By the time Alice finished her task, the bells of St. George's Chapel had begun tolling prime and Giddy was stirring.
"The milking awaits, angel. Mayhap this afternoon, after we've finished the dyeing, I will show you how to cast a love spell. Someday, when you be grown, you might have need of one."
Margery had no use for either boys or such spells, but to please her mother she nodded and smiled, as if nothing in all the world would please her more.
* * *
Alice fed a length of newly woven wool into a cauldron of purple water. Margery hated dyeing. The wet wool was heavy and stank while the blueberry dye stained her hands and gown. Besides, the final product was so mottled it hardly seemed worth the trouble. The one thing Margery envied her lords was the vivid, crisp shades of their clothing. When they congregated together, they reminded her of brightly-plumaged birds.
"Take Godiva and wait for me at the river," said Alice, reaching for a long pole to stir the fabric.
Giddy shook her copper-colored curls, so Margery grabbed her arm, pulled her out the door, and dragged her past the family garden, which had sprouted feeble-looking cabbages, onions and garlic. Ignoring her half-sister's wails, she hauled her through the apple orchard, where the trees still bristled with spiky buds rather than blossoms.
Margery's stomach began to feel the same way it did when Alf and Thurold quarreled. Something wasn't right. She felt it at some primal level. 'Tis the rain. It has ruined everything.
Her gaze swept the horizon, where only Ely Cathedral's distant spire thrust above the surrounding pastureland. Father Egbert said that because of its flatness, East Anglia possessed the widest expanse of sky in England. Once the sky had changed colors but now it was always gray, scarred by yellow-edged clouds. And the air felt thick with gathering rain; a harsh rain that would neither freshen the earth nor brighten the sky.
Margery scowled. It seemed such a long time since the sun had dazzled and warmed her, or since she'd heard birds sing. Father Egbert preached that nature was misbehaving throughout England, that a wrathful God was sending winds and storms. And unless man mended his sinful ways, harsher retribution was imminent. Was this the Terrible Thing? Margery couldn't be sure, but the prospect of an enraged God frightened her.
"Hurry," she said to Giddy, who was dawdling over a trio of pigs huddled in their sty.
Upon reaching the River Ouse, Margery handed her stepsister a stick. "Make pictures in the mud. See if you can draw the corn mill over there."
Giddy stuck out her lower lip. "No!"
"Then Whitefoot or Crop Tail. Just draw something. And stay away from the water."
Margery hunkered down among the corn cockles foaming along the river bank. When in full bloom they reminded her of bright purple clouds, but this morning the few with open blossoms looked dull and beaten, as did the river reeds.
Breaking off a reed, she stripped it and began plaiting the white pith beneath it. Giddy poked a dozing Whitefoot.
"Stop that!"
Giddy glared at her and whacked Whitefoot between his ears. Margery yanked away the stick and tossed it toward the sluggish current.
"Hate you!" Giddy yelled, collapsing against Whitefoot's ribs. The dog grunted before returning to his nap.
Margery removed her clogs and dipped her toes in the river. Upstream, ducks and swans circled the wheelrace below the corn mill. She could hear the faint creaking of the mill's gears. What was keeping her mother? By now they should be rinsing their length of cloth.
Giddy rose and tottered toward the water's edge. "Look," she said, pointing to a silver flash in its depths.
"'Tis a fish. Like what we ate yester eve."
Or it might be a River Woman. Alice said River Women were like mermaids, except mermaids were even more beautiful because of their hair, which changed from dark green to a blinding yellow in the sunlight.
Yellow hair like Mama's. Margery swiveled her head toward the cottage. Alice should have been here by now.
"Come along, pest. Let's see what's keeping Mama."
Giddy shook her head vigorously and stomped into the water.
"If you don't obey this very instant, I'll tell one of the dracs who live in the fens to snatch you from your bed. After he carries you off, he will eat you down to your toes. Then you'll wish you'd not been such a trial."
Subdued by her threat, Giddy docilely followed. But when they rounded the path to the front of the cottage and Margery saw the tethered black stallion, she immediately knew what had happened to Alice.
