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 32

Dressed as a man, clutching her bundle to her chest, Lisette eased the door to the bedchamber closed behind her. Her attempts to be quiet mattered not, so loud were the clamor of voices and banging of furniture. Lisette took half a step toward the stairway and stopped. She couldn’t get down that way. Frantically, she looked around in the dark corridor. There was no other way out. She was trapped.

Her heart seemed to pound in her throat. This mob would not wait on her calm explanations nor be cowed by a regal demeanor. There was a wild animal howl for blood in their voices, an incoherent, unreasoning thing.

With a quick prayer that they’d not harm Geraint, and that he’d not say something dangerous in his delirium, Lisette went the only way she could, away from the stairway.

The clomp of boots was already on the lowest steps, paused as there were shouts demanding torches or candles to light the way.

Lisette shrank into a corner at the end of the hallway. She glanced fearfully at the sheer drop to the ground from this upper level of the cottage. It was not to be helped. She strained against the stiff fastening and leaned hard against the window. It wouldn’t budge.

The footsteps and voices were nearly to the top of the stairs. Fumbling, and cursing herself for it, Lisette went into the nearest room and quickly closed the door. The room was pitch black. Panting, she leaned against the door, then turned quickly and tried to find a way to lock or bar it. In the hallway she could hear the crowd banging open doors. A shout went up when they reached Geraint’s room.

"He’s been witched, I tell you. It’s that other one, that dark foreign wizard and that girl that’s done it. Lucky this one is to still be alive," Jen’s voice shrilled over the other voices. Lisette felt an absurd sense of relief. At least they’d not be blaming Geraint for the ‘spirits’ she and Baby had conjured.

"He has a black cat as a familiar." Lisette’s heart sank as she recognized Jane’s voice. "But he’s gone now."

"Where’s the girl?" other voices demanded. Another door banged open in the hallway. "Find her!" "She must be up here." "There’s nowhere she could have gone."

She didn’t have long. There was no way to lock the door. The window was the only way out. A lightning flash lit the narrow window. Beyond the window gnarled limbs, like arms twisted in pain or prayer, reached upwards. The oak! Stumbling over an uneven floorboard, Lisette reached the window as the door to the room next door banged open. With a strength borne of desperation, she leaned into the window.

After a frantic moment, the rusty hinges gave way and the rain-swollen wood released its grip on the casement and the window opened outwards. In a moment Lisette scrambled out into the branches of the oak. She tucked her bundle into her coat to free her hands and leaned back toward the cottage. With a push that almost knocked her from the tree, she managed to get the window closed.

There, she thought, that ought to confuse them. Let them think she’d managed to disappear from the house.

Lisette looked down and was immediately grateful for the darkness that kept her height hidden from her. Gingerly, she felt her way down the tree, clinging precariously to the wet, slippery branches. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief when her feet again touched the ground.

She was at the rear of the house, voices from inside and out coming to her through the steady rainfall.

"Where’d she go?" the cry rose. "Changed her shape and sneaked right out beneath our noses, she did."

"Outside! Seek her outside."

Crouching low, Lisette hurried through the tangled garden and bushes toward the direction of the stable. A flare of lightning and crack of thunder made her gasp. Two men stood before her, poking into the bushes with sticks. They looked up at Lisette.

"Here now, lad. Have you seen the witch?"

Croaking, Lisette tried to lower her voice. "Aye. Running off that way, she was." She pointed away from the stable. The two men turned.

"Come on," they cried as they turned in the direction she indicated.

Lisette didn’t hesitate but hurried to the stable. Inside its comforting interior, Lisette found her way by lightning flashes to Geraint’s fine roan mare. She leaned against the warm flank of the horse, taking a few seconds to tremble.

She’d never manage a saddle she realized in seconds, but she worked the bridle onto the horse and tossed Geraint’s stout leather saddlebags over its withers, tucking her bundle in one. Leading the horse to the door, she mounted with more desperation than skill, flinging herself gracelessly onto its back. With a sharp dig of her heels into the roan’s flanks, she pointed it in the general direction of the Buckholt Forest, trusting the animal to find its footing through the stormy night.

Even with the aid of his pocket torch, Ashur found it slow going to get back to the clearing where he’d tethered the white stallion. Over and over through his mind and in his heart ran a cold, throbbing terror that they would find Lisette before he got there. She’d been so enamored of Baby’s wonders that she was certain to be putting out a far steadier and long-lasting power signature that he had in all of these past weeks. They’d certainly find that signal more rapidly than they’d tracked his brief, tenuous ones.

