“Come, Alix, walk with me in the garden.”
“I’d best go with you, Lady Catherine,” Father Michael offered eagerly, thus bearing out Maisry’s belief that the priest loves my mother. “These knights may not be schooled in chivalry.”
“Thank you, Father, I would appreciate your company as far as the orchard.”
We said farewell to Sister Eulalie and crossed the court where the knights now stretched lazily, their armor piled in heaps beside them. All eyes followed my beautiful mother as she minced decorously before them, and I minced proudly in her wake, imitating her delicate gait. At the hawthorn bush, she dismissed the priest.
“That’s a relief,” she said impishly and took off her shoes.
Together we continued to the herb garden. She bent and broke off a sprig of celandine. “Take this with you, Alix, for freckles.”
I clapped my face in alarm. “Do I have freckles?”
“Not now, but some jealous harlot may hex you. Or here, these starry leaves will keep your dreams honest.”
I accepted them, wondering how she knew I’d dreamed about the pilgrimage.
“And the hemlock to keep your teats small,” she teased, “though that seems less of a problem than freckles. However, it’s also good against your husband’s lechery—used in small amounts, of course.”
I hung my head sullenly, still smarting at the slur to my breasts. She raised my chin to put a chaplet of hawthorn on my head. “There, Queen of the May, bride-to-be.”
“I don’t want to get married.”
“But you will,” she said gently. “And he’ll adore you wildly or he won’t get you at all, I promise. You are my pearl.”
“Will he find me pretty?” I asked anxiously.
“Let’s take inventory: high broad forehead, crowned by thick silver-gold hair like your father’s. His eyes as well, delicate traceries and infinite depths. So far you’ll do. However, you have my dark winged brows and my silly hollows in your cheeks. But soothly he’ll have to take the bad with the good.”
“I want to look like you!” I clasped her fiercely around the waist.
She pulled me away and we began to walk again.
“Most important is your mind, for a great man likes his wife to be good company. Suppose we test you. Here’s a cherry tree and it has a secret. Do you remember what?”
I looked at the fuchsia-blossomed tree in triumph. “That’s easy. The keys to our treasury are buried under the largest root.”
“Brilliant,” she said quietly. “Let’s see you find them.”
I dropped to my knees and reached around a black trunk oozing amber gum. “Ugh!” I flicked at ants that coursed up my arm, then dug for a time in the damp loose earth, and produced the metal box. “See?”
“Tell me how the keys are used.”
“I could show you.” I started toward the fruit cellar covered with grassy turf like a grave.
Her hand stopped me. “Best not, when so many people are here. Tell me the value of the coins in order.”
They were buried in a locked box, I told her, and could be identified by their weight and feel: deniers, marcs, silver livres and gold coins from Byzantium.
“Excellent. Do you remember how to open the silver trove?”
I described the intricate pattern of stones to press and pry, and she was satisfied. I replaced the keys. Now as we strolled, her humor shifted to a brooding melancholy and I wondered if I dare broach my own question. We were rapidly approaching the hedge where Father Michael waited and I saw I must.
“Mother, it doesn’t seem fair that Maisry and I should have to sacrifice our pilgrimage on our very last day together. We could leave before dawn and be back before Father returns from Tomlinson Manor.”
She turned hollow inward eyes, the expression she assumes when she’s having second sight. I didn’t think she’d heard me, but she had.
“You’ll obey your father, Alix. That’s an order. Now let’s see if he’s returned, or if a messenger has come instead.”
Again we strolled with dignified measure before the knights, but inwardly my fantastick cells were roiling. I loved my parents, aye, and had ever been a respectful daughter, but had never been so sorely tried. Formerly I’d found it easy to obey because they’d been fair. Now I saw that they weren’t considering my wishes at all but were totally distracted by journeys and knights and mad old suitors and I know not what. Therefore, I began to plot.
MY FATHER’S MESSENGER WAS AWAITING us at the hall entrance. He was very officious for one so young and his voice cracked when he spoke.
