Karen Mailand - The Owl Killers

“Were you trying to drive out a demon tonight, Servant Martha?” Healing Martha glanced up at me, her eyes crinkled in amusement despite her fatigue. “I confess I’ve not heard our blessed Lord praised in such a vehement manner since you gave thanks for this miserable land the day we first laid eyes on it.”

“Was I so forceful back then?”

“The ears of the poor angels are still ringing from it,” she replied, chuckling.

We followed the last of the beguines out the chapel door and into the cobbled courtyard. The stars seemed unnaturally bright. The vast dark ocean above swarmed with them, as if they were gathering for some great debate.

A small knot of women huddled round the warmth of the brazier, talking in low voices of Gate Martha. Pega, a local beguine, frowned and shook her head at her close friend, Beatrice. I’d seldom seen Pega look so serious. She was a giant of a woman and was usually to be heard telling some bawdy joke or sharing the latest gossip from the village, roaring with laughter at another’s expense, but tonight even she seemed subdued.

“What is wrong with the women?” I asked Healing Martha. “Most nights they can scarcely keep their eyes open long enough to find their cots.”

“A day of licence, old friend. The women have done no work today to make them tired.”

“There’s no work done on feast days either, but that doesn’t breed this unease. Look at Pega; if I didn’t know better I’d say something had frightened her. Yet if you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have sworn nothing on earth could shake her.”

Healing Martha frowned. “Perhaps it is the fires.”

“The Beltane fires? Nonsense! Pega has no reason to fear them. The villagers drive their beasts between the fires to ward off sickness. Even their infants are passed over the flames to keep them from harm. It’s a pagan custom and Father Ulfrid should have put a stop to it long ago, as I will make a point of telling him when our paths next cross, but there’s no malice in it surely? Pega comes from these parts and was more than likely passed over the fires herself as a child. I cannot believe that she’d be afraid of something so familiar.”

Healing Martha turned, wincing as she did so, and stared in the direction of the forest. For a moment, as the wind gusted, a bright orange glow appeared above the dark mass of trees. Black branches writhed against the flickering light. And then the darkness covered it again.

“I think it’s not the cleansing fires of the hilltops she fears,” Healing Martha said softly, “but that one-the fire which burns deep among the trees. That’s what keeps Pega and the others from their beds. There is malice and more in that fire, I’ll swear, though the villagers will not speak of it to outlanders.”

If truth be told, the villagers scarcely spoke to us at all these days. Their resentment at our presence in the valley seemed to be growing. When we went into Ulewic to take food or physic to the poor or sick, the villagers would pointedly turn their backs if we approached them. Those who accepted food did so furtively, whispering their thanks while glancing nervously over their shoulders as if they were terrified to be seen talking to us. Though I knew the Manor hated our beguinage and had tried to get rid of us from the first day we arrived, I prayed that in time we might win the villagers over. Still, it seemed as if matters were growing worse.

Healing Martha briskly patted my arm. “If you want a cure for the women’s fears, Servant Martha, I prescribe honest labour and innocent pleasure mixed in equal parts. The birch buds are finally beginning to open after all this bitter weather, and I know Kitchen Martha is longing to make her good birch wine and I am in great need of birch sap for the infirmary. I think we should start tapping tomorrow. Now go and scold the women to their beds, for I’ve yet to meet a living soul who is not more afraid of you than any night terrors.”

“I think you are mocking me.”

Healing Martha grinned. “It keeps you in humility.” She glanced again at the women around the brazier. “But I’d be grateful if you’d send Pega to me. I’m in need of her strong arm to help me to my cot and her hands to rub some ammoniac and turpentine oils on my poor back to warm it.”

“I’ll gladly rub your back for you.”

She threw her hands up in horror. “Have mercy on a poor old woman! Your fingers would flay the skin from my back; they’re rougher than a hog’s hide. Pega has the touch. And besides I think she’ll not mind sitting with me a while.”

I watched Pega help Healing Martha back to her room. I knew the real reason Healing Martha asked for assistance. She’d play the helpless old woman for Pega’s sake and Pega would confide her fears to her. Healing Martha had that gift. I could not make the women talk to me. I never could, not even in the Vineyard in Bruges, for even there I felt-how did Healing Martha put it?-an outlander.

wE SEPARATED, ROLLING AWAY from each other on the bed, and I lay there limply, feeling as if the very life force had been drained out of me. My groin continued to make small involuntary shudders, still thrusting, as if it had a will of its own. The sweat trickled down my chest and between my buttocks. Though the day had not been warm, it felt hot as Hell in the room, with all the shutters fastened.

It was dark, but I’d not dared to light a candle lest a chink of it should be seen through the cracks. Besides, we did not need light; we knew the shape and contours of each other’s bodies only too well. And I did not want to see the look of triumph on Hilary’s face. I had sworn it would not happen again. I had given my oath before God. But I could not help myself.

I shifted, suddenly aware of the sticky mess cooling between my thighs. I was overcome with revulsion. Feeling me stir, Hilary’s damp hand reached out towards me again, stroking up my leg, the fingers wriggling between my thighs, and up to my groin, stroking, touching, coaxing. I felt that urge growing stronger again, making me do what I did not want to. I almost surrendered to those soft fingers, as the all-consuming fire arched up my spine. My legs were trembling, defying me, moving towards the hand, inviting the touch.

“No! Stop it.” I pushed Hilary’s hand away violently.

“Why? You wanted me to just now. What’s wrong with you? Why are you always so irritable afterwards?”

The whining childish petulance in the voice angered me still further. “I’m tired,” I snapped.

“But I’ve travelled all this way. You couldn’t keep away from me in Norwich and now we hardly get to see each other anymore. I’ve been thinking of nothing else but this for weeks.” Hilary’s hand slid coaxingly across my chest, teasing my nipples. “I know you want me as much as I want you, Ulfrido.”

“I said enough!”I sat up abruptly, pulling away from the prone body beside me. I swung myself off the bed. The rushes were cold and sharp against my bare feet. “You shouldn’t have come. I told you never to come again.”

Hilary laughed. “It seems to me it is you who have come.”

I leant across the bed and slapped hard against bare flesh, not sure where I struck and not caring either. My fingers stung from the blow.

There was a gasp, then another laugh in the darkness. “You want to play thatgame, do you?”

“Just go. Get out.”

The bed creaked as Hilary rolled over and sat up. “We can play priest and penitent, if that’s what you want. Shall I be the priest or shall you? Shall I punish you? Will that make you feel better? Will that make you clean again? Or will you beat me? Either way it won’t make any difference, you know. It won’t cure you… Father.”This last word, spat out, intended to wound more deeply than a blow ever could.