Where the Path Leads – Chapter 11
From Pain to Pleasure
- By MARY DRAKE –
In last month’s chapter, Emily must work helping to drain the water meadow (aka a swamp) where she meets the handsome Lord Arthur, second son to the Baron who owns the demesne.
The laborers working in the water meadow heard the announcing drumbeats and horns of the noble entourage as they wound their way down the high road. The Duke of Kent, the Baron’s brother, was bringing back his niece, Lady Rosamond. The were surrounded by his retinue of knights and archers and his traveling minions of carters, cooks and servants.
For days after that tales swirled through the marsh like the insects that whined about their heads, extolling the opulence of the ensuing feast with its twenty-nine courses and elaborate dishes, like suckling pigs complete with heads and eyes, trimmed all round with fresh laurel branches, pheasants stuffed and re-feathered to appear still alive, a pie that really did have live birds in it, though they weren’t the four-and-twenty blackbirds of the rhyme but dainty yellow finches tethered to the dish, and the illusion foods, like the miniature replica of the castle made entirely of marzipan. Emily had never tasted marzipan, an almond paste that Will assured her was so sweet and delicious that just one bite would sweeten every word out of her mouth forever after.
Will was prone to exaggeration, she had decided, like so many of the villagers and laborers. They created fables about Rosamond’s beauty, how when she returned, she breathed onto the waiting countryside and awakened spring, how she was so fair that all who looked upon her temporarily lost the power of speech. One laborer Emily worked next to hoped that his wife took a good long look, to the laughter of many.
Why were these people so concerned with the ruling folk, she wondered, bending wearily to pull up another leafy plant that blocked the path of the channel she was digging. Marsh grass had deep roots that didn’t yield easily. They needed to learn not let the ruling folk walk all over them. She stood up stiffly and saw with dismay that the Bailiff was riding towards them on his black horse. Splattered in mud, she turned to throw the plant out of the way and then bent to dig up another, hoping to avoid his attention. It seemed that whenever he came around, he made a point of badgering her, saying things like, Haven’t you dug that channel any further? A mole could tunnel faster than that. Then he would wait for the obliging laughter from others. Cyril told her, Keep your head down, Give him no cause for anger, but she had already done that. She had been at her work since dawn and now the sun was at its highest. The afternoon still stretched out before her. She was in no mood for him.
“Are you learning respect down there in the mud, woman, along with the snakes and the lizards?”
The only sound in the swamp was insects whining, hoes scraping, plants being sucked up by the roots.
“Did you hear me, dolt? Or are you so backward that it’s not possible to insult you? Laborers are meant to answer their ruling lords, or is your education so lacking?”
Wearily, she stood up and stretched backwards to relieve her lower back. “My education has taught me,” she said deliberately, “that all people are equal and that respect needs to be earned. I’ve never read anything about some people being inherently superior to others.”
A sickly silence ensued.
Scowling, Simon shifted in his saddle. “Do you expect me to believe that a wench like you has been taught to read?”
Too late, she recalled that even Sophia, a wise woman, didn’t know how to read. Biting back what she wanted to say, she decided not to further antagonize him and went back to hoeing.
Simon began to laugh. “How is your education serving you now, woman? What have you read in the bowels of the mud?” Then, in an angrier tone, “Before you leave today, I expect that channel dug all the way down to the low road,” and without waiting for a reply he turned his horse sharply, sending up splatters of more mud on her face and clothes.
All the laborers within earshot murmured in amazement: She spoke back to the Bailiff and, what’s more, she says she can read. They seemed to have a new, awed respect for her.
“My aunt has always wanted to learn to read,” said Isaac, who had offered to help her with the channel. He had come back to work, but since the snake bite and the fever that had resulted, he was weaker, and his sinewy arms now strained as he pulled the hoe rhythmically over and over through the sticky mire. “Maybe you could teach her.”
“Well. . . it’s she who’s teaching me. Like, how to milk a cow and how to weave.” She didn’t mention her poor attempts. Instead, she swatted another mosquito biting the back of her neck. At least all the red welts from bites weren’t too visible since her skin was already red from sunburn.
