tHE LAUGHTER OF THE CROWD in the church roared in my head. Over and over I felt his hand yanking my hair, my head jerking back and forth, the heat of his groin against my buttocks, the trunk of his arm against my ribs pulling me tighter and tighter to his stinking, scalding breath. He crushed me into him until I couldn’t breathe as the hardness of his prick swelled up and uncoiled against me.

And still I didn’t understand the reason for my cold sweat of fear. I couldn’t put a name to the choking panic rising inside me until suddenly the reek of wild onion burst in my head and mingled with his sweat. And then I knew. I knew and I couldn’t wipe the knowledge from my mind. It was not the demon who raped me that night. It was him. My own father.

I’d been dragged back down into the tangle of his forest and nothing could lift me out. I stank of him and I couldn’t wash it off. I’d doused myself with the little water they gave me to drink. I scrubbed my skin with the coarsest straw I could find in the cell until my skin was raw, but still I smelt him, felt his damp paws gripping harder than a wolf’s bite. The stench of onion filled the cell, choking me. Even though the wind howled through the open bars I couldn’t gasp in enough air to breathe.

Fornication is the wickedest of sins, my father declared, but all along he had been the fornicator. He knew that night as he forced me down among the ramsons and the brambles exactly who it was he violated. He knew the next morning in his hall when he saw the marks on me. He knew when he hit me and called me a whore. He called me a whore. He made me feel filthy. He made me filthy. He put his seed inside and made me pregnant with his monstrous child. But he felt nothing, no guilt, not then and not since. The shame has all been mine and he will never feel it.

I scrubbed my lips until they bled, but the blood would not wash away the hundred child-kisses I was forced to give his mouth. Hating, hating him even then and feeling the guilt of Hell because of it. Evil child. Wicked child. Child of Satan. Honour thy father. Honour thy father the priest. Honour thy Father God. Obey them. Love them. And what is the duty of a father to a child? Beat it, chastise it, bend and break it to his will, and call it love. Then call the broken thing obedient, redeemed in blood. Is this what our Father God wants-the cringing, fawning, faithfulness of a whipped dog, the frightened tears of a child crying in the night? Does He pleasure Himself on our fear?

this night is the night for divination to discover your true love. this night too the hounds of the underworld howl, foretelling impending death or disaster.

wHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING, WOMAN?” Pega grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from the jars.

I had almost finished. Nearly every jar and flask in the infirmary was bare and waiting for me to write on it in my hand. Just two left. I tried to struggle out of Pega’s grasp, but her grip was too strong. She was hurting me.

Kitchen Martha was standing staring down at the fragments of parchment on the floor. “All Healing Martha’s labels torn off. The notes in her books all ripped out. Why, Beatrice, why?”

I hadn’t heard them come in. I’d been too busy. Kitchen Martha sounded surprised, though I couldn’t imagine why.

“I have to write new ones.” I told her patiently. Kitchen Martha was so slow-witted. You had to explain the most obvious things to her.

She bit her lip, glancing at Pega. Then stroked my arm soothingly, as if she thought I needed comforting. “But, dear, now we don’t know what any of the herbs or cordials are.”

I prodded the torn pieces with my foot. “This was written by Healing Martha. And this and this. I couldn’t leave them like that. I have to organise the infirmary. Osmanna isn’t coming back, you know. So I’m the Martha now. I must write everything myself or no one will know that it’s mine.”

“If this is you in charge, God help us,” Pega snapped. “Why didn’t you do it one jar at time? How you going to fathom what’s what now?”

I stared at her. Pega wasn’t making any sense. You had to get rid of all the old ones and start afresh. How could you write your own labels when you could still see the old ones? They wouldn’t be yours; they’d just be copies of hers.

A cart rattled across the courtyard, answered by the cries of half a dozen voices raised in alarm. Pega was at the door before me. Tutor Martha was being lifted down from the cart. Her head lolled against Shepherd Martha’s shoulder and her eyes were half closed. They were both splattered with mud and filth. Pega swept Tutor Martha up and carried her into the infirmary. Shepherd Martha and several of the women followed.

Merchant Martha remained sitting, hunched like a crow, on top of the cart, with the reins in her hand. She didn’t seem to have noticed the cart had stopped. She too was covered in muck, as if she had been pelted in the stocks. A rotting cabbage stalk was caught in the folds of her cloak. They should never have gone into town risking their lives for that little slut, Osmanna. She was the one the crowd should have been pelting and with rocks too, not cabbages. There was a small shallow cut on Merchant Martha’s forehead, oozing a watery blood. I put my hand on hers; it felt death cold.

“You’re hurt, Merchant Martha. Let me help you into the infirmary.”

Merchant Martha looked up, almost startled to see me, and rapped my hand away.

“I must speak to Servant Martha at once. Where is she?”

“But your head’s bleeding. You must let me see to it first. It will fester if it isn’t dressed. It’s my responsibility.”

She put her hand up and touched the place, staring at the smear of blood on her fingers in surprise. “It’s nothing; don’t fuss, Beatrice.” Merchant Martha pushed me aside and clambered down impatiently. “Where’s Servant Martha?”

“In the chapel, I think.” She never seemed to be anywhere else these days. “But you have to let me make you better-”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she shook out her cloak and strode in the direction of the chapel.

In the infirmary, the beguines were clustered around Tutor Martha. “One of the village men grabbed me here.” She passed a hand vaguely in the direction of her breasts.

Pega, hunkered down by the fire, stuck a red-hot poker into a beaker of ale, which gave off a great hiss of steam. “Here, drink this while it’s hot. So did he hurt you?”

Tutor Martha shook her head. “But he-he said-” Her words jerked out in heaving sobs. “Said-”

“Said what? Spit it out.”

It was Shepherd Martha who answered quietly from the corner. Leon was sitting with his great black head resting on her knees, gazing sorrowfully up as if he knew something was wrong.

“He accused us of unnatural practises,” Shepherd Martha said quietly. “You know-immoral acts between women, though he didn’t use those words.”

Pega let out a great snort of laughter. “I bet he didn’t. Well, now that’s the first time I’ve been accused of that. Strumpet and slut I’ve had aplenty, but that’s a new one. And I dare say he thinks Servant Martha’s the bawd of this lively whorehouse. It’s a wonder they’re not queuing up at the gates. What strange little fancies men do have.”

She slapped Tutor Martha firmly on the back, making her splutter on the wine. “Come now-a few names, a roving hand, and a rotten egg or two. I’ve taken worse and called it a good night out. But more to the point, did you see the lass?”