by Robin Morgan
The younger woman glared at her, eyes wide, nostrils flaring like those of a cornered animal, lips curled in scorn. It was a sullen, vindictive face Alyce had never seen Petronilla wear.
“Oh aye, ye always be knowing everything, do ye not? Naught ever scares herself or worries herself!”
“That’s not true, Pet, I—”
“I be not your pet! Even though ye be the great Lady Alyce. Aye, t’is the perfect Lady Alyce, the generous and saintly Lady Alyce, the wise Lady Alyce who knows all what’s to know! Pity the poor rest of us! We be mere mortals! We canna ever please Her Ladyship because we canna ever be wise and perfect as she is!” She spat the last word out as a hiss.
Alyce stood still, contemplating her maidservant. Slowly, she walked over and embraced her, feeling the young woman’s body stiffen. But Petronilla pushed her off and backed away, her face contorted with rage and fear, her eyes wild as if seeing some vision only she could perceive, her voice pitched high and thin with fright.
“Ye dinna understand, ye never … t’is all for naught. Ye canna see what I see. T’is the waking dream. I see it. I see the Circle. But t’is a circle of skulls. Flesh cold as stone washed in moonlight. Dew aglitter on bones—wee bones, ach God, the bones of babes! Little, little bones. They be sticking out from all the corpses’ bloody tangled curls—pretty and pearly baby bones like combs in Her Grace’s long red hair. Oh God I see it! Death and life and the space between you tell about! But the space between not be empty! It be full! It be crowded, oh God—with burning souls! The skulls be cracked, broke open, the nightmare spilling out! I see horror! Oh God I see—”
Alyce slapped Petronilla, hard, across the face.
The two glared at one another.
Then Petronilla’s chest began to heave as her sobs rose. Quickly, Alyce put her arms around the younger woman and held her, rocking her, humming softly in her ear as she would to one of the children. They stood swaying that way until gradually the storm inside the little maid subsided. But Alyce, staring over Petronilla’s shoulder at the sky, saw that the other storm was blowing in their direction.
“You see?” she said to Petronilla, holding her at arm’s length, “Is this not proof that we both need some rest? You are out of temper, and me—look what a harridan I am becoming, to have scolded you so. Come. I will unhitch the horses to have a graze and a drink—I think I heard a brook over that way, a little into the woods. If so, they can be tethered to one of the saplings there—but loosely, so they can reach the water. Meanwhile, you bring the children out of the wagon so they can toddle around a bit before we put them down. Is that not a good plan?”
Spent by her weeping, Petronilla wiped her eyes, nodding. Then both she and Alyce set to work. In a short while, as the older tots were groggily shuffling through the pine needles, the women had brought sheepskins from the wagon and made an outdoor bed for them to lie on. Then, while Alyce was lashing a quilt between two tree branches as a canopy above the improvised bed, Petronilla wandered off, staring out over the valley and seaport town below them.
“Look,” she called to her mistress in a strained voice, “That church there? T’is my old parish chapel, where I’d be going for shelter—first from Cook, then from my husband. T’is there I’d be sitting—oh, not often, and sure not long—when I dinna have to be up and doing, fetching, dodging … t’was lovely. So quiet. A body be hearing the heartbeat inside herself. I be lighting a candle, praying for mercy. Hearing the plainsong and chants, breathing the incense—sweet, so sweet. And the bells! I be loving the bells, the Angelus most. I be loving all of it, really. And Mass! T’was so beautiful, so comforting.… Aye, but that was before I left my husband and the evil Father Donnan said … he be still there, you know! He might—”
“Oh, I should not worry about him, Pet—ronilla,” Alyce replied, busy creating the rain canopy. “De Ledrede would be sending his own men-at-arms after us—and they cannot even know we have fled yet. Or if they do know, then by now they have probably been distracted by looting my castle and pilfering our harvest,” she muttered bitterly. “But even the Bishop is not able to alert every parish priest in Ireland to the threat of our banshee presence. Though just the same, for caution’s sake, we probably should not build a fire, pleasant as that would be.”
