by Valerie Levy
“I’ll wear the same gown as last week, Sarah.”
“No call to wear that today, my Lady, this old one’ll do, the Lady Isabella’s sick and you won’t be going anywhere.” Rosalind had always found the sound of her nurse’s high pitched voice irritating, and now she hated it.
“Sick? My mother’s sick? What ails her?” Rosalind slid out from underneath the bed covers, trying to keep her voice steady and unconcerned, and sat on the edge of the bed.
“The usual.” That meant her mother’s courses had started. Isabella would not appear out of her bedchamber that day, but would remain in bed, grieving she had once more failed to conceive. Sarah stood over her. “Come, Lady, off with your nightshift.” Rosalind stood naked for a moment until Sarah dressed her in her day shift, her rounded limbs shivering and skin goosepimpled in the cold.
“No, the red gown, as I told you, Sarah.”
“But …”
“Do as I say.” Sarah tutted but fetched the dress.
A few minutes later, Rosalind walked down the steps into her parent’s bedchamber. Her mother lay in a carved oak bed that had been constructed within the room years ago; it would have been far too large to carry up the twisting stairs. The bed was comfortable and warm, its straw base topped by a soft feather mattress and covered by linen sheets, a bolster, woollen blankets and a red and gold damask coverlet lined with fur. Matching red and gold bed curtains, now looped back, hung from a huge oak canopy. Apart from the rich furnishings, the room was identical to Rosalind’s chamber above.
Isabella reclined against the bolster, bed covers thrown off as the fire was alight and the room warm. “Well, child, as you can see, I am in no fit state to venture out today.” Isabella’s eyelids were swollen with weeping, and she clutched a hot stone to her abdomen. “No doubt you will keep yourself amused. Leave me now.”
“My Lady - may I not visit the Infirmary? Sarah can accompany me, and one of the grooms. I'll take Thomas …”
“They can do without us today. You may send a message that we will visit next week.”
“But I am so anxious about the poor man who cannot move - please, mother, let me set my mind at rest …”
“Oh, do as you wish,” Isabella shrugged and shut her eyes. “I’m pleased you have developed a desire to visit the sick and needy, but just leave me be.”
Rosalind turned her head quickly in case her mother opened her eyes and saw the involuntary smile that suddenly beamed. Events were turning out even better than she had planned.
Brother Anton waited near the door of the Infirmary, expecting to greet its most important benefactress. He wore a recently washed gown in her Ladyship’s honour, and his face was newly shaven. He knew the importance of making a good impression upon those who mattered. His eyes sought Lady Isabella as Rosalind and her nurse rode briskly into the courtyard.
“Her Ladyship is indisposed today," Rosalind told him after the customary greetings, "But she hopes to visit next week. So I and my nurse take her place today.”
Anton bowed courteously, silently questioning why Mistress Rosalind had bothered to come without her mother. He had much to do and did not want to waste time on unimportant visitors, but he could hardly ignore them now they were here, and any discourtesy would no doubt be relayed back to her Ladyship. “I shall pray the Lady Isabella is quickly recovered,” he murmured. “May I send a cordial?”
Green eyes looked up boldly. “Her Ladyship has no need of medicine, Brother, a few hours and she will be well again. ‘Tis only women’s trouble.” Sarah tutted disapprovingly in the background and Anton nodded, unwilling to enquire further. Women had a surfeit of cold and moist humours needing to be cast from them every month. At that time they were unclean and even to talk or think of them polluted men, especially religious ones.
He changed the subject quickly. “I am sorry for my absence last week - if I had known …”
Rosalind shrugged. “No matter, Brother Infirmarer, I am glad to meet you again today.” She smiled, arching her eyebrows slightly, and he wondered if she was trying to flirt with him. Almost at once he dismissed the thought as absurd.
“Will you take wine, Mistress?” He led the women through the men's ward and into the room where they had sat two weeks ago. He poured three goblets of wine, handing one to Rosalind and one to Sarah, who fluttered about, looking at the herbs and implements he kept there.
