“Fish promise a good supper, but as long as they’re in the river, your belly stays hungry. You fetch a gift, lass. Then I’ll do what you ask.”
I knew I couldn’t go back, not with this thing inside me. I could feel it growing as I stood there. I wanted to take a knife and rip my belly open and tear it out, but I knew I wouldn’t have the courage to do it.
“No, no please, it must be now. I can’t bear to have it inside me, not another hour.”
She looked at me curiously. “You hate him that much?”
I nodded.
“What’s that on your chest?”
I groped around and felt a small sharp pin, it must have caught the light and she’d seen it glinting. “A boar, the emblem of Saint Osmanna.”
The old woman frowned as if the name was unfamiliar to her.
“Osmanna was a hermit in a forest and gave shelter to a savage boar when it was being hunted. That’s how the Bishop found her—he was hunting the boar and it led him to her and seeing how she tamed the wild beast, he converted her to Christianity and baptised her.” I don’t know why I explained all that except that I wanted to keep her talking and stop her walking away from me.
“The boar did Osmanna no favours then.” Old Gwenith shook her head as if she could not believe such things. “So why do you wear this boar? You didn’t tame your wild beast, else you’d not be here.”
“My name is Osmanna. She’s my namesake.”
The old woman stared at me for a long time, her toothless gums pressed together, until her mouth was a mere slit in the folds of her dark wrinkled skin. “Then I’ll take that, as the gift.” She held out her hand again.
I hesitated. I hated the name Osmanna almost as much as Agatha, but the emblem had been blessed. Without it I felt naked and vulnerable. I could not go unprotected, not out here. The emblem was all I had to ward the demon off. I glanced fearfully behind me in the direction of the forest.
The clawlike hand was still extended towards me. For the third time that day I felt the flutter of those wings in my belly. I reached up and tore the silver brooch from my cloak, not caring that I ripped the fabric too.
Old Gwenith took my wrist and pulled me towards the hut. Her grip was deceptively strong for such frail bones. Before my eyes could adjust to the light, I found myself lying on a heap of mildewed bracken and rags with the old woman pulling up my skirts. I fought the urge to push her away. Cold hands pressed hard into my belly, kneading, pressing, and pushing.
“You’ve left it late, lass. Should have come to me before.”
I clutched at her arm. “No, please! It’s not too late. You must do it. Get it out. Get it out now,” I begged.
“Hush, lass. I’m not saying it can’t be done. But it’ll go harder with you now that the brat’s quickened. Herbs alone’ll not do it now. It’ll hurt you.”
“I don’t care how much it hurts. Just get it out.”
She laughed. “Easy to say now. Wait there.”
The bracken scratched my bare thighs. The embers of the fire beneath the cooking pot were still warm enough to glow red in the semi-darkness, but the hut felt chill and damp. What did she mean herbs alone would not do it? What else would she use—an image of the knife swarmed back in my head and I was half on my feet as Gwenith returned.
She pushed me back down onto the bracken. “Here,” she said, stuffing a wedge of cloth into my mouth. “Bite on this. I don’t want screaming. It frightens Gudrun.”
The cloth stank of old sweat and I almost gagged on it, but moments later I was biting hard, as cold hard fingers prised open my rigid legs. She knelt her thighs between mine, keeping my legs apart. I smelt her sour breath as she bent over me, the stink of stale piss on her skirts. In the darkness of the hut, I couldn’t see the expression on her face, just the glitter of two eyes staring down at me.
I felt her bony fingers pushing up inside me, then a long slender stick sliding over my thigh and being forced up into me. I knew it was only wood, but it felt like burning iron. I writhed backwards, fighting to get away from it. Her free hand pushed down hard on my belly. She gave a sudden upwards thrust that sent white lights exploding in my skull. Then it was over and she was pulling the stick out.
She threw the stick aside and tugged me until I was sitting. I drew my knees up to my chin, clutching my legs until the pain subsided to a raw stinging ache. My mouth was so dry it was glued to the filthy rag in my mouth. I pulled it and tasted the blood welling on my lips as the skin tore away with it.
