“You are a man. You cannot be expected to be here all the time.” This time it was Guthrie who tried to reason with his brother. “Can you not see that perhaps it is best this way? The women are with child. Serine has won the right to ask to be returned to Sheffield and take her son with her. She has done so. And, as headman, I will not give the order to have her brought back. If you wish to go and talk to her you must do it on your own, and should you bring her back it must be of her own free will.”
Rory nodded his head. “It will be as you say,” he murmured, and without looking back he started walking toward McLir Manor.
All around him voices called out in greeting. He could hear the cries and laughter of men and women to whom hope had been returned. The faces that met him were filled with happiness, and the tears that lined their cheeks, tears of joy.
“What a fool I was not to have remembered...” a woman’s voice chortled.
“Forgive me for worrying you so,” another crooned as Rory passed the door of the cottage.
“I cannot believe this has come to pass,” a man admitted.
“Believe it, and give me the slop jar,” his wife answered.
How Rory would have loved to have been able to share these tidbits of information with Serine. How he would have loved to hold her in his arms and tell her that all was well and that his people revered her as did Rory himself.
How wonderful it would have been had he been able to tell her that they now knew what had caused the sickness in the women, and how they would have laughed together.
Surely Serine would not have gone from him. Surely she would have held to the promise she had given when she told him of the child she carried. Their child...hers...and his...the child he had waited for so long.
The servants were setting up the tables for the evening meal when Rory reached the manor. This time they greeted him with effusive warmth, welcoming him to his home and going out of their way to be of service.
“Do not fear, master.” The cook came from the kitchens to assure him. “Drojan and Ethyl went with your lady. They’ll not let her come to harm.”
“I know,” Rory told the old man. “I know.” But knowing did not ease the pain and he could not eat the food they placed before him. Instead he drank but little of the wine and went to his room, where he fell into the bed that still carried her sweet, fresh scent, praying for sleep while bitter tears of hopelessness streamed down his cheeks.
Chapter Seventeen
After a seemingly endless time at sea, Serine approached Sheffield castle with dragging steps. Despite her weariness she was pleased to see the courtyard was neat and obviously well cared for.
Domestic servants rushed back and forth emptying basins and chamber pots, while others carried fresh rushes they had gathered to be placed on the floors. She could hear the sound of the smith working his forge and the steady slosh of water as the laundress pounded linens in a wooden trough containing the mixture of wood ashes and soda.
Before she reached the hall Serine was also aware that the cook was hard at work. The scent of onions and garlic, mixed with that of boiling meat and spices, permeated the air.
Serine’s bedraggled appearance had kept the serfs from recognizing her, and since it was market day there were many strange persons in the village. Consequently, Serine’s presence went unremarked.
It was only when Ethyl and Drojan reached the outskirts of the village, accompanied by Hendrick, that the serfs left their tasks and ran to see what was happening.
In their haste to reach Hendrick and his escort, they bypassed the bedraggled Serine without a second look. It wasn’t until she came face-to-face with Dame Margot that she gained recognition.
Margot started through the door to the hall just as Serine mounted the stairs.
The woman came to an abrupt halt, almost overbalancing in the shock. “Serine!” she managed to gasp. “Is it truly you?” Her momentum took her down the stairs. “By all that’s holy, Serine, we thought you dead. Lord Baneford was about to send an emissary to learn of your fate and that of Hendrick. How did you manage to gain your freedom?” She looked fearfully toward the outskirts of the village as though the invader might have followed.
“There is just myself, Hendrick, Ethyl and Drojan, the seer,” Serine told her. “The others will be along soon. Their presence must have been discovered.”
Margot smiled. “If so, they will have many questions to answer.” Margot put her arm about Serine’s shoulders and led her into the hall. “But even before you satisfy my curiosity you must have food and wine and a comfortable place to rest. Your room is ready and waiting. I never stopped hoping you would return.”
Serine gave the woman a grateful smile. “You have cared for Sheffield admirably,” she said. “It looks as though I had never been away.” But a sudden quiver within her belly reminded Serine that she had, indeed, been away, and the fruits of her visit remained with her. “But what is this about Lord Baneford?” she asked as she sank into a chair. “I feared he planned to overtake Sheffield and place his own man as master.”
Margot called for the servants and fussed over their tardiness, finally moving a stool herself so that Serine could place her feet upon it. “I thought the same, but it turned out to be the selfish hope of a dissatisfied knight. When you did not return I went personally to Baneford to beg his protection for Sheffield, that it be held for Hendrick.”
“And did Baneford agree?” Serine asked, somewhat shocked at the turn of events.
“Not only did he agree, but he has promised to take Hendrick into his household to be tutored with his own children and subsequently serve as squire prior to receiving knighthood. He gave as reason the loyalty of the lords of Sheffield, including Elreath’s service to the crown.”
Margot was so obviously proud of herself that Serine found it impossible to tell the woman she did not want Hendrick going to any other household. She wished to teach him herself until she was forced to allow him to squire. But she was relieved that Sheffield would be held safe for her son, and that the devotion to the king’s cause that had taken Elreath from his family and finally cost him his life would be properly rewarded. Elreath had been a good man and deserved as much.
