The Owl Killers

beatrice

wHAT ON EARTH HAD POSSESSED ME to involve Servant Martha? I should have gone straight to Healing Martha to ask for a bier and some herbs, but she would probably only have sent for Servant Martha anyway. She’d keep secrets for that murdering little whore, Osmanna, but not for me.

The moment Servant Martha asked me if I knew the girl, I realised I’d made a stupid mistake. I saw again the little pink tongue flashing in and out, like a viper in the shadows. The innocence of her naked body, the trembling butterflies on her flushed skin, her flame-bright hair. I’d felt my face burn and glanced away, unable to meet Servant Martha’s piecing stare.

But now that we were toiling up the hill, I kept thinking of old Gwenith. The girl could say nothing, but the old woman was bound to remember I’d been there before. What would she say in front of Servant Martha? I tried to remind myself I’d committed no sin, but Servant Martha would twist it into some sort of transgression. She could always use her clever tongue to tie you in knots and make you feel ashamed and useless even when you had done nothing wrong.

Gudrun bounded up the path ahead of us, her bare feet so light and sure on the rocks, she scarcely seemed to touch them at all. Every so often she’d stop and wait, but as soon as we were nearly caught up with her, she’d skip off again, leaving us breathless in her wake. Servant Martha kept turning back to help Healing Martha over the rocks. It was one of her better days and Healing Martha was determined to struggle up herself, but in the end she was forced to let Servant Martha help her with a strong arm about her back.

Walking at Healing Martha’s slow pace, the way seemed twice as long as it did the first time I had climbed it, but finally we stood on the flat wiry grass beneath the rocks and I saw again the thornbush hung with faded rags, locks of hair, and amulets, and beyond that Gwenith’s cottage. Gudrun pointed to the cottage and then ran off and disappeared behind a rock before we could stop her. Servant Martha led the way inside.

The meanest of creatures has a burrow in the earth or a hole in a tree that provides some shelter against rain and cold, but this poor creature’s hovel didn’t furnish even that scrap of comfort. I had last seen this place when the sun was shining and thought it miserable enough then, but, dear God, to see it now in the winter, to have nothing but this to shelter you from the snow and rain and biting winds. However had she lived so long?

Green pools of stagnant water lay in every hollow in the earth floor. Globs of glistening slime crawled over the stones and crept through the dripping wattle. Old Gwenith lay huddled on a scattering of mouldy straw. The reek of stale piss that hung about her was strong enough to make your eyes water. Her face was as grey as the rags that covered her and her fingers, clawed over her chest, were so thin, they looked as if they’d snap if you touched them.

I stared aghast at her legs. Her skirts were burnt away, as if she’d stood in a fire. Patches of charred cloth still hung in rags, but beneath them her bare legs were blistered and weeping. Angry wounds stood out red and sulphurous against the blackened flesh. Healing Martha, holding my arm for support, knelt stiffly in the dirt beside the old woman and gently took one of Gwenith’s frail wrists in her hand. She bent closer, impervious to the stench, then straightened.

“She must have stood too close to her hearth fire and caught her kirtle in the flames. There’s still a thread of life in her, though it’s so weak her next breath might well be her last. She must be taken to the infirmary. I cannot care for her here.”

“Can you save her?” Servant Martha asked quietly.

Healing Martha shook her head. “If she were younger, I might be able to heal those wounds, but she is not dying of the burns alone. Old age has caught up with her. There’s no herb on earth can undo what time has done, but I can at least lay some soft blankets under those poor old bones and make her warm. She deserves to die in some comfort, for I fear she’s had precious little of it in her life.”

Servant Martha nodded and motioned me to take Gwenith’s feet while she slipped her hands under her shoulders. The old woman was as light as a sack of dried chicken bones. I could have easily gathered her up in my arms and carried her out myself. She whimpered in pain as we laid her down on the bier outside. Servant Martha tucked a thick blanket around her and told Catherine to help me to bind ropes across the fragile body to keep her from falling as we carried her down the hill. But Catherine was too afraid to touch the old woman. She stood helplessly twisting her fingers, until Servant Martha impatiently thrust her aside and helped me with the ropes herself.

We were so engrossed in tending to the old woman that none of us noticed Gudrun creeping up from behind. Without warning the mute sprang onto Servant Martha’s back. Servant Martha was caught off balance and sprawled facedown on the ground, while the girl bit her and tore her clothes. Servant Martha twisted and wriggled, trying to shake her off, but she couldn’t get a grip on the girl on top of her.