“Is it … is it gone?” I moaned.
“It’s dead. Blackthorn’s killed it, but it’s still in there.”
“No, no,” I screamed. “You have to get it out.”
Her greasy hand clamped across my mouth. “Hush! I told you I don’t want noise. Here.” She pushed a knotted rag into my hand. “In this are bay berries. Mind you chew them well; don’t just swallow them. Then you’ll start to bleed heavy and the dead bairn’ll come away with your blood. No one’ll know it’s not natural. You’ll have some cramps, mind—it won’t be easy.”
The old woman’s head jerked up and she tensed. “Someone’s coming.” She dragged me upright and pushed me behind a ragged cloth that hung across the corner of the hovel. “Stay hidden,” she hissed.
I crouched on the stinking earth floor and bit my fist to stop myself from moaning from the searing pain between my legs. Then I heard a man’s voice outside the hovel.
“So, Mother, I hear you’ve been sending the brat to keep watch on the house of women.”
Gwenith laughed. “What could my poor little Gudrun tell me of anyone?”
“You can hear the bones of the dead talking. I reckon you’ve ways of finding out what you want from a dumb girl. The question is, Mother, why are you so interested in the women? Do you think you’ll be able to persuade them to help you to work against us? Is that it?”
I peered round the edge of the cloth. Gwenith and the man stood just outside the door of the cottage. The man was much taller than the low doorway and I couldn’t see his face, only the long brown cloak of an Owl Master.
“Afeared of the women are you?” Gwenith’s tone was mocking.
The man snorted. “I think you’re the one that’s scared, Mother. You’re the only cunning woman now, since we got rid of that witch, your daughter. But those women’ll not take your part. They’re Christians; they’d see you hanged first.”
“Aye, they might. But then again maybe there’s more that binds us than divides us, though they may not know it yet. That leader of theirs has got the spirit of Black Anu in her. You’ll not cow them into submission like the villagers. Not every woman falls on her knees at the sight of what dangles between your legs.”
“You witch—” The man raised his fist, but I saw the flash of a blade in Gwenith’s hand. He gave a gasp of pain, clutching his arm.
“You’ve cut me, you vicious old hag!”
“Forgive a poor old woman. My hands get shaky; knife’s apt to slip. If I were you, I’d stand back. I’m such a clumsy old thing, I shouldn’t wonder if one of these days I don’t take someone’s eye out.” Her knife was still pointed at him.
He backed a pace away. “There was a time when you and I were on the same side, Mother. We could be again. Together we could defeat the Church, and bring Ulewic back to the ancient gods who first ruled this valley. You know things will continue to go ill with this land until the old ways return.”
“Together?” Gwenith laughed sourly. “In the hour you spilled the blood of the night-cat, you turned your hand against me.”
“You think you can turn the villagers back to the old ways without blood?”
“There’s blood that’s meant for the spilling and there’s sacred blood that must never be touched.” Gwenith spat on the ground. “If you follow the path you’re bent on, you’ll be leading Ulewic into such darkness and destruction that none of you’ll be able to find your way out again.” She lowered the knife, but she still held it tight. “On May Eve you spent
the night in the bull oak wrapped in the hide of the white stag. No man’s dared that since my own grandam was a bairn and the last one who did ran mad and was taken by the river afore cockcrow. It takes a rare courage to brave the hide and live to tell the tale, but courage is not enough, not to stand against him.”
“How did you know about the hide, Mother?”
“It changes a man, marks him for life. Happen you think if you can survive the horrors of that hide, you can command him. But he’ll not be commanded, not by your skills alone. And I’ll not lend you ours, so think on it. Remember what’s carved above the church door—Black Anu, the maid, the mother, and the hag. She was ancient long before the Church was young. She is ours. Without our skills, you have only half the power. You’ll not control him. Don’t be such a fool as to unleash what you can’t master.”
