leaned forward. ‘Tell me,’ she said.
‘A pact,’ Morach said simply. ‘A pact with the devil himself. Have him guard you against the young lord, make him turn his eyes another way. I know enough of the black arts to guide you. We could call up the dark master, he would come for you, for sure – a sacred little soul like yours. You could trade your way into comfort forever. There’s your way to peace and order and safety. You become the devil’s own and you are never an ordinary woman again.’
For a moment Alys hesitated as if she were tempted by the sudden rush into hell, but then she dropped her face into her hands and moaned in torment. ‘I don’t want to,’ she cried as if she were a little girl again. ‘I don’t want to, Morach! I want a middle way. I want a little wealth and a little freedom! I want to be back in the nunnery with Mother Hildebrande. I am afraid of the devil! I am afraid of the witch-taker! I am afraid of the young lord and of his icy wife! I want to be somewhere safe! I am too young for these dark choices! I am not old enough to keep myself safe! I want Mother Hildebrande! I want my mother!’
She broke into a storm of crying, her face buried in her arms, leaning slightly towards Morach as if begging wordlessly for an embrace. Morach folded her arms and rested her chin on them, gazing into the fire, waiting for Alys to be still. She was quite untouched by her grief.
‘There’s no safety for you, or for me,’ she said equably when Alys was quieter. ‘We’re women who do not accord with the way men want. There’s no safety for our sort. Not now, not ever.’
Alys’ sobs weakened against the rock of Morach’s grim indifference. She fell silent, rubbing her face on her fine woollen undersleeve. A piece of wood in the fireplace snapped and burned with a yellow flame.
‘Then I go back to the castle and take my chance,’ Alys said, resigned.
Morach nodded.
‘Our Lady once chose me,’ Alys said, her voice very low, speaking of a holy secret. ‘She sent me a sign. Even though I have sinned most deeply, I hope and I trust that She will guide me back to Her. She will make my penance and give me my absolution. She cannot have chosen me to watch me fail.’
Morach cocked her eyebrow, interested. ‘Depends on what sort of a goddess she is,’ she said judicially. ‘There are some that would choose you to see nothing but failure. That’s the joy in it for them.’
‘Oh!’ Alys shrugged impatiently. ‘You’re a heathen and a heretic, Morach! I waste my time speaking with you.’
Morach grinned, unrepentant. ‘Don’t speak with me then,’ she said placidly. ‘Your Lady chose you. So She will keep you safe to play Her game, whatever it is. Depend upon Her then, my little holy lamb! What are you doing here, drawing the runes and praying for the future?’
Alys hunched her shoulders, clasped her hands. ‘The young lord is my danger,’ she said. ‘He could take me from Our Lady. And then I would be lost.’
‘She won’t strike him blind to save you?’ Morach asked sarcastically. ‘She won’t put out Her sacred hand to stop him feeling up your gown?’
Alys scowled at Morach. ‘I have to find a way to defend myself. He would have me for his sport,’ she said. ‘He ordered me to his room tonight. If he rapes me I’ll never get back to the nuns. He’d have me and throw me aside, and his wife would turn me out. I’d be lucky to get through the guardroom once they knew the young lord had done with me.’
Morach laughed. ‘Best keep your legs crossed and your Latin sharp then,’ she said. ‘Pray to your Lady, and trust the old lord.’ She paused. ‘If you would stoop to take them, my saint, there are some herbs I know which would make you less sweet to him.’
Alys looked up. ‘I may not kill his lust,’ she warned. ‘The old lord forbade it and he will be watching me. I cannot give Hugo anything to weary him of venery.’
Morach rose from the floor and went to the bunches of herbs dangling on strings from the beams of the sleeping platform. ‘It is you who takes this,’ she said. ‘Make it into a tisane, every morning, and drink it while it cools. It kills a man’s desire for the woman that drinks it.’
Alys nodded. ‘And what would you use to kill a woman’s desire?’ she asked casually.
Morach turned, her dark face under the shock of grey hair alight with mischief. ‘A woman’s desire?’ she said. ‘But my little nun, my precious virgin, who is this lustful woman? We were talking of the young lord and his persecution of your sainted virginity!’
‘Have done,’ Alys said sulkily. ‘I was asking for one of the women in the gallery.’
Morach chuckled. ‘I would have to meet her,’ she said slyly. ‘This woman, is she young or old? Has she known a man or is she a virgin? Does she long for his love, his devotion – or is she just hot for his body to crush her and his wetness inside her and his hands all over her?’
Alys flushed rosy. ‘I don’t know,’ she said grimly. ‘If she asks me again I will bring her to you.’
Morach nodded, her eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘You do, pretty Alys,’ she said. ‘Do bring her to me.’
Alys tucked the bunch of herbs into her pocket. ‘Anything else?’ she asked. ‘To kill Hugo’s ardour? Anything else I should do?’
Morach shook her head. ‘I have no other herbs, but you could bring me some candlewax when you next come and I’ll make images of them all,’ she offered. ‘We’ll make them all into moppets to dance to your bidding, you and me.’
Alys’ eyes widened. ‘It cannot be done!’ she exclaimed.
Morach smiled darkly and nodded. ‘I’ve never done it before,’ she said. ‘It’s deep magic, very deep. But the old woman who was here before me taught me the words. It never fails except …’
‘Except what?’ Alys asked. She shivered as if she were suddenly cold. ‘Except what?’ she asked.
‘Sometimes they misunderstand.’
Alys drew a little closer. ‘What?’ she asked. ‘Who misunderstand?’
Morach smiled. ‘You take the little figures and you bind them with deep magic. Understand that?’
Alys nodded, her face pale.
‘You order them to do your bidding. You command them to do as you wish.’
Alys nodded again.
‘Sometimes they misunderstand,’ Morach said, her voice very low. ‘I heard of one woman who ordered her lover to come alive again. He was dead of the plague and she could not bear to lose him. She made the candlewax moppet while he was lying cold and poxed in the room next door, the sores all over him. When she made the moppet walk, he walked too, just as she had commanded.’
Alys swallowed against a tight throat. ‘He was better?’
Morach chuckled, a low chilling laugh. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He was dead and cold, covered with sores, his eyes blank, his lips blue. But he walked behind her, as she had commanded; everywhere she went he walked behind her.’
‘A ghost?’
