I cast about in my mind for something to say, but I can’t think of anything comforting.
Pod raises his arm to wipe his eyes, and his sleeve falls away, disclosing a horrible mess of scrapes and bruises. I take his arm and look at it. Then I dip the other end of my sash into the puddle of water that the guard spilled when he drew a bucket. I press my damp sash gently against the mottled mess, hoping to give him comfort.
“The other kitchen lads?” I ask.
Pod stares straight ahead without speaking.
“The guards?” I ask.
Pod starts to cry again. I hug him to me. I am so sorry for the little-fellow that my heart feels like a bruised fist.
“Gilly,” he sobs, “please don’t make us stay here.”
I hug him tighter. “Come back to the kitchen. I’ll make a poultice for your arm. ’Twill take some of the sting out of the pain.”
In the kitchen, Pod sits on a stool while I mash herbs together in a pestle to make a compress. One of the younger kitchen lads starts over to see what I am making, but I glare at him, and he moves back to a group chopping greens by the door.
Lisette bustles in, her arms filled with clean linens. She seesPod’s arm stretched out on the table, and she hurries over, clicking with concern. She looks hard at me.
“ ’Tis not your work, surely, Gilly?” Still, there is a question in her eyes.
I shake my head.
Lisette takes Pod’s chin in her hand and looks at him. He won’t meet her eyes. She strokes his hair.
“Little one, little cabbage,” she croons, “tell old Lisette who did this to you.”
Pod just looks down at his chubby hands.
“Oh, my little dumpling,” Lisette says, “how can we help you if you will not talk to us?”
Again tears begin to trickle down Pod’s face and splash onto his lap. Lisette fumbles at her waist for a key then hands it to Pod.
“Little cabbage, run to that brown chest and bring us back three sweetmeats.”
Pod nods, without much joy, and toddles off. Lisette looks after him, her face puckered and concerned.
“If he will not tell us who is hurting him, Lisette, we can do naught to make his life better.”
Lisette clucks. “The little one is not happy here. I try to keep him under my wings, but I cannot be with him all the time.”
My voice is defensive. “I look out for him, too.”
Lisette opens her mouth. I know she will contradict me, but I do not care. In truth, I look forward to it. A good quarrel will make me feel much better. But then Lisette shuts her mouth and presses her lips together as if to keep angry words from flying out. I wrap up the poultice. I feel guilty, even though there is no reason for me to do so. I did not hurt the lad. Besides, he needs to toughen up. It is a cruel world, and he must learn to defend himself. It is no service to him to let him go boo-hooing whenever some little thing happens to displease him. Still angry, Lisette snaps the linens onto the shelf, one by one. Finally she blows her breath out in a sigh and says, “Me, I do not like the things that are happening here now.”
“If Pod would just tell me which of the guards or servants—”
“Then what? What would you do, Gilly?”
“I would make them stop,” I say quickly. “I would fight them.”
“Fight them with sticks? You might triumph for the moment over any servants who bully him, but then they would come back when you are not around and hurt the little one even worse. If ’twas the king’s guards that hurt him—hurt him for sport—what would you do then?”
I feel ready to burst with frustration. I no longer like Lisette. She is as cantankerous as Nettle. She does not care enough about Pod to ’prentice him. How dare she look down on me? “Something,” I say. “There would be something to do.” A thought pops in my brain. “I would tell the sword master!”
Lisette makes a face. “Ah, yes, of a certainty the sword master would take the word of a kitchen lad over the word of one of the king’s guards.”
“ ’Tis not my fault! I can’t be with him all the time.” I no longer like Pod either. I hate them both. I hate them for making me feel guilty and helpless.
“Just how much are you with our little one?” Lisette asks.
I look away, not meeting her eyes. She begins to set out her flour and such to make her wafers. “ ’Tis a hard world, Lisette. He needs to toughen up, to learn to survive.”
Lisette snorts. She begins to bang her foodstuffs against the tabletop.
