by Niamh Boyce
47. Petronelle
Melted snow ran in rivulets from the window-ledge above my head. Driven by thirst, I pressed my tongue into a crevice, let my mouth fill and swallowed. Grabbing the jutting stone, I sought purchase with my foot, tried to hoist myself towards the window, but kept slipping. The wall was slick as marble. Suddenly they were there, at the window, their voices dripping into the cell. ‘Shame, shame on you,’ they said. ‘Turn, turn, show your face,’ they urged. Some recited the Pater Noster or evoked the saints – by Kieran, by Patrick, and by Brigid, they condemned me. I curled tight. Some threw snow, some pelted stones. The guard’s boots replaced their hands, and I was left in peace.
I soon heard a gate clash, voices rise and fall, a silky rustling. Bishop Ledrede appeared with a clutch of monks behind him. The hem of his embroidered robe was sluiced in muck. When last we’d met, I’d knelt at the foot of his throne and he had seemed as solid and powerful as a statue. Standing outside my cell, he was shorter than I, and swamped by his ornate robes. I thought of a servant trying on costumes while his master was away. It was a mistake not to be afraid, I reminded myself; this man had taken my liberty.
He blessed himself and began to recite … Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui … It would become his habit not to speak until he had recited a Hail Mary. I didn’t know it then, but it was his means of protecting himself, from me – the woman he kept caged, whose skin he would break. He cleared his throat and took a step forward, gripping the bars. I stared at his white knuckles, the large ring with a purple stone, the fingers as ink-stained as my mistress’s.
‘Where are Kytler and the girl? How did they conjure their escape?’
Conjure. If I knew how to conjure, would I be here?
‘I don’t know where they are. Please have mercy on my daughter.’
‘Those who cast their lot in with Satan must suffer the consequences. There’ll be no mercy.’
‘Your lordship, she’s an innocent girl –’
The bishop pounded his crozier.
‘Innocent? A practitioner of evil alchemy cannot be innocent. She and your mistress transformed and escaped this gaol.’
There were easier ways to gain release: for a woman like Alice, everything could be bought. The bishop must know that, yet he ranted on, insisting there was magick to it. He claimed that I, too, possessed the power to change.
‘Confess,’ he insisted, ‘to your magickal crimes.’
‘I’ve nothing to confess.’
‘The rest of your household had plenty, ignorant heretics that they are. You, though, you’re more cunning, aren’t you? I see it would not be wise to let you journey to court. You’ll be interrogated here, in the gaol.’
What had they confessed to, what had they said? The bishop left and all followed except one: a monk who began to tie a sign to the gate. His hands were big, his fingers thick and chilblained. He worked in haste and avoided my gaze.
The sign curled up after he’d left – a length of parchment crammed with lines. Whatever it declared, it was not the truth. ‘Let me see the mouth moving whence these words have come.’ My voice echoed over my head, and I looked up: there were fathoms between me and the roof.
As the sun set, the bars in the window cast their shadows into my cell. They stretched across the ground, across my body. My feet became misshapen – I could almost see them split, see them cleave into hoofs as the shadows cut me in two. I retreated into the corner, my own person suddenly seeming strange, uncanny.
I realized then that my gown was ripped and the thin linen of my smock showed through. I reached up – my veil was gone. All the time I’d been judging Helene wretched, I’d been as bad, worse. My sleeves hung open from the elbow, most of the buttons torn off. No one had taken my knife, but they would. I undid the buckle of my girdle belt, hoisted my gown and smock upwards. I fastened the belt and knife about my waist and tugged the clothes down over them. I loosened the side lacing on my gown, not caring that my smock showed through the gaps. The slack shape of my dress would hardly be noticed, not when I was in such a state. The bishop’s gaze, I noticed, never fell far below my face, though he had glanced once or twice at my throat as he recited his Ave.
When it was dark, a figure approached my cell. A different gaoler, he had a long beard, stocky shoulders. He knelt and without a word began to push something under the gate. A parcel of some sort. I crept forward and grabbed his wrist; he could’ve pulled away, but he didn’t.
