The Book of the Maidservant (12 page)

We march on, day after day. Far in the distance, I can see smoke on the horizon. The merchant says it’s not smoke; it’s mountains. He must think we’re fools. Even I know what mountains look like, and it’s not like smoke.

Sometimes it rains, and sometimes the rain turns to sleet. The flat fields give way to hills that strain my legs. We leave the broad waters of the Rhine and follow what the merchant says is a faster route to Constance. Of course, he’s the one who thought he knew the route through the forest, too.

One day we come to a set of hills so high that we climb until nightfall and descend all the next day—only to have to climb again on the following day. I can’t see the smudge of smoke on the horizon anymore. Instead, I see high hills around me, some of them with snow on their tops. Rocky places open into broad fields, and goat bells jingle somewhere nearby.

While I’m looking around for the goats, I stumble and the sole splits from the rest of my boot. I sit on a rock and tear yet another strip from my linen shift—my clothes are starting to look like St. Guthlac’s. Bartilmew sits beside me and helps me tie my boot together, but I’m not sure how long the repair will last. Already my feet ache with the cold in the mornings, especially when we have to camp outside under clouds and spitting rain.

The next morning, we pause at the top of a hill to rest. Cathedral spires shine in the distance like a vision of heaven.

“That’s Constance,” the merchant says. “Up ahead there. See the lake?”

“Constance?” Dame Isabel says.

“Constance!” Petrus Tappester says, slapping Father Nicholas on the back.

“Blessed be our heavenly Father,” my mistress says, and falls to her knees.

We start walking again, quickly now, our spirits high in anticipation of our arrival.

“Is there an English hospice?” Dame Isabel asks.

“A hospice—what about a cobbler?” Petrus Tappester says.

I look at his boots. They’re in worse shape than mine.

“Fresh bread is what I’m looking forward to,” Father Nicholas says.

“You take the bread; I’ll take the ale,” Thomas says, and John Mouse laughs.

“Hate to spoil your fun,” the merchant says, stroking his beard, “but we’ve a long way to go. We’ll be lucky if we make it by nightfall tomorrow.”

Tomorrow! I had thought we’d be there by midday today. Our pace slackens. The merchant reminds us that he’ll leave us in Constance, to spend the winter with his friend. “I don’t envy the rest of you, having to cross the Alps. See those mountains in the distance? That’s where you’ll be when I’m snug before a fire.”

I look where he’s pointing. Ahead I see cruel-looking peaks covered with snow—the peaks we have to cross. I shake my head. I don’t think it’s possible.

“But after the Alps, we get to Bolzano,” John Mouse says. “And then Thomas and I are off to Bologna, to the university.”

I draw in a sharp breath. I’d forgotten.

“And we’ll head on to Venice, and from there, the Holy Land!” Father Nicholas says, crossing himself.

The rest of them may be going to the Holy Land, but my mistress and I will head to Assisi, where St. Francis preached to the birds, and then to Rome. Without John Mouse.

I watch as he and Thomas have a long conversation, gesticulating at each other, looking grave and then laughing. What do these scholars talk about amongst themselves?

C
onstance. We finally arrive, my boot now in tatters. The merchant bids us farewell and points us toward the hospice. I want to tell his packhorse goodbye, but the merchant hurries down the crowded street without a backward glance, pulling his horse along with him. Besides, I don’t think his horse will miss me as much as he ought to.

On the first morning, my mistress and I go with Petrus Tappester to get our boots repaired. A broad-shouldered cobbler stands up behind a counter when we approach the stall. My mistress and I glance at each other, our eyebrows high with surprise: the cobbler is a woman.

Petrus pushes his way past us to be first, but the cobbler shakes her head and points to me. I grin and pull off my boot, hopping on one foot while she turns it over in her calloused hands. It doesn’t take much hammering and needlework before she gives it back to me, ready to wear.

When Petrus steps up to the counter for a second time, the cobbler shakes her head at him again and points at my other boot. When I hold up my foot to show her that it
needs no repair, she gestures that I should give it to her anyway.

“God’s blood! I’ll find a real cobbler, none of this woman pretending she knows what she’s doing,” Petrus says, and stamps away. The cobbler looks up to watch him go and says something I can’t understand. Her mouth curves in a crooked smile.

When she gives my boot back to me, I pull it on and realize it doesn’t mash my toes the way it used to. I don’t know what she did, but I like it. I try to thank her but I don’t know how, and, anyway, she’s already gesturing for my mistress to hand over her boots.

As we leave the stall, I see Petrus elbowing his way toward us. He runs into a man carrying an armload of wood who yells something, but Petrus ignores him. I fall back behind my mistress as he nears us—when he’s as angry as he looks right now, I could end up bruised.

“Not another cobbler in sight,” he says between gritted teeth. “What do these foreigners know, anyway?”

My mistress and I don’t wait for him. Now I understand the cobbler’s crooked smile when Petrus left—she must have known he’d be back.

All the way back to the hospice, I want to dance, my boots feel so good to my feet. When my mistress gives me a sharp look, I realize I
am
dancing. I stop, but I still can’t help myself—every third step, I give a little skip.

Back at the hospice, I sit in front of the fire and stretch my toes toward it, admiring my boots. I’m lost in a summery daydream when a noise beside me makes me jump.

John Mouse stands next to me, a shirt in his hands. He shrugs apologetically and says, “I tore it.”

His face looks so comical, like he’s a little boy who’s stolen a tart, that I laugh. “Shall I fix it for you?”

“Would you?”

I nod, and as he hands me the shirt, his fingers touch mine. I pull my hand back as if I’ve been burned.

