All the Ever Afters

by Danielle Teller

  A crease appeared between her brows, and she pulled her head back as though she had smelled something foul. “You are a servant. You are not even free.”

  The prioress scowled and banged her staff on the wooden dais. “You are wasting the abbess’s time with your nonsense!”

  I lurched forward, holding my stomach. I could not catch my breath. Seeing the expression on Mother Elfilda’s face, I realized with horror the extent of my delusion. To the abbess, I was a packhorse, an animal that has value as long as it can work, nothing else. She would no more invite me to become a novice than she would invite a horse to the dinner table. I had made a fool of myself a second time, only this time, the humiliation was nearly too much to bear. A nun tugged at my hood. The door creaked as the next petitioner entered. I managed to croak some sort of blessing, though the abbess and prioress were already conferring about the next meeting, and they did not turn to see me go.

  Once I was out of the chapter house, I could no longer control the waves of sickness. I ran out of the cloister, and the vomit came up, burning my sore throat, staining the snow an ugly yellow. I wanted to run to the woods and keep on running. I wanted the earth to swallow me. I wanted to lie down and never rise again.

  Instead, I covered up the dirty snow as best I could and went back to work. When the church bells rang, I did not stop to pray, not then and not ever again.

  Journal Entry

  The Royal Court

  Do the peasants who wait by the side of the road for a glimpse of Princess Elfilda feel about her the way I felt about her godmother, the abbess? My worship was a cousin to the love knights-errant profess for damsels in unbreachable towers. Mother Elfilda was the epitome of feminine beauty and grace, and she possessed enough wisdom and influence to rival any man. I would gladly have been her champion in one thousand metaphorical quests and battles had she only deigned to ask.

  Had I been allowed to serve the abbess, my infatuation would doubtless have waned as I aged—all passions are strongest in youth—but she was and still is an admirable person. My present antipathy is at war with the esteem I cannot help but feel. Though her cold beauty has faded, Mother Elfilda remains a superb philosopher and skillful leader. She has made Ellis Abbey the second-most important center of religious power in the kingdom.

  It is perhaps because of the abbess’s influence that her role in Ella’s marriage to Prince Henry is spoken of so often. It is quite true that the couple might never have met had it not been for Mother Elfilda. Still, it was not the abbess’s intention to marry her goddaughter to the prince, and if it had been, she would have arranged the union in the normal fashion. Marriages are not made by throwing young people together in a ballroom, and it is romantic foolishness to suppose that a person of the abbess’s stature would leave something as important as matrimony to serendipity.

  Last week, Matilda related outlandish tales about Mother Elfilda. We were keeping watch in Ella’s antechamber; now that the princess has entered her confinement, she must be closely attended day and night. Though we happily anticipate the baby’s arrival, we are nervous, because the princess is so small and the birth may be dangerous.

  Matilda sat next to me on a bench outside the door to Ella’s chamber. She leaned close and whispered so as not to disturb the princess. “You will not believe what Isabella Florivet had to say.”

  Her breath tickled my ear. I liked the conspiratorial closeness and the way she tucked her arm around mine.

  “She heard the servants talking,” Matilda continued. “They said that Mother Elfilda turned rags into a ball gown for Ella by waving a wand and chanting a spell!”

  I had heard strange versions of Ella’s history, but this one in particular took me aback. Quite apart from the blasphemy and the impossibility of conjuring finery from thin air, it beggars belief that the reverend mother of Ellis Abbey would need to resort to magic to procure a gown.

  “Nonsense! Do they dare to call the abbess a sorceress?” I asked incredulously.

  “No, Mother.” Matilda stifled a laugh. “Apparently, she’s a fairy! A good fairy, of course, not one of those baby-snatching sorts.” She covered her mouth with her hand and glanced guiltily toward Ella’s chamber, worried that she had invited bad luck.

  I patted her arm and said, “Not to worry, dearheart, we won’t let any fairies near our princess.”

