Barbara Leigh

by For Love of Rory

  The door burst open. A cry of joy escaped Rory’s lips as he recognized Drojan. Without releasing his hold on Serine, Rory crossed the space between them. Only then did he let go the woman and embrace his friend.

  “I have much to tell you,” Rory said as he smiled into Drojan’s face.

  “The women were in the early throes of pregnancy and that was the cause of their discomfort,” Serine told Ethyl, loud enough for Drojan to hear.

  “Is this true?” Drojan voiced the question.

  “Aye, that it is,” Rory admitted. “It was all a cruel mistake. Serine can return anytime she chooses and will be welcomed with open arms.”

  “Until your people decide I have done something they cannot understand or do not agree with,” Serine retorted, ignoring the look of hurt that crossed Rory’s face at her words.

  “Then she is in far less danger than yourself,” Drojan said bluntly.

  “What do you mean by such a statement?” Serine challenged. “Rory is in no danger here. I welcome his presence, as does my son, and the people have proclaimed him a hero for returning their children.”

  “The people have only begun counting the noses of the returned children and have come up short. Several of the parents are asking why their children were not returned.” This time it was Ethyl who spoke.

  “I brought only the children who wished to return to Sheffield. The others would not desert their new way of life,” Rory told them. “Beyond that, I could not carry more children with me, as my boat was small.”

  “We understand, Rory.” Serine beamed at him. “And it was a wonderful thing you did by returning those children. I, too, was told by Tim and some of the older children that they were pleased with their lot and wanted nothing more than to keep to the new life they had found.”

  “What the children want is of little import,” Drojan said. “The fact is that once the serfs have had time to question their childer as to the name of the man who brought them back to the village, they will, most like, be outraged at the truth of Rory’s identity.”

  “By the time they think to question, it will be too late—” Serine set her chin in determination. “—for Rory and I will be married, and he will be, by law, the Lord of Sheffield until Hendrick reaches his majority.”

  Rory’s head snapped about, and Serine caught her breath at her outrageous statement. “That is, if it be your wish, my lord.” She curtsied in graceful supplication.

  “It is the culmination of all my wishes,” Rory told her, “as well you know.”

  Ethyl assessed the situation quickly. “We must send for a priest and start the preparations for the nuptial celebration. The activity should keep the serfs occupied to the point where they will not have the time or energy to question anything until after Rory has become their legal lord.” Without waiting for approval, Ethyl sent one of the servants for Margot and, after apprising Hildegard of the situation, began putting the plans in motion.

  * * *

  By the middle of the week the village of Sheffield was agog with the promise of what was to come. Not only had some of the children been returned, but Lady Serine would wed with their deliverer.

  “Who is this man that would wed with our lady?” Hildegard, the alewife, asked her newly returned daughter. “Surely you must have known him while you were away.”

  “He was one of the men in the Croft,” was all the child would say.

  Happy to have her daughter again with her, the alewife went about her duties and did not bother to question the child more closely. It was not until Hildegard’s husband, Ellis, returned to Sheffield from selling their wool at the market that the woman, as well as the rest of the village, learned the truth.

  Having taken the moneys for the wool to Serine, Ellis went to his home and hearth. After greeting the child he had seen but twice in her young life, he turned to his wife.

  “I was surprised at the turn of events that awaited me when I came back to Sheffield. I never believed a Celt would chase a woman to her lair as Rory McLir has done.” He pulled out a stool and sat beside one of the rough wooden tables on which the guests of the alehouse were served. Several of the other men moved closer, their curiosity piqued. After all, Ellis had gone to the village of the Celt and returned to tell about it. He would know the truth of what he spoke.

  Hildegard’s mind took an entirely different tack. So the man’s name was Rory McLir. The name rang a bell. Ellis had told her that McLir was the name of the headman of the Celts. “Might this be the Celtic headman of whom you spoke on your return from the Isle?” she prodded.

  “Nay, ’tis the headman’s brother, Rory, who has stolen our lady’s heart.” Ellis took a long swig of ale and glanced about. He was pleased to once again be the center of attention. After his return from Corvus Croft he had been barraged by questions, but as time passed the serfs had had their fill of his repetitious story of his capture and rescue at the hands of the Celts. Now they again looked on him with interest.

  “So it is Rory McLir who brought back our childer.” One of the men lifted his cup in salute.

  “And why not?” Ellis took a cup from the tray his wife carried. “‘Tis the same Rory McLir who led the raid to steal them.”

  A gasp went up from the gathering crowd. “And our lady would marry him for all that?” one of the men asked.

  “He is a fair man, and brave.” Ellis gave the devil his due. “He had to go against everything he loved and believed in to return our children to us.”

  “But he did not return all the children,” Hildegard told him. “There are but three, and ours one of them.”

  “Then thank the saints,” Ellis told her. “From what I saw, taking even one child from Corvus Croft would be worth a man’s life.”

  “The scoundrel took them,” another man declared. “He should have brought them all back with him.”

  “Yes!” The cry was taken up by many voices. “We will make him take us to his village and force his people to return our children to us.”

