Keturah and Lord Death

VII An account of an invitation to the chamber of John Temsland, which chapter is highly recommended to the learning and edification of the aforementioned blushing young maidens.

Plague. It was my first thought upon waking. My second thought was of the touch of Lord Death last night. I could still feel his fingers under my chin, so close to my lips, where my breath was frozen.

I leapt from my bed and then sank back again, catching my breath. I remembered, then, my promise to come to Lord Death again tonight.

I held my hands before me. They trembled like an old woman’s.

“You slept late, Keturah,” Grandmother said tenderly. “Come, eat.”

I willed myself to the breakfast table and ate what I could. I realized I had lost my sense of smell, and with it, my sense of taste. The porridge tasted like paste; the fruit was not what it had been the day before.

“Do they work on the road, Grandmother? I hear nothing.”

“They began work on the road yesterday, Keturah,” Grandmother said, patting my shaking hand. “They will surely begin again after chores.” She made no reference to what had happened at Goody’s in the night, but she was gentle with me.

“But the mill, Grandmother? Do they rid the mill of rats?”

Grandmother gazed out the window. “I see nothing from here.”

I set down my spoon. “Tell me, Grandmother, do you see Soor Lily’s baby son in the town?”

I closed my eyes and waited for her answer that seemed to come so slowly.

“Yes—yes, there he is, all brawny and fine. Why do you ask?”

“I—I heard he was unwell,” I said, and I smiled. “Thank you for breakfast, Grandmother, and for letting me sleep.”

She clucked and fussed with the dishes. “We must get you strong again in time for the fair.”

Grandmother left to visit Goody Thompson and be sure that she and the baby were well, and I sat by the window gathering strength from the sunshine. A nightmare clung to me like cobwebs. I brushed at the place where Lord Death had touched me, where it tingled still. I wondered that he had given me another day. It made me not glad. Somehow I felt myself even more bound to him by it.

I willed myself to think of Ben Marshall and prizewinning pies. I would get the most finely ground flour today. I would make pies for practice until Tobias found my lemons. I would make a crust that would blow away when it was cut, and melted immediately upon the tongue. I would make a filling of fish and one of venison, one of strawberries and one of peaches. I would make a pie with potatoes and mushrooms and cheese in it, and another of plums. I washed myself shakily, summoned my strength, and made my way slowly to the mill for my flour.

As I walked, I saw that people were busy in their preparations for the fair. Men eyed one another’s cattle and fed their own oats and apples. In their yards women made cheese and molded butters and sausages with highly guarded recipes. But no one yet worked on the road. The stones stood in piles like ancient grave markers.

Young women laughed together in companionable competition over their fair offerings and fell silent when I walked by. Martha Hornsby, who had always had a kind word for me, did not look up from her jam-making as I walked past her summer kitchen.

The young men, rather than working on the road or ratting the mill, were building booths for the fair. Some glanced up when I went by, but their eyes did not linger as they once used to do. Wherever I went, a wake of silence followed.

Lord Death had told me that if Goody Thompson lived, it would not go well for me with the villagers. He had been right. Their fear of death was greater than their suspicion of fairies, it seemed. I did not dispute the fairness of their judgment. I knew what it was to think my heart safely nestled in its cage of bone, cradled in flesh, hidden and safe, and also what it was to suddenly and certainly know that Lord Death could reach his cold finger in and touch that heart, cause it pain, and still it. If I were friend to such a one, they thought, then I was no friend of theirs.

When I arrived at the mill, Miller said he was too busy to help me and made his apprentice do it, who trembled and got only half the flour into the sack.

“Barnabus Wren,” I said impatiently, “why do you shake so? Have you seen a ghost?”

“No,” he confessed, “but all the talk is that you have, Keturah. They say now that fairies didn’t steal you, but that you were saved by Death himself—that is what Goody Thompson says, and her man does not deny it.”

I looked at him a long moment. I did not even consider touching the charmed eye in my pocket. I could feel it moving even through my apron, my skirt, and my petticoat.

“That is Lord Death to you,” I said at last, and left him standing open-mouthed.

When I arrived home with my flour, Gretta was there working her needle. She turned and looked at me sadly.

