Honor in the Dust (4 page)

“We'll have to leave here, Grace.” Claiborn had come under cover of darkness to meet with her in the garden. The air was heavy, for the rain had come earlier and soaked the earth.

“Yes, we will.”

“I have nothing to offer you.”

Grace looked up. “But I have something to offer you. You remember my Aunt Adella?”

“She married an Irishman when we were but children, didn't she?”

“Yes, and he died, and now she's dead. She left the farm in Ireland to me. That's where we must go and make our life.”

It sounded like a dream—an unfavorable dream, since Claiborn had no good opinion of Ireland. But it seemed they had no choice. Perhaps it was of God, this provision.

“This asks much of you, Grace. You'd have the life you were born to, here, if you married Edmund.”

“No, my life would be tragic, living with a man I don't love and never again seeing the man I do love. There is no choice. Come for me in two days' time. I shall meet you by the side gate, when all are deeply asleep.”

Two days later, Claiborn waited outside Barclay House in the dark gardens that bordered the building, nervously shifting from foot to foot. He had stolen away from Stoneybrook as soon as even the lightest sleeper was deep into his dreams. But if she didn't emerge soon … If Edmund discovered he was gone and he was here, or if Grace's father came upon them … His hand went to his sword. He would do what it took to get his intended away from here. But if anyone died as they departed, it would haunt them forever.

“Please, Lord,” he muttered under his breath. “Make a way for us. Help us depart in peace.”

Two men came riding along, and Claiborn ducked into a copse of trees just in time to avoid them. But the lads were too deep into the ale to notice him or that Ned's soft whinny greeted their horses. They trotted past, laughing so giddily that Claiborn wondered how they stayed astride their mounts. His eyes moved
back to the side door, where he had sent word for Grace to meet him. “Make haste, Grace,” he begged through gritted teeth. “Make haste!”

Edmund was not a fool. He was certain to have encouraged servants to keep an eye out for him and any suspicious actions of his within Stoneybrook. With each minute that ticked by, the risk of exposure increased. Claiborn's eyes traced the outline of the side door, willing it to open. Had she changed her mind? Or been intercepted? His mind leaped through different options to choose should she not emerge within a few minutes. Steal inside? Summon a servant and demand to see her? Or walk away?

But then, there she was. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him. No, it was her. She had come! He hurried forward, wincing as Ned stepped on a brittle branch. Her head swung toward the sound, and she hurriedly shut the door behind her, turning a key in the lock and pocketing it.

He took her hands in his. “All right, Sweetheart. We'll find someone to marry us straight away, and then we'll make a life together in Ireland. Thank you for this honor. Thank you for trusting me.”

“I'm trusting you and God, Claiborn.”

Claiborn was well aware that he did not really know God in the way that Grace did. She had a firm faith in the Lord. His own religion was more of a formality. But now he put his arms around her and kissed her. “I hope you're right, Grace. At least we'll have each other.”

“Yes.” Grace smiled up, tears in her eyes. “We'll have each other.”

February 1499
Ireland

Claiborn straightened and grunted as he lifted a square of soaked peat sod. With an effort he turned and dropped it into the two-wheel cart beside him. Then he paused and looked up at the slate-gray sky. It was late. He had been working since dawn, as he had for almost two years. The rain that had drenched the land earlier had stopped except for a cold drizzle that still poured off his hat and down his loose collar. He rubbed his hands together; they were stiff with cold. A sudden longing came to him for some of the sunny lands that he had soldiered in. Sighing deeply, he moved to the front of the cart and picked up the tongue, every moment bringing a protest from his tired muscles. The winter rain had turned the field into a morass of mud. It took everything in him to break the wheels of the cart loose from the peat that sucked at them. His feet sank deep into the muddy surface, and the effort to draw the cart forward drained all his strength.

“What I wouldn't give for Ned's return!” The words rasped from his throat as he thought longingly of his horse. He had been forced to sell him the autumn past to buy food. There had been no choice after their pitiful summer crop failed. He'd
bought a donkey—an old beast past his best years but still better than nothing—but he, too, had died, so now there was nothing except Claiborn's muscles and a grim determination.

As he pushed forward, he was remembering their arrival at this place, their initial excitement over the sweet, rounded hills, the expanse of rich soil, the tall stone manor—small, but respectable—at the top of the hill. At first, they believed with everything in them that God had made a special way for them, a path, a future. He remembered how they had been delighted with the emerald green of the land, the azure-blue skies overhead, and the sparkling brooks that ran through this particular part of Ireland. Truly, in the drier times of the year, it was a land of beauty.

But as the months passed, they realized that this land was also a killing place, an estate that could only be managed with many servants and field hands. People they could not afford to hire. It only took a week to find out that there was no way adequately to heat the drafty house, which emanated cold from its very walls. A few more, and they knew that the stone walls bordering their property were in dismal repair. Their few sheep were soon gone, lost to thieves and other predators. Even the spring, their only source of water save the frequent deluges that poured from the skies, proved difficult, its position being more than a hundred yards from shelter. How weary was he, hauling every drop in buckets to the house!

