Then towards dawn on the fourth day she suddenly fell quiet. I opened the shutters and, by the first grey light, I saw that her eyes were closed and felt her skin frog-cold beneath my fingers. I thought her spirit had left her, I was sure of it. I went to the door and called out softly to Healing Martha. She came quickly and bent over Andrew, then laid a feather upon her lips. It stirred faintly. The breath was still in her, though barely discernible.
For the next three days she lay as alike to death as a candle flame is to fire. Her body was limp and still, lids blue-drawn over unmoving eyes. The morbid chill that filled the room was more disturbing to our spirits than all the demonic shrieks that had gone before. Our prayers, so fervent against the howls of Hell, seemed to falter before the palpable silence that swelled from her cell, filling every corner of the beguinage. We held our breath, unable to fight against-nothing.
KITCHEN MARTHA TOTTERED across the frozen courtyard, bearing a steaming bowl. Little Catherine trotted behind, a second bowl cradled carefully in her arms. Kitchen Martha greeted me with a worried smile. “Now I’ve brought you a bowl of good hot broth, Servant Martha, and some for Healing Martha too. Don’t stand there, Catherine, take it in before it freezes. Now promise me you’ll eat this, both of you, while it’s hot; you’ve scarcely eaten a sparrow’s crumb for days. Is there any change?”
I had been waiting for this question. I knew this was really why Kitchen Martha had ventured out of her warm kitchen rather than sending one of the girls.
“She rests peacefully and we must give joyful thanks that our blessed Lord has answered our prayers and has driven out the demons that so tormented her. You will tell them that, Kitchen Martha? Tell them to offer prayers of gratitude.”
“I think Andrew is waking,” Healing Martha called out softly.
I closed the door against Kitchen Martha and crossed rapidly to Andrew’s cot. The anchorite’s arms were flung wide in a cruciform and her eyes were open, but she was not looking at us. I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of her stare. There was nothing to be seen, save for the plain lime-washed wall.
“Look… even as my Lord hangs on the cross,” Andrew croaked. “See how like a loving mother… He offers His blessed breast to me. He suckles me… from His sacred wound. His sweet blood fills my mouth. He is my tender mother, my virgin… I am safe in His womb.”
She half rose on her pallet, holding out her arms. Her swollen cracked lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. Suddenly she turned her head in my direction. For the first time in many days she seemed to know my presence in the room. She grabbed for my hand and pulled me urgently towards her.
“Give me of His flesh to eat. I must… I must consume His body for the last time.”
Healing Martha touched my arm lightly. “You stay here. I’ll fetch the Host.”
Before I could answer, she had slipped from the room, closing the door silently behind her. I’d been forced to tell Healing Martha all about the Franciscan’s nocturnal visits to smuggle the Host. Cloistered together in Andrew’s room for days at a time, I could not have concealed it from Healing Martha. After weeks of bearing the burden alone, it felt almost as if it had been lifted from me when I finally spoke of it. Although I knew in my heart she would understand, I had expected her to be shocked at first, surprised even. But instead she merely nodded as if she already knew.
I struggled to kneel beside the cot. “Make your confession, Andrew,” I urged her, but I did not want to hear it. I didn’t know why I knelt, but I felt compelled to as if I was the one making confession, not Andrew.
She pulled me close to her; her sour cold breath made my skin crawl. Angry with myself for my disgust, I forced myself to lean closer until her mouth brushed my cheek. She rasped her words at me, but I could not comprehend them. My mind was fogged from weariness.
She recited old sins of neglect and weakness which she had confessed before a hundred times and in the same breath spoke of lewd acts with demons and beasts, as if she could not distinguish those illusions which she conjured in her fever from those sins which she had actually committed in body. Perhaps they were the same. What if her spirit had been transported to some distant place even as her body lay there before my eyes, and in that place she did commit those carnal acts? Witches’ spirits can fly out to make mischief even when their bodies are shackled in the chains. But if God was powerless to prevent Andrew’s blessed soul from being seized by the hosts of darkness, what help was there to safeguard us?
“Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris-”
I absolved her, but from what I did not know.
Healing Martha hurried in and pulled the small casket from beneath her cloak. She opened the lid. Inside lay the Blessed Host, four discs of white bread, stamped by a griddle iron marking each one with the sign of the cross entwined with the emblems of our Lord’s torture: the scourge, the hammer, the lance, and the crown of thorns. I took one of the pieces of bread and held it reverently in both hands as Healing Martha knelt, her gaze fixed upon the body of our Lord in my fingers. The tiredness lifted from her eyes for a brief moment. There was a look of peace in her old face.
I turned towards Andrew and as I whispered the blessed words she levered herself up with her remaining strength, reaching towards me. I placed the sacrament upon her swollen tongue. There was scarcely room in her mouth for her to swallow even so thin a fragment. She leant back and gave a great sigh.
Healing Martha reached into her scrip and drew out a small flask of oil. She pressed the cold, hard bottle into my hand. “It’s time. She is very near the end.”
As if she’d burnt me, I snatched my hand back from her grasp. “No. I can’t. Not that.”
“You’ve taken it upon yourself to absolve her. You must finish what you’ve begun.”
The full weight of her words pressed down on me. Suddenly the air in the room was thick and heavy as if it was full of smoke. I couldn’t breathe. I had taken upon myself nothing less than the burden of her immortal soul and that of Healing Martha’s, whom I had drawn into this. And what of my own soul? I had heard the secret confession of this anchorite’s spirit. I had stood between her soul and her Lord. I had stood unshielded in the terrible light of God and pronounced His mercy. What ye loose on earth will be loosed in Heaven, what ye bind on earth will be bound in Heaven. Yet no bishop had laid his hand upon me, our Mother the Church had not cloaked me with her mantle. I had no authority, no protection.
Healing Martha was watching me, waiting for me to send this perfected bride spotless to her Lord. But Andrew was no leper, no harlot dying in childbed, grateful for any blessing of mine that would shorten their days in purgatory. I could not, I dared not intervene in such a blessed life, such a mystery.
“Send for Father Ulfrid. Go quickly.”
But Healing Martha didn’t move. For a moment I wondered if I had actually spoken the words out loud. There was a long silence. We stared at each other. She stretched out her hand and grasped mine. Her skin felt warm, much warmer than mine.
“Servant Martha, you know that we cannot send for the priest now. If he should ask her when she last took the sacrament… if he uncovers the truth about what you have done, you would be arrested. And after that…”
After that-we both knew what would come after that-imprisonment, torture, even death. And not just for me, for I had made Healing Martha as guilty as I was by witnessing my crime. There was no going back, no undoing the deed. I had seized the power of the priests like a cutpurse on the road and I could no more return it than a man may restore the king’s stolen venison without forfeiting his life. Healing Martha held out the flask of oil again. This time I took it from her, anointing Andrew’s head, breast, hands, and feet. It was done.