Petronilla didn’t answer. She stood gazing at the little stone church, twisting her pale braids. At last, Alyce, struggling against exasperation, called her to please come help tuck in the children.
Dana had long since dozed off in her swaddling, cushioned by pine needles. The women hustled Sara and the other toddlers to the blanket bed where, despite their elation at being let out of the cart and their glee at this adventure of sleeping outdoors in a forest, they dropped off immediately, too exhausted even to protest being put down.
Embarrassed by her outburst, Petronilla offered to take the first watch. But she still seemed agitated, so Alyce decided to sit with her for a few minutes. She uncorked a flask of wine and took a swallow, then passed it to Petronilla, urging it on her for warmth and hoping it might relax her a little.
The two women sat together on a large rock in the pine forest, saying nothing, each alone with her thoughts.
“May the most wrathful God of Abraham punish such stupidity!” the Bishop shouted at his manservants, who had just helped him dismount into a puddle.
“May Christ Himself have mercy and rescue me from such incompetents! Why am I never told anything until it is too late? Is all Ireland one conspiracy, serfs through nobles? Is this sabotage or idiocy? Does it matter? No, the result is the same!”
In full roar, Richard de Ledrede stormed through the hall and back into his study, slamming his door in the faces of the apologetic gaggle of priests trailing after him. He did not care to hear any more excuses from people so thick-headed that they assigned look-outs to one place only, the Covenstead, ignoring the Castle itself.
He flung off his cloak and sank into a chair. Now that he finally had won permission to hold his heresy trials, he had lost his chief heretic.
He reached for a beaker of brandywine and poured himself a cup, draining it in two gulps. Then he sat back and closed his eyes, shuddering to recall how he had ridden triumphantly across the drawbridge to Kyteler Castle, there to sit astride his horse, circling the empty, echoing courtyard lit only by his men’s torches, forced to acknowledge the truth—Alyce Kyteler was gone. She had abandoned her beloved ancestral lands. So The Craft meant that much to her. He had underestimated her again. He could not afford one more miscalculation.
What was to have been the best night of his life was rapidly becoming the worst—certainly the most humiliating since that dinner last Christmas honouring Bernard Gui, Inquisitor of Toulouse, when Cardinal de Blanc had so cruelly jested that he …
What an absurd position the Church had placed him in, really. He was a linguist, an administrator, a diplomat—what right had they to thrust him into the position of military tactician? Yet even at that, God knows, he had done his best. He had sent pursuit after Kyteler and her retinue, splitting his men-at-arms up in all four directions to follow every road out of Kilkenny. Delegating nothing this time, he had personally instructed their commanders to break down doors and do whatever convincing was necessary to solicit information about any passing travelers. He had sent yet another complement of yeomen to seek out those serfs known to be special pets of Dame Alyce, on the chance that she was hiding out with one of them. He had covered all escape routes. Unless the cursed witches really could fly.
He groaned and rubbed his eyes. Then he filled another cup with brandywine, trying to savor how its topaz colour glinted in the candlelight as he poured. But it gave him no pleasure. All capacity for enjoyment felt suspended until he had that vile bawd of Satan safe in his dungeons. Even the wine tasted of fear, fear that she was gone for good, fear …
Christ! If he failed, what remained for him? In order to elicit the Pope’s personal missive to the Lord Justice, he had needed to convince Avigno
n that the arrest, trial, and condemnation of Kyteler were central to gaining Church hegemony in Ireland. He had succeeded in this by writing numerous letters of appeal to the Papal Court over the past months, even exaggerating Kyteler’s importance to convince them. If she eluded him now, how could he explain his failure? And if he failed, the Church in France would not have him back. He knew that. Without the Pope’s support he could not carry on in Ireland, either. Furthermore, he still faced those revived fraud charges in Kilkenny. England had long been sealed against him. Where could he go? Not only would a cardinal’s hat be forever out of reach, but he would fall instead of rising. He would end up as a parish priest in some dusty Italian village, begging his superiors for pence to fix the roof and baptizing litters of squalling peasant brats.
He began to pace the room like a celled prisoner. He needed this triumph, needed the spectacle of Alyce Kyteler repentant in chains or aflame at the stake. He needed this more than he had ever needed anything in his life.
