by Jill Stengl
The hall fireplace was immense. Maela must have been playing inside it when she discovered the lever, Harry decided. It was easily large enough for several children to play within. He searched for a black stone on the left side. There were several, but he soon found the right one. The lever pulled smoothly, and a narrow opening appeared in the paneled surround about two feet to the left of the fireplace. It had been invisible while closed. Harry couldn’t help stopping to study it before entering.
Shouts reached his ears, and the sound of confusion. It was time to make haste. Slipping inside the tunnel, he slid the panel back into place and found himself in total darkness.
After a moment his heart began to beat again, and he remembered that Maela used this tunnel frequently. He was unlikely to become lost. Groping his way along the rock walls, bending nearly double beneath the low ceiling, he felt the tunnel slope downward beneath his feet. He took many hesitant steps, unsure of his footing. Suddenly the rock wall to his left ended, and Harry nearly fell into what turned out to be a shallow alcove. In it he felt wooden panels. A door? Maela hadn’t mentioned that possibility. Was it the door he should take? Shaking his head in doubt, he kept walking ahead, hoping for a glimpse of daylight. It seemed he had been walking in darkness for an hour when at last a trickle of daylight dazzled his eyes. It came from above, and in its glow he saw jagged stone steps up the rock wall. Climbing with hands and feet, he pushed his head through bracken and popped up from the hole like a rabbit.
Where am I? He dared not wonder aloud. He was in a forest. A small hill rose behind him. Brambles caught at his cloak as he lifted himself from the hole. That explained Maela’s perpetually scratched arms and legs.
It was a gray morning, just past dawn. An icy, misty rain was falling. A bird chirped hopefully from a nearby elm tree, and occasional scuffles in the underbrush indicated other small creatures. Harry crawled forward, searching for a place to stand erect. Brush scraped his hat from his head. When he paused to retrieve it, he glimpsed the castle keep just peeking above the hill at his back.
Of course! The hill was part of the ruined castle wall. The tunnel must have been intended as an escape route during siege.
There was no path through the wood, in spite of Maela’s constant usage. The child must take care to leave no marks that might lead anyone to the tunnel entrance.
Skirting the castle road, Harry made his way cross-country through the forest. Coming out upon the main road about a mile from the cottage, he brushed dead leaves and gorse thorns from his hair, hat, and cloak, then struck out for home. He would scarcely have time to break his fast and care for the beasts before church began.
“Lord,” he prayed aloud, “I thank Thee for Thy protection, guidance, and assurance of Thy complete power over any enemy, visible or invisible! And I thank Thee for Maela.” His heart held far more, but he could not express it in words—or even in thought.
He broke into a jog, his breath forming frosty clouds.
Dob caused a minor stir when he was discovered and released. Old Balt, the nearly deaf and blind smithy who stayed in the castle stables, eventually heard him kicking at the storeroom door and released the latch. As soon as he was loose, Dob ran to the keep and shouted outside the kitchen door until Hera staggered to open it, bleary-eyed and prickly as nettles.
“An intruder! Did you fight off the intruder in the night?” he panted from the exertion of his short run.
Hera glared at him. “Thou art surely mad.” Vitriolic epithets spewed from her tongue, but Dob ignored them.
“A man, a giant and powerful lord—nay, a wizard—wished to take the wench for ransom and demanded her location! He locked me in the storeroom, and Balt only now released me. Is she safe?”
Now somewhat concerned, Hera closed the door in his face and shuffled away. Dob waited on pins and needles for her return.
He did not wait long. “Thou dolt! Thou doddering idiot, to send me up those accursed stairs on a fool’s errand! The child sleeps, and all is well within. You dreamed, or were in your cups.”
Baffled, Dob took himself away to rehash the night’s events. At length a plausible explanation dawned upon him.
“ ’Twas the curse!” he told Balt firmly. “The rooks took that sorcerer! I heard them in the night, then a frightful scream; now, as you can see, they are gone. ’Twas the powers of darkness come upon us!” He crossed himself vigorously and pulled out his dried frog, a charm against witchcraft, to rub between his fingers.
