by Jill Stengl
Maela had ways of discovering how long Dob would be away from the castle each day. She had memorized his routine, and easily caught any variation from his usual behavior patterns. On most days she could find an hour or two to spend at Harry’s cottage, though not always while he was at home. Friday was the best day of the week, for Dob left the castle grounds early, visited every alehouse in the village, and generally did not return until morning.
Upon her arrival, Maela would free the chickens, feed the animals, brush Samson and Pegasus, pet Genevieve’s twin buck kids, and play with the dogs while Harry worked around the cottage.
That first summer, Harry transplanted wild rosebushes to frame the front door, and Maela tended them lovingly until they adjusted to the change. “Imagine them in bloom,” she murmured, smoothing a glossy leaf with one finger. To please her, Harry bartered for bedding plants with the gardener at the manor, acquiring perennial vines and shrubs in exchange for carved knickknacks. Before long, her flower garden nearly equaled Harry’s kitchen garden in size and effort expended.
When inclement weather prevented outdoor labor, Harry built furniture: an oak table and benches, two armchairs, a bedstead for his feather bolster, a wardrobe and washstand. No cottage in the county boasted finer furniture, though it was rather crowded.
Not all of Harry’s free time was devoted to the cottage. With Sir David’s permission he took Maela fishing on manor grounds, teaching her to construct a pole and line, dig bait, and prepare the fish once caught. Her acuity and aptitude prompted him to try new lessons; one thing led to another, and Harry soon found himself in the role of tutor. Ishmaela seemed determined to extract every drop of knowledge and skill from his brain, and Harry thoroughly enjoyed teaching her.
Once introduced to kitchen arts, Maela was enthralled with cookery. Harry taught her the basic skills and recipes he had learned from his mother. Maela mastered them, then branched out on her own. Many of her attempts were dismal failures, but the dogs enjoyed them. Harry tasted every experiment, though he might have wished that the hands kneading the bread dough and chopping the produce were cleaner—Maela still resisted his attempts to introduce her to hygiene.
The joy of learning was addictive, and Maela delighted her tutor with her rapid progress. Harry used his Bible as a primer, and Maela produced a treasure trove of writing materials from the castle: quills, ink, parchment, paper, pencils, slates, and chalk. Along with reading and writing, Harry taught mathematics, Latin, history, and music.
Best of all was Scripture reading time. Maela soaked up knowledge of Jesus with every fiber of her being, begging Harry for more each day. He introduced her to Adam and Eve, Abraham, Moses, Joshua, Ruth, David—her interest was unquenchable.
Maela designed drawers for herself out of her mother’s old flannel petticoat. They were both comfortable and convenient. Modesty had been a foreign concept to her, but now Maela did concern herself with it, since modesty concerned Harry, and apparently it concerned God.
One day in early December, Laitha’s pups arrived. When Harry returned home from work one evening, he found the mother and nine pups settled, not in the whelping box he had provided, but in his best blanket at the foot of the bed. The blanket was ruined, of course, but he could not be angry with the new mother—Laitha’s manifest contentment touched his heart. He gently moved the family to their cozy box, and the new mother reluctantly accepted the change.
Ragwort was confused. His best friend would have nothing to do with him; she snarled when he so much as approached her nest. He felt better once Harry sat down and let him hop into his lap. Harry tipped his chair back on two legs and scratched the terrier’s belly. “We shall have little attention from our womenfolk these days, Rag. The pups shall receive all their love, I fear.”
Harry ate a cold supper, assuming Maela would not come that night, for it was snowing and windy. But commotion outside warned him of company. Ragwort stared at the crack beneath the door, his tail quivering. Harry opened the door, and Maela stumbled inside. He caught her, staring aghast at her blue lips and frosty eyelashes. Only a threadbare shawl draped her head and shoulders. Her hands were like blocks of ice.
“Pegasus is stabled.” She gave Harry a sheepish smile before seeking out Laitha’s box. “The pups are whelped! I knew it! Oh, Laitha!”
Harry released her to run to the puppies. She must not be quite frozen, after all. Words of reprimand died upon his lips. She had taken a terrible chance, all for the sake of Laitha’s pups.
