beatrice
aFTER THE STEAMING HEAT OF THE KITCHEN, the sudden shock of sharp night air took my breath away. The wind still had a wetted edge to it, but at least the rain had stopped. Pale clouds were scudding across the moon, but the skies were clearing. The bell would ring for the midnight prayers soon, but the food for the village was prepared at long last. The pots would simmer slowly until morning. The wind hungrily devoured the rich aroma of herbs and mutton, wafting it out into the night air. I wondered if the wind would carry it as far as the village. If they could smell it, sitting there cold and wet with rumbling bellies, they’d curse us to Hell and back.
Holding the lantern aloft, I tiptoed into the cote, silently closing the door behind me in the face of the wind. Gudrun was curled up in the corner, her head resting on a wad of straw. Two pigeons were bedded in her hair. She’d thrown off her covers again. Her shift was so thin, I knew she must be cold. I crouched down to pull the covers up around her. I noticed her arms were covered in scratches and bruises and there was a big purple bruise across her thigh. What had she been doing? Gudrun didn’t seem to notice pain. A knock that would send another wailing did little more than make her blink. Yet if someone stroked her arm in sympathy, she’d snatch it away as if they had laid a branding iron on her skin.
Except for the gentle rising of her ribs, the child didn’t stir, but the birds stared at me with their dark bright eyes and wondered. I sat down on a heap of straw and watched her. I loved to watch her sleeping, but that night I was so weary. We’d scarcely slept for two nights and had been working every hour between. I longed to curl up in the straw by my Gudrun, bury my face in her long soft hair, like the pigeons, and sleep holding her in my arms, my little one, safe and warm. But it was no good even thinking of sleep; that bell would ring anytime now, summoning us to the chapel.
Would Healing Martha hear the bell? Would she struggle to rise to it, without knowing why, as a dog comes to a shepherd’s whistle? Prayers would continue without her. All of life would go on without her. It seemed impossible, indecent even, that it should, but you can’t hold life back.
Healing Martha lay in the infirmary, not a leader and physician now, just a body to be washed and anointed, to be talked about, but no longer talked to. And who would replace her? It would have to be someone skilled in the healing arts. I didn’t possess a tenth of Healing Martha’s knowledge, but who among us did? My little Gudrun probably knew more than any of us of herbs and potions, but they’d not permit her to treat a hanged man let alone themselves, even if they were all dying and she had the certain cure in her hand. Pega had helped Healing Martha with the rough work and she must have picked up some knowledge, but what use was that when she couldn’t read labels on jars or recipes in books?
I knew as much as any of the others about the curing of common ailments. I had run a household in Flanders, treated the maids and manservants and my husband too, when they fell sick with agues or fevers. I would have learned more in the beguinage, but I’d never been encouraged to work in the infirmary. I was always being asked to do the hard, messy jobs in the field or kitchens and kept from learning anything skilled. Want kirtles washed or grain threshed? Send for good old Beatrice, she’ll do it.
I learned quickly though. I always had, though I’d been given precious little time for study. But all that would change when I became a Martha. Then I’d have the time to study the herbals. I wouldn’t be called upon to waste my days in washing and grinding. The infirmary would be my responsibility and I’d work night and day to make it run efficiently. I’d never be as skilled a physician as Healing Martha, of course; I didn’t have her training. But I would be a good healer. I could be equal to any of the other Marthas here or in Flanders. I wanted that. I’d earned it and Catherine was right for once: Who else could the Council possibly appoint?
december
hunting the wren
a day when the church gives alms to the poor. the wren, king of the birds and the underworld, is hunted and killed to despatch winter and allow spring to return.
tHE OWL MASTER SLIPPED OUT OF OUR COTTAGE. I held my breath and crouched as small as I could behind the bushes. His big feathered head turned this way and that, like he was watching what everyone did even through the walls, then he slipped between the cottages. I crept forward to see where he’d gone, but he’d vanished.
As soon as he’d gone, Lettice beckoned to me from the door of our cottage. She was always in our cottage now. I wished she’d go away and leave me and William alone. I dragged my feet over to her as slowly as I dared.
