The Riverwoman’s Dragon

1 A Dragon, a Raven, a Newcomer

York, mid May 1375

Water was her element, despite the fiery reputation. In the liminal light of late evening she played in the River Ouse, leaving a trail of silver droplets as she arched and dove, reemerging from the peat-brown water, shaking her head, arching and diving once more, circling the rock that had been her home this long while. The ease, the grace, the joy of movement reminded Magda Digby of a time when her own body sliced through chilly waters alongside the most beautiful man she had ever known. She followed the happy memory as a scent on the wind and a taste of salt in the brown water signaled the turning of the tide in the loamy water of the Ouse. Until the gentle splash of an oar called her back to her seat in the doorway of her home on the rocky island in the Ouse. Slipping back onto the roof, the dragon gave one more shake, droplets raining down on Magda, and resumed her watch.

A coracle emerged from the fog thrown up by the dragon play. Magda wondered whether it would be Sten. For why else the recent tidal wave of memories? But he had doubtless died of old age years ago. Their son? She walked to the edge of the rock, calling to the passenger to toss her the line. As she secured it on the stake driven into the rock she noted that the river lad’s companion was too short to be Sten. Their son? Grandson? There must be a reason Sten haunted her dreams. But as he turned to toss the line she saw that her visitor had nothing to do with her distant past.

It was Sam Toller, Guthlac Wolcott’s factor, or agent for trade, his face creased with worry as he disembarked. She might guess that at last old Guthlac had let go the incompetent leech attending him and sent for her but that Sam pulsed with fear for himself, his family … and her. Perhaps the leech had stirred up more trouble? Or was she sensing Sam’s fear of the pestilence? Both, most likely.

‘I will wait for you here, Master Toller,’ the lad called.

Sam lifted a hand to acknowledge him and followed Magda to the house. He crossed himself as he passed beneath the stern visage of the dragon, then hastened across the threshold.

‘Hast thou news of thy daughter’s baby?’ Magda asked. Several weeks earlier she had guided the young wife through a long, difficult delivery, her firstborn, pitifully small with a mewling cry that bespoke a weak heart. Magda had stayed with mother and infant in their home in the north of the forest of Galtres for several nights until her husband returned from taking goods to market.

‘No. No news from Mary,’ said Sam. ‘But here.’ He thrust a small money pouch toward her. ‘She would want you to have this.’

Though Magda sensed his relief in the gesture, his shallow breathing indicated an accompanying unease. Mary might approve, but that was not her father’s purpose in coming, nor was this his or his daughter’s money. ‘Many thanks for this generous offering,’ she said. ‘Come, sit down, warm thyself.’ She drew him to a bench near the fire, poured him a bowl of ale, and handed it to him as she settled so that she might see his face in the firelight.

He tasted it, then took a longer drink. ‘Bless you. I needed this.’ He stared at the fire, his gaze taking on a faraway quality.

‘With the sickness threatening the city, thy mistress will be reminded of her little ones,’ said Magda. She spoke of Beatrice, the young wife of his employer, Guthlac Wolcott, for whom Sam harbored a strong affection. The Wolcotts’ young son and infant daughter had died of the pestilence at the end of the past summer.

Sam nodded. ‘And Guthlac’s health is failing. Yet he was hale and hardy in winter. How is it that no one speaks of what is so plain, that he began to fail the moment the leech Bernard appeared? God forgive me, but I blame Guthlac’s son for this.’ Gavin, the old merchant’s son and heir, born of an earlier marriage, a few years older than his father’s young wife and rumored to have no affection for her. ‘You would not know the old man now.’

‘Alisoun told Magda of his decline.’ Her apprentice had been shocked by the elderly Wolcott’s condition when she saw him on the street leaning heavily on the arms of his wife and a manservant. So much change in the fortnight since Magda had been in the city was indeed cause for concern. Alisoun was at present assisting in Lucie Wilton’s shop while the apothecary accompanied her husband Owen Archer to London on royal business. For convenience she was lodging in the couple’s home.

‘She must have seen him on one of his last outings,’ said Sam. ‘He no longer leaves his bed.’ He crossed himself.

‘Is it concern for thine employer that furrows thy brow?’

‘Yes, but– In truth, at present it is my concern for you. I came to warn you that the leech Bernard means you harm. He has poisoned the hearts of Guthlac and his son Gavin against you. I pray you, do not come into the city.’

‘Magda has no thought to do so. With the sickness surrounding the city she will be busy with the poor and the folk of Galtres. But rest easy, the leech Bernard will not have the leisure to think of Magda.’

‘They say Bernard demands such a high fee that few in the city can afford his services.’

‘The desperate will do so.’ She heard a timid knock on the door. ‘That will be the lad waiting with the coracle.’