‘Please,’ I whispered, ‘release me, like you did the others.’
‘I didn’t aid those women. I’m locked in, too, at least till morning, when the constable opens the outer door.’
He nudged the package forward. It was warm: a stone from his fire wrapped in rags. ‘Thank you,’ I said, but he had already gone.
The wind whistled through the window and soft blasts of snow floated down. It dusted the floor, my shoulders and arms. If the gaoler did not release Líadan and Alice, how had they escaped? Stupid with tiredness, I knelt there, crystals melting on my gown. I held the warm stone close, my fingers aching as they thawed. The snow blew in, over and over. I might die a woman of ice, frozen in prayer. Would they call me witch then? Yes, they would call me witch no matter what.
After some time, I heard the gaoler snore, smelt the spice of wood smoke from his fire. What was the noise I had heard last night? Was it a gate opening? Was it the wind? Maybe it was nothing? Yet, at sometime during the night, my daughter and Alice had escaped. I had presumed a simple bribe, the night gaoler turning the key, guiding them through the passage, releasing them into Hightown, but I was wrong. What if the words of the bishop were the truth of what happened? What if all I ever believed was wrong, and all I was accused of, was right? I imagined my mistress and my daughter in their cell that night – Alice with her hands clasped, praying. My girl leaning close, her lips in silent movement.
As if by unspoken agreement, they begin to softly chant, chant words that are strange yet familiar, as if all the tongues of Hightown – Welsh, Irish, English and French – are mixed together into a gentle gibberish. My girl pulls down her hood, unties her plaits and releases her hair. Alice does the same with hers. Their hair flows down, covering their bodies, darkening their shape. The vision ripples as if water flows through it. Shards of colour, the blue of Alice’s cloak, the red of my daughter’s hair, the black of their skirts, rush towards and away from each other. Then it stills, rinses clear, and the cell is dark and empty.
That couldn’t be what happened, could it? It couldn’t. I was being driven mad by fear, cold and hunger. I wanted this night over, for light to come, yet I dreaded dawn and the people returning to the window. Those same people had carried me to this place; their hands had reached out and torn my clothes. They thought me diabolical, yet wanted to touch me.
Had I been, unwittingly, diabolical? I was not always good. I remembered preparing Alice for her marriage with scented oils, satin ribbons; then, sated from the feast, lolling in my chair, entranced by the best harpist in all the kingdoms. As Kjarval’s tune strummed my blood, I forgot about those outside our door, people suffering as I once had, starving as they waited three long days for our leavings. And, worse, much worse than any of that, I had held a knife to my own daughter’s neck. Maybe this, my punishment, had always been coming.
Dawn came and a guard’s boots appeared for a time outside the window. Women bickered nearby. I recognized Cristine, Beatrice and Esme. I heard Helene, too. The voices came from the end of the corridor. They fought, tried to make sense, to apportion blame. Often I heard my name.
The noise ceased. I looked up at the high window. No guard. No taunting faces. Snow was still falling. I squinted till the bars looked like distant trees. I thought of the woods of my childhood and suddenly longed to return to them. Skirts rustled, someone let out a soft sob. Then, one by one, they moved like ghosts past my cell – Helene, Cristine, Beatrice and Esme. Each had
a large yellow cross, roughly cut and stitched to her front; each looked at the ground.
They were gone. A gate clanged, a heavy door ground shut. They were gone. I was now the only one of the accused left in Kilkennie Castle Gaol. I leant against the bars. I was imperfect, flawed, but not this thing they kept calling me, not that.
The gaoler opened the gate, and Ledrede stepped inside – checking first that it wouldn’t swing closed. What did he think might happen, if he and I were shut in together?
‘It’s a saving, you know,’ he said, ‘this halting of your sinful life.’
He studied me. I didn’t know what to say.
‘You’re dark, for a Fleming.’
