by Cleo Cordell
It was pleasant inside the airy stone room, kept warm by the charcoal burner placed under the still. Smells of fresh and dried herbs, betony, centaury, and elecampane rose in warm drifts. Stephanis found it satisfying indeed to make up recipes using the herbs from his own infirmarer’s garden. For more complex medicines he was obliged, albeit grudgingly, to give his custom to the apothecary who served the monastery. An ambitious man and not unaware that he exhibited the sin of pride from time to time Stephanis tried, as far as was possible, to provide all of the medicinal waters, cordials, and lozenges that the monks might need.
‘Take care now with that infusion of galingale root,’ he said to Thomas. ‘I want it strong enough to mask the bitter flavour of opium in this sleeping draft.’
Thomas grinned, well used to the infirmarer’s meticulous eye for detail. He respected Stephanis and admired the man’s dedication to his craft, but he could not say that he liked him. It had always seemed to Thomas that the infirmarer’s calm exterior and even manner was a veil spread thinly over a cauldron of contained emotion. Sometimes he saw brief evidence of this underlying passion. When Stephanis treated one of the monks or a sick peasant he would lay his cool white hands on their diseased flesh with visible ardour. In part, this accounted for the infirmarer’s reputation as a healer. Stephanis had the gift of inspiring trust and a sense of calmness in the sick. Thomas felt a little shame-faced at the uncharitable thought that the infirmarer gained much for himself in spiritual payment also.
Stephanis rolled up the sleeves of his habit, revealing muscular forearms. Picking up a pestle and mortar he began grinding up the ingredients for the clyster which he would later administer to old Brother Marcus, who was afflicted with a morbus of the bowel. It was quiet in the still-house, save for the bubbling of the glass vessels. A faint sound of chanting came from the sacristy. Stephanis looked towards the open window with its view of the herb garden. Growing things, plunging his hands into God’s good earth, these things soothed his restless soul. In the outside world of men there were many temptations to snare the unwary. Only here at Holy Penitence had Stephanis found some measure of peace.
‘Should we not cleanse our hands, brother?’ Thomas said. ‘The day lacks but an hour to Vespers.’
Stephanis smiled, suspecting that Thomas’s eagerness to leave his work had more to do with the fact that it was a minor feast day. The daily dishes, the generals, served to visitors in the misericord would be augmented by a number of extra pittances. ‘When we hear the bell, it will be time enough to leave,’ he said mildly.
Thomas pressed his lips together and continued with his work. He knew that the infirmarer’s belly must be near cleaving to his backbone, as was his own. The single meal of the day throughout Lent was served after the singing of the early evening office, which meant that everyone, saving the sick, had been without food for many hours. Only an ascetic could remain unmoved by the prospect of filling his stomach and Thomas did not believe Stephanis to be immune to the solace of human comforts.
He sighed, having intended to sneak into the apple store and pocket some fruit on the way towards the well in the yard. For a while the two men worked on, Stephanis kneading together a sticky mixture of powdered hore-hound, pelesot, and honey, before pinching off tiny amounts and rolling it into pills. The sound of a commotion floated in through the window. Thomas lifted his head, glad of the diversion. Dusting off his hands and wiping them on the linen apron at his waist, he went to stand in the open doorway. Beyond the garden, the postern gate stood open. The kitchener’s cart was being unloaded. Barrels of salted fish had been set on end in a line.
‘What’s amiss, Thomas?’ Stephanis said, coming to stand beside the young man.
‘I can’t rightly say,’ Thomas said. ‘There is a deal of interest in Brother Amos’s cart this day. Perhaps the brothers have got word that he brings fresh ling and haburdens with him for the morrow’s pittances.’
Stephanis frowned. There was certainly something unusual happening. As he watched he saw an object being carried from the cart and laid gently on the ground. A figure detached itself from the group around the cart and began hurrying towards him. For no reason at all Stephanis felt a stirring of emotion. Afterwards he was to wonder whether he had been visited by a flash of intuition. Panting, the monk ran down the neatly clipped grass path, his habit brushing against the edging of lavender and sending the clean fragrance wafting towards Thomas and Stephanis.
‘Come quickly, brother. Your skills are needed,’ the monk said. ‘A poor wench, sore misused, has been found hiding in Brother Amos’s cart. Brother Amos is all for casting her out. He says that she will bring the pestilence among us.’
