by Nina Clare
Myles held out the axe to him. “Here,” he said, “it’s not hard. You set the log so you’re chopping in the direction of the grain, and you aim for the middle, that’s all there is to it.”
Percy’s eyes widened in a mixture of fear and pleasure, he hesitated for a moment before stepping forward and eagerly grasping hold of the axe.
“Stand back, Cicely,” he ordered imperiously, feeling empowered by the feel of the stout handle in his hands and the weight of the blade. He lifted the axe high as he had seen Myles do and brought it down with a satisfying thud on the block of wood. It was not a clean cut, but he had sliced off enough of the log for a piece of kindling. He looked up with shining eyes at Cicely to see if she was impressed.
“Told you there’s nothing to it,” said Myles, taking the axe back.
Three weeks after the marchioness had found herself a widow at near twenty-three years of age, she found strength enough to recall the exquisite pandorono of Maestro Martino and considered that now the former king was dead, his Etaliano cook might be at liberty for her to re-hire when she next resided in the city.
She also found sufficient energy to begin disposing of the marquess’s distasteful items, such as the jawbones, flea-harbouring animal skins and gloomy tapestries in his chamber. The master’s chamber would belong to Arthur when he came of age, and she would see that it was made fit for a young marquess.
She even felt renewal enough of life to send for her dressmaker; the marquess had limited his wife to not more than two new gowns a year – it was time indeed for her to refurbish her scant wardrobe.
And for the first time since she had left her homeland, and entered Foxebury as a new bride, she began to sing again.
She promoted Bellchior from groom to marshal, and instructed him to resume the martial training he had received from her father since his boyhood. He was also to give lessons to all the household males in grappling, and the use of the pole and the dagger, so the household could defend itself now that the late marquess’s men-at-arms had yet to be replaced by Lord Orlan.
And to Percy’s delight, Bellchior was to begin teaching him swordsmanship as well as horse riding, which was almost as good as being sent to Foversham to train as a page, a long hoped for event which had not yet come to pass.
“They are here!” Cicely jumped up and down with excitement, her long fair hair bouncing up and down with the movement. Percy heard her shout and was gratified that his brother and Lord Orlan should be arriving while he was practising swordsmanship with Bellchior. He had been disappointed that Cicely had been too distracted that morning to watch him properly. He wished he had a cape and long leather boots to go with his training sword.
Lord Orlan’s tall, caped and booted figure dismounted and was rushed upon by his daughter; Arthur dismounted more slowly, but with more competence than he had the last time he had visited. He swung his riding cape over his shoulder so his hand could rest prominently upon the short sword at his side. He looked about him with an air of nonchalance.
“Good day to you, young master,” said Lord Orlan to Percy. “I see you are in training,” he said with a smile. Percy gave a short bow. “Your brother will soon be looking for a duel with you, Arthur!”
Percy looked up at Arthur who came towards him looking splendid in his velvet cap and riding boots.
“That blunt old thing couldn’t cut butter,” he said, giving Percy a little bat on the side of his head as he sauntered past. Cicely cast Percy a sympathetic look over her shoulder as she followed her father to the manor.
“Let us practise with the poles now, master,” said Bellchior, putting his training sword to one side.
Felix regarded his eldest brother with a cool eye. Lord Orlan with his jocular laugh and ready smile was accepted as a friend, although Felix was a little put out that his usually doting Rosie was not so attentive to him when this tall, brown-bearded man was present. Percy was not as pliant to Felix’s wishes as Rosie, but he was still a loyal subject; but this one they called Arthur, though he looked similar to Percy, with his sandy coloured hair and his grey eyes, this one made no attempt to smile or tickle or pull funny faces, nor even kept sweet biscuits about him. And so Felix decided he would not say hello to his brother Arthur as his mama was now bidding him to do. He turned away from the stony-grey eyed boy and buried his head in Mama’s shoulder ignoring the admonitions of Rosie and Mama.
