Death and the Maiden

by Samantha Norman

  Gulping down a wave of panic that threatened to suffocate her, she forced herself upright and without opening her eyes—she didn’t have the courage to face the entombing darkness again quite yet—stretched out her hand to explore the ground around her, feeling neither mud nor stone beneath her fingertips but the dusty crumble of compressed dry earth.

  She was in a cave perhaps? Some sort of undercroft? Her instinct told her that she was almost certainly underground; the lack of any breeze; the dank, stale air; and the cloying absence of light confirmed it.

  She tried to stand up but a swingeing pain in the back of her head jammed her teeth together and forced her back onto the ground. She clenched her fists against the pain and tried again, forcing herself off the ground, but when she tried to move her feet, she felt the pull of a rope tied fast around her ankle.

  In the end it was neither fear nor pain but futility that broke her and made her weep, until, too exhausted to weep anymore, she curled up on the dusty floor and slept . . . and dreamed.

  In her dream she was a figure in the painting of the Last Judgment, the one hanging above the chancel in the parish church, where she was standing before an enthroned Christ as he meted out his doom.

  On the right-hand side of the throne of grace she could see the souls of the saved, ecstasy on their faces as they were wrapped in the arms of the angels, but to the left, grotesque in their pleading and fear, the damned stood waiting to be seized on the pendulum of the devil’s flesh hook and flung into the cauldrons of everlasting fire.

  Hawise watched in mute horror as each one met their fate, feeling the searing heat of the flames of hell on her skin and then something even more terrible, Christ’s own gaze upon her.

  “And you, Hawise,” Christ said in a voice even more terrible than his gaze. “To which side do you belong?”

  “With you! With you! I belong with you, my Lord!” she cried out, but her plea was drowned out by the clanking of the chain as it swung the hook toward her.

  She woke with a start to the sound of footsteps and a figure emerging out of the darkness like vapor solidifying into form.

  “Who are you?” she asked, peering up at the seemingly endless column of darkness that had risen in front of her.

  “This is a m-mistake,” she stammered, her voice sounding tremulous, contemptible even to her own ears. “I’m . . . I’m Hawise . . . from Elsford . . . Perhaps you know the place . . . I’m the reeve’s daughter.”

  She cowered when the figure silently bent toward her, hauling her to her feet, but when he clamped his hands around her throat, instead of feeling fear, she felt guilt. This was her fault. She was responsible for this; her own willful disobedience had conjured the devil and brought her to her moment of death. For a moment she almost accepted it . . .

  Almost, but not quite . . . Something deep inside her wanted to live.

  “Wait!” By some miracle she recovered her voice and felt his grip loosen slightly. “You mustn’t kill me today!” The words came out in an incontinent rush and, for one glorious moment, filled the deathly quiet of the cave before it elapsed into silence and his hands tightened again, squeezing the air from her lungs and the hope from her heart. In a last act of serenity, she had closed her eyes only to open them again at an incongruous sound: an involuntary snort of laughter.

  She looked up into the dark nothingness of a face concealed beneath a cowl and saw the silhouette of his head tilted as if he were listening. At last he spoke.

  “Why not?” he asked, his tone unexpectedly curious and amused.

  Why not?

  Think, Hawise! Think, think! Why not? Why shouldn’t he kill you? Sweet Mary, Mother of God! For all she knew her life depended on the answer to this question and she didn’t have the wit to answer it! For a moment it even crossed her mind that it might be simpler just to give in and die than to wade through the impenetrable fog of her own mind. And yet, she didn’t want to die, she really, really didn’t. She had to think. She must come up with something! But whatever it was, it had to be now.

  “Because . . .” No! No! She could hear the treachery in her voice again, making her sound pathetic. For one fleeting moment self-preservation had given her fluency, which fear was taking away.

  Try harder!

  And then, by some miracle, despite the constriction of his hands, she was able to swallow and begin again.

