The Sin Eater

by Megan Campisi

  I see this man in my mind embracing my mother. It’s not a memory, just a notion turning over. He could be my father. Pieces slide into place. The recorder made me, his brother’s bastard, a sin eater the same way he did his barren wife. Clearing the family of its stained women. Choler burns a hot, white star in my chest, getting larger and larger. It wants to fight. It wants my arms to be strong enough to run across the field and dig my nails into the recorder’s flesh. I grab at my arms and squeeze them. Why can’t I be Black Fingers, who can press folk beneath stones, or the Queen, who can command armies?!

  I’m so enraged I almost don’t see Fair Hair come out of the tent and give a coin to a linkboy to lead her to the jakes with his lantern. The recorder and his brother must wait. I may not be strong enough to hurt them, but, Maker help me, I’ll give Fair Hair what she deserves.

  I slip off my stone and walk silent through the grass. Fair Hair pauses to greet the recorder and the other ladies, so I have a moment to trot ahead through the dark and get into place around the side of the jakes.

  Fair Hair leaves the linkboy by the back of the tent, takes his lantern, and walks the last twenty paces to the jakes alone, most like because ladies don’t like boys listening to them piss. He’s just as happy. The moment she leaves him, he’s peering in the tent to see the play.

  When I hear Fair Hair open the door to the jakes, I dart around and catch the door before it shuts. In I go, dropping the bar in the lock behind me.

  Fair Hair startles, then raises the lantern to see better. ‘I need no aid, miss, and haven’t a coin for you anyhow. Take your leave.’ She waves me away and waits.

  I stand my ground and unwrap my shawl to reveal my collar. And this is where my plan begins. It’s not a fancy plan, like my uncles’ complicated games of confidence. It’s not an educated plan like the Willow Tree’s midnight ritual. It’s a simple plan for a cursed girl, and I pray it will work.

  I take the chalk from my sleeve and begin to draw along the wood walls of the jakes. What I draw is the letters from the tapestry right out of my memory. Before I even finish them, Fair Hair’s eyes widen, and a cry leaves her mouth. Then I draw more. I draw the mark for sanctuary from my door and the mark from my fountain. I draw all the Anglish letters I know, like M and A. I draw them all over the raw, wooden walls. Even I think, taken together, they look like witch’s marks. And it seems Fair Hair does too.

  She shrieks the Maker’s Prayer for protection against evil. I say my own prayer that the music of the play is loud enough to cover her noise. Then I reach into my sleeve and remove the poppet I fashioned this morning. The white of the tallow almost glows in the jakes’ gloom. The poppet’s female shape is plain, as is the hay on its head, yellow to match Fair Hair’s blonde curls. I lift the tail of the brass S hanging from my collar, as good as any pin, and hold it above the poppet’s heart, as if I would slide it into the soft fat.

  Fair Hair looks like she might puke. ‘Please don’t harm me! I never meant for them to die. Please.’

  She is either more artful than I thought or terribly simple. She never meant for them to die? How could poison not kill? I raise the pin again.

  ‘Please! Please, don’t! I had no recourse but this. The Queen will kill me if she discovers I’m with child!’

  That I believe.

  She goes on. ‘She’s done so before. She had my love’s wife pushed down a stair.’ Her voice drops to barely more than breath. ‘I had to try to kill the Queen. I never dreamed the poppets would kill the others in her place, I swear to you. Corliss was a good woman. And the midwife. I did not know my witchcraft was so powerful.’ Why isn’t she speaking of the poison or the deer hearts?

  Fair Hair drops her head. ‘He said you knew. He said the sin eater told him there had been a killing. He had just discovered that I was the one making the poppets. He tried to cut your throat to keep you from telling anyfolk.’ She begins to wail. ‘I am sorry, so very, very sorry.’ She looks at the poppet in my hand. ‘Please don’t kill me and my child.’

  She’s been truthful, I can tell. She confessed her crime. But it’s not the right one. She planted the poppets, but not the deer hearts. She knows nothing about the poisonings. So who is the killer? My plan worked, and yet not at all.

  She shrieks once more when I cut a lock from her hair. I still want my token.

  There are voices outside the jakes. Men’s voices, in alarum. I open the door. The linkboy and three guards are coming across the grass from the tent. The linkboy points at me, and a guard raises his lantern. When the light hits the guard in front, I see it’s not a guard at all. It’s Black Fingers.

