A Child of Promise

by Jill Stengl

  “It gives me joy to hear thee speak lovingly of the Lord, Lottie. There was a time I despaired of thee,” Harry teased gently.

  “Lane is patient, as is Jesus. Thy witness did break fallow ground, Harry, and Lane reaped the harvest.”

  “An abundant harvest,” Lane added, to Harry’s surprise. The tall yeoman had gained poise since the spring. His craggy face had softened, and his blue eyes twinkled.

  “I feel peace concerning Maela, Harry. You shall find her. The Lord has assured me that His will shall be done, even in this trial.” Lottie’s round face was sober, yet calm.

  Harry nodded, unable to reply. Strange, how people he had once counseled and ministered to now offered him comfort and counsel. First Sir David, and now Lottie.

  “Do you need lodging this night?” Jonas inquired after a long silence.

  “Nay, I dwell at my old cottage, but King Saul has need of your hospitality. I would pay for his feed, for he does eat hearty, as you will recall. On the morrow I shall ride in search of Maela. I take leave of you for the night.”

  Harry lay awake for many hours, staring into the thick darkness, listening to night sounds. His feather bolster smelled musty. “Where is Maela? God, I know not where to look. I am helpless.”

  He sighed deeply and admitted, “I had planned to rely on mine own strengths—the power of my horse, the edge of my sword, and the depth of my love. All of my strengths are of no use, for I have no direction. You alone know the whereabouts of Your little maid, and You alone can save her from evil.”

  He held Maela’s needlepoint pillow against his cheek. His eyes closed against the pressing darkness. “Guide me to her, Lord, if it is Thy will for me to find her. I can only lean upon Thy knowledge and strength, for mine own are as nothing.”

  fourteen

  A horse is a vain hope for deliverance; despite all its great strength it cannot save. But the eyes of the Lord are on those who fear him, on those whose hope is in his unfailing love. Psalm 33:17-18 (NIV)

  Early the next morning, Harry returned to the Fleming farm, rested and eager to set out. He had decided to begin his search at Bishop Carmichael’s estate, Parminster Court, at least a half-day’s ride away. The bishop was highest on his list of suspects. Exactly what he would do once he reached the ancient abbey he did not know, but he felt sure the Lord would give him wisdom at the proper time.

  The sky was streaked in glorious sunrise when Harry arrived; Jonas had just emerged from the house with Dudley at his heels. Harry called out a greeting, and the dogs rushed to meet one another, tails wagging. “I would collect my horse and set out in search of Maela. I intend to begin my search at Parminster,” Harry explained in passing.

  But to Harry’s shock, his horse was pacing in circles, sweating profusely and looking sorely distressed. “Saul, art thou ill?” The symptoms were clear: colic. Harry began to lead the groaning horse around the barnyard in wide circles. Saul frequently cocked his tail, but to no avail; he had a painful blockage. The great horse was helpless. His dark eyes looked to Harry for relief, but Harry could do nothing to help aside from keeping him on his feet and walking, hour after hour. Jonas offered to help, but Saul pinned back his ears and bared long yellow teeth. In his agony, he would allow no one but Harry to lay a hand upon him.

  Harry could not be angry at the hapless horse, but he fretted inwardly. Once, when they stopped for a moment, Saul rested his enormous head upon Harry’s shoulder and blew out a heavy sigh. Leaning his face against the horse’s face, Harry closed his eyes and tried to be calm and accepting. I did ask for Thy help, Lord. When am I to receive it?

  Lane had gone to town that morning. He returned at noon, riding his roan cob at a rapid clip. Dismounting, he left his horse standing and ran to Harry’s side. “I bear tidings of great import, Harry! The village is rife with talk about Bishop Carmichael. He has arrived without notice, and our fellowship shall surely suffer his wrath. The Reverend Master Tompkins has informed him of the believers’ activities, of Marston’s involvement with Puritan leaders, and our apparent disdain for the church’s liturgy. The bishop now resides at the King’s Head Inn, along with a large retinue. It would appear that he has come to conquer, not to direct our manner of worship. The townsfolk are greatly disquieted.”

