Maid Marian (25 page)

As we neared the woodland ferns of Fountain Abbey, I prepared my mind to bid adieu to my sweet Atalanta and Diana, my fellow maidens, for it was time for me to leave off girlhood and turn my eyes to a new path. Lady Juno would be my guiding star now, the model to whom I could always look. But this change was slow, for I was sorry to say good-bye to such old friends. So I set myself to work at this task long before we arrived, in hopes that I might make a smooth transition. The trappings of youth can be hard to forsake, and I wondered if I would manage it fully.

Fountain Abbey proved a magical place, alight with dancing narcissus, with shy heart’s ease and fields of snowdrops. A brook flowed beside it, mirthful and bright, and I recognized this water as the very place where Robin and Friar Tuck once carried each other on their backs across the stream, time and again, stopping to fight on each far side. But the grass now showed no mark of their tussle, and the water had covered their every last footprint, for those days were far in the past. Robin gave the stream a kindly smile, thinking, I supposed, those very same thoughts, before he turned his face to the abbey door.

Friar Tuck welcomed us with boisterous joy, and when he heard what we were about, he set to calling the banns immediately, that we might be wed the following day. ’Twas strange to hear my own right name mixed in with that of Robert of Locksley, but when I felt odd, I looked to Robin and was reassured that we did as we ought.

I did not know Friar Tuck well, for Annie had always been cautious of him, and I had followed her example. I believe she was a bit offended at such bawdiness in a friar, but once I knew him to be good-hearted, I did not mind his loud joking ways. He and Robin exchanged their tales of where they’d wandered and what they’d seen since their parting at the Greenwood tree, though Friar Tuck had little to add, having come from Sherwood straight to this place. I left them together for a time and walked in the woods to gather my thoughts, for I fully expected every bit of myself to be altered by the next day’s events, and I wished to prepare myself in mind and body.

Among the things I bore in my sack were my own wedding gown from Warwick Castle, and for once I was able to look on its soft lace with a happy eye and enjoy its beauty. Friar Tuck had lent me the use of a low green bower, which stood in a grove of young apple trees, and to this I retired to shake out my gown and hang it out fully to air and crispen. That task done, I walked upstream, gazing at the lucid waters until I felt my legs grow weary. Then, in a remote pool, I bathed myself with local herbs and rubbed my hair with lavender flowers that it might be both rich and sweet smelling. And when I was done I spread my hair on a rock to dry in the March sun and felt a peace come over me that I had not known in years—if, indeed, I had ever felt it.

Time passes quickly when the future looms bright, and before I felt ready, I stood in my gown, all silk and silver, and knelt down with Robin in the abbey’s lit chapel. A spring rain beat softly about us, pattering on the church’s stone steps, and with its rhythms went Friar Tuck’s words, easing so gently that I felt no fear. And when all was finished, I went to Robin and was kissed so dearly that I knew, at once, that little had changed between our hearts. We were now only husband and wife, a new set of words to add to our others, and because I now saw that in gaining these two we had lost nothing, I felt I had stumbled on a cask of riches.

That night we retired together to the bower, to sleep among the budding blossoms as the fairies do in their cobweb beds. Robin and I made love by lamplight, adding to its glow the warmth of our feeling, feelings which still today buzz in my head and bring a smile to my face in odd tranquil moments. That night I left Diana behind me and went full willingly to my new role, a transformation I have never regretted.

We remained a fortnight in Fountain Abbey, resting nightly in our bower, for we both were reluctant to part again and wished to enjoy the warm spring days. It occurred to Robin that we might pass all of the summer there, but I was afraid that the lady of Sencaster might be less willing to take on new help in autumn. If I came in October she might think me less honest, guessing that I sought a warm place for winter, than if I appeared in the stillness of May.

I did all I could to prepare Robin for life in Denby, sharing every detail of the land and the town, in hopes that he might sidle into life there with as little trouble as possible. We thought it best that he maintain his identity as Nick Atwood, since some citizens of Denby would remember his feats at the Shrove Tuesday fair. And by the time we neared the moment of parting, we had come to think this a very good thing, for any local laborer who recognized his face would only lend credibility to his guise.

