The Silent Songbird

  She couldn’t dump the buckets as long as she was holding both of them, so she put one on the ground and upended the first bucket into the trough just as the pigs reached it and plowed their faces into it.

  Evangeline stepped down, picked up the second bucket, and climbed back up on the step. She tilted the bucket, dumping the contents and trying not to let any of the scraps touch her fingers. But it suddenly slipped from her hand and landed on the head of one of the pigs, making it squeal. But it only paused a moment in its feeding, pushing its snout back into the trough. The bucket rolled to a stop behind the pigs’ rumps.

  Evangeline moaned. Another thing she did wrong. She climbed down from the step, eyeing the grunting, muddied animals as they used their snouts to root in the scraps as well as to push each other out of the way. The slop was already mostly gone. Perhaps when they had eaten it all, the pudgy animals, some of them bigger than a fully grown sheep, would move away so she could get to the bucket without getting too near them.

  What would they do to her? She didn’t see any tusks, so they weren’t wild boars, but they still looked frightening and wild. At the very least, her feet and skirt hem would get muddy.

  The pigs were still rooting around in the trough, grunting, occasionally squealing at each other, ramming each other with their snouts. But the slop appeared to be all gone.

  Evangeline unlatched the opening to the pen. She had to lift the wattled gate of small sticks out of the mud to move it open. The pigs did not seem to see her at all. One pig stood between her and the bucket. She could not leave the bucket behind. Golda would surely notice if she did not return it to the kitchen, and Evangeline didn’t want to be exposed yet again for her incompetence.

  Go on, piggy. Get out of my way so I can get the bucket.

  The large swine snorted as it examined the ground, then made its way toward the bucket. It put its snout inside, sniffing and rooting, pushing the bucket farther away from where Evangeline stood just inside the gate.

  She stepped forward, her shoes squishing in the mud as she held up her skirts. Maybe she could grab the bucket and outrun the animal. She walked around the animal, which still did not seem to see her as it moved the bucket with its face inside. She moved closer, finally taking the last step to bring her close enough to grab it. She leaned down and snatched it away. She turned to run, but the pig squealed and ran after her.

  The muddy pig snout brushed her ankle as she reached the gate.

  Her heart was in her throat. She took hold of the gate, but the pig was so close it was already halfway out. The animal’s big body slipped right past her and stopped just outside the gate.

  She slapped at the pig’s snout with the bucket to drive it back inside, but it only squealed louder. The pig turned its tiny eyes away from her, then ran surprisingly fast toward the trees.

  Her stomach sank. She started back to the gate, but several more pigs were rushing toward it. Before she could shut it, they ran right through. Their squeals sounded as if they were laughing at her.

  No! What would she do now? Her first inclination was to sit where she was and sob. She couldn’t. She had to get those pigs! Everybody already looked at her doubtingly, especially Reeve Folsham after she nearly killed him. If they found out she let out all the pigs . . .

  How could she get someone to help her? She couldn’t even call out for help.

  She ran after them. She would get those pigs back in their pen, even if it killed her.

  Westley stared as Eva ran, her red hair streaming behind her, after about half a dozen pigs who had apparently just escaped from their pen. She looked quite distraught.

  He threw down his fishing gear and raced to close the gate so the remaining pigs didn’t get out, then ran after her.

  When she neared the pigs, she slowed as if she was trying to sneak up on them.

  He picked up a fallen tree limb as he entered the woods. She hurried toward two of the pigs who seemed to be in the lead, but they were rooting in the dead leaves and ignoring her as she shook her skirt at them and stomped her feet. She looked up and her eyes went wide at seeing him.

  He pressed a finger to his lips to show he was being quiet on purpose. She nodded.

  He came around the side, and when he and Eva had the pigs trapped between them and their pen, Westley yelled, raised his arms, and shook the tree limb at them.

  The larger pigs grunted and barely moved, while the smaller pigs squealed and took a few steps toward the pen.

  Eva picked up a smaller tree limb and imitated him, shaking it in the air, but the limb was so rotten it snapped in two and crumbled to the ground. Undeterred, she ran toward the four smaller pigs, chasing them back toward the pen.

  Westley prodded the older pigs with his stick, making them grunt louder, but they finally obeyed and started back toward the pen. He overtook them to open the gate while Eva herded them through. Three went in, but the fourth little pig scurried past them and stopped to root on the ground with its snout. Eva pursued it while Westley closed the gate.

  “We mustn’t chase it,” Westley said softly, slowly sneaking up behind it. “Pigs are faster than you might think.”

  Eva nodded, keeping her gaze on the pig. She got very close, then pounced. The pig squealed as if it were being murdered. Eva had the pig by its hind legs. She dragged it backward as it screeched with every breath. Westley yanked open the gate so she could drag it inside. She let it go and it ran to the back of the pen, still squealing.

  Eva was breathing hard as she brushed her hands together, a triumphant glint in her eye. Her cheeks were pink and her red hair was in disarray, more strands hanging loose than in her braid.

  He lost his breath for a moment.

  She went out of the gate and he closed it. She was already hurrying into the trees where they had left the two older pigs.

