by Dakota Chase
“Is this your family’s farm?”
She shrugged a thin shoulder. “My father, Wilhelm, owns the deed to the land.” Then her chin tilted with a sort of stubborn pride. “He is one of a very few farmers who does—everyone else rents the land from Baron Meier. Also, my father is charged with the care and use of the baron’s oxen. Most farmers can’t afford their own oxen, not even father. He takes them to all the farms around here and uses them to plow the fields. Baron Meier pays him coin for this.”
I figured from her expression babysitting oxen was a big deal in these parts. I nodded. “Ah, that’s good. Listen, Brida, this is going to sound a little nuts, but would you mind telling us what year this is?”
“We have no nuts. We have cabbage, potatoes, carrots—”
Ash gave me a bemused glance. I could tell what he was thinking—was everyone here this dense or just Brida? He spoke again before I could.
“The year, though? You do have them, right?”
I gave him a sharp elbow and a stern glare. Happily, Ash’s sarcasm went over Brida’s head.
“It’s the Year of Our Lord 1583, of course.” She gave us the side-eye. “What year did you think it was?”
Ha! A little sarcasm of her own. She wasn’t as dull as Ash thought she was. I smiled at her. “Nothing, nothing. Never mind. Listen, we’re looking for a book, Brida. Maybe you can help us find it.”
“Bah. We have no books here. Why would we? None of us can read. Books are luxuries for the rich who have nothing better to spend their money on.”
Ash seemed to be growing impatient. He smacked my arm lightly with the back of his hand. “Come on, Grant. This is useless. She’s not going to help.”
“Will you chill out?” I growled at him. Honestly, sometimes Ash was so freaking mulish I just wanted to punch him in the head. Or kiss him. Again, I could never quite decide. “Brida, even if you don’t have the book, you might know who does. It’s called the Malleus Maleficarum—”
Brida’s face bleached of all color—even her lips went pale. Her eyes opened so wide I could see white all around the irises, and her expression was one of pure horror. “Who are you? What do you want from us? Are you…. Are you witch hunters?” She began to back away from the well, toward the house. Her body seemed poised for flight.
“Witch hunters? Us? No, no, not at all! You don’t need to be afraid of us, Brida. I swear!” I took a half step toward her. “Please don’t go.”
Ash turned slightly toward me and whispered, although he continued to watch Brida. “What the hell is she so afraid of?”
My gaze didn’t leave Brida either, even as I answered him. I was afraid if I broke eye contact, she’d run. “She must think we’re the bad guys. Remember what Merlin was saying about the book being the bloodiest in history? How the book was used as an instruction manual for torture?”
“She thinks we want to torture her? Ew!” Ash addressed Brida. “We’re nice guys. Really. We don’t want to hurt anybody. We just need to get the book.”
Brida looked back and forth between myself and Ash. “Why do you want it so badly, then?”
I thought fast. “To keep others from using it. To protect people. If we get it, we can take it far away from here where it won’t hurt anyone ever again.” It was the truth. Sort of. I conveniently left out the fact there were other copies of the book floating around.
She still seemed ready to run but didn’t move. She seemed to be thinking it over. Finally, she gave us a tiny nod, then glanced over her shoulder at the house. “Do you swear on your immortal souls that you aren’t going to hurt us?”
“We swear it.” I crossed my heart, and Ash gave her the Boy Scout salute, although I doubt she understood the meaning of either gesture.
“Come. We should talk inside. There is stew for supper. You will join us, yes?”
I wondered what sort of stew she was making, then decided it really didn’t matter. Considering our other options, mystery stew inside a medieval farmhouse seemed like a fine idea. I smiled at her and nodded.
She refilled her bucket, then led us around the front of the house, shooing goats away from our path. I eyed the rooster as we passed him, but he didn’t move from his place on the pigsty fence.
The door was no more than a few rough-hewn boards nailed together, and she pushed it open with ease.
