Startaker

by Marian Goddard

  Christian thought of what lay ahead, the people he might meet and the marvels he might see, the bright whirling dervishes, the magi of the East with their charts and scrolls and incantations, the wise Hebrew scholars and mysterious Egypt, full of grand temples and hidden knowledge.

  With all his heart he wanted that knowledge, to heal and comfort and ease the suffering of those he saw around him. And he knew with a sureness he couldn’t explain, that one day, it would be granted.

  He wrapped himself in his travelling cloak, pulled his bonnet over his face and drifted into contented sleep.

  Tomorrow they would begin the journey through the passes, out of Germany and onward to the coast, to take ship to Jerusalem.

  *

  The snow fell heavily the next day and the day after. They were fortunate they had so few possessions. Christian’s small apothecary box weighed heavy on his shoulders and began to chafe against his backbone, creating sore patches of raw, bleeding skin.

  Andre’s limp became worse until Christian insisted he stop to examine his feet and found large, inflamed blisters where his new boots had rubbed against his toes. He applied salve and bound them with the muslin that Mistress Berta had wrapped the dumplings in and they joked about the healing power of honey dumplings.

  Eerie echoes howled like long dead ghosts through the natural corridor made by the cliffs towering above them, but the snow had hardened to a firm crust, making walking easier. They said little as they journeyed on, the fierce wind whipping the words from their mouths as soon as they were spoken.

  When their battle with the wind bent them double with weariness, they stopped at last, finding an underhanging rock to shelter them. They ate the hazelnuts Christian had gathered in the forest and slept till the morning, wrapped like cocoons in their cloaks.

  The next day the sky was heavy and grey with threatened snow but it stayed in the heavens and they made their way steadily, enjoying the surreal majesty of the alpine peaks. It was a place where time was measured by the beating of a heart or the inhalation of a breath. It was not hard to imagine that they alone inhabited the world.

  They saw the tracks of snow foxes and marmots, but no living thing crossed their path, even the birds had disappeared from the sky.

  Christian padded like a leopard in the snow, alert and watchful for small game, comfortable in his surroundings. It made Andre glad and he prayed that the boy would find that which he sought.

  For himself, he thought of the righting of wrongs and of peace.

  Nothing could give the children back their lives, but they had been innocent, welcomed into the arms of the Lord with joy. His beautiful Yiola had taken her own life and would burn in eternal torment if he could not make amends.

  It was his fault that the children had been murdered in their beds, not hers. And he had carried his guilt through the years like a bloated leech fastened to his soul.

  He’d hidden behind a pillar as she tended the babes in the nursery, singing sweet lullabies, her pure clear voice like a softly ringing bell. He’d watched her lay a dead child to rest, her tears falling like pearls on the pale waxen face and ached to kiss away her pain.

  And when he wrapped his strong arms around her at last and pulled her close, his tunic still stained with the blood of the battlefield, she’d tried to push him away but he’d held her, knowing by her bright eyes and the heart beating like a fluttering wing under his hand that she wanted him too.

  He remembered pulling away her veil and the clean, silken feel of her hair as it fell through his fingers like sunlit water, the soft warmth of her cheek as he tasted her salty tears and then the moist velvet feel of her tongue in his mouth as his need for her reached such heights that he thought he would drown in an ocean of desire. And later, the smell of jasmine on the warm summer night, his big hand cupping her breast as the other explored gently between her parting thighs, not needing now to be overcome by his strength. And the world disappearing as her cool hand reached down to close around his swollen manhood and guide him to her, willingly.

  They’d both known it was wrong. He was bound by his vows and she, an orphan put to use in the nursery to save her from starvation. But he’d been young and strong and full of fire.

  The memory of what he’d done filled him with shame even now. He walked on, not looking at Christian, lost in his past.

  She’d tried to resist him, he knew that now. She’d shown him in the way her eyes averted his gaze as he worked in the infirmary and in the way she stayed close to the others as they tended the sick.

  Gaspard knew. He’d sensed the tension between them. The big knight was not known for his subtlety and he’d waited until they were alone, grabbed Andre by the throat and pushed him against the wall. He must stop. The woman had been dishonoured. Could he not see that he placed them both in danger?

  Andre had brought up his fist and smashed it into his friend’s face, outrage blinding him to the truth. Blood spurted from a gash in Gaspard’s cheek but he was bigger and not given to displays of temper. He’d looked calmly into Andre’s eyes then reached down to take the dagger from his belt. He threw it into the corner and walked away, saying nothing. For the first time since they were children, they’d raised a hand against each other.

  The encounter had left him shivering and overcome with shame. He’d hurt his friend in a flash of anger and worse, Gaspard had felt the need to disarm him. Had he thought he would use his knife against the man he’d always loved as a brother?

  But Gaspard was right. The knights of St John were looked upon as intruders on the island and now the citizens had become surly and resentful. The penalty for relations with a Cypriot woman was severe. And he had broken his vows, an inexcusable act.

  He’d wept at the thought of not holding her in his arms, not feeling her soft lips against his. That he loved her he had no doubt, but he realised his love for his Order and his Lord must be stronger. He would do penance for his disobedience, his pride and his lust. He would ask her forgiveness for the loss of her innocence and try as best he might to atone for his behaviour.

