by Sophie Jaff
“Hello! There’s cake down here!” They can hear Matthew coaching Lucas. “Tell them we found the cake, they’ll listen to you.”
“We found the cake!”
John looks at her a moment longer, then slowly says, “Well, it’s a good thing I was there to catch you.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I think you’ll have to be careful.”
“I know.”
“Shall we go down for tea?” His tone is casual, light.
Relief floods through her. It seems they’ll be handling this the English way. “Yes,” Katherine says. “Tea would be lovely.”
She walks to the door and he follows her. She doesn’t look back as he carefully shuts the door behind him.
The rest of the afternoon is delightful and Lucas has a great time, and they promise they’ll come again very soon.
21
Margaret
I am among the crowd when she first arrives. No one sees me, for I have gone back to being invisible. I am good at this.
Everyone looks eagerly toward the gates. At last the procession comes into view. She arrives in a great party with many lovely ladies and knights to attend her. They have staged it well, white horses arrayed in blue and gold. It is an impressive spectacle. The cheering grows louder and louder. At last, the castle will have a mistress.
The procession goes on and on with carts and wagons loaded with possessions; oaken carved chests, reams of fine linen and silk and birdcages fluttering with birds. Finally the Lady Generys appears, resplendent in an open litter. Its wooden sides shine with the golden heraldic crest of a prancing stag. She is seated upon white-and-blue damask cushions trimmed with silken fringes so that when she alights she gives the impression of descending from a cloud. A hush creeps over us as we stand in the hot sun, watching her.
Two golden coils of braided hair frame her face and spots of high color bloom upon her cheeks. Her eyes are like bright sapphires that flash upon a noble’s fingers. The sleeves of her kirtle are of violet cloth, and her cotehardie is vermilion and embroidered with golden thread. Even her cuffs and the buttons, which stream down her back, are edged in gold.
Lord August comes forward, magnificent in a velvet doublet and silken hose. The crowd resumes its cheering as he bends to kiss her hand. How far removed he is from me now. Like the sun in the sky. What did Landon once warn me? But be careful, lest you come too close and burn up. I laughed then. I thought I knew better.
She is Caradoc’s daughter of the Sun, warm and radiant, and I am the daughter of the Moon, pale and bitter with envy.
I turn back to the brewery. After all, I only came to catch a glimpse, and there is work to be done.
The days leading up to the wedding are busy ones. Thomas is constantly full of news. At first, I think, he was wary of sharing stories, since he did not wish to wound me, but I encouraged him to tell me everything he can. I know much of her now, that she loves birds above all other things, that she is fond of taking her retinue to picnic in the castle gardens or the woods, that she is partial to apples, that she often sings sweet songs. They say that her touch can cool a fever and her smile is a gift. To have her look upon you with favor will bring blessings upon your family.
I have never hated anyone as much.
I have not been into the woods for an age and it takes some time for us to remember each other. Ever since Caradoc’s announcement and Lady Generys’s arrival, my heart has been hot and tight, but here among the trees, I can breathe a little easier.
The undergrowth rustles, and I hear the killer’s warning.
When you turn red, I will come for you.
But not today.
A snatch of song grows and blossoms within me while I gather what I need.
Each and every pretty bloom
Will be laid upon her tomb.
It is a simple little melody, and I hum it over and over as my fingers crush and tear the fragrant leaves and roots.
Tonight, as I prepare our meal back at the cottage, I draw into myself and my memory. I think of Old Mother Briggs. The people in our village went to her with their troubles after my mother died though I do not believe she could have helped them. She certainly looked the part, bent with a crooked back, wild gray hair and rheumy eyes, the whites curdled yellow. I wonder what it would be like to have aches in my joints whenever the wind blows cold or the seasons change. I hunch over and hobble, crook my hands into claws. I practice voices low and croaking, high and wailing.
With a start, I realize that I am no longer alone. Thomas and Rudd have entered and are staring at me with round eyes and open mouths, dumbstruck. I have a sudden urge to laugh.
“What are you about? Are you unwell?” Thomas demands.
“It is nothing of importance, just a strange fancy I had.”
He still looks uncertain.
“Come,” I say, “and we shall eat.”
We eat together these nights, Thomas and Rudd and I. Game is still brought to our cottage. Perhaps it is a way for Lord August to purchase our silence, but it is more likely someone in the castle has forgotten to give the order to stop. Regardless, we take advantage of it, and enjoy rabbit stew. I look at them as they eat, the small boy and the large man, and feel a rush of affection for both of them. I am sorry for what is to come, but it cannot be helped. Time will not stop for us, at least not in the way we would wish.
Thomas is full of chatter, as usual. It seems the Lady Generys will be taking a large party to picnic near the woods tomorrow.
“They will eat all manner of delicacies, larks’ tongues and roast fawn and stewed curlew served with roses and quinces, and they will bring minstrels who will play tunes and tell stories till late in the day. Does that not sound fine?”
“It does.” Only the finest for our Lady Generys.
“It is good that you are back.” Thomas’s glance is bashful. He directs his words to the bowl before him.
