The Owl Killers (56 page)

“If our words are to be paid so little heed, may I ask why you have troubled to bring us here?” I asked.

The mouth of the Commissarius curled in a slight smile without engaging his eyes.

“It takes but a feather to tip the scales of justice, Mistress. But that aside, His Excellency the Bishop wishes to know how far this poison has spread. Are we here to lance a boil, Mistress, or must we sever the whole limb?” He stared pointedly at Father Ulfrid, who gnawed his lip as if he feared the warning might be directed at him.

“The girl Agatha resides with you under your care and authority, does she not?”

“Osmanna is a beguine. She lives and works with us.”

“But
Agatha,”
he enunciated the name as if I was deaf, “obeys you and your rule.”

“Osmanna,”
I countered firmly, “obeys God and God’s rule. Beguines keep no rule but that which God Himself dictates to them.”

There was a whimper from the clerk beneath the dais and all eyes turned in his direction.

“Well?” The Commissarius spat out the word.

“I beg pardon, Sir, but what am I to write?”

“Write, boy? Scribe what is said, no more, no less; surely that is simple enough even for you a dolt like you.” He raised his eyes to Robert D’Acaster. “My own clerk fell sick with a fever, God damn him. So they saddled me with this numbskull.”

The hapless clerk half rose, sat again, then rose hastily once more. “But, Sir, I meant what name? Agatha or—”

“Agatha
, you blockhead, that is the name by which she was baptised. Now sit down and write, boy, before I kick your backside so hard you’ll be hopping like the frog-wit you are from now until Saint Stephen’s Fair.”

The crowd rocked with laughter. Phillip grinned and winked at Father Ulfrid, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

The Commissarius held his hand up for silence. He waited until he had full command of the room.

“Mistress, a man of good report has sworn on oath that the girl, Agatha, cast the Blessed Host of our Lord into the mud to be trampled by filthy swine. What say you to this?”

There was an exaggerated gasp of horror from the crowd, though it could not have been a new revelation to anyone, if it had already been testified.

“Commissarius, you yourself have told the court that we are excommunicated,” I replied. “Where would she have obtained the Host to desecrate? Has Father Ulfrid given it to her?”

Father Ulfrid leant forward and whispered rapidly in the Commissarius’s ear, who nodded before continuing.

“I am informed that a certain Franciscan friar was in the habit of bringing you the Host. An act which is against all the precepts of our Holy Mother Church as I’m sure you are aware, Mistress, and for which you were rightly excommunicated. Doubtless it is from the same source that the girl obtained the Blessed Host for her abominations.”

“Commissarius, Father Ulfrid himself has set watch for the Franciscan since he discovered the matter. Surely you cannot think that the friar slipped by so diligent a watch?”

The Commissarius glared at Father Ulfrid, who looked decidedly uncomfortable. Phillip D’Acaster smirked with satisfaction, clearly relishing the sight of the priest lost for words.

The Commissarius turned impatiently back to me. “Obviously, Father Ulfrid has not allowed the Franciscan to come nigh you since you were excommunicated.” He fired another angry look at Father Ulfrid as if this was far from obvious. “Nevertheless, Mistress—”

Robert D’Acaster staggered from his chair to the back of the dais and stood with his back to us. There was a loud hissing and splashing as he pissed copiously into a pot.

“Nevertheless, Mistress, I warrant—” the Commissarius began again.

But it was impossible to ignore the noise as the piss thundered into and over the pot, a stream of yellow liquid trickling down the side of it. He shook himself dry and groped back to his chair, waving a damp hand at the Commissarius to bid him continue.

“I warrant, Mistress, you kept a store of the Host that the Franciscan brought you, thinking to use it in God alone knows what wicked abominations.”

No one had mentioned that I had been consecrating the Host. Osmanna had clearly said nothing of it; I blessed the girl with all my heart for that. But I knew I must choose my next words carefully.

“The Host of our blessed Lord is as transient as the manna which fell from Heaven, Commissarius, and as subject to corruption.” I tried to keep my tone steady and calm. “How long do you think we could have kept it? Father Ulfrid himself will testify that Andrew’s Host is a miracle precisely because it has been preserved from corruption.”

Father Ulfrid studied the floor, desperately trying not to meet the furious gaze of the Commissarius.

