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 5

Ashur lay still on the bed, trying to breath lightly. Too deep a breath sent shattering pain through his side. The disorientation of waking and the delightful distraction of that oddly garbed female… what did she call herself?… Lisette?… were fading, bringing his attention all too clearly to his many hurts. Why did it hurt, he wondered again. Doctors and hospitals never let a person feel pain, or never more than a token twinge to remind them to take caution with parts still mending. Something must be very wrong.

He searched the room with his eyes again, thoroughly this time, pausing to contemplate each detail. Above him was a canopy just crude enough in construction to fetch a high price for its authentic look by some trendy, terra-nostalgia designer. Dusty cobwebs graced the canopy’s peak, no doubt an artificial touch.

“Lights,” he said hopefully. Nothing happened. “Computer, voice control.” Nothing. An uneasy sensation began to creep over him. In his rush to escape he’d programmed in coordinates the ship was never meant to accept. He’d yanked out the temporal override circuits by force and fed his own, rough calculations into the system. The girl had spoken English, though with a strange accent. He was familiar with most of the colony worlds…

“Computer?” he tried again, then tried a dozen other possible commands in as many languages. The room remained frighteningly inert.

Turning his head toward the far wall he saw a window deep set in a thick wall of stone and crumbly masonry. The glass, if it indeed was glass, was wavy and milky, full of imperfections. Crude. Primitive. The words repeated endlessly to Ashur as he scanned each detail of the room from the dried weeds scattered haphazardly across a less-than-clean floor to the scratchy sheets made of too-thick, uneven threads that covered him. This was detail beyond even museum quality, he realized. And no museum, nor the most accurate decorator, would ever try to recreate that smell. Where in the universe could he be?

Fighting the exhaustion that tried to overtake him, Ashur reviewed the events that had led him to this place. He’d hailed Salisbury Port for landing guidance but received no answer. Onboard systems had been trying to tell him something, that he’d made a mistake of some sort or that something was malfunctioning. But it was too late to explore the problem, his trajectory took him into the atmosphere at too steep of an angle. Primary ground receivers, secondary… all had given no feedback. The systems couldn’t handle the strain. He’d slammed it into manual and fought the controls as the heat and turbulence grew more intense. He remembered stealing a glance out the port. It had been too dark across the British Isles. Something catastrophic must have happened down there, natural disaster perhaps, to wipe out all their systems. Or had Earth been drawn into the war? A fraction of the sky came within his field of vision as the ship rolled. The stars were wrong. Not greatly wrong… Ashur put his hand to his aching head, trying to remember exactly what it was that had so terribly distracted him that he fouled the landing… Auriga, that was it. He’d seen the constellation of Auriga, the Charioteer, off to the north. In it, shining with serene first magnitude brightness, had been the star Capella. Ashur gaped at it, astounded… at just the wrong moment. Failsafes took over and he heard a grinding tear before a terrible blackness slammed into him.

The Latin chants and litanies soothed Lisette’s nerves even further as she listened to Mass in the Stafford’s private chapel. Each morning and each evening a priest from the nearby priory at Wilton came to perform the service for the family, she’d been told, in exchange, no doubt, for a goodly consideration of gold. Lisette knew of that monastery. It was wealthy indeed, controlling many acres of fine land, farmed by the peasants for the monks.

Lisette took advantage of a long prayer to covertly glance around her. She was unsurprised to find Lord Stafford’s hawkish eyes peering frankly unabashed at the gathered company, measuring each, Lisette included. She stiffened her back and looked the other way. Lady Stafford’s lips moved silently, praying different words than those of the priest. The gentlemen and squires of Lord Stafford’s household generally appeared bored, their squirming held at bay by Lord Stafford’s scowls of displeasure. Servants and maids stood in the back, shifting from foot to foot. But it was Geraint who most grasped her attention. His face was contorted in an expression of anguish, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles showed white. What private torment could he possibly be facing? What sins or burdens so great? Lisette’s own hands clenched more tightly. She knew of nothing in Geraint’s life that could cause such disturbance… save their impending marriage.

