by Jill Stengl
“Nay,” Harry managed to tell her. “I slew him not. I—” He staggered back, unable to support Maela’s extra weight.
Maela gripped his arms, and her right hand came away red with blood. In startled understanding, she took the rushlight from his weak grasp. “Sit thee down.”
Harry almost collapsed upon the sandy tunnel floor.
“Harry! Oh, my beloved, do not die! I will not have it, do you hear me?” She pressed her ear to his chest. His heartbeat was steady, but it was not strong. Examining his wound, she found that it still bled. She began to rip up one of her petticoats to provide a bandage. Once the wound had been bound, she felt better.
“Come, my Harry. We must hurry to Rachel. She is skilled at healing.”
Blindly, he staggered after her. At the outside entrance to the tunnel, she climbed up to check the surroundings then dropped back down. “Night has fallen, and no enemy is in sight. Climb out, and I shall push thee from behind.”
Harry obeyed without question. He crawled a few feet away from the tunnel and flopped belly down.
Maela crawled to his side and checked his shoulder. The wound had bled again; her petticoat strips were soaked through. She tore off more strips and wrapped them around the others. Ragwort supervised her every move; his cold, wet nose was everywhere her hands needed to be. He was not about to let Harry out of his sight again that day. Laitha lay between Harry’s outstretched legs.
The night was cool, and Harry shivered. He could travel no farther. Maela moved to his uninjured side, leaned against a tree, and pulled him into her arms as well as she could. His cheek rested upon her bosom. She felt his heart racing weakly.
“Maela?” he croaked, surprising her. She had thought him unconscious.
“I am here,” she soothed, pressing her lips to his hair. “Conserve thy strength, Harry, my beloved one, and pray. God will send aid, I doubt not.”
He snuggled closer and heaved a sigh. “Leave me not,” he begged.
“Never shall I leave thee of mine own accord, Harry.”
“I never wished to leave thee. I was obliged. . .” his voice trailed away.
It was cloudy, but no rain had fallen that day. Nevertheless, dampness seeped through Maela’s cloak and chilled her to the bone. She worried that Harry would survive his injury only to die of exposure. He was asleep, breathing roughly through his mouth.
Absorbed in thought, she almost missed Laitha’s low growl of warning. Ever vigilant, the greyhound pointed her long nose away from the castle, into the woods. Ragwort lifted his head from Harry’s chest and whimpered. Suddenly, a large shape barreled into them, and Maela was swarmed by a licking, whining, wagging, bristly hound. “Dudley!”
“Maela?” A quiet voice spoke from the darkness.
“Lane, we are here,” she answered in the same guarded tone. “Harry is injured.”
Lane and Jonas appeared at her side and knelt to examine the unconscious man. “We must make haste,” Jonas said. “He is poorly.” They lifted Harry between them and carried him off, moving quietly. Maela ran to keep up.
“The woods are filled with armed men, searching.” Lane gave her a quick glance and added, “Welcome home, Maela. We did greatly miss thee.”
Rachel washed her hands with soap and took a sharp needle out of a bowl of strong spirits to thread it with gut. Lane and Jonas lifted Harry upon the table, and Rachel set to work. Lottie had promised to pray in another room, for she could not bear to watch. Maela’s job was holding Harry’s head still. The men held his legs and arms. He had unfortunately regained consciousness.
Rachel unwrapped the wound, which immediately started bleeding again. She pried open the slice and poured alcohol inside upon the raw flesh. Harry let out a shout that nearly lifted the thatching overhead, then clenched his teeth, determined not to cry out again.
The razor-sharp rapier had made a three-inch slice down the meaty outer portion of Harry’s upper arm. Instead of stitching a mere cut, Rachel had to hold the slice in place and sew around it. Even if the wound healed well, the muscle would never be quite as strong as before.
While Rachel stitched, Harry looked up into Maela’s eyes. Instead of observing the surgery as she had planned, Maela returned Harry’s upside-down gaze. She knew he needed her as a kind of anchor in the storm. Her thumbs caressed his stubbled cheeks.
“I approve thy neat beard,” she told him. “Thou art a goodly man, indeed.”