Forgotten was his quest to find a ship to take him home. All that concerned Ashur now was Lisette. He loved her. Even if he couldn’t have her, even if time itself denied them togetherness, he’d never forgive himself if harm came to her because of him. More than anything in the universe he wanted Lisette to be well and happy, even if that happiness was not with him.

A shrill whinny told him he was near the stallion. His beam caught the impatiently stamping horse. Ashur would swear the animal glared at him. Cautiously, he edged up to the stallion, speaking in low soothing tones, Ashur tried to grab the horse’s halter.

Catching the rope, Ashur felt a thrill of victory… until he felt the unmistakable pain of the obstinate beast’s teeth sinking solidly into his arm. Maybe this was why chain mail and armor were invented, Ashur considered as he jerked his arm free.

"This is too important for that," he hissed at the stallion, deciding in that moment to name the miserable monster after his elder brother Barton.

He swung up into the wet saddle, wishing for a floater, or shuttle, or even an Altarian gryphon — they, at least, had wings.

Branches lashed at her, slapping her face with wet leaves and sharp twigs. Soon she was soaked to the skin and shivering. Fantasies of a warm fire, hot spiced wine and the dry clothes in the saddlebag filled her mind. She wished she’d been able to take some food with her, her stomach growled unhappily.

It seemed forever until the last bush snagged at the legs and she and the tolerant mare reached the rolling grasslands of the eastern most edge of the Salisbury Plains. Once she reached the open land, Lisette gave the horse her head, urging it to run as fast as it dared. It turned out horses had a caution humans lacked, for the mare refused to run over the terrain she could not see. The horse refused to gallop, no matter how she kicked her heels into its flanks. Blasted sensible beast! There wasn’t time for caution. Geraint would die if she couldn’t bring him help.

Her own plight gave her less concern, though the thought of being accused as a witch sent a cold lump of fear to the pit of her stomach. When the frenzy of the mob died down her family and Geraint’s would be able to use their influence to squelch the ravings of that thieving whore and give Jen her well-earned punishment.

Her head bobbing as the long, wet night dragged on, Lisette fought to stay awake. Warmed only by the rain-soaked body of the horse, she lost herself in half-waking dreams of Ashur. His touch was fire on her flesh, tracing slowly over every inch of her skin. Their lips would meet, lightly at first, then harder and more insistently until they broke apart and she would let his mouth wander over her, kissing her neck and her breasts…

Lisette jerked awake. She was married to Geraint and he was ill. She sought Ashur only in the hope that his miraculous devices and sciences from the future could save her husband.

She sighed. Oh, but for the difference of a day, or even of an hour, she might have been Ashur’s wife. A lightning flash illuminated the landscape ahead showing her how drearily far they yet were from the forest. She cocked her head thoughtfully. But for a millennia she would never have known Ashur at all, never dreamed he or his world even existed, or would exist. How different would her life have been? She’d not have gone chasing a falling star but would have been home when Alyce became ill. Would that have changed anything? Geraint had already been wed to his peasant wife by then. She would not have loved him, but she wouldn’t have expected to love her husband, not right away at least. She would have never known the love and passion Ashur brought and wouldn’t have known what was missing from her marriage.

But she did know. Why must that loveless act of consummation, an act of penance of a man trying to dance around the edges of bigamy, keep her from he who she really loved? Lisette shifted, trying to ease her aching back and stiff legs. She wanted to scream to the clouds, shout loud enough to drown the roar of the thunder. She did know. She knew the burning touch of a man who truly desired her, not just the obligatory touch of those acting out their marital duty. She wanted Ashur. She loved Ashur. She’d sworn she’d not betray her marriage vows and, God be merciful to her, she wouldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

Her head nodded and Ashur’s hard body lowered onto hers. They were naked before a fire, wet from a steaming bath together, but overhead were not the beams of a ceiling but a wide wondrous canopy of stars.

Unlike the cautious stead carrying Lisette, Ashur was burdened with a stallion who reared wildly with each flare of lightning and bolted uncontrollably with each crash of thunder. Ashur spent the miserable night steering the creature back on course and trying to calm it when its next panic struck.