“They know,” I said.

She said nothing.

“He warned me,” I added as I set to work on the pastry.

“Then you have indeed seen him again?” Gretta asked.

I nodded.

“Were you afraid?” Gretta asked.

I nodded again. I was silent while I worked the fat into the flour.

Beatrice came in, gasping for air, having just run the entire way up the hill. “Chores are done—I must go sing, but oh, Keturah, God has not made me into a boy and—”

“God has answered your prayer, Beatrice,” I said, and I fetched John Temsland’s clothes and handed them to her.

“Oh! Oh, thank you, Keturah! How did you …? Never mind, I don’t want to know.” She hugged me, and then held me away with her arms. “You are trembling, and so pale—”

“It is nothing,” I said. “Dress. Go.”

“It is true, then, what they are saying? That you spoke to … him last night?”

I nodded and eased myself into a chair and began working the pastry from a sitting position, the way I had seen Grandmother do of late. “I told him another story and again withheld the ending. He has given me another day. And with this day, God willing, I shall find my true love.” I did not speak of my other object—I could not bear to frighten my friends with talk of the plague.

“Who will marry her, now that everyone knows?” Beatrice asked Gretta.

Gretta glared at her a moment, then looked at me sympathetically.

“Do they all hate me?” I asked.

“My family speaks for you,” Gretta said.

“And mine,” Beatrice said.

Gretta took a deep breath. “But they are afraid of you,” she said, and Beatrice nodded.

“And Ben Marshall?”

“His mother has invited Padmoh to her home to teach her a kitchen trick or two.”

“She wants Ben to marry Padmoh,” I said.

“It might not mean that,” Beatrice said soothingly.

“Young John Temsland laughs at the talk,” Gretta said. “He says it is all tales and tattles, and besides, what could it hurt to have Death’s dear in our own midst.”

Again we all fell silent. I had added too much water and ruined the pastry. I put it in the pig’s basket and began again.

After a time Gretta said, “You must go to Soor Lily.”

“I have already gone to Soor Lily,” I said.

“No!” Beatrice exclaimed.

Gretta said, “I have heard unsettling things about her.”

“And yet she has warmed the heart of many a man to his lady,” Beatrice said. Gretta gave Beatrice’s arm a pinch.

“Look at Thermidor and Janie Lowfield,” I said. “Thermidor hadn’t a thought for Janie until Soor Lily gave her a charm. Now they are married and there was never a happier man.”

“Nor a more miserable woman,” Gretta said. Since I could not argue with her, I held my tongue.

“Beatrice, go,” I said. “Choirmaster will be waiting for you.”

She changed into the boys’ clothing and stood before us shamefaced.

“Beatrice,” I said, trying to summon a smile, “you will sing before the king, and surely you will win the king’s shoe full of gold and a wish granted. Then you must use it as a dowry for your own true love, who might be Choirmaster himself.”

Beatrice flushed and almost smiled, and then frowned. “I do not wish for a dowry,” she said cheerfully. “What good is a dowry for one who would rather have angel wings than a husband? No, you shall have Choirmaster. If my singing pleases him, I shall use my influence to help him see how he must love you.”

She turned to face the doorway, took a deep breath, and did not move. “Isn’t this a sin, friends, to dress as a man?”

“Not if you are doing it for your friend. And for the king,” Gretta said encouragingly.

“I admit I could desire to be of service to Lord Temsland,” she said nobly.

“That is so like you,” Gretta agreed.

Beatrice nodded and sighed deeply. “They say in countries across the sea that women sing in public. But here, of course, it is impossible.”

I nodded. “There would be a scandal.”

Beatrice took another deep breath and stared down the door. “Surely if a woman can cook for the king and a woman can sew to please the king, a woman can sing for the king.”

“Like Tamara in the Bible, Beatrice,” Gretta said, “sometimes a girl has to take extraordinary measures. That Keturah could find these clothes is proof that all is according to plan.”

Beatrice seemed to contemplate the sinfulness of it all, but gradually her face filled with rapture. She drew her hands together as if she might pray.

