The River Mistress
“Mistress Edith, the bishop is here to question you.”
Huddled in the corner, a young woman named Edith hugs her knees to her chest. She is in a disheveled state. Her once pressed, fine fabrics are soiled with dirt and her gable headdress lays untouched next to her, revealing unkempt strands of black hair. In the doorway, stands another woman pale of skin with dark blue eyes. The whole fo her body is draped with long, wool black robes, with a coif, wimple and veil resting upon her head. She is a nun, more specifically, the abbess of the monastery that towers over the town. An old fright of a building, practically erected from Hell itself. Edith had seen it on her way here. It is no wonder, someone as cruel as Abbess Anne governs from such a place.
Edith had noticed many strange things about this small town when she had first arrived some months ago. She was here to fulfill a marriage contract. She, the daughter of a noble, had been promised to an affluent courtier who lived in the town, and her father was more than happy to get rid of her. She was the daughter of his first wife, the wife he hated. She was the eldest of the daughters, treated like a servant in her own home. She prayed that things would change when she met her soon to be husband, Henry.
Now her father had a mistress who eventually became her step mother, so it should not have surprised Edith when Henry had one as well. Her name was Eliza. When Edith first discovered the two together, tangled in the bed sheets, she had hoped to make the situation bearable for all.
“Perhaps we can make this an arrangement, she can stay even when we are married.” She had told Henry. Edith never liked confrontation, and growing up she was taught to think very little of herself. She needed the security of a house and husband, so this infidelity she had to accept with no qualm.
Just as her mother accepted her predicament until her death. That is after all, what women were taught to do.
However, that naive illusion was shattered not a day after she’d brought the offer to her fiancé and his mistress.
One moment, Edith was trying on her wedding gowns, the next, there was a knock on the door. Men in cloaks took her from her bed, and with them amid the chaos, standing like a stone cold statue behind them, was she.
The nun. The Abbess.
Her eyes were solid and cold, as if no soul existed beneath their depths. Holy Abbess Anne, they called her, had a divine talent for snuffing out witches and heretics. For her presence to be requested, meant that the accused had undoubtedly consorted with the devil. There Edith stood that day, with her hands clasped to her chest and tears streaming down her cheeks, while in the background stood her fiancé and his mistress. Edith begged and pleaded, and reached out to the Abbess for help but she had only looked away.
“She is a witch!” Eliza had said, amid the chaos. “She bewitched Lord Henry!”
The Abbess needed only to look at Edith for a moment, before she outstretched her hand and quietly whispered, “I see the devil’s hands upon her soul.”
Those words had sealed Edith’s fate.
That travesty place only a week ago, and what had followed afterward was nothing short of torment. Edith was taken to a church some miles from her home. It was night when she finally arrived and was tossed in the locked basement below. She had been visited by men of different disciplines. One was a lawyer (who did not care about her) and the others were two priests who cross examined her, speaking Latin phrases as they did so—Edith herself was educated enough to understand Latin but it didn’t help her case. She was guilty in their eyes. She answered their questions and accusations the best she could, but at the end of the day, they meant nothing to her. She was hungry, cold, and frightened. Yet more importantly, she wasn’t an idiot. After the first few days stuck there, a foreboding fear began to settle in the pits of her stomach. She had known, the moment she was taken from her home, that she would meet her end tied to a pyre, with a flame beneath the soles of her feet. That is what happened to women accused of witchcraft.
Now, it is the present, some days after the rambling priests and absent minded lawyer came to visit.
Abbess Anne stands in the doorway, arms crossed, and only moves slightly to the side to allow another to enter. This is the bishop, Bishop Callum, and Anne feels her heart tighten. The room has been dark, stuffy and suffocating for days, but with these two here, it is almost nauseating.
A few feet from where Edith sits against the wall, is a table. Anne stays pressed to the doorframe yet, the bishop takes a seat. He does not invite Edith to sit with him, he simply speaks.
“When were you provoked to bewitch Sir Henry?” Bishop Callum starts. “What methods did you use? What was it that the devil promised you in return?”
