Telling Someone

“Ye’ve done it, Cessy. Ye’ve done it!” Bess laughed loud then, startling the cluster of women in their blood stained aprons and damp plasters and making Rivens yelp.

It wasn’t real until Cecily saw her mother smile. She had just been claimed as property from the hand of death, and it didn’t matter that Cecily couldn’t understand it. Despite the fears, despite the grave in the churchyard, despite the gray faces and hallowed tones, despite the retching and twisting, she was here. Cecily fell back into Gracia’s arms and cried in fast tears that grew thick in her throat. They held on to each other and waited for the shock to pass, then Bess asked the question that everyone else was yearning to say. “If ye can heal her, what about the others?”

At the moment Cecily’s bones felt as if they’d been scraped raw and ground between millstones. Every piece of her ached.

“Let’s not talk of that now.” Gracia’s tone was adamant. “Rest, is what she needs. I think we all need it.”

“I want to tell someone. It won’t take long.” Cecily pulled gently away from Gracia, brushed her hand through Alis’s hair, and skip-jumped out of the chapel. Once outside the door there were no stares to hold her back from running down the street toward the castle, boots slipping and elbows kicking the wind. It was a moment of triumph, when her fears and hopes had met and for once in her life it felt as though she had done something to be proud of. 

Castle Corridors, a photo by andy castro on Flickr.

At this hour of the day Jevan was almost certain to be in the Great Hall with the other men, smoking and drinking and perhaps enjoying some entertainment. Cecily couldn’t gain admittance there, but there was a chance at finding Jevan some other way.

She entered the castle through a side door and listened for the sounds of laughter from the Hall. They came, and she stepped through the passages, making her way to the garderobes. He would have to come along here sometime, she reasoned, and so she leaned against the cold stone wall and waited.

Three men and a sotted lady passed that way through the next half hour, and Cecily was one leg cramp away from abandoning the enterprise and returning to the chapel to see how her mother got on. Then the noise of boisterous voices rose up from an opened door and she stood straight, trying to discern if Jevan’s was among them. A pair of boots clumped on the stairs, with a slight stumble at the top, and then Jevan came up the last step and was walking down the hall toward her.

“She’s all right, she’s well again!” Cecily ran to meet him and he started, then wrapped his arms around her. He rocked her back and forth as she laughed into his velvet shirt and streaked it with tears. “Jevan, she is saved! I’ve saved her.”

She pulled away from him and looked up, shining. He smiled back at her, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her left ear. “I’m proud of you, my Cecily. It can’t have been easy, whatever you have done.”

Cecily felt that it was the highest praise anyone had ever given her, and gave him the only thanks she could think of, a kiss full on the lips.

Jevan threw his head back and laughed, then picked Cecily up as if she weighed nothing, whirling her around and around in middle of the corridor.

Saving Alis

Cecily jumped out of the swing and ran toward the chapel, her eye flicking in the only direction she strained to avoid, toward the fresh turned earth of Widow Dincrawe’s grave.


Shooting through the maze of beds, she fell at Alis’s side. Her mother looked worse than ever, her livid face twitching and stiffening in pulses as she moaned. Gracia came up beside them, touching Alis's wrists, chest, and forehead, muttering under her breath. No one called on her for a verdict, but they waited. Gracia’s eyes lifted to meet Cecily’s, and they understood. “Call on yourself, child. Nothing else is going to save her.” Alis’s body twisted and deformed with pain. The muscles grew slack, then convulsed, and it was all the bystanders could do to not cover their ears to shut out her shrieking.

louisa afternoon, a photo by theloushe on Flickr.

“Can’t you do it?” Cecily’s voice sounded small and fraught. “You’ve got the power, Gracia, you can heal her.”

“I think your strength will avail more in this instance. I’ve been working on the others all this time, and I’m all but spent. Even that hasn’t been enough to save them all.”

“But I don’t think—”

“Don’t think! You know what you want, now take it.”

A darkness grew in Cecily’s mind. A darkness with no name but longing. The little group that had gathered around Alis’s pallet dissipated and Cecily stumbled to her feet, pacing to the front of the chapel and back, biting her nails.

“I believe that you are more in need of me than your mother.”

Cecily looked up to see the vicar. “Thank you, but I do not think I need your help.”

“I have not come with platitudes—”

“Please leave me, vicar.”

“—only to say that God’s ways are not our ways. Do not despair of his love and mercy, child.”

She turned on him. “Are you saying that God wants my mother to die?”

“No, only that if it is his will then it is for the best.”

“Thank you for your condolences. I would like to be left alone.” Cecily returned to Alis’s bed just as Rivens arrived.

“Is it true, girlie? Is yer mother really failing?” She only had to point. Alis lay still now, the only movement in her fitful rising chest. “Is she very bad?”

Cecily wondered if he really wanted to hear the truth. “She’s been weak for months, losing her strength and never gaining any of it back.” His arm slipped around her shoulders and she leaned her dry face against him. It was too late for tears, the quiet torture of days had wrung her eyes stiff and empty.

“Is there nought ye can do?”

“Oh, there’s plenty we can do.” She jabbed at a bag of fresh cut herbs. “We can make poultices and mix ointments and smear oils all night but none of it does a bit of good. There’s only one thing I can think of that might help.”

“An’ what’s that?”

“Gracia’s power.” She watched his expression, but saw no change. “She told me that I’m the only one who can save her.”

“That’s a risk.”

“I know, you told me to be careful. The vicar told me as much this evening. Do you think I should just stand by and watch her die?” They both turned to Alis, lying slack and pale beneath them.

“Do whatever ye can, Cessy. Only don’t blame yerself if it doesn’t work.”

“I hardly believe that it will. I’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t know if it won’t do more harm than good.”

