The Wise Woman

Twenty-four

Alys was alone in her bedroom when the others came up to the gallery. She heard them talking and laughing, she heard the clink of jug on pewter. She sat by her little fireside, her door firmly shut, and listened to them playing a card game as Eliza sang. Then the chatter died down as one by one the women excused themselves and went to their room. Alys listened for Hugo's voice and heard him call 'Goodnight' to one of them. She sat by her fireside and waited. He did not come to her.

In the early hours of the morning, when the darkness was still thick and the moon was setting in the west, Alys wrapped a shawl around her and crept across her floor to the door. She opened it and peeped out. The fire in the long gallery had died down, the ashes cold. Catherine's door was shut. There was no sound.

Alys paused for a moment by the hearth and remembered the time when she had sat there absorbed in her longing for Hugo and he had come from Catherine's room and put his arm around her and told her that he loved her. Alys shrugged. It was a long, long time ago. Before Morach's death, before her deep magic had come to claim her, before she had played the wanton with him – and had him take her at her word.

She crept to Catherine's door and turned the handle gently. Opening it a crack, she could hear deep rhythmic breathing. She slid through the door like a ghost and peered into the room. The room was dark. All the candles were out and the fire had died away in the darkened grate. The little window faced the castle courtyard and garden and no moonlight shone. Alys blinked her eyes, trying to see through the shadows.

In the great high bed was Catherine, sprawled on her back with her high belly making a mountain of the covers. One arm was thrown carelessly above her head; Alys could see the thick clump of dark hair in her armpit. The other arm was cradling the man lying beside her. Alys stepped a little closer to see. It was Hugo. He was deep asleep, lying on his side with his head buried into Catherine's neck, his arm thrown proprietorially over her body. They lay like a married couple. They lay like lovers. Alys watched them without moving while they breathed steadily and peacefully. She watched them as if she would suck the breath out of their bodies and destroy them with the weight of her jealousy and disappointment. Hugo stirred in his sleep and said something. It was not Alys' name.

Catherine smiled, even in the darkness Alys could see the calm joy of Catherine's sleepy smile, and gathered him closer. Then they lay still again.

Alys closed the door silently, and crept back, across the empty, cold gallery to her own room, shut the door behind her, drew her chair up to the fire, wrapped her shawl around her and waited for day to come.

In the half-light of dawn, before the sun was up but while the sky was pale yellow with the promise of sunshine to come, Alys went over and opened the chest of her magic things. Tucked away in the corner was Morach's old bag of bones – the runes.

Alys glanced behind her. Her bedroom door was shut, no one in the castle was stirring. She glanced out of the arrow-slit window. In the pale light she could see strips of mist hovering and rising from the silver surface of the river. As she watched they rose and billowed. One of them looked like a woman, an old woman with grey hair and a shawl wrapped around her.

'No,' Alys whispered, as she recognized her. 'I am not calling you. I will use your runes for I need to know my future. But I am not calling you. Stay in the water. Stay out of sight. You and I will both know when your time comes.'

She watched the mist until it billowed and ebbed and lay fiat and quiet again, and then she turned from the arrow-slit and sat on the rug before the fire.

She shook the bag like a gambler shakes dice and then flung them all out before her. Without looking at the marks she picked three, carefully considering each choice, her hand hovering over one and then moving to another.

'My future,' she said. 'Hugo uses me as his whore and now I am nothing here. There must be more for me. Show me my future.'

She spread the three of her choice before her, one beside another, and gathered the others into their purse again. 'Now,' she said.

The first one she had drawn was face down. The back was blank and she turned it over. The front was blank as well. 'Odin,' she said surprised. 'Nothingness. Death.' The second was blank. She turned it over, and then turned it over again. 'It is not possible; there aren't two blank runes,' Alys whispered to herself. 'There is only one blank rune. All the rest are marked.' She flipped over the third. It was smooth and plain on both sides, one side as empty as the other. Alys sat very still with the three faceless runes in her hand.

Then she raised her head and looked towards the arrow-slit. The mist quivered as it lay on the river, quivered and formed the shape of a resting woman. 'You knew,' Alys said in a low whisper towards the mist. 'You told me, but I did not hear. Death, you said. Death in the runes. And I asked you "how long?" and you would not tell me. Now your runes are blank for me too.'

She tipped out the purse. The other bones spilled out on to the floor. Each one was smooth and as innocent of any mark as an old polished skull.

