“I do understand Healing Martha’s condition has distressed them, Pega. I am not entirely blind or deaf. And I acknowledge that I am at fault in not speaking to all the beguines immediately. But I needed time to … pray.” The crisp voice suddenly faltered. Servant Martha swallowed hard, as if she was trying to choke back an emotion she would not permit herself to betray. “It was hard … difficult.”
Pega gripped Servant Martha’s shoulder. “Whatever you saw in the woods that night, you can speak of it. You needn’t be afeared folks’ll not believe you.”
“I don’t know what I saw … The lightning … The raven … I can’t …” Servant Martha closed her eyes tightly. She seemed to be trying desperately to shut something out. Then she took a deep breath and drew herself upright.
“There is a great deal of work to be done. These floods will cause severe hardship in the village, but then I do not need to tell you that, Pega. We must offer every assistance.” She nodded curtly to Pega then to me, and walked towards the barn door, a little more slowly and stiffly than she had done when she entered. As she pulled her hood back over her head, she turned.
“At this testing time, Osmanna, all the beguines must be of one mind and one purpose to support one another. Strength in the community is forged by us partaking of the one holy bread. We must lay aside our own spiritual quests and strive for unity. The Mass on Sunday will be said both in gratitude for God’s mercy in sparing Healing Martha and to pray for her recovery. I know how much you want to see Healing Martha restored to full health and strength, Osmanna, and therefore I trust you will demonstrate as much on Sunday—to everyone.”
Servant Martha ducked under the waterfall cascading from the barn roof and disappeared out into the driving rain.
Despite the cold, I felt my cheeks burning. I turned away, trying to hide my face by pulling stray shreds of flesh from the remaining hide.
“That woman never uses one word if she can torment ten,” Pega muttered. “Why doesn’t she just tell you she wants you to take the Host?” I could feel her looking down at me, just as Servant Martha had done.
“There’s a few not coming forward to take the Host now that you’ve refused. But I’d not have thought you’d be the one to disapprove of a woman leading the Mass, Osmanna. Beatrice, now—she’s different. There’s always been a rub between her and Servant Martha. But I’d have wagered you for one who’d have had your heart set on doing it yourself someday.”
“Is that what you think?” I blazed. “That I’m refusing the Host, because the Church says it’s forbidden?”
“Isn’t it?”
I stared at her. “You know it’s not. You know none of the women think that.”
She shrugged. “How am I to know why you’re refusing it? You talk about it to others, but you’ve never explained it to me.”
“I didn’t think you’d be interested in anything I’ve got to say. I’m D’Acaster’s daughter, don’t forget. I thought you hated all our family.”
“You’re D’Acaster’s brat all right.” She held up her webbed hand. “You think because I’ve got this, I’m as thick as pig shit, an ignorant whore who can’t read or reason.”
“You’re not stupid, Pega, far from it. You’re so clever you can take anyone’s words and twist them up into a rope to hang them. You want to know why I don’t talk to you? It’s because this is too important to me to have you ridicule it, like you do everything else.”
Pega flinched. For the first time ever I saw pain in her eyes. She dropped the edge of the hide and wiped her hand across her face, leaving a glistening smear of blood and grease on her forehead.
“Aye well, maybe it’s true,” she said softly. “But you learn to do that. Sometimes words are all you’ve got to defend yourself. I’m strong, yes, but still no match for a strapping work-hardened man. You think I wouldn’t have got beaten to shit a hundred times over, if I’d not learned how to turn a drunk and make him laugh? Becomes a habit after a while, but it doesn’t mean I …” She looked away.
I fingered the sticky wetness of the hide, hating what I just said and the hurt on her face. I wished that she’d come back with one of her barbed taunts, but I knew she wouldn’t.
