‘Your guest did not tell me who she is. But I advise you take her to St Clement’s. If you agree, I will accompany you and speak with the prioress.’
‘So she is a nun?’ said Lucie.
Jehannes crossed himself, but would say no more.
‘Are the children safe with her in our home?’ Lucie asked.
‘I would say you need not fear her. But I do not know enough to say whether her presence will draw trouble your way. The fallen man was not alone in the city. You might encounter his companion. But I doubt she knows anything about Ronan’s death.’
Expressing his gratitude, Owen invited Jehannes to share some wine, but he declined.
‘Another time, my friends. May God watch over this house.’
Lucie walked him to the door. ‘Bless you for shriving her.’
‘Your home is just the shelter she needed to begin healing.’
‘But you believe she will be more at ease at St Clement’s?’
‘It is where she belongs.’
Hearing Jehannes take his leave out in the hall, Magda rose from her seat by the kitchen fire and collected the tray she had prepared, broth with herbs to heal voice and spirit as well as ensure a restful sleep, and warm, honeyed water. In addition, she carried a pouch containing willow, madder, mallow, chamomile, rosemary, sage, and a few other blood-strengthening roots and herbs to encourage her womb to renew itself. Ordeals such as Sandrine’s often choked the womb, preventing the monthly courses. Alisoun’s insight into the young woman’s strongest emotions, fear and a deep sorrow, suggested to both of them that this might be so, and that she feared she might be with child.
‘Will you come back to tell more stories?’ Hugh asked, tugging at Magda’s skirt as she passed, though his eyes were closing.
Bending to kiss his forehead, Magda whispered, ‘Beseech Alisoun to tell thee of the fox cub she nursed back to health.’
He did just that as Magda withdrew.
In the hall, she set aside the tray for a moment to hear the news. Most significant for her was that Sandrine was likely a nun. Helpful. Owen had more to tell, but Magda suggested they talk after she had seen to the young woman. Lucie offered to carry the tray, but Magda preferred that she led the way, opening the door.
Owen felt the need to explain why he did not offer. ‘I was harsh with her. She might not welcome my presence.’
‘No need to apologize for respecting her, Bird-eye.’
Up in Philippa’s chamber, the young woman knelt with her back to the door, fingering the broken paternoster beads. Her fingers fumbled with the next bead. Of more concern was how her slight body swayed as she knelt, an uneven movement Sandrine checked with every breath. Now and then, her head also nodded forward, as if her body yearned for rest.
‘How she fights to stay awake,’ whispered Lucie.
‘Tonight Magda will turn this child toward healing. On the morrow, she becomes thy work, and Alisoun’s. Magda must see to Muriel Swann.’
Stepping into the room, Magda nodded to Lucie to shut the door behind her. She busied herself placing the items on a squat table, then settled on a stool beneath the shuttered window to wait. ‘Pay Magda no heed until thou art finished with thy prayers,’ she said when Sandrine glanced up. She hoped it would not be too long, or both the broth and the water would grow cold, the ingredients settle. But healing could not be rushed.
Her head level with the kneeling woman, who remained bowed, Magda noticed her pallor, even to the long lashes resting on her cheeks. Lack of food and rest, perhaps. But she would be curious to see the woman’s eyes, whether they were pale. And weak.
She waited. In a short while, the woman raised her head. Pale eyes. She blinked, then focused on Magda with ease, saw her. Still, her lack of color was more than depletion.
‘You were with Dame Lucie and Captain Archer,’ said Sandrine, ‘but they did not say who you are.’ A resonant voice. Strong.
‘Magda Digby, midwife, healer, friend to Ambrose, thy minstrel companion. He asked me to watch over thee, see that thou art in good hands.’
‘You are the one they call the Riverwoman?’
‘He told you of Magda?’
‘I heard him asking about you, whether you still lived on your island in the river. He asked you to watch over me?’
‘He did.’
Magda lifted the jug. ‘Warm water with just enough honey to ease thy voice.’
‘I am fasting.’
‘Thou hast been entrusted by thy god with this body, yet thou hast tested it almost beyond repair.’
‘Penance,’ Sandrine whispered.
Magda sensed her wavering. ‘A harsh penance. Dost thou take it upon thyself to make amends for others’ sins against thee?’
‘You sound like Dom Jehannes. He said I have been sinned against, and that is no sin.’
‘A wise man. It is not for thee to decide whether or not to end thy life.’
‘That was not my intention.’
‘Intention is the key, but all acts are best undertaken with compassion and a willingness to accept help. Magda understands thou hast dedicated thy voice to prayers to thy god. Is that so?’
‘You speak as if you are not a Christian.’
‘Magda honors all creation, and lives to serve. Such a voice as Ambrose describes is not to be neglected. Thou must care for such a gift.’
The pale eyes lowered. Good teeth bit back the full lower lip. The woman would quickly regain her health if she wished it. But her spirit was caught in confusion and weighted by a darksome fear that the confession had failed to calm. Magda stirred the honey water and poured a little into the bowl, held it out.
‘Wilt thou drink?’
Sandrine took the offering, tasted, then drank deep, emptying the bowl, handing it back with thanks.
Magda bowed to the young woman. Setting aside the bowl she took Sandrine’s hand, holding it for a moment while looking into her eyes. Yearning, sorrow, fear. Yet also strength. Remarkable strength from which arose a deep, simmering anger. After a time Magda
