The Book of the Maidservant (4 page)

B
y the time we get to Yarmouth, I’ve broken my vow over five times. After five, I stopped counting.

The last time was in the cathedral at Norwich, where my mistress prayed to the Holy Trinity. By her account, all three of them got into an argument about who she should love best—the Father, the Son, or the Holy Spirit. It took the Virgin Mary and all twelve apostles to set things right. Along with a lot of weeping. When she shrieked out loud in the Lady Chapel, I lost my patience and broke my vow.

At Yarmouth, we’re staying at an inn where other people who are crossing the English Sea have gathered. One of them is Petrus Tappester. I watch him for signs of that devil. I may not see it, but I can hear it—he has nothing good to say and a large mouth with which to say it.

At dinner, he tells me to serve everybody at our table. I look to Dame Margery to contradict him, but she’s so busy praying she doesn’t notice. Even when I bang her cup down hard enough that some of the ale sloshes out, she doesn’t look up. When I stomp into the kitchen for more ale, the yellow-haired boy tending to the roast laughs.

I feel like a dog that’s been kicked—I want to snarl and bite anybody in my path. “What are
you
looking at?” I say.

“Nowt,” he says, and gives the meat a turn. “Wouldn’t waste my spit on yon gentles, that’s all.”

“Why not?”

“Sinning in anger on account of them? When they’ll just tread you underfoot? Here, have a bit of crackling.” He hands me a piece of crispy fat from the meat, and I take it, blowing on my fingers where it burns them, and pop it in my mouth. Mmm, it tastes wonderful. I lick the grease from each finger, feeling less like a sharp-toothed mongrel, and grab more ale to take to the table.

As I’m handing the cups around, the landlord brings out the salt bacon.

“Only fish for me,” my mistress says. “For the sake of our dear Lord, I’m fasting and so should any of you who are taking a holy pilgrimage.” She glares at Petrus Tappester. “If you honor Our Lord who suffered on the cross for you, you shouldn’t eat meat.”

I stand with my back to the wall, watching as the other people look at one another, not knowing how to react. Then Petrus Tappester speaks, his voice as loud and rough as a donkey’s braying. “This here woman wearing the white clothes of a chaste virgin bore her husband fourteen children.”

The others turn their eyes from my mistress to Petrus.

“At least, she claims they all had the same father, but times were he was gone from home and she was still with child. And she’s telling
us
how to be holy?”

“Our dear Lord suffered so much for you, and all you
can do is slander one who loves him? For shame, Petrus Tappester,” Dame Margery says.

The others avoid my mistress’s eyes as they stab at the bacon with their knives.

When they finish their meal, I eat mine in the kitchen where my mistress can’t see. But St. Margaret knows I’m gobbling down more meat that the kitchen boy saved for me, and me on a pilgrimage to Rome.

After my duties are done, I escape the inn to offer a prayer at the Church of St. Nicholas across the square. He watches over seafarers, the kitchen boy tells me.

My mistress, her cheeks wet with tears, stands before a statue of the Virgin Mary—probably telling her who ate the bacon and who didn’t.

I kneel on the cold stone floor and ask St. Nicholas to forgive me for my gluttony. “And protect me on this sea journey,” I pray.

While I wait for my mistress in the cool, dark nave, I look up at the rainbow windows. Above me, St. Michael holds a balance in his hand, like the scales the pewterer uses back in Lynn. A tiny naked man kneels on one side, his hands clasped in prayer. He looks frightened and alone. It’s his soul St. Michael is weighing.

When my mistress comes toward me, she sees me looking at it. “I know how my soul will fare when it’s weighed,” she says, crossing herself. Then she narrows her eyes and gazes at me. “But I’m none too sure about yours. You’d best think on that.”

As she leaves the church, I scurry behind her, meek and obedient.

Everyone else has already left for the quay by the time we get back to the inn. We grab our things and hurry after them, the cooking pot clanking and poking into my back with each step.

