The Heart of Darkness

by Odelia Floris

  Hmmm…the view was not bad here. All that time Sir Richard spent honing his fighting skills down in the field at the back of the castle might be a waste of time for a sheriff, who was rarely called upon to do any serious fighting, but it did make him look very impressive without his shirt on. She cast an admiring eye over his lean, muscular torso and bulging biceps. Yes, very nice…

  Then she suddenly became aware that her admiration was not going unnoticed. Sir Richard was looking directly across at her with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

  She instantly snapped her eyes down. ‘Ahem, I was just…’ she started, and then trailed off. If it had not worked the first time it was hardly going to work now.

  He grinned. ‘Feel free. Don’t let me put you off.’

  Holding a needle and thread, Brother Jacob turned back to his patient. ‘I’m ready to start now, so brace yourself. This wound is going to require quite a few stitches. If it gets too much and you would like a rest, just let me know. '

  Rowena tightened her grip on Sir Richard’s hand in anticipation, but when the monk made the first stitch, he did not react at all.

  ‘Is that alright?’ asked a frowning Brother Jacob.

  ‘Oh, you’ve started—yes, yes, it’s fine,’ he replied casually.

  ‘So you are indeed as hard as you look…’ murmured Brother Jacob, without taking his intensely focused eyes off the job at hand.

  ‘I must say, Sir Richard,’ said Rowena, ‘I am impressed. I think you are the one who should be holding my hand.’

  Brother Jacob soon finished stitching the wound, his task made easy by Sir Richard’s high pain threshold. He did not complain or so much as flinch once for the duration.

  The monk finished off by carefully bandaging the wounded arm and placing it in a cloth sling, which did not thrill the patient. ‘Do I really have to wear this damn thing?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ came the firm reply. ‘If you do not, your wound might start bleeding afresh. If it is kept still it will heal more quickly.’

  Sir Richard’s only reply to this unwelcome news was a sullen grunt.

  ‘Now, did you not hit your head as well? The boy who came to warn me you were coming said that you hit your head and blacked out.’

  The injured man nodded and indicated a large purple bruise on his temple that extended into his hairline. ‘I was out cold for a while, but I’m fine now.’

  Brother Jacob took a careful look at the area. ‘Hmmm…quite a lot of bruising here… Does it hurt?’

  ‘It wouldn’t if you weren’t poking at it.’

  Brother Jacob quickly removed his hands. ‘I do beg your pardon. And does your head ache at all?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I see…’

  The monk moved over to the shelves that covered the entire back wall of the room, and started searching through the bottles and jars lining them. ‘I have got just the salve for this kind of thing. I made it only the other day, but I seem to have lost it already…’ He searched for a while longer until finally, right on the very topmost shelf, he found the pot he was looking for. ‘Ah,’ he cried, lifting it down, ‘you can’t hide from me up there, little pot!’

  He then sat the little terracotta jar down on his big worktable and removed its waxed cloth cover.

  Sir Richard eyed it distastefully. ‘Are you going to smear that on my head?’

  Brother Jacob turned to his patient, pot in hand. ‘Yes. It will do that nasty bruise a world of good.’

  ‘But it’s sticky. It will get all stuck in my hair.’

  Brother Jacob scooped up a good gob of the thick, golden-yellow ointment with his finger. ‘It will do your magnificent black locks nothing but good, I assure you.’

  ‘Whatever you say…’ grumbled Sir Richard, a rather bad grace about him.

  Once the ointment had been smoothed on, a task Brother Jacob carried out with the utmost care and delicacy, the monk wiped the excess off his hands. ‘I cannot make you do this against your will, but I strongly advise that you rest here for a day or two. Blows to the head are sometimes worse than they appear at first, and you are weak from blood-loss. I have a little ward here, in the next-door room. You would be quite comfortable.’

