Kitabı oku: «The Wise Woman», sayfa 2

Two

In the aftermath of the firing of the abbey there were soldiers and bullyboys chasing the rumours of hidden treasure and golden chalices. They had little joy in Bowes village where the half-dozen families did not take kindly to strangers and where four or five were now out of work with the abbey ruined and no services needed. Morach let it be known that she had a new apprentice, and if anyone remembered the previous girl who had gone four long years ago, no one said. It was not a time for speculation and gossip. There were a dozen vagrants still hanging around the ruins of the abbey – refugees from the nuns’ charity with nowhere else to go. The villagers of Bowes locked their doors, refused anyone claiming rights of residence, and chose not to talk about the abbey, or the nuns, or the night of the fire, or the minor thefts and pillaging of the ruined abbey which went on in the later days.

It was said that the firing of the abbey had been a mistake. The soldiers led by the young Lord Hugo were homeward bound from a raid on the mosstroopers, and they stopped at the abbey only to frighten the nuns to do the King’s will, and surrender their treasure and their bad popish ways. It had all begun with some wild sport, a bonfire of broken wood and some tar. Once the flames had caught there was nothing that Hugo could do, and besides the nuns had all died in the first minutes. The young lord had been drunk anyway, and could remember little. He confessed and did penance with his own priest – Father Stephen, one of the new faith who saw little sin in stamping out a nest of treasonous papists – and the villagers gleaned over the half-burned building and then started carting the stones away. Within a few weeks of her return to Morach’s hovel, Alys could walk where she wished; no one recognized her as the half-starved waif who had gone away four years ago. Even if they had, no one would have taken the risk of reporting her, which would bring Lord Hugh down on the village or – even worse – his son, the mad young lord.

Alys could go freely into the village whenever she wished. But mostly she went up on the moor. Every day, after digging and weeding in the dusty scrape of the vegetable patch, she went down to the river to wash her hands and splash water over her face. In the first few days she stripped and waded into the water with her teeth chattering, to wash herself clean of the smell of sweat and smoke and midden. It was no use. The earth under her fingernails and the grime in the creases of her skin would not come clean in the cold brackish water, and anyway, wading back to the frosty bank with shivery goose-flesh skin, Alys had only dirty clothes to wear. After a few weeks she lost her shudder of repulsion against the odour of her own body, soon she could barely smell even the strong stench of Morach. She still splashed water in her face but she no longer hoped to keep clean.

She rubbed her face dry on the thick wool of her dirty robe and walked upstream along the river-bank till she came to the bridge where the river ran beneath a natural causeway of limestone slabs – wide enough to drive a wagon across, strong enough to carry oxen. She paused there and looked down into the brown peaty water. It flowed so slowly there seemed to be no movement at all, as if the river had died, had given up its life into stagnant, dark ponds.

Alys knew better. When she and Tom had been little children they had explored one of the caves which riddled the river-bank. Squirming like fox cubs they had gone downwards and downwards until the passage had narrowed and they had stuck – but below them, they had heard the loud echoing thunder of flowing water, and they knew they were near the real river, the secret river which flowed all day and all night in eternal darkness, hidden deep beneath the false river bed of dry stones above.

Tom had been scared at the echoing, rushing noise so far below them. ‘What if it rose?’ he asked her. ‘It would come out here!’

‘It does come out here,’ Alys had replied. The seasons of her young life had been marked by the ebb and flow of the river, a dull drain in summer, a rushing torrent during the autumn storms. The gurgling holes where the sluggish water seeped away in summertime became springs and fountains in winter, whirlpools where the brown water boiled upwards, bubbling from the exploding pressure of the underground streams and underground rivers flooding from their stone cellars.

‘Old Hob is down there,’ Tom said fearfully, his eyes dark.

Alys had snorted and spat disdainfully towards the darkness before them. ‘I ain’t afraid of him!’ she said. ‘I reckon Morach can deal with him all right!’

