“Might be.” Fugol backs away from the doorway. “You’d best come.”
“Yes, yes.” What should he do? He tries to recall his mother’s concoctions. Mint for the stomach. Brown apples for loose stools. And what else? Honey? The boy sitting by the door clutches his stomach. “You,” he says to the boy with the wandering eye. “Brew some apple tea with honey. Make him drink whatever he can keep down in small sips, yes?” The boy hesitates and glances away. He will not do as he is told. He’ll head for the hills the minute Egan leaves. “You put your soul in danger if you leave. He’d care for you if you were ill.”
“He bloody wouldn’t,” mumbles the boy. “Selfish bastard.”
“Then you must be better. All right, all right. Bring him to the church. Carry him if you must. I’ll care for him myself.”
“I don’t much care to touch him,” says the boy.
“You’ll do as you are told, and do it quickly! Don’t make me come back here, boy! Should you fall ill, do you want to be left untended?” The boy looks shocked at Egan’s tone. Egan is shocked himself. He must be more frightened than he realizes. “You’re a good boy,” he says, and then rushes past him, hoping the boys will do the right thing.
He is not halfway back to the village when he sees Wynflaed running toward him. He reads it in her face. The sickness is spreading.
At noon the next day, Egan stands before Caelin in the lord’s antechamber. Caelin has returned to the village to leave final instructions with the men guarding Lady Elfhild. He must leave again in two days to join King Edwin and march on Mercia. Caelin paces, roaring at the servants and kicking the hounds cowering in the corner. The room is hot, and the stench of sickness slips beneath the door from the main hall, which is lined with pallets bearing the ill. Not even the sage thrown on the braziers can clear it.
“Where’s your god now?”
“We must trust in Christ, my lord, put our faith in Him.”
Caelin crosses the space between them in two steps. “I warn you, Christian, if the lady dies, or if my child does, I’ll crucify you like your precious Christ.”
Spittle lands on Egan’s face, but he doesn’t dare wipe it away. “It may be our faith is tested.”
“No one tests me! No one!”
Caelin pushes him away so quickly he stumbles and his hip collides painfully against the table edge. “My lord, I’ve used all my arts, but I’m a monk, not a leech.”
“That’s clear enough. Then your prayers had better be more effective than your remedies! My patience wears thin, monk.”
For a moment Egan fears the Angle will pick him up and snap him like kindling over his thigh. Dear God, he prays, guide me. And then it comes to him. “Perhaps there’s someone who can help us.” Caelin eyes him, his face flushed and swollen with anger. He’s not used to helplessness. There’s a dare in his expression, and the promise of consequence. “There’s only one person who knows the healing arts, only one who’s been properly trained.”
Caelin walks to the far side of the table, picks up a goblet and drains it, then slams the vessel down. He shakes his head, as a horse does when bothered by a fly. “The seithkona.”
“Yes, my lord. Sister Wilona.”
“She’s no longer one of us. She’s been gone over a year.” He looks directly at Egan and his eyes spark. “How do we know she’s not responsible? Who knows what dark arts she practises in that cave of hers? I’d be better off sending my men to burn her out.”
Egan’s legs go weak. “Give her a chance. I think it is possible that Christ has seized this very opportunity to draw her in. He sees the larger plan, always, and we are but blind mice—”
“I will cut you down like a wheat stalk if you keep talking!”
“Forgive me. I know only this: in prayer her face appeared to me as though Christ himself whispered in my ear. And the truth is the truth … she knows leechcraft as no one else.” He puts his hands out and shrugs. “I see no other hope. The sickness is spreading, and worsening.”
Lord Caelin bows his head. “Do you think so little of your god that you’d seek out the old ones? Are we being punished for our disloyalty?” He holds his own hand up. “Say nothing, Christian. You have my permission. Bring her here. But I warn you: if my lady dies, if my child dies, if Wilona fails, I’ll kill you both.”
