A Child of Promise

by Jill Stengl

  “I beg of thee to listen, my father. I fear not death, for to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord, and my Lord is my light and my salvation. I look for His coming with longing, and fear not an eternity in His presence. I have accepted Christ’s sacrifice for my sins, and have repented from my wicked ways; therefore, I need not fear God’s holy wrath. It will never fall upon me, for Christ’s blood has washed away my sins for all eternity.”

  Hanover could only stare. “You are indeed Ishmaela, the daughter of Artemis Coats? How have you learned this heresy?”

  “I learned it from the Bible, and I learned it from the man I love and intend to marry.”

  Slowly, Trenton rose and pulled his rapier from its scabbard. He twisted it, watching the light reflect from its polished surfaces. Approaching Maela, he touched one edge of the blade to her throat. “Recant, thou recusant witch. I would as soon slay thee as see thee wed to any but a man of my choosing. You are useless to me unless you follow after my will.”

  Maela did not flinch. “Then slay me, sir, for I shall recant neither of my love for Jesus Christ nor of my love for Harry.”

  “Harry, is it? Stubborn wench.” Hanover tickled her throat and collarbones with the sharp point of his weapon. “Like thy mother thou art. Thine eyes are mine, however—dark as sin. Except,” he paused, “there is strength in thine eyes, and goodness. You have a stronger character by far than your mother’s, and more virtuous by far than mine. I do believe you would face death with courage, Ishy, for I could easily have killed you just now, and you know it well. I have killed before. Yet, the daughter of Hanover Trenton, a commoner’s wife? I cannot allow it. You would perish of labor or boredom. You were raised to court life, wench.”

  “You know not how I was raised, sir, for you were here but seldom. Of late, I have lived as a yeoman’s daughter. I did clean, bake, sew, reap, winnow, and all other tasks the life does require, and I am the stronger for it. You have seen me labor for your comfort and ease in this castle these many days—did I appear to suffer at it? I fear not work, for God is pleased by my labors. I do all for His glory, not for mine own.”

  “And is thy lover worthy of thee?”

  Maela was uncertain whether he mocked her, but she answered, “Harry is worthy of the highest and best in the land, sir, for a better man I cannot imagine. He is God’s humble servant and the servant of all mankind. No man alive has a more generous heart. He did take into his care a dirty, bitter, hopeless child, and, expecting nothing in return, did give her freely of all he possessed. Through his love, I learned of God’s love.”

  For a moment, she saw a flicker of human feeling cross his face. “A veritable saint, this fellow—” He paused abruptly, still pointing his sword at Maela’s bare throat. His eyes lifted to the ventilation cracks. “I did hear a dog bark. Intruders storm the castle yet again.” He swore softly. His eyes hardened. “Keep still, wench, or I shall slit thy throat with impunity, for my life is more to me than thine.”

  “Father,” Maela said quietly as he headed for the door.

  He stopped and turned slowly. When his eyes met hers, she saw in them a new expression, a softening. “What, Ishy?”

  “Thou art my father, and I do honor thee greatly.”

  For a long moment he showed no reaction. Then he strained as though attempting to swallow with a dry throat. At last he simply turned and slipped silently through the doorway.

  As the door swung shut, Maela stopped it short. This time her father was too absorbed in listening for sounds of the intruder to notice that the latch did not click.

  She heard the tunnel door open and close at the far end. Venturing into the narrow passageway, she felt her way along the wall. The light from outside was dim. She could see little.

  A snuffling sound from above startled her. Peering at the wall to her right, she saw a long crack near the ceiling with a series of foot and hand holds beneath it—a peephole. She immediately climbed up. That sound had not come from a rat.

  Her assumption proved correct: a dog’s black nose sniffed at the crack. It pulled away for a moment, and Maela dimly caught sight of a patched face and empty eye sockets.

  “Laitha,” she dared to breathe. The dog began to tremble and whimper happily, but she could not understand Maela’s position within the thick wall. “Tell Harry where I am,” Maela choked. The knowledge that Harry must be near almost reduced her to tears.

  Laitha disappeared from Maela’s sight. For a minute more the girl waited, then lowered herself with a hand on the far wall. Did she dare try to escape? Where was Trenton? At the end of the passage Maela descended the few stairs to the wooden door, but she could not open it. Its latch must be on the outside. She hurried back to the rock ladder and scrambled up, bracing herself with one foot upon the outside wall.

