The Owl Killers (34 page)

“If you’ve a message you should knock on the door,” I snapped. I was the parish priest, for God’s sake. Did they think they could just wander in and out of my house, as if I was a common serf?

“Did,” he said without removing the twig. “You never answered.”

“That means I wasn’t to be disturbed.”

People had been banging on my door all day, especially that old gossip Lettice, but I couldn’t face anyone. I still felt sick when I thought about All Hallows’ night and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I’d made excuses to myself. That straw effigy they burned on the fire had been stuffed with henbane. I’d recognised the foul lingering stench in the embers of the fire the next morning. Henbane befuddles anyone who breathes the smoke and sends them into a stupor. It’s been known to drive men mad. I’d been drugged, robbed of my senses, so how could I have fought that demon?

But deep down I knew that, drugged or sober, I would not have had the guts to stand against that monster. Even when I was confronting old Gwenith, I had not been able to summon up the holy words to protect myself from her, and witch though she undoubtedly was, she was a mere mortal.

William was still watching me with a grin on his face. Had the brat heard that I’d run away and come to gloat?

“What do you want, boy?” I growled.

“Heard something, thought you might want to know, ’bout the house of women. They’ve got a relic in there, that saved ’em from the black bane.”

“Whose relic?” I demanded.

“A woman. Ann … no, a man’s name … Andrew, that were it. She was dying and she puked up the Host. The women tried to burn it, ’cept it wouldn’t burn. It was a miracle, they reckon.”

“Who told you this, William?”

“My sister, that’s who. She didn’t want to, but I said if she told me a secret, I’d not tell Mam about the beans. Father says girls and women have always got secrets.” He grinned again. “It’s true, ’cause my sister says those women are keeping that relic a secret.”

A relic in this dung heap, was it possible? If it really was a miracle, then no wonder the women in the beguinage were keeping quiet about it. They knew they had no right to keep it there. Any pieces of the sacred Host, miraculous or not, had to be stored in a consecrated place, in a church or a monastery. Those women were not even nuns; they shouldn’t be touching Christ’s body, never mind keeping it among their pots and pans. If the Bishop got to hear of it, he would insist that it was removed to Norwich at once.

But how had the anchorite Andrew come to vomit the Host on her deathbed? I was not called to give her the Last Rites. Had they summoned a priest from another parish? If so, he had pocketed the scot that should have come to St. Michael’s. The insult to me as a priest was bad enough, but I needed every penny of the scots and tithes I could raise. Somehow I had to get money to redeem the silver. And now, as if things weren’t desperate enough, I learned that another priest was stealing from me. Was this the only scot he’d deprived me of? How many more of my souls had he shriven or infants baptised?

William was watching me slyly. “Reckon that secret’s worth something, isn’t it, Father?” He thrust out a grubby hand.

“What?” I’d forgotten the boy was still there. “Come inside, I’ll find you something.” I said it without thinking; then with a sinking feeling I realised there probably wasn’t a coin in the house to pay him with.

“No, wait. There’s something else I want you to find out. Who brought the Host to the house of women? Can you discover that?”

He looked scornful. “Course I can. But what’s it worth?”

“Bring me that information and I’ll pay you double.”

William narrowed his eyes like a shrewd old peddler, calculating a profit. “Pay me for today first.” He pushed his way past me into the cottage, as if to make it quite clear he wasn’t going away until he got his money. He was learning fast. How could I blame the boy, when it seemed even my brother priests couldn’t be trusted?

w
HEN THE JUDGEMENT OF GOD
rides out upon the land, it befits every human soul to fall to his knees and pray that he might be spared. Yet even when the seasons were turned upon their heels and the cattle lay dead in the pasture, men fled not to God for help, but to the evil that had brought them to this pass.

The villagers who crept to our gate seeking food and medicines were bringing that evil with them and poisoning the beguinage with their gossip. A demon they called the Owlman had been seen by a pair of foolish young girls, who ran to the Manor screaming that they had been attacked by some monstrous bird. It was nonsense, of course. The girls had probably returned late having been wanton with some village lads and concocted the tale to escape a well-deserved whipping.

