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 7

Lisette spent an endless afternoon sewing with Lady Stafford. Under other circumstances she’d have found it a pleasant way to spend the day, but now she yearned to go to Ashur’s room, to speak to the strange man and learn of his secrets. There were so many things she wanted to ask him, so many things she wanted to know. Her hand strayed to the bewitched crystal.

Instead, Lisette and Lady Cicely sat across from each other on the seats of a deep window. From one of her trunks Lisette had taken her sewing kit and a linen shirt she had begun earlier in the week. She hemmed the sleeves with her tiniest stitches and considered in her mind the pattern of embroidery she would put at the edges. Her impatience lent speed to her needle, as if sewing faster would make the day pass more quickly and bring near the time she might again see and speak to Ashur.

Lady Cicely patiently ripped apart an old damask gown, meaning to turn the material and restitch it into a new dress. As she worked she talked to Lisette of various herbs and stones and their properties.

"Now the juice of the yellow daffodil," she said, "is good for the pain of little children when they breed their teeth. And if a man carries it about with him in a clean napkin it shall drive out evil spirits and madness." She glanced at Lisette’s work. "That’s a fine and costly linen. Do you sew that for Geraint?"

Lisette bent her head low over her work, as if straining to see in the gray light. She hoped her face could not be seen. "I had meant it to be for Geraint," she murmured, "but Ashur shall be needing a shirt. He has nothing to his name, I fear, but the proceeds of our charity."

The older woman nodded. "You’re good to think of it. I should see about getting some things of Geraint’s and milord Stafford’s for him." She looked out the window at the drizzle thoughtfully. "He’s a curious one, isn’t he? My husband and son think he was waylaid by vagabonds or highwaymen, but those wounds of his…" she shook her head and fell silent.

Lisette’s needle stopped. She looked up at the doubtful face of the woman across from her. "What is it? What about his wounds?"

"Well, they just aren’t such as would be caused by robbers, not with fists, nor knives, nor swords. I don’t know what to make of it."

Lisette bent again to her stitching, her needle flashing rapidly, and pondered. "He’s a man of mysteries, to be sure," she commented carefully.

"Aye, true enough that," Lady Cicely agreed heartily.

They sewed companionably throughout the damp afternoon. Lisette ran her fingers over the needlework she’d put at the sleeves and collars of the shirt. In greens and browns she’d stitched a pattern of vines and leaves with tiny glimmers of gold thread highlighting the leaves as if they were touched by the sun. Worked in amongst the pattern, at the underside of one of the sleeves where it wouldn’t be seen by a casual observer, she’d used fine threads of gold to create a tiny shooting star. Where the star fell was a nest of leaves, and if one looked at it just right, one could discern the faint image of a wood nymph peeking shyly from behind the leaves. It was some of the finest embroidery she’d ever done.

Lisette smiled secretively to herself as she turned it this way and that in the waning light admiring the subtlety of the work.

The men returned to the castle as darkness came too early on this stormy May eve. They stomped into the Great Hall, talking loudly and laughing, mud on their boots and clothes trailing in clumps behind them across the floor. Lisette shrank meekly into a corner, feeling lost and alone in this great crowd. She thought again how different this large, noisy retinue of esquires, servants and gentlemen differed from the quiet, intimate gatherings at her family’s manor. Such a staff there must be just to feed this lot, she thought, again awed at the tremendous wealth and prestige of this noble family that had chosen her, lowly second daughter of a knight and Lord Mayor of an inconsequential village, to be the vessel of their family’s future and inheritance.

Lord Stafford and several of his young gentlemen left the Hall leaving Geraint, who had been muttering to his father in a low voice, standing where he was. Lisette’s attention was wholly focused on them as they chose the circular stone stairway that led to Ashur’s chamber. She fervently wished she could follow them and hear their conversation with Ashur. Instead she edged closer to Geraint.

