The Owl Killers (13 page)

“Christ will protect me,” I assured her.

“Is it true what they say about Giles, Father?” she asked anxiously.

I glanced at Ralph; was that what was distressing him? I had not thought the two men to be friends, but it was possible Giles was … had been … a relative. I had still not managed to unpick the tangled web of who was related to whom in this village.

But I did not need to ask what whispers Joan had heard. The whole village now knew that one of their own neighbours had been tortured, then paraded in the saint’s effigy for their entertainment. And the Owl Masters had made quite certain that every man and woman in Ulewic had learned the name of the man who had screamed out his dying agonies in the flames. I shivered. A sour bile rose in my throat. Damn Hilary and damn that bastard, Phillip. It wasn’t me who should feel guilty. It was their fault, all of this.

“May they burn in Hell!” I blurted out; then, seeing the look of alarm on Joan’s face, I tried to control my anger. “An evil deed was done, a great evil, and the men who did it will pay for it, if not in this life then in the next.”

Joan’s brow was creased with anxiety. “But no one knew that poor lad was inside Saint Walburga. My brother was there and he swears he didn’t know.”

“The Owl Masters knew. And no doubt others besides,” I said sternly.

“But you won’t … You’ll not use book and candle against us, will you, Father?”

I studied her carefully before I replied. “I am prepared to accept that most of the villagers were ignorant of what they did, but you all know now. And which of your neighbours will it be next time? It
might even be one of your own family. You villagers must stand together and shun the devilish rites of the Owl Masters.”

Joan glanced uneasily at the door, as if she feared someone might be listening. “But if the Owl Masters could take a lad just for making love to a maid, then …”

“If anyone threatens you, Joan, you must come to me at once. The Church will protect you, I promise you that.” I jerked my head towards the door. “Leave us now. I need to hear Ralph’s confession, if he’s to receive the sacraments.”

She nodded and dropped an awkward half-curtsy and, with another anxious glance at her husband, opened the door just wide enough to slip through, before quickly slamming it shut behind herself.

I pulled a fat wax candle from my scrip and lit it with the smoking rush taper, placing it on the corner of the rough table. Beneath it I laid a tiny silver box containing the precious Host. Ralph made his confession in a dull low voice, his face turned away from me into the shadows. He confessed nothing that he had not confessed before—pride, sloth—I did not really believe him guilty of either, but he judged himself more harshly than most men.

Ego te absolve a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen
.

I picked up the guttering candle, to move it closer to Ralph as I prepared to place the Host in his mouth, but my sleeve caught on the edge of the table and the candle tipped. A few drops of hot wax splashed down onto Ralph’s hand.

“Forgive me, Ralph! Did I burn …”

I realised he hadn’t flinched or moved his hand. Three drops of white wax lay on his skin, but he hadn’t felt them fall or burn him. He saw me staring at his hand and looked down. With a belated cry, he swiftly covered it with the blanket.

I lurched backwards. I didn’t mean to, but Ralph saw me recoil and the expression on his face changed to one of fear. Now I understood only too well what really ailed the poor man. Christ have mercy on him! In that terrible moment of realisation I could do nothing except stand there, the candle trembling in my fingers. Ralph hunched into the shadows, his chin almost touching his chest.
Neither of us spoke. There was nothing I could say which could comfort him now.

I gathered my wits and hastily finished what I had come to do. Then I extinguished the candle and returned it to my scrip. I knew he was willing me not to pronounce the dread word and I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I think we both believed that somehow if the word remained unspoken there was still hope. At the door, I turned and made the sign of the cross.

“Dominus vohiscum.”

There was no answering movement or amen, only a desperate pleading in his eyes.

Outside, I leant heavily against the closed door. Joan stood talking to the old widow Lettice, who had perched her massive buttocks on the wall of the well, and had evidently settled down for a good gossip. At the sound of the door closing, Joan’s gaze searched my face. Her eyes held the same tortured plea as Ralph’s.

