The Copper Sign (20 page)

The scabbard maker worked at a long table piled with pieces of wood, cloth, leather, and fur. On the hearth a fire was burning cheerfully, because scabbards couldn’t be made with freezing fingers and the rabbit-skin glue had to be kept warm. Ellen sat down and watched. She had learned more or less in Tancarville how such scabbards were made. They had to be crafted individually and fitted exactly to the shape of the sword blade. The interior of two thin wooden slats was covered with the skin of cows, goats, or deer, with the grain running in the direction of the sword point. If the sheath fit properly, the fur prevented the weapon from slipping out. After the two wooden slats had been covered with fur, Claire would bind them together and wrap them with a cloth soaked in glue, which she then covered with some precious material, or with leather. To protect the point of the blade the sheath was finally given a metal binder called a chape. Most chapes were crafted by the swordsmith himself and made of brass, but special swords were given chapes of valuable metals such as silver and gold. The sheath was then tied to a belt with thin leather straps and a special wrapping technique so that the sword could be buckled on.

The very next day Ellen took a seat with Claire at the table without asking, as if it were just a matter of course, and helped her. At first, Ellen barely spoke; she worked, ate three times a day with Claire and Jacques, and slept at night in the shop.

“It’s market day today, and we’ve got to get material to make you something decent to wear,” Claire announced one day, walking in a circle around Ellen and scrutinizing her from tip to toe.

“You can’t possibly go to church looking like that, in men’s clothing! And this Sunday you have to go—there’s no getting around that. You’ve been here for three weeks, and if you don’t come, people will start saying you have something to hide,” Claire said, looking questioningly out of the corner of her eye.

Ellen avoided looking at her directly. Her wounds had healed quite well, and all that remained of the dark, bleeding lesions on her face were a few black and blue spots. Her pain was gone, but she did still suffer from stomach cramps. It was worse in the morning and at night. At first she thought about what Sister Agnes had said and believed she might still die as a result of being kicked so hard by Thibault. She survived, but the nausea persisted. To hide it from Claire, she got up in the morning earlier than the others and went out into the garden when she felt the nausea coming on.

“I’ll get my purse, and then we’ll go,” she said to Claire; then in spite of the nausea she felt coming on, she smiled wanly.

They bought some blue woolen cloth from an elderly salesman that appeared suitable and didn’t cost too much. Ellen had worn the same clothes for years, first growing into them, then out of them. She had received a worn smock from Donovan and a shirt that Glenna had sewn for her. The bloodstains from when she was assaulted had been washed out long ago, and Claire had stitched up the small tear in the shirt. Ellen thought her clothes were still quite adequate and the thought of having to exchange them for new ones caused her to break out in a sweat. These clothes had been part of her life, had given her stability and protection—she couldn’t just throw them away, and thus she kept putting it off. “Right now I’m sweating so much,” she tried to explain. “And also, I’ll get lime on the new material. Let me put it aside for a while and wait until I am a little surer of what I am doing at work,” she said.

Thus, on the following Sunday as well, she still didn’t have a dress for church. As every morning, she was awakened by her nausea, got up before the others, and staggered outside into the yard. In the last few days, rain had softened the ground; she almost slipped in the mud, and finally vomited behind a bush.
God is punishing me for my sins—everyone will notice
, she thought anxiously, and wondered what excuse she might invent not to go to church. This time, Claire certainly wouldn’t accept the dress as an excuse, but Ellen had no time to think up a better one. Claire had already discovered her in the garden and was walking toward her.

“I was looking for you everywhere. What are you doing behind the bush?” Claire shook her head, not understanding. “Come, we’ve got to hurry, mass is beginning soon. Good Lord, you’re still running around in the old dress! We positively have to make your dress next week. Here, take your cloak at least for this week,” she prattled, without noticing how pale Ellen looked.

She didn’t resist as Claire put the cape over her shoulders.
If the priest points to me and tells everyone about my sin, I’ll die on the spot. The earth will open up and hell will swallow me up
, she thought gloomily as she walked silently to church alongside Claire.

