“She stood accused of malfactorum. Many worthy witnesses testified on oath that she danced up a storm and raised a flood against this village and that she poisoned the water with her evil eye so that our children sickened and died. She was whipped to encourage her to confess her sins and save her soul, but she was so steeped in sin that she stubbornly refused to make confession—”
“She was a mute!” I screamed at him. “You knew that! Each and every one of you knew that. If you had tortured her upon the rack she could not have uttered a single word to save her life.”
“If she couldn’t speak it is yet further proof of her malice, for her soul was so far given over to Satan that he stopped her mouth so that she could not confess and receive divine grace and forgiveness for her sins.”
“She didn’t feel no pain neither,” yelled someone from the back of the crowd. There were murmurs of confirmation from those at the front. “Even when the Owl Master was laying the whip on her good and hard, she never screamed.”
“Not natural that. Even a grown man cries out under the lash.”
“It was the Devil protecting her.”
“Don’t you understand?” I pleaded. “She couldn’t cry out, however much agony she was in.”
But no one was listening to me. All eyes were riveted on Gudrun’s body. A great cry of horror went up from the crowd and they shrank back, crossing themselves. I looked down. Her mouth had fallen open and a green frog was crawling out from between her lips.
january
saint paul the hermit’s day
paul was buried in the desert by two lions who dug his grave with their paws, at the request of saint antony of egypt.
servant martha
tHE WOMEN CROSSED THE COURTYARD in twos and threes, chatting companionably to one another in the glacial winter sunshine. As I stood in the doorway of my room, watching them, a wave of loneliness washed through me. Their solidarity only sharpened my isolation. They could complain to one another, cry on one another’s shoulders, and receive a friendly arm of comfort, but I couldn’t undress my weaknesses before anyone.
Healing Martha lay in her cot as withdrawn from me as if she lay across the sea. Perhaps she heard me when I talked to her, but even if she did, she couldn’t answer. Looking back through all those years when we were friends, I don’t think I ever really told her anything. I never needed to. She had a way of seeing through the most closely veiled silence and would say the word that could lance a boil, however carefully concealed. Now, even if she could understand what troubled me, she couldn’t offer me any words of advice or comfort. A seer without a tongue is as useless as a blind watchman. Until I lost her, I never realised how much I needed her.
The gate burst open and Beatrice stumbled in. Her hands and the front of her kirtle were spattered with mud. She staggered as if she was drunk, and didn’t even seem to see me standing in the doorway of my room. I hurried out.
“Beatrice?”
She stopped and stared up at me, as if I was a stranger. Her eyes were swollen and her face was blotched with red marks.
“Have you fallen?”
She shook her head, but I knew something was wrong.
“Is there some problem with the livestock? The murrain has not struck again?” Merciful God, not that. We needed every shred of meat we could store this winter if we were to survive.
“Why didn’t you at least beg them for her body?” She spat out the words with a look of such venom on her face that I took a step back.
“Why did you let them kill her? You could’ve stopped them. The fever was none of her doing. She didn’t cast the evil eye on them. She wasn’t a witch, she was just a child … an innocent child!”
She gabbled her words so fast that it took me a moment to make sense of what she’d said.
“Do you mean Gwenith’s granddaughter? Beatrice, you know perfectly well that I knew nothing of this matter until you yourself told me of it last night. I’m as appalled as you by what was done to the girl. It was a wicked and evil act, but if anyone could have prevented it, it was you. You insisted on the care of the girl. You encouraged her to wander abroad instead of schooling her to tasks within these walls. It was only a matter of time before she came to grief. I’ve no doubt that Pega warned you of the fear the villagers had of her.”
“What did you expect me to do—lock her up? How could I stop her? She wanted to go out.” Beatrice twisted a handful of her cloak tightly between her fingers as if she was trying to wring water out of it. But the cloak, though filthy, was dry.
“If you’d ever had children, Beatrice, you’d know that infants can’t be allowed to wander freely however much they might want to, for fear of them falling into a stream or being trampled beneath a horse. Sometimes you must tether them to keep them from harm. You said yourself she was just a child with no more sense than a babe in arms.”
Beatrice’s head jerked up, her eyes glittering with rage. “What does an old hag like you know about children? You’ve never wanted a baby, have you? Everything about them disgusts you. Remember what you said about Andrew?” Beatrice screwed up her mouth in what I assume was intended to be a vicious parody of me. “‘Andrew has so mastered her body that God healed the wound of her menses and returned her to the pure state that Eve knew before this curse of filth came upon us.’ You said that we should all pray daily that this curse would be lifted from us too. What kind of a bitter, twisted prayer is that?
“Don’t you understand that when your menses are gone, so is your hope? But that didn’t matter to you, did it? Because even before you were a withered-up old crone, you were never a normal woman. You could never have loved a child because there isn’t a grain of love in you for anyone.”
For a moment I was so stunned, I couldn’t reply. Then I gripped her shoulders and shook her hard. “Control yourself, Beatrice! This is a disgraceful display in a woman of your age. I think it as well that you were not blessed with children, since you seem incapable of behaving any better than a spoilt infant yourself.”
