D. A. Houdek

Deb Houdek Rule

Web designer - Science Fiction author - Civil War historian - Genealogy researcher

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Of All the Western Stars

by Deb Houdek Rule

Chapter 18

The day of her wedding arrived in a dull, gray haze. Thick clouds hung low in the sky sending spurts of rain splattering down on the fog enshrouded land. The chimneys at the manor and in the village sent pillars of smoke rising to meet the clouds, coloring all the world in shades of gray. Even the trees and fields appeared dark and colorless to Lisette as she stared out the window, the vivid greens of spring justly muted this day.

All about in Weston Manor, Lisette could hear the murmur of voices and rustle of life made by the dozens of guests in the house. In the Great Hall servants from many households slept on the floors and benches, while the carriagemen and horsemen bedded down in the over-full stable. Had the occasion been different, Lisette would have been bursting with excitement at the activity and people come to their quiet home. Alyce would have stayed close by her side, shy and uncertain at the strangeness, but trusting her big sister to take care of her. But she hadn’t taken care of Alyce, Lisette thought bitterly, and today she’d be buried and later they’d bury Lisette as well.

Lisette shuddered. A faint trickle of hope still stirred within. There was yet time. Ashur might yet come.

A carriage rattled to a halt before the manor and Lisette’s older sister, Mary, and her husband stepped out. Mary looked as tired as the old, bony nags pulling the carriage. Her face was as gray as her unadorned wool dress and looked as worn. A sniffling girl with a runny nose wiped her dirty, tear streaked, face on Mary’s skirt. Lisette couldn’t help but remember Mary as an exuberant sixteen-year-old on her wedding day, as bright and bouncy as a spring lamb, she’d been. Eight years and eight babies, and as many mistresses for her husband, and Mary was an old woman, wearily plodding through the rain toward the door, meekly following her elegantly clad husband.

All the day was gray and weary for Lisette, the service for Alyce as dim and distant to her as though she was seeing it from a great distance through a gauzy curtain. Glimpses only reached her; the sooty smoke rising from the dozens of alter candles, Alyce’s powdered face frozen in its unnatural sleep, the drone of the priest… It all passed in a haze as mercifully thick as the dismal clouds concealing the cheery brightness of the sun.

Only a few hours later, Aunt Agnes helped Lisette pull the ties closed on her wedding gown. The rich material that had once thrilled her was now a blasphemy. Alyce’s funeral had been in the early afternoon, the wedding would be in the early evening, followed by feasting well into the night. Then… then the wedding night and the marriage bed. Even this monumentous event in her life drew no flicker of interest from her, neither for good or ill.

Ashur had not come.

Beneath the gown of white and gold, Lisette wore her fine silk smock. Her fingers lingered a moment over the tiny blood speck on her sleeve. It had come to be there the day she’d met Ashur, a speck of his own life’s blood. She’d not embroidered over it yet, she realized, noticing distantly that the heart-shaped stain had darkened to black. How appropriate. It made a match to the color of her own heart.

Pulling the ornate sleeves of the wedding gown into place, the lace stiff with gold threads, Lisette inhaled deeply while Agnes tied the bodice tightly. Her hair cascaded freely past her waist with a long veil of Italian silk lace over it, a virginal look, symbols of purity and innocence. Though she was yet a virgin, Lisette felt anything but pure, that had been lost and her innocence shattered in the past days. Lisette surveyed herself in the mirror and wished Alyce could see her. She’d admired this dress so when Lisette showed it to her. She sighed slowly. She didn’t look as a bride ought. True her dress was grand, but her face was pale and wan, not its usual creamy color blushed with rosy cheeks, and her eyes were rimmed with red.

"The dress is beautiful, Aunt Agnes," she said wistfully. "The wearer does not do it justice, however, I fear."

Agnes fluffed the veil and adjusted the white ermine draping of one of the long, hanging over-sleeves before answering. "You’ve had a difficult time these past few days. Hardly the atmosphere one expects on what ought to be the most joyous day of her life." She reached into a small, gilded chest and drew out a fine strand of pearls. Agnes hesitated. "My dear Lisette… are you sure you want to wear my pearls."

