The Harrowing of Gwynedd

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Excellent. I am delighted that we understand one another. Now.” Hubert took in a deep breath and sighed. “There is the matter of penitence. I am satisfied that you understand your error and that you are contrite. Accordingly, I forgive you—with the understanding that you will not allow this to happen again. We shall speak later of the implications of what you have done. Abbot Secorim will be dining with me this evening, and I expect you to join us. In the meantime, however, there is the matter of a suitable punishment for your behavior. Do you have any suggestions?”

  Javan shook his head.

  “Very well, then. First of all, because you have confessed your fault readily, without trying to deny your guilt, I shall do you the courtesy of treating you as a man instead of a wayward boy. Accordingly, I shall not turn you over my knee and thrash you.”

  Javan allowed himself the faintest sigh of relief at that reprieve.

  “However,” the archbishop went on, “since your offense was against my authority as archbishop, when you owed me obedience as a retreatant under my roof, I suggest that the penalty be assigned as if you were a lay brother living under the rule of this House. If one of my monks had committed this offense, the penalty would be twenty lashes, administered by two of his brethren.” Javan started as the thongs of the “little discipline” were flicked lightly over his shoulder. “It can draw blood, but you will not be scarred. Do you accept this punishment?”

  Javan swallowed, but he gave a nod. He had feared far worse.

  “I accept it, your Grace,” he murmured.

  “Then you will signify your acceptance by kissing the ‘discipline,’” Hubert said, shoving the handle of the whip under Javan’s nose. “The appropriate verbal response is, ‘Deo gratias.’”

  “Deo gratias,” Javan murmured obediently, ducking his head to comply, trying not to notice the smooth gleam of the knots in the leather thongs.

  “So be it. And may God sustain you in your repentance and aid you to bear manfully the penalty you have invoked by your transgression,” Hubert murmured, withdrawing the whip and using it to trace a cross over Javan’s head. “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”

  “Amen,” Javan whispered, before Hubert had to prompt him.

  “Very good. I’ll leave you for a while, then, to prepare yourself,” Hubert said. “When the brothers come in, you will stand. They will ask your forgiveness, which you will give. You will then strip to the waist and kneel, upright and with your arms outstretched in imitation of Our Saviour, on Whose example of suffering you will meditate while the penance is carried out. The brothers chastising you have many years experience disciplining young monks and will attempt to gauge their strokes by what they believe you should be able to endure without crying out. If you do cry out, an extra lash will be added for each occurrence. Please try to ensure that this will not be necessary.”

  He was gone before Javan could try to assure him that such would be uppermost in his mind. The soft snick of the door closing made his empty stomach churn, and he wondered how long he had before the monks came in. As he eased off his knees to stand, he gasped with the sharp pain of circulation suddenly returning. Steadying himself against the kneeler’s armrest to spare his lame foot, he bent to massage first one knee and then the other as he flexed them in turn. Hubert had said that the “discipline” would not scar him, but what about his knees? The pain was fierce as circulation returned—and went completely numb as someone knocked softly at the door and then the latch lifted.

  Chilled, Javan stood straighter and watched as the two Custodes monks entered, the taller one carrying a bucket with two short handles protruding from it. Their hoods were up, and the torchlight behind them, so he could not see their faces, but he sensed they were not the same ones who had brought him here. A sharp whiff of vinegar twitched at his nostrils as the one put down the bucket and both of them knelt.

  “Pray, forgive us, your Highness, for what we must do for the good of your soul,” the shorter one murmured.

  Javan nodded, his voice catching a little in his throat. “I—forgive you right readily,” he managed to whisper.

  He could not quite seem to manage the fastening at the neck of his robe, however, and had to let the taller man help him. Opened, the upper part of the garment fell in loose folds around his waist, girt in by the plain rope cincture tied around his waist, leaving his upper body exposed.

  “Lift the edge of your robe a little before you kneel, your Highness,” the man murmured, guiding him to face the prie-dieu and the fresco beyond. “The sharper discomfort in your knees will help keep your mind off your back.”

