Her Kind

by Niamh Boyce

  ‘The bishop has no right to authorize an interdict. Take this away – how can I eat?’

  I went to remove her tray, lifting the scroll. Alice snatched the summons and rolled it tightly. Her hands were shaking. I sat alongside her.

  ‘Are you frightened, Alice?’

  ‘I’ve nothing to be frightened of. It’ll be Ledrede who ends up under lock and key, not I. The man is nothing but a commoner; you’ve heard him speak.’

  ‘Yes, I have, many times. You know Alice, when he said, “The women of the house of Kytler,” he looked directly at me. He knows my face, I worry –’

  ‘Oh, he hardly knows you exist. You are not, if you forgive me, the most memorable of women.’

  Resentment rose in me, as I watched her tug thread after thread from the embroidered sleeve of her robe.

  ‘I should tell you this,’ I said. ‘I’m readying to leave, to –’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We must.’

  ‘You can’t. Maybe I’ll put a spell on you.’

  ‘That’s in poor taste, Alice.’

  ‘What would you know about taste?’

  I thought of Helene smuggling food into Sir John’s chamber, and how he had become sicker and sicker. I might as well say it.

  ‘What if Sir John is being poisoned?’

  She looked at me coldly. And then, as if we had been speaking of it all along, she announced that I must learn to dye cloth. She ran her finger over the dark streaks in the weave of her cuff.

  ‘Helene dyes unevenly.’

  ‘It’s not my task to dye clothes,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not your task to decide your task.’

  ‘Who, then, will assist you?’

  ‘Basilia’s quite civilized now; she’ll tend to my wardrobe.’

  I could hardly baulk against my own daughter being shown favour. And, after all, it would only be for a short time.

  We rose the next morning to find the shutters had been forced and the windows smashed during the night. I was sweeping the glass into a pile when a lady pushed past Ulf. She wore a filthy blue gown and clutched a bundle to her chest. She was familiar but I could not place her. Ulf caught her before she could climb to our mistress’s chamber. Dark stains oozed from the small bundle. She kept calling out to Alice: ‘Surrender to the bishop, so I can bury my baby.’

  When Ulf lifted her off her feet, she stopped weeping and went limp. He carried her out into the lane. After a time, he came back in, slammed the door and bolted it. He bent over, heaving. At first I thought the stench of the dead child had him retching, but soon saw that he was crying. Alice must’ve heard the commotion, but she didn’t show her face. I went out to the yard and drank in the cold, clean air. I remembered who the lady was then; she had been to the house before. Sabina. She had come to see Alice because her priest husband had cast her and his children from their home. I had held her child then. I recalled its face, the soft warmth of its body in my arms. A soul condemned to eternal Hell by the bishop’s interdict – one so blameless, yet all the prayers in the world would not save it. I fetched frankincense from the Altar Room and scattered pine needles into the fire to freshen the air.

  I heard oaths from the kitchen. Esme couldn’t find any butter, so I went up the lane to buy some. The way was slick with mud; it had rained all night. When I entered Butter Slip, the milkmaid elbowed her sister, whose eyes were raw from weeping. The milkmaid longed to ignore me, but she needed custom, whatever she felt. Perhaps a trinket of hers was tucked up in Alice’s Pledge Room, something the pretty maid longed to hold again. She patted butter into my crock and attempted a quick nod. It mightn’t be safe to snub Kytler’s maid, not yet. I climbed the slip and stepped on to High Street. I looked back and saw the milkmaid frantically blessing her wares.

  I stepped back as a herd raced by: boys were chasing the swine and waving blades and sticks. There was some attraction at the Tholsel; children crowded the great door. Some were skipping backwards and then leaping forwards. When I got closer, I realized they were throwing stones. I pushed nearer. There was a head on a spike by the great door. His eyes were half closed, as if he were deep in thought. An bhfuilimid i bhfad ó Chill Chainnigh? It was the young Gael.

  I left the Tholsel and turned into Saint Mary’s Alley, where I stopped to steady myself. These steep lanes, they take my breath. That is all, I thought; that’s the reason I hold my heart.