“If he would just fight back,” I say, “they would not hurt him so.”
“No,” she says softly, “they might kill him instead.”
I shout, “ ’Tis not my fault.” I do not want to think about such things! The room goes silent. I see everyone looking at me. I drop my voice to a whisper. “You have no right to scold me. You could take Pod as your apprentice and teach him to make a living, but you will not, so—”
Lisette sighs. “If we could find a small place of our own . . . and just a few gold coins. Then I would take him as an apprentice. Ifneeds be, my children can wait a year or two. In a town we could set up a shop of our own—I could make wafers and other confections— we could live like a family, we three, and our little one could be kept safe until he learned the trade, and—”
For a moment my heart sings, and then a dark thought hits me. “The king would never let you go!” I say.
Lisette’s face falls.
My voice is as hard and cold as the blade of a knife. “I did not ask to be his protector!”
To my surprise, Lisette pats my cheek. “We seldom ask for the people we love, but we love them all the same.”
I stamp my foot. “I do not love anyone! I do not love you or Pod or—”
Then I see Pod standing in the doorway, listening. I expect him to cry again, but he does not. But his face looks tired and old—like the face of an old, old man. I thrust the poultice into Lisette’s hands.
“Here. Bind this to his arm, and ’twill not hurt him so.”
I stalk out of the room, stiff and straight as the tail of an angry cat. When I pass Pod, I tell him, “I do not love you, lad. Do not tie your wagon to a star.”
I am no more than half a dozen steps into the courtyard when I am stopped by Master Cook.
“Since you have naught to do this afternoon, Gilly, Master Steward has ordered us to scrub down the flagstones in the hall. The queen’s nose is offended by the stink.” He thrusts a scrub brush into my hands. “ ’Tis to be finished by supper.”
When I reach the Great Hall with my bucket of water, a group of castle servants are scooping up the last of the rushes. They clunk off, grunting under the weight of the baskets. I begin to scrub.
The afternoon is endless. I am haunted by the memory of Pod’s sad little face. My shoulders are tight with all the sadness and guilt I feel about him. It was for his good. It would be wrong of me not to toughen him up. This cruel world gobbles up any soft or tender children. My knees hurt, my skin scraped raw between my bones and the hardstone floor. My hands are red and sting from the harsh lye soap. I trudge up and down the stairs, carrying out a pail of dirty water and carrying in a pail of clean water until my shoulders ache. Sweat rolls down my brow.
In spite of myself, I wish Pod were here with me. The afternoon would pass much more quickly could I talk with him as I work.
I do not love him, I tell myself. I will not love him. Or anyone. I feel as cross as a cat with its tail caught in a door. I scrub the floor as hard and furious as if I want to rub it to dust. After a while, the scrubbing starts to make me feel better.
Perhaps an hour before the time of setting up the tables, I reach the far end of the hall. I think about skipping the section of the floor that is hidden behind the hangings, but it will be easier to scrub that last strip of floor than to bear the scolding of Master Steward should he see that I failed to clean the last bit. I lift up the hangings and crawl behind them. It is pleasant there, like a peaceful wov
en cave. I wriggle around and sit with my back against the wall, enjoying a few moments of rest.
Then I hear His voice.
T H I R T Y - F O U R
BRING THEM IN HERE,” He commands.
A moment of silence, then footsteps scruff across the flagstones of the hall. A rough voice says, “My lord.”
I peek out and see two coarse-looking men kneeling in front of Him. One has the thick and lumpy shoulder muscles of a bear. The other is smaller with a pointed weasel face and ginger-colored hair.
With a wave of His hand, He dismisses Master Steward, who bows and leaves.
I duck back behind the tapestry to listen. I dare not let myself think of what He would do should He find me there.
“Was it yesterday that we talked together?” He asks.
“It was, my lord,” says one of the others. He has a low rumbly voice. From his accent I reckon he is perhaps a soldier or a small landholder. His voice is a little more refined than that of a peasant, but much too uncouth to be that of a noble. From the depth of the tone, I presume that the speaker is the man with the bear-broad chest.