“Ralph gave me a book called The Mirror of Simple Souls,” I told her. I’d never told anyone. “It was written by a beguine in France. I don’t understand some of it, but she writes things I’ve never heard Servant Martha say. Wonderful things. That a soul who truly loves God does not need to seek Him through sacraments. Pega, I know Servant Martha is right when she says we don’t need a priest or the Church; we can take the sacraments for ourselves. But the book says why do we need the sacraments at all? Servant Martha is just making another church. It is ten times better than Father Ulfrid’s church, but why can’t each one of us just speak to God for ourselves?”
I had not looked at Pega as I spoke, but now I risked glancing up. There was no mocking grin on her face; instead there was a look of fierce concentration. She nodded slowly.
“What you say makes sense, lass. But the question is, you going to do what Servant Martha wants on the Sabbath to keep the peace? Like she says, the Mass is for Healing Martha. Some might take it amiss if you refuse.”
I bit my lip. What was I going to do? I didn’t want to hurt Servant Martha or have anyone think I didn’t care about Healing Martha. But I didn’t believe in the bread anymore. I’d told everyone that. I couldn’t take it now. She couldn’t make me do that.
“I can’t, Pega. I won’t!”
Pega smiled for the first time that day. “You’ve got the guts of a fighting cock in you, I’ll give you that. But you want to think long and hard on it, lass. Servant Martha’s not a person to take on lightly when it comes to a fight. You’re both as stubborn as each other. You pit yourself against her and I reckon you both come out bruised and bloody.”
She placed her warm greasy hands on either side of my face and tilted it upwards.
“There’s no shortage of punches life’ll throw at you. It’s my guessing you’ve had a few more than your share already, but you don’t need to go looking for fists to throw yourself against. Just you be careful, lass.”
She bent forward and kissed my forehead.
I went rigid, my body frozen between the warm tenderness of her mouth and the burning flood of revulsion that welled up in me. I felt my father’s lips again on my child’s face. For a moment I could not move, then I tore myself out of her grasp and fled the barn.
pisspuddle
sOMEONE WAS SHAKING ME AWAKE. William was squatting in front of me, holding a small stone mortar which had steam rising from it.
“Here, we’ll have to share. There aren’t enough bowls to go round. You take first swallow, then I’ll take next.”
“That’s not for drinking from,” I protested. “That’s for grinding, like the one Mam uses for grinding beans.” Then with a sudden sick feeling, I remembered. “William, has Mam come? Is she here?”
He bit his lip. “Not yet. But she’ll come now it’s light. Hurry up and drink some of this, else I’ll have it all. I’m starving.” He thrust the mortar at me.
I was hungry too and thirsty, We’d not had any supper last night, but the broth smelt like mouldy leaves. “What’s in it?”
“Dunno.” William shrugged. “But it’s all there is.”
William held it while I took a gulp. It was hard to get my mouth round the thick curve of the stone. It didn’t taste of anything much, sour ale and herbs, water mostly, bitter and muddy, but my belly was rumbling and I drank it.
Light was trickling in through the faces of the yellow saints in the windows. People weren’t shouting anymore. Most just sat huddled on the floor, drinking their broth like William and me. Up at the altar Father Ulfrid was saying Prime. A few people were kneeling, and praying in front of the rood screen. Some of the grown-ups cried as they prayed. I could hear them sobbing.
But lots of people were ignoring Father Ulfrid. They kept on talking or just sat
on the rushes suckling their babies as if they didn’t even know they were in church. There was one old man who kept wandering about asking everyone if they’d seen his wife, but no one had and after a while they got fed up being asked the same question over and over and shouted at him to sit down, right in the middle of Father Ulfrid’s prayers.
Afterwards Father Ulfrid came round blessing people where they sat or stood. Some made the sign of the cross, but others scowled and turned away as if they didn’t want to be blessed. Father Ulfrid didn’t seem miserable like everyone else. He seemed almost pleased, as if he thought everyone had come to church because they wanted to pray.
He stopped in front of William and me and made the sign of the cross, then pressed his hot sticky hands down on our heads. William jerked his head away.
