by Niamh Boyce
The candlelit chandelier cast deep hollows under Alice’s eyes, and the rubies at her neck appeared glassy, grotesque. Lucia had never criticized my mistress in that manner before, not in my presence. I thought of the relics in Alice’s chamber, the oaths of loyalty these people would soon be required to swear. As Sir Arnold proposed his toast, a blade glimmered from the wall behind his head.
‘Didn’t you hear me, Petronelle?’ Lucia muttered. ‘I said all the decoration in the world –’
‘I heard, madam,’ I answered.
‘Never mind decorations, my sweet,’ Piotr interrupted, cupping his wife’s bosom, ‘misshapen shells hide the best pearls.’
Lucia smacked him away, pink-faced and squealing. Greased in musk ambergris, she reminded me of a scented pig. As Lady Hatton laughed, a nearby merchant turned to his neighbour and asked, ‘Where did the demon sard Alice?’
Piotr rose up and approached my mistress. He bowed and presented her with a short string of freshwater pearls. Thanking him, she dropped them by her platter. He had expected more by way of thanks.
‘Do you know what work it took, to find each pearl on that necklace?’ said Piotr. ‘The hundreds of mussels opened? To keep searching, we’ll require –’
‘Yes, yes, yes, now sit,’ Alice said. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’
My mistress looked at the empty places around her table. She was taking note of those who had not shown up. Helene and Esme bustled in and out with platters of steaming pies, blood puddings and sausages. Beggar children pressed their faces up against the green glass till their noses were flat. Sir Arnold was served first and got the choicest portions. The knight drank from an ornate silver mether engraved with his initials. Several conversations petered off into silence at the same time. We heard the rain fall on the roof. Everyone was thinking of the bishop’s accusations. A ginger merchant kept peering about him as if wondering how the demon might have got in. Was it through the chimney? The window? Sir Arnold grabbed Helene’s waist as she passed, pulling her close. He stood and cleared his throat. ‘Hear ye, hear ye! The dark arts have taken root, and need to be cut with a sharp blade, and Ledrede, the wizened little foreigner, is the very man to do it!’
Alice played with the gold in her ear. The scourge on her house had been mentioned.
‘Hightown is rife with talk of curses, covens and sacrifices to demons,’ he cried. ‘A nest of sorceresses, led by our very own Dame Kytler, have summoned the devil to Hightown. And, lo and behold, obedient as the rest of us are to the dame, said demon answered her call. Hell may manage best it can, for its master is busy having sport in Hightown!’
As Alice began to laugh, everyone else did, too.
‘Hush! He may be listening as I speak! Are you under the table, sir? Do you hide in the kitchen? I raise my cup to thee, my fellow conspirators! Dining as we are, in a veritable nest of vipers.’ He winked at Helene, who was snug at his side.
We raised our goblets. Even Piotr Hatton forgot his pearls and cheered.
‘Respected lady, friends, devoted servants … dare I say, you disguise your hoofs and horns well? Show me your toes, your fingers, your tongues. Show me’ – he looked into Helene’s eyes and kissed her – ‘your witch marks.’
Amidst whistles and claps, Arnold bowed and took his seat. The harpist began a lilting tune. Helene filled my goblet with red wine from France till it bubbled to the rim. She moved away with ease, like a dancer. I smiled at Alice, and she smiled back.
Esme came up from the kitchen and lowered a platter in front of Alice, who nodded her approval. A young swan, neck curled and beak resting on her wing, lay on the gleaming silver. Surrounding the cygnet were medallions of meat soaked in black sauce.
‘We cannot eat a raw beast,’ cried Lucia.
‘My dear,’ said Alice, ‘the meat was roasted and the swan reclothed.’
‘My goodness, the talent of your cook. It looks alive still.’
We had never eaten swan before. Alice was showing her guests that she was as good as royal, heeded no churchman’s law, and neither should they.
I recalled the swan rising over the pup to defend its young. And here was a cygnet, maybe from the same nest, skinned and redressed; wings as intact as when they once spanned water. I smeared a piece of meat in sauce and swallowed. I didn’t taste a morsel. Why am I here, I thought, eating what I don’t want to eat?
