Alchemy of her Heart

​Winter ~1664

She stood at the back of the crowd, apart from them, her hood drawn, woollen cloak wrapped tightly around her. The flickering light of the bonfire comforted and repelled her in equal measure. It simultaneously made her homesick and reminded her of the screams of burning women. But she would not think of that now; she shook her head to rid her mind of the images that flooded it.

A piece of parchment was nailed to the rough scaled trunk of a leafless oak. A fair was coming to the nearby town. Jugglers, musicians, apparent magicians. These did not capture her interest, but something else on the notice had. A crude sketch of another performer; Pulcinella. She did not know of it, but the word rolled round her mouth, caressing her tongue, and it tasted like the memory of sun-warmed honey and home. She longed to return for the familiarity, but everyone she had ever known was no longer living. They had passed long ago and all she would find would be more strangers. She never regretted her decision, but sometimes she cursed it.

Aella turned away from the crowd, leaving the village green and its flaming fire lit for thanks for the deliverance of King James from the plot that would have finished him. Personally, she believed it would have been poetic justice for him to perish in flames, just like the innocent women he had burned. His fanaticism had given the cruel and power hungry the ways and means to murder with impunity. But James was long dead now, and good riddance to him.

She had travelled to many places that marked celebrations with fire, Samhain in Ireland and Scotland and Calan Gaeaf in Wales. But here the Church held sway, meaning the festivities and pagan rituals were overshadowed and swallowed up by their pomp and ceremony.

Entering the inn, she lifted the latch and went in, the noise and heat assaulting her senses. Barely anyone looked at her. Keeping to the shadowy edges, she made her way through a swinging door and veered left up a flight of stairs. The steps were worn smooth from the many boots that had mounted the treads, Aella adding her own. She reached the quiet and solitude of her room. Putting the black iron key in the lock, it turned with ease; she leant against the door and pushed. It had a habit of sticking in the jamb. Once inside, she sparked a candle from the fire that Betsy the landlady had lit in the hearth for her; Aella smiled. Betsy reminded her of an old friend.

Unclasping her cloak, she pulled the hood from her hair. Silver wisps coming loose from the bun. She reached into her skirt pocket and withdrew the notice she had taken from the tree and opened the folds. Her gaze caught that word again, ‘Pulcinella’. Dragging the worn chair closer to the hearth, she sat down and traced her finger over the ink. Her mind drifted to warm days and the smells of lavender and rosemary, the salty tang of olives and the sweetness of figs. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and smiled at her reminiscences.

There was a tap at the door and Aella called out, Come in.

Betsy’s smiling face appeared in the opening, flushed and beaming. ‘Ello luvvy. I’ve brought you a bowl of mutton stew, thought you could do wiv a warm up. There’ll be a ground frost tonight. ‘Ere ya go. There’s bread, cheese and a mug of ale as well.

She placed them on the table.

Thank you Betsy, you are very kind.

Don’t be daft dearie, us gels ‘ave got to look after each other. Are there many folk still at the bonfire?

Oh, quite a few. I expect they will head to your door fairly soon. The fireworks have all but finished.

That’ll keep Bert ‘appy then. Now, I’d been meaning to ask you, when is it you’re setting off for Cornwall?

Not for another week, I should think. The Lord at the manor house is not due to return from his travels before then.

And he’s settin’ up some kind of school, is he? 

Yes. His interest in medicine is enormous, and he wanted an experienced midwife to come and teach.

Ah well, that’ll be a stroke of luck, especially at your age. A grand ‘ouse to live in and decent pay, is my guess?

I am looking forward to having a secure wage and lodgings, I must admit.

Betsy rocked back and forth on her heels, her arms folded over her ample bosom. She nodded her approval and said with a sigh, Aye, that’s nuffin to be sniffed at. Coming out of her reverie, she continued, Right, I’d better see what that good-for-nothing Albert’s doing. Drinking the profits again, I expect!

Thank you again Betsy. I’ll bring these back in the morning.

Betsy waved her agreement and trudged out the door and down the stairs.