After the service was ended, Lisette lingered in the chapel for a moment, watching Geraint move to the railing and kneel to continue his prayers. The other gentlemen exited as quickly as propriety allowed. She saw Henry Stafford approach the monk and hand him a small purse. The monk peeked in, hesitated, and said something that earned him a harsh glare from Lord Stafford. The priest caused the pouch to disappear into his robes, bowed and left.

Lisette slipped away before Lord Stafford saw her there. Seeking out Lady Cicely, she found her in a small room filled with chests and boxes. The walls and ceilings were hung with dried herbs. A rich, spicy aroma filled the room. Lisette inhaled deeply of the rich assortment of scents of the small apothecary.

“Come in, my child.” Lady Cicely beckoned her. She held a wooden box on her lap, sorting through its contents. Ducking under some hanging herbs, Lisette entered, finding a place to sit beside Lady Stafford on a rough hewn bench. “Here,” she said taking a stem with dried pink flowers on it. “This is centaury. It grows in pastures. Very bitter to the tongue, but it is good for fevers and bleeding. That man…”

“Ashur,” Lisette interposed. “He told me that was his name. He gave no other.”

“Ashur has only a scant fever now, but we shall give this to him for safety’s sake. And a rock crystal for him to hold to cool the fevers.”

Lisette touched the dried plant and looked about the room. There were dozens of plant types, many of which she could not even name. “So much to know,” she said. “Where did you learn all these things? Who taught you?”

“I learned here and there over the years. Much from a physician my father kept in his employ. Such learning that man had. He’d read Aristotle’s writings in the Greek and the Secrets of Albertus Magnus in Latin, and spoke English, Italian and French as well. Then he honed his science throughout the years. And, as you know, I’ve borne a good many children. I’ve learned much from the midwives and doctors who tended me.

“This one,” she said holding up a plant with bizarrely twisted roots, “is mandrake. When plucked from the ground it screams. And here, periwinkle. When cooked with houseleeks and meat and eaten by a man and wife it will cause love between them.”

Lisette touched the herb, committing the lessons to memory. “You mentioned willow for Ashur’s pain,” she said.

“Yes. When steeped in a tea it provides some ease,” she rummaged though the chest. “I fear we shall have to gather some afresh, though.” She glanced toward the narrow slit that served as a window. Rain still fell in an endless drizzle. “And I’ve other potions in mind to heal and strengthen him. Though, I must tell you child, I do fear his injuries too severe for him to survive even with the best the science of medicine can provide.”

“I can gather the willow, if you’ll permit, Madame. I’ve a heavy cloak and I saw the willows from my window,” Lisette offered. She hoped Geraint’s mother didn’t notice her eagerness to tend Ashur, to be near him.

Lisette lifted her skirts immodestly high in a futile attempt to keep them from the wet grass. The sheep and cattle didn’t venture so close to the soft ground of the marsh so the grass had not been cropped down. Lisette already regretted that she had ventured here, too. The muddy ground was treacherous, sucking at her shoes and leaving water filling into her tracks.

When finally she accomplished her mission, she was soaked and thoroughly chilled. The heavy woolen cloak had shed the rain well enough from her back, but where it met in the front the rain had reached her gown. The hems of her skirts, as well as her chemise, were muddy and wet. She hoped the rain hadn’t ruined her pearled hood.

Lady Cicely exclaimed over the sodden mess, chastising herself for not insisting on sending a servant instead. She helped Lisette out of the cloak and had one of her maids hang it by the fire. The damp wool steaming by the fire smelled good to Lisette’s nose. It reminded her of times when she was little and her father took her with him to barter their crop of wool. Or with her mother, watching the servants spin and weave the mound of fluffy wool.

Excusing herself, Lisette returned to her chamber to change. Moments later a knock at the door brought a pasty-faced maid in a torn, too-small dress to bring her the basin of warm water she’d requested. She pulled off the blessedly unspoiled cap, loosening her braids. Draping her wet gown and chemise over the chair, Lisette shivered as she washed in the warm water. She’d not thought to bring her own soap and there was none to be had here but harsh lye. She did have soothing rose cream with her to soften her hands later though. Lisette dried, wishing they’d lay in a fire but it would be a frivolous use of wood this far into the spring. Looking to her trunks, she realized that not all her chests had been brought to the room. She had only the wet, gray wool and the too-chilly silk of yesterday, no other dresses at hand.

