The Merchant's Daughter (11 page)

Maud’s limp brown hair did somewhat resemble a tail, and the way her eyelids drooped over wide-set eyes in her long face did even more to evoke the face of a donkey.

Both girls stepped forward, quickly closing the gap between them. A few girls screamed and scrambled away, while others yelled, “Hit her!” “Fight!” and “Don’t let her talk to you like that!”

A whistle cut through the chaos, so loud and shrill it made Annabel cover her ears.

All voices ceased. Every eye faced the door where Mistress Eustacia stood with her hands on her hips, her face flushed and her jaw set.

She glared for a long moment at Maud and Beatrice then allowed her fierce gaze to rove around the room. “Fighting is reason enough for dismissal or punishment.”

Dismissal for paid workers, some form of punishment for indentured servants like Annabel.

Mistress Eustacia went on in a hoarse voice that, though quiet, reverberated off the stone walls. “Shocked at your behavior, I am. You sound like a bunch of half-drunk men with your talk. Have you no shame, speaking of your lord that way?”

Maud looked down at her hands, but Beatrice narrowed her eyes and turned her head to the side, staring defiantly at the wall.

“Some one of you, a few minutes ago, when your lord and master was getting ready for bed, shamelessly came and tried to tempt him.”

Annabel closed her eyes, her stomach sinking.

“Who did this? Who knows?”

Silence.

“Tell me now or tell me later, but when I find out who it was, that maid will be punished.”

A few murmurs of “Yes, Mistress” came from the girls.

“Now every last one of you, to bed. Take a strap to all of you, I will.” Mistress Eustacia’s face glowed red and her large bosom heaved, as though from physical exertion. “It would serve you all a good lesson if the master turns you out and hires from the village girls of Glynval. And tomorrow I will expect you all to work two extra hours” — a few soft groans echoed around the room — “for this misbehavior and disrespect for
your own lord. For shame.” She leaned over and blew out the small torch in the iron sconce nearest the door. The maids blew out the remaining candles while Mistress Eustacia watched, hands on her hips. “To bed.” She turned and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

After a few moments of silence, Annabel heard soft weeping.

“What are you crying for?” a voice whispered loudly.

From the direction of the crying came, “What if she tells Lord le Wyse what we were saying? Aren’t you afraid of what he’ll do to us?”

Instead of reassurances, there was an uneasy silence. Several moments passed and the crying started up again. This time, no one said a thing.

Ranulf walked into the manor house and saw that it was empty.

No, not empty. A woman stood in the corner, her back to him. She wore a beautiful silk dress of deep red, her hair covered by a gold-embroidered coif.

His feet moved slowly, as if weighed down, as he was compelled to go to her.

She turned and Ranulf saw her face. “Guinevere.”

A baby rested in her arms, and her lips were set in that familiar, cold smile. She held the baby out toward him, but he realized the infant was strangely pale, even gray. Dead.

Guinevere began to laugh, a sinister sound that sent a chill down his back. She laughed as though mocking him, a noise he’d heard often. She threw the baby at him. He tried to catch the child, but his arms wouldn’t move fast enough. But instead of falling to the ground, the baby disintegrated into dust and blew out the open window.

His wife continued to laugh at him. Then she sneered. “No one could ever love you. Look at you. You’re
hideous.”
She lunged toward him, her silk dress glimmering in the sunlight that streamed through the window. Her hands wrapped around his neck and she began choking him, pressing hard against his
throat. He couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t seem to lift his hands to fight her. He was suffocating, hurting, dying.

Ranulf opened his eyes and gasped. His own hand was at his throat, and he realized he’d been dreaming.

He swallowed, his throat sore, as if Guinevere had truly been choking him. He could see his wife’s eyes as she attacked him, bloody and animallike, and he shuddered.

Will I ever be free from this nightmare? Free from the hold she has over me?
Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. He flung them away angrily. Even in death, she had the power to make him feel like he was repulsive.

Chapter
6

When Sunday came, Annabel put on her best
dress and tied her white-linen covering around her hair. With the rest of the servants, she headed down the lane toward the square tower of the old stone church, just visible over the trees. Each member of the lord’s household was required to attend Mass every Sunday, unless they could prove, or successfully feign, sickness.

The small parish church was the most noteworthy building in Glynval, but was naught in comparison to the abbey churches and cathedrals in and around London. Nevertheless, the maidens all grew quiet as they entered the high-ceilinged nave, genuflected, and crossed themselves. Then they each found a spot to kneel.

As Annabel knelt to pray, she pictured herself in St. Paul’s Cathedral, with its beautiful stained glass windows depicting various biblical stories. She almost believed she was there — until she opened her eyes and beheld the stark gray walls and the one murky mural over the chancel arch, featuring the devil and his demons casting people into hellfire.

The bells began to ring and Annabel bowed her head and prayed silently, thanking God for the day’s respite from work, for Mistress Eustacia’s kindness to her, and for Lord le Wyse not punishing her for breaching his privacy. She hoped from now on she could keep her distance from him and remain unnoticed in the large crowd of servants.

