The Flesh Endures

by Cleo Cordell

  Tears pricked his eyes. All these years he had been safe. No one knew about the perverted desires which raged within him. He had battled manfully, despising himself for his failure to attain the purity of spirit which he sought, resisting the temptation to take one of the child-oblates into his bed, as many a monk did. But he was cursed with a flawed nature. His dreams were filled with images of seething flesh. High round breasts, soft bellies, and that most devilish of temptations the female vulva. Ah, soft and fragrant it was, offering up all manner of earthly delights, tempting him with all its sinful artistry, confounding him with its tainted promise of comfort.

  He had hidden his shame well, submerging everything of self beneath his vows of Holy Orders. But now, now, he was discovered, made naked, peeled bare until his very bones glistened with his lewdness. The eyes of the woman in the infirmary were all-wise, all-knowing; young-old in her exquisite face. She was the arbiter of his retribution, he felt it in his blood. She had looked into him and seen the awful taint of desire upon his immortal soul.

  No. No. She could not have seen. She was near out of her mind with suffering. And he was her healer, appointed by God to relieve the travail of her sinful body.

  His lips moved in the words of the Holy Office, reciting three psalms, a paternoster, meditative verses. Even while he prayed, his flesh grew stiffer, throbbing and pulsing. He pressed himself more closely to the marble, forcing the engorged organ down with the weight of his body. It was no use. The cold did nothing to relieve him. His senses swam, the blood drubbed in his ears.

  He looked up at the Virgin, imploring her for help. It seemed to his fevered gaze that the statue moved. Her hands opened her robes to reveal a slender, white body. High breasts, tipped by wanton, cherry teats pointed at him. Her waist dipped down to a rounded belly. Her navel was a cup to drink from. And there, Oh, God in his Heaven, there was the fount of woman’s wickedness. The coynte was small, neatly formed, frosted with silky black hair. As the Virgin parted her legs he saw the sex divide. Plump red lips leered moistly at him. Stephanis screwed his eyes shut, horrified by the visual blasphemy.

  Behind his eyelids, the vision of the fecund vulva remained. This was damnation, this was ruin. He must fight. He must be strong enough to face the treachery of his flesh. Trembling he rose to his knees. With shaking hands he untied the rope around his waist. As if he was telling a rosary, he played it through his fingers, knotting it at intervals. Raising the habit about his waist, he uncovered the stem of his flesh. Jutting almost straight up, his staff of Adam was flushed a dark red. The two stones between his legs were hard and shrunk up tight against his body. He gave a groan as his turgid organ jerked and throbbed. It was like a live thing, a separate part of his body, with a will of its own.

  He must mortify his flesh. It was only through suffering that man rose above his animal-self. Had not the Holy Saints endured tortures and temptations?

  Lord. Look down upon this thy servant. Deal mercifully with this miserable sinner.

  Leaning back a little so that his staff stood out from his belly, he brought the knotted rope hard down upon it. The pain stole his breath. For a moment, the cleansing rush of agony brought a welcome relief. Tears welled in his eyes. But with the subsidence of pain, there came a heat and a potent stinging which added to his ardour. His staff twitched, standing out ever more strongly, the red flush of it like a beacon. Again and again he whipped his flesh, sobbing aloud at its refusal to release him from the grip of sensual pleasure.

  The Virgin’s pale mouth seemed to curve in a smile of understanding and forgiveness. She was all-seeing, aware of the frailty of men. She alone amongst women was merciful. ‘Holy Mother, help me,’ he moaned as the hot, spiked pleasure bunched in his loins. ‘Take this burden from me.’

  He raised his hand to bring the knotted rope down again, convulsing as a tremor of ecstasy passed through him. His body, surged, crested, and broke. The rope slipped from his hand as the waves of an intense climax swamped him. Throwing back his head, he cried out. Gasping for breath, he squeezed his cock tightly, as if he could contain the semen which spurted upwards in a creamy arc and spattered the marble floor of the altar.

  Karolan leaned forward in the saddle, his powerful thigh muscles bunching as he clung to Darkus’s heaving sides. Foam clung to the horse’s neck. He could smell the soap-tang of its sweat. Horse and rider were near to exhaustion, but Karolan urged Darkus on. Cresting a hill, Darkus checked his stride, launching himself over the boundary hedge and plunging down the bank that led towards the river. Karolan let the horse have his head. Without pausing in his forward momentum, Darkus launched himself into the mainstream of the swirling water and struck out for the opposite shore.

