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 23

Things could be worse, Ashur thought as he waved good-bye to Agnes’ carriage. It was a decent enough house, much better than the rundown hovel to which Lisette was condemned. The roof was leaded, not thatched, the window casements tight and painted. Inside the furniture lacked the luxury of Agnes’ palace of Allyngton Manor, but was as comfortable as could be expected in these uncomfortable times.

As he looked over the small estate, he began mentally planning how he would have pipe laid from the nearby spring to bring running water to the house, and how, with materials from the ship, he could rig either a solar heating system or, failing that, use a wood burning boiler to get hot water. There’d have to be stout locks on some of the doors, and clear understanding among the small staff that certain rooms were off limits, as Ashur did not intend to live his entire life squinting to see in the light of smelly candles. What would it take to generate electricity? That was a simple enough technology. Did that stream have enough force to turn a turbine, or did he need a windmill? Electrical generators were ancient technology, not more than three of four hundred years forward of now. So, to make one he needed to… well, no matter, Baby would know and have plans in her.

Ashur prowled the house and grounds, savoring the quiet as he never had before. He’d never met a woman who could talk as much as Agnes did. Bless her devious heart, though, in any century, she was a formidable woman.

What of Lisette? She seemed so soft and gentle, but he did see in her something extraordinary. His holo crystal was enough to get him burned here, that he now knew for a certainty. He’d had the dubious privilege of witnessing a witchburning in Canford. The woman put to the stake had been an ancient crone by the standards of the day, probably the age of Ashur’s own mother. Ashur recognized in her the symptoms of Alzheimer’s. Such an easy thing to cure, no more difficult to cure than a common cold… that is, of course, unless it was fifteen eighteen and the superstitious neighbors decided that the vague mutterings of the old woman were spells and her wanderings to meet with the devil. Her executioners had been merciful, strangling her with a rope as the fire was lit, that she need not suffer the agony of burning alive. Agnes had acted as though this was a picnic, eating and chatting through the gruesome event, while the crowd hooted and jeered the unlucky victim.

Ashur had nightmares about his mother for a week after. Had his mother been incinerated in a flash as the sun exploded? Or had she known the pain of the searing heat building as it crisped her flesh away from her bones then burnt them too? Had she known it was her own son who lit the torch that sent her to her fiery death?

Lisette paced the house, wringing her hands. Over and over she sent unclear, silent pleas heavenward. Frustration threatened to overwhelm her. Why must it be the lot of women to stand and wait all the time? Her muscles twitched with the irrational desire for action, any action. She just wanted to be off, to be doing something, no matter how ill-planned it was. This must be the thing that drove men to war and battles, the horrid, patience-rending burden of waiting.

She glanced at the angling shadows on the floor. Surely the messenger must have made it to them by now. Ashur would take care of Agnes. He would. But who would take care of Ashur? There were dangerous men after him.

In the small dining room the hum of flies grew louder. That lazy sot Bess had not cleared away the dishes from the board. Lisette picked up one of the platters, crusty residue imbedded in the inscribed silver surface. It needed washing soon, or it would never come clean. Face flushing a deep red with anger, Lisette was of a mind to box Bess’ ears soundly then send her away to beg her bread as a vagrant along the roads. Again, mistress of the household though she may be, it was not her place to send away servants employed by the Staffords. When Geraint returned… if Geraint returned, she amended sourly… she’d have her say with that man. Be damned her vow of obedience! And be doubly damned her private oaths to be a meek and proper wife. She’d not be so meanly treated as this, dragging out her days as naught more than silken-clad slave.

With a cry of fury ripped from her throat, Lisette flung the platter across the room. With a resounding crash, it slammed into a small mirror, shattering it.

Lisette stood, staring dumbly at the handiwork of her outburst, her anger spent in that release. She picked the now-bent platter up from amidst the mirror shards and stared at it. Truly she was her aunt’s niece, full of fire and feist beneath her veneer of civility. How easy it would be to fall into the trap of being a nag and scold as release for her thwarted nature. Well, she’d not be so. She would be like Agnes, proud and independent and thinking free for herself.

"What goes on here?!"

Lisette spun to see the bulging silhouette of Bess in the doorway. The woman wiped her dirty hands on her equally dirty apron as she came into the room.

