When plague came to the cities, I saw my family perish one by one. With his dying breath, my father begged me to leave our home and seek out relatives living far away. The journey was hard, but after several days of walking with blistered feet and cadging rides on passing carts, I came upon a small village nestled in the shelter of rolling hills. I did not know if my aunt and uncle still lived, but my enquiries at the second house yielded a smiling face and warm welcome.
Life was hard then, all food had to be grown or bartered for and people made clothes from cloth woven locally from wool or flax. An extra mouth to feed meant less for everyone else. If I were to stay, permission must be sought from the village Elders at their monthly meeting.
The Elders met in the state room of the Manor House. This ancient building stood in it's own grounds hidden from the rest of the village by huge trees. Lush, green lawns swept down to the river that meandered through the village and provided power for the mill and other machines. My uncle accompanied me to the meeting to act as my sponsor. I always carried papers to show that I was free from plague but now I must also prove my skills would benefit the village.
From the massive oak front door via a long hallway, we entered the state room. The richly paneled room was already half full with villagers waiting to petition the Elders on many issues. My first sight of the Elders was of an imposing group of men and women sitting behind a long, dark table, its polished surface reflecting their serene faces. There were four men and three women, all in their middle years or older except the man who sat in the middle of them. I judged him to be in his third decade from the smoothness of his features, but when he looked up to see who was entering the room, I felt I must be mistaken for there were lines of worry about his eyes.
"How do they choose the Elders?" I asked my aunt as she brushed and plaited my long hair that morning.
"The Master always knows who the Elders are, " she said. "Some have lived here all their lives as their families have done before them, but others came as you have, seeking us out and offering their wisdom in return for sanctuary from the world outside."
Her words puzzled me, but there was no time for further questions and I was loathe to read her thoughts without permission.
It seems such a strange thing to say - that I could read her thoughts at will, but it was one of my skills, passed to me by my mother's kin. As a child I thought nothing of talking with invisible playmates living miles away, until my Grandmother sent for me. She taught me rules to keep my abilities safe. It had always been our secret, hers and mine and I soon learnt to hide behind my wall of shyness, never acknowledging what others might inadvertently show me. When the plague came, the weight of sorrow and misery from everyone around me soon became too much to bear and I stopped up my inner ears to save my own heart from breaking further. It was so long since I opened myself to others. I'd quite forgotten how it used to be until that moment.
My aunt was right, the village did seem a calm and peaceful place. Even in the few days since my arrival I felt comforted and my grief less raw. More than anything, I wished to stay in this community and my heart pounded with trepidation as I found myself a seat in the second row. My uncle slipped in beside me, greeting his neighbours and introducing me to those I had not yet met. Soon the buzz of conversation died as one of the Elders rang a small bell before her, to signal they were ready to begin the business of the day. I tried to listen to the introductions, but my stomach was churning and all I could think about was the way the warm spring sunshine sparkled through the large leaded windows and shone dancing figures on my skirt.
Mine was not the only petition for residency that day. After requests for advice from two villagers, a swarthy man in a dark green jacket and shiny black trousers that marked him as a former city dweller, stood up with his sponsor to present his case. I listened hard to the arguments presented for and against him, wondering how the Elders would weigh each answer and whether they would use the same criteria to judge me.
He was asked many questions by every Elder in turn, except for the man in the centre, who sat quietly in his chair, looking thoughtful.
"Who is that?" I whispered to my uncle.
"That's the Lord of the Manor, the Master of the village," he whispered back.
"Is he a good man?" I asked again, suddenly wanting the reassurance that his people thought well of him.
"Aye, niece, " my uncle squeezed my hand with how own. "He's a fair judge and he serves us well. We're very lucky to have such a Lord as he."
Although my uncle's words were so softly spoken even I had difficulty hearing him, the man sitting at the table suddenly lifted his head and looked straight at us, a slight smile tugging at his lips as if he'd heard everything. Automatically, I shielded my thoughts and fears, lowering my eyes so that I should not be caught staring.
It seemed strange to me, a city girl, for one man to be so powerful. Before the plague, our rulers had been many and distant, chosen by five yearly ballot. Afterwards, only the strong survived and in many places the leaders ruled by forced, restricting so many things that I was glad to be away from their tyranny of fear and petty squabbles.
