Had the girl saved me that night or had she been the cause of the horses rearing? I knew in my heart that I had made no effort since that night to keep her safe inside our walls; was it because I was afraid of her and wanted her to run off? I owed it to the girl to bring her body home, however much I shrank from the task. It would be my penance.
But there would need to be at least two of us to dig her up and lift her out of the grave. They’d doubtless buried her as deep as they could dig. We’d also need two people to keep watch on the approaches to the crossroads, to give us warning in case any should see us and try to prevent us taking the body, or worse still, try to seize us and torture us as they did to poor little Gudrun.
We’d have to go at dusk with just enough light left to see the place without needing torches or lanterns. On the open road, the flames of a torch or even a lantern would attract attention from miles away. We’d have to take a cart to carry the body back and something to cover the girl’s nakedness, for it seemed unlikely they had covered her in a shroud or winding sheet before they dumped her in the grave.
The question was who to take? Certainly not Beatrice-I couldn’t trust her, especially if we discovered the body had been mutilated or dismembered, as was often the custom with any corpse people feared might walk. Pega, of course; she had no fear of the villagers. Shepherd Martha, she was another with brawn. Between the two of them they’d dig the body up in no time and we didn’t want to linger longer than we had to.
Who else? Osmanna? She’d make a useful lookout and if I showed her that I put my trust in her perhaps it would make her more willing to do what I had asked of her at Mass. Besides, the sight of Gudrun’s body might be no bad thing. It would bring home the dangers of the path Osmanna was treading far more effectively than mere words. I would tell-
There was a frantic hammering on the door of my room and before I could answer, Gate Martha burst in.
“There’s villagers at the gate, a crowd of them.”
Her hand darted back and forth as if she would like to grab me and pull me out to the gate with her, but I’d no intention of flying out at every alarm.
“If they’ve brought more of their sick, have them taken into the pilgrims’ room with the others. If there isn’t enough room-”
“They’ve not brought their sick.”
“What is it then? Food? Is that what they’ve come for?”
Gate Martha bit her lip. “The Blessed Host of Andrew.”
“We have already explained to them when they brought their children that we do not know that the relic has healing powers. But tell them I will bring it out and they may touch it and light a candle for healing.”
“They’ll not be content this time with touching it. They say the fever passes over us because we’ve Andrew’s Host in our chapel. They want to take it back to their church and keep it there to protect the village. They say…”
She hesitated, then gabbled as if reciting something learned by rote, “God continues to punish them with the fever because the miraculous Host has been left in the sinful hands of those who’ve been excommunicated. Servant Martha, we must give it to them. They’re saying they’ll take it by force if we do not.”
“They’ll do no such thing, not while I live and breathe. I see Father Ulfrid’s hand in this and I intend to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. Come along.”
I strode out into the courtyard. Gate Martha hurried along in my wake. The gate was wide open and a throng of people jostled on the threshold, mostly men but there were a few women among them. Two of the men had even pushed their way inside.
“Why didn’t you lock the gate and make them wait outside?”
Gate Martha made some vague gesture towards the crowd. “Too many of them. They pushed against it and wouldn’t let me shut it.”
“Then why open it in the first place?”
“Said they’d sick, Servant Martha, and I thought…”
I would have words with her later about what she thought.
A little knot of beguines huddled to one side of the gate. They seemed unwilling or unable to do anything, but Osmanna stood with her back to me directly in front of the men. She appeared to be remonstrating with them, though I couldn’t make out what she was saying above the mutterings of the crowd. Whatever the girl’s faults, at least she’d the mettle to challenge them. Courage often walks with stubbornness. But what she was saying was having little effect; the crowd was jeering. Suddenly Beatrice broke from the group of beguines and pushed her way in front of Osmanna, her fists clenched in fury.
“What are you asking Osmanna for?” she shrieked. “Don’t you know she doesn’t believe in the sacraments? She thinks the Host is no more holy than the crusts you throw to your pigs. She says faith is all you need to save you. So where are your Owl Masters? You’ve got faith aplenty in them, haven’t you? You don’t need a mouldy piece of bread.”
“Beatrice!” I grabbed her and tried to drag her back, but she jerked away from me, screaming at the men.