There was a single large room inside the house. Several beds were pushed against the walls. The mattresses looked lumpy and were overlaid with worn patchwork quilts. I could see straw peeking out from a few small slits in the mattresses.
A large fieldstone fireplace dominated the rear wall. In it, a black cauldron was suspended over a crackling fire. Whatever was cooking in the pot smelled delicious.
An older woman in a dress similar to Brida’s squatted on a three-legged stool, stirring the contents of the pot with a long wooden spoon. She looked up, her expression turning from bored to stunned in an instant when she spotted us walking inside behind Brida. Several young children were also in the room, and they stared at us wide-eyed.
“Brida! Who do you bring here?”
“Mother, this is Grant and Ash. They are strangers here. I’ve offered them our hospitality in father’s name.”
I held my breath, wondering if Brida’s mother would let us stay. Mine sure wouldn’t. My stepmother would’ve called the cops if I’d brought home two strangers dressed like paupers and said I’d invited them in for dinner.
We were definitely in a different time than our own. Brida’s mother nodded, and although she didn’t relax her posture, she didn’t seem quite as frightened. “Of course. You are welcome to break bread with us. Brida, give them water to wash. Supper will be ready soon.”
Given Brida’s reaction when we asked about the Malleus Maleficarum, I thought it best not to question her mother about it. Instead we followed Brida to a corner of the room, where she poured water into a large basin. It was the medieval version of a bath, I guess.
She gave us a small chunk of hard yellowish soap that smelled like ammonia. I took it from her, then whispered to Ash. “Don’t get this in your eyes. I bet it’ll sting like a bitch.”
We washed up as best we could and then dried ourselves with a rough piece of cloth Brida provided. It looked like it’d been torn from a shirt. Nothing went to waste on this farm, I realized. The shirt had probably become too worn to wear and was torn into rags for cleaning and washing.
There was a picnic-style table in the room, with long bench seats on either side. Ash and I sat on one side and waited in awkward silence, watching Brida help her mother get supper ready.
Brida had four younger siblings, ranging in age from a toddling girl to a towheaded boy who seemed only a couple of years younger than Brida. None of them spoke to us, but they all stared at us as if we were two-headed cows on exhibition at the local 4H fair. I guess strangers were few and far between on the farm, but all the staring made me feel distinctly uncomfortable. I offered them a weak, self-conscious smile.
The bowls were a mismatched collection. Some looked hewn from wood and sanded smooth, and a couple were hammered tin. One was larger than the others and ceramic. It was placed at the head of the table, which I figured was Brida’s father’s place. Wooden spoons were passed out as well. Brida’s mother took a cloth and wrapped it around the cauldron’s handle, then lifted the pot from the fire and carried it to the table. She placed it in the middle, then returned to the fireplace. From an oven built into the wall, she removed a large, fragrant round loaf of bread and carried it to the table. Brida brought a crock of creamy-looking white butter and a knife. She cut the bread into thick slices, then placed the knife next to the butter. Finally, Brida’s mother poured everyone mugs of milk from a brimming pitcher.
The children all scrambled into their places at the table, nestling in close to Ash and myself, all except for the smallest one. The toddler was round-cheeked with fluffy yellow curls. She contented herself with a rag doll, playing on the floor at her mother’s
feet.
I glanced at Ash, who seemed as unsure of how to proceed as I was. Did we serve ourselves? Wait for Brida’s mother to ladle out portions? I shrugged, and we both looked to Brida for some clue.
Brida sat next to her mother on the opposite side of the table from where we sat, her head bowed. Her mother made no move to serve the food either, and none of the children made a grab for a thick slice of bread. It was as if everyone was waiting for something.
Turns out, they were.
Chapter Three
THE FOOD smelled amazing, and I was starving. I kept stealing glances at Ash and could tell he was hungry too. Then the door swung open, and a large man stepped inside. He took off his hat, which had a wide brim and was made of some sort of felt material, and hung it on a peg next to the door. Only then did he turn to the table and spot us.