Lord Lawrence Ravenne.
Uncertain, Margery hesitated. She had naught to fear from Ravenne, for he always treated her well enough. In fact, he liked to pat her head, as if she were Whitefoot, and he gave Giddy all manner of cunningly constructed animals which he bragged that he himself had carved. Still, Margery hated him for one simple reason. Because Alice did.
Her mother was careful to hide her feelings, but when she returned from their rides she would be strangely quiet, or snap at Giddy, or hug Margery and cry into her hair. And Alice gave away or burned every one of Ravenne's presents, including the wooden geese, chickens, cows and dogs he fashioned for Giddy.
"In," Giddy said, pulling Margery toward the front door. Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be led. Once inside, her sister tottered over to Whitefoot, who had headed for his favorite spot beside the bed.
Spying Margery, Ravenne boomed, "Good morrow, little one!"
Margery winced, for his voice was as loud as St. George's bells. She curtsied before him. "Good morrow, m'lord."
He beckoned her forward; her stomach began to ache.
Lawrence Ravenne was of medium height, with piercing green eyes, flowing red hair and a beard to match. When Margery reached him, he patted her head and chuckled. Rather than look him in the eye, she focused on his beard.
The color of blood, she thought suddenly, suppressing a shiver. Father has a neatly clipped beard, black as night. God be thanked you are not my father.
Margery studied the thick cloud of steam rising from the bubbling cauldron to the cottage's smoke-blackened ceiling.
I wish I could turn myself into steam and float away.
"Have you been helping your mama this morning?"
Margery had some difficulty understanding Lord Ravenne's words, for English was his second language and he possessed a thick accent. He repeated the question even more loudly.
Margery nodded. Did he think her deaf?
"Good girl." He patted her head again and waggled his fingers at Giddy, who was watching from her perch near Whitefoot. She giggled and hid her face.
"The wedding shall take place at Edmundsbury Castle in a fortnight," he said, resuming his conversation with Alice. "My betrothed already awaits me. I am leaving today. Naturally, I will expect you, as I expect all of Ravennesfield, to attend."
"Aye, m'lord." Alice stirred the cloth, seemingly unaware of the waves spilling over the cauldron and hissing upon the flames.
"Afterward, we shall return to the manor house. This part of England is the safest place to be, for the Death cannot traverse the fens."
Alice crossed herself.
Margery's eyes widened. What did Ravenne mean? She knew what death was, but what was the Death?
"Is it true what they say, that London is a city peopled by ghosts?" Alice asked.
Ghosts? According to Father Egbert, London was a huge place, the largest in the world. Margery imagined thousands of misty figures peering through hundreds of window openings.
I would die of fright. This truly is a Terrible Thing.
"...relatives in the city and they have sent word that the plague has barely made its presence felt. I myself was in London last Christmas, and the city looked no dirtier than usual."
Plague? Margery wondered what that meant. A disease like the scarlet sickness? She could already feel her body burning. But the scarlet sickness did not wipe out entire cities, and Lord Ravenne's assurances made no sense. What did dirt have
to do with something called plague? Unless it was a plague of dirt, which made no sense either. How could someone die from dirt?
The cottage door flew open, slamming against the wall. Margery jumped. Two knights, wearing chain mail and brandishing swords, charged into the room. One, whom Margery recognized as Ravenne's bailiff, Gerard, shouted, "We found your poacher, my lord!"
Ravenne stepped away from Alice. "Caught in the act?"
Gerard nodded. "He tried to hide the carcass."
Frightened by the chaos, Giddy scampered toward Alice. Margery wished she could hide behind her mother's skirts too, or concoct some spell that would make these intruders vanish. She tried to understand what was happening, but they were conversing so rapidly in Norman French she could only decipher an occasional phrase.
Ravenne abruptly departed, trailed by his men.
"What is wrong?" Margery cried. "Will Lord Ravenne hurt us?"
"Nay, angel. This has naught to do with us." Alice moved to the wall opposite the open door, where she could watch without being seen. "Holy Mother!'Tis Peter Baker."