I’ve seen plenty of ships at Lynn harbor, but never have I been on one before. I didn’t know they would be so crowded and smelly. No matter where you step, you hear the creaking of the wood, as if a thousand groaning men are trapped within the timbers. Despite the crowd, there are more rats than people. I step over two who race to take inventory of our baggage.

People rush to find comfortable places to ride out the journey over the English Sea. Petrus Tappester elbows between two students in long black gowns. He aims for a coil of rope to sit on, but just as his backside reaches it, a barefoot sailor snatches the rope from under him. He lands hard on the deck and howls.

“Come along, girl,” Dame Margery says, pulling my arm. She descends into the foul-smelling hold, dragging me after her. I’d rather stay above-boards, smelling the salt air and watching the clouds and the sea, but I have no choice.

Dame Margery finds a place between two barrels and kneels to pray. This time I need no urging to join her. As we pray, we rock back and forth with the waves that slap loudly against the sides of the ship.

Back and forth we rock, back and forth. My stomach begins to feel odd, and the bile rises in my throat. Suddenly, I clap my hand over my mouth and run. Up the ladder I go, between pilgrims and sailors and luggage. I reach
the side of the ship just in time to heave up all the crackling the kitchen boy gave me—and whatever else I ever ate in my life.

How could I have been so greedy? Surely this is my punishment for not fasting.

I lean over the side, gagging, my eyes watering, but nothing else will come up. The wind cools my hot cheeks, but the smell of pitch makes my stomach feel worse.

Someone beside me puts a hand on my arm and grips it reassuringly. “Look out to the horizon,” he says. “Keep your eyes where the sea meets the sky and say three Paternosters. You’ll feel better.”

I try to follow his advice, but my stomach won’t listen—it keeps leaping into my throat.

“Eyes on the horizon,” he says again.

After three Paternosters, I start to feel a little better. I take a shaky breath and look sideways at the man. A black gown flutters in the wind—it’s one of the students.

“John Mouse, clerk, at your service,” he says, making me a mock bow. He’s no older than my sister, and his eyes are brown and merry.

“Thank you, John Mouse, clerk.” I look quickly back at the horizon lest the sick feeling return. The pewter gray of the sky and the pewter gray of the sea run together in the distance. Waves black in the center and gray on the edges chop the water, each wearing a wimple of white at the crest.

Behind us, the green hills of England recede.

The reality of our pilgrimage hits me in a way it hasn’t
before, taking my breath away. Will I ever see my home again?

I wish Cook were standing beside me, and Cicilly, too, with my arm around her. I wish we were all back in the kitchen, sitting beside the fire. I wish I were still a child, snug in our cottage beside the stream, with Rose and my father to protect me.

I look in the opposite direction, to where we are headed, and see nothing but the waves, endless gray and shadow.

m
orning finally comes. We have survived the night and the voyage. My mistress kneels to kiss the ground as soon as she crosses the gangplank, forcing a crowd of people to wait behind her until she gets up again. I eye them as they shuffle impatiently. A man calls out, “Hurry up, there!” and I tug on Dame Margery’s sleeve. But she’s speaking to the Lord, so she pays me no mind.

Then John Mouse steps forward. “Come, my lady, the Lord has seen us safely across,” he says. He talks gently, as if my mistress were a nun—and a lady, too!—and he helps me move her out of the way. I’m about to thank him when another black-robed student speaks to John Mouse in a voice too low for me to hear. I watch as the two of them disappear into the crowd.

Zierikzee is as bustling as Yarmouth. Although I didn’t sleep at all during the night, and although my knees are still weak from the fear of drowning, and although my body still feels like it rocks back and forth with the waves, I can’t stop looking and listening. Some people speak words I can’t make out no matter how hard I listen. I almost think
I understand, and then I realize I don’t at all. They must be Zeelanders.

Everything looks so different—the clothes and the flowers and the houses. It even smells different here, in a way I can’t put into words.

