I waited to hear what new trial he had devised.
“In the great hall, you will find your master,” he drew out the word scornfully, “sprawled upon the floor, lounging in a pool of his own vomit. You will clean Sir Emont, the floor, the chair, and anything else befouled by his stinking spew.”
I was shocked by his disrespect for the lord of the manor.
“He won’t remember that we sent a dirty runt like you to clean his mess. He won’t remember anything when he wakes in the dead of night with a mouth full of sawdust and a hatchet through his head.”
After a momentary panic, I realized that he was speaking of a headache.
“When you finish, report to me.” He limped back toward the kitchen.
Any satisfaction I had felt about making progress on the laundry evaporated. I did not want to go down that hallway to a part of the house where I knew I did not belong. It was wrong of Geoffrey to send me there. A laundry girl could not tend to the lord of the manor. The situation amused Geoffrey, though whether it was my discomfort or Sir Emont’s debasement that pleased him, I could not tell.
With a sigh, I returned to the laundry room to find a rag and a brush, and then I fetched fresh water from the rain barrel. I had to do as I was told.
I crept down the dark corridor leading to the great hall and opened the door into the screens passage, the area under the minstrels’ gallery that divided the service quarters from the living quarters. The back of the decorative wood screen was rough and plain, and bright light sliced through the arches facing the great hall, making the shadow at my feet a straight, sharp edge. I took a deep breath before stepping across it into the light.
The room was cavernous, with the same high-pitched roof as the kitchen. A long row of giant arch-braced trusses made of dark oak lined the ceiling. Their right lines had been softened by ornamental curls and long sweeping curves, but that made them no less imposing. The ceiling itself had been painted with a pattern of red and gold lozenges surrounded by a band of stars that encircled the whole of the hall, blurred by peeling plaster and a coating of dust and soot. Brilliant sunshine spilled from grand mullioned windows, dulling the firelight that writhed and flickered on a hearth larger than the sleeping loft of my father’s cottage. The massive overmantel was engraved with four different coats of arms, and it was supported by lions carved from the same blue-gray stone, gazing with fierce pride at something only they could see.
The great hall was occupied by a single individual. He was not sprawled on the floor, as described by the chamberlain, but he was slumped forward and unmoving at the end of one of the trestle tables nearest the fire. As I approached, the rancid smell of vomit stung my nose and caused my empty stomach to churn.
Emont’s leonine head was cradled in the crook of his elbow. He had the apple cheeks of a boy, but a regal forehead. His sparse whiskers were in need of a shave. Hair spilled over the embroidered sleeve of his white shirt, the ends curling in a puddle of maroon vomit, and his mouth hung slack. The table had been cleared after the meal, but several carafes remained, along with cups that must have belonged to other guests. The lord of the manor still held a cup in his hand, ready to toast the empty benches. He snorted, startling me, and then sank back into a soft, rhythmic snore.
Dark red stains spread over the underside of Emont’s sleeve, making it look as though his arm was bleeding. He had obviously been drinking wine. I would need to move him in order to clean the mess. I sighed again and set my bucket of water on the table next to his elbow. A giant baby, vomiting on himself and falling asleep.
I did not want him to wake and find me there, but I did not see how I could move him on my own.
“Sir?” I said tentatively, next to his ear. The fumes were sickening.
He did not stir.
“Sir?” I said again, shaking his shoulder lightly.
He snorted but did not wake up. I decided to start cleaning; maybe the cold water would rouse him enough to move. I started with his hair, taking the ends in my hand and rinsing them with a dripping brush. His hair felt silken against my fingers, and the firelight burnished its red and gold hues.
I smoothed his damp hair carefully over his doublet so that it would not fall forward again, and I lifted his heavy head by pushing the flat of my hand against his forehead. This, or the damp cold rag over his mouth, finally caused him to stir.
