It was a long, hard slog back up the hill. The temperature was falling fast, and the snow and the sloppy mud were steadily freezing into hard ruts and ridges that could turn an unwary ankle. At times they seemed to slip back one pace for every three they took forward. Josse had hold of Helewise’s arm, trying to help her, and both were tired and sore by the time they finally reached the house. Although they didn’t speak of it, Josse guessed that the events of the afternoon troubled her as much as they did him. For the hundredth time, he found himself wondering why his kinsmen were acting so feebly; why one of them – all of them – didn’t stand up to Cyrille and put her firmly in her place.
He looked at Helewise, struggling along beside him, her face red with effort and her breath coming in gasps. You didn’t either, my love, he thought. You allowed her to overrule your loving heart and your instinct to act with compassion, and you let that poor, sick, starving man leave Southfire Hall without so much as a sip of water or a heel of bread.
As, he added honestly, did I …
He thought again about Southfire and its protective spirit. He thought about the sinister, shadowy darkness that seemed to be stretching out its malicious fingers into every room and every corner. He thought about a happy, cheerful family who were tense with anxiety and at odds with one another. And he thought of a woman who seemed to have put them under an evil spell, so that they allowed her to order their days and impose her own poor judgement and bad decisions when surely every last one of them knew full well that she was utterly wrong and they should not allow it.
It was as if a dim mist was before his eyes, swirling darkly like a black veil being tossed and billowed by a soundless wind. Through the mist he seemed to see the short, sturdy figure of a woman, but then, even as he strained to see better, she changed. In the spot where she had stood he saw a looming shape, a long snout and thick forelegs that ended in sharp claws sensing the air before it, the great bulk of its body curled up as if poised to strike. He blinked several times, and the vision went away.
He saw in an instant what was wrong at Southfire Hall.
For a moment, out there in the deepening grip of the cold and under the lowering sky of approaching night, Josse’s thoughts were so terrible that they almost drove him to his knees.
Then he came back to himself. There he was, his Helewise beside him and leaning heavily against him, and they were out in the cold and almost at the summit of their long climb. In his mind there was the echo of something so disturbing that it frightened him, but, try as he might, he could not recall what it was.
He tightened his hold on Helewise, putting his arm round her waist to help her along. ‘Not far now,’ he said bracingly as the snowflakes began once more to fall.
The family sat round the dying fire in the Old Hall, huddling close around the last of the warmth. The children had been sent to bed; again, there had been no sign of Olivar, who seemed once more to have been banished from the company. Or perhaps, Helewise reflected, glancing surreptitiously at Cyrille, he prefers to keep out of his mother’s way. How odd it was, for a mother of an only son to treat him so. Wasn’t the normal human instinct to want to be with one’s children? That surely applied to boy children in particular, for whom the years during which they were permitted to live at home with their parents were all too few.
As if sensing Helewise’s eyes on her, Cyrille turned to her. ‘The leper was accepted at the priory, I assume?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Helewise said shortly.
Cyrille nodded. ‘Yes, yes, just as I said, for I knew that was the right place for one such as he.’
Her smug self-righteousness stung Helewise like a hot brand. Before she could stop herself, she said, ‘He would have made the journey down to the priory a great deal more easily had he had a mug of hot soup in his belly and a pair of boots to walk in.’
Herbert looked up, a worried expression on his face. Isabelle did too; she shot an enquiring glance at Josse, as if to say, What’s all this?
‘Cyrille, dear,’ Herbert began.
She ignored him. The pale blue eyes fixed on Helewise, the plump cheeks quivering slightly, she said, ‘As I told you earlier, I understand people like our poor beggar, and I pride myself on knowing the way they must be handled. Had I allowed you to overrule my own good judgement, word would have got around, and before we knew it we would find ourselves being troubled incessantly by the sick, the poor, the destitute and the plain idle, for it is always easier, is it not, to beg one’s bread than to earn it honestly for oneself?’
There were so many points with which to take issue in that little speech that Helewise didn’t know where to start. She opened her mouth, but then Jenna spoke up.
‘You really shouldn’t patronize Helewise in that way, Cyrille,’ she said, ‘for she is a great deal more experienced than you in these matters.’
Cyrille turned to her, a sugary smile of stunning insincerity on her round face. ‘I wouldn’t dream of patronizing anyone, Jenna dear, especially a woman so very much older than I,’ she said with a smug little shake of her head.