‘My wife is grateful for all that you did for our daughter.’ A gentle lie, for his wife Gemma resented charity of money or spirit spent outside her home. But Sam was a kind man accustomed to compensating for his wife’s sharpness.

Magda escorted him to the door and watched as the lad rowed him back, skillfully maneuvering against the current of the outgoing tide. He was of an age with the others who assisted her, seven or eight winters, strengthened by the rowing and other work, on the cusp of being sent away from home to seek his way in the world. Her brave lads. She paid them well.

It was a busy evening on the bank. Magda noticed a man standing upstream from the spot where Sam would disembark, watching her. She had sensed this person often of late, sometimes accompanied by another, but not tonight. Another pair of watchers stood closer to the landing but farther from the bank. Hostile, menacing, but watching the coracle, not her. It seemed Sam Toller had cause to be ill at ease. She watched until he disembarked and walked away without incident.

Once alone Magda tucked the pouch of coins in a hidden place so that it might be safe until she decided who needed it most, then resumed the chopping of roots to add later to what was left of the coney stew. She was about to serve herself when Alisoun appeared, pausing in the doorway, eyes closed, inhaling, her exhale a long sigh of release.

‘Thou art troubled,’ said Magda. ‘What news from the city?’

‘A woman in All Saints parish has died of the sickness the morning after returning from her sister’s home to the south. Her husband burned all that was in their bedchamber. But God watches over them. Neither he nor the children have taken ill.’

All Saints parish lay in the center of York. ‘They have not been attacked for fear they carry the sickness?’

‘No. It is not like that this time – or not yet.’ Alisoun bent over the pot to sniff. ‘Mmm.’

‘Thou art welcome to sup with Magda.’ Kate, Owen and Lucie’s housekeeper, would feed her well, but her apprentice was fond of coney stew.

‘Gladly.’ Alisoun set her basket on the worktable, lifting out a loaf of bread. ‘Kate sent this. And I bought this for you.’ She set a jug on the worktable. ‘Tom Merchet’s ale.’ The owner of the York Tavern next to the apothecary brewed the finest ale in the north.

‘Many thanks. A bowl of the ale, then stew?’

They settled by the fire, speaking of their days, small matters, news of shared acquaintances. Alisoun’s blushes told Magda that she was enjoying her close work with Lucie’s son and apprentice, Jasper. The two had declared their love for each other several years earlier, but they were often at odds, she easily believing herself betrayed, he withdrawing into himself when uncertain of his path. It was good they were at peace for now. Yet something troubled the young woman. After some hesitation, she came to the point.

‘There is yet another new healer in the city,’ said Alisoun. ‘A woman. And the leech Bernard has turned several of our customers against us.’

‘Sam Toller spoke of him, warning Magda to stay away.’

‘I saw Sam glancing over his shoulder as he was rowed to the bank, peering into the twilight as if sensing trouble.’

‘But he departed safely?’

‘Yes, of course. Who would wish him harm?’

‘Magda noticed a pair watching him. She could not see who they were.’

Alisoun nodded absently.

‘What dost thou know about this new healer?’ asked Magda.

Alisoun drank a little of her ale, cleared her throat, and looked at a corner of the room rather than Magda. ‘A gray-haired woman, tall, walking with a cane. I have seen her on the street, not in the apothecary. She does not seem friendly. Folk say she is from Lincoln, or Peterborough, or from up on the moors. Ned Cooper says she is attending his mother since his father forbade her to come to you.’ The young man worked for Owen Archer, captain of the city bailiffs.

‘Magda is glad to hear that she has sought a healer.’ Some women transitioned out of their childbearing years with a gradual easing of the monthly cycle, a slow cessation, hardly noticed until it was gone. But such was not the lot of Ned’s mother, Celia. For the past year she had endured weeks of bleeding, an unfortunate, not uncommon way a woman’s body adjusted to the changing season of life. ‘Is she in much distress?’

‘The long bleeding comes more frequently, weakening her.’

‘This new healer is helping?’

‘Ned thinks not. He says her potions sicken Dame Celia, flushing away what little food she has managed to eat. And while she sits at his mother’s bedside the healer draws images in charcoal on paper that fill his mother with unease and give her bad dreams.’

‘What frightens her about them?’ Magda asked. She began to understand Alisoun’s unease.

‘He brought a few to show me, to see whether I agreed. There is something about them. They seem to change. Grow. I did not find them frightening, but strange.’ Alisoun handed Magda a page crowded with images, creatures and plants intertwining, spreading, twisting, seeming to grow out of the drawing and into the room.

It was as she had suspected. ‘Magda has seen such images before.’ She handed back the paper. ‘Why art thou reluctant to say her name?’

‘But I–’

‘Was it Jasper who told thee?’

