The Wanderers (post 1)

The satchel was hidden near the well. It was hidden thoroughly and packed thoroughly. Clare knew her journey would be long and lonesome. But at last she was resolved. She would make one final plea to her parents, but she knew already, as she waited for the sun to rise on this fateful day, that nothing she said would change their decision.
Slowly, before she realized what had happened, the land stretching beneath her window, grayed, and then sprang to life. The light etched the landscape into a well memorized scene before her eyes. The courtyard, a semicircle of earth brown stones, hedged in by the English boxwood. The lawn ran down to the wall, a gate, centered. Then, the land swept away in a dramatic roll of green and gold in the morning sun. The thatched cottages lining up in neat rows, each with their barn and fence. Each with their chickens pecking and their cow lowing. The villagers could be seen, as little more than dark spots, as they began to move among their wagons and shops.
Clare thought what beautiful, simple lives these villagers must lead. She thought of her own room in this manor. She need not turn from the window to look at her surroundings. She knew it all too well. The large bed, canopied, in thick, burgundy tapestries. The ornate dressing mirror. The armoire filled with all the beautiful clothes a woman could desire. The delicate china and glass figurines on her dressing table. Most precious, though, the lovely library her father had given her. One end of the room shelved with her books. None of these books would go with her tonight. She would miss them more than anything. Go she must, though, with or without the books.
The morning was upon the village. Bright, spring sun flooding the countryside in busy life. Beyond the courtyard, beyond the village, beyond the valley stretching on and on, finally rose the Hills of Ruaig: bordering Clare’s entire world with a hint of shadow. “A cursed place,” the old women said, “the land of ghosts and evil things.” Clare prayed earnestly that her journey would not lead her to Ruaig.
“Good morning, Clare.” Her mother was seated at the breakfasting table. “It’s nice to see you on time this morning.” Servants hurried in and out of the room, waiting upon Lady Athea.
“Yes, mother. Good morning.” Clare took her seat. “Where is father?”
“I believe he went to meet Astar this morning. He said there was something of dire importance to discuss before breakfast. No doubt a little detail about the wedding arrangements.” Lady Athea smiled triumphantly at Clare.
“Mother, my feelings about this have not changed.”
“Oh, Clare, stop it!” Her mother’s fork clattered against her plate. “You are distressing me so with your foolishness.” She picked up her fork again. “Visions,” her mother huffed in reproach.
“Mother, you mustn’t dismiss it as foolishness. It was very real. No good will come of this marriage. You must believe me.”
“And you, child, must cease believing in these fairy tales and dreams of yours. You can not give me one solid argument against Brennan. He is a perfect match for you.” Her mother stared at her. Clare knew she was right. There appeared no visible reason not to marry him. In fact there were scores of reason to marry him.
“Mother, I just feel,”
“You just feel! I can‘t stand to hear more. You will not ruin this family being led away with your feelings.”
“No, mother,” Clare spoke quietly.
“What? Speak up!” her mother demanded.
“No, I will not marry,” but the words died on her tongue, for at that moment the doors opened to the dining room. Her father entered, followed by a bearded man, with the darkest eyes within a human face. Lady Athea stood quickly in reverence to the dark eyed man. Clare rose slower and the man watched her intently.
“Governor Astar, good morning,” Lady Athea bowed to him.
“It is indeed, Madame. Good are always the day of betrothals.” His eyes never left Clare’s face. She cast her eyes downward, for no matter the strength of spirit which she possessed, she could not meet that unearthly gaze. “My nephew was very anxious to arrive sooner this week. He feared you would be missing him terribly, Clare, which I assured him you were.” Here Astar smiled maliciously, but only Clare caught the spirit behind the words. Her parents smiled dumbly, happy sheep in the hands of an hireling. “He should be arriving soon. I’m sure you’ve many things to discuss among yourselves, so I’ve arranged for you to meet him in the south garden after noon.” He suddenly cast his gaze upon Clare’s parents for the first time. “I hope that arrangement is agreeable to all?”
“Oh, yes. Quite all right.” Clare’s father nodded and smiled.
“Well, then I have some things to attend to, so forgive me for not breakfasting. We will all dine together tonight.” He then turned suddenly, and his black cape billowed as he hurried through the doors and down the corridor. A chill air filled the room as he exited.
“Well, well,” her father mumbled to himself. Lady Athea looked at Clare with finality in her eyes which warned her to never mention the vision again. Clare rose slowly, and quietly, as was her custom, from the table. Once out of their hearing, she rushed to the garden. She would wait for Brennan there. Her entire plan had hung upon the hope that she could slip away before Brennan’s return to the manor. But now, Astar had foiled things once again for her. Facing Brennan would not make any of this easier, but she would not let it change what must be done.