The Third Witch

by Rebecca Reisert

  “Boy,” the bear man continues, “the Master of Arms here tells me this is the second day straight that you have failed to show up for your lesson. Does he speak true?”

  Fleance pulls himself up to his full height. I can sense his fear, but he does not let it show. “Sir, I do not like his lessons.”

  “Silence!” thunders his father, but I sense bewilderment and even sadness behind his anger. “Do I ask whether you like the lessons?”

  Fleance hangs his head. “No, sir.”

  “Then answer what I asked. Have you or have you not failed to show for your lessons for two days running?”

  “Yes, sir.” Fleance’s voice is barely loud enough for me to hear, and I am standing right next to him.

  His father steps to him and puts his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “This is not acceptable, son.”

  “But, sir, I do not wish to learn about arms. I do not wish to be a soldier.”

  Fleance’s father rolls his head back and forth like that of a bear with his paw caught in a boar hole. “Such talk is mad, child. You have no choice. You are my son and heir, and as such, you must learn to fight. Such is the way of the world.”

  To my surprise, Fleance roars back at him, his voice tiny but strong. “I wish to be a scholar, sir. I shall study the sciences and make grand discoveries that will change the ways of the world. I wish to go to France to live with my mother’s people and—”

  “No!”

  “I will make but a poor warrior, but I can be a great scientist.”

  “No! No, no, and again no!”

  Fleance breaks free of his father’s grip and runs over to the narrow window. His back is to us, but I wonder if he is crying.

  “The other boys who study with the Master of Arms are much bigger than I. They mock me, sir, they trip me and push me into the mud, they hit me with their swords and laugh when I cannot hit—”

  “Silence! I allow no man in my service to tattle, and I will have no talebearer as a son.”

  For several heartbeats, no one makes a sound. I long for magic powers so I can fade out of sight, disappear into the kitchen, but I figure my best chance of avoiding trouble is to stand stark still and hope I am not noticed. While part of me wants to jeer at Fleance and call him “Crybaby,” another part aches for the boy. He is just the sort of small, pale, nervous lad that the bigger oafs do delight in tormenting.

  His father steps back, and I hear him whisper to the Master of Arms, “Is it true the tale that my lad tells?”

  The Master of Arms sighs. “I try to stop the lads, my lord, but you know lads spoiling to be great knights. Lord Fleance is about half the size of the next-smallest boy. There is little chance he can overcome any of them in a struggle of arms or strength. In fact, my lord, I am surprised you have sent him to foster here, small as he is. Most lads his age are still at home with their mothers.”

  Fleance gives a little hiccup, and I suspect he, too, is listening to this.

  Fleance’s father says, “My wife spoils him. She’s as pale and scrawny as he, a great one for reading and writing and silly tales of romance. She fills the lad’s head with her nonsense.” He sighs. “As you know, these are hard times. There has been no end to the battles and skirmishes these past years. A lad must grow up fast in times like these. Scotland is not safe for the weak.” His voice hardens like dried sap. “I will not have a son who runs away when he is attacked.”

  “Send me and my mother to Grandpapa’s castle, sir, if you wish us to be safe,” Fleance pipes up. I admire his spunk.

  His father shakes his head. “You are the son of a Scottish lord, and your place is here. Your mother has married into this land, and in this land she must stay.” He turns to the Master of Arms. “While my son is small like his mother, he is of sufficient age to train as a warrior. Many lads scarcely older than he are already made knights.”

  Then, to my horror, I realize that Fleance’s father is studying me. I stand without moving, feeling his eyes move up and down my ragged, dirty frame.

  “So you have befriended my son, have you? Are you, too, besotted-with sciences and learning?”

  His voice is not unkind, but still my cheeks grow hot as I stammer, “No, sir . . . not . . . I mean to say I do like learning . . . but about the sciences I know little . . . I mean—”

  He holds up his hand, mercifully, to stop my babyish ramblings. Idiot! Fool! Your tongue is as flabby as the bladder of a hag. Can you not speak with a spoonful of sense when asked a simple question? How can such a foolish girl hope to bring down a warrior?

