Sylvia

by Bryce Courtenay

  I looked at him in astonishment. It was obvious this was no humble manservant. I had never thought the bishop a man sufficiently intelligent to serve his holy vocation, and Brother Dominic had often pronounced him a bumbling, garrulous fool. I now saw whence came his counsel on those rare occasions when it proved to be sound. I did not for one moment think that he believed this artifice of crows contrived into a cross was witchery, but, instead, was well aware how it might be made to look thus to the commonfolk.

  ‘How then must I be punished a second time? Was the bishop’s frightening not sufficient?’ I asked, trembling inwardly.

  ‘Punished?’ he asked, surprised. ‘I did not speak of punishment, only of consequence.’

  ‘You play with words, sire,’ I said softly.

  ‘And for a woman you have far too many,’ he said, for a moment losing his patience and indicating quite another character concealed within. ‘Come, I have a cart waiting.’

  ‘But it is near Evensong, may I not go in the morning?’ I cried. ‘I shall leave with the ringing of the Angelus.’

  ‘Nay, you are needed in the palace at first light.’

  ‘Where will I sojourn?’ I glanced at Reinhardt. ‘May I bring my friend?’

  ‘With the servants, and nay! You must be alone,’ he said firmly.

  ‘I will follow, Sylvia, and will wait outside the gates, under the elm,’ Reinhardt said. I had told him of our previously being made to wait at the gates and of the elm tree.

  ‘Do not try to enter the bishop’s palace,’ the envoy said sharply. ‘I will not tolerate it.’

  It was now certain that he was the high-lofty among the bishop’s retainers. We had arrived at the bishop’s palace when it was yet twilight and the horseman, who had ridden just ahead of the trundling cart as if to ensure that I made no attempt to escape, now rode up, the animal’s hooves crunching on the gravelled forecourt. He still had not introduced himself, and the cart driver had simply grunted when I’d asked him if he knew the name of the bishop’s envoy. He had clearly been told not to speak to me and, despite several attempts at conversation, remained silent. Looking down at me from his horse with an expression of disinterest, his formerly patient and equitable demeanour absent, the envoy said abruptly, ‘A servant will take you to your lodgings. He has been told not to speak to you.’

  ‘I have not eaten today,’ I said to the manservant who accompanied me. He merely grunted and soon we arrived at a small stone building that stood on its own near the stables where he unbolted the door and with a nod indicated that I should enter. ‘Will you arrange for some sustenance?’ I asked again but still he made no answer.

  ‘Lodgings’, as I’d been promised, is a word that usually contains some sense of comfort. It was a small room, bare but for a pallet with a sacking mattress stuffed with straw. Discarded in a corner lay a dirty blanket. In the middle of the floor stood a small wooden stool and upon it a clay dish that contained the pooled wax of a spent candle, a finger-prick of burned wick frozen in its near-translucent centre. In the corner nearest the door was a wooden bucket, its purpose made clear by the smell that came from it. The room had a tiny window near the roof, not sufficient to cleanse the air of the sour smell of ale and gruel mixed with the sharper tang of urine. It was little more than a prison cell.

  The manservant closed the door behind me and I heard the rattle of the bolt sliding into place. It was dark and damp within the rough stone-walled room and, despite my sheepskin coat, I was cold. The lice and bugs within the foul woollen blanket would be abundant, also the mattress would be infested and I would touch neither. I fell to my knees and began to pray. How long I prayed I cannot say but these precious words rose up in my throat so that I sang out the beautiful Angele Dei.

  Angele Dei,

  qui custos es mei,

  Me tibi commissum pietate superna;

  Hac nocte, illumina, custodi, rege, et guberna.

  Amen.

  Angel of God,

  my guardian dear,

  To whom His love commits me here;

  Ever this night be at my side,

  To light and guard, to rule and guide.

  Amen.

  I continued to sing, for how long I cannot say, except that I could see the stars in the night sky through the small window. I sang to these heavenly pricks of light, the discarded souls of angels who, already contained within the glory of heaven, had no further need for them, as they waited to be gifted to newly baptised children. Then, quite suddenly, came the rattle of the door bolt as it was drawn back and the door swung open with a soft creaking to reveal the shape of a small person dimly silhouetted against the dark night.

