The Healers Apprentice (4 page)

That very morning Arnold Hintzen, a young farmer, had asked Rose—no, commanded her—to go with him to the May Day Festival next week. She had pitied him, but as he became more insistent, she found him increasingly repulsive. Were it not for Wolfie, she might have been afraid of him. But the dog was quick to warn away anyone who came too close to her, baring his fangs and sending chills down even Rose’s spine with his snarls and ferocious barking.

She could see Arnold’s face now, his watery green eyes and rotten
teeth. When she became the town healer, surely neither he nor anyone else would dare to thrust such unwanted invitations on her.

Then there were the suitors her mother was constantly entreating her to marry.

Frau Geruscha entered the room and came to stand beside Rose.

“Are you troubled, child?”

“My mother wants me to marry a widowed butcher with six children.” Rose’s voice sounded flat as she struggled to hide her feelings. “Two weeks ago it was an old spice merchant. She says if I marry a wealthy tradesman it will improve my brother’s chances of being apprenticed to a good trade.”

“What does your father say?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t want to marry an old man. All I want is to be a good healer.”

Frau Geruscha squeezed Rose’s shoulder. “If you need my help to convince your mother she shouldn’t try to force you to marry, tell me, and I will speak to her.” She was quiet for a moment as her concerned look slowly changed to a bemused half smile. “I have a confession to make to you, Rose.”

“A confession?”

Frau Geruscha seemed to force her smile into a frown, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth. “I allowed Lord Hamlin to take one of your stories.”

“You…what?” Rose backed up a step, bumping into a bench, and sat heavily.

“He came in this morning while you were in the kitchen. Your story was lying open on the table, and when I walked in he was reading it.”

Rose felt the blood drain from her face. “But, he—but I—no one was supposed to—”

“He said it was very good. He asked if he could take it to his family and read it to them. I couldn’t say no.”

“His family? Oh.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Rose.” But with her smile, Frau Geruscha didn’t look very sorry. “I didn’t think you would mind. I realize I should have suggested that he request your permission. But he seemed so delighted with it.”

The prospect of facing Lord Hamlin again, of him asking her permission for anything, almost made her grateful that Frau Geruscha had allowed him to take it.

Rose’s face burned as she thought of the lord and his entire family—the duke and duchess, Lord Rupert, and Lady Osanna—reading her story.

“Don’t be angry with me, Rose.”

Rose pretended to examine her shoes. She shook her head. “I’m not angry.”
Only dying from embarrassment
,
betrayed by my own mistress.
She could only hope she would be out of the room if and when Lord Hamlin came back to return it.

A week later, Rose was hanging herbs to dry when she recognized the peasant woman standing in the courtyard as a neighbor of her parents. She stepped out of Frau Geruscha’s chambers and into the sunlight.

“Your mother bids you come home today.” The woman bowed her head, glancing up from beneath lowered lids. “She has an important matter to discuss with you.”

No doubt the “important matter” was another potential husband her mother wanted to foist on her. Although becoming an apprentice for the town healer improved Rose’s status, it didn’t benefit her family as would marriage to a wealthy burgher.

After asking Frau Geruscha’s permission, Rose trudged along the path outside the town wall, delving a short way into the forest to her father’s wattle-and-daub cottage. She opened the front door to the smell of peas and pork fat cooking over the fire.

“Rose!” her little sisters squealed. Before Rose’s eyes could adjust to the dimness of the room, one pair of sooty arms wrapped around her waist, the other around her knees. Rose squeezed her sisters tight.

Her mother straightened from bending over the pot. The hole in the center of the ceiling of the one-room house didn’t do much to draw out the smoke, and Rose’s eyes watered and burned.

“Rose, you will be reasonable, for once, when you hear of the wool merchant who wants to marry you.” Her mother fixed Rose with a hard look, her eyes narrowed and her jaw set.

“Who?”

“Peter Brunckhorst.”

Rose’s mouth fell open as she recalled the man, old enough to be her father, who had introduced himself to her one day in the street. He had stared at her face as if there were words stamped there that he was trying to read.

