A Choir of Crows

8 Sandrine

Lighting a second lamp to brighten the entrance of the apothecary, Lucie asked again whether Jasper would like her to stay. Such a long day. He moved slowly, and his hands were not as steady as usual. ‘Grinding stones,’ he said when she noted it. ‘You need the rest, Ma. I will close the shop during the next lull.’

Lucie doubted he would turn anyone away who caught him shutting the door, but she thanked him, kissed his cheek, and withdrew to the workroom. Though she was eager to cross the garden and check that all was well with the children, she took the time to tidy the workspace. Her legs ached from hours of standing, and her arms complained as she lifted a heavy jar to a shelf above her head. But it was the satisfying weariness at the end of a busy day, not the strained, frightened, agonized weariness of the fortnight past, as she sat vigil with her feverish babies. She bowed her head at the memory, feeling again the terror, seeing the haunted look in Owen’s eye as she relieved him, having tossed and turned and pretended to believe she might sleep. She depended on her husband’s quiet strength. It anchored her. But even that eluded her when their children were threatened by disease, the invisible enemy he could not vanquish.

Lucie removed her apron and blew out all but one lamp. Stepping out into the garden she braced herself against a damp wind that shook the remaining snow from the branches above and created a second snowfall, brightening the twilight, stinging her skin. Glancing up at the heavens she watched tendrils of cloud and mist dance beneath the early evening star field. The moment of peace seemed a benediction. She glanced up as someone entered the garden through the gate from the York Tavern yard.

‘Dame Lucie.’

‘Alisoun?’ Lucie caught herself before asking who was with the children. Alisoun was sensitive to any suggestion of irresponsibility.

‘I went to the Swann home. I thought I should be the one to ask Dame Muriel whether Magda might take my place at her lying-in.’ The crackle in Alisoun’s voice suggested the conversation had been challenging.

‘She protested?’

‘At first. But when I spoke of your guest, the fever …’

Lucie’s heart sank. Had Alisoun revealed their guest’s sex? ‘Did you mention that the he is a she?’

‘No. I thought that unwise, with Crispin Poole always about. Neville’s man.’ Alisoun spoke with quiet assurance, no bristling at a perceived slight. Maturing by leaps and bounds of late, which gladdened Lucie’s heart. She had believed in the young woman, but at times she had worried about her reactive nature.

Which deepened Lucie’s remorse for doubting Alisoun’s discretion. ‘Crispin is there often?’ she asked.

‘According to the cook he dines there daily, and often returns in the evening.’

‘A complaint?’

‘No. He boasted of it. A household needs a man, especially a household with an infant. And all say Crispin makes no secret of hoping to wed Dame Muriel as soon as she agrees to put aside her mourning.’

‘Does she seem ready for Magda?’

‘No. The child is strong, punching and kicking, but not ready to greet the world.’ A soft laugh. ‘Dame Muriel believes it is a girl, for what boy would put such effort in movement that will not be seen and praised.’

Lucie laughed. ‘What a miracle that she has such joy.’ Muriel had suffered the triple loss of her husband, his father, and her own brother less than two months earlier. Violent deaths. At the time, all had feared Muriel, who had waited years to conceive, would lose the child. ‘Truly a miracle.’

‘She says some find offense in her joy.’

‘Her family?’

‘Her brother’s widow.’

‘One can forgive her.’ Lucie shivered. ‘Shall we go in? I enjoyed the first moments out here, but now I am chilled to the bone.’

Alisoun looped her hand through Lucie’s arm as they hurried to the house. ‘I spoke to our guest,’ she said. ‘Gave her water. She asked for cloth, thread, needle to add some length to the gown you left for her. She sewed for a while, but when Magda went in to speak with her she had fallen asleep.’

‘Did she tell you anything about herself? Her name?’

‘She calls herself Sandrine, but when I called out to her she did not respond at once. And something about the way she gave it up – it is not her name. She asked after Ambrose, said he has been good to her. Oh, and she is fasting for her sins.’

‘Do you think she has run away from a nunnery?’

‘I would not know how to tell.’ Alisoun reached out and opened the kitchen door.

Five pairs of eyes watched them enter. Magda, holding Emma on her lap, was telling a tale of a hawk riding the wind over the moors to Gwen and Hugh, who sat bundled in blankets on the settle by the fire. Kate left the pot she had been tending to offer help with their cloaks and boots.

