Where the Path Leads-Chapter 10
The Water Meadow
Once the Bailiff discovered Emily staying with Sophia, everything changed.
Rather than let him take Blossom, and her unborn calf, to pay for Emily’s residency and protection fee, she opted to pay in services rendered, although she thought grimly that really the protection she needed was from the one she was paying. She would never finish weaving the “unlovely” homespun cloth, but her frustrations at the loom were as nothing compared to what awaited her in the water meadow.
The sun had never felt so hot on her back before, but then she didn’t go outdoors a lot. She liked nature, just not all the dirt and insects and poison ivy. These feelings might have begun when she was little, and her mother cleaned on Saturdays and sent her outside. Emily had felt like an exile then and couldn’t wait to get back inside. She felt that way now.
She hadn’t been in the water meadow long before she began wishing to be anywhere else. Will had told her the place got messy, and he hadn’t been exaggerating. She was almost up to her knees in muck that was a combination of decaying plants, slimy water, mud, and moving things, which she tried not to look at too closely, preferring not to know what she was wallowing around with.
When a young man with sandy colored hair, wearing a clean blue tunic rode up to the edge of the swamp on an immense dappled gray horse, he seemed like a vision. He stared at the laborers for a long moment until a cry shattered the whine of insects and the sloshing of mud. It was quickly followed by shouting.
“Ahhhhh! Help! Somebody help me! I’m bitten! I’m bitten!” It was Sophia’s cousin Isaac that she had seen plowing the day she’d gone into the village. He was clutching his leg and running toward a companion. “Help me, Cyril!”
Galvanized, the laborers dropped what they were doing, some running toward the stricken man, others running out of the water and away from danger. The young man on horseback instantly jumped down, left his horse where it stood and plunged into the mire. By the time he reached the injured man, the other laborers were transfixed with fear and Isaac lay writhing in the mud, clutching his injured leg.
“Did you see it? Did you see what it looked like,” cried Cyril.
“It happened . . . fast,” he groaned. “It was in the rushes. I only saw a shadow moving before it struck. Oh, may the Great One deliver me!”
“Make way,” the young man ordered with quiet urgency, and the laborers parted like the Red Sea, removing their hats as he moved through them. She watched spellbound as he wiped away the mud on Isaac’s bare calf to reveal two bloody puncture wounds, the area around them already turning purplish and swelling.
Cyril leaned over him, “It looks bad, milord. How can we know what kind of snake it was?” Then, addressing Isaac again, he said, “Try to think, man. Did it have yella’ spots?”
She wondered if this young man was the Baron. Someone so young? Then recalled that the Baron was away fighting. It must be his son.
Still groaning, Isaac had stopped writhing and become more still. “I . . . I ddon’t know,” he stuttered. “It ha . . . happened too quick.” His eyes began to glaze over.
“Give me your tunic,” the young man ordered.
Cyril removed his shirt and the young man tore off some long strips. Kneeling in the mud, he tied these tightly around Isaac’s thigh above the snake bite and used the rest to wipe the injured area as clear of mud as possible. He studied the wound for a moment before leaning down and sucking at it, then turning his head sideways to spit out the blood. Amazed and horrified, those watching stood silently mesmerized as he did this several times. The only sounds were of him spitting and the ever-present whine of insects. Finally, he stood up, wiping his mouth on the linen sleeve of his fine tunic, now soiled with dirt and blood.
“I’m taking him home,” he announced.
“Yes, milord.” Cyril stood beside him in only a rough chemise, sweat running down his neck and face.
“I believe the demons have taken over him,” said the young man, which elicited mutterings from the onlookers. While he had attempted to remove the venom, Isaac’s pupils, already dilated, had rolled back in his head, disappearing behind sagging eyelids. Now he and Cyril, each with an arm around the limp Isaac, brought him to the edge of the marsh where the dappled grey contentedly munched weeds and swamp grass. Together they helped him on. Cyril held him there while the young man mounted.
“By the way,” said the young man to Cyril as he turned his horse around, “what are all of you doing here?”
“Draining the water meadow, milord, to ready it for planting.”
“Planting?” He sounded incredulous.
Perhaps unaccustomed to the extra weight, the big horse shuffled impatiently, but his rider again circled him around. That’s when he noticed her, where she stood slightly apart from the others. Their eyes met, his as blue as the tunic he wore. His skin was not sunburned, like hers, but lightly bronzed from the outdoors. She wondered if he was looking at her because she hadn’t removed the broad brimmed straw hat that shaded her face. He leaned down to ask Cyril something, then motioned her towards him..
She felt all eyes upon her as she stepped up to the handsome horse and rider, who held the limp Isaac in front of him. Damp hair clung to her face and neck, and the hem of her tunic was coated with mud. Her sleeves were pushed up and her forearms had gotten sunburned. Before he could speak, Emily reached up and stroked the gray’s neck, then looked up at him.
“He hasn’t been taken over by demons,” she said. “He lost consciousness, either from the snake bite or from fear.”
