The Owl Killers (44 page)

The church was full of people. Everyone looked wet and muddy. Babies were crying and grown-ups were shouting. Some clutched sacks round their shoulders, a few had blankets, but most were just dripping wet like me. My brother staggered over to me and crouched on the floor. He was shivering and his lips were blue.

“Y-you cold?” His teeth were chattering.

I nodded miserably, trying to wrap my wet arms round my body.

“Don’t move.”

He disappeared into the crowd of people. He was gone so long I feared he wasn’t coming back, but when he did he was holding a rolled-up piece of sacking. He pushed it at me. It was heavy and hot.

“Hold this it against you. It’s a stone warmed in the fire. Can’t get you near the brazier, too many people round it, but I pinched one of the stones they were warming.” He looked sort of white under his brown skin and there was a big graze on his forehead that was oozing watery red blood.

“Come on, Pisspuddle … You know what Mam always says: Dry your feet first, so you don’t get a chill.” He bent down and tried to undo the laces of my soggy shoes, but they were too wet and his fingers were too cold and clumsy. “Stupid, stupid fecking things!”

“William!” I gasped. Mam would skin his backside if she heard him say that word, but as I looked up I saw there were tears in his eyes. “William, where’s Mam?” I was suddenly frightened again.

He dashed his hand furiously across his eyes. “I can’t find her … she’s not here yet.”

I began to sob. “But she said … she said she’d be here … I want her … I feel sick … I want Mam.”

William sat down beside me on the rushes, and awkwardly pushed his wet arm round my shoulder.

“Don’t you dare cry, Pisspuddle, else next time we go gathering wood, I’ll nail your braids to a tree and leave you there for the Owlman to get you. Mam’ll come. She said she would, didn’t she? Mam’ll be walking through that door anytime now and she’d better not catch you gurning, else you’ll be for it.”

I didn’t care if she did catch me crying. I didn’t care if she was as angry as a whole nest of wasps. I just clung shivering to William, praying for that door to open and my Mam to walk through it.

t
HE COLD WATER IN THE VAT
began to bubble violently as Pega tumbled lime into it.

“Keep well back, else it’ll be all over you. Cover your eyes, Osmanna; you too, Catherine. You get even a speck of lime in them and it’ll feel like someone’s jabbed a red-hot pin in your eyeball. Bastard stuff this is, blinds you.”

We backed away to the furthest corners of the barn as Pega, with a cloth clamped across her mouth against the fumes, carefully stirred the lime water. She had made us rub butter round our eyes and on our arms and hands for she said you don’t notice a splash on your skin until it begins to burn and then it is too late.

Earlier that morning Shepherd Martha had lugged two dead sheep into the barn. She told us there were other sheep, floating and tangled in the refuse of the flood, but they were not worth risking a life to retrieve in those powerful currents. Besides, they were too bloated to use for meat.

How many others we’d lost she wouldn’t know until she could reach the hill pasture on the other side of the river. But the little wooden bridge had been swept away and there was no crossing the ford in its present temper. At least the beguinage itself was on high ground and safe, but the great expanse of brackish water spread out across field and pasture as far as the eye could see.

Having left the carcasses in the barn, Shepherd Martha had immediately gone out again, to search for other stranded beasts with Leon lolloping at her heels, leaving Beatrice, Pega, Catherine, and me to gut and butcher the dead sheep.

We ferried the spoils to the kitchen and soon there was no trace of the poor beasts save their bloody skins. The heads, which would not keep, Kitchen Martha set to boil at once and the tails and scraps went into the flesh pot. The rest of the meat would have to be smoked or
potted, for there was precious little salt left to spare. But Kitchen Martha had to preserve the meat by some means: We desperately needed it.

If my mother could have seen me smeared with blood and dung, dismembering a carcass, she’d have fainted. But for once, I wanted to do it. I needed to chop and saw until the sweat poured down my face. I wanted to smash bone and flesh again and again until my arms were too tired to move. I wanted to hack the forest out of my mind, to smell blood and shit, instead of wild onions and rotting leaves.

Ever since we’d returned from the forest yesterday, I’d not been able to rid myself of its stench. I worked most of the night in the infirmary for I knew if I tried to sleep, the demon would come for me in my dreams. But even the stinks of the infirmary had not obliterated the smell of the forest. That creature was still out there. And it was waiting for me.

You murdered your own
, Beatrice said. She did not say
baby
, but she didn’t need to; I saw the savage hatred in her face. Did that creature also know I had murdered its spawn? If it could strike Healing Martha so savagely that she was disfigured almost beyond recognition, destroy her speech and paralyse her limbs, what would it do to me if it discovered what I’d done? I shuddered and tried to blot the sight of Healing Martha’s contorted face from my head, but I couldn’t stop seeing it.

“You finished cleaning those skins?” Pega called out to me.

Beatrice elbowed me out of the way, tutting over the tiny shreds of scarlet threads still clinging to the greasy hides. “There, and there,” she said, pointing. “Can’t you be trusted even to do that?”

Pega came across to examine the skins. I expected her to join in Beatrice’s sneers, but she didn’t.

“Stop mithering, Beatrice. That’ll do fine. Lass here’s been up better part of the night tending to the infirmary and she’s still worked like an ox this morning, which is more than young Catherine’s done. You intending to do anything to help, lass?”

Catherine didn’t seem to hear. She was huddled miserably on an upturned pail, her face and hands smeared with sheep’s blood.

“Poor child,” Beatrice said. “She’s so upset about Healing Martha,
bless her. She’s scarcely eaten a thing since yesterday. She’s shivering. We should send her inside.”

