Of All the Western Stars: Chapter 1

Whenever they walked together, Geraint watched the ground and Lisette watched the sky. Thus it was, as the twilight of that particular May Day spread its shadowy cloak of darkness, that Geraint saved Lisette from falling down a steep embankment and very likely, in his retelling at least, from being killed.

Geraint clutched at her arm, trying to both pull her back from the brink and maintain a gallant propriety as to where he touched her. He mumbled a steady stream of contrite apologies for the immodest placement of his hands mixed with chastisements at Lisette’s lack of caution. Lisette scarcely noticed, so taken was she by the marvel in the sky.

When the bright streak appeared among the first stars of night, Lisette cast a quick wish toward it. The falling star didn’t vanish after a brief moment of glory, however, and Lisette caught her breath in wonder as it continued its radiant plunge.

“Merciful God,” she whispered, fingering the jewel on the cross at her throat.

“Indeed,” Geraint continued his muttering, “‘tis by God’s mercy you were saved from this… ”

Lisette blocked Geraint’s voice from her hearing. Surely she only imagined it, but Lisette was certain she could hear the falling star. Amidst the night sounds of the forest, the soft rustling of leaves and creaking of tree limbs, and the revelry from the village green, an alien sound reached her ears, one of muted thunder far distant, though no storms were nigh.

Geraint’s insistent tugs at her elbow, and the intervening trees, blocked her view of where the fiery wonder came to earth, but she was sure she felt the faintest of tremors through her feet. Craning her neck to see through the trees, Lisette thought she detected a glow toward the west, near the direction of Salisbury. With bemused introspection, she marked the direction in her mind.

“Yes, yes, milord, I will take more care where I step,” she murmured the placating words to Geraint. She let him guide her back toward the path and lead her along again. Around them, in the forest, an occasional squeal marked the love-nest of some couple taking advantage of the license of the May Day festivities to play Maid Marian and Robin of the Green Wood. Many a babe conceived on this night would bear the name of ‘Robinson’ for the presumably unknown lovers who came upon the innocent unwitting lasses in the woods. Or so was the tale they’d later tell. Lisette pondered the mysterious activities in the bushes that caused both those babies and the coy smiles she knew she’d see on the faces of the village maids next morn. How she wished to once look into her mirror upon rising and see such a smile upon her face.

Lisette blushed deeply at her thought, glad that the darkness hid her face from Geraint. He’d not entice her into anything so bold and improper. He was a stalwart soul, her Geraint was, with a gallant courtliness beyond the usual in most brash young men his age. She was lucky their parents had chosen them for each other. He would be a good husband, solid, reliable and steady. Lucky, indeed, she told herself again.

Lisette suppressed a sigh. In her secret heart she wanted to know of the passion and love that drove men and women to great risks, and daring deeds. Any love she might hope to have with Geraint would be of the companionable kind, comfortable and placid. She glanced toward the sky, but no further stars fell for her to wish upon.

They skirted the village on the way to the manor house of Lisette’s family. On the village green the older folks still swilled great tankards of ale as they laughed and talked, gathered around the Maypole and a huge bonfire. Around the edges the younger children ran about, many without clothes, enjoying the extra bit of freedom this night.

Lisette glanced enviously toward them. She’d always been the daughter of Sir Thomas, one of the gentry, and thus not allowed to run and play with the village urchins. Ah, what might it be like to shed her encumbrances and bare herself to the night?

Geraint appeared uninterested in the festivities. His firm hand on her arm and his resolute steps guided them onward without further distraction. In a low monotone he clucked disapprovingly comment toward the revelers, like an old hen to wayward chicks.

Candlelight shown warmly through the diamond paned windows of the manor. Less than a castle, but more than the average merchant’s house, Weston Manor had a small, enclosed courtyard built onto the original house. The first Sir Weston, Lisette’s great-grandfather, had earned the King’s notice, and so his knighthood, at the Field of Agincourt more than one hundred years earlier. Private family history, repeated with a chuckle late at night, told of their land being purchased with gold taken from the body of a French nobleman killed in that great battle. Another tale, told after the youngest were to bed, said he’d actually seduced the Frenchman’s widow, or perhaps his wealthy courtesan, gulling her with his charms. It was for this mythical lady of France that Lisette was named.

Her family was ambitious, that Lisette knew without doubt. Each marriage was arranged with the most exacting care to draw the most prestige and wealth into the family. Should the final negotiations go well, Lisette’s marriage would be her father’s crowning achievement, for Geraint was a member of the mighty Stafford family whose power tread close to that of the throne of England itself.

Lisette glanced at the profile of her betrothed in the scant light. Like his mighty uncle, Edward Stafford, the third Duke of Buckingham, Geraint bore the stern face and prominent nose of the family. His hair and eyes came from his mysterious mother. She was said to have been the daughter of a prominent Welsh lord with whom his father, in his youth, had the bad taste and bad sense to fall in love while tending his brother’s properties in Wales. It was rumored that Geraint’s father had not been wed to his mother, but Lisette chose not to believe that. The Welsh blood gave a saucy handsomeness to Geraint’s otherwise plain face. When a smile could be coaxed from his grave features, Lisette thought him quite handsome.

