by Niamh Boyce
‘What’s wrong with our Basilia?’ called Alice from her place by the fire.
‘How can anyone know when she never speaks?’
‘Is it the story, Basilia?’ said Alice. ‘Maybe she’s cross I told her the beginning and not the end. I left her with Halewijn’s head by his feet. Old Halewijn, you remember him, don’t you, Petronelle?’
‘It’s not a nice story, Alice.’
‘None of the good ones are.’
Later in our chamber, just as I thought she was asleep, my mother turned to me and began to speak.
‘After the princess did what she did – because she had to, she had no choice, for she was about to die – Halewijn’s head spoke from the ground, pleaded with her for a pot of salve to rub on his neck. She guessed it was magick salve. “A killer’s advice – I will not heed it,” she replied. She lifted his head by the hair, washed it clear in a well and galloped off through the woods with it. The white bird circled her with joy, the trees sighed with relief, and the wind was at her back. Halfway, she met Halewijn’s mother and told her, “Your son is dead; look, his head is in my lap, and my lap is full of blood.” The woman twisted and howled with grief. When the princess arrived at her father’s castle, she blew the horn, and they celebrated with Halewijn’s head on the table. It never said a word after that, or sang a tune. And that’s all there is to Alice’s tale.’
I knew, by the way they spoke, my mother and Alice were on the maiden’s side, and I should have been, too, but I didn’t like that ending. I thought of Halewijn’s mother howling with grief; if I had been her, I would’ve rescued my son’s head, rubbed it with magick salve and restored him to life. Let him lure maidens to their death with his singing – if they cannot resist a song, let them die for it.
Sir John left for Callan to settle some deals. Alice had coaxed him to put the trip off several times. She had a bad feeling about it, and she was right. When he returned two days later, his daughters were trotting behind him on a white pony. Alice and he argued into the night – she would prefer they were not under her roof. She shouted at him, said he himself had admitted that the girls were living replicas of their late mother, and what new wife would wish that in her house? John reminded her that he was master. They were his only children. It was their home now, too.
‘The girls will stay a while,’ she told Esme the next morning. ‘Adjust the meals accordingly.’
There was a change in Sir John after that trip. He brought men into the house, burgesses or sometimes just stray folk. They stayed up late playing chess, often drinking, but not always. He slept in the hall, wrapped in his cloak like a troubadour, or sometimes he slipped out of the house altogether and went missing for days at a time.
When Lucia came to visit, Alice pretended all was the same as before, but you cannot feign a glint in your eye. Lucia pestered her as to what was wrong, and she soon relented. I was surprised at my mistress.
‘He stays downstairs playing chess with his companions; they drink enough mead to flood a monastery. I could sit in my chamber till doomsday and still he won’t come up.’
‘You should’ve married a stringy, unlovely man, as sexless as a mushroom. Only a fool or a peasant marries for love.’
Lucia advised she cross into Irishtown and purchase lover’s sachets from Margaret Dun. What a humiliation, to buy love spells from her late husband’s mistress. I thought Alice would chide Lucia, but she just nodded. What she had for Sir John was a sickness, I decided, but hopefully it would soon pass.
In the kitchen, Esme and her sister were deep in discussion in front of the hearth. They talked of the change in Sir John – ‘The Turn’, they called it. They didn’t notice me leave. I ambled through the plots and orchard down to the river bank. Before long, apple in hand, I caught the eye of the handsome pearl-diver. He showed me a seed pearl in a wet shell; nudged it with his little finger and unexpectedly it rolled into the grass. We searched on our knees but could not find it.
‘Tell no one,’ he said, ‘or I’ll be flogged.’
Then he laughed, as he remembered that telling wasn’t something I did. I couldn’t stop looking at him – his sunburnt face, his smile and his tumbles of hair.
‘I find more pearls than anyone else,’ he boasted. ‘Maybe one day, I’ll have one for each of your ears … you do have ears, under there?’
He reached up, as if to pull off my head cloth. Piotr Hatton waved over.
‘Stay away from the mute!’ he shouted.
The mute.
