‘This is Mistress Hodierna of St Albans. She is of impeccable reputation and can be vouched for with references other than mine.’ She indicated the midwife accompanying them. With an effort the young woman dropped in a deep curtsey. Her hair was respectably covered by a wimple of bleached linen. She had fine, clear skin and white hands with short, clean fingernails. A plain gold wedding ring gleamed on her heart finger, but she wore no other jewellery. ‘You come highly recommended,’ Alienor said with a smiling glance to Isabel who, together with Dame Alice, had made it her task to find a suitable wet nurse from among the numerous candidates for the position. Thus far few had measured up to the exacting standards. ‘Your husband?’ ‘I am a widow, madam,’ Hodierna replied with quiet dignity. ‘My husband was a serjeant employed by the Bishop of St Albans, but he died of the stiffening sickness before I even knew I was with child. For now I am living with my mother.’ That was good; no man making claims on his wife’s time and loyalty.