Aella picked up the wooden spoon and ate. The stew was hot and savoury and she realised how hungry she was. Her mind ticked over. There was no lord of the manor or midwifery teaching in Cornwall waiting for her, but she needed a cover story. A woman travelling on her own was easier in this century than it had been in the last, but it was still looked upon with suspicion. But she intended to head south. She was feeling the pull to search for warmer climes again; she was feeling the pull of home.

​Pulcinella

Aella had been in a state of nervous excitement the entire morning. Ridiculous, she told herself, ‘Pulcinella’ might be a name an Englishman had come up with for his stage persona. She had no idea, except that slight fizzing feeling in her stomach, which was telling her that her intuition was right.

Setting off just after midday, she caught a ride on one of the farmer's carts. She had been lucky to find a space. The silver coin with which she had parted disappeared swiftly into his money pouch at his belt, clinking as it hit the others that lay there. The back of the wagon was full. Small children sat on their mother’s laps and older ones ran alongside the creaking wheels.

Excited voices shrill and talking so quickly in their thick accents that Aella had some trouble following their conversations. Several people nodded to her; she had been staying at the inn for a few weeks now and her face had become familiar. Smiling and nodding, she kept herself to herself. She did not invite intimacy. The journey was, thankfully, not a long one; for those not walking, a chill was settling in their bones. Frost laden branches were an icy lattice work above them as they passed through the lanes. A watery sun, set low in the palest of blue skies, was doing its utmost to send heat to the earth, but the chilled air felt no warmer on their skin. Noses and cheeks were pink with cold and people were envious of anyone with a decent pair of gloves.

Aella could see the crowds swarming ahead of them, and her excitement built. She clutched her cloak more tightly around her and had to stop herself from jumping down from the cart before it had fully stopped. She did not need to draw any unnecessary attention; silver hair and youthful agility were not common bedfellows. With great patience, she waited to be offered a calloused hand from another passenger. She gave her thanks and made her way towards the thronging mass of people. The aroma of roasting pork and mutton wafted its way through the crowd, mixed with the sweet smell of cattle and not so sweet human sweat. Stalls with hot ale, spiced gingerbread, sugared fruits, warmed cider with red apple slices bobbing in the white froth and strong black stout were plying their wares. Aella saw barbers and shoemakers with braziers alight in their tents, trying to keep warm. Rowdy young men hurled axes and put their archery skills to the test. Girls buying colourful ribbons and golden custard tarts, giggling and casting covetous glances at the rippling muscles bulging beneath the chambray shirts.

The woody smoked scent of roasting chestnuts drew her to the seller. She handed him a farthing and received a paper poke of the sweet, soft nuts. There was so much to see, but her eyes were scanning the crowd for a sign of Pulcinella. And then she heard a melody; someone was playing the pipe and tabor. Aella followed the sounds that reminded her of home. The mass of people were packed together, their backs to her, swaying with the music. She wove her way through them and the player came into view.

It was a young boy, in his early teens, by the look of his smooth face, still without the jutting jaw of manhood. He held the pipe to his mouth with his left hand, and in his right, he beat the rhythm with the drum. People were tapping their feet and clapping. He had the audience in his grasp. Behind him stood a tall wooden booth. Bright red curtains were drawn over the top half, and underneath, painted on the wood, was the moniker ‘Pulcinella’. Aella remained with the crowd, eagerly waiting to see what would happen next, for the young man had finished his tune. The curtains parted to the sound of a rapid drumroll and onto the wooden stage danced Pulcinella.

A marionette puppet with a red conical hat atop his head. He had a crooked hooked nose, puffy scarlet cheeks and a wide grin. His back was hunched over a potbelly and long gangly legs dangled on the floor. He opened his mouth to shriek a welcome to the crowd and Aella heard the musical sounds of her mother tongue.

