Roan Rose, page 2
Mr. Whitby, my authority upon everything male, declared that blood royal had "grown weak as water" since the time of Edward III. It was, he said, the cause of England’s long years of war.
"Why, a man cannot be left to farm his land in peace for ten weeks before he is marched over by armies. Every village is robbed of young men for arrays, chaste women are befouled, cattle, grain and sheep are stolen. No law anywhere, only this lord and that, stirring up factions among us. How can an honest man increase his worth in such turmoil? This is surely God's judgment, just like the plague of my grandfather's time."
In Whitby's opinion, the Earl of Warwick was an improvement over the Percies, the old Lords of the North. Recently, he’d cut away the red rose that had grown over the door and planted a white one. Upon his Sunday hat he now sported a handsomely embroidered badge of The Ragged Staff.
* * *
When the Countess drowsed, we crept away. The chief among the ladies-in-waiting gave mother a coin as we left.
"You may be called again."
"May the Blessed Mother protect our good Countess." Mother bowed deeply.
The lady’s haughty demeanor softened at my mother's stolid concern. We did not quite dare to bow ourselves away, because she continued to stare at us if she had something else to say.
"Excuse me, Lady," Mother finally said, "but we must go. My husband will be angry if he finds me not in his house when he returns from the fields."
"Although you have attended your Countess?"
"Milady." Mother kept her eyes down, but I stole a glance, and saw the plucked places where the woman's brows had once been arch.
"Have no fear. Your husband may not grudge service to the wife of The Earl of Warwick, he who is master of this land and all in it."
"As you say, Milady."
Mother bowed again, and the proud noblewoman, to my surprise, returned a faint echo of her reverence.
* * *
"I observed your apprentice." The Countess looked better today, and, as her lady-in- waiting had suggested, she had called for mother Early the next day. She did not, however, speak of herself, but seemed inclined to other matters.
"She is my daughter, your ladyship."
"She is young."
"It is never too Early to study the craft, Milady."
The Countess nodded. Her great gray eyes turned thoughtfully upon me.
"You wish her to follow you."
"I do hope and pray that she will, Milady of Warwick, God willing."
"Her touch hath healing. How does she in your garden?"
"Well, Milady. She is my eldest, obedient and clever."
"Come here, child."
I did as I was told. Sunlight fell precipitously through a window, a sudden break in the eternal galloping clouds of spring. I was walking, although I did not know it, into another world.
The Countess stretched out a long-fingered white hand. I had never seen so many glistening jewels. The danced before my eyes like blue and red stars.
"Give the Countess your hand, child!" From behind, the lady-in-waiting delivered a jab between my shoulder blades. My small freckled fingers met the elegant hand of the lady.
"Such beautiful eyes!" Hers met mine, and I knew that her spirit was exactly as hard and as brilliant as those jewels upon her fingers.
"What is your name, child?"
"Rosalba."
"Rosalba—White Rose." The name made her smile and once more I was astonished. Unlike most breeding women of our village, she had all her teeth.
"Do you have brothers and sisters, Rosalba?"
"Two little sisters, Milady."
"Speak up!" From behind, the lady-in-waiting delivered another poke.
"Do you take care of them when your mother is busy?"
"Yes, Milady, when I am not helping my mother in the garden, or in the kitchen."
"Do you like caring for your little sisters?"
"Oh, yes, Milady. When Lily was sick with croup last winter, I nursed her at night so Mother could sleep." The Countess seemed so approving that, despite the harsh presence at my back, I gained sufficient confidence to add, "This spring our Lily is bonny and fat."
"You give your mother good service."
What happened next is hard to describe, but I could feel a wave of distress coming from my mother. Although she didn’t make a sound and I couldn't see her, it was as if she had cried aloud. It was a torture doubled because I did not dare turn back to see.
"I have two daughters. Do you know that?"
I nodded vigorously.
"My youngest daughter is Anne. She is not hale and hearty like you, Rosalba."
