Finally I had a pie that I knew would make every man in the village fond of me, and make Ben Marshall love me enough to propose.
While I cooked with a fury, a knock came at the door. It was Ben himself.
I smiled at him hopefully.
“Keturah,” he said, “the fair is tomorrow.”
“I am making a special pie, Ben,” I said. “It is a lemon pie.
“May I?” He held out his hand for the spoon, which was coated in the glistening filling.
He tasted. His eyes grew larger. He licked the spoon again.
“Keturah, it is delicious!”
He licked the spoon until he had cleaned every drop of filling off it. “It is unlike anything I have tasted before. It is wonderful! Surely you will win Best Cook at the fair.”
With that, he fell upon one knee. “Keturah, will you marry me?”
“Why, Ben, I—I don’t yet have the ribbon.”
“But you will. And if not, Father need only taste your pie to know that you should have won. Say you will marry me, Keturah.”
My heart fluttered once, like a dying butterfly, and then was still. Utterly still and silent. “One moment,” I said. I put my hand in my apron pocket and gripped the charm tightly. Yes, this was the man Soor Lily referred to when she said I was already in love. Surely he was.
No. The eye in the charm looked. Slowly it rolled in my hand, like a sad shaking of the head.
My heart was as mute as a stone within my bosom.
“No!” I said aloud to my heart.
Ben looked confused.
“I—I mean, no, I should win fairly, Ben,” I stammered. “What if the crust is tough?”
He stood up. “Do not concern yourself, Keturah.” And then he tried to kiss me.
I pushed him away. “Sir,” I said, “I beg you.”
Again he looked confused. “Very well. Of course I respect your maidenly modesty. We shall wait until your pie has won, fair and square, and I shall propose to you on the spot.”
He grabbed my hand, kissed it, and left. I stood still, spoon in hand, and watched him walk away. I squeezed the charm as if I would cease its rolling. I did not bother to close the door.
“Stupid girl,” I said to myself at last. I began scrubbing the kitchen, berating myself all the while. Did not every girl in Tide-by-Rood dream of this? But Ben was not my true love, and I needed no charm to tell me so.
I scrubbed so hard I almost knocked over the pie, and then in frustration I ran from the house. I ran and ran, searching, searching the eyes of every man I saw. Who was he, this man I wanted to love? It was not only to free myself from Death s bond that I searched. What good was my life if my heart would not love?
Soon I had followed all the village paths and looked at every man who smiled at me, and came at last to Hermit Gregor’s. His cottage had been cleaned and whitewashed by the women of the village, but already he was beginning to make new piles: a pile of bones, a pile of hair and threads and sheep wool, a pile of rocks, and a pile of refuse from around the village. I could see his dirty, hairy face just inside the window.
“Come out, Hermit Gregor,” I called sweetly.
“You aren’t here to clean, are you?” he whimpered.
“No, Hermit. I am here to see if I love you.”
I heard a terrified squeal, and his head disappeared. Boldly I entered his house. He was half-hidden beneath a pile of straw that served as his bed. I could see only the lower half of him, and it was trembling.
“Be a man, Hermit Gregor,” I demanded, “and look at me.”
“Why would you want to love me?” he cried from beneath the straw.
“So I might marry you, of course.”
“Marry!” He wiggled farther under the straw.
“Look at me,” I said, “or I shall call my friend Lord Death to visit you.” Slowly he emerged from the straw and sullenly looked in my eyes. The eye rolled so hard it almost wrenched from my grasp.
I shuddered and ran thankfully away.
Evening had fallen and the lanterns had been lit and the music and the dancing begun when I returned slowly to the common. I hovered on the fringes of the crowd, hopeless, until Gretta and Beatrice found me and drew me into the thick of things. I was immediately asked to dance.
I tried to love every boy and bachelor who requested a dance, to no avail. A calmness had settled over me. Somewhere, as Soor Lily said, I already loved someone.