He closed his eyes, then looked up at her again. “Thou. . . art well?” he gasped as Rachel made another stitch.
“Well enough. It was cold in that chamber, but I had sufficient food and water. Sir Hanover allowed me freedom within the castle each night. He was not unkind.”
“I thank God,” Harry whispered. His face looked almost green. It frightened Maela. She laid her cheek against Harry’s forehead, feeling the chill of his flesh. “Lane, he needs a blanket. He will not kick while you are away, I am sure. Find a blanket for him, I beg of thee!” Lane obediently found some blankets and helped Maela cover Harry’s shivering body with them.
Jonas had been quiet throughout the ordeal, his eyes closed in silent prayer. When Rachel at last stepped back, Jonas breathed, “Amen.”
The shoulder was neatly bound with clean cloths, and this time very little blood seeped through. Harry was given a drink, then placed before the fire to rest and warm up while the others ate a late supper. Laitha pressed close to Harry’s side, seeming to understand that he was injured. Ragwort sat beside Maela at the table, shamelessly begging for scraps. Though Dudley seemed happy to have Maela back, he lay at Lane’s feet.
Harry slipped into a restless slumber.
Bright sunlight streamed through the open doorway and disturbed Harry’s sleep. Blinking painfully, he lifted his hand to block the glare.
“Harry, thou art awake!” Maela hurried to his side and bent over his pallet. His blanket had slipped when he moved his arm; she tucked it back around his chest.
“More or less so,” he admitted. “It is morning?”
“Nay, ’tis past nooning. You have slept the day away.” She settled beside him on the floor, her kirtle and petticoats fluffing out around her. “Do you hunger or thirst?”
“Yea, for sight of thee,” he smiled weakly. “Thou art a sight for sore eyes, and mine are, of a certain, sore.” His gaze traveled from her face down to her mound of skirts, then back up again. Her waistcoat was modestly straight-laced, but the curves beneath it could not be concealed. “You have changed greatly, my little one. Thou art a child no longer.”
Her face colored rosily. “I had hoped you would notice.”
“Tush! It could scarcely be helped,” he remarked dryly. “I am not a blind man.”
Rachel walked in. “Ah, I see that our Harry has awakened! Does thy shoulder pain thee, lad?” She took Maela’s place and began to unwrap the bandages. Maela hovered near his head, just out of sight.
“It pains me little. I would rise and eat, Rachel.”
She regarded him with pursed lips. “Thy color has improved, and there is no fever as I had feared. You may rise, if you wish to. Maela, fetch me Lane’s shirt from the line. Harry’s shirt is stained and rent.”
After replacing his bandages, Rachel helped him pull a clean shirt over his head and slip his good arm into the sleeve. The other arm was bound against his body.
“I fear for Lane’s second-best shirt,” Rachel shook her head. “You have greater breadth of shoulder. Make no sudden moves.”
“I have not the capacity for sudden movement.” Slowly, giving his spinning head time to clear, Harry sat up, then drew his legs under him and rose. All went dark, so he simply stood still, waiting for his vision to clear. Slowly, awkwardly, he tucked the shirt into his woolen hose. A jerkin could wait; for now he was at least decently clad.
He blinked at Rachel. “I hunger.”
“I might have known,” she chuckled. “There is provender aplenty. Cold mutton, cheese, apples, and bread baked fresh th
is morning.”
Harry tucked in with a will and felt much stronger once his belly had been filled and his thirst slaked. His shoulder throbbed, but he could ignore it. Despite her protests, he helped Rachel clear away the mess from his meal.
“Where has Maela gone?” he wondered.
Rachel answered calmly, “Lottie did require her aid at the laundry.”
Slowly, carefully, Harry walked toward the pond where the two women bent to their task, pounding soggy garments upon rocks and rough boards. Harry could hear them talking together, “. . .and whatever shall I do without thy company, Maela? I do love Rachel, but she is not the friend to me thou art.”
“The Lord shall supply thee friendships aplenty, Lottie, dear sister. Women of our age are abundant in the fellowship. And, of a certain, Lane shall be thy dearest friend, as Harry is mine.” Maela dunked Harry’s shirt into a bucket of clean water. The extensive bloodstain had faded into a dull yellow patch.
