It was shameful. Disgraceful. And Sampson was determined to put a stop to it. Although he was beginning to wonder if he was flogging a dead horse, for there was strong opposition to his attempts at restoring order. Of course, it would have been helpful if the Abbot set an example to the younger men. But he was drunk most of the time and somewhere along the way he had lost his moral compass.
Sampson made his way towards the kitchen. The bucket banged against his leg and some water splashed on his grey habit, but he ignored the cold. This wouldn’t be the last trip to the well this day.
Sampson was normally a man of great patience. But he felt his patience slipping further as he opened the door to the kitchen and saw the mess that greeted him. Brother Dai was sprawled out on the kitchen table, fast asleep.
“Well, this is an interesting turn of events. I have to admit, Brother Sampson, I am surprised. I wasn’t expecting Cenobitic monks to act like this. If others knew what this life was like, I am sure you would have men beating at your door to take their vows.”
“Dear Lord,” Sampson said, dropping the bucket and splashing water everywhere. He put his hand to his racing heart. He turned to look at the man who had spoken. “What is it with you and creeping up on people?”
“Old habits,” Merton said with a careless shrug as he made his way into the kitchen. He took a moment to stare at the monk who was lying shamelessly on the table, his legs sprawled and his robes caught up around his waist. “Now that is a sight you don’t expect to see first thing in the morning.”
“He is a disgrace,” Sampson stated, crossing over to the monk and pulling down the unconscious man’s habit to restore some decency. “The whole place is an absolute disgrace, a ridicule of my religion and a sin against God.”
“Believe me…I have seen far worse,” Merton said, although he did not elaborate. Merton bent down to put a tipped chair back on its feet, a gasp of pain escaped his mouth as he did so.
Sampson was reaching for a cloth to wipe up the water, but on hearing his friend’s quiet distress, he went over to him. “What is hurting you today, my friend?”
Merton raised his head and looked at the monk with something close to mockery shining in his grey eyes. Sampson had long since gotten used to seeing the terrible scars on Merton’s face — he had, after all, put them there when he had sealed the gaping wounds shut with a hot blade. The scars accompanied by the dark red hair, made Merton look every bit the demon. But Sampson wasn’t fooled. God had granted Sampson the ability to see inside of a man’s soul, and he knew that Merton was a good person, despite what others may have said on the subject.
Sampson had hoped that Merton would find a place for himself here. He had hoped that being in the holy presence of God every day would give Merton peace, but it seemed to do the complete opposite. Merton was no more at peace here, than he had been in Cerniw. Of course, the wayward monks were not helping. Added to the fact that Merton flatly refused to walk over the threshold of their little religious house, let alone come inside the building itself. It was as if he couldn’t. As if there was some invisible barrier that made it impossible for him to take that first step to redemption.
Their friendship was an unlikely one. Sampson was a Cenobitic monk whereas Merton had been a mercenary — and a feared one at that. Brother Sampson knew that the only way to salvation was through God’s mercy. He considered it his duty to save as many people as he could by showing them the true religion and the true God. Of course, many natives to this island were still practising the pagan religions of their forefathers. It seemed even the Romans had not been able to completely Romanize the citizens of Briton as they had done so in other kingdoms. Still, he was here now, and when he spoke, people listened. People believed. It was another gift that God had given him, and he would not be complacent with it. But then he had met Merton.
Merton was like no man he had ever met. The Church of Rome had condemned Merton and had even put a price on his head. Merton’s name had been spoken with fear and trepidation, as well as disgust. Sampson had been expecting to see a monster. However, when Sampson had looked into Merton’s eyes, he saw a tortured soul who was begging for absolution. Merton was the lost sheep that Jesus spoke of, and it was Sampson’s duty to return him to the flock.
Sampson strongly believed — although he had never said it out loud — that with the right guidance even the Devil could be turned away from the darkness and brought back into the light. As Matthew said, “with God all things are possible.”