‘What is this?’ Lucie asked.

‘Mistress Sandrine cried out in her sleep, frightening the little ones,’ said Kate. ‘So Dame Magda brought them down here. A warm, welcoming kitchen with hot drinks and a few tales soon calmed them.’

‘Did you hear her cry out?’

‘No. Too far away, I think. But Gwen asked me if her Da knew that woman killed a man.’

Killed a man. Poor Gwen. A house of healing was no place for such fears to arise. Lucie closed her eyes and whispered a Hail Mary, then joined Magda and the children.

‘Dame Magda nursed a fox cub,’ Hugh lisped through the space where a baby tooth had recently fallen out.

‘And a wounded eagle,’ said Gwen. ‘Come. Sit and hear her stories.’

‘I cannot at the moment, my love,’ said Lucie. She kissed each child in turn, then signaled to Alisoun to take over while she talked to Magda.

Lifting Emma from Magda’s arms, Alisoun began to sing a silly tune the children loved. As Lucie led Magda out into the hall Gwen and Hugh joined in.

‘So our guest is disruptive despite the medicine?’

‘She refuses all food and drink,’ said Magda. ‘To appease her god, or so she says. Penance.’

‘Penance for what?’

‘She cried to her god for forgiveness, she had not meant to kill him.’ Magda held Lucie in her keen gaze. ‘A confession? Or an overwrought sense of remorse for an injury to the heart? That is for thee to discover.’

‘I will go to her. If she wishes to stay, she must accept our healing drafts.’

Magda pressed Lucie’s shoulder. ‘Thou canst see that thy children are out of danger. Since morning Hugh has gained strength.’

He did look and sound so much more himself. ‘I do see it. Yet too much excitement …’

‘Magda agrees. Whether or not she has taken a life, thy family needs rest. Peace. If she will not abide by thy rules, she cannot stay.’

But where to send her? In a city soon to be crowded with visitors, and Owen doubtless wanting to keep watch on her, where might Sandrine go? Perhaps she might trade places with Ambrose. Or – as Lucie reached the landing she thought of the appropriate lodging for Sandrine. Though she would need to convince the prioress to allow guards access.

Knocking on the door of the guest chamber, Lucie waited for a moment, then went in. Sandrine sat on the edge of the bed, hugging herself, pulling the covers round her when Lucie stepped in as if embarrassed to be seen in but a shift.

‘Benedicite, Dame Lucie,’ she whispered. ‘Mistress Alisoun said that is what I should call you.’

Lucie touched her forehead. Cool now. ‘You frightened my children when you cried out in your sleep. Dame Magda took them down to the kitchen to calm them.’ She lifted the young woman’s chin so that she might meet Lucie’s gaze.

‘I regret frightening them. I will endeavor–’

‘You will agree to consume all that Dame Magda and I prepare so that you stay calm and recover your health. If you refuse, you cannot remain in my home. My children are recovering from illness and must not be excited.’

The jaw tightened. ‘I cannot. I must do penance.’

‘I am convent-raised,’ said Lucie. ‘I know the power, and the challenge, of obedience. To humble yourself before God, surrendering to the path on which He has set you – that can be a powerful penance.’

Silence.

‘But if you refuse, I will find another place for you. I–’

Sandrine suddenly straightened, staring past Lucie toward the door. ‘Oh!’

Lucie turned to discover Owen in the doorway. ‘This is my husband, Owen. Captain Archer, as he is known.’

A deep blush as Sandrine clutched the covers higher. ‘Benedicite, Captain Archer.’

‘Owen, this is Sandrine.’

He nodded, but said nothing as Lucie joined him at the door. He carried the scent of snow and cold though he’d removed his cloak, boots, hat. His curly hair was wild as if he’d run his hands through it.

‘I must speak with our guest.’ His tone was sharp. ‘If you would stay with us?’ Leaning close so that only Lucie could hear, Owen warned her that he must be harsh with the young woman. He must know what she knew, whether she was a danger to the household. ‘I will tell you everything when we leave her.’

‘Of course.’

He plucked up the stool that Lucie had used and moved it closer to Sandrine.

‘Tell me what happened in the chapter house last night.’