Almost all the inhabitants of the village had gathered already inside the Lord’s house. By now, Ellen knew more than half of the churchgoers and looked them over carefully. They were chatting with each other and took no notice of her.

Up in front by the altar, a richly dressed man was engrossed in a conversation with the priest.

“Who’s the knight over there?” she whispered to Claire, pointing cautiously at him.

“The Advocate of Béthune. He had this church built when his eldest son was born. And behind him is Adelise de St. Pol, his wife,” Claire whispered in reply. “She is the Lady of Béthune.”

Ellen nodded. She really wanted to look more closely at the Lady of Béthune, but it was impolite to stare at her, so instead she let her gaze wander around the crowded church—old women already engaged in prayer, fidgety children shuffling their feet on the ground, men and women chatting, and a young girl who seemed to be looking around for a secret glance from her lover.

When the priest started reading the mass, the murmuring of the crowd died down. Ellen had great difficulty concentrating on his words, fearing that at any moment a bolt of lightning might come crashing down on the church, or something else equally dreadful, as a punishment for her offense.

During the Lord’s Prayer, which was recited in unison, she couldn’t help thinking of William and how much she missed him. She was startled when the murmuring ceased and nothing terrible had happened. As she left church with Claire, a little girl came running up to them.

The richly dressed lady ran after her and caught the child before she had lost her balance. “Were you trying to run away again, my little angel?” she scolded the girl, shaking her head. Her voice sounded soft and melodic. She took the child up in her arms and smiled at Claire and Ellen.

“She is so sweet,
madame
,” Claire said, reaching for the child’s hand.

“How are you, Claire?” the noblewoman asked, then looked questioningly at Ellen.

“Oh, thank you,
madame
, I am doing well. May I introduce you to my new maid? Her name is Ellenweore, and she is helping me in my shop.”

Ellen curtsied politely, just as she had practiced it with Claire, and apologized for the wounds still visible on her face, inflicted, she said, during an attack by outlaws.

The noblewoman looked at her sympathetically and was about to pat her cheek, when suddenly a young woman started to wave her arms around and shouted, “Look over there! A child has fallen into the river. Why isn’t anyone helping?”

Adelise de Béthune turned around and looked. “Where is Baudouin? Hasn’t anyone seen him?” she suddenly cried out in a panic.

The child’s maid shook her head, aware of her serious error.

With a quick presence of mind, Ellen dashed off.

The river was higher than usual due to the recent rains, and the rushing water had stirred up mud and carried off some tree branches.

Ellen could not see the child, but she kept watching the surface of the water carefully until something appeared. Then she jumped in. She hadn’t been swimming ever since leaving Orford, and for a moment the icy cold water took her breath away, but she swam with all her strength in order to get to the child as fast as possible. When she arrived at the place she had last seen him, there was nothing there, so she dove under the water. It was dark and stung her eyes. She had lost her sense of direction and was thrashing about, groping through the water in hopes of finding the child. She had almost run out of breath and was about to head back to the surface when suddenly something caught her and drew her down. She kicked her legs and thrashed about in panic and suddenly felt the boy’s arm. Grabbing him tightly, she pushed off from the river bottom and pulled the child up with her. The little fellow in her arms appeared lifeless. With her last bit of strength and courage born of desperation, she fought against the current that threatened to carry them away.

A few men from the village had gone to get poles, which they reached out to her. She grabbed hold and managed to reach the shore with the boy. Helping hands pulled her and the child up the bank of the river.

The boy lay there pale and lifeless, and no one standing around said or did anything. “Wake up!” Ellen screamed in horror, rubbing her hands over his tiny chest and shaking him. “Please, God, let him live,” she pleaded in a barely audible voice, and pressed down on his chest. Suddenly the boy coughed and spat out water.

The relieved villagers broke out into cheers of joy, whistling and hooting.

The strong five-or six-year-old boy looked around bewildered, as Ellen beamed happily.

The dripping wet, pale lad looked at her shyly and asked, “Are you an angel?”

