Alys Clare: Whiter than the Lily

Now, staring down with unfocused eyes at the empty workbench waiting for her to begin, she ran through in her mind what she would need.

She had forgotten something.

Swiftly she left the hut, went back through the low doorway and emerged into the garden. She looked first up at the window, watching the sleeping face of her husband for some moments before moving on. Assuring herself that he really was asleep and could not see her, she then let her eyes roam all around the garden.

Nobody was about. Nobody was watching.

Turning to her goal, she ran across the grass and, working carefully but as quickly as she could, collected the missing ingredient.

Back inside the hut, she chanted softly under her bream as her hands cut, chopped and tore. Sometimes she reached for another tool — the mortar and pestle for crushing, the flask of freshly collected spring water to dilute — and, always, her practised hands knew exactly where to go without her having to remove her eyes from her potion to look and direct them.

In time, she had finished. Finished, at least, all that she could do today. One final element had still to be added but she could not do that until the Moon had moved from Scorpio into Sagittarius — the last ingredient must be gathered with the Moon in a Fire sign, for then it would give the necessary heat — and there was a good fall of dew.

In two nights’ time, she thought calmly. I shall rise naked from my bed and slip out in the dark hours before dawn.

It was something that she did quite frequently. She did not think that her husband knew, for she timed her absences to coincide with his deepest sleep. She shared much of her life and her thoughts with him but some things she needed to do alone.

She covered her potion with a moist cloth, then put a stone lid on the pot and tied it into place. Then she put it right at the back of the top shelf.

She looked around the little hut as she wiped and dried her hands. Everything was clean and tidy, just as she liked it. Satisfied, she fastened the door and, with a light step, set off for the house.

Josse d’Acquin, riding out in a new tunic to visit his neighbour Brice of Rotherbridge, reflected that it was good to be alive on a hot summer’s morning with the prospect of a good dinner ahead of him.

The invitation had come as quite a surprise. Josse and Brice had been on politely friendly terms since their first acquaintance four years ago, but the relationship could not have been called close. Then, a few days back when Josse and his man Will had got themselves thoroughly hot, sweaty and filthy supervising the unblocking of a ditch, Brice’s manservant had arrived with the summons.

Josse was ashamed of having been caught in such a state. He had intended only to stand above the ditch and supervise his small and singularly dull-witted working party, only somehow he had found himself down in the mud and the sludge showing them what he wanted them to do. Will, clambering reluctantly down beside his master, had sucked at his teeth in disapproval. ‘Aye, man, I know what you think and I’ll thank you not to make that disgusting noise at me!’ Josse had hissed at him.

But Will knew from long experience that his master’s bark was a great deal worse than his all but nonexistent bite. He continued his tutting and sucking, adding a not quite inaudible commentary along the lines of ‘T’ain’t right for ’im to dig along o’ the likes of them, t’ain’t good for discipline,’ sentiments which, although Josse might have agreed with them, were hardly helping matters.

Josse’s embarrassment at having Brice’s long-nosed manservant stare down at him in disdain had prompted him to purchase the new tunic, as if to show that he could look smart — and scrupulously clean — if he wanted to. The tunic was of dark forest-green velvet, came to just below his knees and flared out in generous folds at the hem. He had been assured that it was cut in the latest fashion. It had certainly cost enough, especially when he had allowed the merchant to persuade him into buying matching gloves and a hat shaped rather like a turban. Josse was not at all sure about the hat.

The landscape was changing now as he left the High Weald behind and approached the marshland. Brice’s manor was partly on the high ridge-top land — the manor house was on an elevation overlooking a wide creek — but most of his acres were down on the levels. It was widely believed that he had earned a small fortune in wool.

Drawing rein, Josse paused for a moment to look out at the view below him. He was further upstream along the same creek that flowed past Brice’s manor house and now, with the tide going out, the small water course was a mere trickle, its sides slick with wet mud which erupted occasionally into bubbles that exploded with a soft pop and a brief but noisome whiff of marsh gas.

On the far side of the creek was a low bank, beyond which the ground fell away into a wide marshy valley. Flat and fairly featureless — unless one counted the softly-coloured patchwork of little fields, the few small, stunted trees and the sheep — it ended in a rise of the land some two or three miles away. On that higher ground, Josse worked out, trying to get his bearings, would be the villages of Northeham and, further east on the low cliffs above Rye Bay, Peasmarsh and Iden.

Rousing himself from his contemplation of the serene scene before him — it really was a lovely day and the wide marshlands looked their best in the strong sunshine — Josse clucked to Horace and turned for Brice of Rotherbridge’s manor house.

The courtyard was shaded by a brake of willow and alder trees growing alongside and, peering ahead into the cool gloom, Josse called out to announce his arrival. After a moment there was the sound of hurrying feet and Brice’s young servant came out of the stables.

‘Morning, Sir Josse,’ the lad said, grinning up at Josse.

‘Good morning — er-’ What was the lad’s name? Josse tried to remember. The boy had grown in four years almost to manhood but the lank hair, low forehead and broken front tooth were unmistakable. Still, the smile of welcome seemed genuine and, as he responded, suddenly Josse recalled the lad’s name. ‘Ossie!’ he exclaimed triumphantly.

‘Aye, that’s right, sir,’ Ossie said, the grin widening. ‘I’ll take your horse, will I, sir? There’s cool water in the stable and I’ll give him a bit of a rub down, seeing as how he’s got himself into a sweat.’

‘Aye, I’d be grateful,’ Josse said, dismounting. ‘Warm day, eh, Ossie?’

‘That it is, sir,’ Ossie said with a dramatic sigh, as if warm weather were one of the plagues of Egypt. ‘Dare say we’ll be paying for it afore long.’ He stared glumly at Josse, then said, ‘Go on inside, sir. You know the way? Master’ll be waiting for you.’

Josse crossed the yard and went up the steps into the hall. As Ossie had said, Brice was waiting for him and, as Josse approached, he quickly rose from his seat on a bench beside the wide hearth and hurried to greet him.

Studying him, Josse reflected that four years had, if anything, made the man look younger rather than older. Of course, four years back he had recently lost his wife and he had been, Josse reminded himself, carrying a heavy burden of guilt over her death. It had been a difficult time for both men and the residue of awkwardness, Josse had sometimes reflected, probably accounted for why the two of them had kept their distance from one another. Still, Josse was here now, a welcomed guest in Brice’s house, and perhaps this unexpected invitation was Brice’s way of saying that he too regretted the lack of closeness between them and wanted to put matters right.

Josse studied Brice as his host held out a mug of cool ale. The dark brown hair showed not a trace of grey, the tanned face was smooth and unlined and there was a hint of laughter in the brown eyes. Brice held himself well and his broad-shouldered frame was clad in fine linen and a richly bordered burgundy tunic that looked even more costly than Josse’s.