The Innocent

Chapter One

The gluttony of Shrovetide was forgotten in the privations of Lent as the ice on the river broke up. The Thames swelled with meltwater from the deep west as London stretched awake from the long cold sleep of winter; snowdrops were budding in the fields outside the walls and the people of the city were impatient for spring and Holy Week, for after that came May Day—and warmth!

Anne was too cold and too excited to be tired from her long journey. It was hard to remember the silent winter forest she had left—was it only six nights ago?—among the clamor and press of people contained within this gigantic mess of buildings.

At dawn on the seventh day she and Deborah walked over London Bridge, part of a noisy crowd eager to enter the city and transact their business. It was slow going as the two women tried to hold a place for themselves on the broken stone pavement of the bridge, hugging the walls beneath the overhanging houses and shops that jetted out above them; it was the only way to avoid being splashed by riders and carts from the roadway’s sloppy combination of mud, animal urine, and dung.

Anne’s senses were assaulted by the smell and the noise. She had never seen so many beggars before, with their pathetic ragbound feet, their open sores and mutilated bodies—or been close enough to a strange man’s mouth to smell rotting teeth as he called out to friends among the crowd. Anne was not frightened by disability for very few people escaped childhood without scars and injuries of some sort, but here every third person seemed malformed in some way. Deborah told her that many were veterans from the late wars at home and in France.

That puzzled Anne. Does no one look after them? What about the king? she asked.

Deborah’s reply was swept away as yet another party of armed and mounted men cursed their way through the crush, forcing the people in the roadway to jump from the hooves or be trampled. Anne was astonished by their rudeness, the callous way the riders laid about the people with whips to clear space for their horses. Were ordinary people to be treated like animals, just because they looked poor?

Before today she never thought of herself as poor, yet when she looked at the Londoners, she saw that their own clothes, the city clothes that Deborah had made with so much careful love, were simple and drab compared to the rich jeweled velvets, the sumptuous furs and silks on the backs of so many men and women riding proudly into the city.

Where they lived in the forest coin money was rare. That didn’t much matter because there was little to buy. You grew your own food, made your own cloth, sewed your own clothes, so there was nothing to be envious about in other people’s lives. All had much the same. But London was a new world and Anne found herself covetous, for the first time in her life, of the pretty things others had.

Even worse than the way people behaved toward one another, however, was the reek of this place; the city smelled like a dung heap. The stench of animal excreta was compounded by the unseen fog of acrid human sweat trapped in winter’s unwashed wool on the bodies all around them.

She, who was used to the clean smell of the forest, and the purity of untrampled snow, had to force herself to breathe—there was no escape. Breathe in and get used to it. And try not to notice that men she did not know looked at her boldly, their eyes roaming her body to see its shape under her mantle. One man even snatched back her hood to see her face. He laughed at her confusion—and her spirit—when she slapped his hand away.

After that Anne became terrified she would lose sight of Deborah, so like a child she held fast to a piece of her foster mother’s cloak as the older woman patiently led her toward the farther end of the bridge up ahead.

On the bridge itself, the buildings were huddled so close together that the girl could not see the river below, but she heard it roaring around the great piers beneath her feet; heard the groaning of the ice as it was broken by the raging water. In that moment she was overwhelmed with fear.

What if the bridge, mighty as it was, should break under the weight of all the people and all the buildings and they were cast down into the roiling water below? As if in answer to her unspoken question, Deborah turned and looked at her, smiling confidently.

It will take more than melt water to tear this old bridge down. Don’t fear, small one. Another hour will see us there. Just walk as close to me as you can.

But the noise of the city was overwhelming too. It flowed around Anne with such intensity, she could feel it on her body like a physical buffet. She’d first heard it on the previous day, even before they’d reached the walls of the city and the Convent of the Poor Clares where they had spent the night in the strangers’ dorter. Then it was something muttering on the wind that came and went as they’d walked the muddy roads toward the city—a resonant buzzing hum unlike any sound the girl had heard before. Fancifully, as she had lain awake on the scratchy straw palliasse among the other women in the strangers’ dorter, she’d thought it was the voice of some great beast that was never quite stilled, even in the darkest hours of the night. Then she had felt happy and excited to be going to the city.