He is an older man, white hair sprouting in patches from the once bright red crown beneath his Canterbury cap. He is not as stupid as the priests, but his eyes are colder than theirs. There is something about him that is terrifying, almost more so than the impious aura that rolls off of the abbess. The room darkens around him as if he swallows the light. This may be a holy place, this may be a holy man, but Edith feels the farthest away from God as she sits in his presence.
“I…I did not bewitch him.” She states, firmly. “I am not a witch–”
Bishop Callum’s eyes narrow and he glares at her. That is enough to silence her. It as if he has cast a spell on her. “We know that is not true, Mistress Edith.”
“There is enough evidence to incriminate you, girl. It is best you be honest, or we can make this worse for you.” Now standing behind Callum is Abbess Anne.
The nun rests her hand upon the bishop’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. He does not flinch or move, it is almost as if he is used to her touch. Edith notes how young she looks compared to the bishop, but something about the two of them seems similar. She previously believed Anne to have dark black hair beneath her veil, but she catches a better glimpse of her eyebrows, which are light red, similar to that of the bishop’s hair.
“We have, withheld torture.” Says Callum. “Many, including your intended, have suggested that we use violence against you to force a confession, but we will not. If only you cooperate.”
Aside from Bishop Callum and the occasional outbursts from Anne, the small space is silent. Edith clings to herself as she stares ahead with a placid face. Though inside, she is in turmoil. Silence will not help her case, any more than speaking will. But she knows she cannot stay here, huddled away forever. She must speak.
“And then,” She starts, finding some small ounce of courage to reply. “After the confession, what will happen?” The small spurt of boldness shocks her.
“You will be cleansed.” Abbess Anne replies without skipping a beat. “By fire—”
“We’re not quite sure yet.” Callum quickly cuts off the Abbess, and by the looks of her expression, she is not happy.“It’s yet to be decided.”
“B…but I die?” Edith asks. “Either way?”
“Do not think of it as death.” Says bishop Callum, momentarily changing his tone. He seems almost happy, ecstatic at the idea of lighting a woman on fire. Edith wonders to herself; how many innocent women he has condemned to the pyre? Does he smile as their bodies crumble beneath the flame, the same way he smiles at Edith now?
“You, like so many women of your affinity, have faltered. You have crawled into the bed of the devil and no penance, prayer or blessing can undo that. You should be proud that you will meet God so soon! You shall repent, and be accepted into his sheepfold with open arms. That is however, if you confess.” He rises, hunching over the table. He meets Edith’s gaze; his glare as cold and paralyzing as before. Once again, he entrances her. “If you continue your charade,” Not peeling his eyes away, he aggressively taps his fingers against the table. “you will be tortured and you will face your maker with a lie upon your tongue. All that will be left for you, is Hellfire.”
There is irony in this situation, Edith thinks to herself. There was a time when these phrases had little impact on her conscience. In her youth, she had seen a woman accused of witchcraft, and ‘consorting’ with the devil. She was burned in the square, with such similar words being muttered as the fire consumed her. And even aside from witchcraft, many heretics had been lit upon a pyre before Edith and never once did she think of the cruelty of it. Yet only now, as she sits on the receiving end of those words, those cursed Latin phrases those silly priests spat out earlier, does she understand how harsh, and unfair this mockery is. And yes, it is all a mockery. This interrogation, these punishments she is threatened with; to a degree she believes that this religion is pantomime. She acknowledges God and the angels, and the saints and Jesus Christ. But she does not attach herself to this barbaric ritual in which these mundane men and women, dressed in their robes as if they are granted some divine authority, exercise the religion. This is not religion, this is terror.
Still, regardless of the inner thoughts and discussions of philosophy that ruminate in her mind, Edith still has a choice to make. Perhaps in another life, she is among scholars, teachers and like minded priests. And they discuss religion, in acceptable ways. She has always wanted to write, since she’s been a girl.
Edith holds her skirts closer to her, black unkempt hair falling over her face. She looks a mess, but regardless she straightens up as much as she can. And then, despite her hunger and exhaustion she stands nervously to her feet. She does not look away from Callum.
