A Child of Promise

by Jill Stengl

  Then Harry’s rod jerked. “What ho!” he shouted in delight. It was a powerful fish. Harry slipped upon the wet grass and accidentally sloshed into the shallows, still fighting that fish. His boots filled with water. Maela followed him without considering how cold the water must be. She gave a yelp at its icy bite, but, undeterred, reached for the line, trying to grasp the fish before it could pull free. Dudley stood behind her on the bank, barking in excitement.

  “Go to, child! I can do this,” Harry protested. “Have a care; the bottom drops off steeply just beyond thee there.” He grasped the line and hauled in his fish, a magnificent tench that still fought to be free as it dangled from his hand. “Now, who has caught the largest fish this day, eh?”

  He looked at Maela, but her startled attention was focused behind him.

  Ragwort barked hysterically—a piercing scream rent the air—something came crashing down the bank. Dudley dodged, tail between his legs.

  Harry pivoted, but his boots would not move. He barely had time to see a body rushing toward him before it barreled past, collided with the tench dangling from his hand, and hit Maela with an ugly thud and a splash. Harry sat down in the water, losing his boots entirely.

  He quickly scrambled up, shouting at the cold shock. The fish was gone. His pole was gone. Rising from the water beside him was Lottie, drenched and wailing. Maela was. . .

  “Maela?”

  Harry spun about, and could only watch in shock as Maela surfaced several yards away, sputtering, arms flailing. Her eyes entreated Harry, but her open mouth only took in water. Weighted by her sodden skirts and boots, she was again pulled helplessly under, caught by the relentless current, and swept away.

  Harry left his boots in the mud and sprinted barefoot along the bank, crashing through shrubs and saplings as he kept his eyes upon Maela’s bobbing figure. At last he caught up and passed her, then launched himself into the river in a wild dive. He thought he had missed her, but then his hand connected with fabric. He grabbed hold and pushed for the shore, pulling her along with him. At this point the river was not deep. Harry found his footing, lifted Maela’s limp body into his arms, and sloshed heavily ashore.

  Lottie trudged along the bank, wringing the edges of her sodden kirtle. “Is she dead?” Lottie gasped. “Who is she?”

  Harry had no breath to spare for explanations. He pressed his ear to Maela’s chest and thought he heard a faint heartbeat, though he could not be certain. Placing her face down, he turned her head to the side and began to push rhythmically on her back. Her mouth hung open; her eyes were closed. She was white and cold.

  “Oh, God, please,” Harry choked, gasping for his own breath. Still he pushed, but there was no response. Rolling her suddenly to her back, he pressed upon her chest and stomach, striving to push air into her body. He thought he saw movement in her face, but then she was still.

  He turned her face down again, almost fell upon her in his desperation, crushing her beneath him and pressing, rolling. Tears poured from his eyes, but he was unaware. “God, grant me this boon! Oh, God, I love her so! Spare Maela, God, I beg of Thee!”

  Lottie watched with wide, unblinking eyes. Ragwort and Dudley stood beside her, ears pricked, expressions worried. Earlier Laitha had been wandering in the woods, but now she appeared, looking concerned, though she could neither see nor understand the crisis at hand.

  Then Maela choked. Water trickled from her mouth, her body convulsed, and a gush of water poured forth. She coughed, retched, vomited, and writhed upon the ground.

  Harry was ecstatic. “I thank Thee, O my God! Thy goodness is everlasting!” Rocking back on his heels as he squatted beside Maela, he lifted his hands to the skies and wept now for joy.

  “Harry?” Maela croaked. “I’m so cold!” Her teeth chattered audibly. Her face was ashen.

  Harry scooped her into his arms and marched back to their fishing spot. He wrapped her in her dry cloak, donned his own cloak, picked up the fishing rod and the creel with Maela’s fish and handed them to Lottie. “Carry these.”

  Lottie grimaced, but dared not quibble.

  Harry swung Maela back into his arms. Her cap was gone, lost in the river. One of her boots was missing. Her little bare foot swung high in the air as Harry shifted her weight more evenly. Maela was too weak to protest, though her white fingers grasped at his cloak.

  Harry did not intend to be rough, but his tangled emotions preoccupied him. Gratitude for Maela’s recovery, fear that she would become ill, anger with Lottie, embarrassment at the intensity of feeling he had displayed, worry about the future, exhaustion. . .

