Novels 03 The Wise Woman Page 7

  “Pull it down at the front,” he ordered. “And pull the sleeves down.”

  Alys pulled the stomacher down at her waist. It was too long for her as well, stopping at the swell of her hips and with the sharply pointed V at the front extending too low. It held her stiffly so that her breasts were flattened into one smooth line from the rich swirl of the skirt to the square neck of the gown which showed at the top of the stomacher. She tugged the oversleeves on both sides. They were long and sweeping, folded back to show the undersleeves like rich slashed pouches beneath him. David nodded.

  “And the girdle goes loosely over the top,” he said. Alys fastened the silver girdle and straightened it so the long end fell down in front, enhancing the narrowness of her waist and the pointed line of the bodice, subtly suggesting the desirable triangle at the top of her thighs. She ran her hand over her cropped head where her growing hair was golden and stubbly.

  David nodded. “A sweeter honey even than Meg,” he said to himself. “Who will stick his tongue in this pot?”

  Alys ignored him. “Is there nothing to hide my head?”

  The dwarf rummaged in the chest for a few moments. “Nothing you could wear without hair to pin it on,” he said. “You’d best go bareheaded.”

  Alys grimaced. “I suppose no one will look at me,” she said.

  “They’ll look at nothing else!” he said with malicious satisfaction. “Half of them think you’re a holy healer, and the other half think you’re his whore. And the young lord…” his voice trailed off.

  “What?” asked Alys. “What of the young lord?”

  “He’s got a keen eye for a pretty wench,” the dwarf said simply. “And besides, he’s got a score to settle with you. If the old lord had died he could have taken himself to the king’s court, put aside that shrew he wed, and made his way in the great world. He’ll not thank you for that.”

  “The shrew? His wife?” Alys asked.

  The dwarf motioned her to follow him through the door and then led her down the twisting stone staircase. As she passed an arrow-slit window Alys breathed in the cold wind which blew from the wintry moorland to the west of them, over the River Tees. It smelled of her home, of her childhood. For a moment she even longed for the little hovel by the river with the moor quiet all around it.

  The dwarf grinned. “She complains of him to the old lord,” he said. “I’ve been there, I’ve heard her. Lord Hugo won’t come to her bed, or he won’t use her kindly. One time she angered him so that he beat her favorite waiting-woman before her. Too proud to touch his lady, but a temper on him that would scare the devil! The old lord used to keep Hugo on a short leash but after nine years they’re both weary of the shrew. He used to watch that the young lord didn’t abuse her over-much, and kept her supplied with trinkets and perfumes, little sweeteners for her vinegar. But she has called down a storm on them both too often, they both long to be rid of her.”

  “They can’t do that, can they?” Alys asked, frowning.

  David shrugged. “Who knows what can be done now?” he asked. “The Church is ruled by the king now, not the vicar of Rome. The king does as he pleases with his women. Why not the young lord? The rightful wife stays barren, but if they dismiss her they lose her entailed lands and her dowry. And in all of Hugo’s roistering he’s never got a wench with child. So the shrew stays here until they can think of a way to be rid of her and yet keep her wealth.”

  “How?” Alys asked.

  “If she were taken in adultery,” David said in a whisper. “Or died.”

  There was a cold silence around them as they went through the empty guardroom, and down the flight of steps to the entrance of the great hall.

  “And she?” Alys asked.

  David hawked and spat disdainfully. “She’d do anything to take the young lord’s fancy,” he said. “She’d do anything to creep into his bed. She’s a passionate woman gone sour, a lustful woman on short commons. There’s nothing she would not do for the young lord. I’ve heard her women talk.

  “She’s praying every day for an heir to make her place secure. She prays every day for the young lord to turn to her and give her a son. She prays every day for the old lord to cleave to her cause, not to take up the new ways of setting aside wives as lightly as changing hunters. And she’s hot for Hugo.” He paused. “All the women are,” he said.

