, so he fled to England. King Henry was yet living at the time, and a Protestant Spaniard was acceptable company, even in Lincolnshire. He wed Susan Dixon, a yeoman’s daughter, purchased property in the Wolds, and became a sheep husbandman. He is a fine, godly man, upright in all his ways.”
“And thy mother?”
Harry’s expression softened. “My mother is fair beyond description. She did weep copiously at my departure, and that is nigh six years since. Mine eyes ache to behold her lovely face once more.”
“Why have you not hitherto returned?”
Harry chopped the rabbit into large chunks and dropped it into the simmering pot. “They cannot support me, and I cannot earn my keep as joiner there, for manor houses and fine churches are scarce.” He rose to his full height, eyes fixed upon the distance, and revealed a dream, “I would settle in Lincolnshire someday on a free-holding of mine own. I had planned to depart hence this season, but I accepted Marston’s offer. . .”
“Had you traveled home, I would know thee not,” Maela mused softly.
Harry met her gaze across the fire. “God planned us to meet,” he stated firmly. “He loves thee, Maela, and He desires that thou shouldst know Him.”
Maela stared at him, her expression quizzical but open. “Wherefore say you that He loves me? I know Him not. Grandmere says He is cruel and harsh and sends men to hell.”
“Do you trust and love thy grandmother?” Harry asked, wondering about her relationship with the “witch.”
The child’s shoulders hunched, and she cast frightened looks around. “I love her not. Should she discover that I am here, she would send plague upon thee.”
“Thy grandmother has no power over me. My God is greater far than any power here on earth. He would be thy God as well, and protect thee. After we sup, would you hear more of Him?”
Maela nodded, one hand pressed to her flat breast.
Harry read to Maela by firelight that evening, seated upon logs beside the fire. Page after page he turned, until at last Matthew’s gospel had ended.
Maela waited, hoping for more. “Is that all?”
“Nay, but ’tis sufficient for the night. Shall you be missed at the castle?”
Maela shook her head.
“May I accompany thee home?”
Her hand fluttered to her breast again, a movement he now recognized as an attempt to calm a fast-beating heart. “Part way,” she allowed, unable to entirely reject his offer.
Harry walked beside her pony along the dark road. Perhaps the darkness made her feel safe, or perhaps the late hour loosened her tongue, for Maela became unaccountably talkative as they walked. “When I was a child my grandmere did watch me like a cat watches a mouse and screech at me for every fault, but since Mother’s death, Grandmere frequents the wine cellar. She knows not of mine absence.”
“And Master Titwhistle?” A name like that was not quickly forgotten.
“I allow not Dob to see me—ever. He twists mine arms and hurts me. I did not think a man could be kind until I saw thee at play with Ragwort.”
Maela shifted on her pony, swinging her legs forward over Pegasus’s shoulders. “Men that laugh are wicked men—yet Harry is not wicked, and he laughs often. Good men smile not and hate childer—yet Harry is good, and he smiles oft and is kind to childer. I think, Maela,” she addressed herself, “that Harry’s God is not the god of Bishop Carmichael. Harry’s Jesus makes him beautiful.”
Harry spoke softly, half afraid to interrupt her soliloquy. “Heed thyself, Maela. Harry’s Jesus can be Maela’s Jesus, and make her into a new creature also.”
Maela was quiet for a moment. “I would hear more of Jesus on the morrow. Did you write the stories, Harry?”
Though amazed by her ignorance, Harry answered calmly, “Nay. Long ago, men who knew Jesus when He was on earth wrote the stories. They are true stories, Maela. The men who wrote them died for the truth when men that hated Jesus tried to make them recant.”
Maela nodded. “They would die not for the stories had they invented them.”
Her simple wisdom surprised Harry. “That is doubtless true.”
“They were men such as thee, Harry. I love them, and I love Jesus. Would that I might embrace Him as I embraced thee!”
Harry’s heart melted into a puddle. “Maela, thou art the sweetest child.”
“Lovest thou me, Harry?”
Taken aback, Harry stammered, “Why. . .to be sure. . .I am ever thy friend, Maela.”
“None has loved me since my mother died, Harry. I knew not that a man could love.”
Harry knew he was treading on eggshells. “Thy father?”
“He has a son to love
and cares nothing for a girl child. When he comes from London, he brings me fancy clothes to wear while I play the recorder and dance for his companions. He will come again soon. Would that I could hide until they are gone away!”
