three fantastic historical fiction novels in one great sampler!

7/27/2019 Three Fantastic Historical Fiction Novels in One Great Sampler!

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t h e

harem

midwifew

R O B E RTA R I C H

doubl eday ca nada


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{1}

chapter 1

Circassian MountainsOttoman Empire

1578

One spr ing morning as the sun dappled the

rocks with golden light, drying the dew rom the

night beore, making the world look as scrubbed

and as leecy as a cloud, Leah made a blunder that was to

lead to her death. It was a small thinga matter o no

consequence. She ailed to hear the terriied bleat o her

avourite black lamb and the answering cry o its mother.

A lamb in distress is always a sign o danger, but Leah was

squatting on the hillside, singing an old lullaby in Judeo-

Tat, the language o the mountain Jews.

As she sang, she stroked the milky blue quartz that

dangled rom a lanyard around her neck. The pendant,


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her nazar boncugu, oered protection or both Jews and

Muslims against the Evil Eye. Because she believed she

was alone on the mountain, she sang with gusto.

There were wolves in the hills. Higher up, beyond the

point where even scrubby pines grew, were the goat-hair

tents o the Yrks, so dark in the distance they looked like

raptors, the tent poles like talons ready to swoop down on

prey. The Yrks were nomads; their ancestors had invaded

the plains o Anatolia centuries earlier, thundering down the

steppes o Mongolia on their heavy-rumped stallions, leav-ing in their wake destruction and death. Leah had never

ventured high into the mountains to the tents o the Yrks,

nor did she want to. Her world was her mother, ather,

brothers, grandmother, and, o course, Eliezer, the hand-

some boy to whom she was betrothed. Kas, her village, hud-

dled at the base o the Circassian Mountains, was no morethan a handul o crude houses clinging to the side o the

scorched hill, a hal-days hard ride rom the Yrk tents.

Herding was her older brothers job, but he was ill with

ever, so the chore o driving the sheep to the summer pas-

tures now ell to Leah. It was not a task or a girl. Look

what had happened to her older sister, a girl so beautiul

that their ather used to joke that a path o wild roses

sprang up behind her as she walked. Rivka must have

shouted or help. But there had been only rocks and wind-

bent trees to hear her. But Leah, with her nazar, a git rom

her grandmother, elt she had nothing to ear.

Kagali, the amilys herding dog, had wandered o to

rest in the shade o the pines, and was tonguing his yellow


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ur as the fies buzzed around him. Two vultures, limp as

shrouds, glided on a current o air. Leahs fock had long

ago cropped the meadows bare o the wild sage and garlic.

Now just patches o grass remained.

Leah bent down, picked up a pebble, blew o the dirt,

and tucked it inside her cheek. The stone would keep her

rom eeling parched. Her goats bladder hung empty at

her side, long since drained o water. There was no well

nearby, only in Kas. A brook lined with fat rocks ran

through Kas. It was where the women washed clothes.Tonight when she returned, Leah would be greeted by the

smell o her mothers stew and the sound o her ather

teaching her brothers to read.

Leah paused her singing to take a breath and at last

she heard the black lambs pleas. She hiked up her katan,

tying it around her waist to ree her legs. She took up herbrothers crook, which lay beside her. As she stood and

listened, the lambs bleating grew weaker.

Leah raced up the ancient path, which had been beaten

like a welt in the ground by centuries o ootsteps. There

had been no rain or three winters. The earth had split into

ssures, each one an open mouth, greedy or water. The

lambs bleating seemed to be coming rom a crevice at the

top o the hillside.

When her chest began to heave rom the upward climb,

she spit out the pebble, araid she would choke. She thrust

two ngers into her mouth and gave a long, piercing whistle.

She waited or Kagali to dash into sight. He was as big as

a ram and so savage he was kept chained at home when


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small children were nearby. His collar, embedded with

sharp iron spikes, was crusted with the blood o wolves

oolhardy enough to attack the fock.

Leah reached the crevice and crouched at the edge, peer-

ing down and listening, the ewe beside her. She knew the

lambs shrill, tremulous cry, so like that o a newborn

inant. She had pulled this winter lamb by his tiny hooves

out o his mothers belly many days ago when the moon

was still ull. It was her avouritea black lamb with one

blue eye and one black. Squinting into the crevice, she sawthat he was struggling to ree a hind leg that was jammed

between two rocks. The ewe stood helpless beside Leah,

her ront hooves working the stony ground, sending a

shower o pebbles down onto her lambs withers.

Suddenly, the dry perimeter gave way, causing the ewe

to lose her balance. She twisted as she ell into the gully,and landed with a thud on top o a boulder. Even rom

above, Leah could see thistles had torn a ragged slash on

the poor ewes udder, scoring her rom belly to teat. When

Leah returned home that evening with the fock, her

mother would pack the wound with fowers rom yellow

coltsoot and dress it with mosses. She would heal it by

reciting a passage rom the Torah, blowing orty-one times

over the gash.

Each year ater spring thaw, Leahs ather daubed the

rams chest with a mixture o at and soot rom the cook-

ing pots. In this way, he could tell which o the ewes the

ram had serviced. The rams sooty mark was still on this

ewes back, a black smudge where he had mounted her.


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Leah ell to all ours and peered down at the ewe and

her lamb, heedless o the rocks cutting into her knees

and palms. I she lost both ewe and lamb, her ather

would scold her. And rightly so. She should not have

been singing songs. She should have been paying atten-

tion to the fock.

She inched her way down into the gully using her hands

to brace hersel along the sides, unleashing an avalanche o

rocks. The heat in the crevice intensied the smell o the

lamb, still milky rom its mothers teat. The dust and thebuzz o insects in the narrow space made Leah dizzy. Her

ace was sweaty and coated with a dusting o grit. Eventually,

she reached the bottom.Stuck between the two boulders, the lamb was unableto move. It was only then that Leah noticed his oreleg,

the bone protruding, white as an ivory backgammon tile.As she was reaching or the lamb, she heard the sound o

cascading pebbles and looked up. She expected to see

Kagalis yellow eyes peering over the edge o the crevice.

But she saw only the vultures circling high in the air.

Leah shoved and pushed at the boulders until the lambs

leg was ree. The ewe was crying rantically. She straddled

the lamb and grasped her delicate oreleg. Quickly, she

manoeuvred the bone back into place. She tore o the

hem o her katan and used this strap o material to bind

the lambs leg. Then, with the bleating lamb tucked under

one arm, she began her awkward ascent. As she reached

the top, the lamb struggled and twisted out o her arms

as she toppled him over the edge. Leah hauled hersel out


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o the crevice ater it. She paused to catch her breath. Now

she would have to return or the ewe.

She glanced around. Where was the rest o the fock?

And then, a ew paces away she noticed a heap o yellow

urKagali, splayed under a clump o wild grass. His

tongue hung rom his mouth; his eyes were open and xed.

His fews had allen away rom his teeth, which made him

look as though he were snarling. The dog seemed to be

staring at something just beyond her shoulder. Kagali?

Leah drew closer to him. Why didnt he spring up to greether? She put her hand on his snout. As she leaned orward,

she noticed that the dogs throat had been slit cleanly and

with such orce it had nearly severed his head.

For a moment she roze, reusing to believe what she saw.

Kagalis ur was matted with blood rom the red, gaping

wound in his neck. Had it not been or Leahs hesitation,this moment o stunned paralysis as she worked out the

obviousthat no wol could have inficted such a wound

she might have escaped.

When she looked up, she saw a man in dun-coloured

hidesa man with legs as thick as the ridgepole o her

athers house. A man so big he blotted out the sun. By his

high cheekbones and his fat black eyes, which stared at her

expressionless as stones, she knew he was a Yrk. The

bones o a large animal strung around his neck rattled in

time to his panting. Leah would not think o her sister.

Her mouth opened to scream.

Be quiet, or Ill slit your throat too.

He towered over her, his knie hanging at his side still


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wet rom Kagalis blood. A man without a proper head-

dress, just a lthy cloth tied around his head. Broken san-

dals on eet so black Leah could barely see where his

sandals ended and his eet began. A man covered in scars.

A man who reeked o goat cheese and yogourt. Whose

beard glistened with grease. Who looked as though he had

been smothered in mud and dirt, stung by insects, ripped

by thorns, scarred by the hooves o trampling horses, and

had survived it all.

Who are you? he demanded in a voice that seemedto come rom the low clouds above her head. He spoke a

coarse dialect she could barely comprehend.

