The Merchant's Daughter (6 page)

“You just couldn’t go along with my plan, could you?” Edward hissed the words at her, coming to stand beside her.

Annabel pretended to ignore him.

“You couldn’t do this one thing for your family, could you?” He sounded angry, and the ridiculousness of his attitude hit her.

“You’re the one who tried to force your only sister to marry an appalling man she had no wish to marry. I
am
helping the family by serving Lord le Wyse.” She continued with her work while she spoke, not even looking up, too aware that Lord le Wyse might be nearby watching them. “And even if I had married Bailiff Tom, he wouldn’t have saved you from your share of the work. He wasn’t planning to pay your censum at all. He would have let you be indentured to Lord le Wyse.”

“That’s a lie!”

“If I were you, I’d lower my voice and get back to work. Lord le Wyse doesn’t tolerate people who won’t do their share.”

Edward huffed and stomped away from her. Annabel couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at her brother’s discomfiture. At the same time, her heart ached to think that her own brother didn’t care about her. Father would never have let him treat her this way.

Annabel again focused on the stalks, though her stomach growled intermittently all morning. Soon her head ached from the sun’s heat, and her mouth was so dry it was as if she’d been chewing a ball of wax.

She tied off yet another bundle of barley. When she looked up, a young boy with green eyes and a dirt-streaked face stood beside her with a bucket and a ladle.

“Water?”

“Thank you.” Annabel took the proffered ladle and drank. As she handed it back to him, she noticed a cut on the boy’s upper arm, oozing fresh blood. “What happened to your arm?” She bent lower to get a better look.

“Got too close to a scythe.” He stared at her with big eyes.

“You must have a bandage for that. Here, sit down.” Annabel’s dress was old and threadbare, and so she hoped would
tear easily. She took hold of the hem, giving it a good yank until she felt it rip. Tearing off a long strip of material, she knelt beside the boy, who sat obediently on the ground. Carefully, she wrapped the cloth around the wound and tied it in place.

She gazed into his complacent eyes, and compassion welled up in her. “What’s your name?”

“Adam.”

“How old are you, Adam?”

“Eight years.”

“You be wary of flying scythes.” She pointed a finger at him but smiled to soften her words. “You wouldn’t want to lose an arm.”

He grinned and his eyes twinkled. He pointed behind her. “Over there’s my father. His name’s Gilbert Carpenter.”

She turned and spied a man who was talking to Lord le Wyse several feet away. Lord le Wyse was frowning at her but quickly turned away.

So he was watching her. She’d better get back to work. She bent to gather more barley stalks and the boy came closer.

“My father and I came here from Lincoln, to help the lord build his castle.”

“That’s a long way. Did your mother come too?”

“Nay. My mother’s dead. But my father says he’s looking for my new mother. You could be my mother.”

Annabel’s eyebrows went up in alarm, but her heart expanded at the hope in his eyes. Poor fellow. Every child needed a mother.

He flashed her another grin as he picked up his bucket. “I’ll bring my father to meet you.”

She scrambled for a suitable way to answer him. “But I’m too young to be your mother.” His face fell, his eyes wide with hurt. A pang of guilt assaulted her. “But I’m just right to be your sister, eh?”

His face brightened a little. “You’ll like my father. He’s the master mason.”

“Let’s get our work done first, and later we can talk.”

Adam moved on to take the water bucket to other laborers.

What would the boy say to his father? She imagined him declaring that he’d found a mother. She cringed. Her first day and already she’d gotten herself into an awkward predicament. More than one.

As the day wore on, a constant stream of sweat slipped from her hairline down her cheek. The thin shift underneath her dress plastered itself to her body. The work seemed endless, as the ripe barley stretched on and on across field after field. Over and over she bent to gather the stalks in the crook of her arm. Her elbow ached and her back felt as if it would break in two. Her hands were covered in dust and her shoes were filthy. She wondered if later in the evening there would be a safe, private place for her to bathe.

Annabel tried to keep her eyes down, for whenever she met the gaze of one of the other women she saw either hostility or amused curiosity. At least she’d seen no more of Bailiff Tom.

By the time the sun was no longer directly overhead, weariness snaked up her legs and into her arms. When were they supposed to take a rest? She longed to ask one of her fellow workers, but they were all keeping a distance of several feet. Her head felt light, and each time she raised herself from her stooping position, the world swayed and her eyes clouded. To faint now would show the villeins she was as useless as they imagined. They might even think she was pretending to faint to avoid doing her work.

They worked their way to the edge of the field, near the bank of the river. She gathered another armload of barley stalks and began tying the twine. The stalks in the middle slipped through the sheaf, and then the whole bundle slid limply to the ground. Annabel bit her lip. Tears of pure exhaustion sprang to her eyes.

She took a deep breath, willing the tears away. She bent and started gathering the stalks again. When she stepped forward to reach the last ones, her toe struck a rock and she stumbled. Her legs gave way and she fell forward, landing on her hands and knees in the clump of weeds that grew beside the barley stalks at the edge of the field.

An intense stinging seized her hands and lower legs. She pushed herself up, but before she could stand, someone caught her under her arms and helped her up. When the person let go, Annabel swayed precariously and her eyes refused to focus.

When her surroundings gradually lost their blur, a young woman about her age stood beside her.

“That’s stinging nettle you just sat in. Don’t you know to stay away from that?” Wisps of light brown hair swayed against the girl’s cheeks.

