The Wise Woman

Twenty-six

Catherine woke in the night screaming and only Alys could soothe her. She was sweating from her nightmare and from a fever. Alys gave her a little of the dried berries of deadly nightshade and watched her till she fell asleep. Three times Catherine's nightmares woke her -and all the ladies. Three times a waiting-woman came and knocked on Alys' door and said that Lady Catherine was crying and carrying on and she must have Alys with her. The third time Alys gave her a fat pinch of sleeping powder in a cup of brandy-wine and left her on her back, snoring.

In the morning Catherine was quiet and drugged. Hugo called in at her chamber. She held out her arms to him with the tears running down her fat face.

'You must excuse me, Madam,' he said coldly. 'You have not been churched.'

Catherine gave a gasp of disbelief and looked at his face. He was without pity. 'Hugo!' she exclaimed. 'I am so grieved…' He stepped back towards the door, keeping himself far from her as if she had the plague.

'You are unclean,' he said precisely. 'I may not touch you. Alys will assist you.'

'But I thought you did not believe in that…' Catherine wailed. Hugo bowed minimally and passed out through the door, ignoring her, ignoring Alys. Alys stepped back to let him pass and shut the door behind him with quiet satisfaction. The old lord would not see Catherine at all, though she asked for him. He said he was too busy to come to the ladies' gallery. When Catherine was fulfilling her duties as the lady of the castle she could see him whenever she chose. In the meantime, he had no skills in the sick-chamber and could not wait on her.

Catherine, fallen from favour with both lords, wept again, sluggish, warm tears which rolled down her face.

'They hate me because the baby died,' she whispered to Alys. They both hate me because the baby died.'

Alys persuaded Catherine to eat some breakfast and sit up in bed and comb her hair. She did as she was told, like a lumpish child. But they could not stop her weeping. All the time, the waxy ooze dripped from between her legs, staining the sheets, and slow, oily tears rolled down her cheeks. She did not sob, she did not moan. She sat quietly and did whatever they asked of her. But she could not stop her tears.

Alys sat with her until dinnertime and then went down to the great hall, leaving Ruth and Mistress Allingham to dine with Catherine in her chamber. She entered by the tapestry-covered door at the rear of the high table. As she let the curtain fall behind her and moved to her seat on the left hand of the old lord's chair she heard a ripple of approval from the men in the hall. Now she was the only woman carrying Hugo's child. She was the only hope for an heir. The women in the castle might fear her and resent her, and outside, in the shadow of the castle, they might talk sourly of witchcraft and the young lord hexed into madness and lust; but a son came before everything. Anything would be forgiven the woman who gave Hugo a son.

The old lord came in, his face grave, Hugo at his side. Alys stood behind her chair until they were seated and then took her place. She did not look at Hugo. She knew he was in a rage too deep to speak. She bent her head and broke her bread. Hugo would come round.

'I shall need you to write some letters this afternoon,' the old lord said. 'And you shall sit in my chamber and read to me.'

Alys inclined her head. 'Gladly, my lord,' she said.

He grunted. 'Not too tired are you?' he asked. 'Sleep well?'

'I had to attend Lady Catherine in the night,' Alys said, her voice neutral. 'She was weeping and asked for me. I was called to her three times.'

Lord Hugh waved his hand at David for the wine-server. 'Drink this,' he said gruffly to Alys. 'Drink deep. It'll give the baby good blood.'

He paused. 'That must stop,' he said abruptly. 'Running around after the barren woman is too tiring for you. It must stop. Catherine can weep on someone else's shoulder.

'Hugo?' Hugo raised his face from studying his hands clenched on the table before him. The old man nodded. 'You see to it. Tell Catherine she may not disturb Alys. Alys can't wait on her any longer. Alys must not get overtired.' Hugo nodded. 'As you wish, Sire.' 'Aye, you're sour,' the old lord said gently. 'It's not to be wondered at. Nine years waiting and then nothing. But I tell you what, my boy. Our wager still stands. If Alys gives you a son I'll give you a thousand pounds. One son is as good as another when there's no choice. You shall still have your fortune. How's that?'

‘I thank you,' Hugo said. 'You are generous. But I wanted the money to finance the sailing of the ship. Alys' child will not be born until April. My friend will have found other, more eager backers by then.'

