“Be calm, Muriel. Nothing like that will happen.” Although she was not so sure of that herself. “I was thinking of pretending that my voice was coming back gradually.”
Muriel crossed her arms and grunted. “If your conscience is bothering you so much, perhaps it is because you disobeyed your king and ran away from your betrothed.”
“We were not betrothed.” She stared at her friend. Trying to think of a retort, trying to push down the pain that seemed to boil up in her stomach, Evangeline blinked away the tears. “Perhaps my feelings about who I marry do not matter. They certainly do not matter to the king, nor to you, the best and only friend I’ve ever had. But they matter to me. I am the one who would have to live as Lord Shiveley’s wife—not you and not King Richard.”
Muriel pursed her lips and looked away. After an ensuing silence, she finally said, “Do what you think is best. That is all any of us can do.”
Muriel’s words gave Evangeline an uneasy feeling. Muriel was the only person Evangeline had trusted for a long time. As a lonely girl with no parents and no real friends, she and Muriel had been together since Evangeline was seven years old. But ever since they arrived in Glynval, Muriel had been angry with her. It would have been better if she had not come with her. Perhaps if Evangeline had not been so selfish, thinking solely of herself . . .
But was it wrong of her to run away from Richard and Lord Shiveley? It must be wrong. After all, one did not disobey the king of one’s country for one’s own comfort or pleasure. And yet she could not bear the thought of going back, of obeying the king and marrying Lord Shiveley, especially now that she knew there was a young man in the world named Westley le Wyse.
If it was a sin, she must somehow find atonement. But how? Should she confess to the priest? How else could she be absolved? She would be risking someone hearing her, but it would be worth it to rid herself of this guilt.
Chapter Eleven
Evangeline reported to the kitchen the next morning. Mistress Alice was there, and she took Evangeline’s hands in hers and examined them.
“I think you are well enough. Those hands will toughen up soon. Today I need you to help card and spin. Go to the castle and find the other maidens. Since it’s such a nice day, they’ll probably be working outside in the shady place behind the castle.”
Evangeline went out and down the long set of steps outside the door and past the undercroft where she and the other maidservants slept. The grassy courtyard lay on one side where a shepherd boy watched over a small flock of grazing sheep.
She had no idea what it meant to “card and spin,” but she hoped at least it wouldn’t be dangerous. They should know by now not to give her any life-endangering tasks.
She found two servants, Cecily and Nicola, sitting on stools in the shade of a large oak tree. Cecily was holding a long wooden stick with a wad of white thread or yarn around the top like a fat cattail. She held the other end of the thread in her other hand and was spinning it around the top end of the stick. That must be spinning.
Nicola was holding a big, wide brush in each hand. She placed a large ball of something white and fluffy, probably wool, in between the two brushes, then pulled the wool in opposite directions with the brushes. That must be carding.
Cecily saw her first. “If it isn’t our mute friend, Eva.”
Nicola frowned at Cecily.
Evangeline sat by Nicola and picked up the extra brushes, watching how Nicola was doing it. She took a handful of wool out of the large sack between them and placed it in the hard bristles of one of the brushes. With the other brush she pulled at the coarse wad of wool. Copying Nicola, she pulled and worked it between the two brushes. She was not exactly sure what the purpose of this task was, but when Nicola picked the fluffier, finer wool out of her brushes, she put it in another sack that stood between her and Cecily, who was apparently taking it and spinning it into thread. Evangeline had never seen the process before.
She continued the task, but the wooden brush handles soon rubbed against her still-raw blisters. She did her best to pull with her fingers instead of her hands, but it was impossible to keep all contact off her many blisters. She gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the pain.
Sabina walked toward them with a smirk on her face that was becoming familiar. Evangeline ignored her, tearing at the wool with her two brushes, working into a rhythm.
“If it isn’t our mute friend, Eva.”
Cecily cackled before saying, “That was what I said!”
Evangeline focused her eyes on her task, never looking up as her face heated.
“You know, Cecily, I am very good at spinning.”
“Not as good as I am,” Cecily retorted. “And my mother says I am the best at weaving.”
“Well, I wove my first tapestry when I was five.”
“Ha! I don’t believe you!”
“You shan’t disbelieve this. When Westley awakened after nearly drowning, he looked deep into my eyes. ‘I shall always remember what you did for me, saving my life,’ he told me. ‘You were so courageous.’ Those were his very words.” Sabina smirked, looking as if she truly felt proud of herself for saving Westley’s life single-handedly. “If I had not been there, he would have died.”
Evangeline’s breath came faster. Even if she told Westley now that she was the one to save him, not Sabina, he probably would not believe her, since it would be her word against Sabina’s. But what did it matter, as long as Westley was safe.
She heard the rumbling of cart wheels and some far-off men’s voices. As the sounds came closer, Evangeline looked up from her monotonous carding.
Reeve Folsham was walking alongside a cart loaded high with large barrels. She’d seen such barrels filled with ale in the buttery below the ground floor of the castle. Two oxen were pulling the loaded cart, and Reeve Folsham was talking with another man.
