A King's Betrayal (16 page)

Beth felt better after she’d bathed and rubbed her skin with leaves and herbs.  She had rubbed between her legs with dock leaf, which would take the sting of nettles away and she thought had eased her soreness a little.  Nothing would ease the humiliation of being used as a whore by the lord.  Until the moment he used her so ill she had been beginning to like him.  His face was not as handsome as that of the knight she’d seen riding to the castle on the day of the proclamation, but his smile was pleasant.  She had suspected that his reputation was unfair but now knew that she had been mistaken.  He was as much a devil as his father had been before him.

             
She must try to forget what had happened.  Sir William had wanted her to promise him she would tell him if there was a child, but Beth intended to brew a drink that would protect her from giving birth.  Marthe often made them for village women who did not wish to have more children.  Often they already had three or four babes under the age of six and were desperate not to have another, because at times they could not feed the children they had.  The Church forbade such practices, branding them witchcraft, and, could its ministers prove that Marthe had made such a brew for another woman, might punish her by putting her in the stocks or whipping her. If she was denounced as a witch she might be hung or burned at the stake.

             
Beth would have to be careful when she made her brew for Marthe would be suspicious.  She would want to know who it was for, because she was wary of whom she gave such dangerous potions.

             
‘If the woman takes too much she might abort too hard and die,’ Marthe had said once.  ‘The mixture is very strong and must be used exactly, too little and it will not work, too much and the result can be fatal.’

             
The last thing Beth needed was Marthe to scold her.  She needed her mother to be in a good mood so that she would tell her whatever it was that had been on the tip of her tongue when they were interrupted that morning.

             
As she entered the cottage, Beth saw that Marthe had drawn strange circles on the floor of the hut.  She had lit a candle, a rare indulgence, and there was a pungent scent in the air – strong and unpleasant.  It made Beth wrinkle her nose.

             
‘What have you been doing?’

             
‘Mind your business,’ Marthe snapped.  ‘You have been a long time.  Have you nothing to show for your labours?’

             
‘The cottage and contents are mine.  We could live there if you chose.’

             
Marthe shook her head.  ‘It is too dangerous to live in the village.  Here we are out of sight and if we are careful they will not notice us, except when they need us.  You should take her things and we can sell them at a market.’

             
Beth had no intention of selling the beautiful silk gown Mistress Soames had given her but she would not quarrel with her mother.  She would bring only the things that might be useful here until she was ready.

             
‘What have you been making?’ she asked, indicating the pot Marthe was stirring over the fire.

             
‘There is fever and sickness in the village.  Many will take it and some will die – I have made a brew that should help.  You should drink some of it, Beth.  You will be called upon to help them and this will protect you.’

             
Marthe held it out to her.  Beth took it, sipped it and made a sound of disgust for it tasted foul but swallowed as she had been bid. Marthe nodded approvingly.

             
‘You will be safe to go to the village now.’

             
‘How do you know that I shall be needed?’

             
‘They will come in the morning and ask.  You must do what you can, Beth – but be sure to tell them that I brewed the cure.  If it does not save them they must blame me not you.’

             
‘I tell everyone that I can only ease them,’ Beth said.  ‘We know so little and we should not pretend that we can cure all ills.’

             
‘This is special.  I used witchcraft to prepare it.  If this does not save them nothing will.’

             
‘Mother!  You should not use the dark arts.  You know it is forbidden. Do you want people to name you as a witch?’

             
Marthe scowled at her.  ‘Sometimes it is the only way to get what you want.  You should let me show you how to summon the dark lord.  One day he might save your life.’

             
‘I do not wish to use magic.  Simple herbs are enough for me.’  Beth felt cold all over.  She remembered the day she’d had the Seeing.  Did she have a gift or was it just some kind of a fit that had passed?  It had not happened before that day or since.  Perhaps she’d fallen into a strange dream?  ‘Before Mistress Grey came for me you said something strange.  You were in a trance and you told me that you found me…that you were not my mother.  What did you mean?’

             
‘It was a trance and I knew not what I spoke,’ Marthe said and scowled at her.  ‘Of course I am your mother.  Have I not fed and cared for you, taught you all you know?’

             
‘You have taught me many things and you cared for me when I was a child,’ Beth agreed.  ‘Yet I think there was a time when I did not live with you.  If there is something I should know about my past, you should tell me.’

             
‘Why do you say that?’

             
Beth shook her head.  ‘I think you are not telling me the truth.  Something happened when I was very young.  I remember a sunny day by the stream and the soldiers riding towards us.  They took me and one of the women.  In the clearing she was hurt badly and I was frightened.  I wandered away in a daze.  Was that when you found me?’

             
‘Too many questions.  One day you may know the truth if you look in my coffer.’

             
‘What do you mean?’

             
‘Get on with your work, girl.  There are other cures needed, simple balms and lotions.  I cannot do everything.’

             
‘What do you want me to do?’

             
‘You can start with grinding those poppy seeds to a fine powder.’

