Invidia

by E. H. Schutz

  The silence hung between them as Katharine held Helena tightly to her.

  “I am uncertain of what shall come of us, but I shall continue my work here in the village as I always have. I have never been short of it, and now, at least, I will only have enough to do rather than too much. Here, let us go sit near the fire. You are cold to the touch.”

  Katharine gently guided Helena into a small sitting room. There sat two comfortable chairs with a large iron side table between them, a stove, and an open fireplace with a brightly glowing fire in it. The cat followed them and perched herself on the back of the chair nearest the fire. Helena was struck by the clean-swept floor; dirt though it was, it had the immaculate appearance she had come to associate with Katharine rather the disorder she would expect from an unfinished floor. The air smelled mildly of coal and wood smoke and yet clean and fresh.

  Helena smiled as she sat in one of the chairs. “Everything in your home except for your bed and chairs is made of iron.”

  Katharine snickered at her. “Not so. Some of my things are made of steel. Did you, though, expect anything else?”

  Helena shook her head. “No, I suppose I ought not have. In fact, this is almost exactly how I imagined your home. Neat, orderly, and warm. It is not even quite so small as I thought it might be.”

  Katharine settled herself in the chair opposite Helena. “It is rather small, and I do hope you shan't get any soot or dirt on you. I try to keep it clean, but it is a constant effort.”

  Helena scoffed at her. “Dearest, you are never covered in dirt of soot unless you have just been working, and your house is lovely.”

  Katharine blushed under Helena's gaze. “Thank you.”

  They looked at each other, holding each other's eyes for a long moment. They sat in the silence, marred only by the popping of the fire, and basked in the presence of the other, content to simply sit. After a time, though, Katharine became acutely aware that here sat Helena in her very own house. A thought seized her and she flushed, and she hoped that Helena did not see.

  “Would you care to see the forge?”

  Helena replied, “Oh, yes. I should like to see where you work,” and then remembered her distraction in church months prior. She felt her cheeks grow warm.

  “Here. It is just through this door.”

  The cat settled into Helena's vacated chair as Katharine bowed her through the door to her workshop. Helena almost physically took a step back in astonishment at the size of the room. It was easily twice the size of the whole rest of Katharine's house. Workbenches lined the walls with various tools neatly hung or lined up on shelves. At the far end of the room stood the forge itself. An enormous bellows, accompanied by some mysterious machinery, was mounted to a stone fire pit which contained faintly glowing embers. An anvil stood mounted nearby.

  Helena turned to Katharine. “It is far larger than it looks from the outside. I never had any idea of it.”

  Katharine smiled at her and ran her hand over Helena's cheek. “Shall I show you the anvil?” Helena coloured at this, and Katharine smiled to herself. Perhaps she would get to fulfil her fantasy from the prior evening.

  Helena walked with, Katharine felt, exaggerated dignity to the vicinity of the anvil, and placed a hand on the smooth surface. Without turning around, she said, “This appears to be a very fine anvil, indeed.”

  Katharine approached and slid her hands around Helena's hips. “It has been in my family for generations.” As Katharine hoped, Helena leaned backward into her.

  “Your touch,” Helena whispered, “makes me feel as though you shall set me alight at any moment, and I could be perfectly happy for ten thousand years so long as you are embracing me.”

  “What of the ten thousand and first year?” Katharine whispered in her ear.

  “In that year, you shall have to make love to me lest I come apart.” Helena's voice grew shaky as Katharine ran her hands over her thighs.

  “Perhaps I will save us both the time.”

  An hour later, Helena and Katharine collapsed together into Katharine's bed, skin slick with sweat and each labouring to catch her breath. They fell into an exhausted and contented sleep, wrapped up in each other's arms. In the very early morning, Katharine made Helena a simple breakfast and presented her with a pair of new boots and some heavy trousers.

  Smiling ruefully, she said, “I'd gotten these made for you before I was dismissed. It is a shame that you shan't have any use for them.”

