The Owl Killers

by Karen Maitland

  He gabbled through this list as if he wanted to get the matter finished as soon as possible. Neither man looked at each other. There was a long pause. No one moved or spoke.

  “Ralph, you know I didn’t …” Father Ulfrid began. He swallowed hard, staring at the rope in his hand. Now that he was no longer reciting the words of others, he seemed to be struggling to find words of his own. But none came.

  In the end he simply dropped the rope, made the sign of the cross over the man, and strode back towards St. Michael’s Church without another word. The leper stood bewildered, staring back at the village. He plainly had no idea what to do now or where to go. Rain was pattering onto the leaves and I drew my cloak more tightly about me, but the leper didn’t seem to notice the water running down his face.

  The beguines and the children were huddled together a little way off, watching me. I knew this day would come sooner or later just as it had for our sisters in the Low Countries. Some of them knew it too. But I could see the uncertainty in their faces. My next words to them had to sound confident. If I stumbled or gave them time to think, it would only make them more fearful of this dread sickness.

  “Healing Martha, return to the beguinage as quickly as you can. Prepare a place in the infirmary for him. Kitchen Martha, you go also and take the children with you. Get your fire stoked for a hearty meal, for I know your hot pottage will do him as much good as any of Healing Martha’s herbs. Go on now, hurry. The rest of you remain with me. I have need of you here.”

  Beatrice caught my arm. “But surely you don’t mean to bring him with us … not to the beguinage. You heard what Father Ulfrid said; it’s forbidden—”

  “The priest may forbid it, but our Lord commands it. And if there is anyone among you who does not know which of them is to be offered the greater obedience, let her not set foot across our threshold this day or any other, for she is not fit to wear the beguine’s cloak.”

  I saw shocked expressions on their faces and deliberately turned away, willing them to do what I asked. They were not under a vow of obedience to me or to anyone. I could not compel them. I couldn’t even enforce my threat if the majority of Marthas opposed me. But if I couldn’t hold these disparate women to one common purpose, then everything we had worked for was worthless. The beguinage would fracture and fall apart.

  The leper stood where the priest had left him, slumped and lifeless, like a hanged man dangling from an invisible noose. The rope still trailed from his wrist. But when I drew his wrist to me, he flinched as if he feared I was going to strike him.

  “Be still, I merely wish to untie you. They call me the Servant Martha. What did Father Ulfrid say your name was?”

  He muttered something, but I couldn’t make it out.

  “Speak up, man, you know your name, surely?”

  “His name is Ralph.” Osmanna was standing just behind my elbow.

  “I’m sure he is capable of making an answer for himself,” I said a trifle sharply, startled to find her so close. “And I thought I gave instructions that the children were to go on ahead with Kitchen Martha.”

  She jerked her chin up. “I am not a child and you instructed the rest of us to stay.”

  I bit back a smile; the girl showed more spirit than the rest of them put together.

  I turned back to the leper. “Ralph, we are taking you to the beguinage. There you will have shelter, a warm bed to sleep in, such ointments as we can provide for your sickness, and good food to fill your belly.”

  His eyes widened in fear and I almost retreated from him, catching the satyr’s look around his mouth, but when I looked again I saw only the misery of an outcast, nothing more. I was annoyed with myself for flinching. To be condemned never again to feel the touch of another human hand; free to roam, yet imprisoned away from all life; to see it, to hear it, but never again to be part of it. It was a sentence beyond bearing. I was determined it should not be so with us.

  “Come, Ralph, where else will you go? Driven from hamlet to hamlet, sleeping in ditches, begging scraps that even the pigs refuse. Can any tales you’ve heard about us be worse than that? At least in the beguinage you’ll be close to your home.”

  At the mention of home, tears sprang up in Ralph’s dead eyes. He swallowed hard, struggling to speak. Finally, without looking at me, he gave the smallest nod of assent. I turned and led the way back. Ralph shuffled after me, his shoulders hunched, staring down at the mud-filled ruts of the road. I could have been leading him straight into Hell and he would not have protested, for in his mind he was already there. The little band of beguines trailed behind us, silent as mourners following a coffin.

  I tried to skirt the village as far as I could. I feared the reaction of the villagers if they saw him returning, but the final stretch of the path took us beside the outlying cottages and there was no avoiding it. I had hoped the rain would keep the cottagers inside, but children do not care about getting wet and there were several playing on the track ahead of us. They ran into the cottages when they saw us coming, their voices raised, giving the alarm. Men and women emerged from doorways, gathering together on the path. There was no other way round. Drawing myself up to my full height, I marched forward, purposefully staring straight ahead, so as to make it quite clear that I would not permit my path to be blocked.

  As we approached, the villagers began to jeer and shout. Mouldy vegetables and eggs flew towards us. A rotten egg exploded on my chest. The stench was enough to turn the stomach. Ralph stopped suddenly and the women behind almost fell on top of him. He was trembling. He wouldn’t move. I seized him by one arm and tried to pull him forward, snapping at the women to keep walking and stay close together. Then I felt someone pulling Ralph on the other side. Osmanna had locked her small arm tightly through his. I caught her eye and smiled approvingly. She would make a strong beguine one day if only she would take as firm a grip on her own spirit as she had on this leper’s arm.

