The Puppeteer's Apprentice

by Love, D. Anne

  The next morning the weather was still cold and damp, and Mouse was still hurt and alone. Her cheek throbbed. Her stomach felt as if it had stuck to her backbone, but there was nothing at all to eat. She broke the thin film of ice that had formed on the stream and filled her groaning belly. Then, because she had nothing to do and nowhere to go, she scurried back to her bed of leaves and lay there trying to decide what to do.

  Presently an oxcart brimming with straw and cabbages trundled down the road. Mouse watched as the driver halted the cart and led the ox to drink, poking the ice with his staff till it broke with a faint tinkling sound. While he was busy, she stole into the cart and hid beneath the mound of dry straw. Still she had no plan for her future; she knew only that she could not go back to Dunston Manor.

  The cart squeaked and shifted beneath the driver’s weight. The ox snorted as the cart lurched along the road. Mouse poked a hole through the straw and breathed in the cold morning air. Beneath her fingers her wounded cheek oozed and burned fiercely, as if she had strayed too close to Cook’s hearth.

  She peered out across a field of brown stubble. Beneath a stand of rain-washed trees, two farmers were mending a stone fence. The cart rolled on, past a woman tending her geese, past a goat boy with his herd, past a man on a prancing horse.

  Late in the morning Mouse spied in the distance a scattering of thatched roofs and a few stone buildings of a village. Her old life was at an end. A new one was beginning, though she could not yet imagine it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Travelers

  Mouse clutched the sides of the cart as it climbed toward the village, the wheels creaking and groaning behind the plodding ox. Suddenly hoofbeats drummed on the road, then Mouse heard the startled whinny of a horse. A man shouted a curse.

  The cart lurched, then pitched end over end into a deep ravine beside the road. Mouse felt herself flying through the air amid tumbling cabbages, heard the straw rustle beneath her weight as she hit the ground. Then the world went black.

  When she revived, the cart and driver were gone, but she was not alone. Voices came to her as she lay in the ravine, eyes closed, her head throbbing.

  “She is not dead!” a woman said. “God be praised.”

  “Poor thing,” said another woman with a softer voice. “An orphan, I would reckon by the looks of her. Why, she is thin as a rake. And that tunic! I have seen beggars in finer clothes than that.”

  “Stand back, ladies!” This voice belonged to a man. Slowly, Mouse opened her eyes. He was tall and reedlike, with moss-green eyes and a mouth that looked as if it had smiled forever.

  “Well, now,” he said to Mouse. “You are alive at that! Can you sit up?”

  “I think so.” Mouse struggled to right herself, but everything turned upside down in a hot, black swirl, and she lay back on the straw.

  “Quickly!” the woman with the louder voice said. “Help her.”

  The man lifted Mouse from the ravine and laid her gently beside the road. “Sweet Satan! What happened?” he asked, taking in her matted hair, bloodstained tunic, and dirty feet.

  Mouse shook her head, afraid to trust him despite his kindly eyes.

  “No matter. Whatever their cause, your wounds must be tended.” He opened a leather pouch, took out a jar, and smoothed something cool and greasy onto her cheek. It smelled worse than the piggery at Dunston Manor, but soon it took the pain away. Mouse sat up, watching as the man stirred some dried leaves into a flask of water.

  “Drink this,” he said.

  She sniffed it cautiously.

  “It will not hurt you. ’Tis only a bit of blessed thistle, the best cure in the world for all our earthly ailments. Drink it, then you shall have something to eat.”

  The promise of food was all the encouragement Mouse needed. She drank the bitter concoction, then eyed the bread and apples the man had taken from his pouch.

  “Sit here, child.” The loud-voiced woman was nearly as tall as the man, with a sweep of black hair and bare feet coated with tar. She gave Mouse a fat apple and drew her close.

  Mouse munched her apple and studied the other woman. Her eyes were a deep clear blue, the color Mouse imagined the sea might be. Her hair was the color of fresh butter, and her hands were dainty and milk-white, like those of the ladies in the cloth pictures at Dunston Manor. Though she smiled, she wore sorrow like a cloak, as if something deep and sad had settled inside her. Just as Mouse was wondering what had happened to trouble her so, the woman spoke.

