B
rother Francis shuffled along the muddy lane leading to the village. It had been a long walk, taking most of the day, but as he approached the ancient Saxon hamlet of Siwaldston, he felt that his journey had been worthwhile. Six footpaths converged at that place, but the village comprised simply an austere manor house and a number of wattle and daub hovels. Six was supposed to be a magic number, and in the early sixteenth century, magic was a major challenge to the religious community. Brother Francis was a lesser canon at an abbey some ten miles away and did not believe in magic.
He remembered his conversation with Abbot Hunt, who had demanded that he travel the distance to see the witch, Genet of Siwaldston. He had been made to change his robes from the off-white of the Augustinians at the abbey into the hooded brown robe of the mendicant Franciscans, who spent their time denying worldly possessions, and begging board and lodging off the locals. If he was stopped on the way, he was to deny all knowledge of his mission. After all, was he not a man of God? Why would he be going to see a witch?
Francis was also at a loss on that question, but he had his instructions, and had committed his leader’s request to memory. One did not argue with the abbot, despite the man’s apparent incompetence, and the evaporation of the abbey funds with little to show for it. Hunt had taken over when the previous abbot, Pontesbury, had been sacked for irregularities, denying that he knew anything about it. Pontesbury had promised to go to the Bishop, to sort out the problems. Hunt, then prior, his influential second in command, had tried to dissuade him, but the abbot felt he should try to explain. After all, he had a job for life in the confines of the abbey; what could they do, replace him?
Francis shook his head. He had his suspicions about Hunt and the disappearing finances, but it was not his place to comment. He said nothing, asked no questions, worked hard and was dedicated; perhaps this is why he had been chosen. He knew that witches were not inherently bad, but they did challenge the doctrines of the church, and, some folks said, got better results. The abbey infirmary was starting to look a little empty recently; the local sick had stopped visiting, in favour of herbal remedies offered by mystics, some of which actually worked. It seemed strange to him that the abbey was now calling on assistance from the self-same witches.
Francis’ motivation was simple; to save the Lady Ankerita. She had been accused of killing her husband, but many believed it to be unintentional—Richard Mynde was known to be quick tempered, and was not averse to beating wife and servants alike. As punishment for his murder, the lady had been forced into a cell in the abbey, an anchorhold, to end her life as an anchoress, a religious hermit.
Once inside, though, she found she had ‘certain powers’, to heal those possessed by demons. These unfortunates had only to be brought to her window; she would touch their heads and it would drive out whatever curse they were under. Some cynical observers said that the lunatics only visited, in order to gaze on Ankerita’s extraordinary beauty, but the abbey benefited greatly from her presence, despite the massive pressure on them from her husband’s family, who were demanding proper reparation for Richard’s death. It didn’t help her enemies that Ankerita’s father was the high sheriff of the county.
Francis stopped at the first of the hovels, one from which a dim rush-light, and puffs of smoke bled around the thick woven cloth obstructing the doorway. There was the murmur of voices inside, along with an odd cough. Francis raised his voice, speaking in the local dialect. “You inside, can you help me? I’m looking for Genet.”
The voices stopped, to be replaced by frightened whispers.
“Speak,” Francis repeated. “Do not worry. I have not come to collect tax, or steal your goods.”
“Is it a trick?” he heard from inside. “Who are you, visiting so late in the day?”
“Brother Francis,” he said. “A Capuchin friar, come from... Shrewsbury.”
“Never heard of Capuchin,” came a man’s voice. “Is it some place in the dark lands, or worse still, Wales?”
“Recently formed,” Francis ad-libbed. “We’re an offshoot of the Franciscans.”
“Oh that lot. I suppose you’ll be wanting free food and lodging, in exchange for telling us what sinners we are. You’d better come inside, Brother.” The door curtain was pulled back, releasing a cloud of smoke and the scent of rather too many days spent without washing. The ruddy face of a labourer broke into a smile as he looked the visitor up and down. “No, you don’t look like a tax collector. We have very little, but what we have, we will share with you. You have come a long way?”
“Thank you, but I have to speak to Genet. It is urgent.”
The peasant scratched his thinning hair. “Tell me, what does a man of the cloth want from a simple healer? I thought you brothers had your own infirmary for that sort of thing.”
“This is another matter.”
“Ah.” The man tapped the side of his nose.
“Ah, what do you mean, ah?” Faint tinges of suspicion starting to creep into the back of Francis’ mind, regarding Abbot Hunt’s occasional absences, which also happened to coincide with the arrival and subsequent disappearance of the tithes from the farms.
“Ah,” said the man again. “Not my place to say.”