“What changeable weather we've had,” Rosalind remarked, determined to attract his attention.
“It makes no difference to us here, Mistress, whether it rains or shines.”
“But surely, Brother, you do not spend all your time at the Infirmary?”
He shook his head. “No, Mistress, when I am not here I am in church, or sleeping, or working in the garden. Or collecting ingredients for medicines, as last week.”
“You must know the forest quite well.”
“Yes, certain areas I know very well.”
“I too. I often ride or walk in the forest,” Rosalind said carelessly, but regarding him closely. “I shall look for you the next time I am there.”
He smiled, but she saw a flicker of embarrassment, or perhaps confusion, pass over his face. “I am honoured.”
“Saint John’s wort! This I recognise well,” Sarah observed, taking the plant from a shelf. Rosalind knew she did not have much time.
Anton walked over to Sarah, and spoke rapidly. “Yes, so called because the stem yields a red pigment, red like the blood of Saint John the Baptist.” He crossed himself. “Blessed be his name. Good for relieving pain.”
Turn your back to me, Rosalind thought, turn your back now!
“I have known it used to protect houses from evil spirits.” Sarah also made the sign of the cross.
“Mistress, this has many uses - it comes under the sign of Leo, in the dominion of the sun.”
Rosalind watched, waiting for her opportunity, as he fingered the plant absentmindedly. He turned slightly to replace it on a shelf. “Used here most of all for preparing salves for burns.” She grabbed the phial, hidden in the front of her dress, and quickly emptied it into his goblet. She stuffed the empty phial back into her dress, and looked innocently at Anton as he turned towards her once more.
“Talking of burns,” she asked, “what happened to the child who was burnt?”
“I regret she died, Mistress Rosalind. The scalds were severe and it proved impossible to save her.” He lifted his goblet and drank. “Now, if you are ready, my Lady.” Rosalind walked with him into the ward, Sarah trailing behind. John Grainger lay in the same bed as before, thinner and looking more anxious than ever.
“The man with the creeping paralysis and the sores.” Rosalind stood close to Anton as he spoke to her. If she reached out her hand just a few inches she would touch him. “The sores are no worse, but now he’s troubled by a foul cough. Hyssop with honey helps a little, with massage to his chest.”
Rosalind looked up at the monk. The top of her head just reached his mouth. Suppose he turned and took her in his arms … Abruptly, he stopped talking and turned slightly. His eyes had lost their warmth, now they scrutinised, cold and appraising, normally soft brown eyes now almost black, hard. Somehow she held his gaze.
His eyes became warm again. “The man next to him when you last visited, he died, blessed be his soul. Ben Wilson here has the falling sickness - several times each day he falls over, or out of bed, in a fit. We’ve put a straw mattress by the side of the bed so when he falls out he does not hurt himself.” The man grinned at Rosalind and nodded energetically. “I make him a powder from mistletoe flowers. It helps reduce the fits. Which reminds me - I must go and collect more mistletoe from the forest.”
“I have never noticed it growing there,” Rosalind said, trying to keep her voice calm. “But maybe I am unobservant.”
“No, my Lady, it grows only in one part I know of - on the oak tree in the forest clearing not far from the back of the fields. It is best picked in the middle of the aftern
oon, on a Saturday.” Rosalind knew exactly where he meant.
In his tiny monastery cell after vespers, Anton lay stretched out fully dressed on his hard pallet, hands clasped behind his head. He knew he would not sleep. As he stared into the darkness he thought of Rosalind. Who would have believed the shy, nervous child of two weeks ago could be transformed into the self-assured, even forward, woman he had seen today? He supposed Lady Isabella’s absence had led to the transformation. It just showed the effect parents had on their offspring, he thought wryly.
He smiled to himself as he remembered her pouring the potion into his wine. She believed he had not seen her, but he had. He had assumed she gave him some sort of love potion, or else poison, but he had thought not and drank it.