The parish priest, Sir Matefrid, plodded down the aisle, a crucifix in one hand, his censer in the other. He wore a long velvet robe, the same one he wore every Sunday, with a chain around his neck that hung so low the attached crucifix rested on his protruding belly. His face bore no wrinkles and very little gray sprinkled his brown hair, but the way he stooped gave him the appearance of a much older man.

Annabel’s heart beat faster as she watched him, thinking of the question she would to put to him after Mass.
O Father God, please let him say yes.

Sir Matefrid had barely reached the front of the sanctuary when Lord le Wyse strode in, bowed toward the altar, and, without looking up, took his place with the rest of the kneelers just to Annabel’s left. Unable to curb her curiosity, her eyes devoured his richly embroidered waistcoat, trimmed in crimson velvet, and his crisp white sleeves. The ornate clothing did not surprise her, but his behavior once he was kneeling did. He clasped his hands, his eyes shut, his lips moving silently in prayer. His brow furrowed in concentration as he leaned forward, looking truly humble.

Glancing around, Annabel saw nearly everyone she knew, including Stephen, who knelt beside his mother. Adam stood, fidgeting restlessly beside his father, while Gilbert talked with one of the masonry workers. Margery knelt nearby, but her much-older husband, the miller, was not beside her, as he rarely ever graced the small church with his presence. Margery was whispering intently with two other maidens. Annabel watched them for a moment as they hid a laugh behind a hand or yawned and looked around.

Hardly anyone, besides Lord le Wyse, even pretended to pray.

The priest took his place before the altar and the boys of the choir began to sing a plainsong hymn in Latin. Thanks to her father’s teaching, she was able to translate the words in her head, in spite of the choirboys’ bad pronunciation.

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,

That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

Annabel thought the chorus rather ironic, since no one looked the least like they were actually rejoicing. Some appeared solemn, including Lord le Wyse, who stared straight ahead.

O come, thou rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan’s tyranny;
From depths of hell Thy people save
And give them victory o’er the grave.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

“Rejoice,” the song instructed. How would everyone react if she suddenly burst into an exclamation of joy? She imagined the rest of the crowd gasping in astonishment and Sir Matefrid’s face turning red with outrage, that purplish vein in his neck bulging.

But the song commanded it. Did God want her to rejoice? Was that in the Holy Scriptures?
O Father God, give me a Bible. Please let Sir Matefrid say yes.

As the boys’ choir ended their singing, the paunchy, middle-aged priest began to speak. They all stood. Rather than becoming respectfully silent, however, the crowd of a hundred or so began chatting among themselves. A baby cried lustily, drowning out the priest’s words for several moments. A brother and sister a few feet in front of Annabel began to fight, punctuating the sermon with squeals of anger before the mother clouted them both, her blows echoing through the high-arcing nave.

Sir Matefrid didn’t seem to notice these distractions. He began in the usual way, making the point that women were evil, enticing men to sin with their wily feminine ways. It was the same way he began all of his sermons.

Annabel kept her eyes on the floor so no one would see the anger and contempt that coursed through her and probably showed in her eyes. Was this how the Bible read? Surely
not. Surely it did not revile and condemn in such a manner. She wanted to know. She
had
to know.

He went on, as always, to denounce unmarried men — forgetting that he was one himself?—speaking of their passions and lusts, of how they only sought to satisfy their flesh.

She was glad when he finished his sermon and began the Eucharist. He spoke in Latin, which Annabel understood easily, but she knew the rest of the congregation did not know what the priest was saying. Glancing around, she noticed that the few people who were not talking to their neighbor had a glazed look in their eyes.

She chided herself for her own wandering mind and closed her eyes to better concentrate, to imagine the Christ on the cross, dying for her sins.

After Holy Communion, Lord le Wyse turned and strode out the door as quickly as he’d entered. The rest of the parishioners began to file out in a more leisurely manner, continuing the same conversations they’d engaged in throughout the service. She stood still, hoping no one would notice her in the shadows about the wall. She watched the priest as he puttered around, putting away the elements of the Eucharist and speaking with the boys of the choir and altar.

Finally, after everyone else had exited the building, she scurried forward to catch Sir Matefrid before he quitted the sanctuary.

“Yes?” He stared at her, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth.

Her heart fluttered up to her throat and her face flushed hot, but her intense desire overrode her nervousness. She curtsied as her mother had taught her to do before a man of rank, and when she glanced up at him was careful not to look him in the eye, since she knew he found this disrespectful. “Sir Matefrid, sir, I wish to know what God has said in the Holy Writ. If you would but loan me your Bible, I will swear an oath not to harm it and to return it as soon as you wish. Will you allow me to borrow this book?” She lowered her head, awaiting his reply.

“Young woman.”

She glanced up again. He raised his eyebrows, but her momentary hope was crushed as he brought them down in a harsh glower.

“I cannot imagine where you picked up such a fanciful notion. That I should turn over a precious Bible to
you.”
He snorted and shook his head.