At the time, when she was a little mouse-faced child with dull, credulous eyes, Elsbeth had not appreciated the full import of this. Now, surrounded always by the smell of this place, she found it perhaps the most salient fact of all: the journey from life to death, from ashes to ashes and from dust to dust, was not a sudden thing, an abrupt and shocking drop from the bright world of the living to the gloomy halls of the dead.
No, it was continual, a slow and inexorable slipping away. She’d been dying for nearly as long as she could remember. And now this man, this Manfried Haupt, this bright-eyed, bantam-sized, battering ram was here to make certain that she would linger in this state of near-expiration for as long as he could possibly prolong it. It made her want to renounce her vows, to take the stone bowl from which she ate her daily gruel, to feel its hard edge beneath the pads of her papery-skinned fingers, to dash it against his temple—and then what? To escape. To run down the mountain, Shallya’s beloved peak, and let it take her.
But of course even if this were a sensible plan—and she had the strength to down such a vigorous young man in a single blow, without being intercepted by his underlings or the countless pilgrims streaming up the mountain like frantic rats—here was the greater point: it would be the grossest of sins against Shallya, the goddess to whom Elsbeth had absolutely dedicated her life, her thoughts and, ever since the gift came upon her, the very fibres of her body. This was not a test—Shallya was not so cruel as to continually tempt her most fervent followers—but Elsbeth would have to bear it as if it was.
The door opened. Manfried swept through it. Elsbeth did not flinch or jolt. She never flinched.
Diffused firelight filled the room. One of Manfried’s stone-faced factotums stood behind him, setting a lantern down on the stony floor. Manfried came into the room without asking, and without knocking. No introductory pleasantries for him. They were a waste of valuable time.
He gestured to Mother Elsbeth, beckoning her to turn his way, for inspection.
“How are we today, your holiness?” he asked her.
Manfried Haupt was short and small of frame, but it was easy to tell that all of the flesh under his exquisitely maintained black cassock was muscle, ropy and well defined. A high, perfectly level hairline set off his rectangular face. Boxy ears hugged flat to the sides of his head, their inner structures as intricate and complex as any Mother Elsbeth had ever seen. Sharp, pointed eyebrows occupied the space above Manfried’s eyes, perpetually signalling his many ambitions. But it was the eyes themselves that were Haupt’s most memorable feature: they glittered, dark as coal, telling all but giving away nothing.
“I interrupted you at your meditations?” he asked. No matter how loudly he spoke, his voice always carried with it a harsh, whispery undertone, giving his simplest utterances the impetus of menace and emergency.
“If you learned to knock, you wouldn’t have to fear interrupting me…” Elsbeth’s voice still surprised her; she’d said little for many years, its thin, vibrating sound belonged to nearly forgotten memory.
Father Manfried dismissed her rebuke with a twitch of his razory eyebrows. “I come to see to your health,” he said.
“I am tired.”
“Pilgrims continue to gather outside.”
Elsbeth said nothing. It was a good tactic: the one response that always seemed to flummox him was no response at all.
“More are arriving every day. They come by the dozens. Hundreds.”
“I told you this was a big mistake.”
“What was?”
“Telling the world I was once again ready to receive penitents. You shouldn’t have done it.”
“Mistake? It shows the great need out there.”
“There will always be need.”
Manfried sat himself down on her pallet, testing it. He immediately stood up again. “See there? This is what I’ve been talking about. The reversal. It’s me, the servant of Sigmar, who always finds himself arguing for mercy, and you, the proselyte of Shallya, who wants to withhold it.” He was not looking at Elsbeth, but at his lantern-bearer, who made a more appreciative audience—he continually nodded at his superior.
Mother Elsbeth returned to her mirror. “The world is sick and dying. There’s never mercy enough to go around.”
“You make it sound as if you’ve lost your faith, your holiness.”
“Faith is not a well that can be constantly drawn upon. At least, mine isn’t. I need rest.”
“That’s what the powers of darkness would like you to say, isn’t it?”
