Epic Historial Collection (179 page)

“Oh—Merthin's brother!” Caris said. “Was he hurt?”

“I broke his nose.” Wulfric looked proud.

“Weren't you punished?”

“A night in the stocks.”

Gwenda gave a little cry of anguish. “Poor you!”

“It wasn't so bad. My brother made sure no one pelted me.”

“Even so…” Gwenda was horrified. The idea of being imprisoned in any way seemed to her the worst kind of torture.

Annet finished with a customer and joined in the conversation. “Oh, it's you, Gwenda,” she said coldly. Wulfric might be oblivious to Gwenda's feelings, but Annet was not, and she treated Gwenda with a mixture of hostility and scorn. “Wulfric fought a squire who insulted me,” she said, unable to conceal her satisfaction. “He was just like a knight in a ballad.”

Gwenda said sharply: “I wouldn't want him to get his face hurt for my sake.”

“Fortunately, that's not very likely, is it?” Annet smiled triumphantly.

Caris said: “One never knows what the future may hold.”

Annet looked at her, startled by the interruption, and showed surprise that Gwenda's companion was so expensively dressed.

Caris took Gwenda's arm. “Such a pleasure to meet you Wigleigh folk,” she said graciously. “Good-bye.”

They walked on. Gwenda giggled. “You were terribly condescending to Annet.”

“She annoyed me. Her kind give women a bad name.”

“She was so pleased that Wulfric got beaten up for her sake! I'd like to poke out her eyes.”

Caris said thoughtfully: “Apart from his good looks, what is he actually like?”

“Strong, proud, loyal—just the type to get into a fight on someone else's behalf. But he's the kind of man who will provide tirelessly for his family, year in and year out, until the day he drops dead.”

Caris said nothing.

Gwenda said: “He doesn't appeal to you, does he?”

“You make him sound a bit dull.”

“If you'd grown up with my father, you wouldn't think a good provider was dull.”

“I know.” Caris squeezed Gwenda's arm. “I think he's wonderful for you—and, to prove it, I'm going to help you get him.”

Gwenda was not expecting that. “How?”

“Come with me.”

They left the fairground and walked to the north end of the town. Caris led Gwenda to a small house in a side street near St. Mark's parish church. “A wise woman lives here,” she said. Leaving the dogs outside, they ducked through a low doorway.

The single, narrow downstairs room was divided by a curtain. In the front half were a chair and a bench. The fireplace had to be at the back, Gwenda thought, and she wondered why someone would want to hide whatever went on in the kitchen. The room was clean, and there was a strong smell, herby and slightly acid, hardly a perfume but not unpleasant. Caris called out: “Mattie, it's me.”

After a moment, a woman of about forty pulled aside the curtain and came through. She had gray hair and pale indoor skin. She smiled when she saw Caris. Then she gave Gwenda a hard look and said: “I see your friend is in love—but the boy hardly speaks to her.”

Gwenda gasped: “How did you know?”

Mattie sat on the chair heavily: she was stout, and short of breath. “People come here for three reasons: sickness, revenge, and love. You look healthy, and you're too young for revenge, so you must be in love. And the boy must be indifferent to you, otherwise you wouldn't need my help.”

Gwenda glanced at Caris, who looked pleased and said: “I told you she was wise.” The two girls sat on the bench and looked expectantly at the woman.

Mattie went on: “He lives close to you, probably in the same village; but his family are wealthier than yours.”

“All true.” Gwenda was amazed. No doubt Mattie was guessing, but she was so accurate it seemed as if she must have second sight.

“Is he handsome?”

“Very.”

“But he's in love with the prettiest girl in the village.”

“If you like that type.”

“And her family, too, is wealthier than yours.”

“Yes.”

Mattie nodded. “A familiar story. I can help you. But you must understand something. I have nothing to do with the spirit world. Only God can work miracles.”

Gwenda was puzzled. Everyone knew that the spirits of the dead controlled all of life's hazards. If they were pleased with you, they would guide rabbits to your traps, give you healthy babies, and make the sun shine on your ripening corn. But if you did something to anger them, they could put worms in your apples, cause your cow to give birth to a deformed calf, and make your husband impotent. Even the physicians at the priory admitted that prayers to the saints were more efficacious than their medicines.

Mattie went on: “Don't despair. I can sell you a love potion.”

“I'm sorry, I have no money.”

“I know. But your friend Caris is extraordinarily fond of you, and she wants you to be happy. She came here prepared to pay for the potion. However, you must administer it correctly. Can you get the boy alone for an hour?”

“I'll find a way.”

“Put the potion in his drink. Within a short time he will become amorous. That's when you must be alone with him—if there is another girl in sight he may fall for her instead. So keep him away from other women, and be very sweet to him. He will think you the most desirable woman in the world. Kiss him, tell him he's wonderful, and—if you want—make love to him. After a while, he will sleep. When he wakes up, he will remember that he spent the happiest hour of his life in your arms, and he'll want to do it again as soon as he can.”

“But won't I need another dose?”

“No. The second time, your love and desire and femininity will be enough. A woman can make any man blissfully happy if he gives her the chance.”

The very thought made Gwenda feel lustful. “I can't wait.”

“Then let's make up the mixture.” Mattie heaved herself out of the chair. “You can come behind the curtain,” she said. Gwenda and Caris followed her. “It's only there for the ignorant.”

The kitchen had a clean stone floor and a big fireplace equipped with stands and hooks for cooking and boiling, far more than one woman would need for her own food. There was a heavy old table, stained and scorched but scrubbed clean; a shelf with a row of pottery jars; and a locked cupboard, presumably containing the more precious ingredients used in Mattie's potions. Hanging on the wall was a large slate with numbers and letters scratched on it, presumably recipes. “Why do you need to hide all this behind a curtain?” Gwenda said.

