I walked round the cottage to make quite sure no one was still lurking in the shadows. Even in the darkness I could see the garden was wrecked, everything broken or trampled into the mud. I knocked on the door and stood shivering, listening for sounds on the other side. A chill wind had sprung up and in my haste I had not stopped to throw on a cloak.
“It’s Father Ulfrid, Joan, open the door. It’s safe, they’ve all gone.”
There was a long pause, followed by the sound of something heavy being dragged away from the door. Finally it opened a crack.
“I’m alone. Let me in, Joan.”
The door opened just wide enough for me to slip through, then it was slammed and bolted. Joan stood bundled up in her travelling clothes. Her two little sons and her daughter, Marion, were clinging to her skirts, their white frightened faces snotty and tearstained. Joan struggled to lift a heavy pack onto her shoulders.
“You’re surely not thinking of setting out on the road tonight, Joan?”
“Been warned, Father; best go tonight before… there’s more trouble.” Like Ralph, she couldn’t bear to look me in the eyes.
“I agree it’s not safe for you to stay here tonight, but come home with me, have a bite to eat and rest. The children must be famished.”
She shook her head firmly. “Thank you kindly, Father, but we’re going tonight. I’ve a cousin in Norwich. She’ll maybe take us in. It’s far enough away for them not to have heard about…” She trailed off, unable to say the word.
“But that’s miles away. A woman can’t travel in the dark by herself. There are all kinds of outlaws and madmen out there. God knows what they’d do to a woman alone. What about your brother in the village, won’t he take you in?”
“And have his family burned out as well? He’s not been near us since word got out and I don’t blame him for that. He’s his own bairns to think of.”
“Then you must come home with me. No one will dare to hurt you as long as you’re in my house. I promise I’ll help you get to Norwich. I’ll-”
“Like you helped my husband, Father? Did you keep Ralph safe? Did you?”
The boys cringed at the fury in their mother’s voice, clutching her legs and burying their faces in her skirts. Little Marion began to sob.
“Ralph was your friend, Father. He always defended you; no matter what was said about you in the village, he’d not believe it. And you… you paraded him in front of the whole village like a beast. You tied him up. You forced him to stand there in that grave while you threw earth at him. And you declared him dead, Father. A living man, my husband… and you said he was dead, in front of his friends, his neighbours, his family… in front of his own bairns. You told them their father was dead.”
For the first time that evening she looked at me, tears of hatred glittering in her eyes, but she dashed them away angrily.
If she had punched me in the stomach, I could not have felt the words harder. She had no right to blame me after all I’d done to try to protect her and Ralph. I’d known ever since that day I spilt the hot wax on his hand that Ralph had the dread disease. I’d tried to keep it hidden, but when that wretched gossip, Lettice, had barged her way in, there was no hiding it anymore. It was all round the village before I could recite a paternoster. If I’d failed to publicly pronounce him dead as the Church insists, the D’Acasters would have reported me to the Bishop. Phillip was just waiting for that chance. And Bishop Salmon had made it only too plain-if I failed in my duty in any way, this time the punishment would be worse, much worse.
“Joan, believe me, I didn’t want to do it. But I had no choice. I only did what the law demanded. If I hadn’t done it, another would have. The villagers might even have taken matters into their own hands. At least this way he’s safe.”
“No thanks to you,” she spat. “Those women who took him in may be outlanders, but they were more of a friend to him than you ever were. I’m not learned, Father. I can’t read, but I know what mercy is. Mercy is what those women have, no matter what’s said about them. That leader of theirs, she’s got more charity in her little finger than all you priests put together. Stay in your cottage? I’d rather get my throat cut on the road than sleep one more night in Ulewic.”
She seized the children and pulled them towards the door. On the doorstep she turned. “You know, Father. I hope that what they say about you and that nun is true after all, because then you’ll rot in Hell where all priests belong.”
