The Tirnano - Book 1 'FINN'

by Peter Emmerson

  There was nothing holy about his mouth either. It would have been better suited had it been attached to the face of an angry cattle herder. He spoke foul words constantly, he rejoiced in calling me, in French; ‘a little devil spawned bastard,’ even though at the time I knew not what he was saying, it sounded bad. I never had the temerity to ask him what it meant. By the time I discovered its real meaning, it mattered not.

  From the beginning he inflicted pain upon my brother and me, purely for his own pleasure.

  My Father had left Cornelius and me in the care of Pater Johann, whilst he was away chasing brigands and scoundrels from the surrounding lands, which to us seemed almost continuously.

  Father never attempted to make any contact with us during his short and infrequent returns to the castle. He never noticed the changes that had been wrought upon his sons. He never noticed how wasted our bodies were from the enforced fasting, or the scars and cuts appearing on our tender bodies from the beatings and the torture.

  Others might have done, but they were too afraid to speak out. Even Constantine, my father’s youngest man servant, a few years older than I and my closest friend, would not dare to voice his concerns in public. For the fear of excommunication hung over all.

  Perhaps Father should have looked closer to home to find scoundrels, for one lived in luxury under his roof, and daily abused his sons both physically and verbally.

  ―

  I could not understand how I could have committed such a dim-witted error. I was usually so careful. I had conjugated the Latin verb incorrectly. How could I have been such a fool? I had said, laudari, (to be praised,) when I should have said laudare (to praise.)

  For my punishment I was forced to stand naked in a small barrel, filled with ice chunks to my knees, reciting the Apostle’s creed without cessation.

  Any deviation or hesitation was sufficient for me to be rewarded with a swipe of his switch across my naked buttocks.

  In desperation; for I knew he loved to hear my cries, for he exulted in the pain and anguish he observed on my face; for he loved to watch my tears as they streamed down my cheeks, I created das kalt Gesicht. (the cold face) I taught myself how to scream inside, how to cry without tears, how to sob without movement, and how to withstand without showing emotion any torture he felt inclined to heap upon me. I stared at the stone wall before me, forcing my thoughts to enter the stone, to become like the stone, to feel what the stone felt- nothing. Although he increased his efforts to extract reaction, I refused to give him the gratification he sought.

  But I paid for it daily.

  Thus far had I received three stinging cutting blows across the back of my upper thighs. Simply for pausing momentarily during my constant repetitions whilst my teeth chattered uncontrollably. I held back the urge to cry out, it was easier now; I could bind my emotions- keeping my ‘cold face’ fixed.

  I can remember that time so vividly. I was almost collapsing from the cold. I could no longer feel my feet. My legs, my arms and my face were turning blue. In the end, as much as I fought for control, I could support myself no longer. I collapsed, falling forward unconscious; the black curtain that wrapped around me was a welcome relief.

  My brother, for shouting out as he was forced to watch, for he could see the blood flowing down my legs from my already scarred buttocks, for screaming in horror as I fell, received a slashing swipe across his face with the back of Pater Johann’s ring festooned hand. He bore the twisted white scar on his cheek for as long as I could remember.

  Pater Johann had abused us, especially me, against whom he seemed to have a special hate, in this manner almost daily for three years.

  28.

  Helga

  1189AD

  It was four days later on my thirteenth birthday that it happened.

  -

  It was a Saturday morning just after dawn. I had been making my way slowly and painfully, for the backs of my legs were still scabbed, and my knees were bruised. Each step I took was agony. I was heading towards the kitchen looking for something to eat. My head and eyes downcast pretending to pray. My eyes were fixed on my feet as he commanded. I passed the serving maid’s quarters. A movement within caused my eyes to lift.

  Through the slightly open door, I caught my first sight of her.

  She was dressing; the curves of her budding body were like nothing I had ever perceived before. I was mesmerised, for a moment I stood still, drinking in the most pleasurable sight that I had ever beheld. I could not move.

  Realising that my misdemeanour was now plainly visible in front of me, I tore my eyes away and ran further down the passageway towards the kitchen, disregarding the tearing pain from the cuts on my buttocks. I had never experienced such intense feelings; my body was reacting to the delectable view in a manner that was totally alien to me.

  I stopped in a dark doorway.

  I began having improper thoughts; I imagined touching her soft body. I imagined what it would be like to feel her touching mine. My hands took on a life of their own. Breaking through the exquisite thoughts and sensations that I was experiencing, shot the frightening realisation; I was sinning in the eyes of God.

  Absolute fear sprang in my breast for I knew that I would have to confess to this very sin, and, my confessor would be none other than my cruel teacher. I was due before him to partake of the sacrament at the eleventh hour. I ran back to my room, all thoughts of finding something to eat and drink forgotten. I threw myself on my bed; the familiar smell of the musty hay from the old and lumpy mattress gave me some comfort. I buried my face in the rough blanket and tried to force the memory of her from my mind. I kept seeing her body.

