The Warrior Maiden

by Melanie Dickerson

Her stomach churned at the memory that sprang to mind of her father yelling at her. She must have been only about six or seven years old, and her mother had been teaching her to make cepelinai. She was carrying the bowl of curd with which to fill the potato dumplings and spilled the creamy cheese all over the floor.

  “Clumsy! Wasteful!” her father yelled. “Can you do nothing without spilling?”

  His words still stung, even though twelve years had passed. Was it true? Was she so clumsy she could do nothing?

  Mother seized the broom and used it to guide the pigs out the door while Mulan rubbed furiously at her dress with the wet cloth. But her rubbing did little to get rid of the stains. She didn’t have another gown nearly so fine. Her next best one had a stain from spilling soup on it, and another had a hole burned in it from when she’d stoked the fire a little too vigorously and a hot ember flew out. She did have the green gown that was so tight she could barely breathe in it. “Should I go change?”

  “No time. I see him coming up the path.” Mother gestured toward the door. “You go greet him.”

  Mulan threw the cleaning cloth behind the cupboard, adjusted the embroidered belt that encircled her waist, and hurried to the door. Move slowly. Take a deep breath.

  She jerked open the door.

  Algirdas wore a plain gray shirt that laced up in the front and was open at the throat. His hair was slicked back with some sort of grease, and he carried a bulging hemp-cloth bag.

  “Greetings.” Mulan forced a smile.

  He nodded and held up the bag. “Two fresh hares for your larder.”

  “My mother and I thank you.” Mulan took the bag from his hand. “Please come in.”

  His gaze flickered over her dress, pausing a moment on the stains. Then he stepped inside.

  So he saw the stains on my dress. Men didn’t care about such things, did they? Perhaps she could impress him with something else.

  Algirdas sat at the small table where Mother, who was all smiles, had directed him.

  “Feodosia, it is good to see you looking well,” Algirdas said, but his words were stilted, as if he’d practiced them. “And how is Mikolai?”

  “Mikolai has not been feeling well.” Mother stared down at the table while she spoke, something she did when she was not being forthcoming. “But we want to hear about you, Algirdas. All is well with your mother, I trust?”

  “Thank you, yes. Mother complains of a pain in her shoulder, but she is otherwise well, and business is good.”

  Mulan sat beside Mother, across from Algirdas, and he stared at her face. No one spoke. What did one say to a butcher? Ask him about his favorite cuts of meat?

  “Your sister just had a baby, is that not true?” Mother asked.

  “Yes, her fourth. Mother only had two survive beyond infancy, but she is very pleased that all of my sister’s babies have lived.”

  “Children are a gift from the Lord.” Mother said the words cheerfully enough, but then an almost imperceptible grimace flickered over her face.

  “Mulan is from the Orient, is she not?” Algirdas was still studying her face. “I think I’ve heard a story about Mikolai finding her as a small child after a battle and bringing her to you. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” Mother looked down at the table again.

  “Why did you never give her a Lithuanian name? Mulan doesn’t sound Lithuanian.”

  “The first time I saw her, I asked her what her name was. She said ‘Mulan.’ And Mikolai said, ‘If the child knows her name, then we’ll not be changing it.’ So Mulan has always been her name.” Mother smiled.

  Queasiness flipped Mulan’s stomach. Was her Oriental appearance—black hair, slightly darker skin, and almond-shaped eyes—unpleasant to Algirdas? Certain boys in the village had taunted her, calling her “Mongol,” and even some women looked askance at her, as if they disapproved of her. But Mother always told her she was beautiful, and even her father when asked had grunted and said, “You are not an ugly girl.”

  But when Mulan was around twelve years old, she discovered that the story her mother had told her about being found as a child by her father after a battle had been false. She heard her parents arguing, and the next morning she asked her mother about it.

  “Truth is, your mother was a woman Mikolai met when he was fighting east of here, a woman from the Orient. And when she died, she left a child—you—about three years old. Your father brought you to me, knowing how much I longed for a child.”

