The Wise Woman (7 page)

Morach laughed bitterly. The man outside hammered on the door again. “Come, wench!” he said. “Or I will smoke you out!”

“Take my lies and nonsense, and your own ignorance, and use it to save your skin,” Morach said. She had to push Alys toward the door. “Hex him!” she hissed as she got the girl over the threshold. “You have the power, I can feel it in you. You turned the flame blue with your thought. Take your powers and use them now, for your own sake! Hex the old lord into health, Alys, or you and I are dead women.”

Alys gave a little moan of terror and then the man on the horse leaned down and gripped her under both arms and hauled her up before him.

“Come!” he said to his companion, and they wheeled their horses around, the hooves tearing up the vegetable patch. Then they were gone into the darkness, and the wind whipped away the noise of the gallop.

Morach waited a while at the cottage doorway, ignoring the cold and the smoke from the doused fire swirling thickly behind her, listening to the silence now that Alys had gone.

“She has power,” she said to the night sky, watching the clouds unraveling past the half-moon. “She swore that she would go, and in that moment the horses came for her and she was gone. What will she wish for next? What will she wish for next?”

A
lys had never been on a galloping horse, and she clung to the pommel of the saddle before her, thrown and jolted by the beast’s great rolling strides. The wind rushed into her face and the hard grip of the man behind her was that of a jailer. When she looked down she could see the heaving shoulders of the great horse, when she looked forward she saw its tossing mane. They went over the little stone bridge from the moorland road to Castleton with sparks flying upward from the horses’ hooves, and clattered up the cobbled street between the dozen stone-built houses at the same breakneck speed. Not a light showed at any of the shuttered windows, even the smaller houses, set back from the main street on earth roads, and the little shanties behind them on waste ground were dark and silent.

Alys was so shaken that she had no breath to cry out, even when the horse wheeled around to the left and thundered up the drawbridge into the great black maw of the castle gateway. There was a brief challenge from two soldiers, invisible in the darkness of the doorway, and a gruff response from the rider, and then they were out into the moonlit castle grounds. Alys had a confused impression of a jumble of stables and farm buildings on her right, the round tower of the guardroom on her left, the smell of pigs, and then they crossed a second drawbridge over a deep stagnant moat, with the noise of the hooves rumbling like thunder on the wooden bridge, and plunged into the darkness of another gateway.

The horses halted as two more soldiers stepped forward with a quick word of challenge and stared at the riders and Alys, before waving them through into a garden. Alys could see vegetable-beds and herb-beds and the bare-branched outline of apple trees; but before them, squat and powerful against the night sky, was a long two-story building with a pair of great double doors set plumb in the center. Alys could hear the noise of many people shouting and laughing inside. The door opened and a man stepped out to urinate carelessly against the wall; bright torchlight spilled out into the yard and she could smell hot roasted meats. They rode the length of the building. Alys saw the glow of a bakehouse fire in a little round hive of a building set apart from the rest on their right, and then before them were two brooding towers, built with gray stones as thick as boulders, showing no lights.

“Where are we?” Alys gasped, clinging to the man’s hands as he thrust her down from the saddle.

He nodded to the tower which adjoined the long building. “Lord Hugh’s tower,” he said briefly. He looked over her head and shouted. An answering cry came from inside the tower and Alys heard a bolt sliding easily back.

“And what’s that tower?” she asked urgently. She pointed behind them to the opposing tower, smaller and more squat, set into the high exterior castle wall, with no windows at all at the base and a flight of stone steps running up the outside to the first story.

“Pray you never know!” the man said grimly. “That’s the prison tower. The first floor is the guardroom, and down below are the cells. They have the rack there, and thumbscrews, a press and bridle. Pray you never see them, wench! You come out more talkative—but taller! Much taller! Thinner! And sometimes toothless! Cheaper than the tooth drawer at any price!” He laughed harshly. “Here!” He called a soldier, who stepped out of the shadows. “Here is the wise woman from Bowes. Take her and her bundle to Lord Hugh at once. Let no one tamper with her. My lord’s orders!”