“They do not. . .harm thee?” Harry asked hesitantly.
Her voice was haughty at first, then died to a near whisper, “I let no man touch me. Nevertheless they speak words I do not understand and laugh together. There is much evil in the castle when they are about.”
Pegasus halted abruptly. Harry wondered how Maela signaled her pony without a bridle. “You must stop here. Dob would kill thee should he discover thee on castle grounds.”
“Thou art safe, Maela?”
“Yea.” Without another word, she cued her pony and cantered down a side road, vanishing into the shadows.
four
The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them. Psalm 34:7
While Harry shopped one morning several weeks later, a group of noblemen rode past the marketplace. Supremely ignoring the common folk surrounding them, they talked and laughed loudly. Their horses’ hooves clopped on the rude cobblestones. Servants, more modestly clothed and mounted, followed behind. A pack of hounds trotted among the horses, wagging, yelling, casting about, soiling the already filthy streets.
Harry watched them pass. One of these men might be Maela’s father. Harry shook his head slightly, finding it difficult to comprehend the connection between ragged little Maela and these gentry in their rich garb. Where would they be going this morning? On a hunt, most likely. The jolly group turned down a side street and passed out of his view.
Maela had not returned to Harry’s cottage. He had hoped to see her at church, but she did not appear. No chestnut pony grazed in the meadow; no sprightly monkey climbed the ancient trees. While in town, Harry searched the streets for any sign of the girl, with no success. He could not seem to help worrying about her. Was her father treating her well?
In saner moments he admitted that quite possibly he would never see her again, and, at any rate, her fate was out of his control. God would have to handle this one without Harry’s help. Maela’s situation was difficult, but far from rare. Many noblemen sired illegitimate children, and many of these children fared well for themselves. Perhaps Sir Hanover would arrange an advantageous marriage for his pretty daughter. Such things had been known to happen—but this knowledge gave Harry no comfort.
Around Harry, market vendors touted their wares in stentorian chant. People pushed, shoved, and cursed, vying for the finest wares, dickering for the lowest prices. Children on their mothers’ hips wailed; donkeys loaded with bundles brayed. Chickens cackled and pigeons cooed from their cages. The stench of blood and flesh was nearly overpowered by the reek of rotting fruit, animal waste, and unwashed bodies. Market day—an adventure for the senses.
Feeling eyes upon his back, Harry turned abruptly, but saw nothing untoward. A man staggered past him and belched loudly. Two large dogs circled beneath the fishmonger’s table, hackles raised, teeth bared. Harry was glad he had left his dogs at the cottage. A house sparrow hopped boldly along the cobblestones, searching for crumbs.
Frowning, Harry resumed his business of selecting a fresh roast, brushing flies from a promising cut. “Art thou certain the lamb was slaughtered this day?” he asked skeptically.
“Ye say full true,” the butcher responded, looking affronted at the question. “This very morn at dawn.”
Catching a furtive movement from the corner of his eye, Harry glanced toward the next stall and caught sight of a dirty little hand sliding a peach from a stack on the table. Hand and peach quickly disappeared from view.
“Wrap it. I shall return,” Harry assured the butcher, then ducked around the booth in time to spot a flash of red petticoat whisking between the flowerseller’s and the cobbler’s booths. Harry could not squeeze between people and carts as easily as a child could, but his long legs overtook the girl behind an alehouse.
Gripping the back of her waistcoat, he hauled her to a stop. She screeched like an angry pig and kicked at his shins. Harry dodged those quick little feet, protesting, “Maela! It is I, Harry!”
“Leave me! Unhand me!” she screamed, flailing with every limb. A bulge in the front of her waistcoat told Harry where the peach had been secreted.
Hearing the genuine panic in her voice, Harry obeyed. She flopped ungracefully upon the dirty stones and stared up at him, eyes furtive, hooded. It was then that Harry noticed: her embroidered emerald green kirtle and waistcoat were new. She looked older, somehow, yet the clean garments emphasized her unwashed condition.
Pushing with both feet, she tried to sidle away, but Harry stepped on the edge of her kirtle and planted his fists upon his hips. He was about to berate the little thief, but something in her dilated eyes stopped him.
He dropped slowly to his knees at her side. “Little maid, I would not harm thee! Have you forgotten your friend so soon?”
Her lips pressed together in an angry line. “If you were my friend, you would free me.”