“I do love Lane, but our conversation is limited. He speaks of field production, labor ills, and the imminent foaling of a favorite mare. I speak of village gossip and the furnishings of our home. ’Tis a sad—Oh, Harry! I heard not thine approach!”
“Harry!” Maela sat back on her heels, shaking icy, reddened hands. “You should be abed! Does Rachel know of thine escape?” She jumped up and caught hold of his arm.
He nodded. “She knows I could remain abed no longer. I am on the mend and would have private speech with thee.”
Maela’s eyes widened at his serious tone. She glanced at Lottie, then nodded. “In the barn out of this wind, perhaps?”
Harry let her help him to the barn. Inside, they sat upon a bench and leaned against the wall. Two kittens scampered over to greet Maela. She picked up the calico kitten; the golden tiger kitten playfully attacked her skirts. “There were four kittens when I left, but Lane says the tom killed two. I don’t understand why.” She snuggled a kitten against her face. “They are so innocent and dear.”
“Though Ragwort has sworn off kittens, I do not believe we can take them with us,” Harry said slowly. “ ’Twill be difficult enough to travel without them.”
“Travel?” Maela’s chin jerked up. Her dark eyes bored into Harry. “Thou art not—” Then one word sank in. “We?”
He looked surprised. “We travel to Lincoln as soon as we are wed. My family does expect us ere Christmastide.”
Maela looked dazed. “Wed? I heard nothing about a wedding.” She released the kitten to join its sister.
Now Harry looked puzzled. “ ’Twas understood that we would wed except for thy father’s objection. Now that is withdrawn, and we are free to marry.”
“My father. . .is not dead, so far as we know, Harry. He has eluded capture.”
“Praise be to God!” Harry exclaimed, his face lighting up.
Maela was confused. “Thou art glad of this news? He can no longer sell me to the bishop, who is dead, but he is unlikely to approve our—”
“Thy father gave me his blessing ere the bishop appeared last night,” Harry announced.
“He did? I cannot conceive of it!”
“Nevertheless, it is true. I have thy father’s blessing; now I need only thy consent.” Harry was beginning to wonder. Maela did not seem particularly overjoyed. “Will you become my wife, Maela? Or has thine ardor cooled during mine absence?”
She looked into his worried eyes and smiled. “I merely buried it in ashes until thy return. It retains its heat, foolish man. As though such love as mine could cool!”
“It is well, for I could not do without thee. Only anticipation of return has enabled me to bear our parting. I doubt not that my sisters shall regale thee at length with tales of my distraction.” Harry smiled sheepishly and picked up Maela’s hand. Their fingers twined together, and each of them felt unaccountably shy.
“Uh. . .when shall we wed?” Harry blurted. He could hardly keep his eyes from her, but feared she would find his dazzled observation rude. It was difficult to equate his beloved little tree-climbing monkey Maela with the exquisite creature at his side.
Maela immediately shifted on the bench to face him. “As soon as thou art mended; we must arrange affairs with the vicar immediately. I would not have a great festival; the simple ceremony would please me more. I shall wear my mother’s finest silk gown. It is green like the corn in spring and patterned with leaves and flowers. I can fill my mother’s gowns now,” she boasted.
Harry did not understand the significance of this accomplishment. “Indeed?”
“And Lottie shall design my hood. She is gifted in this way.”
Harry nodded, watching each animated expression light her face.
“I suppose we must have cake to distribute. Rachel baked Lottie’s cake, and it looked well, though I never tasted it.”
While Maela chattered on about wedding details, Harry stroked her cheek with one fingertip. It was as soft and smooth as it appeared. The finger trailed down to trace her rosy lips. At last Maela stopped talking.
“Harry,” she reached up to hold his hand and pressed a kiss into his rough palm. “Thou art. . .most distracting.” Delight and irritation blended in her voice. She met his gaze and stopped, inhaling sharply.
