The Book of the Maidservant (8 page)

The path winds downward, and before long, I can hear the sound of a stream. And suddenly, voices.

We stop. The merchant looks back at the rest of us, signaling us to silence, but there’s no need. Even Dame Isabel holds her knife at the ready.

Slowly, silently, we creep forward.

I grip Dame Margery’s arm, pulling her along, glancing behind me and wishing we weren’t last.

I shudder when I remember the one-eyed soldier with the pike.

The water gets louder, but the voices are gone. Have they heard us? Our pace slows. The merchant and Petrus go first through the undergrowth, then the two students. Behind them, Father Nicholas leads the merchant’s horse. Just ahead of Dame Margery and me, Bartilmew looms over his master and mistress, a stout stick in his hands.

I whirl at a sound behind me. A squirrel scampers along a tree branch. I breathe out in relief.

As we near the stream, the path turns sharply.

Petrus and the merchant disappear from view, then John Mouse and Thomas.

The priest stops, holding the horse’s lead, and the rest of us stop behind him, our bodies tense, ready to run.

Suddenly, there’s shouting. The water is so loud that I can’t tell what they’re saying, and the trees block my view. What’s happening? Are there more than three soldiers?

We might die any minute. I look at Dame Margery. Her eyes are as full of fear as mine must be. Shame mingles with my fear—I can’t leave her like this.

I raise my dagger and begin to cut.

The gag falls to the ground.

j
ohn Mouse appears from around the bend.

“Hurry!” He beckons us to follow.

Father Nicholas pulls on the horse’s lead and turns the corner. Dame Isabel goes next, then her husband, then Bartilmew.

Finally, it’s our turn. I pull my mistress along the path as she mouths a prayer, her lips and tongue moving silently.

When we round the trees, we can see the stream—and four peasant boys with fishing nets. No soldiers at all.

The boys watch us as we pass. One might be my age, but the other three are no older than Cicilly. As I go by, one of them sticks out his tongue at me. I grin with relief. My thumping heart begins to calm, and my knees feel weak.

At the brook, fast water chuckles around mossy rocks, and we have to step carefully to cross it. The horse whinnies and digs in his hooves until the merchant takes his lead from Father Nicholas.

Once we’ve crossed the water, the path broadens out enough that I can hear John Mouse laughing as he describes the way Petrus surprised the peasants, making them yell.

“Poaching, they were,” the merchant adds. “Thought we were going to turn them in.”

When we emerge from the dripping trees, the rain has stopped, although low gray clouds still scud across the sky. I push my hood back, close my eyes, and let the cold wind wash away the last of my fear.

Petrus Tappester’s voice startles my eyes open again. “Who did this?” He points at my mistress’s face.

Nobody says anything. I stare straight ahead, unable to breathe.

“I warned you,” he says, pointing around at each of us. His finger comes to a stop on me.

I look down. I thought we were going to die. My mistress needed to pray. We all did. Surely Petrus Tappester can see that.

“It’s about time for a break and something to eat, isn’t it?” John Mouse says, more loudly than he needs to.

“Aye, let’s stop for a while,” Thomas says.

“I, too, believe we should rest before we continue,” Father Nicholas says, blinking as he looks away from Petrus.

They begin to take off their packs and to pull out their bundles of food, all of them moving around as if Petrus weren’t standing there in front of me, as if I weren’t staring at the ground mouthing silent prayers to St. Pega.

“Ho, Petrus, how about some of that barley bread?” John Mouse calls out. “Where did you stash it?”

Petrus turns and stomps away from me.

I take a shaky breath and lower my pack from my shoulders, rooting through it for our bread and cheese. When I set some beside Dame Margery, she barely notices.

There’s no place to sit that’s not mud. I squat and chew the hard loaf.

“We’ll make Cologne today,” the merchant says to nobody in particular. “By nightfall, maybe. Guards at the gate, you know—they won’t let those mercenaries in, I don’t figure.”

“But they’ll let us in, surely,” Dame Isabel says.

“Oh, aye. Give ’em the sign”—he crosses himself—“so they’ll know you’re pilgrims, and they’ll let you in.”

“Foreigners who don’t even speak English, sounds like,” Petrus says.

Thomas lifts his eyebrows. “Their German’s not too bad, though,” he says, and looks at John Mouse, who grins and shakes his head.

The merchant ignores this exchange. “There’s a hospice run by Englishmen in Cologne. But I’ll be staying at the merchant guild’s own place.”

“And we’ll be in the student quarters,” John Mouse says.

“We’ll stay more than a night, then?” Dame Isabel’s husband asks.

“Two or three days, I should think,” Father Nicholas says.

“Since when do you make all the decisions?” Petrus Tappester says.

I watch a flock of birds winging their way south and try to ignore the bickering. At least Petrus—and his devil—have forgotten about me cutting off my mistress’s gag.

*  *  *

It begins drizzling again the moment we shoulder our packs. My cloak is soaked through, and its edge is heavy with mud. I have to keep reminding myself of the English hospice ahead.

We trudge through the afternoon. As we do, the path widens and we begin to see people on it. We pass through a hamlet and make our way around a flock of geese. In the distance, we can see towers, black against the sky.

“Cologne!” Thomas calls out, then says something in Latin to John Mouse, who laughs.

The two of them break into song. I can’t understand the words: Latin again. But I recognize the tone. Hearing them, my heart begins to lift. Tonight we’ll have a dry place to sleep with no need to worry about mercenaries.

