Leaves or Larks: A Tale of Medieval Life and Events Leading to the Magna Carta

By E. DeLaurentis

Abrielle wasn't sure how she transformed the leaves of a tree into larks when she was eight, living at a Norman château in 1198. She doesn't really know how majik works. But in her twenties, at a pivotal impasse between factions, she's desperately trying to understand her abilities. The lives of her family and friends-barons, merchants, clergy,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writing Studio LLC
• Release date: Jan 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781733792080

E. DeLaurentis

Elizabeth DeLaurentis is an author living in Florida, writing Fantasy and Historical Fiction. Her debut novel was The Fledglings - A Great Divide, the first book in the Sakrosians Series trilogy.After years as a designer building physical environments, Elizabeth pursued creating imaginary worlds inhabited by thoughtful, struggling, witty, and sometimes ridiculous characters.Elizabeth's writing emphasizes strong female characters who face the challenges of their time in history and, with perseverance, choose to make an indelible impact.

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Leaves or Larks

by

Elizabeth DeLaurentis

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© 2022 Elizabeth DeLaurentis

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No part of this document may be used or reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of

Elizabeth DeLaurentis, Writing Studio LLC.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Cover Design © 2022 Elizabeth DeLaurentis

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ISBN 978-1-7337920-7-3 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-7337920-8-0 (ebook)

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A fictional tale of medieval life and events leading to the Magna Carta

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KNOW THAT BEFORE GOD, for the health of our soul and those of our ancestors and heirs, to the honour of God, the exaltation of the holy Church, and the better ordering of our kingdom . . .

– JOHN, by the grace of God King of England . . . Given by our hand in the meadow that is called Runnymede, between Windsor and Staines, on the fifteenth day of June in the seventeenth year of our reign.

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CONTENTS

PART I

March 1212—English Midlands

PART II

May 1194—Normandy

June 1195—Montancien

April 1196—Montancien

September 1197—Montancien

June 1198—Montancien

July 1198—Vexin

October 1198—Normandy

January 1200—Bordeaux

June 1200—Montancien

September 1200—Anjou

September 1201—Paris

August 1202—Montancien

June 1203—Montancien

July 1204—Montancien

March 1205—Rouen

September 1206—Montancien

October 1207—Montancien

PART III

March 1208—England

April 1208—Kent

London

February 1209—Midlands Dinglepond

December 1210—Christmastide—Derbyshire

French Falaise

Dinglepond

December 1211—Midlands Noirwood

PART IV

March 1212—Beauridge

April 1212—Beauridge

May 1212—Montancien

June 1212—St Albans

Beauridge

September 1212—Rutland

April 1213—Midlands

May 1213—Nottingham

Suthwic Hall

Beauridge

June 1213—Normandy

July 1213—Yorkshire

Beauridge

August 1213—Derbyshire

London

September 1213—Kent

October 1213—Flanders

March 1214—Montancien

May 1214—Beauridge

June 1214—Wales

July 1214—Nottingham

September 1214—London

October 1214—Beauridge

November 1214—Dinglepond

December 1214—Normandy

February 1215—Yorkshire

March 1215—Beauridge

April 1215—Beauridge

May 1215—Beauridge

June 1215—Runnymede

August 1215—Derbyshire

November 1215—Dinglepond

December 1215—Beauridge

January 1216—Beauridge

March 1216—London

May 1216—Beauridge

July 1216—Beauridge

August 1216—Beauridge

September 1216—Yorkshire

Derbyshire

Beauridge

West Midlands

October 1216—Norfolk

Windsor

Norfolk

Bishop’s Lynn

Nottingham

November 1216—Beauridge

End

CHARACTERS

Normans

English

Fictional Barons

Troupe

Dinglepond

Merry Men

Other

Historical

Also by Elizabeth DeLaurentis

* * *

Leaves or Larks

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PART I

March 1212—English Midlands

The doors of Beauridge Manor opened toward the garden, where the late-afternoon shadows stretched across pebbled paths. Arnaud de Lille’s guests had arrived earlier in the day. Some brought their pages, assuming a merchant’s were not as skilled as those from their own noble households.

Abrielle inhaled the primrose wafting into the dining hall on the cool breeze, enjoying the first real spring day after a long season of winter rain. The page standing behind her shoulder cleared his throat, startling Abrielle from her reverie. She scooped up the last bit of baked apples with morsels of pork from her pewter bowl and watched as he ladled the venison stew, noting that each serving balanced the meat with carrots and parsnips. Abrielle tasted the broth and smiled. Thomas, the cook, had proportioned the sage perfectly.

