“It sounds like a seething pot!” He was horrified by the strangeness of the sound. “As if it were hell boiling over!”

“Yes, I s’pose it’s fearful.” She had no interest in it.

“What does it look like when the sea goes out?” he asked curiously. “Is the ground hot?”

“Nobody’s seen it when the tide is out,” she repeated patiently. “You can’t walk to it. You’d sink and the mire would hold you till you drowned on the next tide. P’raps it’s a cave—and you’d fall into it. Who knows? P’raps there really is a cave that holds all the sea, the waters that ebb and flow underneath all the world. P’raps it’s the end of the world, hidden away here in Foulmire, and we’ve been living on the doorstep of hell for all these years.”

“But the noise?”

“You can take a boat over it,” she offered. “It bubbles like a cauldron and it hisses loudly. Sometimes it’s so loud that you can hear it in the churchyard on a still night.”

“You can sail out to see it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t,” she specified. “But it can be done, if you’ve nothing else to do.”

He guessed that there was never a day in her life when she had nothing else to do.

She turned and walked on again. She had no interest in the threatening hiss that grew louder as the bank curved towards the harbor, and fainter as they moved away.

“Were you ever at school?” he asked, trying to imagine her life, living here in this desolate landscape, as ignorant as a flower. He lengthened his stride and walked beside her as the path widened.

“For a few years. I can read and I can write. My mother taught me her recipe book, and the herbs, and her skills.”

“She was a cook?”

“A herbalist. A healer. I do her work now.”

“Did anyone ever speak to you of the old faith? Did anyone teach you the prayers?”

She shrugged. “My grandam preferred the old ways. When I was a girl sometimes a traveling priest would come to the village and hear confessions in secret. Some of the older people say the old prayers.”

“When we get to the net shed, I should like to pray with you.”

He saw the ghost of her smile. “You’d do better to pray for your breakfast,” she said. “We don’t eat well.”

The path narrowed and they went single file again, the thorns pressing on either side of them. Somewhere in the woods away to his left he could hear the piercing song of a nightingale, singing to the pale sky.

He thought he had never traveled through so strange a landscape with so alien a companion. He had followed his vocation throughout England, going from one wealthy house to another, hearing confessions and celebrating the Mass, usually in hiding, but always in comfort. His dark good looks had served him well. He had been petted by the richest ladies of the kingdom, and respected by their fathers and brothers for risking his life for his faith. More than one beautiful girl had sunk to her knees and confessed to disturbing dreams of him. Their desire had never touched him. He was sworn to God and never distracted. He was a young man of only twenty-two years old; he reveled in the chance to test his fervent convictions, and in the sense of his own righteousness.