Authors: Diane Davis White
Mary paused and looked into the fire and then at Hannah, her gaze so direct that the younger woman could not look away. "Some might think he planned to seduce me and ruin me, but though it is true that he... took me to his bed, 'twas my idea, not his. At least the first time."
"I went to the cottage and made myself such a nuisance, that he could not help but give in. Old Father threatened me then, for he had followed me and knew what I was about. I ignored him, for he had never beaten me I knew in my heart that he never could."
She glanced toward the open window, thinking her father might be listening, as he often did, and raised her voice. "He had a habit, and still does, I fear, of listening at doors and peeking round corners. One day it will be his undoing, I vow."
A harrumphing sound drifted through the window, followed by the sound of footsteps moving away. Mary grinned at Hannah, then continued, her voice dropping back to a lower tone.
"He was reluctant, of course, to involve himself and told me that we should wait and be wed properly. I told him then that the waiting would be forever." She sighed and drew her sewing box toward her, speaking even as she rummaged for just the right shade of woolen thread. "It was the first of many proposals and just as many refusals. Clayton never quite understood, thought I oft told him, in very plain words, why I would not wed with him. Even then I knew that no matter how many perfect vowels I could utter, no matter how well I handled the teapot, and how often I selected the right spoon at the table, I was not meant to live in his world."
Mary stilled her hands for a moment, drawing a deep sigh before going on, "There was the matter of his status among the peerage as well. Though he scoffed at the idea, I knew well that sooner or later he would be a laughing stock among them if he wed so beneath himself, and told him this many times. He could be ruined, you know, if his peers took a mind to spite him. Clayton had more than his share of enemies. I did not want to be a part of anything that would destroy him."
"Was he very angry that you refused him?" Hannah's voice was breathless, for she could not imagine a young girl standing up for herself against such a personage as the formidable Marquis.
"Aye, and often we quarreled, and just as often... " she smiled shyly, "... we made it up. 'Twas a game I believe we played just to sweeten the moments we spent in the small bed."
Mary then went on to speak of the many years at the cottage, where she would meet him secretly and how he would try to coax her to come to the house when he had guests from London there.
"He thought to show me that I could hold my own—his words, not mine—among the lofty toffs that graced his table."
"But you always refused?" Hannah, still incredulous, looked with awe at Mary.
"Nay. Once I gave in to his begging ways, and he brought me a dress and shoes to the cottage, fixed my hair in an upsweep himself and had his carriage pick me up."
She frowned slightly at that particular memory and was silent some while as she pulled the threads of it together in her mind. "I came in, and he introduced me as 'Mistress Strongbow of Larkspur Manor', but of course, there was no such place.
"He put it about that my father was some kind of squire and that I was gentility. I could tell by the smirks of the so-called gentlemen and the disapproving looks of their ladies, that no one believed it for a minute."
"Was it very awful for you? I mean, it must have been, of course." Hannah continued in empathy.
"Only in the first moments of awkwardness. After that, my natural pride came to my rescue, and I fear that I spent the rest of the evening flouting them by behaving just as they might have expected from a common girl of the village. "
She grinned and chuckled, then went on, "I forgot my vowels and my manners as well. Clayton was furious, but he could do naught about it, and, when I finally had my fill of taunting the swells, I went home again and had a good laugh with Old Father over the whole thing."
"But surely, once you knew that you were with child you wanted to wed him, did you not?" Hannah asked.
"Never had I intended to wed him, and the child made no difference to that. When I told him of the babe and he started in with his lofty plans, I told him nay again, and we quarreled for the last time. You know the rest, and I would not go into it again, for it pains me even now to recall."
"Thank you for telling me. I guess I have been wondering for a long time about you and the Marquis. Perhaps your story will guide me sometime when I have need. Nearly everything you have said to me these last years has somehow gotten me through one or another of my trials."
"I think, Hannah, that the simple process of growing up has done more for you than ever I could with my foolish tales."
Mary handed the girl a needle and thread, saying, "See how well you can baste the edges of this bodice for me. You sewing has improved greatly as of late and I need your help."
The two women fell to sewing, the fire in the grate adding light and warmth to their repose. No further words were exchanged for a very long time, everything they wanted to say having been said.
When Gillian came in for his supper, he was content to be quiet as well, for he had snuck back under the window and heard most of Mary's story and had many memories of his own to think upon.
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* * * * *
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On the sixth night of their visit, the old seer invited David and Clay to join him in a secret place,
'a small glen not far off'
he told them. Just as the sun was sinking behind the distant hills, he led them to a path that would have been too dark to follow, but for the full moon rising overhead.
In the glow of that meager light, they threaded their way through the trees and though a hoot owl, startled by their passing, took wing and nearly swooped upon the boy. He showed no fear and merely ducked his head, not losing his stride.
David, bursting with pride in his son's manner, grinned in the darkness and patted the boy's curls and the child did not pull away, but seemed to welcome the touch and took his father's hand, dragging him along to catch up with Athol, who had gone ahead, his step sure and strong for such an old fellow.
