A Child of Promise

by Jill Stengl

  “Thou art no trouble, child. ’Tis many a long year since a maid did come to me for advice and training. I enjoyed the duty. You will often return to us, Maela? I would have thee as companion, for I no longer have a daughter.”

  “Oh, but you could not keep me away!” Maela assured her. Kissing the older woman’s soft, wrinkled cheek, she whispered, “All thanks to thee, Mother Rachel. Indeed, thou art most precious to me!”

  Rachel dabbed at tears with her apron. “Now, now! Enough of this. Jonas has gone to the smithy with an ailing horse. He would wish to bid thee farewell.”

  “I shall not depart until his return. Presently I wish to visit the kittens in the barn again,” Maela announced and skipped outside. “When Harry comes, please tell him my whereabouts.”

  Shortly after noon that day, a courier arrived at Marston Hall. To the surprise of all, he carried a letter, not for any member of the Marston family, but for Harold Jameson, the joiner. Sir David’s youngest daughter, Dorcas, delivered the missive to Harry and watched with interest as he broke the seal and opened it.

  She saw him stiffen, and all expression erased from his countenance. “Harry, is thy news unwelcome?”

  He glanced up. The letter in his hand shook. “Yea, Dorcas, ’tis most unwelcome.” He stared blankly at her until the little girl backed slowly from the room and ran to tell her father that Harry was stricken. Never before had she seen Harry without his smile.

  Harry struggled to work that day, but in spite of his valiant efforts to keep control of his emotions, his eyes blurred and his hands shook. He spent most of the afternoon sanding and polishing—two tasks that trembling hands could accomplish.

  He wanted to see Maela. He needed her. He closed his eyes and was overwhelmed by the memory of her cold, deathlike face and clammy hands. Fear smote him again, and he broke into a cold sweat. Although she had not drowned, Maela might be sick and dying at this moment—she might succumb to a deadly illness, like. . .The tightness in his chest constricted his breathing.

  “Harry, lad,” a kindly voice startled him. He dropped his cloth and straightened, brushing one hand across his eyes. Sir David Marston stood behind him. “Dorcas has told me of thy letter. ’Tis dire news of thy relations?”

  Harry nodded, his eyes upon the floor.

  “Alack! My heart sorrows for thee, my friend.” He lifted a hand to Harry’s shoulder, stretching up a little to reach. “I would do all in my power to aid thee.”

  Harry nodded again, unable to speak. Finally, he rasped, “Thank you, sir.”

  “Do you plan to go to your family?”

  Harry coughed softly. “Yea. My mother has need of mine aid. I would complete my work here apace, and go to her.” He indicated the nearly complete fireplace surround, a masterpiece in walnut, depicting the English countryside.

  Sir David’s eyes caressed the carved foxes, deer, rabbits, butterflies, trees, and flowers, amazed anew at its intricate detail. “In future, thy name shall be noised abroad as Master Joiner, Harold Jameson. I tremble and stand amazed before thy workmanship.”

  “ ’Tis a gift from God, Sir David, and I must use this gift for His glory and honor. The Holy Scriptures say that to whom much is given, much will be required. ’Tis an awesome responsibility.”

  “Then God must be greatly pleased with thee, my son. Thy work is masterful, and thy repute beyond praise at the manor. All herein speak of thee with respect and kindness and do marvel at thine impeccable honor. I would know more of thy creed, for mine own satisfies not my soul. I faithfully attend services and hear Scripture read, but, Latin or English, I comprehend it not. I have heard thee relate the Scriptures with alacrity, as though ’tis quick upon thy tongue, and you live the life of a saint with joy. Would you take time to tell me of your faith?”

  Sir David drew up two chairs and bade Harry join him. For two hours Harry spoke with him of Jesus, His life, death, and resurrection, and God’s power manifested in the daily lives of His people.

  “There can be no salvation without Jesus Christ?” Sir David inquired. “What of indulgences, sacraments, and the like? The varied reports between churches oft confuse me. How can a man know which to believe? Men have died for their beliefs on either side, convinced of the truth—yet their beliefs widely differ! How can these things be?”

