The Owl Killers (6 page)

It had been more than seventy years since the founding of our beguinage in Bruges, and life in our community there was comfortable and established. Over a hundred women and their children lived within our walls. And we were not alone; cities of women were springing up all across Flanders and France, in Ghent, Antwerp, Leuven, Kortrijk, and Lier. Hundreds of women were spurning nunneries and husbands to live in the freedom of the beguinages where they could work for themselves, study, and write.

But when Lady Joan de Tatishale bequeathed land to us on the east coast of England, I knew without a breath of doubt that God was calling me to leave the security which others had created and do what those first beguines had done—build the hope of freedom for all women with my own hands from the very dust of the earth. We would be the first beguinage in England. And we would blow such a wind that would shake the very roots of that kingdom until every town and village in the land had its own city of women.

The Council of Marthas at Bruges invited any strong, skilled beguines who likewise felt the call to accompany me, but I had not dreamt that Healing Martha might count herself one of them. We all tried to dissuade her from making the arduous sea voyage, arguing that it was not safe for a woman of her age, though not even I dared mention infirmity in her hearing.

But she had fixed each of us in turn with her pale blue eyes. “Was Abraham younger than me when God called him out to a new land?” she demanded. “In a new land, a new beguinage, with a new infirmary to build and new beguines to teach, is there anyone among you who can tell me in all truth I am not needed there?”

And that was the end of the matter, although I sometimes wondered
if it was the call of God or of friendship that brought Healing Martha to England.

“Were you trying to drive out a demon tonight, Servant Martha?” Healing Martha glanced up at me, her eyes crinkled in amusement despite her fatigue. “I confess I’ve not heard our blessed Lord praised in such a vehement manner since you gave thanks for this miserable land the day we first laid eyes on it.”

“Was I so forceful back then?”

“The ears of the poor angels are still ringing from it,” she replied, chuckling.

We followed the last of the beguines out the chapel door and into the cobbled courtyard. The stars seemed unnaturally bright. The vast dark ocean above swarmed with them, as if they were gathering for some great debate.

A small knot of women huddled round the warmth of the brazier, talking in low voices of Gate Martha. Pega, a local beguine, frowned and shook her head at her close friend, Beatrice. I’d seldom seen Pega look so serious. She was a giant of a woman and was usually to be heard telling some bawdy joke or sharing the latest gossip from the village, roaring with laughter at another’s expense, but tonight even she seemed subdued.

“What is wrong with the women?” I asked Healing Martha. “Most nights they can scarcely keep their eyes open long enough to find their cots.”

“A day of licence, old friend. The women have done no work today to make them tired.”

“There’s no work done on feast days either, but that doesn’t breed this unease. Look at Pega; if I didn’t know better I’d say something had frightened her. Yet if you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have sworn nothing on earth could shake her.”

Healing Martha frowned. “Perhaps it is the fires.”

“The Beltane fires? Nonsense! Pega has no reason to fear them. The villagers drive their beasts between the fires to ward off sickness. Even their infants are passed over the flames to keep them from harm. It’s a pagan custom and Father Ulfrid should have put a stop to it long ago, as I will make a point of telling him when our paths next cross,
but there’s no malice in it surely? Pega comes from these parts and was more than likely passed over the fires herself as a child. I cannot believe that she’d be afraid of something so familiar.”

Healing Martha turned, wincing as she did so, and stared in the direction of the forest. For a moment, as the wind gusted, a bright orange glow appeared above the dark mass of trees. Black branches writhed against the flickering light. And then the darkness covered it again.

“I think it’s not the cleansing fires of the hilltops she fears,” Healing Martha said softly, “but that one—the fire which burns deep among the trees. That’s what keeps Pega and the others from their beds. There is malice and more in that fire, I’ll swear, though the villagers will not speak of it to outlanders.”

If truth be told, the villagers scarcely spoke to us at all these days. Their resentment at our presence in the valley seemed to be growing. When we went into Ulewic to take food or physic to the poor or sick, the villagers would pointedly turn their backs if we approached them. Those who accepted food did so furtively, whispering their thanks while glancing nervously over their shoulders as if they were terrified to be seen talking to us. Though I knew the Manor hated our beguinage and had tried to get rid of us from the first day we arrived, I prayed that in time we might win the villagers over. Still, it seemed as if matters were growing worse.

