She gave us each a thick slice of coarse brown bread and a tankard of watery ale. Peasant fare. I turned to Alice to see if she found it as revolting as I did, but she only stared at her meal, insensible, as though she had never seen bread before.
“I fear we must eat it, Alice,” I said, in a low voice so the landlady would not hear, “for there is nothing better to be had.” She looked up at me with puppy eyes, then down again. At last she picked up her bread and began nibbling at it distractedly.
As for me, I ate every crumb of mine, for all that it was dry and stale. And though the ale was thin and bitter, I drank every drop. Then, when we were finished, I took Alice by the hand and we went upstairs to our ugly little room to wait for Mother.
Alice
I sat on one stool and Marianne sat on the other, waiting. There was naught to do in that room, and there was no candle, so it soon grew dark in there. The only light came through the broken part of the shutter, but it brought us little comfort.
I wanted to sleep more than anything in the world, but I could not bear to lie down upon that pallet with its horrid stains and smell of mildew. I would have slept more readily upon the floor, but it was even dirtier and would have ruined my gown (it was too cold to take it off). Marianne seemed to feel much the same, though we did not speak of it. She sat in her corner; I sat in mine.
Mother was gone a long time. We heard the bell ring for Compline. The streets were quiet and the moon was already rising over the rooftops—yet still she did not come. I began to feel light-headed with fear and had to tell myself to take slow, deep breaths, sitting there on my hard little stool and leaning back against the wall. Mother would be back soon. Perhaps she had already returned and had only stopped downstairs to have something to eat. It calmed me somewhat to imagine it.
At last I heard the welcome sound of footsteps in the hall. The door opened, slowly and quietly; she must have thought we were asleep. Dark though it was, I could see she was carrying something in her arms.
“Mother?” cried Marianne, leaping from her stool. She sounded as frightened as I was.
“Yes,” Mother said. “Where are you, Marianne? It’s hard to see.”
“I’m here. Alice is over in the corner, on the other stool. We did not like to lie upon that bed.”
“I know,” Mother said, “but you cannot sit up all night. Here, I have a bedsheet and a blanket from the landlady. They will have to do for tonight. Tomorrow we will leave, first thing.”
She spread the sheet over the pallet and tucked it in.
“Now let me help you take your dresses off,” she said then. “You must fold them carefully and lay them on the stools so they do not get any more soiled than they already are.” She found us in the dark and helped us undress. I could tell that something was wrong.
“Mother, do you have the basket?” Marianne asked.
“Get under the covers and we shall talk about it,” Mother said. “Hurry, children, or you will catch a chill!”
We did as we were told. I could smell the mildew through the sheet, and the blanket was coarse and scratchy, but it was warm. Marianne lay on one side of Mother and I on the other. We huddled together like three kittens in a basket.
“Now tell us!” Marianne said.
“As you wish,” Mother answered with a sigh, “though you will not like what I have to say. I did not get the basket, Marianne. Those directions Liddy gave me to her house—which I wrote down so carefully on parchment and secreted in my bodice—were false. There was no such street in that quarter, no such bakeshop on the corner. Alas, Liddy was cleverer than I took her for. I had thought to give her my green shawl as a reward—but instead, she has taken it all. We were outfoxed by a housemaid—think of that!”
She let us weep for a while, and then shushed us. “That’s enough, children,” she said. “Tears cannot help us now. I have been thinking hard upon the matter and have formed a new plan. Much as I do not like to do it, we must go to my sister’s house. She will not like it, either, but she will take us in.”
“But your sister lives far away,” I said.
“Yes—in the King’s City. We can walk there in a week, I would guess.”
“Walk!” cried Marianne. “For a week?”
“Oh, Mother, no!” I cried. “We cannot go away! How will Father find us?”
“He won’t need to find us, you little dunce,” said Marianne. “He’s dead! Can’t you get that through your thick skull?”
“Stop it,” Mother hissed, “both of you! I am no happier about this than you are, but we must do something; we must turn to someone. I would much rather go to my brother, if you would know the truth, but his lands are too far to the north. My sister it must be, then.”
“But what about Father?” I whimpered.
“I will send a message to the ship chandler at the port. If God has spared your father’s life and he should someday return, then he will learn soon enough where to find us. But Alice, child—your dreams are telling you what your heart does not wish to accept. He is lost to us, and that must be the end of it.”
“No!” I cried, clinging to Mother so hard I nearly choked her.
“Stop it, Alice!” She was exasperated. “This is not the time to give way. We must be strong. Now quit your whimpering, both of you, and listen. Tomorrow I will sell my mantle—the fur collar should bring a good price. I will buy something plain but warm to wear in its stead. And some stout shoes for us to walk in. When we arrive at my sister’s, we will put the fine ones on again. I do not wish to make a pitiful display at her door.”
“Is she terribly grand, then—your sister?” Marianne asked.
“She is now. She wasn’t always.”
“You don’t like her, do you?” I said.
