Maid Marian (21 page)

“Might I help you to carry it home, goodwife? I’ve time to waste, and your burden seems heavy.”

“Indeed, I would be pleased for the help,” she said, somewhat gratefully. So I lifted one half of the reed basket, and she took the other, and between us we managed both it and my bundle for a pace down the road.

“I don’t believe I know yer face,” she said to me, eyeing me sideways, her shoulders hunched over the basket. “Are ye new to Thetbury village?”

“Indeed, I am, auntie,” I replied, stalling, for the time had come for me to craft some new falsehood, specially tailored to this woman’s long face. “I’ve come in hopes that I might pay a few pennies for a night indoors, for I have traveled far from my home.”

“Have ye now!” she said, surprised, for she, I was sure, had never been beyond the market grounds in her life. “Yer looks seem a mite familiar to me, now that I check a second time. Are ye sure you’ve never been this way?”

“I may have passed through here,” I agreed, looking about me to see if the path might have been familiar from horseback. “But not for many years.” Then I gave myself a shake, for this was no time to be sprinkling hints from my true life—I had a tale to construct, and I’d best begin it at once.

“I come from Lott’s End, just down the road,” I said, hoping proximity would boost her trust. “But I’ve not lived there in a good long while, for my mother died when I was a girl and my father wished to go abroad. He’s from the west country and had a longing to return there.”

“The west country, you say?” she replied with interest, for I suppose it sounded most exotic to her.

“Aye, and off we went—that was six months back now. I was pleased enough to go, for I’d heard Saint Edith had passed that way and I’d great hopes of seeing her chapel at Stafford. D’ye know Stafford?”

“Oh, nay. Not me, lass.”

“Well. ’Tis a rough town, I’ll say that for it. My father took to gambling there, wagering over cocks and dogs, tossing the dice—you know the sort. We weren’t ten miles from Stafford when he lost it all in a cockfight. He’d placed all our coin on the taller of the two cocks, but the shorter was a mean cuss, with a taste for blood and ink in his eye. We lost it all, though I knew nothin’ of it till the next morn when my da roused me up to hie to Chester, for he’d a sudden yearning to sail across the middle sea for the green isle.”

“The green isle!” she gasped, hinting that I’d hit my mark, for no tactic was more secure than playing upon prejudice. “I’ve heard wretched things of that place, for all they claim to be Christian folk.”

“Aye.” I nodded sadly, shifting the weight of the basket. “And my da was no better, for that same morn I heard him telling the men he owed how he was going to take me hence to sell me off as bond servant to some rich lord. I’d fetch a fare price, he said, being young and comely and made for work. ’Twas how he intended to settle his debts, by selling me as slave and servant to some foreign jackanape cur.”

Here she gasped a second time and dropped the basket to stare at me. I took care to make my face look wan—a sentiment I so truly felt, I scarcely needed to act the part.

“Your own father? To sell you off? Why, you’d have done better to stay put in Lott’s End, that’s as I say.”

“You’re quite right, goodwife, I do agree. ’Tis why I slipped off that same day, while Da was busy with his morning tankard. I ran from that place and I ran and ran, not pausing a wink till I reached Denby soil, for ’tis here alone I feel safe in the world.”

“As right you should, you poor lamb,” she cried. “There’s no safer place in all the world. Imagine—your own da!”

This kind woman pulled me to her, and I cried on her shoulder as I had on Annie’s when I was a girl and had scraped my knee. My cheek rubbed against her woolen sleeve and my tears caused the scent of wet wool to rise up and sting my nose. I pulled away at last.

“Dear friend,” I said, wiping my eyes, “can you not help me? I can work for my keep, and I’ve a few pennies, but I so desperately need a place to sleep. Might I stay with you?”

She looked wary for a moment, but she peered at my face a second time and perhaps thought again of my piteous tale, for she made a soft tsking sound before she replied. “We shall have to ask my husband, but if he will have ye, you may stay a time with us, girl.”

I nearly fell over myself in thanking her, and in my gratitude I believe I carried the whole weight of the basket myself. My friend seemed troubled, afraid, perhaps, of what her husband would say, but I was jubilant. At the very least I had a home for the night, for any man, I was sure, would accept payment for lodging. And if things went well I might even find a place to rest my weary wings longer, taxed as they were from my arduous flight.

M
Y NEW FRIEND AND
I passed through Thetbury, a village of no more than thirteen homes, and stopped at a thatched house near the church. ’Twas in good repair, I was pleased to see, and the yard was well swept, but as we grew nearer my friend’s brow seemed to lower and darken.