When Balt eventually understood the gist of Dob’s story, he also stared wide-eyed at the vacant battlements. Rooks had nested atop Castle Trent for many years. Now they were gone. There could be no other explanation.
seven
My son, preserve sound judgment and discernment, do not let them out of your sight. Proverbs 3:21 (NIV)
Although Harry treasured his time with Maela, he also took pleasure in other activities. Sir David Marston threw feasts and dances nearly every holy day; the parish church was an excellent place to meet people, though not very good for worship; Trenton village held frequent concerts, pageants, meetings, and competitions. Harry participated in many of these. He and his dogs were well-known figures in the town.
Sports were more to his taste than the quieter pastimes. Harry romped with village boys and men, playing at football, ninepins, or battledore and shuttlecock. Fist fighting, bull-baiting, bearbaiting, and cockfighting seemed cruel sports to Harry, but he did appreciate an occasional dramatic play staged in Trenton’s bearbaiting hall. He also participated in frequent archery matches and the required drill and weapon practice of the village militia. Along with every other man in Trenton between sixteen and sixty, Harry marched, lunged with a pike, clashed swords, loosed arrows, and fired an arquebus (matchlock gun).
One hot summer afternoon in 1566, more than a year after Harry’s arrival at the manor, two female servants from Marston Hall brought drinks for the militia. While the men drilled, the women rested beneath a willow tree near the riverbank outside Trenton village and watched.
Waiting for his turn at the archery butt, Harry chatted with friends. Many of the men had already discarded their armor lest they faint of the sun’s heat. Harry unbuckled his thick leather breastplate, dropped it on the grass, and heaved a sigh of relief. “I sympathize with the fate of a turtle,” he jested.
“Oh, what a goodly man it is!” a freckled housemaid sighed as her dreamy eyes followed Harry’s every move.
“Waste not thy time a-dreaming of the joiner, Lottie. He is overreligious and a doltish lout. He delivers abhorrent sermons to all and sundry. Surely you have not escaped unscathed from his double-edged tongue!” Dovie rolled her eyes in disgust and lay back on the grass.
Lottie looked doubtful, her eyes drinking in Harry as he drew his longbow, aimed, and shouted, “Fast!” His first shot just missed the bull’s-eye.
“But he is strong and brave!” Lottie protested. “His skill at arms impresses even the men.”
“Remove thine eyes from his fine limbs and goodly countenance, Lottie. They conceal a man whose character is beneath thy notice.” Thus saying, Dovie allowed her own eyes to follow Harry’s second shot. The arrow struck an outer ring of the target. “They say he despises women. No honest man will abide near him—therefore he lodges in the coppice cottage.”
“I cannot believe this slander! Not only does Harry speak oft of God, he is exceedingly kind and good. I cannot believe that his nature is evil. Thy two charges lie at odds with one another!”
“Please thyself. I gave thee fair warning.”
It was Lottie’s first week at Marston Hall. She welcomed the break from household chores, for this had been her worst day yet.
Lottie had been assigned to pour drinks at dinner. After enduring sly winks and pinches from the field hands, which she had been unable to repel while holding a large pewter pitcher of ale, she had welcomed Harry’s respectful manner.
“Have you any new milk?” he asked, refusing the double a
le.
Opening her mouth to make a sharp reply, she met his gaze and stopped cold. “ ’Twould pleasure me to fetch it for thee,” she fluttered, and hurried to the dairy house.
His smile had rewarded her when she returned with the jug of milk, but to her dismay she had poured too fast, deluging his arm and lap. He had quickly leaped to his feet, brushing off his clothes. Not one word of blame, not one oath escaped his lips. He had refused her offer of help, claiming that the sun would soon dry him and that cold milk was good on a hot day—though he had never before applied it to his exterior. Lottie had gaped at him in silence, her blue eyes glazing over.
Palpitations of the heart seized her even now as she watched him hit the edge of the bull’s-eye with his next shot. She clasped her hands at her breast, “Oh, well done, Harry!” Hearing her, he touched his helmet brim with a smile.
