Chapter 18: Come to the Water
At the new fountain at Bryceland Village, a traveler stopped and put down his pack to draw a drink for his dry mouth and to splash his already shining clean face. The bailiff, who sat at a stone seat, regarded the man running his fingers over his chin to smooth his first-growth beard. He read the nervousness mixed with longing in the young man's eyes. "Well met, and where are you headed, stranger?"
"To Brycelands."
"Christlands, you mean."
"Aye?"
"Are you also a Gospeller, then?"
"Since I know not what you mean, I cannot count myself one, I suppose," he said, looking past the bailiff up the valley. Meanwhile the bailiff took a walk over him with his eyes, taking in his travel-worn clothing, his newly-washed hair still damp, and the graceful bearing, the honest expression.
"What sort of accent is there to your voice? Are you Ardinéan?"
"Aye. But I have dwelt in the forest these several years. I suppose it's that."
"Ah. If you get up there, you'll be in time for bread and alms. That is, if you're needing them."
The traveler looked the bailiff in the eye. "I hope I'll be no trouble to anyone. My intent is to see whether I have a place, and stay in the area. If not, then I'll be moving along. Perhaps I'll be seeing you in Church, Bailiff," he said, shouldering his bag, bowing slightly, and turning up the road.
The bailiff chuckled, watching him go. "See you in Church, indeed!" he murmured.
The walking man approached the manor along the dirt lane; sheep grazed in the afternoon sun and cows were ambling up toward the byre lazily. To one side of the manor hall stood a group of spreading lindens, ancient and thick about the trunks. As he mounted the rise he saw that a group of persons were clustered under these trees, standing as if watching and listening. He could only hear the blowing of the breeze in the grass and as he came closer, in the tree branches; and then he could hear a voice declaiming-- a woman's voice. A full-throated alto-- it was Lady Margaret. She stood on the platform of a stump of one of the lindens which had long ago been cut and smoothed for sitting in the pleasant shade the trees afforded. The traveler approached the edge of the meeting and stood and listened, transfixed.
"...He says, Ho! Everyone who thirsts. We all of us are thirsty; we must acknowledge our need and lack and desire before the Fountain of Life, and be ready to come before Him with our thirst, ready to receive that which we desire, ready to drink what is offered. Ho, everyone that thirsts, come to the waters. When we are thirsty, water is what will meet our needs; when we know we are needy, whatever we call it, whether sorrow, whether shame, whether fear, whether weakness, He says come to the waters, that is, come to Him, Who will meet our needs as water slakes our thirst.
"Further He says, He who has no money, come, buy and eat. How can we buy and eat if we have no money, nothing to offer? It is by grace that God gives us, without return, what we need in our soul-hunger and heart-thirst. It cannot be bought, no; in fact if we come to Him we can only come empty-handed; if we think we can offer Him anything in return for the Bread of Life, we need only remember that before Him, we are poor and needy; whether rich or poor, man or woman, noble or common, high or low. We have no coin that can buy salvation. But praise Him, our God, Who says, Come ye! Everyone! Bring Me your thirst and hunger! Buy and eat!"
Lady Margaret's arms had been lifted in the air, in one hand a small, tooled book, but now she lowered them, clutching the book before her, and lowered her head. "Let us give thanks to Him who has provided us so richly with these words to know the truth, with this lovely afternoon, and with such provisions as we are able to share with you this day. These alms and loaves cannot satisfy the soul, but only He Who gave them. Our Father, Who is in Heaven, Holy is Your name…"
Many in the meeting joined in the Paternoster and a hymn in the common tongue, a wonder to the traveler. Then a loose queue seemed to be forming, as a man who had stood near Lady Margaret throughout the address opened up a large wallet and began to distribute coins of money to some, while Margaret spoke with others, and a large-boned, freckled young woman gave out loaves of bread. The dirt lane streamed with persons departing, and soon few were left.
The young man had pulled his hood over his head before he himself approached her, waiting patiently his place on line, his eyes to the ground. The almoner had handed the wallet to Margaret and turned to help the younger woman with something. The women in front of him spoke with her for what seemed to him an eternity, for his heart thudded within his chest. He stared down at her hands, which were wrapped around the small book and the wallet, which she held against her chest, hidden in the folds of her sleeves.
Finally she turned to him, asking his name and reaching into the wallet, and holding out to him coins in her left hand. He grasped her hand. Her breath caught. He pushed back her sleeve. An intricate ring shown on her third finger. The hand that pushed back the sleeve bore the same ring.
The wallet and the book and the coins dropped to the ground. Now the traveler pulled his hood back and she cried out as she met the blue eyes. Eyes that held no threat. "Margaret," he said, and it sounded like a song, with the lilt only he had to his voice.
Margaret was unable to believe her eyes or to speak or do anything. Tamlyn knelt before her, wrapping her hand in his. "Margaret, can you still be mine?" Her eyes were blurring with tears. She raised her crimped right hand and placed it over his, and nodded yes.
