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IN THE HEART OF A MOTHER lies the purest love.
—The Lady Mangst
* * *
GWEN LUMBERED HOME along the worn road, feeling like she’d been abandoned by the only friend she had. Truth be told, Gilly was her only friend, and realizing her behavior had pushed Gilly away was painful. At the same time, Gwen couldn’t dismiss the role the fortune-teller had played in it all. If she hadn’t told Gilly that awful lie about Thomlin Frank, whom she’d quite obviously already spoken with before the two girls arrived at the tent, then maybe her friend wouldn’t have defended his clumsiness with such fervor. Just before she entered the gate to the cottage’s yard, Gwen kicked at a pebble in the road but missed, stubbing her toe on the hard ground. She cursed under her breath and walked the path to the front entrance, each step as downtrodden as she felt. There was no hope left in her, and she knew her only choice was to do what her grandmother had done and leave Vasterberg. By hook or by crook, she would find her own way in the world.
Her father was happy to see her, and Gwen accepted his long hug and tender kiss atop her head with humility. Much to her surprise, even her grandmother was welcoming.
“We’ve decided to allow you two more months to decide where you’ll serve out your apprenticeship,” Jacob announced after they’d finished the main course of their evening meal: roast beef and turnips.
“That won’t be necessary, Father.”
“Oh?” he responded.
Her grandmother set down the strawberry pie she was moving to the table to cut into serving-sized wedges and sat down in her chair.
“Yes. I’ll never be the baker Gilly is. She should serve the apprenticeship with the Widow Crookstaff. She’ll make a fine baker. That leaves the monastery.”
“I see,” said her father. His words held no enthusiasm, just resignation, but he smiled at her nevertheless.
Her grandmother, on the other hand, clapped her hands once, picked up the knife beside the pie tin, and plunged it into the center of the pie. “A wise decision, Gwendolin. You’ll have a long and stable life as a monk. Which order will you serve?”
Her father looked down at his hands, which were clasped together and resting on the table. Gwen realized at that moment sending his daughter to a monastery hadn’t been her father’s first choice, but her grandmother’s, and she was sad not to be surprised by the revelation. It also saddened her that her father didn’t have more control over his household, particularly when it came to decisions concerning his own child. “I don’t know. I thought I’d ask the schoolmistress for advice. She’ll be in Vasterberg this week.”
“Yes, yes. A wise decision, Gwendolin,” her grandmother said, plopping a piece of the pie onto a plate and shoving it in front of Jacob. “She will know who you can speak with about the matter.”
“If I might be excused, please. I’d like to clean my room before dark.”
“But what about your pie? It’s your favorite,” said her father, his face wrinkled into an older version of itself.
“It smells wonderful, but I’m too full of roast to enjoy it. I’ll have it tomorrow if nobody minds.”
Her grandmother plopped two wedges out of the pie tin and onto plates, leaving the third one she’d cut in place. “Of course, child. It will be here in the morning and make a hearty breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Gwen said, rising from her chair and giving both her grandmother and father a kiss on their cheeks before heading for her room.
“It’s good to have you home again,” her father called out.
“It’s good to be home,” said Gwen. She felt a twinge of guilt for telling him a lie.
* * *
FOR THE NEXT THREE days, Gwen awoke early each morning and did chores before having breakfast. She even slopped the pigs twice, each time scolding them for charging at her but standing her ground even though she wanted to run away from their snuffling snouts and sharp, cloven feet. Once she’d completed all the chores she thought needed doing, for nobody had given her a list and she’d taken it upon herself to find tasks each day, she bathed and dressed for a trip into Vasterberg.
On the first visit to the village, Gwen found the schoolhouse empty. Using the underside of her apron to rub winter’s grime off a window, she peered inside. Heavy cloth still covered the desks and chairs. Cobwebs stretched across corners where walls met ceiling and dangled from the unburned candles set into a wooden ring hanging in the center of the main room. Lessons would be delayed while the schoolmistress swept and dusted the room in which she taught lessons and tidied up the small room behind the main one. Like a cottage in miniature, the smaller space served as living quarters for the schoolmistress, who stayed from spring until winter’s onset, when once again the lesson room’s furniture would be covered and the building locked until after winter had thawed.
By the third day, when there still had been no sign of the schoolmistress’s arrival, Gwen thought about which councilman would be amenable to unlocking the door so she could tidy up before Mistress Bourgogne arrived. She decided to approach the one who was an unmarried woodcutter. He supplied firewood for the schoolhouse and always seemed cheerful to chat with the schoolmistress while he unloaded his cart and carried the wood inside. Determined to do anything that would make the time before she could speak with the schoolmistress go more quickly, Gwen set off to fulfill her plan. She’d mastered the art of walking with her eyes cast downward while still being able to see far enough ahead of her to swerve around people before she encountered them, and so she easily slipped out of Vasterberg without speaking to a single person.