A low, purring hum had started unnoticed in the back of Cecily’s mind. She only noticed it as it grew louder. In a few moments it was filling both her ears, and in another moment it had drowned out the sounds of coughing and crying.

Alis’s eyes snapped open. “Cessy?”

“Yes, Mum! It’s me. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, dearest, I’m so…sorry.”
“Don’t be. You can’t help it, none of us can.”

“It’s happened again, and I’m just…too…weak to fight. Can’t fight, Cessy.” Her body shook and juddered, wrenching upward and then collapsing with a moan. Her eyes stared wild in Rivens’s direction. “Colyn? Colyn is that you?” Cecily froze at her father’s name and Rivens ducked his head between his knees, rocking back and forth.

Cecily gripped her mother’s chapped fingers. “Then I’ll fight for you.”

She closed her eyes and tried to put herself back in the forest, back to the moment when she had imagined wind, whipping and shaking. She tried to remember what it felt like, sounded like, tasted like. Then it snapped into place.

“Mum, you’re going to get better. You’re going to be well. Listen to me, come back. This is not the end.” She imagined it with as much strength as she could muster—Mum, well again. She pictured the healthy glow of her skin, no more tired lines, an end to the screams and twitches. In an hour—no, in a minute—there would be a smile on that face. Peace.

A sense of surety built in her, and a warm thing spread through Cecily’s veins. She could beat this horrific thing. She could force back fate and turn death itself backwards. Soon there was no thinking or willing, only feeling and hearing the power work its way through her fingers. Speak to me. Oh please, say something.

Her ears strained to the brink of breaking and her legs went numb against the stone floor. She couldn’t see them, but everyone in the chapel had their eyes fixed on Alis’ pallet and the kneeling girl. A few gathered around her. Gracia put her fingertips to Alis’s temples and spoke low words.

If their eyes weren’t imagining things, Alis’s chest had begun to rise in a steadier rhythm. Cecily clutched her mother’s hand and leaned over her body, every inch of her tense. A mouse scuttled in the loft and they all heard the patter of each tiny feet.

Church Candles, a photo by supermuch on Flickr.

Slow, achingly slow, but perceptible, came a relaxation. One of Alis’s hands, help up tight and twisted like a claw, drifted down to lay upon the blanket. Her taut tendons eased, and the sense-starved eyes closed together.

The chapel door squeaked open and Bess tiptoed in. Two second’s sight of Alis and she stifled a laugh of joy, then ran to the pallet. Gracia gave her a small smile without stopping her quiet speech. Bess watched Cecily—whose eyes were still closed—and waited for the miracle to be complete. Five minutes passed, and the flesh which had been burning and bitten was now mellow and cool. Five minutes more and Alis looked more alive than dead.

Cecily felt wet patches of sweat under her arms and tasted blood on her lips for the first time as the pounding hum retreated from her mind and left it aching. Her mum’s eyes opened without effort, and Cecily saw and recognized.

A Vicious Plague

For the next three days Whitcrowe marinated in terror and confusion. As more cotters fell ill—the vicar’s wife, Hana Fairdam, another Cobbler child, and two old widow women—rumors spun themselves in dark corners and rolled from doorstep to doorstep, spreading pain and distrust. Had someone poisoned the well? Was God judging the sinful members of the community? Was this a plot to ruin Lord Geoffrey and Lady Mallkyn, or were they the ones who were trying to ruin the cotters? Why?

The surgeon gave no answers to their questions, only a few self-important nods and brief platitudes. It would all be quite all right, he assured them. He wanted to take one of the patients to Camberton to treat them in his own surgery, but no one would hear of that. They would all stay in the chapel where they could be watched by friends and family. Pale faces watched the sufferers by day and night. No service was held that Sculpsday; the vicar was too exhausted to perform the service, even if the chapel hadn’t not been occupied by writhing, screaming people and the smell of herb concoctions.

Graves, a photo by Lennart Tange on Flickr.

Men and women drifted in and out of the echoing room, taking time from their work to bring food and whatever homemade remedies they could create. A few women were told that they need not work if they would stay with the sick, and so Gracia, Matild, Bess, Cecily and a few others took turns sitting by the beds, fetching water, bathing hot foreheads, piling on covers, and trying to stay awake through the long night watches. Cecily didn’t see Jevan for several days. Lord Geoffrey was no doubt keeping him busy, and she was almost always in the chapel so there was no possibility of a chance meeting. Alis showed little change, only her flailing grew weaker.

At noon on the second day, Widow Dincrawe died. She was a frail old thing, with cloudy blue eyes and skin worn thin like a well-loved doll. Everyone knew her, everyone shuddered with grief when they pulled a sheet over her face. If Alis had known, she would have wept. They buried the widow among the faithful.

The surgeon was obviously helpless. No one knew the ways of holy fire. Theda Spichfat told everyone who would listen that this was the work of witches. Why witches would choose to afflict a few weak women and children she couldn’t explain, but it sounded right to her frazzled brain. The vicar feared that it was God’s judgment for some hidden sin, Gracia made it clear that she blamed the old grain that everyone had been eating for months.

On her third night of duty Cecily sat beside a boy with a shrunken white face, quietly telling him the tale of the three sailors and the pearl. Gracia passed by with a basket of ointments. “Here, Cessy, won’t you put this balm on her chest? Hana’s doing a little better with it.”

Cecily’s muscles felt like very heavy gelatin, but she reached up to take the bottle. Something rustled over her shoulder as she bent to apply the ointment and she felt Bess’s hand on her arm.

“Don’t do it, Cessy. You need to rest. Go on outside and taste some fresh air.”

“But I’ve slept all day…”

“A few hours of napping in the corner is hardly sleeping all day. Now, give me that and I’ll finish the story. You go.”

