by Cleo Cordell
‘I mean not to speak against a fellow brother,’ Amos said, breaking into the abbot’s thoughts. ‘But Stephanis is obssessed with this woman. Others too speak of dreams they have had. She is . . . ah, very winsome.’
‘Indeed,’ John murmured, looking over the head of the kitchener to where the first stars of the evening glimmered through an open window. ‘Temptation ever comes in pleasing guise. Give me a moment to think.’
He knew Stephanis to be a man who found it difficult to school his desires and channel them into prayer. John, himself, had heard Stephanis’s confession on the eve of Stephanis’s consecration and been discomfited by the passion he glimpsed in the ex-soldier’s face. For such a man, the pathway to grace was paved with sharp stones. It did not surprise him that Stephanis should fall prey to this Jezebel. He turned his attention back to Amos, his expression hardening. ‘How know you about all of this?’
‘It is the talk of all the monastery. Thomas, the layman, told it to Brother Luke and he told it to –’
‘Yes, yes. I know how these things come about. I am concerned with the truth, not the rambling of idle tongues. You brought this woman to Holy Penitence, did you not?’
Amos gulped. ‘It was none of my doing. The woman climbed into my cart. I only found her when the barrels of fish were unloaded. Her eyes were wild. Her lips flecked with foam. There was not a place on her body that was not broken and bruised. She bore the marks of a knife and had been sore abused in . . . in the privy parts. Even so, there was something . . . compelling about her . . .’ He paused, then said stoutly. ‘I told Stephanis not to admit her. Others heard me and will bear witness. I thought that the woman would bring the sickness amongst us, but she has brought something far worse.’
‘And what, in your opinion, is that?’ John said, with what he thought was admirable restraint in the circumstances.
‘Temptation,’ Amos said loftily. ‘Stephanis is besotted by the idea that this woman is protected by the Holy Virgin. But he speaks with such passion . . . I would say that the woman has cast a spell over him. The other monks compare her to the blessed St Bertrina –’
‘Enough!’ John rose to his feet. ‘You may leave this matter with me.’
‘Yes. Well, as I said. It was my duty . . .’ Amos said, tight-lipped.
John watched the kitchener turn on his heel and walk to the door. Not until the door had closed behind him did he move. Then he ran a hand over his lean jaw, feeling the roughness of the grey bristles against his skin. Why had Stephanis not come to him at once? This sort of thing could have far-reaching effects. He decided not to wait until the appointed time to speak to Stephanis, but to go directly to the infirmary.
Garnetta rolled up the sleeve of her shift and rested her elbow on the side table. As Stephanis bade her to, she flexed her fingers a few times until the veins on her inner arm stood out clearly.
Stephanis bent over her, a lancet in one hand, a cupping device in the other. Thomas stood by, holding a bowl and a blood-band. Garnetta felt calm. There would be pain, but pain soon faded. That was a lesson she had learned well. Besides, she felt armed by the memory of what had happened a few hours ago. The angel, her angel had appeared, walking right out of the air and into the daylight. The memory left her with a glowing feeling of pleasure. It was as if all of her, outside and in, had been touched by something invigorating, calming, and cleansing. She and the angel were linked. They would always have each other.
As once I thought I would have Karolan. He had told her that they belonged together. For ever. Another lie. But that was a hurt too raw to contemplate. She dragged her thoughts back to the angel. How intimate was his touch, how bright his regard. The memory was too precious a thing to share. She might have spoken of it to Stephanis, but for the knowledge that it was improper to have lain with the shining being. Physical pleasure was of the flesh, not the spirit. Reason imposed its own logic. But if God’s messenger had lain hands upon her – how could it be wrong?
She looked up at Stephanis. His broad face was pale. He was sweating. His hands were steady, however, the incision he made swift and sure. It looked as if he drew a red mark across her skin with the tip of the razor-sharp instrument. There was a second of discomfort, but no more than that of a sharp scratch. The blood welled onto the level of her arm. It looked purple against her white skin.
‘Keep your arm flat, so that the blood does not run off,’ Stephanis said, attaching the cup skilfully to her vein, then binding it into place. ‘There. Spilt not a drop. Thomas, position the bowl under the cup.’