Alys shuddered, as if the cold river water was pressing around her, as if the green deep wetness of it was coming up to her chin, lapping over her mouth. She gathered the runes together with one hasty gesture, slung them into the bag, and tossed the bag into the corner of the chest. Then, with her shawl wrapped tight around her, she crept into bed. She could not sleep for shivering.

Hugo went out riding at first light, Catherine slept late. The women in the gallery eyed Alys sideways when she came out of her room, her face serene, her red cloak around her shoulders.

'I'm going up to the moors,' she said to Eliza. ‘I need some more herbs for Catherine. Is she sleeping still?'

'Yes,' Eliza said. 'When will you be back?'

Alys looked at her coldly. 'I shall be home in time for supper,' she said. 'I will take my dinner with me and picnic out on the moors.'

'I'll come with you to the stables,' Eliza said.

She and Alys went down the stairs, across the hall and out of the great door to the gardens. Eliza trotted to keep pace with Alys as they walked through the gateway, over the bridge and across the grass to the stables.

'It's a pretty mare,' Eliza said enviously as the stable-boy brought Alys' new pony out.

'Yes,' Alys said with grim satisfaction. 'Yes, she is. She was expensive.' She snapped her fingers to the stable-lad. 'Fetch me some food from the kitchen. I'll dine on my own on the moors.' The lad dipped a bow and ran off.

'Hugo slept with Catherine all night,' Eliza said in a confidential undertone, watching the lad run to the kitchen door. 'I know,' Alys said coldly. 'Has he turned away from you now?' Eliza asked. Alys shook her head. 'I am carrying his son,' she said coldly. 'My place is safe.'

Eliza looked at her with something very close to pity. Alys caught the look and felt herself flush.

'What is it?' she demanded. 'What are you staring at?' 'You'd have been safer married to that soldier Lady Catherine picked out for you,' Eliza said shrewdly. 'If you wanted to know where you were with a man, he would have been the one for you. Hugo is as changeable as weather. Now he's back with Catherine again, next it'll be another woman. You can't ever call yourself safe if you trust in Hugo.'

The stable-lad was running back with a small leather bag in his hand. He tied it to the saddle and brought the mare forward. 'He bought this for me, didn't he?' Alys said to Eliza, pointing to the pony. 'And I have a chest full of gowns. And I am carrying his son in my belly. I am safe enough here, aren't I?'

Eliza shrugged, holding Alys' herb sack while the lad helped her up. 'He's fickle,' she said again. 'A woman who lives as a whore should keep a big bag of savings. It's a chance-made business. You've ridden very high, Alys, but I think you're coming down now.'

'Mistress Alys to you!' Alys flared. She shook out the skirts of her red gown, smoothed the rich embroidered overskirt, and gathered her reins in her hand. She looked down at Eliza as if she were a beggar at the gates and Alys a fine lady. 'I am Mistress Alys to you,' she said again.

Eliza shrugged her shoulders. 'Not any more, I reckon,' she said. 'I reckon you're falling, Alys. I reckon you are on your way down.'

Alys wheeled the mare around, her face set, and kicked her towards the castle gateyard. As she trotted past the soldiers they shouldered their pikes in a salute but Alys looked neither left nor right. Down the little hill of Castleton she spurred the pony and then around the base of the cliffs at the foot of the castle to cross the bridge over the river and up to the moors. She did not pull up the pony until they were on the far side of the river-bank and it was blowing hard and out of breath. Then she drew rein and looked back at the castle, grey and lovely in the summer sunlight. Alys stared at it, as if she would swallow it up, gobble the whole place to sate her hunger, lords, ladies, servants and all.

Then she turned the pony around and headed up for the moorland.

She had not planned to ride to Morach's cottage, she had headed west from the castle, heading for the moors without any sense of purpose. The herb bag had been an excuse but as the hedges fell away from the side of the road and the land became more wild Alys saw a little clump of windflowers on the side of the road and pulled up the horse. She slid from the saddle and picked them, wrapped them in dock leaves, and then, leading the horse by the reins, she walked down through the field towards the river, watching the thick meadow grass under her feet for any other herbs or flowers she could use.

The river was at its summertime ebb, sluggishly winding along the stone slabs, standing still in deep brown peaty pools, disappearing down the cracks of the river bed and then welling up in a narrow drying stream a few yards on. A redshank flew up from a pool calling and calling a clear sweet sound. Further downriver the water would have drained from Morach's grave, her body would be rotting, busy with flies. Alys shrugged and turned her thoughts away from it.

