He disappeared into the semi-darkness, as light-footed as a cat. Bartholomew watched him go, then took a deep breath of air that smelled of hot grass. It was a scent he associated with the dry, arid climates of the Mediterranean, and was not one he ever expected to encounter in England. It was thick and rich, and familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Then a waft of something less pleasant assailed his nostrils, causing him to gag. Idyllic images of olive groves and herb-coated hills promptly disappeared, and one of blocked drains took their place.
He made his way along the nettle-lined path to Valeria’s hut, marvelling at how well it was trodden. People claimed to be frightened of her, but that clearly did not stop them from seeking out her expertise. He thought the relationship between witch and customer was an odd one: folk like Cynric were desperate to buy her charms and amulets, yet were ready to condemn her dark powers without hesitation. Bartholomew felt sorry for her; she was in an acutely vulnerable position.
He reached the clearing, and saw smoke issuing from her hut, even though the hour was horribly early. She claimed she never slept, but he was not sure whether to believe her. When he tapped on the door frame and pushed aside the leather hanging, he saw her filling two cups from something that bubbled on the hearth.
‘I have been expecting you,’ she said. ‘I saw you go up the hill earlier and knew you would visit on the way home. You always come at a time when you think no one will see you.’
‘Unfortunately, it has done me scant good,’ he said ruefully, sitting on a stool. ‘People still think I am your apprentice, and that I come to learn dark secrets.’
‘I know I have teased you about it, but I would never really teach you my skills.’ The old woman made it sound as though he was the last man on Earth she would consider for the honour. ‘You would spend the whole time telling me why they would not work, and that would be tiresome.’
‘I wish William could hear you say that. I do not suppose you have a cure for fanaticism, do you? He is very sick with it.’
‘There are measures you can take to silence a barbed tongue. It involves acquiring a certain kind of stone, and burying it under the hearth of a–’
‘No!’ Bartholomew held up his hand in alarm. ‘I was not serious.’
‘Never jest about magic, lad. It is nothing to be frivolous about, as men have learned to their cost.’ Her voice had become low and sibilant, and for the first time during their association, Bartholomew felt uneasy in her company. He studied her in the flickering light of the fire, but her hat shadowed her features and all he could see was the sharp glitter of eyes. She seemed to be scowling, and he saw he had offended her. Perhaps this was the face she presented to petitioners like Cynric, and suddenly he understood exactly why they were inclined to treat her with caution.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, contrite. ‘It has been a long night, and I am tired.’
‘I can see that,’ she said, relenting. ‘And I know what it is like to be at the wrong end of a Franciscan’s zeal. I have suffered it many times during my long lifetime, and it is never pleasant.’
‘How old are you?’ asked Bartholomew, although most of his patients struggled to answer that question. He could tell by her hunched posture and wrinkles that she was ancient, and he wondered what remarkable events she had witnessed during her life.
‘I have seen more than a hundred summers, but only seven in Cambridge. I came just after the plague. This house and all the others around it were empty because every living soul had been snatched by the Death. But that does not worry me. I like a place with a few ghosts.’
Bartholomew had vague recollections of her arrival, although his memories of those bleak times tended to be blurred and uncertain. He hoped the doom-sayers like Suttone were wrong, and that the disease would not return, because he did not think he could bear watching helplessly again while his patients died. He realised his mind was wandering, and forced his attention back to the present.
‘A hundred summers,’ he mused, not really believing it. She was too spry for that sort of age, although he was not about to annoy her by saying so. ‘It is a long time.’
‘Not among my kind. I am actually rather youthful for a witch.’ She presented a leg that was clad in some of the thickest leggings Bartholomew had ever seen. ‘Now, inspect my knee, like a good lad, and give me more of that paste to ease the swelling.’
‘It would be easier – and more effective – if you let me see it without these coverings,’ he said, as he always did. He lived in hope that she would eventually trust him enough to comply.
She fixed him with beady eyes. ‘The pain is in the bone, so how will removing clothes help? There are already layers of skin, muscle and fat in the way, so I do not see how a veil of wool will make a difference. Besides, I do not let men see my naked limbs. It would be unseemly.’
Bartholomew knew there was no point in pursuing the issue. He knelt and probed the joint as best he could, pleased to feel the swelling had reduced considerably. He handed her another jar of the ointment, and repeated the instructions on how to use it.
‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently. ‘I remember from last time. I cannot pay you in coins, so how about a bundle of mugwort instead? Mugwort protects books from the worm, so scholars are always pleased to have it. I picked and dried it myself, so I can guarantee its efficacy.’
Bartholomew accepted, because the herb was also useful for women’s ailments, and his own supply was depleted. He put the bundle in his medicine bag and stood to leave, but Valeria reached out and grabbed his sleeve. She wore gloves, but her fingernails poked through the ends, long and curving, like talons.
‘Stay and drink some breakfast ale. Everyone else comes to talk about themselves, and it makes a change to have a guest who is interested in me. I know you are tired, but my ale will revive you.’
Bartholomew did not want to stay longer than was necessary, but it was cool inside the hut, and he was thirsty. ‘Just for a while, then.’
Mother Valeria’s idea of good conversation was a monologue on the pleasures of growing roses, and although Bartholomew was not very interested in why different types of manure should produce such varying results, he found himself relaxing. Valeria had a pleasant voice that was almost as low as a man’s, and there was something about her sharp humour and wry manner of speaking that reminded him of Matilde.
‘You should have this discussion with Arblaster,’ he suggested. ‘He is keen on dung.’
‘Have you seen his compost heaps? I put a spell on every one of them last year, and he claims my incantations are the secret of his success. He belongs to the cadre that meets in All Saints, but I cannot say I like the man. He is too greedy, always haggling over the cost of the charms I provide.’
‘He is a witch?’ asked Bartholomew. Then he recalled William, Langelee and Suttone telling him at the Fellows’ meeting that the dung-master meddled in the dark arts, and realised he already had the answer to his question.
‘He is a coven member,’ she corrected pedantically. ‘Their numbers have risen since the Sorcerer made himself known, which is good and bad. On the one hand, it means more people will support traditional healers, like me, when zealots like your William rail against us. On the other, it means witchery is attracting folk who only want to use it to their advantage.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘I mean it is encouraging false converts. As soon as something else comes along, they will be off worshipping that instead. Refham and his wife are good examples: they have no real interest in or liking for dark magic and just want it to make them rich. It makes them an unsavoury pair.’