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The Irish Sitter Sings

Written by Terry Howard

 

 

Late November 1634

Near the City of Nijmegen, Netherlands

 

"Innkeeper, we need a wet nurse."

One of Henrich's company—probably his daughter, the timing was right and she looked just like him—had a fever. The stout lass was down and likely would not be getting up. She had been no help with loading the mules for three days and then, unable to walk, she had to be carried the last half day to the inn. Now she was out of her head with fever and out of milk for her child. When she got pregnant Henrich cursed himself as a soft-headed/soft-hearted fool. He never should have taken her on as hostler help. But she had gone ahead loading and unloading the mules through it all with nary a word of complaint or a hint of expecting things to be different. Indeed, when someone started to help her out when her belly was at its biggest, she cursed the lad roundly. Then she gave birth in the night after having done her full share of the work the evening before and she did her full share the morning after. Her boy was now a toddler and could have been weaned already but the mother thought breast-feeding would keep her from getting pregnant. They tried giving him solid food, but he would not eat and now he would not stop crying.

"Yes, there is a wet nurse." The innkeeper named a price.

"I want milk for a bastard," Henrich said. "I don't need a gold-plated tit." They haggled half-heartedly and settled.

The company sat for two days while Henrich's daughter finished dying.

"Innkeeper, can we leave the child with the nurse?"

"No!" The innkeeper was adamant. "But you can take the nurse with the child!" he added quickly.

"You would have her leave her home?"

"This is not her home. Her man died in that corner . . ." The innkeeper pointed with his chin at a spot in the front room. ". . . over there. We buried him in the churchyard. It is damned good the Irish are all Catholics. The priest was not about to let any but Catholics be buried there."

"Irish, you say?" Henrich's mind began to turn over, counting the cost, assigning probabilities and weighing the long- and short-term benefits against the liabilities. "What of her children?"

"None. She gave birth in that same corner and buried her man and babe on the same day. I need her gone. She hasn't enough language to wait tables, the regulars are fighting over who gets her, and the other girls are deathly jealous. Here, she's poison. You need a nurse, I need her gone. Take her."

"She will agree?"

The innkeeper snorted. What an odd question, he thought. Who did the merchant think he was dealing with? He had no intention of giving the girl a choice. "Oh, yes. She will be quite agreeable."

****

Once again Maire was off to where she knew not. That was the story of her life since leaving Dromiskin in County Louth with Tadhg. It was all a grand adventure until Tadhg didn't come back from his last battle. Maire found him on the field with his face blown away. She lost his child when it came too early into the world. Ruairi looked after her in her bereavement, but he failed to come back to camp before everyone fled when a battle became a rout. If he lived, he never did find her.

Alexander was next on hand to see to her needs but he caught the wound fever and wasted away. She stayed with him when he could not keep up and the rest of the band moved on. She was delivered of his child the day before he died. Father and son were laid to rest together in the church yard.

Now a traveling merchant had taken her on. Oddly, he saw to it that she slept alone, except for the babe. The merchant fed her often and well, much better than he needed to just to keep her in milk. He was buying meat daily and watching to see that she ate everything on her plate . . . almost as if he wanted to fatten her up. He also insisted that she learn English and a start on being able to read.

"Come, lass, walk with me," Henrich said the first day on the road.

"What did you say?" Maire asked.

Henrich smiled. "The language was English. You need to learn it. I said come walk with me."

"Why do I need to learn English? We are going southeast. England is west of here." After the band left Alexander and Maire, he decided to make for home so he could at least be buried in Eire. They got as far as Nijmegen in the Netherlands. There weren't enough Englishmen in County Louth to call the language at all common. She had heard it a few times in the inn as a child and young girl, but no more than that.

"We are going to Augsburg. When we arrive, there may be a good job for you there. If there is, you will need to speak English."

"They speak English in Augsburg?"

"No." Henrich laughed. "In Augsburg, they speak mostly German, and a miserable strain of German at that. But there is a man there who speaks English and his wife is due any day now. They will want a nurse. If we are lucky, that will be you. It will help if you speak English."

Maire asked no more questions. It did not matter. She was eating well and sleeping warm and dry, and she had a child to care for and love. What else could one ask for in this life?

One night at an inn there was a west-bound merchant with news.

"Henrich, I see you're importing Irish. You're too late. Dietrich passed me several days ago with two in tow."

"Damn!" Henrich said.

"Caspar," a voice called out, "you're peddling old news. Dietrich's Irish were turned down. Dietrich abandoned them at the first inn he came to when he left Augsburg. They were still there when I came through."

Caspar, annoyed at being upstaged, looked across the room. "You're Nicolas, aren't you? How is the dispatch business going?"

"I'm making a living."

"Join us for a beer," Caspar said. "My friend here is buying."

"Don't mind if I do."

"Do you have any idea why Dietrich's Irish were turned down?" Henrich asked.