Now as she followed Deborah across the bridge, and looked up to check the clouds to see what the day would bring, she saw only a small patch of sky above her head between the buildings, and was engulfed by a choking sadness.

For all of her nearly fifteen years Anne had lived among the trees of their forest, hers and Deborah’s, but there’d always been the sky and the clouds above their little mud-and-wattle house.

In the warm weather when she sat on the thatch of the highest part of the roof, Anne could see the weather coming and she could see where the forest ended and the straggling village at the edge of their domain began. It had always been quiet in their clearing except for the wind and the calls of birds, or the cough of deer in the depths of the trees. But now the enormous voice of this foreign place was all around, in her head, hardly allowing her to think.

Now, very soon, she and Deborah would part, and she would be left alone here in this buzzing, booming, reeking people-hive.

And all because of last Samhain, the feast to celebrate the time when the gates between the worlds were open and winter began. As usual they had joined the villagers on the common land outside their little cluster of wattle-and-clay houses, and contributed to the feast with good black puddings from the pig they had raised through the last year and just slaughtered. It was blood month, the time when animals that would not be fed through the winter were killed, like their pig. And as the last of the summer beer had flowed, Deborah had pleased the villagers, though not their priest, by future-telling for all those who’d wanted her to. He was a good man, their priest, and tried hard to win his people from their dark, old ways, but he’d given up with Samhain. It had an ancient force, this long day of gluttony and drunkenness, a force stronger than any sermon he could preach to them. So, like a sensible pastor who had the long-term good of his people at heart, he joined them at the feast hoping, by his presence, to curb the wildest excesses.

It was common at Samhain, however, for prophecy to be given and heard with respect, and this time Anne had asked Deborah for a future-telling as well.

You’re too young. This is not a game, Anne. The priest will not like it, you know that. Deborah had taken the girl to one side, away from the long trestle board crowded with shouting, well-fed, happy people. The older woman’s expression was severe, and that puzzled the girl.

Why do you want the scrying?

Only to see if I may have a husband too. You seemed happy to tell the others…

Deborah had turned away when she caught the priest’s eye, his shake of the head. Now she looked back toward their home in the forest. It was as if she were listening for something, searching for something among the silent trees, something that was far, far away. Then she sighed deeply and nodded, being careful the priest did not see. That is fair. Sit here.

Anne settled herself against the trunk of an oak, burrowing into the dry brown leaves of last autumn, while Deborah went to fetch her scrying bowl from the trestle board. There was a little warmth left in the fast-westering sun, and filled with good meat and good beer, the girl had begun to doze.

Deborah’s voice had brought her back. Here, child. Look into the water, tell me what you see…

That startled the girl awake. Me? Will you not do the scrying, Deborah?

Her foster mother’s voice was pitched low now, soothing, almost humming. Look into the bowl, Anne.… Concentrate. Just look into the water.… What do you see? What is there for you…

Perhaps it was the last of a dream still clogging her mind, perhaps it was the tone of Deborah’s voice, but the girl felt warm and secure—a child about to drift away to dreams in a warm bed as storms raged outside on a winter’s night…

There is a face…

Describe what you see. Again Deborah’s voice had that strange humming tone.

Anne hesitated then her face cleared in relief. Look. There he is. I see him. I can’t see his eyes, though… that’s because of the battle helm. Oh! The girl then sat up so quickly she knocked the salt-glazed pottery bowl out of her own hands and the water spilled all over her dress. Blood! Blood everywhere!

Her scream had cut through the buzz of the feast; the villagers fell silent, staring at the two women under the great oak. Deborah waved cheerfully. Too much good ale! And a young head! she had called, and laughter washed away the moment—uneasy though it was. Everyone knew Samhain was an uncanny time.

Defiantly Deborah had locked glances with the priest as she’d helped Anne to her feet.

Do not worry, Father, she’s only tired. It’s been a long feast.

From that moment things had changed.

Later, Deborah told the girl that with the spring it would be time for her to go to London and into service with a pious household. There she could complete the education that had been begun in the forest, for Deborah had no more to teach Anne in their small, safe world. The girl had cried herself to sleep for many nights, but Deborah was implacable, though it broke both their hearts. And so now, miserably, weighted with a sense of the abandonment to come, the girl followed her foster mother deeper and deeper into the city until they stood before the closed door of a great, dark house.

