The Wise Woman

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Morach nodded. ‘Throw them in the moat on your way home if you’ve changed your mind,’ she said. ‘If you need magic there’s a price to pay. There’s a price for everything. The price for this is your oath. Swear by your God.’

Alys looked at Morach with desperation in her face. ‘Don’t you see?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t you know? I can have no God! My Lord Christ and Our Lady have turned their faces away from me. I ran from them when I left the convent and I hoped to take them with me. But all my efforts cannot keep them by my side. I kept the hours of prayer while I lived with you, Morach – as far as I could guess the right time. But in the castle they are near to being Protestants, heretics, and I cannot. And so Our Lady has abandoned me. And that is why I feel lust for the young lord, and why I now put my hand to your black arts.’

‘Lost your God?’ Morach asked with interest.

Alys nodded. ‘So I cannot swear by Him. I am far from His grace.’ She gave a harsh laugh. ‘I might as well swear by yours,’ she said.

Morach nodded briskly. ‘Do it,’ she said. ‘Put your hand on mine and say, “I swear by the Black Master, by all his servants, and in the power of all his arts, that I will own these dolls as my own. I wanted them, I have them, I acknowledge them.”’

Alys shrugged and laughed her bitter laugh again – half crying. She put her slim white hand on Morach’s and repeated the oath.

When she had finished, Morach captured her hand, and held it. ‘Now you are his,’ she said slowly. ‘You’ve summoned him now. You must learn the skills, Alys, you must know your master.’

Alys gave a little shiver in the bright wintry sunlight. ‘I am his until I can get back to my abbey,’ she said. ‘I will loan him my soul. I am damned until I can get back to an abbey anyway.’

Morach gave a harsh laugh and struggled to her feet. ‘Good Christmas,’ she said. ‘I’m away to collect my Christmas goods from my neighbours. They should be generous this year, the plague has stayed away from Bowes, and the vomiting sickness has passed on.’

‘Good Christmas,’ Alys replied and reached in her pocket. ‘Here,’ she said, offering a silver threepenny piece. ‘My lord gave me a handful of coins for fairings. Have this, Morach, and buy yourself a bottle of mead.’

Morach pushed the coin away. ‘I’ll take nothing from you today but your oath,’ she said. ‘Nothing but your solemn oath that if they find the dolls you claim them as your own work.’

‘I promise!’ Alys said impatiently. ‘I’ve promised already. I’ve promised by the devil himself!’

Morach nodded. ‘That’s binding then,’ she said. Then she pulled her shawl over her head again and turned back towards the town.

Seven (#ulink_22a19b5a-5680-5f9c-92c9-60d0e441e906)

They celebrated the Christmas feast with a series of great dinners at the castle which started on the first day of Christmas and went on till the early winter darkness fell on the twelfth day. They had singers and dancers and a troupe of dark-skinned tumblers who could walk on their hands as well as their feet and whirled around the hall going from hands to feet so fast that they looked like some strange man-beast – an abomination. They had a man with a horse which could dance on its hind legs and tell fortunes by pawing out ‘yes’ or ‘no’ on the ground.

On the second day they brought in a bear and forced wine on her and made her dance around the great hall while the young men leaped and cavorted around her – always making sure to keep clear of those huge flailing paws. When they were sick of the dance they took off her mask and baited her with dogs until three hounds were killed. Then Hugo called a halt. Alys saw he was distressed by the loss of one dog, a pale brown deer-hound. The bear was still snarling and angry and her keeper fed her with a dish of cheat-bread soaked with honey and some powerful mead. She went all sleepy and foolish in minutes and he was able to put her mask back on and take her from the hall.

There were some who would have liked to kill her for the sport of it when she was dozy and weak. Hugo, who had been excited by the danger of her and the speed of her sudden charges, would have allowed it but the old lord shook his head. Alys was standing behind his chair.

‘Do you pity her? The great bear?’ she asked.

He gave his sharp laugh. ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘But the keeper sells her play very dearly. If we had wanted to kill her it would have cost us pieces of gold!’ He glanced back at Alys with his knowing smile. ‘Always check a man’s purse before you scan his heart, little Alys. That is where most decisions are made!’

The next day the young men went out hunting and Hugo brought back a deer still alive, with its thin legs bound, so that they could release it in the hall. It leaped in terror on to the great trestle-tables, sliding on the polished surface, frantically glaring around the hall for escape, and people ran screaming with laughter out of its way. Alys watched its shiny black eyes bulging with fear as they drove it from one corner to another. She saw the slather of white sweat darken the russet coat until they hustled it forwards and up to the dais so that the old lord could plunge his hunting dagger into its heart. The women all around her screamed with pleasure as the brilliant red blood pumped out. Alys watched the deer fall, its dainty black hooves scrabbling for a foothold even as it died.