Alisoun blushed. ‘I heard a rumor that she is your daughter Asa. Then I asked Jasper and he said he had heard she made no secret of it. But as you have not spoken of her–’

‘When did she arrive?’

‘I think about the time you left the city.’

Magda thought back to a gray-haired woman supporting herself on a cane. She had seen her from behind and felt a tug. But so faint.

‘She has not come to you?’ Alisoun asked.

‘No. Art thou worried she will supplant thee?’

‘She is family.’

‘She would prefer it were not so.’

‘Then why come to York?’

‘Magda does not know. But thou needst not fear. Thou art more daughter to Magda than Asa has ever been. This is thy home as long as thou wishes it.’ She rose to fetch the stew, giving her apprentice a moment to regain her composure.

While they ate, Magda led the conversation toward the proper seasoning of a coney stew and the items Alisoun should put aside in the shop for her next assignment.

Afterward, while sharing a touch of brandywine, Alisoun returned to Celia Cooper, concerned that Ned’s father, learning that Asa was Magda’s daughter, had threatened to replace her with the leech Bernard. ‘Ned has seen Guthlac Wolcott’s decline and warned his father against him, but the man is stubborn,’ said Alisoun.

Edwin Cooper was the worst of hypocrites, spouting pious nonsense and loudly condemning others for their sins while bedding the maidservants and casting them out when they became pregnant. Magda knew of this from young women who had worked in his household and come seeking her help.

‘Ned might suggest that his mother ask to go to St Clement’s Priory,’ said Magda. ‘The infirmarian has experience with women of Celia’s age. She would be safe and well cared for.’

‘Why would Edwin Cooper agree to that?’

‘Is the young woman with the red hair still serving in the household? If so, he will feel free to be with her.’

‘I see. But is that not a cruel use of her?’

‘This one is wise to his ways and uses him to her purpose,’ said Magda.

Alisoun considered for a moment. ‘I will tell Ned.’

Only as Alisoun rose to depart did she speak again of Asa. ‘She claims to be a healer. Did you train her?’

‘No. Asa believed she should be able to heal without the long study. She believed that as it was in her blood her mother must be punishing her by instructing her to study and observe, that she was hiding the craft from her. She was ever impatient with a world that did not bend to her idea of how it should be.’

‘Much like me when I first came to you.’

Magda laughed. ‘There were echoes, yes. But that was long ago and thou hast come far.’

When she was alone Magda returned to the fact that she had not sensed Asa’s presence in the city, nor had she recognized her on the street. She wondered how that connected to her rush of memories of Sten. Their children were the twins Yrsa and Odo. Asa had a different father. Was the other, more frequent watcher somehow connected to Sten? She was now quite certain it was Asa who sometimes joined him. But how would they have met? Sten and the twins had been long gone from Magda’s life when she met Asa’s father Digby. Stepping outside, she settled beneath the dragon and let the quiet of the night calm her. Only then did she go to bed.

Just before dawn the cry of an owl wakened her, its claws scratching along the roof. After a long pause, it took flight. No more sleep for her. As Magda prepared her basket of healing remedies for the day’s visits she considered who might have died in the night. But by day’s end she had heard nothing to explain the portent.

Several days passed without news of the death of which the owl had warned. Magda let it be. Nothing to do until the prophecy came clear. She continued to be curious about her watchers. The one most often about was male, she sensed cautious interest. And she was now quite certain his occasional companion was Asa, wary and angry. Whether the man was also kin she could not tell, but after sensing him she often thought of Sten. That, too, she let be. Her days were busy, and that would be so through the summer. When Lucie Wilton returned to her apothecary, likely within a fortnight, Alisoun would move on to Lucie’s family manor in the countryside south of York to care for the couple’s children, who would remain there until the manqualm quieted in York. It would ease the minds of the couple to have a competent healer in the household should the Death find the manor. Magda was happy for Alisoun to go, but her absence meant she would continue to care for folk outside the city by herself. Just yesterday a family north of Easingwold had been struck, an infant sickening in the morning, dead by nightfall. The news spread quickly. Magda had learned of it as she began her rounds.

In late afternoon, with her physicks dispensed, roots and herbs gathered, Magda turned toward home. But she did not hurry. The warmth of the day enfolded her in a pleasurable caress, inviting her to stray off the path here and there in search of tender shoots she might have missed. A cluster of coltsfoot in the ruins of an old shed rewarded her. Humming to herself and absorbed in harvesting the bright plants, she did not feel the weather shift until the wind whipped her skirts about her legs as she turned back toward the forest track. A briny wind. Glancing up, she saw the canopy of trees being whipped by the gusts, though there was blue sky beyond. Clear now, but not for long.

Caw! A beady eye studied her from an overhanging branch. Caw! Caw! Raven. When Asa was a child, Raven had watched out for her. Caw! With a ruffling of feathers, the bird rose to the sky just visible through the woodland canopy. Magda quickened her pace, all temptation to step off the path in search of plants gone with the wind and the raven.

