At least the foul weather meant we had no visitors for a while. The road from Harrowfield to Northwoods was impassable, flooded deep by the swollen river. There was no going in or out, for now. It was the time of year when at home I would have gathered with my brothers to keep away shadows, and to ask a spirit blessing for the dark season to come. There was a Christian feast day, which the household kept, but with no great ceremony. There was no priest here; quiet prayers were spoken for the dead, and candles lit. Nobody spoke the name, Simon. But he was there among us; you didn’t need to say it to feel it.

In my room, that night, I lit my own candle. I had not undressed, it was too cold. The dog had tugged the blankets into a sort of nest and lay there snoring gently. The light danced over the stone walls, sculpted by the draft into fantastic shadows. Silently I spoke their names. Liam, Diarmid, Cormack, Conor, Finbar, Padriac. I saw their faces in my mind, six versions of the same face, but all so different. They swam together, blurred by my tears. It was not long till midwinter. How would I find them? There were still but three shirts in my little bag, and part of the fourth. Soon enough I would have no starwort left. How would I gather it, when the wind outside whipped the bushes to the ground, and water froze hard in the furrows of the bare fields? Finally I fell asleep, still staring into the candle flame, curled up by small Alys for warmth, with my brothers’ names sounding over and over in my head, as if by saying them I could keep them alive a little longer, just a little. Just long enough.

Chapter Nine

The weather grew fouler and the days shorter. In the mornings the ground was crisp with frost, and the eaves of the barn sparkled with icicles. It had been hard enough in the warmer weather of autumn for my swollen hands to manipulate distaff and spindle, to pass the shuttle through the loom, to thread a needle for the final sewing. Now I felt a dull throbbing in my joints that would not go away, even when I rested. On the worst days, when snow fell soft outside and lanterns lit the room where we worked even at midday, I had to fight hard to keep back tears as I forced myself to go on. Margery had learned by now that I would not accept help from anyone. All she could do was sit by me and talk quietly of one thing and another, and I found her presence reassuring. But my progress was slow, too slow. There was a fire on the hearth, and the women would sit near it to work. But I did not move closer, for I did not like the suspicious glances or the wagging tongues, which were silent only in Lady Anne’s presence. I did not like the little signs they made with their fingers, when they thought I was not watching. I worked as steadily as I could, and I watched through the window as midwinter came ever closer, and because I no longer dared to consider how long the whole task might take, I set myself a smaller goal. I would finish Conor’s shirt by Meán Geimhridh, the winter solstice.