“Aye, well, she’d not be cold if she got off her bloody arse and did some work. Sitting there moping isn’t going to help Healing Martha. Over here, Catherine, and help get these skins in the lime. Sooner we get done here, the sooner we can all get into the dry.”

Catherine stumbled across, not looking at any of us. The rain drove in through the open barn doors, swirling the blood in the puddles.

Pega hitched her skirts even higher up her bare legs as she wrestled with the slimy sodden hides. “So how is Healing Martha? Any better?”

I shook my head. “She doesn’t seem to be able to speak. Just keeps saying the same word she did in the forest, except it isn’t a proper word. I gave her some lavender to help restore her wits, but—”

“Who gave you the right to physic Healing Martha?” Beatrice snapped. “You know no more than the rest of us—a great deal less, I should think. Healing Martha was the only one with the skill to mend others and now she has neither the wit nor speech to tell anyone how to heal
her.”

Catherine made a little high-pitched sound like a puppy whimpering. She stared towards the infirmary, her eyes brimming, her hands shaking helplessly by her sides.

Beatrice put a protective arm around her. “This child is in no state to work; her hands are like ice. I’m taking her inside to get warm—otherwise she’ll be ill herself. And we don’t want to tax Osmanna with another patient, do we?” she added, glowering at me.

Beatrice gently guided Catherine out of the barn and across the yard. And as the rain wetted her again, the dried blood on Catherine’s hands began to run and dripped from her fingers into the puddles as she walked.

Pega sighed. “Looks like it’s just you and me, lass. Come on, grab the skin.”

We carried the heavy skin across to the vat and edged it in, trying not to splash ourselves with the lime.

“You seen aught of Servant Martha since the night of the storm?” Pega asked, her gaze fixed on the delicate task of sliding the skin in without touching the burning liquid.

“I don’t think she’s left her room. She let me bind up her arm, but she didn’t speak. She just sat, staring at the wall, and there was such a strange expression on her face, as if she’d seen …”

“A demon?” Pega finished.

I glanced up at Pega to see if she was taunting me, but for once I could see she was serious.

I nodded.

“The Owlman,” Pega said gravely. “Servant Martha didn’t believe in him afore, but I reckon she does now. She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known, but I tell you when she staggered towards us out of the storm she looked near to broken, as if she’d been put to the rack.”

“Have you … have you ever seen the Owlman, Pega?”

Pega shook her head vehemently. “No, and I don’t want to. My grandam told me the last time he flew, though it was years before she was born, the Owlman caught a villager in his talons one night and carried the man right up to the church tower. Still alive he was. They heard him crying for help as he was carried over the cottages. He was still screaming from the tower for hours after, but no man dared to go up to rescue him. Then at the darkest hour the screams stopped and in the morning, there was a pile of bones lying beneath the church tower, picked clean, but still bloody. They say—”

“Shepherd Martha told me of the sheep.” We both started violently as a voice rang out from the door. Servant Martha, looking almost as wet as she had that night, strode across to us, limping slightly. She threw back her sodden hood and peered into the vat. She still looked deathly pale. There were dark hollows around her eyes and she cradled her arm protectively.

“Servant Martha! I didn’t expect … Are you feeling better?” I asked.

She looked down at me. “You attended to my arm most efficiently, Osmanna. I’ve no doubt it will fully recover.” Her tone was brittle. “Where are the others? I understood Beatrice and Catherine were assisting you with this task.”

“Beatrice took Catherine inside,” Pega replied. “State little lass was in, she was no use to man nor beast. This business with Healing Martha has scared her half to death. Others too.”

“I do understand Healing Martha’s condition has distressed them, Pega. I am not entirely blind or deaf. And I acknowledge that I am at fault in not speaking to all the beguines immediately. But I needed time to … pray.” The crisp voice suddenly faltered. Servant Martha swallowed hard, as if she was trying to choke back an emotion she would not permit herself to betray. “It was hard … difficult.”

Pega gripped Servant Martha’s shoulder. “Whatever you saw in the woods that night, you can speak of it. You needn’t be afeared folks’ll not believe you.”

“I don’t know what I saw … The lightning … The raven … I can’t …” Servant Martha closed her eyes tightly. She seemed to be trying desperately to shut something out. Then she took a deep breath and drew herself upright.

“There is a great deal of work to be done. These floods will cause severe hardship in the village, but then I do not need to tell you that, Pega. We must offer every assistance.” She nodded curtly to Pega then to me, and walked towards the barn door, a little more slowly and stiffly than she had done when she entered. As she pulled her hood back over her head, she turned.

“At this testing time, Osmanna, all the beguines must be of one mind and one purpose to support one another. Strength in the community is forged by us partaking of the one holy bread. We must lay aside our own spiritual quests and strive for unity. The Mass on Sunday will be said both in gratitude for God’s mercy in sparing Healing Martha and to pray for her recovery. I know how much you want to see Healing Martha restored to full health and strength, Osmanna, and therefore I trust you will demonstrate as much on Sunday—to everyone.”

Servant Martha ducked under the waterfall cascading from the barn roof and disappeared out into the driving rain.

Despite the cold, I felt my cheeks burning. I turned away, trying to hide my face by pulling stray shreds of flesh from the remaining hide.

“That woman never uses one word if she can torment ten,” Pega muttered. “Why doesn’t she just tell you she wants you to take the Host?” I could feel her looking down at me, just as Servant Martha had done.

“There’s a few not coming forward to take the Host now that you’ve refused. But I’d not have thought you’d be the one to disapprove of a woman leading the Mass, Osmanna. Beatrice, now—she’s different. There’s always been a rub between her and Servant Martha. But I’d have wagered you for one who’d have had your heart set on doing it yourself someday.”