Sampson had witnessed evil. And although he had never been in the presence of the Devil, he had felt the presence of demons. He knew what they looked like, how they acted. Merton did not act like that. There was no presence of evil in him, just sorrow and a desperate, desperate, need for forgiveness. Sampson was convinced that God had sent Merton to him for a reason. Whether that reason was to test Sampson’s own resolve or to test his faith, he couldn’t say. But what he did know was that his and Merton’s paths had crossed for a purpose. God had a plan for them. If only God were more forthcoming with what that plan was, then Sampson would have felt more confident that he was doing the right thing.
“Everything pains me,” Merton replied, he stretched his legs out in front of him and sat up very tall. “My back predominantly — I know, I know you said there is nothing wrong with it, but it doesn’t stop it from hurting like the Devil.”
Sampson looked away, never in his life had he told an outright lie before, and he felt terribly guilty for doing so now. Merton’s back was far from fine, but the poor man had suffered so much loss already, Sampson had not wanted to add to his burden.
“And my arm is driving me mad,” Merton continued.
Sampson frowned at that statement, and he crossed to where Merton sat. He touched his friend’s arm gently. “I can give you something for that.”
“Not that arm,” Merton said with a frustrated sigh. “The other one.”
Sampson paused and looked at Merton in confusion. Merton didn’t have another arm. Sampson had cut it off with an axe — so bad had the injury been, that there was no way he could save it. “I don’t understand? How can it be hurting you?”
“It isn’t hurting me. It is itching.”
“Itching?”
“That is what I said.”
“Why is it itching?”
“I don’t know,” Merton said, clearly exasperated. “It just is. You are the healer. You tell me why my non-existent arm is itching.”
Sampson scratched his head and frowned, for he had absolutely no idea. He had never heard of such a thing before. “I… don’t…I could try…um…”
“Surely, you of all people, would have a non-existent poultice about one’s self, that I could rub onto my non-existent arm to make it stop?” There was bitterness in Merton’s voice, and he looked thoroughly fed up.
“We could pretend, I suppose, if it makes you feel better,” Sampson said dryly. “I don’t understand how it can itch when there is nothing there.”
“Well, it is. Another curse do you think?” Merton asked. His voice heavy with sarcasm.
Sampson frowned. He had never met anyone who had survived such horrific injuries before. There were several times when he thought they were going to lose Merton — he had even stopped breathing once — but God had brought him back to them.
Sampson had said many prayers to God, begging for Merton’s back to be healed. But God had not seen fit to answer his prayers, and Sampson was too afraid to question why. So instead he had lied, he had told Merton that he was cursed. That had been a mistake, he knew that as soon as he had opened his mouth and said the words, but it was too late now. What was done, was done.
“Maybe we should go on a pilgrimage,” Sampson muttered, because, as God was his witness, he didn’t know what else to suggest.
“A pilgrimage?” Merton chuckled at the thought. “What did you have in mind? A visit to the Holy Lands? Or perhaps I could touch a relic in Rome and ask the Pope for his blessing? Do
you think he will give it? I wonder…will that be before or after he has me stoned?”
“Merton, I am trying to help you,” Sampson said, his face earnest and his voice patient.
Merton could not, for whatever reasons, keep Sampson’s gaze and he turned his head and looked away.
“Why do you always have to rebuke everything I try to do?” Sampson asked softly. “I don’t know why your arm is itching. I don’t understand why you are still in terrible pain. I am as blind as you are in this, but God isn’t. You have to ask for his mercy. That is all you have to do, and this pain will stop, I am sure of it. Why won’t you go down on your knees and show God your humility? Why are you so stubborn? Would it really hurt you to join me in prayer once in a while?”
“God and I are not friends,” Merton replied, deadly serious, although he still did not turn back around to look at the monk. “And I have absolutely nothing I want to say to him. Why should I have to ask him for forgiveness when it is he that has sinned against me?”