The comedic show was mesmerising, they whooped and hollered; they cheered and clapped. Aella was drinking in the lilting cadences as they flowed into her ears and warmed her heart. The boy played his pipe again, and the puppet bowed low, his hooked nose brushing the floor of the stage. With a flourish, he danced into the wings and the curtains drew together. Instead of the puppet’s return, two young men emerged from behind the stall as the crowd called for more. With a collective sound of amazement, the audience gasped as they tumbled over and over, leaping into the air and walking on their hands. They were clearly brothers, their outfits of red pantaloons and blue waistcoats with gold braiding set off their dark hair and beards. The pipe player was still striking his drum, keeping a rhythmic beat in time with the cavorting men. Then two girls appeared, each carrying brightly coloured batons. With another drumroll, they tossed them skyward, spinning over and over. They were caught deftly by the acrobats, who began juggling with them, passing them back and forth to each other.

The crowd cheered, their faces flushed and alight with delight. They had thought the performance to be over, but there was more to come. The young men erected two sets of crossed wooden beams, at least twenty feet apart. Between these, they strung a thick rope. Standing at the base of one, the eldest of the girls placed her foot into the cupped palm of one man and he hoisted her upwards. With confident ease, she positioned her slippered foot onto the rope and walked along its length, appearing as though she was going out for an evening stroll. The other girl passed up a long slender pole, which the elder used for balance. She completed one length of the rope and the audience whistled its approval and roared for more. Her flowing dress of sea green georgette made her look like an exotic butterfly and she ventured out into the centre. The younger girl, surely her sister if their red tresses were anything to go by, hooked a large beribboned hoop onto her sister’s outstretched foot, and as she flicked it up, catching it with one hand, she caught another. Juggling and spinning the hoops, she leapt, ballerina-like, to gasps of incredulity from the avid crowd. The sound of the pipe started up again, but this time the smaller girl was playing, too. The tabor beat its rhythm and the two acrobats stood facing each other, their heads turned to the girl on the rope. As the tempo quickened and the pipes grew louder, the spectators held their collective breath. Something spectacular was about to happen. She bent her knees and pushed upwards, springing into the air, her arms stretched out before her, a dive into the blue, arcing towards the linked hands of the men. They caught her effortlessly, and the audience went wild with applause.

​Resolution

Aella paced her room . Back and forth, to and fro; she did not know what to do. She had returned to the fair the previous afternoon and watched the performance again with mounting certainty. There could be no harm in it, or would there be heartache? The choice was impossible.

She stopped pacing and considered Bela; what would she have said? Aella smiled to herself. The inimitable Belaflore Martinelli would have told her, You will always prosper from acting rather than doing nothing.

So, there it was, her decision made.

She put everything she needed into her leather pouch and belted it around her waist. Touched the silver pentacle that nestled in the hollow of her throat for good fortune and closed the clasp of her heavy woollen cloak. Finally, she wrested the door to her room shut.

It was quiet in the bar downstairs. Betsy was washing the wooden tables, the watery sun coming in through the warped window panes making the dust sparkle.

The red-faced woman looked up at the sound of Aella’s footsteps. She armed sweat from her brow and said, Mornin’ luvvy.

Good morning Betsy. Has Albert left for the fair yet?

No, he’s got a thick ‘ead this mornin’ and he’s on a go slow. He’s out the back, still loadin’ the cart. She chuckled and shook her head.

Do you think he would give me a lift?

Of course. You’re not goin’ to watch that show again, are you?

No! I’m buying ingredients from the apothecary stall. The gentleman had considerable variety in his tonics.

Oh yes! You’ll be needing them for your new position. I’ll give Bert a shout for you. Betsy put her bucket and cloth down.

Worry not, I will ask him, Aella said, and she left the bar.

Out in the courtyard at the rear of the inn, Albert was indeed still hefting barrels onto the cart. He was a wiry man with a thatch of coarse, dark hair that appeared untouched by a comb. She watched as he heaved the last one up. The tendons in his neck were rigid and his face was an alarming shade of red. He leant against the back of the wagon and gasped for air, his hands on his thighs. He spat into the dirt and wiped his mouth.

When she saw he had caught his breath, she said, Good morning, Albert. I wonder, could I have a lift to the fair, please?

