World Without End Page 0,251

bases her treatments on what has worked previously, rather than on a theory about the humours."

People standing nearby were listening with curiosity, and some of them now joined in uninvited.

"She gave our Nora a potion that brought her fever down," said Madge Webber.

John Constable said: "When I broke my arm, her medicine took the pain away while Matthew Barber set the bone."

Philemon said: "And what kind of spells does she pronounce when she's making her mixtures?"

"No spells!" Caris said indignantly. "She tells people to pray when they take their medicines, because only God can heal - she says."

"Could she be a witch?"

"No! It's a ridiculous idea."

"Only there has been a complaint to the ecclesiastical court."

A chill gripped Caris. "From whom?"

"I can't say. But I've been asked to investigate."

Caris was mystified. Who could Mattie's enemy be? She said to Philemon: "Well, you of all people know Mattie's worth - she saved the life of your sister when she gave birth to Sam. Gwenda would have bled to death if not for Mattie."

"So it seems."

"Seems? Gwenda's alive, isn't she?"

"Yes, of course. So you feel sure Mattie does not call on the devil?"

Caris noticed that he asked the question in a slightly raised voice, as if he wanted to make sure the listeners around heard it. She was puzzled, but she had no doubt of her answer. "Of course I'm sure! I'll swear an oath if you want."

"Not necessary," Philemon said smoothly. "Thank you for your advice." He inclined his head in a sort of bow, and slithered away.

Caris and Merthin walked towards the exit. "What rubbish!" Caris said. "Mattie a witch!"

Merthin looked troubled. "You would expect Philemon to want evidence against her, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"So why did he come to you? He could have guessed that you, of all people, would deny the charge. Why would he be keen to clear her name?"

"I don't know."

They passed through the great west doorway and out on to the green. The sun was shining on hundreds of stalls loaded with colourful goods. "It doesn't make sense," Merthin said. "And that troubles me."

"Why?"

"It's like the cause of weakness in the south aisle. If you can't see it, it may be working away invisibly to undermine you - and you won't know it until everything comes crashing down all around."

The scarlet cloth on Caris's market stall was not as good as that sold by Loro Fiorentino, although you had to have a sharp eye for wool to see the difference. The weave was not so close, because the Italian looms were somehow superior. The colour was just as bright, but it was not perfectly even over the length of the bale, no doubt because Italian dyers were more skilled. In consequence, she charged one-tenth less than Loro.

All the same, it was easily the best English scarlet that had ever been seen at Kingsbridge, and business was brisk. Mark and Madge sold it retail by the yard, measuring and cutting for individual customers, and Caris dealt with wholesale buyers, negotiating reductions for one bale or six with drapers from Winchester, Gloucester and even London. By midday on Monday she knew she would sell out before the end of the week.

When business slowed down for the dinner break she strolled around the fair. She felt a profound sense of satisfaction. She had triumphed over adversity, and so had Merthin. She stopped at Perkin's stall to talk to the Wigleigh folk. Even Gwenda had triumphed. Here she was, married to Wulfric - something that had seemed impossible - and there was her baby, Sammy, a year old, sitting on the ground, fat and happy. Annet was selling eggs from a tray, as always. And Ralph had gone to France to fight for the king, and might never come back.

Farther on she saw Joby, Gwenda's father, selling his squirrel furs. There was a wicked man. But he seemed to have lost his power to hurt Gwenda.

Caris stopped at her own father's stall. She had persuaded him to buy fleece in smaller quantities this year. The international wool market could not possibly thrive when the French and English were raiding one another's ports and burning ships. "How is business?" she asked him.

"Steady," he said. "I think I've judged it about right." He forgot that it had been her judgement, not his, that had counselled caution. But that was all right.

Their cook, Tutty, appeared with Edmund's dinner: mutton stew in a pot, a loaf