Sir John entered the hall and approached the table. There were pouches under his eyes; his face had thinned further. Despite the shock of his appearance and the damage his daughter’s accusations had wrought, all feigned delight that he was well enough to join us. He was, after all, master of the house. Sir Arnold made as if to give up his chair.
‘No,’ Sir John said, ‘there’s no need.’
He stood over Alice, and her neck flushed. She pushed back her chair, rose and sat beside me on the bench.
‘It’s a pleasure to see you so well, Husband.’
‘Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Wife.’
Alice set a goblet of wine in front of him; her rings glittering under the candlelight. John clapped his hands. A boy appeared then, a thin whip, hardly dressed. Our master handed the cup to the child, who looked about to cry but obediently drank a mouthful. Sir John watched him, and we watched John, who then handed the child a slice of meat. The boy chewed it quickly and wiped his mouth. The master dismissed him with a wave, and he sat by the wall, his arms wrapped around his bony knees. After a time, when nothing untoward happened to the child, our master began to eat, displaying a hearty appetite for one who looked so ghastly.
‘Sir,’ Alice said, waggling her knife, ‘you’ve no need for a taster. Were your wife intent on murder, which she is not, she would not waste good food on the deed.’
‘Forever thrifty, my sweet Flemish dame.’
Alice gestured and the harpist began a livelier tune. ‘Moll of the Meadow’. Guests picked over poached pears and almonds. More pitchers were brought out. Helene lingered beside Sir John after filling his cup. Without looking up, he grasped her wrist and brought it to his lips. A minstrel entered and skipped to the fire. He lit one of his torches and juggled them so one lit the other. Guests settled back to watch the spectacle. All concerns forgotten, they found the room had become warm and magickal.
The door swung open and the monk Bede barged in with two stocky Franciscans in his wake. Drenched from rain, their faces were sleek, and their robes clung to their stomachs. Bede strode over to Alice and took a rolled parchment from his sleeve. Sir John kept stuffing his mouth with swan and gulping wine, glancing every so often at the taster boy.
‘Dame Kytler,’ Bede proclaimed, ‘you are summoned by his lordship, Richard Ledrede, Bishop of Ossory, to an inquest in his presence and the presence of all the clergy of Kilkennie to answer to the charge of heresy and sorcery.’
He placed the parchment in front of Alice. She touched and touched the red beads at her throat. They were like speckles of blood on crushed silk. I wanted to stop her hand, stop it going back and forth. When Will and Arnold moved as if to lift the swords from the wall, Alice spoke.
‘How very gracious of you, to deliver a message on such a wet night. Get thee away now, Bede’ – she waved her hand – ‘and take thy plump songbirds along home.’
The friars absconded. The guests left one by one, murmuring breathless niceties to Alice, who sat there, dazed. Sir John jumped up, lifted a ewer and a chicken thigh from the table and trooped into the kitchen after Helene. Stephen le Poer followed after him. Their leaving seemed to wake Alice. She waved the scroll in the air and addressed Sir Arnold quite sharply. ‘What do you make of this?’
‘His summons has no authority in Hightown. It hasn’t been sanctioned by our corporation.’
‘But the bishop has pressed his own law on us since the day he arrived. The man is relentless. How dare he summon me on the basis of some phantasy?’
Alice broke the seal of the scroll with her eating knife. Her hands trembled as she opened i
t. When she spoke, I hardly recognized her voice. ‘My Lord God, he threatens excommunication if I’m found guilty. And, of course he will find me guilty.’
‘The louse just wants to seize your property; it’s a trick as old as Job.’
‘What about Hell? It’s older than Job – would you have me spend eternity there?’
She started to weep. Arnold put his arms around her. Instead of swatting him away, she laid her head on his shoulder a while.
‘You’ll not be excommunicated,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll see to that. Archbishop Bicknor has no time for Ledrede. He’ll make a move soon; he’s promised.’
