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 21

The wise churchmen were wrong, Lisette concluded. The greatest penance of all lies not in flagellation nor in making a great pilgrimage, nor the greatest punishment in eternal fire, for surely it lay in boredom, loneliness and despair.

She’d been a new married wife for three weeks now… and was yet a virgin. In privacy she wept, and privacy was the one thing of which she had far too much. She hadn’t realized how acutely her heart would ache at being rejected by the man to whom she was bound. Lost to her was her true love, her brave knight come too late to rescue her. And gone, God knew where, was the man she’d had to wed in his stead.

The couple who tended the grounds and house consisted of a surly, fat old woman named Bess, with stringy hair and a dirty apron who resented Lisette’s intrusion into her domain and wasn’t shy about making her feelings known. She cooked barely edible meals with much banging of pots and muttering of words she’d certainly be obliged to confess to the priest later on. After the first day, her attempts at familiarity bluntly thwarted, Lisette had stayed well clear of her. It came as a shock to her. She’d always assumed that respect, obedience and love from one’s servants came instantly, as a due from the common rabble to those of higher station.

The crone’s husband, Rufus, was a wraith of a man who saw to the gardens and the livestock with silent indifference. As a result the sheep ran wild and uncounted to the very forest edge. Why, half of them hadn’t even been sheared this spring. No wonder the Staffords fretted over each stick of firewood. Her father would never have permitted such slack and uneconomical behavior in the least of his business concerns.

The grounds around the small house had run wild, the tangle of untrimmed trees and vines so thick as to nearly hide it from view. And well that was, for though the house was a respectable two-story cottage of gray stone, the thatching had not been repaired in too many years and was thin and tattered in places. The window casements had rotted against the crumbling masonry, giving every draft easy access and filling the rooms with musty dampness each rain. Lisette gave thanks for the warm summer. She fervently hoped they’d not have to stay in this place through a winter.

She fully expected Geraint to remedy the situation at once, stepping firmly into his rightful place at the head of this small household and as his father’s agent. Instead he had scarce noted the neglect, seeming to turn inward, speaking to her only when addressed directly and even then appearing mildly surprised at her presence. From their first night in the cottage he’d made his bed in a chamber at the far end of the house from hers, mumbling to her apologetically about respecting her time of mourning for her sister. Now, three weeks later, even Bess had quit making grumbling comments about having to clean two bedchambers and launder two sets of linens to give Lisette an almost sympathetic look when she came to make up the separate rooms.

After a week of pacing the house and grounds like a wild beast held in a cage, Geraint had announced to her that he needed to make a trip on business. Lisette watched him ride away toward the north and east, toward the direction of her home and in her heart she yearned to go there too. Even Weston Manor, dismally empty with the absence of little Alyce, would be preferable to this miserable exile.

Each Sunday she dressed in her finest and walked the distance to the tiny hamlet of West Dean for the morning Mass. Trailing her at a distance that discouraged any conversation waddled Bess. Rufus always managed to be ill on Sunday mornings, though he appeared spry enough later in the day. The third Sunday Lisette managed to get him to attend the services by sweetly offering to remain behind and prepare him an elixir of burdock to purge his system.

The priest, a sallow young man with a thick west country accent and poor grasp of Latin, while pointedly looking at Rufus and Bess, offered Lisette his thanks that day for her fine influence on the community. It was, she thought, the only influence she had anywhere. Certainly she had none over her husband. The memory hurt her deep within, making her chin quiver and tears well in her eyes that she fought hard to control until she was out of sight of the curious villagers who stared at their new lady, the daughter-in-law of the Earl. Once well along the path toward the cottage that was her prison, she let the tears flow again as she questioned over and over what might be wrong with her that her husband found her so repugnant that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, even consummate their marriage.

The summer heat grew more intense as it approached mid-June. Geraint reappeared, remaining for scarcely two days, before vanishing on another claimed business excursion. What business, Lisette wondered bitterly, had he to attend more urgent than that right here?

