Читать книгу The Wise Woman - Philippa Gregory - Страница 9

The great hall was a high arched chamber, dark with only arrow-slit windows high up in the thick stone walls. A massive fire was burning against the east wall, great trunks of trees flung pell-mell and blazing, the smoke filling the room, smuts and light white ash dancing in the air. Beside Alys, to her left on a raised dais, was a long table with three empty high-backed carved chairs behind it, facing the room. Down the length of the room ran four long tables and benches, soldiers and guards seated in the best places at the dais end of the hall; the servants, scullions and women struggled for places nearest the south door.

The place was in uproar: three or four dogs were fighting by the east wall, the soldiers were hammering on the table and yelling for bread and ale, the servants were shouting to be heard above the noise. In the brackets on the walls there were burning torches, and as Alys watched a well-dressed young man stepped up to the lord’s table and lowered a fine candelabra from a candlebeam and lit sconces of pale golden wax candles.

David the dwarf nudged Alys in the ribs. ‘You will sit in the body of the hall,’ he said. ‘Come on, I’ll find you a place.’ He led the way, with his rolling, half-lame stride, between the tables. But before he could seat Alys at an empty place there was a ripple of excitement in the hall. David turned around and tapped Alys’ arm, directing her attention to the high table. ‘Now you watch!’ he said triumphantly. ‘You see the welcome he gets, my Lord Hugh! You see!’

The tapestry behind the table on the dais was drawn back, the little arched door opened, and Lord Hugh stepped through and took his place in the great carved chair at the plumb centre of the table. There was a moment’s surprised silence and then suddenly there was a great roar of delight as the soldiers and servants cheered and hammered the table with their knives and drummed their boots against the benches.

Alys smiled at the welcome, and saw how the old lord nodded his bony head in one direction and then in another. ‘He looks well!’ she thought. After nearly a week of seeing him as an invalid, in the cramped room of the tower, she was surprised to see him now as the lord at his own table. He had flushed a little, with the heat and with pleasure at his howling, yelling welcome. I cured him! Alys thought, with sudden, surprised pleasure. I cured him! They left him for dead but I cured him. Hidden by her drooping sleeves she stretched out her hands, feeling her power flow through her, down to her fingertips.

Alys had cured people before, vagrants and sick paupers in the infirmary, farmers in their heavy beds, peasants on pallets. But the old lord was the first man she had made well and seen rise up and take his power, great power. And I did that! Alys said to herself. I had the skill to cure him. I made him well.

She looked at him, smiling at the thought, and then the curtain behind him moved again and the young Lord Hugo came into the hall.

He was as tall as his father, with his father’s sharp bony face. He had his father’s black piercing eyes too, and his beaky nose. There were deep lines either side of his mouth, and two lines at the roots of his eyebrows like a permanent scowl. But then someone shouted, ‘Holloa! Hugo!’ from the benches and his face suddenly lit up as if someone had put a brand to a haystack, in the merriest, most joyful smile. Alys said, ‘Mother of God!’

‘What is it?’ David said, shooting a look at her. ‘Have you the Sight? Have you seen something?’

‘No,’ Alys said, in an instant denial. ‘I see nothing. I see nothing. I just saw …’ she broke off. ‘I just saw him smile,’ she said helplessly. She tried to look towards David but she could not take her eyes from the young lord. He stood, his hand resting casually on the back of his chair, his face turned towards his father. A jewel on his long fingers winked in the torchlight, an emerald, as green as his bulky doublet, and his velvet cap sat askew on his black curly hair.

‘There’s the shrew,’ David said. ‘Coming to sit on my lord’s left.’

Alys hardly heard him. She was still staring at the young lord. It was he who had been there at the burning of the abbey. It was he who had laughed as the tiles on the roof cracked like fireworks in the heat and the lead had poured down like a blazing waterfall. It was his fault that the abbey was burned, that Mother Hildebrande was dead, and Alys alone and vulnerable in the world again. He was a criminal, in the deepest and darkest of sin. He was an arsonist – a hateful crime. He was a murderer. Alys looked at his severe face and knew she should hate him as her enemy. But Hugo had charm as potent as any magic. His father said something which amused him and he flung back his head to laugh and Alys felt herself smiling too – as people will laugh with a child or smile for another’s upsurging joy. Alys looked down the length of the hall at Hugo and knew that, unseen and unnoticed, her own face was alight with pleasure at seeing him.

