“Can I help you, my lad?” the priest pipes up in his quavery old man’s voice.
I decide to risk it since it is well known that this priest’s wits are as addled as a shaken egg. “Father, I have a question. What would happen if a lad in the castle were found to be really a lass in disguise?”
His voice is surprisingly strong in his response. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!”
“Father, I do not talk of witchcraft. Just a simple disguise—”
“Such things be shape-shifting and thus are the work of the devil. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!”
That should have ended the matter, but to my disgust, I became obsessed with catching glimpses of myself, trying to puzzle out my girl-self in my eyes or manner. I am like a drunkard rooting out his next tankard, only instead of ale, I seek any surface that can cast me back a reflection of myself. I catch myself preening in front of polished metal platters, buckets of water, even puddles in the courtyard after a rain. Each time I vow I will stop, and yet I do not stop.
During the second week after His return, as I wait to carry up the basket of wafers, I complain to Lisette that I have not even caught a glimpse of the lord and lady.
Lisette, patiently pressing a sugar wafer for supper, clucks sympathetically. “There’s no rush, little peaseblossom. I hope you will be a long time in his service. I hope to secure a place for you and your brother even after his lordship quits the castle. Be patient, Gilly. You will see him one day.”
She peels off a beautiful wafer, thin and lacy. She scrapes off a drop of fried batter with her little fingernail. “Open your mouth.” When I do, she flicks that tidbit of sweetness in. But for all its sweetness, it fails to sweeten my temper.
“I want to see Him now!”
Lisette just laughs. I could strangle her, no matter all her kindness to me and Pod.
I snatch up the basket of wafers and stomp over to the door.
A strange boy is standing there. He is smaller than me by a head and shoulders. “Out of the way!” I order him.
He glances up at me, but he does not move. I see that he is dressed in fine clothes, perhaps the son of a nobleman. I know I should fall to my knees and beg pardon for addressing him in that tone, but I feel grumpy, so I grumble, “Is it not enough that we cannot go in the Great Hall, but we must have those of the Great Hall crowding into our kitchen?”
The boy looks at me reproachfully. I see he is undergrown for his age. He has delicate bones, like a bird’s, but there is nothing girlish about his looks. He is just finely drawn. His tiny hands fumble with the hem of his tunic, as if he is nervous about being here. His hands have the quick motions of squirrel paws. He looks from side to side, turning his whole head and not just his eyes, just like a squirrel.
“I seek the cook,” he says. He has a funny voice, both high and fierce, like a mouse’s squeak scraped across an asp.
Brude steps up. “Master Cook is out, but I am his apprentice. Can I help you, young master?” I am disgusted by his oily, fawning tone.
“My lady’s gentlewoman has an ache in her head, and I have read that an infusion of cowslip leaves is effective in relieving the pain.”
I blurt out, “A better potion is equal parts hen’s tooth, ground ivy, tiger’s stomach, and slippery elm.”
The eyebrows of the squirrel boy shoot up. “You’re gammoning me. Hens do not have teeth, and we have no tigers in these parts.”
I fish in my mind for the other names of the herbs. “Hen’s tooth is garlic—we have it here in the kitchen. The curve of the garlic bud looks like the beak of a hen. Some people call it dog’s toe. And tiger’s stomach—that’s blackthorn, but I don’t know why it has that name. Perhaps the prickly thorns are like tiger claws.”
The squirrel boy looks at me closely. “It sounds as if you know herb lore, lad.”
My mind flickers back to Nettle and her years of teaching. I smile.
“I know herbs.”
THE NEXT MORNING, the squirrel boy appears again in the kitchen. I am turning a mutton haunch on the spit, a hot, dull task. He lowers himself to the hearth beside me and stares down at the flame.
“I am trying to unravel a riddle of natural science,” he says. I struggle not to laugh at such a squeaky-growly voice from such a small boy.
In spite of myself, I ask, “What riddle would that be?”
The boy tucks his feet under his crossed legs and settles in, apparently for a long chat. I do not care. It breaks the boredom of turning the spit. I welcome Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays—the fasting days of the week when no one can eat meat. There are no spits to be turned on those days.
“Aristotle,” he says, “writes that all the matter of the universe is compounded of the four elements. Do you know what those elements are?”
I shake my head.
“Fire,” he says, “water, air, and earth. Four thousand years ago, at the beginning of time, these were the only four things that existed. Everything else in the world was made of a blending of these four elements. And each of these original elements longs to join with its own kind. You can see it here.” He points his tiny finger at the fire. “The source of fire is in the heavens. Thus fire burns up, not down, because it longs to join with the absolute fire.”
I nod. It makes sense.
“But rain falls down, do you see? The source of water is our lochs and the sea, so rain longs to join with the water in the sea.”
I nod again.
He continues his lesson. “If we were to go outside and take a clodof earth and hurl it up, ’twould not fly to the heavens because earth wants to rejoin earth, so it falls back to the ground.”
“So what is the riddle?”