  Surprised, Javan did as he was bidden, wincing a little as he lowered himself onto the carved wood—though at least it was a familiar pain. The pungent tang of vinegar was much stronger as he heard the men taking their whips out of the bucket, and it made the bile rise up in his throat.

  “Brace yourself against the armrest before you raise your arms,” the monk advised again, now behind him, “and bite on this.” A hand thrust something brown and flat in front of his mouth—a thick piece of leather, he realized, as he bit down.

  “Now let us all recite a silent Pater Noster,” the other monk said quietly. “And afterward, let each stroke of the little discipline drive your error from you, that you may be sanctified in the mercy of the Lord our God.”

  Javan prayed the prayer as he had never prayed it before, arms outstretched and head held steady, focusing on the lettering painted above the suffering Christ’s head—INRI, picked out in a ruddy gold that glowed in the torchlight. He must have prayed it faster than the monks, for it seemed forever before the first stroke snapped across his back, more startling and wet than painful. The second was no worse, but the third stung like nettles, and the fourth began to burn. After a few more, he became increasingly thankful he had the piece of leather to bite on. By the time they reached the halfway point, he only hoped he could hang on.

  For the second ten, he could only endure, impaled on his own will not to cry out, his arms trembling as if he hung on a cross in truth, like the man on the Tree before him, though he uttered not a sound. He lost count before they finished, and was only aware that it was over when he heard them putting the whips back into the bucket.

  “Well stood, lad,” the short monk murmured beside his left ear. “You can put your arms down now—though I’d advise you to keep a good bite on that bit of leather.”

  His arms were trembling so badly, he could not think what the man meant; but when he had been guided to rest his hands on the armrest in front of him, he found out. He gasped as the other monk sponged cold vinegar over his back, the acidic liquid burning in each weal. He wondered whether he was bleeding, though he could not tell with the vinegar running down his back.

  The pain abated a little from the treatment, though, and he was able to stop his trembling as the short monk helped him draw his robe back over his shoulders and stand.

  “You’re a credit to your house, my prince,” the monk said quietly. “I’ve known grown men to cry out from less than we gave you.”

  Javan winced as he straightened his knees, still leaning hard on the prie-dieu, not looking at the man. “I’m surprised you didn’t keep on until I did cry out. Wasn’t that the whole purpose?”

  “Only to a certain point,” the man said frankly. “The true purpose was to test your self-control, to bring you right to the brink, but not break you. The penalty should be sharp enough to hurt a great deal, to the very edge of what one can bear, to impress the seriousness of one’s error, but not enough to humiliate or do permanent harm. You’ll remember this lesson, I think—and the fact that you tested yourself beyond what you thought your limits were. That builds character rather than tearing it down.”

  “We’ll take you to your squire now, your Highness,” the taller man said. “He’ll help you bathe and dress. His Grace is expecting you in less than an hour.”

  Several hours later, long after the final course
had been cleared away by silent, obliging monks, Javan remained a reluctant guest at Hubert’s table. He could not have said, afterward, what he had eaten, but it lay in his stomach like lead—a condition not helped by the fact that the room was far too warm. Furthermore, Hubert had seated him closest to the fire—normally an act of solicitude to an honored guest, but one which tonight only made Javan more aware of the state of his back. According to Charlan, some of the weals crisscrossing the royal back probably would show bruising by morning, but the squire assured him that there was no blood. Indeed, he had commended the skill of the monks who carried out the punishment.

  “You’re lucky those monks knew exactly what they were doing, your Highness,” Charlan allowed, as he gently bathed the weals, dried them, and then applied a soothing ointment. “I don’t suppose you have much experience with such things—princes don’t get thrashed the way squires do—but this really doesn’t look too bad. If you wouldn’t mind a little friendly advice from someone who’s survived a few thrashings, I’d suggest that you wear soft shirts, sleep on your stomach for the next few nights, and choose stools to sit on rather than chairs.”