"Yours, Tamlyn," she squeaked, and the tears flowed, and he stood and his arms were around her, holding, as he whispered her name again and again. She felt his body shake with silent sobs against hers, and she held him, digging her knuckles into his tunic, then relaxing. Thus they stood for a length of time neither one could have said, for in each heart reeled shock, joy, bitterness, gratitude, and grief in a poignant overwelling. When finally they leaned apart, neither knew where to begin speaking. Margaret made the sign of the cross over him in blessing.
A throat cleared nearby. She turned toward the almoner and the handmaid, who waited, the almoner patiently and the woman staring hard at Tamlyn. "My lord my husband, Tamlyn Braewode, has returned." She fought a moment to control her voice, the handmaid's hands flew to her mouth. "Please go now and prepare his house for him. Prepare him a feast, for he that was lost to us, is found!" In a few moments they stood alone under the linden trees. Margaret stared at him and softly touched his downy beard.
"You have not changed since we said goodbye, while I have grown older."
"Because I have been in the Faerie Realm. But my heart has grown old mourning each day for you."
"I have grown in willfulness, and not in wifeliness."
"You have grown very much in God, while I have forgotten how to live amongst the sons of Adam. I know not how to be a husband to you, either. But, I am willing to learn."
"And I also. . ." She warbled, dashing tears from her reddening eyes. "I did not think you would ever return. I was sure you must have died, but I couldn't believe it. I would not let myself think of it...How long has it been, now?"
"Seven years. Seven years I have served the Queen Galorian for that I killed her only son."
"Moruan?"
"Aye."
"Her son...How...Will you stay, now? Can you stay here with me, please?"
He saw the misery in her eyes, and she in his. "I am free to stay, and that is my one desire, if you will have me. I pray that we may never part. But, Margaret, I have not taken the sword for seven years, but have been a servant. You married a knight, but I don't know if I can be that any longer. What think you of that?"
She looked at him in the same tunic in which he had ridden off, much faded and frayed at the sleeve edges. His beautiful hair had been shorn; his beard was still downy. Only the eyes looked older, sorrowful. "I have no heart to watch you ride away to war, not knowing whether you may return to me. You married a noble lady who was very fond of finery and dreamed of going to court. I don't think I can be that an
y longer. What think you of that, Tamlyn?"
He regarded her unruffled linen dress, without adornment or jewels, only the gold chain she had always worn, the betrothal ring on her left hand, and the spare, transparent married woman's headdress. "That you are more lovely without finery," he said, "With the ornament of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is very precious in God's sight, and mine." They stood, their eyes searching, under the lindens with the wind rustling in their leaves, and a linnet chatting in the branches overhead, and the shadows of clouds sweeping the meadows and green hills beyond. "Sievan, you came back to me," Margaret murmured; he reached for her and she came. Fires long closely banked burned with unexpected brightness.
That afternoon and evening and night were not long enough. Margaret hardly slept, for she watched him laying beside her within the embroidered curtains, the lamp flickering behind the fabric. He slept as if too tired to live, yet woke with eyes bright, turning to her and reaching for her, long before the dawn came. Realization dawned slowly upon them that at long last they were together as God intended, and they spoke little of the thousands of days apart, for a horror of them lay bound in the pit of each heart, until morning when Margaret found courage to ask him of his time in the Faerie court.
He spoke of things which seemed so wondrous to Margaret. "But so many times the Queen would rather sit and listen to me tell of what she called, things which angels desire to look into. For they are forever servants of the King, never sons, as we are. . ." Tamlyn's voice trailed off. When he again spoke, his voice was very low. "Oh, Margaret--" he took her hand, buried his face in it. "It was wrong...to bind myself again to them, when I belonged to you...to live as a bondman, when free...and I knew it, not long after I had sworn myself...to serve her, and leave you alone and undefended. Oh, God, forgive me, Margaret. . ."
She wrapped her arms bruising-tight around him. A tumult of questions Margaret had not allowed herself to ask answered each other in a seethe of accusations, wonders and sorrows. He was asking her forgiveness. All that stood between them now was within her. Could she?
"How could I not forgive you, love, after all this?" said she, but as if persuading herself. "Shall I resent you for your faithfulness, after it is mine at last? If you had remained with me and been my knight, God only knows whether I would have you alive now. Come, love, let us forget what lies behind. We have each other now, and I am thankful. I am too tired of being lonely, of being sad and angry-- yes, angry, love-- I want to forget it all, and be your wife. I have loved you too long in a void to stop loving you now that I have you here with me. Kiss me, Sievan, and know that I promise to forgive you."
Margaret told Tamlyn that his father and mother both had passed away, and of the judgment of King Fearnon concerning his title. "I have done nothing towards applying for widowhood, but I expect your brother will be here soon to expedite matters."
Tamlyn made no reply to this. His head hung down.
