“Then give the herbs to each of the would-be mothers and let them brew it themselves. Perhaps their men will drink of it when they know it was made in their own abode.”
“You have at least the beginning of a good idea,” Serine told her. “I will give each woman a vial of her own to be kept in her home, and I will ask them to help me prepare the mixture so they can see that the concoction is but a harmless blend of herbs that most of us use every day.”
Serine prepared for her project, even though, true to her word, Ethyl did not offer to help and went on about her own business. By the time Rory came home, Serine was well on her way to completing the task of measuring out the ingredients for each of the women to take their own container of brew.
* * *
The day was cold and blustery. Rory entered the room bringing with him a blast of wintry air. He grabbed Serine’s arm and buried his cold nose in the warmth of her neck. She wriggled against him, objecting in jest only, for she enjoyed the love play involved in the warming of his chilled body.
“Leave off,” she objected. “You will muss my herbs and ruin all that I have achieved this day.”
“And what have you achieved that is so important?” He continued nuzzling, but his face now searched for warmer, more intimate areas, and he burrowed into the warmth of her breasts.
“I am going to give the village women the herbs they need to get them with child. It is up to them to get the men to use it.”
“And am I allowed to use this potion also?” he teased as he relished her warmth.
“You have used it and well,” she told him. “If you were any more healthy or virile there would be no holding you.”
“You can hold me, and as often as you like,” he teased, his fingers plucking at the strands of her hair that fell about her face when she worked.
She slipped her arms beneath his heavy fur cloak and nestled against him. How she wished his words were prophecy, for she longed to lose herself in his embrace, but there was more to life than the dictates of love, and she had blood promises that must be kept. Promises that were in direct opposition to the man she loved.
“I will hold you,” she murmured. “Hold you close and often.” And their love bloomed once again.
* * *
By the time winter was full upon them the main topic of discussion among the women was their imaginative ways of ingesting the bitter brew into their unknowing husbands.
“I slip but a few drops into each cup of ale. He never notices the slight change in taste, and he drinks so much ale that he takes the required amount,” one of the women said with a laugh.
“I take it into my own mouth and let it flow into his when we kiss. He claims now that my kisses are bitter, and he must sweeten them with his own. We always end up making love, so I have been forced to dispense the brew to him during the evening, else he does not open the smithy until the morning is half spent.” The woman giggled at her boast, while another began telling a story of her own.
Serine listened to all their tales and complimented them on their ingenuity. But privately her heart was heavy. She stood at the window, looking out over the countryside, when Rory joined her.
“Tell me, Serine, what is wrong? Have the men refused to take your concoction?”
“‘Tis not that, Rory.” She crossed the room and joined him at the fire. “I am needed to see that the planting is begun in Sheffield. In a few weeks it will be too late to assure the crop, and I will still be here, for although the people of Corvus Croft are taking the brew, the women show no sign of bearing children.”
Rory could not hide his pleasure. “Perhaps you are destined to stay here with me.” He reached out and took her hand, drawing her to him. He no longer argued when she spoke of returning to her estates. The decision was no longer with him. It was in the hands of the gods, and even Drojan had no answer.
If the women proved quick with child, Serine would take her son and leave. And if the bitter brew failed to provide the necessary ingredients that brought forth children, Serine would stay and most likely continue in her quest. Until the women either became impregnated or grew too old to have it matter, the men of the village would be happy, for all of them, including Rory, would see that the women bore them children, or literally die trying.
He laughed and pulled Serine down onto his lap. “Do not fret yourself. No matter what happens, one of us will be happy and the other sad.”
“It need not be that way,” Serine protested. “If you would only come back to Sheffield with me. It would only be until Hendrick reaches his majority, and—”
“You know that is out of the question, Serine,” Rory chastised. “My brother needs me. I am his most trusted general and leader of his forces. My responsibility lies here, and here I will remain.”
Serine leaned toward him and touched his lips with her own. “I understand,” she said. But in her heart she would never understand, for if she understood his position, she might be forced to reconsider the validity of her own. But there was no confrontation in kissing, and the urgency of their love forced all mitigating thoughts from their minds, as need overcame actuality, and their passion deepened.
Yet the sadness in her grew, for even now she deceived him, for she had not yet told him that while the women of the village had not quickened, Serine herself carried Rory’s child.
* * *
Shortly after the winter holidays, unrest pervaded Corvus Croft. All through the days of celebration there had been a feeling of anticipation, but when the villagers returned to their daily tasks, gloom pervaded, as dark and dank as the winter months.
And while the women apparently continued to ply their men with the brew, they no longer came to Serine with the tales of their cleverness.
It was during this time that Ethyl vacated her room in the manor to live with Drojan. She made no excuses or apologies. She did not ask. She simply told Serine that she would return to perform her daily tasks, but her nights belonged to Drojan.