Lisette surveyed herself again in the mirror. The low, square neckline of the gown was edged in gold where it pushed against the swell of her breasts. Nothing, it seemed matched either the gown or the day so well as the soft shimmer of pearls, for pearls were the representation of tears.

"You know what they say," Aunt Agnes said quietly, "that for each pearl a bride wears on her wedding day there’ll be a tear her husband will cause her to shed."

Lisette smiled up at her, her eyes glimmering afresh with moisture. Somberly she touched her aunt’s cheek and whispered, "Each tear I wear this day is for my sister, each tear for this bright and gaudy event on this bleakest of days." Turning away from her aunt’s gentle sympathy, Lisette gazed out the window, toward the western horizon. Oh Ashur, she cried silently, would that you could hear my plea and come to me, be my brave knight charging to my rescue, sweep me away to a different world, one of golden light and purest love. But, then, she thought, squaring her shoulders and steeling herself, that’s naught but a dream. And dreams never really come true.

Ashur surveyed the stallion dubiously as it tossed its head and jerked as the saddle was hitched down. It was a splendid animal, beyond doubt, a tall, sleek stallion of pure white. It also seemed to know Ashur intended to mount it for the horse skittered sideways and rolled its eyes wildly.

The servants holding onto the stallion looked at Ashur expectantly, barely concealing their sarcastic grins. God’s blood, Ashur thought, using a curse he’d heard from one of the servants, this was certainly not the time to admit he’d never ridden a horse before. He’d seen horses, to be sure, but sitting upon livestock and expecting it to serve as transportation was simply not something that was done. Looking at the sky, with the ominous mass of black clouds churning and growing, the low rumble of thunder spilling across the land, and at this demon stead that, after much stalling and debate had finally been presented to him as the only available horse, Ashur was beginning to have serious doubts about his mission.

The household staff decidedly were part of a conspiracy to delay him until it was too late. Curious thing, that. Agnes’ questioning had led Ashur to believe she meant to push Lisette and he together, yet clearly pains were being taken to prevent him from interfering with her wedding to Geraint Stafford. Ashur shook his head. No one in his right mind would try to ride this snorting, plunging animal, most definitely not someone from another millennia who’d never ridden a horse before. Plainly the servants expected him to back down. Ashur grinned. Never had excess forethought or caution been numbered among his vices or virtues. These primitives didn’t know who they were dealing with. He was Ashur of Penrose and he may not have ridden a horse before but he’d ridden the wild gryphons of Altair… and they were carnivorous.

Ashur stretched his leg and side one more time. Both felt fine, totally healed. He hitched at the belt with that absurd, and somewhat rusty, sword that Tom has pressed upon him, and imagined the faces of these fools if they saw what he could do to an enemy with his bare hands. A brief shadow passed over Ashur’s face as he thought or to a world with a doomsday bomb. But the memory of Lisette’s radiance filled him, chasing the shadows away and renewing his resolve. Fool he may be, but a fool for the woman he wanted… no, damnit… could he not be honest even within himself? She was the woman he loved.

Tossing his long hair back with a reckless gesture, Ashur seized the reigns and swung quickly aboard. The stallion reared and leaped forward. Through the Tudor landscape of a land out of history, Ashur rode to rescue his lady fair.

Guests continued to arrive late into the afternoon, more distant kin as well as friends and family of the Staffords. Still Geraint’s father did not arrive. Geraint’s indifference was clear, but Lady Cicely fluttered about, checking each arrival to see if it might be her husband’s party. For a brief moment Lisette dared hope that the marriage might be put off, but Lady Stafford would not hear of it. Her husband would wish them to proceed with Sir Thomas Weston’s wise and frugal plan.

Lisette stood with her parents, Aunt Agnes, and her sister Mary on the steps of the manor, feeling as though she were caught in the entangling web of some strange dream. How curious it all was, she thought vaguely as her mother and father each kissed her cheek and bestowed wishes for her happiness. Down the muddy path toward the church they started, picking their way carefully, while maids dressed in their finest held the train of Lisette’s gown up from the ground. The afternoon had steadily grown more dismal, the afternoon sky as dark as late evening.

