Page 11 of The Forgotten
Petra had seen little of Thomas while she was in Lady Blythe’s employ, but she had gotten to know Robert a little, since he was still unmarried and living with his mother. Beneath the charming exterior, Robert chafed at his situation and often complained to Petra bitterly about his mother, a habit that earned Petra more than a few stripes across her back from her employer, who was aware of Robert’s friendship with the girl. Robert had no wish to spend his life handling greasy fleeces and making deals with fat, greedy merchants. He’d begged his father to secure him a place as a page in some noble house when he was a boy, which would have been a stepping stone to becoming a squire. Robert liked the idea of becoming a knight and performing in tourneys during spells of peace, but most of all, he dreamed of distinguishing himself on the battlefield, earning the respect of his peers and possibly even getting the notice of the king.
Lord Malcolm had been in favor of the plan, but Lady Blythe overrode her husband and squashed Robert’s dreams by reminding her husband that he was a drunkard and a fool, so it wouldn’t be too long before his sons had to take over his business, and it would take both of them to make it prosperous and secure for future generations. Lord Malcolm didn’t bother to argue, seeing the truth in his wife’s argument. He might have liked his ale and afew hours of gambling, but he knew good sense when he heard it and so forbade Robert to mention the subject ever again.
It wasn’t long after Petra came into Lady Blythe’s employ that Robert was married off as well. He refused several proposed brides but finally settled on a sweet, comely girl, who came to live at Lady Blythe’s house along with Thomas’s wife, Mildred. Lady Blythe terrorized the young wives and her servants, and brooked no opposition or backtalk of any kind. She was known for her extreme piety and saw sin behind every bush. Lady Blythe believed that to spare the rod was an affront to God and used it often and with great effect. Not a week went by that Petra didn’t earn a beating for a cup of spilled ale or food that wasn’t hot enough when it reached the table. Petra bore it all, knowing that she had no place else to go. By that time, she’d understood her mother’s reasons for sending her away and visited only on her afternoons off, which were once a fortnight.
Alfred abandoned Maude when Petra was fifteen, proclaiming his wife to be a dried-up, old crone. He’d taken a mistress who was young enough to be his daughter. The girl’s father had been handsomely paid for his blessing and sizable donations to the church coffers kept the priests from condemning the immoral relationship. Alfred retained his position of respect in the community, deserting his wife and stepdaughter without any repercussions. The one honorable thing he did before leaving was to designate a sum for Petra’s dowry, which he left with Maude.
Lady Blythe released Petra from service after Alfred left, mindful of a girl’s duty to her mother, but Petra never forgot her cruelty or lack of compassion. The idea of having to endure her self-righteous claptrap for even a moment left Petra burning with indignation, but short of going begging to her stepfather, who was still alive and quite well off, Lady Blythe was her last resort.
ELEVEN
Petra owned two gowns: a serviceable faded brown wool that she wore day-to-day, and a dark-blue gown of lighter wool dyed with woad. Petra wore the blue gown only to church and on feast days, and kept it wrapped in linen and folded neatly in the trunk when not using it. She chose the brown, since it was somber and shabby and better suited to begging. She braided her hair and pinned it up before donning her barbet. Lady Blythe would notice every detail of her appearance, and she wished to look as docile and impoverished as possible. Petra glanced with longing at her fur-lined cloak but decided to take Maude’s instead, which was made of plain, dark-gray wool. The fur-lined cloak was a relic of more prosperous times, and she had no wish to show Lady Blythe that she owned anything so fine, even though Lady Blythe would not consider vair to be anything more than rodent fur, suitable only for the wife of a journeyman. Petra said goodbye to the children and set off toward the center of town, her demeanor no more cheerful than someone walking to their execution.
Lady Blythe’s house was a few minutes’ walk from the harbor. It had been further inland, but due to the ever-encroaching nature of the sea, it was now closer to the water’s edge, in the busiest part of town. It was a prosperous home, added to over time and built almost entirely of stone. It had real wood floors and a roof laid with slate, not the more-commonly used thatch that rotted and began to leak after a time. Real glazed windows reflected the morning sunshine in their diamond-shaped panes, and smoke curled from several chimneys, proclaiming the owner’s ability to light fires in different rooms, despite the cost.