She stepped into the darkness and was gone.
servant martha
i LOVED THE DAWN HOUR, the soft pale light on the rim of the world, whispering the start of a new day. The bell for Prime not yet rung; the beguinage was hushed, still wrapped in sleep. I knelt on the rushes, gazing up at the wooden crucifix nailed above my cot.
“Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth. Lord, send the fire of your spirit to rest upon all those who rise cold and hungry-”
There was a rapid knocking on the door of my room. Before I could rise, the door was flung open. Gate Martha burst into the room, breathless and agitated.
“Come quickly, Servant Martha, see what’s at the gate.”
“Who is it at this hour? Unless they are urgently in need of Healing Martha’s skills, they’ll have to wait. It’s almost Prime. Put them in the guest hall.”
She shook her head, and tugged my sleeve. “Please come, Servant Martha, quickly.”
Her fingers were trembling and I started to feel anxious myself. What on earth could have troubled her so? Gate Martha was a local woman, a widow, unable to read or write, but ideally fitted for the task to which God had called her for she was a stolid, practical soul, not easily given to fright. Something dreadful must have happened to alarm her.
I dared not delay to dress, but hastened after her across the empty courtyard clad only in my shift and cloak. She stopped before we reached the gate and pointed. Something was lying on the threshold. I moved closer. A dead barn owl lay crucified upon a willow hurdle, its wings stretched out across the frame. A sprig of dark, glossy ivy leaves was fastened in its beak and more were entwined in the wicker frame. The feathers and leaves trembled violently in the morning breeze.
Gate Martha hovered inside the gate as though the abomination might fly up into her face.
“Did you see who left this here?”
She shook her head, dumbly, still staring transfixed at the crucified bird.
“But you know?”
She nodded, and mouthed so faintly I could scarcely hear her, “The Owl Masters.”
“Why should they leave such a thing at the gate of the beguinage?”
She turned her face away and stared towards the infirmary. “You took the leper in. He’s dead to the village. No one must give him shelter. That… that bird is the Owl Masters’ curse.” She shuddered and raised her hand against her face as if to shield herself from the sorcery.
“The ivy leaf proclaims the holy trinity of God. How can that plant work against us who are His servants?”
“The old uns say ivy’s an evil omen,” she muttered sullenly. “It kills whatever it embraces.”
“But we do not believe in the old ways, do we, Gate Martha? Now, fetch me a faggot of very dry wood and a brand from the fire. And, Gate Martha-you will say nothing to the others. Not one word of this, do you understand? It signifies nothing. I will not have silly rumours spread to frighten the children.”
She nodded and I watched her hurry away, then I closed the gate behind her, scanning the bushes and trees beyond the path. Were they watching? Then let them. Did they really believe that we could be intimidated into casting Ralph out? They did not have the measure of me.
Gate Martha returned. She opened the gate a crack and thrust out a torch and sticks. “I kindled the flames from the eternal light in the chapel.”
“You could have taken it from the cooking fire; it would have burnt just the same,” I snapped, exasperated at her fear, but all the same I clutched the brand more tightly, thankful for what she had done. “Go inside and shut the gate. Don’t let anyone open it until I return. And don’t ring the bell to waken them for Prime until I say so.”
I struggled to drag the frame away from the gate. It was heavier than it looked, but I managed to pull it off the path and into a patch of rank weeds. I piled the dry wood over it, then set the torch to it. The feathers caught instantly, shrivelling and flashing into a cloud of acrid smoke, then came the smell of burning bird flesh.
Billows of blue smoke rose into the air, blown into spirals by the gusting wind. Beyond the trees other columns of smoke from cooking fires in the distant village rose into the pale pink morning. The world was waking. Far away the church bell rang for Prime. Our bell would ring late that morning. I would offer no explanation.
The willow frame snapped and crackled as the flames dried it. A twist of ivy uncurled and snaked across the grass in the fire’s heat, smouldering, but not burning. Ivy does not burn.
august
patron saint of tanners because he was flayed alive before being beheaded.
