by Niamh Boyce
Alice unlocked the heavy door to the Pledge Room and went down the steps. She picked her way through the jumble of furniture towards a wall hung with pelts. Líadan followed, equally sure of her way around the objects in the room. I moved more slowly, not having been in the room before. I did not expect the Pledge Room to be such a mess, nor to meet such an array of stuffed animals, all of which seemed to be looking in my direction. Alice pushed some furs aside and stepped into the darkness. We waited, wax dribbling down our candles, till her pale hand darted out from the furs and a crooked finger bid us to follow.
Behind the pelts, more steps led down to an oak door secured with a heavy padlock. Alice bent, lifted a stone slab from the last step and retrieved a key. She knocked clay from it and unlocked the door to reveal a narrow room. Barely her height and width, with earthen walls and ceiling, it was full of cloth bags. One had spilt and coins lay about it. Alice smiled to herself: she was proud of her hoard. Lodged in amongst the bags was a box. Alice instructed us to lift it between us and carry it up to the Pledge Room. We did so with difficulty. As we hauled the box up the steep steps, Alice locked the door behind us.
I was glad to be back in the Pledge Room, for, stuffy as it was, I could at least breathe. I had lived in this house for months without once being inside that room, let alone the chamber hidden by the wall of furs.
As if reading my thoughts, Alice turned. ‘Speak of the hoard to anyone,’ she said, ‘and I’ll cut out your tongue.’
I noticed her words were not directed at Líadan and wondered where all her trust had gone. Back in the cellar, where the light was a little better, Alice quenched the candles and locked the Pledge Room door. As we carried the box up the cellar stairs, I saw my knuckles were spattered with wax burns. It was quiet when we entered the kitchen. The way Esme and Helene leant close to each other at the table told me that the silence had just fallen.
We carried the coffer upstairs to her bedroom. There, Alice carefully lifted each item from the box and laid it on the table by the window. All were wrapped in silks and linen. She looked, and thought for a while – seeming to know what was inside, without having to open them. She selected three. It was only then, as she unwound the cloths, that we saw what she had chosen: a saviour on a wooden cross, a serene-faced ivory virgin and, finally – the most valuable, according to Alice – an amethyst pendant. She held it in her palm.
‘The chamber in the pendant’s heart holds a thorn from Christ’s head,’ she said.
Líadan gasped. I looked at Alice, but she didn’t seem to be teasing. Did she really believe that a thorn from Christ’s crown could end up in Hightown, that she could buy anything in this world that she wanted, no matter how precious? Líadan was touching the pendant with the tip of her finger – she looked like she was making a wish.
That evening, while collecting windfall for Esme’s chutney, I remembered my oak hive. With the grief of losing the skeps, I had forgotten about the swarm that had settled in the oak last May. When I got to the tree, I saw the hive was still thriving. I eased my hand in amongst the bees and lifted out some combs. They were laden with honey. I placed them gently in my basket and carried them back to the house.
Daylight was fading and there was the satisfied air of work well done. Esme was delighted with the wild honey and apples. Her chutney jars were dried and set in a row to be filled. She put the honey under a cloth, and warned that no one should touch it before the feast. The rushes were lit; the silver knives and spoons were laid out for polishing. We were to prepare as if royalty were coming. This supper must remind everyone where the power truly rested in Hightown. We sat together in peace for most of the evening.
‘Alice was caught in bed with him, you know,’ said Helene.
‘With who?’ Esme asked.
‘The demon from whom she learnt the dark arts … his seed gives her power.’
The maid seemed thrilled by such awful notions. I don’t know why – none of us would remain untarnished by such accusations. Did she not know that as the lowest she would be the first on the pillory?
‘The only dark arts are those lies,’ I warned her, ‘so don’t spread them – you’re damaging Alice’s reputation.’
‘What about your own reputation? It’s said,’ whispered Helene, ‘that this fornication happens in the presence of her maid.’
‘You’ll polish silver till the sun comes up for that.’
