The Owl Killers (28 page)

“Are you going to tell Servant Martha?” I asked bitterly. “Osmanna is her favourite; shouldn’t she know?”

Healing Martha’s chin jerked up. “No, Beatrice, Servant Martha does not need to know. I will tell her only that Osmanna is ill. Servant Martha would only blame herself. And a true friend does not lay another burden upon someone who is already laden.”

t
HE WOMEN WALKED SLOWLY
to their tasks that morning, not meeting the eyes of those they passed, as if they were afraid that someone might speak to them. They fastened their gaze firmly upon the frozen ground, taking small, careful steps between the patches of ice. Their breath hung about them like white veils. Each glanced fearfully at the window where I stood, before quickly looking away. It wasn’t me they feared, but the room. Andrew lay quiet now, but that unnerved the beguines even more than her screams.

Icicles hung over the casement and glittered on the tips of every twig. Even the moon was unable to stir from the lightening sky, but hung full and bright as if she too was frozen in her place. It was only October; it should not be so cold. The first frost had come far too early. The patterns of the seasons were unravelling.

I’d been watching from the window since before dawn. Behind me Healing Martha dozed on a stool, slumped forward over the foot of Andrew’s cot, her head buried in her arms. The fire was low, the last log burned away to soft grey ash. There was scarcely any heat from it, but I daren’t rake the embers for fear of waking Healing Martha. Her face was so white and drawn, I feared that she too would fall sick if she didn’t rest. And I knew if I sat down, I’d fall asleep too. My mind was as numb with fatigue as my body.

It had been just over a week since Andrew had fallen seriously ill, her body burning up with fever. We had bled her as much as we dared, but her blood was as pale as if water mingled with it. She wouldn’t swallow any medicines and all the ointments that Healing Martha rubbed upon her were to no avail.

For the first three days the anchorite lay as if upon the rack, her limbs twisting and clawing as she cried out in agony. She screamed that demons were assaulting her, pricking her limbs with sharp knives and pouring molten wax into the wounds. They mocked her, offering
her dung on golden patens and piss in silver chalices. She wept that incubi had caught her hands and forced her naked into their lewd dances. And though she never moved from her pallet, her swollen limbs jerked and trembled as if she leapt and whirled with them. Such cries of horror came from her lips, such terror was in her wide-open eyes, that if even the most godless of men had glimpsed in her face the purgatory which gaped before him, he would have fallen to his knees to do penance for the rest of his days.

Healing Martha and I tended her constantly, seldom setting foot from the confines of her room except to attend services in the chapel, for we could not allow any of the women to see her agony or hear her babble such vile tales. Exhausted though I was, when I did manage to snatch some sleep, Andrew’s shrieks and screams so invaded my dreams that I was almost thankful to be woken again.

Even in the chapel her cries pursued us, cutting through our devotions and punctuating the psalms with cries of torment. I ordered the women to take turns in interceding for her in chapel, so that prayer constantly ascended for her soul without ceasing by day or night. But I scarcely needed to enjoin them to prayer. I could see in the fearful glances that the thoughts of the whole beguinage night and day were focused upon the struggle of the soul in this tiny room.

Then towards dawn on the fourth day she suddenly fell quiet. I opened the shutters and, by the first grey light, I saw that her eyes were closed and felt her skin frog-cold beneath my fingers. I thought her spirit had left her, I was sure of it. I went to the door and called out softly to Healing Martha. She came quickly and bent over Andrew, then laid a feather upon her lips. It stirred faintly. The breath was still in her, though barely discernible.

For the next three days she lay as alike to death as a candle flame is to fire. Her body was limp and still, lids blue-drawn over unmoving eyes. The morbid chill that filled the room was more disturbing to our spirits than all the demonic shrieks that had gone before. Our prayers, so fervent against the howls of Hell, seemed to falter before the palpable silence that swelled from her cell, filling every corner of the beguinage. We held our breath, unable to fight against—nothing.

· · ·

KITCHEN MARTHA TOTTERED
across the frozen courtyard, bearing a steaming bowl. Little Catherine trotted behind, a second bowl cradled carefully in her arms. Kitchen Martha greeted me with a worried smile. “Now I’ve brought you a bowl of good hot broth, Servant Martha, and some for Healing Martha too. Don’t stand there, Catherine, take it in before it freezes. Now promise me you’ll eat this, both of you, while it’s hot; you’ve scarcely eaten a sparrow’s crumb for days. Is there any change?”

I had been waiting for this question. I knew this was really why Kitchen Martha had ventured out of her warm kitchen rather than sending one of the girls.

“She rests peacefully and we must give joyful thanks that our blessed Lord has answered our prayers and has driven out the demons that so tormented her. You will tell them that, Kitchen Martha? Tell them to offer prayers of gratitude.”

“I think Andrew is waking,” Healing Martha called out softly.

I closed the door against Kitchen Martha and crossed rapidly to Andrew’s cot. The anchorite’s arms were flung wide in a cruciform and her eyes were open, but she was not looking at us. I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of her stare. There was nothing to be seen, save for the plain lime-washed wall.

“Look … even as my Lord hangs on the cross,” Andrew croaked. “See how like a loving mother … He offers His blessed breast to me. He suckles me … from His sacred wound. His sweet blood fills my mouth. He is my tender mother, my virgin … I am safe in His womb.”

She half rose on her pallet, holding out her arms. Her swollen cracked lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. Suddenly she turned her head in my direction. For the first time in many days she seemed to know my presence in the room. She grabbed for my hand and pulled me urgently towards her.

“Give me of His flesh to eat. I must … I must consume His body for the last time.”