“Have you thought more of the matter?” He asks.
“We could think of little else,” says the other man in a reed-thin voice that makes a faint whistling sound on the word else.
“So both of you now understand that Banquo is your enemy?” He asks.
“Aye, my good lord,” says the low voice, and the thin voice echoes, “Aye.”
“You both understand,” He asks, “that ’twas Banquo who caused your misfortune?”
The low voice says, “We were foolish to think that you, my lord, were the one who took our lands and clapped us in prison.”
“Forgive us, my lord,” says the thin voice, “for suspecting you.”
I hold my lower lip between my teeth so I will not cry out, You fools! Are you so dazzled by His title that you cannot tell that it was surely the king Himself who cast you down, not Lord Banquo? Don’t you see He’s playing with your mind as a cat might play with a mole just before it kills it?
The low voice says, “We thank you for making it plain to us that Banquo was the one who robbed us of our homes and dignity.”
How can they be such fools?
But He continues, “And now that I have freed you from your imprisonment, now that you know that ’twas Banquo who destroyed your lives, how do you plan to use this knowledge?”
My stomach turns in sick horror as if I had swallowed a worm the size of a hedge pig as I understand what He intends.
The low voice answers, “I don’t know, my lord.”
“Perhaps, like a good Christian, you will forgive Banquo and pray for the soul of this man who stole from you all that you value,” He says.
Both men chorus, “Never, my lord.”
“Or perhaps,” He says, “like a dog or beaten horse, you will lie there and accept anything that Banquo wishes to give.”
“Never!” they chorus again like trained ravens.
“Or perhaps,” He says, “like men, you will rise up and demand justice!”
“Yes, my lord!”
“Perhaps you will reclaim your dignity as men by punishing him who wronged you!”
“Yes, my lord!” Their voices are bold as brass trumpets.
There is a pause. I want to look out again, but I fear He might see me. Finally He says in a surprisingly gentle tone, “Then it must be done tonight—before Banquo is out of your reach.”
I was right. He has tricked these fools into killing Lord Banquo. Why does He want Lord Banquo dead? Lord Banquo is His friend. All the recent executions bear proof that He is going mad with suspicions, willing to slaughter the innocent willy-nilly just to protect Himself from any imagined attack. Then an awful memory lurches into my brain. On the heath, I predicted that Banquo’s descendants would be the kings of Scotland. Shivers run up and down my spine. Oh, no. Not that. Please God, do not let it be my careless words that set Him off to murder Fleance’s father. Quickly I press my hands against my mouth so I do not moan in fear and dread.
Just then, as if He senses my presence, He says, “ ’Tis not safe to talk here. Come with me.”
“Aye, my lord.”
I hear their footsteps clip-clop across the floor—the working men in heavy wooden shoes and Him in His leather boots. Above their footsteps I hear Him say, “Fleance, his son, must also embrace the fate of this dark hour.”
As soon as I judge it safe, I wriggle out of my hiding place. Right now it does not matter why He wants Lord Banquo and Fleance killed. What matters is what I must do. I can ponder all this later. Right now I must warn Fleance.
I run to the stairway to the upper chambers, but a guard stands there.
“I need to see Master Fleance.”
The guard looks at me, frowns, and then bursts into ugly gobs of laughter.
“What does a kitchen lad have to do with his betters?” He pinches his nose between his fingers. “Laddie, you stink to the skies. Run away, and do not ask for access to your betters.”
I stomp my foot in frustration. “I must see him now.”
The guard draws his sword from his sheath. “Be gone, goose, and do not bother me again.”
I toy with the notion of telling him the truth, but if he reports to the king, it would be my death and would avail Fleance naught. I cull my brains for an idea but can think of nothing clever. So I turn and race out of the keep, running to the armory. I stand there, shouting for the Master of Arms.
At last he hobbles in. “I must see Fleance. Immediately,” I blurt out.