  The first had already been laid out with the starkly plain black tunic and hose they had decided was politic for the evening; the second was a necessity to be tested later that night; and the third turned out not to be a choice that must be made. Hubert had provided a stool at the place designated at table, but otherwise made no allusion to what had happened earlier in the evening. Javan could not tell whether Secorim knew or not, though the abbot surely must have received reports, both from his men present at the riverside and from the two who had carried out the punishment. While they supped, neither abbot nor archbishop spoke of any but the most inconsequential of subjects, and Javan spoke hardly at all.

  After supper, however, as Hubert poured strong red wine for all three of them, Javan knew that further avoidance of the afternoon’s events was going to be impossible—and it was becoming equally impossible to ignore his back. Soft as his old shirt was, next to his skin, he could feel the linen sticking to his flesh—from sweat, he was sure, but he kept imagining it was blood. Seeing the bloodred wine in the cup Hubert set before him did not improve his state of mind.

  “So,” Hubert said, sitting back with his elbows on the arms of his chair, a fine silver goblet cupped between his two hands. “Why don’t you tell Father Secorim what you know of this Master Revan, and why you feel that the new baptism he preaches does not present a threat to Mother Church.”

  Javan cupped his hands around his own goblet, considering very carefully before he spoke. He had barely tasted his wine, for fear of loosening his tongue too much—he knew it was strong. Still, the temptation was great to drain it and ask for more—anything to numb the burning ache of his back.

  “It’s—difficult to know where to begin, Father Secorim,” he said after a slight pause. “I like to think I’ve studied a great deal, but I’m not a theologian. Nonetheless, I have always been taught that our God is a loving and merciful God, Who cannot bear to see His children suffer.”

  “He is also a just God, your Highness,” Secorim replied, “and He will not suffer the wicked to go unpunished.”

  Javan let himself give a nod, thinking quickly. “Of course not. But I was always taught that when a sinner repents—when he turns away from his sins and resolves to amend his life and return to the community of God’s people—God forgives. The Shepherd rejoices at finding His lost sheep and returning it to the fold. The Father welcomes His prodigal son and takes him back into His embrace. Nowhere in the sacred writings can I find a passage that says the Shepherd slaughters His returned sheep, or that the Father slays His son.”

  “Ah, but the Scriptures give us numerous examples of the wicked being brought to the fire at the Day of Judgment,” Secorim said. “Surely you do not intend so weak an argument in defense of the Deryni.”

  Javan sighed, doing his best to show distaste at the very notion. “I am not defending Deryni, Father. But perhaps there’s another way to bring in these lost sheep besides slaughtering them. If they can be made to turn from their former lives—if, indeed, they no longer have the ability to return to their former lives—is this not better than the slaughter? I don’t know if I can bear to see another helpless man butchered—or, worse, women and children put to death, simply because of what they are.”

  “And you believe that this Master Revan offers an alternative, even though he preaches a sacrament contrary to the teachings of Holy Mother Church?”

  “I don’t think he means it as a sacrament, Father,” Javan said, thinking fast, “and certainly not a substitute for sacramental baptism. It’s a—a purification, a specific purification for a specific purpose.”

  “Ah, so he purports to purify those who come to him,” Secorim said, nodding shrewdly. “And by what authority does he claim to do this? Not by the authority of the Church, I hasten to point out.”

  Javan glanced at the cup between his hands, all too aware of the trap Secorim was laying. “Father, he doesn’t just claim to do it,” he said, glossing over the dangerous question of authority. “If what he does were only a token act, with no effect on the recipient, one might charge him with blasphemy, for presuming to offer a grace whose efficacy cannot be proven.

  “However, he does purify Deryni. He washes away their past and gives them a new beginning, free of their accursed powers. That’s provable, Father—and far more objectively than most of the ‘official’ sacraments.”

  Secorim looked shocked, but Hubert only signalled with his hand for the abbot not to interfere.