Chapter Two

You say you can both read and write Latin?

The man in the thronelike chair looked suspiciously at Anne as he smoothed the surface of the fine silk carpet covering his worktable with a capable, broad hand.

"Yes, master, I can—and a little French and some English—and calculate also. And besides this, I have a knowledge of simples and dying, I have been taught to dress and tan leather, to cook, and embroider, to make tapestry, to prepare and weave flax and—

Enough. A wave from the large hand and a hard look silenced the girl. Her throat tight with nerves, she dropped her eyes from his to disguise the fear.

Mathew Cuttifer frowned at her. These were remarkable claims for any woman, and this girl was a peasant. He turned to the girl’s foster mother, a handsome woman with the permanently suntanned skin of the poor, who was also respectfully looking down at the floor.

Mistress… Deborah, is it?

Without raising her eyes, the woman nodded.

Are these claims true?

They are, sir.

And who has taught her?

I have, sir—the domestic skills she speaks of. And the good priest of our nearby village. He believed my foster daughter warranted teaching. He gave her letters, and the numbers. And the Latin. He also spoke French and she picked it up. She learns quickly and he is an educated man.

Mathew raised his eyebrows at that. An educated man giving his time to teach a peasant girl? He looked the girl up and down. Plain, neat dress of homespun cloth—finely woven though it was—and abundant dark, tawny hair pulled back tightly from a high forehead.

The girl’s eyes were unusual too; they had the surprising jeweled flash of kingfisher feathers, or topaz, the whites so clear they shone. True, she did not have the smooth egg-shaped face considered beautiful, for hers had well-defined features and a mouth too wide for current taste, but it was pleasing, the skin burnished like ivory, and when she smiled, striking. But there was something else. Something disturbing. Did she look too… refined, or clever, perhaps to make a servant?

How did you know of the place I have in my household? Again, Mathew addressed the woman, Deborah.

Sir, I am acquainted with Helvega, the sister of your priest, Father Bartolph. She’s married to our squire’s reeve and lives close by in the village next to our home. She visited her brother in your house, I believe, and when she returned she told me of the need. A hardworking and trustworthy girl to be a body servant for your wife?

Mathew was puzzled. But that was some time ago. You have come a long way on a chance, it seems to me…

Deborah smiled calmly. I trusted to Our Lord for guidance on the matter. He told me that all would be well if I brought my foster daughter to your house.

Again Mathew frowned. The woman sounded very sure, dangerously presumptuous. How could she know what the Lord’s will in this matter might be?

A gentle cough shifted his glance to another woman standing in the shadows of his dark, richly appointed room.

Speak.

Phillipa Jassy, Mathew’s housekeeper, had also been looking at the girl. She too was uncertain about the gentility, even delicacy, of her appearance. Generally, Jassy looked for solid girls, girls with strong arms and broad backs who were capable of hard physical work. But she was also a shrewd judge of character—you had to be if you ran a large household for such an exacting master. A plain beast of burden would not suffice for her mistress, Lady Margaret Cuttifer, that she knew.

Have you ever been part of a large household before, girl?

Anne was nervous since Mathew had rebuked her, so she shook her head. That met with Jassy’s approval. She had no liking for pert, bold girls with opinions freely offered.

Unaccountably, though, Mathew was faintly displeased. He had liked the sound of her voice, he realized; it was low and pleasing.

Have you ever served a lady before?

Again the girl shook her head, saying nothing.

The girl’s response was to be expected, but the housekeeper was disappointed. In their current sad situation, it seemed unlikely that Mathew would want a girl waiting on his wife who had no real training.

Master Mathew, in the circumstances, perhaps it would be good if we could speak together for a moment… Jassy was already holding the door of Mathew Cuttifer’s workroom open, as if to usher Deborah and her foster daughter out of Blessing House, out of their lives…

Then something strange happened. Something uncanny. The girl smiled, a radiant smile, and it so transformed her face that the man and his housekeeper were astonished—for a moment it seemed as if she were bathed in light from another source. Mathew even looked around to see where that light might be coming from.

Then the girl said simply, Sir, my name is Anne and I am here to work. I will serve your wife well, you will see, and with all my heart. Her voice had a quality, a certain bell-like clarity, that sang through the air between them like music, and the sincerity in her eyes was guileless.

