by Niamh Boyce
‘Take Sabina, please, so she can rest alongside our son.’
The friar sighed and nodded. As the priest lifted the woman, her long rust hair draped over his arm. I saw that her mouth was mauve, and her neck rope-burned. He carried her through the door, too much in grief to notice me. As we went down the steps, the incense became thicker, and the air colder. At the bottom we found ourselves shivering in a large, dim cellar, off which one domed cavern led to another, even darker one. There were no windows, just torches on the thick pillars. On slabs against the walls lay bodies wound in sheets, bodies that should have rested beneath the earth. I imagined the interdict going on for ever, and all the dead of Kilkennie piling up. The priest and the friar were gone from sight, moving deeper into the vaults.
I looked from one body to the other – at first they all seemed the same. After a while, I understood that some were too small, or too heavy, to be Fiachra, and that some winding sheets were brighter, less stained than others. I found him then, not on a slab but on the floor. I recognized him by his length, and then by his hand. It had fallen, or been tugged, free of the winding sheet. I looked at his callused fingers, the white line where his ring had been. Even here, there were thieves. I touched his chest and felt the shape of his wolf charm and wished him a safe journey to the afterlife.
When I got back home, I stopped outside the Altar Room. I felt drawn to join my mother for a while. She spent all her spare time praying. She must’ve heard me, because the door opened.
‘Come in, come in.’
Once inside, she handed me a cup. ‘The boy drank from this earlier. Close your eyes; hold it.’
I held the cup and shut my eyes. It came quickly. The boy, curled in a nest of yellow leaves, his thumb between his lips, his colour draining as he slept. Reeds swayed nearby, and a millwheel turned.
‘Do you see anything?’
I shook my head. I don’t know why, only that I had become afraid. What if I searched and found the boy exactly as I’d seen him? If that vision was true, would my other vision come true, too? Was my beloved mistress going to find herself trapped, terrified and about to die? No. I decided the dreams and visions were the notions of a child, a girl – not the woman I was now.
I ran from the Altar Room and up to our chamber and dragged my crate out from under my bed. Besides the writing box Alice had given me, it held little of interest – I kept my real treasures under the loose board beneath it. I wriggled under the bed, pushed down on one end of the floorboard, and the other flipped up. In the crevice lay the few items I’d rescued.
Wrapped in felt was the ivory ring. What good did it do my mother, under her mattress and long forgotten? I slipped it on to my finger and wondered what my father had looked like. She told me so little; he was a good archer, had died in battle and had loved her. Otto. Sometimes I imagined he was a knight; if so he might’ve had a family name. If he had, she never told me it. I picked up my glinting silver scissors, one blade man, one blade woman. Alice had dropped them. I reached in, deeper again, and lifted out the amber beads. One of them still hung around my mother’s neck. Folded tight beneath them lay the closed wing of my peacock fan. There were other, smaller things: quill feathers, a block of dark purple ink, red thread. I carefully added Fiachra’s wolf tooth to my hoard.
Deireadh Fómhair
* * *
OCTOBER
This business about these witches troubled all the state of Ireland, the more for that the ladie was supported by certeine of the nobilitie.
Holinshed’s Chronicles of Ireland
33. Petronelle
With almost every chore done, I sat on the stool and rested by the hearth. The fire crackled around the branches. After a while I closed my eyes, enjoying the heat on the side of my face. I was carried right into Flemingstown by the wood smoke, heard leaves rustling, smelt Scotch pine. An owl flew past, its soundless wings close to my head. My trance was broken by a clattering. I opened my eyes to see Alice draw up a chair. She looked tired, her ram’s horns were lopsided, and her sleeves weren’t properly buttoned. She had endured a distressing afternoon. People were calling to the house again, but not to offer loyalty. They were begging her to surrender to the bishop so he would lift the interdict. She drank from her mug of mead, then poked the fire. Cinders spun towards her face, but she didn’t sit back.
‘What’s troubling you?’ She surprised me by noticing.
