The Flesh Endures

by Cleo Cordell

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Now boy, I want the truth,’ Brother Stephanis said. ‘No need to be afraid. No harm will come to you, if you answer me straight.’

  Clem looked up at the infirmarer, who had the face and build of a soldier, and wished that he had gone straight back to his village. Until the monk told him that no harm would come to him, the idea of being harmed had not entered his head. Trying not to show his uneasiness, he pushed his shoulders back. He opened his mouth to speak, but it seemed that his tongue was cleaved to his mouth.

  ‘Come now,’ Stephanis prompted. ‘You told Thomas that you saw what happened to Garnetta. Is that true?’

  Clem had not known the woman’s name. Garnetta was it? He nodded warily. ‘She saved me. The brigands, soldiers on the loose, they was hurtin’ me. Wanted to know where my village was. But I wouldn’t tell.’

  ‘You are a brave lad,’ Stephanis said. ‘Garnetta saved you, you say? How?’

  Clem swallowed. Now that he thought back on it, the whole thing seemed very unlikely. Miracles were not acted out before lowly folk like himself. He screwed up his face, rubbing at his dirty cheek as he sifted through the events, trying to decide how much to tell. ‘She mun ’ave bin watchin’ what they did to me. She ran at them, hitting out with a club. Bashed one in the arm and broke another’s nose.’

  The infirmarer raised his eyebrows, a look of suspicion on his broad face. Clem quaked and dug his bare toes into the rushes. ‘A woman alone? She beat off the brigands with a club?’ Stephanis said. ‘A little unlikely wouldn’t you say, Thomas? And very foolish of her. What happened then?’

  ‘The . . . the soldiers was too shocked to do anythin’ at first. Then they grabbed her. Took the club away. Hit her, all of them. She fell down. Two of them – one was the man whose face she spoiled – they pulled off her shift. They . . . it was sinful. I canna speak of it.’

  ‘They forced her into carnal sin?’ Stephanis prompted.

  Clem nodded miserably. ‘Screamed and screamed she did. She was bleeding from between her legs. They finished with her . . . then it was the men who was screamin’, rolling on the floor, holding to their privy parts. The two men died. Then the others started cursin’, callin’ her names. They cut the woman with knives. I thought she was dead for sure.’

  ‘Where were you when all this was happening?’ Stephanis said.

  Clem hung his head. ‘Hidin’ in some brambles. I couldn’t help. I was hurt too.’

  ‘Of course you were. No one is accusing you, boy,’ Stephanis said gently.

  ‘After the soldiers left, I stayed hidden ’til morn. When I woke and went to look, the dead soldiers were there still. The woman had gone.’

  ‘So you saw the soldiers’ wounds? You saw them clearly?’

  Clem nodded. ‘They was mortal bad. Privy parts raw, all burnt away. I was glad,’ he said with passion. ‘It was judgement on them fer what they did to the woman. She belonged to God.’

  ‘What do you mean, “belonged to God”?’

  ‘One of the soldiers said that Garnetta was fleeing from a nunnery.’ He coloured as he recalled what else Gille had said.

  Stephanis seized on his words. ‘And? What else did he say?’

  ‘She had mayhap been found swyving a priest,’ Clem said reluctantly.

  There was a burst of laughter, quickly muffled, from Thomas. Stephanis glared at the young assistant. ‘Bawdy foolery,’ he said. ‘What did you do next, boy?’

  ‘I tracked Garnetta. She was bad hurt. Ought to ’ave bin dead. All that blood. Bruises everywhere too. She was talkin’ to herself. Mutterin’, like her wits had fled.’

  ‘What did she say?’ Stephanis asked, reaching out to grab at Clem’s ragged sleeve. ‘Tell me, boy. Who was she addressing? Did she use a name?’

  Clem shrank away, unable to meet the penetrating gaze of the infirmarer. The monk had a strange look on his face. Clem was reminded of how the soldiers had looked just before they violated the woman. He felt a ripple of fear. Surely they both were safe here? ‘I dunna know,’ he said warily. ‘Could not hear too well. She walked fer hours. Then she found the track. When cart came past, she climbed into it. I knew ’twas Brother Amos at the reins. So I followed Garnetta here.’