If he was still angry with her he didn’t show it. "I told Father what I think of that man, and he’s gone to see for himself. Couldn’t take my word for it, you know," Geraint mumbled to her, his eyes, too, on the stairway, listening to the clomp of boots and the clamor of voices echoing through the stone corridors.

Around them in the Hall, Lady Stafford bustled about, directing the maids and servers. She appeared to hesitate by the hearth where a man was piling in a mountain of wood and shaving bits of kindling in preparation to start the fire.

"The fire will feel good," Lisette commented, watching. "It’s been a chilly day."

"Aye," Geraint agreed in a low murmur, "and this stone behemoth does nothing to keep out the cold, and little enough to keep out the damp. I could wish for a warm and cozy manor such as your family has."

Lisette glanced at Geraint in mild surprise. How could the rich son of an earl, no doubt destined to be an earl himself, with properties and influence and position even conceive of envy for one of lower status? But then she reflected fondly on the warm closeness she shared with her father as they’d spend their evenings huddled together in the library reading and discussing their books, or chatting pleasantly with her mother and sisters over their needlework. Most noble families didn’t even raise their own children, sending them first to nurses then to tutors and patrons. The thought chilled her.

She turned to Geraint, about to speak, when she noticed him nodding, watching his mother. "Yes, yes," he murmured, "mustn’t waste wood, not at the price it is now." Hands fluttering as she directed the servant, the fellow sullenly pulled out more than half of the wood from the hearth, stacking it to the side. "The price of wood has risen frightfully in past months."

Lisette twisted the ruby ring round and round on her finger. The worth of this was surely great, yet, she considered, how far would even this go to feed and maintain this enormous household?

"Where’s your ring?" she blurted, regretting the prying question even as it leaped from her mouth.

Geraint looked startled, glanced at the ruby on her finger and, it seemed to Lisette, tried to ease his own hands out of sight. "You have it still, my pledge ring," he answered after too long a pause.

"No, the other ring, with the small emerald."

Geraint mumbled something Lisette couldn’t make out about "obligations," the remainder of his answer lost in the clomping of boots on the stairs and booming voices. Gently, Geraint raised her hand, bending low over it, he brushed it with his lips, sending surprising tingles of pleasure through Lisette.

"Forgive me," he murmured and swiftly vanished down the dark passageway.

Like the icy kiss of a ghost on her flesh, Lisette shivered as a sudden breeze sent a gust of wind through the cold stone passageway. The last vestiges of the warmth of Geraint’s lips on her hand faded rapidly.

Lisette glanced toward the stairs and when she looked back Geraint was gone, moved away from her across the hall.

The meal was a repeat of the night before, save that the meat was a day past its best and the breads were hard. Lisette did her best to eat the fruit, daintily peeling the mushy, unwashed pears, remainders of last summer’s crop, with her jeweled knife. Seated beside Geraint at the high table, facing the other two tables stretched down the length of the room, she felt removed from the laughter and talk ebbing and flowing around her. Geraint said not a word the entire meal. Quietly, Lisette contemplated the immense changes in her world in these past few days.

Lord Stafford’s strong voice drew her immediately back from her reveries. He’d said Ashur’s name.

"…well, you’ve heard his speech, tell me if I’m wrong, but he speaks low in the back of his throat like a German, and that flat way of shaping the words, he’s certainly not English, nor French nor Italian." Lord Stafford used his dagger, with a chunk of meat impaled on it, as a pointer for emphasis. "And you notice the pretty way he dances around his family name and position. He’s a Hapsburg, I tell you. God’s blood, I’m sure of it! Maybe the bastard son of the Emperor himself."

Lisette leaned back, listening to the speculations. Somehow none of it struck her as being quite right. Ashur came from far away, of that she was sure, but from where? She longed to find out, to probe his mysteries, share his secrets, but that chance was unlikely to come.

"Mistress Weston," Lord Stafford leaned around Geraint to address her. "The day after the morrow I shall be leaving for the Court in Greenwich to attend business. You will come with me as far as your aunt’s home, where I shall safely deliver you as are your father’s wishes."

