The Owl Killers (19 page)

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.

m
ARK MY WORDS
, there’s trouble afoot,” Gate Martha muttered, casting a baleful glance in the direction of the guest hall.

“But didn’t they give you any indication as to why they have come?” I asked, as I followed her across the courtyard.

“You’ll have to ask them yourself. They refused to tell me.” She stomped off back to her gate, evidently much aggrieved by that.

I watched her retreating form for a moment, trying to prepare myself for my unexpected guests. All I had managed to wrest out of Gate Martha was that a man and woman, announcing themselves as the uncle and mother of the anchorite Andrew, had arrived and asked if I could spare a few minutes to see them. I knew it must be a serious matter. I could hardly imagine that Andrew had merely sent them to convey her greetings, and as soon as I entered the guest hall I could tell that Gate Martha had been right to predict trouble.

A woman was poised rigidly on the edge of the chair, her eyes darting about anxiously and her fingers plucking at the yellow wimple which framed her lined face. A grey-haired man, who looked enough like her for me to conclude he was her brother, paced restlessly up and down the narrow chamber. It was a hot day and his face was beaded with perspiration, but he was too agitated to sit. From the dust on their clothes and their weary expressions it was evident they had travelled some way to see me, and I urged them not to speak until they had taken some refreshments. The woman seemed grateful. She shook her head at the platter of cold mutton and cheese, but took a little wine, clasping the goblet tightly in both hands as if she feared it would slip through her fingers.

It was only when I turned to offer meat and wine to Andrew’s uncle that I realised there was someone else in the room. A man in a coarse grey friar’s habit, with a knotted white girdle at his waist,
stood motionless in the shadows. I recognised him as Franciscan from the simplicity and colour of his robe. His hands were clasped in front of him, hidden in his sleeves; his head was bowed as if he was praying.

Andrew’s uncle wiped his fingers and turned to me with a grave expression as if he could no longer delay the bad news. “We have come here on a matter of some delicacy …” he began. “We have received a message from Bishop Salmon of Norwich. The Bishop has asked us to remove Andrew from the anchorite cell without delay.”

I gaped at him. “Surely you have misunderstood the messenger? Or perhaps he muddled the words? St. Andrew’s Church would fight from here to Rome to keep her in that cell. She brings so much wealth to that parish. Many pilgrims come to the church just to see her and they all pay good money for candles, food, ale, and lodgings, not to mention the emblems and relics. Half the traders in the parish depend on the pilgrims she brings in to make a living. They cannot mean you to take her away.”

Andrew’s mother and uncle exchanged uneasy glances.

“Andrew lives in constant prayer now,” her uncle explained cautiously. “She does not even pause in her meditation to bless the pilgrims. She does not move or speak. She does not … She refuses all food. She says that she requires no nourishment except the body of our Lord, which she receives daily.”

Her mother broke in eagerly, “But she grows so plump and fat on this holy food, anyone can see it is our blessed Lord Himself who feeds her.”

“Have some questioned it then?” I asked.

Again the two of them exchanged anxious glances, before Andrew’s mother rose and, turning her face away, stared dejectedly out the window, leaving her brother to answer.

“There are always some who doubt the veracity of any saint. But they say … though I have not witnessed it myself, you understand … that sometimes when she prays she swells up to twice her normal stature, filling the whole cell. Is this not a mark of one overflowing with the spirit?”

“Some might enquire whose spirit,” I suggested gently.

“Could she take the Host daily and with such joy if that spirit were not from our Lord?” the Franciscan said softly from the shadows.

His voice made me jump. I’d forgotten he was even in the room.

I inclined my head.
“Argumentum ad absurdum,”
I replied, humbly acknowledging the foolishness of my remark.

But logical though the Franciscan’s argument was, I could see how it might look to others. It would take only one jealous priest in a neighbouring parish, who felt he had lost trade because of her, to whisper the Devil in the Bishop’s ear and Andrew’s piety would be seen to take on a very different complexion.

I glanced round the room expecting one of them to add more, but no one spoke.

“So … why have you come to me?” I asked finally.

Andrew’s uncle gave a small sigh of relief as if he had been willing me to raise the subject that courtesy did not permit him to broach.

“My niece needs care, much care, but she refuses to come home. She insists she must stay at the church and that is impossible. No other church will take her; we have tried … But we thought that she might be persuaded to come here, since you and she are of the same mind. Servant Martha, will you give her shelter here?”

There was such weariness in his eyes that I knew he must have spent many hours arguing with Andrew or pleading her case with others. On the pretext of pouring more wine, I moved away from his beseeching gaze.

Andrew here? It was out of the question. Our very purpose, our whole way of life, was the exact opposite of hers. How could we give shelter to an anchorite, a woman who demanded to be shut away from the world, who made such a public pronouncement of her great piety when we strove to keep ours private? What did he imagine we would do with her here? If she was so absorbed in her own meditations to the point of not even speaking, how could she possibly live the life of a beguine? Did they think we would build a cell for her on the side of the chapel and wall her up in it? It was against everything we stood for to have a woman in our midst attending to nothing except her own soul, contributing nothing, expecting to be waited upon and fed by others.

Yet the Church, whom she had served so faithfully, had abandoned her. How could they treat her so, when they had been the ones to encourage her in her life of piety? That priest, her confessor, who had tried to make us all believe he was so concerned about her welfare, where was he to defend her now?