She studied me. Then, suddenly, her focus swept beyond, with such fierce determination that I was impelled to turn my head. When I did, I saw that my mother's eyes, those big dark eyes we shared, were full of tears.
"Mistress Whitby, give me this little roan rose."
I saw my mother—my brave mother—swallow hard.
"We are yours to command, your ladyship." Mother folded her hands beneath her bosom. Unlike bullying episodes with my father, she did not lower her eyes.
"I wish her to nurse my youngest."
Mother's eyes were unnaturally bright, but instead of voicing sorrow, she replied steadily.
"An’ it be your will, Milady Countess. You greatly honor us, who are ever at your service."
Chapter II
"I don't want to go away!"
"You must."
We were on the way home. Mother would not look at me.
"But you need me!"
"I do, but your father does not. Already he plans to marry you away."
If she had knocked me to the ground with her fist, I could not have been more surprised. Most girls in our village were married between twelve and fifteen. I was ten, but, having little dowry, had counted upon at least three years more of living as a maid in the good care and teaching of my mother.
"You are to go to the home of Martin Thornton, by Oxnop Ghyll. His wife has begun to ramble in her wits and old Martin himself is poorly. You and Jane Cobb are to meet with his sons, Mark and Matthew, at the church door, on the Nativity of John the Baptist. You are for Mark and Jane is for Matthew. They badly need women in that house."
Cold news, more terrible than a bad harvest.
"The Thorntons will take you without dower, for they know you are a good girl and are a hard worker. To get rid of a daughter was all it took to persuade Master Whitby of the wisdom of his course."
Why had she not told me?
The Thorntons were wild as Scots. They lived on the high dales, lonely herders in a stone and turf croft, a family rough, simple, and almost as speechless, as their sheep.
"I have entreated the Blessed Mother to save you every night since Master Whitby shook hands with Old Martin at the Cross Quarter market."
Mother's fingers closed tightly on my arm. Her gaze burned.
"Oh, my darling! I feared Our Lady had abandoned us, but see! My prayer is answered! You are saved! Whitby will not dare refuse the Countess of Warwick."
Tearing my arm away, I fled, running down the street, clogs clopping and slipping. Past the smith's shed with its reek, noise and steam, across the gray stepping stones of the rattling beck, water gurgling on every side. I knew Mother would not follow. She had supper to make and news to break to the wrathful man who ruled us.
I ran until I was out of breath, then I walked, up a grassy hill that overlooked Aysgarth. A narrow, winding sheep path led to the top and I followed it. Near the crest, I turned to look back at the huddled houses trailing smoke. There were numbers of fires tonight, with the train of Countess in residence. Church bells rang for Compline, the sound clear and hollow. Wind was dying along with the sunlight. I shivered and tightened my shawl, knowing I had nearly a mile to go.
At last, toward sunset, I reached the place I sought, a bald hilltop jumble of weathered rocks which stood sentry over our valley’s thin soil. Carved by rain and wind, these stones were filled with fissures, some large enough to sit inside. Shepherds caught by the gale hid here, waiting it out with their sheep.
Close to the center of this desert place, springing from a crack, one deep enough to hold a man, grew an oak tree. Blasted by storms, twisted, stunted, starved, and yet it grew. The villagers were always wood hungry, but somehow, over the centuries, no one had been desperate enough to cut it. It was very old, leaning and spare, the shape sculpted by the prevailing wind.
Mother brought offerings here in secret, as her mother had. In dry summers she carried water. In autumn moonlight, she brought dishes of blood from butchering. She poured these tributes into the fractures where the gnarled roots sank. Others brought similar gifts here as well. I knew because sometimes the rocks were stained when we arrived, but I never knew who else tended the ancient tree, and I never asked.
Somehow, this had always seemed a natural place to take my distress. Certainly, no one would be here tonight. The tree stood alone, clinging to the mouth of a crevice. Following the twisted trunk downward, I lowered my body into the hole. The stone my palms pressed was sharp and grainy.