  “I know not, sir. I only know that Jesus claimed, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man comes unto the Father, but by me.’ Churches are composed of men, and men can err. God’s Word is our sole immutable source of truth. ’Tis by God’s grace we are saved, through faith—and that not of ourselves. It is the gift of God, not of works, lest any man should boast; the apostle Paul wrote these words to the church at Ephesus. Sir, I. . .I would. . .”

  Now that he had begun, Harry had second thoughts. What if Sir David betrayed the Puritan believers to the bishop? What if this entire conversation had been a blind, and the nobleman intended to entrap Harry into revealing his compatriots? After all, Sir David himself had appointed the vicar to his position.

  Fear not, came a gentle Voice within. Sir David is to be my sheep.

  A strange message, yet clear as though spoken aloud. Harry plunged ahead. “I would invite you to a Bible study. It is composed of brethren who wish to study the Scriptures, share thoughts, and encourage one another in the faith. The meetings are unsanctioned by the vicar and bishop, but there is nothing of sedition in our discussions.”

  Sir David’s clean-shaven face lighted from within. “Indeed?” He bit his lip and stared at the floor, blinking rapidly. “Harry. . .I cannot explain the joy, the hope you have given me. I feel. . .I feel like a starving man which has been offered a feast.” He cleared his throat, swallowed hard. “I know the risk you have taken for my sake, and feel the honor of thy confidence. I shall strive to be worthy of thy trust.”

  He extended his smooth gentleman’s hand, and Harry clasped it firmly. The men looked into one another’s eyes and were bonded in Christian love.

  Harry’s heart was still heavy when he left the manor that day, but he was at peace. He had discussed his future with Sir David and felt no anxiety about his imminent departure—the man had been kindness personified, doing all that lay in his power to alleviate Harry’s burdens.

  Now Harry could think only of Maela. His fears for her had eased, yet he still longed for the sound of her voice, the sight of her loving eyes.

  Before heading toward the Fleming farm, Harry stopped by his cottage for the dogs. They needed a good, long walk. Laitha trotted calmly at his side, while Ragwort darted into every thicket, itching for a good hunt. After spending the day inside the cottage, the terrier was bursting with energy. Dudley vacillated between following Ragwort and sticking close to Harry. The young dog was powerful and fast, yet somewhat timid by nature.

  The Fleming barn appeared over a rise, its thatched roof gray with age. Harry scented wood smoke above the blended aromas of plowed fields, new growth, and the early red campion blooming near the tumble of rock wall beside the road, yet the sights and scents gave him little pleasure. Soon he would see Maela. His pace increased.

  Harry called out as he approached the house. Maela herself appeared in the barn doorway and returned his wave. His heart lifted; his step quickened. She was well and strong as ever!

  Yipping with excitement, Ragwort dashed ahead of Harry. “How now, Ragwort?” Maela called cheerily and bent to greet him.

  But Ragwort barreled past her and pounced upon a kitten that had followed her from the barn. Two quick shakes of his head and the kitten went limp.

  Maela stood as though frozen. Ragwort dropped the dead kitten and wagged his tail at her, grinning happily.

  “Shame, Ragwort!” Harry cried, breaking into a jog. He was too late, but perhaps he could rescue other kittens.

  Ragwort’s stiff little tail drooped. His ears dropped, and his mouth closed. He looked crushed.

  Suddenly, Maela snapped into life. Her hands lifted to clutch her head, and she screeched, “G
et thee hence, thou monster! Thou wicked beast! Never shall I forgive thee!” She kicked at the dog, but he dodged, tail between his legs, and ran to Harry for protection.

  Harry placed his hand on Maela’s arm. She jerked away. “How dare you bring that beast hither? He has slain my favorite kitten! Get thee hence! I do hate the sight of thee!” She burst into tears, scooped up the crumpled kitten, and rushed, sobbing noisily, into the barn.

  Laitha squatted just inside the gate, waiting quietly. Failing to receive consolation from Harry, Ragwort went to her for comfort. She nuzzled him and allowed him to press against her side. Dudley rollicked around them, oblivious to the tense atmosphere.

  Harry bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Lord, grant me wisdom—and comfort Maela’s heart. I know not how to make this right with her.