He looked up, scowling. Yep, hop on. I’m leavin’ in five minutes. And, dusting himself off on his leather apron, he went back into the inn.

Aella pulled a small apple from her skirt pocket and approached the huge horse harnessed to the cart. Purest black, his coat shone in the sunshine like a rook’s wing. He nuzzled at her raised hand, his oaty breath hot on her face.

Here Samson, and she offered him the treat.

His lips curled as he took it gently from her and she stroked his powerful neck while he chewed. The coat, silky one way and suede the other. She heard the backdoor of the inn creak and the crunch of boots in the yard and pulled herself up onto the driver’s bench. It wouldn’t do to keep Albert waiting, not with a hangover. His congeniality only surfaced once he’d consumed a few mugs of ale. Betsy called him tap-shackled; Aella knew she had seen worse.

The half hour journey was mostly enjoyed in silence. She attempted a light-hearted conversation, but Albert was not receptive to idle chat. It gave her time to mull over what she would say when she arrived at her destination.

Albert pulled Samson to a halt just outside the tent that served as an inn. Aella thanked him, and she received a grunt in reply. It suited her. She did not need his solicitous concern as to how she would be returning to the village. Not that she needed to be worried. He was already giving his full attention to a mug of ale.

She did not go at once to the boldly painted Pulcinella booth. She had some slight alterations to address first. Striding swiftly away from the fair heading to a copse of trees that clung to a bend in the river, she made her way as far into it as she could before reaching the bank. The current was running fast; the rushes and reeds were a lacework of frost, all that was left until the warmer weather brought fresh growth. She found a slope that levelled out and opened onto a small, earthy piece of ground. There was a ledge to perch on, and she did so and leaned forward towards the water, her hand outstretched to touch it.

As her fingertips dipped into the iron grey torrent, Aella spoke aloud.

"Remove all silver,

Remove all lines,

Restore the colour to my eyes,

Restore the midnight to my hair,

Elements I command you, Fire, Earth, Water, Air."

Her hands altered first, the age spots and nobble-knuckled fingers disappeared and tightened, her skin becoming taut and smooth. The transformation travelled up her arms, across her chest, then up and down, covering her entire body. She felt her breasts lift and saw the strands of hair that were adrift from her bun, darken and thicken. When the tingling feeling had ceased, she touched the contours of her face, the slackness of her chin had gone, her jawline was strong and lean once more. She withdrew the hood from her head and let loose her hair from its pins. It tumbled around her shoulders, black as pitch.

She smiled to herself and thought of the family and friends she had left behind. How could she have known that her choice would mean such loneliness? Bela had told her so, but she had not fully understood. She had helped so many, which had been the reason for casting the spell; to make amends. And she still had eternity to fulfil her promise. Surely she deserved companionship, perchance, even affection. The notion made her blush because, since the first time she had seen him, she knew what she wanted. She had acted and now she would see if she might prosper. Standing up, she brushed her skirts off and pulled her hood back up, covering her hair and face in shadow. Her resolution set, she wound her way from the rushing river towards the sounds and smells of the fair and the lilting voices of her homeland.

​Buongiorno

There was a crowd surrounding the booth, watching the performance. Now was not the time to declare herself. First, she would get some food and mayhap a small ale; her hunger had woken, and she was ravenous. The resolution had awakened her appetite. Aella sniffed the air and headed toward a crackling fire, over which a spitting and sizzling pig was roasting. The aroma made her stomach rumble. Asking for a penny’s worth from the depths of her hood, she handed over the money to a greasy-fingered woman. She wandered around the stalls and tents, burning her fingers on the hot meat, juice running down her chin. She giggled. What a sight she would be when she was ready to show herself. Wiping her hand on the frosty grass, she sought some refreshment. Spying the stall with the cider press, she walked over to it. She loved this drink, as did the locals. The stone cup the brewer passed her was warm, the cider earthy with the tang of red apples flooded her mouth. She held it tight in her hands, warming them, the steam from the brew inside her hood contrasting with the cold of her cheeks. Loud, raucous laughter burst out from behind her, and she turned to see a group of lads. They were arguing good-naturedly amongst themselves, their colour high and their spirits higher. Aella pulled at her cloak, ensuring her face was shielded from view, and shifted away from them. As she sipped her cup, two girls came to the stall, and the young men began tormenting them at once. This was what she had been avoiding. She breathed a sigh of relief, thanked the goddess that they had not seen her first, and downed the rest of her drink. There was something to be said for old age and the merit of being invisible to the scrutiny of men.

