by Linda Sole
Marta thanked her, hugging the thick cloak about her and the child. She shivered as she wondered what she ought to do now. She had thought no further than the woman she had met leaving the church, who had told her of her desire for a child. There was no point in trying to follow her to Richmond if her prayers had been answered and she was quickening – but what else could Marta do?
The only thing she was certain of was that she could not return to the house she had left. She must go on until she found somewhere she could rest…or someone who would take the child.
*
Nicholas looked down at Iolanthe. He had put her to her mother’s breast and let her suck while he worked to repair the damage her birth had done. For a while the woman had continued to bleed sluggishly but he had cleansed her and bound her stomach and it seemed that for the moment the blood had ceased, though she looked pale and close to death.
‘How will you live if your mother dies?’ Nicholas took the babe from the woman’s breast. Iolanthe had stopped sucking and was sleeping peacefully. He rocked her in his arms while he thought what to do next.
Placing the child gently on the pile of blankets that Marta had pulled from the bed, he went out into the hall and called for Marta. When no one answered, he shouted for Cedric who came instantly, squinting from his one good eye.
‘What is it, master? Marta has gone. Good riddance to her. She has taken your cloak and a silver candlestick.’ Cedric spat on the floor. ‘She only bided her time here until she was ready to leave. Thieves and rogues. Beats me why you take them in.’
‘Do you trust anyone?’ Nicholas smiled at his surly servant. ‘Marta served me well. If she has taken her dues it matters little. I can purchase a new cloak. Tell me, do we have a crib in the house? Something the child may lie in to rest?’
‘Aye, ‘tis put away lest it remind you, but I can fetch it out.’
‘Do that first for the child should not be with its mother when she wakes.’
‘A babe in the house now is it?’ Cedric was resentful. ‘And who is to look after it now that Marta has gone? I cannot do everything, master.’
‘We must have a wet-nurse. Fetch the crib and then go to the village and fetch her. See if she will stay to nurse the babe. If she will not, ask Mistress Bush to come to me.’
‘And who will cook the food if Mistress Bush is caring for a child?’ Cedric muttered to himself but shuffled off to do his master’s bidding.
Nicholas went back into the chamber that had belonged to his wife. He opened the chest where her things were stored, taking out the fine linens and cloths she had prepared for the child that had killed her, leaving him forever guilty of her death. Since they had forced him to give up his wife, Iolanthe, he had never looked at her things, but now he selected what was needed. The woman needed night-robes and the child must have swaddling bands, though looking at her beautiful limbs it seemed a sin to bind her, though it was held to make the limbs grown straight. Perhaps he would allow her the freedom she had now. There were no midwifes to throw up their hands and cry shame, and the wet-nurse would not dare to argue with him nor yet his servants.
They would manage, if the wet-nurse would come to the house. Some of the villagers went in fear of him, because they did not understand his methods. Nicholas frowned for he knew what was said of him, but as yet it was undeserved. He had never used the black arts to help him cure his patients, though hidden in his rooms was a book of secrets – a book he feared, a book that he knew contained a spell, which was said to bring the dead back to life.
*
‘This is as far as I go, mistress,’ the carter said. ‘You must make your own way from here.’
‘Thank you.’ Marta clambered down from the cart clutching her bundle. ‘You said the abbey was five leagues in that direction?’ She pointed to the track that wound over a barren landscape. The trails made by pilgrims and monks were centuries old but there were few signs and it was easy to lose your way. Thankfully, the snow had ceased to fall, though the ground was frozen hard. She had been walking for two days, wandering, hardly knowing where she was headed, but following the instinct that told her she was headed south.
‘You will see it when you pass the tarn. You can find shelter for the night and there is a village not far away. The inn may be looking for a woman to help in the kitchens.’
‘Thank you,’ Marta said. She hesitated, then reached into her purse to offer a silver penny.
The carter shook his head. ‘Nay, mistress. I’ll not take your money. You’ve the babe to care for and ‘tis hard enough for a woman on her own.’
‘May God bless you, sir.’
Marta turned away. She was thankful for the ride, because she had wanted to put as much distance between her and Malvern House as she could. For a long time she had walked seeing hardly another person on the road, then the cart had come along and its driver had taken pity on her.
Marta had been trying to think what she should do. She had purchased milk for the babe at various houses and farms along the road. Some were happy to sell to her, others refused and sent her away, but she had little money left. If she wanted to buy more milk for the babe she would have to sell the candlestick. She could not do that at the abbey, but perhaps the innkeeper would take pity on her.
Marta had fed the babe with drops of milk from her finger at the start, but that was slow and the child kept screaming with hunger. Driven to desperation by the pitiful cries, she had cut a hole in the leather sheath that held her eating knife and hung from her belt. The babe had sucked on it and more milk had gone into her mouth, but it was wasteful for some leaked away.
She would have to find some other way of feeding the child, but at the moment she was not quite sure what she could do.
As she crested the hill, Marta saw the abbey, its grey stone walls forbidding through the winter gloom. Something about it made her think of Malvern and her master. Seeing the village just a short distance further on, she made up her mind to go there for rest and shelter.