  Someone spat at me. The spittle ran down my cheek, but I felt confident they would not dare to lay hands on us for fear of the contagion. I only prayed that they’d stick to throwing eggs and wouldn’t pick up any stones. The beguines were cowering under the barrage of filth and dung that was raining down on us from all sides. The villagers screamed and shouted as we hurried between them, their faces distorted with fear and anger.

  The shouting died away. The villagers dropped behind us. Once we were safely away from their cottages, they seemed to lose interest. Only a few children still ran along at a safe distance behind us, jeering and throwing muck, but they were too far away to hit us. At the beguinage gate I risked a brief glance round. There was no one following us. I permitted myself a small sigh of relief and guided Ralph firmly inside.

  We were safe, but for how long?

  father ulfrid

  i WAS SITTING DOWN TO SUPPER, when the trouble began. It was already dark outside and quiet. I suppose I should have realised it was too quiet. No sounds of laughter as men made their way home from the tavern, no gangs of young lads hanging around on the corner, shouting and causing trouble. That should have struck me as odd, but I was too hungry and weary to notice.

  I’d been later than usual leaving the church after Vespers. Not that there had been many in church to delay me, in fact it had been almost empty, but I had stayed to pray and lost track of the time. I’d much to pray about that day, the business with Ralph, those wretched women who had defied me and brought him back into the village, and above all the longing for Hilary that kept me lying awake through the long empty nights, an accursed aching desire that I dared not confess to any living soul.

  The girl who cooked for me had already gone home, leaving my supper laid out on the table, next to the unlit candle, the knuckle end of a joint of salt pork, cheese, a little bean bread. The bone seemed to have considerably less meat on it than I recalled from dinner at midday. I’d have to have words with her about that—again.

  I was in the act of cutting a slice of pork when the noise exploded
so suddenly that I jerked and the knife sliced across my finger. For a moment the pain of the cut blotted out the sound, but as I scrabbled around in search of a cloth to staunch the blood, the sound continued. It was coming from somewhere outside. Wrapping a rag tightly round my finger, I cautiously opened the shutter on the small window and peered out. At once the rumble became louder. It sounded as if a hundred blacksmiths had all started pounding on their anvils at once. At the far end of the street I could see the flames of bobbing torches.

  I hastily pulled on my shoes, making a pig’s foot of the task as I tried to hold my throbbing finger out of the way. Snatching up my staff, for I wasn’t sure what I would encounter, I made my way cautiously down the dark, deserted street.

  As I drew nearer, I could make out a crowd of people, mostly men and boys. Some held blazing torches, but most were holding iron pots, tongs, pincers, fire irons, and any other bit of metal they could lay their hands on, and were banging them together as vigorously as they could. Children were rattling bird-scarers over their heads.

  They were clustered round one of the cottages, trampling over the herbs and vegetables, smashing through the fruit bushes, in an effort to get close to the shuttered windows and door. In all the chaos and darkness, it took me a few minutes to work out whose cottage this was, then I realised. It was Ralph’s.

  I recognised one of the men standing near me and grabbed his arm.

  “Alan, what’s happening?” I had to shout to make myself heard over the din.

  He turned reluctantly towards me and bellowed in my ear. “A little rough music is all, Father. Nothing for you to fret about.”

  “Why at this cottage?”

  He shook his head, unable to hear the question above the noise.

  Impatiently I caught his arm and pulled him a little way back down the street. His son William trailed after him, still rattling his bird-scarer. I snatched it out of his hand and glared at him. The boy looked indignantly at his father, clearly expecting him to intervene, but Alan did nothing.

  “What’s going on, Alan? Ralph’s not in there; you know he isn’t.”

  “His wife and bairns are.”

  “And you’re terrorising them? Why? What have they done?”

  “It’s for their own good, Father.” Alan shuffled his feet. “It’s a warning to them to get out. Got to burn the cottage. Only way to get rid of the sickness.”

  “You can’t burn the cottage down about their ears.”

  “Three nights of rough music to persuade them to leave; if they’re not gone by the third night, cottage’ll be burned whether they’re in it or not. If they’ve got any sense they’ll be long gone by then anyway.”

  “They’re your neighbours, Alan. You’ve known Joan all your life. You grew up with her.”

  He shrugged and I could see that I was wasting my time.

  “At least send your son home, Alan. He shouldn’t be party to this.”

  “Boy’s got to learn.”

  William, who’d looked aghast at the thought of being sent home, grinned broadly.

  “And what about your daughter, Alan; does she also have to learn?”

  I pointed to a dark shadow crouching behind the bushes. I’d seen her following them and guessed neither of them knew she was there.

  “I told you to stay with your mam!” Alan bellowed. “You get straight home, lass, and you’d better be abed before I get back or you’ll be sorry.”

  “Yeh,” William yelled. “Clear off, Pisspuddle, this is men’s work. We don’t want you.”

