The Owl Killers

by Karen Maitland

  “Continue, Merchant Martha,” I said. “Say what is on your conscience. I know it will not be divulged outside this room.”

  “Some of us have observed of late that Osmanna has not received the Host during Mass, nor even attended upon the altar. Naturally as her confessor you cannot divulge the sin, but …”

  I knew she’d raise that. I’d seen the looks pass between her and Kitchen Martha each time Osmanna did not come forward to receive the Host.

  “I can assure you, all of you, that Osmanna has not been refused the Blessed Sacrament because of any sin,” I replied. “On the contrary, it is Osmanna’s own desire to abstain. Something she has read in these past weeks has caused her to question whether our blessed Lord intended us to take His words literally regarding the bread and wine. She asks whether it is right to seek the presence of God through physical elements at all, when God is spirit.”

  There was a gasp of horror and outrage from some of the Marthas.

  “She is mistaken, of course,” I added quickly. “Nevertheless I rejoice that Osmanna desires to seek the truth for herself and I have no doubt, no doubt at all, that when she has meditated upon such questions and searched the will of God, she will again receive the Blessed Sacrament with renewed joy and understanding.”

  “Then, Servant Martha, until Osmanna has resolved these matters of faith, we can’t consider her for the position of a Martha, where she must give leadership to others.” There was a note of triumph in Merchant Martha’s voice. She thought she had won.

  january

  feast of fools

  a week of general licence in abbeys and monasteries. an abbot of misrule was appointed, monks burned old sandals instead of incense, drank, swore, and farted in church, sang parodies of hymns, and ate black puddings in a mock mass.

  osmanna

  sERVANT MARTHA LAID HER QUILL DOWN with a sigh. “As I told you last week, Osmanna, you will continue to work in the infirmary until a new Martha is appointed. My instructions have not changed.”

  But I wasn’t a physician. I could keep the place in order and continue to give the existing patients the same treatments as Healing Martha had done, for she had written down exactly what each person must be given. But if anyone came with a new sickness or injury I wouldn’t know what to do. And what of Healing Martha herself? How was I to treat her?

  “But, Servant Martha, when will a new Martha be appointed?”

  “Were you not listening when I explained to the whole beguinage that the Holy Spirit did not confirm who was to be the next Martha?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then you already know the answer to your question.”

  But that was the point; I didn’t know, no one did, although there were endless whispered speculations. “Being of one mind is the sign that the Holy Spirit has put his seal upon a decision, for He plants His will in each of our minds,” Servant Martha said. But the Marthas had not been of one mind. Everyone said that they had argued and since everyone expected Beatrice to be named Martha, it could only have been over her. But which of them had opposed her?

  Beatrice was angry and hurt. She spent as much time as she could with Gudrun, ignoring all the stares and whispers. She’d always doted on Gudrun, but now she seemed to be occupied with nothing else, fussing over Gudrun as if she was a newborn baby. The two spent hours together in the cote and if Gudrun ever managed to slip out, Beatrice would abandon anything she was doing and clamber up to old Gwenith’s cottage to look for her, no matter what the weather. I didn’t blame her. Gudrun was the only person who didn’t realise the humiliation Beatrice had suffered, and Gudrun couldn’t gossip behind her back.

  Servant Martha had taken me aside after she’d spoken to everyone in the refectory. It was obvious from her clipped voice and hardened jaw that she was annoyed about what had happened in the Marthas’ Council. Her instructions to me had been curt. I would continue in the infirmary until a Martha was appointed. That would be my only duty from now on and Pega would help me.

  I was relieved that someone was to help me, but half of me wished it had been someone other than Pega, and the other half of me was glad it was her. I wanted a chance to explain to her why I had run out of the barn on that day she kissed me. I wanted to say to her, Hold me again and this time I won’t run. But Pega seemed to go out of her way to be busy whenever I tried to approach her.