My situation was a bit more difficult, since I knew Lady Pernelle had a bias for hiring natives of Sencaster. I decided to adopt the most remote village I came across in my travels toward the manor house and promote myself as a child of that hamlet who had traveled abroad, working at great houses in shires nearby. I would go, I told Robin, as Kate Thatcher, Kate being a name I had always admired for its resolute sound and clean appearance.

We agreed that when we parted ways, I would head west to Sencaster, and Robin would travel to Wodesley village to tear Clym away from his suit to Annie. Clym would be established as our message bearer and would be trusted to make regular visits to one manor after the next, to keep our discoveries and decisions in harmony. In addition, I now entrusted to Robin every gold band and jewel I had brought from Warwick, part of the haul of my own belongings that he had carried out of Sherwood. These he planned to sell in Leicestershire, that we might have funds aplenty to carry out our daring plan.

At last the time came for me to start off, and as I clung to Robin that morning, I whispered to him that this might be our last adventure. For if all went well we could end this folly by becoming, at last, respectable souls.

“Will it not trouble you,” I asked as we lay, legs entangled, “to take on the guise of a Norman noble when once we are settled in Denby Manor?”

“I do not think I shall play that part,” he laughed, tickling my cheek with his beard. “I expect to shock all the noble world by maintaining my love of the Saxon ways. You, they may wonder at, for what Norman lady could be so indelicate as to wed a Saxon?”

“Ah, one of those foul, uncivilized creatures? Well, I suppose I fathomed it, didn’t I? But truly, Robin, I hope you will feel no pain at becoming the recipient of the very tax you have fought against.”

He was quiet for a time, but I could tell when he spoke that he’d considered this long before that morning.

“I’ve thought, dear Marian, that a Saxon man can do no better than to raise himself to a place where he may affect the tax at its root. We’ll take enough tax to live upon, aye, but I scarcely think we will rise to opulence. Rather, let us set an example of ruling grace by taking in taxes what we need only, giving to the king what is his due, and returning the rest to the needy and poor.”

“That is excellently planned. I heard in Thetbury that my mother used to give each laborer a new pair of shoes every Christmas Day. ’Tis the sort of tradition I’d very much like to revive in Denby.”

“Well thought, my love. Now Marian,” he said, turning suddenly serious, “you must promise me that you will think quite hard about your next plan, the one in which we seize back your lands. For I will not accept a dangerous scheme—you must be in safety at every moment, or I won’t help you, I swear I won’t.”

“Won’t you now! Very well, then, I promise to plot it as well as I can. But perhaps some of our friends of Needwood might be called upon for the rougher work? For I’m sure there will be rough work to do—there’s no suppressing manor guards without it.”

We talked like this for a long while, then turned again to our tender good-byes. Robin gave me a ring to wear in remembrance of him, and this I hung by a piece of silk about my neck, for it would not do for a serving girl to go about with rings on her fingers. I found a keepsake for him to wear, a jeweled pin of my castle days, and he bade me kiss it that he might have a caress with him, beneath his tunic, at all times.

Because he had worried so about my traveling the roads alone, I changed back into Allan’s old suit and cut a new cudgel to carry with me. Robin was charmed with my new dress, for he said I made the prettiest boy he’d ever laid eyes on. But when at last he kissed me good-bye, he followed with shouts that I should keep my cudgel near me always, for pretty boys sometimes had to fight all the harder.

I shouted back that I would be fine, not to worry, but that he should take care to watch himself. In this way I skirted the path, shouting and walking, until I had gone too far for us to hear any longer, and I found myself alone again. So began a new chapter in my life, for now I faced the world as a prospective servant, disguised as a lad, while within my heart I was, plain as day, a married woman with a task to perform.

Chapter Twenty-two

T
HE ROAD TO
S
ENCASTER
was pitted and muddy, for the recent rains had taken their toll and the spring sun was still too mild to bake the mud into smooth sheets. In the fields about me work continued, and I thought with a pang on my Thetbury family and hoped they had hands enough for their labor. Perhaps, I fancied, Janey might learn to sell goods in the market in place of her mother, and in time maybe Matthew would come to tend strips of his own alongside his father’s.