  I race out and around the jakes. Up against its wooden back, I go over my choices. The field is wide and open, a poor place to hide. To one side is the field kitchen and the small tent for plating up food. To the other is the actors’ costume tent. I peek around the corner. They’ve nearly reached me. I squeeze my hands together for luck and dash out across the grass towards the costume tent.

  Black Fingers’s voice booms across the night. ‘Turn her going!’ I can hear the thumping of the guards’ boots on the earth behind me. My own corked shoes wobble beneath my feet. I daren’t stop. If they catch me, I will not escape this time. I think of a sword slicing down between my head and my shoulder and run harder. With a sudden jolt, my ankle rolls out to the side. I keen in pain but keep going, hobble-running towards the tent. I hear heavy, male breath steps away. Just a few more paces. With a last burst, I push into the tent, just before the guards reach me.

  29. MUSTARD SEED

  IT’S DARK INSIDE, but I make out the shadows of the trunks and costume racks. I also take in two folk, one helping the other to dress or undress – I don’t know which – by a lantern on the floor, papered over to keep the light low. The only other exit is the flap leading into the main tent. I step behind one of the racks hung with coats and robes, disappearing into the velvets and brocades just as a rush of air behind me signals the guard’s arrival. With care, I sink to the ground. I can see the actors’ feet on one side of the tent and the guard’s feet – no, two sets of guards’ feet – near the entrance. Then another set comes in. Black Fingers.

  ‘Where’s the girl?’ he bellows.

  ‘There’s a play on now!’ one of the actors whispers. ‘Just on the other side of that canvas.’ A flute song and sweet singing come from inside the main tent, as if in proof.

  ‘This is the Queen’s business,’ answers Black Fingers, only a bit quieter. ‘A girl came in here. And you will help me find her.’

  His voice is enough threat that the actor answers quick and tight, ‘The only place is with the costumes.’

  ‘Then search in the costumes,’ says Black Fingers impatiently. Through the clothes I see a guard spear a pile of clothes in a trunk.

  ‘Don’t stand there like asses!’ Black Fingers calls. The actors’ feet begin to move too. One of them comes to the far end of the rack I’m behind.

  ‘It took the elder sin eater two hours to die under the press,’ comes Black Fingers’s voice. Maker mine, he knows it’s me. Fair Hair must have told him. ‘First her blood was pushed into her head and limbs. Her fingers and toes turned purple and swelled like potatoes.’ The air gets thick in my chest. I try the tent wall behind to see if I might slip under it, but it’s staked down tight. ‘Then the veins of her eyes popped and wept blood. That was in the first minutes.’ I feel the clothes swaying as the actor makes his way along the rack, looking between garments. I slide until I’m at the rack’s end, hiding behind the very last robe. Beyond is just open ground between me and the guard stabbing at clothes in trunks. ‘Mmm.’ Black Fingers goes on. ‘Her rib bones broke through her flesh, and all her juices dribbled out, like a goose on the spit.’ The actor’s fingers appear above me. I close my eyes tight as a sob rises in my throat. But no, I’ll face my end like my mother would. I open my eyes and from deep in my throat summon a mouthful of spittle. Before he rats me out, I’ll spit in his face. The actor pul
ls the robes apart.

  It’s Paul.

  The moment lasts a lifetime. Me taking him in. Him seeing it’s me. A faint sound as he catches his breath. Paul, who if not for Brida, would have left me to die in the apothecary lane. Who nearly stoned me. Who called me pollution and filth. Who has armed guards and the Queen’s secretary at his back ordering him to find me. I already know he’ll give me up. I should hawk my spittle smack in his eye now before he does it.

  But I don’t. Suddenly I don’t want to face my end like my mother, tussling like a fox. I want to face it the way I imagine Ruth did, strong. I swallow the spit. I look him dead in the eye, not hard, not shaky, just steady.

  Paul looks at me back. Not hard, not shaky. Soberly.

  ‘There’s no folk here,’ Paul calls to Black Fingers, letting the robe fall back around me.

  I choke back a giggle, nearly giving myself away.

  ‘She came in here!’ Black Fingers hisses. I hear the slap of a hand hitting Paul’s face, and the thud as he lands hard on the ground.