She spoke through clenched teeth. “I will not wed Peter Brunckhorst—”

“What?” Her mother clamped her fists on her hips, still gripping her ladle in one hand.

“—No matter how rich he is.” He only wanted a wife with a good strong back to birth a swarm of children. Soon after, he’d die of some old person’s disease—if she was fortunate.

“You ungrateful little wench! I ought to snatch every hair from your head.” Her mother shook both fists at her, as though imagining doing exactly that. “This is the best offer you could ever hope to get!”

The best offer I could ever hope to get.
She thought of Peter Brunckhorst, his greasy black-and-white hair plastered to his head. Why was
he
the best she could ever hope to get? Because she was stupid? Mean? Lazy? Unworthy of being loved?

No. Because she was poor.

“Watch your sisters and brother,” her mother ordered, then stormed out of the house.

Rose spent the day with her six- and eight-year-old sisters and her brother, the baby of the family at five years old. “Rose, will you tell us a story?” Agathe asked. Rose stopped what she was doing, and her brother crawled into her lap while she told them a tale about twin princesses locked in a tower that was made entirely of sweets. They listened in rapt attention.

She hugged them and kissed their cheeks. She knew what it felt like to want attention and affection and not get it. She could remember trying to put her arms around her mother and being pushed aside.

“Get away,” her mother would say, “and let me get my work done.” Rose learned not to expect affection from her. Her father often patted her on the head and spoke a word or two of praise. But he became awkward with her when she turned thirteen and developed womanly curves.

Now that she was seventeen, she didn’t need affection—at least, she’d better not. She knew a few maidens who had needed it and ended up with child—and without a husband.

Her mother returned in the late afternoon with her straw-colored hair freshly braided. She refused to look at Rose, addressing the younger children instead.

Rose slipped out the door and ran with Wolfie at her heels to her favorite spot beneath a large beech tree at the top of a hill. She threw herself down on the lush grass, propped her back against the tree, and
stared across the empty meadow. She would never please her mother. The memory of her angry face made Rose’s chest ache. But she rarely had to see her mother anymore, now that she spent most of her days and nights with Frau Geruscha at Hagenheim Castle.

Wolfie laid his head in her lap and gazed up at her with big, russet eyes. She rubbed behind his ears, finding the patch of extra-soft fur. Her heart swelled as she blinked back tears. At least Wolfie loved her.

Rose stepped out of the southwest tower the next morning into the courtyard, blinking at the bright sunlight. The plaintive strains of musical instruments playing in the distance sent a tingle of excitement through her. Her feet moved of their own accord toward the sound.

Hildy trotted toward her from the gatehouse, grinning and waving. They linked arms and hastened toward the Marktplatz for the May Day festivities, Hildy chattering about who they might see at the festival and whether there would be jugglers, dancing bears, and acrobats performing in the square.

When Rose and Hildy emerged from the gate into the large Marktplatz, they found themselves in a crowd of people—some buying, some selling, and some merely gawking. Rose’s heart beat faster as the trill of flutes and clang of tambourines grew louder. To their left a tall, skinny man juggled three balls. The jongleur wore parti-colored hose—left leg was red, the right, blue. His shirt was the opposite—left sleeve, blue and the right, red. She smiled at the tiny bells that hung from his pointed hat and jingled merrily as he kept all three balls spinning in the air. The people gathered around him gasped as he added a fourth ball to his act.

She soon grew tired of watching the jongleur and tugged on Hildy’s arm, urging her toward the music. Three musicians stood in the middle of a tight circle of people. Rose and Hildy nudged their way to the front. One man pulled a bow across the strings of a rebec, while another played a shawm, his fingers dancing over the holes. The third strummed a lute and sang about a knight and his lady love.

Rose’s chest swelled with joy at the harmonious sounds of the instruments. Music was food for the spirit, and she closed her eyes to better feed upon it. She so seldom got the opportunity to hear music, she didn’t want to miss a note.

Too soon Hildy was ready for something else. “Let’s go see the
miracle play.” Rose allowed her friend to lead her several paces away from the troubadours, consoling herself that she would still be able to hear them.