  He determined to take Maela to the Flemings. Rachel would know how to care for her. She needed a woman’s care; Harry was out of his depth.

  Not until they were walking along the road did Lottie dare try to explain her presence, “I followed after thee, but then a wolf did howl in mine ear and I ran to thee, but the bank was steep and I could not stop. I did not intend to knock this. . . person into the river.”

  “Yonder is thy wolf,” Harry nodded at the terrier trotting briskly ahead of them. “His bark is greater than his stature. You did deserve thy ducking, spy. Almost I hope you fall ill of a fever.” His voice sounded flat.

  “The dog sounded large; indeed, it did. And I am most dreadfully cold!” Lottie shivered daintily. She wore no cloak, and her damp kirtle kept wrapping about her legs, making it difficult to walk. She hitched it up into her girdle, leaving only her smock to conceal her legs. Light brown curls escaped her cap to bounce upon her shoulders. “Who is this maid, Harry? I know her not. Has she no comb? Never have I seen such filthy hair.”

  Harry could hardly blame her for noticing. Maela’s long hair swung over his arm in a heavy, dripping, matted clump. It was disgusting, but Lottie’s comments were cruel. He felt Maela flinch.

  “Have done!” he growled. He had frequently noticed that Lottie was no sweet-smelling rose herself, but he did not say so. She was a top-heavy, ruddy wench. Harry was not attracted by her obvious charms.

  It was nearly dark, and the wind was rising. It whipped through Harry’s cloak, slapping it around his boot tops. If he was this cold, how must Maela feel? He walked faster. Lottie puffed along, trotting at times to keep up.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded. “This is not the way to Marston Hall.”

  “We go to the Fleming freehold. I would have Mistress Fleming care for Maela’s needs.”

  Maela stiffened. Harry could not read her expression, but he felt tension in her every limb.

  “Wherefore did you follow me, Lottie?” Harry would have the truth of the matter.

  “I. . .I came to discern if Dovie told the truth about thee. In truth, you speak often with women, and your manner is all gallantry—but all agree that no maiden in the county have you touched. It is unnatural for a man that is not a priest! There is talk that thou art. . .” Lottie faltered. Her teeth began to chatter.

  Harry stopped abruptly and turned. He looked as though he had been punched in the stomach. “Is this what is said concerning me? That I am . . . depraved? Unnatural?”

  Lottie nodded, wiping her nose on her damp apron. “Yet not I, Harry! I know thou art a true man!” Her blue eyes glimmered in the light of a pale half moon.

  Maela emitted a sound not unlike a growl.

  Lottie glanced her way. “Is this wench thy lover?”

  Harry’s voice was dry. “She is but a child. I have no lover; but had I a lover, ’twould most certainly be my lawfully wedded wife!”

  “I would marry thee, Harry,” Lottie offered hopefully. “I would be a good wife to thee.”

  With surprising strength, Maela began to struggle. Harry lost his grip, and her feet fell to the road. She scrambled up and tried to run, but he grasped her cloak, pulled her back, and held her, squirming and grunting, against his chest. Not this time would Maela run off to the castle!

  “Ishmaela, you did but narrowly escape death this day,” he reminded firmly.

&nb
sp; “Release me!” she ordered. Were tears clogging her voice?

  “Nay, I will not.” Harry’s voice gave no quarter.

  “I would return to the castle.” Her voice was stony.

  “I take thee to the house of friends who will care for thee. Give them opportunity to show thee love, Maela. They are brethren in Christ and of thy grandmother’s age.”

  Her little figure went limp. She nodded in surrender.

  Harry scooped her up and returned to Lottie’s side.

  Lottie had not lost her train of thought. “Do you not think I would make thee a good wife? I can cook and clean, and I would give thee many children.”

  “I need no wife at present,” Harry growled, panting in near exhaustion. Much though he loved her, Maela was a dead weight in his aching arms. Her teeth chattered and she shivered convulsively.

  The Fleming farmhouse reached out to them in welcome. Its windows were warmly lighted. Smoke drifted from the flint chimney.

  “Rachel?” Harry called out between puffs. His great chest heaved; his heart pounded.

