The Owl Killers (16 page)

Pega had an easy way of talking about the couplings of men and women that I could never match. She’d known all breeds of men. I saw it in her face when she spoke of this man or that, vicious men who hurt her and gentle ones whose memory brought a look of mother softness to her eyes. And then there was the one who even after all these years still brought a sleep-smile to her mouth and a soft escape of breath. Once I asked his name, but she shook her head and turned away. “They don’t have names, nor faces neither.”

A woman who has tasted many men has no more curiosity. But when you have known only one and his bed was cold and cruel, then you wonder constantly if another man might have been kinder to you or if it really was your fault, as your husband constantly told you.

His mother and the priest and the physician, they all blamed me. They all said it was my fault that I was childless; my fault that my husband did not love me; my fault that I made him angry. They all said it so many times that I knew it must be true. The forsaken marriage bed and the empty crib beside it, I had only myself to blame for those things.

Sometimes I looked at men and imagined what it would be like to be loved by them. But even to imagine was a sin; the thought was as wicked as the deed. I’d been taught that with my catechism at my mother’s knee. But it was the pain which bound me to the sin, a dull empty ache that gnawed away inside me. Sometimes it lay so still that I thought it had gone. Then I would see a woman standing just so, her hand rubbing the swelling of her child-ripe belly, or I’d hear the branches of the yew tree in the churchyard rasping together in the wind as if a wailing baby was wombed within its wood. That is when
it stirred again and I knew that the desperate longing to hold my own child in my arms would never leave me, not even if I lived to be as old as Abraham and Sarah.

Pega was staring intently over my shoulder at the clump of elms higher up the hill. The rooks, disturbed by something, were wheeling down and out as if trying to drive off a hawk or a cat. Their raucous cries shattered the still air. Pega stood up and shielded her eyes, then quickly crossed herself. I scrambled to my feet too, alarmed by her sign, and followed her gaze.

A young girl was standing motionless under the trees. A tangle of flaming red hair tumbled loose about her shoulders. Though she appeared to be about twelve years old, she wore nothing more than a thin dirty shift, ragged and short enough to show that her pale legs were bare.

“It’s only a beggar girl,” I reassured Pega.

The children, curious as ever, came wandering up to see what we were looking at. They stood staring warily at the girl, as if she was some strange animal.

Pega spat three times on the backs of her fingers. “That’s no beggar, that’s Gudrun.”

“Old Lettice says her mam was a witch.”

I looked down, startled by the small piping voice. The village child who had brought the cakes was standing behind Pega, a fold of Pega’s skirt pressed tightly against her face as if she was scared to look at the beggar girl.

“Lettice says her mam could change herself into a grey cat with great yellow eyes. The cat used to slink from byre to byre every night drying up the cows’ milk and fluxing the calves. Then one of the villagers caught the grey cat in a trap and cut out her tongue. He was going to hang her, but she scratched him and got away. And the very next day her daughter was born.”

“A wicked thing to say,” I told her sharply.

The child shrugged. “The woman died giving birth and the grey cat’s never been seen again. And Lettice says Gudrun was born dumb, can’t make a sound on account of them cutting out her mam’s tongue. So that proves she’s a witch.”

Pega was still watching Gudrun as if she feared to turn her back on
her. The girl stared back at us. She looked so vulnerable and innocent in the torn shift, her skin creamy and soft like a little child’s. Threads of gold glinted in the red hair as the leaf-dappled sunlight played over it.

“Poor little thing,” I murmured. “Who takes care of her now?”

“The grandam, old Gwenith,” Pega said. “She has the cunning gift, but unlike her daughter she does no harm with it. She’s a good sort. Many in these parts go to her for charms and cures. She can get rid of warts and more besides.”

“Father Ulfrid doesn’t mind?” I couldn’t imagine a priest tolerating the presence of a cunning woman in his village.

“I doubt he knows. No villager would tell him; he’s an outlander. Old Gwenith lives far up the river, where the valley narrows. No one would ever find the place unless they knew to look. She only comes down to the village when she needs to buy a pot or some such. They say her great-grandam was one of the five cunning women who rid Ulewic of the monster that was terrorising the village.”

