by Dakota Chase
Anyway, she gave us a small crock of mashed-up roots that were so potent, one whiff brought tears to my eyes, and we carried it back to the square to Meier. At which point, we stood behind him for the rest of the afternoon while he gorged himself on food and swilled enough wine to float a battleship.
Fun times, right?
After the Michaelmas feast was over, we escorted Meier home—or rather, we half carried him home. He was pretty well toasted by then. His personal manservants took over when we brought him inside the house, which was fine by me. The last thing I wanted to do was change Meier into his jammies and put him to bed.
We finally got to eat. Frau Weber had the cooks spread out leftovers from the Michaelmas feast for the house help. It was cold but still good. Of course, by then I was so hungry mud probably would’ve tasted fine to me. I ate until my stomach ached.
Frau Weber motioned to us once it was clear we couldn’t swallow another bite. “You two come with me.” She picked up a lit candle in a black iron holder and led the way back to the main house.
She led us up to the house’s third floor. There we found a dozen or more tiny rooms built especially for the live-in help. The rooms were only big enough for a bed and a small dresser. On the dresser were a pitcher and basin and a single candle, which Frau Weber lit with the one she carried. That was it.
The bed was barely big enough for one person to sleep on, but as far as Frau Weber was concerned, Grant and I were going to be roomies. “The chamber pot is under the bed. Good night.”
She left, closing the door behind her.
The room was dark, but I could still see the look on Grant’s face as he gazed at the bed. It was the same as the one I was sure was painted on my own face.
The two of us? On that narrow bed? We’d have to spoon again.
Which, I have to admit, I was not averse to.
I lifted my leg and pulled off a boot. “Well, it’s leaps and bounds better than sleeping in a pile of poopy hay.”
He peeled off the frilled collar and scratched his neck. “True.”
“What’s a chamber pot for anyway?”
He snorted a little. “In case you have to pee during the night.”
“You pee in a bowl?”
“Yeah. Along with anything else you may have to do. Suddenly poopy hay doesn’t sound so bad, huh?”
“So, it’s a toilet bowl.”
Grant chuckled. “Technically, I guess it is. Let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow, first thing, we need to get into the rectory and find the book.”
Chapter Eleven
MORNING FOUND us putting on our frill collars, scratchy jackets, and tight hose again. I was really getting tired of dressing like an understudy for Hamlet, but I admit I did enjoy watching Ash wriggle his butt into the leggings.
When we went out to the kitchen for breakfast, we found out from the cook that the Michaelmas feast had resulted in an unexpected favor for us—court would not convene today. The household gossips said Meier was so hungover he couldn’t lift his head from his goose-down pillow. His bad judgment the day before had given us an extra twenty-four hours to find the book and, hopefully, break Brida and Irmla out of jail.
We’d agreed the first thing we had to do was to generate a reason to go to the rectory. We couldn’t walk in there without reason—we were Meier’s servants and wouldn’t be at the church unless he sent us there. Plus, we had to make sure von Schönenberg wasn’t in his rooms when we got there to search for the book.
All of which would be useless if von Schönenberg took the book with him. If he did, our only choice would be to steal the book right out of his misogynistic, elitist hands, which was a challenge I really didn’t want to have to rise up to meet.
After grabbing a quick meal of bread and cheese, along with a cup of warm goat’s milk—the taste was growing on me—we went in search of our good friend, Ordulf. We found him exactly where we thought we would—in his room, hungover from his own Michaelmas celebration.
Like many of the higher-ranked servants in Trier, since he wasn’t allowed to attend the feast in the square, he’d had his own celebration at the Stone Sow. Now he was suffering from its aftermath. Luckily for Ordulf, so was the master of the house, so he wouldn’t be missed.
Ash knocked softly on Ordulf’s door, then opened it and stepped aside so I could precede him into the room. I carried a platter holding bread, butter, and a couple of hard-boiled eggs.
