The Book of the Maidservant

by Rebecca Barnhouse

  Someone must have kept chickens here, because the floor is covered with white droppings. In the corners, damp hay and who knows what else rots in piles. I wrinkle my nose. I’m glad my mistress and I are leaving soon. Poor Bartilmew. He’ll have to stay here till spring when the ships leave for the Holy Land. He has a long wait.

  Upstairs smells a little better, but the stairs creak ominously, as if I might fall right through them. No poultry have bedded down up here, and there’s no moldy hay. Neither is there any furniture, not even a cot. The Venetian must be back down on the wharf having a good laugh with his friends.

  In the afternoon, my mistress decides to visit a convent Dona Caterina told her about. “Come along, girl,” she says.

  I follow her through the strange streets, my eyes wide with the sights. We pass a market and cross bridge after bridge.

  Dame Margery stops at a fork in the road, closes her eyes, moves her lips, and nods. “The Lord tells me it’s this way,” she says, and starts up again.

  The Lord knows his directions. In almost no time at all, we arrive at the convent gate.

  My mistress rings a bell. When a small door in the wall opens, she pushes through her letter from Dona Caterina. I can hear women’s voices. Then the door swings open, and two nuns usher us in. I don’t know what it says in that letter, but the nuns greet my mistress like she’s their lost pet lamb, smiling and saying all sorts of things we can’t understand. They take us across a dusty courtyard and into a chapel, where my mistress kneels before a statue of the Virgin.

  Oh, no. I can see it coming.

  She screws up her face and lets out a howling sob. I wince and glance around me nervously. But the nuns approve. They raise my mistress up and walk her slowly out of the chapel, tears streaming down her cheeks. Across the courtyard, we go into a richly appointed chamber. I slip in just before the door shuts.

  The nun awaiting my mistress must be the abbess. A jeweled cross around her neck sparkles in the firelight when she comes forward to kiss my mistress’s cheeks. She says something, and the other nuns help my mistress into a cushioned chair. When a servant enters with a tray, they offer her dainty cakes of some kind. My mistress chews, tears running into her mouth, while the nuns chatter.

  When the jeweled nun says something, they take the tray away and all of them kneel. My mistress slips off her chair and onto her knees. I kneel, too.

  We begin with the Ave Maria, although the words sound so funny the way the nuns say them that it takes me a while to recognize it. Then the Paternoster, and then some other prayers I don’t know.

  We pray for a long time. When the nuns stand, my mistress remains on her knees, tears flowing. At least they’re silent tears this time.

  From under lowered lashes, I watch the nuns nodding and smiling at each other. They may be happy now, but they don’t know how lucky they are that we’re going to Assisi soon.

  When we leave, they pet me, too, their soft hands like feathers on my shoulders and arms.

  Back at our hostel, I wish we could have stayed at the convent. I spend the rest of the day trying to clean the stinking piles of dung and hay and chicken droppings from the floor, and then cooking some kind of grain that Dame Isabel and her husband bought at the market. I boil it as long as I can, adding water every time it boils away, but the grain never softens. It might as well be peas. Everyone grumbles when they try to eat it, and I don’t blame them. At least no one breaks a tooth.

  In the morning, they send me to find bread and cheese. All by myself. I wish Bartilmew could come along, but Dame Isabel has him cleaning out the room she and her husband are sharing.

  In the street, two men pass me, speaking loudly in a foreign language. I shrink back against a wall and let them pass. When they’re gone, I step into the street again. A sunbeam slants between buildings, cheering me. I head for the market my mistress and I passed on the way to the convent.

  I cross over a canal, go past an alley, and peer around a corner where I’m sure the market is—but it’s not there. Was it the other direction? I can’t remember. And what will I do when I get there? I don’t know how much anything costs. I don’t even know how much the coin Dame Isabel gave me is worth. I open my hand and look at the face on it.

  Just as I do, someone bumps into me, hard.

  “Scusi, scusi,” a boy says, backing away from me. His clothes are in rags, but he’s grinning. Then another ragged boy runs around the corner, saying something to the first. They laugh and, looking back at me, run down a dark alley.