“I decline.” She says. The fear she felt before, somewhat dwindles away, and for the first time in her life, Edith stands up for herself. “I will not incriminate myself, based on the jealous accusation of another. Hear this: If you kill me, you will have the blood of an innocent woman on your hands.” She inhales sharply, and then a small but clear chuckle escapes her lips. Both the bishop and Abbess Anne, who has been surprisingly quiet, share glances. “Look at you two, so silly and so assured. Have you not made your minds already? Whether or not I confess, I am Lucifer’s harlot in your eyes–I am guilty. It matters little to me, I maintain my innocence and my faith. I shall let God be my judge. For he will judge me kindly and ever fairly.”
Like that, years of repression, abuse and lack of self worth fade away like water beneath the hot son. Perhaps it is too little too late, but Edith feels free. She is free.
The bishop releases a practiced sigh, as if he is all too familiar with this false declaration of innocence. Abbess Anne, her face cold like stone, nods.
“Then let God be witness to your lying, and your pain.” She says. “We will dance upon your ashes.”
The next morning, Edith is brought to the end of the town to what appears to be a cliff of sorts with a drop off. It is a cold day, with the morning clouds not yet lifted from the fields. There is no sun.
Prior to this, she was stripped of her fine skirts and bodice. She now wears a thin linen shift and upon her head, is a white coif. With her is an entourage of some priests, and some townspeople. The crowd grows larger by the minute, surrounding her. Among them are Sir Henry and Mistress Eliza. With how long this week has been, Edith wonders if the two are married. Eliza is dressed in Edith’s own jewels, skirt and bodice; the ones that her mother had left her upon her death bed. In her heart she weeps, but does not dare shed a tear before this crowd. There are mutters around, as she is led to the edge of what appears to be the drop off. Below is a lake. Mist settles upon the surface, obscuring its depths. She searches for a pyre, but finds none.
There is a murmur heard from the crowd and it parts, and the bishop is revealed. In his hand, as expected, he holds a bible. He approaches her, and towers over her small body.
“You’ve brought this upon yourself.” He leans toward her, and whispers. “But we have decided to show some form of mercy. No harm came upon you as you were questioned, that we made sure. The Abbess wanted you burned, as did most of the town. I was able to, however, convince them to drown you.”
“Am I supposed to be grateful?” The words, not fully her own, slip from her mouth. Edith swears she can hear the bishop chuckle.
“I suppose, if you are a witch, you will call upon the devil to float. If you are not, then you will meet God’s mercy.”
He straightens up again, and takes a step back and in a rehearsed fashion he begins to read his bible. Those same, trivial Latin phrases spill from his lips and things begin to shift. From around Edith, men close in. They bind her legs and feet with ropes so tightly, they burn the skin on her wrists. And then, they tie heavy rocks to her. It is only then, with the realization of what is soon to happen, does she begin to panic. Her heart is resolved, as is her mind, but she is still a mortal. She starts to tremble, her lips quiver and she breathes heavily. In that moment, Edith hears only the sound of her heartbeat and Bishop Callum’s voice above the crowd. He speaks of God’s grace; he asks that mercy be given to Edith, and that she is granted safe passage to Eden. And finally, at the end of it all, he commits her soul to God. In her heart, she does as well.
The men grab her with little ease, as casually as one would a sack of rotten vegetation to be tossed aside. They clutch her in places a man should not grab a woman, but she supposes now to them, and to this crowd, she no longer has the privilege of being seen as a woman. They bring her to the ledge of the cliff and in the fraction of a second with no empathy or care, they toss her over.
She hits the water with a thud, the surface solid for a moment before she begins to sink. Her bones ache, and her skin stings upon contact with the water; she is certain she is bruised.
Like a cold blanket the lake consumes her. Her clothes grow heavy beneath the waves and cling to her skin, pulling her down with a force as great as the rocks tied to her ankles. She squirms like a wounded cat, thrashing for freedom beneath the weight of the water, but little by little the sunlight from above dims. She is surrounded by a deep abyss and her soundless screams are muffled beneath the currents. Her coif is lost in the struggle, and locks of black hair expand around her and below she sinks, deeper and deeper.
