by Valerie Levy
“I could, my dear,” she murmured to Bonney, dozing at her feet. “Why shouldn’t old Liza use her skill? Just this once - never before have I used sorcery for ill purpose. But I could, just this once.” The fire crackled and she stared into the flames again, her old eyes watering in the smoke. As she sat, she kneaded the clay absentmindedly, moulding it into the semblance of a man. “It would be easy, so easy,” she muttered, slumping into a reverie as her hands continued to work the figure.
Suddenly she straightened, and Bonney, startled from a dream, leapt to his feet. “No! ’Tis life old Liza brings, not death!" She tossed the clay from her. "Life, not death.” She rose stiffly from the stool, retrieved the clay from a dark corner of the room and hurled it into the fire.
Shrugging and muttering, she added a few more leeks to the stew. “I'll not hurt no-one, not old Liza, she's here to help them all, not harm them, no matter what they do. It's life I bring."
The rain had stopped and sunshine was beginning to slant through the trees. She threw her cloak over her shoulders, left Bonney on guard, and set out once more to visit Judith Belling.
Several days had passed since Liza had cleansed Judith with the cress and water parsnips, and bled her, and now Judith was out of bed and sitting in a chair, feeding Mathilda.
"Liza! I'm well, the fever's gone, I've even taken a few steps outside." Liza grinned as she examined Judith's discharges, prodded her abdomen and breasts.
“Aye, child, all the foul humours are gone. And the babe's thriving. 'Tis a job well done."
“Here, Liza - without your help - ” Bess thrust a brown woollen gown into the midwife’s hands as she left. It was almost new.
“Tut, Mistress, ‘tis too much, you can ill afford …” but her eyes sparkled.
“Nonsense, Liza, you stayed with us all day and night, and without your skill Simon might have lost his wife - maybe his daughter too. The gown is small recompense for what you do for us. All of us in Hollingham.”
Liza smiled as she accepted it. This is what I'm here for, she thought, old Liza brings life into the village. I bring good, never harm. 'Twas the right decision I made this afternoon. Her heart was light and she sang softly as she trudged home through the dusk.
“Oi!”
Liza peered up and down the darkening lane, startled. “Here, old woman!” Nicholas stood in his doorway. She hesitated a moment before she approached him warily. He sniggered. “Come on, I won’t hurt you - not yet.” She recoiled from the malevolence in his voice, and he took a step forward so they were only inches apart, "But I warn you, Liza, watch yourself. I’m not finished with you. You think you can make a fool of me, defy me - you’ll discover what I mean, you silly old crone. And don't think that sending Richard Reeve round here with his feeble threats will do you any good, neither."
Nicholas stooped to bring his fleshy face close to hers and continued quietly, his eyes hostile and flat. “It's your word against mine - unless you want to involve anyone else - which you won't if you know what's good for you. I wouldn't imagine his Lordship would be best pleased his precious daughter is hanging around an old hag like you.”
He grinned spitefully and paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder at her. “Get out of that cot of yours, give it over to me, or you'll see what'll happen soon enough." He went back into the house and slammed the door. Liza stood motionless for a few seconds and then shook her knarled fist.
“Don’t you threaten old Liza, Nicholas de le Haye, she has her ways and means, as you’ll find out … ”
Cicely, Nicholas' wife, leaned from the jettied window upstairs.” Get you gone, old woman, we don’t want no crazy old crones round here. Get you gone, old woman, or I’ll throw this pot of piss over you.” She screeched with laughter as Liza shuffled away, clutching the new gown tightly to her chest. She no longer sang, and as she returned home she tried to think only of the Bellings and their generosity.
Liza was worried about Murrikin. She had not seen him for four days. Never had he remained absent for so long. Years ago she found a tiny black kitten struggling unsuccessfully to clamber out of a ditch, his mother nowhere in sight, and he was tiring rapidly. She picked him up, dried him with her cloak, took him back home and fed him. He never strayed far from the cot and Liza suspected something was seriously wrong.