A Fleming. I thought of my father, his golden hair caked in blood, his lids stitched shut. I didn’t answer. What could I say? Yes, I am dark for a Fleming, and you are evil for a man of God. As Ledrede unrolled his parchment, a boy scribe entered with his head lowered. His shaved skull gleamed with sweat despite the cold.
‘Dame Kytler and your daughter – where are they?’
‘If only I knew.’
‘But you do! You must.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Note that the creature does not cry or show any remorse, and is bold in her denial.’
The boy inscribed his tablet. I remembered my daughter, sitting by Alice’s best-lit window, frowning as she learnt to write her letters. I realized suddenly that Alice had left me behind on purpose, to stop me telling Líadan who had killed her father.
‘Who aided Kytler’s escape?’
‘I do not know.’
‘You do – it was her incubus.’
‘I never heard of such a being.’
‘You sat beneath the demon’s likeness every Sunday.’ Ledrede came close, bent his head near mine and whispered, ‘You adored him in the cathedral by day, and watched him writhe over your mistress by night. You prepared the way; took said Robin’s snake in your mouth to ready him for your mistress.’
The scribe’s arm stopped moving and he stared at me. I was startled to realize it was Ralph, his black hair shaven off. To think that raw boy had tricked us all.
‘Answer!’
‘None of that is true. I don’t know such a man.’
‘Man, she calls him! A demon, it was, who had carnal knowledge of your mistress, and well you know it, for who else wiped his seed from the sheets?’ He turned to the boy. ‘They do that, did you know? Steal seed.’
I blessed myself.
‘She makes the sign of the cross at the mention of her demon lover. What kind of a woman are you?’
‘An ordinary woman who knows nothing of what you speak.’
‘You’re no ordinary woman, you’re a monster.’
‘This is sinful, and against God, the things you say –’
‘Against God?’ He crouched, held his parchment next to my face. His ring was a big milky amethyst. ‘This is God’s work. Everything I say has been sanctioned by the Holy Father, Pope John, sanctioned in turn by Our Lord, God in Heaven. Look …’ He dug his gem into my nape, pushed my face against the curling page. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is Latin, the only clean weapon against inclement women.’
The manuscript was scratched with letters. I saw the pores of the skin, bristles where it hadn’t been smoothened clean. He snatched it away.
I kept my head bent as he left. The padlock clanged against the bars. What the bishop said about Alice, fornicating with a devil, to think such a thing. And for him, a holy man, to speak freely on such matters. An incubus … how does a demon travel from the depths of Hell and step into our world? Does he come with luggage and horses, does he roar at the town gate to be let in, the way they say Ledrede did?
I wrapped my arms about my knees and gazed at the window. Snow continued to fall outside. I stared till the black bars became trees, like the trees a girl in a brown cloak once slipped between – leaves crunch beneath her feet as she walks into the forest. I watch her. It has not yet happened, all that will happen – a rounding stomach, banishment, a sackcloth soaked red, a new-born child’s mewl. The girl hesitates. ‘Onwards,’ I whispered, ‘it must be, all of it.’
48. Market Square, Hightown
The moneylender’s chest of magick was set by the bishop’s feet. Three monks stood behind him, their torches already lit. They would burn the evil coffer when they were done with the public examination. First, he would lead a prayer to protect against the evil that lay within the chest.
Ledrede raised his crozier to command silence from the crowd. Sage was burned, candles lit, and the Lord invoked. No soul was safe while Kytler was still at large. They began a rosary. The bishop said the words, but his mind travelled elsewhere. Kytler’s escape had him confounded. He had questioned the creature Petronelle. She denied all knowledge, but, when she looked up, her eyes glinted, and the devil shone from them. He was certain Fournier had never come across the likes of her. She knew where her mistress was – she must.
The bishop had examined the sorceress’s cell but there was nothing of the women left, not a glove, not a scent. The window was out of reach, the bars too close even for a child to pass through. On a stone jutting from the wall, he found a bright hair. He wound it to a coil and tucked it away. Back in his rooms, he had pressed the strand into a piece of warm wax. ‘What is the answer, how did you flee?’ he whispered.