Helewise heard someone gasp – Isabelle, she thought – but, before anyone could comment, Cyrille got up and began pacing to and fro.
‘We must be vigilant, at all times,’ she declared, ‘and, just now, even more so than usual, for much is at stake.’ She turned, her eyes roaming in turn over each of those present. ‘Charity is all very well, but we would be guilty of grave irresponsibility were we to admit a leper into our household.’ She nodded quickly several times, as if agreeing with herself.
Helewise watched her closely. Something was affecting the woman deeply, she thought, and, thinking back over the evening just passed, she realized that Cyrille’s behaviour had been odd; even more odd than usual. She had seemed restless and agitated, once or twice getting up to pace to and fro. Her eyes had shone and her normally pallid face was flushed. It was almost as if she was hugging to herself a very precious secret, one that she was not ready to share. Since supper, she had been starting conversations, interrupting others relentlessly when they tried to respond, demanding that people pay her attention even if it was clear their thoughts were elsewhere and they needed a little time to themselves.
She had been very rude to poor Herbert, too, giving him a harsh telling-off when he proffered a dish of jugged hare and pushing it away from her as violently as if it had contained something foul and rotten.
It was all very strange.
Breaking quite a long silence, Josse went to sit beside Isabelle and asked her quietly how Peter Southey’s convalescence was progressing. Looking across at the two of them, Helewise noticed that everyone else was doing the same. She bent her head, smiling. Dear old Josse! No doubt he had meant the conversation to be private, between him and his cousin, but his idea of speaking softly was normally perfectly audible to everyone else, provided there was no distracting noise.
Isabelle said, ‘He is not so good tonight. I persuaded him to get out of bed today and sit on the settle, and Editha and I helped him to walk round the room and up and down the passage. I fear it may have been too much for him, for this evening he has been complaining of a worsening headache.’
‘The effect of his fall?’ Josse said.
‘Undoubtedly,’ Isabelle agreed. ‘I’ve prepared a specific for him containing both willow bark for the pain and various herbs to make him sleep. He’s already had a dose, and I shall check in the night and see if he requires more.’
‘I could do that, if you like,’ Helewise offered. ‘Peter’s room is, after all, much closer to ours than to your quarters.’
Isabelle gave her a grateful smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I must admit, I should welcome a chance to sleep the night through with no disturbance.’
Cyrille had edged closer. ‘I do hope you know what you’re doing, Isabelle,’ she said primly. ‘Myself, I have always considered it a little perilous to mix treatments for the alleviation of pain with sleeping draughts.’
‘In my experience, it is common practice, providing the herbalist is well versed in her craft,’ Helewise said with polite reasonableness, ‘as I am quite sure Isabelle is.’
Isabelle muttered something, which, fortunately, was inaudible.
‘I’m sure I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, but we should not take any chances with our poor invalid,’ Cyrille persisted.
Isabelle said shortly, ‘I don’t intend to.’
Cyrille made a face like a small child who has just suffered a telling-off. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘Somebody’s getting overtired.’
Isabelle shot to her feet, her face scarlet, and with a brief ‘Goodnight’, strode out of the hall.
Cyrille had subsided again, a smug little smile on her face, and was back in her seat, her sewing on her lap. Nobody spoke; the Old Hall fell silent. Once again, Helewise reflected, the entire family – herself and Josse included – had meekly sat back and allowed Cyrille to vent her opinions, insulting and unwelcome as they were, with barely a word of protest.
Dear Lord, Helewise prayed in silent desperation, what on earth is wrong with us all?
Before joining Josse in their room at the end of the passage, Helewise went to look in on Peter. She found Isabelle standing beside the bed, a small earthenware bottle in her hands. Hearing Helewise behind her, quickly she put it down on the little table, next to the ewer and the wash cloth.
‘I was going to administer another dose of the draught,’ she said softly, ‘but he is sleeping soundly at present and I see no need.’
‘No, it would be a pity to wake him,’ Helewise agreed. ‘I will return later, and give him more if he is restless and in pain.’
‘Good. This much –’ Isabelle indicated with forefinger and thumb on the side of the bottle – ‘in warm water.’ She pointed towards the fire in the small hearth. ‘I’ve left a pot of water there. It ought to suffice.’ She went on staring at Helewise. ‘Sure you don’t mind?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘And – er, you won’t sleep right on till morning?’
