by Cleo Cordell
Karolan held out his goblet. Gunter filled it to the brim. ‘There are methods that offer protection. I can tell you about them,’ he said. But Gunter was staring in a maudlin haze into his goblet, tears trickling unchecked down his weathered cheeks. Karolan concentrated on drinking enough rum so that he too would be too numbed for coherent thought. Soon they slumped onto the settles and slept.
Now Karolan yawned, sat up, and stretched. The sugary smell of rum still perfumed the air. Despite having drunk a whole bottle of the dark brew, he felt no ill-effects. On the settle opposite, Gunter stirred. The sea captain looked as if he felt the effects of every drop. Opening bleary eyes, Gunter grimaced and shut them quickly. His thick fair hair stood up in unruly spikes. Smacking his lips at the rank taste of his mouth, he swung his feet onto the floor and sat up.
Scratching at his groin, Gunter reached for a nearby chamber pot. Unlacing the front of his hosen, he held the pot close to his body and let out a long sigh as the sound of piss hitting pottery filled the room. The smell of his urine was strong and healthy. ‘I should take this to market,’ he said, grinning. ‘Must be almost pure spirit!’
Karolan chuckled. ‘Wit so early in the morn is an admirable thing.’
Having finished, Gunter passed the pot to Karolan. Karolan used it, then crossed the room to empty it into the river below. Gunter went to see how his father fared. Karolan heard the two of them speaking. Abel’s voice was stronger, although tinged with grief. He was certain the old man would recover.
Stripping to the waist, he poured warm water into a dish and added a few drops of oil. The pungent, earthy scent of patchouli rose into the air. Plunging his hands into the perfumed water he washed his face, arms, and body. Gunter returned in a few minutes, subdued but full of admiration for Karolan’s skills with a knife.
‘Father’ll need watching, but he’s on the mend. Once he’s on his feet, he’ll find enough to do with the business to run. Servants have all run away. We’ll need to find others if we’re not to founder. Mother worked hard to help build up the business. Aye, well . . . I shall always be grateful for what you’ve done. But for you I would have lost both my parents. Name any service, my friend, and it is done.’
‘I did little enough,’ Karolan said dismissively, embarrassed by the fulsome thanks. It was a new experience to have someone place themselves willingly in his debt. He dried himself on his linen under-shirt, then smoothed back his wet hair, shaking the drops from it like a dog. While he took a clean shirt out of his pack and slipped it on, Gunter filled a cup with water and scrubbed vigorously at his front teeth with a grubby finger. After swilling out his mouth, he spat into the bowl which Karolan had used for washing.
‘There’s water left in the cauldron. Plenty for your needs and your father’s.’
‘Ain’t healthy to wash too much,’ Gunter said, dragging his fingers through his blond hair in a combing motion. ‘Though I’m not averse to being clean. I take a bath at Christ Mass and Easter like everyone else. Priest says a man’s natural oils protect him from the sickness. Sweet smells only tempt the Devil to linger.’
‘Perhaps so, but there are smells enough in the streets to clog my nose, without the smell of my own sweat to add to them,’ Karolan said. ‘Besides, I learned the habit of taking baths and perfuming the body whilst in the Holy Land. It is something I have become accustomed to.’
‘Ach! A crusader. I knew that was a knight’s trick you bested me with earlier,’ Gunter said without rancour, rummaging in the open sea chest. ‘So – what’s a man like you doing in this region? Ah, here’s what I’m looking for.’ He gave a sound of satisfaction as he withdrew a piece of bacon, a bag of onions, and a loaf of hard black bread.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ Karolan said, settling down to watch as Gunter cut two thick slices of bread, then piled them with slabs of fat bacon and rounds of raw onion. ‘I’d thought I’d find her easily, but this area is in turmoil with the Death rife.’
‘Mayhap I can help you. Whom do you seek?’
Karolan bit into the bread. The saltiness of the bacon and the pungent flavour of the onion was wonderful. ‘A woman,’ he said, chewing. ‘My ward. She left my house, late one night, unseen by anyone. She’s afflicted with a fever of the mind. Garnetta was afraid that someone in my house would hurt her. There was no reason for this. I value her highly and have only her welfare at heart.’
Gunter blew out his lips on an onion-scented whistle. ‘Women get strange fancies, right enough. She’s alone in town? You must be sore afraid for her.’
