Authors: Karen Maitland
Suddenly the flashing swords froze, interlocked in a six-pointed sun above the Fool’s head. The Owl Masters circled and the metallic sun rotated above the Fool as he sank to his knees. The crowd was hushed, holding its breath. Only the pleading of the Fool rang out, a lone wail across the Green. But the plea for mercy was ignored. The murderous sun descended and locked around his neck. The Fool lay dead. The six Owl Masters wordlessly turned, as one, to face the crowd around them, their swords pointing at the hearts of the villagers, their savage owl faces staring them down, challenging anyone else to approach. No one moved. No one dared to move.
Moll pushed her way through the Owl Masters. They let her pass. She bustled about the body on the ground, making great play of holding up his lifeless limbs and letting them flop to the ground. She slapped the Fool’s cheeks, pulled his jaw open and poured the contents of an empty flagon into his mouth. When that had no effect, she forced one of her massive bladder breasts into his mouth. And with that, the Fool leapt to his feet and turned a couple of somersaults just to show he was in the rudest of health.
All of the villagers were laughing, that kind of nervous laughter which explodes when tension is shattered. Children rolled on the ground, imitating the Fool with exaggerated death throes, finally reassured that it was only a play. The mummers cavorted about Harrow Green, while the Fool kissed Moll and she boxed his ears.
In all the commotion I didn’t notice the Owl Masters disappear. Perhaps they simply vanished back into the forest or maybe they took off their masks and brown cloaks and mingled with the crowd. Some villagers looked around nervously as if expecting to see them at their backs. The Owl Masters had no faces and no names. They might be anyone in Ulewic. Who was missing from the crowd when the Owl Masters were here? There are some questions no one is allowed to ask.
The villagers drifted off to stuff themselves and drink and dance and drink some more. Saint Walburga alone did not move. The great straw frame squatted upon the grass. I knew there had to be someone inside. The saint couldn’t move by itself, even though the village children were convinced it did.
THE GREEN WAS LITTERED
with bones and dung, fragments of pastry and lost ribbons, crushed flowers and broken dishes. The shadows were lengthening fast and, overhead, birds began to wheel towards their night roosts. A cold breeze sprang up out of nowhere. I shivered.
The Owl Masters returned as silently as they had departed. I didn’t see where they came from, but when I looked up there they were as if they had always been there. Those villagers who were still sober enough to stand jerked nervously as they caught sight of them. The Owl Masters seized the saint’s ropes and now stood motionless in a circle facing us. One by one the laughter and the arguments died away. Neighbour nudged neighbour until all attention was fixed upon the six masked figures.
A girl, her hair tumbling loose and her kirtle grass-stained, was shoved and pushed by her friends to the front of the crowd. She made a tipsy curtsy, then leant forward, the tip of her pink kitten-tongue sticking out in an effort of concentration. She tossed the May garland. It landed neatly upon the top of the saint’s painted wooden crown.
The girl’s giggling attendants assured her that her lucky throw meant she would be wed before the year was out. She glanced towards the young men. They jeered and pummelled one of their number, who looked as if he’d been praying devoutly she’d miss the throw.
The Owl Masters tugged on the ropes and led the saint as she swayed unsteadily across Harrow Green towards the forest, followed at a safe distance by all the men of Ulewic, at least those who were not sow-drunk. The women watched, but made no attempt to follow. We women are not welcome in the forest.
My heart began pounding and the palms of my hands were sticky with excitement. For nearly a month I’d been planning what I’d do, but now that it was time, I wasn’t sure if I could really do it. Suppose I was seen? Suppose my mother suddenly asked for me and discovered I was missing? But if I didn’t try, I’d kick myself later, for it would be a whole year before I could try again.
With a long-suffering sigh, my mother signalled it was time for us to depart. She led the way, leaning on the arm of an old and trusted henchman, in the sure and certain knowledge we would all obediently follow her. My two sisters dutifully did, but I ducked down defiantly behind a cart. In all the bustle of packing up, no one noticed that I was not in the procession following my mother. That’s the advantage of being the unwanted child; no one notices when you disappear.
