I pulled my feet up under my cloak. My chilblains itched unbearably. They kept cracking open and some mornings when I woke, my feet were covered in blood. Last year, Healing Martha had given me some thick foul-smelling ointment to rub into them which had soothed them, but I wasn't going to ask that bitch Osmanna if she had any. I'd rather suffer.

Shepherd Martha whistled Leon to heel as she and Pega strode towards the ford. They pulled off their boots and hose. Pega hitched her skirts and lumbered down into the ford, cursing and swearing as the cold water rose up her calves. She splashed across, taking the last few paces at a run. Shepherd Martha followed more cautiously.

"Sheep," announced Pega, "are the most cussed beasts ever to come out of the ark. I'll never know how you can abide to be around them all year, Shepherd Martha. If you wanted a sheep to stay out of the valley it would go in as soon as look at you. Ask it to go, and you'd think you were trying to murder it."

"Not so different from men, then." Shepherd Martha chuckled. "You don't need to work with sheep very long before you see why our Lord likened His disciples to them. But when it comes to finding a dry, warm place to sleep, they've far more sense than cattle or even old Leon."

She whistled and Leon bounded enthusiastically out of the river, waiting until he was up close before shaking his thick black shaggy coat vigorously all over us.

"Get away, you great brute," Pega yelled, but Leon seemed to take that as a mark of affection and happily rolled at her feet, drooling as Pega obligingly rubbed his belly.

"Pega, you've not seen Gudrun today, have you, up by the old cottage?" I asked.

"She's not gone up the hill. Leastways, not unless she's doubled back, cause I saw her going that way earlier." She pointed behind us, to the road that led to both the forest and the village. "We called after her, but she took no notice, not that she ever does, and I'd not the time to go chasing after her."

Shepherd Martha patted me on the shoulder. "Don't fret. I dare say she's wandering round in the forest with that raven of hers."

"I need to make sure," I said anxiously.

Pega blew on her great broad hands against the cold. "Beatrice, leave the poor bairn be. She'll be back when she's hungry. Besides, you'll never find her in the forest; she could be anywhere. I dare say she knows places in there even the verderers have never found."

"But what if she's gone into the village? She's had nothing to eat this morning; she might go there looking for food if she gets hungry."

Shepherd Martha glanced at Pega, then shook her head. "It's no use, Pega, you may as well tell the ewe not to bleat for the lamb. She won't rest until Gudrun's back."

I knew they thought I was fussing and even I told myself I was. This wasn't the first time Gudrun had disappeared for a whole day. There was no reason for me to be anxious. No reason, except for a feeling I couldn't name even to myself.

WE'D BEEN TO THE VILLAGE to take food several times since the flood, so I knew at once that there was something wrong as soon as I reached the outlying cottages. There was no one peering from the windows or hunting for dog dung outside. There were no children playing in the road, or women fetching water or firewood. It had been quieter of late because of the fever, but even so there was usually some half-naked infant sitting on the road stuffing fistfuls of dirt in his mouth or a woman sitting in her doorway picking over beans. But I couldn't see anyone. What if the fever had spread? You hear of whole villages being deserted when a sickness takes hold, the sick fleeing and leaving the dead to rot where they lie. to take food several times since the flood, so I knew at once that there was something wrong as soon as I reached the outlying cottages. There was no one peering from the windows or hunting for dog dung outside. There were no children playing in the road, or women fetching water or firewood. It had been quieter of late because of the fever, but even so there was usually some half-naked infant sitting on the road stuffing fistfuls of dirt in his mouth or a woman sitting in her doorway picking over beans. But I couldn't see anyone. What if the fever had spread? You hear of whole villages being deserted when a sickness takes hold, the sick fleeing and leaving the dead to rot where they lie.

The path between the houses was empty but for the winter midges. The bugs hung in a thick cloud over the ditches where stagnant river water still ran among the refuse and stinking mud. A dark stain was wrapped around the wall of each cottage; strands of dry yellowish-green slime clung to wattle and fence, marking the height of the water.

The hairy back of a solitary pig poked up from a ditch as it snuffled and rooted among the refuse. It grunted contentedly as if nothing could go amiss in its world. How it had survived the cull, I didn't know. Most likely one of the villagers had hidden it, or it had wandered out from the forest.

