This time it was me I slapped, hard, hitting my face over and over again to try to stop the awful ache that was stirring and swelling again in my groin, the demon I could not control.
Suddenly I hated Hilary, more than any man can hate anything, for making me plead, for making me into this creature I loathed and despised. I wished with all my heart that my dark angel had never been created, so that I would never have been tempted, never fallen, never sunk to this. I had never made love to anyone else, but even now, as I stood there at the foot of my empty ravaged bed, I knew that Hilary would soon be lying in the bed of another. I’d known it from the first. I’d known again and again every time we slept together that there were others, and there would always be others. The thought made me sick. I wanted to whip, to beat, to tear, to rape, over and over again, until Hilary screamed and begged me for mercy. And I would grant no mercy. I would go on until there was nothing left except a bloody pulp, but I knew even that would not be enough to kill my love.
agatha
iRAN FROM THE CLEARING, but the brambles were clutching at my skirts, dragging me back. I couldn’t find the path. I didn’t know if I was running towards the village or deeper into the forest. Taranis was here. The demon was here in the forest. I’d felt it. I’d seen the great black shadow of its wings hovering high above the smoke and flames of the burning saint. Now I could feel its foul breath hot on the back of my neck. It was so dark. I tried to run faster, but I kept blundering into trees and stumbling over roots.
Then it came crashing down on me, catching me from behind, slamming my belly against the trunk of a fallen tree, forcing me down. My face was pressed into the dirt. I couldn’t breathe. Rotting leaves filled my mouth. The stench of decay was forced into my nostrils. Its hot naked thighs were grinding my hip bones bloody against the rough bark. My ribs were cracking under the millstone of its chest. I grabbed wildly at earth and air and brambles, not comprehending what I tore, except that it wasn’t its skin, its wings, its eyes.
Wild onion is always in the forest, a sleeping thing, a harmless thing, but now, crushed and bruised, the stench of onions choked the air. A sea wind roared inside my skull. Though every sinew of my body howled and sobbed, my mouth was silent. My mouth was filled, crammed, stuffed to overflowing with the corruption of the forest. My lungs were clawing for breath against my will, because I wanted to die. I wanted to crawl into the dirt and bury myself among the worms. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. My body wasn’t mine anymore.
The monster wrenched my hair violently back as if it reined in a mare. It jerked my head back and forth as if it would snap my neck and make an end of it. But it made no end. Its iron flesh hammered my bones to the tree, again and again and again, until it had pierced me through. And then it was gone and I lay alone in the darkness.
may
rood een
the third and last of the beltane fire days and the eve of rood day. on this day, byres are covered with honeysuckle and rowan to protect the beasts from witches.
father ulfrid
i POUNDED MY FIST ON THE TABLE. “God’s teeth, this time you’ve gone too far!”
Phillip D’Acaster, by way of response, settled himself more comfortably in my favourite chair, an expression of disdainful amusement on his face.
I struggled to keep my temper. “When I heard you’d taken Giles, I thought you were going to give him a beating. At worst, brand him. But as a priest I cannot be expected to countenance murder.”
“You’ll countenance whatever I say you will countenance, Father. Have you forgotten who gave you your living? And who can have you turned out again just like that?” Phillip rocked forward, snapping his fingers an inch from my nose.
I did not need reminding. I knew only too well to whom I owed my living. All it would take would be one word from Phillip D’Acaster in his uncle’s ear and I’d not only be cast out of the Church, I’d be lucky to escape with my life, though I prayed to God that Phillip didn’t realise that.
I felt an iron band tightening around my chest, making it hard to breathe. It seemed to happen more and more often now. I eased myself down onto a stool, trying not to let the pain show.
Phillip leant forward and casually pulled a pitcher of my best Mass wine towards him, pouring himself such a generous measure that the wine spilled over onto the table as he raised the goblet. He tilted the goblet of wine to the candlelight to see the colour, sniffing it cautiously before he took a gulp. It was not yet noon, but I had closed and bolted the shutters and the door of my cottage. This was not a conversation I wanted one of my parishioners to walk in on.
