Nearby, I can hear a man saying, “Roma,” and then “Roma” again.
Rome, he must mean. Where my pilgrimage was supposed to take me.
I look up to see a priest talking to a sailor, who nods and gestures toward a ship. “Roma,” the sailor says, nodding.
If I could find my way to the English hospice in Rome, I could wait there for Dame Margery. But how can I ever get there?
The priest calls to a group of nuns behind him, five of them, their habits as black and white as magpies. Two other women stand nearby—maidservants, I think, from their brown wool gowns. They all begin walking to the ship, the maidservants pulling a heavily laden donkey behind them.
I rise, watching them. All at once, I know what I must do. Without allowing myself to think about it, I straighten my cloak and follow them. Up the gangplank they go, the nuns giggling and chattering like a group of milkmaids, while the two servants haul at the donkey’s bridle. My head lowered, my hand shielding my face, I stay close enough that I might be one of them. When the donkey digs in his hooves, I try to look as though I’m helping them with him. No one questions me.
Once over the gangplank, I move away from the nuns, mingling with the other people already on the boat, sailors and passengers. I find an out-of-the-way place at the side where I can look out at the horizon—and where no one will look at my face to see that I don’t belong.
Someone taps my shoulder. A sailor. I’m caught.
The sailor says something, gesturing.
I take a step back, my eyes wide with fear. The sailor rushes into the place where I was standing and whips a rope around a metal spike. Then he yells to another sailor, who starts hauling on the other end of the rope.
I let out my breath in relief. I’m not caught, just in the way.
I find another place to stand and keep a careful watch any time someone approaches me.
Finally, we sail. Pulling my cloak around me against the cold wind, I watch as Venice recedes across the water. All I see are the red-tiled roofs, then only towers and church spires silhouetted behind me, and finally just a bumpy black line.
Venice is gone. I will never see Bartilmew again. I will never find out what happened to him.
I feel light-headed, hollow with hunger. My anger at Dame Margery bubbles up again and fills the hole in my belly.
When we reach our destination, I follow the nuns off the boat. I don’t know where we are, but I hope it’s the road to Rome. As they make their way through a town, I stay a little behind them. At the pace they walk, it’s easy for me to keep up, and there are plenty of other people out, so I don’t think they notice me.
The road is flat and leads us to another town. Oxcarts and men on horses pass by, and in the distance, I can hear bells before I can see the town gates. I hold back a little as the nuns enter, and then, when I realize the gates are closing, I run, slipping through just in time.
The nuns don’t go very far before they stop in the courtyard of a stone building. I watch from a corner as a servant bows and ushers them inside. Their maidservants take bags from the donkey’s back, and a boy leads the donkey into a stable.
When the boy comes out again and everyone is gone from view, I cross the street and peer into the courtyard, then duck into the stable.
In the shadows, I can hear a horse nickering and another chewing, but I can’t hear any people. I wait to be sure, then look for an empty stall. When I find one that’s been mucked out recently, I settle in for the night.
My scrip digs into my side and I open it. Could I have left a cheese rind or a crust of bread inside? I dig through my fire-making supplies, my needle and thread, the blue bead I found in Cologne, the pebble my sister gave me, but I find nothing to eat. My fingers touch something metal, and I pull out Cook’s cross, the one she gave me just before I left Lynn. It’s green with corrosion. I rub at it, but it does no good, so I put it back and try not to think about how hungry I am.
Every few minutes, I jerk awake, sure the nuns have left without me. Every time, their donkey is still there, and besides, the night is still dark. When matins rings from a bell tower nearby, my shoulders finally relax enough to let me sleep the remaining hours until dawn.
A voice outside wakes me. Have they left? Fear grips me. Then I see their donkey in the stall next to me. I slip out of the stable and loiter in the streets, waiting for the nuns to leave.
From where I stand, I can see a square in the distance with a well in it. I watch the courtyard, then decide to risk going for a drink. I have to, my head is so light with hunger, and my pig’s bladder is long gone, left behind in Venice.
I get back just as the nuns are setting out. Soon, we leave the town behind and follow a path that heads into the hills. With fewer people traveling here, I have to stay farther behind to keep from being seen, but I never let them out of my sight.
At midday, when the nuns stop to rest and eat, I hide in a copse not far away and watch. They kneel and pray before their maidservants bring them bread and cheese and skins of water. My mouth waters and my stomach growls. I stop watching and try not to think about food, but I can’t help myself. I see roasts turning on spits and the crackling the boy gave me long ago in Norwich. I smell Cook’s pottage and Rose’s curds and barley bread. Every meal I’ve ever eaten dances in front of me, just out of my reach.
When the nuns start up again, they walk even more slowly. I don’t know how far Rome is, but at this rate, the Second Coming may happen before they get there. They walk until evensong, sharing the path with an occasional shepherd or farmer, and once, two well-dressed men who clop past on tall horses. I fall far behind. I’m so hungry I barely have the strength to keep up.
Night falls fast in the hills. As dusk settles around me, I slowly climb a rise and hear their voices. Then I see them, stopped right in the middle of the path, as if they plan to camp there for the night. The two servant girls are talking fast, arguing maybe. I watch.
