The Book of the Maidservant

by Rebecca Barnhouse

  “Well, I’m not a pilgrim,” the merchant says. “I don’t have to put up with her caterwauling.”

  “I answer to my parish priest, not this devil in women’s clothing,” Petrus Tappester says. “Besides, Holy Church says women can’t preach. She could get us all thrown in jail.”

  I hold my breath, watching. Will they still kick her out of the company with John Mouse here? What will become of me?

  “Nor are Thomas and I pilgrims,” John says, looking at the merchant. “But even so, we know our duty to our fellow Christians.” He turns to Petrus. “Canon law forbids a woman to preach, as you say, but to pray? Heed the words of the apostle, who tells us we should pray without ceasing.” He turns back to the rest of the company. “We should all pray as much as Dame Margery does, whether we’re on a pilgrimage or not.”

  Nobody says anything for a moment. My mistress keeps her head down, but tears glint on her cheeks. I hope she doesn’t start crying out loud. If she does, we’re both lost.

  Suddenly, Dame Isabel rises. “John Mouse is right, as befits a scholar,” she says, casting a simpering smile at him.

  Now the priest stands. “We cannot abandon one of our flock here in a foreign land,” he says. He blinks and looks around. When he sees Petrus scowling at him, he sits down in such a hurry that he misses the bench and lands with a whump on the floor.

  He looks up, his mouth wide with confusion.

  Petrus laughs out loud. Then the merchant begins to laugh, and then John Mouse. Finally, everyone is laughing except for my mistress.

  Father Nicholas smiles sheepishly, and Thomas extends a hand to pull him to his feet.

  “All right, she can stay for now,” Petrus says. “But no more of this wailing like a banshee, and no telling me about my sins. And no preaching, either.”

  “Especially not during meals,” the merchant adds.

  “Agreed?” Petrus says, looking around at each member of the company.

  When no one says anything, Petrus adds, “Agreed, then.” He points at Dame Margery threateningly and walks out of the hospice.

  I scurry over to my mistress. She’s meek like a child who has been scolded. I comb her hair and braid it, then pin her veil and wimple again. She sits quietly with her eyes lowered, her hands in her lap. When she doesn’t say anything, I bring her some of the hospice’s porridge and sit beside her while she eats it.

  That was too close. What would I have done if they had taken me away from her?

  Dame Margery is quiet all day. I walk beside her, worrying about her—and about me. Once I see tears trickling down her cheeks, but she makes no sound.

  Maybe she really can change. Maybe she can be a quiet holy woman instead of a loud one. Especially if she has Petrus Tappester threatening her all day long.

  Then the merchant’s packhorse lets out a long whinny, and I think my mistress can no more contain her noise than the horse can his. He twists his ears at a fly and looks about evilly. I can hardly blame him, with all the baggage the merchant has strapped to his back. Just then, my cooking pot pokes me. Who has it worse—me or the horse?

  In the afternoon, we come to a river, wide and swift and brown, tangles of low, red-gold trees and bushes lining its bank, and sticks and branches rushing past in its current. It looks deep and dangerous.

  “We’ll have to ford it,” Petrus says. “Follow me.”

  “No,” the merchant says.

  “No? What do you mean, no?” Petrus says, his fingers clenching into fists. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

  The merchant ignores him, looking one way down the river, and then the other. Finally, he nods and points. “This way. There’s a bridge.”

  To follow him, we all have to walk past Petrus Tappester. “Where’s this bridge? I don’t see anything,” he says.

  I don’t see one, either.

  We go at least a mile, Petrus taunting the merchant as we walk.

  Then the river bends, and Father Nicholas calls out, “Look! Up ahead, see?”

  Through the trees, I catch sight of a stone bridge arching over the water. Our pace quickens as we rush toward it. I think everyone except Petrus is as relieved as I am that we don’t have to try fording the river.

  As we near the foot of the bridge, we can see three men standing beside the steps. When Petrus Tappester reaches the steps, one of them lowers his pike to bar the way.

