Wildwing (11 page)

Church

T
he next day I’m dressed in a fine new gown of rose-colored silk and seated in a covered wagon with curtains on the sides. There’s to be a memorial service for those lost in the storm, and it’s too big and grand for the little chapel in the bailey. We’re on our way to the church in town.

Beatrix insists on keeping the curtains closed—in respect for my grief, she says—as we rumble down the road, across the bridge, and through the narrow streets of town. We come to a stop, and I hear Edward say, “We have arrived, my lady.”

I step down from the wagon, and Beatrix comes after. Villagers line the square, jostling one another to get a better look. Beatrix sees someone she knows and lifts her hand to wave, then remembers herself and pretends she was just adjusting her wimple. The men-at-arms form a human tunnel for me to walk the distance to the church door.

As I look out at the sea of expectant faces, I realize that whatever I’m feeling about this service, it isn’t enough. I’ve seen dead bodies, shuddered as I touched them, but they were strangers to me. For Lady Matilda they were servants, companions, perhaps even friends. The way I look now should honor that.

Pious, I think. And more than sad—on the verge of despair.

I clasp my hands in front of me and raise my eyes to the church tower, sighing loudly. A surge of sighs flows back from the crowd in response. Like I’m living some part of life for everyone else.

I lower my head and walk slowly toward the arched door. The crowd breathes in rhythm to my steps, sharing my grief.

A priest comes forward, his hands outstretched in greeting. Behind me stands the rest of the party. We’ve brought almost the entire castle, with all of us dressed in bright new clothes. Someone has been sewing day and night to make the tunics and capes, my snug-fitting gown. We’re showing our respect for the dead. And our importance. And me.

I feel everyone staring. As I walk through the door, the carved birds add their piercing, inquisitive gazes to the rest. Inside, I pause, adjusting to the darkness.

But where are the pews? The little table with its toppling stacks of historical brochures? The warm light? My steps are ringing out on a stone floor. There’s no furniture to absorb the sound, just the altar. Candlelight flickers onto columns and arches before letting go again, so the ceiling drifts up like heaven’s dome. Stripped of trappings, my little church is suddenly huge, immediate. Like God is looking right at me.

The priest begins the service, and soon he’s intoning with the monotonous flatness of someone who knows every word without thinking. I strain to make out what he’s saying over the low murmur in the room.
“Deus,”
I hear, and
“sanctum”
—it’s all in Latin. I give up trying to understand.

Now the steady drone becomes a low roar in my ears, like the surf, and I start to remember things I’d rather not. How that limp arm felt in my hands. And the torso … the splintered boards … I think of bodies drifting to the bottom of the sea, and fish circling their blanching bones. Sailors, men-at-arms, ladies-in-waiting: the priest is saying prayers for all of them. All, except Lady Matilda. No one knows she’s dead but me.

I picture that night: the boat tossing on raging waves, wind howling through the rigging, and Lady Matilda wide-eyed in terror, trying to hold on as the deck careened fromside to side. A girl my age, on a journey to a new land. And never to arrive. Now I see the wagon in the bailey, that white, lifeless skin, the still-elegant braid… .

The priest chants a line, and everyone chants back. I move my mouth, pretending I know the words.

Pretending to be her.

Then guilt and sadness are washing over me so strong, I’m dizzy on my feet, grabbing Beatrix for support. No one else knows Lady Matilda is dead! No one is saying prayers for her soul! And here, in this church, does God see what I’m doing, the lie I’m stepping into?

As if in response, a circle of green light dances across my dress. I look up. A sunbeam pierces a stained glass window, blazing its picture bright: a girl, kneeling, stripped to the waist, and two men looming over her, their cudgels raised to strike. She lifts her clasped hands toward heaven. What has she done?

I’m keeping a dead girl’s soul from its prayers.

I lift my hand to the glow, and my skin turns underwater green.

I plummet to my knees on the hard stone floor, clasping my hands before me like the girl in the window. I squeeze my eyes shut, and I pray with all my heart, as if my prayers alone can make up for each and every one of those Matildais missing. I pray that her soul has found peace in heaven. And I pray that, if she sees me, she wants me to have this chance, to live the life that was ripped from her.

I feel tears running down my cheeks. And it’s quiet. Too quiet. I open my eyes.

Everyone else is down on their knees, their hands raised in prayer. And their eyes—their eyes are on me.

I stand.

Everyone else stands with a clank and a swish and a rustle. Beatrix puts a hand on her lower back, leans into it, and sighs. There’s more intoning, and some hailing this and that, and then the priest walks forward, clasps my hands, and stands with me as the others stream around us.

“It is hard,” he says kindly. “I know it is hard. But the Lord does not give us a greater burden than we can bear.”

I’m still speechless. He leads me to the door. The men are readying horses, preparing the wagon for Beatrix and me. I see her climbing up and arranging furs and cushions.

