until you can sit on my shoulders.” The boy's voice was calm, as if he knew exactly what to say. “You don't need to be afraid. I'm much bigger than you. I'm holding on tight. If you grab onto me, you won't fall. No, not the neck, don't strangle me. Hold still. I'm finding the branch.”
“You're not on the ladder?” whispered Cecily in terror, clutching at the stranger's shoulders, her head resting on his black hair.
“Almost,” he answered. “Don't wiggle.” Some portion of Cecily's fear had spread from her hard-beating heart to his. Carefully he felt beneath him for the ladder. He could hear a sort of gust from below, a sigh from dozens of throats. He'd never climbed with a living burden before. He could feel her heavy weight shift on him. He had lied to her. He wasn't that much larger, and she was hard to carry. Clinging to the branch, he felt for the next rung, moved his footdown—then a hand, carefully, carefully, lean against the tree, he repeated to himself. Keep the weight forward. The next step. Take time. The next. Now he was entirely on the ladder. Don't get cocky, he coached himself. Take each step carefully, you're still a long way from the ground. The girl's legs were bony and sharp, and her hands were clutched in a death grip around his neck. Rung by rung, he worked his way down. Now one foot felt the hard ground, and many hands relieved him of his burden, and he could feel people slapping him on the back and cheering.
“A hero! A hero!” they cried, and from the back of the crowd a voice that cried, “Someone should give that girl a good birching!” and in front of him a sharp little voice said, “You're not that much bigger than me after all. You lied.”
He looked at the bedraggled, barefoot little figure in front of him and said, “Of course I did. You wouldn't have climbed down otherwise. Besides, I was big enough to get you down, wasn't I?” But the curious red-headed creature had burst into tears.
“Cecily,” said Margaret firmly, “you must thank Master Denys for saving you.”
“Th-thank you,” sobbed Cecily.
“Whatever made you want a magpie's eggs?” asked the boy.
“N-not the eggs. The pie stole Madame's silver button and flew away with it, and she was so grieved—”
“Madame your mother?”
“N-no, Madame who is teaching me to be a lady.” Denys the rescuer couldn't help it, he threw back his head and laughed until the tears came. Laughter rippled outward. The apprentices and journeymen laughed, Mistress Wengrave laughed, and even Margaret laughed, though she didn't want to. “A lady, haw!” snorted the boy's father. But Cecily had turned as red as a beet beneath her freckles. She stamped her bare foot and shouted, “I am
so
a lady, I shall be a great lady someday, a
ver
-ry great lady!” and everyone laughed even harder, except Master Denys, the magistrate's son.
CHAPTER NINE
I T WAS NOT LONG BEFORE MIDSUMMER'S eve, on the purported date of the blessed Saint Edburga's martyrdom, when Sir Roger led the villagers in procession to her namesake spring, to lay forever at rest the idea that Hretha or any other pagan being was the source of the rushing waters. Ahead of him marched a boy in white bearing the silver cross from the altar itself. Beside him walked Sir Hubert's own chaplain, only semi-drunk, swinging an incense censor. Behind him were the bravely embroidered banners of Saint George and Saint Mark, and behind that, carried on a wooden pallet laden with half-burned candles, the brightly painted wooden statue of Our Lady of the Sorrows, who was reputed to weep on Good Friday, if one were virtuous enough to see it. Behind the six sturdy fellows with the pallet rode the folk of Brokesford Manor, dressed as for Sunday. A foolish venture, thought Sir Hubert, who liked things quiet. But in this, the village priest, though appointed by him, took precedence. It was a religious matter. Folks who disagree on religious matters get reported to the
“You're not on the ladder?” whispered Cecily in terror, clutching at the stranger's shoulders, her head resting on his black hair.
“Almost,” he answered. “Don't wiggle.” Some portion of Cecily's fear had spread from her hard-beating heart to his. Carefully he felt beneath him for the ladder. He could hear a sort of gust from below, a sigh from dozens of throats. He'd never climbed with a living burden before. He could feel her heavy weight shift on him. He had lied to her. He wasn't that much larger, and she was hard to carry. Clinging to the branch, he felt for the next rung, moved his footdown—then a hand, carefully, carefully, lean against the tree, he repeated to himself. Keep the weight forward. The next step. Take time. The next. Now he was entirely on the ladder. Don't get cocky, he coached himself. Take each step carefully, you're still a long way from the ground. The girl's legs were bony and sharp, and her hands were clutched in a death grip around his neck. Rung by rung, he worked his way down. Now one foot felt the hard ground, and many hands relieved him of his burden, and he could feel people slapping him on the back and cheering.
“A hero! A hero!” they cried, and from the back of the crowd a voice that cried, “Someone should give that girl a good birching!” and in front of him a sharp little voice said, “You're not that much bigger than me after all. You lied.”
He looked at the bedraggled, barefoot little figure in front of him and said, “Of course I did. You wouldn't have climbed down otherwise. Besides, I was big enough to get you down, wasn't I?” But the curious red-headed creature had burst into tears.
“Cecily,” said Margaret firmly, “you must thank Master Denys for saving you.”
“Th-thank you,” sobbed Cecily.
“Whatever made you want a magpie's eggs?” asked the boy.
“N-not the eggs. The pie stole Madame's silver button and flew away with it, and she was so grieved—”
“Madame your mother?”
“N-no, Madame who is teaching me to be a lady.” Denys the rescuer couldn't help it, he threw back his head and laughed until the tears came. Laughter rippled outward. The apprentices and journeymen laughed, Mistress Wengrave laughed, and even Margaret laughed, though she didn't want to. “A lady, haw!” snorted the boy's father. But Cecily had turned as red as a beet beneath her freckles. She stamped her bare foot and shouted, “I am
so
a lady, I shall be a great lady someday, a
ver
-ry great lady!” and everyone laughed even harder, except Master Denys, the magistrate's son.
CHAPTER NINE
I T WAS NOT LONG BEFORE MIDSUMMER'S eve, on the purported date of the blessed Saint Edburga's martyrdom, when Sir Roger led the villagers in procession to her namesake spring, to lay forever at rest the idea that Hretha or any other pagan being was the source of the rushing waters. Ahead of him marched a boy in white bearing the silver cross from the altar itself. Beside him walked Sir Hubert's own chaplain, only semi-drunk, swinging an incense censor. Behind him were the bravely embroidered banners of Saint George and Saint Mark, and behind that, carried on a wooden pallet laden with half-burned candles, the brightly painted wooden statue of Our Lady of the Sorrows, who was reputed to weep on Good Friday, if one were virtuous enough to see it. Behind the six sturdy fellows with the pallet rode the folk of Brokesford Manor, dressed as for Sunday. A foolish venture, thought Sir Hubert, who liked things quiet. But in this, the village priest, though appointed by him, took precedence. It was a religious matter. Folks who disagree on religious matters get reported to the
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