  Soldiers. But soldiers who serve no king or army. Two of them wear battered metal helmets, and one has pieces of metal plating tied to his chest to serve as armor. All of them have several weeks’ worth of beard and grime on their faces. A crossbow leans against the leg of the man with the pike. The other two grasp daggers in one hand, swords in the other.

  My mistress stops short at the sight and pulls me around in front of her. We both stand stiff with fear. I’ve heard stories about men like this.

  The man with the pike has one eye pulled into a sightless squint. He growls something, and we all look at each other. I edge closer to my mistress. Even if I can’t understand the words, I fear the tone.

  “Mercenaries,” Father Nicholas whispers.

  Dame Isabel clutches her husband’s arm.

  Then the merchant steps forward, one fork of his black beard held firmly in his hand. He says something in another language, and the men blocking the bridge laugh. The merchant laughs along with them. He turns to us. “A small bit of coin might grease our way.”

  “Who are they to charge us?” Petrus says loudly. “They don’t own this bridge.”

  “Ah, but they’re armed,” John Mouse says lightly. I can’t tell whether he’s frightened or not. My mistress is—she digs her fingers into my shoulders, holding me in front of her like a shield.

  “We can take them,” Petrus says. “I’ve got Squinch-Eye. Who’s for the one on the left?” He reaches for the dagger at his belt, and the men on the bridge tense, readying for a fight.

  My heart pounds against my chest. We’re no match for men like this.

  Dame Isabel’s husband steps up to the merchant. “Will this be enough?” As he pours coins into the merchant’s hands, the men on the bridge lower their weapons slightly.

  The merchant speaks to them. They laugh as they count the coins. One of them claps the merchant on the back.

  The one-eyed man makes a display of moving his pike out of our way, but all three men stand watching us as we pass. The way is so narrow that we have to go single file, and still we brush against each one of them. I keep my eyes straight ahead as I walk, wrinkling my nose against the smell of sweat and garlic and unwashed clothes.

  I’m just passing the last mercenary when he says something in a low rumble. Like a frightened rabbit, I rush forward, stumbling over an uneven stone.

  “Careful,” John Mouse says behind me. He reaches out and steadies me just before my foot lands in a hole in the bridge. I pull it back, fast. Now that I look, I see that the whole bridge is riddled with holes.

  More carefully this time, I feel my way from stone to stone, checking each one before I put my weight on it. Below me, the river rushes by, swift and unforgiving. A drunken man would surely fall and be swept away by the current.

  Ahead of us, the packhorse balks, and the merchant beats it on the hindquarters. Thomas goes forward to push it while the merchant pulls.

  Finally, after what seems like days, we reach the other side.

  “We could have taken them, easy,” Petrus says.

  “We should keep going, and fast,” John Mouse says, casting his eyes back at the bridge. “They know we have more money.”

  The merchant doesn’t answer; he just sets off at a fast clip. The rest of us need no urging to keep up.

  My heart won’t stop hammering under my ribs. At every puff of wind, every birdcall, I glance back, long after the bridge is out of sight. Even Cook, whose thick arms can lift a heavy cauldron off the fire, couldn’t protect me against those men.

  We come to a village with an inn while there’s still plen
ty of light left. No one counters him when the merchant says we’ll stop for the night. “We’ll need to set a watch,” he says. “You first.” He points at Petrus Tappester, who opens his mouth to argue and then shuts it again.

  My mistress and Dame Isabel and I all share a bed with hundreds of fleas, but I hardly notice their biting. Every time I close my eyes, I see the soldiers’ faces and I shudder. Every footstep makes me think it’s them. They would murder us in our sleep for our money. Even me, and I have none.

  Never before did I realize I might die on this journey. Silently, I pray to all my saints—Pega and Guthlac, Margaret, and Michael with his scales. I don’t want him measuring my soul just yet.

  we wake to a leaden sky and cold rain. Autumn is passing. Most of the fields here have already been harvested.

  The merchant says that just because the mercenaries didn’t attack us last night doesn’t mean we’re safe. “They could be waiting for us—be wary.”

  We glance at each other, our faces grim. I cross myself before I pull my hood over my head and hoist my pack onto my back. So does Father Nicholas. He looks heavenward and prays in Latin. We all wait silently for him to finish before we start out.