  Fleance’s father turns to the Master of Arms. “School Fleance at a different time from the other lads. I will have you teach this lad, this friend of his, along with my son.” He jabs his thumb toward me. My mouth falls open in shock. Fleance’s father continues, “Perchance ’twill be easier for my son to learn without those other louts about him.” He jerks his chin toward Fleance. “What say you to that, boy?”

  Fleance trots over, the smudges of tears on his cheek. “You mean that, sir?”

  The Master of Arms shoots a frowning glance at me then says, “But this is a scullery lad, sir.”

  “So? Did you not say that there were no well-born lads of my son’s size—”

  “But, Lord Banquo—”

  “Scullery lad or no,” Fleance’s father shouts, “I will have him learn with my son. Be glad ’tis but a scullery lad. If ’twould help my son learn the arts of war, I would have you train a dog or pig alongside him.”

  “You mistake my meaning, Lord Banquo,” the Master of Arms says. “My only worry is that the cook may not like releasing one of his scullery lads to us when he needs his help in the kitchen.”

  Fleance’s father throws back his head and laughs. I like the sound of his laugh. It is loose and generous and seems to fill his whole body.

  “Leave it to me,” he says. “I will talk to the lord of the castle. I can safely promise you that you can have these lads to school together.”

  He pats Fleance’s cheek with one thick finger. “ ’Tis past time I should be back with the other warriors, my son. Learn the arts of war. Learn them quickly. For me.”

  S E V E N T E E N

  MASTER COOK is not pleased. “Had I known you would be so much trouble, I should have left you outside the gates,” he screams at me. “Be prepared, boy, to work late into the night so I can make certain you have done your share. Should you not finish all the work I set for you, then out of the castle you go!”

  I am outraged, but Lisette comforts me. “Do not fret, Gilly. He dares not throw you out. To tell the truth, my bramble bud, I know not why, but ’tis true what folk say—cooks are often bad-tempered. Many folks say ’tis because they work so near the fires. Just as the fires of hell sour the temper of Satan and his minions, the kitchen fires give cooks the devil’s own temper.” She sighs. “But I fear you have made enemies of Master Cook and the other lads. They will not be much pleased that you are to spend your time training in the ways of a knight. They will feel, my little pipkin, and perhaps rightly so, that you reach above your station.” And she gives me a share of a broken wafer to sweeten the harshness of her words.

  Pod looks frightened. “Will you spend all your time with that noble lad, Gilly? Will you no longer care for me?” His eyes are sad and his lower lip starts to tremble. I want to shake him. I want toscream at him and ask did I ever say that I would care for him and take time for him? I want to scream at him, Do not trust me, I cannot be responsible for the protection of others. Instead I ruffle his hair with my rough hand and keep whispering, My life is an arrow, over and over, until the fire inside me dies away.

  Lisette is right. The other lads are jealous and resentful. Brude huddles with Alpen, Mungo, Ban, and the other apprentices. They shoot me cold looks and make no attempts to hide their sullen wrath.

  But I do not let this stop me. Surely by staying close to Fleance I can soon find a way to come close to Him. Near three weeks have passed since I came to t
he castle, and I am still far distant from my revenge. I do not know what is happening with the war, but I do know that He cannot stay much longer at His castle. Doubtless ’twill soon be time for Him to return and fight. In fact, I marvel that He has remained this long.

  I quickly learn that I do not enjoy the warrior training. Every day I am sore and bruised from our work with the Master of Arms. Every day my muscles ache, for all that I am stronger and fleeter than Fleance. When he goes to supper, I must plod back to the kitchen where I am given the worst tasks. Whenever I must carry a platter to the Great Hall, Master Cook heaps it so high that my arms tremble from the weight. When I must take a basin of soup, he fills it so full that I must walk heel to toe so that I do not spill a drop. I notice he uses more bowls, knives, ladles, plates, and such than ever before. I suspect he does it to provide me more work. Many a night, when all the castle has gone to sleep, I work alone in the scullery shed, scouring and rinsing. Pod keeps me company, prattling of the little things that went on in the kitchen while I was at my training, although oftentimes he struggles so hard to stifle his yawns that his eyes fill with tears. I have made up my mind to teach Pod the ways of castle folk, but I am too tired. Each night I vow I will do it the next day, but that day never seems to come. Some nights when I tumble into my makeshift bed, I am too tired even to think of my revenge.