The old lord nodded, crumbled his bread thoughtfully. ‘I have some ideas I'll broach with you later, Hugo,' he said. 'You may find you have the money in time. I have a plan or two still in mind.'

Hugo managed a cold, sulky smile. 'You are a great schemer,' he said.

The old lord nodded. 'Music!' he said sharply to David. 'And send for someone to make us laugh. We are sick with melancholy over nothing. A barren woman is a disaster for no one but herself. Get me the new wine, the Flemish wine, and send to Castleton for tumblers or jugglers or a bear, for God's sake. Even a cockfight if there's nothing else to be had! I won't mourn for Catherine. I have new plans! Find someone to make me laugh!'

David nodded and snapped his fingers to one of the pages. He tossed a silver coin high into the air and the lad leaped for it and snatched at it and raced from the hall, the dogs barking and snapping at his heels at the sudden excitement. Half a dozen men scrambled from the benches and fetched their instruments, started to tune them discordantly and cursed each other in their hurry. Then they started to play and the serving-wenches got up to dance, a circle dance, an old village dance. Alys, remembering the music from her childhood, watched them, her foot tapping.

'Dance with them!' the old lord said. 'Take the ladies and dance with them!'

Alys flashed him a smile and beckoned to Eliza and Margery. They broached the circle and then joined in. One of the girls danced in the middle while the others circled her, then she chose a partner and they led the others around in pairs, then the second girl danced alone in the centre of the circle. The girls arched their necks and tossed their heads, conscious of the watching men. They stamped their feet in time to the music and when they took the long sweeping steps around the circle they put their hands on their hips and swayed seductively. Alys, her fair hair flying, danced with one eye on Hugo. When it was her turn in the centre of the circle she danced and bobbed with her head held up, her colour high, and the proud curve of her belly thrust forward. When he looked at her she smiled confidently at him.

He grinned, the blackness of mood lifted from him, the crease between his eyebrows vanished. With a word to his father he jumped down from the dais and broke into the circle. When the time came for Alys to choose a partner he stepped forward and there was a little ripple of applause. Following Hugo, the other men from around the hall stepped into the circle and danced too. The circle grew too wide for the space between the tables and broke into two circles, then four. The music grew louder and more insistent, the beat of the tambour more and more compelling. Alys, in her green gown, whirled in a spell of triumphant sensuality, Hugo leaping and dancing around her. When the music stopped in a cascade of bells she fell into his arms and he swept her off her feet and up to the dais.

Catherine, in her chamber above the hall, heard the music, the laughter, the shouts of applause for Alys, and the joyful thud of dancing feet. Sitting alone in her great bed with her dinner untasted before her she listened, while the fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

The old lord had a swathe of letters for Alys to write in the afternoon. She sat at the little table in the window, in her green gown with a green French hood covering her hair, a green shawl around her shoulders.

'You are like a hayfield in springtime,' the old lord said. 'I like watching you, Alys.' She smiled at him, saying nothing. 'Now to work,' he said briskly. He sat erect in his chair, one hand outstretched leaning on his cane. Without looking at Alys he reeled off a list of the men who were to receive his letters. Alys, dipping her quill into the inkpot, wrote as fast and as clearly as she could.

She forced herself to keep writing at the rapid speed of the old lord's speech. She forced herself to keep translating his curt, idiomatic English into classical Latin. She forced herself to keep her head down, to play the part of the loyal clerk, the doltish scribe; while Lord Hugh begged support from all of his friends currently holding high places in the King's court for his son's forthcoming divorce from his wife on the grounds of her being too close kin.

Six letters the old lord dictated, then he broke off. 'Father Stephen will have to write the letter to the Supreme Court,' he said. 'He will know how it has to be framed, the way the rhetoric has to be done, all of that clerkish nonsense.' 'Will he do it?' Alys asked doubtfully. Lord Hugh shot her a wicked grin. 'He has no choice, my dear. He is in my hands. I have given him, free of any charge, all the benefices in my lands. He is a worldly man, an ambitious man, as well as a fervent churchman. He has hitched his star to my Hugo, they are two of a kind. Hugo's rise will carry him upward as well. He knows the price – he is my man at the church courts.'