Do not kill me, Leah said.

Who are you! he roared.

Leah, daughter o Avram, the shepherd.

Louder!She repeated her words.

Where do you live?

Kas.Too ar away or her ather or brothers to hearher screams. I am only a child. It was a lie. She was our-

teen, but skinny or her age.He seized her by the chin,looking into her eyes. Your ather cares nothing or you

or he would not send you into the mountains alone.

Leah avoided his gaze, looking instead at hiscamel-hide tunic, which moved o its own accord. It took her a

moment to realize that waves o lice made it seem alive.

A ew paces away, the mans horse nickered. Nothing was

realnot the man nor the horse. All was a dream, like

seeing the world through the wings o a moth.


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My brother tends the fock, but he is with ever.

The man grunted. His ngers clamped harder on her.

A reckless anger took hold o her. Knowing the words were

oolish beore they were out o her mouth, she said, You

killed Kagali. You should not have done that.

Brave, or a girl.

The man grabbed her by the waist and turned her

upside down, shaking her as though emptying a sack. The

heel o yesterdays bread ell out o her katan and bounced

on the rocks. Kagalis corpse was so close to her ace shecould smell his blood.

He tossed her to the ground. She lay there, the air

knocked out o her. Several paces away, she heard the bleat

o the black lamb. She watched the man pick up the bread

rom the ground and cram it into his mouth, gnawing and

sucking it. Leah umbled her nazarrom under her katan,rubbing it back and orth between her ngers, trying to

calm hersel with the smoothness o the stone and the

tracery o veins in its depths.

When the man hunkered down hunting or bread crumbs,

she tucked the nazarunder her katan and scrambled to her

eet, thankul she had worn her old sandals and not the new

ones her ather had made or her that fopped because the

straps were too long. I only the earth would open up and

conceal her. I only she could crawl back into the crevice

and disappear. She steadied hersel against a large rock and

took a gulp o air. She used to be the best runner in her

village, aster even than the boys.

Leah bolted.


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{9}

Behind her, she heard the Yrk run to his horse and

heave himsel into the saddle. She raced downhill toward

Kas. Her ather, uncles and brothers would sever this sav-

ages head rom his shoulders just as he had severed Kagalis.

A hundred paces into her sprint, a stone gave way under

her oot and she lurched and ell and skidded, grit lling

her nostrils and mouth.

The Yrk was o his horse and on her in a fash, seizing

her by the waist. He drew his st back and struck her above

her ear. Her head jerked sideways rom the orce o the blow.The sun exploded in her head. Grabbing her hair, he orced

her head back, exposing her throat. She thrashed and bit his

hand, grinding it between her teeth, but it was no use. As he

heaved her over his shoulder, the matted ur o his hides cut

o her air. He clambered over the dry rocks toward his

horse, carrying her with little eort as she tried to kick thepart o him where his legs joined. He growled something

in his guttural tongue that she could not make out.

Just as a wol drags resh kill to the lair or its pups, he

would carry her in etid hides to other tribesmen. They

would use her, and when they had taken turns they would

kill her with no more thought than she would give to

wringing a chickens neck. Crying, she bounced upside-

down against his back, her head thumping against his goat-

skin bag. In ront o her appeared the legs o his stallion,

strips o dried meat hanging rom the saddle. As the Yrk

heaved her rom his shoulder and over the pommel onto

his horse, her lanyard broke and her nazarell and caught

in one o the strips. Leah reached down and grabbed the


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{10}

stone beore it shattered under the horses hooves. The man

threw his leg over the saddle, picked up his reins, and spun

the horse around in the direction o Kas.

With each stride, the pommel dug deep into Leahs tender

belly. Blood rushed to her head, banging in rhythm to the

horses gallop. She grew dizzy. And then the light dimmed

and aded. When she regained consciousness, she was fat

on the ground, stones poking her back, her katan rucked

up around her waist. Above her spread the sky and clouds.

The sun was setting. She did not know how long she hadbeen lying on the ground. Her ear throbbed. She put a hand

to her head and elt a knob the size o a winter apple.

The Yrk stood, his eet planted on either side o her,

a grin exposing toothless gums. She kicked and twisted. In

his rage, he seized a rock next to her. He raised it over his

head, about to smash it into her ace. Leah began to pray.God, if it pleases you, let this savage kill me quickly. Better to die than

to be dishonoured.

Leah thought o her amily. I she was murdered, who

would tend the sheep when her brother was ill? Who would

spoon mutton soup into her grandmothers mouth? Who

would help her mother bake bread? Who would play back-

gammon with her ather? And what would become o her

betrothed? Who would bear his sons? Did not the Torah

say that destiny avours those who are resourceul and brave?She pivoted to one side, squirming out rom between the

Yrks eet. She scrambled on all ours and then regained

her balance and ran, stumbling, as ast as she could. The

sun was over her right shoulder, so Kas must be straight


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{11}

downhill. She raced to an outcrop o rock where she should

be able to see her village in the valley. She stared down,

thinking she was in the wrong spot. These blackened houses

below, with smoke rising rom crossbeams, could not be

Kas. But there were the amiliar houses arranged in a semi-

circle around a well, her amilys house nearest to the stand

o pines with the donkey tethered in ront. The door hung

by one hinge; the roo was on re. Among the ruins, Yrks

rummaged, heaping booty into a moundcarpets, rounds

o hard cheese, kilims, quilts, sheepskins, and cooking pots.Women and children ran in all directions. In the midst o

the chaos was her grandmother standing stock still next to

their house, as though in a daze.

Leah ran aster than she had ever run beore, alling and

getting up, again and again, all too aware o the Yrk who

had mounted his horse and was pounding behind her. Asshe approached her village, she saw her grandmother carry-

ing Leahs baby brother in her arms. She had nearly reached

them when there was a sharp crack, like the snap o a bull-

whip. Her grandmother was too hard o hearing to look

up. A burning timber rom a neighbours house crashed

upon her and the baby, crushing them so switly they had

no time to cry out.

Leah wanted to drag the timber o them, kiss her

grandmothers lined ace, take her baby brother in her arms

and bury him in the hills in a grave with a pyramid o

stones on top, but there was no time. She had to nd her

ather. Where was he? He had always protected them. Why

had he allowed this to happen? Leah heard shouting and


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yelling. She turned in the direction it was coming rom. In

the eld beyond the houses, a mob o horses and Yrk

horsemen charged ater something, bending double in their

saddles to seize an object on the mud-packed ground. A

rider snatched up the object and hoisted it level to his

horses withers. As he was about to heave it over his saddle,

the rider next to him wrestled it rom him and sped away.

The nomads were amusing themselves with buzkashi, a

game played with the headless carcass o a goat. They had

revelled in this sport or as long as anyone could remember.But something was not right. Leah tried to identiy the

oddly amiliar object the men were ghting over. She

strained to see. Dear God. She reused to believe what her

eyes told her.It was the body o a man, the legs cut o.Wound around his neck was a scar o blue wool that Leah

had knitted.It was her athers body, bruised and lieless, covered in

mud and horse excrement. One horseman gained posses-

sion o his limbless body, dragging it to a pile o stones

on the side o the eld, and with a triumphant cheer that

seemed to tear a hole in the sky, he claimed victory. The

game was won.

Leah had no time to all to the ground and be sick. No

time to bury her head in her hands and weep or the ather

who had ed herplovand borekas de handrajo rom his plate,

and had given her his blanket on winter nights when the

wind whistled through the chinks o their dwelling.

Hear me, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one. Shema

Yisraeil Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad.


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{13}

A shadow ell over her. The Yrk had caught up. He

seized her, pinning her arms to her sides. I she did not

manage to wriggle ree, he would hurl her to the ground.

When he was through, his seed still trickling down her

thighs, another man would take his place and another

and another.

Have mercy on your daughter, Leah. Steady me in your arms to keep

me upright. Send the wind to my back so that I may run swiftly. Pour

your strength into me, so that I do not falter. If you shield me from these

savages, my voice will grow hoarse so loudly will I praise your Name.


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The Harem MidwifeB Y Roberta Rich

The Imperial Harem, Constantinople, 1579

Hannah and Isaac Levi, Venetians in exile, have set up a new life for themselves in

Constantinople. Isaac runs a newly established business in the growing silk trade,

while Hannah, the best midwife in all of Constantinople, plies her trade within the

opulent palace of Sultan Murat III, tending to the thousand women of his lively and

infamous harem. But one night, when Hannah is unexpectedly summoned to the

palace, she's confronted with Leah, a poor Jewish peasant girl who has been

abducted and sold into the sultan's harem. The sultan favours her as his next

conquest and wants her to produce his heir, but the girl just wants to return to her

home and the only life she has ever known. What will Hannah do? Will she risk her

life and livelihood to protect this young girl, or will she retain her high esteem in the

eye of the sultan?

