I closed my eyes and saw that creature again, those eyes, ringed with fire, the great black bottomless pupils that seemed to draw me closer and closer until I was swallowed up in the darkness of them. What evil lay at the bottom of them? What horrors had Healing Martha seen in them to freeze her face forever in this glimpse of Hell? I had not believed that such a monster could exist and now-now he was more real to me than God. Each time I tried to pray I saw his face. I heard the crack of his savage beak and smelt the foul stench of his breath. That demon reared up before my face as if the prayers I was offering were made to him. And God was silent; He was nowhere and nothing.

to prove his innocence of a crime of which he was accused, saint egwin locked his feet in irons and threw the key into the river avon before walking to rome. there he bought a fish which he cut open in front of the pope, and inside was the key.

tHE MARTHAS ENTERED into the chapel, each from their appointed realms. Gate Martha was already seated. She was used to waiting without impatience. Her eyes seemed permanently fixed on a far horizon, from perpetually squinting down the road to see who approached. Her hands were, as ever, busy with her spindle while her mind slipped off by itself to who knows where.

Kitchen Martha, scarlet and sweating profusely, waddled in and flopped down on the bench, fanning herself. “Thank the Lord, it’s cooler in here. The heat in my kitchen’s fit to roast a pig in ice, for we’ve to keep all the doors and shutters fastened against the wind. That wind is so strong it could pluck a fowl. One day we’re near drowned, the next we’re flayed to death. God alone knows what it’ll be next, snow, I shouldn’t wonder. It was a wise decision, Servant Martha, to hold the council here in the chapel where we’ve stout walls. A body can’t hear herself think with the wind howling round that refectory.”

“Thank you, Kitchen Martha, though I did not convene the meeting here for our comfort. This decision must be guided by the Holy Spirit through prayer, for it is God’s choice we must wait upon, not ours. I hoped the chapel might remind us of that.”

Kitchen Martha lowered her gaze, looking discomfited, as though I’d reprimanded her. Why did all the women take everything I said as a criticism when it was simply meant as an explanation?

The door banged opened and Merchant Martha strode in so quickly, I feared she wouldn’t stop in time and burst straight out again through the wall on the other side.

“Am I the last?”

“As always, Merchant Martha,” I replied.

She nodded as if she expected no less and was certainly not abashed by it.

The others chuckled quietly. Merchant Martha was forever trying to cram a full day’s work into each and every hour. She’d no doubt been busy with some task that she didn’t trust anyone else to perform. But it was as well she was last; she’d only fret and fume if she was obliged to wait for someone else to arrive.

“Sisters, as we consider who will be elected Healing Martha, let us remember that we sit in the presence of the Blessed Host of Andrew and of our consecrated Mass stone set into the altar, the very stone which was given into our hands by the priest at Bruges when many of us were commissioned to come here. Weighty decisions were made then and must be made again this day. So, in the knowledge that others pray for our guidance, let us begin.”

Each looked at the other, but no one spoke. Finally, Merchant Martha shifted forward in her seat. I knew she wouldn’t be content to dither long.

“Beatrice is the obvious candidate. She’s been longest among us as a beguine and is a hard worker. Who else is there?” Her tone suggested that matters now being settled, we could all leave.

Several heads nodded in agreement around the room.

Shepherd Martha frowned. “Beatrice is a dedicated beguine, there’s no doubting that, but the Healing Martha is different from other Marthas. Whoever is chosen must have the skills to tend the sick and prepare cordials and ointments. Just to discover what ails a person is no simple task, never mind to reason what will cure them. Has Beatrice these specific skills?”

“Do you think any here have those skills?” Merchant Martha retorted tartly. “Healing Martha studied a great many years and attended the finest school of medicine in Flanders before she joined us. We’ll not find another like her, so we’ll have to make shift with what God’s seen fit to grant us. No use fretting for roasted swan when you only have herring.”

Kitchen Martha waved her hand in a timid gesture. “Is Beatrice to be called Healing Martha?”

“We’ve not yet decided that Beatrice is to be appointed Martha,” I explained, trying not to let my impatience show. The events of the past weeks had left us all exhausted, but Kitchen Martha could at least attempt to pay attention to the discussion.

“No, no… I mean whoever is appointed a Martha, if she is to be called Healing Martha, what will our own Healing Martha be called? We can’t take her name from her, can we, not while she lives. It’s been her name for so long and…” she hesitated and bit her thumb, “and as ill as she is, she might not understand another name.”

Kitchen Martha was absolutely correct and I was annoyed with myself for not foreseeing this problem. To be a Martha is a responsibility, not an honour, but the beguines had come to look upon the title as a badge of respect. They would think we were insulting Healing Martha if we stripped her of the title. Besides, what had been her beguine name before she became a Martha or her baptismal name before that? If I who had known her longest couldn’t remember, who could? It would be in the records in Bruges but, as Kitchen Martha said, would she recognise it?

“Obviously, we’ll have to give the new Martha a different title,” Merchant Martha said impatiently.

Everyone nodded and smiled, relieved.

“So it’s to be Beatrice, then?” Gate Martha said.

All eyes turned to me. It must not be Beatrice, of that at least I was determined. There was a bitterness in her, a festering splinter that I couldn’t pluck out. She was sullen as a child, with as little control over her own emotions. She refused to bare her soul to me in confession. I knew that she said what she thought I wanted to hear, guarding her real thoughts from me.

And it was not just her thoughts and sins Beatrice hugged to herself. Of late, I had observed that she had become uncommonly possessive. Kitchen Martha would never mention it in open Council, but I had seen her forced to stand outside the door of the pigeon cote, waiting like a scullion for Beatrice to hand her out a basket of squabs. It was to be commended that any beguine took charge of some aspect of husbandry, but Beatrice had gone much further than simply caring for the cote-she refused to let anyone, except the mute girl, set foot inside. How could you trust a woman like that to make decisions that would affect all our lives?

I knew the Council of Marthas was waiting for me to speak, and I made them wait, fixing each pair of eyes in turn. I wanted them to be quite clear that I would not be swayed on this.

I said: “I don’t believe that Beatrice seeks this office, and it would be wrong to force this responsibility upon her. She is too close to Pega and some of the other women to want to lead them. And she openly shows favouritism among the young beguines, indulging some and being overly critical of others. She fusses over the mute girl as if she was the child’s mother. I do not dispute that a little maternal care might be good for Gudrun, if Beatrice would discipline her as a mother should, but instead she encourages the child to run wild. If Beatrice cannot exercise control over one young girl, how is she to be entrusted with the running of a beguinage? No. If Beatrice had wanted responsibility, she would have taken it already. She’s content to be guided and directed. Women like her find responsibility frightening.”