Authors: Karen Maitland
The jail boasted a stout wooden door and a narrow barred window set too high in the wall for a prisoner to see out or anyone to look in unless, like the Commissarius, they were standing on something. The bars on the window were unnecessary, for only a starving cat could have squeezed through the small gap between the thick stones, but its builders had taken no chances. No one would escape their stronghold.
The Commissarius’s expression betrayed nothing as he stared down into the cell. Though it was only mid-afternoon, the sky was grey and heavy, as if it was already twilight, and it must have been even darker inside the cell.
“We didn’t know when to expect you, Commissarius,” I said, still breathless from having run from my cottage. “If I’d known you were arriving today, I would have had the bailiff waiting here with the key. But I can send for him now if—”
“That will not be necessary. I have seen all I wish to see.” He sprang nimbly to the ground. “We are on our way to speak with Lord D’Acaster.” He beckoned to a thin round-shouldered youth who hunched miserably against the wall of the jail, blowing on his blue-knuckled hands. “Take the mounting block back to the inn, boy; I will speak to Father Ulfrid in private before we ride on to the Manor. You may bring our mounts to the church and wait for me there—outside!”
The lad nodded vigorously as if he wanted to leave no doubt that he would carry out the instructions to the letter. He started off in such haste that he stumbled over the wooden mounting block as he tried to pick it up.
The Commissarius booted him up the backside as he tried to get up, which sent the lad sprawling over the block again, but his master ignored the boy’s yelp of pain and, turning, strode away in the direction of the church.
I had waited for this moment for days. I’d hardly been able to sleep or eat, thinking about it. It was as if the heavens had opened and the Holy Grail itself had fallen straight into my lap. First the witch-girl had come wandering straight into our hands, and now this. It was as if everything I did was suddenly blessed by God. Finally, finally, He had turned the tide my way. God had kept faith with me. I had been cast into a pit and thought myself abandoned, but God had remembered me in Egypt and was about to bring me forth.
I had prayed for the relic and instead I received something far better—a heretic. That prize was surely enough to cancel out any transgression I had committed in the Bishop’s eyes. I would soon be back in the comfort of the Cathedral at Norwich; then the Owl Masters could do what they liked with this shit-hole of a village; it would be far behind me.
The church was dark, for little light penetrated the coloured fragments of the stained glass windows. Only the ruby glow of the eternal lamp above the altar stood out from the shadows, but it illuminated nothing. The Commissarius prowled around, peering into the vestry and bell tower to assure himself that the church was empty. Finally he slid onto one of the stone seats which lined the walls where the old or weak rested during the services.
The wall behind him was painted with the Harrowing of Hell. I could not make out the figures in the gloom, save for the gold of the halo above the head of Christ, but I knew it well enough. Christ standing before the prison of Hades in His winding sheet, breaking the prison door down and offering release to the dead who crowded behind it. It seemed to me in that moment the most blessed of omens, that the Commissarius should have chosen to sit before that
painting of redemption and liberation. His first words were also grat-ifyingly comforting.
“I must congratulate you, Father Ulfrid. You appear to have wasted no time in bringing this grave matter to our attention.”
“When I learned what had transpired at the house of women, I was naturally appalled. I sent a letter at once to Bishop Salmon.”
“Quite so.” The Commissarius nodded encouragingly.
“When the Bishop sent the warrant for her arrest, I saw to it that it was acted upon immediately. I was … a little surprised though, that His Excellency ordered the girl to be held here. I thought he might wish her to be held at his own jail in Norwich. But now that you are here to take the girl back to Norwich for trial, that will be a great relief to the village. Although …”
I hesitated, not wishing to be seen to offer advice. “Forgive me, Commissarius, I couldn’t help noticing that you have only one lad with you. Naturally I will accompany you to Norwich to testify and of course, a young girl will hardly be able to offer much resistance. We will be able to manage her between us, I’m quite sure. But perhaps … we should take a few other men with us, just as a precaution, in case the foreign women attempt to rescue—”
“Lord D’Acaster’s daughter on trial in Norwich?” The Commissarius pressed his delicate fingers together. “I think not. You must understand that any accusations brought against a noble family have to be handled with great delicacy. His Excellency, Bishop Salmon, has no wish to publicly humiliate one of our leading families.”
