Firethorn (25 page)

Stillness had gathered round us in the tent. The whores were all staring. I broke the quiet, saying to Corncockle, “I' ve done what I can for now. Send word to Mai if she worsens, especially if she catches a fever, and Mai will get word to me.” I put my hand on the ox bladder I'd filled with the infusion of dog grass root and stoppered with a wax plug scribed with Torrent's god-sign. “Mind she drinks from this thrice a day—and that she goes on drinking the watered wine too.”

Then Cowslip came forward, asking for her maythen water and wanting to know what she owed me. I shrugged and looked to Mai, and Mai said, “A graybeard,” and I was content with it.

There was no fee for the healing. How can a healer charge for what the gods have given? But Corncockle made me a gift of a tortoiseshell comb, and showed me the best way to tuck it into my headcloth.

Then one whore asked for something to banish lice, and another for something to keep her awake, for she was working so hard she was falling asleep under her customers. “A man comes to a joybird for flattery,” she said. “If he wanted a woman who found him tedious, he'd have stayed home.” It was heady to be deemed wise.

Before I left I saw Catnep sitting back in the dark corner on her bed, wrapped in a shawl. I was sure the remedy was sound. Hadn't Wellspring come to me in a dream? But the sooner the girl was healed, the sooner her mother would sell her again.

Mai had her vocation, and I began mine. She was a follower of Carnal Desire, and practiced in her arts. She knew how to kindle a man and how to hold him, how to cool him and how to fool him. She could make a woman seem a virgin, just as Corncockle had said, with a pessary for a new hymen and pig's blood to stain the sheets. She had a potion, rather costly, that made you dream of coupling with the one you desired. She never lacked for patrons, high and low.

As for me, I gained a name as a greenwoman. Afflictions were as rife among the women as rats in a midden: the canker, the squirts, shakes and fevers, thrash, weeping sores, boils, and the flaming itches. And there were the wounded women. In the village too, some men beat their wives, but I'd seen nothing like this before: the whore with two ribs broken by her pander, and still he made her bear the weight of customers; the goat girl whose father took after her with a scythe; the sheath tickled by her cataphract with the point of his dagger because his jack had looked at her too long; the laundress caught out alone on the north-of-east road by a pack of foot soldiers, who took her by force and then battered her face with a stone.

I met the boneset, the midwife, the stancher who could stop bleeding with a touch, and the canny who healed the cursed by turning the hex back on the one who sent it. I learned from them, and I did what I could for the women who needed my help. But wisdom lies also in knowing what can't be done. There were times when I left well alone, for patience was the only medicine, and times when I could do no more than ease the journey with fare-thee-well, for the Queen of the Dead had already called on the shade to depart the flesh.

Catnep had taught me caution. I never again promised a cure before I'd devised a remedy; Wellspring's dream was a blessing, and one should not take blessings for granted. Still, I healed this one and that, and they were grateful. When they gave me gifts, I shared them with Mai. What I kept I hid from Galan, along with the coin I earned outright from selling childbane and bloodbright, soothe-me and wake-me-up, powders to blanch the skin and tints to bring a false blush, maythen water and the like for the hair, and a salve of my own devising to kill lice. Even Sire Guasca's sheath, Suripanta, sent for some of my tincture of wart-begone to rid her of spots; I counted it a victory, though a petty one, that she took care to greet me pleasantly now. Fleetfoot became my runner, and he prospered too, spending his earnings on meat pies and honey cakes. He ate all day and never grew fat.

I used up most of the herbs I'd brought from the Kingswood and gathered by the river. I'd carried enough for myself, not thinking others would have need of them. So I'd ride out of a morning on Thole, with Noggin on a mule beside me, to watch Galan and the others at their exercises—riding up and down hills at a gallop, jumping stone walls, vaulting into the saddle, and fighting as if they meant to kill each other in earnest—and I'd dawdle on the way, looking for remedies for this ailment or that. Or we'd go to watch the tourneys in the afternoon, and while Galan was well occupied, I'd circle the tourney field with Noggin, wandering farther and farther a field until we'd left the crowds and battles behind, and found ourselves on some quiet south-facing hillside, where a rivulet issued from the rocks and made a hospitable place for plants to root and grow. I was used to the bag-boy now, and never minded he was there. While I filled my gather sack, he'd yawn and doze or amuse himself by catching flies or lying on his back to watch breezes chase the low clouds.

