by C. B. Currie
Donnal left Haendric alone in the drafty chamber and he sat on a stool beside the lifeless Beland, whom he’d known the better part of twenty years. He was pale, stiff looking, but the surgeons had preserved him well enough, trimmed his hair and beard and left him looking at peace.
‘Your son lives and has been sent away on an important errand.’ He felt a little strange talking to the dead, but he was alone, and he had often held conversations in his head with other friends who’d passed, including Prior Algwyn, and a face from a lifetime ago whose name he’d never speak.
‘He still hasn’t been told you are his father, but I suppose I’ll share that with him when he comes back. It may be some time, but I know that’s what you wanted. The war may not happen after all. The king conceded to some of the nobles’ demands, sent his cousin home with a few new lands and titles and a lot of promises. But you did not die for nothing. Anyone who fought against the tyranny of those cursed deacons contributed to the betterment of the country. I believe that and I know you would.
‘I know you were never fond of theology, but I think I know what they were after. The books, Beland, the heathen books. There is a mystery and a power in them. I think they tell of the Prophet’s life in much more detail than the Strictures. They fear that, they fear what truths it might reveal. I know you were never especially fond of the heathens either, but the truth might just be written down somewhere in old Qureshi…’
‘Father Haendric?’ A woman’s voice interrupted, and he turned to see a pretty girl standing in the doorway.
He nodded, turned back and placed a hand on the side of the altar.
‘We’ll talk before tomorrow, old friend,’ he whispered and stood, picked up the stool and walked to the door.
She was taller than most common girls, big-boned with honey-blonde hair and large brown eyes in plump face. Her dress was dirty and she looked tired and worn but she was very attractive.
‘What is your name, child?’
‘Caera. They sent me and my grandmother to help you in the infirmary.’ Haendric expected that’s where they’d have a use for him, but he hadn’t washed or made any preparation to start work yet. More sick folk. They’d put him straight to work in the infirmary though he knew himself and knew he could not sit idly by. It was never ending, and he could do with the help for the brothers at the Keep seemed to have little clue.
‘Captain Donnal also said I should give you this,’ and she held up a satchel. Haendric took it, looked inside and felt his breath catch. One of the missing books from Havenside, the other one by Al Ghalil.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘Thieves. They took it from some other thieves and then left it with us when they ran away.’
He studied her closely, looking for a lie, and thought she might not be telling him everything. But then there were no women posted at the Order’s houses, so she was clearly a refugee from the shire. She had no doubt seen enough hardship and her stories were her own to keep or share if she wished.
‘I asked for assistants to tend to the sick. There are many coming in from the camps and a few here with the Scourge. Are you afraid of death?’
‘I have been around sick folk these past months and I haven’t gotten ill yet. My grandmother is a healer in Brookleith.’
‘Ah, the Old Woman of Brookleith,’ Haendric nodded, ‘I’ve heard about her and her potions for years. What was her name again?’
‘Drunith.’
‘That’s it. Even the priest said she was good. Kept the town in good health. How is Father Birgald these days?’
‘He passed as well.’
‘And the rest of your family?’
‘Dead too,’ the girl answered, close to tears.
‘Come then, let’s pray for them and then we’ll see what you and your grandmother can do for us.’
They went to a smaller altar at the far end of the room where a wooden sculpture of the Lifetree stood. Haendric had them both kneel and spoke perfunctorily through the Prayer of Mourning.
‘Dear Prophet in Heaven, take this child’s loved ones into your arms. Hold and keep them in the eternal light of grace and let not darkness carry them away…’ He wondered as he muttered by rote if the lass could tell from his voice that he cared little for such sentiments anymore and doubted if prayer would help anyone, but this is what he was supposed to do for commoners.
‘…And keep this child safe and bring her to your light. Let her life be one of good works and service to the Faith.’
They stood and made the holy sign before the altar and Haendric took the girl to the small room he’d been given in the library, which was only a turn of the corridor away from the infirmary. There was a bed, two chairs and a small table. It was much like his room at Havenside had been, but it was larger, draftier and thankfully had an open fireplace, which the stewards had kept ablaze.
‘Let’s take a look at this book you’ve found,’ said Haendric as he sat by the fireside. He opened the tome over his lap and ran a finger over the pages.
‘You read the Heathen words?’ Caera asked.
‘Qureshi, yes. But I’m not that good anymore. Do you read at all?’
The girl shrugged and looked abashed.
‘Of course not,’ Haendric answered for her, closing the book. ‘Perhaps I might teach you, though we’d best start with our own language first. And Drunith, where is she now?’
‘I can read some of it,’ the girl blurted out.
The old priest raised an eyebrow. ‘Now that would be a sight. And where did you learn Qureshi?’
‘From one of the vagabonds. One of Barthol’s men.’
‘A thief?’ The priest was incredulous. He had ministered to all sorts over the years and had never met a thief that could read his native Wesgar, let alone another tongue.
‘He learned some words from another of the rogues who’d served a foreigner in the capital.’
