I felt exhilarated, as if I had broken out of a dungeon. I hadn’t realised the truth of what I’d said until it burst out of me in a fury. Phillip and his uncle were powerless to act against me over the money. They could do nothing to me at all.

Phillip sat quite still for a few moments, his face impassive. Then he rose, and moved towards the door. I felt a surge of pleasure. He knew he was beaten. But suddenly he spun round. Too late, I glimpsed the flash of metal. The blow was so savage I was knocked to the floor. White-hot sparks of pain exploded in my skull. I clutched at my ear and cheek as hot blood poured from the gash. An iron spike, shaped like the talon of a great bird, lay in Phillip’s hand. He bounced the sharp blade casually as if debating whether to slash again.

“How dare you strike a servant of God!” I yelled both in fear and outrage. “When the Commissarius learns-”

“When the Commissarius learns that his priest has been meeting a filthy little sodomite here in Ulewic, I think he’ll pay me four times what you owe. And as for the exquisite pain the Commissarius will take pleasure in devising for you… I wonder what he’ll do to you; stick a red-hot iron spit up your arse and roast you like the perverted little pig you are? Come now, did you honestly think I wouldn’t find out about-what’s your whore-boy’s name-Hilary?”

My legs buckled and I sank onto my knees, gagging in an effort not to vomit in front of him. I was shaking violently. Blood oozed between my fingers and dripped onto the rushes. The room was spinning and not just from the pain. I was falling down and down into the blackest, deepest pit.

Phillip balled up my white altar cloth and threw it at me. “Stop snivelling. Get up!”

I clambered shakily to my feet and staggered into a chair, pressing the linen cloth to the burning gash.

“Now, Father, are you quite sure you don’t want to help us?”

I didn’t need to look at his face, to see the triumph that was written there. I knew this had gone way beyond mere money. “What… what do you want?”

D’Acaster’s nephew settled himself comfortably in the chair again and smiled. “You know, Father, I find your words have touched my conscience, after all. We should return the body of that little boy to his poor grieving mother. But first, just to show she has learned her lesson, Aldith can perform a little task for us. But we’ll need you to put the matter to her, Father. For some strange reason, she doesn’t trust us. You are her priest; you can persuade her to do what is required.”

“And what… is required?”

“We want her to deliver a message, that’s all. Then she will be reunited with her son.” Phillip picked up a poker and stabbed at the dying embers in the hearth, sending a shower of sparks flying upwards.

“Now, Father. This is what you will say to Aldith…”

december

this night at sunset, the winter solstice begins. it is a night for divination, when maids stick pins in onions to summon their future lovers.

“good saint thomas, do me right.

send me my true love tonight.”

wE HAD HELD OUR MASS for Saint Thomas’s Eve in our chapel at midnight. Each festival we celebrated was new and different, for in the past we’d always attended St. Michael’s Church on feast days. I tried to capture the joy of it for the women, but I knew some of them missed the spectacle and colour of the parish church, seeing the village bright with merriment and music, the young people dancing and everyone filling their bellies after the fast, though this year there was precious little feasting or joy in the village.

In the morning we conducted a service in the infirmary for the patients and the poor from the village. We did not say Mass, of course. Many of the village women came to the service, poor thin creatures with dead eyes, and a beaten-down look about them. I was pleased they came to us. It renewed my resolve and purpose. We were not mistaken in our call to come to this land.

But the presence of some villagers did not gladden me. They knelt throughout the service, mouthing their prayers with great exaggeration while their thoughts were fixed only on the meat pies and clothes they knew we’d distribute when the service was over. Their faces lit up, not at the word of God, but at the smell of a goose pudding.

As I stepped out of the infirmary, I had to fight to stop the door being snatched from my hand by the wind. I pulled my cloak tightly about me. Ralph was limping across the courtyard on his crutch, dragging a little trolley behind him, the rope tied round his waist. Shepherd Martha had made it for him, so that he could take the crippled child for her walk. Now they seemed forever chained together as if one sentence had been pronounced upon them both.

“Blessings of Saint Thomas upon you, Ralph, and upon you, child.” I bent and laid my hand on her head. She jerked back. “How does she fare, Ralph? She looks better today, some colour in her cheeks.”

Ralph looked down at her as tenderly as any doting father. “Ella’s well, Servant Martha. I was afeared I’d lose her these past weeks, for she wheezed so that her lips turned blue and she could scarcely snatch a breath, but Healing Martha cured her.”

“God cured her, Ralph.” I corrected him. “Healing Martha is but His humble instrument.”

There was a discreet cough behind me. “God’s humble instrument hesitates to interrupt you, Servant Martha, but there is a soul who would speak to you.”

Healing Martha nodded towards a woman who stood close to the wall, sheltering from the bitter wind. Kitchen Martha was trying to talk to her, but the woman was ignoring her. Her eyes were on me. She looked as if she wanted to approach me, but was afraid. No doubt she feared the leprosy. Ralph saw the look on her face too. He limped away, dragging the trolley behind him.

I beckoned the woman forward, but she remained pressed against the wall. It was impossible to tell her age. Her face was haggard with hunger, but her eyes, sunken deep into dark hollows, had an unnatural brightness about them such as you see in those on the edge of madness. I moved closer, but before I could prevent her, the woman fell on her knees in the dirt, clasping my cloak with her webbed fingers, talking and weeping with such agitation that I couldn’t make out a word she said. I pulled the woman up from the ground and gave her a little shake to bring her to her senses.

“Calm yourself, sister. What do you want of us? Is someone sick?”

She shook her head vigorously, sobbing harder than ever.

“What ails you? I cannot help you if you don’t tell me what you want.” Perhaps the woman was a simpleton; the village abounded in them.

“My baby…”

“You have a little son or daughter?”

“Not anymore. It’s dead. It didn’t live but a week or two. And my husband says we must bury it under the midden, before Father Ulfrid finds out. My husband will not pay the soul-scot.”

I laid a consoling hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, sister. God in His mercy grant you strength to bear His will. Do I understand aright? You are seeking soul-scot to bury your baby?”

The woman shook her head and clutched at me again. “No, you must bury it here, else the Owlman’ll eat its soul. You can keep it safe.”

“Your baby will be safe in the churchyard. No harm can come to a Christian child there. And we’ll find the soul-scot for you to give to Father Ulfrid, though you had best not tell him that the money came from us.”

“I don’t dare take it to the priest! It wasn’t baptised. My husband said he wouldn’t name it afore the priest. Said the brat was none of his getting.” The woman was staring around wildly, looking at anything except me. She pulled at her skirts as if she was trying to tear something away.