But before I could say anything, Lettice heaved herself off the wall and came bustling towards me. “How is he, Father? The poor dear man. I was just saying to dear Joan here, I’ve got just the thing for the ague, my old mother’s recipe, made from the best white poppies. My late husband, God rest his soul, used to swear by it. In the end he drank it whether he was sick or not. He said it was the only cure for his headache. He was a martyr to headaches.

“Mind you, it’s a queer time of year to be getting the ague, but then seasons have turned arse up ever since those outlanders came. Outlanders always bring trouble. When I was a lass, some friars came to preach in the village, wild-looking pack. Holy beggars, they called themselves. Owl Masters soon got rid of them, but after they’d gone, a cry went up that three bairns were missing. Whole village searched for them, but we never found so much as a hair. I reckon the outlanders snatched the bairns to sell in London or France or some such wicked place. Those women are from France, aren’t they? Shouldn’t wonder if they haven’t given that husband of yours the evil eye, Joan, and that’s what ailing him. I’ll soon tell you for sure.”

Lettice reached round me to grasp the latch. I saw the stricken look
on Joan’s face. Grasping Lettice firmly by the arm, I pulled her away from the door.

“He’s sleeping now. Let him rest. But if you’ve an hour to spare there’s a family that could do with your help.”

Still keeping a firm grip on her plump arm, I began to march her down the street. I might be able to divert Lettice for today, but she’d be back. I wondered just how long Joan would be able to keep that door shut against Mistress Lettice and the rest of the village.

o
UT
!”
I COMMANDED
. “Get out now, go on.” I sternly pointed at the open door of the refractory.

Leon, Shepherd Martha’s shaggy black hound, regarded me amiably as if he couldn’t possibly believe I was addressing him, and continued padding towards Shepherd Martha who was sitting at the long dining table. He flopped down in front of the fire, and rolled over at her feet in full expectation of having his belly rubbed.

Tutor Martha and Kitchen Martha exchanged grins. Both of them knew that the wretched hound took no notice of anyone except his mistress. “Couldn’t we let him stay?” Kitchen Martha pleaded. “You know the poor little thing starts howling if we shut him out.”

“As long as he doesn’t start licking his … Just don’t let the hound roam around the room,” I snapped.

Poor little thing
indeed! He was nearly as big as a donkey and just as obstinate. But there was no point in insisting Leon was put out. Trying to remove him would only delay us and I was impatient to get the regular council meeting of the Marthas over quickly tonight. There was barely an hour before the evening service and I wanted plenty of time to prepare myself to receive the child, Agatha, as our new beguine.

Healing Martha limped into the refractory, swaying under the weight of a basket. She carefully unpacked several phials of oil, placed
one on the table in front of each of us, and eased herself down onto the nearest stool.

“What you’ve got there?” Merchant Martha asked, striding in through the door. As always, she was the last to arrive.

“I call it lice oil, but I dare say I could find a grander name for it.” Healing Martha looked more weary than usual, her face drawn and blue eyes half closed as if she was ready to fall asleep where she sat.

I rose and poured some ale from the jug, handing a beaker to Healing Martha. She nodded her thanks and taking a long thirsty gulp from the beaker then waved it in the direction of the bottles. “Juniper berries and delphinium seeds crushed in oil to kill the lice, and a little rosemary too. Rosemary won’t kill the lice, but it will lift your spirits.”

“I assure you, Healing Martha, I certainly haven’t got lice,” I told her firmly.

But Healing Martha merely smiled in that irritating all-knowing way of hers. “Trust me, Servant Martha. That old woman we took into the infirmary this afternoon was crawling with them. I need to treat everyone who might have come into contact with her or her daughter; otherwise they’ll spread through the whole beguinage.”

A haggard-looking woman had brought her old mother to the beguinage gates begging us to take the old woman in. She said her mother’s wits had fled. The old woman repeatedly threw off all her clothes and was often found wandering the village naked. She mistook her grandchildren for her own brothers and sisters, long since dead, and tried to cook food for them in the middle of the night. The daughter was afraid to sleep in case the old woman burned the cottage down about them as they lay in bed.