Ellen shook her head, but the boy didn’t seem to believe her.

“Baudouin!” his mother called out, running up to join the group. She hugged the child and then turned to Ellen with a look of relief. “Praise the Lord! You saved my son’s life,” she said gratefully and hugged her son once more.

He snuggled up against his mother and cried.

Only now did Ellen realize how amazingly beautiful the woman was. Her delicate, smooth face was framed by a thick head of chestnut-brown hair and glowed with happiness.

“I am deeply indebted to you and will forever be grateful. If there is ever anything I can do for you, just come to me anytime.”

Ellen nodded, but she didn’t believe in such promises. The nobility were only too quick to forget to whom they were indebted to, as Aelfgiva had so often told her.

A knight came up to them, saying, “We ought to be leaving,
madame
. It is cold, the boy is freezing, and you are also soaked.”

“Gauthier, give…what is your name, my child?”

“Ellenweore,
madame
.”

“Give Ellenweore a blanket so she doesn’t freeze to death,” she told the knight, “and wrap one around Baudouin as well.” Then she turned to leave.

“I will pray that not only your body but also your soul heals,” she said softly, and walked away.

Ellen stood there trembling, as if rooted to the spot, and pulled the blanket she had received from the knight even tighter around her shoulders. Was the lady clairvoyant?

Claire suddenly appeared beside her and said, “If the farmers here are worried, they go to her and ask for her help. She always knows what to do, and everyone here loves her. Every one of us here would give our lives for her. You brought great honor to our village today.” It was obvious how proud Claire was of what Ellen had done.

“I’m cold!” said Ellen, her teeth chattering.

“My goodness, how stupid of me! Off you go, and when we get home you can lie down in my bed with a hot stone or you’ll catch a cold!” Claire led Ellen through the crowd of villagers, who patted her on the shoulder or shook her hand.

Ellen spent the rest of the day in bed.

Claire hung up a clothing line in the shop, lit a fire in the fireplace, and put Ellen’s clothing out to dry.

The afternoon in a warm bed ensured that Ellen did not catch cold, but the nausea got worse from day to day, and Ellen finally realized she had to be with child.

“May you burn in hell forever; may fertility forsake your loins. Never again shall you impregnate a woman, never!” Ellen kept repeating the curse softly to herself and secretly made up her mind.

The stalks of parsley in a woman’s womb had to be exchanged for new ones after two days, that was about all she knew, but as she picked the herb, an uncomfortable feeling crept over her. What she was thinking of doing was a sin! It was something forbidden and wrong, but she couldn’t keep the child. Thibault had violated her, and he was her brother. Siblings couldn’t have children: that, too, was a sin. God alone would be their judge.

With a heavy heart, Ellen decided to do what she thought was the only right thing, and in one of the following nights woke up with stomach cramps. Not even Thibault’s blows had hurt that much. In order not to waken Claire and the boy and to keep her dreadful act a secret, Ellen took her bundle, tiptoed out of the shop, and struggled laboriously into the forest of oak trees outside the village. The pale moonlight lit her way through the cold, dark night. At one point she sat down, panting with pain. Only the fear of being discovered kept her from screaming as the cramps in her abdomen became more and more severe. “Oh, Rose, how brave you were,” she mumbled. The thought of her former friend and their common fate helped her to stay calm. Ellen took a few old but clean linen cloths out of her pack and spread them out on the ground between her legs. She groaned with pain as her body aborted the bloody mass, and she couldn’t bear to see what she was holding in the cloth. Sobbing and murmuring a fervent prayer, she buried the cloth with its grisly contents as blood ran down her trembling thighs.

“Ellenweore, please wake up! What happened, for God’s sake?” Claire shook her shoulders, and it was impossible not to hear the fear in her voice.

Ellen tried to move her head, but she wasn’t able to. The pounding in her head was unbearable, and she tried to open her eyes.

“Where did the blood on your hand come from? Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus, please help her!” Claire prayed, full of anxiety. Her voice sounded far away and barely audible.