The Third Witch

by Rebecca Reisert

  The kitchen folk cheer. I am pleased to see Master Cook stalk out angrily. No one has summoned him to the Great Hall.

  Later that night, when Lisette and I are cracking almonds to soak in milk for the next day’s wafers, I ask, “What was the lady like?”

  “Very beautiful, very elegant. But what impressed me most is how his lordship keeps his eyes on her. Like a falcon on a rabbit.”

  I lean forward, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. “As if He suspects her of something and wants to catch her in the wrongdoing?”

  Lisette’s laughter shakes her whole body. “No, my little innocent. He watches her because he is still in love with her. ’Tis as good as a ballad to see a man so in love with a woman, especially after so many years.”

  I snort in disgust. “ ’Tis indecent to think of Him at His age still panting after her like a hound in heat. It disgusts me.”

  Lisette laughs again. “Have you never had a sweetheart, Gilly?”

  I jerk back in disgust. “I will never love! I have seen what love can do. I have seen too much death in the service of love, so there will be no love in my life.”

  Lisette looks shocked. I know I am saying too much, but the words keep spilling out of me like grain from an upturned sack. “Those who love are fools indeed. There will be no love in my life.”

  Then from across the courtyard, I hear Pod’s voice.

  “I did not do it,” he wails.

  “Hush,” a lad says, and I hear Pod give a yelp as if he has been hit.

  I dash out.

  On the far side of the dovecote stand Mungo, Alpen, Ban, and Brude, all in a ring with six or seven stable lads. I am surprised to see the kitchen lads mixing with the lads from the stables, for always before the stable lads have been our sworn enemies. But now, united in purpose, they are shoving something back and forth, like lads in a game of tumble-push. I catch a glimpse in the space between them of what they are shoving.

  It is Pod.

  E I G H T E E N

  IN THE CENTER of the band of boys cowers Pod, his hands clutching his chest. Goo and bits of shells from broken eggs drip down the front of his tunic.

  “I did not do it!” he wails again.

  “Hush, mooncalf!” And the biggest stable lad shoves Pod to his hands and knees in the courtyard mud.

  Brude whispers in a mocking tone, “Doesn’t a little pig boy like you know that his lordship’s eggs are valuable?”

  “I did not do it! You made me break the eggs!”

  “ ’Twould be a sin to waste his lordship’s good food this way.” The biggest stable lad pushes his huge, mucky foot into the small of Pod’s back. “Lackwit, lick up your mess and then we may let you live.”

  “I did not—”

  “Lick!” With his foot, the lad shoves Pod’s face into the dirt.

  In the soft tone of enemy drums heard from far away, the other boys begin to chant “Lick, lick, lick,” but quicker than my thinking, I grab a broken fence stake lying on the trash heap, and I am in the center of the circle, whirling the stake like a sword, knocking thescullery lads aside, leaping and twisting. My heart sings as I see them fall. I feel like the archangel Michael, and for the first time in my life I feel the glory of fighting. A couple of them also grab broken stakes, but they are no match for me. I scream like a ghost of death, and in next to no time, they all run.

  Panting, I stagger to Pod. He is curled up like a hedge pig, all in a little frightened ball.

  “ ’Tis safe now,” I gasp out, drawing in huge gulps of breath.

  Then I hear a deep voice say, “Well done, lad.”

  I whirl around.

  There He stands, the man I hate most in all the world and time, gloved and booted as if He has just returned from riding. His red hair flames across his head, the color of a dying sun.

  My mouth drops open. I glance at the stake in my hand. Move swiftly, Gilly, and stab the stake into His black heart. But immediately I realize that my stake would be hacked to bits by the sword that hangs from His belt long before it would even touch His chest. There is no glory in dying for a cause if I fail to accomplish my goal. It would be a waste. And yet my brain screams, Do something! Do something!

  But I stand frozen as a fire-spooked horse, just gawking at Him.

  He is tall, taller than most of the men in the castle. I did not remember His hair as being so bright, but it is fitting since everyone knows the devil marks his special children with red hair.