More mumbling and shuffling rippled through the laborers, and she suspected that once again she had transgressed against some strange, unwritten rule. There were so many of them here.
“Do you know medicine then, young woman?” He asked.
“No. I just know what it looks like when someone faints.”
“Your accent is unfamiliar. Where do you hail from?”
She should be getting used to that question by now, but she still didn’t know how to answer it and shifted uneasily.
“A place very far away. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”
“Maybe I’m a world traveler,” he said, smiling, “and I’ve been there. Try me.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Behind her, the other laborers remarked in loud whispers to one another.
See how rude she is to the young lord? Speaking first and looking him in the face?
How can she take such liberties, talking back?
And him such a proper gentleman! He’d have every right to punish her for bein’ so cheeky.
Emily tried to edge away, but those behind her weren’t giving way. Finally, it was Isaac’s moaning that shifted attention from her.
“Another time, mistress.” He tightened his hold around the injured man and turned the horse one last time. “We don’t get many strangers around here, so we’ll be sure to talk.”
He reminded her of Will, with his interest in other places. She wouldn’t mind talking with him when all these people weren’t listening, and she wasn’t covered in mud.
That chance would come sooner than she realized, but for now the other laborers stared at her disapprovingly. When he had left, she sidled up to Cyril and shyly asked who the young man was.
His looked surprised. “Why, Lord Arthur, of course. The Baron’s son.”
She nodded, several more beads of sweat breaking free of her hairline and trickling down into her face. She swiped at them with a grimy hand.
“So, he’s in charge while his father’s gone?”
Cyril shook his head as they all began to walk back to the water meadow, a dispirited, muddy group.
“No. That would be the Seneschal.”
“Why is Arthur . . . ?
“Lord Arthur.”
“ . . . Lord Arthur, not in charge?”
“Has Sophia told you nothing, girl?” Then, before waiting for an answer, he continued. “He’s not in charge of the demesne because he’s the second son, not the first. And the Seneschal’s been the Baron’s right-hand man ever since they claimed the land.”
Emily wondered how long that had been, recalling Sophia saying the land had once belonged to everyone.
“He didn’t seem to know about draining the water meadow. Shouldn’t the Seneschal consult him?”
Cyril placed a muddy hand on her arm and pulled her aside, letting the others pass. He leaned close and his light-colored eyes looked even whiter since his face was splattered with dark mud.
“Best not question how things too closely, girl. We do what we’re told and leave the rest to the ruling folks”
The next day around mid-morning, they were distracted by the sound of hoofbeats. She looked up to see two men, one dark haired, the other, fair, both riding large black horses and coming down the road which ran alongside the water meadow.
“That’s the Seneschal,” murmured Cyril, “come to check up on the work,” and he quickly lowered his head and continued tugging on marsh grasses. Hoe in hand, Emily paused a moment to get a look at the Seneschal.
His dark beard was closely trimmed but his black hair swept to his shoulders. Riding first and clearly in charge, he wore a finely embroidered red tunic that nevertheless revealed his powerful arms. He looked familiar, and Emily recalled the paintings in the labyrinth. The fair-haired Bailiff followed. The Seneschal spoke to him without turning around, and his voice carried to where she stood.
“He came to the manor and questioned me. Questioned me, mind you. As if he knows anything about running the demesne.”
Simon Poyntz didn’t answer. Perhaps he had learned it was best just to listen.
“I’ve managed this demesne for more years than he’s been alive, and he comes interrogating me about whose decision it was to make this land arable, threatening to discuss it with the Baroness, who already has enough on her mind. What do I care if the laborers pasture their livestock here?” A harsh laugh ripped from his throat.
The Bailiff nodded. “He has no business sense, my lord.”
“Certainly not. I told him there’s always great need for bread in the cities. After last winter’s famine, city folk will be anxious to fill their larders. The bread from this field will fetch a handsome price. I saw an opportunity and I advised Edmund. At least he can be convinced of the family’s interest.”
Beneath his neat beard was the square, set jaw of a determined man, obviously accustomed to having his way.
“Arthur worries too much about the laborers.” Simon narrowed his eyes and yanked hard on the reins of his restive horse.
“How is the work coming?” the Seneschal demanded, looking out across the expanse of sweltering marsh. Before Simon could say anything, he answered his own question. “Not much cleared yet, I see. They must work more quickly, Simon. I want this field planted within the month, so we’ll have enough growing time.”
“I understand, my lord. It will be done as you wish.”
“I’m going to the north field, now, to look at the barley, and from there to discuss fees with the miller. We want to be the ones to profit from the extra wheat, not make that scallawag rich.”
“I’ve also been closing down the laborers’ ovens, my lord. That should help with our profit from the bread.”
“Excellent,” said the Seneschal, turning his horse around. Then he nodded in the direction of the laborers.
“More quickly, remember.”
It was a simple command but behind those few words sounded a heavy weight of consequences.
“As you say, my lord.”
When the Seneschal had ridden off, Simon glared at the laborers, a look which made her stomach tighten. She had a feeling that things would only get worse.
