Chapter 11: Eight Of Cups

Marriette left the house with no idea where she was going. She couldn't stay with Torrance. His needs and desires as her husband had become entangled with the memory of her father's eager face as he raped her. Escaping the house helped her calm down, but what to do next?

She wrapped her cloak closer about her and shivered in the cool fall night. Lanterns gave pools of illumination, but no heat. First, she must get out of the cold. Marriette walked through the dark streets hiding whenever she heard footsteps. None of the doors she passed made her feel safe. Raucous laughter spilled out into the street along with the stink of beer and smoke.

Walking kept her warm until she arrived at the market, more tired than she'd ever been before.

My feet are smarter than I am, I will talk to Joan.

The first wagon arrived just as Marriette reached the far end of the market. Joan was there wiping sleep from her eyes as she checked the load.

"Marriette!" she said. "What are you doing here?"

"I can't stay with Torrance," Marriette said. "He is just like my father. Are all men so hateful?"

"I don't know," Joan said, "I don't think so. I thought Torrance to be a good man."

"I told him about...my father, and he ran from the room. Then he wouldn't even look at me anymore. Like I lived with a stranger."

"Maybe if you talked to him some more?"

"How can I talk to him? I went to find him and saw another woman coming from his rooms."

"Oh, Marriette?"

"I am going to look for Arthur."

"Arthur is dead."

"No, I had a dream. He was in a place and fighting for his life. There was a horrible shadow hanging over him. You told me that your father didn't believe he was dead. There was no body."

Joan sighed and was silent for a long time.

"Torrance heard nothing from his people in the south, so if Arthur is alive, he must be north of the city. If you are going to travel, you will need money. Do you have any?"

"I couldn't take anything from Torrance."

"You're his wife."

"Not in the way that matters."

"I can't understand you, Marriette." Joan made a few more marks on her board. "I think that you have more than a few things backward."

"I don't understand it myself," Marriette swatted at the tears on her face. "But I can't live with Torrance and the dream tells me Art's alive and needs me. I have to go, please help me?"

"Don't be silly, of course I'll help you. I just wish it wasn't to run away." Joan sighed again. "Come with me, when I'm done here, and see my father. Don't tell him who you are. He has a thing about nobility. He wants so desperately to be noble that he can't see that he is better than most of them. He'll keep you all day, if he thinks you're noble, and, more to the point, tell all his friends. We need someone in Northdale who can do numbers. You said you did accounts with Torrance. Once you are there, you can look for my brother."

Marriette watched Joan as she worked. Her young friend was quick and thorough. Nothing escaped her, but she bantered with the men so they didn't resent a girl the age of their daughters supervising them. Marriette was sure if anyone threatened Joan that these rough men would run to her rescue. Marriette only hoped they would be as sympathetic with her.

Joan's father looked like an older version of Arthur. He had the same blue eyes and Marriette detected a vestige of Art's roguish grin, but the last year hadn't been kind to Master Candler. His hair was thin and grey where Art's had been wavy and blond. He walked with a stoop, as if he carried a burden that was too heavy for him but was unable to put down.

He absently listened to Joan's lies about Marriette and why they needed to send her to Northdale.

"Certainly, you may travel with one of my wagons. If Joan thinks you can do the books, that's fine then. I'd send Arthur with you, but he hasn't come home yet from drinking...."

Joan drew some money from a box in the corner and dragged Marriette out of the room.

"I'm going to go and buy you some clothing," Joan said. "You stay here under that cloak, and keep out of sight."

Marriette sat in the parlour, pleasantly decorated, but without the richness of Torrance's house. Her father would have sneered at it as being only slightly better than a hovel.

I will have to get used to it, for most people this is luxury.

An odd sensation, thinking of herself as privileged. Marriette considered that life had treated her with great unfairness when she thought of it at all. Yet, here were people whose hearts were at least as torn as hers, but did not have the instant access to comfort she did. Perhaps part of her problem was her relationship with Torrance was the only thing in her life that she had to worry about. Everything else was handed to her on a silver platter; very few people were as fortunate as she was. She had almost talked herself into returning to Torrance when Joan ran in.

"Here, get changed into these. Quickly. There is a wagon leaving for Northdale. I am holding them up for you."

Marriette changed into the strange clothes. They were rough and itchy and didn't fit very well, and grey with no decoration. Joan redid her hair in a simple braid.

