She tipped out the purse. The other bones spilled out on to the floor. Each one was smooth and as innocent of any mark as an old polished skull.

Alys shuddered, as if the cold river water was pressing around her, as if the green deep wetness of it was coming up to her chin, lapping over her mouth. She gathered the runes together with one hasty gesture, slung them into the bag, and tossed the bag into the corner of the chest. Then, with her shawl wrapped tight around her, she crept into bed. She could not sleep for shivering.

Hugo went out riding at first light, Catherine slept late. The women in the gallery eyed Alys sideways when she came out of her room, her face serene, her red cloak around her shoulders.

'I'm going up to the moors,' she said to Eliza. ‘I need some more herbs for Catherine. Is she sleeping still?'

'Yes,' Eliza said. 'When will you be back?'

Alys looked at her coldly. 'I shall be home in time for supper,' she said. 'I will take my dinner with me and picnic out on the moors.'

'I'll come with you to the stables,' Eliza said.

She and Alys went down the stairs, across the hall and out of the great door to the gardens. Eliza trotted to keep pace with Alys as they walked through the gateway, over the bridge and across the grass to the stables.

'It's a pretty mare,' Eliza said enviously as the stable-boy brought Alys' new pony out.

'Yes,' Alys said with grim satisfaction. 'Yes, she is. She was expensive.' She snapped her fingers to the stable-lad. 'Fetch me some food from the kitchen. I'll dine on my own on the moors.' The lad dipped a bow and ran off.

'Hugo slept with Catherine all night,' Eliza said in a confidential undertone, watching the lad run to the kitchen door. 'I know,' Alys said coldly. 'Has he turned away from you now?' Eliza asked. Alys shook her head. 'I am carrying his son,' she said coldly. 'My place is safe.'

Eliza looked at her with something very close to pity. Alys caught the look and felt herself flush.

'What is it?' she demanded. 'What are you staring at?' 'You'd have been safer married to that soldier Lady Catherine picked out for you,' Eliza said shrewdly. 'If you wanted to know where you were with a man, he would have been the one for you. Hugo is as changeable as weather. Now he's back with Catherine again, next it'll be another woman. You can't ever call yourself safe if you trust in Hugo.'

The stable-lad was running back with a small leather bag in his hand. He tied it to the saddle and brought the mare forward. 'He bought this for me, didn't he?' Alys said to Eliza, pointing to the pony. 'And I have a chest full of gowns. And I am carrying his son in my belly. I am safe enough here, aren't I?'

Eliza shrugged, holding Alys' herb sack while the lad helped her up. 'He's fickle,' she said again. 'A woman who lives as a whore should keep a big bag of savings. It's a chance-made business. You've ridden very high, Alys, but I think you're coming down now.'

'Mistress Alys to you!' Alys flared. She shook out the skirts of her red gown, smoothed the rich embroidered overskirt, and gathered her reins in her hand. She looked down at Eliza as if she were a beggar at the gates and Alys a fine lady. 'I am Mistress Alys to you,' she said again.

Eliza shrugged her shoulders. 'Not any more, I reckon,' she said. 'I reckon you're falling, Alys. I reckon you are on your way down.'

Alys wheeled the mare around, her face set, and kicked her towards the castle gateyard. As she trotted past the soldiers they shouldered their pikes in a salute but Alys looked neither left nor right. Down the little hill of Castleton she spurred the pony and then around the base of the cliffs at the foot of the castle to cross the bridge over the river and up to the moors. She did not pull up the pony until they were on the far side of the river-bank and it was blowing hard and out of breath. Then she drew rein and looked back at the castle, grey and lovely in the summer sunlight. Alys stared at it, as if she would swallow it up, gobble the whole place to sate her hunger, lords, ladies, servants and all.

Then she turned the pony around and headed up for the moorland.

She had not planned to ride to Morach's cottage, she had headed west from the castle, heading for the moors without any sense of purpose. The herb bag had been an excuse but as the hedges fell away from the side of the road and the land became more wild Alys saw a little clump of windflowers on the side of the road and pulled up the horse. She slid from the saddle and picked them, wrapped them in dock leaves, and then, leading the horse by the reins, she walked down through the field towards the river, watching the thick meadow grass under her feet for any other herbs or flowers she could use.

The river was at its summertime ebb, sluggishly winding along the stone slabs, standing still in deep brown peaty pools, disappearing down the cracks of the river bed and then welling up in a narrow drying stream a few yards on. A redshank flew up from a pool calling and calling a clear sweet sound. Further downriver the water would have drained from Morach's grave, her body would be rotting, busy with flies. Alys shrugged and turned her thoughts away from it.

Alys walked along the river-bank, leading her horse, watching the banks for herbs and for the innocent faces of the small meadow flowers. The smell of wild thyme was sweet and heady, the harebells stirred as the steady ceaseless moorland breeze breathed through them. The little darkfaced Pennine violets bobbed as the red skirts of Alys' long gown brushed them. Away on the higher ground, white, mauve and blue clouds of lady's-smock swayed together on their long stems. Alys walked as if she could walk away from loneliness, walk away from need, walk away from the love of her life which had turned sour as soon as she had twisted it to serve her purpose.

With her little mare dawdling behind her, Alys walked, wishing she were far away from the castle, far away from Hugo, far away from her own ceaseless ambition. Alys walked, her eyes watchful for healing herbs, her mind at a loss as to her next step. God had failed her, love had failed her, magic had entrapped her. Alys, sure-footed on the familiar paths, was lost. All she could still feel was her hunger to survive – as keen and as vivid as ever; and behind that her old grief for her mother – Mother Hildebrande – that stayed with her, sharp and alive even when the runes read blank and Alys was as unsighted as any ordinary woman. On the clear sun-filled day, with larks climbing as high as heaven and lapwings calling and curlews crying, Alys walked alone in her own world of darkness, coldness and need.

She stopped abruptly. She had walked nearly as far as the deep pool before Morach's old cottage. She shaded her eyes against the bright morning sunlight and looked up the lull towards it. It was in the same state that it had always been. The stone-slated roof looked ready to slide off into a heap, the one tiny horn window was dark and abandoned. No smoke eddied from the window or the door. Alys walked towards it and tied her horse to the hawthorn bush laden with creamy-white sickly flowers at the garden wall. She hitched up her skirt and climbed through the little sheep gap. Morach's vegetables were sprouting, burdened with weeds, in their bed. Alys stared at them for a moment, remembering that she had planted them, all those months ago in the autumn. It seemed odd that Morach should be dead, long dead, and yet her turnips were growing in their bed. The front door was unfastened; the little hook had never held it firm, it was banging in the light breeze. Alys guessed that the bravest of children from Bowes village might have pushed open the door to look inside and then scattered, breathless with terror. None of them would have dared go nearer.