Only one more day then she’d likely never see Ashur again, she wailed inwardly. He’d be lost to time and vain fantasies. Never again would she gaze upon his unclothed form, nor feel the fire within that the touch of his hand or look in his eye sparked within her. Lisette swallowed hard, laid down her knife and answered as she was expected. "I am grateful, and offer my father’s gratitude as well for your kind keeping of me as one of your own family."

He smiled at her in that measuring, counting way of his. "As if you were my own daughter. Which soon you will be." Jovially, he slapped Geraint on the shoulder, not noticing, as Lisette did, that Geraint did not smile at the prospect.

After the meal several of the young men sang while others took turns at wrestling on the floor. Not seeing Geraint in their midst, Lisette crept quietly back to the chapel, feeling her way in the dark. There he was, as she expected, kneeling before the alter. His body swayed slightly. Even in the dim light of the alter candles she could see his knuckles were white with the intensity of his grip. As quietly as she had come, Lisette slipped away, again wondering at Geraint’s torment of the soul, wondering why he’d said ‘forgive me’.

She found a window, near enough to the Hall that she could hear the revelry echoing through the stone corridors as distant whispers. Resisting her efforts, the rusty hinges finally relented with a groan, letting her push open the window. Above, the sky was clearing, the thick clouds moving away in time for a hint of rose to color the western sky. The first stars of the night were already bright above, she leaned out to gaze up at them.

No shooting stars, nor portents, nor marvels blazed in the sky tonight. Only the stars that usually graced the night met her inquisitive eyes. A wonder lasts nine days, the proverb said. Her wonder would be far briefer, ending in another day as her life returned to its proscribed course, to her duties and obligations to God, to family, to husband, to home and hearth, to King and country… to everyone save herself.

Lisette breathed in the cool night air, lighter and more refreshing with the passage of the rain. Within, her emotions churned in disarray. Deep inside she bore one idea with absolute conviction, she’d been guided to Ashur for a purpose. What she was less certain of was whether that purpose had been met. Was her role with this strange man completed? Over? Gone? Oh, please… no!

Half drunk from the wine and dizzy from that woman’s ghastly potions, Ashur nevertheless felt considerably better. More likely it was the general immunities and system boosters his century’s medical science gave him that made the difference than anything these barbarians did. Aware that he was immune to virtually all the germs or diseases the twenty-sixth century had to offer, he hoped that the sixteenth century didn’t offer anything lost to time that could defeat his own time’s medical defenses.

He also hoped he could meet the other challenges set before him. Of that Ashur was far, far less certain.

Interesting to meet his benefactor, and sweet Lisette’s future father-in-law, Lord Henry Stafford, Earl of Wiltshire, as he’d loudly proclaimed. And as pompous an ass as ever brayed. He put Ashur in mind of a financier, ever calculating and shifting resources to see what advantage he could suck from them. Ashur wondered what Lisette’s cash value was to this man and if she realized it.

Money… now there was a problem. Ashur rather suspected that his credit would not be terribly useful here and now. What coin would be treasured here? Gold. Obviously, the prize of all less advanced cultures. He could strip some from the components of his ship, but too much and he’d risk never flying her again.

Struggling upward out of the lumpy feather mattress, Ashur was relieved to discover his pains were much less. In another day or two he’d be well again. Even that was longer than such piddlingly small injuries should take to mend, but here his ‘swift’ recovery would likely be taken as a miracle.

Limping and holding his side, Ashur made his way to the narrow window. The effort of opening it made him gasp, but he was rewarded by a clear view of the northwestern sky. There was the Big Dipper, distinct and huge in the sky, tilted over upside-down. He followed the edge of the Dipper’s cup as a pointer down and west toward the low horizon until he reached a brilliant, first magnitude star in a constellation called The Charioteer, Auriga. That bright star was Capella, a star much like Earth’s own, with planets, one in particular, very like Earth. It was the star that cursed him, it was the star that brought him to this place and this time, it was the star that cost him his parents, his world, his life. It was the star Ashur had destroyed.