  “And he,” Alys began. “Does he…”

  “Sshh,” the dwarf said abruptly. He glanced over his shoulder to see that Alys was ready and at her nod he pushed open one of the thick wooden doors at the side of the great hall.

  Chapter

  4

  The great hall was a high arched chamber, dark with only arrow-slit windows high up in the thick stone walls. A massive fire was burning against the east wall, great trunks of trees flung pell-mell and blazing, the smoke filling the room, smuts and light white ash dancing in the air. Beside Alys, to her left on a raised dais, was a long table with three empty high-backed carved chairs behind it, facing the room. Down the length of the room ran four long tables and benches, soldiers and guards seated in the best places at the dais end of the hall; the servants, scullions, and women struggled for places nearest the south door.

  The place was in uproar: three or four dogs were fighting by the east wall, the soldiers were hammering on the table and yelling for bread and ale, the servants were shouting to be heard above the noise. In the brackets on the walls there were burning torches, and as Alys watched a well-dressed young man stepped up to the lord’s table and lowered a fine candelabra from a candle-beam and lit sconces of pale golden wax candles.

  David the dwarf nudged Alys in the ribs. “You will sit in the body of the hall,” he said. “Come on, I’ll find you a place.” He led the way, with his rolling, half-lame stride, between the tables. But before he could seat Alys at an empty place there was a ripple of excitement in the hall. David turned around and tapped Alys’s arm, directing her attention to the high table. “Now you watch!” he said triumphantly. “You see the welcome he gets, my Lord Hugh! You see!”

  The tapestry behind the table on the dais was drawn back, the little arched door opened, and Lord Hugh stepped through and took his place in the great carved chair at the plumb center of the table. There was a moment’s surprised silence and then suddenly there was a great roar of delight as the soldiers and servants cheered and hammered the table with their knives and drummed their boots against the benches.

  Alys smiled at the welcome, and saw how the old lord nodded his bony head in one direction and then in another. He looks well, she thought. After nearly a week of seeing him as an invalid, in the cramped room of the tower, she was surprised to see him now as the lord at his own table. He had flushed a little, with the heat and with pleasure at his howling, yelling welcome. I cured him! Alys thought, with sudden, surprised pleasure. I cured him! They left him for dead but I cured him. Hidden by her drooping sleeves she stretched out her hands, feeling her power flow through her, down to her fingertips.

  Alys had cured people before, vagrants and sick paupers in the infirmary, farmers in their heavy beds, peasants on pallets. But the old lord was the first man she had made well and seen rise up and take his power, great power. And I did that! Alys said to herself. I had the skill to cure him. I made him well.

  She looked at him, smiling at the thought, and then the curtain behind him moved again and the young Lord Hugo came into the hall.

  He was as tall as his father, with his father’s sharp bony face. He had his father’s black piercing eyes too, and his beaky nose. There were deep lines either side of his mouth, and two lines at the roots of his eyebrows like a permanent scowl. But then someone shouted, “Holloa! Hugo!” from the benches and his face suddenly lit up as if someone had put a brand to a haystack, in the merriest, most joyful smile. Alys said, “Mother of God!”

  “What is it?” David said, shooting a look at her. “Have you the Sight? Have you seen something?”

  “No,” Alys said
, in an instant denial. “I see nothing. I see nothing. I just saw…” she broke off. “I just saw him smile,” she said helplessly. She tried to look toward David but she could not take her eyes from the young lord. He stood, his hand resting casually on the back of his chair, his face turned toward his father. A jewel on his long fingers winked in the torchlight, an emerald, as green as his bulky doublet, and his velvet cap sat askew on his black curly hair.

  “There’s the shrew,” David said. “Coming to sit on my lord’s left.”