  He’d resolved to leave her alone and attend to his duty.

  But the world was bigger than two lovers and the horror that was to come would drive all thoughts of her from his mind.

  *

  A few weeks later the plague showed its loathsome face to the beleaguered inhabitants of Cyprus.

  A Portuguese slave-galley carrying natives to be sold in the markets of Genoa docked in the harbour, bringing with it spices, silks and the reek of death.

  The stink of the ship forewarned them of its approach while still outside the headland and as it came closer, the wailing of the slaves shackled below carried on the wind like the howl of whipped dogs.

  There was something grey and cowering about the way the vessel hung limp in the water and the harbour master denied the captain refuge, calling to him from the wharf that no ship could berth without a permit from the Seneschal, and permission would not be granted if the ship carried contagion.

  The swarthy captain pulled back his shoulders and vowed that his ship was without disease but run dangerously low on water, being turned away from every port they’d sighted.

  The orange sun hung low on the horizon as it came alongside the pier, the captain manoeuvring the ship close before shouting down with a carrion smile that he carried black pepper, nutmeg and opium from the Holy land, which he would be willing to trade, for the right price.

  While two silent crewmen threw the dock-lines over the bollards and tied it fast, the harbour master walked its length, noting the filth encrusting the hull above the water line, the rats scuttling along the hawser to shore and the reek of human waste seeping from its hold. Barrels of water and fruit were hauled across on ropes while the townsfolk ambled down to the wharf to watch the spectacle of a fully laden slave-ship.

  They were disappointed. The pleas and groans of the wretches packed tight in the hold would have melted the heart of the devil, but the captain kep
t them locked below.

  The harbour master set a watch for the night to ensure no-one disembarked and waited for the Seneschal. The next morning it was turned away, both agreeing that the ship had a certain fetid miasma that bespoke of trouble.

  The captain was unconcerned; he had water and his goods were a valued commodity everywhere. He showed his gratitude by dropping his kedges at the furthest point of the bay and throwing over the side the rotting carcasses of the slaves who’d lain dead in the hold, manacled to the living.

  The sharks had surrounded the ship, thrashing and whirling in frenzied circles as they ripped and tore at the bodies as they tumbled into the water. The rest washed up on the sands and over the next few days, and before the sun set on the third, the infirmary began to fill with feverish and worried citizens.

  Andre worked in the open courtyard, tending to the most severe, but between one Sabbath and the next, half the islands population had succumbed and swollen corpses lay in the hot dusty streets for want of strong hands to bury them.

  The men were always the first to succumb and the first to be shut away from loved ones and help, in fear of spreading the disease further. There was usually nothing to be done. Either they lived or died, stinking of putrefaction, black buboes livid and disgusting and their families would be left without strong men to till the fields or bring in the harvest.

  They tried to keep the children safe, only Yiola coming and going between the nursery and the outside, fetching clean water and food, then blocking the gaps under the doors and covering the small windows to keep the evil humours out. They were orphans too and she cosseted them like her own.

  One week stretched into another and still they battled the Black Death, Andre working through the nights, dragging his feet, his eyes grown dim from weariness, until finally Gaspard ordered him to rest. He sat propped against the wall eating a fig, the stench of decay thick in his nostrils. And then he saw her drawing water from the well, her face swathed in muslin. She turned and moved toward him, her beautiful eyes filled with longing, but he jumped to his feet and blocked her path, his hands held up in front of him as if to turn her away.

  She must have seen the truth in his eyes for she lowered her head, her knuckles white on the handle of the water jar and he put his hand under her chin and lifted it up, forcing her to look at him. What he saw there made his heart leap, but he pushed away his desire for her and stepped back, steeling his resolve.

  He begged her forgiveness and admitted the shame he felt for the advantage he had taken. He’d forced himself upon her for the basest of reasons. He told her to look for a husband who would care for her, as his duty could be to no earthly woman. He knew what he said was cruel; he could see the hurt in her eyes. She’d looked at him for just a moment, her dark eyes moist with tears and ran past him to the nursery.

  He stood silently, tasting the bitter gall of treachery on his tongue and then walked back to the courtyard to tend to the living among the dead.

  No-one saw Yiola the next day or the day after. The chaplain became concerned when he went to bless the children on the morning of the Sabbath and all was in silence. They forced open the door and found her lifeless, her veins opened and emptied onto the stone floor. The children had been washed, neatly tucked into bed and smothered in their sleep. When the chaplain emerged pale and shocked it was Andre he looked for among the others.

  He went straight to the Grand Master and confessed.

  He had dishonoured her, he had forced her against her will and it was his fault that her mind had given way. She was a poor orphan and he had taken the only thing she had, her innocence. He did not want the sanctity of the confessional, he wanted his guilt laid bare and shouted to the world.

  The Grand Master looked upon him with distaste and had him flogged in the stables, with all the knights assembled as witness. He was a worldly man, used to the passions of young men, so he saved his anger for Gaspard who, after the fifth lash tore into Andre’s flesh, strode across the yard and knocked the whip out of the lictor’s hands. Then he stood, feet planted apart, his sword resting between them, defying the others to approach. No-one did. They were well loved among their brethren.