"Now, you look the part of a widow who needs work," she said. "Try not to talk too much, your accent won't match your clothes. Once you get to Northdale, it won't matter, they won't notice." She handed Marriette a bundle. "Here's some more clothing, warmer things for the winter. You'll be working for Giuseppe who is from a country well to the south of our kingdom. He won't care who you are or where you are from, as long as you can do the accounts. Don't let him scare you. He is loud but kind." They were outside and almost running. The men at the wagon groaned when they saw Marriette.

"Ye aren't going to saddle us with that old girl, are ye?" asked one. "Why can't ye just come along yourself? We would have a fine time, we would."

"You aren't my type, George," Joan replied.

"What is your type?"

"Younger, much younger," Joan said with a grin. "This is Marie. Treat her kindly, or else."

"Anything for you," George said. He hoisted 'Marie' onto the wagon then jumped up himself. "We're off!" he shouted and cracked the whip at the horses.

After all the rush, Marriette half expected them to take off at a gallop, but the horses started at an easy walk. They plodded along through the streets of Bellpolis, reaching the gate only slightly faster than Marriette could have walked it herself.

"Ah, good," George said, "we made it before shift change. Ye see, lass, they make everyone wait while they go through the rigmarole of handing over command of the gates. Besides, if we time it right, they're more interested in getting us through than in checking our load. Master Candler runs an honest business, but it is good to know." He winked at Marriette. She had made herself a comfortable nest in some soft bundles behind the bench where George and his partner sat. George kept up a running commentary through the day. He pointed out landmarks and told scandalous stories with equal abandon. His partner never said a word.

The countryside around Bellpolis stretched flat as far as Marriette could see. The only thing breaking the monotony was the river that meandered near and far across the plain. George and his partner took turns driving the team. Occasional lines of trees broke the flow of the wind. The hostelry was visible long before they reached it.

When they arrived, George handed her a board like Joan's.

"Make yourself useful, lass, and we'll stand you for supper."

Marriette looked at the board. It was almost identical to the ones that Joan used, with short notes describing the cargo and where it was supposed to go. She took the board and the wax pencil and began checking boxes as they were unloaded. Marriette had a new appreciation for Joan when they were done. Several times, the men had to stop and wait impatiently, while Marriette sorted out her list. Finally, they were done to the satisfaction of both drovers and hostel keepers.

Supper was a little bit of stew and a large loaf of bread. It could have been anything and she'd have eaten it, she was so tired. She spent the night in a room with the innkeeper's daughters. The innkeeper wouldn't hear of her spending the night by the fire, even if she didn't have money for a private room.

Banging on the door woke her and soon they set off at the same plodding pace. George handed her a chunk of bread.

"I always save some bread from supper for the morning."

"Thank you," Marriette said.

It took them a week, at a crawl, to arrive in Northdale. Marriette got faster with the check board, and George seemed reluctant to leave her at Master Candler's office in the village.

"If ye get tired of the dusty books, ye could work with me on the road," George said.

"You aren't my type, George," Marriette said, thinking of Joan.

"So what is your type?"

"I wish I knew."

George patted her on the shoulder before climbing on the wagon. He and his still nameless partner waved farewell as they started on the next leg of their journey.

Giuseppe worked in a tiny office. Marriette wondered how on earth they were both going to fit. He looked her over then sat her at his desk and put a column of figures in front of her.

"Let's see you add them up." When Marriette had completed that, he had another test for her. By the time he was done, her brain was as tired as her body.

"You'll do," he said, "tomorrow I will teach you what I need you to do. If you can do that, I will keep you. Now, come meet my family." He led her through the streets to a cheerful yellow house on the edge of town. The yard was filled with flowers blooming even into the fall.

"Hey, Nanna," he called, "we have a guest to share our supper." A graceful woman with long black hair stuck her head out of the kitchen.

"Oh, Pappa," she said, "it is a good thing I always cook too much." She smiled at Marriette, "Welcome to our home. Gracia will show you where to wash up."

A little girl ran up and hugged her pappa, then shyly showed Marriette to a washstand where she was able to rinse the worst of the dust from the road away.

 "I am Gracia, my sister is Karitia, and my other sister is Therese."

"My name is Marie," Marriette said, "thank you."