I marched upstairs, my good humour ruined. Sorcery, fornication, bedding demons? Alice needed no demons; her power came from herself. I opened our chamber door. Líadan lay there, eyes squeezed shut, feigning sleep. I took off my kirtle and put it on the hook. There was a dead butterfly on the sill, a red one. Wings folded, its body was dark and furred. Then its wings trembled open and fluttered briefly before closing like a fan, becoming still again – to all appearances dead again.
I lay in bed, listening to the orchard whisper. Lies were hard to stem: they excited people more than the truth. Many falsehoods already abounded about Alice. She couldn’t even count – her wealth was due to wiles of a more carnal kind. Or her good health was thanks to ancient remedies procured from a Persian alchemist. But what the bishop said this morning, it was not like anything I’d heard before, foul accusations pouring hot from his mouth. I could almost see them, a river of poison travelling from Irishtown, rushing over the bridge and crashing through the gates and into the lanes, passageways and crannies of Hightown – pushing through gaps in shutters and doors to rustle the straw pillows of the poor, the velvet drapes of the rich, whispering – Witch, witch, witch.
26. Basilia
A few merchants were sleepily setting out stalls as I passed. I had risen early. Morris was to meet me this morning. It wasn’t yet time. It wasn’t even light but I couldn’t sleep. At Watergate, the gate was locked. I strolled along the banks of the Breagach for a while. My skirts darkened with dew as they dragged through the grass, but I kept going, for I liked the swooshing sound.
I worried that he might not come. What the bishop had said wasn’t true, but Morris mightn’t know that. Then I thought: what if what the bishop said was true? What if Alice chanted charms, casts spells, invoked protection? How was she any different to him reciting his ancient curse, surrounded by candles, shrouded in incense? What made one prayer holy and another not? I thought of my mistress, of her pale hair, her heavy jewels, her ink-tipped fingers. A sorceress, he had said. I thought about her black chest full of medicines, talismans and relics, of her good fortune, her hoard of coins, her case of tally sticks, her high ornamental bed stacked with feathered mattresses. And, yes, there was something magickal about my mistress, and I was glad. Glad there were rubies, silver, velvet and ermine in this mud-shriven world, however they arrived.
I stopped and looked into the river, and my watery twin looked back from the mud and reeds. The bishop said an underworld lover courted Alice. Where did he come from? Did he arise from the Nore, spear in hand, soaked from the green depths? Whether there was or wasn’t a Robin, he showed himself to me just then. The river sparkled as he broke through its skin, his head as sleek as a seal’s, his body glistening and his mouth crammed with pearls. Then, in a blink of an eye, he was gone.
I rushed homewards, not wanting to forget what I’d seen. It was getting bright. There were many more people about than earlier. Some were gathered in the market square, clustering together by the whipping post. Every one turned and watched as I passed. A child stood alone, apart from others who were skipping. Her face was blank, and her dress had been slashed by the whip. As I wondered what her crime had been, my hand was grabbed and I found myself encircled. The children skipped and chanted, slyly glancing up at me. ‘What’ll you give to be free? What’ll you …’ I unlocked two hands by jerking them apart and rushed away. When I looked back, the children were holding their wrists. Their cries turned to shrieks as they pointed towards me. I strode more quickly towards Low Lane.
Suddenly my hair was yanked back and my coif was torn
from my head. I thought my neck would snap. I glimpsed the fierce face of the woman who had grabbed me and felt her breath against my ear. ‘Little witch.’ There must’ve been two, maybe three women, but all I could see was the blue sky as my hair was pulled from all angles and I was dangled between them like a hated doll. Enough! a man’s voice called. Released, I fell to my knees. My coif was on the ground, muddied and flattened. Tangled clumps of my hair were all about me. I felt the shadow of a crowd gather but didn’t turn to look. I picked up every shred of hair, stuffed the tufts into my purse and placed my coif on my head. I walked slowly towards the house, refusing to run, to show fear.