A maid could do far worse than Geraint for her man, Lisette considered. They’d met each other once as children, playing together in the meadow while their fathers thrust and parried in a negotiation over a wool sale. Solemn even as a child, Geraint had taken care even then not to soil or muss his clothes. Judging from the state in which some ‘gentlemen’ kept themselves, cleanliness was no small consideration. And, after all, he had all his teeth. Lisette smiled up at him with honest affection, causing Geraint to look away in embarrassment.

The great door creaked on its hinges as Geraint pushed it open. Homey smells and sounds spilled out into the night. It was a good home, stout and comfortable, Lisette thought, with fine wood panels carved by a master craftsman, and rich imported tapestries warming the stone walls.

“Ah, join us,” Lisette’s father called to them from the Great Hall where Lisette’s and Geraint’s families gathered around the hearth blazing with fire to drive back the evening’s chill. “Thought you two might be gone a while yet, out in the woods alone,” Geraint’s father, Henry Stafford, Earl of Wiltshire, said with a sly wink that sent peels of laughter through the company.

Lisette felt a flush creeping up her cheeks. Geraint’s firm hand, unwavering on her arm, steadied her. She glanced admiringly at him. Untroubled by, or indifferent to, the innuendo, he coolly met the eyes of the revelers. Stout and dignified, her Geraint, always mindful of her honor. Or, could it be, the thought chased unbidden through her mind, did he not understand the bawdy humor?

“Come, daughter, Geraint, have some wine.” Ever the proper hostess, Katherine, Lisette’s mother, bustled toward them, the hem of her best velvet gown making a soft rustle on the floor fresh-strewn with rushes. She urged them to sit near the fire, which Lisette did gratefully for the spring evening was cool and damp through the light silk of her gown. Lady Weston pressed silver goblets of warm spiced wine into their hands. Lisette noticed that her father drank from a goblet of glass, and Geraint’s father as well. Showing these Staffords his wealth and taste, Lisette thought, all with hopes to magnify it even more, buying power and position with her blood.

Lisette sipped the wine, listening idly to the chatter and gossip around her. The men spoke of the renewed treaty with France and speculated on how the new French king would fare. They remembered the last May Day, the “Evil May Day”, and hoped London would not again riot against its successful foreign merchants. Both Henry Stafford and Sir Thomas Weston did business with many of their like. Sincere prayers were murmured when news that Queen Katherine was once again with child was told. How poor King Henry did long for a son and heir, as did all his kingdom with him, Lisette thought. The King, it was rumored, was writing a book in response to the rantings of that heretical German monk, Martin Luther. In the presence of his elders, Geraint spoke not a word but kept silently unmoving at Lisette’s side.

For some reason, Lisette found her attention drifting again and again to the strange streak of fire in the sky. Some wished upon falling stars. Others said they were portents of death. She wondered why she’d been chosen to see it and what it meant for her. Like as not she was just letting her sometimes too bountiful imagination have its way.

Just as Lisette was stifling the first of many yawns, her father stood up and stretched. Geraint’s father stood by Sir Thomas Weston facing the young couple. The chatter in the room ceased and all attention turned to them. Though she knew what to expect, had known for months, for some reason a hard knot formed in Lisette’s stomach as she examined her father’s proud face and realized what he was going to say.

“Children,” Sir Thomas addressed Lisette and Geraint, “I’m pleased to say we have concluded our negotiations of terms and dowry to our mutual satisfaction. No need to keep you in anxiety any longer. You shall be married in one month’s time.” His face bore the satisfaction of a cat with a new-caught bird.

Henry Stafford raised his glass. “Let us toast the new couple and this joining of our two families.” Everyone scrambled to their feet and faced Geraint and Lisette. “May this union be fruitful and prosperous, adding many children to strengthen and fill our families.”

After the toast had been drunk, Geraint’s father leaned toward him and commanded in a loud whisper, “Kiss her, boy.”

Light laughter rippled through the room as Geraint obediently turned Lisette toward him. Willing herself not to blush, she tilted her face upward. Geraint leaned toward her, raised her hand to his lips, barely brushing it against them.

“So chaste a kiss,” Lord Stafford chided. “I dare say he’ll be far bolder come the wedding night.” Now Lisette blushed in earnest as the laughter grew louder. Geraint remained stoic. “Give her a love token, lad,” his father ordered.

Geraint hesitated a moment. He wore two rings, one of silver, dainty with a small emerald in it. It was the one Lisette thought the prettier of the two. The other was of thick gold with a twining pattern surrounding a large ruby. Reaching to pull off the small silver ring, his father pointedly cleared his throat. Geraint hesitated. With a reluctance painfully obvious to Lisette and, she thought, surely to all those watching, he took off the costlier ruby ring, studying it for a moment before slipping it on Lisette’s finger. The love token was heavy on her hand. Surely her cheeks must be as red as the ruby. In the awkward silence, broken by feet shuffling uneasily on the rushes, Geraint bowed to her politely and wished her a good rest.