  “He is the lad who trains with my son.” I see Fleance’s father standing beside Him, both of them dark shapes like standing stones against the fading light.

  Then He nods at me. “You have a good heart, fighting for one who cannot fight for himself. In a few years, when you have a little more muscle on that body, if you want to train as a warrior, come see me.”

  Then He is gone.

  I stand, numb.

  A second chance, and I do nothing.

  I am a gapeseed, a strutting hobbledee horse, full of fury and threats but able to do nothing but playact. I have prayed for another chance, and for a second time, I do nothing. My life is an arrow . . .

  To my shame, my eyes fill with tears.

  Pod uncurls and rises to his feet. He puts an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t cry, Gilly. You saved me. Don’t cry.”

  And so we stay for a long time in the growing dusk while egg yolk drips down his front and a few traitor tears drip down my cheeks.

  I do not know who is the greater loony.

  N I N E T E E N

  WHEN WE FINALLY GO back into the kitchen, Master Cook begins to shout, but Lisette takes one look at the two of us and silences him. “I followed Gilly out,” she says, “and our lord himself told Gilly well done. Would you countersay what our lord has spoken?”

  Master Cook presses his lips tight together and stamps away. Lisette sits us both down on stools by the fire and uses her apron to wipe off Pod’s shirt and my face.

  “I did not do it,” he tells Lisette. “I did not drop the eggs. They made me.”

  “ ’Tis all right, my mustardseed. I know you are a good worker and you do not drop the things you are sent to fetch.” She hugs Pod to her plump bosom, and she stretches out her free hand toward me, but I move away. I have failed a second time, and I do not deserve a kind touch.

  That evening, Master Cook is summoned to the Great Hall. He glitters with joy.

  “No doubt ’twas my dish of Mawmenny,” he tells us, shiny with expectation. His fat little mouth purses into a smile. “I used bothminced pork and chopped mutton, and then I flavored my sauce with juniper berries. In France I hear they color the dish indigo, but I think the red color I use shows the dish off to better advantage.” With his best paring knife he begins to scrape under his fingernails. “For ten years I have toiled faithfully for our thane. Tonight all my work will be rewarded.”

  He is even jovial to me. “Gilly, tomorrow you shall begin writing down my recipes for all to see.”

  The other masters gather around the hearth, speculating on how big the reward will be.

  “I vow he will bring back a sackful of gold,” says Master Baker.

  “Nay,” says the red-faced alewife. “Them that rule is often ungenerous. They think their notice and their soft words are reward enough for the likes of us.”

  Finally the kitchen folk decide that Master Cook will be given a purse of silver coins.

  “I will use one coin to buy sweetmeats for all who work in the kitchen,” Master Cook announces as he follows Master Steward’s man up to the Great Hall.

  “Could it be true?” Pod whispers to me with shining eyes. I nudge his shoulder with mine in a friendly fashion, but I do not return any other answer. I am too heartsick with failure to speak.

  When Master Cook storms back into the kitchen, it is clear that he did not receive a reward. He stalks over to where I sit by the fire.

  “Not only,” he announces in a shrill voice to us all, “did I not receive even a
word of praise, but I had to listen to praises of this lazy, greedy shirkwork!” All of a sudden he backhands me across the face. I am not expecting it, so I tumble sideways off my stool. I feel his handprint burn on my cheek.

  “Ten years,” he says, “I have worked faithfully for him. Ten years of hard, hot toil, and then this moorsnipe knocks a few lads down with a stick, and his lordship is all atwitter with delight. In front of the whole hall, he asks me what kind of worker this lad is. ‘I hate to bear tales, sire,’ said I, ‘but young Gilly is not one of the best.’ Whatdoes he do then but throw his head back and laugh. ‘A warrior’s place is not in the kitchen,’ said he. ‘If the lad is not so good, send him along to me. We’ll train him as a page.’ ”

  Pod gasps. He clutches my sleeve as if I were about to go that instant. His eyes are wide with fright. But I pull away from him. Inside my heart shouts with joy. I am to be a page! I will be near Him all the time! My life is a dagger, and it is headed to—

  A whack to the top of my head brings my attention back to the present. Master Cook glowers at me. “Page, indeed! We can see who has dreams far above his station.” He raises his hand to hit me again, but I scoot out of his way.

