by Hana Cole
‘There are few who have your courage.’
Gui took the weight of her hair in his hand. He pressed his mouth onto hers, and felt her body exhale beneath his touch. It had been four weeks since their last union. Without breaking their embrace, they sat on a tree stump, hands searching each other’s clothing for access to the warm skin beneath. Gui brought Agnes down to kneel on the cushion of moss beneath and gathered up the skirts of her dress. She placed her hand over his and drew it up to the flesh of her buttocks. Guiding him down to the ground, she sat astride him.
‘I’ve missed your touch,’ he said.
Her hips rocked against his as above their heads, wisps of cloud raced by on the morning breeze and the sun flickered through the canopy of leaves.
‘And I yours,’ she replied.
*
Inside the vestry lanterns smoked and guttered in the draught. Gui pitched forward onto the edge of his writing bench and flipped the letter over, examining it. The seal was a simple lamb of God, the address written by a novice scribe, suspiciously anonymous. He felt uneasy, as though someone were standing behind him. Under the protest of Reason, he looked over his shoulder. A shadow moved across the apse; the branches of the apple sapling in the churchyard. He refused to allow himself to go over and check if that was all.
He filleted a letter opener under the hard, cherry wax and the parchment fell open. It was like seeing a ghost. The hand he knew by heart. Shakier than once it had been but unmistakeable nonetheless; a tight, rounded cursive learned in the Paris schools fifty years before and long since fallen out of fashion.
His eyes fell down the page, soaking up the content. A hollow sensation seared his chest. It felt as though someone had scooped out his heart. He stared up at the wall before him. High above the doorway, a wooden angel offered up a chalice. The wisdom of the covenant - an unbreakable bond. He scanned the letter once more. The words swirled around inside his head, making his ears ring. He was dimly aware that he should be feeling something else, sorrow, pain, maybe even fear. But all he felt was confusion.
Hidden under his maniple and a hundred other scrolls, there was a locked chest. He swiped the clutter off the top and heaved it opened. Inside were scores of letters in that same hand. He pulled one from the bottom. It dated back to his arrival in Montoire.
Dear Gui, I am so very glad that you are settled and have remembered that those most in need of succour may not be those who appear so…
In the familiar, paternal tone was the casual generosity of a great teacher. An understanding he had found nowhere else. He picked up another letter, and another. Before long, he was thrown back to those dark days when he had been thrashing about in the sea of doubt, the weight of his own judgment pushing him further under with every passing day. A decade gone and he could still relive it, palms slick, shoulders drawn up high against some invisible assailant. His childhood barely over, Gui had stumbled into an abyss beyond the threshold of everything life had taught him to expect. Without this man’s compassion and insight, he knew he might never have found his way out. The memory brought the realisation he was in shock. My heart is breaking, he thought, I just can’t feel it yet.
That evening Gui made his way home, his shadow wandering out before him under the lantern light. His cottage lay on the outskirts of the village, and a handful of day labourers were bivouacked under the oaks that lined the road, heating whatever roots they had found for their pot. Reaching for his pouch to give them alms, he found he still had his fingers curled around the letter. For a moment he was drawn by the urge to pull it out, as though there might be some chance he had misread it before. That he wouldn’t have to find the words to tell Agnes.
He arrived home to find her hovering at the threshold of the cottage, skimming a broom back and forth across the same spot. She snapped up her head as soon as he closed the gate, lips pressed together.
‘That was a long day,’ he said and tried for a smile.
‘The coughing sickness?’
Gui nodded. ‘Four burials this afternoon. It’s cold tonight, let’s go in.’
Agnes gestured inside with her broom with a stiffness that prevented him from moving ahead of her.
‘I thought you weren’t going to hear Vespers tonight,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t. I got held up with some paperwork, then the sacristan arrived and we haven’t held it since Wednesday, so…’
‘You thought you’d hold Vespers for the empty pews.’
‘Agnes, please.’
Her eyelashes flickered downwards. ‘I was worried, that’s all. You said you’d be back before dark.’