Arthur gave no more than a shrug. Babies were no good for anything, anyhow.
Later that afternoon Percy received the news that shattered all his young hopes and dreams. He was not to go to Foversham to be a page and knight in training. Lord Orlan had decided that Arthur would govern Stoneyshire castle and keep the borders, but when Percy came of age he would manage the estates of Foxebury; that was to be his inheritance. He was to learn management under the new steward – Master Digby.
Cicely went looking for Percy who had disappeared after her father had spoken to him about his apprenticeship under the steward. She knew his favourite places to hide, and she searched them all until she found him in the willow bothy they had built with Myles in a hollow in the wood copse.
He was sat with his arms wrapped tightly about his knees. He did not look up at her when she crouched down in the opening to the little cave-like structure they had made over many afternoons that summer. She crept in and sat down beside him.
“Everyone is looking for you,” she said. “Your mother is worried.”
“My mother is dead,” said Percy.
“Your stepmother.”
“My mother is dead. My father is dead. And I shall never be a knight. Only a farmer.”
“Hardly a farmer,” said Cicely, “you will be the lord of the manor.”
“I want to be a knight. Like Arthur.”
“Cook has made a plum pudding,” said Cicely, changing the subject. “Your mother told her to save some for you. Your stepmother,” she self corrected.
Percy was about to say that he was not hungry, but it was long past his missed dinnertime and his stomach was growling like a bear cub.
“Did Cook make custard?” he said gruffly.
Cicely smiled, knowing she had won him over. Even at nine years she had already noted that most people of the opposite sex responded to one of two things: food and flattery. She jumped up and put out a hand to pull Percy to his feet.
“I think you will be the best lord of the manor in the whole kingdom, Percy,” she said, employing the latter of her tactics.
“Do you?” said Percy in a small, but hope-tinged voice.
Cicely nodded.
“Will you be the lady of the manor when I am lord,” said Percy, tightening his grip on the hand she had offered him.
Cicely’s face clouded over. “How can I?” she said, “I am betrothed to Arthur.”
Percy’s face darkened, he threw her hand away from him. “Arthur gets everything I want. I hate him!”
Seven Years Later
Ten-year-old Felix swung the stave in a figure of eight around his head, moving it faster and faster. Cicely laughed merrily at his antics. Bellchior stepped forward and in one swift movement disarmed Felix and stood with his own stave in one hand and Felix’s in the other.
“Oh, Bellchior!” cried Felix in mock vexation.
“If young master will pay attention to his lesson,” said Bellchior, holding out the stave, “then we will begin.”
Cicely laughed again. Felix tried the same trick every morning, he was convinced that he could learn to spin his stave so fast that not even Bellchior would be able to approach him. But it seemed there was no one who moved faster than Bellchior.
Myles was also watching Felix’s antics with a wry smile. Cicely flushed when she realised he was close by. At seventeen years he had grown into a tall, and she thought, very handsome young man, and of late she found herself feeling a strange shyness in his presence that she did not understand. It made her act oddly when she was near him; it made her sometimes lapse into her Lad
y Cicely Rose voice when she addressed him. He was the only young man whom she could not flatter and charm into admiring her as anything more than just plain Cicely, his friend. That made her feel confused.
He came towards her with his long, sure strides. She felt that annoying flutter in her belly at his approach and arranged her face into what she hoped was a cool and composed demeanour.
“Lady Cicely,” said Myles, with a polite nod. “My mother bids me to thank you for the skein of silk you kindly sent her.”
Cicely gave what she hoped was a gracious nod in reply.
“I thank you too,” he added, looking down at her with his clear, gaze. “Mother’s embroidery is the one thing that gives her pleasure and makes her feel useful.”
Cicely nodded again. “I know,” she said awkwardly. “And I am glad to help her,” she added. “It must be very trying to be bedbound.”
“She finds it very hard,” said Myles, looking sad as he thought of his mother who had grown increasingly unwell as the years had passed, though she were not old.