Alys walked along the river-bank, leading her horse, watching the banks for herbs and for the innocent faces of the small meadow flowers. The smell of wild thyme was sweet and heady, the harebells stirred as the steady ceaseless moorland breeze breathed through them. The little darkfaced Pennine violets bobbed as the red skirts of Alys' long gown brushed them. Away on the higher ground, white, mauve and blue clouds of lady's-smock swayed together on their long stems. Alys walked as if she could walk away from loneliness, walk away from need, walk away from the love of her life which had turned sour as soon as she had twisted it to serve her purpose.

With her little mare dawdling behind her, Alys walked, wishing she were far away from the castle, far away from Hugo, far away from her own ceaseless ambition. Alys walked, her eyes watchful for healing herbs, her mind at a loss as to her next step. God had failed her, love had failed her, magic had entrapped her. Alys, sure-footed on the familiar paths, was lost. All she could still feel was her hunger to survive – as keen and as vivid as ever; and behind that her old grief for her mother – Mother Hildebrande – that stayed with her, sharp and alive even when the runes read blank and Alys was as unsighted as any ordinary woman. On the clear sun-filled day, with larks climbing as high as heaven and lapwings calling and curlews crying, Alys walked alone in her own world of darkness, coldness and need.

She stopped abruptly. She had walked nearly as far as the deep pool before Morach's old cottage. She shaded her eyes against the bright morning sunlight and looked up the lull towards it. It was in the same state that it had always been. The stone-slated roof looked ready to slide off into a heap, the one tiny horn window was dark and abandoned. No smoke eddied from the window or the door. Alys walked towards it and tied her horse to the hawthorn bush laden with creamy-white sickly flowers at the garden wall. She hitched up her skirt and climbed through the little sheep gap. Morach's vegetables were sprouting, burdened with weeds, in their bed. Alys stared at them for a moment, remembering that she had planted them, all those months ago in the autumn. It seemed odd that Morach should be dead, long dead, and yet her turnips were growing in their bed. The front door was unfastened; the little hook had never held it firm, it was banging in the light breeze. Alys guessed that the bravest of children from Bowes village might have pushed open the door to look inside and then scattered, breathless with terror. None of them would have dared go nearer.

'I dare,' Alys said aloud. But she stayed, waiting on the outside.

The door squeaked and banged. Inside the cottage something softly rustled. Alys thought that there would be rats in the cottage, grown fat on Morach's seed store, nesting in the rags of her bed. Alys waited on the doorstep, almost as if she expected to hear Morach's irritable voice calling her to stop dawdling and come in. The rustling noise in the cottage had stopped. Still Alys paused, delayed pushing open the door, stepping over the threshold. Then, as she hesitated, she clearly heard the noise of someone moving. Someone moving, inside the cottage. Not a rat, not the rustle of a small animal. Alys heard footsteps, someone walking heavily and slowly across the floor.

Involuntarily Alys stepped back, her hand reaching behind her for the reins of her horse. The footsteps inside the cottage paused. Alys opened her mouth to call out, but no sound came. The horse dipped its head, its ears pressed back as if it smelled Alys' fear and the Uncanny eerie smell of death from the cottage.

There was another noise, a dragging noise, like someone pulling a stool up to the fireside. Bright in Alys' mind was the image of Morach, dripping with river water, blue with cold, her skin puffy and soggy from months underwater, climbing out of her cave as the river level sank, walking wetly upstream to her cottage und pulling her stool up to her cold fireside to hold her white waterlogged hands towards the empty grate. A damp smell of death seemed to swirl outwards from the cottage. Alys imagined Morach's half-rotten body decaying as she walked, falling off her bones as she waited for Alys to come to her. As she waited in the darkness of the cottage for Alys to open the door.

Alys gave a little moan of terror. Morach was indoors waiting for her and the moment of reckoning between the two of them was to be now. If Alys turned and fled she knew she would hear the swift squelch of rotting feet running behind her and then feel the icy cold touch of fingers on her shoulder.

With a cry of terror Alys stepped forward, wrenched open the door, and flung it wide. At once her worst nightmares became real.

She had not imagined the noise.

She had not imagined the footsteps.

