Volume 2
Hunter and I were taking a break from each other after a terrible fight. He was getting very boring in his paranoia about not drawing attention to ourselves. First of all, he’s too big and handsome to go unremarked, and as for me, well, need I say more? I turn heads wherever I go.
Anyway, Henry VIII was on the throne at the time. He’d been such a handsome young man, but a life of excess had him well on his way to being a fat pig with bad indigestion, leg ulcers, and a terrible temper. Everyone complained of his bad breath, too. He was by no means stupid, but belief in his semi-divine persona led him to indulge in sudden whims rather than consider the advice of his cabinet and take measured action.
I had attended court several times in the company of a peer of the realm who turned out to be a lot less vigorous than I would have liked. And I didn’t like the way His Majesty eyed me whenever he caught sight of me. I always stayed at the back of the throng, behind a pillar if possible, because I knew the King’s reputation and didn’t want any part of it. The very thought of being with him nauseated me.
I was attending a soiree at the earl’s mansion one evening, endeavoring to keep at least one room between me and his wife, when I spotted this very attractive man standing alone in a corner. His face looked as if he’d just come from a funeral. He clasped a goblet of wine in one fist and rested the other on the hilt of his sword. I caught an air of contempt in the way he surveyed the room. Definitely not a courtier. I decided it was my duty to cheer him up.
“Good evening,” I said. “I am the Lady Lin Thoren.”
“Madame,” he replied with a curt bow. “I am Peter Longtree, Keeper of the Ravens at the Tower of London.”
“My, how fascinating,” I cooed. “What does that involve?”
He went into a lengthy description of his duties that I won’t bore you with—not that I remember much of it after all these years. His eyes lit up, and his whole body relaxed when he spoke of the ravens. A man with a passion.
“And where is your good lady?” I asked, hoping there wasn’t one.
“I have never married. First, I served many years in the King’s army, and now I am a Yeoman of the Guard at the Tower. There are often important prisoners kept in the Tower, so we need to be ready for anything.”
“What brings you here? You don’t seem to enjoy the company.”
“The earl wants to keep ravens himself. He hopes to persuade me to join his household. I do not plan to do so. It would only take one word to the King to put me in danger of losing my head. He’s always concerned about his ravens. You know the legend, I suppose?”
“No, actually, I don’t. I’ve traveled widely for many years and am not yet au courant.”
“It is said that if the ravens leave the Tower of London, the kingdom will fall.”
“I can see why His Majesty wants his birds safe and well.”
I went home with Peter that night. I left first after bidding the countess adieu. Her icy tone belied her stated wish that I visit again very soon. I did not see Peter slip out, but he joined me in my carriage after about ten minutes. I’d asked the liveryman to wait by the horse for a tall man in a long green jacket.
We could hardly go to my rooms provided by the earl, as he would be sure to come looking for me later. Fortunately, Peter had an apartment to himself near the birdcages, so we had privacy. The other Yeomen were obliged to share rooms. We had to be discreet, though, as visitors to the private quarters were prohibited.
I mostly came and went at night to avoid prying eyes. If I wanted to go out during the day, I either ran very fast so as not to be seen or carried a basket of dirty washing as if I were a laundrymaid. I found that demeaning.
This went on for months, and I got tired of being restricted. I heard the earl had put the word about that he should be notified the moment I was seen. His wife came from a powerful family, so he couldn’t be too loud about it, but his pride had been injured. He hadn’t minded parading me at court—to proclaim his manly virtues, I think. He always lectured me on the subject of court etiquette before each appearance and inspected what I planned to wear. Sometimes he ordered dresses without even consulting me.
Thankfully, he didn’t know I had left with Peter, who had been able to let him down gently about being his personal raven keeper by declaring loyalty to the Crown; he was sure the earl would not want to anger His Majesty. The earl, although disappointed, agreed that it was never wise to cross the King. People had lost their heads for less.