By the time Magda emerged from beneath the cover of trees into the fields before the abbey walls, clouds chased the blue westward, chilling the air. Caw! Caw! Raven tacked into the wind. Tucking the basket beneath her cloak, Magda continued to the riverbank opposite her home. One of the lads hailed her, offering to row her to the rock.

‘Magda will go by foot,’ she said. The tide was coming in, but it was not yet so high. ‘Take thyself home. Shelter from the storm.’ She tucked her skirts up into her girdle and put her shoes in her basket.

Caw!

She crossed over the shallow water using the smooth river stones pressed into the mud to afford a reasonably dry walkway. Once on the rocky outcrop she paused, watching Raven fight against the sharp east wind to at last alight on her dragon. Raven’s battle with the storm reminded Magda of her daughter; so Asa had ever been, fighting against the elements, against anything.

Gazing out over the water, Raven fluffed her feathers, turning one eye, then the other on the Ouse, where the storm whipped the incoming tide into a boiling surge from the sea. Caw! Caw!

‘Is Asa threatened by the storm?’

Raven did not respond.

Nor did Magda sense that her daughter waited within the house. Shaking out her skirts, she took shelter in her snug home.

All night wind and rain battered the house while the fire within snapped and chuckled, the varied woods in conversation. Now and then Magda dipped her finger in a cup of goat’s milk and fed it to the kitten curled up in a basket on the edge of the table, the runt of a litter who had been handed to her by a young girl when she returned at midday. Magda had been given the goat’s milk in payment just hours before. Nature’s balance. Hungrier now, mewing for more, the kitten wobbled about in the basket, her gray, tan, and white asymmetrical markings reminding Magda of her own patchwork clothing.

‘Thou’rt eager to thrive, little one,’ Magda murmured. The kitten rubbed its head against her hand. The child would not return, her family would forbid it. No matter. A home would be found. ‘Thou hast a good appetite.’ From a shelf she plucked an old cloth glove that was missing several fingers. With a snip, it lost another. Filling it with some milk, she held it to the tiny mouth. The makeshift nipple was soon suckled dry. ‘Enough for now.’

Magda settled to work, humming as she ground nuts and roots for a broth that sustained her when busy, kept in a small jug she carried with her as she traveled in her donkey cart to the farthest reaches of Galtres, her primary visitation routes. The cart and donkey were a treasured gift from Old Crow, the late John Thoresby, Archbishop of York. Her good friend in the end. He had not always been so.

A neighbor kept the cart and donkey for her, and when Alisoun was not available to groom Nip, her name for the ever-hungry being, the neighbor’s daughter did so. For her, Magda prepared a tisane to ease the child’s tremors, the result of a head injury when young. As the girl grew and explored the world the tremors were easing, but not yet gone, and she hid from the world in fear that folk would think her cursed or possessed by a devil. Foolish ideas from the same source as made some folk fearful of Magda’s skills as a healer. The Church taught intolerance for the mysteries that did not serve it, and the people suffered. Turning her mind back to the child, Magda added angelica for sweetness.

A gust of wind found the chink between the door and the sill, sending the fire dancing. The kitten mewed. Magda found her trembling, and after feeding her another nipple full of the goat’s milk she tucked her in her basket bed and softly sang as she stroked her asleep. Despite the storm, a peaceful moment, an evening of contentment. When she had prepared all that she needed for the next day’s planned visitations, Magda lifted the kitten from her basket and held her on her lap while enjoying a cup of spiced wine in the fire’s warmth. As they sat, the kitten purring, Magda’s thoughts drifted to Wicket, the kitten with whom she’d slept as a small child, the being with whom she’d shared her dreams, her fears, her secrets. ‘Perhaps thou hast come to share Magda’s bed once more?’ Setting aside her empty cup, Magda sprinkled sand over the fire so that it would die down, and slipped into bed with the kitten.

As she drifted off to sleep she sensed Raven on her shoulder, whispering of another who had slept with kittens long ago, and other small beings she would spend the day drawing. Flowers also Asa had drawn, covering the walls of the house with fantastical bouquets and vines out of which peeked the young beings she nursed to health. She created beauty, yet believed she had no gifts. A contrary child, always preferring what others had, certain all had more than she. From what she had seen of her present art, Magda guessed that Asa now drew what she sensed roiling the minds of the ill, but had not learned to draw from memory once she had left the patient’s presence and then burn the nightmare to release that which poisoned the spirit. A mistake a teacher would have caught and corrected.

Sometime in the night Magda woke from a troubled sleep, thinking of the bank across from the swans’ nest. She had dreamt a body floated there, swollen from time in the Ouse. In the morning she would walk the bank to see whether she dreamed true. The kitten mewed and touched her face with both front paws. Stroking her gently, Magda returned to sleep.

