The Flesh Endures

by Cleo Cordell

  Pushing back the covers, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. A wave of dizziness seized her. She waited for a moment before standing up. As she yawned and stretched, the sleeves of her loose shift slipped back to reveal her forearms. How grey and flaky they looked. Her skin was shiny, as if it had been oiled or peeled. She stroked her arm, rubbing at it with her fingertips. Little curls of skin came away as she rubbed harder. Underneath her arm was white as milk, the healthy, honey-tone of her natural colouring had disappeared.

  Was this an after-effect of the pestilence? A memory stirred uncomfortably within her – of strips of skin hanging in tatters from a hand – but that image belonged to the time of fever, pain, and nightmare. She thrust it aside. As she walked unsteadily across the chamber, the sound of her own footsteps echoed in her ears. Something seemed wrong with her sight and hearing. Everything was too bright, too loud. When she crushed the strewing herbs underfoot, their scent rose to clog her nostrils, acrid and sickly sweet. She almost gagged at the intensity of the odour.

  Approaching the window, she saw that the folded-back shutters were glazed with panes of red, blue, and green. How beautiful the coloured glass looked, like jewels. She leaned on the deep stone sill, drew in a breath of the freezing air. It slipped down her throat like ice-cold wine, as tart and fresh-tasting as apples. She took another gulp, delighted by this new discovery. Every experience was a sensory delight. Was this the joy of finding herself alive? She had thought she wanted to die, but now knew that to have been a false wish. She felt humbly grateful to be breathing, to be standing looking out at this God-given beauty.

  Far below she saw a formal garden with clipped trees, neat herb and vegetable beds, grass paths, all of it covered with a layer of powdery snow. To one side there were stables and outbuildings. In the distance she could see the strips of cultivated fields. Beyond them was the mist-shrouded forest. All of it seemed unnaturally bright and clear. She blinked, finding difficulty in focusing. The light dazzled her. When she opened her eyes wide, the horizon rushed towards her. Now she could see the shape of a hare in the farthest field. Every detail of it was clear; the faint fog of its breath, the deep, soft warmth of its brown eyes. She could even detect the sound of its claws as it moved across the frozen ground.

  There was something else. A sort of heat, a rapid blood-beat, a quick light intelligence transforming itself to her. Impossible. But she seemed to be gaining a sense of the hare’s very thoughts. She jumped back from the window in alarm. Screwing her eyes shut, she covered them with the heels of her hands. Had her illness left her blighted?

  ‘It would be best if you came away from the window,’ Karolan said behind her.

  Garnetta whirled round in surprise, her heart missing a beat. For a second she thought that the man from the painting stood in the open doorway. Then she realized that her saviour stood before her. It truly was Lord Rakka then. He was not part of her waking-dreams.

  ‘I’m glad to see that you feel well enough to get out of bed,’ he said, smiling. ‘Might I know your name?’

  ‘Garnetta,’ she said. ‘Daughter of Franklin Mercer.’

  ‘Garnetta,’ he mused. ‘Daughter of a cloth merchant. And named for the dark-red gemstone. How apt.’

  She did not know how to reply, so she studied him in turn. He was tall, taller than she remembered, but then she had only seen him bending over her in the bed. The way he was spoken of in the town had led her to expect a much older man. Surely this could not be the veteran of so many campaigns; the ex-soldier whose prowess in the field was almost legendary? Long black hair, glossy as a raven’s wing, framed his pale face. He was whipcord thin, but his shoulders were wide. His legs, in hosen of black wool, were strongly muscled. His doublet of soft, red leather was worn over a white linen shirt with a drawstring neck. Red felt boots with laced fronts reached to his knee. Garments of excellent quality, she thought, her mercer’s training coming into play.

  Behind the smile, she sensed a wariness, a watchfulness and something else. He is looking at me with the pride of ownership, she thought with sudden clarity. Something deep inside her rose up as if to a challenge. Again there came that subtle movement as if a curtain twitched in her mind. Karolan smiled again, this time with satisfaction. His long mouth parted to show even, white teeth. Garnetta had the feeling that he had caught hold of her thoughts, understood everything she was feeling. The reflection of light in his strange eyes was like the moon on glass. Something about Lord Rakka drew her, yet terrified her. She took a step backwards and missed her footing.