"I have dealt with him, with his prodding and manipulations and demands and petitions, for years. Where he finds the time to bother with me, I know not. He has fulfilled every ambition your father held for him, and more--"
"Then let him have what he wants. I will let him have it all, if he will leave us alone. God knows he deserves every bit of it, title and all. I have been no kind of son to my father and mother, and now they are gone."
Margaret hung her head, shocked at her own thoughtlessness. "I am so sorry."
After a time he looked up. "I had known, somehow. Two winters ago."
Margaret and Tamlyn regarded one another, the losses and shadows of the past drifting like smoke between their gazes.
"Are you bitter toward Coltram?"
The question found Margaret unprepared. She turned her head away. "I would have to confess that my heart struggles toward him." The sun was fully up now, and a knock on the door of the bower was heard. Willa opened the door and called in, "My lady, unless you need me, I shall go our rounds with the houseman. . ."
"Good, Willa, go with God. I don't need you now." The door shut quickly. In the silence, Margaret leaned back against the carven headboard and wrapped her arms around her knees. She gazed far away beyond the embroidered bedcurtains. When she spoke, her voice was low and quavering. "I had a foundling, a little girl. We called her Sunniva. She lived to three years old. It was almost two years ago she died." Tears fell freely, but Margaret dabbed at them indifferently. "My little darling, she helped me to live without you, and. . ." She took a deep breath. "After the Lord took her to Himself, I couldn't-- I had nothing-- Coltram came then, for once he was very sweet. He asked me if I would come nurse Jehanna, for she had had a fit after one of her headaches and fallen unconscious. I went, just to get away from the silence and idleness here.
"I nursed her, but she never awoke and passed away. Then I tried to arrange it with Coltram to care for their children. At first he seemed to like the idea, but then he changed his mind and sent the bairns instead to your sister, Tamarlanne.
"When I came home here, I knew I had to take care of someone. I cried out to God, wondering why He was taking everyone away from me. On the way to Church I passed the house of old Darcy, an elder woman who lives alone. I looked in on her and she was ill, so I stayed and nursed her. She begged me to see to another woman down the lane. Darcy put out the word and soon I went nowhere without people begging me for remedies. Many I could help, many I could not. I hadn't realized how I missed having many people around me, for at Caer Aldene one was rarely alone.
"So I buried myself in that for a while, but I found myself more and more seeing the needs of their souls, for which my salves and poultices and potions could do nothing. I found myself reading Gospel to them, asking them about their lives. I saw their anguish and longed to see them born anew of God, with the hope and peace He gives. Soon a crowd was gathering at sickbeds, for the spectacle of a Lady preaching and nursing, I suppose. People espying at windows and doors, children hiding under beds to hear.
"Last year was a bad year for crops, and those who rented my fields near the River had their wheat and oats washed away, it was so wet, and all the crops were poor, even the fruits. I bought grain from the west, and began to dole it out. One morning as I prayed I remembered that Jesu is the Bread of Life, and I could feed their souls with that. So I began...Well, some have called me Lady Preacher, though I like it little...The Word says women ought not to teach, but I must speak that which He gives me to say." She looked at Tamlyn, who had risen to sitting on the bed. "That is why you found me speaking to a crowd yestereven. Rather than following hunts, or attending court, or entertaining lords and ladies. . ."
"Who would have made my entrance rather awkward, Aye?" They smiled at each other. He reached for a lock of her hair that trailed on the pillows and softly combed it with his fingers. "No more thankful sight could have met my eyes as I returned to Brycelands, not knowing whether- what I would find… Margaret, don't you think it very serendipitous, very kind of God, that though we were parted, we have yet grown together in this-- that we have both become as servants? I am not sure what kind of knight and lady we'd have made, nor will we ever know. There is much that is lost to us…" He was thinking, Sunniva…, an echo in his mind that put a name to the void that had been between them and filled it with rays of sun. "But God has been good to us, letting us have this time now."
Margaret looked so tender that he dropped the lock of hair and drew her to himself tightly, and he kissed and kissed her again.
"We ought at last to rise and dress," said Tamlyn. "There are things without this curtain which need looking into, I am sure," he said, sliding from the bed and throwing the bespoke bedcurtains aside, and the window sashes open wide. While he washed with cold water from the ewer, she delved into a trunk and found a snowy tunic not unlike the one in which he had arrived,-- which he had worn every Lord's Day for seven years-- and drawers and trousers Willa had sewn and relentlessly washed and aired each year and laid folded with sprigs of lavender, sinc
e Margaret would not part with them.
Tamlyn combed out Margaret's hair and plaited it, thinking of how he had dreamed of this while plaiting Galorian's horse's flowing tail. He buttoned her fastenings, recalling how he had unbuttoned them at the brookside, when she was drenched in Moruan's blood. She even found pearls for her ears, which she had got out of the habit of wearing. So at last they stood, ready for the noon meal. So they went down together, he to the head of his table in the hall hung with his own coat of arms, and she to the place beside him, happily surrendering the headship to him.