Needle in the Blood (26 page)

“Girls?” queries Margaret, and at the same time Judith says, “I knew it. I saw the cockade among your things when Sister Jean brought you here.”

“Cockade? Gytha, you weren’t, you didn’t…?” Margaret starts to giggle, Alwys forgotten as she delves into the lurid possibilities of Gytha’s past. Judith has loosened her grip on Emma, but Emma remains quite still.

Gytha takes the cloth from Margaret, dips it in the water jug, and bathes Alwys’ temples. The girl mutters, then screams as some involuntary movement of her arm brings her blanket in contact with the poisoned wound. Gytha calms her with soft shushing noises, then removes her bed cap and, sliding her hand beneath Alwys’ head, lifts her hair clear of her sweating neck. “They say war is full of surprises. But in my experience it isn’t. We do what we can to survive, the same things people always do to survive. It seems we can’t help ourselves.”

Judith emits a sceptical snort.

“Anyway, Meg,” she continues, with an air of putting an end to the conversation, “there was a time when I knew a lot of women who slept with a lot of different men, and none of them had twins, so where does that leave the notion that two babies means two fathers? Probably thought up by some husband too mean to provide for them.”

Judith returns to her bed, her head at a precariously haughty angle on her long, scrawny neck. Emma sits down on Margaret’s bed, a grimace which might be a smile or simply the effect of guttering lamplight crossing her pockmarked face. How strange it is, thinks Gytha, the relationship between body and soul, like that between a man and his house. Just as he successfully repairs a hole in the roof, a window shutter breaks loose or a wall begins to bulge. Unpredictably, sometimes keeping the elements at bay, sometimes broken and reformed by them.

“Gytha?”

“Yes, Meg?”

“Does the earl know?”

Does he? Has he wondered how she bridged the gap between Lady Edith’s house and his atelier? Of course he knows. Sister Jean must have told him. And she has been so foolish, so naïve, as to believe he might have some genuine feeling for her. She is no more to him than a horse or a parcel of land. Probably less than a horse, in fact, certainly less than a field of good barley or a well-defended manor. Just a little Saxon whore. Worth her board and lodging, though, since she can embroider as well, cosset his pride as well as his cock.

“I hope whatever the earl knows has gone to his grave with him by now.”

***

Agatha knows what is in store for Alwys, and that nothing she can do with rosewater or poultices or herbal teas for fever will make any difference. She learned a great deal about the pathology of wounds during her travels with Odo in the summer after the Conquest. She goes from the guardhouse to the chapel, where the priest and his deacons are saying the night office. Only a miracle can save Alwys’ hand, and Agatha’s one hope for a miracle is to confess. She will confess everything, everything she has thought and felt since first setting eyes on Alwys and Margaret in the mourning gloom of their father’s house, the self pity and salacious curiosity in which she wallowed while the poison worked its rotten magic in Alwys’ finger and Saint Agatha laughed.

The altar candles gutter as she opens the chapel door and slips inside on a draught of night air, then strengthen again when she closes it, splashing waves of buttery light up the whitewashed walls to catch in the gilded ceiling vaults. Although it is unusual for anyone else to attend Matins when the earl is away, it is not unheard of, and the priest continues to sing the office without faltering. Agatha identifies immediately, with affection, the lines from Saint John for the Feast of Saint Joseph.
There was a man sent from God whose name was John.
And almost as quickly is seized by a pang of exclusion, knowing herself to be utterly unworthy of the name she chose when she made her profession, unworthy then, as now. She cannot give testimony of the light as John was sent to do.

She approaches the altar and prostrates herself, arms outstretched so her body forms the sign of the Cross on the beaten earth floor. The priest glances sidelong at her and falls silent. He is a timid man, this priest, a man well suited to be left in charge of the spiritual needs of a household whose lord is absent. His timidity confuses him as to who has a prior claim upon him, God or Saint Benedict. Lack of sleep and the effects of the Lenten fast do not help matters. Saint Benedict seeming somehow closer at hand than God, he elects to see the long office of Matins through to its conclusion. Perhaps the words will give comfort to the earl’s sister, or at least offer him some guidance as to how to approach her, so exalted a person in such a position.