He didn’t look back even once to see if she was watching, Lisette noticed as he rode away. Carrying a basket filled with small bundles, Lisette followed Geraint as far as the small stream through the pasture a quarter mile from the cottage. Standing still and alone in the quiet countryside, Lisette stared at Geraint’s receding back until he was out of sight, riding again in the direction of the Buckholt Forest. Did he go to Houghton, to Weston Manor? Or some other town in the area? Perhaps he even went so far as Stockbridge, the large town on the banks of the River Test. Did he go to indulge his religious fervor, seeking out a monastery where he might spend his days on his knees praying to be anything other than her husband? Or did he, perhaps, have a mistress in a distant town in whose arms he enjoyed the love and carnal pleasures he denied her?

It wasn’t fair. Men had so much freedom while she was trapped here, awaiting his pleasure and will. She swiped at her eyes angrily. No more tears. This self-pitying indulgence was no solution. No more of it. No more. She’d swore she’d not be a weak and weepy wife and here she was being just that. Enough of it. No true wife, was she, and she’d not be the others. She’d just have to make the best of things. Even if this marriage was not what she wanted, and obviously was not what her husband wanted, well, there were others who were counting on the union and she’d not shirk her duty.

Lisette opened a letter just arrived from her mother and read of her father’s joy at the news Henry Stafford brought from the court. The King was considering his petition to grant a title to Thomas Weston, making him finally one of the nobility. It was suggested that a suitable presentation of gifts would likely aid the situation. Expensive gifts, Lisette thought as she ripped the letter apart and fed the pieces one piece at a time into the small stream. She watched the pieces, like tiny cream-colored boats, bobbing away and vanishing from sight. Would that all problems could be banished so easily.

She hoped her father would be happy with his new title and status bought, as it was, with her singular unhappiness. Still, she could not begrudge her father this achievement. It was a thing he’d longed for, and worked for, with unswerving resolution for most of his life.

Lisette sat down on the bank of the small brook, on the soft grass cropped short by the sheep and took off her shoes and hose. She dangled her bare feet into the cool, refreshing water, and opened her bundles. She had with her the torn tunic of the strange man who still danced through her dreams. Ashur, she thought his name, letting her mind fondly savor it. The dreams had been more troublesome of late. Lisette shook her head. She couldn’t remember any of them clearly, strive to though she may. They were wisps of smoke and fire eluding her grasp. In one dream she heard screaming and saw fire raining down from an unfamiliar sky. In another she’d remembered little but the overwhelming feeling of despair that came with a great, blinding burst of light. Once a black cat flitted through her dream vision. Lisette woke at once and spent the rest of the night on her knees praying away this omen of the devil’s work. And devil’s work it was, for most of the dreams were carnal, her bare flesh and Ashur’s pressed together in a way she’d only known in dreams.

Lisette shook her head, trying to banish the alluringly sinful thoughts in the pure light of this day. She took from her basket her sewing kit, and some bread, cheese and ale for her lunch. Holding up Ashur’s tan tunic, still dirty and stained, she studied it, planning in her mind how she would cut away the ruined parts and rework the fabric into a hat for herself, if there remained enough unruined material for that.

It seemed hopeless that all the soil and stains would come out of the material even with the most vigorous washing, but it was worth trying. Certainly she had nothing else to occupy her time, she thought resentfully. Lisette leaned forward and submerged the tunic in the stream, pulling her own skirt up above her knees to keep it from the water. Scooping up a handful of sand, she scrubbed the fabric vigorously. To her amazement the material became clean, as if by magic. Holding up the wet tunic, she stared at it, the memory of the enchanted crystal flashing through her mind. A dozen questions raced through her mind again but, as always, no answers were to be found in her own poor knowledge.

With a scant tremble of wonderment in her fingers, she gingerly spread out the cloth on the clean grass to dry. In the sun the tunic dried with astonishing speed, its very shape bringing to mind memories of its wearer, of the glistening mysteries and bright, but oh so vain, hopes he briefly brought to her life. Lisette cradled her head in her hands. She wanted to cry again but adamantly blinked back the burning in her eyes, no more than a single whimper escaping her. Some time later, the pain in her heart abated to a dull ache, Lisette sensed that she was being watched. Raising her head, she met the dark-eyed stare of a cud-chewing ewe on the other side of the little brook. Lisette made a face at it and even managed a smile as the silly creature chewed in its steady side to side motion, never changing the pace, never taking its placid, curious gaze off of this stranger in its pasture.

