Pega, hunkered down by the fire, stuck a red-hot poker into a beaker of ale, which gave off a great hiss of steam. “Here, drink this while it’s hot. So did he hurt you?”
Tutor Martha shook her head. “But he—he said—” Her words jerked out in heaving sobs. “Said—”
“Said what? Spit it out.”
It was Shepherd Martha who answered quietly from the corner. Leon was sitting with his great black head resting on her knees, gazing sorrowfully up as if he knew something was wrong.
“He accused us of unnatural practises,” Shepherd Martha said quietly. “You know—immoral acts between women, though he didn’t use those words.”
Pega let out a great snort of laughter. “I bet he didn’t. Well, now that’s the first time I’ve been accused of that. Strumpet and slut I’ve had aplenty, but that’s a new one. And I dare say he thinks Servant Martha’s the bawd of this lively whorehouse. It’s a wonder they’re not queuing up at the gates. What strange little fancies men do have.”
She slapped Tutor Martha firmly on the back, making her splutter on the wine. “Come now—a few names, a roving hand, and a rotten egg or two. I’ve taken worse and called it a good night out. But more to the point, did you see the lass?”
Tutor Martha shook her head. “You don’t understand. They blocked the road and wouldn’t let us pass. We tried … They were screaming and jeering, a whole mob of them with cudgels and stones. Father Ulfrid stood watching them. He did nothing. If Merchant Martha hadn’t hit the man with her whip and pulled me back onto the cart …”
She broke off in renewed sobbing. I put my arms around her.
Grimly, Pega nodded. “The Owl Masters are rousing the villagers and we all know who’s controlling the Owl Masters. Osmanna’s more spirit than I gave her credit for, standing up to that fat old bastard.”
“Too much spirit,” I said. “Look what trouble she’s caused for the rest of us. This is all the fault of that stupid girl, all of it!”
Pega stared at me for a moment. Then she answered, “Maybe so, but all the same, I think I’ve misjudged that lass. I’d stand up against D’Acasters out of sheer devilment, have done many a time, but I’d not have the mettle to face the fire for it. That’s more than stubbornness—that takes the courage of a sow badger and more faith than Saint Peter.”
“Why are you defending her?” I screamed. “She’s a murderer. She killed her baby … her own baby. I know you all blame me for what happened to her. I’ve heard you whispering behind my back. You think I don’t know what you’re saying, but I do. But you’re all wrong. You can’t blame me. She brought this on herself. I hope they do burn her; she deserves it. She deserves to burn in Hell for what she’s done!”
No one looked at me. They all knew it was true.
The door crashed open. Catherine hurtled into the room. She stared round, her face stricken as if she’d seen the dead walk.
Pega frowned. “What is it, lass?”
But Catherine just stood there, her breath jerking out of her in little mewling sounds.
Pega clamped a broad hand on her shoulder. “Out with it, lass.”
“The oxen … The ones we use for ploughing. Dairy Martha and I went to fetch them from the pasture for the night and … oh, they’re dead!”
Shepherd Martha leapt to her feet. “The murrain! God defend us.”
Catherine burst into terrified sobs. “Not black bane. Something attacked them … great slashes … blood everywhere … It tore out their eyes … The Owlman … It was the Owlman!”
servant martha
aS I KNELT BEFORE THE ALTAR, I heard the chapel door open and close, and the scuffling of steps behind me, but I did not turn. I hoped that whoever it was would say her prayers and leave me in peace. I couldn’t bear one more woman looking at me sorrowfully and asking the same question over and over.
“Isn’t there anything we can do for Osmanna, Servant Martha? Isn’t there anything you can do?”
There was silence in the chapel save for the wind whistling around the rafters. I don’t how long I remained on my knees, but eventually pain and stiffness forced me to rise. When I turned, I was surprised to see Merchant Martha sitting on a stool at the back of the chapel, her head resting against the wall and her eyes closed. I’d never before known Merchant Martha to be content to sit and wait. While she would never actually interrupt my prayers by speaking to me, she would usually stand behind me, coughing and fidgeting, until she’d attracted my attention. I noticed the blood on her forehead. Alarmed, I hurried over to her.