“Lord William sends word that he’s bedding at Tomlinson Manor this night and will return by midday tomorrow. He says that all is well. You should prepare to leave as planned. Please sleep in peace and God’s blessing.”
“Very well bespoke,” my mother said gently. “What’s your name, lad?”
“Arthur, sir.” He blushed deep red. “I mean, My Lady.”
“Are you hungry, Arthur?”
“Yes, My Lady.”
“Then go to the kitchen and tell Dame Margery that I said to feed you well. She’ll show you where to sleep.”
“I’ll take him,” I offered, for I needed to see Maisry immediately.
“Thank you, Mary Alix. I’ll be strolling in the garden.”
Dame Margery told me that Maisry could be found in the oats bin getting grain for the chickens. Knowing how chaff goes up her nose, I simply listened for sneezes and found her readily enough. I explained the disaster that had befallen us. She seemed to be as distraught as I was. However, when I presented my plan to go to the pilgrimage secretly, without escort—despite my father’s orders—her response proved me wrong.
“I don’t think you should go against Lord William’s wishes, Lady Alix,” she protested stubbornly. “There’ll be other pilgrimages.”
“No, there won’t!” I shouted. “Haven’t I just told you? You and I will never see one another more; we deserve this pilgrimage.”
“Who’s to say what we deserve?”
I invoked Dame Margery’s formula. “God’s will, the Divine Plan. I feel it, Maisry, we were meant to go.”
Maisry still looked doubtful, but at least she listened. The pilgrimage was to pass nearby soon after dawn and would pause in Dunsmere at the hour of Haute Tierce. My father was due home at midday; we would simply watch the sun and make certain that we were back at Wanthwaite before he arrived. Maisry was terrified of his anger lest he find out, though I assured her I would take the blame and—more important—he would never find out.
“Someone will see us and report,” she said.
Inspired, I began to improvise. “Not if I’m in disguise, no one will know.”
“Disguised as what?”
“A villein, same as you. We’ll be sisters.”
“Not with your hair,” she said unreasonably.
“Benedicite, Maisry, do you take me for a fool? I said disguised. I can’t cut my hair square like yours but I can tie it in a band as some do.”
Finally she agreed to find a brown spun tunic; one of Peg’s old ones might do since Peg was big with child. But she was still full of concerns, now for what Lady Catherine would say
“I rarely see her before Haute Tierce except at Mass which I miss half the time. We’ll bribe old Robert to take a message that we’re watching the duck eggs hatch and that the pecking has just begun. Before she can give it more thought, we’ll be back.”
’Twas a near perfect scheme with only two weak points that I could see: old Robert was somewhat dense and would need rehearsing, and the knights might want to stop us. Well, we’d just have to try. Maisry remained uneasy about the wickedness but I knew she’d forget that once we were on our way.
My mother and I supped together in silence, both of us deep in our own thoughts. In silence we again paced the garden paths, our heads bent low. Nearby we could hear the laughter of our visiting knights, vaguely see their lounging forms in the milky glow.
When the first star shone in the indigo blue, my mother stood like a statue, the only sign of life being deep moans emitting from her heart. I watched her carefully, fearful that her second sight was discovering my plans, but then she took my arm to walk again. Now the heavens grew black, the stars small and far away, a gibbous moon coasted slowly on the sky’s steeps, and still we walked. I was yawning and bleary-eyed before my mother turned back to the castle, only to stop again at the entrance and sit looking upward as if reluctant to leave the velvet night. Finally she sighed and called for our tapers. Together we slowly ascended the twisting stair accompanied by eerie circles of light.
She stopped me at my chamber. “No, Alix, you mustn’t sleep alone. Come to my bed.”
Heart beating wildly, I protested, “I’m not alone, Mother, Lance is with me.”
“Mary Alix!” Her eyes stared huge from their shadowed sockets. “This night you will stay with me.”
“Of course, My Lady, as you wish.” My mind raced forward to the dawn. Without doubt my mother suspected something for she never permitted me to sleep with her unless I was ill. Benedicite, I must get away without her knowledge and then hope that the rest of my plan would convince her.
