“Aren’t you even going to bother to try to find her, Osmanna?”

She ignored me.

“Osmanna!”

But she didn’t move. She was standing rigid, her fists clenched, as if she couldn’t tear her gaze away from something. My heart began to thump. What was she staring at? Not a body, not that, please don’t let it be that!

“Wait there, I’m coming!”

My skirts caught in the brambles. I tore the cloth loose and ran towards Osmanna. I couldn’t see anything except the silvery trunks rising out of a mire of twisted undergrowth. I turned to Osmanna, trying to see where she was looking. Her eyes were fixed wide open, her lips thin and dry. Her breath came in rapid, noisy gasps.

“Did you hear a cry, Osmanna?”

She didn’t answer. She just kept staring into the trees. I knew her little game. She was sulking because for once she wasn’t the centre of attention. But if she thought I was going to fuss over her like the Marthas, she was sadly mistaken.

Suddenly she blurted out, “That smell…like onion. I’ve… I’ve smelt it before. I…”

Without warning she threw herself against me, burying her face in my shoulder, gripping me so hard it hurt.

I shoved her away. “Of course you’ve smelt it before, you stupid girl! It’s ramsons, devil’s posies. It’s everywhere here. You can’t take a step without crushing the old leaves. We’ll all stink of onion before the day is out. Why are you twittering about smells? You’re not here to pick herbs.”

She was staring at the tangle of leaves around her feet, as if she’d never seen them before. “Nothing, Beatrice. I don’t know what… Nothing.”

“You don’t even care about Healing Martha, do you? Why should that surprise me? Anyone who could murder her own… Just look at my kirtle! It’s ripped in three places, thanks to you.”

She flushed crimson and began to walk away.

“That’s right,” I yelled after her. “Go off in a sulk and pretend to be lost now, so that we’re forced to look for you. Well, I for one won’t bother. You can stay out here until you starve, for all I care!”

She did not turn.

God in Heaven, would this rain never stop? What on earth had possessed Servant Martha to drag Healing Martha out here in the middle of a tempest? Both of them should have had more sense. Servant Martha had given no explanation when she returned. She looked a hundred years old in the lantern light, all drabbled and drawn. When we asked her questions, it was as if she didn’t understand us. She walked through us like a ghost. Pega said she thought Servant Martha had broken her arm. I caught a glimpse of it, and the wrist did seem bent at an unnatural angle, but she wouldn’t allow anyone to look at it.

Somewhere deeper in the copse I heard Leon barking excitedly, followed by shouts and whistles. They’d found something. I barged through undergrowth in the direction of Leon’s barks. Pega and Merchant Martha were crouched over what looked like a heap of old clothes. Shepherd Martha was pulling Leon aside, patting and praising him as his tail wagged frantically. But all I could see was a pair of worn muddied shoes. The feet in the shoes were not moving. The other women stood a little way off, silent and holding one another.

“Is she…?” I blurted out as I reached them.

Merchant Martha glanced up. “She’s in a bad way. Catherine, Osmanna-fetch the bier. Hurry, we must get her back, before she perishes from cold. She’s lain in this rain all night. Move yourselves.”

Osmanna jerked into action and ran past me. Catherine followed. The others continued to stand and stare. What was wrong? Why didn’t they try to help her? I moved closer to peer over Pega’s shoulder, then clapped my hand to my mouth to stop a scream escaping.

Healing Martha was filthy, her grey hair wet and matted with twigs and dirt. But it was not her appearance that horrified me-it was her face. Flushed and contorted, it was not a human face but a grotesque, mocking caricature of the face I knew. Her left eye was open wide staring at us, but her lid drooped down over her right eye, closing it. Her mouth was twisted down at the corner; a stream of vomit and saliva had run unchecked down her neck. She made a gargling sound. Merchant Martha tried to lift up the poor woman’s head and shoulders to help her swallow, but it made little difference. Healing Martha’s breath rasped like a dog strangling on a leash.

“What happened? Has she been attacked?” I asked.

Merchant Martha shook her head. “No blood or bruises to speak of, at least not on her head anyway. She’s been struck down, that’s for certain, but not by any human hand.”

Healing Martha’s right arm hung limp, the other scrabbled at Merchant Martha’s cloak. The good side of her mouth worked furiously, dragging the paralysed side into a series of hideous grimaces. A meaningless series of noises crawled out from somewhere in her throat. “Ga. Gar.”

Merchant Martha and I looked at each other.

“What is she trying to say? God?” I bent close to her. “God has answered your prayers, Healing Martha, we will soon have you home.”

“Gar! Gar!” Healing Martha pounded her fist against the ground.

Merchant Martha shook her head. “Her wits have gone, poor soul.”

Pega pushed me aside and laid the bier down next to her. “Merchant Martha, you take the head. Beatrice, can you manage the legs?” She wriggled her arms under Healing Martha’s body. “Catherine, take her right arm and hold it up out of the way. Come on, Catherine, she’ll not hurt you! Oh, get out of the way, lass! Let Osmanna do it. Ready? Gently now, lift.”

Healing Martha’s legs flopped limply in my hands. She had wet herself. I could smell it, even though her clothes were soaked with rain. I only hoped Merchant Martha was right and Healing Martha was not sensible of her state. But as we bound her to the bier, I saw that she was weeping.

wATER’S UP TO THE CURRANT BUSHES NOW,” William yelled from the doorway

I scrambled over to the door. The rain was still pouring down outside. Brown muddy water was swirling round the bushes at the edge of our herb patch. The last time I looked out, it had only been up as far as the big stone on the edge of the road. I couldn’t even see where the road was anymore.

“Mam, Mam, where are you?” I wailed. She’d been gone ages. What if she couldn’t get back to the house ’cause of the water? I tried to squirm past William to go outside and look for her, but he grabbed my braid and pulled it until I squealed.

“Get back inside, Pisspuddle, Mam says I’m not to let you out.”

“But I want to see where Mam is! She might be lost!”

“She’s not lost, you daft beggar. She’s trying to collect up the hens afore they drown.”

I was still struggling to get past him when Mam splashed round the side of the house with an old wicker basket in her arms. Its broken handle was bound up with a piece of yellow rag.

“What are you two fighting about now? I swear you’ll be the death of me. Standing there with the door wide, in this wind, you’ll have the hinges ripped off. Get inside, both of you.”

Mam pushed us back in the house with the basket. I could hear clucking from inside.

“Did you rescue Bryde, Mam?” I tried to lift the wicker lid, but Mam slapped my hand away.

“Don’t let them out again, girl. It’s been hard enough catching them. I only managed to get three of them. Rest have taken to the trees and the water’s round the trunks now. I can’t reach them. They’ll just have to take their chances out there.”

“But you did get Bryde, didn’t you?”

“Chickens are chickens; be thankful I got any,” Mam snapped.

I ran to the door and pulled it open. The wind and rain rushed in again, sending everything rocking in the cottage. Mam grabbed me and hauled me back inside, slamming the door. I fought her, trying to wriggle out of her hands.