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two

The Mire

I n the safety and warmth of the kitchen, Jessa greeted Heather with a full plate.

She made herself comfortable on a stool at the main wooden preparation station, her knees weak.

She survived another meal at court. She was hungry, but the anxiety of it all caused her appetite to wither.

Her flesh craved nourishment, but her thoughts continued to play tricks on her, no matter how much she reassured herself that this wasn’t the king’s dish.

There is no poison, she pleaded with her stomach. She was out of harm’s way, but her body failed to believe it.

“My thanks to you. Did you already dine, Jessa?” They routinely accompanied one another, preferring to take their meal seated on the kitchen stoop, watching the night blossom before their eyes.

This eve, they wouldn’t be doing so. The chamber’s exterior door stood ajar, relieving the room of the hearth’s overburden of heat, as rainfall continued in torrents.

The patter of the deluge sounded like a herd of wild horses upon the slate roof above.

Humidity and high temperatures collided, rapidly rendering her kirtle damp.

The material uncomfortably clung to her back.

Rain sounds ordinarily soothed Heather, but fifteen days of continuous downpour added to her woe.

Jessa smiled sheepishly. “I was famished. I’ll keep you company though,” she replied as she sat beside her. Across from the workspace, Mae was attending the hearth’s flue, in an endless fight to decrease the flames, for the daily duties of the kitchen were complete, with clean up well underway.

With a trembling hand, Heather tucked into her plate, her portions far smaller than the king’s helpings. She resolved to make the most of every morsel, fearing meals such as this would soon be a rarity.

But ignoring the twisting in her gut became progressively difficult.

More often than not, the delicious food turned to ash in her mouth.

So dry, she could scarcely swallow. She didn’t know how much longer she could handle the strain.

A mere month in the role of taste tester had rendered her ill.

Even the small delights of her provincial life had lost their luster.

Dread was now her closest companion, extracting any pleasure from her existence.

Mae set an earthenware cup in front of Heather. “For yer innards.” Steaming spearmint tickled Heather’s nose. Her troubled stomach was no secret among her peers. The spry older woman approached the gaping exterior door and peered out into the misty dark. A crease of worry marking her brow.

“Tis a curse,” muttered Mae quietly before crossing her arms. Louder, she addressed Heather. “Dinner was late. Collecting herbs not soaked to the point of rot was impossible!” All eyes swung toward the doorway in apprehension, each of them noting the sizable puddle forming beyond Mae’s feet.

“It hasn’t let up at all, has it?” questioned Heather, her shoulder slumping. The women shook their heads. “Have you ever seen anything like this Mae?” she inquired as she took another bite. Then a sip of the calming tea.

“Three or mayhap four days in a row, not exceeding a fortnight!” Mae reflected. The bustling room quieted in heavy contemplation.

Blossoming fruiting plants, summer squash, tomatoes and eggplants could rot after a trifling couple of days… and the Isle had endured two weeks of unending downpour. Heather missed the clear blue skies of her recent past.

“It’s made each one of my tasks take twice as long. Can’t imagine having to work on the new highway all day like Mason,” Jessa lamented. “He says the shoddy footpaths in town have all but washed down the hill.”

Heather counted her blessings, imagining the muddy chaos of the village belying the castle’s walls.

As palace servants, they seldom made it to the peddler’s square.

The stronghold proved self-sufficient. It was rare, but Mae would shop the market for any of the kitchen’s deficiencies.

Jessa received most of her outside information from Mason.

The young road laborer was smitten with Jessa, often visiting his uncle in the butchery, conveniently encountering the servant lass in the kitchens.

To the staff’s amusement. He had yet to take the initiative to progress their nonexistent relationship, much to Jessa’s distress.

“I had a helluva time calming the hive so I could harvest honey for tonight’s brie topping.”

“What’s your sting count?” asked Heather as she continued to carefully select bites from her plate.

The delicious honey Heather savored earlier came at the expense of her companion.

She didn’t interact with honeybees like Jessa, but even Heather knew the insects would be ornery during a storm.

