by Sole, Linda
‘I do not wish to use magic. Simple herbs are enough for me.’ Beth felt cold all over. She remembered the day she’d had the Seeing. Did she have a gift or was it just some kind of a fit that had passed? It had not happened before that day or since. Perhaps she’d fallen into a strange dream? ‘Before Mistress Grey came for me you said something strange. You were in a trance and you told me that you found me…that you were not my mother. What did you mean?’
‘It was a trance and I knew not what I spoke,’ Marthe said and scowled at her. ‘Of course I am your mother. Have I not fed and cared for you, taught you all you know?’
‘You have taught me many things and you cared for me when I was a child,’ Beth agreed. ‘Yet I think there was a time when I did not live with you. If there is something I should know about my past, you should tell me.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Beth shook her head. ‘I think you are not telling me the truth. Something happened when I was very young. I remember a sunny day by the stream and the soldiers riding towards us. They took me and one of the women. In the clearing she was hurt badly and I was frightened. I wandered away in a daze. Was that when you found me?’
‘Too many questions. One day you may know the truth if you look in my coffer.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Get on with your work, girl. There are other cures needed, simple balms and lotions. I cannot do everything.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘You can start with grinding those poppy seeds to a fine powder.’
Beth turned away to begin the task. If she had time she would make the potion she needed for herself to prevent a child but not while Marthe was looking at her so suspiciously. She did not wish Marthe to know the price she had been forced to yield for Mistress Soames’s goods. Had she guessed the lord was waiting for her she would never have gone to claim them, but it was too late to weep; the damage was done.
* * *
It was early when the man came the next morning. Opening the door, Beth recognised the blacksmith she’d seen at work in his forge and greeted him pleasantly but without a smile. It was odd that he should come at this hour of the day for he usually crept here in secret when it was nearly dusk.
‘Where is your mother, girl?’
‘She is sleeping, sir. She worked late into the night on her cures.’
‘I have been sent to ask for help,’ he said, his expression harsh. ‘There is sickness in the village. Three children are very ill and now three men and two women have taken it too.’
‘What is the sickness? Have you seen it before?’
‘No. ‘Tis not the pox nor yet the plague but the bowels are turned to water and it makes the sufferer vomit.’
‘It sounds as if it is much like the sickness that killed Mistress Soames. I shall ask my mother for something and come to the village as soon as I can.’
He nodded, his gaze narrowing. ‘Sir William says you are to have the cottage that belonged to her. Is it your intention to live there?’
‘My mother prefers to stay here for the moment, sir. I am not certain of my intent as yet.’
‘You could not save Mistress Soames, though people say you cared for her kindly.’
‘I am not sure that we can save anyone who has this sickness,’ Beth replied. ‘Yet I shall ask my mother for a cure and do what I can.’
‘Make sure she brews it herself.’
‘Why do you say that, sir?’
‘Because I wish to be sure that it is her cure and not yours.’
‘Very well.’
Beth was frowning as she closed the door and began to gather her things. The previous evening, her mother had poured the mixture into a flask, giving Beth strict instructions to give each sick person only three drops in water.
‘If there is any left bring it back with you. You will have to go again later in the day and twice each day for as long as the fever lasts.’
When she had filled her basket with other cures that might be helpful, Beth roused her mother and told her she was leaving.
‘You know what I told you,’ Marthe said. ‘I made the cure – and just three drops each in a cup of water. If there is any left bring the flask back with you.’
‘Yes, Marthe. You told me last night. I shall not forget.’
‘Why do you not call me Mother?’
‘I do not think you were always my mother. Unless you tell me the truth I shall not call you mother again.’
Marthe scowled at her and shook her head. ‘Whatever I am I saved your life. You owe me a duty. I have protected you and kept you safe.’
‘Perhaps.’ Beth sighed. ‘Even though I do not think you are my mother I shall not leave you. I wish that you would tell me the truth but I shall not desert you while you need me.’
‘You will not need to stay much longer. My time is coming soon.’
‘What do you mean? Always you speak in riddles. You never answer my questions.’
‘You ask too many. You were always a tiresome child. Go now, Beth. The people are very sick, but my cure will help some, though perhaps not all.’
‘You knew the sickness was coming. Are you a witch, Marthe?’
Marthe shivered and turned away, muttering something below her breath. Beth knew it was useless to ask questions when Marthe was in this mood. Her heart fluttered with nerves as she began the long walk to the village. She hoped she would not see the lord, because she was afraid that he might force her to go to the castle with him. He had spoken of protecting her, but all he truly wanted was to make her his whore.
Beth visited four houses that morning. In one three children were sick and lying on their beds, weak and pale. Their mother told Beth that they could not keep food down and emptied their bowls every time they drank anything.
‘I will give them a few drops of the cure in water,’ Beth said, looking round. ‘Have you any water, mistress?’
‘I fetch it from the well each morning but the water tastes strange and the girls will not drink it. I will fetch some from the stream later.’