Phillip grinned. “You know, Father, what you did in Norwich may be a mortal sin, but I don’t blame a man for trying, priest or not. In fact, I admire you. Rumour has it the wench was a fair beauty. Might have tried it myself if I’d seen her, but then of course, I haven’t taken a vow of celibacy, not that I hold that against you. Not a natural state for any man.”
He took another slow swig of wine, before setting his goblet down. “But you want to be careful, Father. Sowing your oats in another man’s field can lead to all kinds of trouble, as Giles could no doubt testify. If he still had a tongue, that is.” He wagged his finger in mock reproof. “And you should have known better than to pursue a nobleman’s wife. That hunt is far too dangerous for a man of the cloth. Husbands are apt to take violent offence at any bucks moving in on their hinds, the more so if the buck happens to be a priest, I trust you’ve given the quarry up for lost, Father.”
I desperately searched Phillip’s face for signs that he was laying a trap, but saw nothing more than amused indifference.
I bowed my head. “Even a priest is subject to temptation. But I have learned my lesson.”
“I certainly hope so, Father. Were rumours of that kind to reach the Bishop’s ears again, I doubt you’d get off with merely being stripped of your post at the cathedral.”
The crushing pain in my chest intensified as if an executioner had pressed another weight down on it. Had old Lettice seen Hilary leaving my cottage last night and spread the gossip? If she had and Phillip knew, my death warrant was already signed. I could feel the chill of sweat crawling down my face and I had to crush my hands together to keep them from shaking.
Last night I’d thought I could not loathe myself more, but when I learned what the Owl Masters were doing to Giles at the very moment I had been …Vomit rose in my throat. This was all Hilary’s fault, that evil witch … Never again, never! Holy Mother of God, I swear I mean it this time.
I saw Phillip studying me curiously and I tried desperately to pull myself together. He lounged back in the chair, holding the goblet delicately in his ringed fingers. He had Robert D’Acaster’s flaxen hair and full lips, but his young frame had not yet turned to fat. Women seemed to find him handsome enough, not that Phillip ever needed to rely on his looks to woo a woman. Unlike his uncle, whose only passions were horses and falcons, Phillip had an insatiable appetite for women. He took his pleasure wherever he wanted without waiting for an invitation, as I knew only too well from the numerous confessions I was forced to endure from the foolish girls whose pleasure Phillip had taken.
I swallowed a mouthful of ale to ease my dry throat, trying to push aside all thoughts of Hilary. If Phillip saw so much as a whisper of fear in my face, he’d seize it like a wolf taking a hare and not let go till he had shaken out the cause. I tried to stay calm.
“I am grateful for your uncle’s patronage, Phillip, most grateful, but you must understand that as a priest I have a duty to God as well as to Robert.” I made a point of emphasizing this last name. Phillip was not yet lord of the Manor however much he schemed to be.
“I have a responsibility for your soul, Phillip, and murder is a terrible sin to carry upon your conscience. I am only thinking of you and the suffering you would be forced to bear in purgatory if you died with this sin still upon you. But before I can absolve you of that sin, I must know that you truly re
pent and are willing to make penance. The penance for such a sin as murder cannot be light.”
“Trying to wring some more gold for the church coffers out of me? My uncle won’t be pleased when he hears about that.” Phillip laughed. “Anyway, why this talk of sin and penance, Father? There has been no murder.”
My jaw and fists clenched at this blatant lie. “This morning I went to the place where you burned Saint Walburga. The ashes are still warm and the place reeks of burned flesh. Don’t try to tell me there were live cats inside her like last year. The stench of roasted human flesh is not a smell I’m ever likely to mistake, not after the burnings I’ve witnessed, and Giles’s mother …”
I saw a spark of anger flash in Phillip’s eyes and knew at once I had said too much.
“What exactly did that foolish old woman tell you?”