  Instantly he was at her side, his arm under her elbow, steadying her and leading her across the room towards the hearth. His perfume of spikenard and musk was intoxicating, making her senses swim. Between her thighs an insistent throbbing began. Her cheeks burned with mortification. He made her feel like a wanton and she did not even like him. Why was she so attuned to him? His presence burned her. It was as if her blood called out to him.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said gently, ignoring her mental disarray. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you, but I was quite lost in the delight of seeing you on your feet. For a time I thought you would not live. Come, sit near the fire. I’ll bring you food.’

  ‘I’m not at all cold . . .’ she murmured, lowering herself onto a wooden settle. To her surprise that was true, despite the wide-open window, the single garment she wore. Which must be revealing every detail of her body. She crossed her arms protectively across her stomach and hunched over a little. Her body might be weak still, but her mind felt sharper than a blade and was teeming with questions. The stories about Lord Rakka were burned into her imagination. He was rarely seen in the town, his business being conducted by his steward. Some said that he was a mis-shapen monster, scarred from his many fights, who could not bear to be looked upon. That was patently untrue. How much were the other stories about him exaggerated, she wondered.

  Karolan heated a poker in the fire, using it to warm a goblet of spiced wine for her. Then he put a hunk of manchet bread and some goat’s cheese onto a gilded platter. She balanced the food on her lap, sipping delicately from the goblet, picking at the food. The wine and cheese were delicious, the flavours of fermented fruit, the salty creaminess of milk slid luxuriously on her tongue. The bread was the finest she had ever tasted.

  She felt conscious of the distance of rank between Karolan and herself. In the house at Mercer’s Yard food was eaten from a shared bowl or placed on a trencher of rough bread. Karolan seemed unconcerned by any such differences. He took a seat by her side. Reaching out for her free hand, he closed his fingers on her wrists.

  ‘May I?’ he said, pressing his fingertips to a place on the inside of her arm.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said, as he studied her skin and stroked a finger along a vein.

  ‘There are places on the body where it is possible to feel the movement of the tides within. I can tell whether your heart is strong, whether or not your blood flow is obstructed.’

  Garnetta had never heard of such a thing. By tides, he must mean the humours of bile, phlegm, and blood which caused a body to become too hot or too cold. She knew something of those. It was common practice to let out the evil humours with a blood-letting when a body suffered from an ague or had too much heat. ‘Are you going to bleed me?’

  He shook his head. ‘That won’t be necessary. The efficacy of that practice is doubtful at best. I just want to look at you.’

  It was disconcerting to be examined as if she was a prize animal. She sat in silence while Karolan looked into her eyes and pressed his fingers to the sides of her neck. It would not have surprised her if he had opened her mouth to count her teeth. At the thought her mouth twitched. She took another sip of hippocras to conceal her expression. There seemed no sense in feeling any shame at having his hands on her. She knew well enough what nursing a person through the pestilence entailed. Karolan was as detached and absorbed in his observations as any apothecary. Still it was disquieting to feel the touch of hi
s cool skin against her own.

  ‘Are you a medicus?’ she said.

  ‘I belong to no physicians’ guild, but I have some knowledge of ailments and medicaments. I had a good teacher. An Arab nobleman.’

  She was shocked. ‘You used heathen practices to cure me?’

  He flashed her a grin. ‘The world of knowledge is larger then Christendom. You have survived when so many have perished. Does it matter how you were cured?’

  ‘It does if my immortal soul has been put in danger,’ she said primly. ‘I’m not sure I wish to hear about these Godless practices.’

  His mouth curved in a dry smile. ‘Then you must rest assured that your God wished you to live. You had best give your thanks to him, not to me. Now, I’m sorry that I had to cut your hair but it will grow back quickly.’