  She caught a glimpse of Laitha across the great room and heard what sounded like a man’s voice. Was it Harry? Dared she take the chance that it was? Should she be mistaken, her father would most likely kill her and leave her body forever undiscovered within the castle walls. But if it were Harry and she said nothing, she could lose her only chance!

  Suddenly she heard strange sounds, a clash as of metal upon metal, and men’s voices shouting. She could not understand the words, but thought she recognized Harry’s voice. “Harry! Harry, I am here!” she shouted. Her voice was lost in the clatter.

  As soon as the panel had slid open, Harry had known he was in for trouble. Laitha had tried to warn him, so he was hardly surprised when Hanover Trenton leaped through the opening, thrusting a sword at Harry’s head. He barely had time to fall away before the older man was upon him again.

  Harry lifted his sword to parry the thrust, finding it difficult to maneuver while seated upon the floor. Laitha helped him by getting in the way. When Trenton tripped over her cringing form, Harry seized his chance and crawled beneath the head table, between chair legs, and out the other side. The disgruntled nobleman shouted curses, but he did not harm the dog. Laitha yelped and scuttled blindly into the tunnel, seeking peace and shelter.

  “Come hither and fight, coward!” Hanover Trenton shouted. “Thou blackguard! How did you know of the passage? What evil arts revealed it unto thee?”

  “No evil art, Lord Trenton, but thine own flesh did reveal it. Ishmaela told me of the tunnel. Where is she?” Harry asked from the other side of the table. He was now upon his feet and had his cloak wrapped around his left arm as a kind of shield.

  Their voices echoed from stone walls and ceilings. Hanging banners rustled like whispering voices of long ago. The setting sun, released by a passing cloud, suddenly poured light through the hall’s cross-shaped windows. Brilliant golden crosses appeared across the walls and floor, one spotlighting Trenton. Harry saw fatigue and strain in his opponent’s lined face.

  Hanover stepped out of the light. “Let me conjecture—thou art the esteemed Harry, the man my foolish daughter professes to love more than life itself.” As he spoke, he casually reached into the fireplace and pulled the lever to close his secret tunnel. He would not allow Harry to escape by that means.

  Harry’s eyes flickered, but he did not lose his guard. “I am Harry the joiner. I was privileged to tutor Maela through her childhood, and have become her mentor and friend.”

  “Then you love not the wench?”

  Before Harry could reply, Hanover leaped atop the table and fell upon him with a flashing sword. Far from comfortable with his narrow rapier, Harry did well to parry the varied thrusts of his enemy, let alone launch any form of attack.

  One vicious encounter breached his guard; with lightning speed, Trenton’s rapier slashed down upon Harry’s left shoulder. Harry dodged, but he was not quick enough; the sword sliced into the muscle of his upper arm. He made no sound, though his face whitened and sweat beaded his forehead. His sleeve darkened rapidly, feeling hot and damp against his skin.

  Another cloud obscured the sun. Once again, the hall fell into grim shadow.

  Trento
n stepped back to catch his breath. “Ishmaela is pledged to Bishop Carmichael. In the abbey, she shall be treated as a veritable queen, wanting nothing. What life would she have with such as thee? A hovel in the countryside or a hovel in the village, twenty children, and never enough to eat. The daughter of Hanover Trenton deserves better than thy dirty hands upon her, joiner man. Come and let me slice those cursed hands from thy limbs!”

  Harry’s teeth clenched against the pain and fury. Should this. . .this scoundrel kill him, Maela’s doom was sealed. Would he, could he, allow himself to be cut to ribbons in this way? He would not.

  God, I ask Thine immediate aid! The situation is dire, indeed.

  Letting go of his injured arm, he walked boldly toward Sir Hanover. Sweat dripped from his nose, but he gave it no heed. The sun broke through, again flaming cross signs throughout the hall. Harry’s upraised sword caught a ray that turned it into fire.

  “You think not to—” Sir Hanover began, then Harry was upon him. Pounding and battering, he made the smaller man use his sword as a shield against the attack, giving him no time to set himself for fencing thrusts or lunges.