  And yet, some small parts of the training are fun. We play at foxand hounds, for instance, because the Master says this will make our legs and wits strong. Fleance does not make a very satisfactory fox. When he is the fox, I can tag him within a few steps.

  “Use your size,” the Master of Arms bellows at him. “Since you are small, learn to be nimble. You can duck and turn much quicker than this kitchen lout.” But Fleance does not heed him, so most of the time I am the fox and not the hound. I do love being a fox. Most of the time I take joy in running. It makes me feel fleet and free, for all that it makes my legs ache afterward, especially when I am later running to and from the Great Hall with great heavy platters of food in my hands.

  To my surprise, the Master of Arms is a passing good teacher. His speech is filled with hard oaths, and he is prone to shouting, but he is patient and explains things well. In spite of myself, I feel a thrill when I take the wooden training sword in hand.

  “A true broadsword, a warrior’s broadsword,” he warns us, “can weigh as much as a full-grown pig.”

  To build up our strength in our arms and hands, he makes us carry small grinding stones from one end of the courtyard to the other. As I wheeze my way along, Brude and the other kitchen lads line up to watch me and snicker.

  Unfortunately, there is never much time for talking with Fleance. I always arrive first, and the Master of Arms shows me different ways to handle the sword until finally Fleance’s sad, dragging footsteps are heard. Sometimes Fleance’s father comes to watch. He, too, is patient, and shouts out encouragement to the boy as he struggles to lift the small wooden sword. At times other warriors stop by on their way to and from the stable. They often laugh at our mishaps, but their laughter is not unkind. Sometimes they regale us with stories about their early days as pages and squires. A few of them swear to Fleance that they were just as pisley and flap-armed as he when they were young. But to my frustration, He is never among the warriors who show up to cheer us on.

  Every afternoon the Master gives us one short break to draw a bucket of water to drink and to pour over our heads to cool us down.

  One afternoon, during our break from training, I ask Fleance why he is there.

  “I am being fostered,” he says, and his mouth turns down.

  “I do not know what that means.”

  “Those of us who are noble born—the boys—are sent to other men’s castles to learn to be warriors and noblemen. We are trained at arms and horsemanship. We serve at table so we can learn manners.” He looks reflective. “I suppose ’tis thought that other men can teach a lad easier than his own father. I don’t really understand why it must be done.”

  Wordlessly I offer him the last of the water in the bucket, but he shakes his head.

  “If you could have any wish, would you choose to be at home with your mother?”

  He shakes his head again. “I would choose to be in Rome or Paris or someplace to the south where learned men congregate and there are books aplenty. I am going to be a great man of science, you see. I love my mother, but our home is just as drab as this place.”

  As the days pass, I am pleased to note that Pod continues to keep himself fresh and clean. Brude and the other kitchen lads give him a wide passage when I am near, but I suspect they are often unkind to him when Lisette and I are elsewhere. I praise Pod lavishly to Lisette, but I cannot soften her heart. She only shakes her head sadly, and once, when I remark how Pod loves to please her, she says, “The little one is your brother, lad. ’Tis your duty, not mine, to care for your own kin. You cannot pass this off to others just to buy the freedom to live your own life lightly.”

  You do not know, old woman, you do not understand that I am near broken under the yoke of duty. Not one day in my whole life have I lived lightly. And Pod is not my duty. You would gawk if you knew how much I have done already for this lad who is no charge of mine. But of course I cannot say that to her, nor can I risk angering her. So no matter how foul I feel, I keep my face as pleasant as a posy.

