The Wise Woman Page 4

  With the cold weather came sickness. Every day another person came to tap on Morach's door and ask her or Alys for a spell or a draught or a favour to keep away the flux or chills or fevers. There were four child-births in Bowes and Alys went with Morach and dragged bloody, undersized babies screaming into the world.

  'You have the hands for it,' Morach said, looking at Alys' slim long fingers. 'And you practised on half a dozen paupers' babies at that nunnery of yours. You can do all the childbirths. You have the skills and I'm getting too old to go out at midnight.'

  Alys looked at her with silent hatred. Childbirth was the most dangerous task for a wise woman. Too much could go wrong, there were two lives at risk, people wanted both the mother and the child to survive and blamed the midwife for sickness and death. Morach feared failure, feared the hatred of the village. It was safer for her to send Alys alone.

  The village was nervous, suspicious. A wise woman had been taken up at Boldron, not four miles away, taken and charged with plaguing her neighbour's cattle. The evidence against her was dramatic. Neighbours swore they had seen her running down the river, her feet moving swiftly over the water but dry-shod. Someone had seen her whispering into the ear of a horse, and the horse had gone lame. A woman said that they had jostled each other for a flitch of bacon at Castleton market and that ever since her arm had ached and she feared it would rot and fall off. A man swore that he had ridden the wise woman down in the fog on Boldron Lane and she had cursed him and at once his horse shied and he had fallen. A little boy from the village attested that he had seen her flying and talking with the doves at the manor dovecot. All the country had evidence against her, the trial took days.

  'It's all nonsense,' Alys said, coming back from Bowes with the news. 'Chances that could happen to anyone, a little child's bad dream. It's as if they had gone mad. They are listening to everything. Anyone can say anything against her.'

  Morach looked grim. 'It's a bad fashion,' she said, surly. Alys dumped a sack of goods on the floor beside the fire and threw three fatty rashers of bacon into the broth bubbling in the three-legged pot. 'A bad fashion,' Morach said again. 'I've seen it come through before, like a plague. Sometimes this time of year, sometimes midsummer. Whenever people are restless and idle and spiteful.'

  Alys looked at her fearfully. 'Why do they do it?' she asked.

  'Sport,' Morach said. 'It's a dull time of year, autumn. People sit around fires and tell stories to frighten themselves. There's colds and agues that nothing can cure. There's winter and starvation around the corner. They need someone to blame. And they like to mass together, to shout and name names. They're an animal then, an animal with a hundred mouths and a hundred beating hearts and no thought at all. Just appetites.' 'What will they do to her?' Alys asked. Morach spat accurately into the fire. 'They've started already,' she said. "They've searched her for marks that she has been suckling the devil and they've burned the marks off with a poker. If the wounds show pus, that proves witchcraft. They'll strap her hands and legs and throw her in the River Greta. If she comes up alive -that's witchcraft. They might make her put her hand in the blacksmith's fire and swear her innocence. They might tie her out on the moor all night to see if the devil rescues her. They'll play with her until their lust is slaked.'

  Alys handed Morach a bowl of broth and a trencher of bread. 'And then?'

  'They'll set up a stake on the village green and the priest will pray over her, and then someone – the blacksmith probably – will strangle her and then they'll bury her at the crossroads,' Morach said. 'Then they'll look around for another, and another after that. Until something else happens, a feast or a holy day, and they have different sport. It's like a madness which catches a village. It's a bad time for us. I'll not go into Bowes until the Boldron wise woman is dead and forgotten.'

  'How shall we get flour?' Alys asked. 'And cheese?'

  'You can go,' Morach said unfeelingly. 'Or we can do without for a week or two.'

  Alys shot a cold look at Morach. 'We'll do without,' she said, though her stomach rumbled with hunger.

