I hurried across to the latrines. The lantern burned there all night, for any who might need it. I crouched against the rough wall and touched my fingers between my legs and held them up to the yellow flame. Nothing stained my fingertips but a faint sheen of perspiration. There had to be, there must be. I tried again and again, but there was no blood. Three moons had gone and still no blood.

Was it growing inside me? I stood up and slowly inched my fingers across my belly. It didn’t feel swollen, but when did a woman’s belly start to swell with child? I pressed my fists into my belly as hard as I could. If it was in there I had to crush it. I had to kill it. I couldn’t have that demon’s spawn inside me. It couldn’t be happening to me.

I turned and faced the wall, pressing myself against it with my full weight, using it to crush my fists into my belly so hard I almost cried out. My blood would come, I would make it. The blood would wash that thing out of me.

I mustn’t think about it. If I didn’t think about it, it couldn’t grow. I wouldn’t let it live inside me. I wouldn’t let it live.

july

it is said always to rain on this day for mary magdalene is washing her clothes, ready to go to saint james’s fair.

servant martha

fATHER ULFRID WAS LATE. He was normally a rigorously punctual man, but the bell of the parish church of St. Michael’s had long since ceased tolling and the service had still not begun. The church was unusually crowded and the congregation was becoming restless. They always milled about during the service, chattering and laughing, playing little heed to the Mass, but on that day they turned and stared at the door each time it opened, buzzing with excitement as if they expected the arrival of some great dignitary.

The door opened again and Father Ulfrid finally entered, but he was not alone. He was dragging some poor wretch of a man behind him, a man who was tethered by his wrist to a long length of rope. By the sudden hush, I knew this must be the person the villagers were expecting. The man’s face was hidden under a hood. But I now saw why the villagers all drew away as he approached. There could be no mistaking the white patches on the skin of his outstretched arm or the stench of rottenness that clung to his body. Some of the younger beguines drew back too. I frowned at them reprovingly and motioned them to stay still.

On the chancel steps the leper fell to his knees and whispered his confession at the feet of the priest. I was furious. The priest had no need to make a public show of this man’s confession. Did Father Ulfrid think God so deaf that He had to borrow a hundred dull ears from men to listen to the suffering of a single soul? One woman was actually cupping her hand to her ear that she might hear better.

“It’s well known that sleeping with an adulteress will cause the leprosy,” she said loudly to her neighbour.

“Aye, that or sleeping with a woman in her menses,” her friend replied.

“But what if she be both an adulteress and in her menses?” the woman asked.

“Then he gets pox and leprosy-an itch and no fingers to scratch it with-now there’s a torment!” They both cackled with laughter.

The man’s confession seemed to go on forever as though he feared to stop lest the axe should fall on him. Eventually, cutting the penitent off in mid-sentence, Father Ulfrid held up his hands to pronounce the absolution. He picked up the man’s rope and dragged him towards the far corner of the church. Two carpenter’s trestles had been placed there, with a black cloth stretched between them in the semblance of a sepulchre. Father Ulfrid urged the man inside. The wretch pulled back in horror as if it was the mouth of Hell, but Father Ulfrid insisted, driving him in as a dog to a kennel. The man crouched under the black cloth, his hood pulled so far over his face that he seemed all shadow.

The Mass continued, but I could no longer listen. My spirit was weighted down by the slab of black cloth. I felt the suffocating chilliness of the tomb as if the stone still sealed in the stench of Lazarus, and the cry “come forth” made but mockery of a soul walled in. The bell rang, the body of Christ was elevated, and the shadow of the man shrank closer to the gravestones beneath him.

When Mass was finished, Father Ulfrid again tugged on the rope and half dragged the man from his cave. Scarcely waiting for him to stagger to his feet, the priest strode from the church, hauling the man behind him. The congregation poured out after them, but at a safe distance. By the time we reached the door, the crowd had already gathered in a wide circle around an open grave.

The wretch stood in the grave, his bowed head scarcely visible above the top. Father Ulfrid waited for his audience to assemble, then he picked up a spade, dug it into a mound of soil and flung the dirt at the man’s head. The man staggered sideways, pressing his hands against the top of the grave to balance himself, and the crowd drew back with a gasp as if a corpse was trying to crawl out from a tomb.

Twice more the priest threw earth on the man and then declared, “Be dead to the world, but live again unto God.”

At the back of the crowd a woman screamed, but no one paid her any heed.

Father Ulfrid tugged again on the rope, indicating that the man was to climb out of the grave. He struggled, but the pit was too deep and the earth continually gave way as he tried to lever himself out. They stood watching him struggling helplessly. I wanted to push every one of them into the pit with him.

I shoved my way forward through the gawping crowd, knocking aside anyone who did not move fast enough from my path. The gravediggers’ ladder lay by the priest’s feet. I picked it up and slid it into the grave, holding out my hand to the leper. He stretched out his hand instinctively and then, before I could grasp it, withdrew it from me, fearing to touch me.

Summoning all his strength he climbed the ladder and stood unsteadily next to the grave. His clothes were smeared with dirt. It had begun to rain. Wet earth oozed down his haggard face but he made no effort to wipe it away. I lifted my arm intending to wipe his brow on my sleeve, but Father Ulfrid caught me by my arm and tried to pull me away.

“Are you mad, woman?”

“If the blessed Veronica was mad when she wiped our Lord’s face, then I embrace that insanity.”

“Our Lord was not corrupted with sin.”

“Our Lord Himself embraced lepers, Father Ulfrid.”

“Do you dare to compare yourself with Christ?”

Without waiting for an answer, Father Ulfrid turned abruptly on his heel and marched off towards the road leading to the forest, the rope jerking in his hands. The leper stumbled blindly in his wake. I followed them. Half turning, I saw the little band of beguines following me. They were alone. Now that the entertainment was over, the villagers had wandered back to their cottages.

Father Ulfrid finally halted by the stone on the track which marked the edge of the parish boundary. He turned and faced the leper, letting the rope between them slacken. Father Ulfrid’s face was grim. He bowed his head for a moment towards the leper, muttering something too low for me to hear. The man met the priest’s eyes briefly, then looked away. He stared with leaden eyes back towards the village.

Father Ulfrid stepped back. He cleared his throat, declaiming loudly enough for all of us to hear, “You have been favoured by Christ inasmuch as you are being punished in this world for your grievous and manifold sins. You must daily give thanks for this great gift of suffering. Do you understand?”