Now here comes the part she had dreaded on the surface, the part she refused to think about until this moment. She can only hold her breath for so long, only pray for a miracle for a moment more before her lungs give out. When Edith was a little girl, she had fallen from her father’s boat and foolishly, sucked in the water in a panicked state. Prior to that, she believed drowning was as simple as closing one’s eyes, and drifting away. Yet to her shock, it was the opposite; every part of her body burned, from the pit of her stomach to her throat. She fought the water, attempting to claw her way back to the surface for dear life. Back then, it was her father who saved her.
She is alone now.
She cannot keep up this act of defiance any longer. Too little too late. She reminds herself but at least, she found her voice in her final moments. At least, courage birthed itself from fear, even if that courage was terrified. But now, she must let go.
It will hurt, it will be excruciating. It will be no different than being lit upon a pyre, but it will be quick. “Jesus, receive my soul.” Edith thinks to herself and then, she inhales.
It happens too fast. The water comes in through her mouth and floods her lungs. She screams and cries, she thrashes and gasps for breath that will not come. There is a heavy pressure upon her face, and the veins beneath her skin feel as if they might burst. And then slowly, the world around her begins to fade. Dark spots cloud her vision, and the burning nearly subsides. Her conscience flutters and she thinks of her childhood, her mother, and the days when her father loved her.
And then, before Edith dies, there is a splash.
With the last bit of life she has, she looks ahead. She first sees a blur of disheveled red hair, pulled apart by the water. Attached to it, is a woman. She is naked, and swims quickly through the currents. Her eyes are bright and blue, and her face is full of freckles, and strangely enough, she is speaking. She is also breathing. She moves closer and closer to Edith, and her swimming becomes more…unnatural. As if she commands the water and it moves with her. Yet, there is also something else awry about her. Those eyes, they are familiar….that face….that expression….
Abbess Anne…..that is the Abbess…Edith thinks.
“Edith!” Anne speaks, in a voice that is undoubtedly hers. It truly is the Abbess!
She is now close enough for Edith to see her face. Anne extends a hand toward Edith and grabs her shoulder easily, pulling her close. They are floating within one another’s space now, frozen; it is a wonder Edith has not drowned yet. There is something keeping her alive, something alluring and intoxicating. She looks into Anne’s eyes. Those human yet, inhuman orbs grow wider with every moment that passes. It is like hypnosis.
Anne then places her hands on either side of Edith’s cheeks and pulls her close. Eyes closed, Anne slowly inches forward until eventually, she crushes her lips against Edith’s. Edith hears her heart beat heavy through the fabric of her dress, as if it fights to break free from her rib cage. She attempts to move her arms, but the ropes are far too tight. She does not wish to escape, but rather, she wants to embrace Anne. For in her heart, she longs to return the kiss as well. There is something so gentle and so chaste about it. In the sea of torment she has been subjected to these past few days, a kiss is much welcomed, even given the circumstances.
And in her case, this is no mere kiss.
Almost immediately, does the heavy sensation of water inside Edith’s body subside. The burning in her lungs vanishes, replaced by the cooling sensation of fresh, much needed air. She begins to breathe quickly, her heart beating faster and faster, chest rising as if she is on the surface. At this point, Anne has pulled away, and she begins to work on Edith’s binds. With her nails that are much sharper than Edith remembers, she easily cuts through the rope.
Naturally, Edith attempts to swim upward but Anne grabs her by the arm. She shakes her head.
“Mistress Edith, most of the town is still there waiting to see if you will rise. If you do so now, you will give them exactly what they want!”
“What–” Hearing her own voice so clear underwater, Edith clasps her hand over her mouth in shock. Anne laughs, and playfully, swims a circle around her.
“A…are you a witch?” Edith blurts.
“No, I am much worse!” Anne, having shed the cruel personality of being an Abbess, speaks. “I will tell you all, but you must come with me!” She takes Edith’s hand again and they swim away.