We undressed by candlelight and when we stood naked, my mother Catherine drew me close to her body still smelling of blossoms. She kissed my lips gently.
“Sweet dreams, little Alix. This is the first of many nights we’ll have together when we’re on the road. We must learn to be each other’s comfort and solace.” She held my face and looked deeply. Two tiny flames burned in the centers of her lobelia eyes and the rays of color shot wildly inward. ’Twas an uncanny moment, entering the soul of my mother, and I knew I must confess my plans for the morrow. Then she blew out the tapers and sense returned.
Neither of us slept the entire night. I lay quietly while she walked to the window time and again. I saw her framed against the moonlight, peering outward at the dark. She also made sounds, spoke rapidly in the Celtic tongue, moaned. I watched her with an aching heart, feeling evermore guilty about my deception but at the same time afraid to speak lest I tell all and ruin my very last day. Finally she lay beside me, tossed fitfully a while, then seemed to rest.
I stared at the arched window and smiled to think of that African snake.
MY MOTHER SLEPT.
The curve of her back glowed white as whalebone and her profile was etched against the dusky mantle of her hair. Silently I slipped from my side of the bed.
Like a wraith I floated down the stairs and into the whirling mists in the courtyard, for God had sent a fog to shield us. Lance was eerily quiet as well, as if he sensed my stealth. I could hear the movement of knights but the fog separated us. I almost fell over Maisry where she crouched in the gloom and soon we were giggling and whispering as I transformed myself into a villein. First I wound my long braids under a band.
“Take off your shoes,” she ordered. “Those points betray you.”
I obeyed.
“Where can you lock your beast? No villeins like us keep a pet less it’s a cat.”
I argued somewhat feebly but at last shut my wolf in the cheese room that is rarely entered.
“Now are we ready?”
She gazed at me critically and smudged dirt on my face. “May do now.”
Avoiding the main gate lest the donjon guards sharp eyes spy us, we left by our usual path through the kitchen courtyard. No one was about, another good augur for the day. We had to feel our way along the damp outside wall, but by the time we reached the main moat bridge the mist broke somewhat and I saw to my surprise that the iron gate of the great door was down: we couldn’t have used that exit if we’d tried. This must be a new edict of my father’s to protect us while he was away.
Once across the moat, we entered the bailey where we picked our way through fowl, pigs, goats, sheep and milch-cows. The air was abuzz with pesty flies and we fought to keep them out of our eyes and mouths. Villeins were already feeding and milking the domestic animals, and were thus too busy to pay heed to us. We easily passed through the gate of wood palings enclosing the stock on our way to the dry moat. Now we ran down and up, over the earth-lip, and were in my beloved park. My hunter Justice whinnied when I passed; I scratched his nose and promised him a good run when I returned. We frisked among the trees on our way to the river, pulling at branches and swinging around trunks.
At the foot of the park we walked upstream and waded across a shallow ford. The water was icy from the winter runoff and the stones cut sharply. On the far side I paused guiltily; foam glittering over gray rocks reminded me oddly of my father’s eyes. I shrugged off the reminder, for I knew his character too well to believe he would punish me for such a harmless adventure once ’twas done. Behind me the trees nodded gently in their spring-green leaves; ahead black fields glistened in curved swaths where they’d been freshly plowed. Without another backward glance I plunged after Maisry into the fields.
“Keep to the hillocks between furrows,” she ordered, “or you’ll sink to your knees.”
I tried but there seemed to be a strong pull in the earth determined to draw me into the mire, and soon Peg’s borrowed dress was gummy with mud at the hem and I’d begun to add my own store of sweat to the rancid supply she’d left. Maisry stepped forth like a square ox while I foundered like a newborn colt caught in a bog.
“Wait for me,” I called piteously as I sloshed after her.
The mists were rising fast and the new sun turned the heavy sky to a bright clabbered yellow. Almost at once, we saw a huge company of monks thundering along the horizon like a flock of ravens. I stopped, wondering at their headlong flight. ’Twas Saturday, and Saturn is an evil god, yet monks are a good omen withal. I stumbled on.
“Maisry, wait!”