Another man heard Lottie’s praise. When it came his turn to shoot, he picked up his bow, aimed quickly, and in rapid succession sent three bolts into the bull’s-eye, dead center. He checked to make sure Lottie was watching, but her eyes followed Harry. The tall man frowned and retrieved his arrows with shoulders hunched.
“Impressive, Fleming,” Harry remarked. “You do show us apprentices how it should be done.”
Fleming acknowledged the compliment with a nod and watched as Harry joined the women under the tree. “Come hither, friend, and rest with us,” Harry invited the older man, but Fleming pretended not to hear and drifted toward town.
“Please thyself.” Harry pulled off his helmet and leather jerkin. Sweat drenched his body and trickled down his face; his hair was plastered to his head. His yearning gaze turned toward the river. “A swim would suit me well this day.”
“Have a cup of ale?” Lottie offered, already dipping from the bucket. “We brought it for thy refreshment—and that of the other men.”
“With pleasure.” Harry drained the dipper in one long draught. He wiped his mustache with the back of one hand and smiled. “I thank thee, maiden. Thou art ever ready with a drink when I thirst, it seems.”
“I hope so,” Lottie simpered, finding it difficult to breathe. Only sixteen, Lottie had little experience with men, but she was eager to learn. Other sweaty weekend warriors gathered round, slaking their raging thirst and flirting with the women. They distracted Dovie, but Lottie saved her attention for Harry.
Dogs romped on the grass nearby—Laitha, Ragwort, a bloodhound, and two of Laitha’s adolescent pups. One pup still belonged to Harry, the other to the town beadle. Laitha’s pups had brought Harry a sizable profit. In a way he missed them, but the cottage was certainly more comfortable without them! The one pup he kept, a large, brindled male, was Maela’s dog, Dudley.
Harry lay back at Lottie’s feet, clasping his hands behind his head and gazing up into the willow’s flowing branches. He took a deep breath, wondering how it would be if Maela could join him at these social activities. In his imagination she was clean, prettily clad, and enthralled by his athletic prowess. The admission brought a smile to his lips.
Lottie stared at him, not at all repulsed by the large damp patches on his stomach and beneath his arms, noting only how the coarse holland shirt clung to his brawny torso. Adolescent acne still marked his complexion, but Lottie focused upon his many fine features. Black hair curled upon his forearms and the strip of bare chest revealed by the open-necked shirt. Thick lashes and brows framed his pensive dark eyes. Shiny hair fell back from his broad forehead. One long leg was bent, the other stretched upon the grass.
Plain woolen trunk hose stopped at his knees. He had opted not to wear nether hose—probably due to the heat.
Lottie perused his recumbent figure once more from toe to head, and, upon reaching his face, was startled to find Harry’s eyes upon her. “Do you think we are ready to fight the Irish should the queen require?” he asked.
Lottie immediately gushed, “Yea, of a truth, thou art prepared for anything!”
“The local militia fought in Ireland in recent years, so ’tis unlikely we will be called up soon.”
George, a Marston Hall field hand, remarked, “I once heard that Sir Hanover Trenton’s grandfather received his knighthood after brave fighting in Ireland under Henry the VII.”
“Indeed?” Harry propped himself up on his elbows to listen. “And when passed the castle into Trenton hands?”
“ ’Twas taken by the crown after a siege and awarded to the first Trenton. He was a good manager, unlike the present master. All know how Dob Titwhistle fills his own purse ere he sends the rent to Lord Trenton.” George swallowed another dipper of ale.
Lottie felt left out. “Why does Lord Trenton not suspect?” She leaned forward to pick a burdock from Harry’s hair, letting her fingers linger. His hair was damp with sweat, but soft, as she had anticipated. She began to brush leaves from the back of his shirt, but he sat up and moved out of her reach.
George chuckled. “He takes not the time to learn what monies he should receive. He has other properties, and likely other dishonest assessors. The castle itself falls to ruin, and he cares nothing for it. His mind is taken up with Good Queen Bess and international affairs.”
“Does he court the queen? I hear she has countless suitors,” Lottie inquired. Romance of any kind fascinated her.