"Why you wicked, wicked girl!" The fat woman exclaimed, her wooden shoes crunching the glass into the rushes. Lisette stared, knowing the floor of this chamber would be treacherous henceforth for any hapless sole walking upon it with less than the stoutest of shoes. "See what mischief you’ve caused," Bess railed at her. "When the master returns I’ll see to it that he does you right proper, whipping you soundly."

Crash! Lisette slammed the platter down on the table, upsetting plates and goblets and shaking the whole of it. Her eyes narrowing, she strode up to Bess until barely a hand’s breadth stood between their noses. Heedless of the old woman’s foul breath, Lisette stared at her coldly, letting that fury have its way within her once again.

"You’ll do no such thing, you lazy she-cur." Lisette’s voice was low, but with a tone she’d never used before. Part of her was intrigued to see the larger woman visibly shrink back from her. "You," she poked her finger sharply into Bess’ chest, "shall clean this table now. Clean these dishes right proper, not in your usual vile manner. Then take up these rushes and burn them. Do likewise with every room in this house. When I return I want to see you on your knees on these very paving stones scrubbing them with a will, as though your very life depended on it. And mind me," she poked her again, "it does."

Her gray eyes wide and staring, Bess whispered, "Yes, my lady." She was still staring when Lisette strode out of the room.

Lisette stopped by the side of the cottage and took up the handle of a broken axe before seeking out Rufus. She found him in the barn, curled up in a ball, asleep against a stack of last year’s hay. Her nose and a glance told her that the cattle and few horses stood ankle deep in muck while he slept. Their hooves made a wet, sucking sound when they shifted their feet.

Standing over Rufus, Lisette cradled the axe handle for a moment. Then, swinging with all her might, she brought it down with a loud thwack on his backside. His yowl sent the horses jerking at their ties, but Lisette would have sworn she saw a glimmer of joy in their eyes.

When Lisette left the stable the sound of a shovel scraping busily away followed her. She smiled grimly.

Pausing at the corner of the cottage, Lisette heard the clatter of plates and swish of a willow twig broom. Nodding with satisfaction, she tossed the axe handle aside. With the warmth of the sun hot on her upturned face, Lisette let herself savor a few moments of pleasure. She put her hand up to her chest, feeling the hot flush of her skin beneath the thin layer of silk. She’d not thought she could do it, by God, but she did. She did.

Lisette grinned. Hitching up her skirt, she climbed over the fence and started at a trot through the pasture.

Gathering up her abandoned belongings by the edge of the stream, Lisette folded the tunic, now clean and dry, carefully. Perhaps she could start on the cutting and stitching tonight. It would give her something to do other than fret of her aunt’s dreadful misfortune, or the mystery of the danger hunting Ashur. Yes, that’s what she’d do, a good bit of sewing to occupy her hands and mind until she had word of what came of these strange and awful events.

But… What if the messenger hadn’t made it? What if those evil men waylaid him? What if Agnes and Ashur were found by them? Stop it. Lisette pushed the doubts and fears from her mind. Worrying would do no good for her or anyone.

As she folded the tunic against her, a hard bulge met her fingers. Probing into the pocket she pulled forth the magic crystal. Lisette let the tunic drop, unheeded, onto the ground as she lifted the crystal by the lace cord she’d attached to it weeks ago. The sun caught its featureless surface, sending sparkles of light scattering.

Staring at it for a long time, her heart thudding hard in her chest, Lisette tried to think, tried to focus. Ashur must have found it, found the secret library room, and put it here for her to find. Was he witching her? Lisette wanted to scream aloud. She understood now the fits into which people fell when witches worked their mischievous spells on them.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, she thought over and over.

But she didn’t fall into a fit and soon her arm grew weary of holding the crystal up before her. It began to look more and more ordinary. Why, if she threw it into the stream, it would be naught more powerful than any of those pebbles lying now in the mud.

Stuff and nonsense, she thought. She was no ignorant peasant to fear demons and magic and things in the night. Lisette had read the very books that Bishops and Popes read. It’s naught but a trinket, a love token left by her gallant knight to bring a rosy blush to her cheeks. Indeed, it was the very coin of her fantasies, a gift to cheer her heart without sullying her virtue. Still, she took care how she held it, that she not call back the visions that she’d once seen play within it.

Opening the neck tie to her smock, Lisette tied the lace around her neck and let the bauble dangle down between her breasts, smooth and cool against her skin. She smoothed her clothes back over it, with a feeling of satisfaction. Naught but a lover’s trinket, no magic, no bewitching, and no betrayal of her husband to accept it as long as she accepted no more intimate favors. Yes, indeed.

