The Book of the Maidservant by Rebecca Barnhouse Read Free Book Online Page A

a Miserere or two,” he says.
    I don’t know the Miserere.
    “Then a couple of Paternosters. You do know your Paternoster, don’t you?” By the way he frowns, I can tell he wishes he had kept his mouth shut.
    Dame Isabel and her husband bring wine to the table, and Father Nicholas contributes a thick round loaf, but John Mouse and Thomas are nowhere to be seen when I take the brewet off the fire. They’re wise to stay away—I’m not sure whether anyone will be able to eat it. The carrots and onions have turned to mush, but I think the rabbit meat might still be raw. Little clumps of fur and gristle float on the top of the broth.
    Just as everyone is finding a place on the buttery’sbenches, my mistress returns from church all puffed up with holiness. “We shouldn’t drink wine, not on a holy pilgrimage,” she says. “And no meat, either. We should be fasting. Our Lord—”
    “Quiet, woman,” Petrus Tappester growls. “Your fool of a husband put up with your nonsense, but you aren’t home in England. Now let us eat in peace.”
    “Our Lord God is as great a lord here as in England,” Dame Margery says.
    “I said
quiet
!
”
Petrus bangs his fist down on the wooden table. The pot of brewet teeters, then falls facedown onto the dirt floor.
    “Now look what you’ve done!” Petrus yells.
    “God’s blood!” the merchant says. “You’ve ruined our supper and now you ruin our peace.”
    The brewet may be seeping into the dirt below the table, but my mistress didn’t ruin it. I did when I cooked it. The company doesn’t know how lucky they are.
    I take a chunk of bread and slip out into the twilight and make my way to the stable. Through the wall, angry voices rise and fall like the wind in a storm. My mistress wails and cries.
    I crouch in the dark, surrounded by the smell of manure and dusty straw, and think of home. The merchant’s packhorse must recognize me. It snuffs at me, and I stroke its nose a few times before it snaps at my fingers.
    When the shouting stops, I creep back into the buttery. Petrus grabs me as I go through the door. “She’s with us,” he says, holding me by the arm. “We need someone to cookand wash.” His thick fingers grip just above my elbow, and he pulls me up against him. I try to pull away, but he grips me harder.
    I look across the table at my mistress. She stands alone, red-faced and weeping. On my side of the table, the merchant glares at my mistress, and the old man shelters his wife with his arm. Bartilmew is just behind them, but his face is hidden in shadows. Where is Father Nicholas?
    Petrus yanks on my arm as he speaks. “We’re sick of you and your preaching. From this night on, you go your own way. Agreed?” He looks at the merchant, who nods, then at the old man, who looks down.
    “Yes, of course,” Dame Isabel says. “She can’t travel with us anymore.”
    What about me? “Dame Margery,” I start to say.
    Petrus Tappester pulls me through the doorway, then shoves me toward the stables.
    As I reach the stable wall, I whirl toward him, my eyes wide.
    “You stay away from her, you hear me? Or you’ll get what’s coming to you.” He shows me his fist, then pivots toward the hospice.
    I stand just outside the stable as darkness falls around me, my breath coming in ragged gasps. They can’t really leave my mistress, can they? And take me with them? Tears fill my eyes. I don’t know what to do.
    I hate Petrus Tappester, even if it is a sin. I
hate
him.
    A noise makes me start. I slide just inside the stable door and listen.
    Singing—someone is singing. In Latin.
    John Mouse and Thomas come around the dark corner, supporting each other as they stumble and laugh.
    I take a deep breath and step out. “Beg pardon, John Mouse. I must speak to you.” My voice cracks.
    He squints in the darkness and peers at me. “Ah, the little serving maid,” he says. He is drunk.
    “Please, I need help,” I say, tears filling my eyes again. Is there anyone I