also by karen maitland
Company of Liars
The White Room
In memory of my aunt, Pam West, who in every aspect of her life embodied the true spirit of the beguines. And whose generous bequest bought the computer upon which this manuscript was typed.
Also, in memory of her adopted daughter, Tina, who throughout her short life, brought so much joy to Pam and our family.
Tell proud Jove,
Between his power and thine there is no odds.
’Twas only fear first in the world made gods.
—BEN JONSON, English dramatist, Sejanus (1603)
We do not know how strong we are until
we are attacked by the evil of this world.
—MECHTHILD OF MAGDEBURG,
Beguine from 1230 to 1270
cast of characters
the beguinage
SERVANT MARTHA Flemish leader of the beguines.
HEALING MARTHA Elderly physician and Servant Martha’s oldest friend.
MERCHANT MARTHA Sharp-tongued trader for the beguinage.
GATE MARTHA A dour local beguine.
KITCHEN MARTHA Flemish cook.
BEATRICE Flemish beguine.
PEGA Local beguine, giantess, and ex-prostitute.
CATHERINE Teenage local beguine.
the manor
AGATHA/OSMANNA Youngest of Robert D’Acaster’s three daughters.
ROBERT D’ACASTER Lord of the Manor and father of AGATHA and her twin elder sisters, ANNE and EDITH.
PHILLIP D’ACASTER Lord Robert’s nephew and steward.
the village of ulewic
FATHER ULFRID Parish priest.
GILES Serf and son of ELLEN, his aged mother.
JOHN Village blacksmith.
LETTICE Elderly widow and village gossip.
ALDITH Mother to little son OLIVER.
1st Family
PISSPUDDLE Village child.
WILLIAM Pisspuddle’s tormenting older brother.
ALAN Father of Pisspuddle and William.
MAM Mother of Pisspuddle and William.
2nd Family
RALPH Father to MARION and her two brothers.
JOAN Ralph’s wife.
outsiders
OLD GWENITH Local healer and cunning woman, or wise woman.
GUDRUN Old Gwenith’s granddaughter.
ANDREW Young female anchorite.
FRANCISCAN FRIAR Friend and protector to the anchorite Andrew.
BISHOP’S COMMISSARIUS Envoy from the Bishop of Norwich.
HILARY Friend of Father Ulfrid.
anno domini 1321
prologue
gILES KNEW THEY’D COME FOR HIM, sooner or later. He didn’t know where or when, he didn’t know what his punishment would be, but he knew that there would be one. A dead owl had been left in front of his door in the middle of the night. He hadn’t heard them leave it; you never did. But at daybreak when he left his cottage to work in the Manor’s fields, he had found it there, sodden from the night’s rain. It was their sign, their warning.
He had buried the owl quickly, before his mother could see it. He didn’t want her to know what was coming. She was too old and frail, had seen too many tragedies in her life to bear the strain of yet another. But from then on he had waited, waited for a hood to be thrown over him from behind as he pissed against a tree, waited for a quarterstaff to crack down on the back of his head as he walked down the track, waited to be dragged from his bed in the night. They might take him from the forest or from the tavern or from the church. They might take him in the early morning or in the evening or in the middle of the day. However much you stayed on your guard, somewhere, at some hour, the Owl Masters would find you. All you could do was wait.
He had thought about running; of course he had. He’d come close to doing it more than once. But a serf could not leave without his lord’s consent. And even if, by some miracle, he did make it safely to a town where he could lie low for a year until he was declared a free man, he knew they would take revenge on his mother. And if they didn’t, Lord D’Acaster surely would.
But it had been weeks now since the dead owl had been left at Giles’s door, and when the sun was shining, he was able to convince himself that the Owl Masters wouldn’t come after all. He knew he had been a fool to bed the maid after D’Acaster had given his permission for her to wed another. But the girl was married now and they had not been near each other since. Wasn’t their separation punishment enough? He tried to tell himself the Owl Masters would be satisfied with that, but in the long dark hours of night, as he lay awake tensing at every sound, he knew in his guts they would not.
