The Burning Time

by Robin Morgan

  There was a timid knock at the door.

  “No, Sysok, you still may not come in,” Alyce called over her shoulder. “And yes, Sysok, Helena is fine, but tired. And no Sysok, the babe is not here yet. I swear to you that you shall hear it when the time comes! Now leave us in peace or I will set the curse of Macha on you and you will be a male in labor—for four nights and five days!”

  The father’s footsteps shuffled away. Helena whispered something through a throat raw with screaming.

  “So … grateful, m’Lady. You … here … like any midwife. So—”

  Helena’s face contorted with sudden pain.

  “Here it is,” Alyce said sharply, shifting forward and leaning in. “Come now, child, bear down one last time. Queen Meave is here to midwife you, far better than I could; cannot you feel Her power? The Great Mother Dana Herself is watching over you. Now press down—and the babe shall be blessed in Her sight—press, Helena, press—and your milk will flow more plentiful than Flidais’s cow that fed the push three hundred in one night yes yes bear down bear down press press PUSH!”

  A gush of blood and warm slime oozing colours jewel-vivid as rubies, sapphires, and yellow diamonds slid the infant into Alyce’s gently tugging hands. One swift stroke on the back brought the first cry. It pierced the dense, pungent air of the cottage like the squeal of a wild goose flying through fog.

  “A womanchild!” Alyce exulted, “And though early, she is perfect!”

  Helena collapsed into sobs of relief and joy. Petronilla also burst into tears, awestruck, feeling privileged to have been of aid. The afterbirth spewed forth, and the placenta was set aside to be properly buried, as was the tradition with the caul. Sysok, having heard the baby’s wail, was at the door and through it before anyone could try to stop him, not that anyone would do so now. Then all was bustle and warm clean water and tears and laughter and cooing and clean soft cloths. Helena waded to her bed, where the child—now cleaned, swaddled, and placed in her mother’s arms—squinted tiny eyes on the radiant face bent above her. While the woman and the infant studied each other, Old John, Sysok’s father, came limping in, his ancient features creasing with triumph. He announced that never had there been such a beautiful creature in the Blessed Isles as this his own granddaughter and what was everyone waiting for where was the grog.

  Only then did Alyce strip off her bloodied apron and indulge in a great armspread stretch.

  “What is this wee Maiden’s name, then?” she asked Helena.

  “Oh, m’Lady,” the new mother answered, “I am thinking she must be Dana.”

  “Well chosen,” smiled Alyce. “The One who brought you through an early, long, and hard travail, keeping you in Her sight. A second birth will likely be far easier, and those that follow easier still.”

  Helena looked up, startled. “A second!” she exclaimed. “Those that follow! By The Morrigan, I am not at all thinking of that! I might do as you did, m’Lady—settle for one and be done with the business for good! Why would any woman go through this more than once, I would like to know? Even once, if she knew what was coming?”

  “And what choice d’we have, I might ask,” Petronilla twitted her, settling a cushion behind Helena’s back.

  “More choice than you would think,” Alyce muttered, with a small wink at Helena. Then she shot a sidelong glance at Sysok—who woke from rapt adoration of his wife and daughter to realize that all three women were peering at him with pursed lips.

  His bewilderment set them off. They started giggling, while Sysok smiled back from his daze and Old John, moving about with cups and a beaker, fueled the merriment until the cottage rang with laughter.

  Yawning, the Bishop adjusted the folds of his cassock, appreciating as he did so the sheen of its violet-coloured silk, brought to Avignon by heroic Spanish sons of the Church in a raid on an infidel outpost near Granada, an act of militancy reminiscent of the glorious Crusades. He fingered the large pectoral cross of beaten gold that hung round his neck on its heavy gold chain, and admired again the craftsmanship that had so cunningly inlaid five fat cabochon rubies precisely at the five points where Christ’s wounds had bled. A taste for exquisite things was a form of worship, he had long ago decided, an esthetic celebration of the beauty of the Church. Meticulously, he centered the ornament on his round front. Squirming in his chair, he glanced surreptitiously left and right, then loosened the cincture girdling his ample middle. Perhaps he had consumed too much roast lamb the previous evening—but sweet Christ, that garlic and rosemary crust! No, he thought, God’s plenty warranted affirmation. It was this ridiculous waiting that had upset his digestion. Perhaps he had been too mindful of his duty to save this Lady’s soul. Now it really was time for him to storm off and …

