The Owl Killers (41 page)

Healing Martha was very dear to me, but she did have some decidedly infuriating habits, not the least of them making blithe and inconsequential remarks when she knew I was waiting to hear what was clearly occupying her mind. It was always a sign that she disapproved of a decision I had taken.

“Our Lord commands us to bury the dead.” I was annoyed. I shouldn’t have to justify myself to her of all people. “We cannot allow a body of an innocent baby to be thrown on a dung heap. We can’t force open the gates of Heaven to receive the soul of an unbaptised child, but we can at least preserve it from the Evil One until the Day of Judgement.”

Healing Martha lifted her head and watched a flock of seagulls being tossed and buffeted by the wind. “Gulls flying inland. It means there’s a storm brewing out at sea.”

“I’m not interested in the wretched gulls. Just tell me why we should not bury this child?”

Healing Martha stopped and looked up at me. “Why was the woman so insistent that you must meet her, when any beguine might collect the child? And suppose her husband asks what she’s done with the corpse or she whispers the matter to a friend? It could be all round the village in hours. Have you thought what it would mean if this reaches the ears of Father Ulfrid? We are already excommunicated. If he learns of this, he will be furious. There is no knowing what he might do.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but Healing Martha held up her hand. “Yes, I know what you’re going to say: We have no choice. Our duty is to obey God, even if it means disobeying the Church. Forgive me, old friend, but aching bones and this irritating wind sometimes
make us ancient ones long for a day or two of peace.” She sighed. “There are times when I wish the spiritual life was not quite such an adventurous one.”

“But you agree we must bury the baby here.”

Healing Martha smiled wearily. “I’ve known you long enough to know that nothing I or anyone else said would stop you doing what you were convinced was right. You are as stubborn as old Saint Thomas himself.”

“Then … will you go with me tonight?”

“You know full well I wouldn’t let you go alone even if you were going to lay siege to the gates of Hell itself.” She chuckled and patted my arm. “Someone has to carry the bandages.”

i
T WAS AN EVIL NIGHT
to be abroad. We pulled our cloaks low over our faces and led our horses quietly out through the gate. I informed Gate Martha that we were going to perform an act of charity.

“In the dark, in this wild weather?” she asked, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Our Lord said, ‘When you give alms let not your left hand know what your right hand does.’”

Gate Martha sniffed, clearly affronted that I would not tell her more.

I helped Healing Martha to mount her palfrey sidesaddle. I could tell from the way she held herself, and the groan that escaped her, that her back was paining her even more than usual. There had been a steady procession of village women coming to the infirmary all day seeking healing for themselves or their families. They brought children with sores that would not heal or bellies grossly distended with worms from grubbing in the dirt for scraps of food. They came for potions for elderly parents who were wheezing and coughing. Healing
Martha had tended to each one and she was exhausted. But I knew she would insist on accompanying me even if I expressly forbade her. Healing Martha had the gall to call me stubborn, but I’d never met such an obstinate woman as she.

The wind tore at our clothes and sent the horses skipping sideways as the animals tried to turn their faces from the blowing dust and grit. Above us the trees creaked and mewled, their branches tossed about like twigs. Clouds, thick as winter fleeces, hid the moon. Our small lantern scarcely penetrated the darkness for more than a hand’s space before us.

Fearful that we were being watched I peered this way and that into the blackness. The bushes were swaying and rustling so violently that even if someone was creeping through them, it was impossible to distinguish the noise from the sound of the wind. I’d be thankful when we’d collected the baby’s body and we were safely on our way back. The road through the forest offered too many hiding places for cut-purses and outlaws on such a dark night. I held the lantern low and half muffled with my cloak lest its moving light be seen.

We tethered the horses under the cover of the trees, out of sight of the road. Healing Martha called out a soft warning to Aldith of our approach, but there was no sign of the woman. She was probably hiding by the fallen tree, afraid to show herself until she was sure it was us.

“This way, I think.” Healing Martha tugged at my sleeve.

We threaded our way through the trees. I raised the lantern, trying to see if the fallen tree was in sight, and sprawled headlong over a tree root.

Healing Martha rushed to help me up. “Have you hurt yourself?”

“Nothing broken.”