Annabel wanted to say that she hadn’t sat in it, she fell, and no, she didn’t know. But the painful stinging made her suck in an agonized breath through her clenched teeth. Her skirt must have flipped up just enough to expose her bare legs to the plant. Millions of tiny, likely poisonous needles seemed to have invaded her skin, but staring at her hands, Annabel could only see a few barely visible, hairlike thorns. She yanked a few of them out as the horrible stinging made its way up her legs and spread over her arms, into her cheeks, and along her scalp until her whole body tingled in misery. She closed her eyes, thinking death would be pleasant.

“You don’t look well. Are you apt to topple over again?”

“Nay, I am well.” Annabel opened her eyes, but her surroundings looked blurry again. She put out her hand to try to steady herself.

“Sit down before you fall again.” The young maiden’s voice seemed slightly amused as she grabbed Annabel’s arm. Annabel sank heavily to the ground.

She leaned away from the stinging nettle plant, wanting to get as far away from it as possible. Her head spun faster now, so she closed her eyes and tucked her chin to her chest.
Breathe in. Breathe out. O God, don’t let me faint.

A child’s voice broke through her daze. “Miss Annabel?”

She looked up. Adam stood in front of her, this time holding a brown jug and a sack.

“Some bread and ale for Beatrice and Annabel.”

He handed the heavy jug to the maiden, whose name was
Beatrice, apparently, then dug his hand into the sack and pulled out a small loaf of bread for each of them.

Annabel stared at the bread, and her trembling fingers slipped around it. Never had she been so grateful for bread. She carefully pinched off a small bite and put it in her mouth, hoping it would cure the weakness in her limbs and the rolling of her stomach. She chewed slowly, struggling to control a shudder.

Beatrice took a long drink of ale and smacked her lips. She wiped her sleeve across her mouth then handed the jug to Annabel.

She dropped the small loaf into her lap and grasped the ale jug with both hands. As with the bread, the sour beverage never tasted so good. After several swallows, she handed the jug back to Beatrice.

Adam moved away to deliver bread and ale to other workers, and Annabel and Beatrice ate in silence.

The agony in Annabel’s body never lessened as the prickly sensation swept over her arms and down her spine. She shivered. The bread had calmed her stomach, but the rest of her body felt as weak as a newborn lamb. She imagined herself pitching face forward again.

But everyone else was working and so would she. Falling into the harmless-looking nettle plant was no excuse to stop, no matter how bad the stinging that enveloped her whole body. The barley had to be harvested or the entire village would suffer lack this winter.

She placed one hand on the ground and the other on her knee and pushed herself up. With effort she bent over, picked up her ball of twine, and took a step toward the piles of barley on the ground. Though she swayed and her head began to spin, Annabel focused her eyes on a spot on the ground, willing herself to stay upright.

“Annabel? Beatrice?” Adam’s voice sounded near.

Carefully, Annabel turned to look at him.

“Lord le Wyse wants you to go back to the manor house and help Mistress Eustacia.”

Behind Adam, Lord le Wyse was scowling at her. No doubt he thought his new servant miserably lacking.

She thanked God anyway for her reprieve. A sigh of despair threatened to escape, however, when she turned toward the manor house and realized how far she would have to walk to get to it. The linden trees hid the building from view, and the field’s furrows stretched out long before her, littered with the dull shades of brown, white, and gray of the villagers’ clothing, the barley, and the dirt.

At least she saw no fiendish green nettle plants.

“Saints have mercy, how pale you look.” Mistress Eustacia stared at Annabel. “I told him you were none too sturdy, and he sending you out in the fields.” She clucked her tongue.

Beatrice offered, “It might be because she fell into a patch of stinging nettles.”

“Stinging nettles! Why, child, don’t you know to stay away from those? You’ll be stinging for hours, you will. Come, sit.” Eustacia pulled out a stool then addressed Beatrice. “Did you rub some fern on it? The underside of a fern leaf does some good, it does.”

“I didn’t see any.” Beatrice shrugged then walked toward the window and the basin of water at the end of the upper hall. “I’ll start on the churning.” She proceeded to scrub her hands and wrists with the water.

A fine red rash covered Annabel’s hands, and a chill crept over her face and along her arms.

Eustacia’s brows creased, her fists planted on her hips. “No more,” she said with a firm set of her ample jaw.

Annabel stared at her.

“I don’t care what the master says, you’re not working in the fields anymore. I have need of you here in the kitchen.” She bent over and yanked up Annabel’s skirts.

Annabel gasped, scrambling to push her skirt back down. The same angry red rash covered her legs.

Eustacia scrunched her face disapprovingly and turned in Beatrice’s direction. “That butter can wait. Take Annabel down to the river to wash, then put some mud on this rash.” Facing Annabel again, she said, “Lots of mud. Smear it on these legs and hands and sit on the bank until it dries. But before you go …” Eustacia pulled out a small table from the wall, laid out with a chunk of cheese, some bread, and two pitchers. “Eat.”

Both girls sat and Beatrice quickly sliced the cheese. More tears pricked Annabel’s eyes. This time they were tears of gratitude.

After a cooling dip in the river, Annabel’s legs and hands still stung, but the discomfort ebbed after she washed off the mud. Another relief came as the villagers went home at midafternoon, finished with their fieldwork for the day. Work at the manor fell into a rhythm as Beatrice began her duties in the dairy while Annabel helped Eustacia prepare supper for the servants and the workers building Ranulf le Wyse’s new home.