There was nothing more to be said when Bess got that look on her face. Cecily handed over the bottle with guilty gratitude, glanced back at Alis to make certain she was sleeping, and slipped out a side door into the chapel garden.

A wall of cool evening air struck her face and she drank it in. The stars were already out, though the sunset was not quite gone. One rattling cart and some distant conversations were the sounds, and Cecily breathed in the quiet with the air.

She went to her swing and swayed back and forth until she was too tired to move her legs. For the first time in so long she had leisure to think, to consider what had been happening. This was the same plague that had seized Whitcrowe twelve years before. That sickness had passed, leaving many families broken, bodies weakened, hearts torn. No one knew why it had claimed the lives it did, or why it had disappeared within a couple of weeks. Cecily could barely remember her father now, and what memories she had were confused with the stories her mother had told her. Hearing him spin his tales in the dark, bouncing on his knee, looking way, way up to see his face. Snatched away before I could show him my garden or ask him any questions.

She heard a door close behind her and someone crossing the garden. Perhaps it was only someone coming to the well for water. The rustling steps continued and Cecily winced, cupping her face in her hands and trying not to cry from frustration. She could not have two minutes together. Someone was coming for her.

“Cessy, it’s your mum.”

Holy Fire

Matild the cobbler’s wife stood in the torchlight of the courtyard, face red and sweaty, frizzy corkscrews of hair escaping her wimple. She was the screamer. Men with pitchforks and lanterns had already gathered, as well as a string of squealing maids. The lord and lady had not yet come—presumably they were still eating in great hall—and they were all powerless to quiet the shrieking and find the reason for it.

Jevan and Cecily stood separate in the shadows, neither thinking of the other, as they watched the chaos and heard the screams increase. One of the pitchfork men coughed and Matild collapsed in a heap of sobs and skirts. Jevan stepped forward and pushed through the growing crowd. “Who is this woman? What has been done to her?” Woman, why are making this ungodly racket?”

Flaming torches, a photo by dan taylor on Flickr.

Matild shut her mouth and stared up at the man, then took a hard gulp and gasped out a few words. “It’s my boy, Elstan. And the Spichfat girl. They’re twistin’ and writhin’, and sayin’ dreadful things, and my boy,” she ground her fingers into her eyes.

One old hag said, “Oh, aye, I’ve seen this afore. It’s the holy fire, sure enough. Evil stuff. I had three cousins all come down wid it when I were but a girl. Nearly got me it did.” Then in a loud whisper, “If it don’t kill you it leaves you half-witted, often as not.”

Master Auvray knelt and pried away Matild’s hands, waiting until she could look him in the face to ask, “What about your boy?”

“He tried to strangle me. He’s gone mad, sire. Elstan would never do that—he’s a good boy, a good boy. Somethin’s the matter the matter with him sire. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do!”

“Is there anyone else? Just this boy and girl?”

“Oh, there may be others by now. I thought I heard summat over at the Lockton’s cottage.”

Jevan saw Cecily stiffen and he rose to face the crowd. “Something is plaguing the village. Perhaps a kind of illness. Someone—no. I will ride for the surgeon in Camberton. Man, get my horse. Would someone,” his eyes flicked toward Cecily, “bring this woman to wherever the sick will be?

The men parted to make a path and Cecily ran to Matild, gathering her up in her arms and guiding her toward the gate while Jevan left for the stables.

——

“Where’s Cessy? Does anyone know where she is? Cessy!”

“I’m here, Gracia.” Cecily entered the chapel half carrying Matild, going slow with her burden. Gracia ran to pull the woman onto one of the low beds that had been set up in a makeshift infirmary.

“Cessy. They’ve just brought your mother in.” They both heard the painful sound of retching.

“Mum? Mum!” Cecily saw a neighbor cover Alis with a blanket and wipe the spittle from her mouth. Two seconds later she was beside her mother’s bed, holding her and smoothing her sweaty hair. “Mum, it’s me, me, Cessy. Come, have a drink, there. You’ll be all right. There are people, herbs, medicine here to help you. We’ll help you. Don’t worry about a thing. It’ll be over soon, don’t worry.” Alis cried out that she was being bitten, burned, and scratched, then moaned and turned over on her side. The room blurred into just so many dark splotches and Cecily buried her face in her apron. No no. Not now. Not today. It can’t be happening. God why?

“Come, lass, give your mother a drink.” The vicar put one hand on Cecily’s shoulder and with the other offered her a cup of ale. She fumbled for the cup and held it to her mother’s lips.

That was the first night. Sleepless, painful, sharp in memory forever like the stab of a cramp in the ribs. Two beds were set up in the chapel for Elstan and the Olive Spichfat, another for Alis, and two more for the rest who were sure to come. Matild, Olive’s parents, Cecily, Gracia, Bess, and the vicar were the first vigil, watching the victims as they struggled under their covers, convulsing and crying out horrible things—they were being cut, pinched, burned, frozen, and drowning in blood. Bess kept one hand on the girl’s forehead and that seemed to keep her calm, but Matild and her husband had to tie Elstan to the bed with cords after he jumped up and almost broke a window. His mother finally exhausted her tears and sat rocking in her seat, deaf to everything.

Cecily tried to speak with her mother, asking if she had gone anywhere or done anything strange. Perhaps she and the children had discovered some kind of poison, a dangerous plant she’d never heard of, or maybe something had frightened them out of their wits. “Mum? Can you hear me? Do you know who’s speaking to you? What’s gone wrong? Mum, can you tell me what you did today?” Alis only shuddered and lifted her hands in the air, twisting them as if an invisible person were bending and cracking the fingers. Cecily grabbed her hands and her mother let out a shriek.

“Cold! Cold! Help! They’re coming.”