"We will just sit here awhile, I think." Athol had come to a circle of small stones, some leaning into the earth, others leaning against each other, and one or two, flat upon the ground, perfect for sitting.
Raising his eyes to the moon, Athol spoke in a quiet whisper. "We must be still and listen. In this place the purpose of your visit will be completed, and tomorrow you will return home."
He motioned where they should sit, and they did so in silence and waited, with anticipation, for the final stage of their journey to begin.
Something moved over his head but David could not look up, for he was under a strange lethargy, not unlike the one that befell him on his first night by the fire.
Clay, though he could look up—and he did—saw nothing, for the moon had moved behind a drifting cloud. A touch on the boy's shoulder brought his attention back to the moment, and he swayed into Athol's gentle grip, knowing without being told he should keep his eyes cast down.
After a short time, or it could have been a long time—for time seemed to vanish in this place—the moon glow spread over their quiet place once more, and a strange humming began in the small stones, surrounding them with a field of energy so intense that, had they speech, they would have cried out.
It was not painful, however, only full of gentle heat and simple yearnings and huge aspirations... and filled with light—though the darkness surrounded them.
In a kaleidoscope of color, the air around them burst into sparks of radiance, and the heavens seemed to rumble, yet no thunder was close by. Clay scooted close to his father and lay against him as David drew him under the circle of his arm, and the lights dancing around them suddenly jelled into one bright ray that came above their heads, wafting down upon the two of them.
As suddenly as it had begun, the magic stopped, and the sounds of frogs in the nearby pond took the silence away. The three of them rose—David as though in a trance, and Clay near asleep—for the hour was very late. Athol beckoned to them, and they followed him back to the cottage.
When David would have lifted the boy and carried him, Athol shook his head, saying, "He will walk this short distance, for he must. The energy has been placed in his soul and he must learn now to walk with it, just as you did so long ago."
They went, each to his own bed, and sleep overcame both father and son immediately. It was a gentle, healing slumber.
David awoke with a dry taste in his mouth, as though he had imbibed too much ale, and looked around the small loft like he had never seen it before. It was different somehow, but nothing had changed. He pulled himself up and looked out the window, seeing a faint mist of rain there.
In the yard, just beyond the garden, stood his travel carriage with its crested arms upon the doors. Gates was not on the box and he could hear him talking below. He dressed quickly and climbed down the short ladder, meeting his son who was just ready to climb up and get him. The boy hugged his legs, smiled widely and pulled him by the hand.
"Father, we are having scones and cream and jam for breakfast. Do hurry, for poor Gates is nearly frozen from the cold but Old Uncle has a special blanket to keep him dry."
The boy looked around and spied the elderly seer, and practically dragged David to the fireplace where he sat, talking all the while. "We must break bread with our relative before we go."
Gates came to attention as David neared the hearth, his mug of steaming tea held between fingers blue with cold. It was not lost on Gates, or the other men in the room, that Clay had shown concern for the servant, and he was somehow not surprised.
Well he could have been, however, for the boy had often disdained to care about the persons in his employ. Waving him to a seat at the table, David knelt before Athol and took his hands in a strong grip. "You have given us so much. I would that I could repay you."
"You will repay me many times over, Milord. You and the boy." It was the first time that Athol had shown any deference for his title, and it startled David, but he said nothing as the old man continued.
"You and your lady wife will do good things for the people under your care." He reached across and took the child in a fond hug, as he finished, "The boy will grow to be such a man as you and I never dreamed, for he has the power and the magic. It was born to him."
David never doubted Athol's words, nor thought to refute him. He somehow knew that he had been in that magic place before, though he remembered it not, and in fact, barely remembered this experience.
He knew that his grandfather Strongbow had been here, and his father's father, back to the first Strongbow, and the ritual of magic healing he had received was a tradition of his people, and it had only wanted his son's appearance there to come full circle.
They ate their rich breakfast with slow pleasure and topped the feast with strong hot tea to brace them for the journey. Athol came forward and placed a woolen blanket over the coachman's shoulders, saying, "This will keep you dry and warm."
At the coachman's raised eyebrows and disbelieving manner he merely smiled, adding, "You will soon know the truth of it."
Clay, suddenly remembering his father's talk of magical clothes, piped up in his ingenious six-year-old way, "Old Uncle, what of my new clothes?"
"Ah, you seek new garments, do you lad?" He winked at David, who had come to admonish the boy for his forward manner, and stayed him with a gentle hand upon his arm. "Your mantle of magic clothes are there, in your new skin. You will wear it always, and never be without its protection. 'Tis not a garment you can see or touch, only a newness born of the magic beneath the stones."
Clay was subdued by his words, and his amber eyes were clear with the knowledge unspoken between the pair. Over time, the six-year-old would forget his experience in the glen but the essence of it would stay with him, as it had done with David, for the remainder of his life.