An adventurous, opulent and deliciously exciting read, peopled with fascinating,

unforgettable characters (a court eunuch; the calculating sultan's mother-in-law;

the beguiling harem ladies; and a very mysterious young beauty from Venice who

shows up on Hannah's doorstep, causing much havoc), this novel is sure to please

fans of The Midwife of Venice and extend Roberta's reputation as one of Canada's

most loved historical fiction authors.

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Excerpted from Harem Midwife by Roberta Rich. Copyright 2013 by Roberta Rich. Excerpted by permission ofDoubleday Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt

may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Longbourn

JO BAKER

Random House Canada


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chapter i

The butler . . . Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids . . .

There could be no wearing of clothes without their laundering,

just as surely as there could be no going without clothes, not inHertfordshire anyway, and not in September. Washday could not beavoided, but the weekly purification of the households linen was none-theless a dismal prospect for Sarah.

The air was sharp at four thirty in the morning, when she startedwork. The iron pump-handle was cold, and even with her mitts on, herchilblains flared as she heaved the water up from the underground dark

and into her waiting pail. A long day to be got through, and this justthe very start of it.All else was stillness. Sheep huddled in drifts on the hillside; birds in

the hedgerows were fluffed like thistledown; in the woods, fallen leavesrustled with the passage of a hedgehog; the stream caught starlight andglistened over rocks. Below, in the barn, cows huffed clouds of sweetbreath, and in the sty, the sow twitched, her piglets bundled at her belly.Mrs. Hill and her husband, up high in their tiny attic, slept the blackblank sleep of deep fatigue; two floors below, in the principal bedcham-ber, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were a pair of churchyard humps under thecounterpane. The young ladies, all five of them sleeping in their beds,

were dreaming of whatever it was that young ladies dream. And over itall, icy starlight shone; it shone on the slate rooves and flagged yard andthe necessary house and the shrubbery and the little wilderness off tothe side of the lawn, and on the coveys where the pheasants huddled,and on Sarah, one of the two Longbourn housemaids, who cranked thepump, and filled a bucket, and rolled it aside, her palms already sore,

and then set another bucket down to fill it too.Over the eastern hills the sky was fading to a transparent indigo.


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Longbourn

Sarah, glancing up, hands stuffed into her armpits, her breath cloudingthe air, dreamed of the wild places beyond the horizon where it was

already fully light, and of how, when her day was over, the sun wouldbe shining on other places still, on the Barbadoes and Antigua andJamaica where the dark men worked half-naked, and on the Americaswhere the Indians wore almost no clothes at all, and where there wasconsequently very little in the way of laundry, and how one day she

would go there, and never have to wash other peoples underthingsagain.

Because, she thought, as she fixed the pails to the yoke, duckedinto it, and staggered upright, really no one should have to deal with

another persons dirty linen. The young ladies might behave like theywere smooth and sealed as alabaster statues underneath their clothes,but then they would drop their soiled shifts on the bedchamber floor,to be whisked away and cleansed, and would thus reveal themselvesto be the frail, leaking, forked bodily creatures that they really were.Perhaps that was why they spoke instructions at her from behind anembroidery hoop or over the top of a book: she had scrubbed awaytheir sweat, their stains, their monthly blood; she knew they werent as

rarefied as angels, and so they just couldnt look her in the eye.The pails slopped as Sarah stumbled back across the yard; she was

just approaching the scullery door when her foot skidded out fromunderneath her, and her balance was gone. The moment extendeditself, so that she had time enough to see the pails fly up and away, offthe yoke, emptying themselves, and see all her work undo itself, andto realize that when she landed, it would hurt. Then the pails hit theground and bounced, making a racket that startled the rooks cawingfrom the beeches; Sarah landed hard on the stone flags. Her nose con-firmed what she had already guessed: she had slipped in hogshit. Thesow had got out yesterday, and all her piglets skittering after her, andnobody had cleared up after them yet; nobody had had the time. Eachdays work trickled over into the next, and nothing was ever finished, soyou could never say, Look, thats it, the days labour is over and done.

Work just lingered and festered and lay in wait, to make you slip up inthe morning.


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5

After breakfast, by the kitchen fire, feet tucked up under her, Lydiasipped her sugared milk, and complained to Mrs. Hill.

You dont know how lucky you are, Hill. Hidden away all nice andcosy down here.If you say so, Miss Lyddie.Oh, I do say so! You can do what you like, cant you, with no one

hovering over you and scrutinizing you? Lord! If I have to listen to Janethou-shalt-notting me one more timeand I was only having a bit offun

Next door, down the step into the scullery, Sarah leaned over thewashboard, rubbing at a stained hem. The petticoat had been three

inches deep in mud when shed retrieved it from the girls bedroomfloor and had had a nights soaking in lye already; the soap was notshifting the mark, but it was biting into her hands, already crackedand chapped and chilblained, making them sting. If Elizabeth had the

washing of her own petticoats, Sarah often thought, shed most likelybe a sight more careful with them.

The copper steamed, a load of linen boiling away in there; in front ofher the fogged window was laddered with drips. Sarah stepped neatly

from the duckboard by the sinks to the duckboard by the copper, overthe murky slither of the stone floor. She slopped the petticoat into thegrey bubbling water, lifted the laundry stick, and prodded the fabricdown, poking the air out of it, then stirring. She had been toldand soshe must believethat it was necessary to wash a petticoat quite white,even if it was to be got filthy again at the next wearing.

Polly was elbow-deep in the cold slate sink, sloshing Mr. Bennetsneck-cloths around in the rinsing water, then lifting them out one byone to dunk them in the bowl of cold rice-water, to starch them.

How much more we got to go, dyou think, Sarah?Sarah glanced around, assessing. The tubs of soaking linen; the heaps

of sodden stuff at various stages of its cleansing. Some places, they gotin help for washday. Not here, though; oh no. At Longbourn Housethey washed their own dirty linen.

There is sheets, and pillowslips, and there is our shifts, tooPolly wiped her hands on her apron and went to count the loads

off on her fingers, but then saw how startlingly pink they were; she

frowned, turning them, examining her hands as if they were interesting


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Longbourn

but unconnected to her. They must be quite numb, for the time beingat least.

And there are the napkins to do, too, Sarah added.It had been that unfortunate time of the month, when all the womenin the house had been more than usually short-tempered, clumsy andprone to tears, and then had bled. The napkins now soaked in a sepa-rate tub that smelt uneasily of the butchers shop; theyd be boiled last,in the dregs of the copper, before it was emptied.

I reckon we have five more loads to do.Sarah huffed a sigh, and plucked at the seam under her arm; she had

already sweated through her dress, which she hated. It was a poplin

described by Mrs. Hill as Eau de Nil, though Sarah always thought of itas Eau de Bile; the unpleasant colour itself did not matter, since there

was no one to see her in it, but the cut really did. It had been madefor Mary, and was meant for pastry-soft arms, for needlework, for thepianoforte. It did not allow for the flex and shift of proper muscle, andSarah only wore it now because her other dress, a mousy linsey-woolsey,had been sponged and dabbed and was patchy wet, and hanging on theline to air the piggy stink out of it.

Dump them shifts in next, she said. You stir for a bit, and Illscrub.

Save your poor little hands, Sarah thought, though her own werealready raw. She stepped back from the copper to the duckboards bythe sinks, stood aside to let Polly pass. Then she scooped a neck-clothout from the starch with the laundry tongs, and watched its jellied dripback into the bowl.

Polly, thumping the stick around in the copper, plucked at her lowerlip with blunt fingernails. She was still sore-eyed and smarting fromthe telling-off she had had from Mrs. Hill, about the state of the yard.In the morning she had the fires to do, and then the water to take up,and then the Sunday dinner was under way; and then they had ate,and then it had got dark, and who can go shovelling up hog-doingsby starlight? And hadnt she had the pans to scour then anyway? Herfingertips were worn quite away with all the sand. And, come to thinkof it, wasnt the fault in the person who had let the stys gate-latch getslack, so that a good snouty nudge was all it took to open it? Shouldnt

they be blaming not poor put-upon Polly for Sarahs fall and wasted


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7

workshe glanced around and dropped her voice so that the old manwould not actually hear herbut Mr. Hill himself, who was in charge

of the hogs upkeep? Shouldnt hebe obliged to clean up after them?What use was the old tatterdemalion anyway? Where was he when hewas needed? They could really do with another pair of hands, werentthey always saying so?