It is night now, and they are some distance from the town in a dark wood, far enough to not be discovered. Edith sits before a large fire erected between her and Anne, dressed in warmer clothes and a cloak Anne had brought to this place prior. Anne is still naked, seemingly unbothered by her state. Her red hair is dry now, with curls running down her back and resting on the side of her face. The rest of the hair on her body is red as well, though Edith looks away for modesty. Again though, Anne does not seem to care. She stares into the flames in silence before speaking.
“You must have many questions.” She gazes at Edith.
“How did you know?” Edith asks, sarcastically. The two women laugh for a moment but then Edith continues. “You were breathing in the water, and after the kiss–you made it so that I could as well. Did you turn me into whatever you are? Were you cursed by a witch?”
Anne looks puzzled for a moment, but then, once again she smiles. “Anne, I am no more of a witch than you are. And you are still a mortal woman. I only gave you the ability to breathe underwater for that moment in time so you would not die.”
“Then if you are not a witch, what are you? You said that you were worse.”
“It is hard to explain.” For the first time during this conversation, Anne looks puzzled. “I’ve not had anyone ask me that question for some time. And even if they do…I have been an Abbess for so long–”
“So you are actually an Abbess?”
“I have been an Abbess since the Northmen raided these lands! Since before this age of new inventions, philosophers and teachers! Since before your father, or his father, and so forth ever came to prominence. It was the one way I could truly be free.”
“H….how old are you? What are you? How–”
Anne exhales, tired eyes gazing upon the stars. Her lips part slightly, as if they try to craft words she cannot yet find. She shifts in her spot by the fire, crossing her legs in front of her to find comfort. Taking another deep breath, she leans forward and speaks.
“I am the daughter of a creature unknown to this land, who once walked among the living with the face of a mortal man. In my time, some called him the bastard son of Beowulf, half brother to Grendel. Others called him an old god of a religion that existed long ago. To you all now, he would be a demon.” Her face softens, as if fond memories of her father, or the creature fill her mind. “He was charming. To a fault.” She adds.
“Before I…or my siblings came to this realm, my father had fallen in love with a Francian Saxon Bishop. He had first seen the bishop in this very forest at midnight, when the bishop helped pagans escape execution by burning. So then, the bishop and the demon fell in love, and when you are marked by a demon and you willingly let him in, he is with you for eternity. And a demon uses your body to recreate himself, and his descendants. So we were born from the blood of a holy man and a damned creature. We came from a wound beneath the bishop’s rib, caused by the demon's claw; one that would not heal. We were the blood that poured from that gash, from his body, and we were formed from him and the demon’s union. I love them both, my fathers, and they have gone to other realms away from this one. They left us all behind to live our own lives.” She moves a strand of red hair from her face, and continues.
Edith remains silent, though she cannot help but conjure images in her mind to accompany Anne’s story. In her past, the mere thought of a demon seducing a bishop would nauseate her, but in this moment, there is a tenderness in her heart when she thinks of such a forbidden love. It intrigues her to imagine a demon forgoing his very nature to open his heart to a man of God, and she wonders just what the bishop thought when he freely gave himself to a demon. Edith is a stranger to love, and the concept does not exist to her in the way it does others. After all, she was sold to a man who did not love her, and nearly put to death because of his mistress. But she wonders if there is a forbidden love for her in the future. A love so rare and so sacred at the same time, defying odds and the established laws of this land. She pictures the bishop very much like herself, seeing a demon for the first time. Did the demon kiss him in the dark wood, the same way Anne kissed her in the lake? Did the bishop’s heart flutter wildly when he looked into the demon’s eyes, and he knew his world was forever changed?
“So we went out into the world.” Anne’s voice settles into Edith’s thoughts, and quickly hiding her blush, she listens on. “Some of us chose to live as mortals, forgoing the demonic immortal blood in our veins. My siblings in those days passed, and we buried them. Even for those of us who chose immortality for ourselves, it was not easy to see our mortal brothers and sisters age. Some died Christians, others Pagans. I think about them sometimes”
“And you didn’t choose mortality.” Edith states, as she finally chimes in. This whole story pulls at her perception of belief, God and faith. “Why?”