"Think yourself fortunate to have survived, do you, little sow? Well, take my advice, Mistress, you'd best follow the example of the noblemen's wives and get yourself in litter soon with any boar that passes or you'll not live to see Candlemass."

The sow gave another grunt, its snout buried deep in the carcass of some creature too far rotted to own a name.

A couple of moth-eaten hens with long scaly legs and wilted combs scratched beside a doorstep. The door of the house was closed tight and the shutters too, as if that was going to keep the fever out, but it was too late; you could smell it was in there. The stench was unmistakable; it clawed at your throat even through a closed door.

The door to the tanner's yard lay open, but there was no sound of beating leather. A scraper lay abandoned on the stretched skin. The skin needed wetting again; it was drying out in the cold wind. It would be the Devil's own job to clean that if the fat dried. But what master would be so lax as to let his apprentice run off leaving a hide to spoil, unless he'd been suddenly struck down? What would take master and apprentice together in the midst of their work and in so much haste they didn't even stop to put the skins in soak? Not even the fever could do that.

The Owlman! A shiver ran down my back. I spun wildly round and round staring up at the milky sky, terrified that he might be crouching up there in the bare branches of the trees, watching me. Without thinking, I started running back the way I'd come, desperate to get to the safety of the beguinage. I stumbled and went sprawling on the sharp stones. Shaken, I crouched on the ground, trying to get my breath.

There was a harsh croak above me. Covering my head, I threw myself against the wall of a cottage. I cowered there, my heart thumping, but nothing happened. At last, cautiously, I glanced up. It was only a raven. It had settled on the roof of the cottage and was peering down at me.

A raven! Gudrun's bird; that meant she was here, somewhere in the village. No, it was silly to think that. There were hundreds of ravens; how could you possibly tell one from another? There was no reason why this one should be hers.

Then I heard it, a sound like a great wave breaking on a shingle beach. I couldn't tell if it was a roar of fury or excitement. It was coming from the centre of the village. I wanted to run in the opposite direction, but I couldn't leave Gudrun. If she was here, I had to find her. Sick with fear for her, I set off in the direction of the sound.

As I emerged from the lane, the noise of the crowd exploded in my ears. Every man, woman, and child from the village who could walk was there, crowded together around the pond at the far end of the Green, children perched on their fathers' shoulders for a better view, women at the back standing on tiptoe on upturned buckets or barrels. Another cheer rose, but was abruptly severed, as if the heads of the crowd had been chopped from their bodies in mid-roar.

One man, sensing I was there, turned. He touched his neighbour on the arm and they both moved away from me. Others stared sullenly at me, mutinous, like sulky children. There was a movement at the front of the crowd. Father Ulfrid pushed his way through and stood in front of me, his hands tucked into his sleeves as if he was in his own church doing God's work. His narrowed eyes glittered with triumph, but his body was trembling as if gripped by the kind of giddy relief you see in young boys after battle.

"Crawl back to your nest of vipers, woman. You've no business here. There will be no more souls from this village coming to your door. The sickness is over."

He bellowed these words for the benefit of the crowd, who made a half-hearted cheer in response, but there was strangely little rejoicing in the sound.

I tried to muster what dignity I could. "Praise God for it, if it is so. But can you be sure?"

"Oh, I'm sure. We know the cause. We know who brought the evil upon us and you can rest assured, Mistress, the malefactor will not trouble us again. Take this back to the house of women as a warning: We have dealt with one of your number and should any further misfortune strike this village, we will see to it that the rest of you suffer the same fate. You tell that to your so-called leader."

"Dealt with?" A dreadful coldness gripped my bowels. "How dealt with?"

He turned and gestured. The sea of people divided and parted. A brown-cloaked man stood at the pond's edge, legs planted firmly astride, arms folded across his chest. He had a man's body, but his head was the head of an owl. His bronze beak was hooked and sharp as a wetted scythe. The tawny feathers were smoothed and glossy. His eyes were hooded deep within the feathers, so that I couldn't see if they were the eyes of a man or a bird. He pointed down at his feet with a slow extravagant gesture, but I couldn't tear my gaze from his head.

Someone pushed me from behind and I stumbled forward. I followed the pointing finger.