Pausing only to tell Thomas to lay out the things he might need, Stephanis lifted his habit to reveal bony sandalled feet and set off at a run. He reached the cart to find that the woman was surrounded by curious monks. ‘Stand back,’ he ordered, as he knelt beside her. ‘Give the poor wench some air.’ Dried blood encrusted most of her body, so that it was difficult to tell what her wounds were. Her limbs were swollen and discoloured by bruises. The torn and muddied shift concealed hardly anything of her slender form. What delicate hands and feet she had. And such a face. Even the violet shadows beneath her eyes and livid bruise that stained the whole side of one cheek, could not distract from the purity of her features.
Stephanis saw that a cursory glance would not be enough to establish what treatment was needed. ‘Bring her to the infirmary,’ he said.
The kitchener threw him a hostile glance. ‘The infirmary? When the woman has the infection? Is this wise, brother? She’s a felon. Crawled into my cart without so much as a by your leave!’
‘I see signs of a fever, but no tokens on her skin. She’s been attacked, violated, probably robbed. Look at the quality of her shift. This is no peasant wench, but a gentlewoman fallen on ill times. Should we deny her God’s mercy?’
‘I did not say that we should,’ Brother Amos said sullenly. ‘Only that it were wise not to act rashly.’
‘And I’ve noted your comments. Two of you lift her, carefully now. And follow me. Thomas has all ready.’ Not trusting himself to say more, Stephanis went on ahead to the infirmary. His mouth was suddenly as dry as bone. His head began to ache. He knew that he ought to have told the monks to take the woman away, but he could not. Seeing her lying there, so fragile and helpless, had awoken something long neglected within him. He winced as the pressure built up behind his eyes. Flashes of light distorted his vision. There was a darkness at the periphery of one eye. It had been years since he had been struck with a megrim. He tried to order his thoughts, to decide whether to go straight to his medicine closet and fetch his bottle of skull-cap and valerian tincture.
But the only thing that kept going around and around in his head was the certain knowledge that his days of peace and tranquillity were over.
CHAPTER TEN
Garnetta felt herself lifted gently and borne down a grass pathway. From all sides came the fresh scent of growing herbs. For a moment she was mindful of Karolan’s garden. She opened her eyes and found herself passing along the open archways of the covered walk. The pattern of sunlight and shadow danced on honey-coloured stone. Cloisters. This must be Holy Penitence. She was safe in the House of the Lord. Mutely she sent up a prayer of thanks. Light streamed in through countless unshuttered windows. Those who carried her paused in a chamber, where hangings of red and green worsted divided the space into cubicles.
‘Set her down there,’ said a male voice. As he bent over her, his face floated in and out of focus. She saw a strong, well-made face, one which would have been better set on a soldier than on a monk. Coarse brownish hair, lightly streaked with grey, framed his big features. His gentle voice inspired her confidence. She tried not to cry out in pain as her attendants laid her down on a pallet. The chamber smelt of clean linen. The straw beneath the pallet rustled as she sank onto it.
‘You may leave us now,’ the monk said. ‘Thomas,
bring a bowl of vinegar water and soft cloths. I need to wash away this dried blood. Dear Lord, there is so much of it. It is a wonder that she lives.’
‘I have everything here, Stephanis,’ Thomas said, placing the objects on a low wooden chest which stood beside the pallet. ‘Praise be, her eyes are open. Look, her lips are moving. She’s trying to speak.’
Stephanis bent close. ‘What is it, my child?’
‘Garnetta . . . my name . . . Garnetta,’ Garnetta whispered.
‘Well, Garnetta,’ he took her hand, cradling it against the rough fabric of his habit. ‘You are safe now in God’s keeping. I am Brother Stephanis, infirmarer here. This is Thomas, my assistant.’
As Stephanis’s cool hands moved over her skin, gently washing away the blood and filth, Garnetta let herself go limp. For the first time in days she felt at peace. Her broken body would be healed, a soothing balm spread over her soul. ‘My confession . . .’ she murmured, recalling that this was somehow important. It was so difficult to order her thoughts.
‘All in good time, my child,’ Stephanis said. ‘Rest easy now.’