‘I know. I’m sorry…It’s just,’ Gui pulled his hands down his face.
‘What? What is it?’
There was an urgency to her voice that made his stomach lurch. His hand fell to his cloak. ‘Abbot Roger has written to me.’
Agnes cocked her head. ‘Roger of Chartres?’
Gui inhaled. ‘He is dying.’
She drew breath as if to speak, but instead enveloped him with the warmth of her body. He buried his head into her hair and inhaled the soft, woody smell of cedar that she burned to keep the air clean.
‘Oh Gui, I am so very sorry.’
Gui rubbed at his collarbone and smiled, grateful that she did not need him to speak. Once tutor to the royal court, and of the noblest lineage himself, Abbot Roger was Gui’s mentor and confessor. The only living soul who knew the truth of it all, of his childhood, of Agnes, and of their boy. Although nothing but suspicion had ever been found against him, it was at Roger’s venerable intervention that Gui had been granted his parish along with the benefit of the doubt, rather than expulsion from the Church and the penalty of losing his livelihood.
Agnes drew back, studying his face. In the lantern light he could see his own pupils reflected in her eyes, solemn and black.
‘Gui, let there be no doubt. You must go to him.’
‘It would take me two weeks, maybe more if I can’t get loan of a good horse. I will not leave you for that long.’
‘You think I cannot defend myself against those jealous old harridans?’ She gave the wry smile of the battle hardened.
‘I don’t doubt it,’Gui laughed. ‘It is not you, Agnes. It’s something I cannot place. Something is happening. The language in these new proclamations from Rome unnerves me…’
‘You say that every time the diocese sends you another sermon against heretics.’
He took her hand. ‘I know. And every time they get more...’ He wanted to say violent, but the word caught in his throat.
In the diffuse glow of flame, Agnes regarded him fiercely.
‘You cannot let Roger pass away without paying our respects. They would have hunted me down like a dog if he hadn’t told the inquisition I was drowned. It is on his account that we have this life at all.’
And your life is the most precious thing I will ever have, he thought. Her face softened, sensing his heart, ‘I know the love you have for him, Gui. Go. I know you must want to.’
‘I would be at his deathbed before my own father’s.’
At once, from the hedgerow beyond, came the crunch of stones on the track. Instantly they dropped each other hands. Agnes’s eyes roved in the direction of the sound.
‘Etienne?’ Gui said.
‘He’s not back.’
Gui shrugged. Still as statues, they listened. Nothing more.
‘Just an animal,’ he said. Agnes raised her brow – how foolish we are. Moments later a fox screamed and they both laughed with relief.
Reaching the door, Gui hesitated, wanting to express his gratitude, but the unspoken warmth between them served better than any words he might find. He brought her hand to his lips.
‘Very well,’ he relented. Opening the door for her, he glanced into the darkness, a final sweep before he shut out the world for the night.
Inside the blast from the fire was a welcome contrast to the damp evening. The smell of Agnes’ pine oil mingled
with the lingering aroma of the soup pot. An earthen floor, swept speckless, was covered with two braided rugs. To one side, a writing bench brimmed with parchments. Half concealed by an alcove, it led to Gui’s room, the corner of his pallet just visible through the door. On the other side of a wide, brick hearth, was the oak trestle he had hewn himself, two terracotta bowls set in place upon it.
‘Where is Etienne?’ he asked.
‘Lambing.’
‘Of course.’ Gui staged an earnest smile but it felt starched and formal. ‘He has already spent two evenings at the lambing pens this week. I thought they took it in turns.’
Agnes shrugged and started fussing in the kitchen, fetching bread, wiping off the spoons. It was not a conversation either of them wanted to have again. Gui padded around the living area, seeking a comfortable silence, and found himself prodding aimlessly at the fire. Lost in the hypnosis of the flame, he didn’t hear her approach and his shoulders tensed as she rubbed them.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He took the letter out from his cloak, and laid it down on the stool by the fire.
‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘I know the others make him do their share of the hard work, and I know it’s not fair. But it’s not your fault either.’