“Merchant Martha, are you ill?”
She opened her eyes. “I didn’t want to disturb you, Servant Martha.”
“You’re hurt. Do you feel faint?”
She waved her hand impatiently. “It’s nothing.”
“The villagers?” It was as I feared; hadn’t I warned the Marthas of the dangers? Still, it gave me no satisfaction to be proved right.
“They’re in an ugly mood, as you said, Servant Martha. This business with Osmanna has got their bloodlust up. And that damned priest is goading them on.” Merchant Martha pressed her hand over the cut on her head. “Something’s brewing. I’ve seen it before. Instead of acting as a warning, a public execution sometimes stirs the mob up and they go on the rampage, looking for more victims. If they do burn Osmanna, it’s my belief it’ll only be the start. They’ll likely take blazing brands from that bone-fire and try to start another here.” She glanced up at the painted box that held the miraculous Host. “Servant Martha, I never thought I’d say this …but we must close the beguinage and return to Bruges immediately. We should start out at first light tomorrow if we can.”
I stared at her, unable to believe what she was saying. “Run away? Is that what you are proposing, Merchant Martha? I might have expected such advice from Kitchen Martha, but I never thought I’d hear it from you. I thought you were made of stronger mettle.”
Merchant Martha leapt up from the stool. “I’d stand fast in the path of a hundred men even if they were armed to the teeth with pikes and spears,” she declared indignantly. “And if they cut the legs from under me, I’d still go down fighting. I’m no coward, as well you know. I’ve faced more than my fair share of danger in my time, and I’ve never in my life run away.”
“I know that, Merchant Martha. That is why I cannot believe you of all people should be suggesting that we crawl back to Bruges and tell them we failed, that we gave up at the first sign of trouble.”
Merchant Martha sank wearily back onto her stool. “There’s been conflict twixt us and the village since that day you took Ralph in.” She held up her hand to stop me before I could interrupt. “Not that I’m saying we shouldn’t have done that, but all I’m saying is this is not the first time there’s been trouble.”
“Exactly,” I said, “and we have overcome it before. There is no reason why we should not gird ourselves to do it again.”
“But this time it’s serious. I can read a crowd, better than you can read a book. They mean to destroy us and the Owl Masters are goading them on to do so. You and I may be prepared to go down fighting, but what about the rest of the women? What about the children? If a mob’s blood is up, they lose all sense of reason and decency—they won’t spare anyone. As Marthas we’ve a responsibility to care for the other beguines. We can’t protect them here.”
“Seek refuge in Bruges, you mean.” I could not contain my anger. “You want us to hide ourselves away like a bunch of frightened nuns. Merchant Martha, you and I became beguines to work in the world, to stand up and fight against its injustices, whether they are perpetrated by Church, King, or baying mob. What kind of example will we set for the beguines now and in the future if we scuttle back to Flanders?”
Merchant Martha’s eyes blazed with fury. “So you are determined we should stay here to demonstrate a principle, is that it, Servant Martha? You’d rather this beguinage went up in flames and us with it to prove our faith. Are you sure it’s faith in God that
keeps us here and not your stubborn pride?”
She rose. “Think about it, Servant Martha, but do it quickly. The execution is set for the day after tomorrow, unless D’Acaster intervenes to save his daughter. And from what I’ve heard, a bull is more likely to give milk than he is to save her.”
She turned at the door and gazed around the chapel as if she was looking at it for the very last time. “You’re good at speeches, Servant Martha. Doubtless you think you can turn even an angry mob back with your tongue. And maybe you can. But there’s something else, Servant Martha: the Owlman. If they’ve that demon on their side, all the logic and reason in the world won’t prevail against a creature from Hell. You want proof, go and look at Healing Martha. Take a long hard look, and ask yourself if you are really willing to risk that.”
january
saint agnes’s day
thirteen-year-old roman martyr, who refused marriage, was put in a lunatic asylum, then sentenced to be burned. when the fire would not light she was killed by the sword. it is thought unlucky to name a child agnes, for she will go mad.
osmanna
tHEY BROUGHT ME GIFTS—a thin white shift and a tall conical hat, pointed like the horn of a unicorn—offerings for a virgin. Three of them crowded into my tiny cell, locking the door behind them, Father Ulfrid, my cousin Phillip, and a slack-mouthed youth, Phillip’s page. They filled the cell, blocking out the afternoon light. I pressed against the rough wall, sick with fear at what they would do under the cover of the twilight they’d brought with them.