‘Do you recall a boy, the taster? There was something about that child. I keep seeing him in my mind’s eye – the blanket around his shoulders, the fluffy hair on his crown, his small fingers around the cup. I worry –’
‘Stop worrying. He’s just some stranger that passed through.’
‘But he didn’t pass through, Alice, that’s my feeling. He’s still here somewhere.’
Alice studied me for an age.
‘It’s a notion, maybe,’ I added.
‘Another notion of yours – like John being poisoned.’
She was angry. She thought I was suggesting wrongdoing on her part.
‘So where is he, if he’s here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You can’t know, can you?’ she sighed. ‘He gave you the slip – boys like that are vermin – beggars, thieves and spies.’
My mistress dismissed me then, said she needed to be alone. I left, cold again after only a few steps away from the fire.
I remembered the way Alice leant over and handed John a goblet, her ring glittering in the candlelight. The boy drank from it. I remembered the way he shivered uncontrollably in my bed, and then was gone. She had worn Jose’s locket ring, the one which opened on a tiny hinge. It had a small compartment. ‘It holds a lock of precious hair,’ she told me once, but never showed me. I fetched my old cloak from upstairs, unfolded it from under the bed. It was not as fine as the one Alice had given me, but, being heavier and lined with beaver, it was warmer. Where was that small boy gone? What had my daughter seen when she held the cup? Where was I to turn to find out? I found myself walking up the hill towards the cathedral. No one returned my greeting as I strolled into the graveyard. Instead they stared off into the distance. Some crossed themselves. The blackbirds sang as I knelt at the grave of Agnes the anchoress. People didn’t stop coming because she was dead. Her stone shone with morning damp. A nun was drawn on to it. I put my hands flat over the engraved ones, palm to palm.
‘What happened to the boy?’
The stone was cold. Yet I felt the weight of a long-pressed silence pushing back.
That even-time, a very old burgess came to the door. It was a long time before anyone let him in, thinking he was just another trouble-maker. He spoke gently; his long grey hair floated outwards when he removed his felt cap. His mantle was threadworn, his manner impeccable. It turned out he was looking for Jose. My mistress informed him that Jose was long dead. The man asked for a bed, for old times’ sake. He said that he and Jose were boys together in Ypres, and he had visited this house before, some years ago.
‘You used to call me daddy-long-legs, do you remember?’
Alice remembered, but refused him shelter. Anyone could be a spy from the bishop, she claimed. He challenged her then, asked to speak with the master.
‘I’m in charge here, sir; I was my father’s sole heir.’
‘If the rumours were true,’ he said in a low voice as he left, ‘you made yourself so.’
‘Bitter old men,’ Alice sighed. ‘The world is full of them.’
I went down to the kitchen to prepare her supper. Many men would’ve passed over their daughters in preference to any male relation, no matter how distant – but Jose hadn’t. That she was a woman, was that what the burgess couldn’t stomach? Jose had made Alice his successor whether the old burgess liked it or not.
Esme had left the breadcrumbs and herbs on the board. She never mentioned my lowered station but did small things to ease my load. I laid the lambs’ hearts out, wiped the blood away and fetched a small sharp knife. You made yourself so. I sl
iced each heart with a blade; broke the thin skin between the cavities with my thumb, stuffed them one by one with breadcrumbs, butter, parsley and thyme. I threaded a bone needle and stitched each heart shut. I set them on a tray, a dozen hearts with sutured mouths. You made yourself so. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, but I didn’t know what.
34. The Households of Low Lane
Outside, it rained in torrents. In Hattons’, the fire was still being fed. They stayed up past their usual time, for there was much to discuss. ‘Poor Alice’ was how the evening began, but not how it ended, for Lucia and Cristine were women who liked to have sport with their tongues.
There was ale, port and singing. Some of the pearl-divers bedding down in the kitchen awoke and joined them. One was the boy they teased about the mute. Lucia stood at the top of the room, her husband’s hat on her head, and declared she would instruct them in the dark art of courting a demon lover. On cue, Beatrice appeared in a long thin chemise, her hair loose. Lucia would deliver the instructions and Beatrice would play them out. Her role was solo, silent.
