“May I sit with you?”
I made room for her and she sat, tucking her legs under her. She placed the package in her lap.
What a pleasure to have her company!
“May I know your name, dear?”
I could think of no harm in telling her. “Lodie. I mean, Elodie.”
“And I am Goodwife Celeste. My goodman is Twah.”
“Pleased to meet you.” I rummaged in my satchel. One must show hospitality to a visitor, even a visitor to a cloak on the deck of a cog.
She was saying, “You and I both feared for that brave kitten.” She paused, then added, “Have you heard of the cats of Two Castles?”
I shook my head, while drawing bread and cheese and a pear out of my satchel. With the little knife from my purse, I cut her chunks of the bread and cheese and half the pear.
“Thank you.” She tasted. “Excellent goat cheese.” She unwrapped her own package.
“Cats in Two Castles?” I said to remind her.
“The townspeople believe cats protect them from the ogre. There are many.”
“Many cats or ogres?” How could a cat save anyone from an ogre?
She laughed. “Cats.” Her package held bread and cheese, too, and a handful of radishes.
We traded slices and chunks, observing custom, according to the saying, Share well, fare well. Share ill, fare ill.
Goodwife Celeste’s cheese wasn’t as tasty as mine, but the bread was softer, baker’s bread. I wondered where my future meals would come from, once my food and my single copper ran out.
Goodwife Celeste returned to telling me about cats. “You know that ogres shift shape sometimes?”
“Yes.”
“Cats know they do, too. The cats sense that an ogre can become a fox or a wolf, but they’re not afraid.”
Our cat at home, Belliss, who weighed less than a pail of milk, feared nothing.
“They’re aware that an ogre can also turn into a mouse.” She finished eating. “More?” She held out her food.
“No, thank you.” I offered her more of mine, too, and she said no.
As I wrapped my food and she wrapped hers, her sleeve slid back. A bracelet of twine circled her left wrist. Were twine bracelets the fashion in Two Castles? She probably wouldn’t have minded if I’d asked, but I didn’t want to reveal my ignorance.
“Can an ogre shift into any kind of animal?” I said. “A spider or an elephant?”
“I believe so.”
“Can an ogre shift into a human?”
Her eyebrows went up. “I doubt it.” She returned to the subject of cats. “A cat will stare at an ogre and wish him—will him—to become a mouse. They say one cat isn’t enough, but several yearning at him, and the ogre can’t resist.”
I pitied the ogre. “Is that true?”
“Many believe it. What’s more, people train their cats. They don’t train them to try to make an ogre become a mouse. It is in the cats’ nature to do that, and the ogre must cooperate by giving in. But folks train cats to perform tricks and to stalk anything, including an ogre. Some make a living at cat teaching. With the flick of a wrist . . .”
She showed me, and I imitated her—nothing to it.
“With this gesture, anyone can set a cat to stalking.”
“If there were no cats, what would the ogre do?”
“Nothing, perhaps. Or dine on townsfolk.”
My stomach fluttered. “Does he live alone, or are there more ogres in his castle?”
“Alone with his servants. Count Jonty Um is the only ogre in Lepai. Likely there are others in other lands.”
“He’s a count?” You couldn’t be a count unless a king made you one or made one of your ancestors one.
“A count.”
“What happened to the rest of the ogres in Lepai?”
She turned her hand palm up. “I don’t know. They may have become mice and been eaten. And ogres sicken and die, just as people do.”
How lonely I would be if I were the only human. “Mistress? What about dragons? Are there many? Are any of them noble?”
“Just one in Two Castles, and IT is a commoner. Dragons don’t generally dwell near one another.” She straightened her left leg. “My old bones don’t like anything hard.”
I wished I had a cushion for her. She was so nice. I thought of Mother’s warning, but Goodwife Celeste couldn’t be a whited sepulcher. We had been together all this while, and she had done nothing to raise my suspicions.
“Beyond Two Castles,” she continued, “Lepai has a few dozen dragons, here and there.”