  The men spewed through the door and into the street, hawking their ill-conceived plan as they gathered in numbers and marched toward the castle.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The sound of angry voices reached Serine and Rory as they dined in the great hall. His hand closed over hers as fear filled her eyes.

  “Come,” he said, helping her to her feet. “We will resolve this problem together.”

  Serine went to the door and confronted her serfs. “What is it you want of us?” she demanded, proud that her voice did not waver, though her heart certainly did.

  “Give us the man who stole our childer,” one of the men shouted. “We will force him to take us to his godforsaken village and we will take back what is ours.”

  The men surged forward. Rory drew his sword, and Ethyl appeared from the shadows of the hall, arrow nocked. Her eye fell on Ellis and she turned her aim toward him.

  “‘Tis your fault, Ellis,” she accused. “You could not leave well enough alone and had to tell all you knew. I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

  Ellis cowered visibly. “I but said what I knew to be true.”

  “How could you say what is true?” Ethyl demanded. “You, who were so frightened by the thought of being made to face the Celtic test of truth that you fainted dead away and had to have another man stand in your place.”

  There was a buzz of interest in the crowd. “That is not the story Ellis told when he returned,” one of the men ventured.

  “All the more reason to take his words with a grain of salt.” Ethyl’s tone was saccharine.

  “We do not care if he boasted about his bravery.” Another man stepped forward. “We care only if Rory McLir is, indeed, the man who stole our children while we were off on crusade. Be that so, or not?”

  “It is true. Just as it is true that I brought back those children who would come with me.” Rory spoke before Serine could stop him.

  The men grumbled among themselves. They had not ex
pected the Celt to admit to such an offense.

  “Why did you not bring all our children if you wanted our goodwill?” the alewife asked.

  “I know! I know!” a childish voice piped. The boy who had first asked Rory to take him home squirmed through the crowd and ran up to stand beside Rory. “The others wanted to stay with their new families.”

  The boy’s father made a grab for him, but Serine blocked his way.

  “Let the child have his say,” she ordered. “He knows whereof he speaks.”

  The boy looked out over the crowd. Never in his young life had he had the attention of so many people. He swallowed hard. “The big boys did not want to leave, for they are all learning a trade and can keep some of the money for their wares.”

  The crowd stirred, and the word freeman was bandied about. Then a woman’s voice arose. “What of the younger children?”

  “They are well kept and not made to go to the fields and glean fodder. Their lives are carefree and they remember no other.”

  “That cannot be so,” a young mother wailed. “My baby would never forget me. A child knows his own mother.”

  “If Corvus Croft is such a paradise, perhaps we should all go there,” one of the men suggested despondently.

  “You are serfs of Sheffield and bonded to the land,” Serine reminded them. “Even if you left Sheffield, you would still be sworn to Baneford and subject to his will.”

  “Rory McLir.” One of the men swaggered forward and stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up at Rory and Serine. “Do you say that our children will be raised free men in your land?”

  “Free men with skills to earn their way throughout their lives,” Rory assured him.

  Again the rumble of voices as the serfs talked among themselves. “In some ways it sounds as though our children may have come into a better way of life than that of their parents,” he said. “I would not take freedom from them.”

  With that he turned and elbowed his way through the crowd, making for his own hut. It took only a few moments before the others followed. The threat was over. The danger circumvented.

  Ethyl lowered her bow. Rory sheathed his sword.

  “Thank God it is over,” Serine breathed as her hand grasped Rory’s sleeve. “Think you they are satisfied?”

  “Your serfs will do nothing more,” Drojan assured them as he strode toward them from across the courtyard.

  “I will go to the chapel and give thanks to God,” Serine promised.

  “Do not be too hasty in your thanks,” Drojan warned ominously.

  “What do you mean, old man?” Ethyl asked suspiciously. “Do not speak in riddles. It is the truth that we need to hear.”

  Drojan looked from one to the other. He would have preferred to have told Rory privately, but it was not to be.

  “Baneford has been sighted less than a day’s journey away. It is obvious Sheffield is his goal. Was he sent an invitation to the wedding?” the seer asked.

  “We sent a messenger, who left the invitation with Baneford’s steward, since the lord himself was not in residence,” Serine explained. “When Baneford did not respond, we thought to apprise him of the situation once the wedding had taken place.”

  “A wise move,” Drojan observed. “At least, it would have seemed wise under other circumstances. We can only hope he has not heard of Rory’s presence and guessed his identity.”

  Serine put her hand to her mouth, but no sound came forth. Her eyes sought Rory’s, and she was soothed by the love that shone therein. He placed his arms about her.

  “Do not fret, dear one,” he told her. “Somehow we will tilt the scales to our benefit. We have come too far to let Baneford or anyone else destroy our happiness.”

  And Serine could do no more than believe him as he led her into the hall where they joined Hendrick, who had ignored the commotion and continued eating his evening meal. He looked up as his mother took her place.

  “When I am grown I shall free the serfs,” Hendrick announced, to the amazement of all. “People work harder when they are free.” He popped a sweetmeat into his mouth and looked around the table for approval.

  “But, Hendrick, how do you plan to accomplish this feat?” Serine questioned.