  Inside the barn, Maela sat upon a bench with the kitten in her lap. She stroked its soft fur, but her eyes stared vacantly across the barn.

  Harry stopped before her. He pulled off his cap and fiddled with it. “I cannot tell thee with words of the regret in my heart,” he said quietly. “I would help thee bury the cat.”

  Maela nodded. Harry selected a spade from a peg on the barn wall, knowing Jonas would not mind, and led the way to a corner of Pegasus’s pasture. He dug, and Maela watched in silence, shivering with cold. Harry stopped digging long enough to shift his cape to her back. She accepted it, but said nothing. When the hole was deep enough, Maela tenderly laid the kitten to rest. She walked back to the barn while Harry filled the hole and laid stones upon it.

  When Harry rejoined her in the barn, she scooted over to give him room on the bench, though she did not look at him. A tear trickled down her cheek; she smeared it with her fist and sniffed. Harry offered her a handkerchief. His lips twitched when she honked her nose into it.

  “You should not have brought that dog,” she stated coldly. “You know he does hunt small creatures.”

  “I knew not that he would kill a kitten,” Harry admitted.

  His gentle tone took some of the starch from her back.

  “I hate death, Harry. It is cruel!” She ended in a wail and fresh tears.

  Harry said nothing.

  Footsteps approached from without, and Jonas entered, leading a limping cart horse. “Good even, Harry lad. How is it with thee? And Maela, dear maid.”

  “Well enough, Jonas. And with thee?” Harry rose respectfully, patting the horse’s rump as it passed him.

  “I find nothing to complain of,” Jonas smiled. “God is good. Farley, here, has a bruise on his sole, nothing serious. I was anxious that he was ruined, but all for nothing.” He patted the horse’s thick chestnut neck. Tethering it in a clean stall, he began to brush it down.

  “Harry’s dog slew the spotted kitten,” Maela told Jonas, like a child in need of a father’s condolences.

  “I am sorry,” Jonas said sincerely. “You may have another as thine own, if you wish it. We lack not for cats.”

  Maela considered the offer. “I would fear for its safety in the castle. It would find mice aplenty, but I fear that Grandmere’s tom would kill it. I think I must leave the kittens here where they can be most happy,” she decided regretfully. “Death is cruel, Master Jonas.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Nevertheless, it is part of life. Until Christ’s kingdom returns and He conquers sin and death for all time, we must accept the reality of death in this world. Just as we rejoice at a birth, so we mourn at a death. ‘For everything there is a season. . .a time to be born and a time to die.’ ”

  “Is that a quote?”

  “Yea, from Ecclesiastes, written by the wise King Solomon. Perhaps at meeting you can hear more of it.”

  “Mistress Rachel has told me of these meetings.”

  Harry suddenly turned and walked out of the barn. “Harry, where. . .?” Maela began, but he was gone. She turned her puzzled gaze to Jonas.

  “Harry has a sorrow, Maela. You did not observe it?”

  “Nay, I was absorbed in. . .mine own sorrow. What is it, Jonas?”

  He shook his head. “I know not. You must discover for thyself.”

  Maela found Harry behind the barn, seated in the bed of a wagon, elbows propped on his upraised knees, watching horses graze in a back pasture. Hopping up beside him, she scanned his face. He would not meet her gaze. “Harry, tell me thy sorrow, I beg of thee! Forgive my selfish anger—’twas foolish in me, I trow.”

  He only sighed softly, blowing through his lips. She heard the catch in his breath. Hesitantly she reached out to him, taking his hand in hers. His hand was cold, lumpy with calluses, and very rough to her touch, but she lifted it to her lips and held it between her own warm hands. He must be cold, for she still wore his cloak. That was just like Harry—always thinking of others, never a thought for his own ease.

  Harry turned to her, really seeing her for the first time that day. He had seldom beheld her without a cap, and never with clean hair. A gust of wind pushed clouds away from the setting sun, allowing a slender beam to rest upon her head, turning her hair to fire. He sucked in his breath, but had no words to tell her his thoughts.

  His free hand reached into his jerkin and pulled out the crumpled letter. Maela released his hand to take it. “This arrived at the hall,” he explained shortly.