What wish would she cast toward a falling star this night, Lisette pondered as she idly scanned the sky. On the May Day night so short a time ago, even as her future husband had clasped her arm in concern for her safety, she’d recklessly wished to find true love. So far she’d found only confusion… and Ashur.

The course of lives, loves and fortunes were supposed to be charted in the movements of the stars and the six planets. If she leaned far enough out the window she could see Venus, the planet of love, the woman’s planet, following near to the setting sun. Was Mars in the sky tonight? Did its red, masculine heat pursue Venus’ cool light? Did these points of light truly guide her life? All the wise men, priests and cardinals and pope, said it was so. But, she thought darkly, there were many things wise men said that she knew weren’t so.

A bright star near the horizon drew her attention. It sparkled in the sky just above the silhouettes of the willow trees. Rising tendrils of fog from the marsh tried vainly to reach up and envelope that star, as if to obscure it from view.

"Ah, there you are," a voice came from behind her. Her face ruddy in the glow of the candle she carried, Lady Cicely approached. "Not watching the singing and games?"

Lisette shook her head. "I felt suddenly… odd. It’s so different from the quiet of Weston Manor."

"Um… the lads do get a wee bit rambunctious, and I do confess, rather bawdy at times. Not entirely suited to a young maid of good character. But seeing as you have little time left together I thought I’d find you with your Geraint."

"He’s at prayer," Lisette said.

Geraint’s step-mother sighed. The candle light danced madly over the stone walls as her breath disturbed the flame. "He spends far too much time on his knees. He ought to be keeping company with you."

Lisette shrugged. "There are worse things a young man could find to engage his time."

"Aye. That’s true enough." She peered searchingly at Lisette. "Are you lonely, dear girl? Homesick?"

"Yes. A bit, I suppose." She leaned back against the windowsill, looking back out at the night. "It’s strange to not wake up with little Alyce there beside me. I do worry about her. She’s not strong. It’s the little things I’ll miss the most. The cook yelling at the milkmaid every morn, sunny afternoons sewing with Mother, reading in the eve with Father…" She smiled toward future mother-in-law. "‘Twas pleasant sewing with you this afternoon. I imagine we will be able to do that often once Geraint and I are wed and I’m living here."

Lady Cicely put her hand to her mouth, looking flustered. "Oh, my. Weren’t you told? No, of course not, it’s men’s business and they’d never think to tell we women no matter how it affects us."

"Tell me what?"

"You’ll not be living here. We’ve a small property to the east where you and Geraint will be living."

Lisette gulped. "Alone?" she asked timorously.

Lady Cicely nodded. "The nearest village is not more than a mile distant, though I think there are none of suitable station residing there. The house is small. There are no servant’s quarters. There is a fine old couple who tends the place that lives in a small croft nearby." She reached to pat the girl’s shoulder soothingly. "You’ll find it a goodly cottage for you and Geraint to learn the ways of marriage together. A couple newly wed should have privacy, time to get to know each other and build bonds of love and familiarity."

Trying not to let her voice shake, Lisette asked, "How far away is it?"

"You’ll be about mid-distant between your family’s manor and your aunt’s estate, but to the south, near the village of West Dean."

Lisette tried to picture it in her mind. True, it was not far from Weston Manor, save that there were no direct roads and the thick tangle of the forest lay in between. A man on horse could make the distance in short order, but for her… it may as well be the moon. Lisette was glad that the darkness hid the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. One small consolation presented itself. Some of her Aunt Agnes’ lands lay near to West Dean. If only Agnes was nearby, then she’d have some solace, some companionship.

Forcing back the tears resolutely, for she’d not be seen as a weak and weepy woman, Lisette turned to Geraint’s mother. "Thank you for telling me."