  I suppose it is easy to believe that the otherworldly abbess is not a mere mortal like the rest of us. I used to take her for an angel, but I too would now rather prefer to think of her as a sprite.

  9

  Fernan

  The abbey never lost its beauty for me, but once I no longer felt a part of it, the beauty turned cold. Timeworn saints with storm-blurred faces stared blindly from arches and doorways, and stone after pale stone climbed mutely toward the sky, monuments to dead days, refusing to divulge their secrets. I thought of the hands that had raised the buildings, carved the stone, assembled the stained glass. I wondered how many workers had died during the construction of the church and how they had been paid for their labor.

  I continued to attend Mass, but I sat as far from the pulpit as possible. When Mother Elfilda climbed the spiral stairs to give her sermon, I opened my psalter to read. She was not addressing me, so I was not obliged to listen.

  Despite my disillusionment, my feelings toward the countess did not change. She might have been eccentric in the attention she paid to a servant girl, but I remained grateful. We did not speak often, and Lady Wenslock never offered me the same familiarity she did to Mary, but she treated me with the respectful condescension of a superior, not the disregard of an animal husbander.

  Spring breezes caused the snowdrifts to round and slump, wearing them thinner until yellow grass and mud showed through. The longer days tempted me back to the rose garden, where buds were beginning to form. Bright green haloes softened the skeletal angles of branches, and then one day, the trees burst into full leaf. Swallows darted and swooped in the fresh-scrubbed spring air.

  I had not seen Fernan since early autumn, and I did not doubt that he had given up looking for me in the garden. One day, however, he appeared, whistling through his teeth and looking as carefree and handsome as ever. I had been walking toward the fishpond, and he joined me on my stroll.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Agnes. I thought that you had gone back to Aviceford, but I didn’t find you there either.”

  Although not even a year had passed, my decision to avoid Fernan seemed to belong to a much younger version of myself. I could not explain the reason for my absence without also exposing my callowness, and so I merely told him that I had been busy.

  “I am glad to see that they have let you out for some sunshine, finally,” he replied. “You look well. You seem to have grown even taller, and it suits you.”

  I kicked at the gorse beside the pond.

  “You wear the most dismal clothing though. You look like one of the nuns.”

  “Well, I’m not. Anyway, you are hardly in a position to throw stones.”

  “True enough,” he said, looking at his coarse, mud-flecked cloak. “I don’t want to call attention to myself. Besides, I’m not as pretty as you.”

  I made a face.

  “Tell me, what is the news at Rose House?”

  I informed him about the latest visitors, and about Lady Wenslock’s health. She had not much appetite, and her cheeks were hollow. “I am worried that she is ill, although she complains of no fever, nor cough, nor stomach trouble. She is more fatigued than she used to be.”

  “Well, she is a very old woman. Frailty is to be expected. How goes your reading?”

  I blushed and looked down at my psalter full of threads. “It is improving.”

  “Did you write me a letter? I have been waiting for it.”

  I had the parchment tucked into the back of the book, but now I was too shy to show it to him. “I could think of nothing to say. Anyway, I don’t know how to write very many words. I just copied down som
e things. It isn’t for you.”

  “Let me see it anyway. I told you that I would correct your writing. I don’t mind if you had nothing nice to say to me.”

  “It wasn’t that! It was hard to find words.”

  “So show me what words you managed to learn.”

  He stopped walking, and I realized that he would not take no for an answer. Reluctantly, I handed him the parchment, and he read aloud:

  “‘When I consider the silver face of the moon that waxeth behind thick clouds of night I ask if she knoweth any thing seeth she a man on a horse a shadow small as dust driven by the wind or the foolish young woman who looketh upon her in wonder the light of her countenance revealeth all that liveth what then thinketh the moon of man and woman who dwelleth in her light joined by her regard from the heavens.’”

  His voice trailed off at the end. He read it again, in silence, and then he looked at me as though I had grown donkey ears. “Did you write this?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “By yourself?”

  “Well, I copied the words . . .”