I stared at the lime-washed wall of the room, dazzling in the burning sun, seeing not the whiteness of that wall, but the shadow of a single word carved above the gateway in Bruges—
Sauvegarde
—the place of refuge. Whatever Andrew was, we had a duty to provide such a place for her. We could not close our gates against her.

Three pairs of eyes watched me anxiously

I forced a smile. “If Andrew has no other place to go, she will be welcomed here.”

l
ILY-LIVERED VERMIN!
Lice of Satan!”

Merchant Martha had been muttering furiously ever since we’d left the Bartholomew Fair. I was sure she must have exhausted every insult possible for the Weavers’ Guild, but it seemed she hadn’t. “They’re all bloodsucking leeches, every single one of them, except leeches do some good in the world.”

The cart rattled along in the sun-baked grooves worn by so many other wheels, tilting precariously as we swerved around a man trudging with his milch cow up the track. He shook his fist at us as our wheels and horse’s hooves enveloped him in a cloud of choking dust. Even when she was in a good mood Merchant Martha hated to be stuck behind anything; fury did not improve her driving.

Pega sat beside her, gripping the edge of the hard wooden seat with both hands as we bumped over the ruts and potholes. I crouched in the back of the cart behind the bundles of cloth and wool, watching the track retreating behind us. Though my teeth were rattling in their sockets, at least I didn’t have to look at the bends and
travellers approaching us and saw the perils only when they were safely passed.

Merchant Martha had every reason to be in a foul mood. Our cart should have been loaded with the food, wine, and grain we badly needed to see us through until the harvest, but instead of returning with provisions, we were returning with every single bale of cloth and wool we’d taken to the Bartholomew Fair.

We’d set off at first light and after three bone-breaking hours on the road had arrived at the fair only to be told that on the Abbot’s orders we would not be granted a licence to sell at the fair. A small group of men had gathered a short distance away, listening as Merchant Martha stood arguing with the steward. They grinned and nudged each other, their smiles becoming broader as Merchant Martha grew more angry, but in the end there was nothing she could do.

“Go easy, woman,” Pega warned sharply as the cart gave a great lurch over a stone. “You’ll not make matters better if we’ve a broken wheel to mend n’all.”

Merchant Martha glared at her, but she let the reins slacken a little and the horse’s pace steadied. The motion was making me sick. I tried to kneel up to ease the pain in my cramped legs.

“Merchant Martha!” I called feebly.

But neither of them turned round.

Pega shifted her broad rump uncomfortably on the too-narrow seat. “I reckon this’ll just be the start of it. It’s my betting the Owl Masters are behind this. They’re trying to drive us out by making sure no one’ll trade with us. I’ve been waiting for something like this, ever since they left their sign at our gate.”

Merchant Martha stared at her. “How do you know about that?”

Pega didn’t answer. I don’t know why Merchant Martha bothered to ask. How Pega found out about anything was a mystery, but she always did. Though if Merchant Martha had also heard about the dead owl, then it must have been discussed in the Council of Marthas. That was typical of Servant Martha; she’d discuss it with the chosen ones, but not bother to utter a word to rest of us about the danger we were in.

Merchant Martha gave a shake of her head. “The blame for this lies
solely with the Weavers’ Guild. We sell better cloth and cheaper too. They’ve always hated us. You saw those men standing there smirking—those were Weavers’ Guild emblems they were wearing, every one of them. The Abbot can’t afford to fall out with the Guild, not with the vast flock of sheep he has on his lands. It’s the Guild that puts plump capons on his table and gold in his coffers, so he’ll hitch up his skirts and dance whenever they start piping.”

“Aye, we all know whose tune the Abbot dances to,” Pega agreed. “But that doesn’t answer the question—
why now?
Guild’s been against us from the start, but they’ve not bothered with us up to now. We don’t trade enough wool to be any real threat to them or the Abbot. Way I see it, someone’s got to them, and by my reckoning it’s got to be the Owl Masters. They don’t leave their sign at the door and then do nothing. If one of the Owl Masters is a member of the Guild or they have a hold over one of the Guild members, then it’d be easy enough to get them to stand against us. And if the Owl Masters have got the Guild in their pockets, it won’t just be the Bartholomew Fair we’ll be turned away from. We’ll not be able to sell at any of the fairs or markets round these parts.”

“Is that so?” Merchant Martha retorted grimly. “Well, I’ve a trick or two up my own sleeve. They’ll not get the better of me, that I can promise you.”

Now that the horse’s pace had slowed, the cart set up a steady swaying. A wave of nausea rose up in me. I felt as if I was suffocating down there among the bales of wool. I clambered precariously on top of one and perched there, clinging onto the sides of the cart with both hands, and struggling to concentrate on the landscape slipping away behind us.

In the water meadows, scarlet poppies swayed among the purple corn cockle and oxeye daisies. The grain in the field strips was ripe now. It had been agonisingly slow to turn from green to gold. It was late, but at least the ears were plump from the rain. The villagers and Manor had not yet begun the harvest, but ours was already cut and stooked in the fields. Another day or two of this hot sun to dry it and it would be ready to thresh.

It was the first good harvest we’d had since we came. We had all
prayed earnestly these last few years, five times a day as the Pope had
ordered—frigiscente mundo
—“as the world grows colder,” yet over and over again the harvests had continued to fail. But this year, at long last, God finally seemed to have heard our prayers and the days were turning warm again.