T.J. Laverne

© Copyright T.J. Laverne

 

Chapter 1

 

Hattie Bloxam’s prayers were interrupted by the long, screechy wail of a bratty two-year-old on the other side of her bedroom door. It took only a mere second for Hattie to recollect her thoughts, focus more intently upon the fading star in the purple morning sky through her window, and continue her whispers.

 

“I pray that my father and mother find happiness in whatever it is they are looking for, and that I stop disappointing them so. And I pray, oh Morning Star, that I may learn the patience I need to take care of my brothers and sisters and lead them all to a better life. In the name of the Father—”

 

“Are you blasphemin’, you twit?” a voice drawled from the corner of her bedroom as her door flew open. “Askin’ for Satan’s help, again?”

 

A twinge of fear clenched at her stomach. She needed to finish her prayer uninterrupted if it was to be answered, and this prayer was particularly important. She needed the Heavenly Father to know how much she wanted her parents to love her, and she knew the Morning Star would pass on the message for her. But if she allowed her thoughts to stray even a little, He might not think she was very serious, and therefore did not deserve an answer. She did her best to ignore her older brother and focused with renewed intensity on the image of her father and mother smiling lovingly upon her.

 

“—and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.”

 

“The Mornin’ Star is the devil, stupid,” Gresham picked his nose and looked at his finger, then laughed. “Why do you pray to ’im? Plannin’ on bein’ a Satan worshiper?”

 

“Lucifer fell from grace,” Hattie explained to her brother fervently, hoping desperately that for once he would listen to the words she was saying. Her heart sunk as she saw that his attention had already strayed, but she talked on, anyway. “He is no longer the Morning Star. Some angel had to take his place, and the Morning Star just so happens to be my favorite star in the heavens. That is why I pray to it.”

 

“You talk too much,” Gresham stood up, wiping his booger on her blanket. “I’m goin’ back to bed.”

 

Hattie pursed her lips and scowled after her brother. She wondered if anyone on God’s green earth could have been born more idiotic. She gasped as the evil thought entered her head, and immediately uttered an apologetic prayer to the Heavenly Father. She spared one last glance out her window, but her Morning Star had finally disappeared into the pink sky. With a sigh, she lifted herself wearily from the ground and turned immediately to her morning chores.

 

As she entered the kitchen and bent down to the fireplace, her two-year-old sister, Thistle, was screaming, her face buried in the straw on the kitchen floor as one of the dogs relieved himself on her back.

 

“Damn you, Freddie!” her mother hollered, walloping the dog on the nose. Freddie whimpered and ran away with his tail between his legs. The mother turned to the child and picked up her head. “Stop yer screamin’! There’s nothin’ wrong with you!”

 

She walked away, leaving Thistle sitting in the straw.

 

Hattie ran to her sister and reached out a comforting hand, but Thistle swatted it away with a loud slap that stung. Lowering her lip, Hattie turned instead to comfort Freddie, rubbing the hurt away from his nose.

 

“Why ’aven’t we got any ale in this godforsaken, damnable ’ouse!” her father was yelling, turning instantly on Hattie. “You stupid child, ’ow could you let us run out! You think I have time to go out an’ get ale this early in the mornin’? I have taxes to collect in Chichester!”

 

Running over to her, he lifted her by the neck of her tunic until her feet dangled lifelessly a few inches from the floor. The sour smell of rotting teeth and ale was overpowering, but she didn’t cower. She had not cowered at her father’s breath, or his wrath, for many years now. Her heart sunk. Apparently the Morning Star had not yet passed on the message.

 

“You get out a this ’ouse this instant and fetch me some ale, I don’t care ’ow!” He threw her back on the floor. Her knees buckled and she landed painfully upon her tailbone, but she ignored the pain. “NOW!! ’Ave you lost your ’earin’ as well your senses?!”