It doesn’t take me long to understand what they’re doing. Or not doing. They can’t get a fire started. Now the priest is shouting at them, and one of the nuns shouts, too.
I touch the scrip at my waist, thinking of the flint and metal in it, the char-cloth I’ve been saving, all the little bits of flax and bark I’ve picked up on my journey, hoarding them like a jaybird.
I step forward. The priest sees me first. He narrows his eyes, flicking them behind me to see if I bring others with me, thieves perhaps.
The servant girls stand up and stare at me, and the nuns crowd behind each other, fear in their eyes. Fear of me.
I hold out my hands in a show of innocence. When the priest speaks, I shake my head to show I don’t understand. “English,” I say.
Then I come forward slowly, as if I were approaching a wounded dog. I kneel at the pile of twigs and sticks the servants have arranged on the path and open my scrip. No one says anything as I shape a little nest of kindling, just the way Bartilmew showed me. I concentrate hard, not wanting them to see my own fear as I strike my flint, fast as lightning, on the metal. A spark lights my char-cloth, and I drop it into the kindling nest, then hold the nest in my hands to blow into it. When the kindling catches, I place it in their pile of sticks and blow again, feeling the warmth on my eyelids as the flames spring to life.
Still kneeling, I look up at the faces around me: the priest, who stares from beneath furrowed brows; the servant girls, who watch me warily; and five nuns, their beatific smiles illumined by my fire.
One of the nuns, a solid woman who must be as old as Dame Margery, steps forward and raises me up. She says something and peers into my face. Her brows are a dark line under her wimple, and laugh lines crinkle the corners of her eyes. The lines deepen as she smiles at me.
I smile back.
As the two girls begin passing food around, the nun lowers herself to the ground and pats the grass beside her. I sit. When one of the maidservants gets to her, the nun speaks sharply. The maidservant frowns and gives her two portions, o
ne for me.
Never have bread and cheese tasted so good.
The nun watches me as I eat and then gives me some of her own bread. I know I shouldn’t take it, but I can’t help it. It’s all I can do to keep myself from snatching it from her; I’m so hungry.
When I’ve finished, she says something to me. I shrug to show I don’t understand.
“Rome,” I say, pointing at myself.
She shakes her head.
I try again. “Roma.”
“Roma?” Her dark eyebrows lift.
I nod. Again, I point to myself, then walk my fingers over the grass and say, “Roma.”
“Ah,” she says as if she understands. A torrent of words pours forth, and the others look up, listening.
The priest speaks, sounding angry.
The nun puts her arms around me and answers him. Then two other nuns speak at the same time, looking first at the priest and then at my nun. Others join in, and one of them, a young nun with the longest, thinnest nose I have ever seen, moves toward me, her arm going around me, too.
The priest speaks again. This time he sounds defeated.
My nun smiles broadly and chatters away at me.
I smile and nod.
When the servant girls bring us blankets, my nun cuddles me close to her, just the way I used to do with Cicilly, the way Rose used to do with me.
Before I drop off to sleep, I look up to see the maidservants crouching together by the fire, whispering to each other and scowling at me.
In the morning, my nun makes sure there’s bread for me. I stay close to her as we walk, mindful of the maidservants. One of them, who wears her hair in a single dark braid down her back, narrows her eyes at me when the nun isn’t watching. Then she smirks at the other maidservant, a freckled, red-haired girl with a gap between her front teeth.
I look away. All I want is to get to Rome and find Dame Margery. It’s the only way I’ll ever get home.
By vespers, we come to a town with a hospice for pilgrims. There’s warm pottage to eat and cots to sleep on, even for me. My nun, the thin nun with the long nose, and I all share a bed. Before we sleep, we kneel to pray, but my mind seems blank—I can’t remember the words to prayers I’ve known all my life. I listen to the nuns’ murmured litanies and try not to picture the knife raised high in the air over Bartilmew and Petrus Tappester. No matter how hard I screw my eyes shut, the image won’t go away. I wish I knew what had happened. I wish I could pray for Bartilmew.
In the morning, when I try to help the nuns with their wimples and veils, they won’t let me. Instead, they make the maidservants serve me, and when we start out again, they keep me between them as if I’m a pet lamb.
The rest of the trip passes the same way. I stay close to the nuns and keep my distance from the two maidservants, although I feel them watching me.
It’s cold and we have mountains to climb, but compared to the Alps, these seem like mere hills. Most nights we spend in villages or hilltop towns, their castles and church towers looming over the landscape. The nuns moan and complain about the trip, and so do the maidservants. I may not be able to understand their language, but when they stop in the middle of the path to rub their feet or groan when they rise from the ground, I can see how hard this is for them.
One day, the young nun with the long nose takes off her shoe and reveals a bleeding blister. I tear a strip from my shift—it’s up to my knees now, I’ve ripped so much off—and bandage her toe for her. You’d think she was Lazarus and I’d made her rise from the dead, the way she treats me after that.
As we prepare to get under way again, the maidservant with the dark braid walks past me and treads my foot hard, grinding it under her boot. Then her hand flies to her mouth and her eyes grow wide as she pretends it was all a mistake.