She wandered in and out of the trees near to Widows’ Cot and called his name, but still he did not come. She asked in the village, but no-one had seen him. She must search deeper in the forest, she thought, and summoned Bonney to accompany her. The weather continued warm and dry and her joints did not ache today, so she managed to scurry quite quickly along the tracks compacted by deer and other animals. As she went she called constantly for Murrikin whilst Bonney zigzagged through the undergrowth, sniffing and searching.
They did not return to Widows’ Cot until dusk. Liza trembled, hungry and exhausted, and tears of worry rolled down her face. She suspected Nicholas de le Haye had something to do with Murrikin’s disappearance.
As she stumbled towards her cottage, Bonney loped ahead, saw what was there and ran back to his mistress. He took a fold of her gown in his mouth and tugged her towards the cot, whimpering in distress. Outside Widows’ Cot lay Murrikin, his coat matted with blood and lips snarled in the rictus of death. Across his throat was a deep gash.
Bonney drooped over Murrikin and whined softly as he guarded his friend. Liza dug a hole in the woodland behind the cot. As the sun went down, the old woman and her dog buried Murrikin amongst the trees. Then they went back inside and she took the powder and bowl from her shelf.
Work quickly - strong, bony fingers prodding and pushing it into shape before it dries hard - thrust with the long pin, thrust again, yet again - “Die in agony, Nicholas de le Haye, die in agony” - “May your head rot on your shoulders” - out to the dung heap, bury deep - “As this perishes, so will your body fall to pieces - ”
Liza was far from finished. She washed herself with gillyflower water, dressed in her white wool gown and combed her hair loose, as if readying herself to visit Tom. She shut Bonney in the cot and, looking like a white wraith, set out to the village towards Nicholas de le Haye’s house. The evening was chill, but her thoughts were too abstracted to notice the cold.
The village lane was deserted at this late hour. Liza stood with head bowed outside his door, gathering her strength and concentrating her mind. The silence was absolute. Slowly, she straightened and raised her skinny arms in supplication as the full moon gazed down vapidly upon Hollingham. Her eyes glinted in the moonlight. For a moment she stood, vulnerable, ravaged by grief and hatred, and then shattered the peace of the village.
“May you be consumed as coal upon the hearth,
May you shrink as dung upon a wall,
And may you dry up as water in a pail.
May you dwindle tiny as a linseed grain,
Smaller than the hipbone of an itch mite,
May you shrivel so you become NOTHING!”
Liza screeched the last word as villagers began to peer from the window openings and doors of the dwellings nearby. Dogs started to bark and babies began to cry. Nicholas appeared at his open window upstairs, Cicely wide-eyed behind him as she crossed herself and muttered prayers.
His voice roared along the lane. “Piss off, you withered old bag of bones!”
Liza spat into his doorway. “I curse you, Nicholas de le Haye, curse you, I curse you three times. May your head and limbs rot and shrink to nothing, may your stones fester and your yard shrivel and die. I tell you, you are cursed and I vow this will all come to pass.”
Her erect posture collapsed as she did a little jig. Her bony arms flailed and her head jerked up and down. Slowly she tottered home, still mumbling and screeching by turn, leaving the village in uproar behind her.
She could not stop shivering, and huddled for a while over the fire. Then she lay on her pallet, cuddled Bonney for warmth, and cried herself to sleep.
Chapter 7
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br /> The week passed slowly, as Rosalind had expected it would, and Tuesday seemed several seasons away. The weather was warm but showery and neither Lady Isabella nor Sarah wished to accompany her for a ride or a walk; their rheumatism ached too painfully in the damp, they said, and anyway, they were far too occupied with more important tasks.
The stable grooms were also too busy to take her out for rides, preparing for Lord Roger’s journey overseas. Indeed, a few days ago a small group of village men had departed for Calais, from where they would travel overland to Antwerp, eventually meeting up with Lord Roger who was due to leave Hollingham in a few weeks.
