Daughters of the Witching Hill by Mary Sharratt Page B

swelling.
    Learned to carry herbs in my bundle: plants to cure cow, sheep, horse, and folk alike. Sick children took the most out of me. Despite Tibb's promises, this never changed. After blessing a child, I was laid up at least seven days. Perhaps it was my fear of something going wrong that left me so weak. Walking on a knife edge, it was. I prayed and prayed that not a single child I blessed would ever die. Grown folk were different. If I blessed an ailing old soul and it was for nowt, no one held it against me. Tried my best to give them some comfort and ease before they departed this world. I liked to see them go with a smile on their lips.
    Before long, folk took to asking me for more than simple blessings. Spinsters and widows begged me for love spells, and some folk I'll not name asked me to curse their enemies, but I refused to meddle in any such business. If I wanted to keep my reputation, I could only be seen to work for good and never for evil. So I told people my business was blessing and healing, nowt else, yet despite Tibb's help, there were some whose afflictions were beyond my powers to cure.

    Of an August dawn, I walked to Hugh Bradyll's farm, for his wife had asked me to come. The year before Bradyll had broken his leg and the blacksmith had set it for him, but done a poor job, so the bone had mended crooked. Nowadays the sorry man limped about in such constant pain, he could no longer plough his field or herd his cows, and he'd no sons to do the heavy work for him.
    Upon reaching the Bradylls' house, I took out my bundle of herbs and blessed the grey-faced yeoman in the name of the Holy Trinity, the five wounds of Our Lord, the Mother of God, and the Twelve Apostles. I spoke every holy verse I knew, chanted the Pater Noster, Ave Maria, and the Creed. But Tibb's voice came low in my ear, telling me what I already knew in my heart: Bradyll's leg would never be right again, that the marrow inside the bone had wasted away.
    "This leg can't be fixed," I told his goodwife who was stood there, hands wringing her apron. "I'll brew a tincture of poppy seed to dull his pain, but there's nowt else I can do."
    "You said you were a blesser." Mistress Bradyll made like I'd betrayed her out of malice.
    "Told you not to bother calling out that lying quack," Bradyll spat before clenching his teeth again in agony.
    "In God's name, I've done my best, sir." Had to bite my tongue to hold my peace. "I'm a blesser, to be sure, but no miracle worker. Blacksmith set your leg crooked, sir, and crooked it will remain."
    Master turned his head to the wall. "Show that bilker to the door," he told his wife.
    My head throbbing, I followed Mistress Bradyll out of the chamber. Her good man was bitter because he was ruined. If he could no longer get about on his two legs, he'd lose his livelihood, lose his leasehold on the farm. Most he could hope for was to learn weaving or somesuch job that could be done sitting down, but even weavers needed their feet to work the loom. He'd have to sit in his bed and card wool like a woman. Couldn't really blame him for his temper or his wife for her tears, but why did they have to lay the blame at my feet?
    Meanwhile, I was fit to faint away from hunger. Hadn't had anything to eat or drink that day, and now it seemed that the Bradylls were of the opinion that I hadn't earned any payment at all. Mistress Bradyll opened the door for me.
    "Good day to you, Demdike," she said.
    But I refused to leave till she had at least paid me in food and drink. Just wasn't hospitable to send a fifty-year-old woman on her way without even a cup of small beer or buttermilk. Holding Mistress Bradyll's eyes with my own, I recited the charm to get drink.
Crucifixus hoc signum vitam eternam.
Amen.
    Hearing the strange words bubble up from my lips, Mistress Bradyll started. She was too young to remember either the old Latin prayers or the crucifix that had once hung upon our roodscreen. On procession days we had carried it