The Wise Woman (22 page)

Furthest away from them all was the young Lord Hugo. He was sprawled in a chair with his riding boots thrust out before him, his hands dug deep into the pockets of his breeches, his face dark and sullen under his cap. He met Alys’s swift glance with an angry glare which was full of warning.

Alys was silently alert to her danger. She looked back to the old lord again and scanned his face. He was sallow and his hands resting on the carved arm of his chair were trembling.

“There’s a grave accusation laid against you, Alys,” he said. “The gravest accusation a Christian can face.”

Alys met his gaze squarely.

“What is it, my lord?” she asked.

“Witchcraft,” he said.

Lady Catherine gave a little irrepressible sigh, like a woman at the height of pleasure. Alys did not look at her, but her color ebbed, her face paled.

“It is said that you have foretold my death,” the old lord said. “That you have said that you will be the lady of the castle and bear Lord Hugo a son and heir. It is said that you have foretold that all this will happen in just two years from now.”

Alys shook her head. “It is not true, my lord,” she said confidently.

Hugo leaned forward. “Was it a dream, Alys?” he prompted. “D’you remember nothing?”

Alys glanced in his direction, and then turned back to the old lord. “I did not say it,” she said.

The old lord glanced toward Father Stephen. “It is possible that the girl was in a trance and is now speaking the truth as she can recall it,” the priest said fairly. “If she were a true seer she might do that. I have heard of some very saintly prophets who have foretold the future without knowing what words they were saying. There are records in the gospel, the speaking in tongues and other miracles. But also it can be a trap from the devil.”

“D’you have the Sight, Alys?” the old lord asked.

“Hardly,” she said tartly. When they stared at her in surprise she said sharply: “If I had the Sight, my lord, I would not stand here accused of witchcraft by Lady Catherine who has hated me since the day she first saw me. If I had the Sight I would have been well away from the castle before this day. Indeed, if I had the Sight I would not have been helpless at Morach’s cottage when your men came for me and took me against my will.”

The old lord chuckled unwillingly. “Then what of these words of yours, these predictions, Alys?” he asked.

Alys, sweating under the dark blue gown, laughed. “A dream, my lord,” she said. “A foolish dream. I should have known better than to dream it, and better than to speak it. But I was drunk and very full of desire.”

Hugo, leaning forward, saw the sheen of sweat on her pale forehead. “You were pretending?” he asked.

She turned and looked straight into his face, her blue eyes as honest as a child’s. “Of course, my lord,” she said. “D’you think I don’t know that you take women and use them and cast them aside? I wanted you to desire me, and I wanted you to cleave to me, and I wanted you to think me more than an ordinary wench. So I pretended to have the Sight and I promised you all that your heart desires. I meant only to trick you into being constant with me.”

Hugo’s eyes narrowed. “You have wanted me all along?” he asked.

Alys faced him squarely. “Oh yes,” she said. “I thought you knew.”

He heard the lie as loud and as clear as plainsong. But he nodded. “That explains it then,” he said. “Wenches’ tricks and silly games.” He got to his feet and stretched. His head brushed the carved and painted beams. “Have you done, sire?” he asked his father. “The wench was laying snares to trap me”—he grinned ruefully—“I was caught well enough.”

He turned to Lady Catherine. “I owe you an apology, madam, I have been cunt-struck—and not for the first time. When we are alone together I will make you handsome amends.” He gave a low seductive laugh. “I shall treat you as you command me,” he said.

Catherine’s hand went to the base of her throat as if to hold her pulse steady. “It’s not over yet,” she said.

The old lord was settling back in his chair, hooking a footstool into place with one foot. “Why not?” he asked. “The wench has pleaded guilty to lying and explained her prophecy is a false one. We can see well enough why she should lie. That castle’s a big enough place, Catherine, I’ll keep her out of your way. You can sleep easy in your bed with Hugo restored to you. The wench is a liar and a strumpet.” He shot a little smile at Alys. “Nothing worse.”

“She should take the ordeal,” Lady Catherine said. “That was what we all agreed. She should take the ordeal.”

Alys took a half-breath of fear before she could stop herself. Lady Catherine beamed at her. The color was draining from the girl’s face, she looked ready to faint.

