A Child of Promise Read online

  A Child of Promise

  Jill Stengl

  Copyright

  © 1998 by Barbour Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Truly Yours, PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  one

  The young lions do lack, and suffer hunger: but they that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing. Psalm 34:10

  A light evening breeze with a lingering hint of winter rustled the fresh green leaves of ancient beeches, rowans, oaks, and hazels. Sunlight struggled to pierce hazy gray clouds; the wildflowers dotting a small clearing lifted their bright heads to find each infrequent ray. A red squirrel scolded bitterly from his perch in a crooked oak, disturbed by noisy intruders below.

  “Oi! Go to, thou thieving beast!” a laughing voice echoed through the trees, intermixed with ferocious growls. A small, scruffy dog gripped one edge of a flat cloth hat between his sharp teeth while a young man, not long past boyhood, held the other edge with both hands. Round and round the forest clearing they spun, the dog growling and tossing his head from side to side. The hat’s owner allowed the dog to tow him along, his arms swinging loosely though his grip was firm. “Thought to fool me, did you, Ragwort? Thought to catch me unaware? Think again, scurvy knave!”

  Black, close-cropped hair lifted in the breeze as the man spun about. Strong white teeth flashed through his sparse beard. A coarse holland shirt lay open at his brown throat; its rolled-up sleeves revealed sinewy forearms. Gray woolen hose hugged long, lean legs; the lacings of his skirted jerkin hung loose. Rather like a lumbering puppy himself, the young man sported enormous feet and hands in keeping with a large, raw-boned frame. He radiated youthful exuberance and good health.

  It was a ludicrous mismatch of strength, yet the tiny dog appeared to be winning. Another dog, a tall hound, squatted in the grass on the other side of the clearing, its sharp muzzle open in an apparent smile. “Do you also make jest of me, Laitha?” the man called, his tone gentle. The hound dropped to the ground and rolled to her back, wagging her entire rear half.

  While watching her antics in pleased surprise, the man slipped on a crushed dockweed. He fell to one knee, then rolled over in the grass, his broad, bony shoulders demolishing more wildflowers. One hand still gripped the hat, and Ragwort redoubled his efforts, fiercely growling as he tugged the man’s arm over his head at an awkward angle. The man laughed helplessly, allowing the dog to pull his arm back and forth above his head.

  Suddenly the terrier dropped the hat and stared, ears alert. A low “woof” from Laitha brought the man scrambling to his feet. The greyhound stood like a sentinel, her nose pointing in the direction of possible danger—behind the man’s back. He spun in place, crouched defensively, one hand reaching to the knife sheath at his side.

  At the edge of the clearing stood a pony; on its back perched a girl. A gust of wind rustled the oak towering over her, scattering shadows across the child’s white face.

  The man relaxed, straightening. “Ah, well met, maiden. What do you seek here?” His voice was pleasant, though he inwardly berated himself for lack of attentiveness.

  He presumed that she was of gentle birth, for she possessed a horse and her clothing appeared fine; but closer inspection caused him to wonder. The pony wore neither bridle nor saddle. Bare feet and skinny legs dangled below the ragged edge of the child’s kirtle. The grime edging her pale face appeared to be of long standing. Bony wrists extended far beyond the gathered edges of her smock sleeves. Huge dark eyes regarded him with an expression of mingled wonder and apprehension. Was she lost?

  “Art thou a wicked man or a good man?”

  The low question raised his brows. “A good man, I hope, though every man has the wicked sin nature within. Why do you ask thusly, child?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Art thou a wizard?”

  He sobered. “Nay, I have no such evil craft. I am a bond-servant of Jesus Christ, devoted to His service.”

  “Thou art a priest, then?”

  “Not so, maiden. I am but a simple craftsman. Harry the joiner, at your service.” He flourished his rather moist hat and made a graceful bow.

  “I saw thee not ere this day. Thou art a foreigner—not of this parish. Do you have leave to encamp upon manor grounds? Sir David Marston does not take kindly to vagabonds.” Her tone was formal and proud, and he wondered again about her station.

