by Jill Stengl
“Fare thee well, Maela,” Harry called back. He sounded strangely forlorn.
six
The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me. . .they stumbled and fell. Psalm 27:1–2
A few weeks later Ishmaela did not show up at the cottage for several days in a row. Harry philosophically accepted the first few days of her absence, for sleety snow driven before a knife-edged wind would keep most people indoors—though Maela was unlike most people. Laitha’s bright-eyed, tumbling, fuzzy puppies were an irresistible lure to the girl. It was strange, indeed, that she did not come.
After six days of lonely, worried waiting, he could bear it no longer and prepared a sack of food and herbs. He let the dogs out, then shut them back into the house and set out toward the castle. Anything might have happened to the child. She could be sick or injured or imprisoned. . .
“It had best not be Dobbin Titwhistle,” he muttered grimly. He had seen Dob about town, a burly man with florid face, bushy beard, and a large belly. The thought of the man harming Maela made Harry’s protective instincts rise in full force.
“Wish I had a horse.” Not for the first time, he imagined himself riding up to the castle gates and demanding entrance, then galloping away with Maela across his saddle. His daydream always degenerated into the more realistic prospect of riding over on Samson, his feet dragging on the ground as they jounced along. He gave a rueful chuckle. “I would find a place as court jester, more like.”
He pulled his hood over his face in a vain attempt to shield it from the wind. It was no longer sleeting, but it was dark, with no moon or starlight to brighten his path. Patches of snow remaining beside the way took on a ghostly aspect in Harry’s eyes. Wind whipped naked treetops into frenzy. Branches strewed the narrow road, swirling about as the wind caught them. Harry heard and felt a crash somewhere to his left; a mighty tree had fallen before the storm.
He nearly missed the turnoff to Castle Trent, a black tunnel through the trees. A chill caused by neither sleet nor wind trickled down his spine as he entered it. Mocking voices in the wind screamed of doom and disaster. His flesh began to creep; the hair on his scalp lifted.
Harry stopped and closed his eyes. His cloak whipped and fluttered about his legs, but he stood like a rock in the center of the path. “Lord,” he spoke aloud. “I ask Thy protection and blessing upon this mission. Uphold Ishmaela with Thine Almighty Hand; keep her safe in Thee. Thou art greater far than any power of darkness and fear, and all creation rests in Thy Hands. Help me to find Thy little child this night, and give Thine angels charge over us. In Jesus’ name I ask this.”
Shoulders squared, he strode down the path like a conquering hero. His armor was invisible, yet it was invulnerable. Now the wind sounded angry, defiant.
Castle Trent appeared out of the night, seeming to glow with a silvery light against the black sky. There were no castle gates; they had long since crumbled. So much for that fantasy. A moat had once surrounded the grounds; of it, only a grassy depression remained. Inside the moat’s outline, piles of rubble overcome by moss, bracken, and brambles were all that was left of the castle walls. Only the tall stone keep and a few outbuildings remained intact. Few of the keep’s lower windows showed flickers of light, signs of human life.
Harry paused beside the ruined gatehouse, sensing danger. His eyes darted from corner to dark corner, suspecting. . . he knew not what. One hand on his knife sheath, he walked into the courtyard where knights had gathered for battle one hundred years before. Almost he could hear their shouts, the clatter of hooves and clink of armor.
Nay, that metallic clank was of the present. . .
Harry sprang to one side just as a pike pierced the air where he had been standing. His cloak billowed around him; there was a sound of rending fabric as the pike ripped it from his back.
Carried by the momentum of the thrust, a large body stumbled past, uttering a frustrated oath. Harry grasped the man by the back of his jerkin, hauled him off his feet, and kicked the cloaked pike out of reach. Whipping out his hunting knife, he held it to the man’s throat from behind, pressing its edge into the skin until a trickle of blood emerged. “Hold,” he ordered, as though his captive could do otherwise.
Wheeling to look for other assailants, Harry held the man before him like a shield. The courtyard was empty.
“Slay me not!” the man begged through clenched teeth. “Who art thou?”
“One full willing to dispatch cowardly assassins such as you,” Harry snarled, fear still whipping the blood through his veins. “Where is the child?”