  Master Cook’s plump lips tremble. “Gilly, do not be puffing yourself up with fine airs just yet! ‘Sire,’ said I, ‘even though young Gilly is not so good a worker, I can ill spare him at present. We have barely enough hands to get the work done as ’tis,’ said I. So what does he do? What does he do, I ask you, but tell me, ‘Next time you go to the village you must hire a lad to take the young fighter’s place.’ ” Master Cook stomps to the corner in which the garden goods are piled. He yanks up a sack and stomps to a table where he spills out the turnips. He grabs the biggest cleaver and begins whacking it down, hacking the vegetables into thick slices. I am sure he would prefer it to be my head that he is hacking to bits. “Next time I go to the village! Hah! ’Twill be a frozen day in June before I go to the village and hire a lad to take the place of this pig’s ear who thinks himself a prince.”

  Most of the others are slinking out of the kitchen. I make a motion to follow, but Master Cook grabs a nearby earthenware pot and flings it at me. He misses. Instead it hits an edge of the hearth stone and shatters, sprinkling its contents of dried peas over the ashes.

  “Pick the peas out of the ashes, Gilly, and be quick about it.”

  I open my mouth to answer, but out of the corner of my eye I see Lisette press a single finger to her mouth in a warning signal, and so I am silent. She puts an arm around Pod, who is crying, and leadshim from the kitchen. I kneel on the far side of the hearth. Keeping a wary eye on Master Cook, I let my fingers dart into the ashes and roll out the dried peas, one by one.

  Master Cook continues to talk. “Ten years have I served him. Ten years, day and night, with no grumbling or complaint. Ten no-account years, all because of a grubby scullery lad who thinks he’s so grand because he knows how to read. Next thing I know, our lord will be adopting this lad to be his son. ’Twould be hard to pick between them as to which has his nose stuck highest in the air. Too proud to notice his faithful cook is his lordship. Always wanting the best food, but too proud to give any mind to where it comes from or who works like a serf to provide it. Too proud to say a thank-you. Too proud even to relieve himself with the rest of us. Has to have his own private night closet does his lordship and his lady wife.”

  Desperately, recklessly, I seize the opportunity. “How can that be?” I try to sound as young and as innocent as possible. “Are His private chambers away from the rest?”

  For a few heartbeats Master Cook regards me with wild eyes, then he resumes his hacking away at the turnips. “Oh, Lordy, yes! Too proud is he to live cheek to jowl with his guests. No, his lordship and his lady wife must have their private chambers with its own private latrine, up their private stair at the far end of the Great Hall. He is even too proud to let his nightsoil mingle with that of the other nobles.”

  Tomorrow I can search out His chambers, now that I know where to start. I can—

  Another blow makes my head ring like a dropped kettle. Master Cook towers above me, and I can see he is crying.

  “Do not be thinking you can just stroll up there and demand an audience with him, no matter how well he admires your gutter fighting. We are at war, and day and night one of his men at arms stands guard over the steps to his chamber. Even though his lordship favors you, his men at arms will not let a filthy kitchen snipe near his master.”

  He throws the cleaver back onto the table amid the mangled corpses of turnips.

  “After you finish sorting the peas, clean up this mess.” He strides to the door. Just before he goes out, he stops and stands still for the space of several breaths. Then he looks at me with narrowed eyes. “You may be in his favor now, but he does not have a long memory. I daresay the next time he sees you, he will not know you at all.”

  NONETHELESS, THE NEXT MORNING, as soon as I reckon all the sleepers have left the Great Hall, I sneak out of the kitchen. His lordship and His lady wife have their private chambers, up a private stair at the far end of the Great Hall. Of course! When I had visited Fleance, I went up the stairway at the near end. Yet I have never seen any other stair. Now I creep to the dais at the far end of the hall. I still see no stairway, only three woven tapestries with pictures of battles I do not recognize. I lift a corner of each tapestry. Behind the last one is a small spiraling stairway. I start up these new stairs, but at the top stands a man at arms, a sword in his fist.