  The door opened before they reached it. “Harry the joiner? Wherefore do you stroll about at this hour—”

  She broke off abruptly. “Who is that with thee? What are you holding?”

  “These are Lottie Putnam—from the manor—and Ishmaela Trenton—who is nigh drowned and freezing. I bring them to thee for aid!” he explained between pants.

  With many exclamations and much clucking, Rachel ushered them inside and bade them sit before the crackling fire. Harry hugged Maela closer, but she resisted his embrace and would not look at him.

  Lottie held her hand out to the fire’s warmth and hitched up her skirts to warm her legs. “I knew not how cold a body can be,” she tried to joke.

  “Lane!” Rachel called out the door. “Tell Longwell to bring the washtub inside.” She bustled about, giving orders to her hapless maidservant. “You need hot baths, all. The maidens first, of a certain.”

  Rachel ordered them all to strip, so Harry went into the sitting room for privacy. It was cold, for no fire burned upon its hearth. He handed his clothing through the door. “I remain here while the maidens do bathe,” he insisted; though Rachel argued that he would surely freeze. He’d been right to come here; Rachel had things well in hand.

  The blanket Rachel had given him itched terribly, but at least it was dry. He bundled into it, lay down upon the wooden settle, and fell asleep.

  Lane entered the kitchen. His curious gaze swept the room, taking in the two blanket-shrouded females beside the fire. Rachel hastened to explain and introduced the young women to him. Maela only nodded, too tired to speak. Lane took one look at Lottie and started visibly. She met his eyes and smiled in her friendly way.

  “Good even, Master Lane Fleming.”

  His blue eyes glowed. “Charlotte Putnam. We meet at last. God is very good.”

  At this interesting point, Rachel chased him from the room. “The maidens must bathe. Out with thee!”

  “A quiet man. He is. . .unwed?” Lottie asked with interest. She tested the water.

  While hanging Harry’s clothing to dry upon a trivet and a chair, Rachel examined the plump girl critically, then seemed to approve her. “Verily, Lane is our only living son. He is, as yet, unwed.”

  Lottie climbed into the tub and settled herself with a sigh. “This is a fine house, and your son is a goodly man. I have heard your name noised in town.”

  Rachel followed her thoughts with no trouble. Lane stood to inherit the family farm—an enticing prospect to many a single female. “And thy family is located where?” she asked the girl.

  “Beyond Hently. My father is husbandman on the land of Sir Giles Thorpe.”

  Bending over Maela, Rachel pulled aside her blanket. “Ah, the poor maid. She sleeps. She is the picture of her mother, though dirty and unkempt. I shall soon make a thing of beauty from this rough fabric.” Turning, she asked, “Do you need soap, Lottie Putnam?”

  “If you please.”

  ❧

  “Harry, waken!” Rachel insisted, shaking his shoulder. “Thy bath water awaits.”

  Harry jumped and sat up, rescuing his blanket just in time. His brain scrambled to recall why he was here.

  He blinked groggily at Rachel. “Maela?”

  “She sleeps. Lane has escorted thine other maiden to the manor, for she must not neglect her work. A buxom lass, that one, and fair. Do you admire her?”

  Harry smiled fleetingly. “Lane may have her with my blessing. Maela is not ill?” He returned to his major concern.

  “Not as yet. A long soak in hot water did she require ere her skin warmed to the touch. I did soap her hair three times ere the rinse water ran clear. It would not comb, so I cut a length of it from her. Thou art welcome to stay the night, Harry, thou and thy dogs. I’ll prepare a pallet for thee nigh the fire.”

  Rachel and Jonas retired to their bedchamber while Harry bathed. Maela was already settled in the loft over the kitchen. Harry’s dogs snored contentedly beside the fire.

  He bent to rinse his hair with the pitcher. Soapy water cascaded over his face and dripped back into the tub. His knees jutted nearly under his chin, but at least the water was hot and the soap didn’t have wilted little flowers in it.

  ten

  Shout for joy, O heavens; rejoice, O earth; burst into song, O mountains! For the Lord comforts his people and will have compassion on his afflicted ones. Isaiah 49:13 (NIV)

  Maela felt like a new girl. She pulled her hair over her shoulder and studied its color and texture. Spreading her fingers upon her kirtle, she smoothed it over her hips. Standing in the doorway to soak up a brief patch of early spring sunshine, she twisted her hips back and forth to make the borrowed kirtle swirl about her legs.

