Page 8 of The Noldrin Witch

Her thoughts returned to Morgaine. The woman had captured her interest more than she cared to admit. She had seen her here and there, alone in some corner. Morgaine seemed more interested in prying into other conversations than in sharing her own with the rest of the procession. Elise had taken a lesson from her, and it had already proved useful.

Deep in thought, Elise wandered the courtyard of the monastery like a noble walking her own palace. She could not hide the refinement she had recently acquired. In every word she said, in the way she carried herself, there was something others could read that spoke of class and manners. She lacked only the coin to make it official.

The fresh air of the night and the scent of the pines settled Elise into such comfort that her mind quickly dulled the dangers and plain difficulties as she began to imagine all the possibilities of her new life.

At least she was well-versed in Bromheim traditions, thanks to the talks and complaints of Lady Greta and her daughters. She held onto the hope of finding a good place and perhaps a good man in the new lands. It had not escaped her notice that the men of Bromheim, much like the women, had a stronger frame and looked more manly than the thin lads of Falaine. She reassured herself that she would find a place to belong in Metz, and with some luck, enough kindness to make it her home.

Elise walked some more, ready to go back and lie on the comfort of straw on stone, when the rustle of fabric caught her attention at once. She hid behind a tree as two people locked in a tight embrace emerged from the shadows. Her eyes widened at the sight of Morgaine.

The woman stepped away, flattening the folds of her skirt and tightening the laces of her bodice, while a handsome man followed just behind her. She handed him a glass vial, and he offered a small cloth pouch in return.

What sort of business was conducted at this hour of the night, Elise had no trouble imagining.

Better to keep well away from this.

Chapter 5

In just two more days of travel, Elise and the procession reached the gates of Metz. The stone walls surrounding the city kept whatever lay within in absolute mystery. Guards questioned every soul who wished to take refuge inside, and the line moved at the speed of a melting candle.

It had already been three hours of waiting in line, and Elise was growing suspicious of the whole affair. She moved about, listening for anything that might explain why some people entered like lords to their manor, while others were left to enjoy the dry bushes and the smell of manure.

“Name,” the guard asked a man clutching a bundle of cloth.

“Gaspard Meunier,” the man said, his voice trembling so much the guard might as well have asked him to hand over all his coin under the gentleness of a dagger.

Elise recognized the family name, a Falaine countryman, no doubt. The guard seemed to reach the same conclusion; his expression soured at once. Still, as if allowing for the smallest chance of error, he went on.

“Place of origin.”

This time the poor fellow hesitated. He glanced around, as though hoping someone might leap in with a better answer on his behalf. No such miracle presented itself, and he was left with nothing but the truth, which quickly turned out to be the worst of his options.

“I come from Clairmont, goodman,” the old fellow said in a shaky voice. “I travel with the procession to pay my devotions to the saint of Metz, Saint Earl. I bring holy bread. It was prayed over for a whole week.”

The old chap might as well have promised a basket of rotten fish. The guard was plainly a man of duty, unmoved by such delicate gestures of faith.

“Move,” the guard said, gesturing toward the cluster by the stone wall.

“But, sire,” the old man pleaded. “My wife was from here. I am only a passing traveler, come to honor her wish to tend to the saint of her land. She died last harvest...the hunger took her...and she kept this bread as her final offering to the Lord. I told her the Lord might manage without it, but she was a stubborn woman.”

By the time the man had finished his rather grim account, the guard had already turned to question the next peasant, letting some pass when they managed the right words to open the gates.

Elise stayed where she was, watching as a dozen people confessed they were from Falaine, only to be sent to join the old man by the wall and its withered bushes. Even the horses were admitted with more pomp and haste. It soon became clear she would not rely on the same luck when her turn came.

If only she could find someone who vouched for her and take her as a servant, or even better, a long-lost relative.

She moved a little away from the gate. Summoning what courage she could, she began asking a few women to take her in as a ward. The first prospects were a couple of robust ladies. Elise was so hungry that she figured they enjoyed plenty of substance to keep their girth in such admirable condition. It was almost certain she would not have to worry about hearty meals with them, and that even the scraps would do well to keep her healthy.

Despite Elise’s efforts and well-mannered requests, however, she managed to convince none of the blessed people waiting outside the gate. She resorted to offering all her talents to anyone who would listen: from scrubbing floors to a shine, spinning, sewing, cooking, baking, cleaning clothes, and even assisting in bookkeeping, which she had picked up from her talks with Edward. She made her list of achievements sound worthy of an entire royal staff, but still, no one showed the slightest interest in putting her talents to use.

One woman had the sensibility to ask if she knew how to dispatch pigs, a task Elise had not the faintest idea about. Nonetheless, she pretended she was an expert as well. In the end, it turned out the woman had only been testing her in an attempt to refuse her with less remorse.

Elise even considered the oaf who had made an advance on her, but thankfully he was nowhere to be seen.

Her enthusiasm dipped slightly, but as it seemed a difficult thing for anyone to watch the beautiful Elise in misery, a woman stepped quickly in with a solution to her predicament.

“You are so pretty, my darling, why don’t you say you are one of the actors come to entertain in the town square,” the woman said, with a smile so wide and a satisfaction so plain that Elise thought the kind lady felt her contribution was no less noble than the invention of the wheel or some other great advancement of mankind.

Still lamenting the stench of Noldrin, Elise decided the woman’s idea was not entirely unreasonable, and waited in line, ready to try her luck. She was prepared to pass for a foreign entertainer, ready to say anything but the truth of her origin.