  Helena smiled back at her, hugging the gifts to her chest. “I will treasure them nonetheless. And we know not what the future holds. I may yet require them.”

  Three

  In the several weeks following Helena's visit to the forge, Katharine threw herself into her work to distract herself from the loneliness and from the destructive plots which had slowly taken over her mind. Her only solace was the cat, which had chosen to stay with Katharine when Helena left, and spent her nights curled up on Katharine's chest. This day was no different than the last fifteen—save Sundays—in that regard. She had risen before the sun and worked all morning and early afternoon without a break. At last, Katharine put down her hammer and stretched. She rinsed her face and hands in the corner basin and strolled out into her small front garden and the sun. The village baker waited on the other side of the fence with a tankard of beer.

  “How d'ye fare, Katharine?” He offered her the beer with a wide grin. The cat jumped up onto the garden railing and butted her head against his large hand. He chuckled and rubbed her gently under the chin.

  Katharine swallowed her response that it had been a full fortnight since she had seen Helena and that she was miserable, and instead replied, “I am well, John. How is the new oven door?” She had, unbidden, created for him a new door of a double thickness of iron after he had commented that he was recently always sore in a way he was unused.

  “Perfectly balanced, not tha' I'm surprised a'tall. Much easier on my back than the old one. Made my day, it has.”

  Katharine dipped her head. “I am pleased that it is working well for you. Thank you for the beer.”

  “Naught but a thanks for ye work.”

  Katharine raised her tankard to him and they drank in silence for a moment. Katharine liked John; he did not prattle on like other people in the village. They could exchange their pleasantries and discuss the affairs of the world—briefly—and then they would spend the rest of their time in amicable silence, watching people go by and enjoying the respite from their work. They proceeded to do just this for several minutes before their calm was interrupted by a strident voice coming from the direction of the pub.

  “Smith! Hey, Smith!”

  John shot Katharine a sympathetic look as she rolled her eyes. Slowly, she turned toward the voice as he stared off into the distance and smiled, bemused.

  Approaching was a stout man all in black, his coat and brimmed hat unadorned, making his ponderous way across the muddy lane with great difficulty.

  “Smith!” He waved his arms wildly. The cat arched her back and hissed. Katharine envied the cat her emotions.

  Katharine took a deep breath. “The name is Palmer. How might I be of service?”

  The man eyed her. “You?”

  “Aye.”

  “Not he?” he pointed to John.

  “Nay.”

  They stared at each other for a bit. Katharine took a sip of beer, the very picture of tranquillity. The stout man peered at her, and then back at John.

  “Well, who's he, then?”

  “Not the blacksmith. Do you have business with a blacksmith, or no?”

  The man blinked, then regained his composure. “Aye, well, I did come here to see the smith, but that damned barman over at that pub detained me for an hour and more, telling me that the smith does not receive visitors before two—”

  “And he is quite right. Now, as it is after two, how might I be of service?” Katharine stared at him, unblinking.

  The man peered at her. “Haven't you a
ny idea who I am?”

  Katharine raised an eyebrow. “Indeed not. Ought I?”

  The man drew himself up to his full height, which was just about Katharine's eye level. “I am Geoffrey FitzRoy, Squire of Weymouth.”

  Katharine looked at him dispassionately. He went on hastily, “In Dorset, and I have come all this long way from Weymouth because I was told that the smiths here are the best from Oxfordshire to Land's End, and I require quality.”

  Katharine nodded. “There is but one blacksmith in this county, so you heard wrong on that account, and I happen to know a rather talented man in Cornwall, so I would not say I am the best all the whole way to Land's End. How might I be of service?”

  “You have some airs about you. You do not know how to speak to your betters?”

  Katharine refrained from airing her evolving views on the nobility as she was sure that at least some of them knew fine gates when they saw them, and replied, “I do not believe that I see any betters about me. Do you, John?”

  John continued to stare enigmatically at the horizon. Katharine chuckled slightly and turned back to Weymouth.