“What … what did it do?” Osmanna had stepped forward. She’d suddenly gone quite pale. The poor child was not used to heavy work in the heat. Servant Martha had no right to expect it of her.

Pega frowned. “The old’uns used to say, though it was years afore they were born, that the monster swooped down and snatched villagers for its prey, not just bairns, but fully grown men. Ate them alive, tearing the flesh off their limbs while they screamed and ripping their bellies open to pick at the entrails. And it wasn’t just those the monster hunted who suffered. Wherever its shadow touched, disaster followed. Cottages were smitten with leprosy and rotted to dust, crops withered in the fields, wells dried up, and byres caught afire without any cause. Only way to appease the monster was to give it cattle. By the end there was scarcely a beast left in Ulewic.”

The children were staring up at Pega, their mouths open, their eyes wide with fear. I realised I must look just the same. Was that what the dead man had been talking about in the forest on May Eve?
Your creature, your creation of despair and darkness, who brought death to all who defied you
.

“They say the whole village would have perished, but for the cunning women. God be praised the beast’s not flown since, and God willing it never will again.”

Under the elm trees the girl raised her bare arm and with one finger traced the flight of the rooks in the sky above. The sky over her head was black with them now. The birds were gathering round her, frenziedly flapping their ragged wings. They wheeled in and out, lower and lower, but they did not touch her and she did not move.

“But Gudrun’s no cunning woman,” Pega said. “She’s the same malice in her as her dam. Dumb she may be, but her bid speaks evil enough for both of them. Look, she has it even now.”

I strained my eyes to see where she pointed. Beneath the red weeds of her hair I glimpsed something large, glossy, and black on Gudrun’s shoulder. It was a raven. Its thick beak was so close to her ear, it might have been whispering to her. It was the presence of the raven that was disturbing the rooks, not the child. But like its mistress, the raven showed no fear of the mobbing birds. There was something unnerving about the stillness of girl and bird amid those circling rooks.

Pega jerked her head towards Gudrun. “There’s something not right. In all these years, I’ve never known her or her grandam take interest in what other folks are up to. Gudrun’ll not come near folks, never mind let herself be seen. We’ve been here for three years. So why has she taken to watching us now? And more to the point, why’s she letting herself be seen doing it?” Pega crossed herself again and, with the village child still clinging to her skirts, turned back towards the swathes of hay.

I turned to stare at the trees again. But the girl and her bird had vanished. The place was so empty that, but for the wheeling rooks, I would have sworn it had always been so. The sweat on my body felt suddenly cold and clammy. I shivered.

t
HEY
’
RE IN FRONT OF ME
, blocking my way. I turn, but they’re behind me, all around me, a noose of white faces. Torches clenched in their fists. Flames scorching my face. Choking in the
smoke, I shrink, terrified that the flames will catch my hair. My sisters, Edith and Anne, are here among the zodiac. Their sallow moon-faces swim in at me. Their lips curl back, laughing. Bridget the dairymaid, the cook, the chambermaid, the wet nurse who is dead, the crone who begs without a tongue—they’re all here.

Edith sweeps the brand across my face. I flinch back, but more torches wait behind me.

“Come now, Agatha, you’re not afraid of a little fire, are you? Saint Agatha will surely protect you from the flames. Were you not named for her? Named for her in every particular.”

They spin around me, laughing. The necklace of eyes glitters in the torchlight.

“Let me go. Please let me go.”

“Why, little Agatha? You’re not ashamed of having so fine a name, are you? Are you ashamed, Agatha?” They laugh louder, raucous as the rooks in the elm trees. “There’s no need to hide it. We all know why you were named Agatha. Everyone knows. Can’t you see them pointing at you as you pass? Everywhere you go they whisper it, because they all know, Agatha. They all know.

“You’ll die an old maid, Agatha. There isn’t enough gold in the kingdom for your dowry.”

They screech with laughter. Edith snatches at the front of my dress. “Show us, go on, show everyone why they call you Agatha.”