  The tables were turned—for as long as Harry’s rapier did not break. Ignoring his wound, Harry used his superior strength to advantage. Trenton was soon bleeding from several nicks and cuts; his breath wheezed from his lungs.

  “Slay me quick,” he panted, staggering back from another of Harry’s assaults. “I beg of thee, turn me not over to the queen, but slay me like the man of honor I have ever been!”

  Harry stopped abruptly. Echoes of clashing swords still rang among the rafters. “I would slay thee not, sir!” He sounded astonished at the very idea. He stood with his back to the entryway, his chest heaving. Hanover Trenton drooped against a table, gasping for breath.

  A voice bellowed, “Nay? But I would!”

  The shout was followed by a swish-thump, and Hanover staggered back with an arrow in his left biceps. His agonized cry rang in Harry’s ears.

  Both men stared wildly about, then heard a laugh from above. Dob Titwhistle stood upon the high gallery, longbow in hand. “The next shall pierce thy wicked heart. Long I have dreamed of the moment when our fortunes would reverse, Hanover Trenton—the knight that was! And thou, joiner—a sorcerer, indeed! I would give thee trade—the baseborn wench in return for this! It did bite me upon the leg, and deserves not to live.” He pulled Ragwort from a sack and suspended him by the scruff of the neck. “Work your sorcery now, if you can!”

  He drew back his arm and tossed the wailing dog lightly into the air. Before Harry’s horrified eyes, his beloved pet spun, legs outspread, high above, then hurtled downward. Without conscious thought, Harry dashed across the room, hurdling tables and benches. His rapier clattered to the floor. With his one good arm outstretched, he flung himself face first and caught Ragwort only inches from the stone floor. He skidded along the floor on his belly and stopped just before the fireplace.

  Dob had leaned against the gallery railing to watch Ragwort’s flight, but the rotted wood could not bear his weight. With a grinding crash it gave way, and Dob plummeted, screaming, headfirst into the floor. The fate he had wished upon a dog came to him instead. Boards and splinters continued to rain upon his body in the dreadful silence that followed.

  The last gleam of sunlight disappeared, casting the hall into shadow once again. Harry watched as Trenton, with clenched teeth and a deep groan, drew the arrow from his own arm and threw it down. One-handed, he wrapped a handkerchief around the wound.

  Then Trenton limped across the room and squatted beside his former retainer’s body. A table blocked Harry’s view, but he heard a satisfied grunt. “I take only what you did owe, traitor.” Trenton rose, still stuffing something inside his jerkin, staggered to a table, pulled out the bench, and sat down, exhausted.

  Harry scooted up to lean his head and shoulders against the wall and cuddled his trembling dog. Ragwort seemed to be in shock; he clung to Harry’s neck like a baby to its mother.

  “I have no longer any war with thee, Harry the joiner. Thou art, indeed, a noble man. Take the wench and Godspeed.” Trenton’s voice was tired, but relieved. Retrieving his fallen sword, he made as though to sheathe it, but at that moment there was a rush and clatter in the doorway, and several men-at-arms entered the room and lined the wall on either side of the door. Each held a lighted torch and a crossbow.

  Bishop Carmichael followed his men into the room. His dark eyes quickly assessed the situation, showing some surprise at Dob’s violent death. “I see that my faithful dunce has met an untimely end. ’Tis fitting, no doubt, that one of so little wit should unwittingly cause his own demise.”

  The bishop cut a dashing figure, clad in black from head to toe: velvet hat with a long aigrette plume, slashed doublet and trunk hose showing gold satin lining, muscular legs in tight netherhose, jeweled buckles upon his shoes, and a satin cloak with velvet lining flung over his shoulders. His black goatee was neatly trimmed; heavy hair curled above his starched collar. A handsome appearance he made, but no beauty marked his expression. He approached Trenton, but eyed Harry. “Introduce thy recumbent companion, I pray thee, Hanover.”

  “Bishop Carmichael, may I present Harry the joiner, lately employed by Marston, as I recall. I have long expected thee, Titus. The sight of thy face brings me pleasure.” Trenton rose to greet his friend and bowed politely.