I’d skinned the palm of my hand. I pressed it tightly under my armpit to stop it stinging. Why on earth had I agreed to meet Aldith here? An open field would have been cover enough in the darkness.

Healing Martha clutched at my arm and pointed to a great fallen oak, half its roots still clinging to the soil, the rest clawing upwards at the sky. But Aldith was nowhere to be seen. Healing Martha called out softly while I swept the lantern around, trying to peer deeper
into the copse. Tree trunks loomed towards us, pale in the guttering flame. Swaying branches sent shadows scurrying into darkness, but none was human enough to be the woman.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“Patience, Servant Martha, she’ll come soon. She’ll be as anxious as us to be abed before the dancing ends.”

The ground was dry enough to sit on and at least we had the tree trunk to provide some shelter from this wind. I closed my eyes, listening to the swish and creak of the branches above us. The pungent breath of wild onion curled about our feet. There was nothing to do but wait. Above the moaning of the wind, a deep rumble of thunder echoed a long way off. The trees shivered.

“She’d better come soon, Healing Martha. There’s a storm gathering and it will drive the dancers from the forest as soon as it breaks. I’ve no wish to be abroad with our burden then.”

“I’ve no wish to be abroad in a storm at all, old friend. My ancient bones do not take kindly to a wetting and I’ve a hankering to be warming them at my own fireside before this night is much older.” She winced in pain, trying to ease herself into a more comfortable position, though she tried to muffle the cry.

I was angry with myself for dragging her out on a night like this. At her age Healing Martha could easily take a chill. And with an infirmary full of patients, how would we manage if she had to take to her bed for a week?

“I should have brought Osmanna with me, instead of subjecting you to this,” I said. “She’s young and fit and I trust her to keep her counsel. But for some reason she always seems to find some excuse not to go into the woods. I overheard Beatrice complaining the other day that Osmanna doesn’t want to be seen by the villagers performing such menial tasks as gathering tinder or fetching herbs.”

“Beatrice has resented the child ever since …” Healing Martha hesitated. “Let us just say Beatrice has her own sorrows, which make it hard for her to understand Osmanna. But you and I both know that Osmanna is not proud. She will willingly clean up the foulest mess in the infirmary and doesn’t care who sees her do it. It’s fear, not pride, that keeps her out of the forest.”

“Of what?” I asked impatiently. “She made excuses not to go into the forest even before rumours of the Owlman began. Perhaps she heard too many stories in her childhood.”

In the darkness I could hear Healing Martha chuckling. “Pega might think that boggarts and goblins lurk beneath every sod and bush, but somehow I can’t believe that of our sceptical Osmanna.”

“Sceptical! Believe me, Healing Martha, that girl gives a new definition to the word. She questions everything and accepts nothing without ‘whys.’ She’s impossible to school, for she’ll not be led in any direction unless she’s already made up her own mind to go there. Now she is refusing to take the …” I lowered my voice to a whisper, “refusing to come forward at Mass. She says something she has read has caused her to question if the sacraments are really necessary at all. Can you believe that a child would question what lies at the very heart of our faith?”

“But some might say that very fault in a pupil is a virtue in a leader, don’t you think, old friend? I seem to remember a young beguine in Flanders who was accused of much the same fault, always questioning, always testing everything for herself. I hear that beguine is now the Servant Martha in England and is still asking questions.”

It was too dark to see Healing Martha’s face, but I could hear the teasing in her voice. “I can assure you that Osmanna and I are not remotely alike. I learned meekness and obedience at a very young age, and I learned when to speak and when to be silent in the presence of those who are older and more experienced. Two lessons Osmanna has yet to master.”

A white flash suddenly ripped the sky, penetrating even through the dense thatch of branches. Silence was followed by a long low rumble of thunder. The storm was drawing closer.

“We can’t wait any longer, Healing Martha. I fear Aldith isn’t coming. It may be that a neighbour came to sit with her or her husband didn’t go to the forest after all. Let’s leave before the storm breaks.”

Healing Martha rocked sideways, putting her hand out to lever herself up. She gave a half-stifled scream.

“What’s wrong, Healing Martha? Is it your back?”

