The Book of the Maidservant (15 page)

Her husband nods, and Father Nicholas is quick to agree.

“You must go to Dona Caterina’s house and beg her to come with us,” Dame Isabel tells the priest.

“That’s all fine to say, but what about Petrus?” her husband says. “He’ll never agree to it.”

“Petrus isn’t the only one on this pilgrimage,” Dame Isabel says, stretching herself tall. “I’ll speak to him.”

By the time I serve supper, it’s official. My mistress will rejoin the company. Until we leave, she’s staying at Dona Caterina’s—without me.

“You mark me,” Petrus says, waving his bread toward Dame Isabel. “One word out of her and it’s over.”

“Now, Petrus,” Dame Isabel says. “I’m sure there will be no trouble.”

The trouble comes two days later when Petrus decides it’s time to leave Bolzano.

“Certainly not,” Dame Isabel says. “We’ve barely arrived.” She flicks her eyes toward the door.

I do, too. We’re both waiting for John Mouse and Thomas. If my mistress made it over the mountains so quickly, they could, too. They could be here any minute. If we leave without them, I’ll never see them again—they go straight from here to the university at Bologna.

Like Dame Isabel, I’m content to stay in this hospice as long as we can, even if it does mean my keeping to corners and out-of-the-way places where Petrus won’t find me. I mended his breeches, but the seams look like crooked scars. I put them on the bottom of the pile of clothes in a dark corner. So far he hasn’t said anything.

In fact, nobody pays any attention to me unless they want something. Except Bartilmew. He gives me nods of acknowledgment or looks of commiseration when Petrus shouts at me.

In the end, Petrus prevails. Five days have passed with no sign of the students, and he says we have to leave. I watch behind me all the way out of town, but I catch no sight of them.

The trip to Venice is the easiest we have had so far. We sail down rivers, never out of sight of land, and when I stand on deck and look out at the horizon, the queasy feeling leaves my stomach. In its place is a huge emptiness for John Mouse.

As the mountains recede, I think of him in the infirmary, high in the Alps, and pray for him.

*  *  *

The strange city of water welcomes us. As we disembark, men rush up to us saying, “Deutsch? Français? English?” A short, wiry man with a stooped back attaches himself to us and hurries us off the quay.

“Good place to stay, clean, cheap,” he says. “For you English, good cheap.”

He leads us, pulling at our arms, pushing Dame Isabel’s husband from behind, and making us laugh. We go through narrow streets, over bridges, around corners, past churches. It’s so bright, with orange roofs and paintings on the walls and buildings so big they make the guildhall in Lynn look like a toy. There’s water everywhere, more water even than in Lynn. People rush past, ladies carried in litters, tradesmen leading donkeys, boys in rich tunics, and boys in beggars’ rags. Everywhere, tippy-looking boats ply the waters.

We pass shops and market stalls: money changers, tailors, cobblers, rope sellers, cloth dealers waving bright fabrics. Wondrous smells prick at my nose—spices and sizzling meats and something sweet, I don’t know what. Men reach out to us, holding fruits and fowls and long loaves of bread. I’m dizzy with the colors and noises and smells, but our guide leads us too quickly for me to stop and look.

He takes us down a dark alley so narrow that when I reach out, my fingers brush against the walls on both sides. When we finally stop, it’s in front of a two-story building whose windows have no shutters.

“You have servants? Better that way,” the guide says. “Good price for you English,” he says before he and Petrus start bickering. They come to an agreement and shake hands.

When the guide leaves, Dame Isabel, her husband, and Dame Margery all turn on Petrus. “That’s the best you could do?” Dame Isabel says.

“We haven’t even looked inside,” her husband adds.

“I’m not paying that much,” Dame Margery says. “I won’t be here long, anyway—I’ll be leaving for Assisi.”

“You’ll pay the same as the rest of us,” Petrus tells her.

I close my ears and look through the door, which hangs drunkenly on one hinge. When I step in, the smell is terrible. Dame Isabel’s husband was right.