“Nothing, I assure you,” I said quickly. I felt myself flushing like a guilty schoolboy. I took another gulp of small ale and coughed violently as it went down the wrong way. I could not afford to make Phillip angry. “As I was saying,” he resumed softly, “no murder was committed, so there is no sin to atone for. There was an execution certainly, but execution as you well know, Father, is not murder. It is divine justice.”
“Without a trial or a plea?”
He smiled. “Oh, never fear, Father, there was a trial. And by the time we had finished, how shall I put it, examining him, there certainly was a plea—many, in fact, as I recall. And after he confessed his guilt, there could only be one verdict, as Giles himself was only too ready to agree.”
He poured himself another draught of wine without waiting to be asked. I watched him warily. Robert D’Acaster had power and a violent temper, but over these last few months I had begun to realise that the nephew might prove more dangerous than his uncle. For what Phillip D’Acaster lacked in power he made up for in cunning, and cunning combined with cruelty is something to be wary of in any man, even one who does not yet have the money or position he craves.
Phillip leaned back in the chair, his hands clasped behind his head. “Anyway, Father, it’s no use complaining to me. You know that I do not lead the Owl Masters. I am merely a humble servant, his most trusted and loyal servant. But it is the Aodh who commands, judges, and executes.”
As I thought, Robert D’Acaster was responsible for this. Phillip wouldn’t take orders from anyone else. And he certainly had his uncle’s trust, though I suspected Phillip’s loyalty would last only until he was strong enough to defeat the old stag.
Phillip swung forward abruptly and gripped my wrist hard. “Father, you’d do well not to oppose the Aodh. One day you may need his help.”
A surge of anger overwhelmed all my resolve to be careful. How dare he threaten me? I was an ordained priest, the voice of God on earth.
“I can assure you, Phillip, nothing would induce me to seek help from him or any of your heathen brotherhood, no matter what the need.” I wrenched my arm from his grasp. “God’s strength is all I will ever trust in.”
“Is that so?” Phillip’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t be too hasty in your assurances, Father. You might live to regret them.”
I struggled to contain my fury. It was foolish to provoke him further. The safest course of action was to let the matter of Giles’s murder drop. What would be gained by pursuing it? I couldn’t undo the deed and there was no chance of the Owl Masters ever being punished for it. No one from the Manor or village would ever bear witness against them, not even Giles’s poor mother. But why should I be burning up with guilt when this bastard sat smirking in my chair, drinking my wine without even a twinge of conscience?
“We are agreed that Giles deserved punishment.” I struggled hard to keep my tone moderate. “Fornication is a sin, as your uncle is forever reminding us, and it is one the Church soundly condemns, but is it justified to kill a man for …” I hesitated, seeing the frown deepen on Phillip’s face. “The point is, Giles died unshriven, and even those condemned to the gallows are entitled to absolution before they die, so that their souls might be saved, even if their bodies are not. And that is something that, as your priest, I do have the right to insist upon.”
Phillip smiled, but his eyes still smouldered dangerously. “If that’s all that concerns you, Father, next time I will personally see to it that you attend the trial to shrive the condemned. In fact, I will insist on it.”
“Next time?”
“Oh yes, there will be a next time, Father, that I can promise you. The Owl Masters reigned in Ulewic long before your whey-faced saints ever trod this land. They have always ruled here. Do not foolishly imagine that because they have been watching from the shadows, they are weak. They are stronger now than ever before. A fire was kindled last night that will never be extinguished. The new era of the Owl Masters has just begun.”
servant martha
tHE COURTYARD WAS FILTHY, ankle deep in the mud of winter, slimed with hog and poultry droppings and stinking of piss. It was hard work raking it and I was perspiring despite the biting wind, but it was sound penance for body and soul. The muck would make rich nourishment for the soil once it had weathered a while, though the stench of it turned the stomach. And we would need all we could grow, for last year’s harvest had been poor and our stores were dwindling alarmingly fast.
“You need to bind that with reeds and straw, else the next rains will spread it across the yard again,” a voice called out behind me.