‘I would be more afraid if Garnetta were not a remarkable young woman. She is more capable than most of taking care of herself.’
‘Say you so? How is this?’
‘I taught her some warrior skills,’ Karolan lied smoothly. ‘And it will be clear from her manner and clothing that she is a gentlewoman. Any thief would weigh the chance of a ransom against the pleasure of doing her harm.’
‘True enough, regarding robbery. But the pestilence is no respecter of rank,’ Gunter said, cutting more slices of bread. ‘Is not your biggest fear is that she is lying in some hovel, sick unto death?’
‘Aye,’ Karolan said, accepting another of the huge slabs of bread. ‘Corpses aplenty, I’ve seen, but none that bear her face.’
‘Well thank the Lord for that,’ Gunter said, crossing himself. ‘I’ll do all I can to help. For now, at least, I’ll pray for her safety.’
Karolan thanked Gunter and stood up. ‘In the event that you have anything to tell me, I’m staying at the inn at the end of the street.’
Gunter looked askance. ‘I won’t hear of it! You’ll stay here and welcome. I can bed down in father’s room. You can have use of the truckle in the storeroom.’
Karolan opened his mouth to protest, but Gunter would have none of it. He clapped a brawny arm around Karolan’s shoulders. ‘No man shall say that Gunter Woolmonger does not pay his debts. Besides, what if father was to need more of that herbal medicament?’ Defeated, Karolan grinned. And the matter was settled.
Thomas hesitated before tapping on the door of Brother Stephanis’s cell. The infirmarer had been short-tempered and preoccupied of late. Suspecting that Stephanis had a touch of fever, he had come to ask whether the infirmarer wished him to brew a cup of soothing chamomile tea.
When there was no answer from within, Thomas pushed open the cell door. He saw Brother Stephanis kneeling on the stone floor and heard him reciting prayers. Thomas would have backed out silently and left Stephanis to his devotions, except that he was rooted to the spot by the fact that Stephanis was stark naked. With his big shoulders and muscled back, he looked more like a soldier than ever. Below the weathered neck, there were weals on the pale skin, some of them crusted with dried blood. Thomas gasped at this evidence of self-punishment. What sins could Stephanis harbour that merited such harsh measures? Alerted by the sound, Stephanis twisted round and turned haunted eyes on Thomas. Thomas’s eyes widened as he saw Stephanis’s prodigious erection – and what Stephanis had done to himself.
A thin cord was knotted around the base of the engorged phallus, which jutted upright, the veins almost bursting through the skin from the pressure of the rope. Stephanis’s scrotal sac was cruelly compressed by more of the cord. The hard stones bulging around the loops seemed to thrust the dreadful swollen organ into greater prominence. ‘Forgive me . . . I . . .’ Thomas stammered, unable to look away from the imprisoned cock. In the midst of his disgust, he felt an unwilling fascination.
‘Don’t leave!’ Stephanis said hoarsely. ‘I am beset by temptations. Whatever I do my staff of Adam will not subside. Images crowd my mind. Ah, God deliver me! I am bewitched!’ Raising his hands he banged clenched fists against his forehead.
Thomas hesitated, then he closed the door behind him. Walking carefully past Stephanis, he perched on the edge of the narrow bed. Despite himself he was impressed by Stephanis’s fortitude. His member must pain him greatly, for Stephanis seemed not to real
ize that he was fumbling with the cord around his ballocks, scrabbling at the twine which was pressed tight into deep grooves of flesh.
‘Try as I might, I cannot banish the obscene images from my mind,’ Stephanis said. Groaning, he hunched into a bow-shape as if seeking to embrace with his body the sin within him. ‘A succubus besets me with dream images.’
Thomas trembled with awe, feeling his own body awake as Stephanis spoke. He knew instinctively that the infirmarer was speaking about Garnetta.
‘I saw her lying on her pallet, her limbs spread in abandonment, all the secrets of her body in plain view,’ Stephanis said. ‘I cannot forget how she writhed, working her hips, lifting herself as if for some invisible caress. Her thighs wide-spread, the haired lips of her coynte pressed apart to show the moist folds. The shadowed orifice so exposed and pulsing – actually opening and closing – like the wet, red mouth of some infernal sea-creature.’ Stephanis moaned loudly and pressed his hands to the rigid flesh at his loins.