  ‘Little Sister Sylvia, it is Matthew,’ the figure said in a low voice.

  ‘Matthew!’

  ‘Shush!’ he cautioned. ‘I am not allowed to be here. I’ve brought you some bread and ale.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered back.

  ‘Where are you, I cannot see you?’ he asked.

  ‘Wait, I will come to the door.’

  ‘Please don’t escape or I shall be beaten.’

  ‘Nay, it’s all right,’ I assured him. Then to put him at ease, ‘You’re a lovely boy.’

  ‘You must drink the ale now, quickly,’ he said anxiously. ‘If the jug is found, they’ll know I’ve been here.’

  I reached for the loaf of coarse bread I could now dimly see in his hand and tucked it into a fold of my skirt locked between my knees. Then I took the small jug of ale he held out and swallowed greedily, knowing that I would have to use the foul bucket quite soon, but my thirst overcame my repulsion at the thought. I drank nearly half the contents of the jug before handing it back. ‘Thank you, Matthew, I cannot drink it all so quickly.’

  ‘I must go,’ he whispered anxiously.

  ‘Nay, tarry just a moment. Put down the jug and let me give you a hug.’ I hugged him to my breast and kissed his cheek, then pushed him gently away from me. ‘Do you know why I have been brought back?’ I asked. But he was already shutting the door.

  ‘Crows!’ he whispered loudly, and then I heard the bolt slide back into place.

  It was too dark to see in the room and I edged across the wall furthermost from the pallet until my toe touched the dirty blanket, and then drew back sufficiently so that I thought myself between it and the bucket. I sat with my back against the wall and chewed on the small dry loaf, soon wishing I possessed the jug of ale to wash it down. When I could eat no more I rose and found the blanket and concealed the remainder of the bread within it in case someone in the morning came upon it and somehow traced it back to Matthew.

  I returned to sit against the wall and attempted to make sense of what I knew, which wasn’t much. I felt fairly sure that the bishop had remained hidden behind the peephole in the roof of the room from which I had escaped, which meant he could not have been present in the great hall to see the effect the crows perched upon my stave had on his servants. The term ‘The Cross of Crows’ had surfaced in the markets this morning and by late afternoon I had been summoned by the bishop’s horseman to come to the palace. The term could only have come from a palace servant visiting Cologne this morning. If the bishop thought it blasphemy, then the cross could only be hearsay. Perhaps I was being punished to quieten the servants who might, as the horseman suggested, have seen the cross of crows as the work of a witch or the devil? I soon convinced myself that this was the case and I sang a Gloria as loudly as I could, so any person listening would think of me differently, knowing I was a child of Jesus Christ the Saviour and singing His praise into the night. Finally, exhausted, I fell asleep still seated with my back against the wall.

  I was wakened at dawn by the sound of the bolt being drawn back. The door opened and Scarface stood in the doorway. The shock of seeing him was too great and I screamed and jumped to my feet. Moments later I felt a warm trickle run down my legs. I drew back whimpering and cringing into the corner, stepping on the blanket, as the warm piss ran into the tops of my b
oots and between them, soaking into the dirty wool at my feet.

  ‘Hush, fräulein!’ Scarface said, a frightened expression upon his face. Then, in a most supplicating voice, he declared, ‘We are blamed and have been beaten for the curse you have set upon us. I plead your forgiveness and beg your mercy.’ His eyes were lowered to look down at his feet, unaware that I was in the process of spilling my bladder. I was still too shocked to react to anything he said. ‘I am sent to fetch you,’ he said again, then added, ‘You will not be harmed.’ He gave a small involuntary jerk as he saw me reach down for my stave. It was as if he now saw it for an object other than for what it plainly was. I walked stiffly towards him, the inside of my thighs stinging and uncomfortable, hoping no wetness showed through and grateful that I wore my long sheepskin coat to conceal my shame.