By chance, the hall was empty and I made it to my chamber without seeing anyone. As I opened the door, I heard crooning coming from nearby. I stopped. At first, I thought a song was being lilted, but then I realized what it was. Fornication, the bishop called it, blessing his mouth afterwards, as if he himself had been begotten by prayer alone. I heard it again, little gasps this time and a man’s groans. Sir John was bedding someone and it wasn’t Alice. I shut the door. I cleaned my face with witch-hazel and pinned a clean veil on my aching head. Soon my hands weren’t shaking any more.
I waited a long time in the orchard. He never came. The boy must’ve believed all the bishop had said. Many had shunned us after the sermon, but I thought he would be different. He had seemed different. I returned to the house to find everyone preparing for the feast. The rest of my morning was spent damning the bishop, plucking and gutting hens, hauling buckets from the well and trying not to cry. Helene was almost dancing about the kitchen as she worked. As she began to sing, I recognized something in her voice. It was she I had overheard earlier – she who had lain with the master. How could she do such a thing to our mistress?
Later, when I saw her sneak from the house, I followed. She took the river path and back lanes towards Irishtown. The keeper was brisk; there was no flirting this time as she passed through. I was let by, too, without any comment, good or bad. Though the keeper refused to greet us, he didn’t dare to stop or insult us, either, for we were no longer just maids, we were now maids from the house of a sorceress. I thought of the women who’d almost pulled me apart between them. I remembered my vision of my mistress, the way she had cowered in fear, about to be hurt beyond repair.
Helene entered Velvet Lane, a narrow path that wound like a ribbon round the cathedral grounds. Following, I found myself on a trail, a stone wall on one side and wooden fencing on the other. I felt uneasy, like an animal being lured into a trap. Helene stopped suddenly and lifted a plank from the fence and slid through. I waited a while before doing the same, coming out on to a wooded slope of birch trees. When I cleared the trees, I realized we were on the outside of Irishtown’s walls. It gave me a strange feeling to be outside: I’d grown used to all the watchtowers and gates keeping us safe, keeping the bad things out, and us within. Now, we were the bad things.
Two tiny cottages were set against the wall. Margaret Dun sat in the doorway of one. She looked younger than she had at Sir Roger’s wake. Helene approached her and I hunkered down behind a hedge. It was unsettlingly quiet; there were no other people, no dogs, swine or children. After Helene spoke a while, Margaret reached into a basket at her feet. Her hand closed over an object and she passed it to Helene, who tucked it into her girdle and left. I tried to stand without cracking a twig or rustling a leaf, but Margaret called out anyway.
‘Come forward.’
I came out of hiding. She signalled I should sit with her, so I did. The door was ajar. Inside, there were trinkets and oddments everywhere. Gloves, beads, threads were pinned to the walls. I recognized a drinking horn belonging to Sir Roger, Milo’s sheepskin waistcoat, items belonging to Helene, and Esme, even Alice. Something from everyone in our household, except my mother. She had no dreams or longing but one, to be free of this town.
‘Basilia? From Roger’s household?’
I nodded.
‘What do you seek?’ She raised each finger one by one, as she listed: ‘Luck, healing, wealth, protection?’
I touched the last finger she held up.
‘For yourself?’
I shook my head.
‘Someone else. Use something of theirs – a strand of hair, a nail, or spit, or cloth. Bind it to a poppet made in their likeness. Keep it safe, but never ever bury it.’
I laid a gift on her lap, a scented rosewood bracelet. She held it under her nose and smiled. She reached into her basket. ‘A relic for you.’
It was a wrap of red cloth, tied with black thread.
As I rushed back into Velvet Lane, Helene leapt upon me and twisted my arm.
‘Aha, I knew you were following!’
She grappled the relic from my fist and waved it over my head. I jumped to retrieve it. She flung it to the ground and stamped it into the mud.
‘I wouldn’t worry about losing that,’ she laughed, tapping my head as I searched. ‘Margaret’s known for her endless supply of rare relics.’
