by Valerie Levy
Rosalind’s hand shook as she grasped the goblet and her fingers accidentally brushed his. He gave no sign he had felt the contact, nor did he seem to notice her blushes and confusion. Rosalind admonished herself silently for her embarrassment and held back from joining in the conversation whilst she regained her composure, aware as well of the purple bruise on her forehead and wondering what he must think of that.
As her mother and Brother Anton talked, Rosalind glanced at him from under her eyelashes. His hands were large and strong, covered with a downy growth of dark hair and, as he answered Lady Isabella's questions, he waved them in eloquent gestures. Rosalind imagined his hands stroking her skin, and immediately bent her head to her wine.
“Now, may I escort you through the ward, your Ladyship?” Isabella took Brother Anton’s arm as he assisted her to her feet.
For the next several minutes Anton accompanied the women, introducing the patients in his care, describing their illnesses and their remedies. Most of the beds contained two, and sometimes three men.
“This is John Grainger, from Reedwich.” Brother Anton stopped at one of the beds in which lay a thin man with anxious eyes. “Creeping paralysis. He’s lost the use of his limbs and control of his body functions. His wife brought him to us last week. She was unable to care for him anymore, the Lord bless and keep her. His back is covered in running sores.” John managed to nod slightly, the only movement he could make. Rosalind hoped the monk would not show them the sores.
“How are you treating them?” asked Lady Isabella.
“Carrot leaves, applied with honey. Truth be told, I have little hope of curing them completely, may God’s will prevail. Cases of this sort are difficult; far more is accomplished by prayer than physic.”
Isabella laid her hand over John’s and bent towards him. “I shall return to pray with you,” and John nodded once more. Rosalind noticed that his bedmate, lying with his head at the opposite end of the bed, had not opened his eyes at all, and appeared oblivious to his surroundings. His deep yellow face was emaciated and yet his abdomen seemed enormous underneath the covers. He breathed stertorously, and plucked almost continuously at his blanket.
Rosalind gathered her courage . “What ails this poor man?” She dared to look up at Anton with what she hoped were languorous eyes, but he appeared not to notice.
“Jaundice and dropsy, Mistress. He’s not for this world much longer.” Brother Anton made the sign of the cross and touched the man’s face gently. “He’s sinking peacefully. We gave him powdered broom - the leaves and fresh growing tips - and it helped him for a while, but now - all we can do is take away as much pain as God wills it.”
One of the monks sidled up to Anton and tugged his sleeve. “A child, Brother, at the door, brought in by its mother, scalded itself. Brother Mark’s attending but it’s a bad scald and he wants your advice.”
Rosalind and Isabella continued alone around the ward, talking and praying with the patients. All the while Rosalind glanced towards the door at the end of the ward and hoped for the monk’s return. Towards the end of the morning she saw him walk toward them. Her chest somersaulted and she felt herself blushing again.
“Forgive me, your Ladyship,” he bowed to Lady Isabella. “The child was severely scalded. She upset a pot of boiling water over herself. I've done what I can but it's unlikely she will live.” He shrugged sadly. “I've shriven the poor child. There is no more I can do, save commend her to God’s mercy.”
He sighed and turned to Rosalind. “Mistress, I could not help noticing - ” He held out a small earthenware pot. “This salve will help the bruise on your face - with your permission, your Ladyship - ?” Isabella shrugged her agreement. Rosalind shut her eyes as she bent back her head, exulting in the tingles that flashed through her body as his gentle fingers stroked the ointment into the bruise.
“Here, Mistress, take the salve and put some more on later today.” As Rosalind took the pot, brown, dark lashed eyes flashed into smoky green ones for a brief moment. Soon afterwards, one of the monks called him away again.
“Can we not visit the other wards?” Rosalind asked innocently. Her mother raised her eyebrows.
“You amaze me, child. Yesterday you had tantrums at the thought of visiting the Infirmary, and now - why, I can’t get you out of the place.”
“It’s all so different now the smells and noises have gone. I don’t mind it anymore. Can we not stay a little longer?”
“No, I think not. It’s time we went and allowed Brother Anton and the other monks to work undisturbed. Whilst we are here they cannot put their minds fully to their tasks. Enough is enough.”