Then he’s out of the room, calling for Thomas, and I’m relieved when I hear their voices growing faint as they leave the hospice, because I wouldn’t want them to see me blushing so furiously.

As I sew, I try not to imagine the shirt touching John Mouse’s bare skin. Instead, I think of his long, elegant fingers, the ones that touched mine. His hands are as soft as a gentlewoman’s, supple as a lute player’s. Only the ink stains on his fingers mark him for a scholar. No one would ever mistake my hands for a gentlewoman’s—they look more like the cobbler’s. My nails are dirty and broken, and my fingers are red and rough from hauling wood and water, from making fires and washing linens. Could he feel all that when our fingers met?

I picture John Mouse lifting his long fingers to brush a lock of brown hair from his eyes, the way he does. I picture him covering his eyes with his hands in the middle of a disputation with Thomas, when he is deep in thought, then looking up from them again when he is ready to speak.

I know I shouldn’t allow myself these sinful thoughts, but I can’t help it. I whisper a quick prayer, but even as I do, I see John’s eyes and feel once again the touch of his fingers on mine.

When I finish, I fold the shirt carefully and place it beside the fire so it will be warm when he’s ready to put it on.

At the midday meal, John Mouse and Thomas are still off somewhere, but most of the others are already seated. My mistress comes through the doorway all puffed up with pride, a brown-robed friar following her. She shoos Father Nicholas out of the place of honor and sits the friar down. “He’s a master of divinity,” she says. “And a legate to the Pope himself!”

Dame Isabel sits up a little straighter and nudges her husband to do the same. So does Father Nicholas. I smooth my apron and step into the kitchen for the bread.

There isn’t much talk at first. Instead, everyone watches the friar and sends food down the table to him. But after the meal is over, Petrus Tappester squares his shoulders and speaks. “Sir, I don’t know what lies she’s told you, but we can’t have this woman in our company anymore, not while she won’t eat meat. We have to go out of our way to find food for her. But you, sir, you could order her to eat meat again.”

“And her holy stories,” Dame Isabel says, her voice low at first but gathering strength as the friar looks at her. “She acts as if she’s a priest, but we all know women aren’t allowed to preach.”

“Could you tell her not to weep, sir?” her husband asks.

Surely they shouldn’t speak to the friar this way. I wish John Mouse were here to say something.

Father Nicholas clears his throat. “I do fear her holy stories will bring us to harm, will cause some to think she is a false Lollard and imprison us all for heresy.” He keeps his face down, but I can see his pale eyelids fluttering.

“We sacrifice a great deal for her,” Dame Isabel says. “She’s never thanked us, not once.”

The friar looks first at Petrus and then at Dame Isabel. He looks around the table, letting his gaze fall on each person who has spoken. “If one of you had vowed to walk barefoot to the Holy Land, should I make you dispense with that vow because it displeased the other pilgrims?”

No one answers. Everyone except Petrus lowers their faces.

The friar speaks again. “Dame Margery vowed to abstain from eating meat. As long as the Lord gives her the strength to abstain, I certainly won’t order her to eat it. Her weeping? A gift of the Holy Spirit. I have no power over it. As for her holy stories, I will ask that she stop until she meets people who can appreciate what she has to say.”

Petrus bursts out, “You don’t have to travel with her. You don’t have to hear her bawling every single minute of the day and thinking she’s more pious than everybody else. She’s not going with us if you don’t stop her.”

“Couldn’t you just speak with her, sir?” Dame Isabel says, and her husband nods encouragingly at the friar.

“You have my answer,” the friar says.

“Well, that’s it, then. She’s out of this company. Agreed?” Petrus looks around the table.

Nobody speaks. Father Nicholas looks like he wants to, but he doesn’t. I hold my breath.

“I said, agreed?”

“You’re right, Petrus; of course you’re right,” Dame Isabel says.

“I say yes,” her husband adds.

Father Nicholas stares down at the table, his lips moving as if he were praying.

“Then I’ll see to it myself that she gets to Rome,” the friar says. “Madame? Gather your belongings and let us depart.”

I start for the door to get our pack.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Petrus Tappester says. He jumps up and grabs my arm. “She stays with us. We signed on as a group with a maidservant—you can’t go back on that.”

They did? Dame Margery offered me to work for everybody from the very beginning? Petrus tightens his grip.

“You would leave me alone and friendless in a foreign land where they don’t even speak English?” my mistress says. “With no one to wash and cook for me?”

“Come, madame. The Lord will provide.” The friar goes to her and gently takes her arm in his.

My mistress looks up at him with tears on her cheeks as they leave the inn. She never even looks at me.

I watch her walk through the door, leaving me behind.

Petrus grabs my hair, pulling my head back. He leans his face into mine. I wince at his sour breath and shut my eyes to the snaking veins on his nose.

“Don’t you dare try to leave. I’ll be watching you.” He holds on to me long enough to run his eyes down my body before he shoves me away.

I hold back the tears until I’m in the kitchen. The other
servants look at me without interest and go about their business. I slide my back down the wall and bury my wet face in my arms and knees. I don’t know how long I’ve been crying before I realize Bartilmew is crouched on the floor beside me. I raise my head a little, and he sees my tears.

“Your mistress is a holy woman,” he says.

“But what about
me?”
I wail. “What will
I
do?”

He looks at me gravely. “God will watch over you,” he says. “And I will watch over you.”

It doesn’t help. My tears flow as fast as my mistress’s.

“Come,” Bartilmew says, pulling me to my knees beside him. “The saints help those who ask them.”

So right there in the kitchen, with the smell of bacon and smoke wafting around us and the sounds of servants’ voices in the background, Bartilmew and I pray. And as we pray, vesper bells begin to ring somewhere near us, as if in answer.