Wilona kneels on the fragrant earth, cutting borers out of the squash vine stems. Bana lolls in the shade of a hazel tree. Between Margawn’s contributions and the bounty of field and wood, life in the cave the past year has not been so hard. A ham and several grouse hang in the smoke over the hearth. She has honey and dried herbs to flavour the soup, and the vegetables are from her own plot. Although she misses Touilt, the solitude comes easy, and besides, the world is full of life, both seen and unseen. Raedwyn likes it here as much as she does. He sent one of his kind to live in the tree a few feet from the cave’s entrance. She’s found mouse bones at its base, and droppings. She has a new talon in her pouch.
She stretches her neck. She’s been tense and unusually restless all morning. Last night she dreamed of white butterflies and an unfamiliar man whose hair was falling out. These are signs of illness, and yet she feels fine, apart from the twitchiness.
The chickens begin squawking. Bana springs to his feet, hackles raised.
“Bana. Still.” The dog obeys but remains focused in the direction of the cave. Wilona cocks her head. Maybe the hens’ complaining is merely squabbling over grubs. The racket persists. She dusts her hands off on the rag tied to her tunic belt. She calls Bana to heel, walks to the top of the ridge where she can look down to the river and cave, and sees a young girl with long braids and a scarf tied round her head. From her dress she looks like a servant, perhaps one of Lord Caelin’s kitchen maids. Bana growls and Wilona shushes him. The girl, thin as a sparrow, stands shyly at the cave entrance, dips her head to peer inside, and calls hello. Seeing Wilona’s not there, she looks worried. She has a flat, wide face, spattered with pimples, and slightly tilted eyes. Perhaps she’s come looking for a skin remedy. She looks up the river and then down, and at last raises her eyes to the ridge. She lets out a little whoop when she realizes Wilona is watching her, then breaks into a gap-toothed smile. Wilona tries to look stern, imagining what tales the girl’s been told about the woman who lives in a cave and speaks to the spirits.
“You got hold of that dog?”
“For the moment.”
“Sister Wilona,” the girl says, and Wilona frowns at the term. “I been told to beg your forgiveness at disturbing you. I’ve no wish to trouble you and surely wouldn’t but for the … utmost urgency.” She begins, in spite of the dog, to climb up the ridge.
“Stay where you are. I’ll come. Wait.” Wilona’s throat feels raspy and she realizes that, other than a few words here or there to the animals, she hasn’t spoken since Fugol came with supplies nearly a full moon ago. She sounds more like a raven than a woman. “Friend,” she says to Bana. “Friend.” She picks up her sack of onions, beans, and squash, and uses her hoe as a staff on the steep slope.
The girl doesn’t wait for her to descend. “Brother Egan sent me. He bids you come.”
Wilona steps onto the level ground and sets her basket on the bench. “If Egan wants me, let him come to me. I’m no one’s slave to be ordered about.”
“No, no, Sister Wilona, it’s no order—I was to make that perfectly clear; the fault’s all mine if it ain’t. He said I’m to tell you it’s a request for your wisdom.”
The girl puts a tentative hand near the hound and he leans toward it. The girl giggles.
“And what,” says Wilona, “do I know that your master doesn’t? What wisdom have I that the Christian might need?”
“There’s sickness in the village. Bad sickness.”
Wilona looks up. A single crow roosts in the willow a ways upriver. She makes the sign of Thunor. “What kind?”
“It happened quickly, no more ‘n two days, and half the village’s sick. Stomach and
bowels, some bloody, Brother Egan says.” The girl wrinkles her nose. “Smells terrible.”
“Are Lady Elfhild and the child sick?”
“Lady Elfhild, but not her child, and the lord’s furious.”
Lord Caelin is back? Is Margawn with him? Her heart leaps. She dare not ask.
“I’m not sick, but”—the girl looks over one shoulder and then the other—”I got this.” She pulls a tiny iron piece from her pocket: Mjölner, Thunor’s hammer. “I don’t think Christ knows enough about elves to protect us against ‘em, do you?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Brother Egan’s been praying and brought the sick to the lord’s hall. He had ‘em at the church, but now there’s too many. He prays and gives ‘em broth but says you’re the only one knows what to do and begs you come.” She chews the end of her braid. “Brother Ricbert’s ill.”
“And Lord Caelin’s asking for me?”
“I guess he is. He’s worried for the lady.”
“What’s your name, girl?”