She felt no envy toward Jessa’s caretaker role of the bee boxes.

Jessa showed Heather the welts on her right hand.

“The bees are to blame for the king’s tardy goblet.

It’s got me all out of sorts! If honeybees sting, they die.

” Besides caring for the bees, Jessa selected yields from the kitchen garden and, on occasion, foraged vegetation and truffles from His Majesty’s wood.

Jessa leaned into Heather’s side and lowered her voice, “I thought Mason was going to ask me to court him, at long last.”

“What happened?” Heather was dumbstruck at what was delaying the man.

Jessa twisted her apron. “His uncle interrupted, again.”

Heather sighed in irritation. The butcher had horrendous timing, but Mason was a bit spineless, at least in Heather’s estimation.

Mayhap he wasn’t deserving of Jessa. But did anyone ever truly earn love?

Shouldn’t it be a thing freely given? Heather lacked experience to add weight to an opinion either way.

Swallowing thickly, Heather forced down another bite of her meal.

After all, Ulcer thought she was a mouse, one who hardly spoke unless spoken to. People weren’t often what they appeared to be. She shook her head. She needed to reserve her judgment when it came to Mason. If he made her friend happy, that was what mattered most.

“The garden’s already drowning.” Mae pulled her gaze from the courtyard, blew the stray strands of her strawberry blond hair off her weathered face and with pained steps she hobbled over to where Heather and Jessa were seated.

It wasn't beyond Heather's notice that she moved at a much slower rate of late. The matron claimed her bones weary.

Heather had been correct in assuming they wouldn’t be served duck.

She stood and snipped a cabbage leaf from across the cook table.

It’d do to hold a slice of chicken for Fee later.

But she hesitated. What if this was one of their last satisfying meals?

Should she be wasting her food on the hateful cat?

Thoughts of the feline stirred unwelcome memories.

With her palm, she applied pressure to her middle, doing her best to dismiss the negative thought from taking root.

“What’ll we do if it continues?” Heather worried out loud.

“Well, ye girls know what I say… even the smallest change can make a vast difference.” Heather and Jessa singsong the adage in unison with Mae.

The woman had dubbed it ‘the Butterfly Effect,’ in that something as delicate and seemingly inconsequential as the butterfly could alter the course of a life with the mere flap of a wing.

“But if ye do anything, it’ll have ta be in the light of the morn.” stated Mae.

“It’s bound to stop any moment now.” Jessa suggested with a hopeful smile, brighter than the sun. “I’d wager we’ll wake up to a bright sunny day!”

Heather appreciated her friend’s optimism, but she had her doubts.

Alas, even Jessa’s positivity wore thin, and her grin dropped from her lips. “But it seems as though Hammy, and I will be scavenging post haste.”

Hammy was the piglet Jessa liberated from the butcher block.

Destined to be the chief ingredient in a pork pie, the pig had evaded slaughter like he so often escaped his pen.

Early in the summer, Jessa had tracked the escapee down, his hoof prints leading her to the base of a mighty oak- where Hammy was unearthing truffles.

Hammy possessed a talented snout, making the swine Jessa’s favored foraging companion.

Heather downed the last of the mint tea in a single fail swoop and retrieved a candle stub from the worktable. Hearts full of doubt, the girls quietly wished Mae a good eve.

They retreated to their cramped quarters down one of the dimly lit rear corridors, the bit of candle in Heather’s hand lighting the way. Halfway to their bedchamber, they encountered Fee. The cat hissed at them on sight, but Heather bent and placed the piece of meat at the tabby’s feet.

Fee lashed out in a blink of an eye, successfully scratching Heather across the top of her right hand. Her grip on the wax nub wavered, plunging the hall into darkness.

Heather cradled the wound to her chest, as the sour puss snatched the chicken in her maw and made a run for it. The torn flesh stung, tears flooded her eyes and bright red blood oozed from the gash.

“Drat that cat!” cried Jessa. “Let me see it.”

Heather held out her hand for her friend’s inspection. Jessa pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and pressed it to the weeping gash with her own bee stung palms.