I smile and respond with a question: “Do you still see much of Father Martin?”
“Yes.” Thomas looks at me sideways. “Fairly often.”
“What is it about his friendship you so love? Or is it the way of the cloth that appeals to you?” My tone is light. His eyes dart up to my face, but I keep my expression earnest. I am gaining ground again, and I have no wish to stir this particular hornet’s nest.
“No, I would not take the cloth.” He shifts uncomfortably, for he knows what I have said before about the church, and continues. “Father Martin is gentle and kind, but I could not do it, no meat most days and all that prayer. I go to the chapel for the murals, for the wonderful colors. If I knew how to make them, I would not wish for anything else.” His bearing straightens, and he lifts his head, caught up in the splendor of this vision . . .
I sigh. Still, it is good that the priest has an eye out for him and would be a friend to him. As for Rudd, he is a favorite of the blacksmith, who thinks of him as his own.
After we have finished our stew and Rudd has gone to bed, Thomas and I sit in the growing darkness. Only two low sunken candles splutter and hiss.
He half rises, begins to bid me good night, but I put my hand out and gesture for him to sit once more. It is time.
“Thomas? I need to speak with you.”
He looks unhappy and searches my face for answers. Why would I wish to speak with him at so late an hour?
“You once told me that you and Rudd owed me your lives because of that night in the woods.”
He nods.
“You told me that it was a debt you could never repay.”
He nods again, apprehensive.
“Thomas, there is a way to repay it.”
His eyes fill with hope, with fear. “How?” His voice is scarcely more than a whisper.
“There is an object I will need.”
“What is it?”
“Lord August’s brooch, the ring brooch he sometimes wears upon his cloak. He keeps it in his solar.”
Thomas pales. “Why me?”
“Only
you, with your cleverness and quick hands, can get it for me. I trust you.”
“You mean because I was a thief?”
He flushes and rises to leave, but I have no time for his shame.
“Yes, because you were a thief.”
“What if I am caught? The penalty for thievery is death. Especially theft from a lord.”
I shake my head. “You will not be caught. You are nimble. Besides, there are such comings and goings before the wedding and so many new faces, you will manage it easily.”
“And what must I do once I have taken it?”
I ignore his hard tone. He has accepted his task.
“You must bring me the brooch.”
“But it will be missed!”
“No, for I shall return it.”
“How?”
“That is my affair. You need only bring it to me.”
“Only,” he spits bitterly. “Only, you say. By asking me to do this, you put my life at risk, unless they feel merciful and merely cut off my hand.”
“When you have done this, you will have repaid your debt,” I remind him.
He shakes his head. “No! I cannot do it!”
“Why not?” You owe me. You owe me your life and more besides. He hears the anger behind my question and cringes.
“I know what you are capable of. You mean to kill him.” His lip is trembling. Tears begin to flow. He will not look at me.
I laugh. “On the contrary!”
He starts, surprised by my laughter.
“Thomas.” I reach over and place my hands upon his shoulders. I give him a small good-natured shake. “I mean to bless it! I give you my word. As long as he wears the brooch, he will be safe from all harm. I do it as a wedding gift.”
“But”—he is bewildered—“I do not understand it. Why cannot you come to him yourself?”
Now I need no pretense. “I would, Thomas, but he does not wish to see me.”
He shifts uncomfortably. “I had not thought of that.”
“It is better for us to do it by stealth. No one need ever know, least of all Lord August.”
He stares up at me, searching my features for any sign of deceit or hidden malice. “You swear unto God that this will not harm him?”
I will not swear to God, for God abandoned me long ago, but I do not say this aloud for fear of shocking him. I hesitate, think, and then tell him, “I swear it upon my mother’s soul.”
The dying candlelight flecks spidery shadows upon the walls. Inside there is no sound but the monotonous rhythm of Rudd’s snores. Outside the wind drums its fingers along the thatch, and somewhere a dog barks once, twice.
Thomas nods slowly.
“So you will help?”
“I will help you.”
I try to thank him, but he jerks himself out from under my grasp and leaves the room without a backward glance.
It is late the following day when he comes to me, pride and anger upon his face.
I am sitting at our table and hold out my hand eagerly. “Have you got it? Clever Thomas!”
He begins to hand it over, then halts. “What is this?” He stares at my palm, which is mottled from the juice of berries.
“It is nothing. Only stained with berry juice I made for a balm.”
He hesitates still.
“Come,” I urge him gently.
He places it into my hand.
Coiled and gleaming, it seems to shine even brighter against my darkened skin. A serpent devouring its own tail. I remember lying upon my lord’s soft linen, sweat cooling and sated, my bare arm indolently stretching out, brushing its stippled surface with my fingertips.
“Beautiful, is it not?”
“I hate it.”
I am jolted back to the here and now surprised at his vehemence. “At least your debt is paid.” I soothe.
“I did not act to repay a debt.” His response is a growl. His head comes up, his face aflame, his eyes blazing.
“No?”
“No. I did it for a sister.”
I am speechless.