  The pigs were rooting around in the leaves, finding acorns and mushrooms. The swineherder sometimes took them out foraging, so they were familiar with the kinds of food they would find. They were reluctant to leave off, as they were ignoring the tall redhead clapping at them and shooing them with her skirts.

  She picked up another stick and tapped the boar on the head. It made a warning sound in its throat.

  “Be careful! He could hurt you,” Westley called out. “Male pigs can be very aggressive.”

  The large boar lifted his head, possibly preparing to bite her.

  Westley let out a loud call similar to what he had heard the swineherder use. To his relief, the pig took a step back. But Eva did not give up, and she came at them both again.

  “Chuck-chuck!” Westley imitated the swineherder’s call again.

  The hogs turned their heads in his direction and began moving slowly but steadily on their short legs, with Eva clapping right behind them.

  When they got closer, Westley guided them with his long stick into the pen and closed the gate.

  Eva gave him a smile, her cheeks glowing pink and her chest rising and falling with every breath. Her skirt was splattered with mud. She pushed several strands of hair off her face using the back of her hand.

  “Are you well?”

  She nodded and bent to pick up two buckets off the ground.

  “Please, sit down and rest for a while. You look tired.”

  She sat on the grass. He sat as well, a few feet away.

  He started to ask her how the pigs got out of the pen, but it was pretty obvious that she had been feeding them—hence the buckets—and had inadvertently let them out.

  “You did a very good job getting the pigs back in their pen.”

  She frowned slightly, keeping her head down even as she glanced up at him. She shook her head and pointed to him. She smiled and placed a hand on her heart.

  “I’m glad I was nearby and was able to help.”

  She picked at the grass, then lay on her side, propping her head on her arm. She picked a tiny flower and twirled it between her fingers, smiling.

  “I wish you could talk.”


  She shrugged and shook her head, almost as if the subject embarrassed her.

  “Did your injury happen before or after the Peasants’ Uprising?”

  She seemed to think for a moment, then pushed her hand outward.

  “After?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you. I think cruelties by masters like that are what caused the people to become violent. My friend John Underhill’s father was killed during the uprising.”

  She gave him a sympathetic look and touched her hand to her heart again.

  “John was grieved and angry. He is the lord of the land south of here, adjacent to my father’s, the village of Caversdown. He hasn’t been the same since.”

  She stared at him with those pretty green eyes.

  “Ever since the uprising, my father has tried to give his servants a fair wage for their work and has given them more time off to tend to their own fields. But John doesn’t understand this. He was furious with me for not talking my father out of the changes in their wages and work hours.”

  He wanted her to know that he felt bad for what she had been through, for the abuse she had suffered. And perhaps he was motivated by the way her sympathetic eyes shone, as if they saw past the outside and into his thoughts, discerning his feelings.

  Eva made him think of the girl he had heard singing at Berkhamsted Castle, probably because they both had red hair. His heart quickened at the thought of the mysterious woman and her singing. He thought of her often, wishing he could hear her again, wishing he knew who she was. He’d even dreamed about her.

  If only Eva could speak. He imagined she had a beautiful voice as well. But mostly he wanted to know what she was thinking.

  “Why do you let them send you to feed the pigs? Why don’t you show Golda and Mistress Alice your skills and talents? I’m sure you are good at many things.”

  She smiled, a genuine smile. Then she shook her head.

  “Why are you shaking your head?”

  She looked up at the sky and sighed. Then she shrugged.

  “I wish you could tell me.”

  Eva’s face suddenly lit up. She held up a finger. She stood and looked all around. Then she motioned with her hand for him to follow her. She walked several feet, back toward the pigpen. When she was in front of the gate, she bent over and started doing something in the bare ground where the grass had been worn away.

  He drew closer, then squatted.

  She was drawing in the dirt with her finger. No, those were letters.

  “I can read and write.”

  He stared at the words in the dirt. This meant they could communicate. Just as he suspected, there was much more to this peasant girl than anyone knew.

  Evangeline nearly laughed with joy at the look of surprise and the smile that spread over Westley’s face.

  “Where did you learn to read?”

  She brushed the dirt with her hand to erase the words and wrote, “Hard to explain.”

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you, how did you cut Reeve Folsham? Did he get too close? He was so upset he wouldn’t tell us.”

  Evangeline winced. “No. I lost my grip.” She waited for him to read the words, then erased them and wrote, “It flew out of my hand.”

  Westley laughed, then he pressed his lips together.

  “I was very sorry.” She erased it. “I would have died”—erased—“if he had been badly hurt.”

  “Had you ever used a scythe before?”

  Scythe. That was the word they had used for that long, curving blade with the wooden handle. She shook her head.

  “What have you done?”

  She wrote, “Embroidery.” Then, “I can sing.”

  She instantly realized her gaffe and her cheeks heated. She erased it and wrote, “Or I used to sing, before I lost my voice.”

