BONE HOUSE (4 page)

I
oversleep, and wake from the dream feeling heavy-headed. Outside my window, the morning sky is gray and threatening. Overnight the snow has turned to freezing rain. The trees are now so thickly iced that their heavy boughs droop and tremble in the wind. The cold reaches through my leaded window and envelops me like a sheath, causing me to shiver as I pull my woolen stockings on. I feel a stab of pain across my bow: the residue from my nightmare. I must speak to Long Boy again as soon as possible. Perhaps he can shed some light on the tale my mother has related.

I finish dressing quickly and go directly to my mistress’s chamber, for she likes me to attend her promptly in the mornings. When I arrive, she has dressed herself and is seated in front of her glass, attempting to arrange her hair, a task she normally leaves to me. I can see at once from her demeanor that her humors have improved and that she has resolved to be well. But to my horror she takes one look at my reflection in the glass and says my color is poor, and bids me sit down immediately. I am still uneasy from the night’s events, it is true, and my eyes are swollen from oversleep, but aside from an agitated spirit I assure her I am well. She listens not a word, as is her custom, but looks me over and pronounces me unfit for work, and insists on sending for Lucius against my protests.

She instructs me to lie down on a chaise lounge in her
antechamber, so as to spare both Lucius and me the embarrassment of receiving him in my bedchamber, then orders Cook to prepare an elderflower tonic at once. I tell her this will not be necessary (a sentiment Cook shares, evidently, from the expression on her face) but my mistress will not hear of my protests, and insists on tending me herself. She even undertakes a reading from the Scriptures to pass the time until Lucius arrives, though she struggles to see the page with her failing eyes.

Some time later Lucius bustles in with his usual fanfare, apparently unaware that he has been summoned on my behalf, rather than hers. He raises an eyebrow when she informs him, but gives a brief nod and turns to me. He examines me with care, out of deference to her, but in truth appears unimpressed, thus doubling my already acute embarrassment. My mistress hovers to one side as he takes my pulse.

“She is out of humor, is she not?” she demands of Lucius.

“Her color is pale, it is true. And her pulse is a trifle weak, but I can find no other evidence of ailment,” he replies in a clipped tone.

Lucius bids me open my mouth and examines my tongue and teeth, and peers down my throat as best he can, causing me not a little discomfort. My mistress strains to see over his shoulder, making me feel at once like a herd animal being sold at market. After a moment, Lucius straightens and he replaces his instruments in their carrying case.

“One need only look at her to see that she is not herself,” says my mistress in a slightly defensive tone.

“Perhaps,” says Lucius inconclusively. He takes my hands and examines the palms, pressing on their centers with each of his thumbs. Then he takes my chin firmly in his hand and lifts it so as to look into my eyes.

“Her eyes are tinged with yellow,” says my mistress. Lucius grunts in response but says nothing.

“It is a sure sign of green sickness,” she continues. “She is of the age, to be certain.”

At this I blush so fiercely that I must lower my head. My mistress needs only hear of some young woman being in a state of distress than she has diagnosed a fit of green sickness, that which occurs when a young maid’s natural passions are left unattended.

“Please, mum, I am well,” I stammer. “It is nothing but a touch of tiredness.”

Lucius clears his throat and stands.

“I suspect that she is right,” he says. “But I will prescribe a remedy which will purge her of the green, should it indeed be present in her blood.” My mistress gives a satisfied sniff and nods at me knowingly. I sigh and close my eyes for a moment. Lucius ferrets around in his black bag until he finds a vial with some grayish powder inside, and instructs my mistress in its preparation. He advises me to remain in bed for the remainder of the day, and says that he will look in on me the following morning on his rounds, a comment that quite evidently pleases my mistress, who would surely have him visit daily if she could. It occurs to me that she has invented the entire incident at my expense simply to create a diversion, but I am too tired to feel angry. As Lucius turns to go she asks after the boy.

He looks at her uncomprehendingly.

“The Long Boy,” she says.

He nods. “I saw him first thing this morning. He is much restored. Eating now, and talking sense. The fever is gone. It appears my treatment was a great success,” he adds in a satisfied voice.