  The two men absently circled the barnyard. Saul’s big head bobbed faster above Harry’s shoulder as their pace increased. Lane added, “Armed men wearing Carmichael livery have visited—some say raided—nigh every freehold, husbandry, and business in the parish. They appear to search for something of value. Could it be Lord Trenton they seek? Or Maela? Would the bishop know of her existence?”

  At last Harry spoke, his voice deep with repressed anxiety, “He knows, and desires her for his own. At least we may know that she is not already in his power.”

  “I have further news,” Lane continued. “Dob Titwhistle has been sighted at the King’s Head. The man is clothed in velvets and furs, and while in his cups he did boast of his connections with sacred and influential personages. There is little doubt that he is in the bishop’s employ!”

  “Dob!” Harry blurted, then fell silent. This alliance was unexpected; he had discounted the rumors, but now they proved true.

  “I must now inform my family,” Lane excused himself. Harry noticed that Dudley followed the yeoman into the house. It would appear that the young dog had transferred his loyalty.

  And still, Harry could only walk his horse and pray for patience. Saul groaned in relief when the rapid pace slowed. Harry rubbed around the gelding’s twitching ears. “Forgive me, my friend. I forget thy pain while dwelling upon mine own.”

  At last, more than two hours past noon, Saul relieved himself. Harry gave a fervent prayer of thanks, for, aside from his need of Saul, he was greatly attached to the horse. It had troubled him to see his friend in distress and be helpless to give aid.

  Lord, I apologize for my former arrogance. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Had I ridden to Parminster Court this morning, I would have missed Lane’s vital information.

  Saul seemed subdued, but he was himself again. He bunted Harry affectionately with his Roman nose, pricked his ears at Ragwort, and even nibbled at the hay Harry offered. “He shall recover,” Jonas diagnosed. “Back to normal in a day or two. He is of a kind that recovers quickly.”

  Harry rubbed Saul’s soft gray nose, smiling when the horse threw his head up in annoyance. Saul disliked having his nose touched, but sometimes Harry couldn’t resist. Saul’s big lips flopped together noisily as he reached for the carrot Harry held just out of reach. Harry gave him the treat and hugged his warm neck.

  Jonas smiled as he watched. “You two are well matched.”

  “How so?”

  “In appearance you are like, both large and powerful beyond others of your kind, comely of face and form, and boisterous by nature, capturing the notice of all whether ye will or no. You appear bold and eager for warfare, daunting your foes, yet you are tender of heart and slow to engage in battle.”

  Harry tried to hide embarrassment with a joke, “And we two consume fodder beyond others of our kind!”

  Jonas wryly acknowledged, “True.” He reached out to pat the gelding’s neck. “I know that Saul’s illness has caused thee to chafe. The Lord will have His way in this, Harry, if you allow Him to lead.”

  Harry nodded humbly. “I asked for God’s guidance, and He leads by strange paths indeed. Jonas, will you watch over Saul? I shall walk over to the castle. I know that you have searched it, yet I must see with mine own eyes.”

  The dogs cruised the area around Harry as he walked toward Castle Trent, always keeping within vocal range. The castle courtyard was devoid of life. No rooks perched upon the battlements.

  Harry tried the kitchen door and found it unlocked. Ragwort trotted on in, scouting for rats or cats. Harry was surprised to see kegs, baskets, and cooking utensils arranged neatly against the walls or hung upon hooks. The supply of faggots was low, but tidily stacked
near the hearth. The floor tiles were cracked and stained, but clean. The last time he had seen it, this kitchen had been in total disarray.

  Wiping the table with one finger, he pulled it away free of dust. He checked the scullery. The supplies were low, but fresh. A side of bacon, a barrel of coarse flour, turnips, apples, carrots—plenty to feed a maid and her captor for many a day.

  Moving on into the entryway, Harry felt that he was being watched. He spun around, half expecting to find Dob upon him with a pike, but the hall was empty. Only Laitha stood beside him, her nose working overtime. A barely audible whine escaped her. “What is it, lass?” Harry whispered, but Laitha merely cocked her head toward him.

  Ragwort rushed past, wuffing eagerly. Harry and Laitha followed him up winding stairs to the gallery outside Maela’s old chamber. There was a splintered gap in the gallery floor; a board dangled beneath, hanging by one peg. Below, the great hall stood empty.