“Who are these men, Irmla? Why are they in my house?” His voice was stern and gravelly. He sounded like a man unused to surprises.
Irmla answered without hesitation. “They are strangers here, husband. Our daughter has offered them your hospitality.”
Brida nodded. “It is true, Father. This is Grant, and the other is Ash. They are strangers here and in need.”
He grunted and looked no more pleased than Irmla had when Brida first brought us into the house. Like Irmla, he seemed to accept our presence, however reluctantly. “Good. You are welcome to join us for supper. I am Wilhelm Bauer. This is my farm. You have met my eldest daughter, Brida, and my wife, Irmla.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered all the same. “Yes, sir, we have.”
He gestured toward each of the other children, beginning with the two oldest, both boys. “God saw fit to give me only two sons, Christoff and Emrich. They are good boys, though. Strong. The rest are girls, Katrey and Sophey.”
We nodded to each of them. The baby was the only one who didn’t stare at us.
Wilhelm rinsed his hands in the same water we’d used before taking his seat at the head of the table. Then, as if by some invisible signal, every one of them bowed their heads and clasped their hands. We followed suit, although I kept stealing glances at Brida, determined to follow her lead.
Wilhelm broke the silence. “God, we thank you for this food and ask you to bless this house and all who dwell within it. Keep us from the evil plaguing our land. Amen.”
Huh. That was weird. I glanced at Ash again, and he gave me a tiny shrug. He must’ve been wondering the same thing I did—what sort of evil was Wilhelm talking about?
A collective of whispered “amens” parroted him, including ones from Ash and myself.
Irmla stood and picked up the ladle. She served Wilhelm first, then proceeded to fill all our bowls. The stew meat was still unidentifiable—seeing all the goats outside, I had my suspicions—but it smelled good. There were chunks of carrots and potatoes in it too. I helped myself to a slice of bread and smeared it with a thick layer of butter.
Somehow the food tasted different than what I ate back home. I mean, stew was stew, and bread was bread, and butter was butter, but the taste was different somehow. Richer, maybe. Then I realized it was probably because nothing was processed—everything was fresh. The meat was butchered on the farm, the vegetables picked from the garden, and the butter churned from fresh milk. Plus, I suspected the milk came from the same source as the meat, which would taste differently than the dairy and beef I was used to eating.
It still tasted really good.
Mystery solved, I ate until my stomach strained at the waistband of my pants. Time traveling is hungry work.
“Mother, that man’s hand is bleeding.”
The voice belonged to Katrey, who looked to be about twelve, but the man in question was Ash. The hand he’d cut earlier was bleeding again.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Ash was quick to wipe his hand on his shirt. There were a few beads of blood on his plate, though.
Irmla put down her spoon and reached across the table, motioning for Ash to show her his hand. She looked at it critically and frowned. “This is not good. See the redness? It will swell with pus soon.”
I set my spoon down and felt a little green. No one seemed bothered by the delightful dinner conversation besides me, though. Wilhelm and the younger children kept eating.
“Brida, heat water and get bandages. Katrey, bring my sewing needle and thread.” Irmla stood up and motioned for Ash to follow her. She lit a fat tallow candle and placed it in a holder next to one of the beds.
Wilhelm frowned over his stew. “Perhaps this is not our concern, Irmla. We should send him to the priests.”
“Bah. What do the priests know about herbs used to keep down swelling and stave off fever?” Irmla perused a shelf near the fireplace and began to select jars and tied bundles of dried herbs from it. “I learned from my mother, who learned from my grandmother, as Brida will learn from me.”
“You know what they say about this in the village! Will you bring accusations against this house?” Wilhelm brought his fist down on the table, rattling the plates and nearly scaring the crap out of me. I jumped, almost knocking over my mug of milk.
“What can they say about me? The women in my family have always been devout. We pray, we go to church. We are good women, good wives. That we also know the plants God has made and how to use them to heal is not a sin.” Irmla glared at her husband. I could see Brida in the proud, stubborn tilt of Irmla’s chin. I thought Brida must be a lot like her mother.
