Finding Kate

by Maryanne Fantalis

  I simply walked through the gates and made my way down the hill, ignoring the pain in my feet from tiny pebbles and sharp, dry grass.

  There was a town to the east, so I headed that way.

  My feet were screaming at me and I was sweating profusely by the time I made it to the little village. Weren’t villages like this supposed to huddle at the feet of their protecting keeps? This one made me walk across some very unfriendly terrain before it made its appearance, and it was decidedly disappointing to boot.

  My town—no, I must think of it as my father’s town now—Whitelock, was a real town, with two roads going through it and a real green in the center for markets and gatherings. Our part of High Street was even cobbled with stone. We had a merchants’ meeting hall, a pretty, old church with glass windows, a smithy, our own mill down on the river, plus a whole street of shops. We even had a lawyer.

  This poor excuse for a village was merely a cluster of buildings huddled together like freezing men. Instead of solid stone or snug black-and-white, half-timbered houses like the one I had grown up in, these homes were made of rough-hewn logs and branches patched with mud and moss and topped with ragged thatch. Some had birds’ nests at their peaks or under their eaves. Through their midst ran a strip of flattened mud, deep with ruts and the tracks of cattle hooves. There was no green, just an empty patch of dirt in the center of the houses where there stood a trough of stale water.

  Walking into this, I slowed my pace and swallowed hard. The long years of prosperity under King Edward while I was growing up, which had so benefited my father and the town of Whitelock, had not reached this place.

  What was I to do now? These folk could not help me. Clearly, they were hard pressed to help themselves.

  I made my way to the trough. One look at the water, and the dead flies floating in it, convinced me I should not drink, but I splashed some on my wrists and neck nevertheless. Then I turned and sat on the edge, the stone sharp and unyielding beneath me. That was all right. It suited my mood entirely.

  “You must be from the keep,” a voice said behind me.

  On another day I would have leaped to my feet and whirled around to face her. But the air was so hot and heavy, and I was so tired, I merely turned my head.

  “So I am,” I replied.

  The girl, probably about my age or maybe a little younger, came around the trough to stand beside me. She was filthy—she probably had not bathed in weeks, perhaps not in months—and her hair hung in lank strands of an ashen color that was perhaps light brown when it was clean. Over it she wore a cap that was dirtier than her face, and her kirtle was gray with age and stains. She was too thin and careworn to be truly pretty, but she looked me over bold as could be and said, “We heard Sir William might be getting married. So I see he has.”

  Was this how she behaved to her lord’s wife? Shocking! “Indeed he has,” I replied, anger rising in my throat.

  She settled on the trough beside me and shook her head. “Too bad she brought her own maids,” she said, gesturing at me. “We was hoping—” Here she waved a hand at the houses around her. “We girls, that is, we was hoping there might be work up at the keep, once the lord took a wife.”

  I cleared my throat, choking down the anger. She thought I was a servant, not the lady. I ran a hand down the front of my dress. Well, why not? Look at my condition. My dress might be fine but it was filthy, my hair was a mess, I was sweaty and on foot.

  Lady Kathryn. What a laugh!

  “Well, there may be yet. They’ve only just arrived.”

  The girl’s face brightened. “Oh, you think?” I could only imagine what working for Sir William might mean to her and her family. My cheeks went hot with shame. One veil in the trunk I had left behind at home cost enough to feed her for—how long? I did not even know. I had no idea how much it cost to feed a family. I had never shopped for anything of real value at the market, only sweets and vanities.

  “What is your name?”

  “Elizabeth,” she said. “Named for the queen that was.”

  I nodded. Queen Elizabeth had been queen for as long as I’d been alive, married to King Edward and mother to his many children. There were lots of girls named Elizabeth all over England, including the queen’s own eldest daughter.

  “The lord just returned from Westminster, where he saw the king.”

  “He did?” Her eyes went even rounder, wonder and awe dancing there. “Is that where he met his lady?”