  “Because . . .” At last her voice had some strength in it, but this time her mind was failing her . . . She couldn’t think of anything to say . . .

  Because what? Why? How could she plead for her life? What distinguished hers that it should be spared? But as terror churned her blood it stimulated her senses, and all at once, it occurred to her that, in fact, what she said didn’t matter; she had learned something from the pressure of those hands: that whenever she spoke, whatever she said, he listened to her, and while he was listening he wasn’t killing her. She would simply talk and talk and keep on talking, perhaps even bore him to death if she could.

  “Because on this very night a spirit roams the earth.” The words spewed out of her. “An evil, vengeful spirit. A local woman who was once a witch walks abroad on the anniversary of her terrible, terrible death looking for a body to replace the one so brutally taken from her . . .” Taking advantage of his slackening hold on her throat, she took a much-needed breath and plowed on. “So you see, if you kill me now, on this day, she will take mine and bedevil you for eternity.”

  She dared not look up but somehow sensed that she had his attention and that although his hands were still locked around her throat, crucially, they hadn’t tightened again quite yet. He was still listening. By some miracle she had bought herself time, and if she could keep her wits about her, she might be able to barter for some more.

  She had just drawn breath, ready to start babbling again, when at last he spoke.

  “Well, Hawise,” he said. “For clarity then: I should spare your life to save my own, is that it?”

  Hawise nodded as emphatically as his hands allowed.

  “Just for tonight then?”

  She nodded again.

  “You, you could always kill me tomorrow . . . if you had a mind to, of course,” she said. “But for the sake of your soul, sir, I beg you, not tonight.”

  And then an extraordinary thing happened. She heard him laugh, full-bodied and helpless.

  “Sit down, reeve’s daughter,” he said, taking his hands off her throat for a moment to wipe his own eyes. “And tell me more about this witch of yours.”

  Chapter 40

  When Rosa got home to find the cottage empty she assumed that Ulf had persuaded Hawise to go up to the manor after all. Although she was disappointed not to see her, there was consolation in her absence; without the girl’s incessant chatter she would get on with her chores more efficiently.

  By midafternoon she had achieved a great deal—the bread was made, a delicious pottage bubbling on the trivet—and so, with time on her hands, she went over to the window to watch the comings and goings in the marsh, and stood long enough to see the weather change, the soft gray light bruise and darken as storm clouds gathered, casting long shadows over the wildfowlers crouching low in their punts as they waited for the birds.

  Time passed almost unnoticed and the afternoon came and went; it was only the auditory rebuke of the chapel bells ringing for nones that jolted her out of her reverie at last and sent her scuttling to her clothes chest to fetch her apron.

  “Sweet Mary, Mother of God!” she muttered to herself, fumbling to tie the strings around her waist. Any moment now Ulf and Hawise would be home and hungry, and the table wasn’t even set!

  But when Ulf came back alone, she knew something was wrong.

  Today is the day I warned you about, Rosa, the Nameless Dreads told her. The day of judgment. She won’t be coming back. Not now. Not ever.

  “Where’s Hawise?” she asked, struggling to steady her voice and her irritation as she watched him busy himself with his homec
oming ritual, putting his cap on the stool, stowing his boots neatly by the door, hanging his mantle on its perch, as if such things mattered anymore.

  “Ulf!” she said, no longer able to suppress the rising note of panic now. “Did you hear me? I asked you where Hawise was.”

  He looked up at last, but when he saw her face, he felt the color drain from his.

  “I . . . thought she was here, with you,” he stammered. “I—”

  But Rosa had already torn her mantle from its hook and before he could stop her, she barged past him out the door.

  Chapter 41

  That night the wind shuddered through the marsh, carrying Ulf’s and Rosa’s cries, and with them, of course, the news of Hawise’s disappearance.

  By the time it reached Elsford Manor the hue and cry had been raised and every able-bodied man and woman had left their cozy bed to join the search. Even the alehouse stood empty, divested of its clientele by the sobering news that another girl was missing.