Everyone, married and unmarried, asked to dance with me, and all were kind and gracious. But it was hard to enjoy my honor when I was half in forever, and when the eye jittered and rolled in my hand for every man.
Grandmother and her old friends watched as I danced, and I saw her shine with pride for the gentle things they said of me. Sometimes the dancing stopped for acrobatics and singing, and there was even a play. It was a glorious night.
At the height of the festivities, I was asked to dance again, this time by John Temsland.
My friends, and indeed all the other villagers, stood agape as John led me onto the dance floor. Gradually, in an effort not to stare, some couples joined us in dancing, but
Gretta and Beatrice continued to stare at me and would not pay attention to anyone who asked for a dance.
John was wearing a tunic the color of pale straw and breeches the green of the forest. His hair was loose and long, his skin browned by the labor on the road, and his eyes were blue as the banners that hung from the manor.
“Sir,” I said.
He twirled me, then drew me in a little closer. “I want to extend my personal thanks, Keturah,” he said.
“That is unnecessary, sir,” I said. “You do me honor enough with this dance.”
“Please, Keturah, say my name.”
“John,” I said shyly, “do not thank me.”
“I do not understand everything that happened today,” John said, “but I saw with my own eyes the great swellings on Goody and the child. I saw him sicken, and then with my own eyes saw him heal as the rain came.”
I said nothing, thinking of the rain and of Lord Death.
“Tales of this day will be told for generations,” he said, “but I hope that sometime you will tell me the real story.”
“Of course—John,” I said. “But you must know that in me is no great courage, but only, perhaps, a great love for my people.”
“As befits a lady,” John said. He twirled me again and then stepped closer to me. “I asked my mother, Keturah,” he said, very low, “how a lord’s son might go about marrying a commoner.”
“What commoner?” I asked, astonished.
“I know you think it is impossible. Even Mother is doubtful. But listen—who is the one person with the power to turn a common woman into a lady? The king! His Majesty the king, the very king who is coming to Tide-by-Rood for the fair.”
“John,” I said, shaking my head, “the king does not raise up commoners except for war heroes or wealthy merchants.”
“Remember, Keturah, remember what the king promised to the one who wins top prize at the fair?”
“His shoe full of gold and a wish granted.”
“Yes. And I will win,” he said.
“Truly? And with what will you win?” I asked, smiling at his confidence.
He gestured sweepingly. “Tide-by-Rood is what I will contribute to the fair, Keturah.”
“Sir, it is a glorious contribution. But what common woman will receive this honor, if I may ask?”
“You, Keturah.”
I stopped still and began to dance again only when I saw people staring.
“You helped me see what Tide-by-Rood could be,” he said. “You inspired me, Keturah. For this you will be made a lady. My lady.”
A lady!
Suddenly all weariness left me. I found myself swirling to the music.
A lady!
The villagers honored me, and my friends were in love, and—and I was loved by a lord’s son!
I gazed in the direction of th
e forest and smiled. Could it be that John had been the one all along? I stopped dancing.
“Sir, you are a lord, and I a peasant. This will never be.” But even as I spoke, I put my hand slowly into my apron pocket.
The eye was not moving!
But wait... No, it did not move back and forth as if it were looking.
And yet it moved. It throbbed in my hand, and then I felt in horror that it squeezed out tears, so that in a moment my hand was wet with them.
I pulled my hand away and wiped it on my skirt, and I could not have been more repelled and appalled if it had been blood upon my hand.
John had been talking about his hopes for the king’s understanding, and now he watched me, curious, expectant, and... lovingly.
“Sir—John, I must go home, I—I must think.”
“Think and dream, Keturah, as I will,” he said.
I ran away, up the hill toward home, my mind still dancing with disbelief.
I gazed out my window and watched the lanterns flicker and listened to the music and laughter that rose like field butterflies from the village. A fairy tale had happened to me—I was the told instead of the teller.
