Philippa Gregory - The Wise Woman

The Wise Woman

PhilippaGregory

Contents:

Philippa Gregory holds a doctorate from the University of Edinburgh for her researchinto eighteenth-century literature. She trained as a journalist and worked forthe BBC, She lives with her family in West Sussex. Philippa Gregory is best knownfor her eighteenth-century novels, Wideacre, The Favoured Child and Meridon,which together make up the best selling saga of the Lacey family and arepublished by Penguin. Penguin also publish her novel Mrs Hartley and the GrowthCentre. Her most recent novel is Fallen Skies. She has also written severalchildren's books, Princess Florizella (Puffin 1989), Florizella and the Wolvesand Florizella and the Giant.

In my dream I smelled the dark sulphurous stink of a passing witch and I pulled up the coarse blanketover my head and whispered 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us', to shieldme from my nightmare of terror. Then I heard shouting and the terrifyingcrackle of hungry flames and I came awake in a rush of panic and sat up on mypallet and looked fearfully around the limewashed cell.

The walls were orange and scarlet, with the bobbing light of reflectedflames, and I could hear yells of angry rioting men. I knew at once that theworst thing had happened. Lord Hugo had come to wreck us, Lord Hugo had comefor the abbey, as we had feared he might come, since King Henry's Visitors hadfound us wealthy and pretended that we were corrupt. I flung on my gown andsnatched my rosary, and my cape, crammed my feet into my boots, tore open thedoor of my cell and peered into the smoke-filled corridor of the novitiatedormitory.

The abbey was stone-built, but the rafters would burn, the beams, andthe wooden floors. Even now the flames might be licking upwards, under my feet.I heard a little whimper of fear and it was my own craven voice. On my leftwere the slits of open windows and red smoke swirled in through them like thetongues of hungry serpents licking towards my face. I peered out with wateringeyes and saw, black against the fire, the figures of men crossing and recrossing the cloister green with their arms full of treasures, our treasures,holy treasures from the church. Before them was a bonfire and while I watchedincredulously these Satan's soldiers ripped off the jewelled covers and threwthe fluttering pages of our books into the flames. Beyond them was a man on abig roan horse - black as death against the firelight, with his head thrownback, laughing like the devil: Lord Hugo.

I turned with a sob of fear and coughed on the smoke. Behind me were thesingle cells where the young novitiates, my sisters in Christ, were stillsleeping. I took two steps down the corridor to bang on the doors and scream atthem to awake and save themselves from this devil inside our gates and hisfiery death of burning. I put my hand out to the first door, but the smoke wasin my throat and no sound came. I choked on my scream, I swallowed and tried toscream again. But I was trapped in this dream, voiceless and powerless, my feetwading through brimstone, my eyes filled with smoke, my ears clogged with theshouts of heretics wrecking their way to damnation. I tapped on one door with alight hand. I made no sound. No sound at all.

I gave a little moan of despair and then I picked up my skirts and Ifled from my sisters, from my duty and from the life I had chosen. I scuttereddown the breakneck spiral staircase like a rat from a burning hayrick.

The door at the foot of the stairs was barred, beside it was the cellwhere my mother in Christ, the Abbess Hildebrande slept. I paused. For herabove them all, I should have risked my life. For all of my young sisters Ishould have screamed a warning: but to save Mother Hildebrande I should haveburned alive and it would have been no more than her due. I should have bangedher door off its hinges, I should have screamed out her name, I should never,never have left without her. She was my guardian, she was my mother, she was mysaviour. Without her I would have been nothing. I paused for a moment - a barehalf second I gave her - then I smelled smoke spilling under the refectory doorand I flew at the bolts on the back door, rattled them open, and I was out inthe west garden with the herb-beds around me cool and pale in the darkness.

I could hear the shouts from the heart of the abbey but out here in thegardens all was clear. I raced down the formal garden paths and flung myselfinto the slim shadow of the door in the outer wall and paused for one moment.Over the rapid thudding of my pulse I heard the noise of the coloured windowscracking in the heat and then the great crash as they were smashed by a throwncandlestick or silver plate. On the far side of the door I could hear the riverflowing, splashing over the stones, showing me my way back to the outside worldlike the pointing finger of my own especial devil.

It was not too late, I was not yet through the door. For a second, forhalf a breath, I paused, tested my courage to go back -pictured myselfhammering on the doors, breaking the windows, yelling for my mother, MotherHildebrande, and my sisters, and facing whatever was to come at her side, withher hand in mine, and my sisters all around me.

I waited for no more than a moment. I fled out of the little gardendoor, and slammed it shut behind me.

No one saw me go.

Only the eyes of God and His Blessed Mother were on me. I felt theirgaze burning into my back, as I kilted up my skirts and ran. Ran from thewrecked chapel and the burning abbey, ran with the speed of a traitor and acoward. And as I ran, I heard behind me a single thin scream - cut off short. Acry for help from someone who had woken too late. It did not make me pause -not even for a second. I ran as if the very gates of hell were opening at myheels, and as I ran, leaving my mother and my sisters to die, I thought of Cainthe brother-killer. And I believed that by the time I came to Bowes village thebranches of the trees and the tendrils of the ivy would have slashed at me as Iran - laid their stripes upon me - so that I would be marked forever, as Cain,with the curse of the Lord.

Morachwas ready for her bed when she heard the noise at the door of the hovel. Apitiful scratch and a little wail like a whipped dog. She waited for longmoments before she even stepped towards the threshold. Morach was a wise woman,a seer; many came to her door for dark gifts and none went away disappointed.Their disappointment came later.

Morachwaited for clues as to her visitor. A child? That single cry had been weakly,like an ailing bairn. But no sick child, not even a travelling tinker's brat,would find the courage to tap on Morach's door during the hours of darkness. Agirl thickening in the waist, slipped out while her heavy-handed father slept?A visitor from the darker world, disguised as a cat? A wolf? Some misshapen,moist horror?

'Who'sthere?' Morach asked, her old voice sharp. There was silence. Not the silenceof absence; but the silence of one who has no name.

'Whatdo they call you?' Morach asked, her wit quickened by fear.

'SisterAnn,' came the reply, as low as a sigh from a deathbed.

Morachstepped forward and opened the door and Sister Ann slumped into the room, hershaven head glinting obscenely in the guttering candle's light, her eyes blackwith horror, her face stained and striped with smuts.

'Saints!'Morach said coolly. 'What have they done to you now?'

Thegirl swayed against the door-frame and put out a hand to steady herself.'They're gone,' she said. 'Mother Hildebrande, the sisters, the abbey, thechurch. All gone. Burned out by the young lord.'

Morachnodded slowly, her eyes raking the white, stained face.