The Copper Sign (9 page)

“And who is the young girl over there?” Glenna asked.

“I have no idea. I think she bakes fish pasties,” he replied condescendingly, and shrugged.

Now Ellen, too, spotted the girl. In amazement she rushed over to her. “What in the world are you doing here?” she asked.

“The knight—well you know who I mean—said my fish cakes were the best he had ever eaten. His master is a great lover of seafood, he said, and he offered me good pay and full-time employment. I would never have dared to dream I would be going so far from home.”

“What did your mother say about that? Did she approve?” Ellen asked incredulously.

“She knows nothing about it. I just left as I do every morning. When she notices, I’ll already be long gone on the high seas and free! And how about you? Didn’t you want to work for a smith? Didn’t it work out?”

“It did, and that’s why I’m here! It’s a long story.” Ellen grinned. She was happy to know someone on the ship in addition to the smith, Glenna, and Art.

“By the way, my name is Rose.” The girl wiped her hand on her apron and held it out to Ellen.

“Alan,” she answered, proffering a manly handshake while trying not to crush the other girl’s hand.

Rose looked at her with undisguised admiration and winked at her seductively.

Ellen felt uneasy and dismayed.
She really thinks I am coming on to her
, she thought.

They talked until the ship’s hold was full, and finally the passengers were asked to come aboard. The captain told everyone to hurry. There was little space in the cargo area, and everyone had to stow their crates and bundles and try to get settled as best they could in the tight quarters. As the ship put out to sea, Ellen was sitting with her back against a barrel that was tied down securely and smelled of oak and wine.

“I hope there are no rats on board!” Glenna whined, looking around warily before taking a seat.

“I’d be surprised if there weren’t, as there’s no such thing as a ship without rats. And it’s probably good to have a few of them on board, as they say rats leave a sinking ship. When they jump overboard, we know at least that the ship is going down,” Donovan said, smirking.

Glenna looked at him in shock. “If you’re trying to be witty or funny, you have failed,” she snorted and turned her back on her husband.

Donovan shrugged and went to join the other English craftsmen who were standing on the deck and talking.

As soon as the ship put to sea, the knights settled down for a game of dice.

Only one man in elegant clothing and shoulder-length, slightly matted hair stood at the railing. They learned from one of the prostitutes that his name was Walter Map and that he was a servant of the king. He was in England on his last trip when he fell ill and was not able to travel back to Normandy. Therefore, FitzHamlin had agreed to take care of him and return him to his master when he recovered. Walter Map had been raised in Paris, could read and write—a service he performed for the king—and knew Latin and grammar. But he was not only learned, he was also kind to everyone. He treated all the women on board like ladies and tried to amuse and entertain the anxious travelers with little jokes.

When the seas got heavier and a strong wind kicked up, he hung over the railing like almost everyone else, trembling and green, and emptied his rebellious stomach into the sea. Except for the sailors, Ellen and Rose appeared to be the only ones who were not sick, but the stench of vomit became harder and harder for them to bear. When Ellen stood up to check on Walter, who had been leaning over the railing, the back of her shirt slipped up, and Rose noticed a reddish-brown spot on her trousers. She grabbed her by the arm. “Look, you must have hurt yourself. You have blood on your braies.” Even a simple scratch on a rusty nail could be fatal. Rose examined the boards that Ellen had been sitting on but couldn’t find anything. “There’s nothing here that would have caused that scratch. Maybe it happened some time ago.”

Ellen could not figure out where the blood might have come from. She hadn’t felt anything except for some terrible stomach cramps that had been bothering her for a while and which she thought were the first signs of seasickness. She retreated to a quiet corner where no one could see her, pulled her braies down, and saw that the blood was coming from her most intimate part. She was seized with fear, remembering vaguely that her mother had bled—“unclean,” she had called it—but why she bled and how long it lasted and what she should do about it she didn’t know. She felt completely helpless. What would happen if Glenna saw it? She would know immediately that Ellen wasn’t a boy, and she would tell Donovan. Then the trip would be over practically before it began. Ellen’s eyes filled with tears. Perhaps she would even be punished for it or imprisoned or simply abandoned in Normandy. Hot flashes alternated with the cramps in her stomach.