  However, I knew that I would have to confess, to be without sin, or I would be unable to partake of the bread and wine in church the following morning. Any deviation from his prescribed routine would bring down upon me even more dire consequences. I toyed with the idea of holding back my confession, but I knew he would find me out.

  “O Pater, ignosce mihi. Nam peccavi. (Forgive me Father, for I have sinned), my last confession was but seven days ago,” I said in Latin.

  “Ja sächlich,” (Yes, tell me) the hated voice almost dripped with pleasure, I could imagine him already conjuring up punishments to heap upon me.

  I reeled off a number of minor misdemeanours- anger; at my brother, sloth; for staying in my bed over long in the morning, envy; wishing that I had the rosy red apple that I had seen a field hand sink his teeth into. And then, without anything left to fill my allotted time, I blurted out as quickly as I could- “And I had improper thoughts.”

  I waited.

  “Hmmm,” he said.

  My heart sank, had he been listening? He didn’t usually.

  “Erklären sie mir, Daniel, diese unsachgemässen gedanken, und was waren sie?” (Tell me, Daniel, these improper thoughts, and what were they?)

  He had.

  I blurted out my initial sin to the priest, answering all of his many probing queries of what I had observed. I held back disclosing anything of my subsequent moments of pleasure.

  I knew that then my life was about to end, he would keep questioning me until finally I would have to tell all. I would be punished mercilessly; nothing was going to be able to save me.

  He would perceive my enjoyment as a mortal sin.

  How many times had I recounted the Ten Commandments, the seventh: ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery,’ in thought, word or deed I had broken.

  Surprisingly he asked me no more questions. The punishment he metered out was ten Hail Mary’s and five repetitions of the Lord’s Prayer to be canted in Latin, far less even than my usual daily count.

  Abruptly the priest left the confessional and disappeared without dispensing absolution.

  I remained on my knees, waiting for his return. To be safe I rattled off just three of the shorter prayers. He made no show, so with no one to confirm my forgiveness; I went to my room feeling strangely light headed and lay on my bed, unable to fully comprehend
what had occurred.

  It was later that day- my grumbling stomach again drove me from my bed. I was once more on my way to the kitchen looking for the possibility of a hasty furtive meal, and perhaps a snatched chat with the kitchen hands, or the young Ritter, Con, my forbidden friend.

  Once again I neared the door wherein those wonderful delights had previously been displayed, it was closed this time and disappointment flickered momentarily in my heart.

  As I passed slowly I heard a sound, something akin to a cry or a whimper. I stopped, and ensuring no one was about, put my ear to the thick wood panelled door.

  I heard him, my hated tutor, but his voice which I knew so well sounded thick and strange.

  “You will tell no person of this, do you understand? If you so much as open your mouth I will deny it. Who then think you is to be believed- a serving wench, or a respected man of the cloth? Then, when you are discredited as a lying whore, I will have you excommunicated and I will ensure your family is included. So together, you will all rot in hell for eternity. Do you understand?” he asked.

  I heard a mumbled response, followed by a stifled scream.

  Taking my life in my hands I opened the door as quietly as I could. Peeking inside, I could see that the priest was forcing a young servant girl to bend face down across a table; he was behind her, about to use her in the same manner I had seen employed by dogs in the street.

  I pulled back quickly, and closing the door quietly ran to the kitchen, where I snatched up a large knife.

  “Follow me!” I shouted to all who looked up at my sudden entrance, and without waiting ran back to the room.

  Pushing open the door I discovered the priest now forcing himself upon the sobbing girl. The burly cook and two others from the kitchen, who had followed me, witnessed the horrific sight.

  As the door had crashed open he spun around in shock. His lower body was fully exposed; his small clothes were in a puddle around his ankles. His brown hassock had been hoisted and he had clasped it under his chin, I watched almost mesmerised as it fell slowly towards his knees. He saw only me and screaming his hatred made to attack, his hands raised, his fingers hooked like claws.

  At that moment, three entire years of pent up hatred erupted in me. Without thinking I plunged the razor sharp kitchen knife deep into his neck. The gush of hot blood that ran across my hand and splashed over my chest, almost made me release my grip on the blade. But I held it tight and twisted, severing his jugular and his windpipe.

  His blood flowed like water, pouring from the jagged wound.

  The girl shrieked as his body fell back across her. He was kicking, screaming and jerking, his hands grasping at his neck attempting to stem the flow.

  I stood transfixed, gulping in great gasps of air; my heart was pounding in my chest.

  I watched as he died. I exulted as he coughed and choked on the thick red blood that spurted from his mouth.