It did not surprise Serine that Ethyl was so open about her relationship with the seer, for Ethyl had never cared for the opinions of others. But Serine did give much thought to the changes in the older woman, who had taken her place as an intelligent woman acclaimed by the people of Corvus Croft, while in Sheffield she had been defamed as an old crone.
“What sort of love is this that you share with Drojan?” Damask asked as the women sat before the fire in the solar. “Is it some sort of magic spell that the seer has done to rejuvenate you?” Damask leaned forward as she asked the questions.
Ethyl fought to keep the smile from her face. Either of these women was young enough to be her daughter, yet the love she knew was as fresh and exciting as if she were their contemporary. “Love is love. There is little difference whether it comes with youth or with age,” she said philosophically. “What you and Guthrie do to have a child, Drojan and I do for the enjoyment of each other.” Ethyl said the words in such an offhand manner that it took a moment before their meaning reached either of the other women.
“You mean he still can...” Damask found herself unable to finish the sentence. Drojan looked to be as old as any man in the village with his white hair and balding pate. And while he was not hobbled by age, and seemed able to join the rest of the men in their activities, even Guthrie did not remember Drojan being involved with any woman.
Ethyl sighed and rested the wool she was carding on her lap. “There is little difference between a young man and one that has lived long enough to be considered old. I have known both and I can assure you that the quick, heated passion of youth is nothing when measured against the lasting embers of age. I have no doubt that you and Guthrie have delved, planted and found slumber before Drojan and I have more than begun our quest for fulfillment, but then you have your whole lives ahead of you and must hurry to meet your destiny, while Drojan and I have nothing but time to give and take the pleasures saved up throughout a lifetime.”
Her words would have silenced a less
er woman, but Damask was nothing if not inquisitive, and having gone so far, was determined to have her answer. “I had not thought a man of such age could pleasure a woman,” she said.
“It is the younger man who often has no idea of pleasure. His forte is passion, and release. I, too, believed as you when I was young, but I, too, was wrong.”
“In what way?” Serine voiced a question for the first time. Desiring a word of hope that there could still be something to look to between herself and Rory after Hendrick was grown.
“The driving force of young love is no longer prevalent. Sometimes nearness is enough. To reach out in the silence of the night and feel his hand close over mine gives me as much joy as ever I knew in the impromptu couplings of my youthful marriage.” Ethyl looked into the fire and fought the tears that threatened to stain her cheek. “It is late.” She rose abruptly. “I must go. Our supply of herbs is sadly depleted. I will go out and see what I can find. I’ll see you when I return.”
Without further ado, Ethyl took up her cloak and walked out the door.
Damask glanced at the windows. “Surely it cannot be all that late,” she ventured. “The sun is still high in the sky. There is still much to be done.”
“She needed to be with Drojan for this little while,” Serine said quietly, “and I cannot tell her nay.”
“Think you Guthrie will still love me when I am old?” Damask sat up straight and smoothed her tunic over her finely molded body.
“I pray that every woman might know a love like the love shared by Drojan and Ethyl.”
But Serine’s words did not comfort Damask. She slumped in her chair. “Surely Guthrie will not love me if I do not give him a child.”
“Are you still giving him the brew?” Serine inquired.
“Of course I am. We both take the vile concoction, but summer is all but upon us and still nothing. Oh, Serine, how much longer must we wait?”
“We will wait until the brew can cleanse the body of the evil that keeps you from having a child. It will come in time, just as love has come to Ethyl.”
“But surely the brew cannot ask credit for the love between Ethyl and Drojan,” Damask said coyly.
“Who are we to say that it is not in some way responsible? Had Rory not taken the brew it is unlikely Ethyl and Drojan would have met.” Serine’s eyes sparkled as she saw Damask’s mood lift.
“Perhaps I will give it more time,” she said. “And I, like Ethyl, think it is time I returned to my husband.”
The women bade one another farewell, but Serine returned to her seat by the fire and rethought all she had learned that day. For she knew that as long as she lived she would never be happy unless she could be with Rory, and she was willing to wait until his hair was white and his skin leathery with age, if only she could spend the remainder of her life in his arms.
Did Rory, she wondered, feel the same about her? Or when he aged would he prefer a younger, more beautiful woman?
As if in answer to her question, Gerta’s laughter floated up into the room, accompanied by the deep tones of Rory’s voice complimenting the girl on her child.
Gerta had cleverly managed to keep from accepting the proposals of the village men. From the steward to the lowliest plowboy, she continued to stall when they asked for her hand.
Serine knew she must leave Corvus Croft soon and Gerta must be well married or return to Sheffield with her, for Serine would not allow Gerta to stay, alone, with Rory. Serine might give Rory up, but she’d be damned if she would allow another woman to take him away from her. She would speak to Gerta to see if she had a preference, and the sooner the better.
Chapter Fourteen
The day dawned to the sound of drums and horns. The men rushed to the castle.
Once again ships had been sighted off the coast. Rory would meet them on the sea, and Guthrie would take his men and guard the shore.