Thomas saw how the turgid shaft leapt and twitched as if the cock had a life of its own. A silken droplet gathered at the slitted mouth, leaked down the purple glans. Stephanis’s belly was sheened with sweat. The cell stank of unwashed flesh, the salt-sour odour of repression. Stephanis’s voice was a tormented drone. Thomas had never heard anyone speak such obscenities. Despite his discomfiture, he was afire with lust. He shifted on the bed, pressing his hands into the lap of his robe.
‘Her face was bound by such pleasure,’ Stephanis said, wonderment making his voice soft. ‘Her skin glowed from within. Ah, her breasts were a tempting fruit for a sinner’s mouth. I could have borne it better by candle-light, or under cover of darkness, when colours are smeared as when a hand trails over a wet canvas, but it was daylight, I was spared nothing. Her limbs as white as wax; her face pure, her exquisite skull black-smudged, as if touched by the artistry of a scribe’s ink-brush. The only colours in the world – white, black, and red. Oh, God – was ever a red so bright, so beguiling, as graphic as shame itself.’
Stephanis convulsed, covered his face with his hands. Thomas hardly dared to breathe. Stephanis must indeed be bewitched to speak in such colourful language. Thomas could almost see Garnetta lying with her demon lover.
‘She lifted her legs, opening her knees wide, so that her buttocks opened. I saw the channel leading deep inside her. Thomas, the coynte is a fount to trap the unwary. Foul and sinful it is. But, God forgive me, it is beautiful in its way. So delicate the contours. Garnetta’s hips thrust back and forth as she took her pleasure, moaning the while and threshing her head back and forth. There was perfume too, salt and musk – something like blood. It made me want to weep.’
Recalling the scent, a tremor passed over Stephanis’s face. His eyes searched Thomas’s face, seeking for understanding or disgust – and for something else. Thomas could not move, caught and held by the tortured passion in the infirmarer’s eyes. A sense of the inevitable settled over him. His own excitement and tension sent tingling sparks all over his body. Slowly he stood up. Turning around he lay belly down over the edge of the bed. If Stephanis should speak he would lose his nerve. There was silence in the cell but for the sound of harsh breathing as Thomas raised the hem of his robe and bared himself. The forbidden act stung him to his soul.
He felt a shaking hand settle on each of his buttocks. As Stephanis caressed his rump, he groaned softly, arching his back and opening his thighs wide. His cock and balls were pressed beneath his belly. As Stephanis handled him more intimately he pressed his aching phallus to the rough woollen blanket. There was a pause, then one thick finger worked into his anus. He smelt tallow as Stephanis worked the oily substance into him, loosening and softening the tight orifice. He gathered himself for the penetration to come, dreading and relishing it in equal measure.
Stephanis gave a muffled sob as he knelt between Thomas’s thighs, the bulbous tip of his phallus nudging between the parted cheeks. Thomas held his breath as he felt himself opened. As the bound cock entered him, the ridges of twine scraping deliciously against the tight ring of muscle, he sank down towards Stephanis’s belly. Stephanis bent over, muffling his agonized cries against the woollen folds of Thomas’s habit as he bucked and jerked within the boy’s body. They toiled together, both consumed by the wet heat of their joint pleasure. Finally Thomas spent himself in shuddering spurts. Stephanis drove into his now quiescent form, shaking the boy’s body with the force of his thrust until the semen jetted from him.
Thomas did not move for a time after Stephanis pulled out of him. When he rose finally, he kept his face averted until he had covered himself. Wiping himself clean of the oily slickness on a fold of his robe, he glanced at Stephanis who was looking down at his dangling flesh in revulsion. A viscous thread hung from the tip of his cock. He dashed it away in a fury.
‘See what that woman has brought us to?’ he said tearfully. ‘Oh, Thomas forgive me. How low I have fallen. Kneel with me and pray.’
‘But I wanted it. The sin is mine too,’ Thomas said in a low voice.
‘Oh, God. How great is her power to corrupt! We must pray harder.’ For a while they knelt together, then Stephanis said gently. ‘Leave me now. Go about your work. This was not your fault. The flesh is weak when women cast their spells.’
Thomas left the cell. His body felt replete with pleasure, but he was afraid too. Garnetta’s spells must be powerful indeed if they could urge Stephanis and himself to carnal acts. Surely no monk was safe. Thomas felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. The enormity of what had taken place impressed itself upon him. He must seek help. Plainly, Stephanis was near breaking point. Thomas was reluctant to speak of his sin, but he knew that it was his duty to report it.
