within me that I was paralysed, unable to move in either direction.
‘She wishes to thank you,’ said Tamar, reappearing. ‘Come this way, Sir.’
Going in, I thought of foxes, of witches, of the Black Woodcutter. The darkness at first blinded me, but as my sight cleared I found myself in a cool, ferny place smelling of clay and damp.
‘Through here, Sir,’ came Tamar’s voice from the shadows. Moving forwards, I stretched out my hands to protect myself and felt one of them graze against somehing smooth and hard: stone. I was, I realised, in a cave. The beggar-woman had found herself a shelter against the rain and the wind, one that no farmer or landlord could pull down, and she was snugly earthed. I could smell her now: the stale scent of a female beast in its lair.
‘How long has she lived here?’ I asked.
‘She comes and goes,’ was the answer.
‘Surely she’s too old to be travelling?’
‘Is she, Sir?’ Tamar said. ‘Pray ask her.’ At that moment my foot knocked against something soft; I recoiled in distaste as Tamar’s laughter rang out: ‘Mind yourself, Joan!’
The softness at my feet wheezed and shifted.
‘If you stand aside, Sir, you’ll see better,’ said Tamar, and I realised that I was blocking the light. I moved to the left and two milky dots appeared in the darkness: the beggar’s eyes.
At first I could see no more than that, not even that she had a head, but soon I was able to make out an indistinct shape. Swaddled in rags, the crone was sitting on the ground, her back propped against a wall of rock. This place served her, I suppose, for dining room, bedchamber and everything else besides, and when not wandering about begging alms she had nothing to do but sit there. God knows how long she had waited thus, motionless, for Tamar to return. I had not thought Englishwomen capable of it, only savages.
‘Thank you for your great kindness, Sir,’ she said, and at those words I started, for despite the cracked harshness of her speech, put out of tune by cold winds and wood-smoke, it seemed to me that I had heard it before.
‘Mistress, do you know me?’
‘How should I, Sir?’
There it was again, that faint familiar note. Tamar began, ‘She has a deal of pain in her back, and –’
‘Christ preserve us!’ The air over my head split into screeching and scrabbling; something scaly clawed at my hair and was gone before I could strike at it. The women roared with laughter.
‘It’s nothing,’ shouted Tamar.
‘Nothing?’ The thing, whatever it was, some loathsome bat perhaps, was still flapping in the darkness of the cave.
‘Only Hob.’ She smacked her lips, inviting it to approach. ‘He won’t hurt you, Master Jonathan.’
Concealed in some fold of the rock, the bird now commenced chuckling to itself in a wicked little goblin voice. One word – tomorrow – coming out very plain, the women again began to laugh.
‘Tell me, Mistress,’ I said, addressing the old woman, ‘is it true that you can read and write? I hear you make amulets to cure straying husbands.’
These words put a stop to their laughter. ‘No amulets, nothing like that,’ said the old one, somewhat unwisely since I had walked past a row of them on my way into the cave.
‘Just good fortune, no harm,’ Tamar put in. ‘You know there’s no harm, don’t you, Sir?’
I answered nothing to that; I was not displeased to have brought them up so short. Again I addressed the old woman.
‘But you can read and write?’
‘I can guess at some words.’
‘And write them?’
‘No.’
‘I know someone who says you write like a scholar.’
She cackled. ‘Do you hear that, Tamar? Folk will say anything!’
Just then a cloud dissolved and a branch shifted in the wind, so that a sunbeam struck deep into the cave, right to the place where the crone was sitting. Again I started, for (allowing for dirt and neglect) Joan was not so old as I had fancied. I was not talking to a woman of sixty, but
‘She wishes to thank you,’ said Tamar, reappearing. ‘Come this way, Sir.’
Going in, I thought of foxes, of witches, of the Black Woodcutter. The darkness at first blinded me, but as my sight cleared I found myself in a cool, ferny place smelling of clay and damp.
‘Through here, Sir,’ came Tamar’s voice from the shadows. Moving forwards, I stretched out my hands to protect myself and felt one of them graze against somehing smooth and hard: stone. I was, I realised, in a cave. The beggar-woman had found herself a shelter against the rain and the wind, one that no farmer or landlord could pull down, and she was snugly earthed. I could smell her now: the stale scent of a female beast in its lair.
‘How long has she lived here?’ I asked.
‘She comes and goes,’ was the answer.
‘Surely she’s too old to be travelling?’
‘Is she, Sir?’ Tamar said. ‘Pray ask her.’ At that moment my foot knocked against something soft; I recoiled in distaste as Tamar’s laughter rang out: ‘Mind yourself, Joan!’
The softness at my feet wheezed and shifted.
‘If you stand aside, Sir, you’ll see better,’ said Tamar, and I realised that I was blocking the light. I moved to the left and two milky dots appeared in the darkness: the beggar’s eyes.
At first I could see no more than that, not even that she had a head, but soon I was able to make out an indistinct shape. Swaddled in rags, the crone was sitting on the ground, her back propped against a wall of rock. This place served her, I suppose, for dining room, bedchamber and everything else besides, and when not wandering about begging alms she had nothing to do but sit there. God knows how long she had waited thus, motionless, for Tamar to return. I had not thought Englishwomen capable of it, only savages.
‘Thank you for your great kindness, Sir,’ she said, and at those words I started, for despite the cracked harshness of her speech, put out of tune by cold winds and wood-smoke, it seemed to me that I had heard it before.
‘Mistress, do you know me?’
‘How should I, Sir?’
There it was again, that faint familiar note. Tamar began, ‘She has a deal of pain in her back, and –’
‘Christ preserve us!’ The air over my head split into screeching and scrabbling; something scaly clawed at my hair and was gone before I could strike at it. The women roared with laughter.
‘It’s nothing,’ shouted Tamar.
‘Nothing?’ The thing, whatever it was, some loathsome bat perhaps, was still flapping in the darkness of the cave.
‘Only Hob.’ She smacked her lips, inviting it to approach. ‘He won’t hurt you, Master Jonathan.’
Concealed in some fold of the rock, the bird now commenced chuckling to itself in a wicked little goblin voice. One word – tomorrow – coming out very plain, the women again began to laugh.
‘Tell me, Mistress,’ I said, addressing the old woman, ‘is it true that you can read and write? I hear you make amulets to cure straying husbands.’
These words put a stop to their laughter. ‘No amulets, nothing like that,’ said the old one, somewhat unwisely since I had walked past a row of them on my way into the cave.
‘Just good fortune, no harm,’ Tamar put in. ‘You know there’s no harm, don’t you, Sir?’
I answered nothing to that; I was not displeased to have brought them up so short. Again I addressed the old woman.
‘But you can read and write?’
‘I can guess at some words.’
‘And write them?’
‘No.’
‘I know someone who says you write like a scholar.’
She cackled. ‘Do you hear that, Tamar? Folk will say anything!’
Just then a cloud dissolved and a branch shifted in the wind, so that a sunbeam struck deep into the cave, right to the place where the crone was sitting. Again I started, for (allowing for dirt and neglect) Joan was not so old as I had fancied. I was not talking to a woman of sixty, but
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