“Quel est leprix de cette chambre?”
The rotund little man squinted, held up one chubby finger. “Un ecu par semaine.”
Half a crown. Five shillings a week. She could make that on Thursday market days alone. But there was also the cost of food and linens and laundry. And candles—despite the guild master’s prohibition, she had to work by candlelight to make enough money to live. Yet she was going to have to find a place soon. Bera was talking incessantly of pilgrimage to Spain. It was just a matter of days until the Gypsies left, and she could not go on to England alone with winter coming on.
VanCleve reached into his purse and pressed the silver coins into the landlord’s hand. “Nousprenons cette chambre, “he said.
“Non—”
“It is but an advance for the work you are doing on the book. You can’t walk home in such a downpour. You can’t possibly carry the child that far. You can stay here tonight, and tomorrow we’ll send around for your belongings.”
Outside, the rain beat against the windowpane. Inside, the warmth beckoned. Little Bek grinned at them with a wide, wet smile, his big head cocked to one side, bobbing on its slender stem like some pop-up jester in the box. Anna sat down on the mattress, its feathers sighing with her weight. The boy likes it here, she thought. And he likes being with a man.
VanCleve reached into his purse and produced a silver groat for the innkeeper. “De laviande, du pain, dufromage, s’il vous plaît.”
Five more shillings for meat and bread and cheese. Her stomach growled just thinking about food. She had not eaten since leaving the Romani wagon that morning, though she’d purchased a farthing’s worth of biscuit and dripping for the child. The innkeeper nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Anna was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the intimacy of her surroundings. But what reputation did she, a strange woman in a strange city, have to lose? Distant thunder rolled over the drumming rain.
VanCleve took off his scarlet cloak and spread it on the floor. He sat down beside Little Bek. “We’ll have a picnic when the landlord returns,” he said, grinning at the boy as if he thought the idiot child understood every word. “We’ll pretend this floor is a flower-strewn meadow and the raindrops are stray sunbeams.”
“Your cloak—”
“It’ll brush off,” he said, reaching into Anna’s basket and pulling out the robin’s egg stone. He scrambled it around with flashing fingers, then held out his fists to the boy. “Which one?” he asked.
To Anna’s surprise the boy slapped haphazardly at the hand that held the stone. A lucky guess? Even she had not been sure and she had keen eyesight. But again and again the boy slapped at the correct hand. Over and over. Never missing. Not once. Finally, Anna wearied of trying to second-guess the flashing hands; she watched instead the way VanCleve’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed and the way his short blond hair curled beneath his square, flat cap. It reminded her of the silk scarves, liquid as cream, in which the rabbi in Judenstadt had wrapped his Torah scrolls lest the holy words be defiled by impure hands. Now why had she thought of that tonight? For the second time, she felt a wave of homesickness rise inside her.
What would Ddeek have thought of VanCleve? she wondered. Another roll of thunder. A knock at the door.
“Entreʐ,” VanCleve called.
The door opened and the smell of roasted meat and yeasty bread filled the room.
Minutes later, after the landlord had laid the feast on the makeshift picnic cloth, he paused outside the door just to listen to the sound of laughter. A strange trio. But it was good to have happy people in his house, he thought. It was good for business.
And it was none of his concern what went on behind closed doors. None of his concern at all.
Jetta worried when Anna and Little Bek did not come back to the camp. She thought of going in search of them. She knew where Anna had set up her book table in the shadow of the great cathedral, but she had gone there only once and been chased away by the bailiff when she tried to dukker the gorgios in the square. The bailiff had called her an ugly name. She did not understand his language, but she understood the threat. She did not want to go there again.
When she went to Bera to ask if someone else should go in search of Anna and Little Bek, Bera said Anna had probably taken cover from the rain, not to worry, and he went back to bouncing his son on his shoulder, grinning heartily when the infant let out a loud burp. Lela, lacing up her blouse and looking for all the world like a satisfied cat who had just finished a bowl of cream, told Jetta not to worry too.
Easy enough for them to say. They had not rescued the child and the woman from the river. Easy enough for them; they were not driven by the voices.
But Jetta didn’t need the voices to tell her she was not part of this intimate family scene. She returned to her own damp vardo, where she chewed on a rind of cheese and stale bread. The rains had doused the campfires so there would be no hot food for supper. No dancing. No music. No laughter.
She hoped the red-haired woman and the boy fared better. The wagon felt empty without them. Lonely. Like the desolate sky that spilled its tears on the barrel-vaulted roof of the wagon. She lay on her back in the thickening darkness and stared at the ceiling, listening for the sound of the voices in her head. The voices that would tell her what to do. When they did not speak, she pulled a scratchy wool horse blanket over her body and drifted off to sleep.
Only the sound of the drumming rain disturbed the heavy silence.
Anna woke to sunlight streaming through the thick leaded panes. Her heart leaped. For a moment she thought herself back in the little bedchamber at the top of the winding wooden stair in Prague. But Little Bek’s whimpers summoned her to full consciousness.
