Epic Historial Collection (242 page)

Godwyn interrupted: “As a monk, he does not need to swear.”

Caris raised her voice. “And a good thing for him, otherwise he would burn in Hell for the lies he has told today!”

Score a point to me, she thought, and her hopes rose another notch.

She spoke to the crowd. Although the decision would be made by the bishop, he would be heavily influenced by the reaction of the townspeople. He was not a man of high principle.

“Mattie Wise healed many people in this town,” she began. “On this day two years ago, when the old bridge collapsed, she was one of the foremost in tending to the injured, working alongside Mother Cecilia and the nuns. Looking around the church today I see many people who benefited from her care at that terrible time. Did anyone hear her invoke the devil on that day? If so, let him speak now.”

She paused to let the silence impress itself on her audience.

She pointed at Madge Webber. “Mattie gave you a potion that brought down your child's fever. What did she say to you?”

Madge looked scared. No one was comfortable being called as a witness in the defense of a witch. But Madge owed a lot to Caris. She straightened her shoulders, looked defiant, and said: “Mattie said to me: ‘Pray to God, for only He can heal.'”

Caris pointed at the constable. “John, she eased your pain while Mathew Barber set your broken bones. What did she say to you?”

John was used to being on the prosecuting side, and he, too, looked uneasy, but he told the truth in a strong voice. “She said: ‘Pray to God, for only He can heal.'”

Caris turned to the crowd. “Everyone knows that Mattie was no witch. In that case, says Brother Philemon, why did she flee? Easy question. She was afraid that lies would be told about her—as they have been told about me. Which of you women, if falsely accused of heresy, would feel confident about proving your innocence to a court of priests and monks?” She looked around, letting her eyes rest on the prominent women of the town: Lib Wheeler, Sarah Taverner, Susanna Chepstow.

“Why did I mix dyes at night?” she resumed. “Because the days were short! Like many of you, my father failed to sell all his fleeces last year, and I wanted to turn the raw wool into something I could market. It was very difficult to discover the formula, but I did it, by hard work, over many hours, day and night—but without the help of Satan.” She paused for breath.

When she began again, she used a different tone of voice, more playful. “I am accused of bewitching Merthin. I have to admit that the case against me is strong. Look at Sister Elizabeth. Stand up, please, Sister.”

Reluctantly, Elizabeth stood.

“She is beautiful, isn't she?” Caris said. “She is also clever. And she is the daughter of a bishop. Oh, forgive me, my lord bishop, I meant no disrespect.”

The crowd chuckled at that cheeky stab. Godwyn looked outraged, but Bishop Richard smothered a smile.

“Sister Elizabeth cannot see why any man would prefer me to her. Nor can I. Unaccountably, Merthin loves me, plain as I am. I cannot explain it.” There was more giggling. “I'm sorry Elizabeth is so angry. If we lived in Old Testament times, Merthin could have two wives and everyone would be happy.” They laughed loudly at that. She waited for the sound to subside, then said gravely: “What I am most sorry about is that the commonplace jealousy of a disappointed woman should become the pretext, in the untrustworthy mouth of a novice monk, for a charge as serious as that of heresy.”

Philemon stood up to protest the charge of untrustworthiness, but Bishop Richard flapped a hand at him, saying: “Let her speak, let her speak.”

Caris decided she had made her point about Elizabeth, and moved on. “I confess that I sometimes use vulgar words when I am alone—especially if I stub my toe. But you may ask why my own brother-in-law would testify against me, and tell you that my mutterings were invocations to evil spirits. I'm afraid I can answer that.” She paused, then spoke solemnly. “My father is ill. If he dies, his fortune will be divided between me and my sister. But, if I die first, my sister will get it all. And my sister is Elfric's wife.”

She paused, looking quizzically at the crowd. “Are you shocked?” she said. “So am I. But men kill for less money than that.”

She moved away, as if she had finished, and Philemon got up from his bench. Caris turned around and addressed him in Latin.
“Caput tuum in ano est.”

The monks laughed loudly, and Philemon flushed.

Caris turned to Elfric. “You didn't understand that, did you, Elfric?”

“No,” he said sulkily.

“Which is why you might have thought I was using some sinister witchcraft tongue.” She turned back to Philemon. “Brother, you know what language I was using, don't you?”

“Latin,” Philemon replied.

“Perhaps you would tell us what I just said to you.”

Philemon looked an appeal at the bishop. But Richard was amused, and just said: “Answer the question.”

Looking furious, Philemon obeyed. “She said: ‘You've got your head up your ass.'”

The townspeople roared with laughter, and Caris walked back to her place.

When the noise died down, Philemon began to speak, but Richard interrupted him. “I don't need to hear any further from you,” he said. “You've made a strong case against her, and she has mounted a vigorous defense. Does anyone else have anything to say about this accusation?”

“I do, my lord bishop.” Friar Murdo came forward. Some of the townspeople cheered, others groaned: Murdo aroused contrary reactions. “Heresy is an evil,” he began, his voice modulating into fruity preaching mode. “It corrupts the souls of women and men—”

“Thank you, Brother, but I know what heresy does,” said Richard. “Do you have anything else to say? If not—”

“Just this,” Murdo replied. “I agree with, and reiterate—”

“If it has been said before—”

“—your own comment that the case is strong, and the defense similar.”

“In which case—”

“I have a solution to propose.”

“All right, Brother Murdo, what is it? In the minimum number of words.”

“She must be examined for the Devil's Mark.”

Caris's heart seemed to stop.

“Of course,” said the bishop. “I seem to remember you making the same suggestion at an earlier trial.”