  ‘But I can’t!’ replied the sheriff. ‘I’ve got so many things to do; the new tax payments to organize, the upcoming court day, kidnappings to solve—’

  Rowena squeezed his hand, which still rested in hers. ‘Stop. You are wounded, you need to rest. I can do most of the things that need doing urgently. And anyway, it’s only for a day or two.’

  ‘What if something goes wrong? I won’t be there.’

  ‘If I need you, I will know where to find you, won’t I? Now stop being such a bad patient and do as Brother Jacob advises. If you were around the castle I would only be in a twitter all the time, thinking you might be about to kick the bucket at any moment.’

  The reluctant patient held up his one free hand in surrender. ‘Alright, I will do it. But only if you promise to tell me instantly if there are any new developments.’

  ‘Of course I will tell you if anything important happens.’

  Brother Jacob put away the last of the things he had taken out, then opened the door leading to the next room. ‘If you would care to step this way.’

  The room Brother Jacob ushered Sir Richard and Rowena into was large and square, with plastered walls washed in the same pale yellow limewash as the front room was. There were four beds, two against each wall on the right and left of the door, facing each other. A deliciously cool breeze wafted in through the open window, playfully tossing about the muslin curtains and riffling through the crisp white sheets hanging down from the beds.

  ‘This looks lovely,’ said Rowena. ‘I am sure you will be very comfortable in here, Sir Richard.’

  ‘I’d much rather be back at Eaglestone…’ he growled.

  .12.

  Vengeance is Thine

  ‘WHAT is that you are reading?’

  Rowena held up the book she had been reading as she walked along to show Sir Richard.

  He frowned in concentration as he stared at it. ‘The… the…romance?’

  She gave a nod and smiled encouragingly. ‘Yes, very good.’

  ‘The romance…of Percival and…and—no, it’s no good!’ he finished, throwing up his hands in frustration.

  ‘It says ‘the romance of Percival and the grail quest.’ Why won’t you let me teach you how to read better? ‘It’s nowhere near as difficult to learn as you seem to think.’

  Sir Richard clicked to Lucifer to encourage on his big warhorse, who was ambling sleepily along behind them, head drooping and eyes half shut.

  Once the stallion had woken a little and picked his pace up, Sir Richard turned his attention back to his human companion. ‘It might seem easy to a clever maid like you, but I’m a soldier, not a scholar. Book learning has never come easily to me.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m telling you, anyone can learn if they put their mind to it. You’ve just not had a decent teacher, that’s all.’

  He clicked to Lucifer, who was pulling on his reins as he trailed behind again. ‘Come on, boy. I know it’s the end of a long day and you wish you were back in your meadow now, but for God’s sake try and keep awake for another half hour! Yes, I suppose I could make a little time. But I must warn you, I’m a very bad pupil and am sure to try your patience greatly.’

  ‘You always try my patience greatly.’

  He laughed softly, choosing to tolerate the poke. ‘Perhaps you might have time to tell Everild some of the stories you are always reading? I’m sure she would like that. She was always interested in myths and poetry and the like. But I was always much too busy running around pretending to kill things and win tournaments, and of course rescue damsels in distress.’

  ‘I will gladly tell her some of my stories. Although I’m sure she will be even more delighted when her brother can read her favourite tales to her—ah, now do you mind if we take a little d
etour to the church at the nunnery? It is a year to the day since my mother departed this world, and I must go to the church to light a candle and pray for her. Her grave is in Cornwall in a little churchyard near the village where we lived, high up on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the sea. It’s three day’s journey from here, so I have not been back there since I came here to live with my relatives.’

  ‘I did not know you had been bereaved so recently. I’m sorry. You must miss her very much,’ he replied carefully, turning into the road that led up to the Holy Convent of the Martyrdom of St Agnes.