  “I have leave. I am in Sir David’s employ, maiden.”

  “What is thy trade?” Genuine curiosity colored the question, so he excused her impertinence.

  “I am a joiner, as I said. I craft woodwork. You are welcome to share my pottage, and I shall play thee a tune upon my lute.” Though but a child, she was company.

  “I have supped.” Belatedly she added, “I thank you,” with a respect that had been lacking at first.

  Ragwort had by now worked up enough courage to approach her pony and sniff around its hooves. The pony lowered its head and snorted. Ragwort scooted quickly away, barking shrilly. Another low “woof” answered, and the hound moved farther into the clearing, hesitant to approach.

  “What ails thy hound?” Bending over her pony’s neck, the girl tried to gain a closer view of the dog’s face. “It behaves strangely.”

  “Come near, Laitha.” Harry the joiner bent to touch the hound’s head as she slowly approached. At first Laitha cringed away, but as he continued to speak softly and stroke her smooth head, she leaned against his leg and heaved a grateful sigh. Her backside began to wiggle as though wagged by a tail, but no tail was visible, only a ragged stump.

  Harry looked up to find that the girl had dismounted. Leading her pony by its forelock, she stepped over a clump of bluebells, her eyes glued to the white hound.

  “Speak to Laitha as you approach; she cannot see you,” he instructed, still stroking the dog’s hard, bony side with one hand.

  The child stopped a few feet away, horror twisting her face. “Why, she possesses neither eyes nor ears! What hast thou done to her?”

  Laitha cringed, sinking down at Harry’s feet. Empty eye sockets gaped with ghastly entreaty as she turned her slender muzzle to her master; pathetic stumps framed naked pink ear canals. “Nay, lass, the child shall harm thee not,” Harry crooned, his hands caressing the dog’s head, which had once been attractive, marked with brindled patches over each eye and ear.

  “Last Michaelmas I came upon Laitha in Epping Forest, blood soaked and nigh death. I can only guess wherefore. Perhaps she angered a lord with timidity on the stag hunt; perhaps she made chase to a hare; perhaps she was simply too slow.”

  Dropping the pony’s forelock, the girl sat down tailor fashion and reached out to the dog. “Laitha,” she called, her low voice pleading. “Come hither, Laitha. I will harm thee not.” Patiently she coaxed while Harry studied her.

  Her laced waistcoat and kirtle of cranberry red were torn and faded, the embroidered edging missing many threads. Her soiled cap slipped back to reveal greasy hair of an indeterminate hue. Was it red? Odd, with those dark eyes. Long, slender fingers wiggled as she entreated the dog to come to her. These were not the hands of a peasant child.

  The little terrier made the first move. Quivering tail held like a pikestaff over his back, he took cautious steps closer to those outstretched fingers, his black nose twitching. Soon he was happily seated in her lap, his pink tongue lolling as she scratched his wiry back. Laitha still pressed agai
nst the joiner’s leg.

  “You have charmed Ragwort,” Harry observed. “He has eyes to behold thine honest face.”

  “Alas for Laitha!” she sighed. “Do you think she will e’er trust another?”

  “I know not. Perchance in time you shall win her.”

  Ragwort’s button eyes twinkled merrily. The girl’s lips softened in the first semblance of a smile. “Ragwort pleases me.”

  “And you please him.” Harry smiled. “Tell me thy name,” he ordered gently.

  Those dark eyes flew to his face, alert and suspicious once again; but after a careful search of his countenance the child replied, “I am called Maela.”

  “May Ella?”

  “Nay, Maela.” Her eyes narrowed. “Ishmaela Andromeda Trenton.”

  Under that challenging glare he dared not smile. “ ’Tis a pleasure to make thine acquaintance, my lady.” This designation must certainly accompany her surname. Trenton was the nearest village, and ancient Castle Trent dominated the local skyline.

  But her lips curled. “I am no lady.” Gently dumping Ragwort from her lap, she leaped to her feet and marched across the clearing, leaving her pony to graze at will. Harry looked from her to the pony, then, tugging its forelock, led the obliging little horse after its mistress.