A group of pilgrims gathers at an inn for dinner. I don’t know why Petrus Tappester is here except to bedevil me and my mistress—he’s going to the Holy Land, not Rome. Besides him, there are four others: a priest, an old man with a pretty young wife who I thought at first was his daughter, and their serving man, who stands in a corner watching them. He’s older than me, maybe my sister’s age. I’m glad I’m not the only servant.

Just as people are finding their places on the benches, John Mouse and the other student walk through the door. I smile at him, but I don’t think he sees me.

While I rush around serving, I listen to the conversation—everyone’s talking about where they’re going.

My mistress smoothes her veil. “The Lord told me to travel to St. Peter’s City,” she says. “And to go by way of the Three Kings’ shrine in Cologne. And Assisi, too,” she adds. “That’s why I’m taking the Venice route, with those of you journeying to the Holy Land.”

I stare at her. Doesn’t she know about Petrus Tappester and his devil?

He gives me a look, and I duck into the kitchen, my heart pounding.

When I come back out, the priest is showing off his broad-brimmed pilgrim’s hat, one just like my mistress’s but older and covered with metal badges. “No, that’s from
Canterbury, the shrine of the holy martyr,” he says, ducking his head. He’s round and shy, and his blond lashes flutter whenever he blinks. “The scallop shell, that’s from St. James, in Spain.” He passes the hat around the table. “And,” he says so softly I can barely hear, “what about you, young scholar?”

I stop, a pot in my hands, as John Mouse speaks. “Thomas and I”—he gestures toward the other student—“we’re pilgrims to the holy shrine at Bologna.”

The priest blinks, then blinks again. “To Bologna?” he asks, confused. “To what shrine?”

John Mouse grins and elbows Thomas. “We think it’s a shrine—the university at Bologna, famed for its teaching of law.”

A burble of laughter escapes my lips; I don’t know why. My mistress scowls at me and motions for me to serve the soup. As I step forward to fill her bowl, John Mouse catches my eye and winks. I busy myself with the ladle.

“You’re not pilgrims, then,” the old man says. “What are you doing here with us?”

“But, my dear,” his young wife says, placing a calming hand over his, “to get to Bologna, they’ll need to go to Venice, just as we will. And there’s safety in numbers.”

“Aye, that’s true enough,” Petrus Tappester says loudly. “You never know what we’ll come across among these foreigners.”

I scurry back into the kitchen to get away from his voice. I’m more afraid of him than any foreigner. I hate the way his eyes follow me. Can that devil inside Petrus see me through those eyes?

When I come back out with a loaf of bread, he’s pulling out a little cloth bag that hangs around his neck. “The parish priest, he wrote down all my sins on a bit of sheepskin. I’m supposed to lay it on the altar at the big church in Jerusalem and then say fifty Paternosters. But I can only count to five!” He roars with laughter, but no one else makes a sound.

After a moment, the priest flutters his lashes and coughs lightly. “And you, good sir?” he says, looking at the old man.

“Well, yes, we’re on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. My wife—” He starts to put his arm around his young wife, but she turns to him, her face flushed.

“It’s none of their affair,” she whispers through clenched teeth.

The old man looks at her. “My dear, it’s no secret at all.” He looks around the table. “We wish for a child, an heir.”

“Then you
must
go to the Holy Land,” Dame Margery says, leaning forward to try to grasp the young wife’s arm. She jerks her hand away, but my mistress goes right on talking. “The place where Our Lord was a child, the very place where his holy mother conceived, oh, yes, you must go and pray to the Virgin there.” She drops her voice, but everyone can still hear her when she says, “And I can give you a few hints about things that might help.”

Petrus barks out a laugh. “You can bet she’ll do that. I’m telling you, this pretend-virgin wearing these white clothes knows how to get children.”

“You’re hardly one to talk, Petrus Tappester,” my
mistress snaps, her face fiercer than I’ve ever seen it. “Your envy will be your downfall.”

“Come, come, we mustn’t quarrel on a holy pilgrimage,” the priest says in a timid voice.

“Who’s telling who what to do?” Petrus yells.