I could feel her trembling violently beneath my grip. I tried to speak soothingly. “I understand that stumbling across the body of the girl in such circumstances was a terrible shock for you, as it would have been to anyone. But why are you saying all this now?”
She stared wildly around her, clenching and unclenching her hands. When she finally spoke, it was in a whisper.
“I went to fetch her little body home, but I was too late. They’d already buried her at the crossroads … like a common murderer. Beggar Tom told me. I found the place. Tried to dig her up with my hands to bring her here. But they’ve laid her too deep … Have to get a spade to dig … I can’t reach her …”
She tried to tear herself away from me, but I held her firmly.
“Beatrice, it is pointless to go running back to the village. I give you my word that we will fetch the body and bring it here. But it must be done after dark when the villagers are safely behind their doors. I’ll see to it that the child is given a proper resting place here. Though she died unshriven, nevertheless she died innocent of the crime of which she was accused and for that alone she deserves a hallowed resting place.
“Now go to the washhouse and clean yourself up at once, before anyone else sees you. And for Heaven’s sake, Beatrice—conduct yourself with some decorum. Pray for Gudrun’s soul if you will, but such unseemly displays of grief, especially for one such as her, are quite unnecessary. After all, it’s not as if she was your own child.”
She flung off my hand from her shoulder, her face twisted with hatred. I leapt back as she struck out, her fingers clawing inches from my cheek. A single cry escaped her, the shriek of a wild animal in pain. She stood rocking backwards and forwards. Then she seemed to collect herself. She walked stiffly away towards the washhouse, her arms wrapped tightly about her chest.
I retraced the few steps to my room, closed the door, and stood over the small blaze in the hearth, warming my hands and trying to stop myself trembli
ng. Beatrice had seemed almost possessed. Was it fear of what the Owl Masters had threatened? I should not have accused her of neglect. For I knew I bore the greater guilt for the child’s death; she had been entrusted to my care. And if she had not been out on the night of the storm …
Every time I closed my eyes at night, I could see the girl standing over me, her naked body glistening white in the flash of lightning, the rain streaming down her bare legs and that great black bird flapping its wings on her shoulder. How had she got there? Why had she come to me of all people? She had always tried to run away from me before.
Had the girl saved me that night or had she been the cause of the horses rearing? I knew in my heart that I had made no effort since that night to keep her safe inside our walls; was it because I was afraid of her and wanted her to run off? I owed it to the girl to bring her body home, however much I shrank from the task. It would be my penance.
But there would need to be at least two of us to dig her up and lift her out of the grave. They’d doubtless buried her as deep as they could dig. We’d also need two people to keep watch on the approaches to the crossroads, to give us warning in case any should see us and try to prevent us taking the body, or worse still, try to seize us and torture us as they did to poor little Gudrun.
We’d have to go at dusk with just enough light left to see the place without needing torches or lanterns. On the open road, the flames of a torch or even a lantern would attract attention from miles away. We’d have to take a cart to carry the body back and something to cover the girl’s nakedness, for it seemed unlikely they had covered her in a shroud or winding sheet before they dumped her in the grave.
The question was who to take? Certainly not Beatrice—I couldn’t trust her, especially if we discovered the body had been mutilated or dismembered, as was often the custom with any corpse people feared might walk. Pega, of course; she had no fear of the villagers. Shepherd Martha, she was another with brawn. Between the two of them they’d dig the body up in no time and we didn’t want to linger longer than we had to.
Who else? Osmanna? She’d make a useful lookout and if I showed her that I put my trust in her perhaps it would make her more willing to do what I had asked of her at Mass. Besides, the sight of Gudrun’s body might be no bad thing. It would bring home the dangers of the path Osmanna was treading far more effectively than mere words. I would tell—
There was a frantic hammering on the door of my room and before I could answer, Gate Martha burst in.
“There’s villagers at the gate, a crowd of them.”
Her hand darted back and forth as if she would like to grab me and pull me out to the gate with her, but I’d no intention of flying out at every alarm.
“If they’ve brought more of their sick, have them taken into the pilgrims’ room with the others. If there isn’t enough room—”
“They’ve not brought their sick.”
“What is it then? Food? Is that what they’ve come for?”
Gate Martha bit her lip. “The Blessed Host of Andrew.”
“We have already explained to them when they brought their children that we do not know that the relic has healing powers. But tell them I will bring it out and they may touch it and light a candle for healing.”
“They’ll not be content this time with touching it. They say the fever passes over us because we’ve Andrew’s Host in our chapel. They want to take it back to their church and keep it there to protect the village. They say …”
She hesitated, then gabbled as if reciting something learned by rote, “God continues to punish them with the fever because the miraculous Host has been left in the sinful hands of those who’ve been excommunicated. Servant Martha, we must give it to them. They’re saying they’ll take it by force if we do not.”
“They’ll do no such thing, not while I live and breathe. I see Father Ulfrid’s hand in this and I intend to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. Come along.”
I strode out into the courtyard. Gate Martha hurried along in my wake. The gate was wide open and a throng of people jostled on the threshold, mostly men but there were a few women among them. Two of the men had even pushed their way inside.