Later in the week Rosalind and her parents sat within the chancel at St. Stephen’s as Sir Firmin delivered his sermon. The church had recently been rebuilt on the site of the old St. Stephen’s, that had burnt down a few years ago. Many of the villagers had contributed to its building; some had been able to give only a few pence, others had given more. Even Nicholas de le Haye had donated generously and endowed a small chantry within the church where masses could be said to ensure his continued wellbeing.
Lord Roger had ordered the new church larger than the old. The stone arches stood high and pointed, and the oak wood carvings around the main altar were as elaborate as they were delicate. A single bell hung in the belfry and the vicar would pull at its rope to summon villagers to prayer or to toll for the dead.
Sir Firmin droned on. His words were inaudible, but almost nobody in his congregation would have understood anyway, as today he spoke in Latin. Occasionally his voice rose as he recited a prayer, but the villagers continued to whisper and fidget throughout the service as they stood in the nave or sat on the stone benches lining the walls.
Rosalind looked up at the great window of stained glass that depicted red unicorns, knights, angels, and kings, all dressed in glowing colours, and allowed her thoughts to wander. Last night she had dreamed again of her man. He had held her, kissed her and told her of his love. But now he had a name, he existed, she even knew where he lived, what he did. She must no longer think of him as her man, he was Brother Anton. Her true love. Anton. She whispered his name silently over and over. And she would have him for herself, monk or not. For certain, being a monk might hinder him in rescuing her from Sir Geoffrey, but even if that did not happen, if she were to be condemned to a life married to a fat, belching old man she must discover what it would be like to be loved by Anton first.
Dreams were all very well, she thought, but the opportunity to make them come true, to feel him holding her close in real life, this chance she would pursue with all her heart. Now her life had excitement, a purpose.
Her parents had shown precious little regard for her, she thought, and looked at them under her eyelashes as they sat half asleep, pretending to listen to the dull sermon. Her mother only seemed to notice her when she did or said something wrong. Usually something trivial, that didn't deserve the punishment that followed. Until it came to sacrificing her to enrich and strengthen the de Godwynne family. Then they did not hesitate to use her how they wished, despite what she might want. Other daughters of the nobility, she had been told, had at least some say in the choice of their future husbands, but not she.
Before sacrificing the rest of her life, she promised herself, she would have a taste of true love, whatever that meant, with Anton. The romantic, chivalrous love the minstrels sang of at the King's Court.
Rosalind considered whether loving a monk would imperil her immortal soul. Maybe, she decided, but she would pray for forgiveness and say lots of masses. They were meant to be together, she was certain, and she would not let this chance to experience true love pass her by. She wondered if he had dreamt of her as she had of him - except for that one glance, when he had given her the pot of salve, he had seemed indifferent to her, so probably he had not, or else had hidden his feelings well. So, she thought, somehow she had to make him fall in love with her. A pretty face and melting glances would not be enough to lur
e him into her arms. She must find a way to make herself irresistible to him, so he would hold her, kiss her, tell her of his devotion, of how he would lay down his very life for her.
The action she must take was obvious, she thought. She must go to Liza. Liza would sell her the physick, she was sure, as long as she did not say who it was for - even Liza might baulk at giving a monk a love potion. She would tell her she wanted to give it to one of the young swains at Court.
She sat back in her seat, and thought she had better try to pay attention to Sir Firmin; if her plan succeeded, her soul would need all the help it could get.
Chapter 5
“Well now, Agatha Furnier, let’s take a look at your jars of piss and I’ll tell you who's at fault, you or Sam.” Liza’s bright eyes scanned her shelves, short planks of dusty wood nailed to the timber framing of the walls, sagging under the weight of the bottles and jars stored there. From the bottom shelf she took two bottles, each containing urine collected a week ago, and mixed with bran. She hobbled over to the open door and inspected them carefully in the light. “Seems 'tis neither - no worms and the bran’s sound.”
“Then why have I not conceived?” The baker’s wife, dressed in the usual village garb of coarse brown wool, was plump and usually merry, but today, as she sat on Liza’s stool, her pleasant face was furrowed. She and Sam had been married over a year with no sign of a child.
