by Sole, Linda
‘She is proud and believes herself above her station. Women like her are the spawn of Satan, sent to tempt men to sin.’
John Blacksmith made no reply as he turned away. He was thoughtful as he returned to his forge. He knew well enough that the priest’s words were true. The thought of Beth was like a thorn in his flesh, pricking at him, making him burn with the need to have her. He had thought of waylaying her on her way home from the village and taking what he wanted, but the punishment for rape was to be hanged until dead, and at heart he was a coward.
He had the forge, which had been in his family for three generations, a wife and four children. His wife was plain and lay like a block of wood when he took his ease of her. He had taken her for the cow and pig she brought him as a dowry. As one of the most prosperous men of the village, he hesitated to risk all he had for he sake of a woman – however tempting she might be. If Beth were condemned as a witch and put to death perhaps he could forget her and rest more easily at night.
‘He is telling everyone it is a miracle?’ Marthe looked at her uneasily. ‘What did you do to him – what did you give him?’
‘I told you, it was just the mixture for a sore throat that we make every winter. I touched his face and hands when he was in a faint for he was ill and I wanted to see if he were still breathing. I gave him the vial and he drank most of it – and then, when I offered food and water, he told me he was a leper.’
Marthe shuddered. ‘May the dark lord protect you, child. You touched him – you touched a leper. Most fear to take a dread illness such as that…but Mistress Grey says he was cured? How could that be?’
‘It could not,’ Beth said. ‘You know it is impossible. It would be a miracle indeed if a man was cured simply by touching him and giving him a cure for a sore throat. Only God could perform such a miracle.’
Marthe’s hand trembled as she turned away to her work. ‘I heard of a lady who cured a lame man just by touching him once. It was said that she was as great a healer as the Blessed Virgin, and her people set up a shrine to her. She made them take it down but they sold tiny pieces of cloth from one of her gowns and people said that to own one was to be protected from the plague.’
‘Who was she?’ Beth asked curiously.
‘It does not matter,’ Marthe muttered. ‘Questions, always the child asks too many questions.’
Beth waited but Marthe had gone into one of her sulks and would say no more on the subject. She knew that it was not possible that she had cured the pilgrim just by touching him, which meant he must have been a fake leper. She felt cold all over for if John the blacksmith would go to such lengths to set people against her, he must truly hate her.
Twenty Six
William could not wait to leave London. Almost a year spent kicking his heels at court was too long. He had no taste for the jostling for power, the whispers and innuendo that went on about the court. He was a simple plain man, more at home with a sword in his hand than a pen. Besides, an uneasy feeling had come upon him and he felt he was needed at home. His steward ought to be able to manage well enough, but the sense of unease had been growing since the evening he supped with Raoul D’Avignon.
The man was friendly enough on the surface and claimed to be grateful that William had once aided him on the field of battle. In the midst of his blood heat, he had attacked to left and right and seeing the English colours on the ground had defended the fallen knight without even knowing whom he helped. The man was soon on his feet and able to defend himself, and though later in the cool of evening he’d thanked him for the service, William had not given it another thought.
Since then they had acknowledged each other and there was a wary friendship between them, but William did not trust the man. D’Avignon’s expression gave nothing away but there was more to him than the polite courtier who gave lip service to the English King. William would give much to know what he’d meant concerning the priest. He’d heard his words clear enough though softly spoken, but he had been asking for clarification. None had been forthcoming. At supper that night D’Avignon had been generous and friendly, but though he discussed the gossip of the court, the rivalry between the English dukes who struggled for position and power at court, and the possibility of further warfare between England and France, he gave nothing away of himself.
Well, it could not matter. Their lives lay in different directions and it was doubtful their paths would cross often – and yet William had this feeling of unease concerning the man. He could not rid himself of the feeling that D’Avignon would do something that might cause him pain or grief – though he had no reason to suspect him of being an enemy.
He shrugged off the slight irritation. He would leave London and head towards Winchester in the morning. If something was amiss at home he had best return and deal with it himself.
At the back of his mind the true reason for his chafing lay wriggling like a maggot in rotting meat. He could not get her from his mind. She haunted him day and night and he lay sleepless on his bed, his body burning for her, his soul sick with need and wanting.
‘The priest is right, I am bewitched,’ he muttered angry at his weakness. He was a man who had endured hunger and pain on the field of battle, a man who had accepted the surgeon’s knife as an arrow was cut from his thigh, leaving a scar that still worried him at times. Why then did this ache eat away at his insides, giving him a fever that only she could cure with her touch.
‘Fool!’ he cursed himself a thousand times and yet he knew that he must return because he was sick with love of her.
Twenty Seven
‘There is more sickness in the village,’ Marthe said as Beth came in from foraging that spring morning. ‘Mistress Grey wanted to speak with you but I told her I did not know when you would be back. She said that three men were sick, but ‘tis not like the last time. They have a rash and a fever.’
‘I will go as soon as I have rested and drunk a cup of ale.’