  “This is not from any psalm.”

  “No, no, I mean that I took words from different psalms.”

  “I cannot believe that you wrote this. Are you a witch?”

  I laughed, and after a moment, he laughed too. I wondered about his hesitation. He handed the parchment back to me and frowned. “You should be a nun, not a servant.”

  “Well, I am not.”

  As we completed the loop of the pond, he motioned toward the stable.

  “I should be going.”

  “I didn’t hear your news.”

  “I shall come back tomorrow. Can you meet me? Same time?”

  I nodded.

  “Very well. Good evening to you, witch, or marvel, whatever you may be.”

  The following day, I found myself looking forward to seeing Fernan again. My thoughts about him were no longer darkened by queasy apprehension; whereas before he had seemed foreign or unwholesome, our stroll around the pond had made him seem quite ordinary. I was in need of a friend, and I did not see why that could not be Fernan. The churnings of my mind had unnecessarily complicated what should have been simple. I decided to be more blithe, more like Fernan. I finished my work quickly so that I could get to the rose garden on time.

  Fernan was already waiting for me when I arrived at the garden. He was not wearing his usual traveling clothes, but a white shirt that contrasted sharply with the deep bronze of his skin and a neat, fitted doublet. For once, he was not carrying his satchel. He gripped a drooping bunch of bluebells in his hand. When he smiled and waved, my heart made a sudden leap.

  Fernan offered the flowers to me with an exaggerated bow and suggested another stroll around the pond. I liked that his long stride matched my own, and I was reminded again of two wolves loping through the woods. We tarried by the water while he told tales from his travels. One story about a hare that got loose in an alehouse caused me to laugh until tears streamed down my cheeks. We saw the occasional worker or servant pass by, but they were far away and paid us no heed. It seemed as though we were alone in the world.

  Except to hold my elbow on a muddy incline, Fernan did not touch me until we said good-bye. He tucked a bluebell under the edge of my coif and asked me to meet him again the following afternoon, which was to be his last day at the abbey for a fortnight. I savored the memory of the warm brush of his fingers on my brow as I returned to Rose House with a light step.

  I woke, crestfallen, to the sound of rain. In the fog of sleep, the reason for my heavy heart was at first elusive. It had something to do with dark leaves shaking under the assault of raindrops in the empty rose garden. Fernan would not come.

  All morning, I watched the sky anxiously; by dinnertime, the rain had stopped, but the clouds had not lifted. My chores stretched to eternity. When Mary asked me to restock the wood bins, I could not hide my impatience. “Can I not do it later? I would like to go out for a bit.”

  Mary looked at me suspiciously. “Why are you so eager to go out on a day like this?”

  “I want to take a stroll before the rain returns.” I knew that she found my preference to be outdoors peculiar but not objectionable.

  “Restock first. Then you may go out.”

  Though I resented the delay, her question had awakened my guilt. Was it appropriate for me to spend time alone with Fernan? I wondered what Mary would think if she knew that I was not taking my stroll alone. I did not want to think about it, and I swatted the worry aside with annoyance. The wood made a satisfying clatter as I released it into the metal bins. I liked the sharp smell of pine on my hands.

  The rain held off until I got to the rose garden, although the sky was eerily dark. Fernan did not remark upon my tardiness. He had brought bluebells again, and he carried a cerecloth cape.

  Perhaps because of the weather, or Fernan’s imminent departure, or Mary’s question, I was in a somber mood. Fernan first tried to jolly me, but I resisted. Finally, he said, “What is wrong?”

  I shrugged. “I guess that I am not much good at conversation today.”

  There was a slow beat of raindrops, and the tempo quickly increased. Fernan lifted his chin toward the sky, letting fat drops splash against his face, and then he opened his cape, pulling the hood over my head and wrapping the cerecloth around both of us. He snaked his arm around my shoulder and pulled me toward him. “A little rain won’t hurt us, will it?”

