At night as I lay in my cot I ran my hands over my belly. Was it swelling? I tried not to eat. Beatrice had noticed that and coaxed me with tender pieces of meat from her own trencher and honeyed pastries which she pressed on me in the fields. She was kind. But after meals I rushed to the latrines and made myself vomit. I was hungry all the time, but I had to starve that thing inside me so it wouldn't be able to grow. I wouldn't let it feed on me. I had to make it die!

A sudden fusty draught sent the lamp over the altar swinging and the shadows scuttling towards me. Unable to bear it a moment longer, I flung open the chapel door and raced out into the blinding sunlight.

In the outer courtyard, the stout stone pigeon cote squatted contentedly on the patch of green. It had been finished only in these past few weeks after the storms destroyed the old wooden one. It was stout and dry, with good thick walls lined with nesting alcoves for the birds right up to the flight platform at the top. It had stone steps built into it, so that you could creep up and slide your hand under the squabs as they sat quietly in their nests, never suspecting that Kitchen Martha's knife awaited them. I'd already discovered that the back of the cote was a good place to shelter out of the wind and out of sight of the other women.

But as I rounded the cote, I almost tripped over Ralph, who was sitting in my favourite spot, his back resting against the stone wall of the pigeon cote. A crippled child lay across his lap, her floppy head supported in the crook of his arm. The stick fingers of her tiny hand fluttered beside her face, as if they were trying to grasp at something.

Gate Martha had found the child abandoned on our threshold one morning with scarcely a rag to cover her. Her small body was so twisted that she couldn't even sit up or control the movements of her limbs. But the strange thing was that Ralph had taken to her as soon as he saw her.

When Ralph first arrived he'd just sat hunched, staring into the fire for hours, not talking or eating. Healing Martha had tried lavender oil to restore his wits, but nothing did any good until that child arrived. Now the leper would sit for hours stroking her hair, patiently feeding her, and telling her stories. It was as if he poured all the lost love for his family into her.

Ralph was holding out stale bread crumbs in his free hand as the pigeons fluttered in to snatch the crumbs. When a leper holds out his bound stumps to people, they shy away, twisting their own hands behind them, but the birds didn't flinch from him.

"She likes the birds," Ralph said without looking up. "Listen to her laugh. She thinks they fly for her, bless the mite. We come every day to feed the birds, don't we, Ella?"

I crouched down beside them. "Is that her name-Ella? I didn't know."

"It's what I call her. Ella means all all, so I've been told. It's fitting. She's all I have and I'm all she has, I reckon. If ever she was given a name afore, she can't tell me what it was. I don't reckon they'd have given her any sort of a decent name. The Devil's spawn, that's what I heard one old cat in the infirmary call her."

He turned towards me, his eyes bright with anger. "What manner of god would curse an innocent bairn with such an affliction? Priests say a bairn is punished this way to pay for the sin of her parents. Me, it's just that I'm cursed, for I've sinned aplenty in my life, though there's many done worse than me that still sits in health and wealth. But what kind of master would whip a little bairn for his father's thieving?"

"My father would. I saw him flog a potboy with his own hands until he was senseless just to punish his widowed mother because she confessed she was with child and her husband had been dead for over a year."

"Can we expect no more mercy from God than from your father when he feels slighted?" Ralph whispered softly, as if he feared to be overheard.

And what would my father do if he ever discovered that demon's spawn was inside me? Potboys were not the only children he flogged. Once, when I was little, my father was raging about some matter to his bailiff and caught me smiling. I was far away inside a story in my head, but my father thought I was laughing at him. He called for a rod, threw me over a bench, and thrashed me in front of the entire household. Afterwards he made me kiss his mouth to show everyone I loved him. Even now I can still taste my salt tears running over his fat wet lips. I hated him for that. Not for the whipping-for that kiss. But I hated myself more that I had lied in that kiss and I hated myself for being afraid of him.

Pater noster, qui es in coelis. Our Father who art in Heaven. Each time I said it, I tasted that kiss again. Each time I said it was a new lie, because a voice inside my head was shouting, "No, not pater noster pater noster, not our father, not my my father." I would not pray to a father. I would never call Him father." I would not pray to a father. I would never call Him Father Father.

Ralph gazed at the face of the child, rocking her and stroking the bare skin of her cheek gently with his forearm. Ella half closed her eyes and her little moans become singsong cries, as if she tried to imitate the notes of a bird or the cradle song of her mother. Her fingers opened and closed, playing upon an imaginary pipe that only she could hear.

"Have you heard any news of your own children?" I asked and immediately cursed myself for saying anything so stupid.