Ordulf was on his cot, lying on his back with his arm thrown over his eyes. “Good morning, Ordulf. We’ve brought you breakfast.”
“Ugh. I’m sick. Go away.” He groaned and rolled over, giving us his back.
“But Ordulf, Baron Meier said you were to go to the church today. Something about bringing Archbishop von Schönenberg some of Frau Weber’s special Michaelmas pudding. He didn’t get to eat any yesterday at the feast.”
Ordulf moaned, long and loud. “That man is overly fond of sweets.” He rolled to his back again and cracked open his eyes. The pain he felt was obvious when he barked a cry and threw his arm over them again. “Why is it so bright in here?”
“It’s morning.” I set the platter down on the dresser, making it rattle.
Ordulf jumped at the sound. “Oh, must you be so loud? Clumsy boy! My head aches. My stomach is heaving. I may die.”
Ash splashed water from the pitcher into the basin on the dresser. “Frau Weber said she’d have the pudding put up for you to take to Archbishop von Schönenberg by the time you get dressed.”
“Why must I do this? I’m the baron’s steward, am I not?” Ordulf raised his arm high enough to peek at us through pained, half-closed eyes. “You two can take it. Tell Frau Weber and Marta, the housekeeper at the rectory, that I am too busy and gave you permission to go.” He lowered his arm over his eyes again. “Now get out. I’m busy dying in here.”
Ash smiled at me, and I nodded back at him. Then we quietly left the room, closing the door noiselessly behind us so Ordulf could suffer through his hangover in peace.
“So far, our plan is working like a charm.” Ash grinned at me as we trotted down the narrow back stairs—turns out, the baron and his wife frowned if the servants used the main staircase—to the first floor.
“Yeah, sure. But we knew getting permission from Ordulf would be the easiest part. Don’t jinx us. It’s only going to get harder from here on out.”
Once we reached the ground floor, we headed outside to the kitchen. True to her word, Frau Weber had left a large cloth-covered platter on the table. I had no idea what her special Michaelmas pudding tasted like, since she hadn’t made any for the servants, but I had the feeling it wasn’t the sort of pudding one put whipped cream on. It was probably more like black pudding, which was a special sort of sausage made with pig’s blood.
Our luck was holding so far. Frau Weber was nowhere in sight, so there was no need to convince her Ordulf had ordered us to deliver the plate to von Schönenberg. In one smooth movement, Ash got the door, I picked up the platter, and we slipped back outside. We were in and gone and on our way to the rectory before anyone in the kitchen even realized we’d been there.
Smooth operators, that was us. In our frilly collars and tights.
Ash paused, looking at the door we knew opened to the dark, narrow stairway that led to the basement rooms of the manor. It was where the interrogation room was—what Meier politely called the dungeon. “Do you think they’re okay?”
“Sure they are. They’re probably not comfortable since it’s like a prison, but nobody was around last night to hurt them. The vicars and bishops were all at the feast. And I’m willing to bet none of them will be around today, either.”
“Like Ordulf and Meier?”
“Exactly.”
“What if von Schönenberg is home and hungover? How will we search his room for the book if he’s in there?”
“Von Schönenberg didn’t drink last night. I was watching him. Drinking to excess is a sin in his book, and he wouldn’t
be caught dead being anything but perfect in public.”
“Won’t he want to hold court today, then?”
“Not without Meier. He wouldn’t dare. Von Schönenberg is powerful, but Meier is still baron and has the king’s favor.”
Ash looked at me askance. “How do you know all this crap?”
I smirked at him. “Sometimes I actually pay attention in Merlin’s history class.”
“Show-off.”
“Hey, I won’t apologize for wanting to get good grades.”
“You mean you won’t apologize for being a suck-up.”
I glared at him but couldn’t keep a straight face when Ash showed his maturity and blew a raspberry at me. He was such an adorable dork sometimes.