  ‘You, man,’ Black Fingers says to a guard. ‘Search the rack again.’ A pair of boots leaves the trunks and walks direct to where I’m hidden. A sword blade slices into the robe next to mine. In a moment I’ll be spitted like a rabbit.

  ‘Sir!’ Paul calls out sharply. I see his feet go to the outer door of the tent.

  ‘What now?’ says Black Fingers, turning towards him.

  ‘Look. Look just here,’ he pulls at the bottom of the tent cloth. ‘Perhaps there was a loose stake.’ The guards kneel down to check. In a moment they’ll know there’s no loose stake.

  Then I catch Paul’s game. He’s pulled their attention away from my side of the tent. Black Fingers and the guards are all facing away. He’s giving me a chance to escape through the flap leading to the stage. Where hundreds of folk, including the Queen, are hearing a play at this very moment. But what choice do I have?

  With Black Fingers and the guards still turned towards Paul, I hobble on my hurt ankle over to the stage entrance. I look back once. Black Fingers is watching as his guards pull at the tent canvas. Paul’s face is turned towards them, but like a cat, his eyes move to mine. They’re as sullen as they’ve ever been, but they look direct at me. Quick as lightning, I nod in thanks, then slip through the canvas.

  30. BEEFSTEAK

  I EXPECT A HUNDRED eyes on me. I expect all the mighty folk of the country to shout, ‘Look there!’ I expect I’ll have to run. But when I come through the tent flap it’s not like that at all.

  On top of the stage stands one of the flat wooden panels, rising up before me, taller than the tallest man. I can’t see any folk at all. But they’re close. I hear Frederick speaking on the other side of the panel. I’m just behind the stage.

  My ankle throbs. Its flesh is swelling. Suddenly a trumpet sounds, and I hear a soft whir. I look up to see the other wooden panel lowering rapidly. It slides into its groove. There’s another whir, and the first panel begins to rise. One of the actors stands to the side of the stage working the ropes.

  All at once, the long-haired actor comes round the side of the panel back behind the stage where I am. He’s dressed like a lady. He whips off his coif and outer skirt to reveal what looks like women’s nightclothes beneath. He’s working so quick, at first he doesn’t see me. But then, suddenly, he cries out in alarum. I hear Frederick on the stage side of the panel say, ‘My love?’

  Another trumpet sounds. Long Hair waves his hands wildly for me to go. Frederick calls again from the stage, ‘My love, why do you tarry?’ Before I can breathe, Long Hair darts round the panel again, back to the play.

  I need to get away. At the far side of the stage is the actor pulling the panel ropes. Beyond him are the musicians. And beyond them, thank the Maker, I spy a groom walking with an empty dish. The small tent for plating up food is not far, and from there I can escape into the field.

  I creep to the edge of the scenery panel. But then I stop. There’s still five paces between me and the actor pulling the panel ropes. Five paces of open stage where I’ll be seen by everyfolk in the audience.

  There’s nothing for it. I snatch up the clothes Long Hair left on the ground and put them on. They’re too large, which is a fine thing, because my face gets shadowed by the large coif. As I’m dressing, I spy a club like constables carry at night tucked behind the scenery to be used in the play. My ankle can hardly bear my weight, so I take it as a cane. I can hear Frederick and Long Hair exchanging oaths of love before the audience. With luck, folk will be so gripped by their playacting that they won’t pay me any mind as I cross behind them on the stage. I say a silent prayer and limp into the light.

  Just as I step out from behind the panel, Long Hair dashes round it for another quick exit. We smack direct into each other, falling in a heap. If I hoped to avoid notice, I failed utterly. All eyes in the entire tent whip to me. I’ve been starved of folk’s gaze for months, and now there are more faces turned on me than I’ve seen in all my life. I cannot breathe. I cannot move. I’m startled still.

  ‘My love . . . what’s this?!’ comes Frederick’s voice.

  Long Hair’s pulling himself up. There’s a trickle of blood coming from his nose where my head must have struck him.

  ‘Oh, my love, you have been injured by this . . . unexpected arrival.’ Frederick’s talking loud, like he’s still playacting for the audience.

  Long Hair presses his hand to his nose. ‘Who is this creature who has happened upon our lovers’ tryst?’ he says back, also for the crowd.

