The town of Ap-Awn-Nuir was drenched in a blanket
of rain. The gray sky, saturated with moisture, opened up its flood
gates and would not relent. Those who called Ap-Awn-Nuir home had
retired, some warm by fires and others shivering without them, out of the
incessant drizzling. The streets were muddied with the deluge; washouts
and deep puddles made travel nearly impossible. And all to be heard
was the fall of rain, drumming on roofs, dribbling off trees, mingled with
the steady chime of church bells upon the hour.
On the outskirts of the tiny township, a single
entourage braved the depressive weather: a nun, a monk, and young
man. The nun was a cherry faced, bright eyed, and pock-marked lass,
and she skipped through the rain with tiny feet. Holding up her skirts
to attempt to keep dry, rain fell off her hood in rivulets as she pranced
over puddles. She was walking toward the home of the Coopers, home
of Joseph Cooper, at a rather fast pace.
Behind the nun, a young man trooped steadily through
the rain, dressed in a monk’s attire. He had an open, oval face,
with a broad nose. His sandy tonsured hair grown rather long, it
protruded from his hood, and fell into his eyes like a curtain. In
one hand, he held the reigns to a rather pathetic looking horse, while
with the other, clinched the material at his throat.
Behind both the nun and the monk was a young man
in mid his twenties--the eldest son of the Cooper’s. Tall, and rather
thin, he ambled over puddles, as rain fell off his cloak in rivulets.
His red hair plastered to his forehead in little curls, he blinked with
squinty blue eyes through the precipitation and gestured to his home as
it loomed ahead of them. The mist was rising.
A boy appeared at the door of the home, lanky and
towheaded, dressed in a long dingy tunic. His large eyes were wide,
and he shivered like a frightened hare. Crossing his thin arms across
his chest, the narrow nosed boy blinked at the approaching nun, as if in
disbelief.
“Harold,” said the corpulent young nun, her clear
blue eyes meeting his with a surprising strength. “I came as quickly
as I could--”
“She’d only speak to you, Sister Beatrice,” said
the boy, his voice between a man’s and a child’s. “Father told me,
‘Wait here.’ And so, I did.”
Sister Beatrice smiled gently then, the tiny lines
next to her round eyes crinkling. She reached out to put a pudgy
hand on Harold’s shoulder. “I’m sure she’s all right, Hen.
Don’t fret, so the Bible says.”
Shivering, Harold turned to open the door, and let
the nun in before him. Removing her hood, Sister Beatrice looked
upon the quaint lay of the home. It was simple, the abode of a simple
family; fitting. The large kitchen served as both a bedroom and a
pantry, a large open fire in the middle. Dried meat and vegetables
hung on lines from the ceilling; onions, herbs, mutton, sending their pungent
aromas into the air. On the stove, a large pot boiled, filled with
water.
Mrs. Cooper, Anna, sat in a chair by the window,
and turned when Sister Beatrice entered. Her crooked fingers were
holding a rag, which she turned and twisted in hand. She was a pathetic
looking woman, bent with years of work and child rearing. A pair
of eyes, like snuffed out candles, seemed void of care or understanding.
Mr. Cooper stood beside her, long like a stork. A tuft of white
hair was all that was left upon his head, and this night it stuck straight
up. He held in his hand a piece of jagged bread, and his mole-like
eyes peered strangely at Sister Beatrice.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Cooper, his voice somewhat
muffled as he chomped on the bread. “Seems the clergy get here right
good and soon, in spite of the weather, hmm.”
Sister Beatrice gave her warmest smile, and awkwardly
took a few more steps into the room, shaking her sopping skirts.
“Aye, indeed,” she said, with a bob of her head. “In particular when
I know it’s a friend.”
“Seems the way it always is,” chimed in Mrs. Cooper,
becoming animated for a moment.
The monk, followed by the Cooper’s son, entered
then, winded by exertion, and smelling of horses.
“Ah, Brother Andrew,” said Mr. Cooper, with a nod.
But it was all he gave. There was no sign of kindness in his eyes.
“And, Eadric. Could you have taken longer?”
Eadric removed his hood, and his drawn, melancholy
face watched his father with intensity. “The horses can’t run in
so much mud. We had to walk. I can’t fly, after all, though
Lord knows it would be helpful.” There was a hint of defiance in
Eadric as he set his jaw and watched his father.
Brother Andrew nodded to the Coopers, “God’s blessings
to you, and to your household.” The monk’s voice was smooth, low,
and kind. His blue eyes shone brightly from his face.
“May I see Enid, now?” asked Beatrice, her sopping
skirts balled up in her fists.