Crouching in the dimness, I wept upon the roots and waited for the calm of the place to overtake me. Sweat cooled upon my back. A shiver shook me and passed, born of the deep chill that always lingered here.
Looking up, I peered through the branches, lifted against that broken spring sky. In summer the leaves seemed to be whispering secrets, but this was too early. Only a few wart-like buds dotted the twisted limbs. As I sat, listening to my blood pump, staring up through the branches, I heard a fierce, sweet cry, one which spoke of beauty, of power and pain.
Out of the clouds, riding down a ray of light, sped a hawk. He seemed a lord, far removed from the humble, grubbing world of men. He shot by, faster than an arrow. He did not call again, but the perfect moment reverberated like a rung bell.
That was when I understood. As frightened as I was of leaving everything and everyone I'd ever known, of going away with strangers to a place where a peasant was less than nothing, it was better than the slavery to which Master Whitby would doom me.
Mother was right. The Blessed Mother had saved me. I bowed my head and began a Hail Mary.
* * *
Straining upwards, scraping my hands on the stone, scuffing my knees, I scrambled forth from the crevice, determined as a new-made butterfly. On the way home I had to keep my eyes fixed upon the twilight path in order not to slip on the greasy new grass and tumble head over heels down the hillside. The sun was disappearing, a blur in a hazy wrack. As it sank, the clouds darkened to the color of dried blood.
Chapter III
I will pass quickly over the ache and fear, the tumult of my homecoming that night. I shed tears for my mother, for my best friend Jane, for my little sisters, Marigold and Lily, for the only home I'd ever known.
It is enough to say that after he received the news, Master Whitby roared, cursed and hurled about the house shouting. Finally, he struck my mother. It seemed that he'd made an even better deal than she knew in his agreement with Thornton. Two kindled blue-faced ewes were to have been traded for me. The loss of those fine creatures piqued him beyond measure.
* * *
The next day, the proud lady who had tended the Countess appeared at our door, took my hand from my mother’s and led me away. I was too exhausted from the alarms of the night to be frightened when a great burly man-at-arms all suited in mail and with the face of a battle-scarred bear picked me up. He lifted me into one of the high-sided lumbering carts that carried the baggage.
There I sat, beside bolts of fine cloth, furs, fine trunks of tooled leather and a hooded hawk in a cage. We were baubles picked up along the way, gifts from suppliants and subjects. Miserably, I found a place to sit, upon a hay bale thrust between two stacks of rugs. At least, I reasoned, if these fell, they would not crush me.
Behind I could see knights in armor mounted on horses taller and broader than the most enormous oxen I'd ever seen. The horses, too, were armed, their heads and necks protected with jointed plate. Like scales on a fish, these accommodated their bravely curved necks. The armor between their eyes was decorated with twisting silver horns. The men rode without their helms, and, unlike other soldiers I'd seen, they wore their hair long. Pinioned lances sat easily in a single hand, the butt thrust securely against a stirrup.
Exhausted by the terrible night, I lay down in the swaying, jolting wagon, but there was no way I could sleep. Hollow-eyed, I sat up again and watched as a gray jennet carrying two riders came pelting beside the marching line. One of the knights turned his head, and after a shout to his mate, they both laughed.
The jennet wasn’t pleased to be hurried. Her long ears were laid back, but she obeyed the feet thumping her ribs. As she paced beside the wagon, I saw a slender young man, a servant in soft boots and red livery, his fair hair very long. Behind him, clutching his waist and smiling even more widely than the joking knights, sat a barefoot woman. She was astride, so the wind blew her skirt up to her plump thighs.
"Where've you been, Pretty Lucy?" One of the knights greeted her.
"A poor riddle!"
The couple on the jennet ignored them. Much to my surprise, as they closed alongside the wagon, the girl turned to grasp the upturned bars that held the side slats, and swung free of her mount. The jennet, reined sharply away from the wagon, gave a honk of protest and then was left behind.
"Rosalba?" She was beside me now, as uncaring and limber as a boy. I admired her strength.
