The Burning Time (9 page)

Children ran errands every which way, gathering baskets of wildflowers—a gaudy harvest of velvety blues and greens soft as summer shadow—for weaving into garlands and dancing ropes; the littlest ones dashed about, playing and giggling. The air shimmered with energy and laughter.

By the day before Sabbat Eve, all this hustle had accelerated to a delirium of excitement. The whole manor was in motion, and at the hub of the whirl pulsed the castle’s central kitchen. There, three women sat around the long oak table, relishing the periodic breeze that cooled them from the open door, and talking while their hands flew about their work.

Helena, recovered from childbirth, perched on a stool at one end of the table, her baby comfortably strapped to her back. Little Dana burbled contentedly while her mother worked at a leisurely pace, braiding what had once been a large heap of straw, wheat-stalks, flax, and wild grasses into many kirn babies, the grain dollies given as favors to Sabbat guests. Each Lugnasad, the previous year’s dolls were cast into the bonfire for good luck, to be replaced with fresh ones who would stand guard yearlong on humble home altars, honouring the crops born from the Goddess’s joyous mating with the Green Man.

Across from Helena, Annota Lange, a widow with a droll wit who was the manor’s most talented spinster-seamstress, was making house-protection sachet charms as additional gifts for the guests, some of whom would be coming quite a distance from other counties. Spread out before her on the table were fragrant piles of powdered cloves and orris root, sandalwood shavings, dried lavender flowers, figwort, rue, ground allspice, and various oils and gums. The recipe was a simple one—eight parts of this to three of that, the whole wrapped up in a small
square of unbleached muslin and tied round three times with red yarn. Later, Lady Alyce as High Priestess would hallow the sachets, invoking the name of Hertha, the Goddess in Her role as protector of home and hearth.

Petronilla de Meath sat next to Annota, her pale braids twined into a knot and bound up out of the way of her busy hands. She had been shelling peas and was now blending basil and sage leaves with a mortar and pestle, trying at the same time to keep watch over her daughter, Sara. That two-year-old sat on the floor with a wooden bowl and a small stone she wielded like a toy mallet, cracking hazelnuts and mixing up the shells with the nutmeats in an endearing if ineffective manner.

Petronilla, as she did lately every chance she got, had turned the conversation to her growing fears about Richard de Ledrede. By now, everyone knew of His Eminence’s skirmish with Her Ladyship, and how she had bested him. But he had not left Ireland. On the contrary, he was ordering frequent parish assemblies in the Cathedral, summoning the townsfolk so that he might deliver speeches against evil-doing Jezebels in their midst. He peppered his sermons with references to signs of the Devil evident all around—claiming that Satanic eyes could be seen staring out from the circles on peacock feathers, warning that hair the colour of fire likely meant a person was marked for Hell, and repeatedly retelling the biblical
stories of Bathsheba and of the whore of Babylon and their many husbands. Since Alyce Kyteler kept a pet peacock, had auburn hair, and had been multiply married, all of Kilkenny—indeed, all of Ossary—knew who he meant.

“That Bishop’s after having Her Ladyship’s soul in his pocket or her head on a pike,” Petronilla declared. “One or t’other. I be telling you, the man is up to no good.” She pounded the sage as if it were named Richard.

“M’mm, I dunno,” mumbled Annota, breaking a strand of red yarn with her teeth. “I canna take him seriously. I mean, he, you know, he is so … 
solemn
.” She pulled a long face. “Hard to take seriously someone who canna even laugh.”

Petronilla glowered. She was growing impatient with her friends’ complacency. She was also concerned about what she perceived as her mistress’s blithe indifference to danger.

“I dinna know much about anything, but this much I know. A body who canna laugh may be just the person you would want to take all the more serious. Are we not to care, then—about him calling these big meetings and firing up all the priests and people against Her Grace?”

“Dinna scold us, Pet,” Annota protested mildly. “Her Ladyship keeps watch in her own way.”

Helena blew off a few clinging kernels of wheat from the last kirn baby and placed the poppet into a large wicker basket along with all the other finished dolls. She rubbed her hands and frowned.

“T’is a fact,” she murmured, “that the Bishop is calling a meeting with all the abbots in the diocese, aye. And when I brought the plums to market in town, I heard he now has all diocesan priests and monks attend on him in group audiences—pity the dears—to hear him lecture on ‘the crisis of the Irish soul.’ But Her Ladyship says t’is probably him just showing off—‘theatrics,’ says she.”

