Gate Martha hovered inside the gate as though the abomination might fly up into her face.

“Did you see who left this here?”

She shook her head, dumbly, still staring transfixed at the crucified bird.

“But you know?”

She nodded, and mouthed so faintly I could scarcely hear her, “The Owl Masters.”

“Why should they leave such a thing at the gate of the beguinage?”

She turned her face away and stared towards the infirmary. “You took the leper in. He’s dead to the village. No one must give him shelter. That… that bird is the Owl Masters’ curse.” She shuddered and raised her hand against her face as if to shield herself from the sorcery.

“The ivy leaf proclaims the holy trinity of God. How can that plant work against us who are His servants?”

“The old uns say ivy’s an evil omen,” she muttered sullenly. “It kills whatever it embraces.”

“But we do not believe in the old ways, do we, Gate Martha? Now, fetch me a faggot of very dry wood and a brand from the fire. And, Gate Martha-you will say nothing to the others. Not one word of this, do you understand? It signifies nothing. I will not have silly rumours spread to frighten the children.”

She nodded and I watched her hurry away, then I closed the gate behind her, scanning the bushes and trees beyond the path. Were they watching? Then let them. Did they really believe that we could be intimidated into casting Ralph out? They did not have the measure of me.

Gate Martha returned. She opened the gate a crack and thrust out a torch and sticks. “I kindled the flames from the eternal light in the chapel.”

“You could have taken it from the cooking fire; it would have burnt just the same,” I snapped, exasperated at her fear, but all the same I clutched the brand more tightly, thankful for what she had done. “Go inside and shut the gate. Don’t let anyone open it until I return. And don’t ring the bell to waken them for Prime until I say so.”

I struggled to drag the frame away from the gate. It was heavier than it looked, but I managed to pull it off the path and into a patch of rank weeds. I piled the dry wood over it, then set the torch to it. The feathers caught instantly, shrivelling and flashing into a cloud of acrid smoke, then came the smell of burning bird flesh.

Billows of blue smoke rose into the air, blown into spirals by the gusting wind. Beyond the trees other columns of smoke from cooking fires in the distant village rose into the pale pink morning. The world was waking. Far away the church bell rang for Prime. Our bell would ring late that morning. I would offer no explanation.

The willow frame snapped and crackled as the flames dried it. A twist of ivy uncurled and snaked across the grass in the fire’s heat, smouldering, but not burning. Ivy does not burn.

august

patron saint of tanners because he was flayed alive before being beheaded.

servant martha

mARK MY WORDS, there’s trouble afoot,” Gate Martha muttered, casting a baleful glance in the direction of the guest hall.

“But didn’t they give you any indication as to why they have come?” I asked, as I followed her across the courtyard.

“You’ll have to ask them yourself. They refused to tell me.” She stomped off back to her gate, evidently much aggrieved by that.

I watched her retreating form for a moment, trying to prepare myself for my unexpected guests. All I had managed to wrest out of Gate Martha was that a man and woman, announcing themselves as the uncle and mother of the anchorite Andrew, had arrived and asked if I could spare a few minutes to see them. I knew it must be a serious matter. I could hardly imagine that Andrew had merely sent them to convey her greetings, and as soon as I entered the guest hall I could tell that Gate Martha had been right to predict trouble.

A woman was poised rigidly on the edge of the chair, her eyes darting about anxiously and her fingers plucking at the yellow wimple which framed her lined face. A grey-haired man, who looked enough like her for me to conclude he was her brother, paced restlessly up and down the narrow chamber. It was a hot day and his face was beaded with perspiration, but he was too agitated to sit. From the dust on their clothes and their weary expressions it was evident they had travelled some way to see me, and I urged them not to speak until they had taken some refreshments. The woman seemed grateful. She shook her head at the platter of cold mutton and cheese, but took a little wine, clasping the goblet tightly in both hands as if she feared it would slip through her fingers.

It was only when I turned to offer meat and wine to Andrew’s uncle that I realised there was someone else in the room. A man in a coarse grey friar’s habit, with a knotted white girdle at his waist, stood motionless in the shadows. I recognised him as Franciscan from the simplicity and colour of his robe. His hands were clasped in front of him, hidden in his sleeves; his head was bowed as if he was praying.

Andrew’s uncle wiped his fingers and turned to me with a grave expression as if he could no longer delay the bad news. “We have come here on a matter of some delicacy…” he began. “We have received a message from Bishop Salmon of Norwich. The Bishop has asked us to remove Andrew from the anchorite cell without delay.”

I gaped at him. “Surely you have misunderstood the messenger? Or perhaps he muddled the words? St. Andrew’s Church would fight from here to Rome to keep her in that cell. She brings so much wealth to that parish. Many pilgrims come to the church just to see her and they all pay good money for candles, food, ale, and lodgings, not to mention the emblems and relics. Half the traders in the parish depend on the pilgrims she brings in to make a living. They cannot mean you to take her away.”

Andrew’s mother and uncle exchanged uneasy glances.

“Andrew lives in constant prayer now,” her uncle explained cautiously. “She does not even pause in her meditation to bless the pilgrims. She does not move or speak. She does not… She refuses all food. She says that she requires no nourishment except the body of our Lord, which she receives daily.”

Her mother broke in eagerly, “But she grows so plump and fat on this holy food, anyone can see it is our blessed Lord Himself who feeds her.”

“Have some questioned it then?” I asked.

Again the two of them exchanged anxious glances, before Andrew’s mother rose and, turning her face away, stared dejectedly out the window, leaving her brother to answer.

“There are always some who doubt the veracity of any saint. But they say… though I have not witnessed it myself, you understand… that sometimes when she prays she swells up to twice her normal stature, filling the whole cell. Is this not a mark of one overflowing with the spirit?”

“Some might enquire whose spirit,” I suggested gently.

“Could she take the Host daily and with such joy if that spirit were not from our Lord?” the Franciscan said softly from the shadows.

His voice made me jump. I’d forgotten he was even in the room.

I inclined my head. “Argumentum ad absurdum,” I replied, humbly acknowledging the foolishness of my remark.

But logical though the Franciscan’s argument was, I could see how it might look to others. It would take only one jealous priest in a neighbouring parish, who felt he had lost trade because of her, to whisper the Devil in the Bishop’s ear and Andrew’s piety would be seen to take on a very different complexion.

I glanced round the room expecting one of them to add more, but no one spoke.

“So… why have you come to me?” I asked finally.