It took every grain of self-control I possessed not to slap her. “Osmanna, I give you nothing. I am merely the channel of His love and mercy.”

“No, Servant Martha, you are not a channel, you are a guard barring the way. The priests won’t let the people speak to God except through them. They tell us that no one can be saved unless they eat the bread that they alone have the power to consecrate. They control who will eat and be saved and who will be refused and damned. Like some peddler in the marketplace, they offer an elixir of life and they decide the price. You haven’t changed anything, Servant Martha. All you have done is to take the priests’ place in the gateway. Now, instead of them, you stand between us and God.”

Holy and Blessed Mother of God, hadn’t she understood how far we had come? Didn’t she realise the power we had taken into our own hands? And now she thought to cast it aside as if it was a mere nothing, an empty eggshell, to be discarded on the midden.

“Do you dare to presume, girl, that the disciples who were with Jesus daily had less faith than you? Yet, did Jesus not command them to eat the bread after His death? And the blessed Saint Peter who had walked with our Lord, did he not instruct the first Christians to eat of the bread though they did so in fear of their very lives? How dare you presume that you do not need to obey God in this? It is not for us to know what divine plans are accomplished through this act of obedience.”

“Servant Martha-”

“Be silent! I will not debate this with you. To claim that salvation may be obtained without the sacraments is heresy. Don’t you realise that the words you’ve spoken today, if they were heard outside these walls, would be enough to have you convicted of the most heinous crime that any man or woman may commit? Do I really need to remind you of the punishment which awaits those so condemned?”

Her eyes opened wide in alarm. She stared at me in horror.

“But I didn’t… I didn’t mean…” she stammered.

At last I had succeeded in driving home the enormity of what she had done. For once there were no clever words forming in her mouth, no blaze of truculence in her eyes. She was a terrified child, waiting for me to tell her what to do.

But what should I tell her to do? I could insist upon a public retraction before all the beguines, but if I demanded that of her I would have to demand the same of all those who had dissented or I would make a martyr of her, and I didn’t need a martyr on my hands. Let her, let all of them slip back into the fold without any fuss, as if they had never been away. If we ignored it as though it had never happened, it would more quickly be forgotten.

“Next Sunday at Mass in chapel, Osmanna, you will receive the Host again. The others will soon follow your example and if they don’t, I will speak to them privately and encourage them.”

She opened her mouth to speak. Her expression had suddenly changed and I could see her words were not going to be those of meek acceptance. I stepped rapidly towards her and grasped her shoulder. Under my hand, I felt her stiffen.

“Osmanna,” I said as soothingly as I could. “Think of it in this way: If, as you claim, the sacrament is but an outward symbol of a spiritual action, then what harm can there be in consuming the bread as an example to those whose understanding is not as great as yours? We must not put stumbling blocks in the way of our weaker sisters.”

Her mouth was trembling, but her fists remained clenched.

“Osmanna, we cannot afford divisions now. The villagers blame us for the sickness. You saw the mood of those women when they demanded their children be allowed to touch Andrew’s relic. If the fever continues, as I fear it will, their hostility towards us can only increase and as we have already incurred the wrath of the priest, I feel sure he will do nothing to calm their fear of us. To stand firm against them, I need the support of all the beguines, especially you. That the other women have followed you in refusing the sacrament proves you have the gift of being able to influence others. Use it for us, Osmanna. For the beguinage.”

I released my grip on her shoulder and turned back to polishing the vessels, making it quite clear that the discussion was at an end. From the corner of my eye, I could see her staring up at the face of the Blessed Virgin in Glory painted on the wall behind the altar. I had no idea if I had succeeded in convincing Osmanna. Would she defy me at the next Mass? And what would I do if she did?

She turned away without looking at me and strode towards the door.

“Osmanna,” I called out after her, “where would you go if you had to leave this beguinage?”

Her backbone jerked upright, as if she had been struck from behind. Then she tugged the door open and ran from the chapel without answering, leaving only a puddle of moonlight on the floor.

gangs of youths, or plough jacks, dragged a plough from house to house demanding money. if they were refused they ploughed up and wrecked the garden. bawdy and violent plough plays were performed by mummers.

pATCHES OF THE NIGHT FROST STILL LINGERED in the hollows on the hill, glittering oddly against the dark sodden grass. The morning sky had turned pale, almost white against the bare black branches of the trees. Across the river, a flock of sheep ambled across the slope of the hill and I could just make out the familiar shapes of Pega and Shepherd Martha on either side of the flock.

But there was no sign of Gudrun. I hoped she might have gone with them. I’d not seen her since I had gone to check on her in the cote after the midnight service. She was sound asleep then, her lips parted slightly like a baby, her breath soft and sweet. But when I went back in the morning to take her some bread and pottage, the cote was empty.

She had become adept at slipping out of the beguinage, though I never saw her do it. Sometimes she was away all day, not returning until near dark. Kitchen Martha always kept some supper warm for her, however much the other Marthas disapproved. Merchant Martha said if she didn’t work she shouldn’t eat. I suspected she’d complained of it to Servant Martha more than once, but Servant Martha seemed to have given up any attempt to control Gudrun. I sometimes caught Servant Martha staring at the child, frowning as if she was puzzling over something. Maybe she’d given up the struggle. Or perhaps she’d mellowed since Healing Martha was struck down.

Mellowed? What was I thinking? Servant Martha wouldn’t mellow if she lived as long as old Methuselah. You may as well have tried to soften a stone in a vat of oil. If anything Servant Martha was more cold and distant than ever, especially to me. I didn’t need to be told who objected to me being elected a Martha. And no matter what the other Marthas thought, they wouldn’t have stood up to her, even if they all opposed her. That was the real reason she opposed my election, because she knew I would challenge her. At least I had my child, my Gudrun. She couldn’t take that away from me, Martha or not.

On any other day, I wouldn’t have worried about Gudrun so much, but it was Plough Monday and there’d be all kinds of mischief abroad. The day might begin with processions and mummers’ plays to roust the witches and bless the plough, but it always ended in drinking and fighting. No girl’s virtue was safe. My little Gudrun knew how to take care of herself in the hills and forest, but she was such an innocent in other ways and, besides, against two or three strong lads bent on sport what could she do? I couldn’t rest until she was safe inside the beguinage again.