“Irmla, we do not know these men! What might they think of you speaking of such doings?” A panicky look bleached Wilhelm’s skin pale under his tan. He turned toward Grant and me. “Do not put stock in my wife’s ramblings. She has not been well of late—”
“There is nothing wrong with my mind or my skills, husband!” Irmla stood tall and crossed her arms over her chest. I could see where Brida got her brave streak from too. I always thought women of long ago were meek and mild and did everything their menfolk told them to do without question, but it was looking more and more like I was wrong. If all women were like Irmla, they were just as strong-willed as their men. Wilhelm dropped his gaze and stared at his plate as if unable to face his wife’s fury.
I could understand how he felt. When Irmla turned those fierce blue eyes of hers on me, it was all I could not to slump in my chair like a kid caught misbehaving too.
She never raised her voice, though. It remained even and steady, but strong. “The healing arts have been passed down through my family, but make no mistake, sirs, the women in my family have always been good, obedient, pious women. We go to church, do our work, and say our prayers. We are blessed to know which plants God gave to us to heal our ills and how to prepare them, not cursed.”
She took Ash’s hand and examined it. “Those awful priests and those who support them know nothing. We do not cast spells to turn milk sour or cause illness. Heaven help us, we do not consort with the devil! We simply use the plants God placed on this earth to help ease pain and suffering. It’s the priests that are the devils, if you ask me. The archbishop may very well be Satan himself—”
Wilhelm seemed to find his spine at last, or had reached the limits of his patience. He pounded his fist on the tabletop again, and this time, his voice echoed like thunder inside the small house, startling everyone—including his wife—into silence. “Enough! You go too far, Irmla. I will have no talk of heresy in this house!”
Irmla bent her head and pressed her lips into a thin white line but said nothing further. That she was swallowing her anger was obvious.
Katrey approached shyly and handed her mother a sharp-looking long silver needle. It looked more like a miniature spear to me, and I shuddered when I thought of it piercing Ash’s skin without any anesthetic. He must’ve thought so too, considering how the blood seemed to drain from his face.
“And the thread?” Irmla looked at the single strand of thin brown fiber wrapped around a wooden spool Katrey held. “Is that the last of it?”
Katrey
nodded. “Yes, Mother.”
“Very well. We’ll need to have your father trade for wool when he next goes to Trier. Then we can spin more. It’s enough for now.”
Katrey cast an impish glance at Ash. “There’s always the catgut, Mother.”
Irmla’s lips tilted in a tiny smile, and I realized they were teasing. I wondered if the catgut actually came from a cat and felt an uncomfortable chill when I couldn’t convince myself it hadn’t.
Brida offered me a small smile when she laid a few strips of old woven cloth on the bed next to her mother. She turned away and hurried to the fireplace, where she scooped hot water from a kettle hanging over the fire into a bowl. When she returned, she knelt at her mother’s feet, holding the bowl at the ready.
Irmla looked into the bowl at the amount of water Brida had brought and nodded. She gestured toward a pestle and mortar on the shelf of jars and herbs. Brida set the water down and scrambled to her feet to get it.
Brida began tearing leaves from the assortment Irmla had gathered from the shelf and opened each of the jars Irmla had selected. She added a pinch of this and a few leaves of that into the mortar. She glanced at Irmla for approval before she dropped each bit into the stone container.
Once she’d finished adding the ingredients, Brida began to grind the herbs with the stone pestle, mashing the vegetation with the rounded edge. She retrieved the bowl of hot water and added it to the mix, and then worked the brownish mess into a paste. Finally, she carried the mortar to her mother for inspection.
Irmla dipped the tip of her pinkie into the goop and tasted it with the tip of her tongue. “Good. It’s strong, but it will ward off evil so the hand will not swell.” She took one of the strips of cloth and dipped the end into the rest of the hot water in the bowl, then used it to carefully clean the cut on Ash’s hand. By the time she was done, it was seeping blood again.