  Mulan and her mother had agreed not to tell anyone else the truth. Let them believe she’d been a foundling, the result of war.

  Algirdas eyed the tankard of spiced beer nearest him. Mother looked at Mulan, raised her brows, then looked at the cup.

  Mulan extended her hand and plastered on a smile. “Please, have some of Mother’s delicious spiced beer.”

  “Mulan helped me make it,” Mother was quick to point out.

  They all picked up the cups in front of them and took a drink. Mother glanced at her, then at the bread on the table.

  “Have some bread.” Mulan stood and reached for the knife. “I shall slice it for us.” Holding the loaf of bread in one hand and the knife in the other, she sawed through the bread. As she encountered the tough bottom crust of the loaf, she sawed extra hard. She broke through, and her elbow bumped into her cup and it tipped over. Beer splashed onto the floor and her feet—and Algirdas’s too.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Mulan ran to get a cleaning cloth. She came hastening back, and when she had almost reached where Algirdas was sitting, her foot touched the puddle of beer and shot out from under her.

  She flailed her arms, trying to grab anything that might keep her from falling. Algirdas reached out, and she grabbed for his arm but missed. She hit the floor on her back.

  “Are you all right?” Algirdas stood over her.

  She blinked up at him. He reached toward her. She took his hand and pulled herself up.

  “That was not as graceful as a swimming swan.” She tried to laugh, but her face was warming. How could she make a fool of herself with Algirdas there to speak about marriage? And her dress was certainly ruined now, covered in spiced beer.

  Algirdas was staring at her. In the meantime her mother must have finished slicing the bread because a slice lay on the table in front of each of them. Her mother was wiping the floor with the cloth Mulan had retrieved.

  “Eat some bread and butter,” Mother urged in her cheerful voice. “We will have some šaltibarščiai soon.”

  Mulan released an inward groan, wishing Algirdas wouldn’t stay for dinner. But she didn’t have the luxury of wanting him to leave. Her mother would have nowhere to go if Mulan didn’t marry someone who would take them both in. They only had two days before they’d be forced to tell Butautas’s guardsman that her father was dead and there was no one to take his place.

  Mulan did her best to stand primly and properly as her mother finished cleaning up the spilled beer. But as soon as Mulan sat on the wooden bench, she felt how soaked her gown was. “Excuse me. I shall return in a moment.”

  Once she was behind the curtain separating her sleeping chamber from the rest of the house, she grabbed the soaked hem and yanked it over her head. How could I have embarrassed myself so soon?

  She kicked the soiled gown into a corner, then shed the rest of her garments and added them to the pile. Her body reeked of spiced beer, so she grabbed a cloth from the basin of water and wiped herself down. She donned her second-best gown and took a deep breath. She was ready, but she pressed her hands to her head. Do I have to do this?

  She said a wordless prayer and walked back out.

  “A pig will bleed all over,” Algirdas said to Mother, “but the secret is to wait overnight, letting it drain, before cutting it up.”

  “There is Mulan. Dear one, can you spoon up the soup for us?”

  Mulan walked over to the pot with the cold beet soup and ladled hearty portions into three wooden bowls. She brought the bowls over to the
table one by one. Please don’t let me spill it. Algirdas was staring at her but averted his gaze when she met his eyes.

  Mother asked Algirdas to say a prayer over the food.

  “You are Christians, then?” The butcher glanced from Mother to Mulan.

  “We are. My family converted when I was a young girl.”

  They all bowed their heads, and Algirdas said a rote prayer of thanks and dedication in the name of Jesus. Then they began to eat.

  Mulan’s mind kept drifting to Algirdas. What kind of husband would he be? Would he be kind to her and her mother? He owned a large house—a little larger than this one—a short walk from his butcher shop. He was not handsome, but she’d always thought that didn’t matter if the man was kind. She would probably get used to the gamy smells of the butcher shop and not even notice them, especially if she felt he loved her. After all, she didn’t mind the way horses smelled. She adored Aksoma even when, after galloping through the pasture, her mare stank of sweat and dung.

