Startaker

by Marian Goddard

  Gaspard had been very proud of that sword.

  His eyes rested on the fuller, the blood gutter running along its length, in his imagination stained a darker colour to the unspoiled rest. He knew the reason for that groove in the blade. It was said that it lightened the weight without taking the strength, but all soldiers know it is for swift removal. Even the armies of antiquity hollowed their weapons for speed at the kill.

  He remembered that sucking feel as the blade came free, then swinging it high and plunging it again, blood lust firing his strength, watching dispassionately as his victim’s surprised eyes rolled back into eternity. A feeling arose in his breast of finding a lost friend and longing to embrace it. It had saved his life countless times. He owed it now.

  The abbot pointed the sword toward him and he felt the tingle in his throat where the blade might enter. The old man sneered. “It is you who is encouraging the boy, you who has put these ideas into his head.”

  He moved closer to Andre, who stood in mute silence, his heart filling with an overwhelming sense of shame and sadness. He felt no fear.

  And the old man watched as he sank to his knees, bowed his head in submission and began to pray. He prayed for sins, heavy in his heart, for the abbot’s distress and most of all for Christian, that he might have the strength to carry his torch onward, to his destiny.

  He began to feel that death now, or later, would not really matter. That he should die by Gaspard’s fine sword would be an honour in its way. Their friendship had survived these many years. They had taken oath to protect each other and their fellow knights. They’d fought together and prayed together.

  He heard a crash from the doorway but did not stir. His heart was at peace. He welcomed oblivion.

  Then Christian’s voice rang out, clear and firm. “No Father…Do not…I beg you…” then silence…and the sound of weeping.

  He opened his eyes and looked up. The abbot was standing, the sword limp in his hand, head bent and shaking from side to side, tears coursing down into his grizzled beard, spittle flying from his mouth.” Oh, Forgive me…Forgive me… Oh Lord…What have I done?”

  His strength failed him then and Andre sprang up and caught him as he fell. He lifted him gently and carried him to his bed in the corner of the room. He was no weight at all. Disease had taken his body from him already. Death was just a separation of his soul.

  Christian picked up the heavy sword and laid it on the desk. It held no fascination for him. It was just another means to harm another, folly and arrogance in the human beast. It was no threat now. He hurried to help the abbot, who lay curled on his straw pallet, sobbing into his hands. He looked at Christian with such sorrow and remorse that the boy felt his heart breaking. He loved this man also.

  “Forgive me, my son. I am a fool. I deserve to reside with the devil for what I have done.”

  Christian shook his head and clasped the shaking hands. “No Father. You are ill. And I can see that you are enduring much pain.” He looked around for Andre and saw him preparing a draught from the abbot’s vial, mixing it with a little wine to soften the bitter taste. He brought it to him, smiling and held his head gently while he sipped. Even swallowing had become painful.

  Andre felt a feeble heart beating in the sunken chest and sensed that perhaps, with this final act of desperation, the old man’s strength was spent. It took only a little while for the furrowed brow to smooth, the anguish to ease.

  They sat by his bed, comforting him by their presence.

  He whispered and Christian bent close to hear. “Take what is yours my son…with my blessing. I have been well honoured by your company. ” And before he drifted into grateful sleep he raised his fingers in the familiar attitude “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

  He patted the young hand and smiled. “And now…go…and show the light of Truth to the world.”

  The abbot did not rise from his bed again. He died a few days later, in the early hours of the morning, before the bell struck Matins, and Christian wept bitterly for his loss.

  *

  Their journey began before the first snows fell.

  Everyone assembled in the refectory to break their fast and they ate in good natured humour, with much back slapping and declarations of friendship.

  Until the new abbot arrived, the brothers decided that the usual dour readings from the scripture were to be set aside, the abbot’s death and their friends’ departure leaving the abbey under a heavy pall of sorrow. Psalms were sung instead, joyously celebrating a life well lived and youthful courage. It was a sadness to see them go, but they were proud of the small child grown to manhood under their wing. And now the morning air hung heavy with the homely smell of wood-smoke and the comfortable aroma of sizzling bacon.