Rosalind did not dare risk her mother’s anger by going out by herself. The few times she had done this in the past had resulted in beatings and the thought of another was too much to contemplate; she did not want to meet Anton with a bruised face again.
Except for Rosalind, everyone at the manor house seemed to be engaged in some sort of activity. Between heavy showers of rain, during that interminable week, she often climbed up the final stretch of steps in the keep to stand on the flat roof above her bedchamber, leaning on the machiolations to watch the preparations for the journey taking place in the courtyard below.
Horses and carts trundled in and out of the main gate, delivering provisions for feeding a full manor house as well as for her father’s expedition to Antwerp. If she walked around the roof a little she could see the forge, where Master Paul Browning, the blacksmith, and his apprentices laboured all day repairing chain mail, sharpening weapons and shoeing horses. The sounds of iron beating upon iron reverberated constantly around the manor house and the smell of scorched metal filled the air.
Rosalind watched, and waited for the week to pass.
Monday was a brighter day. Rosalind stood in the solar, looking out of the window over the busy courtyard, spinning wool with a hand held shuttle as she watched, impatient for the day to end although it had only just started.
Lady Isabella strode into the room, pulling on her leather gloves. “Come with me?” she said. “Come and visit Margaret Attehill. Her time's near and we must see if she's got enough food on her table, and clothes for the baby. A walk into the village will do you good, child, this fine day.” Rosalind agreed at once, eager for anything that would help pass the time more quickly until tomorrow came.
Carrying a basket of provisions for Mistress Attehill, they took the path right out of the gate, and walked towards where the lanes joined, one branch leading to the London road, the other turning left across the bridge into the village. Sir Firmin was crossing the green towards the church and bowed a greeting towards them. They passed the Red Unicorn tavern, and Nicholas de le Haye's house on their right and Richard Reeve's cottage on their left. The Attehill's dwelling stood a few cottages down from Nicholas’ house, in between Septimus’ and Zachary's, fronting the village lane.
Isabella held her skirt out of the mud as, followed by her daughter, she picked her way along a passage by the side of the cottage into a small vegetable plot. A woman, barefoot and dressed in a loose gown of coarse brown wool, was stooping over a line of leeks, tying their leaves with lengths of twine. She straightened and leaned backwards, arms akimbo behind her to support the small of her back.
“Mistress Attehill!” The woman turned towards Lady Isabella, obviously startled. “I thought I'd find you here!” Isabella and Rosalind stood at the edge of the enclosure, unwilling to venture further into the mud. “Whatever are you doing? Why is that laggard husband of yours not doing all this? Or is he drinking his wages away at the Red Unicorn as usual?”
Margaret curtsied stiffly, her swollen belly filling out the folds of her gown. “Forgive me, your Ladyship, I didn't hear you arriving. Walter's out working with Zachary Joiner, your Ladyship, been gone since early this morning...”
Isabella sniffed. “Makes a change.” She looked around and noticed the sty was empty. “Where's your pig?”
Margaret waddled towards her, wiping her soiled hands on her gown. “Missing, your Ladyship. Stolen last week I reckon.”
“Richard Reeve warned you, did he not? He told you to keep your pig out of everyone's gardens, eating their vegetables and making a mess. He told you often enough. Now the pig's on someone else's table, I daresay. You should have taken better care. Now all you've got to see you through for the next months is your chickens and these vegetables.”
Margaret's shoulders slumped. “Aye, your Ladyship. Richard said he'd try to find who stole it but I don't hold out no hope.”
Isabella felt a dewdrop gathering on her nose and sniffed again. “Come with me inside, Mistress Attehill, I have provisions for you.”
The cot looked uncared for, scruffy and dilapidated. As they entered, the stench of dirt, grease and excreta mixed with smoke from the fire swept over Rosalind in a warm wave and for a moment she thought she would be sick. Two year old twins bawled for their mother in the small room, unwilling to settle for Alyce, older by seven years, and their screams set Rosalind's teeth on edge.