Lady Cicely patted Lisette’s shoulder. "Marriage can be strange and lonely at first, but you’ll be fine. In fact, I believe it was Geraint who first suggested it. Come now," she said. "I sought you out to aid me in tending to our guest, the Lord Ashur."

Lisette’s heart quickened a tad at the mention of his name, and noted with interest that she referred to him as ‘lord’. Henry Stafford’s opinion of Ashur’s noble origins were being accepted. As she rose to follow, Lisette glanced once more out the window into the velvety night, at the fog reaching vainly up toward the low, bright star.

So lost was he in his broodings that Ashur didn’t hear the door, nor notice the two women enter the chamber until he heard a melodious voice say, "Milord Ashur?"

He turned to see Lisette illuminated by the golden glow of a candle. The hair framing her face glistened, as did her wide, innocent eyes. She reminded him of the fauns on Elysium, ten centuries and ten hundred light years away. "Lisette," he said and grinned. He’d once hunted the fauns on Elysium, he recalled, his smile fading.

From behind Lisette the imposing shape of that archaic charlatan appeared. Mercifully, she only carried a candle in her hands. Ashur repressed the urge to gag at the sight of her and the memory of her revolting brew.

"I’d not thought to find you up and about, sir," the woman said, sounding disappointed not to find him dead… or near enough to it that she could conduct further experiments in herbalistic horror. She moved to the bedstead, lighting a candle on the table. Ashur’s nose wrinkled at the smell of burning tallow. He hadn’t been able to figure out how to light the candle with the materials on the table, though he suspected there was a way. Lisette, he noticed, from her docilely lowered face, never took her eyes off of Ashur. The fauns had been like that, until the moment he’d destroyed them. Ashur swallowed hard. The older woman began busily fussing with her concoctions, while casting dubious glances Ashur’s way.

Recovering his aplomb, Ashur bowed as far as his aching ribs allowed. "Your excellent care, Madame, has quite thoroughly cured me," he lied in hearty self-defense.

"Hmmph." She stared at him as though she expected him to fall over as she watched. Ashur suppressed a sigh of relief when she put down her potions and closed the lid on a container. "Well, then… on the morrow we’ll take off those bindings and see how you’re mending." She shook her head. "It’s little short of a miracle to see you thus. Until the morn, then." She turned to leave, Lisette obediently moving to follow. The woman paused. "Still and all, like as not this is naught but the medicines giving you a false relief from the pain and you’ll be back at death’s doorstep in the morning."

And the same to you, you wrinkled vulture, Ashur wished her silently while maintaining his innocuous smile. Before Lisette closed the door her mouth twisted into a quick, teasing grin that Ashur realized at once was wholly improper for a lady here in the past.

As the soft footsteps diminished and the eerie, too-quiet night settled in on him again, Ashur listened to the murmurs of the night. He was keenly aware of the lack of sounds, familiar to him, alien to these people. No hum of machinery broke the stillness. Neither did the omnipresent low rumble of people, millions of voices combining into a single sound. No footsteps, nor traffic beneath the ground, on the surface and above in the air. Instead he heard only the wind through the trees and the cry of an animal he could not identify--no doubt extinct in his time, or confined to a zoo.

This castle, he realized, was an isolated island without communication or easy transportation to connect it to the rest of this world. In this sky, with its stars unsullied by pollutants or dimmed by lights of vast cities, no satellites orbited, no ships flew. Not only was this castle alone, so was this whole world in an even vaster, lonelier gulf of time and space… so was Ashur.

Making his way back to the bed, Ashur sank gratefully down into it. He was not feeling so well as he told Lady Stafford, but in all truth he’d rather die than swallow another mouthful of roasted toad gruel.

As he drifted into sleep and dreams of destruction and pursuit, of being lost in a vast darkness, Ashur tried to itemize his problems and put them in order. But there were too many and all were equally dire. The sweet face of Lisette swam up before his vision, giving him some comfort as he slept.