  “No,” I said, “he met her on the way back here. In a town called Whitelock.”

  “Oh.” She seemed disappointed. “So she isn’t a fine lady.”

  I bridled. “She’s fine enough for him, that’s certain.”

  A movement across the way caught my eye. Two women stood in the doorway of one of the houses, one with a grubby baby on her hip. They were looking at us without seeming to—I was well accustomed to the glance-and-look-away they were performing—and talking furtively, their heads close together, though there was no risk of being overheard by us.

  What was so suspicious about me, then?

  I glared back at them.

  “If her ladyship does decide to take on some help, I’ll put in a good word for you, Elizabeth,” I said. “What can you do?”

  “Oh, I’ll do anything. Anything to work at the keep. Get away from this.” She motioned with a helpless hand.

  I glanced at this ragged girl sitting beside me, her stained clothes, her splintered fingernails. As many times as I had imagined escaping my little village and going to the royal court where I could be one of the glittering ladies dancing and singing and hunting and… whatever else ladies did at court—as much as I had longed for another life, how much more must this girl long for an escape? Could she even begin to frame what life at court would look like? Had she ever seen a gold necklace or a silver plate, or even a pewter cup?

  If my father’s money could do anything, it could give this girl work. It could give her hope.

  I patted her knee. “I will do what I can for you. I promise.”

  Those women were still looking at me and whispering. What could I have done to make them stare so?

  “Is there anything you’d like to say to me?” I yelled across at them.

  The women disappeared into the darkness of the hut and slammed the rickety door shut behind them. Elizabeth grabbed at my arm, pulling me down. “Hush, now!” she said. “They mean no harm. None of us have ever seen anyone dressed as fine as you, is all.”

  I laughed, bitter and sharp. So fine, with mud and manure stains on the back, the fabric ruined with water, and the train torn…. Still, look at Elizabeth. One day of hardship and I was complaining. She lived like this all the time.

  Something moved within me. This was important, I knew, but had no idea what to do with it. “Elizabeth,” I said, not sure what more I meant to say, but I never did finish because suddenly, the pounding of horse hooves drowned any words we might have said to each other.

  I sprang to my feet as two horses galloped into the square and skidded to a stop in front of the trough, raising a cloud of dust. I flung my hands up to cover my face. Elizabeth ran for the nearest tumble-down hut.

  Gregory jumped down from his mount, the reins of both horses in his hands, relief on his face. “Oh, thank the Almighty I’ve found you,” he said, bowing as he came toward me. “Please, milady, allow me to escort you home.”

  The dust was settling like face powder all over my dress and hair. Wonderful. “Home?” I asked. “What can you mean by that?”

  He barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes, which made me want to laugh. “Back to the keep, milady. Please. Before my lord returns.”

  His hand was stretched out, half an invitation, half a command. Cheeky, for a servant.

  I smiled and allowed myself to be helped into the saddle.

  After all, what other choice did I have?

  Back at Bitterbrook Keep, I slid from Conveyance’s saddle without Gregory’s help. Somehow
, I did not thud on the ground like a sack of potatoes, yet I did not manage the landing with any grace at all. My rump was sore from hours on horseback, and my legs ached from walking farther than I had in my whole life, and that in flimsy little silk shoes, leaving my feet pricked all over like a pincushion. Gregory took hold of the horses’ reins and led them off toward the stables.

  I started for the wide stairs into the keep, ready for a good lie-down.

  It was then that I spied the smoke.

  Ah! Smoke, gray and sooty and a bit greasy, billowing forth from the chimney of one of the outbuildings.

  Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, they say. And where there’s fire, there’s food, say I.

  With a final glance at Gregory’s retreating back, and keeping the horses between us as cover, I dashed across the courtyard as quickly as my protesting lower body would allow.

  The building belching smoke was entirely made of stone with no wood except the doors and shutters, and no thatched roof. Perhaps if I had noticed that earlier, I might have had something to eat by now. Also, there was a fat brick oven squatting like a beehive just outside the door. Really, I ought to have been paying closer attention.