  Jodi burst into the solar ashen faced and tearful. She had been woken by the sound of voices and, seeing the torch-lit procession from her window, rushed downstairs and opened the door to an Ulf and Rosa she barely recognized.

  “Like ghosts they were,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Never seen such a change in anyone afore. I begged ’em to come inside even for a moment, soaked to the skin, the pair of ’em, but they said that if she weren’t here they had to press on. Find ’er wherever she was.”

  Allie had to react quickly to stop Gyltha from getting out of bed to join the search, almost pinning her to it.

  “Oh no you don’t,” she said, holding her tight. “There is nothing you can do. You’re to stay here with Jodi. Penda and I will go, and God willing, we’ll find her and bring her back, I promise.”

  Her words sounded as hollow as they tasted but they were all she had.

  “Is it him, do you think?” Gyltha asked, turning her face to the wall. “The one that took Martha and the other girls?”

  It was the question that they were secretly all asking but nobody dared answer.

  “I don’t know.” Allie took her hand. “All I know is that I will do everything I can to find her. Everything . . . Oh no! Please don’t!” Gyltha had started to cry. “We don’t know anything yet. She might have—”

  Just then the door flew open.

  “Come on, then!”

  Penda was standing in the doorway with her crossbow. “Be quick now,” she barked at Allie. “No time for fartin’ about.”

  Allie leapt up, grabbed her cloak and followed her out. When they reached the head of the stairs Penda turned to her.

  “Might need this,” she said, thrusting a small, sheathed object into her hand. “It’s a poignard,” she explained when Allie looked at it quizzically. “Tuck it up your sleeve but watch you don’ cut yourself. That’s sharp enough to kill a man, that is, and did once.”

  Allie did as she was told and followed her down the staircase and out into the night.

  When they got to the drawbridge they saw the search party in the distance, heading into the marsh, the wind blowing the husks of the reeds and the flares of their torches in the same shearing direction.

  They caught up quickly, pushing their way through the crowd until they reached Ulf and Rosa at the head. As they drew alongside them, Allie put her hand on Rosa’s forearm in the dumb eloquence of touch, but although she turned to look at her, her eyes were blank, unreachable through the impenetrable fog of her suffering.

  Chapter 42

  By the next morning the news of the latest disappearance hadn’t yet reached Dunstan, where, in the great hall of the castle, a pervading air of tetchiness was manifest in the low-level grumbling and feet-shuffling of the villagers who, summoned early from their beds for the monthly court session, had been kept waiting.

  Sir William, who was due to be presiding over the proceedings and without whom they couldn’t begin, had turned up late, and in an extremely bad mood by the look of him.

  “Bad night, Will?” Lord Peverell whispered as he took the seat beside him on the dais.

  Sir William didn’t reply but gave him a sidelong look as he unrolled his ledger onto the table.

  “Oh dear. Be kind,” Lord Peverell whispered, looking out on all the anxious faces awaiting his steward’s judgment that morning. “Whatever ails you, Will, it isn’t their fault, remember.”

  Sir William mumbled something and stood up.

  “Oyez, oyez,” he intoned wearily. “Let the court of Dunstan commence and let every soul tell the truth as it stands in the fear of God.”

  He conducted the business efficiently but without enthusiasm, and when all the rents and debts had been collected, he moved on swiftly to the appeals, which were surprisingly few: nobody, it seemed, had offended anybody recently or allowed their animals to break a hedge or trample a neighbor’s crops. Only the tiny hamlet of Ditchling was fined—a total of three shillings—for neglecting to put its sheep on the manor fallow to manure it.

  He was about to bring the session to a close, relieved at how little fuss there had been, when a woman rushed into the hall.

  “Hold up!” she cried, turning heads as she fought her way through the crowd, waving her arms frantically at Sir William. “Some bugger’s stole my ram!”

  The news was greeted with a sharp intake of breath from the crowd, and the atmosphere changed. Things had suddenly become interesting.