  Suddenly, I realize the coin is gone.

  “Thieves!” I shout, and take off down the alley after them. Where are they? I pound down the alley, holding up my skirts so I don’t trip. The farther I go, the more crowded the alley gets. I catch sight of one boy, but then he disappears behind two women and melts into the crowd.

  When I realize how many people are watching me, I slow my pace. A woman with a painted face leers up at me from a doorstep. A man steps forward and grasps my cloak.

  “Let go!” I say.

  He laughs.

  A woman says something behind me. I whirl. She smiles, showing her missing front teeth.

  When she plucks at my gown, I start running back the way I came.

  The man who grabbed my cloak chases me, his boots slapping the ground.

  My breath coming in sharp gasps, I push my way between startled people, running with all my might.

  The footsteps die away behind me, and I can hear the man laughing, but I keep going.

  Finally, I emerge from the alley. Panting, I look behind me, but no one’s following me.

  There’s nothing I can do. The coin is gone.

  I look to the right and then to the left. Which way? I know I crossed a canal—this one? I go over the bridge and down a street. Voices and bright colored fabrics tell me I’ve come to the very market I was trying to find. Loaves of bread are stacked high in one stall, and when I look behind me, I see great wheels of cheese. But now I have no way to buy them.

  I don’t know what I’ll say to Dame Isabel. What will Petrus do to me this time? There’s no point in hurrying back. The market swirls around me, voices and laughter, the smell of cooking meat, the sound of a dog barking.

  I lower myself onto a set of steps and watch a boy juggling four red and yellow balls. The hat in front of him is as empty of coins as my hands are. He gives me a sad little smile, then looks back at the balls he’s juggling.

  Finally, I turn back toward the hostel. Twice, I take a wrong turn and have to retrace my steps. Even though I’m afraid of Petrus, I’m relieved when I finally see our hostel. I pick up my pace.

  Bartilmew greets me at the door, a wild look in his eye. “She left. For Assisi,” he says, the sounds making spit fly from his mouth.

  I shake my head, not comprehending.

  “Your mistress,” he says. “She’s gone.”

  my mistress is gone?

  “I have to find her. Where’s my pack?” I push past Bartilmew, but he grabs my shoulders.

  “Johanna,” he says. It’s the first time I’ve heard my name in weeks. I look at him.

  “She took the pack.” Every word is difficult for him, but he keeps talking. “After you left. I tried to find you.”

  “I’ll catch up with her. Which way did she go?” My body is ready to keep running.

  “She’s on a boat,” he says. “Gone.”

  Gone? This time the word sinks in, sounding like a funeral bell.

  Suddenly, I’m so tired my whole body slumps. If it weren’t for Bartilmew catching my elbow, I’d fall. He walks me inside. I lean against the wall, then slide down it until I’m crouching on the floor, my knees to my chest.

  What will I do? How will I find her? How will I ever get home now?

  Bartilmew lays his huge hand on top of my head, the warmth of it spreading through me. As he walks away, my tears begin.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been there when something touches my foot. I look up, my
eyes swollen. Dame Isabel prods me with her shoe.

  “Where’s the bread you bought?” she asks.

  I shake my head. Things can’t get any worse. I might as well tell her. “Stolen,” I say, my voice a harsh croak.

  “What do you mean, stolen?” she says, as if that’s impossible. “Where is it?”

  “Somebody stole the coin.”

  She stares at me, her mouth an oval. “My money!” she shrieks. “Husband! Where are you? Petrus! Come here!”

  I close my eyes and lower my head to my knees. The cold of the wall seeps into my back.

  In my bones, I feel the vibrations as someone comes down the wooden stairs.

  “What’s this racket?” Petrus says.

  I retreat further into the dark behind my eyelids.

  “The money we gave her for bread and cheese. Stolen, or so she says,” Dame Isabel says. “I knew we couldn’t trust her.”

  “Who stole it?” Petrus says.

  “Ask her,” Dame Isabel says. “She’s the one who had it last.”

  I can feel her pointing at me, but I dare not raise my head. I tense for Petrus’s blows, not knowing where they will fall. I hear him kick a wall and grunt. Then his footsteps recede.

