Chapter 6 #2
It had slipped Avice’s mind, only she and the Good Neighbours could hear the Grim’s voice.
She relayed Bramble’s message, and Nell’s tear-stained face broke out in a wide, toothy grin.
The pair went bounding outside, nearly flattening John as he entered the cottage with a stack of kindling in his strong arms.
He dropped the wood near the hearth, and a delighted chime from Ashling spread a smile over his face. John straightened up, brushing the splinters from his cloak, before turning to Avice.
His jaw dropped. “What happened?!”
John reached, brushing the tips of his gloved fingers over the bruised egg on the side of her head. Avice winced, a grimace passing over her face. The fisherman blinked, before abruptly dropping his arm, seemingly remembering propriety.
“A Pillywiggin,” Avice began, unhooking the cauldron from above the hearth with a scrap of cloth protecting her fingers from the heat. “She was getting a little too familiar with Nell. Possessive. When I warned her, the Pillywiggin threw a cup at my head.”
She placed it onto the table. John stifled a snort as he ladled three cups of elderflower and chamomile tea from the steaming cauldron.
“It is not funny, Jonathan!” Avice exclaimed. He was the only man in the village she knew she was safe to speak her mind to. “Both of us, but particularly you, should have warned her more firmly about the Good Neighbours.”
He dropped his head. “I apologise. As always, you are right. I am her brother, and her guardian. I should have warned her.”
Avice gave him a curt nod before turning to hang a different cauldron over the hearth. Ashling rested amongst the coals as he snacked on another crumb the midwife had tossed at him. Avice dropped a dollop of lard in the pan, then promptly fried slice after slice of the bread.
She glanced out of the open shutters. Hardly breakfast anymore, her stomach protested loudly. More like lunch. When did I last eat?
Finally, they sat down at the table. Just as Avice was about to call Nell in, John stopped her. She frowned at the fisherman, his hand on her arm, as he thoughtfully chewed some bread. It seemed to the midwife that he was carefully choosing his words.
John swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “What day is it, Avice?”
She sipped her tea, sweet and floral as it went down, furrowing her brow at her friend. “I do not know what you mean?”
“It is the Lord’s Day. Sunday. Did you hear the bells for service this morning?”
Avice took a chomp of bread, finally responding to the growls coming from her stomach. It was deliciously flavoured from the lard, and even softer from the frying. It melted on her tongue and slid down easily.
“I did not,” she responded. “I attended Goodwife Joan and had to deal with her sick daughter all last night and day. I did not even awaken and have my second sleep. I only woke when you knocked on my door.”
Another bite, and she had to stop herself from closing her eyes in bliss.
“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.”