  Harry’s skin crept. He did not believe in haunting spirits, yet his incipient fear could not be denied. “Lord, I need Thy strength,” he breathed aloud, “for my courage does falter!”

  Tentatively, he stepped into the gallery, momentarily expecting its floor to give way. It held, protesting with creaks that seemed deafening in the silence. Harry opened the door to Maela’s bedchamber. The room was empty, the hearth cold. No skinny, dirty figure greeted him with glowing dark eyes. He swallowed hard. Laitha bumped against his leg, then again turned her head and growled.

  Other rooms were just as unrewarding. The master chamber was thick with dust, its rich bedstead cold and deserted. Other chambers showed signs of decay, though they had once been rich indeed. Covered furniture resembled ghosts of odd shapes and assorted sizes in the fading light. Surprisingly, there was no evidence that the castle had been looted. Fear of Hera’s curses still held the superstitious at bay.

  Mounting the battlements, Harry looked across the county, awed by the view. Almost he could imagine himself a baron of old, scanning the countryside for approaching enemy armies. . . but that romantic era had passed away. Unconsciously, Harry sighed.

  Suddenly Laitha bristled and snarled, facing the staircase behind them. Harry glanced around, but saw nothing. He peered down the stairs; they were empty. There was no sign of Ragwort.

  Awkwardly drawing his new rapier, Harry descended the steps. The tower stairs were open, giving him a clear view down to the bottom step; while below, in the living quarters, the spiral stairwell was enclosed and dark. At each landing Harry brandished the sword, his eyes darting back and forth.

  There was no further sign of Maela. Had he been mistaken? Perhaps others had straightened the kitchen since Hera Coats’s death. Or. . .Harry inwardly winced. Perhaps the girl was being held in the dungeons. He had not previously considered that possibility. She might even be—

  Nay, I will not regard it. Shaking his head, Harry hurried to the great hall. He had not yet examined it from ground level.

  Loose, dry rushes rustled as he strode into the vaulted room. Its walls were hung with rusted rows of iron helmets, crossed swords, and battle-axes, trophies of an earlier day. The head table was empty, filmed with dust. High-backed chairs lined it on one side. The lower tables were lined with crude benches. Scars of knives, swords, and axes marked their rotting wood. Harry tried to visualize the room filled with knights, lords, and fighting men of old, but the aura of decay impeded his imagination.

  Laitha sniffed along one wall and began to quiver and whine. She must have found a rat hole. The hound did not usually bark and yammer about vermin—apparently the castle’s eerie gloom had even affected her.

  Ragwort was also barking somewhere, a shrill, frantic bark. He must have cornered a rat. Harry whistled, but he knew the dog would not respond immediately. Ragwort’s barking and Laitha’s whimpering exacerbated Harry’s urge to leave. Approaching the fireplace, he considered using the secret passageway for a hasty exit. He wished for a torch. “Come, Laitha.”

  She did not come.

  “Laitha! Come hither unto me,” he snapped.

  Reluctantly she obeyed, looking cowed, as though he had whipped her. “Ragwort!” Harry called and whistled again, waxing impatient as his desire to depart grew.

  Silent drafts wafted the mildewed, tattered banners overhead. The hair on Harry’s nape tingled. The castle’s ghostly air of desolation had vanquished even his bold insouciance. “Forget the dog,” he growled. “He can find his own way home.”

  Harry drew his sword again and reached for the lever. Laitha whimpered and growled. She pressed against his leg, looking nearly as confused as Harry felt. What was she trying to tell him?

  He pulled the lever, and the secret door slid open.

  fifteen

  Unto thee, O Lord, do I lift up my soul. O my God, I trust in thee: let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me. Yea, let none that wait on thee be ashamed: let them be ashamed which transgress without cause.Psalm 25:1-3

  Maela sat up, feeling stiff in every joint and muscle. “Sir Hanover?” she questioned, forgetting that he was no longer a knight. Her only answer was the scuffling, squeaking fight of rats in a corner behind the casks.

  It was midafternoon, she deduced by the light from her ventilation holes. Her father usually released her at night, allowing her to wash, cook, and clean, though twice she had been denied the privilege when someone came to search the keep by night. Trenton watched her vigilantly, but she had made no effort to escape. In spite of her dire situation, Maela was at peace. During her long confinement she had spent many hours in prayer, and she knew that God was at work in her circumstances.