Lisette pondered for a minute. All the gentlemen and men-servants of the household were gone about their business for the day, only Lady Cicely and her maids would be about. With firm decision, she pulled on the light silk chemise, not bothering to pull the ties closed at the neck. The sheer material warmed her not at all, but at least it was dry. Lacing and fastening the complex closings of the gown itself was far too much effort for so brief a trek. Boldly, her bare feet slapping on the stone floor, Lisette set about in search of Lady Cicely and her maids to fetch her missing baggage.

Now sure of her route through this ancient labyrinth, Lisette started to where she’d last seen the mistress of the household going down a narrow spiraling stairway, down a passage and another stairway. Resolutely, she passed the door to Ashur’s chamber without a sideways glance. Scarcely had she gone three steps beyond it, however, when she heard a moan from the room that gripped her heart. Heedless of her attire she dashed into the room. She found Ashur sitting upright on the edge of the bed, holding his ribs. Even injured and bound in bandages, his half-clothed form caused her to catch her breath.

“What happened? Are you all right?” she demanded.

Ashur stared at her in a way that sent a rush of heat over her body. His dark eyes drifted slowly up her body. Lisette felt them looking at her like torches searing over her flesh. He lingered long over her breasts, barely concealed by the thin silk, up to the bare skin above at the open, low neckline of the smock until, after an endless time, to meet her eyes. Though he still took cautiously shallow breaths, Ashur seemed to have forgotten his pain. “I thought I’d get up and take a look around. Bad idea,” he said. His gaze flicked over her again and she felt wholly naked before his probing eyes. “You look… radiant. I like this much better than that thick dress, or that thing you had on your head last time.”

Lisette shifted from flustered embarrassment blended with concern to anger at his brazen comments, not to mention insulting her gable hood. Why, that had cost a pretty shilling and not a lady at Court in London could boast one finer or more fashionable.

“You’ll mind your tongue, you bold knave,” she scolded, moving even as she did to help him lie back onto the bed. She was, perhaps, rougher with her hands pushing him back down than she intended.

“I’m sorry, Lisette. I meant no offense,” he apologized between gritted teeth.

“You’ll address me as Mistress Weston,” she ordered, surprised at her own spark of courage. Smoothing the bedclothes back over him, she smiled to assuage her sharpness. “You’re a stranger here, as your manner of speech makes clear, and injured as well. I ought not have scolded you.”

“A stranger, indeed.” He studied her in a way that sent another flush creeping up her neck. “I, uh, I’m not even sure where I am.”

“You’re at the estate of Lord Henry Stafford, Earl of Wiltshire, near Salisbury,” she said.

The answer didn’t seem to satisfy him. “Salisbury,” he repeated softly. His brow furrowed and he frowned. “And, if you’ll pardon my confusion, miz… miss… mistress, I mean… What is the date?”

“Why, it’s the third day of May. We found you yesterday and brought you here in the eve.” He swallowed and she wondered why that information troubled him so. Was he expected elsewhere? Would family or friends be worried by his delay? “I’m sure Lord Stafford would be glad to send a messenger to tell of your whereabouts, if you wish it.”

He shook his head slightly. “I’m very much afraid that wouldn’t help.” His next question quite startled her. As if summoning all his courage, his full voice barely a whisper he asked, “Mistress Weston… what year?”

Ashur had never been one to pray, but he did send a most sincere prayer up to whatever God or gods there might be in the eternity between his question and Lisette’s answer.

The beautiful girl looked baffled but answered evenly, “It’s the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and eighteen.”

Ashur examined Lisette again, savoring the rich brown of the braid that trailed over her shoulder, the tantalizing swell of her breasts, the way her tightly crinkled nipples peeked teasingly through the translucent gown… If he pictured her as a dryad, dancing naked in the sun and shadows of a mythical forest then, maybe then, he wouldn’t have to think about her words.

It was no use. In the span of those simple words the universe crashed in on Ashur. Fifteen eighteen. That’s why the isle of England was dark, the only lights were those of torch and candle flame. That’s why a star long since novaed still burned bright in the night sky. And that’s why the port hadn’t answered his call. There wasn’t anyone who could answer, and there wouldn’t be, not for another thousand years.