She turned and clasped her stomach in shrieks of laughter at my foundering. I filled my fist with mud and flung it straight into her rude mouth.
“Ugh!” She spat. Her round brown eyes bulged and before I knew what had happened she’d hurled as well as she got.
In a short while we were both besmottered and laughing and it looked as if the pilgrimage would be forgot, when Maisry raised a palm to stop me.
“Can you hear?”
In the distance, a muffled beat.
“Come or we’ll miss them.”
Hand in hand we pulled each other across the field, stopping only at the ditch to splash our faces, then through the hedgerow to the path.
“See there.” Maisry pointed to a pile of steaming horse dung. “They must be around the next bend.”
We sprinted ahead on new grass and, sure enough, there they were, a dozen or more. All were mounted and the harness bells made a pleasant jingle as they rode. We trotted beside them and gazed up shyly. At the back were two men together, experienced pilgrims, said Maisry because they wore coarse cloaks and carried curved ashen staffs with waterbuckets dangling in the crooks. One was a palmer and the other wore the Canterbury flask.
In front of them were five women, all on little mares. Three had simple bands around their braids while the two older women wore wimples to conceal gray hair, I suspected, for they also painted their faces to hide wrinkles. Yet even the young ones were far from handsome for there didn’t look to be one full set of teeth in the five mouths combined. I ran my tongue uneasily over my own and hoped I took after my parents in that respect, for both still had complete sets. Two of the younger pilgrims had had pox as well, yet taken all in all they were a handsome lot, for there were no cripples or wens to be seen.
We’d hardly joined them when the leader, a bishop, pulled his gelding to a halt and raised his hand for silence. In the distance bells rang, and his face grew puzzled. I knew immediately that this was my own chapel bell sounding from Wanthwaite and I, too, was surprised. I realized I’d heard naught at Prime when the sun rose, and surely ’twas too early for the third hour, Haute Tierce. Yet the bell was ringing, no doubt about that, and the bishop crossed the air and began t
o pray. All of us lowered our heads to receive blessing as I counted the strokes: fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…. They went on too long—Father Michael was too fat to pull the rope more than a dozen times ever. The unsettling suspicion crossed my mind that they’d discovered my absence and that this was my mother’s way of summoning me home. Yet if I went back and were wrong, I would have given up the pilgrimage for nothing and I longed to see the play. When blessing was finished, I walked along with the others.
Dunsmere was a scattered collection of thatched wattle-and-daub huts stretched along the main path to the square where it met with a road from the opposite direction. As we marched under the broad oaks, the church bell rang and my stomach confirmed that this was indeed Haute Tierce. I’d carried two deniers in my sleeve with the thought of purchasing Maisry and me a treat for our dinner. However, there seemed nothing to buy, but fortunately Maisry had a trick up her sleeve as well, good dark bread and goat’s cheese from the pantry She pulled me to the edge of the square where some kine were munching grass and, when no one was looking, she yanked on the teats of a cow and we caught the foaming stream in our mouths. ’Twas the best dinner I ever remembered, even though ’twas without flesh. We then lolled and drowsed along with everyone else till the festivities began.
The piper began piping and the drummer beating as the square filled with an excited crowd. A few rustics swung their ladies to the beat and there was much laughter. On the outskirts were a knight and his squire on horseback.
“Look you,” said Maisry, frowning. “Be those knights from your father?”
I studied the mounted knight and his red-haired squire and, although I couldn’t see their features plainly, I knew they were strangers. Furthermore they wore different crests from Wanthwaite’s: they were marked N. I reassured my friend and we moved with the people.
There was a stand with religious relics for sale and I begged Maisry to choose what she liked as a farewell present from me. I was disappointed when she selected a short red ribbon signifying nothing when there was a splinter of the True Cross to be had, but it was her present. Then I spotted an interesting metal vial and the friar told me I had a good eye, for it contained a drop of the Holy Virgin’s own milk! I could hardly believe it cost only one denier and bought it before someone else should see it. I would give it to my mother Catherine as penance for disobeying.
Alix of Wanthwaite 01 - Shield of Three Lions Page 2
