The Owl Killers (42 page)

The darkness swallowed it. The great savage beak snapped inches from my face. I screamed, trying to cover my head with my arms. The wings were beating down, so that I couldn’t breathe against the force of them. The twin rings of red fire, glowing out of the darkness, came closer and closer.

With a desperate whinny my horse slipped sideways and I crashed to the ground. There was a searing pain in my right wrist. Clutching it against my chest, I staggered to my feet, sodden skirts slapping heavy as leather around my legs. The wind was shrieking like a mandrake torn from the earth.
Libera nos a malo
. I tried to run.
In Nomine … In Nomine Patris et
… But the thunder boomed around me, driving me back.

Lightning sizzled down in a blue vein. Suddenly the witch-girl was standing motionless in my path. Strands of wet hair writhed around her head. On her shoulder, wings flapping wide, crouched a huge raven, croaking into the wind. Then it all was black again. I staggered against a tree and slid down against its trunk, sinking onto my haunches, hugging my wrist and gasping against the pain. The rain slashed against my face. I couldn’t gulp air, only water. I was drowning.

A raucous caw echoed inches from my ear. The witch-girl stood over me. She held out a hand, thin as a demon’s claw. I shrank away from her, fearing her talons on my face. She stepped back, as if to say she meant me no harm, and beckoned me to follow. Then she walked away, without looking to see if I followed or not. I clambered to
my feet, suddenly terrified that she might disappear and leave me alone.

“Wait, please, wait!”

She didn’t turn her head, but she stopped and waited until she sensed I was behind her and then walked on at the same rapid pace. The raven swayed on her shoulder. It watched me, as if it was her eyes. I followed her as a small child follows its mother, struggling through the rain and the mud, my skirts and shoes dragging me down at every step. I could just make out the dark figure walking in front of me from the flash of her white wet skin in the rain. Only then did I realise that she was naked.

Cradling my throbbing arm, I stumbled forward, terrified that the monster might at any moment swoop on me from behind. I desperately wanted to run, but every grain of strength had been washed out of me. Then, just as I knew I could not take another step, the gate of the beguinage stood open in front of me. I had been staring at it without recognising what it was. Gate Martha was peering out. She shouted and ran out. Several beguines followed close behind, lanterns in their hands as if they were embarking on a journey. Where were they going? What hour was it?

The women crowded round me.

“Heaven be praised you are safe! We feared the worst. We were about to search for you.”

I couldn’t speak. My face was numb and my legs gave way. I staggered against them and felt arms wrap round my waist to steady me. I gasped as someone touched my arm.

“Bring her inside; she’s exhausted, poor thing. We must get those wet clothes off her before she takes a chill. Is Healing Martha following you, Servant Martha? Where is she? Have you left her to shelter somewhere?”

“Is she not here?” The words emerged in a croaking voice that I didn’t recognise.

There was a long silence. They all looked at one another, but no one spoke.

Then Kitchen Martha hugged me. “Her palfrey came home riderless, like yours. We thought you must be together. But don’t worry,
Servant Martha, we’ll find her. She’ll be right behind you on the road. You walk so fast, no one can match your pace.”

Pega nodded vigorously. “I know every step of the road even in the dark. Tell us where you parted company and we’ll find her before you’ve had time to dry your hair at the fire. You get yourself into the warm and don’t fret.”

w
E SEARCHED FOR HEALING MARTHA
half the night until long after we were exhausted. We were soaked to the skin and aching all over from a hundred near falls in the treacherous mud. It was a wonder we didn’t all die of cold or break our necks. If we had done so, it would have been Servant Martha’s fault. I’ll tell you this, if she’d been the one lost in the storm, I’d have gone straight to bed and left her out there to find her own way home. If she was fool enough to go out there at night, she’d only herself to blame, but you couldn’t leave a frail old woman out in that rain, could you? And we all loved Healing Martha.

The lightning passed over, but the rain continued to beat down in torrents, turning paths and roads to running streams and fields into lethal mantraps. I found myself sprawling in the mud so often I thought my boots had been greased, but soon my skin was so numb I didn’t even feel the grazes and bumps.

We shouted to Healing Martha, but our voices were drowned out by the howling wind and if there was a reply we wouldn’t have heard it over the drumming of the rain. We clung grimly to one another in the darkness, afraid of vanishing like her, afraid of being snatched away. I cursed Servant Martha roundly under my breath for putting us in this danger, and I can tell you I wasn’t the only one damning that woman to Hell and back.

It was Pega who called a halt in the end, but no one offered more than a token protest. Healing Martha was not on the road leading to the beguinage, but that meant nothing. She could have been anywhere out there in the enormity of the storm. In the dark we might easily have passed within feet of her and neither seen nor heard her, nor she us.

It was pointless continuing; we were just groping around in a fool’s game of blindman’s buff. But all the same we felt guilty abandoning
Healing Martha to the night. What if she was unconscious in a ditch that even now was filling with water? What if she was lying somewhere in agony from a broken leg, praying we’d come, or worse still, believing that we’d never come? Still clutching one another, we battled back through the blinding rain, telling ourselves that Healing Martha had probably taken shelter somewhere or that she might already be safely back in the beguinage. But none of us believed that.

I WOKE, GASPING
, as a log collapsed in the embers of the fire, sending a shower of red sparks spitting onto the hearth. The rush candles had burnt out. A thin sliver of morning light was already sliding in beneath the shutters of the refectory. Osmanna crouched down to rake the fire, adding fresh logs and banking down hot ash on top to make them burn slowly. Pega, already shod, tossed Catherine’s cloak on her lap.

