The Flesh Endures

by Cleo Cordell

  Spinning on his heel, he left the garden, his mocking laughter floating on the breeze.

  Garnetta awoke abruptly, her heart pounding, the sickly taste of the sleeping draught on her tongue. It seemed to her that she could still feel the heat of the Arab sun, smell the perfume of exotic flowers. It was a moment before her surroundings became clear, resolving themselves into the shadow-printed, stone walls of the infirmary. Turning onto her side, she stared into the darkness. The small oil lamp sent up only a fitful glow, but she found it a comfort. A cold sweat clung to her limbs. She clutched the sheet close. Karolan had murdered Nasibia.

  Dear God in Heaven. That was terrible in itself, but she sensed that there was a great deal more to discover. She had learned that Karolan had been practising his Black Arts while in the Holy Land. But she still could not imagine what had happened to change him into the creature he had become. The creature, which he has made me.

  Choking down a sob she pressed her fist against her mouth. She felt drained of all emotion. She began to recite a paternoster, thankful that here at least, in the House of God, she was far beyond Karolan’s reach.

  It was still dark, although a diffuse grainy quality in the chamber presaged the coming of dawn. The tiny cell was devoid of everything except a pallet bed and a wooden stool. Adorning the wall at the head of the bed was a plain wooden cross.

  Stephanis had slept little. He woke with his limbs chilled and aching. Before the monk came to wake him for the office of Matins he was up and dressed. With the other monks, Stephanis trudged along the corridors to the chapel. This day he paid no attention to the muffled yawns, the coughs, the smells of frowsty robes and stale breath. His thoughts were full of the woman in the infirmary.

  Despite his efforts to dispel them, impure thoughts crowded his mind. His loins ached from a recent beating, but his flesh was swollen and rigid. As he sang the first office of the day, Stephanis was beset by doubts. Was Garnetta anything more than a woman who had fallen into sin? Were his motives in wanting to help her pure? He needed guidance. Something of such importance must be relayed to the abbot, but not yet. He would make enquiries. Someone must know something about the woman.

  Before Lauds was sung at first light, there was an hour or so to spare. Just time to break his fast with beer from his daily ration and make his rounds. In the infirmary beside Garnetta there were only two monks with the express permission of the abbot to be excused from participating in the regular office. Stephanis called first on Brother Marcus. The old man’s face was grey, his skin oily. Stephanis looked into Marcus’s eyes, smelt his breath, then laid gentle hands on the stomach which was swollen and as tight as a drum. Marcus grimaced with pain. Stephanis patted the old man’s arm. ‘Rest you now, brother. I will prepare a purgative. You’ll be calling to be helped to the privy in no time.’

  After Marcus, Stephanis went to see Brother James. Stephanis unwrapped the binding on the monk’s shinbone, steeling himself not to flinch as the smell of the ulcer rose up from the stained bandages. Efficiently he attended to the leg, then applied a pad soaked in wine and bound it with strips of clean linen.

  ‘There, brother,’ Stephanis said. ‘You may take up your bedclothes and return them to your cell. You must be eager to get back to God’s work and participate in the office.’

  Brother James murmured his thanks and stood up. Gathering up his bedding, he limped out of the infirmary. Stephanis was now free to devote the larger portion of the day to solving the problem of Garnetta. He felt strangely reluctant to go into the chamber where she lay. Part of him was eager to see her, but he fought against the sinful lust which thoughts of her stirred up in him. Crossing himself and murmuring a Misere he went first to the still-house, where he knew that Thomas would be at work.

  His assistant sat at the lectern, next to a window, absorbed in reading from an illuminated book which was spread open before him. When Stephanis entered the still-house, Thomas leapt up guiltily. ‘I was just going to label these bottles.’

  Stephanis smiled mildly. ‘Do not fret, lad. I am not going to chastise you. It is never a waste of time to study the writings of St Jerome.’

  ‘You are not angry?’ Thomas’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. ‘I mean . . . usually you . . . ahem. I’ll get to work, shall I?’