His eyes filled with tears. I turned away hastily, pretending not to notice. Ever since that night in the forest I found I couldn't cry anymore and other people's tears made me angry.

Ralph's voice was husky. "Nights I lie awake wondering if they're starving in some ditch. If my poor Joan's been driven to sell herself to put food in their bellies or to sell Marion or my little lads into labour."

"Pega says your wife took the children to her own kin in Norwich. You know Pega; if she says it then it's bound to be true." I refused to look at him for I could hear in his voice that tears still shone in his eyes.

"But her kin won't take them in, not when she tells them of me, for fear she carries the sickness with her."

I hesitated; I didn't want to upset him again. "Perhaps she'll have said you had an accident."

He seemed to brighten a little at the thought. "Aye, you're right. My Joan's an honest woman, but she'd do anything to protect our bairns. And they'd not refuse a widow and that's what she is, without a word of a lie, for I am dead. Father Ulfrid said as much." He nodded to himself. "She'll like as not wed again for she is still pleasing to look at. And her new husband'll surely treat the bairns kindly for her sake. She'd not take to a cruel man."

"Of course she wouldn't. She'd only marry a good man like you. Besides, the children will soon be grown and have children of their own," I said eagerly, crowding into his cheerful daydream.

But he looked down again and the light died in his face. "And what if their bairns are born like Ella? They say His curse reaches to the seventh generation."

His grasp on Ella tightened and she opened her eyes wide in surprise. He rocked her, murmuring softly, his mouth against her ear so that she gurgled in the tickle of his breath. Then he held the child away from him and, awkwardly, with his clumsy stumps, dragged open his shirt and turned towards me. Around his chest he had twisted bands of leather with iron studs sticking through into his flesh. The bands were bound so tightly to his skin that each time he moved the studs bruised and cut him. His flesh was purple and swollen on either side of the leather straps. Each time he held the child against him, her wriggles and jerks must have driven the metal deeper into the bruised flesh.

"I wear them sleeping and waking," he said as he struggled to pull his shirt back and cradle the child against him again.

"But why, Ralph?" I asked, almost unable to believe what I had just seen.

"For my bairns," he answered as if only a simpleton would not know this. "God must take my penance as enough, and spare my bairns."

I'd heard that a mother might put herself between a man's fist and the child she loves, but I didn't know that any man could have such tender feelings as to put himself between God's fist and his child. My father wouldn't. God put the mark of His curse on me while I quickened in my mother's womb, but if God cursed me for my father's sins, my father added his own curse to me for bearing it.

"It's quiet here today, Osmanna. Few souls about."

Ralph's words were so calmly spoken that I wondered if I had imagined the horror beneath his shirt. Ella had closed her eyes again and was lying contented in his arms.

For a moment I couldn't drag my thoughts away to make sense of what he'd said. "Yes ... yes, it is quiet. Most of the women have gone to the seashore to rake for razor shells and to gather seaweed to dry for winter fodder for the goats. There won't be enough hay to see us through this winter."

"You didn't want to go with them?" Ralph asked. "I'd have thought you'd be glad of a day by the sea." He sighed wistfully.

I felt guilty. I was free to go out, but spent my time inside, while he must long to walk by the sea or climb the hills or wander again in all the places he had known as a boy, but he couldn't step outside the gates.

"It's my saint's day," I said. "I'm supposed to spend it in contemplation."

"Blessings on you. I wish ..." he began. Then suddenly he thrust the half-sleeping child into my arms. "Wait, wait here."

He rose with a struggle and limped off towards the infirmary.

Ella twisted in my arms. She knew I was not Ralph and the anxiety showed in her face. Her body was lighter even than it looked, like a dried fish, transparent and sharp, but her head was heavy as it lolled against me.

Ralph came limping back across the grass, stumbling often. Soon he would need crutches. He would not be able to carry Ella to the cote next summer, if she lived until then. He laid a package wrapped in oiled cloth on the grass beside me, eased himself back down on the grass, and scooped Ella out of my arms.

He nodded at the bundle. "For you. A gift for your saint's day."

I blushed and stammered in surprise, "I can't take it."

"Please," he said. "My Joan brought a bundle of things for me the night she fled. I didn't see her. I wish she'd asked for me, but I think she was afraid. I don't blame her. This was hidden inside a blanket. Open it."

I unwrapped the package more from curiosity than any intention of accepting it. It was a book bound in calf's leather, with fine tooling and traces of gold leaf upon the cover. The lettering was in a fine hand. I looked up. Ralph was watching me eagerly.