Suddenly Rose appeared again. She looked down at Ellen’s still uncovered private parts. Something was missing. In the place where men had their male organ she had only a little pubic hair covering her.

“You’re not a boy at all,” Rose said. “Is this the first time you have bled?”

Ellen nodded silently and was so ashamed she couldn’t bear to look Rose in the eye.

“I’ll go and talk to Hazel. Whores know all about such things.”

“Please, you mustn’t do that, don’t give me away!” Ellen whispered and looked at her imploringly.

“I won’t—you must have reasons to pass yourself off as a boy. Don’t worry, I’ll just say I am bleeding.” Rose seemed to know more about this than Ellen did. “Does it hurt?”

“My stomach does.” Ellen remained crouched in a corner and pulled up her braies.

When Rose returned she had learned enough to make Ellen feel better.

“Hazel gave me a few pieces of linen and showed me how to tie them together. Women are careful not to sit on their dresses so they don’t get any spots on them, but you are wearing braies and chausses so you have to be careful that your undergarments always cover them but that you are not sitting on them. You also have to wash and change the linens regularly so they don’t smell.” Rose handed Ellen the cloths. “And here is some mugwort. Put a few leaves of it under your tongue and it will help the cramps. Do you have another pair of braies?”

Ellen nodded. “In my pack.” She wasn’t able to do anything and was so grateful Rose was there to take care of everything for her.

“Here, put them on and give me the ones with the stain. I’ll wash them out along with the cloths, too, and nobody will notice,” Rose said after she had fetched the bundle and taken out the braies.

“I’m really indebted to you for all this. Thank you,” Ellen whispered, placing a folded cloth between her legs. To make sure it didn’t slip, Rose tied a larger one around her hips just as Hazel had shown her, and Ellen pulled the fresh braies over it.
If Llewyn knew about this
, she thought. She had trouble suppressing a hysterical giggle that suddenly came over her.

Rose fit right in with her role as Ellen’s protectress and guardian, and Ellen was more than thankful for such a friend.

“Are you feeling better?” Hazel asked Rose sometime later, and at first Rose didn’t know what she meant.

“Oh, me? Yes! I never felt better.”

“Mugwort always works well for me, but it doesn’t do anything for Tyra,” she said, pointing over to her friend. “It’s different for everyone.”

Only now did Rose catch on, and she managed to lie without blushing. “I’m really very grateful to you. The cramps were terrible, but I am feeling much better now.”

“If it gets bad again, come to me. I have plenty of it.”

“Thank you,” Rose whispered.

“I’ll leave you now before the men get any foolish ideas,” the prostitute said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Whenever they walk past Tyra or me, they whistle, lick their lips, and make lewd remarks. You are a decent girl and shouldn’t be treated like that.”

“Then why do you do it?” Rose asked.

“I don’t know how to do anything else.” Hazel shrugged indifferently. “My mother and my grandmother were whores, I was born in a brothel, and I don’t know any other life. I had no choice, you know.”

“Are all men like that?”

“Almost all,” Hazel said, looking over the railing. “There are some who don’t leer at us—Walter Map and young Alan. They are nice, and I think the boy likes you!”

“We are friends, nothing more, really.”

“Come now, don’t give up right away, just wait and see,” said Hazel, who thought she heard a trace of disappointment in Rose’s voice and patted her on the shoulder with a grin.

On the fourth day of their journey, shortly after sunrise, Ellen was standing with Walter along the railing. She liked his fine sense of humor and his reserved manner.

“Have you noticed how Rose looks at you?” He took Ellen by the shoulder and looked her closely in the eyes.

“What do you mean?” Ellen didn’t understand what he was trying to say.

“She runs after you like the devil runs after a poor soul, my dear Alan,” he whispered in her ear. “She jealously watches every step you make. She is standing back there again and watching you.”

Ellen laughed. Rose was her only friend. They had stayed up all night again, talking softly. “Oh, Map, you have a vivid imagination.”

