by Jill Stengl
The bishop’s long fingers bit into Maela’s shoulder as he hauled her out of Clayton’s reach. Without another glance, he sheathed his sword and drained his tankard.
It was nearly dawn before the last of Sir Hanover’s guests passed out snoring beneath the table. Their servants were likewise prostrate in the kitchen. Maela slid from her hiding place behind a fly-bitten tapestry and crept upstairs to her chamber. There she wrapped a few possessions in a frayed pinafore. Sneaking back downstairs, she tiptoed past the snoring servants and let herself out by the kitchen door.
This time she dared not ride Pegasus. Someone would be certain to notice the pony’s absence, and he would be easy to trace. It was a long, hard walk to Harry’s cottage, but Maela was desperate.
A few tears escaped as she walked. Many times in the past she had believed that life was not worth living, but never before had she felt this low. In her father’s eyes, she was no better than a beast, to be sold out of hand. Since her mother’s death, Harry alone had shown Maela kindness and respect.
But Harry was a man. Instinctively, Maela distrusted men even while she yearned for a man’s love. If Harry, her only friend, were to prove false. . .it was unthinkable. The memory of his kind eyes and voice had comforted her during many a dark hour since their first meeting.
Jesus. Harry’s goodness came from Jesus. Maela spoke the name aloud, savoring its taste upon her lips. “Jesus. Jesus, I beg Thee to save me from this evil.”
A Presence filled the emptiness surrounding her. She was no longer alone, yet she did not fear. This unseen Presence was the goodness she sensed whenever Harry was near. Jesus had heard, understood, and answered her desperate plea. Maela’s heart pounded; a sense of awe filled her soul.
Maela almost did not recognize Harry’s cottage. It was lime-washed, patched, and repaired, and a flintstone chimney emerged from its fresh thatching. Genuine glass windowpanes sparkled in the morning light. The yard was neatly cleared, its fences solid. A new jakes had been built beside the livestock shed, with a chicken coop in between.
Before Maela could knock, the door opened and two dogs rushed upon her, whimpering for joy. Harry stood in the doorway, blinking and tousled, wearing only his nightshirt and trunk hose. Patting the excited dogs, Maela tried to explain, “I. . .I had need. . .”
Her face felt hot. She hadn’t, somehow, expected to surprise Harry. His nightshirt was unlaced, showing pale skin with a sprinkling of dark hair to match his adolescent beard. His feet and lower legs were bare.
“Down, Laitha, Ragwort,” Harry commanded, his voice gruff with sleep. “Enter, child, and welcome.”
It was her first glimpse inside. She dropped a small bundle upon the bench beside the door and turned to face him. “Thy cottage is changed indeed. You have labored quickly.”
“I had hoped you would approve.” Harry indicated the neat stone fireplace set into one wall, the new wooden floor, and lime-washed walls. “I did all but the roof. Sir David’s thatcher obliged me there.”
“It is fine work.”
An awkward silence. Maela glanced around. Harry had acquired a feather bolster. It lay upon the floor in one corner, still rumpled.
“The dogs told me of thine approach. I fear that I am ill-equipped to entertain at this hour. Is Pegasus in the paddock?”
“Nay, I did walk.” Her throat felt tight. “I have come to thee, as thou bidst me.”
She saw Harry’s eyes lower to her feet. “Wherefore, Maela?”
She tried to speak, but could not.
Harry’s arm lifted as though he would embrace her, then dropped. “Come, allow me to tend thy feet.”
Maela obediently sat upon the bench and let him examine her feet. To her surprise, they were cut and bleeding. Dark stains marked the place where she had been standing on Harry’s new floor.
“I shall cleanse them,” he told her. “Sit still.”
Silently she watched him build up the fire, fetch water from the cistern, and heat it in a kettle. Harry talked to her while he worked, about Lord Marston’s new stallion, the dormouse that had built its nest in Samson’s manger where Ragwort could not get at it, and his suspicion that Laitha was carrying pups by one of Marston’s hounds.
Then he knelt before her and lifted her feet into a basin of warm water. The cuts stung, but Harry’s touch sent thrills up her legs as he gently scrubbed her feet and ankles with soft soap and a cloth. The sensation was unlike anything in her previous experience.