And now, tonight, they were finally here, crowded into the tiny room, their faces hidden behind their feathered owl masks, their clothes concealed beneath long brown cloaks. For an instant he was almost relieved, almost wanted them to get it over with, but then blind fear seized him and it was all he could do to stop himself falling to his knees and howling for mercy.
His mother was standing in front of him trying to shield him, as she had often stood between him and his bellowing father when he was a small boy. Then he had cowered behind her skirts, but now he moved her gently aside. Better he push her away than them. He could do it tenderly; they would not, and he didn’t want to hear her old bones crack. Listening to her sobs was torture enough.
“Please, Sirs, please don’t take him. He’s all I’ve got. I’ll starve without him. Merciful heaven have pity … Take me instead. I don’t care what you do to me, but don’t hurt my boy, I beg you.” Her swollen twisted fingers gripped Giles’s sleeve as if she could physically wrest him from their grasp.
“Don’t fret yourself, old woman. We’ve just got a small task we want him to perform, something that’ll make his dear old mother proud.”
The old woman stared frantically from one to the other of the men towering over her, trying to make out which of them was speaking, but it was impossible to tell for their mouths were hidden and their voices distorted by the masks. With all her strength she tried to force herself between Giles and the Owl Master who restrained him, but the man lashed out with the back of his hand, striking the old woman across the mouth and sending her crashing against the wattle wall of the cottage.
Giles, twisting free, ran to kneel over her, his hand braced against the wall as he tried to shield her with his own body.
“Is this your ancient code of justice?” he demanded. “Beating defenceless women?”
Too late, he glimpsed a flash of metal. A sharp iron talon stabbed into his hand, impaling it to the wall. Giles screamed. Blood streamed down his wrist and dripped into his mother’s lap. Four pairs of eyes buried deep within the feathers of the owl masks watched impassively as he writhed and sobbed.
Finally, one of the Owl Masters wrenched the spike out and dragged Giles to his feet. “Next time, boy, it will be your eyes. And after that you’ll not be able to see where we are about to strike.”
Trembling with pain, Giles allowed himself to be led to the low door.
“You’ll see your son tomorrow, old woman, at the May Day Fair. In fact, he’ll have the place of honour. Now you go on back to your bed. See you keep your door shut and your mouth too.”
Giles knew his mother did not need to be told to hold her tongue. No one in these parts needed to be told that. As they dragged him out into the darkness, he glanced back at her. She stood in the dim yellow light of the solitary rush candle, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks, her hands clenched against her mouth. Even grieving must be done in silence. And as Giles prayed more fervently than he had ever done in his life for a miracle that would save him, a despairing voice inside him told him that miracles did not happen, not for him, not in Ulewic.
> may eve 1321
first night of beltane
first kindling of the bel-fire, the fire of light. on this night the ancient blue ice goddess, cailleach bhear, the old woman of darkness, who reigns from samhain to beltane, throws her staff under a holly bush and is turned to stone.
beatrice
i THOUGHT I HEARD A MAN DYING in the great forest tonight, but now I’m not so certain; maybe what I heard was a corpse rising to life. He was shrieking and pleading, but he wasn’t begging for mercy. He’d challenged Death to wrestle with him. He’d thrown back his head and demanded to suffer, as if he wanted the demons to do their worst and drag him down into the pit of Hell. If he was human, then he must have been mad. Staring at the moon can make you run mad, did you know that? And tonight the moon was round as a woman’s belly swollen with child. That’s when men should fear it most.
I can’t ever tell the other women what I saw, not even Pega. How could I explain to them what I was doing out there alone in the forest at midnight? I’m not a lunatic, if that’s what you’re thinking, not like that madman. I hadn’t gone into the woods trying to get myself killed, though I knew the dangers only too well. God alone knows how many deadly creatures slither and prowl through those ancient groves. Venomous adders, wild boar, savaging wolves—even a stag in rut could kill you. And if the beasts are not terrible enough, there are the cutpurses and the outlaws who prey on any stranger wandering into their domain.