Phillip made a mocking bow. “Oblige me, m’lady, by removing your clothes, all of them, then clad yourself in this.” He held up the loose white shift, but when I reached for it, he snatched it back.
“Don’t be so hasty. You must strip yourself first.”
He leered and moved a step closer as if he hoped I’d refuse so that he could do it for me. They waited. I wanted to turn my back, but that would only make me more vulnerable. Instead, I faced them, trying to slip my clothes off without taking them away from my body. At least Father Ulfrid lowered his eyes. Phillip smirked, cracking his knuckles, and the boy blushed to the roots of his straw-coloured hair as he goggled frog-eyed up and down the length of me. I was naked. I clutched my kirtle against me, trying to keep covered, my back pressed to the cold sharp stones of the wall. Phillip snatched my clothes away. I wrapped my arms across my body, trying to cover my hideous scar with my hand.
“Modesty?” Father Ulfrid stared contemptuously. “There’re no dresses where you’re going. Have you not paid heed to the paintings on the church walls? They’re put there for the instruction of foolish girls like you. Heretics bound together in the eternal fires of Hell, bare and naked for all the devils in Hell to torment.”
He dragged the shift out of Phillip’s hands and thrust it at me. I hurried to drag it over my head, feeling their gaze groping my body as I struggled to cover myself.
“She’ll be bare-arsed long before the Devil comes for her.” Phillip leant over me, laughing, crushing me against the wall, his hand resting on the wall beside my head. I could smell the sweet wine on his breath. He twisted a curl of my hair round his fingers. “As soon as the flames touch you, this pretty little shift will shrivel away and every hair on your body along with it. You’ll be trussed up there on that bonfire as flesh-naked as a scalded pig. The whole village will see what you’re marked for before your flesh melts away to tallow.”
The young boy giggled nervously. “Maybe we’ll put a grease pan under her to catch the drips. Lay the rushes in it and we can burn her all winter.”
“All winter?” Phillip pulled away from me. “It’s precious little light you need then, boy. There’s not enough fat on her to dip a pennyweight of rushes.”
The floor was writhing under me. My face was burning, but I was freezing cold. A wave of bile rose in my throat. I crouched against the wall, vomiting onto the stinking straw, shivering uncontrollably.
“Are you cold, my sweet cousin? Never mind, you’ll be warm enough tomorrow.”
He cuffed the page boy around the head. “Get on with it, boy; there’s a flagon of wine waiting for me at the Bull Oak Inn.”
It was only then I saw that the boy was holding a pair of sheep shears.
I tried to scramble to my feet, but Phillip seized both my wrists, crushing them together. The boy leant over me and grabbed a handful of my hair. There was a grating rasp and he tossed the hank of cropped hair down on the filthy straw. He grabbed another handful and that too fell, then another and another, until all my hair lay among the vomit in the straw. I hadn’t realised I had so much hair until I saw it scattered in front of me. My scalp felt raw and cold, as if someone had tipped ice over my head. Phillip let me go and I crumpled down onto the straw. It was as if this was happening to someone else and I was hovering somewhere overhead, watching it. Perhaps I wasn’t there at all, I am a ghost, I told myself. I am invisible.
Father Ulfrid thrust the tall hat at me. “See there.” He shook me. “Look at it, girl.”
I tried to focus my eyes to read the name written on the hat in red letters—Lílíth.
“That’s your rightful name. For as your father said, you were born under her evil star. You cannot be allowed to die with a saint’s name upon you. You need a demon’s name to send you straight to hell.”