'And what will happen to Catherine?' Alys asked, her voice soft.

Lord Hugh shrugged. 'Lord knows,' he said carelessly. 'If it were the old days she could have gone into a nunnery. Now I don't know. She has no family to speak of. I suppose I might find someone to marry her. A widower with sons already who can afford a barren wife might do. She's a personable enough woman, and warm in bed, Hugo says. I'll give some of her dowry back. Or I could give her a little household somewhere in my lands. She could take a couple of her women and some servants.' He nodded. 'As she wishes. She'll be free to do as she pleases. If she does not stand against me she'll find me generous.'

'Does Hugo know of this?' Alys asked. The old lord shook his head. 'No; and he's not to know it from you either, my pretty wench. I'll tell him when I get my replies. If they're favourable we'll go ahead with this plan. Take these letters to David for me and tell him they're to be delivered at once. The messengers are to wait for the reply and come straight back. Tell him I'll give a silver shilling to every man who is prompt. And tell the messengers to neither eat nor drink within the city of London. There's plague in the town again, I don't want it brought back here.

'And then go and lie down. Rest. If Catherine calls you, tell her it is my wish that you rest in the afternoons.' Alys nodded, gathered up the papers and left.

She had not forgotten Mother Hildebrande. At noon, as Alys had smoothed her hair, looking in the mirror before going down to dinner, it was Mother Hildebrande's stern face she saw. She saw her mother, standing in the doorway of the little cottage, shading her eyes against the sun, looking downriver, scanning the riverside path, waiting confidently for the daughter she had found again, certain that she would come, trusting the strict training, the habit of discipline, and – more than anything else – trusting the love which was between the two women. She would wait for an hour, her old legs and her tired back aching. The path would stay empty. She would be puzzled at first – Alys the novice nun had never been late for any lesson, never scuttled in after the others to chapel. Then she would be afraid for her daughter – fearing a fall from the horse, or an accident, or danger for Alys. Then she would turn slowly back into the damp cottage to sit by the empty fireplace and put her hands together and pray for the soul of Alys who had not come, though she was bound by every oath in the world to come; who had failed in her duty to her God, who had failed her mother, the only person left in the world who loved her.

Alys could see Mother Hildebrande in her imagination when she heard the ripple of pleasure at midday dinner as she had come through the door to the hall, with her belly thrust forward, to take Catherine's place. When her food was put before her, Alys had a sudden vision of Mother Hildebrande struggling with damp firewood in Morach's cottage, and the dry taste of stale bread left from yesterday. Alys was aware of her when Hugo's dark scowl lightened and he drained his glass and jumped down to dance; even when his hand slid down her spine and rounded over her buttocks and Alys stood still and leaned into his caress, her long eyelashes sweeping down to hide the pretended arousal in her eyes.

When she translated the letters, using the skills Mother Hildebrande had taught her, part of Alys' mind was still with the old woman. The sides of the river-banks were steep now the river was at its low – she would not be able to get water. When the bread from yesterday was gone there would be nothing to eat unless she climbed the hill and begged from passers-by on the road. Alys thought of the woman she had loved as a mother, with her hand held out to strangers and her quiet dignity insulted by pedlars.

Alys gave the letters and the instructions to David, making special emphasis of the danger of London's plague, and went to her own room, shut the door, kicked off her shoes and lay down on her bed. She gazed upwards at the green and yellow tester like a ceiling above her head, elaborate, luxurious, expensive. She knew, as she had known from the moment when she sat at Mother Hildebrande's feet on Morach's dank earth floor, that she would not go back to live in the little hovel by the river. Alys would never again feel the empty-bellied misery of the poor in winter. Alys would never again break the ice on the river to pull out a bucket of stormy brown water. Alys would never again break her fingernails and bruise her hands scrabbling in frozen earth for icy turnips. Not if she could control her fate.

'I can't go back,' Alys said aloud. 'I won't go back.'

She thought of her mother, the woman she had longed for, whose loss had grieved her every day, and she found that the deep wound of pain had gone, vanished. When she thought of Mother Hildebrande now it was with fear of her intrusion, it was with irritation, it was with anxiety. Mother Hildebrande was no longer a dead saint to be mourned. She was a lively threat.