  ‘Very well,’ Stephanis said, amused. ‘But leave those bottles. I have a more pressing task for you. Go you and speak with Brother Amos. I want to know which road he took back to the monastery. Ask him whether the cart stopped anywhere, or paused to navigate a rut in the road. Someone must have seen Garnetta lying hurt and bleeding. She could not have appeared out of the air.’

  Thomas crossed himself. ‘Like an imp or a witch?’

  ‘Precisely. Get you gone now. Return when you have something to tell me.’

  Thomas paused only to set a hooded cape around his shoulders. Stephanis watched him go, then went into the cubicle where Garnetta ought to be just waking from the sleeping draught. She was sitting up, the sheet pulled up to her chin. The livid bruise on the side of her face was turning green around the edges. He could see that the plasters and sheet were free of blood stains. Her wounds had not reopened during the night – somehow he had not expected that they would.

  ‘I have brought you food and here is your shift, newly washed and restored,’ he said.

  Garnetta took the garment from him. He helped her slip it over her head. Although she moved stiffly, she hardly winced as he drew the folds of linen down over her torso. With the drawstring neck tightened, her arms decently covered, he felt more at ease. ‘Are you able to feed yourself? Your bruises must pain you sorely.’

  ‘I am much recovered. Thank you,’ she said, as he laid the wooden tray across her knees. ‘Is it a feast day? There is no bread trencher to be saved for the poor.’

  Stephanis coloured. He had set out the food on his own pewter plate and dish. A pewter cup also held a measure of wine. ‘Everyone at Holy Penitence eats off pewter,’ he lied. ‘And every monk of ill health eats this special food.’

  ‘Then they are fortunate indeed. Roast pigeon, a charlet of milk and eggs, wastel bread. Fruit too. I marvel that everyone at Holy Penitence does not suffer from expansion of the waistline.’ Her dark eyes sparkled at him and her red lips curved at the corners.

  Stephanis felt the urge to laugh – to throw back his head and give a deep belly laugh. The prospect of losing control in such a way alarmed him mightily. Surely this was immodest speech from a woman who had been close to death? He looked away from the tray where the rosy warden pear nestled next to the other food, looking wanton and lush. He had not been able to resist adding the treat to her tray. Now it mocked him for his foolishness. Under the pretence of checking the level of the sleeping draught in its green glass bottle, he turned his back to Garnetta, giving himself a moment to regain his composure.

  It was not going to be easy to look upon her as a case for spiritual charity. There was something – vital about her. Even in the simple shift, with her hair too short for beauty, she had an unsettling glamour. When he turned around, she was eating. The way she ate, like a healthy animal, sucking at her fingers, dipping the bread into the custard-like charlet, sent a pang right through him. Her sole attention was focused on the taste, the textures on her tongue. In the monastery meals were taken in silence and over with as soon as possible. Her simple enjoyment seemed somehow obscene.

  He swallowed hard before he spoke. ‘You spoke of being confessed?’

  It was as if a cloud passed over the sun. She pushed the food away dully. He felt stricken to have been responsible for the change in her, but there was yet within him a gladness to see her looking subdued – even fearful. It was more fitting in the circumstances.

  ‘I am in sore need of being shriven,’ she said. ‘That ought to have been my first request, but I was hungry. A dream I had confused me . . . oh, how could I have pushed it all out of my mind? I’m as guilty as he is. But I’m not like him. I’m not!’ Leanin
g forward she grasped at his hand. ‘Will you hear my confession?’

  It took a huge effort of will for him not to recoil from her. There were only the two of them present. Who else was she addressing? An icy chill crept down his backbone. The passion on her face alarmed him. The grip of her fingers was like iron. His hand began to ache. Covering her fingers with his free hand, he began prising them apart. It took all his strength.

  ‘Calm yourself, madam,’ he said, severely, feeling the sweat break out of his pores. ‘I’ll call for someone to attend to your spiritual welfare.’

  ‘No! It must be you. You have been kind to me. Hear me, I beg you.’