Isaac grunted. “You didn’t already know how to milk? What kind of place do you come from?”
Cyril, working near them, stood up to stretch his back as well, and catch his breath, sweat running down the sides of his face, veins bulging in his neck.
“My girl Thea could learn to read,” he panted, “I’m sure of it. She’s smart as anything. Catches on quick to all the prayers and times tables they teach at school.”
“She’ll learn to read at school,” Emily said without looking up, watching the water flow past her feet carrying mud, decayed leaves, plant roots, and tadpoles. Since Isaac’s snakebite, they were all wary of what might be unearthed.
To her surprise, Isaac said that only the best student at school was taught to read. It was always a boy and he was usually being prepared for the sacred life.
She wondered why only religious folk should know how to read?
By the end of the day when she walked, aching and sore, blistered and sunburned, back to Sophia’s cottage, all she could think about was getting out of this place. Nothing at school had been this exhausting. Even moving to a new place with her dad no longer seemed daunting. Staying with Sophia, on the other hand, had become downright awful. Emily knew she should have left long ago. Wearily, she decided to tell Sophia tomorrow morning that she must find her way back.
The next day when she came inside from milking, however, she found Sophia sitting beside the fire weaving small white flowers into a garland. Next to her, the morning grain was cooking in the continuous cauldron for their breakfast cereal.
“Sophia, what’re you doing?” It was unusual for her not to be sitting at the loom.
“It’s for your hair.” She came over and twined the garland around Emily’s head.“For May Day.”
As Sophia arranged the garland, Emily thought the older woman looked more refreshed than usual, her deep blue eyes sparkling, a slight pinkness in her cheeks.
“May is about the return of life, Emilia.” She stood back to admire her handiwork. “Nature falls in love and gives birth to flowers. Even the animals choose mates. On May Day we gather flowers and green boughs and celebrate.”
Emily’s resolve began to slip.
Sophia said that today there was a feast at the castle. The mere thought of another close up look at the castle filled her with excitement. One last look, she told herself. What would it hurt to put off returning home just one more day?
Sophia had finished weaving the homespun that Emily had started before going to work in the water meadow and Emily was grateful. If the truth be told, she hadn’t been sorry to give it up. It was not as easy as it looked. Before she had left off weaving, she had suspected that Sophia was taking out at night what she did during the day and re-weaving it. Now, looking at the tunic Sophia had made her from the grey fabric, she was more sure of it than ever. How else could her loose, uneven, lumpy weaving have been transformed into the smooth homespun garment Sophia gave her to wear today?
Emily scrubbed herself well in the stream and cleaned her hair. As she slipped the straight, simple garb over her head, it fell into place around her and felt right. It wasn’t the emerald green fabric she had coveted, but it suited her and the occasion. What is it about this? she wondered. Then Sophia draped a shimmering green sash over one of Emily’s shoulders, across her chest, and tied it at her hip. It almost compensated for not having the green fabric. Sophia had made a sash for herself, also, saying the green symbolized spring.
Finally, Emily put on her soft leather shoes, cleaned and oiled. At home she had innumerable pairs scattered carelessly all over. Often she couldn’t even find a matching pair. Here, she had just one pair, and she wiggled her toes in the soft leather slippers feeling happy, her only regret being that Sophia didn’t have any.
Walking along the low road, they met the villagers, then took a narrow path that skirted Blackwood forest. They passed the water meadow, then a wheat field, where everyone was careful to avoid treading on the edge of the crop. They were very gay, singing songs, holding hands. Emily joined Will and Cyril’s daughter, Thea, to pick bunches of flowers along the forest’s edge. Will cut some fragrant hawthorn boughs and prickly wild roses with his knife while she and Thea collected violets and wild daisies and yarrow on the ground, even venturing slightly into the forest for some ferns. The farther they entered, the deeper the shadows that surrounded them, and a reverent silence fell.
Thea gazed around wide eyed. “It’s beautiful but scary.”