  Sir William fixed her with a stare, loathing her presence and the delay she was causing.

  “Are you accusing somebody in this room?” he asked, very much hoping she wasn’t. Livestock theft was a hanging offense and, therefore, enormously time-consuming.

  “Bloody right,” the woman replied, her hands thrust onto her hips.

  Sir William wiped his brow wearily with the back of his hand. “Then, may I inquire, madam, as to whom?”

  The woman turned and raised her arm, pointing into a corner of the room.

  “Him!” she said.

  Every head in the hall swiveled with her accusing finger to see an ashen-faced Danny Wadlow sidle surreptitiously toward the exit before he was stopped by two burly men in sheepskin.

  Sir William looked from the struggling boy—who was now loudly protesting his innocence—back to the woman.

  “Do you mean that person?” he asked. “By the name of Daniel Wadlow?”

  The woman nodded.

  “And you saw him take the animal, did you?”

  The woman hesitated for a moment. “Well, I didn’t actually see ’im take it,” she said, flushing under the interrogation. “Not actually take it. Can’t say as I did, but I know, sure as eggs is eggs, that it were ’im. Ask anybody.” She broke off, her eyes sweeping the crowd for support. “It’s that scap . . . scapu . . . scapuli . . . whatsit . . . all that witchcraft and scrying malarkey. Tha’s what ’e takes ’em for.”

  “Them?” Sir William asked sharply. “Are you suggesting that he’s responsible for the theft of more than one ram?”

  “Bloody right,” the woman said, glaring at Danny, who was shouting so loudly by this time that one of his burly captors had to clap his hand over his mouth to shut him up.

  “But have you seen any of these rams in this person’s possession?” Sir William asked.

  “No, course I ain’t,” the woman snapped irritably. “’E’s too clever for that; besides, ’e kills ’em right off and boils ’em down for their bones for that . . . well, that . . . thing ’e does.”

  Stimulated by the prospect of a hanging, and a Wadlow hanging at that, the crowd had begun debating the case among themselves.

  “Silence!” Sir William shouted, glaring ferociously. “I am sorry for the loss of your ram,” he told the woman when he could be heard again and order was restored. “But without proof it is, I fear, your word against his, and therefore I cannot, in all conscience, pass judgment.”

  Murmurs of shock and outrage rumbled around the hall like distant thunder.


  “Who cares about proof!” somebody shouted. “Hang the bastard and be done with it. Do us all a favor!”

  As the crowd became increasingly restive, baying for Danny Wadlow’s blood, Lord Peverell, who had been sitting quietly throughout, decided to intervene, raising his hand in an appeal for silence.

  “And that is the doom of the court, Sir William, is it?” he asked when it had been granted.

  Sir William nodded. “Indeed, my lord.”

  After a signal from his lordship, the burly men reluctantly let Danny go and watched him scamper out of the hall.

  When he deemed that Danny was far enough away for his own safety, Sir William dismissed the court and the crowd dispersed. When they were alone at last, Lord Peverell put his hand on his shoulder.

  “I wasn’t expecting such leniency from you today, Will,” he said. “You seemed so out of sorts this morning that I—”

  “I didn’t think he was guilty,” Sir William said, interrupting him. “And, strange though it may seem, I had no appetite for a hanging today . . .” Then, muttering something about a lack of sleep, he rolled up his ledger and left the hall.

  Chapter 43

  Adelia couldn’t wait to get to Elsford, not only because she was impatient to see Allie and Gyltha again but because—after two days and nights with only Lena and the taciturn men-at-arms Emma had sent to accompany them—she was desperate for more stimulating company.

  When they reached the river Delph, swapping their horses for a boat, she left hers without a backward glance. That was another reason she was keen to get the journey over with: she hated riding horses generally but had eschewed Emma’s offer of a cart to save time.

  “Why are you always in such a hurry!” Emma had asked testily. “Just think about your poor bottom, ’Delia.”