  Our path winds through open fields, giving the soldiers no place to hide, but every now and then, we pass thickets of trees and bushes. We all grip our knives. My mistress has no monopoly on prayer today.

  We haven’t gone far when she puts both hands to her heart and cries out, “Oh!”

  “What is it, Dame Margery?” I ask, rushing to her side.

  “Those soldiers,” she says.

  “Yes?” I’m not the only one looking around to see what she sees.

  “Just like the soldiers who mistreated Our Lord Jesu on his way to Calvary,” she says. “The Lord sent them to remind us of his sufferings, to show us how we should be more like Christ.”

  I grip her arm. Her eyes are closed. She doesn’t see that everyone has stopped, that Petrus Tappester has turned from his place at the front of the line and is stalking toward us.

  “The Lord told me—”

  Petrus whips out his dagger and puts it to my mistress’s neck, just under her chin. Her eyes and mouth fly open.

  Everyone watches, frozen.

  “What did I say?” Petrus says.

  No one speaks.

  “We had an agreement. No more preaching. I’d advise you”—he pushes the dagger forward, making my mistress take a step back—“to remember that. Now.” He pushes again. A spot of red blooms through my mistress’s white wimple, just where it’s tied beneath her chin.

  Petrus shoves the dagger back into his belt and looks around at all of us. Then he strides forward into the rain, splashing through the mud.

  Silently, we begin walking again. I glance at my mistress. Her lower lip quivers, and her eyes are brimming, but she doesn’t say anything.

  I don’t know which to watch for—the mercenaries or my mistress. I look through the rain behind us, back at her, then out into the fields. Every way I turn seems full of danger.

  “Sweet Jesu,” my mistress says beside me.

  Oh, no. Her tears mingle with raindrops—it looks like she’s working herself up into a regular crying fit.

  “Dame Margery?” I say softly, soothingly.

  “The Lord says I must speak. To honor Our Lord and his dear mother, I have to.” She takes a ragged breath, the kind that comes right before a sob.

  “Dame Margery!” I grip her arm, keeping one eye on Petrus Tappester, thinking of the devil inside him. “Mistress, the mercenaries will hear you. We have to be quiet,” I say, my voice high with fear and frustration. I’m almost as loud as she is.

  Ahead of us, John Mouse approaches the priest, and I hear him say, “You have her confidence, Father Nicholas. Could you try to calm her?”

  Father Nicholas glances back at us just as my mistress takes another deep sobbing breath.

  “I’ll try, my son,” he says. He waits for us to get to him and takes a place on the other side of her. He begins murmuring into her ear, so low I can’t make out the words.

  Every now and then, she bursts out with “Our Lady in Heaven says” or “The Lord told me,” but somehow the priest is able to quiet her.

  I drop behind them, watching Petrus, watching the fields for any signs of soldiers, keeping my ears taut. My hood muffles sounds, but the sodden fields around us seem to harbor no places for mercenaries to hide.

  By midday, the rain begins to lessen, but the fields give way to a dark line of trees. There must be a stream ahead.

  As the path winds under the dripping branches, our spines straighten, our footsteps quiet, our hands tighten on our daggers.

  My mistress is the only one who doesn’t notice the danger. “My Lord, I hear you!” she cries out suddenly.

  If the mercenaries are hiding in these trees, they know all about us now.

  Petrus is swift and silent as he makes his way back to Dame Margery, his pale eyes narrowed in anger, the veins in his nose glowing red. He leans down and in a move so fast no one can stop him, tears a swath of fabric from the bottom of Dame Margery’s skirt, exposing her shift. The fabric rips with the sound of a scream.

  We all watch, unmoving, as he tears the cloth again, balls up part of it, and shoves it in her mouth, then ties the rest of the cloth around her head, covering her lips to keep her from speaking. She just stands there, allowing it.

  “Try to take it off and I’ll tie your hands behind your back,” he says to her. He glares at each of us in turn, daring us to speak. Then he moves back to the front of the line, his dagger out. He looks at the merchant, who nods back with some kind of understanding.