“Tell me, Maela, why you have come to me.” He patted her feet dry with a clean cloth. They looked strangely white. She was glad the nails were trimmed, at least.
Still kneeling, he looked up at her expectantly. Her memories returned with an unwelcome rush.
“Sir Hanover,” she gulped and began again. “Sir Hanover plans to sell me to Bishop Carmichael. They spoke of me as a fruit that must ripen ere it is plucked. I comprehend this not. I do know that I am a slave, Harry—yet I am his child! How can this be?”
Harry swallowed hard, but she was not finished. “Sir Clayton DuBarry grasped me while I waited upon him. He said that he likes childer, but he intended evil. The bishop and Sir Hanover warned him away. I am to belong to the bishop when I am older; therefore, I must not be harmed. I cannot understand, yet I fear men; they are wicked!”
“God save thee, child!” Harry blurted, shaking his head.
Maela’s hand pressed against her chest. “In the market you did speak a prayer. God has answered, for I trust thee, and I trust Jesus. I would abide with thee until Sir Hanover departs, two days hence.”
It took a moment for her meaning to penetrate. “Here? With me?”
Maela saw varied emotions cross his face: embarrassment, suspicion, pity, doubt.
“You fled from me at the market, and today you entrust your life into my keeping?”
It did seem strange, she had to admit. “I do. I trust thee.”
“But can I trust thee?”
She caught his meaning and flushed. “I would not steal, Harry. I know it is wrong. It. . .is no habit of mine.”
“I paid the grocer for the fruit.”
Maela felt dreadful. “Why?”
He rose abruptly, throwing his hands up. “I would not have thee lose thy hand as a thief! Maela, will not thy father seek thee?”
Her head bowed. “He will seek me not here.”
“Had I an alternative, I would avail myself of it,” Harry muttered. “But as yet I know not any brethren in this county. Yea, child, you may remain here with me.”
Her face began to glow with delight. “I could go in disguise as a lad. Have you a spare jerkin and hose to lend me?”
He frowned. “Nay. Thou art a lady, and I would have thee remain so.”
She sighed in resignation. “Would that I were a lad and could wear trunk hose. ’Twould simplify tree-climbing.”
Harry answered in a matter-of-fact voice. “You should wear drawers beneath thy kirtle. My sisters and mother do wear them.”
“Indeed? They do wear drawers?” Maela’s delight was evident.
“ ’Tis the Italian style. My mother would ne’er adopt a scandalous fashion, but drawers are modest and sensible.” Harry’s face looked flushed. Speaking of drawers must be difficult for him, Maela concluded.
After they had broken their fast with toasted bread and cheese, Harry warned Maela to remain indoors while he was away. She was not to care for the outdoor animals in his absence, but she was free to amuse herself indoors with the dogs. She promised obedience, feeling somewhat frightened.
“I shall return as early as possible,” he assured her. “God be with thee.”
All seemed normal at Marston Hall that day, until Harry entered the house to take measurements. Several gentlemen stood in a semicircle about the finished portion of Harry’s carved screen.
“. . .and but look at the rose petals. Are they not lifelike? And they of solid walnut!” Sir David Marston was saying.
Eyes widening, Harry turne
d to sneak away.
“Ah, and here is the artisan in the flesh. Joiner, I would speak with thee. Tarry if thou wilt, and come hither to greet my guests.”
Harry squared his shoulders and turned. Help me, Lord!
The gentlemen regarded Harry with a mixture of interest and disdain. “Sir Hanover Trenton, Bishop Titus Carmichael, Sir Clayton DuBarry, and the Hon. Samuel Fredericks, meet Harold Jameson, joiner.”
Only Fredericks showed interest. “Indeed? Well, joiner, I must express myself enamored of thy work. Would you take employ at my house near Norwich? Of a certain, I shall wait patiently until Marston’s screen is complete,” he added with a chuckle.
“But he shall have more projects when this screen is complete!” Marston protested. “Many days have I pondered the south stairs, and have come at last to a decision. I would have dragons, or perhaps lions, mounted upon the posts at its base. And again, the great hall has need of a surround for the fireplace, something magnificent in walnut, I believe. Would you create this masterpiece for me when the screen is complete, Harry, my boy?”