He was probably wet, needing to be changed. She hoped the wetness had not leaked through the oiled canvas braies that Jetta had sewn for him. It had never occurred to either of them that he might be taught not to wet himself, even when they had remarked upon his strong bladder control. A blessing in one who seemed to have so little bodily control. He hated being wet and always cried when he soiled himself, but he had never once waked them during the night.
She checked him quickly. His padding was soaked through, but he’d not wet his breeches or his blankets. She was rummaging through her basket, sure she’d used the last clean rags for clearing up from last night’s feast, wondering what she would use, trying to reassure him, when she heard a tentative tap at the door.
She recognized the landlord’s voice. “Pardon, madame, s’il vous plaît,” then in a halting English, “From Monsieur VanCleve. For le boy.” The portly landlord stood there holding a stack of clean linen in one hand, balancing a bucket of water and a basket in the other.
Anna opened the door and watched with relief as the little man replenished the water in the washing bowl and deposited the stack of linen.
“Monsieur VanCleve. Has he gone out?” Anna asked in her adequate French.
He smiled with relief. “Oui,” and handed her a note and a basket of apples. “Bonjour, madame. Avez-vous besoin de quelque chose d’autre?”
“Non, merci. Merci beaucoup.”
As she closed the door on the landlord, she hurriedly scanned the note. It merely said that VanCleve hoped she found everything to her liking and that she had slept well, and that he would return shortly and help her transfer her belongings.
But Anna had no intention of letting VanCleve accompany her to the Gypsy camp. She couldn’t put a name to it, but there was still something about him in the clear light of day that she didn’t quite trust. Though all heaven knew she wanted to. But why should this stranger, by all accounts a prosperous merchant, take such a sudden interest in the welfare of a woman whom he did not know?
Except for one thing. Sheltered though she might have been, she knew what that might be, though she had to admit he’d thus far made no improper advances and had treated her with respect. After their shared meal, he’d merely helped her to clean up and gone to h
is own quarters, telling her to knock on his door should she require anything. And she was grateful for his help, grateful more for the kindness he’d shown the boy. But that was strangest of all. Why would he be drawn to the idiot child so many others avoided, their lightning gazes either staring in rude curiosity or glancing off him as though he were not even there?
No, she would not let her guard down, lest he find out that she was not really a widow carrying on her deceased husband’s business and entitled to the protection of the stationer’s guild. But now that she’d had a night to sleep on it, she was not sorry she’d made the move. It was good to have that decision behind her. Good to know that when the Roma left she would have a roof over her head. And with only herself to support, she should be able to put enough aside to make the trip to England in the spring.
Sir John Oldcastle. She’d said the name often in the last months to remind her of her promise. Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham. Her grandfather had said, “Go to Lord Cobham, and you will be safe.” Feeling safe was what Anna wanted most in the world, and the closest she had come to feeling safe since Martin’s execution was last night in the little room off Rue de Saint Luc. It was so tempting to trust the merchant from Flanders. She had almost told him the truth as they laughed together over their little supper in the intimacy of the cozy little room. A shared confidence. What could it hurt? He would go home in a few days and she’d never see him again. But something held her back. And now with the harsh sunlight of a winter day pouring through her window she was glad she had not.
“Here, Little Bek. Eat your apple,” she said, cutting it in little bites. “Then I’ll take you back to Jetta. There will be no bells there to frighten you.”
But Little Bek didn’t want his apple. He spit it out and started to sing. She wasn’t sure, but it sounded like he was singing her name.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be safe with Jetta. The Roma will take care of you. And you’ll get to go to Spain. You’ll like Spain. The book says the sun always shines there. And it’s warm. Not like here.”
Last night’s rain had ushered in a bright day, but it had the hard cold edge of winter.
Anna shivered just thinking of the long, dark nights ahead.
“We will miss you, Anna of Prague,” Bera said when she told the Gypsy king she was leaving.
“But if you cannot go with us to Santiago de Compostela in Spain, it is good you have found a place. Our departure is imminent.”
Bera flashed his bright smile. “Imminent.” That was a new word for him. Bera collected new words as he collected cunning tricks, displaying both at every opportunity.
“You have found a man! I knew it,” Lela squealed. “Soon you’ll be bouncing your own babe.” She bounced hers enthusiastically against her shoulder as if to show Anna how it should be done. She then passed the baby to Bera, who bounced him harder. With so much jiggling about it was a wonder the child did not spit up butter.
“No, Lela. I have not found a man! VanCleve is just a kind stranger who took pity on us in the storm. He’ll be leaving soon.”
“Van Clef. Ooah. A fancy name. This Van Clef will fall madly in love with you. I made a lover’s spell for you a week ago. He will not be able to resist you, Anna of Prague. You’ll see. But you don’t have to thank me. You have been my friend, and I will also miss you.”
Lela leaped up from her pile of cushions and hugged Anna enthusiastically. Anna tried to hug her back, chiding herself for her lack of forgiveness, remembering, even though she wanted to forget, how Lela had betrayed her to the Prague authorities. She smelled of the sour, sweet, milky smell of her infant, a smell that set off such an inexplicable longing in Anna it almost made her dizzy.
Lela, who was shorter than Anna by half a head, reached up and as fast as an adder’s strike pulled a long red hair from Anna’s head.