Gui gave a stiff nod.
‘Telling him the truth won’t make a difference,’ she said.
‘You can’t know that.’ Gui’s voice pitched. ‘He’ll know.’ He tapped his hand to his chest. ‘In here.’
‘How do you know what he’d do if he found out we have kept the truth from him all these years? All we would be doing is burdening him with our lie.’ Agnes looked down. ‘And we both know how difficult a lie it is to keep.’ Her eyes were blazing into his soul and he knew they were asking him what would become of their son if a slip of the lie sent them both to the pyre.
Gui’s eyes flickered as guilt sank, leaden, in his belly. He was bursting with protestations and counter-arguments, but despite the pull on his heart, he knew that to tell Etienne would be to wilfully betray his promise to Agnes, to unloose her worst fears and watch those beautiful, limpid eyes crack and overflow. Worse of all, he was afraid she might be right.
She pressed her hand onto his chest. ‘You are a good man, Gui of Courville,’ she said and rising to her tiptoes, kissed him softly on the cheek.
Chapter Two
The wind is battering the barn like a giant shaking a child’s toy. On his hands and knees, Etienne sniffs at the floor of the lambing pen. It needs more lime. He shovels another layer down, then jabs at the brazier with his spade to kindle it against the spring gale that pokes its fingers through the gaps and weaves its chill through the beams.
From his round the previous evening he reckons on about four or five dropping today. It’s hard to tell for sure though. Sheep are tricky, especially the saggy older ones. Outside the other boys roam around the pastures, heads lowered into their cloaks, looking for any stragglers, the ones who like to hide themselves away in the farthest corners as their time comes on. He is glad to be inside for now.
Above the racket of the wind, the bleating draws closer. There is something so desolate about it, such a sad little cry. It reminds him of being alone. He braces himself against the weather and opens the barn door. It hasn’t started to rain but the air feels damp. Four sheep trot in under Marc’s crook, steam rising from their coats. Etienne takes a flick to his backside as he turns round. Sometimes, when he is fast enough, he is able to grab the crook off Marc and smack him back, but the day started early and he isn’t in the mood, so he throws a resigned glower. Marc pats him on the shoulder and says he’ll be back shortly.
The sheep are bunched over in the far corner of the barn. Now it is a waiting game. He is supposed to have another shepherd with him for lambing but he has done it so many times now and he knows Marc won’t be back until noon. Etienne puts a pan of water on to heat and sinks down into the sheep’s bedding, listening to the gale, wondering if there are secret messages hidden in those moans and screeches. When sheep bleat, or birds shrill, most often they are sending messages to each other, warning each other of dangers. Priests say the weather is one of the ways God sends messages to man and he wonders if that is always so, or if bad weather can happen by itself for no reason.
From the corner of the barn, one of the ewes lets out a cry as her labour begins. He kneels down beside to check all is well, then, whispering a reassurance to her, withdraws back to the fire. Usually they are better off if you just leave them to get on with it. In a few hours, there will be a lamb and god willing it won’t take any pulling on his part.
Marc returns after the first lamb is on its feet. He slumps down by the brazier, cursing the weather with such vigour that it half makes Etienne feel it is his fault.
‘Where have you been?’ Etienne asks.
Marc ignores the question, and starts gnawing at a hunk of bread. Etienne opens his mouth but thinks better of it. One of the sharpest shepherd boys, Marc’s ravenous eyes are always darting around, hunting. Etienne has often thought that Marc would get on better if he didn’t have to act angry all the time.
One of the sheep starts stamping and bleating. Marc’s head swivels over to the pen. ‘It’s stuck,’ he says. ‘Must have its legs twisted about.’
Etienne rolls up the sleeves of his tunic while Marc stokes at the fire for want of something else to do. The first time Etienne birthed a stuck lamb it was strangled inside the mother and he pulled out the tiny body, slimy and cold. The ewe licked and licked at the stringy carcass and he hadn’t had the heart to take it away for burning, so he had stayed there with it, helpless witness to her distress, desperate for one of the shepherds to get back and take it away for him. But no one came. In the end the ewe sat down with the lamb’s body nestled into her, trying to warm it up.
