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Authors: Karen Maitland
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They do not talk about Gisa’s father. They never mention his name. It is one of the many rules the girl has been forced to learn since her uncle and aunt have, of their great Christian charity, taken her into their home. Something for which, as Aunt Ebba daily reminds her, she should be eternally grateful.
And at this moment, Gisa
is
grateful to the great white sow as, in her more shameful moments, she dubs her aunt, though always under her breath. Yesterday she believed herself miserable here, but now she knows she’d rather spend the rest of her life emptying her aunt’s piss pot and rubbing her sweaty yellow feet than one night under Sylvain’s roof.
Ebba makes a grasping movement with her sausage fingers and Thomas hands her the brooch, which she examines with as much care as he did. The cat stirs itself and sits up. It has never in its life bothered to hunt a real bird, but now its green eyes fasten on the white swan. It leans forward and sniffs. Then, with a yowl as if it has been pecked on the nose, it shoots off the bed, its tail bushed, and flees to the door, scratching frantically to be let out.
‘Did I prick you, Apricot, did I?’ Ebba is distraught. ‘I’m so sorry. Here, my poor sweeting, here. See what I have for you.’
She dangles a strip of dried mutton from the jar she keeps by the bed in case Apricot should require a treat, but the cat continues to wail and scratch until Gisa is forced to open the door and release it.
Ebba turns the brooch over. The golden pin on the back is covered with a little leather sheath to prevent just such an accident. She cannot imagine what could have hurt her poor baby.
Thomas takes the brooch from his wife and returns it to Gisa. ‘You’d best wear this on your cloak when you take the delivery up to Lord Sylvain.’
Gisa jerks as if she has been struck. ‘I can’t go, Uncle. Please, send the boy.’
A young lad comes daily to the shop to run errands and deliver physic to wealthier customers.
Aunt Ebba leans forward. ‘She certainly can’t go. I need her here and, besides, who will mind the shop?’
‘He specifically asked that Gisa deliver it,’ Thomas said. ‘The ingredients are costly and fragile. He doesn’t trust the boy.’
‘It isn’t seemly for a young woman to go alone to a man’s house,’ Aunt Ebba says primly, quite forgetting that, only moments before, she had declared Gisa to be a mere child. But, then, Ebba has never known a moment’s embarrassment about contradicting herself when it suits her purpose. ‘Besides, Mistress Anne said she was coming back after dark the other night and saw a ball of blue light crackling over the roof of that tower of his. Like the flames of Hell, she said it was. Goodness knows what he gets up to at the dead of night all alone there.’
‘I believe the fires of Hell are red, my dear,’ Thomas says mildly. ‘At least, they appear so in the wall-paintings in the church.’
Aunt Ebba looks mutinous. She hates to be corrected. ‘What has the baron ordered anyway that’s so special?’ she snaps.
Thomas hesitates. He finds it difficult to refuse to answer a direct question from his wife. If she is thwarted in any way, she will have one of her attacks, which only adds to his sense of guilt and failure.
‘Quicksilver and sulphur as always, also monkshood . . . and dragon’s blood. That is what will take me time to obtain for him.’
‘Dragon’s blood?’ Ebba squawks. ‘I hope he’s paid you in advance. The merchants won’t wait for their money and we can’t afford to buy—’
Thomas holds up his hand in an effort to dam the torrent of objections. ‘I know it, but he has already paid me half, the rest on delivery if the quality is good.’
‘Then you must be sure it is, Thomas. You’re too soft with these foreign merchants, too trusting. You must inspect and test every bag they offer before you part with a penny. What does he need it for anyway?’
Thomas shrugs. ‘Perhaps he has
And at this moment, Gisa
is
grateful to the great white sow as, in her more shameful moments, she dubs her aunt, though always under her breath. Yesterday she believed herself miserable here, but now she knows she’d rather spend the rest of her life emptying her aunt’s piss pot and rubbing her sweaty yellow feet than one night under Sylvain’s roof.
Ebba makes a grasping movement with her sausage fingers and Thomas hands her the brooch, which she examines with as much care as he did. The cat stirs itself and sits up. It has never in its life bothered to hunt a real bird, but now its green eyes fasten on the white swan. It leans forward and sniffs. Then, with a yowl as if it has been pecked on the nose, it shoots off the bed, its tail bushed, and flees to the door, scratching frantically to be let out.
‘Did I prick you, Apricot, did I?’ Ebba is distraught. ‘I’m so sorry. Here, my poor sweeting, here. See what I have for you.’
She dangles a strip of dried mutton from the jar she keeps by the bed in case Apricot should require a treat, but the cat continues to wail and scratch until Gisa is forced to open the door and release it.
Ebba turns the brooch over. The golden pin on the back is covered with a little leather sheath to prevent just such an accident. She cannot imagine what could have hurt her poor baby.
Thomas takes the brooch from his wife and returns it to Gisa. ‘You’d best wear this on your cloak when you take the delivery up to Lord Sylvain.’
Gisa jerks as if she has been struck. ‘I can’t go, Uncle. Please, send the boy.’
A young lad comes daily to the shop to run errands and deliver physic to wealthier customers.
Aunt Ebba leans forward. ‘She certainly can’t go. I need her here and, besides, who will mind the shop?’
‘He specifically asked that Gisa deliver it,’ Thomas said. ‘The ingredients are costly and fragile. He doesn’t trust the boy.’
‘It isn’t seemly for a young woman to go alone to a man’s house,’ Aunt Ebba says primly, quite forgetting that, only moments before, she had declared Gisa to be a mere child. But, then, Ebba has never known a moment’s embarrassment about contradicting herself when it suits her purpose. ‘Besides, Mistress Anne said she was coming back after dark the other night and saw a ball of blue light crackling over the roof of that tower of his. Like the flames of Hell, she said it was. Goodness knows what he gets up to at the dead of night all alone there.’
‘I believe the fires of Hell are red, my dear,’ Thomas says mildly. ‘At least, they appear so in the wall-paintings in the church.’
Aunt Ebba looks mutinous. She hates to be corrected. ‘What has the baron ordered anyway that’s so special?’ she snaps.
Thomas hesitates. He finds it difficult to refuse to answer a direct question from his wife. If she is thwarted in any way, she will have one of her attacks, which only adds to his sense of guilt and failure.
‘Quicksilver and sulphur as always, also monkshood . . . and dragon’s blood. That is what will take me time to obtain for him.’
‘Dragon’s blood?’ Ebba squawks. ‘I hope he’s paid you in advance. The merchants won’t wait for their money and we can’t afford to buy—’
Thomas holds up his hand in an effort to dam the torrent of objections. ‘I know it, but he has already paid me half, the rest on delivery if the quality is good.’
‘Then you must be sure it is, Thomas. You’re too soft with these foreign merchants, too trusting. You must inspect and test every bag they offer before you part with a penny. What does he need it for anyway?’
Thomas shrugs. ‘Perhaps he has
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