  Rivulets were beginning to form under his glossy black curls, and water dripped from the tip of his nose. His smile was fierce. “There is shelter close by. We can wait out the worst of this torrent.”

  He led me not toward the stable, which was closest, but to a barn just beyond the pond. By the time we reached it, the rain was hammering hard, and it was a relief to find refuge. Fernan pulled the heavy door shut behind us, leaving us in the dark, surrounded by small piles of hay, withered dregs of the winter supply. Rain beat thunderously on the roof. I shivered with cold. I thought about running back to Rose House, where the fires were lit.

  “Take off your wet cloak,” Fernan said. “I shall cover us both with the cape, and you will feel much warmer.” I could not make out Fernan’s features well in the dim light, but I could hear affection in his voice.

  I dropped my sodden cloak on the floor and hesitated.

  “Come on,” he said, patting the hay beside him. “I promise not to bite.”

  I crouched next to him, and he put his arm around me again, pulling the cape up to my shoulders.

  “There, isn’t that better?”

  I was warmer, but my body still shook, echoing the pounding of rain above us. I tried to calm myself by counting the slats in the door.

  Fernan tugged at my coif. “You should take this wet thing off and let your hair dry.” He jostled my shoulder playfully. “I won’t watch.”

  Out of vanity more than anything, I welcomed the suggestion. I had beautiful hair like my mother’s, mahogany and thick. I had taken to sprinkling it with rosewater, and the scent was lovely when I let my hair down. I pulled my plaits from their crisscross and shook them loose. My tresses fell nearly to my waist, brushing against the hay at our backs.

  Fernan whistled. “Who knew that the cinder girl had such a magnificent mane?” He ran his fingers through my hair, and I did not pull away. “So soft too.” He continued to stroke my hair meditatively, and after some time, his hand caressed my face as well. “You are so beautiful, Agnes.” His voice sounded tight, constricted.

  I was used to the dark by then and could see Fernan better. He gazed at me with great concentration. I thought it strange and wonderful that such a strong, handsome, intelligent man should be interested in me. It made me feel powerful and weak at the same time.

  When Fernan bent to kiss me, I lifted my face toward his. I was shocked to find myself melting into him; I was a candle that had never known a flame, and now that the flame was lit, I softened and glowed in a way I had not known was possib
le. Our lips touched gently at first, and then more forcefully. I put up no resistance when he pushed me back into the hay, nor when he nuzzled and touched every part of me, lighting fires wherever he went. I should not have been surprised when I felt him pushing between my legs. I tried to sit up, but he leaned heavily on my chest, murmuring my name, telling me that everything would be fine. I struggled feebly against his weight, but he entered me with a tearing flash of pain.

  It was as though I had been struck hard across the face. I woke from my languorous torpor to find a man jerking and jiggling on top of me, an ache between my legs, sharp bits of hay poking my bare skin. I had been bewitched, and the spell was broken. Fernan was lost in his own world, panting, eyes shut. After some time, he moaned loudly and collapsed over me.

  I watched the brightening light between the slats of the barn door and listened to the rain slow and stop. Fernan’s breathing eased. He seemed to have fallen asleep. When he did not move, I tried to shift him off of me. This woke him; he smiled and tried to kiss me, but I turned my head.

  “Oh, Agnes, it is too late to be reticent now. Kiss me.”

  I refused, so he rolled away. “It is not always so nice for maidens the first time. You will get used to it.” He smiled. “You were sublime.” He stroked my hair, but I cringed. “You should not feel guilt. You are not a nun, after all.”

  Everything he said only made me feel worse. I stood and pulled down my skirts; something sticky oozed down my leg. There was blood on the floor. My only thought was to get out of there, back to something familiar, back to Rose House.

  Fernan escorted me as far as the garden. I did not want him to come any farther, lest we be seen together. I had not worried about being seen the day before, but everything seemed different now, dirty.

  “I shall be gone for a fortnight, Agnes, but I shall look for you when I return.” He picked up my hand and kissed it gently. “Do not break my heart, lovely lady.”