His words come in a rush. “I did it because you asked me to. There is no talk of debt with one of your own kin!” He bursts into angry tears.
“Thomas—”
But he turns and runs.
I stare after him but do not try to follow. I have been blinded to his misery by my own. Still, there is much to do before nightfall.
I hear the party before I see them. Their light and girlish talk, their laughter. The laughter of those who do not know heartbreak, who have not felt hunger. They are alone, save for the minstrels who play alongside them and a few lucky guards to have been chosen for so pleasant a task.
The ladies recline upon soft cloths and velvet cushions, nibble at dates and figs and candied fruits. They braid one another’s hair with flowers. I stand in the ragged shade of the trees, watching them. I think of my own village and of the women there. I used to wonder what my life would have been like if I had been highborn, and for a brief while I had a glimpse, but there is no use wondering now.
I watch her. She holds herself with none of the superiority her station demands, yet I would know her at once. She has a certain grace that the others lack. A finesse. I have faith that she will always set a good example for her ladies.
I am counting on it.
I hobble out of the shadows. Her ladies shriek and start when they see me, my visage darkened with the berry juice and etched with charcoal lines. I shuffle forward, contorted as though I am bent with age. My hair is a bird’s nest of twigs and leaves and whitened with flour. I did a fair swap with Brun the Beggar Wife, who got the much better end of the bargain, for I am now clothed in her foul-smelling, pitiful rags and she has one of my good work dresses. I pull the spirit of Old Mother Briggs around me like a cloak, her lame gait, her stiff clawed hand. I have practiced her voice, and now mine caws and croaks like an old bird.
“May I see the one among you who is to be married to his lordship? For I have heard many tales of her beauty and honor, and wish to pay my respects.”
My disguise works almost too well, and I am fearful they will all flee. The guards stiffen, and one moves forward, angry that the peace of the day has been disturbed. He is proud and tall, and so he should be, for he is captain of the castle guards.
“Be off with you, hag!” he snaps. “She’ll not see you!”
But Lady Generys rises, holding out her lily-white hand. She is imperious, annoyed at being told what to do. “I pray you would not speak for me, good sir.” Her tone is cool, measured. “Come nearer,” she bids me.
I hide a smile. I am sure this is more to goad the captain than because she desires my company. She would have done better to heed him.
“Oh, thank you, my lady. You are as beautiful as you are kind, and as kind as you are beautiful, just as they say.”
She nods her thanks and smiles, wishing her courtesy to inspire her ladies, who draw a little closer, although they are still as skittish as mares.
Now is the time for me to act, before the fancy to be bold leaves her. “I wish to speak with you in private, your ladyship, for I would like to give you a blessing for your marriage.”
Sure enough, her ladies’ voices rise in protest. She hesitates, but again the captain aids my course.
“She will do no such thing!” He has turned puce, so irked is he by my impudence.
Lady Generys tosses her head, and her cheeks flush a little. “Sir, do not send this lady away without my order. Clearly she means me no harm.” She gathers her skirts about her. Even this small action is graceful. “Come!”
It is an impetuous decision, one she may regret if I give her any time, but I do not. I shuffle toward her, proclamations of thanks and humility upon my lips.
“My lady, I must protest—”
“We will not go far,” she tells him, “unless you feel that your men are unable to defend me against the goodwill of an old woman.”
She has pricked him to the quick. His e
ars glow red as a furnace with fury, but he stands down.
We wander a little way into the coolness of the woods. The eyes of the party and the guards burn into my back. I know I do not have much time.
“I thank you, my lady, for your graciousness. For your kindness to an old woman.”
She inclines her head, although there is no smile upon her lips now that her audience is gone. In fact, she looks a little fearful.
“I would like to give you a gift for your wedding day, which I hear is close at hand.” I draw out a small parcel of grubby cloth.
“You are very kind, but I cannot accept it.” She tries not to flinch back, her mouth a moue of disgust.
I step forward, for I dare not let this moment slip away. “The knowing of this has been passed down to me from my mother, and from her mother before her, and back through till there is no remembrance. She is from a Traveler family, and this is an ancient recipe that her folk have used time and time again. I wish to make a gift of it to you, for it will grant you sons.”
“Sons?” Her eyes are bright. I have her attention now.
“Yes, if you will do exactly as I say. When you are quite alone upon your wedding night, but before you have lain together, mix this into a cup of wine or ale and repeat the words that I am about to tell you, and then drink.”
“And I shall bear sons?” She has moved closer to me, revulsion forgotten.
“Aye. With this you will bear three sons directly, all comely of face and form and noble of spirit and deed.”
“Three!” She is transfixed by her fortune.
“Yes, a trinity. Only you must not share this. Tell no one, for this must be done in secret.” I smile with what I hope is sympathy. “Men do not always understand these things, do they? And if your ladies knew, they would all clamor for the herbs, or burn with jealousy!” She inclines her head. I have her in the palm of my hand. For three glorious sons, what would any lady not agree to? Still, I must make absolutely sure that she does not tell Lord August. “And if Lord de Villias should find out, he might claim witchcraft. The church is quick to punish those who use it.”