The infirmarer’s skill was admirable. His strong square hands were unmarked by a single smear of her blood. ‘Is all completed?’ she said, looking down at her arm, now bound chastely with a piece of spotless linen. ‘I expected more pain and a lot more mess.’
Even as she said the words she caught the edge of Stephanis’s thoughts and knew that he had chosen the method of cupping over the other choices of scarification or radical venesection. She sensed an unease in him. For some reason he would have found it unbearable to watch if her blood had escaped in a hot-red, spurting fount. This sluggish, blue-tinted trickle was somehow more manageable – more decent. She noticed too that the smell of his body was stronger than usual. Under his chalky, sour smell, she could detect the flatter smell of dried semen. She found the knowledge reassuring. It made Stephanis more fallible and her own experience with the angel more earthly.
‘Rest now,’ Stephanis said. ‘I’ll return later to remove the cup.’
Garnetta closed her eyes. It would take some time for the bowl to fill. She need do nothing but relax. Thomas and Stephanis went out of the cubicle and into the still-room. She heard footsteps as someone else followed them. The visitor spoke with the well-modulated, cultured voice of authority. With her extended senses she gained an impression of a keen intellect combined with a developed sense of purpose. An older man. The abbot.
She could hear the abbot speaking with Stephanis through the stone walls. Mention was made of sending men into the forest to find the bodies of the men she had killed. ‘I will have the truth of this,’ the abbot said stiffly. ‘These are serious claims to make. Where is the evidence that this woman is not simply deluded? If, as you say, there was a witness to these miraculous happenings, where is he?’
‘I know not,’ Stephanis said, and Garnetta knew that he lied. ‘The boy slipped from my grasp. He has likely returned to his village. But I have his testament here, in this drawer.’
‘It was witnessed?’
‘Ah, no. The boy was half-starved and near fainting. I questioned him swiftly. I sent Thomas to fetch food. That is why I was alone with the lad.’
Garnetta heard the young assistant mumble something in assent. The abbot sighed. ‘This is a fine mess indeed. You should have sought counsel with me at once, Stephanis. You have acted above your station. Let us wait until a search of the forest has been made. I will pray for guidance and suggest you do the same.’
‘I have done nothing else since Garnetta arrived,’ Stephanis said.
‘Indeed? And have you received enlightenment?’ The abbot’s voice rang with thinly veiled sarcasm.
‘Of a kind. I think perhaps Garnetta was sent to give us inspiration and focus for our faith.’
The abbot drew the breath in through his teeth. A sound of exasperation and annoyance. ‘From what I have heard this woman is not as innocent as you would have her. Come to me after Compline. I like this not. Do you realize what a nest of hornets you have stirred up with your rash talk of this woman’s saintliness?’
‘I believe that she speaks truly,’ Stephanis said. ‘I heard her confession –’
‘You heard her confession?’ the abbot thundered.
‘Well, yes. She begged me to listen. Said that she trusted only me . . .’
‘Speak no more of this until we are alone. Now. Take me to the cubicle where she lies. I will see this . . . this creature for myself.’
‘But . . .’ began Step
hanis.
‘Now. If you please,’ said the abbot, in a voice that brooked no argument.
The sound of footsteps drew close. Garnetta looked up without surprise as the two men entered her cubicle. She smiled warily, knowing that her fate was in the hands of the tall, rather austere looking man whose piercing grey eyes were fastened on her face. His white hair framed a face that was ascetic and beautiful in its way. His lips were thin, his nose patrician. He had deep eyelids, fretted with purple veins. He smelt of dusty skin, overlaid with the faintest smell of lavender.
‘So this is your – saint, Stephanis? She is but a slender thing and looks too frail to bear the weight which you would heap upon her.’
‘God give you good day, sire,’ Garnetta said evenly.
‘And you, madam,’ The abbot said frostily, looking her over with a measuring glance. ‘As you are being bled, I will leave you to rest. Later, I shall wish to speak with you.’ Without saying more, the abbot left the cubicle. Stephanis threw her a reassuring smile and went with him. She heard the abbot say dryly, ‘You would not take this woman’s part so ardently if she were crook-backed, had sagging skin, and was disfigured by warts.’