"It's a pretty book, is it not? Can you read it?"

I nodded. "Merchants would pay good money for this. Why didn't your wife take it to sell? She must be badly in need of the money."

"Poor Joan was always afraid of it. A man gave it me in exchange for some work I did for him. He'd no silver, but he said we could sell the book for more than he owed."

"Then why-"

"I told you-my wife was afraid. The man told me it came from the Jews in France. There were Jews once in this land too, but that was afore you were born. My father said when they were driven out from Norwich they left many things behind they couldn't carry." He shrugged. "Some never reached the ships, but died on the march. But I hear tell they've been driven out of France now too. So maybe those that died were the lucky ones."

"But the book, was your wife afraid it was stolen?"

He shook his head. "You can't steal from a Jew; all they had belonged to the King, for he owned the Jews, but the only books the King's men were interested in were the moneylenders' ledgers. Besides, they didn't always get there first and who's to know what a Jew had in his house before it was ransacked?

"No, my Joan was afraid because she heard that Jews' books are full of witchcraft and evil magic. She thought that if any knew we had the book or we tried to sell it, someone might accuse us of sorcery. She said I was a fool for taking it, though the man said it was a holy book.

"I didn't know what to do with it," Ralph continued. "She'd not burn it in case it was holy and that brought down a curse from God-or if it was evil and she burnt it, it might conjure a demon." He studied me anxiously. "It's not a book of sorcery, is it? My wife blamed my sickness on the book. We can neither of us read and she'd not let me show it to any who could."

I turned the pages carefully. "This isn't a Jewish book," I told Ralph. "It's not written in their tongue. If it was I wouldn't be able to read it, but I can read this. It's in French. It means The Mirror ... of Simple Souls The Mirror ... of Simple Souls. I don't know why the man said it came from the Jews ... unless a Jewish merchant bought it to trade or a moneylender was given it as a pledge. I heard that Jewish moneylenders often took books from Christians as surety. Anyway, this can't have brought a curse on you; it speaks of God."

His mouth twisted into a crooked kind of leer, but I was no longer frightened by that. I knew it was his way of smiling.

"Then it's a good gift for your saint's day," he told me. "Take it; it's no use to Ella or me and I've nothing else to give. I'll not forget your kindness that day you brought me here. You've more courage than any man in the village, though you're little more than a bairn yourself. I often think on how you gripped my arm and lifted your hand to cover me when they ..." He faltered, his arm half raised against his face as if he could still feel the sting of the filth and muck they threw. "If it weren't for you and Servant Martha, God bless her, I ..." He scrambled up as fast as he could, holding Ella fiercely against him. "Take it for a blessing," he said brusquely and limped away before I could put it back in his hand.

servant martha i WENT ALONE TO ANDREW WENT ALONE TO ANDREW'S CELL. I heard her confession, and absolved her of sins which were so far beyond my understanding that I was afraid to hear them. Sins of the desolation of a soul sunk to the depths of humility, a soul that saw its own corruption with such burning clarity that it could accuse itself no more and yet accused itself for that very fault. How could I listen to that? There was no penance I could lay upon her that her own spirit had not already taken upon itself. I heard her confession, and absolved her of sins which were so far beyond my understanding that I was afraid to hear them. Sins of the desolation of a soul sunk to the depths of humility, a soul that saw its own corruption with such burning clarity that it could accuse itself no more and yet accused itself for that very fault. How could I listen to that? There was no penance I could lay upon her that her own spirit had not already taken upon itself.

Trembling, I placed the Host in her mouth and her spirit shot upwards like a lark. She babbled such sounds of joy that I shivered to hear them. Despite her bloated features there was an expression of ecstasy in her eyes. I crept from the room and summoned Healing Martha to sit with her, for I could not.

Healing Martha glanced at my face and then at the cloak pulled tight around me to conceal what I carried. I dared tell no one what I did. I wanted to share the weight of it with Healing Martha, to seek her reassurance that I was doing the right thing, but I couldn't. If there was sin in that deed, I had to take it upon myself alone. I'd had a choice. It had been my decision, so I couldn't then force the knowledge of it upon Healing Martha. For this much I knew for certain-even if what I did was not a sin before God, there was danger in the act, grave danger for me and for anyone who knew what I did.

father ulfrid i WATCHED THE LONG THIN FINGER WATCHED THE LONG THIN FINGER run down the column of fingers in the tithe ledger and the frown deepen. I couldn't bear to watch, but leaving him alone was worse. At least if I stayed in the church, I might be able to divert him. run down the column of fingers in the tithe ledger and the frown deepen. I couldn't bear to watch, but leaving him alone was worse. At least if I stayed in the church, I might be able to divert him.

