by Jill Stengl
“Thou art too kind and gentle—her affection thrives on thy kindness.”
The soap thickened into sludge. Harry was not sure what to do next, for in spite of his boasts to Maela, he had never made soap before. He began to ladle it into pots and pails while Maela watched. “Her interest thrives on air. I give her no encouragement,” he grumbled. Lottie’s hero worship had begun to annoy him long before Maela pointed it out. “To be sure, she makes no indecent proposals, unlike others. She is a chaste and worthy maiden.”
Wondering about this comment, Maela asked, “What indecent proposal might she make?”
“Why. . .uh. . .she. . .” Harry dithered, then busied himself, awkwardly pouring the soap. It slopped over the top of one pail, then another. He was creating a slimy mess in the yard of his cottage. Evidently, he had not given the location of his soap-making project enough forethought.
Maela dipped a finger into the cooled product and lifted it to her nose. “Will you place this foul stuff upon thy body?”
“I shall add lavender scent to it,” Harry assured her.
“When?”
“Now.” He sprinkled a liberal amount of dried lavender blossoms into each container and bade her stir it in. Maela obeyed, grimacing at the result.
“Now it stinks and has flowers in it. What will you do with this. . .mess?”
“Wash my raiment and my body with it,” he asserted bravely, though a closer examination gave him pause.
“Better thou than me!”
eight
Oh Lord, thou preservest man and beast. Psalm 36:6
One September morning, Harry awoke to find that a wild creature had broken into his chicken coop. Feathers littered the yard; Sage and Rosemary were gone. Only poor Parsley perched atop her ravaged house, squawking distractedly, and would not allow Harry to touch her. The dogs had failed to sound an alarm at the crucial time. Ragwort snuffled and snarled around the coop, and made short dashes into the forest, barking a challenge, but the damage was already done.
Harry left work early that day and started repairing and strengthening the coop. It would not be difficult to replace the hens; he was more concerned about Maela’s reaction, for she was deeply attached to every one of his animals. Selling the buck kids had nearly broken her tender heart, though Harry had assiduously avoided mentioning their probable fate.
Harry glanced over his shoulder and was surprised to find Maela standing behind him. “Good morrow, child. A sorry day is this.” After tapping a peg into place, he tried to stand up and bashed his head on the low doorway of the coop. “Ahh,” he grimaced, rubbing the sore spot.
Maela stared at him, her face pinched and sober. He squinted at her out of one eye. “A stoat or weasel carried off two hens, some creature small and strong. Parsley alone is with us still.”
The girl nodded, her lips pressed together.
Harry noticed a lack. “Where is Pegasus?” he asked, glancing around the yard. “Did you walk this day?”
Maela turned away, her slender shoulders quaking, and lowered her face into her hands.
In two steps Harry stood before her. “Dead? Ill? What has become of him?” he demanded.
“I know not; only that his pasture is empty,” she gasped. “I believe Dob has taken him and the cart horses to market.” She burst into tears, something he had never before seen her do.
Harry swallowed hard. He patted her shoulder awkwardly, uncertain how to react to her tears. Spinning options through his mind, he finally stated, “Today is market day in Hently. I shall attempt to find thy horse. Care for the others in mine absence.”
He took more than the price of a pony from his hidden store of coins and stuffed it into the hanging pocket tied to his belt. Tossing his cloak over one shoulder, he bade Maela pray for success and struck the road toward Hently, a market town north of Trenton.
Hours later he believed himself on the right trail. One merchant recalled seeing a burly stranger with a chestnut pony and two cart horses for sale, and he pointed Harry to another merchant who had talked to the seller. This merchant directed Harry to a farm some five miles to the southwest, where he believed the pony’s buyer lived. It was a long walk for an uncertain outcome, but Harry was willing to try.
To his surprise, the directions led him, by a circuitous route, to a farm near the outskirts of Marston Hall property. The bleak outline of Castle Trent keep was visible above the treetops as Harry approached the farmhouse.
A slender, pleasant-faced yeoman emerged from the barn. “God give you good day,” he greeted respectfully. Harry had seen the man before, but did not know his name.