  At the end of October it grew suddenly sharply cold with a hard white frost every morning. Alys gave up washing for the winter season. The river water was stormy and brown between stones which were white and slippery with ice in the morning. Every day she heaved a full bucket of water up the hill to the cottage for cooking; she had neither time nor energy to fetch water for washing. Alys' growing hair was crawly with lice, her black nun's robe rancid. She caught fleas between her fingers and cracked their little bodies between her finger and ragged thumbnail without shame. She had become inured to the smell, to the dirt. When she slopped out the cracked chamber-pot on to the midden she no longer had to turn away and struggle not to vomit. Morach's muck and her own, the dirt from the hens and the scraps of waste piled high on the midden and Alys spread it and dug it into the vegetable patch, indifferent to the stench.

  The clean white linen and the sweet smell of herbs in the still-room and flowers on the altar of the abbey were like a dream. Sometimes Alys thought that Morach's lie was true and she had never been to the abbey, never known the nuns. But then she would wake in the night and her dirty face would be stiff and salty with tears and she would know that she had been dreaming of her mother again, and of the life that she had lost.

  She could forget the pleasure of being clean, but her hungry, growing, young body reminded her daily of the food at the abbey. All autumn Alys and Morach ate thin vegetable broth, sometimes with a rasher of bacon boiled in it and the bacon fat floating in golden globules on the top. Sometimes they had a slice of cheese, always they had black rye bread with the thick, badly milled grains tough in the dough. Sometimes they had the innards of a newly slaughtered pig from a grateful farmer's wife. Sometimes they had rabbit. Morach had a snare and Alys set a net for fish. Morach's pair of hens, which lived underfoot in the house feeding miserably off scraps, laid well for a couple of days and Morach and Alys ate eggs. Most days they had a thin gruel for breakfast and then fasted all day until nightfall when they had broth and bread and perhaps a slice of cheese or meat.

  Alys could remember the taste of lightly stewed carp from the abbey ponds. The fast days when they ate salmon and trout or sea fish brought specially for them from the coast. The smell of roast beef with thick fluffy puddings, the warm, nourishing porridge in the early morning after prayers with a blob of abbey honey in the middle and cream as yellow as butter to pour over the top, hot ale at bedtime, the feast-day treats of marchpane, roasted almonds, sugared fruit. She craved for the heavy, warm sweetness of hippocras wine after a feast, venison in port-wine gravy, jugged hare, vegetables roasted in butter, the tang of fresh cherries. Sometimes Morach kicked her awake in the night and said with a sleepy chuckle: 'You're moaning, Alys, you're dreaming of food again. Practise mortifying your flesh, my little angel!' And Alys would find her mouth running wet with saliva at her dreams of dinners in the quiet refectory while a nun read aloud to them, and always at the head of the table was Mother Hildebrande, her arms outstretched, blessing the food and giving thanks for the easy richness of their lives, and sometimes glancing down the table to Alys to make sure that the little girl had plenty. 'Plenty,' Alys said longingly.

  At the end of October there was a plague of sickness in Bowes with half a dozen children and some adults vomiting and choking on their vomit. Mothers walked the few miles out to Morach's cottage every day with a gift, a round yellow cheese, or even a penny. Morach burned fennel root over the little fire, set it to dry and then ground it into powder and gave Alys a sheet of good paper, a pen and ink.

  'Write a prayer,' she said. 'Any one of the good prayers in Latin.'

  Alys' fingers welcomed the touch of a quill. She held it awkwardly in her swollen, callused hands like the key to a kingdom she had lost.

  'Write it! Write it!' Morach said impatiently. 'A good prayer against sickness.'

  Very carefully Alys dipped her pen and wrote the simple words of the L
ord's Prayer, her lips moving in time to the cadence of the Latin. It was the first prayer Mother Hildebrande had ever taught her.

  Morach watched inquisitively. 'Is it done?' she asked, and when Alys nodded, silenced by the tightness of her throat, Morach took the paper and tore it into half a dozen little squares, tipped the dusty powder into it and twisted the paper to keep the powder safe. 'What are you doing?' Alys demanded. 'Magic,' Morach replied ironically. 'This is going to keep us fat through the winter.'