“What a pair we make.” Jessa jested over the matching injuries. “It’ll need cleansing, and we’ll soothe it with a bit of aloe.”

“Thank you, Jess,” said Heather. She applied pressure to the cloth, and they continued on their way. She couldn’t help but ruminate on how much she would miss Jessa if Mason ever asked her to courting. A pit yawned within her.

Secure beyond their quarter’s door, Jessa exclaimed, “You won’t believe what I heard about Lord Langley.”

With a trembling hand, Heather retrieved the small tender box from beside their sleeping mats and struck the fire steel with caution, watching on as an ember caught it alight.

Shedding her outer layers, Heather laid down upon her rush mat in just her linen shift.

Jessa was not long behind, settling on her own paltry cushion while untangling her disheveled braid.

Jessa’s mane required another step, as it possessed a natural curl.

She would splash water on her hair before combing.

It was the only way she could tame her locks and keep it from turning into a wild tangle of fuzz.

Heather rolled her eyes. “I can only imagine.” The stranger was known for stirring the pot at court, his reputation preceding him among the servant quarters. Jessa gently plaited Heather’s dark hair.

“Marna happened upon him and Her Majesty in a compromising position in the rose garden.”

Heather gasped. “They’ll banish him from the kingdom, verily!

And Her Majesty!” She didn’t know if the new queen was going to endure.

The king’s first bride passed birthing the young heirs, bless her soul.

The second wife, His Majesty, had banished.

Devious hearsay circulated the court when she failed to conceive an heir.

Some claimed she was having an explicit affair with her own brother.

Heather refused to believe the vicious lies.

The king and his current spouse were married less than a twelve month.

Already rumors were stewing. She felt sympathy for the beautiful queen, who had left her own territory behind to join the much older sovereign in matrimony.

Heather’s role was unenviable at court, but at least she didn’t have to bed that old goat.

She’d light a candle on the seventh day in thanks for the small mercy.

Braid complete, Heather wrapped her ribbon around her head in a band, secured it in a small bow and twisted it round so that the tie was at her nape. The ribbon never left her person, unless she was bathing- and even then, it remained in her sights.

Jessa went solemn. All traces of jest evaporated.

Although they were alone, Jessa whispered, “I’m not supposed to say.

” Jessa bit her lower lip, adding, “But Mason informed me the king’s men slaughtered the entire parish of Sarsen.

The Standing Stones were in the direct path of His Majesty’s Road.

” She inhaled a sharp breath before continuing.

“He said King Willem demanded they remove them. And the parishioners weren’t too keen. ”

Heather struggled to swallow, her pulse pounded in her throat. “No one survived, did they?” Heather deducted. Mae had made a rare trip to the peddler’s market a week prior and remarked on the strange absence of Sarsen merchants.

Jessa shook her head in the negative, her eyes downcast.

Hundreds of people. Stricken from the earth. Over a road’s path. It was senseless. The girls sat in silence, the only sound, the pouring rain.

Jessa playfully tugged at the ribbon in Heather’s hair, in an attempt to change the subject, “What would you wish for?”

Heather’s thoughts shifted to her mother.

The ribbon was a gift from the late cook.

It was intended to be a wish. Myth claimed the faeries in the Wandering Wood granted a wish to anyone who tied a ribbon to the ‘faerie tree.’ Heather never had the opportunity, nor the courage, to venture into the sacred forest known to curse its trespassers.

But the silky ribbon reminded her of hope.

Of her mother’s kind heart and steadfastness.

The ribbon was now more than wish taken form. It was an undying memory of the individual who loved her most. Mayhap, the only person who ever loved her. Her mother’s face was a fresh image in her mind’s eye, so many years later, when she caressed the wish ribbon on her head.

She had to halt the pattern of thinking before her eyes overflowed. With a wobbling smirk, “I’d turn Uster into a toad. A big one, with lots of warts, so that his outsides match his personality, or you know what…maybe a bulbous yellow bird.”

Jessa snickered at the comment as Heather rolled to her side, facing the wall with a deep, weary sigh.