He felt surprise ripple through the heavy body. “The child?”
“Lord Trenton’s daughter.”
“He has no daughter,” the voice was unconvincing. “If you desire ransom, take the boy child from his home near London. I could counsel thee how to accomplish it.”
Harry’s teeth clenched. “Foul traitor!”
“Nay, I am faithful to his lordship,” Dob whined, ready to butter his bread on either side.
“Less talk of thy worthless loyalty,” Harry spoke sharply. “Where is the girl child?”
“In the castle,” Dob gasped as the knife pressed harder. “I’ve done nothing to anger thee, lord.”
“But for attempting to skewer me, I trust that is true.”
“You should fear the witch Hera. She commands the powers of darkness; indeed, I know it.” Genuine fear laced the foreman’s gravely voice. “She has placed a curse upon the castle so that no man dare enter until Sir Trenton’s return.”
“I give thee fair warning, Master Titwhistle,” thick sarcasm colored the title of respect, “should any harm come to the damsel, thy life is forfeit. She is under protection far greater than any witch could provide.”
“How do you know of the wench? Art thou a wizard?”
“I have means beyond thy ken” was Harry’s enigmatic reply. If Dob believed he was a sorcerer, so be it.
Apparently this was exactly the conclusion Dob had arrived at. Who but a sorcerer could know of Sir Hanover’s child or dodge a pike thrust with such perfect timing? Dob was no fool, but superstition clouded his judgment. Shaking with fear, he offered no resistance when Harry bound his hands behind his back using his own woolen hose. Rather than leave the helpless man exposed to the elements, Harry locked him into a storeroom, certain that he would be found in the morning. One hazard eliminated.
Harry freed his cloak but left the pike where it lay. The castle loomed above him, ominous, cold. Ishmaela’s home? It was difficult to imagine his lively little companion dwelling in this gloomy fortress.
“Lord,” he spoke softly while wiping clean his knife’s blade. “I thank Thee for Thy protection this night. Hera Coats has allied herself with Thy sworn enemies, and will doubtless strive to prevent mine entry. I ask Thee in Jesus’ name to defeat Thine enemies and allow Thy servant free access to Castle Trent.”
With a raucous cackling and clatter of wings, a flock of rooks launched from the castle battlements, circled once, then headed north above the treetops, a ragged black cloud, tattered by the wind. Harry stared up into the darkness, hearing the noise, but unable to determine its source.
Taking a deep breath, he shrugged his shoulders to relax them and headed for the keep, knife in hand. This time he kept an eye on his back trail, not caring to be surprised more than once a night.
The drawbridge, rotted and treacherous to unwary feet, lay across the dry inner moat. The portcullis was up, set, and ready to cut off the unwary or unwelcome visitor. Within these barriers, stone stairs led up to an enormous oaken door set deep in the outer wall. It was a far from pleasant prospect. Harry paused at the base of the steps. He could not imagine Maela opening that door. Perhaps there was another.
Circling the base of the rectangular keep, he soon discovered the attached kitchen wing. A light glowed from within. He k
nocked on the door. No answer. Circling the castle once more, he studied its windows. They were too narrow to enter even if he should manage to climb up.
Returning to the kitchen door, he pushed at its iron ring. The door swung open with a low groan. Slightly rattled by this easy access, he paused in the doorway, brandishing his knife, but nothing happened. A short, narrow hallway lay within, dimly lit by a fire in the room beyond.
Harry stepped inside. There was a weird scream and a scuffle at his feet. With a startled yell, he flourished his knife and crouched in a defensive position—but it was only a cat rushing to escape through the open doorway. He must have trodden upon its tail. From the courtyard it turned to glare at him with glowing eyes and yowled again before gliding into the shadows.
Harry swallowed hard, blinked, let out his breath in a puff, and grinned. “Overmuch talk of witches makes me fear a little cat!”
Flaring coals cast a red glow over the kitchen’s tiled floor, filthy worktables, and a jumbled assortment of baskets, barrels, pottery, and cast-iron pots. A heap draped across one of the tables emitted a low rumbling noise. Harry silently moved close enough to recognize a human shape and to understand the significance of the empty jug at its elbow. He gently lifted one of the woman’s shoulders, showing a lined, yellowed countenance with slack jaw and deep bags beneath the closed eyes. Greasy, grayish hair slipped from beneath her cap.
