Chapter V • Maia

Can things get any more difficult today?

I think it can.

“You want to confront the Eadmond Davidson?!” my childhood friend exclaims whilst doing our daily tasks.

Today, we are transporting farmer George’s crops from his farm to his brother’s stall, which is on the other side of the village.

“Could you be any louder, Nicolaus?” I retort with a scornful tone. “I do not think everyone heard you properly.”

The blonde bows his head in embarrassment before pulling the cart faster. I keep up with his pace, whispering to him that I am being serious.

After discovering the truth of who my father is three days ago, there has been nothing on my mind but meeting him in person. Not only do I have the chance of having a better life with my family, I may also be able to convince him and his father Lord Edgar to lessen the demand for crops every harvest to finally end Augborough’s famine.

Every villager, young and old, may finally have filling meals every single day. Despite all the hard work we all must do to survive, mayhap convincing the Davidsons is what it will take to make things easier.

The issue, however, is this worrisome blonde I am doing my deliveries with. He is absolutely against me going to the manor.

“I am heading thither today,” I state, turning to Nicolaus. He protests some more, but must’ve finally noticed my determination, thus discontinues what he was going to say. “I have to try, my friend.”

He stays silent, obviously mulling over my words. The sound of the cart’s wheels rolling against the ground fills my ears, along with the noontime chatter of the merchants and gossipers.

After a few moments, Nicolaus heaves a sigh and speaks up.

“Will you tell your uncle?”

“No. He will not let me go if I tell him. I am trusting you not to tell him, my friend.”

“I will not, but… mayhap you should let him know, at the least.”

“No,” I say firmly, biting my lower lip as I think of all the possible ways things can go wrong. “I am leaving today, without telling anyone but you.”

The blonde scratches the back of his head, unable to object. This man knows me well enough that when I decide on something, 'tis futile to stop me.

One time, I thought it would have been a great idea to pull the handcart we’re using today with our bodies by tying a rope around our waists. I forced Nicolaus into doing it as well, and the only thing we received out of that was back pain and rope burn.

I was a saddle-goose.

I realize that we have reached the farmer’s stall amidst my reminiscing, my blonde friend still silent about my decision on meeting my real father. George’s brother, Meyer, tiredly greets us from behind the stall, and Nicolaus passes the baskets of leafy greens to him over the stall's table. When we finish and receive our pay, I make certain that we have no more jobs for the day, and grab the opportunity to prepare for my journey.

With assistance from my childhood friend, we wheel the cart back to the front of my house in half the usual time it takes to return. I quietly rush in and grab the satchel and waterskin I prepared earlier today. Uncle isn’t in his smithy today; he is the one receiving today’s delivery of iron from the neighboring kingdom’s ships. I shall be taking advantage of his absence and meet my father.

Deep in thought, I turn around and come face-to-face with Nicolaus, accidentally bumping my forehead onto his mouth. He presses his fingers against his chin, grunting in pain.

“Why are you so close to me? This entire room has so much space,” I whisper irritatingly at him, rubbing my forehead. “And why are you in hither?!”

He shrugs at me.

“I was following you,” he replies, lowering his head to hear me better. “But why are we whispering?”

“Because Eustace is usually asleep at this time! Hush!”

“We should be arguing about this outside instead, then, so as to not wake him?”

“That is why we are whispering! Ah, gods…”

Annoyed, I quietly usher the blonde out of my house and gently close the front door. Sighing, I inspect my belongings in the satchel twice— a face cloth and my purse— before wearing it over my head, assured that nothing will be left behind. Its leather strap rests on my shoulder and goes across my torso.

I grip the waterskin filled with drinkable water by the strip of its long, thin leather, attaching it to my satchel to make my trek to the manor easier. I exit my house and, once again, come face-to-face with my blonde friend.

This is getting rather tiring.

“I shall return before nightfall. Do not miss me too much, Nicolaus,” I tease, pinching his nose before walking past him. “This is for the best.”

“Wait, Maia… Let me come with you!”

I stop dead in my tracks, whirling around. Unable to hide my shock, he explains further that two heads are better than one, and that if something bad happens, one of us can get help.

“I do not know, Nicolaus… your father might not—”

“To hells with what my father thinks,” he snaps, and I notice him clench his fist. “I am going to do what I want to do, and that is to help you.”

I look down at my leather boots, barely noticing how scruffy they have become as I weigh my choices. Looking back up at my childhood friend, I find him furrowing his brows.

“Pray thee, let me come with you.”

I have never seen him look distraught like this…

I wonder what is on his mind.

“Come, then,” I say, officiating my decision. “Let us buy something to eat first before we leave.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Passing through the forest’s edge, we follow the path to the hills.

That is right, Lord Davidson lives beyond the hills of Augborough, where his manor rests on the most fertile part of the land— right next to the valley.

It is said that those hills rose from the ground when the earth shook violently. A storm hailed from the heavens, and the rainwater flowed between the peaks. T’was the sign of the gods rejoicing the death of the evil witch, they said. Nobody knows if this is actually true, however... for 'tis also said that that story was mere hearsay from the nobles.