Sarah nodded along, and made sympathetic noises, though she hadstopped listening quite some time ago.

By the time the hall clock had hitched itself round to the strike of

four, Mr. and Mrs. Hill were serving a washday cold collationtheremnants of the Sunday roastto the family in the dining room, andthe two housemaids were in the paddock, hanging out the washing, thedamp cloth steaming in the cool afternoon. One of Sarahs chilblainshad cracked with the work, and was weeping; she raised it to her mouthand sucked the blood away, so that it would not stain the linen. Fora moment she stood absorbed in the various sensations of hot tongueon cold skin, stinging chilblain, salt blood, warm lips; so she was not

really looking, and she could have been mistaken, but she thought shesaw movement on the lane that ran across the hillside opposite; the lanethat linked the old high drovers road to London with the village ofLongbourn and, beyond that, the new Meryton turnpike.

Look, Pollydyou see?Polly took a peg out from between her teeth, pinned up the shirt she

was holding to the line, then turned and looked.The lane ran between two ancient hedges; the flocks and herds

came that way on their long journey from the north. Youd hear thebeasts before you saw them, a low burr of sound from cows still in thedistance, the geese a bad-tempered honking, the yearlings calling formothers left behind. And when they passed the house, it was like snow,transforming; and there were men from the deep country with theirstrange voices, who were gone before you knew they were really there.

I dont see no one, Sarah.No, but, lookThe only movement now was of the birds, hopping along through

the hedgerow, picking at berries. Polly turned away, scuffed her toe in


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Longbourn

the dry ground, turfing up a stone; Sarah stood and stared a momentlonger. The hedge was thick with old tea-coloured beech leaves, the

holly looked almost black in the low sun, and the bones of the hazelwere bare in stretches where it had been most recently laid.Nothing.But there was someone.Well, there isnt now.Polly picked up the stone and lobbed it, as if to prove a point. It fell

far short of the lane, but seemed somehow to decide the matter.Oh well.One peg in her hand, a second between her teeth, Sarah pinned out

another shift, still gazing off in that direction; maybe it had been a trickof the light, of the rising steam in low autumn sun, maybe Polly wasright, after allthen she stopped, shielded her eyesand there it wasagain, further down the lane now, passing behind a stretch of bare laidhedge. There hewas. Because it was a man, she was sure of it: a glimpseof grey and black, a long loping gait; a man used to distances. Shefumbled the peg out of her mouth, gestured, hand flapping.

There, Polly, do you see now? Scotchman, its got to be.

Polly tutted, rolled her eyes, but turned again to stare.And he was gone, behind a stretch of knotted blackthorn. But

there was something else now; Sarah could almost hear it: a flicker ofsound, as though hethe scotchman that he must be, with his tally-stick scotched with his accounts, and a knapsack full of silliness andgewgawswas whistling to himself. It was faint, and it was strange; itseemed to come from half a world away.

Dyou hear that, Pol? Sarah held up a reddened hand for quiet.Polly swung round and glared at her. Dont call me Pol, you know

I dont like it.Shhh!Polly stamped. Its only cos of Miss Mary that I have to be called

Polly even at all.Please, Polly!Its only cos shes the Miss and I imnt, that she got to be called

Mary, and I had to be changed to Polly, even though my christenedname is Mary too.

Sarah clicked her tongue and waved for her to shush, still peering


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9

out towards the lane. Pollys outbursts were all too familiar, but this wasnew: a man who walked the roads with a pack on his back and a tune

on his lips. When the ladies were done with his wares, hed come downto the kitchen to sell off his cheaper bits and pieces. Oh, if only she hadsomething nicer to wear! There was no point wishing for her linsey-

woolsey, since it was just as ugly as her Eau de Bile. But: chapbooks andballads, or ribbons and buttons, and tin-plated bracelets that wouldstain your arm green in a fortnightoh, what happiness a scotchmanrepresented, in this out-of-the-way, quiet, entirely changeless place!

The lane disappeared behind the house, and there could be no fur-ther sight or sound of anyone passing by, so she finished pegging out

the shift, snapped out the next and pegged it too, clumsy with haste.Come on, Polly, pull your weight there, would you?But Polly flounced away across the paddock, to lean on the wall

and talk to the horses that grazed at liberty in the next field. Sarahsaw her rummaging in her apron pocket and handing over windfalls;she stroked their noses for a while, while Sarah continued with their

work. Then Polly hitched herself up onto the wall and sat there, kickingher heels, head bowed, squinting in the low sun. Half the time, Sarah

thought, it is like she has fairies whispering in her ear.And out of tenderness for Pollyfor a washday is a fatiguing thing

indeed, while you are still growing, and while you are not yet yourselfquite reconciled to your laboursSarah finished off the work alone,and let Polly wander off unreprimanded, to go about whatever busi-ness she might have, of dropping twigs into the stream, or collectingbeechnuts.

When Sarah carried the last empty linen basket up from the paddock,it was getting dark, and the yard had still not been cleaned. She sloppedit down with grey laundry-water from the tubs, and let the lye-soapdo its work on the flagstones.

Mrs. Hill was burdened with a washday temper; she had been alone atthe mercy of the bells all day: the Bennets made few concessions to herlack of assistance while the housemaids were occupied with the linen.

When Sarah came through from clearing the scullery, hands smart-

ing, back aching, arms stiff with overwork, Mrs. Hill was laying the


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Longbourn

table for the servants dinner. She slapped a plate of cold souse downand glared at Sarah, as if to say,Abandon me, and this is what you can

expect. You only have yourself to blame. The pickled brawn was greyishpink, jellied, a convenience when cooking was not to be contemplated;Sarah regarded it with loathing.

Mr. Hill sidled in. Beyond him, in the yard, Sarah caught a glimpseof one of the labourers from the next farm along, who tucked in hisneckerchief and raised a hand in farewell. Mr. Hill just nodded to him,and shut the door. He wiped his hands on his trousers, tongue explor-ing a troubling tooth. He sat down. The souse wobbled on the table asMrs. Hill cut the bread.

Sarah slipped into the pantry, where she gathered up the mustardpot and the stone jar of pickled walnuts, and the black butter and thehorseradish, and brought this armful of condiments back to the kitchentable with her, setting them down beside the salt and butter. The feel-ing was returning to her hands now and her chilblains were a torment;she rubbed at them, the flank of one hand chafing against the other.Mrs. Hill frowned at her and shook her head. Sarah sat on her hands,

which was some relief: Mrs. Hill was right, scratching would only make

them worse, but it was an agony not to scratch.Polly ambled in from the yard with a cloud of fresh air, rosy cheeks

and an innocent look, as though she had been working as hard as any-body could be reasonably expected to work: she sat at the table andpicked up her knife and spoon, and then put them down again whenMr. Hill dipped his grizzled face towards his linked fists. Sarah andMrs. Hill joined their hands together too, and muttered along withhim as he said Grace. When he was done there was a clattering andscrabbling of cutlery. The souse shivered under Mrs. Hills knife.

Is he upstairs then, missus? Sarah asked.Mrs. Hill did not even look up. Hm?The scotchman. Is he still upstairs with the ladies? I thought hed be

done up there by now.Mrs. Hill frowned impatiently, slapped a lump of the jelly onto her

husbands plate, another onto Sarahs. What?She thinks she saw a scotchman, Polly said.I didsee a scotchman.

You didnt. You just wish you did.Mr. Hill looked up from his plate; pale eyes flicked from one girl


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11

to the other. Silenced, Sarah poked at the pickled brawn; Polly, feelingthis to be a victory, shovelled hers up into a grin. Mr. Hill returned his

baleful gaze to his plate.Theres no one called at the house at all, Mrs. Hill said. Not sinceMrs. Long this morning.

I thought I saw a man. I thought I saw him coming down the lane.Must have been one of the farmhands.Mr. Hill scraped the jelly up to his mouth, his jaw swinging back

and forth like a cows, to make best use of his few teeth. Sarah triednot to notice him; it was a trick to be performed at every meal time:the not-noticing of Mr. Hill. No, she wanted to say; it was not one

of the farmhands, it could not have been. She had seen him.Andshehad heard him, whistling that faint, uncatchable tune. The idea thatit could have been one of those rawboned lumpen boys, or one of theshambling old men youd come upon sitting on stiles, gumming theirpipesshe was just not having it.