The priest is still holding my hands. “But life brings us joys to balance the pain,” he says. “And when you next visit us, it will be a joyous occasion indeed.”

That gets my attention. He’s about to let go of my hands, but I clutch his tighter.

“My next visit?”

“Why, yes,” he says. “We are honored indeed that it will be here.”

“Honored?”

“Of course! Here, and not the cathedral! Quite a celebration, and the possibility of such eminent guests! Today the church supported us in our grief. When next we see you, it will be full of light for your wedding.”

“My wedding?”

He leans forward. “And when does Sir Hugh return to take your hand?”

Beatrix has come back up and is bobbing and curtseying. I let her lead me back to the wagon. And it’s a good thing, because I don’t have a word to say.

Well, what did I
think
Lady Matilda was doing here? Would a lady come so far, bearing all her worldly goods, just for a visit? Would she be treated so fine, given the best room in the castle, and get bowed and groveled to just because of her noble blood? No, it’s because she’s?because I’m?to be lady of the house. Married to the lord.

A grand old lord with his grand old armor. And his grand old marriage bed.

And me who’s never been kissed.

The wagon rumbles along the road. Beatrix looks atmy face and pulls the curtains shut around us.

“There now, my lady. That was too much for you, it was.”

“Beatrix?”

“Yes, my lady? Oh, but your face is white. Do lie back and rest.”

I look at my hands, still clenched together like the girl in the window awaiting her beating. “When…” I don’t even want to say the words, but I need to know. “When am I to be wed?”

She tucks the fur in around me. “Well, let’s see now. Sir Hugh is due back in a sennight, they say. Not long after that, once the other parties arrive.”

“But, Beatrix, I’m fifteen!”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” she says with a kindly look. “Not too old at all.”

Back at the castle, everything feels different. We return to the great hall. This time I walk to the right seat. I sit. Everyone else sits. I hold my hands over the bowl for washing. I nod to the harpist. He strikes up a tune. Eustace actually gives me an approving glance. Everyone is looking at me, waiting for me to take the first bite, to show them what to do. Of course they are. I’m to be their lady.

Head and Heart

I
peek out the curtains. Beatrix is asleep on her bench, her head flung back, snoring up a storm. Will she still sleep there when …

I shiver back under the furs and close my eyes, but there’s no relief. I imagine a big, hairy hand creeping through the bed hangings: the lord of the castle, come to claim what’s his. I can almost hear his rough, excited breathing. Now the fabric is like a cinema screen, and I see a girl walking down a corridor, a great globe of a belly distending her gown. It’s me.

I sit up, ripping the curtains open, gasping for air. I’m not ready to marry!

Beatrix doesn’t budge.

I run my fingers down the heavy embroidered hangings. In that moment of quiet, I hear a voice, clear as clear.

“Marrying the lord of the castle, what’s so bad about that?”

It’s my head talking to me.

“You’ve landed at the top, my girl. The real Lady Matilda can’t come toss you out now, can she? This is everything you’ve always wanted in life. The richest clothes. The finest bites at table. Everyone groveling in respect. You couldn’t do any better.”

The voice is practical, yet that very practicality is seductive. I find myself listening.

“A dashing knight, all sparkling chain mail and bold striding,” it says. “Not know him? Why, the real Lady Matilda most likely didn’t know him, when she set sail. And you can be sure she hadn’t kissed many lads yet, either. In this day, you’re late to wed.”

And then my heart cries, “Run!”

“Stay!” says my head. And now head and heart are battling it out.

“Your first kiss, on your wedding night, with a stranger,” says my heart. “Is that truly what you want? To make a vow in church and come back to this cavernous bed—”

“Expensive bed,” says my head.

“Bed,”
says my heart.

I feel cold, so cold. I pull the white furs higher.

But now my head brings out the one image it knows I can’t argue against: Mum, sitting up late, so exhausted her eyes keep dropping closed, but she keeps stitching, stitching, mending my school dress one more time. Never enough money. Never any respect …

“She let her heart decide,” says my head, as solemn as a death sentence.

And I hear, like the cawing of crows:
Who’s your father then, Addy?

That’s what comes of love.

I pull those heavy curtains closed around me and lie back down under my fine fur covers. Doubts are for fools. This is my chance to be somebody. If I’m going to end up with a man, I’ll end up with the right one. I clench my teeth until I stop shivering, until I feel as unbending as a double-starched collar. I’ll do it, then. I’ll marry the lord of the castle. I’ll take his name. I’ll share his bed. And no one will ever mock me again.

The Walk That wasn’t

I
pause for a moment just outside the door to the keep, looking down at the kennels and kitchens, the smithy, the mews. A cold wind snatches at my cloak with greedy fingers, and I pull the wool tighter as I start down the stairs. Today I’m going across the drawbridge, beyond the castle walls.

