Page 12 of The Forgotten (Echoes from the Past #2)

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, which they 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.

“Things have changed somewhat since you were last here. My sons are grown men and no longer feel the need to heed a mother who’s in her dotage.

Robert established a household of his own years ago, but Thomas has recently returned, having lost his wife and married off his daughter.

He’s taken over the business from me, so I don’t see much of him.

I am here alone most days. The only person I see is Father Avery.

I have servants to do the lowly work. What I need is a companion.

” Lady Blythe burst out laughing when she saw Petra’s look of shock.

“Is spending time with me more off-putting than scrubbing pots, girl?”

“No, lady. It would be my pleasure to be your companion.”

“So, you’ll do it just for the pleasure of it?” the old lady cackled.

“No, lady. I don’t have the luxury of donating my time for free. I have a family to feed,” Petra replied, angry that the old woman was goading her.

“No, you don’t the luxury. I will pay you a fair wage. In return, you will sit with me, read to me, pray with me, and eat with me. Can you read? ”

“Yes, lady. I know my letters.”

“Who taught you?” Lady Blythe demanded. Most women in Dunwich were illiterate, as were the men. They had no need of reading as long as they knew how to count.

“My stepfather. He was taught his letters by his uncle, who was a priest,” Petra replied.

That wasn’t strictly true. She’d been taught by her mother, who’d been taught by her own father, but it wouldn’t do to tell Lady Blythe that a woman so far beneath her own station knew how to read, when Lady Blythe probably didn’t.

“I will read any book you like,” Petra said, instantly regretting her choice of words when she saw the thunderous look that passed over Lady Blythe’s features.

“The only book I like is the Bible, you dimwit. You will read the Holy Scriptures, and you will treat them with reverence. Is that understood?”

“Yes, lady.”

“You may start tomorrow. I will not expect you to live here since you have children, but you will arrive at seven and remain until I’m ready for my bed.

Don’t look so horrified. I retire early these days.

I will pay you once a month and include your meals in the bargain.

Here,” Lady Blythe reached into the pocket of her gown and produced several coins.

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t desperate.

Buy food for your family, enough to tide you over until you receive your wages. Now go.”

“Thank you, lady,” Petra breathed, grateful despite her animosity toward the woman. Perhaps she’d misjudged her.

Petra fled before Lady Blythe had a change of heart and went directly to the market.

She steeled her heart against the eel pie and instead bought a bag of grain, several herrings to fry for their supper, and a jar of lard for cooking.

She also purchased several marrow bones, with bits of meat still clinging to the smooth surfaces, and a couple of onions.

She would leave the rest of the money with Maude.

Her mother enjoyed going to the market and would make the coins stretch further than Petra would.

Petra wished that she’d brought her basket. There was nothing to carry her purchases in, and no one was kind enough to give her a sack or a wooden crate. It was slow going and awkward, but she finally managed to get her loot home, smiling widely as she came through the door.

“Herrings for supper,” Petra announced happily as she handed the bones wrapped in flax to her mother and set down the bag of grain.

“She’s received you, then?” Maude asked.

“I start tomorrow.”

“Praise the Blessed Virgin,” Maude exclaimed, crossing herself. “Our Holy Mother is looking after us.”