Before she reached the woodcutter’s cabin at the edge of the forest, however, she caught sight of Gilly coming down the road toward Vasterberg . . . toward her! Thomlin walked beside her, and the two were talking and laughing. He was grinning like a fool and lugging a cloth-covered basket Gwen recognized as belonging to Mignon. Gwen wished he’d trip over his own feet, but more than that, she wanted to get away without suffering the humiliation of facing Gilly again, so Gwen dived into a hedgerow beside the road.
For what seemed like a lifetime in the bush, its prickly branches scratching her and snagging her cotton dress, Gwen waited for the pair to pass. As they approached, she heard Gilly’s tinkling laughter and Thomlin’s coarse croak.
“Are you going to talk with her about an apprenticeship?”
“Yes, I think I might. Mother says it would be a good way to improve my skills, and I trust her judgment.”
“I think she’s right. You truly are an amazing baker, Gillian Margaretta Bastwick.”
Gilly giggled, and Gwen could imagine her friend blushing at the compliment. Thomlin had no right to use her mother’s name, and it irked her that he did. Mignon had given her daughter her best friend’s first name as a second name, and it was one that only those closest to her ever used. After her mother died, Gwen had found comfort in knowing her mother’s name would live on in someone they both loved so much. Now the name that once soothed her pain had become a bitter reminder of a boy squirming his way into Gilly’s life and displacing the closeness the two girls had built. He’d spoiled all the name signified for Gwen. She thought she truly hated Thomlin Frank.
The pair stopped right next to the hedgerow, and Gwen wanted to scream at them to just move along and leave her alone with her sadness, but she refrained and listened.
“Are you going to tell her?”
“The schoolmistress?” asked Gilly.
“No. Gwen. You said her grandmother and father wanted her to apprentice under the Widow Crookstaff.”
Tears stung Gwen’s eyes. How could Gilly have betrayed her and told him, him of all people, about the disagreement she’d had with her family? Gwen had half a mind to crawl out of the bush and slap Gillian Margaretta Bastwick right across her silly, blushing cheek.
“I don’t think so. She’ll find out soon enough. What is there to say, Thomlin?” Gilly’s voice changed and became mocking, “Hello, Gwen. I’m going to take the apprenticeship you never wanted anyway. So for once in your life, don’t be so selfish and compete with me for it. You’d make a poor baker anyway.”
Gwen was stunned at the cruelty in Gilly’s tone. It wasn’t that she was wrong in what she said. Gwen would make an awful baker, and she had no interest in spending her life standing in front of a dough table or stoking a hot oven. But there was no need for Gilly to be so unkind about the truth.
As the pair continued on their way to Vasterberg, Gwen remained in the hedgerow. When they were well out of sight, she fought her way out of the angry branches, vowing to even the score with Gilly for her betrayal. Someday, somehow, she’d show her just how unkind someone could be.
* * *
GWEN’S PLAN TO CLEAN up the schoolhouse before the traveling schoolmistress arrived went off without a hitch. She secured the key from the woodcutter with the promise of contacting him as soon as the schoolmistress made it to Vasterberg. In a mere two days’ time, she transformed the grubby space into a fresh, inviting one. When the schoolmistress finally appeared in the doorway, her place of employ and her living space welcomed her, as did Gwen.
“Good afternoon, Mistress Bourgogne. We were beginning to worry that something had befallen you on the road.”
The woman, who towered above Gwen and couldn’t have been more her opposite in coloring and demeanor, looked around the learning room. Her olive skin and raven hair, pulled back severely into a tight bun on the back of her head, shimmered in the firelight. “Did you do this, Gwendolin?”
Gwen nodded. “Yes. I thought you might like to start lessons right away. The spring thaw was late this year.”
“That was very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
Just then, a tall man wearing a black coat that reached all the way to his ankles entered behind Mistress Bourgogne. At his side hung a sheathed sword and dangling from each hand was a tapestry bag, which Gwen recognized as the ones holding books the schoolmistress brought with her each year.
“Look, darling. Gwendolin has readied the entire building for us.”
Gwen realized she must have had her mouth hanging open because Mistress Bourgogne looked from the man to Gwen and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear. How rude of me. Gwendolin, meet Master Gabaldi, my husband. We were married at the new year. My name is Madame Gabaldi now. Darling, meet Gwendolin, one of my brightest pupils.”
