The Owl Killers (29 page)

I tipped the contents on the fire. It hissed and crackled before it flared up again. I wiped the bowl clean with a handful of straw, then
added the straw to the blaze. I would not permit the sin of grief from anyone. There could be no sorrow for anyone who had gone straight to the arms of our Lord. It was my duty to make them understand that.

“As soon as you’ve spoken to the women, Servant Martha, you must go to your bed and sleep.”

I shook my head impatiently. “I have neglected my duties for days; there is too much to do. I’ll rest tonight.”

“The world has gone on without you these many days; it can manage a few hours longer. Your eyes are red and you stagger like an old maid with palsy.” Healing Martha wagged her finger in a mocking imitation of a scolding crone. “To bed with you, my girl.”

I DON
’
T KNOW HOW LONG
I’d slept, but I was jerked awake by a babble of voices outside the window of my room. I heard footsteps running and more shouts and cries. Suddenly afraid, I sprang from my pallet and hurried to the door. All the women in the beguinage seemed to be milling around in the courtyard, chattering excitedly, hugging their cloaks tightly around themselves against the cold. I shielded my eyes against the bright afternoon light. I was still dazed from my abrupt wakening, but it was evident something was wrong.

Catching sight of me, little Catherine pushed her way through the crowd and almost fell headlong into me.

“Look, Servant Martha, a miracle, a miracle!”

She pointed to a silver plate that Tutor Martha held reverently in both hands. There was a slightly charred scrap of something lying in the centre of the plate. I couldn’t tell what it was. I peered closer. Then I felt an icy hand suddenly grip my stomach. The pattern on the little disc of bread was blackened, but it was unmistakably the same imprint as on the Host the Franciscan had brought.

“Where did you get this?” I demanded.

“When we raked out the fire in Andrew’s room, this was lying among the embers,” Catherine blurted out eagerly.

“It was the Host that Andrew consumed this day,” Tutor Martha said in awed tones, still gripping the plate as if she feared it might
wriggle from her hands. “She vomited it as she gave up her spirit and the vomit was thrown onto the fire, but God preserved the blessed fragment for us. Though all the corruption was burned away, the flames could not consume His blessed body.”

“It is a miracle.” The words rippled softly as a breeze through the women.

My bowels had turned to water. I searched the crowd for the face of Healing Martha. She must have told Tutor Martha what had happened. No one else was in that room; no one else could possibly have known about the Host. I could not believe that Healing Martha had betrayed me. She knew the danger. She was the one who had warned me of it in that very room. I’d believed that of all people on this earth I could trust Healing Martha. I had wagered my life on her loyalty.

“Servant Martha.”

I turned my head in the direction of the voice and found Healing Martha standing at my elbow.

“What have you said to them?” I demanded. “How could you—”

Healing Martha gripped my arm and spoke in a low voice. “Everyone who knew of the anchorite knew that she was sustained only by the Host. And there’s not a woman in the beguinage who hasn’t heard whispers of the Franciscan’s visits. They’re not stupid, Servant Martha. Did you honestly think they would not reason the connection? I had no need to tell them why he came. They suspected from the beginning that
the friar
was bringing the Host to Andrew.”

Healing Martha fixed me with deep blue eyes as if she was determined to make me understand something. Then I realised that Tutor Martha had not mentioned me at all when she spoke of the miracle. She had told the story as if she thought I didn’t know that Andrew had vomited the Host. She had naturally assumed it was the friar, not me, who had administered the Last Rites to Andrew.

“The beguines have kept the secret of the Franciscan’s visits,” Healing Martha continued. “But if they suspected why he came, then others may also have done so and therein lies the danger.” She jerked her head back in the direction of the infirmary.

I drew a deep breath and tried to recover my wits. My hands were trembling and I clamped them firmly behind my back. I lifted my
head, looking out over the crowd of beguines, now standing quite still, waiting for me to speak. I’d have to choose very carefully what I said next.

“It is indeed a miracle that such a morsel falling from the pure lips of Andrew has been preserved. This is a sign that we have sheltered a saint within these walls. God blesses Andrew and we must pray for strength to follow her example. This is her relic and we shall have a fitting reliquary made to house it. But I charge you most earnestly not to discuss this except in private among yourselves, until God has made plain to us His will in this matter. You must take every care that this tale does not spread abroad. It would bring grave danger to the Franciscan for it’s forbidden for a friar to administer the sacraments. Besides, there are many who will be jealous of such a relic and wish to take it from us.”

It was not the theft of the relic I feared, but I dared not alarm them with the real danger. I just hoped the threat of having the relic taken from them would be enough to silence them.

“Now, about your business, all of you. I dare say you all have duties to perform. Tutor Martha, take the fragment to the chapel and see it is locked away safely. And after, bring me the key.”

They hesitated for a moment, then slowly dispersed in whispering huddles of twos and threes, until Healing Martha and I were left alone. I could hardly bring myself to look at her. “You told them that Andrew received the Host. Are you sure you have not told them anything else?”

Healing Martha sighed. “After all these years, do you need to ask me that question? Do you really think I would betray you? I have only confirmed what they already knew and they do not know about you, though I suspect Gate Martha may have reasoned it out. She knows the friar did not enter our gates.”

“Gate Martha knows!” I said, aghast. “Do you honestly think she will keep it to herself?”

“She realises the danger. She may gossip about trifles, but not about this.” Healing Martha blew on her hands to warm them. “You have many virtues, old friend, but if you have a vice it is that you don’t credit others with the intelligence or convictions you have. You
demand too much of yourself, but you expect too little from your sisters. You must learn to trust others; it is the only way to win their love and loyalty. Otherwise all you have is their duty. And that is a cold companion.”