It was not long before Gretta and Beatrice appeared at my door. They regarded me in silent wonder for a time, and then Gretta said, “So the mystery of your true love is solved.
And he is John Temsland, a lord’s son!”
“He is a beautiful man!” Beatrice exclaimed.
“He is,” I said, smiling.
“And he is good and upright,” Beatrice said. “And he is smitten with you, that is clear.”
“So it seems.”
“And he is a lord’s son!” said Gretta again.
“Amazing,” I said.
“Did he propose, Keturah?” Beatrice asked, smiling.
“He did,” I said, half in wonder myself.
“And you answered?”
“I—I believe I forgot to answer.”
Beatrice giggled, but Gretta stared at me. “Did you consult the charm?”
“It throbs and weeps,” I said, “but it does not search.”
“At last!” Beatrice said happily. “You are safe, Keturah!”
“But what does that mean?” Gretta asked. “Why does it weep?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I know this—fair day is a day of weddings. Now home with you, to dream of your loves. And let me dream of mine.”
They left then, and I stayed awake the night through, trying to answer for myself Gretta’s question.
XIII
The king and the fair with its trappings
and delights; the cooking contest,
what I ask of the king.
The day of the fair began with drums.
Drums beat in the village as traveling merchants from throughout the south of Angleland came to set up their booths and show their wares. Drums answered from a distance as the royal party came closer. The king was coming.
My friends came to my house early to wash their hair and don freshly washed frocks. They braided flowers into their hair. Grandmother was glad of heart and sang little songs as they made ready.
I did the chores slowly. I scrubbed and polished the pots as if it were the only important work in the world. While making the beds, I stopped to smell the scent of Grandmother on the quilt. I dusted the dear rocker and swept the familiar floor. I touched the life I had known and, as I now understood it, the life I loved. This I felt in my heart: tomorrow I would not be what I was today.
We all lined the streets to wait for the king and his entourage. At last, as morning became noon, the king rode into the village while heralds blew their horns and were answered by flutes.
The king came first, and at his right was the royal messenger, Duke Morland, who had told us of the king’s intentions. At the king’s other side was Lord Temsland. The astonishment upon his face was equal to the fury on the face of the duke. Mixed with the duke’s anger was envy—it now appeared that when he and his cohorts had persuaded the king to banish Temsland to this corner of the kingdom, they had inadvertently rewarded him. The sun shone on the bay and the cottages dotted the hillside like flowers, and even the forest looked benign in the golden sunshine.
And then the bell began to ring and our hearts rose to see Lord Temsland’ s joy as he passed a hand over his eyes. John Temsland and his mother rode to greet the party and then joined it. As they passed us, John leaned over to hand me a red rose. The girls around me tittered and offered me quick curtseys when I looked at them. Truly I was safe, just as Beatrice had said. I smiled at the girls and smelled my rose.
We all cheered and showered the royal party with flower petals. The horses’ hooves made a merry sound upon the new cobblestone road.
The lords who had come to gloat looked everywhere in dismay. Their countenances soured as they gazed upon our whitewashed cottages and the flowers that decorated every doorstep and pathway and gaily painted window box. They scowled at our cobblestone road and square, and stared morosely at our new pier and the gleaming bell in the church tower. They would not look into the faces of the people, so like flowers themselves in their bright clothes.
Tailor’s children were brightest and prettiest of all.
The king and queen, on the other hand, beamed at our reception. Village girls walked before them, swirling long ribbons above their heads, and boys beat upon little tambourines. The king and his party slowed down when they came to the row of booths set up for the fair. Merchants bowed low as the king and queen passed.
Once they had passed they filed to the church, and Parson Tom welcomed them and all of us who had followed to the stairs of the chapel. Lord Temsland gave a speech.
“It is good to be home!” he announced with great good cheer. “If only I could tell you how very good it is to be home,” he said, winking at us.