  The Gael should’ve kept away. I remembered how fiercely Donagh warned us as we left the mountain: ‘Steer clear of those towns; seek out your own kind.’ I missed him, missed them all. I had folded my memories up when we arrived, tucked them like a relic, close to my heart. Líadan and I had been lucky; we had followed the same path as the Gael, yet here we were, housed and alive. Lord knew where we would have been, had Alice not taken us in.

  In Low Lane, I saw Helene leaving the Hattons’ with a flagon of wine and a parcel. When I entered Kytler’s kitchen, there was no one there but Esme with a freshly bandaged wrist. She must’ve scorched herself again. I handed her the butter, which she dumped on the table. It was already scattered with crumbs, almonds, rinds, cardamom, figs and apple cores. She had made circlettes and was now spooning jam on to each. There was a pig roasting over the hearth.

  ‘Did you see Helene?’ I asked her.

  ‘Rushed through like a wind. Don’t you go doing the same – stay a while. I’m starved for company and so worried, my breathing is not good. Listen …’ She took some deep wheezing breaths. ‘What if I die? I’ll have no last rites. I haven’t had penance in six years. I’ll go to Hell.’

  ‘You won’t, Esme, your cooking’s not that bad.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Now you find humour – when the town is in such despair. Does terror suit you, Petronelle?’

  ‘My name, my real name, is Bébinn.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve long forgotten.’

  ‘There’s much worth forgetting in life, believe me, I know that.’

  Esme began talking about Kytler’s in Jose’s day, and how much better things were then. I tried to listen, but it was hard to shake the Gael from my mind. The cook wiped the board clean, sprinkled it with flour and began rolling out pastry. According to her, life here was far better before she took over.

  ‘See, Alice got a taste for business early; that was the problem. Jose taught her the way you would a son.’

  Someone’s son drew his last breath today. What, I wonder, was the last thing he saw? Was there anything to give him comfort? I blessed myself. Esme misunderstood my gesture.

  ‘I know; disgraceful but Jose indulged that girl. In his last few months of life, it got worse; he had begun to dote. Alice took to lying at the foot of his bed whenever merchants came for loans. They thought it was adorable, she looked so harmless; pretty in her violet gown with her little smile and braids of yellow piled beneath a pearled veil … such a tiny person.’

  ‘Harmless?’ I laughed.

  ‘I know! Of course, in no time at all, you can guess who was ruling the roost. “Parle oui, mon père” or “Parle non, mon père”, she’d whisper into her father’s ear. He’d do exactly what she said.’

  ‘You don’t care for her, Esme?’ I asked.

  ‘I love the bones of the wretch.’

  I considered telling Esme about the young Gael, but she’d only get upset.

  I spotted the boy then. Sir John’s taster was looking in the window. I went outside. He was holding his stomach. Judging by his hair, the boy had slept on leaves. He was so thin; I guessed his years to be four. His black eyes were set deep in his wan face.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jack.’

  He accepted a cup of buttermilk and a chunk of black bread, and ran off. I returned inside and set about preparing a tray of circlettes and mead to bring up to Alice. Esme had already begun to make pies, slicing slivers of meat off the pig and throwing them in. She pressed her thumb along the edge of each crescent, t
alking all the time, letting the flames go low.

  ‘That fire might need more fuel,’ I said. ‘The hog’s on the big side.’

  ‘Seized in the cemetery, caught rooting at the merchant dead. A fine beast, isn’t it?’

  ‘Enough to feed a small country.’

  ‘Not me. Let the rich eat the swine that nibbles their ancestors; I’ll stick to my broth.’

  ‘The little fellow could help you clear up,’ I said, thinking the child might like some sops.

  ‘What fellow?’

  I went out to the garden, but saw no sign of the child.

  I brought Alice up her tray. She was sitting at her desk, her hair loose and tangled, her mouth tense. There were papers in front of her but her attention was elsewhere. She never mentioned the lady in blue’s visit, or her cries to have her baby buried, but I could see it had upset her. She instructed me to clean out the coffin room, wash the walls, boil the sheets and get rid of all trace of the twins. She wanted to free up the room, to have young Will home – just while the house was under threat.