‘See that woman’s pride!’ the dwarf said with disdain.

The young lord’s wife was tall and looked older than him. She carried her power around her like a cloak. Her face as she scanned the hall was impassive, her welcome to her father-in-law was coolly perfect. She hesitated for a courteous second before sitting so the lords were seated first. Then she looked directly down the hall and saw Alys.

‘Bow,’ the dwarf said. ‘Bow! Get your head down for God’s sake! She’s looking at you.’

Alys held the woman’s cold grey stare. ‘I will not,’ she said.

Lady Catherine turned to one of the women seated behind her and asked a question. The woman stared at Alys, and then beckoned a servant. Alys was aware of the chain of command, and of the lowliest servant coming towards her, but she did not take her eyes from Lady Catherine’s face.

‘Two cats on a barn roof,’ David said under his breath.

Alys found her palms were tingling from her fingernails driven into them. She was holding her hands in tight fists, hidden by the sweep of the long sleeves.

‘Lady Catherine says you’re to go forward!’ the servant said, skidding to a halt before her on the dirty rushes. ‘Go up to the high table. She wants you!’

Alys glanced at David. ‘Go your ways,’ he said. ‘I’m for my dinner. You go for the cat fight. Come straight to my lord’s room after dinner. No dawdling.’

Alys nodded, still not taking her eyes from Lady Catherine’s square, sallow face. Then she walked slowly up the length of the hall.

One by one the chattering men and women fell silent to watch her. A great wolfhound growled and then followed Alys up the centre of the hall, up the wide nave between the tables until she was standing with two hundred people staring at her back and Lady Catherine’s cold eyes staring at her face.

‘We have to thank you for your skill,’ Lady Catherine said. Her voice was flat with the ugly vowel sounds of the southerner. ‘You seem to have restored my lord to perfect health.’

The words were kind but the look that accompanied them was ice.

‘I did no more than my duty,’ Alys said. She did not take her eyes from Lady Catherine’s face.

‘You could tempt me to fall sick tomorrow!’ the young lord said easily with a laugh. The officers on the benches nearest the table laughed with him. Someone whistled a long, low whistle. Alys looked only at him. His black eyes were hooded, lazy, his smile was as warm as if they shared a secret. It was an invitation to bed as clear as a mattins bell to church. Alys felt the blood rising to her face in a slow deep blush.

‘Don’t wish it, my lord!’ Lady Catherine said evenly. Then she turned again to Alys. ‘Where do you come from?’ she asked sharply.

‘Bowes Moor,’ Alys replied.

Lady Catherine frowned. ‘Your speech is not from here,’ she said suspiciously.

Alys bit the inside of her lips. ‘I lived for some years in Penrith,’ she said. ‘I have kin there. They speak softer and they taught me to read aloud.’

‘You can read?’ the old lord asked.

Alys nodded. ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said.

‘Can you write?’ he asked, astonished. ‘English and Latin?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Alys replied.

The young lord slapped his father on the shoulder. ‘There’s your clerk for you!’ he said. ‘A wench for a clerk! You can count on her not to rise up in the church and leave you!’

There was a laugh from the head of the long table nearest the dais and a man in the dark robe of a priest raised his hand to Hugo like a swordsman acknowledging a hit.

‘Better than none,’ the old lord said. He nodded at Alys. ‘You may not go home yet,’ he said gruffly. ‘I need some writing done. Get a seat for yourself.’

Alys nodded and turned to a place at the back of the hall.

‘No,’ the young lord said. He turned to his father. ‘If she’s to be your clerk she’d best sit up here,’ he said. ‘You permit, Catherine?’

Lady Catherine opened her lips on a thin smile. ‘Of course, my lord,’ she said quietly. ‘Whatever you wish.’

‘She can sit with your women,’ the young lord said. ‘Holloa! Margery, shift up and make a place for the young wise woman. She’ll dine with you.’

Alys kept her eyes down and went to the side of the dais and climbed the three shallow steps. There was a small table by the dais door where four women were sitting on stools. Alys drew up a fifth stool and sat with them. They eyed each other with mutual mistrust while the servers brought Alys a pewter plate, a knife and a thick pewter goblet stamped with the Castleton crest.