“Mistress Hera, I presume,” he said and released her. “So much for thine evil spells. Thou hast succumbed to an evil of thine own making.” It was difficult to imagine this sot as Maela’s grandmother. Although the woman might have been handsome in her youth, it was impossible to discern beauty in her ravaged face now.
Taking a beeswax candle from the kitchen, Harry began to explore, checking chambers and hallways, softly calling Maela’s name. Only scuffling rodents and echoes replied. Mildew and dry rot tickled his nose. He stifled a sneeze, then another. Wind moaned through the windows, lifting tapestries from chamber walls in ghostly waves. Harry’s candle flickered wildly. Every sound, every leaping shadow caused his heart to race. Though he felt chilled, sweat beaded his brow. I wonder, he thought, have I covered the ground floor, or have I traveled in circles? Each chamber looks like the one before.
Near the entry hall he found the stairwell, dark and steep. Holding his long knife in his right hand, the candle in his left, he began to ascend. Eventually, the spiral stairwell opened into a gallery. He extended the candle into it while standing poised on the stairs. Three doors opened into the gallery; all were closed. Opposite the doors, at Harry’s left hand, was a waist-high frame barrier, and beyond this barrier a vast, empty space. Casting wary glances over both shoulders and listening with every nerve in his body, he stepped into the gallery. Its wooden floor creaked ominously beneath his feet.
Before trying the doors, he held his candle over the barrier to see what lay beyond. Heavy beams supported a vaulted ceiling. Long tables lay below, lined with heavy chairs and benches. It was the castle’s great hall. The gallery overlooked it from on high, a good two stories up. Leaning slightly against the barrier railing, Harry felt it give beneath his hand. Instantly, he backed away, eyes wide. This place requires the services of a good joiner. . .but I shall not apply for the position.
Harry paused before the first door.
“Maela?”
Silence.
He knocked at the next door. “Maela? Can you hear me?”
“Harry?” A guttural reply. It could be no one but Maela, though it sounded nothing like her.
He took a deep breath, gulped, and felt tears prick behind his eyes. His relief was beyond measure. “Maela! Yea, truly ’tis Harry.”
The door creaked open to reveal Maela’s pallid face. “Harry, thou art in danger here!” she barked, then began to cough.
The sound thrust a knife of fear between Harry’s ribs. The candle shook in his hand that had been rock-steady a moment before. “Thou art ill! I did fear it.”
Maela shook her head. “ ’Tis but a cough. I shall recover. Harry, you must go away! Should Grandmere discover thee, or Master Dob. . .” Her eyes implored him, but he pushed past her into the room, his feet crunching on withered rush matting.
A tiny fire consisting of a few twigs flickered on the hearth but produced no discernible heat. No wonder the child was ill. The dank, dark chamber was perhaps six by eight feet, with a small doorway to the garderobe near the wall. Maela’s bed was a straw pallet on the floor. Two moth-eaten blankets and her woolen cloak were its only coverings. From the corner of one eye he saw furtive movement near the hearth—a mouse, no doubt. The entire castle reeked of vermin.
He turned to Maela. Arms wrapped about her body, she shivered, clad in only her shift and red flannel drawers—no nightcap. Tattered sleeves dangled at her elbows. The sagging neckline revealed protruding collarbones. She had lost considerable weight. Dirty ankles and bare feet showed beneath her drawers. Her eyes looked dull, though firelight flickered in their dark depths. Her hair hung in a snarled, greasy mass that reached past where her hips must be.
“You must go away,” she repeated weakly, choked, then doubled over again with racking coughs that seemed about to tear her delicate body apart.
“Dob Titwhistle is locked up, and Hera Coats lies snoring in the kitchen, past waking.”
Maela’s eyes widened. “Dob has seen thee? Oh, all is lost!” Her lips trembled. “Now he will know! He will discover my passage.” She began to sob softly, gasping for breath.