‘Perhaps I should go this time,’ Marthe suggested. ‘Mistress Grey described the symptoms as best she could but I did not know what ailed them. If you tend the stew and finish what I have begun I shall walk to the village and discover if there is anything to be done.’
‘Your cure worked well the last time there was an outbreak of sickness. Only one of the children died and her mother said she was always sickly. Besides, the water was bad – but they have a new well now.’ Beth looked at Marthe doubtfully. ‘Are you sure you wish to go yourself? You have always said you feared to visit.’
Throughout the winter Marthe had sat over the fire, stirring her pot but scarcely leaving the hut, except to go out to relieve herself. She had left all the work to Beth, seldom speaking more than a few words, even when Beth told her that a dead dog and some rats had been found in the well.
‘Mistress Grey says that they must have been put there to foul the water,’ she’d told Marthe on her return from the village a few days after the strange case of the pilgrim who had been cured of leprosy. ‘The men are digging a new well but there is anger and bad feeling over it. People want to know who put the dog and rats into the well.’
‘They meant to blame me,’ Marthe said but did not look up from her work. ‘I told you, I have sinned and one day I must pay the price.’
‘What did you do that was so terrible?’
Marthe turned her head away and did not answer.
Her suggestion that she should go to the village that spring morning instead of Beth made the girl frown. It was unlike Marthe and it worried Beth.
‘Why do you wish to go instead of me?’
‘I saw something in the fire – a warning,’ Marthe said, her eyes strange, almost glazed. ‘I would not have them blame you, Beth. I have wronged you, but I love you as my own child – and I shall protect you if I can. Keep the fire going and do not leave the hut until I come back. Unless they come for you and then you must run and hide.’
‘I wish you would let me go in your stead.’
‘D
o as I bid you, child.’
Beth sighed as Marthe went out, carrying a rush basket filled with cures. She had been saying odd things for months now and none of it truly made sense. Perhaps Beth ought to have insisted that she go to the village but she was tired after some hours spent searching for food. The winter had been long and hard and the weather was still cold for spring. She’d found little in the hedgerows and the traps were empty. Their stew contained nothing more than turnips and some leeks that Beth had bartered for a lotion to help get rid of warts. She thought of the chickens in the pen at the back of their hut. Already she had slaughtered six hens that did not lay and half wished she’d left them in the village, where they had been more productive. They did not seem to like their new home and Beth could scarcely blame them for the ground was hard and there was little shelter for them here. She had thought to build the kind of pen they’d enjoyed in the village but as yet she had not managed to find the right materials. Without meat in the pot, she and Marthe would go hungry yet again. Beth had hoped that the chickens might start to lay in spring and, if she could barter for a cockerel, she might soon have chicks to rear. She was so hungry and the pain in her belly was hard to bear.
One chicken would thicken the soup for days and perhaps by then she would find a rabbit or hare that she could add to the pot. She seldom ventured to the lord’s stream these days, though she’d heard that he was back from a long stay in London. Beth knew that she and Marthe had not been the only ones to suffer that winter. Most of the pigs were slaughtered at the onslaught of the cold weather so that the meat could be salted and kept over the months of hardship. However, she’d heard from Mistress Grey that some pigs, which were normally kept for rearing, had fallen sick of a disease that made them loose in the bowels and spread quickly. Marthe had been asked for a cure but refused, saying that she knew of nothing to cure sickness in pigs. If the beasts died it would bring hardship to the village for few had any coin to buy a sow at market and food might be scarce for longer than usual. Beth might not be the only one to set traps for the rabbits then. How long would the lord allow the villagers to take his game? If he punished them there would be resentment and ill feeling – and she suspected that they would find a way to blame either Marthe or her for their troubles.
Beth’s courses had come soon after she was told that Sir William had left for London. She had been relieved that she would not bear his child but Marthe’s strange moods and the bitter weather had soon given her more to worry about. As yet she had fetched only a few things from Mistress Soames’s cottage, bringing needles and thread so that she might teach herself to sew in the way her friend had shown her. She had found some good wool cloth in the coffer. It was grey rather than the dull brown of her old tunic and she had enjoyed making herself a new tunic.
Marthe scowled at her as she put it on one morning. ‘What are you wearing that for? It is too good for work and you’ve nowhere to go in a gown like that, girl. It will make men look at you with lust.’
‘My old gown has holes in the bodice and under my arms. I do not think this simple tunic will attract attention.’
She had worn the gown to walk to the village regardless of her mother’s warnings. The blacksmith had looked at her as she passed the forge but no one else had mentioned her gown, except Mistress Grey, who told her that it suited her well.
Putting on her old tunic to protect her gown, Beth went out to slaughter the hen she had decided must be sacrificed to keep their hunger at bay. No doubt she was worrying for nothing. Marthe’s muttering meant little. She had been warning of dire happenings for months now and nothing had happened. Perhaps it was the hunger talking. A nourishing chicken broth might bring her back to her old self.