"You're safe here, little one," I heard someone say.
"I know." My mental response was immediate and unthinking and once more, as I lifted my head, I was rewarded with another friendly smile. All around me the questioning continued and I wondered how the Elders would come to a decision and whether the Lord would have the final word when the judgment came.
They asked the petitioner to retire to the waiting room while they discussed his case. I thought the room would be cleared, but to my surprise, the Elders sat in silent meditation. My companions in the public gallery whispered amongst themselves but concern over my own fate made me unable to join their conversation. I slipped though a side door to catch my breath in the coolness of the corridor.
"What do you think, Myra?" I heard a voice behind me. I spun round, thinking I would see someone at the end of the corridor, but there was no-one there. I suddenly realised I was hearing the Elders speak to each other. I tried to close my ears, but the voices were too clear to be shut out. I knew I should shield myself lest I be accused of eavesdropping, but it was as if someone wanted me to hear, to understand and perhaps be less afraid.
"He speaks well enough, my Lord, but there is something not quite right about him." a woman's voice answered.
"You caught it too." The first voice was cool and calm, a voice that drew me, made me feel things I'd forgotten it was possible to feel. The voice of someone I wanted to know better, yet I did not know why.
Suddenly a surge of emotion rushed over me, so strong I had to clutch the doorpost to keep from falling to the ground.
"He hates you all!" I cried, for that had been the emotion I had sensed. I stood for a moment, trying to get my breath, wondering if the shout had been with my mind or with my voice. How did I know? So many questions I could not answer, but I knew there was truth in what I'd said.
"Peace, little one," the first voice soothed me. "All is well. He shall not harm us, I will make sure of that."
I caught my breath, wishing the speaker was there with me, but the corridor was still empty.
"Come back, Katrina," My uncle's anxious face appeared around the door. "The Elders will speak their decision and then it will be your turn."
Hastily I returned to my seat. The swarthy man was called back into the room and the Senior Elder, a portly man in his sixties, rose to give their decision.
"Your cousin says you are a hard worker, Ranulph. This village needs men who can work hard and contribute to the common good. We have decided you may stay with us for a year and then apply again for permanent residency if this is still your wish."
I was stunned they accepted him, but I was confident the Lord would keep his word and let no harm befall his people. The swarthy man looked pleased and spoke his thanks eloquently. Too eloquently, I thought, then tried to dismiss him from my mind as they called me to stand before the Elders.
My uncle spoke first, telling them my story. I stood quietly, trying to read their faces, seeing which ones might be hostile and which friendly.
"What skills do you bring with you?" an older woman asked. My mouth went dry and for a moment I could not answer, but my aunt had coached me well, so I was able to tell them of my knowledge of spinning and weaving, of herblore both for dyeing and for medicinal use. The village had a large flock of sheep grazing on the hillside and much of the food was bought with the wool from their backs.
"I can also teach others what I know," I told them, "and I have brought my books with me." I picked out two from my bag and passed them to the nearest Elder, who studied them eagerly as if he had not seen new books for a long time.
Without warning, the Lord of the Manor began to question me in several different languages. I was able to respond to most of them, explaining that my parents and I had traveled widely before the plague.
"Do you think she'll breed?" A woman's voice sounded in my ears and my face flushed at the impertinence of the question. Did they think me too old to bear children? In truth most women of my twenty-five years had two or more toddlers around their skirts. Everyone was encouraged to replace those souls the plague had ripped from us. There were offers - and sometimes even force! but I'd found no-one I wished to share my bed, let alone father my children.
I wondered if I should answer the question, but although I searched the faces before me, no-one seemed to own the thought and I was forced to answer a female Elder. She wanted me to describe at length my experience with herbs and my training with the local apothecary in the city. At last the questioning drew to a close and it was my turn to wait outside while they deliberated.
They took me to a small room with black timbered beams framing the whitewashed walls. Books covered two walls and comfortable leather chairs were ranged around for people to sit and read. Between two such chairs stood a glass table upon which large chess pieces ranged, as though the game were still being played. The sight brought a lump to my throat, for my father loved chess and I'd often played with him when I was small.