What I have heard from some villagers, though, those who have visited the manor but were only able to stay by the gatehouse, was about the sound of the flowing river from a distance. They said it was... soothing.

It seems today may be the day I hear that river...

“Do you believe it?” Nicolaus asks as we converse about the valley, carefully trekking over fallen trees in a cramped part of the forest, where the path had been cut off. This is the densest thicket I have ever been in, in my entire life, and I rarely go through the forest!

“Believe wha—? Ah, these branches will rip my kirtle…”

“Do you believe that the hills simply arose from the ground like some sort of being had caused it?”

I stop to bunch the front of my kirtle, griping about the branches that may ruin my clothes, before shrugging a shoulder at the blonde in reply.

“I cannot say I do believe it, but if the ground shook, mayhap it has a speck of truth in it? We do infrequently experience the earth quaking.”

Nicolaus falls silent, looking deep in thought. Although in this state, he walks over fallen tree trunks with such ease. Why was this man blessed with such height?

After some time, we finally get through the barricaded trail, and find a cobblestone path. A little farther is a flight of stone stairs before a gatehouse.

“We have arrived,” I mutter, rushing up the stairs. The blonde follows suit, and we arrive in front of the enormous stone gatehouse. I turn to him. “This is it, right?”

My friend stares up at the impressive gatehouse in awe, eyeing the stone brick wall that extends a very long way. I can faintly hear the flowing water of a river; that can only mean that these walls are nearest the edge of the valley.

That is definitely,

  

completely safe.

  

“Halt,” a voice booms out of nowhere, together with the sound of footsteps and metal clanking. “State thy name and business.”

Two men in full armor appear at the top of the impressive gatehouse, aiming what seems to be bloody crossbows at us.

“W-we mean no harm! Tell them, Maia,” Nicolaus says, nudging me with his elbow and seeming absolutely terrified. “Pray thee, I do not want to get shot at today...!”

I shake my head and boldly take a step forward, dusting my dirtied kirtle off before speaking.

“My name is Maia, from the central village. I have a message for Lord Eadmond Davidson, and I would truly appreciate it if you will allow me to relay it to him directly.”

One of the armored men sneers at me.

“Give us the message and leave. We do not have all day, girl.”

“I bear news regarding Lord Eadmond’s family, and ‘tis important that I convey this message to him myself.”

“His family? Who are you? The lord is occupied with his duties, and we shall not allow you to—”

“I am his daughter, good sir.”

Silence.

Moments later, there are heavy footsteps, and a loud creak. The portcullis slides open.

More men in armor guide us to the front of the manor where, surprisingly, I find not my father, but Lord Edgar himself, speaking to another knight . Whatever conversation they were having is cut short when the extravagantly-dressed, portly, aged man notices me and my childhood friend being brought to the front of his home.

“What are children doing hither on my property?” Lord Edgar questions, his entire body turning towards us. “Out, out I say! I do not have time for—”

“With respect, milord, this woman claims to be Lord Eadmond's daughter,” the knight leading us says, getting kicked in the shin by the other knight for cutting the lord off. He stands unfazed. “She wishes to speak to him directly.”

“I cry your mercy? Daughter? How dare you? My son only has one wife and child, mind you!”

“My lord,” I interrupt, despite knowing I may get in trouble for it. “If I may?”

The man dressed in red, blue, and gold gives me a scrutinizing look, and I take that as my opportunity to speak.

“My name is Maia, I live in the central village. I truly believe that your son is my fa—”

“You look nothing like my boy. Where in bloody blazes did you get that idea?”

I pause to carefully choose my words. And then, I remember my mother.

“Petra,” I mutter and stare straight into Lord Edgar’s eyes. “Two decades ago. A commoner woman named Petra… she was a worker in the village pub? Does she sound familiar?”

He taps his finger against his stubby chin, the fat around his neck standing out as his head bows lower whilst he thinks. He seems to recall who my mother was when he snaps his fingers.

“Petra! That wench with the rather fine buttocks!”

Fine butto—… What?

“Ah, I remember now. That woman claimed to bear my son’s child after she sold her body to him for food. Embarrassing, I must say. She must have sarded another man and told my son it was his to make him responsible! Bah, pathetic wench! I had Eadmond eliminate that woman and her unborn child for her deceit. He even brought me her heart! Hah, the boy learned from the greatest. Even if it was his child, I will never allow a sinful, foolish, half-blooded child to carry the Davidson name!”

I feel like I have been stabbed in the back.

My father took my mother’s life?

“As for you, girl— whoever you are— leave now, for you’ve already wasted my time. I care not if that seductress was your mother; you are not my son’s daughter. The dead don’t matter. He already made the mistake of mingling with your kind, and I am here to ensure that it shall not happen again. Men, take them away.”

I’m too stunned to move, too shocked to talk back. Countless thoughts and questions are passing through my mind. My heart feels like it’s about to come out of my chest. My vision is starting to get hazy.