Helena and Annota exchanged glances.

“And by Holy Mongfhinn, Her Ladyship knows about ‘theatrics!’ ” Annota laughed.

“What is there to laugh at, about Her Grace?” demanded Petronilla, ever defensive on behalf of her adored lady.

“Nothing, child,” Annota replied. “T’is just that … well, Her Ladyship—like all nobles—knows how to show off, too.”

“I dinna know what you mean. She dinna dress in finery or act like gentry folk—”

“Nae, she shows off different. By ignoring ’em. Pleasures herself showing how she
not
be one of ’em. And in her way, shows off for us, too. Pleasures in acting like one of us, sometimes. Oh, naught
bad
about it, just funny if you—”

Petronilla leapt to her feet.

“Her Ladyship is the
kindest—
”

“There, there, Petronilla,” Helena soothed, in the voice she used with Dana. “Sit down, sit down. We all know our good fortune to live under Lady Alyce’s hand. T’is is only that …” she glanced at Annota again, who came to her rescue.

“T’is only that the great ones of the world strut their stories large, Pet,” the widow said, “and t’is best we humble folk keep well out of their way. Our mistress, sure she’s the best of her kind there be, aye. But when her kind does battle, t’is people like you and me can come to harm.”

“But this Bishop dinna want to harm you and me, Annota. T’is Lady Alyce he wants to hurt!”

“This Bishop dinna even
see
you nor me, Petronilla,” Helena chided, “He sees
her
because—well, t’is hard not to, round these parts. T’is what Annota means by using Her Ladyship’s fancy word, ‘theatrics.’ But you need not worry much. A lot of what passes between highborn folk—even threats—be just talk. They have the time for it, dinna you see.”

“Nae, he’s plotting something,” Petronilla scowled. “Something dreadful. I’m sure of it.”

“Perhaps not,” put in Annota, “Might be that the Bishop is lonely, wants for a bit of company, and canna admit to it—so he goes about calling assemblies. Have you considered that, then?”

“My thoughts exactly, Annota,” chimed a hearty voice behind them. All three women rose instantly, then dropped to the floor in curtseys as Alyce Kyteler, enveloped in an enormous apron with five deep pockets, swept into the kitchen. “It might be that this pompous, blustery little man needs to feed his sense of self-importance. Up, up, on with your work,” she continued, motioning for them to rise,
“It might be that his convocation will dwindle into one of those nostril-flaring rituals so many of the fellows like. Even if they
are
supposed to be chaste, priests are men nonetheless, you know. Ach, I want a bit of a sit-down.”

She drew up another stool and sat down at the table, fanning herself with her apron; the women sat, too, returning to their tasks.

“I have been running about so much I hardly know how to stop,” sighed Alyce, “I sampled the crescent cakes for the right texture, tasted an herb butter to correct the flavor, oversaw the last of the candle-dipping, and made myself hoarse shouting at William that he and Robert must at least
try
to pay attention to what they are doing, and secure those cloaks more firmly or the wind will carry them away like so many rosy clouds. That lad … I worry about him. He is
so
agreeable—yet he evades his tutors and idles when he should be learning oversight of the estate. It cannot have been easy, having all those fathers and not one of them a fit man. I thought young Robert would be a good influence, but now I wonder.… Will ought to be more responsible at his age. We must all keep an eye out for him, eh? I do not want him misleading Maeve Payn with false promises into some irresponsible act that she believes will end in wedlock.…”

Petronilla, unbidden, had fetched Alyce a cup of cool water. She drank it down, then smiled at her three women. They all smiled back.

“Not that I lack for critics who think me incapable of
recognizing
an irresponsible act,” she chattered on, circling back to the previous subject, “Our Bishop, for instance.… Well, perhaps if these priests meet and preach and rail at each other long enough, they will tire themselves out and go play their games elsewhere.” She shrugged. “This is
Ireland
, after all. No one in Ireland has ever been executed, or even prosecuted, for practicing The Craft. This Bishop, apparently bereft of a sense of humour, seems to forget that most priests here are Irish, so do not share his failing. Like dear young Father Brendan Canice, for instance.” Helena and Annota chorused agreement.