“Bless you, my children. Now remember this is the house of God and you must behave yourselves in here. No playing games or spitting and you make sure you go outside if you want to pass water. Is your father still away at the salterns, William?”
William nodded.
“Then you must pray for him. If the storm was bad here it will have been worse on the coast. Pray diligently like good children, just like your mother taught you, and God in His mercy will hear your prayers. Where is your mother?” He gazed about as if he thought she was with us.
William grabbed my hand and yanked me to my feet. “Come on.”
We ran to the heavy church door and dashed outside. It was still raining a bit, but not so hard as before. The air felt cold and sharp after the smelly church. We ran to the churchyard wall and scrambled up on the rough stones to peer over.
It was as if we were on an island. Brown water lay all round the graveyard. Where the path should have been, ducks were swimming and diving among the rubbish. The water was thick like pottage, with leaves and branches and all kinds of things from people’s cottages and gardens floating in it. There were reeds from the floors, bits of furniture, lumps of tar and rags. It looked as if a giant had picked up every cottage in the village and shaken everything out of them into the water and then set the cottages back empty.
Men were wading through the water picking up stools and pots, rakes and hoes. Most of the things were smashed, but the men were picking them up anyway and splashing off with them down the street. Two men saw the same wooden chest bobbing in the water at the same time. Both started towards it, their legs jerking like spiders as they tried to run in the water. They both grabbed the chest, tugging it and punching each other until one slipped and fell into the water. The standing man tried to make off with the chest as fast as he could, but the other one leapt on his back and they both fell with a great splash into the water, rolling over and over on each other until they were out of sight beyond the bend.
“William, look, that’s our basket. The one Mam put the hens in.” I pointed to a shape caught up against the trunk of a tree.
“It’s just a basket.”
“No, it’s ours, I know it is. Handle’s wrapped with a yellow rag, just like ours. See?”
William scrambled over the wall and jumped into the water. It was as high as the top of his legs. He splashed towards the basket and dragged it back towards the wall.
“Here, take hold,” he said, pushing it over.
But I couldn’t catch it properly and it tipped over as I pulled it. It rolled on the ground and the top fell off. Three limp draggled little bodies slithered onto the grass. Their feathers were sodden, their beaks wide open and their eyes too, but they weren’t moving.
“Mam said Bryde was safe in the basket, but she’s not in here. Mam didn’t rescue Bryde; she didn’t even try.” I burst into tears. “Where is Mam? She said she’d come. She promised. She’s a liar. Just a big fat liar. I hate her! I hate her!”
“Stay here,” William said fiercely. “You wait for me, right? You’re not to move.” He clambered back over the wall and waded away.
“William, come back,” I called frantically. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to find Mam.”
beatrice
tHE VOICES IN THE REFECTORY were subdued. Kitchen Martha had cooked a special dish to try to raise our spirits—a Mutton Spicy Pie with the head meats and brains of the sheep and the last of the dried fruits of winter. The sweet and savoury aroma filled the room, a rare treat at this season of the year, but few seemed to have an appetite. We politely offered each other dishes and urged one another to pass them along, knowing they were not wanted, but just to fill the silence with a rattle of words.
I hadn’t expected Servant Martha to be here. I thought she’d take her meals at Healing Martha’s bedside as she had with Andrew. But instead she was talking to Merchant Martha as though nothing had happened, except that her right arm was bound up. She ate clumsily, unaccustomed to using her left hand, but she supped steadily, her appetite undiminished. She was probably discussing the price of cloth or the shortage of salt.
I’d always known she had the compassion of a pike, but I thought if there was a mote of affection in her it was for Healing Martha. Now it seemed she had plucked even that out. She sat straighter than ever, her back upright and stiff. Even sitting she was a full head taller than Merchant Martha. Did she have to hold her head quite so cloud-capped?
There was a sharp rap of a knife on wood. Servant Martha rose to her feet and cast around the room to see that she had everyone’s attention.
“My sisters, as we give thanks to God this day for our food, our tongues should not merely recite the duty they owe, but our spirits should soar on wings of praise that once again God has vouchsafed such mercies to us.”