Everyone counted the minutes, then the hours, until the surgeon’s arrival. They couldn’t be sure that he would even come. A few cotters might not be enough to get him away from his supper table, or out of his warm bed, but they all helped that the persuasion of an earl’s heir would put speed to his feet.

Gracia came back from her house carrying a vial of brown liquid that she said would calm the sufferers. She moistened towels and dabbed their foreheads (eliciting cries of “Mum! The water, I’m drowning...”), then poured the noxious potion down their throats. An hour later they were no calmer, and neither did Gracia. Everyone had a painful, unacknowledged anxiety—perhaps even the Camberton surgeon would be of no help. It might be what the old hag said: holy fire. A plague with no cause and no cure, striking in random spots like a blind old man trying to whip a horse.

The night grew longer, still without a surgeon. Men and women came through the chapel to see the strange sight and worry the watchers. Cecily fought off the idle spectators (“Give them some peace! Give them quiet!”), but was unable to drive away the clusters of friends and family weeping noisily around the beds.

so sick, a photo by rachel_titiriga on Flickr.

After midnight another victim came to the chapel: Madge Surlaf. She was bent double from a pain in her stomach and complained that her fingers and toes had gone numb. Alis readied a bed and Gracia prepared a strong-smelling poultice.

Cecily fell asleep in her chair several hours later, waking only when the chapel doors banged open and Jevan Auvray entered, leading a hunched old man she guessed was the surgeon. The whole company watched as the surgeon examined the four, conferred with Gracia, and spoke to Jevan in low tones. Jevan’s shoulders looked squarer, his back straighter, and his chin higher than they ever had. He beckoned this one and sent away that one, inquired and advised. Cecily watched him as much as she dared without drawing attention to herself, but imagined that he looked at her once or twice.

Just before leaving, he came close by Alis’s bed as if on inspection. “How is she?” he murmured.

“Very bad. Does the surgeon not know what the matter is?”

“That will take some time, I’m afraid. I’ll let you know If I find out anything.”

She smiled and touched his hand ever so briefly, then turned to soothe her mother’s restless twitching. 

First Kiss

Three days later, Jevan Auvray reined in his sweat-streaked horse at the crest of a small hill above Granton Castle. He gave Grane the slightest pressure of the knees and they flew down the hill, one last sprint before arriving in a frothy stumble at the gates. Grane headed to the stables where a drink and food awaited him, and Jevan stroked his neck. “No hart of ten today, my lad, but we have had a fine day of riding, haven’t we?”

He entrusted Grane to a pimply stableboy, then strode across the courtyard toward his own supper when Lady Letitia appeared at his elbow. “Jevan! Where have you been? We are all missing you so dreadfully.”

Jevan started away from the wide eyes and upturned chin. “Forgive me, milady, I meant to tell my aunt that I was riding.”

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter really. You are always riding. Your Uncle Geoffrey was rather upset that you didn’t come into the library this afternoon; he had to sit by himself for hours.”

“I’m sure his ale kept him company enough. No, don’t repeat that.”

She crossed her arms beneath her insubstantial bosom and was about to reply when Jevan caught sight of a figure across the courtyard—Cecily, walking in the direction of the gardens. He stood motionless for a moment, then patted Letitia’s shoulder and walked toward Cecily, leaving the lady gawping behind him.

Into Pan's Labyrinth, a photo by alexbrn on Flickr.

“Cecily, I have not seen you in days!”

She nearly dropped her mattock. “Forgive me, milord—Jevan, I have been working in the gardens all week. It’s a busy time of year and I am one of the few whom Rivens will allow to tend to certain jobs—”

“And I have not taken the trouble to visit the gardens. I see, you condemn me for my negligence.” He laughed as she opened her mouth to deny it. “Ah Cecily, you should know me by now. I was only jesting. Let us take a short walk around the gardens now and enjoy the sunlight while it lasts.”

She had been examining the pavement beneath her feet, but now glanced up at Jevan’s face. All she saw was a look of quiet interest. A slight touch of his hand to hers and they were going out the courtyard gates and down the path toward a garden entrance.

They walked the curving pathways between neat-clipped hedges, noted the already monstrous salvigia bushes, and approached the Balcony—a sort of folly made of two curving staircases that joined to create an overlook.

Bess is Happy

“Bess, have ye seen to that duck? Good gracious, child, ye’d burn the whole supper if I let ye!”

Bess practically skipped over to the fire where a plump bird was sizzling on a spit. She turned it once or twice in a preoccupied sort of way and Luveday noticed with annoyance that there was a dreamy sort of smile spread across Bess’s entire face.

servants working in the kitchen, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

“And what’re ye grinnin’ like a little idiot fer?”

“Ah, Luveday, my only wish in the world is that everyone could be as happy as I am right now.”

“Hmmph. Been dippin’ into the ale, have ye?” She made a guttural slurping noise in the back of her throat as if to signal disgust. “Girls is all the same these days. Think that love is all about butterflies and pixie dust.”

“Surely you had your own love when you were young, dear-heart?”

Having a servant girl call her “dear-heart” was probably the last straw. Luveday creamed the Brussels sprouts with a ferocious arm and muttered something under her breath about cheeky little chits. Bess giggled to herself as she replayed her afternoon with Robbie in her mind for the fortieth time. The ill-fated duck caught fire

Meeting at the Well

They walked together until they reached the castle courtyard, then Jevan drew Cecily into the shadow of the stables. He seemed to be working up the nerve for something when a loud hemph sounded from a few feet away. Lady Mallkyn and Lady Leticia stood on the castle steps, beckoning to Jevan. He gave Cecily a flash of a smile and a wink, then ran towards the other women, bowing and kissing each of their hands in turn.