Cicely felt a yearning inside at the sad look on Myles’ face; the combination of his strength with this show of concern for his poor ailing mother made her feel very tender towards him. He turned his eyes to hers and caught her studying him. He held her gaze and she felt as though all else in the world had slipped away, as she always did when he looked at her that way.
“Why do you not walk with me in the early evenings as you used to?” he asked softly.
“I cannot,” she said, still drowning in his gaze. “It is not...it is not right.”
“Not right for us to be friends?”
“I...” she could not say the words; she did not know what the words were. How could she explain that every time she walked with him – the sweetest and best part of her day – that she felt she were moving closer towards him, and further away from her real life. Or at least, she felt that her time with him was her real life, and the rest of her life – her preparations for her marriage to Arthur, her lessons from Lady Beck in running a household, in social etiquette, in languages and music, in all things pertaining to her future as the mistress of her husband’s estates – a future she would gladly give up to live with her tall, strong, handsome Myles in a little cottage all her days – how could she ever speak of such things? She could not.
“It is not right,” she said quietly. “We are not children now. It is not seemly for us to walk together.”
“But we’re never alone, we always have Felix as our little chaperone,” he said with a half smile. “There’s nothing improper in being friends, is there?”
Cicely could say no more. She felt that if her heart swelled any more with all that she was feeling it would smash into pieces like the rotten apples Felix would line up to shoot arrows at. If Myles felt the same way as she did, and had told her so, then perhaps she could speak something of what she felt for him. But Myles only felt friendship for her, she was certain of that. And even if he did not, there was no hope for them. They were not of the same class, and she was betrothed. And everyone downstairs had heard and talked of the match his father was making for him with the brewer’s daughter – a profitable match, for Myles would take over the family business, the brewer having no sons. And the brewer’s daughter was very pretty, Cicely thought with a feeling of despair mingled with a painful stab of jealousy. She had seen her in the village; she had hair the colour of burnished copper that rippled down below her waist. Cicely’s hair was just as long, but it was pale and straight, not rippling and glossy like the brewer’s daughter.
Cicely dragged her gaze away from Myles and forced herself to look at Felix who was parrying Bellchior’s blows with great gusto and excited cries of triumph.
A footfall was heard behind them and Cicely turned her head to see Percy strolling up, his thumbs tucked into his belt.
“There you are,” called Percy to her. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Oh. Why?” said Cicely, undecided as to whether she was glad of Percy’s interruption or resentful.
“Myles,” said Percy in greeting. ”Just wondered where you were,” He said to Cicely.
“Must you always know where I am?” she replied irritably. Percy looked hurt, and Cicely immediately felt ashamed. She pinched his arm playfully to make it seem a joke.
“I must be about my work,” said Myles. He turned and strode away. Cicely watched after him with that horrible feeling of loss she often felt these days.
Percy saw her face and his own expression darkened. “Not still mooning after that farm-boy, are you?” he said.
Cicely spun round to face him. “How dare you speak to me like that!” she said, and stormed off.
Percy kicked the ground with his heel. “Darn it!” he muttered at the ground.
“Who’s that?” asked Felix, handing his staff to Bellchior at the end of his lesson.
Bellchior looked up to see an old woman, her head bound in grubby strips of cloth, with some stray straggles of grey hair about her face.
“It is the old herb-woman from the village,” said Bellchior.
“The old dirt-woman from the village, more like,” said Felix, a little appalled at the raggedy, unkempt, and shuffling form of the approaching person.
“Do you despise her for her age or for her poverty?” asked Bellchior.
Felix thought for a moment while he watched the reeling figure coming near.
“I can’t do anything about her age,” he answered thoughtfully. “I could give her the money I have from Uncle Lopo. But I think it’s her dirt I don’t like. I can’t give her a bath, though can I?” his eyes went from his thoughtful look to his merry-making expression.
“May I help you?” said Felix, going forward to meet the old woman.
