The Owl Killers

servant martha

i WENT ALONE TO ANDREW’S CELL. I heard her confession, and absolved her of sins which were so far beyond my understanding that I was afraid to hear them. Sins of the desolation of a soul sunk to the depths of humility, a soul that saw its own corruption with such burning clarity that it could accuse itself no more and yet accused itself for that very fault. How could I listen to that? There was no penance I could lay upon her that her own spirit had not already taken upon itself.

Trembling, I placed the Host in her mouth and her spirit shot upwards like a lark. She babbled such sounds of joy that I shivered to hear them. Despite her bloated features there was an expression of ecstasy in her eyes. I crept from the room and summoned Healing Martha to sit with her, for I could not.

Healing Martha glanced at my face and then at the cloak pulled tight around me to conceal what I carried. I dared tell no one what I did. I wanted to share the weight of it with Healing Martha, to seek her reassurance that I was doing the right thing, but I couldn’t. If there was sin in that deed, I had to take it upon myself alone. I’d had a choice. It had been my decision, so I couldn’t then force the knowledge of it upon Healing Martha. For this much I knew for certain-even if what I did was not a sin before God, there was danger in the act, grave danger for me and for anyone who knew what I did.

i WATCHED THE LONG THIN FINGER run down the column of fingers in the tithe ledger and the frown deepen. I couldn’t bear to watch, but leaving him alone was worse. At least if I stayed in the church, I might be able to divert him.

“Would you care for some wine, Commissarius?”

He didn’t look up. “From what I read in these entries, I am surprised you have any wine to spare, Father Ulfrid.”

He pulled his fur-trimmed robe more closely about him. Although the rain had chilled the evening air, it was hardly cold enough to warrant such a heavy robe, but he had the pinched look of a man who was permanently cold, whatever the weather. Several times he tilted the ledger towards the candle on the table, to illuminate an entry, before dipping his quill and making notes on his own parchment. In the hollow empty church, the harsh scratching of his quill seemed to reverberate off the stones, until it was all I could hear.

I’d encountered the Bishop’s Commissarius only once before, the day Bishop Salmon interrogated me about Hilary, an interview I still relive in my nightmares. The Commissarius had been poised on a stool placed just behind the Bishop. Occasionally he had leaned forward from the shadows to murmur something in Bishop Salmon’s ear, but he’d never once addressed me, and those whispers had been far more unnerving than the Bishop’s torrent of angry words.

With his face half obscured in the shadow of the Bishop’s high-backed chair I’d assumed the Commissarius was a man of mature years, but now that he was sitting in my vestry, I could see he was only in his late twenties, though his skin had the waxy unnatural pallor of a prisoner kept for years in a dungeon. He had a long narrow face, as if his mother had squeezed her legs together to try to prevent him coming into the world. His cheekbones were sharp and his eyes sunk deep into dark sleepless hollows, and little wonder for he had such a tension of ambition in his frame that it would rob any man of his sleep.

“I’m… surprised that you were sent to look over the tithe ledgers, Commissarius. I thought perhaps the Bishop’s Reeve-”

“You thought? Or you hoped?” he said, running his finger down another column. “Then my visit must be a great disappointment to you.”

“No, no, it’s a great honour, of course… but I hadn’t realised you concerned yourself with such matters.”

Still he did not raise his eyes from the ledger. “I am concerned with whatever is troubling His Excellency, the Bishop. And he, Father Ulfrid, is troubled about you.” He snapped the ledger shut on this last word and finally lifted his head to look at me. “Your parishioners would appear to be somewhat reluctant to pay their tithes.”

“But they cannot give what they didn’t harvest, Commissarius. You must have seen the fields as you rode here. The grain harvest was ruined and the hay crop was hardly better. Surely it must be the same in all the parishes in these parts?”

“Quite so, Father Ulfrid; as you say, all the parishes in the See are affected.” He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

“Then you understand the difficulties,” I said, much relieved.

“I understand very well, Father Ulfrid. I understand that all the other priests-priests who are diligent in the service of the Church-have collected their tithes as usual and on time, despite the… difficulties.”

I gaped at him. How could they? It was almost on the tip of my tongue to say I didn’t believe him, but I stopped myself in time. “But, Commissarius, how can they bring a tenth of their crops when they have no crops?”

What did he expect me to do, rip the rags from the backs of beggars? God knows I didn’t want to be here, but if a man is suddenly thrown into chains, he cannot help but feel some compassion towards the other wretches suffering in the same dungeon.

He studied me carefully, pressing the tips of his long fingers together. “Father Ulfrid, perhaps you have forgotten that the Church accepts wool and crops as the tithe only from its compassion for the poor. What the Church wants, Father, what indeed it demands first and foremost, is money. If the people cannot pay their tithes in grain and beasts, then they must pay in coins. Were you to familiarise yourself with the tithe records of your predecessors, Father, you would find there ample reminders that tithes are collected on time and in full regardless of whether the harvest is good or poor.”

“But with due respect, Com-”

He held up a hand to silence me. “Ah, yes, respect, that is at the heart of this matter-the people’s respect for the Church. I think you’ll find, Father Ulfrid, that excommunicating a few of the more obdurate members of your congregation will serve as a salutary lesson to the rest of the parish. After all, what is a mere tenth of their earnings in this life, compared to an eternity spent in the fires of Hell for them and their children?”