“That is blasphemy,” Sampson warned, his voice taking on an edge. “God cannot sin.”
“Can’t he?” Merton asked, and he glanced back at the monk. “We will have to agree to disagree on that one.”
“Don’t be afraid; just believe,” Sampson said with compassion.
“Mark 5:36,” Merton jeered. “How many more times are you going to quote scriptures to me? I do not fear God. I hate him.”
“You don’t hate him. You need him. You know you do. Open your heart, let him back inside. You are weary, burdened. He can take the load. He can help you. He will give you strength.”
“Will you please…stop,” Merton shook his head sadly. “I cannot believe as you do. I am sorry. I wish it were different.” Merton rose unsteadily to his feet, and he held on to the kitchen table for support.
“Perhaps,” Merton said as he looked at the unconscious monk on the table, “you should get your own house in order first, before you try to save everyone else.” Without another word, Merton made his way slowly out of the kitchen. Little did Sampson know that Merton had taken a knife from the table. Nor was he aware that Brother Aiden was about to go on an impromptus trip to the mainland.
Castle Aergol, Dyfed. One month later.
“Alden sent us,” Yrre said, coming to stand next to the monk. Like Sampson, he watched every step Garren du Lac took. There was something about Garren that he didn’t trust. The man was too quiet, too watchful. Alden was right to banish him from the kingdom.
“He got your message. Any news?” Yrre turned his back on Garren and looked at Sampson.
Sampson shook his head. “I was hoping to hear that he had gone home.” Sampson paused as a courtier walked by them. “But seeing as you are here, he obviously didn’t make it. Do you have any idea where he would have gone?”
“I thought that he would have tried to make his way to me. But there has been no sign of him, and besides, he has been gone for too long. I do have an idea where he would be, but that would depend… What was his mind like when he left?”
“I don’t know,” Sampson said with despair. “One moment I would think he was coping. He would jest, make conversation and the next…he would withdraw. What I do know, is that he hasn’t eaten properly since….” Sampson paused. “He won’t make it far on his own. His back won’t let him.”
“What is wrong with his back?” Yrre asked with alarm. A lost arm was nothing. The great God Tiw only had one hand, and it didn’t stop him from being the God of War, but a damaged back, that was different. It was the one injury that all warriors secretly feared. A damaged back meant your fighting days were over and for a warrior, there was no greater shame.
“Tell me,” Yrre urged when Sampson remained silent.
“Nothing. It is sore that is all,” Sampson said carefully, wishing he had kept his silence.
“Do you think I was born yesterday?” Yrre asked. “What is wrong with his back?”
“I don’t know. Well, I do…sort of.” Sampson’s gaze drifted back to Garren. How alike the brothers were and yet, how very different. Garren must have sensed his gaze for he turned his head. When his eyes finally fell on Sampson, he narrowed his eyes and turned away.
“What is wrong with his back?” Yrre asked again with impatience. “Speak plainly, Monk.”
“His spine is no longer aligned.”
Yrre shook his head, not understanding the word, for the language of the Britons was new to him.
“It is no longer straight,” Sampson explained, using his hands to demonstrate a curved line. “It is damaged, and I fear that one day soon, he may not be able to walk.”
Yrre didn’t speak straight away. Sampson realised, much to his surprise, that this fierce Saxon warrior was fighting back tears.
“Does he know?” Yrre finally asked in a choked voice. “Does Merton know?”
“Shh,” Sampson reprimanded. “Do not say his name.”
“Does he know?” Yrre asked again.
“I am not sure. I told him that there was nothing wrong with his back.”
“You lied?” Yrre frowned in confusion. “I thought monks couldn’t—”
“Just because I am a monk it doesn’t mean I cannot lie… I am just not supposed to. I couldn’t do that to him. I could not look him in the eye and tell him the truth. I did not want him to end up like Job, lost in his despair.”
“Can he hold a sword?” Yrre asked, ever practical — he had no idea who Job was, and quite frankly he didn’t care. “Can he get himself out of trouble if needs be?”