  My mouth began to water as I took hold of the door handle. I imagined the feast I might order up for myself, something on the scale of what I had been denied yesterday when the beastly Sir William had failed to show up for our wedding. Apple-roasted pork, fresh bread, a bit of cheese, some fish fresh out of that stream outside the keep, baked and smothered in cream sauce with onions and herbs….

  Inside, the kitchen was dim. Well, of course it was, its walls being thick stone and its windows being small and square. Orange light and thick heat from three massive cook-fires bled over everything and everyone so that I might have walked into the very pit of hell. And, as in hell, a devil reigned in the center—a man tall and strapping, all long limbs and booming voice, waving evil knives like extensions of his own hands, ordering about the other servants who scurried, heads down, to do his bidding. With one knife, he hacked something to pieces—a turnip, perhaps?—and with the other, he scooped it up and hurled it into the pot slung over the nearby fire, yelling all the while at the boy stirring it.

  Mouth agape, I backed slowly out of the door.

  No wonder Gregory had refused to ask for anything against orders. Not only would he cross his master, he risked the wrath of this knife-wielding madman.

  Chastened and still hungry, I headed back to my room.

  There came a time when I could no longer put off a visit to the privies. Suffice it to say that in my entire life, I had never had to use a hole in the ground surrounded by a patched-together wooden shed through which sun and wind penetrated. That helped with the stench, of course, but again, I couldn’t help wondering what this would be like in winter.

  Breathing through gritted teeth, I closed my eyes and balanced over the hole, my kirtle and train draped over one arm. I would not be subjected to this through the winter. I would not.

  As I left, the door slammed shut behind me, an announcement. I cringed, scuttling away like a beetle, wiping my hands on the filthy hem of my chemise for lack of anything else to use. I kept up a stream of muttered complaints as I went, the litany of my grievances masking worries about my future, when a commotion ahead of me made me look up.

  Sir William was returning, walking in through the deep entry surrounded by his dogs. Now that I was at eye level with him, I could see he was dressed differently than he had been last night, not as richly, wearing dark clothes splotched with mud and grass stains. I almost smiled. He looked like a boy who had been off romping about the countryside with his pets. Almost smiled, but stopped myself. They were hellhounds, and he a fiend.

  I dropped the edge of my chemise and looked around, hoping to escape his notice, but most of the buildings in the courtyard were still a mystery to me, and after seeing what awaited inside the kitchen, I did not know where it would be safe to flee. I froze, watching him—and them—pour through the gate. Perhaps he would not notice me. Perhaps—

  “Kate!” A broad smile spread across his face, and a dimple appeared in one cheek.

  Damn him!

  He crossed the distance between us in a trice, coming to stand before me with his feet planted wide, arms across his chest, still with that cheeky grin. Master of all he surveyed, including me, I supposed. Looking away from the impressive display—which he clearly intended—of his muscled arms and broad chest, my gaze fell on the dogs. Mistake. The beasts swarmed at his heels, their massive heads level with his hips, their attention pinned on me. One of them licked its chops. I shivered and resisted the urge to cross myself. He wouldn’t let it eat me, would he?

  “You look wary, Kate.”

  “Rightly so, I think.”

  “Have you never had a dog?”

  I hesitated. In fact, I had. When I was eight and Blanche was five, Father brought home a pup. Not a hunting hound like these or a bruiser for guarding his wagons, but a house pet. A little lapdog. He was black and tan with a small head and big paws and just fit in my two hands together. In the first day, Blanche and I nearly loved the life out of him. We even slept in one bed together so we could cuddle with him. For one week, we were inseparable because of that dog.

  But he had one flaw.

  He preferred me to Blanche.

  I do not know what became of him. My father is too much a man of means to have destroyed something he paid for. I believe—I have to believe—Father sold him to some other family on his next journey.