  His meditation on rage was interrupted by the entrance of a tall woman who strode toward him across the expanse of the Great Hall. Her red-gold hair hung loose and tousled well past the waist of her wrinkled, stained, homespun gown; its wide hanging sleeves had been rolled and tied up above her elbows, leaving her sun-browned forearms bare. Neither young nor old, she was slender but sturdily broad-shouldered, and the eyes that looked straight into his were green as new apples. A cat—a black one, he noticed—wove itself between and around her ankles. A small angora goat, fleece lustrous as pearl, clattered in after her, looking bored and bleating softly.

  “Welcome to Kyteler Castle, my lord Bishop,” the woman said pleasantly. “I hear you have been waiting for some time. My apologies—although I understand that you have had refreshment. I had important business to attend to.” The eyes glowed in her tired face. “We brought a baby girl into this life today—tiny, but she will survive. Especially with a voice like hers, strong enough to squall any attention she wants. And the mother well enough, too. Weary she is, but that’s no wonder.” The woman blew out a sigh of accomplishment and rubbed the back of her neck with both hands. “Ahh, but that was good hard work,” she said. “Now. What is it you wish from me?”

  The Papal Emissary blinked.

  “You cannot be … who are you, wench? Announce me to Her Grace at once!”

  “The last I looked, Her Grace was standing in front of you,” Alyce said affably. Unknotting one of her purse sleeves, she rummaged through its folds, produced a pear from a hidden pocket, slumped onto a nearby bench, and proceeded to sink her even white teeth into the fruit, adding, “Actually, now sitting in front of you. Famished.”

  Her visitor stared. Then he began to struggle to his feet.

  “Oh! I am sorry,” she gargled from a full mouth, “How rude of me.” She held out the partly eaten pear to him. “Would you like a bite? No, not you, Greedigut,” she added, waving away the goat, whose interest had perked up mightily at the sight of a pear. “Please, no ceremony,” she added to her guest, “do be seated.”

  He did, which was just as well because he felt faint. This was a woman of high noble birth he had mistaken for an impudent serving maid. But Jesu, she was too vulgar to be imagined! How to converse with such a creature? Absurd enough that she knew how to read and write and was a scold who’d caused pain to her husband. But running around costumed as a filthy peasant! He could actually see her feet, naked, in sandals—and caked with mud at that. Not one jewel on her! Furthermore, though married and an aristocrat, she wore no circlet or hennin, no wimple, not even a veil—she was bareheaded, like an unwed female serf. And actually boasting that she had acted as a common midwife—she must be mad. Or possessed. De Ledrede closed his eyes and took a deep breath. God preserve me from the eccentric whims of the nobility, he groaned inwardly. He had once had to administer last rites to an imperious French count convinced he was already an archangel, thus in no need of absolution. Having succeeded then, he would succeed now.

  “My child—” he began.

  “Wrong. Grown woman of more summers than you might suspect,” she interrupted, “hardly a child. Certainly not yours—unless you know something I do not?” She actually winked at him. “Though I have seen
many an Irish priest trying to hide his share of secret offspring under his cassock. Not that I mind their breaking chastity vows. Denying the body’s natural joy is as futile a task as Cuchulain battling the tide, I think—ask Greedigut here, she knows all about that,” she stroked the goat’s head, rubbing gently between the two small horns. “What I do mind,” she added in a sterner tone, “is refusing to acknowledge the children, and denouncing the women who bear them.” She wiped pear juice off her chin with the none-too-clean sleeve. “You are fairly new to Kilkenny, though, so perhaps you have not yet encountered such clerical hypocrisy?”

  “I have been Chief Prelate of Ossary and Special Papal Emissary to Ireland for almost two years, Your Grace. I was here all of last year. Then I was away temporarily, attending upon His Holiness at Avignon, over last Christmas. I returned to Ireland in January, six months ago.”

  “Almost two years—so long as that!” Alyce Kyteler replied genially, adding, “A newcomer by the way we reckon time here. I do know that you have spent many hours acquainting yourself with the district and with your local parishioners in Kilkenny Town.”

  “That I have, Your Grace. Yet, strangely, I have never had the honour of encountering you among the nobles.” He bowed his head with respect, but that brought those muddy toes back into view, so he quickly glanced away.

