The Book of the Maidservant (20 page)

I grin back at her and give my head a little shake to show her I’ll never tell anyone what she did. Well, maybe Constance.

She hands the cup back to me. “Three days of free wine for rich people, eight days for the poor,” she says, patting at her mouth. “Think you can keep track?”

My eyes widen as I look at her. “I’ll try my best.” I have no idea how to keep track.

The side of her mouth goes up again—another smile. “Never you worry. Father Morgan has a system,” she says. “You’ll just need to stay down here from terce to nones turning the spigot. Any trouble, you call for Father Morgan.”

I nod and we go back up the stairs.

“Alice,” I say as we emerge into the light.

She stops in the doorway to look at me.

I take a deep breath. “If the new girl doesn’t show up, the one you hired?”

“And what if she doesn’t?” Alice says, frowning.

“Do you think I might have her job?”

She squints at me, her mouth drawn into a thin line. “That’s something you’d have to ask Father Morgan.” Suddenly, she turns her head, listening. “Hear that bell? That means a new group of pilgrims is here. Hurry, we have work to do.”

a
s Alice and I get back to the kitchen, Constance comes running in, rubbing garden dirt from her hands. All of us scurry like chickens scattering from a colefox. Enough porridge, enough wine, enough beds for all the new pilgrims means the ones who have already been here for more than eight days have to leave. I’ve been here two. I try not to think about what I’ll do if my days are up before Dame Margery arrives—or what I’ll do when she comes.

Mostly, though, I’m too busy to think. We don’t have time for a midday meal. Instead, we just grab oatcakes and munch them while we work. We keep going long into the evening, preparing things for the next morning. Even Constance’s little brother Henry has to scrub pots so I can help Alice lift the heavy kettles.

I never get a chance to ask Father Morgan about a position in the kitchen, but I’m a little relieved about that. Asking Alice is one thing, but asking a priest? And what if he said no? Then what would I do?

By dark, I am too tired to worry about it, so weary that
I can scarcely make it to my bed. When I get there, I have to share it with two new pilgrims, a mother and her grownup daughter. They’re from York, and they want to tell me all about their journey and hear all about mine, but I mumble my apologies and crawl under the blanket. I know they must think I’m rude, but I don’t have the strength to care. They kneel to say their prayers, and I shut my ears to their noise. I’m asleep before they finish their Paternoster.

The next day is as busy as the last—and then the bell rings again, two times. I look around to see Constance’s mouth fall open and Alice shaking her head. “Hear that? New pilgrims yesterday, more today,” she says, and lets out a sigh of exasperation. She looks at me. “Two bells? A big group of them.”

I look at her in disbelief. A bigger group than yesterday?

Alice sees the expression on my face. “This is the slow season. Just wait till summer,” she says.

By the next day, she no longer needs to tell me what to do. I glide from one task to the next, leaving for the wine casks when I hear the bells chime terce and running back up the stairs at nones to spoon bowl after bowl of oatmeal.

Finally, on the morning of the fifth day, things calm down so much that Alice sends Constance to the market—and tells me I can go along, too. It’s cold and the sun has disappeared behind thick clouds, so we pull our cloaks around us and tuck our fingers inside to keep them warm. Constance leads me on what she says is the long route, past the river. We stand watching a stick bobbing on the brown water and then look up as a boat goes by, four men in tall
red hats sitting importantly in it, red cloaks billowing behind them.

“Cardinals,” Constance tells me before heading out again. We go through an alleyway, ducking to avoid wet linens that a woman is hanging out. “Those will never dry in this weather,” Constance says.

As we emerge into a wider street, a dog with golden eyes and sharp ears barks at us, then joins us as we hurry toward the market, his tongue hanging out of his grinning mouth.

“We’ll call him Fox, because he looks like one,” I say.

Constance opens her eyes wide, then smiles and joins in my game. “We’ll hide him from Alice—she’ll never know he’s there.”

“Wat will help us find food for him.”

“He can sleep with Henry and me—we’ll be covered in dog hair, but he’ll keep us warm.”

“Wait, where did he go?” I ask, looking behind me.

Constance points and I see the dog nosing at a pile of something. “I guess that smells more interesting than we do.” She gives me a rueful look.

“Goodbye, Fox,” I call, but he doesn’t look up.

“This way,” Constance says, leading me around a corner.

The market opens before us, full of people and noise and delicious smells. Chickens squawk and men call out, hawking their wares, while a knot of pilgrims peers at the goods displayed under the canvas awnings.

I stand back watching while Constance stops in front of a stall, sniffing at little pots until she finds one that satisfies
her. She hands a coin to the woman behind the wooden counter, who lets out a torrent of words, shaking her head and gesturing sharply, palm down.

I move up beside Constance, who whispers, “That’s how much Alice told me it costs. That’s all she gave me.” Her face tells me how frightened she is.

“Here, give it to me,” I say, taking the coin and the little pot from her. I sniff at it. It’s some kind of spice, I don’t know what, but it smells wonderful, tickling my nose and making me think of tales about knights journeying to far-off lands. Still, I wrinkle my nose in distaste and say loudly to Constance, “You would pay that much for
this?”
I don’t think the woman behind the counter can understand my words, but I make sure she comprehends my tone. “Don’t say anything,” I hiss to Constance between clenched teeth. Then I speak loudly again, pointing at the pot. “This is terrible; it will never do.” I shake my head dramatically and set the pot back on the shelf. “Come along.”