  She read it quickly, giving a horrified cry. “Thy father, thy brother and his wife, and their children—all gone! Oh, my Harry! I wept over a kitten, while you. . . Oh, Harry, can you forgive me?”

  Then she was crushed into his arms and felt his entire frame shaking. At first he was silent, but as his grief continued to pour forth, it escaped in racking sobs. Maela had never before heard a man cry—she felt as though her heart would break with his sorrow. She wept with him, wetting his jerkin with her tears while he dampened her neck and shoulder. When his weeping subsided, she wiped her face and his with Harry’s handkerchief. It was quite moist by this time.

  His reddened eyes and swollen face cut her to the quick. Wishing only to console him, she reached up to pull his head down and kissed his cheeks and his forehead. “Harry, dear one, what shall you do anon?”

  “I must repair home. My present work at the hall is nigh completion. I shall finish the surround, then depart. Sir David knows that I must go, for my mother has need of mine aid. He has been exceedingly kind.”

  “And what of me?” Her voice sounded very small.

  “I shall return for thee, Maela; I know not when. I am now the eldest son; after me came five sisters—four yet living—and my eldest brother is but eleven. Mother expects another child in autumn and cannot farm alone. Her father, my grandfather, abides with them, but his strength is limited.”

  “How long shall you remain here at present?” Seeing him shiver, she removed Harry’s cloak, secured it around his shoulders, then crawled beneath it and snuggled against him with only her face peeking out. Almost absently, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

  “A fortnight, at most. Maela, I would have thee attend church and fellowship with the Flemings. These friends shall support thee during mine absence.”

  “Mistress Rachel said that she has long besought thee to bring me to worship. Art thou ashamed of me, Harry?”

  Put on the spot, Harry floundered. “Ashamed, nay, but. . . afraid. I feared alteration in. . .the special way we are together. . .or were. ’Twas selfish in me, I know.” He could not look at her.

  “Not selfish, Harry, for I feel the same. I have ever been jealous of thy time and attention.”

  “We did spoil one another, mayhap,” Harry smiled, but felt even more uncomfortable. Their friendship had but rarely included physical contact, and her infrequent caresses had never discomposed him. Could this be the same fearful, wary maid who had shunned any man’s touch? Why did she now nestle against his side as though by habit? And why did hot blood rush to his face and disquieting thoughts possess his mind?

  “I am thankful for thine introduction to these good Flemings. Mistress Rac
hel has taught me how to clean my teeth with a broken mint twig and how to dress my hair. Is it not pretty how she has bound it? I am clean everywhere—and I must at last admit the truth in thine assertions that cleanliness is good. I feel. . .wondrous fine. Mistress Rachel sprinkled my hair with rosewater, and she has given me a bottle of mine own.”

  “Thou art a new creation without as well as within.”

  “May I come with thee to Lincolnshire?” She sat up straight and looked into his eyes.

  Harry could not move. He vividly recalled the warm velvet of her neck, the scented softness of her hair against his face. Heat swept through him, and a frightening desire to take her as wife, come what may. His eyes closed as though in pain. “Greatly though I desire this, it cannot be, Maela.”

  She stiffened and pushed at his chest. “Mean I nothing to thee?”

  He tried to swallow, but could not for the dryness in his throat. “I would not leave thee, but I must! Thou art Sir Hanover Trenton’s daughter. Never would he consent to such a match.”

  “We could marry without his consent,” she begged. “We could, Harry! I want nothing more than to be with thee all my life. Surely this is God’s will, for He brought us together.” She flung her arms around his neck and pressed close.

  “We would ever live in hiding. As criminals we would run from the law.” Harry held her tenderly. “Thy father would leave no stone unturned, for you have value in his eyes. Should we then be found, I would be hanged, and you would face worse than death. It cannot be so, Maela. Such a life cannot be God’s plan for His children. ’Twould be misery, and you would soon learn to hate me for bringing you into it for mine own selfish gain.”

  “Nay!” she protested into his neck, “Not for thy gain, but for mine! The bishop desires me not as wife, but as his slave! Surely you know. . .” She faltered and stopped.