Page 14 of The Knucker King

“Father Peter expressed his concern that you did not attend service this week, last week, or the week before that,” the words spilled from John. “He is worried for your soul. He said he would come to speak to you in person. I offered to talk to you instead.”

“Last I checked,” Avice huffed, “Father Richard was head of the church in Lamorna village. The old priest and I have an understanding. He knows I will attend saint’s days and important holy days, but I may not attend in between. He is aware I often have patients that I work long into the night with, and I require rest afterwards.”

She and the elderly priest had danced around each other in the turns of seasons since Avice had taken over from her aunt. Each respected that the other was vital for the functioning of the small community. Avice would press a carved wooden cross into a patient’s hands and muttered the Lord’s prayer before administering her care. She would also use the healing waters from Trewoofe’s well and the whispered wisdoms of the natural medicines of the woods.

“That may be relevant, if Father Richard had not been sent to a monastery,” John said, sipping more tea.

Avice blinked in surprise, unsure she heard him correctly. “What?”

“For weeks, Father Richard has been raving about the sound of bees in the church. You would know that if you had been in attendance,” John chided. “He went to rip down the new cross Father Peter had commissioned. It is huge, heavy. The old man leapt onto it and clawed at it like an animal, screaming about a buzzing, that bees were in there, right in the middle of service. It took three of us to get him down.”

The midwife set down her cup, dumbstruck. Poor Father Richard.

The pair had a healthy respect for each other, and he had endorsed Avice to practise with her carefully made medicines. He even had a regular tincture from her: the tiniest pinch of ground foxglove, mixed with healing waters to aid his irregular heartbeat.

Avice took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. She swallowed, and a cold breeze from the open door made her shiver. “So? What is the point here, John?”

The fisherman chuckled. “The point is you need to start attending services. Father Peter is stricter than Father Richard. He’s also reinforced that women should be covering their heads in the village and adorn wimples for service.”

Avice crinkled her nose at the thought of wearing a head scarf and veil. She found the garments restrictive and they would often get in the way during deliveries of babies. She also knew that the younger priest could make serving her community exceedingly difficult if he chose to.

“Please tell him…” Avice took a sip of the tea, the floral taste warming her bones. “…that I will attend services on Sundays, on the condition that there are no deliveries or emergencies amongst the villagers.”

John dipped his head in agreement, a relieved smile dancing on his lips. “Wonderful! And thank you. I know we need you, and the villagers certainly do too.”

Avice returned his grin. “You are welcome. Now, please, call in your little sister to eat before everything gets cold.”

7

Chapter 7

Avice

By the time Avice had finally shooed John and Nell from her cottage, it was well past lunchtime. She cast her eyes to the sky. The sun was shrouded by grey cloud, but she guessed she still had enough daylight left. Determined to visit Goodwife Joan after the traumatic birth the day before, she set about preparing for the trip through the woods and fields.

Avice’s scars ached: chapped by the cold, wind and rain. She needed to put a barrier between herself and the weather. She turned to her perfumed oils, gently whipped into a blend of boiled and strained lard, smelling of lavender and earth. The midwife ran the concoction over her lips and the scars down the side of her face. She oiled her hair back, using it to smooth her long mane into a neat, braided bun. She secured it into place with a length of ribbon.

Avice fetched her medical satchel. She packed in some more soft moss she had hanging from the hooks that descended from the beams across her thatched roof. She poured some honeyed tea into a water bag and wrapped the last of the bread John had left behind. She ensured she had extra willow bark powder. Avice knew that the days after birth, particularly when there was no sweet infant to bring comfort, could be long and painful.

Have you got everything? Bramble asked, his head sticking out of the cottage door and sniffing the wind. There is just enough daylight to get there and back.

“Let us get going,” Avice replied.

She threw on her cloak and strapped the satchel over her shoulder, the heavy bag bouncing on her round hip as she exited the cottage. The midwife pulled the door behind her and locked it with a clunk.

Avice was relieved that, due to it being Sunday, most were not out tending their livestock and fields. Often, straight after service, families would return to their humble homes and spend the rest of the Lord’s Day telling stories, playing games, and singing.

I wonder what that is like, Avice wondered, a beat of loneliness striking her heart.

The midwife had not lived with another human since the death of her aunt ten turns of seasons, or years, ago. She was friendly with some in the village, had a close familial relationship with John and Nell, but besides that, many avoided her.

Isolation ground at her bones.

“Too witching.”

“Too wild.”

“Whispering at nothing.”