“Where does she wish you to go?” I asked.

“How should I know?” Beatrice snapped. “Haven’t I just said the girl can only make signs?”

I raised my eyebrows at her tone.

“The child points to the hill,” Beatrice said, more quietly. “She lives… Pega says she lives up there alone with her grandmother, a woman they call old Gwenith. I think something may be amiss. Maybe her grandmother has had an accident or is sick.”

“You know this girl well?”

Beatrice flushed a dull red. “I’ve… I’ve seen her, Servant Martha… from a distance, that’s all. I’ve never spoken to her.”

“I wonder why she came to you then.”

Beatrice’s expression was unmistakably one of guilt, like a naughty child who had been discovered in some act of disobedience. I stared at her curiously, but I could think of no possible reason why she should feel guilty that the child had approached her.

“No doubt she saw the compassion of Christian charity in your face and the instinct God gives to all his dumb creatures told her you would not hurt her,” I said. “I’m glad of it. We’ll go at once. Fetch Healing Martha and get Catherine to help you bring a bier from the infirmary. If this Gwenith is lying hurt somewhere we may have to move her. I will meet you at the beguinage gate.”

“No, you don’t need to come. Catherine and I can manage,” Beatrice said hastily.

The idea of my coming appeared to agitate her. But she must surely realise I’d hardly trust her with the decision about whether or not to bring this woman back to the beguinage. And what if this Gwenith was dead? Clearly Beatrice had not even contemplated that possibility. I could hardly imagine that she was equal to dealing with that.

“I rather think I do need to come, Beatrice. In fact, I am sure of it.”

wHAT ON EARTH HAD POSSESSED ME to involve Servant Martha? I should have gone straight to Healing Martha to ask for a bier and some herbs, but she would probably only have sent for Servant Martha anyway. She’d keep secrets for that murdering little whore, Osmanna, but not for me.

The moment Servant Martha asked me if I knew the girl, I realised I’d made a stupid mistake. I saw again the little pink tongue flashing in and out, like a viper in the shadows. The innocence of her naked body, the trembling butterflies on her flushed skin, her flame-bright hair. I’d felt my face burn and glanced away, unable to meet Servant Martha’s piecing stare.

But now that we were toiling up the hill, I kept thinking of old Gwenith. The girl could say nothing, but the old woman was bound to remember I’d been there before. What would she say in front of Servant Martha? I tried to remind myself I’d committed no sin, but Servant Martha would twist it into some sort of transgression. She could always use her clever tongue to tie you in knots and make you feel ashamed and useless even when you had done nothing wrong.

Gudrun bounded up the path ahead of us, her bare feet so light and sure on the rocks, she scarcely seemed to touch them at all. Every so often she’d stop and wait, but as soon as we were nearly caught up with her, she’d skip off again, leaving us breathless in her wake. Servant Martha kept turning back to help Healing Martha over the rocks. It was one of her better days and Healing Martha was determined to struggle up herself, but in the end she was forced to let Servant Martha help her with a strong arm about her back.

Walking at Healing Martha’s slow pace, the way seemed twice as long as it did the first time I had climbed it, but finally we stood on the flat wiry grass beneath the rocks and I saw again the thornbush hung with faded rags, locks of hair, and amulets, and beyond that Gwenith’s cottage. Gudrun pointed to the cottage and then ran off and disappeared behind a rock before we could stop her. Servant Martha led the way inside.

The meanest of creatures has a burrow in the earth or a hole in a tree that provides some shelter against rain and cold, but this poor creature’s hovel didn’t furnish even that scrap of comfort. I had last seen this place when the sun was shining and thought it miserable enough then, but, dear God, to see it now in the winter, to have nothing but this to shelter you from the snow and rain and biting winds. However had she lived so long?

Green pools of stagnant water lay in every hollow in the earth floor. Globs of glistening slime crawled over the stones and crept through the dripping wattle. Old Gwenith lay huddled on a scattering of mouldy straw. The reek of stale piss that hung about her was strong enough to make your eyes water. Her face was as grey as the rags that covered her and her fingers, clawed over her chest, were so thin, they looked as if they’d snap if you touched them.

I stared aghast at her legs. Her skirts were burnt away, as if she’d stood in a fire. Patches of charred cloth still hung in rags, but beneath them her bare legs were blistered and weeping. Angry wounds stood out red and sulphurous against the blackened flesh. Healing Martha, holding my arm for support, knelt stiffly in the dirt beside the old woman and gently took one of Gwenith’s frail wrists in her hand. She bent closer, impervious to the stench, then straightened.

“She must have stood too close to her hearth fire and caught her kirtle in the flames. There’s still a thread of life in her, though it’s so weak her next breath might well be her last. She must be taken to the infirmary. I cannot care for her here.”

“Can you save her?” Servant Martha asked quietly.

Healing Martha shook her head. “If she were younger, I might be able to heal those wounds, but she is not dying of the burns alone. Old age has caught up with her. There’s no herb on earth can undo what time has done, but I can at least lay some soft blankets under those poor old bones and make her warm. She deserves to die in some comfort, for I fear she’s had precious little of it in her life.”

Servant Martha nodded and motioned me to take Gwenith’s feet while she slipped her hands under her shoulders. The old woman was as light as a sack of dried chicken bones. I could have easily gathered her up in my arms and carried her out myself. She whimpered in pain as we laid her down on the bier outside. Servant Martha tucked a thick blanket around her and told Catherine to help me to bind ropes across the fragile body to keep her from falling as we carried her down the hill. But Catherine was too afraid to touch the old woman. She stood helplessly twisting her fingers, until Servant Martha impatiently thrust her aside and helped me with the ropes herself.

We were so engrossed in tending to the old woman that none of us noticed Gudrun creeping up from behind. Without warning the mute sprang onto Servant Martha’s back. Servant Martha was caught off balance and sprawled facedown on the ground, while the girl bit her and tore her clothes. Servant Martha twisted and wriggled, trying to shake her off, but she couldn’t get a grip on the girl on top of her.

“Don’t just stand there, Beatrice; loosen her grasp.”

I tried to prise the girl’s fingers loose, but it wasn’t easy; she had the grip of a falcon. At last I managed to drag Gudrun away from Servant Martha. As Servant Martha struggled to her feet, panting, she grabbed Gudrun’s arms, holding her from behind. The witch-girl spat and writhed, but she couldn’t get out of Servant Martha’s grip. Finally she stopped struggling, and began to weep silently, a look of sheer desperation on her pale little face.

“Control yourself, child,” Servant Martha ordered. “Your grandmother is dying and she should at least die in a warm, dry bed, with the consolation of Christ to aid her passing. If she can be brought to her senses enough to unburden her soul and make a good confession, then God will yet show her mercy.”