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

blinking as he looks away from Petrus.
    They begin to take off their packs and to pull out their bundles of food, all of them moving around as if Petrus weren’t standing there in front of me, as if I weren’t staring at the ground mouthing silent prayers to St. Pega.
    “Ho, Petrus, how about some of that barley bread?” John Mouse calls out. “Where did you stash it?”
    Petrus turns and stomps away from me.
    I take a shaky breath and lower my pack from my shoulders, rooting through it for our bread and cheese. When I set some beside Dame Margery, she barely notices.
    There’s no place to sit that’s not mud. I squat and chew the hard loaf.
    “We’ll make Cologne today,” the merchant says to nobody in particular. “By nightfall, maybe. Guards at the gate, you know—they won’t let those mercenaries in, I don’t figure.”
    “But they’ll let us in, surely,” Dame Isabel says.
    “Oh, aye. Give ’em the sign”—he crosses himself—“so they’ll know you’re pilgrims, and they’ll let you in.”
    “Foreigners who don’t even speak English, sounds like,” Petrus says.
    Thomas lifts his eyebrows. “Their German’s not too bad, though,” he says, and looks at John Mouse, who grins and shakes his head.
    The merchant ignores this exchange. “There’s a hospice run by Englishmen in Cologne. But I’ll be staying at the merchant guild’s own place.”
    “And we’ll be in the student quarters,” John Mouse says.
    “We’ll stay more than a night, then?” Dame Isabel’s husband asks.
    “Two or three days, I should think,” Father Nicholas says.
    “Since when do you make all the decisions?” Petrus Tappester says.
    I watch a flock of birds winging their way south and try to ignore the bickering. At least Petrus—and his devil—have forgotten about me cutting off my mistress’s gag.
    *  *  *
    It begins drizzling again the moment we shoulder our packs. My cloak is soaked through, and its edge is heavy with mud. I have to keep reminding myself of the English hospice ahead.
    We trudge through the afternoon. As we do, the path widens and we begin to see people on it. We pass through a hamlet and make our way around a flock of geese. In the distance, we can see towers, black against the sky.
    “Cologne!” Thomas calls out, then says something in Latin to John Mouse, who laughs.
    The two of them break into song. I can’t understand the words: Latin again. But I recognize the tone. Hearing them, my heart begins to lift. Tonight we’ll have a dry place to sleep with no need to worry about mercenaries.
    They end a verse and laugh, then, looking at each other as they draw in their breaths, start a new one. John Mouse’s voice is clear and steady. I could listen to it all day. Thomas’s voice is strong, but it doesn’t stir something inside me the way John’s does.
    Dame Isabel is listening, too. I watch her watching John Mouse. When he glances toward her, her face grows red. He looks away, at Thomas, and the two begin singing with increased vigor.
    When they finish the song, John Mouse trails a little behind Thomas. I sidle up to him. “What was it about? That song?”
    He grins and looks down at me. “Ah, the little serving maid. Why do you think we sing in Latin? Our song might shock your chaste ears—or those of your mistress.”
    “But what was it about?” Surely a song so full of joy can’t be bad.
    John Mouse looks at me sideways as he thinks up a translation. “It’s something like this,” he says, and begins singing. “To drink and wench and play at dice / Seem to me no such mighty sins.” The words don’t fit the tune very well, but I don’t mind as long as he is singing to me.
He
is singing to
me!
My fear of the soldiers and of Petrus Tappester is truly gone now.
    “Never did a man I know / Go to hell for a game,” he sings. He hums a measure and then sings again, “And to heaven will no man go / Because he aped a holy show.”
    These aren’t the kinds of songs