  Karolan laughed with delight at the horse’s fearlessness. The freezing water made his flesh sing as it lapped against him, raising his skin into goose-flesh. But the cold did not quench the flame of Garnetta from his mind.

  All of the searching, organized by Romane, had come to nought. He did not need to hear the whispers to know that there was an undercurrent of suspicion amongst the villagers. Loyalties changed quickly enough when incredulity and fear of the unknown set the smell of brimstone wafting into their crofts. Let them think what they like, he thought viciously, in no mood to care for human-cattle with their little lives.

  He had given Garnetta the gift of longevity, raising her high above the mass of struggling humanity, and this is how she repaid him. She ought to have fallen at his feet, sobbed out her gratitude. Instead she had turned her face from him. No one had ever left him before. His anger against her was tempered with disappointment, mellowed by his love and fear for her, but still it burned like a hot coal in his breast. The feeling ate at him, the anguish of it seemed too big to be contained within his flesh. Throwing back his head, he let out a roar.

  His cry echoed in the still air. Sheep on the hillside massed together for protection. Clouds of birds rose from the trees in alarm. Darkus swivelled his ears, his eyes rolling back in terror as he kicked out at the swirling icy water. Karolan’s shoulders slumped as the rage left him. He spoke softly to the horse, using the voice of power. Darkus, calm now, scrambled up onto the river bank, snorting out water, shaking his head to send drops flying outwards.

  Dismounting, Karolan led the palfrey towards a meadow. After scooping much of the water from Darkus’s gleaming skin with his cupped hands and rubbing him down with bunches of grass, he tethered him loosely. Wet and shivering as he was, he lay down under the spreading branches of an ash. In the far distance, he could see his peasants at work in their field strips. The burgeoning crops were as green as emeralds. On other manors the pestilence had robbed the land of its caretakers. Farms and crofts were crumbling into ruin, either through neglect or from the attentions of groups of roving brigands.

  Garnetta was out there, wandering in a land made foreign by sickness, suffering, and starvation. Had she found shelter, he wondered. She could be many miles away by now, perhaps having joined a band of pilgrims. Sitting straight-backed, he began to breathe deeply, quietening his mind and putting himself into a light trance. He had tried many times to pick up Garnetta’s mind-trail. He tried again now. After half an hour he gave up. Readjusting his concentration, he focused on the place between his eyes until he felt the area there grow warm. Normally it was easy to call the Fetch into his presence, but he needed an unusual amount of energy to call up the spirit on this occasion.

  His brow furrowed as he conjured up an image of the spirit. Ah, he had it now. Deep within the forest, the ragged shadow-form was hovering around a group of men who were in the process of butchering a stolen pig. The animal had been secured by its forelegs to a branch of a tree. The pig’s squeals and efforts to wriggle free were causing great mirth amongst the men who had captured it.

  One of the men, called Edwin by the others, took out a knife and thrust it into the side of the pig’s neck. A fountain of blood spurted in all directions. While the men captured the outpouring in a number of
receptacles, from a battered helm to a wooden pail, the Fetch wove in and out of them, gibbering with pleasure and bathing in their blood-lust. Unaware of the greedy spirit, the men went about their task. One of them, excited by the noisiness of the animal’s death throes, drew his knife and sank it again and again into the animal’s flank. The others called out encouragement as he carved at the haunch, until the red flesh parted wetly and the hind leg hung free. Shreds of bloody tendon and muscle dangled in the air as the pig contorted. Its uninjured back leg pedalled madly.

  Karolan watched with mild disgust as the pig’s squeals grew fainter. It gave a final jerk, then hung still, twitching now and then with muscle reaction. Karolan focused solely on the amorphous shadow of the Fetch, drawing it to him with the power of his will. He felt its reluctance to leave the scene. The light within its form was glowing a sickly red. Its attenuated limbs flexed with pleasure as it imbibed the invisible particles of pain and distress. ‘Come,’ he ordered it.