  Lady Alyce laughed heartily.

  “You would not likely encounter me among the peers, my lord Bishop. They and I are on excellent terms—so long as we avoid each other. I find them ignorant, pretentious, and boring.” De Ledrede’s eyes narrowed with interest. “They do not miss my company, nor I theirs,” Alyce continued, “I go rarely to town or visit other manors. My days are filled with managing the estate.”

  “You manage the estate?”

  “Women manage our husbands’ holdings all the time, modestly pretending we do not. I differ only in that I am honest about it—and the estate is wholly mine, so why would I want anyone else managing it? But such details aside, I am a bit tired at present. I mean you no discourtesy, yet … please, what is the point of your visit?” She bit off another chunk of the pear.

  The Bishop noted to himself that she was dribbling slightly, which might be a sign of diabolic possession. Yet her contemptuous dismissal of the nobles intrigued him, since her opinion of them mirrored his. He had never met any person, much less any female, like Alyce Kyteler. She was obviously quite clever and well aware of her position, even if she did choose to carry herself like a base serf. He could not work out how to approach such a woman. Not as a parishioner, surely, as she was not one. Nor, despite her cordial manner, did she seem impressed or intimidated by his rank. Dare he position himself as a friend? An intellectual mentor? Even a confidante? After all, like him, she must be suffocating for lack of intelligent conversation. He would signal to her that in him she might find an intellectual ally. That would win her trust. Furthermore, he realized with surprise, it was true.

  “Of course,” he smiled, “I would not wish to tire you further. Although perhaps soon Your Ladyship will do me the honour of dining with me at the Cathedral Residence in Kilkenny Town? My chief cook is French, and keeps a tolerable kitchen. We might then discuss how I tend to agree with your judgment of the Kilkenny gentry.” He smiled again, expectantly.

  “Not likely. As I said, I go rarely to town. But thank you. Now then again, the purpose of your visit?”

  Astonishing. To deflect an invitation from the Papal Emissary! To worsen matters, he discovered he actually felt hurt that she had rejected him—then felt enraged at feeling hurt, then felt shamed that he had let himself be vulnerable. He would go on the offensive, then. But cautiously.

  “Very well,” he coughed, invoking the comforting, concealing voice of his public self, “Your husband has sought my advice regarding certain … difficulties in your marriage.”

  “Hah!” Alyce exclaimed, “I’ll wager he has.”

  “Indeed? Sir John seems a distinguished gentleman and a pious one. He confided to me many concerns that have alarmed him for some time about your … habits. I must confess to you, my Lady, I was shocked.”

  Alyce Kyteler chewed her pear.

  “To, ah, continue.” He felt himself start warming to his task. That sometimes happened while preaching a sermon: one might begin awkwardly but gain impetus as one pressed on. Diligence was crucial. He would alternate between the roles of friendly confessor and austere judge. But he would protect himself this time.

  “First, I want you to consider me your friend, someone offering—well, we might call it ‘fatherly advice.’ Forgive the pun,” he chuckled. “Well. Sir John has numerous complaints, some of which fall into areas of public as well as private interest. So we—that is, he and I—decided that I should visit you in my capacity as your diocesan authority, but also as your priest. Therefore, this … well, mission of mercy.” He paused, waiting for a response. None came. So he continued. “I fear, Your Grace, that I must point out to you your errors, that you may be brought to change your ways. It is greatly in your own interest, as an aristocrat and as a woman. You know,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “even if you are innocent, appearance is crucial. It is so unfair, is it not, how easily a feminine reputation can be spattered with filth!”

  Alyce stifled a yawn.

  “Forgive me if I bore you,” snapped the Bishop, hastily adding, “Your Grace.” This woman, he thought, would drive Saint Francis to kick puppies.

  Alyce responded only with a meek inclination of her head. Was she mocking him now? Was she trying to flirt with him? He felt his grasp of the situation loosening. But he was not a trained diplomat for nothing. He would persist as if he possessed control until he regained it.

  “Well then. The errors into which you have fallen. Surely you yourself must know them.”

  “Why, no, my lord Bishop. Why not tell me? That is what you came here to do, is it not?”

  Insolent slattern, he thought. So she was one of those jaded rich women who play at making mischief, having nothing better to do than act outrageously for pure rebellion’s sake. They always collapsed into obedience when firmly challenged. Very well, he would teach her the cost of rebellion.