“All will be well, daughter,” Henry Stafford’s wife whispered to Lisette. “My step-son is a good lad and I know he’ll treat you kindly.” Lady Cicely Stafford was much older than her husband, appearing now at fifty-eight as though she might be mother, rather than wife, of her thirty-nine year old husband. It spoke much, Lisette considered, of the lesser value placed on the second son of a noble family that Henry had been forced to marry so. But such, she sighed inwardly, were the burdens the nobility and ever-striving gentry must bear. Marriage was a thing woven of the bleak threads of politics and business, not of the gossamer cloth of love and passion.

“I shall be proud to have you as my daughter,” The Lady Stafford added. A widow, Cicely had fifteen children from her first marriage to the Marquess of Dorset but regarded Henry’s only son Geraint as warmly as any of her own. She hugged Lisette fondly as the gathering broke up and everyone retired to their bedchambers.

“It’s so exciting, don’t you think?” Lisette’s younger sister Alyce chattered eagerly while she helped Lisette brush out her long hair. From the needlework stool upon which Lisette sat the wavy length of her hair, freed from its coils, reached the floor.

“Exciting,” Lisette repeated in a non-committal tone. She studied her face in the dim mirror. The candlelight and coppery tone of the wavy mirror gave her chestnut hair a golden sparkle. It framed a smooth oval face with eyes of rich, deep green. They were less the green of an emerald, spoke not of jewel-like wealth, than the earthy green of a forest or sun-drenched meadow. Lisette turned this way and that, examining her features. She had a pretty face, better than most, but it was not a face that would cause the heart of a prince to burn with lust, nor inspire a knight valiant into acts of bravery to win her favor. No man would spend sleepless, tormented nights writing poetry about her. Still, if she smiled just the right way…

Alyce sighed as she stroked the ivory-backed brush through Lisette’s silky hair. “I do so envy you this,” she said wistfully.

Lisette squeezed Alyce’s hand tightly then released it. Her sister’s face was a younger version of her own, down to the faint scattering of freckles across her nose. Where Lisette’s features were rounded and healthily colored, Alyce’s poor face was gaunt and pale. Under the linen cap she always wore, her hair was cropped as short as a boy’s.

“Don’t worry,” Lisette soothed, “your hair will grow back as long and thick as before. ‘Twas sad that the doctor cut it off for the fevers, but you’re well now and that’s more than worth the price.” The sweating sickness had swept through the country the last summer, not abating until nearly Christmas. Alyce nearly died of it, and was left much weakened, maybe permanently, the doctor thought. Their elder sister Mary had miscarried of her latest baby and lost one of her younger children as well.

In Mary, Lisette saw her future, and it didn’t please her. Married to a successful wool merchant, Mary lived comfortably with a husband who was kind enough to her, beating her seldom, discrete in his dalliances and affairs. Each year she bore him another child. After eight babies they had only two living children, a sickly girl of four and a boy of seven. Mary herself looked worn and aged far beyond her years.

“We’ve not much longer to do this,” Alyce said. “In another month you’ll be a married lady sharing your husband’s bed.” She giggled. “I think Geraint is quite handsome. Can’t you just see him in a knight’s armor on a white horse come to sweep you away and take you to his castle?”

“Terribly.” Lisette looked up at her sister and smiled. “Now leave off your romantic imaginings and come to bed. It’s been a late night and a busy day, and another yet to come.”

The feather bed and fine linens welcomed them, urging them quickly to drowsiness. Lisette licked her fingers and pinched the candle wick sending the small chamber into darkness. A sliver of moonlight spilled in through the window making dark shadows in the larger darkness. Through the open window pane Lisette gazed at the stars.

“Yes, I did,” Lisette answered. “I certainly did.” But she knew, as certainly as the dawn follows the night, that wishes never really come true.

In a scene from a nightmare, two men strode through a shattered city. A pall of smoke hung over the towering buildings. Energy weapons, with their characteristic crackle and hiss, told of defenders still battling for their city. The dull thud of distant bombardment, and a hellish cloud blossoming up from the horizon, answered them, ending their defense.

One of the men paused to glance that way, peering past a smoking spire. He was small, with a pinched face and constantly darting eyes. The other was large with a face that bore no expression but eyes that surveyed the destruction with cool satisfaction.

“No word yet on the second son… Ashur. We have word he left on a cargo ship for Earth,” the smaller man said.

We’ll find him,” the large man answered coldly. “There’s nothing he can do, nowhere he can hide.”

A third man, in a black uniform, ran up to them, calling, “Sir! Sir, I have a message for you. Something dreadful has happened. And it was Ashur who did it.”