  The air around Karolan thrummed and buzzed as if a thousand bees were about to materialize. He sensed the Fetch’s anger at being summoned. Out of the swirling maelstrom stepped a tall, slender youth. His skin was golden, his hair the colour of ripe corn. Golden eyes and moist lips smiled at Karolan.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Karolan said mildly, hiding the shock he felt. The apparition was unexpected. Rarely had the spirit broken through into the world of matter in a solid human shape. It must have fed well indeed.

  The Fetch turned to show off the perfection of the form with which it had clothed itself. A well-formed back, deeply indented at the spine, curved down to a pair of taut buttocks. The limbs were muscular, but smooth. The spirit faced him again. Its features were classical. The sculpted lips parted and the tip of a moist tongue appeared.

  ‘Beautiful am I, Master?’ the Fetch crooned, sliding one hand down to the slim hips and toying with the light-golden pubic fleece before encircling the heavy phallus.

  The cock was thick, ridged with veins. It looked potent, out of proportion with the youth’s slender frame. Despite his annoyance with the spirit, Karolan felt a flicker of sexual interest. The Fetch felt it too. It tittered and threw back its head so that the wheaten curls danced. Sunlight gleamed on the gold rings which pierced the youth’s nipples. A metal band encircled the pale column of his neck.

  ‘A slave, I am, to your pleasure. Serve you, shall I?’ it said, working its hand back and forth along the phallus, smoothing back the tight skin of the glans to reveal the moist tip. At the slitted mouth, a single drop glistened like a pearl or a drop of crystal. ‘What is it you relish?’ The youth’s lips pursed invitingly.

  ‘Stop that,’ Karolan ground out. Damn the infernal spirit. It knew his tastes too well. ‘I want information.’

  The image of the golden youth wavered, the sharp outline of the limbs trembled and the form dissolved on the air, spreading like a spillage of dye into a river. ‘Going. Going. Gone,’ the Fetch said, its voice sonorous with regret. ‘Too, too bad.’

  ‘Where is Garnetta?’

  ‘Oh, that one is lost,’ it said airily. ‘Shall we make another, Master?’

  ‘What do you mean, “lost”? Explain yourself. Did you find her? Tell me all you know. Remember that you are bound to obey me.’

  ‘I know it, Master,’ the spirit said sulkily, its shadow shape drifting on the air as if borne up by the warm currents. The red within its fabric faded and turned to a sullen brown. There was a long pause before it replied. ‘Followed her into the forest, as you bade me. Searched well. Found no sign. Then found what remained. Fed well, did I. Wild boar, it was. Messy. Naught left to relish, but pain and fear.’

  Karolan sprang to his feet. ‘You’re lying. You damned fiend! I would sense it if she were dead. Tell me all, or by Hermes I swear I’ll never again let you lay hands on me. No matter what disgusting pleasures you offer, I’ll resist them. Think of that. No more bargains, no more glimpses into my world!’

  The Fetch squawked with rage and fear. ‘Too, too cruel. Deny me? You would not!’

  ‘I would. And you know it,’ Karolan said flatly.

  With a screech the spirit soared up into the branches of the ash. Its shrill, bird-like voice reverberated down through the trunk. Fragments of bark and shredded leaves rained down around him as the Fetch vented its spleen. Karolan sat calmly, his legs crossed at the ankles, waiting for the spirit to calm down. After many minutes, the din ceased and there was silence.

  ‘Well?’ Karolan said. ‘Do not try my patience further.’

  The Fetch materialized, its stringy, shadow-form glowing with a resentful sage-green. ‘I will tell, Master,’ it said in a subdued voice. ‘But a boon I ask.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Find whores. Beg you, Master. Then solace I give. Forgive. Forgive.’

  ‘I’ll decide when I’ve heard you out,’ Karolan said. ‘No promises. So, speak. Tell me that you lied.’

  ‘Lie, I did. The female went towards the town. When the postern opened at dawn-bell to let out the death-carts, slipped inside did she. Followed her, down the path leading to the river.’

  The relief was so great that Karolan felt light-headed. The Fetch’s first words had filled him with alarm. Only the fact that he knew it to be an inveterate liar had stopped him from believing it. The river. That made sense. Garnetta would imagine that she could lose herself in the warren of narrow streets and tumbledown dwellings. ‘We’ll go there,’ he said aloud. ‘I know the area well.’