“And you,” Harry replied, bowing in return, then extended his hand. “Harold Jameson, joiner at Marston Hall.”
“Well met, Jameson. I know you by reputation and have seen you at church. I am called Jonas Fleming. May I give you aid?” Fleming had a firm handshake.
“I trust that you may. I seek a chestnut gelding, nigh eleven hands, no markings, sold this day at market. A merchant told me I might find it here.”
“Verily, my son purchased such a horse this day. His mother did wish for a pony to drive. Is it stolen?” The farmer’s face was troubled.
“Nay, but I know the horse well, and would have purchased it had I known ’twould go to market. ’Tis a child’s pet and well loved.”
“Ah, indeed.” The yeoman scrutinized Harry’s youthful face, wondering about this unknown child. “ ’Twas Master Dob of Castle Trent that sold it, you know.”
Harry nodded. “But the pony belonged to Lord Trenton’s daughter, and she consented not to part with it.” Something prompted him to trust Fleming with Ishmaela’s secret. “I am her tutor and friend, unbeknownst to Dob Titwhistle or Mistress Hera. The child is a believer, and greatly in need of friends, Master Fleming.”
The farmer’s bearded cheeks creased in a wide smile. “I thought you had the look of the redeemed. Might you take an interest in our Bible study meetings? Many church members meet independently to search the Scriptures each week.”
Before Harry could answer, a younger man emerged from the barn, laid eyes on Harry, and stopped short. “Jameson?”
“Fleming! This is thine abode?”
“Indeed.”
“Thou art acquainted?” Master Fleming observed with pleasure.
“Militia,” Lane explained. “Jameson excels at broadsword.”
“And thou art expert with the longbow.” Harry grinned. Despite his best efforts to be friendly, he had never exchanged more than two or three sentences with Fleming, for the man was painfully shy.
Before long Harry was seated at the farmhouse’s rough board, sharing his life story over a tankard of milk and a loaf of bread. Lane Fleming sat opposite. He was a clean-shaven man in his late twenties, as long and lean as his mother was short and wide.
Mistress Rachel Fleming was fascinated by the story of Ishmaela Andromeda Trenton, filling in a few gaps for Harry from her own memory. “I knew Hera Coats many years ago, and her daughter Artemis as well. Old Reuben Coats was a fine tailor and a decent man, worthy of a better wife. Hera was a comely woman, but Artemis’s beauty surpassed her mother’s by far. Like the goddess of her name she was, white of skin, formed to perfection, with hair of spun gold. After Reuben’s untimely death, Hera saw opportunity in the lass and put her in Sir Hanover’s way. Being the carnal man he is, his lordship was overcome by desire and made Artemis his mistress.”
Harry was accustomed to crude speech from kitchen maids and field hands, but blunt speech from this wholesome farmwife embarrassed him. He wished she would not speak of sin with such apparent relish. He glanced at Lane, but the other man did not bat an eye. Of course, he must be used to his mother’s active tongue.
“Sir Hanover was a well-favored man with flashing dark eyes. Artemis was flattered by his attentions and believed herself in love. She was soon found to be with child. Overjoyed at the prospect of an heir, Sir Hanover showered her with gifts and gave her proud standing in
the community. Most knew of his previous marriage, however, and secretly despised Artemis for throwing her virtue away with both hands.”
Mistress Rachel finally noticed Harry’s discomfiture. “I do abash thee, lad? Art thou married thyself?”
He gave a quick shake of his head. “Nay.”
Her rosy cheeks crinkled when she smiled. “Not for lack of takers, I’ll wager.” She patted Harry’s shoulder as she rose to refill his tankard. “Lane, here, is besieged by local females, and thou, too, art a fine figure of a man, Harry the joiner. More milk?”
“Nay, but I thank thee.” He covered the tankard with one hand. Wishing to resume the former subject, he inquired, “Have you seen the child, Ishmaela?”
“Nay, but Jonas would have it that you know the maid.”
“That I do, and well. It was a year ago last May that I met her first. The pony was hers, though how she manages to ride it daily without Dob’s notice is a puzzle.”