But however often I warned the women not to listen to such talk, it blew through our halls and I could no more hold it back than I could silence the wind. I redoubled my efforts to strengthen our little band, urging them to cloak themselves with the love of our Lord. I assured them even if such a hellish beast did exist, which it most assuredly did not, God would defend us if we were faithful to Him.

But whatever madness was raging in the village, I drew comfort from the thought that Andrew’s relic lay in our chapel and her prayers were shielding us. Shepherd Martha had lovingly carved a wooden casket to house the miraculous Host and Dairy Martha had made sketches of the scenes she would paint to decorate the box. The painting on one side of the box would depict Andrew’s birth, over which an angel hovered protectively. Another would show Andrew kneeling in prayer in her anchorite’s cell, with throngs of people stretching beseeching hands towards her. But the last would be of the miraculous Host itself blazing gold in the midst of the roaring fire, as beguines knelt before it.

The beguines filed past the reliquary every day, touching it reverently, and including Andrew in the saints they called upon to aid
them. They were convinced that our beasts had been spared the murrain because Andrew’s Host was protecting the beguinage, for had not the Host been given to us just days before the murrain broke out? They said God had forewarned Andrew of the impending disaster and it was for that very reason Andrew had given up her spirit in order that she might leave us the Host to protect us. I had not told them that, but neither had I contradicted the story. I had come to believe as much myself. In those uncertain times we needed to believe that we are protected.

Beatrice came hurrying across the courtyard. “Servant Martha, wait!” She bent over, her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. “There is a young girl outside the beguinage. She is dumb, but she is plainly distressed and is making signs that she wants me to go with her but—”

“Where does she wish you to go?” I asked.

“How should I know?” Beatrice snapped. “Haven’t I just said the girl can only make signs?”

I raised my eyebrows at her tone.

“The child points to the hill,” Beatrice said, more quietly. “She lives … Pega says she lives up there alone with her grandmother, a woman they call old Gwenith. I think something may be amiss. Maybe her grandmother has had an accident or is sick.”

“You know this girl well?”

Beatrice flushed a dull red. “I’ve … I’ve seen her, Servant Martha … from a distance, that’s all. I’ve never spoken to her.”

“I wonder why she came to you then.”

Beatrice’s expression was unmistakably one of guilt, like a naughty child who had been discovered in some act of disobedience. I stared at her curiously, but I could think of no possible reason why she should feel guilty that the child had approached her.

“No doubt she saw the compassion of Christian charity in your face and the instinct God gives to all his dumb creatures told her you would not hurt her,” I said. “I’m glad of it. We’ll go at once. Fetch Healing Martha and get Catherine to help you bring a bier from the infirmary. If this Gwenith is lying hurt somewhere we may have to move her. I will meet you at the beguinage gate.”

“No, you don’t need to come. Catherine and I can manage,” Beatrice said hastily.

The idea of my coming appeared to agitate her. But she must surely realise I’d hardly trust her with the decision about whether or not to bring this woman back to the beguinage. And what if this Gwenith was dead? Clearly Beatrice had not even contemplated that possibility. I could hardly imagine that she was equal to dealing with that.

“I rather think I do need to come, Beatrice. In fact, I am sure of it.”

w
HAT ON EARTH HAD POSSESSED ME
to involve Servant Martha? I should have gone straight to Healing Martha to ask for a bier and some herbs, but she would probably only have sent for Servant Martha anyway. She’d keep secrets for that murdering little whore, Osmanna, but not for me.

The moment Servant Martha asked me if I knew the girl, I realised I’d made a stupid mistake. I saw again the little pink tongue flashing in and out, like a viper in the shadows. The innocence of her naked body, the trembling butterflies on her flushed skin, her flame-bright hair. I’d felt my face burn and glanced away, unable to meet Servant Martha’s piecing stare.

But now that we were toiling up the hill, I kept thinking of old Gwenith. The girl could say nothing, but the old woman was bound to remember I’d been there before. What would she say in front of Servant Martha? I tried to remind myself I’d committed no sin, but Servant Martha would twist it into some sort of transgression. She could always use her clever tongue to tie you in knots and make you feel ashamed and useless even when you had done nothing wrong.