She stopped and looked up at him.
“Why, it must be the young master,” she exclaimed. “Last time I was ‘ere you were the size of a tadpole in your blessed mother’s belly!”
Felix blinked in surprise at such a candid description.
“My, you’re the image of your mother,” continued the woman, leaning forward to squint at him. “Good thing for you your mother be a beauty!” She gave a cackle that turned into a bout of coughing which culminated in her spitting something out onto the ground. Felix pulled a face of repugnance. She caught his look. “Don’t you mind Old Mother Wheedle,” she told him. “You be glad of your strong, young body, young master. Old Mother Wheedle she’s got a racking and a hacking in her chest and a groaning in her bones. Don’t mind me, though I would beg a sit down for a moment in your comfy kitchen afore I send word to your lady-mother.”
“Follow me,” said Felix, not able to imagine what his mother could possible want to see this old person for, but the natural courteous side to his lively nature got the better of his distaste of her physical person.
“I know the way, young master, I know the way. You go and send word to your lady-mother, if you will, that Old Mother Wheedle has come to see her.”
Mistress Wheedle lurched into the kitchens, startling Cook so that she dropped the egg, shell and all into her bowl of batter for her lady’s dinnertime cake.
“Oh, heavens above! Mistress Wheedle – what brings you to my kitchens this morn?” said Cook, who always felt flustered at the sight of the old wise-woman. When Cook was a child growing up in the village Mistress Wheedle had seemed ancient then, and Cook was well past her prime. She considered it most uncanny that no one in the village could recall a time when Old Mistress Wheedle was ever a young Mistress Wheedle. And the village had always wondered how it was that Mistress Wheedle turned a pretty penny for she was in great demand as midwife and herb-woman to all the villages about, even as far as Lucklow town, and yet for all her money making she always dressed in the same rags and lived in the same hovel as she had for years past.
Many a time young lads had been heard of setting out to rob the old woman of her gold that was rumoured to be stashed away in her ramshackle hut. And strange and
uncanny were the tales of being chased from her house by wild boars, badgers the size of sheep, and even a white wolf! Very strange and uncanny indeed were the tales surrounding Mistress Wheedle. Cook picked out the eggshell from her bowl and hurriedly wiped her hands to serve her unexpected visitor small beer and pie.
Mistress Catchpole happened to come in the kitchen just as Cook was replenishing the jug of beer for the unkempt old woman who sat before the fire with her skirts hitched up.
“What’s going on?” demanded Mistress Catchpole. “Who is this – creature?”
Cook looked aghast at Mistress Catchpole. “Why it’s Mistress Wheedle, come to see my lady.” She remembered Catchpole had not come from the nearby villages, she did not know of Mistress Wheedle’s reputation.
“Come to see my lady?” said Mistress Catchpole incredulously. “A dirty beggar enter the presence of the Marchioness of Stoneyshire? Get out of this kitchen at once! Be off with you!”
Mistress Wheedle finished her long draught of beer, set her cup down and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She peered at Mistress Catchpole, one eye squinting almost shut.
Catchpole frowned. “Are you deaf, old woman? I said – be off!”
Mistress Wheedle peered some more. “I see what’s before me,” she said slowly. “And I see what’s before you. Has your arm been giving you some trouble of late years?”
Catchpole frowned more deeply. “My arm?”
“When you go to raise your arm, go to strike out, to let out some of that anger that’s writhing inside your inners like a pit of snakes.”
Catchpole took a step back and looked afraid.
“When your inners remembers how you had to take care of all them little ones that your mother and your father couldn’t take care of, for they was always a drinking and a fighting. All the remembering, and all that angry feeling inside you, and so you strike out, but now your arm won’t let you, it gets stuck.”
Catchpole put her hands to her belly as if she were feeling for the writhing within her; her face had paled to the colour of whey. Cook was alarmed at the crumpled look on the indomitable Mistress Catchpole and begged her to sit down a moment, fearing she would faint.