“You trust too much,” I snapped. “You said the rumour of the Franciscan may already have reached the infirmary. So how many days will it be before the whole village knows of our miracle?”

She grimaced. “I’ve never known a miracle to remain a secret for long.”

“And then?” I asked.

“And then who can know? Maybe our miracle will bring fortune, maybe disaster. But this I do know: A miracle never brings peace.”

o
SMANNA
,
FETCH MORE WATER.
We’ll need some to scald the starlings for supper.” Beatrice tossed two hard leather pails at my feet, forcing me to jump back to avoid being hit.

“Let me go,” Catherine said, jumping up from the stool in the kitchen. “Healing Martha said Osmanna wasn’t to carry anything because it might make her ill again.” Catherine knew I hated going near the well.

“That was over a month ago. She’s perfectly capable of fetching a little water now,” Beatrice replied, as if I wasn’t even there. “If she could be trusted to pluck a few starlings without leaving half the feathers on, then I’d fetch the water myself, but she can’t.”

Beatrice never talked to me now unless she was forced to and then it was only to order me to do some dirty or tedious task. I sometimes wondered if she lay awake at night trying to think up the worst jobs she could for me.

As I picked up the pails, Catherine darted an anxious look at me and I tried to smile to reassure her. Beatrice pretended to be engrossed in plucking and drawing the sack of small birds. Ever since that night in the infirmary when I had forced that dead creature out of my belly, Beatrice had done nothing to disguise her hatred of me. Healing Martha said none of the other beguines knew what had happened, not even Servant Martha. She’d told them I had the bloody flux. But Beatrice knew what I’d done, I was sure of it.

One night when I’d been sleeping in the infirmary I sensed someone leaning over me and a voice whispered, “They might have forgiven you, Osmanna, but God won’t. You can’t ever be forgiven for murdering your own child.”

When I opened my eyes, there was no one near me, but I know it was Beatrice’s voice I heard.

And if Beatrice knew, I was certain she would have told Pega.
Beatrice told her everything. I had dreaded seeing Pega even more than Beatrice for though Beatrice is spiteful, she’s not clever with words. Pega can use her tongue like a dagger.

But when I left the infirmary and finally ran into Pega outside, all she said was, “You feeling better now, Osmanna?”

I nodded. It was almost true. The pains in my belly had gone now. During the day, I could forget it ever happened, but not at night. Sometimes I was too afraid to asleep, because every night in my dreams the creature returned. In my dreams it was still inside me. I’d feel it clawing its way out of me. I’d see old Gwenith’s red-rimmed eyes, feel the raw blinding pain as she pulled the rod out of me. Then I’d see something in her filthy hands, but it wasn’t the rod. She would hold the thing up in front of my face, a tiny black squirming demon with leathery wings and a hooked beak. The beak would snap closer and closer at my face, but I couldn’t move. I’d scream and wake myself screaming.

Pega suddenly put out her hand and touched my shoulder. I jerked away, thinking she was going to grab me and make some cruel joke. But when I looked up there was a strange expression on her face, almost … I don’t know … almost sympathetic.

“Take care of yourself,” Pega said and walked away. Maybe Beatrice had not told her after all.

I left the warmth of the kitchen and trailed reluctantly out across the courtyard. It was a grey cloudy afternoon, warmer than it had been when Andrew died, but the wind was sharp and damp.

The well squatted in the corner of the yard. I lifted its wooden cover and peered down. Beads of water sweated from the sides, running down the fingers of green slime into the darkness below. Each heavy drop echoed like a heartbeat in a giant chest. The well was never silent.

Sometimes, there was a glint of light, a sliver of silver shining on the black water below, a new moon hanging in the midnight sky of some world that lay far beneath me. At other times there was nothing but darkness at the bottom, a darkness that rose nearer and nearer, as I gazed down at it.

Round as an apple, deep as a cup

But all the king’s horses cannot draw it up
.

I shuddered. Where did the water in the well come from, surging and rushing unheard and unseen beneath my feet? Did those chill black rivers empty into vast lakes? Or seas with tides and waves crashing in the darkness? Were there plants and fish and birds and animals down there in the bowels of the earth? Who had power to command them? They said the place of the dead was a desert, but what if the realm of the dead and the damned was blessed with water lighter than angels’ song?

“Are you well enough to lift those buckets, Osmanna?”

I jumped at the sound of the voice and water slopped over my shoes.

Servant Martha was striding across the yard. She looked tired and strained.

“I’m much better, thank you, Servant Martha.”

“Good, good,” Servant Martha said distractedly. “God be praised that you’re restored to health. Then we must resume your studies. I have been trying to catch up with my duties, but we must not neglect your education. Since Andrew left us, there—”

“Was it a miracle, Servant Martha, Andrew’s Host being preserved like that? Some of the beguines say it has powers.”

“I gave orders it was not to be discussed,” she said sharply, glancing around. But the courtyard was deserted except for the scratching chickens.

“You said we might talk about it in private,” I reminded her.

“But I expected better of you, Osmanna. That a simple piece of bread becomes the flesh of our Lord is a daily miracle and the greatest miracle of all is that by consuming that fragment we may obtain life everlasting. That, Osmanna, is the only power that should concern us.”

“But, Servant Martha, I was thinking about that. If a man takes the Host just once in his life, when he is dying, he may still be saved?”

Servant Martha nodded. “If he has made a true and contrite confession, yes, that is what the Church teaches. Many have been saved in their dying breath.”