A body lay facedown in the mud at the Owl Master's too-human feet. She was naked. Her red hair snaked in thick wet strands across her shoulders. Her wrists and ankles were bound, tied so tightly that the skin was cut and bruised purple where she'd struggled. They had whipped her, lashed her slender back again and again. The water had washed the blood away, but the cuts were bright as poppy petals against the bluish-white of her skin. The whip had curled around her side. Its tip cut into the small mound of her stomach, biting deep into the soft flesh of her little breast.

I dropped to my knees, heedless of the stinking mud, and turned her over, tilting her face towards me as if I needed to see, as if my mind could still cling to any shred of hope that it was not her. Tenderly I plucked the wet weeds of hair out of her wide-open eyes. Livid bruises covered her face and arms, purple as a summer storm. Her lip was swollen. She had not died gently.

All my fear was consumed in fury. I wanted to tear the faces off the men who stood there.

"Why did you do this? She was only a child! You put her through the ordeal of water, and she sank in front of your eyes, proving she was innocent. You could have pulled her out before she drowned, but instead you all stood there and watched her die. How could you do that? She'd never done you any harm!"

The man in the owl mask neither moved nor spoke. In the silence we stared each other down. Father Ulfrid nudged Gudrun's body with the toe of his shoe as if to assure himself she was really dead.

"She stood accused of malfactorum malfactorum. Many worthy witnesses testified on oath that she danced up a storm and raised a flood against this village and that she poisoned the water with her evil eye so that our children sickened and died. She was whipped to encourage her to confess her sins and save her soul, but she was so steeped in sin that she stubbornly refused to make confession-"

"She was a mute!" I screamed at him. "You knew that! Each and every one of you knew that. If you had tortured her upon the rack she could not have uttered a single word to save her life."

"If she couldn't speak it is yet further proof of her malice, for her soul was so far given over to Satan that he stopped her mouth so that she could not confess and receive divine grace and forgiveness for her sins."

"She didn't feel no pain neither," yelled someone from the back of the crowd. There were murmurs of confirmation from those at the front. "Even when the Owl Master was laying the whip on her good and hard, she never screamed."

"Not natural that. Even a grown man cries out under the lash."

"It was the Devil protecting her."

"Don't you understand?" I pleaded. "She couldn't couldn't cry out, however much agony she was in." cry out, however much agony she was in."

But no one was listening to me. All eyes were riveted on Gudrun's body. A great cry of horror went up from the crowd and they shrank back, crossing themselves. I looked down. Her mouth had fallen open and a green frog was crawling out from between her lips.

january saint paul the hermit's day paul was buried in the desert by two lions who dug his grave with their paws, at the request of saint antony of egypt.

servant martha

tHE WOMEN CROSSED THE COURTYARD in twos and threes, chatting companionably to one another in the glacial winter sunshine. As I stood in the doorway of my room, watching them, a wave of loneliness washed through me. Their solidarity only sharpened my isolation. They could complain to one another, cry on one another's shoulders, and receive a friendly arm of comfort, but I couldn't undress my weaknesses before anyone. in twos and threes, chatting companionably to one another in the glacial winter sunshine. As I stood in the doorway of my room, watching them, a wave of loneliness washed through me. Their solidarity only sharpened my isolation. They could complain to one another, cry on one another's shoulders, and receive a friendly arm of comfort, but I couldn't undress my weaknesses before anyone.

Healing Martha lay in her cot as withdrawn from me as if she lay across the sea. Perhaps she heard me when I talked to her, but even if she did, she couldn't answer. Looking back through all those years when we were friends, I don't think I ever really told her anything. I never needed to. She had a way of seeing through the most closely veiled silence and would say the word that could lance a boil, however carefully concealed. Now, even if she could understand what troubled me, she couldn't offer me any words of advice or comfort. A seer without a tongue is as useless as a blind watchman. Until I lost her, I never realised how much I needed her.

The gate burst open and Beatrice stumbled in. Her hands and the front of her kirtle were spattered with mud. She staggered as if she was drunk, and didn't even seem to see me standing in the doorway of my room. I hurried out.

"Beatrice?"

She stopped and stared up at me, as if I was a stranger. Her eyes were swollen and her face was blotched with red marks.