Tom had crossed his finger with his thumb in the sign against witchcraft and crawled backwards out of the hole and into the sunshine. Alys would have lingered longer. She had not been boasting to Tom, it was true: raised by Morach she feared nothing.

‘Until now,’ she said quietly to herself. She looked up at the clear sky above her and the sun impartially burning down. ‘Oh, Mother of God …’ she started, then she broke off. ‘Our Father …’ she began again, and again fell silent. Then her mouth opened in a silent scream and she pitched herself forward on the short coarse grass of the moorland. ‘God help me!’ she said in a grief-stricken whisper. ‘I am too afraid to pray!’

It seemed to her that she lay there in despair a long while. When she sat up again and looked around her the sun had moved – it was the middle of the afternoon, time for nones. Alys got to her feet slowly, like an old woman, as if all her bones were aching. She set off with small, slow steps up the hill to where the buds of early heather gleamed like a pale mauve mist on the slopes of the hill. A lapwing called overhead and fluttered down not far from her. Higher again in the blue air a lark circled and climbed, calling and calling, each higher note accompanied by a thrust of the little wings. Bees rolled drunkenly among the early heather flowers, the moor sweated honey. Everything around her was alive and thriving and joyful in the warm roil of the end of summer – everything but Alys, icy Alys, cold to her very bones.

She stumbled a little as she walked, her eyes watching the sheep track beneath her feet. Every now and then she moaned very softly, like an animal in a trap for a long, long night of darkness. ‘How shall I ever get back?’ she said to herself as she walked. ‘How shall I ever get back? How shall I ever learn to bear it here?’

At the edge of the moor, where the land flattened in a curved sweep under the wide, unjudging sky, Alys paused. There was a little heap of stones tossed into a cairn by shepherds marking the path. Alys squatted down on one dry stone and leaned back against the others, closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sun, her face locked in a grimace of grief.

After a few moments she narrowed her eyes and looked southward. The moorland was very flat, bending across the skyline in a thousand shades of green, from the dark lushness of moss around a bog, to the pale yellow colour of weak grass growing on stone. The heather roots and old flowers showed pale grey and green, a bleak landscape of subtle beauty, half pasture, half desert. The new heather growth was dark green, the heather flowers pale as a haze. Alys looked more sharply. A man was striding across the moor, his plaid across his shoulder, his step determined. Alys got to her feet quietly, ready to turn and run. As he saw the movement he yelled out, and his voice was whipped away by the steady wind which blew over the top of the moor, even on the calmest of days. Alys hesitated, ready for flight, then he yelled again, faintly:

‘Alys! Wait! It’s me!’

Her hand went to her pocket where the beads of her rosary were rounded and warm. ‘Oh no,’ she said. She sat down again on the stones and waited for him to come up to her, watching him as he marched across the moor.

He had filled out in the four years she had been away. When she had left he had been a boy, lanky and awkward but with a fair coltish beauty. Now he was sturdy, thickset. As he came closer she saw that his face was tanned red from sun and wind, marred with red spiders of broken veins. His eyes, still that piercing blue, were fixed on her.

‘Alys,’ he said. ‘I’ve only just heard you were back. I came at once to see you.’

‘Your farm’s the other way,’ she said drily.

He flushed a still deeper red. ‘I had to take a lamb over to Trowheads,’ he said. ‘This is my way back.’

Alys’ dark eyes scanned his face. ‘You never could lie to me, Tom.’

He hung his head and shuffled his thick boots in the dust. ‘It’s Liza,’ he said. ‘She watches me.’

‘Liza?’ Alys asked, surprised. ‘Liza who?’

Tom dropped to sit on the heather beside her, his face turned away, looking back over the way he had come. ‘Liza’s my wife,’ he said simply. ‘They married me off after you took your vows.’

Alys flinched as if someone had pinched her. ‘I didn’t know,’ she said. ‘No one told me.’

Tom shrugged. ‘I would have sent word but …’ he trailed off and let the silence hang. ‘What was the use?’ he asked.

