wont, Gracia and the anchoress’ servant now hurried down the aisle and past the chapel to the door leading to the apothecary. When they reached the hut, they saw a young nun inside, busily grinding something with mortar and pestle.
Hearing a sound, Sister Oliva looked up, saw the servant with the maid, and smiled. “How may I serve?”
Gracia explained what had been troubling the anchoress.
The servant walked back toward the chapel.
With a mildly curious expression, the young nun watched the woman leave, then walked to the shelves lined with jars, woven baskets, and sealed, glazed bottles. She pulled down a large earthenware container, pried off the wooden stopper, and began to weight out what would be used in the simple cure.
“I am grateful you are here, Sister, but grieve over the burden laid upon you due to the absence of Sister Anne,” Gracia said, gazing at the markings on the stored items. She had just begun to read, a skill for which she found both aptitude and interest, and used every chance to hone her knowledge.
“No one at Tyndal questions her innocence,” Sister Oliva replied, securing the seal back on the jar with a thump of her fist.
Gracia tilted her head and frowned as she pretended not to be able to read the label attached to one woven basket. “Sister, would you mind telling me what that is? I can see a ‘b’ and a ‘k’…”
“That contains blackthorn flowers. As an infusion in wine, it opens the bowels for those who suffer a binding thereof.” She put the jar she had just used back on the shelf, ran her finger along the shelf, and selected another.
“This all is so tidy.” Gracia gazed at the articles before her. “Different colored and shaped jars. Metal and wooden containers. All labeled, it seems.”
Dumping a pinch of a pale green powder into a mortar with the measured amount of the other herb, the nun began to grind and mix. “Sister Anne did not want us to accidentally use the wrong ingredient. A few items can be dangerous if used incorrectly, and many look the same to the untrained eye. Although she makes the majority of the remedies, she had trained a few of us to prepare the most common cures.”
“So she would let you mix a cure for an uneasy stomach?”
The nun stopped grinding and gave the maid a sharp look.
“I do not suggest that you or anyone else here mixed the wrong things together for Father Etienne’s clerk, Sister!” Gracia decided to trust the nun. After all, Sister Anne did, having found the young woman reliable and worthy of more advanced training. “I ask so I can better comprehend what might have happened and thus find a way to prove our sub-infirmarian’s innocence.”
Sister Oliva nodded, bent toward the maid, and whispered, “Do you know what Sister Anne believed to be the cause of the clerk’s illness?”
Gracia glanced around. She and the nun were alone. “A surfeit of ale,” she murmured.
With a grin, Sister Oliva gestured to the maid. “Come and I will show you.”
Gracia followed her to the other side of the hut.
“The remedy would consist of one of two preparations,” Sister Oliva said. “A drink of chamomile with ginger is often used to ease the symptoms as well as one of mixed yarrow and elderflower to balance the humors.” She pointed to a basket. “Here is the container of elderflowers, for instance.” She dropped her hand to a lower shelf and put a finger on a basket. “Here is the one filled with yarrow leaves.” Stepping back she gestured at the entire wall of shelving. “If one cannot read, one can learn the jar shape, color, and size. As for baskets, Sister Anne attached a colored cloth in the lid of each.”
Gracia studied the items. “It would be easy to memorize the position of each ingredient as well?”
“Yes, and she insisted that every item be put back immediately after use and in the space allotted for it. For those who could read, Sister Anne preferred to keep everything in alphabetic order.
Hearing a sound, Sister Oliva looked up, saw the servant with the maid, and smiled. “How may I serve?”
Gracia explained what had been troubling the anchoress.
The servant walked back toward the chapel.
With a mildly curious expression, the young nun watched the woman leave, then walked to the shelves lined with jars, woven baskets, and sealed, glazed bottles. She pulled down a large earthenware container, pried off the wooden stopper, and began to weight out what would be used in the simple cure.
“I am grateful you are here, Sister, but grieve over the burden laid upon you due to the absence of Sister Anne,” Gracia said, gazing at the markings on the stored items. She had just begun to read, a skill for which she found both aptitude and interest, and used every chance to hone her knowledge.
“No one at Tyndal questions her innocence,” Sister Oliva replied, securing the seal back on the jar with a thump of her fist.
Gracia tilted her head and frowned as she pretended not to be able to read the label attached to one woven basket. “Sister, would you mind telling me what that is? I can see a ‘b’ and a ‘k’…”
“That contains blackthorn flowers. As an infusion in wine, it opens the bowels for those who suffer a binding thereof.” She put the jar she had just used back on the shelf, ran her finger along the shelf, and selected another.
“This all is so tidy.” Gracia gazed at the articles before her. “Different colored and shaped jars. Metal and wooden containers. All labeled, it seems.”
Dumping a pinch of a pale green powder into a mortar with the measured amount of the other herb, the nun began to grind and mix. “Sister Anne did not want us to accidentally use the wrong ingredient. A few items can be dangerous if used incorrectly, and many look the same to the untrained eye. Although she makes the majority of the remedies, she had trained a few of us to prepare the most common cures.”
“So she would let you mix a cure for an uneasy stomach?”
The nun stopped grinding and gave the maid a sharp look.
“I do not suggest that you or anyone else here mixed the wrong things together for Father Etienne’s clerk, Sister!” Gracia decided to trust the nun. After all, Sister Anne did, having found the young woman reliable and worthy of more advanced training. “I ask so I can better comprehend what might have happened and thus find a way to prove our sub-infirmarian’s innocence.”
Sister Oliva nodded, bent toward the maid, and whispered, “Do you know what Sister Anne believed to be the cause of the clerk’s illness?”
Gracia glanced around. She and the nun were alone. “A surfeit of ale,” she murmured.
With a grin, Sister Oliva gestured to the maid. “Come and I will show you.”
Gracia followed her to the other side of the hut.
“The remedy would consist of one of two preparations,” Sister Oliva said. “A drink of chamomile with ginger is often used to ease the symptoms as well as one of mixed yarrow and elderflower to balance the humors.” She pointed to a basket. “Here is the container of elderflowers, for instance.” She dropped her hand to a lower shelf and put a finger on a basket. “Here is the one filled with yarrow leaves.” Stepping back she gestured at the entire wall of shelving. “If one cannot read, one can learn the jar shape, color, and size. As for baskets, Sister Anne attached a colored cloth in the lid of each.”
Gracia studied the items. “It would be easy to memorize the position of each ingredient as well?”
“Yes, and she insisted that every item be put back immediately after use and in the space allotted for it. For those who could read, Sister Anne preferred to keep everything in alphabetic order.
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