Claiborn's feet sank deep into the mud and made ugly sucking sounds as he pulled them free, hauling him back to the present. He stopped, his breath coming short, and he thought again,
I should not have brought Grace to this mudhole of a place!
Claiborn placed his hands on his hips and stared across the bare landscape. An uncontrollable tremor shook his body as the freezing wind searched and numbed him. He turned his eyes away from the drab brown and colorless gray landscape.

“Ireland, you're a deceitful piece of ground,” he muttered, “and I wish I'd never laid eyes on you!”

Claiborn recognized that his voice was dull, not his own anymore. He ran a hand through his hair and considered the difficulties of the past year, the struggle to stay ahead of the freezing cold and wrest a bare subsistence from the stubborn land. All his life at Stoneybrook he had watched laborers but had never once thought about the price they paid for bringing food from the earth. Well, he understood now; he would never be able to look at laborers in a field without feeling a keen sympathy for them. But he didn't wish to be one of their number any longer. If only there was a way! Another path for them! He glanced at the house at the top of the hill and hauled the cart toward it.

Soldiering had been hard but not all the time. Every day on this piece of ground was a struggle. He thought with longing now of those times he had enjoyed as a soldier, how easy it had been just to live and to locate good food one way or another. Good food, warmth, laughter.

He struggled to haul the dead weight of the cart, loaded with peat, over a rock. He had grown to hate peat, but the Irish lived on it. They built their houses with squares of it, and it would burn, after a fashion. Since there was little natural timber, it was the only heat that the land would provide. Claiborn longed for a fire such as they had enjoyed in every main room of Stoney-brook—a roaring blaze coaxed from good, solid links of oak, waves of heat, bright light dancing over the walls.

But that was not their lot. This was their lot. The faint, pathetic glow of Irish sod, burning reluctantly in the hearth, heating little more than a five-foot arc.

Only thoughts of Grace, of cuddling with her before the fire as they did each eve, brought any warmth to his spirit.

Reaching the front door of the house, he dropped the tongue of the cart and stood for a moment, preparing for his entrance. He had to make the best of things, never to let Grace see how
discouraged he had become. He forced himself to play a role—like an actor, he supposed. When an actor came out on a stage, no matter what his sorrow, he had to laugh if that was the role.

Claiborn shoved the wooden door open. It gave reluctantly, shedding bits of ice around the frame. He stepped inside, and then, even in the feeble light of the lantern that lit the interior, he saw Grace. The light on her face and in her eyes, as always, was a miracle to him. How could any woman, fine-born and accustomed to the best that servants could provide—good food, warm clothing, and roaring fires in the huge fireplaces of a manor house—keep such a cheerful spirit in such bleak surroundings? She came to him and circled her arms around his neck. He gratefully pulled her into his arms. She kissed him quickly and said, “You're freezing, Claiborn. Come and get warm.”

“A man can come home to you, Sweetheart, and just the sight of you warms his heart, his feet, and his whole body.” He was aware of the smell of cooked meat and was equally aware that was impossible; they hadn't had meat to eat for months. Could she have somehow obtained a leg of lamb? His mouth watered at the thought, but he kept silent, not wishing to plant disappointment within Grace if he was wrong.

“Why, you're becoming a poet,” she said. “The next thing I know you'll have a lute out there and start playing love songs to me.”

“That would be a good idea, I think. You've had precious little of the fine things you deserve.”

“I have what I need, Claiborn, in you. How many times must we go through this? Now come over and get those wet things off. Look, I put your other clothes out to dry.”

Quickly Claiborn stripped off his soaked clothing. He pulled off his roughly made shoes and the woolen cloths he used for stockings, which were stiff with ice. He toweled off with a piece of rough sacking and quickly put on the warm garments. The
warmth of the clothes and even the feeble light of the fire loosed his foul mood.

“I found some good peat. I'll bring it in so it'll dry and burn better.”

“That can wait. We must eat first. I have a surprise for you. Close your eyes.”

Claiborn smiled. His stomach growled. “And what might that be, darling?”

“I said close your eyes! Come.” She led him to one of the two chairs. Feeling his way, he sat himself down. “Don't open them now,” she whispered. He heard her moving around, and finally she said, “All right. Open your eyes.”

Claiborn blinked. There on a wooden platter was a large rabbit, baked and sending off a delicious odor.

“A happy Noel, husband!”

Claiborn slowly turned his eyes to his wife. He had forgotten that it was Christmas Day! He reached out and touched the rabbit and looked at her with wonder. For months they had existed solely on potatoes. “Where in the world did you get this?”

“The dogs caught him and were going to tear him apart, but I got him first. I have another surprise.” She turned and out of the single small box that served as their food cupboard she brought a bottle. “Good beer. I've been saving it for our Christmas feast.”

Claiborn's conscience smote him. “I didn't get you a thing. I—I forgot it was Christmas.”

“I don't want anything. We have a fine meal and each other. Now, the blessing.”

Claiborn bowed his head but murmured, “You'd better say it. I'm too stunned to speak.” He kept his head bowed while she said a pretty little grace, and he marveled that her steadfast faith could rise above the terrible circumstances he had brought her
to. His own had been steadily dismantled with each terrible week they had spent here.