One thing, however, remained at the forefront of her mind: she had to face — and pass — another test.
As the February days went by, she was unconsciously preparing herself.
She had been on a hunting trip. Her prey was not, however, any living creature; she had been taught only to kill when she was in dire need, and she preferred to live on what she could grow in her little garden. She had been hunting for sheep’s wool to spin and weave into cloth for Meggie’s clothes, and the best places to go were the gently sloping hills and vales of the Weald where flocks of sheep caught their woolly coats against brambles and twigs.
It took a long time to find enough wool to make even a baby’s garment, but then Joanna had plenty of time. Although the February daylight was short, there were few tasks that had to be done in the course of a winter’s day. Nothing yet grew above ground, so there were no tender young plants to protect and nurture. She had to collect wood for the fire and prepare food and drink for herself — Meggie was beginning to try other mashed and blended foods although she still fed primarily off her mother — but those jobs were easily and swiftly done because she did them every day.
Today she had collected a fat bag of wool. Heading home, Meggie almost asleep in her sling, Joanna was already happily anticipating getting out her spindle after supper and meditating quietly in the light of the fire while she spun her wool. Hurrying away from the sheep pasture, she was eager to get back under the shelter of the forest’s guardian trees.
She always took steps to ensure that none of the Outworlders should see her. Not that there were many people abroad today; she could have believed that she had England to herself. But then, as she reached the outer limits of the forest, she heard something.
Someone. The sound was a low moan, as if whoever had made it could no longer suppress his — or her — distress.
Joanna felt two conflicting impulses. One was to run, to hurry away on silent feet and hide in the depths of the forest so that she did not become involved. This person must surely be an Outworlder, and Joanna had detached herself from them.
But a part of her was urging her to go and help. There was somebody in trouble close at hand, and human compassion dictated that she must do what she could to alleviate his pain.
She cuddled Meggie closer to her — the child let out a small cry of protest as Joanna squeezed her — and then turned to walk in the direction from which the sound had come.
Lying under an oak tree, huddled under a thin cloak stained with blood, was a woman. She had a veil over her head and face, held against her mouth with hands that were blue with cold, and she was sobbing quietly.
Joanna said, ‘I will help you, if you wish it.’
The woman shot up, dropped the veil and stared at Joanna from terrified eyes. She was older than Joanna by perhaps a decade, round-faced, short and quite plump. Or she had been; it looked as if she had lost weight rapidly quite recently so that now the yellowish flesh had settled into pouches around the jaw, neck and shoulders.
There was a flaming, infected sore in the middle of her forehead.
Making as if to get to her feet, she stumbled, fell, and screamed in pain.
Joanna went to help her. Putting one arm around the woman’s waist, she got her to her feet. ‘You can’t stay here,’ she said gently, trying to make her tone warm and reassuring, ‘you’re chilled enough already and if you lie here overnight you’ll surely freeze to death. I will take you to my hut and look after you.’
The woman ceased her feeble struggling. Staring into Joanna’s face, she mouthed something, but Joanna did not understand.
‘I mean you no harm,’ she said earnestly. ‘I am your friend, I promise you.’
One word seemed to have penetrated; slowly the woman repeated, ‘Fren. Fren.’ Then, leaning against Joanna, she allowed herself to be led away.
The journey back to the hut took some time. The woman tried to be brave but could not always contain herself; even had she not cried out loud, all Joanna’s healer instincts told her that the woman was suffering severely. It was all in the way she held herself, in the way she moved so carefully to save herself further pain.
And Joanna had to think about Meggie, too. It was awkward carrying a baby in a sling and trying to half-support a grown woman at the same time.
When they finally got to the hut, Joanna was sweating and her back was aching. Swiftly she put Meggie into her cradle and, ignoring the child’s hungry cries — ‘You will have to wait for a while, sweeting, there is another here whose need is greater’ — she gently sat the woman down on the floor beside the little room’s central hearth. The embers of this morning’s fire were still glowing faintly and it was the job of moments to get a good blaze going.
By its light, she turned to look at her patient.
Having given herself into Joanna’s care, all the woman’s resistance had leached out of her. She sat slumped, hands cradling the opposite shoulders, exposing the damage that somebody had wrought on her back.
Somebody had beaten her.
Joanna warmed water and added some of her precious supply of salt; Mag had demonstrated to her years ago that lightly salted water was less painful on raw wounds than pure water because it was closer to the body’s own fluid. Then she soaked a clean piece of linen and, with as light a touch as she could manage, began to moisten the remains of the woman’s gown until it was washed from her torn skin. The woman was quietly sobbing. Realising that even such gentle treatment was causing her great pain, Joanna fetched a selection of the little wooden boxes that she kept safely stored away on a high shelf.
She gave the woman a dose of the strongest painkiller that she had. It would make her sleep — maybe for a day, a day and a night — but then that would do her no harm. Joanna would look after her.
As the draught took effect, Joanna laid her patient down on the floor, cushioned on Joanna’s own furs. With the woman slipping into unconsciousness, Joanna was able to work faster. Soon she had the wounds of the lash anointed and dressed, and she turned her attention to the woman’s brow.
When she had cleaned the wound, she saw what it was. Somebody had branded the woman with the letter H.
Joanna, who knew full well what it stood for, felt a tremor of fear run through her. If there were people hunting heretics, then she was in danger herself. Oh, no, and she had brought this woman right here, into her home, her own private place! Supposing whoever was after her had seen? Was even now making his way stealthily through the forest, about to order his men to surround the hut, pounce, kill the woman and Joanna?
Oh, dear Goddess, and Meggie!
Danger to herself and her patient had been enough to freeze her temporarily in terror. Danger to her child brought her swiftly out of her paralysis.
She knew what she must do. She had prepared for this and she need not sit there helpless while they — whoever they were — came searching for the woman. For her. She picked up Meggie, fed her and cleaned her, then put her back in the sling. It was dusk now, and there was no time to waste. There was not a great deal that she could do before night fell, but what she could, she must.
She checked on the woman — sleeping deeply, well wrapped and warm — and then, collecting her ash staff from a far corner, slipped out of the hut. The first task was to conceal any tracks that she had made in bringing the woman here to the glade. She found her broom and spent a while sweeping vigorously until there were no traces of stirred-up leaves or footprints to mark their passage. Then she collected brushwood and bracken and fabricated a sort of screen in front of the hut. It was not perfect — she stood considering it — but it would have to do. Now the falling dark was on her side; soon it would be night and the hut would become as near invisible as made no difference. She had banked down the fire in the hearth before she left, so that it was now giving off hardly any smoke. What there was became absorbed in the thick reed thatch of the hut’s roof.