We rounded the corner at the church and headed for the rectory. There were fewer people on the street than we’d seen before. I got the feeling there were lots of folks nursing sick headaches that morning. As far as I was concerned, it served them right. I had no sympathy for people who thought they were better than everyone else and who made money off other people’s misery.
Which is why I have father issues, I suppose, but that’s another story.
We entered the manicured garden separating the back of the church from the rectory. Most of the flowers were dead and gone already, but the neatly trimmed hedges were still pretty. The archbishop must have a fondness for roses—there were lots of rosebushes lining the path. It was probably really nice in the summer when all those roses bloomed.
Ash pointed ahead. “Do we use this door, or is there another one like at the manor?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I guess we should check.”
He led the way around the side of the rectory. The archbishop’s house was big, perhaps second in size only to Meier’s manor. I wondered if he lived here alone with his servants, or if some of the vicars and bishops also had rooms here.
At the rear of the house was a separate kitchen building, although it was much smaller than the one at the manor.
I was curious. “I wonder why the kitchens are detached from the rest of the house. The manor’s kitchen is the same way.”
Ash smirked at me. “For once, I know the answer. It’s because of fire. The news did a piece after a really bad fire downtown destroyed a bunch of historical homes. They said in olden days, the kitchen was often built separate so if anything caught fire, the house wouldn’t burn.”
I chuckled. “Now who’s the show-off?”
His cheeks reddened, and he looked away. “Shut up.”
I decided not to bust his chops about it anymore, but I was happy to know I wasn’t the only one who actually didn’t mind learning something now and then.
The door was propped open with a rock, and I could see inside. A savory, meaty aroma wafted out, making my stomach growl. There was a fireplace and a table where a cook was kneading dough, and another servant stirred something in a pot over the fire. Neither of them looked up as we paused in the doorway. I cleared my throat to get the cook’s attention.
“Yes, boy? What do you want? Can’t you see we’re busy? If the archbishop doesn’t have his breakfast by eight, he’ll have our heads.” She pounded her fists into the mound of dough like a boxer hitting the heavy bag. Each time she landed a punch, a puff of flour flew up.
“Are you Marta?”
“I am. What of it?”
“Baron Meier has sent Archbishop von Schönenberg a platter of his housekeeper’s special Michaelmas pudding. He knows the archbishop favors it.” I lifted the platter so the cook could see it. “He said we should tell you.”
“Well, you’ve told me. Put it there and take your leave.” The cook jerked her chin toward a small cabinet next to the fireplace. “We’re busy.”
Ash folded his arms across his chest and tried to look stern as he rebutted her. I thought he was positively adorable when he tried to look tough. “Oh no. We’ve been given strict instructions to bring it directly to the archbishop ourselves. We can’t go back and tell the baron we didn’t follow his orders or he’ll have our heads.”
Marta hooted. “Hah! Well, if you want to face the archbishop before he breaks his fast, be my guest. My guess is the maids will be mopping your entrails off the floor before I get this bread in the oven.”
The servant stirring the pot nodded and snorted with laughter. “If it takes him that long to gut these two.”
I was getting the impression the archbishop was not a morning person. “We’ll take it to him just the same, thank you. We dare not disobey the baron.”
Marta sighed. “No, I suppose you shouldn’t. Go on, then. Second floor, third door on the right, and God go with you.”
“Um, thanks.” I nodded to the cook and then followed Ash back outside.
Once we were alone, I elbowed Ash and laughed. “This is great! We know von Schönenberg is in his bedroom waiting for his breakfast. All we need to do is find his study and search it for the book.”
“Unless he has the stupid book with him in the bedroom.”
I lifted the platter. “Then we’ll deliver this to his room. If we can spot the book, one of us can distract him while the other one steals it.”
“Or, you know, maybe we can just clobber him over the head with the platter and take the damn thing.”
I rolled my eyes. Seriously? It was like dealing with a five-year-old. “We’re not going to knock the archbishop in the head.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because… because. It’s not right.”