He stood the hat opposite me, the name turned towards me, like a judge. The door crashed open and shut again, the key grated in the lock. I was alone again.
I sat where I was dropped, as cold as a drowned man. My scalp prickled, but I didn’t want to touch it. Even if I did, I couldn’t have lifted my arms. My body didn’t obey me anymore. I stared at the long brown curls lying among the straw. Heretics, harlots, and nuns—all shorn. Why do men fear our hair so much? The dank stones dug into my back, but I felt no pain. I floated somewhere beyond it. I knew what they said they would do tomorrow, but it couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t. It was only a bad dream. I would wake up soon.
servant martha
tHE INFIRMARY WAS SILENT. The shutters were closed against the cold and only a few tapers burned, barely penetrating the twilight. Most of the patients had gone, those who still had families to collect them. Maybe Merchant Martha was right. Maybe the villagers knew the Owl Masters were planning to attack the beguinage, so they’d rescued their own relatives while there was still time to get them out.
Beatrice was gone too. We knew something was wrong when we saw the door of the pigeon cote flung wide open and the birds wheeling round its roof. At first I feared she might have harmed herself in there, but she’d not done that. The cote was empty, save for the candles. She must have collected up every wax candle in the beguinage and set them all burning. It was a wonder they hadn’t set fire to the straw.
Pega and some of the others had looked for her, but she was not in the fields or barns. I knew we wouldn’t find her. Guilt over Osmanna doubtless weighed heavy on her mind and perhaps she thought the other beguines blamed her, so she had simply slipped away. I should pray for her. I had let her down as I had the others, but how could I pray for her when I couldn’t even pray for myself?
A soft hand stroked mine. From her pallet, Healing Martha lay watching me. I could see the embers of the fire reflected in that one open eye. “I am tired, Healing Martha, so very tired. Tomorrow they will burn Osmanna and all my thoughts should be with her and there is nothing I can do.”
Healing Martha’s hand squeezed mine gently as if encouraging me to continue.
“Merchant Martha thinks we should return to Bruges. All the women are packed and ready, waiting for me to give them the word, but I can’t give it. I have failed so many people—you, Osmanna, that poor child Gudrun. I cannot fail again. The decision I make, I must make for the whole beguinage, not just for the beguines here now, but for all the women who will join us in the years, even centuries to come. And for the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do. If the pagan hordes were massed against us, then our du
ty would be clear, but when it is the Holy Church herself that seeks to destroy us, on what do we stand? Pater misericordiam, why will God not answer me?”
“Gar.”
Not that noise again. Why was that sound the only one left to her, a mockery of a word, so utterly meaningless?
“What do you want, Healing Martha, a drink perhaps, is that it?”
“Sa … gar.”
“Yes, I heard you. Are you cold? Shall I stoke up the fire?”
What was I doing in the infirmary? My duty was to be in the chapel, praying, but my prayers vanished into a void. I didn’t even know if Healing Martha could hear me, but at least her one sound, senseless though it was, was better than cold silence.
“Sau … garde.”
I stared at her. “What? What did you say?”
“Sauve … garde.”
This time there was no mistaking it. Sauvegarde—the inscription written above the gateway to the Vineyard in Bruges.
“Is that what you’ve been trying to say all these weeks? No, Healing Martha, no! You cannot ask me to go back to Bruges. We might as well be nuns sheltering from the world, hiding behind thick walls. But we are not called to be safe. I thought you of all people understood that.”
She winced and I cursed my own tongue. Hadn’t I hurt her enough?
“Forgive me, Healing Martha. I’ve been selfish. You’re old and sick and it’s right that you should return to spend your last days in the Vineyard with people to care for you properly. I should have listened to you with more patience and realised you were asking to be sent home.”
There was a surprisingly sharp slap on my hand. I rubbed my skin more to acknowledge the rebuke than because it stung.
“Sauvegarde!” She tapped the side of my head and then her own.
“I believe she’s asking you what Sauvegarde means, Servant Martha.” I jumped at the sound of Merchant Martha’s voice behind us.
The Owl Killers Page 43