“Only the gods say what will or will not be,” Ethyl returned, “and even they can be wrong once in a while.”
“Ethyl, why do you oppose me on this?” Serine asked the woman who had been her main means of support throughout this ordeal. “Why have you deserted me?”
Ethyl stared at Serine for several seconds before speaking. “Because, Serine, you are wrong. I cannot support you.”
Serine’s breath caught in her throat. “Will you try to stop me?”
“I will not stop you,” Ethyl assured her. “But on your own head will rest the outcome of your actions. With this understood, I will help you in any way I can.”
Serine felt hysteria rising in her throat. “Do you condemn me because you no longer wish to leave your paramour?”
“No more than you wish to leave yours,” Ethyl retorted. “I will be here when you need me, but do not try me too far, Serine, for in my opinion you are being heady and selfish. You will destroy yourself and those who love you with your obsession for Sheffield. If I cannot help you, I vow I shall not hinder you. But do not ask me to go against my beliefs, for I will not.”
“I shall ask for nothing that is not for the benefit of my people and my village. The majority must be served,” Serine promised self-righteously.
It was only after Serine had left the room that Ethyl had time to wonder to which majority she referred.
* * *
The more time Rory spent with Gerta and her little son, the more he was beset by conflicting emotions. How much better it would have been for all concerned had the Celts taken Gerta and her babe and left Hendrick behind. For, in all truth, Gerta’s station in life in Corvus Croft was far more promising than it would ever have been in Sheffield. And although Gerta had not the petite figure or the graceful movements of the Lady of Sheffield, the former milkmaid fit in physically with the women of Corvus Croft. Only Serine and Damask were noticeably different. Dainty and slim, they both looked to be exactly what they were. Ladies to the manor born. Gerta and most of the women of the Celts were larger in proportion, with generous bodies that bespoke an ease in bearing children. Yet no children were born.
Once Serine and Rory had taken up residence at Rory’s manor, Gerta was no longer sequestered. Men and women alike flocked to the young mother to admire her babe, the youngest child to appear in Corvus Croft for over a decade.
Gerta basked in the admiration for her little boy and welcomed their comments and advice. It was obvious that any single man in the village would have gladly taken Gerta to wife, and there was some grumbling that a woman, obviously fertile and of childbearing age, should be kept single through the whim of one man. But Rory was oblivious to their complaints. He would not force Gerta to wed any man and it never occurred to him that she hesitated in her choice due to the hope that she might become the wife of Rory himself.
With Ethyl’s help, Serine continued to dose the women with her herbal concoctions. Hope sprang and failed with each passing month, and still there was no sign of issue. But it wasn’t until Damask appeared at her door in tears that Serine reached the depths of despair.
“My monthly flux is on me,” Damask sobbed. “I had so hoped this time it would not come.” She buried her face in her hands. “It is not that I do not love my husband. He is everything to me. I live only for his love. Being his wife and bearing his children is all I wish in life.”
“But surely it cannot be time for your monthly tides so soon,” Serine objected. “Perhaps you have started early and it is a good sign.”
“‘Tis not early. It is late,” Damask wailed. “And I had so hoped.” Again a sob overtook her, but Serine paid little mind, absently patting her friend’s shoulder. It seemed only yesterday that both women had been within days of each other in their monthly tides, and now Damask had run late enough that she had hoped hers would not appear, while Serine had lost track of time, for her own flux had yet to materialize.
In an effort to quiet Damask’s sobs, Serine began to question the other woman. “Perhaps there was some medication given during the plague that has caused this infertility. What do you remember of that time?”
“I know no more of it than you.” Damask wiped her eyes. “I came to Corvus Croft long after the plague had struck.”
Serine’s head snapped up. “And there was no plague in the village from whence you came?”
“None.” Damask sniffled. “Indeed, my younger sister has two children and is expecting a third, and she has been wed but four years.”
Serine stared at the distraught woman, remembering how it had been with herself. She had hardly become a bride when she had learned she was to be a mother. That was her duty and a woman’s lot. Had her husband not gone off on crusade it was likely Hendrick would have had several siblings despite the advanced age of his sire. Serine had not complained about her husband’s absence, nor had she objected to him ignoring her when he was in residence. An heir was what she had wanted, and an heir she had, until the Celts had come and taken him from her.
“Guthrie would have been far better served had he married my sister,” Damask observed morosely. “He would have had the son he so desires.”
“Has he ever reprimanded you for your lack?” Serine asked suspiciously.
“Guthrie loves me, just as Rory loves you, but even I can see the longing in his eyes when he looks upon Gerta and her babe.” Again the tears flowed from her eyes. “I would do anything to give him a son, yet there seems to be nothing I can do.”
Serine slipped her arm around Damask’s shoulders. There seemed to be little either of them could do, for Serine was completely out of remedies. She knew of no potion that the women had not tried. And all had failed.
Unable to give more than comfort to Guthrie’s wife, Serine sent Gerta to bring food and wine, and the women sat close to the huge fireplace trying to shut out the pervading chill that had entered both their bodies and their hearts.