‘Hatton’s daughter likes me, you know’ – the boy squinted as he spoke – ‘but I prefer you.’
He ran to the water’s edge then, picked up his fishing staff and waded till he was waist-high in the river. I still didn’t know his name; just that Sofia Hatton had her eye on him.
16. Petronelle
I was in the kitchen one morning, and Sir John was suddenly beside me. He tugged the hair at my nape till a lock came loose. I longed to slap his hand away but didn’t dare. I just kept stirring the whitening paste for his wife’s complexion. Sir John stared, his mouth raw-looking.
‘I’d love to see your hair undone. I imagine it’s very long.’ He tugged again. ‘It’s so dark, isn’t it? Yet, your girl is golden-red. Is she really your child, Petronelle?’
‘Of course she is, sir.’
I shook a drop of rosewater into the mix.
‘Pardon me.’
I carried the bowl past him. My hands trembled, and some spilt. It was unheard of for the master of the house to venture down to the kitchen. There was something in Sir John that didn’t care for manners or rules – something in Sir John cared only for the animal in himself.
I went walking by the river, looking out for Líadan. Lately, my daughter was as hard to track as a stray. I stopped to watch a small dog swimming alongside the bank; from its frantic paddling, I guessed it was its first time. A swan appeared from the reeds then and opened its wings. They beat once and the bird rose into the air and speared the animal’s skull with its orange beak. The pup sank into the water, and the swan glided back to its nest amongst the reeds. I blessed myself in pity for the creature’s short life. I hadn’t the heart to continue, so retraced my steps back to the house and slipped into the Altar Room.
I shut the door, wishing it had a lock, and knelt and tried to pray. Was it a sin, I wondered, to pray for a soulless creature? My prayers were short, for I kept being distracted. The candles were burned down, the pew was slightly askew, and the air felt different. Since those sisters had discovered it, my sanctuary was ruined. They preferred the Altar Room to ‘the coffin’, claiming to hear noises there at night. Well, Cristine made the claims, Beatrice just nodded along. I caught them in here yesterday. They were playing one of their fortune-telling games. A favoured pastime of theirs was to seek the names of their future husbands by looking for auguries in candle smoke or the lines of their palms. I opened my own hand and looked at the lines and creases there. Líthgen read fortunes when I was a child, but seldom that of her own family, unless my sister and I begged. I’d watch her, peering so close to someone’s palm that her nose touched their skin, muttering as if she saw the most fascinating thing in the world. That all stopped when Dervla disappeared.
My sister and I were not similar. She was older and very obedient. I was my father’s favourite, and she stayed close to our mother. She seemed sometimes like Líthgen’s shadow, carding wool or spinning alongside her. As if she had always been a ghost. It was wrong to think that way. I blessed myself. I could not even light a candle, for the twins had wasted the wax on their silly divinations.
‘It’s much nicer than the coffin, Petronelle – could we not lodge here?’ said Cristine when I caught them.
I took the broom and swept them out. They were everywhere. Alice had to brush them off her favourite chair, even off the end of her bed. ‘You have no parrots!’ they complained, as if pets were as vital as bread. She waved them away with a laugh. ‘Vile, vile step-kin,’ she mutt
ered.
I almost pitied her stepdaughters; there was no place for them here. They should return to their late mother’s household. They agreed it was a fine estate, but they thought they had better marriage prospects in Hightown. They might have, had there been only one of them. Though many men who passed through the house found them enticing, and wished to bed them, preferably both at the same time, they wanted neither as a wife.
Líadan studied them just as she had Alice, but with a disdain that led to no imitation. The last moon saw my daughter bleed. I’d have to think about things I didn’t want to think about. Alice had spoken of marriage, of a new gown. I didn’t make another argument against it; that would make Alice only more determined. It was Líadan’s own fault that Alice was plotting. She had been drawing attention to herself. I had warned her, but still she sneaked off into town, or dallied by the river, any chance she got. Some river boy had caught her eye.