“You’re as filthy as a beggar’s ear, child. What ever would your mam say? This infernal mud.” She spat on the corner of her apron and scrubbed at my cheek with it. “Now you listen. Owl Master said those outlanders have come back to the village to hand out food. But you’re not to take anything from them. You hear?”
“But I want something to eat,” I wailed. “I’m so hungry.”
“Hungry or not, that food is witched. How else would they have so much food when there’s not a bite left in the village?”
“It’s not witched. I’ve had-”
“Had what?” Lettice demanded. “I hope you’ve not been near those women, my lass, or your father is going to give you such a thrashing when he gets back from the salterns.”
“I haven’t, honest, I haven’t.” But I felt my cheeks burning. “I just meant that I saw some villagers taking food from them yesterday and they didn’t die or turn into toads or anything.”
Lettice snorted. “You can be witched and not know it. I knew a poor woman who was overlooked by old Gwenith’s daughter. She started to have terrible nightmares of monstrous birds that pecked away at her. In agony she was, poor soul. She wasted away and died afore the year was out. Now those outlanders are harbouring that old Gwenith’s granddaughter. She’s the cause of this flood and those women are helping her. There was no trouble in Ulewic until they arrived, and we’ve had nothing but ill fortune since. Am I right?” She crossed herself. “So you mind what I say and stay away from those women.”
“You’re not my mam. I want my mam!” I shouted.
Lettice shook her head sadly. “Wanting won’t bring her back, my dear.”
I FOLLOWED THE GREY WOMEN out of the village and back along the track. They didn’t see me, ’cause I darted behind the bushes and they were too busy talking.
The village looked like a bog. Green water weed clung high up on every wall. Great pools filled the hollows in the fields. The water had mostly gone from the roads except for big puddles, but everything inside the cottages and outside was covered in thick squelchy mud, so deep it came right up to my calves.
Beatrice was pressing the corner of her cloak over her nose. “That stink! I can even taste it. I suppose we should be thankful the wind’s blowing it away from the beguinage.”
“Be thankful you’re not living in it,” Pega said.
“Why don’t they at least burn the corpses of the drowned animals?” Beatrice grumbled. “That dead cat lying in the road was so bloated its guts had burst open. I retched from one end of the street to the other from the stench of it.”
Pega laughed. “A newborn babe pukes less than you do, Beatrice. You’ve the stomach of a princess. Eaten too good all your life, that’s your trouble. Villagers have enough to do digging the middens out of their homes and scratching around for a bit of dry straw and bracken to lie down on of a night without bothering about what’s lying in the street. Besides, I reckon there’s fever taking hold in the village. That bairn curled up in the doorway, he was ailing and no mistake.”
Several of the women nodded. “I saw a few like that. One had a nosebleed.”
“And I saw two little girls, vomiting and scouring.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing serious, just the runs,” Beatrice told them. “Those children will scavenge anything. Most likely they’ve been eating some putrid scraps they’ve found. I’ve seen no sign of D’Acaster’s men in the village. Hasn’t his steward sent anyone to help?”
“From what I hear, Phillip’s got every man out hunting meat for the Manor.” Pega spat into the ditch. “He’d watch a bairn drown in a puddle at his feet sooner than bend down and pull it out, even one of his own bastards.”
She stopped and turned, peering in my direction even though I was sure she couldn’t see me. Then she grinned. “Come out, little mouse. There’s no one from the village to see you now. You hungry?”
I looked carefully up and down the road, before I crept out. Pega held out a big piece of cold mutton in her giant hand.
I reached out, then drew back. What if it was witched and I died from the birds pecking at me? But I was so hungry and the mutton smelt so good. I snatched the meat from her hand and tore at with my teeth. I didn’t care if I died; I had to eat it.
The women all smiled, all except the tall fierce one. She’d hurt her arm. Two flat pieces of wood were tied tightly to it. She looked down, frowning. “Tell me, child, why are many of the villagers refusing to take food from us? They must be hungry like you.”
“’Cause Owl Masters say it’s… witched,” I whispered. “Lettice has made a witch jar. She pissed into it and stuffed it full of pins and thorns. Then