  Maela headed directly for Harry’s small camp and stood with hands on hips to survey it. An empty two-wheeled cart leaned on its shafts beside a crate of clucking chickens. A woolly spotted donkey lifted its head, letting out a raspy bray in greeting. Beside the makings of a fire rested an assortment of iron pots and utensils, a few wooden bowls and spoons, and a smooth board. A bucket full of vegetables waited where Harry had left it to chase Ragwort.

  “You dwell here among the trees? Why not at the manor with other hirelings?”

  “I prefer peace and solitude to noise and squalor,” he explained. “I sleep alone and care for mine own needs.” Releasing the pony, he began chopping vegetables for his pottage, squatting beside the iron pot of water. The dogs flopped down beneath the cart, Laitha’s head resting across Ragwort’s back.

  “You cook? Mend thine own clothes?”

  “What I do not for myself, I purchase or take in trade.”

  The child shook her head. “What manner of man is this? Never heard I of one such.” She sounded disapproving, yet admiring. “You have need of nothing and no one.”

  “Nay, not so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have need of the Lord God. It is He that provides mine every need, as He promised in His Word. Lions do lack and suffer hunger, but they that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing.”

  She did not respond. Those eyes watched his every move.

  “What age have you, child?”

  “Thirteen last January. And you?”

  “Nineteen last March. I had guessed thee at ten years.”

  “And I took thee for a man grown!”

  He frowned, though his lips twisted in amusement. “I am a man grown. I have been on mine own these many years.”

  “You do rove about the land as a vagrant?”

  His reply dripped with irony. “I do pause to lay hand upon work now and again. I made acquaintance with Sir David last summer while at DeHaven Park, Lord Weston’s estate in Essex. I did, at that time, carve rampant lions atop the newel posts of the great staircase. Sir David Marston repeatedly expressed his desire of a carved screen for his minstrel gallery and frequently lamented the dearth of skilled joiners in his county—hence my presence in Suffolk. I move farther north, closer to home, with each position I accept, it seems. Soon I hope to visit my family. I have not seen them in many a year.”

  “Where is thy home?”

  “Near Lincoln.”

  “I would hear of thy travels. Have you been to London?” She sat upon a handy log, obviously intending to stay awhile.

  “Yea, I have even seen our queen at a short distance. Once she did stop and take the hand of a man near me and smile and talk to him. She is delicate and pale, like thee, and yet,” Harry frowned thoughtfully as he studied Maela’s face again, “yet your features, though similar in color, are unlike.”

  Maela sighed. “And she is reputed a beauty. Tush!” she brushed it aside. “ ’Tis of little moment. Do you admire life at court?”

  Harry chuckled. “Court life I know nothing of, for I move not in that sphere. I am a hired artisan, not among the gentry, Maela. And I care not for town life. The smells—phew!” He shook his head in disgust. “And the plague! I took me off afore the worst of the plague hit, yet many a red cross I saw upon doors in the leaving.”

  Maela leaned forward, bony elbows upon her knees. “Have you beheld the Black One?”

  “Eh? Which black what?” He picked up an onion and peeled off the papery skin.

  “Grandmere says that when plague takes a man, the Black One takes his soul out the front door! She did witness it.” The girl’s slight frame shivered. “I dread this frightful sight!”

  “Maela, the plague is but a sickness, not a curse. I believe ’tis caused by filth. If people bathed often and laundered their clothing, mayhap these illnesses would strike not.”

  The child gaped. “Surely thou art mad! Bathe often? Bathing chills the lungs and brings on fever! I bathe only twice a year, as Grandmere bids me.”

  “I see,” he murmured, and might have added, “so I smell,” for an occasional ill wind had already told him that the child reeked. Her sentiments about bathing were not uncommon; Harry had met few people in England who shared his unorthodox views about hygiene.

  “I bathe frequently,” he informed her, “and I perish not of lung fever. In truth, I am seldom ill.”