“Scary?” Emily thought perhaps Thea was afraid of snakes which might hide under the ferns.
The younger girl nodded seriously. “Ferocious things live here.”
“Like . . . ?”
“Wild boar, and worse.”
What could be worse than that?
“Some even say a dragon.”
Emily smiled. “You don’t have to worry about that. There’s no such thing,” she said confidently, but her own words rang false in her ears. In this place of wonder, who was she to say what was real and what wasn’t? In her arms she felt the ferns she had just picked, and they certainly felt real, still wet with dew, little droplets of moisture sparkling on the fronds. And earlier, when she and Will had held hands, his had felt calloused from working, but warm and smooth, very real. If some things were real, why not others?
“You shouldn’t say that, Emilia.” Thea said in a small quavery voice. “People have been killed in the forest, people who do bad things or who don’t do what they’re supposed to.”
“Who told you that?”
“Everyone knows it.” Her eyes looked like Blossom’s had that day in the cornfield. “We’re all right here on the edges, but Mama says people go into the forest and are never seen again. Like the knight who went hunting and never came back. People have been found all burned up,” her voice barely a whisper, “ ’cause deep in the forest something horrible lives.”
“Someone’s been telling you a story.”
But the little girl was all seriousness, shaking her head as she clung to her bouquet of daisies and ferns. “Deep within the forest,” she repeated, as if it was the opening of a story recited to children, “there’s a huge gash in the earth that goes all the way to the center. The abyss,” she whispered. “There, a hideous dragon lives at the bottom, with claws like knives and horrible yellow eyes. Monsignor St. George says the dragon attacks bad people who hide in the forest or anyone who goes there without the Baron’s permission.”
A scare tactic, Emily supposed, for keeping people out. But today was too warm and sunny for the story to have its disquieting effect.
Will came running up. “C’mon you two. The ruling folk are in sight and we’ll be heading to the castle.” He took her free hand again and they ran to rejoin the others.
Out in the meadow, Sophia walked alongside Jonah the reeve whom she’d been keeping company with since the procession of villagers had begun. A handsome man slightly younger than the weaver, he was the most prosperous of the laboring farmers and had three children, but he was a widower. His wife had died last fall of a fever. Now they leaned their heads close together and spoke in low tones. Sophia was smiling, still looking fresh and happy, a flower stuck behind her ear. Everyone carried armfuls of flowering hawthorn. Emily wondered why Sophia had never mentioned Jonah.
When they reached the Mill road, they waited for the procession of the castle entourage toward them, first the ruling family on horseback, men first, then the ladies riding small palfreys. Next, on his massive black horse, rode the Seneschal, Brutus Morantur, the Baron’s surrogate during his absence, leading the knights without their armor, but all still wearing the Longsword colors of crimson and gold. There was something about his dark eyes that belied the slight smile he wore. Emily thought it might be determination, but to accomplish what?
Following her gaze, Thea commented, “Papa says he’s a man of dark intentions, whatever that means, and is best avoided.”
Determination to accomplish dark intentions? She shivered unconsciously.
The ladies wore gowns of gay spring colors, green, blue and yellow, and many had fluttering ribbons woven through their hair. Some even sported garlands of greenery in circlets on their heads.
Toward the end of the parade they saw Maria, the kitchen maid, among those following the grand company on foot. Seeing Will, she waved a skinny arm to him, happy no doubt for time off from her duties with the demanding pastry chef.
In the group of ladies near the front, on a particularly beautiful white palfrey with a flowing mane and tail, rode a young girl in a pale green tunic edged in dark green with white flowers woven into her pale yellow hair. A murmur went through the villagers as she passed by. It was Lady Rosamond.
Riding close and obviously accompanying her was a tall man with hair as dark as hers was light. His skin, too, seemed swarthy, though it may only have appeared that way by comparison with her exceptional fairness, or it may have been darkened by time spent outdoors.
“Who is that?”
Will followed her gaze. “Lady Rosamond’s betrothed, Lord Godfrey, son of the Baron of Wessex.”