We all sat up and leaned forward eagerly. Had he worked a miracle for Healing Martha?
“Our Blessed Lord shelters us in His arms, for while our neighbours are driven from their homes by the flood, we are safe and warm in ours. While our neighbours struggle to find a scrap of bread which has not been ruined by the water, we eat hot food and drink good ale.”
Yes, yes, but what of Healing Martha? Why didn’t she come to the point?
“We must pray for the souls in the village whose cries are unheard by God because of their sin and faithlessness. But if we pray for help for them, we ourselves must be willing to be the instruments of answering those prayers. If we say ‘Lord, send them food and comfort,’ then He will turn to us and say, ‘Daughters, give them food and comfort.’ This very day God delivered two fine sheep into our hands, just as He gave the ram to Abraham, as a sign of what we must do.”
Pega muttered, “Not much of a gift, if you ask me; they were our sheep anyway.”
“God has given us the sacrifice and we will offer it. Tomorrow we will go to the village with meat, bread, and ale. After the evening prayers, instead of sleeping, I ask any who are willing to come to the kitchens, for there is much cooking and baking to be done if we are to have enough food for all who need it.”
She paused to take a gulp of ale. Round the room the women glanced at one another, nodding approvingly, before all eyes turned back to Servant Martha. There must be more to come. She must speak of Healing Martha. Surely, she must.
“There is another for whom we must pray tonight even as we work.” She paused.
You could feel the tension in the room. No one moved.
“As you all doubtless know, two nights ago our beloved sister, Healing Martha, was struck down not by any human hand nor by the hand of God, but by the legions of the Devil. Healing Martha fought with a terrible demon, but her faith prevailed and she vanquished it.”
“The Owlman!”
The name reverberated from a dozen mouths. Servant Martha must have heard it, but she ignored it. She strode on through her speech with not so much as a flea’s breath of hesitation.
“Like our blessed Lord Himself in the wilderness and all the saints who have followed Him, Healing Martha was attacked by the forces of darkness, because her love for God was so strong it struck even to the depths of Hell and wounded the Devil himself and he
wanted to destroy her. But Healing Martha has so girded herself with the armour of the Lord and her shield of faith is so strong that all the arrows of Hell could not pierce it, nor any demons conquer her. God preserved her, both body and soul, to His glory.” She bowed her head. “May we all strive to be worthy of such a test.”
She raised her head and looked slowly around the silent room, fixing each of us in turn with her gaze as though measuring our worth and finding us lacking.
“Tomorrow we will say a special Mass to give thanks for His protection and the preservation of our sister.”
“Praise God!” The cry was loud, but without feeling. Many looked perplexed.
“Does that mean Healing Martha is well again?” Catherine whispered urgently in my ear.
Muttering broke out around the room. Catherine was not the only one who was confused. Merchant Martha tugged at Servant Martha’s arm and whispered rapidly. Servant Martha, frowning, took another draught from her cup.
“I have to tell you now that Healing Martha is sorely wounded from her great battle, as you would expect. For who could face such a trial and come through unscathed? But they are honourable wounds she bears, as were those of the saints and martyrs before us who have defended their faith and virtue against great evil. The burning touch of the demon paralysed her side, as our own Lord was wounded in His side by evil men. Healing Martha does not speak to us, for to tell us of the horror and evil of the demon who assailed her would be too great for us to bear. But she needs no discourse with us, for our Lord Himself speaks to her and she to Him in tongues beyond our understanding.”
“Praise God! Praise God!”
Some of the women looked pleased, grateful even, but they’d not seen her. Catherine’s expression relaxed too, as if Servant Martha had somehow explained everything and all was right with the world again. She smiled eagerly at me. Did she remember how Healing Martha looked when we found her? Or was that picture now diffused with martyr-light, a twisted face made pretty with gold leaf and an animal grunt sweetened to angel song?
The Owl Killers Page 33