To Harry’s surprise, Laitha made no demur when Maela picked up her puppies and admired each one. The dog had seemed uneasy when he handled them. “Six males and three females. A magnificent family, indeed!”
“The sire is Sir David’s prize staghound. These pups shall be valuable.”
“They are already valuable to me. Oh, Harry, behold this tiny face!”
Laitha licked the pup along with Maela’s fingers. She seemed delighted with the girl’s attention.
“What is Ragwort’s opinion of them?” Maela glanced back at the scruffy terrier.
“Not high, I fear. They are not his, of course; he is too small. However, there is a litter of terriers at the manor that bears his likeness. Lyttleton declares the pups are Ragwort’s.”
“Shall you take one?”
“I possess eleven dogs at present. I have no need of more!”
While Maela petted Laitha and cheered Ragwort by playing tug-o-war, Harry balanced on two back chair legs and his toes, his hands busy with a small carving. The growls and giggles ceased, and Maela reclined before the fire. Harry was relieved to see that color and warmth had returned to her face and hands.
Maela turned her head and stated bluntly, “Harry, I must tell you that I am now a disciple of Jesus Christ.”
Harry blinked. “I thought you had decided this long ago.”
“Nay. I loved Jesus and wanted to learn more of Him, but I did not wish to repent of my sins. Now I have done so, and He has forgiven me. My life is now His.”
She spoke firmly, but Harry heard a little tremor at the end. His hands fell to his lap; his front chair legs hit the floor. “This is a vital decision, Ishmaela. Never shalt thou make a greater.” A smile lifted his mustache. “Well done. The angels are rejoicing with thee, as I am also.”
Ishmaela nodded. Her eyes returned to the fire. “Does this mean that God has adopted me into His family?”
Harry wondered at the intensity of the question. “Indeed, it does. Thou art His child and my sister in Christ Jesus.”
“You have read to me of Abraham, Isaac, and Ishmael. I had never heard the story.”
She fell silent. “And?” Harry prompted after a long pause.
“I understand much now. . .about my mother, and. . .my name.” She rolled over and looked directly at Harry. “I was not the child of promise, Harry.”
“Not in man’s eyes, perhaps, but in God’s eyes thou art of infinite value. Jesus laid down his life for thee, Maela. There can be no greater love than this.”
She stared into his eyes as though reading his very soul. Harry said softly, “His Word is sure, Maela. You are a child of His promises, and He never fails to keep His Word.”
Silence fell. The gammon Harry had spitted over the fire dripped and crackled. He pulled it out and placed it on a plate for the girl, along with a roll and an apple. “Eat well, Maela.”
She accepted the food, munching quietly, her thoughts far away.
“You have added flesh to your bones since spring. Thou art slender as a birch sapling, but a breath of wind can no longer bear thee away.”
Maela smiled self-consciously, still chewing. She swallowed and vouchsafed, “You have fattened me well, Harry. ’Tis your provender which sustains me. Now, I must return to the castle, for Dob took the cob Orwell to ride this day, which means he shall not stay away long.”
As she rose, Harry produced from his wardrobe a woolen cloak and rabbit fur muff. “I had intended these for Christmas, but you have
need of them now.”
“Oh! Oh, Harry!” Maela clasped his gifts in her arms and buried her face in the fur.
“May I walk thee home?”
Recovering, she shook her head and donned the cloak. It covered her slight figure from head to toe. “It is most wondrous warm. I shall depart now. Tend those pups with care!”
❧
Sliding between mossy stones, Maela hunkered down to survey the castle grounds. In winter her natural cover was sparse, consisting only of dry grasses, bare trees, and a few clumps of gorse. It was not yet noon, but Dob and the other retainers had left early to join holiday celebrations at the local bear garden and pubs. Grandmere had retired to her chambers with a large pitcher of spirits, leaving Maela free to celebrate Christmas as she pleased.
Maela scampered into the forest, taking her roundabout path to Pegasus’s snowy, overgrazed pasture. The pony greeted her with his cheerful nicker. “Soon thou shalt enjoy a full manger, my friend,” she assured him, hopping upon his back. The sturdy pony seemed to have shrunk somewhat during the last year, but he still carried his mistress easily.