Alys looked away, gripping the beads in her pocket so tight that they hurt her fingers. ‘I never thought of you married,’ she said. ‘I suppose I should have known that you would.’

Tom shrugged. ‘You’ve changed,’ he said. ‘You’re taller, I reckon, and plumper. But your eyes are the same. Did they cut your hair?’

Alys nodded, pulling the shawl over her shaven head a little tighter.

‘Your lovely golden hair!’ Tom said, as if he were bidding it farewell.

A silence fell. Alys stared at him. ‘You were married as soon as I left?’ she asked.

Tom nodded.

‘Are your mother and father still alive?’

He nodded again.

Alys’ face softened, seeking sympathy. ‘They did a cruel thing to me that day,’ she said. ‘I was too young to be sent among strangers.’

Tom shrugged. ‘They did what they thought was for the best,’ he said. ‘No way for them to foretell that the abbey would be burned and you would be homeless and husbandless at the end.’

‘And in peril,’ Alys said. ‘If the soldiers come back they might take me. You won’t tell anyone that I was at the abbey, will you?’

The look he shot at her was answer enough. ‘I’d die rather than see you hurt,’ he said with a suppressed anger. ‘You know that! You’ve always known it! There never was anyone else for me and there never will be.’

Alys turned her face away. ‘I may not listen to that,’ she said.

He sighed, accepting the reproof. ‘I’ll keep your secret safe,’ he said. ‘In the village they think only that Morach has a new apprentice. She has said before that she was seeking a girl to do the heavy work. No one has thought of you. You’ve been forgotten. The word is that all the nuns are dead.’

‘Why did you come this way then?’ Alys demanded.

He shrugged his shoulders, his coarse skin blushing brick-red. ‘I thought I’d know,’ he said gruffly. ‘If you had died I would have known it.’ He thumped his chest. ‘In here,’ he said. ‘Where I carry my pain for you. If you had died it would have gone … or changed. I would have known if you were dead.’

Alys nodded, accepting Tom’s devotion. ‘And what of your marriage?’ she asked. ‘Are you comfortable? Do you have children?’

‘A boy and a girl living,’ he said indifferently. ‘And two dead.’ He paused. There were four years of longing in his voice. ‘The girl looks a little like you sometimes,’ he said.

Alys turned her clear, heart-shaped face towards him. ‘I have been waiting to see you,’ she said. Tom shivered helplessly. Her voice was as piercing and sweet as plain-song. ‘You have to help me get away.’

‘I have been racking my brains to think how I can serve you, how I can get you away from that wretched old woman and that hovel!’ Tom exclaimed. ‘But I cannot think how! Liza watches the farm, she knows to a groat what we have made. My mother and she are hand in glove. I took a risk coming to see you at all.’

‘You always did dare anything to be with me,’ Alys said encouragingly.

Tom inspected a callus on the palm of his hand. He picked moodily at the hard skin with one stubby fingernail. ‘I know,’ he said sullenly. ‘I ran to you like a puppy when I was a child, and then I waited outside the abbey for you like a whipped dog.’

He shifted his gaze to Alys’ attentive face. ‘Now you are come out of the abbey everything is changed again,’ he said hesitantly. ‘The King’s Visitors said that you were not true nuns and the lord’s chaplain says Hugo did well to drive you out. The abbey is gone, you are a free woman again, Alys.’ He did not dare look at her but stared at the ground beneath his feet. ‘I never stopped loving you,’ he said. ‘Will you be my lover now?’

Alys shook her head with an instinctive revulsion. ‘No!’ she said. ‘My vows still stand. Don’t think of me like that, Tom. I belong to God.’

She paused, shot him a sideways glance. It was a difficult path she had to find. He had to be tempted to help her, but not tempted to sin. ‘I wish you would help me,’ she said carefully. ‘If you have money, or a horse I could borrow, I could find an abbey which might take me in. I thought you might know of somewhere, or can you find somewhere for me?’

