The Spell-Bound Scholar (15 page)

The girl nodded in misery. "I hid away in the kitchens and pretended to fatness—but I could not hide the child's coming."

"Nay, I warrant not. Up with you, now." She caught the

girl's arm and lifted. The lass tried to rise, then fell back with a small cry. "I cannot!"

Clothilde was instantly concerned. "Nay, you are wasted worse than I feared! Bide in patience, child—I'll take the babe to feed, then bring back soup for you!"

She turned away, the girl's strangled thanks filling her ears, and strode as quickly as she could to her cottage. The babe pawed at her breast, seeking to nurse, and something brimmed and broke open within Clothilde, something that she had not known endured. To cloak it, she filled the babe's ears with savage denunciations of the father who had left it to die.

In her cottage, she ladled soup from the kettle where it always simmered, cooled and thinned it with water, then fashioned a teat from a scrap of cloth and trickled the broth into it, that the babe might suck. So she held the child against her breast and fed it as best she might, and her feelings were so tender that she had to breathe maledictions against all the male race as she did it. She knew better than to let the babe have its fill, so she had to endure its wailing whiles she carried it, and a crock of soup, back to the mother, fearing she would find the lass fled to Heaven whiles she had been gone—and she was aghast to see the young woman slumped against the oak with her eyes closed. But at the sound of her coming, the girl stirred and opened her eyes. Then for the first time in a year, Clothilde breathed the name of God in aught but a curse, though she quickly denied it to herself, and gave the lass spoonfuls of soup while she cautioned her not to eat too quickly. The lass could not heed, of course, but gobbled every drop Clothilde gave her—and the older woman was glad she'd had the foresight to bring only a small crock of the soup. Then she gave the babe back to the lass and bade her rest, and both dropped off to sleep. Clothilde watched over them, and her thoughts 'gainst men were murderous.

When they woke, Clothilde fetched more soup, feeding the babe even as she had done before; then the lass found the strength to come to her feet and, leaning on Clothilde and pausing oft to gasp and rest, stumbled toward the hut. Time and again she would have lain down to sleep and likely never rise, but Clothilde urged her on, for night was falling fast.

They came at last to the hut and Clothilde lowered her onto her own poor heap of straw, saying, ''What is your name, child?"

The lass murmured, "Meryl," and slept instantly, and the babe was too weak to stir far, so Clothilde laid it in Meryl's arm and shooed the chickens within before the fox could come, then latched the door and blew the coals on the hearth to flame.

Thus they endured some days, the lass ever eating more soup and more, till her milk came again and the babe could have its proper nourishment. All that time, Clothilde nursed babe and mother alike, cutting up her spare apron to make linen for the child, linen that she washed as soon as it was soiled. She grumbled at the work, but secretly rejoiced, as she told us years later....

"So secretly," asked Gwen, "that even she did not know it?"

"Mayhap. And whiles the lass gained strength, they talked."

It began when Clothilde saw Meryl waken that first night and came to feed her again, grumbling, "A curse upon that foul churl who got you with child and abandoned you!"

"Oh, speak not so!" the lass cried, "for he was my one true love and would have wed me—had he lived!"

That gave Clothilde pause. She recalled what the lass had said of her labor and said, "You did speak of hiding in the kitchens."

"Aye."

"You were a scullery maid in the manor, then."

"Aye."

"And the squire espied you."

"Oh, nay! 'Twas his son."

"As I thought." Clothilde's mouth settled into a grim, straight line. "So he deflowered you, then cast you away with no thought for you or your babe, eh?"

"Nay, nothing o' the sort! He did love me, aye, and we did meet in secret for nigh onto a year—but never once did

he press me for more than a kiss, and that upon the hand! 'Twas I had to raise his hopes higher." She giggled at the memory. "He was so clumsy in that, yet so graceful in all else! And he asked me to wed him, yet I did hesitate, knowing the difference in our stations."

"Wise," Clothilde sniffed.

