She pictured the look on Cook’s face when he entered the scullery to find she had not come back. She imagined him getting further and further behind in his work because she was not there to help him. She imagined potatoes and turnips and onions piling up to the ceiling, and dirt lying ankle-deep on the stone floor because she was not there to sweep. It gave her pleasure to think of it.
Alice and Claire returned. Simon handed Claire a piece of bread, dripping with honey. “Forgive me, dear Claire. I hereby vow to hold my tongue for the rest of this journey, else you may cut it out of my head and roast it for your supper.”
Claire smiled, a bit sadly, Mouse thought. “I would not exact so dear a price. You may keep your tongue, Simon.”
“My bread!” Alice exclaimed. “I left it right here, and now it is gone.”
“Oh!” Mouse gasped at the mound of crumbs littering the blanket, all that remained of Alice’s bread. She had not forgotten what had happened the last time she dared to eat her fill. But Alice merely laughed. “It seems a little mouse has stolen a meal. But no matter. I like meat as well as bread.”
She dipped a piece of pork in the honey and popped it into her mouth. Then she licked her lips and said to Mouse, “So. You come from Dunston. I imagine all is astir there, now that Penelope is finally to wed.”
Mouse was astonished. “How did you know?”
Simon said, “Alice knows everyone and everything that happens hereabouts. Truly, she is a walking history book, or else the most accomplished gossip in all of northern England. Whichever is the truth, if you want to know anything at all, Mouse, you have only to ask Alice.”
“I cannot help it,” Alice said, swirling another bit of meat into the honey. “Once I hear something, it sticks inside my head like glue, whether I want it to or not.”
Simon wiped his hands and put away his pouch. Alice hastily chewed the last of her pork. Soon the travelers were on their way again.
When they stopped in midafternoon to drink from a rushing stream, Claire suddenly said, “Turn your back, Simon. I wish to have a bath.”
“In that water? You will turn to a block of ice.”
“I am accustomed to it, and besides, it does not feel so cold once you are in it.” She smiled at Mouse. “Forgive me, little one, but you could do with a bath as well.”
“And so could I,” Alice decided. “Come along, Mouse. It will not be so bad. The sun will keep us warm.”
“You have taken leave of your senses,” Simon said calmly. “But all right. If you wish to waste time, who am I to complain? Mayhap I will go in search of our supper.”
Before Mouse could say a word, Alice and Claire disappeared behind a bush, shed their clothes, then plunged, whooping, into the stream. They bobbed side by side, with only their heads and pale shoulders showing above the water.
“Come on in, Mouse!” Claire called. “And bring your tunic. It could do with a washing as well.”
Mouse dipped one foot into the icy water. The cold made her toes tingle.
Alice laughed. “It is best to jump in all at once.”
But Mouse, who had never before gone swimming, cautiously waded in till the water covered her knees. Her teeth chattered. Suddenly something closed around her ankle. She fell backward into the water and came up shivering and sputtering.
Claire bobbed up beside her, grinning. “Forgive me, Mouse, but you must admit this is much better, is it not?”
And it was true that Mouse soon forgot the cold. What a strange and wondrous feeling it was, drifting on the water like a feather, lazy as a cloud in a bright blue sky. Alice splashed and swam in the shallows. Claire floated, eyes closed against the sun, her hair spread out like a yellow lily pad, her knees sticking up like two small white islands in the green water. The two women seemed to have forgotten all their cares, but Mouse was full of more questions than ever.
“Is it true?” she asked Alice. “Are you a walking history book?”
The goose woman wiped water from her eyes. “I hear stories when I am on the road or in the markets with my geese. And I have a good memory, true enough.”
“I am wondering,” Mouse said, “how I came to live at Dunston Manor. I want to know how old I am. Do you know about my mother?”
“Ah, child. I wish it were so, but yours is a story I have not heard. You must not dwell on it. The future is more important than the past. Now, give me your tunic.”
