Alys Clare - Blood of the South

I nodded, wiped my hands on my apron and leapt up the stone steps leading out of the crypt. I ran along to the kitchen to fetch a bag, then left the house and emerged on to the narrow lane outside. I knew where to go for crab apples: there is a tree on one of the tracks leading down to the river, and its fruits were already ripening, falling on to the path beneath its spreading branches. I was not entirely certain whose tree it was. It stood on common ground, but land rights are fiendishly complicated, and it probably belonged to somebody. I did not think he – or she – would miss twelve crab apples, particularly when much of the crop was being trodden underfoot and going to waste.

In the event, there was nobody about to witness as swiftly I bent down and thrust a dozen small red apples into my bag, checking them carefully for blemishes and the marks of insect infestation. Gurdyman is very strict about such things. Ingredients must be untainted, and his crypt – as I well know – must at all times be spotlessly clean. I often reflect, at the end of a long day, how many hours of my apprenticeship with Gurdyman I spend with my hands in a bucket of soapy water, washing down utensils, surfaces and floors.

I was on my way back – crossing the corner of the market square – when somebody called out to me. Turning quickly, impatient to take the crab apples to Gurdyman, I saw that it was Mattie.

‘Oh, Lassair, I’m that glad to see you!’ she panted as she hurried up to me. ‘I’d have sought you out, only I don’t know where you dwell.’

No, she didn’t. I had made sure of it. Gurdyman is virtually a recluse, and, for reasons of his own safety, prefers not to broadcast the whereabouts of his twisty-turny house, hidden away in its maze of narrow alleyways. I understand his reasoning. Some of the things he gets up to down in his crypt would make his fellow townspeople’s hair stand on end if they knew, and it’s amazing how swift men can be to turn on the outsider, the one who is different, the person perceived as a threat. I always do my best to protect Gurdyman’s privacy, although at times it makes my own life difficult. When, for example, a friendly soul like Mattie asked where I lived because she wanted to show me her baby – newly recovered, thanks to medicine I had prepared, from a nasty cough – and give me a basket of apples as a thank-you.

I looked into Mattie’s plump, anxious face. ‘What can I do for you?’ I asked. I wasn’t going to explain why I had to be so secretive about the whereabouts of my lodgings.

‘It’s that woman, the one with the veil,’ she said, a note of indignation entering her voice.

I smiled. ‘Hasn’t she paid you?’ I wouldn’t have been surprised.

‘Oh – yes, yes she has,’ Mattie said. ‘Eventually,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘It’s not that – it’s her baby, her little boy.’ Now her face creased in distress.

‘Is he ill?’ Already I was calculating my next moves: back to Gurdyman with the crab apples, fetch my satchel, then straight to the veiled woman’s inn.

But Mattie was shaking her head. ‘He’s not ill , not so far as I can make out, although you’re the expert and it’s not for me to say.’

‘What, then?’ Mattie hesitated. ‘Oh, come on, Mattie!’ I pressed her. ‘I’m out on an urgent errand, and I’ll get into trouble if I delay!’

‘Yes, sorry,’ she said hurriedly. ‘The thing is, see, the baby’s sad.’

That brought me up short. ‘ Sad? ’

‘He suckles well, takes a decent feed, and his bowels function nicely, but when I’ve fed him, winded him, changed him and he’s got no reason not to close his sweet little eyes and have a bit of a nap – because I can see he’s sleepy – he just lies there, staring around, for all the world as if he’s looking for something, and can’t let himself drop off till he’s spotted it. And the look on that dear child’s face! Oh, it fair twists my heart.’

Kind, sentimental Mattie’s eyes filled with tears, which rolled slowly down her plump cheeks.

‘You’d like me to come and have a look at him.’

‘Yes, I would.’ She wiped the tears away. ‘That Jack Chevestrier, he said to come and find you.’

‘He did?’ I was surprised. Having resolved the problem of the appropriated bread and found accommodation for the veiled woman, I’d have thought his involvement would have ended, although his fat little sheriff had commanded him to look after her …

‘Yes. Seems he’s been keeping an eye,’ Mattie said darkly. ‘Maybe he suspects she’ll slip out and nick another loaf if he doesn’t put in an appearance now and again, to remind her of the difference between right and wrong.’

I suppressed a grin. There spoke a totally honest woman. ‘Of course I’ll come,’ I reassured her. ‘I must first complete my errand, then I’ll go straight to the inn.’

‘Thank you,’ Mattie breathed. ‘I won’t come with you. I’ve just come from there, and the little lad won’t be needing me for a while.’ She sighed, shaking her head.

Impulsively I leaned towards her and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘Go home to your own children,’ I said. ‘ They need you.’ She looked at me doubtfully. ‘Mattie, your own sons and daughter are your main responsibility. You’ve done your best for the veiled woman’s baby. I will help, if I can. Go home,’ I repeated.

She nodded. Then she squared her shoulders and strode off in the direction of her house.

I flew down the steps to the crypt and laid the crab apples on the workbench. Then I explained to Gurdyman what had just happened. I had half-thought he would command me to finish the preparation of our herbal charm, but he said, ‘You must go, Lassair. I will finish this.’

‘I’m sorry to abandon the lesson,’ I said. ‘Will we have to begin again, another time?’

He smiled. ‘Yes. But it doesn’t matter – preparing even something very special must take second place to tending to the living. Off you go.’ He waved a shooing hand at me.

I ran back to the steps. Just as I was hurrying up them, he added, ‘Oh, and Lassair, you might pick up something hot for our supper on your way home.’

As I swiftly picked up my leather satchel and once more left the house, I was grinning. My dear Gurdyman might be deep in the mystical process of murmuring magical words over a precise mixture of very particular ingredients, but, nevertheless, a part of his wide-ranging, capable and highly intelligent mind was on his stomach.

I reached the inn. The same white-coifed woman showed me along to the veiled lady’s room. I knocked on the door. There were sounds of movement – I heard a sort of rustling – and a voice said, ‘Enter.’

She was sitting on the stool, one elbow resting on the table beside her. She had been sewing; hemming her skirt, it seemed, for she was smoothing it down as I went in, her needle stuck into a little pincushion. Her headdress and veil were in place, and I wondered if the sounds I had heard were her movements as she adjusted them. I understood that women of the east, if that was where she came from, habitually wore veils, so that only their own close kin saw their faces. Above the veil, her black eyes stared fixedly at me, their impact almost overpowering in the small room. I wondered if she had enhanced their effect by the use of some sort of paint; her long lashes seemed to glisten, and the fine skin of her eyelids was very dark.

But the veiled woman was not my chief concern.

I looked towards the bed. The baby lay there, well wrapped, relaxed and calm, except for the steady, repetitive movement of his head. Mattie was right: he looked as if he was staring round the room, searching for something.