Healing Martha clambered awkwardly to her feet and, snatching
the lantern from my hand, she directed its light towards the base of the tree trunk. In the flickering flame of the lantern, I glimpsed something pale, half hidden by a clump of dead cow parsley. It was a human hand.

Healing Martha lifted up the lantern. There, in the hollow beneath the ripped up roots, lay a woman’s body. Her arms were flung above her head, her legs twisted beneath her. Her belly was slashed open. The dark bloody mess of her guts had been dragged out onto the fallen leaves and torn to pieces as if some great animal or bird of prey had been feasting on her.

Healing Martha clapped her hand to her mouth in horror. I fell to my knees and vomited. I heaved and heaved until my stomach was empty, but even then I was still retching. I felt Healing Martha’s hand gripping my shoulder hard, though whether it was to comfort me or steady herself I didn’t know.

“Is it … is it Aldith?” I asked.

The light trembled as Healing Martha turned the lantern on the woman’s face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was agape as if she had died in the very act of screaming. But despite the distortion the face was unmistakably that of the wretched woman who had that very morning clung to me, begging me to bury her child.

Another flash of lightning cracked the sky and in the instant of blinding whiteness the dead woman’s eyes opened wide and stared at me. My scream was lost in the crack of thunder. The clouds burst and an icy torrent of rain beat down upon us. The wind grappled for my cloak as the branches clashed together above us.

“We must get away from here,” Healing Martha urged. “Take the lantern.”

The shadows around us fought and roared. I heard her, but I couldn’t move, gripped by a nameless fear.

She lifted the lantern higher, shining it onto my face. “Come, Servant Martha, we must go and quickly! Whatever did that to her may still be here.”

“But the baby … We have to find it …” I stumbled around, groping among the dead vegetation, but I felt my arm gripped hard.

“Servant Martha, you must listen to me. We will come back and
look in the morning, but now we must go.” Healing Martha thrust the lantern into my hand. She forced her arm into mine and tugged me forward. My legs staggered a few steps by themselves, as if they were no longer connected to my body. I slipped on the wet earth and my shoulder banged hard against a tree.

As if the pain had wakened me, I was seized by a frenzy to escape from the trees. Now I was pulling Healing Martha forward, holding her close against me. Someone was yelling “Hurry, hurry!” but I didn’t know if it was me or Healing Martha. I sensed something behind us; something was gathering out of the shadows, but I dared not turn round.

We were almost at the road. The horses reared, jerking their reins and rolling their eyes, as the lightning streaked down. Rain was streaming over their flanks. It was a miracle they hadn’t already broken loose and bolted. I tried to calm them, but they shied at each new crack of lightning. I heaved Healing Martha onto her horse, then I scrambled up onto my own beast and dug my heels into the trembling animal’s sides.

The icy rain stung my eyes, blinding me, but I urged my horse forward trusting that he could see the road where I could not. I knew it was reckless to force him to the canter, but I had to get back to the beguinage. Nothing else mattered except to be inside with the gate safely bolted. The trees moaned and shrieked, writhing in a frenzy of wind. I couldn’t see Healing Martha ahead of me. I tried to call out, but my words were snatched away by the storm. I turned in the saddle. There was no sign of her on the road behind. She had to be ahead, already beyond the bend of the path. My horse skittered sideways, slithering in the mud.

A flash of lightning lit up the road. In that instant of dazzling light, giant trees seemed to lumber towards me as if loosed from their roots. My horse shied and twisted. Then the flash was gone and I could see nothing. For a moment I thought I had been struck blind, but it was the lantern that had been extinguished, not my sight. It lay somewhere in the streaming mud. Now, I’d not the merest glimmer of light to guide me. I didn’t even know if I was riding in the right direction anymore. A branch slashed across my face and gasping at the
unexpected pain, I ducked low, kicking the flank of my reluctant horse, hoping against all reason that the poor beast could find the road when I could not.

Another lightning flash and suddenly I saw something hovering above me. It was huge, bigger than a bull. It had the head of a bird of prey, with a black hooked beak, as long as a man’s hand. Huge round eyes blazed unblinking out of the feathered face, the deep black pupils ringed with red flame. The creature was staring straight at me. But it wasn’t a bird. It couldn’t be a bird. … Between its great wings, the broad chest was covered not with feathers, but bare wet skin that glistened bone-white.