Liza shrugged. “You will conceive when God wills, these things take time. But Liza will see what she can do.” She rummaged through her shelves again. “When were your last courses?”
“I have them now, seems all the time the bleeding grows heavier. I only used to see them five days in every month, now it’s more like ten. Sam says he never gets the chance these days …”
Liza chortled. “Poor Sam, no wonder he's been in a sour mood lately! Aye, ‘tis your blood bursting through the pores in your veins … take this plaister, spread a spoons worth on some linen, bind it over your privities and soon the flux will stop. Then Sam can get to work - that'll cheer the old grouse up!”
Agatha laughed as she took the jar carefully. “Maybe - What’s in it?”
“Juice of fleawort, linseed, dragonwort and - and who’s to tell. Not Liza! Liza will not give away her cures, or how else will she earn her living?" She shrieked with laughter. "Now, when the bleeding’s finished, fast for four days. Understand? Nothing for four days. Only a little small ale.” She took more jars from her shelves. “On the fifth day cook this mixture - before you ask, 'tis egg yolks and cloves - to be cooked, then eaten. Next, ointment - egg yolk again, more cloves and saffron, old Liza’s special recipe - after eating, spread the ointment over your belly. Put oil of roses on first. You have some? Remember, oil of roses first, afterwards the ointment. Put the same on Sam’s belly as well, then the two of you - go and play!”
The old midwife chortled again as Agatha put the jars into her bag and pressed a few coins into Liza’s grubby hand. “Many thanks, Liza, I shall pray I conceive soon. Sam - he’s a good man, but he’s desperate for a child. Being so much older than me he worries more about such things.” As she turned to go an afterthought struck her. “Liza, is there any way I can make sure I conceive a son?”
Liza returned to her shelves. “Here. Powdered hare’s cunny. To be mixed with a little wine. Sam’s got to drink some as well, mind. That’ll be another penny, my dear.”
Agatha smiled happily and took her leave. All the way back to the mill house she muttered Liza’s instructions, anxious to remember everything.
As soon as Liza finished her meal of watered down ale and cheese she set out for the Belling’s small holding, Bonney at her heels before he ran off into the forest. She was slightly worried about Judith and would have visited sooner had Mistress Furnier not arrived. Yesterday, Judith had looked slightly flushed, and Liza hoped foul humours had not gained entrance to her womb.
Nicholas de le Haye stood inside his new house, warming his hands at the fire in the main room and happened to turn his head towards the window as Liza scurried past. No time like the present, he thought, and began to collect certain items together.
Liza had not seen him and hurried on towards the bridge. She approached the smallholding and Bess came out to meet her, a frown of concern creasing her forehead.
“Judith’s been shaking with an ague, Liza, and her discharges grow foul.” Bess clutched Liza’s arm. “I’ve given her boiled feverfew in wine, but perhaps she needs bleeding?”
“Aye, long travail is often hazardous. But fear not, she’s a strapping lass, ‘tis but the milk fever - a few days and Liza’s skill will fetch her through.” Liza spoke quickly, anxious to reassure her.
Judith lay limply on her mattress behind the hessian partition. Her face had a damp pallor, and dark shadows rimmed her eyes. “Oh, Liza,” she groaned, “I don’t feel right. My womb aches with a bloody flux. For hours I’ve shivered and sweated, my head aches, my back aches, everything aches, give me something, please, Liza.”
“Judith passed this during the night.” Bess showed Liza a small piece of tissue that resembled a blood clot.
“’Tis a little bit of the afterbirth left behind, “ Liza muttered. “I thought I’d fetched it all away. Water cress and water parsnips,” she ordered. “Fetch me some from the river bank." Bess hurried out, eager to obey. “And wine!” Liza called after her. She laid a hand on Judith’s forehead. “Yes, ‘tis a hot humour. Show Liza your tongue, child. Yes, yes, now the privities - ah, yes, ‘tis in need of cleansing - the herbs will help with that, but first to draw the blood down to where it’s needed.” She took her knife from the bag of instruments tied to her waist and placed one of Bess’ small bowls near Judith’s foot.