"Yes, the tale was all over Augsburg. The American insisted that his wife could only hire an Irish nanny with red hair, but when he saw the two Dietrich brought to town he said to Dietrich, 'they look like they were rode hard and put away wet. What are they, camp followers?' Well, the way Dietrich tells it he was pissed at the man's snotty attitude. He claims he said, 'What did you expect, a virgin wet nurse?' Then he claims he walked out. The other version says the American told him to leave and to take his bedraggled guttersnipes with him."

The next day Henrich resolved to instruct Maire in behaving like a shy maiden, something she never had been. Shy, that is. After all, every girl was a maiden once upon a time. He began by instructing Maire on her back-story. "Your father was a returned mercenary. You were raised on a small farm."

Maire snorted and let off with a string of obscenities. "That is a load of crap. My mother had no idea who my father was. I was raised in the barnyard of an inn with the chickens and the pigs. A boy I knew wanted to follow the wild geese and asked me to go with him, or most likely I'd be there still." By wild geese she meant the many Irish bands who found themselves in the Catholic armies of Europe. The boy was a lad from the same barnyard, not much older than she. He was a gentle lover and a sweet lad As he was reaching a man's height there was no place for him in the staff.

"Lass, that time was free. The next time I hear you using language like that, I will slap you."

Maire paled but said not a word.

"Bite your lip and look down."

Her face stormed red in the way only a redhead can.

"No!" Henrich almost barked. "When you blush or go pale or get angry—especially if you get angry—bite your lip and look down. If you look up, you are ready to fight. Fight with me, girl, and you will lose. The only question is how badly you will hurt when we are done. But that is not the point. A sweet, young, blushing maid will not make eye contact; she will avoid confrontation. I can land you a good job as a sweet, young widow. They will have no use for a loud, harsh wench out of some inn's barnyard with shit between her toes. They will not want a whore raising their child."

Maire blinked and thought about what he said. When the blink was over, her eyes were on her feet and she was pulling her lower lip into her teeth.

"Good. Very good. I almost believe it myself. And another thing, this boy was your husband. He was the only man you ever knew carnally. I doubt you have ever been married, but from now on you refer to any man you laid with as 'my husband.' He was a poor boy from another farm in the village and the two of you got married and ran away to the continent to win a fortune and return home to lease a farm and raise a family. Do you understand? No! Don't look up. Just nod your agreement while counting your toes."

At the next inn there was a troupe of wandering entertainers who had exhausted their welcome and were moving on. Since they were traveling in the same direction, Henrich arranged for someone to instruct Maire in singing as they walked. It turned out the lass had a good ear, as well as a clear, sweet voice, and clever hands.

The instructor convinced Henrich that she had promise as a lute player and just by chance the company had an extra lute they were willing to part with. "An innkeeper had it. Someone died or left it or couldn't pay? Who knows? He couldn't or wouldn't pay us but he offered me the lute instead. The strings were dead but I've restrung it." Thomas, the group's leader, did not mention the shape the wood was in. A little oil and a lot of rubbing made it look good. It would take a professional to know it had suffered from neglect. It had also been left with the strings taut so the neck was warped. Thomas strung it over the backside. After a month of careful adjustment the instrument was playable, at least enough to be passed off on some rank amateur. "I don't need two and I'm tired of carrying the thing around."

When they parted company, Maire had the basics for the lute down. Her teacher's parting words were, "Don't worry about speed. That will come with practice. Work on your chord changes and your rhythm. Play a little everyday you have a warm place, and remember to let the instrument warm and cool slowly."

Henrich saw to it she played every night, after dinner. He even taught her a few songs he remembered from his visit to the theater in the Higgins' Hotel in Grantville.

One night, after he had spent over an hour helping her get the tune and the words to an English song just right, Maire finally asked, "Why are you doing this?"

Henrich smiled. In a voice full of piety he answered, "It is an act of Christian charity, my child."

Marie looked down and counted her toes. She couldn't bite her lip because she was too busy gritting her teeth.

Henrich laughed. "Very good, Maire. If I didn't know better I would indeed believe it.

"Very well, lass, I will tell you why. It might make things go better if you know. There is a man in Augsburg, an American from Grantville. I'm sure you've heard of those. He is doing quite well. He is the merchant's agent in Augsburg for a great many concerns. The business that passes through his hands is worth several fortunes. I want a slice of that trade. If the man owes me a favor then I will turn a profit on it. You are that favor. For some reason, he has told his wife she may only hire a redheaded Irish lass as a nursemaid for his child. There isn't one to be had in all of Augsburg. I know at least three men who are racing to Ireland and back or scouring the army camps for such a lass. By chance, I stumbled over you. If they will take you on as part of the household, then every time I come to Augsburg, your uncle Henrich will look in on you to see how you are doing and he will leave you some small trifle he has found on his journeys that he thinks you will like.

"Of course, while ...