Gathering her courage, Margery tiptoed toward a window opening and peered through. Peter, his face sickly white beneath streaks of grime, was bound around the waist and wrists and held captive between a pair of Ravenne's mounted retainers.
She watched as Peter sobbed his innocence and Ravenne slammed him in the stomach, causing him to collapse on his knees.
Alice pulled her back by the shoulders. "You must not watch, sweeting."
Margery had heard talk of Peter, how he cheated his customers, how he was a drunk and a gambler, but she had never heard him called a poacher.
"What will they do to him?" Her mother's hands trembled atop her shoulders.
"Thank God 'tis not a royal forest but only our lord's," Alice said as if to herself. "At least he will not die for his foolishness."
"But what will happen to him, Mama?"
"Never fear, angel. We have laws to protect Peter until he is proven guilty."
Margery did not think that Lord Ravenne cared about laws, even when Alice further elaborated, "By the time Peter is tried, Lord Ravenne and his bride will be somewhere far away. He'll na give a thought to any of us. We must believe that."
"Why should I believe it if it is not true?"
Shaking off her mother's grip, Margery crept forward again.
Peter was still on his knees, his bound hands folded before him as if in prayer. "Please, good lord. I crave your mercy. I've a wife and five children."
"A poacher is like a rabid dog. Both must be destroyed."
Alice disentangled Giddy from her skirts and pulled Margery's arm. "'Tis time for Godiva's nap. Take her over to the bed and stay with her until she falls asleep."
"But what are they going to do to Peter?"
"Obey me, Margery."
As she grabbed Giddy, Margery heard Peter scream.
Alice shut the door firmly behind her and steadied herself against it.
Margery heard thuds, another scream, the pounding of horses' hooves. She imagined Ravenne hacking Peter to pieces and then feeding his flesh to the hawks.
Alice crossed to the cauldron and jammed her stick into the water.
Giddy had curled up on the bed and was clutching her wigged hempen doll.
Margery stood as if rooted to the floor.
Murder. Our lords can kill whomever they please, whenever they please. And there is naught we can do about it.
* * *
At sundown Thurold raced into the cottage. "Did ye hear what 'appened to Peter?"
Alice compressed her lips but laid out the table without comment.
Alf poured a bowl of ale. "Peter should na been poachin'. And 'tis the end of any talk." He slurped his ale, poured a second portion, and sat down to sup.
Thurold's bright brown eyes narrowed, but before he could vent his temper, Margery hurried over and slipped her hand through his. One word from Thurold and the room would explode like a parched meadow in a lightning storm. "Please," she whispered. "Let us eat in peace."
Thurold squeezed her hand and slumped down on a nearby chest. He sighed heavily, his unfocused gaze on the far wall. Then he shuddered the same way Whitefoot did when emerging from the river, and sat down at the table.
Afterward, Thurold said, "Let us go for a walk, Stick-Legs."
"Stay away from the oak," Alice warned, her voice sharp.
Thurold nodded.
They began strolling along Cottage Lane, heading toward the Crown and Sceptre Inn.
"What was Mama talking about?" Margery asked. "What oak?"
"The big one by the mill."
"What is wrong with it?"
Thurold merely looked angry.
They passed the Crown and Sceptre, which was unusually quiet, as was all of Ravennesfield. Peering into various un-shuttered windows, Margery remembered her mother's mention of ghosts.
The Death is here. 'Tis lurking near the oak, waiting to snatch us.
"Where is everyone, Thurold?"
"They be afraid, so they cower behind their doors and pray their bastard lords will leave 'em be."
"But I saw Lord Ravenne ride past, along the highway, toward Bury St. Edmunds."
"His henchmen still be around. 'Tis a question whether they be done with their bloodletting."
"What bloodletting? They canna do as they please. Father Egbert says England is a kingdom of laws, not men. He says—"
"Just because a silly old priest says something does na make it so."
Margery walked alongside her stepbrother in silence, all the while imagining various ways to drain blood from a man. Had they slit Peter's throat the way Alf slit a pig's?
"What did they do to Peter? Please tell me."
"I will show ye, but only if ye promise not to tell."