Healing Martha briskly patted my arm. “If you want a cure for the women’s fears, Servant Martha, I prescribe honest labour and innocent pleasure mixed in equal parts. The birch buds are finally beginning to open after all this bitter weather, and I know Kitchen Martha is longing to make her good birch wine and I am in great need of birch sap for the infirmary. I think we should start tapping tomorrow. Now go and scold the women to their beds, for I’ve yet to meet a living soul who is not more afraid of you than any night terrors.”

“I think you are mocking me.”

Healing Martha grinned. “It keeps you in humility.” She glanced again at the women around the brazier. “But I’d be grateful if you’d send Pega to me. I’m in need of her strong arm to help me to my cot and her hands to rub some ammoniac and turpentine oils on my poor back to warm it.”

“I’ll gladly rub your back for you.”

She threw her hands up in horror. “Have mercy on a poor old woman! Your fingers would flay the skin from my back; they’re rougher than a hog’s hide. Pega has the touch. And besides I think she’ll not mind sitting with me a while.”

I watched Pega help Healing Martha back to her room. I knew the real reason Healing Martha asked for assistance. She’d play the helpless old woman for Pega’s sake and Pega would confide her fears to her. Healing Martha had that gift. I could not make the women talk to me. I never could, not even in the Vineyard in Bruges, for even there I felt—how did Healing Martha put it?—an outlander.

w
E SEPARATED, ROLLING AWAY
from each other on the bed, and I lay there limply, feeling as if the very life force had been drained out of me. My groin continued to make small involuntary shudders, still thrusting, as if it had a will of its own. The sweat trickled down my chest and between my buttocks. Though the day had not been warm, it felt hot as Hell in the room, with all the shutters fastened.

It was dark, but I’d not dared to light a candle lest a chink of it should be seen through the cracks. Besides, we did not need light; we knew the shape and contours of each other’s bodies only too well. And I did not want to see the look of triumph on Hilary’s face. I had sworn it would not happen again. I had given my oath before God. But I could not help myself.

I shifted, suddenly aware of the sticky mess cooling between my thighs. I was overcome with revulsion. Feeling me stir, Hilary’s damp hand reached out towards me again, stroking up my leg, the fingers wriggling between my thighs, and up to my groin, stroking, touching, coaxing. I felt that urge growing stronger again, making me do what I did not want to. I almost surrendered to those soft fingers, as the
all-consuming fire arched up my spine. My legs were trembling, defying me, moving towards the hand, inviting the touch.

“No! Stop it.” I pushed Hilary’s hand away violently.

“Why? You wanted me to just now. What’s wrong with you? Why are you always so irritable afterwards?”

The whining childish petulance in the voice angered me still further. “I’m tired,” I snapped.

“But I’ve travelled all this way. You couldn’t keep away from me in Norwich and now we hardly get to see each other anymore. I’ve been thinking of nothing else but this for weeks.” Hilary’s hand slid coaxingly across my chest, teasing my nipples. “I know you want me as much as I want you, Ulfrido.”

“I said
enough!”
I sat up abruptly, pulling away from the prone body beside me. I swung myself off the bed. The rushes were cold and sharp against my bare feet. “You shouldn’t have come. I told you never to come again.”

Hilary laughed. “It seems to me it is you who have come.”

I leant across the bed and slapped hard against bare flesh, not sure where I struck and not caring either. My fingers stung from the blow.

There was a gasp, then another laugh in the darkness. “You want to play
that
game, do you?”

“Just go. Get out.”

The bed creaked as Hilary rolled over and sat up. “We can play priest and penitent, if that’s what you want. Shall I be the priest or shall you? Shall I punish you? Will that make you feel better? Will that make you clean again? Or will you beat me? Either way it won’t make any difference, you know. It won’t cure you …
Father.”
This last word, spat out, intended to wound more deeply than a blow ever could.

“Get out, you little whore,” I shouted. “Get out and leave me alone. I never want to see you again. I mean it this time.”