For a moment I couldn’t seem to catch my breath; I felt winded, as if he had just kicked me in the stomach. Surely he wasn’t going to dismiss this crime merely because she was D’Acaster’s daughter? I felt as if I had grasped a rope to pull myself out of the mire, only to have it come away in my hands.
“But, Commissarius, she’s a heretic! Countless witnesses will testify to the fact. Surely the Bishop wouldn’t turn a blind eye to such a crime because the girl is highborn?”
“Father Ulfrid, are you suggesting that the Bishop weights his scales of justice in favour of the wealthy or powerful?” The Commissarius’s voice crackled with ice. “Just because he was unduly
lenient with you, Father, do not imagine that he allows crime to go unpunished.”
“Of course, I didn’t mean …” We both knew that was exactly what I did mean. “Forgive me, Commissarius, but I don’t understand. You just said the girl would not be brought to trial; then how will justice …” I faltered.
“The girl will not face trial in
Norwich
, Father. But there will be a trial, make no mistake about that. The Bishop has graciously entrusted me to conduct it myself, here in Ulewic, and if the malefactor is found guilty, the sentence imposed for the crime will also be carried out here.
“His Excellency desires discretion, Father Ulfrid. There is no need to make a public spectacle of such a tragic affair. One does not punish the father for the sins of the child. Lord D’Acaster is a generous benefactor to the Church. One would hardly wish to see such a devout and godly man publicly shamed for the heinous crimes of his wanton and rebellious daughter. The girl has surely heaped misery enough upon her father’s head. But you need have no fear, Father Ulfrid; she will not escape justice.”
The Commissarius shuffled slightly on the stone seat, revealing a little tongue of red flame among the dark figures on the wall at his back.
“If the trial is held in Ulewic,” he continued, “it will make it easier for witnesses to come forward, particularly those who might be a little reluctant to testify. It has been my experience that simple men, who have lived all their lives in a village, are apt to become tongue-tied if paraded before their betters in the splendour of a great Cathedral building. They are inclined to become confused about what they heard. And we don’t want our little fish wriggling from the net because some village idiot muddles his testimony, now do we?”
The Commissarius gave a slight smile. “I am sorry if that disappoints you, Father Ulfrid. No doubt you were looking forward to leaving the village, perhaps renewing old acquaintances in Norwich, or one friend in particular?”
My heart lurched. The band of pain tightened. Had Phillip told
him about Hilary coming here? No, if he had I would be sitting in that jail now instead of D’Acaster’s daughter.
“I only wished to serve His Excellency in this matter,” I said hastily, glad that the church was too dark for the Commissarius to see my face.
The Commissarius studied his fingers. “However, Father Ulfrid, I did not bring you here to discuss the conduct of the trial. There is another issue which … concerns me.” He paused before pronouncing the word
concern
, as if he had devoted much thought to the selection of the word.
“As I said, you are to be commended for your diligence in reporting the matter of the heresy, Father Ulfrid. Which makes it all the more puzzling as to why you did not immediately report the fact that you had excommunicated the house of women in its entirety. If I am to understand your letter correctly, it would appear that you took this step two months ago. And yet you only thought fit to tell us of it now.”
“But, Commissarius,” I protested, “it was you yourself who instructed me to use the penalty of excommunication if the people would not pay their tithes.”
“Quite so. But your letter suggested that you did not impose such sanctions for a failure to tithe. If I have understood you correctly, you excommunicated them for their defiance in refusing to make public penance for a far graver crime, a crime that should have been brought to our attention immediately. Had you done so, the matter might have been resolved long before this girl committed her heinous act, thereby saving Bishop Salmon the embarrassment you have subjected him to and saving me a great deal of trouble.”
The Commissarius shifted on the cold stone again, revealing more of the flames painted on the wall behind his back. It was too dark to see the details, but I didn’t need to; I knew every detail of that painting by heart. The painted fire burned beneath a great caldron in Hell in which the tormented, their limbs hacked off, were being boiled alive.