  I often caught her looking at me when she thought I was occupied. Whenever I felt her watching, the place on my brow where she’d laid her warm mouth seemed to burn as if her lips were still there. I cursed myself a thousand times over for running out of the barn. It was only a kiss and she was only trying to be kind. A hundred times a day, I tried to think of something to say that would mend what I had done and get her to talk to me again, but everything I thought of sounded foolish even in my head.

  “Servant Martha, I don’t have the skill for the infirmary. I’m sure there is someone else who could do it much better. Perhaps, Beatr—”

  “Nonsense!” The mole on her chin quivered.

  If Servant Martha had lived in the time of Noah and God had told her that He was going to send a flood to destroy the world, she would have simply said, “Nonsense.” And He wouldn’t have dared to do it.

  “I’m very disappointed in you, Osmanna. I didn’t think that you of all people would refuse to take on a little work, when you know how grave the need is.”

  I opened my mouth to indignantly protest that I wasn’t refusing to work, but she didn’t wait for an answer.

  “God requires this task of you; therefore He will equip you to perform it. Do you think that some good fairy simply bestowed the skill and knowledge on Healing Martha at her christening? She earned her knowledge through long tiring hours of study and practise. And you will acquire the skills you need if you apply yourself diligently to the mastery of them.”

  I knew that she was in no mood to be questioned, but I blurted it out before I could stop myself.

  “Servant Martha, doesn’t the parable of the talents teach us that each of us is born with different gifts which we must use in different ways for God’s service?”

  Her back stiffened and she slowly rose from her stool, like a father before he strikes a rebellious child. Instead, she moved past me to stand in the open doorway, staring out at hard grey skies beyond the walls.

  “The parable speaks not of gifts, Osmanna, but of coins, which are entrusted to us for safekeeping. A gift may be used as the recipient pleases, but the master requires a reckoning of the money entrusted to a servant. A coin must be spent to fulfil its worth, else it remains a useless disc of metal. The coin that God saw fit to place in your keeping is your intelligence, Osmanna, your quickness to learn. Do not squander such a purse on clever arguments and vain questions, but on acquiring such knowledge as may save your soul and that of your fellow man. Read the herbals, Osmanna; read the Psalter. Put other books aside until you are able to bring a goodly measure of knowledge and mature judgement to the studying of them.”

  I felt my cheeks burning. I knew exactly which book she meant. When I finally confessed what I’d been reading I expected her to order me to destroy the book or, at the very least, surrender it to her, but I should have realised that she wouldn’t. Servant Martha had spoken so many times in the chapel of the folly of seeking to silence knowledge. She always said that if the words on a page were true, then burning the book would not destroy the truth of them and if they were false, then their falsehood would be exposed in God’s good time, so that all men might mock it. However much the book angered her, she would never break faith with her principles and destroy it.

  Servant Martha turned from the doorway and glared down at me, her lips pressed tightly together. I had irritated her from the first moment she saw me in my father’s hall. Every answer I made to her was the wrong answer, but I couldn’t seem to keep my mouth shut. I had to answer back; even when she declared the discussion closed, I couldn’t help myself. But for once I wished she’d
talk to me, really talk. There was so much I wanted to know. I wanted to ask her what she felt when she elevated the body of Christ, that moment when she became Christ. What did it feel like to touch the mind of God? If only she had told me that, perhaps I could have understood why eating that little disc of bread was so important.

  Servant Martha gripped the edge of the door frame as if she was suddenly weary. “Osmanna, I know that you are young. I know the infirmary is a heavy responsibility for one of your tender years. But you can always seek advice from others. It is not a burden you have to share alone. That is the whole essence of a beguinage—no woman is alone with her burdens. But know this: I would not have entrusted you with the task if I did not believe you were equal to it. I have had to persuade others that you are capable of this, and believe me there are many who think you are not, so do not make me a fool in their eyes, Osmanna. I will not forgive that.”

  father ulfrid

  iS YOUR FATHER AT HOME, WILLIAM?”