  For a moment longer Stephanis wavered. He found himself unable to resist the lure of being taken into her confidence. ‘Very well. I shall need a moment to prepare myself,’ he said.

  Once he had heard the worst, he could begin the work of bringing her back into the fold. He left the cubicle to fetch the things he needed, returning after a few minutes with a vial of holy water, a candle, and a medallion bearing the representation of St Venantius. Garnetta sat with her eyes cast downwards, her lashes casting violet shadows onto her cheek. The flow of her profile and slender neck was an unbroken line, clear-cut and pure against the stone wall behind her. It seemed impossible for her to look modest, he thought crossly. But then it was not her fault that her lips were so red and full, her slender white hands so elegantly poised.

  Stephanis began to pray. When he had run through the appropriate number of devotions, he crossed himself. Garnetta kissed the medallion when he held it out to her. ‘Very well,’ Stephanis said. ‘You may begin.’

  Garnetta bowed her head. The hands in her lap trembled slightly. Stephanis battled with the urge to reach out, to take one of those hands and to run his thumb across the tender white palm. When she began speaking, he found his attention riveted upon her every word.

  ‘Merciful Father forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘It has been many weeks since my last confession. My sins weigh heavily upon my soul. Heavenly Father – I am sore afraid. My body is not my own. I hear things. See things. Everything is too bright, too loud. I am not like I was. Does this sound strange? I do not understand it myself. I was found by a man when I was near sick unto death with the pestilence. This man, he . . . he brought me back to health. At first he was kind – more than kind. But I discovered that he had done something to me – something terrible. And I became afraid of him. I do not know what he did it nor yet what he has made me.’ She ran her tongue over dry lips. ‘I know only that I am like him now. I fled into the forest, thinking to find help. There I came upon a band of brigands. They were torturing a boy, trying to get him to tell them where his village was. I was so angry at their cruelty and cowardice that I attacked them with a hunk of wood. The boy escaped, but the men overpowered me. They . . . beat me, knocked me to the ground. Two of them forced themselves upon me. Then something happened to the ones who had violated me. They . . . they died screaming in agony, their privy parts destroyed as if by fire. Brother Stephanis, I killed those two men without once touching them . . .’ She broke off and began to weep.

  Stephanis did not know what to think. He waited until she was calm enough to continue. ‘What happened then?’ he said faintly.

  ‘The other men were furious that their comrades were dead. They called me a witch. The one called Edwin plunged a knife into my chest and slashed my neck. I fainted from the pain and knew nothing more until the next morning. Somehow I was alive. Although in great pain I walked through the forest until I came to a road. When a cart came past I crawled inside and so found my way here.’

  ‘When did all this happen?’ Stephanis asked, certain that she must be raving, but trying desperately to reserve his judgement. When she told him that she had been relating the events of barely two days ago, a cold hand squeezed his heart. His fears about her were confirmed. Either she was lying or it was a miracle. Wounds like those she had sustained ought to have been fatal, not in an advanced state of healing.

  As if a dam had burst, the words poured from Garnetta. She spoke about the man who had first helped her. He was dark and powerful, she said, seducing her with his glamour and presence, teaching her bodily pleasures. She had undergone some kind of ritual during which an angel had appeared to her. In the forest, she had been pursued by something invisible, some demon which spoke to her.

  Stephanis listened, too awed and frozen by shock to respond. There was no doubt that Garnetta had suffered some kind of abuse, the marks on her proved that fact. As to the rest, he did not feel qualified to advise her. Was she out of her mind or blessed above all women? It was plain that she needed special help, but the thought of giving her up to the examination of the Church Council filled him with dismay. She would be taken from him. That was more unbearable than facing the problem of what to do with her. He must put aside his fear, quell the image of the fiery pit which seemed to lick at the very edges of his sanity. He clutched at the medallion around his neck. St Venantius would help him, intercede with God on his behalf.

  There was no need for panic. The devil had played with Garnetta’s mind. Who would not be confused and terrified if but half of what she said was true? One thing she said had made a profound impression on him. ‘Tell me more about the angel who appeared to you, my child,’ he said gently. ‘And these voices you hear. What do they say?’