“Hmmmph!” He pulled his head back from my hand and looked up at me from under drooping lids. He had a weak, dimpled chin and a small round nose that would have been pretty on a girl, but his broad face was as bland as pottage. His head wobbled, and I feared that he would fall forward again, so I reached for his shoulders. He seized my wrist so suddenly that a startled cry escaped my mouth. His grip was surprisingly firm.
“Who are you?” He spoke slowly, as though it took great concentration to form the words.
I wanted to squirm away and hide. “Agnes, sir.”
“What are you doing here, Agnes?”
“I have come to clean up, sir.”
His eyes drifted to the table, and then down to his soiled doublet. He snorted, and the ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “This is most unfortunate for you, isn’t it?” He squeezed his eyes shut as if pained. I wondered if he felt embarrassment. He certainly did not seem as discomfited as I felt.
“Why don’t you move aside, sir, and I shall get this finished.”
He slid down the bench toward the fire, using his hands to steady himself. I quickly washed the table, bench, and floor. When I stood again, he was watching me blearily. The bloodshot whites of his eyes made the peculiar violet-blue of his irises more vivid. I stacked the cups from the table and placed them on the tray that the chamberlain had left behind.
“Leave the carafe!”
“Yes, sir.” I placed the full carafe and a clean cup beside him. Nervously, I said, “Sir, I should clean you up a little.” The wet cloth dangled from my hand.
He grabbed the rag and dabbed ineffectually at the front of his doublet and the sleeve of his shirt. “Don’t worry, the laundress will get these.”
I blushed deeply. He was obviously confused.
“Just help me with the belt and buttons. I am no good with buttons.”
I should have made an excuse and left to find the chamberlain, but he seemed so helpless, swatting intently at his waist and fumbling with the buckle. I felt a pang of pity, maybe even tenderness. I helped him with his buckle, followed by the rows of buttons on his doublet and shirt. He thanked me earnestly and struggled to remove his clothing. I quickly picked up my bucket and the tray of cups, made a hasty curtsy, and escaped while his head was still bent, before he could ask me to help any further.
After reporting to Geoffrey and begging one of the scullions to find me some food, I returned to the laundry room for another long night. The laundress did not come again, though I noticed that she had taken the chamber pots away.
When it was time for bed, I lined up my stones. It was too dark to tell whether there was blood on the back of my dress. The pain would cause me to sleep on my belly that night.
Gratefully, I pulled the heavy horse blanket over me. The scent of the stable was comforting. From the darkest corners of the room came the soft scratching and scrabbling of rodents, but I told myself that my stones would protect me from them. Children’s thoughts incline toward magic and superstition, and mine were no exception.
4
The Lord’s Chambers
Those first days at the manor formed the pattern for my next four years as a laundry girl. In some ways my life improved, but in other ways it did not. I worked harder—and longer—than at any other time in my life. Even when I started the brewery as a young mother, I did not experience the kind of exhaustion, the bone-deep weariness that I did at the manor. There were times when I did not think that I could lift the kettle one more time, though necessity drove me to lift it anyway. I was habitually dark with ashes, and the harsh soap caused blisters on my hands.
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p; I did discover efficiencies that allowed me to keep up with the endless round of laundry. John found a ladder for me so that I could dump dirty water more easily out of the window, and he placed a rain barrel just outside so that I could lower the bucket for fresh water during the rainy seasons. I learned how to keep all of the laundry stages operating at once, so that no time was wasted in idleness. I also learned which fabrics required the most thorough bucking and which did not, and I batched my laundry accordingly.
While I was never truly happy during those years, small comforts cheered me. I looked forward to Mass every week in the manor’s chapel, where I was transfixed by the stained-glass window behind the altar. I paid no attention to the priest’s Latin murmurs and chants but allowed myself to be transported by the jeweled perfection above his head.
