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Authors: Toby Clements
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and pours in water from an earthenware jug. Then she stops to watch. After a moment she turns to Katherine.
‘But she is dead?’ she says.
The Prioress and Sister Joan are both staring at her.
The infirmarian leans forward and opens one of Alice’s eyelids.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You see? These marks? A sure sign that she died unable to breathe.’
But Katherine is not looking at Alice. She is staring at the long scratch on the side of Sister Joan’s neck.
‘Your neck,’ she says.
Joan touches the scratch and then looks at the bloodied tips of her fingers. She smiles nervously, sharp teeth on her thin lips, a furtive expression.
Katherine cannot endure it. She lunges and before Joan can raise her hands she is on her. She knocks her back over on to the mattress and her hands seek out the neck, her thumbs in the doughy throat. But Joan bucks. She arches her back and screams and after a moment the Prioress grabs Katherine’s shoulders and hauls her off and throws her across the room. Katherine lands badly, but Joan still screams. She is thrashing and scrabbling as if trying to get something off her back. And then there is blood frothing from her mouth and nose. It is staining her teeth, pouring down her chin.
The Prioress is frozen where she stands, hands clapped to her cheeks. Joan is choking on something. She rolls face down on the mattress and all three women see the shards of green glass driven into her back just as the stench of the medicine rises up and washes over them. It catches in their throats and burns their eyes and sends them coughing back up the infirmary.
This time there is no one to stop her. Katherine is through the door, down the stairs and across the yard, staggering past the very spot where she’d seen the canon, and out of the beggars’ gate. She has no plan in mind, only flight, and she no longer cares what happens to her next.
Snow remains in patches across the fens, but there is more grass and mud, and there are black fire circles on the fields, and the sweet smell of cold wood smoke and human shit hangs in the air. She limps out across the furlong, making for the hamlet at the river ford. Two lay brothers are there at the river’s edge with shovels. She turns from them to the ferryman’s lighter, on the riverbank below the mill. If she can right it and somehow get it into the water, then she might follow the river’s current wherever it will take her.
She crosses the furlong and tries to lift the boat, but it is too heavy. Vestiges of ice cement it in place. She finds the ferryman’s pole, a long staff of ash. She is about to try to use it to lever the boat upright when she sees a movement by the canons’ beggars’ gate. Someone running. A man. At first she thinks he is coming for her. She panics and looks for a place to hide in the shelter of the watermill, behind a pile of millstones. It is a canon, she sees, running desperately. Then she sees another man emerge.
‘Dear God!’ she says aloud.
It is the giant from the day before. He is still barefooted, still with that axe. She looks again at the canon. It is him. He runs towards her. He is also making for the boat. He tries to roll it over but gives up just as easily as she had. He goes looking for something and then starts with panic as the giant approaches.
‘Why?’ he shouts. ‘Why me?’
The giant ignores him.
The canon tries to punch him, but the giant catches his fist and twists his arm. He falls to the ground.
‘Why?’ the canon cries out once more. ‘What did I do to you?’
The giant plucks him up without effort. The canon kicks out but the giant has him by the throat. He is carrying him at arm’s length. The canon struggles, still kicking, tearing at his hands, but he is forced backwards and pinned against the upturned boat. Still he kicks but it is no use. The giant leans forward and switches hands, so that he is holding the canon down with his left hand while his right moves up to the canon’s
‘But she is dead?’ she says.
The Prioress and Sister Joan are both staring at her.
The infirmarian leans forward and opens one of Alice’s eyelids.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You see? These marks? A sure sign that she died unable to breathe.’
But Katherine is not looking at Alice. She is staring at the long scratch on the side of Sister Joan’s neck.
‘Your neck,’ she says.
Joan touches the scratch and then looks at the bloodied tips of her fingers. She smiles nervously, sharp teeth on her thin lips, a furtive expression.
Katherine cannot endure it. She lunges and before Joan can raise her hands she is on her. She knocks her back over on to the mattress and her hands seek out the neck, her thumbs in the doughy throat. But Joan bucks. She arches her back and screams and after a moment the Prioress grabs Katherine’s shoulders and hauls her off and throws her across the room. Katherine lands badly, but Joan still screams. She is thrashing and scrabbling as if trying to get something off her back. And then there is blood frothing from her mouth and nose. It is staining her teeth, pouring down her chin.
The Prioress is frozen where she stands, hands clapped to her cheeks. Joan is choking on something. She rolls face down on the mattress and all three women see the shards of green glass driven into her back just as the stench of the medicine rises up and washes over them. It catches in their throats and burns their eyes and sends them coughing back up the infirmary.
This time there is no one to stop her. Katherine is through the door, down the stairs and across the yard, staggering past the very spot where she’d seen the canon, and out of the beggars’ gate. She has no plan in mind, only flight, and she no longer cares what happens to her next.
Snow remains in patches across the fens, but there is more grass and mud, and there are black fire circles on the fields, and the sweet smell of cold wood smoke and human shit hangs in the air. She limps out across the furlong, making for the hamlet at the river ford. Two lay brothers are there at the river’s edge with shovels. She turns from them to the ferryman’s lighter, on the riverbank below the mill. If she can right it and somehow get it into the water, then she might follow the river’s current wherever it will take her.
She crosses the furlong and tries to lift the boat, but it is too heavy. Vestiges of ice cement it in place. She finds the ferryman’s pole, a long staff of ash. She is about to try to use it to lever the boat upright when she sees a movement by the canons’ beggars’ gate. Someone running. A man. At first she thinks he is coming for her. She panics and looks for a place to hide in the shelter of the watermill, behind a pile of millstones. It is a canon, she sees, running desperately. Then she sees another man emerge.
‘Dear God!’ she says aloud.
It is the giant from the day before. He is still barefooted, still with that axe. She looks again at the canon. It is him. He runs towards her. He is also making for the boat. He tries to roll it over but gives up just as easily as she had. He goes looking for something and then starts with panic as the giant approaches.
‘Why?’ he shouts. ‘Why me?’
The giant ignores him.
The canon tries to punch him, but the giant catches his fist and twists his arm. He falls to the ground.
‘Why?’ the canon cries out once more. ‘What did I do to you?’
The giant plucks him up without effort. The canon kicks out but the giant has him by the throat. He is carrying him at arm’s length. The canon struggles, still kicking, tearing at his hands, but he is forced backwards and pinned against the upturned boat. Still he kicks but it is no use. The giant leans forward and switches hands, so that he is holding the canon down with his left hand while his right moves up to the canon’s
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