From the Hand of Zillah - March, 1524

The only people in here with us are the priest and a woman from the village, Catherine Cairn, or something like that. It makes me think of terriers. She has a tight, pinched face, like a rat or ratter.

Hellver is Catholic, his island a sanctuary for us who secretly followed it in England, and it is a welcome relief from the King’s sudden change of heart to Protestant. The lord is quite devoted; there is a cross in the middle of the church, looming over us, and he had carved it himself from a Hellver tree. Everything seems to have the brand of Hellver on it.

Elenore appears menaced by the cross. She has been placed before it as she waits for Lord Hellver, and its shadow engulfs her. The priest is old, he croaks out his lines and fingers his rosary as if it is a lifeline, while the other witness to this ceremony yawns. I have a hostile look on my face, I know it, it feels creased up as I stare at the scene. I can smell the sea from here.

Elenore holds up a hastily made bouquet of flowers from the woods, wild roses and dandelions. They make her look like a girl who has gone flower picking.

I wonder, sometimes, if it is right to have our children grow up so quickly? I know Lady Elenore is no longer a lass, but as I watch her all I can see is the red cheeked child who brought buttercups for my grandson when he had fallen sick. A kind girl, with strong maternal instincts.

Gulls screech in the distance, Catherine starts but Elenore seems comforted by the sound. The doors open, yet they are so silent that neither woman realises they have opened, only the priest and I, because our heads had been turned to the double doors. Lord Hellver enters, almost glides, to his young bride. It is now Elenore who starts when she notices her soon-to-be-husband’s presence.

He takes the hand which holds the flowers, and between their clasped fingers the petals break and drop down onto the floor, like droplets of blood and shattered sunlight...

#

I watch the lord leave his bedchamber in the morning, with his head buried in a book about leeches and blood letting, looking no different from the night before. Then I wait for Elenore. Ready for tears.
The door opens, but what I had expected does not leave the room.

Elenore’s head is raised high. She is already dressed in the morning dress her mother had given her, a deep blue colour which would soon become faded and dusty in this cobwebbed castle. I call her name, but she does not respond.

She is ever so silent as she walks down the too large stairway. She looks like a doll that a child is making ‘walk’ down the steps of their house. Elenore is so pale, just like Eliza, who had walked down my stairs moments after giving birth, and falling... falling, blood smeared across her thighs and nightdress, while my newly born grandchild wailed upstairs.

It is why I hurry after her and reach out, to steady Elenore. She stops and finally turns to face me.
"I am perfectly fine, Zillah," she whispers.

"Lady -- Elenore, go back to bed. I will deal with the servants." I expect her to shatter, for birthing blood to spill down her legs, but it will be later when that comes, the wailing and howling, the cries of both baby and mother. My poor daughter Eliza... who had been begotten to me by Elenore’s father when he had been newly married and I a servant, who would answer his call to bed with illusions of grandeur and a cheap ring in my apron pocket. Elenore had not even been born when her half-sister had died...

Follies and whimsies, in a world of many children. I must dust away my memories and beckon the present.

Elenore smiles, places a hand over mine.

"My dear Zillah, you have been more of a mother to me than anyone, what with your worrying and kindness. But I have to grow up now, or else I will get nothing done. It will just be me playing at dolls, and then having to spend the night with my husband. No, I’ll go and get something done before those nights. This castle is so beautiful, but so empty and unordered! Come, I need to earn respect from my servants. Do not look at me like that, Zillah. I have heard you complain of my mother before. I know about appearances."

"It was never in your hearing."

"Even so. Now go, join them. I do not wish to show favouritism and instil ill will so early in the morning."

#

We are all waiting for Elenore. The stairs are vast, she had given me time to reach the bottom floor before she followed.

When she does appear, she stands in front of us on a stair, to compensate for her small height, and surveys us with stern eyes. The stare falters as she realises that her servants are all older than her. To them she is a child, demanding obedience when she knows so little of the world.

But she does know something. She is still learning but she knows her place, and she knows their place.

Elenore straightens her back. I can practically hear her intake of breath, it is so silent in here.

"S--" She pauses, swallows. "Servants," she speaks in their language, fluent, but with an accent. "You have been brought here to keep this castle in order, to ensure my running of it is smooth. You will cook, clean, do whatever I ask of you. Do not ever disturb the lord, as he prefers silence. Everything shall go through me."

They listen. Only the woman from the church, Catherine, glances away.

"The rooms need cleaning first, the servants who are able to cook shall work in the kitchen..."

Elenore continues on in that vein for several more minutes, and not once does she stutter.
Her voice echoes across the hall, the only noise in the silence.