Try as she might, Cecily could never be indifferent toward this man. Her first impression had been violent dislike and a vow of eternal hatred, but recent events had made her think better of him.

Pozzo interno, a photo by Frankz on Flickr.

She came out of the shade and moved toward the kitchen door, but caught sight of two people standing near the well. Coming nearer, she realized that it was her mother and Old Rivens. That too-familiar dread invaded her stomach. Mum had been getting worse and worse. Just yesterday she had fallen asleep while stirring the pottage and almost fallen into the fire, she was just that dead tired.

Alis now drew a bucket from the well, wrestling it to the top, then pitching backwards as she lost her balance. Rivens steadied her with one hand and grabbed the slipping rope with the other. Back on her feet, Alis said something and Rivens laughed, then they both turned in the direction of the stables. Cecily slipped around a corner where she might hear without being seen, and caught her mother’s words.

Archery Lesson

Over the next week Cecily and Master Auvray met on ten separate occasions. These meetings were entirely out of her control, but it seemed as if Cecily was talking with him more than most anyone else. They never spoke for long, but each time Auvray—or Jevan, as he insisted on being called—was more courteous than at the last. Could it be that he was finding her on purpose? It did seem more than coincidental that he should be reading as she cleaned the library, picking lilies as she weeded the beds, and just dropping into the kitchens when she happened to be working there.

Longbow competition, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

Certainly, though, Jevan could have no control over Luveday sending Cecily out to the Butts on Denby hill where Lord Geoffrey and his guests were practicing archery. The afternoon was especially fine—warm, with barely any wind—and it was natural for the men who had been closeted so long by winter to long for a bit of outdoor sport.

Watery sunlight splashed over the countryside as Cecily made her way through the mud and up a gentle rise, swinging the pitcher of ale as she went, glorying in the chance to get off of her knees. The company of archers was made up of the earl himself, three local lords who had come to pay their respects to the newly-arrived heir, and a passel of small boys whose job was to fetch back the arrows from the straw-stuffed “stags.” Geoffrey was red-faced and jittery as he tried to notch his arrow to the bowstring. Sir Warin stood behind him, and his face looked longer than ever as he viewed the proceedings—like a bored schoolmaster watching idiotic pupils. Cecily quietly announced the arrival of drink and Lord Geoffrey, glad of the interruption, thrust his bow at an underling and came over to pour out a large helping.

It truly was strange, the way she always seemed to meet Jevan by the purest chance. It was more likely that he should have more occasion to see Lady Mallkyn’s waiting maids (who were generally entrusted with the more exalted castle duties) than herself (one of the castle’s servants-of-all-work and one who spent the majority of her time weeding), but Cecily had only just heard Sybll lamenting over the few scarce moments she had been in the young man’s company. “He is always out wandering the countryside on his horse, and when he is at the castle he seems never to be in the same place twice. A proper young gentleman should know his duty better and spend his time inside the castle, learning valuable lessons from milord the earl.” And paying a bit more attention to you, I’d wager.

The line for ale was growing, and the third away from her was Jevan. His cheeks were flushed with the nipping breeze and his tousled hair sought to escape the velvet cord that bound it. Cecily found herself switching her weight from one foot to the other and splashing the drink a little as she poured. He isn’t even looking my way. Does he know I’m looking at him? 

Gracia's Story

“Do you have it?”


Rivens was not looking at Cecily, just chewing on the end of a cold pipe as he stared at the clump of rhododendrons.


“Have you ever used it?”

spinning girl, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

He scuffed his boot in the gravel and worked the pipe stem with his teeth.

“Aye, I’ve got it.”


“Then it’s all real? I knew it wasn’t just my imagination. Gracia was right!”


Rivens sucked in a long breath, puffed his shrunken cheeks, and let it out in a quavering puff of spicy smoke. 

“Gracia, eh? She’s the one who’s been tellin’ ye these things?”


“Yes. No one else saw fit to tell me that I have an invisible power to make things happen.”


“An’ perhaps they were wise not to.”


“Why is that? If I have such a power shouldn’t I be able to know about it?”

“Are ye gonna tell yer mum?”

She opened her mouth, but said nothing.

The Power of Wind

Ever since her talk with Gracia, Cecily had spent many hours thinking hard over “power.” What could that mysterious power do, exactly? And how was it possible to make your thoughts into reality—merely by believing? Whether gardening or cooking or cleaning, the questions plagued her mind. She might have thought that the entire thing was an elaborate lie to give her hope, if she didn’t trust Gracia so completely. But she had to try putting this power to the test at least once, just to make sure that she wasn’t wrong.


Her first chance came when she went with a few other families to gather firewood from the nearby hills. It was achy work—bending down and straightening back up, noticing a dry stick here, a fallen tree over there—back and forth, again and again. But the job seemed easier when they were doing it all together, laughing and singing and seeing who could tell the tallest tales.

Fallen tree near Woodcutters path, a photo by Jack Picknell on Flickr.

Alis was still feeling weak, and Cecily had insisted her mother stay at home while she worked with the Walpoles. The day felt more like spring than ever, and Pypa (a girl with fiery red hair and large lips) was whistling with an infectious, off-key enthusiasm that made Cecily want to do a little dance. But she noticed that Bess appeared more subdued than usual, almost colorless. She soon realized why: Robbie had joined their party and was gathering wood about thirty yards down the slope. Cecily decided to meddle.

Heart to Heart

The walled chapel garden was Cecily’s haunt when she wanted to contemplate the mysteries of the world. When the bluebells had just begun to unfold, dripping blue and dewy among ferns and frothflowers, the chapel garden was consumed by their rippling blossoms. A sun-drenched arbor made of cedar limbs, twisted and slumping with age like an overweight matron, occupied one corner of the garden. A large swing hung underneath for the convenience of visitors, the perfect refuge for two friends. Cecily and Bess sat there for hours at a time in their childhood, laughing and whispering about a thousand little secret hopes and dreams.

