Barbara Leigh - For Love Of Rory

“My arrow is stuck in his lungs,” Old Ethyl cackled as she hurried over to survey her handiwork. “A death blow, I vow! No need to worry about that one again.”

“The children?” Serine asked, trying to forget the heat that had raced through her body as the man held her in his arms.

“The children are safe,” Margot assured her. “I saw them reach the hills and came back to find you.” She looked at the younger woman’s state of undress and added, “And well I did.”

Old Ethyl regarded Dame Margot with disdain. “We had everything under control,” she said bluntly.

Serine grabbed her woolen dress from beneath the bush and threw it over her body, ignoring the scratch of the coarse material against her skin. The rough woolen garment did nothing to warm her. Her whole being felt as cold as death. As cold as the man lying at the water’s edge.

“Come now, we must go,” Margot urged.

“But what of...him?” Serine motioned toward the inert body.

“Leave him,” Old Ethyl said, pulling her away. “Perhaps the Celts will return for him. I might stay and see if I could skewer a few more.”

“There’s no reason for you to put yourself in more danger,” Serine assured the woman. “‘Tis best we leave.” She willed herself not to look back.

“It was a good job we did of making them think they’d been attacked. Look there!” she cackled as the Celts struggled to set the sails on the little boats. “The whole lot of them on the run. They must make it back to their godforsaken land as best they can in their little skiffs while their ship sinks. And good riddance!” Old Ethyl added as the women made their way through the deserted camp and hurried after the children.

Only when they reached the rocks that would block the sea from view did Serine pause. Cursing herself for her weakness, she allowed herself one last look at the man, lying like a pagan god in the moonlight. It would not have surprised her to see the figure of a Valkyrie come to take him to Valhalla, or heaven, or perhaps hell. It occurred to her that it was the Viking warriors who were said to be taken to Valhalla when they were struck down in battle. God only knew where Celts went after death. Regardless of his beliefs, or lack of them, this man had held no weapon, and Serine could not help but wonder about the fate that awaited a warrior shot in the back while he dallied with a woman.

Not that she cared! Not that she cared in any way! Only, it was too bad the Celt would not receive his just reward.

But then, perhaps he already had.

* * *

Day was breaking when Serine reached the place where the children had been hidden. The sun crested the horizon and the women called out their welcome, hailing Serine and her companions as heroes.

Exhausted from the rigors of their escape and the trauma of abduction, the children slept in the hall of an ancient monastery hidden deep in the forest.

“And there’s no question in my mind,” the alewife boasted, “the men could have done no more, nor done it better.” She beamed at her lady and cast a loving glance at her sleeping son.

Serine studied each little face as she made her way through the area while Old Ethyl accepted the accolades of the village women.

“I vow I’d never seen anything like the way the Celts took to the water when they realized their precious ship was in danger,” one of the women observed. “Forgot all about the childer, they did. It was almost too easy to steal them back, so smug were those Celts. Never thought for a minute that the smoke was anything more than night fog until it was too late.”

“Only one Celt sensed they’d been tricked,” Hildegard chimed in. “And he started rowing toward land as though pursued by demons, but by the time he reached the shore we were well away.” She paused and glanced over her shoulder. “Think you the Celts will follow?”

“The Celts are well gone,” Old Ethyl volunteered with finality. “They’ll not return to our shores after the drubbing we gave them.”

The women laughed and crowed in euphoric relief, rightfully proud of a job well done. After the initial burst of enthusiasm they became silent. Even the women around Margot began whispering.

As well they should, Serine told herself. After all, there was no reason to wake the youngsters, who had already gone through so much. She nodded in satisfaction as she saw two of Ursa’s little girls curled up together. But her eyes were never still as she continued to search for the features of her own Hendrick.

Hendrick, the beloved child of a loveless, politically inspired marriage. Some sixteen years Serine’s senior, her husband, Elreath, had no living children when he was offered Serine, as well as her family estate of Sheffield, as a boon from the king in appreciation for the old knight’s faithful support in the Crusades.

Visualizing himself as the inveterate soldier, Elreath expressed his appreciation to his liege, married Serine and performed his conjugal duty with the same enthusiasm he would have shown if forced to curry his horse. He made no bones about the fact that he was beyond an age where he felt a young wife was anything other than a burden, but he was gratified by her appreciation of the treasures he had brought back with him from the Crusades, and pleased beyond measure when Serine told him she was with child.

Elreath had been on his way to the Holy Land when Hendrick was born, and did not see the child until some three years later when he returned.

The child thrived, but the father had aged and shriveled in the desert sun. For a time there was some question that he would be strong enough to join the next Crusade. There was no question as to whether Hendrick would be the only child conceived of the union, as Elreath felt he must conserve his strength and left Serine alone. At the end of Hendrick’s fifth year Elreath had recovered enough to pledge himself to one last Crusade. In a gracious gesture he stripped his estate of able-bodied men and set out once more to free the Holy Land from the infidel, leaving his estates and his son in the able hands of his wife.

Serine had been well versed in running the estate. With the help of the steward she had managed the lands, the flocks and the crops, but she was not prepared for the Celt invasion, and it angered her that they had been left alone and so ill prepared. It was only luck that she had found a way to recover the children. And perhaps her prayers to the Christian God were more powerful than those of the Celts to the deities they worshiped.

Once Hendrick was again in her arms she would take the time to thank her maker. Hendrick, with his tousled hair and laughing eyes. Hendrick, to whom she had given life, and who now made her life worth living. Hendrick, her son.

Lost in reverie, Serine found herself at the end of the hall and was about to start back through the maze of sleeping children when Dame Margot approached.

“I must speak to you,” Margot said without preamble.

“As soon as I find Hendrick I will be at your disposal,” Serine agreed absently.

Margot took Serine’s arm and guided her through the door into what must have been a small chapel. “Hendrick isn’t with the other children.”

Serine refused to meet Margot’s steady but sympathetic gaze. “Surely they haven’t taken him back to Sheffield already. Regardless of Old Ethyl’s boast, there still may be some danger.” She tried to look back into the hall over Margot’s shoulder. He must be there, somewhere. Any minute he would awaken and come running to her and the night’s work would not have been in vain.

“Serine, come and sit with me.” Margot led her to a wooden bench. “Ursa tells me that some of the children were taken aboard the larger vessel before we were able to steal them back.”