I’d bent close to the daughter to speak about her mother out of the old woman’s hearing. And Healing Martha was right: If the mother had lice, the daughter would have them too. I knew what those cottages were like, everyone sleeping in the same bed or sharing the same blanket on the floor for warmth. I started to itch at the mere thought and before I knew it I was scratching and saw that the others were doing the same.

Healing Martha chuckled. “There, what did I tell you? You’ll need to rub yourself with the oil from head to toe and wash all the clothes
you were wearing too. Even if you haven’t got them, it will make you feel better.”

I tried to change the subject, so that I wouldn’t think about the itching. “With the old woman, how many have you in the infirmary now?”

“Seven and that’s nearly all the cots we have. We really must add another room to the infirmary to make space for more.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Merchant Martha already shaking her head.

Healing Martha had seen the gesture too. “There will be others brought to us, Merchant Martha, of that I’m sure, and if any beguines fall sick over winter, we’ll not have room enough to care for them.” She gestured to the oil. “If cots are crammed too close together lice won’t be the only things that will spread through the beguinage.”

“And where do you think the money is going to come from?” Merchant Martha asked tartly. “Even doing the work ourselves, materials still have to be paid for. A new infirmary is not the only thing we need; I’ve a list as long as a pickpocket’s arm.”

Tutor Martha’s earnest young face was creased with concern. “But if the wool fetches a good price this year at the Bartholomew Fair … I mean … we’ll surely be able to build the new room then. And thanks to Shepherd Martha’s good husbandry we shall have wool to sell come August. Many others in these parts won’t be so fortunate, so the wool is bound to fetch more than last year, isn’t it?”

Tutor Martha was always quick to give credit to the achievements of the other women, although I feared she praised the children far too much. It wasn’t good for them.

Shepherd Martha’s expression hovered somewhere between a grimace and a bashful smile. She hated attention to be drawn to herself; in fact, I think she’d have been much happier if she could have spent her life entirely with her animals and never had to deal with people.

But we did have to be grateful to Shepherd Martha. The pasture that had looked so green and lush after the winter rains had deceived us all. The hungry sheep driven onto it rapidly sickened and died of foot rot and the fluke. Shepherd Martha spotted the first signs early and wasted no time in getting our sheep to higher ground, though the
grass was poorer there. Thanks to God’s mercy and Shepherd Martha’s vigilance most of our ewes had escaped the sickness, but the Manor and the villagers stuck stubbornly to the richer pasture and they had paid a heavy price for it.

Merchant Martha clicked her tongue impatiently. “Even if we do get a good price for the wool and cloth, with last year’s harvest as bad as it was there’ll not be money to spare to add another room. Not if we insist on feeding every vagabond that comes begging at the gate.” She darted a fierce glance in my direction, as if I was the one enticing them to come.

Healing Martha patted Merchant Martha’s hand sympathetically. “I know, I know, old friend, but we can’t turn away the sick either, not when they are left helpless on our doorstep in the middle of the night, like that infant Gate Martha found just a week back. What would have happened to that little one if we hadn’t made room for him?”

At the mention of her name Gate Martha glanced up, though her hands still busied themselves with her spindle. She had found the child abandoned on our threshold at dawn, skeletally thin, but with a great swollen belly, his face and hands covered in sores.

“Bairn’s not from Ulewic that’s for sure, no web on his hands. Peddlers’ brat I reckon. They’ll not be back for it.” Gate Martha spat on her thumb and finger to wet them as she twisted the yarn. “Seems to me Healing Martha’s talking a good deal of sense; we need more room.”

“The young girl, Agatha …” Tutor Martha began hesitantly. “Since her father Lord D’Acaster has consented to her coming here, perhaps we could ask him for money towards building …”

“As beguines we
ask
for nothing.” I reminded her sternly. “If God moves a man or women to offer us a gift of their own free will, then we may accept. And D’Acaster—”

Gate Martha broke in, shaking her head in disbelief. “If you’re waiting for that old pinchfist to offer money, you’ll be waiting till Judgement Day. He’d not give away so much as a raddled egg in charity, least of all to us. If new rooms are wanted, we’d best trust in Merchant Martha and her sharp tongue to slice a good fat profit from the merchants.”