  “Where are you going, child?” she asked in a voice as lovely as her face.

  “I cannot say.” Mouse broke off a bit of bread and chewed it slowly.

  “You are wise to be wary of strangers on the road,” said the tar-footed woman. “But we mean you no harm. Otherwise, we would not have rescued you.”

  “Tell us your story,” the man urged. “It will be a hot day in January before you find more sympathetic ears.”

  And then, because she was hurt and alone in the world, Mouse told the three travelers everything. How she had been left as a helpless babe on the steps of the manor house, and how Cook had named her Mouse and taught her to fetch and carry, stir and knead, sweep and peel. How she had stolen into the great hall—was it only yestermorn?—and eaten the forbidden food. “So you see,” she finished, “I know not where to go, nor what will become of me.”

  “Dear me,” the man mused. “Yours is indeed a sad tale and your problem much too big for solving in a single afternoon. Here is what I propose: We three are on our way to York, which is some days’ walk from these parts. Come with us, and by journey’s end mayhap we will have hit upon some plan.”

  “Do come,” the two women chorused.

  “We dare not leave you on this road alone,” said the one with tarred feet. “Not with robbers about.”

  “They would get naught from me,” Mouse declared. “For I have nothing but this tattered tunic and an aching head.”

  “All the more reason to join our company,” the man said cheerfully. “Permit me to make the introductions. This,” he said, indicating the dark-haired woman, “is Alice. From Depford. A goose woman by trade, as you can plainly tell from the tar upon her feet. The other is Claire, most recently from Trumpington, but who has decided to seek her fortune in York. And I am Simon Swann. Music maker, juggler, and minstrel. As you wish.”

  The two women clapped as Simon swept into a low bow. Then he took out his lute. “I shall make a soothing song whilst you eat,” he said, “and we shall speak no more of your sad plight, for an unquiet meal makes for ill digestion.”

  Alice draped a blanket about Mouse’s shoulders. Claire brought water from the stream. Then the travelers encircled Mouse. Claire and Simon sang while Mouse ate her fill.

  When Mouse had eaten all the bread and nibbled the apple right down to the core, Simon stood. “The day grows short, and we must be away,” he said. “Come along, Mouse. You seem a well-spoken child, but I do not care one farthing for your name. Mayhap on this journey we shall choose a new one for you.”

  They gathered their bundles and set off down the road. Winter’s bitterness was waning; the sun warmed the air, and a gentle breeze settled softly on Mouse’s face. Here and there, fuzzy green buds sprouted on the trees and a few violets poked their heads above the brown grasses. With her stomach full and the three travelers for company, Mouse began to feel better.

  “This day reminds me of an old Maysong,” Simon said. He strummed his lute and sang.

  “When first the leaves are green upon the trees,

  And bees in the newborn blossoms buzz,

  When the sun shines bright and sweet birdsong fills the wood,

  Then does my heart sing for joy.”

  When he finished, everyone clapped, Mouse loudest of all.

  “That was lovely, Simon,” Claire said. “Never have I heard a sweeter tune or a more agreeable voice.”

  “My thanks, fair lady. Now it is your turn.”

  Claire’s laughter wa
s a clear, sweet sound, like chimes. “Oh ho! You know not what you ask, Simon. Pigs in the sty sing more sweetly than I.”

  “You are too modest,” Simon said. “But all right. Mayhap Alice will favor us with some tune.”

  “My song would frighten every creature in the wood,” Alice said. “But I will make you a riddle to speed the day along.”

  “A riddle!” Simon exclaimed. “Are you listening, Mouse?”

  Still astonished at how quickly her fortune had turned, Mouse could only nod.

  “All right,” Alice began. “Here it is. What is the bravest thing in all the world?”

  “A knight,” Claire said promptly.

  “No!” Alice said, laughing. “Your turn, Mouse.”

  “A lion?” Mouse guessed, remembering Fenn’s stories of the fierce beasts that could swallow a man’s head in a single bite.

  “A good try, but no,” Alice said. “Simon? What say you?”

  “Bravest thing in all the world.” He scratched his head. “The husband of a shrewish wife, no doubt.”