“Do people protect themselves from the dragon, too? Not with cats, with something else?”
“No. Everyone is used to IT. IT’s lived in the town since IT was hatched a hundred years ago.”
“So old?”
“IT is in ITs prime.”
We fell silent. I leaned back on my arms and looked up at the blue sky. Summer weather in October. No clouds, only a breath of a breeze. How safe I felt, like a twig floating in a quiet pond.
Goodwife Celeste picked shreds of cheese and bread crumbs off her lap in a housewifely way. She walked to the bulwark, tossed them over, and returned to me. Back at my cloak, she knelt. “Crossing is a holiday. For a few days we’re as safe as the kittens in their basket.” She gestured at the cog around us.
I had been thinking exactly the same thought!
“I’m sorry I won’t be able to help you in Two Castles.”
That startled me. I hadn’t thought of asking for aid.
Was she telling me in a roundabout fashion of her own troubles? Were she and her goodman too poor to feed themselves, or were they in some other sort of difficulty?
She put a gentle hand under my chin. “You have a determined face. Nothing will easily best you.” She stood. “My goodman may well be wondering what we had to gossip about for so long.” She left me.
That night, when I curled up on the deck, worries came and refused to be pretended away. The mansioners would not take me. I would starve. In the winter I would freeze, fall ill, die. Mother and Father would never know what had become of me.
Chapter Three
The weather remained uncommonly warm. The cog master complained about the still air and our slow progress. I feared we would arrive after Guild Week, and then what would I do?
We’d set out on a Sunday, the only day the cog left Lahnt. Masters in Two Castles began seeing boys and girls on Monday, and by Friday all the places would be taken.
At noon on Tuesday I lunched on the last pear, the end of my provisions. By nightfall the wind freshened, although the air remained warm. When I awoke the next day, I sensed a change in the motion of the cog. The troughs weren’t as deep, the crests not so high. I rushed to the foredeck.
An uneven triangle broke the horizon. Our cog now sailed amid fishing boats, a whale among minnows.
I folded my cloak and pushed it into my satchel with my spare hose, chemise, and kirtle—my entire wardrobe, except for the clothes I wore and the shoes on my feet. My hand encountered the only other item, a list in Mother’s small, neat writing on a sheet of parchment. I took it out.
HALF DOZEN RULES FOR LODIE
1. Be truthful.
2. Act with forethought, not impetuously. Your mother and father depend on your safety.
3. Neither stare nor eavesdrop.
4. Do not interrupt or contradict your elders or finish their sentences or think you know more than they do.
5. Do not befriend anyone until you are certain he or she is worthy of your trust. Beware the whited sepulcher.
6. Know always that you have our love.
7. Be generous (an extra, generous rule).
I patted the page seven times before returning it to my satchel.
Half the morning passed as we drew closer to land. From behind, the other passengers pressed against me, as impatient as I. I touched my apron and felt the familiar bulge of my purse. The stink of fish assailed my nose.
>
I took in the tiers of houses ahead, a few built of stone, most of wattle and daub—clay and wood. Above town, on the right, a cluster of towers poked the sky. To the left, barely cresting the hilltop, were the tips of more towers, the other castle. Which was king’s and which ogre’s, I had no idea.
What I sought most I didn’t see—the mansioners’ wagons or at least the three pennants: the pennant that showed a laughing face; the one with a weeping face; and the one with a hushing face, a finger over the lips. No mansions, but the entire town could not be on view from here.
The cog master shouted instructions to his seamen. Passengers called to people waving from the dock. Someone touched my elbow. I turned.
The goodwife held a bundle of black-and-white fur. “Here. I bought you a kitten. It’s good luck to bring a cat to Two Castles.”
“Thank you, but—”
“You can leave it on the wharf. No cat starves here.”
The kitten was asleep and didn’t waken when Goodwife Celeste handed it over. It filled my two hands but weighed almost nothing, its ears huge, its pink nose tiny. I knew from the white left ear that this was the kitten who had climbed the rigging.
