She nodded and stepped around him, making her way to the door that had been ignored by all for many years—herself included, until recently.
Prithee, Father, continue it to be so.
She lifted the latch and pushed against the groaning wood with her shoulder. There seemed to be no sound on the other side, so she stepped out and quickly shut the door behind her lest someone witness whence she came and grow curious.
On hasty feet, she traversed the cobbled ground around the outer walls of the great hall, passed the larder and buttery, and entered the kitchens. A lone servant stood at a long central table chopping a mountain of vegetables. Christyne lowered her head and hunched her shoulders. If she acted the part, no one would have reason to pay her any heed. She could collect the items requested of her without raising the suspicions of the rest of the household.
She moved past the threshold but caught her toe on a protruding stone in the floor. Her arms swung wide to regain her balance, and she tipped over a broom leaning against the wall. It clattered to the ground.
The servant raised her head at the ruckus, her eyes going wide at the sight of Christyne. She dropped into a curtsy. “Princess.”
Christyne swung her gaze around the room in alarm, even as she recognized the servant with relief. “Arise, Hette. No one is to know it is me, remember?”
Hette rose and cast her own furtive glances to the doorways. “Pardon me, princess, but what are you doing here? Were we not to meet in your chambers when the sun was between its zenith and the horizon?”
Christyne closed the gap between herself and Hette, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I came upon a complication. A man who has been near run through with an arrow.”
Hette gasped then whispered the names of the Holy Trinity. “Is he dead?”
“He lives, but the head of the arrow yet remains in his flesh.”
“Should I send for Nikolaus?” Hette clasped her rosary.
“Nay.” Christyne shook her head, clutching Hette’s elbow until the girl gave Christyne her full attention. “You must not mention him to anyone, even your brother.”
She paused, not sure if she should add the rest. She trusted Hette, but the maid considered Pope Clement infallible. If the Church deemed the stranger a heretic, Hette may consider it her religious duty to turn him in lest her own soul be tainted and destined to languish in purgatory.
Hette’s lips moved, but no sound came forth. Her fingers caressed the beads around her neck.Ave Marias. For them, or the man suffering in the undercroft?
Christyne squeezed Hette’s arm. “I need you to gather supplies.”
Hette nodded and moved to the kettle hanging over the open fire in the hearth. Hot water steamed as she ladled a portion into a pitcher and then wrapped a sharp knife in a length of cloth. Christyne grabbed a jar of Castile soap as well as the items the scholar requested. She would make use of the linens freshly laundered and hanging in the sunshine. Hopefully no one would be punished over a few missing bedclothes.
Christyne led Hette through the courtyard and rounded a corner. How was it that so few servants were present? As if an unseen hand had parted and cleared the path for her.
The same had occurred earlier. With the man hobbling beside her and his arm draped across her shoulders, she had not been able to walk like a doe among the trees. The guards posted along the parapet should have easily spotted them and sounded an alarm. But even though they had tramped the ground with less grace and more noise than a herd of sheep, no one had witnessed their advance on the castle.
With a quick look around to be certain no one watched, Christyne unbolted the door to the undercroft. Hette hastened down the steps, and Christyne followed, shutting out the world behind her.
Rustling sounded at the far end of the empty, tomb-like room followed by a grunt then a thud. Christyne raised her head as soon as she descended the crumbling stone steps. The man had his palm pressed to the ground, his arm shaking as he attempted to push himself up.
“Do not move,” Christyne commanded, many years of watching her father order men about putting a bite into her words.
Hette stood along the periphery, her eyes wide, lips still moving over rote prayers. Christyne wasn’t sure if her heart should be gladdened by her servant’s pious commitment—for surely they could all use a double measure of heaven’s blessing this day—or alarmed at the fear that seemed to have rooted the maid to the spot. She could not help the man on her own. Neither in his physical healing nor in keeping him from discovery.
She rushed to the man’s side, glad for the ease with which she could gather the skirt of her borrowed clothing so her strides were not impeded. She lowered herself to the dusty ground, arranging the supplies she had gathered at her side. Her gaze flicked up to Hette, who still wore an expression nigh to terror.
“Hette, attend me.” Though others of a royal station oft spoke to servants thus, it was not Christyne’s way. Hence, the barked order worked to slap the maid to the present and focus her attention on the duty at hand. Hette stumbled forward and sank at Christyne’s side, placing her own collection of supplies next to her mistress’s.
The man’s head slowly turned to face them, his muscles tensing with the effort. Blood dribbled out of his wound and soaked into the fibers of his black hosen.
“Hold still,” Christyne said again, this time with more gentleness in her voice.
The man looked up at her, his eyes clear though shadowed in pain. And still as brilliant and captivating as she remembered.
She dipped a small square of cloth into the pitcher of warm water then squeezed out the excess. Her hand hovered over his face, doubts assailing her. Who was she to minister healing? She could very well do more harm than good in her absence of knowledge. Maybe she should have left him among the underbrush. He could be dangerous, both to her physical as well as her spiritual health, if he truly was a heretic.
Words from the Holy Scriptures floated to her. The forbidden book, translated into her own language, was hidden in a locked chest in her chambers.“Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”A flash of the crucifix hanging in the chapel. A crucified Christ with blood seeping from wounds her sins afflicted.