But she knew better than to protest, in the face of Mr. Hills silence,Mrs. Hills brittle temper, and Pollys general contrariness. Mrs. Hill,though, seeing her disappointment, softened; she reached over and

tucked a loose strand of Sarahs hair back inside her cap.Eat your dinner up, love.Sarahs smile was small and quickly gone. She cut off a piece of

souse, smeared it with mustard, and then horseradish, then blobbed itwith black butter, spiked a slice of pickled walnut, and placed the lotcautiously between her lips. She chewed. The stuff was hammy, jellied,

with melting bits of brain and stringy shreds of cheeks and scraps ofunexpected crunch. She swallowed, and took a swift gulp of her smallbeer. The one good thing about today was that it would soon be over.

After dinner, she and Polly and Mrs. Hill sat, silent with fatigue, andpassed the pot of goose-grease between them. Sarah dug out a whitishlump and softened it between her fingertips. She eased the grease intoher raw hands, then flexed and curled her fingers. Though still sore, theskin was made supple again, and did not split.

Mr. Hill, out of kindness to the women, washed up the dinnerthings ineffectually in the scullery; they could hear the slapping water,the scraping and clattering. Mrs. Hill winced for the china.

Later, Mr. B. would ring the library bell for a slice of cake to go withhis Madeira wine, making Mr. Hill start bad-temperedly awake and


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Longbourn

shamble off to give it to him. An hour or so after that, Mrs. Hill wouldfetch away his crumby plate and smeared glass, and Sarah would gather

the ladies supper things from the parlour and carry them down on achinking tray, and that would be that. On washday, the supper dishescould wait for tomorrows water. On a washday, too, Sarah did nothave the attention necessary to read whatever book she had borrowedlast from Mr. B. Instead she had a lend of his old Courier, and read outloud, for Mrs. Hills benefit, the news from three days ago, soft withfolding and refolding, the ink smudging on her goose-greased hands.She read softlyso as not to disturb the sleeping child or the drowsyold manthe account of new hopes for a swift victory in Spain, and

how Buonaparte had now been put on the back foot, and would soonbe on the hop, the notion of which made her think of the war as adance, and generals joining hands and spinning. And then there was anoise.

Sarah let the paper hang from her hand. Did you hear that?Eh? asked Mrs. Hill, blinking up from the edge of sleep. What?I dont know, a noise outside. Something.

A soft whinny then, and the bump and thud of horses unsettled in

their stalls.I think theres someone out there. Sarah set the paper aside, went

to lift the childs sleeping head off her knee.Its nothing, Mrs. Hill said.Polly sat up, still three-quarters asleep. Mr. Hill muttered, blinked,

then reared up suddenly, wiping his chin. What is it?I heard something.They all listened for a moment.It might be gypsies Sarah said.What would gypsies want here? Mr. Hill asked.Well, the horses.Gypsies know horses; gypsies would have more sense.They listened again. Polly leaned her head against Sarahs shoulder,

eyes closing.Its nothing. Its probably a rat, said Mrs. Hill. Pussll see to it.Sarah nodded, but still listened. Pollys breathing softened again, her

body going slack.

All right, then, Sarah said. Bed.


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13

As Sarah stripped the lacing from her stays, moonlight seeped under-neath the curtains, and soaked right through their weave. In her shift,she drew back the drapes and looked out across the yard, at the moonhanging huge and yellow above the stables. All was clear, almost, as day;the buildings stood silent, the windows dark; there was no movement.No gypsies certainly, not even the slip-scurry of a rat.

Might it be the scotchman? Might he be bedding down for the nighthere, and away at dawn before anybody knew? His pack empty, hed beoff to restock at one of the market or manufacturing towns. Now that

would be a thing indeed, to live like that. To be there and gone andnever staying anywhere a moment longer than you wanted; to wanderthrough the narrow lanes and the wide city streets, perhaps even as faras the sea. By tomorrow, who knew: he could be at Stevenage, or maybeeven London.

Her candle guttered in the draught. Sarah blew out the flame,dropped the curtain, and crept into bed beside Pollys sleeping warmth.She lay looking across at the veiled window: she would not get a wink,

not tonight; she was quite sure of it, not with the bright moonlight andthe knowledge that the pedlar might yet be out there. But Sarah, beingyoung, and having been on her feet and hard at work since four thirty,and it now striking eleven, was soon breathing softly, lost in sleep.


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chapter ii

Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.

They were lucky to get him. That was what Mr. B. said, as hefolded his newspaper and set it aside. What with the War in

Spain, and the press of so many able fellows into the Navy; there was,simply put, a dearth of men.

A dearth of men?Lydia repeated the phrase, anxiously searching hersisters faces: was this indeed the case? Was England running out of men?

Her father raised his eyes to heaven; Sarah, meanwhile, made bigastonished eyes at Mrs. Hill: a new servant joining the household! A

manservant! Why hadnt she mentioned it before? Mrs. Hill, clutch-ing the coffee pot to her bosom, made big eyes back, and shook herhead: shhh! I dont know, and dont you dare say a word! So Sarah justgave half a nod, clamped her lips shut, and returned her attention tothe table, proffering the platter of cold ham: all would come clear ingood time, but it did not do to ask. It did not do to speak at all, unlessdirectly addressed. It was best to be deaf as a stone to these conversa-tions, and seem as incapable of forming an opinion on them.

Miss Mary lifted the serving fork and skewered a slice of ham. Papadoesnt mean your beaux, Lydiado you, Papa?

Mr. B., leaning out of the way so that Mrs. Hill could pour hiscoffee, said that indeed he did not mean her beaux: Lydias beaux alwaysseemed to be in more than plentiful supply. But of working men there

was a genuine shortage, which is why he had settled with this lad sopromptlythis with an apologetic glance to Mrs. Hill, as she movedaround him and went to fill his wifes cupthough the quarter day ofMichaelmas was not quite yet upon them, it being the more usual occa-

sion for the hiring and dismissal of servants.


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15

You dont object to this hasty act, I take it, Mrs. Hill?Indeed I am very pleased to hear of it, sir, if he be a decent sort of

fellow.He is, Mrs. Hill; I can assure you of that.Who is he, Papa? Is he from one of the cottages? Do we know the

family?Mr. B. raised his cup before replying. He is a fine upstanding young

man, of good family. I had an excellent character of him.I, for one, am very glad that we will have a nice young man to

drive us about, said Lydia, for when Mr. Hill is perched up there onthe carriage box it always looks as though we have trained a monkey,

shaved him here and there and put him in a hat.Mrs. Hill stepped away from the table, and set the coffee pot down

on the buffet.Lydia! Jane and Elizabeth spoke at once.What? He does, you know he does. Just like a spider-monkey, like

the one Mrs. Longs sister brought with her from London.Mrs. Hill looked down at a willow-pattern dish, empty, though

crusted round with egg. The three tiny people still crossed their tiny

bridge, and the tiny boat crawled like an earwig across the china sea,and all was calm there, and unchanging, and perfect. She breathed.Miss Lydia meant no harm, she never did. And however heedlesslyshe expressed herself, she was right: this change was certainly to be

welcomed. Mr. Hill had become, quite suddenly, old. Last winter hadbeen a worrying time: the long drives, the late nights while the ladiesdanced or played at cards; he had got deeply cold, and had shiveredfor hours by the fire on his return, his breath rattling in his chest. Thecoming winters balls and parties might have done for him entirely. Anice young man to drive the carriage, and to take up the slack about thehouse; it could only be to the good.

Mrs. Bennet had heard tell, she was now telling her husband anddaughters delightedly, of how in the best households they had noth-ing but menservants waiting on the family and guests, on account ofeveryone knowing that they cost more in the way of wages, and thatthere was a high tax to pay on them, because all the fit strong fellows

were wanted for the fields and for the war. When it was known that the

Bennets now had a smart young man about the place, waiting at table,


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Longbourn

opening the doors, it would be a thing of great note and marvel in theneighbourhood.

I am sure our daughters should be vastly grateful to you, for lettingus appear to such advantage, Mr. Bennet. You are so considerate. What,pray, is the young fellows name?

His given name is James, Mr. Bennet said. The surname is a verycommon one. He is called Smith.