Margery nodded, though her heart raced in her chest. If Thurold wanted her to keep a secret something very bad must have happened.
Twilight had suffused their surroundings, including the corn mill, which, next to Ravennesfield's church was its largest building. A buttery patch of light leaked from the mill's lower window. Usually of an evening Walt the Miller's seven children would be playing near it, but tonight the area was deserted. Save for a pair of birds fluttering around what looked to be a sack of grain hanging from the limbs of a nearby oak.
Margery's steps slowed. She peered more closely at the sack. Father Egbert oft said, "Day belongs to man, but night belongs to the devil."
I do not like scary things. I wish I had not mentioned dracs to Giddy. God will punish me for my meanness.
Margery did not need Thurold to tell her that the sack of grain was actually Peter Baker.
They halted beneath the corpse. Thurold's grip was so tight it hurt. Margery was unable to discern much beyond Peter's shape, but 'twas an unnerving sight. Not that she was any stranger to death. Every winter, vagrants could be found frozen along the highway. Last winter she'd even seen Lettice Tomsdoughter's father crumple to the ground, as if cut down by an invisible sword. But such deaths were acceptable. This death was a deliberate act of cruelty.
"I hate 'em all," Thurold blurted, his voice loud enough to cause the circling birds to take flight. "They rule our entire lives. When we've corn to grind or bread to bake, we must pay to use their mills and ovens. We canna cut wood to warm ourselves without paying a wood penny. We canna fatten our pigs on their acorns until after we pay a meat penny. We be forbidden to kill pigeons or hares, even if they destroy our crops. We canna shoo away the rams or boars that trample our fields."
Dropping Margery's hand, he clenched his fists. "And should a man who suffers from an empty belly think to fill it with a tender piece of venison such as they enjoy every day, he be hanged."
Margery didn't know what to say. Thurold was right, at least about Lord Ravenne, but all members of the nobility were not like him. It was contrary to scripture, contrary to her knowledge of her true father.
"And now that Peter be dead,"
Thurold continued, "his wife will 'ave to pay her best beast to the manor as heriot. Know ye what that means?"
Margery was having a hard time following her stepbrother's logic. "That we're only worth as much as a cow?"
I am half Norman. I am not like you and Giddy and Alf, or even Mama. What am I worth?
"It means that Kate must pay for the privilege of 'aving her 'usband murdered. We be the spawn of a defeated nation and must always bear that burden. The law decrees that the descendants of anyone who fought with King Harold at Hastings must forever remain serfs."
"None of our ancestors fought William the Conq—"
"'Tis not the point! I hope 'tis true, what they say. That King Harold and Arthur be not dead but sleeping, and someday they will awaken to lead us against our invaders."
"Father Egbert says we canna consider the Normans invaders since they've been here three hundred—"
"I hope Ravenne is struck down with the pestilence! I pray he dies a foul, lingering death!"
Margery's fingers curled; she suppressed the urge to make a protective sign of the cross. Half expecting Death to leap out of the gloom, like one of Father Egbert's demons, she thought, How I do wish I had not threatened Giddy with Dracs.
As she wished God would not let any more bad things come their way.
Chapter 3
Ravennesfield
"Nay, Godiva, do not put the broom in the fire. And leave the hen alone. Broody canna sit on her eggs if you poke her." Alice retrieved the birch broom from Giddy, who promptly started screaming.
Margery distracted her sister with her doll.
"'Tis glad I am to have your help," said Alice, stroking Margery's cheek.
Alice's palm felt over-warm and her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she'd been too long in a smoky room. During Sunday mass, earlier this morning, Alice had sat on the floor instead of standing, something she'd never done before.
"Do you have a fever, Mama? Would you like me to tie violets round your wrist and see if they wilt?"
Alice shook her head. "The day is a bit close, 'tis all."
Their neighbor, Joan Tomsdoughter, poked her face through the doorway. Possessed of a snaggle-toothed smile and a merry laugh, today she was neither smiling nor laughing. "Have ye 'eard the plague's appeared in Bury St. Edmunds?"
A Knight There Was Page 3