Her Kind

by Niamh Boyce

  The Triads of Ireland, ninth century

  27. Hightown

  The door to the moneylender’s house opened and she stepped out. Dressed in her riding cloak, the dame strode down Low Lane. She was going hawking with Sir Arnold, but first she would examine her altar mural. Every person she met along the way turned their back, but the dame hardly noticed. She was thinking of the future. Her image would remain in the church for centuries to come, ensuring the Kytlers and their patronage would be long remembered in this town. Her father would’ve been so proud.

  Inside Saint Mary’s, the artist was nowhere to be found. The dame examined the mural alone. No longer a sketch, it was now painted. The virgin’s hair was lighter but Jasper hadn’t changed her features. He must’ve redrawn the face after she’d wiped it away. It was beautiful but Alice hadn’t donated her money to have someone else’s image adorn the altar. She would summon Jasper and have him rework the fresco, even if she had to watch over him. Alice stared at the woman on the wall. She was almost life-like, every detail finely rendered – a vein in the neck, the deep groove over her lip, the long eyelashes …

  Alice suddenly realized that she’d been mistaken – it was not Petronelle’s likeness at all. She stared at the heavy lids, the soft expression, the small mole above the corner of her mouth and saw who it really was – Dervla, Petronelle’s sister. Such a serious girl, and so quiet that when she had disappeared it hadn’t seemed that untoward somehow. If the artist had spoken the truth, and this was the face of Sister Agnes … then Dervla had become an anchoress. Had she chosen that living death or had it been punishment for some misdeed? Imagine – living between the walls of the cathedral and no one knowing who she was, not even her own sister. Petronelle would have been so happy to have found her. And now it was too late.

  ‘You stupid, stupid girl,’ whispered Alice to the virgin, deciding then and there to tell no one. But she wouldn’t have the face repainted after all. It was fitting, really, that Dervla should be there, watching from the altar, no one knowing it was her. Dame Kytler was good at keeping secrets.

  Back down the lane, beyond the guarded door and up in the moneylender’s chamber, her maid of all work unlaced her kirtle and climbed into her high canopied bed. The master placed his palm between the maid’s breasts. The leather pouch, the remedy to ward off a baby, wasn’t there. ‘Where is it?’ he asked, but she began to move her hips, and he lost the will to repeat the question.

  As was his habit, he fell asleep afterwards. As was hers, the maid lay watching him for a long time before slipping from the bed and tiptoeing around the chamber. She shook a flask of scent, tugged the stopper free and brought it to her nose, the cork soaked with ambergris, vanilla and musk. She opened the armoire and slipped her hands between the folds of stacked fabrics – cold raw silks, bright velvets, dark woollens, white linens.

  She lifted her mistress’s polished mirror from the dressing table and saw her own face so clearly that she wanted to look away. Was that really her – that dark-eyed wench, mouth flushed from kisses? She lowered the mirror to her navel. How odd it looked, a navel in an oval held in mid-air. Would Alice miss this mirror – she had three others after all? A small theft; a well-earned gift? She lowered it further and saw blood had smeared on to her thighs as she’d stolen about the room. She wadded a kerchief between her legs and put back on her clothes.

  The maid wanted to grow the master’s child inside her. If she did, Sir John would keep her safe, maybe even secure a hut with her own bed, her own chair. He made promises when he took her. He would keep those promises – why not? Look at the way Petronelle was taken in. Esme didn’t agree – but the maid believed that Basilia had been sired by old Jose Kytler. She had seen a miniature of Alice’s father – he had the same narrow face, the same golden-red hair, as Basilia. Why else was Alice so fond of the girl? Why else would Alice take as servants two outsiders who just arrived at her door one night? They must be blood; blood takes care of each other.

  Sir John was spreadeagled across the tossed bed as if he had just dropped from heaven. She gazed at the soft pulse in his neck, the down on his chest, and longed to lie beside him. She couldn’t – she might fall asleep and get caught. If Alice discovered she was slipping in between her fine white sheets, handling her mirror, her raw silks, her scent, she would have her whipped, cast out, or worse.