The woman behind the counter says something, and I glance briefly over my shoulder at her, but I keep moving away.

Again she says something, and this time I look back at her, my eyebrows raised. She takes the little pot off the shelf and holds it up, her other hand outstretched, palm up.

With as much scorn as I can muster showing on my face, I return to the stall and take the pot from her. I sniff it again and shake my head.

The woman says something to me and I sigh, holding up the coin.

She snatches it from me and drops it into the bag at her waist.

“This will have to do,” I say to Constance, and turn, holding my head as stiff and proud as a noble lady’s.

We’re outside the marketplace before we dissolve into laughter.

“How did you dare?” Constance says as I bow low and present her the pot of spice.

Grinning, I tuck my arm into hers, and we start back for the hospice. We haven’t gone far before we come to a small church almost hidden between two buildings that tower over it. Constance stops, her face solemn again. “Let’s go in,” she says.

Reluctantly, I follow her. She kneels, crossing herself and lowering her head. I stand behind a column, waiting, swallowing the bile I feel rising in my throat. I think it’s the smell of the incense that makes me feel so ill. I try to think of a prayer, but my mind feels blank. Cold from the stone floor seeps into my soles, chilling me. I wish Constance would hurry.

Finally, she’s finished. She gives me a strange look as we go down the church steps, but she doesn’t say anything until we’re on the street. “My mother loved that chapel,” she whispers.

“Your mother?” I drop my voice to a whisper, too.

She nods and tears glint in her eyes. She lowers them and then, after a moment, looks up at me, smiling. “Alice said you were going to ask Father Morgan if you could have a position at the hospice. What did he say?”

Now it’s my turn to look away. “I haven’t asked him
yet,” I mumble. Every time I’ve seen him, I haven’t been able to get up my courage, and besides, I’ve had too much to do. But with all the new pilgrims arriving, I have to do something fast, or I’ll find myself out on the streets again, just like I was when I ran away from Petrus Tappester in Venice.

Neither of us speaks the rest of the way back to the hospice. The leaden skies seem to settle themselves around my heart.

Alice looks at us sharply when we come into the kitchen. We were away too long, and we both know it. But when she takes the jar of spice from Constance and sniffs it, her expression lightens. “This is very high quality,” she says, sniffing again. “How did you get this much? How did you pay for it all?”

“You gave me the money,” Constance says.

“You got all this for the coin I gave you?”

“No.” Constance gestures toward me. “But Johanna did.”

“Did she, now?” Alice gives me an appraising look, then takes the spice with her to her chopping board, closing her eyes and breathing in its scent again before she puts it away. She turns to see us watching her. “Those pots didn’t clean themselves while you were gone,” she says, but I can tell she’s pleased.

I smile at Constance as we turn toward our tasks.

a
fter Mass the next morning, I run back to the dormitory to drop off my cloak before I head to the kitchen. Just as I’m about to go through the kitchen door, I hear Alice’s voice.

“She knows her way around a kitchen.”

I stop to listen, my heart pounding. Has the new girl finally shown up?

“Did everything I asked, did it fast, and never complained.”

When did all this happen? The new girl wasn’t there when I went to bed last night, and it’s too early for her to have been here today. Then I remember yesterday’s trip to the market, and I kick myself for how long Constance and I took.

Someone else is speaking now. “She does have a mistress, doesn’t she, though, who will be looking for her?” It’s Father Morgan.

“A mistress?” Alice harrumphs. “Begging your pardon, Father, but what kind of mistress leaves a young girl alone like that in a foreign place?”

Realization dawns on me. It isn’t the new girl they’re talking about. It’s me.

“Is that what her mistress says happened, then, Alice?” Father Morgan’s voice is grave.

I hold my breath, listening.

“Haven’t ever seen the woman, have I? But I believe the girl.”

“So do I, Alice, so do I. But if she’s bound to someone else …” His words trail off.

“Someone who’s left her alone these past weeks,” Alice adds.

“When the mistress shows up here, we’ll see what she has to say.”

Alice makes a sound of disapproval.
“If
she shows up.”

Then I hear Father Morgan’s footsteps coming toward me. What do I do—step into the kitchen and pretend I was just coming in, or go back to the dormitory?

“Johanna.”

I’m caught. How did he know I was here? I come out from behind the doorway, my head down, my cheeks burning.

“Come, my child.” He holds a hand toward me and I take it. “We need a new keeper of wine, and Alice needs a kitchen helper. She says you’re a good worker. Will you take the job?”

My heart swells. Since I’ve gotten to Rome, no one has called me wicked or stupid or lazy the way Dame Margery did all the way from England to Venice.

I’m in a place where there’s always food and warmth, and where I have no need to fear men like Petrus Tappester.

I nod. “Yes, please, Father.”

“That’s settled, then,” Alice says. “You’ll move your things in with Constance and Henry.”

Father Morgan looks at me from under his bushy white brows and smiles. “And later, I’ll show you my wine-measuring system.”

I slide my eyes toward Alice, who gives me a sly look. I suppress a grin as I remember her cup of wine.

“Now, those pots.” She points and turns back to her worktable.

“The pots will have to wait,” Father Morgan says.

“Pots can never wait,” Alice says. “If she’s to help in the kitchen—”