 

Hattie quickly scrambled to her feet, only to be pushed back to the ground by her brutish younger brother, Maddox. He laughed hysterically as she stumbled back to her feet, only to be pushed down a second time. His laugh was cut very short as he was shoved practically across the room and into the kitchen table, leaving him wailing on his side as a jug of old tomato juice dripped on his head.

 

“Knock off yer ’orse play, you cow! Your sister ’as to fetch me ale!” their father yelled again, yellow spittle flying from his mouth.

 

Thistle rocked back and forth in the corner as she continued to scream her own bucketful of tears, disturbed by the racket but making far more racket herself in the process. Their mother screamed at the pair of them, only adding to the racket.

 

Hattie grabbed her shawl as fast as she could and flew out the front door, not wanting to keep her father waiting a moment longer. In her haste she forgot her shoes, but that could not be helped now. Her toes burned in the frozen air of winter and her head pounded, but she did her best to ignore it all and quickened her pace to the market.

 

Hattie and her family lived in one of the largest, two-storied townhouses in all of Arundel, smaller and less wealthy only than Arundel Castle, the mayor’s house, and a couple of others of the nobility. From the outside, the sheriff’s house gave the impression of wealth, distinction and honor. Little did people realize how wrong that initial impression was, as it betrayed no hint of the foulness that resided within.

 

Most of the time Hattie forgot that her father was in fact nobility, himself, as his father owned a great deal of land in Sussex County that he would one day inherit. Gresham would in turn inherit the same land someday, and possibly even his father’s role as Sheriff of Surrey and Sussex. Hattie was not yet sure what would become of her.

 

The eyes of her neighbors narrowed as she raced past them to the market, and she knew she was disgracing her family by her appearance. She stopped quickly to kneel above a puddle in the road and winced at her reflection. The fireplace had thrown soot in her face moments before her father’s order, and she had not had time to comb out her hair this morning. With the inside of her shawl she wiped her face until the shawl was black, then ran a few frantic fingers through her long, tangled brown hair.

 

A sinking hole filled her stomach. Her father had succeeded in passing her off as one of his servants for a few years amongst the townspeople, but it was now common knowledge that she was indeed his daughter, and not his servant. If word returned to him about her disgraceful appearance at the market, the beating she would receive would be particularly painful.

 

She lifted the shawl over her head, covering her hair, and smoothed out the wrinkles of her dirty tunic. With a deep breath, she did her best to look confident before she resumed her run to the market.

 

Hattie wound her way disgustedly around rubbish strewn haphazardly in the road, buzzing with flies and crawling with rats. Her stomach turned over at the horrible smells emanating from the drains alongside the road. How her fellow neighbors could stand being so disgusting she would never know.

 

The streets bustled with early morning chores. Her headache only worsened as she felt judgmental eyes following her progress through town. The townspeople would not approve of her running in such a manner, but she knew that as soon as her father had his ale, he would be happy again.

 

She slowed down to a quick walk, but she would not relax to the noises around her. A woman beat upon an old, dusty rug with a paddle from a second-floor window; a man pounded a sword rather loudly on his anvil, the sounds emanating through the open door of his blacksmith’s shop; pigs snorted and chickens clucked as they ran about openly on the road, eager for their breakfast. This morning, she would not stop even for a second to pet her favorite pig, Horace, as she called him, though he ran up to her expectantly.

 

As she turned a corner, the stone towers and turrets of Arundel Castle came into view over the tops of its surrounding trees. As always, the sight of the formidable castle stirred up sensations of curiosity and fear at those who lived inside its massive stone walls—currently Richard FitzAlan, the 10th Earl of Arundel.

 

On her left, she spotted the blue mass that was the River Arun. The river was already bustling with massive ships carrying tradesmen from afar, bringing with it the usual smell of fish and water on the cold, river breeze. The market square was nestled in between the castle and the river. Hattie pulled her shawl more closely around her head and shoulders, ignoring her cold feet, and ran ever forward.