I had seen her slipping through the orchard, down to where the men worked the shallows. Did she think she was invisible, that no one could see? At least it was only a flirtation. Nothing as serious as marriage. I’d throw myself in the river before my daughter became chattel to some trader.
Maybe Alice was interfering to distract herself. We all knew how besotted she had been, riding into the night to meet that man. Sir John had gone from lover to husband very quickly. I was surprised that Alice was so surprised. She should’ve known better yet she pined like a girl, fretted that he visited someone else’s bed – and perhaps he did. What hunter only hunts once?
Sir John had gone on yet another visit to Callan, while we were left to feed and water his daughters. They had changed this house, he and his girls, and my wish every night before I went to sleep was that I could change it back.
17. Basilia
I was drying my hair by the fire when Lucia entered, and called up the stairs to my mistress. Alice came down, and they took the seats by the hearth. I stayed on the stool and drew my fingers through the damp strands. Alice did not chide me, but Lucia glanced over and frowned. Then she relayed all the news from her household, as if it were of the utmost importance, as if Alice had asked, which she never did. Everything was wonderful in ‘chez Hatton’, Lucia went on; the only sour thing in the house was her daughter.
‘Our Sofia,’ she complained, ‘is making life atrocious – stomping out of rooms, banging doors, bringing her dark mood everywhere.’
‘The curse, perhaps,’ said my mistress, glancing over at me.
‘Does that little redhead ever speak,’ asked Lucia, ‘or is she dim?’
‘Speaks when she pleases,’ Alice fibbed; ‘she’s perfectly normal.’
‘Well, she ought to stay put so, and not mingle with river boys.’
‘Arise and tell your husband likewise,’ snapped Alice.
There was a pause, and then Lucia peered into her tapestry bag and wondered aloud, as if it were of no consequence, ‘What on earth keeps Sir John returning to Callan?’
‘Business, of course. Between us, my husband and I own most of the county. You must know that, Dame Hatton, or had you forgotten?’
Lucia didn’t stay as long as she had intended. Alice was fuming afterwards, and ordered me to stay indoors and not to be wandering off.
The following day Sir John returned full of ale. Instead of going upstairs, he stretched himself out in the Altar Room and fell asleep on the floor. He must’ve still been steaming, for he kept waking and shouting for a woman, calling for a cunt sweet as cinnamon. Disgusted that her favourite room reeked of ale, and on a Friday, too, my mother insisted Esme and Helene carry him upstairs between them. They shouldered an armpit apiece, and Mother walked behind, shoving Sir John upright when he showed signs of toppling backwards. Dame Alice was standing over her desk, holding a parchment flat. She lifted her hands and it sprang closed as the women launched their master on to his bed. When they had him half undressed, she urged them to leave. I stayed on, pottering quietly by the writing desk. She looked over and sighed, but let me stay.
After a while, the late-to-rise twins rushed in, still wearing their sleeping smocks. They tugged at Sir John, trying to rouse him with salts. Dame Alice sent them away, almost shrieking when they lingered. I realized then that the pretty twins unnerved Alice. There was something vile about their pointed faces, pale and powdered, their greased lips.
I watched as Alice lifted her hand mirror and looked at her own face. The door opened suddenly, and Cristine peeked again into the chamber.
‘When may we check on our father of whom we are so fond?’
We all looked over at Sir John, who was oblivious.
‘Later, my dear,’ said Alice.
She flung her mirror at the closing door.
‘There are such theatricals expected of a man’s second wife – to feign fondness of his children by other women. It’s the father I wed, not his bloody daughters. I don’t trust those blonde maggots. There’s bad blood on the side of the mother.’
After a while, Sir John woke and stumbled from the bed – he was without hose, and his white tunic was unlaced. I kept my hand moving across the page.
‘There’s talk’ – his voice was hoarse from carousing – ‘about you.’
‘What nonsense now?’
‘You were seen riding out at night, galloping to meet with spirit folk.’
‘You daft man,’ said Alice, ‘have you really forgotten who I went to at night?’
He must’ve remembered, because I heard them kiss. I pressed my quill into the parchment and held it. The spot of ink grew, became a moon. I laid down the pen, rose from my desk and slipped from the room.