A high-pitched bleating sounded from the bushes. The ewe answered with a low, vibrating "Mmmmmmt". A spring lamb, already grown fat and robust, bounced from the bushes up to its mother. Dropping to its knees by the ewe it bunted hard with its head, and began to nurse. Lisette laughed aloud as the lamb’s long, fuzzy tail whirled like a windmill.

"Well, a laugh’s a better sound than a cry," a low voice sounded behind her. Lisette jumped and spun about, her heart suddenly pounding hard. She knew that voice, knew those rich, foreign tones. Staring hard into the shadows of the hanging branches of a willow, she saw a lean, graceful shape emerge into the sunlight.

"Ashur," she breathed and wondered if he was real or perhaps she bewitched, as he stood there in the brilliance, a grin crinkling his tanned face, a sparkle in his dark mahogany eyes. Lisette stared intently, drawing in and memorizing every line, every detail of him, from the black hair that curled over the collar of his plain, oddly cut, but astoundingly attractive, black tunic, very like the one she’d just laid upon the grass. Her fingers crept toward the tan tunic on the grass, wanting to touch it, to be assured it was real, that this all was real and she hadn’t gone mad in her isolation. She glanced toward the drying tunic, then quickly back toward Ashur, fully expecting he’d have vanished in that moment in a puff of smoke. But he was still there, his eyes still on her, seeming to warm the very flesh of her body as surely as if his hands caressed her in their stead. He couldn’t be real… not here, not in this matrimonial prison. He must be a conjuring of her own anguished desires.

Ashur sauntered toward her so casually, as if this was an ordinary meeting, not an enchanted, impossible one. Crouching beside her on the grass, he examined the torn, tan tunic.

"I’d wondered what became of this," he said. He smiled at her easily while she gaped at him in return. "What are you planning to do with it?"

Lisette closed her mouth and gulped repeatedly. "I… I…" she stuttered, "I’d thought to make a hat of the fabric. It’s so fine, I’ve never seen the like before. But…" she felt the heat rising in her face that meant she was starting to blush. "It is yours. I didn’t mean to take it without your consent… but my Lady Cicely, the Lady Stafford, that is… she said…" Merciful heavens! How could she stop herself from babbling so?

Ashur rescued her from herself by saying, "Ah, yes… the inestimable Lady Stafford. I’m sure she said I ought to be dying any moment and so you might have my things." He chuckled and Lisette knew he wasn’t angry and felt a surge of relief. "I did so disappoint her by surviving her care. In any case, I owe you much for your kind care of me, and the friendly companionship and conversation you so willingly offered a lonely, confused stranger. You may keep this and do with it what you will, if it pleases you."

Concentrating on his curious choice of words, Lisette found herself wondering if he knew that she’d found the bewitched crystal? Or did he think it lost?

His dark eyes again locked on to hers for a moment that stretched into eternity. She wished she could read the thoughts that lay behind them, the answers to the riddles and mysteries. She wished she could recapture that moment of rich, wondrous empathy they’d shared at the Stafford’s castle his first day among them, or even the darkly wild twining of hope and despair as she saw him on the stormy day of her wedding, the day she knew she’d well and truly lost him.

"How is it you’ve come to be here?" she breathed, wondering again if he were real.

Abruptly, he stood and extended his hand toward her, grinning. "That’s easy enough to explain." He stopped, cocked his head, with a bemused expression, then added, "If anything about your aunt could be considered easy to explain."

Lisette took his hand, almost bursting with relief at the warm, real touch of it. "My aunt?"

"Ummm… The Grand Dame Agnes of Hungerford sent me to fetch her niece back to the house. And I think she ought not be kept waiting too long. She was at that fat hag’s throat when I left, threatening her in astonishingly creative ways regarding the quality of her work and her care of you."

"Bess?" Lisette laughed lightly. "I’ve not turned out to be a very good mistress of my servants, I fear," she added ruefully, scrambling to her feet.

"I shouldn’t expect you would be," he surprised her by saying. "You’re too gentle and kind to order anyone about or lord over them."