“This.” He points to the huge bread trencher set next to the hearth to warm the rising dough. “As I understand it, you mix our bread of wheat—which is a thing of earth—and salt—which is also of earth. You add water. Yet all these things of earth and water start to rise—which they should not do. If Aristotle is right, they should fall back to earth. Yet when you then put the pans of dough into the fire—whose movement is upward—the dough stops rising. It makes no sense to me, and as far as I can tell, Aristotle did not address it. Have you any ideas why this should be so?”
“I have never thought about it—”
“But I have.” He scoots closer, his eyes bright and excited. “I have thought about it a great deal. That is why I decided to come to the kitchens to watch this sensation for myself. Oftentimes the best discoveries are made by observing a thing until it reveals its true nature.”
“Are you very interested in Aristotle?”
“I am very interested in the sciences.” Although his tone is proud, a flush rises in his cheek. “Before I die, I want to understand everything about the world, what it is made of, what makes it work.” He scoots a little closer. I notice that all the others in the kitchen are looking at us. Brude is practically falling off his wooden stool to listen to our exchange. In a corner Pod silently oils griddle stones and watches us with a jealous look in his eye. The squirrel boy continues, “I was excited when my father sent me to foster here. I have never before been so close to the sea, and I wish to determine for myself if it is true, as Bede the Englishman writes, that tides follow the moon.”
I am tickled by this small, serious lad and wish to keep him talking, so I say, “But that makes no sense. Why would water follow the moon?”
“It might be,” he says in a confiding tone, “that the foam on thewaves looks like the light of the moon and so tries to rise to the moon, and when the foam rises, it pulls the rest of the tide along with it. I do not know yet. I have not had a chance to watch. But Bede writes that the size of the moon determines the size of the tide, so I am making a chart. Each night I will go to the ramparts and write down the phase of the moon, and then I will look north to the tide and describe it. I wish to see for myself if Bede is correct.”
He looks up at me. “I am also interested in plants and t
heir properties. I have a book about herbs, but I would also like to hear from you what you know about them. Then I can compare what you know with what it says in the book.”
I hear a man’s voice bellow, “Fleance! Fleance! Drat your eyes, boy, where are you now?”
The boy flinches.
“A good hidey hole,” I say to no one in particular, “would be behind those barrels of cod over in the far corner.”
Quick as a hare, the boy leaps behind the barrels. In two breaths, a huge man in warrior garb lumbers into the kitchen. I recognize the one-eyed Master of Arms.
“I’m looking for a boy!”
The other kitchen lads glance nervously at the cod barrels, but they say nothing. Brude opens his mouth, looks at the barrels, then closes his mouth without speaking.
“There are lots of boys around here,” I say in my most innocent voice. In her corner I hear Lisette cluck her tongue, but I ignore her.
“Not a serving boy! A boy of gentle birth. He is supposed to be training in swordsmanship out in the courtyard. One of the grooms thought he saw him come in here.”
“We do not get many of the gentry down in these—”
But before I can finish, the arms master snarls and lumbers out the door.
The boy, Fleance, creeps back to me.
“ ’Twas nobly done of you to help me like that.” He fumbles in his pouch for a coin, but I shake my head. He puzzles a bit, apparentlytrying to think of another way to reward me, and then his face lights up.
“As a kitchen lad, I daresay you do not know much about the sciences.”
“ ’Tis a safe enough guess.”
He beams. “Then I can teach you! Right after luncheon.”
I laugh at his nonsense. “Right after luncheon I need to pluck the doves for tonight’s dinner.”
“Can you not pluck them later?”
“ ’Tis messy work if they are not plucked when they are freshkilled.”
“Oh.” For a moment he looks crestfallen, and then his face lights up again. “We can start tomorrow.” He sighs. “You have no idea how delightful it is to learn all that the sciences have to teach us. When I am grown, I intend to go to Rome and Padua and talk with the great scientists there. My only fear is that they will have discovered everything there is to discover by the time I join them.” He draws his small body up proud and tall as a gatepost. “I hope to be a great discoverer.”
“Lord Fleance,” I say, snatching the nearest excuse, “I do not think the kitchen will be a good classroom for—”
“True.” He looks around for a moment. “And we will not want to meet in the courtyard for fear of the Master of Arms . . . and my father.”
“Your father would not like you to be teaching a scullery boy?”
“My father does not like my interest in science.” He looks down at his fingers, which are paddling against each other like a squirrel twisting a nut. “My father is a great warrior, and he would prefer that his son be a great warrior, too.”
Mother of our Lord and Savior, do not let this fierce, funny little boy be His son. My mouth goes so dry I can hardly croak out, “Who is your father?”
“Banquo. I am Fleance, his son and heir.”
Relief makes me weak. I like this odd boy. I would not wish to be the murderer of his father.
I open my mouth to tell him that it is not a good idea for us to study the sciences together, but he says something that stops me cold.
“No,” he says. “ ’Twill not do for us to study in the kitchen. You must come to my chamber up above the Great Hall. We can study there.” He gives a shy grin. “I can show you my astrolabe, a wondrous instrument for surveying the skies. I hope one day to locate the exact position of Heaven.”
An invitation to the chambers above the Great Hall. My hand slides to my dagger.
I now have a way to reach Him.
