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A stream of dirty water washed sewage down the central gutter, much of it contributed by Willem the Fleming, the oafish landlord of the Saracen, who deliberately threw a leather bucket of slops out of the door just after she had passed. Lifting the hem of her woollen kirtle with one hand, she sidestepped the flow and ignored the coarse laughter behind her. Another day she might well have turned and given the offenders a lashing with her tongue, for she could curse with the best of them, both in English and Welsh.

But today Nesta had no inclination for a shouting match. Her spirits were low and her mind troubled. All she could think about was the life that was growing deep in her womb — and the complications that it would inevitably bring. So far, no maternal urges had surfaced; she felt nothing yet for whoever it was that was lodging in her belly. Apart from the loss of her monthly flow — something that happened irregularly from time to time, anyway — she felt no different. It was only the realisation that she was going to have a child, and all the trouble that was to flow from it, which had suddenly turned her world upside down.

As she walked through the West Gate, oblivious of the pushing and jostling of porters with their huge bundles of raw wool and the yelling of drovers bringing in sheep and pigs for slaughter, Nesta thought of John and his avowed determination to stand by her. Was he really happy at her condition? Or was his love for her suppressing his concern for the burdens and aggravation that would descend upon his head once it became common knowledge that he was going to recognise a bastard? And what of the other problem, the one that had kept her awake the whole of the night, giving her pretty face the dark smudges under her eyes and the sad droop of a usually cheerful mouth?

Outside the city walls, she trudged on towards the unfinished bridge across the river, whose many arches curved up over the muddy grass of the tidal valley of the Exe before they came to an abrupt end at the main channel.

Before reaching the ramp to the bridge, Nesta turned right, down into Frog Lane. This was a track going upstream across Exe Island, worn down by the feet of porters, pack mules and sumpter horses taking wool to the fulling mills at the upper part of the marshy island. There were dwellings dotted along the lane, mostly poor shacks of old timber which housed mill workers and those who could not afford to live within the city walls. Side tracks branched off Frog Lane towards the river, broken by leats that cut through the marsh and which filled up at every tide and when heavy rain fell on faraway Exmoor, the source of the river. Floods often carried away the flimsy huts, and every year lives were lost when spring tides or cloud-bursts deluged the island.

It was on to one of these sodden tracks that Nesta now turned, heading for a solitary shack that looked even more dilapidated than most. Perched on the edge of a deep leat, it was little more than a collection of rotting planks that leaned dangerously to one side. The roof was thatched with reeds, on which ragged grass and weeds were growing. A hurdle that had once acted as a door had crumbled to the ground and the entrance was now covered with dirty hessian from the coverings of a couple of wool bales. The Welsh woman approached hesitantly, thankful that the dry weather had at least turned the usually glutinous mud into damp earth. Having no door to knock on, she stood uncertainly for a moment outside the crude curtain. At her feet, she saw a pile of white chicken feathers, guts and a severed cockerel’s head, probably from the vanquished contestant of a cock-fight, given to the old woman who lived here for her dinner.

‘Lucy? Lucy, are you there?’

She called several times until a gnarled, filthy hand slowly pulled the sacking aside. A haggard face appeared, and though Nesta had seen this woman many times before her appearance still sent a tremor of fear and distaste down her spine. Bearded Lucy, as she was universally known, had wispy grey hair growing over all her face except for the upper cheeks and forehead. It surrounded her mouth and trailed over her pointed chin. Even the hooked nose was hairy, and a moustache partly concealed the toothless gums when her thin lips parted. Lucy’s eyes were milky with cataracts, and with her bent back and trembling claw-like hands Nesta wondered how she had avoided being condemned for a witch.

‘Who is it? I can see a woman’s shape — do you want what women usually want of me?’

‘It’s Nesta from the Bush. I need your advice.’

The old crone shuffled farther out of the hut to peer more closely at her visitor. She was draped in shapeless, drab clothes that were little better than rags.

‘Ah, the Welsh woman. The crowner’s whore.’

Nesta bit her lip to stop an angry retort to the old woman’s insolence — she needed Lucy today. ‘Can I come in? I’ll not keep you long.’

The old crone cackled, but held aside the sacking with a gnarled hand.

‘I suppose you want what they all want, my girl.’

With distaste, but driven by necessity, Nesta pulled her skirts closer and edged sideways past the old woman into the dim interior of the shack, which was little bigger than her pigsty back at the Bush. It smelt about the same, too, and she was thankful for the gloom, such that the coarser details of the dwelling were obscured. She skirted a small fire-pit on raised clay in the middle of the floor, filled with dead ashes and reluctantly lowered herself on to a small stool which, apart from a rickety table, seemed to be the only furnishing other than a long box like a coffin against the far wall. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the walls and a perilously slanted shelf held a few pots and pans.

‘So tell me about it, Welsh woman,’ said Lucy, in her high-pitched, quavering voice. She aimed a blow at a mangy grey cat that sat on the long box, which had a few grubby blankets spread on top and obviously served as the old woman’s bed. The cat squealed maliciously and fled through the door, letting Lucy sit down, her joints creaking almost audibly as she lowered herself slowly on to the box.

‘I think I am with child,’ said Nesta, in a low voice.

‘You don’t need to come here to discover if you’re with child,’ said the hag, tartly. ‘A score of wives inside the town walls could tell you that. So you must think that I can help you to get rid of it, eh?’

Nesta flushed with sudden shame, but stuck doggedly to her mission.

‘That all depends,’ she replied in muted tones.

Lucy’s sparse eyebrows rose on her lined, dirty forehead.

‘That makes a change! On what can such a dangerous matter depend?’

‘I wish to know for how long I have been pregnant.’

The crone nodded knowingly. ‘Ah, I see! You’re not sure who the father might be, is that it?’

Nesta was unable to meet the old woman’s clouded eyes, but bobbed her head briefly. Bearded Lucy hauled herself painfully to her feet and held out a shaky hand, the finger joints knobbled like pebbles.

‘Let’s have a look at you, then, my girl. Open up that kirtle, I need to look at your dugs.’

Reluctantly, Nesta unlaced the front of her bodice and shrugged it off one shoulder. In anticipation of what she would have to endure, she had left off her thin under-chemise, so one of her ample breasts was exposed. The old woman brought her head so close that her hooked nose was almost touching the skin, to give her poor sight the best advantage. With one of her claw-like hands, she grabbed the breast and squeezed, testing the firmness of the gland.

‘Is it tender yet, girl?’ she demanded. Nesta flinched as the rough massage continued, but murmured, ‘A little tense, but not tender.’

Lucy shifted the open bodice to look at the other side, peering closely at the nipple, then pulled the woman’s neckline together and stepped back.

‘The teats are darkening a little,’ she muttered. ‘You’ve not had children before?’

Nesta shook her head and pulled at the lacing to cover up her exposed skin. The hag turned and indicated the grimy blankets covering the box-bed.