“Princess Ella to you.”
This time it was Charlotte’s turn to stick out her tongue at her sister.
“In any event,” Matilda continued, “I didn’t mean oblivious in the sense of stupid; we all know that she is quick-witted when it comes to lessons and music. I only meant that she wouldn’t know a backstabber if she witnessed her wiping blood from a dagger on the back of a corpse.”
“Exceedingly colorful image, dearheart. How worried ought I be?” I asked.
Charlotte sighed. “Nobody is in danger of being stabbed with a dagger. Tilly is being dramatic. It is only that everybody wants something. Cecily Barrett’s fine bosom is on display for Prince Henry at every possible opportunity, and he can’t help but feast his eyes—and who knows what else. Ella—pardon me, Princess Elfilda—is so innocent, she doesn’t even notice; she has chosen Cecily as her favorite because she takes an interest in the dogs. Cecily doesn’t give a fig about dogs. She only pretends to care to gain some advantage.”
“Cecily isn’t even as bad as some of the others,” Matilda said. “That Hamelin girl has got her sticky fingers in the coffer. She buys clothing and collectables for Ella, who has no idea about the price of goods. Then she wonders why her allowance is all used up halfway through the year.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Has the situation improved at all?”
Charlotte pulled me closer and planted another kiss on my cheek. “Don’t fret about us, sweet Mother. We are so fortunate to be here.”
We walked in silence for a few moments. The dappled shade of trees gave us relief from the glare of sun and afforded us temporary privacy. Long shadows of trunks banded the path ahead with shades of dove gray and gold.
“I can’t help but worry,” I said. “I hear whispers about you.”
“They are nothing more than that. Whispers.”
“Oh, but you must tell Mother about your great toe!” Matilda said with bitter amusement.
“Do hold your tongue, Tilly!”
“What is this about your toe?”
“Nothing, idle gossip,” Charlotte said.
“Come on, tell her!”
“You tell her if you are so eager! You are such a troublemaker.”
“Well, the other day several of the ladies cornered us and insisted that we remove our shoes,” Matilda said. “‘Whatever for?’ we asked. ‘We have heard that you are missing parts of your feet,’ they replied. I thought they were daft. But they told us there’s a story circulating about Prince Henry using Ella’s abandoned little shoe to track her down after she ran away from the ball. They said that Lottie and I pretended to be Ella. Both of us! Hoping that he would marry one of us.” Matilda laughed, and I felt Charlotte flinch. “They said Lottie was so convinced the prince would mistake her for Ella that she cut off her great toe to fit into the slipper. And when she failed, I decided that it would be an excellent idea to cut off my heel and shove my mangled foot into the bloody shoe, sure that Prince Henry would look at me and say, ‘You are the beautiful creature I danced with all last night!’” Matilda’s voice had grown thick with the threat of tears, and she ended with a little gasp that was halfway between a laugh and a sob.
Charlotte gripped my arm with all of the ferocity that she kept from her voice. “We mustn't repeat such nonsense, Tilly. We should just be grateful that our stepsister married well and that we are here.”
“But who would make up such scandalous lies?” Helplessness drove the claws of my anger inward. I wanted to make myself a living barrier between those vile women and my daughters, to protect them as I could when they were children.
“It is merely the way rumors grow,” Charlotte said, stroking my back. “These ladies ingratiate themselves with Ella, and they wheedle for bitty morsels of gossip. She means no harm. You know how Ella is; she reports the particulars faithfully without always understanding the larger picture. Remember when she was a wee girl, and she told us that Frère Joachim had brought a whip to punish her if she was naughty? You were furious, but it turned out that the ‘whip’ was only a bulrush that he had brought inside for his lesson. Ella didn’t understand that he was jesting. I suppose she had never seen a real whip.”
Indeed, I am sure that Princess Elfilda has not seen a whip or a switch to this day. Children of noblemen are not casually beaten in the way that is so customary for poor children.