Walter raised his eyebrows. “If you would like my well-intentioned advice, be careful if you don’t have feelings for her. Love scorned often turns to the most dangerous hatred. Believe me, and don’t forget my words.”

“It’s not what you think, really. We are just friends,” Ellen answered confidently.

“As you wish.” Walter stared out across the sea, seeming somewhat offended. But then he started pointing excitedly at something in the distance.

“Look there! That’s the coast of Normandy. Do you see the mouth of the river? That’s where the Seine empties into the ocean. We’ll sail up the river to Tancarville,” he explained.

Ellen put her hand to her forehead and looked off to the east. They had a favorable wind, but the entry into the estuary took longer than Ellen had expected. She kept looking out at the coast, which was getting closer and closer. An old, unshaven Norman sailor tanned by the sun and sea came running over from the other side of the ship and leaned out over the railing.

Ellen raised her eyebrows in surprise, looked at Walter questioningly, and said, “Can you believe he’s seasick?” He was the only Englishman who also knew French and thus was a party to everything happening on board the ship.

Map shook his head and laughed.

At that very moment, the unshaven sailor cupped his hands to his mouth and cried out something to the helmsman she didn’t understand. Then he ran to the other side of the ship and leaned over the railing there as well.

“What in heaven’s name is he doing?”

Walter grinned and replied: “Sailors say that the Seine has more shoals than there are oysters in Honfleur. If he gets distracted just for a moment, our trip could be over even before we arrive in Tancarville.” Map could see from Ellen’s expression that this answer did not suffice. “He is leaning so far over the railing in order to have a better look. A man like him must have many years of experience so the ship doesn’t run aground. Do you see the young sailor back there?”

“Sure, I have eyes in the back of my head,” Ellen said, and was surprised she sounded so annoyed.

“The old sailor probably started out just like him and learned from looking over the shoulder of an experienced sailor. The sailors go to the bars in the seaports not just to get drunk but to exchange experiences. That’s no doubt the way he learned from other sailors and on earlier voyages about the shoals in the river. He can tell where they must be by looking at the landscape as well as by how cliffs jut out into the river and even the color of the water. That’s why he watches everything so closely.”

“How do you know all that?” Ellen asked, impressed.

Map smiled mischievously. “Not everyone is so secretive as you are. Except for you, almost everyone tells me what’s on their mind.”

Ellen fell silent and quietly viewed the strange countryside on both sides of the Seine. The earth was fertile and dark brown, and a seemingly endless number of colorful spring flowers were growing in the bright green, lush grass on the meadow. The sight awakened in Ellen the strong wish to feel solid ground under her feet once again.

“Good Lord, how I hate this lurching around!” she moaned.

Walter looked at her in astonishment. “Don’t tell me that now, so close to the end of our voyage, you’re going to get sick, too. The sea isn’t rough at all here!”

“Oh, nonsense, I’m just fine. I only want to be able to walk straight ahead again as before,” she answered gruffly.

On the shore, well-fed brown and white cows stared blankly at the passing ship. “And look behind them—sheep! And lambs,” Ellen cried out in surprise, pointing to another meadow.

“Alan, I’m beginning to worry seriously about your state of mind. Sheep have grazed over half of England until it is almost bare, so why for heaven’s sake are you so excited at seeing those bleating four-legged creatures?”

“We took sheep along with us,” Ellen said excitedly, “so I thought there weren’t any in Normandy.”

“Oh, I see,” said Walter, nodding and grinning at the same time.

Ellen was annoyed that she knew so little about Normandy.

“English sheep give more and better wool than any other animals, so the Normans take our sheep and are trying to resettle them in their country. Nevertheless, for some reason the animals in England are still better. I think that comes from what they get to eat.” Map seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Or maybe it’s due to the English weather…” He hadn’t quite finished thinking about it when they were joined by Webster, the cloth merchant.

“It’s because of how they are shorn,” he said. “That’s something the English farmers know how to do better. Moreover, they pray regularly to their patron saints, and I do think it’s not too bad to have the Lord on your side.” Webster spoke as if he were the expert.