As Stephanis donned the crudely made hair shirt he could not suppress a gasp. The fibres sticking out of the weave scraped his abraded skin, prickling and burning like all the fires of Hell. He belted the shirt with the length of twine. It might as well have been a rope of brambles around his waist, the effect was the same. Gingerly he covered the hair shirt with his habit of bleached wool.
A tear of self-pity glistened on his cheek. God’s ways were His own, but why was it so often lay people who were graced by visits from angels or heard heavenly messages? He had spent a large part of his life at Holy Penitence, atoning daily for the sins of the world. Never had there been the hint of a vision, the slightest echo of a heavenly voice. It ought to be me, he thought, allowing himself the luxury of a gorgeous flush of envy. It ought to be me. He wanted to shout the words aloud, to let them ring out from the top of the ruby tower.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
John de Mandeville, Abbot of Holy Penitence, looked calmly at the man who stood before him. Although he kept his face impassive, the irritation welled up within him. On the table in front of him were spread the accounts on which he had been working before Brother Amos sought an audience. The abbot’s precise hand was apparent in the columns of figures placed beside him. John took pride in the way he managed the finances. He had been busy juggling with the money likely to be saved by selling off the entire clip of wool – a gift of thirty woollen habits from a local lord, to mark the glorious victory of the English at Crécy, meant that they would not need their own wool to clothe their backs this winter. He made a note to send word to Gunter Woolmonger that he had more wool than usual to sell.
It was most pleasant trying to decide where the saving could best be put to use, but Brother Amos had intruded on this reverie. Looking at the dour, heavy face of the kitchener, John’s spirits sank. What would it be this time? Another petty grievance – someone taking apples from the store, or eating more than the single conventual loaf stipulated daily for each monk. ‘Well, Amos. What brings you to me at this hour of the day?’ John was pleased to note that his voice did not betray his inner feelings.
The kitchener’s skin looked greasy. A pungent smell of onions, lard, and sweat rose from his habit; the cuffs, John saw with distaste, were stiff with food stain
s.
‘It concerns the infirmarer,’ Amos said.
Ah, thought John, it is a matter of health. By the sour look of the man’s face, the tightness around his thin lips, John guessed the morbus to be of the bowels. ‘You may speak freely,’ he said.
‘It is known to you,’ Amos said, ‘that there is a woman in the infirmary?’
John nodded, his fine white brow creasing. ‘Brother Stephanis sent word of her. A gentlewoman, a poor benighted soul, I believe. Her family have not yet come forth to claim her. Was she not attacked by brigands and left for dead? I am told that her progress has been rapid. I am to speak with Stephanis later on this matter.’
A smirk twisted Amos’s mouth. John felt a surge of dislike. God forgive him, but it was not easy to feel charitable to all His creatures. Well he knew that pettiness and paucity of spirit were rife within any company cloistered together for good or ill. But it was his task, before God, to ensure that the monks rose above such things. ‘I have no time to waste listening to kitchen gossip,’ he said more sharply than he intended. ‘Say your piece and be done.’
Amos flushed darkly, looking affronted. ‘I came here to do my Christian duty,’ he said with laboured piety. ‘You should be made aware of what the brothers are saying. They think that this woman has been touched by the hand of God. A short time ago she was near dead of her wounds. Now she is unmarked. It is not natural. Only God or the Virgin can bring about such a miracle. And . . . this woman says that an angel guides her. Stephanis has a testament to the fact . . .’ Amos’s voice tailed off, his eyes sliding sideways as he realized that, in his eagerness to ingratiate himself, he had said too much.
John felt a stirring of alarm. Such talk could lead to an outbreak of unwarranted zeal. For long moments he was silent, tapping the pads of his tapered fingers against his lips. What if it was true? He allowed himself to imagine what it could mean. Their own saint who would bless the sick at appointed times – Pentecost for example. Vendors, beggars, pilgrims, all manner of suffering and infirm souls would set up camp outside the gate. Holy Penitence would become a desirable place for the sons of rich men, a repository for monies from sinners great and small. John sighed. It was all too easy to let oneself become embroiled in showiness and vainglory. The reality of doing God’s will was the daily drudgery of servitude.