'She should go away,' Alys said softly. 'She should go away to a proper nunnery. I would go with her if she would only go to a proper nunnery. Even now, even with Catherine being set aside and everyone recognizing Hugo as my lover, and me as the mother of the heir; I would go with her if she went to a proper nunnery.'

Alys paused. She thought of the peace and deep pleasure of her girlhood as Mother Hildebrande's favourite in the abbey by the river. She thought of the quiet lessons in Latin and Greek, of her pleasure in learning so quickly; of being the best. She thought of the still-room and the smell of the herbs and the tinctures. She thought of the herb garden and the raised beds and the stalky secret leaves of the herbs, of the smell of lavender when she rubbed it in her hands, of the feathery touch of sage, the tang of mint when she plucked a stalk and bit deeply.

Alys shook her head, still staring at the tester and the bed curtains, but seeing the little girl with the fair hair who longed for peace and plenty and who had loved the Mother Abbess who had given her both.

'No,' she said finally. 'No, I wouldn't. I wouldn't go with her, not even if she went to another abbey. That was the life of my girlhood, just as Morach was the life of my childhood. I will not go backwards to those old places. I am finished with them both. I wish they were both dead and gone.'

The door opened without knocking and Hugo came in.

'Resting like a lady, Alys?' he slurred, holding the door for support. He had stayed in the great hall after Alys and his father had left. The musicians had played on and on, the jugs of wine had gone around. The serving-wenches had come out from the kitchen and danced wildly. Hugo and the soldiers had drunk deep, shouting at the women, snatching one out of the circle and pulling her about. While Alys and the old lord had been working, writing and planning for the future, Hugo had been playing in the hall. There was no work for Hugo. He was an idle child.

Alys raised herself on one hand. 'Your father ordered me to rest,' she said carefully.

Hugo levered himself from the doorway, shut the door, and came sideways into the room, his feet hastening to keep up with him.

'Oh yes,' he said nastily. 'You're his great favourite now, Alys, aren't you?'

Alys said nothing, measuring Hugo's drunkenness, judging his dampened-down anger.

'God knows why!' he exclaimed. 'Your damned country wise woman meddling lost me my child! Lost him his grandson! If we'd had a physician, a proper man who had studied and read these things, from York or from London, Catherine would still be carrying that child now! And I would get my money in the autumn, and have an heir to follow me.'

Alys shook her head. 'The baby was sick,' she said. 'It would never have gone full term whoever you had waiting for the birth.'

Hugo's dark eyes blazed at her. 'Wise woman nonsense,' he said roundly. 'You swore to me he was healthy. You swore to me it was a healthy boy. You are a liar and a cheat. And all the words you say to me are lies and cheats.'

Alys shook her head, but said nothing, watching his anger rise and curdle to malice. 'Get your gown off,' Hugo suddenly said. Alys hesitated.

'You heard me,' Hugo snapped. 'Get your gown off. My gown, remember? The one that brought your tally of gowns up to Catherine's dozen. The one you begged for like a whore.'

Alys stood up and unfastened the gown, slipped it off, hung it carefully over the foot of the bed, opened the cold linen sheets and slid into bed, watching Hugo all the time.

Hugo undid his codpiece, untied his knitted hose, dragged them down. 'Here,' he said. 'Was it our romp that made Catherine lose the baby?'

Alys shook her head. 'No,' she said, hiding her apprehension of Hugo's temper. His sexuality, which had been in the palm of her hand, had escaped her. He had looked at the girl in the hayfield and desired her. He had taken Alys without her consent, and revelled in having her and Catherine at once, as if they were two of a kind: two slavish women. He had humbled Alys as if she were nothing more than his whore – a toy for Catherine. He had freed himself from Alys' dominance and now he could use her as he wished.

He clambered on the bed and kneeled over Alys. His breath was thick with wine and onions from dinner. He kissed her, kneading her breasts roughly with his hands. Alys felt her muscles tensing and the warm dampness between her legs drying and cooling.

'I took you like a whore then,' he said.

Alys closed her eyes and put her arms around his neck in a loveless charade of desire.