  Any minute speck of respect that once I may have held for him, or his version of God, he had long since beaten out of me.

  The girl struggled, pushing her way free from where she was trapped beneath him. She came sobbing uncontrollably and stood beside me. She was covered in his dark, sticky blood. I put my arm around her, not only to give comfort, but also to take some. The sensation of holding another who had recently experienced pain and anguish helped both of us. It was then I realised I was still holding the knife- I let it fall to the stone floor with a clatter.

  The cook and the two kitchen lads were wide eyed; we stood and watched in silence as the priest’s life ebbed away.

  It was not long before he lay still.

  Without a word, the cook stepped forward and closed the priest’s staring, accusing eyes. I didn’t move. I remember Con came and led me to my room; I didn’t eat that day, or the next.

  It was less than seven days later that I stood in front of my Father on his return, to explain all that had occurred. In the face of the evidence, and the testimony of the other witnesses, he dismissed the charges of murder which the Abbot wanted brought against me. Charges which included the condemning and punishment of the kitchen staff and the girl Helga, as being my accomplices.

  The Abbott was incandescent at my Father’s decision.

  Father turned to him, and in a quiet voice that carried to all corners of the room said, “If you wish for my continued protection, against the many who would love to relieve you of all those trinkets and baubles which you festoon so delicately on your chest and fingers; you will silence your unnecessary protestations, my dear Lord Abbott.”

  My Father exuded a measure of quiet calm as he spoke but I knew he seethed inside. The Abbot fell silent; his eyes though were dark and malevolent as he looked at me.

  It was later; when Father asked of my brother and me when we were alone, of the treatment we had received at the hands of the priest. He broke down in tears as we recounted the many occasions when we had been severely punished for minor misdemeanours.

  It was embarrassing to see my Father display his emotions so openly. It was then I saw him truly as an ordinary man, and not the distant harsh figure of authority that he had been since my mother’s death. Those tears washed away his pent up grief. As the days passed his eyes began to shine with life again, his tread became lighter, his smiles returned.

  My Father assumed control of our daily tutorage, the scriptures were no longer among the instruction we now received.

  Our teaching turned now to horsemanship and martial arts. We learnt much from him, his knights, and his men at arms. Our arms and shoulders grew strong and our eyes became keen. At my request, Constantine was assigned to be my personal Knechte.

  It was not long before our lives changed again, this time even more dramatically- it was but a few months after my fourteenth birthday when it occurred…

  ------------

  The sky began to lighten, a pale dawn chasing away the night. Daniel roused Milo with a short shake on the shoulder. The lad came awake without hesitation, ‘make a good soldier’ Daniel thought. Warm wine, and salt beef with flat bread cakes was sufficient to break their fast. Milo cleared away the camp while Daniel made sure the fire was completely extinguished, emptying his bladder across it to be sure.

  Milo disappeared into the trees, returning a minute or two later adjusting his clothing, -- reviving Daniel’s suspicions of the previous night.

  They were a-horse and on the trail within half an hour of the lad being woken.

  "Kommen Sie fahren neben mir" Daniel said.

  As he was bid, Milo moved up alongside. They rode together along a faint trail for a while; Milo answered questions that Daniel put to him on his childhood in Egypt, where his Scottish father had met his Coptic mother, and what Jacob Witt had been before he joined the Lizard knights as a Knechte.

  The track began to climb, it wasn’t long before it became too steep to ride abreast, Milo fell in behind Daniel. They continued in single file.

  29.

  Archduke Ulrich III of Carinthia

  1190AD

  Once again, Father had been involved in leading the hunt for a group of lawless bandits, who had been marauding through the gentle hills and valleys of our homeland of Livonia.

  Baron Albert von Felden, as a part of his acceptance of the leadership of the town of Riga’s coniuratio league, maintained a force of knights and freedmen to protect the burghers and citizens. Over the course of a few short weeks of sustained reprisals the bandits had all but been annihilated, their leader brought finally before Father in chains.

  Sentencing the bandit chief to death had not followed the prescribed procedure.

  I observed his trial with interest. The man was older than I had expected; older even than Father. His black and grey hair was long and tied back. Strangely, his face was without hair, not shaved, just without hair like a woman’s. His eyes were fierce and penetrating.

  He showed no fear.

  His refusal to answer even the simplest of questions frustrated the trial
.

  The town prosecutors with Father as moderator could elicit no response from him.

  Even so he listened with obvious interest and understanding to all the accusations that were laid at his feet. But he made not a sound. Finally it was determined that the man was a mute, and in the absence of any plea to the contrary he was pronounced guilty of all charges. He was sentenced to death by public beheading. The sentence was to be conducted in the town square as a final reckoning for all his crimes.

  Once the sentence had been agreed and pronounced on the man, he then spoke.