  Berthilda shuffled around, wringing her hands in grief, fussing over Christian’s clean and patched jerkin and sturdy woollen trews. He had never been meant for the cloister and his attire showed his status as a poor companion to a mendicant monk.

  Andre carried a jute bag with his spare habit, books and medical instruments and Christian, the astrolabe in his old leather satchel and a coarse hempen bag with a batch of Mistress Berta’s honey dumplings folded in a piece of muslin cloth.

  The books and crucifix he left in the care of Gaspard, who locked them in a box in his workshop.

  Each carried other precious items. Gaspard’s beautiful sword lay sheathed in the chest in the Abbot’s empty room, but Andre had taken the short falchion he’d brought to the monastery all those years ago. It lay, strapped to his hip, invisible under the folds of his copious habit. He thought it might fetch a few pennies if the need arose.

  And also if the need arose, he would use it in defence of the boy who was willing to risk everything in the pursuit of knowledge.

  Christian found another pouch in the satchel. It contained three gold sovereigns and a short letter from the Abbot.

  For Christian,

  Words cannot express the joy you have given me. Your journey by ship will require payment. These may suffice until you reach your destination. Carry your torch high, my son and if God wills it, you will prevail.

  Brother Alberto gave Christian writing quills and ink and a thin bundle of scraped vellum, a precious gift indeed.

  Gaspard gave him a small chest containing tinctures and remedies and nudging and winking in ribald humour, gave instructions on the making of love philtres for beautiful maidens. Then he clasped Andre roughly to his barrel shaped chest. There were no words. They said goodbye with the intimacy of brothers, in the sign language of soldiers. Their eyes filled with tears at their parting, the first since they’d joined the Order together as boys. He understood why Andre had need to make this perilous journey. He was there when the children were murdered.

  Christian wrapped his arms around Berthilda and kissed her withered cheek. Her tears wet his face and he brushed them away quickly. He was about a man’s business now.

  They set off amid much cheering and waving and as the monastery walls faded from view and the thick forest cast deep shadows before them, both fell silent, lost in their own thoughts.

  Their journey would span more than two thousand miles, some of it by sea most of it on foot, over mountains, through swamps and rivers, across deserts. They would travel to Bavaria, through the Brenner Pass and on to Venice, then take ship to Crete, to Cyprus and then on to Jerusalem, a journey at first fraught with the natural dangers of bitter cold, wolves and alpine passes, later by lonely deserts and marauding bands. This was not the usual route taken by pilgrims, but one that afforded them some freedom of travel and solitude, a luxury after these many years of monastic life.

  They would hunt or work for food; they would take nothing that was not freely given. They would heal the sick and that, gratis.

  On this they had both decided and both agreed.

  Their route now would take them through the Black Forest and over the Feldberg Mountain, a crossing that Andre had made before, dragging
behind him the dark ghoulish spectre of his remorse.

  They walked on through the short hours of daylight, stopping little to rest. Then as the thin sunlight faded and the night began to wrap its cold arms about them, they knelt in prayer together and asked of the Lord, His blessing.

  *

  Andre adhered to the tenets of the Quran ‘Allah loves those who purify themselves…’ accepted without question by many of the Knights of the Hospital. This Holy Book was not forbidden them in the East, as it was in their own lands. It had been consulted by the learned physicians and the Jews, along with the Torah and the Christian Testaments in their bid to find the best methods of healing. They’d found wisdom in them all.

  He washed himself in the stream that flowed sluggishly past, rinsing his mouth and nose, washing his hands up to his elbows, his face and feet. The brothers had laughed at first and regarded him with suspicion for his heathen ways, but he was certain this ritual had protected him from the terrible maladies raging all around them. And in this he had instructed Christian, believing that filth was the cause of much disease.