Robert D’Acaster’s elbow slid off the arm of the chair and jerked him from his doze. He looked around him dazed, as if he couldn’t remember what he was doing there, then clicked his fingers vaguely in the direction of a beaker on a small table just out of reach of his slumped form. D’Acaster had not looked once at his daughter, nor she at him.

“I am growing tired of these games, Mistress.” The Commissarius raised his voice sharply. “Answer me plainly: Did Agatha take the Host of our blessed Lord and cast it before the swine?”

“I will tell you plainly: She did not.”

He turned to Father Ulfrid. “There is nothing to be learnt by questioning this woman. She is dismissed.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. If Beatrice kept to the same answers, they could prove nothing. We might all yet get out of this unscathed. But would Beatrice be able to control herself? I glanced over at her;
she was staring at rushes on the floor. I wasn’t sure if she’d even been listening.

I whispered, “Stay calm, Beatrice; think.”

The Commissarius frowned. “I gave you leave to depart, Mistress.”

“By your leave, I will stay.”

“As you please, Mistress.” His scowl deepened, then a slight smile flickered across his lips. “Yes, yes, perhaps you should stay, but you will keep silent.”

The Commissarius’s eyes flicked across to Beatrice. “Stand, Mistress.”

She didn’t move or even glance up.

“Mistress!”

I pushed her to her feet, but still she didn’t look at him.

“You are known as Beatrice, I believe.”

She gave the briefest of nods.

“Though doubtless that is not your God-given name, that is the name which shall be recorded, for my idiot clerk will most likely shit his breeches if we confuse his feeble brain with another.”

Laughter broke out again and again he raised his hand for silence. Beatrice stared fixedly at the dried head of a tansy flower drowning among the rushes on the floor.

“Now, my dear,” he said kindly. She glanced up at the sudden change of tone and he smiled. “There is no need to be afraid. All you have to do is speak the truth and all will be well. Do you understand?”

The leg of the man sitting beside me was trembling against mine, though whether from excitement, apprehension, or the palsy I couldn’t tell.

Beatrice nodded warily.

“Good, then let us begin. Agatha did not take the sacrament, did she?”

“No, she’s excommunicated … We all are.”

He nodded encouragingly. “And naturally she was distressed by this, by being denied the comforts of the Holy Church?”

“We … we all were.”

“Quite so. As any Christian soul would be.” He pressed the fingers of his hands together as if he was deep in thought. “But, tell me this, did Agatha seem more distressed than the others?”

Beatrice hesitated, glancing wildly at me. “Not more.”

“Not more distressed, Beatrice. Well, then, perhaps it was less?”

“No … not less.” Her voice was tremulous.

He bowed his head. “I stand corrected. Of course, you are right it was not less. In fact it was not at all. Agatha was not distressed at all, that is what you are saying, is it not, Beatrice?”

“I didn’t—”

“You see we have it on good report that Agatha declared that the sacraments are not necessary for salvation and that the Host is not transformed into the body of our blessed Lord in the hands of the priests, but remains common bread. Isn’t that right, Beatrice? Isn’t that what you told the villagers when they came to the gate? Don’t even think of denying it, Beatrice—a dozen men will swear by God’s hand that they heard you say it.”

t
HE FIRST DROP OF RAIN SLIPS SOFTLY
into the pond. Only the hermits and the madmen observe it, but they say nothing. Then another falls and another, little ripples spreading silently outwards, disturbing the smoothed reflections. We who live in this world do not have time to stand and stare at reflections. We do not notice them tremble. What is one more drop in so much water? Only when the drops begin to tumble fast and furiously do we see the rain falling through the air, feel it pricking our skin and wetting our clothes, but by then it is too late to seek shelter. Is that how the Great Flood of Ages began, with a single tear falling unnoticed and unmarked? If I had seen that first drop fall, would I have understood the danger? Could I have prevented all that we had worked for crashing down like this?

The Marthas crouched on their stools in the dark chapel, their heads bowed, their faces hidden in the shadows. No one moved. No one spoke. No one would even look at me. I sat as torpid as the rest. I
had exhausted my own words. What more could I say? How often could I recite the same story, the same defence?

A vicious wind had sprung up and now howled round the chapel. The shutters shook in the casements and the charcoal in the brazier spat. Only the inanimate had voice that night. We huddled deeper into our cloaks, like beggars in straw. It must have been nearly two hours past midnight. We were all tired and should have been in bed, yet I had no more strength to rouse them to it than they had to stir themselves to go.