“I shall not tell my husband who ye are,” she said, speaking with a note of decision, as if this had troubled her as we walked. “He would not understand yer plight and would want to take ye home to Lott’s End—or worse, send word after yer da. Rather, I’ll say y’are my niece, for I’m of Belton village and he knows not all of my kin. What shall we call ye?”

“Mary,” I said after a moment’s thought, for it was like enough to my own name that I knew I should answer readily to it.

“Aye, Mary, ’tis a good name. And I,” she said, smiling shyly, “am Meg Tamworth.”

“I’m pleased to know you, Meg,” I said, smiling back with all the encouragement I could muster. She seemed to buoy a little at my words, and together we hefted her basket home and entered her yard and cavelike house. The air was smoky with supper fires, giving the world a clean, sleepy scent. I felt a pang of genuine hunger at the sight of the hearth, for a great cauldron of meal mush dangled from it, giving off a rich scent that I’d never been attracted to before.

Meg’s daughter Janey stoked the fire, and in a moment her son appeared with an armload of wood for the next day’s cooking. The boy, Matthew, was perhaps fifteen, tall and sturdy, and I supposed Janey was eleven or twelve. Their great ages, I later learned, were what made it possible for Meg to travel to the market with her vegetables, for Janey could see to the meals herself and freed her mother for other tasks.

Meg was a thin woman, bony even, but with the spreading hips that made her seem well constructed for bearing children. Despite constant attempts to tuck them away, wisps of mousy hair trailed from underneath her kerchief, curling haphazardly about her receding chin. Her husband, in contrast, proved to be a large man, cyclopic, with a great, round, balding head and thick-fingered hands. We had hardly been in the house a full moment before he came, filling the doorway with his chest and shoulders.

“Woman,” he cried, “let us see how ye did.” He started for the turnip basket, then stopped short when he saw me. Meg stepped forward to explain, trembling like a ripe wheat shaft in a gust of wind.

“’Tis my niece Mary Cox, come to stay with us, John.”

“Yer niece? Come from Belton village?” We both nodded. “And what gives you leave to drop in here and expect our hospitality, young miss?”

My mouth gaped, but as I struggled for a response, Meg leapt in. “Ye know quite well why she’s here, John Tamworth—where be yer Christian spirit? Can ye not recall that my dear brother Rupert died not three weeks back? Where do you think the child has to go, with her da lost and all? Sure she cannot live on the kindness of strangers forever—she has come to her kin, just as she ought.”

John sat like a stone in the face of this criticism, but it did seem to soften him somewhat. “I don’t recall you speakin’ of a niece, but if she be so, I s’pose she may stay. I’ll have to clear it with the steward when he comes to town.”

“Aye, indeed, John,” Meg murmured, busying herself with the fire and cauldron.

John continued to look at me coldly, noticing, I was certain, that I bore absolutely no resemblance to his wife. “How did you leave them in Belton, then?”

“Very well,” I stammered, “very well, Uncle John.”

“You’ve a queer way of speaking,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“Aye,” I agreed, my mind darting for explanations. Meg and I had had no time in which to fabricate our lies. “I used to tend at the great house, when I was younger, with my mother—”

“Before she died,” Meg put in quickly, her back still to us.

“Before she died. I expect I picked it up there, ’tis what my father used to think.”

That seemed to satisfy, for he grunted and turned again to the turnip basket. I watched him count out the vegetables carefully, and as he did, I saw that Meg grew so nervous that she began to spill bits of meal in the fire as she stirred. The children had slunk into a dark corner, and without wasting time I followed their lead, slipping back against the walls where I was hidden in the shadows.

“You’re short the change, woman!” he suddenly hollered, causing me to jump. “I sent you forth with five new pennies and now you’ve three pennies and a ha’ penny, but not more than three turnips and one cabbage sold! How many times have I got to explain it to ye, you daft woman, Meg! Ye know all the prices, but every time the change comes out wrong. Tell me honest now, did ye spend it?” He walked toward her with a stomp and a grunt, somehow looking twice as large as before. Meg cringed near the fire.

“Honest, John, I dinna spend any. ’Tis my own fault—I canna make coins come out as they ought. Bart Dauncey gave me a shilling to break, and I was all a-flustered by it!”

John stopped one pace away and clenched his great hands in the air as if he wished to throttle her neck, but he did not. Instead he turned and walked out the door, perhaps meaning to expend his anger in shouting at the heavens instead of at Meg.

When he had gone the children eased forward to comfort their mother; then we all went outside to escape the smoke and wait for supper. My stomach heaved and tingled with fear, now doubting the wisdom of choosing this house. But I was not about to flee now that my lies had been established. To Thetbury village I was now Mary Cox, and no amount of masculine shouting would convince me to leave that cover behind.