“Yes, I see,” she said in a tone that allowed me to hear the music in her voice. “It is all very clear now. We have had a miracle.”

Face flushed, she ran out the door to choir practice. Once, exhilarated perhaps to be free of the skirts she had worn her whole life, she turned and waved to us and smiled joyfully. I smiled too. Even Choirmaster could not stay gloomy with Beatrice around, and I felt encouraged that Lord Death would be cheated of the man’s soul if my plan worked.

Of course, there was still Tailor to worry over, but I had a plan for him as well.

Grandmother sent a message that she would spend the day with Goody Thompson, who would be bedridden for some time, and I made a potato and onion pie and then a raspberry pie while Gretta stitched. I wondered that though barrels of cobbles had been dumped in the square, no one yet had come to continue the work on the road. It made me taut as spun thread.

After a time there came a knock at the door. I jumped, and Gretta answered it.

It was Henry Bean, John Temsland’s constant companion. He bowed to me. “Mistress Keturah Reeve,” he said formally.

“You have known me since we were babies together, Henry,” I said. “Come in.”

“I am come on an errand from the young lord, John Temsland. He is ready for the interview you have requested.” Henry stepped away from the doorway and bowed again, gesturing grandly. “If you will allow me to escort you.”

I remembered I had promised to return John’s clothes, but they were at choir practice with Bill. There was no time.

I glanced back at Gretta, whose stitching had fallen into her lap. “I will be back shortly, Gretta,” I said.

“Of course,” she said.

I ignored Henry as I walked, thinking of how to tell John Temsland everything I must. In the middle of my musings I stopped, remembering suddenly the eye in my pocket.

I turned and waited for Henry to catch up with me. “Henry,” I said.

“Yes, Keturah?”

“Henry, you have become a man almost,” I said.

He smiled and puffed out his chest.

Could I love him? He was not handsome, but neither was he uncomely. He loved a good hunt and was not much for the fields. Still, it seemed he had become John Temsland’s man, and whoever married him might have something more than a little peasant cottage.

“I have been a man for some time,” he said proudly. “Why are you squinting at me?”

“Henry, could you love me?”

His mouth opened and shut with a snap. He took off his cap, ran his fingers through his hair, and put his cap back on. “Well, now, Keturah,” he said uncomfortably, “‘tis well known I have loved you since we played hide and seek as little ones together.”

“But grown-up love, Henry? If I could summon up a love for you, could you return it?”

“Well … yes, I suppose I could,” he stammered.

With great hope I touched the charm, but it was looking around, back and forth, up and down, more quickly than ever. I sighed. “Never mind, Henry. All is as it should be. A few days ago I didn’t need my one true love. Now I do, but you are not it. Nor will you ever be.”

I began walking again. Behind me, after a silence, Henry laughed a great laugh. “And pity the man who is,” he said, throwing his arm around my shoulder. “Keturah, you have an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, and I don’t know which I like more.”

He led me to the manor and into John Temsland’s chamber.

“Mistress Keturah Reeve,” Henry said by way of introduction. After a bow to me, he left.

I stood just inside the entranceway of the chamber where John Temsland was looking through a window at his father’s lands and people.

“I am sorry, sir, but I do not have your clothes,” I began. It was best to tell him that first, I thought, before I spoke of the more important thing.

He seemed not to hear. He did not move or look at me when he said quietly, “The gossip is that when you leave a birthing, the mother dies.”

I answered nothing.

“When you stay and attend, the mother lives, even if she should have died,” he said.

“Who tells you this?” I asked.

“It is the talk of the whole village,” John said. “Goody Thompson says she saw you conversing with an invisible being—an angel, say some; Death, says she. Some say that is why the fairies stole you into the wood and why they brought you back alive.”

“Sir …”

“John.”

“John, sir, if you are angry with me for the loss of your clothes, I can repay you in time. I will work in the kitchen—”

“You are welcome to the clothes, Keturah,” he said, “though why you needed them I cannot imagine. All I ask is that you keep our secret about the hart.”

“I will, sir—John.”

“Keturah, I credit you with the grand idea of improving the village—building a road and freeing the mill of rats. Everyone credits you with the idea. And therein lies the problem.”