On the morning of the twelfth day they held a little joust. David had ordered the castle carpenters to build a temporary tilt-yard in the fields of the castle farm, and a pretty tent of striped material for the old lord to sit at his ease and watch the riders. Catherine sat beside him, wearing a new festive gown of yellow, bright in the hard winter sunlight. Alys sat in her dark blue gown on a stool at his left hand to keep the score of hits for each rider.

Hugo was monstrous and exciting in his armour. His left shoulder was hugely enlarged by a great sheet of metal forged into shape and studded with brass nails which terminated in a gross gauntlet. His right shoulder and arm were scaled like a woodlouse with overlapping plates of jointed metal so he could move freely and hold the lance. His chest and belly were covered by a smooth polished breastplate, shaped to deflect any blow, and his legs were encased in jointed metal. He walked stiffly and awkwardly to his horse, the big roan warhorse, which was also plated from head to tail, only its bright, excited, white-ringed eyes showing through the headpiece.

‘Is it dangerous?’ Alys asked Lord Hugh.

He nodded, smiling. ‘It can be,’ he said.

Hugo’s challenger was waiting at the other end of the lists. Catherine leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with excitement, and dropped her yellow handkerchief. At once the horses sprang forward and the two charged one another. As they came closer the lances came down, and Alys shut her eyes, dreading the sound of lance against body. All she could hear was the thunder of hooves, and then the horses were still. Lord Hugh nudged her.

‘No score,’ he said. ‘Pair of boys.’

In the second run Hugo struck his opponent on the body, on the third he took a blow to his shoulder, and on the fourth his lance hit his challenger smack in his metalled belly and threw him from the horse.

There was a great yell of approval from the watching crowd and the townspeople, who were crowded in at the gate end of the ground, threw their caps in the air and shouted ‘Hugo!’

Hugo pulled his horse up and trotted back down the lists. They were bending over the challenger and taking his helmet off.

‘Are you all right, Stewart?’ Hugo called. ‘Just winded?’

The man raised his hand. ‘A little tap,’ he said. ‘But I’ll let someone else unseat you!’

Hugo laughed and trotted back to his place. Alys sensed his complacent smile hidden beneath the helmet.

They jousted until the early afternoon and then only went in for a late dinner as the light began to fail. Hugo stripped off his armour at the ground floor of the tower and ran up the spiral stairs in his shirt and hose shouting for a bath. He was washed and dressed in his red doublet in time for dinner and sat at his father’s right hand and drank deep. As the lords ate, the mummers sang and danced, and when Lord Hugo called for the bowl and washed his hands and was served with hippocras wine the Lords of Misrule marched in from the kitchen with the lowliest server at their head.

Lord Hugh laughed and vacated his seat at the high table and took a chair at the fireside with Catherine standing behind him. They seated him comfortably and then brought a dirty apron for Hugo and ordered him to serve them all with wine. The women in the body of the hall shrieked with laughter and sent the young lord racing around the hall with one order after another. The serving-lad sat in the lord’s chair and handed down commands and judgements. A number of men were outrageously accused of girls’ play, and ordered to be tied one on another’s back in a long laughing line, to see how they liked a surfeit of it. Several of the serving-wenches were accused of venery and taking the man’s part in the act of lust. They had to publicly strip to their shifts and wear breeches for the rest of the feast. A couple of soldiers were accused of theft while raiding in Scotland with Hugo, a couple of the cooking staff were named for dirtiness. A wife was accused of infidelity, a girl who worked in the confectioner’s department of the kitchen was accused of scolding and had to wear a scarf tied across her mouth.

The serving-lad giggled and pointed to one servant after another who shrieked against the accusation and could plead guilty or not guilty and was judged by the roar of the crowd.

Then he turned his attention to the gentry. Two of the young noble servers were accused of idleness and ordered to stand on their stools and sing a carol as punishment. One of Lord Hugh’s cousins was accused of gluttony – sneaking into the kitchen after dinner begging for marchpane. Hugo’s favourite, a young lad who was always in the guardroom talking warfare with the officers, was named a seeker of favours, a courtier, and had his head blackened with soot from the fireplace.

People laughed even more and the serving-lad grew bolder. Someone cast Lord Hugh’s purple cape around his shoulders and he stood on the seat of the carved chair, jigging from one foot to the other, and pointed his finger at Hugo who was clowning around at the back of the hall with a tray and a jug of wine.

‘Lust,’ he said solemnly. The hall rocked with laughter. ‘Venery,’ he said again. ‘I shall name the women you have been with.’

There were screams of laughter, and around Alys at the women’s table a nervous ripple of discomfort. The serving-lad was lord of the feast, he could say anything without any threat of punishment. He might name any one of them as Hugo’s lover. And Catherine would not be likely to forget, nor pass off the accusation as the fun of the feast.