As Helene ran off, I realized why she had visited Margaret. I recalled her worn cuffs, her hands splattered with blue dye as she snatched my relic. A thought had come when her skin touched off mine. Helene wants a baby. It made no sense. Alice would tear her limb from limb if she bore Sir John’s child. Did Helene think it would bind her master to her, that he would keep and protect them? I recalled her slim wrist as it slipped from my grip, felt again her cool skin. Helene would never have a child, Sir John’s or anyone else’s, but she would live a long life.
While the rest of the household listened to Alice’s instructions about the feast, I slipped up to her chamber and gathered hair from her ivory comb, and ripped a fraying hem from an old silken chemise. I had just tucked them under my belt when my mistress charged in. It was lucky I was standing near the writing desk.
‘No more lessons, if that’s what you’re pining for.’
She went to her own desk, and, after some rooting about, pulled out a hinged box with a slant lid. In it lay rough squares of parchment, patterned with rows of evenly slanted dents, the sanded-down sentences of another’s hand. It also held a pumice stone, some quills, a blade, a bar of ink. I could work on, Alice told me, in my own time. She seemed sad about that. She lifted the flask of brandy from her table and swished it about. It uncorked with a pop, and she lifted it straight to her mouth. She took a few gulps, wiped her mouth and smiled. ‘I’ll need this – Lucia has just arrived. It’ll stop me killing her. Come, cheer me on.’
Lucia and Alice sat by the fire. Dame Hatton pretended to embroider cloth, but glanced up so much at Alice that she kept stabbing her finger. Alice made no conversation, just sipped her spiced wine. When she saw no gossip was forthcoming, Lucia folded away her bloodied embroidery, muttering something about wanting Esme’s advice about strudel. I helped her down the steps into the kitchen, where, asking no such advice, she left by the back door. We watched as she waddled through the orchard with her serving boy two steps behind, holding up the train of her dress.
‘That’s how she came in, across the gardens,’ Esme said, ‘afraid of being seen in this house.’
‘At least she came,’ said Helene. ‘No one else has, not since the sermon.’
She was right: no one else came – the trail of merchants had stopped.
Mistress Alice, brightly clothed and jewelled, sat alone in the darkening hall. I stood by the stairs and watched. She leant back in her chair and shut her eyes. I closed my own, and made not a sound. The fire sizzled; she’d flung her dregs into the flames. My skin prickled, and I shivered, as if someone somewhere had just stepped on my grave. I heard the door, felt cold rush in. The door shut, smoke filled the room. I opened my eyes. My mother stood before the hearth, her skirts billowing. She rubbed her arms.
‘It’s chillier here than outside.’
‘Shall I conjure some warmth?’
‘Oh, stop. The things that man said –’
‘Lies, you know that.’
‘
Yes, I know.’
‘Dangerous lies. I’ve hired a guard for the door; he’ll be here by first light.’
‘And what will you do about him upstairs?’
‘What can I do? He’s my husband.’
‘He’s a danger, too.’
‘Nonsense, he can barely walk.’
‘What on earth is wrong with him?’
‘I don’t know. Don’t you think if I knew …’
Alice turned away and stared into the fire. My mother crossed the hall and stood in front of the tapestry. She pressed her palm against the weave. The way she closed her eyes and slowed her breath reminded me of the woman’s stone of Flemingstown Arch and how she had touched that.
That night I dreamt the twins were back in Kytler’s, and sitting at Alice’s table. We were having a banquet. Everyone was enjoying themselves; even when the talk came round to the poisonings, the accusations, it was all said in jest. ‘You know what happens to little girls who tell lies?’ asked Alice. ‘Yes,’ smiled Cristine, ‘their tongues go black.’ ‘No,’ said Alice, ‘their heads come off.’ And chop, Beatrice slumped on the table, and her head rolled to the floor. Alice wiped her bloody blade and we all laughed and laughed, and Cristine fainted, so she, too, was slumped on the table, but she had a head.
Meán Fómhair
* * *
SEPTEMBER
Three darknesses into which women should not go: the darkness of mist, the darkness of night, the darkness of a wood.