  “Wrong!” Alice whooped. “The answer is: a miller’s shirt. For every day it grasps a thief by the throat.”

  Her companions howled gleefully, but Mouse frowned with puzzlement. Simon explained. “Everyone in the village must bring his grain to the miller for grinding. Since he is the only one who can do the job, he is free to cheat everyone, and usually does. He is the most unpopular man in the village, and the richest one as well.”

  On they walked for some distance before Simon said, “Claire? Since you will not sing for us, tell us another riddle.”

  “I know no riddles,” Claire said dolefully.

  “What? No riddles? No songs? What manner of woman are you?”

  “Leave her be,” Alice said.

  But Simon persisted. “It is a long way to York. Tell us anything Claire, a story or a poem. Anything at all to speed this tedious journey.”

  “A poem, then,” Claire said, sighing. “A very old one I learned when I was no older than you, Mouse.

  “Upon the dawn-lit plain, knights and chargers are arrayed

  Their shields and swords gleaming.

  The trumpet sounds.

  The battle begins, the vassals go down together.

  Maces, helmets, lancers, and chargers scattered

  Upon the ground.

  While in the castle a maiden waits,

  A prayer upon her lips.”

  Alice dabbed at her eyes. “A goodly poem, but too sad.”

  “Yes,” Claire said. “It always makes me weep.”

  Eager to dispel the gloom that had settled over them, Mouse said to Simon, “If you please, sing another song.”

  “Indeed,” Alice agreed. “Something to lift our spirits, Simon, if it be not too much trouble.”

  “Later,” Simon said. “For now it is Mouse’s turn to entertain us with some tale.”

  “Until yestermorn I had seen naught save the fields and forests of Dunston,” Mouse said. “I have no tales to tell.”

  “Pish and tosh! If you will think but a moment, I am certain some amusing story will come to mind.”

  Mouse chewed her lip and thought. At last she said, “Once I stole a horse, though that was not my intent.”

  “You? A thief?” Claire said. “I do not believe it.”

  “Do tell!” Alice urged.

  “Yes,” Simon agreed, “for I would learn how one steals a horse without intending to.”

  “It was near Midsummer’s Eve,” Mouse said, “when a coach bearing Lady Dunston’s cousins turned up the drive and Cook set me to peeling onions for soup.”

  “An odious task,” Alice said.

  “Not to me,” Mouse said. “I had not eaten since early morning, and the onions seemed sweeter than cake. Before I knew it, I had eaten a whole bowl of them. Cook caught me just as I was swallowing the last bite.”

  “Dear me,” Simon said.

  “He beat me with his fist and said he would tell Lady Dunston of my thievery as soon as supper was finished. I was afraid, and as soon as his back was turned, I ran.”

  “Yes, yes, but what of the horse?” Simon said. “I am nearly faint with curiosity.”

  “When I reached the courtyard, I saw the peddler’s horse standing near the gate. He had a fat pack on his back. I was still hungry, so I climbed onto the stirrup to see if there was food I could take for my journey. Before I could open the pack, the horse bolted. I could not catch the reins, so I held on to his mane.”

  “You might have been killed!” Claire said.

  “I was afraid,” Mouse admitted. “He ran and ran and jumped the fence down by the privy. We went tearing through the wood, with me clinging like a burr to his side, one leg in the stirrup and the other sticking up like a flagpole.”

  The three travelers laughed. Mouse grinned. At the time she had been terrified, but now, with her new friends as an audience, the whole thing seemed more like an adventure than an ordeal.

  “Go on,” Simon said when he had recovered his breath.

  “I looked back, and the peddler was running after me, yelling, ‘Stop, thief!’ But I could not stop. The horse jumped a stream, and I fell off. He kept going.”

  “Were you hurt?” Alice asked, wiping her eyes.

  “Only some bruises and a lump on my head. I was too afraid to go back to Dunston. I hid in the wood, but before I could think of what to do, Fenn found me and took me back. Cook was so busy, he forgot to tell Lady Dunston about the onions and he never knew I had run away.”

  “You went back to that evil man,” Claire said.

  “I had nowhere else to go,” Mouse said simply.