‘Are you old Morach’s apprentice?’ one of them said eventually. Alys recognized a woman who had been left a widow with a fine farm near Sleightholme, but driven out of the house by a powerful daughter-in-law.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I lived at Penrith, and then I came to work for Morach.’

The woman stared at her. ‘You’re her foundling!’ she said. ‘The little wench. You were living with her when I left to come here.’

‘Yes, Mistress Allingham,’ Alys said, her mind working rapidly. ‘I did not recognize you at first. I left for Penrith just after your son was wed. Then I came back again.’

‘I heard you had gone to the abbey,’ the woman said sharply.

There was a muffled scream from one of the other women. ‘Not a nun’s servant!’ she exclaimed. ‘I won’t sit at the table with a nun’s servant! This is a godly household, my lord cannot wish us to sit with a heretic!’

‘I only stayed there for three days, on my way to Penrith, waiting for the carter,’ Alys said steadily, her fingers clasped lightly in the lap of the cherry-red gown. ‘I did not live there.’

Mistress Allingham nodded. ‘It would have been bad for you if you had done,’ she observed. ‘It was the young Lord Hugo himself who led the men to strip the abbey. They say he robbed the altar of popish treasures himself, laughing at the sacrilege. They were drunk – he and his friends – and he let his men fire the buildings. But they went too far, it was botched work, all the nuns were burned in their beds.’

Alys felt her hands tremble and clasped them together in her lap. She could still smell woodsmoke. She could still hear that one brief cry. I wish I had died then, she said to herself. I wish I had died in the same fire as my mother and then I would never have had to sit here and hear of her death told as tittle-tattle.

‘I’ll warrant he did more than that!’ one of the other women, the one named Margery, said in a low whisper. ‘An abbey full of nuns! He would do more than burn them in their beds!’

Alys stared at her in utter horror, but the women were watching Lady Catherine’s straight back.

‘Sssh,’ said one of them. ‘She has ears like an owl, that one.’

‘I warrant he did, though,’ Margery said. ‘I can’t imagine the young lord hanging back when there was lechery being done. He is as hot as a butcher’s dog, that one.’

Another woman giggled. ‘He’d have had a round dozen out of their beds before the fire got them!’ she exclaimed. ‘He would have taught them what they had been missing!’

‘Ssshhh!’ said the woman more urgently, while the others collapsed into giggles. Alys kept her face turned away and fought the bile which rose unstoppably into her mouth.

‘Hush,’ said Mistress Allingham in pretended concern. ‘This must be distressing for the girl. You stayed with them for three days, and they were your friends, were they not?’

A cock pecking under the tables in the hall squawked as a running servant kicked it aside. ‘No,’ Alys said, swallowing down vomit. ‘Old Morach owed them some labour in their garden in exchange for the use of their herbs. I was sent to work off her debt. I stayed until the work was done and then I came away. I did not know any of them well. I lodged with their servants.’

In the darkness of the hall she could suddenly see the abbess’ face, its soft wrinkled skin and the gentle smile. For a moment she could almost feel the touch of her hand as she leaned on Alys’ shoulder to walk around the garden. The cool, dry sweetness of the herb garden was very far away now.

‘I never even saw half of them,’ Alys said, proffering additional detail. ‘They were in the middle of some fast or feast and I was kept in the gatehouse. It was a dull three days, I was glad when the carter came and gave me a lift to Penrith.’

A serving-lad stepped up to the dais and presented a silver platter to the old lord, to the young lord, and only then to Lady Catherine. They took slices of dark meat.

‘Venison,’ Mistress Allingham said with satisfaction. ‘David orders a good table.’

‘David?’ Alys asked involuntarily. ‘Does David command the meals?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Margery said. ‘He’s the old lord’s seneschal – he commands all that happens inside the castle and manages the tenants, commands the demesne, watches over the manors, tells them what crops to grow and takes the pick for the castle. The young Lord Hugo partly serves as seneschal for outside, he rules the villages and sits in justice with his father.’

‘I thought David was a manservant,’ Alys said.

Mistress Allingham tittered, and Alys flushed. ‘Best not let him hear you say that!’ she said brightly. ‘He’s the most important man in the castle after my lord and the young Lord Hugo.’