  “Do something!” Dame Isabel shrieks. Her footsteps follow his, and then I hear her husband going after her.

  “There, now, my honey bird,” he says.

  Then they are gone. In the silence, I whisper an Ave. And then another and another.

  More footsteps. I tense.

  Someone crouches in front of me.

  Bartilmew.

  He unfurls my fist and fills it with bread. Turning his head toward the door and then back to me, he gestures toward his mouth.

  I don’t know where he got it. It’s so old and dry that it’s hard to swallow, but I chew until I can get it down.

  Bartilmew stands and reaches his hand toward mine. I take it and let him haul me up. Together, we return to the work of cleaning the piles of rotten hay and chicken droppings from the floor.

  Slowly, the day passes. Every time I start to think about what will happen to me, I stop myself.

  Dame Isabel’s husband comes in with a cooking pot for me to use, now that my mistress has taken the old one. He also brings barley meal, which I cook to perfection—no lumps, no burning, just smooth porridge. Still, it tastes terrible because my mistress took the salt.

  As I serve them, I watch Dame Isabel and Petrus nervously, waiting for my punishment for the stolen coin. No one says anything about it, which makes me more nervous. What are they waiting for?

  When night comes, I wrap myself in my cloak and try to sleep. My hood was in the pack that my mistress took. So was my blanket. I shiver in the dark, and my thoughts fly around me like St. Guthlac’s winged demons, tempting me to despair.

  How will I ever find my mistress again? How will I get back home? I don’t know how long Dame Isabel will let me stay here, especially since she thinks I was the one who stole the coin. I can’t go with them to the Holy Land—I have no way to pay for my passage on the ship they’ll take. What will I do when they’re gone?

  My fears whirl me into a stupor until I finally fall into dark dreams.

  Each day I awake afraid. As much as I hate and fear Petrus Tappester, as little love as I hold for Dame Isabel and her husband, I do their bidding as well as I can. My next mistake might be my last in their company.

  When Petrus slaps me, I bear it without tears, except when it hurts so much I can’t help it. When Dame Isabel calls me “sullen child” or “wicked girl,” I ignore her words. She’s like a demon, tempting me to anger, but I clench my fists and keep my face as expressionless as I can. If I give in, they could kick me out.

  Father Nicholas never calls me names or hits me, but he doesn’t defend me, either. Instead, he pretends not to see or hurries away when the shouting starts. He’s found a church where he spends his time doing I don’t know what. Not studying the Gospels, surely, or wouldn’t he be raising up the weak? Me, I mean?

  * * *

  One cold, sunny day, Petrus goes out in the morning and doesn’t come back in time for the midday meal. I feel lighter than I have for days. After we eat, Dame Isabel and her husband go out to see some of Venice’s sights, and Father Nicholas slips away to his church.

  I take the pot out to the nearest canal to wash it and bring it back full of water. The sky is a cold and cloudless blue, as bright and clean as new milk. I set the pot down and watch a seagull hovering on the wind. Down one street, a white sheet drying on a line strung between buildings billows in the breeze like a sail.

  In the distance, I can hear someone singing. Another voice joins in. It’s a happy song, whatever they sing, and it makes me think of John Mouse and remember the time we sang together, just for a moment, before the others joined in.

  When the voices die out, I pick up my pot again, sloshing water over my boots. I don’t even care.

  Back at our hostel, I come through the door, blinking in the gloom. As I set the pot down, I hear something behind me.

  “Bartilmew?” I say.

  Hands grab me. One clamps over my mouth. A body presses into mine. I feel the cold touch of iron at my neck. My heart pounds in my throat.

  “Not a word out of you, girl, or you’ll feel more of this knife,” Petrus says. His words stink of stale wine.

  I try to wrench myself away, but the knife bites into my neck, just below my ear. He’s too strong for me.

  “Nobody here, just you and me,” he says, pulling me back with him, away from the door.

  His fingers mash my lips against my teeth. As he pulls me back, his fingers spread. I bite down, hard.

  “Damn you!” He pulls his hand away.

  I scream. His hand covers my mouth again, tight and hard.