3
The Lord of the Manor
On my second day at the manor, I woke to the sound of men bickering. Three pairs of legs clad in rough woolen stockings were visible to me under the table; these belonged to kitchen scullions engaged in a heated argument over who would split the wood and who would set the fire. I squinted into the bright sunlight and stood up gingerly. I had overslept. My back and arms ached, and the cold had seeped into my bones. I would need a thicker blanket if I was going to continue to sleep alone and so far from the fire.
The scullions paid me no heed. One gestured emphatically as he made his case, slicing through interruptions with sharp chopping motions. A much older scullion leaned listlessly on the table, a passive expression on his face. It was disgraceful that the boys would not give the older man the lightest task. He looked as though he might be ill.
The laundress was nowhere in sight, and her bedding had been removed. I wondered why she had not woken me. It was surely not out of kindness that she let me sleep.
I put my two favorite stones in my pocket and returned the remainder to the sac along with my cloak; I then looked in the larder for a place to store my bedding. The room was windowless and dank. Appetizing and rancid smells mingled to create an aroma that befuddled the nose and stomach. Two thick slabs of meat dangled from the ceiling, and a side of beef lay bleeding on a broad stone thrall. The shelves held crocks of lumpish gray meat buried in gelatinous lard, meat that one day would dance and sizzle deliciously over the fire after its heavy coat of lard melted away. Carrots and gourds, last year’s vegetables, partially filled floppy baskets. I snatched a carrot from one of the baskets and placed the softening tuber in my pocket. I had learned that meals might not come regularly, and I was not going to let an opportunity pass to put food in my stomach.
The lowest shelves hung two handsbreadths off of the floor, and though I imagined cockroaches or worse made a home under the shelves, the room was kept clean and free of dirt and dust. This seemed like the most private place to store my belongings, and the sleeping mat would fit there as well.
After stashing my effects, I made my way back to the laundry. The laundress was waiting for me, this time on a broad chair that had not been present the day before. In the dim light, she looked like a gargantuan spider placidly appraising her next meal.
“Well, well, the princess awakes. I trust that you slept peacefully?”
I said nothing, unsure how to prevent her from pouncing.
“Do you know what we do to encourage punctuality?”
“No, miss.” My voice was hardly above a whisper.
“Ten lashes,” she said lightly, almost cheerfully. “But in your case, since you are new, we shall make it only five. I think that will help you to remember next time. I borrowed this whip from the stable.” She raised her right arm, and I saw the short leather horsewhip uncoil from her hand.
“Turn and lift your dress.”
A fire roared to life in my belly. I could take my punishment, but whips are for beasts.
“Hurry, now!” she said sweetly, cocking her head as though she were offering me a treat.
I turned toward the wall. The heat flared, licking around my heart. I held my dress over my head, and when the first blow landed, I was relieved. It was not as heavy as my father’s lashes. He would make us cut green switches from a hazel tree in our croft to use for our own beatings. Before that thought was fully formed, burning agony seared my back. Pain tore through my breast, my head, my limbs, dwarfing the heat in my belly. I gasped. Pain still mounted when the second blow landed. Then the third. White light filled my visi
on even when I closed my eyes. Four. Five. On the fifth lash, I collapsed to my knees.
“Get up,” the laundress said evenly.
When I did not move, she said, “I shall have to whip you again if you are slothful as well as tardy.”
I rose and lowered my dress as carefully as I could. The fabric scorched my back.
“Take this back to the stable. They may need it for the other animals.” She tossed the whip at my feet, and I bent slowly to retrieve it. The pain was beginning to recede, making room for my anger. I walked stiffly, trying to keep the cloth from touching my back.
I was tempted to walk out the door, through the orchards, meadow, and woods, and keep walking all the way home. I was old enough to know, however, that my family could not keep me, and I had nowhere else to go.
In the stable, I found a boy repairing a saddle. He looked up, blinking. The stable seemed smaller in the sunlight than it had in the dark of the rainstorm. I had hoped to find the building unoccupied. My cheeks warmed; I wanted to hide the whip behind my back. Instead, I mumbled, “I am returning this for Miss Elisabeth,” and I placed the whip beside him. The boy appeared uninterested; he yawned and resumed his work. Beatings were commonplace.