“Must you bleed me?”
“Hush, child, I know what’s best,” Liza admonished, making a small cut in Judith’s ankle. Dark blood dripped steadily into the bowl. After a few minutes she bound a compress onto the cut to stop the bleeding.
“There, Liza’s drawn the blood from your teats down to your womb. Now it can do some good, 'twill give all its goodness to cleanse and purify the privities.”
“Well, I can’t say I feel any better,” said Judith. “Now I’ve a pain in my foot as well as everywhere else.” Suddenly, the baby began to cry. “Oh, Liza, Mathilda’s hungry. Isn’t she beautiful - listen how loud she cries!” Judith forgot the blood letting as Liza lifted the swaddled infant from her cradle.
“Aye, she’s a lusty maid, sure enough.” She cackled as the air was rent by the baby’s furious cries. “Here, feed her, feed her, before Liza loses her hearing!”
Judith took Mathilda carefully and bared a swollen breast. At the contact with her mother's skin, her cries stopped abruptly, giving way to gasps of impatience as she rooted for the nipple. Soon she found it and grunted with contentment before sucking noisily.
As Mathilda suckled, Bess arrived clutching a large bundle of water parsnips and cress, and Liza went to the fire to supervise the boiling of the herbs in water and wine. She had brought septfoil with her, and added it to the brew. When the mixture boiled, Liza took the pan and set it on the floor near Judith.
“Come now, quickly, while the pot's steaming.” Liza put Mathilda back in her cradle and Bess helped Judith from the bed. “Stand over it, legs apart, let the smoke rise up into your privities and cleanse your womb.” When the pan had cooled, Liza filled a small bag with powdered thyme, baked it for a few minutes on a stone hot from the fire, and bound it in place between Judith’s legs.
“There!” she said. “Liza can do no more. Now then, Mistress Belling! Keep her not too hot and not too cold, and remember, no meat till I say. Only food to cool her hot humours - lettuce, endives and suchlike. Fetch me if you need, but I believe she’ll feel better this bye and bye - these humours are common enough after childbirth.” Just then, Simon burst into the cot, having snatched a few minutes from work on his strips of land in the fields to check on his daughter's progress.
He seeme
d full of high spirits and almost collided with Liza as he spun round and swung Bess up into the air. “What a babe, what a babe eh!” he said, as he lowered a laughing Bess to the ground and disappeared behind the partition to Mathilda and Judith.
“Well, I never. Well, I never did hear the like of it before,” Liza grumbled as she scuttled from the cot, and then gave a bark of laughter. “Goodness me, whatever next!” She stood outside for a moment to regain her breath before walking homeward, chuckling and mumbling quietly as she went.
Rosalind had waited outside Widows’ Cot for almost an hour. She was not surprised to find the cot empty; Liza was often out and about during the day. She hoped she would not be too long in returning and stood to wait, well hidden in the trees - the Barons' daughter would find it difficult, if discovered, to explain her presence at Widows’ Cot. Soon she would have to go; Sarah would be looking for her. She had managed to elude her old nurse but thought it would not be long before Sarah found her.
A figure rounded the bend in the woodland path, but it was not Liza. Rosalind recognised the burly and brightly dressed figure of Nicholas de le Haye. He carried a lanthorn, its unlit candle protected by three sides of thin, transparent horn. She tucked herself well back within the trees, wondering what business de le Haye had with Liza, and why he should be carrying a light in the middle of the day. She had heard of their confrontation and his humiliation - as had everyone in Hollingham - and she suspected he intended Liza no good.
Nicholas strode through Liza’s small garden and knelt at the front of the cot, fiddling with the lanthorn a few yards from Rosalind. Soon, its candle caught and he held the flame to the walls of Widows’ Cot. The old wood, clay and dung wall took fire easily and she saw a wisp of smoke arising.
“No!” she screamed and dashed out of her hiding place. Nicholas dropped the lanthorn and jumped to his feet, his eyes bulging with fright. She ignored him as she beat at the embryonic flames with her cloak. At first the flames looked as though they would take hold, but soon the flames died back to smoke, and then even that dissipated into the cool forest air.