As she left the stall, she heard the lads protesting that they only wanted a kiss; was that too much to ask? She knew the girls would come to no harm at the fair. They were together and surrounded by thronging crowds. If the setting had been different, she would have intervened, and the young men would not have thought a kiss, coerced from an unwilling girl, was a prize worth winning.

Applause, shouting and cheering emanated from the Pulcinella booth. The show must be nearing its end. Aella tingled with anticipation and her mouth felt parched, despite the aftertaste of cider lingering on her tongue. She walked slowly; the crowd buffeted her as it swarmed in the opposite direction. When she reached it, there were only half a dozen people left, and they soon departed to find more entertainment.

An old man, his back to her, was stooping down to pick up a cloth cap that had a generous pile of coins in it. As he straightened, he winced at the stiffness in his bones. There was a long clay pipe clamped between his teeth, and he wore a red waistcoat embroidered with many flowers and intricate patterns. He tipped the contents of the cap into a leather pouch tied to his breeches.

The younger of the two girls was with him. She had the hoops slung over her shoulder and she was trying to carry the four batons.

Aella saw they were about to fall from her arms and went to her aid.

Here, let me help you..

The girl looked up through the tangle of red hair that had fallen across her face. Thank you.

The show was wonderful, Aella said, I have seen it twice!

The girl grinned at her, her cheeks dimpling. I am learning the ropes too! I can almost do a handstand on them!

That is very impressive. I would enjoy seeing that!

And I can tumble like my brothers!

The old man had walked over to them. Are you talking this Signorina’s ear off, Magda? He beamed and swept her a comical bow. Pietro Grimani.

Buongiorno a lei, Signore.

His eyes widened in disbelief and he nearly lost his pipe; it dangled dangerously.

Signorina! Tu parli italiano?

SÌ, vengo dal nord Italia! My name is Aella Saluagius. She returned his bow with her own small curtsy.

Magdalena looked from her father to the stranger with a quizzical expression. Her freckles danced across her nose and cheeks. She peered past Aella as if she were searching for something. But where is your family?

Magdalena!

What?

You are impolite!

Aella laughed. It does not matter, Signore, children are curious.

I do not understand, Magdalena said, her face a mask of stubborn annoyance. I was just asking a question!

Aella faced her and said, I have no family with me. Mine is an unusual tale.

Magdalena’s mouth dropped open and her eyes were wide with curiosity. What happened?

Mio Dio, Magda!

He turned awkwardly towards Aella. I am sorry. My daughter is very inquisitive. But per favore, come and greet my family and join us for a meal. It is splendid to meet someone from home!

If you are sure, Signore?

Of course! And please, call me Pietro.

He smoothed his white hair and put the cap on his head and waved her to follow him.

Magdalena looked thrilled and skipped ahead of them, shouting to her mother.

Behind the booth was a group of four wagons, all of them covered. There was a small fire on the ground in the centre of the clearing with a cooking pot atop of it. A woman was adding salt to whatever was bubbling away in its depths.

She looked up when she heard her daughter’s calls. Catching sight of the stranger with her husband, she stared at Aella and stood up, her eyebrows raised, hands on her hips.

Letta! Meet Aella, she is from the north of Italia! he said, gesturing towards her. I have offered her to dine with us, small compensation for Magda’s curious questions! He rolled his eyes at his wife.

Letta Grimani looked at Aella with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

Buongiorno Signora, Aella said.

The suspicion softened, curiosity winning the race.

Ciao. Where are you from in the North?

I come from Aquileia. When I saw the show, the name Pulcinella made my heart sick for my home.