             
Beth turned away to begin the task.  If she had time she would make the potion she needed for herself to prevent a child but not while Marthe was looking at her so suspiciously.  She did not wish Marthe to know the price she had  been forced to yield for Mistress Soames’s goods.  Had she guessed the lord was waiting for her she would never have gone to claim them, but it was too late to weep; the damage was done.

* * *

It was early when the man came the next morning.  Opening the door, Beth recognised  the blacksmith she’d seen at work in his forge and greeted him pleasantly but without a smile.  It was odd that he should come at this hour of the day for he usually crept here in secret when it was nearly dusk.

             
‘Where is your mother, girl?’

             
‘She is sleeping, sir.  She worked late into the night on her cures.’

             
‘I have been sent to ask for help,’ he said, his expression harsh.  ‘There is sickness in the village.  Three children are very ill and now three men and two women have taken it too.’

             
‘What is the sickness?  Have you seen it before?’

             
‘No.  ‘Tis not the pox nor yet the plague but the bowels are turned to water and it makes the sufferer vomit.’

             
‘It sounds as if it is much like the sickness that killed Mistress Soames.  I shall ask my mother for something and come to the village as soon as I can.’

             
He nodded, his gaze narrowing.  ‘Sir William says you are to have the cottage that belonged to her.  Is it your intention to live there?’

             
‘My mother prefers to stay here for the moment, sir.  I am not certain of my intent as yet.’

             
‘You could not save Mistress Soames, though people say you cared for her kindly.’

             
‘I am not sure that we can save anyone who has this sickness,’ Beth replied.  ‘Yet I shall ask my mother for a cure and do what I can.’

             
‘Make sure she brews it herself.’

             
‘Why do you say that, sir?’

             
‘Because I wish to be sure that it is her cure and not yours.’

             
‘Very well.’

             
Beth was frowning as she closed the door and began to gather her things.  The previous evening, her mother had poured the mixture into a flask, giving Beth strict instructions to give each sick person only three drops in water.

             
‘If there is any left bring it back with you.  You will have to go again later in the day and twice each day for as long as the fever lasts.’

             
When she had filled her basket with other cures that might be helpful, Beth roused her mother and told her she was leaving.

             
‘You know what I told you,’ Marthe said.  ‘I made the cure – and just three drops each in a cup of water.  If there is any left bring the flask back with you.’

             
‘Yes, Marthe.  You told me last night.  I shall not forget.’

             
‘Why do you not call me Mother?’

             
‘I do not think you were always my mother.  Unless you tell me the truth I shall not call you mother again.’

             
Marthe scowled at her and shook her head.  ‘Whatever I am I saved your life.  You owe me a duty.  I have protected you and kept you safe.’

             
‘Perhaps.’  Beth sighed.  ‘Even though I do not think you are my mother I shall not leave you.  I wish that you would tell me the truth but I shall not desert you while you need me.’

             
‘You will not need to stay much longer.  My time is coming soon.’

             
‘What do you mean?  Always you speak in riddles.  You never answer my questions.’

             
‘You ask too many.  You were always a tiresome child.  Go now, Beth.  The people are very sick, but my cure will help some, though perhaps not all.’

             
‘You knew the sickness was coming.  Are you a witch, Marthe?’

             
Marthe shivered and turned away, muttering something below her breath.  Beth knew it was useless to ask questions when Marthe was in this mood.  Her heart fluttered with nerves as she began the long walk to the village.  She hoped she would not see the lord, because she was afraid that he might force her to go to the castle with him.  He had spoken of protecting her, but all he truly wanted was to make her his whore.

Beth visited four houses that morning.  In one three children were sick and lying on their beds, weak and pale.  Their mother told Beth that they could not keep food down and emptied their bowls every time they drank anything.

             
‘I will give them a few drops of the cure in water,’ Beth said, looking round.  ‘Have you any water, mistress?’

             
‘I fetch it from the well each morning but the water tastes strange and the girls will not drink it.  I will fetch some from the stream later.’

             
Marthe had told her the cure should be added to water, but perhaps if she added it to the mixture of herbs she had made with water that filtered through the rocks that led to her pool it would do as well.  The herbs were those she’d used for Mistress Soames and she’d brought her own mixture in case there was not enough of her mother’s for everyone.

‘I have some water here in my flask,’ Beth said and poured her own potion into a cup, adding three drops from her mother’s mixture.  ‘Give some to Alice while I help Margaret and Ruth.’

When each girl had had a cup of the combined medicine, Beth gave their mother a cooling balm to rub on their faces and hands, explaining that it was not to be swallowed.

‘It is made with marigold leaves and it keeps the skin fresh,’ she said.  ‘It is all I can do for your daughters, mistress.  I shall come again this evening.’

‘Bless you, Beth,’ the woman said.  ‘People may say what they like of your mother, but you are a good girl – and your lotions have helped my skin many times.’

‘Are your hands better now?’

‘The balm you gave me stopped the sores and they have almost gone, but I have finished what I had.’

‘I shall make you some more.  Give me the empty pot and I will fill it again.’