They all grab at me, trying to rip away my robe. “Show us, Agatha. Show your name.”

I WOKE WITH A CRY
and found myself fighting to get free from the tangle of blankets. It was a stiflingly hot night; my face was running with perspiration and my body was soaking. For a moment I lay there until my breathing grew calm again.

As I turned over, I was conscious of a wetness between my thighs and with it a great surge of relief so strong that I almost cried out again. It had finally happened. I had been worrying for nothing. It was going to be all right.

I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could and tiptoed to the door. It
creaked as I pulled it open, and Catherine made a little mewling sound in her sleep, but she didn’t wake.

The courtyard was flooded with moonlight; a silver sheen glistened on the reed-thatched roofs of the beguinage, but no light shone from any of the shutters on the rooms. No one was awake. I started as a ghost-white shape glided silently over my head, but it was only the barn owl that lived in the threshing barn.

I hurried across to the latrines. The lantern burned there all night, for any who might need it. I crouched against the rough wall and touched my fingers between my legs and held them up to the yellow flame. Nothing stained my fingertips but a faint sheen of perspiration. There had to be, there must be. I tried again and again, but there was no blood. Three moons had gone and still no blood.

Was it growing inside me? I stood up and slowly inched my fingers across my belly. It didn’t feel swollen, but when did a woman’s belly start to swell with child? I pressed my fists into my belly as hard as I could. If it was in there I had to crush it. I had to kill it. I couldn’t have that demon’s spawn inside me. It couldn’t be happening to me.

I turned and faced the wall, pressing myself against it with my full weight, using it to crush my fists into my belly so hard I almost cried out. My blood would come, I would make it. The blood would wash that thing out of me.

I mustn’t think about it. If I didn’t think about it, it couldn’t grow. I wouldn’t let it live inside me. I wouldn’t let it live.

f
ATHER ULFRID WAS LATE.
He was normally a rigorously punctual man, but the bell of the parish church of St. Michael’s had long since ceased tolling and the service had still not begun. The church was unusually crowded and the congregation was becoming restless. They always milled about during the service, chattering and laughing, playing little heed to the Mass, but on that day they turned and stared at the door each time it opened, buzzing with excitement as if they expected the arrival of some great dignitary.

The door opened again and Father Ulfrid finally entered, but he was not alone. He was dragging some poor wretch of a man behind him, a man who was tethered by his wrist to a long length of rope. By the sudden hush, I knew this must be the person the villagers were expecting. The man’s face was hidden under a hood. But I now saw why the villagers all drew away as he approached. There could be no mistaking the white patches on the skin of his outstretched arm or the stench of rottenness that clung to his body. Some of the younger beguines drew back too. I frowned at them reprovingly and motioned them to stay still.

On the chancel steps the leper fell to his knees and whispered his confession at the feet of the priest. I was furious. The priest had no need to make a public show of this man’s confession. Did Father Ulfrid think God so deaf that He had to borrow a hundred dull ears from men to listen to the suffering of a single soul? One woman was actually cupping her hand to her ear that she might hear better.

“It’s well known that sleeping with an adulteress will cause the leprosy,” she said loudly to her neighbour.

“Aye, that or sleeping with a woman in her menses,” her friend replied.

“But what if she be both an adulteress and in her menses?” the woman asked.

“Then he gets pox and leprosy—an itch and no fingers to scratch it with—now there’s a torment!” They both cackled with laughter.

The man’s confession seemed to go on forever as though he feared to stop lest the axe should fall on him. Eventually, cutting the penitent off in mid-sentence, Father Ulfrid held up his hands to pronounce the absolution. He picked up the man’s rope and dragged him towards the far corner of the church. Two carpenter’s trestles had been placed there, with a black cloth stretched between them in the semblance of a sepulchre. Father Ulfrid urged the man inside. The wretch pulled back in horror as if it was the mouth of Hell, but Father Ulfrid insisted, driving him in as a dog to a kennel. The man crouched under the black cloth, his hood pulled so far over his face that he seemed all shadow.