‘Oh, no. I’m used to waking in the night.’
Isabelle nodded. ‘I see,’ she muttered. Then, with a nod, she left the room.
Peter Southey opened his eyes. Something had disturbed him, and, in the weak light of the gently smouldering fire, he peered round the room, trying to make out what it could have been.
He thought he saw movement: a deeper darkness in the shadows, over there in the doorway.
‘Is anybody there?’ he hissed.
I should not feel so afraid, he told himself. I am a grown man, not a child like that poor little boy who screamed and screamed.
He tried to raise himself up on one elbow, but the effort caused a shooting pain through his injured shoulder, and an even worse pain – like a knife stabbing his skull – in his head. He lay back, a groan escaping him.
He closed his eyes. Perhaps, if he could sleep again, the pain would go away.
Something – some change in the light – penetrated his pain. He opened his eyes. The room looked different … oh, yes; the fire had died right down, so that now the room was almost in total darkness. I must have slept, he mused, for the embers were still glowing when last I was aware.
The pain was still there, relentless, and steadily worsening. His hand felt across his chest and he grabbed at his lucky charm, fumbling at the strings of the little leather bag and pulling out the chess piece. He put it to his lips, kissing it. Help me! Help me! He gave a soft cry of agony, trying to form the words to pray. Dear, merciful Lord, please send someone to me! I cannot bear this!
Then, Oh, thank you, Lord, somebody was there. The fire had been tended. An arm was insinuated behind his head, raising him on his pillows, and he felt the hard edge of the medicine cup touch against his lips. He struggled to sit up. ‘Do not disturb yourself,’ a soft, gentle voice whispered right in his ear. ‘There is no need, for I will support you. Drink this, now.’ Obediently he parted his lips, and the hot liquid was carefully poured into his mouth. By a hand well used to the action, he thought vaguely, for whoever it was tipped the liquid at exactly the right rate, allowing him time to swallow before the next mouthful came. ‘It is a draught prepared by Isabelle,’ the quiet voice continued, ‘and you must drink it down straight away, while the full potency is in it!’ He obeyed, greedily sucking in the liquid. It was heavily laced with honey, but the bitterness of whatever gave it its power broke through the intense sweetness, almost making him gag. ‘Steady, steady,’ soothed the calm voice. ‘Not so fast!’
But Peter went on gulping it down. He would have drunk anything, just then, if it promised to relieve his agony.
Presently he noticed that the mug had been taken away from his lips. He made a small sound of protest – it was surprisingly hard to speak, for already sleep was fast overcoming him – and the quiet voice said reassuringly, ‘No more now – you’ve drunk it to the dregs.’
He murmured his thanks, although the words were no more than a vague mumble. He was aware of movements; one or two quiet sounds; footsteps, soft, as if someone walked on tiptoe so as not to disturb him.
He smiled, already half in dreams. No need to step quietly on my account, he thought to himself. He could feel the chess piece, safe in his right hand, and, as always, it gave him comfort. A horse galloping down the passage would not keep me awake now …
Some time before dawn, when the first light had not yet shown in the eastern sky, Helewise woke, quietly got out of bed, took a warm shawl and, wrapping herself snugly, hurried along the passage to attend to Peter.
The fire in his room still glowed red, and she glanced at him quickly as she went in. He was asleep, and she wondered whether it would be best to leave him. She decided to wake him; he had already slept long, and might soon be stirring. Another dose of the draught administered now would provide many more hours’ sleep, and that was the best thing for a man recovering from a serious head injury.
She bent down beside the hearth, picking up the jug of water. It was still warm; hot enough, she thought, to dilute the thick potion and make it drinkable. She went over to the bed, picking up the earthenware bottle and measuring out the right amount into the small cup set beside it. She poured on the water.
‘Peter,’ she said softly. ‘Peter, wake up, for it is time for another dose of medicine.’
There was no response.
‘Peter?’
She stood utterly still, holding her breath, listening.
Then, dropping the bottle on the floor, she bent down over Peter’s sleeping form. She put her hand to his throat. She pressed her ear to his chest. She put her cheek against his slightly parted lips. She took his hands in hers, first the right, then the left.
Shaking, she straightened up. The words came readily to her – how many times she had said them! – and she took her time. Then she turned away from the bed, left the room and, at first walking steadily, then breaking into a run, flew down the passage to find Josse.