“Problem?”

“Yesterday, when they thought you had only been stolen by fairies, they found you alarming, shall we say. They fear the fairies and their wild-wood magic, and they were nervous of one who had supposedly communed with them.”

“I have seen no fairies, nor their enchanted halls,” I said.

John turned away from the window and smiled kindly. “I believe you,” he said. “But now this new tale—that is another thing altogether. No one has seen a fairy—’tis like there is no such thing. But all have seen Death’s handiwork, and they all hate him, down to a man. Now they fear you with a fear that begets hatred, Keturah. The air around you, they think, is infected with death. They despise you because you remind them of their own mortality. The sight of you bodes their own end.”

I looked at my feet.

“That leads me to the problem, Keturah. You see, because it was your idea to build the road, they will no longer do it. They—they believe that you are on Death’s errand.”

I looked up at him in alarm. “But it is just the opposite!” I cried.

He studied me a few moments and then gestured to a chair. “Sit, Keturah. You are trembling.”

Gratefully, I sat down. “Sir, I would tell you my story, but you would not believe me.”

“My name is John, and I will believe you, Keturah.” His eyes were full upon me. Every bit of him seemed willing to listen.

“But you don’t know me. How will you believe the tale I am about to tell?”

“I’ve known you for almost your whole life. I’ve listened to you tell stories around the common fire, and watched how even as a young girl you captivated your listeners.”

“But—but you were never there.”

“Ah, but I was. Hiding nearby, in the shadows where no one could see,” he said.

I remembered him as a young lad, always on the edge of village activities. He played football with the boys, but was not allowed to join in the festivities of the winning team afterward. He helped in the fields, but went to the manor after the planting and harvest instead of joining our feasts. When the other boys played, John learned to read and do sums. While the other boys fished, John learned archery and hunting. He must always have been lonely, it occurred to me now, and I could well imagine him listening to our stories but never coming into the circle.

“You should have come and warmed yourself. We would have made you welcome,” I said.

He bent his head thoughtfully. “Keturah, you see for yourself how difficult it can be to be accepted into a circle of people who consider you to be different.”

“Yes,” I said.

He waited silently while I tried to gather my thoughts. I would be telling a story more far-fetched than any I had told before, and yet it would be true.

“I followed the hart into the wood that day I was lost,” I began. “How many tales had I spun of the hart, and here he was before my eyes, as if my words had summoned him. Like the truth in a story, he eluded me until he nearly destroyed me, and then when there was no going back, he left me in the dark of the wood.

“The fairies that I never saw nor heard must have laughed me to scorn. I wandered and wandered, and the bugs bit and the underbrush tripped my feet and the night winds froze me. Then Death himself came to collect me.

“I used the only means I could think of to postpone the inevitable—I told him a story. A love story. And I agreed to tell him the rest of the story the next night, if only he would let me live another day.

“And so he did. I told him that the love story was true, that it was my story.”

I stopped. John hunkered down beside my chair. His eyes were on the same level as mine, and they mirrored the images in my mind. I thought I had never seen such a beautiful young man. My hand crept to my apron pocket, and then stopped. It was absurd—I was a commoner, and he a lord’s son. I forced my thoughts back to my errand.

“While we were talking, he offered to let another die in my place. He said it would scarcely matter whom I chose. Many will die of the plague, he said, and when I pleaded with him to tell me how to stop it, he said, ‘It is not in your power—your manored lord has allowed his lands to fall to dire ruin.’

“So you see, sir, John, why I spoke up after the king’s messenger left. I saw the king’s visit as an opportunity to waylay the plague. We must have the road, and the rats in the mill must go. And there must be no traffic with Great Town.”

After a long moment, John nodded. I could see that his horror at the threat of plague was equal to my own.

“You must speak to the villagers, tell them about the coming plague, Keturah,” John said after some thought. “Perhaps then they will resume work on the road.”

“Do you think they will believe me?”

“Oh, they will believe you,” he said with conviction. “Haven’t they always believed your fairy tales? Didn’t all your stories of the great hart produce a real hart, Keturah? They will believe you.”

I stood up. “Then I must try.”