  She seemed to have taken no permanent harm from her near drowning, and though her chest ached if she breathed too deeply, the pain grew less with each passing hour. Her memories of the day before were fuzzy and troubling.

  But for now, she was happy. Her borrowed smock was clean and white. The blue linen kirtle had lain in Rachel’s wooden chest since the death of her daughter seventeen years ago; now it hugged Maela’s slim waist and swirled about her legs in a satisfying way. It smelled strongly of lavender.

  Rachel smiled as she watched the girl preen. An amazing transformation, she congratulated herself. Having seen the matted, greasy mop that once topped the girl’s head, Rachel would never have guessed that her hair would be of such remarkable color and texture. Dark red without a hint of curl, it flowed smoothly over the girl’s shoulders, gleaming like heavy silk.

  “Mistress Rachel,” Maela spoke quietly, looking at Rachel with almost reverent eyes. “Did you know my mother?”

  Rachel stopped kneading the bread dough for an instant, then resumed her work. “Yea, I did know her better than some. She was of an age with our youngest daughter, Agnes, whose kirtle you wear with such pleasure.”

  Maela nodded, having already heard Agnes’s sad story. Of the Flemings’ seven children, only Lane had reached adulthood. A small family cemetery lay behind the Fleming barn. “And Agnes did know my mother?”

  “Many’s the time I did hear the twain chatter like starlings as they drew water and washed clothing together. Thy mother was surpassing fair, yet not so wise as Agnes, for she did like men overmuch. Hera, her mother, did push the maid to be forward, to her great cost.” Rachel sighed.

  Maela’s eyes were sad. “I was that cost?”

  Rachel started. “May God forbid that you should think such foolishness, child! You were your mother’s joy and comfort amid sorrow. I doubt not she did love you greatly, and desired you to know the truths that she came to know too late. Artemis was lovely in her heart, as you well know. ’Twas her bane and her blessing to be among the fairest of women and to provoke the lust of Sir Hanover Trenton.”

  “Beauty, therefore, is a bane? But I so desire to be beautiful to please. . .to. . .to. . .” Maela’s cheeks flushed c
rimson.

  “Nay, ‘tis not wicked in thee to desire to please thy man, and he shall be well pleased in thee, child. Like a flower thou art, in appearance and in scent. These things do please a man.”

  “Lottie is. . .is round where I am. . .not. He does admire her, I know. I hate her.” Maela’s dark eyes smoldered.

  Rachel said nothing, but a little smile tugged at her lips. She shaped the dough into round loaves and left them to rise.

  “It is wicked to hate,” Maela reminded her as though prompting a reprimand.

  “I think thy sin is envy, not hatred. I did not answer thee promptly because thy words brought back memories of thy mother saying much the same words—not to me, but to Agnes while in my hearing. Thy mother was a slender child until later than most, but when she did bloom into womanhood, the transformation was complete. You do waste thine envy upon a poor maid.” She chuckled. “You will cause weeping and gnashing of teeth, child. The maidens shall cast one look at thee and despair!”

  “But why, Rachel? I understand so little. What is it that maidens do desire of men? What is it that makes my breath come short when Harry smiles at me? Why does my flesh burn where’er his hand touches me? I long to touch him, to hold him, yet almost I fear to be near him lest he behold these longings in mine eyes. He cares for me yet as a child, and such kindness is to me as bitter gall! I cannot comprehend this change in me, and I know not what to do! Surely, I cannot speak of this to Harry; yet I know none else in the world—save thee.”

  “Oh, thou innocent child, bereft of thy mother! Surely I shall counsel thee in any manner you desire. Come and sit beside me, and we shall speak privately of many things.”

  Rachel was true to her word and generous with her time. While the bread rose, great mysteries of womanhood that had puzzled Maela for months were at last resolved to her complete satisfaction.

  The girl quietly pondered the information she had been given, while Rachel braided her hair. Color came and went in Maela’s smooth cheeks, and smiles flitted across her lips. “Shall Harry come here this night?” she asked. “I wish to speak with him. Yet, verily, I must return to the castle, for I shall be missed. I wish not to cause thee trouble.”