The window depicted the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove, diving from heaven on rays of golden light, luminous golden swords that pierced the head and breast of a kneeling Virgin Mary. The Virgin was so white, paler than death, or snow, a sapphire cloak over her shoulders and honeyed hair tumbling to her waist. A book had fallen to the floor, leaves fluttering, and the Virgin clasped her hands to her heart. She was not looking at the dove. Her downcast eyes, profoundly sorrowful, seemed blind. I would close my own eyes and imagine swords of light; the urgent beating of great wings; a turbulence of draught and feathers, sharp claws sinking into my wrist, foreign, soft, insistent writhing against my breast.
I found ways to improve my creature comforts at the manor. I kept (and mended) the horse blankets until I met my family again at the parish church on May Day, when I asked my sister for a blanket from home. She ran to fetch it right away, my sweet, stern Lottie. I added straw to my pallet and placed a sock filled with oak ash near my bed to keep the rats and mice away.
I looked for allies in the kitchen, and the most elderly scullion, William, became a valuable acquaintance. He seemed lonely, and I think that he enjoyed my chatter and occasional sour remark. He would smile widely in appreciation, exposing the gaps in his rotting teeth, and pat my arm softly with his chapped and calloused hands. When I did not appear at meals, he was careful to set aside food for me in a basket in the larder. If there was meat, he saved me a generous portion, and he always managed to secure a piece of bread, even when there was none for the other servants to eat. It bothers me to this day that I did not have the means to repay him for his kindness.
Neither John nor William could protect me from the laundress, who was an unpredictable bully. On the best days, she helped me with the fire or folding linens and chatted. She told me about her time as a laundry girl, how hard she had worked and how often she had been thrashed by the laundress. Elisabeth claimed that she had less appetite for the whip than her own overseer, that I was fortunate. It was true that she had whipped me only thrice in four years, and though she sometimes whacked me with the dolly stick, that was far more bearable.
Elisabeth’s favorite subject was her former sweetheart, a young swain who had died many years before in a fire at the mill. By her account, he was the most handsome, strong, courageous, clever, and pious man ever to have walked God’s green earth. She said that she had been the prettiest girl in Aviceford, and I believed her, for despite sagging jowls and the coarsening of age, evidence of fine features remained, as well as clear gray eyes and masses of ill-kempt fair curls. Beauty notwithstanding, she would likely not have married her beau without a dowry. I was tempted to say that his death was providential; otherwise, she would have suffered through his marriage to the second-prettiest girl in the village. I knew what was good for me, so I held my tongue.
Most days, Elisabeth ignored me, but on the worst days she toyed with me, making arbitrary demands, forcing me to work through meals or stay up through the night. She might decide at suppertime that all of the bedsheets needed to be washed and pressed by morning, or that the whites were not clean enough, and I had to start again.
It puzzled me that Elisabeth remained in the manor’s employ when she did so little work. There was too much laundry for one person; on holidays I would usually fall behind if the laundress refused to help, but the chamberlain never intervened. Since there was no lady of the house to supervise the servants, and since Emont took no interest in the management of domestic affairs, Geoffrey Poke acted as the final authority. He was not a person to whom I could appeal for justice, particularly following some turns of event that solidified his dislike for me.
Geoffrey himself heralded the first incident. He appeared in the laundry late one night, giving me a terrible fright. I was in the habit of being alone, as the laundress usually only came to drop off washing or chamber pots, or to nap in the afternoon. I did not hear him approach, as I had been thrashing the clothing vigorously with a dolly stick. I looked up to find a looming, skeletal figure holding a flickering candle. The flame illuminated Geoffrey’s countenance fitfully, creating deep shadows where his eyes should have been.
I could tell that the chamberlain was furious. He uncurled his long fingers, dragged his palm across his shining pate, and clenched his fist again. “Come with me,” he said.
I did not ask why. I removed the apron that I had learned to wear over my dress to keep it clean from ashes, and I used the inside to wipe my hands and face.
The chamberlain said nothing as he led me down the corridor. The clomp and drag of his feet filled the silence. As he did not hold the candle aloft, I was forced to wade through thick shadow behind him, lifting my feet carefully so that I would not stumble on an uneven flagstone. When we turned down the passage to the great hall, I assumed that this was going to be a repetition of my last encounter with the manorial lord. I wondered why I had not been told to bring a bucket.