“I think you’ve not yet met him, Petronilla,” Alyce mused, “but he used to come round often. Such a sweet-faced man! Hearty laugh, strong arms, good heart—hair black as midnight and eyes blue as cornflowers … now
there
is a waste of a comely chap! Ah, what celibacy squanders!… His mother—she has parted now—was a Wiccan Lore and Legend Keeper. Wondrous Tale Spinner of the Seannachai she was, too! A Biddy Róisín story would shine and ripple like a waterfall in starlight. And that woman could raise fluffy curds from new milk with just three swirls of a red-hot poker in the churn! She would say, ‘What today calls Magick, tomorrow calls Science.’ Nice, eh? Well, Brendan—of course we’d known him as Sean Fergus—went off to study at Kells in Ceanannus Mór, and he was such a fine scholar they snapped him up to
be a priest. But on visits home he would still attend sabbats—in secret, of course. He would arrive in this comical disguise, having darkened his face with charcoal—you know, the way the Morris Dancers used to do?—and having pulled his hooded cowl way down over his eyes and having stuffed half melons under his robe against his chest, as if he could masquerade as a woman! Róisín would call out, “Thanks be! T’is my daughter, the priest!” and we would laugh until our ribs ached with it. Once here, though, he’d be grinning like a gnome, kicking out the liveliest steps to be seen! He has not been to a sabbat in several years, more’s the pity. But I fear even if he did try to visit, the Bishop watches his priests’ comings and goings like a hawk spying every twitch of the field mice below. Well, let him spy all he wishes, if he has nothing better to do.…”

Petronilla blinked at the older woman, awed at how Alyce was able to change a mood of fear into one of good humour. It reminded her of tales she’d heard about alchemy, the skill of turning dross into gold. If only Sara could grow to womanhood learning such self-confidence, such indifference to what other people thought—qualities her mother knew she herself could never imitate. If only Sara might grow to be like this oak tree of a woman—rooted strength against her enemies but leafy comfort for those seeking shade from the world’s glare. Even Lady Alyce’s rare melancholy or pain seemed to Petronilla lofty, compared to her own vulgar troubles. The maid was
ashamed to admit that she might envy so much as the way Alyce suffered—and it was clear to her that Sir John had made her mistress suffer—since Petronilla loathed how she herself cringed before her own pain. Not that her life had taught her to do much else.

Petronilla was an orphan—her mother dead in the act of birthing her, her father unknown. She had been a servant since earliest memory, always trying desperately to please others: first in the scullery of the convent where she’d been raised from infancy, in Inistogue, a neighboring village to Kilkenny and the place of her birth; later as kitchenmaid to one of the gentry in the nearby coastal town of Wexford. At the order of Cook in the kitchen where she labored, she’d married a man who had taken her by force one Twelfth Night, an assistant flesher whose hands always seemed to bear the faded red stains and gluey smell of the sheep and pigs he butchered. He frightened her. But she tried hard to gratify his desires, hoping that together they might create the family she’d never known. She clung to that hope until the day she ran away from him, taking Sara with her. Petronilla had grown used to the beatings her husband regarded as both husbandly duty and pleasure—but when he started striking their baby daughter, she found within herself a courage she’d never known she possessed. With the clothes on her back and her child in her arms, she fled to the sanctuary of the Wexford parish church.
There, confident in her religious devotion as only someone with no other comfort can be, she threw herself and her child on the protection of her priest, Father Donnan. But Donnan was not one of Alyce Kyteler’s jovial Irish clergy. He was a cleric who believed fear to be the greatest form of worship and punishment the sole excitement flesh deserved. He denounced Petronilla as a sinful wife who had abandoned her husband and betrayed the marriage sacrament. Then he instructed her to do penance: to say fifty Paternosters, return home, kneel and beg forgiveness from her husband, endure his anger in whatever form it came, then fast and flagellate herself for three days and three nights.

Petronilla de Meath lingered long hours in that little Wexford church that night, but she was not saying Paternosters. She watched her child sleep peacefully in her arms while she considered her life. She sat still, listening inside herself to something she could not name, something that felt like a shifting, a swelling, a crack opening in her heart. When she finally walked out through the church doors, she knew that now both husband and priest must be left behind—whatever else might lie ahead.