  We walked the short distance to the side of the bishop’s palace and entered through a side door situated close to the stables. The door opened to a narrow passage that ended at a stout, oaken door reinforced with heavy metal plates and studs. Almost beside it and to my left was another small door set into the wall of the passageway. I took the passageway with its heavily reinforced door to be a means of escape should the palace come under attack. Scarface stopped outside the smaller door and knocked. ‘Stay here,’ he whispered, then turned and walked quickly back down the way we had come and out into the stable yard. I heard the outside door creak and then close and the sound of the bolt being slid into place. If I’d had any thought to escape it was now too late.

  ‘Enter!’ a voice called.

  I pushed at the door and it opened to my touch and I was surprised to see the bishop seated on a large leather chair covered by loose sheepskins. A jug of wine, a half-eaten loaf of bread, a small haunch of meat and a knife sat on a large earthen platter on a low table beside him. To his right stood the horseman who had fetched me the previous evening. I took the few paces towards the chair and knelt and kissed the proffered ring, hoping the smell of urine wouldn’t reach him. If it did, then he did not remark on it but simply grunted, withdrawing his fat hand after my lips had touched the ruby.

  ‘Stand up, Sylvia Honeyeater,’ the bishop’s man demanded. Though it was a command, it was not said over-harshly. I stood with my hands folded to my front and my eyes downcast. ‘You will only talk when His Lordship permits. If you do as you are told you will not come to any harm. My name is Master Nicodemus and you know well how to address His Lordship.’

  ‘The accommodation!’ the bishop called out, turning to look impatiently at Master Nicodemus.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Master Nicodemus said, slightly flustered. ‘The bishop regrets that you were not better accommodated last night, but the palace is vacated and all the out-buildings occupied. His Lordship was himself forced to sleep in the wine cellar where the rats kept him awake all night.’ Master Nicodemus said this to suggest the bishop’s uncomfortable night was my fault, but spoke in such a carefully rehearsed and contumelious manner that it was meant more to satisfy the bishop’s self-sorrow than intended for my ears. I glanced up at him in surprise.

  ‘Well?’ the bishop said, glaring directly at me.

  I was completely lost for words.

  ‘Speak, woman!’

  I opened my mouth but no words came. I had been commanded to speak without knowing what I was expected to say.

  ‘The curse!’ the bishop shouted.

  ‘Curse, my Lord?’

  ‘You will remove it at once!’

  ‘It?’

  ‘What is this? Can’t you speak? Yes, you can! You twisted us around your little finger at the archbishop’s damned inquiry! Jabbering like a magpie! Now will you, or won’t you?’

  ‘Is it about the Cross of Crows, your Lordship?’ I asked querulously.

  ‘Cross of Crows? What on earth are you talking about, woman? The only cross I have to bear is your stubborn insolence!’

  So, he has not been told of the cross, I thought. The threat of me being pronounced a witch had been of Master Nicodemus’s own invention. If it was not the Cross of Crows, then what was the bishop going on about?

  ‘Perhaps I may explain, my Lord Bishop?’ Master Nicodemus suggested.

  ‘Nay, you may not!’ the bishop shouted, his furious face near-apoplectic. ‘This tweeting bird who has conveniently lost all her jabber will do all the explaining.’ He stabbed a fat finger at me. ‘You will stop the invasion at once!’

  ‘As God is my witness, my Lord, I know of no invasion,’ I said, now close to tears.

  ‘Crows! Crows! Crows!’ the bishop shouted, thumping the arm of his chair, a spray of spittle issuing from his lips. ‘I will have an end to crows!’

  I looked at Master Nicodemus and shrugged, appealing to him for an explanation. ‘Crows have invaded the palace in great numbers – we ask that you rid us of them,’ he said, disobeying the bishop’s earlier instruction not to speak.

  ‘That’s what I told the stupid girl! Get rid of them at once, you hear? Or you will be flogged or much worse!’ The bishop turned to Master Nicodemus. ‘Take her away!’ he said, pointing to the door.

  Matthew’s single word ‘Crows’ now made sense. ‘Come, fräulein,’ Master Nicodemus commanded. I followed him out of the small windowless room and, closing the door behind him, we walked the few steps to the larger door but he made no attempt to open it. ‘I must warn you, Sylvia Honeyeater, if you fail in this task it will be not too difficult to persuade the bishop that this is a case of witchcraft.’

