Chapter 8
THEN
Meggie wandered along the banks of the Dene Burn, the small stream that ran from Coventina’s Well down past her cottage and through Newbrough, and made her way up towards the Sacred Well.
Here, she could breathe. If only she could live out here, even further from the village than she already did.
Coventina would understand; she would welcome her.
She and Emory could sleep amongst the stars and make wild, abandoned love under the moon. She rested her hand on the mound of her stomach again. That was, indeed, how this little one had come into being. Blessed by Coventina and the four winds on a warm, sultry midsummer eve.
A low cloud was settled above the Burn, sitting in the valley opposite the Temple of Mithras where some of the men who built the fort used to worship, but it was all derelict now.
Meggie’s grandmother had told her that Coventina, the goddess she so loved, who she was certain was embodied in every breath of spring as the snow melted, was a Roman water nymph, as well as a river goddess.
Meggie felt it in her soul that she had a connection with the goddess; it was here, at the Sacred Well, at one with the earth and the water, where she felt she belonged.
Her mind was more settled here, her desire to escape from the confines of her cottage and the village satisfied, even momentarily.
In the depths of a Northumbrian winter, when everything was white and frozen and there seemed to be no end to it, Meggie made her way through snowdrifts and ice and prayed to Coventina.
Meggie gave offerings to the goddess, raised her arms to heaven and asked the goddess for help; and Coventina always melted the snow and ice and made the rivers flow.
She ended Beira, the goddess of winter’s, hold and brought spring to the countryside.
Meg was aware that the more fanciful rumours in the village suggested she knew instinctively about the ancient gods and goddesses, about herbs and healing and childbirth. They did not bother to think that she had learned it from her family – it was more exciting to whisper that she was magical.
The thought was so preposterous, it made her laugh.
The villagers didn’t know, couldn’t know, that everything was written down in that book, hidden under a loose flagstone.
There were recipes to both heal and harm, but she would rarely work with the poisons nature provided unless she needed a tiny amount to enhance something that was made for a better purpose, and then it would be the barest amount.
Belladonna, foxglove, angel’s trumpet, devil’s helmet, hemlock, mugwort…
Mugwort.
The smile slid off her face as she looked at her basket. In there was the beginnings of the draught she would give to Alice.
Today, the first snows of winter were drifting in, and Meggie would set herself up in the shelter of the wall which surrounded the Well and work within its confines.
She looked up at the sky and knew that soon, the world would be white.
She would ask Coventina that she was gentle to them this season.
There were two babes due in the village before the season turned into spring: Meg wanted Coventina’s guidance and protection to help the mothers.
Despite what the gossips had said today, Meggie would always be called to assist the women at that time, and she silently blessed each babe as they entered the world.
They could do worse than be baptised into the Christian faith, as well as be blessed into Meggie’s faith. Nature and God were both powerful…
But today, despite the inner peace Meggie found at Coventina’s Well, it was difficult to settle to her work.
After hearing the women speaking in the village, their comments twisted around her mind like yarn on a spinning wheel.
Witchcraft was a popular subject. Only last week, the same women had been speaking of the dark arts.
Animal sacrifice. Wishing ill on fellow human beings.
She hoped they’d find a new subject to talk about soon.
An image of Charles Milburn flashed in her mind and Meggie felt that hatred for him again.
She didn’t trust him one bit; she hadn’t liked the mocking tone in his voice when he’d called her the Snow Witch earlier.
Yet he paid her well for her services. She had no way of refusing Charles Milburn’s demands.
How could she? So long as Charles’ reputation remained unsullied, everyone was happy.
But he would get his comeuppance. The Universe would make sure of that, Meggie was under no illusions.
She prayed for it every night and every day, and would pray again at the Well today.
She did not care how many lifetimes it would take, but she would make sure he paid for his arrogance and selfishness somehow.
‘Blessed Coventina and the Water Nymphs – forgive me. I know what I do is wrong. Yet I have no choice,’ she whispered, thinking of the unborn babies’ souls she had taken.
Another image of Charles Milburn slipped into her mind, and she quickly blotted it out as she peered into the Well, fascinated as always by the shapes and pictures she saw in it.
Sometimes, the reflections of the clouds would swirl past; sometimes, she would see birds in flight: an upside-down world.
Sometimes, she would see a face just like hers looking back at her, but she felt it was not her, not really.
She wondered if it was Coventina herself.