“Do not fear,” Rory told Serine as he changed his clothing. “We will drive them back, and chase them from our shores. Ethyl will protect you.”
“Ethyl is not here,” Serine said quietly. She didn’t want him to go. She couldn’t bear to think of him risking his life again. What if something happened and he did not return to her? What if he never knew that his line would endure through the fragile life that even now grew within her belly?
“Ethyl has gone? Where?” Rory paused. He had counted on Ethyl being there to take care of Serine. Ethyl seemed formidable, and even though Serine might have the spirit of a Valkyrie, she was soft and beautiful.
“She has gone out to search for herbs. Our supply is all but spent and there seemed no reason why she should not go.” Serine did not want Rory to be angry with Ethyl.
“That would explain Drojan’s absence at the council meeting.” Rory slammed his fist against the bench. “He has gone off with her. Together they are skipping through the forest like a pair of wood sprites while our village is left unguarded.”
“Surely they could not have known,” Serine protested.
“Drojan has the power to know, when his mind is not muddled by a woman. He should have read the Runes. He could not have missed what was right before his eyes.” Rory swung his leather cloak about his shoulders.
Serine’s eyes were filled with tears. “Men don’t always see what is before their eyes. They rush out to follow their hearts and their eyes see nothing.”
“What do you mean?” His fingers paused in fastening the clip.
“What do you see when you look at me?”
“I see the woman I love. A woman who insists on spurning all that I stand for and wishes only to return to the musty castle of her childhood.”
“And, in your eyes, has that woman not changed during the time you have known her?” Serine searched his face.
His eyes ran over her body. “Changed? I think not. Except you have waxed plumper, somewhat. When first I saw you I beheld a graceful sylph, but now your body is lush and even more enticing. If you do not stop tempting me with your questions I, like Drojan, will forget my duty and take you back to bed.”
“There is no need,” she replied vaguely.
“Between you and me there is always a need.” Rory’s eyes burned bright and he stepped toward her. Surely the enemy was not so close that he might not love Serine once more before he left.
“There is no need because the deed is done.” She saw the confusion in his expression. “That which you hope to achieve by making love to me has become reality.”
Still he did not take her meaning. “I make love to you because I love you and, for all our differences, believe you love me in return.”
“And there is nothing more you want from me, save my love?” She turned, wrapping her arms against her middle. Holding the linen gown so that it outlined her body.
In that instant Rory realized the extent of physical changes that had taken place. Serine’s breasts were full and lush, and her belly, so flat and firm when first they met, was now rounded with the promise of...
“A child!” He stepped before her, arms outstretched, but could not make contact. “Our child! Yours and mine!”
Still he dared not move, as the fear he had fought for most of his adult life all but overwhelmed him.
Serine carried his child. A miracle in itself. But Serine wanted to leave Corvus Croft. To leave Corvus Croft, and Rory McLir.
Surely the fates could not be so cruel that twice in one lifetime they would rob him of both wife and child.
All thought, all words of love froze in his heart and he could only express his deepest desire as he dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms about her hips while he buried his face against her stomach. “Promise,” he gasped through tears of utter desperation, “promise you will not leave me.”
Her hands tangled in his hair as she pressed his head close against the new life that grew within. “Oh, Rory, I love you so much.” She felt the tears drop from her eyes onto his raven hair, like diamonds in the night. “I will not leave you now.”
* * *
Serine’s heart was filled with happiness as she wended her way down the stairs. She had planned to go to the room where she stored her herbs, but paused when she noticed Gerta and her babe near the kitchen hearth, and went to join the girl.
“It was a long winter, was it not?” she asked as she teased the baby with a piece of wool.
“It was indeed,” Gerta agreed.
“But now that summer is all but upon us it is fair time that you should have a father for your little son, and a husband for yourself.” She smiled as she spoke, but Gerta did not return the gesture.
“I have not found a man who pleases me,” Gerta objected.
“When did you become so difficult to please?” Serine watched the girl closely, aware of her discomfort. “I do not recall you being overly particular at Sheffield.”
“I doubt that you recall me at all when we were at Sheffield,” Gerta said sourly. “I was the milkmaid and you the lady. Why would you notice me?”
“Because you were part of Sheffield and it is my business to see to your welfare. How do you think you came into possession of the hut in which you lived? Had it not been for my intervention, you would have been homeless when your mother turned you out, heavy with child.”
“The hut was mine by right,” Gerta declared. “I was May Queen at Beltaine a year past, and my son is the issue of the mating of the maiden with Stag Lord. It is because of my fertility that Sheffield proved prosperous over the past years.”
Serine did not bother to hide her dismay at the girl’s admission. The Beltaine ceremony was an ancient one and took place on May Eve. One of the village lads ran with the deer and killed the stag. After this fete he would return, triumphant, to his village and, during the ensuing celebration, would mate with the maiden, the chosen May Queen. If this mating proved productive, it was believed the land would be fertile and the harvest bountiful.
Barbara Leigh Page 18