Her mother seemed unaffected by the smells or the noise. She took sweetmeats from her basket and gave them to the children with instant effect. Rosalind followed her lead and soon there was peace. Margaret bobbed another awkward curtsey, muttering her thanks, and Alyce tried to copy her mother. The twins, a boy and girl, merely looked up, wide eyed and now silent, at the ladies who had given them sweetmeats. Rosalind smiled at Alyce and the little girl brought the skirt of her shift up to her mouth and huddled into it, obviously overcome by shyness.
As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, Rosalind glanced around the room. A straw pallet, over which a few dirty hessian sacks had been tossed, took up a third of the space. She assumed that here was where the family slept, all bundled up together, and watched fascinated as two chickens nuzzled fleas and other insects from the mattress. A fire burnt in the middle of the earthen floor, and over it a thin pottage of leeks, onions and carrots simmered in a pot suspended from a tripod. Small wooden bowls and spoons cluttered a trestle table and an empty leathern jug, which she guessed had contained milk, stood alongside horn mugs that still had a few dregs of weak ale in them. Crumbs of dark, coarse bread littered the table. Rosalind watched silently as Isabella peered into the jug, picked it up and then turned to Margaret.
“Do you have more milk to put in this?”
Margaret tried unsuccessfully to poke back the wisps of light brown hair that straggled from underneath her soiled linen cap. “Not yet, my Lady.”
“This is not enough to feed a family. It's time Walter mended his ways and provided for you better than this. I shall arrange for milk and bread to be sent each morning.” Margaret dipped her head in eager acknowledgement and smiled anxiously, revealing several dark gaps where teeth had once existed.
“Is Liza to attend your lying in?” Margaret nodded.
“When Walter comes in you are to tell him to clean out this cottage. Fresh straw. Mend that hole in the wall. And the one in the roof. Tell him these are her Ladyship's orders. You are in no fit condition for such work.” As Isabella looked slowly around Rosalind noticed her mother's nose twitching in annoyance. The Attehills rented the cot from Lord Roger, undertaking to keep it in good repair, otherwise the value would diminish. “The state of this dwelling is a disgrace. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my Lady.” Margaret's voice grew high and whiny. “But he's not well, he's been ill since Michaelmas, my Lady, he's worn out, he's thin as a reed, and coughs, coughs, coughs all night and day ...”
“So who's helping him in the fields, who’s helping with his strips?”
“Alyce, my Lady, she's a good girl, always helping, but she's not been too well neither this past while, she's never been too strong.”
Isabella sighed. “Where are you to lie in with this child?”
“Over on the mattress there, like with the others.”
“And where are the children to sleep?”
“In with me and Walter, my Lady, l
ike they’ve always done.”
Isabella sighed again. “Very well. If that's the best that can be done. You may expect bread and milk later today. And remember my instructions about cleaning this room. The walls outside need a coat of wash too. Here. I’ll leave this, it’s clothing and other items for your lying in, and the new baby. And bread and bacon.” Isabella put her basket on the table. “I bid you good day.”
“Good day, my Lady, Mistress.” Margaret curtseyed briefly towards Isabella and then to Rosalind as they left the cot, careful to pick up their gowns so they did not come into contact with the fouled rushes. Outside, Rosalind took several lungfuls of clean air.
“I cannot blame her entirely,” Isabella said. “Walter Attehill’s a lazy, good-for-nothing, though you will never hear a word against him from his wife.”
For the first time in her life Rosalind was grateful not to be a common villager. Living at the manor house, although boring and lonely, seemed infinitely preferable to existing like the Attehills.
The next morning Sarah arrived, as usual, to help Rosalind dress. Rosalind had slept well, and she woke bright and confident that the day would go well. Brother Anton would be at the Infirmary today; he would not dare to ignore her mother’s request for his presence, even if he wanted to, which she doubted. Rosalind looked forward to the day ahead. She would not fail. Of that she was sure. Before the day was out, Anton’s heart would belong to her.