  I left Alan and hurried towards the cottage, shoving my way through the crowd until I reached the doorstep. I found an upturned pail and stepped up on it, trying to make myself seen above the throng. I held up my hands for silence. One or two people at the front stopped banging, but it took some time for the rest to realise I was there. Gradually the noise died away.

  “You all heard what I said in church. Ralph was struck down because he was guilty of the sin of lust. He confessed it. God does not smite the innocent. Joan and the children have done no wrong.”

  “She’s as guilty as her husband!” someone called out from the crowd. “She hid his sickness, kept him indoors pretending he’d the ague. She let her bairns go on playing with ours, never said a word.”

  “That’s right,” another shouted. “If Lettice hadn’t managed to slip in one day when Joan was out, we’d never have known. If you ask me, Father, she’s lucky a bit of rough music is all she’s getting.”

  “But I’ve told you,” I said, “there’s no reason for you to fear Joan or her children. I’ve examined them myself; there’s not a mark on them. You don’t need to burn them out.”

  Alan had pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “It’s all very well for you, Father, you don’t have bairns to worry about. My wife says she won’t feel safe until every stick and stone of that cottage is in ashes.”

  “And does D’Acaster know about this?” I demanded. “This is Manor property.”

  “You think we’d be daft enough to do this without his say-so?”

  Someone else yelled out from the back of the crowd, “Those women brought Ralph back through the village, after you said he was forbidden to set foot in the village again. You going to stand for them defying you like that?”

  Young William tugged excitedly on my robe. “My father said the Owl Masters could get rid of those women soon as look at them, didn’t you, Father?”

  There was a murmuring among the crowd and several heads nodded in agreement.

  I felt my jaw clench. Gossip spreads faster than floodwater in a village. I knew what the men were thinking: If a priest can’t even get women to do what they’re told, why should we listen to him?

  “They are not in defiance of the Church, because the house of women lies outside the village. Those women took Ralph in out of Christian charity. It was a kindly act, but an extremely foolish one. I have no doubt they will come to regret their actions.”

  “So you’re saying you can’t do anything,” Alan said. “My lad’s right; if you can’t, the Owl Masters can.” At that, everyone began talking and I had to raise my voice still louder to compete with them.

  “If Ralph ever sets foot in this village, I will deal with him, but if he keeps to the house of women, then he is out of the village and you need have no fear for your children. But if you care about your families as much as you say you do, you will not turn to the Owl Masters. They are a dangerous and ungodly force, and the sooner decent men like you make it clear there is no place for them in this village, the better. There is no power stronger than the power of God and the Church. If you trusted in that, you would not need the Owl Masters.”

  Alan shook his head stubbornly. “Aye, well, you being an outlander, Father, you’d not understand.”

  “I understand that anyone who does not submit to the authority of Christ and the Church has placed himself under the authority of the Devil. The Owl Masters set themselves against the laws of God.” I looked down sternly at Alan’s son. “And you know what happens to those who consort with the Devil, don’t you, William?”

  The men looked mutinous and began to mutter furiously among themselves. I could feel their anger rising. It was no use fighting them. If D’Acaster had consented to the cottage being burned or had even ordered the Owl Masters to do it, which he might well have done if he thought Ralph guilty of lust, then I wouldn’t be able to prevent it. The best I could do was to make sure that Joan and her children were not inside it when it went up in flames.

  “Go home now, all of you. I’ll talk to Joan, persuade her to leave without the need for all this. And if I hear of anyone laying hands on this cottage before the family’s safely out, he’ll have God to answer to.”

  The villagers looked at one another, then began to peel off in twos and threes and make their way back through the darkened streets. Most were heading in the direction of the Bull Oak Inn.

  I walked round the cottage to make quite sure no one was
still lurking in the shadows. Even in the darkness I could see the garden was wrecked, everything broken or trampled into the mud. I knocked on the door and stood shivering, listening for sounds on the other side. A chill wind had sprung up and in my haste I had not stopped to throw on a cloak.

  “It’s Father Ulfrid, Joan, open the door. It’s safe, they’ve all gone.”

  There was a long pause, followed by the sound of something heavy being dragged away from the door. Finally it opened a crack.

  “I’m alone. Let me in, Joan.”

  The door opened just wide enough for me to slip through, then it was slammed and bolted. Joan stood bundled up in her travelling clothes. Her two little sons and her daughter, Marion, were clinging to her skirts, their white frightened faces snotty and tearstained. Joan struggled to lift a heavy pack onto her shoulders.

  “You’re surely not thinking of setting out on the road tonight, Joan?”

  “Been warned, Father; best go tonight before … there’s more trouble.” Like Ralph, she couldn’t bear to look me in the eyes.

  “I agree it’s not safe for you to stay here tonight, but come home with me, have a bite to eat and rest. The children must be famished.”

  She shook her head firmly. “Thank you kindly, Father, but we’re going tonight. I’ve a cousin in Norwich. She’ll maybe take us in. It’s far enough away for them not to have heard about …” She trailed off, unable to say the word.