The play was just beginning. Several performers stood on the flat bed of a wagon. A man wearing dirty rags, his face smeared with mud, cried out to a tall bearded man, “What have I to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of the Most High God? Torment me not!”

The bearded man pointed his finger at him and said, “Come out of the man, you unclean spirit! What is thy name?”

The ragged man said, “My name is Legion, for we are many.”

The voice sounded so unearthly, Rose had to remind herself it was only a play.

“I beseech thee, do not send us away from this region. Rather, send us into the swine.”

“I give thee leave. Go!” The bearded Jesus turned his finger to six actors who crouched in a huddle on the ground.

The supposed possessed man convulsed violently, his body jerking in all directions. Finally, he threw himself down and lay still, his eyes closed.

The six actors on the ground began squealing like pigs. They scurried around on their hands and knees then fell over onto their backs and ceased their pig noises. Their hands and feet moved slowly forward and back, clawing the air.

The Jesus figure turned to the man lying at his feet. He held out his hand and commanded, “Stand up.”

The man’s eyelids fluttered open and he sat up, taking Jesus’ hand. He stood, blinking and shading his eyes as though blinded by a bright light. The audience cheered and applauded. Rose clapped as well while Hildy turned to speak to the woman beside her, who was a friend of Hildy’s mother.

At that moment, a hand clamped down on Rose’s shoulder. Peter Brunckhorst towered over her.

“You have decided to disobey your mother and refuse to marry me?”

Where was Wolfie?
“Take your hand off me.”

Rose tried to shrug off his grip, but his fingers tightened on her shoulder. He bent down, bringing his sallow, sunken cheeks and pointy chin close to her face.

“I asked your mother if I could take you to the May Day festivities, but she said you haven’t yet agreed to marry me. Methought
Hagenheim’s maidens were more obedient to their parents’ wishes.” He exhaled a putrid breath in her face.

She turned her head and spoke through clenched teeth. “Pray excuse me, but I am not obliged to marry you.”

Peter Brunckhorst’s face stretched into an ugly grin, revealing a row of brown teeth. “Come now. You have no hope of wealth, and I can help your brother get an apprenticeship.” He reached out his long, bony fingers and stroked Rose’s cheek. She jerked back, but he leaned closer. His eyes were devoid of color and filled with darkness.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Hildy asked.
“You’re frightening my friend.”

The man glanced at Hildy. “I’m not trying to frighten anyone. You both mistake me.” He fixed his eyes on Rose again. “But perhaps that is intentional.”

Wolfie’s deep-throated bark stunned the air one second before he bounded between Rose and Peter Brunckhorst, causing the man to take a step back. The dog snarled and bared his teeth at the merchant.

Rose rubbed her palm across her cheek, trying to brush away the feeling of Brunckhorst’s fingers on her skin. As people gathered around them, murmuring, he curled his lip upward in what Rose presumed was meant to be a smile. “I have hope that you will yet come to accept me.”

He stepped back. The Marktplatz was growing more crowded, and a group of people walked between Rose and the merchant. When they passed, Brunckhorst was gone.

Rose’s legs turned to water. She sank to her knees and buried her face in Wolfie’s neck. “Thank you, boy.”

Wilhelm sat astride his horse near the entrance to the castle courtyard, at the north end of the Marktplatz. He patted Shadow’s neck as his gaze swept over the various performers, sellers’ booths, and people taking in the sights and sounds. Amid the crowd, someone caught his eye. A maiden stood in front of the musicians. Her eyes were closed and a blissful smile graced her lips.

Rose.

The back of his neck tingled. She looked beautiful, especially with
that rapt expression on her face.
But I shouldn’t be watching her.
He tore his eyes away. He was supposed to be making sure the May Day celebrations took place in an orderly fashion. And, as always, he was keeping an eye out for Moncore, though the evil conjurer was hardly likely to show himself so publicly. Wilhelm had lost days of searching due to his injury, and the man could be far away by now.

He’d read Rose’s story to the rest of his family while he was laid up with his leg, and they were as impressed as he’d been. Now he felt strangely excited at the way she obviously appreciated music.

Perhaps some day he would get a chance to play for her.