He glanced at the hourglass. Each grain of falling sand meant increasing likelihood of her escape. Charging to the door, he opened it and peered out. But other than the sentry dozing at the end of the hall, no one was there. No breathless messenger running toward him with news of her apprehension, no word. He yelled once to startle the sentry, then banged the door shut again. He had not felt so totally helpless since his boyhood.
Pouring another cup, he drank it down, feeling its anodyne begin to blunt the edge of his fear with a growing sense of pity at the injustice being done him. This Irish assignment was equivalent to Sisyphus’s boulder. They expected him to fail. Back in Avignon they were laughing, laying wagers only as to when. Here he was, fighting for the Church, his vision of the Church—the centuries of individual sacrifices, the millions of prayers, the last thoughts of myriad suffering martyrs; the countless lives fed, housed, educated, saved by the Church—that was what he was defending. Not that Avignon would notice.… But God certainly should notice. He stared accusingly at the gilded crucifix across the room. Tears rose in his throat. He deserved better treatment than this. Stumbling to the prie-dieu, he fell heavily to his knees and crossed himself, bowing his head above interlaced fingers, his lips grazing the bishop’s ring as he prayed.
“Holy Saint Francis, help me.… I know I have fallen away from my youthful reverence. But I have given all in a greater service, to the Church. I have been obedient. I have bargained with Hell to preserve the idea of Heaven. Are not my labours worth something? I denounce false gods every day! … Blessed Francis, have I—have I fallen into idolatry? Have I sinned against God by loving the Church too much? Mea culpa, mea maxima—but how can I be idolatrous? The Church and God are one! I am God’s scholar, God’s voice in different tongues, God’s steward! Why then do I go unnoticed, as if I were God’s serf? Intercede for me, Blessed Francis, that I may be noticed—and … and awarded this small payment for my loyal service: victory tonight, victory over this woman!
“And you, Blessed Saint Patrick. You see how I have fought infidels and apostates to sustain your mission here? Grant me, Holy Patrick, the body of this foul witch! Give her into my hands! Ad majorem Dei gloriam!… In nomine …
Mumbling the last words and crossing himself, he struggled to his feet, wove a few steps, shuffled back to his chair, and half fell into it. He desperately longed to go to bed. But rest was out of the question.
He would wait—though in the dizzy haze of righteousness and brandy he was no longer sure for what. Ah yes, for word about the pursuit of his prize, the witch. But something else … recognition. Yes, of his merit, yes! He refused to be ignored. Even if the Church abandoned him, he would not go quietly. At least God would not be ungrateful, God would notice.…
But that would mean—no, cannot be—No. Oh then how—no. Cannot.… But that would mean that the Church and God were not the same thing after all …
He closed his eyes to shut out the pain in his head.
It didn’t matter.
He would wait.
For what he had paid for dearly.
For what was owed him.
If he was God’s serf, he would wait, for as long as it took, to be noticed.
“What is it, my dear?” Alyce finally asked gently, “Petronilla? Cannot you tell me? Is it simply that you are afraid? I mean, not normally afraid the way everyone else is now, but afraid the way you used to be when you first came to us—consumed by it?” There was no answer, so Alyce went on. “We are all afraid, you know. Certainly I am. All I am doing is holding on—being afraid for just a few moments longer, then a few moments after that, moment by moment—which others mistake for courage. In times like these, anyone who is not afraid is demented. But my child, we cannot let fear churn us up so that it immobilizes us. That is where the will comes in, the concentrated will. You remember: ‘Chant the Word and let it free. As my Will, so mote it be …’ ”
Petronilla sat holding the flask, not drinking. Finally, she spoke.