  They rested that first night in a hay-loft on the edge of the forest and supped on summer apples and honey dumplings. The moon was almost in its fullness and it lit the loft with a comforting glow that somehow matched their thoughts. Christian could not sleep and Andre stayed awake, listening to the boy’s excited chatter.

  Andre watched him now as he took his fathers letter from the battered satchel. He’d not spoken of it since they’d retrieved it from the abbot’s chest, but he knew that the boy had read it many times. Christian looked up and sighed. “I wish my father had been a coward.”

  Andre agreed. “Yes, perhaps you would still have your father if he had not been a man of such courage, your mother too. She must have been a woman of rare fortitude.” He had determined upon leaving the flapping ears and wagging tongues of the abbey to speak only the truth. What Christian learned now would shape the man he would become and tales and fantasies would only muddy the clear waters of reason. “I feel that intolerance may be the greatest of all evils, and our Mother the Church is guilty of much intolerance. To treat our fellow men so is an abomination, whatever the scriptures say.

  The truth is that she is like a beautiful and haughty woman. It is power that she craves.The faith of your mother and father must have drawn many to its fold. So it was a threat to the dominating power of the Church. That is why your family were accused as heretics and condemned.”

  Andre was thankful that Christian had never seen the horror of a burning.

  He’d witnessed an execution in Palermo as a young knight, one which their virtuous majesties, the king and queen of Spain had graced with their presence. They’d sat, stony faced, as the might and mercy of Holy Mother Church was displayed in all its glory.

  He’d never forgotten the gruesome spectacle of that day. It seemed that the whole city had turned out in its finery, food vendors, wine merchants and relic sellers jostling each other for business among the noisy throngs, jongleurs and acrobats vying for attention.

  Then a great roar from the crowd as the heretics were dragged out in chains, two women, two men…… Jews, black with bruises, shaved and starved to skeletons, wearing the sanbenito and corosa, the painted tunic and conical hat of a relapsed heretic.

  Andre pushed the memory of their terrible deaths away and saw instead, their overwhelming courage. He remembered their lips moving in prayer before the flames turned their faces into a rictus of agony. And he recalled the priests standing arrogantly before the screaming women, holding aloft the banners of Christ, watching as the tar soaked sackcloth burned away to reveal their heaving breasts.

  He felt that this horror must have gratified some urge in these seemingly pious men, relishing as they did such terrible suffering. He wondered now, coarsely, if many of them hid swollen pizzles under their fine garments in their lust for the pain of their victims.

  Bile rose in his throat at the thought.

  It was a horrifying end for many good people and Andre prayed that one day, the abbot’s dream of brotherhood and tolerance would emerge from the profound darkness in which they lived.

  He looked at Christian’s young face shining in the moonlight. Perhaps this innocent boy would acquire the wisdom of the sages to which he yearned and inherit the courage of his forebears, to right the wrongs of this unjust world.

  Christian nodded. “I do not remember my mother at all now.” Andre was lost in his own musings and had forgotten him. “Although sometimes I imagine I can smell her in the flowers that grow by the watermill, or in the sweet bread that Brother Wilhelm makes on Saturdays. Do you think that I might see her again Brother Andre?”

  Andre fought to keep the catch from his throat. “You will surely see her again, my son, your father too. But you have many years to live and much work to do before God calls you home.” He yawned and pulled his hood over his eyes. “Now sleep. Who knows what perils await us on the morrow.”

  As if in response, he felt the weight of his falchion, heavy on his leg.

  *

  Andre rose before dawn to pray.

  He sat quietly, enjoying the chill morning air bracing against his skin, the soft babbling of the water on the rocks, the assurance of a new day. The morning came quickly, bringing with it an unwilling sun and fine, misty rain.

  But there was a stillness that he could not reconcile with the comforting nature sounds around him. He was still thinking on this when Christian bounded up, full of excitement and eager to be on his way.