The Commissarius tapped his mouth with a long thin finger as if he was deep in thought, but I was certain that he had already planned every word he was going to say to me.
“It would appear, Father Ulfrid, that you have knowingly permitted a nest of vermin to breed in your midst, a nest which has been brooding a most evil and wicked heresy, while you have stood by and done nothing. I think, Father Ulfrid, you had better tell me all that has transpired from the beginning concerning these women. And I caution you not to leave anything out, otherwise I may indeed be returning to Norwich with a prisoner for trial, but it will not be the girl.”
e
VERY TIME I WENT INTO THE COTE
I looked for my little Gudrun, expecting to see her crouching there with a bird nestling in her hair, as if the past days had been nothing but an evil dream. She’d simply wandered away as she often did. She wasn’t dead. My Gudrun wasn’t dead.
Every mother wails to all who will listen that all kinds of disasters have befallen her missing child, only to feel so foolish when the child walks in with a grubby grin, all blithe and innocent, to be startled by her mother’s fierce hug, her slaps and tears, her laughter and her scolding. So, each time I opened that door I expected to be made foolish. I’d shout and cry and she wouldn’t understand. She’d merely lost track of time. She wouldn’t even know I’d been searching for her. She never did.
I had peeled the wet strands from her face with my own fingers. I could still feel them tangled in my hand, but that was not death. The body I touched wasn’t real. It was a trick, a deception contrived by mummers, a doll made to look like the living, stuck with pins or bound with thorns that could not hurt it, for it was made of wax. The lips painted blue, the green eyes carved out to resemble real eyes … that doll, that pretty semblance of a virgin saint, was not my Gudrun. It was not my Gudrun dead.
Gudrun’s straw pallet still lay against the wall and I saw her there,
curled up like a cat beneath the covers, but as my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness I looked again and saw her bed was empty. Her breathing form was turned to straw, which no spinning of my prayers would turn again to gold. It’s as if I saw with two pairs of eyes: a pair that lied and a pair that revealed the brutal truth. I wished to God that I had only the lying eyes.
The pigeons missed her too. Every now and then one flew down and alighted on her bed as if it too saw her there. They wouldn’t come to my hands, nor let me snuggle their warm bodies, fluttering away if I reached out to them, but at night there were always three of them, nestling together where her head used to lie. Everyone else continued with their lives as if she had never been. We were the only ones who missed her, the pigeons and me, for we were the only ones who’d ever loved her.
I was the keeper of the cote. No one came in except Gudrun and me. I had to sleep in the cote now, in case the others sneaked in during the night. I had to keep them out. They mustn’t know that Gudrun’s bedding was still here. They’d tell Servant Martha and she would order it removed. “A waste of good blankets and straw,” she’d say. “A morbid obsession, unfitting for a beguine. The sooner all traces of that unfortunate mute are removed, the sooner Beatrice will pull herself together again. It is for her own good. She has no right to grieve. She was not the girl’s mother.”
But that pallet was all I had of Gudrun. My only keepsake. She had nothing to leave, except her scent that still lingered on the linen. If they took it away, she couldn’t come back. She knew her own bed, you see, like the pigeons. If you destroy their nests, they circle round and round. They won’t land. They won’t come home.
Pega took me to the place where she said the women buried her, close by the chapel wall, hidden from a casual glance. Just a little strip of newly dug earth, swollen and livid in the grass like a fresh weal upon a naked back. That was Servant Martha’s doing, hiding her away in a forgotten corner like you’d bury a dead cat. Her precious saint, the pure virginal Andrew, was given an honoured place under the chapel floor. But not my innocent murdered child; she was nothing more than a gnawed bone to be tossed out of sight.
Only a week had gone by since Servant Martha and Pega had buried her, yet already the earth was settling back. Old brown leaves were drifting over it, blown against it by the wind, and the rich brown of the newly dug soil was turning grey. There were no flowers to lay on it. No stone marked it. Rain would rinse it away. Frost would trample it flat. By spring it would be gone. That’s what Servant Martha wanted, to obliterate all signs that my child ever lived. That’s what they had always done—tried to pretend that my little ones had never existed.