Arnaud and his wife, Madelaine, had no objection to the young cottager planning the dinner while they readied the purpose of the gathering. Abrielle’s husband, Jules, sat beside her conspiring with Arnaud. The cook peered out from the kitchen and Abrielle nodded. The pages had just a few hours to coordinate the routine, but Thomas had bellowed instructions, and thus far, they were well choreographed. The haricot vert with pearl onions was served after the stew. Abrielle was pleased the meal was going well. Thomas might look like an English cook, but he had apprenticed in a Norman château and had a French chef’s understanding of arranging courses to follow the digestive temperament. Abrielle had learned a similar lesson as a girl in Normandy from the apothecary, Percival. Nothing too heavy at the beginning of the meal, small portions of meat, vegetables as accompaniment, and fish as the course before dessert. The claré wine was mulled with ginger and anise to settle the gut. The bread was baked in the style of Norman long loaves instead of English rounds, so each bite enjoyed the crisp golden crust.

When the platters of walnut-seared trout were served, Madelaine leaned toward Abrielle, the silk on her gown’s bodice crinkling with the effort. Ma chérie, your Alençon parents would be proud. I shall write to Guillaume and Cherise to tell them of your success.

I hope the dinner sets the tone for the accord. We shall see how the next few days unfold, Abrielle said as she picked up the petite spoon from the salt cup to sprinkle on her fillet.

She glanced around the room, where the guests engaged in conversation. From the Suffolk eastern shire, Gilbert Cloche had arrived with his wife and son Hugh. Henry de Galet had traveled from Hereford in the west. Roger de Pas and Michel d’Asquei were northern barons. Although Beauridge Manor was not as prominent an estate as the barons’ castles, it was centrally located for their gathering: north of London, near the juncture of Watling Street and Icknield Way, the old Roman roads that crossed the country.

The barons had come together to discuss an important issue common to them all. Each held property in two countries—estates in Normandy and England, which were bestowed on Norman nobles during the reign of William the First after he gained the English crown. The predicament they faced was allegiance. When Richard was the king of England and the duke of Normandy fourteen years earlier, the barons had walked a delicate line, feigning fidelity to both the duke and the French king in order to maintain their families’ Norman demesnes. But then John became the king of England and lost control of Angevin lands. Now, he expected the barons to help him regain his domain in France.

Jules and Abrielle had left Normandy four years before. Without property of their own, they accepted the generous offer of a cottage from her mother’s friend, Madelaine. Beauridge was actually Madelaine’s manor, in addition to property in Rouen, where Arnaud had established a thriving weaving guild.

Jules was less interested in the clothier enterprise than in Arnaud’s clandestine activities. The wool trade, weaving houses, and cloth-selling ventures were dispersed across regions in France, Flanders, and England. The travel provided a means to meet with merchants and barons, discussing who leaned toward royal support and who was more likely to favor a new liberty charter to rebel against King John’s increasing taxes and infringements.

The assembled barons were on the brink of deciding where they stood. Were they willing to risk John’s threats to seize their estates if they didn’t indulge him? Was he a vulnerable sovereign who could be forced to capitulate to their demands?

Abrielle was to focus on the wives. She had learned from her mother what subtleties could be elicited from gossip. Especially since the more potent first-press wine was reserved for the women’s gathering on the morrow.

Sitting across the dining hall at a far table was a loud young man, with a scant red-tinged beard and leather-trimmed cote—Jules’s cousin Destin. Like others in the room, Destin’s father faced an uncertain fealty for Château Montancien in Normandy. But as second son, he wasn’t the one to represent the inheritance, although Destin had been trying for years to convince the earl to recognize him as heir instead of his brother, Curtis. Another predicament in aligning the attendees—Destin was one of four people in the room who had grown up at the château. Four children of four families, with different interests in the current dilemma. Unfortunately, they knew each other’s foibles.

Abrielle tapped her husband’s sleeve. Your cousin is drunk.

Jules sneered in Destin’s direction. He arrived, without an invitation, to antagonize his brother. I’m glad Curtis was already traveling.

Well, it would help our cause to have his cooperation, Abrielle said. She stood and circled her way around the room, stopping to chat along the way. If only she hadn’t been diverted, she might have reached him before Destin noticed Vardon sitting to the side, watching him.