“Indeed, lord, for the devil greedily sucks the hot blood of his acolytes through his own special nipple, as the newborn babe sucks the swollen breasts—”

“Yes, thank you, friar, no need for further details. Mother Cecilia, will you and two other nuns please take the accused woman to a place of examination?”

Caris looked at Merthin. He was pale with horror. They were both thinking the same.

Caris had a mole.

It was tiny, but the nuns would find it—in just the kind of place they thought the devil was most interested in: on the left side of her vulva, just beside the cleft. It was dark brown, and the red gold hair around did not hide it. The first time Merthin had noticed it, he had joked: “Friar Murdo would call you a witch—you'd better not let him see it.” And Caris had laughed and said: “Not if he were the last man on earth.”

How could they have spoken of it in such a carefree way? Now she would be condemned to death for it.

She looked around desperately. She would have run, but she was surrounded by hundreds of people, some of whom would stop her. She saw Merthin's hand on the knife at his belt; but even if the knife had been a sword and he had been a great fighter—which he was not—he could not have cut his way through such a crowd.

Mother Cecilia came to her and took her hand.

Caris decided she would escape as soon as she got outside the church. Crossing the cloisters she could easily break free.

Then Godwyn said: “Constable, take one of your deputies and escort the woman to the place of examination, and stand outside the door until it is done.”

Cecilia could not have held Caris, but two men could.

John looked at Mark Webber, normally his first choice among the deputies. Caris felt a faint hope: Mark was a loyal friend to her. But the constable apparently had the same thought, for he turned from Mark and pointed to Christopher Blacksmith.

Cecilia tugged gently on Caris's hand.

As if sleepwalking, Caris allowed herself to be led out of the church. They left by the north door, Cecilia and Caris followed by Sister Mair and Old Julie, with John Constable and Christopher Blacksmith close behind. They crossed the cloisters, entered the nuns' quarters, and made their way to the dormitory. The two men stayed outside.

Cecilia closed the door.

“No need to examine me,” Caris said dully. “I've got a mark.”

“We know,” said Cecilia.

Caris frowned. “How?”

“We have washed you.” She indicated Mair and Julie. “All three of us. When you were in the hospital, two Christmases ago. You had eaten something that poisoned you.”

Cecilia did not know, or was pretending not to have guessed, that Caris had taken a potion to end her pregnancy.

She went on: “You were puking and shitting all over the place, and bleeding down there. You had to be washed several times. We all saw the mole.”

Hopeless despair washed over Caris in an irresistible tide. She closed her eyes. “So now you will condemn me to death,” she said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.

“Not necessarily,” said Cecilia. “There could be another way.”

 

Merthin was distraught. Caris was trapped. She would be condemned to death, and there was nothing he could do. He could not have rescued her even if he had been Ralph, with big shoulders and a sword and a relish for violence. He stared, horrified, at the door through which she had disappeared. He knew where Caris's mole was, and he felt sure the nuns would find it—that was just the kind of place where they would look most carefully.

All around him the noise of excited chatter rose from the crowd. People were arguing for or against Caris, rerunning the trial, but he seemed to be inside a bubble, and he could hardly follow what anyone said. In his ears, their talk sounded like the random beating of a hundred drums.

He found himself staring at Godwyn, wondering what he was thinking. Merthin could understand the others—Elizabeth was eaten up with jealousy, Elfric was possessed by greed, and Philemon was pure malevolence—but the prior mystified him. Godwyn had grown up with his cousin Caris, and he knew she was not a witch. Yet he was prepared to see her die. How could he do something so wicked? What excuse did he make to himself? Did he tell himself that this was all for the glory of God? Godwyn had once seemed to be a man of enlightenment and decency, the antidote to Prior Anthony's narrow conservatism. But he had turned out to be worse than Anthony: more ruthless in the pursuit of the same obsolete aims.

If Caris dies, Merthin thought, I'm going to kill Godwyn.

His parents came up to him. They had been in the cathedral throughout the trial. His father said something, but Merthin could not understand him. “What?” he said.

Then the north door opened, and the crowd became silent. Mother Cecilia walked in alone and closed the door behind her. There was a murmur of curiosity. What now?

Cecilia walked up to the bishop's throne.

Richard said: “Well, Mother Prioress? What do you have to report to the court?”

Cecilia said slowly: “Caris has confessed—”

There was a roar of shock from the crowd.

Cecilia raised her voice. “…confessed her sins.”

They went quiet again. What did this mean?

“She has received absolution—”

“From whom?” Godwyn interrupted. “A nun cannot give absolution!”

“From Father Joffroi.”

Merthin knew Joffroi. He was the priest at St. Mark's, the church where Merthin had repaired the roof. Joffroi had no love for Godwyn.

But what was going on? Everyone waited for Cecilia to explain.

She said: “Caris has applied to become a novice nun here at the priory—”

Once again she was interrupted by a shout of shock from the assembled townspeople.

She yelled over their voices: “—and I have accepted her!”

There was uproar. Merthin could see Godwyn yelling at the top of his voice, but his words were lost. Elizabeth was enraged; Philemon stared at Cecilia with poisonous hatred; Elfric looked bewildered; Richard was amused. Merthin's own mind reeled with the implications. Would the bishop accept this? Did it mean the trial was over? Had Caris been saved from execution?

Eventually the tumult died down. As soon as he could be heard, Godwyn spoke, his face white with fury. “Did she, or did she not, confess to heresy?”

“The confessional is a sacred trust,” Cecilia replied imperturbably. “I don't know what she said to the priest, and if I did I could not tell you or anyone else.”