Soon, soon I will carve out three pieces of His heart.
S I X T E E N
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, as soon as I finish scouring the last cauldron, I bang it into its place on the shelf and announce, “I’m off.”
Master Cook looks up from the carp he is stuffing with chestnuts and raisins. “You’re no such thing. You will grind the dried blaeberries for this sauce.”
“Lord Fleance has ordered me to come to his chamber.”
Master Cook looks disbelieving, but Lisette chimes in, “ ’Tis true, Master Aswald. Young Lord Fleance has come to the kitchen two days running, and I heard him order young Gilly to his chamber.” Pod, who sits next to her, chopping nutmeats, looks at me with wide eyes. He frowns. I glare at him. What right has he to rain on my haymaking? Have I not scrubbed him and do I not thrust him at Lisette at every turn of opportunity? Have I not done more than enough to secure his future? But at the same time, I feel a little ashamed. I well know what it is to be shut out. When I can grab some time, I will tutor him in the ways of a gentleman. Perhaps then Lisette will wish to keep him. A voice in my head says, You could take him back to Nettle. She and Mad Helga will give him a home. But I shut my mind to the voice.
“Master Cook,” I say, “Lord Fleance will have it so.”
Keeping his eye on me, Master Cook says, “Brude, do you know aught of this?”
I’m pleased to see Brude scowl. He does not dare lie. “ ’Tis true,” he confirms in a sulky voice. “Lord Fleance did invite this ragpicker to his chambers.”
But his eyes are as cold as a frozen snake’s.
“I COME to see Lord Fleance!”
What power those words hold! The grim-faced, brawny-armed, giant-tall guard steps aside when I say those magic words. I give a jaunty flip to my shoulder as I walk past this man at arms who guards the upper chambers, showing off, no doubt, but it feels grand for once not to be the lowest of all in the pecking order of the castle.
The grim-faced guard directs me to young Fleance’s chamber. “Go up the winding stairs above the buttery. Go all the way through the first four chambers. Each bedchamber leads directly into the next.”
As I pass from chamber to chamber, I study each room with care, hoping to find His quarters, but none looks grand enough to be the private apartments of the lord of the castle. My heart sinks as I go farther into the warren of bed chambers. Each grows smaller than the last. It is clear His chamber is not in this warren. It must be up the stairs at some other end of the Great Hall. My disappointment feels as thick as phlegm.
Finally I come to the last room, a small room where the wee pale lad, Fleance, is hunched on the floor.
“Are you sick?” I ask.
“One moment,” he says, not looking at me. I stand by the door, but soon grow bored so I crouch down with him. He is watching an ant nudge a crumb of bread across the floor.
I laugh. “A great lad like you, have you never seen an ant before that you must gape and gawk?”
He looks at me, frowning. “This day I have read in Pliny that there is a creature called the ant-lion, part ant and part lion. It is thechild of a mating between the lion and the ant.” He shakes his head. “No matter how close I look at the ant, though, I cannot fathom how it is able to mate with a lion.” With an impatient hand, he pushes his hair off his forehead. “Not that I have yet seen a lion. Perhaps when I see a lion, all shall come clear.” A sweet smile flits across his small face. “Still and all, ’tis glad I am that you have come, even if you cannot unravel the ant-lion mystery for me.”
I laugh, too. He is so young and so serious. I start to stretch my hand out to ruffle his hair, but I pull back just in time. A lord’s son would not accept such familiarity from a kitchen lad. I am a kitchen lad, I remind myself. I feel a twinge of fright. I am a lad. It is not the way of lads to ruffle a younger boy’s hair. I must learn to be rough, to punch, push, and pound.
Fleance shows me about his room. How Pod would marvel at all these sights. Fleance ignores one corner in which is heaped a small sword, a saddle, and other things befitting a lad training to be a knight. Instead he shows me first h
is precious astrolabe, a small wooden circle, with tick marks all around its edges.
“If I point this bar here at the sun, I can figure out exactly what time of the day it is,” he explains, his eyes shining.
He shows me his other treasures—rule sticks to measure distance, scales, lenses, and vials. All the while, I listen with only half a mind, as I try to lead the conversation round to Him. In truth, I am also a little worried about being found here. Would a noble punish me for daring to befriend a boy of high rank? But Fleance’s tongue moves faster than the devil’s mare, fluttering with delight at having someone listening to its prattle.
As he shows me his pile of books, his door flies open and hits the wall with a great crack.
A big man stands there, brawny like a bear. At first glance, he looks soft and round, but under the cream-and-gold-striped cloak he wears, I can see the power in his massive arms and huge chest. He looks like the kind of man who could pick up a cart with one hand and pick his teeth with the other. Yet he has the same eyes asFleance’s, the mottled gray of a misty sky. I have no doubt that this is Fleance’s father.
Behind him stands the one-eyed Master of Arms I encountered yesterday.
Wee Fleance ducks behind me.
“Fleance,” thunders the bear man in the striped cloak, “step out and face me like a man.”
Fleance steps out. I can see he is trembling. He hunches his shoulders up about his ears.
The Third Witch Page 8