“My duty is to keep an eye on things for my uncle, see that nothing goes astray. My uncle doesn’t like his property wandering from the village. Being a godly man, he naturally tries to follow the example of the Good Shepherd, and seek out that which is lost. So when I found the church chest was somewhat … denuded, I made a few discreet inquiries. I think you know what I discovered, don’t you, Father?”
I sank into the chair and covered my face with my hands. There was no longer any point in denying it. I raised my head. Phillip was studying me with an amused expression on his face, as he might have watched the misery of a baited bear.
“When are you going to tell the Bishop the church silver is missing?” I asked him bitterly. “If you’d got here a minute or two sooner you could have told the Commissarius tonight and saved yourself the ride to Norwich.”
“Father, you are even more of a fool than I took you for. Why should I tell the Bishop anything? You spoke the truth when you said nothing was missing.”
My head was swimming from the wine. I could make no sense of what he was saying. “But I thought you said the chest …”
“I said the chest was empty. And now, miraculously, it is full again.”
My shock and bewilderment must have been obvious, for Phillip chuckled.
“Your moneylender friend was persuaded to return the items you gave him to me. The jewelled chalice and all the other items are now safely back in the church chest.” He held up his hand in mock protest. “Oh, no, Father, don’t thank me.”
I stared at him. “But why would you … ?”
“If you think it was to save your miserable hide, Father, you should know by now I am not that generous. I would have enjoyed seeing you suffer at the little ferret’s hands. I regret I had to deny myself that pleasure. Something tells me our friend, the Commissarius, could be most creative in the punishments he devised, and he really doesn’t like you at all, does he, Father?
“No, I’m afraid I did not recover the church’s treasure to spare you. You see, the items in that chest were given to St. Michael’s by my ancestors. They were brought back from the Crusades or made as thank offerings for births and marriages or even, I wager, as penance for the many sins they much enjoyed. So I have a certain … attachment to them.” He shrugged. “You might call it a filial duty to the memory of my forebears to guard them. But if the Bishop was to learn how close these valuables came to being lost, he might think they were not safe where they are. He might be tempted to have them removed to his own palace where he could keep a closer eye on them, especially with his own coffers being somewhat empty at this time. And we don’t want to put temptation in the good Bishop’s way, do we? Better not to tell him, I think.”
I felt as if I had been pressed under heavy stones and just when all the breath was crushed out of me someone had lifted the weight from my chest. My head was spinning, but whether from abject relief or the effects of the wine, I could not tell. The danger was over, and it had been so easy, so simple.
Phillip waved his empty goblet at me. “And try to pour the wine in the cup this time.”
The flagon was empty. I went to the cupboard for another. It was the last one I had. I’d been keeping it for the Mass, for I had no money to buy more, but I no longer cared. All I could think about was that I had got the silver back and the Commissarius would never find out what I’d done. I filled Phillip’s goblet to the brim.
He took a long draught before setting the goblet down. “I regret that I will have to ask you for your key to the chest, Father. It would not do to have you led into sin again.” He held out his hand.
“But you can’t!” I protested. “The chest is my responsibility.” How long would the silver remain in the chest, once Phillip had both keys?
Phillip frowned. “Now, Father, if you please.”
I knew I was in no position to refuse.
He tucked my key away in his leather pouch, patting the bag with some satisfaction. “Now there is just the small matter of the money you borrowed from the moneylender plus his interest, money you now owe to me. To which sum, of course, I will be adding a trifling amount for my trouble and expenses in tracking the man down. But I’m feeling generous, so shall we say payment in full by the Twelfth Night of Christmas?”
I felt as if he’d punched me in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe. How could I possibly have believed it was over?
Phillip swung his legs down from the wall, his eyes suddenly narrow and hard. “The question is, Father, with an empty church where are you going to get the money to pay me?”
“I … There … will soon be a relic in the church. It is presently in the house of women, but … but I have excommunicated them and warned them they will remain in peril of their souls until they deliver the relic to the church and make public penance for their sins. They cannot hold out for much longer. Once they realise they will be denied the sacraments at Christmas, they will surrender the relic to me. They will have no choice. And when they do, the villagers will return to the church, knowing that it will protect them. And,” I added desperately, “once word spreads, pilgrims will crowd to the church, which will mean money not only for St. Michael’s, but for the Manor too. Pilgrims will need food, ale, places to sleep, new shoes, candles, all manner of things. A man with your nose for opportunity could make a fortune.”
“You are going to have the pilgrims flocking in by Twelfth Night, are you?” Phillip taunted. “You haven’t even laid your hands on the relic yet. From what I hear your edict of excommunication is having as little effect on the house of women as it is on the rest of Ulewic. The villagers are still creeping to the women’s gate for charity and they are still taking their sick there. The women are laughing at you, Father. You have fired your last arrow and still your enemy is advancing. What have you got left to fight with?”
He leaned back again in the chair. “Of course, if that bitch who leads the women met with an unfortunate accident, you’d have no trouble getting the others to hand over the relic.” He took a swig of wine. “It seems we are on the same side after all, Father. You want the relic and the Owl Masters want those foreign shrews gone. And if you were to help us, Father, I might be persuaded to wait for my money. I’m sure we could work out regular monthly payments from what monies and gifts the relic brings to St. Michael’s.”