  The sound of hoofs came from outside. She peered through the gap in the shutters. Alice and Arnold were riding in, circling each other, playing some game. Home from hawking, Alice flushed, wearing a brown gown over her green kirtle, her white linen veil unkempt, her hawking gloves muddied. What were they hatching between them, Alice and Sir Arnold? There was no time to wonder further. She checked the pillows and sheets, and gathered up her long black hairs.

  28. Basilia

  Cristine cornered me at the shambles and begged to be smuggled in to Kytler’s. ‘Oh, Basilia, I must tend to my father,’ she said, dangling coral beads. As if I would betray my mistress for a trinket. I might as well have, for she got in anyway. I saw Helene in the hall not long after, flushed and swinging the same corals. She winked at me and skipped down into the kitchen. Cristine was probably already upstairs tending the patient.

  My mother didn’t believe Sir John was sick – said it was all theatrics. Someone was creeping downstairs at night, gorging and leaving the kitchen in disarray, and she thought it was him. Still, the master’s health waned and his complaints grew. He said his blankets weighed heavy at night and his feet were tormented with pins and needles. He had a new-found affection for Helene, and didn’t hide it. ‘Where’s my little maid?’ he’d asked all morning. Irritated by this, Alice charged me with changing his bedclothes and gave Helene other tasks.

  I carried a wicker of fresh linen upstairs and was about to knock, when voices came from inside the chamber. I put down my basket and listened.

  ‘How’s Beatrice?’ Sir John sounded weak.

  ‘Same as ever,’ Cristine answered. ‘Wants to go home, misses her horse, worries about you.’

  ‘The horse first,’ he said.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘I’m worsening, Crissie.’

  ‘Don’t worry …’

  Her voice went to a whisper. I couldn’t make out what was said till they began their goodbyes. I tiptoed quickly to the coffin and slipped inside. I left the door open a crack and watched Cristine leave the room. I nearly died when instead of passing she stopped just by the door. I shouldn’t have felt such dread – she was the trespasser, not I. Yet I did. We stood there, silent, each holding our breath, an arm’s reach from each other. She gripped the banister, then moved swiftly out of sight. She had been making sure no one was about, so she could escape unseen from her stepmother’s house.

  I picked up the linen basket and went in to Sir John. He lounged half naked in Alice’s chair, fiddling with her quills and tally sticks while I gathered the damp sheets. There was a strange coppery smell off the linen. Cristine had left a platter of gifts: wine, half-eaten bread and stuffed figs lay on the bedside table. Sir John had a lively tongue for one so ill.

  ‘The monk, the one who came – he said a witch leaves an effigy in the bed when she flies off at night; it lays absolutely still, the very image of the woman herself. Well, I watched Alice last night and there wasn’t a movement, not a flicker. I’m sure it was a replica of my wife beside me, not her at all …’

  Irritated by my silence, he snapped a tally in half. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked. ‘Where’s my little maid?’

  He told me no more stories, and when the bed was made, climbed in grumbling. I had just pulled the coverlet over my master when the chamber door swung open so forcefully it hit the wall. The priest from Saint Mary’s entered, roaring his greeting. He must have been as deaf as a bell-ringer. While they were distracted, I swiped the wine, tucked it in my basket and hid in the anteroom to listen.

  ‘Oh, Father,’ Sir John said, ‘give me the last rites.’

  ‘B
ut, sir, you’re not dying.’

  ‘I am. She’s poisoning me, like she did the others. Oh, I daren’t eat a thing she serves. Look under the bed. I hid every morsel in the pot!’

  ‘Let me look at you.’

  ‘Hear my confession, Father, for I am not long for this world. I know where I’m going if I have not the rites, I see it in my dreams, the dark floors of Hell, many hundreds of floors all burning eternally, and the damned running scorched and screaming from one to the next, but never escaping. I’ve seen the devil and his tongue hangs long as a dog’s and he’s waiting for me, just waiting. Hear my confession, save me from the flames of Hell, I’ve suffered enough in this life … I knew not what I was doing when I wed Alice Kytler.’

  ‘You both looked happy enough on the day.’

  ‘She got what she wanted: my wealth.’

  ‘Surely her wealth surpassed yours?’