‘And the most dangerous,’ one of the women said low. ‘As spiteful as a little snake, that David.’

They had to wait a long time for their food. It was brought on thin pewter platters, only the two lords and Lady Catherine ate off silver. They ate the meat with their fingers and knives, and then a bowl of broth and bread with a thick-handled spoon. The bread was a thick trencher of well-milled rye flour. At the top table they had a wheaten loaf, Alys could see its pale, appetizing colour. All the food was tepid, except for the broth which was cold.

Alys set her spoon down.

‘Not to your liking?’ one of the other women asked. ‘My name is Eliza Herring. Is it not to your liking?’

Alys shook her head. ‘It’s cold,’ she said. ‘And too salty for my taste.’

‘It’s made with salted meat,’ Mistress Allingham said. ‘And from the bottom of the barrel I’ll be bound. But it’s always cold. They have to carry it from the kitchen. I haven’t had hot meat since I left my own home.’

‘I daresay you’d rather stay, cold meat and all,’ Eliza Herring said sharply. ‘From what I hear, the new young wife your son married wouldn’t have fed you venison, hot, cold or raw.’

Mistress Allingham nodded. ‘I wish the plague would take her!’ she exclaimed, then she stopped and looked at Alys. ‘Can you work on a woman you don’t know?’ she asked. ‘Could you soften her heart towards me? Or even carry her off? There’s much sickness about – no reason why she should not take an ague.’

Alys shook her head. ‘I am a herbalist, nothing more,’ she said. ‘I cannot cast spells and I would not do so if I could.’ She paused to make sure that all the women were listening. ‘I cannot make spells. All I have is a little skill in herbalism. It was these skills that cured my lord. I cannot and I would not make someone sick.’

‘But you could make someone fall in love?’ asked the young woman called Margery. Unconsciously her eyes rested on the young Lord Hugo. ‘You have love potions and herbs which stir desire, don’t you?’

Alys was suddenly weary. ‘There are herbs to stir desire, but nothing can change what a man thinks. I could make a man hot enough to lie with a woman – but I couldn’t make him like her after he had taken his pleasure.’

Eliza Herring went off into hoots of laughter. ‘You’d be no further on then, Margery!’ she said delightedly. ‘For he has lain with you a score of times and despised you each time until he feels the itch again.’

‘Hush, hush!’ said the fourth woman desperately. ‘She’ll hear! You know how she listens!’

A servant came to each of them and poured them ale. Alys looked towards the lords’ table. In the clear light of the wax candles she could see the shine on the silver plates. The napery was white linen, unmarked by any blemish. They were drinking wine from glassware. Alys found she was snuffing at the air, breathing in the smell of clean burning wax, clean linen, good food. It reminded her of the abbey and of the overwhelming hunger she had felt when she first saw the cleanness of it, and the order. She had set her heart on having the best, the very best that the abbey could have offered. And she had been well on the way to gaining the best cell, the softest pallet, the best-woven cloak and smoothest robe. She was the abbess’ favourite – as beloved as a daughter – and nothing was too good for her. And then the statue of Our Lady had smiled on her, confirming her desire to be there, in a holy place, in a state of grace.

She bowed her head over her plate to hide her face twisted with disappointment. She had lost everything in one night: her faith, her friends, her chance of wealth and comfort, and a life for herself. Alys could have risen to the highest office in the abbey, she could have been Reverend Mother herself one day. But then in one single night it was all gone. Now she was on the outside looking in, again. She had lost her future – and her mother too. Alys forced herself not to think of Mother Hildebrande and shame herself before them all by weeping for loneliness and loss at the dinner-table.

The lords’ table was served with fillets of salmon and salad of parsley, sage, leeks and garlic. Alys watched them as they were served. The greens were fresh, from the kitchen garden she guessed. The salmon was as pink as a wild rose. It would have been netted in the Greta this morning. Alys felt the water rush into her mouth as she looked at the pale succulent flesh, shiny with butter. A serving-lad shoved a trencher of bread before her spread thickly with paste of meat sweetened with honey and almonds, and his fellow poured more ale into Alys’ goblet.

Alys shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said. ‘I want to rest.’

Eliza Herring shook her head. ‘You may not leave the table until Father Stephen has said grace,’ she said. ‘And until the lords and my lady have left. And then you must pour your mess into the almoner’s bowl for the poor.’