Ignoring the chatter between Sabina and Cecily, Evangeline watched as the cart and men drew closer, leaving the dirt ruts to veer off the road toward the back of the castle. She kept her eyes down, only glancing up briefly so the reeve would not see her looking at him.
The ox closest to the reeve seemed to step in a hole and stumble. The cart leaned precariously to one side. The rope holding the second tier of barrels snapped. The top barrels slowly tipped, falling toward Reeve Folsham’s head.
Evangeline gasped and leapt from her stool, throwing down her brushes.
She ran at the reeve, who was still talking. He turned his head and met her eye just as she collided with his shoulder, throwing him off balance. He stumbled backward.
One of the barrels hit her in the back of the leg, knocking her down.
The reeve grabbed her under the arms and snatched her out of the way as a second barrel rolled off the first one and hit the ground where she had just fallen.
Four barrels lay on the ground, one of them smashed and leaking ale. The other man had run around the other side of the cart and halted the oxen.
A man ran toward the reeve. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m not hurt! Get these barrels back on the cart! Move those oxen! Don’t just stand there gaping.”
Reeve Folsham rubbed a hand down his face, staring first at the cart and barrels, then at Evangeline.
“Well then, girlie. You have redeemed yourself now, I trow.”
She couldn’t help smiling, even though her leg ached where the barrel grazed her.
“Not hurt, are you?”
Evangeline shook her head.
The other man called out, and the reeve went to help him load the barrels back on the cart.
She walked with a slight limp back to her stool to resume her work.
“Well done, Eva,” Nicola said. “You saved Reeve Folsham from a grievous injury.”
“Yes, after injuring him with the scythe, it was the least she could do.” Sabina laughed. “Oh, I’m only jesting, Nicola. You don’t have to glare at me like that.”
Evangeline was back to carding. She peeked
at Nicola out of the corner of her eye and smiled. Nicola smiled back.
On Sunday Evangeline made her way to the church with the rest of the servants and villagers. Muriel was not speaking to her, Evangeline had a long bruise on the back of her lower leg, and the blisters on her hands were bloody and oozing again. But as she considered the previous week, she could be thankful that Westley was alive and well and that no one had been seriously injured when the ale barrels fell.
As she trudged up the slight hill, her mind kept going to what the king was thinking of her, what Lord Shiveley was doing at this moment to try to find her, and her lie to Westley and everyone else that she was mute and a poor, abused servant. By the time she reached the church, her shoulders were heavy and she kept her head down and eyes on the floor.
Everyone was reverent and quiet. The priest and the small choir of boys began the plainsong hymn. Some people sang along. Evangeline tried to follow them. She didn’t know the words, so she simply listened. The second hymn she recognized as one of the psalms.
On Sundays, Evangeline always tried to meditate on her own sins from the past week, so she stood thinking: Lying. Deceiving. But, God, I had to do it to escape Lord Shiveley. Hating Sabina. Imagining throwing Sabina in the river. Forgive me, God. Disobeying the king of the land.
But somehow she did not imagine God holding against her the fact that she did not want to give herself to the Earl of Shiveley.
During the priest’s homily, he spoke a message of “love your neighbor.” Several minutes into it, he quoted the verse from the Bible, “ ‘There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.’ ”
This was good news to Evangeline, now that she was a lowly servant, at least in the eyes of everyone in Glynval. But then the priest went on to talk about lying and deceiving spirits “who will say anything to get what they want.”
I’m sorry. Evangeline squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Forgive me, God.
But the more her mind replayed all her sins, particularly the sin of falsehood and deception, the more she wished she could confess them and somehow get atonement.
Westley and his family stood near the front, listening respectfully to the priest. Saving the life of one like Westley le Wyse, someone who was so obviously adored by his family and his demesne’s villeins, would that atone for her sins?
Whether it absolves me of anything or not, God, I will be grateful all my life that You put me there so I could save him.
When the service was over, everyone left the church, filing out slowly and quietly. No one seemed to notice Evangeline lingering behind. When they were all gone, she wandered toward the baptismal font. If the priest came near and asked anything, she might just speak to him, confess everything to him. Perhaps he could tell her what she must do to find favor with God again.
The stone font was ringed with blue and gray tiles with different symbols and pictures. But etched between the tiles, on the bare places, were crude crosses and other pictures. Someone had been trying to get a message to God, to gain the answer to a prayer, perhaps.
On the wall she found more symbols, and even the words, God save us or we perish. Next to the words was written, June 1349. The Great Pestilence. Someone desperate for God’s help and intervention had scratched the words, fearing, no doubt, that the entire village of Glynval, the entire world, might be perishing from the strange sickness that killed so many so quickly. Though no one at Berkhamsted Castle had died, even Evangeline had heard of the terrifying time, of how thousands of people had perished in the large town of London, and many hundreds more in various villages all over England.
Whoever had etched that message into the stone, Evangeline could feel their desperation, their great need to seek God’s favor and attention, even as she sought it now. “Thank You, God. You heard this person’s cry. Thank You for having mercy and not destroying the village of Glynval.”