After feeding the kitten in the early morning, Magda walked upriver to the place in her dream. Father Swan glided by, a ghostly grace in the rising river mist, looking back toward something snagged by a fallen log that was in turn trapped by willow roots along the bank. She found the bloated corpse of Sam Toller, eyeless, one hand shredded, a wreck of the appendage with which he might in life have grasped on to the log and pulled himself from the waters. She guessed he had snagged on the log before the storm dislodged it and carried it here.

She bowed her head, thanking River for carrying him to a place where he might be found, grieved, put to rest. May his spirit be at peace. She remembered his daughter Mary speaking of him with deep affection. A kind, generous man, a caring father. She would take a calming draught to Mary when next she traveled north past Easingwold. And if his death proved no accident, may those responsible be brought to account.

Magda sensed her male watcher behind her. Not Asa. Today he was wary, as if unsure of her, even frightened, but also curious, almost eager. He stood beneath the trees a few strides from the bank, revealing himself with a movement as she stepped close to the water. Though she did not turn she felt him stretch out his arms as if to steady her, but stopped short of touching her. He might of course mean to push her in. He had been watching when Sam left her home, and the mix of curiosity and fear suggested this, that he might realize she could implicate him.

‘Thou wouldst offer to assist this old woman in pulling the body from the river?’ she asked as she turned to face him.

A step backward, brows pulled down in a frown, eyes wary. ‘I thought you might need help.’

The young man was a stranger and yet familiar. She studied him as well as she could, with him still shadowed by the trees. He was not yet twenty years, she thought. Healthy. Ah. Now she saw it. It was the eyes. He was kin, of that she now had no doubt. That did not ensure he meant her no harm, but she was not worried. She smiled at him, hearing his name in her mind.

‘You smile in the presence of death?’ he asked.

‘The dead take no offense.’

‘You are not frightened?’

‘Art thou? The dead cannot harm thee.’

He returned the smile. ‘You are all they say you are.’

‘They? Thou hast asked about the Riverwoman?’ She waved off his attempt to answer. ‘No matter. There is no need to assist now. The coroner must see him where he lies. Wilt thou watch him? See that he does not float away?’

‘I– Yes, of course. For how long?’

‘Not long.’ With a nod, she left him.

Returning to the shanties of the poor, she chose the eldest of a clutch of lads who came out to see whether she had work for them this day. ‘Go to Crispin Poole’s home on Coney Street. What was the Swann home. Say that Dame Magda has need of the coroner of Galtres.’

The lad took off, several of the younger ones trailing after him. Those who remained asked what had happened, was there a body. ‘In good time.’ Calling the youngest to her, a lad called Twig who often helped her with animals, she asked whether he might care for a kitten while she was away for the day. ‘A half penny and a potion for thy dam.’ Beaming, he followed her across the still ebbing tide. She instructed him in the feeding of the little one, then left him cradling her as she fetched the basket she had filled for her day’s visitations and departed. She would not neglect the sick for a dead man. Her part in the morning’s grim discovery would soon be complete.

Back on the bank she thanked her watcher and advised him to go on about his day. ‘Thou art welcome in the dragon’s house any time. This evening after sunset would suit Magda. Come with an appetite. Asa is also welcome.’

‘How did you–?’

‘Magda has sensed thee watching, sometimes with Asa. After sunset, Einar.’

‘You know my name? Asa came to you after all?’

He might be kin, her daughter Yrsa’s grandson, judging by the eyes, but he was not gifted with the knowing of names. She would be curious to learn whether he carried any of the gifts passed down through her own or Sten’s families.

‘No. She has not yet come to see Magda. Go now.’

She kept her ears pricked until she could tell he was well away upriver, then settled on the remnants of a stone wall to await Crispin Poole, welcoming the memories stirred by the encounter. In the brown water of the Ouse she saw a child frightened by the fear in her father’s eyes when he chided her for greeting a stranger by name. She had not understood, her mother having never told her this was a gift others did not share. She had not known she was different until that day when her father tucked her behind him as he told her mother of the incident. Never tell anyone outside the village that you hear their names. She saw her mother’s fear. They will curse you. She had not known it to be a gift not all healers shared, had not known to ask. It seemed a useless knowing. A name told one little about a person, least of all what ailed them. But later she had understood – men considered a name a thing of power.

Low voices on the bank warned of two men approaching. Coroner and bailiff. She was pleased that Crispin Poole had collected the bailiff George Hempe on the way.

Rising to greet them, she gestured toward the body. ‘Sam Toller.’

Both men crossed themselves and bowed their heads for a moment, then Poole bent for a closer look at the body in the willow roots, asking whether she was certain it was Sam.