  Rising, she rolled her head and shoulders, trying to ease their stiffness, and walked the perimeter of her prison chamber. Not only had her father known about the secret tunnel, he had also known of, and used, this hidden wine cellar. He fondly believed that he alone knew of the tunnel’s existence, and Maela never dreamed of telling him that she had betrayed its secret to an outsider.

  Over many years, Hera Coats had drained Castle Trent’s store of inferior wines and liquors; all the while, Trenton’s extensive collection of superior vintages had lain safely hidden in its secret chamber. He often consoled himself thereby during his enforced exile, imbibing until his problems faded from memory.

  There was a crunch, a rattle, and the door to Maela’s prison slowly opened inward. Trenton entered, rushlight in hand. “Ishy, fill this jug from that keg there,” he ordered, closing the door. “I wish to speak with thee.”

  “Of what, sir?” she asked, obediently filling the jug with a dark liquid. Some spilled to the floor before she could stop the tap.

  “Wastrel!” Hanover shouted, seized the jug, and clouted her shoulder. Maela fell back against the kegs, bruising her back. She said nothing.

  Her father took a long draught from the jug then gave a satisfied sigh and burp. “Ishy,” he began, wiping his mouth with one stained sleeve. “Thou art a comely wench, and, as was thy mother before thee, well suited to warm a nobleman’s. . . er. . .heart. I have chosen well for thee. Titus will supply thine every desire.”

  Had these days of selfless service been for nothing? The kindness she had lavished upon this undeserving man must have soaked into barren ground! For a moment Maela forgot to trust God and blurted, “Do you care so little for your only daughter that you would sell her as a slave?”

  Trenton choked slightly and spilled brandy down his shirtfront. “Come again? Did you say ‘slave’? Was thy mother a slave, chit? She did enter into my house willingly.” His mocking tone faded at the last, and a pensive frown wrinkled his brow. “She was fair beyond expression, and love welled in her eyes at sight of me,” he mused. “Ah, Artemis,” he shook his head sadly.

  “My mother did love thee ere she entered thy house. I love not the bishop. I despise the man!”

  “Wherefore? Titus is considered well favored, handsome of face and figure. Ladies of the court find the fellow fascinating.”

  “
He repels and frightens me! My heart belongs to another, a man far exceeding the bishop in every particular. In his keeping my heart shall remain until my death or his.”

  “A nobleman?”

  “He is noble in spirit, bearing, and countenance, if not in title. His father was a Spanish exile of noble blood, his mother a yeoman’s daughter.”

  “Indeed? You had not claimed a lover ere now, which was wiser of thee, for I shall discover the blackguard and skewer him ere dawn.” He hitched his sword into a more comfortable position. “Then thy heart will be free once again. Who is it?”

  “Sir Hanover. . .Father, have you no mercy in your soul? I would no more betray him to thee than. . .than I would harm thee with mine own hands! Where will this killing end but in thine own murder?”

  He scoffed. “Preach at me again, will you? I weary of thy tirades. Do not the Scriptures speak ill of a nagging woman? In truth, I expect to die by the sword, as I have lived. ’Tis an honorable death. I shall be disgraced by female baggage—of high or low station—neither to hang nor to face the block! I have done nothing worthy of such a death.”

  “ ‘It is given unto man once to die, and after that the judgment.’ ” Maela quoted. “Take thought for thine eternal soul, my father, before thine hour is upon thee. I would not have thee go to judgment unprepared.”

  “You speak as the very devil!” Trenton protested. “I am a good enough man; I support the church with my tithes and give every man his due. Of late, God has cruelly removed from me all that I valued on earth. Surely, He will be merciful to me in the end.”

  “There can be no mercy from the Father unless we come to Him through the Son, Jesus Christ. This He has stated clearly in the Scripture. The church cannot save thee. Thy good works cannot save thee.”

  Trenton’s eyes narrowed. “I have not heard this nonsense before. ’Tis heresy, for the queen’s church alone gives absolution. You shall burn at the stake should your heresy reach less merciful ears than mine own.”