“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.”
servant martha
tHE 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.
When the Commissarius pronounced the sentence of “death by burning,” even the villagers seemed stunned. Osmanna’s knees buckled and her face turned the colour of parchment. She stood trembling, her eyes pleading for someone-anyone-to rescue her. The Commissarius paused, waiting for the full measure of his words to take root in her and for the gasps of the crowd to die away. Robert D’Acaster looked at Phillip and nodded. It was as if the two men already knew and approved the sentence. Then the Commissarius spoke again and the crowd held their breath.
“Agatha, there is a way you may be spared the flames. Make full and public confession of your heresy, leave the beguinage, and marry. Your excommunication shall be lifted and you shall receive the Host publicly before all; then you will live out your full span as an obedient wife and faithful daughter of the Church.”
Osmanna lifted her head with an expression of such abject relief and gratitude upon her young face it seemed she would have hugged him if her hands had not been tied. He was watching her closely and triumph flickered in his eyes.
“Like the father of the prodigal son, your father has been most generous and forgiving, Agatha. He has offered a fine gift to the Church as a penance for your sins and he has already found you a suitable husband, a widower who has nobly agreed to take you of his charity.”
The look of fear was subsiding on her face. Like a drowning man feeling a rope pulling him to the shore, she saw that her rescue was assured. If she had only replied then, all would have been well. She would have agreed to anything they demanded of her. I could see from her face that she would have gladly wed the foulest ass in Christendom if it pulled her from the flames.
But D’Acaster chose that moment to lumber from the dais. He lurched drunkenly towards her and clapped a heavy hand on Osmanna’s shoulder to steady himself. She almost buckled under his weight.
“Never fear, girl. Your betrothed’s well past his prime. Old age has dimmed his sight, so be grateful he won’t see your blemishes. And if he still has the filthy appetites of lust, he can always ride his whore-bride in the dark.”
The crowd shrieked with laughter and Osmanna, her cheeks scarlet, hung her head in shame. The shock of the sentence had left her thoroughly cowed and if he had led her out there and then, she’d have followed him, meek as a nun. But D’Acaster, encouraged by the laughter of the villagers, spun Osmanna round to face them. He stood behind her, his arm around her waist and his mouth against her neck. He grabbed a fistful of his daughter’s hair in his hand, jerking it up and down like a small boy playing ride-a-cock-horse.
For an instant she seemed to go rigid. Her eyes widened in horror, then her face became a mask of pure hatred. I have never seen such a look on any maid’s face, not even on a man’s before he plunges in a dagger. Those closest to her stopped laughing abruptly, as if they too realised that something had changed. Despite her wrists being tied she jerked her elbow back, striking her father in his belly with such viciousness that D’Acaster loosed his grip on her and staggered backwards, gasping and clutching his side. She whirled around to the Commissarius.
“I will not marry and I will not receive the Host. If you want my life, you take it. For I’d rather die and burn in Hell for all eternity than owe my life
