Her Kind

by Niamh Boyce

  49. Petronelle

  It was dusk and snow blew through the bars. The bearded gaoler pushed old hides under the gate. He behaved kindly but spoke little. I thought of the gaolers as Day and Night. Night was kind; Day was cruel. The bishop was perverse. The outlandish things he accused me of – gaining power from underworld demons. Would I not use this power if I had it? After dawn, I saw the glimmer of candles, as Ledrede approached for another of his hateful inquisitions. After he said his Ave Maria, he began.

  ‘It was you taught Dame Kytler magick, not the other way around.’

  I closed my eyes, to save myself the sight of this man, with his foul notions. I pictured the orchard, could almost hear the drone from the hives. Chanting came then, from the crowd outside the gaol. I could not make out which prayer they recited. I opened my eyes.

  ‘Witnesses say, and I say – it was you who taught Dame Kytler magick. You’re the real witch, the mediatrix between her and the demon world.’

  What magick had I to teach Alice? I recalled two girls kneeling, their heads close; sap on their fingers, small knives on the ground. One is whispering: ‘You tie this ribbon as such, three times around the whitethorn branch, and with each winding say, “I bind my love to me this night, I bind my love and bind him tight.” And then you tether it, like this, see?’ ‘I bind my love,’ the other sang, ‘I bind my love …’

  ‘You conjured the demon Robin; he taught you all you know –’

  ‘No demon taught me.’

  ‘From whom, then, did you learn about evil and demons?’ He bent and looked at me closely.

  ‘From your sermons.’

  ‘The devil is in her.’ He grabbed my throat with both hands. ‘He controls her tongue!’

  ‘Stop, you will kill her.’ Someone pulled the bishop off.

  Released, I fell back, gasping for air.

  ‘Come outside and speak to the people,’ the same voice said. It was the gaoler. ‘A crowd has gathered; they’re becoming more and more raucous. This town is on the verge; it depends on you, Lord Bishop, whether it falls or is saved.’

  From outside, the voices indeed rose up – yet it was no prayer they chanted but a demand. ‘Bring out the sorceress.’ Didn’t the people know that Alice had escaped?

  ‘Next time, you will confess.’

  I heard the gates close behind the bishop, but could not rise from the floor. After a while, his voice carried down between the bars of the window. The real witch, he told the people outside the gaol, was Kytler’s maid, not Kytler at all.

  The night gaoler came, bringing a small almond pastry and a potent mug of spiced wine. At first, pain came with each swallow, but it soon eased. I was almost asleep when he returned to take the cup away. Later, much later, my head began to ache, a childish whispering filled the darkness, and shadows crept over my skin, small cold hands going pat, pat, pat … urging me to stand. As I rose from the floor, everything became hazy. The cell gate faded to a trace of itself, and I saw myself travel through it and past the empty cells. How different the gaoler seemed, slumped in sleep. I almost stopped to bid him farewell. The outer gate was shut, but one touch from my hand and it sprang back. The castle grounds were lit with snow. The door in the wall was ajar. Outside, the road was empty but for a hound guarding a chest. I stroked the hound and opened the lid. Inside lay a mantle of grey wolfskin. I lifted it out – it was heavy, full length, my length, so I shrugged it over my shoulders and pinned it closed. I smelt smoke, turned and saw a blaze further down the hill, in front of the Tholsel. The flames were orange, dancing low like those beneath a pot. Lantern joined lantern in the darkness as people made their way towards the bonfire, and gathered around it. I moved towards them. Light flickered across their animal masks, and behind carved-out eyes real eyes blinked. Gloved hands beckoned, welcoming me. A man reached out and caught my wrist. He wore a half-mask, his mouth was full, familiar – that I had tasted it once was all I could remember.

  50. The Bishop’s Quarters

  Another missive had arrived from Fournier, confirming Ledrede’s suspicions: Jacques was soon to be made cardinal. Referring to his own inquisition, he boasted that a skilled interrogator did not stoop to torture. The skilled interrogator he had in mind was, of course, his pious self. How easy to be sanctimonious when one had not been tested the way Ledrede had been tested. Since he had captured that creature, the bishop had been subjected to the most depraved visitations at night. A succubus, he was certain of it.