"Yes, Mistress."
"I'm no mistress, as you must certainly see, goose. Just Lucy, a servant like you."
I stared at her dumbly.
"You are to be the Lady Anne’s new poppet?"
I nodded, although I felt sure my duties would be more important than that.
"Good! I’d rather scrub pots than take care of babies. I was afraid the Countess would make me serve her."
"Lady Anne isn't a baby, is she?" I had a flare of real fear. Babies were messy and difficult to care for. Noble babies died as easily as ordinary ones, often a dangerous happenstance for the luckless caretaker.
Lucy was amused. She flopped onto her belly and waved bare legs carelessly in the air.
"Thank your lucky stars! Lady Anne's five-years-old, and hasn't shit herself in ages, if that's what you're worried about." Just as I began to feel some relief, she added, "She's a weakly little thing, fair as an angel—which, mark my words—she will soon be. Don't you worry, though. She's easy enough to care for, except when she's got the croup. Then she cries all night."
I wanted to say that I had had the croup myself, and that I thought anyone might cry from it, but Lucy was already rushing on.
"Did you see that fine fellow who rode me here?"
I nodded. How I could have missed her arrival?
"Well, he's one of the Earl's ushers, and we were just married! Isn't he handsome? Aren't I lucky?"
It was clearly expected, so I nodded agreement. It was easy to take her measure. She was one of those who must talk. Let them run on, my mother always said, for with this kind there's nothing else to be done. Soon, you will know all—and more—than you ever wished to.
"And you are almost as lucky as I am. Yes, indeed! Aren’t you from that shabby little village?"
"It is not shabby." Shabby was a place like Oxnop Ghyll, where the people and their sheep dwelt together in turf huts. Aysgarth was a big village. We had stone houses and wooden houses and the privilege of a fish weir. We had gentry close by at Nappa Manor and people of all ranks filled our stone church of a Sunday. Besides, the cattle only entered our houses during the worst part of the winter.
"I myself was born at Middleham. If you work hard and always do as the Countess and the Lady Agnes say, you shall never have to go back to that wretched sty! If you are clever, you will have fine clothes like me and eat meat. Not the same food the Lady Anne eats, of course, but plenty of beef and bread from the best kitchen in the North. Have you ever been to Middleham?" Her thoughts seemed blown here and there by some inner wind.
"No." I'd lived in Aysgarth, walked around the falls and watched the men fish the rapids and the weir. I'd gone for lonely rambles across the dales, looking for lost sheep or making secret pilgrimages to the oak. I'd been to Nappa Manor, and several times to Bolton Castle, but, of course, never nearer than to help unload a cart at the kitchen door.
"I have seen Bolton." I spoke proudly. To me, that was a large and fair abode.
"Bolton? Bolton? Why, Bolton is nothing! Hardly worth the name castle, that poor little heap of stones!" The words did not quite fit in her mouth. I wondered whose she echoed. "Ah, just you wait! The Great Keep at Middleham will start the eyes from your head! It is the biggest castle in the north. A whole village, far bigger than yours, sits at its feet. All of it, and all that do dwell there, do naught but serve the great Earl of Warwick, his noble lady and his daughters."
* * *
As Lucy foretold, the castle took my breath away. It was enormous, appearing before my simplicity like a many-headed beast reclining upon the grassy rising dale. It was massive, gray, and very old, having been built, as I would learn, in the time of William Rufus, son of the Conqueror. The actual size was not apparent until we came close enough for me to recognize the houses against the outer walls. They appeared as small knots of rubble clustered at the sides of a giant. There was a guard tower spiking the sky, a drawbridge, and a green, slimy moat.
Plumes of smoke rose from many fires. Some were black. Some were pale, trailing in the wind. I would learn that these fires belonged to smiths, to the armories, to the kitchens, as well as to the cottages of retainers. At first sight, however, watching the smoke circling the stone towers and swirling about the battlements, it seemed I was about to enter the yawning mouth of the underworld.