  When he finished there was silence. The infirmarer took Thomas aside. They conversed briefly. Clem fiddled with the frayed hem of his tunic, feeling very small and insignificant. Thomas gave him an encouraging smile, then left the chamber.

  ‘I have sent Thomas to fetch food and drink for you,’ Stephanis said, patting Clem’s head. Clem resisted the urge to duck away. ‘Bread, cheese, and ale. You’d like that, lad? Good. While we are waiting we shall have another talk. Sit now.’

  Clem pressed his skinny buttocks to the very edge of a wooden settle. This monk made him uneasy. His voice was gentle, his manner kind enough, but there seemed something leashed within the big, muscular frame.

  ‘I suspect that there are things you have not told me,’ Stephanis said, pleasantly. ‘Now, I shall have the truth. It would be better to tell me all unless you favour a birching at the least. Liars can have their tongues cut out.’

  Clem nodded, his knees starting to shake. ‘I thought you would not believe me.’

  ‘My child,’ Stephanis said. ‘Let me be the judge of the truth. I am guided by God and am well equipped to deal with these matters. I shall ask you some questions. You need only nod or shake your head. That way there will be no mistaking your meaning.’

  Clem nodded glumly, feeling that there was a flaw in this reasoning, but unable to find words to express his doubts. ‘If I tell you all, you will let me go?’ he said.

  The infirmarer smiled, but there was no warmth in his face. ‘Of a surety.’

  Clem gulped. When Stephanis asked about the ‘voices’ that Garnetta had heard in the forest, he nodded, hardly listening to what he was asked. Stephanis spread writing tools onto the table. ‘Now, lad. I shall go through all that again. You shall make your mark at the end of the testament. You think that you saw something beside Garnetta? A pillar of light – yes? A voice came out of this?’

  Clem nodded miserably, no longer caring what he was agreeing to. All he need do was tell the monk what he wanted to hear, then he could be on his way.

  ‘Garnetta called upon this light for help? Did you hear her call out to the Holy Virgin when the men were violating her? Ah, you did.’ Stephanis’s quill scratched across the parchment, now and then squeaking when the ink ran dry.

  The sound set Clem’s teeth on edge. He fought down his rising panic, acutely aware of the smell of the monk’s robe, his unwashed body. Brother Stephanis’s breath smelt like sour milk. He watched a flea settle onto the back of the monk’s hand and begin to bite. Stephanis was too engrossed to brush it away.

  ‘A few more questions,’ Stephanis said. ‘Then you will have earned your food. You are certain that the soldiers were stricken with a morbus to their privy parts after they had violated Garnetta?’ And so it went on.

  Clem agreed to everything, not even raising an eyebrow when Stephanis supplied details of his own. His head was reeling by the time Stephanis finished writing. After sprinkling the parchment with sand, the monk shook it, then smoothed it flat once more. Handing the quill to Clem, he said, ‘Here boy, make your mark. I’ll steady your hand.’

  ‘I can do it alone,’ Clem said stiffly, proud that his father had taught him to shape the C and L that signified his name.

  ‘Good,’ Stephanis said, rolling up the parchment and sliding it into a drawer. ‘Come with me. Let us go and see where Thomas has got to with your food.’

  Clem could hardly contain his relief. He felt the oppressive fear lifting. Perhaps it was being inside the monastery that frightened him. Most of his life was spent in the open air. Only during the hardest weather did he sleep in the family croft which was made of wood, wattle, and straw. Clem distrusted stone, tiled floors, ceilings so high that shadows got trapped in the dusty corners where rafters met t
he walls.

  Following Stephanis, it occured to him that the kitchen seemed a very long way from the infirmary. They walked for a long time, descending ever more deeply into a maze of narrow stone passages. Suddenly he felt himself grasped by the upper arms and thrust into an open doorway. He fell forward, sprawling onto a cold stone floor. A heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him. Scrambling to his feet, he banged on the door. His heart thudded in his chest. The silent blackness of the cell terrified him. A scream rose up in his throat and emerged as a thin wail, the echoing sound of it in the dark turning his bowels to water. Then a grille in the door slid open. He felt the blast of Stephanis’s sour-milk breath.