  The Grand Master expelled them both from the Order for the breaking of their vows.

  Poverty, chastity and obedience. Only poverty remained to them now and they walked away with their few possessions and begged passage home.

  Andre had lain feverish for a week on the deck of the ship, his wounds weeping and livid. Gaspard saw to the outward damage but could do nothing for the guilt that skulked around him like a wraith.

  The children were interred in the crypts, a mass said for their innocent souls. Yiola was buried outside the walls and the townsfolk spat on the last sod that covered her.

  *

  Andre stumbled and Christian moved quickly to his side. “I thank you my boy. The rocks are treacherous here.” But Christian had been watching him for some time and had seen the anguish that he’d not thought to hide.

  Ice blasted trees stood like skeletons against the fading light as they found shelter once again in the lee of the rocks. The wind had carved a small cave in the face of the cliff and here they took refuge for the night, Andre wrapping himself against the cold and falling gratefully into sleep.

  Christian gathered the dry twigs that lay around them and lit a small fire at the entrance, filling the cave with cosy warmth and the soft, resinous scent of pine. He ate half the nuts that were left, saving the rest for Andre, but he was still hungry and the chill seemed to have seeped through to the marrow of his bones, denying him sleep.

  He took the astrolabe out of his father’s pouch.

  The wind ceased its howling and the night came down quickly, a sliver of moon hanging pale in the heavens, setting a scene of such profound beauty that Christian thought he might weep at the sight.

  He handled the instrument carefully, setting the pendulum and rule in line with the horizon that lay far in the distance, but his calculations were made difficult by the poor light and their lofty perspective, so he contented himself with studying the fine engravings on its surface. He’d never asked Andre how he came to own such a thing and he wondered now at its provenance. Had it been possessed by an astronomer, a learned man, a prince? What other hand had sighted it at the sky and called down the stars? His fingers tingled at the thought.

  He was still watching the play of the stars against the velvet sky when Andre rose to pray. He stood beside him, laid a hand on his shoulder and pointed at lights twinkling in a hazy shimmer below. Christian had been so intent upon his contemplation of the heavens he hadn’t noticed the early morning wakening of the town beneath them.

  *

  The road to the town was narrow and ill made and the stinking gibbet cages on either side overflowed their foul cargo onto the muddy ground. Andre fingered his beads. They had been men once.

  This death by hanging, till the flesh rotted and fell from the bones, was a common enough punishment now. He remembered a journey to Stuttgart one frosty spring morning, where he’d gone to negotiate the price for a wagonload of wine the brothers had put away to pay for repairs to the summer refectory. He’d stopped to give thanks for his safe journey at a beautiful three-naved church in the centre of the town and looked up to see the tower hung with iron cages just like these, each with a whimpering man inside. The citizens had gathered to watch, hoping for sight of the devil dragging his minions off to hell, for it was always a good showing, they said, when Waldensians were brought to account. They were to hang till the crows pecked out their eyes and thirst drove them to rip open their veins with their teeth for want of a drink. They were given no mercy.

  He banged with the flat of his hand on the thick wooden gate and a coarse, wavering voice answered from within. “Declare your business!”

  “We are pilgrims sire, bound for the Holy Land and Jerusalem.” Andre could see the pride in Christian’s face as he called through the small opening but the reply was harsh
and unexpected.

  “Yet more pious scavengers in search of a meal they haven’t earned is it?”

  Christian’s jaw dropped open in surprise but Andre’s voice was gentle. “Good gatekeeper, we are pilgrims surely, but we are also trained in physic. Many are suffering in these difficult times and we offer help. We ask no payment.”

  A dark eye and bushy grey eyebrow showed at the peephole, moving up and down, resting on Andre’s grey robe. “Well, the good folk of Trent won’t be needin’ the help of any beak doctors and leech squeezers, thanks be to the Lord.

  A monk heh?” The eye narrowed and regarded them steadily. “No pox or swellings?” Andre pushed back his hood and showed his unscarred face to the eye. “What about the boy?” Christian did the same. Hoarse laughter followed them as the gate swung open on creaking hinges. “Well, I bid ye enter then, lest we be in peril of our mortal souls.”

  They approached the town square and saw a hive of activity in the dawning light. It was market day. Shopkeepers were unloading their wares from carts and wagons, shouting and whistling, each calling to the other in good natured rivalry.

  Christian’s eyes grew wide as he wandered among stalls laden with loaves of warm bread, fresh apples and fruit pies, cider in barrels and new milk in jugs, bright painted eggs, trussed and squawking chickens tied on poles and tubs of wriggling eels.

  He hurried across to help a fishwife whose catch of tench was so fresh it had slithered out onto the cobbles. He grabbed at the slippery, flipping fish and placed them back in the basket, laughing. The fishwife smiled her thanks and gave him a penny.

  His nose led him to a trestle table piled high with golden baked bread steaming in the chill air. He chose two soft honey rolls and handed his money to the portly baker, then offered them to Andre, who waved them away, “Too rich for me… but let them not go to waste.”