Pressing her lips together, the young woman shook her head. ‘I know nothing. I was so frightened I – I prayed for sleep and God granted it. When I woke, I was so cold. I thought if I sang, someone would hear. Help would come. And it did.’

‘You were up in the masons’ chambers.’

She glanced at Lucie, back to Owen, shaking her head. ‘Where?’

‘The masons’ chambers are up above the ceiling of the main chamber in the chapter house,’ said Owen.

Lucie watched the woman’s eyes as she devised a response.

‘Why do you say that?’

From his scrip Owen drew out two strands of beads – a short strand of coral beads and a much longer strand of coral and jet, the jets at ten-bead intervals, suggesting a broken set of paternoster beads. Lucie noticed that the smaller strand had ten beads and extra knots at one end as if it had become a bracelet, albeit for the slender wrist of a child. Or their guest’s, she realized, noticing her unusually narrow wrists. It was the same coral as the longer strand.

Sandrine recoiled, her pale skin flushed, eyes filling with tears.

‘I have spoken to a man who witnessed the man’s fall from the chapter-house roof,’ said Owen. ‘He says there was at least one shout from the roof, and a scuffle. You must have heard something. If it was a chase, they would have passed through the upper floor, where I found your beads.’

‘How do you know they are my beads?’

‘The larger strand was in the pack you left in Tucker’s home.’

‘You have my pack?’

Owen nodded. ‘Someone must have carried a lantern. You would have seen a light.’

‘I told you, I fell asleep.’

‘I do not believe you slept through that. Especially as you lost your beads up above. Brother Michaelo tells me your clothing was wet when he found you. I noted your stockings were wet, inside your boots. And here is the knife Brother Michaelo took from your hand.’ He drew it out of the scrip.

She stared at it.

‘See how the handle is chipped? Here is the missing piece, which I found at the foot of the ladder to the roof.’

Eyes flickering here, there, anywhere but Owen’s face.

‘You waste my time.’ Owen rose with an impatient sigh. ‘We cannot shelter a possible murderer. I will take you to the castle at first light.’

Taking up her part, Lucie expressed alarm. ‘You cannot mean it.’

Owen turned aside to her, still perched at the threshold. ‘No doubt you have a gentle alternative, perhaps the poor sisters on Castlegate.’

‘Or St Clement’s. I might coax Prioress Isabel into accepting her as a charity case. You think me too compassionate?’

‘For all we know she murdered the man. Gwen heard her cry out that she did. I cannot risk her harming anyone else.’

‘What is the castle?’ Sandrine asked in small voice.

Owen turned back to her. ‘York Castle. For you, it will be a prison.’

‘Master Ambrose said I might trust you.’

‘When did he say this?’ Lucie asked.

‘Yesterday, before he left for the minster. He told me if anything were to happen to him I should seek Lucie Wilton, the apothecary, and her husband Captain Archer. That you would protect me.’

‘How did you come to be traveling with him?’ Owen asked.

After a moment’s hesitation, Sandrine gave an account of an elegant minstrel who joined the company of musicians and players, how he taught her a song he had composed. Then rescued her. Her story matched what Ambrose had told Owen.

‘I am most grateful to him,’ said Sandrine. ‘But when he said we were being followed, and it was not likely to be the players, I feared I had been mistaken to trust him. Yet I could not stay with them, not after what happened.’ Tears started again, her face flushing crimson. Genuine emotion.

‘Your attacker was one of your fellow players?’

She crossed herself and murmured a yes.

‘What did you know of the players when you joined them?’ Owen asked.

‘Simple folk. Not so grand as Master Ambrose, with his trained voice, his beautiful crwth, his Parisian speech, his costly cloak.’

‘The cloak,’ said Lucie. ‘Did you witness the exchange in the minster?’

A slight nod.

‘Why did you go into the chapter house?’ asked Lucie.

‘I was afraid,’ Sandrine whispered, still looking away. ‘I am guilty. I did not push him, but I could not stand. He tripped over me and … I am guilty.’ She covered her face and wept.

Owen knelt to her, gently took her hands in his. She tried to turn away.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What had he done?’

‘Not him,’ she sobbed. ‘What I did.’ She shook her head and began to whisper the words of the Kyrie.

‘I pray you. Tell me what happened.’

‘I must make my confession. I will bare my soul to a priest, no other.’ She bowed her head and returned to the prayer of contrition.