"Would you care for some wine, Commissarius?"

He didn't look up. "From what I read in these entries, I am surprised you have any wine to spare, Father Ulfrid."

He pulled his fur-trimmed robe more closely about him. Although the rain had chilled the evening air, it was hardly cold enough to warrant such a heavy robe, but he had the pinched look of a man who was permanently cold, whatever the weather. Several times he tilted the ledger towards the candle on the table, to illuminate an entry, before dipping his quill and making notes on his own parchment. In the hollow empty church, the harsh scratching of his quill seemed to reverberate off the stones, until it was all I could hear.

I'd encountered the Bishop's Commissarius only once before, the day Bishop Salmon interrogated me about Hilary, an interview I still relive in my nightmares. The Commissarius had been poised on a stool placed just behind the Bishop. Occasionally he had leaned forward from the shadows to murmur something in Bishop Salmon's ear, but he'd never once addressed me, and those whispers had been far more unnerving than the Bishop's torrent of angry words.

With his face half obscured in the shadow of the Bishop's high-backed chair I'd assumed the Commissarius was a man of mature years, but now that he was sitting in my vestry, I could see he was only in his late twenties, though his skin had the waxy unnatural pallor of a prisoner kept for years in a dungeon. He had a long narrow face, as if his mother had squeezed her legs together to try to prevent him coming into the world. His cheekbones were sharp and his eyes sunk deep into dark sleepless hollows, and little wonder for he had such a tension of ambition in his frame that it would rob any man of his sleep.

"I'm ... surprised that you were sent to look over the tithe ledgers, Commissarius. I thought perhaps the Bishop's Reeve-"

"You thought? Or you hoped?" he said, running his finger down another column. "Then my visit must be a great disappointment to you."

"No, no, it's a great honour, of course ... but I hadn't realised you concerned yourself with such matters."

Still he did not raise his eyes from the ledger. "I am concerned with whatever is troubling His Excellency, the Bishop. And he, Father Ulfrid, is troubled about you." He snapped the ledger shut on this last word and finally lifted his head to look at me. "Your parishioners would appear to be somewhat reluctant to pay their tithes."

"But they cannot give what they didn't harvest, Commissarius. You must have seen the fields as you rode here. The grain harvest was ruined and the hay crop was hardly better. Surely it must be the same in all the parishes in these parts?"

"Quite so, Father Ulfrid; as you say, all the parishes in the See are affected." He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

"Then you understand the difficulties," I said, much relieved.

"I understand very well, Father Ulfrid. I understand that all the other priests-priests who are diligent in the service of the Church-have collected their tithes as usual and on time, despite the ... difficulties." difficulties."

I gaped at him. How could they? It was almost on the tip of my tongue to say I didn't believe him, but I stopped myself in time. "But, Commissarius, how can they bring a tenth of their crops when they have no crops?"

What did he expect me to do, rip the rags from the backs of beggars? God knows I didn't want to be here, but if a man is suddenly thrown into chains, he cannot help but feel some compassion towards the other wretches suffering in the same dungeon.

He studied me carefully, pressing the tips of his long fingers together. "Father Ulfrid, perhaps you have forgotten that the Church accepts wool and crops as the tithe only from its compassion for the poor. What the Church wants, Father, what indeed it demands first and foremost, is money. If the people cannot pay their tithes in grain and beasts, then they must pay in coins. Were you to familiarise yourself with the tithe records of your predecessors, Father, you would find there ample reminders that tithes are collected on time and in full regardless of whether the harvest is good or poor."

"But with due respect, Com-"

He held up a hand to silence me. "Ah, yes, respect respect, that is at the heart of this matter-the people's respect for the Church. I think you'll find, Father Ulfrid, that excommunicating a few of the more obdurate members of your congregation will serve as a salutary lesson to the rest of the parish. After all, what is a mere tenth of their earnings in this life, compared to an eternity spent in the fires of Hell for them and their children?"

"But if the crops have failed where are they to find-"

"It is because they deny God what is rightfully His that He has punished them with poor harvests. If they had tithed honestly and generously in the past, they would not now be suffering. At such times you should advise them to redouble their efforts to pay in order that His wrath may be turned aside."

He rose abruptly and tucked the ledger under his arm. "Come, show me the tithe barn. With so little gathered in, at least there will have been no occasion for error in the counting of it."

I felt my stomach turn sour. "Commissarius, surely there's no need to trouble yourself on such a night. The records are accurate, I assure you. You'll get soaked going out in that rain and I'd never forgive myself if you caught a chill."