  “I see I shall have to instruct you further on the nature of true sacraments,” the archbishop murmured, “but, go on. Tell Father Secorim of your ‘proof.’”

  Javan chanced a quick glance at Hubert before returning his attention to Secorim, trying to decide just how upset Hubert actually was about the sacramental question. Well, he could sort that out later. He had already denied any claim to be a theologian.

  “Very well, your Grace,” he murmured, settling on another approach with Secorim. “Father, today your monks tested two known Deryni with merasha. Neither showed any effect beyond the drowsiness I’m told usually affects humans. Unless you no longer consider merasha a reliable method for detecting Deryni—a thought which I, personally, find quite appalling—we must concede that a change has occurred—the very change for which all of us, I believe, have been praying: that God will strip the Deryni of their powers and turn them back to His paths.”

  “I do not pray for a conversion of the Deryni,” Secorim muttered through clenched teeth. “I pray for their destruction!”

  “And I pray for deliverance from their influence!” Javan retorted, knowing he must defuse that line of hatred immediately, or all was lost. “I pray for deliverance, and today my prayer was answered.”

  Secorim snorted derisively. “How, answered?”

  Trembling with the strain, his back afire with the pain of his scourging, Javan made himself push his cup away and clasp his hands on the table before him.

  “Father, I am not greatly learned in theology, but I know what I saw and experienced, and what my conscience tells me,” he said softly. “I don’t know the source of Master Revan’s authority to preach what he does, but I can tell you that something happened out there today. I went down there wanting to believe him, but prepared to resist him with all my might, if his words seemed false.

  “But they weren’t false,” he went on, looking Secorim in the eyes and daring to extend his fledgling powers just a little. “If I’d hoped this might be a way to stop the wanton killing when I went down there, I knew it was right when I spoke to him face to face.

  “Father, my family has been touched by the Deryni more than anyone else. But when I went down to Master Revan, and he led me into the water, I could feel the taint melting away. When he immersed me, it was like—like being wrapped in sunlight that swirled all around me, into every part of me, and wash
ed away all the years of pollution.” He cocked his head at Secorim. “They can’t harm me anymore, Father. For the first time in my life, I’m free of them. But I don’t wish them any harm. On the contrary, if Master Revan can save them from themselves—why, what a blessing! Isn’t that what the Church wants? To bring her lost sheep back to the fold?”

  Secorim snorted, breaking the faint spell Javan had been weaving by taking a large gulp of wine. “Hubert, I’m amazed,” he muttered, after he had swallowed. “You really want to make a priest out of this?”

  As Javan bristled, only barely holding his anger in check at the insult, Hubert cocked a wry smile and put his own goblet down. “Peace, Secorim. Prince Javan is young and sometimes does not realize the full implications of what he says. In one respect, however, I am inclined to agree. Putting the purely theological arguments aside for a moment, let us talk about expediency. If, as we have always maintained, the Deryni are evil and must be destroyed, then a means must be found to accomplish this. We have stopped short of wholesale slaughter, at least in part, because of the public outcry it causes, when women and children are killed along with their menfolk.

  “But if the destruction of the Deryni can be brought about in a manner not offensive to those who abhor physical slaughter, by the Deryni themselves—then, is not the same end accomplished? As Prince Javan himself pointed out, before taking matters into his own hands at the Willimite camp, God desires the return of all His sheep to their proper folds. Perhaps later, some of the folds will be found to be slaughter-pens—but that is for the future.”

  Secorim chuckled unpleasantly at that, lifting his cup to Hubert in enlightened assent, and Javan felt his stomach churn, though he kept his eyes carefully averted and his hands clasped between his knees. His Deryni allies had considered the danger that Hubert outlined. Javan had hoped it would not occur to Hubert—at least not so soon. For the cold facts were that anyone known to have been Deryni before would be as helpless as any mere human, if taken after being blocked—more helpless, if the Church decided that only fire, and not water, could totally expiate a Deryni’s guilt.