  She was right. The people in Bowes and the farmers all around bought the black powder wrapped in the special paper for a penny a twist. Morach bought more paper and set Alys to writing again. Alys knew there could be no sin in writing the Lord's Prayer but felt uneasy when Morach tore the smooth vellum into pieces.

  'Why do you do it?' Alys asked curiously one day, watching Morach grind the root in a mortar nursed on her lap as she sat by the fire on her stool.

  Morach smiled at her. "The powder is strong against stomach sickness,' she said. 'But it is the spell that you write that gives it the power.'

  'It's a prayer,' Alys said contemptuously. 'I don't make spells and I would not sell burned fennel and a line of prayer for a penny a twist.'

  'It makes people well,' Morach said. 'They take it and they say the spell when the vomiting hits them. Then the attack passes off.'

  'How can it?' Alys asked impatiently. 'Why should a torn piece of prayer cure them?'

  Morach laughed. 'Listen to the running nun!' she exclaimed to the fire. 'Listen to the girl who worked in the herb garden and the still-room and the nuns' infirmary and yet denies the power of plants! Denies the power of prayer! It cures them, my wench, because there is potency in it. And in order to say the prayer they have to draw breath. It steadies them. I order that the prayer has to be said to the sky so they have to open a window and breathe clean air. All of those that have died from the vomiting are those that were weak and sickly and in a panic of fear in dirty rooms. The spell works because it's powerful. And it helps if they believe it.'

  Alys crossed herself in a small gesture between her breasts. Morach would have mocked if she had seen.

  'And if they can pay for a spell then they can pay for good food and clean water,' Morach said fairly. 'The chances are that they are stronger before the sickness takes them. The rich are always blessed.' 'What if it fails?' Alys asked.

  Morach's face hardened. 'You had better pray to your Lady that it never fails,' she said. 'If it fails then I can say that they have been bewitched by another power, or the spell has failed them because they did not do it right. If it fails I go at once to the heirs and try to buy their friendship. But if they are vengeful and if their cattle die too, then you and I stay away from Bowes, keep our heads down, and keep out of sight until the body is buried and people have forgot.'

  'It's wrong,' Alys said positively. 'At the abbey we followed old books, we knew the herbs we grew, we made them into tinctures and we drank them from measured glasses. This is not herbalism but nonsense. Lies dressed up in dog Latin to frighten children!'

  'Nonsense is it?' Morach demanded, her quick anger aroused. 'There are people in this village who will swear I can make a woman miscarry by winking at her! There are people in this village who think I can kill a healthy beast by snapping my fingers over its water pail. There are people in this village who think the devil speaks to me in my dreams and I have all his powers at my command!'

  'Aren't you afraid?' Alys asked.

  Morach laughed, her voice harsh and wild. 'Afraid?' she said. 'Who is not afraid? But I am more afraid of starving this winter, or dying of cold because we have no firewood. Ever since my land was stolen from me I have had no choice. Ever since my land was taken from me I have been afraid. I am a wise woman – of course I am afraid!'

  She put the pestle and mortar to one side and then spooned the dust into one scrap of paper and then another, her hands steady.

  'Besides,' she said slyly, 'I am less afraid than I was. Much much less afraid than I was.'

  'Are you?' Alys asked, recognizing the note of torment in Morach's voice.

  'Oh, yes,' Morach said gleefully. 'If they seek for a witch in Bowes now, who do you think they will take first? A little old woman with a few herbs in her purse who has been there for years and never done great harm – or a girl as lovely as sin who will speak with no one, nor court with any man. A girl who is neither maid nor woman, saint nor sinner. A girl who is seen in Bowes very seldom, but always with her cloak around her shoulders and a shawl over her head. A girl who talks to no one, and has no young women friends. A girl who avoids men, who keeps her eyes down when one crosses her path. It is you who should be afraid, Alys. It is you who they see as a strange woman, as someone out of the ordinary. So it is you that they think has the skill to cure the vomiting. It will be you they praise or blame. It should be you who is afraid!'

  'They cannot think these are spells!' Alys exclaimed. 'I told you from the start they were prayers! You asked me to write a prayer and I did! They cannot think that I do magic!'