Letta nodded in sympathy. Sì, missing home will make your heart sore. Her frosty demeanour was thawing. Have you no family with you?

Letta! Pietro said. You see where Magda gets it from!

I do not mean to pry, but it is most uncommon for a young woman to be travelling alone.

Sì, you are right, Signora. It is not looked upon favourably and can be dangerous. That is why I am trying to return home. My fortunes here have turned sour.

Letta stared at Aella and seemed to make up her mind, her face softening. Her smile revealed Magdalena had inherited not only her mother's curious nature, but other traits as well. Dimples appeared on her cheeks and her eyes creased at the corners.

Come, meet the others and eat with us. Mayhap we can help you.

​The Grimani Family

Aella could barely look at him. This was entirely new to her. What was she thinking? She had never, in all her years on this earth, felt drawn to a man. Not in the way her body was yearning for this one now. Her heartbeat was pulsing in her throat. She imagined her blood pumping through her, and the thought made her flush with heat. Her skin reddened and her appetite disappeared, which was inconvenient as she was being plied with bread and a huge bowl of spezzatino.

Letta introduced her remaining children as they sat around the campfire.

This is Aurelia, our eldest daughter. Maso, Antonio and Pippo, our sons. The pride in her voice was tangible. This is Aella. She is from the north of Italia.

She swallowed. Ciao, piacere, Aella said, her eyes flicking from face to face.

Aurelia was every bit as lively as her younger sister. It is wonderful to speak with a girl my age! she exclaimed. My brothers are the most annoying people you will ever meet!

Pippo cemented this opinion by throwing a crust of bread at her.

Pippo! his mother berated him, but he was laughing raucously and toppled backwards from the log he was perched on.

You see what I have to live with! Aurelia said.

Aella chuckled and stole a glance sideways. He was staring at her. She concentrated her gaze on her bowl and spooned stew into her mouth; swallowing was proving difficult.

We have not travelled as far north as Aquileia. Venezia is the furthest we have been with Pulcinella, Antonio said.

Is it not famous for the bell tower in the basilica? said Maso, his voice lilted, the accent achingly familiar.

Aella’s throat constricted at the sound of the word basilica; cruel memories threatened to swoop in. She swallowed and ensured her expression was one of neutrality. Sì, it is renowned for its architecture. She mustered the courage to look at him.

By the goddess; he looked as though he had been wrought by Venus herself. She had thought his hair was black, like hers, but it was not. Copper, bronze, and deepest red wove through the dark brown waves. He fixed his gaze on her and she could not have described the colour of his eyes if her life depended on it. They had pulled her in and she was having to concentrate hard on breathing. Her saviour came in the form of Magdalena.

Watch me Aella! I can walk on my hands!

And indeed, the girl flipped over and walked about the grassy camp, her hair dangling on the muddy ground.

Magda, you will be filthy and we have packed the tub! her mother berated her.

Everyone was laughing as Magdalena tumbled and leapt around Letta.

Where is the fair travelling to next? Aella asked Pietro.

Up the river to Henley. For a week at least, I should think. There will be more stalls and entertainments joining us. As we get closer to London, the crowds will become larger.

Letta had returned from chasing Magdalena and was plaiting her coppery hair, so she could continue her constant acrobatics without dragging her tresses through the dirt. She looked at Aella as she finished tying it and said, So, do you wish to travel with us?

I am certain I cannot walk along a rope!

Letta laughed. There will be no need. Magda is desperate to do it. You can hand the props and go round the crowd with Pietro’s hat.

Aella gazed around at the Grimanis and her spirits lifted. She sensed these were good, kind people; they held the same values her own family and friends had. Their generosity now disabused her of the notion there was anyone left who had consideration or understanding. Hate, spite and, sometimes, worst of all, complete lack of compassion for others had been plentiful throughout her journeys. This made her heart sore as much as missing her home. She gave them a smile.

Do you not wish to know what has brought me to this place?

Letta smiled. When you are ready, you will tell us.

A glimmer of hope danced in Aurelia's eyes. Magdalena was hopping from foot to foot, bursting with enthusiasm for the proposal.