The man gave a polite nod to Gwen as he passed her then dropped the bags near the schoolmistress’s large oak desk. Gwen gave him a smile when he looked her way, but there was something about his narrow eyes that made her uncomfortable, something as sharp-edged as his name.
“Will lessons begin tomorrow?” Gwen asked.
“I don’t see why not,” the new Madame Gabaldi answered.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then,” said Gwen, who needed to get to the woodcutter and deliver the news about the schoolmistress before he found out for himself. He would be so very disappointed.
After dropping off the key to the councilman, who was, indeed, downhearted about the schoolmistress’s marrying before he could court her, Gwen went home and after dinner slept fitfully. Images of the tall, dark Master Gabaldi and his slit eyes haunted her dreams. She awoke wondering what he was master of.
The answer came at the start of lessons the next day, when Madame Gabaldi introduced him to the class. “My husband will be working with those of you who choose to study weaponry.”
When Gwen groaned, Master Gabaldi shot her a disapproving glare, and that was only the beginning of what turned out to be a long, painful day filled with reminders that she no longer had any reason to remain in Vasterberg.
As she’d dreaded, Gilly attended the lessons, and Thomlin stayed so close to his newfound love that Gwen wondered if Gilly could turn around without bumping against the boy. “Hmmph,” she said aloud at the thought that bumping against Gilly was likely Thomlin’s goal.
Her unsolicited noise earned another disapproving glance, this time from Madame Gabaldi, who was delivering a boring lecture on the responsibilities of citizenship in Greatland governance.
Gwen was further disappointed when Thomlin didn’t move into the group of boys who got up from their desks and gathered around Master Gabaldi, who led them outside, which she assumed was for the purpose of wielding weapons. It didn’t surprise her, though. Thomlin had never struck her as a particularly brave or agile boy. And besides, he would have had to let go of Gilly’s apron strings, and Gwen could see that clearly was not going to happen. During their midday break, he’d stuck beside her like she was made of maple syrup and had even tossed the remainder of a hunk of bread to some pigeons so he could follow Gilly when she’d gone back inside the building well before Madame Gabaldi called the students inside to continue with their lessons.
Before dismissing the students, Madame Gabaldi asked Gwen to remain for a few minutes more. “I’d like to speak with you about your continuing studies.”
“I want to join a monastery.”
Madame Gabaldi had never been very good at hiding her feelings, and the look of surprise on her face told Gwen she’d still not mastered that skill. “Are you sure, Gwendolin? That is a lifelong commitment, and it isn’t one to be taken lightly or for any reason other than devotion.”
Gwen nodded. “I’m sure. I’m not sure, though, which monastery would be best or even how to go about joining.”
The schoolmistress’s expression of surprise flattened into concern. “Gwendolin, why? Why do you wish to join a monastery?”
“It’s what my grandmother wants me to do, and I can think of no other study that would please her.”
“I don’t know what to say, dear.” She reached out and placed a hand on Gwen’s shoulder. “But I do know that you don’t have to decide today.” She offered a reassuring smile before turning and bending down to retrieve one of the tapestry bags from beside her. Lifting it onto the desk and opening it, she rummaged inside, pulling out book after book until she found the one she was looking for. “Ah yes, here it is!” She offered the hefty tome to Gwen. “It’s a history of monastic orders in the Greatland and beyond. Mind you, it may be incomplete and contains some language you may not recognize, but you may find it helpful in making your decision. Some knowledge is better than none, no?”
Gwen took the book, which had a dark leather cover with the words Piety and Ordination tooled on its ribbed spine. It weighed more than it looked like it should, and Gwen had to hold it with both hands to keep from dropping it. “Thank you,” she said, cradling it against her chest.
“Just one more question, and you may leave for the day. If your grandmother wanted you to join a monastery, where in the world did Gilly get the idea you might have wanted to study with Vasterberg’s baker?”
Gwen gritted her teeth until she could answer without letting out the anger swelling inside her. Gilly had yet again betrayed her, this time not just to some moon-eyed boy but to someone she respected. She managed a nonchalant shrug. “Who knows? She’s not been herself since she took up with Thomlin Frank. He’s a bad influence, and I doubt her mother would approve of all the time they spend alone . . . in the woods.”
“Oh,” said Madame Gabaldi. “Oh dear. Perhaps someone should speak with Madame Bastwick about that.”
Mustering an expression of sincere concern, Gwen replied, “Yes, perhaps someone should . . . for Gilly’s own good.”
A week passed before the fallout began.