Harry felt awkward, but he agreed to stay on.
The other gentlemen looked askance at Marston’s friendliness toward Harry. Such camaraderie from a member of the gentry toward an artisan was rare indeed, but then Sir David’s knighthood was of recent origin. Although Lord Marston was not extremely wealthy, the high-quality Norfolk sheep’s wool produced on his farms sold for peak prices in nearby market towns, and he could afford to gradually decorate his new house with beautiful things. He was a kindly, jolly man who loved his wife, son, and three daughters and treated his tenants fairly. Harry liked him.
“This talk is all well and good,” Sir Hanover interrupted gruffly, “but it answers not my purpose.” He turned to Harry and pinned him with a stare. “Have you seen a small damsel about the manor? She is a slave, gone missing from the castle.”
“I will look for such a damsel, sir,” Harry bowed slightly.
“Repeat this to other servants, for I would have her returned promptly.”
Harry nodded his understanding, but made no promises he could not honor. He carefully kept all emotion from his expression, and the men noticed nothing amiss.
Sir Hanover was not a tall man, but he was trim and strong, with auburn hair, mustache, and pointed beard. His plumed velvet hat, embroidered silk jerkin with shoulder picadils, puffed trunks, trunk hose, and nether hose looked ridiculous in Harry’s eyes, but he knew this attire was the height of fashion.
The other men were similarly attired, though perhaps with fewer jewels. Bishop Carmichael wore nothing but black, though his clothing was ornate in style. He was evidently a secular bishop—appointed his position and property as a reward for service to the queen. On the whole he was not an ill-favored man, yet the idea of his owning little Maela caused Harry’s big fists to clench.
At last Harry was dismissed. The other men watched him depart—sans measurements. He would come back for them later.
“An outsize lout, is he not?” DuBarry sneered.
“I’d give a thousand quid to have such shoulders,” Fredericks remarked wistfully.
Then the door closed, and Harry heard no more.
Her respite was over. All her life she would treasure the memory of two blessed days in Harry’s cottage. Harry had treated her like a queen, serving her meals, attending to her every word and need, reading her Bible stories until late in the night. He had even given her his bed while he slept in the shed with Samson and Genevieve. She had never before experienced such luxury as that feather bolster.
But now Sir Hanover had gone away, and she must return to her prison. Before Harry arrived home from work, Maela gathered her few possessions, hugged the dogs in farewell, donned her soft new leather shoes, and walked home through field and forest. Tears streaked her cheeks and dripped upon her waistcoat. Already she missed Harry dreadfully, but she simply could not have bidden him farewell without crying. Maela hated to cry in public.
Her footsteps slowed as she approached Castle Trent. She stopped, trembling, beside the ruined gatehouse. At times she loved her castle, but now the crumbling keep seemed to loom over her like a malevolent entity. Black clouds roiled across the sky behind it. Thunder rumbled in the distance, startling Maela back into motion. She darted across the courtyard and pushed at the kitchen door.
Castle Trent had been modified during her grandfather’s tenure. A wing had been added, connecting the kitchen with the keep. Sir Oliver Blickney Trenton had discounted the increased possibility of fire spreading to the living area, for modern fireplaces and ovens were much safer than the open cooking fires of earlier days, and besides, his castle had been modified structurally to withstand fire. Sir Oliver had proved more lucky than accurate, for during Sir Hanover’s boyhood, a fire had, in fact, destroyed the upper bailey, though the castle’s main living areas escaped harm. Maela’s grandmother spent most of her time in the kitchen and scullery. Maela spent much of her time alone in the cavernous keep.
The kitchen door opened easily beneath her hand, and her hopes rose. She slid along the kitchen wall, her eyes fastened to the motionless form slumped over one filthy table. Perhaps she would not have to explain her absence at all! Perhaps her grandmother would pass off her escape as a harmless escapade and—
The slumped figure suddenly lunged into motion and gnarled fingers gripped Maela’s upper arm. “Where have you been, malapert knave? Thy sire did hunt for thee high and low, Ishy, and did blame thy grandmother for thine absence! Thy grandmother, who tends thee as a ewe lamb! Doltish lout of a wench! Did you think to escape my wrath?”