I see you are not one of us, Destin said rudely.

Vardon kept a steady glare. Indeed, I am not. I am the hosts’ clerk, charged with seeing if anything is needed.

Then pour me another goblet of mulled wine. This is not as good as the vintage from my father, the earl of Montancien’s estate, Destin preened loudly to ensure the guests sitting near heard. But I daresay it would be an expensive import to this middling part of England.

Vardon stiffened, already uncomfortable in the new gambeson he wore. A page rushed forward to fill Destin’s goblet while Vardon tried to stifle his resentment, many years in the making.

Destin drank a long swig and cocked his head in Vardon’s direction. You look familiar.

If so, then I must look as I did when ten years of age. My parents served at Montancien before my family was dispatched to Rouen in 1198.

Oh! Then you know about the birds.

At this, Abrielle froze. The last thing she wanted was to be ridiculed in front of their guests. Or worse, to be accused of sorcery.

Not the birds again, grumbled Lord de Pas, sitting beside Destin.

I tell you, Abrielle did what I saw.

Abrielle returned Vardon’s gaze as she stepped forward, shaking her head slightly to signal not to worry. She and Vardon had been childhood friends, despite the disparity in their parents’ stations. Her father and Jules’s were knights for his uncle, Earl Edouard. Vardon’s father was a weaver at Montancien until he was sent to work for Arnaud. Their family was gone when the incident occurred, so Vardon didn’t know about the birds. She glanced back to Jules, who hadn’t heard. Either man might intervene to be protective, as they had as children. She’d have to be clever enough to dispel what Destin might say.

She smiled sweetly at Roger de Pas. Has my husband’s cousin been telling you about the l’oiseau en croute that his father, the earl, liked the Montancien chef to serve as dessert for special occasions?

Lord de Pas’s face tinged redder than his beard. Before he could answer, Destin swung his goblet, sloshing the claré.

I’ve been telling him I called you ‘the girl who knew majik’ because I saw you turn the leaves of a tree into birds.

Abrielle’s peals of laughter caught the surrounding guests’ attention, though, inside, she was relieved he hadn’t called her a witch. Is that what you thought happened? Well, our friends will be disappointed. But let me see if I can make the story entertaining nonetheless. I have not seen an English cook make the bird in pie, but Earl Edouard’s chef, Claude, excelled in the art of entrement. Claude particularly liked flaming desserts, experimenting with ingredients to shift the color of the flare. Once, a visiting juggler attempted to entertain with apples lit on the end of sticks. That didn’t quite turn out as planned when the dogs got too excited and chased the man from the dining hall. The earl’s favorite was the l’oiseau en croute, which Claude meant to serve on the eve of the knights leaving for a campaign. Are you familiar with this spectacle? Abrielle glanced around at the attentive guests peering toward her.

Non? Well, it is an enormous pie pan, with just a top crust. The pages parade around the hall carrying the pie. She mimicked holding a heavy pan on her shoulder and stomped in a circle, her slipper shoes pattering on the stone floor.

Hidden inside is a surprise. When the pages place the pie in front of the earl, he slices the crust with a flourish and out fly a flurry of birds. Abrielle flapped her hands as she flitted around, the sleeves of her bliaut fluttering, while the guests laughed. Of course, they spend the next several minutes trying to get the birds to escape out the windows before they make a mess.

Destin scowled. But that has nothing to do with your majik.

Abrielle continued her charade. Oh, let me tell you what happened the morning of that feast. For the secret ingredient requires the capture of live birds. I had begged Claude to let me be the one to help the apothecary, Percival, sprinkle the drowsing concoction on the trees. Then I promised to watch until the birds slumbered, so the pages could cast their nets. The chef doubted my ability to focus. I was only eight, and truth be told, a bit capricious. The hêtre tree was in a quiet area of the château, outside the window of quarters recently vacated by a family. Abrielle let her glance slide to catch Vardon’s nod.

"I was familiar with the rooms, situated to look out from the château across a beautiful Norman valley. Montancien rests upon a rocky plateau overlooking lush green fields, dotted with serfs’ cottages and grazing pastures. I had opened the shutters and gazed out, thinking of the lambs in the shepherds’ hold. My father often took me down the hill, riding with him on his stallion, to watch the lambs chase each other in the field. But my father was to leave the next morning with the other knights. The ladies and children would be left behind, wondering what would happen on their campaign. As you can surmise, I had lost interest in watching the tree, which was situated on the side hill out a different window from where I gazed.