“Don’t just stand there, Beatrice; loosen her grasp.”

I tried to prise the girl’s fingers loose, but it wasn’t easy; she had the grip of a falcon. At last I managed to drag Gudrun away from Servant Martha. As Servant Martha struggled to her feet, panting, she grabbed Gudrun’s arms, holding her from behind. The witch-girl spat and writhed, but she couldn’t get out of Servant Martha’s grip. Finally she stopped struggling, and began to weep silently, a look of sheer desperation on her pale little face.

“Control yourself, child,” Servant Martha ordered. “Your grandmother is dying and she should at least die in a warm, dry bed, with the consolation of Christ to aid her passing. If she can be brought to her senses enough to unburden her soul and make a good confession, then God will yet show her mercy.”

The girl’s shoulders shook with sobs, but not a single sound escaped her. The silence was unnerving. I knelt and drew the weeping girl into my arms. But she went rigid and arched away from me as if I was hurting her.

“Hush, child,” I said as gently as I could. “We mean your grandmother no harm. It’s all right, everything is all right now. We’ll take her to a safe place and give her hot food and clean clothes. You can stay with her. You can have as much food as you want to eat and you’ll be warm and dry. And who knows, she may soon be well again.”

“You shouldn’t give her false hope,” Servant Martha cut in, her voice freshly sharpened.

Healing Martha laid a restrained hand on her arm. “Come now, it doesn’t really matter what is said. The child can’t understand much beyond the soothing tone of a kind voice. Beatrice is right, a full belly or an empty one is the limit of her reasoning.”

IN THE END it was Healing Martha and I who cut the rags from Gwenith’s body. Healing Martha had asked Osmanna to mind the infirmary while she was gone, but that coldhearted little bitch kept trying to leave me to deal with Gwenith, making excuses that she had other errands to run. I suppose she thought herself too highborn to be washing the body of some poor old woman.

Gwenith’s naked body was a piteous sight. The hair that veils a woman’s secret parts was gone and the skin on her belly hung loose and yellow as on a plucked fowl. Her arms and hands were burned too, though the burns were not as deep as on her legs. She was ice cold, but even naked she didn’t shiver. As gently as we could, Healing Martha and I lifted the sticks of her arms and tried to wash her body, but the dirt was tanned into her wrinkled hide and her skin seemed so thin we dared not rub at it. Besides, what was the point? It would add nothing to her comfort and would not lengthen her days.

Healing Martha smoothed unguents on her burns and rubbed a warming ointment on the old woman’s chest. The pungent smell of turpentine permeated the room. All this while young Gudrun squatted by the fire, gnawing on a hunk of bread dipped in broth. She ate ravenously, stuffing it into her mouth with both hands as if she feared someone would snatch it from her. Her hair, aflame from the firelight, shielded her face. She was oddly calm, almost as if she had forgotten the existence of the old woman, but she flinched and scuffled away in the furthest corner of the room when she heard Servant Martha approaching.

Servant Martha looked down at the old woman. “How does she?” she asked, as if she was inquiring about the price of bread. That woman did not have a shred of human compassion in her body.

Healing Martha shook her head. Her meaning was plain; no potion or remedy could detain Gwenith longer in this world.

“Should we bleed her?” Servant Martha asked. “If she could be roused for just a few minutes, long enough to make her confession-”

“She’s so weak, bleeding would only render her insensible and hasten the end.”

“Is there nothing you can give her which would bring her to her senses?” Servant Martha briskly patted Gwenith’s hand, but the dying woman didn’t open her eyes.

“I’ll try some warm herbed wine, if she’s able to swallow it,” Healing Martha said, limping towards the door of the infirmary. “But you’d better get to your prayers in earnest, Servant Martha, for I fear it’ll take a skill far beyond mine to summon her wits again.”

I WOKE SUDDENLY with a start. Little Gudrun was bending over her grandmother. The old woman’s eyes were open. She was whispering to the girl, but it was impossible to make out what she said. Healing Martha, sitting opposite me near the fire, held up a warning hand.

“Give them a few minutes alone,” she told me softly. “It can’t be long now. Osmanna has gone for Servant Martha.”