James Smith.It was Mrs. Hill who had spoken, barely above her breath, but the

words were said. Jane lifted her cup and sipped; Elizabeth raised hereyebrows but stared at her plate; Mrs. B. glanced round at her house-

keeper. Sarah watched a flush rise up Mrs. Hills throat; it was all so newand strange that even Mrs. Hill had forgot herself for a moment. Andthen Mr. B. swallowed, and cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

As I said, a common enough name. I was obliged to act with somecelerity in order to secure him, which is why you were not soonerinformed, Mrs. Hill; I would much rather have consulted you inadvance.

Cheeks pink, the housekeeper bowed her head in acknowledgement.

Since the servants attics are occupied by your good self, yourhusband and the housemaids, I have told him he might sleep above thestables. Other than that, I will leave the practical and domestic detailsto you.

Thank you, sir, she murmured.Well. Mr. B. shook out his paper, and retreated behind it. There

we are, then. I am glad that it is all settled.Yes, said Mrs. B. Are you not always saying, Hill, how you need

another pair of hands about the place? This will lighten your load, willit not? This will lighten all your loads.

Their mistress took in Sarah with a wave of her plump hand, andthen, with a flap towards the outer reaches of the house, indicatedthe rest of the domestic servants: Mr. Hill who was hunkered in thekitchen, riddling the fire, and Polly who was, at that moment, thump-ing down the back stairs with a pile of wet Turkish towels and a scowl.

You should be very grateful to Mr. Bennet for his thoughtfulness,I am sure.

Thank you, sir, said Sarah.


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17

The words, though softly spoken, made Mrs. Hill glance across ather; the two of them caught eyes a moment.

Thank you, sir, said Mrs. Hill.Mrs. Bennet dabbed a further spoonful of jam on her remainingpiece of buttered muffin, popped it in her mouth, and chewed it twice;she spoke around her mouthful: Thatll be all, Hill.

Mr. B. looked up from his paper at his wife, and then at hishousekeeper.

Yes, thank you very much, Mrs. Hill, he said. That will be all fornow.


35/52

LongbournB Y Jo Baker

A brilliantly imagined, irresistible below-stairs answer to Pride and Prejudice: a story

of the romance, intrigue and drama among the servants of the Bennet household, a

triumphant tale of defying society's expectations, and an illuminating glimpse of

working-class lives in Regency England.

The servants at Longbourn estate--only glancingly mentioned in Jane Austen's

classic--take centre stage in Jo Baker's lively, cunning new novel. Here are the

Bennets as we have never known them: seen through the eyes of those scrubbingthe floors, cooking the meals, emptying the chamber pots. Our heroine is Sarah, an

orphaned housemaid beginning to chafe against the boundaries of her class. When

the militia marches into town, a new footman arrives under mysterious

circumstances, and Sarah finds herself the object of the attentions of an ambitious

young former slave working at neighboring Netherfield Hall, the carefully

choreographed world downstairs at Longbourn threatens to be completely, perhaps

irrevocably, up-ended. From the stern but soft-hearted housekeeper to the starry-eyed kitchen maid, these new characters come vividly to life in this already beloved

world. Jo Baker shows us what Jane Austen wouldn't in a captivating, wonderfully

evocative, moving work of fiction.

Hardcover

Amazon | Indigo

eBook


Excerpted from Longbourn by Jo Baker. Copyright 2013 by Jo Baker. Excerpted by permission of Random

House Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be

reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
http://www.amazon.ca/exec/obidos/ASIN/034581360X/randomhouseof-20http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Longbourn/9780345813602-item.htmlhttp://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_kinc?url=node%3D154606011&field-keywords=Longbournhttp://www.kobobooks.com/search/search.html?q=9780345813220https://ebookstore.sony.com/search?keyword=longbournhttp://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/isbn9780345813220https://www.google.com/search?tbo=p&tbm=bks&q=9780345813626https://www.google.com/search?tbo=p&tbm=bks&q=9780345813626http://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/isbn9780345813220https://ebookstore.sony.com/search?keyword=longbournhttp://www.kobobooks.com/search/search.html?q=9780345813220http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_kinc?url=node%3D154606011&field-keywords=Longbournhttp://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Longbourn/9780345813602-item.htmlhttp://www.amazon.ca/exec/obidos/ASIN/034581360X/randomhouseof-20


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37/52

M u s ea novel

=

M a r y N o v i k

D o u b l e d a y

C a n a d a


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One

first heard my mothers heartbeat from inside her dark,

surrounding womb. It mingled with my own hearts rhythm,then changed to a harsher, more strident beat. It was then that I had

my first and most famous vision of a man kneeling in a purple cassock

and biretta. I could see him as if I were looking out a window made of

glass. He was framed by curtains that fell in crimson folds around my

mother, who lay beneath him on the bed. His face was as clear to me

as the blood vessels inside her womb, his skin foxed with a tracery of

veins. I looked straight into his eyes and they were as hard and blue as

lapis lazuli. I kicked with all my might to drive him off.

When I was older and further from my mothers heartbeat, I told

her this vision to bring her close to me. After my grandmother Conmre

left to boast about me to the cloth-workers along the canal, my mother

picked me up to kiss behind my ear.

It was the eightieth day of your life, Solange, the day your soul

entered your body. You moved inside me, telling me that I was carrying

a daughter. This means we will soon have a finer place to live, a bed of


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4 mary novik

riches in another chamber. Now that the Pope and his men have come

to Avignon, Fortune will spin her wheel to raise us up.

Before long, my mother had a visitor, a priest whose every act wasfull of kindness and ceremony. After his first visit, he came each week.

I would run to him and call him Papa, and would receive three kisses

on my cheeks. Then I would unburden his arms of gifts: honey, wax

candles, an apple or a plum, the almonds I craved, sometimes a length

of cloth or lace. He gave Maman a perfume bottle and a bracelet

wrought of silver, with a shank of his hair embedded like a relic.

When the Rhne flooded and the water spilled across the low roadbeside the canal, Papa arrived with wet shoes, carrying a wooden box

under his arm. He let me open the clasp to take out the alphabet letters

stacked inside, then spelt words on the hearth for me to read. Mater.

Maman. Pater. Papa. Conmre did not leave her corner that day, but

rocked back and forth, crooning oddly.

What is wrong with her? Papa asked.

Maman said, This happens when the canal floods. She thinks thewater is rising up to choke her and complains of prickling in her arms

and legs.

I have prickles also, I said, but they were paying more attention

to each other than to me.

Perhaps Conmre has second sight like Solange, but lacks the

clarity to speak of it, Papa said. Your gift is in your face and chestnut

hair, but Solange will speak in many tongues. Look how she reaches for

the wooden letters! When she is of age, I will give her a dowry so she

can enter a great abbey or wed a man of noble birth to have fine sons.

On All Saints Day, Papa did not come as promised. Instead,

another priest arrived in a black cassock to announce that Papa had left

this world to find a better one. My mother banged on the priests chest

with her fists and refused to talk or eat all day. After a week our fuel

was gone and Conmre walked beyond the cemetery to gather wood.

She returned with a faggot of sticks and a sack of coarse flour.


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muse 5

No more white bread for you, she said crossly, tying a shawl

around me for warmth. The fire is only for cooking now.

Our clothes and bed-linen became damp over the winter. Whenour food ran out, Maman would descend into the tavern to beg food

and ale from the drunkards, who followed her upstairs to climb

behind the bed-curtains with her. In the spring, Conmre opened

the shutters so we could hear the water rushing over the paddle-

wheels, and not the sound of my mothers frequent visitors. At

night, I slept with Conmre on her paillasse of straw in the corner

made fragrant by her herbs and salves, and in the day, I trailed afterher along the Sorgue, cutting willow shoots to weave paniers to sell

in the market. She told me that her father had been a cloth-dyer

with a thriving business where the tavern stood now. The tavern was

the Cheval Blanc. The street was the rue du Cheval Blanc. The city

was Avignon, the home of the Pope. I was to remember these things

if I was separated from her in the busy streets like a lamb torn from

the side of a ewe.Conmre boasted that her name was Le Blanc and that she had

once owned the whole building and a milk cow in the shed besides.

Most of her stories were dark and wild, told in a tongue that I could

scarcely understand. I believed little that she said, least of all that she

had owned a cow, but I knew where I livedat the sign of the white

horse along the Sorgue canal. Here, the water spun out of the paddle-

wheels into the vats where the dyers worked the dye into the cloth,

staining their arms and legs dull purple.