  “Mulan?” Her mother was staring at her. “Algirdas just asked if you’d like to get married seven days hence.”

  “Uh . . . in seven days?” She gaped first at Mother, then at Algirdas. His expression was noncommittal, as if he was not sure he even wanted her assent.

  She noted a mole on the side of his cheek, a black hair growing out of it. “I . . . y-yes.” She could always change her answer later, could she not?

  Algirdas grunted. “You’ll have to listen when I speak to you and cook and clean and mend my mother’s and my clothes.”

  A giggle bubbled up into her throat. Was this how he treated her before he even married her? Listing her duties, as if he were hiring a servant? The urge to laugh vanished, and her insides sank toward the floor. Was she to be treated even worse than her father treated Mother?

  But she nodded, hoping to hasten his departure.

  He slurped another bite of soup, then scraped the wooden bowl with his wooden spoon.

  “Would you like some more?” The ridiculous urge to laugh came over her again. She cleared her throat.

  His nondescript blue-green eyes met hers. Her stomach twisted.

  “You may come to visit me at the shop tomorrow if you wish.” He stood up and nodded at her mother. “I thank you.” Then he nodded at Mulan—no, he was looking her up and down before his gaze came to rest on her face. “I bid you a good day.”

  Mulan watched him turn and saunter toward the door. Mother nudged her arm, and she hurried after him.

  “Good day.” She stood by the threshold as he made his way down the path from the house. He didn’t turn around to acknowledge her.

  A heaviness settled on her shoulders. How could she marry this man? But how could she allow her mother to be homeless? As soon as Butautas’s soldier returned in two days, he’d discover her father was dead and he’d force them out of the house she and her mother had lived in for sixteen years.

  An idea, more muddy than clear, wiggled its way into her thoughts, as if it had been waiting for the right moment.

  Mulan’s fingertips tingled. Mother would never agree to it.

  But perhaps Mulan could convince her it was a better way out of their predicament than marrying Algirdas. Because she’d rather do anything, she suddenly realized, than marry that man. And she could appeal to her mother’s religious zeal by reminding her of the prophecies.

  Mulan filled her lungs with air, then let the deep breath out slowly. Could she do this? Hadn’t she been preparing most of her life? She couldn’t stop the smile that spread over her face.

  But if she failed, her mother would have nowhere to go, and Mulan could never show her face in Mindius again.

  CHAPTER 2

  EARLY SUMMER 1423

  HAGENHEIM, GERMANY

  Wolfgang’s heart beat faster as he and his brother Steffan strode through the castle to meet their father in the library. Would he finally get to do what he’d been training for his whole life?

  Father stood by the window, a shaft of late-day sun streaming into the room. Steffan, who was older by a year and a half, was silent, so Wolfgang stepped forward.

  “Father. Gerhard said you wanted to speak with us.”

  Father turned to look at them, and Wolfgang had never noticed before how deep the wrinkles around Father’s eyes were.

  “I do.” Father spoke a bit about the weather, about how it would be getting warmer soon with the onset of summer. Then Father’s sober, almost severe expression returned.

  “Wolfgang. Steffan. You’ve both been training with my knights since you were young boys.”

  “But because you wouldn’t send us to train in another lord’s castle, we may never be knighted.” Steffan spat the words out, his eyelids drooping low over his blue eyes.

  “We’ve been over this before. Your mother had suffered the loss of your sister, and when the accident happened involving you two and the shepherd’s little boy . . . I thought it best to keep you both at home. I feared you were not mature enough.” Father’s gruff voice hardened. “I’m sorry you can’t seem to understand or forgive that. Even though, at twenty-two years, you are well old enough.”

  Steffan glared at the wall behind Father.

  “Father, do you have some news for us?” Wolfgang pointed at the missive his father held.

  “Ja.” He moved closer to them. “The Teutonic Knights have been burning fields and killing innocent people in Poland, trying to take over the region controlled by a longtime ally of Hagenheim: Duke Konrad of Zachev. I’m dispatching a group of knights and soldiers to help defend his castle and his people. The Teutonic Knights are gathering an even bigger force to—”

  Steffan stepped in front of Father. “Shouldn’t we be helping the Teutonic Knights instead?” He folded his arms across his chest. “After all, they represent God and the Church and are our German brothers, and what do we truly know of this Polish Konrad?”