Trust Osmanna; I bet that was her idea. And Gwenith’s poor little granddaughter would be elbowed out of the way fast enough when those two arrived.

Healing Martha looked reprovingly at me, as if she could read my thoughts. “Servant Martha has to be told. The old woman must be given a chance to make her peace with God.” She stirred up the fire, sending sparks flying up into the black maw above. “And it seems Servant Martha’s prayers have been answered. I never thought to hear the old woman utter another word.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t your wine that roused her?”

Her lined face broke into a twinkling smile. “Let’s give credit to both. Good wine fortified with robust prayer have together worked many a miracle.”

Servant Martha burst into the room with Osmanna hard on her heels. She strode to the bed. Pushing Gudrun aside, she bent close to Gwenith, clutching the thin shoulder urgently.

“Make your confession, Mother, so that you may depart this life unburdened. However evil your deeds, if you repent of them even at this late hour our Lord in His mercy will forgive you.”

But the old woman only chuckled weakly. “No time, Mistress, not names enough in the world for all my sins.” Her claw suddenly fastened around Servant Martha’s wrist and she pulled her towards her with such fierceness it seemed she intended to drag Servant Martha down to Hell with her.

“The Owlman…I saw him fly…They’ve awakened him. The priest was too late…”

“The Owlman is just a silly rumour, a lot of nonsense spread by empty-headed young girls. Do not waste what little time you have left on such thoughts. You must think of your own immortal soul.”

The old woman tugged at her again. “Them that waked him had but half the spell… they can’t control him… Priest is too weak… but you, you’ve got the spirit of a cunning woman in you… You mustn’t be afeared, you’ve got the strength of a woman. You… remember that.”

Servant Martha indignantly pulled her hand away. “I have the spirit of Christ in me, as have all here. I can assure you that we are afraid of nothing that Satan may cast at us.”

The old woman was racked with coughing. She lay back gasping, her eyes closed.

“My Gudrun…” she murmured. “I charge you… watch over her… don’t let them hurt her.”

The girl stood unmoving beside the cot. If she understood she made no sign.

“Mustn’t cage her… wild things die in cages… Watch over her and you’ll have my blessing. My curse upon you if you fail her…”

Servant Martha knelt beside the cot and tried again, more gently this time, with a note of pleading in her voice. “Gwenith, for the sake of your immortal soul, will you not make peace with God?”

“What’s there to make peace about? I’ve not spoken to God, nor He to me, so we’ve never had cause to quarrel.”

“We are all born in sin, Gwenith. All of us have offended our Lord. But it is not too late to save yourself from the fires of Hell.”

The old woman’s eyes opened again and she seemed about to answer, but her gaze wandered to Osmanna hovering behind. She curled her clawlike finger and beckoned. Osmanna seemed rooted to the spot.

“What’s your name, lass?”

“Os… Osmanna,” she whispered.

Gwenith waved an impatient hand. “Not that name, lass. You have another.”

Servant Martha took hold of the frail hand and shook it as if that would shake the old woman’s wits back to the purpose. “Gwenith, your soul is in grave danger. If you die unshriven you will dwell in torment and agony until the Day of Judgement. You must-”

The old woman sighed. “Tell me your name, lass.”

“I’ve cast off my other name,” Osmanna muttered, her face crimson now.

“You’ve cast off nowt, lass… find your name… No peace will come to you… until you find your own name.”

“She’s rambling,” Servant Martha murmured. She bent closer to the old woman. “Listen to me, Gwenith, you are dying; you must turn your thoughts to God.” Servant Martha spoke slowly and loudly as if she was speaking to the deaf.

“Aye, and when did He ever turn His thoughts to me, Mistress?”

Old Gwenith’s eyes closed. There was a half breath, a hungry gulp of air that choked before it finished, and her mouth slackened. The only sound in the room was the spitting and crackling of the wood on the fire. Healing Martha lifted the transparent blue eyelids and touched her eyes and then held a feather against her lips. She watched intently for what seemed like forever, but the feather did not stir.

Gudrun looked from one to another of us and then at her grandmother. Slowly she reached out a clenched fist, unfurled one finger and gently stroked the old woman’s face. She snatched her hand away, as if she had been burnt. She threw her head back, her red mouth wide as a howling dog, but not a sound emerged. Her body was rigid. Before I could reach her she fell to the floor, choking and jerking violently, her mouth foaming. We watched, helpless. What could we do to help her?