Farther up that hill was a wall surrounding the courtyard where two young men talked excitedly about embarking on their first excursion. Those two are in this very room—Destin was twelve and my Jules fourteen. My husband recalls how anxious they were to prepare for battle. I was, naturally, ignoring them until Destin tossed a stone down the hill. What do you think happened next? Abrielle paused as her audience leaned forward in anticipation. "The clattering of his stone dislodged more rocks, startling the sleeping birds. And moi as well! I knew the chef would be irritated, for I had proven him right. Too late to alert the pages to cast the net, I watched the larks, roused from slumber, flitting confusedly around the little tree. There were no leaves left by the time they caught wing and fled.

Destin had clambered down the hill and saw me standing, astonished, at the window nearby. I turned and ran up to my room. Now I learn he thinks I turned the leaves into birds. Ha! If only I could harness such majik, we would be eating on gold plates instead of pewter.

Destin was the only guest not laughing as Abrielle smiled pertly, confident that no listener would believe his version of the story.

Then why did you run from the hall later when the pages carried in the pie? he grumbled.

Oh, I thought there would be no birds in the pie when the earl cut into the crust. I was silly enough to believe chef Claude would reveal my laziness to the assembly. But the kind man had arranged for another tree to be dowsed, and the pages had caught the birds just outside the kitchen. He was not about to disappoint the earl or let his reputation for entrement slip because of a dreaming girl. I sat outside at dusk, watching the birds dart about in confusion. My father’s reprimand was not too harsh before he departed. I promised I would not be so distracted with my wonderings again.

Well, any child of eight would be easily diverted. My children rarely listen to their nurse, said Lady Cloche.

Have you planned a spectacle to conclude this lovely dinner? asked Lady de Galet.

I hope you shan’t be disappointed that no birds will flit about tonight. Abrielle turned toward the kitchen door, where the pages entered with platters. We have slices of gâteau made from finely ground oat, currants, and almonds, drizzled with honey from the nearby Hepley Priory hives. A minstrel is here to entertain with his song.

Abrielle meandered back to her seat. When she looked across the hall, Destin glared at her, his arms crossed. If only I knew how majik works and could cast a spell to eliminate his foul mood, she thought. But I have no idea how the leaves changed into larks.

Jules reached his spoon toward her plate and took a scoop of her gâteau. Don’t worry, he whispered. Arnaud has sent Madelaine’s daughter, Jacqui, to distract Destin. He will soon forget the story, convincing as it was. Even I almost believed it, and I saw what truly happened.

She swatted his hand as Jules tried to take another bite. Let me enjoy the dessert too. I hope I haven’t caused his temper to flare.

The others are likely to think his irritation is because of your description of Château Montancien. Destin has made no secret of his attempts to convince his father to change the inheritance. He might think he will find support among English barons, if they believe a firstborn son in the clergy should be cast aside for a second son. The lords have seen estates turned over to the church. They much prefer the other way round, when a baron claims church property.

Is that why Curtis left before the barons discuss the accord? To ensure no bishop lays claim to his father’s Tilden Hall in England?

Curtis hasn’t taken orders, so Destin has a weak argument that Tilden would be seized by the church or the crown. Curtis has a similar objective to ours in going to Westminster, discerning who among the clergy are willing to rebel against the king, since John has made enemies there as well.

Abrielle sighed. We may find your own cousins on opposite sides of this predicament, as many families have splintered.

That is what the accord will reveal, said Jules.

* * *

PART II

May 1194—Normandy

Destin darted from the Montancien chapel into the great hall, snickering, where he hiked up his tunic and whizzed into the fire. Sparks sizzled in the hearth when the tutor, Quincy, yanked him back from the blaze. I’m telling your father of this behavior, unsuitable for a lad of eight.

Curtis slumped against the chapel door with his arms crossed. Father will just laugh. He doesn’t care if my brother learns nothing from books. But if I acted like Destin, I’d be knocked in the head and locked in a tower.

At least there’d be a window to stare out of instead of being cooped up in a chapel with painted glass, Jules said.

Guillaume strode into the hall and refrained from laughing at Quincy struggling to keep Destin from pulling up his tunic. What is all the commotion? he asked, shifting aside his cloak to put his hands on his hips where his dagger hung from his belt.

