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He was startled. “Oh, hello, Gwenda. I had a fight.” He half turned away, obviously embarrassed.
“Who with?”
“Some squire of the earl’s.”
“You’re hurt!”
He looked impatient. “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
He did not understand why she was concerned, of course. Perhaps ne even thought she was revelling in his misfortune. Then Caris spoke. “Which squire?” she said.
Wulfric looked at her with interest, realizing from her dress that she was a wealthy woman. “His name is Ralph Fitzgerald.”
“Oh – Merthin’s brother!” Caris said. “Was he hurt?”
“I broke his nose.” Wulfric looked proud.
“Weren’t you punished?”
“A night in the stocks.”
Gwenda gave a little cry of anguish. “Poor you!”
“It wasn’t so bad. My brother made sure no one pelted me.”
“Even so…” Gwenda was horrified. The idea of being imprisoned in any way seemed to her the worst kind of torture.
A
Gwenda said sharply: “I wouldn’t want him to get his face hurt for my sake.”
“Fortunately, that’s not very likely, is it?” A
Caris said: “One never knows what the future may hold.”
A
Caris took Gwenda’s arm. “Such a pleasure to meet you Wigleigh folk,” she said graciously. “Goodbye.”
They walked on. Gwenda giggled. “You were terribly condescending to A
“She a
“She was so pleased that Wulfric got beaten up for her sake! I’d like to poke out her eyes.”
Caris said thoughtfully: “Apart from his good looks, what is he actually like?”
“Strong, proud, loyal – just the type to get into a fight on someone else’s behalf. But he’s the kind of man who will provide tirelessly for his family, year in and year out, until the day he drops dead.”
Caris said nothing.
Gwenda said: “He doesn’t appeal to you, does he?”
“You make him sound a bit dull.”
“If you’d grown up with my father, you wouldn’t think a good provider was dull.”
“I know.” Caris squeezed Gwenda’s arm. “I think he’s wonderful for you – and, to prove it, I’m going to help you get him.”
Gwenda was not expecting that. “How?”
“Come with me.”
They left the fairground and walked to the north end of the town. Caris led Gwenda to a small house in a side street near St Mark’s parish church. “A wise woman lives here,” she said. Leaving the dogs outside, they ducked through a low doorway.
The single, narrow downstairs room was divided by a curtain. In the front half were a chair and a bench. The fireplace had to be at the back, Gwenda thought, and she wondered why someone would want to hide whatever went on in the kitchen. The room was clean, and there was a strong smell, herby and slightly acid, hardly a perfume but not unpleasant. Caris called out: “Mattie, it’s me.”
After a moment, a woman of about forty pulled aside the curtain and came through. She had grey hair and pale indoor skin. She smiled when she saw Caris. Then she gave Gwenda a hard look and said: “I see your friend is in love – but the boy hardly speaks to her.”
Gwenda gasped: “How did you know?”
Mattie sat on the chair heavily: she was stout, and short of breath. “People come here for three reasons: sickness, revenge and love. You look healthy, and you’re too young for revenge, so you must be in love. And the boy must be indifferent to you, otherwise you wouldn’t need my help.”
Gwenda glanced at Caris, who looked pleased and said: “I told you she was wise.” The two girls sat on the bench and looked expectantly at the woman.
Mattie went on: “He lives close to you, probably in the same village; but his family are wealthier than yours.”
“All true.” Gwenda was amazed. No doubt Mattie was guessing, but she was so accurate it seemed as if she must have second sight.
“Is he handsome?”
“Very.”
“But he’s in love with the prettiest girl in the village.”
“If you like that type.”
“And her family, too, is wealthier than yours.”
“Yes.”
Mattie nodded. “A familiar story. I can help you. But you must understand something. I have nothing to do with the spirit world. Only God can work miracles.”
Gwenda was puzzled. Everyone knew that the spirits of the dead controlled all of life’s hazards. If they were pleased with you, they would guide rabbits to your traps, give you healthy babies, and make the sun shine on your ripening corn. But if you did something to anger them, they could put worms in your apples, cause your cow to give birth to a deformed calf, and make your husband impotent. Even the physicians at the priory admitted that prayers to the saints were more efficacious than their medicines.
Mattie went on: “Don’t despair. I can sell you a love potion.”
“I’m sorry, I have no money.”
“I know. But your friend Caris is extraordinarily fond of you, and she wants you to be happy. She came here prepared to pay for the potion. However, you must administer it correctly. Can you get the boy alone for an hour?”
“I’ll find a way.”
“Put the potion in his drink. Within a short time he will become amorous. That’s when you must be alone with him – if there is another girl in sight he may fall for her instead. So keep him away from other women, and be very sweet to him. He will think you the most desirable woman in the world. Kiss him, tell him he’s wonderful, and – if you want – make love to him. After a while, he will sleep. When he wakes up, he will remember that he spent the happiest hour of his life in your arms, and he’ll want to do it again as soon as he can.”
“But won’t I need another dose?”
“No. The second time, your love and desire and femininity will be enough. A woman can make any man blissfully happy if he gives her the chance.”
The very thought made Gwenda feel lustful. “I can’t wait.”
“Then let’s make up the mixture.” Mattie heaved herself out of the chair. “You can come behind the curtain,” she said. Gwenda and Caris followed her. “It’s only there for the ignorant.”
The kitchen had a clean stone floor and a big fireplace equipped with stands and hooks for cooking and boiling, far more than one woman would need for her own food. There was a heavy old table, stained and scorched but scrubbed clean; a shelf with a row of pottery jars; and a locked cupboard, presumably containing the more precious ingredients used in Mattie’s potions. Hanging on the wall was a large slate with numbers and letters scratched on it, presumably recipes. “Why do you need to hide all this behind a curtain?” Gwenda said.
“A man who makes ointments and medicines is called an apothecary, but a woman who does the same runs the risk of being called a witch. There’s a woman in town called Crazy Nell who goes around shouting about the devil. Friar Murdo has accused her of heresy. Nell is mad, it’s true, but there’s no harm in her. All the same, Murdo is insisting on a trial. Men like to kill a woman, every now and again, and Murdo will give them an excuse, and collect their pe
While Mattie talked, Caris was moving about the kitchen as freely as if she were at home. She put a mixing bowl and a vial on the table. Mattie handed her a key, and she opened the cupboard. “Put three drops of essence of poppies into a spoonful of distilled wine,” Mattie said. “We must be careful not to make the mixture over-strong, or he will go to sleep too soon.”