18. The Towns of Kilkennie
It was the Feast Day of one of their saints – some minor ancient of whom Ledrede had never heard tell. Cathedral Hill was black with people intent on making their confession. Inside the church, he sat in his chair, as one after another the townspeople knelt before him. The bishop paid careful attention to each face, each voice. What were they saying, what were they leaving out? He felt filthied by their admissions of lust, greed, petty jealousies and sloth, exhausted by complaints from the marriage bed. Though weary, he did not rest: the townspeople thought themselves excellent Christians if they sought penance once a year, and he wouldn’t get this opportunity again for some time.
As a penitent knelt in front of his lordship, lifted his feathered hat and proceeded to list his trespasses, at the other end of Kilkennie, in the only house with a chimney, a chamber door slammed shut and the master of the house knelt. Above him, the maid swooned. Her master’s tongue was warm and rough as a cat’s; she shivered and gasped, the pleasure spreading till she might’ve been waist-deep in a stream with silver shoals glancing against her naked skin. He rose to his feet, hoisting her legs about his waist and entering her with ease. Each gasp that left her throat spurred him onwards, deeper and faster, till, too soon, it was over. She leant against the wall, still pulsing with desire as he dressed. By the time she had fully caught her breath, he had buckled his belt, kissed her neck and left.
The maid was gathering her clothes when the chamber door began to creak open. She slipped amongst the cold furs in the wardrobe, barely daring to breathe. Someone came into the room.
‘’Tis nothing, I bet.’
‘I heard moaning, like someone in pain. Did anyone die in this room?’
‘Ach, someone died in every room.’
The chamber door shut then, but the maid was afraid to step out in case they returned. The furs that seemed so sleek at first began to bristle against her skin, and the cool draught at her ankle felt like a small cold hand. She leapt from the closet, wrestled on her gown and shot from the chamber, leaving the door wide open.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ her mistress snapped later that day. ‘Moony-eyed, forgetful. You’re not yourself.’
No, she was not herself. She was someone else, someone happy. Even amongst fish in the alley – flat-eyed, pungent, waiting to be gutted – her hear
t was open. She almost grabbed the fishwife and told her, ‘I have a love and what he does to me … oh, did you know it was possible?’ Someone brushed past and she thought of him, imagined him holding her waist, lifting her skirt. Oh, John.
Though it was dusk and hard to see, Ledrede was still hearing confession on Cathedral Hill. He ordered more candles to be lit and continued, exhausted but belligerent, asking each person: what heresies have you witnessed? What do you know of Kytler? One after another they repeated the same thing. They had no dealings with heretics, knew nothing of what went on in that household. Was the dame outside the cathedral gates parcelling out bribes? Was each and every one of them in league with, or in debt to, the moneylender?
At last, there was no one left. He sighed and stared towards the ceiling above. The way the beams curved like an upturned boat always gave him succour. The journey might be treacherous, but a ship was strong that sailed in the name of the Lord. His boy appeared with a goblet of wine for the bishop. ‘Away, away,’ said Ledrede, taking it, ‘be gone.’
The bishop loved to savour the rich red, to hold it in his mouth a while before swallowing. He closed his eyes. In the mottled darkness beneath his lids, all those who had confessed before him came back, blessing themselves, some with gloved fingers ridged with rings and pointed buttoned cuffs, others with coarse leathered hands, black-rimmed nails. Humble glances came from under lowered wimples. Some stared down at their clasped hands, chins tucked into rabbit collars, every second one sniffling or clearing their throat. Girls eyeing his amethyst. Guildsmen holding his gaze in over-emphasized honesty.
One after another, their faces came close, their eyes looked into his, but with not enough piety, that was it, not enough piety. These people sought to absolve themselves of everything, everything except contamination with that woman. Today he realized for the first time how completely she had them yoked: by rent, by debt, by habit. They had come to confession in droves, but it was all theatrics, one empty-handed gesture after another. He drained his goblet of wine and was about to stand, when a maiden rushed around the corner.