Mouse lifted her arms, and Alice helped her out of the tunic. From a small pouch around her neck, Alice took a sliver of hard, black soap and gave Mouse’s tunic a thorough scrubbing. Claire soaped her own hair, then Mouse’s, and when they were clean, they climbed out of the water. Alice spread Mouse’s tunic on a bush to dry. Claire tossed Mouse her white linen undergarment. “Wear my chemise till your tunic is dry.”
They dressed and sat on the riverbank, drying their hair in the sun. Mouse leaned against Claire’s shoulder, listening to the two women’s quiet talk. If only this golden afternoon could go on forever, with the three of them at the center of it.
Soon Simon returned, bearing two fat hares for their supper. While Claire and Alice kindled a fire, he skinned the game and set it to roasting on the spit. When they were seated around the fire, he nodded approvingly. “That bath was worth our time after all, for our little Mouse has turned into a queen.”
Mouse blushed. “I am naught but a skinny maid with a wounded face.”
“Your wound will heal,” he said kindly. “In time you will take no more heed of it than your own breath.”
With that, he unlaced his boot, took off his stocking, and wiggled his toes in the air.
“Simon!” Alice cried. “Whatever are you doing?”
He ignored her. “Look closely, Mouse. Does the sight of my foot offend you?”
“If not the sight, the smell surely will!” Claire teased. “Mayhap you should have a bath, too, Simon.”
“I am speaking to Mouse.”
“Your foot does not offend,” Mouse said.
“I did not think so. Yet, once I suffered a wound much worse than yours. It happened long before I came to these parts, when I was visiting the maharaja of India at his palace made of rubies and gold. Have you ever been to India, Mouse? No? Well, believe me, it is a strange and wonderful place. In the mountains lives a race of people called Pygmies, standing no taller than my knee. And any time of day or night you are apt to see elephants wandering the streets and monkeys playing in the trees.”
“Elephants?” Mouse asked.
“You have never seen one? Elephants are tall as a hillock, gray as winter rain. Their noses are long, like the branch of a tree, and curved at the end. Their ears are flat and round as river stones.”
“Elephants!” Claire scoffed. “Pygmies and gold palaces. I should be ashamed to fill this child’s head with such nonsense.”
But Simon went on. “I swear it, Mouse. India is a wondrous place, fairly bursting with tall mountains and deep, green rivers. It was just such a river that was the cause of my misfortune.
“One day I decided to go for a swim, for India is surely the hottest place in all the world. No sooner had I gone into the water than a crocodile latched on to my foot and would not let go. Just as I was thinking I would surely die, a passing fisherman fought off the murderous beast and brought me safely to shore. Half my foot was hanging down, as if suspended by a single thread. But the fisherman bound it up with salves and potions, and now I am completely healed, as you can see.”
He pulled on his stocking and jammed his foot into his boot. “Cease your worries, little one. In time all will be well. Are you hungry?”
When there was nothing left of their repast but a pile of greasy bones, Simon wiped his hands, tossed more wood onto the fire, and brought out his lute.
Claire patted the ground beside her. “Come sit here, Mouse, and I will braid your hair.”
While Alice hummed a nameless tune and the stars came out, shining like new coins, Claire braided Mouse’s hair and t
ied it with a length of ribbon taken from the sleeve of her cloak. Mouse studied the dear faces of her traveling companions. So this was what it was like to have a family.
Simon began a new song:
“On the road to London town, I met a maiden fair.
She wore a snow-white linen gown, and ribbons in her hair.
Her brown eyes shown like summer rain, oh, ne’er shall I forget.
Because she did not have a name, I called her Vi-o-let.”
He is singing about me! Mouse thought happily.
Simon smiled at her across the flickering campfire. “What about it, Mouse? Would you like that name?”
“It is a pretty name, but I am more thorn than flower,” she said ruefully.
“I cannot say I agree with you, but all right. Some brave name, then. Ronalda, perhaps. Or Georgette.”
“I am not very brave, either,” Mouse said.
“Pish and tosh! You are as brave as you decide to be. Anytime you need a bit of courage, do what I do.”