'You loved it,' Hugo said. 'All women are whores at heart. You, Catherine, the yellow-haired girl at haymaking. All whores.'

'I am not,' Alys asserted. 'I am carrying your child, I am the only woman who can carry your child. And I can enchant you, Hugo. Have you forgotten how you feel when my sisters come to me?'

Hugo shook his head. 'It's a wife I need, not a scheming witch,' he said angrily. 'It's a legitimate son I need, not a bastard child from a woman with no name, with no family. I don't know how to command my life any more. I look at Catherine and think how mad she is for me, and I look at you and think how mad I was for you. And it's all worthless. It's a mess. All the things I need escape me. All the things I truly want are forbidden me. All I can do is play mad games with you, and get a son on you who will be of no good to anyone, and serve nothing but my private pride.'

'You could command your life,' Alys said cautiously. Hugo was soft with drink, irritable. Alys felt him thrust against her ineffectually. His hand went down and he fumbled against Alys' cold refusing dryness.

'If Catherine were gone,' Alys said quickly, 'and I had a son, your son, and instead of thinking of me as a whore and trying to reduce me to your whore, you saw me as I am – a woman of great power. I need no family behind me, no name. I need bring no fortune with me. My skills and my power are all the dowry any man would desire. We could be married -just as I dreamed. And your house, your new and lovely house, would be our house, and our son's house. And we could live in the new way, as you wished, together.' 'And have more sons,' Hugo said with drunken enthusiasm. He thrust once more at her. Alys felt him, flabby and damp, against the tightly closed muscles of her body. She could smell him, the thick, clotted smell of his linen. Her teeth gritted with distaste.

'Yes, we could have more sons,' she said. 'You would be the sire of a line. Legitimate sons.'

'More sons than my father had! More sons than my grandfather had!' Hugo babbled. 'I am sick of what they are saying about me – that I cannot father a child. We'll marry and move to the new house and have a hundred sons.'

'Marry?' Alys asked softly, ready to spring a trap of a verbal betrothal on Hugo. A promise of marriage was the most binding promise of all, an honourable man could not withdraw. 'Do you ask me to marry you?'

'Hundreds of sons!' Hugo said, with a sudden swing to drunken cheeriness. 'Hundreds of them.'

'Shall we marry?' Alys whispered insidiously. 'Marry and have legitimate sons. Do you want to marry me, Hugo?'

For a moment she thought he would answer her, and she would have his word of honour and a chance to blackmail him with his own meticulous code. But he gave a sigh and pitched forward on his face, buried his way into the pillows and started snoring.

Alys slithered out from underneath him, threw a rug around her bare shoulders and pulled over a chair to the hearth. She watched the flames. 'Odin,' she said, thinking of the blank runes. 'Death of the old way and the birth of the new. The old lives have to die. The old precious loves have to make way. There has to be a death.'

A log shifted and flamed, its yellow light flickering into Alys' face making her look entranced, witchy. 'Death of the old ways,' she said again. 'There has to be a death.'

She sat in silence for a moment.

'A death,' she said softly. 'Not my death, not Hugo's, not the old lord's. But there has to be a death. The old loyalties must be changed. The old loves must die.'

She said nothing more for a long while but watched the flames in silence. Alys knew that the runes were foretelling a death – she hoped to buy them off with a symbolic death of her old love and her old loyalty. But in her most secret heart Alys knew that the runes would want blood.

'Not my blood,' she said softly.

When Hugo woke he was clear-headed and anxious to be off hunting. Alys helped him on with his doublet, patted the thick padded back and shoulders and pulled the rich silk lining through the slashings on the sleeves and chest. Even with the shadows under his eyes from the drink and the dark haze on his chin, Hugo looked very fine. Alys did not correct him when he assumed that he had made love to her. She walked with him to the door of the ladies' gallery and watched him run lightly down the stairs, then she nodded to Eliza sitting at the fire.

'Bring me Catherine's writing desk,' she said and took a stool with them. Mistress Allingham was sewing the long tapestry they had been working ever since Alys came to the castle. Catherine's mother and her women had started it, Catherine and her ladies had worked it. Alys fancied that she and her women would be working it long after Catherine had left the castle in disgrace. It was only a quarter completed. Idly Alys pulled out the folds and looked at the intricate bright colours of the design. 'Where are Ruth and Margery?' she asked. 'Gone out to the garden,' Mistress Allingham replied. 'Lady Catherine is sleeping, but she was asking for you after dinner.'

