The Herb of Grace (12 page)

B
y dusk, they finally reached Beaulieu. It was a small village, overshadowed by the great trees which grew close about. Across the river, glowing warm and red in the rays of the setting sun, were the ruins of an ancient abbey. High walls set with gothic arches soared above the trees, but most of the walls were broken, and Emilia could see a sweeping staircase of stone steps that climbed to nothing more substantial than air.

‘It was a Cistercian Abbey,' Father Plummer said. ‘King John founded it after a nightmare, they
say. He hated the Cistercians, and when some of the abbots came to plead with him, he rode them down and trampled them with his horse. That night he had a terrible dream, and when he woke he decided to give them land to build an abbey, as some kind of reparation. This was it.'

‘But why is it all broken-down?' Emilia asked.

Father Plummer turned surprised brown eyes her way. ‘Why, Henry the Eighth tore down all the monasteries, child, don't you know? He used the abbey's stone to build forts and castles, and
sold the land to one of his cronies for a pittance. His descendant lives now in what was the gatehouse, I think.'

Emilia blushed and scowled. She did not like to be reminded that her education was lacking.

‘How do we find Joe's sister?' Luka wondered.

‘Ask for her?' Lord Harry suggested. ‘It's only a small village. They'll know her. We'll wait here, in the cover of the trees.'

While Luka went quietly into the village, Zizi tucked up in his coat, Emilia lay on the grass and stared at the ruins of the abbey. As the sun slipped down behind the trees, the stones lost all colour and became ghostly grey. She thought she heard, faintly, a bell, and then rising high into the air, the soft, eerie, heartbreakingly beautiful sound of chanting. She frowned and strained her ears, looking about her for the source of the sound, but all else was still and quiet.

‘Do you hear it too?' the priest asked in a low undertone.

She glanced up at him. ‘The chanting?'

‘Aye. It's the ghosts of the monks. I've heard them before. They say it means a death in the village, but I'm not so sure. I think you just hear it on a still, quiet evening. They're very superstitious, these small villages.'

Emilia was superstitious too. She started to her feet, and looked for Luka. He was coming back through the trees, looking very dour.

‘Do you know where to find her?' Emilia demanded.

‘Oh, yes. Everyone here knows the witch, Marguerita the Mad. She lives in the ruins of the abbey, and goes out into the forest, gathering sticks and poaching rabbits as bold as you please. No one dares try and stop her, not even the foresters, in case she curses them. They are all terrified of her.'

‘Wonderful,' Emilia said.

‘Poor old thing,' Father Plummer said. ‘It's a wonder they have not hanged her for a witch. It's not even five years since they last hanged a witch in Salisbury. She was a cunning woman, I heard, who wore a toad in a bag about her neck. Poor old fool.'

Luka and Emilia exchanged glances. That was an old gypsy remedy. Their hearts sank. They wondered if the woman who had been hanged had been a Rom.

‘We'll stop here and rest our weary legs and have a bite to eat,' the duke said. ‘Don't be long.'

Lord Harry frowned. ‘Oddsblood, are you sure you want to see this witch? She could be dangerous.'

‘We have Rollo,' Emilia said.

‘And Zizi,' Luka added. The little monkey gibbered in delight at hearing her name.

‘Right-o,' Lord Harry said. ‘Whistle me if you need me.'

‘I'll come,' Tom said eagerly. ‘I'm not afraid of witches.'

‘No,' Luka said. ‘This is Rom business. Stay here.'

Looking very surly, Tom sat down, trying to pretend he did not care.

With Rollo trotting at Emilia's heels, and Zizi riding on Luka's shoulder, they crossed the bridge in the fast-gathering twilight and made their way into the vast maze of broken-down stone.

Everything was eerily quiet. No birds sang, and the wind was silent among the stones. They smelt wood smoke, and followed their noses.

They came to a long arcade, with delicate fluted columns forming narrow archways on one side. Beyond was a square of long grass, starred with dandelion and thistle. Big blocks of tumbled stone were woven round with weeds, and the wall beyond was crumbling away, steps leading up into empty air. Shadows were pressing down upon the ruin.

A great arched doorway led into darkness. Once there had been a cherub's face above the curve of the door, but it had been smashed.

A woman stood in the doorway, watching for them. She was much younger than Emilia had expected. Her hair was wild and black and matted with knots. She would have to sweep it out of the way before she sat down. She was dressed in brown rags that showed the flesh of her arms and legs through the holes. Her feet were dark with dirt, and her nails were black half-moons. Amidst the wild profusion of her hair, her face seemed very thin and bony. Her nose crooked out of it like the prow of a boat. Her mouth was thin and twisted, and marred with sores.

‘You want what is mine?' she asked. ‘I do not have much, yet all I have you want.'

‘Aye,' Emilia said. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘At least you speak true,' she said. ‘Come in . . . if you can bear the smell.'

The children hesitated.

‘I'm not going to eat you,' she said, and she sounded so like her brother that the children relaxed and went inside, Rollo slinking at their heels, his tail between his legs.

