Novels 03 The Wise Woman

by Philippa Gregory

  “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
er the glass. For a moment his warm fingers touched her frozen ones, like a secret message of reassurance.

  “I am glad,” Lady Catherine said. “This is the best outcome we could have hoped for. Alys has proved her innocence.”

  The old lord nodded. “She can stay,” he said.

  “And live with my women, as she has done,” Lady Catherine said swiftly. “And she will make me a promise.” She smiled at Alys. “She will promise me that she will have no more truck with my husband, and that she will tell no more tales of a child from herself from him.”

  The old lord nodded. “That’s fair,” he said to Alys. “Promise it, wench.”

  “I swear it,” Alys said, her voice very low. She was still sweating, the lump of communion bread thick and cloying deep in her throat.

  “And when I have a child, as I know I will have this year, then we will know that Alys is completely innocent,” Lady Catherine said sweetly. “Alys can turn her skills toward making me fertile that I may bear an heir.”

  The old lord nodded wearily. “Aye,” he said. “Alys can have a look at you and see if she has herbs which will help.”

  “I am counting on it,” Lady Catherine said. Behind her pleasant tone was a world of threat. Alys, sitting without permission in Lady Catherine’s presence, shifted uneasily as she recognized renewed danger.

  “My lord will lie with me, not with you, Alys,” Catherine said triumphantly. “And I will bear his son, not you, Alys. And when our son is born then you will be free to leave, Alys.”

  “Aye,” the old lord said again. “Now go, all of you. I’ll take a rest before supper.”

  Eliza fled for the door and was away downstairs without another word of bidding. Alys rose wearily to her feet. Hugo glanced at her and then went to Lady Catherine, who beckoned imperiously for his arm.

  “Let us go to my chamber,” she said. Her look up at his dark face was hungry. She was breathless with lust. He had promised to lie with her, and Alys’s defeat had excited her. “Let us two go to my chamber, my lord.”

  Alys, left alone in the room with the old lord, moved slowly toward the door as if she were very, very weary.

  “Get her with child, for God’s sake,” the old lord said. He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes were closed. “I’ll have no peace until she has a son, or I am rid of her; and I cannot be rid of her inside a year.” He sighed. “You will be in danger every day of that year until she has a child or until Hugo’s eyes are turned away from you. He must be blind to you, and deaf to you, and insensate to you. Get her with child if you can, Alys—or avoid Hugo’s desire. Your luck will run out one day. You were perilously close today.”

  Alys nodded, saying nothing, then she slipped from the room and hobbled slowly down the stairs to the guardroom below. Eliza was waiting for her.

  “I thought you were going to choke and they would kill you,” she said, wide-eyed.

  “So did I,” Alys said grimly.

  “Come back with me and tell the others! They won’t believe it!”

  “No,” Alys said.

  “Oh, come on!” Eliza urged. “They won’t believe me if you don’t tell them too.”

  “No,” Alys said again.

  “I thought I would die of fright!” Eliza said excitedly. “And when you were slow repeating the oath, I thought they would have you! I’ve never seen anything like it!” She caught Alys’s arm. “Come on!” she urged. “Come and tell the others!”

  “Let me go!” Alys said, suddenly shaking Eliza off. “Let me go, damn you! Let me go!”

  She pushed Eliza roughly aside and fled down the stairs, through the hall where the servants were putting out great jugs of ale and beer, and out across the yard to the bakehouse. Only there, when she had slipped through the door and slammed it behind her and sunk down to the hearthstone, did she let herself weep. And then, to her horror, she felt her vomit rising, rising up in her throat again.

  She knelt and faced the embers of the bakehouse fire and felt her throat clench against the rising tide of bile. Then she vomited, spewing it out into the ashes. Six times she heaved and puked until her belly was empty and her mouth sore.

  And it was then that Alys knew fear. For in the embers of the fire, whole and untouched, unblemished in its white circle, was the sanctified wafer. Not a mark on it, as whole as when she had sworn an oath and chewed it and swallowed it. It had choked her as she had known it would.

  Chapter

  10

  The night drew in, darker and colder, and Alys, still hidden in her refuge at the bakehouse, heard the shouts and clatter of supper and then the querulous voices of tired servants cleaning up. From the courtyard she could hear the shouts of servants who were leaving the castle and going into town, she could hear the march of the soldiers coming from their duty at the castle gates, a few steps in rhythm and then a disorderly straggle toward the guardroom, a few shouted jests and then the numbing silence of night. Still Alys waited, shrouded in silence and darkness, waited for the moon to rise above the dark squat bulk of the great hall, waited for the last flickering candles to go out at the little windows. Waited for the peak of the night, sitting on the cooling hearthstone of the bakehouse fire.

