Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Tildy began to wonder whether Magda had forgotten. The old woman drank more than her share of the wine, then brandywine. How could she think clearly?

But Harold provided the opportunity. ‘Is it true you leave on the morrow, Goodwife Digby?’

‘Aye. Daimon is, as thou seest, stronger now. Magda did wonder what is the news from York. Was that not one of John Gisburne’s servants came to see thee this morn?’

Tildy watched Harold closely. Brushing his light hair from his eyes, he seemed almost embarrassed as he glanced at Daimon, Alfred, Gilbert, then back to the Riverwoman. ‘Yes, it was. But he said nothing of the city.’ Now he glanced at the two servants who waited by the hearth to be called to serve. He leaned close to those at the table. ‘He wished to warn me that Cook’s son, Joseph, was seen in the city, said he was on his way here.’ He said it all too quietly for Daimon, who could not lean across the table, to hear. Tildy whispered the news to him.

‘We shall discuss this later,’ Alfred said.

The topic seemed to signal the end of the festivities. The men withdrew. Tildy asked Magda to watch her prepare Daimon’s physicks to see that she was doing it correctly and to help make him comfortable for the night. The supper had drained him of his energy and he was glad to settle down.

‘But I warn you,’ he told them. ‘Joseph is trouble. Tell Alfred and Gilbert to have a care.’

‘Aye, Magda has heard much of the man and nothing good.’

‘I shall tell them,’ Tildy promised. As she looked down on Daimon, she thought that his cheeks and nose were pink. ‘His humours are out of balance again,’ she whispered to the Riverwoman.

She received a pat on the forearm for her observation. ‘It is the wine, my child,’ said the Riverwoman. ‘It is all right. Thou must allow him a pleasure now and then.’

‘I did not mean to deny him,’ Tildy protested. Why was the old woman treating her like a child of a sudden?

The Riverwoman drew Tildy away from Daimon’s bedside, guiding her towards the hall door. ‘Thou hast also had much wine,’ she said. ‘More than is thy custom.’

Tildy disagreed.

‘Magda knows,’ the woman insisted. ‘A breath of evening air will do thee good.’

Tildy tried to wriggle away, but the Riverwoman’s grasp was as strong as her will. She held firm to Tildy’s arm until they had slipped out into the cool evening.

It was a welcome feeling, the breeze, the air. Tildy took a deep breath and turned her gaze upwards, to the dome of stars that stretched to the horizon. It was a test of her courage, to look up at the night sky. She had been born and raised in York, had seldom been outside the walls of the city until the past summer, when she had stayed here on the manor with Gwenllian and Hugh. When she first walked out into the night the vast sky had frightened her. It was too large, too mysterious, a monster with a hundred hundred eyes. Gradually, with the gentle guidance of Magda’s daughter Tola, who had accompanied them as wet-nurse to Hugh, Tildy learned to see the stars as familiar friends, tracing the constellations.

Tildy felt the Riverwoman’s presence beside her. It was much like Tola’s, quiet, reassuring. Why had Tildy been angry with Magda? She felt remorse at her anger with the old healer. She asked Magda now about Tola and her children, Nym and Emma. Tildy knew they had stayed with the Riverwoman throughout the autumn and the Christmas season, and many folks said that Tola showed a gift for healing. ‘Will she stay to help you?’

‘Nay. Tola returned to the moors,’ said Magda. ‘She is needed there.’ There was a sadness in her voice.

‘She will be a healer now, like you?’

‘One day. Magda took a long while learning.’

They said nothing for a time, gazing at the stars.

Then Magda broke the silence. ‘Go to the stables, talk to Alfred and Gilbert, tell them thy concerns.’

The two men had gone there to see that their horses were in good hands.

‘I do not like to interrupt them,’ Tildy said, suddenly shy of the two soldiers.

‘Thou art mistress of the hall, Tildy. Thou shouldst make thy wishes known to those who serve thee.’

Served her. Tildy sighed. She was still uncertain about her status, neither servant nor the true mistress and yet in charge of so many servants. She wished Magda would stay a while longer, a wish she had expressed to the Riverwoman before and repeated now.

‘Thou hast made no mistakes these two days. Daimon’s will to heal is strong. Thou dost not need Magda.’

‘I feel safe with you here.’

Magda’s barking laugh startled Tildy. ‘With Thoresby’s dragon slayers and Harold the Good, what dost thou need with an old woman? Magda will be on her way in the morning, going to those who need her more than thou dost.’

Tildy hugged herself, suddenly feeling the evening chill.

‘Daimon will continue to heal,’ Magda reassured her.

‘But what if it is your presence that is healing him, not the physicks?’ Tildy asked it softly, uncertain whether she spoke blasphemy.

The Riverwoman surprised Tildy by gently touching her cheek. ‘Thou art Daimon’s best healer, my child. Dost thou not understand how much he loves thee?’ Then, with a shake of her head, the old woman turned away from Tildy and walked slowly towards the kitchen.

Tildy did not move for a long while. Could it be that her own presence had helped Daimon? Could he love her that much? If so, his was not an idle love, a young man’s whim that might prove fickle. Might Tildy have misjudged?

Loud laughter slowed Tildy as she reached the stables. A small lantern glowed dimly near the stalls. The horses whinnied as she passed. The laughter rang out again — it came from the grooms’ quarters beyond the horses and the work area. As Tildy drew near, she hesitated, uncertain that it was proper for her to be here. But she was the housekeeper until Dame Phillippa returned.

If Dame Phillippa returned. What would happen if Mistress Wilton found her aunt too confused or infirm to return?

‘You have cast a spell on these coins, you cheat!’ Angry words, but there was laughter in Gilbert’s voice.

‘I know nothing of spells. You have the luck of Job is all.’ Alfred sounded bored.

Tildy knocked.

Ralph, the groom, opened the door, made an embarrassed bow. ‘Mistress Tildy!’

She stood on tiptoe to see beyond him, but to no avail. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Ralph, I merely wish to see what all the laughter is about.’

‘Mistress — ’

‘We are playing cross and pile,’ Gilbert called out. ‘Alfred and Ralph find my losses comical. Come, Ralph, let the mistress pass. She is not going to apply the switch to two grown men.’

Ralph stepped aside.

Gilbert and Alfred nodded to Tildy from where they crouched on the packed earth floor. A quantity of coins were piled in front of Alfred, a few were lined up by Gilbert. The latter now lifted one of his last coins, flipped it, let it drop on the back of his left hand, which he quickly covered as Alfred called, ‘Heads.’

Gilbert peeked at the coin. ‘You saw it,’ he muttered, tossing it on Alfred’s pile. He rose, brushing off his hose.

‘I am sorry for interrupting your game.’ Tildy felt out of place. They were hardly in a mood to listen to her fears and concerns.

‘Mistress, you have saved me my last few coins. How may I be of service?’

Alfred swept up both his coins and Gilbert’s and dropped them in a leather pouch. ‘Gilbert wearied of my good fortune,’ he said. ‘He would have soon been out of coins anyway.’

‘So you took the remainder?’ Tildy asked.

‘To divide up evenly the next time,’ Gilbert said. ‘What would be the fun if one of us had all the coins?’