He thrust Alys toward the soldier and he grabbed her and marched her up the flight of stone steps to the arched doorway. The door, as thick as a tree trunk, stood open. Inside, a torch flickered, staining the wall behind it with a stripe of black soot. The castle breathed coldness, sweated damp. Alys drew her shawl over her rough-cropped head with a shudder. It was colder even than Morach’s drafty cottage. Here the castle walls held the wind out, but no sun ever shone. Alys crossed herself beneath her shawl. She had a premonition that she was walking toward mortal danger. The dark corridor before her—lit at the corners with smoking torches—was like her worst nightmares of the nunnery: a smell of smoke, a crackle of flames, a long, long corridor with no way out.

“Come,” the man said grimly and took Alys’s arm in a hard grip. She trailed behind him, up a staircase which circled round and around inside the body of the tower, until he said, “Here now,” and knocked, three short knocks and two long, on a massive wooden door. It swung open. Alys blinked. It was bright inside. Half a dozen men were lounging on benches at a long table, the remains of their supper spread before them, two big hunting dogs growling over bones in the corner. Alys could tell at a glance that they were gentlemen. The capes thrown over the chairs were fine wool, lined with silk. They were dressed for leisure in fine colored hose and puffed breeches tied with ribbons at the knee. Their long doublets were slashed to show the bright silken linings. They all wore little velvet caps decorated with feathers or jewels. The air was hot with rancid smoke and the smell of sweat.

“A wench!” said one. “That’s kindly of you!”

Alys shrank back behind the soldier who still held her. He shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “It’s the wise woman from Bowes, come to see my lord. Is he well?”

A young man at the far end of the room beckoned them through. “No better,” he said in an undertone. “He wants to see her at once.”

He pulled back a tapestry on the wall behind him and swung open a narrow arched door. The soldier released Alys and thrust her bundle into her hands. She hesitated.

“Go on,” the young man said.

She paused again. The soldier behind her put his hand in the small of her back and pushed her forward. Alys, caught off balance, stumbled into the room and past the watching men. Before her, through the door, was a flight of shallow stone steps lit by a single guttering torch. There was a small wooden door at the head of the flight of stairs. As she climbed up, it slowly opened.

The room was dark, lit only by firelight and one pale wax candle standing on a chest. Dark tapestries hung on every one of the curving walls of the tower room. Before the fire was one heavy carved wooden chair and a footstool beside it. Under the glazed window which overlooked the castle courtyard there was a small round table. In the corner were two wooden chests for clothes and a cupboard with a jug of wine and a glass, fine glass, Alys noted, alert even in her fear. Furthest from the door was a small high bed draped with richly embroidered hangings.

At the head of the bed stood a tiny man, no taller than a child. His dark eyes were on Alys, and his hand repeatedly smoothed the pillow.

On the pillow was a lean face engraved by sickness and suffering, the skin as yellow as birch leaves in autumn. But the eyes, when the heavy lids flew open and stared at Alys, were as bright and black as an old peregrine falcon’s.

“You the wise woman?” he asked.

“I have a very little skill,” Alys said. “And very little learning. You should send for someone learned, an apothecary or even a barber. You should have a physician.”

“They would cup me till I died,” the sick man said slowly. “They have cupped me till I am near dead already. Before I threw them out they said they could do no more. They left me for dead, girl! But I won’t die. I can’t die yet. My plans are not yet done. You can save me, can’t you?”

“I’ll try,” Alys said, pressing her lips on a denial. She turned to the fireplace and laid down Morach’s shawl. By the light of the fire she untied the knot and spread out the cloth and arranged the things. The little man came over and squatted down beside her. His head came no higher than her shoulder.

“Do you use the black arts, mistress?” he asked in a soft undertone.

“No!” Alys said instantly. “I have a very little skill with herbs—just what my mistress has taught me. You should have sent for her.”

The dwarf shook his head. “In all Bowes they speak of the new young wise woman who came from nowhere and lives with the old widow Morach by the river. He’ll have no truck with the black arts,” he said, nodding to the still figure in the bed.

Alys nodded. She straightened the black-bound prayer-book, put the herbs and the pestle and mortar to her right.

