She glared at him almost defiantly, challenging him to contradict her.
‘I seem to have touched a raw spot in you over this issue,’ he said mildly.
‘Maybe because I have a little talent in that direction myself,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘Not so much these days in the city, but when I was at home in Gwent, I did what I could to help those who needed it.’
De Wolfe was intrigued — this was something she had never mentioned before. ‘You mean that you had some gift yourself?’
‘It was nothing important, but my own mother had taught me a little about herbs and various means of treating small illnesses and other problems. She said that her mother and grandmother were quite notable healers in their day, so maybe it runs in families.’
‘What kind of miracles did you perform?’ he asked, half seriously.
Nesta pinched his arm, quite painfully. ‘Don’t mock me, Sir Crowner! Our little village had the same troubles as everywhere else. Sickness, palsies, fits and seizures … though probably there were more problems among the animals and crops. Pigs without litters, fields with strips where the oats always failed.’
She hesitated, her eyes seeing a scene a hundred miles and five years away. ‘Then sometimes, a wife would want a man-child, or any child at all to please her husband — while another poor weak woman could not face being with child yet again. Those of us who had the gift tried to help. The village was like a big family, everyone did what they could.’
John nodded, although he could not fully appreciate what she was saying. Though he had been born and brought up in the Devon village of Stoke-in-Teignhead, he had been comfortably raised in the manor house that owned the village and most of the villagers, so his empathy with the lower reaches of the feudal system was limited.
‘Do you still practise the black arts?’ he said, trying to lighten the mood a little. Nesta gave him a ferocious scowl, which was not entirely feigned.
‘There is black magic as well, John — be assured of that! But what village folk attempt to do against cruel nature is far from that. I have tried to help a few people here, yes. My maid’s mother had a tumour on her neck two months ago, which I tried to assuage with poultices, a potion and a few charms.’
‘Was it successful?’ he asked, soberly now.
Nesta shook her head sadly ‘She died three weeks past. There are many things that only God can deal with. Even an expensive apothecary or the monks at St John’s could not have done anything for her.’
John had a niggling query, but it was a sensitive issue.
‘Nesta, dear, when you were with child yourself not long ago, I know that you wished to be rid of it, mainly for my sake. Yet you went elsewhere for the purpose.’
She sighed and her eyes became moist. He kicked himself for his insensitivity in bringing it up, but Nesta seemed willing to explain.
‘You cannot treat yourself, John. Much of the power is in the mind, not the herbs. You have to convince the other person that what needs to happen, will happen. You cannot do that to yourself. That is why I went to Bearded Lucy — not that she was successful.’
The woman that Nesta mentioned was an old crone who lived in a hovel on Exe Island and who had a wide reputation as a cunning woman.
De Wolfe felt that this conversation was taking a morbid turn and steered it away to other topics. He was helped by a sudden commotion at the back of the room, where stools were being thrown over and a fist fight had erupted between a pair of tinners who had drunk too much. Nesta streaked away to deal with it and with the help of Edwin and a couple of dependable customers, the most aggressive miscreant was manhandled out into the lane, Nesta’s strident voice following him with pithy advice not to return until he was sober.
John grinned to himself, not intervening as experience had told him that his mistress was more than capable of dealing with such episodes.
The dusk was now well advanced and after one more jug of ale, he kissed the landlady goodnight and with a last regretful look at the ladder to his French bed, called to Brutus and made his way home.
CHAPTER THREE
Early the next morning, which was a Wednesday, Cecilia de Pridias forsook her usual church in Fore Street and walked to the cathedral. She went just before the eighth hour to attend prime, the third service of the episcopal day which began with Matins just after midnight. The new widow was swathed in a black mantle, secured at the shoulder with a circular silver brooch, the hood pulled up over the white cover-chief and wimple that enveloped her head. In spite of her sombre attire, her face bore a flinty expression that suggested determination rather than mourning.
Her daughter Avise and podgy son-in-law Roger trailed behind her as she climbed the steps of the West Front and entered the small entrance set in the massive doors, which were opened only on ceremonial occasions.
Inside, the huge nave was almost empty, the only sound apart from their feet on the flagstones being the chirruping of birds as they flew in and out of the unglazed windows high on the walls. Ahead in the distance was the pulpitum, the carved wooden choir-screen that seperated the priests from the common folk. It crossed the nave just before the two side chapels in the bases of the great square towers that formed the arms of the crucifix-shaped building.
Cecilia marched down the centre of the echoing nave, to where a dozen people, mostly women, stood a respectful distance in front of the ornate screen, between the two small altars of St Mary and St John the Baptist. The service was just starting, as with no clock nearer than Germany, everyone’s time-keeping was approximate and the chanterel bell had started ringing before the de Pridias family had turned into Martin’s Lane.
Beyond the screen, the prayers and chanting seemed remote to the small congregation, the clergy and their acolytes being seen and heard indistinctly through the intricate woodwork. This was a choral service, not a Mass and the priests were indifferent to the small audience outside. In the cathedral, the numerous daily offices were not primarily for the benefit of the public, but were held as perpetual acts of worship to God, offered by the complex hierarchy of canons, vicars and secondaries. The lay population was served by more than two dozen churches scattered around the city and it was a matter of indifference to the chapter of the cathedral whether anyone turned up to listen in the nave, other than on special days, when pomp and ceremony required an audience.
Prime droned on for about forty minutes, with psalms, chanting, prayers and responses being orchestrated beyond the choir-screen by the precentor and his assistant, the succentor. Some of the other people dropped to their knees on the cold stones at appropriate moments in the service, but devout as Cecilia was, she had no intention of prostrating herself on the grubby slabs in her best cloak. At St Olave’s, she always took her own padded kneeler, but here she contented herself with a bowed head at the more solemn moments.
The formalities ended with a blessing given in high-pitched Latin by one of the archdeacons, after which the choristers, secondaries and priests processed out of their stalls and dispersed, most to get some refreshment before terce, the next service held at around the ninth hour. This was what Cecilia had been waiting for, and with Avise and Roger trailing behind, she went to the north side, where a passage went through to the crossing of the cathedral, at the base of one of the towers. A stream of boys and young men hurried past in their black cassocks, followed at a more sedate rate by their seniors, most draped in their cloaks as the heat of the day had not yet arrived. The lady stood respectfully with her head downcast, but her sharp eyes were scanning each figure as they emerged from the gloom behind the end of the screen. After a few moments, she saw the person for whom she had been lying in wait and moved forward towards him.