He was already at the door of the church. "I thank you for your solicitude, Father Ulfrid, but I assure you it is no trouble. I am glad to suffer in the service of the Holy Church, as I am sure are you, Father. Please be so good as to bring the lantern and the key."

Outside the rain was slashing down. The night was so dark it was impossible even to see across the churchyard. I pulled my cloak tightly about myself and held the lantern up to light the Commissarius's way down the puddle-strewn track. I was praying he'd slip and break his neck, but the way things were going, he'd probably only step in a puddle and soak his boots, which would do nothing to improve his disposition. I fumbled at the door of the barn trying to turn the great key in the lock. When it finally yielded, the Commissarius seized the lantern and held it up. The trembling flame only seemed to magnify the great gaping spaces between the pitifully few supplies.

"Commissarius, you must understand we lost a number of hides. There was an infestation of black beetles. We had to burn the infected hides to prevent the others from becoming holed."

"Then they were either badly cured, or inefficiently stored. Both are your responsibility, Father Ulfrid." The long finger was methodically flicking through the skins. "You must ensure that only the finest quality produce is given to the Church. The populace will try to pass off their worst goods as tithes if they think the priest is too careless to check. That is why you should insist on payment in coin, Father Ulfrid. Money is never-what was it you said? Ah, yes-infested by little black beetles."

He strode round the barn, counting sacks here and bales there. He was only doing it to prolong my agony; he already knew the amounts would not tally. The fleeces and hides had never existed. He'd known that before we even entered the barn. The only question was what he would do about it. The rain drummed down on the roof and wind whistled in through the gap under the door, but it was not the chill draught that made me shiver.

When at long last the Commissarius had completed his circuit of the barn, he went to the table and sat down, opening the ledger. His pale finger again traced down the columns. I waited, the old familiar pain in my chest growing stronger with every minute that crawled past.

Finally he looked up. "As you are doubtless aware, Father Ulfrid, there would appear to be a significant discrepancy between what is in the barn and what is recorded in the ledger."

I struggled against my rising panic, trying to make my voice sound calm. "As I explained, the hides-"

"And no doubt you could also explain the missing hay, roots, beans, and all of the other items that appear to have vanished. What was it, Father-weevils, mice, floods, fire? I don't doubt you've been smitten with them all. You seem to have been the victim of great misfortune." He paused and stroked his chin thoughtfully. "However, since you are a man of God, I shall, of course, accept your tithe ledger as a true and accurate record of what you have received on behalf of the Holy Church."

I felt myself breathing out hard. I hoped it wasn't loud enough for him to hear, but evidently he saw the look of relief on my face, for he smiled.

"Entirely accurate," he repeated quietly. "Therefore, you will deliver to His Excellency, the Bishop, a quarter of all the tithes you have recorded in your ledger, regardless of what is actually contained in the barn."

He paused and I felt the fear in me ebbing away. It was not as bad as I feared. I had already calculated I had just enough to send what I owed to Norwich and I'd be able to scrape together enough to live on from the tithes set aside for repairing the church and alms for the poor. It would be difficult, but I could do it, and the villagers would surely pay me what they owed when they could.

But the Commissarius had not finished. "In addition, Father Ulfrid, you will send the quarter set aside for the maintenance of St. Michael's Church to me, and I will personally oversee the settlement of any bills for the church. Likewise you will also send to me the quarter of the tithes recorded in your ledger which are reserved for the poor and needy of your parish. Just for safekeeping, you understand, in case any of it should fall prey to more of those little black beetles. You have one month to deliver what you owe. And if you find that the remaining quarter for your own keep is rather less than the quarter recorded in your own ledgers, an empty stomach may help to concentrate your thoughts on accurate bookkeeping in the future."

He must have seen the look of horror on my face. Even if I sent everything that was in the barn, it wouldn't be nearly enough to make up the amount he was demanding. Where was I to get the rest? The Commissarius watched me for a moment, then, apparently satisfied I had understood the full implications, he strode past me towards the door.

I turned and hurried after him. "Please, Commissarius," I begged, "at least give me more time. I told you we've had problems; the hay went mouldy. There wasn't-"

"I will not give you more time, Father Ulfrid, but I will give you some advice. Do not forget where your duty lies. You may make yourself popular with your idle parishioners by allowing them to escape paying their tithes and scots, but you will not make yourself popular with Bishop Salmon. And you cannot afford to anger His Excellency again, remember that. One more mistake, Father Ulfrid, just one more, and an empty stomach will be the very least of your sufferings."