“Nay, he saw not my face. Should I vanish, perchance he will think ’twas a dream, or one of Hera’s curses come to pass. Thy secret is yet safe.”
Maela’s eyes closed. Harry saw her sway. He leaped to catch her, and her weight was as nothing in his arms.
Maela awoke, but did not wish to open her eyes. Her dreams had been so wonderful that even their memory warmed her. Harry had stroked her face and arms as he spoke tender words of love and encouragement. Even now she caught the heady scent of him and inhaled deeply.
“It is well. You can breathe clearly now.”
Maela’s eyelids felt weighted, but she had to see if it were true. “Harry?” she whispered. His face came into focus. The room seemed filled with light. “Thou art truly here?” Her hand groped in his direction and felt his gentle squeeze.
“You do not remember?”
“I thought ’twas a dream.”
“I know not how I will leave thee now that day has dawned, but I care not. Thy fever has broken, and thy cough is productive. I caused you to breathe an herbal mist while you slept. You have coughed up the congestion.”
Maela thought this over. It sounded disgusting, but Harry did not look disgusted. “I dreamed. . .” she began. She lifted one arm into view. It was no longer grimy.
Reading her thoughts in her actions, Harry said soberly, “I rubbed thine arms and face with wet cloths, Maela, to bring down the fever. I knew not what else to do.”
Maela thought her fever must have returned, for her face burned. Harry rose to prowl about the room. “I feared you would hate me, as you would have no man touch thee.”
Far from feeling indignant, Maela wanted to beg for more. “Once you did tend my feet.”
“Yea, but this time I did tend thee without thy consent.”
“You have ever my full consent, Harry. I trust thee completely. This castle seems a brighter place, for I have seen thy face herein.”
Harry brightened. “I hazarded thy wrath to make thee well and strong again. I cannot tell how I have missed thy presence this past se’ennight. The dogs miss thee, as well.”
Maela smiled. “And I them. But. . .how did you come here? Grandmere. . .Dob. . .the curse—” Wonder creased her brow.
“ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me,’ ” he quoted softly. “Thy grandmother slept, and God protected me from Dob. I saw none beside the twain.”
“But how will you escape?�
�
“The secret tunnel?” Harry suggested. “I wish not to leave thee, but Dob will soon be discovered, and I fear thy grandmother will wish to ascertain thy continued presence. I have left bread, cheese, and apples here in this cloth at thy feet,” he pointed. “I brought thee fresh water in a flask; it and two faggots for thy fire are hid in the garderobe. Now, I must require my cloak of thee.”
Maela followed his glance and realized that she was wrapped snugly in his cloak. No wonder his scent had embraced her while she slept. Slowly she sat up and tried to unwrap its folds. Harry came to help her.
“There is a lever between two stones inside the fireplace in the great hall,” Maela explained. “Reach up about thus far,” she showed him the distance on her arm, “and pull it down. It is on the left behind a black stone. Harry,” she paused, flushed, “I must use the garderobe.”
Understanding her implied request, he helped her to her feet and into the side chamber, then left the room to allow her privacy. Maela remembered to wash her hands afterward this time, though the cold water added to the draft from the seat holes started her shivering again.
She crawled between her blankets and tried to soak up the warmth of the fire.
Harry knocked at her door. “Maela?” At her bidding, he reentered the room. She was nearly asleep already. Kneeling beside the pallet, he stroked her pale forehead lightly with his fingertips and watched her lips twitch into a smile. Through the night he had studied her face in detail while sponging away the grime. Delicate, feathery brows framed her eyes, and lush lashes brushed her cheeks as she slept. Her small ears were now rosy and clean; her pointed chin was determined but sweet. Someday she would be a prize that any man would be honored to claim. The unbidden thought brought him to his feet, frowning.
Quietly he closed the door of her chamber behind him. Slinking gingerly along the gallery, Harry peeked down the stairwell. All clear. Knife at the ready, he crept down the stairs and moved toward the great hall. Maela had told him it would be to his right, and sure enough, he stepped into the vast space of it a moment later. Somehow he had missed it during his explorations the night before. Far above was the gallery. He could just glimpse the top of the door to Maela’s room. He felt less alone at sight of it.