  He rubbed his eyes as he read the rest of the letter. Jacques wrote that he was compiling a dossier; he was sure it would prove most invaluable. Ha! Invaluable indeed – time would tell whose records were of most value. And, speaking of value, it was time for Ledrede to claim his due. He smiled at the thought of the fine property in Low Lane with land stretching to the river, of Kytler’s rumoured lands in Leix, her furniture, jewels, horses … not to mention the money; there must be hoards of it. There was just the matter of the sick man to oust. He, no doubt, would be glad to return to Callan to recover. The bishop had summoned Sir John to Irishtown, to speak privately of the matter.

  Sir John stood in the bishop’s room, his tossed dark-blond hair longer than it should’ve been. The scalp above his ears was bald. If the bishop didn’t know better, he would have mistaken it for the Irish style. He wore no livery, neither Le Poers’ nor Outlawes’. That pleased the bishop. The man appeared much stronger than before. The bishop commented as such.

  ‘Being out of my wife’s reach, my health has improved somewhat but I’m far from the man she wed.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do something before this?’

  ‘I had no proof till the maid showed me that diabolical chest.’

  ‘I’ve excommunicated Kytler for her crimes. This means her possessions will be seized – those items, property, land, livestock, household goods and personal artefacts she owned in her own right.’

  ‘She was my wife, Ledrede; all she possessed, I now wholly possess.’

  ‘You weren’t married by any priest. I do not recall such a ceremony.’

  ‘Oh, but we were. We swore our oath in front of a priest, and many witnesses. We kissed in the door of Saint Mary’s Church. It was very sweet. And now, if you’ll forgive me, my strength wanes.’

  The bishop watched from his window as John walked down the path towards the arch. A barefoot woman with flaxen braids joined him. They embraced and continued down the lane together. The bishop’s quarry had fled, and now a so-called dying knight had just deprived him of his spoils. All he had left after all this work was a maid in Kilkennie Castle Gaol who refused to confess.

  51. Petronelle

  The first lash knocked me to the ground. The next cut into my shoulder, tearing cloth and flesh. The bishop stood over me, chanting something in Latin. He brought the whip down again, and the blood ran warm.

  ‘God can see,’ I whispered, ‘and his Holy Mother can see, that whip you wield, the skin you tear off a mother’s back.’

  He threw down his whip and shouted for me to confess, over and over. To tell him I was something I was not. That I would never do.

  ‘Confess, Petronelle.’

  ‘That is not my name,’ I reminded myself. ‘It’s someone else he torments, and you are safe inside her, safe inside her. Lollai, lollai, litil child, you are safe inside her.’

  Before dawn, the night gaoler came. He set down his light, opened a small clay crock and beckoned me to move closer to the bars. When I did, he bid me to turn around. He eased the shredded cloth away from my wounds and drizzled something over each cut. I recognized the scent of honey. He told me that his name was Anthony. I kept my head bowed as tears ran down my face. It was almost unbearable, this tenderness.

  I said my thanks, and he nodded, shoved a cup under the gate and left me alone again. I reached out to get the drink. Blood trickled down my back as a wound opened afresh. Expecting ale, I was surprised by the taste. It was mead. Seeds caught in my teeth as I swallowed. I remembered my d
ream of lanterns, the masked people beckoning me to join them, and the man I’d loved, living, breathing and reaching out to me again. There was something in my food, something relieving the pain, giving me reveries. Nevertheless, I drank till all the mead was gone. I did not want to have a clear head.

  Ledrede and his scribe returned at sunrise. The day gaoler carried a three-legged stool for Ledrede. The bishop arranged his frock about him as he sat. The scribe stood behind him, his tablet ready. Ledrede looked at me with disgust, as if my wretched condition was someone else’s handiwork.

  ‘While you worked in her household, did Dame Kytler journey at night?’

  I didn’t answer but stared instead at his feet. His toes were clean, the nails neatly clipped. The Franciscan sandals signified poverty but these feet were as manicured as my mistress’s hands.