"Big, brave horse you are," Ashur told the stallion after it had lost in one frenzied burst all the ground they’d gained in the past half hour. "Terrified of a little storm." He looked up at the black clouds, closing his eyes to the beating rain and wondered if the horse were not right. Something was terribly wrong ahead, he could feel it with the same leaden certainty that told him something was wrong the day the Capellans destroyed his home. For all the horror of that day a different sort of trepidation filled him now… whatever was wrong, Lisette was caught in the heart of it.

"Oh God," he cried. Then his voice dropped to a whisper and he repeated, "Oh God." It was the first time he’d called on this God upon whom Lisette based so much of how she lived and how she thought. God knows, he thought and smiled tightly at the irony, that he’d seen hypocrisy enough in the people of this world. But he’d also seen Lisette and how she truly tried to live by what she believed, honestly repenting of her innocent slips of her moral code. There was something warm and real to her faith that Ashur found himself envying.

"Oh, God," he prayed sincerely for the first time in his life. "Take care of Lisette. Keep her safe. Please. Just let me see her once more and I promise I’ll do what’s right with her."

The lightning flashed again and the stallion reared. Ashur fought for control, keeping the beast on course toward his lady love.

Fighting to keep her eyes open, Lisette yawned widely and shook her head. Geraint’s patient roan plodded on through the rain and darkness, its head hanging low. She had to stay awake, Lisette kept telling herself. She’d nearly fallen off once as sleep had pulled her down into its black whirlpool. Lisette let the reins fall slack on the horse’s neck and was pleased it kept walking on its course. Fumbling beneath the thick coat she wore, into the pouch, she felt Baby’s shape. She pulled out the A. I. unit and unfolded it.

"Baby?"

"Hello Lisette," the pleasant voice answered. Lisette sighed. It was almost like having a companion on her journey, someone to talk to her, help keep her awake. Propping the computer’s thin shape before her on the horse’s back, Lisette asked the little machine to read to her from a twenty-second century text she’d run across earlier. With Baby’s soothing voice reading, Lisette listened to words that wouldn’t be written for another six hundred years.

The harshest part of the storm had finally passed by, leaving Barton the white stallion calmer but in a foul mood. The hard, spattering rain eased into a merely unpleasant drizzle. England in this century was nothing if not damp and inconvenient. After an eternity it seemed to Ashur that the darkness was lightening. Yes, he could begin to see hints of the landscape as the blackness turned to a murky gray.

"Thank God." Ashur decided to give thanks for the not-so-small miracle of dawn. Such a thing had never occurred to him before, was something he’d always taken for granted until he encountered this endless night of worry.

Though the sky lightened, his worries did not. The drum of the rain and the slow beat of the stallion’s hooves kept pace with the refrain repeated in his head; Lisette was in danger, Lisette was in danger.

As his view of his footing improved, the stallion willingly broke into a trot. The land flattened out and the stallion began to gallop.

Ashur swiped at his face, trying to brush the rain-soaked strands of hair out of his eyes. It was good to finally be moving faster. If only he wasn’t too late. He knew what these Capellans had done to Agnes’ home and servants. The thought of the same happening to Lisette made him feel ill. Ashur shook his head to banish the hideous image.

The stallion slowed a bit as they climbed the long slope of a low hill. To the east the sky was growing ever lighter over the black profile of the Buckholt Forest. Ashur sighed. There was still far to go. At least the rain was ending. Dropping to a walk, the stallion huffed as it reached the crest of the hill. It turned, trying to go back the way it came. Ashur fought the reins, pulling against the strength of the horse’s neck. He dug his heels in and turned Barton back toward the south.

Ashur jerked back on the reins. The stallion snorted and stopped, prancing angrily. Ashur ignored it. He stared at the sweep of land ahead. There, riding toward the north was a man on a brown horse. The heads of both man and horse hung low. The man seemed to be asleep. Neither had yet seen Ashur and the white stallion. Ashur’s heart pounded. Was it one of them? The Capellans? There’d been two. Where was the other? Stalking him? Creeping up on his flank even now? He glanced around sharply, saw nothing. Maybe it was only a sixteenth century traveler. As the horseman neared Ashur could see that the clothing seemed to be that of one of the gentry, not a cutthroat or highwayman.

Still… Ashur pulled his weapon from his pocket. He let the sighting beam play over the target, then locked in the automatic tracking. The lightest pressure on the trigger and the stranger would no longer be a problem.