“There was still much for me to do and learn. I have lived many lives since the druids roamed the forests, and the Saxon kings erected their fortresses, and finally to this moment, here with you. Now all of that is a myth…a legend. I was a priestess once, among heathens and other pagans. I brought the dead back to life, I gave bloom to many harvests beneath the moon, but I watched as the world changed. I watched as my mortal father’s religion engulfed this land, and sucked it dry. We didn’t worship the trees anymore, the heathens did not give offerings to Freyja, but rather to Christ. I saw the women around me through the generations become compliant to the laws of that religion, and it destroyed them. They became objects to their husband’s desires. Those women who refused to bow were persecuted. So I became an abbess; I opened my doors and my home to those women fleeing in the night. They disappeared beneath the veil or left the country to start anew. So now, in this age, as Henry VII rules these lands I do what I can to protect women like you.”
“So I…I am not the only one?” Asks Edith.
“No, you aren’t. Just the one, most recent. I was shocked when I heard there was to be a burning, but the Bishop told me first so I was quick to take up your case–”
“Does he know about you? Does anyone else–?”
“Bishop Callum knows, and that is simply because he is…” She pauses for a moment, a smile on her lips. “Edmond is his first name, and he is my younger brother. He has always helped me in this matter, and has always found himself in the clergy.”
Edith’s eyes widen. “He looks so old compared to you!”
“Edmond was among those of us who chose the path of mortality, but it hurt me. He and I were very close. It was hard to just…let him go. Edmond was killed when he was around fifty and I found him before God took his soul. I resurrected him, and gave him immortality. He wasn’t happy at first, but he has learned to deal with it. He can change his age, you know, to look younger. He does sometimes when he starts over.” Anne sighs. “When he hears of charges of witchcraft or heresy in his dioceses, he seeks me out, and we plan. The witches are drowned, and I bring them back to life. The heretics are burned, and he resurrects them from the ashes–”
“How does one bring someone back after they are burned?” Asks Edith, intrigued. She glances at the roaring fire between them.
“It was a trick I could never quite master; but as long as he has a bone, a piece of hair, or a tooth…he can recreate them. It’s artistry almost. Our father, the creature, would be proud of him.” Anne extends her hand toward the fire, holding it near the flames. Then, she pushes her fingers forward.
“Careful–” Edith pauses, thinking it makes little sense to warn a demon of fire. “You can touch it, can’t you.”
“Yes.” Her hand rests upon the flames, her skin un burnt. “I always wonder how it felt, to be burned. My mortal father says if I were not baptized, I would be burned by holy water.”
Edith chuckles. “How does that work, a demon being baptized?”
“You would have to ask him.” She says. “Wherever he is. I’ve not seen him in years. I’ve not seen any of my fathers.” A hint of sadness rolls off her tongue, but she shakes her head, and looks back into the fire. “You aren’t afraid, are you?”
“No.” Edith says, calmly. “You are…my savior. You have shown more of God’s mercy to me, than those people who wanted me dead.” She frowns, moving some hair from her face. “What will I do now?”
“You can come to my monastery. The sisters there will take you with open arms. Or, you can leave England. You can start over elsewhere. I will put a glamor upon you, and your face will be unrecognizable to all but those you choose to reveal yourself to. It is up to you.”
For the first time since they’ve spoken, the air falls silent between them. Edith, wrapped in her warm fabrics and cloak, gently falls to her side. The ground crunches beneath her. Eyes closed, she listens to the sounds of the dark wood, nearly drifting to sleep as she does so. In her childhood, she’d heard stories of the creatures who hid behind the trees and beneath the surface of the Earth. They were faeries, they were pixies, sprites and little creatures of the sorts. But there were demons too, the ones who would steal your soul in the middle of the night. Yet, in all her days, she never thought to meet a demon so kind. She opens her eyes and her gaze rests upon Anne who still sits nude, careless and free. Anne looks to the sky now, as if she is listening to the stars. It wouldn’t surprise Edith if Anne understood the stars and moon, if they all had their own celestial language that mere mortals could not comprehend.
Though silent, the forest is very much alive. The birds coo in their nests, the rivers roar from miles away; Edith swears she hears a tree snap.
“You have a long night ahead of you.” Anne says , softly. “A long life. You should rest. We will go in the morning.”