“Welcome! ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men,’ ” Harry called, rising politely as Maela stepped through the door. He had been ladling juices over a roasting fowl and turning the spit.
“Let us rejoice and be glad,” Maela agreed. “ ‘For unto us a child is born.’ ” Harry’s joy was contagious. Contentment flooded her heart. She dropped a package on the bench and pulled off her oversized boots and new cloak.
Ragwort sat on the hearth with his eyes glued to the dripping bird. Laitha lay in her box while the puppies nursed. She lifted her face to Maela’s loving touch, but Ragwort barely acknowledged the girl’s presence with a glance and a tail wag.
Maela could not blame him. The aroma was mouth-watering. Then an unwelcome thought struck her. “That is not one of our hens?”
Harry chuckled and hunkered back down on his low stool. His legs stuck out at angles like a spider’s. “Nay, I would not slay any pet of thine, Ishmaela; I love mine own life too well. The bird was a gift from Sir David—also ham, pastries, and dried figs. Kind in him, was it not? The manor festivities upon Christmas Eve were grand indeed. We did eat our fill, field hands, house servants, and all, and played and danced until our feet ached and our voices failed. I wished for thy presence, Maela.”
“I am thankful enough for this day,” she replied, peering over his shoulder at the chicken. The fire’s heat made her icy cheeks burn. She could imagine Harry dancing and singing with a pretty maid on each arm. The thought gave her no joy.
“I have a gift for thee,” Harry said suddenly. “Turn the spit, and I will bring it.”
“But my cloak and muff. . .they were my gift,” she faltered, though her eyes brightened.
“Nay, ’twas insufficient.”
Maela willingly took his place on the stool. Her kirtle settled around her as she bent to her task.
From a cupboard over the washstand, Harry retrieved his gift. Holding it behind his back, he approached her. Firelight twinkled in his brown eyes. Squatting beside her, he held out the gift on one callused hand.
It was the carving he had begun the night of the puppies’ birth, a gracefully carved dove. Each delicate feather was carved in detail; the sweetness of the bird’s expression brought tears to Maela’s eyes. Carefully she lifted it from Harry’s hand, her thin fingers trembling. “It is the most beautiful thing. . .its breast looks to be downy soft, though it is of wood.” The polished wood glowed in the firelight as she pressed the bird to her cheek and closed her eyes.
“It pleases thee?” A redundant question.
Leaning over, Maela squeezed his neck with one skinny arm. “It pleases me.” He looked satisfied.
Leaving Harry to turn the spit, she retrieved her bundle and placed it at his feet. “For thee.” She stepped back, hands clasped behind her back.
“I must rescue our supper first.” Harry removed the chicken from the spit and set it upon a platter to cool—out of Ragwort’s reach. The dog transferred his fixed gaze to the table.
Then, folding back the corners of a grayed and stained pinafore, Harry uncovered the gift, a needleworked pillow. He smiled in recognition. “It is Laitha and Ragwort. Smells of flowers.”
“I did stuff it with lavender,” she informed him eagerly.
A crude yet artful representation of the two dogs at play in a field of wildflowers decorated the canvas rectangle. Such detailed needlework must have required many hours of painstaking labor. Harry traced Laitha’s curved crewel spine with one rough finger, then Ragwort’s face. She had somehow captured Laitha’s air of tragedy and the terrier’s saucy, scruffy appeal.
Maela saw him bite his lip. Leaning back on his stool, he stared at the thatching overhead, fighting to control his emotions. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down beneath his beard, and a pulse throbbed in the hollow of his brown throat. Maela wanted to climb into his lap and snuggle against his chest as Ragwort sometimes did; instead she simply watched him with tender eyes. Her bird was lovely, but Harry was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen.
“It is fine indeed. Nothing could please me more,” he finally croaked, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and fingers. He turned to finish preparing the meal, keeping the pillow tucked under one elbow. “We shall starve while I forget my business here,” he rumbled.