Bess rarely delved into deep waters, no matter how Cecily tried to lead their conversation there. Cecily tried to imagine what life was like beyond the mountains. She told and retold minstrel ballads until she almost believed them. She tried to linger near the nobles when they conversed about worlds beyond her own. Bess was perfectly content to chat about recent happenings and the doings of friends and family, going so far as to speculate as to who might marry whom, but never going much deeper. Cecily itched to dive into the dark middle of the lake, while Bess paddled in the pleasant shallows.

Bluebells, a photo by Paul Albertella on Flickr.

The carefree afternoons of childhood had gone long ago, but on a few rare days the two friends could still be found on their garden swing at sunset. Creaking back and forth on the old ropes, they were usually more silent than talkative; a long day of work has a way of making even the closest friends quiet.

A few days after Cecily's conversation with Gracia, Bess came to the swing with pinched lips and eyes swollen a suspicious red.

The Power to Change

Gracia was a woman who knew things. Ask anyone in Whitcrowe and they could tell you. She was spoken of as a wise woman. An interesting lassie. A queer one. “A woman ye would’na want to cross.” She was hardworking and hospitable, and something like a second mother to Cecily. Gracia was the one who had nursed Alis back to health from the illness she had nearly died of, and Cecily had grown up eating her jam and biscuits.

Bess’s face showed in the window as Cecily approached the Walpoles’ house, then disappeared to pop through the open door. “Dice and bones, Cessy, what brings ye here at this time of night?”

star & tree, a photo by Ctd 2005 on Flickr.

Cecily stepped inside the warm cottage, furnished almost exactly like her and her mother’s, only with a tall piece of battered furniture displaying a few chipped plates artistically arranged with a vase of winter cherries. She gave an uncomfortable look toward the table where Milo and and Lander were finishing bowls of thick porridge, with Gracia looking on. Cecily caught Gracia’s eye and tried to give a subtle hint. “Is there summat you need, child?”

Gracia waited patiently as Cecily licked her lips and avoided Bess’s inquisitive stare. She didn’t feel that Bess would really understand what she was feeling, not this time. But maybe Gracia somehow could.

“Yes, I would like to speak to you. Ask you something.”

Unanswered Prayers

Sewing blindly by the dying fire a few nights after, Cecily was wracked by Alis’s incessant coughing. She could almost hear the bones rattle in her mum’s chest with every burst of hacking.

Alis had been weak all through the bitter winter, and now it seemed that the wet spring had settled in her chest and meant to stay. For days she had only been able to manage the lightest work, and a pile of unmended clothes grew daily. Cecily came home every night to help reduce the pile, but inevitably her mum forced her to go, yawning, to bed.

Three watching angels, a photo by shaggy359 on Flickr.

Alis was one of those women, to be found in nearly every family, who is a born mother. She was always ready to comfort a frightened child in the night, never refused a beggar, and never took the last helping of anything. She had not had an easy life, especially after her husband’s death, but Alis had no enemies, and was loved by everyone—especially her daughter.

Proper Introductions

It was midday before Cecily and Alis had gathered the requisite number of truffles, and Alis went home to sew while Cecily spent the next hour in the kitchens chopping meat off the bone. The kitchens were always crowded at this time of day, with cooks and servers climbing over each other to get at the spits and ladles, and Luveday’s face growing redder with each passing moment. Once the meat was chopped Cecily was finally able to grab a bit of bread and cold mutton and slip through the crushing mass, out of the kitchens, through the courtyard, and beyond the gateway. 

The day had warmed, and the shining sun brightened Cecily’s spirits as she left the stuffy air of the dark kitchens behind her. She strode through the grass and down the castle hill, out into a wide expanse of meadow that sloped down to the sparkling river. She sat on the growth of new grass and threw her head back, shutting eyes against the sun, letting a chilly little breeze play with her sleeves. The weight that had clutched her heart since her mum’s fit of coughing almost lessened, almost went away, was almost forgotten. She tossed her head and the sun caught the glint of her hair. Bright. Strong. She would prevail. All would be well. The day was beautiful, fine, fair, and pleasant. Why shouldn’t she be happy? Why shouldn’t Alis get better as the days got warmer?

   

Something came between Cecily’s closed eyelids and the sun, and she opened them to find that a man stood directly in front of her. 

Weser meadows, a photo by Markusram on Flickr.

She was stunned for a moment, trying to make out who it was as the face was obscured, backlit against the brightness. She took in the soft leather boots, the expensive cut of the coat, the gold stitching along the edge of the cuffs…it was Master Jevan Auvray. With a little jump, she stuffed the last of her mutton underneath her skirt and tried to remember if she had washed her face since cutting up that venison. There was nothing appropriate to say so she kept her mouth shut and just looked at Auvray, waiting for him to make sense of the absurd situation.

Truffle Hunting

Master Auvray did not stay much within the castle in his first few days. Cecily overheard that he had insisted on spending a great deal of time outdoors, and his first week was spent combing the woods and nearby marshland for game. The castle wasn’t quite sure what to make of this—perhaps he was an avid hunter, perhaps he just wanted an excuse to get out of the drafty castle (which was no doubt far less grand than his own home back East). Cecily only ever caught glimpses of him—an erect silhouette riding over the fields, or a well-dressed shadow in the courtyard—and she tried her best to get no closer.