"Have you fallen?"

She shook her head, but I knew something was wrong.

"Is there some problem with the livestock? The murrain has not struck again?" Merciful God, not that. We needed every shred of meat we could store this winter if we were to survive.

"Why didn't you at least beg them for her body?" She spat out the words with a look of such venom on her face that I took a step back.

"Why did you let them kill her? You could've stopped them. The fever was none of her doing. She didn't cast the evil eye on them. She wasn't a witch, she was just a child ... an innocent child!"

She gabbled her words so fast that it took me a moment to make sense of what she'd said.

"Do you mean Gwenith's granddaughter? Beatrice, you know perfectly well that I knew nothing of this matter until you yourself told me of it last night. I'm as appalled as you by what was done to the girl. It was a wicked and evil act, but if anyone could have prevented it, it was you. You insisted on the care of the girl. You encouraged her to wander abroad instead of schooling her to tasks within these walls. It was only a matter of time before she came to grief. I've no doubt that Pega warned you of the fear the villagers had of her."

"What did you expect me to do-lock her up? How could I stop her? She wanted to go out." Beatrice twisted a handful of her cloak tightly between her fingers as if she was trying to wring water out of it. But the cloak, though filthy, was dry.

"If you'd ever had children, Beatrice, you'd know that infants can't be allowed to wander freely however much they might want to, for fear of them falling into a stream or being trampled beneath a horse. Sometimes you must tether them to keep them from harm. You said yourself she was just a child with no more sense than a babe in arms."

Beatrice's head jerked up, her eyes glittering with rage. "What does an old hag like you know about children? You've never wanted a baby, have you? Everything about them disgusts you. Remember what you said about Andrew?" Beatrice screwed up her mouth in what I assume was intended to be a vicious parody of me. "'Andrew has so mastered her body that God healed the wound of her menses and returned her to the pure state that Eve knew before this curse of filth came upon us.' You said that we should all pray daily that this curse would be lifted from us too. What kind of a bitter, twisted prayer is that?

"Don't you understand that when your menses are gone, so is your hope? But that didn't matter to you, did it? Because even before you were a withered-up old crone, you were never a normal woman. You could never have loved a child because there isn't a grain of love in you for anyone."

For a moment I was so stunned, I couldn't reply. Then I gripped her shoulders and shook her hard. "Control yourself, Beatrice! This is a disgraceful display in a woman of your age. I think it as well that you were not blessed with children, since you seem incapable of behaving any better than a spoilt infant yourself."

I could feel her trembling violently beneath my grip. I tried to speak soothingly. "I understand that stumbling across the body of the girl in such circumstances was a terrible shock for you, as it would have been to anyone. But why are you saying all this now?"

She stared wildly around her, clenching and unclenching her hands. When she finally spoke, it was in a whisper.

"I went to fetch her little body home, but I was too late. They'd already buried her at the crossroads ... like a common murderer. Beggar Tom told me. I found the place. Tried to dig her up with my hands to bring her here. But they've laid her too deep ... Have to get a spade to dig ... I can't reach her ..."

She tried to tear herself away from me, but I held her firmly.

"Beatrice, it is pointless to go running back to the village. I give you my word that we will fetch the body and bring it here. But it must be done after dark when the villagers are safely behind their doors. I'll see to it that the child is given a proper resting place here. Though she died unshriven, nevertheless she died innocent of the crime of which she was accused and for that alone she deserves a hallowed resting place.

"Now go to the washhouse and clean yourself up at once, before anyone else sees you. And for Heaven's sake, Beatrice-conduct yourself with some decorum. Pray for Gudrun's soul if you will, but such unseemly displays of grief, especially for one such as her, are quite unnecessary. After all, it's not as if she was your own child."

She flung off my hand from her shoulder, her face twisted with hatred. I leapt back as she struck out, her fingers clawing inches from my cheek. A single cry escaped her, the shriek of a wild animal in pain. She stood rocking backwards and forwards. Then she seemed to collect herself. She walked stiffly away towards the washhouse, her arms wrapped tightly about her chest.