Lisette pulled the crystal back out and tried to hold it as she had that night at Stafford Castle when the ghostly images lived within its core. She’d been able to call forth the images once, could she again? Should she? She closed her eyes a moment and prayed for strength and protection. The ways of God were mysterious too. Mayhap this was no sign of evil, but a message from God.

Staring into the crystal, fighting her trepidation, Lisette looked close to see if any images awaited her. She gasped. It was the black cat, curving and moving with unnatural grace, its slanted eyes such as no cat she’d ever seen. God have mercy! It was a sign. A black cat was a sign of evil, of danger crossing one’s path. And the path it crossed was Ashur’s for she now saw his image in the crystal, the demon cat rubbing against him like a familiar.

She must go. She must warn Ashur. Or Agnes. Or both.

Resolutely, the last of her hesitation and indecision gone, Lisette seized her basket with the bread, ale and cheese, tucking the tunic and her sewing kit in with it. Pulling off her hose and shoes, she waded across the stream, putting them on again on the other side. Across the flat, open pasture land she looked, marking the course in her mind. It was dangerous, to be sure, to walk these pastures and fields alone, but less so than to traverse the roads. If she hurried, she’d be to her aunt’s estate by West Tetherly, in the shadow of the Buckholt Forest, before dark.

As the sun sank in the western sky, Ashur walked along the stone fence near the house. A cautious meow drew his attention. Peering into the bushes, he saw nothing. Then a hint of movement caught his eye. Dark on dark, it was, a black cat in black shadows.

The scraggly creature could not compare to the sleek, elegant lines of his Aureala, but it was a cat, and a black one at that. A wave of homesickness swept over Ashur.

"Here, kitty," he coaxed, squatting down and holding out his hand. The cat backed away and hissed, its eyes glowing red in the twilight.

Ashur hurried to the pantry and back, bringing some tasty bits of partridge left over from the supper. The smell set the cat’s nose to twitching and it crept cautiously forward. It snatched the first piece from Ashur’s hand, retreating immediately to the safety of the bushes. All the while Ashur murmured soothing, meaningless words. He’d make friends with this cat by and by.

The next piece the cat ate in the open and by the fourth it let Ashur stroke its head while it ate. Ashur smiled. Cats domesticated people so easily.

After the last light faded, Ashur stretched out in the parlor by the empty fireplace and sipped some wine. He drank far too much of this, but there was nothing else to drink. The English must have an incredible tolerance for alcohol judging from the astounding quantities of ale and wine he saw them down. A gallon of ale per day was the normal ration to allow, Agnes had told him, for each person over the age of nine. Ashur shook his head.

There was a hesitant knocking at the door. He’d already made it known that entering without knocking was unacceptable.

"Milord Ashur?" He heard the tremulous voice with its thick, rural accent. It was… what was that one called? Bobbin, that was it.

"Come in," he called.

The undersized, leathery man crept into the room, hat clutched in his hands.

"What is it?"

"Well, sir… I thought you ought to know… we was on our way to our homes, in the village, when along the road we comes across this horse. Running like the devil himself was gnashing at its tail, it was, with no rider on its back. Jock, he grabs the beast’s bridle and we look close and see that the saddle is from her ladyship, the Duchess’, own stable."

Ashur sat up, suddenly alert. "Was it one she just left with? Has she been hurt?"

Bobbin shook his head rapidly. "Oh, no sir. More’s the puzzle of it. It come from the south. Couldn’t find no rider, though."

Setting down the goblet, Ashur leapt up. "He may be yet out there somewhere, hurt. Get…" Um… lamps, lanterns, flashlights, everglows… torches… "Get torches and gather all the men. We’ll go searching." Likely it was nothing but a stolen horse escaping, but if he was to mind Agnes’ property for her he’d do it right to repay her hospitality and trust.

Bobbin nodded his head rapidly. "Yes, sir." He turned to go and paused, looking back. "Nothing to make us-uns loyal to our master like him’s being mindful of us." He grinned a quick, one-toothed grin and hurried away.

Ashur paused to put a few things in his pockets that might be useful should they run into thieves or highwaymen, twenty-sixth century things that would more than tilt the odds his direction. As an afterthought he buckled on the half-rusted sword. It made a good prop in case he had to cover up some very un-sixteenth century actions.