Winter approaches. Her brothers hire themselves out as barge workers, Aleys and Griete take in washing, their knuckles growing raw with lye. Papa sells the salvageable wool, the best they’ve ever produced, smooth and fine with a graceful drape in royal blue, at a fraction of its value. He’s back and forth from Brugge all the time now, trying to negotiate credit with the guild. Aleys promises the spinsters they’ll be paid in the spring, once her family sells the next season’s wool—if only they can have this yarn now?
Winter settles in. Aleys pulls the last shriveled turnips from the cellar. The friars skip their home. Word is out that hunger is at their back gate.
Aleys finds Griete at the prie-dieu. She tiptoes away. She hopes God hears her sister’s list of demands, because they need his help now.
It’s just after dawn that Aleys hears hooves in the courtyard. She raises herself to her elbows. A door opens and closes. Papa is speaking in urgent tones with someone in the kitchen. Aleys descends quietly, avoiding the step that squeaks. She peers around the corner just as the messenger leaves. Papa has his sleeves rolled up and his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. He looks at her, then quickly away. He can’t seem to speak.
“Papa, what is it?”
“An offer from Mertens.”
“And?” Aleys places her hand on his. “The license?”
He nods. “We will join the Lakenhalle.”
“At last!” She claps. They’re saved. More than saved, they are made. If they can just make it through the winter, they’ll sell next year’s wool at a premium. With the guild’s approval, credit will flow, and they’ll be back in production.
Claus appears, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “We got the stall?” Papa nods and Claus lets out a whoop. The others crowd into the kitchen. Henryk is slapping his forehead and Griete is jumping up and down. Old Farrago has heaved himself to his feet and is weaving between their legs, tail flapping.
“Can I buy back my horse?” asks Claus.
Henryk claps him on the back. “You’ll buy two, brother.” He looks up at the old family shield above the fireplace. “Get that down. I’ll polish it.” The crest won’t be a joke anymore. “We’re about to become a major house.”
“Aleys.” Griete grabs her sleeve. “A dowry! I could have anyone!” She turns to Papa, who’s still sitting at the table, looking at the letter in his hand. “Do you think ...” She breaks off. “Papa,” she asks, “what’s wrong?”
“Aleys.” He looks up, eyes stricken. “He wants to wed Aleys.”
Everything stops.
“Mertens does?” asks Henryk.
“He can’t do that,” says Claus. “She doesn’t want to marry.”
They stare at her. Griete puts her hand to her mouth.
Henryk speaks. “But she has to.” He turns to Papa. “Right? She has to. Or we won’t get the license?”
Papa closes his eyes and nods.
“Why her?” asks Griete.
Papa finally regards Aleys. “He wants a wife who knows the draper’s business. Who can teach his children to read.”
“But I ...” starts Griete.
Papa puts his hand up. “Griete, this is about your sister.”
This can’t be real. None of it can be real.
Papa is looking at her, saying something. Something about Mertens being a good man, a wealthy man. She can’t hear it. She’s looking around the kitchen, at the hearth that needs sweeping, at the familiar blackened pots, at the spot where Farrago sleeps. This can’t be happening. She’s meant for God, not for men. Marriage will kill her. Papa’s voice is far away, still speaking. We need this, he says. I’m sorry, he says.
“I gave him my answer.” He places his hands flat on the table. “You’ll marry Mertens.”
Everything comes into focus, as if a stagehand has yanked away a screen. There was a marketplace behind their kitchen, and she never saw it. Where there had been the hearth, the low stool by the fire, Farrago at their feet, Aleys sees stalls and inventory, account ledgers and scales. She looks back at a father who is suddenly a stranger. Aleys feels, in this moment, transformed from a girl to a bolt of cloth. A daughter whose value has been weighed in the balance. A daughter who’s been sold.
5
Aleys