Alice lifted her head and looked at him. Her voice, when she spoke, was equally gentle. ‘Well, while we’re waiting for word from Dublin, Seneschal, deliver these charges against the bishop: defamation and threat of excommunication without conviction.’
My mistress looked shaken; it had all come real. She instructed me to retire. I blessed myself and left as Alice and Arnold began to word her counter-complaint.
The following morning, the hall stank of ale and wine, but the earth was swept. The front door was opened on to the lane and a triangle of sun brightened the floor. Helene was scattering fresh herbs on the rush mats.
‘Sir John is dozing in the kitchen like an old mutt,’ she said.
‘What on earth is he doing there? Send him upstairs.’
‘I tried.’
‘Esme,’ we both said.
‘Yes, Esme will be able,’ I said. ‘Go fetch her from her sister’s.’
I studied my mother’s tapestry. If Alice thought as little of it as she claimed, why hadn’t she removed it? I studied the scenes again. It had faded over the years. The reds and browns remained strong, but some of the blues had paled to grey. The hunter still aimed his bow. In another panel, a creature lay in a birdcage. In the next, the hunter was on the ground, wounded. A woman stood in the distance, her gown crimson, hands joined inside a muff. If they told a story, it was one that eluded me. Helene stepped close.
‘Why are you always gawking at that monstrosity?’
Helene didn’t know the weaver was my mother, but had the female talent for finding the soft part of a person and taking aim.
‘Go fetch Esme – do as you were bid.’
Alice rang her bell and I went upstairs to check with her. She was sitting up in bed, half awake. The relics were gone. Had word got to the bishop about Alice’s plan to secure loyalty? If so, he had acted swiftly. Bede had arrived before any oaths could be sworn. It was quite fortuitous, both for him and for our guests. How quickly Lucia and Piotr had left. Were they as surprised as they pretended? Was anyone there really surprised? I laid out her loose blue shift.
‘A man’s clothes are so easy to get in and out of,’ she said, as she picked it up.
I’d never heard her sound so sad. She was thinking of before, no doubt, the nights she wore her late husband’s clothes and rode out by night to meet her lover. How much had changed between her and Sir John in that short time. I took her jug downstairs to fill with warm water for her ablutions.
The guard, Ulf, was eating in the kitchen. He was thickset and olive-skinned, with little to say for himself. The beggar children called him ‘The Giant’ and rallied round, teasing, trying to make him give chase. ‘Roman face, Flemish name,’ Esme said when she saw him. ‘Irish body, child’s brain,’ Helene had added, laughing. His sword rested against the table. As I filled the jug from the water barrel, he pushed a square of thick paper across the table.
‘This was nailed to the front door this morning. Will you give it to your mistress?’
On the paper, was written one word – a large, snake-like letter and some smaller ones. I brought it up to Alice and handed it over.
‘Look at your stupid face. You want to know what it says, don’t you? Sortilego is what it says. You like the sound of it? Sortilego is what I am now, a witch.’
She unhooked her scissors from her chatelaine. I left her trying to cut the parchment in two. Let her vent her ire on the source of it, not on a humble servant.
Low Lane filled and faces pressed against our dull windowpanes, goblins against the green glass. Ulf ushered them away or tried to. We closed the shutters and bolted the door. Alice sent Ralph for Arnold, but he had called a meeting of the Greater Twelve. She sent him for Lucia, but she was indisposed. Sir John had moved from their marriage chamber into Jose’s old room. He threatened to fetch the locksmith and have a new key made. He kept calling Kytler’s ‘his house’, and demanded that Alice leave and ‘try her poisons elsewhere’. He forbade her to enter Jose’s chamber. There was nothing of value inside, nothing Alice needed, yet I saw her pace outside the door, as if considering breaking through. She was heart-sore.
A lifetime ago, Alice wished to keep Otto and me apart. She spoke cruel words, renounced our friendship. Would she behave differently today, I wondered? Would she be kinder? She was very young back then, possessive and proud. It occurred to me that, besides being young, Alice was still both of those things.