The sound of sandals on the rushes faded into the distance. Garnetta was troubled. The abbot’s hostility had flowed towards her in waves. A fair man, he might be, and a seeker of the truth, but if he was to decide that she was a dangerous influence, he would not shirk from doing whatever was necessary for the good of those under his charge.
In the narrow streets, fires burned brightly, sending pungent smoke billowing into the night sky. The oily river reflected a patchwork of yellow, red, and black. Flames licked greedily at piled corpses, crackling and spitting as they crisped blackened skin. Men with vinegar-soaked cloths tied around their mouths swept up piles of refuse with besoms. Others shovelled up mounds of nightsoil.
Karolan leaned out of an upstairs window, watching the activity. Beside him was Gunter’s father, pale and wan looking still, but on the way to full health.
‘’Tis near a miracle to see men cleaning the streets,’ Abel said. ‘Some of us shall survive after all, praise God. Come into the back. There’s food aplenty. Gunter’s sea chest seems bottomless.’
Karolan accepted a bowl of stew containing oats, onions, and chunks of bacon. He had grown to respect Gunter’s father. Abel was quietly dignified in his grief and doing his best to salvage what he could of his business. ‘Where’s Gunter, this day?’ Karolan said, beginning to eat.
‘At a meeting of the guild of Merchant Staplers, discussing the heavy duties on raw wool. Gunter has an idea to export cloth ready woven.’
‘The merchant guild will give their permission for this?’
Abel laughed shortly. ‘I think not, but you can tell Gunter nothing. Our warehouse is stacked high with raw goods, fells and skins, then there’s the Holy Penitence clip to bid for. Gunter sails for Flanders at the end of the month.’
Karolan nodded. As his friend moved around the town on business, he made enquiries about Garnetta. So far there had been no news. He sensed that the Fetch knew more than it appeared to. The spirit was more than usually capricious. Perhaps it was simply distracted by the abundance and potency of the pleasures to be had all around. The very air was boiling with fetid fumes, teeming with the sickly, invisible trails which were irresistible to the Fetch. It was time he used a little trickery against his recalcitrant familiar.
After Abel had gone down into the warehouse, Karolan went into the storeroom. Closing the door behind him, he stripped off his boots and hosen. Emptying a vial of oil into a vessel, he anointed his face, hands, and genitals, then lay on the truckle bed. For a few minutes he lay still, emptying his mind and putting himself into a light trance. Then, slowly, his fingers tingling with the concentration of power, he ran his hand down over his body, stroking the firm muscles of his chest, working his way to his groin. Breathing deeply, Karolan stroked his hardening flesh, concentrating on the sexual energy trail which was building in the ether. He conjured an impression of Garnetta, using the strength of his will to bring the details into focus. It seemed that he could feel her lips against his skin, the subtle sensation of the pulse at her throat as it throbbed and bounded beneath his fingertips. Her taste, her smell, the feel of her skin – all of these things enfolded him, serving to create a deeper tension within him. He stroked his rigid shaft more firmly, smoothing the soft skin over the engorged centre. The air thickened, vibrating with a core of sexual intensity.
‘I hear your call, Master. You hunger deeply. Solace you, shall I?’ said the Fetch, its sibilant voice close to his ear. Its cloying scent flowed over him.
Opening his eyes, Karolan saw that the spirit had materialized as a nun. The blasphemy made him smile. The nun’s face was a pure, sweet oval. Underlying the expression he glimpsed the reality of the spirit’s cunning nature. It could never entirely disguise the unearthliness of its form. ‘Your shape is pleasing,’ Karolan said, his voice husky as if he was anxious for satisfaction. ‘Show me more.’
The Fetch laughed softly, the sound like rustling wet leaves. The ‘nun’ pushed back the hood of her cape to reveal black, close-cropped hair, a neat, shapely skull. Ah, clever, mused Karolan. She was not really like Garnetta, but the resemblance was close. Lifting the bottom of the cape, the nun discarded it, then slipped her robe over her head. Clad only in a thin under-shift, she bowed her head modestly, exposing the tender nape of her neck.
Despite himself, Karolan found his eyes drawn to the graceful form. He saw a young woman, hardly out of girlhood, with slender limbs and narrow hips. By contrast her breasts were large, thrusting out proudly from a delicate ribcage. The shift clung to her body, outlining the neat pink nipples, the slight swell of her belly, cleaving to the lightly frosted mound at the junction of her thighs.