“A man who makes ointments and medicines is called an apothecary, but a woman who does the same runs the risk of being called a witch. There's a woman in town called Crazy Nell who goes around shouting about the devil. Friar Murdo has accused her of heresy. Nell is mad, it's true, but there's no harm in her. All the same, Murdo is insisting on a trial. Men like to kill a woman, every now and again, and Murdo will give them an excuse, and collect their pennies afterwards as alms. That's why I always tell people that only God works miracles. I don't conjure spirits. I just use the herbs of the forest and my powers of observation.”

While Mattie talked, Caris was moving about the kitchen as freely as if she were at home. She put a mixing bowl and a vial on the table. Mattie handed her a key, and she opened the cupboard. “Put three drops of essence of poppies into a spoonful of distilled wine,” Mattie said. “We must be careful not to make the mixture over-strong, or he will go to sleep too soon.”

Gwenda was astonished. “Are
you
going to make the potion, Caris?”

“I sometimes help Mattie. Don't say anything to Petranilla; she would disapprove.”

“I wouldn't tell her if her hair was on fire.” Caris's aunt disliked Gwenda, probably for the same reason she would disapprove of Mattie: they were both low-class, and such things mattered to Petranilla.

But why was Caris, the daughter of a wealthy man, working like an apprentice in the kitchen of a side-street medicine woman? While Caris made up the mixture, Gwenda recalled that her friend had always been intrigued by illness and cures. As a little girl, Caris had wanted to be a physician, not understanding that only priests were allowed to study medicine. Gwenda remembered her saying, after her mother had died: “But
why
do people have to fall sick?” Mother Cecilia had told her it was because of sin; Edmund had said that no one really knew. Neither response had satisfied Caris. Perhaps she was still seeking the answer here in Mattie's kitchen.

Caris poured the liquid into a tiny jar, stoppered it, and bound the stopper tightly with cord, tying the ends in a knot. Then she handed the jar to Gwenda.

Gwenda tucked it into the leather purse attached to her belt. She wondered how on earth she was going to get Wulfric on his own for an hour. She had glibly said that she would find a way but, now that she had the love potion in her possession, the task seemed nearly impossible. He showed signs of restlessness if she merely spoke to him. He wanted to be with Annet any free time he had. What reason would Gwenda give for needing to be alone with him?
I want to show you a place where we can get wild duck eggs.
But why would she show him and not her father? Wulfric was a little naïve, but not stupid: he would know she was up to something.

Caris gave Mattie twelve silver pennies—two weeks' wages for Pa. Gwenda said: “Thank you, Caris. I hope you'll come to my wedding.”

Caris laughed. “That's what I like to see—confidence!”

They left Mattie and headed back to the fair. Gwenda decided to begin by finding out where Wulfric was staying. His family was too well off to claim poverty, so they could not stay free at the priory. They would probably be lodging in a tavern. She could just casually ask him, or his brother, and follow up with a question about the standard of accommodation, as if she were interested to know which of the town's many inns was the best.

A monk passed by, and Gwenda realized with a guilty start that she had not even thought about trying to see her brother, Philemon. Pa would not visit him, for they had hated one another for years; but Gwenda was fond of him. She knew that he was sly, untruthful, and malicious, but all the same he loved her. They had been through many hungry winters together. She would seek him out later, she resolved, after she had seen Wulfric again.

But before she and Caris reached the fairground, they met Gwenda's father.

Joby was near the priory gates, outside the Bell. With him was a rough-looking man in a yellow tunic, with a pack on his back—and a brown cow.

He waved Gwenda over. “I've found a cow,” he said.

Gwenda looked more closely. It was two years old, and thin, with a bad-tempered look, but it appeared healthy. “It seems fine,” she said.

“This is Sim Chapman,” he said, jerking a thumb at the yellow tunic. A chapman traveled from village to village selling small necessities—needles, buckles, hand mirrors, combs. He might have stolen the cow, but that would not bother Pa, if the price was right.

Gwenda said to her father: “Where did you get the money?”

“I'm not paying, exactly,” he replied, looking shifty.

Gwenda had expected him to have some scheme. “What, then?”

“It's more of a swap.”

“What are you giving him in exchange for the cow?”

“You,” said Pa.

“Don't be silly,” she said, and then she felt a loop of rope dropped over her head and tightened around her body, pinning her arms to her sides.

She felt bewildered. This could not be happening. She struggled to free herself, but Sim just pulled the rope tighter.

“Now, don't make a fuss,” Pa said.

She could not believe they were serious. “What do you think you're doing?” she said incredulously. “You can't sell me, you fool!”

“Sim needs a woman, and I need a cow,” Pa said. “It's very simple.”

Sim spoke for the first time. “She's ugly enough, your daughter.”

“This is ridiculous!” Gwenda said.

Sim smiled at her. “Don't worry, Gwenda,” he said. “I'll be good to you, as long as you behave yourself, and do as you're told.”

They meant it, Gwenda saw. They actually thought they could make this exchange. A cold needle of fear entered her heart as she realized it might even happen.

Caris spoke up. “This joke has gone on long enough,” she said in a loud, clear voice. “Release Gwenda immediately.”

Sim was not intimidated by her air of command. “And who are you, to give orders?”

“My father is alderman of the parish guild.”

“But you're not,” Sim said. “And even if you were, you'd have no authority over me or my friend Joby.”