  ‘Save your voice, lad. No one can hear you. You can stay there until I decide what to do with you,’ the infirmarer said. ‘I’m not convinced by your story. That notched ear of yours is likely the mark of a thief. You came here looking for gain, not to do your simple Christian duty.’

  ‘But Gille cut my ear!’ Clem sobbed. ‘They burned my leg with hot iron!’

  ‘If that’s the truth, then you have nothing to fear,’ Stephanis said. ‘A stay in that cell will not harm you.’

  ‘I did what you wanted. Now I want to go home,’ Clem whimpered. ‘I’m hungry. You said . . . I would have . . . food.’

  ‘I am a man of my word,’ Stephanis said stoutly. ‘You will find the food to one side of the door.’

  The grille slid shut. Clem heard the sound of sandals retreating along the passageway. He slid down the door, until he was sitting on cold stone with his back resting against the wood. Slowly he stretched out both hands, feeling around until he discovered the loaf, cheese, and a jug of ale. Grabbing the bread, he hugged it to his chest, picking off chunks and stuffing them into his mouth. Tears poured down his cheeks and dripped off his chin. His mouth was so dry he could not swallow. Spitting out the mess of half-chewed bread into the palm of one hand he sat staring into the darkness.

  His fingers tightened on the loaf, the only evidence he had that Brother Stephanis intended to keep him alive. His sobs began to subside.

  ‘Oh, Mam,’ he sniffled. ‘Oh, ’elp me, Mam.’

  ‘But I do not need to lie in bed. I feel so much better,’ Garnetta said to Stephanis.

  He smiled. There was something almost paternal in his manner. ‘The healing power of God is remarkable, when channelled through prayer. But you must allow me to be the judge of your state of health. You need to become stronger. The seyney, while it has many merits, is apt to weaken a person somewhat.’

  Garnetta leaned back contentedly against the pillows which Stephanis had piled behind her to cushion her against the cold stone. She felt no surprise that he planned to submit her to a series of blood-lettings. The practice was considered efficacious even for the healthy. Monks attending for regular seyneys looked forward to a period of rest and change of diet.

  ‘You deem it necessary for me to be bled?’ she asked.

  Stephanis looked surprised at the question. ‘Indeed. You have cleansed your mind with your confession and made your peace with God. Now we must cleanse your flesh. Galen recommends this sovereign method for balancing the humours.’

  Garnetta recalled a conversation with Karolan. He, it seemed, was no great advocate of blood-letting. She remembered that he spoke of Arab doctors. Her cheeks grew warm as she saw again the dream images of Karolan with the handsome man called Harun. Mixed emotions rose up in her when she thought of Karolan kissing that man, lying in his arms, sharing caresses with him. It was Harun who had tended Karolan’s wounds whilst in the Holy Land and taught him about medicaments. Karolan’s healing skills came from a dubious source indeed. That was reason enough for allowing Stephanis to bleed her.

  ‘Very well. I agree to the seyney,’ she said and saw by the look on his face that he had expected her simply to submit to his greater knowledge and status. She pressed her lips together, cursing her loose tongue. It was difficult for her to remember to show the modesty and forbearance demanded of women. ‘Who was that boy you were speaking to yester morn?’ she said to divert his attention.

  Stephanis’s reaction was odd. He looked at her sharply. ‘Boy?’

  ‘I heard you speaking with a lad . . .’ she began, realizing only then that Stephanis might think it strange that she could have heard his conversation through the thickness of several stone walls.

  But Stephanis did not seem to notice anything odd about her question. ‘Oh, just a beggar lad. Thomas brought the boy in. I sent the lad away after a good meal.’

  She knew that he was lying, but could find no reason for it. The thread of his thoughts was not easy to catch, submerged as they were beneath the layers, stacked up like bolts of cloth, from his years of training in self control. Her newly honed instincts told her not to trust him completely, but he was her only hope of salvation now. She decided to allow him his secrets.

  ‘When shall you bleed me?’ she said.

  ‘On the morrow, after Vespers, when you will have eaten your supper.’