In the shadowy cottage she could see the figure of a woman seated before the fireplace, a stooped figure of a woman shrouded in her cloak. As the door banged open she slowly straightened up and turned around.

Alys screamed, a breathless, choked-off scream. In the darkness of the cottage she could see no face. All she could see was the hooded woman rising to her feet and coming nearer and nearer; coming towards her and stepping over the threshold so the sun shone full on her face. Alys half closed her eyes, waiting for the glimpse of ghastly blue puffy flesh, waiting for the stink of a drowned corpse.

It was not Morach. The woman was taller than Morach had been. The face she turned to Alys was white, aged and lined with pain. Half-hidden by the hood of her cloak was a thick mane of white hair. Her eyes were grey. Her hands, stretched out to Alys, were thin and freckled with age spots. They shook as if she were sick with the palsy.

'Please…' was all she said. 'Please…

'Who are you?' Alys said wildly, her voice high with terror. 'I thought you were Morach! Who are you? What are you doing here?'

The woman trembled all over. 'I am sorry,' she said humbly. Her voice was cracked with age or grief but her speech was slow and sweet. 'Forgive me. I thought this place was empty. I was seeking… „'

Alys stepped closer, her anger flowing into her like hot wine reviving her. 'You've no right to be here!' she shouted. "This place is not empty. It is no shelter for beggars und paupers. You will have to leave.'

The woman raised her face imploringly. 'Please, my lady,' she started and then a clear light of joy suddenly flooded over her face, and she cried out, 'Sister Ann! My thirling! My little Sister Ann! Oh, my darling! You're safe!' 'Mother!' Alys said in a sudden blinding moment of recognition and then fell forward as the arms of Mother Hildebrande came around her again and held her as if she had never been away.

The two women clung to each other. 'Mother, my mother,' was all Alys said. The abbess felt Alys' body shake with sobs. 'My mother.'

Gently Hildebrande released her. 'I have to sit,' she said apologetically. ‘I am very weak.' She sank down to I stool. Alys dropped to her knees beside the abbess. 'How did you come here?' she asked. The woman smiled. 'I think Our Lady must have brought me to you,' she said. ‘I have been ill all this long while, in hiding with some faithful people in a farm a little way from Startforth. They told me of this little hovel. There was an old woman living here once, but she has gone missing. They thought that if I lived here and sold medicines to those that asked it of me, that it was my best chance for safety. In a little while, we thought, no one would distinguish one old woman from another.'

'She was a witch,' Alys said with revulsion. 'She was a dirty old witch. Anyone could tell you apart.'

Mother Hildebrande smiled. 'She was an old woman with more learning than was safe for her,' she said. 'And so am I. She was a woman wise beyond her station, and so am I. She must have been a woman who by chance or choice was an outlaw, and so am I. I shall live here, in hiding, at peace with my soul, until the times change and I can again worship God in the Church of His choosing.'

She smiled at Alys as if it were a life that anyone would prefer, that a wise woman would envy. 'And what of you?' she asked gently. 'I have mourned you and prayed for your immortal soul every night of my life since I last saw you. And now I have you back again! Surely God is good. What of you, Sister Ann? How did you escape the fire?'

'I woke when the fire started,' Alys lied rapidly. 'And I was running to the chapel to ring the bell when they caught me. They took me into the woods to rape me, but I managed to get away. I went far away, all the way to Newcastle searching for another nunnery, so that I could keep my vows; but it was unsafe everywhere. When I came back to look for you or any of the sisters, Lord Hugh at the castle heard of me and employed me as his clerk.'

Mother Hildebrande's face was stern. 'Has he ordered you to take the oath to deny your Church and your faith?' she asked. Her hands were still palsied and her face was that of a frail old woman. But her voice was strong and certain.

'Oh no!' Alys exclaimed. 'No! Lord Hugh believes in the old ways. He has sheltered me from that.' 'And have you kept your vows?' the old woman asked. She glanced at Alys' rich gown, the red gown of Meg the whore who died of the pox.

'Oh yes,' Alys said quickly. She turned her pale heart-shaped face upwards to Mother Hildebrande. 'I keep the hours of prayer in silence, in my own mind. I may not pray aloud of course, nor can I choose what I wear. But I fast when I should and I own nothing of my own. I have been touched by no man. I am ready to show you my obedience. All my major vows are unbroken.'