Peter was a stern man by nature, although gentle with me and his birds. A good man, he was quite well-read for the times—remember, books were costly then. He had plenty to talk about and entertained me with all sorts of legends about the Tower. I don’t remember them anymore. It’s been several hundred years, after all.
One summer evening, he was due to take part in one of their military exercises. I decided to go and watch. There was a rampart from which I could see everything and remain hidden from view. The men were milling around, chatting while waiting for their officer to arrive, when I heard a piercing scream. Two rough-looking fellows emerged from a side door carrying a scrawny woman, whom they dropped in the dirt so one of them could lock up. She convulsed and screamed again. I stared at her, unable to believe what I saw. Her clothing was thin and mostly torn away from her body. What repulsed me was that I could see the ball ends of her arm and leg bones protruding from her shoulders and hips. As she sprawled on the dirt, her limbs lay completely awry, her joints no longer functional. Her shins lay at odd angles, with ankles backwards. The lay of her arms and hands was all wrong, too. Her grey face stared up at the setting sun as she moaned, a low, guttural purr from deep in her chest.
The rack. I’d heard about it, and here was the broken horror it produced.
“Be quiet, you,” growled one of the men. “It’s off to Smithfield for you and an end to your misery.”
They hoisted her up, one holding her under the armpits, the other by her ankles. The agony roused the woman to another howl, at which the man holding her ankles twisted them until she fainted. I don’t know how she lived through that pain. They threw her into the cart as if she were no more than a sack of cabbages.
Although some of the yeomen spared her a pitying glance, most ignored the woman’s plight entirely and carried on with their banter. One of those was Peter.
I waited until the cart taking that poor creature was out of sight. I thought of following, but there was no point unless I wanted to subject myself to the horror of watching her being dragged out to the stake and burned alive.
I collected my possessions and left well before Peter returned. No more men, I vowed. Well, I’d said that before and would no doubt say it again.
“That’s gruesome,” I said. “I’ve heard of the rack, of course. Who hasn’t? But I’ve never thought about the outcome too much. How can people do that to another human being?”
Lin said, “Life was pretty brutal in those days, and there wasn’t much empathy spared for the pain of others. But even today, there are always those who are not averse to inflicting torture, and there are certainly those who enjoy it.”
“Yes, of course, you are right.”
Lin lay back again. It seemed she wasn’t through.
I had to get out of England once more. The earl had his spies everywhere, and Peter probably wasn’t best pleased with me, either. But where could I go? And where was Hunter? I was beginning to miss him. It wasn’t that far off the time of our rebirth, either. Neither of us could manage it on our own. Only about ten years to go. So, where? I thought of France, as it was nearest. But Henry frequently sent troops over there to conquer land for England. And Toulouse had been in a state of unrest for years. Avignon was a temptation, but the memories of my dead children, Jean and Marie, would make me too melancholy. I didn’t want to go north. I was no longer accustomed to cold weather for so much of the year, and those Nordic kings were constantly fighting with each other. I was so sick of war. Spain was dangerous with its relentless execution of heretics, too. I could overcome any attempt to execute me, but I was tired of all that. When humans and gods lost their moral compass, our world and most of the gods were destroyed. I wondered how much longer this lot would survive.
Maybe a little farther north, but not much. I’d heard about Bruges, a nice old city where things were relatively quiet. Maybe I’d give that a try.
I got passage to France on a merchant ship. I still had plenty of money, thanks to Hunter’s financial acumen and my making sure I absconded with a good portion of it after our row. Would he ever try to seek me out? What if it was over? I admonished myself to stop thinking that way. He was probably as lonely as I was, however many people he surrounded himself with.