It did stink inside, though mainly of smoke and bitter herbs. It was a long hallway made of grey stone, with a flagstone floor and a high arched ceiling held up with great buttressed beams. A small fire glowed in a massive hearth, large enough to roast an ox. Around the hearth was set up a small camp, with beds made of dried bracken with furs thrown over the top, and a rough table and stools made from old logs and wooden boxes. On either side the hallway stretched, dark and cold and empty, but the camp itself was cosy and warm, with a bunch of wildflowers in a broken urn, and a pot bubbling over the flames.

Wooden stakes had been hammered into the cracks between the stones of the wall, and from
these rough pegs hung bunches of plants and the uncured skins of animals. Emilia saw rabbit, and fox, and badger, and deer, and wondered that this wild gypsy woman had not been branded or transported or hung for poaching long ago.

As they came in, a little boy scuttled sideways and hid in a pile of old furs. He stared at them fearfully through a tangle of black curls.

‘It's all right,' Marguerita crooned. ‘Don't be afraid. You can come out. They're only children.'

But the little boy would not come out, shrinking down further into the bed.

‘He does not like strangers,' Marguerita said.

Emilia squatted down by the bed and held out her hand to the little boy, asking his name, but he only huddled deeper, turning his face away.

‘His name is Abram,' Marguerita said. ‘He does not talk. He has not said a word since he saw his father killed in front of him.'

‘How dreadful,' Emilia said. ‘Poor little boy.'

The witch stared at her. After a moment, Emilia dropped her gaze, feeling awkward and afraid. There was a strange ferocity in the gypsy woman's gaze.

‘You have a fiddle,' she said to Luka, who nodded, clutching his violin a little closer.

‘I have not heard a fiddle played since they took my family away. If I give you some of our supper, will you play for us?'

‘All right,' Luka said, relaxing a little. Zizi clung tightly to his neck, not liking the smell and darkness of the cavernous hall, and Rollo pressed close to Emilia's legs.

‘We are hungry,' Emilia said.

Marguerita snorted. ‘Weans your age are always hungry. You'll have to share a bowl, I haven't many.' She bent and stirred the pot, then began to ladle it out into three battered tin bowls, one of which she pushed towards the shelter of the
furs. A small grimy hand sneaked out and caught it, drawing it under the fur.

‘It smells good,' Luka said, sniffing the air. ‘What's in it?'

Marguerita laughed. ‘What's not? There's chicken and pheasant and bacon and lamb and venison and hare and potatoes and carrots and beans and peas and corn and mushrooms and whatever else I've found in the woods. Nothing poisonous, though. I save my poisons for those I hate.'

Rather gingerly the children tasted the stew, but it was quite simply the most delicious meal they had ever eaten. They could not get the spoon to their mouths fast enough. Marguerita laughed, showing a mouthful of discoloured, crooked teeth, and silently served them some more.

‘Today we feast,' Luka said with a grin at Emilia.

‘Tomorrow we'll starve,' she replied, with an exaggerated shrug.

‘. . . and the next day we'll feast again,'
Marguerita finished off the proverb, and they smiled a small, complicit smile, the smile of people who knew they shared each other's language.

‘So, play to us,' Marguerita commanded when they had licked out their bowls. ‘My husband was a fiddler. He could play the birds down out of the trees, and the fish out of the streams.'

‘That's what they say about my father,' Emilia said.

‘They'll say it about me too one day,' Luka boasted, and lovingly took his violin out of his case, tuning it gently.

Emilia expected him to play a wild lament, like he had played for the highwayman, but instead he played a tender lullaby, so sweet and loving it drew tears to Emilia's eyes. The witch stared at him and did not move, or even seem to breathe, and very slowly the furs slid back and the little boy crept out, his eyes fixed on Luka's face. Closer and closer he crept, until he was crouched right at
Luka's elbow, and when at last Luka laid down his bow, he put out one hand and touched the fiddle reverently. ‘More?' he whispered.

So Luka played more, and the little boy pressed his hands together, his eyes shining; and his mother, the witch, wept silently and violently, her whole body shaking.

At last Luka wearied of playing. It was dark and
the wind was rising, and he could no longer hear his own music. He laid down the bow and let the little boy touch it. Abram was as gentle as if the violin were a living thing, running his hands over its curving sides and caressing its silky wood before, tentatively, plucking at one of the strings. At the shimmer of sound, he raised his transfigured face, and then he bent over the violin again, experimenting with the sounds.

‘So, tell me, who do you know, and what do you want with me?' the witch demanded, turning away so they could not see her face.

They told her, and Marguerita listened quietly.

‘Do you have the charm?' Emilia asked when they had finished.

The witch nodded.

‘Can I have it? Please?'

Marguerita crossed her arms over her chest, and rocked back and forth. Her hair was so thick and frizzy it rose out around her body like a
thunder-racked cloud. ‘Why not?' she murmured. ‘What good has it ever done us? What luck have we had? It's worthless, useless, a funny old trinket my Baba used to wear.'