“Up off your arse, lass, and help me fetch a bier from the infirmary.” She nodded at Merchant Martha. “We’ll meet you at the gate.”

Kitchen Martha, struggling to bend down far enough to fasten her sodden shoes, froze half in and half out of one. “Saint Andrew and all his angels defend us, Pega, you surely don’t think—”

“You mustn’t talk like that, Pega!” little Catherine said desperately. “Healing Martha isn’t dead. God will protect her.”

“Have I said she’s dead?” Pega snarled. “If Healing Martha was thrown from her horse, which she must have been since the beast came back without her, then like as not she’s hurt her back, for it’s none too sound at the best of times. If she could walk she’d be here by now, so it stands to reason she must be lying hurt somewhere. How would you have me carry her home—slung over my shoulder like a flitch of pork?”

Merchant Martha nodded. “You heard Pega, Catherine. Make yourself useful. Don’t stand there biting your nails.” She knelt and pulled Kitchen Martha’s shoe on for her. “As for you, Kitchen Martha, we need you here tending the pots and pies. Healing Martha will be in want of a good hot meal when she returns, as will we all.”

Kitchen Martha opened her mouth to protest, but Merchant Martha was having none of it. “Have some sense, woman. If we all
come back hungry and tired, we don’t want to have to wait around for hours while you cook.”

For all her brusque manner, Merchant Martha was trying to be kind. After the night’s search, Kitchen Martha had barely managed to reach home. Such a girth as God had blessed her with was not made for walking. She was as anxious to help find Healing Martha as the rest of us, but none of us wanted to have to carry her home as well.

It was still raining hard. The courtyard was awash with puddles, bubbling like cauldrons under the falling drops. A waterfall cascaded from the roof. We made a dash through it, but chill water splashed up and rain poured down and we were wet beyond caring even before we were halfway down the road. Only Leon, Shepherd Martha’s great shaggy hound, seemed indifferent to the rain. He was bounding ahead, stopping every now and then to sniff at a bush or patch of the road.

The deep cart ruts were filled with water, so we tried to pick our way along the edges, brushing against the dripping bushes, but in places the road was awash from ditch to ditch and we had no choice but to hitch up our skirts and wade through it. Merchant Martha grabbed my arm to keep herself from falling and delivered a stream of oaths that would have made a fishmonger blush.

The river was brown and dangerously swollen. A rising torrent of mud and branches hurtled between its banks. Trees and grass on the edge were already standing in water. A dead swan hung by the neck in the fingers of a half-submerged alder. The rain blanked out the hills. The river would continue to rise long after the rain stopped and there was not so much as a crack in the clouds to give promise of that.

Pega stared at the river in dismay. “The banks’ll not hold when the tide in the creek turns and starts pushing this lot back upstream. We’d best pray we find Healing Martha quickly, afore the whole road disappears underwater. Spread out,” she called. “Search well on each side of the path. We know she set out this way, so if the horse threw her she’ll likely be lying just off it.”

The pasture beyond the fringe of scrub and trees glistened green and horribly empty. The massive horned skull of an ox rocked disconsolately on a pole in the middle of the field, a grim warning not to let beasts stray near this place for fear of the murrain. A few tattered
shreds of withered flesh and hair still clung to it, but the ravens had picked the rest clean.

We reached the copse and scuttled in among the trees, not that their branches offered much protection against the downpour. Rivulets ran down the banks and dripped from the trees. Armed with our staves, we poked among the bushes and brambles, calling out to Healing Martha. The old vegetation was so sodden, I could scarcely lift it to search beneath. I was so afraid of what we might find, but more frightened of finding nothing.
Please God, let her be alive
.

The rest of us may have been searching frantically, but there was one person who certainly wasn’t. As I glanced up, I saw Osmanna. She stood a little way off, just gazing into the deep of the trees, not even trying to look for Healing Martha. As usual, she had no intention of getting her hands dirty.

“Aren’t you even going to bother to try to find her, Osmanna?”

She ignored me.

“Osmanna!”

But she didn’t move. She was standing rigid, her fists clenched, as if she couldn’t tear her gaze away from something. My heart began to thump. What was she staring at? Not a body, not that, please don’t let it be that!

“Wait there, I’m coming!”

My skirts caught in the brambles. I tore the cloth loose and ran towards Osmanna. I couldn’t see anything except the silvery trunks rising out of a mire of twisted undergrowth. I turned to Osmanna, trying to see where she was looking. Her eyes were fixed wide open, her lips thin and dry. Her breath came in rapid, noisy gasps.

“Did you hear a cry, Osmanna?”

She didn’t answer. She just kept staring into the trees. I knew her little game. She was sulking because for once she wasn’t the centre of attention. But if she thought I was going to fuss over her like the Marthas, she was sadly mistaken.

Suddenly she blurted out, “That smell …like onion. I’ve … I’ve smelt it before. I …”

Without warning she threw herself against me, burying her face in my shoulder, gripping me so hard it hurt.

I shoved her away. “Of course you’ve smelt it before, you stupid girl! It’s ramsons, devil’s posies. It’s everywhere here. You can’t take a step without crushing the old leaves. We’ll all stink of onion before the day is out. Why are you twittering about smells? You’re not here to pick herbs.”

She was staring at the tangle of leaves around her feet, as if she’d never seen them before. “Nothing, Beatrice. I don’t know what … Nothing.”

“You don’t even care about Healing Martha, do you? Why should that surprise me? Anyone who could murder her own … Just look at my kirtle! It’s ripped in three places, thanks to you.”