Hugo.’
‘And the most dangerous,’ one of the women said low. ‘As spiteful as a little snake, that David.’
They had to wait a long time for their food. It was brought on thin pewter platters, only the two lords and Lady Catherine ate off silver. They ate the meat with their fingers and knives, and then a bowl of broth and bread with a thick-handled spoon. The bread was a thick trencher of well-milled rye flour. At the top table they had a wheaten loaf, Alys could see its pale, appetizing colour. All the food was tepid, except for the broth which was cold.
Alys set her spoon down.
‘Not to your liking?’ one of the other women asked. ‘My name is Eliza Herring. Is it not to your liking?’
Alys shook her head. ‘It’s cold,’ she said. ‘And too salty for my taste.’
‘It’s made with salted meat,’ Mistress Allingham said. ‘And from the bottom of the barrel I’ll be bound. But it’s always cold. They have to carry it from the kitchen. I haven’t had hot meat since I left my own home.’
‘I daresay you’d rather stay, cold meat and all,’ Eliza Herring said sharply. ‘From what I hear, the new young wife your son married wouldn’t have fed you venison, hot, cold or raw.’
Mistress Allingham nodded. ‘I wish the plague would take her!’ she exclaimed, then she stopped and looked at Alys. ‘Can you work on a woman you don’t know?’ she asked. ‘Could you soften her heart towards me? Or even carry her off? There’s much sickness about – no reason why she should not take an ague.’
Alys shook her head. ‘I am a herbalist, nothing more,’ she said. ‘I cannot cast spells and I would not do so if I could.’ She paused to make sure that all the women were listening. ‘I cannot make spells. All I have is a little skill in herbalism. It was these skills that cured my lord. I cannot and I would not make someone sick.’
‘But you could make someone fall in love?’ asked the young woman called Margery. Unconsciously her eyes rested on the young Lord Hugo. ‘You have love potions and herbs which stir desire, don’t you?’
Alys was suddenly weary. ‘There are herbs to stir desire, but nothing can change what a man thinks. I could make a man hot enough to lie with a woman – but I couldn’t make him like her after he had taken his pleasure.’
Eliza Herring went off into hoots of laughter. ‘You’d be no further on then, Margery!’ she said delightedly. ‘For he has lain with you a score of times and despised you each time until he feels the itch again.’
‘Hush, hush!’ said the fourth woman desperately. ‘She’ll hear! You know how she listens!’
A servant came to each of them and poured them ale. Alys looked towards the lords’ table. In the clear light of the wax candles she could see the shine on the silver plates. The napery was white linen, unmarked by any blemish. They were drinking wine from glassware. Alys found she was snuffing at the air, breathing in the smell of clean burning wax, clean linen, good food. It reminded her of the abbey and of the overwhelming hunger she had felt when she first saw the cleanness of it, and the order. She had set her heart on having the best, the very best that the abbey could have offered. And she had been well on the way to gaining the best cell, the softest pallet, the best-woven cloak and smoothest robe. She was the abbess’ favourite – as beloved as a daughter – and nothing was too good for her. And then the statue of Our Lady had smiled on her, confirming her desire to be there, in a holy place, in a state of grace.
She bowed her head over her plate to hide her face twisted with disappointment. She had lost everything in one night: her faith, her friends, her chance of wealth and comfort, and a life for herself. Alys could have risen to the highest office in the abbey, she could have been Reverend Mother herself one day. But then in one single night it was all gone. Now she was on the outside looking in, again. She had lost her future – and her mother too. Alys forced herself not to think of Mother Hildebrande and shame herself before them all by weeping for loneliness and loss at the dinner-table.
The lords’ table was served with fillets of salmon and salad of parsley, sage, leeks and garlic. Alys watched them as they were served. The greens were fresh, from the kitchen garden she guessed. The salmon was as pink as a wild rose. It would have been netted in the Greta this morning. Alys felt the water rush into her mouth as she looked at the pale succulent flesh, shiny with butter. A serving-lad shoved a trencher of bread before her spread thickly with paste of meat sweetened with honey and almonds, and his fellow poured more ale into Alys’ goblet.
Alys shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said. ‘I want to rest.’
Eliza Herring shook her head. ‘You may not leave the table until Father Stephen has said grace,’ she said. ‘And until the lords and my lady have left. And then you must pour your mess into the almoner’s bowl for the poor.’
‘They eat the scraps from the table?’ Alys asked.
‘They are glad of it,’ Eliza said sharply. ‘Didn’t you give to the poor in Penrith?’
Alys thought of the carefully measured portions of the nuns. ‘We gave whole loaves,’ she said. ‘And sometimes a barrel of meat. We fed anyone who called at the kitchen door. We did not give them our leavings.’
Eliza raised her plucked eyebrows in surprise. ‘Not very charitable!’ she said. ‘My Lord Hugh’s almoner goes around the poor houses with the bowl once a day, at breakfast-time, with the scraps from the dinner and supper table.’
The priest, seated at the head of the table below the dais, rose to his feet and prayed in a clear, penetrating voice in perfect Latin. Then he repeated the prayer again in English. Alys listened carefully; she had never heard God addressed in English before, it sounded like blasphemy – a dreadful insult to speak to God as if he were a neighbouring farmer, in ordinary words. But she kept her face steady, crossed herself only when the others did so, and rose to her feet as they did.
Lady Catherine, the old lord and the young lord all turned towards the door beside the waiting-women’s table.
‘What a lovely gown you have,’ Lady Catherine said to Alys, as if she had just noticed it. Her voice was friendly but her eyes were cold.
‘Lord Hugh gave it me,’ Alys said steadily. She met Lady Catherine’s gaze without flinching. I could hate you, she thought.
‘You are too generous, my lord,’ Lady Catherine said, smiling.
Lord Hugh grunted. ‘She’ll be a pretty wench when her hair is grown,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to take her into your rooms, Catherine. She did well enough sleeping by me when I was sick. If she is to stay, she’d best have a bed with your women.’
Lady Catherine nodded. ‘Of course, my lord,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Whatever you command. But if I had known you needed a clerk I could have written your letters for you. I daresay my Latin is a little better than this … this girl’s.’ She gave a light laugh.
Lord Hugh shot a dark look at her from under his white eyebrows. ‘I daresay,’ he said. ‘But not all my letters are fit for a lady to read. And all of it is my own business.’
Two light spots of colour appeared on Lady Catherine’s cheeks. ‘Of course, my lord,’ she said. ‘I only hope the girl can serve you.’
‘Come to