And then he became more sober. “And home it is indeed, I have learned. I have learned something else—that my son is ready to take on many of the responsibilities of a manored lord, and may well perform them better than I.”
At this, the people laughed and clapped, and John blushed to be praised. Lord Temsland, too, flushed at the enthusiasm of everyone’s agreement.
He continued, “I have learned that by opening the coffers, one obtains other treasures, and that...” He paused and looked about him. “Well, enough of speeches. Surely it is time for the fair to begin!”
This time the cheering was deafening.
Parson Tom raised his hand. “God bless this fair,” he pronounced then. “Let the fair begin.”
Someone began to play a pipe, and a few sang together.
I heard the king talking to Lord Temsland as a friend talks with another.
“Tomorrow we will hunt the great hart,” Lord Temsland said to the king. “He has evaded me for many years now, and has grown into a noble animal. He is as intelligent as he is large, helping other deer escape from traps, leading them to our haystacks when it was bitterly cold last winter. My arrows have not been able to find him, but surely yours will, Your Majesty.”
The king smiled and looked with longing toward the forest. “There is nothing I like more than a challenging hunt,” he said.
John and I exchanged a look.
“The hart cannot be caught, Father,” John said. “He is enchanted, perhaps. It would be better if we sought out a more likely target.”
The king frowned. “No beast escapes my arrow, once my heart is in it,” he said.
“Of course not!” Lord Temsland said, and then they both laughed, and the king put his hand on Lord Temsland s shoulder.
I watched Parson Tom slump in his chair and promptly go to sleep. His goiter was larger than usual. One day soon he would sleep and not awake, his goiter having sucked the life out of him.
But I did not want to see such things today. I wanted the noise and music and laughter of the fair, and so I took Grandmother’s hand and plunged into the middle of it.
The morning began with a
boulder pull. Everyone predicted that it would be Simon Langley or Barnaby Buttercross who would pull the boulder the farthest. Hadn’t they won, one of them, every year for seven years? But weren’t we all surprised when Stephen Little won the day. He lived in the rockiest part of the parish and had become good at taking rocks out of his poor soil. Lord Temsland was so pleased at the turn of events that he promised Stephen the right to clear another half-acre of forestland that bordered his portion.
When the boulder pull was ended, everyone went to see the booths of vegetables and goods. There were cabbages and rhubarb, corn, leeks and cucumbers, beans and garlic, and white meats of milk and cheeses. There were gooseberries and rye and wheat breads, baked and warm, golden butters in fancy molds, and bunches of picked flowers tied with ribbon. Martha Hornsby sold her famous jams and syrups, and Lord Temsland gave her a great gold coin for one bottle. This made her cry, for all her life she had longed to have a real gold coin to bite of an evening.
A number of youths entered the eating contest, and a great crowd gathered round and bet on who would be able to eat the most currant buns. Jeremy Smith ate until he was sick. Richard Walters had to stop at twenty, and then spent the better part of an hour lying on the village lawn, moaning. Michael Red ate thirty-three buns and stopped, saying that it was a lucky number and that it was the first time in his life he had been full. Michael’s wife was very proud of him and wove his first-place blue ribbon into her hair.
The young lads were stoic when they all lost in archery to Barty Lumberjon. They knew he wouldn’t let them forget his victory until next year’s fair, but freedom from enforced humility came when Adam Wiltweather beat Barty in the arm-wrestling competition. Adam was a quiet lad who would let others win at times and declare he had done his best.
I walked Grandmother around the booths. We touched woolens and silks, tasted strange foods, smelled exotic spices. We saw a man juggle fiery torches, then raw eggs. Grandmother clapped with happiness to see a man who could tie himself into a knot. The villagers proudly showed their calves and bulls and their lambs and ewes and their turkeys and roosters and hogs. Children showed their prize rabbits and donkeys. Grandmother and I laughed and clapped, and I marveled to think it possible that I might be lady over all my people.
Keturah and Lord Death Page 14