  Alys hardly heard him. She was still staring at the young lord. It was he who had been there at the burning of the abbey. It was he who had laughed as the tiles on the roof cracked like fireworks in the heat and the lead had poured down like a blazing waterfall. It was his fault that the abbey was burned, that Mother Hildebrande was dead, and Alys alone and vulnerable in the world again. He was a criminal, in the deepest and darkest of sin. He was an arsonist—a hateful crime. He was a murderer. Alys looked at his severe face and knew she should hate him as her enemy. But Hugo had charm as potent as any magic. His father said something which amused him and he flung back his head to laugh and Alys felt herself smiling too—as people will laugh with a child or smile for another’s upsurging joy. Alys looked down the length of the hall at Hugo and knew that, unseen and unnoticed, her own face was alight with pleasure at seeing him.

  “See that woman’s pride!” the dwarf said with disdain.

  The young lord’s wife was tall and looked older than him. She carried her power around her like a cloak. Her face as she scanned the hall was impassive, her welcome to her father-in-law was coolly perfect. She hesitated for a courteous second before sitting so the lords were seated first. Then she looked directly down the hall and saw Alys.

  “Bow,” the dwarf said. “Bow! Get your head down for God’s sake! She’s looking at you.”

  Alys held the woman’s cold gray stare. “I will not,” she said.

  Lady Catherine turned to one of the women seated behind her and asked a question. The woman stared at Alys, and then beckoned a servant. Alys was aware of the chain of command, and of the lowliest servant coming toward her, but she did not take her eyes from Lady Catherine’s face.

  “Two cats on a barn roof,” David said under his breath.

  Alys found her palms were tingling from her fingernails driven into them. She was holding her hands in tight fists, hidden by the sweep of the long sleeves.

  “Lady Catherine says you’re to go forward!” the servant said, skidding to a halt before her on the dirty rushes. “Go up to the high table. She wants you!”

  Alys glanced at David. “Go your ways,” he said. “I’m for my dinner. You go for the cat fight. Come straight to my lord’s room after dinner. No dawdling.”

  Alys nodded, still not taking her eyes from Lady Catherine’s square, sallow face. Then she walked slowly up the length of the hall.

  One by one the chattering men and women fell silent to watch her. A great wolfhound growled and then followed Alys up the center of the hall, up the wide nave between the tables until she was standing with two hundred people staring at her back and Lady Catherine’s cold eyes staring at her face.

  “We have to thank you for your skill,” Lady Catherine said. Her voice was flat with the ugly vowel sounds of the southerner. “You seem to have restored my lord to perfect health.”

  The words were kind but the look that accompanied them was ice.

  “I did no more than my duty,” Alys said. She did not take her eyes from Lady Catherine’s face.

  “You could tempt me to fall sick tomorrow!” the young lord said easily with a laugh. The officers on the benches nearest the table laughed with him. Someone whistled a long, low whistle. Alys looked only at him. His black eyes were hooded, lazy, his smile was as warm as if they shared a secret. It was an invitation to bed as clear as a matins bell to church. Alys felt the blood rising to her face in a slow deep blush.

  “Don’t wish it, my lord!” Lady Catherine said evenly. Then she turned again to Alys. “Where do you come from?” she asked sharply.

  “Bowes Moor,” Alys replied.

  Lady Catherine frowned. “Your speech is not from here,” she said suspiciously.

  Alys bit the inside of her lips. “I lived for some years in Penrith,” she said. “I have kin there. They speak softer and they taught me to read aloud.”

  “You can read?” the old lord asked.

  Alys nodded. “Yes, my lord,” she said.

  “Can you write?” he asked, astonished. “English and Latin?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Alys replied.

  The young lord slapped his father on the shoulder. “There’s your clerk for you!” he said. “A wench for a clerk! You can count on her not to rise up in the church and leave you!”

  There was a laugh from the head of the long table nearest the dais and a man in the dark robe of a priest raised his hand to Hugo like a swordsman acknowledging a hit.

  “Better than none,” the old lord said. He nodded at Alys. “You may not go home yet,” he said gruffly. “I need some writing done. Get a seat for yourself.”

  Alys nodded and turned to a place at the back of the hall.

  “No,” the young lord said. He turned to his father. “If she’s to be your clerk she’d best sit up here,” he said. “You permit, Catherine?”