  She nodded, noting the casual inclusion of ‘your’ before the word ‘God’. Karolan made no secret of the fact that he was a dangerous heretic. She knew that already. Why else would he have the painting in his bedchamber? What other kind of man dared to discourse with pagans and revere their foul practices? She ought to be fearful for her life, and more importantly, for her immortal soul, but she was strangely calm, absorbed only in watching his changes of expression as he bent close. His face had a certain delicacy, yet it had no trace of weakness or indolence. It was a face that seemed schooled to hide his emotions.

  ‘You did not feel cold, just now, at the window?’ he said, looking up to catch her studying him.

  For the second time she felt the heat rush into her face. Her skin felt sensitized from his touch. The short hairs at the back of her neck prickled. Her breasts seemed to swell and grow heavy. These feelings were new to her. There must still be traces of fever in her body, for never had she been so affected by any man’s nearness.

  ‘Not cold, but strange,’ she said at length, controlling the trembling of her voice with an effort. ‘I cannot see properly. My hearing is all wrong. Has the pestilence harmed me?’ The fears which had been submerged until now burst forth. She clutched at his hand. ‘You can tell me the truth. Am I blighted? Will I be able to work and make my way in the world?’

  He did not meet her eyes, but his voice held conviction. ‘You will be strong and well. Better than before, but . . . a little different. It’s early yet to tell. The healing process takes time. Have patience. Your body is making adjustments. Have you pain or discomfort anywhere? Does it hurt to breathe? Lift your chin so that I might look into your eyes. Excellent.’ And so it went on.

  Garnetta answered all his questions, waiting for him to finish his examination. ‘Why did you bring me here?’ she said at length. ‘You could have left me to die.’

  He shrugged. ‘Call it a whim. Perhaps I wanted to test my healing skills.’

  Rising from the settle, he walked across the room to a wooden chest which stood against one wall. She watched him closely as he dug into the open chest and emerged with an armful of garments. He did not look like a man who acted on impulse. She sipped her drink, looking over the top of the goblet as he came back towards the hearth, his movements were economical and graceful – like a dancer or a hunter. She had never seen anyone move like that, as if he was entirely at one with himself and his surroundings.

  Handing her the garments, he said, ‘Everything in the chest is yours. I hope that you will consent to be my guest for the present.’

  She took the clothes, feeling the quality of the fine wool gown and the embroidered silk of the shift. ‘I owe you my life,’ she said, her eyelids lowered. ‘You brought me to your home, knowing that I was sick with the pestilence. I am grateful. Thank you.’

  He gave a wry grin, his expression unfathomable. ‘Sometimes it is best to reserve one’s thanks.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Karolan locked the door of the tower behind him and went swiftly down the steps. I am no longer alone – the words resounded in his head. There was a spark between them already, like calling to like. She might not know it yet, but already she was his. It was incredible. After all this time there was another like himself, a possible companion.

  But he must go slowly. There was everything to teach Garnetta. He must be prepared for reaction; disbelief, horror, even revulsion at first. She would come to accept what she was, as he had done, for the simple reason that she had no other choice. He regretted the need for trickery, but she would surely forgive him for that once she understood. Until she had been told the truth he would allow nothing to alarm her. To this end, he had ordered the Fetch to keep away from her.

  ‘Want to see, want to feel,’ the spirit whined. ‘Why not? Won’t harm. Hunger for her, do I. She is mine too now!’

  ‘As I am yours?’ Karolan said bitterly. ‘Never forget who brought you into existence! You will obey me!’

  He sensed the spirit’s agitation, knew that it was eager to deepen the bond with its new host. It wanted to establish an intimacy at every level, exploring, examining in the way peculiar to its kind until it knew the taste of Garnetta’s breath, the scent of her skin, the texture of every secretion, was master of her deepest secrets – physical and mental. No wonder it was eager to test the parameters of the new bonding. For centuries the spirit had yearned to be joined with a human female. Now it had its wish.

  Karolan’s voice deepened, ringing with power. ‘I charge you not to reveal yourself to her. You may watch only. Seek only to penetrate her aura. I must prepare her for your presence. The last thing she needs is to cope with your incessant demands.’