  She told him more about the shining being. That part rang with truth. He disregarded what she said about learning that the visitation had been a trick. More Devil’s work that. His task was to cut away the fears and doubts which the Tempter visited upon the weak. With the power of prayer he would burn away Lucifer’s deceits. ‘You are to talk to no one else about this, do you understand?’ he said at length. ‘I shall help you, but you must trust me.’

  She nodded, the glint of tears in her strange dark eyes. ‘If you knew how I have longed to throw myself upon God’s mercy. I was certain he had forsaken me. He did not answer my prayers for help when those terrible things happened to me.’

  ‘You poor wretched sinner,’ he said, the zeal within him deepening its hold. ‘The Devil waits to snare those who have lost their way. With my help you shall regain your faith. God is always there. We have only to find our way back to him.’

  He placed his hand on her head. Her cropped hair was soft under his palm. He fancied that he could feel the madness rising up from it; sticky, pungent as tar – or was it the veil of sanctity? The thought both thrilled and appalled him. There was a fine line indeed between those who had been touched by God and those who were beguiled by the Tempter. It took an effort of will to leave his hand in place as he said the words of the benediction. ‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti . . .’

  When he stopped speaking, Garnetta sank back on the bed, her hands over her face, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Stephanis felt exhausted. He must have time to think. It would not do to act rashly. He must be certain that he was not blinded by pride at having been chosen to take this burden upon himself. It was silent in the cubicle, but for the sound of Garnetta’s weeping. Stephanis was absorbed in his own thoughts so it was a moment before he heard someone calling his name.

  ‘Brother Stephanis. Where are you?’

  Recognizing the voice of Thomas, Stephanis shook his head to clear it. Recalling that he had sent his assistant on an important errand, he felt a flash of irritation. What was the young fool doing back so soon? As Thomas’s footsteps sounded on the stone floor all of Stephanis’s pent up emotion erupted into anger. He went swiftly out of the cubicle, his mouth open ready to give his assistant the sharp edge of his tongue.

  ‘Here you are, brother infirmarer,’ Thomas said triumphantly, before Stephanis could utter a word. ‘I found this scrap at the postern gate, trying to barter his way inside. Says he has information which will interest you. His name is Clem. He saw everything that happened to Garnetta in the forest.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Karolan picked his way through str
eets piled high with refuse. The street cleaners had long since ceased their rounds and heaps of human night-soil made walking a hazardous activity. Two men, sitting in a gutter, looked up as the tall, cloaked figure approached. Eyeing him with interest, one nudged the other as he noticed the purse which hung at Karolan’s waist. Karolan looked steadily back at them. Neither of them could hold his gaze. When he had moved past, one of them hawked and spat. ‘Come to see the sights, ’ave yer? This is a fine garden of roses! The posy you take away will kill you fer sure!’

  Karolan walked on, making for the Ship tavern which was frequented by thieves, bandits, and footpads. Naked corpses lay sprawled in the dark, narrow streets. Clouds of flies arose as he passed, then settled again into vacant eye sockets and open mouths. Sleek brown rats darted in and out of white limbs, entwined in the ghastly embrace of death. The stench was penetrating and acidic, burning to the eyes and throat.

  His gorge rose as images from long ago crowded his mind – of battlefields where soldiers lay rotting, maggots tumbling out of the eye slits of helms wed to bone by dented metal. It seemed that his ears rang with their screams of agony. Christian and Infidel sounded the same, their blood indistinguishable as it seeped into sun-baked earth. How soon he had learned that war was not glory. War was dying in a froth of blood, trying to shove back your guts inside a split belly. War stank of rotting meat, the sweat of fear and shit. Just like the smell that rose towards him in noxious waves now. ‘Blessed saints,’ Karolan swore, making the subtle inner adjustment to shield himself from the sensory assault. Once he had saved Garnetta from this, but it seemed that she had come back to seek sanctuary in hell rather than face him.