  Lady Catherine opened her lips on a thin smile. “Of course, my lord,” she said quietly. “Whatever you wish.”

  “She can sit with your women,” the young lord said. “Holloa! Margery, shift up and make a place for the young wise woman. She’ll dine with you.”

  Alys kept her eyes down and went to the side of the dais and climbed the three shallow steps. There was a small table by the dais door where four women were sitting on stools. Alys drew up a fifth stool and sat with them. They eyed each other with mutual mistrust while the servers brought Alys a pewter plate, a knife, and a thick pewter goblet stamped with the Castleton crest.

  “Are you old Morach’s apprentice?” one of them said eventually. Alys recognized a woman who had been left a widow with a fine farm near Sleightholme, but driven out of the house by a powerful daughter-in-law.

  “Yes,” she said. “I lived at Penrith, and then I came to work for Morach.”

  The woman stared at her. “You’re her foundling!” she said. “The little wench. You were living with her when I left to come here.”

  “Yes, Mistress Allingham,” Alys said, her mind working rapidly. “I did not recognize you at first. I left for Penrith just after your son was wed. Then I came back again.”

  “I heard you had gone to the abbey,” the woman said sharply.

  There was a muffled scream from one of the other women. “Not a nun’s servant!” she exclaimed. “I won’t sit at the table with a nun’s servant! This is a godly household, my lord cannot wish us to sit with a heretic!”

  “I only stayed there for three days, on my way to Penrith, waiting for the carter,” Alys said steadily, her fingers clasped lightly in the lap of the cherry-red gown. “I did not live there.”

  Mistress Allingham nodded. “It would have been bad for you if you had done,” she observed. “It was the young Lord Hugo himself who led the men to strip the abbey. They say he robbed the altar of popish treasures himself, laughing at the sacrilege. They were drunk—he and his friends—and he let his men fire the buildings. But they went too far, it was botched work, all the nuns were burned in their beds.”

  Alys felt her hands tremble and clasped them together in her lap. She could still smell woodsmoke. She could still hear that one brief cry. I wish I had died then, she said to herself. I wish I had died in the same fire as my mother and then I would never have had to sit here and hear of her death told as tittle-tattle.

  “I’ll warrant he did more than that!” one of the other women, the one named Margery, said in a low whisper. “An abbey full of nuns! He would do more than burn them in their beds!”

  Alys stared at her
in utter horror, but the women were watching Lady Catherine’s straight back.

  “Sssh,” said one of them. “She has ears like an owl, that one.”

  “I warrant he did, though,” Margery said. “I can’t imagine the young lord hanging back when there was lechery being done. He is as hot as a butcher’s dog, that one.”

  Another woman giggled. “He’d have had a round dozen out of their beds before the fire got them!” she exclaimed. “He would have taught them what they had been missing!”

  “Ssshhh!” said the woman more urgently, while the others collapsed into giggles. Alys kept her face turned away and fought the bile which rose unstoppably into her mouth.

  “Hush,” said Mistress Allingham in pretended concern. “This must be distressing for the girl. You stayed with them for three days, and they were your friends, were they not?”

  A cock pecking under the tables in the hall squawked as a running servant kicked it aside. “No,” Alys said, swallowing down vomit. “Old Morach owed them some labor in their garden in exchange for the use of their herbs. I was sent to work off her debt. I stayed until the work was done and then I came away. I did not know any of them well. I lodged with their servants.”

  In the darkness of the hall she could suddenly see the abbess’s face, its soft wrinkled skin and the gentle smile. For a moment she could almost feel the touch of her hand as she leaned on Alys’s shoulder to walk around the garden. The cool, dry sweetness of the herb garden was very far away now.

  “I never even saw half of them,” Alys said, proffering additional detail. “They were in the middle of some fast or feast and I was kept in the gatehouse. It was a dull three days, I was glad when the carter came and gave me a lift to Penrith.”

  A serving-lad stepped up to the dais and presented a silver platter to the old lord, to the young lord, and only then to Lady Catherine. They took slices of dark meat.