Novels 03 The Wise Woman Read online

  “Catherine!” Hugo said commandingly. “You are my wife, I order you to leave this matter alone. It is settled to all our satisfaction.”

  “Not to mine!” She rounded on him, panting. “Not to my satisfaction! Not to my satisfaction! You would lead me out of the room like a bleating lamb, my lord. And I know why! It is to spare her the ordeal! Confess it! You do not want me! You have never wanted me! It is to spare your harlot the task of showing she is not a witch! And why?” Her voice grew louder, more shrill. “Because you are bewitched into shielding her. Shielding her from the rightful anger of your father and you are ready to risk his life, and my life, so that you can have her!”

  She dropped on her knees before the old lord. “Test her!” she demanded, like a woman begging for a lifetime’s gift. “Test the witch! Make her take the ordeal.”

  The old lord looked at Hugo. “Tell me the truth,” he said gruffly. “Are you shielding her from this? If there’s any chance she is a witch you should speak, Hugo. We none of us can dare to play with the devil’s arts. Not even for love of a maid.”

  Hugo gave a ragged, strained laugh. “There’s no chance,” he said carelessly. “No chance at all. But we shall do whatever you wish, my lord, whatever you wish. I would have thought that we have wasted too long on this matter already. I would have thought you were weary of it. I do not fear the little slut, I see no reason to prolong this more.” He laughed more easily. “Let’s have done and away to our suppers.”

  The old lord narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said gently. “She can take the ordeal. There’s no harm done if she is innocent, and I am not sure of you, Hugo. I am not sure of you in this matter.” He turned toward Alys; her face was greenish white. “Alys, you are to take an oath,” he said. “Do as Father Stephen commands.”

  Alys shuddered, a tiny movement which betrayed her deep fear. “Very well,” she said, her voice level.

  The priest stepped forward, held out the Bible. “Put your left hand on the Sacred Book,” he said. “Raise your right hand and say, ‘I, Alys of Bowes Moor, do solemnly swear and attest that I am not a witch.’”

  “I, Alys, of Bowes Moor, do solemnly swear and attest that I am not a witch,” Alys said evenly.

  A log fell in the grate sending a shower of sparks upward. The room was so silent that they all flinched a little at the noise.

  “I have never used the black arts,” the priest intoned.

  “I have never used the black arts,” Alys repeated.

  “I have had no truck with the devil.”

  “I have had no truck with the devil.”

  “I have never looked on his face, nor the faces of his servants.”

  “I have never looked on his face, nor the faces of his servants,” Alys repeated. The rhythm of the vows was pressing down on her. She could feel her gown wet under her arms, she could feel a cold sweat down her spine. She fought to keep her face serene. She was sick with fear.

  “I have not lain with the devil, nor with any of his servants, nor with any of his animals.”

  “I have not lain with the devil, nor with any of his servants, nor with any of his animals,” Alys said. Her throat was tight with fear, her mouth dry. She licked her lips but her tongue itself was dry.

  “I have not given suck to the devil, nor to any of his servants, nor to any of his animals.”

  “I have not given suck to the devil, nor to any of his servants, nor to any of his animals,” Alys repeated.

  “I have made no waxen image, nor cast a spell. I have summoned no ghosts, nor witches, nor warlocks, nor any of the black company.”

  “I have made no waxen images, nor cast a spell. I have summoned no ghosts, nor witches, nor warlocks, nor any of the black company.” Alys’s voice shook slightly but she had it under control again.

  In the utter silence of the little room she could hear her heart beating so loud that she thought they would all hear it and know her fear. The candle-wax moppets were so bright in her mind’s eye that she thought anyone looking into her face would be able to see them. The fingertip which had drawn the pentangle tingled and stung. There was a tiny scrap of flour beneath her nail.

  “And to prove my purity from these devilish skills,” the priest started.

  “And to prove my purity from these devilish skills,” Alys repeated. She tried to cough to clear her throat but it was too tight.

  “I take this sanctified bread, the body of our Lord Jesus Christ,” the priest said.

  Alys stared at him in blank horror. “Repeat it,” he said, his eyes suddenly sharp with suspicion.

  “I take this sanctified bread, the body of our Lord Jesus Christ,” Alys said. She could hold herself no tighter, her voice was a thin thread of fear. Lady Catherine’s nostrils flared as if she could scent Alys’s terror.

  The priest lifted the silver salver and took the linen cloth from it. In the center of the gleaming plate was a large white wafer with a cross marked on it.

  “I take the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, and eat,” the priest said.

  “I take the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, and eat,” Alys said breathlessly. She eyed the thick wafer and knew she would not be able to swallow it. Her throat was too tight, her mouth was dry. She would gag on it, and then they would have her.

  “And if I am perjured, if I am indeed a witch, then may it choke me; and may those that here witness do what they will with me, for I am damned,” the priest dictated urgently.

  The very words stuck in Alys’s throat. She opened her mouth but no sound came, she tried to clear her throat but the only noise she made was a harsh croaking sound.

  “She’s choking!” Lady Catherine said eagerly. “She’s choking on the oath!”

  “Say it, Alys,” said the old lord, leaning forward.

  “And if I am perjured, if I am indeed a witch”—Alys’s voice was harsh, her throat rasping—“then may it choke me; and may those that here witness do what they will with me, for I am damned.”

  “This is the body of our Lord Jesus Christ,” the priest said, and took the bread from the plate and held it toward Alys’s face. “Eat.”

  She swayed as she stood, as her knees softened and her terrified blue-black eyes went out of focus. The nausea from last night’s wine rose up in her throat tasting like bile. She swallowed it down so that she should not retch and found her throat would not respond. The bile was coming up, upward. She put her hand to her face and found she was wet with icy sweat. She knew she would vomit if she so much as opened her mouth.

  “Eat, wench,” the old lord said with gruff urgency. “I don’t like this delay.”

  Alys gulped again. The sickness was unstoppable, her belly was in a spasm of fear, her throat tight with her terror, it was rising up and up, it would spew out the moment she opened her lips.

  “She cannot!” Lady Catherine breathed in triumph. “She dare not!”

  Goaded, Alys opened her mouth. The priest crammed the wafer in, the thick handful of papery mush half suffocated her, half choked her. She could feel her lungs heaving for air, she knew she must cough, she knew when she coughed she would spew it all out, bile, vomit, and wafer; and then she would be lost.

  Alys squared her shoulders and closed her eyes. She was not going to die. Not now. Not at these hands. She chewed determinedly. She thrust a gob of the dry mush toward the back of her throat and forced it down. She chewed some more. She swallowed. She chewed some more. She swallowed. Then she gave one last convulsive gulp and the task was done.

  “Open your mouth,” the priest said.

  She opened her mouth to him.

  “She swallowed it,” he said. “She has passed the ordeal. She is no witch!”

  Alys swayed and would have fallen, but the young lord was at once behind her. He took her by her waist and guided her back to his chair. He poured her a glass of ale from the jug and glanced at the priest.

  “I take it she may drink now?” he asked acidly.

  When the young man nodded he gave h