“We are agreed that you should take an ordeal for witchcraft,” Lady Catherine said silkily. “If you are indeed guilty of nothing worse than a bungled seduction then you will have nothing at all to fear.”

Hugo put out a commanding hand to Catherine and she moved reluctantly from the shelter of the old lord’s chair to stand beside her husband. He slid his hand around her waist and looked down into her plain, strained face.

“Come, my lady, have done,” he said. His voice was low. Catherine swayed toward him like an ash tree in a breeze. “Let us go to your chamber and leave Alys to her clerk duties. I am cured well enough of my lust for her, and if the son by Alys in her prediction was a lie and a bait, then perhaps I shall get a son on you.”

He turned toward the door with his arm still around her waist and she, half drugged with her ready desire, went with him.

It was done. It was nearly done.

Alys froze, afraid to move, conspiring not to break Hugo’s spell, willing herself to be invisible. The priest was silent, looking from Catherine to Hugo, and back to Alys’s wary stillness, letting them settle it as they chose. Lord Hugh was weary of it all, satisfied with the outcome. It was done.

“No!” Lady Catherine cried with sudden energy. She broke out of Hugo’s encircling arm back to the old lord. “If she is innocent then she need not fear the ordeal. We have to test her before we can leave your health in her care, my lord. That is what we agreed to do. That is what we should do. And I will not leave this room until it is done!”

“Catherine!” Hugo said commandingly. “You are my wife, I
order
you to leave this matter alone. It is settled to all our satisfaction.”

“Not to mine!” She rounded on him, panting. “Not to my satisfaction! Not to my satisfaction! You would lead me out of the room like a bleating lamb, my lord. And I know why! It is to spare her the ordeal! Confess it! You do not want me! You have never wanted me! It is to spare your harlot the task of showing she is not a witch! And why?” Her voice grew louder, more shrill. “Because you are bewitched into shielding her. Shielding her from the rightful anger of your father and you are ready to risk his life, and my life, so that you can have her!”

She dropped on her knees before the old lord. “Test her!” she demanded, like a woman begging for a lifetime’s gift. “Test the witch!
Make
her take the ordeal.”

The old lord looked at Hugo. “Tell me the truth,” he said gruffly. “Are you shielding her from this? If there’s any chance she is a witch you should speak, Hugo. We none of us can dare to play with the devil’s arts. Not even for love of a maid.”

Hugo gave a ragged, strained laugh. “There’s no chance,” he said carelessly. “No chance at all. But we shall do whatever you wish, my lord, whatever you wish. I would have thought that we have wasted too long on this matter already. I would have thought you were weary of it. I do not fear the little slut, I see no reason to prolong this more.” He laughed more easily. “Let’s have done and away to our suppers.”

The old lord narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said gently. “She can take the ordeal. There’s no harm done if she is innocent, and I am not sure of you, Hugo. I am not sure of you in this matter.” He turned toward Alys; her face was greenish white. “Alys, you are to take an oath,” he said. “Do as Father Stephen commands.”

Alys shuddered, a tiny movement which betrayed her deep fear. “Very well,” she said, her voice level.

The priest stepped forward, held out the Bible. “Put your left hand on the Sacred Book,” he said. “Raise your right hand and say, ‘I, Alys of Bowes Moor, do solemnly swear and attest that I am not a witch.’”

“I, Alys, of Bowes Moor, do solemnly swear and attest that I am not a witch,” Alys said evenly.

A log fell in the grate sending a shower of sparks upward. The room was so silent that they all flinched a little at the noise.

“I have never used the black arts,” the priest intoned.

“I have never used the black arts,” Alys repeated.

“I have had no truck with the devil.”

“I have had no truck with the devil.”

“I have never looked on his face, nor the faces of his servants.”

“I have never looked on his face, nor the faces of his servants,” Alys repeated. The rhythm of the vows was pressing down on her. She could feel her gown wet under her arms, she could feel a cold sweat down her spine. She fought to keep her face serene. She was sick with fear.

“I have not lain with the devil, nor with any of his servants, nor with any of his animals.”

“I have not lain with the devil, nor with any of his servants, nor with any of his animals,” Alys said. Her throat was tight with fear, her mouth dry. She licked her lips but her tongue itself was dry.