“No,” Sampson answered. “I don’t think he could. I fear that he is dead already.”
“He isn’t dead,” Yrre reassured.
“How could you possibly know?” Sampson asked.
“Because he has a job to do,” there was a touch of anger to Yrre’s words. “Philippe still breathes, and he will want to do something about that.”
“You think he has gone to Brittany?” Sampson had raised his voice when he asked the question, which attracted a few curious looks.
Yrre took hold of Sampson’s arm and led him to a corner of the Hall, away from everybody else.
“He would never make it,” Sampson stated, his eyes wide with fear at the possibility that Merton would attempt to do something that stupid. “And even if he did, can you even begin to imagine what the consequences would be. He would bring war upon all our heads.”
“We are already at war, Monk,” Yrre bit back his irritation and reminded himself that the monk was still young, there was still so much Sampson didn’t know. Godly he may be, but worldly he was not. “If I were him, and it was my woman that had…” Yrre left the rest unsaid. “Then I would seek vengeance, and I would not rest until I had it.”
“Then I must go to Brittany,” Sampson stated with sudden passion. “I must stop him.”
“You will only get yourself killed if you do. I have no doubt that the blame for Alden and Budic’s escape has been placed firmly upon your shoulders. If you want to live, you cannot risk it.”
“It is my duty to go. The Good Book states that there is no greater love than dying for a friend,” Sampson stated bravely.
“You see the world through innocent eyes. Your God is blinding you to what is outside of your door. There may be peace and cause to hope inside one of your religious houses, but for the rest of us…” Yrre shook his head. “We are at constant war. Fighting each day to simply stay alive. To keep those we love, alive. You say he is your friend, but you do not know him as I do. He is a warrior, nothing more, nothing less, and he has been grievously wronged. You think you being there will stop him from seeking his revenge? It won’t. He would think nothing of putting a sword through you if you got in the way of his vengeance.”
“I don’t believe that,” Sampson stated with confidence, “and neither do you. He will listen to reason.”
“He will not.”
“I cannot sit and do nothing,” Sampson stated. “I am going to Brittany.”
Yrre shook his head. “You cannot go. Even I wouldn’t go alone, and I am a seasoned warrior. How are you going to defend yourself?”
“God will protect me.”
Yrre chuckled. “You Christians’ and your God. Your God makes you so weak. So instead of a sword, you are going to take what? A book? A wooden cross? You will be arrested at the harbour and executed at dawn.”
“I am going,” Sampson said with determination.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yrre said, still chuckling.
“I know how powerful the one true God is. I know he will protect me.”
“I heard another Christian monk say that once. He was one of those, what do you call it, missionaries? He came to my village one day. He was like you, he was young, and he stood tall and proud, a wooden cross hanging around his neck. He trusted in the written word, and he wanted to share the Kingdom Of Heaven with us. We did not want to hear his words or know of his Heaven, so we slit his throat.”
Sampson flinched and quickly performed the sign of the cross, while whispering the words of the Trinitarian formula.
“There wasn’t even a rumble of thunder in the sky,” Yrre continued. “No vengeance fell on our village. If your God were so powerful, then he would have stopped us from killing that monk. He would have burnt our village to the ground. But he did not. He did nothing.”
“He will protect me,” Sampson stated again.
Yrre stared at him for a long moment, and Sampson refused to lower his gaze. He knew that God would protect him. He would be in no danger.
“You are steadfast in this nonsense?” Yrre finally said. “You really want to go?”
“Yes,” Sampson answered, straightening his back with determination.
“What if your God does not protect you? What if he forsakes you? What then?”
“He won’t,” Sampson stated. “I know he won’t.”
“Then, Monk, you put me to shame. You are no warrior, and yet you will willingly go where I would not.” There was respect in Yrre’s face. “I will come with you, and I am sure the men will too.”
The Du Lac Princess: (Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles) Page 14