“Your skills! A cunning woman’s skills? What are those—a witch-jar to set the bowels of some wretched man afire; a charm to flux some farmer’s calf; a toadstone to detect poison? You think a bunch of herbs can master him? Iron, blood, and fire, that’s what will control him and I have them. I am the Aodh. I have them all.”
He leant towards her. “You said there was blood for the spilling, Mother. Take care it is not yours.”
beatrice
i HATED THE NIGHTS IN THE INFIRMARY, the patients moaning and whimpering in their sleep, the snores and the constant irritating coughs which you didn’t seem to notice in the daytime. Healing Martha couldn’t attend night and day, else she’d have ended up in the infirmary herself. But there always had to be someone on duty at night, to fetch a pot for those too weak to get out of bed or a cordial for a fever. So we all had to take turns, not the Marthas, of course, for they had other duties, but us mere beguines who had no domains of our own.
I’d just managed to get an old woman settled when the door burst open and Healing Martha staggered in under the weight of Osmanna, who was draped round her shoulders and doubled up with pain. Little Catherine was supporting Osmanna on the other side, white with fear.
“Bring a lamp, Beatrice, quickly now,” Healing Martha said as she and Catherine dragged Osmanna to a cot in the corner of the room.
When I returned with the lamp, Osmanna was lying on her side, legs drawn up, but even in that position I could see her shift was soaked in dark red blood. As another spasm of pain gripped her she bit hard on her fist, closing her eyes tightly against the agony.
“You go back to bed, Catherine; we’ll take care of her,” Healing Martha said.
Catherine seemed rooted to the spot, staring down at Osmanna, a stricken expression on her face. “Is she going to …”
Healing Martha put her arm round Catherine and led her to the door. “You did well to fetch me, Catherine, but now try not to worry.”
“She said not to, but I had to … all that blood.” Catherine was staring back over Healing Martha’s shoulder. She looked as if she might vomit.
“You did the right thing. Now get some sleep.”
Healing Martha gently pushed Catherine out into the darkness of the courtyard and firmly closed the door behind her.
Healing Martha returned to the cot and tried to straighten Osmanna’s legs, but she twisted away, shaking her head violently.
“It’s only cramps … my menses.”
“You poor child.” I stroked her hair, which was damp with sweat. “I’ve never seen menses this bad. It could be ague or green sickness. You’ve scarcely eaten a thing these past weeks. It’s those wretched books—”
“Yes, thank you, Beatrice,” Healing Martha said, elbowing me aside. “Why don’t you go and see if you can get Hilda back to bed?” She jerked her chin in the direction of the old woman who was wandering down the infirmary towards us, clearly fascinated by what was going on.
The cot on which Osmanna lay, like all those in the infirmary, was screened on three sides by wooden back, end, and side panels, which were too high to see over, and by the time I had settled the woman, Healing Martha had positioned herself so as to block Osmanna from view on the one remaining open side. Every time I approached, Healing Martha kept sending me to fetch things—a bowl, cloth, water, or a cordial for pain. But I could hear Osmanna’s moans and I could glimpse enough to see her arch her back, and sink again as the pain subsided.
Suddenly I understood what was happening to her. I’d felt those pains myself, not once, nor twice, but on seven occasions in my life, and I knew only too well what they meant. Osmanna was losing a child before its time.
But how could she be? She was only a child herself and how could she have got herself pregnant living in the beguinage? She never went out unless she was forced to and then only when she was with a group of us. If she was pregnant it must mean she was already with child before she came to us. Was that why her father had sent her in here? Because she had disgraced the family?
I stood in the shadow behind the wooden panel of the cot. Healing Martha was talking softly, so as not to disturb the other patients.
“Osmanna, why didn’t you come to me? Did you think we would have cast you out if we’d known? Is that why you tried to get rid of the baby?”
I felt my heart lurch and I swayed, almost knocking against the panel. This was not a miscarriage. That girl had deliberately tried to kill her own baby.