The ewe is bleating piteously. Etienne sighs. He has heard the cry often enough, the cry that says her baby is dying. ‘Please not another one,’ Etienne whispers as he roots around inside the mother, feeling for her baby’s legs.
‘One of the legs is back,’ he yells at Marc, pulling his shirt off. Marc tosses him a lambing rope with a shrug.
He manages to loop both legs, pushing back the lamb’s head. The ewe’s cries pierce through him as he gropes frantically, trying to pull the legs forward. Several minutes of tugging and the lamb slithers free. Its mother’s head slumps to the ground. She is slick with sweat, exhausted. Etienne can hardly bear to look. He lowers his ear to the little body. It is still warm.
‘Please God.’ He holds his breath.
A few moments later the bundle stirs and he hears the weak little cry that tells him his prayer is answered. Still kneeling, he collapses forward and lays his head between his arms.
On the way home they come across Marc’s older cousin huddled with a couple of others in the village square. It’s nearly dusk now and there is a tear of ochre bleeding into the purple sky. Etienne knows his mother will be ready to serve up dinner but he wants to linger a while. In the winter, when the night comes early and leaves late, there is nothing much to do but sit indoors by the fire and listen to his mother complain the way that women do, about the mud, the cold, or other women. By the time that Lent comes around he is tired of early nights and waiting for time to pass, so he joins the group.
‘Guess what we’ve got!’
Marc has snatched a small square parcel from his cousin and is waving it around. Etienne looks at Marc enquiringly, not wanting to put his hand out only for Marc to snatch the mysterious package away.
‘Swear not to tell anyone?’ Marc beckons Etienne closer. His cousin and the others are whispering and Etienne feels the quiet little voice in his gut tell him they are about to play a trick on him. But curiosity defeats the voice and he leans in. ‘I swear.’
Marc prizes open the box. Inside there is a scroll of parchment. He picks it up between his thumb and index finger and shakes it gently, relishing the suspense. Etienne peers at the parchment. On it a woman lays pr
ostrate with her breasts exposed whilst a man penetrates her with a long-handled device.
‘Antoine found some books at the lord of Magny’s manor when they were working up there. There were other books on the tortures of St Agatha and Catherine. The Fall, too, with demons fucking. Loads of other stuff,’ Marc brags to the open-mouthed Etienne.
‘Do you think people really do that?’ Etienne asks.
Marc nods sagely. ‘They do it in Paris. My oldest brother went once. He’s going to take me next time.’
‘No he’s not, you liar.’ Someone chimes in but Etienne can’t tell who as everyone has their heads turned towards a shrill voice coming from the other side of the square.
‘Here.’ Something is thrust into Etienne’s hand. The boys leap to distance themselves from him as the voice approaches. He looks down to see he has the parchment in his hand, and by the time he realises what is about to happen it is too late.
‘What’s all this?’ yells Marc’s mother. ‘Give me that.’ She grabs the end of the scroll. Etienne hesitates, tussles for a moment, then against his better judgement, he unclamps his fingers. Behind his mother’s back, Marc is shaking his head and mouthing something that Etienne can’t understand. Marc’s mother readies herself for a tirade as she unrolls the parchment, but its contents stop the words from coming, and she stands there, mouth wide open, ‘I..well…I…’ The noises coming from her throat make it sounds like she is drowning. Her eyes are on stalks, her jowls wobbling like an old running-hound and Etienne has to cough to suppress his laughter.
Antoine glowers at Marc from his great height and Marc starts blabbing. ‘It was Etienne, mother. He made us look at them, mother. I tried to tell him it was wrong. I did, mother. I did.’
Etienne stares helplessly at Marc. He wants to protest his innocence but he knows it won’t make any difference, so he stays silent.
‘You filthy little bastard.’ Marc’s mother grabs Etienne by the ear. ‘I’d beat you myself if I didn’t know that you’d be crying for that priest to come scuttling out and save you.’