From time to time I passed a family at work on their dirt, still breaking up clods if they were tardy or sowing grain seed from a wooden box. As I watched and—to admit it all—envied them somewhat, I came to realize what greater joy I now took in my life than I had at Warwick so long ago, warm and cushioned though that time was. Tending the land was hard and bitter, and at times the suffering was too great to bear, but I looked at my own limbs, strong now and sturdy, and was pleased for it. It gave me pride to know that I’d felt the stiffness of a full day afield, and I now possessed a sharp appreciation for each morsel of bread I ate, for I knew with certainty what had caused it to grow.

As I neared Sencaster, I turned my thoughts to Lady Pernelle, thinking through everything I knew of her to distill what I could of her character. I recalled how she had petted Hugh and called him always her precious boy, and my belly felt sick for her treachery. I did not know if Robin believed me when I claimed that she’d killed Hugh, but whether or not he acknowledged the truth of it, I was convinced that it was so, and this made me clench my hands in fists. I swore, on that road, to do what I could to avenge Hugh’s death, for little though I loved his full-grown form, his childish soul had been precious to me. I would avenge my dovecote friend, this I pledged by the clouds and treetops.

O
NE MORNING
I
PASSED
a large market town and, peering about to see which stalls sold herbs from the East, stopped and purchased a small quantity of henna with which I might dye my hair. I hemmed and guffawed with the young merchant, for I’ve always had trouble lowering my voice to sound sufficiently like a lad, but luckily a heavy rain was falling, and my tone was lost in the sloshing of puddles. With my penny bag of henna tucked tightly in my cloak, I slipped away and made for a wood to wait out the rain in peace and find a small pool in which to wash.

Henna takes some time to set, so I stayed in that wood nearly three full days, coating my locks in loose green powder until they were stained a copperish color, nearly the shade of the robin’s breast, though closer to the natural color of hair. Newly altered, I dressed in my old homespun gown, a lass once more, and set my eyes toward Sencaster manor. As I had explained to Robin, I thought Lady Pernelle would be easily fooled by a change of garments and a different tone, but true as I believed it to be, I was not about to chance my future on an error of judgment. I had rather be safe with orange hair than caught in the act with my ebony tresses.

I
T HAS LONG BEEN
my observation that noble ladies of a certain age fall into two classes: those who surround themselves with plain-faced servants in hopes that they might shine as a beauty among the roughage and those who draw in lovely young girls, praying that the careless noble observer might leave their court with a vague recollection of charm and good looks, extending to the lady what he had observed in the servant girls’ faces. One afternoon spent in the manor yard told me that Lady Pernelle was of the latter camp, for every lass I saw come and go had a shapely face and a witching smile.

Based on this knowledge I prepared myself with exacting care the following morning, arranging my hair at its most striking and pinching my cheeks to make them rosy. Thus attired, I plucked up my courage and went to the manor to see Lady Pernelle, announcing myself as Kate Thatcher of Titfield, praying that Kate bore no hints of Marian.

When at last I gained entrance, Sencaster Manor gave me an odd jolt. It put me in mind of when Annie arrived at Sherwood Forest and took up cooking with the fire and kettle as if she’d lived there all her life. “One cook’s kitchen is much like another,” she’d said at the time, and as I looked about me I began to think the same applied to noble homes.

Just as everything had been done at Warwick, things appeared to be done here. While this house was smaller in size and stature than Warwick Castle, it strove to emulate its betters, like the girl-child who dons her mother’s kerchief and gives out orders to the serving folk. Where Lord William had kept cook, butler, and baker, Lady Pernelle did as well. And, as was due the slight difference in economy, where Lord William colored his dishes with saffron, Lady Pernelle tinted hers with blood, not wishing to be outdone in the art of her table. The best ornaments and objects of value were displayed where every visitor would see them, and whether coming or going, all paused to see Lady Pernelle’s Frankish powder boxes, marveling over their inlaid jewels.

All this was apparent in my short walk from entry to great hall, and by the time I was called before the lady herself and had bowed so low my copper tresses brushed the floor, I found myself surprisingly at ease. I had to wait, for the lady herself was involved in some discussion over payment of the local priest with her clerk. At last she turned her face to me, and I saw with a start that while her jewels and bright locks remained, her face had grown horribly sour.

“What brings you here, girl?” she asked me rudely, in unpolished Saxon.

