"Tis none of mine," old Izan grumbled, "'tis the brat of a scatter-brained
woman--Kate, wife to Howel the mason. She came screeching at me saying the
babe was a changeling I had left in place of her child of two years, and I
should care for it. I have no mind for the tending of babes at my time of
life, but I could not let the creature starve. Natheless 'tis but ill fed,
for my cow was lost in the marsh, and none will let me have milk for it.
Kate she's dead of a fever, and Howel will have naught of the young one,
so I have made shift as I could, with bread soaked in herb drink."

Lady Philippa was twisting a vine-garland into a leafy canopy to keep the
sun from the baby's eyes. "'Tis a pretty baby," she said, "though so
small. The cow that was lost in the marsh--how did that happen?"

The old woman's eyes blazed with hatred. "My lady, the lads of the village
drove her there, and the poor hunted beast floundered into a quagmire. I
cursed them well for it, but that does not bring back the good cow. And
Howel will do nothing for me because the child is so weazened and so
small."

The lady frowned. "It is all wrong," she said, "the lads' cruelty and the
cursing of them and the blame of the woman who thought you had witched her
child. Sir Walter shall send you a goat that you can tether within sight
of the cottage. In my country the folk often feed their babes on goat's
milk, and I would like well to taste goat's milk cheese again. Is Howel at
work now?"

"He was, my lady, but since he fell into the water he swears that he will
work no more on the wall."