Mother Hildebrande cupped her hand around Alys' cheek. 'Well done,' she said softly. 'We have had a hard and weary trial, you and I, daughter. I have thought often that it was easier for the others, those who died that night and are in paradise today, than for me trying to hold to my vows and struggling with a world which grows more wicked every day. And it must have been so hard for you,' Mother Hildebrande said gently. 'Thank God we are together now. And we need never be apart again.'

Alys hid her face in Mother Hildebrande's lap. The old woman rested her hand on Alys' bright head.

'Such lovely hair,' she said gently. 'I had forgotten, Sister Ann, that you were so fair.' Alys smiled up at her.

‘I have not seen your hair since your girlhood,' Mother Hildebrande remembered. 'When you first came to me, out of the world of sin, with your bright curly hair and your pale, beautiful face.' She paused. 'You must beware of the sin of vanity,' she said gently. 'Now you are thrust out into the world in your womanhood. Now that you wear a red gown, Sister Ann, and with your hair worn loose.'

'They make me dress like this,' Alys said swiftly. 'I have no other clothes. And I thought it right not to endanger Lord Hugh, who protects me, by insisting on a dark gown.'

Mother Hildebrande shook her head, unconvinced. 'Very well,' she said. 'You have had to make compromises. But now we can make our own lives again. Here, in this little cottage, we will start. We will make a new nunnery here. Just the two of us for now, but perhaps there will be more later on. You and I will keep our vows and lead the life that is appointed to us. We shall be a little light in the darkness of the moorland. We will be a little light for the world.'

'Here?' Alys said, bemused. 'Here?' Mother Hildebrande laughed her old laugh, full of joy. 'Why not?' she said. 'Did you think that serving Our Lady was all rich vestments and silver and candles, Sister Ann? You know better than that! Our Lady was a simple woman, She probably lived in a home no better than this! Her son was a carpenter. Why should we want more than Her?'

Alys felt she was gaping. She tried to gather her thoughts together. 'But, Mother Hildebrande,' she said, 'we cannot live here. In summer it is well enough but in winter it is dreadfully hard. We have no money, we have no food. And people will talk about us and then the soldiers will come…'

Mother Hildebrande was smiling. 'God will provide, Sister Ann,' she said gently. 'I have prayed and prayed for you, and I have prayed and prayed to live once more under the rules of our Order, and now, see, my prayers are answered.'

Alys shook her head. 'They are not answered,' she said desperately. 'This is not the answer to your prayers. I know what it is like here! It is dirty and cold. The garden grows nothing fit to eat, in winter the snow banks up to the door. God does not want us to be here!' Mother Hildebrande laughed, her old, confident laugh. 'You seem to be deep in His counsels that you speak so certainly!' she said gently. 'Do not fret so, Sister Ann. Let us take what He gives us. He has given us each other and this roof over our heads. Surely He is good!'

'No! It's not possible…' Alys urged. 'We must go away. We must go to France or Spain. There is no place for us in England any more. We court disaster if we stay here and try to practise our faith.'

The old abbess smiled and shook her head. ‘I have sworn to practise my faith here,' she said gently. 'I was commanded to lead an order here, in England. No one ever said that if it became hard I should run away.'

'We would not be running!' Alys urged. 'We would find another nunnery, they would accept us. We would be obeying our vows, living the life we should lead.'

The abbess smiled at Alys and shook her head. 'No,' she said softly. 'God gave me thirty years of wealth and comfort, serving Him in luxury. Now He has called me to hardship. How should I refuse Him?'

'Mother Hildebrande, you cannot live here!' Alys raised her voice in exasperation. 'You know nothing about the life here. You do not understand. You will die here in wintertime. This is folly!'

There was a moment's shocked silence at Alys' rudeness. Then Mother Hildebrande spoke with gentle finality.

‘I believe that this is the will of the Lord,' she said. 'And I am bound by my vows of obedience to do His will.' She paused for a moment. 'As are you,' she said. 'But it's not possible…' Alys muttered mutinously.

'As are you,' Mother Hildebrande said again more slowly, her voice warning.

Alys sighed and said nothing.

There was a silence between the two women. Alys, glancing up from where she knelt at her mother's feet, saw that the abbess' eyes were filled with tears.

'I…' she started.

'When can you join me here?' Mother Hildebrande demanded. 'We should start our new life at once. And there are many things we need which you can provide.'