Pega, though she’s taller than any man alive, won’t set foot in the forest after dark. None of the village women will. They say the hungry ghosts, slipping like mist between the trees, will devour you if you should chance to step upon the spot where someone once died. And over the centuries, hundreds of people must have died in these forests and left no mark.
So do you really believe I wasn’t afraid to go into those woods that night? I tell you I’d had to gather up every shard of courage I had, but what else could I do? Jack-in-the-green must be gathered when the moon is fully ripe, for only then does the herb have the strength to bring back a woman’s fertility. I dared not ask for any from the infirmary. We are celibate, that is the rule, and why should a celibate woman want to restore her childbearing years? But I do; I must.
The moon floated yellow and round above the treetops, pouring light down over the branches, petrifying leaf and branch to bleached bone. I trembled violently at every squeak and cry, forcing myself to keep walking deeper and deeper into the trees. I could not turn back empty-handed. Jack-in-the-green is always hard to find by sunlight or moonlight. Devil’s prick, Pega calls it. The herb loves the dark, damp places among the tree roots and its spotted leaves easily conceal themselves.
I knew I must be near the river. I could hear the water thundering over the rocks. I turned away, knowing that the herb would not be growing near the water’s edge, preferring the deep forest shade. Then, as if the moon herself had parted the bush with her white fingers and revealed the pale sheath, I saw it. I knelt in the damp earth, and was reaching for my knife to dig at the roots, when I heard a new sound. This was not an animal grunt. It was a man’s voice.
My heart thumping, I scrambled up as silently as I could. With my back pressed against the rough tree trunk for protection and my knife grasped tightly in my hand, I peered round trying to see where the voice came from, but I could see no one. Did the hungry ghosts speak before they pounced?
Treading lightly, I tried to edge away from where I’d heard the sound. I listened, holding my breath, but no footsteps followed me. Perhaps the voice had just been in my head. I crept softly on, praying my footfall would not crack a twig and I wouldn’t stumble, betraying my presence.
I had come to the edge of a clearing. A lake of quicksilver seemed to spread out at my feet. It lapped around the base of a great hollow oak tree in the centre of the glade. The oak’s trunk was so massive that it would have taken half a dozen men to encircle it. The hollow inside the oak was as dark as a crypt, for even though it must have been open to the sky above, not a single ray of moonlight appeared to penetrate it.
Suddenly I heard the voice again. It was coming from somewhere in front of me. Instead of escaping from the danger, I had stumbled straight towards it.
“The blood of the white stag I pour out to Yandil, lord of the underworld. Let it be as my blood. Drink.”
The voice rang out no more than a few yards from me, but the clearing was deserted. Despite the chill of the night, my hands were sticky with sweat and my heart began to pound so violently that I feared it would burst through my chest. I wanted to run, but I was too scared to move in case I was seen.
“The flesh of the white stag I lay bare for Taranis, lord of this forest. Let it be as my flesh. Eat.”
I clung to the trunk of a tree and stood shaking, certain that if I let go, my legs would give way beneath me. Then I saw something moving; a black shadow was creeping across the silvered ground towards me, and it wasn’t human. A long narrow snout and a pair of branched horns grew out from its chest, and four or five long tails swung from its back. It seemed to be slithering straight towards the spot where I stood. It was lengthening and reaching out towards me. I shut my eyes tightly, trying not to scream.
“The spirit of the white stag I offer up to Rantipole, lord of the air. Let it be as my spirit. Devour it.”
I opened my eyes, too terrified to run. The creature stood facing the open hollow of the tree. It had its back to me. Now, as the moonlight fell full upon it, I could make sense of the nightmare I saw. It was no monster. It was a man, tall and powerfully built. Over his shoulder swung the hide of a stag with the horned head still attached. The beast was freshly slaughtered and the heat from the skin was still rising into the cold night air. I could see blood glistening wetly in the starlight. I could smell it.