Healing Martha touched my arm lightly. “You stay here. I’ll fetch the Host.”

Before I could answer, she had slipped from the room, closing the door silently behind her. I’d been forced to tell Healing Martha all about the Franciscan’s nocturnal visits to smuggle the Host. Cloistered together in Andrew’s room for days at a time, I could not have concealed it from Healing Martha. After weeks of bearing the burden alone, it felt almost as if it had been lifted from me when I finally spoke of it. Although I knew in my heart she would understand, I had expected her to be shocked at first, surprised even. But instead she merely nodded as if she already knew.

I struggled to kneel beside the cot. “Make your confession, Andrew,” I urged her, but I did not want to hear it. I didn’t know why I knelt, but I felt compelled to as if I was the one making confession, not Andrew.

She pulled me close to her; her sour cold breath made my skin crawl. Angry with myself for my disgust, I forced myself to lean closer until her mouth brushed my cheek. She rasped her words at me, but I could not comprehend them. My mind was fogged from weariness.

She recited old sins of neglect and weakness which she had confessed before a hundred times and in the same breath spoke of lewd acts with demons and beasts, as if she could not distinguish those illusions which she conjured in her fever from those sins which she had actually committed in body. Perhaps they were the same. What if her spirit had been transported to some distant place even as her body lay there before my eyes, and in that place she did commit those carnal acts? Witches’ spirits can fly out to make mischief even when their bodies are shackled in the chains. But if God was powerless to prevent Andrew’s blessed soul from being seized by the hosts of darkness, what help was there to safeguard us?

“Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris—”

I absolved her, but from what I did not know.

Healing Martha hurried in and pulled the small casket from beneath her cloak. She opened the lid. Inside lay the Blessed Host, four discs of white bread, stamped by a griddle iron marking each one with the sign of the cross entwined with the emblems of our Lord’s torture: the scourge, the hammer, the lance, and the crown of thorns. I took one of the pieces of bread and held it reverently in both hands as
Healing Martha knelt, her gaze fixed upon the body of our Lord in my fingers. The tiredness lifted from her eyes for a brief moment. There was a look of peace in her old face.

I turned towards Andrew and as I whispered the blessed words she levered herself up with her remaining strength, reaching towards me. I placed the sacrament upon her swollen tongue. There was scarcely room in her mouth for her to swallow even so thin a fragment. She leant back and gave a great sigh.

Healing Martha reached into her scrip and drew out a small flask of oil. She pressed the cold, hard bottle into my hand. “It’s time. She is very near the end.”

As if she’d burnt me, I snatched my hand back from her grasp. “No. I can’t. Not that.”

“You’ve taken it upon yourself to absolve her. You must finish what you’ve begun.”

The full weight of her words pressed down on me. Suddenly the air in the room was thick and heavy as if it was full of smoke. I couldn’t breathe. I had taken upon myself nothing less than the burden of her immortal soul and that of Healing Martha’s, whom I had drawn into this. And what of my own soul? I had heard the secret confession of this anchorite’s spirit. I had stood between her soul and her Lord. I had stood unshielded in the terrible light of God and pronounced His mercy.
What ye loose on earth will be loosed in Heaven, what ye bind on earth will be bound in Heaven
. Yet no bishop had laid his hand upon me, our Mother the Church had not cloaked me with her mantle. I had no authority, no protection.

Healing Martha was watching me, waiting for me to send this perfected bride spotless to her Lord. But Andrew was no leper, no harlot dying in childbed, grateful for any blessing of mine that would shorten their days in purgatory. I could not, I dared not intervene in such a blessed life, such a mystery.

“Send for Father Ulfrid. Go quickly.”

But Healing Martha didn’t move. For a moment I wondered if I had actually spoken the words out loud. There was a long silence. We stared at each other. She stretched out her hand and grasped mine. Her skin felt warm, much warmer than mine.

“Servant Martha, you know that we cannot send for the priest now.
If he should ask her when she last took the sacrament … if he uncovers the truth about what you have done, you would be arrested. And after that …”

After that—we both knew what would come after that—imprisonment, torture, even death. And not just for me, for I had made Healing Martha as guilty as I was by witnessing my crime. There was no going back, no undoing the deed. I had seized the power of the priests like a cutpurse on the road and I could no more return it than a man may restore the king’s stolen venison without forfeiting his life. Healing Martha held out the flask of oil again. This time I took it from her, anointing Andrew’s head, breast, hands, and feet. It was done.

Andrew suddenly cried out and gagged. I rushed to hold a bowl under her chin. Scarlet blood and black bile gushed from her mouth. She fell back, her head twisted round against her body. I didn’t need Healing Martha to tell me that it was finally over. Together, we knelt and prayed.

Healing Martha rose before me and began to straighten the body and prepare it for cleansing. I tried to help, but she gently pulled my hand away.

“Leave this. Your place is with the women. You must tell them of her passing; they’ll be waiting. And you’ll need to organise a place in the chapel to receive her. Send some of the women to help me lay her out. I’ll watch till they come.” She wiped Andrew’s stained lips with a twist of straw and dropped it into the blood-filled bowl. “Tell them to bring water for washing, and sweetening herbs. Pega has helped before with such a task; she’ll know what to bring.”

I knew I had to speak to the women and that I would have to choose my words carefully, so that they rejoiced in the anchorite’s translation. There must be no sorrow in the beguinage, no grieving. We would give thanks that Andrew’s soul, freed from the corruption of the flesh, had risen into the light of the Blessed Bridegroom. I would say that to them, firmly.

I took the bowl from Healing Martha’s hand. “We’d better get rid of this before the women come in. They do not need to see it.”