“Thank you, mistress.”
“You’re welcome. I hope to see you in the mansions someday soon.”
“Do you know where they are?”
She pointed upward. “Beyond the town. See, there is King Grenville’s castle.” Her finger moved rightward to the jutting towers. “The mansioners are east of his castle and”—her finger shifted to the left—“east of his menagerie.” Left again. “They are northeast of Count Jonty Um’s castle, which is farther south but less than a mile from town.”
“I see. Thank you.”
She smiled and threaded her way back to rejoin her husband.
Farewell, my only friend, my kind friend who cannot help me any longer.
My stomach growled despite the fish stench. The cog bumped against the pier, causing the kitten to waken and squirm in my hands.
“Be still,” I whispered. “I’ll set you free soon enough.”
As if it understood, it quieted and peered out at the world of solid land.
A seaman lowered the gangplank. I hung back and let the other passengers descend first. The girl in the odd apparel and her family were embraced by another family. Travelers were passed from hug to hug. Seamen rushed by me, joking to one another.
If anyone awaited me, this would be less an adventure. I remembered Albin’s wisdom: A mansioner is always alone. If a hundred people had come to meet me, I would still be separate.
The goodwife and her goodman set off together into an alley. I wondered why no one had been here to greet them.
The kitten sniffed my wrists. I followed the last passenger and stepped onto the pier. How unaccustomed my legs were to a floor that didn’t move. I wondered if seamen ever fell land-sick after weeks at sea.
I set the kitten down between an empty bucket and a mound of fishnet. “Be well. Live a happy cat life.” I touched its nose. “Bring me luck.”
It mewed briefly, then fell silent. I walked the length of the pier to the wharf. Where the two met, I stopped.
To my left a woman hawked muffins out of a handcart. My mouth watered, but I didn’t go to her. I was sure to find better if I waited.
In a doorway a man and a woman sat on stools mending nets. Nearby a fishing boat lay upended, its owner busy applying oakum and pitch.
Stalls lined the wharf and people ambled along, stopping to examine the wares or to buy.
The women were clad as the mother and daughter in the cog had been, in narrow kirtles with long sleeves and long hems and with colored aprons tied round their waists. As at home, the tunics of the men ended just below their knees, revealing a few inches of their breeches. Everyone—men, women, and children—wore hoods or caps that tied under their chins.
I tugged on my sleeves to make them seem longer. I am a mansioner in costume, I told myself, not outlandish, not a bumpkin.
Two dogs chased each other to the edge of the water and back again. On the pier, a plump black cat with a white tail ambled to my kitten and began to lick it all over. Other black-and-white cats sunned themselves here and there on the wharf. If this had been a town for yellow cats, my kitten might have been snubbed.
I heard applause.
Mansioners? Here?
Three young women and four in middle age stood in a loose row on the wharf, backs to me, blocking the reason for their clapping. When I reached them, I saw two black-and-white cats at the feet of a young man perhaps seven or eight years older than I.
Yellow hair flowed from his cap down his sturdy neck. His skin seemed to glow. Large gray eyes, fringed by thick lashes, and curving lips might have made his face feminine but for the strength of his jawline and chin. Powerful arms pulled tight the sleeves of his frayed tunic. His hands and bare feet were long and graceful. The bare feet, the hollows in his cheeks, and his worn tunic bespoke desperate poverty.
Twisted around the fourth finger of his right hand was a ring of twine, knotted in front where the jewel of a silver ring would be. Goodwife Celeste wore a twine bracelet. Was this fashion, or did twine-jewelry wearers belong to some confederacy?
The young man’s hands described a circle in the air, and the two cats rolled over. The women clapped as enthusiastically as if he’d stopped the sun. I clapped softly.
“Ooh, Master Thiel. Again, if you please.”
His name was Thiel, pronounced Tee-el.
He bowed, rewarded each cat with a tidbit, then obliged. The cats obliged, too. We clapped again. I touched the purse at my waist—still in place.
