A sea crossing in the middle of winter; who would be crazy enough to attempt that? It had been bad enough in summer. It was like saying to a prisoner you can rot in jail or you can escape by running through a hall of mad dogs.

She’d assembled us all in the chapel after dark. Andrew’s reliquary lay on the altar in front of us, beneath the crucifix and the painting of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The rest of the Marthas sat around Servant Martha, facing us, grave but composed. Servant Martha rose and stood taller and straighter than ever, the candlelight casting a giant shadow of her on the wall.

The Marthas must have known what she was going to say, but we mere beguines had heard not a whisper of what had been discussed and there was a shocked silence in the chapel as Servant Martha told us what the priest had demanded-the relic and our public penance or excommunication. Little Catherine, sitting beside me, began to sob like a terrified child when the words sank in.

Servant Martha, ignoring Catherine, let us digest these momentous facts for a few moments, then she presented us with her solution. We needed no priest to mediate between us and our Lord; we would consecrate the Host ourselves, she said. We would give it to one another as the first Christians had done, as indeed, Christ had intended that night He met with his disciples.

“Women feed the world,” she declared, “from the cradle to the grave, nourishing the unborn in the womb, suckling the infant, feeding husband, children, friend and stranger, the old, the sick, and the dying. Is it not the most natural thing in the world that our sex should give the bread of life to the soul just as we give it to the body? Is it not in fact our natural part, our role, our calling?

“We recite each day that God’s spirit is in us. Should we not stand upon the truth of what we say or is it just an empty phrase, a hollow piety? If our spirit is with God and as God, if God is in us and we are in Him, then why should we not consecrate His body as He does ours?”

The beguines stared at one another. Servant Martha’s gaze swept the room as if daring any one of us to challenge her. I knew what she was saying was all wrong, but I could not put my arguments into words. Surely if anyone could consecrate the bread, the Church would have told us. How, after hundreds of years, could it suddenly be possible for a woman to do what the Pope said only a priest could do? But I knew whatever I said, Servant Martha could defeat with a clever phrase.

Servant Martha said any who believed what she was proposing was wrong should obey their conscience and leave the chapel at once. Then she sat down and watched us. All the Marthas watched us, except for Kitchen Martha, who stared miserably at her chubby hands, unwilling to look at anyone.

I should have left then. I could have gone back to Bruges, to the comfortable life I had so long regretted leaving. But I didn’t move. The sea crossing-yes, that was enough to dissuade the bravest soul-but I was thinking of Gudrun curled up asleep in the cote. I couldn’t leave her to the mercy of a woman like Servant Martha who had the warmth and compassion of a stoat. Someone had to look after the child. Gudrun needed a mother; she needed me.

No one rose and walked through the lines of beguines to the door. I don’t know why, perhaps they too knew there was no escape or maybe they really did believe what Servant Martha was doing was right. But that night we all ate the little piece of damnation she offered to us in her hands.

The Marthas rose and one by one extinguished the candles burning round the chapel until only a single candle burned on the altar in front of the miraculous Host. All eyes were turned to it, seeking shelter from the darkness in that one tiny flame. Then Servant Martha stepped forward and lit her candle; when the flame burned steadily she bent to light the one in the hands of little Margery, who served at the altar, then sent her into the body of women. We each lit our candles, one after another. The flame passed along the rows, from hand to hand, the light spreading, filling the chapel, driving the shadows from us into the deep corners and high up into the rafters.

Wherever these candles shall be set, the Devil shall flee away in fear and trembling with all his ministers.

As the light spread, the dancing began. Some of the women picked out the tune of the Nunc Dimittis on their instruments; the rest gathered it up in song as if it was a joyous Easter carol. I stood silently watching them becoming drunk on the light, as I grew more sober. I don’t know how long they danced, for we sang the Nunc Dimittis again and again, the last amen running into the first note as if they could not stop singing.

Servant Martha seemed content to let the psalm be repeated until the women were exhausted, then she broke the circle and placed her candle before the statue of the Virgin. One by one, we added our candles. The light swelled around the Virgin until she floated on a carpet of yellow flame.

Blessed art Thou that through Thy pure body, redemption came into the world and lifted the curse of Eve from man.

The beguines did not take their eyes off Servant Martha as she said Mass.

We have received Your mercy, O God, in the midst of Your temple.

She held the Host in both hands. Her hands trembled, but her voice rang out strong and hard as a Cardinal’s.

Domine, non sum dignus.

The hands of a woman lifted the chalice, His holy blood. I expected the chalice to shatter in her hand, as it had in the hands of Saint Benedict when the wine was poisoned. Was I the only one who saw the blasphemy of what she did? But they were all caught up in a rapture I couldn’t share. I was a beggar spying on a feast, smelling the food but not tasting it, hearing the music but not dancing. Even Pega, solid sensible Pega, was as witched as the rest by Servant Martha. She was actually smiling at Osmanna. The two of them were as excited as children unwrapping gifts. None of the women seemed to understand what Servant Martha had done. Not only had she cut us off from the Holy Church and from the sacraments, but now she was putting our very lives and souls in peril.

seventh-century irish bishop who was famed for converting the pagan mercians in england to christianity, but after the bishop’s death it was widely claimed that the pious diuma, or diona, was in fact a woman.

bUT COMMISSARIUS,” I PROTESTED, “Bishop Salmon received his tithes in full. I delivered everything you asked.”

“Indeed you did and in coin too. I am intrigued to know how you managed it, Father.”

The Commissarius sat rigid in a chair drawn up close to my cottage hearth. His face betrayed nothing of his thoughts. His two hands were pressed together at the fingertips, his fingers rhythmically flexing and unflexing. I couldn’t tear my gaze from those undulating fingers; it was like watching the throat of some serpent pulsate as it swallowed its prey.

“I… I did as you advised, Commissarius; I threatened the villagers… with excommunication.” My throat tightened as I spoke, as if those long thin fingers were squeezing it.

“Good, good,” he replied thoughtfully. “So they found the money after all, did they? I must confess I was surprised, especially when I learned the cattle murrain had reached these parts. I thought you might have a little more trouble persuading them. No?”

He paused, watching me closely. I searched his face, trying to see if he believed me. I could find no clue. Was this another one of his games? Was he going to string this out, then without warning demand to see the chest where the church silver should have been? The man to whom I had given the silver in surety had sworn no one would hear of it; his reputation depended on as much, he said. But the Church had spies everywhere.