  ‘I miss her more than I can say. Sometimes I think of it and I’m sad, but then I remember how she always longed for the day when she could finally be reunited with my father, and I’m happy that she could finally leave behind her grief and the hard life we led. My mother married my father, a lowly-born troubadour, much against the wishes of her family, so they cast her out without a penny. Her father refused to give her the dowry that was rightfully hers. But she never really recovered from the death of my father after only seven years of marriage...her health was always fragile after that. All the carding and spinning she had to take in so she could make ends meet did nothing to help. I did everything I could to ease her burden, but I was only a child…and her family never forgave her—never visited us or gave us so much as a penny, even though we barely had enough to eat at times,’ she added bitterly, the memory of the pale ghost her mother had been reduced to in the end arising painfully.

  ‘Do you hate them for it?’

  ‘No. They might have denied my mother her rightful inheritance and driven her into an early grave through their hard-heartedness, but I will not let them poison my soul with hatred. That is one thing I will never let them do to me.’

  He nodded, staring meditatively down at the ground as he walked alongside her.

  She forced a smile. ‘I think I had better end my tale of woe. You are starting to look rather depressed there. Now, let us talk of something more cheerful. How about a game of riddles?’ She did not wait for an answer before beginning. ‘I race over hill and dale, over sea and over shore, yet I have neither feet nor boat. What am I?’

  ‘Hmmm…’ he mused thoughtfully. ‘A bird?’

  ‘Good guess, but a bird does have feet.’

  ‘By Our Lady, you are a clever thing! Let me see…moves over land and sea with neither feet nor boat… Ah!’ he cried suddenly, ‘I know; it’s the wind!’

  She applauded quietly. ‘Very good! Now it’s your turn.’

  ‘Whoa! Slow down there, old friend,’ Sir Richard chided Lucifer. Having woken up again now that he realized they were headed in an exciting new direction, the black stallion had started overtaking his master.

  With his horse back under control, Sir Richard thought silently for a moment, and then a smile slowly spread over his face. ‘What is green, red, pink and brown, can change from overcast skies and rain showers to bright sunshine in a heartbeat, and is wiser in the evening than in the morning?’

  She bit her lip thoughtfully. ‘Well, that is a hard one… Can you give me any more clues?’

  He shook his head laughingly, clearly delighted at her struggles.

  She suddenly eyed him suspiciously. ‘You are not cheating, are you? There really is a proper answer to this riddle?’

  ‘Me cheat? My dear lady, how could you think such a thing!’

  She spent several more minutes in deep, brow-furrowing thought while Sir Richard laughed down on her with a smug confidence that displayed little faith in her ability to find the answer.

  ‘I give up, you mean wretch!’ she cried at last, sure that he had given her an unsolvable riddle.

  He laughed heartily. ‘The answer, my love—’ he snubbed her nose, ‘is you!’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. Your eyes are green, your hair is red, your lips are pink, your freckles are brown, your mood can change from tears and vexation to sunny smiles in a heartbeat, and you are wiser in the evening than in the morning because you are always going around with your head in a book!’

  ‘How clever of you! I would never have guessed that even if I’d thought on it until Doomsday!’

  When they reached the top of the rise that was the site of the small collection of stone buildings that made up the Holy Convent of the Martyrdom of St Agnes, Rowena went up to the door of the little stone church and stopped. ‘You might be obliged to have me escorted to and from Eaglestone Castle for my safety, but don’t feel obliged to come in if you do not wish to. You can just wait out here. I will not be long.’

  He hooked Lucifer’s reins over the hitching rail nearby. ‘No, I think I will come in with you.’

  All the other well-to-do folk in and around Hartfield, including Sir Richard and the Cunninghams, went to St Luke’s Cathedral in the centre of Hartfield. St Luke’s was a much larger and grander church, but Rowena always attended mass at the Church of St Agnes. Apart from her and the twenty or so nuns at the convent, the only other people who came to little St Agnes’ were the peasants living nearby.

  This suited Rowena perfectly. She liked the intimacy of the tiny church, its quiet rural setting, and above all, the simple, pious congregation. No dressing to impress that dashing young man who always sat in row four or parading about showing off the latest addition to the jewellery box here.

  Rowena opened the small wooden door and stepped through into the church, leaving it open for Sir Richard to follow.