‘Possible I suppose, said Haendric. ‘Though I can’t imagine why he’d teach a servant to read. Here, take the book and show me.’
The girl handled the book gingerly and for a moment seemed not to know which way it opened or how to hold it. But she held it upright and opened it front to back and found the page she was looking for. She pointed, running her finger from right to left in the correct order until she landed on the word.
‘This one, he taught me this word: Ashlak.’
Haendric was mildly impressed. That an unlettered girl could find a word in a foreign text and remember its script was also something he had never witnessed before. The impression left by the thief must have been strong indeed.
‘Let me see,’ he said, reaching for the book.
Caera turned it around. ‘Here,’ she pointed. ‘Ashlak.’
Haendric chuckled delightedly. ‘Yes, touch in their tongue, or the old version of it. Sometimes it’s also used for hands or fingers. But my dear you have it wrong. I’m sure the word is Ashlaq. I’ve seen it many times myself.’
‘That’s what I said, Ashlak.’
‘No Ashlaq. Look here,’ and he began to translate the page before him and it occurred to him that he should surely have noted the events of the story before, for they were similar to the other book he’d sent away with Vanis.
‘The Healer was then brought to the son of the Sheikh, who lay dying in his tent and was told that only he could revive the youth and that only this prince could rule after his father. The man placed his hands on the stricken youth and uttered the words…No I am sure, it’s Ashlaq.’
‘Ashlaq,’ she repeated, though more quietly and with less confidence.
Haendric closed the book and took it from her. Some people couldn’t be taught so easily. In any case she was needed to help tend to others and lessons, if they ever began, would be in her own tongue, not Old Qureshi.
‘We’ll get you started on something a little simpler, I think,’ he smiled tiredly. ‘Now why don’t you fetch me dear old Drunith? I would like to meet her finally.’
The girl left and he opened the book again to the page she’d found for him. Qureshi pronunciation could be tricky but she’d been so close. Or maybe he was wrong, for he’d never met a three hundred year old heathen. Nonetheless it wounded his pride somewhat that there were commoners out there who could at least pretend to his own rare skills. Perhaps there were thieves who could read, and perhaps village girls who could be taught to.
The funeral of the knight Beland took place in a large square garden behind the main keep on a bright morning. The sun reflected off the white headstones and the grass looked strangely green for this time of year. Yet the air was cold and the occasion somber. Caera watched from an infirmary window, but was too far to hear the sermons. It looked like more than a hundred attended, most white-clad holy warriors in neat ranks. Both Haendric and Donnal and some senior knights she had not known had spoken of the warrior’s deeds and virtues before he was lowered into a grave and the younger knights began to fill the earth back in. Haendric had returned to her with moist eyes and sensing his frailty she had escorted the old priest to his rooms where he spent the rest of the day.
Barthol Malgan and half a dozen of his cutthroats and rapists were tried and hanged the following afternoon. The proceedings were held in the main courtyard and the only notice Caera had taken, busy as she was in the infirmary, was when the cheers cried up from down below as each man swung. Ellie had recovered somewhat but was still nervous and largely silent. Talk was that the war would end soon as the King had come to terms with his rebellious nobles.
For the next few days, Caera found herself busy tending to the sick. She was frequently tired, often queasy, but well fed on vegetable broth and fresh bread. Once the kitchens even provided a fruit stew for the infirmary staff, which included Father Haendric, several brothers, some knight-orderlies, herself and old Drunith.
She had learned much from the old woman in recent days: how to brew a hot drink to ease wheezing coughs, how to apply salves and cold cloths; what herbs the sick could be given to chew to soothe their pain. Haendric was a fount as well: though the lancing of boils was strictly his work, he also knew other medicines and tonics that he showed her how to mix and serve. She enjoyed the learning, for few children in her town had ever been schooled. She was hungry for more.
Haendric told her it was folly, and that she was mispronouncing the words, but whenever he was done lancing the sores of the Scourge victims, and left her to clean their wounds and cool their brows, she would lay her hands on their chests and utter the Qureshi word for touch. The priest eventually gave up lecturing her and merely looked on amused when he caught her at it, as though it couldn’t hurt for her to hope for a miracle, but as though she were a foolish girl all the same.
Many patients started to improve by the third day and she wanted to believe it was her care or the mystical words, but it was likely rest, food and the careful ministrations of learned men such as Haendric and wise women like Drunith. Remembering the words was a way to remember Hyllis, whom she bore no ill thoughts, despite his deceptions. She could understand that he had wanted to protect her and that he also had needed to protect himself. She wished wherever he was that he was safe and even allowed herself a bitter smile when she imagined he’d be off selling his story about being a magician to loosen some fool’s purse strings or share another girl’s bed.