I think of the vial of camphor, sitting untouched on the table of the cottage, and of my mother’s herbs. Lucius looks at me.

“Your mother has been very devoted in her attendance to him,” he adds in a measured tone.

“She was there this morning?” I ask. He nods.

“You are very charitable, Lucius, to donate your services to such an unfortunate case,” says my mistress, perhaps a trifle goadingly.

Lucius turns slowly to her, his eyes narrowing slightly, and appears to be weighing up his answer. “She retained my services some time ago,” he says finally, one eyebrow raised.

“Dora?” asks my mistress. Lucius nods.

“Before she died?” I ask, propping myself up on one elbow.

“Yes,” he says, turning to me. “In the event that some misfortune should befall her, she did not want the boy left unattended.”

“She said this?” I ask.

“In so many words. It was extremely prudent of her, for she had no way of knowing,” he says matter of factly.

“No, of course not,” murmurs my mistress. “How could she?” And with that she turns to me, and locks her gaze on mine. I feel the heat rise in my face, and my mistress looks at me strangely.

And then the room begins to spin.

When I regain consciousness, I am lying in my own bed, and the large, fleshy face of Cook is looming over me. Tufts of bushy gray hair fly from her cap, and a light dusting of flour has settled on one. Her dark eyebrows are knit together with concern, and her meaty hands are heavy with the scent of lard. She wrings a rag out in a basin of cold water by the bed, and bathes my forehead with it, peering at me anxiously.

“What happened?” I ask.

She shakes her head and makes a sucking noise through the gap in her two front teeth. Cook is short on words but generous with sentiment; she never fails to make her meaning known. I notice that someone has loosened the cords of my underbodice and removed my kirtle. I start to sit up, but Cook gently pushes me back down onto the pillow.

“Not yet,” she says, turning away to rinse the cloth once again in the basin.

In a flash Lucius’s words come back to me. Dora truly felt she was in danger of death, but why? What did she know about the child inside her? Was it possible that she had lain with the devil,
as my mother had suggested? I did not believe such things were likely, though many in the village did. I believed in the powers of the cunning men and women: that certain people had an ability to influence their surroundings through particular means. I had seen evidence of this on more than one occasion. But of the devil’s ability to assume a human form and father a child, this much I doubted, for even God himself did not achieve such things, and surely God must be more powerful than Satan. But if not the devil, then who? Dora had no enemies that I knew of. She lived in fear of no one.

Cook lays the cloth upon me once again, and I close my eyes. The images of last night’s dream dance before me, particularly the face of the boy, his fearsome expression, and the sound of his howl as the sack hit the flames. I open my eyes to stop them and Cook looks down at me with concern.

“I must get up,” I say.

“And faint again? Not while I am here,” says Cook firmly.

“It is only a little tiredness. I slept poorly in the night, that is all,” I insist.

“Then you must rest now,” she says.

“Please,” I say imploringly. “I do not wish to.” Cook looks at me suspiciously. She seems to sense that the prospect of sleep frightens me, for she sighs and offers an arm to help me rise. She helps me with my underbodice and kirtle, and pins my hair anew.

“Where is my mistress?” I ask when she is through.

“In her chamber,” says Cook.

“Please send word to her that I am much recovered,” I say. Cook raises an eyebrow at me quizzically. “And that I should like to rest a while longer in my room.” Cook hesitates, then nods. I squeeze her hand in thanks, and slip out the door.

When I arrive at Long Boy’s cottage, I pause just outside. No doubt my mother still attends him, and I prefer to speak to Long
Boy without her present. I knock and enter, and she is indeed there, chopping herbs and onions, an iron pot simmering on a hook over the fire. Long Boy is asleep in bed, and in a glance I can see that Lucius is right, for his color is much improved and his breath comes easily. My mother, however, appears overtired. Her movements are sluggish compared with her usual efficiency, and her face is tinged with gray.

“The boy is better,” she says, by way of greeting.

“I met Lucius this morning,” I tell her. She shrugs. “You stayed the night?” I ask.

“I felt it best,” she says, indicating a wooden chair by the fire. I do not ask, but sense that she is unwilling to occupy Dora’s bed.

