Blythe Gifford - The Knave and the Maiden

“Did I say born? I meant since God left her in our care.” Too short to reach his shoulder, she tapped his arm with gentle fingers. “And now she will be in yours.”

He wanted no more reminders of his betrayal. “So you have made this journey before, Sister.”

“Three times. I went the year of the Death to pray for all the souls in the Earl’s care. Only the Sister who traveled with me and the Earl himself died.” Her eyes still carried the shadow of that Death. “The Saint protected the rest of us. Now, we send someone every year to thank her. I went again the first year of Pope Innocent’s reign.”

“And the third time?”

She looked away from him and across the courtyard toward the kitchen. “Years before.” Picking up her staff, she leaned stiffly, into her first step. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must gather my things.”

He watched her, feeling the pain of each footfall. She might have made the journey before, but she had been younger then. “Sister, I would ask a favor.”

“Of me? What is it, my child?”

“I know you would prefer to walk the journey with the rest of us, but…” But what? What excuse could he find to spare her the aching steps? “…but my horse Roucoud is accustomed to a weight on his back. It will be hard for him to walk empty.” No need to tell her she was so small the warhorse would barely know she was there. “Besides, you have traveled the route before. If you rode, you could watch the road and help guide us.”

“Bless you, sir, for your kindness.” A dimple creased her cheek. “It is troublesome, is it not, to have a horse that needs weight on his back when you are weary of riding? I was just praying for God’s help on this journey and there you are.”

“Do not confuse my help and God’s, Sister. They are two entirely different things.” She would discover that later, he thought, to her regret.

“Sometimes God’s help comes from where you least expect it.”

And so does God’s punishment, he thought.

With Innocent at her heels, Dominica fled to the dark, smoky kitchen. Rabbits, wood pigeons and a fat goose, more meat than Dominica had ever seen, swung from the rafters. The smell of drying blood mixed with fresh-baked bread. Scullions scampered in and out, jumping at the cook’s shouts as quickly as she had jumped to escape The Savior’s anger.

He had frowned like Moses, as if he knew she had told the nice young man and his wife that he raised Lord William from death. Well, what if she had? If I had done something so wonderful, she thought, I would want everyone to know. Of course, as the Prioress always told her, Pride goeth before destruction. It was one of Mother Julian’s favorite Proverbs.

“Stand in line! Give me a minute!” the cook yelled. A young scullion boy ran in and added a loaf of yesterday’s bread to the odd collection of cheese and dirt-covered vegetables strewn atop the wooden table. The cook, muttering, was trying to divide them into eleven equal pouches. “I wish the Earl’s piety came with a day’s notice.”

Standing patiently at the end of the line next to the deaf woman, Dominica stifled covetous envy of her finely woven cloak. The woman ducked her head and smiled up through her eyelashes at the tall, thin man on her other side.

He smiled back, bending from his hips with a bounce.

Dropping her gaze, afraid to be caught staring, Dominica blinked at the sight of red hose hugging the woman’s ample ankles. Despite her bosom full of badges, this worldly woman looked nothing like a pilgrim. Could she be a repentant prostitute?

“The food is important,” the tall man said. “Good for balancing the humors.”

The woman cupped her hand around her good left ear. “Oh, you are a physician, good sir?”

“I am James Arderne,” the tall man said, folding his entire body into a bow. “I am a physician from near St. John’s.”

“Ah, well, we shall be glad of your company on the road.”

“Where is your home, Goodwife?” the Physician said.

“Bath,” she answered. “And it is Good Widow. Agnes Cropton.” The red-hosed widow wiggled her fingers in a wave as the physician bowed a farewell.

Widow. Judge not, Dominica reminded herself, repenting her wicked thoughts of the pious widow, that ye be not judged. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Which one?”

“Your husband who died. Oh, pardon, and for the loss of your hearing, as well.” Dominica sighed, longing for the silence of the convent. It was easier to talk to God than to strangers.

“I meant which husband.” The woman popped a piece of cheese in her mouth when the cook’s back was turned. “As for my hearing, it was my worthless second husband who made me deaf. Beat me about the head and shoulders one too many times. God struck him dead,” she said nodding emphatically. “But that was many years ago.”

“Next! Come along!” the cook yelled.

Dominica jumped.

The Widow’s words flowed on. “I’m glad we have a physician with us. Some terrible illness can strike on the road. When I was in…”

Cook jerked the Widow’s sleeve. “I said ‘come.’ Are you deaf?”

“Yes, I am,” the woman answered, raising her head and her eyebrows. “God keep you for your concern.”

Cook threw the packet of food at her, snarling. “And keep that dog away from the table!” he yelled at Dominica. “Look, he already ate a piece of cheese! I’m not feeding animals, too.”

The Widow winked.

Even stretched on his stubby legs, Innocent couldn’t reach the table, but she scooped him up with her left arm and took the last three parcels of food with her right. “For Sister Marian and The Savior,” she called back to the scowling cook as she walked out of the kitchen beside Widow Cropton. “Today, I wouldn’t mind having one deaf ear,” Dominica moaned.

“Well, it can be handy when I don’t want to be bored. What’s your name, dearie? Where are you from?”

“Dominica.” Squinting in the sunlight, she scanned the courtyard for Sister and The Savior as she set Innocent down. “I live at the Priory.”

“You don’t look like a nun.”

“I’m not yet. But I will be.” The very words made her smile.

The Widow harrumphed. “Not looking like you do.”

Dominica’s hand flew to her face, pressed her cheeks, touched her forehead, slid down her nose, tugged her ears. The Prioress said her eyes were frightening. Was there more? Was she deformed? “What’s wrong? We have no mirrors at the Priory.”

“Nothing when you smile.” She pinched Dominica’s cheek. “Smile more, girl. Show that dimple. Don’t worry. You’ll catch a husband.”

“But I don’t want a husband. I want to be a nun.”

Widow Cropton shook her head, as if she neither believed nor approved. “That’s a last resort, dearie. Pretty girl like you won’t need to waste away in a nunnery.”

It is not a waste to spread God’s word, she thought, but decided it was not her place to explain God’s plan to Widow Cropton. “Do you go on pilgrimage to ask the Blessed Larina to let you hear again?” she said instead.

The Widow snorted. “Well, I suppose.” She patted the badges on her ample bosom. “Although Saint James and Saint Thomas did no good. Perhaps a good woman saint can help.”

“So you’ve been on pilgrimage before?” She spotted The Savior and Sister, standing next to his big bay horse.

“Five times.” She laughed, heartily. “Once after each husband.”

“Five?” She turned back to the Widow in shock. “What happened to them?”

“Oh, they all died. They were much older than I, then.” She stroked her chin and neck, where the skin was losing its grip before disappearing into the folds of her wimple. “Men are such weak creatures, my dear. If they don’t get killed in battle they get smallpox or fall off a horse or drown in the river.” She shook her head.