He wondered if she would meet him in the clearing. If she did, he did not know what he would do, or say. Lying with whores satisfied a need, but Rosalind – although the thought of her fresh young body was irresistible, it would be folly to seduce a daughter of a noble family, especially if she were virgin. But he had heard ladies at the King's Court invited to their beds any knight who took their fancy. She was probably one of these ladies, he thought, her experience in such matters had been obvious that morning. She had openly flirted with him. Her eyes had invited dalliance, had incited lustful fantasies of her naked beneath him.
He tried to cast the image away, aware of the threat women's desires posed. Their wombs were cold and would rise up and suffocate unless warmed by men's seed; they needed frequent copulation to keep them healthy and this could quickly drain a man's vigour. But, of course, he was only too willing to take the risk. And, since he had left Italy, he had only lain with whores. It had been a long time since he had made love to a young and sweet smelling woman. Perhaps he would soon have the chance to indulge himself. If Rosalind offered, he decided, he would not refuse. Unless she were a virgin; deflowering a virgin noblewoman would be too risky, even for him.
The bell calling for compline tolled. Anton rose from his bed and went to pray.
Chapter 8
“This is far enough, Mistress,” Sarah squeaked as she tried to keep up with Rosalind. “I think we should go back now. I’m too old for this.” Rosalind merely quickened her step. “Mistress, stop!”
Rosalind halted and looked back towards Sarah. “Wait for me here then.”
“You know quite well I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight. Her Ladyship …”
“I won’t be the one to tell her. Stay here and wait for me if you’re tired.”
“If the Lady Isabella ever found out, she’d say I’m getting too old,” Sarah panted as she lowered herself gingerly onto a fallen tree trunk. “That would be my lot, sent off in disgrace to spend my last days freezing in a hovel.”
Rosalind walked back to sit beside her. “Well now, Sarah,” she patted the old nurse’s hand. “You stay here and wait for me. My joints grow stiff being cooped up all week in the manor. An hour is all I ask, two at the most. And you must agree, the last few days have been most unpleasant. I need to get away and think a little.”
Soon after Rosalind had returned to the manor house from the Infirmary on Tuesday, a messenger arrived with news for Lord Roger. The ship carrying six of the villagers fighting for him had been attacked by the French in the Channel, sinking with the loss of all on board. One of the young men, Hugh Carpenter, came from Hollingham, the others from manors also owned by Sir Roger. Occupants of the village and manor house mourned the loss, hoping it was not an omen of worse to come. Hugh’s mother was one of the laundry maids at the manor and she and the other servants had wept and wailed almost continuously since the news arrived.
“If she ever discovered …” Sarah said.
“I promise I shall never breathe a word. If anyone asks, I'll say you remained with me all the time.”
“As long as you don’t go too far …”
“Don’t be silly, Sarah, no harm will come to me, no outlaws have been seen in this part of the woods for months, and I won’t go out of earshot, I promise, any time you want to, shout for me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course." Rosalind jumped to her feet. "You rest now, shut your eyes and sleep in the shade. You deserve a rest. And don’t worry, I’ll be perfectly all right. If I need to, I’ll call out for you.”
As she threaded her way through the winding tracks of the forest, Rosalind wondered what she would say if Anton were in the clearing, as he said he would be. She could hardly pretend to be there by accident, but was unable to think of a convincing excuse for her presence, except the truth, that she wanted to be with him, just the two of them, alone. But she worried that he had not come, or that he would laugh at her, turn her away. But the potion had seemed to work. She knew that by the expression in his eyes and the hints he had given about where and when to meet. Rosalind hurried on, impatient to be with him.
Rosalind paused at the edge of the clearing for a moment, her slim, green-clad figure concealed amongst the trees. He was there, and her stomach somersaulted at the sight of his lanky figure, clad in his black gown. She had expected him to be busy gathering mistletoe, but instead he lay reclining against the roots of the oak tree, apparently sleeping. After a moment she approached him uncertainly. He was not sleeping after all, but was watching her, his eyes half open.
Slowly, he sat forward. “Sit by me, Mistress,” he patted the grass by his side. “I wondered if you would come. I hoped you would.” Rosalind was relieved that he seemed to have taken charge.
