The Healer's Apprentice

  “May I get you some water?” She didn’t have any wine to offer him.

  “Yes, I thank you.”

  She filled a tankard from the pitcher in the storage room and carried it back in to him. As she returned, his eyes focused on her skirt.

  “Forgive me. I’ve ruined your dress.”

  She looked down and saw a blood stain the size of an apple. She shook her head. “It’s my fault. I forgot to put on my apron.”

  “The fault is mine. I’ll see that it is replaced.”

  “I pray you not to trouble yourself.”

  “I shall have it replaced.”

  Her face grew hot. I’m arguing with Lord Hamlin. She curtsied. “As you wish, my lord.”

  Rose handed him the water and began cleaning up, relieved to have something to do. She picked up his cup of tea and the pan of bloody water and carried them into the storage room, emptying them in the refuse bucket. When she returned, he was drinking the last of the water from the tankard. He set it on the floor, his expression gentle.

  “I am most indebted to you, Rose.”

  He knew her name.

  She swallowed and shook her head. “I apologize that Frau Geruscha wasn’t here. She’s the experienced one.” Her voice trailed off at the last sentence. She wasn’t eager to let him know that his was the first wound she’d ever treated.

  At times such as this Rose wondered why Frau Geruscha had chosen her to be her apprentice. Rose had always been a favorite with the healer, who had often visited Rose’s family when Rose was a child, teaching her to read and write. But Rose suddenly wondered why she’d never thought to ask her parents why Frau Geruscha—obviously an influential woman at Hagenheim Castle, a woman educated in a convent—had paid so much attention to her, a poor woodcutter’s daughter.

  Lord Hamlin sat calmly studying her. She remembered the proud tilt of his head and the disdainful way he’d looked away from her the day he and his brother returned from Heidelberg. There was no evidence of that arrogance now. But as the son of the Duke of Hagenheim, he possessed more wealth and power than anyone else in the region. If truth be told, more than King Wenceslas himself.

  She felt uncomfortable beneath his gaze. If the townspeople thought of her as lacking social status, how much more lowly would she appear to Lord Hamlin?

  “You will want to return to your room.” She jumped to her feet.

  Lord Hamlin raised his eyebrows, but before he could reply, she bolted to the door. She spotted Sir Georg and Sir Christoff in front of the blacksmith shop in the castle courtyard and motioned them in. The two knights entered the room and advanced to where Lord Hamlin lay. They each hooked an arm around his shoulders, hoisted him up, and started for the door.

  Lord Hamlin looked over his shoulder. His eyes locked on hers with an intensity that paralyzed her.

  She should curtsy at least. She bobbed a quick one as he disappeared out the door.

  The morning after tending Lord Hamlin’s wound, Rose went to the kitchen to break her fast. When she returned, a stack of fabric lay on the desk by the window where she often sat. On top was a folded note with Rose written on the outside. She unfolded the parchment and read.

  Please accept these fabrics as a replacement for the dress I ruined. My sister, Lady Osanna, chose them for you. It was signed, Lord Hamlin.

  Lord Hamlin wrote a note to me? Hildy would die of raptures when she heard. But what did the gift truly mean? That he pitied her? That she was obviously in need? Her dress was ugly, the material coarse and plain. Rose’s cheeks tingled in embarrassment.

  She put the note aside, unable to resist examining the fabrics. One was a luxurious gold silk. Beneath it was a smaller amount of matching gold-and-red brocade. She let her fingertips glide over the smooth cloth and intricate stitching.

  The next was a burgundy velvet, its texture soft and rich. These materials were very fine and would make the most exquisite dresses, by far, that Rose had ever owned. But when would she ever have need of such clothes?

  The last one was a bolt of plain blue linen that would make the sort of dress more fitting for a working maiden like herself. At least she would get some use from that. The rest of the fabric was appropriate only for a lady—Lady Osanna, for example.

  Her thoughts drifted to Lord Hamlin, his deep voice saying her name, his blue eyes and perfect teeth and lips as he glanced at her over his shoulder.

  Abruptly, she turned away from the fabric. She folded the note and stuffed it into her apron pocket. Dreaming about Lord Hamlin. I’m as bad as Hildy.

  The southwest tower window was before her. She watched dark clouds roll toward their walled town. The wind raced ahead of them, causing the people in the Marktplatz to gather their goods and pack them away into sacks and barrels before the rain came.

  With his injured leg, Lord Hamlin and his knights would not be riding out today, as they’d done so often before Lord Hamlin went away two years ago, to hunt for the man who stood between him and his betrothed. If it were not for Moncore, Lord Hamlin would be married. The lady was of age by now. Rose was ashamed to admit, even to herself, that she felt a twinge of jealousy toward her.

  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 preten
ded 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 wel
l 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.

  Chapter 3

  “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.