Tom got to his feet. ‘I cannot,’ he said simply. ‘The farm is doing badly, we have only one working horse and no money. God knows I would do anything in the world for you, Alys, but I have neither money nor a horse for you.’

Alys’ pale face was serene though she was screaming inside. ‘Perhaps you will think of something,’ she said. ‘I am counting on you, Tom. Without your help, I don’t know what will become of me.’

‘You were the one who always did the thinking,’ he reminded her. ‘I just came to see you, running like a dog to the master’s whistle, like I always have done. The moment I heard the abbey was fired I thought of you. Then when I heard Morach had a new wench I thought she might be you. I came running to you. I had no plans.’

Alys rose too and stood at his shoulder, very close. She could smell the stale sweat on him, and the stink of old blood from butchering, sour milk from dairying. He smelled like a poor man, like an old man. She stepped back.

Tom put his hand on her arm and Alys froze, forcing herself not to shake him off. He stared into her face. Alys’ dark blue eyes, as candid as a child’s, met his gaze.

‘You don’t want me as a man,’ he said with a sudden insight. ‘You wanted to see me, and you talk sweet, but all you want is for me to save you from living with Morach, just as your old abbess saved you from her before.’

‘Why not?’ Alys demanded. ‘I cannot live there. Morach is deep in sin and dirt. I cannot stay there! I don’t want you as a man, my vows and my inclinations are not that way. But I need you desperately as a friend, Tom. Without your help I don’t know what I will do. We promised to be true to one another and to always be there when the other was in any need or trouble.’ She tightened the rack on his guilt. ‘I would have helped you if you had been in need, Tom. If I had a horse you would never walk.’

Tom shook his head slowly, as if to clear it. ‘I can’t think straight!’ he said. ‘Alys, tell me simply what you want me to do! You know I will do it. You know I always did what you wished.’

‘Find somewhere I can go,’ she said rapidly. ‘Morach hears nothing and I dare not go further than Castleton. But you can travel and ask people. Find me a nunnery which is safe, and then take me there. Lord Hugo cannot rage around the whole of the north. There must be other abbeys safe from his spite: Hartlepool, Durham or Whitby. Find where I can go, Tom, and take me.’

‘You cannot hope to find your abbess again?’ Tom asked. ‘I heard that all the nuns died.’

Alys shook her head. She could remember the heat in the smoke which had warned her that the flames were very close. She remembered the thin clear scream of pain she had heard as she dived through the garden door. ‘I will find a new order, and take a new name, and take my vows again,’ she said.

Tom blinked. ‘Are you allowed to do that?’ he asked. ‘Won’t they wonder who you are and where you come from?’

Alys slid a measuring sideways glance at him. ‘You would surely vouch for me, Tom. You could tell them I was your sister, could you not?’

Tom shook his head again. ‘No! I don’t know! I suppose I would. Alys, I don’t know what I can do and what I can’t do! My head’s whirling!’

Alys stretched out her soft white hand to him and touched him gently in the centre of his forehead, between his eyes, with all her power in her fingertips. She felt her fingers warm as her power flowed through them. For a dizzying moment she thought she could do anything with Tom, make him believe anything, do anything. Tom closed his eyes at her touch and swayed towards her as a rowan sways in a breath of wind.

‘Alys,’ he said, and his voice was filled with longing.

She took her hand away and he slowly opened his eyes.

‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Do you promise you will find somewhere for me?’

He nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said and hitched the plaid at his shoulder.

‘And take me there?’

‘I’ll do all I can,’ he said. ‘I will ask what abbeys are safe. And when I find somewhere, I’ll get you to it, cost me what it will.’

Alys raised her hand in farewell and watched him walk away. When he was too distant to hear she breathed out her will after him. ‘Do it, Tom,’ she said. ‘Do it at once. Find me a place. Get me back to an abbey. I cannot stay here.’

It grew colder. The winds got up for a week of gales in September and when they fell still the moors, the hills, and even the valley were shrouded in a thick mist which did not lift for days. Morach lay in bed later and later every morning.