 

The market was a chaotic mass, packed with hordes of morning shoppers and hagglers. The market was set up in the main square of Arundel every Monday and Thursday, and was always a huge spectacle to behold. Hattie’s heart raced with nervous anxiety. There were so many eyes to take in her every flaw, as she knew they would—they always did—even those flaws that resided within her soul.

 

Her fellow neighbors and townspeople traded their wares for flour, grain, and poultry, perused through pretty lines of linens and baskets, and gossiped in harsh tones in groups of threes. A juggler wove his way through the throng, throwing five glass bottles one by one high up into the air, catching them and repeating all over again in a steady, flowing arc. Many ignored him, but a few stood by and threw coins at the entertainer’s feet whenever he performed a particularly daring move.

 

Hattie heard a familiar voice rise above the crowd, accompanied by the intricate strumming notes of a mandolin, and her heart quickened. She caught sight of him—Calvert the Minstrel— through the crowd and was momentarily diverted. His songs were the basis of Hattie’s education in all things moral, historical, and political. She strained her ears to hear the notes of his song, and she knew it right away: The Exploits of Sir Hartley, Knight of Cambridge. She had heard it twice before.

 

As Hattie stood entranced for a second, Calvert turned his eyes in her direction and winked. He was as familiar with her face as she was with his voice. Hattie allowed herself a small smile before she remembered her duty and pushed her way back into the heart of the crowd, hoping to lose herself and sink below notice.

 

At last she spotted Bessie, the middle-aged, toothless ale-seller who was set up on the outer skirt of the market. She wove her way uneasily toward Bessie, stopping cold with terror when she was greeted by a large, angry-looking hawk, perched on the edge of the ale-seller’s table.

 

Swallowing her stomach, she realized it was Father Ansel’s hawk, though it was no less terrifying to encounter nose-to-nose. Its orange eyes stared down at her, its sharp beak opening and then closing. Hattie tore her eyes away from the bird and found the friar. Though he was turning away from the ale-seller, she caught a glimpse of what looked like a bottle of liquid before it was stuffed beneath his robes.

 

“Come, Samson,” he said to the bird, his hand lifting at his side.

 

Hattie’s mouth hung open as the great bird spread its wings wide, lifted its great, long talons from the table’s edge, and soared in a wide swoop toward the friar’s fingers. Her eyes landed on Father Ansel, who was no less graceful than the bird. Ansel was wearing the long, black cloak of his order: the Black Friars of Arundel. The bald patch on the back of his head was also very telling. All the Black Friars had one, as well. She understood it stood as a sign of humility and devotion, though she didn’t know how.

 

Many of the townspeople believed that Father Ansel was a favorite of the Holy One. Seeing that he possessed the ability to control and tame such a wild animal only strengthened this belief among them.

 

He turned to Hattie and winked, his smile sending a shiver down her spine. He did not seem very much like a friar to her, but more like a handsome knight atop a powerful steed. She was not sure how she felt about him.

 

“Do not be afraid of Samson, my dear. He is no more harmful than I,” he smiled.

 

Hattie tried to smile back but found she couldn’t quite manage it. With another wink he walked away.

 

“The usual?” Bessie croaked, her masculine voice always catching Hattie off-guard.

 

“Yes, please,” Hattie gave her most polite bow. She shoved a hand into her pocket and gasped, her heart sinking to her toes. “Oh no!” she cried. “I-I forgot to bring money! My father—he will be so angry with me!” The tears rose up her throat, threatening very quickly to spill through her eyes, but they were stopped by a gentle hand on her arm.

 

Hattie jumped and turned to see Father Ansel.

 

“Perhaps it is a sign from our Heavenly Father that your own father should not blaspheme so with his incessant drinking.” His voice was light, perfectly contradicting his harsh words.

 

“Easy now,” Bessie put in, her scowl as masculine as her voice. “She’s just a young girl. She’s not to blame for the sins of her father.”

 

Ansel seemed to think this over. “Your father is expecting you to bring this home, is he?” he asked kindly. Hattie gave a timid nod. The Friar sighed. “I will give you the money for the ale. But know this, young child,” he bent down before her, his strangely violet eyes glimmering inches from her own. Hattie fought the instinct to step back. “Your father offends God, and me as well, with his unsavory ways. Our God may not be as forgiving or merciful as I.”