  After a few moments of hesitation, he stepped in after her. He ducked his head from habit, although there was no danger with this doorway; the high, pointed arch provided him with more than enough headroom.

  The sight which met him upon entering the church needed only a choir of angels to make it truly heavenly. The low, golden light of the setting sun streaming in through the coloured glass windows flooded the whitewashed interior of the church in radiant, jewel-like hues of purple, cobalt blue, yellow, green and red. A light haze of incense smoke caught the sunbeams and wafted them into nebulous, swirling patterns that shimmered in the air, and Rowena knelt at the front of the church before the altar, her mass of red-brown curls, backlit by the sun, creating a glowing golden halo around her head.

  Not wishing to disturb the holy peace that seemed to pervade the place, he slipped into a pew as silently as he could. He then leaned back and breathed deeply of the air, which was thick with the heavy, spicy aroma of incense and the warm, honeyed sweetness of burning beeswax candles.

  Rowena crossed herself and rose to her feet, then went over to the small table near the altar, where she took one of the little candles heaped on it. She lit it in the flame of the large candle burning on the altar, and put it with the small group of other burning candles placed at the feet of a statue of the Virgin Mary gracing one front corner of the church.

  Sinking to her knees before it, she intently watched the red-gold flame, which at first danced wildly in the air created by her movements, then burned straight and still when the turbulence ceased.

  Lighting a candle in memory of her mother always filled Rowena with a peaceful, comforting warmth. The way the flame’s light shone into the darkness reminded her of her mother’s love, how it had always radiated from her heart, casting its warmth on everyone around her. And it brought to mind the way in which, deep in her own heart, the flame of her love for her mother always burned brightly, truly and unceasingly. Even though she was not with her in body, Rowena always felt her mother to be with her in spirit, watching over her, guiding her and loving her.

  She gazed up at the Madonna’s serene, wisdom-filled countenance, clasped her hands together and whispered:

  In God’s power, through Christ’s light,

  With the grace of the Holy Spirit;

  I send you my love, I send you my thoughts.

  You watch over me always—my love streams to you in spirit realms.

  Rowena then arose, stepped back and slipped into a pew, where she sat in silent contemplation.

 
But after only a few moments, her peace was interrupted by a choking sob coming from behind. She quickly turned and looked.

  Seated a few rows back from her, Sir Richard was bowed over, his pale hands clutching the back of the pew in front of him with white-knuckled intensity, shaking as violent sobs racked through him.

  She leapt up instantly. ‘Sir Richard, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh God!’

  The agony in his voice went through her heart like a steel blade. ‘Are you hurt?’ What’s the matter? she demanded with rising panic, running to his side.

  He did not lift him head from where it was buried in his arms, and sobs possessed his body.

  She sat down beside him and placed her hands on his shoulders. ‘Please tell me, Sir Richard.’

  ‘The stain, the stain of sin on my soul!’ he choked, clutching his hands together so tightly that the nails dug into his flesh. ‘No.’ He drew back from her. ‘I don’t deserve to be in a holy place like this—’

  He made as though to get up, but she held onto him. ‘Stay, please. This house is open to saint and sinner alike.’

  He let her detain him. ‘It is my fault that Everild was blinded and maimed; I was with her when it happened. Why, why did I get so impatient and ride ahead of her like that? She was but a little child mounted on a small pony; of course she could not go as fast as I—and—’ He paused for a moment, so overcome he could barely speak. ‘And if I had stayed with her like I promised to, the outlaws would never have set upon her. I can still hear her screams ringing in my ears!’ he cried desperately, covering his face with shaking hands.

  Rowena clasped her short arms around the wretched knight’s broad shoulders as best she could. ‘You were hardly more than a boy! Please, you must forgive yourself.’

  He lifted his head and looked bleakly into space. ‘And Morgana…’ He lifted a hand, as if reaching out to a ghostly apparition. ‘I killed her…’

  ‘Killed her?’ Rowena kept her hands on his shoulders, but did shrink back a little, unable to disguise her horror.