  ‘Answer or I’ll fetch the whip.’

  ‘Yes, Dame Kytler journeyed every night.’

  ‘See how efficient torture can be, scribe? Where did Kytler go?’

  ‘To her bed, your grace.’

  The bishop reddened. ‘Mock once more, and your daughter will also have her back torn.’

  ‘You found her?’

  ‘Look at her terror, scribe; she’s afraid of what the girl will tell us.’

  ‘She won’t say a word; she cannot.’

  ‘Tell the truth, then, save this daughter of yours. Dame Kytler’s nocturnal meetings, what happened, what –’

  ‘There were demons, deals, spells and sorcery, just as you said before.’

  I thought it would end there, but he wanted more.

  ‘How did you work your magick?’

  ‘By spells.’

  ‘Cast how? Over a cauldron, gathered together at night?’

  ‘At night, yes.’

  ‘And lit a fire of oak and boiled the intestines of a cockerel mixed with worms and … go on, tell.’

  ‘And herbs.’

  ‘And more that you do not say.’

  ‘Yes, more that I do not say.’

  ‘Nails cut from dead bodies.’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’

  ‘Hairs from buttocks …’

  I laughed. He tipped forward and struck my face. His ring sliced into the corner of my mouth. Ralph showed no shock at what had been said but just wrote on, his mouth set in a smug smile. Oh, the anger I suddenly felt towards that mere boy. It drove me to say ludicrous things, just to appal him.

  ‘You sacrificed to Robin?’ asked Ledrede.

  ‘Yes, I sacrificed to him. I was the –’

  ‘Mediatrix.’

  ‘Yes, the mediatrix, between Alice and him.’

  ‘You used sorcery to lure men to her home.’

  ‘Yes, wealthy men with their purses full of silver.’

  ‘And left them with nothing.’

  ‘Not even a pulse, your grace.’

  I scarcely recognized the concoctions that spun from my tongue, but I would spin till dawn to be free of this place.

  ‘As for women? What did you do to them?’

  ‘We turned gossips and slatterns into goats, had them slaughtered and skinned. We took their fat for our candles, their meat for our stews, their horns to drink from. Their skins, we sold to the monks, who turned them into parchment.’

  The scribe dropped his quill. He chose another from his satchel rather than retrieve it from the ground.

  ‘Oh, evil, evil meddlers! And how did the demon first come to you?’

  ‘He came at night, as all evil things do, while I was in bed after my prayers.’

  ‘After your prayers!’

  ‘He did creep in and I would suffer his presence and praise him.’

  ‘For he is vain.’

  ‘Yes, vain, dark and horned.’

  ‘And he touched you of course.’

  ‘Indeed, all over, and made me promise to keep faithful to him alone.’

  ‘Where? Where first did he touch?’

  ‘My … hair – he removed the combs.’

  ‘He is a demon, not a courtly lover. You’d have me think he’s a gentleman.’

  ‘He tore the sheets from me.’

  ‘Exposed his lower regions, showed you his snake, and it was monstrous.’

  ‘And then he disappeared in a wisp of smoke.’

  ‘No, then he had carnal knowledge of you, shot his seed between your legs while he whispered his secret spells … Take note,’ he snapped at the boy, who had paused his writing.

  Both were looking at me with a peculiar trust, waiting to hear what I would say next. The bishop had claimed he’d captured Líadan, but I didn’t sense her near.

  ‘I don’t believe you have my girl.’

  He ignored me, asked further questions about crossroads and sacrifices. I didn’t answer. I felt exhausted, sickened by the strange and dreadful things I found myself saying. What if I stopped answering? What if I didn’t say another word?

  Ledrede swept from the cell then, instructing the scribe to bring out the stool. The boy avoided my gaze as he retrieved his quill and lifted the chair. I felt the knife under my clothes – if only the gaoler wasn’t watching.

  ‘Where is my daughter?’ I asked Ralph.

  He did not answer. After he left, the gaoler secured the padlock.