‘Tell me at least this. Was there another man in the chapter house with you?’

‘I was not aware of another.’

‘Can you tell me anything else?’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘I want a priest.’

With a frustrated sigh Owen rose, drawing Lucie out the door. ‘If Jehannes hears her confession, I will still know nothing.’

‘We cannot deny her.’ She saw how he fought anger and pity.

He returned to the room. ‘Forgive me, but I must know. Had this anything to do with the murder of the vicar down below?’

Sandrine shook her head and lay down on the bed, turning her back to them.

‘I will send for a priest I trust, an archdeacon. Should you disturb the children tonight, we will move you to the kitchen. And tomorrow–’ He shrugged and strode out.

Lucie shut the door behind them. She prayed that gentle Jehannes would coax the woman to care for her body as well as her soul.

Once down the stairs, Owen drew Lucie over to the hearth. ‘Before I go to Jehannes, I must tell you what I’ve learned.’ At the corner of his good eye, he spied Magda slipping out the kitchen door. ‘Come. Sit with us. I have much to tell.’

Moving quietly, Magda chose a spot near the garden window, far from the heat of the fire. ‘Thy guest refuses to confide in thee?’

‘She admits to being the cause of the man’s fall. And claims it had nothing to do with Ronan’s murder. Nor was there a second man in the chapter house.’

‘That she was aware of,’ Lucie added.

Owen settled on a bench, stretching his feet to the fire. ‘I am uneasy about her being here. If a man had made such a confession I would take him to the castle until I knew whether he was dangerous.’

‘I trust you agree that the castle dungeons are no place for a woman,’ said Lucie. ‘You will find a safer arrangement. Unless you believe she is for hanging– But think, my love. She is a beautiful young woman, you cannot entrust her to the jailers. Or do you know of several strong, trustworthy women who might both guard and protect her?’

Lucie knew him so well. Of course he hoped for a safer solution. Some – perhaps most – of the guards were no better than they needed to be with criminals, and Sandrine might prove too tempting, damn them. The bailiffs would curse him for the extra men – or women – necessary to protect her at a time when the city was about to be filled with strangers for the enthronement.

‘Perhaps Jehannes will guide me,’ he said, then turned so that he could watch Magda’s reactions as well as Lucie’s as he recounted his interview with Tucker, much of what Magda had no doubt overheard, and Rose’s insight. Magda nodded. He asked what else she had noticed.

‘Judith distrusts what her husband is about. Mayhap Tucker took in his old friend only to profit from betraying him.’

‘Might he have gone to the minster last night?’

‘Magda will ask Judith.’

He continued with his encounter with Pit, which brought an impatient hiss from Lucie, a shrug from Magda. He mentioned Crispin Poole’s injury.

‘I expected he would have come to you when he was injured, Magda.’

‘He may not wish his new master to know he consults a healer who does not share his faith,’ she said. ‘Magda may see him at Dame Muriel’s.’

‘That is settled?’ Owen asked. ‘Alisoun is willing to stay?’

Lucie told him of her conversation with Alisoun in the garden. He was relieved she took it well.

Pit and his mate Gareth interested Lucie, who found it peculiar that he would be so forthcoming about being John Neville’s man.

‘He may welcome my interference as a way to delay reporting his failure to Sir John. His lord will turn his anger on me, let Pit quietly withdraw amongst his fellows. But from what I know of John Neville, Pit is doomed either way.’

‘You believe Pit recognized the other man?’ Lucie asked.

‘I do. Made him ill at ease. The bailiffs’ men are moving the bodies to the castle this evening, once the nightwatchmen are out on their rounds, extra eyes to notice anyone taking more than an idle interest.’ Owen nodded toward the steps and said, ‘Perhaps one of you might inform our guest of the additional deaths.’

‘Where will the children sleep tonight?’ Lucie wondered aloud.

‘Just for tonight, we might let them enjoy sleeping in the kitchen, with Kate and Alisoun to fuss over them,’ he suggested. ‘A change from that room in which they spent a fortnight.’ He watched Lucie consider, saw her accept the idea. God be thanked. ‘I will not be long,’ he said.

Magda drew an arm round Lucie. ‘While Bird-eye fetches the crow, Magda will take thy guest a bowl of watery broth with a pinch of something to calm her. Once he departs, take her the jug of honey water Magda will prepare with a touch of sleep. If Gwen and Hugh fret about sleeping in the kitchen, thou canst assure them that the stranger sleeps.’