I retraced the few steps to my room, closed the door, and stood over the small blaze in the hearth, warming my hands and trying to stop myself trembling. Beatrice had seemed almost possessed. Was it fear of what the Owl Masters had threatened? I should not have accused her of neglect. For I knew I bore the greater guilt for the child's death; she had been entrusted to my care. And if she had not been out on the night of the storm ...

Every time I closed my eyes at night, I could see the girl standing over me, her naked body glistening white in the flash of lightning, the rain streaming down her bare legs and that great black bird flapping its wings on her shoulder. How had she got there? Why had she come to me of all people? She had always tried to run away from me before.

Had the girl saved me that night or had she been the cause of the horses rearing? I knew in my heart that I had made no effort since that night to keep her safe inside our walls; was it because I was afraid of her and wanted wanted her to run off? I owed it to the girl to bring her body home, however much I shrank from the task. It would be my penance. her to run off? I owed it to the girl to bring her body home, however much I shrank from the task. It would be my penance.

But there would need to be at least two of us to dig her up and lift her out of the grave. They'd doubtless buried her as deep as they could dig. We'd also need two people to keep watch on the approaches to the crossroads, to give us warning in case any should see us and try to prevent us taking the body, or worse still, try to seize us and torture us as they did to poor little Gudrun.

We'd have to go at dusk with just enough light left to see the place without needing torches or lanterns. On the open road, the flames of a torch or even a lantern would attract attention from miles away. We'd have to take a cart to carry the body back and something to cover the girl's nakedness, for it seemed unlikely they had covered her in a shroud or winding sheet before they dumped her in the grave.

The question was who to take? Certainly not Beatrice-I couldn't trust her, especially if we discovered the body had been mutilated or dismembered, as was often the custom with any corpse people feared might walk. Pega, of course; she had no fear of the villagers. Shepherd Martha, she was another with brawn. Between the two of them they'd dig the body up in no time and we didn't want to linger longer than we had to.

Who else? Osmanna? She'd make a useful lookout and if I showed her that I put my trust in her perhaps it would make her more willing to do what I had asked of her at Mass. Besides, the sight of Gudrun's body might be no bad thing. It would bring home the dangers of the path Osmanna was treading far more effectively than mere words. I would tell- There was a frantic hammering on the door of my room and before I could answer, Gate Martha burst in.

"There's villagers at the gate, a crowd of them."

Her hand darted back and forth as if she would like to grab me and pull me out to the gate with her, but I'd no intention of flying out at every alarm.

"If they've brought more of their sick, have them taken into the pilgrims' room with the others. If there isn't enough room-"

"They've not brought their sick."

"What is it then? Food? Is that what they've come for?"

Gate Martha bit her lip. "The Blessed Host of Andrew."

"We have already explained to them when they brought their children that we do not know that the relic has healing powers. But tell them I will bring it out and they may touch it and light a candle for healing."

"They'll not be content this time with touching it. They say the fever passes over us because we've Andrew's Host in our chapel. They want to take it back to their church and keep it there to protect the village. They say ..."

She hesitated, then gabbled as if reciting something learned by rote, "God continues to punish them with the fever because the miraculous Host has been left in the sinful hands of those who've been excommunicated. Servant Martha, we must give it to them. They're saying they'll take it by force if we do not."

"They'll do no such thing, not while I live and breathe. I see Father Ulfrid's hand in this and I intend to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. Come along."

I strode out into the courtyard. Gate Martha hurried along in my wake. The gate was wide open and a throng of people jostled on the threshold, mostly men but there were a few women among them. Two of the men had even pushed their way inside.

"Why didn't you lock the gate and make them wait outside?"

Gate Martha made some vague gesture towards the crowd. "Too many of them. They pushed against it and wouldn't let me shut it."

"Then why open it in the first place?"

"Said they'd sick, Servant Martha, and I thought ..."

I would have words with her later about what she thought thought.

A little knot of beguines huddled to one side of the gate. They seemed unwilling or unable to do anything, but Osmanna stood with her back to me directly in front of the men. She appeared to be remonstrating with them, though I couldn't make out what she was saying above the mutterings of the crowd. Whatever the girl's faults, at least she'd the mettle to challenge them. Courage often walks with stubbornness. But what she was saying was having little effect; the crowd was jeering. Suddenly Beatrice broke from the group of beguines and pushed her way in front of Osmanna, her fists clenched in fury.