I turned to see Merchant Martha scuttling across the yard, her sharp brown eyes darting about as if she was a blackbird on the lookout for worms. I tried not to show to my irritation at the unwanted advice. I was always grateful for Merchant Martha’s ability to organise, but not when it extended to me.
“Thanks be to God you’ve returned safely, Merchant Martha. How did you fare at Swaffham market? Did you get a good price for the cloth?”
Her thin lips shrugged, which was the closest they ever came to a smile. “Tolerable, I suppose. Which is as well, since we need every penny we can get.”
That meant better than she expected, for she would not seal any bargain until she was sure she had wrested the last farthing she could from the buyer.
Merchant Martha shook her head dolefully. “By my reckoning we’ll need to buy more grain before the feast of Saint John. What’s in the barn will not see us through to next harvest, not with the food we’ve given to the beggars this winter. And take it from me, the price of grain won’t be falling.”
“But if our stocks are running low, the poor will be in worse straits. We’ll doubtless see more coming to our gate before this year is out.”
Merchant Martha scowled. “The villagers curse us with their left hand while holding out their right for any meat we’re fool enough to give them. Getting spat at by their lice-ridden brats is all the thanks we get.”
There was no point in contradicting her. Every woman in the beguinage had sensed the growing resentment of the village towards us. I prayed daily that the villagers would stick to spitting and cursing and that their hostility would not boil over into something worse.
I sighed. “Having to ask for charity breeds bitterness in honest men. God grant us all a better harvest this year than last, so that the villagers have no need to beg.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.” Merchant Martha shuffled her feet, impatient to be about her work.
She was a neat, compact woman and though she had a healthy appetite, she was all bones, for she was always restless with a fiery energy that seemed to burn up her flesh. When her husband was alive she had run his wool business single-handed; she’d had to, for when he wasn’t drunk, he was off whoring or gaming. It was only her hard work that kept bread on the table of her household and his fortune intact. And even now, as if she still lived in constant fear of ruin, she couldn’t bear to be idle for a moment.
“Merchant Martha, did you find time to deliver the candles and the book to Andrew?”
“I did because you asked it, but I didn’t
linger there. Too many thieves and vagabonds hanging around that church.” She grimaced. “Andrew attracts the worst sort of rogues.”
“Sinners are in more need of her grace—”
Merchant Martha snorted. “They may need her grace, but take it from me that’s not what they’re seeking.”
“Did she send a message?”
Without warning, Merchant Martha pounced on a hen which was ambling across the yard and, tucking it under her arm, poked expertly at its breast to feel the crop. It squawked indignantly.
“Andrew sent you her blessing.” She glanced at me sideways, hesitating. Then she added, “You should go and see Andrew yourself, Servant Martha. She’s … she’s much changed since you last saw her.”
I frowned. “What do you mean—changed?”
Merchant Martha set the hen down. She watched it bustle away, shaking out its feathers. “Go and see Andrew,” she repeated. “And do it as soon as you can.” She peered up at me from under her heavy black brows. “You know I don’t hold with what she does—starving herself like that when she could afford to eat, while all around there are those that starve because they have no choice. I’ve no time for such self-indulgent nonsense. But all the same I feel sorry for the girl, and something tells me she may be in urgent need of friends before long.” With that, Merchant Martha strode rapidly away towards the barn before I could ask more.
I stared after her, puzzled. Merchant Martha always had a good instinct for trouble, acquired from years of buying and selling in the seething marketplaces and squalid ports of Flanders, but I couldn’t imagine why she would think that Andrew of all women might be in need of friends.
Andrew was an anchorite who lived in a tiny cell attached to the church of St. Andrew, never leaving it, receiving all her food through the window on the outside wall and the Blessed Sacrament through the slot that overlooked the church altar. A life devoted solely to the perfection of her own soul was not one I could ever endure, any more than Merchant Martha could, but I envied Andrew all the same. She was so certain that our Lord loved her and approved of what she did. I wished I could feel that kind of certainty, even but once in my life.
The Owl Killers Page 4