  The boy glanced apprehensively back over his shoulder into the cottage, then finally he drew back a little from the doorway so that I could squeeze past him. Like all the cottages in Ulewic, this one reeked of the dung heap and decay. The sodden rushes had been gathered up from the floor and thrown into rotting piles in the street. But the earth floor and walls of the cottage had been soaked in flood water awash with all the excrement and refuse from the cottagers’ middens, and there was no way of throwing out that stink.

  Alan sat hunched over a smoking fire that only served to draw up a foul clinging mist from the earth floor, chilling the bones. His eyes were unfocused and his hands trembled slightly. I’d seen those signs in many of the villagers since the flood. They were drinking some concoction made from the dried heads of the white poppies that infested the marshlands. It fuddled the mind like strong wine, and blunted the edge of their hunger, numbing the misery. But it was an evil substance, for it robbed a man of all will to labour and eventually sent him mad. I was shocked to see a strong hardworking man like Alan under its influence.

  I coughed, but he did not stir or rise to offer me his seat. “God keep you and the children, Alan.”

  “God will keep us, will He?” he growled. “He’d best do it then … I can’t. Salterns have gone.” He flung his arm wide, in a wild uncontrolled gesture. “Sea took them, took it all back. My father worked them and his father afore him. Been working them so many generations, no one knows for sure who made them. But they’re gone, just like that, in one night. There’s nowt left.”

  “But at least your life was spared, Alan. Many of the other men and boys weren’t so fortunate.”

  “Fortunate—that what you call it? Some fortune. How am I supposed to feed my bairns now? You got an answer for that, Father?” Alan spat a glob of yellow phlegm into the flames, which hissed and spat back at him. “D’Acaster’ll be demanding his rent for this pigsty. Church’ll be screaming for their tithes, isn’t that right, Father? All you ever want is money, whole fecking lot of you … Owl Masters too—you’re all a pack of scavenging dogs fighting over our guts. What good are any of you to us? You with your Latin prayers, Owl Masters with their bonfires. There’s not one of you could stop the river taking what she wanted.”

  What was I supposed to say to him—Pray and repent? God will forgive and all shall be restored? I knew better than anyone that a whole sea of prayers would not induce God to forgive and restore.

  I’d prayed that St. Michael’s would be filled for Christmas and it was. God had sent a flood to herd the villagers into the church, a captive congregation for the Commissarius to see, but God’s vicious joke was that that very flood had also kept the Commissarius away. As the waters receded, the villagers ebbed away again. And as soon as the roads became passable the Commissarius would return. Like a tethered bird, a wing-beat of escape was all I’d been granted, and now it was only a matter of time before I was brought crashing down.

  Alan peered up at me from beneath heavy lids. “Why did you come here, Father? See for yourself—we’ve nothing left. Between the Church, the Manor, and the Owl Masters, you’ve taken it all. And what you didn’t get your greedy fists on, the river took.”

  I gritted my teeth. “I came to discuss a Mass for the soul of your poor wife.”

  “They’ve found Mam?” a voice whispered. I turned to see William standing behind me, his small thin body tense and alert.

  “No, no. I’m sorry. They’ve found nothing yet.”

  “But they’ll keep looking, won’t they?” the child said desperately.

  “I told you, boy, your mam’s gone,” Alan bellowed. “There’s no use you hoping she’s going to come back. Your mam’s dead, boy, dead and gone. If Black Anu takes you as her prey, that’s it, boy.”

  “Only God takes life, Alan,” I snapped. God’s balls, I couldn’t stand much more of these numbskull villagers and their stupid superstitions! Why did I even bother to waste my breath preaching to them? The church pigeons took more notice of me than they did.

  I took a deep breath and tried to swallow my anger. “If your poor wife has drowned, we will make every effort to recover her body and give her a decent Christian burial in holy ground, so that she may rest in peace.”

  “Let it alone, Father. You’ll not find any in these parts that’ll take a corpse from water. If they do, they or one of their own family will drown afore the year is out. Same’ll happen to you, if you try. Cross’ll not protect you, no more than it did in the churchyard at Samhain,” he added, sneering.

