Alan peered up at me from beneath heavy lids. “Why did you come here, Father? See for yourself-we’ve nothing left. Between the Church, the Manor, and the Owl Masters, you’ve taken it all. And what you didn’t get your greedy fists on, the river took.”

I gritted my teeth. “I came to discuss a Mass for the soul of your poor wife.”

“They’ve found Mam?” a voice whispered. I turned to see William standing behind me, his small thin body tense and alert.

“No, no. I’m sorry. They’ve found nothing yet.”

“But they’ll keep looking, won’t they?” the child said desperately.

“I told you, boy, your mam’s gone,” Alan bellowed. “There’s no use you hoping she’s going to come back. Your mam’s dead, boy, dead and gone. If Black Anu takes you as her prey, that’s it, boy.”

“Only God takes life, Alan,” I snapped. God’s balls, I couldn’t stand much more of these numbskull villagers and their stupid superstitions! Why did I even bother to waste my breath preaching to them? The church pigeons took more notice of me than they did.

I took a deep breath and tried to swallow my anger. “If your poor wife has drowned, we will make every effort to recover her body and give her a decent Christian burial in holy ground, so that she may rest in peace.”

“Let it alone, Father. You’ll not find any in these parts that’ll take a corpse from water. If they do, they or one of their own family will drown afore the year is out. Same’ll happen to you, if you try. Cross’ll not protect you, no more than it did in the churchyard at Samhain,” he added, sneering.

I wanted to punch him. I’d been drugged, for Christ’s sake. What could I have done? “I’m no coward! I know that’s what you and the rest of this devil’s arsehole of a village thinks, but I’m not afraid of-” I faltered as a terrible stench filled the room, overpowering even the stink of mildew and decay. Someone was whimpering in the corner.

“William!” Alan roared. “I told you to take that brat outside to shit!”

“I did,” William protested, scuttling over to the corner. “But I no sooner take her out than she does it again.”

He pulled his little sister up from the pile of rags on which she lay. Excrement was running down her legs and dripping onto her bare feet, and the child was moaning and clutching her belly. Her head flopped against her brother’s shoulder as he dragged her out of the cottage.

I turned to Alan, who had slumped back in his chair. “That child is very sick. Have you any medicine for her?”

He wiped a weary hand over his eyes. “How am I supposed to know what to do for her? Her mam did all that. I can’t take care of a sick bairn.”

Alan heaved himself from the stool, bracing himself against the wall, his legs too unsteady to support him. He groped along a shelf until he found a small jar and scraped a little of its black, sticky contents into a beaker with his fingernail. I grasped his arm.

“No, Alan, you must keep a clear head. What would your poor wife say if she was here? Your son’s a good lad, but he needs your help.”

He shook off my arm violently, almost striking me in the face as he flailed out.

“William’s not my brat! Haven’t you eyes to see that? Let Phillip D’Acaster take care of his own bastards. If you want to meddle, Father, try starting with those whores and witches in the house of women. How is it they’ve got food, when there’s none in this village? How come none of their beasts got the murrain and the flood didn’t even touch them? ’Cause they put the evil eye on us, that’s why. All this is the women’s doing.”

He stumbled back to the stool. “You want to know something else, Father?” He wagged a trembling finger at me. “I heard tell that even when the Owlman was sent out against them, they escaped, and I’ll tell you for why-’cause they’ve got that relic. Protects them against anything and turns the curses back on us. As long as they’ve got that relic, there’s no one can touch them. Ulewic won’t be safe till we get it away from them.”

I knew he was thinking I was useless. The whole village was laughing at me, because I, a priest, could not make a gaggle of women obey me. Those women would pay for making a mockery of me; they’d pay dearly.

I clenched my fist around my iron cross. “I swear I will get it, Alan. One way or the other I will force them to give it to me.”

the day when women returned to their labour, especially spinning and weaving, after the days of christmas.

hUNCHING FORWARD ON THE STOOL, I tried again to spoon the warm pap into Healing Martha’s mouth. A little of it dribbled out from her lips. I scraped it up with the spoon and shovelled it back in again. It was an improvement. A few days ago, nearly all I spooned in would leak back out again, but either she swallowed better now or I’d mastered the trick of tipping the spoon towards the good side of her mouth. She sank back, worn out by the effort of eating. The edges of her veil were wet where she had puked, as was the front of her shift. I’d have to change them or they’d stink as they dried.

Her good eye missed nothing, although she couldn’t name it. She pointed at anything she saw amiss in the infirmary and, if we couldn’t see it, she grunted her one sound over and over, till she shrieked with frustration. She wouldn’t rest until it was put right; a fouled cot cleaned, a loose bandage fastened, or a smoking fire stirred to flame. Healing Martha never used to be so impatient and angry. But then she had always been busy; now, she could do nothing but watch.

She wept often. Sometimes silent tears rolled down her face and ran into rivulets on her wrinkled neck, wetting her pillow. Other times she made great noisy sobs with her mouth open and snot hanging from her nose, beating her good arm against the wood of her cot until it was purple with bruises. I rubbed oil of lavender on her then to restore her wits and she quietened, but I don’t think it was the oil which dried her eyes but her own pride, for even in her piteous state she remembered what the perfume signified.

Some of the beguines, like Catherine, refused to come near her. She said she was afraid she’d cry and upset Healing Martha. I think she was afraid that she’d somehow be struck down too, as if Healing Martha had some contagion. But others did come; they couldn’t keep away. I seldom passed her bed in the evening without seeing someone sitting there, one of the beguines or another patient. They came after dark mostly, when the tapers in the room burnt gentle and mellow and her face was veiled in the shadows.

When daylight came she was left alone save for little gifts tied to her bed: ribbons, sweet-smelling dried herbs, or pressed flowers, their colours faded like ghosts of summer. Votive offerings laid at the feet of the statue of a saint. But what could she grant the beguines? They bent into the shadows and whispered for hours, vomiting all their thoughts. Healing Martha said nothing, only her one impenetrable grunt. Yet they went away looking content, as if there was absolution in that sound. She, not Servant Martha, was the sovereign bee in our hive, helpless and flightless, while we workers gladly danced attendance on her as if she was our liege lord.

I held a cup to her lips. “Try to drink a little of this, Healing Martha. It’s good for you.”

She glared at me. “Gar!”

“Please, Healing Martha. You’ve written it in your own herbals-Lily of the Valley distilled in wine will restore speech. I prepared it exactly as you have written.”

Would it heal her? If only I could be certain. Her hand had also written that the physician must have patience. Healing waits upon time, she’d written in firm steady strokes. If I could be sure that it would restore her in time I’d have gladly waited. But what if I waited for weeks-for months-and all the while I’d not been giving her what she needed?