I stayed down until everyone was occupied, then I picked up my skirts and ran, dodging between the cottages, in the direction of the trees. Night was closing in fast. Only the thinnest rind of the sun still glowed orange above the bare black branches. No good girl would be out at this late hour but, as my mother was forever telling me, I was not a good girl.
Darkness gathered early in the forest. It never really departed, but skulked among the ancient wrinkled trunks all day waiting to seep out into the meadows again. I couldn’t see the path that the men were following, but they lit torches and it was easy to keep pace with the snake of yellow flame as it wound its way through the gloom. The men were too drunk to notice another shadow in the bushes. Ahead I saw the snake of flame begin to coil into a ball of fire. I had no idea where we were for I had never been this far into the forest and certainly never
alone here, but I knew we must be somewhere near the river: I could hear the sound of rushing water.
The men had gathered in a clearing, near a massive bull oak. They held their blazing torches high, glancing around them. Crouching in the darkness among the trees, I could see without being seen. I couldn’t see my father, though, or my cousin Phillip, but I knew both must be here somewhere; both came every year.
Women weren’t allowed to witness this. We weren’t even told what happened here. It was the men’s secret—well, not anymore, because this year I’d finally know. I nearly laughed out loud, thinking how shocked all the men would be if they knew a girl was in their precious forest, mere feet away from them.
Saint Walburga stood alone in the centre of the clearing, faggots of wood piled up around her. She no longer moved. Whoever had animated her must have been released before we arrived. But who had been inside? It was impossible to recognise anyone; in the flickering torchlight, every man wore a mask of shadows. The men kept glancing nervously round, peering into the dark mass of the trees. They tried to jostle their way into the centre of their group as if they felt vulnerable on its edges.
I heard a rustle in the bushes behind me and froze: An Owl Master slipped silently out of the shadows no more than a yard from me. My heart began to thump. Suddenly this no longer seemed like a game. What if I was discovered? What would they do to me? What would my father do if he learned that I’d come here? I was a witless numbskull ever to think this was a good idea. I wanted desperately to creep away before I got caught, but I daren’t move in case the Owl Master saw me.
Then a second Owl Master appeared a few yards away on the other side of me, and another and another until there were nine of them standing motionless in a circle around the clearing, merging with the darkness, only the bronze beaks on their masks glinting in the firelight. In the clearing the villagers suddenly caught sight of them and edged closer together, like sheep encircled by dogs.
The saint squatted in her nest of wood. The nine Owl Masters stood for a moment, then, drawing their swords, strode towards her.
The villagers shrank back to let them through. The Owl Masters seized flaming torches from the men standing nearby and raised them high above their heads, turning as one to face the crowd. The wind whined in the branches high above, gusting the flames of the torches, and sending shadows gibbering round the men. Outside the flickering circle of light, the darkness had grown thicker, almost solid. No one stirred.
A voice rang out across the silent clearing, deep and distorted beneath the owl mask. It was impossible to see which of the Owl Masters was speaking.
“Taranis will be acknowledged. He will have his due. Those who neglect to give what is owed to him, those who set themselves against the natural order of things, bring down a curse upon all of us. Will we allow that to happen?”
“No!” the crowd roared back at him.
“Will we permit that to happen?”
“No!”
“What must we do?”
“Give him the saint! Give him Saint Walburga!”
The villagers began to stamp their feet. The Owl Masters slowly circled the wooden saint, crouching low, carnivorous.
“Through blood we renew our strength.”
“Through death we renew our life.”
“Through destruction we renew creation.”
“Through fire we make all things fertile. Ka!”
The chanting and stamping of the crowd gathered in strength until the trees themselves seemed to join in. Suddenly one of the Owl Masters sprang forward and plunged his sword into the saint’s body. A scream split the darkness. When he drew the sword out, blood glistened wet upon the blade.
Then the Owl Masters threw their torches onto the pyre and the bonfire roared into life. Smoke and flames writhed into the night. Golden sparks exploded above the treetops. Saint Walburga was squirming; shrieks and howls emanated from her.