“I have not given suck to the devil, nor to any of his servants, nor to any of his animals.”

“I have not given suck to the devil, nor to any of his servants, nor to any of his animals,” Alys repeated.

“I have made no waxen image, nor cast a spell. I have summoned no ghosts, nor witches, nor warlocks, nor any of the black company.”

“I have made no waxen images, nor cast a spell. I have summoned no ghosts, nor witches, nor warlocks, nor any of the black company.” Alys’s voice shook slightly but she had it under control again.

In the utter silence of the little room she could hear her heart beating so loud that she thought they would all hear it and know her fear. The candle-wax moppets were so bright in her mind’s eye that she thought anyone looking into her face would be able to see them. The fingertip which had drawn the pentangle tingled and stung. There was a tiny scrap of flour beneath her nail.

“And to prove my purity from these devilish skills,” the priest started.

“And to prove my purity from these devilish skills,” Alys repeated. She tried to cough to clear her throat but it was too tight.

“I take this sanctified bread, the body of our Lord Jesus Christ,” the priest said.

Alys stared at him in blank horror. “Repeat it,” he said, his eyes suddenly sharp with suspicion.

“I take this sanctified bread, the body of our Lord Jesus Christ,” Alys said. She could hold herself no tighter, her voice was a thin thread of fear. Lady Catherine’s nostrils flared as if she could scent Alys’s terror.

The priest lifted the silver salver and took the linen cloth from it. In the center of the gleaming plate was a large white wafer with a cross marked on it.

“I take the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, and eat,” the priest said.

“I take the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, and eat,” Alys said breathlessly. She eyed the thick wafer and knew she would not be able to swallow it. Her throat was too tight, her mouth was dry. She would gag on it, and then they would have her.

“And if I am perjured, if I am indeed a witch, then may it choke me; and may those that here witness do what they will with me, for I am damned,” the priest dictated urgently.

The very words stuck in Alys’s throat. She opened her mouth but no sound came, she tried to clear her throat but the only noise she made was a harsh croaking sound.

“She’s choking!” Lady Catherine said eagerly. “She’s choking on the oath!”

“Say it, Alys,” said the old lord, leaning forward.

“And if I am perjured, if I am indeed a witch”—Alys’s voice was harsh, her throat rasping—“then may it choke me; and may those that here witness do what they will with me, for I am damned.”

“This is the body of our Lord Jesus Christ,” the priest said, and took the bread from the plate and held it toward Alys’s face. “Eat.”

She swayed as she stood, as her knees softened and her terrified blue-black eyes went out of focus. The nausea from last night’s wine rose up in her throat tasting like bile. She swallowed it down so that she should not retch and found her throat would not respond. The bile was coming up, upward. She put her hand to her face and found she was wet with icy sweat. She knew she would vomit if she so much as opened her mouth.

“Eat, wench,” the old lord said with gruff urgency. “I don’t like this delay.”

Alys gulped again. The sickness was unstoppable, her belly was in a spasm of fear, her throat tight with her terror, it was rising up and up, it would spew out the moment she opened her lips.

“She cannot!” Lady Catherine breathed in triumph. “She dare not!”

Goaded, Alys opened her mouth. The priest crammed the wafer in, the thick handful of papery mush half suffocated her, half choked her. She could feel her lungs heaving for air, she knew she must cough, she knew when she coughed she would spew it all out, bile, vomit, and wafer; and then she would be lost.

Alys squared her shoulders and closed her eyes. She was not going to die. Not now. Not at these hands. She chewed determinedly. She thrust a gob of the dry mush toward the back of her throat and forced it down. She chewed some more. She swallowed. She chewed some more. She swallowed. Then she gave one last convulsive gulp and the task was done.

“Open your mouth,” the priest said.

She opened her mouth to him.

“She swallowed it,” he said. “She has passed the ordeal. She is no witch!”

Alys swayed and would have fallen, but the young lord was at once behind her. He took her by her waist and guided her back to his chair. He poured her a glass of ale from the jug and glanced at the priest.

“I take it she may drink now?” he asked acidly.

When the young man nodded he gave her the glass. For a moment his warm fingers touched her frozen ones, like a secret message of reassurance.