Deborah looked at Anne quickly. Was she surprised by the confident little speech? It was hard to tell.

Mathew was—but he didn’t find himself offended. There had been no presumption from the girl: she’d spoken truthfully. Rocking for a moment on his heels, Mathew threw a look at the housekeeper. She shrugged slightly before dropping her eyes respectfully—Anne did not see the gesture, having fixed her gaze on Mathew Cuttifer’s face—but it was enough. He grunted and found himself saying, Very well. You may stay under this roof for a period to be agreed between your foster mother and myself. Should you prove a useful addition to this house, your position with us will be confirmed by next quarter day.

Formal, dry words, but they were rewarded with a look of such passionate gratitude from Anne that Mathew felt a wave of heat in his head and neck. Of course, well versed by his religion against the snares of the flesh, he should have been proof against the gratitude of women and girls these twenty years, but life was sometimes surprising, even at his age. Hastily, he recalled the need for pious instruction if this girl was to be useful. There was much she needed to learn, and quickly. Jassy will instruct you in all that is necessary. You are to obey her and Aveline, my wife’s maid, as if they were me. This is a godly house; see you keep the Lord in your heart and not Satan. Then he waved toward the door of his workroom. The interview was ended.

Thus began Anne’s time in Blessing House, and when Deborah kissed her one last time before she walked away into the London streets, the two clung to each other.

Pray for me, as I shall for you, child. I shall miss you.

That was all there was time for; Jassy did not believe in sentiment: Make your farewells, girl. There is much to acquaint you with if you are to be useful to your mistress.

Anne’s last sight of Deborah was the swirl of her dull red cloak as she strode away down the dark London streets. Then she was alone with strangers.

Blessing House, Mathew Cuttifer’s city base and place of business, was a very ancient structure, as Anne now saw, running to keep up with the housekeeper as she led the girl to her private room. Massive stone walls and dark passages with many turns spoke of the fort or small castle this great house had engulfed as it grew.

Indeed, many of the public spaces in Blessing House were gloomy because the high, narrow windows were barely enlarged arrow slits. Mathew Cuttifer saw no need to adopt the expensive new fashion for large, leaded, many-paned glass lights in the business parts of his house—he confined them to his private quarters. And there was a coldness breathing out of the massive walls that all the fires and braziers they passed did little to lift. Perhaps the built-over stream that wound past and under the footings on one side of the building was the source of the dank cold. The house must once have stood by itself with its back to the river in a good defensive position. Now a warren of narrow streets had locked themselves around the walls with buildings great and small lapping right to the very gate.

As Anne hurried after the housekeeper, she tried to fix as much as she could in her mind, observing first that her new home was a very busy place. Deborah had told her that Mathew Cuttifer was a self-made man and an increasingly important mercer; now she saw that for herself as tides of humanity flowed through Blessing House on numberless errands for the master himself, or for members of the nearby Court of Westminster with whom she knew he had close commercial links.

Girl! Jassy briskly cut into Anne’s thoughts, no longer the meek and deferential servant of a few minutes past. Through here. Lively now!

Anne found herself in a low, small room at the back of the building that looked down on the river, the room from where Phillipa Jassy ran the household. Another girl of about her own age was spreading new rushes onto the floor as the housekeeper entered.

Melly, fetch Aveline here to me now. The girl dropped her bundle of rushes as if they were burning, and scuttled from the room. Then the housekeeper began to describe what was expected of Anne. You will find that much personal service needs to be done for Lady Margaret, Master Cuttifer’s wife: everything from washing to dressing and even feeding her. Sadly for us all, her illness means your work here may not last long. Pray God spares her to us.

There was a knock at the door and as the housekeeper called out, Yes! a pretty young woman slipped into the room. She was dressed modestly in a plain, dark blue housedress with a sideless surcoat of dark red, but her elegance confused Anne. Was she Master Cuttifer’s daughter?

Aveline, this is Anne. The master has hired her to assist you with Lady Margaret. She will answer through you to me. She has skills you will find useful.

The girl who turned and looked at Anne with cool detachment was Lady Margaret’s personal maid—that explained the fineness of her clothing and the smooth whiteness of her hands. After a moment’s inspection, Aveline turned back to the housekeeper and said, My mistress has no need of another attendant.