‘I’ll get up when the fire’s lit and the porridge is hot,’ she said, watching Alys from the sleeping platform. ‘There’s little point in us both getting chilled to death.’

Alys kept her head down and said little. Every evening she would turn her hands to the light of the fire and inspect the palms for roughness. The skin had grown red and sore, and then blistered, and the blisters had broken and then healed. The plump heel of her thumb was toughened already, and at the base of each finger the skin was getting dry and hard. She rubbed the oil from sheep’s fleeces into the calluses, frowning in disgust at the rich, dirty smell, but nothing could stop her hands hardening and growing red and rough.

‘I am still fit to be a nun,’ she whispered to herself. She told her rosary before she went to bed and said the evening prayers of vespers, not knowing the time, far away from the discipline of the chapel bell. One evening she stumbled over the words and realized she was forgetting them already. Forgetting her prayers. ‘I’m still fit to be a nun,’ she said grimly before she slept. ‘Still fit to be a nun if I get there soon.’

She waited for news from Tom but none came. All she could hear in Bowes were confused stories of inspections and changes. The King’s Visitors went everywhere, demanding answers in silent cloisters, inspecting the treasures in orders sworn to poverty. No one knew how far the King would go. He had executed a bishop, he had beheaded Thomas More, the most revered man in England, he had burned monks at the stake. He claimed that the whole clergy was his, parish priests, vicars, bishops. And now he was looking to the abbeys, the nunneries, the monasteries. He wanted their power, he wanted their land, he could not survive without their wealth. It was not a time to attempt to enter an order with a false name and a burned gown.

‘I am cursed and followed by my curse,’ Alys said resentfully, as she hauled water for Morach and pulled turnips from the cold, sticky ground.

Alys felt the cold badly. After four years of sleeping in a stone building where huge fires of split trees were banked in to burn all night she found the mud floor of Morach’s cottage unbearably damp and chill. She started coughing at night, and her cough turned to racking sobs of homesickness. Worst of all were the dreams, when she dreamed she was safe in the abbey, leaning back against Mother Hildebrande’s knees and reading aloud by the light of clear wax candles. One night she dreamed that Mother Hildebrande had come to the cottage and called to Alys, scrabbling on her knees in the mud of the vegetable patch. ‘Of course I am not dead!’ Mother Hildebrande had said joyously. Alys felt her mother’s arms come around her and hold her close, smelled the clean, sweet scent of her starched linen. ‘Of course I am not dead!’ she said. ‘Come home with me!’

Alys clung to the rags of her pillow and closed her eyes tighter to try to stay asleep, to live inside the dream. But always the cold of the floor would wake her, or Morach’s irascible yell, and she would open her eyes and know again the ache of loss, and have to face again that she was far from her home and far from the woman who loved her, with no hope of seeing her mother or any of her sisters ever again.

It rained for weeks, solid torrential rain which wept down out of the skies unceasingly. Every morning Alys woke to find her pallet bed wet from the earth of the hovel and her robe and her cape damp with morning mist. Morach, grumbling, made a space for her on the sleeping platform and woke her once, twice, a night to clamber down the rickety ladder and keep the fire burning. Every day Alys went out downriver towards Bowes where the oak, elm and beech trees grew, looking for firewood. Every day she dragged home a fallen bough of heavy timber and hacked at it with Morach’s old axe. Fetching wood for the pile could take most of the hours of daylight, but also there was the pot to be emptied on the sloppy midden, water to be lugged up from the river, and turnips and carrots to be pulled in the vegetable patch. Once a week there was marketing to do in Bowes – a weary five-mile trudge there and back on the slippery riverside track or the exposed high road. Alys missed the well-cooked rich food of the nunnery and became paler and thinner. Her face grew gaunt and strained. When she went into Bowes one day a child shied a stone at the back of her gown and as she turned and cursed him he howled with fright at the blank, mad anger of her eyes.