“And what might that be?” Claire asked, amused.
“Why, I stand very tall, close my eyes, and say to myself, ‘I am brave and strong.’ It has never failed me yet.”
Mouse looked doubtful. Simon said, “What shall we name you, then? A serious name, perhaps. Wilhelmina might suit you. Or Esmerelda or Henrietta.”
“Oh, no! Not Henrietta!” Alice put in. “I have a pet goose by that name. She is a dear old thing but dumb as a stone. I should not like to see our little Mouse named Henrietta.”
Simon sighed. “This task has proved more difficult than I thought. We shall leave it for another day.” Opening his pouch, he took out his potions and knelt at Mouse’s side. “Hold still, little one. Let me tend your wound.”
When that was done, Claire stood up and held out her hand. “We must rest. Coming, Mouse?”
They passed the night by the side of the road. In the morning they ate the last of the bread and honey and bundled their belongings once more.
“Ah,” Simon said as they turned down the sundappled road. “I feel like singing a morning song.”
Walking between Alice and Claire, with the sun on her face and the wind at her back, Mouse felt like singing too. She slipped her hands into theirs, and they continued on, just so, until they arrived some days later in York.
CHAPTER THREE
The Inn
To Mouse, who had never before ventured beyond the fields and forests at Dunston Manor, the city of York was a wonder. From the center of town, the streets led away in every direction, each of them lined with houses, shops, and inns all standing atop one another like piles of stones. It was market day, and the town was abustle with carts, oxen, horses, and more kinds of people than Mouse had ever known existed in the world. Nuns and priests, shopkeepers and farm folk, jugglers and stilt walkers mingled in the streets, their voices rising and falling like the drone of bees. Mouse let go of Claire’s hand and ran ahead, turning this way and that, determined not to miss a single thing.
One street overflowed with wool merchants and candlemakers, the next with ironmongers and leather-workers, ribbon sellers and fortune-tellers. The air was thick with the smells of baking bread and horseflesh, goose droppings and cheese. And the din! People shouted. Carts rattled. A church bell tolled.
As the travelers pressed through the teeming crowd, Simon said, “Come along, Mouse. Soon it will be dark, and we must find beds for the night.”
“If it please you, not yet,” Mouse said. “Fenn says the fortune-teller can see your whole future in the blink of an eye. I want to visit one.”
“Then you shall be a slave to want,” Simon declared firmly. “We must hurry, for the inns will be full. I know an innkeeper not far from here. Perchance he will let us pass the night, if only in his stables.”
When they came to a place where three streets met, Alice said, “Here is where I must leave you.” Bending down, she pressed a single coin into Mouse’s hand. “Take this, little one. For the devil dances in an empty pocket.”
Mouse’s eyes felt hot. “Stay with us.”
“And leave poor Henrietta and the others to fend for themselves?” Alice smiled. “I must go, but mayhap you will visit me in Depford someday. Anyone in the village can tell you where I live. We shall have ale and raisin cakes, and you will tell me of all your great adventures. Promise you will come.”
Mouse could only nod. Her throat ached with the effort of holding back her tears.
“Good fortune, dear Mouse,” Alice said. “I do hope we will meet again.”
Then she disappeared into the crowd.
Claire said, “Hurry, Mouse. Simon’s patience grows thin. We must not tarry any longer.”
Mouse tucked the coin into her tunic pocket and followed Claire and Simon to a square, gray building with two rows of grimy windows across the front. Beside the door hung a sign with a lion’s head painted on it. From inside came a jumble of rattling plates, loud voices, and even louder laughter.
Lifting the door latch, Simon ushered them inside to a room filled with long wooden tables laden with platters of meat, bowls of pudding, tankards of ale. The smells of damp wool, old grease, and sweat made Mouse’s nose twitch. Most of the guests seated at the tables were men in rough clothes, but at the end of one table, a well-dressed woman in a blue cloak and a plumed hat perched on her chair prim as a princess. She nodded to Mouse, and Mouse smiled back, glad that her tunic was still clean and her hair still in its neat braid.