Petra knocked on the door and waited, a part of her hoping that she would be turned away and told never to come back. The door was opened by a young girl, who looked at Petra with surprise.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I wish to see Lady Devon. I’m willing to wait for as long as it takes,” Petra added, since she had no appointment.
“Come in then. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
Petra was ushered into an antechamber that was furnished with only a bench and two tall candles in iron stands. The candles weren’t lit since the room was bathed in natural light, which poured through the window set high in the wall. The light made a pretty pattern on the floor, distorting the panes and making their reflection look slanted and elongated. Petra took a seat and folded her hands in her lap, prepared to wait. Even if Lady Blythe was unoccupied, she’d never see her without making her wait first, to remind her of her lowly station.
The minutes slid by, reminding Petra of how hungry she was. She’d barely eaten that morning, too nervous to swallow the thin porridge Maude made several days ago. It had thickened considerably from being repeatedly reheated, but it was still gruel, and Petra couldn’t stomach it. Her mouth watered at the thought of an eel pie. What she wouldn’t give for a nice, thick slice. If she had coin to spare, she’d go to the market and buy herself a treat, but she couldn’t afford to waste even a halfpenny. Besides, it was the first Thursday of the month, the day the monks collected market fees, leaving stall owners feeling disgruntled and angry.For men of cloth who believe in poverty and charity, they certainly never miss an opportunity to line their pockets, Petra thought bitterly. The king had granted Greyfriars numerous rights, ranging from collecting market tax to owning all the dung in the town, whichthey collected street by street and from the town ditch. Anyone who required dung to fertilize their fields had to buy it back from the monks, making the priory wealthier with each passing day. Many in the town praised the monks for their charitable works, but in Petra’s view, they owed the people of Dunwich, considering how much they took.Hunger is making me ill-tempered, Petra thought as she glanced at the door.I’d do well to keep my anger in check.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d sat there, but the light had changed from the bright glare of morning to the gentler glow of early afternoon. Finally, the servant appeared, looking a bit flustered.
“Lady Blythe’s confessor is just leaving. She’ll see you presently.”
Petra turned as a tall man in clerical robes came through the inner door. He held a prayer book and a rosary in one hand and his hat in the other, his gaze fixed on the door. He might have walked straight past her had Petra not inhaled sharply and caught his attention. His hair was cut short, his cheeks lean in a clean-shaven face. He looked almost gaunt, and very stern, but his gaze softened when it settled on Petra, his lips turning up the corners just enough to hint at a smile. He was about to say something when he noticed the curious stare of the servant and changed his mind. He bowed stiffly and departed, leaving Petra shaking with shock. She hadn’t seen him in twelve years, but the heat that flooded her face was a testament to the fact that not much had changed, at least not for her.
Petra quickly rearranged her face into an expression of bland docility and followed the servant into Lady Blythe’s parlor. The old woman was sitting in front of a roaring fire, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes alert. She didn’t offer Petra a seat.Instead, she motioned for her to stand far enough from the hearth so as not to enjoy any actual warmth. Lady Blythe studied Petra for a few moments, as if trying to recall exactly where she’d seen her before.
“How’s your mother?” she finally asked, admitting that she knew her visitor.
“She’s well, lady.”
“Heard about your husband. Shame,” Lady Blythe said. She had an abrupt way of speaking, almost as if she couldn’t be bothered to waste unnecessary words on those beneath her.
“Thank you, lady.”
“Need work, do you?”
Lady Blythe laughed when Petra looked surprised by the question. “Why else would you be here? Not like you harbor any warm feeling for me. And not like you should. I worked you hard. You needed to learn discipline and humility.”
“Yes, lady.”
“Don’t ‘yes, lady’ me. Just say your piece. You’re a grown woman now. Act like one.”
Petra bristled at the old woman’s tone but rose to the challenge. She was right; Petra was a grown woman, and the woman in front of her was much smaller and less intimidating than she recalled. Lady Blythe had aged over the past twelve years, her shrunken body small in the massive carved chair. Had she not had a footstool, her feet would have dangled in the air, like a child’s.
“Lady Blythe, my husband’s death left me short of means. I have three children and an elderly mother who depend on me. I would be grateful for any work you could offer me.”
“That’s better. Any work?” Lady Blythe asked with a predatory smile.
Petra wanted to scream that she had no wish to scrub pots, take out Lady Blythe’s chamber pot, or pick over wool in the shed, but she was in no position to be choosy. “Any work,” she repeated, her tone firm.
