Alys Clare - Blood of the South

There is a collective evil that comes over a crowd of people intent on bullying someone. Faces that are habitually genial twist and distort; mouths made for smiling turn down into scowls of anger, dislike and even hatred. It is as if, given a strong lead by the man who first singles out the victim – and I’m afraid it usually seems to be a man – other, kinder souls feel compelled to follow. Then the whole thing gathers an awful sort of impetus, and before you know it, someone gets hurt.

That September morning, as Gurdyman and I stood on the Cambridge quayside in the thin, early sunshine, the victim was a young woman. From her garments, her voluminous veil and what I could see of her face, she was not local. She had a baby with her: in that first glance, I could make out no details, merely noticing the wrapped shape placed on the ground beside her, the swaddling blankets folded too tightly to allow anything to emerge from the bundle except high-pitched, piercing screams. The woman was not trying to soothe her child; she wasn’t even cuddling it. She had both hands up in front of her face in frantic, terrified self-defence, because someone had just chucked a lump of smelly mud at her.

Gurdyman and I, latecomers on the scene, were right at the back of the thronging people. We had intended to be on the quay early, since Gurdyman was expecting the arrival of a cargo from far away and he wanted to ensure first choice of the exotic, mysterious goods. Intentions often go astray, however. I had overslept, Gurdyman had forgotten that today was the day the boat was due to arrive, and, by the time we finally arrived puffing and panting on the path by the river – well, Gurdyman was puffing, but then he is many years my senior, twice my girth and he doesn’t go out much – the port was already heaving. We had been steadily making our way through the crowd to where our boat was likely to tie up, when the loud, braying voices caught our attention.

‘Filthy foreigner!’ someone screamed. A woman; it is not only men who bully.

‘You’re not welcome here, you lying, cheating cow!’ A man’s voice, deep, furious. And he didn’t say cow .

‘Send her back where she came from!’ someone else chimed in. ‘We’ve got cheats and thieves enough of our own, without importing more!’

The voices were getting louder and angrier. The woman tried to say something – from the gesture of her clasped hands, I thought it might be an appeal for mercy – but this only served to further antagonize her persecutors. Another big lump of mud flew over the heads of the crowd, this one hitting the woman on the arm. She gave a sharp cry of pain. The mud had been packed round a stone.

The missile had been thrown from somewhere just behind us. I spun round and saw a fat, red-faced man stooping down to prepare another. Before Gurdyman could stop me – before I had time to think about it, and perhaps stop myself – I leapt on the fat man, knocking him to the ground and falling on top of him. ‘ That’s enough! ’ I screeched. ‘She’s got a baby with her!’

The fat man lurched to his knees, shoving me away with sufficient force to make me sit down hard on my backside. ‘What’s it to you?’ he demanded, struggling up and looming over me, his small eyes turned to narrow slits of fury. ‘Mind your own bloody business!’

‘It is my business if you hurt either the woman or her child!’ I cried. ‘I’m a healer!’

I was just getting to my feet, but he grabbed me by the shoulders and sat me back down again. ‘Heal your own bruised bum, then!’ he leered.

I’m not sure what would have happened next. In all likelihood, he’d have gathered up another fistful of mud, I’d have tried to stop him hurling it at the woman, he’d have hit me, Gurdyman would have had to step in and a tussle would have rapidly become a free-for-all. Without a doubt, there was enough violence in the air for punches and glancing blows to have escalated into knife-thrusts and serious injuries. Just at that moment, however, there came the sound of several pairs of booted feet marching in step, and a strong, carrying voice that held a distinct note of authority demanded to know what was going on.

The forces of law and order had arrived.

As the sheriff’s men went about dispersing the crowd – not without one or two blows of their cudgels, if the occasional cry of pain was any indication – one of the senior deputies came over to where Gurdyman was helping me to my feet and brushing the dust from my skirts. ‘You’re that healer girl, aren’t you?’ the deputy demanded.

‘Yes, I am,’ I said reluctantly. I was cross, in pain, and humiliated by having Gurdyman repeatedly beat his hand on my bottom. Surely I wasn’t that dirty.

‘You’re wanted,’ the deputy said shortly. ‘Over there.’ He jerked his head towards the place where the woman was cowering. A bareheaded, broad-shouldered man in a leather jerkin – the sheriff, I presumed – was bending over her.

Impatiently I pushed Gurdyman’s hand away. ‘Is the baby hurt?’ I asked anxiously, hurrying off in the deputy’s wake. Oh, if that wretched fat man had inflicted some awful injury …

‘Don’t know about that,’ the deputy said, turning briefly to look at me. Again, he nodded towards the sheriff. ‘Him over there, he just said to fetch you.’

I glanced back to see if Gurdyman was following. He caught my eye, and gave an all but imperceptible shake of the head. Then, swiftly, he pointed to his eyes.

I understood. Gurdyman is wisest of the wise; my teacher, my mentor, my companion and my friend. In addition, he is a wizard – although he himself never uses the word except in ironic self-mockery – and he loves nothing better than to conduct extraordinary and sometimes terrifying experiments in the crypt hidden deep beneath his house. He is a practitioner of alchemy; he is trying to make a map of all the known lands of the world; he makes mysterious potions that on occasion almost choke him with their noxious fumes; he knows so much that often I wonder how it can all be contained within his round, bald head with its fringe of perfectly white hair. He is, I am convinced, a powerful magician.

All of which are reasons why he does not court attention. In those two small gestures – the infinitesimal shake of the head and the finger pointing to his eyes – he was telling me that he wouldn’t accompany me as I answered the sheriff’s summons, but that he would keep his eyes open to see what transpired.

My breath catching in my throat, I skidded to a stop in front of the woman and her baby. The sheriff looked up at me briefly and said, rather calmly, I thought, under the circumstances, ‘They may have been hurt. Will you check them for injuries?’

I nodded. The child, its screaming now reduced to a pitiful sobbing, still lay where the woman had placed it. She had sat, or perhaps collapsed, down beside it, her back straight, the folds of her long, voluminous, high-collared cloak pooling round her feet. She was trembling. She wore a headdress consisting of generous folds of deep blue silk, wrapped round and round her head, concealing her hair and her forehead. The headdress was fringed with small black beads and tiny gold bells that tinkled softly when she moved. Beneath the headdress, entirely covering her nose and the lower part of her face, she wore a heavy veil. The sheriff was standing over her, and he opened his mouth to say something to me. I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk; my instinct, both as a healer and simply as a human being, was to gather up the child, then crouch down beside the woman and give her a hug. She had, after all, just been through a horrifying ordeal. The sheriff seemed to understand. He nodded.