Here was a cat teacher, as Goodwife Celeste had said there would be, although he seemed not to be earning much at it. A wooden bowl on the ground held but four tins.
“Mistresses, here is the cats’ newest trick.” He raised his hands high above his head. The right-hand cat leaped straight up, like a puppet on a string. The left-hand cat licked its paw.
“Tut, tut.” Master Thiel crouched. He rewarded the cat who’d leaped and snapped a finger against the other cat’s scalp, chiding it in cat parlance, I supposed. The cat shook its head and became attentive again. This time when the young man raised his hands, both cats jumped.
More tricks followed. The cats waved, shook his hands, and even leaped over sticks held a few inches above the ground.
My stomach rumbled. I wrenched my eyes away. Across from where I stood, a broad way marched straight uphill. Chiseled into the stone of the corner house was the street name, Daycart Way. This seemed the likeliest route to food and mansioners.
I set out, my satchel slung across my chest. People strolled on my right and left. A boy herded three piglets. Children and cats and dogs chased one another. The dogs came in every size and color, but the cats were always black and white. I watched my feet to avoid the leavings of the animal traffic—not merely dogs, cats, and piglets, but also donkeys and the occasional horse, bearing a burgher or a person of noble rank.
At the first corner, I came upon two more cat teachers, these hardly older than I. They practiced just the rolling-over trick. I wondered if Two Castles boasted a guild of cat teachers. These two might be apprentices and the young man on the wharf a journeyman.
I angled close to the merchants’ stalls at the edge of the avenue. If I had been rich, my fortune would soon have been spent. The first table I passed was spread with belt buckles, most iron, but a few brass and one silver, the silver one hammered in the shape of a rose. How Father would cherish such a buckle.
In the next stall a knife-and-scissors sharpener sat at his wheel, waiting for custom. “Sharp scissors and knives!” he cried.
Beyond him a shoemaker shaped leather on a last. Shoes stood in double file up and down the table at his elbow. Mother might express wonder that the natives of Two Castles had such pointy feet.
How I wished they could be here, saying whatever they really would say, wanting whatever they
really would want.
In the shoemaker’s shop, which opened behind the shoemaker’s chair, his goodwife sat on a bench while a boy and a girl near my age stood and addressed her. From the attitudes of the two—leaning forward from their waists—they were vying for an apprenticeship. I supposed both had the necessary silvers.
I heard a voice I knew coming from behind. “Step lively, my honeys, my cows, my donkey. Come with Dess.”
Next I passed a table heaped with leather purses and touched the lump in my apron where my linen purse hung. A leather purse never needed darning or leaked its contents. I had double backstitched mine before leaving home.
My feet refused to pass by the next stall, a clothes mender’s. On her table were neatly sorted piles of chemises, kirtles, aprons, tunics, breeches, hose, garters, capes, hoods, and caps, all in linen or wool. Of course everything had belonged to someone else, and likely death or poverty had brought the goods here to be repaired and made ready to wear again.
Rich folks’ new garments were soft. Poor folks’ garments became soft after long use. At the beginning they were stiff enough to stand unaided. My grandmother first wore my chemise, which now slid against my skin as gently as rose petals.
From behind the table, the mending mistress disputed with a goodwife over the price of a cloak. The mending mistress’s right shoulder sloped upward. The goodwife had a hairy mole above her upper lip. A cat prowled in and out and around the legs of the table.
An orange kirtle caught my eye, pretty, adorned by three wooden buttons at the neck. I held it up. Narrow with long sleeves. Fashionable. I folded it again. My copper wouldn’t be nearly enough.
Closest to me on the table were the caps. I moved two aside to reach a madder-red one, faded to the same color as my kirtle. A copper might buy a cap. If they were here, Mother and Father and even Albin would tell me to keep my coin, which would doubtless buy me food for several days. But I wanted a cap. Wearing a cap, my head at least would belong in Two Castles.
A cap might help persuade a mansioner master to take me, while a bareheaded girl would be turned away.
A Tale of Two Castles Page 2