And she thought of Vanis and the heavy feeling in her stomach, her absent moons and her morning sickness and strange cravings. It was raw carrots today and she never imagined anyone eating raw vegetables. Such a thing was unthinkable unless you wanted to taste soil and worm dung. She hoped Vanis was the father. She would find him and tell him one day. Drunith persisted with the occasional question but seemed unsure now whether Caera had slept with the bard. Nobody at all suspected the Northman and she wondered too if she’d have the strength to bear her ravisher’s baby, let alone raise it. She would have to decide soon.
She finished her rounds late in the afternoon, carrying buckets of sweaty rags dabbed in water from the infirmary’s anteroom. The castle was so big and full of rooms she wondered if she’d ever see them all. Haendric had promised to show her around when he had the time, but was consumed with his healing duties and his reading and in any case had been morose since Beland’s funeral.
After emptying the bucket, she returned to Haendric’s chamber hoping to find him there. He was away again, no doubt at one of their interminable meetings and so she busied herself straightening his linens and placing the cluster of books and parchments on his desk into some semblance of order. She was just done fitting the Heathen text into a space on the bookshelf and had picked up a half-drunken steel goblet of wine when Berryck arrived. He held his cap in two meaty hands before him and bore a mournful expression. His wounded ear was healing but would always disfigure him. Otherwise he looked well.
‘I’m returning to Brookleith.’ He told her. ‘We’re going with Lord Jandryl.’
She nodded and returned to her work. It would be sad to see more familiar faces leave, but she’d noticed him lingering again of late and could do without the attention.
‘Aren’t you coming back to your father?’ He asked.
‘I should stay here and help the sick, with Drunith,’ she said coldly, as she carried on dusting the table, with a rag in one hand and the goblet in the other.
‘You could come back with me,’ he said nervously, looking down. ‘I could take you to wife, and it’s high time you were wed. Both of us.’
‘Oh don’t be foolish, Berryck…’ she began and turned to him with almost motherly pity.
‘And why not?’ He demanded sharply, stepping forward. ‘All I’ve ever done is care for you, try to help you and protect you. Love you. Why is that not good enough?’
‘I can’t marry you,’ Caera answered patiently. ‘It’s not the right time and I’ve found a place here, where I can help people.’
‘And what about your people?’ He snapped, ‘Are we not good enough anymore?’
‘Don’t be…’ she began, but he cut her off, stepping forward again.
‘I know about the bard,’ he snapped. ‘You probably slept with half those Selevian drifters too.’ His eyes were watery, and his face red. ‘You slept with that thief who said he was a magician - are you simple, girl?’
‘I did what I had to…’ she protested, but he stormed even nearer.
‘Had to? Did you have to fuck Vanis? Fuck that thief? Probably fucked half the village but you wouldn’t come near me you little cunt!’
Enraged, Caera threw the goblet’s contents at Berryck’s face. ‘Get out!’ She scolded, ‘Just go, and don’t come back!’
Before she could do any more, he struck her, a hearty backhanded slap across her cheek that sent her reeling over the bed. In an instant he was atop her, thrusting his weight down on her as she struggled between him and the mattress. It was like the Northman all over again. He was hard, she could feel it pressing against her through his breeches. She was frantic, pushing back as he grabbed her dress and fumbled at her thighs, pushing her face down on the bed.
She didn’t know where the anger came from. Perhaps it was an urge to protect her unborn child, or perhaps she was just sick of being used by men: charmed and abandoned by Vanis, raped by the Northman, driven to the bed of a common thief out of sheer terror and necessity, and now Berryck? Poor, simple, harmless Berryck who might never have hurt a fly, his face contorted with jealousy and lust as he tore furiously at her clothes. Whatever it was, she’d had enough, and as she thrust an open hand at the boy’s chest, the only word she could think to shout for help was the cryptic old Heathen term she’d had so much trouble with.
‘Ashlaq!’
And everything seemed to stop for a heartbeat.
There was a snap and a crack, like wet logs spitting on the fire and in an instant the room was filled with a flash of blinding white light. Her hand felt hot against his chest and her ears rang, turning the room silent and suddenly the burly youth
was launched backwards several paces with his feet off the floor and crashed against the stone wall, hollering with pain.
He crumpled to the stone floor and drew heavy ragged breaths, looking at her mournfully, confused, like a dog that had just experienced its first whipping. It reminded her of the cock-stoning the boys did each season and how the birds would just lay there at the end, stunned and dying, yet uncomprehending. Yet he shook himself off and stood, clutching his chest, grimacing with effort. He gave her a baleful look, his face registering guilt, fear and disbelief all at once. He looked down and hurried out of the chamber and her eyes followed him to the open door as he stormed out into the corridor.
And there in the doorway stood grey-robed Father Haendric. He was silent, gape-jawed, his notebook in his hand and his eyes fixed incredulously on what she held in front of her: two hands, claw-like, half open, that seemed to burn with unspent power. Caera looked at the old priest, and back at her hands. They were still warm with a heat that coursed through her entire being.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CB Currie studied history and literature at the University of Auckland. He has lived and worked in Japan, Hong Kong and the UAE and now teaches English as Second Language in New Zealand.