Elsbeth spotted a long and wayward hair corkscrewing its way out of her eyebrow. She plucked it, then held it close to her eyes to study it.
“I’ll confess,” said Manfried, noting the confines of Elsbeth’s cell, trying to work out how to pace in such a small space, “that when I was denied my post at Averheim, I felt that my true calling had been stolen from under me. Now I see that Sigmar had a bigger task in mind for me. He sees the need for Shallya’s mercy. As any general sees the need for medics in the field. And what is the general’s greatest task?”
Elsbeth did not attempt a guess.
Manfried answered his own question: “To attend to his troops’ morale. That is my task here. To re-stoke the fires of your flagging determination. You must get out there and heal again.”
“I am not a soldier. And you are not my general.”
“We are all soldiers, in the fight against Chaos.”
The trembling of Elsbeth’s hands stepped itself up even further. “We didn’t ask you here. The priests of Sigmar have no authority over the priestesses of Shallya.”
Manfried exchanged an almost smirking look with his lantern-bearer. “Of course we don’t. We’ve come merely to guard you from harm. A great wave of Chaos sweeps the lands of men. Haven’t you heard?”
“So you say, but it still gives you no authority—”
“What lesson do you think it teaches the faithful, to come all this way, and be refused?”
“You’ve no right to enforce your will on us.” She turned to face the wall.
“My god’s mission is the very survival of mankind,” hissed Manfried. He darted his head at her, so she couldn’t help but meet his black-eyed gaze.
Elsbeth’s knees wobbled.
The young priest continued, “If we must protect you mercy priestesses from your own sloth and weakness, if we must seize authority in this time of tribulation, then I say: so be it.”
“No matter how eager I might be, I can never see everyone.”
As if nothing had happened, Manfried shifted back to his attitude of pretend concern. He shrugged. “You can’t serve everyone. So you insist on helping no one?”
Elsbeth sighed.
Father Manfried clapped his hands together, twice. On the back of his right hand, Elsbeth saw the crisscrossing slashes of an old war wound. “In particular, there’s a man and his daughter, who I want you to meet.”
Elsbeth lay back down on her wooden bed.
Manfried’s brows spasmed in annoyance. “He is an important man. A very pious man. He owns a good third of Averheim’s best land. He’s a copious contributor to the new cathedral there.”
“The cathedral your grandfather planned and your father built,” said Elsbeth, placing her sweat-stained, flattened pillow over the top half of her face.
Manfried smiled happily. He thought she was making his point for him. For such a calculating man, he had a wide streak of naiveté in him. “Yes. And he is very influential in the church. He has sent his sole and precious daughter all this way. She is barren, you see.”
“Not crippled, or infected with some wasting disease, or suffering the creeping taint of Chaos?”
“No,” said Manfried, “just barren. And it is very important to the father that she be marriageable.”
“If she’s yet to be married, how do you know she’s barren?”
“Her previous husband, when there was no issue, annulled the union, and sent her back. It w
as quite humiliating for the father. Now he has a chance to reverse his mortification and seal a great alliance—providing the girl can be made fruitful.”
“So now Sigmar is an arranger of marriages?”
“It is, in fact, crucial to the Empire that its wealthy nobles are bound together in this time of crisis. That they prosper, so that armies might be fielded and equipped.”
“And it wouldn’t be that if you please this man, that he might use his influence to get back what was stolen from you? Make you prelate of the church at Averheim?”
Manfried’s face constricted. “You seem well enough. Or is it time for another treatment?”
Elsbeth felt the fear again. It shamed her, but she couldn’t help it. Running a retreat full of sisters had never prepared her to deal with a man like this. She looked at her stone bowl. She imagined striking him with it. “I don’t need another treatment,” she said, her voice breaking.
CHAPTER FIVE
A night spent sleeping on cold rock had dampened the pilgrims’ spirits, rendering them dull-faced but compliant. They pulled down their tents quickly, hoping that vigorous effort would get some warmth back into their bones. The formation proved easier to set now that Krieger was dead; Angelika had Altman drag the stretcher, with the corpse strapped to it, down the side of the plateau.