Needless to say, the few men on board all tried it on, but I only had to throw one overboard. The captain had no idea what had happened to him. Who would suspect a delicate little thing like me? Anyway, we docked at Calais. I started to walk. I still spoke French fairly well, so I got the occasional ride on a donkey cart and one good long ride in a gentleman’s carriage. He, of course, expected payment in kind. I left him clutching himself and almost weeping while the coachman tried vainly to stifle his laughter. I ran so they couldn’t see me any longer. They no doubt thought I’d run into the woods that bordered the road, as I couldn’t possibly have run out of sight that quickly.
I ran through the next town as I knew the carriage would stop there and inquire after me. I soon came to a poor village, where I found several peasant women washing their linen by the riverside. I wished them a good day and asked where I could find a bed for the night. They regarded me with the usual suspicion of peasants. I told them I was following my husband, who had departed for Bruges some weeks earlier. I hired a carriage, and the driver put me out and made off with all my worldly goods. I still had a few coins and some things in the small bag I held, enough to pay for dinner and a bed.
“You’d better come with me, then,” said the oldest. “My name is Celine.” She looked grim and humorless, but a bed would be welcome. Autumn was drawing in, and I was no longer accustomed to the cold. I could deal with it, of course, but I didn’t want to.
I followed Celine to her stone dwelling, just one large room. The wide glowing fireplace with its hanging cauldron served as her kitchen. Two wooden platforms with fur covers stood against one wall, and a rough table with two chairs graced the center of the room. It felt colder in there than outside and damp, too. But those fur covers would help. She lit the candle on the table, as the house had no windows.
“My husband died last month in that one,” Celine said, waving her arm in the direction of one of the platforms. “You can sleep there.”
“Thank you, you are most kind,” I said with forced courtesy. I rummaged in my bodice and produced a few sous. “I hope this will suffice.”
She looked at them, bit them, and transferred them to her own bodice, which was already under considerable strain given her girth. “Unh.”
Celine took two bowls off a shelf next to the fireplace and set them on the hearth before ladling a portion of stew into each. She broke two portions of bread off a loaf in a covered basket and added them to the bowls. She put them on the table and went back to the shelf for two spoons. The shelf was now bare. The stew was surprisingly tasty due more to the herbs she’d added than the other mystery ingredients. I found a couple of small pieces of meat amongst the greens, possibly rabbit.
I thanked Celine and complimented her on her cooking skills. She almost smiled. I could tell that night had fallen outside because the room’s dark corners had disappeared into the gloom.
“We rise early, so we sleep early,” the old woman said. “Besides, candles are costly.”
I went to the platform she had indicated and got under the cover, fully clothed. I closed my eyes, but not all the way, as I wanted to watch her. She removed her outer garments and quietly turned one of the kitchen chairs to face me. She drew her bed cover around her shoulders and sat wrapped in fur, watching me intently. Did she fear I meant her harm? She had nothing worth stealing. She wanted to rob me.
I waited a while before starting to snore gently. She laid the fur on her bed and tiptoed over to stand over me. I felt her hand reach into my bodice. When I grabbed her wrist, she squealed.
“No, no, sorry. I was just making sure you were all right. Let me go.”
“Celine, Celine. This is not nice. I have paid you. If it wasn’t enough, you had only to ask.”
“Everything is so expensive. We are poor. You say you lost everything, but you still have coin. I need it more.”
“You are a Christian, are you not, Celine?”
“Yes.” She crossed herself.
“What would Jesus say?”
I let go of her wrist, and she ran weeping to her bed. I wriggled around to try to get comfortable on the old straw-filled pallet before I slept and dreamed. In the morning, I heard Celine moving around but didn’t feel like emerging from the warm bed. After a while, I felt her by my side.
“Eat.”
I joined her at the table, where the same bowls, wiped out after dinner the night before, contained a thin gruel. After we’d finished, I thanked her, picked up my bag, and went to the door. Before opening it, I retrieved another coin—a gold one this time.
“Here, Celine. This is for giving shelter to a woman alone in the world.”
She gasped in disbelief. She wept again. I left, feeling quite the moralizer.