“Gwen.”
“Gather the chickens into the coop, Gwen. I’ve things to prepare.” Elba and her six shoats wallow happily in the pen. “And run the pigs into the hut.”
The miller’s son built her a strong hut against the south side of the cave, in return for tending his father’s badly broken wrist, which he’d trapped in the sluice gate. The pigs should be safe enough if she must stay away for the night. She’ll leave Bana to guard them. Not even a bear would go up against that dog.
A little while later, having affixed raven feathers and a protection rune to the door so that no one will enter in her absence, Wilona and Gwen follow the path back to the village. Wilona has owl feathers braided in her hair. It is almost an hour’s walk. They each carry a basket, and another is strapped to Gwen’s back. The baskets contain remedies: bilberry, meadowsweet, bird’s tongue, oak bark, walnut leaves, strawberry leaves, chamomile, feverfew. Wilona’s mind ticks away, listing the other things she may need but that they will have in the village: apples, charcoal, honey, soured cream.
Gwen hums tunelessly. Wilona shushes her and the girl sulks but is silent. Who can think with that in their ears? Whatever’s going on in the village, it must be bad indeed if Egan’s sent for her. She bites her lip. A plague may be upon them. Perhaps this is the vision of death she saw. She wonders. It is possible she misinterpreted the vision. For the thousandth time, she burns with longing for Margawn. And yet, even now, he might be lying ill, or worse. No, let him not be at Ad Gefrin. She longs for Touilt’s guidance and wisdom. She slips her hand inside her tunic and, as discreetly as she can, lifts the flask of strawberry wine to her lips. It’s sweet and potent, and the warmth travels through her, easing her muscles, easing her mind. She glances over her shoulder, but Gwen pays no attention. Wilona takes another drink. Confidence rolls over her like sun-warmed honey. Elfish Egan has admitted his weakness and is calling for her. As well he should.
When they arrive, the village is eerily quiet. Two dun hounds stand quivering at the side of the tavern wall. When Wilona comes closer they arch their backs and slink away, tails between their legs.
“The sick are in the lord’s hall?”
The girl grunts and nods, shifting the basket on her back and sighing as though it were filled with rocks, not dried herbs. They wind through the houses, past the pigpens and herb gardens, past the kitchen plots and hissing geese. In a doorway a child with a wooden horse watches them. Soon they come upon Dunstan and Roswitha’s hut. Wilona’s relieved to see Dunstan coming from the garden, an infant strapped to his chest. She had not been asked to attend the birth. A pinch in her chest. No time for that now.
“You’re well, Dunstan?” She sees the worry in his face. “Is it Roswitha, then?”
He nods. “I heard Brother Egan sent for you. It’s good of you to come.” He waggles his head back and forth, acknowledging she has reason to refuse. “He said everyone who’s ill must go to the hall to be cared for, and that those who are well should stay apart and pray, but is that right? I should be with her.” He holds out a bunch of radishes, bright white and purple, the leaves such a hopeful shade of green. “I thought I’d crush them and mix the mash with milk. It’s a good remedy, isn’t it?”
She touches the baby’s head. It’s warm but not hot. “Very good. Give the radishes to me; I’ll see if it’s the right remedy and, if so, I’ll prepare it for her myself.”
Dunstan sighs and his shoulders drop, as though he is relieved to have someone else take responsibility. “Brother Egan says the healthy should stay apart,” he repeats, “in case the evil jumps to us.”
Wilona hasn’t heard of such an idea before, but she sees the wisdom of it. Let whatever elf-shot darts, whatever flying venoms, be concentrated among those already ill. “Draw a circle round your hut and sprinkle mint all round. Hang onions in the windows and doors, and smoke-vents as well, and change them every morning. Place oak over the doorways, and burn pine needles, rue, and rowan on the hearth.” Wilona points to the door. “Paint the lintel red and wrap the baby in a red blanket. You’d do well to wear red yourself, if you have something, or a red piece of yarn around the throat at least. Tell your neighbours to do the same.”
He bows his head. “I’m glad you’re here. Makes me feel more hopeful.”
“You must have hope, Dunstan.”