And above the smell of wood smoke drifted the unmistakable stench of burning hair and roasting flesh.
a
RESTLESS SPIRIT HOVERED
within our walls. It had prowled around us since the first prayers of the day and, with the coming of darkness, it was growing in strength. Roused from their cots for prayer at the midnight hour, the beguines huddled together, edging into the guttering light of the candles away from the shadowy corners of the chapel.
There is a peace that attends those who wait on the Divine Spirit. I always feel it strongest at the first calling of the day. The night might be black as Satan’s wings, the wind might shake the wooden shutters and the rain might beat upon the door, yet inside the little chapel of our beguinage there is always calm.
But not this night. This night, there was no peace. It was as if an icy draught had entered with us and I could not shut it out. The women bowed their heads and feigned attention to their prayers, but there was a shiver of unease among them. As horses stir and prick their ears when they sense a beast prowling round their stable, so they were tense, listening for something beyond our walls.
Even the seven other Marthas, who were elected to run the beguinage with me—all mature, sensible women—seemed strangely troubled. Kitchen Martha, Shepherd Martha, even our imperturbable Gate Martha—each kept raising her head and staring towards the shuttered windows as if she too could sense something malevolent outside.
I stood before the kneeling beguines on the steps of the sanctuary, raising my hands to heaven.
“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritu Sancto. Ame—”
There was a long drawn-out howl and scratching at the door. Several beguines gasped and all heads turned towards the sound. Shepherd Martha rose, crossing herself hastily, and made for the door with a mumbled apology. As soon as she had opened it, Leon, her huge shaggy black hound, came rushing in, dodging Shepherd Martha’s outstretched hands and making straight for the furthest corner of the chapel. Even that great brute was nervous.
I was not blind; like everyone else I had seen the May Day fires burning on the hilltops since nightfall, twin fires, ruby-bright in the darkness. I too had heard the shrieks and drunken laughter of the villagers staggering to their beds after the day’s revelries, but those harsh sounds did not penetrate our chapel walls. And they should not have disturbed our song. Yet the women were uneasy and although I raised my voice until it reverberated off the stone walls of the chapel, I could not command their attention.
“Sed libera nos a malo.”
May our blessed Lord indeed deliver us from evil this night.
I looked round, seeking the reassurance of my old friend. Healing Martha was crouching in the shadow of the altar, her back pressed against the wall, her face hidden by her hood. She always prayed in that manner when her back ached. A fall, years ago, on slippery cobblestones, had left her with a limp and pain that chastened her day and night. Some days were worse than others. On bad days she sat, chalk-faced, her lips pressed tightly together as if she feared a cry would escape them. On other days a stranger might detect nothing, but her hand pressed to the small of her back when she thought no one observed her, betrayed the pain Healing Martha tried so hard to conceal. For all her knowledge of herbs and ointments she could not cure herself. I prayed daily for her healing, but I never told her. I knew she would bid me to save my breath.
“How could I understand the pain of others if I didn’t feel the smart of it myself?” she once told me. “Do you think Kitchen Martha could cook such good dishes for us, if she was not constantly hungry?”
“Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum.”
The women began to file out. Crossing swiftly to Healing Martha, I helped her to her feet. She pulled heavily on my arm, hauling her body upright, then thrust my hand away, impatient with her own weakness.
I looked down at her. She had always been much shorter than I—most people are for I am too tall for a woman—but Healing Martha was shrinking each year as her stoop became more pronounced. She had seen at least seventy full summers, but though her hair was white and her teeth loose, her hands had lost none of their skill.
Few back in Flanders had been able to match her knowledge of the healing arts. She always taught her assistants generously, holding no secret back, delighting when any displayed a more skilful hand than hers at cutting flesh, or preparing some ointment unknown to her. She had earned an honoured place in the Vineyard in Bruges and not a day had gone by in these past three years that I hadn’t reproached myself for bringing her to this desolate corner of England. Not that bringing her here had been my idea.