“I’ll look into it when I get back,” said Francis.
“Get back?” said the man, suspiciously. “Where do you have to go? I thought you Franciscans were wandering types, with no permanent base?” He peered at the monk. “Have I seen you around here before?”
“No, you must be mistaken.” Francis pulled his hood more tightly around his face. “I need to talk to Genet.”
The rustic leaned out of his doorway, and pointed towards another hovel. “Try there,” he said. “I trust you have brought coin. Please keep the noise down; we have to get up at first light to tend the harvest. It’s a good one this year.”
Francis reddened, realisation dawning on him as to what Genet’s other occupation might be. Even in the cloistered life he led, certain gossip had spread, especially as some of the patients in the infirmary were suffering from puzzling afflictions of the lower regions, and had taken delight in describing how they had contracted them. As the novice he had been then, it was a revelation.
“But I’m not here for that...”
“Of course you aren’t, Brother,” said the peasant, tapping his nose again. “I’m sure Genet will help you, not doing anything like that...”
“Good day, my son,” said Francis quickly. He bowed and backed away. “Pax vobiscum.”
“And to you too,” said the man, performing a similar movement with his hands, which somehow seemed to involve one finger going through an ‘O’ formed by the other hand.
Francis hurried to the other hut.
The specified hovel seemed no more inviting than the first, except that it was in darkness. He stood outside, uncertain what to do.
“Come in, then,” said a woman’s voice, impatiently. “You’ve travelled a long way and I expect you are needing drink and food.”
“Genet?” he asked tentatively.
“Who else were you expecting; Abbot Hunt I suppose?”
“I don’t know who you mean.” Francis suddenly felt unnecessarily guilty.
“Of course not,” said the voice. “You are a Capuchin from the big town, and know nothing of the modern Augustinian way of life. Are you going to stand out there all night?”
“Are you alone? I should not be with you if you are alone.”
“Don’t worry. I’m a poor, toothless old hag, with nothing to threaten your chastity. You are at no risk.”
“So, you are alone?”
“Apart from my cat, Priah,” said Genet, “who isn’t a ‘familiar’, whatever you hear, but merely a family pet, employed to keep the rats down. Come in, and tell me what you want me to do about the lady.”
“How do you know...?” Francis pushed his way through the curtain, and stared into the darkness. The hut was unlike the previous one. Despite the glowing embers of a fire in the centre, there was no smoke, simply a scent of honeysuckle and, he tried to place the other, surely not cinnamon, the rarest of spices. He had tasted it in wine at the abbey, but that had been a very special occasion. How could this hovel be scented with it?
“I suppose you should tell me why you are here.” The voice did not seem to belong to a hag.
“Do you have a light, so that I can see you?”
“Of course. I forget that you common people have difficulty in seeing what is right in front of you.”
A rush was waved across the fire, and it burst into light, brighter than Francis had seen in any torch before. It didn’t seem to be natural, but rather shimmered and glowed, and filled the room with an soft brilliance. Francis gaped as he beheld the woman.
“Sorry, I might have lied about the ‘hag’ bit,” said Genet, “but people have come to expect that sort of thing. You would never have entered otherwise. No, don’t leave. You have come a long way, on an important mission.”
Francis tried to avert his eyes from the slim woman sitting cross-legged on a deerskin beside the fire. She was a classic beauty, fine eyebrows, green eyes, small, slightly pointed nose, a delicate mouth and long loose red hair, all of which Francis failed to notice, because she was totally naked.
“I should not be here,” he stuttered. “I will speak to you from outside.”
“It’s cold out,” Genet said with a smile. “Stay, sit down. I have a spare goatskin for you.”
Unholy thoughts about Genet’s existing skin crowded Francis’ embarrassment. He would have left, but found he could not move. He sank to the ground and tried to focus on his own feet. He was not entirely successful, and blushed again as he took in her features.
Genet laughed. “Forgive me,” she said. “I forgot I had removed my smock. It is for the invocations. You see, in order to perform the charms correctly, I need to keep a clear mind, unencumbered by worldly possessions. You seek the arcane, do you not?”
“How do you know?”
“I’m a witch,” Genet said, “or what you might think of as a witch; I prefer the word, ‘enchantress’, it sounds so much more genteel, don’t you think. It is my talent to know. I also know that you have come in place of the abbot, because there is another investigation in progress at the abbey, and he cannot leave. You have been told to get advice about how to save the Lady Ankerita?”
“Yes,” said Francis dumbly.
“I have given it some thought,” said the witch, “and it can’t be done as such.”
“As such?”
“I can give you the tools to save her, but you will have to be patient.”