“… ‘An it harm none.’ Aye. T’is that I mean. The harm. What if I want some of ’em harmed? Like Donnan? Or the Bishop? What then? Ah, t’is such a stew in my mind, m’Lady,” nodding her head toward the distant silhouette of the Wexford church, “All my days I be wanting to please ’em—that was all I be knowing. Such a knowing—t’is not what a body can forget. Might be no one can ever unlearn it, sure not in a year and a day. And oh, I do fear ’em—ye canna know how much. T’is many mysteries ye know, Your Ladyship, but this I be knowing in some way you canna: them and their power. T’is a knowing I wear tucked inside my skin. Just to think of ’em, I can feel myself quaking—and shamed by the quaking. But I be feeling more than myself. I be knowing what they leave behind when they pass through lives like mine in their grand processions on the way to their cathedrals and their noble courts. Not just the cruel ones or the ones who judge us or the greedy ones with ice shards cold as diamonds hanging from their hearts. But the ones who just … dinna care. Aye, they just dinna care. The ones who be believing folks like me are naught. The ones who be not noticing who gets crushed under the hooves of their sleek horses.…” Her voice dropped to whisper. “Sometimes, in my dreams, or even awake—I think I be actually seeing all who have perished. Those you told us of, too—folk accused on other shores. Ach, such suffering I see! Those who be tortured, those who canna speak or who be forced to lie, who be beaten, chained, dying. I see ’em. I see ’em hunger and sicken and freeze. I see ’em thirst and despair.”
“Perhaps you have the Sight, Petronilla,” Alyce murmured, regarding her student with new respect. “Like the seers. Like some of the bards and poets. Perhaps that is your strength. You must give it your attention, whatever it is. T’is a great lesson.”
“Ach, another lesson, is it,” Petronilla said dully.
“I know,” Alyce laughed softly, “Wearying, eh? But everything can teach us something. The only question is whether we are open to learning what—”
“—so when I see it, all this suffering …” Petronilla’s voice deepened and her pale face flushed and darkened, “then I be—changing. Then I be wanting to slaughter the men who do this. Then I be longing to see other sights, to see them suffer, to see their surprise that a body so low as me could make ’em suffer, to see my own hands gloved with their blood—feel it sticky and red and warm, smell it, even taste—”
“Hush, oh hush, child. Do not say it. Do not think it. Remember: “Do what thou wilt, an it harm none. For the Law of Three will return to you what you send against another thricefold.” Alyce made a wide flinging gesture with both hands, as if casting away the thought. “I deflect these thoughts that haunt you! I cancel them, cancel them, cancel them!”
But Petronilla was not finished.
“Ye may think me truly daft, I know. But there be something even worse than the fear and the hatred I feel for them. For I also … I be part of them, part of their world—and they be part of me. I can feel them waiting for me. Mayhap I be not meant for Initiation into The
Craft. Mayhap I be meant to stay with what I grew up on, what I always trusted would save me. Christian mercy, Christian forgiveness.”
“But Petronilla, you have done nothing, nothing, to require forgiveness! Quite the opposite! You have—”
“Ye canna see it, m’Lady, but I have such—hate in me! Rich, thick hate. I need that mercy, I crave it. Ye be talking about power and about will. But there be no power in me. T’is—all outside me, power belonging to God or Christ or the Blessed Virgin. Or The Great Mother. Or the Green Man. To some body or spirit other’n me. But me … there be naught in me. I be empty. And I be so tired of trying to—what you say, be myself—when I got no self to be.”
The older woman reached for Petronilla’s hand, gripping it tightly.
“My daughter,” she said hoarsely, “that is a lifetime’s task, learning to be oneself. Petronilla, hear me. If you want to return to Christian ways, you should do so. All I ask is that you not feel yourself driven to a decision, especially now, at this time of crisis. Please, please, trust yourself. Trust what you have known all your life, yes. But also trust what you have learned this past year, too. To conceive power in the spirit of The Goddess is for a woman to discover that spirit also in herself, you see? So acknowledge your fear—yet keep faith with your own power. And believe me when I tell you that your strength springs not from hatred. It comes from love, Petronilla. I see it in your every act. Not a passive love, either: a fierce love. ‘By naught but love may She be known.’ Remember? So hearken to your own desire. Then you will come to understand what it is you most long to do, were born to do, must do. And you will find you have the courage to do it. This is my sole wisdom, my sole mystery, the secret that guides me when you assume, wrongly, that I am not afraid.”