The Book of the Maidservant (18 page)

B
reathing heavily, I listen for footsteps behind me. Nothing. Nor do I see the two servant girls, which is a good thing for them. I clench my teeth in anger.

The sun is getting low, and I have no food. I’ll have to find the English hospice on my own.

Pain shoots through my knee when I start walking again. I limp down a street with stone buildings on either side. Two women carrying baskets pass me, and I call out, “English hospice?”

They look at me and recoil. One of them crosses herself and they both hurry away.

I look down. My gown and cloak are filthy, my skirt ripped to reveal my linen shift underneath—and my legs below that. I reach up and touch my hair. My braids have come loose, and a strand of hair sticks up on the side. Brushing at my clothes does nothing but spread the mud to more places. I pat my hair down, pull my cloak around me to hide my torn skirt and bare legs, and limp forward. The few people I pass avert their eyes when I get close to them.

A young friar comes down the street toward me, the
knots on his rope belt hitting his leg in time to his whistling, his blond curls bouncing with each step. I stop and watch him as he nears me, listening to the merry song he whistles.

The friar looks up as two sparrows wing past the roofline. He stops whistling to watch them, then takes up his song again as he walks.

I can’t see his eyes, but his blond curls make him look almost angelic—or they would if his stomach weren’t so round. Besides, he’s a friar, and they help poor people, don’t they? As he approaches, I put my hands together as if in prayer and say, “Benedicite.”

The whistling stops and he looks at me, eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“English hospice?” I say, my voice cracking.

I know he is taking in my clothes, my hair. What must he think?

He furrows his brows, and I think I see compassion in his clear hazel eyes. He asks me something.

I shake my head and repeat, “English hospice,” saying the words as clearly as I can.

“Ahh,” he says as if he understands. He smiles and sweeps his hand out in a grand gesture for me to accompany him.

I breathe deeply in relief and follow behind him as he begins whistling again. I hope it isn’t far. My knee hurts so much that it’s hard to keep up. I grit my teeth and hurry along.

He picks up his pace to match a new, quicker melody. It’s too fast for me. Two men pass, coming between me and
my friar. “Wait!” I call, but he doesn’t hear. “Please, wait!” I call again, my voice rising to a wail.

This time the whistling stops and he turns. As I limp toward him, he watches, frowning and shaking his head. When I get close enough, he points at my leg and says something, a lot of words that I can’t understand.

I stare at him helplessly.

Still frowning, he glances up and down the street as if he’s deciding something. Then he nods, says something else, and holds out his arm.

When I look at him, he gives me a kind smile before gesturing toward his arm.

This time I take it.

We go slowly, the friar supporting me. He chatters away as if we were old friends, occasionally smiling down at me or laughing. I’d smile back if I weren’t too busy trying to walk. It’s easier with his help, but every step makes me wince.

When we come to a corner, the friar releases my arm and motions for me to go first down a dark, narrow alley. We’ve only gone a short way when he touches my shoulder to stop me at a door. He opens it and leans his head in, as if listening. He calls out, but nobody answers. He stands there a moment, then speaks to me, gesturing for me to enter.

I step over the threshold and stop. It’s pitch-black. If this is the hospice, where is everyone?

The friar puts his hand on my shoulder and says something in a quiet voice. He guides me farther in and to a wall. I feel a door, then stairs. He murmurs something and
gently pushes me toward them. Climbing makes my knee hurt even worse, and I let out a whimper.

The friar shushes me, crooning like my sister used to when I came crying to her with some childish sorrow.

At the top of the stairs, he guides me through another door and to a place where I can sit. I lower myself onto a soft surface, trying not to groan. This can’t be the hospice, but right now, I don’t care. I just want to sit here and let the friar tend to me.

He says something, then goes out. I can hear him whistling as he descends the stairs and moves around down below. The whistling grows louder as he climbs up again. He appears in the doorway, his clean-shaven face lit by the oil lamp he carries. In the other hand, he has half a loaf of bread and under his arm, a waterskin. My stomach growls in anticipation.

The lantern flame flickers as the friar moves, and I look around the shadowy room. There’s no bench, no table, nothing at all except the pallet I’m sitting on, a few tufts of straw sticking out of it, and a blanket folded neatly at its foot. Someone has swept the floor so clean that even Rose would approve, and I can smell lavender coming from the pallet.

The friar sets the lamp down near me, then puts down the bread and the waterskin beside it. As he sits on the floor, he says something and laughs, showing white teeth.

I watch him, but I don’t understand the joke.

He pulls a piece off the bread and hands it to me. I take it and bite into the crusty loaf.

He speaks, his eyebrows going up in a question. When
I don’t answer, he laughs again, then eats a piece himself. He tips the waterskin back and takes a swallow before he hands it to me.

The water feels cool on my throat. I give him the skin back and finish my bread.

The friar takes another long drink. He sets the skin down, smiles, and asks me another question.

When I shake my head to show I don’t understand, he comes over to the pallet and sits beside me.

My mouth drops open, and my eyes widen with fear. I scuttle into the corner, as far away from him as I can get, my cloak clutched around me.

A look of hurt surprise crosses his face. Then his features soften. He holds his hands up, palms facing me, and rocks back so he’s sitting on his knees on the floor, off the pallet. He speaks in a low, soothing tone, the way you would to a frightened sheep.

As fast as my fear came, it flees, shame taking its place. The friar has done nothing but help me. Tears prick at my eyes and I lower them.

When I look up again, he shakes his head, smiling his forgiveness. He points at me and pantomimes sleep, his face cradled on his hands. Then he points at himself and walks his fingers away. He’s leaving.

I nod to show that I understand.

“Thank you,” I say, and add a word I learned from the nuns.
“Grazie.”