30. The Court of the Seneschal
On the day of the inquest, the bishop stormed into Sir Arnold’s court with his vestment skirts swinging, carrying a chalice. He had waited in his own court for the moneylender, but Kytler had not shown her face. He took a host from the chalice and addressed Sir Arnold. ‘For love of Christ, whom I hold in my hands, arrest that pestiferous woman so the Church can judge her.’
‘I know not of whom you speak.’
‘Dame Alice Kytler. She, who sits with the leaders of the land in public assemblies, the said lady, is a sorceress, heretic and magician.’
‘Listen to this ignorant lowborn tramp,’ answered Sir Arnold, ‘with that lump of dough in his hands!’
The crowd pushed forward, all wanting to see. The bishop took the highest stand, not realizing perhaps that it was the bench where criminals were tried. Bede, and some others from the bishop’s chapter, elbowed through the crowd to stand behind him.
‘You must observe the writings of the Holy See against heretics,’ cried the bishop. ‘Super illius specula …’
‘Oh, take your writings to church and preach your sermons there. Heretics have never been found in Ireland. It’s known as the Island of Saints.’ Sir Arnold turned to the people. ‘This Englishman says we’re all heretics, on the grounds of some papal constitution we’ve never heard of. Defamation of this country affects every one of us, so we must all unite against this man.’
There was a great cheering in support of Sir Arnold.
‘It does not defame the country – was not Judas found amongst the disciples? As here, in the midst of the decent is found one diabolical den, more foul than ever found in the kingdoms. I do not fear your power, Lord Arnold. I’m willing to suffer for the Church of God –’
‘Suffer all you like,’ Sir Arnold interrupted, striding through the people and leaving the hall.
Most of the burgesses followed him, leaving the bishop preaching to an emptying court.
The bishop imagined the magickal contagion spreading through the town: women sharing their chants, charms and invocations, meeting at night to draw down evil, stealing souls from the Church and gifting them to Lucifer. If this sect were not stopped, Kilkennie would become a seething nest of devil worshippers.
As the last burgess stood, the bishop realized exactly what was needed. He announced, there and then, to a lone merchant that Kilkennie was under an interdict.
‘On what authority?’ Bede dared to whisper.
‘Under my authority,’ answered the bishop. ‘On the authority of Super illius specula. Am I the only watchman awake during this terrible time for Christians?’
The bishop rushed from the court and held a meeting of all his clergy in the nave of the cathedral. Each one agreed with his stance; the only opposition came from the archdeacon. He implied laypeople, such as Alice and her servants, had not the wherewithal for such sorcery as described by the bishop.
‘This
is not Avignon with a court full of astrologers and alchemists; these people are not learned.’
He said that neither the dame nor any in her household could conduct the spells His Holiness Pope John cited – could not bind a demon, being unable to decipher the complicated Latin formulae.
‘Women gain knowledge in a different manner, you innocent virgin,’ the bishop told him. ‘It is lucky for this city that I, not you, am the watchman.’
‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? “Who watches the watchmen?”’ asked the archdeacon.
The bishop did not trouble him with an answer. He instructed his clergy to make declarations. They left and made speeches in the market square, in front of the Tholsel, in Low Lane, outside the castle, and each said the same thing.
‘The merchant burgesses and knights of this town who refuse to arrest their moneylender have insulted Christ. A great revenge must be taken. There will be an interdict – no clergy will perform any duty. There will be no sacraments, no marriages, no baptisms, no penance, no last rites – and no burials. May the souls of your old, ill and new-born plummet into the fires of Hell.’
In the days that came, the townspeople flocked to the bishop like desperate pilgrims. He received gifts and pleas to rescind the interdict, at least to bless the dead, let them be buried. There were already bodies in the cellars of the Black Friars – two infants and an elderly nun. But Ledrede would not budge. It was a suitable penalty for a people who chose to protect a wealthy sorceress against the Holy Mother Church.
31. Petronelle
Alice sent for some spiced wine and stuffed breads. I placed the tray on her bedside table, alongside the loosely rolled summons.
‘To put our town under an interdict, just because I refused to attend his hearing!’
I sat on the blanket box by the wall. If she wanted my ears, I might as well rest my feet.