Quincy sighed. Sir Gui, you could take on some of the scholarly duties. Won’t you tutor the boys?

Not until they’ve learned Latin and Greek, replied Guillaume, glad to have thought of an excuse.

I thought the reverence of the chapel would inspire the requisite attention, Quincy said.

Hrmmpf, scoffed Curtis. I’m only twelve and knew that would never work on my brother.

Jules approached Guillaume and waited patiently for the knight’s notice. I can read Greek if you would lend me a book.

Guillaume smiled, placing his hand on the lad’s shoulder. Jules was two years younger than Curtis but several inches taller. I’ll have Anna pass on a book when she’s finished reading it.

Tsk, tsk, Quincy said. ’Tis not right to teach a servant woman to read, let alone her son, Vardon. Greek no less. Next, you’ll be encouraging your daughter.

Lady Cherise has already taught Abrielle Latin, Greek, and Anglaise.

Quincy didn’t hide his shock. But she’s a child!

Guillaume nodded proudly. Almost five, and knows four languages. She’s probably smarter than Destin.

That wouldn’t be difficult, Jules muttered.

I saw Percival in the garden. Why don’t the boys go out for their botany lesson until archery practice with Sir Marcel?

Before Quincy could disagree, the three boys sprinted from the hall, their boots clattering across the courtyard. Guillaume escaped up the stairs and peeked into the solar on the second floor where the ladies gathered.

Abrielle sat beside Jules’s sister, Josette, correcting the girl seven years older on how to hold the carding combs to stretch the wool fibers. Vardon was working twice as fast, probably hoping when they finished they could go outside to play.

Anna stood holding the distaff while Lady Odelia spun the strands on the drop spindle. Odelia sighed, holding back from reprimanding Josette, knowing it would send her daughter into a tantrum.

Lady Rosabel sat near the window reading aloud and looked up. It is quiet again in the hall.

The boys, ah, finished their morning studies with the tutor, said Guillaume.

Finished? Or did Quincy surrender? asked Rosabel.

He’s not to blame for the boys’ rambunctiousness, said Odelia.

Your son is better behaved than my two. Perhaps Curtis and Destin will grow out of it, Rosabel said.

I would not be truthful if I said I was more attentive at their age. Guillaume stepped toward the children. What is the Latin word for ‘truth’?

Abrielle answered quickly, Veritas.

I knew that, Josette said.

It is on Earl Edouard’s seal, Vardon added.

Guillaume nodded and turned to watch his wife as she pulled a needle through her embroidery. The light from the window danced on Cherise’s ebony hair, the braided plait resting over her left shoulder. He sighed, admiring her profile and the exposed right side of her neck. He was glad their daughter had her dark hair and hazel eyes. Especially glad his large nose hadn’t marred Abrielle’s dainty face.

Cherise smiled without looking up from her sewing. If the boys can behave enough to keep quiet on your hunt tomorrow, there is a small herd of deer migrating through the north wood. Perhaps Curtis will show how his archery has improved.

We weren’t planning— Guillaume stopped midsentence, about to say they had no intention to hunt the next day. It was not really a suggestion, but his wife’s subtle way of mentioning what she saw would happen. He had no objection to her foresight, since her skill had been useful on numerous occasions. I’ll alert the stable boy to prepare the horses.

And let chef Claude know, Cherise added.

Yes, venison stew, said Guillaume, leaving the solar and taking the back stairs to the kitchen.

Claude was kneading dough in the pantry.

Venison tomorrow, Guillaume said without further explanation.

I’ll need vegetables and herbs from Percival, Claude replied, wiping a floured hand against his apron.

Guillaume snatched a slice of cheese and headed out the door toward the gardens. Some days I am just my wife’s messenger.

The boys were climbing an almond tree while Percival weeded the rows of onions and turnips. Not much of a botany lesson, he thought.

Venison stew tomorrow, Guillaume called when Percival stood in his faded black frock to stretch his back.

Will the meat be tender or tough? Never mind, I’ll ask Lady Cherise.

Guillaume shook his head as he walked away. No one seemed too concerned his wife knew more than she should. Percival often consulted Cherise on the efficacy of plants and herbal remedies.

He strode across the courtyard to the strip of grass where Jules’s father, Marcel, and the demesne’s loyal chevalier, Fletcher, were setting up the archery target. Do we have enough arrows for a deer hunt tomorrow? The boys could do more than practice with twigs.