‘How shall you remember them all?’ someone yelled from the back of the hall. ‘It has been more than three hundred days since last year! That is at least a thousand women!’

Hugo grinned, postured, throwing back the apron to show his embroidered codpiece, thrusting his hips forward while the girls screamed with laughter. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘More like two thousand.’

‘I shall name the women he has not had,’ the serving-lad said quickly. ‘To save time.’

There were screams of laughter at that. Hugo bowed. Even the old lord at the fireplace chuckled. The hall fell silent, waiting to hear what the lad would say to cap the jest.

‘There is only one woman he has not had,’ the lad said, milking the joke. He swung around and pointed to Catherine where she stood beside the old lord at the fireside. ‘His wife! His wife! Lady Catherine!’

The hall was in uproar, people were screaming with laughter. Catherine’s women, still in their seats at the table on the dais, clapped their hands over their mouths to smother their laughter. Hugo bowed penitently, even the old lord was laughing. Soldiers clung to each other and the serving-lad took off Lord Hugh’s purple jewelled cap and flung it in the air and caught it to celebrate his wit. Only Catherine stood, white with anger, unsmiling.

‘Now the old lord!’ someone yelled. ‘What has he done?’

The serving-lad pointed solemnly at Lord Hugh. ‘You are very, very guilty, and you become guiltier every year,’ he said.

Lord Hugh chuckled and waited for more.

‘And every year, though you do less, you are the more guilty,’ the serving-lad said.

‘A riddle!’ someone yelled. ‘A riddle! What is his crime?’

‘What is my crime?’ Hugh asked. ‘That I do less and less every year and am more and more guilty?’

‘You grow old!’ the serving-lad yelled triumphantly.

There was a great roar of scandalized laughter led by Lord Hugh. He shook his fist at the lad. ‘I had best not see you tomorrow,’ he shouted. ‘Then you shall see how old my broadsword is!’

The serving-lad danced on the chair and knocked his skinny knees together, miming terror. ‘And now!’ he yelled. ‘I order dancing!’

He slid from the cape and left the cap on the great chair and led out the dirtiest, lowliest slut from the kitchen to take his hand at the head of the set. Other people, still chuckling, fell in behind them. Alys leaned towards Eliza.

‘D’you see her face?’ she said softly.

Eliza nodded. ‘He’s worse than last year,’ she said. ‘And he was impertinent enough then. But it’s a tradition and it does no harm. The old lord loves the old ways and Hugo doesn’t care. They always make a butt of Catherine; she’s not well liked and they love Hugo.’

One of the mummers came to the ladies’ table and laid rough hands on Ruth. She gave a soft shriek of refusal but he dragged her to the floor.

‘Here’s sport!’ Eliza said joyfully, and chased after Ruth to find a partner for herself. Alys went down the hall like a shadow in her navy gown to stand behind Lord Hugh and walk with him back to his chair on the dais.

‘Not dancing, Alys?’ he asked her over the loud minor chords of the music and the thump of the drum.

‘No,’ she said shortly.

He nodded. ‘Stand behind my chair and no one will call you out,’ he said. ‘It’s rough sport but I love to watch it. And Hugo –’ he broke off. Further down the hall Hugo was on his knees to a serving-wench, half hidden behind a mask of a duck’s head. Catherine, unwilling, her face set and pale, was dancing in a set partnered by one of the young knights. ‘Hugo is a rogue,’ the old lord said. ‘I should have matched him to a girl with fire in her belly.’

They danced all afternoon and well into the night. A lad stood and sang a madrigal very sweetly, a gypsy girl came into the hall and danced a wild strange dance with clackers made of wood in her hand, then to a roar of applause the servers came from the kitchen and processed around the hall with the roast meats and set them down on the high table and in messes – four persons to a platter – at all the other tables. It was their final dish of the feast and grander even than all that had gone before. There was swan from the river, roasted and refeathered so that it was as white and complete as a live bird, head rearing up from the serving dish. At the other end of the top table there was a peacock with its tail feathers nodding. The lower tables had cuts of roast goose, turkey, capons, wild duck. Everyone had the best bread at this feast – manchet, a good white bread with a thick golden crust and a dense white crumb. The lords ate with unceasing appetite; Catherine beside them wiped her plate with her bread and took another slice of wild swan, though her face was still set and angry.

The jugs of wine came in, and one dish followed after another. Alys, rocking with weariness, ate little but drank the sharp red wine, cool from the barrels in the cellar. It was midnight when the sweetmeats finally came in, two for the top table. A perfect marchpane copy of the castle with Lord Hugh’s flag fluttering over the round tower was put before the old lord. The women got up from the side table to see it and crowded around.