After several hours worth of downward climb, they found a patch of forest where the earth was deep enough to make a shallow grave. The friar stepped up to speak words in aid of the slain. It would have been better to have a devotee of the death-god, Morr, do the honours, but Gerhold’s prayers would have to suffice. He commended Thomas’ soul to Sigmar, pointing out that he had died both a warrior and a pious man, Angelika watched as Franziskus, Richart and Jurg spaded earth over Krieger’s body, which was already shrunken and diminished. Under the handkerchief covering the poor man’s face, Angelika knew that his expression still bore the shock of death.
Krieger’s effects were not much, but Angelika had claimed them out of principle. She needed to assure herself that she had not taken leave of her senses altogether. In her pocket was the purse she’d removed from Krieger’s belt. It contained a mere dozen crowns and a brass brooch of questionable value. His sword and hauberk would be worth more than these, so she’d added them to Franziskus’ pack.
The group made good, quiet progress through the woods. They’d almost returned to the lowest level of the pass and were skirting a long stretch of impassable rock. The thick trees would screen them, Angelika hoped, from any marauders prowling the floor of the pass. They’d also give the miller more chances to whip branches in the summoner’s face, but so far he hadn’t availed himself of any.
Noon arrived along with the sound of a rushing stream, up ahead. Angelika declared an hour’s stop for rest and water.
Franziskus volunteered to fill water skins for Devorah and the prioress. By the time he’d got back, Heilwig had gone off into the woods to attend to her bodily business, leaving him alone with the pretty sister. “Here you go,” he said. She unscrewed the container’s copper cap and lifted it to her lips, drinking greedily. The water glugged as it cascaded down her throat. Little streams of it escaped her lips and dripped down her skin. Her head was turned so that the sunlight illuminated the network of tiny, downy hairs on the side of her cheek.
“Aaah,” she said, as her thirst was quenched.
Franziskus tried to think of something to say. Over the course of an instant, a number of possibilities came to mind, all of which he rejected. He would not say “Cold water, isn’t it?” Or “It’s good to drink, after a long walk, is it not?” Or “Whenever you need more water, just ask.” Or any of the dozen other variations of a similar theme.
“So are you a deserter?” she asked him, brightly.
He stammered.
“Why else would you be down here, a young man of such obvious qualities?”
“Ah,” Franziskus said, at length. He did not think she was teasing him, or criticising, but he could not be sure.
“I would think it would be very hard to serve in the army. It’s a brutal life.”
Franziskus nodded. “My troop was wiped out. If it weren’t for Angelika, I’d have shared their fate.”
Devorah watched Angelika, who sat on the edge of the stream, trailing her small bare feet through the icy water. Her expression was masked. “You two are…?” Devorah asked.
“No, no,” said Franziskus. “Not in the slightest. We are travelling companions, that is all. I owe her my life, so I’ve sworn to protect her as best I can.”
Devorah gave Angelika a thorough squint. “Though she, like me, is of the weaker sex, she doesn’t look as if she needs much protecting.”
“She has made that point herself,” Franziskus said. “And perhaps I made the wrong decision. But I decided it was to her I owed the higher debt, and so stayed at her side, instead of returning home to Averland and joining up with a new troop. Which is what the law would have me do.”
The sister cocked her head thoughtfully. “I think fighting wars is right for only certain kinds of men. Others, with finer sensibilities, should do other things.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
“I had two brothers go off to the wars. One of them, the older brother, was the proper sort for it. He fought bravely and rose to quartermaster. My younger brother, was a frail sort, and melancholy. He didn’t outlast his first engagement. In the end, though, my older brother wound up joining him. It’s the way of this world of ours, or so I suppose.”
A pause ensued, during which Franziskus struggled for a way to navigate the conversation to more congenial waters. “So what moved you to enter the cloister?” he heard himself asking. He cursed himself for being an idiot.