I ran until I was out of the village and well down the road. I came to a signpost for the next town. There, I discovered that Bruges was only a two-hour journey by carriage—and managed to get a ride with a courier. He didn’t ask for much, and I was relieved that he looked too old and run down to give me much trouble.
Soon, there I was in Bruges. I didn’t look so good by this time but managed to find a hotel that offered a private room. The poor maid carried upstairs many pails of hot water for my bath.
I slipped her some coins. “Our secret,” I said.
She gasped and bobbed a curtsey.
I lay in the bath and cleaned myself thoroughly with a cake of rose-scented soap from my bag. I put on a fresh gown.
When the maid returned, I gave her the dirty ones to be laundered. She washed them in my bathwater before pouring it out of the window, pailful by pailful, incurring some powerful cursing from below.
“I’ll rinse them out in the river,” she assured me cheerfully. I thought I knew how she’d deal with the chamber pot.
Now I had to decide what to do next. A job? A rich lover? First, I would explore the city. It was a beautiful place with well-built, pretty houses and a magnificent cathedral. After a few hours, I wanted to get something to eat. I found a café on one of the side streets, but it was full of men. Perhaps it wasn’t common for women to eat alone. Judging by the looks on their faces when I entered, it wasn’t. But the proprietor grudgingly brought me a plate of meat and greens, which he slammed down on the table so hard it splashed my dress. I shot him a glare, which he met without flinching before stomping off. They probably thought I was a whore.
Afterwards, I resumed my tour. People on the streets looked mostly cheerful, and there were plenty of groups chatting and laughing. It started to rain. I ducked into the nearest church before getting soaked through, with the intent of sitting quietly in a pew. To my surprise, the church was full of nuns and poor wretches on makeshift beds who seemed to be on their last legs.
“Can I help you?” asked a young nun with a face more angelic than those of the cherubs that adorned the ceiling.
“I just came in out of the rain. What is this place?”
“It is The Church of Our Lady Bruges,” she said. “Here we care for the dying who have no one to care for them and no roof over their heads. But you are most welcome to rest.” She pointed me to a pew in a quiet corner.
I sat and watched the nuns at work, soothing the fretful, cleaning wounds, and wrapping those who had passed over. They seemed to have a couple of men on call who removed the corpses after prayers were said by a priest who emerged from a side chapel when called. The same men brought in new patients—at least five during the few hours I spent there. I noticed that many patients were oriented to face a vast painting of Jesus on the cross. They seemed to pray in that direction but with their eyes open. I supposed they drew comfort from knowing that Jesus also suffered pain.
Others faced the altar, where a moving statue of Mary and her infant stood, only a little smaller than life-size. I found out later it was the only Michelangelo work outside Italy at the time, originally intended for Siena’s cathedral. After a dispute, two wealthy Bruges merchants bought it for this church.
I marveled at the selfless toil of the nuns, their patience and love for this mass of destitute beings whom society had tossed aside.
I had to do something. Would I work with the nuns? No, didn’t fancy that. But they must need money for food, medicine, and bandages.
I went over to the young nun who had welcomed me and gave her a couple of gold coins.
“Go with God,” she said, her delight a stark contrast to the plight of the poor creature who gasped for air beside her. “In a while, I will give this to the Mother Superior. But first, I must help Pierre pass to his rest.”
No more than a minute later, Pierre passed after a sort of gasp and rattling in his lungs before his chest lay still.
I left and ran back to the hotel. I must start a business, I thought. But what?
“That’s enough for today,” Lin said. “Next time, I’ll tell you how I helped those nuns and found Hunter.”
“After that, why don’t we do Baldur, and then we can go on to Agna’s escape and life until Egypt? Next, her war stories,” I said.
“Let’s just do it once a week,” Lin said. “Monday afternoons. Is that all right with you, Agna?”
“Of course,” said the witch. “I’m delighted to be in your book.”
I was pleased, too. I’d been bored lately, a little left out.