LITMIR.BIZ

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event in the future, nothing more. I have never heard her admit that she fears a divorce or an annulment. And Lord Hugo comes to her rooms only rarely, and I never see him outside your chamber.’

      He was silent for a moment. ‘You don’t see Hugo outside my room?’ he confirmed.

      Alys shook her head.

      ‘He does not waylay you?’

      ‘No,’ Alys replied.

      It was true. Either Morach’s tisane had worked, or the old lord had made his wishes plain. When Alys rode back to the castle from Morach’s cottage, Hugo had shot her one unrepentant wink, but never ordered her to his chamber again. After that, she kept out of the young lord’s way as much as she could, and kept her eyes on the ground when she had to walk past him. But one cold morning, in the guardroom below the old lord’s private chamber, she was coming down the little staircase as Hugo waited to walk up.

      ‘Always in a hurry, Alys,’ Hugo said conversationally. He took her sleeve in a firm grip between two fingers. ‘How is my father today?’

      ‘He is well, my lord,’ Alys said. She kept her eyes on the stone flags between his riding boots. ‘He slept well, his cough has eased.’

      ‘It’s this damp weather,’ Hugo said. ‘You can feel the mist coming off the river, can’t you, Alys? Doesn’t it chill you to the bone?’

      Alys shot a swift upward look at him. His dark face was bent down towards her, very close, as if she might whisper a reply.

      ‘I have no complaint, my lord,’ she said. ‘And the spring will come soon.’

      ‘Oh, not for months and months yet,’ Hugo said. ‘We have long days of darkness and cold yet to come.’ He whispered the words ‘darkness and cold’ as if they were an invitation to the firelit warmth of his room.

      ‘I do not feel the cold,’ she said steadily.

      ‘Do you dislike me?’ Hugo asked abruptly. He dropped her sleeve and put both hands either side of her face, turning it up to him. ‘You told my father that I had invited you and that you were unwilling. Do you dislike me, Alys?’

      Alys stayed still and looked steadily at the silvery whiteness of the falling band of his collar, as if it could cool her.

      ‘No, my lord,’ she said politely. ‘Of course not.’

      ‘But you never came to my room,’ he observed. ‘And you told tales to my father. So he told me to keep my hands off you. Did you know that?’

      He held Alys’ face gently. She stole a quick look at his eyes; he was laughing at her.

      ‘I did not know that.’

      ‘So you do like me then?’ he demanded. He could hardly hold back his laughter at the absurdity of the conversation. Alys could feel laughter bubbling up inside herself too.

      ‘It is not my place, my lord, to either like you or dislike you,’ Alys said primly. Under his fingers her cheeks were tingling.

      Hugo stopped laughing, held her face still with one hand, and with a gentle fingertip traced a line from the outside of her eye, down her cheek-bone to the corner of her lip. Alys froze still, unmoving beneath his caress. He bent a little closer. Alys shut her eyes to blot out the image of Hugo’s smiling intent face coming closer. He hesitated, a half, a quarter of an inch from Alys’ lips.

      ‘But I like you, Alys,’ he said softly. ‘And my father will not live forever. And I think you would feel the cold if you were back on Bowes Moor again.’

      Alys stayed mute. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. His lips were very close to hers. She could not move away from his kiss, she could only wait, passive, her face turned up, her eyes slowly, drowsily closing. Then his hands left her face and he straightened up. Alys’ eyes flew open; she stared at him in surprise.

      ‘In your own time, Alys,’ he said pleasantly, and he swung out of the room and ran up the curving stairs of the tower to his father’s room.

      No one had seen them, no one had heard them. But Lady Catherine knew.

      When Alys was summoned to the ladies’ chamber to sew, Lady Catherine waved her to a stool near her own chair, where she could watch Alys’ face as the others talked.

      ‘You’re very quiet,’ she said to Alys.

      Alys glanced up with her polite, deferential smile. ‘I was listening, my lady,’ she said.

      ‘You never speak of your own kin,’ Lady Catherine said. ‘Do you have any family other than the mad old woman on the moor?’

      ‘No,’ Alys said. ‘Except those at Penrith,’ she corrected herself.

      Lady Catherine nodded. ‘And no sweetheart? No betrothed?’ she asked idly. The other women were silent, listening to the interrogation.

      Alys smiled but made a tiny movement of her shoulders, of her head, to signify her regret. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not now. Once I had a sweetheart,’ she glanced to Mistress Allingham. ‘You would know of him, Mistress Allingham. Tom the sheep farmer. But I had no portion and I went away to Penrith and he married another girl.’

      ‘Perhaps we should dower you, and send you off to be wed!’ Lady Catherine said lightly. It’s a dull life for you here, where no man sees you and nothing ever happens. It’s well enough for us – we’re all married women or widows or betrothed – but a girl like you should be wed and bearing children.’

      Alys sensed the trap opening up before her. ‘You’re very kind, my lady,’ she said hesitantly.

      ‘That’s settled then!’ Lady Catherine said brightly. Her voice was as gentle as a diamond scratching glass. ‘I will ask my Lord Hugo to look among the soldiers for a good man for you, and I will give you a dowry myself.’

      ‘I cannot marry,’ Alys said suddenly. ‘I cannot marry and keep my skills.’

      ‘How is that?’ Lady Catherine asked, opening her grey eyes very wide. ‘You do not need to be a virgin to be a healer unless you deal in magic, surely?’

      ‘I use no magic,’ Alys said swiftly. ‘I am just a herbalist. But I could not do my work if I belonged to a man. It is time-consuming and wearisome. My kinswoman lives alone.’

      ‘But she’s a widow,’ Mistress Allingham interrupted, and was rewarded with a swift, small smile from Lady Catherine.

      ‘So you can wed and still keep your arts,’ Lady Catherine said triumphantly. ‘You are shy, Alys, that is all. But I promise you we will find you a fine young husband who will care for you and use you gently.’

      Eliza Herring and Margery tittered behind their hands. Ruth, who feared Lady Catherine more than they did, kept very silent and stitched faster, bending low over her work.

      ‘You do not thank me?’ Lady Catherine asked; her voice was clear and underneath it – like an underground river – was a current of absolute menace. ‘You do not thank me for offering to dower you? And have you married to a good man?’

      ‘Yes, I do indeed,’ Alys said with her clear, honest smile. ‘I thank you very much indeed, my lady.’

      Lady Catherine turned the talk to the gossip of London. She had a letter from one of her distant family in the south which spoke of the King and his growing coldness towards the young Anne Boleyn, his new Queen, even though she was big with his child again. Alys, who blamed the King and the whore, his pretend Queen, for all her troubles, smiled an empty smile as she listened, and hoped that Lady Catherine had been merely amusing herself by tormenting her with promises of marriage.

      ‘And the new Queen was nothing more than a maid-in-waiting in the old Queen’s bedchamber when she took the King’s fancy,’ Eliza Herring said tactlessly. ‘Think of that! Serving a queen one day and being a queen yourself the next!’

      ‘And

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