“Godwin,” Thea corrected.
“She’s already betrothed?” Emily gasped. Rosamond appeared to be her age.
“Why not?” Thea answered, with equal surprise.
“The ruling folk often marry early,” Will explained. “His father’s demesne is next to Baron Longsword’s and they say she was betrothed to him before her first birthday, in order to join the two fiefs.” He laughed at Emily’s astonishment. “Is it not done where you come from, Emilia? A marriage of convenience?”
“What does Rosamond think?”
Thea shrugged. “I guess she had rather do that than go to a convent.”
“Isn’t that what all women want–to get married?” Will grinned mischievously.
Thea poked him in the side. “Well we all know that Maria wants to marry you, that’s for sure.”
Will ignored her as they joined the procession, following them down the Mill road back to the castle. Emily’s heart rose as the trestle tables for the feast came into sight, set up in the yard outside the walls. The high table stood in the front on a raised dais with a crimson canopy over it, covered in a spotlessly white cloth, embroidered with the Longsword crest, a crimson lion crossed by two gold swords. Nearby stood a maypole twined with flowers and colored ribbons which were fluttering in the breeze. Servants scurried everywhere, collecting greenery and flowers and arranging them on tables. Knights dismounted, then helped the ladies from their ponies. Godwin gallantly reached up for a smiling Rosamond and set her gently on the ground, then bowed low, the breeze ruffling her ribbons and flaxen curls, which swirled about her delicate face.
She really was lovely. No wonder the laborers made up stories about her. Without thinking, Emily reached up to smooth her short brown hair. She sighed with dismay at a sharp pinprick of envy.
“C’mon, the Maypole dance will soon begin.” Thea was excited and wove her way through the milling crowd to get near the front. Laborers and villagers clustered eagerly, fathers hoisting their small children onto their shoulders for a better look at the well-clad rulers gathering around the Maypole.
Before the dance, a woman dressed in emerald green rose from her seat at the high table and was escorted to the center of the dais by the Seneschal. Even though the woman’s arm was entwined in his, she held herself tall and slightly apart, like a beautiful but strong flower, her thick auburn braid woven with gold ribbons that tendrilled down her side. But it was the lovely green fabric of the dress that made Emily catch her breath, the same fabric she had watched Sophia weave when she first arrived. As the woman moved, it shimmered like moving leaves in the sunlight. Did it make her feel as special as the grey homespun was now making Emily feel, or was it far beyond that? Before this woman, all the knights knelt on one knee and the ladies curtsied low. Laborers removed their hats and bowed their heads; women shushed their children’s chatter.
“Welcome all to our joyous May Day. Winter is gone. The generous seasons have returned to us. Let us rejoice in the blue sky, greenness and fertility that comes along with them. Now, all unwed young maidens may come forth to dance our celebration of spring around the Maypole.”
Rosamond and six other richly attired young women were escorted to the Maypole where they took their places, each holding a long ribbon that extended down from the top of the pole. Musicians began playing on a lute and a flute, while a young boy sang a tune about “my own true love.” She couldn’t hear all the words but the melody was joyous and playful. People began clapping along. The young noblewomen moved in unison, ribbons fluttering, gowns swirling. They smiled as they circled, arms extended, feet skipping to the rhythm. On their third turn around, Godwin caught Rosamond’s outstretched hand and everyone cheered, her cheeks flushed pink, the breeze billowing back her long angel-length sleeve to reveal a slender white arm. The other men joined in. Arthur was there, looking handsome in a scarlet tunic as he danced gracefully with one of the ladies in waiting. She noticed another ruling man who resembled Arthur but with dark hair, handsome in a more severe way. His eyes were piercing; his jaw, angular. He didn’t appear to be enjoying the festivities as much and never even glanced at the woman he danced with. It was a beautiful spectacle and everyone cheered again when it was done. Maria, who had found her way next to them, jabbed Will with her elbow. “It’ll be us up there later,” she whispered. “I’m an unwed maiden, you know.” She giggled.
Thea raised her eyebrows, giving Emily a significant look.