  ‘You made that stuff up . . . about witches and the cross,’ I said, knowing I should remain silent but unable to do so.

  He looked at me, one eyebrow raised. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, I am not at all sure that this isn’t witchcraft. A case may be easily made that this invasion of the crows is revenge for your excommunication by His Lordship. Then, of course, there is the hanging by the children – your hand in that is well-known.’ He shrugged. ‘It won’t be difficult to have you named a witch – crows do not invade palaces unless a spell, a witch’s spell, or some such evil, has been cast.’ Then he looked at me sternly. ‘And you well know what the Church does with witches.’

  ‘Why am I blamed for this, Master Nicodemus? I am not evil!’ I cried.

  ‘We have it from the two men who were sent to frighten you that the crows came to your summoning when you were here the day before yesterday. They are still coming. Every hour brings more, the palace rooms are now infested. There are hundreds, nay a thousand or even more. The beams, walls, floor, the furniture, beds, carpets are all covered in crow shit.’ He pointed at the door of the little room we’d just left. ‘This passage and that room are the only place in the palace where there are no windows they may enter to torment us. They show no fear of man and will attack six or eight at a time, so that we have all been driven from the palace.’

  I now realised that what he accused me of doing was possibly true. I had walked out of the palace with perhaps a dozen crows perched on my stave but others had already entered and I had sent them after Scarface and Pockface, then I had left the palace without calling the crows away or withdrawing the call that set them on the attack. The ones upon the stave I had set loose when I had been well down the road.

  I had never before been faced with such a problem and had no idea whether a thousand crows or more would heed or even hear my calls to vacate the palace. I knew at once that if I failed the consequences would be horrendous. I remembered Brother Dominic’s advice that from the darkest moment the light begins: ‘Panic is the harbinger of disaster, to think when you are mortally afraid is the beginning of the solution. It is from the darkest moment that the light begins.’

  ‘If I fail you have warned me of the consequences. But if I succeed, is there no reward?’ I asked, my heart thumping like a sultan’s drum.

  MasterNicodemus grinned. ‘Only a small, inconsequential one – your life.’

  ‘My life is in God’s hands. It will end when it is time,’ I heard myself saying in a surprisingly
even voice. ‘But the bishop’s palace is in mine.’

  ‘What mean you by that?’

  I shrugged. ‘The crows will never go away.’

  His head jerked backwards. ‘You would threaten us, fräulein?’

  ‘Nay, it is you, not I, who do the threatening, Master Nicodemus. I simply point out that the bishop will lose his palace and be the laughing stock of Cologne, chased from his palace by a flock of cawing crows. If the Church would condemn me as a witch, then the people would, with the naming, expect the curse of the crows to be lifted.’ I paused. ‘But think now . . . it won’t be.

  It will remain forever and my guilt will soon enough be questioned and His Lordship blamed for falsely condemning me of witchcraft.’

  I attempted to smile. ‘What is to be gained if you kill me?’

  Master Nicodemus seemed to think for a moment. Then to my surprise he smiled and slowly shook his head. ‘I have heard of your silver tongue, Sylvia.’ He spread his hands. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘A donation.’

  ‘A donation? To you?’

  ‘Nay, to the Children’s Crusade.’

  ‘And what shall it be?’

  ‘A wagon and four mules with harness.’

  He gave a low whistle. ‘I see . . . for the Children’s Crusade?’

  ‘Aye, a donation from the bishop.’ I added quickly, ‘It will enhance his reputation for generosity and folk will regard it well. He has been previously seen to support this holy cause, permitting us to use the church carts, but has now withdrawn his permission. This will restore his generosity and show he bears no malice towards the Children’s Crusade the common people of Cologne so eagerly support.’

  He grunted, as if to suggest that the bishop did not have a reputation for generosity that might be enhanced or restored. ‘I will need to ask him.’ He retraced the few steps to the small door and knocked, then opened it without waiting for permission to enter.