February 1347

Dunwich, Suffolk

 

Petra woke well before dawn, her mind instantly alert. She was as jittery as a bride on her wedding day. Today was the day she was going to see Avery. The thought left her feeling nervous and excited at the same time. He was a priest now, a man of God, but she couldn’t help the feelings she’d harbored for him all these years. Perhaps he’d forgotten all about her and embraced his new life, but he didn’t have her child to remind him day in and day out of the love they shared when they were young. Did he remember her? Did he ever think of her? Had she been his only experience of physical love? Avery had gone directly to the seminary after leaving Dunwich, so it was entirely likely that she had been the only woman he’d ever lain with.

Petra hastily dressed, climbed down the ladder, and set about lighting a fire in the hearth, so that the house would warm up a little before her mother and the children woke up. There was no need for them to suffer the cold, especially Maude, whose joints ached and swelled during the winter months, slowing her down and making her moan with agony by the end of the day. Maude had painful chilblains on her hands and feet as well. In more prosperous times, Petra rubbed them with lavender oil, but Maude refused to spend their few precious coins on a medicine for herself. “I’ll be all right, girl,” she said time and time again. “A bit of lard works just as well.” It didn’t, but Maude would brook no argument.

 Petra’s hands shook with cold as she tried to get the fire going, but the kindling refused to catch, no matter how many times she struck the tinder and flint. At last, a tiny tongue of flame appeared and began to grow, devouring the dry sticks and giving off some measure of warmth. Petra added two logs once the fire had taken hold, set some water for washing to heat, and sat down in front of the hearth, holding out her hands and feet to the glowing flames. She had a few minutes before the children awoke, and she planned to enjoy them in front of the fire. As she stared into the leaping flames, her thoughts instantly returned to Avery.

Did priests forsake their physical needs without any difficulty? She imagined not. Petra had known only her husband since Avery left, but she had several female friends who spoke frankly of such matters when they were alone, and they all shared a similar experience to that of Petra. Their husbands exercised their rights regularly, never tiring of the act or caring if the woman beneath them enjoyed it. It was a hunger that needed to be fed, day after day, year after year. Did that hunger fade in men of the cloth or did it die down for a time, only to reawaken when they least expected it?

She had no desire to stir feelings of love in Avery. She only wanted to talk to him, to know that he was well, and perhaps to tell him about Edwin. Would it cause him torment to know that he’d fathered a child? Would he wish to see his son? Petra had no way of knowing. The man who returned to Dunwich was a stranger to her.

Petra reluctantly left her spot by the hearth and turned her attention to making breakfast. The children were stirring, and she could hear Maude coughing behind the curtain of her alcove. At least she wouldn’t have to wash with cold water, which would aggravate her chilblains. Petra sliced some leftover bread and spread it thickly with fat before setting the slices close to the fire. By the time they were ready to eat, the bread would be hot, with melted fat soaked into the stale dough to make it more palatable.

Edwin was the first to rise, as usual. He pulled on his breeches and hose as he hopped from one foot to the other on the freezing dirt floor, before stuffing his feet into shoes and donning his jerkin.

“Do you need me to fetch some water, Mother?” he asked.

“There’s enough for now. Come and have a wash. I warmed it up.”

Edwin smiled gratefully as he washed his hands and face and took a seat at the table, accepting a slice of warm bread and a cup of ale. Petra ruffled his hair affectionately and went to rouse the girls, who tried to remain abed for as long as possible. Petra suddenly smiled to herself, realizing something that had eluded her until now. Edwin had not suffered a single fit since Cyril died. Was it possible that his fits were brought on by fear of his father? If so, he was cured. Petra felt a moment of pure joy when she imagined that that her son might no longer be afflicted. She would monitor him carefully, and if there were no more fits, she’d see to finding him a suitable apprenticeship, perhaps with the help of Lady Blythe.

Petra was in a state of nervous anticipation as she hurried toward Lady Blythe’s house. She didn’t expect to see Thomas, since he mentioned that he’d be going out with Robert first thing in the morning, and she was glad of it. She was still reeling from their last conversation and needed a bit of time to adjust her thinking to this new, if unlikely, possibility. Thomas and Robert were off to inspect a new location for a wool-picking shed, and wouldn’t be back until much later in the afternoon, since the property was some distance from the town. The wool-picking shed they’d been using for the past decade was no longer big enough to accommodate all the wool Thomas was buying, so they needed to expand and hire more wool-pickers as well.

Petra hated to even think about putting the girls to work, but if her income wasn’t enough to sustain them, she might have to ask Thomas to take on Ora and Elia as wool-pickers come spring. It was tedious, dirty work, but it was something the girls could easily do. Their earnings would help significantly and maybe they’d have enough left over to put something by for next winter. And, if she could hold off on finding Edwin an apprenticeship for a year, he could work as a pack-whacker for a spell. He was too young to go out on his own, but there were at least two men to every pack of donkeys, and although pack-whacking didn’t pay much, there were hidden benefits, according to Robert. Pack-whackers usually followed the same route, so got to know the people along the way and were frequently asked to do small favors which were handsomely repaid in food and other goods. A chunk of cheese, a length of cloth, or a bag of flour went a long way to helping a family cope. Petra smiled as she pulled her cloak tighter about her and bent her head into the wind. She felt more hopeful this morning than she had in months. It was a heady feeling, and one she wasn’t accustomed to. She finally reached Lady Blythe’s house and knocked on the door, which was locked. When Nan opened the door, her face looked like curdled milk.

“What’s amiss, Nan?” Petra asked as she removed her cloak and hung it on a peg by the door.