Before I know it, we’re back at the front of the gatehouse. Through the closing iron latticed grilles of the portcullis, I see Lord Edgar fall to his knees suddenly, and two servants assist him back into the manor. Nicolaus shakes me by the shoulders when the gate closes completely.

“Maia! Thank the gods, how fare thee?”

“I— I am unsure—”

I blink several times before it all comes pouring down on me.

“Eadmond murdered my mother. My father… slayed… my mother.”

 I don’t notice the tears falling until the blonde cups my cheeks with his large hands to wipe them.

“I feel so betrayed,” I whimper, my sniffles becoming uncontrollable sobs. “My mother is dead because of him!”

“I know, Maia. I cannot comprehend what you are feeling right now, but I am here for you,” Nicolaus whispers as he wraps his arms around me in an embrace. He holds me close despite my wails, unmoving. I place my forehead on the blonde’s shoulder, watching the tears soak into his garments.

“He’s neither a man nor my father,” I utter, Nicolaus’s chemise bunching under the fist I clench. “I won’t forgive him.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The sun has set. Nicolaus calmly tells me that we’ve returned to the village. I’m being pickabacked again, for the information I’ve learned from Lord Davidson and my crying fit made me too weak to walk— or move at all. I’m still flabbergasted.

The blonde gently sets me down in front of my house when we arrive. The inside is illuminated, so I assume that Uncle Wyatt has returned.

“Will you be alright?” My friend asks me as he guides me to the front door. “I can help you get in, explain the situation to your unc—”

“Whatever will happen, will happen, Nicolaus,” I mutter blandly, turning to him with the tiredness evident in my eyes. “I just want to rest for the night.”

Before the blonde retorts, the front door flies open, and a large, callused hand grabs the back of my chemise, and whirls me around by the shoulders.

“Do ye have any idea what ye’ve done, Maia?!” screams my uncle, whose breath stinks of ale. “Nicolaus, boy, go home.”

I’m dragged inside the house and thrown onto the floor. Uncle slams the door shut and locks it, and faces me with fury I’ve never experienced from him.

“Ye confronted the men who caused our misery?!”

“Who…” I mumble, and realize that Eustace is out of bed for the first time in years. He is standing by the staircase, hunched over. “Eustace, you—”

“I was awake, Maia. I never thought you would do something so… reckless…”

I turn to my uncle.

“Uncle, I just thought we would be able to get hel—”

“Get help, huh? What did ye get in return, Maia? What did you get?!”

“…The truth…”

My throat wells up with emotion as my uncle’s fist repeatedly meets a wooden part of the wall. His frustration is unmistakable.

“Did… did mother—”

“Yes, lass. Yer father accepted Petra’s offer… and food was not the only thing she brought back for the family.”

Silence.

“Mother was… pregnant… with me.”

“Aye,” he mutters, grabbing a kitchen chair and sitting on it with a sigh. He seems to have calmed down. Eustace must have noticed this as well, and returns to his bed quietly. “Yer mother was able to feed us for quite a while. Our mother knew nothing about how she was even doing it. Petra discovered that she was pregnant months later, and decided to keep the baby. Up to this day, I’ve no idea how she was able to continuously provide us with food to eat, or how she was able to hide from Lord Edgar’s watchful eyes. But one day, she… disappeared, and I found ye at my doorstep, wrapped in a bloody piece of her gown.”

Uncle Wyatt begins crying, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he lets all the pain of the past out.

“And I knew she was gone, because I felt it. T'was not only because I found ye, but also as if our connection was… severed.”

He wipes the snot dripping out of his nose with his sleeve, and strokes his beard. He takes a deep breath before speaking again.

“Head to bed, lass. It has been a long day for both of us; you must be tired from your journey.”

Uncle assists me to bed, but I tell him that I am not tired yet. Instead, I head towards the back door, where our outhouse and small garden of edible plants grow. Ever-so-gently, Uncle reminds me not to stay out too long, and hits the hay before lying down.

The breeze of the night tickles my skin as I open the door and breathe in the cool air. I bite my lip as I process the things I learned today:

Firstly— the Davidsons are heartless. They only care about themselves and refuse to acknowledge that we commoners are similar to them— humaine. Poor and struggling to get by, unlike them, but nonetheless the same.

Secondly— Mother resorted to prostitution, and their mother knew nothing about it. Uncle Wyatt, to this day, has no clue as to how she was able to feed them.

And lastly— my mother is dead. She has been for a long time, but Lord Edgar claims that Father had murdered her before she gave birth— but I’m here, two decades later, alive and now suffering the loss of a person I’ve never even met.

“Who were you, Mother?”

I look up to the night sky.

“Is my real father the reason you’re gone?”

I watch the clouds move in unison as the wind blows it away. The moon is full tonight.

“I do not know how yet, Mother, but… I will avenge you.”

saddle-goose – “imbecile”; gripe – “to complain persistently”; portcullis – “a medieval heavy vertically-closing gate”; portly – “somewhat fat”; wench – “tavern worker/prostitute”; sard  “Medieval term for the F-word”; humaine – “Middle English for human”.