  I will wash my hands of Pod and this whole matter, I vow, but thatnight as I scrape trenchers and watch Pod, who keeps me company, fight his yawns so I will not have to work all alone, I reconsider. If He kills me, what will become of Pod? Surely Lisette will soften. But perhaps not. Perhaps things are pinched in her children’s households and they cannot spare a crust for a mouth that is not kin. Even if they could feed Pod, it is doubtful that Lisette would have coin enough to buy the fancy stuff needed to make wafers just so she could teach Pod the trade. I worry that he will not survive in the kitchen with Lisette and me both gone. Besides, I would not leave him with Master Cook with his devil’s temper and hungry eyes, his love of bullying and tendency to pat and pinch and stroke the kitchen lads. He does not touch me, not since I pulled back from him, and he does not touch Pod, but I do not like the way his hands play about the shoulders and faces of both the kitchen lads and the littlest laundry maids who are sent to the kitchen for ashes and bowls of grease. Even less do I like the way that Brude returns Master Cook’s pats, speaking honey words to his face and spitting out vinegar behind his back. No. Anything but that for Pod.

  I will toughen him up. Surely Fleance will need a manservant, and perhaps after Pod is a little bolder and knows more of the ways of castle folk, perhaps Fleance would take him on as his serving man.

  So even though I feel hewed from toe to crown with tiredness, I say to Pod, “Stand up.”

  He looks puzzled, but he obeys.

  “You know I am in training?” I say.

  He nods.

  “ ’Tis time you go into training, too.”

  He looks alarmed. “Gilly, I do not think I can lift a sword.”

  “You will not need to lift a sword, lad. But we both must harden a bit if we wish to survive. We will start with your walk.”

  He looks even more puzzled. “I know how to walk, Gilly.”

  When you walk, you wobble like a gallywoggle. But I do not say these words. Instead I say, “Stand behind me. Walk just the way I do.”

  We march about the scullery shed like a mama duck and her lone duckling. Was there ever such a comedy? Here am I, a girl, teaching a boy how to walk like a boy. From time to time, I stand back and watch him. “No, Pod. Step firmly like you know the earth is yours by right. That’s the way warriors tread. Pull your shoulders wide. Take up as much space as you can.”

  We work for a long time till we are both far too weary to move one inch more. Pod will never be mistaken for a warrior, but he moves with a little more power.

  Then I teach him how to stand, to sit, to clean his teeth, and how to eat with castle manners.
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  For all the time I spend with him, I know that I will throw him over in a snail’s breath as soon as I find a way to come to Him. Life crushes small lads like Pod all the time. Everyone knows that a lord is worth hundreds of peasants. It’s sad but it’s the way of the world. It’s not my lot to reform life. My lot is to commit one murder and nothing more.

  As spring drains into summer, I train daily with Fleance. And daily I grow angrier and angrier that I am no nearer my goal.

  When at last I learn the location of His chamber, the lesson takes place in the kitchen and not the arms yard.

  MASTER COOK continues to be spiteful about my warrior lessons with Fleance. I grow frustrated. He picked me to work in the castle because I was a scribe, but he does not give me any writing to do.

  “Perhaps he cannot come by any parchment,” Lisette consoles me when I complain to her. “Or perhaps, for all his lofty talk, he fears to begin.”

  “What can he fear?”

  “My brave little radish, ’tis a hard thing to start something new, and it grows harder as a body grows older. If Master Aswald has never had a scribe write down one of his recipes, perhaps he is fearful to start.”

  That gives me something to think about indeed. I munch on thehandful of parched peas that Lisette slips me and contemplate her words. During the next few days I study Master Cook. Can it be true that behind the swagger and bluster hides a man who is afraid of having his words written down?

  Still and all, he piles up the work on me, saving me all the nastiestchores. I am ordered to gut most of the game and often find myself up to my elbows in blood and steaming entrails. I turn the spit at least three times a week, standing and turning for hour upon hour. Pod usually sits nearby, but I am often too tired to talk. One time he asks me to sing for him, but I am fearful of the mockery of the other kitchen lads, so I quickly shush him.

  One evening Lisette is summoned to the Great Hall. When she returns, her face is pink and her eyes sparkle. “The lady herself complimented me on my wafers.”