“Neither is torturing an old woman because she has a fucking mole.”
I really had nothing to counter that with. He had a point, so I settled for a shrug. “Yeah, there’s that, I guess.”
As he pulled open the back door to the rectory and held it for me, his lips curved in the smug smile I knew so well, the one that always made me feel like either kissing him or punching him in the nose.
I was beginning to get the feeling he knew exactly how that haughty smile affected me and used it on purpose just to get me riled.
Which only made me want to punch him harder.
Or kiss him harder.
Or both.
I brushed past, annoyed at him and at myself for being irritated in the first place, and he followed me inside without another word or any indication that he’d gotten to me again other than that damn smug smile.
Chapter Twelve
THE INTERIOR of the rectory was very similar to Meier’s manor, so much so I thought the same person must’ve decorated both of them. Thick tapestries hung on the walls, although these depicted saints and angels rather than the battles we’d seen in those at the manor. Heavy furniture, intricately carved with cherubs or dragons or painted with complicated flower-and-vine designs were placed against the walls.
A servant was nearby, scrubbing the gray flagstone floor on her hands and knees. She glanced up when we entered but chose to ignore us. I guess we didn’t pose much of a threat. To her, we were just another couple of servant boys on an errand and therefore none of her business. She dunked her rag into a bucket of soapy water, then slopped it over the floor and went back to scouring.
To our right, a narrow set of wooden stairs ascended to the second floor. A single, simple iron wall sconce held a candle to illuminate the steps. Just as at the manor, this must be the one the servants used. I had the feeling the front entrance to the rectory had a much more elaborate staircase. I couldn’t imagine the archbishop climbing that dark, creaky staircase all the time.
Grant nodded toward a hallway that branched off from the room where we stood. We followed it, peeking into rooms along the way. There was a large dining room with a gleaming table that could easily sit a dozen people, a chapel, and finally, at the very end of the hall, a room I assumed was von Schönenberg’s office or study.
A huge desk, the wood so dark it was almost black, occupied most of the space in the small room. There was only one chair, a high-backed wooden one whose back and seat were padded and t
ufted with black leather. It almost looked more like a throne than an office chair. Whoever came in and faced von Schönenberg while he was seated behind the desk would probably feel intimidated. I wouldn’t be surprised if von Schönenberg thought so too and liked the set for that reason.
A few shelves lined the wall behind the desk. On them were dozens of scrolled parchments in neatly piled pyramids. A set of books, maybe a dozen in all, held a place of honor on a shelf all their own. Excitement jolted through me when I saw them—could it be Grant was right, and we were actually going to get away with his plan to steal the Malleus Maleficarum? Could it be so easy?
Of course not.
None of the books was the one we needed. Most were versions of the Bible, although there were copies of books titled Auch Wie and Theuerdank among others. Some were more like pamphlets than books, thin and fragile-looking. I looked them over, then turned to Grant, frowning.
“It’s not here.”
“Then he must have it with him upstairs.”
Grant seemed so sure of himself, it irritated me. Not that I disagreed with him, because I didn’t, not really. I’d thought from the first that von Schönenberg would keep the book with him. But when Grant got that snooty, know-it-all look on his face, I just couldn’t let him go without an argument.
“Maybe not. Maybe he gave it to Binsfeld to keep, or forgot it in the church, or in the courtroom.”
“Are you kidding? Von Schönenberg is on a power trip, and I bet he’s a total control freak. Books are expensive. He wouldn’t loan it to anyone, and he wouldn’t be so careless as to forget it someplace. Trust me, it’s upstairs in his room. We should’ve just gone up there in the first place.”
“That’s what I said we should do! You’re the one who insisted it might be in his study.”
He sniffed at me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
My face felt hot as irritability deepened into anger. “You know damn well I said it was probably upstairs with him in the bedroom! You just don’t want to admit you were wrong about the book being down here.”