“My name is Kate Thatcher, if it pleases, my lady, and I’ve come in search of employment.” I trusted that the lady’s own unfamiliarity with the Saxon tongue would keep her from noticing that my accent was not a local one.

“Where are you from, Kate Thatcher? We take no one into this house who is not of Sencaster.”

“I was born in Titfield, my lady, to May and Jackson Thatcher of that village. But I’ve lived most of my life in service in Lincoln and Manchester, at the great houses there.”

“Indeed!” she exclaimed, raising her eyebrows, for these were some of the wealthiest castles of our time. She let her eye rest upon me while the hall grew silent as a graveyard. In the quiet, I felt the chill of dread rising and I was certain my own heartbeat would give me away, loud as it was. Perhaps she knew me, knew my face! But I suppose in truth she was gauging my looks, determining how my poppy-red hair would offset her own pale cheeks, for she then said, “Well, Kate Thatcher, I will take you on for a trial. But mind me well—keep your hands off the silver and your eyes on your work, or you will feel the sharp end of my rod. You’re lucky I lost a good servant of mine but recently, or there’d be no place for you in this house. Come, Dame Ena will show you to your duties.”

The interview was finished far more quickly than I had dared hope, and later that very afternoon I found myself beating out the lady’s bedclothes and tossing her floor reeds in the sun to air. My work was not difficult, especially now that I’d been so well trained in Thetbury, for I could churn and bake without effort and thought little of any work in the yard.

I ate my meals in the kitchen with the others and at night was given the privileged place of sleeping within that very same room, with the floor as my mattress, my head on the shoulder of the girl next to me. We all slumbered there, where the fires were warm, and thought little of our discomfort, though truly the Baileys’ lump-filled mattress made a better bed.

At first I went about my work unnoticed by any but my fellow servants, and I began to fear for the success of my scheme. Lady Pernelle’s sharp eyes did pick out my skill with the needle and put me to work on her finest kerchiefs, her girdles and gloves, and her decorative sleeves. But for all my talent with her delicate fabrics, I still went several weeks with a frustrated air. I wished, above all, to ingratiate myself into this household, to become privy to their intimate chats and evening gossip, but if I continued on as I was, I would know just how well they preferred partridge to pike, but nothing of how I might seize back my lands.

My chance came at last when Lady Pernelle, in a state over an upcoming guest, called all her serving women to the great hall to determine how best to plan the visit.

“Within two weeks’ time,” she told us, her voice sounding stiff with practiced authority, “we shall all have the honor of entertaining our revered holy father, the bishop of Lincoln town, for he passes this way on his journey to the north and shall grace us with his company. I’ve already determined his room and bed linens and trust that Dame Ena will remain afterward to hear my instructions.” Here Ena bobbed awkwardly, turning quite red in the face about it. “But I wish to discuss with all of you the foodstuffs we shall be serving, for I know the bishop likes his plate, and I expect our table to exceed his expectations. Now,” she muttered, more to herself than to us, “what shall we serve the man?”

I knew full well that we’d not been asked, but when the silence of my peers grew heavy, I stepped forward to gain her attention.

“Forgive me, my lady, but it’s well known that the bishop loves sweets and fruits of all kinds. Perhaps we could serve him sugared plums, raisin-and-suet pies, and candied citron?” My heart was in my throat as I spoke, but my knowledge was firm, for I knew from Robin that I spoke the truth. Robin had lightened the purse of this very bishop a handful of times and once told me he had often found a sweet lemon slice hidden in among the gold pieces.

“Is that so? Who are you? Kate, is it not? And, tell me Kate, how is it you come by this piece of knowledge?”

“As I’m sure your ladyship recalls, I served for a time in the Lincoln town manor, where we had the honor of”—how had she put it?—“entertaining the bishop on several occasions.”

“Ah.” Despite the chill in her tone, I fancied my suggestion had met with approval. “Can you purchase for us these things you describe, enough to be plentiful on our table throughout the bishop’s visit?”

“Certainly, my lady, I will do as you ask. If you please, how many servings will the table require?”

She looked at me shrewdly, and for a moment I feared she’d had a sudden flash, a qualm of memory, and recalled my face. But no, she merely needed time to consider my question. “Enough for three—nay, make that four, in case of unexpected guests.”