Maela caressed her dove, satisfied that Harry’s reaction had been worth every stabbed finger, every ripped-out stitch. Her mother’s training, not to mention her mother’s supply of yarns and needles, had finally been of some use.
After a most satisfying feast, they settled around the fire. For once, Harry was not carving. He rubbed Ragwort’s back, staring into the fire. The little dog’s belly was tightly rounded. He sighed contentedly in his sleep, sprawled across Harry’s lap. For a while, Maela sat beside Laitha’s box, fondling and crooning to each puppy in turn. Then she scooted closer to the fire, closer to Harry, sitting tailor-fashion.
“Tell me of thy mother,” Harry demanded suddenly.
“Mother had golden hair and blue, blue eyes and white, soft skin. She taught me to dance and ride and stitch fancywork. She wore colorful gowns that flowed about her when she danced. . .I was eight years of age when Mother fell ill of a fever and died in the night.” Maela’s low voice faded away.
Suddenly sitting up straighter, she proclaimed, “Grand-mere loves me not. She has eyes that. . .I cannot explain. She has cast a spell upon the castle.”
Harry’s brows lowered. “Maela, surely you do not fear such things.”
“Nay, but Dob does. Grandmere’s witchery has helped me in this way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once last summer Dob was. . .cruel to me. Grandmere laid a spell around the castle, cursing any man that entered the keep ere its master’s return. Since that time, Dob has troubled me not.”
Muscles worked in Harry’s jaw, making his beard twitch. Maela wondered what he was thinking.
“How do you manage to escape the keep without their knowledge?”
Maela’s shoulders jerked. Just above a whisper she replied, “A secret tunnel.”
“A secret tunnel,” Harry mused softly. “I have heard of such things concerning these castles. How did you discover its existence?”
“I found it while playing. I doubt anyone living knows of it, save me. My one fear is that someday Dob will notice Pegasus missing and discover my secrets. Grandmere suffers pain in her limbs and drinks to excess. Because she never climbs the spiral staircase to my chamber without dire need, she knows not of mine absences. This morn she started early upon a large jug of rum; therefore I left earlier than my wont.”
“Does she beat you?” Harry asked quietly.
Maela felt warm. She turned away from the fire, away from Harry. “Not often. She threatens horrors beyond imagining should her commands be disobeyed. I know Jesus will protect me from her evil spell
s; nevertheless, I dare not cross Grand-mere without desperate need. She has excellent aim with a skillet.”
“And does she work about the castle? Cleaning, baking, washing, and such?”
“She collects and dries herbs for her potions, and prepares food for herself and for me. Dob and his like fare for themselves. I know not how. There is provender enough, but Grandmere does not trouble herself to prepare it properly, and she allows me not to try my hand. If you did not share of your bounty, I was like to have died of hunger long ago. Cleanliness is unknown to Grandmere. The bowls and suchlike are scoured with sand ere we eat. That is all. Once I swept out the old rush matting as you have taught me, then sprinkled fresh rushes and herbs about. Grandmere was asleep, and I do not believe she noticed my handiwork when she awoke. I try to make things finer, but there is little to work with.”
Maela looked troubled by her ineptitude, but Harry was touched by her efforts. “Make no excuse for thy labors; they are worthy. I might come to the castle and help thee. Often I behold its tower above the treetops and think of thee hidden within. ’Tis no proper place for a child. Mayhap I could reason with thy grandmother—”
“Nay! It can never be. I must depart. All thanks for my dove and for the bountiful feast.” Frightened, Maela leaped to her feet and began to don the large boots she had scavenged from a bedchamber in the castle.
Looking startled and rather hurt, Harry held her cloak then tried to open the door, but she ignored his good manners and let herself out. The two dogs followed her, but turned back quickly. Daylight had gone, leaving frigid darkness, though it was not yet five hours past noon. A thick fog rose from the melting snow. Maela could scarcely see to the shed where Pegasus waited.
The pony was not thrilled to see her, but he made no protest when she led him outside and climbed upon his back. When she rode past the cottage, she was surprised to see Harry in the doorway, silhouetted against the fire. “God be with thee,” Maela called.