  Father seemed to study Steffan. He spoke in a low, deliberate tone. “You know how I feel about the Teutonic Knights. They may have begun with hearts to do good, but for more than a hundred years, they’ve used their affiliation with the Church as an excuse to oppress and dominate, to take land that rightfully belongs to others. And they could set their sights on German lands next if someone doesn’t stop them.”

  “They claim they are Christianizing the pagans in Livonia and Lithuania and—”

  “Those countries are now officially Christian. You know this.” Father’s jaw flexed and his lips pressed in a hard line. “If you wish to travel with the rest of my men, you will ready yourselves. They leave tomorrow morning for Poland.”

  “Yes, Father.” Wolfgang nodded.

  Steffan smirked. “Will Mother allow it?”

  Wolfgang’s shoulders tensed, and he felt the urge to take a step back, to distance himself from Father’s anger—and from the object of it.

  Father’s gaze never left Steffan’s. Finally he spoke. “Son, I don’t know where your anger and rebellion come from, but if you’re unable to control it, your attitude may land you in more trouble than my title and fortune can extricate you from.”

  Steffan’s cheeks grew red. Wolfgang held his breath, waiting to see how his brother would react.

  “I love both of you, and your mother and I’ll be praying for your wisdom and safety in battle.”

  As usual, Wolfgang found himself wishing he could do something to help make peace between Steffan and their father.

  Steffan’s chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. Then, without speaking, he turned on his heel and left the room.

  Wolfgang met his father’s eye. “I shall watch over him the best I can.”

  Father heaved a sigh. “He’s not your responsibility, son. But I would be grateful to God to have you both come back to us alive and well.” He clapped his hand on Wolfgang’s shoulder.

  Wolfgang bowed his head, and his father prayed over him. “God in heaven, Your power knows no bounds and Your love for Your children is endless. Bless m
y son Wolfgang and bring glory to Your great name through him. Let him be mighty in battle, gracious in defeat, and humble in obedience to Your decrees. Protect him and protect Steffan, and forge in them the character and nature of Jesus. I pray this in the name of Jesus the Son. Amen.”

  Wolfgang and his father made the sign of the cross over their chests and then embraced, perhaps for the last time for a very long while.

  When Wolfgang left the library, Steffan was waiting for him. “I’m going to join the Teutonic Knights.”

  “Did you not hear what Father said?”

  “Unlike you, I don’t wholeheartedly swallow everything Father says. Besides”—Steffan’s lip curled—“I want glory and honor in battle. What glory is there in defending the castle of some foreign ally? How am I to rise in power and status that way? With the Teutonic Knights I can become a marshal, a commander, or even the grand master and be declared a grand prince by the pope.” Steffan smiled. “Why would I give up that ambition to obey the man who thwarted the dream we’ve had since we were small boys, to be true knights of the realm?”

  “Steffan, you know Father cares about us. Besides, we could be knighted by Duke Konrad if we impress him with our valor and skill in battle.”

  Steffan speared him with a cold glare. “Believe what you want, but after we leave Hagenheim, no one will be able to stop me from joining the Teutonic Knights.”

  Wolfgang’s chest felt hollow as he watched his brother stride away. Would he be forced to fight his brother on the battlefield?

  Mulan strode down the dirt street searching for Andrei. She only had one day before Butautas’s guardsman returned, so she moved with haste toward the makeshift shack at the edge of their village. When she drew near the trees that surrounded it, she heard a noise behind her.

  “If it isn’t the Hun girl.”

  Mulan froze, then made a slow turn. Dilgunos stood there, a rock the size of her fist in his hand. He tossed the rock up, then caught it, while two boys stood beside him.

  Her stomach sank but she lifted her head, placed a hand on her hip, and focused her eyes on his. “I am not a Hun.”