‘Yet they clearly learned nothing.’
‘A desperate couple with everything to lose, so they flee. But they cannot get far.’
‘Because you saw through the ruse.’
‘Too late to save Guthlac.’
‘You cannot save the world. But was the old man so blind he could not see what was between his son and his wife? And why did Bernard – Alan – assist him?’
All good questions, for though Owen had theories he had as yet no answers.
Within moments of Einar’s departure Asa had begun to weep and beg Magda’s forgiveness.
Her voice but a whisper, her words poorly formed because of swollen lips and jaw, she clutched at Magda’s neck with her uninjured hand, pulling her close so that she might hear. ‘I am to blame for Bernard. I poisoned him against you. Forgive me.’
‘Hush now. Lie still while Magda changes thy bandages.’
Asa had refused anything that might calm her so that she would have a clear head, though she now willingly drank down a cup of broth laced with herbs to dull the pain.
‘I thought to twist him to my purpose,’ she said. ‘Told him I taught myself the spells and charms you kept from me. Said the power was in our blood.’ One eye was swollen shut, but the other watched Magda for a reaction.
‘Spells and charms in thy blood?’ Shaking her head, Magda cut the bandage on the ruined hand, softly whispering words of comfort as she peeled away the cloth sticky with healing and soothing pastes.
‘You are whispering a charm now.’
‘To calm thee. It will work if thou dost find comfort in it. It is nothing without the rest. If Magda relied on charms thou wouldst die from thine injuries.’
Less swollen, the hand no longer hid the extent of the damage. Magda breathed deep and returned to the charm, calming herself as well as her daughter.
Twig, playing with the kitten near the window that looked out to the riverbank where he lived, cried out in dismay.
‘What is it?’
‘A fight on the bank. They pulled two men to the ground, one of them carrying a lit torch. Someone took it from him and doused it in the river. I think they meant to start a fire. Now our folk are searching the cart, holding up torches and wood for a fire. But there’s something else and someone just pulled their shirt up over their mouth and nose.’
Magda had joined him at the window. She watched a man in the cart struggling to rise. Those searching the cart backed away. ‘Pestilence,’ she whispered. The two had brought not just fire but also the manqualm to the folk on the riverbank. With a hand on Twig’s shoulder she spoke of it, told him that she would go to the man as soon as she had finished changing Asa’s bandages. She thought to send the boy to his mother, but he was safer on the rock.
‘Thy dam will be worried, but Magda needs thee here. Thou canst go to her when Einar returns. He will not be long.’
Twig stood tall. ‘I will come for help if Dame Asa needs you.’
Patting the lad’s shoulder, Magda returned to her now sleeping daughter. She worked quietly, quickly, wishing to tend to the man brought in the cart before someone took him into their home.
As Magda opened the bandage around the shattered forearm Asa stirred, whimpering in pain. Lifting a cup to her lips, Magda urged her to drink.
After a long draught she lay back with a wince. ‘Everything hurts. But the arm is the worst,’ Asa said. ‘I heard the boy. Go to them, Mother, the people who watch over you. See to them.’
Magda heard the whisper of wings, a faint caw, then a knock on the door. One of the older boys from the bank, breathless, shivering a little for his soaking from walking across from the bank.
‘A man in a cart, Dame Magda. Sick. Some of the women thought to carry him to the bonfire in our midst. Others argue he will bring the Death. We gave him water.’
‘A kindness if he is burning with fever.’
‘He is.’
‘Go!’ Asa called hoarsely.
Gathering her things, Magda went with the lad, rowing across.
On the riverbank folk opened a path for Magda to the man lying in the cart. She smelled him long before she saw his flushed and sweaty face. ‘Stay back,’ she barked to the crowd. ‘Bring water. And a bowl thou canst spare. It must later be burned, with all that touches him.’ She saw the regret on faces as they eyed the cart. Peering at what else was in there, she saw what they coveted – the wood brought for burning would shore up a flimsy shack. Why bring such good timber? ‘Where are the two who brought this cart?’
A man and a lad of perhaps sixteen years were dragged through the crowd before she could warn folk to stay clear of them. They showed the beating they’d received, but neither of them were flushed with sickness. Yet. She recognized the older one from Gavin Wolcott’s lodgings before he moved back into his father’s house. But the lad was unfamiliar.
‘Where didst thou find this sufferer?’ she asked them.
‘In hell, witch!’ the boy slurred through swollen lips.
The man kicked him, bobbed his head to Magda. ‘Plucked him from the minster yard.’
She guessed that the cart and timber were also from there. ‘The firewood? Torches? Didst thy master provide them?’
The man bowed his head and said naught.
‘Boy? Thou hast plenty wind to curse Magda. Dost thou work for Wolcott as well?’
‘Burn, witch!’ the boy shouted.
Magda raised a hand to stop the one about to clout him. ‘Let him be. He will sicken soon enough.’
That hushed the boy, who glanced fearfully at the cart.
But Magda was busy now that she’d been offered a wooden bowl for the medicine she would mix for the sick man. Taking a stump from the cart, she placed it so that she could use it as a table on which to mix the herbs with some wine.
‘Canst thou sit up enough to drink?’ she asked the sick man.
Nodding, he managed to pull himself up against a pile of torches. From her basket she took a cloth bag and a small jug. Pouring some of the wine into the bowl, she emptied the contents of the bag into it and stirred, all the while talking to the man, learning his name, assuring him that he would be more comfortable after drinking the potion. When at last she handed him the bowl he lifted it to his lips with trembling hands.
‘A little sip, then wait a moment, then another. Do that until thou hast finished it.’
But he drank greedily, swooning before he’d emptied the bowl. She retrieved it and helped him settle. Touching him gave her the information she needed. The stench came from his groin. Pulling a jar and a clean rag from her basket, Magda hummed as she smoothed a rosemary scented paste onto the rag, offering it to the man. ‘Tuck that where you feel the stickiness. It will soothe thee.’ The man, moving more slowly now, did as instructed, then lay quite still. He would die in the night, but in more comfort. Climbing onto the cart, she began to arrange wood and planks to cover the man. Someone joined her, a man she recognized as having recovered from the sickness years ago. Nodding to him, she stepped aside and let him complete the project.
Passing through a quiet place in the wood Owen felt himself relax. It did not last. From far ahead he heard a shout, another. Two distinct voices, one startled, one angry. And then a woman’s scream. Owen nudged his horse into a canter he could safely handle as the woods closed in round them. Michaelo fell behind, and soon it was Alfred who rode beside him. He heard nothing now, and thought he might slow to listen. But he soon caught a fresh cry, nearer and more sustained, not the woman this time but a man, outraged. Sudden silence. Owen steadied his horse, then moved forward at a steady pace, close now. Very close. A rattling, squeaking noise. A cart moving fast. Too fast for Galtres. The track narrowed ahead and could at times be treacherous with old roots exposed. Owen held up a hand to signal he was slowing, listening to the cart, fainter now, watching for signs of where it had paused for whatever had occurred.