Finding a smooth place on the stone wall, she took out her table knife, which she carried in her pocket, and started carving. In a few moments she had written, Absolve me. Beside it she carved three crosses. “Remember me, Lord,” she whispered, “the way You remembered the thief on the cross beside You. I don’t want to lie anymore.” Love me. Please love me, in spite of my selfishness. The lump in her throat moved to her eyes, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” The verse from her Psalter invaded her thoughts. For a moment she stood transfixed, letting the words sink into her spirit.
She put her knife back in her pocket. “A contrite heart, O God, You will not despise,” she whispered another promise from the Psalter and wiped her face with her hands. And somehow she did feel lighter, better . . . absolved.
After their midday meal, Evangeline found Muriel in the sleeping quarters. She was washing her hair in a pottery basin.
Evangeline visually checked every bed. No one else was in the room. “Muriel, please talk to me. I’ll help you with your hair and braid it for you.”
Muriel squeezed her hair out into the basin and sighed. “Hand me that towel.”
Evangeline gave her the cloth lying on her bed. She wrapped it around her head.
“Let us go outside. Follow me.”
They made their way out past the meadow, the pigsty, skirting around the trees, and found a small secluded place next to the river. They both sat on a large fallen tree trunk.
“I’m sorry you are not pleased with being here.” Evangeline squeezed out the excess water from Muriel’s hair using the cloth. Then she proceeded to braid her hair. “I would never hurt you or want you to be sad.”
“I know.” But Muriel’s voice did sound sad. “I never wanted this life for you. I imagined something better for you.”
“Marrying Lord Shiveley would not be better.” Evangeline made an effort to calm herself and her voice. “Why did you let me leave Berkhamsted Castle if you thought I’d be better off with Lord Shiveley?”
“The only way I could have stopped you would have been to call out to the guards, who would have dragged you by force back into the castle. You would have hated me forever.”
“And now you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” Muriel said the words softly, but again, her voice was sad. “To be honest, I miss my life at Berkhamsted. I’m angry I’m not there with the king, enjoying his favor.”
Evangeline’s fingers stilled in Muriel’s hair. That made sense. How often did one get to converse with the king of England? For Muriel, it was only when the king came to Berkhamsted, and Muriel liked it. Almost anyone would.
Evangeline continued braiding, then fastened the end of the braid with a small tie and started on the next braid, unsure of what to say to her friend. “I’m sorry, Muriel.”
“When the next group from Glynval travels to Berkhamsted, I shall go with them.”
“I understand, but do you think you will be safe? Lord Shiveley might harm you to get you to tell him where I am. If it comes to that, I want you to tell them.”
“Let us talk no more of it now. Why don’t you sing to me one of your pretty songs?”
Evangeline tried to think of something pleasant, something that would cheer them both up. She thought she heard something moving in the trees between them and the village. She stared but did not see or hear anything else. It must have been only a bird or a hare.
Finally, she started singing a song that she had heard from the minstrels who traveled with King Richard the last time he had visited Berkhamsted, a love ballad about a shepherd boy and a goose girl. Her heart gradually grew lighter as she wove small flowers into Muriel’s hair and let the music cheer her heart.
Westley took the dipper from the bucket at the well and drank several deep gulps. Then he stood staring down at the bucket. This water was nice and cool to drink, but water had nearly killed him three days ago.
“What are you thinking about?”
/> He turned to find Sabina just behind him.
“I was thinking how grateful I am that God put you nearby when I fell into the river yesterday.”
Sabina smiled up at him. “And how grateful I am that I could save you.”
“Did you see me fall in? Is it possible that someone struck me?”
A hesitant look came over her face. Then she drew her brows down in a thoughtful squint. “Now that you say that, and after thinking about it, I believe I did see someone running away when you fell into the river. I think it very likely that person struck you. Truly, you should be careful and not allow yourself to be alone, my lord.”
Sabina was one of the few people who called him “my lord.” At some point, if something happened to his father, everyone would call him that. Normally he didn’t like to be reminded that someday he would take his father’s place. But something about the way Sabina said the words, so admiring, made him feel . . . taller.
“Thank you for your concern, Sabina. Perhaps you are right.” He remembered what Evangeline had said, how it was strange that he would simply fall in. “What did this person who was running away look like?”
“It may have actually been two men, but definitely one man. I did not see his face, so I cannot say what he looked like. I’m very sorry.” She spoke as if slightly breathless. “I would do anything to protect you. I only wish I had seen him.”
She was standing quite close to him, peering into his eyes. Truly, she was looking particularly fair today, with her blonde hair dangling in loose curls around her jawline, in addition to the adoring expression on her face. Her lips were slightly parted, and she was staring at his mouth.
Someone had asked him a few days before if he would marry Sabina. “You are the lord’s oldest son,” his father had said when he complained about the question, “so everyone naturally wonders.” And Sabina’s father was the miller. He was wealthy compared to the other villagers in Glynval. Sabina was fairly well educated, and she had apparently made no secret of the fact that she hoped to marry him. She was always milling about near his house or the well, where she would often see him.