Jassy frowned. She was a very busy woman and this was just one of many problems to deal with this morning. It is the master’s wish and there’s an end. Now take Anne and make her familiar with what must be done. I shall speak to you about this after prayers this evening.

Aveline curtsied rigidly and beckoned Anne to follow her out of the room, a set expression on her face.

The pair set off down another dark passage and Anne’s heart sank as she followed the stiff back ahead of her. This was not a good beginning and she felt alone and afraid. Aveline moved on in the gloom as the corridor turned this way and that past closed doors and flights of stairs that disappeared to the upper parts of the building. Her felt house slippers were soundless on the flags and she did not acknowledge Anne’s presence in any way.

Several minutes’ brisk walking brought them to an iron-bound door, big enough for giants, which stood between two mighty pillars carved in the shape of naked men, each supporting the heavy burden of the lintel above. The lintel stone was shaped like a reclining woman, abundant breasts spilling out of her dress as she suckled a large boy child, an expression of pleasure on her broad face.

Aveline saw Anne’s startled look and laughed briefly, a surprising, harsh sound, as she pushed the door open. This, girl, is the most ancient part of the house. A lewd way to go into a kitchen. Lower your eyes when you pass this way or you will be misjudged by the men.

As the door opened, the stone silence of the passage outside the kitchen was swamped by a resonant booming babble, and Aveline chivvied the girl ahead of her into a great space.

At first, Anne thought she had entered a vision of Hell, but after a moment she saw she was in a vast kitchen. It was vaulted like a church, with light pouring down from a central stone lantern set high above their heads in the apex of the groined roof.

Serving three gaping fire-filled caves—the cooking fires ranged around the walls—was a mass of hardly human beings, sweating and cursing as they rushed to and fro in apparent chaos.

In days to come Anne would understand she had arrived just before the morning dinner; and Blessing House had many souls to be fed—members of the family and their personal attendants, Mathew’s clerks, his apprentices, the upper servants, including Jassy, and her underlings, the general servants, the men in the stables, the girls in the cow byre, the gardeners—but for now Anne had the urge to cross herself and whisper a prayer to Saint Christopher, patron saint of the beleaguered traveler, as she felt herself to be. The noise and the heat were terrifying to someone unused to the ways of a large house.

Aveline ignored the din and waved testily for the girl to follow as she plunged into the surging mass of men and women. Anne was so intent on not losing her guide, she barely sidestepped a wizened child, staggering under the weight of a huge pot brimming with fish heads and slopping guts. A high piping voice screamed out, Way, way there, lumphead!

Close up, Anne saw that the child was in fact a very old man the size of a boy, and the malice in the rheumy eyes was ancient and very real. Anne jumped aside, unreasonably frightened, and nearly caused another accident by backing into someone else. I am so sorry… I’m new and—

I know that. Just get out of the road, can’t you! Melly, the thin girl she’d seen earlier in Jassy’s room, rushed past her carrying a bright metal cleaver toward a man dismembering a side of beef and bellowing for assistance.

Anne! Aveline’s high, clear voice cut through the racket and Anne hurried over to where the maid had beckoned her. This is Maître Gilles. He cooks for this house. Anne, her wits regained, dropped a slight curtsy, taking care that her one respectable dress was lifted clear of the slick of fat on the flags near the cooking fire. Maître, this girl will assist me as Lady Margaret’s body servant and as such she may relay requests from the mistress direct to you.

Surprised, Anne found her hand being lifted and kissed by the chef. Mademoiselle Aveline, this young person may be assured that my kitchen exists to serve Lady Margaret and her so charming new young companion.

Body servant, Maître Gilles, that is all, said Aveline frigidly. Come, Anne.

But, distracted by the courtly gesture of the cook, Anne had not heard Aveline, and when she looked back to find her, the girl had vanished.

Maître Gilles laughed out loud at her astonishment, blackened teeth a shock in that unremarkable but pleasant face. Here—look! Sorcery! With a flourish he pressed his hand hard against a particular stone near the fireplace and a stone door swung open into the thickness of the wall. You’ll have to hurry to catch her. This stair leads directly to Lady Margaret’s solar. Up you go.