Gudrun bounded up the path ahead of us, her bare feet so light and sure on the rocks, she scarcely seemed to touch them at all. Every so often she’d stop and wait, but as soon as we were nearly caught up with her, she’d skip off again, leaving us breathless in her wake. Servant
Martha kept turning back to help Healing Martha over the rocks. It was one of her better days and Healing Martha was determined to struggle up herself, but in the end she was forced to let Servant Martha help her with a strong arm about her back.

Walking at Healing Martha’s slow pace, the way seemed twice as long as it did the first time I had climbed it, but finally we stood on the flat wiry grass beneath the rocks and I saw again the thornbush hung with faded rags, locks of hair, and amulets, and beyond that Gwenith’s cottage. Gudrun pointed to the cottage and then ran off and disappeared behind a rock before we could stop her. Servant Martha led the way inside.

The meanest of creatures has a burrow in the earth or a hole in a tree that provides some shelter against rain and cold, but this poor creature’s hovel didn’t furnish even that scrap of comfort. I had last seen this place when the sun was shining and thought it miserable enough then, but, dear God, to see it now in the winter, to have nothing but this to shelter you from the snow and rain and biting winds. However had she lived so long?

Green pools of stagnant water lay in every hollow in the earth floor. Globs of glistening slime crawled over the stones and crept through the dripping wattle. Old Gwenith lay huddled on a scattering of mouldy straw. The reek of stale piss that hung about her was strong enough to make your eyes water. Her face was as grey as the rags that covered her and her fingers, clawed over her chest, were so thin, they looked as if they’d snap if you touched them.

I stared aghast at her legs. Her skirts were burnt away, as if she’d stood in a fire. Patches of charred cloth still hung in rags, but beneath them her bare legs were blistered and weeping. Angry wounds stood out red and sulphurous against the blackened flesh. Healing Martha, holding my arm for support, knelt stiffly in the dirt beside the old woman and gently took one of Gwenith’s frail wrists in her hand. She bent closer, impervious to the stench, then straightened.

“She must have stood too close to her hearth fire and caught her kirtle in the flames. There’s still a thread of life in her, though it’s so weak her next breath might well be her last. She must be taken to the infirmary. I cannot care for her here.”

“Can you save her?” Servant Martha asked quietly.

Healing Martha shook her head. “If she were younger, I might be able to heal those wounds, but she is not dying of the burns alone. Old age has caught up with her. There’s no herb on earth can undo what time has done, but I can at least lay some soft blankets under those poor old bones and make her warm. She deserves to die in some comfort, for I fear she’s had precious little of it in her life.”

Servant Martha nodded and motioned me to take Gwenith’s feet while she slipped her hands under her shoulders. The old woman was as light as a sack of dried chicken bones. I could have easily gathered her up in my arms and carried her out myself. She whimpered in pain as we laid her down on the bier outside. Servant Martha tucked a thick blanket around her and told Catherine to help me to bind ropes across the fragile body to keep her from falling as we carried her down the hill. But Catherine was too afraid to touch the old woman. She stood helplessly twisting her fingers, until Servant Martha impatiently thrust her aside and helped me with the ropes herself.

We were so engrossed in tending to the old woman that none of us noticed Gudrun creeping up from behind. Without warning the mute sprang onto Servant Martha’s back. Servant Martha was caught off balance and sprawled facedown on the ground, while the girl bit her and tore her clothes. Servant Martha twisted and wriggled, trying to shake her off, but she couldn’t get a grip on the girl on top of her.

“Don’t just stand there, Beatrice; loosen her grasp.”

I tried to prise the girl’s fingers loose, but it wasn’t easy; she had the grip of a falcon. At last I managed to drag Gudrun away from Servant Martha. As Servant Martha struggled to her feet, panting, she grabbed Gudrun’s arms, holding her from behind. The witch-girl spat and writhed, but she couldn’t get out of Servant Martha’s grip. Finally she stopped struggling, and began to weep silently, a look of sheer desperation on her pale little face.

“Control yourself, child,” Servant Martha ordered. “Your grandmother is dying and she should at least die in a warm, dry bed, with the consolation of Christ to aid her passing. If she can be brought to her senses enough to unburden her soul and make a good confession, then God will yet show her mercy.”