Anna gasped in protest, but Lela only laughed. “Rawnie bal,” she said. “You’ll not miss it. You have so much left.”
Lela wound the hair into a bracelet and put it on the baby’s arm. Anna looked at the circle of her hair sliding into the crease of the baby’s wrist, a rusty stain beside the crimson ribbon bracelet. Anna sincerely wished that was all that it would take to ensure this child a happy life, but the world was a cruel and dangerous place for children. No charm or spell could stand against the kind of evil she had seen.
I will miss these people and their silly superstitions, Anna thought. She turned to Jetta, who was sitting on the floor in the corner of the wagon. Little Bek sat in the lap of her crossed legs, beating the blue stone in syncopated beats against the penny-farthing boards of the floor. The old woman had said nothing since Anna’s announcement that she was leaving them for good.
“I will miss you most, Jetta,” Anna said.
Bera handed the baby back to Lela and picked up Anna’s traveling chest, groaning as he hefted it onto his shoulders.
“It’s the English Bible that makes it so heavy,” she said, anxious lest he suspect that her little horde of ducats and nobles had grown, and try to squeeze some last farthing from her.
Jetta pushed Little Bek gently from her lap and stood up. She did not hug Anna as Lela had, but reached for her hand and turned it palm up.
“What does it say, Jetta?” Lela said. “The man in her life will stay, right? Marriage? Children?”
Anna jerked her hand away. “I don’t believe in divination, Jetta. You know that. I believe that our fate is determined by our own actions and by the will of God when we ask for His intervention in our affairs. And He does not write our future in our palms.”
What harm would it have been for Jetta to read her palm if it pleased her? Was it that she was afraid to hear what the old woman might say?
Jetta narrowed her eyes to a slit and gave Anna her sly smile. “You are about to go on a long journey. I saw it in your palm. Before you snatched it away.”
Anna laughed. “That’s what you tell everybody that you dukker.”
Jetta shrugged, the bangles in her ears bobbing with the motion. “That doesn’t mean it’s not the truth. Life is a long journey. Wouldn’t you agree, Anna of Prague?”
“I suppose it is, Jetta. I suppose it is.”
Lela pouted. “But I wanted to hear about her lover.”
Jetta’s wry half-smile vanished. “Take care, Anna. Whether you believe it is written in your palm or not, there is danger ahead for you. Tread with care this journey of yours.”
That was the longest speech Anna had ever heard the taciturn Jetta make except when she was muttering to herself. “And you tread carefully as well, Jetta. You know I will always be grateful to you.”
“It was nothing. It was not your fate to die in the river that day.”
Anna remembered again the kiss of the water on her face, the peace of it as it closed over her. Her life’s journey would have ended there had it not been for this old woman. Perhaps it should have ended there, she thought, ended in the cool, clear waters of the Vltava River, moved by the current into eternity. Journey’s end. Safe harbor. With Ddeek and Martin. But in the light of this bright day when the air was crisp and clean, and she was surrounded by this unlikely band of friends, she was glad that it had not.
Bera was already stepping down out of the wagon. Anna stooped and kissed Little Bek on the top of his fine, blond hair, then, blinking back unshed tears, turned to follow Bera. Behind her, Little Bek began to wail, “An na Anna.”
“Hush, child,” Jetta said. “You will see Anna again. Soon. You will see her. Soon.”
An empty promise to soothe a child, Anna thought, hoping he would forget her quickly and not be distressed. He had few enough friends in this world.
As do I, Anna thought as she followed the King of the Gypsies from the camp that had been her home for months. As do I.
It was late in the day by the time Bera deposited Anna’s traveling chest with the landlord and left. She was glad that VanCleve was nowhere around. She would not want him to see the Gypsy and get the wrong i
dea. Then she immediately repented for that sentiment. What did she care what he thought? He was only a customer who had been kind to her. He would move on and she would never see him again.
“I will walk back with you to the town center, Bera. Maybe buy some bread and cheese from one of the vendors for my supper. Now that I’m to be on my own.”
He looked at her evenly, no hint of that smile he used to charm and con his gorgios marks. She’d never seen him so serious. “It is not too late to change your mind, Anna of Prague. You can go with us to Spain.”
“No, Bera. I thank you. Truly, I do. I don’t know what I would have done without you and Jetta … and Lela. But it is best this way. My pilgrimage lies west.”
But as he walked away, she had a sudden feeling of panic, stifled the urge to call him back.
Who knew what lay ahead for her in England? What if this Lord Cobham refused to receive her? She thought of the hrad on the hill above the Vltava River and shuddered inwardly at the thought of approaching such a castle. What if … ? Well, then, you will have kept your promise at the very least. You can earn your bread with your quill in England. Just be grateful that God has given you that ability.
Apparently Jetta wasn’t the only one who heard voices in her head, Anna thought wryly.
The day had grown somber with the fading light. The bells tolled vespers. Anna had bought her bread and cheese and was crossing in front of the great doors of the cathedral when she saw a flash of scarlet from the corner of her eye. She recognized the familiar figure going in. Even though his back was to her. Yes, she was sure. Something in the walk, the way he carried himself.
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