‘She will not drink either preparation.’

‘Dost thou doubt Magda?’

Though he was curious how this exchange would resolve, Owen considered his mission urgent. With a bow to the two healers, he withdrew.

In the kitchen Hugh and Gwen snuggled together as they listened to Alisoun rocking Emma to sleep with lullabies. Booted and cloaked, Owen plucked a lantern from a hook near the door, lit it, and departed, heading toward Stonegate.

Rising from prayers, Jehannes listened to Owen’s request with a deepening frown creasing his pleasant features. ‘Are you certain you wish me to do this, my friend? I have not the right to reveal what she tells me in confession. Will it be a wedge between us?’

Michaelo, garbed in his penitential robes, hovered in the background, clearly curious. Owen assured both of them he was well aware what this meant, yet he could think of no one else he would so trust.

‘I ask you to consider the forces that might bear down on you should someone discover that she confessed to you,’ said Owen. ‘Nevilles in particular, though so far they have not claimed the fallen man.’

Jehannes smiled. ‘I pride myself in my stubbornness. And who in your household would betray us?’

‘You might be seen arriving or departing my home.’

‘Then we must think of a clever explanation.’

Michaelo handed the archdeacon his cloak, followed him to the bench by the door to assist him with his boots. Jehannes waved him away.

‘I pray you are not hoping to accompany me to take notes,’ he teased.

‘A tempting thought,’ Michaelo said, ‘but I am better occupied assisting the poor in the minster yard. For my sins.’ With a bow, he departed.

‘The cutting Michaelo returns,’ Jehannes remarked when he stood, booted and cloaked. ‘He had come to me broken, humbled. I worried. But now … I am unsure whether or not to rejoice.’

Owen shared a companionable laugh with him as they walked out into a misty night.

‘By the way,’ said Jehannes, ‘Michaelo spoke with the clerk Edwin. He distrusted Ronan, preferred to work directly with Neville. Engaged as little as possible with Ronan when Neville was away. He mentioned Ronan being called Neville’s summoner, doubted Neville would overstep his position when a prebend.’

‘Loyal to Neville.’

‘A most careful man, I think. As to who might want him dead, he said most in the Bedern resented Ronan, but he knew of no one who would go to the extent of killing him.’

Disliked but not so much as to inspire violence. Always the safe answers.

Staring out of the garden windows into the swirling mist, Lucie imagined herself the pale, ethereal Sandrine, kneeling before Dom Jehannes and, at long last, making her confession. Imagining how it would feel to be assured this priest would keep her secrets, would not betray her sex, or her identity, would neither judge nor push away in horror. She could not think of a better confessor for a woman who had feared revealing anything about herself for so long. Tears stung her eyes, wet her cheeks.

Owen took her hand. ‘What is it?’

‘I am imagining her suffering. How much she has borne with no one in whom she might confide. You will not send her to the castle?’

‘No matter her crime, I would not subject her to that. I cannot know what a woman suffers regarding men. I will do as you and Magda advise.’

She kissed his hand.

He nodded toward the steps. ‘Jehannes.’

Wiping her eyes, Lucie watched Jehannes pause at the foot of the steps, cross himself, and set aside his prayer book before continuing toward them. She sensed Owen tense.

‘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 released the hand, her gaze. She sat in silence, eyes closed, until the young woman chose to speak.

‘I lived to serve as well. I meant to dedicate my voice to God.’

‘Heal and return to thy work.’

‘I do not think I can.’

Magda waited.

‘I have not bled for a long while. Since I was–’ Once again Sandrine bowed her head.

Here was the source of her fear. ‘Might Magda touch thy stomach?’

‘No spells!’

‘Magda wishes to examine thee, no more.’

A nod.

Kneeling to the woman, Magda placed her hands on her stomach, closed her eyes. Tightness, anger, fear, sorrow, but no extra heartbeat, no sign of life. Opening her eyes she touched Sandrine’s cheek.

‘No child swims in thy womb. Thou hast suffered much, but not that.’

A gasp that became a sob.

Rising to sit beside the troubled young woman, Magda put a warming arm round her, took her hand. ‘Have men forced themselves on thee?’