"How proud we are of you," her mother said for the third time, holding her own velvet brocade gown high above her ankles, "to bear up so well and do such honor to your family name."

"We shall miss having you about," her father told her, his voice gruff in the way of men trying to hide their emotions. "I shall worry about you, alone at that Stafford property, when your husband must be out and about on business." He shook his head. "Perhaps I’ll have to talk with Henry about this arrangement."

"Hush," her mother whispered. "You men have arranged and arranged and arranged for years until I despaired of Lisette becoming an old maid. She’ll be a married woman, and in her husband’s charge within the hour, as I was once put by my trusting father into yours," she smiled at him fondly. Thomas chuckled. "Leave it be."

Behind them Agnes inserted diffidently, "I’ve property nearby that place, as well. I’ll see that Lisette’s not left totally alone." Something in her tone made Lisette glance back over her shoulder at her aunt. But her face was unreadable. Her sister Mary, however, blushed soundly and seemed much intent on watching the ground.

Soon, too soon, the church loomed up before them. From the corner of her eye Lisette could not fail to see the freshly turned earth of the day’s previous service. Pointedly, she kept her gaze focused forward. As the party made their way up the stone steps, rain began to fall from the sodden, gray sky. Still, Lisette paused on the top step, staring out from this vantage toward the dark profile of the forest to the west. Knowing it to be a futile effort, she searched the horizon hoping without hope to see the shape of Ashur riding toward her.

"Blast it!" Ashur began, then indulged himself for a moment in a creative string of curses, some of which would not even have meaning for centuries, some in languages not yet born, some as old as the human race itself, and some originating in the very Anglo-Saxon landscape that now surrounded him. At the moment Ashur failed to find any cause to appreciate that fact. The damnable rain had started again. The stallion tried to reach around and bite him on the leg. And he was lost.

There was supposed to be a path through these woods, but Ashur doubted any but the most skilled of woodsmen could discern its path amidst the tangle of game trails. Ashur suspected he’d been following a deer trail for the past half hour. He looked toward the sky, wondering what time it was, but it was hidden by the canopy of trees. It was dark, darker than it ought to be for this time on a May afternoon. Or, perhaps, the time was later than he thought and he was already too late. Lisette was married and beyond his reach. The thought of being too late when he was actually a thousand years too early pulled an ironic laugh from Ashur.

Jerking the horse around, Ashur retraced his path through the forest. He’d have to go around the long way, follow the old Roman road that was still in use. Ducking beneath a low hanging limb, Ashur thought about the last time he’d taken that route. Salisbury Port extended its gigantic structure over this whole region, kilometer after kilometer of slidewalks passing shops of merchandise from a hundred different worlds. As they emerged from the forest Ashur turned south along the forest’s western edge and kicked the stallion into a gallop, hurrying toward the road. He remembered a small plaque along the slidewalk that passed along shops offering a thousand sybaritic delights. He’d glanced at it, but paid little heed, being intent upon the barely clothed Earth woman fawning on him and promising him endless pleasures. Then he’d had all the time in the universe. Now, as he raced toward a woman who offered, or so he hoped, her love, Ashur remembered glancing at that small plaque. It said that this was the route of an ancient Roman road from Old Sarum.

Ashur spurred the horse, trying to make it run faster. Not only did he not have all the time in the universe, he didn’t even have all the time in the world.

Over the rolling grass he raced, head bent low against the raindrops beating against his face. The stallion seemed to be trying to run away from his unwelcome passenger, the animal’s anger fueling its speed. So much the better, Ashur thought, pressing his heels harder into the beast’s sides.

Abruptly he jerked back hard on the reins. The horse skidded to a halt, rearing in fury. A child’s ride compared to the Altairian gryphons. And maybe he’d be riding them one day again for there, beneath some dead tree limbs was a great gouge in the earth. At the end of that ripped land, deep within the forest verge, he glimpsed a most welcome sight; the silver shape of his spaceship.

All thoughts of Lisette and his quest for her love fled his mind as he yanked the reins, guiding the stallion toward the ship. If it had power… if it wasn’t too badly damaged… if… if…

Lisette.