‘She’s right. I recognize the tunic,’ said Hempe. ‘And the hair.’ Long strands of brown billowed out from the ruined face. Sam had worn his thick brown hair long for a man of the city, a vanity.

‘How did you find him?’ Poole asked.

‘Dost thou see the nest on the far bank? Each year this pair returns to birth their young. They have become friends. Magda walked out to see how they fared in the storm. The body was where thou seest it.’ No need to speak of the dream.

Poole grunted as he straightened. ‘Death by drowning. Looks as if he’s been in the water a few days.’

‘No one has seen him for two days,’ said Hempe. ‘His wife has been worried.’

‘He came to see Magda three evenings ago,’ she said, ‘bringing a gift for seeing his daughter safely through a hard birthing. He did not stay long.’

‘Perhaps in the river ever since then,’ said Poole. ‘Was the tide in when he left you?’

‘Flood tide it was. But Magda watched him cross back to the bank in a coracle steered by one of the lads. It was not yet dark. Does Gemma Toller say he never returned home?’

‘She says he told her in the morning that he would be late returning home,’ said Hempe, ‘and she did not see him again. Ah, here they are,’ Hempe waved to a pair of young men approaching, carrying cloth and ropes.

Ned Cooper greeted Magda with warmth. ‘My mother is safely at St Clement’s. My father could not refuse her wish to give herself up to God for healing. Not after condemning you and Asa for worshipping false gods. My mother and I are grateful to you. But I–’

With the others hovering, Magda patted his arm. ‘Good. That is good.’ She stepped back.

The other young man nodded to her, mumbling something respectful, but clearly eager to see the body. Until he wasn’t. Hand to mouth, he hurried away into the brush to lose his breakfast.

‘I thought it time he was blooded,’ said Hempe with an apologetic wince. ‘Ned, take Peter to find some stout branches so you can carry the body back to town.’

Once they had pulled Sam from the river, Poole declared the cause of death uncertain – the damage to the back of his head was such as to be unlikely to have been caused by drowning. Floating debris in the rushing waters of a tidal swell might do such damage, but unlikely unless he were vertical in the water. Far more likely someone hit him, then threw him into the river. To Magda’s eyes the latter was a certainty. Sam had been murdered.

‘I wish Archer were here,’ said Poole.

‘Thy friend is on the road home,’ said Magda.

‘I am glad to hear it. Close enough to delay the burial?’

‘No. Permit his widow to bury him. Thou canst record what Archer should see.’

‘Peter can sketch the body for him,’ said Hempe. ‘Another reason to include him. I’ve had a bad feeling about Sam’s sudden absence.’

With a nod, Magda took up her basket and set off down the path toward her next visit.

‘Dame Magda.’ Ned caught up with her, drawing her into the trees where they might not be watched. ‘I must tell you about your daughter Asa.’

Remembering Raven’s struggle, she said, ‘She did not depart thy home in peace.’

‘After she had been warned away my father found her at my mother’s bedside. Gossiping about Bernard the leech and Guthlac Wolcott’s decline. Wolcott is a good customer for father’s barrels, and two warehousemen were below fetching some for him. I arrived as father chased Asa down the stairs calling her Satan’s spawn, the Devil’s own, accusing her of spreading rumors about a Godfearing leech and the Wolcotts. He knocked her cane out of her hands. She clutched the banister but started to fall and I rushed to help her. I caught her cane and threatened my father with it if he interfered. I’ve challenged him before. He knew I would not hesitate to carry out the threat. So he kept his distance. Raining curses down on both of us, of course. I helped her out of the yard but she shook me off once out on the street. Preferred to limp off on her own. Later I heard she had been attacked by two men, but onlookers had chased them off. They say she was hurt, falling badly on one leg as she walked away.’

Magda had listened with eyes closed. Now she nodded. ‘Hast thou seen her?’

‘No. Her landlady said she wished to be left in peace.’

‘Hast thou told anyone else of this?’

‘Hempe knows. I told him the whole story when I asked him if he knew where I might stay.’

‘Thy father banished thee?’

‘Again. My sisters will beg him to forgive me. But this time … Now that my mother is safe …’ He gestured as if well away.

Magda knew that Celia Cooper was often the victim of her husband’s temper. ‘What of thy sisters? Will he now turn on them?’

‘Their husbands would not tolerate it, and my elder brother’s wife knows how to appease my father.’

‘Thou hast found lodging?’

‘Dame Lotta insisted I bide with them.’

Hempe’s wife. Magda smiled, patted his shoulder. ‘Good. Many thanks for the news.’

‘Dame Magda, I am worried for you.’

‘Sam Toller was as well. There is no need. Folk will not cross Magda’s dragon.’

‘But what of during the day when you are walking about?’