Alys shrugged. 'I was with Lord Hugh,' she said. 'Catherine cannot have me at her beck and call.'

Mistress Allingham raised her thin eyebrows but said nothing.

Eliza brought Catherine's ivory writing desk. A quill stood ready in the matching pot of ink, there were smooth sheets of paper and a short candle for the sealing wax, with some scraps of ribbon. Alys took it on to her lap with satisfaction, touched everything, smoothed the paper, brushed her fingertip against the feathers of the quill.

She took up the pen and wrote. ‘I am sending these things to you by messenger because I cannot come today as I intended. Lady Catherine at the castle is ill and I am commanded to care for her. For your safety and my own I will not endanger us nor bring us to their attention by insisting otherwise. I will come as soon as I can. Say nothing to the messenger. Send me no reply. I will come as soon as I can.

When she had finished writing she folded the paper three times and dripped sealing-wax in three puddles along the join, pressing the little seal into each one. The seal was a miniature version of Hugo's family crest, used by the ladies of his family for generations. Alys carefully drew an elegant 'A' underneath each seal and then let it dry.’

'What are you writing?' Eliza asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.

'There is a new wise woman come to Morach's old cottage,' Alys said. ‘I don't know who she is or where she comes from. But I am sending her some things. When my own time comes I shall need a wise woman to deliver my child. If she is skilled and good-natured I shall summon her.'

The one at Richmond has a fine reputation for childbirth,' Mistress Allingham offered.

Alys nodded. Then I will send a gift to her too,' she said. 'It is well to be prepared.’

'It couldn't happen to you, could it?' Eliza nodded towards Catherine's door where Catherine lay asleep in bed, tears sliding out from under her closed eyelids, her sheets soaked with white, creamy slurry. Alys shook her head.

'They are saying that it is a weakness in Hugo,' Eliza volunteered. 'That he cannot get a woman with child and that if he does the child does not take.'

Mistress Allingham pursed her lips. 'This miscarriage is like none I have ever seen before,' she said. 'Lady Catherine does not bleed.'

Alys lowered her voice to match theirs. 'There is a corruption in her humours,' she said. 'Remember how the child was conceived. She is always too hot or too cold. I did what I could to bring her into balance but the child was conceived in heat and dryness and lost in damp and coldness. I can make Catherine well, but I cannot change her nature. No one can make her fertile. No one can make her clean.'

'Then he'll put her aside,' Eliza hissed, her face alert. Alys nodded and put a finger across her lips. The two women exchanged one bright look. 'And you carrying his child!' Eliza noted. Alys smiled at her and got to her feet, shaking out the folds of the bright green gown. 'And you said I was falling,' she reminded Eliza. 'You were taunting me with falling low. You called me a whore.'

Eliza flushed red. 'I beg your pardon,' she said. 'I spoke wrongly to you, Alys… Mistress Alys. I spoke too freely, and I was mistaken.'

Alys nodded. She went to her chamber and took the old dark blue gown from her chest, the gown the old lord had given her from the leavings of his whore Meg. Alys shook out the folds. It would drape around Mother Hildebrande – she had grown so slight and stooped. But it was made of good thick wool and would keep her warm, even in that damp cottage. Alys folded it up and went downstairs through the deserted great hall, to the kitchen.

The place was quiet. The cooks and servers had slipped out to Castleton, to lie in the fields by the river, to visit friends, to carouse with the off-duty soldiers. The kitchen-lad was there, dozing by the spit he turned all day. There was a big cooked haunch of beef on the spit, left from dinner.

'Wake up,' Alys said peremptorily. He was on his feet in a second, rubbing his eyes with one grimy hand. When he saw Alys he shrank back.

Alys smiled at him. 'I am sending some food to a wise woman on the moors, and a gown,' she said. 'You may take it for me. You may ride my mare out.' The lad blinked.

'Put together a basket of everything you can find which is good to eat,' Alys said. 'A big cut off that joint, bread, fruit, some sweetmeats and a pitcher of wine.' The lad hesitated.