  I also believe that was when I began to hate my sister.

  “I—No. Never.”

  He twisted at the waist to gaze upon his monsters. “They look much worse than they are. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Tongues lolling. I could count their teeth. Long, sharp teeth. I gave him a dubious look.

  “Ajax,” he said, tapping his thigh. One dog moved forward and sat beside its master. “Say hello to my lady.”

  The beast tilted its head up at me, ears flopping. I had to admit, it was an endearing display. At a slight hand gesture from Sir William, the dog raised one paw toward me.

  Uncertain, I looked at Sir William.

  “Take it,” he said.

  I took the proffered paw.

  The dog licked my hand.

  “Ah. Courtly manners,” I said, releasing its paw and wiping the spittle off on my dress. It was disgusting yet charming at the same time. “Very nice, Ajax.”

  “Pat his head.”

  “Pat his head?”

  “Yes.”

  “He won’t bite my hand off?”

  “Nay.”

  “He looks like he will.”

  The softest breath of a chuckle. “Yes. Yes, he does.”

  “But he won’t.”

  “Nay.”

  “Pat his head, you say.”

  “Yes.”

  I shook my fingers out a little. If this was the last time I was to use them, I wanted to be sure I felt them one last time. I took a deep breath.

  “All right, Ajax,” I murmured.

  “Show him the back of your hand, not your palm,” Sir William said, so I did.

  Ajax sat quivering, leaning forward, sniffing, nose reaching for my hand.

  Something hit me from the side—one of the other dogs, unable to restrain itself any longer. I staggered, wobbled, and collapsed. The pack surged forward, Ajax first in what I could only hope was a protective act, and I was soon submerged in dog legs, noses, faces, and tails. They stamped, gouged, licked, snorted, grunted, snapped. The smell of their breath and their bodies was suffocating.

  Sir William was cursing. From between my fingers covering my face, I saw flashes of his hands darting into the sea of dogs, grabbing necks and torsos, hauling bodies away only to have them flood back in.

  I took my hands off my face long enough to brace them underneath my body and push up, surging out of the swarm of dogs, forcing them off me like water in a tub. They
eased back enough that I was able to get to my knees and then to my feet.

  Shaking, I stood.

  Sir William, gathering his dogs and scolding them, was laughing.

  Had I ever been angry before? It seemed I had not.

  “You are a demon,” I said, my voice shaking as much as my knees, my hands. “You are a devil sent from hell to torment me. That is the only answer.”

  He shook his head, trying to stifle his laughter. “Oh, Kate, you should have seen— It was—Kate!”

  He reached for me as I passed. I left a ragged strip of sleeve in his hand as I stormed into the keep and up to my room, my horrible, awful little room. This—this man, this marriage—this was my punishment for the life I had led.

  The chipped basin followed the pitcher down the stairs. I was saving the table for later.

  I debated whether I would even go down for supper, but in the end I was so hungry—weak with it, in fact—I made my way down the stairs and out into the hall.

  The table on the dais was again set up with two chairs. The dogs were nowhere to be seen. One of the servants, Nicholas I thought was his name, was building up the fire in the hearth on the dais, and there were candles, too, to chase away gloom and shadows there. I took a breath and let it out. Perhaps, at last, a chance for quiet. And, God willing, a meal.

  I walked into the hall and onto the dais. At the same time, from the opposite side of the hall, Sir William did the same. I stopped, surprised. He stopped too. I shook my head. Yet more odd behavior.

  All right, I thought. Try again.

  “Good evening, Sir William.” I curtsied. My dress was so filthy, I didn’t want to touch it. Oh, I hoped someone had gone back to my father’s house for my clothes.

  “Good evening, my Lady Kate.” He bowed. He had changed clothes again. The deep blue of his doublet brought out the color of his eyes. Oh dear. I did not want to notice that.

  I smiled. “I hope we can forget what happened earlier today and enjoy supper together.”

  He frowned. “Supper?”