‘You must close the shutters, build up the fire. Act as if a lover is coming, for of course a lover is coming, but he may have a tail or horns, he may have nails that leave marks, he may have an evil look, one that will make you quiver with lust.’
‘Oh, stop, what next?’ said Cristine.
‘Candles next. Church wax. From monastery bees, the purest of the winged insects. Prepare the finest of vitals – salted butter, bread, meat, preferably lamb. Cover all the platters with cloth; the cloth must be linen and clean. The doors must all be shut, for he does not enter in the normal way.’
‘Neither do I!’ called Piotr.
‘You must not fawn, for he’ll show contempt. Your maid, if she is present, must be discreet.’
‘And stripped to the waist,’ added Piotr.
‘He’ll come as the shadows grow longer, but only if you invoke him. I cannot tell you the words tonight, for if I repeat them here, he may come, and we’re not ready.’
‘For our maid is not yet stripped!’
All were drinking from a huge mether that was being passed about. Each flushed faced was fixated on Beatrice, who stood in front of the fire, her strong limbs a delight through her thin chemise.
‘You must not wash, for the demon likes the scent of a woman’s skin; you must not use perfume in your hair; you must have your head uncovered and your braids loosened. He does not like combs, or veils, or rings. You must be as bare as when you came into the world. As the candles go low, you must say those certain words, that incantation I cannot share. You must drink a libation and close your eyes. You may hear his hoofs on the roof, or you may hear creaking – do not open your eyes, do not break the spell. The first sign will be a smell of animal, or earth, for he has travelled from the underworld; his hands when he touches you will be rough. You and he will become a beast with two heads. And henceforth he will be bound to you, and do your every bidding.’
‘I would have him churn butter,’ said the maid.
‘I would have him mend my hose,’ added Cristine.
‘I would have him lie with my husband while I slept on,’ laughed Lucia as she took a bow, and jumped on said husband’s lap.
Beneath the same beating rain, further up the lane, in the best room of the stone house with green windows, a man leant on his elbow and looked at the maid standing in the doorway.
‘Where have you been all this time?’ he asked from his bed.
‘I came yesterday.’
‘You haven’t come, not for days.’
Helene slipped in beside him and comforted him with whispers. There were tufts on his pillow, thick golden locks. With every day that passed, he looked less like the man who had married Dame Kytler. Why on earth did he marry that creature? Cristine claimed the dame had bewitched him with a charm. Petronelle said the charm had a simple recipe: Alice’s wealth and Sir John’s avarice. But what if Cristine was right? The maid thought of how she bled as she was about to filch Alice’s mirror, the way she was ill every time she’d lain with Alice’s husband.
‘The night I have spent, little maid,’ said Sir John. ‘My whole body is in pain, and see, see my nails, they are falling out.’
There was just a raw bed where the nail of his little finger had been. Repulsion crawled in her belly, and she swallowed. Could it really be … was the mistress a witch? She herself had often teased Petronelle about Alice’s demon lover but only for sport. The woman had a simpleton’s loyalty to Dame Kytler, and it was fun to watch her pale with anger.
‘You’ll be better soon,’ she said, pressing her mouth against his collarbone.
‘Only if Alice is contained and kept from me. I opened my eyes this morning to find she’d slipped into my bed and her face was right next to mine.’
The maid felt a surge of jealousy that the mistress had lain exactly where she was stretched out. John continued with his story.
‘“What’s the matter?” Alice asked, all innocence, when well she knew what the matter was, since it was she who had been chasing me in my dreams, trying to disembowel me.’
The maid reached under the covers and tried to coax her master to life; she did not want to hear any more. He pushed her hand away.
‘Don’t you love me?’ she asked.
‘Love?’ he laughed.
What did he mean? The way he used to look at her, kiss her, touch her. That was love – it had to be. Had Alice found them out and cast a spell? Had her mistress done something to make Sir John forget his love? Some could do that: cast spells to start or stop love. What if she, Helene, could also make things happen? In her mind’s eye, she saw herself as mistress of Alice’s house, and him under her, bucking.