At Pentecost, the anniversary of my birth, Conmre kneaded lard

and coarse flour into a flatbread, pressed rosemary and salt into the

crust, and laid it on the fire-grate. As it baked, she rubbed my legs with

fragrant oil, stopping at the birthmark on my thigh. It looked like the

chalice I had admired in Notre-Dame-des-Doms, but I knew it wasnt,

because it was too small.

What is it? I asked, as I did each year.


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6 mary novik

A thimble. The mark of the cloth-makers, who are your kin

and mine.

She whetted her knife, tested the blade on her thumb, then scoreda gentle line, the width of a thread, beside the thimble. I scrambled onto

the bed next to Maman to show her the newest mark.

She kissed the beads of blood away. Another thread to bind you

to me. Now, count how old you are.

I touched a finger to each mark in turn. Five, I said, and was

rewarded with a chunk of bread.

Boots arrived, a fist beat on the door, and I leapt off the bed asa man came in from the tavern. He spat a mouthful of ale at me and

deposited his sloshing flagon on the floor. Then he tugged off his hose,

climbed on top of Maman, and jerked the bed-curtains closed. Conmre

sat on a stool, carding fleece, her eyes flicking between her spindle and

the swinging draperies. At first, the sounds were the usual ones made

by male visitors, then Maman begged him to stop, and I became afraid

for her. Conmre clapped her wool-cards while I thrashed the draperieswith the broom, striking him on the leg.

Get off my mother, I ordered.

The knave emerged with a red face. Having another of your

famous visions? he yelled, wrenching the broom from me. Who do

you see this time? Another bishop? The Pope himself?

He chased after me, hitting the floor more often than he hit me as

I scurried to escape his blows. Conmre kicked his shins, swearing at

him in the old tongue until the broom cracked against her skull. As he

raised it again, I clasped my hands as though I saw the Virgin before me

and chanted the Alma Redemptoris Mater as fast as I could in Latin.

I chanted it over and over until he dropped the broom, crossed himself,

took a fortifying drink from his flagon, and said, Get rid of this filthy

saint, or else youll lose your trade. Hardly any men come up here as it is.

Maman dove at him with the pointed spindle and it was his turn

to scuttle, half-running, half-tumbling down the flight of steps. I threw


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muse 7

his boots and hose after him, sat on the top step, and listened to him

spill his tale to the men in the tavern. It pleased him to leave out the

spindle and to make much of the little virgin with her gift of tonguesto conceal his own cowardice in running from us.

By Michaelmas, my reputation as a prodigy had spread throughout

the cloth-makers quarter, though truly I was no child wonder but had

only learnt some Latin from Papa. By Martinmas, the tavern louts

stopped coming upstairs because Maman was with child by one of

them. We had no tallow to make soap and candles, and little fuel.

When the mistral hurled itself against the oiled cloth windows, westuffed rags into the shutters and darkness descended in the daylight

hours. The smell of meat rose through the floorboards from the taverns

spit, making me nauseous with hunger. My bones did not grow and

Maman, her face pocked and her breath sour, seldom got out of bed.

I lay beside her, spinning Papas bracelet around her wrist bone.

Look out the window, I begged, pulling on her arm. The moon is red

and the water is racing through the paddles.This infant refuses to be born, Solange. Use your gift to look into

my womb to see what evil is within me.

I pressed my eyes against her bare skin, but could not see the child

or feel it move. It is dark as night inside.

In the morning, Mamans belly jumped beneath my hand. The

bold kick told me it must be a boy. Soon he was battering her with his

fists and knees, and Maman clutched her sides with each new spasm.

Why would he not come peacefully into the world as I had done?

Instead, he tore his way out of her womb in a fury of blood. Conmre

caught him as he emerged. Once out, he fell quiet, his flesh curiously

blue as Conmre pushed him from my sight. When her poultices could

not stanch the river of blood between Mamans legs, she broke the

broom across her knee.

Maman told her, Go at once for Father Arnaud at old Saint

Martial.


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8 mary novik

I stroked Mamans cheek until a blow sounded on the door, knock-

ing it open. It was Papas friend in his priests cassock, with Conmre

behind him. He did not sit, but stood swinging his arms at his sidesimpatiently.

You agreed that this would be best, Madame, he said. It is better

done quickly for her sake and for yours.

I crawled onto Mamans bed to lay my head against her middle, which

now felt cold and dead. She drew me towards her and wept, her fingers

tangled in my hair. When her silver bracelet caught my eye, I gave it a spin.

May I have this, Maman?No, little one, for I am dying. I will need it to bring Papa to my side.

Why must you die to make him come?

When you are older, you will understand. She felt for the empty

perfume bottle on a ribbon around her neck, caught some of my tears

in it, then her own, then pressed my fist around the bottle. When

the last trumpet sounds, I will fly to you to collect my tears. Now

leave with the good Father and do not look back. Mind the nuns andlearn your letters as Papa wished. I will be well where I am going.

She squeezed the breath out of me, then released me so abruptly that

my feet shot down to the floor. When Conmre lurched towards her,

wailing, Maman grasped her hand. The Virgin will take better care

of Solange than either you or I can do. Let her go where she will be

fed and clothed.

Conmre uttered a charm in the old tongue as the priest swung me

onto his hip. He carried me screaming down the stairs, through the

tavern, and across the plank over the canal. When he paused on the

other side, I squirmed out of his arms, but got no further than his

broad palm allowed.

Let me go to Maman!

He pressed me against the earth so I could not kick him. Avignon

is a city of men. It is no place for a young girl. Your grandmother is her-

self no better than a child. If you stay here with her, you will both starve.


44/52

muse 9

With his free hand, he dug in his alms-bag for a dry cake. I bit off

a piece, tasting white flour, honey, raisins, and almonds. I shoved the

rest in my mouth with two hands before he could take it back. AfterI had choked it down, his iron grip closed around my wrist.

There are more cakes like that in the abbey where I am taking you.

He stood me on my own two feet and gave me his wineskin to suck

on. The cake was making its way into my stomach, where it filled the

hollow that had ached for days. As we walked alongside the canal, the

great wheels of the cloth-workers turned in a frenzy, driven by a river

enraged and swollen by the full red moon.


45/52

Two

e followed the angry river on foot as it left the city, and

met the freedom of the paths and fields upstream. Slowly,the ramparts fell behind in the distance. As Avignon disappeared into

a cloud, the night bell of Notre-Dame-des-Doms rang out.

The priest crossed himself. Your mothers soul has left her body

now.

I knew this meant that Maman was dead, but I hoped to see her

before long. I clutched her perfume bottle in my hand so her soul would

know where to find me. The priest entered a borie at a junction and

reappeared with a sleepy donkey. He hoisted me on the front, then

mounted, his legs almost dragging on the earth. As we left the river on

a well-trodden path, the donkeys swaying lured me into a half-sleep.

After a while, the priest climbed off to make the going easier. Then he

made me slide off to walk as well, so he could lead the donkey along a

narrower track. My toes were raw from pushing against my shoes by

the time I saw the church tower ahead. Soon the abbey itself appeared,

like a walled city with outbuildings scattered in the fields around it. My


46/52

muse 1 1

nose caught the scent of thymelike Conmres skin, but bitten and

sharpened by the frostand I slipped my hand out of the priests to

run towards the high gates. There were no sounds but a night birdcalling and twigs snapping underfoot, until a nun came out of the gate-

house to greet us, her keys clanging at her waist.

The priest said, This is the child I told the abbess I would bring.

Leave her with me. You will be fed in the almshouse. The gate-

keeper pointed him towards a shadowy building outside the wall.

A water kettle was steaming on a fire near the gatehouse and the

gatekeeper threw on vine cuttings to build up the heat. Then, with onlythe moon for light, she took out her knife and sheared my hair close to

my skull. I squeezed my eyes shut, but she did not nick me once. She left

to fetch something and I dug a hole in the soft earth to bury the perfume

bottle so she couldnt take it from me. I had just covered the hole when

she was back with two buckets of cold water, which she poured into a tub.

Take off your clothes.

Since I didnt move, she stripped the clothes over my head andlifted me into the cold water. I looked down at my naked body with its

ice-blue veins, wondering if I would die like my blue brother. Even the

kettle of scalding water she poured around my ankles barely took off

the chill. I bottled up my tears and cursed her as fiercely as Conmre

would have done.

That is the last time you will speak in the old tongue, she said,

running a brush over a soap cake to scour the words from my mouth.