The question hung in the air as Beatrice looked
from Cooper to Cooper. The pot on the stove seemed nearly at the
point of boiling over, and a steady drip from the roof was beginning to
dampen a blanket by Mrs. Cooper.
Harold sniffled, then said, “I’ll take you to her.
In the barn.”
“Ah,” said Beatrice, with one last smile to Mrs.
and Mr. Cooper. Turning away from them, and gladly, she followed
Harold through the back of the house.
The pathway to the barn was greatly muddied, the
once stone path was nearly a washout. Beatrice found her skirts now
sopped up to the knee from splashing through dirt and water. Harold
lumbered along, shoulders hunched, squinting in the rain, as the round
little Beatrice hopped along behind him.
Standing ominous in the rain, the dilapidated barn
rose up before them. Its wood sides were stained a dark brown, like
the tar used by a cooper, and all the hinges had rusted red long ago.
The large double doors were open, however, just a crack, and Henry seemed
to find that surprising.
“She must’ve seen us, then,” he said, his voice
drowned out by the slapping of rain against the barn, as water splashed
down from the roof. “There, the door’s open. I’m going back!”
Henry skipped quickly back to the house.
Beatrice cocked her head at the door, perplexed,
and then, with her petite fingers, pried open the large door. She
was immediately assaulted with the smell of wet hay, and of curing wood,
and she wrinkled her nose. Her first inclination was to take her
handkerchief, but she found that, too, was sopping wet.
The barn itself was quite a sight. The Cooper’s
one horse, Alfred, was stabled to the right, across from their one cow,
Allison. A goat, who no one had bothered to name, was tied some distance
from Allison, and was happily devouring hay. Farther down, the barn
opened up, and hay stacks stood still on each side, Mr. Cooper’s workspace
spread out. The back wall was hung with barrel parts, hoops, and
various tools, as well as brands. Up in the loft, there was more
hay, and, more noticeably, the sounds of what seemed like hundreds of birds,
twittering. Yet, it was all very obscured, for little light managed
to escape through the boards of the barn, let alone on a rainy day as this
particular one.
Bunching up her skirts in her hands, Beatrice slowly
made her way through the darkened barn. She whispered, her voice
sweet and high, “Enid?”
There was no answer but the drumming of rain, and
the rustle of bird feathers.
“Enid?” asked the nun again, this time a little
louder. Alfred stomped his hoof.
“Bea?” came the timid answer; distant, towards the
back of the barn.
"Oh, Enid,” cried Beatrice, shuffling forward, and
nearly slipping a few times. She made he way to the back of the barn,
looking left, then right, in the dim light. She could hear her friend’s
cries, now, soft weeping, as as she turned, she noticed the golden light
of a candle. In the light, sat Enid, looking up teary eyed to Beatrice.
It wasn’t that Enid was fantastically beautiful.
She had never been stunning, or really that noticeable. Her only
curse was that she was a gentle maid, so sweet of countenance and feature,
that most found it impossible to hate her. A pair of murky green
eyes blinked innocently from her white, oval face. Her nose was small,
if not a little narrow like her brother’s, and her brow was high and smooth.
Certainly, her hair was nothing extraordinary, either; long, pale, and
fine, it fell softly past her shoulders. At the moment, it was rather
ridden with pieces of hay.
“Dear, dear, sweet, Enid!” cried Beatrice, falling
down to her knees, and nestling her friend in her arms. “My dearest
friend! Why do you cry so?”
Enid answered in sobs.
Beatrice sighed, and simply held her weeping friend.
There was little else she could do. As it rained outside, Beatrice
shivered in the chilly barn, hay itching at her ankles.
Finally, when Enid had done all the crying she could,
she released herself from Beatrice’s arms, and brushed away the hair sticking
to her tear-stained face. “A bad thing has happened,” was what she
said, bringing part of her skirt to her eyes.
“Oh, my,” cooed Beatrice, folding her pudgy hands
beneath her chin. Her bright eyes were wide, her mouth in a perfect
“o” of shock. “Please, please, tell me what happened. Your
family seems so upset, my, my!”
“I can’t tell,” whispered Enid, wiping her nose
with the back of her hand. She sniffled miserably. Wisps of
hair clung to her clammy forehead, and down her cheek.
Beatrice squirmed a little, moving her legs as they were starting to
fall asleep. Her face was placid. “Enid, my dear, dear, friend!
My sweet little friend, you know you can tell me what troubles you,” said
the nun. “If it is serious, I can get you a priest.”
“My father is sending me to work for Fitzroy,” stammered
the young Enid, her eyes welling anew with tears. “I’m to be a maidservant
to his future wife!”
Beatrice smiled, as fear fell from her, and her
shoulders relaxed. “Why, Enid! Then there is nothing to worry
about. Don’t be silly and make this difficult for your parents.