“I implore you, Sister,” he interrupts when, the office completed, she begins her confession, her forehead patterned red and white by the uneven floor, dust clinging to her habit. He raises his hands to his face as though trying to ward off an attack. “Go no further. Remember who you are. We are not alone here.” He glances round at his two deacons, who continue to prepare for Lauds, studiously ignoring his plight.

“Of course we are not alone, Father,” snaps Agatha. “We are in God’s house, and God is with us. As for me, I am simply a daughter of Christ who wishes to make confession. You have a duty to hear me and absolve me. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have entertained lustful thoughts of a girl in my charge. I have abused not only her trust but the teachings of the Church in matters of procreation. And now the rottenness in my heart has found a way to manifest itself in the flesh, not my flesh but the flesh of the innocent…”

The priest lets out a whimper of panic. “Only thoughts, Sister?” he enquires, clinging to a vestige of hope. One of the deacons is trimming a candle, releasing an oily scent of cold beeswax.

“Thoughts, Father, of a specific nature.”

“Providing you are clear in your mind as to the sinfulness of these thoughts, Sister, I do not think it will be necessary to elaborate on them.”

“But I feel that it is, Father, if I am to be truly absolved.” Odo kissing Gytha, herself kissing Margaret. How do they work, the kisses of lovers? How do their tongues intertwine? Do their teeth collide? What connections do their bodies make while their mouths are fused?

“There is a danger in detail, Sister. The female imagination is too easily inflamed, lacking in intellectual discipline. I fear that by recounting your thoughts you will revive the feelings they engendered and thus fall deeper into sin. I will absolve you of whatever is in your heart. That would be best.”

“It would be a shoddy compromise, Father. And at the risk of adding the sin of pride to my burden, to condemn me for a lack of intellectual discipline is complete nonsense.”

“It is my bishop’s directive in matters of this sort.”

“Who is your bishop? Is it not Lord Odo?”

“No, Sister, it is Archbishop Lanfranc.”

“Ah, Lanfranc, who spent his youth in the law schools before making his profession. A lot Lanfranc knows about women. But still, I cannot expect you to disobey your bishop. I will make my confession in general terms, and I will recommend that you set me the hardest penance permissible, and that you report me to the proper authorities if you believe, when I have finished, that I have committed any crime.”

The relief on the priest’s face drains away at the prospect of having to report Lord Odo’s sister for any crime, let alone one so heinous and unnatural as she is hinting at, and he is unable to do more than nod his agreement, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Agatha’s conscience is pinched by remorse. She has been harsh; the fast is taking its toll on her temper also. But she cannot afford to treat the priest sympathetically. Unless her concentration remains focused on her sins, she has no chance of saving Alwys. What is this decent man’s discomfort compared to Alwys’ life? Or Odo’s great work of art?

She confesses, going into as much detail as she is able before a series of small gasps from the priest warn her that she is overstepping Lanfranc’s boundaries. He absolves her, but the penances he sets her are perfunctory, determined more by the status of her person than that of her sin. Absolved, but not resolved. She remembers the scourge lying beneath her bed; she will perform her prescribed penances but add to them the scourge. She hears voices at the gate heralding the arrival of Brother Thorold and the lay brother who assists him but, intent on her own purpose, she leaves it to the guard to escort him to the door of the atelier and slips quickly, shadow-like, through the wicket before the formalities of gaining entry to the castle are complete.

The scourge is dusty, its three knotted tails laced with cobwebs. So much the better. She strips herself to the waist, takes the shaft of plaited leather firmly in her right hand, and lays the scourge over her left shoulder to her back. She continues, lashing the same place over and over until she has attained a rhythm that is hypnotic, until the skin yields and parts and her blood begins to flow, and the yearning so long held in check forces itself out of her in great, rib-cracking sobs.