“We will speak of this later,” Serine said as the wine arrived.
“As you wish,” Margot agreed, handing Serine a pewter goblet.
The sound of voices came closer, and although Serine recognized the cries of happy greetings, the very thought of the mob from which she had fled sent chills down her spine.
Suddenly Dame Margot’s voice trilled through the vast hall. “And here is Hendrick and... Merciful God! Old Ethyl, is that you?”
A man, exuding dignity and wisdom, placed his hand on Ethyl’s arm. “It is Ethyl, indeed, but she no longer carries the stigma of age.”
“No, no, of course she doesn’t,” Margot managed to say. “I can see that now.” She moved closer to the woman who had been her contemporary for so many years. “What have you done to yourself?” she whispered. “Have you discovered a fountain of youth that has changed you so?”
Ethyl glanced at Drojan before answering. “I am the same as I have always been,” she said. “It is only that I have found love and am loved in return. I find it to be the most powerful of potions.”
Margot looked from one to the other. “How sad that Serine could not have sipped from the same draft for I vow she looks the worse for wear.”
Ethyl’s unobtrusive movement silenced the other woman. Margot looked abashed at having been called for a faux pas she did not understand. In an effort to change the subject Margot asked, “And what of the handsome young man we fought so hard to heal? Did he not have the grace to escort you back home after you saved his life?”
This time Ethyl was hard put to keep from slapping her hand over Margot’s mouth. She stepped forward just in time to hear Serine give a little cry and slide from the chair onto the rushes.
* * *
“What do you mean, they wi
ll take Hendrick from you and you will be left with nothing?” Ethyl paced back and forth across the solar. “You have accomplished much these past weeks since your return. You have Sheffield, and possession is assured you by the king himself. Besides, it is Hendrick’s right to go and prepare himself for knighthood. Surely you would not make him go to his knightly vows ill prepared?”
“But he is so young,” Serine protested. “He need not leave me for several more years.”
“He is well beyond the age when most boys are given into the care of their sponsors, as well you know,” Ethyl returned. “Had his father been here to see to the lad’s welfare, Hendrick would have gone long ago. Now, cease your fussing or you’ll upset your unborn child.”
Serine crossed her arms against her breast and glared at the older woman.
“What is it?” Ethyl asked. “Your face is red with outrage.”
“‘Tis that sometimes I think I liked you best when you were still Old Ethyl and knew your place.” Serine softened her words with a smile.
“When I was Old Ethyl I had no place and my words were given little heed. You resent them now because you know I speak the truth and it is not a truth you wish to hear.”
“There is only one truth I wish to hear,” Serine burst out as her eyes suddenly swam with tears.
“No! Do not ask.” Ethyl shook her head. “I will not again entreat Drojan to read the Runes on your behalf. He has told you that he has no clue of Rory’s whereabouts.”
“But Drojan is a seer. It is his business to know,” Serine noted.
“He can tell you only that Rory misses you and is as miserably unhappy as are you,” Ethyl said with finality. “Now, ply your needle or your child will be forced to live in this world as naked as when he enters it.” She picked up the tiny garment on which Serine had been stitching and thrust it into her hands.
Serine tossed it back at Ethyl. “Sew it yourself, for I cannot see to do it now.” She rubbed at her eyes, pretending the redness came from working in the dim light rather than from the ever-present tears. “I wish—”
But this time Ethyl actually clapped her hand over the younger woman’s mouth. “I have told you before. Be careful what you wish for. Learn to control your tongue, for you may find that you have been given that for which you asked.”
Serine hung her head. “Why is it I am cursed to bear and raise children without the comfort and love of husband and father?” she asked, rebelling against that which seemed always to be her fate.
“Probably for the same reason that I was known for the better part of my life as Old Ethyl and seen as a creature of ridicule and fear.” The words were blunt, but not bitter. “God does not give us more than we can bear, but there are times when certain people refuse to accept their trials,” she said more gently. “Had I given in to despair and thrown my fate back into the face of the gods, I would never have lived to know Drojan and the love we have found.”
“And I am happy for you, Ethyl.” Serine tried to apologize, but her own misery was too great. “It is just that I gave up everything to bring my son back to Sheffield so that he could be raised on his own lands. Now Hendrick is to go into guardianship and it is the babe I carry who will be denied the right of growing up in his rightful environment.”
“Do you wish to leave the management of Sheffield to Dame Margot and return to Corvus Croft?” Ethyl asked.
Serine’s eyes reflected her anguish. “What awaits me there? A pyre and fire? The accusation of witchcraft? Death to myself and my child? I think not! If Rory is to see his child, he must come to me!” Again her voice broke as she admitted, “And I cannot understand why he has not done so.”
“Can you not?” Ethyl asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You never made a secret that everything you did was toward the end that would bring both you and Hendrick back to Sheffield. You tried to escape and were thwarted by the invaders. You tried to shame Guthrie into giving you permission to leave, more than one time, and it was only with his agreement to allow you safe-conduct to your home should the women become pregnant under your ministrations that you agreed to betrothal with Rory McLir.”