Someone must have kept chickens here, because the floor is covered with white droppings. In the corners, damp hay and who knows what else rots in piles. I wrinkle my nose. I’m glad my mistress and I are leaving soon. Poor Bartilmew. He’ll have to stay here till spring when the ships leave for the Holy Land. He has a long wait.

Upstairs smells a little better, but the stairs creak ominously, as if I might fall right through them. No poultry have bedded down up here, and there’s no moldy hay. Neither is there any furniture, not even a cot. The Venetian must be back down on the wharf having a good laugh with his friends.

In the afternoon, my mistress decides to visit a convent Dona Caterina told her about. “Come along, girl,” she says.

I follow her through the strange streets, my eyes wide
with the sights. We pass a market and cross bridge after bridge.

Dame Margery stops at a fork in the road, closes her eyes, moves her lips, and nods. “The Lord tells me it’s this way,” she says, and starts up again.

The Lord knows his directions. In almost no time at all, we arrive at the convent gate.

My mistress rings a bell. When a small door in the wall opens, she pushes through her letter from Dona Caterina. I can hear women’s voices. Then the door swings open, and two nuns usher us in. I don’t know what it says in that letter, but the nuns greet my mistress like she’s their lost pet lamb, smiling and saying all sorts of things we can’t understand. They take us across a dusty courtyard and into a chapel, where my mistress kneels before a statue of the Virgin.

Oh, no. I can see it coming.

She screws up her face and lets out a howling sob. I wince and glance around me nervously. But the nuns approve. They raise my mistress up and walk her slowly out of the chapel, tears streaming down her cheeks. Across the courtyard, we go into a richly appointed chamber. I slip in just before the door shuts.

The nun awaiting my mistress must be the abbess. A jeweled cross around her neck sparkles in the firelight when she comes forward to kiss my mistress’s cheeks. She says something, and the other nuns help my mistress into a cushioned chair. When a servant enters with a tray, they offer her dainty cakes of some kind. My mistress chews, tears running into her mouth, while the nuns chatter.

When the jeweled nun says something, they take the tray away and all of them kneel. My mistress slips off her chair and onto her knees. I kneel, too.

We begin with the Ave Maria, although the words sound so funny the way the nuns say them that it takes me a while to recognize it. Then the Paternoster, and then some other prayers I don’t know.

We pray for a long time. When the nuns stand, my mistress remains on her knees, tears flowing. At least they’re silent tears this time.

From under lowered lashes, I watch the nuns nodding and smiling at each other. They may be happy now, but they don’t know how lucky they are that we’re going to Assisi soon.

When we leave, they pet me, too, their soft hands like feathers on my shoulders and arms.

Back at our hostel, I wish we could have stayed at the convent. I spend the rest of the day trying to clean the stinking piles of dung and hay and chicken droppings from the floor, and then cooking some kind of grain that Dame Isabel and her husband bought at the market. I boil it as long as I can, adding water every time it boils away, but the grain never softens. It might as well be peas. Everyone grumbles when they try to eat it, and I don’t blame them. At least no one breaks a tooth.

In the morning, they send me to find bread and cheese. All by myself. I wish Bartilmew could come along, but Dame Isabel has him cleaning out the room she and her husband are sharing.

In the street, two men pass me, speaking loudly in a
foreign language. I shrink back against a wall and let them pass. When they’re gone, I step into the street again. A sunbeam slants between buildings, cheering me. I head for the market my mistress and I passed on the way to the convent.

I cross over a canal, go past an alley, and peer around a corner where I’m sure the market is—but it’s not there. Was it the other direction? I can’t remember. And what will I do when I get there? I don’t know how much anything costs. I don’t even know how much the coin Dame Isabel gave me is worth. I open my hand and look at the face on it.

Just as I do, someone bumps into me, hard.

“Scusi, scusi,”
a boy says, backing away from me. His clothes are in rags, but he’s grinning. Then another ragged boy runs around the corner, saying something to the first. They laugh and, looking back at me, run down a dark alley.