 

With another wink and a nod he handed a coin to Bessie, collected his bird again, and disappeared into the crowd.

 

Feeling quite more shaken up than she had all morning, she crawled her way out of the masses, narrowly avoiding running into the juggler, and ran back into the street. Stopping once she was around the corner, she struggled to catch her breath and stop the tears. By the grace of God, and Father Ansel, she knew she needn’t fear a beating from her father for returning home empty-handed, and for that she knew she should be thankful. But now, instead, she feared God’s wrath, which would come not only to smite her father, but likely the entire family. She shook this thought quickly from her head. Surely Father Ansel did not mean that.

 

All thoughts of Father Ansel quickly vanished from her mind, as an angry shout suddenly attacked her senses. She looked up and her eyes fell upon him for the very first time.

 

All Hattie saw was a ravenous-looking boy of her own age, but the small boy was, for lack of a better term, disfigured. All his joints seemed to have grown the wrong way, protruding at abnormal angles. His knees bent in the opposite direction, making walking very difficult. His right arm seemed hardly to have grown at all and was bent at an odd angle up to his chest, his tiny hand limp and hardly even recognizable.

 

But more alarming than this was the disfigurement of his face, which was severely crooked. His nose was misshapen and off-kilter, his teeth were large and protruding, his skin looked as if it had been pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle, and his head was oddly shaped, coming more to a point at the top than it should.

 

Hattie did not notice any of these things. The only thing she noticed was the small boy’s eyes. One was lazy, looking outward at nothing at all, but the other was the clearest, brightest shade of blue, the most beautiful color she had ever seen. This eye looked around with a wild terror at the angry shout which had most certainly been directed at him. Had Hattie been less pure of heart, she would have understood the vulgar reason for this ill-treatment.

 

“Hey! What are you, anyway? Some sort of half-beast? I’ve seen dogs that were prettier!”

 

Hattie turned to see a grown man, no less than thirty, laughing wildly at his own apparent joke.

 

“Half-demon is more like it!” another shouted, this one more angrily.

 

“Stay away from him,” a woman came to the laughing man’s side, her eyes wide with fear. “Really, you don’t know what he is. He could be dangerous! Come, Olaf! Come away!” The fearful woman nearly dragged the man through the door of their house, and the angry man reluctantly followed.

 

“You better watch yourself, Demon,” he snarled before he disappeared through the door. “Or you might wake up one morning with a knife in your chest.”

 

Hattie gasped as the door closed behind the man, her heart clenching with terror. She turned back to the boy. His head was bent low like a dog who had just endured a beating, but he limped onward, a tear falling to the ground. He had not yet seen Hattie, but she followed him at a reasonable distance, meaning to keep her eye on him, her father’s task completely forgotten.

 

She was glad she did, for only a couple minutes later the next attack came, only this one more hostile. Three large boys, perhaps only a couple years older than herself, emerged from an alley between the town baker and the pig yard in which Horace lived.

 

“Ah, what have we here?” one of them sneered. “What creature is this to bring a plague upon the civilized world? He is an insult to all of us!”

 

“He’s so ugly!” another giggled hysterically, putting a hand to his chest.

 

“He’s hideous,” the third growled.

 

“What shall we do with him, do you think?” said the first. He was perhaps an inch taller than the others, and the clear leader of the pack. “Shall we cleanse the earth of his filth? What say you, Beast?” he spoke now to the small boy. “What purpose do you have here amongst us humans? Why do you come out here in the open to burden us with your unholy presence?”

 

Hattie thought it strange that the boy should speak so eloquently and immediately noticed the large cross around his neck. He must be very well educated, she guessed, by none other than a clergyman. Perhaps in training to become one, himself.