  She was silent for several moments, watching his nimble fingers slice the last few parsnips and drop them into the pot. “Thou art a strange man.”

  Harry lit a pile of tinder with a few expert strokes of his flint. Blowing and carefully feeding the flame with dry twigs, he soon had a large enough fire to cook his pottage. Hanging the pot upon a sturdy framework, he suspended it over the fire. Still sprinkling herbs into the pottage, he casually asked, “Will you take a cup of milk?”

  “Whence comes this milk?”

  “A gift of love from Genevieve,” he grinned.

  “Genevieve?” Lines appeared between her dark brows. “I thought you slept alone.”

  “So I do. Genevieve sleeps with Samson, though they are merely friends.” He uttered a short yodeling call, and an answering bleat came from behind the cart. With a scramble of legs, a small brown goat rose to its feet and bleated again.

  “Genevieve—a gift from a grateful employer. Her milk is a wondrous addition to my meals. No longer must I drink only ale and beer. A kid shall birth come summer.” He watched the child make acquaintance with his goat. It was abundantly clear that beasts were Maela’s passion in life.

  “Samson is the ass’s name. What do you call the fowl?” She leaned over the crate to inspect his chickens.

  “Sage, Parsley, and Rosemary. It keeps them humble.”

  A gurgle of laughter rewarded him. “You would not eat them?” she sounded slightly concerned.

  “Nay. They provide eggs.”

  Harry rose to release his three hens and encouraged the girl to scatter their grain. She squatted down to stroke their soft feathers, pleased when the friendly birds allowed her caresses. “These also were gifts?”

  “Accepted in payment for services rendered, more like.”

  “Do you not fear to lose them? Stoats, foxes, and thieves abound hereabouts, and you have little protection.”

  “The Lord watches over me,” he assured her. “I own little of value, but I will fight for my possessions.”

  “Art thou armed?” she asked, eyes widening.

  “I am armed sufficiently.” He smiled. “Few venture to accost me.”

  Her eyes flitted over his rangy frame from head to toe. “One would not. Two might try, and from cover.”

  “Leave them t
ry. No arrow may take my life unless the Lord allows.” Returning to the fire, he stirred the pottage, sniffing the steam.

  Maela’s small nose twitched like Ragwort’s. “Truly, you do cook well,” she wavered. “Grandmere’s pottage lacks flavor. Have you enough for me?”

  He looked down at the full pot, then lifted one eyebrow in her direction. “ ’Twill suffice.”

  Maela consumed an astounding amount of pottage, and Harry polished off several full bowls, yet the pot was still partially full when they had finished eating. Harry offered more bread, but Maela clutched her stomach, shaking her head. “Nay, I would surely burst. I have not eaten so well since. . .” She paused, then shook her head. “I cannot think when.”

  He indicated the waiting dogs. “Rag and Laitha would eat our leavings. You may give them sup.”

  The words were scarcely out of his mouth before she had refilled her bowl and placed it before the dogs. They ate together, one at each side of the bowl, while Maela crouched beside them, fascinated. Once the bowl was empty, Ragwort licked Laitha’s muzzle with almost motherly tenderness. Unable to express her feelings with tail or ears, the hound whined softly, enjoying her friend’s attentions.

  “They have a great love,” Maela observed wistfully. Firelight flickered across her face, for the forest grew dark.

  Harry smiled at her, his eyes kind. He was startled at the brilliance of the smile she returned, having grown accustomed to her sober expression.

  “You will abide here, Harry Joiner?” she asked. “I may visit thee again?”

  The passion in her request took him aback. “Surely you may return, child. I shall wrap these soft rolls and a pasty for thee to take and enjoy at thy leisure. Dovie, the cook at Marston Hall, baked them,” he remarked to lighten the conversation. “Do you know her? A comely maid and excellent cook.”

  Maela’s face darkened abruptly. “I know her not.”

  Harry went on, thoughtfully stirring the fire, “I considered not my words. A lady of Castle Trent would not know a cook. You dwell at the castle?”

  Maela nodded shortly, her expression guarded.