“You might be wondering … but Margawn’s still away. He and Alfrith have been sent west, to gather the army. Caelin came back with only Cena.”
All at once, her heart falls, and then lifts. He’s safe, for now. “Tell me, has anyone died?”
“Old Hiroc, but he was ready. Said himself he’d not see another summer. Maccus’s grandson, Aylild’s child. I heard he died this morning.”
As Wilona and Gwen reach the hall the wind carries the stench from inside. A gaggle of women stand at the edge of the yard, half covering their drawn faces with the corners of their mantles. Four crows circle the hall and land on the thatched roof. Two young boys pick up stones from a pile they’ve gathered at their feet and throw them at the black birds. They miss, but the birds caw and rise into the air again, circling patiently. Soiled blankets and strips of linen lie mounded to one side, flies covering the refuse. The doors and windows are all closed, and a slave, ashen and wild-eyed, stands guard at the door. When Wilona mounts the steps, he holds up his hands.
“No entry. I’ve orders to stop all from entering.”
“Not me, you idiot! I’m sent for.”
“This is the seithkona,” says Gwen, her sullenness gone now. “Can’t you see that?” The girl jerks her head in Wilona’s direction.
The slave sees the owl feathers and becomes even paler. He crosses himself. “Deepest apologies. Brother Egan’s waiting for you.”
He opens the door and out rushes the full weight of the reek from within. Wilona reaches in her basket, crushes some lavender flowers between her fingers and rubs them under her nose. Still, she breathes through her mouth as she steps inside. “Come on,” she says, but there’s no answer. She turns. Gwen has set the baskets down and disappeared. “Bring those,” she says to the slave, who looks as though he might faint. “I said bring them!” For a moment the man seems to consider what to fear more, the seithkona or the illness. Wilona draws herself up and shakes her head so the owl feathers dance. He grabs the baskets and scrambles inside.
She follows. “Now, take me to Egan.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Two lines of pallets lie before the hearth and on each there is a body. Halfway down the hall a tapestry hung from the ceiling separates the women and children from the old men. Some writhe, some moan, some lie worryingly still. She counts them … six, seven, eight, old men, women, children … far more women than men, since the able-bodied men are with the army. And more children than women. Some women are sitting by the beds of children. Good, she’ll make use of them. Roswitha’s here, and when she sees Wilona she raises her hand and tries to smile, a good sign.
Aelfric, the potter, whose bad legs kept him from the war, lies on his side and holds his great boulder of a belly. His face is a terrible grimace. Toward the far end of the hall Ricbert is squatting over a bucket, his long legs drawn up under his tunic so he looks like a clothed cricket.
The air is stifling, not only with a disgusting odour, but with heat, for despite the fire blazing on the hearth, the overhead vents in the thatch are open just enough to allow the worst of the smoke to escape. The rest floats down, burning her eyes. A pungent scent rises from three iron braziers, but she can’t identify the smell.
Wilona’s vision wavers and she sucks in her breath as the air shifts and fills with spirits and ghosts. For a moment she’s once again a small girl, in a room not unlike this one, surrounded by the dead and dying. Hands reach and pluck at her. She closes her eyes and sees the pale, freckled hands that have so often haunted her dreams. Her mother’s hands, no face, no body, just those clawing, grasping hands … She opens her eyes and the room spins. A bell rings and she follows the sound, willing it to bring her back to the hall, to leave the ghosts in the past. A female servant is walking through the room, holding a bronze bell and a small hammer. Wilona lets her eyes cling to the woman.
“Sister, you’ve come!” Egan’s voice reaches her before she can find him in the murk. “We need your wisdom. This is a terrible thing.”
His emerald eyes stand out even more than usual above the dark smudges beneath. He looks like a forest-ghost. His smile, though, is wide. He wipes his hands on a rag and his expression is pleading, which gives her satisfaction. A little flake of ice pricks the inside of her gut. She must be careful. He may have called her in order to blame her later if things go badly. Well, if she’s to be blamed, let it be because she did all she could, not because she was stingy with her knowledge.
“Lord Caelin knows I’m here?”
“Indeed he does. We have faith in your skills and your good heart.”
Against a Darkening Sky Page 25