‘The first one never touched me. Others have tried. I fought them off, always I thought in time. But when I did not bleed … I feared that in my ignorance I had not been quick enough.’

She pressed Magda’s hand, the heat of her anger flushing both of them.

‘Canst thou feel thy strength?’ Magda smiled.

‘You have given me hope. If I could prove to the sisters I am chaste, perhaps I might do as Dom Jehannes advised, seek sanctuary at the priory, with the sisters.’

‘Dost thou desire that?’

‘More than anything.’

‘Thy voice will delight them. But to prove to the sisters thou art untouched – what dost thou seek for this?’

‘To bleed. And the witness of someone whose word they would accept. Dame Lucie?’

Out of the bag hanging from her girdle Magda pulled the pouch of blood-strengthening roots and herbs she had prepared.

‘If Magda adds herbs to thy honeyed water to encourage thy womb to renew, to flush out the old blood, wilt thou drink?’

‘It will not sicken me? You swear there is no child? You are not killing it?’

‘Magda spoke truth about there being no child. Her purpose is to heal, only to heal.’

Sandrine looked into Magda’s eyes. ‘I will drink.’

Magda invited the young woman to watch as she mixed a few pinches of the powder with the water in the jug. ‘Thrice daily, until thy womb responds.’ She poured the fresh mixture into the bowl.

Sandrine took it with thanks, sniffed, sipped, drank it down. ‘Bless you. It slips down my throat with ease.’

‘More?’

A nod.

When she set the bowl aside, Sandrine blinked. ‘My eyelids feel heavy. You swore no spells.’

‘Magda uses the earth’s bounty to heal. No more, no less. We are of earth.’

‘Our bodies, yes. But not our souls. They are of God.’ A frown.

This touched her fear. Magda did not argue. ‘A bit of broth now? To nourish thy body.’ She held out the bowl.

Sandrine sipped it.

‘Sandrine is not thy given name, is it?’

A searching look. ‘How–?’

‘Magda listens, as do all in this house caring for thee.’

‘My name is Marian,’ she said, softly.

‘So many Marys. Thy name will not betray thee.’

Marian fought to remain upright as she drank the broth. ‘Why is the captain angry?’

‘He has taken on the burden of keeping safe all he loves, and his heart encompasses much. Now he has three deaths to resolve before the powerful Nevilles arrive. The city is grateful, though not so grateful as before they learned he also serves the king’s heir, the fair Joan’s husband, Prince Edward. To whom is the captain loyal, they wonder? They fear. And they are silent when he only wishes to help. Benighted creatures.’

‘Dame Agnes says we are clumsy babes always tripping over our own feet because we will not look into each other’s eyes, where truth resides.’

‘A wise woman.’

Marian swiped at tears. ‘Is Ambrose a good man?’

‘He is, despite himself. A tale for another day. Tomorrow Magda must see to the lying-in of a widow bearing her only child. But Alisoun will know all that Magda has mixed for thee. She, too, is a healer, and gifted with a voice that softens her sharp wit. She is nursing thine hosts’ children. A fever threatened the lives of all three. Only last night did the last break, Hugh with the fiery hair. That, too, has shortened the captain’s temper, and Dame Lucie’s as well. She is an apothecary, but she cannot work miracles, even for her beloved children. She has of late lost an aunt. There has been much heaviness in this household. Be patient with them, tell them what they need to know, and they will be valuable allies.’ As Magda spoke, she helped Marian ease down onto the bed. ‘Sleep now.’

With a little smile, Marian closed her eyes, the anger that had simmered atop her fear abated for the moment.

Watching Lucie return from the landing, Owen invited her to the settle near the fire. He had much to tell her, about Tucker, Pit, but he touched her chin, gently turned her toward him, and began to kiss her. Forehead, cheeks, eyelids, mouth, neck.

With a soft laugh she pulled away. ‘My love, what is it?’

‘I have missed you. All the days and nights watching in the sickroom, I yearned for you. And now, when we might at last have peace, all this.’

Putting her arms round him, she kissed him back. ‘You have a good heart, my love. You were right to give her shelter. My anger was the residue of days and nights of worry.’

‘No need to explain. I knew. I felt the same.’

Holding each other close they shared now all the thoughts they dare not voice while the fever raged in the nursery. Owen felt Lucie’s heart racing, realized his beat just as wildly. He fell to kissing her to save them both from the darkness.