  I wanted to punch him. I’d been drugged, for Christ’s sake. What could I have done? “I’m no coward! I know that’s what you and the rest of this devil’s arsehole of a village thinks, but I’m not afraid of—” I faltered as a terrible stench filled the room, overpowering even the stink of mildew and decay. Someone was whimpering in the corner.

  “William!” Alan roared. “I told you to take that brat outside to shit!”

  “I did,” William protested, scuttling over to the corner. “But I no sooner take her out than she does it again.”

  He pulled his little sister up from the pile of rags on which she lay. Excrement was running down her legs and dripping onto her bare feet, and the child was moaning and clutching her belly. Her head flopped against her brother’s shoulder as he dragged her out of the cottage.

  I turned to Alan, who had slumped back in his chair. “That child is very sick. Have you any medicine for her?”

  He wiped a weary hand over his eyes. “How am I supposed to know what to do for her? Her mam did all that. I can’t take care of a sick bairn.”

  Alan heaved himself from the stool, bracing himself against the wall, his legs too unsteady to support him. He groped along a shelf until he found a small jar and scraped a little of its black, sticky contents into a beaker with his fingernail. I grasped his arm.

  “No, Alan, you must keep a clear head. What would your poor wife say if she was here? Your son’s a good lad, but he needs your help.”

  He shook off my arm violently, almost striking me in the face as he flailed out.

  “William’s not my brat! Haven’t you eyes to see that? Let Phillip D’Acaster take care of his own bastards. If you want to meddle, Father, try starting with those whores and witches in the house of women. How is it they’ve got food, when there’s none in this village? How come none of their beasts got the murrain and the flood didn’t even touch them? ’Cause they put the evil eye on us, that’s why. All this is the women’s doing.”

  He stumbled back to the stool. “You want to know something else, Father?” He wagged a trembling finger at me. “I heard tell that even when the Owlman was sent out against them, they escaped, and I’ll tell you for why—’cause they’ve got that relic. Protects them against anything and turns the curses back on us. As long as they’ve got that relic, there’s no one can touch them. Ulewic won’t be safe till we get it away from them.”

  I knew he was thinking I was useless. The whole village was laughing at me
, because I, a priest, could not make a gaggle of women obey me. Those women would pay for making a mockery of me; they’d pay dearly.

  I clenched my fist around my iron cross. “I swear I will get it, Alan. One way or the other I will force them to give it to me.”

  january

  saint distaff’s day

  the day when women returned to their labour, especially spinning and weaving, after the days of christmas.

  osmanna

  hUNCHING FORWARD ON THE STOOL, I tried again to spoon the warm pap into Healing Martha’s mouth. A little of it dribbled out from her lips. I scraped it up with the spoon and shovelled it back in again. It was an improvement. A few days ago, nearly all I spooned in would leak back out again, but either she swallowed better now or I’d mastered the trick of tipping the spoon towards the good side of her mouth. She sank back, worn out by the effort of eating. The edges of her veil were wet where she had puked, as was the front of her shift. I’d have to change them or they’d stink as they dried.

  Her good eye missed nothing, although she couldn’t name it. She pointed at anything she saw amiss in the infirmary and, if we couldn’t see it, she grunted her one sound over and over, till she shrieked with frustration. She wouldn’t rest until it was put right; a fouled cot cleaned, a loose bandage fastened, or a smoking fire stirred to flame. Healing Martha never used to be so impatient and angry. But then she had always been busy; now, she could do nothing but watch.

  She wept often. Sometimes silent tears rolled down her face and ran into rivulets on her wrinkled neck, wetting her pillow. Other times she made great noisy sobs with her mouth open and snot hanging from her nose, beating her good arm against the wood of her cot until it was purple with bruises. I rubbed oil of lavender on her then to restore her wits and she quietened, but I don’t think it was the oil which dried her eyes but her own pride, for even in her piteous state she remembered what the perfume signified.