‘They eat the scraps from the table?’ Alys asked.

‘They are glad of it,’ Eliza said sharply. ‘Didn’t you give to the poor in Penrith?’

Alys thought of the carefully measured portions of the nuns. ‘We gave whole loaves,’ she said. ‘And sometimes a barrel of meat. We fed anyone who called at the kitchen door. We did not give them our leavings.’

Eliza raised her plucked eyebrows in surprise. ‘Not very charitable!’ she said. ‘My Lord Hugh’s almoner goes around the poor houses with the bowl once a day, at breakfast-time, with the scraps from the dinner and supper table.’

The priest, seated at the head of the table below the dais, rose to his feet and prayed in a clear, penetrating voice in perfect Latin. Then he repeated the prayer again in English. Alys listened carefully; she had never heard God addressed in English before, it sounded like blasphemy – a dreadful insult to speak to God as if he were a neighbouring farmer, in ordinary words. But she kept her face steady, crossed herself only when the others did so, and rose to her feet as they did.

Lady Catherine, the old lord and the young lord all turned towards the door beside the waiting-women’s table.

‘What a lovely gown you have,’ Lady Catherine said to Alys, as if she had just noticed it. Her voice was friendly but her eyes were cold.

‘Lord Hugh gave it me,’ Alys said steadily. She met Lady Catherine’s gaze without flinching. I could hate you, she thought.

‘You are too generous, my lord,’ Lady Catherine said, smiling.

Lord Hugh grunted. ‘She’ll be a pretty wench when her hair is grown,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to take her into your rooms, Catherine. She did well enough sleeping by me when I was sick. If she is to stay, she’d best have a bed with your women.’

Lady Catherine nodded. ‘Of course, my lord,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Whatever you command. But if I had known you needed a clerk I could have written your letters for you. I daresay my Latin is a little better than this … this girl’s.’ She gave a light laugh.

Lord Hugh shot a dark look at her from under his white eyebrows. ‘I daresay,’ he said. ‘But not all my letters are fit for a lady to read. And all of it is my own business.’

Two light spots of colour appeared on Lady Catherine’s cheeks. ‘Of course, my lord,’ she said. ‘I only hope the girl can serve you.’

‘Come to my room now,’ the old lord said to Alys. ‘Come, I’ll lean on you.’

He gestured Alys to his side and she stepped before Lady Catherine. She felt the woman’s resentment like a draught of cold air behind her. She held still a shiver which seemed to walk from the base of her spine up to the cropped, cold nape of her neck. Then Lord Hugh’s heavy hand came comfortably on her shoulder and he leaned on her as she led him from the great hall, across the lobby behind it, and up to his room in the round tower.

He did not let her go until the door was shut behind them.

‘Now then,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen the she-dog, my daughter-in-law, and you’ve seen my son. D’you see now why I let you meet no one, why my food is tasted?’

‘You mistrust her,’ Alys said.

‘Damned right,’ the old lord said with a grunt. He slumped into the heavy carved chair at the fireplace. ‘I mistrust them both. I mistrust them all. I’m cold,’ he said fretfully. ‘Fetch me a rug, Alys.’

Alys took one of the fur-lined rugs from the bed and tucked it around his shoulders.

‘You have to sleep with her women,’ he said abruptly. ‘I can’t keep you here, it would make matters worse for you if they thought you were my whore. But you will keep your mouth shut about me and my business.’

Alys fixed her dark blue eyes on him and nodded.

‘And you will remember that it was I that sent for you, that it is I who command here, and that until I am dead you will be my clerk and servant and none other. My spy too,’ he said abruptly. ‘You can listen to her ladyship and tell me what she says of me, what she plans. And Hugo.’

‘And if I refuse?’ Alys asked, her voice so soft that he could not take offence.

‘You cannot refuse,’ he said. ‘You either consent to be my clerk, my spy, my cunning woman and my healer – or else I shall have you strangled and dumped in the moat. It’s your choice.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘A free choice, Alys, I won’t constrain you.’

Alys’ pale lovely face was as calm as a river on a sunny still day in June. ‘I consent,’ she said easily. ‘I will serve you in all that I can do – for I cannot make spells. And I will tell no one your business.’

The old lord looked hard at her. ‘Good,’ he said.