“You must go home and rest,” I tell her.

“There is no need,” she says.

“He is over any danger now, you can see that.”

“She would want me to stay,” says my mother.

“
She
would be very grateful for all you’ve done. And would not wish you to put your own health at risk any more than is necessary,” I say firmly. “I will stay with him until he wakes.”

My mother hesitates a moment. “He must have broth,” she says.

“Yes, of course.”

“And bread. And herbs. But no meat. He is not strong enough.”

“I understand.”

“I’ve made a tonic.” She indicates a jug on the table filled with murky brown liquid.

“As soon as he wakes,” I say, easing her into her coat.

“Above all he must rest,” she says. She stops and looks at me. “What of the Great House?” she asks.

“I am not needed. My mistress is away,” I say. She nods, relieved. From a very young age I have been able to deceive her with ease. I take her arm and steer her out the door.

“Go now and rest,” I say.

*        *        *

When she is gone, I finish chopping the salad herbs and add them to the pot by the fire. I check to see that the boy is deep in sleep, then begin a thorough search of the cottage. Aside from the bed and a rundle below it, the dining table and two chairs, there are two wooden trunks and a smaller chest. I cross the room and open the first. Inside I find an extra set of bed linen, washed and neatly folded, together with two man-size shirts, a pair of men’s hose, two felt caps for Sunday wear, and a heavy woolen cloak that I have seen the boy wear on several occasions. The second contains her own clothes: two gowns, one for everyday, and one for field labor, her best gown having been used for the burial; two spare kirtles and caps, and a carved wooden rosary.

The boy stirs and I quickly replace the things. He does not wake, however, and I move on to the chest. It is a good deal smaller than the trunks, more a treasure box of sorts, with ornamental metal hinges, carved wooden handles, and a floral pattern embossed in ivory upon the lid. When I try to open it, I am unable, as the lid appears to be fastened by some kind of hidden catch. I lift the box carefully and examine it from every angle, but can find nothing that resembles a release. Puzzled, I lay it down on the table and step back a few paces to view it from afar. This time something catches my eye: one handle is slightly larger than the other. I apply pressure to one side of the handle and it moves a hair’s breadth, at the same time releasing the lid. I smile, pleased at the ingenuity and craftsmanship of the box, and wonder for a moment where she would have obtained such an object.

Inside I find a velvet pouch atop a piece of folded linen cloth. I glance quickly at the boy and take out the pouch: the velvet is of deepest green, kept closed by a simple drawstring made of silk. I loosen the cord and remove an exquisite blue vial made of Venetian glass, about the size of my hand. My master has a collection of such glass in his library, and has traveled to London on several occasions to obtain more. I carefully loosen the cork, sniffing the
contents. Though I am expecting perfume, I find to my surprise that it is oil of myrrh, a scent I know well for my master makes frequent use of it as a tonic for his ailments. I replace the vial in the pouch, hesitate a moment, then tuck it inside my kirtle.

Beneath the pouch is a piece of fine linen cloth. When I unfold it, I see at once that it is an infant’s nightdress, delicately embroidered with flowers along the sleeves and hem. The gown was no doubt ivory originally but has yellowed slightly with age. It must have been worn by Long Boy many years ago, and suggests a trace of sentimentalism in his mother that I would not have predicted.

Finally I remove a tiny silver picture frame which holds a miniature portrait of a woman I have never seen. She is young, not many years older than me, and dark-haired, with a fine long nose and sharpish chin. She wears a deep crimson gown with an ivory-colored overbodice and enormous sleeves that are exquisitely decorated. The gown is of a style popular some years before my birth; I recognize the type from portraits hanging in the Great House. In her hand the woman clutches a Bible and a rosary. I peer closely at the detail, for the rosary appears to be the same as the one I have just found in Dora’s trunk, though it is difficult to know for sure, as the portrait is so small. I have heard talk of such miniature portraits, as they are presently very fashionable at court, but this is the first one I have ever seen, and I marvel at the intricacy with which it has been painted. Indeed, my mistress has for some weeks been awaiting the arrival of a young painter from Flanders who specializes in such commissions, as she desires one for her collection.