“What’s that?” the dwarf said, pointing to the stone and ribbon.

“It’s a crystal,” Alys said.

At once the little man crossed himself and bit the tip of his thumb. “To see into the future?” he demanded. “That’s black arts!”

“No,” Alys said. “To find the source of the illness. Like dowsing for water. Divining for water is not black arts, any child can do it.”

“Aye.” The man nodded, conceding the point. “Aye, that’s true.”

“Have done chattering!” came the sudden command from the bed. “Come and cure me, wise woman.”

Alys got to her feet, holding the frayed ribbon of the crystal between her finger and thumb so that it hung down like a pendulum. As she moved, the shawl covering her head slid back. The dwarf exclaimed at the stubble of her regrowing hair.

“What have you done to your head?” he demanded. Then his face grew suddenly sly. “Was it shaved, my pretty wench? Are you a runaway nun, fled from a fat abbey where the old women grow rich and talk treason?”

“No,” Alys said quickly. From the courtyard below the window a cock crowed briefly into the darkness and then settled to sleep again. “I was sick with a fever in Penrith and they shaved my head,” she said. “I am not a nun, I don’t know what you mean about treason. I am just a simple girl.”

The dwarf nodded with a disbelieving smile, then he skipped to his place at the head of the bed and stroked the pillow again.

Alys drew closer. “
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
,” she muttered under her breath. The stone on the ribbon swung of its own accord in a lazy clockwise arc. “This is God’s work,” Alys said. The stone swung a little wider, a little faster. Alys breathed a little easier. She had never used a pendulum at the abbey, the nuns frowned on it as a supernatural force. The stone was Morach’s. By blessing it Alys hoped to stay inside the misty border which separated God’s work from that of the devil. But with the old lord glaring at her, and the dwarf’s slight malicious smile, she felt in equal danger of burning for heresy as being taken as a witch and strangled.

She put her hand, which shook only slightly, on the old lord’s forehead.

“His sickness is here,” she said, as she had seen Morach do.

The dwarf hissed as the crystal broke its pattern of circular swing and moved instead back and forth.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

“The sickness is not in his head,” she replied softly.

“I didn’t see your fingers move the crystal?”

“Have done with your chatter,” the old lord flared at the dwarf. “Let the wench do her work.”

Alys drew back the rich rugs covering the old man. She saw at once how his skin shivered at the touch of the air, yet the room was warm. Tentatively she put the back of her hand against his withered cheek. He was burning up.

She moved her hand cautiously to rest on his flat belly. She whispered: “His sickness is here,” and at once she felt a change in the movement of the stone. It circled strongly, round and round, and Alys nodded at the lord with renewed confidence.

“You have taken a fever in your belly,” she said. “Have you eaten or fasted?”

“Eaten,” the old man said. “They force food on me and then they cup me of the goodness.”

Alys nodded. “You are to eat what you please,” she said. “Little things that tempt you. But you
must
drink spring water. As much as you can bear. Half a pint every half hour today and tomorrow. And it must be spring water, not from the well in the courtyard. And not from the well in town. Send someone to fetch you spring water from the moor.”

The old man nodded. “When you are cold, cover yourself up and order more rugs,” Alys said. “And when you are hot have them taken off you. You need to be as you please, and then your fever will break.”

She turned away from the bedside to her shawl spread before the fire. She hesitated a moment at the twists of burned fennel and then she shrugged. She did not think they would do any good, but equally they did no harm.

“Take one of these, before you sleep every night,” she said. “Have you vomited much?”

He nodded.

“When you feel about to vomit then you must order your window opened.” There was a muted gasp of horror from the little man at the head of the bed. “And read the writing aloud.”

“The night air is dangerous,” the dwarf said firmly. “And what is the writing? Is it a spell?”

“The air will stop him being sick,” Alys said calmly, as if she were certain of what she was doing. “And it is not a spell, it is a prayer.”

The man in the bed chuckled weakly. “You are a philosopher, wench!” he said. “Not a spell but a prayer! You can be hanged for one thing as well as the other in these days.”