“I am a monk,” stated Francis. “Patience is my life.”
“Good,” said Genet. “Now take these items, which you will need to use, in order to preserve the lady.”
“Preserve?” Francis felt a nagging tingle in his spine.
“Don’t worry,” said Genet. “You are dedicated to your mission?”
“Of course; the lady is my life.”
“Is that proper? Do I detect you having, what some would consider, ‘unfitting’ feelings for her?”
“I was tasked by her father to ensure she was treated correctly,” said Francis defensively. “My actions are purely out of duty to him.”
“I see; you were the family priest after you took up the cloth... Your cause is a noble one, and you will be rewarded.”
“To see her safety assured will be reward enough.”
“Of course,” said Genet. “She will be protected... if you follow my instructions. Take these items.” She handed him a small leather pouch. “This is a powerful sedative. Add it to her food. It will put her to sleep, and to all intent she will appear dead. In this way we can fool her would-be murderers. Once they are satisfied, you can effect a rescue, and get her to freedom. Do not worry, she can be revived. You will do that.”
“I hope you will tell me how.”
“Hear me out. Here is the second item. This rondel has been crafted from the dagger with which she stabbed her husband. It contains his life essence. She can use that to contact him and atone for her sins. Take it, and give it to her when she awakens.”
Francis took the weapon gingerly and sipped it into his belt. He felt a vibration from it, which worried him.
“Keep it safe for when you revive her,” said Genet. “And finally, you will need this.” She handed a cloth bag to him. There was something smooth and round inside. “You can open it, but be careful, or it will break.”
He drew out a sphere of glass and gave a gasp. Glass was an expensive luxury, only occasionally seen in the windows of rich houses. The sphere probably contained a fortune of it.
“When you need to find the lady, simply gaze into it,” said the witch. “Let your mind drift, think of nothing; the pictures will come. Try it now? Look deeply.”
Francis stared into the glass, and relaxed, using the meditation techniques he was trained in. He gasped. He was looking into Ankerita’s cell. The lady looked shockingly ill. He blinked, and the image vanished.
“You saw?” Genet smiled, gently.
“I have to get back.” He slipped the ball into its bag. “Is that everything?”
Genet folded her arms. “That is all I have been asked to supply. You have payment for me, from the abbot?”
“Here.” Francis handed over a pouch.
Genet tipped a pile of gold coins into her hand and started sorting through them.
“I didn’t know peasants could count,” Francis said.
“I can, and perhaps I’m not exactly a peasant...” Genet’s face clouded. “I can count, and I think that there are fewer coins here than we agreed.”
“I thought you hadn’t seen the abbot.”
“We have spoken,” she said. “I didn’t think he would try to deceive me.”
“Perhaps it’s a mistake,” said Francis. “I will get the rest.”
“No.” Genet was scowling. “I see that he always intended to cheat me. I shouldn’t let you leave.”
“But, my lady will suffer if I don’t take these things back.” Francis drew out his own purse, and added what few coins he had, to the pile in front of the witch. “That is my life savings,” he said.
“And you have nothing more?”
“You have it all.”
Genet was silent for a while, and then sighed. “You have given me everything ,” she said. “Far more than the abbot parted with. That is true devotion. I grant you your boon, but no one cheats Genet, the Enchantress of Siwaldston.”
The monk looked uncertain. “Are you sure? I do not want to be party to what is effectively theft.” He made to return the items to the witch, but she pushed his hands away.
“As it be, Brother Francis,” she said, “you already hold the items. What can a mere weak peasant girl do against a strong man such as yourself to retrieve them?” Genet gave Francis a look that made a shudder run through his body... and other parts. His eyes rested on her breasts. She grinned at his obvious discomfort. “Fear not, good friar,” she said. “I will spare you further temptation. You may leave with all the objects. Tell the abbot that I noted his modification of our agreement, and that you took the items despite. He will be punished for his duplicity, but I will not see the lady suffer any further on his account, especially as the alignment of the planets is perfect, this eve.”
“You will be blessed in Heaven,” said Francis gratefully.
“Yes, yes, you may leave.” Genet dismissed him with her hand.
Francis scrambled gratefully to his feet. She smiled at him, but it was a cold smile, her lips were tight. In his haste to leave he did not notice. As the door cloth fell into place, Genet stared back into the fire.
“Ah.” The monk was only a few steps away from the hovel when he realised he had not asked how to use the powder in the pouch, and in what dose. He retraced his steps to the entrance. “Genet...” His voice died as he moved the curtain. The hut was cold and dark, and empty. All traces of the woman had vanished, but in the darkening sky, five bright stars formed a line on the horizon.