And go Anne did, fairly running because she could only just hear the sussuruss of Aveline’s skirts on the stairs ahead of her. Narrow and almost completely without light except for guttering pitch-dipped torches in iron sconces, they wound upward toward the top of the house. And it was so cold that although Anne climbed as quickly as her long skirts would allow, she found herself shivering in the close darkness. It was a relief to round the last curve, panting, and find Aveline framed in a square of light that dazzled her eyes after the darkness.

The room that Anne entered was a world away from the sweating chaos of the kitchen below. The solar was high up in the tower at the center of Blessing House; here the stone walls had been softened by bright tapestries and there was a ceiling of blue-painted wood powdered with silver-gilt stars like the night sky. There were proper windows too, not just wooden-shuttered arrow slits in the wall. The casements were made with small-paned, thick leaded glass through which spring light shone, and the bright fire burning in a chimney breast was of applewood that filled the room with a fragrant smell. It was the loveliest room that Anne had ever seen. And there was her mistress, the woman she had come to serve.

Lady Margaret Cuttifer was pale and still in the vast carved bed that lay in the center of the solar; her body was so wasted with illness that the shape of collarbone and ribs could be clearly seen beneath her sleeping shift. Her face was pale as the fine sheets she lay between, but as the girl entered with Aveline, she turned her head and smiled slightly, beckoning with one long-fingered hand for Anne to approach, though this tiny movement plainly cost much effort.

The woman coughed and her hand dropped onto the bed as the cough became a spasm. Aveline hurried over, snatching up a small horn beaker filled with a thick fluid that she held to Lady Margaret’s lips. Her mistress sipped at the liquid, grimacing at the taste. Lying back she waved Aveline away, closing her eyes. As Aveline smoothed the bedding, Margaret raised her hand again. Aveline beckoned Anne closer and both girls leaned down to hear Lady Margaret speak. Who is this? she asked softly.

Anne, Lady Margaret. It has pleased Master Mathew to give her a place for the moment. She is to assist me with your care, as body servant.

Lady Margaret nodded slightly and spoke again in a reedy whisper. My husband has too much care of me. Aveline, go down and walk in the pleasaunce; the air will be good. Leave this child with me.

Aveline was not pleased, though she nodded dutifully. She curtsied to the woman in the bed and issued her instructions quietly to Anne as she crossed to the main door of the solar. See that Lady Margaret has everything she needs. She has eaten nothing today. It is your first duty to give her food even though she will not want it. You will see a posset of curds and honey on the small coffer. Keep the fire bright, and if she sleeps, use the time. The cypresswood chest contains her most-used things—and the oak press by the window has personal linen. There is always mending: you will find needles and thread there also.

Anne held the door open to a gallery high above the receiving hall below and curtsied as Aveline glided through, closing it behind her quietly. There was silence in the bright room now except for the cheerful crackle of the applewood in the fireplace and the gentle nudging of a spring breeze around the casements. It was a day for life, not death.

Anne looked around her with real interest: she’d never seen so many fine and beautiful things in one room before. There was even a brass washing bowl on an iron stand placed ready beside the bed—and a ewer before the fire with a blackened firepot for the water, standing next to it. Anne smiled: she’d had an idea!

Lady Margaret, may I speak? The woman nodded faintly. I have the makings of a soothing wash here, in my pocket. The girl brought out three little packages from the small bag dangling from her girdle. Just a few simple herbs that are sweet to smell. I could make it for you very quickly.

The woman in the bed said nothing. Taking silence for assent, Anne moved to the chimney breast—a modern innovation, she’d never seen one before—and half filling the firepot with water from the ewer, she hooked it on to the chain that dangled over the fire itself. Then she carefully measured small quantities of the dried herbs and flowers from her pocket into the brass bowl while waiting for the water to boil.

Anne moved as quietly as she could. She needed to establish a harmonious relationship with Lady Margaret very quickly to secure her place in this house, but her mistress had the look of death and plainly no one, including her husband and Aveline, expected she would live much longer. Perhaps the knowledge that Deborah had given Anne could prove them wrong.

