Novels 03 The Wise Woman Read online

  Alys was as white as skimmed milk. “Nonsense,” she said bravely.

  “And the old one pulled her out,” the dwarf said. “D’you know? I rather liked the old one, your mother.”

  “She wasn’t my mother,” Alys said. Her whole face felt stiff, unnatural. “I just lived with her. My real mother died in a fire.”

  “Fire?” the dwarf said acutely. “I never heard that before.”

  “Yes,” Alys said. Her voice held a depth of despair. “My mother, my real mother, died in a fire. And nothing has ever been right for me since she was gone.”

  The dwarf cocked his head on one side, viewing her like some strange specimen. “So now you’ve lost one to fire and one to water,” he said unsympathetically. “But shall I call you Lady Alys yet? Will Catherine go the way of your two mothers? Fire? Water? Or by earth? Or by air? And what of you? Will it be the castle or a hidden place in town—a bawdy house in everything but name?”

  Alys took one angry step down the stair and then turned on the step and looked back up. Her face was bright with spite. “You will say Lady Alys to me,” she said passionately. The dwarf recoiled from her sudden rage. “You will say Lady Alys to me—and I shall say ‘Farewell’ to you. For I shall be Hugo’s wedded wife. And you will be a beggar at my gate.”

  She turned and pattered down the stairs, her fine gown floating after her, not looking back. David stayed on the step listening to her footsteps going down and around the curving stone stair.

  “I doubt that,” he said to the cold stone walls. “I doubt that very much indeed.”

  Catherine was heartbroken at the loss of Morach. She wept and clung to Alys when she was told, and Alys put her arms around her and they held each other like a pair of orphan sisters.

  “You must stay with me now,” she said. She could scarcely speak for sobbing. “You have her skills, you were there to help me just as she was there to help me when I was nearly drowned, when I nearly lost my life. You’re her daughter, I loved you both. Oh! But Alys! I shall miss her.”

  “I shall miss her too,” Alys said. Her blue eyes were flooded with unspilling, convincing tears. “She taught me all that she knew, she gave me all her skills. It’s as if she handed the care of you over to me before she left us.”

  Catherine looked up trustingly. “Do you think she knew?” she asked. “Do you think she knew with her wisdom all along that she would leave us?”

  Alys nodded. “She told me she saw a darkness,” she said. “I think she knew. When she took you from the river I think she knew then there would be a price to pay. And now the river has taken her.”

  Catherine wailed even louder. “Then she died to save me!” she exclaimed. “She gave her life for me!”

  Alys smoothed Catherine’s hair with one soft, hypocritical hand. “She would have wanted it that way,” she said. “She, and I, are glad to make that sacrifice. I have lost my mother for you and I do not”—her voice gave a little pathetic quiver—“I will not regret it.”

  Catherine was sobbing without restraint. “My friend, Alys!” she said. “My only friend.”

  Alys rocked her gently, looking down at the puffy, tear-blotched face. “Poor Catherine,” she said. “What a state you are in!”

  She raised her voice and called for the women. Ruth came at once.

  “Send for Hugo,” Alys said. “Catherine needs him.”

  He came at once and recoiled as Catherine, blubbering, reached out her arms to him with a wail of grief. He dropped to his knees before her chair and held her.

  “Hush, hush,” he said gently into her hair. He looked up at Alys, not seeing her. “Have you nothing you can give her?” he asked. “Nothing that can calm her? It cannot be good for the child for her to distress herself so.”

  “She needs to calm herself,” Alys said distantly.

  Catherine sobbed and held Hugo closer. “I know,” she said, sniffing. “But she made me laugh. She made it seem as if everything was a jest. She told me things about her life that made me laugh till I cried. I can’t believe she won’t walk in now and laugh in our faces.”

  Alys shot one quick look at the door. The tapestry quivered. For a moment it seemed all too likely that Morach would walk in, trailing water and icy river weed, and laugh in their faces with her blue drowned mouth opened wide.

  “No,” Hugo said quickly. “She won’t do that, Catherine. She is drowned. Try not to distress yourself so.” He turned to Alys. “Surely you have something to calm her?” he said.

  “I can give her a distillation of the flower of Star of Bethlehem,” Alys said coldly. She went to her room. In the linen chest were the little bottles and powders and herbs which she and Morach had amassed. On the bed was Morach’s white cotton nightshift. In the draft from the open door it billowed for a moment and raised itself a little up on the bed, as if it would get up and walk toward her. Alys stared at it hard for several moments. The arms shifted slightly as if they would point at her accusingly. Alys leaned back against the door and stared it down until she could force it to lie flat and limp again.

  “Here,” she said, coming back into the gallery.

  Hugo took the glass from her without looking up and gave Catherine sip after sip, watching her face and talking to her in a low, gentle voice. When she stopped sobbing, sat up, and wiped her face with her handkerchief, he looked around at Eliza and said, “Here! You! Make her ladyship’s bed ready! She should sleep now.”

  Eliza ducked a curtsy and went through to Catherine’s room.

  “Have you anything to help her sleep?” he asked Alys over his shoulder.

  She went back to the room she shared with Morach. A log had shifted on the little fire and the shadows leaped and danced around the bed. For a moment it looked as if there were someone sitting on the chest at the head of the bed with his face turned toward the door. Alys leaned back against the door and pressed her hand hard against her heart. Then she fetched the drops of crushed poppy seeds for Lady Catherine, so that her ladyship might sleep well in the comfort of her great bed.

  Hugo took the draft without thanks and led Catherine—one arm around her thick waist—out of the gallery and into her bedroom.

  Alys watched them go, saw Catherine’s head droop to Hugo’s shoulder, heard her plaintive voice and his gentle reassurances. Alys tightened her lips, curbing her irritation.

  “Won’t you be afraid to sleep tonight on your own?” Eliza asked Alys as the door shut behind the couple.

  “No,” Alys said.

  Eliza gave a little scream. “In a dead woman’s bed!” she exclaimed. “With the pillow still dented with her head! After she had drowned that very day! I’d be afraid she would come to say her farewells! That’s what they do! She’ll come to say her farewells before she rests in peace, poor old woman.”

  Alys shrugged her shoulders. “She was a poor old woman and now she’s dead,” she said. “Why should she not rest in peace?”

  Ruth looked sharply up at her. “Because she is in the water,” she said. “How will she rise up on the Day of Judgment if her body is all blanched and drenched?”

  Alys felt her face quiver with horror. “This is nonsense,” she said. “I’ll not hear it. I’m going to bed.”

  “To sleep?” Mistress Allingham asked, surprised.

  “Certainly to sleep,” Alys replied. “Why should I not sleep? I am going to get into my nightshift, tie the strings of my cap, and sleep all the long night.”

  She stalked from the room and shut the door behind her. She undressed—as she had said she would—and tied the strings of her nightcap. But then she pulled up her stool to the fireside and threw another log on the fire, lit another candle so that all the shadows in the room were banished and it was as bright as day, and waited and waked all night—so that Morach should not come to her, all cold and wet. So that Morach should not come to her and lay one icy hand on her shoulder and say once more: “Not long now, Alys.”

  The next day Alys summoned a maid from the kitch