To my surprise, the great hall was empty. The fire had died to embers, and the room was dimly lit by guttering candles in sconces bolted to the wall. Flickering shadows from iron fleur-de-lis crenelations made jagged teeth across the floor.
Geoffrey crossed to the dais and climbed stairs to an entrance that I knew must lead to the manorial lord’s private quarters. I followed stupidly, unable to conceive of a reason why I might be brought there. We traversed another cold, dark passageway, approaching a door surrounded by a halo of light. The chamberlain knocked and pushed forward without waiting for a response. The heavy door creaked reluctantly open. Geoffrey’s stooped shoulders obscured my view of the room, but I could tell that a fire was lit, and an emerald and gold canopy confirmed that we were indeed entering a bedchamber.
Coldly, the chamberlain said, “I got the girl like you asked.” He pulled me out of the dark doorway and gave me a shove into the room, causing me to lurch and nearly fall into a short man with a bulbous nose and a red cap. He took a quick step back, squinting and blinking.
With a shiver, I recognized the man as the apothecary from Waithe, the town nearest Aviceford. When wealthier villagers became ill, the apothecary was called, as there was no physician within many miles of the village. Our family could not afford the apothecary, but I had seen him at the home of the reeve, when the reeve’s wife fell sick with childbed fever. The poor woman died despite the astringent poultices and medicinals concocted by the apothecary. I shared sickbed vigil with some other girls whose families could spare them from home, and the sad reeve paid me a few coins when it was all over. I was glad for the money, but I did no more to earn it than mop the good wife’s brow.
A violent fit of coughing came from the bed, and I realized that the chamberlain had been addressing the patient, not the apothecary. Emont was propped on his elbows, facing the firelight, his broad chest heaving violently with each cough. When he recovered from the fit, he looked at us vacantly. His face glistened with a film of sweat, and his eyes were glassy.
Geoffrey said, “I don’t know what you want with the girl, my lord.” He flung the last word like slop to a pig. “The chamber servants, including myself, are more than capable of caring for you. The laundry girl does not belong here.”
Emont sh
ook his shaggy head, then moaned and slumped onto his back. Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed, and his thin top lip tightened in a snarl. He spun and clomped away, pausing to spit on the floor before leaving the room.
I approached Emont, who lay with his eyes closed. The flush of fever and his rapid breathing made him look like a ruddy-cheeked boy who had been playing in the snow. The apothecary removed a cup from Emont’s hand and brought it close to his face so he could peer inside. “You must make sure that he drinks his medicine.” He squinted at me again, frowning.
I nodded. I did not want to be there, and a wave of anxiety washed over me when I thought about the laundress. I should have been more frightened about being left in charge of a sick nobleman, but for some reason, I was not.
The apothecary carried his brown leather bag to the fireside, where he riffled through its contents, lifting out one bottle and then another for close inspection. When he found the medicine he was seeking, he brought it to me. “Give him a half-filled cup of this horehound and coriander elixir three times each day. He needs to finish what is in this cup before he sleeps. If his fever does not break within two days, you should send for a surgeon, as he will need to be bled.”
I wondered how far a messenger would need to travel to find a surgeon. I fervently hoped that Emont would recover quickly, not least because I needed to get back to work. I took the bottle of medicine from the apothecary and thanked him.
After the apothecary left, I drew a stool to the bedside. The floor had been strewn with meadowsweet and lavender, and the herbs crushed under the feet of the stool released fresh fragrance. Emont appeared to be in the shallows of a fitful sleep. His eyes flicked erratically beneath purple-veined lids, and his breathing was ragged. He did not wear his nightcap, and his damp, greasy hair splayed out on the pillow like a ratty halo. I had never seen a feather bed before, and I pressed lightly on the edge of the mattress, feeling its softness. How glorious it would be to sleep in such a bed every night.
All the Ever Afters Page 4