One of the men looked up. A toothless smile spread across his broad face. “Simon Swann! They said ye were hanged for thieving!”
“Not true!” Simon said, his green eyes dancing. “As you can see, I am quite alive and in the company of the most beautiful women in the realm. Where else would I bring them save the Lion’s Head Inn?”
“Where else would you dare beg a room and a meal without a single coin in your pocket?”
Simon laughed. “Riches only increase want, my friend, so I make a point of being poor. But you are right. We have made a long journey. My companions need a goodly meal and a soft bed for the night. I myself will be quite content to sleep in the stables with the other lowly beasts.”
The innkeeper stared at the weary travelers. Mouse thought of the coin in her pocket. Mayhap he would take it in payment for a bed for Claire, whose blue eyes seemed to grow sadder by the day. Accustomed to sleeping on the stone floor at Dunston Manor, Mouse cared little for her own comfort. A mound of sweet-smelling straw in the stable, with Simon close by to watch over her, seemed a fine idea.
But then Simon spoke. “I will sing for our supper and our beds. Three songs and a new poem, composed especially for the occasion.”
“What occasion?” the innkeeper inquired, narrowing his eyes.
“It must be one saint’s day or another. I will think of something, unless I fall asleep first.”
“That has always been your trouble, Swann,” the innkeeper said. “Irresponsible to a fault.”
“He who is faultless must also be lifeless,” Simon declared, grinning. “Four songs, then, if you would drive such a hard bargain.”
When the innkeeper hesitated, Claire said wearily, “No matter. What is one more night beneath the open sky? It might be more pleasant than this wretched place.”
“You must forgive Claire,” Simon said. “Exhaustion brings out her ill temper.”
“And what of this child?” The innkeeper peered into Mouse’s face. “How did you get that wound, girl? Stealing chickens?”
Before Mouse could make an answer, Simon said, “She is no thief, but a hapless child who met with an accident on the road. She comes from a manor house some distance away and is merely on a short holiday.”
“A holiday, you say? In those rags?” He bent so close, Mouse could smell his hot, oniony breath. “Harboring strangers by night is a dangerous business. I mean to know who sleeps beneath my roof.”
“She comes from Dunston,” Simon said quickly. “Five songs, and
that is my final offer. Though if you ask politely enough, I might sing six.”
The innkeeper grimaced as if he had swallowed sour milk. Before he could reply, the door opened, and in came a young boy in rough boots and a dust-covered cloak. On a cord around his neck hung a slender silver flute.
“Will Gooding!” Simon cried, rushing to clasp the boy’s hand. “I looked for you in Marlingford, but they said you had already gone.”
“Something came up,” the boy said, shaking the dust from his cloak.
“No matter. I am at this moment in the midst of bargaining for our keep. Mayhap you will favor this company with some songs of your own.”
“I cannot stay,” Will said, setting his leather pouch on the floor. “I only stopped for a drink of water and directions to the abbey. My uncle has arranged for me to study music there.”
“You are giving up life on the road?” Simon asked. “I will sorely miss seeing you at the fairs.”
The innkeeper turned to the newcomer. “It is too far to travel to the abbey this late. You may as well stay the night, Gooding. That is, if you can pay for it.”
“I have a few coins left,” the boy said pleasantly.
Simon turned to the innkeeper. “What of our bargain? Six songs in exchange for our supper and a night’s lodging for my companions.”
“Very well,” the innkeeper said wearily. “But you must be gone by the time the cock crows. Tomorrow the fair opens, and many customers there will be with coins aplenty.”
“Done!” Simon agreed. “Let us eat first, and then the entertainment shall begin.”
Bowls of soup and hunks of bread and cheese were brought for the travelers. Mouse ate until she could not swallow another bite. When Simon had eaten his fill, he wiped his mouth and took out his lute. The room grew quiet. Claire took a chair in the corner and drew Mouse onto her lap. While Simon sang, Claire hummed softly. The sound of it filled Mouse with such bittersweet longing, she feared her heart would break.
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