  “But now you are off on a grand adventure!” Simon said. “And I shall sing us another song. A happy song is just what we need. Too much sadness will surely congeal our blood.”

  And so the first day passed.

  When darkness fell, they slept in a hamlet close by the road in a tanner’s stall. The air was thick and stale, and the hides covering them were stiff with hair and dried blood, but Mouse slept soundly.

  Shortly before sunrise Simon woke them, and they stole onto the road again, not stopping till the sun had climbed above the trees and the village lay far behind. Then he opened his pack and took out bread, honey, and a slab of fresh roasted pork.

  “Where did you get all this, pray tell?” Alice asked.

  “Here and there,” he replied with a wave of his hand.

  Mouse did not care where Simon had gotten the food, for she was hungry, right down to the ends of her toes.

  “I would have given the shopkeeper a goodly price, had the lazy lout once bestirred himself,” Simon declared. “As it was, I left a poem in payment.”

  “A poem instead of a coin?” Alice scoffed.

  “A man’s soul must be fed as well as his belly,” Simon said. “My poem will do him more good than another tankard of ale.” He tore off a hunk of bread, dipped it into the honey, and handed it to Mouse. “How is your wound and your sore head, little Mouse?”

  “Better.” Eagerly, Mouse bit into the bread.

  “And how is your sore heart today, sweet Claire?”

  “I know not what you mean,” Claire said.

  “Oh, you take my meaning well enough,” Simon said. “Pretending otherwise will not ease your sorrow.”

  Tears sprang to Claire’s eyes. She stood up and ran down the road.

  “Now see what you have done,” Alice said angrily. She tossed her bread onto the blanket and ran after Claire.

  “What makes Claire so sad?” Mouse asked. She finished her own bread and eyed the piece Alice had left behind.

  “It is quite a complicated tale,” Simon began. “Not more than a fortnight ago I arrived in Trumpington to sing for the folks thereabouts. They were tired of winter and ready for a diversion, and there I was with my lute and some new songs and a riddle or two. At Lord Boswick’s house I met Claire, who was serving as companion to his daughter, Eleanor.”

&nbs
p; Mouse nodded. Lord Dunston’s daughter, Penelope, had a companion too, an old woman with a face like a rotten apple and a disposition to match. Not one bit like Claire.

  Simon went on. “As it happened, I arrived upon the very day Lord Boswick announced Eleanor’s betrothal to Rupert Howard.” He paused in his tale to lick away the honey that dribbled down his fingers. “Rupert is one slimy fellow, Mouse, for he had long ago professed his love for Claire. She thought they would marry as soon as his fortune was settled, but alas! His father died and left the house, all the land and the sheep, everything, to Rupert’s younger brother. Unheard of!”

  Mouse broke off a bit of Alice’s bread, too small a piece to notice. She dipped it into the honey. “Then what happened?”

  “An honorable man would have found a way to keep his promise, especially to a girl as lovely as Claire. But not Rupert. Without his inheritance, the only thing standing between him and utter ruin was Eleanor’s considerable dowry, so he proposed marriage right away. But the joke will be on him soon enough, for a man who marries for wealth is sure to sell his happiness in the bargain.”

  “Poor Claire,” Mouse said.

  “Indeed.” Simon looked thoughtful. “It is a bitter thing to look into happiness through another’s eyes. It would have been quite impossible for Claire to go on living under the same roof with the one who had stolen all her dreams. So, when I was ready to take my leave, she asked if she might travel along in any direction I happened to fancy, and here we are.”

  Mouse pulled off another hunk of Alice’s bread. “What will she do when we get to York?”

  “I cannot say. I promised only to see her safely there. Then I must be away to London to sing at the fair.”

  “Fenn says London is the finest place in all the world. Mayhap I will go with you.”

  Simon laughed. “If you were a boy, you would make a goodly companion, for already you have grown on me like an old tune. But the life of a minstrel is no life at all for a maid like you.”

  Mouse dared not argue, but she determined to change Simon’s mind. The sheer, wild freedom of the open road was everything. She liked seeing new places, sleeping in a different town each night. She liked telling stories and singing songs. Mayhap in London she would find a way to make a life of her own in the world.