It’s not that I changed my mind. I’ve decided to stay, marriage and all. But last night I dreamed that a fiery black horse galloped into the bailey, and on its back rode Sir Hugh. His face was hidden beneath a helmet, but he could see my face right enough, and what he saw, he didn’t like. “Imposter!” he cried. And then I was fleeing toward the lift, with him galloping in pursuit, and those long-legged lymers baying, and the trails so tangled I couldn’t see which way to go.

That’s why I’m going for a walk through the woods thismorning, to find the quickest path to the lift in case I’m found out and have to run for it. It would be my only chance of escape. I couldn’t hide in town, not after yesterday, with all those people lining the streets and staring. Even if I wore one of Beatrix’s lumpy gowns, they’d know me in an instant, same as Mrs. Beale would recognize a cinema star if she met one on the train.

I walk across the bailey with my head held high, quite the proper lady. But the wind keeps trying to pull me astray, whipping my hair so wild, I almost wish it were braided again. I pull the strands back from my face as I near the massive doors. The barbican, that’s what they call it. The drawbridge is up, the iron gate down, those dagger teeth clenched shut.

Two men-at-arms snap to attention.

“Open it, please,” I say.

They stare at me. It must be the “please.” Out of character. I make my voice lower, firmer. “Open it!”

But the only thing that opens is their mouths, gaping in astonishment. One of them finally stutters, “B-b-but where’s your men, my lady?”

A head peers down from the walkway on top of the wall, eyes wide. And another.

“I don’t need men,” I say. “I’m just going for a walk.”

The second guard lowers his head, backs off a few steps,then hurries away. The remaining guard stays put, shifting from one foot to the other. “Not safe on your own, my lady.”

I’m starting to feel exposed, aware of all the eyes on me. “Not safe?” I say. “Doesn’t Sir Hugh own all this land?”

But the guard isn’t looking at me, he’s looking over my shoulder, and something makes him relax back on his widespread feet. I turn to find the second guard striding back with Eustace panting in his wake.

The steward takes a deep breath, letting it out as he sweeps one of his low bows. “My lady,” he says, pulling his red face back up. “If I may have a moment…”

I’m back in my window seat, right where I started, staring down at the bailey. Apparently it isn’t safe for a lady to wander around by herself. Especially a noble lady. Especially on foot. Another knight could come marauding along at any moment, hoping to catch the castle unawares and claim it for his own. It seems they attack each other all the time, and their spies could be skulking about, searching for weak spots in Berringstoke’s defenses, delighted to find a valuable lady to hold for ransom.

All of which would be second nature to me, as instinctive as breath, if it weren’t for the blow I suffered to my head, the wound so much deeper, alas, than it would seemby my healthy appearance. If I wish to go out, why, I have only to ask, with enough advance notice, and a proper contingent will be prepared, provided they can be spared from their other duties, though it’s obviously too late to find the men today. But they’re all at my beck and call, and my wish is their command, and my happiness their only concern. That, and of course, my safety.

Of course.

I struggle to put a name to the feelings muddling around inside me. There’s frustration, and confusion. I’m their lady, am I not? With a seat at the high table, and the best room in the castle, and Beatrix to dress me and fetch for me, and a jeweled cross as heavy as a cobblestone. And yet here they are telling me what I can and cannot do. I thought I only had to say, “I want!” and they would leap to do my bidding. But I was as clear as could be, and still the doors stayed closed.

There are rules, it seems, even for a lady. And I’m only starting to learn them. I reach for my embroidery and try to make some of the fancy stitches Beatrix showed me.

And then, I don’t want to admit it, but there’s fear as well. Again I picture a steely knight, his finger pointed straight at my heart. Today must be the fifth day since I came. Ten more days the lift will be waiting in the field. When was it Beatrix said Sir Hugh returns?

I lean back against the wall. I want to stay! This life is a sight better than running into Caroline at the grocer’s, or being shipped off as a scullery maid. All I want is a tiny dash of reassurance, no more than the few grains of nutmeg in a custard pie. Just a peek at the lift, is that too much to ask?

My embroidery slips to the floor. As I lean over to pick it up, I see two horses approaching the barbican: William and a sturdy dark-haired man, each with a falcon on his bent arm. The doors swing open, the iron gate lifts, the drawbridge lowers with a rattle and a clang. No one asks where they’re going or tells them to wait. No one surrounds them with a battalion of soldiers. And it’s not just because they’re men. No, they ride through as easy as can be for their afternoon’s hunting.

My mind starts turning as quickly as the numbers flipping past on the lift. I glance at the hanging with its hunters and horses and hounds. I think of the stag almost leaping off the tapestry into the great hall, and the prized pack of dogs in the kennels, and Father Bartholomew asking if I enjoy the hunt—such a noble sport, hunting! It seems to be valued above almost everything else here, except perhaps chapel and church… .

Then another picture comes into my mind, a picture so perfect, I laugh out loud. That’s it! I jump up and start pacing the solar, brewing my plan like a heady cup of strong black tea.