“I am come to the doorway of the three realms. Give me leave to enter. Ka!”
The man pulled off his hood and tossed it aside. Then he lifted the stag’s head and placed it on top of his own head. The blood dripped down over his hair and skin. Gripping the two sides of the hide, he wrapped the steaming skin around himself, like a cloak. As he raised his head, the antlers reared upwards as if he was challenging the moon.
“Hear me, Taranis, lord of destruction, a great wrong has been done to you and to us your servants. Once your creature, your creation of despair and darkness, ruled this place. This valley was named for him. Your demon brought to all who defied you death in this world and torment in the world beyond. Every man learned to fear him and in their fear they turned to you and to us, your servants. But a century ago, on the eve of Samhain, the women came to this doorway. The women could not kill your demon, but they sent him into the twilight time, the place of the shadows, where the days pass unnumbered and the years pass unmarked.
“This night I enter the doorway to seek the knowledge that will call the demon forth again. Others have dared to brave the stag’s hide before me, but they perished before cockcrow, for they were not strong enough to bear your test and you destroyed them for their weakness.
“This night the hag Cailleach dies. This night Cernunnos, lord of fertility, is born. I have hunted. I have slain. I have taken his sign and his strength. As he is reborn this night, so shall I be.”
The man raised his great arms, fists clenched and bellowed up at the stars.
“Taranis, lord of the night, grant me the knowledge to summon your creation, the power to call him forth, and the strength to control what is raised from the darkness! Ka!”
The man bowed his head and in one swift movement ducked into the black hollow of the bull oak.
I stared at the place where the man had disappeared, too horrified by what I’d heard to move. Silence flooded back across the clearing. The trees shivered, holding their breath. Suddenly, as panic seized me, my legs started move. They were trembling too much for me to run and I managed only to stagger a few paces when I heard a loud rustling behind me. It was as if a violent wind had sprung up and was whir
ling the dry leaves, except that there was no breeze. I couldn’t help myself; I had to turn. I had to look back.
The clearing floor was still bathed in the ghost light, but it was no longer still and silent. Everywhere I looked, the ground was heaving. The leaf mould and newly sprouting plants were being pushed up as if a thousand moles were all trying to burrow their way to the surface at once. The mounds rose higher and higher, until suddenly they burst open, and insects began to pour out of them—beetles, worms, centipedes, engorged spiders, and great white maggots—all the creatures that feed upon the dead were crawling up from the dirt and into the moonlight.
It was impossible to see the ground, for every inch of it was writhing with the bloated insects and all of them were scuttling towards the great oak. The wings of the beetles clicked and rattled as they swarmed around the trunk towards the tree’s black maw. From inside the hollow I heard the man gasp as creatures began to slither into the oak tree where he lay.
Then, as the vast tide of insects swarmed over the bark and crawled into the hollow, the man’s moans gave way to a great cry of defiance and pain.
“I give my blood, Yandil, I give you my … blood!”
And from inside the cavernous hollow, his cry rose to shriek upon shriek of agony as if all the creatures of the grave were feeding on him, stripping his living flesh to the bare bone.
may day
the second of the three beltane fire days and saint walburga’s day walburga was born in the kingdom of wessex, england, in the eighth century. she became the abbess in charge of the double monastery of heidenheim, germany, ruling over both monks and nuns.
agatha
eXCITED BARKING JERKED ME AWAKE. Every hound in the Manor was yelping. And no wonder, for it sounded as if the hunt in full cry was thundering past our gates. I ran to the casement and looked down. Though it was barely light, the road beyond the Manor was crammed with outlanders jostling into Ulewic for the fair. Carts rumbled over stones. Tiny girls shooed great flocks of hissing geese. Old crones dragged bleating calves on long ropes, tangling them round the legs of the peddlers who struggled under the weight of their bulging packs.