It was there Ethyl joined them. Seeing that Serine had her hands full with the despondent Damask, Ethyl poured the mulled wine and placed the warm, sweet bread on a low table before the hearth.
“Thank you, Ethyl.” Serine smiled as she served her guest and lifted her own cup, relishing the warmth against her hands. The spicy vapors wafted toward Serine’s face and she breathed deeply of the fragrance.
Without warning her stomach lurched. Her hands trembled and her throat constricted. “Do not drink,” she cried as she ran into the courtyard, where she was instantly ill.
By the time she returned, wan and shaking, Gerta was proclaiming her innocence. “I swear I did nothing but bring the wine from the kitchens. I only brought what was given me. I wouldn’t harm my lady. What good would it bring me to do so?”
“Perhaps it would bring you a rich and powerful husband,” Damask suggested. “With Serine gone, Rory might look upon you and your son with favor.”
“I look no higher than the steward,” Gerta declared with downcast eyes. And, at that moment, her statement became truth. If Serine was, indeed, sick by some unknown cause, Gerta knew it would be worth her life to look on Rory McLir with marriage in mind.
“Then it’s the steward you should wed, and soon,” Ethyl said flatly. “For unless I miss my guess, Rory will wed no one but the mother of his own child.”
All the women looked at her askance.
“And have you gained the power of a seer simply by your association with Drojan?” Serine asked, wondering at the smug look on her companion’s face.
“It does not take a seer to suspect that Serine’s vapors have nothing to do with the wine in her cup, but rather having partaken fully of the wine of love.” Ethyl suppressed a smile at the looks of disbelief on the faces of the other women.
The next moment Damask was on her feet. “Oh, Serine, can it be so? If you are pregnant there is hope for all of us. I cannot wait to tell—”
“Tell no one,” Serine ordered. “Ethyl only speculates. She has no proof that my indisposition is anything mo
re than a bad piece of fish from breakfast. Until we have some reason other than an upset stomach to believe I am with child, no one is to say anything.”
“But—” Damask tried again.
“No one!” Serine reiterated, and Damask bowed her head in agreement. But the women knew that if, indeed, Serine was carrying Rory’s child the news would be all over the village in less than no time.
“What will you do?” Ethyl asked once Damask had gone.
“I do not know,” Serine admitted. “It was my plan that the women become pregnant so that I could return to Sheffield, but I did not think to become pregnant myself.”
“Then you should have stayed out of Rory McLir’s bed,” Ethyl told her.
“As you stay out of Drojan’s bed?” Serine returned.
“I would welcome Drojan’s child were it possible for me to bear one. But my childbearing days are past. It is not Drojan’s child I crave, but his love.”
“I wish you luck, Ethyl. Love is an elusive thing, for if Rory loved me as Drojan loves you, he would let me go.”
“And if you loved Rory as I love Drojan, you would not wish to leave him.”
The two women stared at each other. No further words were spoken, for there was nothing left to say. Each had expressed her opinion and each believed herself to be right. Only time would tell which spoke the truth.
Ethyl broke the silence. “What will you do now?” she asked.
But Serine was mulling over the information she had gleaned from Damask, and paid little heed to the question.
“Did you know that Damask was not in Corvus Croft during the plague?” she asked.
“Damask seldom confides in me,” Ethyl told her.
“Her sister has borne several children, though she is younger than Damask, and married less time.” Serine expressed her thoughts aloud, neither expecting nor requesting an answer. “For a moment I thought I knew the answer. It seemed as though perhaps the lack was not in the women, but in the men, instead. But how could that be if I carry Rory’s child?”
Ethyl tore off a piece of bread and popped it into her mouth. “Perhaps you have been dosing the wrong prospective parent.”
“That cannot be.” Serine sighed. “Rory was here during the plague. His wife and child died of plague and he was sorely taken himself. There is no difference in Rory’s life-style and that of every other man in Corvus Croft. I must look elsewhere for my answer, and do it quickly, for Guthrie may decide to go back on his promise when he learns there will finally be a baby born in Corvus Croft, and the child is mine.” She slammed her hands on the table in frustration. “Why could it not have been Damask who conceived? Now I must find a way to take Hendrick and leave here, with or without permission, and I must break the heart of the man I love by taking his child with me, or allow my own heart to be broken by leaving the babe, and that I cannot do.” She covered her face with her hands. “It is indeed a bitter, bitter decision.”
The fire snapped, and the wind howled about the thick stone walls. Serine closed her eyes behind her fingers and allowed the sounds to engulf her. Unwilling to face the future, she allowed herself to drift back, remembering all the precious moments that had brought her to this time and place.
She remembered how she had fought the powers of darkness for Rory’s life, and how his fever had soared to the point where the poisons had caught in his body. She remembered the way his skin burned as she and Ethyl had somehow managed to place him in the tub of tepid water, forcing the herbs into the very pores of his body.
She would have lost him had it not been for Old Ethyl’s knowledge of the ancient potion that cleansed the blood and washed away the poisons, making him whole and able to function normally once more.