  Garnetta accepted the tray of food which Thomas brought into the cubicle. Her mouth watered as the smell of roast meat filled the chamber. This day there was roast pigeon, a dish of umbles seethed with leeks, a custard-like dowcet of cream, eggs, and currants, and more of the delicious wastel bread. Two quinces, a blush on their firm, yellow skins, lay next to the pewter jug of wine.

  Stephanis beamed at her pleasure. ‘Today is the feast of St Isidore,’ he explained. ‘We drink wine instead of ale. Enjoy your meal. I have much to do.’

  Left alone, Garnetta began eating with relish, concentrating on the sensual pleasures of taste, texture, and smell. She pushed her doubts about the infirmarer to the back of her mind. Why must she ever look for complications? Because you are wiser now in the ways of men. Every one of them wants something from you. Karolan, the brigands, Brother Stephanis too. She refused to listen. Since her confession, she felt lighter of heart. The power of prayer was all encompassing. The mercy of God immeasurable. She felt a sense of peace so sweet that it lay like a veil upon her senses. Whatever I am, I am still God’s child, she thought.

  With a sigh, she sipped a cup of wine, feeling relaxed after her meal. Placing the tray on the side table, she sank back onto the pallet, allowing a feeling of drowsiness to sweep over her. She was aware that Thomas came quietly into the cubicle and took away the tray. In the space left behind by his passing, she felt a silence descend. It was more than the usual peace of the monastery, broken only by the soft tolling of a bell in the distance. This silence was absolute – like a pall of thick grey wool. In its depths was the sense of something poised – waiting.

  A shiver passed down Garnetta’s spine. She tried to open her eyes, but they felt heavy, so heavy. All she could do was look through the net of her lashes as the cell began to flood with light. Was she dreaming? The air shimmered and pleated, dancing with motes of silver. Where there had been nothing, there was now a shimmering curtain. A black slit appeared in the fabric. The line grew fat about the middle and she saw that fingers, slender and white, were pulling it apart, stretching open the rupture to form a doorway.

  Garnetta’s heart rose up into her mouth as shafts of light streamed in through the widening gap. Then a body appeared and a slender, glowing form stepped into the room. A young man, long of limb, with the face of a saint and skin that glowed softly like a pearl, approached the pallet and knelt beside it. The warm smell of licorice and almonds filled the room. Something about the scent was familiar, but Garnetta was too much in awe of the angelic being to be able to think. The smile on the young man’s face was beatific. She absorbed every detail about him. The broad shoulders, slender waist and hips were well-muscled under the poreless skin. At his shoulders was the faint suggestion of wings. And there, at the base of his belly, were his privy parts, beautiful in their proportions.

  It did not occur to her to wonder why he was naked. His perfection was explanation enough for anything. Finally, she found her voice. ‘Who . . . who
are you?’ she whispered.

  ‘You know me not? I am yours,’ he said in a voice like honey. ‘Yours to lead or to guide you. Yours to command or destroy. Protect you shall I, cherish and keep you. One of the chosen you are. Only give me the word and we shall be one.’

  She had seen this vision before. The words, the cadence of the voice were achingly familiar. This was her angel. The one who had come to her in the tower, during the ritual. What did this mean?

  Suddenly there was no need of answers. A feeling began to gather pace within her. It was as if a great drum was beating, somewhere far off. As it moved towards her the rhythm of it changed, deepened, and gathered pace. Light flickered around the kneeling figure, pricking outwards like the halo of a saint in a painting, making the daylight look dull by comparison. Locks of silver hair brushed against the broad shoulders. Slowly Garnetta raised her hand, her eyes fully open now. She stretched out her arm towards the apparition. When her fingers touched it she felt skin; warm, smooth, solid. A tingle passed through her fingers, rippling up her arm, spreading downwards over chest, breast, and waist to centre in her lower belly.

  A shudder passed over the young man. She saw the tremors flicker across his chest. Did she imagine it or was there a deeper glow in the place where his heart was? She smiled at him and was touched by the expression of anguish which flickered across the pearly face. The eyes were golden, deep-set. The sculpted lips, as if drawn all around with gold ink, parted on a sigh.

  ‘Beautiful you are,’ said the young man, his voice harsh with passion. ‘Precious to me. Give me leave to serve you. Bless you shall I, above all women. And I too shall be blessed by your regard.’