How long before the knocking on the door finds its way through to her consciousness? She clutches her habit around her shoulders and goes to answer. It is Gytha, who takes in her dishevelled clothes and hot, red eyes but makes no comment.

“Brother Thorold thinks it would be best to move Alwys out of the dormitory, Sister. He wonders if he can bring her into your bed chamber.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Ask him to give me a few moments.”

Gytha nods and goes. She cannot help Agatha any more than she can help herself.

***

In midafternoon Brother Thorold calls Agatha into the sickroom for a consultation, after which Agatha puts on her outdoor clothes and sets off in search of Hamo, who is away supervising the land clearance for the new castle. Agatha goes on foot, the distance across Wincheap Green being hardly worth the saddling of a mule, but when she finds Hamo she envies him the height of his horse, elevating him above the pall of smoke swirling about the site and out of the eye line of the sullen, uncomprehending huddle of the dispossessed, watching their homes fired and their livestock scattered by the earl’s men. Hamo himself looks no happier than his men or their victims, but then, he never does.

“My lord,” says Agatha, dispensing with courtesies, “I have need of your assistance.”

“I am at your disposal, madam,” he replies with a small bow.

“I need a good swordsman. Accurate.”

Sister Jean’s request presents Hamo with some difficulty. “The best men are on campaign with Lord Odo,” he says, “but I expect I can find someone.”

“Not squeamish.” They both survey the men firing the marked houses with pitch flares, faces grimy with soot and scored by streams of sweat, Odo’s green and gold livery dulled as though it too has been tempered by flame. “And available immediately.” She follows Hamo’s gaze until it settles on a burly young man with tow-coloured hair who seems to be parleying with the people who have been evicted. The helpless, reluctant way he hovers on the edge of the group does not fill Agatha with confidence, but she has no option other than to trust Hamo’s judgment. Hamo nods toward the young soldier.

“That one,” he says. “He has good reason to be grateful to be removed from this duty. He’s got a girl with a baby living in this quarter. That’s why he hasn’t gone after Hereward. Couldn’t have kept his mind on the job. Good enough otherwise. Hey, Fulk.”

He spurs his horse forward among the smouldering wreckage, the horse’s ears flicking nervously as sparks fly before the wind, until he is close enough to Fulk to make himself heard. Agatha, eyes smarting, watches as Fulk listens to his orders, nods, and begins to walk away from the rest of the group. Immediately a young woman, clutching a bundle of rags which Agatha presumes must be the baby, darts out from among them and begins to follow him. A tall girl, but very thin, with jutting cheekbones and fine, pale hair that seems to reflect the cold sun shining above the smoky glow of the fires. Fulk turns and tries to argue with her, but she is not to be deterred. He ignores her studiously as he presents himself to Agatha.

He has been in the earl’s service since he was a boy, having travelled from Normandy in his retinue as a groom. He knows the earl as well as any man in his position can know a man like the earl, but this is the first time he has seen Lady Agatha up close. A lot of stories circulate about what goes on in the lady’s atelier, all the more colourful for the fact that it is off-limits to everyone except Lady Agatha, the earl, and the embroiderers. Most of the men call it Odo’s brothel, some of a more superstitious turn of mind mutter darkly about needles, image making, infidels, and the presence of identical twins. Witchcraft, they murmur, crossing themselves discreetly. Fulk is not an imaginative man, but there is more than enough in his mind to make him nervous as he bows to Agatha.

“I hope you are as strong as you look, Fulk,” she says, appraising him. “I’m afraid what I require of you will need a strong stomach as well as a good sword arm.”

“I’ll do my best, madam.”

“Where are you taking him? You can’t take him. What am I to do?” It is the girl, her baby cradled in the sharp angle of one arm, clinging to Fulk’s sleeve with the other hand. Hamo removes one foot from the stirrup and kicks her aside, his spur catching in her shawl and tearing it before he manages to disentangle himself. Agatha presses her lips together, forcing the words she might have spoken back down her throat. She must think only of Alwys, but perhaps compassion may have a practical use here. She has no time to become embroiled in Fulk’s domestic difficulties.