Just as I'd done in the Kingswood, I made trial of new plants by way of smell and taste, and learned which to use and which to avoid. And I sought out herb sellers in the market, and while some were miserly with their lore, others shared freely. Their most potent cures grew in the forests under the sea and were all unknown to me.

I hung bundles of herbs from the tent poles to dry—though it was too damp for proper drying, and much went to waste—and when Galan asked why I cluttered up the tent, I'd say this one was for poulticing bruises, and that one for a tonic to keep chills away, and another for flavoring Spiller's watery stews, and none of it was a lie. But there was much I didn't say. Spiller complained of having to stoop his head, and Rowney looked at me more and more askance; but both were grateful for the lousebane.

One morning Mai told me, “I was up before you today. I was sent for in secret to attend Maid Vulpeja. She complains she's sick to death from longing, and it's true she's wasted away.”

I asked indifferently, “Well, have you cured her?”

“You're cold as a canny's quim!” said Mai. “The girl pines to death for Sire Galan, and it seems you don't care one way or the other.”

“Ah,” I said. “So that's her name. I never knew it.”

Mai and I had met, as usual, by the shrine of Delve. We put our heads together and whispered.

“Is it true she's dying for him?” I asked.

“I've seen countless sick from desire but never one yet who died from it. She pines, yes. She's inconsolable. He sent no message, not a word since he tumbled her, and she, being a pigeon and unfledged besides, had believed his promises. I can give her a charm, but I'm afraid it won't cure her. Something else is amiss.”

“How can you give her a charm, Mai? With the right hand you gave Galan to me, with the left you take him away!”

She grinned. “Never fear, it's only an amulet to help her forget. I would try nothing more, for my reputation. You know
she
could never bind him.”

“I know no such thing,” I said. “She is beautiful—of pure Blood—has many graces. I'm none of that.”

Mai waved her hand as if dismissing a servant. “Oh, nonsense! She's a pudding, a mere pudding. But still, I pity her, she's been brought so low. What illness is it that causes cramps and retching and weakness but no fever? She can't keep food down; she pisses in the bed, poor thing, and her skin is like tallow, and clammy too. And she's not too clear in the head.”

“How long has she been like this?”

“Well, it was before Summons Day—remember?—I told you she was ill. Now she's so thin she'll leave naught but bones to burn. She'll be dead in a matter of days, I should think.”

“Is her heart strong or weak? How does her breath smell?” I asked.

Mai snorted. “I didn't get close enough to find out. And besides, we met in a privy.”

“Of course,” I muttered.

“And there was a stink all around. She'd been borne there on a litter. Her father's sister came too, to keep an eye on her. She's a pursed-lip, pickled dame if ever I saw one. The girl summoned me without her leave and the aunt tried to send me away again as quick as she could; but I saw enough. Tell me, what malady would you guess from those signs?”

I shrugged. “I'm not certain. It's odd she has no fever, for a fever often brings weakness and clamminess and such derangement of the senses. Haven't they called for a healer?”

Mai leaned closer, dropped her voice even lower. “The aunt is nursing her, and therein lies the affliction, I suspect. If I asked you what poison could cause these signs—what then would you say?”

“Poison?” I asked, much too loudly.

Mai said, “The little fool confided in her dear aunt, and her aunt told her dear father. It looks to me they fed her something that didn't agree with her. Better a dead maid than a deflowered one. They think to hush it up.”