The carter had suggested that she might find work at the inn, but Marta was not sure that kind of work was best suited to her needs. For the first time in many years she thought longingly of the home she had left so carelessly years before.
She was not certain she would be welcome there now. Several years had passed and she no idea whether or not that her parents were still living. It was a long, long way, many hundreds of leagues, and she was not even certain she knew how to get there, but if she kept heading south perhaps in the end she might find someone to tell her.
Hearing the babe’s thin wail, Marta looked at her pinched face guiltily. How long was it since she had managed to find food for the poor mite? Perhaps if the innkeeper were welcoming she would stay for a while, but in her experience most men wanted something in return. She must hope that he would buy her candlestick and then perhaps she would continue her arduous journey south.
*
Nicholas looked down at the woman’s face. She still breathed and there was milk in her breasts, for he put the child to her if Iolanthe cried in the night. The wet-nurse had answered his pleas but would not stay through the night. She had told Cedric that she was afraid of demons and left every day before dusk.
Nicholas frowned as he bent down to touch the woman’s face. Despite her pallor and the sweat-laden hair that clung to her forehead in wisps, she was beautiful. It would be a sin to let her die, but he had tried everything he knew and still she lay there, alive but making no movement or sound.
‘If I do nothing she will die.’
Nicholas spoke the words aloud, though he was alone in her chamber. No one came near while he was with her. His mind returned to the book he kept hidden, the book he dreaded and feared for the secrets it contained.
He should have destroyed it when it was brought to him, the property of a sorcerer condemned and burned to death for using the magic of the old gods.
‘No. No, I will not…’
Again, he spoke his thoughts al
oud but the little demon in his mind would not let go. Within the book was a remedy for the malady that he believed he saw before him now. If he used it to make a potion that would cure such an ill, he could give this woman back her life and the child its mother.
He had always refused to use the book, believing it cursed and preferring his own research, but he knew that if he did nothing the woman would die. She was becoming weaker day by day, hour by hour.
‘May God have mercy on my soul.’
Nicholas turned towards the rooms where his cures were prepared. He would read the ancient writing and then…it would involve a trip to the woods to gather certain herbs and to the church, for one thing he needed was a small amount of Holy water.
*
Nicholas crept into the church. There were no candles burning and the early Norman nave with its barrelled roof was in shadow as he moved silently towards the font. Dipping a glass vial in the water, he glanced over his shoulder thinking he heard a sound, but there was naught to be seen. Replacing the stopper securely, he slipped the tiny bottle into his pouch then approached the altar, bending his head for a moment in silent prayer.
‘Have mercy on my soul,’ he murmured but no sound left his lips.
Nicholas’s mind was heavy with regret as he left the church. He was shocked at his own action in stealing the Holy water, and for the purpose it was intended. He had taken moss and herbs from the woods, and he would make the potion that he believed would restore the woman lying so still and pale in the chamber that had once been his wife’s.
It had cost Nicholas much to open the book of secrets and read the words he must say over the mixture as he prepared it. Incantations were the work of the Devil and the currency of sorcery. He had always avoided such things, rejecting them as useless and wrong, the product of uneducated minds. Now he was preparing to use a cure he would normally condemn – why?
Why did this woman pull at his heartstrings? Why did he find it unbearable to see her lying there with no life in her?
He had broken with a lifetime’s caution for her sake. He could only pray that the great risk he was taking would be worthwhile.
Nicholas crushed the moss and herbs, adding three drops of the Holy water. The mixture called for one more thing. Rolling back the hanging sleeves of his dark gown, Nicholas took a sharp blade he had held in the flame of a candle and cut swiftly and firmly across the veins in his left wrist. He let the blood drip into the bowl as he chanted the words that would make the potion work.
‘Demons of the air, earth, water and fire, I crave your attention. Hearken to me, lords of life and death for I need your help. Spirits of all things living, give life to her that needs this cure and take my blood as sacrifice.’
Nicholas looked about him, as if expecting demons to appear but there was nothing, no flash of lightning, and no crack of thunder. He smiled grimly as he bound his wrist in clean linen. No doubt he had sacrificed his principles for nothing, but having come this far he would do what remained.
He left his rooms and walked to the adjoining chamber where the woman lay. She had scarcely moved. He took the vial of Holy water from his pouch and poured a little into his palm, then dipped a finger and made the sign of the cross on her forehead. If a price must be paid to the demons for this cure, let him be the one to pay. He would protect her soul if he could.
Slipping his arm beneath her shoulders, he lifted her and poured the correct dose of the mixture he had prepared between her lips. She swallowed but made no other movement. There was no more reaction than there had been when he gave her water or his own mixtures.
Nicholas felt a rush of relief mixed with disappointment. He eased her back against the pillows and stood looking down at her for a moment, then turned away. He had gone against all his beliefs, all his instincts, to no avail. The woman would die. There was no more he could do for her.