  “Rory will help me.” He cast a tentative smile in the direction of his soon-to-be stepfather.

  “What do you know of this?” Serine directed her question to Rory.

  “No more than yourself,” he said. “It is the first I have heard of such a plan, but I concur heartily and am willing to do what I can to see that Hendrick succeeds.”

  Now it was Serine’s turn to smile, for the pact was made between the two people she loved most in the world. Rory and Hendrick had found a common cause that would bond them together.

  * * *

  Trumpets sounded with the dawn. The earth shook from the hooves of many horses.

  The people of Sheffield thought it all part of the wedding celebration, but Serine viewed it with trepidation, for she knew it was no part or parcel of the ceremony.

  Baneford had come to Sheffield, and with him, his entire entourage.

  “We but progress through our fief lands,” he said as Serine ushered the tall, dignified nobleman into the great hall of Sheffield. “It seems I could not have come at a better time, since there is to be a wedding.” His eyes narrowed in speculation. “Of course, you are aware that as Lady of Sheffield you must by rights ask my permission to wed.”

  “Only the first marriage,” Serine reminded him with quiet dignity. “I am a widow.”

  “From the tales I’ve heard, you do not have much need of a man.” He chuckled.

  “That is not true,” Serine objected. “I do need a man, and have chosen the one most suited.”

  Again the dignified chuckle. “And who might this paragon of masculinity be?”

  “‘Tis Rory McLir of Corvus Croft,” she said as Rory stepped before them.

  Baneford took measure of the younger man. It was obvious he was of good blood. Young, well dressed and most likely knowledgeable in the care of estates. “Well met, Rory McLir,” Baneford said graciously.

  “And to you,” Rory returned.

  The men eyed each other warily.

  “So, you would wed Lady Serine,” Baneford said.

  “I would,” Rory replied.

  “And if I give my blessing, will you whisk the lady off to your own estates and leave me to manage Sheffield until Hendrick is of age?”

  There was no correct answer to the man’s question. Regardless of what Rory said, Baneford could turn it to his own purpose. “I am a younger son,” Rory told him. “My estate is small. Until Hendrick reaches his majority I will help Lady Serine to hold Sheffield for her son.”

  “Then you would become my liege man?” Baneford jumped at the chance. This man was young and strong. He carried himself like a leader and would be advantageous to any overlord.

  “My services are sworn to my brother, who is overlord of the lands to which I hold title. I can guard your land, my lord, and fight for the rights and protection of those I love, but I will not leave to go on crusade.”

  Baneford’s eyebrows shot upward. “What audacity!” he said aloud. Then he turned to Serine. “Have you told your betrothed that I, too, refused to join the Crusades?”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but I fear we have not yet discussed your preferences on war,” Serine admitted.

  This time the dignified chuckle exploded into laughter. “So be it, then. I will accept Rory McLir’s vow of loyalty as husband to Lady Serine and guardian of Sheffield. I will even stay for the wedding. Then I must take Hendrick and go on with—”

  “But why?” Serine protested, fighting back tears. “Surely he can be schooled here as well as on your estates.”

  Baneford motioned the boy forward. Hendrick was small for his age. In truth, it would be some time before the boy would be of a size to perform the services of a page, let alone those of squire. Apparently the mother had gone through a gr
eat deal to return the lad to his estate. He considered the matter carefully before asking, “Are you willing to learn your lessons here at Sheffield like a true and diligent student?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord,” Hendrick agreed promptly. “But I would like to be allowed to come to you when it is time for me to begin training to become a knight.”

  The boy’s candor pleased Baneford and he clapped the child on the shoulder, almost upsetting the lad. “You have my word,” he promised. “Now, on with the festivities!”

  As if on signal, Serine’s knees buckled and she dropped to the rushes.

  Rory was immediately at her side, scooping her into his arms and rushing with her from the hall. Baneford glanced around in confusion. “Was it something I said?” he asked aloud looking for a familiar face so that he might receive an answer to his question.

  “My lord, come with me and we shall have some wine and cakes.” Drojan indicated the chairs near the hearth, and the man accompanied him there. “It seems the festivities must be postponed until after Serine’s child is born.”

  Baneford settled himself comfortably. “Is this the projection of a seer?” he queried, aware of the other man’s reputation.

  “No, my lord, it is simply the best guess of an old man.” And with his words he caught Ethyl’s eye and a smile passed between them.

  “It seems a shame to waste all the preparations for such a sumptuous wedding breakfast,” Baneford observed, taking in the affection between the seer and the female archer. “You would not know of another couple who might wish to be wed this day?”

  The suggestion hit Drojan like a stone. He loved Ethyl, by all the gods, he loved her and never doubted her love for him, but he had never given serious thought to marrying her. Now, somehow, it seemed the right thing to do, and he knew that if he were to read the Runes, they would bear out his belief.

  “Give me but a moment, my lord, and I believe I have a solution to the problem.” Without further ado, Drojan crossed the hall to where Ethyl stood.

  “Have you pacified Lord Baneford?” she asked.

  “Nothing will pacify him other than to have a wedding prior to the breakfast,” Drojan told her.