He narrows his one good eye, perplexed by my haste and irritated by my intrusion, but all he says is, “There is no lesson today.”
“I must see him,” I repeat, my breath coming harsh and fast.
I want to tell him about His plan, but the Master of Arms is the king’s man, and I need his help. I feel too small and frail to handle all this bother alone. I long for Nettle to help me—she would know what to do.
The Master of Arms jerks his chin upward. “No doubt the lad is closeted with one of his books up in his chamber.”
“The guard will not let me up the stairs to see.”
The Master of Arms rubs the back of one wrist against his forehead. “ ’Tis not easy to see your betters. Best wait until supper.”
I blink in disbelief, and then I run out into the courtyard. Foolish old man. He may be good at arms, but he is no use now when danger truly threatens.
I dash to the kitchen. Pod is squatting next to Lisette, waiting for the griddle to heat up. She nods, and he leans over and spits. His spittle makes a loud sizzle against the stones.
“ ’Tis ready,” she says. He pours a ladle of thin blond batter onto the hot surface.
“Pod,” I say. “I need your help.”
Lisette frowns at me. “We make a batter for cheese wafers. ’Twill not keep.”
“Pod! Come!” I bark.
He looks back and forth, his brow creased in confusion, unable to decide what to do.
“Gilly!” shouts Master Cook. “If you have finished with scrubbing the Great Hall, come scrub these turnips for—”
“Lisette, please,” I plead in lowered tones, “I will never ask you for aught else, but a life depends on what I must do.”
She looks at me for a moment and then she gives Pod a little push. “Go with your brother,” she says.
His face lights up in relief, and he hurries to me.
“Gilly,” calls Master Cook, “come here and—”
But I do not hear the rest because I have Pod’s hand in mine and am pulling him out the door.
I stop him at the top of the stairs to the Great Hall.
“I need your help,” I tell him. “If you do not help me, Fleance will die.”
His eyes grow as wide as trenchers.
“I must get past the guard at the stairs,” I say. “So listen to what I say and do exactly as I tell you.”
He gives a little shiver,
but he listens carefully.
ONCE INSIDE THE GREAT HALL, I give him a little push. He falls to the floor and begins to scream. Even I am impressed.
Scream with all your might. Pretend your momma is being hanged as a witch, and you must scream to attract help before she dies. Scream and scream until the guard comes to you. Then tell him that you are having a fit. Tell him that it is often thus.
Pod keeps screaming and rolling about. Even I could not do better.
I wait till the guard moves toward Pod, and then I slip up the stairs. I clatter around a bend—
I see His lady running down.
“What has happened?” she asks. Her face is pale.
Face-to-face with her, I can say nothing. My tongue is as dead as a mouse in a trap. There are no words in my brain. I stare at her in shock.
“Has my husband done something?” she asks. Her voice sounds afraid.
As if I am under a spell, I cannot even shake my head. Finally she brushes past me and is down the stairs before I manage to whisper, “I am only a lad from the kitchen.”
I stand there for a few moments, waiting for the beating of my heart to slow and my breath to steady. I am unnerved, seeing her so close. I did not want to see her. Then I pull my wits together. I must save Fleance. I run the rest of the way up the stairs.
Fleance is not in his room. I run to the ramparts where he has his experiments and his study of the tides. It is possible he is working on that. But he is not on the ramparts. I am panting and have a stitch in my side. I lean against the wall to catch my breath. Then, down in the courtyard, I see Fleance and his father on horseback. They trot out through the castle’s gates.
I run down the stairs and back through the Great Hall. Pod is gone. Clever lad, I think, to do my bidding and find a way to get away so quickly. I race to the stables. Perhaps I can filch a horse and ride after Fleance and his father and warn them.
“Where did Lord Banquo go?” I demand of a stable boy.
He looks me up and down, his nose wrinkled in distaste. “Out of my stable, kitchen waste!” He makes a face at me.
I grab a pitchfork and quickly knock him to the ground.
The Third Witch Page 20