I look at her evenly, holding her eyes with mine to show her I understand what she’s doing. What do I care for her? My anger is all for Dame Margery.
She smirks and skips back to her freckled friend.
I lose count of the days. We walk and walk, but when we come to monasteries or villages or towns, the nuns are always welcomed in and so am I. My nun tells people things about me that make them smile at me and offer me warm food and blankets to wrap myself in. I don’t know what tale she tells, but I always smile back. And when the nuns hear Mass, I go with them, even though the incense chokes me and no prayers will fill the empty place inside of me.
Then one morning, the priest says something and points at a distant hill. I stare at it and realize it’s not just a hill—it’s a city.
The nuns all begin chattering at once. My nun clutches my hand. “Roma,” she says.
My breath catches in my throat. Rome. Will Dame Margery already be here?
It takes till midday to reach the stone buildings we’re heading for, a monastery, I think. There’s a guesthouse outside the gates for the rest of us, but the priest disappears through the gates without a backward glance.
I’m looking around the guesthouse when my nun comes in, pushing a well-dressed woman in front of her. As my eyes take in the silk of the woman’s gown and the fur at her collar, I drop a curtsy.
“English?” she says with an accent so strong I barely understand her.
“Yes, I’m English,” I say, nodding.
My nun speaks to the woman in her fast, lilting language. The woman turns back to me and says haltingly, “Why you come here? Roma?”
Why have I come here? A flood of possible answers rushes to my tongue. I stop them all and say, “To find someone.”
The well-dressed woman speaks to my nun. Then she turns back to me. “You go English hospice?”
I nod.
Again, the nun and the well-dressed woman confer before she turns back to me. She closes her eyes, and I can tell she’s searching for words. “We take you English hospice,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say with another curtsy as she sweeps out of the room.
My nun shouts something, and the freckled maidservant peeks in the door. She frowns as the nun speaks to her, then leaves.
My nun pulls me into a hug, her cross digging into my chest. As she holds me away from her, she says, “Benedicite,” a tear glinting in the corner of her eye. She smiles and turns me toward the door just as the two maidservants both come in.
Suddenly, I understand. The servants will lead me to the English hospice. I square my jaw and glance at them.
Their smiles hold no hint of warmth. The black-haired one gestures with her head, and I follow, looking back at my nun, who sketches a cross in the air and holds up her hand in farewell.
We go through the courtyard and down a street, the two maidservants walking quickly and speaking quietly to each other. Every now and then, they glance back at me with furtive eyes.
We go through winding streets, and twice the black-haired girl stops to ask for directions, the second time outside an inn where a woman is sweeping. I watch as the woman’s mouth drops open. She covers it with her hand, looks at me, and lowers her eyes. Nervously, she points.
We start out again, entering a dark alley full of puddles and muck. I don’t trust the maidservants, but I don’t know what else to do except follow them.
The two of them whisper at each other furiously, as if they’re arguing, but we keep going until we come to a sharp turn. I can hear loud voices from around the corner, and a horrible smell makes me wrinkle my nose. At first it seems sweet, but then it becomes the stink of rot and decay.
The black-haired maidservant turns to me. “Eenglish ‘ospice.” She points and I step forward. She pushes me so hard that I stumble and fall into a puddle of dark ooze. I look over my shoulder to see the two maidservants grab hands and run back the way we came.
When I hear a man’s voice, I get up fast. I turn the corner and see two women with low-cut bodices standing in the alleyway, their skirts shorter than is seemly. A man holds one of them by the arm and slaps her face. She spits at him and he laughs at her.
Pros
titutes.
I start backing up, my eyes wide. Just as I do, all three of them see me.
The man says something and beckons to me.
I stand frozen, staring at a scar that glows white on his cheek. He starts walking toward me.
The woman nearest me yells and grabs the man’s arm.
I turn, slipping in the slimy puddle and hitting my knee, hard. Ignoring the pain, I scramble up again and run back down the alleyway, toward the light.
Breathing heavily, I listen for footsteps behind me. Nothing. Nor do I see the two servant girls, which is a good thing for them. I clench my teeth in anger.
The sun is getting low, and I have no food. I’ll have to find the English hospice on my own.
Pain shoots through my knee when I start walking again. I limp down a street with stone buildings on either side. Two women carrying baskets pass me, and I call out, “English hospice?”
They look at me and recoil. One of them crosses herself and they both hurry away.
I look down. My gown and cloak are filthy, my skirt ripped to reveal my linen shift underneath—and my legs below that. I reach up and touch my hair. My braids have come loose, and a strand of hair sticks up on the side. Brushing at my clothes does nothing but spread the mud to more places. I pat my hair down, pull my cloak around me to hide my torn skirt and bare legs, and limp forward. The few people I pass avert their eyes when I get close to them.
A young friar comes down the street toward me, the knots on his rope belt hitting his leg in time to his whistling, his blond curls bouncing with each step. I stop and watch him as he nears me, listening to the merry song he whistles.
The friar looks up as two sparrows wing past the roofline. He stops whistling to watch them, then takes up his song again as he walks.
The Book of the Maidservant Page 12