“Maela!” Words seemed to choke him. Questions filled his mind, yet he could voice none of them coherently. “I beheld gentry in the village. . .Art thou at market with. . . ? Thy raiment is new. . .”
Her expression grew darker still.
Frustrated with himself, Harry blurted, “Maela, I have missed thy presence. Thou hast become. . .dear to me, as a sister. I pray for thee daily.”
Those haunted eyes widened. “Verily?”
Harry wanted to touch her, but he knew better. In her present state she would inevitably misread his intentions. Words alone must suffice to convince her of his sincerity—but Harry, glib, loquacious Harry, could think of nothing to say. So, right then and there he prayed for his little friend. “Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to calm Maela’s heart and teach her to trust Thee and me.”
Now her eyes were so wide, he could see his reflection in them. “Does He hear thee?” she whispered. Harry could not catch her voice over the market clamor, but he read her lips and nodded with a smile.
“I would give thee aid, Maela. Confide in me?”
Hope flickered across her face, then faded. She sat up, scooting away from him. “You can do nothing for me. I am cursed from my birth.”
“Not so!” Harry blurted without thinking. “Thou art blessed indeed!”
She made a disrespectful face. “How so?”
“The King of kings would adopt thee for His child! What greater blessing can exist?”
The disgust in her expression brought blood to his face, but he persisted. “If you need aid of any kind, come to me without delay.”
She looked him through and through. A little nod, and she scrambled up and out of his reach. Harry’s last glimpse was of twinkling bare feet amid rampant petticoats. Another moment and she was lost in the milling crowds.
❧
“Wench, more wine!” a slurred voice commanded.
Maela grimaced, but could only obey. Defying her father was useless—and painful. She had discovered that fact long ago. Hefting the pitcher of red wine, she reentered the great hall and filled cups around the head table.
It was a strange scene. An immense log burned upon the hearth and wax candles lighted the table, yet darkness seemed to hover just above the heads of the diners. Incongruous in the medieval hall were Sir Hanover and his debauched companions, clad though they were in jeweled silks and velvets. In Maela’s opinion, they desecrated her castle’s venerable stones. True knights had supped at these very tables, great men of old. The castle’s time had passed long years ago. Could these men not leave it to crumble in peace?
“Cease thy gaping and come hither, Ishy.”
Maela obeyed reluctantly.
“Hold up your head, filthy rag. Almost I shudder to call you mine, for you smell like unto a hog, yet you have your mother’s features. Someday shall you mirror her form.” Sir Hanover ran his big hands over Maela as he spoke, as thoug
h he were pointing out the finer points of a horse. She closed her eyes and tried to distance herself.
“Her music is pleasant to mine ear, Hanover. Entreat her to play another madrigal for us.” A younger man with a golden beard seemed kinder than the rest.
“Nay, I have heard enough of her playing. What is the wench’s present age?”
Maela quailed at the sound of that deep voice. More than anything in life, she feared Bishop Carmichael.
“Thirteen years, Titus. Thy wait is nigh its end, surely. The child must ripen soon.”
Maela gave her father a puzzled glance. “Am I a peach or plum?” she blurted without thinking.
“Silence, wench! You forget yourself.” Trenton clouted her across the mouth. His frown cleared as he caught the joke. “My prize peach.” The other men began to chuckle in lewd amusement.
“Indeed, a peach for my plucking,” the bishop remarked, and the laughter faded. “I hope she will be worth the wait, for thy sake, Hanover. I have no liking for childer and their prattle. The wench is quiet enough, but I would have more flesh and less bone. She must eat more ere I pay thy desired price.”
“I shall have words with her keeper. In the interim, Ishy, our vessels are empty once again.”
This time when Maela made the rounds with her pitcher, the blond gentleman leaned close and whispered, “I like childer, Ishy.”
For a moment she believed him her friend, but then his hand slid around her waist in a distressingly familiar way. Blue eyes glittered as he moistened his red lips and tried to pull her down for a kiss.
Maela cried out, struggling to escape his degrading clutches.
In an instant, a sword point glittered at the blond man’s throat. Bishop Carmichael’s black eyes held the promise of death.
“Clayton, have done. Bruise not the bishop’s peach before its time,” Sir Hanover attempted to defuse the situation. His slurred words were jovial, but the warning was real.
“Verily,” another man jibed, “bruised peaches are of little worth.”