  Frederick peers at me from above. ‘It appears to be – oh, Maker mine,’ he utters this last bit under his breath. He recognizes me.

  ‘Is she insensible?’ asks Long Hair urgently.

  ‘Merely stunned, I believe,’ answers Frederick. He leans down and wraps my shawl around my neck. He’s hiding my collar.

  ‘Who is it, and why has she come upon us so unexpectedly?!’ presses Long Hair.

  ‘Can you not see, my love?’ Frederick answers. ‘It is my grandmama.’ Frederick nudges me with his foot. I want to move, but hundreds of eyes seem to pin me to the floor.

  ‘Your grandmama!’ says Long Hair. ‘Here in our most secret grove. What strange fortune follows you.’

  ‘Help me, my love,’ Frederick directs. He and Long Hair each take one of my arms. Together they lift me to standing. My turned ankle falters beneath me.

  ‘Why, your grandmama is lame,’ speaks Long Hair, helping me catch my balance. I look for the constable club.

  ‘Yes, and mute,’ adds Frederick.

  Long Hair spies the club on the ground. ‘Lame, mute, and carrying a truncheon. A rare woman, indeed.’

  ‘My grandmama descends from the great Boudica, warrior queen of the Celts. She is my most fervent protector,’ Frederick invents. ‘She came, no doubt, to warn us of the villainous rogues that populate these woods. Dear grandmama, we thank you for your vigilance.’

  My breath has returned. I venture a step.

  ‘Ah, she is going!’ says Long Hair. I hobble towards the side of the stage. ‘No, no, the wood is behind us, dear lady,’ Long Hair urges.

  ‘She ever went her own way,’ calls Frederick. ‘I doubt we shall see her again. Ever.’

  He says this a little hard.

  I step off the stage, past the startled rope man and a batch of staring scullions. The musicians come next, seated on stools. I go by a flute player and a man playing a long lute. In among the musicians I spy the Instrument Maker bowing the chest rumbler. He glances my way. When he sees it’s me, he starts as if he’s been bitten.

  The entrance to the food tent is just ahead. It opens to the field. Hoping that folk’s eyes have returned to Frederick and Long Hair, I limp into the food tent.

  I’m nearly free. After I cross the field I won’t even stop at my house. I’ll go over the river, take to the road, and go, go, go.

  The tables inside the food tent are now stacked with dirty dishes, scullions moving them
to baskets and hauling them out to be washed. Only one small table still holds food. There’s several marchpanes, bowls of comfits, and other sweeties. A head cook’s ordering about two lower cooks who are moving the sweets around on the plates. There’s a woman working at the table, too, wearing a coif like mine so I can’t see her face.

  All at once the head cook’s ordering stops. ‘What’re you doing here?’ he says loud. I ready myself to hobble-run, but he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to the other coiffed woman.

  ‘The Queen requested this,’ the woman answers, holding a polished dish of whipped syllabub in her gloved hands.

  ‘All the Queen’s requests come through the kitchen clerk, milady,’ says the cook. ‘For the Queen’s safety.’ He gives her a good look over. ‘What’s your name, milady?’

  The woman turns so her coif blocks her face. ‘You would make the Queen wait upon you? She’ll have your head.’ Her words are strong, but they smell like rot.

  The cook hesitates, and the woman goes hastily towards the main tent – and the Queen – the syllabub dish still in her hands. With one painful step, I reach out as she passes and knock the dish from her hands onto the floor.

  She drops to her knees as if she can salvage the custard. I still haven’t seen her face, but the cook must have done because he says, ‘You’re Lady Katryna’s daughter, Maker keep her soul, aren’t you? Lady Miranda!’

  The woman’s coif whips up at her name. She leaves the syllabub and makes for the door to the field. A moment later she’s gone.

  The daughter of Lady Katryna and Baron Seymaur. The Painted Pig spoke of her. Katryna died in childbirth and Seymaur was executed as a traitor. Their daughter would have had her title and inheritance seized by the throne. It comes to me that this Lady Miranda has a very good reason to hate the Queen.

  The head cook squats over the syllabub and spoons a bit into his mouth. He spits it out.

  ‘What is it?’ asks one of the lower cooks.

  ‘Tastes off. Could be poison,’ he answers with hard in his voice. ‘Get the Queen’s secretary.’ Black Fingers.