You’ve a fine job, now, and much easier than helping your father, I’d warrant.”
Enid stared at her friend, the young Sister Beatrice,
and there was disappointment in her eyes. She inhaled sharply at
the thought of her utter loneliness. The rain drummed on the roof,
and Enid stopped her crying. Something told her to keep quiet, now.
“Eadric is coming, too,” said Enid, her voice lowering
to a whisper. She could not look at Beatrice. “He’s to be the
ground’s keeper, you know, since he’s been apprenticed by Mr. Godwin in
town. He’s quite the flair for it, or so they say. I wouldn’t
know, really. But Fitzroy came to visit a few weeks ago . . . and
he saw prospect in us. We fetched a good price for mother and father,
I’m told.”
“Well, that’s splendid news, Enid! Now, wipe
your face, and do try to smile. When are you leaving? It must
be soon, oh, dear! It’s so exciting!” The nun was beside herself
with pride. Her very own friend, Enid Cooper, to be the maidservant
to Fitzroy’s wife to be. Of all the girls in all of Ap-Awn-Nuir,
Fitzroy had chosen lovely Enid, a simple girl with a sweet heart.
“I hear Fitzroy’s fiancee is quite the girl,” said
Beatrice, as she stood up. She wiped the hay from her skirt, babbling.
“She’s from a family down by London way, a very wealthy one at that.
But they say, in spite of it all, she’s noble to the very toes of her feet.
She’s beautiful as Iseult, and is a near saint. I saw her once at
our Abbey, too, and though she had a cloak about her face, I just knew
it was all true. Fitzroy is a wise man to choose a wife so well.”
Candles can only cast so much light. In the
dark hall of Dulamour, Fitzroy sat at the end of a large oak table.
No matter how many candles were illuminated, it was still much too dim.
He could hardly see the parchment before him, and his frustration mounted.
With a low grunt, he slammed down the quill pen in one hand, and stared
with smothering eyes before him. Handsome in a conventional Norman
way, Fitzroy’s face was angular, and his eyes were soft green. His
hair, long and slightly wavy, fell just past his shoulders, light brown.
Not quite young enough to be in youth, Fitzroy danced the line between
birth and death. He kept himself in the best of shape. He frowned.
“Marie!” he called into the dark beyond the candle
light. Somewhere in the depths of the fortress, someone stirred,
and Marie came clattering down the staircase.
Emerging into the hallway, she looked like an apparition, dressed in her
nightgown. The large woman, Fitzroy’s head caretaker, had a none
too impressed look on her ruddy face as she approached the table.
“What is it, Gilles?”
“Hmmm,” said Fitzroy, dipping the nib of his pen
repeatedly into the inkwell. “Does it ever do anything but rain in
this accursed country?” His voice was low, and he did not look up
to meet the woman’s gaze. He seemed much like a child in her presence.
Marie sighed miserably, wiping her brow with a chubby
hand. “Gilles, it’s England.”
“Indeed.”
“Is that all?”
“Tomorrow,” said Fitzroy, looking up at Marie.
“The Coopers, they’re arriving tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“Good, good.”
“That’s all.”
“Certain?”
“Hmmm, yes. Certain. And--Bianca.
She’s arriving in a week?”
“Yes.”
“Good night, Marie.”
“Good night, Gilles.”
“Good night, Enid,” said Eadric, turning in his cot.
The hay beneath rustled.
“Eadric?” she asked, whispering. The sounds
of their parents sleeping drifted up through the house, mingling with the
falling rain. Mr. and Mrs. Cooper shared a cot, and Eadric had his
as well. But Enid and Harold had the floor as their own.
“Mmm?”
“Eadric, are you frightened?”
Eadric stiffened a little, turning to his side so
he was facing his sister. He shook his head. “No, not at all.
Why, are you afraid?” The idea seemed to amuse Eadric. “You
are afraid, aren’t you?” he asked, after waiting a moment and hearing no
response from Enid. “It isn’t as if you know him, Enie.
What’s to fear in unknowing?”
Harold, sleeping a few feet away, stirred and moaned in his sleep.
Enid nestled into her covers and moved on the cold floor.
“Perhaps I’ll have a real bed,” she mused.
The darkness felt very full around her.
“That’s the way to speak,” said Eadric, yawning.
“Don’t fear what you don’t know.”
Enid fell silent, and hoped her brother would think
she had fallen asleep. Her hands were clutched in fists, and no matter
how close to the fire she moved herself, she felt numb all over.
But she didn’t know if it was from the cold or not. She put her hand
on her stomach, and it felt cold, but different. Tears seared her
eyes, and she buried her head in her makeshift pillow, biting her lip to
muffle her cries. How long would she be able to wait? Eventually,
someone would know. All things hidden eventually become disclosed.