I couldn't forget how the maiden had sent her manservant to chase us off like dogs. Yet when I searched my heart for pity, I found a scrap. I said, “It could be dead-men's bells, I suppose, or four or five other things. I've never seen anyone poisoned, but I know that if you use the leaves of dead-men's bells against dropsy—for it brings on pissing, which cleanses the body—you must have a care with it. It can kill if you're too free with your measure. Many have mistakenly given more and more of it, thinking to purge an illness, and thereby caused the very illness they sought to cure. I've heard it's used against madness too. Perhaps they didn't mean to hurt her.”

Mai gave a cynical grin. “No more than a priest means to hurt the sacrifice. But is there a remedy for it, if it is poison?”

“The obvious remedy. She must take no food or anything but pure water from her aunt or father, or anyone she lives with, even those she trusts. If she hasn't already taken too much of the poison, she might recover.”

“If she doesn't starve first,” Mai said, “for who will feed her?”

“She's better off starving. It kills more slowly.”

Mai said, “Couldn't I slip in a cure with the charm? That might get by her aunt.”

I said, “I know only so much of poisons as touches on healing: how to prepare a safe dose of a dangerous medicine, or what to do for an adder's bite or when a child eats too many dillyberries. If you want to know more, ask a poisoner. Surely you know one, Mai. You know everyone.”

Mai spat on the ground and made a warding sign. “I know of one, indeed. But I don't doubt the aunt consulted her first.”

There was a long pause. Then I asked, for this had puzzled me, “Why take such pains? Why does it matter to you if this Maid Vulpeja lives or dies?”

Mai shrugged, raising her hands as if to say,
Who knows?
But then she gave me reasons, laughing at some even as she said them: pity, for the girl was young; because she'd never yet lost someone to lovesickness and wouldn't have it said that she'd failed in this case. Furthermore, the old dame made her hackles rise; she didn't like her face or her demeanor, and she meant to hinder her. They ought to be crossed, it was a vile thing they did; and besides, it would be a pleasure to tweak the dame's long nose.

“Enough,” I said. “I'm convinced you have reasons, though every one too weak to stand on its own legs. And I'm sorry I can't be of help. I know of no way to save her but to starve her, if it is indeed poison.”

“Well, think on it. And think on this as well: Sire Galan is not safe. They are willing to poison their own blood so the shame dies with her; they won't attack him outright, lest their dishonor be told, but he should ward against treachery. He should have a care.”

We did no further business that morning. I went back to the tent, and as I sat sewing my dress, I thought long about what Mai had said. I had some pale green thread, and I stitched leaves on the bodice, and among the leaves tiny flowers made of shell beads. I stitched my thoughts like this: hard to believe she was dying—Mai had seen her, it must be so—she shouldn't die for a wager—I wouldn't mourn if she did—if she dies he'll be blamed for it—nonsense, he'll be praised, for being a man for whom a maid would die of longing—even if rumor praises him he'll have to die, the father will see to that—is there more danger for Galan in her life or her death?—he should be warned—he wouldn't listen to me—if I saw her, I might know what to do—perhaps the dead-men's bells could be rinsed out in the urine—or mustard and vinegar to make her spew it up—better not meddle—maybe I should use dwale—it's strong enough to help her but it might kill her instead—they'd think I poisoned her, having cause—how strange it would be if I saved her—I could be burned for trying.

Stitch by stitch the pattern grew. My hands knew their work. As my needle jabbed I had time to grow angry with Galan all over again and to scorn him: heedless—brash—arrogant—reckless—feckless—fool! I'd bound myself to this man for good and forever, and didn't that make me as much of a fool? There had been jealousy twisted in the binding, a wish to give pain where pain had been given, the need to own where I was owned, and desire, of course, grasping, insistent desire. An appetite for his touch. Though I craved the sight of him too, and also his words, his sighs, his smiles, the timbre of his voice, the way he looked at me, the taste of his salt. Mai had given me the cure, and I'd been eased for a while. I'd even brought to our bed tricks I'd learned from listening to whores, and when I was forward, he did not hold back. I'd been lulled into thinking the wager was forgotten and the danger passed, and I'd tried to put it out of my mind, as Galan seemed to have done. But he had trifled with a maiden; men can die for such trifling. As the maid was likely to die.