‘Magda trusts that she will sense danger approaching. Her weapon is her knowledge of Galtres, every path and track, where it is dangerous to tread, the hidden places. See to thine own safety. Now go. Hempe will be looking for thee.’

She set off on her rounds. Asa might appear on her doorstep this night, and she wished to be ready for her. But her work came first.

At sunset, Magda’s guests used the coracle to cross though the water was not yet high. Stepping outside as it touched the rock, Magda saw Raven circling overhead – she who flies against the wind. Against all. So Asa had come. Raven cawed three times and flew off.

Einar helped his gray-haired companion climb out onto the rock. She stumbled against him, then struggled to straighten on her own. She suffered, but she would not bend to it.

‘Welcome. It has been a long while, Asa,’ said Magda.

‘A long while,’ Asa said through her teeth.

‘Thou art injured?’

‘I am old.’ Not a lie. Asa gestured to her companion. ‘You have met my son Einar?’

Though his eyes were unlike Asa’s, and his mouth prone to smiles, the dark hair and long nose were like hers. Still, Magda knew what she knew.

‘Dame Magda.’ Einar bowed.

‘Go within while Magda speaks to the lad who brought thee across.’ She would have need of Twig in the morning. ‘How didst thou fare with the kitten, Twig?’

He grinned. ‘She likes the milk. I sat out in the sun with her a while this afternoon. She slept on my lap.’

Magda gave him a penny for his day’s work. ‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yes, Dame Magda!’

‘Have one of the lads await the guests’ departure in a few hours.’

‘I will.’

Stepping within and shutting the door, she invited her guests to help themselves to the ale she had set out, and the pot of stew. Einar served Asa, then himself while Magda saw to the kitten, who drank well.

‘Your kitten?’ Einar asked as Magda helped herself to food and drink.

‘Mayhap.’ She took a seat across from the young man, Asa between them.

‘I have long wished to meet you, Dame Magda,’ he said.

‘Asa spoke of Magda to thee?’

‘It was my father who told me of you.’

‘Magda knows him?’ She guessed that his father was Yrsa’s son. Or perhaps Odo’s, though he would know little about Magda. He had been very young when Sten left with him.

‘No, he never met you, but he heard much of you.’

‘From thy dam?’ Magda asked, smiling at Asa, who would not meet her eyes.

Einar shrugged.

Magda sensed a deep, restless force held in check. Disciplined. Unlike Asa, though much like his grandmother, if she was right about Yrsa. Asa had ever been headstrong, impatient … Magda stopped the thoughts. Better to rein in judgement. Life might have taught Asa the wisdom of temperance.

‘I took it upon myself to set the kettle over the fire,’ said Asa. ‘Would you prepare me a soothing tisane?’

‘Thy leg is painful.’ Magda knew better than to mention the attack. Asa must choose whether or not to speak of it.

‘All my bones. The long walk, the coming storm …’

Magda set aside her bowl and fetched a powder, mixed it with hot water and wine, proffered the cup to Asa.

Her daughter placed a hand over Magda’s and closed her eyes. Magda felt her reach out, and did as well, a mutual sensing that continued long enough to enable her to assess the extent of her daughter’s injuries. A bruised arm, sore neck and shoulder, but the worst of it was the already injured leg, and her feet. She was most curious about the feet. This was an older, ongoing trouble.

With a murmured thanks, Asa freed Magda’s hand and sipped. ‘You are much as I remember.’ A familiar bitterness in the low, arresting voice. Magda had never been to her daughter’s liking. Knowing that her mother had uncanny gifts, she had hungered for signs of it in herself. From early youth Asa drew, later painted, landscapes to hold the eyes, then the heart and mind. Magda praised her gift, but the child felt it a paltry thing. She could not see how her drawings affected people – for good or ill. She scoffed at Magda’s attempts to advise her to hold it close, making use of it only when nothing else would suffice. But the child said anyone could draw and blamed her mother for keeping her true gift from her.

‘Magda is glad to see thee.’

A dark laugh. ‘Are you?’

‘If thou dost doubt it, why hast thou come?’

‘A question for a question for a question.’ Asa eyed her warily, yet her weariness softened the challenge.

‘Magda has sensed thee near. Art thou lodging in the city?’

‘I have been. But Einar has offered to share his lodgings.’

Magda looked to him.

‘Old Shep’s house. A villager upriver told me that his friend had died and left the house empty.’

‘A good choice,’ said Magda. It was near the river in a copse that hid it from curious eyes– Shep had his reasons. ‘Art thou in need of anything? Cushions? Blankets?’

‘Einar has been to market,’ said Asa. ‘But another blanket would be welcome.’

Her guests were wary, taking care with their words, sometimes glancing at each other, as if easing toward their purpose, fearful lest they say too much too soon. They spoke of the body in the river. Magda added little to Einar’s description, admitting only to knowing Sam Toller. Some additional talk of the city, nothing of substance.