Marthe had told her the cure should be added to water, but perhaps if she added it to the mixture of herbs she had made with water that filtered through the rocks that led to her pool it would do as well. The herbs were those she’d used for Mistress Soames and she’d brought her own mixture in case there was not enough of her mother’s for everyone.
‘I have some water here in my flask,’ Beth said and poured her own potion into a cup, adding three drops from her mother’s mixture. ‘Give some to Alice while I help Margaret and Ruth.’
When each girl had had a cup of the combined medicine, Beth gave their mother a cooling balm to rub on their faces and hands, explaining that it was not to be swallowed.
‘It is made with marigold leaves and it keeps the skin fresh,’ she said. ‘It is all I can do for your daughters, mistress. I shall come again this evening.’
‘Bless you, Beth,’ the woman said. ‘People may say what they like of your mother, but you are a good girl – and your lotions have helped my skin many times.’
‘Are your hands better now?’
‘The balm you gave me stopped the sores and they have almost gone, but I have finished what I had.’
‘I shall make you some more. Give me the empty pot and I will fill it again.’
‘I cannot pay you – unless a few eggs would be enough?’
‘You can give some scraps to Mistress Soames’s chickens for me – if that is not too much to ask. I shall be too busy helping others and they need more than they can find for themselves in her yard.’
‘The lord gave orders that your things should not be touched, but if you wish I will look after your hens until you come to live here.’
‘I may take them with me another day but I shall be grateful for your help in the meantime.’ Beth smiled at her. ‘You should pray to your God, mistress. I cannot think he means your children to die – why should he?’
The woman
crossed herself. ‘Some say that God sends the sickness to test us but others…’ She shook her head. ‘Be careful what you say to others, Beth.’
Beth nodded but took little notice. It was strange that the sickness seemed to have affected the people who lived at this end of the village. Perhaps it had not yet spread to the end nearer the stream but it made her wonder.
Beth treated the sick man and his wife, who was showing slight symptoms at the next house. The woman had drawn her water from the well that morning. Beth tasted a sip and frowned. It did not taste as the water she drank from the stream and she would not drink it.
‘Do you always take your water from the well?’
‘Yes. It is closer than the stream. Why do you ask?’
‘It tastes odd. I think the water in the stream may be better.’
‘We have always used the well,’ the man said and groaned as he held his guts.
‘Yes, but it did not always taste like this, Egbert,’ his wife said. ‘Tis only in the past two weeks that it has got worse.’
‘Mayhap it has been poisoned,’ he grunted and turned on his side, holding his guts as he vomited into a bowl Beth had placed by his mattress.
‘Surely no one would do that,’ Beth said. ‘If I were you, mistress. I should walk to the stream and fetch your water from there. ‘Perhaps the well has run dry because of the drought earlier this year and what is left is stale.’
‘There is always plenty of water, but I might do as you say,’ the woman said.
Beth made her a mixture of her own cure and added three drops from her mother’s flask, then left them to drink it. At the next house the man was lying groaning on his bed. Beth discovered that her own mixture was exhausted. She smelled the water in his jug.
‘What’s wrong?’ he muttered.
‘I think this water is bad. You should fetch water from the stream.’
‘Give me some ale instead.’
Beth nodded. She poured her mother’s mixture into the ale and he downed it in one go and smacked his lips.
‘Leave the flask with me, girl. I can dose myself.’
‘I must take it with me, sir. It is not easy to make and there are others who need it. I shall bring more this evening.’
Leaving the house, Beth walked to the well and used the bucket there to bring up some water. She scooped a little in her hand and tasted it, then spat it out. It was foul and her suspicions were well founded.
‘What are you doing?’
She turned and saw that the priest was watching her.
‘The water in this well is foul. You should have it investigated. People are sick in the village and I think it is they that have taken water from here.’
‘Are you sure you have not put a spell on it, witch?’
‘She is no witch,’ Mistress Grey said, coming up to them. ‘I drew water from here three days ago but it tasted bad and I threw it away. I take my water from the stream now.’
‘It was always good water,’ John the Blacksmith said as he joined them. ‘Something must have happened – mayhap it was ill wished.’
‘Perhaps something died in there,’ another man said. ‘I drew water there two days ago but would not drink it.’ He tasted the water Beth had drawn. ‘This is bad. We should send someone down to investigate.’
Beth moved away as a little crowd gathered. Mistress Grey came to her.
‘When shall you take your things, Beth? I can lend you my cart if you wish.’
‘Thank you. I shall take them when the sickness is over. Will you spread the word that people should draw their water from the stream? I think the well is not fit for use at the moment.’
‘I remember it happened once before, when I was a child. People said it had been poisoned but in the end they found that someone had thrown a dead baby into the well and the rotting corpse was brought up to be buried. They had to dig a new well.’
‘That was wicked,’ Beth said. ‘How could anyone do such a thing? I think perhaps there may be a dead cat in there. It may be the reason the water tastes so bad – and the reason why people are sick.’