Chapter Eighteen

T
HAT NIGHT WE RETIRED
on heaps of straw, for the Tamworths did not own a mattress. John and Meg slept in one corner, and Matthew and Janey shared the other. I was sent to sleep with the children, and I curled up by Janey with a sigh and a whimper, so heavily grateful for a warm place to sleep. I’d not stretched my legs out for three nights running, and they ached on account of it, but now I pointed my toes in luxury, thinking how strange my life had become. Just over a year before I had twitched and tossed in the Bailey’s bed, and now I embraced a heap of straw with such tears of joy as I was ashamed to show.

I had taken care to drink no more than a few sips of water with the evening meal and so was saved from any midnight trips to the bushes outside. This was a relief, for I did not think my new uncle John would take kindly to being awoken in the night, and I had no wish to draw his attention.

The cock’s crow came far too early, and I rolled from my straw with bitter reluctance. My first day of farmwork stretched before me, and I stuck to Meg like the thorn on a rose branch, afraid I might miss some of her instructions. John and Matthew soon left for the fields, and once they were gone the females perked up, pleased to have the house to themselves for singing and talking while they did their work.

They went out first to feed the stock, and Meg took to her milking stool while Janey showed me how to feed the chickens, the goose, and the ducks. They owned two sheep, she explained to me, but these were watched by the village shepherd and would be in the hills until the end of the summer. Janey proved a talkative girl, not particularly quick or contemplative but amiable enough to be pleasant.

Once the milking was done, Meg set me to churning as this seemed a job that required little skill. She had quickly grasped that I knew very little of the art of farmwork, the result, no doubt, of my having lived so long among foreign ruffians. When I told her I could make soap and rush candles and knew a bit of spinning and ale brewing, she brightened, for these, she said, were items she could sell if she went again to a market day. This brought to my mind the matter of her turnips and cabbages, and though I hesitated to raise it, I could at last bear it no longer. I caught her alone in the lean-to barn.

“Meg, if you would care to, you might send me to the next market day. I’ve long experience with coins of all types and should be happy to do the selling for you.”

She bit her lip for a long moment, and at first I feared I had threatened a task she enjoyed, for perhaps ’twas a treat to leave the house and go among the women of the village. But at last she mumbled something about John, and I understood that he would be reluctant to trust his pennies to a stranger, whether she were kin or no.

“If he will but give me one chance,” I said, imploring her, “I promise to return with every last coin.” I wished to say that I promised to bring him the proper amount, but I shied from mentioning her own blunder. “And if it worries you, I will leave you with my own store of pennies, that you might make up the difference out of those if I should happen to come home short.”

She spent some time chewing over this thought, but by midday she had decided that it seemed a very good plan indeed, and I was scheduled for the next day’s market. The rest of the afternoon passed smoothly, oiled by Meg’s gentle ways, and I only once had to clench my fists against my flood of memories.

“Y’are a sad girl, Mary,” Meg had observed as we swept out the house. “I don’t know when I’ve seen a greater grimstocking.”

I laughed aloud, but her words sliced to my very heart, for I’d struggled so to be cheery. I was sad, gray to the core, for if I did not fret over Robin, then I worried for Annie and how she must suffer or over the fates of the merry men. But most of all I grieved for Robin and dwelt on the corners of his smile and the distant edges of his gaze. I tried to temper my sadness with work, for nothing distracted me as labor could do, but even so I fear I made a moping companion for my new friends.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I left with the basket of cabbages, secure with instructions from Meg on the selling and where I should set out my collection of wares. The market space was crowded already when I arrived, filled with young women laying out their stock. I found my way to the vegetable sellers and marked out the space Meg had said I should have, spreading a cloth upon the ground and setting the best turnips upon it.

I enjoyed the market. The air hummed there and all about me were young people, hawking and bartering. I took pride in my work and did my best to keep my vegetables fresh with regular shakes of cold well water. From time to time I cried out to a passerby, and as the morning passed I grew even bolder, stopping folks with a wave of my hand. By noon I had sold twice what Meg had two days before, and before I packed up I had lightened my load by nine turnips and seven cabbages.

John was so pleased with my work that he almost smiled as he counted my coins, calculating slowly that I had done well and given proper change to each customer. I was told to return there each market day, and I looked forward to those two days as the dim strands of hope in my meager warp. My conscience did pang for a moment or two, while I feared Meg might be offended at having so quickly lost this job, but a look at her calmed my nerves, for she appeared as relieved as I was happy. Had Robin Hood only been near, so I might tell him of my success, I should have been truly pleased.

M
Y LIFE FELL
into a simple rhythm of daily tasks and dreamless nights, but Robin never left my mind for a moment. Each day when I rose I thought of his face, and each night on the straw I saw his smile. In frequent odd moments I conversed with him, making up his arguments while I worked at the churn or hearing his laugh as I walked to market. ’Twas his companionship I found I missed most, for while I liked both Meg and Janey, there were no true companions here.