  “To begin, it is highly improper that you read and write, being female. A woman is a treasured vessel of life, carrier of man’s offspring, so intended for this marvelous task that it is immoral for her to distract herself from it by intellectual pursuits. For a woman to become educated is for her to deny her female essence, her life’s mission. Her natural knowledge is far more profound than mere education could ever teach. Book-learning taxes the spirit, and women’s spirit is inherently fragile, thus readily seduced into the path of evil. You risk your sanity, my dear Lady Alyce. You risk your soul.” That reliable public voice was heating up now, and he indulged in a tiny sin of pride at hearing himself put things at once passionately yet elegantly.

  “For example,” he declared, “it is obvious that your knowledge of letters has led you into even more perilous studies. Medicines. Midwifery. But Church teaching is clear on this: as punishment for Eve’s sin in tempting Adam and causing the Fall, God The Father sentenced women to bring forth children forevermore in sorrow. Sorrow, Lady Alyce. Anyone who conspires to make childbirth easier is acting contrary to dogma. Midwives are barely this side of viperous heretics. But so it is with education. You see? One thing leads to another. It makes the mind so unpredictable.”

  Like her two animal companions, the human member of his audience cocked her head and said nothing, but never took her eyes from his face. While he found this slightly unnerving, it at least reassured him that he had her attention. Now it was time for an illustratory tale or two.

  “Just last year in Paris,” he went on conversationally, gaining confidence that he was winning her trust, “a woman of noble birth like yourself went about calling herself a healer, and was brought to trial—for practicing sorcery. Jacqueline Felicie de Almania was her name. It still is her name, I fear, since she was
merely fined and prohibited from practicing—and by now is likely at it again. What do they expect, with such a preposterously light sentence? Then again, she was terrifyingly persistent—originally from Germany, which explains a great deal—and she had the temerity to bring witnesses who claimed she was wiser than the master surgeons of Paris. Nor was she the only one. There was also a Jewess, some woman named Belota, who was prohibited from practicing medicine at the same time. I tell you, we have strayed far from the old days of innocence, when women were chaste in mind as well as in flesh. This is like a plague of Satan’s students: lettered females, who can read yet could not possibly understand what they read, who can write yet could not possibly have anything to say. But you? You are a sensible woman. I can see that already.” He flashed his teeth at Alyce in his most paternal smile. “So. Although we cannot change the fact that you are already infected with such knowledge, we can change the practice of it, can we not?” Inspired by her silence, he answered his own question with a chuckle of optimism. “Certainly we can. The medical meddling will cease completely, of course, and at once. But you shall see that I am not an unreasonable man, Your Grace. I can compromise. Since you already know how to read and write, you may continue to do so, within limits. Reading for Scriptures, writing for household accounts—these I permit you.” This time the smile lasted longer, having made its way through the folds around his mouth. Alyce Kyteler said nothing. She stared at him. He had her now.

  “It will be hard at first, I know, Your Grace, I know,” he continued, not pausing for a reply, “But Holy Church and I shall help you muster courage for the battle. Because, my dear,” he frowned for a more severe effect, “I must tell you there is more. Much more—as you surely know, for it is clear that you are not unintelligent. You have been fraternizing with the serfs. This is out of the question and must stop immediately. I understand your compassion for them, Your Ladyship. A desire to help the poor is commendably Christian, and if you have done so to excess—well, soft-heartedness is actually proof of your womanliness. You see? I do not solely criticize, I can praise, too.” Encouraged by his listener’s rapt gaze, he forged on. “But one must not burden serfs with affection. It is up to God, not us, to notice their sufferings. Naturally, we must pity them as Scripture instructs—but abstractly—and we must never sentimentalize them. They are hardly better than wild beasts, the least of God’s creatures—which is how we must regard them. You, Your Grace, nobly born and nobly wed, must carry yourself according to your position. To do otherwise upsets the social compact. So your regard for the poor must be limited to almsgiving. If you insist, I shall allow you to be more generous than others are—but your charity must be channeled through the Church, and I shall decide how it is apportioned. Nor must you do anything else to alter the position of these unfortunates. That would be to counter the ways of Heaven, which intended that the poor be always with us—as warning and as reminder to praise Him for smiling on our own good fortune and high rank.”