* * *
It was growing late and still Marthe had not returned from the village. At first Beth had taken little notice, but as the day passed and the light faded from the sky she began to worry. Where was Marthe? She must know that her supper would be ready? The soup would not harm for they kept the pot simmering slowly for days; it made the meat tender and the gravy thickened more the longer it stewed. Yet Marthe must be hungry for it was some days since they had tasted anything as good as this chicken broth.
Beth ladled some stew into a bowl for herself and ate it. The taste was so good that she licked her lips and wiped her bowl clean with the flat bread she had baked. It was dark outside now and she was very anxious. Why had Marthe not returned long since? Even if she had been nursing someone she ought to have finished by this hour. She had taken hardly anything with her and surely needed to return and make a special brew for whatever illness was in the village.
Had Marthe fallen ill herself on the way home? Beth opened the door and looked out. The moon was full and it was easy to see where the path lay through the wood. Ought she to visit the village and discover what was happening?
She put another log into the fire. Because they lived in a wooden hut, Marthe did much of her cooking outside, but in the winter they had a fire inside. There was no chimney and the smoke went out through a hole in the roof. It was dangerous to leave a fire untended in the house for if a burning log fell it might set fire to the hut. If she searched for Marthe she would have to let the fire die down first. Yet if she did so the fire might go out while she was gone and Marthe might return to a cold empty hearth. She would be angry if her supper was cold and Beth was not there to get her food.
She could not lie down on her bed for she was too anxious. Pulling a quilt she’d made of rabbit skins around her shoulders she sat and waited all night. Three times she rose and went to the door thinking she heard something.
‘Marthe,’ she called. ‘Are you there? Marthe – do you need help?’
There was no answer but the moon had disappeared behind the clouds and it had begun to rain. Beth sheltered in the hut, torn between wanting to look for Marthe and keeping the fire going. By the time it was light, the rain had stopped and Marthe had still not returned. There was no help for it, she must let the fire out and go to search for her mother. She could only hope that Marthe had stayed to nurse a sick patient through the night, because otherwise…Beth hardly dared to think of the alternatives. Supposing she was lying somewhere, hurt or ill? Fear lent speed to her steps. It was not like Marthe to stay out all night. Something must have happened to her. Beth should never have let her go to the village alone.
Her heart pounded and she was breathing hard as she hurried towards the village. She was perhaps halfway there when she saw Mistress Grey coming towards her. Instantly, something in her manner told Beth that she had been right to fear the worst.
‘What has happened?’
‘Beth, I am so sorry,’ the woman said as she came up with her. ‘Forgive me, I heard nothing until this morning. I came at once to tell you – they have taken your mother as a witch.’
‘What do you mean they’ve taken her?’ she asked but in her heart she already knew.
‘I warned you months ago that there were whispers,’ Mistress Grey said. ‘Yesterday when she came to the village there was some muttering. A few spoke up for her and said she had helped them, but John the Blacksmith denounced her for ill wishing us. He said she had brought the sickness to the pigs and the fever to those who were ill. I left them for I would not listen to their lies. The mood was ugly, because too many are suffering, and I ran to the priest for help but when he came he agreed with the blacksmith and said Marthe was a lewd wicked woman. He accused her of dancing naked with Satan and of practising the dark arts.’
‘I knew he hated us.’ Beth shivered. ‘What have they done to her? Has she been taken to the lord for punishment?’
‘Would that he had been here. I think he had gone to Winchester to the market there,’ Mistress Grey said and looked shamed. ‘I am sorry for my part in it, Beth. I thought the priest would help her, but it was he that said she should be taken and put to the test. They looked for a mark but when they found none they…did much worse.’
‘I do not understand. W
hat exactly did they do to her?’
‘I did not follow to watch as others did. Yet I could have done nothing for had I protested I might have been put to the test too. I risk much by coming to warn you, Beth.’
‘You have always been a good friend. Please, tell me what happened to Marthe?’
Mistress Grey looked sick and shamed. She hesitated, then, ‘I was told this morning. Some are shamed by it but others say good riddance – she is dead, Beth. They tied her to a ducking stool and swung her over the pond, dunking her in the water to see if she sank or swam. Five times they brought her up and she lived. Some cried out that she should be set free but the priest said it proved her guilt. He had her dragged from the miller’s pond more dead than alive, and then he told her to repent her sins and confess her guilt. Marthe would not answer him – and so they took her and hung her from the oak tree on the hill near the castle.’
Beth made a moan of grief. It was what Marthe had always feared. She’d said that God wanted to punish her for her sins, but it was the priest and the blacksmith who had murdered her.
‘It was my fault. I should not have let her come alone. She knew something terrible was going to happen and so she came instead of me – to save me.’ Tears stung Beth’s eyes. Marthe had been as a mother to her despite her grumbling and her strange ways and it hurt to hear of her suffering. It was a moment or two before she could ask, ‘Where is her body?’
‘Still by the stream near the lord’s castle, hanging from the tree where they strung her up. I think no one dares to take her down.’
‘I shall take her down. She shall not be left there for the crows to peck out her eyes and eat her rotting flesh, as if she were a traitor or a thief.’
‘You must not go near the village today. It was the reason I came to warn you.’