“Dob notices little beyond his nose,” Lane observed through a mouthful of bread. “The man cares solely for his own comfort. However, he is deadly with the longbow.” For a moment he lifted vivid blue eyes to meet Harry’s gaze. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but an amiable expression flashed across his craggy features.
Harry’s brows lifted. “I shall keep that in mind.”
Rachel calculated in her head. “The maid is nigh unto fifteen years of age. Do you think to wed her, Harry?”
Hot blood flooded Harry’s face. He couldn’t manage to close his mouth for a moment. “She. . .she is but a child, mistress.”
“Fie! Do you love the maid?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Yea, verily, she is dear to me.” Strange emotions rippled beneath his conscious thoughts. Rachel’s smug smile irked him.
“I would see this child of Artemis and Sir Hanover, this Ishmaela Andromeda.” She chuckled at the mental image such a name invoked. “Will you bring her to us?”
Harry hedged, “Perhaps.” The last thing he needed was a nosy old woman to plant suspicions and ideas in Maela’s innocent head!
“I am sorry to lose the new pony, but of a certain he must be returned. The child has little else to call her own. Lane shall find me another.” Rachel beamed at her son, who did not respond. Harry deduced that Lane simply tuned out much of his mother’s prattle, though he did speak to her with respect.
In the end, Jonas and Lane accepted a reasonable price for Pegasus and agreed to keep him in their back pasture, where Ishmaela should be able to collect him easily for her daily rides. The Flemings were husbandmen, but they also raised fine Suffolk cart horses. Pegasus would never want for company, though he would be dwarfed by his companions.
Walking home late that night, Harry whistled cheerfully. A more generous answer to his prayers for help could not have been imagined. Maela’s pony was presently tearing mouthfuls of grass from a rich pasture in an ideal location—with Dob none the wiser. Harry also carried a burlap sack full of two clucking pullets; a certain softhearted farmwife couldn’t bear to think of a child losing her pony and two pet hens all in one day.
As an extra bonus, Harry had received a personal invitation to attend Bible study services. During his sojourn at the manor he had attended the village church as the law required, making do with the small amount of spiritual sustenance he gleaned from the vicar’s dry sermons. Now he had opportunity to worship with other committed believers. He liked the Flemings, in spite of, or perhaps partially because of, Rachel’s nosy, motherly ways. Jonas was a pleasant man, and Lane seemed to be an interesting personality.
Harry’s cottage was quiet, though smoke trickled from the chimney. After depositing the pullets in the repaired coop, he opened the cottage door quietly. Maela lay curled up on the hearth before the flaring coals with Laitha as a pillow, Ragwort snuggled against the small of her back, Dudley in the curve of her legs, and Parsley peacefully roosting in the crook of her arm.
Dudley’s tail whacked the floor, and he lifted his head in greeting. Harry squatted at Maela’s feet, searching her face in the dim light. His tender smile faded into a frown. What would become of the two of them? This idyllic existence could not continue forever.
“Ishmaela,” he called softly. “Ishmaela, I have come home.” A pang shot through his heart. This was his home, but only because she was here. “Maela, wake up.” He tickled her cheek.
Ragwort stretched and hopped into Harry’s lap. Laitha quivered but did not rise. Parsley gave a protesting gargle when Maela rolled to her back and sat up, rubbing her eyes with the back of one hand. The girl blinked; then her eyes grew wide as memory returned. “Harry! Did you find him?”
“Yea, of a truth I found thy pony and redeemed him for thee.”
“Oh, Harry!” She burst into tears for the second time that day and flung both arms about his neck. Harry sat down with a thump, then fell flat on his back with his knees in the air. Maela fell upon him; Ragwort narrowly escaped being crushed by her. He yipped in protest and tugged at Harry’s sleeve. Laitha sat up and whimpered. Dudley barked. The chicken fluttered across the room, clucking in fright.
Harry laughed helplessly. “Such a to-do! Why do you weep, child? I tell you the pony is found, and even now he grazes in rich pasture. You shall have him on the morrow; I’ll take you to him.” Harry patted her back uncertainly, then sighed and hugged her. She was heavier than he remembered. She was warm in his arms—warm, trembling, and alive. Her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder, her cheek pressed to his chest.