Sì! said Aella. I shall gladly accept your help and train to be an acrobat’s assistant! But I may have other uses! I have my sister’s tarot cards; my mamma taught me to read them. Mayhap I could earn my keep that way?

Letta looked at Pietro; she raised a coppery eyebrow. He nodded his head in approval. Sì, that will certainly draw a crowd. People always want to know their fortune!

It is settled then, Letta said, standing up and dusting her skirts off.

Aella snatched a glance in Maso’s direction. His grin had set his eyes sparkling and her stomach somersaulted its own internal acrobatics.

Antonio applauded his approval, and Pippo groaned. Not another girl!.

​Sorcery’s Souvenir

Aella’s luck was running the right way; the Goddess Fortuna sprinkled her with serendipitous twists of fate. She had left the Grimani family, packing away their props and promising to be outside the inn tomorrow morning at cockcrow. Remarkably, the fair passed by it on the way to Henley. The fluke that would allow her freedom from discovery by Betsy and Albert was because they were travelling into Oxford for an appointment at the brewery. She caught a lift home with Albert, and worried endlessly about how she might keep her appearance hidden from everyone. Having scooped a palmful of river water and transforming back into her aged self, she found him in the ale tent, somewhat worse for wear but infinitely in a more agreeable mood than he had been on their outbound journey. He imparted the information about their impending trip, and her heart soared. She felt a touch duplicitous towards Betsy, who thought that she would still be lodging at the inn. She consoled herself with the idea that she could leave a fat bag of gold coins in her room. The landlady should be the one to find them; Albert wasn’t likely to be doing any cleaning.

Upon her return, she engaged in the obligatory gossip about her day over a mug of warm mead, confirmed her wish for mutton pie for dinner, and then went up to her chamber.

Closing the door behind her, she leant her back against it and heaved a sigh of relief. Her stomach quivered with trepidation; what if she was mistaken in this? But she had no other firm destination planned, and the rumours of witch-hunting in the area had all but ceased. The death of Matthew Hopkins, the witch-finder general, had put paid to much of it, but for a time the south of England had been awash with the hastily built gallows from which hundreds of innocent souls were hanged.

Although it was not as if women were suddenly venerated once the murderous fanatics were gone. They still possessed no autonomy. A single woman could own property, but once married, everything she owned belonged to her husband, including any children. And how was a woman to survive without a man to protect and provide for her? She was in danger of falling prey to other unscrupulous men, not that their scruples became virtuous after they secured themselves a wife.

There were few opportunities for honest work that would keep her fed and a roof over her head, especially in the countryside. There was more opportunity in the towns and cities to make money. The depths to which many women were forced to earn it, however, Aella would not wish upon a friend.

She reminded herself her decision was made. The first one, with herself at its core, since she left Cagliasaro. She would take a chance and see where it led her; there was nothing to lose. If circumstances did not play out in her favour, she could go anywhere she wished in an instant.

Going over to her trunk, unlocking the clasp, she lifted the lid and peered in. Over the years of her travels, she had accumulated a collection of rare belongings. There was the touch of the magpie about Aella, not for shiny or costly items, but she loved to collect mementos from the people and places she encountered. She reached in and plucked out a copper triskel, given to her by a young maid called Maeve she met while in Ireland. Beside it in a muslin bag was a bunch of bay leaves, their smell pungent still, despite their great age. Rubbing her thumb across its smooth swirls, she spotted the sycamore and silver quaich, a gift from Maggie, an elderly Scottish woman who Aella saved from burning. Inside it was dried heather, perfect, so Maggie had told her to brew a calming tea. There were books, baubles and scraps of material, animal pelts and jewellery, along with several heavy bags of gold coins. Her most precious possessions never left her person, apart from when she slept, and then they were hidden beneath a pillow, or whatever she found to lay her head upon. Her mamma’s grimoire, buttery yellow leather, bound the pages, full of the wisdom and learning of generations of Aella’s family, plus her own now. She had added the charms, spells and recipes of many women to it; it was invaluable to her. The silver-framed hand mirror, tatty with its