Alys' moment of penitence was brief. 'I don't know when I can come,' she said distractedly. 'My life at the castle is so uncertain…' She broke off, thinking of Hugo and Catherine, and her own baby growing in her belly. 'I could come next week perhaps,' she said. 'I could come for a few days next week.'

Mother Hildebrande shook her head. 'That is not enough, Sister Ann,' she said gently. 'You have been away from our holy Order for many months, but before then you lived with us for many years. You cannot have forgotten our discipline so soon. You may go now, but you must come back tomorrow, wearing a plain dark gown and bringing with you whatever Lord Hugh is prepared to give gladly. For the rest, we will grow our own food and weave our own cloth. We will make our own rushlights and write our own books from memory. We will make bread and sell it in the market, we will fish, and sell what we catch. And we will make simple medicines and remedies and sell or give them to people who are in need.' Alys kept her eyes down so Mother Hildebrande could not see her panic and her immediate utter refusal. 'It looks very dark for our Church,' Mother Hildebrande said. 'But this is how it was for Saint Paul himself, or for Saint Cuthbert when the English Church was nearly destroyed before, by the pagans. Then, as now, the Lord called His people to serve Him in darkness and secrecy and want. Then, as now, their faith triumphed. God has called us for a special mission, Sister Ann, only He knows how great our work will be.' Alys said nothing. Mother Hildebrande no longer looked like a weary old lady. Her face was radiant with her joy, her voice strong with certainty. She broke off and smiled at Alys, her familiar, loving smile.

'Go now,' the abbess said gently. 'It must be near the time for sext. Pray as you ride back to the castle and I will pray here. You have not forgotten the offices of the day, Sister Ann?'

Alys shook her head. She could not remember one word of them. 'I remember them all,' she said.

The abbess smiled. 'Say them at the appointed hours,' she said. 'The Lord will forgive us that we are not on our knees in His chapel. He will understand. And tomorrow, when you come, you will confess to me your sins and we will start afresh.' Alys nodded dumbly.

The abbess rose from the stool. Alys saw she walked very stiffly, as if her back and her hip bones and legs all ached.

‘I am a little weary,' she said, as she caught Alys' look. 'But once I start working in the garden I shall grow fit and strong again.'

Alys nodded and went out of the door. The abbess stood on the threshold. Alys untied the pony's bridle and then remembered her bag of food.

'Here,' she said. ‘I brought this for my dinner, but you can have it.'

The abbess' wise old face lit up with a smile. 'There, my child!' she said delightedly. 'The Lord has provided for us, and He will provide for us over and over again. Don't be faint-hearted, Sister Ann! Trust in Him, and He will bring us to great joy.'

Alys nodded dumbly and climbed up the step of the sheep gate and stepped into the saddle.

That's a very fine horse,' the abbess observed. 'Too good for a cleric, I would have thought.'

'It's Lady Catherine's horse,' Alys said quickly. 'She is carrying the young lord's child and cannot ride. They like me to ride her mare to keep it in exercise.'

The abbess nodded slowly, looking from the horse to Alys. For one moment Alys was gripped with a chilling certainty that the old woman understood everything, could see everything. The lies, the witchcraft, the walking wax dolls, the murder of Morach, and the bed with three writhing, greedy bodies. Hugo's laugh when he called her his wanton whore echoed in the sunny afternoon air around them.

Mother Hildebrande looked into Alys' face, unsmiling. 'Come tomorrow,' she said gently. ‘I think you have been very near to very grave sin, my daughter. Come tomorrow and you can confess to me and with the guidance of God I will absolve you.'

'I have not been near sin,' Alys said breathlessly. She managed a clear honest smile. 'Nowhere near, praise God!' she said lightly.

Mother Hildebrande did not smile in return. She looked from the expensive, elegant pony in the rich, well-made harness to Alys in her red gown with the silver embroidered stomacher and her cherry-red cape; and her old face was drained of its earlier joy. She looked as if she had been cut to the heart.

'Tomorrow at noon,' she said firmly and turned and went back inside the cottage.

Alys watched the door shut on the frail figure and stayed for a moment longer. There was no sound of a tinderbox, no smoke drifted out of the barred window. There would be no dry kindling in the hut, perhaps only one or two rushlights. Morach might have hidden her tinderbox. But even if there had been one – Mother Hildebrande would not have known how to light a fire.

Alys wrenched the mare's head around towards home. 'Come on!' she said sullenly. She kicked it hard and the animal flinched and lunged forward, nearly unseating her. 'Come on!' she said.