“I didn’t …it just happened.” Osmanna gasped out. “I couldn’t help …”
Healing Martha bent lower over the cot. “Listen to me, child. I am not judging you. If there is any sin in this, it is ours. We should have made you understand that we would never have cast you out. This is a beguinage, a place of refuge. Many women came to the Vineyard in Bruges when they were with child that was not of their husbands’ getting or when they had no husband. We cared for them and raised their children. They were as frightened as you and they would have done what you have done, if they’d had no one else to turn to.”
“You don’t understand, I didn’t … I didn’t,” Osmanna sobbed.
“Child, I’ve been a physician for nigh on fifty years and I know when a foetus is lost accidentally and when deliberately. I will not ask who did this to you, for I trust it was no one within these walls, but you must tell me all that they did, so that I can help you. If you do not, you may lose your own life too. You must trust me.”
Osmanna moaned again. The bed creaked as she arched away from the pain, but I had no pity for her now. I hoped she was in agony; she deserved to be.
“Healing Martha, you have to understand I couldn’t have it … I couldn’t … It was not like those women … I couldn’t give birth to it. I had to get it out of me. It wasn’t a human baby … It was a monster, a demon … It was growing inside me. There was no one else who could help me … I’m sorry, I’m so sorry …”
“Hush now,” Healing Martha soothed. “What’s done is done. I can tell something sharp was used to pierce you, but was anything else put inside you? An herb? A stone? Did they give you some potion to drink? No one blames you, but you must tell me exactly what happened.”
I stumbled away and ran from the room, not caring that the door slammed after me. Not caring that I woke everyone. I had to get away from her.
Not blame her? How could I not blame her? To murder your own child in the womb, what kind of woman could do such a terrible thing? Didn’t she know how hard it was to conceive a child? Did she know what a miracle it was, how some women would give everything they had just to have a baby of their own? A child you had carried and given birth to, a tiny fragile life to hold in your arms, someone to love and care for that no one could ever take from you. That’s all I wanted. That’s all I’d ever wanted, a baby of my own. Hundreds, thousands of women have children, not just one or two but five, six, a dozen even. All I wanted was one. It wasn’t much to ask and here was Osmanna throwing my dream away, as if it was a filthy rag. She could have given the baby to me. If she didn’t want the child, I would have gladly taken him. I would have loved him more than any child has ever been loved. She mu
rdered the child I could have had. She killed my baby.
PEGA TURNED OVER with a grunt as I burst noisily into the room we shared.
“What the devil … Beatrice, is that you?”
“Are you awake?” I demanded.
She groaned by way of answer.
“Do you know what Osmanna has done? What that little slut …” I paced up and down the cramped confines of the room.
“God’s arse, Beatrice, it’s the middle of the night! Will you stop thumping about and go to bed.” Pega pulled the covers over her head.
I sat down on the end of my cot, but was up again almost immediately, too angry to stay still.
Pega struggled to sit up, the boards of her cot creaking in protest. “What is it?” she grumbled. “You may as well tell me now you’ve woken me. I can see I’m not going to be allowed to sleep until you do.”
I sat down again, this time on the end of her cot, and launched into the tale, hardly stopping to draw breath. There was silence when I finished. For a moment I thought she’d fallen asleep again. The fire had burned too low to see her face properly.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” I demanded.
“Is the lass all right?” she asked gravely.
“What? Who cares if she’s all right? Haven’t you been listening to me? She murdered her own baby.”
“I heard.” Pega sighed. “Poor little reckling. She must have been scared to death.”
“Aren’t you appalled?” I demanded.
“Why would I be?” she said. “There’s many a woman been forced to do what she’s done, but none do it lightly. They know fine rightly it could kill them. And if they survive that, there’s the fear the law will see them hanged if it’s discovered. I pity any woman driven to it. And to think Osmanna said nowt all this time. Now we know what was ailing her.”
I could not believe Pega’s reaction. I thought she’d be as outraged as I was.
“That’s Lord D’Acaster’s daughter you’re talking about, Pega. Have you forgotten what her family did to yours? That little bitch is no better than her heartless father—worse, much worse.”
The Owl Killers Page 19