“Me help the Owl Masters? Do you think I have forgotten that you defiled my church and desecrated the grave of a Christian child laid to rest in holy ground? After what you did, do you really think I would ask you for help?”
“What the Aodh did, Father. I’ve told you before: I am but his trusted servant.”
“Oliver’s poor mother is beside herself with grief. You might at least have the decency to return what is left of the child to her, so that she can bury her son again.”
Phillip picked at a fleck of mud on his sleeve. “The whore brought it on herself. The Owl Masters warned her to pay up and she defied them. It has been a salutary lesson for the rest of the villagers. And it should be a lesson to you too, Father. I suggest you seriously consider what the Aodh might order the Owl Masters to do to you, when he learns that you are refusing to pay your debts.”
“Do you think I can be threatened as easily as your ignorant villagers?” I slammed my fist against the table. “Your uncle may be able to order the murder of a serf without anyone outside the village asking questions, but I am a priest. Harm me and the Church will see you hanged and burning in the fires of Hell. I may not like the Commissarius spying on me, but as long as he is watching me, you and your Owl Masters can do nothing. As for repaying you by Twelfth Night, you said yourself you daren’t tell the Bishop about the silver, so why should I give you any money at all, when there is nothing you can do about it if I don’t?”
I felt exhilarated, as if I had broken out of a dungeon. I hadn’t realised the truth of what I’d said until it burst out of me in a fury. Phillip and his uncle were powerless to act against me over the money. They could do nothing
to me at all.
Phillip sat quite still for a few moments, his face impassive. Then he rose, and moved towards the door. I felt a surge of pleasure. He knew he was beaten. But suddenly he spun round. Too late, I glimpsed the flash of metal. The blow was so savage I was knocked to the floor. White-hot sparks of pain exploded in my skull. I clutched at my ear and cheek as hot blood poured from the gash. An iron spike, shaped like the talon of a great bird, lay in Phillip’s hand. He bounced the sharp blade casually as if debating whether to slash again.
“How dare you strike a servant of God!” I yelled both in fear and outrage. “When the Commissarius learns—”
“When the Commissarius learns that his priest has been meeting a filthy little sodomite here in Ulewic, I think he’ll pay me four times what you owe. And as for the exquisite pain the Commissarius will take pleasure in devising for you … I wonder what he’ll do to you; stick a red-hot iron spit up your arse and roast you like the perverted little pig you are? Come now, did you honestly think I wouldn’t find out about—what’s your whore-boy’s name—Hilary?”
My legs buckled and I sank onto my knees, gagging in an effort not to vomit in front of him. I was shaking violently. Blood oozed between my fingers and dripped onto the rushes. The room was spinning and not just from the pain. I was falling down and down into the blackest, deepest pit.
Phillip balled up my white altar cloth and threw it at me. “Stop snivelling. Get up!”
I clambered shakily to my feet and staggered into a chair, pressing the linen cloth to the burning gash.
“Now, Father, are you quite sure you don’t want to help us?”
I didn’t need to look at his face, to see the triumph that was written there. I knew this had gone way beyond mere money. “What … what do you want?”
D’Acaster’s nephew settled himself comfortably in the chair again and smiled. “You know, Father, I find your words have touched my conscience, after all. We should return the body of that little boy to his poor grieving mother. But first, just to show she has learned her lesson, Aldith can perform a little task for us. But we’ll need you to put the matter to her, Father. For some strange reason, she doesn’t trust us. You are her priest; you can persuade her to do what is required.”
“And what … is required?”
“We want her to deliver a message, that’s all. Then she will be reunited with her son.” Phillip picked up a poker and stabbed at the dying embers in the hearth, sending a shower of sparks flying upwards.
“Now, Father. This is what you will say to Aldith …”
december
saint thomas’s eve
this night at sunset, the winter solstice begins. it is a night for divination, when maids stick pins in onions to summon their future lovers.
“good saint thomas, do me right.
send me my true love tonight.”
servant martha
wE HAD HELD OUR MASS for Saint Thomas’s Eve in our chapel at midnight. Each festival we celebrated was new and different, for in the past we’d always attended St. Michael’s Church on feast days. I tried to capture the joy of it for the women, but I knew some of them missed the spectacle and colour of the parish church, seeing the village bright with merriment and music, the young people dancing and everyone filling their bellies after the fast, though this year there was precious little feasting or joy in the village.
In the morning we conducted a service in the infirmary for the patients and the poor from the village. We did not say Mass, of course. Many of the village women came to the service, poor thin creatures with dead eyes, and a beaten-down look about them. I was pleased they came to us. It renewed my resolve and purpose. We were not mistaken in our call to come to this land.
But the presence of some villagers did not gladden me. They knelt throughout the service, mouthing their prayers with great exaggeration while their thoughts were fixed only on the meat pies and clothes they knew we’d distribute when the service was over. Their faces lit up, not at the word of God, but at the smell of a goose pudding.