  “I am so sorry for what happened to you.” His voice was low and kind. “In a small way, I feel responsible for all the terrible things masters have done to their servants and villeins.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my father owns so much land and has so many servants and villeins, not only here, but in three other counties. His stewards could be mistreating people and we would not know it. Besides that, I suppose I feel a bit guilty that my family lives much better than anyone else in Glynval—better food, better house, better everything.”

  So he felt guilty for having more than everyone else. It had hardly even occurred to her that she had better food and shelter and clothing than other people around her. A stab of guilt went through her middle. She was too busy feeling sorry for herself that she did not have the freedom of a peasant, while Westley felt sorry for her because of a lie.

  She was a terrible person. She did not know how to do anything useful. She had nearly killed a man, and she ruined everything she touched. She was deceiving everyone around her by making them think she could not speak, and she and Muriel were taking jobs other people genuinely needed. And the worst thought of all was that Westley would be hurt if he knew the truth.

  “The Bible says masters should treat their servants well.”

  Evangeline brushed out the last words she had written and wrote, “You have read the Bible?”

  “Yes.”

  “You own a Bible?”

  “Yes. Would you like to read it?”

  Evangeline’s heart leapt, then sank. “Does your priest approve?”

  “He does not disapprove. My father has owned a Bible all his life. He commissioned one to be transcribed into English a few years ago.”

  Evangeline sat back on her heels. She’d never even heard of such a thing. Westley and his family must be terribly powerful to be so unafraid of translating the Bible into the people’s base language. Priests she had known only read and quoted it in Latin. Was it wrong to read it in English?

  There was a look of peaceful reflection on Westley’s face. Could such a person be wrong? Could someone who was wealthy, who had risked his life to save a child from getting injured by a runaway horse, who had helped her get the pigs she had let out back into their pen, could such a person be committing a grievous sin by reading the Holy Writ in the people’s language?

  “Would you like to read it? The Bible?”

  Suddenly she wanted to, more than anything. To be able to read the very words that God spoke, that Jesus said, everything written in that holy book . . . And since she understood Latin . . . “Yes, please. The Latin one.”

  “Very well. Come to the castle tonight after your work is done and ask for me.”

  Her heart thumped. She wrote, “You are very kind.”

  “It is nothing. And now I will let you get back to what you were doing. I’m off to see how many fish I can catch.” He smiled as he turned away to retrieve his fishing equipment.

  His smile might be friendly, but he was not thinking of her as someone he might fall in love with. She was only a servant. When she had thought him a peasant, she hoped that she could get him to marry her. But he was not a peasant. He was the son of the lord of the land. As a servant, was she too lowly for him to fall in love with? And even if he would consider her more than a servant, how would he ever fall in love with her if she had no voice? If he never heard her sing?

  Someday, somehow, she might be able to make him think that her throat was gradually healing, and she would begin to speak again. And then, Please, God, Westley would fall in love with her, as she was already falling in love with his kindness and good nature.

  One day she would tell him the whole truth, because to keep deceiving him would make him hate her so much more if he discovered the truth on his own. Hopefully, if she confessed to him, he would understand why she had played this farce and would forgive her. She could hardly bear to think of him hating her.

  Westley was walking back toward home when he heard a commotion in the woods. A woman screamed.

  He dropped his catch of fish on the grass and ran toward it.

  In a small clearing stood
a wattle-and-daub house, and in the doorway, a man held a woman by the hair while he struck her about the head and shoulders with his fist.

  Westley ran toward them. “Ho, there! Stop!”

  Another man ran toward them from another direction. Together they pulled the man away from the woman, who started alternately sobbing and yelling, “Robert, you surly knave! You evil dog!”

  Westley and one of the other villagers took the man by his arms and pulled him several feet away from the house as the woman went inside, her muffled sobs drifting out to them.

  “You’ve done it now, Robert,” the other man said gruffly. “Too much ale. What did I tell you? You want your little son and daughter to see you like that, whaling on their mother?”

  Westley let him keep speaking to the man. They seemed to know each other well. But all of a sudden the man jerked away from them and glared at Westley.

  “What right have you to take hold of me?”

  “Hush, Robert. That’s the lord’s heir, Westley.”

  “No right!” the inebriated man yelled at Westley. “No right! Go on.”

  “Forgive him, Lord Westley,” the other man said. “He’s drunk. He will be meek and mild enough when he’s not got the devil drink in his veins.”

  “He’ll answer for his actions at the manorial court.”

  “Yes, of course, my lord. His Molly will see to that. She has had enough of his rough treatment. It is good of you to come to her aid.”

  “No right!” The man jabbed his finger at Westley. He growled like an animal, then stumbled away into the woods.

  What kind of trouble would this wife-beater make? He had better accept whatever punishment the manorial court doled out to him. Indeed, he had little choice, and hopefully he would get the message that beating one’s wife—or anyone else—would not be ignored.

  Chapter Eight

  Golda met her with a scowl on her face when Evangeline came back from feeding the pigs.

  “Where have you been? Dawdling servants have to clean the floors.” She had also stared pointedly at Evangeline’s skirts, which were covered in dirt from the mud that spattered on her when she had chased the pigs. She sent Evangeline for more water and gave her a block of lye soap and set her to work on the floors.