  They set out again, advancing warily through the trees.

  I don’t know what to do.

  Nobody looks at me. Nobody looks at anybody else—they all keep their eyes on the bushes lining the path as they follow Petrus and the merchant.

  Dame Margery stands stock-still, not crying for once.

  I’m last in line and I don’t like it. I go forward and gently take her arm. “Come, mistress,” I whisper.

  She walks obediently beside me.

  I watch either side of the path and glance behind me every few steps. Looking for the soldiers keeps me from seeing my mistress’s face. Her nose is uncovered so she can still breathe, but she can’t talk. She doesn’t even try. She keeps her arms at her sides, never touching the gag.

  The path winds downward, and before long, I can hear the sound of a stream. And suddenly, voices.

  We stop. The merchant looks back at the rest of us, signaling us to silence, but there’s no need. Even Dame Isabel holds her knife at the ready.

  Slowly, silently, we creep forward.

  I grip Dame Margery’s arm, pulling her along, glancing behind me and wishing we weren’t last.

  I shudder when I remember the one-eyed soldier with the pike.

  The water gets louder, but the voices are gone. Have they heard us? Our pace slows. The merchant and Petrus go first through the undergrowth, then the two students. Behind them, Father Nicholas leads the merchant’s horse. Just ahead of Dame Margery and me, Bartilmew looms over his master and mistress, a stout stick in his hands.

  I whirl at a sound behind me. A squirrel scampers along a tree branch. I breathe out in relief.

  As we near the stream, the path turns sharply.

  Petrus and the merchant disappear from view, then John Mouse and Thomas.

  The priest stops, holding the horse’s lead, and the rest of us stop behind him, our bodies tense, ready to run.

  Suddenly, there’s shouting. The water is so loud that I can’t tell what they’re saying, and the trees block my view. What’s happening? Are there more than three soldiers?

  We might die any minute. I look at Dame Margery. Her eyes are as full of fear as mine must be. Shame mingles with my fear—I can’t leave her like this.

  I raise my dagger and begin to cut.

  The gag falls to the grou
nd.

  john Mouse appears from around the bend.

  “Hurry!” He beckons us to follow.

  Father Nicholas pulls on the horse’s lead and turns the corner. Dame Isabel goes next, then her husband, then Bartilmew.

  Finally, it’s our turn. I pull my mistress along the path as she mouths a prayer, her lips and tongue moving silently.

  When we round the trees, we can see the stream—and four peasant boys with fishing nets. No soldiers at all.

  The boys watch us as we pass. One might be my age, but the other three are no older than Cicilly. As I go by, one of them sticks out his tongue at me. I grin with relief. My thumping heart begins to calm, and my knees feel weak.

  At the brook, fast water chuckles around mossy rocks, and we have to step carefully to cross it. The horse whinnies and digs in his hooves until the merchant takes his lead from Father Nicholas.

  Once we’ve crossed the water, the path broadens out enough that I can hear John Mouse laughing as he describes the way Petrus surprised the peasants, making them yell.

  “Poaching, they were,” the merchant adds. “Thought we were going to turn them in.”

  When we emerge from the dripping trees, the rain has stopped, although low gray clouds still scud across the sky. I push my hood back, close my eyes, and let the cold wind wash away the last of my fear.

  Petrus Tappester’s voice startles my eyes open again. “Who did this?” He points at my mistress’s face.

  Nobody says anything. I stare straight ahead, unable to breathe.

  “I warned you,” he says, pointing around at each of us. His finger comes to a stop on me.

  I look down. I thought we were going to die. My mistress needed to pray. We all did. Surely Petrus Tappester can see that.

  “It’s about time for a break and something to eat, isn’t it?” John Mouse says, more loudly than he needs to.

  “Aye, let’s stop for a while,” Thomas says.

  “I, too, believe we should rest before we continue,” Father Nicholas says, blinking as he looks away from Petrus.

  They begin to take off their packs and to pull out their bundles of food, all of them moving around as if Petrus weren’t standing there in front of me, as if I weren’t staring at the ground mouthing silent prayers to St. Pega.