The name filled his mind. Her image blinded his vision. So he’d dreamed of her, here in a Renaissance forest as a naked dancing wood nymph, and there, in his home and time walking beside him on the Grand Promenade beneath the Nebula. Ashur shook his head. Be realistic, he told himself. He couldn’t take her back to his time, it just… well, there were a thousand reasons… it just wouldn’t work. Best to stay with his ship, let her go on about her life, the life history had undoubtedly preordained for her had he not appeared here. Yes, it was for the best.

Ashur jerked as the stallion nipped his leg and tried to break into a run toward the open land to the south again. Grinning, Ashur patted it on its warm, wet neck. Smart creature. Ignoring his ship and the promise of escape from this trap of time, Ashur turned the horse south. Damn the cost and the wild impossibilities, he’d have her. He’d have Lisette. With a loud whoop, one meant to ‘break the clouds,’ Ashur raced onward to rescue his lady love.

The wedding march sounded much like the funeral dirge to Lisette’s ear. And the expression on her betrothed’s face more suited a cremation than a celebration. What ails him, Lisette wondered over the numb tide of her own indifference. Gasps and appreciative murmurs from the gathered congregation followed her up the aisle as her magnificent gown rippled and shone. At another time the attention would have pleased her. Today it was yet another abomination in a day of abominations. How fickle mankind was to shift from grief to joy so casually… so callously.

Geraint’s hand was cold on hers as they turned to face the priest. The priest glanced nervously from the couple to his service book and back again until Lisette wanted to scream. Get on with it, she cried inwardly. Let’s have it done. Geraint pointedly cleared his throat and the priest clumsily hurried to find his place in the book.

The words of her marriage passed over and around Lisette as if they were being spoken to another person who merely happened to be inhabiting her body at that moment. Her thoughts wandered far afield, to a wooded glen, with filtered sunlight beaming down upon the face of her lover. His long, black hair tickled her cheek pleasingly as they caressed. Lisette inhaled deeply and shifted her weight to the other foot. The priest droned on.

When the time came for her to respond, she apparently did so correctly for the priest continued. At the time for Geraint to respond, to pledge his lifelong troth to her, his hand tightened on hers. Lisette snapped to awareness and looked at Geraint. He stared at the floor and mumbled something she could not hear, certainly the priest could not have heard his words, but he continued blithely on, assuming the answer had been an affirmative. Had it? Lisette pondered the question idly. No matter now, the priest had just pronounced them wed until death. Lisette sighed softly. So did Geraint. The congregation murmured with happy approval.

Ashur paused, panting, as he and the horse finally emerged from the dark forest. The stallion that had been foisted upon him, blessfully, seemed tireless, its angry energy growing by the mile as it sought to run away from its rider.

Despite the cold he pulled off his soggy coat. He’d be no colder without it, and maybe feel less wet. Twisting his arm he glanced at the meteor and nymph design Lisette had stitched into it. At his kick, the stallion leaped forward again, continuing Ashur’s race against time.

Outside the rain had ceased, leaving an unpleasant, chilly dampness in the air. An icy wind came in fits, carrying with it bursts of rain droplets splattering against the finely dressed folk gathered at the base of the church steps. They all looked expectantly up at the doors of the church, seeming to Lisette like scavengers gathered to pick clean her bones.

She emerged from the church on Geraint’s arm to a rising cheer from the crowd. All eyes were upon them. As they slowly made their way down the steep stairs Geraint intently minded their steps. As always, Lisette thought, when she and Geraint walked together…

And so it was that Lisette was the only person in the entire village of Houghton who, on that dreary day in May, was looking to the western sky. There she saw, on the rise of land beyond the forest’s edge, a man sitting on a white horse. Framed by churning black clouds, he stared in her direction. Even from this distance she could see the long, black hair spilling over his shoulders, shoulders covered only by a shirt of finest white. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she saw a glint of gold sparkling from the edge of the sleeves as the man raised his arm in a hesitant salute. The man’s eyes closed the distance between them, searing into her soul. Lisette raised her chin, staring back steadily. Her hands clenched at those of her husband’s, squeezing them tightly.

A low rumble of distant thunder rolled over the land. Lisette shivered. Then the horse reared and turned away, and it and the man were gone.