“You expected me?” she tried to dissemble. He nodded, still watching her intently. She did not dare meet his eyes. As she lowered herself on the grass a short distance from him, her courage started to leave her. “I thought I might help you gather the mistletoe, but the hour is later than I had believed, I must go - " Panicking slightly she started to rise and his hand shot out. She looked down at his long fingers wrapped around her wrist and hesitated.
“Stay, cara. I am not here to gather herbs, flowers or anything else. I am here only for you.” He looked steadily up at her.
“Me? But should you? As a monk, want to be with me, I mean ...” He shrugged. “A monk has feelings, as any man. He tries to ignore them, that’s all, or to direct them to the service of his Order. I cannot - not always.”
“Does that not imperil your soul?”
“Probably.”
Shame began to nag. She should not have given him the love potion. “Can we just talk?” she said.
“What else would we do but talk? But let’s seek more shelter within the trees. No-one is likely to venture here - but even so.” He led her a few yards into the forest to a patch of bracken where deer had lain in the recent past. He faced her, smiling, inviting, and Rosalind's heart lurched. She wanted to dissolve into his eyes and his body, become a part of him, and moved involuntarily towards him. So this is how love feels, she thought. No wonder the minstrels sing of it, and write poetry.
“Oh cara, if you will only trust me?” Gently, Anton pushed her down until she was lying amongst the bracken, and dropped down beside her. His face came nearer. She was transfixed by the sight of a small spider creeping slowly across his forehead. She reached up tentatively and brushed it away. His lips caressed her softly and, as he nuzzled her neck and her face, he held her closer still to him.
It’s as I’ve dreamed, she thought, my dream exactly. He even smells like in my dream. And, yes, there is something more even than this, and here's my chance to find out what it may be. It cannot be the way stallions and dogs do - surely people join together differently?
Rosalind gave herself up to the sensations of her body. She clasped her arms around him and buried her head in the folds of his gowns, breathing deeply of the pungent odour of sweat and thyme. His hand moved downwards to cup her breast. He reached under her surcoat and fondled her nipple through her undergown and shift, sending darts of heat shooting down to her thighs. She wished she could remove her clothes, wanting his skin against hers. She was
too shy to tell him. He moved his head to kiss her, and his tongue flickered in her mouth. It was a most peculiar sensation, different from anything she had experienced before.
“Yes, there is more,” her thoughts spun confused, and she wrapped her arms even tighter around him, arching her body against his. He groaned and rolled on top of her. Something hard pressed against her thighs, and she wriggled so the hardness prodded between her legs. She was not sure what part of Anton could be so rigid, but thought, perhaps, his privy member, and gasped at the thought. The more she moved her hips, the bigger and harder it became and the quicker his breathing. She experimented, curious to discover what would happen when she rotated them in various directions, speeding up, slowing down.
He murmured something and moved his hand up her skirt. His fingers slid up the inside of her thigh until he reached the soft down between her legs. No-one had ever touched her in that secret part before and she was shocked into remembering again about Anton’s immortal soul. She pushed him away. He sat up, looking hurt and surprised.
“You shouldn’t - you’re a monk and God will take vengeance - Anton, this is all my fault and I can't think what to do. I really am very sorry.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she sat forward, head in her hands. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have …” She looked at him, disconcerted by his smile.
“Shouldn’t have what, Rosalind?”
Slowly she began to explain. “You don't really want to love me, I made you, you see - ” her voice faltered.
“No, I don’t see,” he prompted her.
“Something I gave you …”
“Oh, you mean the love potion.” He laughed at the expression on her face and before she had time to say anything more, kissed her tenderly. “’Tis no potion, cara, that makes me love you. And don’t worry about my soul, if it is lost, it was lost years ago.” She looked at him, startled and he shrugged. “Just the way I am, my love. I daresay I'm not the holiest of monks. I’m very good at healing and medicine, and such things, but certain vows are nigh impossible.” He kissed Rosalind again on her lips and eyes. “Rosalind, I want to love you, now."