“Why didn’t you lock the gate and make them wait outside?”
Gate Martha made some vague gesture towards the crowd. “Too many of them. They pushed against it and wouldn’t let me shut it.”
“Then why open it in the first place?”
“Said they’d sick, Servant Martha, and I thought …”
I would have words with her later about what she thought.
A little knot of beguines huddled to one side of the gate. They seemed unwilling or unable to do anything, but Osmanna stood with her back to me directly in front of the men. She appeared to be remonstrating with them, though I couldn’t make out what she was saying above the mutterings of the crowd. Whatever the girl’s faults, at least she’d the mettle to challenge them. Courage often walks with stubbornness. But what she was saying was having little effect; the crowd was jeering. Suddenly Beatrice broke from the group of beguines and pushed her way in front of Osmanna, her fists clenched in fury.
“What are you asking Osmanna for?” she shrieked. “Don’t you know she doesn’t believe in the sacraments? She thinks the Host is no more holy than the crusts you throw to your pigs. She says faith is all you need to save you. So where are your Owl Masters? You’ve got faith aplenty in them, haven’t you? You don’t need a mouldy piece of bread.”
“Beatrice!” I grabbed her and tried to drag her back, but she jerked away from me, screaming at the men.
“Don’t you know the fever has gone? You sacrificed an innocent girl to stop it, so it must be so. If your children are still sick, go and ask your Owl Masters why. Go ask your priest. They murdered her. They promised you her death would rid you of the fever. Why come to us? Don’t you know we sent you the fever? Do you want us to send you something worse? Get out! Get out!”
Beatrice raised her right hand, the fingers spread like claws pointed towards them. For a moment they held their ground, then as one they turned and ran. She slammed the gate behind them and sagged against it, visibly shaking. Gate Martha hurried up and swung the beam across the gate.
The beguines clustered around Beatrice, stroking and soothing her, patting her, praising her for sending the villagers packing. They were all smiling and joking in their relief. It was hard to know whether Beatrice was laughing hysterically or crying.
The only one who didn’t move was Osmanna. She stood where Beatrice had pushed her. She was deathly white, her eyes wide with fear and shock. We stared at each other in silence. I knew she wanted me to reassure her, to tell her that no one would take any notice of what Beatrice had said. Her eyes were pleading with me to say that the villagers wouldn’t understand.
I knew what she wanted me to say, but I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t lie, not even to comfort her. I felt the blood draining from my own face. I turned away. Beatrice was still being congratulated and comforted. Had she any idea what mischief she had just done? There was no undoing her words. All we could do now was wait and pray.
january
saint ulfrid’s day
ulfrid was an englishman who tried to convert the people of sweden by preaching against paganism. in 1028, after chopping up a statue of thor with an axe, he was lynched and his body thrown into a marsh.
father ulfrid
tHE BISHOP’S COMMISSARIUS STOOD on a mounting block peering in through the single slit window of the village jail. Ulewic’s jail was not a large one, but then it didn’t need to be, for it contained no furniture. It consisted of nothing more than a round, reed-thatched room, built of stone, much the same size and shape as the Manor dovecote. At present it had only one occupant, although it could accommodate three or four men—six or eight, if they were forced to stand pressed together.
The jail boasted a stout wooden door and a narrow barred window set too high in the wall for a prisoner to see o
ut or anyone to look in unless, like the Commissarius, they were standing on something. The bars on the window were unnecessary, for only a starving cat could have squeezed through the small gap between the thick stones, but its builders had taken no chances. No one would escape their stronghold.
The Commissarius’s expression betrayed nothing as he stared down into the cell. Though it was only mid-afternoon, the sky was grey and heavy, as if it was already twilight, and it must have been even darker inside the cell.
“We didn’t know when to expect you, Commissarius,” I said, still breathless from having run from my cottage. “If I’d known you were arriving today, I would have had the bailiff waiting here with the key. But I can send for him now if—”
“That will not be necessary. I have seen all I wish to see.” He sprang nimbly to the ground. “We are on our way to speak with Lord D’Acaster.” He beckoned to a thin round-shouldered youth who hunched miserably against the wall of the jail, blowing on his blue-knuckled hands. “Take the mounting block back to the inn, boy; I will speak to Father Ulfrid in private before we ride on to the Manor. You may bring our mounts to the church and wait for me there—outside!”
The lad nodded vigorously as if he wanted to leave no doubt that he would carry out the instructions to the letter. He started off in such haste that he stumbled over the wooden mounting block as he tried to pick it up.
The Commissarius booted him up the backside as he tried to get up, which sent the lad sprawling over the block again, but his master ignored the boy’s yelp of pain and, turning, strode away in the direction of the church.
I had waited for this moment for days. I’d hardly been able to sleep or eat, thinking about it. It was as if the heavens had opened and the Holy Grail itself had fallen straight into my lap. First the witch-girl had come wandering straight into our hands, and now this. It was as if everything I did was suddenly blessed by God. Finally, finally, He had turned the tide my way. God had kept faith with me. I had been cast into a pit and thought myself abandoned, but God had remembered me in Egypt and was about to bring me forth.
The Owl Killers Page 39