A Conspiracy of Wolves

According to Magda, to pay attention to how Alisoun felt about her choices was to heed her inner wisdom, whence came her gift for healing. Her gift. Long had Alisoun yearned for even a morsel of encouragement from Magda. The faith implicit in this instruction had been hard won. In the beginning, Magda merely offered Alisoun shelter, let her observe as she might, and then sent her away to serve as a nurse for Captain Archer and Lucie Wilton’s children, and as a companion to successive invalids. Praying that they were tests, Alisoun had done as she was told – though not without frequent complaint. And though Magda had warned her time and again Thou hast fire in thy eyes, and it is blinding thee, she continued to invite Alisoun to observe her, and, in time, to attend her. The turning point had come at the deathbed of Archbishop Thoresby, where Alisoun had served as the Riverwoman’s assistant. From that time forward, Magda referred to Alisoun as her apprentice – and sometimes simply as a healer.

Looking back, Alisoun wondered at Magda’s patience, and did her best to deserve her gift. She was keenly aware of the trust Magda placed in her, staying behind to see to all who came to the Riverwoman’s rock while she was away. So far Alisoun had done well, challenged only by her usual doubts about her ability, her calling to be a healer. Not when at work – when tending the ill or injured she thought of nothing but how she might best serve. Her doubts arose in the quiet moments. Pray God that was the worst of it. If she disappointed Magda, she did not know what would become of her. Magda steadied her, coaxed her into believing in herself. Without her …

Too much thinking. She finished her modest meal and tidied up, then settled on a stool by the fire and tried to empty her mind, listening to the fire snap, the house creak as it settled for the night, the drying herbs rustle above in the draft from the unglazed windows. With the tide out, the sounds of the river receded to a soft gurgle. Until this evening she had welcomed this part of her day. But the solitude wore thin. She missed Magda and looked forward to her return.

The Riverwoman had accompanied Lucie Wilton and her family to her late father’s manor to the south, Freythorpe Hadden. It was a somber traveling party, escorting the body of Philippa, Dame Lucie’s aunt, for burial. The elderly woman had died in her sleep after a long decline, cared for all the while by Dame Lucie. Most fortunate woman. When Alisoun served as nursemaid in that household she had at first chafed under the old woman’s watchful eye, but in time she had grown fond of her. Dame Philippa loved to tell tales, and would hold Alisoun’s hand in both of hers as she reached the conclusion, leaning close and looking straight into her eyes. The tales had taught her so much about the important families in York that the city felt less foreign to her – having grown up on a farm upriver, it was a gift.

So many gifts, so undeserving.

Alisoun was roused from her reverie by the clatter and squelch of someone stumbling on the slippery rocks that led from the riverbank on the north to Magda’s rock at low tide. The earlier unease returned, and she fought the impulse to string her bow and ready an arrow as she rose to fetch a lantern. But recalling Magda’s training steadied her. Those seeking a healer should be greeted with open arms, not an arrow aimed at their heart.

In response to a firm rap on the door Alisoun swung it open, lifting the lantern high as she intoned, ‘All who seek healing are welcome here.’ Magda need not bother with such greetings. Her mere presence reassured the supplicant. But Alisoun did not yet have that gift.

A man stood on the porch, blocking the fading light. ‘I seek the Riverwoman.’ Pain constricted his voice. He stood slumped, one arm cradled in the other.

‘I see you are injured. Dame Magda is away, but she has entrusted me with the care of those who come seeking her,’ said Alisoun.

Adjusting the lantern so that she might look at the arm he favored, she recognized him when he glanced up and bobbed his head at the figurehead, a ritual of respect he performed whenever he called on Magda. Crispin Poole. A merchant recently returned to York, he had consulted Magda about the pain he suffered in his stump of an arm, the injury long healed, but still troubling him. Tonight he cradled it as it bled through the sleeve of his jacket.

Saturated, she found when she touched it. She felt him trembling, smelled his sweat. ‘A knife wound?’ she asked.

‘Bitten.’

She remembered the baying. ‘I heard several dogs, then one.’

‘Several? No, only the one.’ He said it as if he would brook no argument regarding the number. ‘A hell hound.’

‘No doubt it seemed so when it sank its teeth into you.’

‘A wolf, I think, though I am told the sergeant of the forest rid Galtres of them.’