  The bishop smiled slightly but did not return the courtesy. “Thy pleasure shall doubtless be short-lived, but let us enjoy it while we may. And this Harry the joiner is. . . ? A relation of thine, perhaps?”

  “Nay. He prowled about my castle, and I did apprehend him here.”

  “Indeed.” The bishop appeared to dismiss Harry as inconsequential. “Let us not linger here to no purpose. Hanover, where is the wench? I have come for her, you perceive, though I never imagined myself so fortunate as to find thee here as well. For too many days I have endured the propinquity of that,” he waved a lazy hand at Dob’s corpse, “in order to locate the wench. Almost I discarded this repugnant accomplice, but here, at last, my Christian forbearance has been remunerated in full. The odious Dob did serve me well ere he departed to his reward.”

  Trenton stared blankly. “I comprehend thee not. You have come for Ishmaela?”

  “Of a certain. Tales of her exquisite pulchritude reached even unto Parminster Court, and I did deduce thereby that my protracted wait need quickly end. I would have her, sir. Kindly divulge her location.” A salacious grin showed every tooth in the bishop’s head, but his black eyes were like death.

  “I regret the trouble you have endured, Titus; and all for nothing, for my daughter has—”

  The bishop interrupted dryly. “I receive ample reparation for my trouble. I shall delight in the wench’s abundant charms at my leisure, but equally gratifying will be the spectacle of thy head upon the White Tower wall. I shall behold thy rotting carcass in a gibbet yet!”

  Harry watched Hanover’s jaw drop and felt pity for the friendless man whose entire world had crashed into ruin. He quoted for all to hear, “ ‘None that wait on the Lord shall be ashamed: they will be ashamed which transgress without cause.’ Place thy hope and trust in God, sir. He alone is always faithful, just, and merciful.”

  Trenton heard him and turned. For an instant his eyes met Harry’s; then, before the men-at-arms could react, he lunged straight at Carmichael with sword outthrust. In the blink of an eye, the bishop was impaled upon the rapier’s point.

  “Be merciful to me, Jesus Christ!” Hanover shouted. Leav-ing his sword, he fled through the door. Chaos and confusion ensued—some men stopping to load their crossbows, others bounding in pursuit of the knight, a few gaping in horror at their fallen leader. Two rushed to tend the bishop, but there was nothing to be done. Trenton’s blade had pierced his heart.

  While their attention was diverted, Harry scrambled to his feet, reached into the fireplace, quietly pulled the lever, stepped into the passageway, and close
d the panel. He was surprised to find that the tunnel was not entirely dark. Trenton had left a rushlamp upon the floor. It still shone brightly, though the rush was burning short.

  Harry picked it up. “Maela?” He spoke softly lest the men in the great hall hear him.

  A low “woof” was the only reply. Harry followed the sound to find Laitha waiting before the tunnel’s side door. Ragwort struggled weakly, and Harry set him down. The terrier limped over to Laitha and cowered against her. She licked his muzzle, sensing his fear.

  “Is Maela in there?” Harry asked. He pressed the latch and pushed at the door. It groaned in protest, but gradually gave way. Harry’s head began to swim. The wound in his shoulder had drained his strength. His sleeve was blood soaked and stiffening. He placed his right hand over the cut to stem the blood flow and, putting his good shoulder to the heavy door, soon gained entrance to another tunnel. A set of very narrow steps led steeply upward. “Maela?” he said again.

  “Harry!” Footsteps descended the stairs, and Maela threw herself into his arms.

  sixteen

  The Lord God said, “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.”

  Genesis 2:18 (NIV)

  She was trembling, sobbing for joy. Harry kissed her hair and held her close with one arm, marveling at her sweetness after so many days of bondage. Her very spirit seemed to glow from within, and her hair smelled delightful. The dogs whimpered and danced about them. Maela’s appearance had done wonders for Ragwort’s morale.

  “We dare not tarry here,” Harry warned. He wanted to sound loving, but his lips and tongue felt wooden.

  Maela lifted her face from his shirtfront and nodded in agreement. “Let us hurry. My father may return at any moment.”

  “I think he shall not return,” Harry said slowly. His voice sounded mushy. “I think he is dead.”

  “You killed him?” Maela wailed. “Alas, but I had only just told him of Jesus and the cleansing blood! And now you have shed his blood?”