The monks spoke quietly to each other as they examined her wounds. She heard the sharp intake of breath, the note of concern in the younger man’s voice when he said, ‘Someone wanted this woman dead. What could she have done to provoke such ire?’
‘Little or nothing,’ Stephanis said. ‘There are brigands running loose who kill for the hank of bread in a beggar’s bowl and find sport in stripping the habit from a nun.’
‘For shame,’ Thomas said shocked. ‘It’s a miracle that the knife did not cut her more deeply. A wound to the throat ought to bring death.’
Brother Stephanis murmured his assent. ‘It ought to indeed,’ he said, absorbed in examining the wounds on Garnetta’s ribcage. ‘See where the knife went in? And here where the edges of the flesh are torn? A broken bone came out of the skin. She must have fallen and knocked the bone back into place. How extraordinary that it did not puncture a vital organ.’
‘This woman must be under the protection of the saints,’ Thomas said.
‘Hmmm. Then they were remiss in their attentions,’ Stephanis said dryly. ‘Look at the stains on this shift, the pattern of bruising on her buttocks. She was forced into carnal sin before being beaten and stabbed.’
Dimly, Garnetta sensed the younger man’s discomfort. He reddened, averting his eyes as Stephanis examined her body more intimately. His touch was deferential and she did not resist as he parted her legs and examined her privy parts. They washed her clean of caked blood and semen with more of the vinegar and water. Their voices seemed to come from very far away. Garnetta lay listening to them, while the quiet of the monastery seeped over her. Between them the two men managed to roll her onto her side, strip off her soiled shift, and cover her with a clean sheet.
‘Give this to the washer woman. Have them launder and mend it,’ Stephanis said, his tone brisk and business-like. He passed the bunched up shift to Thomas. ‘Well? What are you staring at, lad?’
‘It . . . it is nothing . . .’ he stammered. ‘Just that she is passing fair. Such white skin and slender limbs, like the statue of Our Lady in the chapel. See her feet? They have a blush at the toes. Surely angels have such feet.’
Stephanis cleared his throat. ‘Fair? I suppose she is by some account. Beware, lad. A comely woman is a lure to tempt the faithful into sin. Fleshly beauty is corrupt and belongs to the devil, God sees within. Now stop mooning over her. Save your sheep’s eyes for a village lass. This here’s a lady of breeding.’
‘Yes, Stephanis,’ Thomas said, chastened. ‘I just thought that . . . well, do you not think it remarkable that she found her way to us, all broken and bleeding as she is? It is almost as if God sent her to us.’
‘Hold your tongue!’ Stephanis said. ‘Do you dare to profess a knowledge of the ways of the Almighty?’
‘No,’ Thomas, muttered. ‘I leave that to those who are nearer to God than I. But all the same. Does it not say in the Bible that common men have been visited by angels?’ At Stephanis’s hostile glare he dropped his gaze. ‘Forgive me. My tongue has a will of its own. Will I get you a needle and twine to bring together the edges of the knife wounds?’
‘Not yet. I’ll spread some clean linen with healing salve and cover the cuts for the present.’ Stephanis paused and stroked his chin, a habit of his when thinking. ‘Have a boy run to the house of Mr Geoffrey Wenlock, the medicus who serves as adviser to Holy Penitence. I am in need of his expert opinion.’
Thomas looked sharply at the infirmarer. It was unusual for Stephanis to seek help with diagnosing an ailment. The last time the physician had been called to the monastery had been on the occasion when a knight had fallen from his horse outside the main gate, smashing his hip-bone. Stephanis had no liking for Mr Wenlock who would sweep haughtily into the infirmary, his face alight with self-importance and his robe – with the three fine furs of budge attached to the hem – swirling out and scattering the rushes thence and hence.
‘But do you not remember? Mr Wenlock has left his office in the town and departed for his country manse, there to wait until the pestilence has run its course.’
‘Ah, yes. I had forgotten. We shall have to manage as best we can,’ Stephanis said, a frown creasing his face.
The two men were silent. Unanswered questions hung in the air. Garnetta felt the tension of the older monk and the curiosity of the younger. In the distance, muffled by the thickness of the stone walls, she could hear the bell tolling for Vespers. A feeling of relief seemed to flow towards her from Stephanis. She could tell that the infirmarer wished to be alone with her.
