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noticed.
    The pregnant woman tapped Katherine on the shoulder.
    “Didn’t you hear me?” the woman said. “It’s my head that hurts. You’ve got something for me, surely.”
    “Bark of white willow,” Hawkwood answered, handing her a few strands of it. “Boil it, eat the skin, and drink the water.”
    “Hot or cold?” the pregnant woman asked.
    Katherine noticed that Hawkwood had also turned his attention to Thomas. He must have been thinking the same thing. For a day and a half, Thomas had disappeared from the eyes of those who reported to them. And this following the visit from the Earl of York, when all had heard that Thomas was committed to join battle against the Scots. Thomas had been nowhere at all in Magnus, and none had seen him depart. It was almost as if Thomas knew Magnus was riddled with spies.
    And now Thomas was back. From where?
    “Hot or cold?” the pregnant woman repeated.
    “Drink it lukewarm,” Hawkwood answered in his practiced scratchy and feeble voice.
    “Laurel,” the pregnant woman said. “I need laurel. Seven berries.”
    When neither answered, she repeated this too. “Laurel berries.”
    Katherine answered. “Save your coin. It’s not true. Seven berries won’t prevent labor pains.”
    “How many then?” she asked, touching her belly.
    “John’s wort might help,” Katherine said, “but nothing will prevent labor pains unless you take something that addles your own wits. But then the babe will be harmed.”
    “Seven berries,” the woman said firmly. “Everyone knows.”
    Katherine shrugged. Hawkwood had trained her well as an herbalist. She preferred to sell only what was effective, not what was believed to be effective. But peasants clung to superstition, and seven laurel berries, at least, would not hurt the woman or her child.
    “What about something to help with hearing?” the woman asked. “Anything for that?”
    “You’re losing your hearing?” Hawkwood asked.
    “Not at all,” she said. “It’s something both of you need to worry about.”
    The old man chuckled benevolently and took the woman’s coin.
    The pregnant woman waddled away, leaving Katherine to move close to Hawkwood. Like hers, Hawkwood’s age was an illusion, accomplished with wigs artfully constructed from real hair, long and wild and deliberately filthy. Dirt and soot on their faces and hands helped hide smooth skin. But none would look closely anyway. The bulk of the illusion was accomplished with body language, clothing, and voice.
    To the inhabitants of Magnus, the two of them were the ancient couple sent to the market from a monastery in a neighboring valley to dispense medical advice and herbs.
    Magnus had a barber, of course, to pull teeth and do surgeries and bloodletting. But the local barber, like all barbers, was to be avoided when possible, unless it was for a simple haircut. Barbers were not known for their delicate touch when pulling teeth or stitching wounds.
    Instead, people preferred medicinal plants and roots and herbs, as much less pain was involved in the cure or attempted cure.
    Posing as elderly herbalists from outside of Magnus allowed them to come and go as they pleased; since they didn’t live in the village, questions were never asked or rumors started when they were gone.
    Better yet, as Hawkwood had explained to Katherine, since no one really cared about the lives of the elderly man and woman who served Magnus as herbalists, the roles could be filled if necessary by anyone willing to don a disguise.
    For now, Katherine played the role of the old woman herbalist, fully aware that Thomas had put out a reward for anyone who could lead him to her. But Thomas—and all of Magnus—was looking for someone whose face was wrapped in bandages, to hide the scars from a fire.
    “I think he intends to come to us,” Hawkwood said softly. “Don’t look away as if you don’t notice. That would be unnatural. He’s the lord of Magnus. What’s natural is to be watching