He smiles again. Leaving me the lantern, he backs out of the room, taking the waterskin with him. I hear him going down the stairs, across a room, and out the door.

His whistling begins again, a slow, mournful tune this time. As it grows fainter, I feel my shoulders relax. This may not be the English hospice, but it’s good enough for now. Slowly, sleep overtakes me.

A sound jerks me awake. I blink and look around me. The lantern has gone out, but enough gray light filters into the room that it must be morning.

Gingerly, I stand, testing my knee. It hurts, and beneath my skirt it’s hot and swollen, but I think I can walk. I listen for voices downstairs, but the only sound I hear is mice scratching in the walls.

Where is the friar?

I lie back down to wait for him, but soon I’m standing again, too impatient to stay still.

Brushing at my cloak doesn’t get any of the mud off, but at least I can comb my hair with my fingers and braid it neatly. I fold the blanket and leave it on the end of the pallet, then glance around the room. I wish there were some message I could leave for the friar, some way to thank him.

A noise downstairs makes me jump. I stop to listen, but now it’s quiet again. Am I alone here? I don’t know and suddenly, I shiver. What if I’m expected to pay for the room? I pull my cloak around me and step to the door.

The stairwell is dark and I creep downward, one step at a time. A loud creak stops me—the third stair. I stop, not breathing, and listen. Nothing. I take another step, then another, and finally, I’m at the bottom. It’s too dark to tell
whether anyone is there. Slowly, cautiously, I tiptoe across the room, feeling my way to the door.

As I let myself out, I see no one. Suddenly, a loud shout comes from down the alleyway. I startle like a rabbit and run.

After a few steps, I have to stop, my knee hurts so much, but when I look behind me, the street is empty—whoever it was wasn’t shouting at me. Still, I don’t like this place. Rickety wooden buildings loom over me, cutting out the early-morning sun, and I don’t know my way.

I pull my head into my cloak like a turtle into its shell and skulk along the alley, keeping close to the walls, limping as quickly as I can. Not many people are out yet; it’s that early. I dodge puddles and piles of dung, heading for the alley’s end.

A man steps out of a doorway right into me. He says something, but I keep going, not even looking at him. My heart pounds so loudly in my ears that I can barely make out the noises ahead of me.

Finally, I emerge into a market, just behind a fish monger’s stall—I smell the tubs of eels before I see them. A woman with a kerchief over her head sees me behind the stall and shouts angrily, but I don’t stop. I limp past women carrying baskets and a man pushing a wheelbarrow.

As I pass a stall with pots of something for sale, I hear a woman saying, “Look here, Constance, this is the kind to buy.”

I duck around a man hefting a wooden tub. Suddenly, I stop.

English. That woman was speaking English.

I turn and see her, a small, thin woman sniffing at a pot and handing it to a tall girl beside her.

My heart beating wildly, I approach her. “Beg pardon,” I say.

She squints at me, pushing the girl behind her.

“You speak English,” I say.

“And what if I do?” She holds her basket in front of her protectively.

“I have to find the English hospice,” I say. “I… I’m a pilgrim from England, from Bishop’s Lynn.”

She lowers her basket a little and looks me up and down. “A pilgrim, are you?” The girl comes out from behind the woman but stays a step back.

I nod. “I… I got lost.”

The woman squints at me for a long time, not saying anything. Finally, she nods her head. “Well, you can come with us, then. I cook at the English hospice, and Constance works in the kitchen, too.”

“You do?”

The woman nods.

I can’t help myself. I burst into tears.

“t
here now, there now,” the woman says, reaching out to give me an awkward pat. “Constance can take you to the hospice, and I’ll finish up here.”

I wipe my face with my cloak and stand shakily.

Constance peers at me from under lowered lashes, her shoulders scrunched up to her ears. She must not know what to make of me.

“God bless you,” I say to the woman.

“God keep you. Now, get on with you both; I have things to do,” she says.

We go through the crowded market, past stalls covered with canvas awnings. As we walk, I see pilgrims with staves and broad-brimmed hats pushing toward merchants selling trinkets and food. The smell of grilling mutton makes my mouth water.

“Are you a pilgrim, too?” I ask.

Constance shakes her head. “I live here, at the hospice,” she says.

A group of black-robed monks passes us, followed by three monks wearing white. Just as they disappear through
a stone doorway, people begin running and shouting, and I hear galloping hooves. Constance pushes me to the side of the street as a man on a tall horse races down the narrow lane, leaning low over his saddle, his red cloak billowing behind him. Dust rises and settles again as the clatter of hooves disappears. People step back into the lane, but I listen for more hooves before I move again.

“It’s all right,” Constance says, lightly touching my arm. “How did you get lost?” Her voice is so low I can barely hear it.

I limp along beside her, wondering how to answer. “My mistress left me in Venice. She’ll be here, at the hospice.”

Constance looks at me, her eyes wide. “She left you? That wasn’t right.”

I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t.” As I speak, I feel the truth of Constance’s words. And I realize how easily Dame Margery could leave me again. I can’t get home without her, but I might not ever get home
with
her, either.

“It wasn’t the first time she left me,” I say. The way Constance looks at me, her eyes full of sympathy, prompts me to tell the whole story, my words tumbling out. I leave out the part about the fight between Bartilmew and Petrus, but all the same, I see the knife raised high in the air.

She shakes her head. “That was wrong of her.” She gestures toward my leg. “Do you need to rest? It isn’t far.”

“I’m all right.” And I am. Just knowing that we’re near the hospice makes me feel like I could walk forever if I needed to.

She guides me down a lane, through a stone gate, and
into a dusty courtyard. “The women’s dormitory is over there.” She points. “And the men’s, and there’s the chapel and the refectory, where pilgrims eat. The dormitory on the other side is for the sick.”