  I fetched a basin of warm water and lye. Helene had swept the room, but the walls were blackened from the tapers the girls had burned night and day. I could hardly breathe with the stench of fat. I propped open the door with a stool and began rinsing down the wall when Helene slipped past carrying an empty basket. If Sir John was being fed, why was he getting thinner, losing his hair, his nails? Was the source of his illness contained in Cristine’s gifts of food? It couldn’t be; the twins adored their father.

  The tasks Alice had set me for the day were well beneath a lady’s companion. My next was to dye cloth. I walked slowly down the cellar steps. My skin began to prickle, and not just with the heat. It was a place I didn’t like, cut into the earth beneath the house; it had the feeling of a large tomb. I looked at the Pledge Room door, and wondered at the fact that my daughter had a key to it and I didn’t. Helene smiled to herself when she saw me, but didn’t mock. The light was poor, coming from narrow grids high on the wall, some rush lights and the brazier. There was a fire set beneath two large vats.

  ‘Salt to fix the colour, stir with the ladle, make sure the dye takes evenly.’

  ‘I know. I’ve dyed before, flax, yarn …’

  She gave me a floor-length apron of sack cloth. Before I knew it, I was stirring the water with a stick, squelching the silk.

  ‘Gentle, don’t lean so heavy,’ said Helene. ‘I can see you’ve not dyed precious cloth before.’

  After some time and an aching back, we lifted out the cloth, dumped it in cool water and wrung it out. When I unravelled the folds, I saw the embroidered nightingales had come up darker than the silk itself.

  ‘Give it another dunk. Use the stick. No need to soak your hands like that – look at your skin!’

  My hands were tinted darkest at the cuticles, next to which my nail crescents gleamed grey.

  Later, in the kitchen, I tried to scrub my hands clean but my skin kept the blue tinge. I turned up my palms: my life, love and heart lines looked as if they were drawn with a quill. They seemed strange, as if they belonged to someone else. I thought of the lady, her dead baby and her desperate pleas. If only I had been able to help her. I knew some of what she must’ve felt. After I had stopped hoping Otto would reappear – just one day walk towards me again, after I had given up raging against the fact of his death – I had longed for his remains, for a grave to tend. I had none of those things; instead I had a ring, the beads. Each bead held a memory – his smile, the silver scar on his lip, the feel of his arms about my waist. The salt of his skin when I kissed it; his eyes behind that mask as we danced.

  Next morning, I brought Líadan to our mistress’s chamber and showed her how to prepare Alice for her day, laying out all the correct waters, powders, combs and pins. Her hair had got so fine, it didn’t need many pins. A hundred couldn’t keep mine tethered.

  ‘I told you to stop moving my perfume,’ she snapped, picking up the glass flask, ‘and there is less than before – have you been using it, Petronelle?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Don’t look so repulsed. Would it sicken you to smell sweet, instead of like a priest?’

  Alice sat by her mirror and paid me no more attention. I glanced back as I left the room. Was there satisfaction in my daughter’s eyes as she lifted Alice’s hair? Were they one of a kind?

  I went downstairs and began to sweep the hall. My daughter was still my daughter, I thought, and soon this house and its darkness would be behind us. Sir John appeared then, fully dressed for a change, in a black tunic and hose. He had gone to some effort; he wore all of his rings, and his pointed poulaines shone. He leant a while on the door jamb, and then stepped out into the lane.

  I peeked after and saw the twins had joined him and were linking him by the arm and guiding him towards the Hattons’. He was dark between their scarlet gowns; together, they were shaped like the butterfly on my sill. As I watched them, I sensed someone watching me in turn. The taster boy was crouched in the alcove. He still clutched the cup I’d given him. A grey cat was curled beside him, purring heavily. I knelt and looked in his eyes – there was something …

  ‘Do I know you?’

  He didn’t answer. I leant forward and touched his face: it was like ice.

  ‘Move closer to the hearth and wait.’