‘Go you now to the misericord and eat your meal, Thomas,’ Stephanis said. ‘You have earned your corrody this day. There is nought more you can do at present. The wounds are clean, quite remarkably so. There is no sign of morbidity. I’ll give the woman a sleeping draught and wait here a space until I’m certain that she is sleeping.’
When Thomas had left the cubicle, Stephanis dragged the wooden chest closer to the settle and lowered himself onto it. Pouring a measure of liquid into a goblet he lifted Garnetta’s head so that he could dribble the potion between her lips. She swallowed painfully, feeling the liquid catch against the raw flesh of her unhealed throat. Stephanis waited patiently until she had drunk all of the draught, then he laid her back on the pallet. Garnetta closed her eyes. Already the soporific fumes were making her feel light-headed, stealing her thoughts.
She expected Stephanis to leave her to sleep, but after a few moments while he waited for the drug to take effect, she felt him lean close. He folded back the sheet, drawing it down until it lay around her hips. The clean air of the chamber was cool on her exposed skin. Stephanis sat looking at her for a long time, his hands pressed together as if in prayer propped under his chin. Her extended senses enabled her to catch the edge of his thoughts. So, Brother Stephanis was not as detached from worldly desires as he would have his young assistant believe. She watched him through the net of her eyelashes.
Stephanis’s lips moved in the words of a prayer. He was trembling slightly. On his face was a strange expression. After another pause, he bent over her. His hands, slender for such a large man, passed over her skin as he examined her wounds again, this time minutely. ‘Remarkable. Quite remarkable,’ he murmured.
Although she longed to sink into the oblivion of sleep, Garnetta fought to stay awake. The fingers that brushed gently against her breast, swooped down to skim along the edge of her jutting hip-bone, were practised in the art of diagnosing and treating ailments, but she knew that this was more, far more, than a medical examination. Opening her eyes a little, she watched him. At first, he kept his head bent, revealing the paleness of the tonsure on his crown. When he looked up, she saw that his face was tight as if he was in pain, his fleshy mouth twisted by an inner distress.
‘Can it be?’ he said softly. ‘An angel, Thomas said. Out of the mouths of simpletons . . .’ Glancing up a
lmost furtively at her face, he found her looking at him. Jumping back as if burnt, he jerked the sheet back up to her chin. Patting her arm awkwardly, he murmured, ‘Sleep now, child. I shall watch over you. On the morrow I’ll decide what is to be done with you.’
Garnetta nodded, amused by the guilt on his face. He had done nothing that his office as infirmarer did not merit, yet his broad face was flushed and sweating, his mouth folded in tightly over his teeth. What a burden is carried by the monks of Holy Penitence, she thought drowsily. It is hard on them to serve a lifetime’s penance for the sins of the world, when it is heavy enough to carry the weight of one’s own sin.
Stephanis went directly from the infirmary to the tiny chapel of Our Lady, deserted at this hour when the monks were having their supper in the refectory. Holy Penitence was a wealthy house, with a number of rich and influential patrons, one of whom had given the money to build the chapel after his safe return from the Holy Land. The walls were of polished shale, as shiny and black as obsidian. Long pointed windows, set with squares of red and white glass, threw lozenges of jewel-coloured light onto the white marble floor.
Stephanis approached the altar, where stood the reliquary holding the fingernail of the Mother of Christ. The statue of the Virgin above it looked down on him with mournful, blue doe-eyes. For a moment he had thought they were grey, dark and with shifting motes of light in their depths. Her face was a white oval, surrounded by a coif and veil. There was no hair visible and, if there were, it would not be close-cropped and as black as sin. Her lips were pale, like the inside of a mussel shell – not red as poppies.
Stephanis shook his head to clear it and shrank before the purity of the icon’s expression. The Virgin was beauty and chastity. Ideal woman, with nothing of skin and bone to put damning thoughts into his head, to make his flesh rise up strongly from his loins and throb in the maddening way it was now. Dropping to his knees, Stephanis gave a groan. Lowering his chin until it brushed against the cold white marble, he crawled forwards. Muttering an Ave through his slitted lips, he stopped directly below the statue and lay face-down, his arms extended outwards in the shape of the cross.