  Although the Fetch mumbled and complained, pulsing with dingy colour, it could do nothing without his permission. After a few moments a glow appeared in the depths of its form. It glided close, rubbing seductively against Karolan’s cheek. He felt the warmth of fingers on his skin, a waft of rose-musk filled his nostrils. Protuberences broke out on its surface, forming mounds of flesh that resolved themselves into palpating genitals. The effect of human organs seen against its spirit form was disquieting, obscene, but oddly tantalizing.

  ‘Then you, Master. You desire pleasure?’

  Karolan swatted the air with the back of his hand. ‘I have no stomach for your wiles. The woman has survived the transmutation. The first person to do so in over two hundred years! I must record all that has transpired. Do you think I am interested in the clamourings of your base flesh?’

  ‘Not mine, yours,’ the Fetch whispered, a note of triumph in its voice. ‘You want her, I sense it. Your need burns. It draws me.’

  ‘You dare mock me!’ Karolan gave a cry of rage, the power rising into his throat and leaving a taste like metal on his tongue.

  Heeding the warning signs, the spirit flickered. It gleamed with sullen lights, the genitals reabsorbing back into its form with a sucking sound. As it blinked out, he heard its reedy laughter. It sped into the astral plane, off to find some foul entertainment.

  Karolan clamped his lips together. God rot the spirit. It was too observant by far. He could keep the Fetch at a distance for a time, but he knew that he could not expect to control its actions for ever. Once Garnetta tested her strength she would become aware of her ever-present familiar. It was possible that she would be beguiled by its offers of sexual favours. It would be disastrous if she became addicted to the potent and perverted pleasures the Fetch pressed on her before she knew how to protect herself from it. The more the spirit experienced of the physical dimension the greater was its hunger to obtain a lasting human form. If ever it became adept at controlling a human host, then its capacity for destruction would be formidable. It was doubtful whether even he could control it.

  For the first time since bringing Garnetta to his house, Karolan allowed his doubts to surface. He could not help but question the wisdom of allowing the Fetch to grow in strength. But there had been no choice. Without the spirit’s intervention, Garnetta would be dead. Now he had a companion. With Garnetta beside him he could advance his studies. The mystic marriage of the alchemical king and queen was a real possibility. In his mind
an image arose.

  Sol and Luna, fused into a double-sexed unity. Balance, equilibrium, was represented by the hermaphrodite form. When male and female energy were utilized, great things could be accomplished. Garnetta would be the light to his dark, the silver to his gold. And their physical joining would be an ecstasy of the spirit as well as the flesh. The reality of that fact rushed in on him. By Hermes they could become lovers. His caustic sperm would not burn away her sexual parts. She would accept his seed deep within her body and no destruction would result. No more need he kill to satisfy his lust, torture himself with fruitless longings, or give in to the Fetch’s sexual bargaining. The exultation he felt was like a hot wound in his chest. Oh Garnetta, such things I have to tell you! First there were practicalities to consider. Garnetta’s presence must be explained. It was not possible or practical to keep her a prisoner in his tower.

  ‘Your . . . niece, my lord?’ The steward’s long face was set in an expression of utter disbelief.

  ‘That is what I wish you to tell the servants, Romane,’ Karolan said, putting his arm around the old man’s narrow shoulders. Her name is Garnetta. She’s to be given the freedom of the house and grounds and treated with the same courtesy and respect you accord me.’

  ‘I will tell the servants whatever you wish,’ Romane said gravely, ‘But surely you do not expect me to believe this fabrication?’

  ‘Ah, no,’ Karolan laughed and rubbed his jaw. ‘I owe you, at least, the truth. It’s a delicate matter. I smuggled the wench into the house a sennight since –’

  ‘When you sent word that you did not wish to be disturbed at your studies?’ Romane cut in. ‘Yes. I remember. It had to be a woman, I suppose.’

  ‘Just so. Forgive me for not confiding in you, old friend, but I knew you’d disapprove. It was easier to say nothing. The woman was near death and might not have lived. I could not risk anyone knowing that I had a corpse in the tower. There’s been trouble enough in the past.’