 

The small boy stumbled upon one of his twisted legs, another tear rolling down his cheek. He kept his head bowed, not daring to look either of the boys in the eyes. “I . . . ,” he ventured, his voice catching in his throat. He collected himself a moment, then tried again. “I am hungry.”

 

“Hungry?!” the first boy yelled, his sudden wrath causing the boy to stumble backwards. “And you thought you would beg charity from innocent people, blackening these streets with your filth! We don’t want you here, Beast! Crawl back to the hole from which you came and dare not corrupt us with your presence again!”

 

The boy now fell to the ground, his chest racking with sobs. “But—I will starve!” he choked.

 

“You dare ignore a direct order! I said leave this place at once!”

 

The boy merely continued to sob, staying where he was on the ground. Hattie stood by at the ready, fearing she knew what would happen next. The leader of the pack eyed the poor crippled boy with an almost ravenous hunger, as if he were glad rather than angry that the boy had ignored his order.

 

“Boys! Have at him!” he yelled almost gleefully.

 

Before Hattie knew what had happened, she saw only a mass of flying dirt and limbs as the two boys pummeled vigorously upon the small boy, and the lead boy stood back and watched with evident pleasure.

 

In less than a second, Hattie had dropped her bottle of ale and picked up a handful of stones. With a half-mad shriek she ran toward the boys and began to throw one stone after the other, first upon one boy’s back, and then upon another’s skull. She shouted things like, “You stay away from him!” and “Leave him alone!” But other, less honorable words flew from her mouth as well, though she hardly noticed.

 

The bullies looked up with angry shouts and momentarily ceased their attack upon the small boy. One particularly large monster stepped forward in pursuit of Hattie, before he was stopped by the leader.

 

“No! She’s the sheriff’s daughter!” he whispered fearfully.

 

Hattie let out another shriek, and threw one last handful of stones in the monster boy’s face. For a moment she feared he would not be restrained a second time, but he merely clenched his jaw, emitted an angry growl, and ran off toward the market with his two friends, leaving the small boy limp and bloody upon the ground.

 

Hattie flew toward the poor soul and knelt to the ground before him. With gentle hands, she turned him carefully upon his back and cradled his malformed head in her lap. There was a bald spot toward the right side of his head where the hair did not seem able to grow, but on the rest of his head his brown hair was enormously shaggy and seemed to grow quite well. He had clearly never been given a haircut. Hattie stroked the hair on the left side of his head, thinking it was quite soft and beautiful.

 

The boy’s eyes fluttered and he let out a small moan, but he made no other indication of consciousness. She was correct in thinking he was no older than she. She stroked the side of his mangled face without a flinch, and whispered soft words of encouragement until he found the strength to awaken. His good eye found her face in a penetrating stare, and then he smiled brilliantly and muttered his thanks.

 

“I must take you back home to your parents,” spoke Hattie. “Where do you live?”

 

“No!” The boy’s blue eyes opened wide and his entire body seized with fear. “Don’t take me back there! Please!” he began again to sob.

 

Hattie stroked the side of his face once more, and his sobs slowly subsided. “But your parents; surely they will help you. You are hurt.”

 

“No, please!” he pleaded. “I don’t want to go back! They will put me in the dark room again! They will leave me there!”

 

Hattie’s heart filled with horror. “What dark room? Why do they put you there?”

 

“They think I’m a demon child,” he sobbed. “They punish me. Just like those boys—” his voice broke as his fearful sobs filled the morning air.

 

Hattie pulled him gently in her arms and comforted him until his sobs began to fade. “I won’t take you back there, I promise. I’ll take care of you myself. I’ll find a place for you to live, where no one can get to you.” The boy’s sobs slowly ceased and his body began to relax. “My name is Harriet Bloxam, by the way, but you can call me Hattie. What is yours?”

 

“Ephraim,” the boy whispered. “I don’t know my last name.”

 

“Ephraim? It is nice to meet you, Ephraim.”

 

Ephraim’s smile at last returned, though it was still rather watery. “Nice to meet you, too, Hattie.”