It was impossible not to hear from the servants, however. The whole castle was glowing with pleasure and excitement, and chipper banter could be heard under every stair and in each wardrobe and cupboard. After the initial shock of the young heir’s surprise appearance, every cook and cotter seemed to live for nothing but to talk of Jevan Auvray. He was good-looking, clever, civil even to the lowest servants, and most of all had an air of nobility that suited him far better than his uncle and aunt. He was not a perfect saint—as Gunnora was eager to point out, he had a nasty habit of leaving his clothes lying about his bedchamber, and he had spoken crossly to a page boy once or twice when especially peeved—but it was only the sour old women and disgruntled young ones who had any real trouble with him.

Mallkyn’s personal waiting maids, Sybll, Peronell, and Amelia, made their intentions known very early. Cecily often noticed them lingering about the doorway of whatever room Master Auvray happened to be in; all of them dawdled in their tasks whenever they came within hearing distance of him. After several encounters, however, it seems that he showed them no more attention than they deserved, and Sybll was soon making biting comments about his being “too high and mighty even to speak to some people.” When Old Rivens mentioned that he had taken quite a fancy to the young man, he was expressing the nearly unanimous opinion of Granton and Whitcrowe. One can never truly know a person by secondhand, however, and Cecily’s dress was still spattered with shameful mud. She was not one to forgive in haste.

The Sow, a photo by plindberg on Flickr.

Early on a morning when the sky was thick with gray clouds and a chill wind whipped their skirts into whitecap billows, Cecily and Alis walked out to the river forest, dragging a reluctant hog behind them, to gather truffles for Lady Mallkyn’s sharp palate. They always enjoyed truffle hunting together, chiefly because the sow did most of the work and they were left plenty of time to talk and laugh together. They spoke of everything under the sun, from fond memories, to cabbages, to the doings of their friends.

Interview With a Gardener

About a fortnight after Jevan Auvray’s unexpected arrival, Old Rivens made his way down a cobbled path to seat himself in her ladyship’s herber. He began spring the same way every year: sitting on a garden bench, pipe in hand, looking out over his domain and formulating his plan of campaign. He had prophesied the remarkably wet spring, and had been proved correct. Now he fretted over the green shoots that refused to arrive. He loved training up the young sprouts, shielding them from wind and nurturing their growth; they were like his children. For half an hour he sat puffing purple rings of spoke, and he had almost resolved upon a series of drainage ditches when he caught the sound of footsteps. He turned around and saw a dark figure coming through some trees, walking in his direction. Rivens squinted until the figure resolved itself into the young master himself. Rivens hastily knocked out the pipe and adjusted his brown cap (resembling a squashed mushroom) atop his thinning white hair. The young man came closer and turned onto the cobbled path, clearly aiming for Rivens’ seat, and Rivens leapt up to give a bow. “Morning, Master, is there summat I can do for ye?”

charles thomas of camp tuffit, a photo by aroid on Flickr.

The Heir Arrives

Clearly, something had gone wrong. Lights shone through every loophole, and the hazy outlines of men and women ran hither and thither as if racing each other to do the most work. The three newcomers on the scene stood still in the gateway, wondering how Stephen Jambe could be sweeping the courtyard at that hour of the evening, then quickly stepping aside to let Bartholomew and little Elstan carry in a dripping side of pork. Some of the cotters worked quietly, with heads bowed and footsteps muffled, while Luveday stood in the kitchen doorway shouting incoherent orders at the top of her lungs and Gunnora seemed to be on the verge of hysterics as she tried to direct dozens of servants in their duties.

Moonrise - Waiting, a photo by Conanil on Flickr.

Udeline Swetalday was the first one to notice Cecily, Bess, and Milo. She lumbered her great bulk over in their direction, clapping her hands together and sending great clouds of fine flour into the air. “Ah, there ye are at last! Where’ve ye been all this time? The kitchens are short-staffed, I’ll ‘ave ye know, and that boy had better make his way to the stables before he’s dragged there by force.”

Milo jerked in the direction of the stables but Cecily kept a firm grip on his hand. “Short-staffed? What on earth do you mean? Everyone should be going home at this time of evening.”

“Ye mean ye haven’t heard?” Udeline rolled her eyes and heaved her massive chest. “Ach. When ye want to keep summat quiet the news spreads like a wildfire, but when ye can’t spare the time to tell everybody in Carrellshire the same news ten times over….”

“What’s happened, Udeline?”

Making an Acquaintance

Chapter 2: Anything is Possible

That was a long winter. Keening winds brought snow and more snow, and the fields and roads were buried until it was a struggle to walk even the short distance from Whitcrowe to Granton castle, much less to Camberton. With the gardens lying fallow under snow and ice, Cecily spent her working days cleaning, cooking, and serving food at table, while Alis remained at home, often gathered with her friends for company. In the evenings the cotters came together in one another’s houses for the old men to tell tales, the younger men to whittle, the women to sew, and the little ones to sit staring into the hearth flames. 

medieval fireplace, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

Cecily spent many hours kneeling at her mother’s feet, her hands doing some kind of work while her mind was miles away, following the trail of a valiant knight perhaps, the adventures of a princess in disguise, a curious sailor bound for the world’s end, or glorious battles from ancient times. These were the stories that her father had told her in front of winter fires long turned to smoke and ash. She remembered begging him to tell her the same tales over and over again until she had memorized them and could repeat back his every word. Every winter, as soon as the flurry of the Feast had ended, she brought back the Old Tales from the corners of her mind and dwelt upon them, spinning her own dreams like spiders’ webs through the long, frosty nights. She wondered what it would be like to be truly great, to have lords and ladies bowing in homage for the wonderful things you’d done, to be able to tell wide-eyed children about your fabulous adventures across icy oceans, to be talked of in solars and dining halls across the country—across the world. Cecily would stare into the embers until her golden bubble was burst by some outbreak of laughter or a careless foot. Then she would be back in the cottage again, and her fingers would work once more.