"Yet he did woo me and court me, and assured me that he would leave his inheritance if he had to, to wed me."

"You would not wish that," Clothilde scoffed.

"Nay. I wished not to make a rift betwixt himself and his family, so told him I would wed him only if he could gain his parents' blessing—and I could gain mine."

"Aye. Your mother and father had you matched with some village swain, did they not?"

"With three, and would have rejoiced at my choosing any of them. Yet my father groaned under the squire's rule and spoke often against him—so I determined in my heart that if I could but gain my mother's blessing in secret, it would suffice."

"Men care so little for us!"

"Nay, say not so." Meryl smiled with fond memory. "Tostig cared so greatly for me that he went with the lord's army, leading a troop of men off to the war, that he might gain some money of his own and enough of his parents' pride to outshine their contempt of my station."

"A pretty fool was he! What manner of caring is this, to risk dying and leaving you lorn?"

Meryl's face saddened. "Aye, 'twas foolish, but a man in love will do many foolish things, will he not? As will a woman."

Clothilde stared at her, not understanding. Then she realized the implications of Meryl's words, and her eyes went round as saucers, mouth springing open for a jibe that she bit back just in time.

"Aye." Meryl bowed her head. "I could not let him go without giving him my fullest pledge of love—and being sure I would have something of him left, if he were slain."

"As he was! And left you with child!"

"Aye." Meryl lifted her face, tears rolling down her

cheeks. "Who could I tell? My ma and da would have been outraged at my foolishness, and the squire would have disowned me as an imposter."

"As they both did. when your babe was born!" "Aye." Meryl bowed her head, the tears falling faster. "The squire's wife cast me out of her kitchens, claiming that she would not have a lying slut to serve her. My own folk did turn me from their door in shame, and the folk of the village drove me out with stones and gibes. I have lived on roots and berries this last fortnight and lived in fear of wild beasts till you did find me."

"The wolves and bears are yet to be feared, child." Clothilde welcomed the change of subject. "We must see to making this cottage stronger." Somehow the matter seemed more important now that she had a baby living with her. and a girl not far out of childhood herself.

"Aye." Gwen smiled, amused. "Children give one a greater stake in life."

"I would not know; what your children are to you. the folk of the villages hereabout must needs be to myself and to my sisters—though I will own. the care of these women doth give me cause to be glad in life, even had I not my God to love." Mother Superior looked up at the nuns around the table, who were all listening to the tale as raptly as though they had never heard it before. Gwen wasn't surprised: Mother Superior was a good storyteller. "They lived together, then, and reared the child?"

"Aye. though it seemed they would not. that first year— for the winter was hard and the wolves became hungry. They were glad they had made the hut stronger. Meryl and Cloth-ilde, though they feared they had not made it strong enough."

"Were they not hungry themselves'?"

"Most assuredly so. and Famine lurked at their doorstep."

Clothilde's garden had yielded a goodly crop of tubers and vegetables that could be stored for the winter, but she had planted for one. not two. They set snares for hares, but those remained empty—the foxes and ferrets had accounted for the

small game. They sought the squirrels' hordes, but a handful of nuts goes only so far. They began to eat as lightly as they could, and even then, Clothilde later confessed she had taken less than her share, that Meryl and the babe might eat. It was a lean Christmas and a gaunt Epiphany, and by Lent they were so hungry that they could not see clearly. The babe wasted away until it had scarce strength enough to cry.

Then, weakened, Meryl fell ill. Her cough grew worse and worse, and though Clothilde tended her with hot cloths and every herb she knew, the lass waned daily, slipping down toward death. When she began to murmur her beloved's name, Clothilde lost her temper.

