So, she had a new string to her bow—she could play the spy. She was learning to act, dissemble, and tell outright lies—not something to boast about, but useful in the circumstances. Buoying herself up with such positive thoughts, she trotted into the village.
Once there, she hit the problem of how to find the old gypsy. Surely the village folk must know the woman if she were a regular at the fair? She’d have to start knocking on doors to find out. But it was crucial she ask the right person, in case Kirlham had any sympathizers amongst the village folk. Jacob! Jacob, the gardener, lived here, with his wife and children. She asked a passerby for the address and, moments later, was tapping at the door.
After some confusion, and a good deal of bowing and scraping on behalf of the gardener’s wife, Alys had directions to where the wise woman’s caravan might be found. She left the humble cottage, praying Jacob’s wife had swallowed her story of wanting to consult the seer about disastrous events that had recently occurred at the house.
It was less easy to discover the caravan than expected. Only the whinnying of a horse in response to Pennyroyal’s scent gave the wise woman’s location away. Tucked in a thicket of hawthorn—which almost surrounded the covered wagon—the woman had made camp.
At last—she felt as if she were doing something constructive, something that might help her find out what had happened to Kit. But if she was mistaken in where the old lady’s loyalties lay, the consequences would be dire.
“Good day. I come to learn my fortune.” She kept her voice low.
“I’ll be out in a moment,” was the quavering response from behind the canvas. “Prithee be patient with an old crone. I cannot move as fast as I used to.”
“I must urge you to haste, Goodwife.” Alys swung off her horse, relieved to find the woman at home. She put her face close to the flap at the front of the wagon. “Someone’s very life may be in danger.”
The muffled scrabblings and rustlings from within ceased abruptly. “If you can predict that, what need have you of a seer?”
“If the future can be changed, mayhap you can tell me how to do it. I cannot lose this man—he is too dear to me. Too valuable to everyone.”
“What makes you think I’m capable of changing what Fate has decreed? I’m no witch, you know.”
“Of course, you’re not.” How could Alys convince the old woman she was no casual inquirer, but party to all Kit knew? “Even though you have a speaking hat,” she added.
“Methinks you must be fond. No such thing exists. Now, begone. An old woman needs her rest.”
Alys folded her arms across her chest. She couldn’t be wrong, surely? This must be the person conveying dispatches between Kit and Walsingham. She knew Kit had left his hat behind, undoubtedly with a message concealed within it.
“Won’t you come out and speak with me? I shall not leave until you do.”
She resisted the urge to tap her foot impatiently as the rustlings from within the wagon commenced again. What was the woman concealing? How could she convince her she was no enemy? She had nothing of Kit’s that couldn’t have been taken from him by force, knew nothing about him that could not have been extracted by torture. She shuddered.
Eventually, the canvas flap started moving as the ties were undone, and a head topped with untidy grey hair peered out.
“Oh, you are very young.” An odd pronouncement.
“You have seen me before.”
The shadowed eyes narrowed. Much of the crone’s face was concealed by a kerchief she held across it, as if she had a toothache. “I have?”
“Aye, at Cheyneham Fair, in the company of Kit the gardener, of Selwood Manor.”
“Tall, vain fellow, dark-haired?”
“Indeed. Mayhap not so vain as once he was. It is he of whom I speak—I fear his enemies have taken him.”
She was gratified to see the old woman stare wildly around, then put a finger to her hidden lips. A puzzlingly fleshy finger for an old woman.
“No need to shout our business to all and sundry. I’m a respectable fortune teller, I’ll have you know. And I cannot see the future if I’ve been offered no coin.”
Alys rolled her eyes, brimful of impatience. They were wasting time Kit could ill afford. How could she prove she was a friend to him, and gain this woman’s trust?
She lifted her hanging pocket and pulled out a groat, then spotted something in the bottom she’d forgotten she still had. The rosary bead dropped by the spy, when he was masquerading as a cunningman. Keeping it carefully concealed, she placed it in the fortune teller’s hand as if it were another coin.
Both coin and bead were examined, then whipped out of sight. Alys found herself subjected to a gimlet gaze. She returned the stare, and whispered, “What I have given you puts us both in peril. Unless you are a friend to both me and Kit.”
She took several steps backward and grasped Pennyroyal’s reins. Had she made a fatal error in trusting this woman? If so, a speedy retreat might be required. But what she’d do after that, she’d no idea. Alert the authorities and put Kit’s whole plan in jeopardy? If it saved his life, she might be forced to.
The woman in the wagon made a show of testing Alys’ groat, but without removing the kerchief over her face. “Your coin is sound, lady. I trust you may be also. Come hither, and I’ll tell your future. What is your name, daughter?”
She dropped the reins and glanced around before moving forward. “Alys Barchard, of Selwood Manor. I beg you—can you help me?”
“Enter.” The flap was held aside, and Alys mounted the steps and entered the wagon. As soon as the canvas had fallen to behind her, the fortune teller dropped the kerchief to reveal a surprisingly young and masculine face. As she stared, the woman yanked