  As it grew more and more chill she took a ragged old coat from the back of the door, wrapped it around her thin shoulders, and put a few little pieces of kindling into the embers. When they flickered into flame she tossed on a dry log. Then she sat very still, watching the flames and saying nothing. Alys sat still and silent in a little island of solitude, as if she were waiting for something to come to her—some clarity or some hope. She knew that she was a sinner; far, far from the God of her mother, from the God of her innocent childhood in the nunnery. Despite the hours on her knees, despite the smile on the face of the statue, she would not be forgiven for running from her sisters when the fires of hell had opened around them. She would not be forgiven for the sin of lust. She could not take the devil on loan. She was so far from the peace of Christ that she vomited if she ate his bread.

  Alys threw on another log. The firelight flickered and threw ominous moving shadows around her. Out in the yard someone screamed in mock fright and cried out “Jesu save me!” but Alys did not cross herself. She knew that she alone, of all the castle, could never be saved. She squatted at the stone hearthside like a stone herself, and watched the flames burn up her hopes, her chance of returning to the abbey, her chance of forgiveness. All night she watched and waited by the dying fire as a mother will watch by the bed of a dying child. All night Alys watched her future cool and crumble, and finally faced her despair.

  “I’m lost,” she said softly, just once.

  All her plans—of escape from the castle, of return to an abbey, of the revival of the Church of Rome and a haven for her—they were all gone. Alys knew that she would never be an abbess nor even a novitiate again. She could not trust herself in a holy place. God had put his mark on her—as she had feared—during that panic-stricken run. She could not whisper in the confessional, she could not eat the sacred bread. Holy wine would curdle if she came close—and turn to blood. Holy water would ice over. The holy bread would rise up in her throat and choke her and if she vomited it out on the chancel steps they would all see, everyone would see, the wafer untouched by her soiled, sinful mouth. No abbess could miss the signs of a woman mired in sin, a woman given over to the devil. She could not coax nor lie her way back to sanctity. She could not confess and be absolved. She was in too deep. She was in too deep. She was black as the deeps of the river at midnight.

  Alys breathed out a long, slow sigh of despair. The old life was gone indeed, as surely as Mother Hildebrande—and all her wisdom and love and kindness—was blown away on the moorland winds in a puff of white ash and charred gown. The old life was gone and Alys would never have it back.

  She sat and mourned for it, for two long hours, with her eyes on the flames and the white consecrated wafer gleaming palely among the red hot embers. Alys watched it—unburned, not eve
n charred—and knew she was far from Christ, and from His mother, and from her own mother, the abbess. She was as far away from them already as if she were in hell.

  At that thought she paused and nodded. “I’m damned,” she said wonderingly. “Damned.” She had a moment of pity for herself. In quieter times, in an easier world, she would have made a good nun, a holy woman, a wise woman. As wise and beloved as her Mother Hildebrande. “I’m damned,” Alys said again, tasting eternal judgment on her tongue. “Damned without hope of forgiveness.”

  She sat still for a few moments longer, then she reached for the fire tongs and hooked the unburned wafer out of the flames. It was cool to the touch. Alys looked at it and her face was stony in the presence of a miracle. Then she took it between her hands and tore and ground it until it broke into one, twenty, a thousand pieces, and she fed each little piece to the flames until they caught and burned and were gone. Alys smiled.

  “Damned,” she said again, and this time it sounded like a direction for her to follow.

  She knew now she would stay in the castle until she could see which way the wind blew for the old lord and for young Hugo. There could be no abbey, no convent in the future. Alys would be in the world forever and she would take her power in the world with her woman’s strengths and the power of a woman damned to hell. She had to turn the eyes of Hugo from her. She had to make him lie with his wife. Catherine had to conceive. Any other outcome from today’s black business would end badly for Alys, she knew. Her only chance of using the castle as a stepping-stone to higher things, her only chance of escape, was to see the man she desired turn away from her and return to his wife. To watch her triumph, and to see a son in her arms.

  Alys nodded, her face brightening in the firelight. If she could accomplish that—then she would be safe for months, even years. She was high in the old lord’s favor, she would earn Catherine’s gratitude. Between the two of them she might build a reputation which could take her to the highest houses in the land. Even if she only stayed with Lord Hugh and won his complete trust she would eat well and sleep warm and be free to travel when and where she wished. But Lady Catherine must conceive. If she did not conceive, and soon, she would look around her for a scapegoat. There would be another ordeal. And then another after that. And in an ordeal by water, or an ordeal with fire, or an ordeal with holy wine, in any of them Alys would fail. And then she would face a nightmarish death.