  ‘Whose side are you on, Father? My daughters saw Alice prepare a mixture, take from her sleeve a sachet of powders and secretly drop it into my broth. Every day she does this, and every day I grow weaker – look at my arms, look at the flesh!’

  ‘What is it exactly that she feeds you?’ He picked up a crust from the table.

  ‘I won’t let a morsel from her kitchen pass my lips, not for days! The little maid brings food, or my daughter.’

  ‘You accuse her of poisoning, yet you don’t even eat her food. Where is this maid? I wish to speak with her.’

  ‘It’s been days since she visited – who knows what the witch has done with her.’

  ‘That’s dangerous talk, sir. Alice is a respectable woman.’

  ‘Do you owe her money, too, Father?’

  ‘That’s beside the point.’

  ‘Don’t you see? Doesn’t anyone see what she’s doing? All lead me to think I’m mad when I’m dying. Oh, not to be believed is a terrible thing.’

  The door banged shut.

  ‘Come back, Father! She flies; I’ve seen her fly at night with her women. They take off through yonder window, fly over the moon, meet with the devil. She has powers! She’ll have all of Hightown copulating with Satan’s servants!’

  Sir John shouted so loud the whole house must’ve heard. Then he let out a great heaving sob. Oh, how he wept, the poor strange man. As if he were in a play and God was in the audience.

  I slipped from the house and made for Irishtown by the back lanes, keeping off High Street. I didn’t want to have my hair pulled again. Steam was coming from the comb-maker’s when I arrived. I wondered too late if he would shun me after what the bishop had said. I stalled by his door, clutching John’s wine. He came out and took it, and drank it back. He didn’t care what accusations anyone threw at anyone else, he said, as he wiped his mouth.

  Fiachra talked like a man who had fended off an accusation or two in his time. He bid me to come in and I did. Bones simmered in a cauldron over the fire. He poured the wine into a mug and said it was sumptuous, and very strong. I could select a few whitened bones and a small knife in exchange and carve something for myself. I took my time. Only the best bones, only the whitest, smallest, unscarred bones would do. I would make a poppet to protect my mistress.

  My purse was full of bones when Margaret Dun entered. Soon she and the comb-maker were arguing. He was carving an ornate handle for the deacon’s staff and she teased him for taking the churchman’s coin when he claimed to despise all the clergy.

  ‘What can I do? This town was built to service the cathedral.’

  ‘Our settlement was here long before that thing.’

  ‘The clergy might be scoundrels but that thing, as you call it, is a place of faith,’ answered Fiachra.

  ‘Fortifying the highest ground, pushing us out – that’s not faith, that’s warfare.’

  ‘Pushing who out? Your lot are still around … more’s the pity.’

  ‘Ah, but those of us who stay must burrow deep to stay safe.’

  He growled at her. They were enjoying themselves so much they hardly noticed my leaving. I stepped out of the hut just as a line of monks was going by. Eyes cast down, each snapped a whip over his shoulder, singing a low, mournful, scourging song, lamenting their own sins and those of the town.

  I forgot myself and returned by High Street instead of the back lanes. People turned away. Some spat, even the beggar boys I’d often fed leftovers to from our doorway. The first time people had turned away from us, it had hurt. Now the pain was something I nursed, something I might miss if they were to turn and greet me as one of their own. A group of girls followed in my wake, taunting, as I made my way down Low Lane.

  ‘Alice gets her wealth through mating with demons. They say Alice has accomplices, accomplices!’

  One edged closer and whispered: ‘That’s you and your mother.’ She stepped on my skirt, making it rip. ‘You dumb little witch.’

  I turned and swung my fist at the girl. Her jaw clicked and she fell. I lifted my skirt and ran for it. The rest of them chased me right to the door. The guard shouted them away and let me in. It was only then I recognized the surly smith I’d seen my first week here. Ulf.

  Ulf must’ve told my mother what had happened. It wasn’t long before she came for me. She kept knocking on the door of the Pledge Room till I let her in. She stood over me, hands on her hips. ‘Use your voice this once, Líadan, and answer me this – why did you wallop that girl?’

  I opened my peacock fan and hid my face. My mother knelt, used a more soothing voice. ‘It was about Alice, wasn’t it?’