“Don’t you know the fever has gone? You sacrificed an innocent girl to stop it, so it must be so. If your children are still sick, go and ask your Owl Masters why. Go ask your priest. They murdered her. They promised you her death would rid you of the fever. Why come to us? Don’t you know we sent you the fever? Do you want us to send you something worse? Get out! Get out!”
Beatrice raised her right hand, the fingers spread like claws pointed towards them. For a moment they held their ground, then as one they turned and ran. She slammed the gate behind them and sagged against it, visibly shaking. Gate Martha hurried up and swung the beam across the gate.
The beguines clustered around Beatrice, stroking and soothing her, patting her, praising her for sending the villagers packing. They were all smiling and joking in their relief. It was hard to know whether Beatrice was laughing hysterically or crying.
The only one who didn’t move was Osmanna. She stood where Beatrice had pushed her. She was deathly white, her eyes wide with fear and shock. We stared at each other in silence. I knew she wanted me to reassure her, to tell her that no one would take any notice of what Beatrice had said. Her eyes were pleading with me to say that the villagers wouldn’t understand.
I knew what she wanted me to say, but I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t lie, not even to comfort her. I felt the blood draining from my own face. I turned away. Beatrice was still being congratulated and comforted. Had she any idea what mischief she had just done? There was no undoing her words. All we could do now was wait and pray.
january
ulfrid was an englishman who tried to convert the people of sweden by preaching against paganism. in 1028, after chopping up a statue of thor with an axe, he was lynched and his body thrown into a marsh.
tHE BISHOP’S COMMISSARIUS STOOD on a mounting block peering in through the single slit window of the village jail. Ulewic’s jail was not a large one, but then it didn’t need to be, for it contained no furniture. It consisted of nothing more than a round, reed-thatched room, built of stone, much the same size and shape as the Manor dovecote. At present it had only one occupant, although it could accommodate three or four men-six or eight, if they were forced to stand pressed together.
The jail boasted a stout wooden door and a narrow barred window set too high in the wall for a prisoner to see out or anyone to look in unless, like the Commissarius, they were standing on something. The bars on the window were unnecessary, for only a starving cat could have squeezed through the small gap between the thick stones, but its builders had taken no chances. No one would escape their stronghold.
The Commissarius’s expression betrayed nothing as he stared down into the cell. Though it was only mid-afternoon, the sky was grey and heavy, as if it was already twilight, and it must have been even darker inside the cell.
“We didn’t know when to expect you, Commissarius,” I said, still breathless from having run from my cottage. “If I’d known you were arriving today, I would have had the bailiff waiting here with the key. But I can send for him now if-”
“That will not be necessary. I have seen all I wish to see.” He sprang nimbly to the ground. “We are on our way to speak with Lord D’Acaster.” He beckoned to a thin round-shouldered youth who hunched miserably against the wall of the jail, blowing on his blue-knuckled hands. “Take the mounting block back to the inn, boy; I will speak to Father Ulfrid in private before we ride on to the Manor. You may bring our mounts to the church and wait for me there-outside!”
The lad nodded vigorously as if he wanted to leave no doubt that he would carry out the instructions to the letter. He started off in such haste that he stumbled over the wooden mounting block as he tried to pick it up.
The Commissarius booted him up the backside as he tried to get up, which sent the lad sprawling over the block again, but his master ignored the boy’s yelp of pain and, turning, strode away in the direction of the church.
I had waited for this moment for days. I’d hardly been able to sleep or eat, thinking about it. It was as if the heavens had opened and the Holy Grail itself had fallen straight into my lap. First the witch-girl had come wandering straight into our hands, and now this. It was as if everything I did was suddenly blessed by God. Finally, finally, He had turned the tide my way. God had kept faith with me. I had been cast into a pit and thought myself abandoned, but God had remembered me in Egypt and was about to bring me forth.
I had prayed for the relic and instead I received something far better-a heretic. That prize was surely enough to cancel out any transgression I had committed in the Bishop’s eyes. I would soon be back in the comfort of the Cathedral at Norwich; then the Owl Masters could do what they liked with this shit-hole of a village; it would be far behind me.
The church was dark, for little light penetrated the coloured fragments of the stained glass windows. Only the ruby glow of the eternal lamp above