Marie led Eadric and Enid through the main hall into
the dining hall. It was dim, for it still rained out of doors, but
there was also an immense emptiness about it. The ceilling reached
up to the roof, and a lonely oak table sat set with one plate. A
large fireplace of stone burned brightly, casting a warm glow on the wood
floor before it. Eadric had never been inside such a large house,
but Enid seemed unimpressed. She was dressed in her best dress, one
of two, and it was pressed well. Eadric still looked disheveled,
as he tended to, but his handsome features made up for his appearance.
He shuffled his large feet before him, and had arrayed himself like a true
gardener--implements in hand given to him by his past master. He
beamed with pride. Enid seemed to float beside her brother, her eyes
to the floor, as Marie conducted the tour.
“And here, we enter the Dining Hall, where Master
Fitzroy takes his lunch and his supper. I suspect Mistress Bianca
will be taking hers in here as well, so Enid, you need to know that,” Marie
was saying, yawning her way through. She sniffled, and took out a
handkerchief, wiping her nose sloppily on it.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Enid, softly. Her long
hair was plaited up, and she felt the braids itch her scalp, but she made
no move to scratch.
Eadric opened his mouth to say something, but just
then, heavy footfalls entered the Dining Hall, and the impending figure
of Fitzroy, followed by two man servants, entered. He was in his
riding gear, but a film of sleepiness still hung on his angular lids.
Tall for a Norman, Fitzroy held himself with dignity, and opted for cleanliness,
something he had picked up while traveling in Ireland.
“Ah, it seems the Coopers have come,” he said, looking
straight at Enid.
Enid felt her heart thud in her throat, and knew
her face began to redden. Eadric smiled brilliantly, captivated by
Fitzroy.
“Welcome, welcome to both of you,” said Fitzroy,
embracing both of them. He kissed Enid softly on the cheek, and with
all her might, she restrained tears. “It is lovely to meet you, finally.
I trust Marie is taking good care of you and showing you around?
If you need anything, just ring for her.” He turned behind him, and
gestured to the two man servants. One was small and ruddy, with beady
eyes, and bald. The other was slim, tall, and effeminate looking,
a boy, just out of his youth. “These are my stable hands, George
and Lucas.” Each nodded their heads in turn. “We’re going hunting
today, in some new land I just acquired south of here. I hear it’s
filled with lovely deer, and in spite of the rain, we need to occupy ourselves.”
“I think the rain has subsided a little today, sir,”
said Eadric. “At any rate, I hope your steeds are well shoed, and
well built--the mud will be deep!”
“Indeed!” laughed Fitzroy, his eyes merry, and clapping
Eadric on the shoulder. He looked at Enid quickly, then right back
to Eadric. “Come, follow us, you seem to know something of horses,
then, Eadric. You rustic folk know your way around beasts better
than I. I’ll show you my collection!”
In a shuffle of boots, the four men departed, leaving Marie and Enid
alone in the hall.
“Men,” said Marie. “I’ll never understand
them. I weaned Master Fitzroy, and still, I don’t understand him.
In time, you’ll realize it, too.” There was a fond sadness in Marie
as the watched the men leave, and her eyes drifted off out the large windows.
Enid was silent, but she felt her heart beating
in her ears. Her blood surged, and she wondered idly if Marie could
hear her heart, too. With shaky hands, she picked at the lace on
her bodice; she looked much like a frightened bird, so gentle and small.
The Hall filled with a profound silence as the two
woman stood their, lost in their own thoughts.
“Well,” Marie said at last, clapping her hands together.
“It’s time I showed you to the east wing, where Miss Bianca will be.
It is our job to make her as welcome as possible. You know that Master
Fitzroy is the last in his line, and Mistress Bianca the last in hers.
I can’t imagine what would happen if they didn’t beget an heir!”
Enid tried to speak, but found she had no voice. She felt her
insides go cold, and instinctively, she put her hand to her stomach.
“You alright, poppet?” asked Marie, smiling for
the first time Enid remembered.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said quietly. “I’m just
a little tired, I think, and my stomach is upset.”
“Ah, we’ll take care of that then, let’s get you
fed. You’re as slight as a willow, my dear! Time for you to
fatten up!” laughed Marie, taking Enid by the shoulder. “Come, to
the kitchen.”
Marie lumbered off, and Enid waited a moment.
From her viewpoint, she could see Eadric and Fitzroy talking. They
were laughing. But Enid felt as if all joy had been taken from her.
How long would it be until it all fell apart? She sighed, and heard
Marie’s skirts swishing to a stop.
“You coming, little lark?” cooed Marie.
Enid snapped from her daze, and nodded wordlessly.