They end a verse and laugh, then, looking at each other as they draw in their breaths, start a new one. John Mouse’s voice is clear and steady. I could listen to it all day. Thomas’s voice is strong, but it doesn’t stir something inside me the way John’s does.

Dame Isabel is listening, too. I watch her watching John Mouse. When he glances toward her, her face grows red. He looks away, at Thomas, and the two begin singing with increased vigor.

When they finish the song, John Mouse trails a little behind Thomas. I sidle up to him. “What was it about? That song?”

He grins and looks down at me. “Ah, the little serving maid. Why do you think we sing in Latin? Our song might shock your chaste ears—or those of your mistress.”

“But what was it about?” Surely a song so full of joy can’t be bad.

John Mouse looks at me sideways as he thinks up a translation. “It’s something like this,” he says, and begins singing. “To drink and wench and play at dice / Seem to me no such mighty sins.” The words don’t fit the tune very well, but I don’t mind as long as he is singing to me.
He
is singing to
me!
My fear of the soldiers and of Petrus Tappester is truly gone now.

“Never did a man I know / Go to hell for a game,” he sings. He hums a measure and then sings again, “And to heaven will no man go / Because he aped a holy show.”

These aren’t the kinds of songs I’m accustomed to. “Stop!” I say. “My mistress might hear you.”

He grins again. “You asked.”

My cheeks grow hot.

“Cheer up, little serving maid,” he says, and winks at me. “It’s Cologne! Look!”

Bell towers rise above the rooftops, and a wall encircles the city. I can see the broad river, brown as a cow’s back, and the bridge we’ll cross. Just on the other side of it, I see what must be the guard tower.

“Thomas!” John Mouse calls, and dashes forward to rejoin his friend. They banter in Latin, swiping at each other’s hats.

Two huge draft horses pass us, each ridden by a farmer, and John bows to them as if they were knights in armor. Thomas says something to him, and the two of them hoot with laughter.

John Mouse was so grave when he defended my
mistress. Now he is so full of fun. He is the only one of the company who speaks to me without giving me orders. I watch his black gown fluttering as he and Thomas leap about. When he turns so that his eye catches mine, he grins and my heart gives a little leap. His eyes are so bright and clear.

Suddenly, they grow wide and he grabs Thomas by the shoulder. “Petrus!” he hisses, and then, “Don’t look back.”

I catch my breath. The mercenaries.

“Gather close,” the merchant says, keeping his eyes forward. “Once we’re through the city gates, they won’t touch us.”

Dame Isabel and Bartilmew draw near me. The students and Dame Isabel’s husband are just ahead. Where is my mistress?

I steal a fast glance behind me. She strolls along, her face distracted, her lips moving in prayer, unaware of our danger.

I slow my pace to let her catch up, my heart racing as fast as my feet want to go. Finally, as she ambles alongside me, I take her arm. “Quickly, mistress, the mercenaries.”

She turns toward me, her brow furrowed. “No, child, we’re safe from them.”

“They’re right behind us,” I whisper fiercely, tugging her sleeve. “Hurry!”

Nothing I do will make her go faster. The rest of the company is far ahead of us now. Other people on their way to the city pass us, every footstep making me cringe, thinking it’s the soldiers.

Up ahead, crowds of people jostle their way across the
bridge and through the city gates. Petrus and the merchant are almost there, the rest of the company directly behind them. Dame Margery goes slower and slower.

A horse-drawn cart rumbles by, and we have to duck out of the way, putting more space between us and the other pilgrims.

My whole body is taut, my fingers clenched around my knife hilt. Are they still back there? I dare not look.

As the cart passes him, Bartilmew turns and sees us.

He opens his mouth in a wordless shout. At the same instant, a hand reaches for one of my braids.

Without thinking, I swing my knife behind me. It hits something.

Someone yells.

I run.

Blindly, I push my way past two farmers. Feet hit the ground behind me, and hands grab at me.

The cart blocks the path. I splash through the puddles beside it, lifting my muddy skirts to keep from tripping.

Past the cart, past the horse, onto the bridge.

People turn and stare as I elbow my way through, my skirt held high.

My breath comes in ragged gasps.

Below me, the river. Ahead, the guard tower on the city gates. All around me, people, too many people in my path.

“Let me through,” I say, but no one does.

A voice growls behind me, a voice I remember. The mercenary.

I push harder. Someone plucks at my cloak. I duck
beneath a man’s basket and dodge around a woman carrying a sack over her shoulder.

The guard in the tower shouts something down at me. I cross myself and dash through the gates.

My foot hits a stone and I fall hard, the heels of my hands hitting the mud, my pack slamming into my back.

Hands grab at my shoulders.

I twist to get away, but the hands hold me firmly.

I can’t get free.

“S
top. Go easy,” a man says, his words slurred.

Bartilmew.

“All is well,” he says, lifting me to my feet.

I look wildly behind me, but I don’t see the mercenaries. My breath comes fast and sharp. Bartilmew holds my arms, as if he were calming a bucking horse. Then, carefully, he takes the knife from my hand. Without a word, he wipes the blood on the bottom of his boot.

Blood?

The mercenary’s blood.

I shudder.

Father Nicholas and the merchant, Dame Isabel and Petrus are all staring at me. Never in my life did I think I would be glad to see Petrus Tappester.

Bartilmew hands me my knife back, then steps to his mistress’s side.

Where is
my
mistress?