  He pointed to a rough hewn cottage further along the path, half hidden by marsh reeds at the forests edge. They’d seen no-one the day before and it seemed impolite not to thank the reaper for the comfortable bed. But as they neared the small dwelling, he began to feel a familiar wariness. He’d long been accustomed to relying on his instincts and they told him now to take heed. He reached out for Christian and pulled him close. “Look there, Christian. What do you see?”

  He stopped and peered intently. “Nothing Brother, no-one is stirring, nothing looks amiss.”

  Andre pointed to a corner of the house “The sun has been aloft for some time, yet no-one is about. Over there is a basket of wildflowers and a patch of tansy part weeded. Should there not be smoke from the chimney, dogs barking, a woman fetching water?”

  Christian noted a long scythe leaning against the wall, its curved blade glinting in the early light, an axe lodged in a post, wood stacked neatly beside. A few plump chickens pecked for insects in the verdant grass, a rooster crowed on the cottage roof.

  The reaper would not have left these precious tools unattended. Not in these days of hardship and wandering strangers.

  “Perhaps there is sickness in the house?” Andre nodded; it was what he’d been thinking himself. The goodwife would not have let such fine chickens wander abroad or let her family’s hearth go cold. The pathway beside the house was well trodden, and disease liked to travel also. The Black Death had left its evil footprint across the whole of Christendom and beyond. That this family had been taken unawares was not beyond the bounds of possibility.

  Andre had been in plague houses before, had been stunned by the swift passage from vague feelings of weariness and fever, to agonising death.

  He tried to think of the words that would prepare the boy for what they might find. This was not the infirmary, with its clean beds and linen bandages; this was the reality of his calling. “Christian, God does not give us the power to cure all ills, but we must never cross a threshold unless we can do some good.”

  As they approached they noted the thin wattle door ajar, a sweet, sickly stench they were both familiar with and the buzzing of flies. There was no mistaking now what had befallen the occupants of this house.

  Andre entered, Christian after, his young eyes already adjusting to the dim interior.

  He looked to the corner of the small room and saw two little girls laying entwined in each others arms, their coarse bedding black w
ith flies. It seemed as if they were peacefully sleeping but the indication of disease was apparent in their blotched and darkened skin, death in the stillness of their repose.

  A woman lay nearby covered with a piece of sackcloth stained with blood, her eyes cloudy and staring, flies crawling busily over her bloated face, into her nostrils and open mouth.

  Andre’ spoke first. “I fear they have been with the Lord for some time.” He bowed his head in silent prayer for them all.

  Christian looked around the miserable room, at the privation evident in the rough furnishings and sparse comforts. A small cooking pot lay tilted on the cold hearth, the remains of a potage filmed over with green scum and crawling maggots. But the children were warmly covered, their faces clean, their flaxen hair combed and dressed with small white meadow flowers. Two straw poppets lay beside their upturned faces.

  His heart lurched for the grief their mother must have felt as she fought this blind, raging monster for the lives of her children … and lost. He wondered if she welcomed the first tell tale signs of the disease in her own body, to be with her daughters in paradise and leave to the rest, this hellish existence. And then this heartrending scene became more heartrending still.

  He pulled the covering from the mother, seeing a misshapen bulge and there in her arms, an infant lay dead, still suckled at his mother’s teat, his small fist clenched at her withered breast.

  He bent to touch the lifeless body, feeling the child’s skin waxy and cool, hoping against hope some shred of existence remained. He could not stop the tears and let them fall, unashamed. Then he looked up and saw something else in the darkness of the roof beams. A man hanging, dirty bare feet pointed downwards, neck at an impossible angle, his face shadowed in gloom.

  He backed away in horror. This was an unpardonable sin in the eyes of the Lord. The abbot had told him so. The taking of ones own life, which belongs to God, would promise an eternity in hell.