Harry kissed her parted lips and ended all discussion of wedding plans for the time being.
seventeen
How delightful is your love, my sister, my bride! How much more pleasing is your love than wine, and the fragrance of your perfume than any spice.Song of Songs 4:10 (NIV)
Harold Jameson and Ishmaela Andromeda Trenton exchanged vows December 3, 1567, at the Trenton parish church. The Reverend Master Cecil Tompkins performed the ceremony, and Sir David Marston, at his own insistence, gave away the bride. Lottie and Lane stood as witnesses.
The young couple honeymooned in the coppice cottage for six days. They wavered between wishing to be alone together and wanting to share these last few days with their friends. The Flemings and Sir David wisely left them alone to work out the dilemma together. They ended up spending afternoons in the company of friends, but usually returned home before the evening meal.
Maela was both thrilled and frightened by the prospect of their imminent journey. “I cannot imagine what it shall be like. Never have I left the vicinity of Castle Trent in my sixteen years. Shall we sleep beneath the stars, Harry?” She tipped her head back to look into her husband’s face.
Harry stroked the silken hair that draped across his lap. They sat before the fire, as of old, but now Maela rested her head upon her husband’s thigh and Laitha snuggled against her side. Ragwort, displaced, curled up on Maela’s belly.
Harry shook his head, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Nay, we must find shelter each night. We shall be several days upon the road, for I would not exhaust thee with a hard pace. We dare not give opportunity to highwaymen, Maela. Much of our way lies through thinly settled country, rife with brigands.”
“I fear not, for few would accost such a man as my husband.” She reached up to caress his chest and shoulders, carefully avoiding his still-tender arm. “We have little of value to tempt a thief. Did I not hear thee say that thy savings was safe at thy home?”
“Verily, after purchasing thy steed, I have left only sufficient coins for our board and lodging; but the horses, our provisions, and you would prove ample temptation for many a villain.”
Maela digested this information in silence. Changing the subject, she blurted, “And we cannot take Samson or Gene-vieve? I understand the necessity of leaving the poultry, but the beasts are. . .are like family to me, Harry!”
Harry sighed. They had already discussed this problem more than once. “Be thankful that Pegasus shall join us, Maela. Samson is too old for such a journey, and Genevieve would delay our travel. I have goats and sheep aplenty for thee at thy new home, my love. The Flemings promise our beasts good care and kindness all their days. We cannot ask more than this.”
“I have given Dudley to Lane,” she said quietly.
“He shall be happier here, for his heart is Lane’s as it was never mine.”
“You have Laitha and Ragwort to love.”
She nodded. “I regret that I trouble thee over the beasts, Harry, but I love them all so. . .” Her voice caught. “I must leave my kittens as well, and at times my heart aches. . .”
Her little sob tore at Harry’s soft heart. “I would transport them all for thee, if it were possible.”
“I know it well, Harry. Thou art exceedingly good to me.” Brushing away her tears, she climbed into her husband’s lap and snuggled close. “Truly, I need none but thee to love, Harry. I shall be content and complain no more.”
Maela’s new cob, a chestnut gelding called Abner, cheered her considerably. She vacillated between excitement about her new horse and feelings of regret. “Pegasus will think me fickle,” she mourned, scratching her pony’s furry neck. “I have never ridden another horse in his presence.”
“He shall adjust to it.” Harry chuckled at her nonsense. He was loading the pony’s pack, testing its balance and adjusting the contents accordingly. “He receives enough attention to make thy husband sore jealous.”
“Tush!” Maela slipped her arms around her husband’s waist and squeezed gently. “Demanding, thou art.”
Harry abandoned his work to kiss her. Lost in their own world, the young couple did not hear company approaching until George cleared his throat. They sprang apart, flushed and embarrassed.
“I beg your pardon.” George grinned. “Lord Marston requests thine attendance upon him this day, Harry. It seems urgent.” The stocky field hand had recently married Dovie after a somewhat rocky courtship. He seemed content with his lot, but Harry did not envy him such a contentious, conniving wife.
Harry cast a regretful glance at his wife, but obligingly accompanied George to the manor house. He left the dogs with Maela for protection.
Harry returned a few hours later and resumed his packing and preparations. Maela thought he seemed somewhat distracted. “Harry, what said his lordship?”