The Book of the Maidservant Read Online Free PDF

is as bustling as Yarmouth. Although I didn’t sleep at all during the night, and although my knees are still weak from the fear of drowning, and although my body still feels like it rocks back and forth with the waves, I can’t stop looking and listening. Some people speak words I can’t make out no matter how hard I listen. I almost thinkI understand, and then I realize I don’t at all. They must be Zeelanders.
    Everything looks so different—the clothes and the flowers and the houses. It even smells different here, in a way I can’t put into words.
    A group of pilgrims gathers at an inn for dinner. I don’t know why Petrus Tappester is here except to bedevil me and my mistress—he’s going to the Holy Land, not Rome. Besides him, there are four others: a priest, an old man with a pretty young wife who I thought at first was his daughter, and their serving man, who stands in a corner watching them. He’s older than me, maybe my sister’s age. I’m glad I’m not the only servant.
    Just as people are finding their places on the benches, John Mouse and the other student walk through the door. I smile at him, but I don’t think he sees me.
    While I rush around serving, I listen to the conversation—everyone’s talking about where they’re going.
    My mistress smoothes her veil. “The Lord told me to travel to St. Peter’s City,” she says. “And to go by way of the Three Kings’ shrine in Cologne. And Assisi, too,” she adds. “That’s why I’m taking the Venice route, with those of you journeying to the Holy Land.”
    I stare at her. Doesn’t she know about Petrus Tappester and his devil?
    He gives me a look, and I duck into the kitchen, my heart pounding.
    When I come back out, the priest is showing off his broad-brimmed pilgrim’s hat, one just like my mistress’s but older and covered with metal badges. “No, that’s fromCanterbury, the shrine of the holy martyr,” he says, ducking his head. He’s round and shy, and his blond lashes flutter whenever he blinks. “The scallop shell, that’s from St. James, in Spain.” He passes the hat around the table. “And,” he says so softly I can barely hear, “what about you, young scholar?”
    I stop, a pot in my hands, as John Mouse speaks. “Thomas and I”—he gestures toward the other student—“we’re pilgrims to the holy shrine at Bologna.”
    The priest blinks, then blinks again. “To Bologna?” he asks, confused. “To what shrine?”
    John Mouse grins and elbows Thomas. “We think it’s a shrine—the university at Bologna, famed for its teaching of law.”
    A burble of laughter escapes my lips; I don’t know why. My mistress scowls at me and motions for me to serve the soup. As I step forward to fill her bowl, John Mouse catches my eye and winks. I busy myself with the ladle.
    “You’re not pilgrims, then,” the old man says. “What are you doing here with us?”
    “But, my dear,” his young wife says, placing a calming hand over his, “to get to Bologna, they’ll need to go to Venice, just as we will. And there’s safety in numbers.”
    “Aye, that’s true enough,” Petrus Tappester says loudly. “You never know what we’ll come across among these foreigners.”
    I scurry back into the kitchen to get away from his voice. I’m more afraid of him than any foreigner. I hate the way his eyes follow me. Can that devil inside Petrus see me through those eyes?
    When I come back out with a loaf of bread, he’s pulling out a little cloth bag that hangs around his neck. “The parish priest, he wrote down all my sins on a bit of sheepskin. I’m supposed to lay it on the altar at the big church in Jerusalem and then say fifty Paternosters. But I can only count to five!” He roars with laughter, but no one else makes a sound.
    After a moment, the priest flutters his lashes and coughs lightly. “And you, good sir?” he says, looking at the old man.
    “Well, yes, we’re on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. My wife—” He