“No. We were never close, and then we had a falling out. When I married your father, Basilia remarked that I was marrying below my station for money. I replied that she had married above her station for nothing. And that was true at the time—her husband, Lord Percy, was a second son with only a small holding. But he was lucky in war and came home with cartloads of booty, and then he did the crown prince a service on a battlefield in Brutanna and was rewarded handsomely by the king. Now my sister has connections at court and a splendid house. She has far eclipsed our life at its grandest. She will enjoy my downfall, I’m afraid. It won’t be pleasant. But her beds will be clean, I can promise you that.”
We were silent for a long time. I thought the others had fallen asleep, but then Marianne asked softly, “Mother, might your sister find me a place at court, do you think?”
“Shh,” Mother said. “Who knows?”
When their breathing at last grew deep and slow and had not altered for some minutes, I wiggled away from the warmth of Mother’s body and the coarse comfort of the blanket. I stood silently for a moment, barefoot and shivering, listening for signs that I had awakened them, but Mother and Marianne slept on.
And so I tiptoed over to the stool where my dress lay and, with my fingers, followed the folds of the skirt down to the hem. It was still damp from the road, and it sickened me to imagine what manner of foul wetness I might be touching. But touch it I must, for I had hidden something precious there, and now I must find it.
Carefully I worked my fingers along the hem until I felt a lump. Then all that remained was to slide it to the spot in the back of the gown where the stitches were more widely spaced, and pull it out—my beautiful emerald ring.
Father had given it to me some years before. He said the sultan of Arabia had sent it, having heard such reports of my beauty that he had fallen in love with me and wished to shower me with riches. I told Father I didn’t believe him, that he was only telling tales. But he said, “No, Alice, it is a magical ring—look into the emerald and you can see the sultan watching you.”
So I did look—and to my amazement, I could see a face there, when the light struck the stone in just the right way. So from that time on it became our little game, Father’s and mine
. He would ask me what the sultan was doing that day, and I would make things up about how he was sitting in a corner weeping because he could not have me for his harem (in truth, the sultan appeared to be busy with ordinary affairs and did not seem to be pining for me at all).
When Father left on his last voyage, he told me that any time I was missing him too badly, I could always look for him in the ring. It wasn’t only the sultan in there, he said. I could look for whomever I wanted. And so, one summer day when Father was more than usually in my thoughts, I took the ring out of the chest where I kept it and held it to the light. And truly his face was there, deep in the green of the stone. He was smiling. He winked at me!
Later, when the first cold winds of autumn arrived and Father had not yet returned, I took the ring out again. Only now the emerald had grown cloudy. I could still see Father’s face in it, but not so well as before; the image came and went as if lit by a flickering candle. And Father was no longer smiling, but appeared frightened and agitated. He seemed to be shouting, or perhaps he was screaming—only I could not hear him, of course.
That vision had disturbed me so that I put the ring away and had not looked at it since—not until Mortran Greatbeard came, bearing his terrible news. When Mother told us to gather up small, precious things to send away with Liddy, I could not bring myself to trust the ring to her. Nor was I willing to leave it in my trunk for the creditors to carry away. And so I sewed it into the hem of my gown. I did not have the time then—or the courage—to look into the emerald.
But I would do it now, for I must know if Father still lived. And so I went over to the window and opened the shutter a crack. The moon was but a quarter full; only a thin shaft of cold, blue light streamed into the room. Carefully I angled the ring so that the moonlight pierced the emerald. And what I saw there made me gasp and tremble so that I almost dropped the ring, for it was the same terrible image that had come to me, night after night, in my dreams.
And it was then I knew that Father was never coming back.
Matilda
Lord Percy’s house was grand and imposing—four stories high, with leaded glass in every window. Above the magnificent double doors—gleaming mahogany, they were, and enormous—the Percy coat of arms was carved into the lintel. My sister’s husband had indeed risen in the world! How Basilia was going to enjoy lording it over me. And how I wished we had some other place to go! But as we did not, I took a deep breath and knocked upon the door.
The maid who answered left us standing upon the stoop while she went to report our arrival to my sister. I suspect Basilia kept us waiting still longer out of malice. But at last she came out to greet us.
“Why, Matilda!” she chirped. “Is that you? How unexpected!”
She shepherded us off the stoop and into the anteroom. And there we stood, as though my sister believed we had only just dropped by and would be leaving soon.
“Do you think we might go upstairs, Basilia—to the great hall?” I asked. “I have hard news to tell you and would find it somewhat easier if I could at least sit down.”
“As you wish,” she said, then turned and ascended the stairs—quite grandly and in no particular hurry. I assumed we were meant to follow.
Once we were settled before the fire, Basilia folded her hands and batted her eyes and tilted her head in her most artificial semblance of politeness. “What brings you here, sister?” she asked.
“Calamity,” I replied bluntly.
“Indeed?”
“Indeed,” I said. “My husband has perished at sea.”
Basilia seemed genuinely taken aback by this and said she was very sorry to hear it. Then, after a respectable pause, she asked what business had brought us to the city at such a time. Would we not grieve more comfortably at home? As she spoke, I saw her glancing at my gown—mud-spattered and torn from our journey—then at Marianne’s ruined slippers. Her eyes finally rested on poor Alice, who sat in grim and stony silence, her pale skin ghostly in the firelight.