“Are there horse blankets needing mending?” I asked.
He looked up again. “Sure. There’s always blankets in need of mending. Who are you?”
“Agnes. The new laundry girl.”
He shrugged. “Don’t know why you want to, but the blankets are hanging on the pegs.” He motioned with his head. “Take any one. They all have holes.”
I selected a blue blanket that appeared newer than the rest, and, without thinking, slung it over my shoulder. I failed to swallow a short cry of pain as the blanket slapped against my back. I slinked away, letting my “Good morning!” trail behind me, where it may have gone unheard.
Before returning to the laundry, I ran to the kitchen to deposit the blanket. The room had become a bustling hub of activity. Menservants busied themselves stirring pots, hanging cauldrons, chopping vegetables, baking bread, crushing spices, straining sauces, feeding the fire. Only the head cook stood still, barking orders that sometimes drowned in bangs, clangs, and crashes as the other servants hustled around him like a stream divided by a rock. Echoes from the vaulted roof amplified the din. The sticky swelter of the kitchen was worsened by the sun’s rays streaming through the skylights, and the fires were banked high. Steaming moisture coated the gray stone walls of the vast room. The massive, sagging beam that spanned the breadth of the kitchen seemed to float in the haze; headless pink carcasses dangled from iron hooks screwed into its underside. Near the larder, a man butchered what appeared to be a goat. He leaned on his cleaver, red-faced and sweating, a slash of blood across his tunic. I passed him without being noticed, stashed the horse blanket with my other belongings, and hastened to the laundry.
It did not seem as though the laundress had moved since I left her, but she must have, for she now held a loaf of bread in her tiny, dimpled hand. She tore delicately at the soft-crusted loaf, chewing slowly and deliberately. “I am glad to see that you are learning to be prompt.” She paused for another bite. “You will need to start every day by dawn if you expect to keep up with the laundry. As long as you get your work done and don’t complain, I shan’t have to correct you.” She smiled. “You are late today, but you can begin by draining the water from the bucking tub into the laundry pool. Unfortunately, the basin is too dirty to use for dollying, so you will have to clean it first.” She brushed crumbs from her lap. “The chamber pots are beside the basin. Pour the piss into the bucket once you are finished hauling water. I shall return the pots.”
I wondered why she chose to return the pots. It was amply evident that she intended for me to do all of the work; why would she reserve this task for herself? Perhaps she wanted to see the belongings that the guests left in their chambers. I had overheard the kitchen staff complaining about so many mouths to feed today.
Elisabeth readjusted her bulk in the chair. “If you don’t want to be up so late, you had better get busy. You have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Yes, miss.” I kept my eyes fixed on the wobbling flesh beneath her chin. My back still burned, and my heart was leaden, but I would not let her see me cry.
After the laundress left, I took the flaccid carrot from my pocket and ate it while I planned. If I could manage the bucking at the same time as I worked on the other tasks, it would save time. I needed a clean place to put the laundry from the bucking tub, though, so I would need to scrub the pool first. I cursed the laundress again. If the basin had been in continuous use, it would not be filled with slime. Emptying and refilling the pool would take hours if I had to carry the dirty water one pail at a time all of the way outside.
I looked at the window high in the wall. It was unglazed and loosely shuttered; spiders had weaved a dense curtain of lacy web. If only I could throw the dirty water out of the window, the pool would soon be empty.
I rummaged through the laundry until I had an armful of light stockings and handkerchiefs, and then I tied them securely together in a chain. The bucket handle creaked as I attached it to one end of my improvised rope. It would be difficult to remove the knots later, but I did not mind paying that price if this scheme saved me time.
After placing the bucket in the laundry basin, I climbed carefully onto the bucking tub. Tautening fabric across my back caused me to gasp as I pulled myself up. Bracing my feet against opposite lips of the barrel, I teetered into an upright position. From that vantage point, I could see that the window had a broad sill. It was a long leap, but worth an attempt.