Uninterested in their dance, Magda rose. ‘While Magda sees to the little one, decide who will explain thy purpose in coming to York.’ She went to her worktable, taking her time preparing the nipple of milk, then resumed her seat, the kitten in her arms, and bent to the feeding.

‘I was always the one to care for the animals,’ Asa noted.

Magda said nothing, waiting for more, giving her attention to the life in her arms. Already she felt the bond, her own heart softening. Holda, she thought, the wise one.

‘In Peterborough folk talked of pestilence, the certainty that this was the summer it would return, and I regretted waiting so long to come to you,’ said Asa.

Einar mouthed the word Peterborough with a frown.

‘And thou didst wait again once here,’ Magda said, softly, without censure.

‘The journey was difficult for me,’ said Asa. ‘I needed to rest before coming to you. And to understand how it went with you. I know that I come asking for your help when you have little time.’

‘Help for thy leg?’

‘It is an old injury made worse by a recent fall. For a long while I have eased the pain so that I might continue my work. But the comfort is now my curse.’ She nodded to Einar, who knelt to her, removing her boots. Black toes.

‘Thou hast eased thy pain with willow bark,’ said Magda. Far too much. As a healer, she would have been aware of the danger.

‘Yes.’

‘Magda trusts there was none in the physick for Celia Cooper.’

Asa hissed. ‘No. I know better. Who told you I attended Dame Celia?’

‘Her son. The one who helped thee.’

‘Then you know her husband attacked me.’

‘And that thou wast beaten afterward by two men. The same two who had been in Cooper’s yard and heard what Edwin said to thee?’

‘I did not notice them.’

‘A pity.’ Magda lifted a hand to stop Asa when she would defend herself. ‘Magda is not blaming thee. She would that thine enemies be apprehended.’

‘Thee, thine, never using me and I– I wish you would speak as others do.’

Gently Magda drew the nipple from the sleeping kitten, smiling down on her, grateful for her presence. Thou wilt be Magda’s balance, Holda. Meeting Asa’s petulant gaze, she said, ‘Rest. The blood must be allowed to drain from thy feet. A careful, gradual change in the physick to thicken the blood, but slowly. Thou wilt move little for a time. Better for thee to bide here rather than Old Shep’s.’

Relief softened Asa’s expression. So great had been her fear. Perhaps the journey from wherever she had been revealed to her the folly of her stubbornness. And the attack. This would not be easy. Magda knew her daughter, knew that soon she would regret revealing her weakness. Yet Magda was a healer.

‘I did not wish to intrude,’ said Asa. ‘You have little room.’

‘Easier if thou art here.’

‘And Einar?’

‘Magda prefers to keep a bed ready for one in need.’

‘Of course,’ said Einar. ‘I am settled in Shep’s cottage. It is close if I am needed.’

For what? Magda wondered. The young man interested her. It seemed he meant to bide there awhile, which meant he’d had his own purpose in seeking out Magda, something beyond escorting Asa.

‘That young woman who comes,’ said Asa, ‘the brown-haired one, is she your helper? Would I be taking her bed?’

‘Alisoun is Magda’s apprentice. She will not be needing her bed here for a while.’

‘But with the sickness coming–’

‘Others need her more at present.’

‘Perhaps I might attend you on your rounds, be of some use,’ said Asa.

‘Not until thou art out of danger.’ Even then … Asa had ever been a lazy healer, preferring to satisfy her patients with spells and charms – the very things to stoke the fires of the pious against herself and Magda. Indeed it appeared she had already caused suspicion with her drawing. And considering her incautious use of willow bark … No. Magda would not be so foolish as to accept her daughter’s offer. But that confrontation could wait.

‘What of the dead man?’ Einar asked. ‘You seemed to know the men who came. Will they tell the people in the city it was you who raised the hue and cry? Will there be trouble?’

‘Nothing Magda cannot bear.’

‘If I can help in any way,’ he said.

‘Do not worry.’ She returned her attention to Asa, who stretched her blackened toes toward the fire. ‘Dost thou accept Magda’s plan?’

‘With gratitude.’ She looked up at Magda. ‘Do not look so surprised. I am grateful. I have given you little cause to love me. Though I did bring your grandson to meet you.’

Einar rose. ‘I will fetch your things, Dame Asa.’

Asa reached for his hand, pressing it, but not in thanks, in warning.

Magda returned to her workbench, settling Holda in her basket so that she might gather what she needed for Asa’s treatment. Her daughter might deny her suffering, but Magda would do what she could to ease it.

‘Do you need help?’ Asa asked.

‘No. Rest now, daughter. Rest.’ She would need her strength. Magda saw far more suffering for her daughter in the days ahead.