The water boiled and the girl poured it on to the leaves and petals in the bottom of the bowl. Then taking a small stick of alderwood from her pocket, she carefully stirred the gently steaming liquid seven times sunwise and seven times countersunwise. The lady in the bed watched with a little curiosity—and a faint smile at the earnest expression on Anne’s face. As the wash infused, the girl searched for something she could use to apply it to Lady Margaret’s face. Not wishing to disturb her mistress with questions, she lifted the heavy lid of one of the coffers and was pleased to find a square piece of linen inside, perhaps a small drying towel, lying neatly folded on the piles of shifts and petticoats beneath.

Anne dipped one edge of the linen into the now warm water and squeezed most of the liquid from it—the cloth was so fine that she was able to fold it into as small a pad as she wished. Gently she applied the cloth to her lady’s face, pressing it to her forehead and over each closed eye, then to each cheek and finally to her chin and neck. Lady Margaret did not resist the gentle pressure of the pad against her face. The astringent scent of the herbs added to the fragrance of the applewood from the fire, and as Anne worked on, the silence between the woman on the bed and the girl became dreamlike and profoundly peaceful.

A slow tentative smile formed around Lady Margaret’s tired mouth, and after a time the girl heard her mistress say quite clearly, Thank you, Anne. I shall sleep now. Soon, deepened breathing told the girl that her mistress was indeed asleep, and she could see that some of the pain had gone from her face. Anne smiled delightedly. Now, if she could just persuade Aveline that she posed no threat for Lady Margaret’s favor all might yet be well.

Chapter Three

It was Sunday, the Feast of the Birth of the Blessed Virgin, in the fourth regnal year of Edward IV, fourteen hundred and sixty-five years since the Virgin’s son had himself been born, and church bells were ringing over the city in the still cold air of winter.

Blessing House had been in an uproar since before dawn as the household readied for today’s double celebration—the Feast of the Virgin’s Birth was also the name day of Mathew Cuttifer. This year there was an extra reason for joy. Mathew Cuttifer wished to give thanks for his wife’s recovery from the wasting disease that had so lately threatened her life. The entire household would be present at a High Mass of thanksgiving in Westminster Abbey, paid for by Master Cuttifer, in which Abbot Anselm himself would lead the congregation. And then there was to be an almsgiving in the outer sanctuary, followed by a feast for specially invited guests at Blessing House in the presence of the king.

Anne had found it hard to sleep and had risen in the dark from her truckle bed in the solar. By the luxurious light of a wax taper—her mistress could not bear the smell of tallow candles—she was sewing a few last pearls to the gown that Lady Margaret would wear in the abbey today. Aveline was still asleep on her own bed, so Anne shielded her light and made no sound as she treasured these few moments to herself.

The dress was made from ink-blue Flanders velvet, the color of the night sky; the sleeves were lined in lustrous white figured damask folded back over the outside, and were tipped with rare white fox fur traded from Russia by Mathew Cuttifer’s factor in Brugge. The low neck was filled with the finest sheer cambric—also snowy white—sewn with pearls the size of hawthorn berries. It was the most beautiful thing that Anne had ever made, but she’d had to argue hard to convince Phillipa Jassy to let her cut and sew the precious material all by herself. Normally seamstresses came to the house to sew for all the household, but Anne had been determined. This dress was the culmination of all the work she’d done for Lady Margaret over these last eight months. It was a tribute to her mistress’s returned beauty, which Anne felt she knew best how to glorify. On this quiet morning she worked on, conscious of the gentle breathing of the woman in the bed, and smiled happily. She thanked God, and Deborah, for having been able to help restore her mistress’s health.

Very soon after joining the Cuttifers’ household, Anne had come to believe that Margaret’s very expensive doctors were bleeding their patient to the point of exhaustion; collectively, they’d told the terrified Mathew that it was the only way the evil humors causing the wasting sickness could be extracted from his wife’s body. They’d also instructed that spirits of mercury were to be taken in old wine boiled with rue as frequently as possible, since quicksilver was thought to replace lost vitality. But Anne had clearly seen Margaret sink deeper and deeper into the strange world between life and death each time she drank the dark, sticky liquid.

Somehow Anne had found the courage to speak to Jassy. In her opinion, the opinion of a humble peasant serving girl, the doctors were killing her mistress with their treatment. All life and death was in God’s hands, but her mistress needed more blood, not less, if she was to fight the illness in her body. And would it not be better to remove all the medicines while trying to get Margaret to absorb some nourishment? Anne knew what starvation looked like, and her mistress resembled nothing so much as the emaciated villagers she’d seen in the one famine year of her childhood.