Gracia was the youngest and Karitia the oldest. Marriette thought they were among the most beautiful girls she had ever seen, with their dark hair, brown eyes and bright smiles. They were all younger than Joan and they chattered happily about their day. After supper was done, Karitia showed Marriette through their home while Therese and Gracia cleaned up.

"Here is where you will sleep," she said, "Therese is moving in with me."

"I can't put you out of your bed!" Marriette said.

"It's alright," Karitia said, "why would I have a bed if not to share it with a stranger?"

"But it is your bed."

"It is only mine if I can give it away. If I can't let go of something then it owns me."

"You are a wise girl."

"Pappa taught us. He came here before we were born because the people where he lived wanted to own the world."

Marriette slept well in Karitia's bed. She had every intention of finding her own place to live, but Giuseppe wouldn't hear of it. She was family, and since Agathia, his wife, and the girls didn't mind she gave in.

Marriette had never experienced anything like this family. Life with her father had been lonely and painful. Life with Torrance had been better, yet still it had been the two of them surrounded by people whose work was to make them comfortable. In Giuseppe's family, they all worked, and they all shared. Marriette was surrounded by eager chatter. Her advice was asked, and they just as freely gave their opinion to her. They appeared to relish loud discussions on every topic.

Giuseppe's method of keeping accounts was completely new to Marriette. He kept separate columns for expenses and income.

Torrance's accounts had them jumbled together. Marriette wondered, now, how he ever kept them straight. She caught herself imagining how much he would like this new system. Then she shook her head. Torrance would hate her even more now for running away. He probably had that other woman installed in their bedroom.

Marriette discovered she couldn't have chosen a better place to gather news and rumours about what was going on in the northern part of Bellandria. The drovers were as fond of gossip as any old woman. They competed with each other to find the most outrageous stories to tell Marriette. There were plenty of stories. One man told bitterly how his wagon had been commandeered to haul bodies away from a castle. He described, with ghoulish delight, the wounds on each of the men.

Another man countered with the tale of a bandit raid on a monastery. They had been serving a man who was demon possessed. He'd desecrated their chapel then called in his minions to wreak havoc on the defenseless brothers. Only the abbot and an old blind monk had survived because they'd been traveling at the time.

Later, a drover told her about a bandit who raided and pillaged the farms along the great forest that formed a buffer between the farms and mountains. He was supposed to be huge and cruel, leaving countless bodies in his wake. It was so bad that the local baron talked about putting together a raiding party to clean out the forest.

George, on one of his visits, had the most interesting story. He had swung farther north than he usually did to make a delivery to a town at the very fringe of the forest. He met a man there who swore he'd met the demon bandit. The man told how a blond man with cold blue eyes had walked out of the rain into his farmyard followed by a group of ragged men. They demanded clothing and supplies. The farmer was sure they were going to kill everyone. He'd heard stories of the murderous bandit. When a chicken ran out, his granddaughter tried to protect it, but instead of killing her, the bandit held the sword over the girl as though something was holding his arm back.

This story troubled Marriette's dreams.

As she tossed and turned, Art became the demon bandit. She saw him running from a stone building with blood running from a sword in his hand. She saw him standing with the same sword, looming over a tiny redheaded girl. The worst part of the dream was that when she looked into Art's eyes she saw only hate and pain. What could have happened to turn Art into such a monster? She became certain that her dreams were true and that Art was lost to himself.

She woke tangled in her blankets. The dream came back other nights, each time the blood redder, and the pain in Art's eyes deeper. She'd followed one dream to this place. Time to follow another even further north.

"I need to go north, Giuseppe," she said one day.

"What do you seek in the north?"

"There's someone I must see."

"And how do you know this person is to the north?"

"I've been having these dreams," Marriette said.

"Ah, dreams," Giuseppe said, "they are rarely what we think them to be, yet, right or wrong, we can't ignore them." He looked up at her. "We will miss you."

"You will let me go?"

"Of course, you are my friend, my associate. There is no asking or begging, just blessings."

Marriette packed up what little she had. Tomorrow, she would find a ride with a wagon heading north.

The girls cried they would miss her, she must come back to see them. They hugged her tight and wet her dress with their tears. Agathia looked worried, and said the winter was a dangerous time to travel. Marriette hugged them all then went to find her ride.