Oui, answered Fletcher. The smithy has provided the iron heads, and I can attach them to elm sticks. Not what I would use in battle, but good enough for a hunt.

Has Curtis improved? asked Guillaume.

My nephew would have better aim if my brother stopped chiding him when we practice, answered Marcel, rubbing his ginger beard.

Guillaume spun on his heel. Next stop, distract Edouard. He wasn’t in the chapel, and the bread hasn’t baked, so he’ll be in the undercroft counting swords or inspecting the wine. He crossed the courtyard, adjusting his sight to the darkness of the stairs as he descended to the cellar. A sneeze confirmed the earl’s location.

Damn dusty bottles, Edouard grumbled.

Ah, drinking already. Then he saw the array of armaments spread across the table and Edouard polishing a scabbard with his sleeve.

No one’s looking for me, are they? he asked.

No, Your Lordship.

Good, tired of all the complaining.

I can speak to the serfs if they have been bothering you with their concerns.

Edouard waved his hand. Not them, my wife.

Guillaume raised his brows and stifled a laugh.

Rosabel thinks I am too harsh on Curtis and not enough on Destin. Everybody knows younger sons are for the church. What do I care if the boy is rowdy? Let the monks discipline him into compliance. But Curtis—Edouard lifted a goblet and swung his arm in a circle—will inherit all this, château and demesne. He’ll need to figure out the dance required to please the Angevin dukes as well as the French king. That’s why you’re so val-ble.

Guillaume wiped the spittle sprayed from Edouard’s slurring. In the shadows of the undercroft, he studied the earl’s disheveled slouching, his ill-fitting tunic sagging at his shoulders. In contrast, Edouard’s younger brother, Marcel, was unchanged in vigor as he aged.

Val-u-a-bleu. The earl attempted the word again. The Lionheart rewarded us by assigning you to our château. You could have gone anywhere after you accompanied his mother, Queen Eleanor, to secure King Richard’s release. But you stayed here with Marcel, brother-in-arms.

Guillaume just nodded, refraining from mentioning Cherise had more say in that decision than he or the king. He remembered her describing a vision, several years in the future, although she wasn’t convinced it was more than just a moment in time she had seen regarding the earl’s sons. Perhaps Curtis’s and Destin’s futures are still to be determined. It is not unusual for first and second sons’ roles to reverse. The older becomes a cleric while the younger is better suited to manage an estate.

Clerics. Glad that monk is more interested in gardening than preaching to us!

Percival wears the frock but was never ordained.

Just as well the priest in the village doesn’t know and hasn’t come up the hill from Rouquin to say Mass in our chapel.

Chef Claude should be putting loaves in the oven soon, Guillaume said, changing the subject before Edouard launched into his criticism of the pope. It would be a long afternoon sitting in a cellar hoping the boys were improving their aim.

* * *

June 1195—Montancien

Ooh, I know where to hide, Abrielle said, darting up the stairs. Josie won’t know where to look.

Vardon followed, two years older and longer legs enabled him to easily pass his friend. Abrielle giggled, trying to keep up, until they reached the top steps on the third floor. She dashed into her family’s rooms; he stopped at the door. The sitting room was between two bedrooms. Dizzy from circling the stairs, she tumbled toward one of the trunks near the windows overlooking the valley. She rubbed her fingers across the intricate carving on the pear wood.

I hid in one once. Mama happened to sit on it, and I knocked, surprising her.

Vardon shrugged his shoulders. She probably saw you and waited for you to reveal your hiding spot to scold you.

She was in her room. She didn’t see me hide. Besides, Mama doesn’t scold me.

When Abrielle lifted the lid, the hinges squeaked, and she peeked inside to make sure there wasn’t a mouse.

Ha! Lady Cherise heard the squeak and knew you were hiding.

Well, Josie is still counting down in the hall, so she didn’t hear. Come hide in the other trunk.

Vardon tiptoed across the floor, unsure about hiding in Sir Guillaume’s rooms, and stopped at the table. What’s this?

Abrielle walked to his side and picked up the rack with beads on thin metal rods. It’s a counting thing. Papa said it’s very old.

She started pushing the beads up and down the rods. See, the red beads at the top are for some numbers, and the shiny black ones are used to add or subtract.

They forgot about hiding while Vardon figured out how to use the abacus until they heard shouts from below. He jolted, recognizing one of