  'Go on!' Morach gestured to her impatiently. 'Write some more! Write some more! I need it to wrap these doses. It is your writing, Alys, that makes the powder work. Ever since you came back, the fennel has cured the vomiting. They say you are the cunning woman and I am your servant. They say you have come from the devil. They say that the singed corner of your robe was from the fires of hell – and that you are the bride of the devil.'

  'Who says?' Alys demanded stoutly though her voice shook a little. 'I don't believe anyone says anything.'

  'Liza – Tom's wife,' Morach said triumphantly. 'She says you've tampered with Tom's sleep. He names you in his sleep – a sure sign of hexing.'

  Alys laughed bitterly. 'Oh aye,' she said tartly. 'He is calling me to rescue him from her sharp tongue.'

  'Curse her then?' Morach's face was bright in the shadowy cottage. 'Try it! Curse her to death and make Tom a widower, rich with her dowry, so that he can return to you and you can use your roughened hands on his land where you will see the benefit. She's a useless, spiteful woman, no one's friend. No one would miss her.'

  'Don't,' Alys said quickly. 'Don't speak of such things. You know I would not do it and I don't have the power.'

  'You do have the power,' Morach insisted. 'You know it and I know it! You ran from your power and you hoped your God would keep you safe if you forgot your skills. But here you are, back with me, and it is as if you were never away. There are no safe nunneries left, Alys! There is nowhere for you to go! You will stay with me forever unless you go to a man. Why not Tom? You liked him well enough when you were young and he has never loved another woman. You could kill Liza. You should kill Liza. I can tell you the ways to do it. Hundreds of ways. And then you can live soft in Tom's farmhouse, and wash every day as you long to do, and even say your prayers, and think of how we would eat! A little spell and a great difference. Do it, Alys!'

  'I cannot!' Alys said desperately. 'I cannot. And even if I could, I would not do it. I have no power but my learning from the abbey. I will not dabble in your spells. They mean nothing, you know nothing. I shall never use your skills.'

  Morach shrugged her shoulders and tied the twists of powder with a thread. 'I think you will,' she said in an undertone. 'And I think you feel your power in your fingertips, and taste it on your tongue. Don't you, my Alys? When you are alone on the moor and the wind is blowing softly, don't you know you can call it? Bid it go where you will? Blow health or sickness? Wealth or poverty? When you were on your knees in the abbey, couldn't you feel the power around you and in you? I can feel the power in me – aye, and I can feel it in you too. The old abbess saw it clearly enough. She wanted it for her God! Well, now your power is freed again and you can use it where you will.'

  Alys shook her head. 'No,' she said determinedly. 'I feel nothing. I know nothing. I have no power.'

  'Look at the fire,' Morach said instantly. 'Look at the fire.'

  Alys looke
d towards it, the banks of badly cut peat glowing orange, and the burning log lying on the embers.

  'Turn it blue,' Morach whispered. Alys felt the thought of blue flames in her mind, paused for a moment with the picture of blue flames before her inner eye. The flames bobbed, flickered, and then they burned a steady bright periwinkle blue. The embers glowed like a summer sky, the ashes were a deep dark violet.

  Morach laughed delightedly, Alys snapped her gaze away from the fire and the flame spurted and flared orange again.

  Alys crossed herself hastily. 'Stop it, Morach,' she said irritably. 'Stupid tricks for frightening children. As if I would be fooled by them after a childhood with you and your cheating arts.'

  Morach shook her head. 'I touched nothing,' she said easily. 'It was your gaze, and your mind, and your power. And you can run and run from it as fast as you ran from your holy life. But the two of them will keep pace with you forever, Alys. In the end you will have to choose.'

  'I am a nun,' Alys said through her teeth. 'There will be no magic and dark skills for me. I do not want them. I do not want you. And I do not want Tom. Hear me now, Morach, as soon as I can leave here, I will go. I swear to you that if I could leave this very night, I would be gone. I want none of it. None of it. If I could, I swear that I would ride away from this place now and never come back.'