Though springtime was reluctant she finally arrived in Carrellshire—her coming signaled only by the fact that it rained more often than it snowed—and the cotters began the work of a new year: mucking out the mill pond, preparing to shear the sheep of their winter cloaks, and sharpening their plowshares to till the clotted soil and make way for crops of oats, barley, vetches, and peas. On one of the first days without a drop of rain, Bess ran up to where Cecily stood examining a broken bit of lattice work. “Cessy! Can ye come to Camberton with me on Stoatsday? Not just the two of us, of course, but Papa’s needed to see a really good blacksmith for some time and I've convinced him to put it off until a market day.”

“Isn’t there a caravan from the Coast that was supposed to arrive this week?”

Medieval Comfits Recipe

Licorice Comfits, a photo by Accidental Hedonist on Flickr. 

In the last segment I posted from the novel's first draft, I mentioned Cecily and Bess mixing up "a batch of mouthwatering aniseed comfits." Comfits are still sold today (they are sometimes called "pastilles"), but were made as far back as Medieval times. Basically, these are candies made by coating a seed (anything from  fennel to caraway to coriander to anise) with melted sugar. Licorice comfits are sold today in all kinds of pretty colors, but these treats were probably quite plain in the Middle Ages.

What follows is a recipe I've edited from one on www.celtnet.org.uk, so you can get a taste of Cecily's world!

Feast of Sages

Days later, on the evening of the Feast, the entire castle staff was treated to Luveday the cook’s estimation of Feasttime: “Methinks this be the most cursed season of the year. All the cookin’, all the visitors, all the hustle and bustle and scourin’ and guttin’ and choppin’ and boilin’ and roastin’ and grindin’ and bakin’ and fryin’ and stewin’—it’s almost more than a body can ‘andle.” The remark, addressed to no one in particular, had been repeated every year for at least two decades, but each time fell on unsympathetic ears.

this is what we eat, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

“You haven’t got a jolly bone in your body, Luveday.” Robbie Brooker tweaked her wimple askew. “This is a time for rejoicing! A chance to celebrate.”

“Not at all, ye young rogue! When ye’re my age and ye have some real responsibilities ye’ll know what “celebratin’” is. If ye had as many meats and treats and whatall as I have to prepare, ye would’na be so merry.” Someone laughed and someone else rolled their eyes, and Cecily collapsed on a low stool in one fragrant corner of the kitchen, out of the way of jostling feet and carving knives. As much as she loved the warmth and plenty of Feasttime, she was forced to admit that the daily workload seemed to double. Every garment had to be fresh and spotless, every floor in the castle must be scrubbed, broken furniture mended, gardens weeded and pruned, and everything generally cleansed for the greatest day of the year, and, as Luveday had duly noted, mountains of food must be prepared. The cooking began a good week before the Feast, with cracking nuts and cleaning game, pounding spices, churning butter, and constantly scrubbing the tools and utensils. Five cattle had been slaughtered for the event (one of which was hissing and dripping over a spit at that moment), the ponds were dragged for all the fish possible, and frigid eels had been speared out of the mud to grace his lordship’s table. Cecily had spent that morning hacking up the entrails of several deer for the venison pie, and assisting young Milo with stirring the innumerable soups that were bubbling in three-legged pots, then helped Bess with a batch of mouthwatering aniseed comfits. Everyone seemed to be in an optimistic mood despite the extra work, and even the faeries were on their best behavior.

Overcoming Pride

If Cecily Lockton has a tragic flaw, it's pride. Throughout the tale of Beast and Beauty I try to show the minor and major influences and events that eventually bring her to the end of her self-sufficiency and to a knowledge of where she really stands in relation to God and man.

To be extremely honest, I deal with my own pride on a daily basis. It's one of my greatest struggles. That's one reason I identify so much with Cecily. She's pretty full of herself sometimes, has a hard time accepting criticism, and tends to blame others rather than herself, just like me. I recently bought a bunch of bookmarks that are printed on both sides with practical examples of pride and humility, and it exactly describes some of Cecily's character traits in Book I (proud people) and in Book II (broken people). Take a look to see what I mean (click to zoom):

Can Ye Keep a Secret?

“Can ye keep a secret?”


“Yes, Bess, of course I can. We’ve always kept each other’s secrets.”


“I know, but this is really important.”



On a frigid morning just before the Feast of Sages nearly all the women in Whitcrowe was gathered at the side of the river to scrub every bit of clothing in Granton that wasn’t firmly fixed to someone’s back (Mallkyn had been attacked by one of her convulsive fits of cleanliness and ordered the entire castle to be cleaned before the arrival of holiday guests). Cecily and Bess Walpole were working together a little apart from the other servants, as they usually did whenever they could. Bess was a shortish, plump girl with curly blond hair that had a personality of its own. Her round face was sweet and innocent, with eyes like cornflowers, but a smirk of the lips betrayed a plucky spirit that might otherwise have gone unnoticed. She and Cecily were about the same age, and Bess’ mother, Gracia, had long been friends with Alis; the girls had spent their short childhoods together. These days they worked side by side as much as possible, though Cecily was often in the gardens while Bess worked in the fields or kitchens.


Bess gave her friend a sidewise glance. “You can’t even tell your mum.”


“I shan’t breathe a word! Now tell me what on earth it is, I’m dying to hear.”


Bess breathed deep and burst into a whisper, “You know I’ve been paying a bit of attention to Robbie lately, jest to see if maybe he feels—something for me.”


Cecily’s face relaxed as she laid a waiting maid’s undergarment on a nearby bush to dry. Bess had a habit of falling for every young man she came across if he was even vaguely good-looking. How many times have I heard her start off just like this, telling me her heart with just that movement of the hands and that look on her face? “Yes, go on.”