It was empty of traffic. These were wild lands. Travellers who had to make the journey would delay on either side of the moor, at Castleton in the east, or Penrith in the west, so that they could travel together and protect each other. There were wild animals – boar and wolves, some spoke of bears. There were sudden snowstorms in winter, and no shelter. Worst of all, there were brigands and mosstroopers, marauding Scots, sturdy beggars and vagabonds.
Alys avoided the road and set the pony towards the little sheep track which ran from Bowes alongside the River Greta, through thick woods of beech and elm and oak, where deer moved quietly in the shadows of the trees. The river was full and wide here, moving slowly over a broad rocky bed. Underneath the stone slabs a deeper, secret river ran, a great underground lake stocked with fishes that preferred the dark deeps. Even on horseback, Alys could sense the weight of water beneath the ground, its slow purposeful moving in the secret caves.
The pony broke out of the trees, puffing slightly, and then started the climb westwards and upwards through swathes of poor pastureland where sheep could feed and perhaps a few scrawny cows, and then higher again to the moor. Before the plague had come to Bowes and there had been more working men, someone had walled off one pasture from another. The stones had fallen down now and the sheep could run where they wished. At shearing in spring, or butchering in winter, they would be sorted by the marks on their fleeces. Every village had its own brand – but they all belonged to Lord Hugh.
The river was in spate here, a fast-moving swell of water overlapping the stone of the banks and flooding the meadows in great wet sweeps of waterlogged land. Alys rode beside it, listening to the gurgle and rush of the water, and laughed when the little pony shied sideways from a puddle. Bits of wood and weed were tumbled over and over in the peaty water, and at the river’s edge the springs bubbled and gurgled like soup pots, spewing out more brown water to swirl away downstream. The branches of ivy nodding at the tumbled drystone walls carried thick heads of dull black berries, a rowan tree glowed with clusters of scarlet berries against the green and grey of the weak winter grass speckled by small brown toadstools on weak leggy stems. Alys kicked the old pony and surprised it into a loping canter. She sat easily in the saddle and felt the wind in her face as the hood of her cape blew back.
The grey stone slabs of the bridge came into sight, the waters backed up behind it and spreading in a great sheet of flood water as shiny as polished pewter. Morach’s cottage, like a little ark, stood on a hillock of higher ground away from the waters of the flood. Alys stood up in the stirrups and shouted: ‘Holloa! Morach!’ so that Morach was standing in the doorway, shading her eyes against the low, red winter sun when Alys came trotting up on her pony.
‘What’s this?’ she asked, without a word of greeting.
‘A loan only,’ Alys said casually. ‘I’m not home for ever, I am allowed to visit this evening. And I need to talk with you.’
Morach’s sharp dark eyes scanned Alys’ face. ‘The young Lord Hugo,’ she stated.
Alys nodded, not even asking how Morach had guessed. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘And the old lord has forbidden me to give him anything to kill his lust.’
Morach raised her black eyebrows and nodded. ‘They need an heir,’ she said. ‘You can tether that animal outside the gate, I won’t have him near my herbs. Come in.’
Alys tied the pony to a twisted hawthorn bush which grew at Morach’s gateway, picked her fine red gown clear of the muck, and went in.
She had forgotten the stink of the place. Morach’s midden was downwind at the back of the cottage but the sweet sickly odour of muck and the tang of urine hovered around the cottage, seeped through the walls. The midden heap was as old as the cottage, it had always smelled foul. The little fire was flickering sullenly on damp wood and the cottage was filled with a mist of black smoke. A couple of hens scuttered out the way as Alys entered, their droppings green and shiny on the hearthstone. Under Alys’ new leather shoes the floor felt slippery with damp. The body of flood water only yards from the threshold made the very air wet and cold. At dusk the mist would roll along the river valley and seep under the door and in the little window. Alys gathered her new cloak closer and sat by the fire, taking Morach’s stool without asking.
‘I brought you some money,’ she said abruptly. ‘And a sackful of food.’
Morach nodded. ‘Stolen?’ she inquired without interest.
Alys shook her head. ‘He gave it me,’ she said. ‘The old lord. Gave me these clothes too.’
Morach nodded. ‘They’re very fine,’ she said. ‘Good enough for Lady Catherine herself. Good enough for Lord Hugh’s whore.’
‘That’s what they think me,’ Alys said. ‘But he is old, Morach, and has been very sick. He does not touch me. He is …’ She broke off as the thought came to her for the first time. ‘He is kind to me, Morach.’
Morach’s dark eyebrows snapped together. ‘First time in his life then,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Kind? Are you sure? Maybe he wants you for something and he’s keeping it close.’
Alys paused. ‘He could be,’ she said. ‘I’ve never known a man to plan so far ahead. He has thought of everything, from his deathbed, to the death of the young lord’s son who isn’t even conceived. He has a place for me in his schemes – to work for him now, he needs a clerk who will keep secrets, and he’ll see me safe to a nunnery when my work is finished.’ She broke off, meeting Morach’s sceptical black glare. ‘It’s my only chance,’ she said simply. ‘He says he will get me to France, to a nunnery there. He is my only chance.’
Morach muttered something under her breath and turned to climb the ladder to her sleeping platform. ‘Put the water on,’ she said. ‘I’ve some chamomile to mash. I need it to clear my head.’
Alys bent her head and blew at the fire and set the little pot of water on its three legs in the red embers. When the water started to bubble Alys threw in some chamomile leaves and set it to stand. When Morach came down with her bag of fortune-telling bones, she and Alys shared the one chipped horn cup.
Morach drank deep, and then shook the bones in their little purse.
‘Choose,’ she said, holding out the purse to Alys.
Alys hesitated.
‘Choose,’ Morach said again.
‘Is it witchcraft?’ Alys asked. She was not afraid, her blue eyes were fixed challengingly on Morach. ‘Is it black arts, Morach?’
Morach shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ she said carelessly. ‘To one man it’s black arts, to another it’s wise woman’s trade, and to another it’s a foolish old woman muttering madness. It’s often true – that’s all I know.’
Alys shrugged and at Morach’s impatient gesture took one of the carved flat bones, then another, then a third, from the little pouch.
Morach stared at her choice. ‘The Gateway,’ she said first. ‘That’s your choice, that’s where you are now. The three ways that lie before you – the castle life with its joys and dangers and its profits; the nun’s life which you will have to fight like a saint to regain; or here – poverty, dirt, hunger. But …’ She laughed softly. ‘Invisibility. The most important thing for a woman, especially if she is poor, especially if she will grow old one day.’
Morach studied the second bone with the rune scrawled on it in a rusty brown ink. ‘Unity,’ she said, surprised. ‘When you make