“We have lost everything,” I said simply, “and have come here because we have nowhere else to go.”
Basilia showed great amazement. She leaned forward. She wanted to hear more! Question followed question until she had unearthed every painful detail of our financial ruin, our eviction, and the terrible journey that had brought us to her door. Humiliation, it seemed, was to be the price of my sister’s charity.
When I had finished my story, I waited for her response. She pinched her lips and rolled her eyes upward as if to ask advice from the roof beams. She made nervous sniffling noises. Then at last she came to a decision: she would have to confer with her husband, Lord Percy, before committing to anything of a permanent nature, she said. But as he was away just then on the king’s business, and as we were destitute and homeless, and as the honor of the family demanded it—in a word, we were welcome to stay in her house “for a time.”
Then, as though she had not mortified us enough already, Basilia asked if we would like to bathe (lowering her eyes demurely as if to spare us any embarrassment) and change into “something a bit less travel worn.” She knew perfectly well that we had brought no other clothes, but she made me say it. Then she pretended to be much surprised and offered us some of her cast-off gowns. All in all, I must say I endured my sister’s condescension with remarkable composure.
Lord Percy was away for more than a week. During that time, Marianne quickly recovered her spirits. She was clearly at ease in my sister’s grand house, and while she had the grace and wit to compliment Basilia from time to time on some fine ornament or dainty dish, Marianne was never fawning or subservient. She showed the confidence of the beautiful, well-bred girl she was—a young lady with refined tastes and elegant manners, very much accustomed to luxury.
To my surprise, Basilia took notice of these qualities and began to seek my daughter out. Marianne was invited to play backgammon with her. Marianne’s opinion was sought on the matter of which necklace Basilia ought to wear. I understood from this that my childless sister was lonely and that my clever daughter saw an advantage and took it.
One day Marianne emerged from Basilia’s chamber wearing a dress of fine-spun wool, green to match her eyes. That evening at dinner she wore pearls about her neck. And though my sister did not extend her generosity to Alice and me, she seemed to soften toward us, simply because of our relation to Marianne. And for that, at least, I was grateful.
This was the state of things when Lord Percy finally came home.
“Sister-in-law!” he said in greeting as he strode into the hall. “What a surprise!”
I would not have recognized him. The proud and petulant boy who had married my sister had matured into a gruff and impatient, bearlike man, keenly aware of his own importance and accustomed to giving orders.
“Why is she here?” he asked Basilia in a booming voice. He took off his heavy, fur-lined mantle and handed it to his wife, who handed it to a servant. Lord Percy did not bother with courtesy because he did not have to.
“Perhaps you would prefer to discuss the matter in private?” I suggested. And as neither of them urged me to stay, I curtsied politely and retired to the little room I shared with Marianne and Alice. It was nearly dark by the time a servant came to summon us into the great hall.
We found my sister and her husband comfortably seated before the fire in large chairs of intricately carved oak with high backs and velvet cushions. Lord Percy indicated a bench where we were to sit.
“Basilia tells me that you are now a widow, and penniless besides,” he began.
“Yes,” I said, “that is true.”
“Most regrettable.”
I agreed that it was.
Lord Percy now turned his attention to Marianne. “My wife is of the opinion that you might do well at court. She speaks highly of your manners and taste and so on—and at first glance, I am inclined to agree with her. I will recommend you to Prince Gilbert, for his wife has recently lost one of her ladies-in-waiting—”
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br /> “Yes, poor Gwendolyn!” Basilia interrupted. “She succumbed to an ailment of the chest.”
Lord Percy glared daggers at his wife, who promptly closed her mouth and looked down at her feet.
“You will need decent clothes. Basilia will see to that and will allow you to wear some of her jewels, so that you will make a proper impression. In such circles there is perhaps a chance you may even make a good marriage. Though you have no money, the connection with my family might be incentive enough for some ambitious young man. And you are pretty enough, I’ll grant.”
“Oh, thank you, Lord Percy!” Marianne said, positively aglow at the prospect of life at court.
Now the great man turned his attention back to me. “Is it true, Matilda, that your husband squandered not only his own money, but your dower lands as well?”
“I borrowed against my dower lands quite freely and with my whole heart. We stood to make an immense fortune.”
“Then you were a fool,” Lord Percy said. “And you have ruined yourself, for you will not easily find another husband without money or property.”
“I had not thought to marry again,” I said.
“Well you must think of it. You have no alternative. And furthermore, you cannot afford to be too particular in the matter.” He was looking me over as if I were a horse he might want to buy. “You are handsome enough for a woman of your age,” he conceded, “and a knight’s daughter, and sister to my wife. Perhaps some man will be fool enough to take you for that alone.”
“You are too kind,” I said drily.
“I am not kind at all,” he answered, “but I will endeavor to find you a husband, which is of more use to you than sweet words.”
He looked at Alice then, but spoke to me. “The child is mute?” he asked.
“The child has lost her father. She loved him dearly, and grief has troubled her mind. She will mend in time.”
“Nevertheless, she is an encumbrance. A penniless widow is bad enough. A penniless widow with a mute child is worse.”
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