35. Petronelle
It was dawn as I rode towards the town gates. I carried a package for Líthgen under my cloak. Amongst the food was a nice piece of pork for Milo. I was glad he had chosen to stay with my mother, company was no harm when you were as old as she was. As I neared the gates, I noticed archers climbing along the town walls. The keeper, when I finally got his attention, said I couldn’t leave. No one was leaving Hightown that day. He was trying to put on a chainmail tunic, but it was proving too heavy. He dropped it and told me that the tribes had burned Castlecomer and were on their way to take Kilkennie. The bridge was up, and the gates were closed. I rode back through High Street, and the crier rang his bell and shouted: ‘All men to the gates! All men to the gates!’
Entering Kytler’s yard, I saw townsmen patrolling the river bank, knives at hip, bows in hand, crushing mussel shells underfoot. I left the mare in the stables, only to find the back door locked. I had to bang and call out my name before it was unbolted. Ulf nodded recognition and let me in. It was with much resentment that I thanked him for allowing me entry into a house which up until some weeks ago he was a stranger to.
There was great fear and excitement inside. No one said which tribe threatened – it could’ve been Ó Braonáins, Ó Tuathails or Ó Cearbhaills. Despite the differences between the Gaelic tribes, to the dwellers of Hightown they were one and the same. The whole household crushed against each other getting upstairs. Arnold’s army was leaving town to defend us, with only Stephen and a few laymen left in Kilkennie. Everyone wanted to watch them leave and the only good view was from Jose’s chamber. From it could be seen the drawbridge, the gate tower and the road out of town. Alice banged on the door, and, after a little wheedling from Helene, Sir John opened it and let us all in, even the mistress. He seemed alert, but could not, he complained as he crawled back into his bed, move very far. ‘Keep the witch from me,’ he said, glaring over his blanket at his wife.
Líadan, silent as ever, climbed on to a chest and sat fiddling with some doll. Alice opened the shutters wide and leant so far out I feared she would topple. Esme, Helene and I stood close and looked over her shoulder.
‘Look at Arnold’s men, how they gallop,’ she said, pointing at the shapes moving off into th
e distance. ‘By sunset, there’ll be a dozen native heads staked on John’s Bridge.’
‘How can you speak so?’ I whispered into her ear. ‘You know my mother’s Irish.’
‘She may well be, but you’re not,’ she snapped. ‘Your very name proves that.’
‘My name is Bébinn.’
‘There’s no such person, never was.’
The words felt like a slap. No such person. I glanced over at my daughter. Had she heard? Her face was flushed but she kept her eyes fixed on her doll, smoothing out its small black skirt. I didn’t understand Alice’s blood thirst. She wore Irish cloaks, hired harpists, granted shelter to Líadan and me. I thought of Líthgen out there somewhere, of our people on the mountainside, the ones the burgesses called mongrel.
‘What if they cross the river and burn us in our beds?’ asked Helene.
‘Those thieving barbarians won’t get in spitting distance of the Nore,’ said Alice.
‘Thieving?’ said Esme. ‘You forget, lady, whose country this is.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that? Leave here, go on, get out!’ Alice was furious.
‘I’ll go and stay gone – yours is not the only kitchen in Kilkennie.’
‘Oh, Esme,’ Alice surprised us all by cooing, ‘you can’t, you must never. Stay with us.’
‘You know Lucia Hatton is after me, and you would rather die than have me cook for her household. That’s the only reason you speak so.’
‘I know no such thing’ – Alice stroked the cook’s arm – ‘just that you’re a treasure, if a little brusque.’
As we left the room, Sir John was smirking. He seemed pleased by the quarrel.
That night, as Líadan slept, I sat by the bedroom window thinking on what Alice had said. There’s no such person, never was. I looked out at the deep shadow made by the bridge, the black water moving beneath. I thought of all the watchmen, all the locked gates. The night was full of eyes and blades. As suddenly as an animal feeling its harness, I bolted. I don’t recall unlocking the door or going out into the night, but I must have, because I soon found myself crossing the marketplace.