“But if the crops have failed where are they to find-”

“It is because they deny God what is rightfully His that He has punished them with poor harvests. If they had tithed honestly and generously in the past, they would not now be suffering. At such times you should advise them to redouble their efforts to pay in order that His wrath may be turned aside.”

He rose abruptly and tucked the ledger under his arm. “Come, show me the tithe barn. With so little gathered in, at least there will have been no occasion for error in the counting of it.”

I felt my stomach turn sour. “Commissarius, surely there’s no need to trouble yourself on such a night. The records are accurate, I assure you. You’ll get soaked going out in that rain and I’d never forgive myself if you caught a chill.”

He was already at the door of the church. “I thank you for your solicitude, Father Ulfrid, but I assure you it is no trouble. I am glad to suffer in the service of the Holy Church, as I am sure are you, Father. Please be so good as to bring the lantern and the key.”

Outside the rain was slashing down. The night was so dark it was impossible even to see across the churchyard. I pulled my cloak tightly about myself and held the lantern up to light the Commissarius’s way down the puddle-strewn track. I was praying he’d slip and break his neck, but the way things were going, he’d probably only step in a puddle and soak his boots, which would do nothing to improve his disposition. I fumbled at the door of the barn trying to turn the great key in the lock. When it finally yielded, the Commissarius seized the lantern and held it up. The trembling flame only seemed to magnify the great gaping spaces between the pitifully few supplies.

“Commissarius, you must understand we lost a number of hides. There was an infestation of black beetles. We had to burn the infected hides to prevent the others from becoming holed.”

“Then they were either badly cured, or inefficiently stored. Both are your responsibility, Father Ulfrid.” The long finger was methodically flicking through the skins. “You must ensure that only the finest quality produce is given to the Church. The populace will try to pass off their worst goods as tithes if they think the priest is too careless to check. That is why you should insist on payment in coin, Father Ulfrid. Money is never-what was it you said? Ah, yes-infested by little black beetles.”

He strode round the barn, counting sacks here and bales there. He was only doing it to prolong my agony; he already knew the amounts would not tally. The fleeces and hides had never existed. He’d known that before we even entered the barn. The only question was what he would do about it. The rain drummed down on the roof and wind whistled in through the gap under the door, but it was not the chill draught that made me shiver.

When at long last the Commissarius had completed his circuit of the barn, he went to the table and sat down, opening the ledger. His pale finger again traced down the columns. I waited, the old familiar pain in my chest growing stronger with every minute that crawled past.

Finally he looked up. “As you are doubtless aware, Father Ulfrid, there would appear to be a significant discrepancy between what is in the barn and what is recorded in the ledger.”

I struggled against my rising panic, trying to make my voice sound calm. “As I explained, the hides-”

“And no doubt you could also explain the missing hay, roots, beans, and all of the other items that appear to have vanished. What was it, Father-weevils, mice, floods, fire? I don’t doubt you’ve been smitten with them all. You seem to have been the victim of great misfortune.” He paused and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “However, since you are a man of God, I shall, of course, accept your tithe ledger as a true and accurate record of what you have received on behalf of the Holy Church.”

I felt myself breathing out hard. I hoped it wasn’t loud enough for him to hear, but evidently he saw the look of relief on my face, for he smiled.

“Entirely accurate,” he repeated quietly. “Therefore, you will deliver to His Excellency, the Bishop, a quarter of all the tithes you have recorded in your ledger, regardless of what is actually contained in the barn.”

He paused and I felt the fear in me ebbing away. It was not as bad as I feared. I had already calculated I had just enough to send what I owed to Norwich and I’d be able to scrape together enough to live on from the tithes set aside for repairing the church and alms for the poor. It would be difficult, but I could do it, and the villagers would surely pay me what they owed when they could.

But the Commissarius had not finished. “In addition, Father Ulfrid, you will send the quarter set aside for the maintenance of St. Michael’s Church to me, and I will personally oversee the settlement of any bills for the church. Likewise you will also send to me the quarter of the tithes recorded in your ledger which are reserved for the poor and needy of your parish. Just for safekeeping, you understand, in case any of it should fall prey to more of those little black beetles. You have one month to deliver what you owe. And if you find that the remaining quarter for your own keep is rather less than the quarter recorded in your own ledgers, an empty stomach may help to concentrate your thoughts on accurate bookkeeping in the future.”

He must have seen the look of horror on my face. Even if I sent everything that was in the barn, it wouldn’t be nearly enough to make up the amount he was demanding. Where was I to get the rest? The Commissarius watched me for a moment, then, apparently satisfied I had understood the full implications, he strode past me towards the door.

I turned and hurried after him. “Please, Commissarius,” I begged, “at least give me more time. I told you we’ve had problems; the hay went mouldy. There wasn’t-”

“I will not give you more time, Father Ulfrid, but I will give you some advice. Do not forget where your duty lies. You may make yourself popular with your idle parishioners by allowing them to escape paying their tithes and scots, but you will not make yourself popular with Bishop Salmon. And you cannot afford to anger His Excellency again, remember that. One more mistake, Father Ulfrid, just one more, and an empty stomach will be the very least of your sufferings.”