Maela writhed in her grandmother’s grasp, to no avail. A horny fist clouted her upon the side of the head, making her ears ring. “This for my trouble, thou lousy lurdan! And this!” Repeatedly she slapped Maela’s cheeks, ignoring her cries for mercy.
“Out upon thee now, and should you sneak away again, I shall give thee to Dob and let him punish thee, errant wench!” Breathing hard, Hera released the child and sank back upon the bench.
Maela scurried from the kitchen, along a passageway, through an empty chamber, up spiral stairs, and along a gallery to the dismal comfort of her room. Tonight she would have no candles to relieve its stygian darkness. Shivering with shock and fear, she dropped upon her lumpy bed and heaved with dry sobs. “Where art Thou, God?” she whimpered. “Why didst Thou not protect me from Grandmere?”
The door slammed against the wall, and Dobbin Titwhistle entered the kitchen. He loomed over Hera Coats, slapping a crop against his heavy boots. “Up, thou drunken witch. What aroused thy wrath? Has the wench returned?”
“Yea, and I have punished her,” Hera snarled, pouring another tumbler of port from a flagon.
Dob snatched up the flagon and sniffed it. “I heard the master say that the port was low, and now I find thee here soaking in it. What sayest thou, witch?”
“I have earned it, as you have earned the rent you hold back from Sir Hanover,” she mocked. “Threaten me not, fool. A pox upon thee!”
Thunder rumbled outside, nearer this time.
Dob paled. “Repeal thy curse, woman, I beg of thee.”
“For the present,” she relented, grinning widely. The woman still possessed all of her teeth—an almost unheard-of feat at her age. Only a witch could have managed it, the townsfolk said.
“Where is the wench? I would have words with her,” Dob explained more respectfully, flourishing the switch. His heavy brows drew together. “The master did lay her escape at my door!”
“No more than at mine,” the old woman growled. “She is in her chamber.” In spite of the whip, Hera did not believe he would harm the child, so she allowed him to pass. Sir Hanover had made it clear to all that the girl was not to be tampered with.
Hera dozed again until a flash of lightning roused her. Faint screams reached her ears just before thunder rolled over the castle. Hera bolted to her feet, blinking in surprise.
“The fool!”
she exclaimed, along with more potent adjectives. Grabbing a poker from the fire, she hurried to the spiral staircase and laboriously made her way to Maela’s chamber. Sounds of blows and cries of pain fanned her wrath. Opening the door, which fortunately Dob had failed to latch, she entered, brandishing the poker.
“Unhand her,” she croaked. Dob turned to face her, saw the glowing poker, and froze. His grip on Maela’s arm relaxed.
Maela scurried past her grandmother and crouched against the gallery wall. Her new clothing was shredded. Throbbing weals rose upon her back and legs; oozing blood stuck to her smock.
“You well know Sir Hanover’s decree concerning the wench,” Hera stated in her creaking voice. “Yet you would disregard it for a moment’s pleasure! Thou art the doltish lout, Dob! This day I do place a curse upon Castle Trent: Any man that enters herein before Sir Hanover’s return shall be carried away by the devil himself!”
A flash lit the room in blinding white light with a crash that shook the castle to its foundations. The sudden roar of pouring rain on slate and lead sheet roofing filled their ears.
Dob’s eyes widened until the whites showed all the way around. With a fearful screech he rushed out the door, crashed into the gallery railing, passed Maela without seeing her, and thundered down the stairs. The front door slammed behind him with a force that echoed throughout the stone keep.
Cackling in delighted triumph, Hera Coats swept past her shivering granddaughter and slowly descended the stairs.
five
Likewise, I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth. Luke 15:10
Four days later, Maela had healed enough to ride to Harry’s cottage for an evening. Upon her arrival she saw Harry’s reaction to her battered face, but he seemed to accept her explanation that she had fallen. Once she saw him perusing the fading bruises on her bare forearms and the patches on her new garments, but he said nothing. She did not stay long, neither would she sit down, but her eyes followed Harry’s every move as though his presence sustained her life.
The bruises eventually faded, the stripes healed, and no further beatings ensued. Dob left Maela strictly alone, and her grandmother virtually ignored her. Sir Hanover did not return, and the bishop neglected Trenton parish.