This escape of theirs – it had shown the whole town that the bishop spoke the truth: that their magick was powerful and that they and their sect must be stamped out. Bede touched the bishop’s shoulder, bringing him back to the present – the prayers had come to an end and all were looking at him. Did she lurk amongst these people? He searched their eyes, for her pale ones. Was she here in disguise, gloating from the depths of the crowd? The bishop felt ill, dizzy. Those eyes – were they the moneylender’s? No, nonsense.
‘This is evidence of witchcraft of the highest order.’
With much ceremony, the chest was opened. The jars, relics and potions seemed small, harmless even. Bede crouched beside the chest. He wore gloves and picked up items with his fingertips. He lifted each object and named it, while his scribe recorded a list. Bede spoke faster than the bishop wished. It was more dignified to take one’s time.
‘A ra … rabbit’s foot,’ said Bede, ‘a fox’s tail …’
There was silence from the crowd, then a shuffling of feet. The bishop sensed some disappointment. These people did not recognize such implements as demonic. Then again, common people were superstitious; perhaps many of them possessed such items. He must translate. The bishop stepped forward and snatched the foxtail from Bede. He’d show them how evil could reside in the most mundane of items.
‘A devil’s girdle, to be strapped around the naked waist and used for transformation.’
There was something a little irreverent in the expressions of the women. What went on inside their heads and who had authority over it? He had heard of a woman using the arms of the Holy Cross to … a depraved image flew into his head. He blessed himself to exorcize it. Which of the wretches had flung such a sinful picture at him? Was it Kytler, was she here? No, no. She was not; she was probably pressed fast to her horse, galloping from Ossory.
The bishop wiped the sweat from his lip and took a set of rosary beads from the chest. ‘Do not mistake these for proof of prayer; heretics use the tools of the good Christian to mock them, to usurp the power of the Church. They play with these, while conducting obscene rituals.’
They were stirring now, whispering; becoming uneasy. Bede handed the Spanish Fly to the bishop. He held up a philtre. ‘The poison she fed to her husband, and most likely all her husbands before him.’
He had them then. They all gazed at the small flask in his hand. It was time. He nodded to the three monks; it was time to set light to the evil objects. Just as the first torch was about to touch the chest, a man stepped out of the crowd.
‘You’ll not burn that here!’ he declared.
It was Sir Arnold’s
nephew, Stephen le Poer.
‘This is not your jurisdiction,’ he continued. ‘It is mine and I order you to leave.’
Ledrede grabbed a torch from a nearby monk and set light to the chest. A fire burned for all to see, and the bishop himself threw into its flames all the evil items they had just displayed to the crowd. Someone grabbed his arm, jerked him around. Stephen le Poer pushed his nose close to the bishop’s. ‘You do not rule in Hightown, Lord Richard – that privilege was granted to the burgesses since time before memory. Move along, back to your own side of the gates.’
‘This is a matter of faith –’
‘Oh, be quiet! You’ve got rid of Kytler – are you not satisfied?’
‘For all we know, she could be here still, lurking.’
‘They were seen, two women fleeing on horseback at dawn, leaving the city and galloping south, no doubt towards the coast and a ship. Now let this matter drop and the citizens of Kilkennie rest.’
The bishop stepped away, nodding to Bede and his men to do likewise. He led them back towards Irishtown, still clutching the philtre. That would be kept as evidence. It must be cleansed first, seared of its evil – he would bless it, exorcize it. Had Le Poer spoken the truth – was Kytler riding south?
If so, Stephen wasn’t as loyal to Kytler as his uncle. Of course, the bishop had almost forgotten: he had beaten her son for the position of seneschal. That would’ve displeased the dame greatly. There was no love lost there. The bishop would send some men south – two troops on good horses, one to New Ross, one to Waterford. He didn’t hold much hope; he knew in his heart that his quarry was gone. He looked at the philtre of dark glass and realized all might not be lost.