Suddenly, I realize the coin is gone.

“Thieves!” I shout, and take off down the alley after them. Where are they? I pound down the alley, holding up my skirts so I don’t trip. The farther I go, the more crowded the alley gets. I catch sight of one boy, but then he disappears behind two women and melts into the crowd.

When I realize how many people are watching me, I slow my pace. A woman with a painted face leers up at me from a doorstep. A man steps forward and grasps my cloak.

“Let go!” I say.

He laughs.

A woman says something behind me. I whirl. She smiles, showing her missing front teeth.

When she plucks at my gown, I start running back the way I came.

The man who grabbed my cloak chases me, his boots slapping the ground.

My breath coming in sharp gasps, I push my way between startled people, running with all my might.

The footsteps die away behind me, and I can hear the man laughing, but I keep going.

Finally, I emerge from the alley. Panting, I look behind me, but no one’s following me.

There’s nothing I can do. The coin is gone.

I look to the right and then to the left. Which way? I know I crossed a canal—this one? I go over the bridge and down a street. Voices and bright colored fabrics tell me I’ve come to the very market I was trying to find. Loaves of bread are stacked high in one stall, and when I look behind me, I see great wheels of cheese. But now I have no way to buy them.

I don’t know what I’ll say to Dame Isabel. What will Petrus do to me this time? There’s no point in hurrying back. The market swirls around me, voices and laughter, the smell of cooking meat, the sound of a dog barking.

I lower myself onto a set of steps and watch a boy juggling four red and yellow balls. The hat in front of him is as empty of coins as my hands are. He gives me a sad little smile, then looks back at the balls he’s juggling.

Finally, I turn back toward the hostel. Twice, I take a wrong turn and have to retrace my steps. Even though I’m afraid of Petrus, I’m relieved when I finally see our hostel. I pick up my pace.

Bartilmew greets me at the door, a wild look in his eye. “She left. For Assisi,” he says, the sounds making spit fly from his mouth.

I shake my head, not comprehending.

“Your mistress,” he says. “She’s gone.”

m
y mistress is gone?

“I have to find her. Where’s my pack?” I push past Bartilmew, but he grabs my shoulders.

“Johanna,” he says. It’s the first time I’ve heard my name in weeks. I look at him.

“She took the pack.” Every word is difficult for him, but he keeps talking. “After you left. I tried to find you.”

“I’ll catch up with her. Which way did she go?” My body is ready to keep running.

“She’s on a boat,” he says. “Gone.”

Gone?
This time the word sinks in, sounding like a funeral bell.

Suddenly, I’m so tired my whole body slumps. If it weren’t for Bartilmew catching my elbow, I’d fall. He walks me inside. I lean against the wall, then slide down it until I’m crouching on the floor, my knees to my chest.

What will I do? How will I find her? How will I ever get home now?

Bartilmew lays his huge hand on top of my head, the
warmth of it spreading through me. As he walks away, my tears begin.

I don’t know how long I’ve been there when something touches my foot. I look up, my eyes swollen. Dame Isabel prods me with her shoe.

“Where’s the bread you bought?” she asks.

I shake my head. Things can’t get any worse. I might as well tell her. “Stolen,” I say, my voice a harsh croak.

“What do you mean, stolen?” she says, as if that’s impossible. “Where is it?”

“Somebody stole the coin.”

She stares at me, her mouth an oval. “My money!” she shrieks. “Husband! Where are you? Petrus! Come here!”

I close my eyes and lower my head to my knees. The cold of the wall seeps into my back.

In my bones, I feel the vibrations as someone comes down the wooden stairs.

“What’s this racket?” Petrus says.

I retreat further into the dark behind my eyelids.

“The money we gave her for bread and cheese. Stolen, or so she says,” Dame Isabel says. “I knew we couldn’t trust her.”

“Who stole it?” Petrus says.