I tied the rope to my wrist so that I would not drop it, and then I jumped from the barrel, grabbing the windowsill with both hands. I used all of the strength in my sore arms to haul myself to the window, my feet scrabbling against the stone wall. The pain in my back was searing, and I scraped my forearms and knees as I struggled to take a seat on the sill. Despite my discomfort, I was pleased with my success. When I knocked the rotting shutters open, the shawl of spiderwebs tore asunder and flapped in ragged streamers in the clean breeze that blew through the west-facing window. I could see the orchards from my perch. The plum trees were in bloom, a girlish blush of rose next to the barren apple trees. Soon those old crones would also cover themselves in pink and white blooms, a brief vanity before bearing fruit.
The sun had just passed its zenith, and I turned my face toward its warming rays, closing my eyes. I could hear the chirrup of a lonely frog. The sun drew bright squiggles on the inside of my eyelids and banished the cold from my bones. My mother was up there, in heaven. I wondered if she saw me. She would probably tell me to get to work.
I tugged on the rope attached to the bucket handle until it tipped over in the basin below. Then, with a swift pull, I lifted the bucket of water toward me. With two hands, I could manage. A green splash sloshed from the bucket as it grated over the sill. Balancing the bucket at the edge of the outer windowsill, I tipped the foul water onto the new grass below. I then lowered the bucket to the basin and drew up another full pail.
The basin was soon empty enough for a good scrubbing. I was about to hop down from the window when John called up to me.
“You really are a mouse, crawling up into the windows! Does Miss Elisabeth know what you are up to?” He set the empty wheelbarrow on its feet and tipped his hat back until I could see his squinting eyes.
I shook my head and placed my finger to my lips, hoping that he would lower his voice.
“Are you coming for dinner? I was just heading in myself. After the master has finished dining, the servants gather in the kitchen. Join us!”
I smiled at him and waved. Food would be very welcome. After jumping down, I emptied some water from the bucking tub into the basin and scrubbed it thoroughly. It would be better to starve than face any more discipline from the laundress. I gave the basin a final rinse and sopped up the dirty wash water with a rag, filling the buc
ket. I brought the pail with me, planning to discard the water outside on my way to dinner.
Toward the back foyer, the chorus of voices and clatter of dishes from the kitchen grew louder. Hopefully I was not too late for food. I quickened my pace, but just as I crossed the entrance to a short passageway that opened between the buttery and the pantry, an incoherent bellow caused me to freeze. I looked down the dark corridor but saw only a shaft of light from a partly open door that I knew led to the great hall. There was silence for a moment, and then from the depths of the passageway, the rise and fall of a man’s voice, ranting, muttering, raging, then muttering again. Realizing that I should not be eavesdropping, I continued toward the kitchen. Before I had taken many steps, the voice roared “Geoffrey!” three times with increasing vehemence, and I heard a door slam with a reverberating bang.
It seemed to me very bad luck that I was alone in the hallway when Geoffrey Poke quickly limped out of the kitchen, scowling, aiming for the corridor by the pantry. He carried a carafe and cups on a tray, and in his haste, one of the cups tottered over the edge and smashed on the stone floor. He cursed, and his scowl deepened further when he looked at me. “Clean it!” he grunted through his teeth as he clomped past me. He disappeared down the passageway.
I picked up the ceramic shards carefully, gathering them in my skirt. From beyond the pantry came murmuring, and the rant began again, only to be cut short by violent coughing. The coughing too ended abruptly. After a moment, the door creaked open, and the chamberlain’s uneven step echoed down the hallway. The lash wounds on my back prickled as I heard him round the corner behind me. I turned and stood, holding the broken cup in the folds of my dress.
The chamberlain’s hands were now empty, and he rubbed his palms forcefully over his sparse, greasy hair. He looked like someone whose best cow had been seized by the tax collector.
Geoffrey’s eyes darted to the bucket beside me, and his expression lightened. “I have a job for you,” he said. His lips thinned, baring more of his crowded yellow teeth.
All the Ever Afters Page 3