“Her ladyship is unwell. She was up all night with a bilious attack. Not a moment’s rest did she allow me, that old…” Nan wisely refrained from finishing that remark, but Petra was fairly sure she was about to say ‘besom’, a term remarkably fitting, in Petra’s opinion.

“And Lord Thomas?”

“Slept like the dead, thank the Lord for small mercies. At least I didn’t have him ordering me about. I know how to look after his mother, been doing it long enough,” Nan replied with an eloquent scowl. She’d been in Lady Blythe’s service since she was ten, and knew her employer like no one else. Nan looked pale, with dark smudges beneath her eyes — a testament to her sleepless night.

 “Why don’t you go lie down for a bit, Nan? I’ll look after Lady Blythe.”

“Thank you, Petra. I owe you. I’m so weary, I can barely see straight.”

“You owe me nothing. Get some rest. I’ll come and fetch you in two hours.” Nan nodded and shuffled off, desperate for her bed.

Petra made her way up the stairs with a sinking heart. She’d pinned her hopes on seeing Avery, but it seemed that Lady Blythe would not be up to entertaining this day. Petra nearly gagged as she stepped into the darkened bedchamber. It reeked of vomit, sweat, and worse. Lady Blythe lay huddled under the counterpane, her face waxy and drawn. She was shivering despite the roaring fire, her teeth chattering loudly when she tried to speak.

“Where’s that slattern?” she demanded, referring to Nan. “I told her to take out this chamber pot ages ago, and I need a clean shift. This one is soiled,” she added miserably.

“I’ll see to everything. Nan’s in the kitchen, preparing broth,” Petra lied. Lady Blythe would be livid if she knew that Nan was sleeping. Petra took a clean shift from the trunk and helped Lady Blythe change before tucking her back into bed. She needed a wash, but that would have to wait until she felt better and wasn’t shivering so violently.

“Just let me be,” Lady Blythe croaked. “Need rest.”

“As you wish, lady.”

Petra fetched an extra blanket, added another log to the fire, and stepped out of the room, leaving the door open to air out the terrible smell. She opened the window on the landing just a crack, sucking in fresh air. Lady Blythe would be furious if she knew that precious heat was being wasted, but the miasma that permeated the entire floor was so awful it nearly made Petra ill. She waited a few minutes, then shut the window and went downstairs to the kitchen where porridge was simmering over the open flame. Judging by the smell emanating from the pot, it was badly burned. Petra carefully moved the pot out of the flames and examined the contents. She’d expected to break her fast with Lady Blythe and was hungry, so she might as well eat. Petra helped herself to a bowl of porridge, careful not to scoop up any burned bits, and a cup of ale. She’d have to let the pot soak once it cooled and have Nan scrub it clean later.

Petra ate slowly, her stomach burning with disappointment. She’d so looked forward to seeing Avery, but now she would spend the day cleaning up vomit and emptying out the filthy chamber pot. She felt sorry for Lady Blythe, but the old lady had the constitution of an ox; she would recover in a day or two. Petra finished her breakfast and filled a bowl for Lady Blythe. Perhaps she would take a spoonful or two. The thick porridge might help to absorb some of the bile in her gut.

Lady Blythe had stopped shivering and had thrown off the extra blanket, her eyes now more alert. “Where’s Nan?” she asked again, peering behind Petra. “Did she burn the porridge? I’d beat her blue if I had the strength.”

“It’s only a little burnt. Will you take some, lady?” Petra asked as she perched on the side of the bed.

“No porridge, but I’m thirsty. Mouth so dry. Bring me a cup of ale.”

“Right away.” Petra returned downstairs, left the bowl of porridge for Nan, and filled a pewter mug with ale. She held the cup to Lady Blythe’s lips, helping her to drink. “Are you feeling better now, lady?”

“A bit. It was that mutton,” Lady Blythe grumbled. “I’ll have a stern word with that butcher come market day. If he thinks he can sell me rancid meat, he has another think coming, the rogue.” Petra had the mutton as well, but she felt quite well, and Thomas slept through the night untroubled by indigestion. Perhaps something else was ailing Lady Blythe, but Petra refrained from suggesting it.

“Shall I send a message to Father Avery and tell him not to come today?” Petra asked with a sinking heart.

“No need. Have Nan make a kidney pie and some peas. Tell her not to skimp on the butter for the peas, and bake a fresh loaf of bread. There are some apples in the cellar. She can make stewed fruit for dessert. The food at the priory is plain and never plentiful. The poor man looks half-starved.”

“Is Father Avery to dine alone?” Petra asked, mystified. With Thomas away and Lady Blythe indisposed, he would be left to fend for himself, which wasn’t very hospitable.

“No, you foolish girl. You can keep him company. I’m sure you can manage to hold a polite conversation for an hour. You can benefit from Father Avery’s wisdom, even if he won’t benefit from yours. But at least he’ll have a good meal in him. I owe him that much for the kindness he’s shown me. Now get me some more ale.”

Petra ran downstairs to fetch the ale. She’d give Nan the two hours she promised her, then wake her up in time to make the meal Lady Blythe ordered. She’d help her cook. The thought of spending an hour alone with Avery left her nearly breathless with fretfulness. What would they talk about for a full hour? Would he feel angry at having to dine with her instead of Lady Blythe? Would it be terribly awkward?

Petra glanced toward the stairs, then approached the window and opened it all the way. Father Avery was probably used to all kinds of awful smells, living with monks who weren’t known for their fondness for bathing, but she’d be damned if he had to inhale the reek of vomit while dining with her.