I say his companionship was valued and missed, but there was more to Robin Hood that made me yearn in the dark of the night. I thirsted after the tangy scent of his skin when he returned from a day of walking the woods. I pined for the roguish look in his eye when he called me to perch upon his knee. And I ached after his calloused hands and the way they could cause my blood to ripple with the lightest touch at the base of my jaw or across the creases of my palm.

Each time a visitor stopped at Meg’s door to tell her a bit of gossip, I listened fearfully for his name, for if Robin or any of his band were hanged, I knew the country would shake with the news. But as I heard nothing, I tried not to worry and turned my mind back to my own small work. I had struggled hard to master my jobs, and was just beginning to see some progress in my handling of the carding comb, the kettle, and the milking pail.

One day when I’d been perhaps a week at the Tamworths’, Meg made a strange off-hand remark that caught me cold.

“Sir Thomas,” she said in the midst of a complaint, “has no love for the folk of Thetbury, not as the Fitzwaters did afore. I can recall a time in autumn when every child had a ripe apple if he came to see the Fitzwaters pass, and all our reeves were honest men.”

“The Fitzwaters, you say?” I asked, striving to keep my tone calm. “I’d heard my ma speak highly of ’em, but I know little about them. Did you see the lord and lady yourself?”

“Oh, aye,” Meg said, smiling at her spindle, “time and again I spied them. They passed this way each year, he on a spotted mare and she wearing a gold band about her neck.” Janey brought her work closer, so she might hear of the frills and finery.

“And what did they look like, Meg?” I asked. My hand trembled so that I had to tuck it beneath my wool for hiding.

“Oh, dark and handsome, both of them were. A touch like you, Mary, but of a greater height. She was a rare beauty for these parts, always wearin’ the finest skirts and shawls when they came into the country. My cousin Cedric once had cause to visit the manor in Denby, and he said she was right kind to him, instructing the kitchen folk as to his meals and finding him a warm corner at night. They were what a lord and lady ought to be, to my way of thinking. Not like this Sir Thomas.” She shook her head, a motion Janey instantly copied with eerie perfection.

“Nay,” said the girl, “nay, indeed, Ma. Recall how he took up our pig for the tax last Lady Day and then your best layer at Eastertide!”

“Aye, Janey, I do recall. In the older times Lady Fitzwater would give out shoes to every laborer who went as far as the manor at Christmastime. Sir Thomas don’t care if you walk fifty miles to give him your deepest bow, that’s what.”

Sir Thomas, I thus discovered, was not highly praised, for taxes had risen substantially since he came to Denby and the gifts had dwindled. I had watched how the Tamworths struggled for funds, and by now I saw how a tax of three pennies might nearly break such a group as they were.

“But was there no child, Meg?” I asked, for I could not resist pressing her further. “I thought my ma spoke of a child of the Fitzwaters.”

“Oh, aye, there was. But I understand it died as well when the lord and lady took ill. ’Twas a sad time for Denby, that—I scarce thought we’d ever recover.”

This, then, was the way my fate had been reported in Denby. ’Twas strangely chilling to hear myself described as dead—I, who by all accounts, had died several times over! But it did me good to hear of my parents, and I asked Meg questions by the handful. Sadly, she knew little beyond what she’d already related. ’Twas something, though, to hear that my parents had been thought fair and generous and to know they’d been missed by the good folk of Denby.

One night a bit later, John announced that the steward had ridden into town and the next day would hold a manor court. We had heard it already from two passersby, but Meg and I both pretended to be struck by the news and agreed when he declared that he and Matthew would go.

“We shall have to tell him of Mary’s coming,” John said, his mouth full of Meg’s good rye bread.

“Should I perhaps go myself, so he may see who I am?” I asked, in what I hoped was my most sweet-tempered voice.

“Go to the manor court—a woman? Are ye mad, Mary? Tell me ’tis not how things are done in Belton, that they should let a woman present herself to the steward at the manor court?”

“Oh, nay,” I cried, attempting to laugh over my mistake. “I only meant it in jest, Uncle John.”

“I should hope,” he mumbled, turning back to his bread. I felt my cheeks flush hot with annoyance, despite the coolness of the evening breeze. Women, I was learning, had no place in village politics, which struck me as strange, since we lived in a land that was ruled by a queen.

The following day they left for the manor court, then went straight on to the fields. That day I took four eggs and some lumps of butter with me to market day, for we all had been busy about the house and had managed to gather some spare things to sell. But that night I heard some frightening news, for John announced that ’twas time to mow Sir Thomas’s home farm, and I would be needed to rake the cut shafts.