‘I shall warn everyone not to use it. I prefer the spring anyway. It filters over rocks where it cuts away into the stream and is pure and clean. The folk use the lord’s river to wash their clothes, but the stream is further away and hardly anyone bothers to walk to there.’
‘It is further to carry a pail,’ Beth agreed. ‘But you should all do so until the well is cleansed or a new one dug.’
‘I am glad you told everyone what you thought,’ Mistress Grey said. ‘Had you not done so they might have said your mother had poisoned the well.’
‘Why should Marthe do that? She was up all night preparing her cure to help people.’
‘How did she know the sickness was here?’
‘She knows things. She says it is the Sight.’
Mistress Grey frowned. ‘It is best not to tell others what you tell me, Beth. Be careful of the priest. He does not like you or Marthe.’
Beth glanced towards the priest and saw the malice in his gaze. The men of the village were preparing to go down the well to see if they could discover what had turned the water bad. She saw a look pass between the blacksmith and the priest, as if they were annoyed that the source of the sickness had been discovered.
She felt coldness at the nape of her neck. Surely they had not done something to make the water foul in the hope of causing sickness that they could claim was a curse? As she saw hatred in the priest’s eyes, Beth felt that she had stumbled on the truth. The priest wanted to turn the people against them.
Why should he do that – and why should he hate her?
‘The well had been poisoned? Why should anyone do that?’ Marthe asked, giving her a strange look. ‘What made you think of it?’
‘At the first house the children’s mother told me that they did not like the taste of the water from the well. It tasted odd and at the second house the water was even worse. Mistress Soames told me once that she had been in London when there was a terrible sickness that spread through the population and was believed to be caused by bad water.’
‘I have heard of such things,’ Marthe said, ‘but ‘tis usually in towns where the fluids from the night soil ditch run into the water and foul it. I should not have thought of bad water. You did not use the water when you gave them the cure?’
‘No, I mixed your cure with one of my own made from spring water – and when that was gone, I used ale.’
‘Ale is safer than water unless the source is pure. The spring water that feeds the stream is pure but wells can become foul. It has happened before.’
‘Master Blacksmith spoke of it being ill wished.’
‘He said that to you?’
‘To the priest. It was strange. I thought they knew the water was bad and wanted people to blame you.’
Marthe gave a little cry and made a strange sign over herself. Beth had thought in the past it was the sign of the cross but now she saw that it was similar but not the same. She caught Marthe’s hand, noticing that her once long nails had turned yellow and begun to split and her fingers were stained with a purple substance.
‘Why did you do that – make that strange sign?’
‘I asked for the dark lord’s protection. I fear that the time is very soon now.’ She looked at Beth and there was terror in her eyes. ‘I know that I have sinned. I shall be punished. God does not forgive. The Church preaches forgiveness but threatens sinners with the fires of hell. He knows what I have done and will see I am punished – one way or another. When they come for me, you must run and hide. Do not try to help me or they will name you a witch too.’
‘What did you do that was so wicked?’ Marthe shook her head and would not look at her. ‘The priest called me a witch, but Mistress Grey told him I was not evil,’ Beth said and shivered as she remembered the look in the priest’s eyes. ‘Why should he hate us, Marthe?’
‘He is the evil one. He likes to inflict pain. It is the o
nly way he can gain his pleasure. When I refused to let him do what he wanted and gave him back his silver penny he called me the spawn of Satan and vowed that I would regret scorning him.’
‘Does the blacksmith hate you too?’
Marthe hesitated, then, ‘He wanted me to give you to him for his sport. Once he grew tired of me he wanted you, but I refused him. I told him you were too good for the likes of him. He said that one day he would make us both sorry.’
‘Are all men thus? Caring only for their own wants and needs?’
‘Most will take what they want of someone like me, and then spit on me – but you are beautiful, Beth. Do not give yourself lightly. When you do let it be for love. When I broke my vows to God and was thrown out by the Sisters of Mercy, it was for love of a man. I took a man that belonged to another and I was punished for it – but for a time I had my heart’s desire.’
‘Is love very different from…the men who pay you? Tell me, how is love different from lust?’
Marthe’s gaze narrowed. ‘Has a man harmed you? Tell me the truth, Beth.’
‘It does not matter.’
Marthe’s hand gripped her arm. ‘Who was it? Tell me his name and I will curse him.’
Beth recalled the lord’s look after he had forced her and shook her head. ‘I believe he is already cursed, Marthe. I can look after myself.’
‘Yes, perhaps you can. You will have no choice when I am gone.’
Muttering, Marthe turned away and began to chop herbs and grind seeds. Beth knew she would answer no more questions. Marthe was afraid of something because of what she had done when she was young. She had refused to tell Beth what she had done that was so terrible, but she was clearly terrified of something.
Beth was afraid of the priest. The look he’d given her had been filled with hatred. She understood now why the blacksmith’s eyes sometimes followed her through the village. He wanted to lie with her, as Sir William had, but the priest – the priest wanted something more. He wanted her to die and he wanted to inflict pain. She knew that he was her enemy. He was the one she must fear for he would see both Marthe and Beth dead if he could.