  52. Basilia

  It was always night here. There were candles everywhere – flickering over the stuffed creatures, making the glass eyes gleam and the dead furs shimmer. I noticed that the trapdoor had been covered with a long mat. It was the one with the odd blue tree. I ran over and rolled it up. Ulf lifted me away as if I weighed nothing.

  ‘No,’ said Alice, ‘let her look. She’s waiting; her mother is coming.’

  Ulf tested the heavy handle, pulling to check that it would lift. It did. I leant over; saw how the ladder disappeared into the darkness. No sign of anyone. Then Ulf dropped the door. It lodged higher than the floor; he stood on it, and walked up and down until it became flush with the earth.

  I found my green cushion and sat on it, all the time watching the trapdoor. After a time, there was a knock. Sir Stephen came in, went over to Alice and touched her shoulder. She did not shrug him off.

  ‘That must’ve been Arnold’s key,’ she said, looking up.

  ‘What key?’

  ‘The one you used to get us into this room. For mine’ – she slipped her hand into the slit in her skirts – ‘is still with me, and there was only one other copy.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Stephen. ‘He gave it to me, in case –’

  ‘He trusted you.’

  Alice’s expression was soft – she saw Arnold in his nephew’s face.

  Stephen explained how he had misled the bishop and told him that Alice had ridden south to New Ross, where a boat waited to carry her to England.

  ‘But you’ll travel east to Dublin instead – not by road but through the mountains. And then, when the wind is favourable, you’ll set sail.’

  ‘I’ll not travel at all.’ Alice’s expression had grown less fond. ‘This is my house, my home. Every ounce of timber, eel of fabric and linch of tin is mine; every tun of wine or frail of figs, every crock, every spoon, every stone is mine,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘I’ll not scamper like a coward. Summons be damned – that man must be driven out by a sword if need be. Do you understand, Le Poer?’

  ‘You wish me to end up like my uncle?’

  ‘He died fighting as knights are born to. You’re a knight, are you not?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Alice glanced around the room and took in Ulf and me, and then Sir Stephen’s man, standing off to the side, his hand hovering over his dagger. Confused, her eyes searched each corner of the room. She had forgotten my mother was not with us.

  ‘Dame, you are not safe. Venture upstairs and look outside your beloved front door if you so wish. You’ll lose your head in the act. Listen to the plan. In the next day or so, you’ll be ushered out the back.’

  ‘And be seized by Ledrede.’

  ‘He’ll
not be there; he’ll be distracted.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I’ll not say aloud what you must already guess.’

  Did they plan to kidnap the bishop? It must have been so, for Alice did not argue further; in fact she hardly spoke at all. Stephen said that no person, besides those present and the constable, knew of her whereabouts, for there were too many turncoats amongst us.

  ‘Will?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I trust my own son!’

  ‘Yes, but can you trust his friends?’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Ulf will guard the door. I’ll be back when it’s time.’

  He went up the steps, opened the door slowly and peered into the cellar before slipping away. When I locked it behind him, the bolt glided smoothly into its ring. It had been oiled.

  Alice warmed her hands over the brazier. I carried my cushion over to the trapdoor, yearning to ask how long before my mother joined us. I tried to speak. The words wouldn’t come. Instead, a dry cough left my throat. Alice jumped. Had she forgotten I was there?

  I waited and watched, but the trapdoor didn’t budge. Where was my mother? I remembered the way she had breathed over a dead butterfly, made its wings open, made it flutter to life. Soon, I’d see the trapdoor rising up and my mother’s face. And this time, when she called me Líadan, I’d answer.

  53. The Bishop’s Quarters

  Fournier’s would not be the only chronicle. The bishop worked into the night to document recent events: ‘The Kilkennie Sorcery Trial: An Inquisitor’s Record’. He might as well stay up. He had been sleeping very badly. The monks had heard him cry out from his chamber – only a night terror, he explained over dinner. Some young priests had exchanged smirks.

  ‘The friars here are no scholars; they have not my knowledge of sorcery. Mine is the only clear eye here. Perhaps this is why she chose me. I’ve been visited by a succubus and I know her source: we have her trapped in our prison; a powerful witch.’