“He is a married man, else he would likely top the list of hopefuls. That Austrian archbishop has given up hope of her. The Frog king, though half her age, has hopes—or perhaps they’re his mother’s hopes. The Earl of Leicester holds our queen’s heart, ’tis rumored, but she should ne’er marry him.”
“Why not?”
“His wife died in suspicious circumstances. It can never be proven, but should he marry the queen, many would say he murdered his first wife to make himself free. He is beneath Her Majesty in birth, rank, and all else, yet she favors him. His fine figure and comely face hold her fancy, though she loves him not enough to make him king. Nevertheless, Parliament pressures her to marry and provide an heir to the throne.”
“I pity her,” Harry remarked.
“You pity Her Most Royal Highness, the queen of England and Wales?” George scoffed. “I would take her place.”
“I would not. She fears to marry, I think, lest she lose her power and the love of her husband. Mind her sister’s fate. Queen Mary’s marriage brought heartbreak and disaster—and no heir.”
“ ’Tis noised,” Dovie jumped into the discussion, “that the Scot queen’s husband, Lord Darnley, has murdered her secretary, David Rizzio.”
“Of a truth?” Lottie’s eyes were enormous. “For what cause?”
“Jealousy, if talk be true. The queen did love the man.”
Harry pressed his point. “Her cousin’s unhappy marriage cannot encourage Queen Elizabeth to seek a husband.”
“Yet the Scot queen has at least provided an heir to the throne,” George observed.
None of them dared voice the thought aloud, but all knew that Mary, Queen of Scots, was a threat to Elizabeth’s sovereignty. Although the Protestant government of Scotland was continually at odds with their Catholic queen, many in England considered Mary Stuart their rightful queen. Elizabeth’s position as legitimate heir was in serious question. Her parents’ marriage had been declared invalid so that Henry VIII could marry again. Was she the rightful queen? It was a ticklish situation, at best.
❧
“Harry, the purpose of this is unclear to me.” Maela obediently stirred the kettle of hot fat while Harry poured in the lye, but a frown wrinkled her brow. “ ’Twould surely profit me more to pursue my studies in Latin this day. What is the purpose of making soap? Can you not take some in trade if it is needed?”
Harry glanced up long enough to appreciate her little pout. “The soap will be of use to us.”
“Of use to us, indeed. You wish to smell pretty for that housemaid. I have beheld her with thee at militia drill.”
This arrested Harry’s attention. “You have witnessed the practice sessions?
”
“It pleases me to behold thee. But it pleases me not to see that. . .that wench behold thee!”
Harry chuckled. “You speak in riddles. Do I hear the rantings of a jealous woman?”
Maela’s face was already as flushed as it could be while she worked over the boiling soap, but Harry saw her bite her lip and cringe from his words. “Maela, I do but jest. Once I beheld the exquisite visage of a maiden—but, alas, this day her beauty is veiled from my sight. I would see her face once more, and this soap may aid me toward that end.”
Maela looked narrowly at him, suspecting a hidden meaning. “Do I know this maiden?”
“You have heard me mention her name—Maela, the soap thickens.” Harry changed the subject, hoping to distract her.
Since Maela’s illness he had not seen her hair; she kept it bundled beneath a cap. He wondered how long it had been since she combed it out, but never dared ask. Most people were undismayed by fetid body odors, for they all stank alike, but Harry came from a family that valued biblical cleanliness.
Harry not only wanted Maela clean for his own sake; he also worried about her health. Maela was seldom close enough for her body odor to bother him, but he worried about parasites. Some people took lice and fleas for granted; Harry was not among them.
Maela was not to be distracted. “It is that Lottie. She haunts thee like a spirit, I trow, and you enjoy her worship.”
“Cease this foolish babble. Lottie is a silly child, no more. Have you spied upon me at the manor as well, wench?”
Maela glared at him. “Upon occasion. Seldom have I seen thee without that freckled wench in tow. If she is a child, what am I?”
“A younger child. Nay, in truth, she is thine inferior in understanding, Maela, though superior in years. Envy her not. Thy jealousy is wasted upon her.”