  I struggle, but I can’t get away. The knife starts to cut. Far away I can see a bright blue box, the sky through the door.

  He backs toward the stairs, pulling me with him.

  I hear a growl, then footsteps.

  I stumble, and Petrus jerks me upright, his meaty fingers grasping my neck, crushing it. I can’t breathe.

  “Johanna! Run!”

  Bartilmew’s voice.

  I scratch at Petrus’s arm, trying to wriggle away from him, but the hand on my neck tightens.

  “Oof!” Petrus says, and suddenly, I’m free. I scramble out of his grip.

  “Go!” Bartilmew bellows.

  Tripping over my skirt, I stumble toward the blue box.

  I push through the door and over the threshold.

  I look back. Bartilmew and Petrus are locked in a fighter’s embrace, the knife raised high.

  As I flee, the knife comes down.

  Blindly, I run, a scream stifled in my throat.

  Through the alley, down a narrow street, past a church, through the empty marketplace, the stalls closed for the day. Across a bridge, along a narrow canal side path, across another bridge.

  I push past a group of boys and break through a man and a woman walking arm in arm. The man shouts, but I keep running.

  I run until the sharp pain in my side makes me stop. I lean against a wall, holding my ribs and gasping for air.

  When I can breathe again, I touch my neck. The blood on my fingers makes me look down—there’s blood on my cloak, too.

  A sound makes me whirl, but it’s nothing, just a man walking past in a hurry. I look around me. I’m in an open area, the largest space I’ve seen in Venice that isn’t the sea.

  Two young men stare at me as they go by.

  I can’t stay here. I start walking. I walk all afternoon and longer, until the sky turns the brilliant blue of a winter twilight, until a star pierces it, until the blue fades to gray. I don’t know where I’m going, just that I have to keep walking.

  The scent of incense on the breeze tells me a church is nearby. When I find it, I look around furtively before creeping through the door. I don’t think anyone sees me.

  A fe
w candles up by the altar are the only light. I stumble through the shadows until I find a corner where I can lower myself to the floor and rest my trembling legs. When I’m sure no one has seen me, I wrap myself tightly in my cloak to wait out the night, wishing I had my hood.

  Now that my body has stopped moving, my mind races. Over and over again I see Bartilmew and Petrus, close as two dancers, their arms raised, the knife coming down. Who held it? I couldn’t see.

  I close my eyes as tightly as I can and rub them with the heels of my hands to make the image go away, but I can’t stop seeing it.

  I should have stayed. I should have helped Bartilmew. What happened to him? Is he all right?

  I should pray for him, but no prayer comes. Instead, anger flares inside me. This is all Dame Margery’s fault. How could she leave me all alone in a foreign land? How could she?

  My breathing slows and a calm takes over me, a quiet, steady flame of anger that fills me.

  From far away, the sound of chimes awakens me. I blink in the dim light and listen, trying to understand where I am.

  The chimes ring again, and I realize they’re not so far away after all: Up at the altar, acolytes ring bells as the priests chant Mass. In the dark nave, ghostly figures kneel in prayer. Something catches my eye, making me look up. A sparrow flits through the roofbeams and lands near a stained-glass window. I squint until I can see the image: St. Michael holding his scales.

  I rise slowly and make my way through the church. As I get closer to the altar, the smell of incense wafts past me. It catches in my throat and makes my stomach heave.

  My hand over my mouth, I run through the nave, out the church doors, across the porch, and down the steps.

  Gasping in the cold, misty morning air, I wait until the sick feeling passes. Then I begin walking again. When I come to a well, I drink deeply and scrub at the blood on my neck and cloak.

  As the sun gleams through the haze, I go through a market, where men hawk wares from stalls with bright awnings. Past the market, I come to a wharf, maybe the same one from when we arrived here in Venice. It’s busy with travelers and sailors and merchants, not at all like the wharf in Lynn, with its fishing boats. Still, the smell of pitch and wood and salt makes me think of home. I hoist myself onto a barrel out of the wind and let the sounds swirl around me: wooden ships creaking and groaning, waves slapping against the pilings, gulls screaming, the rumble of carts over wood.