Mathew had grown increasingly desperate, even though the whole household prayed day and night for Margaret’s recovery, and he’d had his chaplain Father Bartolph say countless Masses of intercession for his wife. When Jassy had dared to raise Anne’s thoughts with him, it was as if a veil had lifted. Almost too late he had seen that he’d let excessive faith in modern medicine eclipse his native common sense.

He had sent for Anne and Aveline and questioned them closely. Because she was jealous of Anne, Aveline had been reluctant at first to agree that her mistress was worse each time she took the foul medicine prescribed by the physicians, but in the end, self-interest, and the possible preservation of her place in this household, had made her tell the truth. The question then became, how to proceed if Margaret’s life was to be saved?

As a child, Deborah had fed Anne a tonic made from dried marigold petals, the juice of crushed parsley and rosehips, garlic, sage, honey, and fennel seeds. It worked to stimulate the appetite and strengthen the body during the time of winter ills. Cautiously, Anne had suggested she could make some of the strengthening tonic for her mistress—it could do no harm and might help. She also asked to make puddings from the yolks of new eggs and fresh bull’s blood taken from a living animal, and thrice-boiled broth made from the flesh and bones of chickens.

Whether it was the removal of the medicine, the suspension of the bleedings, or the tonics and puddings she’d been permitted to make, Anne had found, with great joy, that her mistress slowly, very slowly, regained her strength over these last months. And now, this day had finally dawned.

With the last pearl in place, Anne bit off the thread and carefully rubbed the precious needle in white chalk, to ward off the rust, before she put it away in a little oiled-skin bag in the linen coffer. Soon, it would be time to wake Aveline and her mistress, but first she should bring water up from the kitchen for bathing. She sighed. All the kitchen staff would be busy preparing for this great day, so Corpus would have to help her whether he wanted to or not. She shook Aveline to wake her, and before the sleepy maid could question her, she slipped out of the solar.

Anne felt her way down the stairwell, hurrying as fast as she could from step to step; she’d tried to convince Jassy that lanterns should be hung on these stairs at intervals—lanterns that would keep burning, rather than the unreliable pitch-dipped bundles of firwood that were jammed into the sconces—but the housekeeper had said it was needless expense, and Aveline had mocked her fears of the dark.

The housekeeper, of course, had more pressing concerns than the night terrors of a fifteen-year-old body servant, but Aveline took pleasure in Anne’s fear, as usual. Now, in her haste to get down to the kitchen as quickly as possible, Anne stubbed her toes against the stone door as she wrenched it open, allowing blessed light and warmth and noise to flow into the darkness around her. There was the smell of food as well, great gusts of roasting meat and fat and butter and new bread. Anne felt the fear ebb as hunger lunged through her gut. Too bad she would have to wait until after the Mass.

Anne! Looming over her was Piers Cuttifer, Mathew’s only son, a tall, thick-muscled man of about twenty-five with hard, gray eyes whom some of the women in the household considered good-looking. From the foxlike smell of him, and the sour wine on his breath, she could tell he’d been out carousing all night. He stood there swaying slightly, grinning at her.

Melly had long ago warned Anne about Piers. He liked to play games with the girls in the servants’ hall; moving silently about the dark house in his felt slippers, he was often able to creep up behind the maids as they did their work, and slip his greedy fingers down their bodices or even up their skirts. Anne had very quickly learned to stay out of his way as much as she could. Now, gathering herself with dignity, she sketched a small frigid curtsy to the reeking, unshaven man in front of her. Master Piers. Good morning, sir, on your father’s name day.

So formal, Anne. Come now, let us be friends. Kiss me or I swear I shall die from longing.

Anne saw that the kitchen staff were watching with interest, particularly Corpus who was skulking near the cooking fires, trying to avoid work while warming his backside. From under decently lowered lids, Anne darted a sharp glance around the kitchen; she needed Maître Gilles’s help for more reasons than one now if she was to get back to the solar before her mistress woke, and avoid another excuse for Aveline to torment her.

Sir, I have work to do for your mother—

"My stepmother, Anne. She was eight when I was born to my mother, so an odd