“A man?” It was as if I had suggested she consult a monster. “A monk? Such folk know nothing of women and babies and their ailments. How could they?”

It would be a lot better than nothing, I thought, but did not say it. “If your grandfather is unwell, they could at least help him. Take away some of your burden. I realize it’s a long way, but if they knew you were in need, they might send someone to visit.”

Ana said nothing. She took her son from me and wrapped his shawl back around him, her hands tender.

“As for supplies, and a hand with the heavy work, can’t Lady Geiléis arrange that for you?” I thought about the baskets going over to the tower, and wondered again if the lady’s loyal retainers were carrying out all manner of activities unnoticed, right under her nose. The fact remained that Geiléis was, in effect, the chieftain of Bann. It was surely her responsibility to ensure that all the folk who lived within her holdings were adequately provided for. Even if her mind was much occupied with other matters.

“We don’t see anything of the lady. Or her men, apart from Donncha. Fursa was good with horses. Helped Donncha with a difficult mare, a couple of years ago. Friends ever since, the two of them, though Lady Geiléis wasn’t happy with it. Doesn’t like her men to be out among folk much. Mostly they keep themselves to themselves. It was different with him and my man.”

“Oh?” I busied myself building up the fire, refilling the kettle, looking for herbs to make a brew.

“They were close. Fursa had work back then, helping folk with their stock. We weren’t . . .” Ana cast a helpless look around the room. “Things weren’t like they are now.”

I found a jar of dried peppermint leaves; they were past their best, but better than nothing. “Mm-hm,” I murmured in a manner I hoped was encouraging. No awkward questions. I’d wait for her to talk if she wanted to, and accept her silence if she did not.

“There’s something wrong in these parts,” Ana said. “Since that thing came to the tower, or even before. My man . . . he was all right. Got sad sometimes, sorry he couldn’t provide better for us, but . . . just sad, not . . . And then it was like a dark cloud came down over him. Couldn’t turn his hand to anything. Didn’t want to talk about it. He’d say he was going off to do a job for someone, and just wander around until it was time to come home. So, no pay.”

“That must have been hard for you.” I poured hot water over the peppermint; it seemed the herbs were still good, for a wholesome smell spread through the room.

“Oh, that smells nice,” Ana said. “Thank you, Mistress Blackthorn.”

“No trouble.” Exhausted, beaten down, full of sorrow, and yet so grateful for small things. Perhaps it was at just such times of hardship and sadness that folk noticed the little kindnesses; the brief moments of beauty. “If you wish, I’ll have a word to Lady Geiléis for you. I may not have much influence, but I can try at least.” I would suggest that someone—Donncha, Senach, Geiléis herself—approach the monks on the same issue. Ana might not be prepared to accept the services of monks as healers, but I did not think she would refuse a share of the good food St. Olcan’s still seemed to be producing. Hadn’t Geiléis said that most of what we were eating in her house came from the monastery farm?