  I went up to Alice’s chamber. She was stuck halfway in her favourite brocade, with one arm caught and one arm free. Líadan was wielding a small scissors and snipping at some lacing. I quickly told my mistress about the boy and asked if he could stay. He could help in the stable or in the kitchen garden.

  ‘John’s taster, you mean?’

  ‘He’s but four or five years old.’

  ‘Put him out.’

  Maybe it was for the best; perhaps a mother searched for him. Downstairs, I told the boy he couldn’t stay and unbolted the door. He did my bidding without a word, just walked out into the lane, even pushing the door closed after himself.

  Later, near sunset, I checked the lane. The boy was sitting on the bottom step of Market Slip. No one had come for him. I crooked my finger and he rose stiffly and came over. When I picked him up, he weighed nothing. He didn’t try to wriggle free like most wild children would. This one was used to being handled. I carried him upstairs and placed him on my bed, piled the furs up around him. I’d be infested with fleas by morning, but what harm. He shook with cold – his fingers were swollen with chilblains.

  I warned Líadan of his presence, in case she came upon him later and got a fright. I made up a milky pottage of bread, honey and raisins, and brought it up. The boy ate slowly, looking at each spoonful before swallowing. When he was finished, he sank back down on to the bed. I put my finger to my lips to warn him to be quiet. He gave a small nod, and his lids closed slowly over his brown eyes as he began to drift off.

  I could find a place for him. There was plenty of room in the stable. I thought on this as I mended my mistress’s hose by the kitchen hearth. When I went up later, the child was gone. I felt the blanket – it was cool. Líadan was bent over her wax tablet. I looked more closely: she was etching butterflies. They were arranged in a delicate circle, wingtips touching. It was so lovely; it almost took me away from my question.

  ‘Was the boy here when you came up?’

  She shook her head. I looked all over the house for the child. I took my candle and ventured into Low Lane. There was no one there except a harlot waiting in the shadows for trade, her yellow hood covering her face. The next morning, I checked every nook and cranny, even the well. I dreamt of his small cold hands – they were reaching out for me. He had completely disappeared, but yet I didn’t feel that child had gone anywhere.

  32. Basilia

  The town had been oddly silent without its church bells ringing. I made my way towards the comb-maker’s. No one came near or taunted me, but I remained wary and kept my head bowed. It had been easy to slip away; my mother was searching for the taster
boy. I had recognized him. He was the boy that had been turned over to the town despite the town not wanting him at all. My mother was fretting about him, a child she knew nothing about. The monks passed, heads down in prayer, as if there were no one else in the world but them.

  I arrived at the comb-maker’s to find his door shut. I listened, but heard no sawing, no hacking or sanding. The trees about the place were full of crows. He might be anywhere, I told myself – gathering bones, hunting. As I was about to leave, Margaret Dun ambled towards me. She was pale, her face all tight and sad.

  ‘I found him twisted and cold. There was something unnatural about it, I’ll tell you that for nothing. He waits on a slab in the Black Friars Abbey; there are more corpses than monks there now.’

  She looked down at me, then patted my shoulder. ‘Go say farewell.’

  When she had gone, I shoved open the door to Fiachra’s hut. There was no heat or steam; the fire had gone to ash beneath the cauldron. I would’ve liked a keepsake, something he had toiled over – maybe one of his combs to run through my hair. Thieves had been. There was nothing left but shards and dust. The clay wine jug from Sir John’s chamber lay on the pallet he slept on. When I turned it upside down, not a drop fell out. The last time I saw him, Fiachra had given me bones and a carving tool in exchange for it. I wish I’d spoken to him then, said something – nothing special, just something everyday, like thank you.

  I had never been to the abbey. It was just outside the town walls. The friars there wore black robes and were said to be few. I approached Blackferen Gate. It stood open, and people were coming and going freely. A priest pushed a handcart in which a woman lay wrapped in blankets. I walked close behind him, hoping to be mistaken for his daughter if the keeper chose to check. No one even noticed me. Once through the arch, we followed the winding path to the abbey with a clutch of other people. There was a side door. There were many there, some reciting the rosary.

  ‘We cannot take many more,’ said a large friar.