'Go on,' Alys said. ‘I will tell the cook I ordered it.' He nodded and went to one of the beams where a dozen baskets were hanging. He lifted one down and went to a larder set against the cool outside wall of the castle.

Alys looked around her. The floor was strewn with herbs. Dried and old, they had not been changed for months. Some hens and a cockerel pecked around on the floor, their white and moss-coloured droppings marked the stone slabs. The fire on the other side of the room smouldered around a great trunk of pine. It would be stoked up for supper and then banked in overnight. One side of the kitchen wall was a block of stone with half a dozen hollowed sinks for burning charcoal to scald sauces and heat little pans. Everything around it was covered with a light coating of black dust.

There were no locks on the cupboards. Every storeroom was open, the flesh room, the fish room, the confectionery room. Even the ale cellar was open. Alys thought of Hugo's plan to move to his new house and cast off the free-living retainers, and saw something of the savings he would make.

'Get a jug of wine with a stopper,' she said. 'The best wine.'

The lad came out of the larder, the basket filled with food: half a round cheese, two loaves of bread, a cut of the meat, a bowl of early cherries, a thick slice of ham, a pot of almond paste with currants. 'There's a pot of bucknade,' he offered. It was one of Mother Hildebrande's favourite dishes but she would not eat meat on a saint's day or a holy day. Alys could not remember the church calendar which had once been so familiar to her.

'No,' she said. 'Is there any blanche mange?' Blanche mange was mashed chicken or rabbit, sweetened with honey and served with a pinch of sandalwood to make it pink. Mother Hildebrande would eat white meat on a fast day if they could get no fish. The lad nodded and went to the larder, filled a pewter bowl and came back into the main kitchen tying a coarse linen napkin over the mouth of the bowl.

He put the basket on the table and then went to the wine cellar for the wine. It was stored in huge casks, chocks hammered in underneath one end so the wine flowed downwards to the tap. Alys could hear the wine pouring into the jug, then the lad came back into the roasting kitchen, pushing the stopper home and wiping the jug on his smock. Alys took it from him, folded the gown around it to keep it safe in the basket and then led the way to the stables.

The simple lad was there, sprawled on a hay bale in the sunshine, picking his teeth with a straw.

'Put a saddle on my mare,' Alys said to him. This boy is doing an errand for me.'

He jumped to his feet and nodded, grinning and laughing at her.

'And see him through the gate,' Alys said. 'He is carrying those goods on my orders.'

She handed the letter to the spit-boy. 'Give this to the old woman,' she said. 'She will not harm you.' She paused for a moment, waited for him to feel her power. 'You may not speak with her,' she said slowly, impressively. 'If she speaks to you say nothing. Just shake your head. She will think you are mute. You may not say one word to her.'

The boy nodded. 'Not one word,' Alys said slowly, softly. 'And do not wander on the way or eat the food. I shall know if you deliver less than you set out with. I shall know if you have disobeyed me and spoken with her.' He shook his head and gulped nervously. 'Do you know where the wise woman of Bowes Moor lives?' Alys asked. 'The cottage by the river, before you come to the stone bridge?' The lad nodded.

'Take these goods there,' Alys said. She drew the letter out and tucked it down the side of the basket so it was completely hidden. 'This letter too. Don't show it to anyone and don't lose it. I shall know if you do.'

The lad nodded again.

Alys smiled at him. 'When you return this afternoon I shall give you a sixpence,' she said.

The boy looked at her.

'Yes?' Alys asked.

'Could I have instead a scrap of ribbon of yours?' he asked. 'Or something you don't need. An old kerchief?'

'Why?' Alys asked.

He dropped his gaze to the floor. 'To ward off beatings,' he said. 'In the kitchen they say that you have the power to get anything you want. That you can do anything you like. I thought if I had a relic of yours…'

Alys shook her head. 'I am just an ordinary woman,' she said. 'A healer with special skills, holy skills. Nothing of mine is a talisman. I am just a healer with holy powers. I do nothing for my own ends.'

The lads exchanged one secret, disbelieving look. Alys chose to ignore it.

'Be as quick as you can,' she said, walking from the stable yard. 'And send word to me when you are safe back.'