  ‘Find whores?’ the Fetch said hopefully, its form vibrating with sickly need. Karolan grinned wolfishly. Why not? He felt like indulging the darker side of his nature. It might distract him for a while. Leaping to his feet, he mounted Darkus. With the Fetch twittering exultantly at his shoulder, he steered the palfrey towards Chatesbrook.

  As Karolan lifted the leather curtain and walked into the bawdy house, Jack Spicer called out a greeting. Pushing the half-naked girl he was fondling off his lap, he stood up. The girl pouted with disappointment and flounced across the room, making no move to cover her exposed breasts.

  ‘Well, well,’ Jack said. ‘Thought you were dead of the plague. I’ve missed your company. I’ll wager the girls have too. Can I do you some service?’

  Karolan watched the girl, drawn by her fresh-faced looks and strong, young body. Catching his eye, she smiled appreciatively, sweeping him with a measuring glance. ‘Give me some of that opiate, I favour,’ Karolan said to Jack. ‘You have it?’

  Jack nodded. ‘I’ve always got what you want. For the right price.’

  Karolan threw him a coin. Jack whistled through his teeth. ‘For that amount, you can have a private show too. Who d’you want? Isabeau or Adeliz? Have both trulls together if you want. Mind if I join you?’

  Karolan shrugged. ‘Why not?’ He glanced at the girl who had not taken her eyes off him since he stepped into the room. Her heart-shaped face was surrounded by a tumble of chestnut curls. ‘Bring her too.’

  ‘Sabina? She’s new here,’ Jack reached for the girl, pulling her close and nuzzling her neck. ‘Sabina’s special, aren’t you, my pretty young one? Costs extra. But she’s worth it.’

  Sabina giggled, looking from under lowered lids at Karolan. She arched her back, pushing her breasts towards him. They were large and firm, her big brown nipples as well-defined as copper coins. Karolan imagined sucking those teats, polishing them with his spittle, before sinking into her willing body. Despite the ruin he would make, he was tempted to have her. ‘And how are you special, Sabina?’ he said softly.

  She sparkled at him, already dazzled by his beauty as were all the whores. ‘I dance, my lord.’

  Karolan threw Jack another coin. ‘Do you? Then dance for me.’

  The back room was as he remembered it. Oily smoke from a rush taper spread a pall in the air. The floor rushes smelt stale and clung stickily to his boots. Lounging amongst the greasy cushions were Adeliz and Isabeau. Both were naked. Sweat glistened on their unwashed
skin. They were fondling each other in a bored fashion. Adeliz turned an unfocused gaze on him. ‘Ah, the dark lord returns,’ she slurred, ‘Look but don’t touch, eh?’

  Karolan emptied the contents of a small glass phial into a cup of ale, amused by Adeliz’s barbed comment. Beneath the contempt, he sensed her fear and the hunger for him which she was trying to suppress. He was tempted to reveal a little of himself to her, to shock her just a little, but the opiate, already warm in his belly, clouded his thoughts. He downed another cup of ale, then another. As Sabina moved into the centre of the room, he sank onto the cushions beside the two women. They pawed at him, but he pushed them away, watching only Sabina.

  Jack reached for Isabeau, squeezing her fat breasts and pressing kisses to her dirty neck. She pressed against him, fingers scrabbling at the mat of hair on his broad chest. Karolan settled back, as the whores gave their attention to Jack, dimly aware of the Fetch which was visible to him alone as a lighter shape in the shadows in the corner of the room. He sensed the spirit’s avid excitement as Sabina began to sway, her heavy young breasts lolling back and forth.

  Sliding her hands down to her waist, she unhooked the single button of her skirt. It slid to the rushes, leaving her naked but for a wisp of fabric worn as a halter between her thighs. The dance was crude and without grace, but Sabina’s youth lent her an unstudied sensuality. Rotating her hips, she pushed her pubis back and forth. The ribbon of fabric clung to the pouch of her sex, fitting closely to the indentation of the slitted lips.

  Reaching between her legs, Sabina gathered up the halter, loosening it so that she could caress herself beneath the fabric. As she swayed and arched her back, she stroked her coynte, spreading the lips of her sex and pushing her fingers inside herself until her moisture seeped out and darkened the fabric. Inflamed by Sabina’s antics, Jack threw Isabeau onto her back and mounted her. Squealing, she clutched at him, her big thighs grasping tight around his back as he plunged into her.