Serine remembered how quickly Rory’s body had healed under her care. How she had delighted in seeing him return to health. How strongly she had believed that all she would have to do was return him strong and healthy to his people and they would grant her request and allow her to take the children and leave. Now it seemed that not only some of the children but the adults as well wanted to stay with the Celts in Corvus Croft. But staying was not an option open to Serine. She must return to Sheffield, and Hendrick with her.
In her heart she blessed the brew that had restored Rory to life and health, and yet, she could not help but despair in the fact that the brew had done its job all too well, for there would be the very devil to pay when Rory learned she carried his child. Yes, there was no doubt the brew had done its job too well.
Her eyes flew open behind her fingers. “The brew!” The words erupted from her mouth, and Ethyl jumped at the sound of her voice.
“What about the brew?” Ethyl asked as she settled herself again on the chair.
“It was the brew!” Serine was on her feet. “Don’t you see? The only difference between Rory and the other men of Corvus Croft is that Rory has been liberally dosed with the bitter brew.”
“But what has that to do with—”
“Ethyl, it’s not the women who lack the ability to produce children, ’tis the men.” Serine pulled Ethyl to her feet and embraced the woman. “All we need do is tell the men to drink the brew, and the women will soon be with child and we will be able to go home.”
She gave Ethyl a second hug and was about to dance away when Ethyl took the younger woman’s shoulders and held her fast.
“I told you the brew that is bitter to the tongue has been forbidden in many parts of the country. To make it here would be to court disaster. Should anyone suspect it is the bitter brew we make, we would be killed.”
“Ethyl, that’s ridiculous. These people want children. Once I explain to them that the brew will heal them they will be anxious to test its powers.” She paused, midstep. “Do you doubt this?”
“I think your hopes have overpowered your common sense. And while it is entirely possible that you are correct in thinking it due to the brew that Rory may have sired your child, there was great risk in making the brew at Sheffield. To make it here would be to court disaster. I beg you to reconsider, Serine, if not for your own sake, then for Hendrick’s.”
“It is for Hendrick’s sake I must take the chance. I think you are overly protective of the brew, and not without cause, from what you have told me, but I have no other option and I will not be thwarted by superstition.”
“You are in a land that is entrenched in superstition. If you succeed they will hail you as their hero and sing your praises, but should you fail, they will have your life, Serine, and likely mine, as well.”
Serine placed her hand on her friend’s arm. “No one could have been a better friend, Ethyl. Should my plan go awry I will not implicate you in any way. But I shall make the brew and see to it that the men use it.”
“And I shall pray for both of us,” Ethyl said.
* * *
Serine went to the storeroom off the kitchens, where she stored her herbs. Distraught with worry, Ethyl went up the stairs to the peace and quiet of her own room.
Neither woman saw the figure in the far shadows of the hall. And though all the words had not been clear at such a distance, Gerta had heard enough to understand the seriousness of what might happen. She slipped from the room wondering how best she could use her information to enhance her position, and that of her own little son.
Right now she would wait to see how Serine’s plan progressed. The last thing she wanted to do was to make an enemy of her former mistress. Still, she would do what she must to insure her son’s future.
She lifted her skirts and swung her hips provocatively as she walked toward the kitchen. Humming a little tune, she blessed the day she had been snatched from her drafty little hut in Sheffield and brought to the comfort and luxury she had found here. She had been living in fear that Serine would find a potion that would help the women to conceive and take the unmarried Gerta back to Sheffield to be relegated to milkmaid once again.
Now, thanks to the conversation she had overheard, Gerta knew she had the whe
rewithal to stop Serine from forcing her to return to Sheffield.
Gerta thanked God for her sharp ears, and her light tread. But most of all she thanked him for giving her the information she needed to allow her to stay.
* * *
Serine was in the room where she stored her herbs when Rory found her. She looked up when he opened the door. He stepped into the room but did not come to her.
“Ethyl said you were here,” he said. His voice was flat, without inflection. “She said you believe you have the solution to our problems.”
“I believe I know why there are no children in Corvus Croft. Oh, Rory, just think of it. If I’m correct, within a year there may be babies again in your village.” Her smile was tremulous as she waited for him to respond.
“And when the babies come, you will go. Is that why you are so excited? The thought that you will be able to leave with Guthrie’s blessing?” He searched her face, hoping she would deny the truth of his words.
“I am excited because I believe I know what is wrong.”
“Wrong!” Rory slammed his fist against the worktable. The dried herbs rattled in protest. “Even I know what is wrong. Our women are barren.”
Serine’s temper flared. “The women! Always the women!” She swung around the table and confronted him, head-on. “Let me tell you, Rory McLir, ’tis not the women who are at fault. Most like ’tis the men.”
“Hah!” His well-formed lips curved into a sneer. “There’s not a man in this village who does not love his woman often and well. It’s not the men, I say.”
“Then they should be happy to participate in a little experiment to see if they can help their wives.”
“What is it you want them to do?” His question echoed his skepticism.
“I want them to take the bitter brew that you took when you were healing from Ethyl’s arrow.”
Rory threw back his head and laughed. It was a warm, rich sound and sent chills of anticipation rushing down Serine’s back. “A fine chance you have of getting the men to do that. Not even for their women would they drink a potion that tastes like spoiled wine.”
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