Devorah kicked absently at a small stone. “My father was a free farmer. Our land got blighted by Chaos. We’d plant grain and vegetables and all we’d get for our labour was a field writhing with strange, rotting worms. In the end we were depending entirely on my brothers sending home part of their combat pay. When they both died…” She dipped her head down. Franziskus patted her on the arm. She snaked an arm around him and squeezed him lightly. Then, just as quickly, she disengaged from him. “When they both died, my father pleaded with the prioress to take me in. If it weren’t for her mercy—I wouldn’t like to think how I’d be earning my living now.”
“Then you owe everything to Shallya’s mercy,” Franziskus said.
Devorah nodded. “I’m afraid that’s so.”
“Are you still in contact with your father?”
She wiped at her eyes. “Let’s think of something cheerful to say to each other.”
Nothing came to mind. Franziskus saw Ivo Kirchgeld at the stream, bending low to fill his water container, his narrow buttocks wiggling up into the air. He caught Devorah’s gaze and nodded toward the pardoner, letting her in on the joke. She covered her mouth, giggling like a wind chime.
“You’ve chosen some colourful travelling companions,” Franziskus said.
Devorah laughed. “I didn’t choose them. The group just formed itself, up in Grenzstadt. We were all ready to leave at about the same time, and—”
“So there you are!” a loud voice cooed. Franziskus turned to see the Widow Kloster bustling up toward them, thick feet tromping through the weeds and wet grasses. He sighed and clenched his teeth. He thought he saw an instant’s worth of frustration on Devorah’s face, too, but could not be sure. “You now!” cried the widow. She tottered over to him, puffing from the effort, and steadied herself by grabbing onto his shoulder. He struggled to keep his balance.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, young man.” She’d added a new fillip of beet-purple makeup to her mask of rouge and powder; smudgy triangles ran from beneath her eyes up to each temple, in an apparent attempt to simulate cheekbones. In actual effect, it made her round head resemble a red cabbage. Though no expert on female self-decoration, it seemed to Franziskus that this new make-up colour did not go well with h
er orange hair.
“You’re not going to just stand there like a post, are you?” she asked him. She brayed out a laugh and shot a practiced elbow into his ribcage. “I know young men like you. All stiff and straight. It’s the uncertainty of youth. You need a little breaking in. What was your name again?”
“Franziskus.”
“The exact name had slipped my mind but I knew it was a bold and handsome one.” The Widow Kloster fished into a little leather pouch that dangled from her belt. She withdrew a small silver box, enamelled with a pink and thorny rose, and popped it open. She held it under Franziskus’ nose. “Snuff?” she asked. Franziskus made a face. The widow packed a ball of snuff into her right nostril and inhaled mightily. Devorah and Franziskus watched as she coughed and sputtered. Finally she caught her breath again. “They say the young are wild and profligate,” she went on, “but my experience is the opposite. So many of them are like you two, nervous of your every desire and frightened of life.” She tamped a bigger wad of snuff into the other side of her nose.
“You wanted to speak to me about something?” Franziskus asked.
“I’m doing it right now.” She inhaled the snuff, shuddered as it did its work on her then placed her paws on Devorah’s arm. “He’s a lovely one, isn’t he?”
Devorah did not know what to say.
“See?” crowed the widow. “That’s what I’m speaking of. Clearly the two of you are moon-eyed for one another, yet you have no idea what do to about it. So you stand about like a couple of bewildered scarecrows. Young people must not waste themselves on one another. They don’t know what they’re appreciating. You, my dear”—she pointed at Devorah with the jagged fingernail of her little finger—“must get yourself out of that wretched habit before you go all mouldy inside, like that stuck-up prioress of yours. Put that fine frame of yours to its proper use. Find a silver-templed old fellow with a codpiece full of coin. That’s what I did when I was your age. Never regretted it.”
[Angelika Fleischer 02] - Sacred Flesh Page 6