The soap stung so much I was afraid to say another word. She

scrubbed my body, dried me, and clothed me in a homespun tunic,

which had been warming near the fire. Then she threw my old gar-

ments on the flames, sparing my shoes to put back on my throbbing

feet. Only now, with the stink of burning wool in my nostrils, did she

unlock the abbey gates to push me through.

As the sun rose, bathing the sky in gold, bells rang like hammer-

blows and nuns hurried into the cloister, forming a black line that


47/52

12 mary novik

snaked past me into the church. A large girl with flying hair skipped

after them, leaving the door ajar for me. Some words were spoken by

an important woman in the chancel, then the nuns voices lifted in songand I was fed with joyful sound.

The girl was at my side as soon as the chanting ended. Your fingers

are white. Do this to heat them. She crossed her arms over her chest

and tucked her hands into her armpits. I will show you how to do

everything. We must be seated before Cook finishes beating the gong

one hundred times.

My arms folded like bird wings, I followed her into a refectorywith trestle-tables at which nuns sat in complete silence. The sweet

aroma of the food drew me forwards in spite of my fear and I climbed

on a bench beside the girl. With gestures, she demonstrated how to

tip the pitcher and how to fill my trencher from the vessels of savoury

food. I was an apt pupil, eager to learn. When my face was greasy, she

wiped her lips with her hem and I did the same. I gestured towards

the single abbey cake on our small table. She broke it in two andserved herself the bigger portion, but I ate my part gladly, for there

were raisins in it.

Once the meal was over, she led me back into the empty church.

She told me that her name was Elisabeth and that the nuns observed

the rule of Saint Benedict. The abbey was Clairefontaine, after Agns

de Clairefontaine, the abbess. The long words came out oddly from

Elisabeths mouth. Perhaps she had never had her mouth washed out,

for she spoke almost as roughly as Conmre. She showed me where the

ashlar blocks had shifted in one of the chapels, making a crawl space

for an animal to climb through on all fours.

This is how I go out after curfew, she said, but you are not

allowed to. From the church, she went ahead of me up the inner stairs

to the lay dormitory. We entered a cold, dark cell, where Elisabeth

pointed out a small bench hewn from sturdy oak, which would be mine,

and a bed that was hers alone. At last, she noticed that I hadnt spoken.


48/52

muse 1 3

You can talk now. The nuns must be silent after compline, but here we

can make as much noise as we wish.

I took the coarse blanket she gave me and laid it on my bed, wellsatisfied with my small empire. The bed was low and hard, little more

than a straw pallet in a wooden frame, but I would be safe here until

Maman came for me. My stomach was full and I was warmer than I had

been for months. Although Elisabeth pretended not to want me, I could

see that she had prepared for my arrival. On my lopsided bench sat a

new candle, shorter than hers but just as useful. Beside it she had

stacked some garments she had outgrown. She showed me how tofasten my new cloak to ward off draughts, then tied the cap snugly

beneath my chin for me. What did I care that the cloak dragged along

the floorboards? It had a wide, deep pouch to carry abbey cakes in.

When I thanked her, she reached for something on a ledge. The

abbess told me your mother is dead, like mine, she said. I use this

sponge to collect my tears when I am sad. Would you like one too?

I could only nod because my tears were already unbottling them-selves and spilling hotly down my cheeks. She held out a little sponge

that was almost as nicely rounded as hers.

This is how you do it. She dabbed my eyes and cheeks. We will

be sisters, but you must do everything I say because I am three years

older. One day I will be a Benedictine, but you will not, for you are too

small to be given to God. The abbess took you as a kindness, since you

have no dowry to give the abbey.

It was true I had brought nothing of value, only the perfume bottle

that I had buried in the soft earth by the gatehouse. All that long day,

I spoke only to Elisabeth, but learnt fifteen useful hand signals, mostly

for food. That night in our beds, I listened to Elisabeth sucking noisily

on her tongue until she fell asleep. Then I crept down the inner stairs

into the north chapel and wriggled through the gap in the tumbled

ashlar into the darkness. I sought my hiding place near the gatekeepers

fire and dug until my fingers hit glass, unearthing the perfume bottle.


49/52

14 mary novik

Safe in my splendid new pouch, it climbed up the stairs and into bed

with me, where we waited for Maman together.

In the morning, the abbess sent for me. I opened the door of herhouse to find her sitting on a cushioned chair, eyes closed and lips

moving as she worked her fingers along her beads. She was the impor-

tant woman who had led the singing in church. I looked for something

to do until she finished her paternosters. On a stand beside her was a

curious box covered in leather, which I managed to slide over the edge

of the stand and catch just before it banged against the floor. The hasp

was locked, probably by the key I saw hanging from the abbesss belt.The noise had jarred her from her prayers and I shrank into myself,

hoping she would not rebuke me.

What do you think it is? Her words were sharp and clear, like

nothing I had heard alongside the canal.

I made my mouth as round and red as hers and spoke as crisply as

I could. A box of alphabet letters.

You are not far wrong. She was smiling at me. It is a book ofwords made up of letters. When you are older, I will teach you how to

read them. You must address me as Mother Agnes.

You are not my mother.

My child, your mother is dead. You will never see her again.

My lip trembled. That is not true. I will see Maman when her soul

comes back for this. I took the tiny bottle from my pouch to show her.

She pulled out the stopper, sniffed, then held the vessel to the light.

Are these your mothers tears?

Yes, and mine too. I waited all night, but she did not come.

Mother Agnes was silent for a time. She will not come for many

years. First, you must grow old, much older than I am. Hide this in a

secret place and think no more about it. She tucked the bottle back

into my pouch. What did your mother call you?

Solange, I said. Sol, like the sun. I saw that she approved, which

gave me courage. I was born at Pentecost and thus my hair is red.


50/52

muse 15

And ange for angel. It is a good name, for you are said to speak with

the tongue of an angel. She stood up to examine a map nailed to her

wall. Her wooden stick pointed to the walled city of Avignon, thentapped along the winding blue river. Your reputation for clairvoyance

has travelled upstream along the Sorgue as far as our abbey. The

pointer caressed a little abbey painted brown and green. Here is Bingen

in the norththe pointer tapped on another painted abbeywhere

Saint Hildegarde resided. When she was three, Hildegarde was given

to an abbey as an oblate, as you have been. She was so famous for her

visions that she became the abbess and was consulted for her prophecyby popes and emperors. The pointer stopped. Do you know what

prophecy is?

It is second sight, I said, but she wanted more from me. I tried to

think of something worthwhile. Before I was born, I had a dream

about a bishop.

Tell it to me now.

I scratched my head with both hands, without finding anything totell. Its gone now. How can I remember what I see inside my head?

Her tone sharpened. When you have a vision, you must remember it.

She was not acting like a mother now. I threw myself on the floor

beside her, burying my face in my arms. This abbey has too many rules

and I am too small to learn them!

The pointer reached over to tap my skull gently. You will, my child,

for it is your destiny. You have the gift of clairvoyance like Hildegarde.

I dont want to have a destiny!

Do not worry. Your head will grow bigger to understand these

mysteries.

She put down the pointer and chose another book, this one with

a scarlet cover. Then she sat on her cushioned chair, spread the book

across her knees, and beckoned me closer. I slid across the floor and

raised my head to see empty lines as neat as shelves. After a while, I

stood up beside her to feel the small, even ridges with my fingertips.


51/52

16 mary novik

How did you make the rows so straight?

With a stylus. Each of these lines must be filled with words. This

is where we will write down your visions. She lifted the page to mynose so I could sniff it.

It smells like a barn.

This is vellum, Solange. Never forget the scent, for only the rarest

books are made from it.


52/52

Muse

B Y Mary Novick

Muse is the story of the charismatic woman who was the inspirationbehind Petrarch's sublime love poetry. Solange Le Blanc begins life inthe tempestuous streets of 14th century Avignon, a city of mendominated by the Pope and his palace. When her mother, a harlot,dies in childbirth, Solange is raised by Benedictines who believe shehas the gift of clairvoyance. Trained as a scribe, but troubled bydisturbing visions and tempted by a more carnal life, she escapes to

Avignon, where she becomes entangled in a love triangle with the poet

Petrarch, becoming not only his muse but also his lover.

Later, when her gift for prophecy catches the Pope's ear, Solangebecomes Pope Clement VI's mistress and confidante in the mostcelebrated court in Europe. When the plague kills a third of Avignon'spopulation, Solange is accused of sorcery and is forced once again toreinvent herself and fight against a final, mortal conspiracy.

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