"Do not dare to seek him!" she railed at the lass. "Do not dare! What has he ever done for you, except to leave you with child, and alone? Yet I have given you care with mine every minute! How dare you leave me for the shade of him? How dare you leave your babe without a mother?" And on she railed, louder and louder, growing weaker but feverish in her own right and, when she had done railing against Meryl's lack of faith, began on God's. "How can you be a good God," quoth she, "if you will let a blameless babe die of cold and hunger, and a lass whose only fault was to love in folly? Nay, you must needs be a most cruel God indeed, for even your deer and hares do starve, and your lilies of the field lie dead beneath the snow! Let me die if you will, I can see the justice in that, for I am a sour and bitter woman, but this sweet child has never lusted for anyone's hurt, though she had cause, good cause indeed! You are the God of the hawk and the wolf, of the owl and the vulture, and no God of loving creatures!"

She would have gone on, but a strong voice cried outside the hut, "Who doth speak against the Lord?"

Clothilde froze, for to her mind, any man might sooner seek to reive them of what little life they had left than to aid them. She pulled herself to the knothole in the door and looked.

She saw a friar standing in the clearing, frowning about him, then calling, "Was it you in the hut who did rail against God? Nay, if it was you, have the courage to admit to what you said!"

He wore but a simple friar's robe, said Clothilde later, and sandals only, yet his feet were not reddened with the chill, nor did he shiver with the cold, though it was bitter. Clothilde considered, watching him, then resolved that there was small enough harm he could do them, for quick death would have been more merciful than slow—and he might have carried food. She unbarred the door and showed herself, crying, " Tis I have spoken 'gainst God! And can you truly tell me I should not?"

He turned and saw her, and his face was stern. 'That I can. Wherefore should you think to rail 'gainst your Maker?"

"Why, for that I've a child in here sick of the cold and starving, and a smaller child who will die without her! Is that not cause?"

" 'Tis a cause that many have known down through the ages," the monk returned, "and their souls have been tried full sore. Naetheless, those of them that clung to the love of the Lord even to death, they bask in His eternal light and live with joy in Him."

Clothilde would have given him a right sharp rejoinder, but the words stuck in her throat as her knees gave way, dark spots filled her vision and swelled into night, and the weakness of hunger claimed her, for she had spent her last strength in railing against God and His monk.

When she woke, the fire was higher and much warmer, and she lay on her own pile of bracken, warmed by the monk's robe. Looking up, she saw him naked save for girded loins, and she assures us there was no beauty in his body, for it was gaunt and scarred from wrist to wrist across his shoulders and breastbone, yet still with the strength of leather. He held the babe in his arm, soothing it. Clothilde stirred herself and said curtly, "Naught will comfort her save food."

"Why, that have I given her," the monk returned, "and have more for you. Do you hold the babe awhile." And he laid it on her breast. Then he put aside the cup from which the babe had drunk and gave Clothilde broth from the pot he had set steaming over the fire. She knew she must eat sparingly, yet drank greedily, as much as he would give her. The

flavor, though, was new to her. " Tis meat!"

The monk nodded. "I carry salt beef with me, and jour-neybread. That last is softened now, enough that you may partake of it." And he spooned a small biscuit into her mouth.

She ate of it thankfully, then asked, "What of the child?"

"The mother? I have given her a small amount of medicine and she sleeps with greater peace than she has in a fortnight, I warrant."

Panic clutched Clothilde's breast, that the 'medicine' might have sent Meryl down into the depths she sought; but a racking cough sounded from behind the monk, and she relaxed. "Can you do no more for her?"

"Not if you do not tell me of her illness."

" 'Tis only a cough, but it has worsened and worsened in spite of all my herbs."

The monk nodded. "So I had feared. Her lungs are filled with fluid and she has hard work to breathe even a little."

"Can you not save her!"

"I shall attempt it." The monk turned in the firelight and laid his hand over Meryl's forehead.

Then, as Clothilde told it, a most sweet change came about that was so amazing she thought it a miracle—for in minutes, Meryl's breathing deepened, becoming more even, and color returned to her face. She coughed again and again, but each time more lightly, till at last she coughed no more but only slept the deep and dreamless sleep of exhaustion.