She sighed. "It’s not a good thing, to be so weak as that."

Ashur squeezed her hand, "It’s not a bad way to be, to be a genuinely good person, who considers the feelings of others. It’s a rare way to be. And yet," he smiled at her, "you’ve a core of pure titani… iron. Come, now. Agnes is waiting. And she doesn’t seem to wait well."

Lisette chuckled. She expected Ashur to release her hand as soon as she stood up, but he kept hold of it, unnecessarily guiding her along the path through the trees. His grip was light, she could have freed her hand if she so chose. Lisette did not choose to do so. For the too brief walk through the small woods toward the cottage, she cherished the feel of his strong hand enclosing hers.

"Oh, I’ve left my things," she exclaimed before they’d gone too far.

"I can fetch them for you later, if you wish. Or, likely, you’ll have time to return to your picnic this afternoon. I think we’re not staying long."

Lisette’s heart sank a touch at those words. Was her loneliness only to be exacerbated, then, by a too-brief respite?

Ashur seemed to sense her mood, for he said quietly, "You haven’t been happy." She heard more statement than question in his tone.

"It takes time to make a marriage work," she recited quickly, "to build the love and commitment that last a lifetime."

"Hmmm…" he said, and she knew he wasn’t convinced by her words. After a long pause, during which he helped her climb over the fence out of the wooded pasture and into the garden-run-wild that surrounded the cottage, he said so softly that she could scarcely hear his words, "I’m sorry I was… late… to your wedding."

The look across the distance that they’d shared that day as their eyes met over the well-wishing crowd rushed back to her, as did the bleakness and sorrow that shadowed the day, being, as it clearly was, a portent of the equally dark days that lay ahead for her. "It wouldn’t have mattered," she whispered. "The… the thing was done and set upon its course long before. Nothing could have changed what was meant to be."

"Yes," he said slowly. "Nothing can change what was… or is… meant to be."

Lisette sensed the words somehow held a greater meaning to him than she had meant.

From ahead came the sound of Agnes’ voice shrilly blasting Bess and Rufus. "By God Almighty, I’ll not have my niece treated meanly by the likes of you lazy rascals. You’ll do your work and do it well or I’ll see to it you’re turned out to starve." She added a string of insults the like of which Lisette had never heard before in her life. She’d have blushed at the sound of them had she not been so fascinated.

"She’s quite a woman," Ashur commented dryly.

Lisette gave him a quirky half-smile. "I’ve wanted to be like her."

"I prefer you as you are," he said flatly.

They came into the clear area before the cottage and Ashur abruptly released her hand. Lisette clasped her hands demurely, not risking a glance toward Ashur. Rounding the corner, she saw Agnes, clothed head to toe in brilliant scarlet, jabbing her finger at Rufus, who stood with his head bowed and hat in hand, while Bess, her sweaty face as red as Agnes’ dress glowered at the Duchess. Then Agnes looked up and saw Lisette and Ashur approaching. A smile broke her angry expression for a moment before she turned back to Bess and Rufus.

"Be off about your business," she concluded harshly, then turned and extended her arms to Lisette. "Lisette, dear girl."

Lisette ran forward, flinging herself into her aunt’s arms. She struggled to contain all that wanted to spill from her.

"I’ll leave you your privacy," she heard Ashur say and saw him disappear around the corner of the cottage.

Agnes stroked her hair for a long moment before she pushed Lisette back from her and scrutinized her thoroughly. Lisette realized how miserable she must look, with sorrow-filled face and grass-stained gown. Her hands fluttered over her bodice, vainly trying to straighten it. Strange, she thought, how such things hadn’t bothered her when Ashur looked upon her. Somehow his gaze swept away such concerns and made her feel radiant.

Agnes stilled Lisette’s hands with her jeweled fingers. "It’s all right, child."

"Ashur said you were leaving soon," she mumbled, staring at the ground to try to hold in the tears at the thought.

Agnes sighed. "I’m afraid it’s so. I must needs see to it that he is settled into his new home before night."

Lisette stared up into her aunt’s squinting eyes. "New home?"

"Yes." Agnes smiled. "He’s going to manage a property I have near West Tetherly… not three miles from here."