“But there must be something we can do to help her. There
has
to be.” Kitchen Martha’s voice was thick with tears.

“I’ve told you,” I said wearily, “her fate lies in her hands now, Kitchen Martha. There’s nothing more we can do.”

“You said the Commissarius ordered us to surrender the miraculous Host to the Church within seven days; if we offered it to them now they might …” She looked up at me with the eyes of a beseeching child.

Under the flickering candle flames the gilt on the reliquary ebbed and flowed as if the box was dissolving away. I shook my head, not even bothering to reply. This matter had gone way beyond Andrew’s Host. Didn’t she understand anything I’d said? No bribe would rescue Osmanna, no miracle was needed, just two little words, but Osmanna would not utter them.

Merchant Martha spread her hands over the dying embers in the brazier. “The girl will see sense and recant, once she’s had time to reflect on the matter. If you speak to her firmly, I’m sure—”

“I
have
spoken to her,” I shouted.

Kitchen Martha’s face crumpled. I knew I shouldn’t lose my temper, but I was so weary I couldn’t bite back the anger. They all blamed me for this, but it was Osmanna’s stubbornness and Beatrice’s loose tongue that had brought this about.

“I’ve talked with Osmanna at great length,” I said, more softly. “But she has hardened her heart. And she has only two days left.”

“But she can’t mean to persist to the end,” Tutor Martha said. “Perhaps if I speak with her … that is, I don’t mean to imply, Servant Martha …”

I knew exactly what she meant to imply. “Pray continue, Tutor Martha, you may as well speak your mind. Everyone else has.”

“I only meant that perhaps it has become a matter of pride. You know how obstinate she can be when faced with anyone she regards as an authority. Perhaps if I or someone else …”

“You’re welcome to try, Tutor Martha, you or anyone else. I wouldn’t want it said that we did not attempt every means to bring her to reason.”

Tutor Martha nodded, looking much relieved.

“But you should take someone with you,” I cautioned. “There’s much hostility against us in the village. Remember what happened to the mute child.” Why bother to warn them? They wouldn’t take any notice.

“I’ll accompany you,” Merchant Martha announced firmly.

Tutor Martha swallowed hard and inclined her head. “I’m most grateful for your offer, Merchant Martha, but do you think … that is, I wonder if …”

“I believe what Tutor Martha is struggling to say,” I explained, “is that she thinks that, like me, you lack the skill of sweet coaxing.”

“I know exactly what Tutor Martha thinks of my tongue, Servant Martha, but if she’d had to deal with as many rogues and clodpolls as I have in my life, she’d soon learn to keep hers well sharpened. And just you think on this, Tutor Martha: Hunger’s a sharper edge than my tongue, as you’d soon know if I stopped using it to bargain for our food. Maybe if you’d been harder on the girl yourself and not flattered her into thinking she was clever, it wouldn’t have come to this.”

“Enough, enough, this is no time to turn on one another.” God grant me patience. I couldn’t endure another argument tonight.

“I ask your pardon.” Merchant Martha grimaced. “You’re right; a crabby old woman like me is not the best person to reason with her. I’d likely lose my patience and box her ears. I give you my word, Tutor Martha, not one word shall she hear from me, but I’ll go with you all the same, to drive the cart and keep an eye on you. I can smell the fart of trouble coming even before the maker lets rip.”

Tutor Martha smiled and extended her hand, gripping Merchant Martha’s for a moment or two.

“I’ll go too,” Shepherd Martha said. “At least the sheep have never complained about my tongue.”

“If that’s settled, you should all get some sleep,” I said hastily, seeing Kitchen Martha about to open her mouth again. “Leave the candles. I’ll pray here a while. Alone.”

They lumbered stiffly to the door and dragged it open. The wind rushed into the chapel, extinguishing half the candles and scattering the charcoal in a shower of sparks. The door banged shut behind them.

Whatever they said to her, I knew Osmanna would not recant. Something had happened in the church that afternoon, something that put her beyond fear. One minute she was a frightened little girl, willing to say anything, do anything to save herself; then, that look on her face which came from nowhere. What was it that made her change in an instant? It was as if a demon had entered her. I watched it happen repeatedly in my head, but I couldn’t make sense of it.