“But I did agree,” Serine reminded her.
“Think you a man wants to be second in his woman’s heart or, in Rory’s case, possibly even third after Hendrick and Sheffield, depending on what you thought carried priority that day?”
“How can you say such things?” Serine’s hackles rose. “Rory was always first in my heart and in my mind.”
“So you say now, but during the time you spent with him you certainly had a strange way of showing your devotion to him.” Ethyl gave a little sniff of distaste. “Think on my words, Serine, and then we will talk again. You are correct in only one thing you say. It would be unwise for you to return to Corvus Croft until you know the disposition of the villagers, but do not expect Rory to come racing to Sheffield after you, for in his mind you have attained your desire and he is no part of it.”
“He is all of it,” Serine protested. “Without him there is nothing worth having.”
“Then perhaps instead of crying over what you cannot have and dare not do, you should expend your strength on what you might do to let Rory know how much you love him.” And with that Ethyl walked out of the solar, closing the door behind her, satisfied that she had exhausted the subject and covered all possibilities. It was only after she was well on her way home that Ethyl realized there was one situation that she had not considered. In her efforts to make Serine understand her own motivation, Ethyl had forgotten that if Rory McLir returned to Sheffield his life was forfeit. For it was Rory who had led the original raid and stolen the children of Sheffield.
* * *
Corvus Croft was a village transformed. The women hummed as they performed their chores. The men whistled and sang in their work. There was laughter and good-natured joking, and even those who had not yet conceived held hope in their hearts that it would soon be so.
For, even before the haste of forced departure, Serine had made certain that Damask knew the formula for the brew and was able to make it should the need arise. In Serine’s heart it had been not only for the people of Corvus Croft, but also on the off chance that something might happen to Rory and he would again need the relief only the bitter brew could give. Although Serine had warned Damask to follow the directions exactly, she had come to realize that this brew was associated with herself, and there was little chance it would ever be associated with the concoction outlawed so long ago. The success or failure of the brew rested on Serine’s shoulders, and she had done what she felt she must to insure the life and continued health of the man she loved.
But Rory had no notion of Serine’s devotion, and only at McLir Manor was there less than jocularity. Rory would not allow anything that had belonged to Serine to be touched. It was as though he expected her to come through the door, her arms filled with sweet smelling herbs and her face wreathed in a smile.
However, it was Gerta, not Serine, who came through the door. Gerta had accepted her fate, if not with joy, at least with silence and a modicum of compliance. She was pleased with her new status in life and the respect gleaned from being the wife of the steward. She could not, however, keep from imagining the amount of respect and honor, not to mention the sexual gratification, she would have known had she managed to coax Rory into wedding her. And there were times when her disappointment showed in her demeanor.
Today the dejection on Rory’s face was so obvious that even Gerta was able to read his thoughts.
“‘Twould be best if you forgot about Lady Serine and found a new woman. I vow there’s some who’d be willing to leave their husbands should you give the least encouragement.” Gerta kicked at the rushes as she spoke. The maids would rue the day for not having swept them out.
“Gerta, you do an acceptable job managing the housemaids. Do not cry for the impossible,” he warned. It irritated Rory that his feelings should be so obvious that even the u
nschooled girl could easily guess what was in his heart. “You should be proud to be the wife of a man like the steward. He is revered and honored.”
“And old and short!” Gerta added.
“His age and height should have nothing to do with the man or his love for you,” Rory counseled. “Stand straight and hold your head high.”
“And when I do so I am taller than he is,” Gerta complained. “I hear the people tittering when we pass by.”
“Perhaps it is but the women commenting on the richness of your gowns,” Rory suggested.
“Perhaps.” Gerta sniffed derisively. “But listen yourself, my lord, for sooner or later you will hear how the people jest over your undying love for the woman who left you without looking back.”
Rory’s eyes hardened. He would have liked to refute her words, but knew there was a grain of truth in them.
“‘Tis surely too bad you cannot make your peace with Lady Serine, once and for all,” Gerta commented as she inspected the sideboard for any sign of dust or grime on her way from the room. “Of course, we all know it would mean your life to return to Sheffield. And since lady Serine has no way of knowing she is free to return here without fear of reprisal, it seems to me your plight is as hopeless as mine.” Her back stiff with indignation, Gerta made her way out of the room, leaving Rory to his thoughts.
So they laughed at him, did they? He had given his all for the welfare of the village. Risked his life numerous times. Put the good of the people above his own wishes. And to what purpose? That they would laugh at him in his hour of need? That his own people would jest behind his back over the fact that he must spend the rest of his life without the woman he loved?
No! It would not be so! There had to be a way to reach Serine. To talk to her. To hold her in his arms. There had to be a way, and, by the gods, he would find it!
The anger, the despair grew within him like a canker. Each time the sound of laughter reached his ears, Rory could not help but wonder if it was at his expense.
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