“You don’t mean it; you know you don’t. You’ve said it a hundred times before and each time you’ve come crawling back. You can’t help yourself. But you need to be careful, Ulfrido. One day you might say it and I’ll take you at your word.”

I lunged towards the bed. “You bitch, you—”

The door handle turned and the door rattled as someone shook it.
But it was locked and bolted. There was a loud hammering. I froze, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure it could be heard through the walls.

The banging came again, this time more urgently. “Father Ulfrid, come quick!”

I recognised the voice at once; it was old Lettice. If she’d seen Hilary come to my door, the news would be all round the village before dawn.

The sweat on my body suddenly turned cold. I was horribly aware that I was naked. I groped frantically about me for my clothes, but I couldn’t remember where Hilary had tossed them. I was too frightened to move in case in the dark I blundered into the furniture and knocked something over. Could Lettice have heard me shouting from outside the door?

The hammering came again. “It’s poor Ellen, Father Ulfrid, Giles’s mam; she’s fair lost her wits. Crying fit to cause the flood, but she’ll give no reason. Says she’ll tell only you, Father. Giles could calm her right enough, but he’ll be in the forest with the rest of the men and I daren’t go in there, not tonight of all nights. But you could fetch him, Father … Father Ulfrid?”

Neither Hilary nor I moved. We waited, hardly daring to breathe. Then finally, after what seemed like an hour, I heard footsteps moving away from the door, then passing the shuttered window, then silence. Even so, I didn’t dare move for several minutes, afraid that she’d still be standing in the street watching the cottage for signs of life.

“God’s blood, where are my clothes? I can’t find my fucking clothes. Where did you throw them?” I was on the floor now, groping round blindly in the dark.

I felt my priest’s habit thrust silently into my hands.

We both dressed rapidly, fumbling with fastenings and knots in the darkness. The desperate panic to be clothed again served only to increase the heat in the room; sweat was running down my face. My robes stuck to my body as I tried to pull them on. I couldn’t find my hose, so I thrust my bare feet into my shoes. Neither of us spoke. I knew Hilary was as terrified of being found here as I was of anyone discovering us together.

I crossed to the door and listened. Nothing. But we couldn’t afford to take any chances. I grabbed Hilary by the arm and we stumbled to
the rear door leading out to the yard. There was a small wicket gate at the back. The moon shone full on the glistening flagstones. I prayed that the shadows of the cottages would be enough to conceal Hilary from curious eyes.

As I turned back towards the house, I felt a swift hot kiss on my lips. Too late I turned, desperate to respond, but Hilary was already at the gate. I felt the loneliness burn more sharply, in that one kiss snatched away, than if the kiss had never been given. I knew I would go crawling back. I always did. I couldn’t help myself.

“I didn’t mean it,” I whispered urgently. “Forgive me, my angel. Please forgive me. I love you.” But the gate had already closed.

I returned to my empty room. The night’s breeze gusted into the cottage catching up the smell of us, the acrid sweat, the sweet-salt smell on stained bedclothes, the lingering trace of sandalwood from Hilary’s clothes. In the faint owl-light that filled the room from the open door, I thought I saw Hilary lying there still; the soft black curls of hair; the sloe black eyes dancing with mocking laughter; the full red mouth, open just enough to show the white teeth that bit upon my lip, sometimes gently, sometimes so fiercely I could taste the blood in my mouth.

This time it was me I slapped, hard, hitting my face over and over again to try to stop the awful ache that was stirring and swelling again in my groin, the demon I could not control.

Suddenly I hated Hilary, more than any man can hate anything, for making me plead, for making me into this creature I loathed and despised. I wished with all my heart that my dark angel had never been created, so that I would never have been tempted, never fallen, never sunk to this. I had never made love to anyone else, but even now, as I stood there at the foot of my empty ravaged bed, I knew that Hilary would soon be lying in the bed of another. I’d known it from the first. I’d known again and again every time we slept together that there were others, and there would always be others. The thought made me sick. I wanted to whip, to beat, to tear, to rape, over and over again, until Hilary screamed and begged me for mercy. And I would grant no mercy. I would go on until there was nothing left except a bloody pulp, but I knew even that would not be enough to kill my love.