  “If I cannot help you with anything, may I suggest you try in Cornwall?”

  The squire peered at her as though not certain of her sincerity. “You would refuse my coin?”

  “I make my living, and therefore need not listen to a man who cannot wrap his mind round the simple fact of my being the village blacksmith. Now, state your business, or good day, sir.”

  Weymouth peered at her with disgust and disbelief in his eyes. He had never come across a peasant who dared speak back to him, and here this woman, who claimed to be the local blacksmith, did so repeatedly, and with no appearance of concern for her place or his. He sputtered for a moment, then realised that the woman and her companion were both looking at him with faintly amused smiles. He harrumphed quietly to himself.

  "No, then. I believe I shall ask after the fellow in Land's End. One assumes that he will know properly how to address a member of the nobility who has graduated Oxford with honours."

  He turned on his heel and tottered away, slightly drunk from his time in the pub and unstable on the cobbled street. Katharine and John watched as he went. As Weymouth disappeared round the corner, Katharine turned to John with an air of greatest solemnity and raised an eyebrow as he dissolved in a fit of laughter.

  "Ah, Katharine. You always have such a way with the people! Y'oughta join Parliament. You'd be the Speaker in a matter of months."

  Katharine, feigning irritation, squinted at him and tried not to smile. "Your wit, as always, out-leavens your bread, if only just."

  John snickered at her and clapped her on the back. "Speaking of same, I have some work to do and I expect you do as well. I'll be seeing you later."

  Katharine nodded. "Thank you again for the beer." She turned and walked inside to work on a section of fencing for the churchyard.

  On Sunday, after the service, Katharine had almost made the gate of the churchyard when she heard the wheedling voice of Weymouth behind her. "Smith! I say, Smith!"

  As was her custom when anyone addressed her as Smith, she rolled her eyes and continued on her way toward the gate. She had almost made her escape when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She stopped walking, but did not face her pursuer.

  "Do you make a habit out of ignoring nobles?"

  Katharine took a deep breath and kept her eyes front. "I do not ignore anyone who addresses me. I did not hear anyone call me by name. Am I mistaken?"

  Weymouth tried to turn her round by his grip on her shoulder. Katharine stood fast.

  "Do unhand me, sir. This is most unseemly." Weymouth relinquished his grip and Katharine turned round, staring him down.

  "Am I mistaken?"

  "What?"

  "I do not recall hearing anyone call for me."

  "I did. I called for you, Smith."

  Patience at an end, Katharine took a step forward and leaned over the man, propriety for his position be damned all the way to the Eighth Circle. "The name is Palmer." She spoke as if to a particularly thick child. Standing up straight, she continued, "If you desire my attention, you will call me by my name, sir. It was my father's, and his father's before him. Palmer. It says so on the sign at my forge."

  The stout man turned bright red. “You dare address me thus?” The gathered crowd, Helena and Robert among them, shifted their collective gaze to Katharine.

  “You are no squire of mine, and you address me wrongly. Why ought I do different?”

  Weymouth squinted at her and drew himself up to his full height, stared up into Katharine's eye, and replied, “I am of noble birth! My name was passed to me by my father.”

  “As was mine, and there is not a Fitz to be heard in the whole of my family.”

  “Woman! You speak too freely, and ought know your place as God has ordained it.”

  “It seems that God has ordained that my place be at an anvil, and that the place of at least one woman is on the throne.”

  Helena stood by as they argued, wondering when Robert would step in. Katharine lived under Robert's jurisdiction, not Weymouth's. Ordinarily, Robert would speak up, politely, when a verbal conflict broke out in the churchyard, and Helena had always admired how well he was able to defuse a tense situation. Robert disapproved of violence or violent words in the presence of God. This time, however, Helena stood dumbstruck as Robert remained silent even as Weymouth offered to duel Katharine then and there. Katharine declined, stating that it would be a shame to spill such noble blood, looked him up and down with disdain, and walked away.