  “You have no business here,” the guard says, his fingers tight on the handle of his sword.

  “His lordship favored me last night with—”

  “Be gone, boy! You have no business here.”

  “I want to thank His lordship for his fine compliments sent to me through Master Cook—”

  His free arm swings out and knocks me to the ground. My elbow smashes hard against a corner of a step, and I cry out with pain.

  “You have no business here,” he repeats, and he moves toward me. I scoot backward and fall to the next step.

  “His lordship is leaving for the battlefield tomorrow. If I catch you trying to bother him again before we leave, I will cut off your hand!”

  He jabs his sword toward me and laughs. I scuttle awkwardly like a crab down the remaining stairs.

  Leaving tomorrow! My stomach drops like a stone in a well. If only I had more time. . . .

  At my lesson in arms, I am inattentive. I’m frantic that He is leaving so soon. To his delight, Fleance twice knocks the small sword out of my hand.

  “Hurrah!” he cries, and struts about the arms yard like a thin banty rooster.

  My next blow of the day comes from the Master of Arms who, after witnessing Fleance’s triumph, thumps me across the shoulders with a long pole. “Wake up,” he says. “Do not be woolgathering, lad.”

  But all at once excitement explodes inside me. I suddenly understand that Master Cook has told me exactly the way to reach His chamber.

  T W E N T Y

  HAD I NOT KNOWN it was there, I might have missed it.

  It is cleverly constructed, barely a shoulder span wide and flush along the far side of the motte, the small hill from which the keep rises.

  Dirt has been heaped against the wooden panel that serves as a tiny door to His private night shaft. With my fingernails, I scrape around the corners until I can lift the panel open.

  The smell tells me I have found what I seek. The shaft to His private night closet.

  I wonder why this latrine is constructed different from the other one. But all I can think of is that perhaps they were built at different times.

  Then I wonder why I’m delaying. Get on with it.

  I tear handfuls of grasses from the motte and scatter them over the bottom of the hole until there is a fine carpet.

  Still I hesitate.

  “Fool,” I chide myself. “Clodpole, blockhead! Have you come this close to abandon it now because your nose c
annot accommodate a little stink?”

  If I am caught, what will be done to me? I am not fool enough to imagine I would escape with a mere beating. This is a time of war, and not even the most tender-hearted holy sister would have a smidgeon of mercy for one who sneaks into the lord’s private chambers armed with a knife, even if the knife is a worn-out dagger with a broken blade. My own traitor heart keeps screaming, You do not want to die, you do not want to die. And death would not be the worst thing about being caught. There would be torture, too. I am sore afraid that I lack the strength to endure torture valiantly. And should I die the slow death of a tortured coward, sniveling and begging Him to kill me quick and free me from my pain, then would I betray those I loved a second time.

  Stop these horrible imaginings! All you need do is climb into that narrow darkness. Soldiers have done as much when they have captured enemy castles. You have more reason than they to be stouthearted. Your cause is just. Climb!

  And still I do not climb.

  I have made my life an arrow . . .

  But you do not shoot arrows into darkness.

  I have made my life a dagger . . .

  I do not climb.

  Perhaps it is all a lie. Perhaps, Gilly, it is nothing more than a nursery-story to frighten bogies away. Perhaps you do not want to kill Him at all, perhaps He did you and yours no wrong, perhaps it is all baby-play to you and your life has no meaning. Admit that you are a coward and He is all courage and might, that you—

  And I begin to climb.

  It is a long, thankless climb up the shaft of the latrine. The very narrowness of the shaft is all that makes the climbing possible. A grown man would fit too tight in it, like a cork in the mouth of a bottle. A child like Pod or Fleance would be too small to reach from wall to wall. But I fit snugly enough, as if the very size of this rank place has been fashioned just for me. It is another sign that God approves of my course of action. This shaft was made so I could climb it to my revenge.

  As I inch upward, I pray that neither He nor His lady will need to use this latrine.