The Wicked and the Just Read Free Page B

lot of things from new English. Did not expect to be ruled by a brat.
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    Long winter days, and I should have known better than to grow accustomed to the blessing of stillness. To grow to love the way quiet could fill space. To close my eyes one too many times and think mayhap new English would never arrive, mayhap this place could stay waiting forever.
    Now it’s spring, English are here, and I could kill the brat a hundred different ways.
    Could strangle her with one of her foolish ribbons. Dump hemlock in her breakfast porridge. Push her down the stairs. Would be no different than killing a rat.
    She is English.
    The lot of them should burn.

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    M Y FATHER refuses to get us into an inn. When I presented a clear and thoughtful argument, his eyes bulged as if I had spit at the king. Then he said blather-blather-“silver” and blather-blather-“ruinous” and ended the discussion. It appears that cushioning his beloved daughter’s poor bruised body is not worth a few measly pennies, so I must sleep on the floor. On the pallet. With all the fleas.
    I want my bed.
    My father says the pack train like as not won’t arrive for another fortnight. If it’s not waylaid.
    Even in Coventry I slept in a bed.
    I must have been more tired than I thought, for I awaken to Prime ringing. Mayhap they are Christian here.
    There’s a bucket of washing water in the corner. I splash some on my face, brush and plait my hair, then slide on my gown. It takes hardly any time to ready yourself when there’s no one to hide your shift or tease you about your shiny forehead.
    My tread echoes in the chamber. In this morning light, the space spreads out like sown fields. No elbows to bump. No feet to trip over. It’s just me.
    Agnes talked too much and Alice couldn’t keep a secret to save her soul from Purgatory, but it’s all I can do to swallow down my tears. I take out our altar cloth and sit for a long time on the floor, tracing every stitch with my fingers.
    But the lady of the house cannot sit and mope. I rise, hide the altar cloth beneath my pallet, and head belowstairs. In the hall, there’s bread on the trestle table and I fall on it like a hungry raven. Mistress Tipley bustles in, adjusting her wimple. She picks up the market basket near the door.
    The lady of the house does the marketing.
    I must sort out a way to get rid of Mistress Tipley.
    â€œI’m coming with you,” I inform her.
    She blinks rapidly. “Demoiselle, you must be tired after your—”
    â€œI’m coming with you.” I look her in the eye till she huffs.
    â€œVery well,” Mistress Tipley replies, “but we must leave now.”
    I lead her into the street, where women lug buckets of water and men sweep refuse into the gutter.
    And I remember where I am.
    I will be murdered as sure as God hates sin. Some big hairy Welshman will beat me to death with my own market basket. I shouldn’t even
be
here; I should be at Edgeley Hall throwing sticks for Salvo’s grandpuppies and stitching my bridal linen.
    But the passing townsfolk do not lurk or creep or even menace. Most greet Mistress Tipley. In English.
    The last place I expected to hear the English tongue is this back-end of Christendom’s midden.
    We have been walking forever. Mistress Tipley is either lost or daft, or possibly both. I match her pace and say, “Surely we must be at the market common by now.”
    â€œIt’s not a market day,” the old cow tells me. “We’re just going on the rounds.”
    â€œBut how can you market on a day that isn’t market day?”
    Mistress Tipley sighs. “It’s a privilege, demoiselle. Hurry, I’m busy today.”
    Charming. Next she’ll be telling me the mayor is a heathen Turk and wine flows through the gutters and this place isn’t in fact full of cutthroats and barbarians.
    We stop at the bakery. The baker is just lowering