He had reached the door when he heard the sighing breath. Halting, his spine tingling, Nicholas turned his head to look at the bed. Her eyes were looking up at him and she was beautiful. It was as if some unseen thread reached out and tangled itself about his soul, binding him to her. In that moment he knew that what he had done was right. If need be, he would do it again a thousand times.
‘Please…’ she said in a voice hardly above a whisper. ‘Water…may I have some water?’
‘Yes, though not too much at first.’ Nicholas fetched water to her from a pitcher on the coffer, pouring a little into a cup. Holding her supported in his arms, he allowed her to sip a little before settling her back against the pillows.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered and now her eyes were wide and dark with fear. ‘Where am I? Who am I?’
‘You remember nothing of your past or who you are?’
She moved her head negatively, her fingers clutching at the fine linen sheets. ‘My name…what is my name?’
Nicholas hesitated for one moment, then, ‘Your name is Anne,’ he told her. ‘You have been ill for the birth of our daughter almost killed you, but I have cared for you and I shall let no harm come to you.’
‘You are my husband,’ she said and a smile touched her mouth as her eyes closed. ‘You will take care of me.’
‘Always,’ Nicholas vowed. ‘With my last breath.’
Surely she belonged to him now? He had saved her life, breaking a vow he had made to himself when he first attended medical school in Salerno. He had used sorcery to save her and for that there was always a price to be paid. He would pay it willingly for her sake. She was sleeping and he must leave her for a while, because there were many others who needed him.
*
Nicholas bent his head as he entered the filthy hovel. The smell hit him and it was all he could do to keep from gagging on the choking stench. It was dark inside for there were no windows, only a wooden shutter that was latched tight to keep out the cold. One small tallow candle burned on the rough wooden board that served to hold the few possessions the family owned.
‘God have mercy!’ a woman’s voice cried. ‘I did not think that you would come, lord.’ She looked at him fearfully, her manner one of hope mixed with terror. ‘When my brother said he would ask for you, I told him you would never bother with such as we.’
‘All men are equal in the eyes of God,’ Nicholas said in the pious tone so many used, and was expected. ‘Matthew tells me that your husband has cut his leg and it festers…’ His eyes moved to the pallet on the floor. A young woman was kneeling beside it and trying to feed the man lying there with some kind of thin pottage. ‘Show me the wound…’
The young woman pulled at the shabby linen of her wimple so that it covered her face, obviously not wanting to be seen. However, she removed the dirty covering from the man’s lower half, revealing the source of the stench. From knee to ankle, the man’s right leg was like rotting pulp, the flesh dripping with an evil yellow puss that smelled vile.
‘The leg must be removed,’ Nicholas said in a voice that brooked no refusal. ‘I shall make the cut just below the knee…’ A wail of despair from the woman made him turn his head to look at her. ‘If I do not amputate the leg your man will die.’
‘If he cannot work we shall all die.’
‘He can learn to walk or crawl with a crutch, mistress. You have left it too long. There is no choice now.’ Nicholas looked at the girl. ‘Can you boil some water, wench?’
She murmured something and moved, her veil falling for an instant before she snatched it back across her face.
‘One moment.’ Nicholas caught her hand, forcing it back so that he could see her face. The skin was covered with weeping sores and her mouth was split and bleeding. Her hands were also covered in the foul rash. ‘How long have you been like this, child?’
Another wail came from the woman. ‘I warned Matthew this would happen! Do not make us send her to the lazar house, lord. We shall never see her again and she is our only child.’
‘You believe she has leprosy?’ Nicholas reached out and took the girl’s chin
in his hand, looking at her closely. ‘You should stop torturing yourself, mistress. There is naught that ails your daughter but a poor diet.
She must have fruit and green vegetables.’
‘We have no money for such luxuries, lord.’
‘You will send your brother to my house every day for three months. He shall have a basket of food and medicines for the girl – and then you must start to grow your own food. I will send seeds and fruit bushes with your brother. He can dig the land beside your cottage and the girl can tend the plants until they yield.’
The woman wailed loudly and threw herself at Nicholas, trying to kiss his hand, but he put her away. Turning to the girl once more, he smiled.
‘I will have that hot water as soon as it is ready, child. ‘Your father will live, fear not – and once you are well you may find a husband to care for you.’
*
In his chamber, Nicholas washed away the stains of his work. The amputation had been clean and he believed he had cut away all the infection. He had cauterised the stump with a hot iron for the smell of the rotting flesh had told him they would be fortunate if the poison had not spread inwards. Sighing, he wiped his hands. He had done his best. There was nothing more to do but put the family from his mind. They were not the only ones to live in such terrible poverty.
Nicholas turned his mind to the woman he had kept at the back of his thoughts all day. Now that he had cleansed himself of anything like to harbour lice or infection, he could go to Anne, spend a little time with her and the child. It was the part of his day that he looked forward to, the quiet moments when he could be completely at peace.
Hearing a strange sound, he turned his head sharply. For a moment he had seemed to hear mocking laughter but there was no one in the room. What was that smell? He could not place it but it was unpleasant, strong and somehow sinister. Yet in a moment it had gone and he could not be certain he had heard the laughter or smelled sulphur.