  The crowd dispersed, murmuring at the scandal but generally agreeing with Katharine's sentiment, if not her foolhardy brazenness. Helena followed a step behind Robert to the carriage, and they began their journey home. Helena sat silent for some minutes until the curiosity overcame her.

  "Why did you not stop him?"

  Robert looked up from his papers as they jolted along the high road. "Eh?"

  "When Weymouth was threatening Katharine Palmer in the churchyard. It was most unseemly, do you not think so?"

  Robert snorted. "The smith would do well to learn her place. I would hate to see bloodshed in the presence of God, but the peasantry must learn that speaking back to a noble is not to be done, even if Weymouth has a pompous way about him."

  The next morning, Katharine awoke as usual before the sun, but instead of instantly leaping from her bed to begin whatever today's project might be, she remained stretched out on her back, hands behind her head, and stared steadily at the beams holding up the roof of her house. The cat noticed her consciousness, immediately climbed upon Katharine's chest, and settled there, butting her head against Katharine's chin in a demand for attention. Katharine obliged the cat as she considered her situation. Yesterday's argument with that twice-damned Weymouth had been quite public, and she was certain that the whole of the village would be at her door to ask questions. Though in the relative privacy of the pub, few hesitated to mock the silly man and wonder at why he yet remained in Wiltshire, no one ever had the temerity to actually argue with either Weymouth or with the earl who still hosted him.

  Of course, no one, so far as she knew, ever had the poor judgement to bed the earl’s wife, either, so perhaps her recent tendency to get into verbal confrontations with members of the local nobility was related to that. She sat decisively up on in her bed, the sheets falling to her waist. Today, she would entertain no visitors and forge no iron.

  Katharine quickly dressed and completed her morning ablutions. She gave the cat a bowl of warm milk and left her house via the back door just as the pre-dawn light began to brighten the horizon. She made her way quickly to the tree-line, keeping away from the road lest she be seen, and began to jog along the path into the Abbey Wood. It had been far too long since she had had a proper time of prayer.

  Four

  In a half hour's time, Katharine emerged from the tunnel and into the cloister. The morning sun had just come
over the horizon and shone through the windows, casting the small room in a golden light. Katharine smiled at the memory of finding Helena here several months previous. Approaching the altar, she crossed herself and prayed her Lauds. She considered waiting for Helena to come to her, but mornings were the one time it was difficult for Helena to escape the eyes of her household once she left her room. No, she would go to Helena instead.

  Katharine rose from her knees and decisively crossed the room to the squat oaken door which separated this room from the rest of the manor. She had to pause so that her eyes could adjust to the relative lack of light in the passage, and then felt her way down the stairs until she came to a bend with a small window. The stone stairs were slick and pitched steeply and the run of each step was significantly shorter than her booted foot, compelling Katharine to sidle precariously down them. She wondered to herself how she managed to not fall flat on her face when she and Helena, in a haze of lust, had nearly run down these same steps six weeks after they had first met.

  After an interminable time during which Katharine almost lost her footing on several occasions, she finally found herself at the door to the third floor of the manor. She strained to hear any evidence of humanity on the other side of the door, but could hear nothing. Finally she took a deep breath and grasped the lever to open the door, pulling it downward by degrees, wincing at each little creak. At last she let go the lever, having travelled the full length of its recess, and after a brief pause, the door slid aside with a noise which came to Katharine's ears like thunder. She cringed and retreated as far as she could into the shadows. Surely she would be caught. She awaited her certain capture, but no one came and she grumbled at herself for her undue nervousness.

  She made her way quickly down the corridor, her footsteps echoing along the bare walls as she headed for the slim door to the garret. These stairs were of wood and pitched even more steeply than those in the passage, but there was only the one flight. Katharine emerged from the stairs into the open garret which she had always found to be remarkably devoid of artefacts. She had not spent a large amount of time in manor houses but had always imagined their garrets to be full of ancient furniture and possibly objects of historical value. All she had found up her on her first foray into this one—to repair a flue—were a few opened crates with straw in the bottom.