As I stepped out of the infirmary, I had to fight to stop the door being snatched from my hand by the wind. I pulled my cloak tightly about me. Ralph was limping across the courtyard on his crutch, dragging a little trolley behind him, the rope tied round his waist. Shepherd Martha had made it for him, so that he could take the crippled child for her walk. Now they seemed forever chained together as if one sentence had been pronounced upon them both.
“Blessings of Saint Thomas upon you, Ralph, and upon you, child.” I bent and laid my hand on her head. She jerked back. “How does she fare, Ralph? She looks better today, some colour in her cheeks.”
Ralph looked down at her as tenderly as any doting father. “Ella’s well, Servant Martha. I was afeared I’d lose her these past weeks, for she wheezed so that her lips turned blue and she could scarcely snatch a breath, but Healing Martha cured her.”
“God cured her, Ralph.” I corrected him. “Healing Martha is but His humble instrument.”
There was a discreet cough behind me. “God’s humble instrument hesitates to interrupt you, Servant Martha, but there is a soul who would speak to you.”
Healing Martha nodded towards a woman who stood close to the wall, sheltering from the bitter wind. Kitchen Martha was trying to talk to her, but the woman was ignoring her. Her eyes were on me. She looked as if she wanted to approach me, but was afraid. No doubt she feared the leprosy. Ralph saw the look on her face too. He limped away, dragging the trolley behind him.
I beckoned the woman forward, but she remained pressed against the wall. It was impossible to tell her age. Her face was haggard with hunger, but her eyes, sunken deep into dark hollows, had an unnatural brightness about them such as you see in those on the edge of madness. I moved closer, but before I could prevent her, the woman fell on her knees in the dirt, clasping my cloak with her webbed fingers, talking and weeping with such agitation that I couldn’t make out a word she said. I pulled the woman up from the ground and gave her a little shake to bring her to her senses.
“Calm yourself, sister. What do you want of us? Is someone sick?”
She shook her head vigorously, sobbing harder than ever.
“What ails you? I cannot help you if you don’t tell me what you want.” Perhaps the woman was a simpleton; the village abounded in them.
“My baby …”
“You have a little son or daughter?”
“Not anymore. It’s dead. It didn’t live but a week or two. And my husband says we must bury it under the midden, before Father Ulfrid finds out. My husband will not pay the soul-scot.”
I laid a consoling hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, sister. God in His mercy grant you strength to bear His will. Do I understand aright? You are seeking soul-scot to bury your baby?”
The woman shook her head and clutched at me again. “No, you must bury it here, else the Owlman’ll eat its soul. You can keep it safe.”
“Your baby will be safe in the churchyard. No harm can come to a Christian child there. And we’ll find the soul-scot for you to give to Father Ulfrid, though you had best not tell him that the money came from us.”
“I don’t dare take it to the priest! It wasn’t baptised. My husband said he wouldn’t name it afore the priest. Said the brat was none of his getting.” The woman was staring around wildly, looking at anything except me. She pulled at her skirts as if she was trying to tear something away.
Healing Martha put an arm around her. “And is that true? Was the baby not your husband’s child?”
The woman shook her head miserably. “Phillip D’Acaster came calling. We were behind with the Manor tithes … I couldn’t refuse him. When the baby was born it had no … web … on its hands. My husband said that proved the bairn was not his.”
I began to understand. The woman had good reason to weep. If her husband would not acknowledge the child before a priest, she’d be brought to trial for adultery. From the little
I knew of him, Phillip would deny his part in it and no one would dare to stand against him. But this poor woman couldn’t deny the evidence of her sin. She’d be lucky to escape from the court with a public whipping and a heavy fine that would drive the family into even greater poverty than that which had forced her to those desperate measures. And I’d little doubt that once the court had finished with the woman, her husband would extract his own retribution from her for exposing him to the whole village as a cuckold. A chilling thought seized me.
“Sister, tell me truthfully as you will answer to God on Judgement Day: Did the child die either by your hand or by that of your husband?”
The woman looked horrified and fell on her knees again, clutching at my skirts. “No! I swear it by all things holy, the bairn sickened and I could do nowt to save it. It’d not suckle, though I nursed it day and night, it just kept wailing. I was up night after night with it, for my man couldn’t abide to hear it cry. When everyone had gone to the fields I lay down on the bed for I was that tired with rocking it all night, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. When I woke it lay cold aside me. It’s witchery, that’s what it is.”
Healing Martha patted her briskly on the shoulder. “Now, sister, let’s have no talk of that.” She shook her head at me. “There’s no need to look for evil in this, Servant Martha. This poor woman is so malnourished that I doubt any infant born to her could have thrived, especially if she kept the child hidden in the cold and damp of those village hovels.”
I couldn’t let her bury an innocent child beneath a dung heap, but neither could I cast her into the merciless hands of the Church. And besides, even if the Church did grant burial, an unbaptised infant would be laid on the north side of the graveyard among the mad and the unshriven. No fitting place for a babe to wake on Judgement Day.
The Owl Killers Page 29