  I lowered my fan and nodded.

  ‘That rumour will run through the town and out the gates when another one comes along. Do you understand? The trouble you bring on yourself will not be worth it.’

  Did she mean I must listen to people’s lies and do nothing? It wasn’t only Alice people were calling a witch – didn’t she know that?

  ‘I know you look up to Alice, I know our mistress is an important woman, an admirable one – but she’s not always a good one.’

  Why must my mother spoil everything with what she considered her Truths, why couldn’t she keep them to herself? Alice was a good woman, without her we’d be begging or dead. I closed my eyes, and eventually, after some sighing, my mother left me alone with the treasures in the Pledge Room. I thought of her amber beads, wrapped in velvet, going dull in the dark – and longed to polish them till their crackled centres shone.

  That night my mother did not come to bed at her usual time. Finding it hard to sleep, I stood at the top of the stairs and listened to the voices that rose up from the hall. Sir Arnold had come. He and Alice were discussing the Hattons. I sat on the step and listened.

  ‘Piotr and Lucia claim to be as surprised as anyone at what Cristine did. Do you believe them, Alice?’

  ‘I chose to believe. I need as many on my side as possible.’

  ‘They harbour two girls who’ve betrayed you.’

  ‘Sure the man in the bed upstairs has betrayed me – claims I’ve had relations with a servant of Satan!’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like you, Alice; a servant of Satan wouldn’t do, it would have to be the man himself.’

  How they laughed. I did not like it. Why would they laugh? I went back to bed.

  I drifted between waking and sleeping, the taper burning low and the rim curling in. The house filled with voices, a laughing that dampened to an endless whispering, which felt worse somehow, more dreadful. I heard Alice. ‘We must use a better poison: this one’s not working – it’s just driving the bugger insane. A few more pills, grind them down, good girl. Tell him it’s a treat, mix it with honey, let him lap it off your bosom, every grain, with his big doggy tongue.’ Laughter. ‘Someone is listening, shush …’ There was silence, and I tried not to breathe. There were footsteps on the stairs. Then, a noise just outside my door. It was about to open. If I saw her face, if I saw Alice, something terrible would happen. I must not see her face.

  I woke up breathless and drenched. I was standing on my
bed. They weren’t true, the things they made me think about Alice. They weren’t true. My mother was there, mopping my brow. ‘Are the dreams back?’ she asked. There was a white light around my mother; her face was so kind. ‘Be careful,’ a voice whispered. ‘You must be careful.’

  29. Petronelle

  The day of the feast finally arrived. I looked forward to it all being over: once the oaths of loyalty were signed, the bishop would retreat. The town would’ve shown whose side it was on. And my daughter could sleep, or walk the town without being attacked. Tapestries were unrolled, shaken out and hung on every inch of the walls. Shields bearing the Kytler, Outlawe and De Valle coat of arms were propped along the shelf over the hearth. I doubted anyone needed reminding of Alice’s connections – if she called in her debts, every merchant on High Street would be ruined overnight.

  Swords had been fitted to the wall, hammered into the mortar that morning. In jest, Alice had tried to lift a blade. It dropped straight to the ground and sank into the earth.

  ‘What weight,’ she said, rubbing her back. Sir Arnold had pulled it out. ‘Like Arthur,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘If Arthur were a grey beard!’ said Alice.

  ‘Dame, this beard is black, mostly …’

  The Hattons arrived first, followed by Sir Arnold, his nephew Stephen and young Sir William. ‘Oh, Will, Will,’ said Alice, as if she had not seen him in years. Her face fell when only four of the Greater Twelve showed theirs. They arrived together, ruddy with Dutch courage. When the lords and ladies had taken their places, I took mine to the right of my mistress, who, heading the table, faced Sir Arnold at the other end.

  There were trenchers of treats laid out – figs wrapped in almond pastry, honeycombs, liver and hazelnut pâtés. The thick honeycomb on my plate was white with honey; I broke into it with my thumb and savoured its sweetness. Lucia Hatton elbowed me, and honey trickled down my wrist, inside my sleeve, darkening the fabric. She pointed at Alice and whispered, ‘All the decoration in the world can’t hide the decay.’