‘Please you, do I?’ the Fetch purred. The nun undulated closer, managing to look both chaste and wanton at the same time. ‘Quench your hunger I shall, Master. What do you pledge in return?’
The nun glowed faintly in the region where her heart would be. The form before him wavered, as the spirit fed on the tendrils of sexual energy emanating from its master. Despite its languorous voice, Karolan knew that it longed for him to give it the word, then all pretence at servitude would disappear. It would dart joyfully into him, its rapacious form squeezing inside the tight envelope of his skin, invading every organ, tasting and savouring his blood, breath, semen.
‘You please me well enough,’ Karolan said, bringing himself closer to a peak of release.
The dark energy thrummed and whirled around him, specks of light glinting in the ether. The nun’s eyes followed the movement of his hand. As his flesh burgeoned, a bead of moisture gathered at the tip of the glans. The nun licked her lips, took a step towards him, her sweet face compliant. The disguise was too convincing. Karolan felt a flutter of warning. The spirit appeared to have enormous reserves of strength. Karolan was suddenly alert. Trickery and evasion were the Fetch’s natural emotions – if emotions it truly had, beyond greed and need.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Answer me a question before we proceed.’
‘Want no questions,’ the Fetch said sulkily, its reedy voice emerging through the nun’s pale lips. ‘Called me to serve you, did you not? Let me do so, Master.’
‘Have you more news of Garnetta?’ Karolan ignored the petulance in the spirit’s voice.
The ‘nun’ gave an eloquent shrug, causing her breasts to jiggle invitingly. ‘That one is gone,’ she trilled. ‘No matter. Make another.’
‘Where have you looked for her?’
‘Amongst the dead that clog the streets and alleys. Fine is their perfume. Amongst the living too, but found her not.’ The Fetch chuckled. The little nun who clothed its form brought her hand up to her mouth in an artless gesture of seduction. ‘Oh, how I have bathed, Master. Such delight is there in sorrow and pain.’
Karolan hid his astonishment. The Fetch ought, by now, to be desperate,
begging to please him, not flaunting like this. He sensed too that it was withholding information. It was more assured, and invigorated in a peculiar way. He could not think why that was. Unless . . . ‘You have made yourself known to Garnetta,’ he stated.
The Fetch squawked with dismay. The nun’s form shimmered and trembled.
‘Answer me! Curse you. Have you pleasured her and lulled her with your fiendish caresses, tricking her into giving you permission to invade her flesh?’ Karolan’s voice vibrated with fury as he realized that this was exactly what the Fetch had done. Hermes, how could he have been so blind? With the infusion of Garnetta’s female essence, the spirit had gained power over her. Power enough to defy him too – and what else?
‘Damn you! I ordered you to let her be!’ Karolan flung a hand in the air. The build-up of energy formed into a gaseous bubble. Sparks crackled in the air, showered around the Fetch.
The nun recoiled as if Karolan had struck her, she gave a terrified shriek, tears starting from her eyes. She began to fade, her limbs as dusty as if they were made of flour which was being blown by the wind. Faintly now, he saw how her tears soaked into her shift, the fabric forming little peaks around her erect nipples. Her hands smoothed down her sides, the fingers angled towards her groin in a desperate gesture of wantonness. The pale, rosebud mouth moved in a last tremulous smile. There was a frightened sob which ended on a sad little chirrup. And the Fetch was gone.
‘Come back here!’ Karolan thundered, his voice ringing with power. ‘Upstart sprite! You are bound to me for eternity and will obey me.’
The ritual was ruined. Swiftly he said the words of ending and pushed himself upright. Yanking his shirt down to cover himself, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The energy in the room subsided. Motes of sparkling dust drifted to the floor. The air rippled and pleated. Then the Fetch appeared in its usual guise. Within its shadow-shape were red-brown streaks of consternation. The glow at its chest area was a sickly green. ‘Forgive. Forgive,’ it bleated. ‘Appeared to the female in the forest, did I. Wanted to taste. Wanted to feel. Mistress to me, is she, as you are my master. Something of her, moves within me. Not harm. Never harm. Only give pleasure, do I. As pleasure I give you.’