Suddenly Maela pulled away, her tear-streaked face averted. “I must go home,” she mumbled. “I thank thee, Harry.”
Before he could say a word, she had dashed out the door and vanished into the night.
nine
Therefore I say unto you, what things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them. Mark 11:24
Maela’s new pullets, two red hens with shining feathers, settled quickly into the repaired chicken coop and thrived under her tender care. Within months, they were each producing at least one egg a day. Maela named them Thyme and Pepper.
Harry saw the Flemings at Bible study and at church each week, but, as yet, he did not feel comfortable bringing Maela. One evening, Rachel cornered him. “Harry, lad, when will you bring the lass to meeting? She needs fellowship with other maids; and I perish to meet her.”
“I. . .I am uncertain,” Harry stuttered lamely. “She has little experience in society. Her raiment is tattered, and. . .I fear that once her existence is widely known, ’twill make her life difficult.”
“I am certain that the brethren would be prudent, Harry. We would show only kindness and acceptance to the child. Not one of us lacks sorrow and sin in our past lives. We have no cause to judge a child for the sins of her parents.”
Harry remained unconvinced.
It was spring again, a chilly spring that year of 1567. The weather dampened many spirits; yet in at least one young girl’s heart, thoughts of love predominated. Lottie’s devotion could not be quenched, and Harry’s steadfast rejection of her overtures brought about unforeseen results.
One afternoon when Harry arrived home, Maela exploded from the cottage door in a whirlwind of excitement. He laughed aloud at her capers. “Child, I know few other maidens who come aflutter over a fishing venture. To be more accurate, I know of none beside thee!”
“Then other maidens lack wisdom and interest,” she retorted, skipping about like a rabbit.
“I’ll not argue that point,” he admitted. “Now hark; I shall return quickly.”
Harry entered the shed and emerged with fishing poles and a wicker creel. The jolly pair hiked down the river path with the dogs leaping at their heels. Once Laitha turned back and growled softly, but they took no notice of her. Maela boasted that she would catch the largest fish. Harry assured her that she was mistaken.
At last the pair settled upon the riverbank. “I do enjoy the spring. Snow is gone; the
air is cool and delicious—like wine should taste, but doesn’t. Have you ever tasted wine, Harry? A dire disappointment it was to me. From here we can see for many miles. The land is like a plowed field—it undulates. Is the sea like that, Harry? Ever have I wished to look upon the sea. Is it like the river, but much more broad? The river is high this day, Harry. The rains have swollen it. I like not how the brown water swirls about these tree trunks. Our customary fishing spot is under water.”
Harry managed to slip in a reply. “Indeed, the river is high. The current runs strong, though not fast. We shall remain in this shallow place and cast out into the deep. Bait thy hook, Maela, and lower thy voice. I care not to have thee frighten the fish.”
“The water roars far louder than I, Harry.”
“But not so rapidly.”
Maela wrinkled her nose at him, but obediently baited her hook and cast her line. It was a windy afternoon. The sinking sun occasionally peeked between rushing gray clouds, casting its golden light upon gently rolling terrain. Trees wore a pale green glaze of newly budding leaves, while delicate wildflowers peeked through soggy mulch.
Maela’s line went taut. She threw off her cloak and pulled with all her strength. The lissome rod bent nearly double. Harry propped up his rod, stood behind her, and together they gave a great jerk. A flopping fish flew over their heads and landed in a wild rose bramble. Maela laughed at the sight of Harry wading into the prickly bushes to retrieve her fish.
“You do laugh like a fool this day, Maela!” Harry chided her. “Calm thyself, child. The county shall be up in arms to defend against this lunatic in our midst!”
She tried to gain control, but still giggled occasionally. Harry relented and smiled at her. She did have a cute giggle, and once in a while he spotted a shallow dimple in her cheek when she grinned at him. It was good to hear the once sober child laugh freely.
She admired her gleaming trout as it lay, twitching feebly, in the creel. “It shall give us a sumptuous feast this night.”